۶ৎ. cw: fluff/hurt. You heard me. + not proofread!!! | dividers by @uzmacchiato & @/cursed-carmineᝰ.ᐟ | wc: 1314 ᝰ.ᐟ
۶ৎ. a/n: gee, I wonder what could have possibly inspired this? + my fellow Italian brothers and sisters, I deeply apologise if I butchered your gorgeous language. Correct me on what's wrong please 💔💔
sharing will send you to the site.ᐟ please check comments.ᐟ
“Rob Lucci of Cipher Pol ‘Aigis’ Zero,”
There is a certain disquiet in realising one’s existence equates to null in the eyes of the gods.
“Where is York?”
It wreaks vertigo from within, the spiraling of one caught in the field of truths and lies.
But those very gods made one what they are or become, no? The notion of relevancy is then rendered irrelevant. No creation has the right to be or want more than what they are or what has been given. It is unseemly. Ungrateful.
That is the assumed thought process...
“Rob!”
“Papà!”
“Pa!”
But temptation is catered to the tastes of many, for even the mightiest soldiers crumble before the sin of indulgence.
Cipher Pol’s finest blade would know this fact better than most in ways more intimate than permitted for a weapon.
Rob Lucci once scoffed at the idea of vulnerability. Vulnerability meant loss of the control an agent of his calibre must maintain at every millisecond. Loss of control meant weakness, and weakness within Cipher Pol meant that the blade had dulled. And a dull blade is of no use.
But one day, he had dulled. Far more than he had ever before. He had allowed vulnerability. He had allowed himself to be vulnerable.
“The usual, Mr. Lucci?”
He had sinned. He had indulged himself beyond the lust for blood, a talent to those he serves—sanctioned.
He had indulged himself in sentimentality.
He had tainted himself. And by the time he realised, it consumed him beyond the point of return.
“Love... I saw what happened. Egghead... Vegapunk…”
“I’m alright.”
“Rob…”
“Sono vivo.”
The hands cupping his face grounded him from the memories of the disaster he was subjected to on Egghead. The eyes that had taught him love observed him for any injuries both physical and mental. They found none. None she could immediately pinpoint.
His attention was quickly redirected towards the little voices demanding his attention. Down his eyes went, landing on his two children clinging on to his legs, one attempted to climb while the other hugged.
“Mi ma’a, papà! (Mi sei mancato, papà)” the boy exclaimed as he clung on to Lucci’s leg as if it were his new plush toy. “Po'ché 'ia, pa? (Perché sei andato via?)” the twin asked as her little hands gripped his slacks with childlike determination, eager to scale the mountain of muscle that is her father.
Against his will, his eyes softened before his massive frame lowered, arms circling the much smaller frames clinging to him.
“Mi dispiace per la mia assenza. I had to work.”
The toddlers barely registered what he had spoken and only understood that their papa was home and that they could cling freely.
Lucci allowed them to do as they wished, watching as their little fingers poked at his face or their hands explored the toned curve of his shoulder. He didn’t stop them. He never did.
He wandered the familiar halls of his home, listening to their toddler-speak with focus equal to his missions. When either of them addressed him, he responded without a moment’s hesitation, revelling deep down when their small mouths lifted in amusement.
Of all things... this was the temptation catered to his tastes.
Domesticity. Sentiment.
Love.
Had one told Rob Lucci of the past that it would be love, of all things, to bring him to his knees, he would have never even lifted his nose to look down on them.
But he knows now. When faced with love, he, too, is no better than the common man.
Soon, long after his return home and after the twins were thoroughly entertained, it was time for bed. Naturally, they were fussy. They did not want to let go of their father, papà, but the gentle reassurances of their mother, oh, he’s not going anywhere, along with Lucci’s own decision to take them to bed and remain until they fell asleep calmed them down.
After having made the journey to their shared room, he laid down. He gently settled them on his torso and observed as they went on about their toddler activities. It was only a matter of waiting now.
As he waited for them to tire out, he observed how they played with each other (him included). He listened to them babble and giggle, watched them walk and wobble on the bed before collapsing with joyful giggles.
Being subjected to their playing, Lucci decided that conversing with them would be the best way to tire them out faster. He held his very active daughter to prevent her from falling face first onto the floor, even if his dialogue consisted of dry questions or responses.
“Vi siete comportati bene?”
Meanwhile, his beloved watched how he kept them occupied with an amused smile. It wasn't often that she'd witness Lucci this domestic.
“They found it necessary to be quite chaotic today.”
“Oh really?”
“They played around a tad too much with their food and left a mess in the front room.”
Soon enough, the lively laughter of the twins would die down to calmer babbles, and eventually to the gentle silence filled by their soft breaths.
Only when they were fully asleep—one spread like a starfish and the other clinging to him—did Lucci truly take the time to admire their small faces. From the thick curls on their heads to pads of their toes, Lucci took in every minute detail. It wasn’t mere observation. It was admiring the blend of his genes and of his beloved put into two, innocent beings with terrifying intensity.
They are his. His gifts beyond his talent for killing.
He didn’t speak a word, only admired.
His beloved then entered the scene, quietly making her way to the bed with a serene smile. She, like Lucci, simply admired their two children before looking up at him. Really looking at him.
He saw it. He saw what made him and so many others crumble.
“They’re yours.”
Love.
“Ours.”
With either twin held by either parent, they tucked them into their cribs before returning to their shared bed.
“You’ve been quiet.”
“Can’t enjoy a bit of silence now?”
“You haven’t told me how you fared in my absence.”
Even if he was certain of their well-being, he needed to hear from her that they were all right. That she and their children were safe while he was busy being the blade of justice for the World Government.
“We were all right, Rob. I found out they have a preference for apple-flavoured foods and seem to enjoy playing hide-and-seek,” she chuckled as she trailed her fingers down the planes of his chest.
Lucci let out an imperceptible breath. They were as they should be.
“Good,” he offered little commentary or response, she understood that Rob Lucci was not a man who wasted words, for his actions spoke loudest.
“Goodnight, Rob,” she whispered sweetly, lips pressing onto his almost reverently before resting her head on his chest to drift away to the land of dreams.
Lucci, however, did not.
He remained awake, a silent sentinel within his small world. He did not sleep yet. Not when the three individuals he cherished most were right where they needed to be. Not when his hands—trained to tear apart flesh and break bone without remorse—had the opportunity to do more. To love and nurture.
He turned his attention to his beloved long asleep, his hand tracing the curve of her jaw and cheek, briefly settling there as his eyes admired her features with quiet reverence.
Thus, with a final press of his lips to her forehead and a last look to their children, he closed his eyes and drifted off.
And yet, whether or not he has acknowledged so; he will never truly be the man first until the weapon he was made to be is destroyed…
