athena was gf2bellamy

The bathroom light stung your eyes as you flicked it on, and you blinked against the glare. You pulled out the first aid kit, the one you’d had to restock three times in the past two months. Behind you, you heard the sounds of him undressing.

He knew the rules. You’d made them clear the first time he’d shown up at your window, dripping blood onto your carpet. No blood on your bed and no suit on your sheets.

When you came back out, the first aid kit tucked under your arm, he was sitting on the edge of your bed. He was down to his black boxers, the rest of his suit folded by the window. He was sitting with one hand braced against his waist, leaning back slightly, his head tipped up toward the ceiling.

You rounded the bed, coming to stand beside him. From this angle you could see the damage was worse than you’d thought.

There was blood around his eyebrows, smeared and half dried into the hair above his right eye where something had split the skin. His knuckles were torn raw, but his waist was what drew your eye and your stomach turn.

You almost winced, but you managed to keep your face neutral, the way you’d learned to do over the months. He watched your face like a hawk, Any flicker of fear or disgust, and he’d shut down.

He tilted his head just slightly, hazel eyes finding yours, trying to figure out how much you hated him after this morning.

The argument from this morning hung over both of you. You’d been concerned about his excessive fighting and he hadn’t taken it well obviously. He’d never taken concern well, it always sounded like criticism to him, like proof that he was doing something wrong and that he was wrong.

You weren’t sure if he kept coming back because you were the only one who ever welcomed him back or if it was because he genuinely loved you.

Maybe it was both.

You bent down slightly, knees hovering over the ground next to his thigh as you finally started cleaning and unlike the other times, you didn't warn him about anything. Tonight, you just pressed the cloth directly against the wound.

He grunted, a sound that punched out of his chest before he could stop it. His muscles locked up under your hands and for a split second you felt him fight the instinct to pull away.

His eyes shot down to you, caught off guard by the fact that you'd done that, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew better.

Instead, his hands carefully came up to your hair.

You felt his fingers graze the side of your head. He was about to hold it back for you, like he always did when you cleaned him up. It had become his way of being useful, when you were taking care of him. He'd gather your hair in his big bloody hands and pull it gently away from your face and hold it in a ponytail so it wouldn't fall forward into your work. And usually, you'd smile to yourself at the gesture and he'd feel good about himself for just one second.

"Don't," you muttered.

His hands dropped like they'd been burned. For a moment, he looked almost confused, then his hands went back to your bed instead, gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles went white. The fabric bunched under his fingers as he pressed down.

You glanced at his hands before looking away again. He'd hurt your feelings too much this morning. You hated arguing with him, because arguing with Dex was like arguing with a brick wall. You also hated him not listening to you. You were just trying to keep him alive, and he acted like that was an unreasonable request.

He was now looking away, pissed off as well, because you wouldn't let him touch you. But you could see the hurt taking over his face anyway. You could see the confusion underneath the hurt too, because this wasn't how it usually went. Usually, you were patient and usually, you let him have his small gestures because you knew they were the only way he knew how to say I love you.

You bit your lip and started working again, pushing all of that down where you could deal with it later. You cleaned carefully around the bloody gash. The antiseptic soaked into the gauze, turning pink as you dabbed away the worst of it. You could feel him clenching his abs at some point out of pain, the muscles jumping under your fingers, but he didn't let out a single sound.

Like always, you couldn't resist brushing softly over his abs as you worked. Your fingers traced across the muscle just above the wound, because that was just who you were with Dex. Gentle.

You could feel Dex relax under your oh so familiar touch and when you glanced up, you saw his eyes were closed. You couldn't help the warmth that filled your body at that.

It spread through your chest like honey and completely against your will. You'd been trying so hard to stay cold, but seeing Dex, Dex who was hypervigilant about everything and everyone, close his eyes and give himself fully to you despite the horrible morning you'd both had together it made you feel too many things.

He trusted you. That was the heart of it. He trusted you not to hurt him while he couldn't see and he trusted you to keep being gentle even when you were angry.

"What happened?"

He finally opened his eyes, looking down at you. Those dark hazel eyes found yours, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You could see him considering the question, turning it over in his mind, deciding how much to tell you. The answer, when it came, was exactly what you expected. "Not important," was all he grumbled out.

You stared at him and his dark hazel eyes stared back.

His eyes clearly said drop it without him having to actually say the words, but you'd never been good at dropping things, especially not when his blood was still drying under your fingernails.

So you looked down again, focusing on the white bandage you were smoothing over his waist, but your fingers pushed harder than necessary.

You could hear him almost chuckle at that, but it just made you push harder, pressing your thumb into the muscle just next to the bandage with enough pressure to make a point. He stopped chuckling real fast. His breath hitched once, and then he went quiet again, his jaw tightening. Good. You didn't need his attitude right now.

After a while, you were done with his waist. You smoothed the edges of the bandage one last time, before finally standing up.

Your legs protested. You'd been kneeling longer than you realized, and the stretch sent pins and needles shooting down your calves. You straightened slowly, rolling your shoulders back, feeling the ache in your lower back from leaning over him for so long.

You stepped away from his thigh and stood directly in front of him. Even sitting on your bed, he was almost at eye level with you. You still had the advantage of height, and you used it, looking down at him with an expression you hoped was unreadable.

He looked up at you, and without being asked, he automatically opened his legs for you. You didn't hesitate, stepping in between his legs, close enough that your knees brushed against the inside of his thighs. You reached out and grabbed his chin, lifting his face up to you.

Your thumb and forefinger, pinched gently beneath his jaw, tilting his head back so he had no choice but to look up at you. He could have pulled away, but he didn't.

It was a nasty cut on his cheek. The blood had dried, trailing down his neck. You studied it, calculating the best way to clean it without getting antiseptic in his eye, and that was when you felt his hands wandering up your thighs.

His palms were warm and rough against your bare skin, calloused from years of gripping weapons. He brushed them softly up and down your thighs, a touch that sent goosebumps rising across every inch of skin your shorts didn't cover.

You flinched at his touch. He felt it immediately and his hands gripped tighter in response. His fingers pressed into the flesh of your thighs, holding you in place, afraid you'd step back.

He stared up at you, waiting to see if you'd push him away or not. His eyes were dark, flicking across your face.

You stared down at him for a long moment, wondering what you yourself were going to do. Part of you wanted to push his hands away and part of you wanted to remind him that he didn't get to touch you like this after this morning. But you just let him, because at the end of the day you cared about Dex so much it hurt.

Then and there, he'd grip your thighs harder.

Sometimes you'd press a little too firmly against a tender spot, or the antiseptic would sting more than expected, and his hands would clamp down on your legs, fingers squeezing the soft flesh of your thighs.

But then, immediately after, he'd soften his grip. His thumb would rub softly over the spot he'd just squeezed as if saying sorry.

He stared at you a lot. Had you not been friends (?) with Dex for so long, you would've been concerned. Anyone else, staring at you like that, would have set off alarm bells, but with him, you'd learned that the staring was just something he did.

As you cleaned carefully, wiping the last traces of blood from his cheek, he finally spoke again.

"Did you not want me here?" he asked.

You paused , the gauze still pressed against his cheek, and just looked at him. There was a slight furrow between his brows that meant he was bracing himself for bad news.

"A bit late to ask that question, don't you think?" you asked, eyebrows raised.

"Still wanna know the answer," he said as his hand squeezed your left thigh.

You stared at him, and you thought about lying for a second but then changed your mind.

"No," you replied.

And you knew him so well that you could tell his face fell. To anyone else, his expression probably wouldn't have changed at all, but you knew.

"Good to know. I'll get out of your hair," he mumbled.

He started to move. His hands left your thighs, and you felt the cold absence immediately. He braced his palms against the bed on either side of him, preparing to push himself up to walk out of your room and probably out of your life for good this time.

But your hand just slipped down to his neck. Your fingers found the warm skin just below his jaw, palm curving around the side of his throat. You held him back from trying to stand up. You could feel his rapid pulse beneath your palm. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and your fingers shifted with the movement.

"You're already here. Not worth leaving now."

Dex almost resisted the touch. His body was screaming at him to leave and to get out before you could hurt him worse.

But then he stilled, his head tilting slightly into your palm like a flower turning toward the sun. He couldn't help it. Even hurt and angry and confused, he couldn't resist your touch. It was the only thing that had always been able to reach him.

He stared up at you, those dark hazel eyes searching your face for a sign that you weren't going to change your mind and shove him away.

You didn't give him any of that, but you didn't let go of his neck either.

He stayed silent, so you carefully took care of the cut on his cheek. The anger had drained out of you somewhere in the last few minutes. You didn't feel the urge to hurt him anymore. You just wanted him to stop bleeding. You just wanted, for one moment, to not be fighting.

Your fingers were soft against his skin as you dabbed the last of the blood away. You smoothed a small bandaid over the cut. He let you work without complaint, his eyes never leaving your face.

But as soon as you were done, he stood up. You stumbled back, your hand falling from his neck. He didn't look at you and just walked toward your closet.

You watched, confused, as he reached inside. He knew exactly where to go, the bottom shelf on the left, where you'd folded his things weeks ago and never bothered to move. A few shirts and a pair of sweatpants.

He grabbed his clothes, the ones he usually left here for mornings after, for nights when it was too late or too cold or too dangerous for him to leave.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't worry about it," he mumbled.

He didn't look at you as he said it. He just grabbed a shirt and pulled it over his head. The fabric caught on his shoulders for a moment, and he had to tug it down, the movement making him groan slightly at the pain in his waist. He reached for the sweatpants next.

You stared at him for a long moment, watching the way his hands shook as he grabbed the fabric. Watching the flush creeping up the back of his neck, red and splotchy.

He was upset, having just realized that you didn't want him here. And he'd gone ahead and assumed the worst. That was how his mind worked. One rejection meant all rejections, one closed window meant every door was locked forever. In his head, your no hadn't just meant not tonight. It meant you were done with him, that you'd finally come to your senses, that he'd been right all along to expect this.

You could see the genuine power it was taking him to remain calm.

God knows Dex never stayed calm when he found out people were leaving him.

You finally stepped into his space, blocking his path to the closet, forcing him to either look at you or look away. Your body was close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.

"You leaving?" you asked, and your hand came up to stop him from taking the sweatpants. Your fingers closed around the fabric, tugging gently, and he let go easier than you expected.

"You care about me leaving now?" he chuckled, but there was no humor in it.

He reached above your head for the rest of his clothes, his arm stretching past your shoulder, his body brushing against yours for just a moment. You could see his hands shaking up close now.

"Dex," you finally said.

He didn't look at you, but he stopped reaching for the closet. You grabbed the sweatpants out of his hand and stuffed them back in the closet, pushing them to the back of the shelf where he couldn't easily reach them.

"All I'm saying is that I—" you started, but the words got stuck in your throat. You didn't know what to say.

How did you explain something you didn't fully understand yourself? How did you tell him that you wanted him gone and wanted him closer at the same time? That his presence hurt and his absence hurt worse? That you were angry and scared and still, somehow, desperately in love with him? His eyes were weirdly red rimmed as he stared at you.

"I'm upset, okay?" you finally said, and the words came out embarrassed. "You hurt me this morning. And I'm just—taking it out on you now, I guess."

Dex's red rimmed eyes searched your face, looking for the lie, because in his experience, there was always a trap. People didn't just say I'm upset and leave it there. There was always something they wanted from him in return.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," was all he said.

"Yeah, well, you did," you chuckled without any real joy. "You accused me of trying to hold you back," you said, hating how your voice broke. "And then you told me you wouldn't want to see me again, if i kept voicing my concern." You grimaced. "You don't think I'd be hurt by that?"

And he really didn't. Dex didn't think that words like that had an effect on anyone, because in his mind, he was basically worth nothing. So why would him telling you that you wouldn't have to put up with him anymore hurt you so much? To him, it wasn't anything bad. It was just true. Of course you didn't tolerate him. Who could? Who would? He was surprised you'd lasted this long, honestly. He'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the first night he climbed through your window.

Dex stared at you, processing your words, and then gave the only answer he knew how to give. "No."

Your shoulders fell a bit, as if you'd expected the answer. "Well, I was," you replied, staring back at his eyes.

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a single word out, you were already gripping his shirt.

Your fingers curled into the black fabric at his chest, bunching it up. You were close enough that he could see how shiny your eyes were.

"Off," you mumbled. "It's not good for your injury," you tugged at the hem of the shirt again.

He opened his mouth, clearly about to make a joke about you taking his clothes off. You could see it forming in his expression. It was his default defense mechanism. He'd deflect with sarcasm and make you roll your eyes so he didn't have to acknowledge whatever he did to you.

But you shot him a look and he closed his mouth, but that small smug grin stayed on his face.

Obviously he didn't let you take it off. He just reached back to his neck, grabbing the collar of the shirt, and pulled it over his head. He folded the shirt carefully, before turning back to the closet.

He reached past you, his arm brushing your shoulder, and gently placed the folded shirt back alongside the sweatpants you'd stuffed in the back. He took the sweatpants out again, folding them before tucking them back into their spot on the shelf.

Meanwhile, you turned your back to him and finally started tying up the first aid kit. But your mind was still reeling from how you'd admitted what you were feeling to him. You weren't good at that. Neither of you were and you'd just laid yourself bare in front of him.

Behind you, Dex didn't know what to do. He stood there next to the closet, shirtless, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides.

Should he just go home? He could climb back out the window, disappear into the night, give you the space you clearly needed. It would be the safe thing to do.

But he didn't want to leave. He never wanted to leave. Every time he climbed through your window, some small part of him hoped he wouldn't have to climb back out.

What did you want him to do?

Usually, after you patched him up, he'd stay with you. You'd sit beside him on the bed and you'd talk about nothing and everything and as you talked, you'd brush your hand softly over his chest, your palm resting right over his heart.

He liked that the most. When you had your hand on his heartbeat.

He wasn't sure why. Maybe because his heart was always pounding from all the adrenaline and the pain and anger. But your hand was the only thing that got it to calm down.

But now after the argument were you going to make him sleep on the couch? He wasn't sure his back could handle it. The couch was old and too short for him, and he was already sore from tonight's fight. Sleeping on the couch would mean waking up stiff and angry and probably more than a little pathetic than he felt right now.

His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, a casual pose that cost him more effort than he wanted to admit. His eyes followed you as you moved around the room.

When you returned from putting the first aid kit away, you glanced at him and stopped. Surprise flickered across your face for just a moment, but then realization dawned on you.

So you just walked over to your bed and pushed away the covers. The sheets were still rumpled from where you'd been lying earlier. You sat down on the edge of the mattress and looked up at him.

"You not going to join?" you asked.

Like a puppy, Dex followed. Had he been anywhere else and had anyone else watching, he would have rather shot himself than ever let anyone see how eagerly he just went to bed.

He crossed the room and settled on the other side of your bed, his body sinking into the mattress beside you. He was careful as he moved. His waist injury pulled and he had to adjust his position three times before he found one that didn't send spikes of pain through his side. A small sigh of relief escaped him as he finally laid down. His head found the pillow he always used.

You were still sitting against the headboard, staring down at him, where he stared at the ceiling. You watched him for a long moment, taking him in, but then you finally scooched down, laying down next to him.

The mattress shifted under your weight, and you felt him adjust slightly beside you. Your shoulder brushed against his arm, and neither of you moved away from the contact.

"Want the covers?" you mumbled.

Sometimes he didn't want the covers. He got overwhelmed by them sometimes, especially when it was hot or when he was having nightmares and woke up sweaty and panicked.

He shook his head, his hair rustling against the pillow. So you let the covers stay barely past your knees, the fabric pooling somewhere around your thighs. You could see goosebumps rising on his arms, but he didn't seem to care.

"Thank you," he said after a while.

His voice was rough and quiet. He was still staring at the way the lights from the streets hit your ceiling, probably using them as an excuse not to look at you.

"I'm not trying to hold you back," you whispered after a long silence. "I'm just worried." Your voice cracked slightly on the last word, and you hated it. You hated how much power you were giving him over your emotions. "I don't want to lose you," you said after he stayed quiet.

He turned his head on the bed, glancing at you. His dark hazel eyes found your face in the dim light and you turned your head.

Now you were facing each other on the pillows, inches apart, close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips. His eyes were wide and surprised. You knew him well enough to know how much those words meant to him. You'd shown him in a hundred small ways, but you'd never said it quite like this.

"I don't want to watch the news and have to hear that you died, Dex," you whispered.

Your voice broke on his name, and he could swear he saw tears in your eyes. You blinked hard, trying to push the moisture back. You glanced away again, forcing him to admire your side profile instead.

"Why not?" he whispered.

It was a sick question, he knew that. He knew the answer should be obvious, but he oh so desperately just wanted you to say it out loud.

He needed the words to exist outside of his own head and he needed them to be something he could hold onto when the darkness became too much.

You turned your head and your eyes met his. "Because I love you," you whispered. "And I can't live without you."

You watched his face as the words landed, watched the way his expression shifted through a dozen emotions in the span of a single second.

Dex felt a lot. He just wasn't sure what it was. There was a pressure in his chest, like his heart was trying to expand beyond the confines of his ribs. His throat felt thick, his eyes felt hot and there was a strange ringing in his ears.

Had he been like anyone else, he would have known it was love.

All he knew was that it didn't make him feel bad. So he just stared at you, his dark hazel eyes unreadable, before saying quietly, "My waist doesn't hurt that much."

You let out a wet chuckle. You could feel the tears threatening to spill over again, but you blinked them back, focusing on the absurdity of the moment.

"You suck," you whispered, but you knew this was his way of asking you to come closer.

You slid across the sheets until you were pressed against his side. The mattress shifted under both of you, and you felt his hand come up to rest on your back, fingers splayed wide.

You rested your head on his chest, staring down at his injury. From this angle, you could see the white bandage clearly.

He stared down at your soft hair. Soft, unlike anything else in his life. He'd spent the night being hit by sharp and hard things. He'd been thrown around into god knows what type of buildings, his body slamming against walls and floors and whatever else had gotten in the way. That's what he knew most of the time.

Less of the time, he knew a soft body like yours. Your hair spilled across his chest and he found himself mesmerized by the way it moved when you breathed.

When your fingertips traveled to his injury, he shivered. Your fingers traced the edge of the bandage with no pressure. It didn't hurt, but it made goosebumps rise on his arms, his stomach clenching involuntarily.

You halted for a second, your fingers freezing against his skin, probably worried you'd hurt him. But then you continued, tracing it gently, following the line of the bandage from one end to the other.

"Did a good job," he mumbled, his eyes following your movement. He watched your fingers trace across his skin.

"Hm, thanks," you hummed, your breath warm against his chest. "Have lots of experience."

He chuckled at that and you felt the vibration under your cheek.

You closed your eyes for a second, enjoying the oh so not rare sound, but rarely ever genuine sounding sound. You wanted to capture it in a jar and keep it on your nightstand, something to listen to on the nights when he wasn't there.

His hand found your hair, fingers threading through the strands. He let his palm rest against the back of your head.

You looked up at that, meeting his eyes. Your cheek dragged against his chest as you tilted your head back, chin pressing into his sternum. Your hair splaying across his chest.

"I'm not going to argue again with you, but I think you should know that I'll always worry," you whispered, your eyes searching his face. "And i might say things sometimes."

His thumb paused its circles on your neck, pressing just slightly harder. "I think I can handle that," he mumbled, his hand now wandering down to the back of your waist, his fingers brushing lightly under your shirt.

You shivered. His fingers warm against the bare skin of your lower back, rough calluses dragging gently over the soft curve of your waist.

He noticed and his eyes flickered with something that might have been satisfaction, but he didn't say anything. His other hand remained on the other side of his body until you tilted your head over his body and grabbed it softly. Your fingers found his and you guided his hand downward, pulling it across your hip.

You placed his hand on your thigh, spreading your fingers over the back of his, pressing down slightly so he could feel the softness of your skin through the thin fabric of your shorts.

"Warm," you mumbled.

You didn't like the bed covers either. You'd told him that once, early in the morning, when the sun was just rising and he'd asked why you always kicked the blankets off in your sleep and grabbed his hands instead.

They're too warm, you'd mumbled, half asleep, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. I run hot.

And he'd said, My hands are always warm. and he didn't mean it in a good way. His hands were always warm from gripping knives and guns and from the adrenaline running through his veins. He didn't think you clinging to him was a good idea, if you hated excessive warmth so much.

No, you'd corrected, turning to look at him with sleepy eyes. They're the appropriate type of warmth.

So now his hand rested on your thigh his fingers spread wide to cover as much skin as possible.

He stared down at you, and he wished so badly the words could come out as easily as yours did. They were right there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, pressing against the back of his teeth. Three words. Eight letters.

He'd heard other people say them. Seen them in movies, read them in books, watched strangers on the street murmur them to each other But for him, they felt impossible.

He wasn't good enough to tell you that. That was the thought that stopped him every time, the voice in his head that had been there since childhood, whispering poison into his ears. You're not good enough. You're not worthy. You're not the type of person who gets to say things like that.

He wasn't a good person. He wasn't the type of person to say those things. He didn't think he was allowed to utter such words, especially not to someone as good as you.

But he could show you. He could try, at least. So he just brushed a hand over your thigh, his palm gliding across your skin trying to warm your body as much as he could.

I love you, the strokes seemed to say. I love you. I love you.

You smiled.It was small, a smile that he might have missed if he hadn't been staring at your face.

Maybe one day he'll say it. Maybe one day the words would come. Maybe one night he'd look at you and they'd finally break free. Maybe he'd whisper them against your hair, or murmur them in the dark when he thought you were asleep.

But maybe he won't. Maybe the words would always be too hard. Maybe he'd go his whole life without ever saying I love you.