" you know... " saeyoung hums, thoughtfully, he'd been
thinking on old memories, the early days of his run in the
agency, and he scrunches up his nose, absentmindedly.
" you comforted me and stuff after my first kill, but. you had yours before we met, when you were paired with that one guy, right? "
" --i can't imagine he was as nice. i'm sorry, agent vanderwood.
you should've had someone that'd be gentle with you, too. "
" and, i hope you know that i appreciate you, okay? "
when vanderwood first shed blood, he had still
been under the tutelage of his mentor: an older
agent who he had been assigned to who went by
the code-name of blackburn. his mentor had been
beside him, a silent observer, waiting for him to
pull the trigger, to put an end to the life of the target.
( always call them the target, blackburn had said. do
not give them a name. do not think of their face other
than to recognize them. that is not a person, they are a
target, no different from a shooting range. )
truthfully, it hadn’t taken much: a twitch of vanderwood’s
finger on the trigger, the sound of the gunshot muffled by
a silencer, and then… it was a halo of blood and gore,
vanderwood’s head spinning, bile rising in his throat, an
unexpected wave of emotions washing over him that left
him reeling.
he remembered: move it, boy, we have to go.
he remembered: nails digging into his arm as he was
dragged along, stumbling over his own feet,
only a boy of fifteen, a child made a killer.
the mission was completed, and that was what had
mattered. blackburn was like that: cold, calculating.
no margin for error. no room for weakness.
( vanderwood remembered the nightmares that night,
every night for months, waking in silent tears as he
trembled, tasting the ghost of blood and gunpowder
on his tongue. )
it had only been natural to him, then, when he had
found seven after his first kill ( self-defence, not some-
thing premeditated ), found him shaking and covered
in blood, to kneel down, to gently take the knife
from seven’s hands and offer comfort, to hold him
until the worst had passed.
you’re alright, vanderwood had said, don’t worry.
go to the van. i’ll handle the rest. it had been second
nature to help seven to his feet, to guide him
outside, and to later sit with him.
it had felt right to tell seven: i know. it’s hard. i promise,
you’re alright. i promise, it gets easier. it had felt natural
to share one of his closely-guarded secrets, to tell a little
of his own experience.
it wasn’t as if he had done it for some ulterior motive: in
the moment, he had simply wanted to be kind. ( he had
wanted to prove to himself that blackburn hadn’t
beaten it out of him. )
when seven brings up these memories, these years gone
by, vanderwood is a little surprised. “ what prompted this—? ”
he begins, but the words stick in his throat as seven
continues to speak.
you should’ve had someone that’d be gentle with you , too.
it isn’t tears that prickle at his eyes, vanderwood tells himself,
and he blinks hard. why did that simple sentence, that quiet
sentiment, make an unnamed feeling swell in his chest,
so large that it may swallow him whole?
vanderwood swallows, throat tight, and he offers seven
a shaky smile. ( shit, it is tears that prickle at his eyes,
that makes breathing hard. ) “ i… ” words fail, none
of them seeming adequate to express this— this warmth
in his chest, the flowers in his lungs, the way his heart
feels as if it is being cradled by someone who cares.
“ …thank you, ” vanderwood finally says, but the words
do not feel as if they even begin to express the depths
of what it means to him. not only that: to be thanked
for something, for something that had felt right to him…
vanderwood smiles, the expression unclouded by a facade,
warmth illuminating dark eyes. his carefully-guarded heart,
something kept shrouded in secrecy to protect it from the world,
is allowed to shine through, tentative and shy. “ i appreciate you
too, ” vanderwood says, “ and…i’m glad we have each other,
now. i’d go through it all again, so long as i got to meet you. ”
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