nixx

Sylus’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He was, of course, expecting his usual good night text as his beloved finally decided to get some rest. Instead, he's greeted with a picture.

"Please say this means he liked the peanuts I fed him at dinner."

Stuck onto her window, there was a piece of paper with a little lopsided smiley face, so crooked it was no doubt the work of little crow feet.

Sylus thought nothing more of it. If anything, he was just pleased to know Mephisto was entertaining her.

The morning after, and she'd send another picture, this time of a note with a crooked frowny face and -what they assumed- was a peanut. Sylus told her that if Mephisto wanted more peanuts, he needed to clock in for the night.

Another day goes by, he'd find Luke and Kieran, sitting almost shamefully on the couch. An angry little scribble taped to each of their foreheads. Mephisto, apparently, didn't appreciate the bomb that they set off during their last mission together, and very much wanted to make it known.

Sylus would continue to ignore it- until about a week later, when he and Miss Hunter had a brief but intense spat about his safety.

It wasn't sudden. Trouble had been stirring up in the N109 Zone, and she could only handle so many attempts on Sylus’s life without saying something. It ended with her begging Sylus to get out of her apartment for the night.

He didn't want to, but he already knew how much it hurt her to argue with him in such a way.

Upon reaching the base, Sylus was greeted with another crudely done drawing stuck onto his door.

Angry frown, thumbs down.

It's artist, standing right on his perch, staring down at Sylus with silent disapproval.

"...go keep an eye on her. Until she's willing to meet with me again."

And two days later, she was. Sylus made his way over to her apartment as soon as he received word from Mephisto.

He knocked on the door, a small apology gift tucked safely under his arm. Sylus could hear shuffling on the other side. Slow, nervous movement.

A piece of paper slipped out from under the door. A sad face, hesitantly drawn by the person he loved.

Oh.

OH.

Sylus could not believe he didn't put it all together sooner. Of course Mephisto picked it up from her. On her hardest days, whether she was too tired to speak or when she couldn't trust her words...

She must have been so worried the whole week. Why, then, hadn't she drawn or left a note for him earlier? Had she been trying to get Mephisto act in her stead-

-or had Mephisto been trying to quietly to encourage her to do it?

"I'm sorry." Sylus whispered through the door, the distance between them suddenly feeling much more cavernous than he'd ever accept.

Her reasons didn't matter. What mattered was righting his current wrongs.

"Won't you... let me tell you in person?"

Let me see you -touch you -hold you?

Sylus could never judge her. Not when there were so many words, he too, left unsaid.

~~~~~

Mephisto hopped in through the open balcony. He was sure that Boss already knew he was there. Really, he only came in to play with the wrapping paper from Miss Hunter’s gift.

Right beside it, the note that she handed to Sylus, now turned over.

Two little hearts scribbled in the corner, one in bold, confident strokes. The other shaky, and bleeding with emotion.

And he never told you where he was going, what he was doing, when he did it. The only clue you'd get that he may have gone off to do some crazy, reckless stunt would be how he turned away from you after strenuous Wanderer fights at work. His shoulders would tense a fraction, and you knew he was hiding something again—a wince, a frown, whatever would clue you in to him keeping an injury a secret.

By now, you'd learned secrets were second nature to Xavier, shadows that clung to him like a second skin. His caginess, intentional or not, had frustrated you to no end when you'd first become partners. But somehow, you'd grown closer despite it—especially when you realized just how he had managed to fit into every corner of your life.

He became the coworker you'd share the last pack of instant noodles with during a short, silent lunch before rushing off to the next mission together. The neighbor who texted you to ask if you ever needed anything when he stopped at the convenience store, and left a bag of pain patches outside your door even though you said you didn't, just because you complained of a back ache the day before.

It took a while longer to realize those versions of Xavier consolidated into one, into a friend. And it took even longer—sleepless nights spent stargazing on his balcony, rainy afternoons reading side by side on your sofa, feeding stray cats and texting every day and the softest of smiles on his face, just for you—to realize his presence had become precious enough that he was something even more.

It's those feelings, buried down deep but growing with each passing day spent by his side, that have you restless, agitated as you tend to his injuries. They're not life-threatening, but bad enough to have brought him to your doorstep, sheepish and seeking your help.

Or maybe he just couldn't reach the cut across his shoulder blades. The shirt of his Hunter uniform with the gaping hole across the back hangs off the armrest of your sofa, and you watch the muscles in his upper back tense and relax with each swipe of the antiseptic across the wound, luckily more shallow than how bad it looked on first glance.

Or perhaps he was just too tired to deal with it himself. Every few minutes he'd start to tilt forward, and you'd grab his shoulder and tug him back, jerking him awake from his battle-exhausted state.

Or he was just…Xavier. Who knew what went through his mind, he sure wouldn't tell you.

So, yeah, you're fucking pissed. And you know he knows you are. He's one of the most clever men you know, and never lets anybody know just how much.

You know he feels your anger, a storm brewing behind him, and he keeps his mouth shut. Offering nothing, even as he's stripped of half his clothes and letting you care for him now, in a vulnerable state he'd always hidden before.

You don't want excuses, but you want…something.

"Stupid."

It's the first word that finally comes from your lips as you throw the bloody bundle in your hands onto the coffee table, picking up the bandage to wrap around him.

His shoulders tense, and you imagine the wince he's hiding again—not at any pain this time, but at the acidity in your tone.

"You always do this. You just run off." Without me. "And you get into some stupid fucking trouble, and you don't even tell me. And now—" You cut off with a bitter laugh, loosening the bandage a little when his back become stiff with how tight you were wrapping it. "Now it suits you to show up on my doorstep, scaring me half to death—"

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

Your response flies too fast, too hot with anger, and he falls silent again. You almost feel bad about it, but you're at your limit.

Here was the man who had become your dearest friend, your closest confidant, the person you cared for more than anything. His skin was bare under your shaking hands, tended to with all the soft fondness you carried in your heart for him, and it still felt like you didn't know him at all.

"If you don't trust me, just say so."

It may be irrational. It's fed only by weeks, months of this building restlessness.

But it also has Xavier whipping his head around, eyes wide with disbelief and something startlingly close to betrayal that you'd ever even suggest that. He glances over your face, mouth parted before pressing into a deep frown. His brows furrow as he shakes his head.

"I do trust you," he says low, quiet. Satisfaction and adrenaline surges through your veins when you hear a hint of frustration in his gentle tone when he insists, imploring you to understand, "I came to you."

The way he says it, it sounds so simple. It sounds like you could never misread his intentions, that the same need that thrummed under your skin may just haunt him as well.

Until the moment would pass, and you'd lie in bed tonight, realizing he never truly told you anything at all.

"Yeah, this time," you argue back, emboldened by how you finally had gotten a reaction from him, hooked into the argument you'd been itching to have once relief that he was not on death's door washed over you. You shake your head, tying off the bandage. "What about all the other times you didn't? Or all the future times you won't?"

This time, you actually catch a glimpse of the grimace flickering across his face right before he turns away again.

It stings more than it should. Your emotions are running too high, your heart dangerously close to your sleeve, and you can't do this anymore.

"There." You throw the supplies haphazardly back into the first aid kit, slamming it shut and pushing yourself to your feet in the same harsh breath. "You know where the door is."

Spinning on your heels, you brush past where he still sits, frozen on your couch. But the moment you're almost out of his range, almost escaping the tight hold he already has around your heart, squeezing it with every time he reminds you just how much he's out of your reach—

He reaches first.

His fingers brush against your inner wrist. Just the softest of touches, hesitant and wanting.

Or maybe that's just the thud of your heart in your chest again, the way that you stop so easily just at the promise that he might say wait.

He doesn't. But his rough fingertips, callused from a practiced touch on his sword's hilt, brush along where your pulse skips and flutters beneath your skin, and you curse yourself for looking back.

Xavier's eyes are wide, dangerously close to pleading. The blue of them is even more striking with the purple bruise that blooms along his cheekbone, his elegant brow upturned, pulling on the Steri-Strip you'd placed across the left one.

You sigh, the sound softer than you would've liked, fluttering instead of as aggravated as you still feel. But the irritation ebbs and fades under the soft intent of his gaze, giving way to the fear that had gripped you when he'd slumped against you in your doorway, with a tired smile of relief the moment he saw you.

"What?" you ask, exhaustion overcoming you at all the energy it took to stay mad at him.

Xavier swallows thickly. His thumb brushes along your veins, pressing gently into your pulse, as if he was counting the beats in time with his slow, even breaths.

You only realize after another beat that he was forcing them to be that slow, that even. There's something restless in him now, a twitch in his other hand, lips forming empty words before he finally utters two.

"Don't go."

Just two words. Two words that make your world tilt sideways, make everything slide away except for his eyes, the cut on his lower lip, the bandage on the hollow of his throat when his Adam's apple bobs again.

"You can't—" you start, stop. Lick your lips and try not to shiver when his eyes catch on the movement. "You can't do this."

To me, you let hang unsaid, stilling the air between you. You can't keep doing this to me.

It's thought with desperation, imploring the man who had turned from a coworker you once begrudged working aside, to the one who fell asleep against your shoulder on the train ride home. The neighbor who you had cursed for the odd culinary explosion whenever you least expected it, to the one who you exchanged keys with in order to take care of each other's plants when one of you was away on a long solo mission.

You're already at the end of your anger. You just feel defeated, the tension bleeding out from you the longer he looks at you like that.

Soft, so soft. Like nothing else existed except for his thumb pressed into your palm, bits of his blood dried under your fingernails, his very being burrowing under your skin. The smell of antiseptic and copper still lingers in the room as it feels smaller, and smaller, like he was real and here and not a star so far away, fleeting and never yours.

"You're—" Your fingers wrap around his own wrist, his eyes widening at the insistent pressure of your grip, the frustration that continues to bleed from you, pouring from you now, unable to stop it. "You're reckless, and it scares me, Xavier. I'm your partner, and if you really think I can't keep up then fine. I mean, you're dead wrong, but—"

You're rambling now, holding him tight, hardly registering when his other hand brushes against your waist. Steadying you as you sway in place, the air too thin, and you hold onto his shoulder, leaning down so he could see you, see just the kind of madness he drove you to.

"But I'm your friend, too." You blink rapidly, clinging to him. "And I'm—I—"

The words suddenly fail you, and you're left panting, holding on too tight to make up for his slackening grip in his surprise. But even as you say nothing, it says far too much, and you watch as his eyes widen a fraction, lips popping open in sudden clarity, his hand flexing on your waist.

Here you were, all your cards out in the open, while he kept all his own so close to his chest, you forgot he had any to begin with.

You nearly pull away in embarrassment before his grip tightens. Xavier's jaw sets in determination one second, and the next he's softening immeasurably, looking at you in wonder, the kind of awe you've felt deep in your own bones.

"If I kiss you right now," he breathes, "will you hate me?"

Your jaw drops.

Closes.

Opens again.

You want to laugh at the sheer audacity, to shake him and give him a piece of your mind. You want to fall right into his lap and kiss him senseless, to let him know how much he drives you crazy, to hold him and never let go and you want—god, you want—

Xavier tugs you into him, and you stumble into his waiting embrace, the warmth of his mouth enveloping yours and stealing the breath from your lungs with a fierce, searing kiss.

"Mm," you make a sound in surprise that he immediately swallows, hand cupping the back of your head. He cradles it so gently, sinking back into your sofa as he pulls you into him, and you melt.

His hair is as soft as it looks, slipping through your fingers, and you grip it as tightly as you seize this moment. You claim his split lip as your frustration bleeds into the kiss, in the scrape of your teeth against his lip until you taste fresh copper in your mouth.

His answering sound is soft, desperate. His large, warm palm glides up your back, gently pressing between your shoulder blades until you're melded together.

"I'm still—" You breathe heavily, only managing to pull back for mere seconds before he chases you, or you dive back in yourself, jealous of the very air he tries to breathe. "—still mad at you, you bastard—"

"I know," Xavier pants, licking into your mouth, and you moan softly. He holds you tighter, leaning you down to lay on the couch, then follows with the press of his body against yours. The weight of him offers a sense of safety, grounding you to this moment as real, as finally happening, and your heart races. "I know, I'm sorry. I know."

He pulls back for a gasp, his eyes meeting yours. His expression flickers, darkens with a sadness you can't decipher, and then he kisses you once, softly.

It has your breath stuttering when he kisses you again, with a gentle pressure, and your eyes are half-lidded to admire the soft furrow of his brow, his eyes falling shut as he's lost in you, in the determination to make up for this in the only way he can think of. To steal the words coworker and neighbor, partner and friend from your mouth and only leaving his name, only him, here now with you.

"Xavier."

He whines at the sound of it, deepening into a groan when you turn your face away. His frustration at the situation he'd created, at himself is palpable in the kisses he peppers down your jaw and neck.

"I won't let you not talk about it," you assert between heavy breaths, unfocused vision hovering over the bloody gauze left to be disposed on your coffee table. "I care about you too much not to."

Xavier sighs, face burying into your neck. His own quick breathing is mismatched with yours, your chests pressed together, rapidly rising and falling until they come into sync. His tense body slowly relaxes, and he presses soft kisses to the nape of your neck, small apologies.

"I know," he repeats. You can hear more unspoken, the silent struggle in whatever he's never said to you, what he's trying to say now. "It's…hard for me."

You stay silent, rubbing your hands up and down his bare back, careful to avoid the injuries you treated. When it becomes clear he can't find how to put it into words, you offer, "To let somebody in?"

Xavier burrows further into you, melting into you so easily. He hedges, then continues even quieter, "To remember that somebody wants to be let in."

Your heart squeezes in your chest, and you hold him tighter.

"Then I'll remind you." You nudge him again, and he lifts his head, blue eyes round and unsure, letting you cup his round cheeks. "But you have to meet me halfway here. I can't keep doing this on my own."

His eyes flicker away in shame, and you gently shake his face from side to side, drawing his attention back to you.

"I want to," he breathes the admission, forehead resting against yours. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, down to your jaw. He glances over your face like he's taking you in, the fluffy strands of his hair brush against your cheek when he nuzzles into you. "I want that somebody to be you. I don't want anybody else."

Your heart stutters in your chest at the eager admission, the open vulnerability on his face, and you sigh.

"Then we start small." You tap his nose, and he blinks, wide-eyed and adorable. The look melts into something so fond when you huff out a laugh, and your cheeks warm. "How about you start sending me your location before you jump into something unbelievably stupid and death-defying, hm?"

Xavier laughs too, soft and under his breath. The sound washes over you, easing the remaining tension from your bones.

"I think I can manage that," he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours again, and you laugh until he swallows the sound, smiling into your lips.

"Mm," you hum into him, pinching his cheek fondly. "You say that now, but I won't tolerate any slacking." You sigh, pretending to think about it. "I'll just have to punish you if you don't comply."

His eyebrow arches, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, so sly and matching a dark glint in his eyes, one that makes your heart skip a beat. "Promise?"

You laugh again, unable to stop smiling even as he swoops back in to kiss you senseless, until you're tangled together, breathing heavy and giddy from the slow realization that you were finally doing this.

For so long you'd admired him from afar. And now that he's up close he's so soft, so real in your arms.

And you may have to work on these issues, but you'll work on them together.

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Flaming Embrace – You shuffle closer and nuzzle into his side as he supports you with an arm on the floor behind you. The weight of his head landing on top of yours tells you he is just as relaxed as you are. The room remains unusually quiet.

“Are you still cold?” He questions when he notices you tugging at the bathrobe to pull it further over your body.

“Not really, I’m just getting extra comfortable.”

“Oh, don’t get too comfortable. The flames remind me of a rushing waterfall fighting its way down a rough cliffside. I’m going to need you to gather my paintbrushes, Miss Bodyguard. This is getting serious.” 

You move away just enough to shoot him a grumpy glare. Rafayel chuckles when he sees your expression and simply nudges your head back onto his shoulder. A few gentle strokes are left on your cheek before his arm returns to support the other holding the weight of your tired bodies.

Calming Sounds – “You’re filthy, kitten, I’d prefer to keep the car interior an oil free zone.”

“Then why are you taking your shirt off?” 

“I’m not against the idea of you sitting next to me in nothing but your undergarments, however I thought I should at least give you the option to cover up.”

This man will never cease to amaze me…

You often found yourself guilty of underestimating Sylus’ character. His reputation certainly precedes him, but it also misjudges him greatly. 

Lingering Sweetness – You silently play with the hem of your sweater before moving your fingers to tug at the collar. Subconsciously you lift it over your mouth and nose breathing in the lingering scent of Caleb.

“Whatchu doin’ over there, Pips?” Caught in the act. He puts his book away and leans down over your legs staring into your eyes from across the couch. The mischievous grin adorning his face tells you he definitely wants an answer. 

“No rush. Take your time to come up with a reason.” He smirks, never breaking eye contact. You remain quiet feeling your heart beat faster against your chest for every second you don’t respond.

With a deep breath you finally muster up the courage to say something. “I’ve missed you, Caleb.”

His eyes soften and the tension fades away. He looks at you with such longing. Like he hasn’t seen you for years and you finally returned to him. 

“I’ve missed you too, Pip-squeak.”

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It’s the same line he’s given you every night this week, gentle, measured and false. You cross the room anyway, settling across from him. For a moment, neither of you speak. The quiet stretches thin, his fingers twitch against the countertop, the knuckles pale.

“You’re trembling,” you say softly.

“It’s nothing.”

“Sylus.”

He exhales, shoulders heavy and the look he gives you isn’t anger, it’s exhaustion a deep, bone-worn kind.

“It doesn’t stop,” he admits finally. “The noises, the faces…the things I had to do to survive back then… I thought I buried them, but lately…lately they’ve been coming back.”

He nods once, jaw tight.

“Every night,” he says quietly. “N109. The streets, the cold, the way people looked at me like I’d never be more than what I was born in. I clawed my way out of that, and yet now…” He trails off, gaze distant. “Now I lie awake wondering if I ever really did.”

Your chest tightens, and you reach for his hand, and he doesn’t pull away this time.

“You did,” you whisper. “You built something better. You built us.”

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. Just a flicker of disbelief.

“Then why does it still feel like I’m there sometimes?”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy, but it’s fragile. You stand and tug gently at his hand.

“Come back to bed.”

“I’ll wake you.”

“That doesn’t matter. Just stay, close to me.”

He hesitates, then follows. The bed dips under his weight, the mattress sighing like it missed him. He sits stiffly at first, hands clasped like he’s afraid to touch the world too roughly as you slide closer, curling your arm around his shoulders.

“Lie down,” you whisper.

When he does, it’s tentative, head resting against your chest, fingers brushing against your ribs as if to confirm you’re real and his heartbeat stutters against yours. You stroke his hair, slow and rhythmic.

“Breathe with me,” you murmur. “In and out.”

“I can’t…”

“Yes, you can.”

For a long time, it’s just breathing, the rise and fall, the heartbeat and the hush. Then, in the smallest voice, he says…

“It only stops when you’re here.”

You smile faintly, pressing a kiss into his hairline.

“Then I’ll be here. Always.”

He doesn’t answer, but his arm finds your waist, holding you close until the tension leaves his body by degrees. His breathing evens out, and the city hum fades to background static.

When morning comes, sunlight spills through the blinds, soft gold across the sheets. Sylus is still asleep, face turned into your shoulder, his expression unguarded for the first time in weeks. You brush a strand of hair from his forehead, and quietly, to no one but the dawn, you say…

“You’re safe now.”