love, bani.

ABOUT MY BLOG !!

♡ the basics: — name: bani! pronouns: she/her! age: 21!

♡ current status: — inactive in terms of writing, i'll pop in every now and again to check notifications! life got busy, i have a boyfriend now, i'm a full time student with a double major and a minor, and there's just a lot on my plate. i adored my time here, thank you guys for everything! maybe i'll see you again one day :)

♡ writing info: — i don't use gendered pronouns in my writing on this account, and i do try not to give any overt physical descriptors of y/n, keeping it to as blank a canvas as possible. sometimes i post ship fics.

♡ please note: — i am an adult (21), but this blog is completely free of nsfw content! i try to answer any and all dms asap! this blog is multifandom and i oscillate between interests frequently! everything i post has individualized warnings and my masterlist is broken down into characters + the series they come from, so please use those to your advantage to weed through what you do and don't enjoy!

♡ alt accounts: — @ddollipop (nsfw/mature fic account) + @hhoneypop (moodboards/aesthetics account).

♡ current milestone: — 2,000 followers!

♡ personal recommendation: — here.

♡ fan favorite work: — here.

The apartment feels larger now than it did before. It’s quiet in a way it never was when Moira was around, —always with her little tics, tapping her long, ever-manicured nails on the kitchen island or pacing about in one of the rooms. . . She did that latter thing a lot near the end, with more dramatic touslings of her hair than in the time before. For a moment, you fear the downstairs neighbors must be celebrating her departure, and the thought of it almost makes you laugh. The silence is laden with memories in every nook and cranny of this place, and it dawns on you now that it feels much like it did back when she and you were moving the first of many boxes in, ready to start a new life together.

Only this time, there’s no promise of eternal love or any of that other bullshit that she always warned you was a fool’s game to play with. 

Moira, Moira, Moira, ever the pragmatic one. . .

There’s a faint scent of lavender-heavy perfume that lingers throughout, reminding you that she wasn’t just some figment of your imagination. At one time, she’d been the love of your life. Or, she was who you thought would take that title, anyway. Nowadays, you just aren’t so sure, and perhaps that’s been the hardest pill to swallow thus far. The scent reminds you of her, —of the way her brows would furrow deeply when she was displeased, of how she always took her coffee black and poked fun at you for the additives you refused to drink it without. It reminds you of her arms wrapping ever so sweetly around your waist, her chin coming down to rest on the crown of your head.

You blink and try to focus on something —anything— else. It’s hard enough to deal with it all, but you’re just torturing yourself with it at this point. Your eyes sweep the room, the cream-colored walls, landing on a painting you’d created several years ago. It was lackluster now in terms of honed skill, but there was something so endlessly passionate about it, so full of vibrance and promise. Reaching out, your fingertips graze the glazed canvas, and it’s like you’re right back there again. . .

The gallery buzzes with excitement, the sounds of light, casual conversation and clinking wine glasses echoing through the wide halls. You stand before your own work, amazed that it’s hanging here in this exhibit of your prowess, even if this gig had been a long time coming. To see it actually displayed here made your heart soar. It was the biggest step you’d taken in your career since moving to this city and it felt so incredible that your sacrifices were finally paying off.

You’re caught up in the whirlwind of congratulations, thanks, and small talk, —but none of that is enough to keep your eyes from drifting over to her; a tall, ginger-haired, sophisticated woman standing a few feet back from one of your pieces, staring at it intensely enough to feel unnerving and intriguing all in the same breath. Dressed in a finely pressed suit the same color of the wine in her glass, her sharp, calculating gaze turns to you as you approach her nervously, feeling small both physically and metaphorically standing beside her.

“I can’t quite tell if you like it or not,” you muse, trying to sound playful, even if the real intent was just to have her offer her unfiltered opinion so you could stop guessing what she thought of it.

The way she was staring at it made you feel like she thought there was some kind of hidden message carved into the paint strokes. When her eyes flicker to you, you notice that they’re different colors, —one red, one blue, both deeper shades, and you get lost in them for a moment before she laughs softly, and you have something else to fall into. 

“Oh, I like it quite a bit,” she answers.

There’s an accent clinging to her words, but you haven’t quite placed it just yet. That doesn't stop it from making your stomach twist itself into knots though.

“It’s quite captivating.” 

You almost blurt out that you could say the same of her, but you let that sentence die on your tongue before it has the chance to see the light of day.

“I’m glad you think so,” you smile softly, “it was my favorite of the bunch. That’s why I placed it in the center of the exhibit.” 

“I’m inclined to agree,” she nods. “How much would it cost to purchase?”

Your eyes widen. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for paintings to be arranged to be sold during these events, but that tended to come with recognition from the local art collecting scene that you just didn’t have at the moment. For you, this exhibit was more about reaching a wider audience and allowing the public to see your pieces than it was making any kind of profit. . .

“Um. . . I— I don’t know, how much would you be willing to pay?” You swallow, at the risk of sounding unprofessional.

She gives the painting another glance over, then turns back to you.

“Does a grand sound fair?”

Your jaw almost dropped to the floor.

“S-Sorry?”

“Two?”

Holy shit. All of this seemed to have gone from zero to a thousand (or two. . .) in the blink of an eye, and you have to take a second to collect yourself, lest you seem anymore clueless than you’ve probably already come across as.

“Does. . . fifteen hundred work?” You dare.

“Certainly,” Moira nods decisively.

You give her your information so she can send the money your way in a few days time when she comes to pick the painting up at the end of the exhibition. And when the time comes, you walk away with one less painting to lug back to your apartment, fifteen hundred dollars richer, and with a new phone number added to your contacts with her name attached.

It was almost funny. Maybe you’d have laughed if you weren’t already on the verge of tears. All of this has really come full circle, and you’re just not sure you appreciate the irony of it all in the moment. Here you are, standing in front of this goddamn painting, the one that had acted as a catalyst to meeting Moira in the first place. . . And it’s back in your possession, because she couldn’t even be bothered to take it with her. As much as you love it for what it represents, there’s a part of you that wants to pluck it off the wall and slam it out the window right about now. Or maybe beating it with a baseball bat or something would feel more satisfying.

Whatever the case, you’re getting tired of looking at it, so you avert your gaze elsewhere and let your back touch the wall beside it. Stupid painting. Stupid apartment. Stupid Moira and her stupid decisions that have plagued your life for the past five years, and those stupidly long nails that traced perfect shapes along your hip at night, and her stupid lips with that goddamn orangeish gloss that always stained yours when she’d kiss you—

“Ugh!” You groan.

All this reminiscing has reminded you of how electric it felt to be in her presence back then, how magnetic she’d been from the start. Those sharp eyes that matched her wit, those clever jokes she’d throw your way (some of which went over your head, admittedly), —and the sweetness of her voice when it came to you. She was kinder with you in subtle way, would place her hands on the small of your back in public, taking care to tuck loose strands of your hair behind your ears if the need arose. You hate that this fallout has left you wondering if it was ever truly affection at all, of if she was simply protecting her own self-image.

You’ve questioned a lot of things about her over the years, but whether or not she was genuine in her love for you had rarely been one. But now, that conversation is back on the table, and it’s woefully one-sided this time. 

One text lead to many. At first, it was hard to tell if she was simply interested in you as an artist or if that interest expanded to you as a person, but she quickly put your worries to rest when she began flirting with you in a way that even you, in all your obliviousness, had to acknowledge was more than playful banter between friends. Slowly, your life became intertwined with hers, and looking back, it seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. One late night date at a fancy bar and you were practically groveling at her feet, so desperate for her to see you as her equal. She spoke with you about science and philosophy, —her words acting as a forewarning for what was inevitably to come, even if you didn’t realize it at the time.

She was very hush-hush about her working endeavors, but you knew she was employed by Overwatch. That alone explained why she couldn’t divulge all the information of her duties to you, and you were okay with that. The secrecy got worse as time went on. Especially after she was publicly shamed for her “poor regard for the ethics of the scientific community” or whatever. The city isn’t small by any means, but it wasn’t large enough to spare you the fate of being tied to her name. You’d been seen attending various events with her, and many of the wealthy clientele that purchased paintings from the local galleries soon put two and two together. At that point, your paintings began selling at a much slower and much less financially liberal rate.

Moira insisted that it was okay. That it would pass eventually as she became involved with a different organization, —or. . . A different branch of the same organization? You weren’t sure. She never explained much, and you didn’t like to pry. If Moira wanted you to know something, she would tell you. Anything beyond that was best left alone.

Equally mesmerizing and maddening all at once, she insists that all is well. That everything will be okay. That all of this heat on her name is a fad, that once she proves herself, the tides will turn in her favor. . . And you believe her. You take smaller, more intimate jobs and refrain from showing your face at the local galleries for a while, waiting for the heat to die down. She talks you into moving in with her, taking you from your one-bedroom studio apartment to the top of the most affluent building in the city. You tell her it doesn’t feel much like anywhere you could call home, and she brushes your concerns away.

“It’s all the empty space,” she says. “We’ll decorate.”

You do, and somewhere along the line this apartment begins to feel exactly like you insisted it couldn’t. You sleep on sheets that smell like her, bury your face into her pillow to breathe her in when she gets up at ungodly hours of the morning to leave for work. She hangs that painting she bought from you about a year ago by now up on the wall near the kitchen and the living room, and she glances at it often when she sits at the counter. When she manages to make it home in time for dinner, you sit together and eat. . . Sometimes she’s just shy of talking your ear off, and others, she doesn’t say much at all.

She cups your cheeks and insists that everything will be okay when you get overwhelmed. She learns how to be gentler with you, learns how to be more sensitive. You learn how to trust her more and how to avoid stepping on her toes when her days are hard. Sometimes, you convince her to turn that magnificent brain of hers off and watch something stupid on the television with you, —trashy reality TV that she doesn’t really get, but likes to watch you giggle at more than anything else. If you’re lucky, she won’t wake you when you doze off in her lap, she’ll just gently massage your scalp and let you rest against her.

Slowly but surely, the apartment is filled with lots of things. Books, trinkets, little pieces of decor. . . Love. She doesn’t declare it often, but every now and again, she’ll get the urge to remind you. Usually it’s just before you fall asleep, her long arms pulling you against her chest, mumbling a confession so quiet only you can hear it above her heartbeat; like it’s a secret she’s keeping from the rest of the world.

You feel bad that sometimes you wish it was.

“Do you even understand what’s happening?” You ask one afternoon, frustrated and angered by her continued neutrality towards it all. “To me?” You add. “To us?” 

Those eyes that you’ve always loved so much flash with anger and a hint of something else, something you don’t really recognize on her. . . Guilt?

“What is there to understand?” She challenges. “My work is important. I thought you understood at least that much.”

“And mine isn’t?” You counter.

“I never said that,” she shakes her head. “I’ve never not supported your career choices, —need I remind you how we met?” 

She says that and gestures to the hung painting on the wall. You nearly scoff.

“It’s one thing to support me, Moira, it’s another to be proactive about it.”

She frowns.

“I’m sorry our relationship has caused you so much distress,” she hisses.

“That isn’t what I’m saying,” you bite back.

“Then what exactly are you saying, y/n?” She questions, but you can tell by the way she says it that she’s not really looking for an answer.

You still offer one anyway.

“I’m asking you when enough is enough, Moira.”

Her expression hardens, a shield silently snapping into place.

“Enough is never enough in science,” she says to you, like you’re some underling in her lab she’s giving a lecture to.

There’s a cold, detached sentiment in her tone, —one that makes your heart ache. Because you love her, in spite of all this.

“Progress requires sacrifice.”

You laugh, but it sounds so bitter that you hardly recognize it came from you.

“Sacrifice? You wanna preach to me of all people about sacrifice? —What about us, Moira? What about the sacrifices I’ve made, endless ones, mind you, to be here and stand with you and back the things you do? This kind of mindless complacency because I care, and I only ever want to assume the best of you. But what about me? What about the life we’ve built together? Does that mean nothing to you?”

Moira’s eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place. Regret, maybe, or something like fleeting sorrow.

“Of course it means something to me,” she says softly.

You hurt her, and you can see it on her face. A part of you wants to reach out, take her by the wrist, kiss this better. . . But you don’t. The argument hangs heavy in the air, a chasm widening between the two of you. She turns away and leaves the apartment for a while. It’s nearly midnight when she returns, and she sleeps in the guest room for the next few days. You catch brief glimpses of her every now and again when one of you is coming or going, but there isn’t really anything to say. It’s a stalemate, and you’re both a little too stubborn for you own good.

Moira cracks first after four days, a rare showing of compassion on her part. You come home to a nice, home cooked dinner, and she coaxes you into sitting down and eating with her. It’s not like it takes much convincing. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her cook, but you’re reminded of how much you’ve missed it as you eat what she’s prepared. After some awkward small talk about what you’ve both been up to over the past few days, and you holding your tongue on any snarky quips, she sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she tells you. “About us.”

In the back of your mind, a part of you steels for a breakup. For some dissolution of everything you’ve put your heart into, and somehow. . . It feels like something that was bound to happen. And that’s the worst part. Still, you nod and put your fork down, giving her your full attention as she speaks with careful measure. It’s the first real conversation you’ve had with her in over half a week, and you’re determined to make it count for something. 

“My work is very important to me. You must know as much by now. But I do understand your frustrations, and I’m sorry that my career has interfered with yours. There isn’t much I can do about it, but I acknowledge your frustrations, and if I could make this easier for you, y/n, you know that I. . .”

You sigh.

“I do,” you say softly. “I know.”

She nods.

“I also know that I can be difficult to be with at times. I know that I get so caught up in my experiments that I fail to leave time for anything else, but I try. Because I care for you very deeply, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose what we have together, what we’ve built. . .”

“I know,” you repeat. 

Moira sighs.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“I am,” you admit. “But I appreciate that you’re trying to make things right, and I. . . Should apologize to you too. For what I said. I know that you care about me, and about our relationship, and I’m sorry that I questioned that. It was wrong.”

She seems pleased with this, —more than willing to let it be water under the bridge.

Things admittedly don’t get much easier in the fallout. Not in terms of your career, anyway. Your works are tainted by the woman you call a lover, and your name is blackballed across the community. It’s a constant struggle to reconcile your own morality with the dubiousness of her’s, and yet you really can’t imagine life without her. So you stay, and you sleep in her bed; —your bed. The one you’ve built with her. You stuff it down and vent your frustrations to the walls of your painting room.

You glance to the door but make no move to go near it. God, all this shit those walls have heard over the years. . . You don’t even wanna think about what kind of therapy they’d need if they were sentient. It’s almost enough to make you shiver. This entire apartment, for that matter, is like some kind of twisted mausoleum of memories; good and bad. The bed you’ve slept alone in more nights than you can count over the years is the same one she undressed you so many times on, picking you apart like you were perfectly cooked ribs just sliding off the bone, and fuck it makes you so mad that she’s just thrown everything away like this. That couch you’ve cried on out of sheer overwhelming frustration is the one where she urged you onto her lap, the one she covered you up with a blanket on those times she came home to find you napping there.

It’s been three years since that argument was settled at the table. It’s been three days since she sat you down in the same chair, in the same room, at that same goddamn table, to tell you she was leaving. That she didn’t know when or if she’d be coming back. That Overwatch was just too stifling, that she needed to get away, to explore. . . And in the process, she’s left you alone. Again. The echoes of that last conversation haunt the empty space. You’re mad. You’re so, so angry that this is the way she left things, and it’s eating you up like boiling water in your veins.

All that time you’d spent making sacrifices, letting your art be devalued so she could search for some secret key to humanity’s shackles while keeping you chained in this fucking apartment. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling just didn’t fix everything the way it should have for the way it raised the rent of this goddamn place. You check your phone, knowing there won’t be any kind of message or call from her, but silently hoping there might be. That maybe, just this once, she’ll prove you wrong. . . That she’ll just come back and say she’s sorry, that she made a mistake and wants to make it right again.

But there’s nothing.  You choke back a sob and train your eyes on the apartment walls again. They’ve seen nearly everything from start to finish, and yet you just don’t feel like you can let them watch you weep now. They held your back when Moira pressed you against them, her hands traversing you with more muscle memory of you each time, and they held it again the night she said she was departing while you slid down it, heart heavy enough to pull you like gravity itself.

Now, these walls bear silent witness to your grief. The silence wraps around you like a cold, unwelcome blanket, frigid on your skin like her hands tended to be. It amplifies every thought in your head, every memory of her, all the things she’s just left behind now like it was easy. Like it was all meaningless fodder for her when to you, it was just shy of everything. It was what you fought for the hardest, what you sacrificed for the most, what you were willing to crawl on your hands and knees for above anything else. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone, just like that, but the absence of her presence now, the absence of her things, makes it all too real. 

You let your head tilt upward, catching the barest sight of the painting just up and to your left. The thing that started it all, the beginning of the end, and it feels like such a cruel joke now, —like a reminder of everything you’ve come to lose.

More than anything, you want to be angry. You want to tear this place apart with your bare hands, destroy every reminder of her, every piece of her that still lingers in this god forsaken apartment. . . But you can’t. You just can’t bring yourself to do it, and not just for the fact that the costs will be far too much to repay in the aftermath. Instead, you simply slump further against the wall, letting the tension melt into exhaustion, and letting all this weight crush your spirits in way only something uniquely Moira ever could.

The love you held, the love you received, the dreams you shared, —all of it and more is tangled up in this place, in the memories that permeate every room. You’re surrounded by it, but even if you leave, you know all too well that it’ll just travel with you. There’s no escaping this, and that’s the scariest part. Your hand drifts to your phone again, almost involuntarily, as if by some miracle there’ll be a message from her; something to explain that her hand was forced, that she’s sorry, that she didn’t want things to end the way they did either. Maybe there’ll be a goodbye that doesn’t feel so goddamn final, maybe she’ll ask you to wait for her because she knows you would if she requested it.

But there’s nothing.

Just the same void that’s been growing since she walked out the door.

The tears come before you can stop them this time, a pent-up release of all the emotions you’ve been stuffing down for three days. Anger, sorrow, confusion, frustration, all of it and more, mix together and spill out through your eyes as you curl up on the cold floor, folding in on yourself, trying to feel as small as possible in hopes that you might just disappear altogether.

You can almost feel her hand atop your head in a comforting gesture, the way she used to pet you like a cat because she wasn’t sure what else to do when you cried. You can still hear her voice ringing in your ears.

“We should talk,” she says, a sense of hesitation present which was wholly uncharacteristic of her. . . Moira wasn’t the type to hesitate.She never had been. 

Her usual confidence has been replaced by something tentative, and that cut deeper than any words ever could. 

“Is something wrong?” You ask softly, because something surely was, even if you didn’t know what just yet.

“Just sit, please,” she requests, and you do, ignoring the sense of deja vu.

“Moira?” You utter, and she cringes visibly at the desperation on your tongue.

“I’m leaving.”

Your mind stills. There’s no way you heard that correctly, or perhaps you just need to clarify what she means, maybe she’s going somewhere for a time, but surely she’ll return, surely she’ll come back—

“L-Leaving?” You repeat after a few moments of silence. “What do you mean leaving?”

She looks to the floor, like she’s searching the grooves of the tiles for the right way to explain.

“Overwatch. . . Has made a fool of me for too long. And I’ve stupidly allowed it for the sake of access to their equipment and their people, but no longer.”

This wasn’t news to you. She’d always shown a slight disdain for her employers, but her relationship with her superiors had gotten notably more hostile in recent months. She spit more venom when speaking of them now, scowled when she saw anything to do with Overwatch in the media. . . But you never thought it was this bad.

“So you’re leaving your job?” You seek to clarify.

“Yes, but. . .” she pauses. “I’ve been presented with an opportunity that I cannot pass up.”

“A job offer?”

“Something like that.”

You frown.

“This is way too cryptic for my taste, Moira, can you please just—”

“I’m going away.”

Another pause, this time from you as you let her words digest.

“. . . going where?” You ask eventually.

“I cannot tell you,” she replies decisively, and for the first time, you’re tempted to ask why.

For so long, you’d been fine to simply accept what she couldn’t divulge to you. It was what it was. But not this time.

“Don’t you think I deserve some kind of explanation for all of this?” You question, raising your voice slightly. “You can’t just tell me you’re leaving, that’s not how this is supposed to work, Moira, we’re partners—”

Her face tightens, uncertainty morphing into resolve. Her tone is pointed as she cuts you off.

“I know it’s not fair,” she tells you bluntly, voice steadier than before. “But this isn’t about fairness. This is something I need to do for myself.” This only makes you angrier.

“And what about me then? The person you’ve, I don’t know, —built a fucking life with? What about me in all of this, you can’t just throw me away and give me no explanation! If you need space, just say that you need space, you don’t need to play a cryptic game with me, I know you! Why the secrecy with me of all people?”

The woman you’ve always known to be so confident now seems so vulnerable before you, and it almost makes you feel guilty for being upset.

“It’s not about secrecy. It’s about protecting you, protecting myself and my work. . . If I told you everything, it would compromise too much. I will not put you in danger.”

“But putting the woman I love in danger is just fine by you?” You hiss. “Don’t tell me you’re protecting me, don’t make this out to be some noble act on your part. What are you so afraid of telling me?” 

“The information you’re after is something I cannot disclose to you.”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a stranger meddling in your affairs, we are partners! We’ve been together for half a decade, we share a home, you can’t just leave!” You shout. “Don’t you think I deserve a proper explanation after everything we’ve been through? After everything you’ve put me through?” 

“What you deserve and what I can give you are rarely the same thing, and you know this.”

You scoff.

“This isn’t about you,” she continues. “This is about protecting the things I value, which includes you, whether or not you believe as much right now. If I were to reveal details, it would jeopardize everything: my work, my safety, your safety, and I’m doing what’s necessary to prevent that. I’m not willing to risk it. Because I know you as well, and I know how stubborn you are. I’m doing everything in my power to keep you out of a situation that puts you in harm’s way.”

“And what about the risk of losing me, huh? The risk of losing everything we’ve built together? You’re just walking away without giving me any proper closure, —dropping this bomb on me and expecting me to take it in stride? Just swallow this like it’s not going to turn my world upside down?” 

Tears threaten to spill down your cheeks.

“How is this any better?” You demand.

“It has nothing to do with you,” she retorts. “It has nothing to do with walking away from you.”

“Yes it does, because that’s what you’re doing!” You argue. 

“I am making a choice that I believe is best for my career and for both our safety. I’m ensuring that my choices don’t put you in danger. You of all people must understand that by now.” 

The silence stretches after her words and you feel the weight of them mix with your mounting frustrations. 

“You think you’re protecting me by shutting me out like this?” You question, hurt evident in your voice. “By just up and leaving without giving me any real explanation? How is this supposed to make anything better?” “I never said it was supposed to make anything better.”

You laugh, bitter and sarcastic. Her frown deepens. 

“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” she tells you in earnest, but it’s hard to believe it in the moment.

What do intentions matter in this case if it hurts you all the same?

“What about us?” You question, voice breaking. “What about the life we’ve built together? You can’t just erase it all and pretend like it never happened. You can’t do that.”

Her eyes flicker with a brief flash of something like guilt, but she masks it quickly.

“My decision wasn’t made to erase our past—”

“Our past?” You interrupt.

She runs a hand down her face in frustration.

“My decision is not about erasing you,” she revises. “It’s about ensuring that my actions don’t put you in a position I can’t protect you in. I’m taking the steps to ensure that my choices don’t harm you.”

“You’re harming me right now!”

“And you can heal from this!” She snaps. “But there’s no guarantee you’ll heal from what could happen to you if I don’t make the choice I’m making right now. I’m taking the necessary steps to protect what’s important, and that includes making tough decisions.”

You feel your hands start to tremble. Because of what, you’re not sure. . . Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s anxiety, maybe it’s grief. 

“Don’t try to justify this to me,” you shake your head. “Don’t try to pretend like you’re doing this for anyone but yourself. After everything I’ve done for you, all the sacrifices I’ve made, you’re throwing everything away like it’s worthless? How is that protection?”

Her gaze hardens.

“You know well and full that I do not make uncalculated decisions. This is no different. I’m making a choice that keeps you safe, even if you don’t recognize that right now.” 

“It’s not about what I do or don’t understand!” You shout. “It’s about trust! It’s about being fucking honest with me! You’re not even giving me a choice in this, and that’s not fair! You’re making choices for the both of us alone that we should have been making together!” 

“I’m not asking you to like or agree with what I’m doing, I am telling you what’s taking place because I care for you, and I believe you deserve that much,” she states. “But this conversation does not change what has to be done.”

“So that’s just it then?” You question in disbelief. “You’re throwing me away and I don’t even get a say? You’re just gonna up and go and leave me to pick up the pieces by myself?” 

The rest is a blur. She gathered her things while you sit around in a daze, pinching yourself every so often, convinced that you’ll wake up and it’ll all just be a nightmare. You’ll tell her about it when you wake up and she’ll tell you you’re ridiculous with a lopsided smile on her face, and she’ll roll her eyes when you wrap your arms around her waist and bury your face in her chest. It’ll all feel better when she kisses the crown of your head and mumbles that she’ll see you when she gets home from work. 

But she doesn’t.

“Moira,” you practically whimper as she emerges from your shared room with items smushed into a travel case. “Don’t. Don’t do this.” 

She pauses, unable to meet your gaze completely. Like she’s ashamed in all of this, as much as she wants to hide that away.

“This isn’t easy for me either,” she tells you.There’s a twisted coolness to her voice, like she’s rehearsed these exact lines so many times before now.

“But I’ve made my decision. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Please,” you choke out, not caring how pathetic or childlike you sound as you beg for this woman not to exit your life and leave you high and dry. “Please don’t do this, don’t leave, please don’t go, we can figure something out—”

“We can’t,” she shakes her head. “I’m leaving, and I don’t know when I’ll return. I don’t even know that I’ll be coming back at all.”

“But I love you,” you utter in desperation. 

“I know,” she says, her voice colder than you ever thought it could be. “But love isn’t enough right now. This is bigger than us, and I can’t ignore that.”

You reach out and grab the sleeve of her button-up shirt.“Don’t do this to me,” you plead.

But when you look into her eyes, all you see is resignation.

“I wish things were different,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, but still laced with that same finality. “But I can’t change what I have to do. This isn’t about us, it’s about something far bigger, and I need you to trust me like you always have.”

“Moira.”

Her thumb strokes your cheek in a tender gesture that feels like a cruel contrast to the words she’s saying. 

“You’re stronger than you think, and you’ll be okay,” she continues. “And maybe there’ll be a day when I can come back. But for now, you have to let me go.”

You feel sick to your stomach, hand clutching so tightly around her’s that it likely hurts, but you can’t help it. You shake your head as your throat squeezes and you open your mouth slightly to speak, but nothing comes out.

She pauses in the doorway, her back to you, and for a moment you think she might turn around. But she doesn’t. Instead, she simply says, “Take care of yourself.” The memory fades and you feel hollow. Raw, like the wound has been ripped open all over again. It stings like it’s been covered in salt. You blink, realizing now more than before that you’re alone, on the floor in this cold, empty apartment. The echo of the door as it closed behind her for the last time rings in your ear, over and over, a sound you can’t shake no matter how hard you try. So you don’t. You sit and let it fester. And maybe you’ll wait around for her and she’ll come crawling back some few odd years later. Maybe you’ll move on and search for her in the face of every potential partner you sit across from at warm cafes. As you sit there, the painting looms in your vision, its once comforting brushstrokes now a bittersweet echo of a time when everything felt whole. It’s a reminder of what was and what might never be again and it makes you nauseous just to stare in its tainted direction. But you’ll keep it hung no matter where you go, and you know that. . . Because Moira loved it. And you love her. 

You found yourself pressed against a cold, damp wall in what you could only assume was a room close to the belly of this labyrinth-like building. Breaths came in shallow, frightened gasps as the lights overhead flickered ominously, like they were trying to warn you of impending danger. . . Danger that you felt sting your chest like needles poking through your skin. The oppressive silence surrounding you was broken only by your intakes of air and the soft, almost imperceptible sound of something —or someone— (or maybe a mixture of the two, in this God-forsaken place) nearby.

Squinting into the gloom, a familiar shape emerged from the dark hallway, slipping into the room with you and pausing in the doorway. You felt relief take hold of you.

Mr Crawling. . .

That, of course, likely wasn’t his real name, but you didn’t speak in the language of clicks, noises, and chirp-like sounds that he did, and he didn’t speak with your tongue either. It was for that reason in particular that you’d bludgeoned his head with a crowbar not long ago, to which he sulked in a corner, bleeding and whining, and you were left to feel terrible for hurting the first entity that had tried to go out of his way to show you true empathy in a way you understood.

Apologizing didn’t even begin to feel like enough. Probably because you were at least ninety percent sure he didn’t understand what you were saying anyway. Helping him with the wound perhaps made it slightly better. . . But also not really, because even now as he skims across the ground to where you are, there’s a sense of guilt that weighs heavy on your heart.

Pale, grey-skinned and moving like any non-human mammal of sorts, his face is mostly obscured by the long, stringy black hair that falls in vine-like, clumped strands all the way to the floor from his hunched position. There’s an unsettling, animalistic grace to the way he approaches, but you don’t flinch this time when he puts the flat of his cold palm against the crown of your head, as if trying to soothe your breathing. All of that initial fear has been replaced by a strange comfort of sorts, and you look up at him, thankful for his presence now more than ever.

He tilts his head, as if listening for something, and you watch him warily with the same crowbar clutched in your fist. A part of you felt bad carrying it around like that with his blood still smeared on it, but here, you knew it was foolish to venture around without a weapon of some sort. Not protecting yourself for the sake of his feelings was, unfortunately, not an option as far as you were concerned, but thankfully he didn’t seem to have any opinion on the matter.

“Mr Crawling,” you whisper softly, reaching out to take his hand into your own.

He seemed to really respond to physical touch, and if language was always going to get in the way, you figured it was best to bridge the gap in another manner. This was the next best thing you could think of.

His head raises, and you suppose he’s trying to meet your gaze, though you can’t see his eyes through the mess of his hair.

“I need to understand you,” you say.

Ironically, that’s a bit of a hopeless endeavor in this sort of environment. It’s not like you have all the time in the world to pick up a new, completely unrelated language to yours while fighting for your life. Still. . . Gesturing had been helpful previously, especially for directions. The hooded figure you ran into first was quick to point around, that severed hand that had guided you for a bit was just as poignant in that area, and the silver-haired entity with a blindfold over his eyes had also tried to communicate with you in that sense as well. So why couldn’t you do it vice-versa?

“Me,” you point to yourself, “you,” you point to him.

He stared blankly for a moment, then seemed to come to an understanding. His had retracted from your head to point at himself, then to you, a clicking noise coming from the back of his throat. You smile. It was a small victory amongst a series of devastating losses, but you were keen on taking it and running with it as far as you could stretch it.

“Okay,” you breathe, talking more to yourself than to him. “Let’s try this then. . .”

Feeling a surge of determination, you touch your stomach and then mime eating.

“Hungry. Eat.”

At this point, you were still too anxious to have an appetite, but you knew you’d need food eventually. You were hoping he’d be able to help you with that somehow. Up until this point, you hadn’t seen any evidence of there being food around here, —no containers, boxes, or wrappings, but he seemed to understand your gestures and mimicked you; sitting back on his knees to rub his stomach through his filthy t-shirt, then nibbling on an imaginary item.

He looks back to you, as if seeking approval. You smile, hoping he understands that to be a sign of good will, then nod your head to drive home the association. Beneath his swath of hair, he smiles too, and you catch a glimpse of his eyes through the curtain of black strands; dark and thoughtful.

“Good,” you murmur, feeling slightly relieved. 

If nothing else, this was progress. You spend a while longer trying to communicate basic needs and warnings: things like yes, no, stop, come, drinking, sleeping, and a thank you in the way of patting his head. You’re not sure he understood the depth of it by any means, but he did seem to enjoy it. . . Like a puppy. The thought made you smile genuinely and absentmindedly, if only for a moment. The clicks and chirps he makes are mostly lost on you, but the noises are comforting nonetheless. This rudimentary bridge of understanding soothes you just a little, and you find yourself feeling very thankful that he’s here in the first place.

He has your face cupped in his hands now, as if he’s inspecting you. . . Or perhaps admiring? That is, until you feel his body tense and all his little sounds abruptly come to a halt. A small growl reverberates from the back of his throat and his wide smile droops into a frown. Suddenly, he’s roughly dragging you along, tugging urgently on your arms, to which you comply and follow along with him, scooting across the floor until you reach a shadowed alcove. You hadn’t even noticed it before, but he seems to know his way around this place like the back of his cold, grey hand.

He covers your mouth for a moment, then shakes his head. You cover your mouth, take your hand away, then shake your head no, just to ensure to him that you’ve understood. He pats your head then crouches in front of you, using his own body as a makeshift shield for yours. His long, spindly arms cage you against the wall. Fear rises inside you once again, though not because of him and his actions. Rather, the faint, rhythmic thuds of footsteps have begun reverberating through the hall just outside, and you recognize the harrowing pattern they click in.

Mr Scarletella.

You encountered him once before and felt every hair on your body stand on end. The way he moved through the halls with a menacing flow that sounded almost eerily melodic, and the strange, unsettling red glow that seemed to exude off him that nearly drew you in like a moth to a flame. The steps echoed off the walls of the building and your heart began to hammer against your ribs. Mr Crawling moved closer as he came into view through the doorway that lacked any actual door to close, his long, black hair tickling your nose ever so softly. Dressed in scarlet and carrying his ever-present umbrella, you decide quite readily that you’ve seen enough, closing your eyes and focusing on the cool feel of Mr Crawling’s skin, on his musky scent (like mildew and a bit of rot, which isn’t necessarily pleasant, but it’s not like he can really help it down here.)

Though you’re no longer watching, the entity dripping in scarlet moves with an unsettling, almost predatory grace, glancing about the corridors as if he’s searching for something. Or someone.

Once again, Mr Crawling presses closer to you. Now, you’re able to feel the way his body trembles with fear, and you realize that he’s just as terrified as you are, though you can’t tell if that fear is for himself, for you, or for both of you at once. And it’s not like you can ask. Still, you open your eyes just long enough to look up at him, Mr Scarletella in your peripheral as you force a smile and touch the crown of Mr Crawling’s head, offering what little comfort you can. He still quivers, but seems to appreciate the gesture, though he doesn’t risk a happy chirp.

The danger passes as the man in scarlet disappears down the hallway, then turns the corner. You let out a silent sigh of relief and Mr Crawling relaxes after several moments of continued tension, finally going limp and releasing you from against the wall. He slumps onto his knees, which seems to be his most comfortable position, and he looks at you clearly through the darkness. In that moment, it feels like you’ve understood one another perfectly. 

“Thank you,” you whisper sincerely, though you know he can’t really understand you.

You’re just hoping the gratitude comes across somehow, but at the risk that it won’t, you touch your chest over top of where your heart’s still beating like a drum, then touch his chest in the same place. It dawns on you that you don’t feel a heartbeat at all, and you almost pull your hand away. . . But something stops you. Something that says even if you’re right and he’s something less (or more) than human, —it doesn’t matter as much as the kindness he’s shown you. So your hand lingers until you softly pull away.

He grabs your cheeks again and holds them delicately.

Rafayel has never been a morning person. He likes to watch the occasional sunrise if he wakes naturally to catch it, but heaven knows he’s loath to pull himself out of bed before he feels good and ready. You, on the other hand, don’t tend to have the luxury of sleeping in until whenever you please. The life of a Deepspace Hunter often requires early starts, and now that you’ve woven your life so tightly between the threads of Rafayel’s, he’s seldom excluded from the harsh ring of your alarm coercing you out of bed, out of your dreams of sweet nothings, and into the real world (which is often much less pretty.)

You don’t even have to open your eyes to know that Rafayel is already pouting at the mere thought of your departure, and your suspicions are confirmed when he snakes his arms around your waist, groaning.

“Baby,” he mutters, “don’t go, the bed gets so cold when you leave.”

You sigh.

“Have to,” you murmur, still half asleep. “Work.”

“Call in sick.”

“I’m not sick,” you answer, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You know my work is important for more reasons than one, Rafayel.”

“I do know,” he sighs, though it’s clear he’s less than happy about agreeing.

In fairness, you’re not particularly happy about this either. You love your job, worked hard to get it and climb the ranks within it, but man, sometimes you wish it were possible to pay the bills with currency earned cuddling in bed with the man nuzzling into your neck like a kitten. 

“Then don’t ask me to call in sick,” you laugh, turning your head to press a soft kiss to his warm temple.

He groans again, though you know he appreciates the affection.

Gently and with great reluctance, you pull yourself from Rafayel’s embrace, though you can’t help but take a moment to marvel at the way early morning rays of light filter through the curtains, playing on his delicate features. His eyes like marbled sunsets lazily find their way to you, still heavy with sleep, peering up at you in a mixture of love and discontent.

“You’re a menace to my sleeping schedule,” he grumbles playfully.

“Consider it payback for all the nights you’ve kept me up too late,” you answer jokingly, shrugging your shoulders.

“I’ll have you know, keeping you up at night is a vital part of our relationship,” he pouts, but there’s an unmistakable glint of mischeviousness in his tired gaze.

You giggle, knowing he’s joking (at least in part.)

“I’ll make it up to you,” you move closer, cupping his cheeks in your hands and leaning down to peck his lips. “Promise.”

“You better,” he mutters.

“Don’t I always?” You inquire, fingers feathering through his soft hair.

“Yeah,” he acknowledges in a semi-rare moment of complete sincerity from the man who often goes through the world half-wittingly. “You do.”

You smile, soft and warm, leaning in for another lingering kiss, savoring the warmth and familiarity of Rafayel’s touch. His arms reach up, wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer, as if he’s hesitant to let go.

“Be safe, okay?” He says.

“Always,” you nod.

Before, you might have mistaken his concern for a lack of trust in your abilities, but you’re well past the point of pointless misunderstandings. Rafayel may be an artist, and he might spin his words like golden threads from time to time, making you read between the lines, but your sincerest assessment of the moment tells you he’s said exactly what he means. He wants you to be safe, wants you to come home in one piece, and you let him steal another quick kiss before standing upright.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” you add, hoping it might soften the blow of your departure.

His playful pout returns.

“You seem to doubt the depth of my ability to lament over your absence,” he states.

“I don’t doubt it at all, but I’d rather you find more enjoyable ways to spend your day,” you laugh.

He sighs dramatically.

“Bring back something interesting from your adventure,” he suggests, a teasing smile pulling at his lips. “Maybe something I can crush up, turn into paint.”

“Need I remind you what happened the last time you used an oddly sourced item for pigment?” You ask incredilously.

Rafayel rolls his eyes.

“Need I remind you that that’s precisely how we met?” He counters.

“Still,” you sigh, “I’d much prefer you not be endangered by your paint. Stick with oils and acrylics for a while. For my peace of mind.”

“Is that concern I detect from you, my little hunter?” Rafayel grins.

“Of course it is,” you reply honestly. “You might be pretentious and obnoxious, but I love you. I’d never want you in harm’s way.”

His teasing smirk softens to a genuine smile at your sincerity, and he stands, taking a moment to stretch before reaching out to caress the curve of your jaw with the top of his index finger.

“Obnoxious and pretentious, huh?” He chuckles lightly. “Thank you for the glowing evaluation of my character, darling. But, because I do happen to love you as well, I’ll let that little dig slide, —and I’ll do my very best to stick to safe and traditional mediums, at least for the time being, just for you.”

You can’t help but smile at Rafayel’s good-natured reply. His gentle touch lingers on your jaw, and you lean into it, relishing in the softness of his affection.

“Very much so appreciated,” you answer amusedly. “I’ll consider it a personal victory if we can avoid any and all paint-related Wanderer incidents for the forseeable future.”

Rafayel gives a curt nod.

“A noble goal, my dearest hunter,” he says. “Now go forth and fell any pesky Wanderers intent on disturbing the peace of our humble city of high-class electronic developments, bringing back tales of wonder and triumph.”

Heaven knows he has to be the most dramatic man you’ve ever met, but you couldn’t imagine him being any other way.

You play along and give him a mock salute.

“Yes sir, at once.”

Rafayel stifles a laugh, clearly pleased by your participation in his theatrics. He thinks for a moment that this life he lives with you is nothing short of fantastical, —the kind of comfort he only dreamed of just years ago, and now here you are before him, like some kind of angel he’s terrified he might wake up to find was a figment of his deepest desires all along. But his worries are quenched by the way your lips slot so perfectly against his own as he leans in, kissing you sweetly.

“May the cosmic forces be ever in your favor, my love. Return not only with tales of triumph, but also interstellar souvenirs for my viewing pleasure and artistic inspirations if you happen to stumble across any. Preferably ones that will not curse our modest seaside home.”

You laugh, and it makes his heart stutter.

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for cosmic trinkets,” you assure.

You’re thrumming by the time Rafayel pulls you in again, pressing you closer to his chest. There’s nothing he has to say to fill the silence, and you let your eyes close for a moment, awash in the silent exchange of understanding so deep it could rival the cosmos. Beyond all the playful banter and the theatrical mannerisms, there’s love here, and that’s really all you could ask for. Worries about your safety, concern over Rafayel’s tendency to attract bad omens, —they dissipate in the face of this connection that buzzes like a live wire.

As you finally pull away, you meet his gaze and find nothing but softness there, replacing all the prior amusement and tiredness from before.

“Return safely, my angel. Our oceanside abode awaits your triumphant arrival,” he takes your hand, brushing his lips over your knuckles. “And so do I.”

It’s been a long time since you last saw Moira, —before the fall of Overwatch, before the world divulged into more madness than anyone knew what to do with. It’s been years since you were taken off duty, but not a day has gone by that you haven’t felt like a soldier. Wherever you go, the memories linger, and they tie you down like cinder blocks always trapped around your feet. You’ve tried therapy and medications, yoga and meditation; even flew out to some tropical island unmarred by the vestiges of war for a while, only to find that it wasn’t a matter of where you were or what you were surrounding yourself with.

No, in the bitter end, the truth was that it was you.

You and your mountain of feelings that no psychologist could shave down, because you didn’t know where to begin. You and the itch that lingered during times of peace, because you yearned for conflict, even if you’d spent too much of your life now trying to snuff it out. You and your incessant inability to thrive without feeling like a time bomb.

Now, the scientist you first met when you were both younger and a bit less wise, stands before you. . . Or, above you anyway, leering down at your form, taking your face in as if she’s trying to recall where she knows you from. She’s as intimidating as ever, those sharp, dual-colored eyes and that scarily pointed stare directed right at you. Once upon a time, it felt nice to be the center of her attention. You were fresh faced and newly twenty one, and she was a few years over forty, though she didn’t look it. You stood with your back painfully straight, posture perfect, eyes directly ahead, and she’d seen right through all the training and the uniform you wore with such a stupid amount of pride.

Her tone is much the same as it was back then as she leans down now, crouching at your side.

“Long time no see, luch beag.”

You can’t help but scowl at the nickname. You never protested it before, content to be her precious, foolish little mouse when the barracks got too full for your liking and you’d shack up with her in the Overwatch laboratories. She’d go on and on about new discoveries and shimmering breakthroughs, —and you’d sit there on the edge of her desk, just listening and nodding along. Your skills were in reconnaissance, mostly, though you had an okay eye for sniping if it came down to the wire, and your close combat was acceptable in spite of its mediocrity. A few times, you’d even done espionage missions with varying degrees of success. All of that to say: Moira’s work was above your pay grade.

Still, you never minded giving her an audience. She was good at putting on a show, so endlessly enthusiastic about her work and all the ways she was bending the world around her. You wish she’d have been even half as enthusiastic about the way she wore you down.

“Talon?” You question, venom in your tone. “Really?”

You’re disappointed, but can’t say you’re surprised. Moira always had an uncanny ability to move through the world like it was hers to mold and snap and kiss just right under dim computer lights—

“Spare me the lecture,” she answers bluntly. “You’re hardly in any position to be passing judgement.”

Her eyes trail from your face to the wound you’re clutching on your abdomen. When the first of many explosions had gone off, you’d been separated from the rest of your group. It was some stupid vigilante sector working to take back control of Oasis. A pointless pipedream, and you knew it, but you needed the rush, needed to be out on the field again, working, doing something. Discharge had left you stir crazy, and you were done trying to find yourself in tattered self-help books that insisted drinking more water and spending more time with the friends you didn’t have would make you happy enough to leave this life behind you.

That was the problem, really. . . You didn’t want to leave it behind. You liked the adrenaline and the thrill of knowing your life was on the line, and even now, with some big chunk of metal embedded in your stomach, you enjoyed this. In some strange, twisted way, this was where you felt at home.

“You never did know when to quit,” she tells you, a smirk pulling at the edge of her lips.

“Oh, and you do?” You retort.

Her smirk fades, and you almost wish you hadn’t said that.

“I at the very least have a sense of self-preservation,” she answers plainly. “Something you still seem to lack. Severely.”

“Whatever, Moira,” you mutter, letting your tired head drop back onto the rubble behind you.

“Very mature,” she says, sarcasm dripping from her tongue.

Even now, a part of you wants to lick it off.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in?”

You huff a little, staring up at the late evening sky. Stars have timidly begun to emerge from behind whisping clouds, and you’re reminded that this little unit you traveled here with couldn’t have cared less about you. They held no loyalty to you. You were expendable. . . And worst of all, you don’t even have the energy to be upset about it.

“Like a six,” you shrug.

You’ve definitely been through worse.

She raises a brow, reaching out to gently pull your hand away. The jostling, slight as it may be, makes you wince.

“Okay, Jesus, maybe a seven,” you correct, taking a sharp breath in.

The air is chilly against your skin, and especially so against the jagged gash in your clothing that gives way to the explosion’s cruel momento lodged in your skin. Moira’s nimble fingers gently explore the area, making use of whatever shreds of daylight are left. A sizable piece of metal is embedded in your stomach, roughly an inch above your belly button. The wound is angry and inflamed with dry blood crusting around the edges. She doesn’t ask how long you’ve been stuck here, and you’re trying not to think about it.

Moira sighs in both frustration and what you can only assume is concern. Maybe it’s all frustration and you’re just holding onto the past, —but either way, she looks toward your face again to speak.

“It’s obviously not fatal, but I can’t imagine it feels very nice,” she states.

“No, it feels like there’s metal in my stomach,” you answer sarcastically.

“Lovely to see your sense of humor hasn’t gotten any better since we last spoke,” she comments.

“Oh, so sorry,” you roll your eyes, “it’s just that if I laugh, I think this fucking thing might puncture one of my kidneys.”

“Small intestine would be more likely.”

You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from giggling, and once again you’d really like to think there’s something just short of fondness flashing in her eyes.

She moves with clinical precision, checking you over, trying to do as little damage as possible in the process.

“You always did have a knack for finding trouble,” she comments, tone a curious blend of amusement and camaraderie.

For a minute, it’s almost too easy to pretend like you’re still that young recruit seeking shelter from your training and the gossip of the barracks in her lab, or the corporal who snuck away to lie in her bed at night. Those were really the glory days, —when your life was always in the balance, hanging by a thread, waiting to be snapped by either an enemy bullet or a quick slice from one of Moira’s long, pointed nails.

“Trouble has a way of finding me,” you muse, offering a half-hearted shrug that sends a twinge of pain bursting through your abdomen.

You grimace, then find your voice again.

“I’m just trying to keep it entertained.”

She laughs, low and from the chest, shaking her head.

“You’ve certainly excelled at that,” she remarks.

There’s a brief silence as she continues to check you over, assessing the damage. As she so gracefully pointed out just a bit ago, it’s not fatal. It’s not deep enough to leave you bleeding out, —but it damn sure doesn’t feel nice. Aside from that, you’re no doctor, but you’re pretty certain a wound like this open in a war-torn city is just a recipe for utter disaster, especially given its placement.

“So then,” she muses, “how’d you get yourself in this position?”

“Take a wild guess,” you reply, gesturing to the blown up buildings and roadways around you.

“That much is obvious,” she answers. “I’m asking why you’re even here in the first place. You must know how dangerous this area is. I’d like to think you’re not naive enough to have been working with that ragtag bunch of so-called rebels.” 

You frown. It’s hard not to when you know she’s right. You’re better than this, —better than putting your neck (and apparently your abdomen) on the line for people who would leave you behind without a second thought. Nobody came back for you. Either they all failed and were blown to pieces in record time, or they’d gone on without you and couldn’t have cared less about the person they left sifting through the wreckage to survive.

“We all make choices,” you mumble bitterly.

“Clearly. I just never pegged you as someone who’d make such a stupid one.”

You don’t answer.

“Did you really miss all of this so horribly? Enough to come out here, underprepared with a pack of morons who don’t have two braincells to rub together between them?” She questions.

“I needed something,” you snap a little. “I was losing my mind. Call me what you like, but I’d rather be here with this shit stuffed in my gut than be back home doing nothing. It doesn’t even matter what I’m fighting for anymore, just as long as it scratches the itch. I thought the chaos might give me some goddamn purpose, and I feel like you of all people should be able to understand that.”

She looks unimpressed by the reply.

“And now?” She presses. “Found your purpose, or just more chaos?”

You purse your lips into a tight line for a moment.

“Definitely more chaos, and not even the good kind,” you admit. “At this point, I’m less of a person and more of a walking disaster. Just a casualty of my own recklessness.”

Moira seems almost sympathetic as she regards you now, for whatever that’s worth coming from her.

“You’re not the first to fall for the high of it hook, line, and sinker, and you won’t be the last,” she says. “War has a dastardly way of distorting motivations. You’ve turned your personal desires into misguided ideals. But. . .” she pauses, offering you the slightest hint of a smile, “you’re still alive and breathing. That has to count for something.”

“Can’t say it feels like much right now,” you answer honestly. “Just look at me. A heartbeat away from strung out, left for dead by the same people I knew along would turn and run with their tails between their legs from the start. Some accomplishment.”

“Yes, well. . . I’m not sure I’m the right person to be offering you any comfort,” she stands to her full height again.

“I get it,” you reply. “You’re disappointed in the person I turned out to be. That makes two of us.”

Moira shakes her head.

“Let’s get you up.”

“Huh?” You utter, dumbfounded by the mere insinuation. “Up? Do I really look like I’m in any condition to be going anywhere?”

“Well I can’t very well kneel here and pull that thing out with my bare hands and no medical equipment, can I?” Moira questions in return.

“You could.”

“It would be foolish,” she states plainly. “In any case, will you be taking your chances here on your own, like this, or would you rather give yourself a fighting chance and come with me?”

“To where?”

“My laboratory,” she replies.

You’d have laughed if you’d been certain it wouldn’t drive that piece of metal into your small intestine.

“Talon gave you a laboratory?” You question. “And just what have you been up to for you to have worked your way into their good graces like that?”

“Nothing that proves to be of any concern to you,” she answers coldly.

Well then.

That’s certainly a far cry from the woman who used to enthusiastically usher you into her little realm in the late hours of the night to have you perch on the corner of her desk and listen as she rattled on and on about anything. It’s a far cry from the Moira who used to sneak her hands beneath your shirts just to feel the warmth of your skin beneath her palms.

“Are you coming with me, or would you prefer I leave you alone to lament in the rubble?”

The choice was easy. She helped you to your feet, let you lean on her slender (but surprisingly sturdy) shoulder, and by the skin of your teeth, you managed to make it back with her before that so-called seven rose to a ten. At the very least she had the decency to try and numb the area before carefully pulling the shrapnel from your gut and cleaning the unpleasant wound it left behind. You knew that look she wore on her pretty face and kept your mouth shut as she worked.

This new lab of hers is sterile, —a stark bit of contrast to the chaos outside. It’s hidden underground, but it was easy to forget that once you stepped inside with all the sharp, fluorescent lights that shone in the halls. The tech and machinery is wildly different to the type Overwatch had provided her with. You couldn’t be sure, but you were definitely willing to bet it was something close to state of the art. The air smells heavily of antiseptic now as she sits you up slowly, pausing when you wince as pain shoots through your abdomen.

Looking up at her now, there’s a clinical detachment that wasn’t there before, and you can’t say you like it.

Lost in the motions, she doesn’t seem to notice the way you stare, and you’re thankful for it. Her hands move with practiced precision, but you can’t shake the memories that have wriggled back up to swallow you whole, feasting like maggots on whatever rot she’s claimed inside you. You’re both different now, but this proximity, this touch, —her eyes raking over your skin. . . It all feels strangely familiar.

For the briefest of moments her eyes met yours, and you could almost swear you caught a glimpse of something beyond the stiff exterior she was presenting you with. Whether it was regret or desire, well, that was still up in the air. As quickly as it was there, it was gone, replaced by the mask of composure she chose to don like armor, even in your presence.

“Try not to move too much,” she murmurs, those nimble fingers adorned by prettily painted nails tracing the edges of your jagged injury as she wound bandages around your waist.

The contact was cold and dispassionate, but you couldn’t shake the lingering sense of intimacy that persisted, dancing between what was and what could have been. Maybe if she’d stayed a little longer after Overwatch fell, things wouldn’t have ended up like this. Maybe if you’d been less destroyed by the disbandment, had perked up earlier, —things would have been different. But here you are, Moira nursing you back to health again. . . And it feels nice. As nice as it can be to have a woman you loved once (and quite possibly still do, albeit differently now) taking metal from your gash and patching you up in the wake of it.

There was tension now between yourself and her that just didn’t feel quite right. You felt the weight of all the loose ends you never thought you’d have the opportunity to tie up, and it made the silence all the more palpable.

“Do you ever miss it?” You inquire, though you’re not sure if it was spurred more by curiosity or by the desire to put a cap on the quiet. “The time before Overwatch fell.”

She pauses, in the midst of winding some unused bandage wrap back around itself to store it away.

“You know my opinion on that organization quite well,” she answers markedly.

She’s right. You do. Overwatch had provided you with an outlet, had awoken something difficult to manage inside you, —but something they fed so deliciously everytime they sent you out into the field. For Moira, though, she felt they stunted scientific progress and refused to let her ideas thrive, skimping on resources for the research and experimentation teams. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say she loathed Overwatch, and you always knew she wasn’t sad to see it go.

“So no,” she adds. “I can’t say that I do.”

It’s probably not as personal as you’re taking it, but hearing her say that really throws a wrench in the whole ‘I think I’m still in love with you’ thing you’ve got going on.

“Still,” you say, voice cautiously casual, “do you ever think about it?”

In the time it took you to find the nerve to speak again, she’d finished wrapping the bandage and had begun reaching for the kit she claimed it from.

“Nostalgia is a luxury we can seldom afford in times like this,” she comments. “And I prefer my conversations more to the point. Just what is it you’re trying so hard to ask without asking?”

Her response leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. The time before was far from perfect, but it was such a delicate mix of pain and pleasure. Now, it just feels far too much like Moira is determined to bury both beneath the rubble of the present.

“Just. . .” you hesitate, feeling the words die in your throat the minute she meets your eyes.

You swallow their corpses like bile and try again.

“What we had. . . Did it mean anything to you?”

Oh, joy. Now you’re fairly certain that you’re just coming across like some lovesick little girl who never got over her first crush. It’s embarrassing enough to make your insides churn a little, although thankfully only in a metaphorical sense, because you’re pretty sure that would have hurt fairly badly on its own, and that pain would only be amplified by the wound on your stomach.

“What we had?” She echoes, one of her thin brows arching.

A part of you is almost expecting her to laugh at you, but she doesn’t.

“It served its purpose,” she shrugs, tone even.

“And that’s all?” You press, even though sirens are going off in your brain, begging you to reel the conversation back in or try to steer it in another direction entirely.

There just has to be something more beneath the surface.

“We both got what we needed, did we not?” Moira questions. “You got to rest your weary head on a warm body, and I had someone to speak with, —even someone to take some frustration out on. Nothing more, nothing less.”

What she said was true, but it still made your chest ache to hear it out loud.

“And now?”

“Now what?” She inquires.

“What’s our relationship now?”

Moira pauses, her gaze lingering on your face as if she’s weighing her options in real time. The sterile air of the lab seems to thicken with your anticipation, and you brace yourself for her reply. 

“Now?” She muses, tone cool and detached. “We’re. . . Acquaintances, of a sort.”

“And that’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Acquaintances. It’s a word that feels more distant than the war-torn landscape outside, and it shreds your stupid little heart like it's been raked over a cheese grater. It fucking stings. A woman you used to run to seeking solace and what always felt like protection is now something less than even a friend. You’ve been reduced to some kind of footnote in her life story.

At this point, all your pride has gone out the window. Or, it would have done so if this place had any, but being underground, that wasn’t exactly a reasonable ask. Instead, it’s wilting in front of you like a discarded rose, shriveling up all the more when you decide to open your mouth again.

“Do you ever think about it? About me?”

Moira stills for a moment, as if the question caught her off guard.

“What’s there to think about?” She answered your question with one of her own.

“Us. What we had. How it felt.”

Silence lingers, stretching into uncomfortable territory before she finally fixes her tongue to say: “I try not to dwell on the past.”

She’s diplomatic, even in her evasivness.

“Dwell on me then,” you dare. “I’m here now, aren’t I? That’s hardly what I’d consider a thing of the past.” 

She busies her hands with something on a table nearby.

“I try not to dwell on any one thing for too long,” she revises. “Lots of things require my attention. Stagnancy is hardly a luxury I can afford.”

You can’t help it that her vague replies make you well up in frustration,

“You can’t just pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“I could,” she states, letting her gaze rise to snag yours. “But I didn’t. I told you; what happened between us served its purpose. Now, it’s time to adapt and move forward.”

“Adapt and forget?” You challenge.

“Adapt and survive,” she corrects.

“Neither of us are exactly the type to just want to survive and leave it at that,” you remind her. 

Moira drops the tool in her hand and looks at you pointedly. You flinch at the noise it makes as it clangs against the table.

“What exactly are you fishing for?” She questions, frustration seeping into her tone. “Some kind of senseless confirmation that you were more than just something familiar?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something like that,” you admit, and immediately a part of you wishes you hadn’t, and yet you continue. “Maybe I just wanna know that it meant something to you beyond serving a purpose.”

“You want to hear me say that I loved you.”

Your blood sort of runs cold, but you don’t bother to deny it. That is what you’ve been clawing for this whole conversation, —you just hadn’t expected her to put it so bluntly, even if that’s just within her nature. Still, there’s a vulnerability on her face that you hadn’t quite expected.

“Love. . . Love is a complicated word. It carries weight, and expectations, and a host of things we never explored. What we had was different. But in saying it’s different, I don’t diminish the significance. It’s a differentiation, but not one I feel matters more than the facts at hand. It was mutually beneficial, and I have a great deal of fondness for you as a result.”

“A deal great enough to think of me as an acquaintance,” you say.

“At the moment,” she states. “But in the past, which I’m still not keen to be dwelling on, —we were something more. I don’t let mere acquaintances sleep in my bed.”

“In the past,” you echo, seeming almost disenchanted by it all now.

“Things change,” she tells you. “You and I know that better than most. Circumstances evolve. I’m not negating or denying what we shared, —I’m telling you that the present demands a different perspective.”

That’s a hard pill to swallow, to say the least of it.

“So what now then?” You ask. “You stay here in this lab alone, and I go back out there? Maybe we cross paths every once in a blue moon, and we stay acquaintances forever?”

“If that’s what you need to give yourself some closure on the matter, then I suppose so,” Moira replies.

“I don’t need closure,” you tell her. “I don’t want it. What I want is. . .”

You pause. What exactly do you want? Something close to what you shared with her those few years ago? Something more, something less? Maybe it’s just that you miss the way she’d kiss you, because nobody has done it since then. Maybe you’re just touch starved and feening for the only woman who ever knew how to push all your buttons in all the right ways.

You swallow, steeling yourself to finish.

“What I want is you.”

Moira’s lips twitch into a small smile.

“You always were stubborn,” she notes.

“Only when it matters,” you reply, not bothering to bite back a grin.

“And you think it matters now?” She asks.

“I think it matters now more than ever,” you answer, tone earnest. “I miss what we had, Moira. I miss you.”

She studies you for a moment, as if she’s weighing the sincerity of your words. Finally, she breaks the silence.

“You do realize that things won’t be the same, correct?” She questions. “I don’t know where you’ve been or who you’ve become in the time we’ve spent apart. Not that I’m unwilling to learn, —just to say that it won’t be exactly how it was. Not now, not for quite a while, and perhaps maybe never.”

“I know things won’t be the same,” you confirm. “But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe this can be something better.”

Moira can’t deny that the possibility intrigues her. She loves a good hypothesis, after all. Her analytical mind seems to weigh the pros and cons, calculating the risks involved and the potential for something grander than what it once was at its inception. Something more than a stifled set of hookups and entangled nights. A hint of a smile graces her lips.

“I’m willing to take the risk if you are,” she concedes. “But I make no promises about the end result.”

You remove yourself from the table, feet hitting the cold floor of the lab, emboldened by the diluted pain and the urge to be closer to her now more than ever. She nearly opens her mouth to advise you to sit back down, but doesn’t in the end.

“I don’t need promises,” you insist, reaching out to take her hand. “I just need a chance.”

She smiles honestly, and it’s like watching all her sharp edges soften. Her free hand cups your cheek, cold to the touch even as it warms your heart. Her thumb caresses your skin gingerly as she leans down slightly, speaking softly.

“Granted.”

She’s leaving again. You’ve hardly seen her these past few months as she’s been called to arms over and over and over, and you’re teetering on the edge of decay. It’s like a shot to the heart each time she goes away again, long nights of losing sleep and biting your nails down to the quick, worrying and wondering about whether you’ll ever see her face once more. And even when you do, the thought of her inevitably having to go and fight and struggle to stay alive seeps its way into your thoughts like a virus, corrupting all the happiness and bliss you should feel in your girlfriend’s embrace.

Fareeha isn’t the born soldier everyone (including herself, at some points)makes her out to be. She wasn’t brought onto this Earth to save lives and protect others, even at the expense of her own safety (and your sanity.) It’s the life she chose against her mother’s wishes, against all the warnings she received, and all the pushes she was given to use her talents in other places. Sometimes, you can’t help but wish she would have listened to their advice. Maybe then you wouldn’t be pacing back and forth in the bedroom of the quaint apartment you share with her, —though most wouldn’t know it. It’s filled with your belongings, and it’s home to you. . . But Fareeha’s things go to Overwatch HQ, and they seldom return, left to rot in her locker until she inevitably throws them away.

The bed doesn’t smell like her anymore, and what few clothes remain in the closet hang untouched in the closet like they’re preparing to be sold and not worn. You hear her sigh deeply through the crack in the door, light spilling in from the hallway that leads directly into the living room. There, Fareeha shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her phone pressed to her ear. She hasn’t officially told you that she’s leaving soon, —but you knew the moment her phone rang and she stopped kissing you to roll over and take it that it wouldn’t be long.

Tears prick at your eyes. She’d only gotten back a few days ago, —days that she spent working on reports, instead of falling into the arms of her lover; and now they were taking her away again. It’s times like this when you kick yourself the most for falling for someone like her. Sure, she made it easy enough, with her pretty face and charming wit, and all the times she disappeared just to come back and kiss it better. . . But the pattern was stale now. Your heart was wearing thin.

So the moment she stepped back into the bedroom with an apologetic look on her face, opening her mouth to say what she always does; ‘I’m sorry, angel, I know it’s sudden, but duty calls,’ you quiver a little and shake your head, causing her to clam up entirely.

“That’s it then?” You question after taking a few seconds to collect yourself and swallow the sob threatening to work its way up your throat. “You’re leaving again? And what I think, what I say, what I feel. . . None of that matters?”

Fareeha looks stunned. It’s not like you to break down like this at all. For as long as she’s known you, she’s found that you’ve been stronger about her leaving than she is. But there is something distinctly different about this moment, and you know she can feel the way it weighs heavily enough to suffocate you both.

“Of course it matters,” she replies. “You matter. But this isn’t just about you, or me. . . You have to remember that the world doesn’t revolve around us. There are much bigger things at stake.”

“You promised,” you choke out pathetically. “You promised it wouldn’t be like this when you came back.”

“I know, I know,” Fareeha sighs deeply.

You can tell this is having just as much of an impact on her, but that she’s doing a better job of hiding it this time around.

“I’m sorry. I really am. But I have to go. . . You understand that, right?”

“No,” you shake your head defiantly. “I don’t understand. Not anymore.”

“Baby, please,” she steps a little closer, cupping your cheek in the palm of her hand, “don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

You brush her hand away a bit callously, but the last thing you want is to be touched by her right now. Ten minutes ago, before the call, before she stumbled out of the bedroom to take it, before the world came crashing down again; it was all you wanted. . . But now, her fingers felt like burning coals against your skin.

“It has to be as hard as I’m making it,” you answer. “All the things I’ve sacrificed to be with you, —leaving so much of my old life behind, making changes just to suit your needs, all the shit I’ve forfeited and missed out on to move here and be with you, to get left behind everytime Overwatch wants something from you. I’ve supported every decision you’ve made for yourself, every alteration we’ve had to make together, but I’m tired. I feel worthless to you.”

Maybe it isn’t exactly the right time to rattle all of that off, but God, it was bound to happen at some point with how much you’d been bottling up. Especially after these last few months, caught up in this endless cycle of hurt and misfortune.

“You are not worthless to me,” Fareeha states firmly. “Not at all.”

And you believe her. You know she loves you, and that she does the best she can on any given day, but this downtrodden adrenaline rush has your heart pin pricked, and all you want to do is curl up somewhere and waste away until she comes back home again. If she comes back home again.

“Then don’t go,” you utter, and it sounds almost like a whimper. “Please, Fareeha.”

“Y/n. . .”

Your heart sinks lower. She seldom says your name, and never in that tone unless she knows she’s about to disappoint you.

“Please,” you repeat, a little stronger this time.

“You know what kind of life I live,” she says. “Sometimes, the work I do requires me to leave, and go, and be alone for a while, —and it’s not because I want to. It’s because this is what I have to do. It’s what I’ve been trained for. And I’m sorry that I can’t just sit around and wait for you to be okay with that. I really am. But please don’t take this personally. It’s just something I have to do.”

“It’s been three days,” you say. “You haven’t even been back for a week yet, and they want to ship you off somewhere else?”

“They don’t control when or where disaster strikes,” she reminds you.

“No, they don’t but they sure as hell control who gets called to go fix it,” you argue. “They have a roster full of soldiers, and they can’t give you a week to yourself? A week to be home with the people you love?”

“You’re frustrated, and I understand why. It frustrates me too, believe me. . . But I’m good at what I do, y/n,” she says in earnest.

“I know that,” you answer. “The world knows that. But I can’t keep doing this with you, Fareeha.”

Her face falls. It’s hard to see her look so dejected when you’re used to the bright way she smiles, but what you said was nothing short of the truth. This has been eating you alive for so long, and these last few months have been a dangerous tipping point. Being stuck at home while she fights on the frontlines of every battle they can’t seem to win without her has left you riddled with anxiety, a constant reminder that your lover is unsafe and might not even make it back to you in one piece. It lives in your bones like it’s stuffed into the marrow.

“Please don’t say that,” she says in a voice just above a whisper.

“I can’t do it,” you shake your head, looking anywhere but her eyes as tears begin to trickle down your cheeks. “You leave, and I worry so much that it consumes me. Then you come back, and I feel like I can breathe again, but it’s so shortlived that it might as well not have even happened in the first place. They can’t even wait for your bruises to disappear before they put you out there again.”

“I’m fine, baby,” she urges. “Look at me? Aren’t I perfectly okay?”

She gestures to her strong body as if that’s supposed to make her point for her.

“No,” you shake your head. “You’re not. Do you really think I can’t tell that you’re tired? That you’re exhausted?”

“Of course I am,” Fareeha relents, “but that’s just the way life goes sometimes. I’m a soldier. This is what I am. It’s what I have to do, —it’s all I know.”

You want to offer a rebuttal, but your voice dies in the back of your throat. It’s not that you want to deny her the thing she’s worked at for so long. . . It’s just that this isn’t good for anyone. Not for you and your fragile feelings, and especially not for her. Not when you could feel the weariness in every move she’s made since coming back, and certainly not when they’d promised her a break weeks in advance, only to call her back the very second something went wrong.

“I just need some time to focus on this mission,” she continues. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”

“You promised last time too,” you remind her bluntly. “And the time before that.”

“I know,” Fareeha admits. “And I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to keep them. But this time, I’ll make sure things are different. Just let me do what needs to be done, and when I get back, I’ll do everything in my power to make this right. You can have me all to yourself. Please. . . Stay.”

“You stay. If you leave tonight, I won’t sleep, I won’t be able to think straight until you’re home again, I. . . Not tonight. Please, just this one time Fareeha, don’t let them run you into ruins. Put yourself first.” 

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, “but I just don’t have that kind of luxury. If I don’t go tonight, I’ll never be able to forgive myself if something goes wrong out there.”

“And what if something happens to you?”

“It won’t,” she insists. “Don’t I always come back to you? Aren’t I always okay?” She questions. 

“Up until this point, sure,” you acknowledge. “But all it takes is one time. One thing going wrong. One missed step because you’re overworked and tired. That’s all it takes for me to lose you, and that terrifies me.”

“Have some faith in my abilities, would you please? I’ve trained for almost my entire life to fill the shoes I do now, —to be a soldier that everyone can rely on! This is what my life’s efforts have been for!” She exclaims.

“And you’ve already done enough for your lifetime and a few hundred others,” you answer. “I’m proud of you, Fareeha. I’m proud of everything you’ve accomplished, of everything you’ve achieved, —but I’m asking you, for once in your life, to think about something other than your job. If you can’t be bothered to put yourself first, then think about everything you’d be leaving behind. . . Your family, your friends. . . Me. . .”

“My work is important,” she says firmly. “It’s part of who I am. This isn’t up for discussion or debate.”

“I’m not asking you to give it up, I’m asking you to take a break,” you reply. “If you want to be a soldier until they force you from the frontlines, then so be it. But right now, I’m fucking begging you to not leave here tonight.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Fareeha insists. “You know that. . . But please don’t do this.”

That sob you forced down before works its way back up.

“Please,” she repeats, “you’ve always known. . .”

She doesn’t finish that sentence, but you know what she’s implying: that you’ve always known what you were getting into. And that’s true. But more than that, you also know she’s been working herself to the bone, and she’s in no condition to be fighting for anyone else at this point.

You lean in to kiss her, even against your better judgement.

“Stay safe, Pharah,” you mumble against her lips.

“Don’t call me that,” she shakes her head, her hands finding their way to your cheeks again. “Not now.”

“I’ll call you what you are to me,” you answer softly. “A soldier.”

“Don’t,” she chokes out. “I’m your girlfriend. Don’t say that to me.”

“Then listen to me, as someone you love, —as someone you know loves you, and don’t go tonight. Stay here. Let me take care of you,” you plead with her.

“I can’t do that,” she whispers. “I have a duty—”

You cut her off without thinking.

“It’s not always your responsibility to fix all the things that go wrong in the world!” You shout. 

She stops to stare at you in something that looks like a mixture of horror and desperate realization. . . Like no one has ever said anything like that to her before.

“Please,” you plead with her, voice softening. “Please, Fareeha. Let someone else take the burden for once. You don’t have to shoulder all the weight in the world every single time someone needs something.”

She searches your eyes with her own, —beautiful and dark brown, but simmering with conflict. The struggle between what she feels is right for her to do as a soldier and the desire to follow your wishes is palpable, even as the room is shrouded in conflict, both spoken and unspoken alike.

“I love you,” you continue, voice lowering again, barely above a whisper now. “I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you. You deserve to rest and to let someone else handle things, just this once.”

For a moment, you can see it in her eyes that she wants to give in, and you feel a surge of newfound hope at the idea that your words might have finally reached the logician inside her. But then she shakes her head and averts her gaze to the floor.

“I wish things were that simple,” she replies. “I wish that I could stay here and hold you. . . But I can’t ignore my responsibilities. People depend on me.” 

You understand the depth of her commitment. It’s admirable, even. But you also know that she really shouldn’t be pushing her own limits under these circumstances.

“I depend on you too, Fareeha.”

“That’s. . . That’s different,” she says, clearly torn.

“You have a duty to yourself and to us,” you add. “Not just to the battlefield. Please, let this fall to someone else tonight. They can deal with it without you, just this one time.”

She hesitates visibly, a battle of emotions at play behind her irises. The breath she lets out next is shaky and uncertain, but she meets your gaze with a sense of vulnerability that you’ve never seen before.

“Alright,” she concedes. “I’ll call back and tell them I’m not fit for the mission.”

Relief floods through your veins like ice water, and you hug her tightly, savoring the warmth and the firmness of her muscles around you.

“Thank you,” you mumble gratefully against the heated skin of her neck.

She pulls back slightly, looking into your eyes with a soft smile.

“I love you,” she tells you honestly.

You return her smile, understanding not only the weight of her duties and the life she’s built, but appreciating the strength it’s taken for her to step away from it all for a bit, even if it won’t last long.

“I love you too, Fareeha,” you murmur. “More than I can say.”

And in the quiet moment that follows, she finds herself thinking that choosing you tonight has been a victory within itself.

It was never that Gilbert didn’t love Serge as much as Serge loved him. No, it wasn’t a matter of choice, or want, or desire, —it was a matter of possibility. By the time they met, it was much too late, although Serge never wanted to believe it. He was a smart young lad, but a child is always a child. And Gilbert was a child too, even if he didn’t seem it at times. They were doomed from the start; by the heavens, by God, by earthly forces and celestial ones alike. They were doomed by every season, by every whisper of wind, by every hand that had ever touched Gilbert’s aching frame, stealing more of him away.

When he met Serge, there was nothing left to give, no matter how badly he’d wanted to. He was a void, some cosmic hole of nothingness that sucked things in and never spat them out. He was broken, and tattered, and torn at every edge, —and he did love Serge for whatever that was worth, but in the end, it wasn’t much. Gilbert was living on Serge’s borrowed time, feeding off his warmth, pulling him under. . .

The sun sets upon another day, one that Gilbert never saw, and Serge sits alone in his room, dressed in clothes that don’t feel like his own. Because they aren’t. He’s always been more tall than he’s ever been proud, and this ruffled collar and gold-buttoned vest may have looked dashing on his father, but they swallow Serge up just like Gilbert used to; trading one prison for another.

At least when it was Gilbert’s doing, Serge felt more like himself.

But here he sits in this stuffy manor, brown eyes flickering across the ornate paintings hung about the room. They’re all trimmed in subtle bronze, carved into filligrous vines, and it’s all so melodramatic that it’s giving him a headache just staring at them. The art itself is expertly done, —mostly flowers and cabins stuffed somewhere off in the woods. For a moment, Serge thinks to himself that he should have run somewhere like that with Gilbert, somewhere they could have hidden themselves away from the world for as long as it took him to get well. Forever, maybe, if that’s what he needed. 

It’s a pipedream now though. Gilbert is gone; has been gone for years, and yet Serge still finds himself thinking of him as if he were soon to walk through the door at any moment’s notice. He can’t eat chestnuts without tasting Gilbert’s burnt flesh on their surface, can’t sleep in any bed without the ghost of Gilbert’s arms encircling him, —and sometimes they’re softer than others, but they never change their size. Sometimes when he closes his eyes, Serge can still smell Gilbert on his sheets; one’s that he never even laid on. He hears his voice when he plays piano, humming along to the melodies he plays, —he feels him when the wind rustles, when the sun shines, and when rain takes over the skies.

If there’s one thing Serge knows for certain, it’s that Gilbert will live inside him for as long as it takes to make things right. He’ll apologize a million times for mistakes he never had the chance to make, and he’ll pour an extra cup of chamomile tea, even though Gilbert probably wouldn’t have liked it anyway.

He’ll sit and think far too often about how Gilbert would have grown in tandem with him, —getting taller, and warmer, and kinder, like Serge was melting ice in his palms. He’ll visit his grave and tell him about his days, even if he’s never really felt Gilbert there where his name is carved into marble and brownstone. He’s the only one who ever visits these days, and it would be a shame to let his resting place become some overgrown mound of weeds. Maybe Gilbert wouldn’t mind, but Serge does.

He’ll try not to cry as much as the days go by. Time hasn’t healed his wounds the way he thought it would, —but he’s not doing himself any favors with the way he digs his fingers around in them every morning, desperate to keep them festering like some metaphorical maw of devotion. It’s what Gilbert always did, picking at his cuts and his bruises to keep them around.

Serge will bleed on every inch of Lacombrade Academy, then on every stone on the streets of Paris, just as Gilbert would have wanted.

He’ll carry this guilt like a cross on his shoulders, —unadulterated and proud, each step heavy with the weight of remorse. Serge will lug this love like a burden and a gift from some forsaken savior, a constant companion, shaping to the contours of his soul, merging down to the muscle. This is where he feels closest to the writhing boy he lost to the rain and the mud and the horrors of his mind. This is where he feels Gilbert so strongly; in the sinews of his being, rotting on the inside but sickeningly sugar-coated.

He puts an extra cube of sugar in Gilbert’s tea and watches it dissolve, then takes a sip of his own.

It’s mild, —floral, and maybe it would be soothing if Serge allowed for it to be. He won’t, of course.

Shadows dance off the walls in the late evening light. The air is thick with melancholy, the kind that permeates the tea in Serge’s delicate porcelain cup. He almost smiles when a whisper of wind from the open window makes the curtains quiver and snuffs out the candlelight on the clothed table. Gilbert never did like romantic gestures. He preferred something raw and much less tangible, clawing at Serge until he came apart, just so he’d put him back together.

And he always did. . . Until he couldn’t. Serge always knew how to fix Gilbert; how to pull him in and soothe the ache, until the echoes got louder, until Gilbert got high enough to block them out, even when it came at the cost of blocking Serge out with them. At least he was delirious at the end. It’s a somber sort of comfort knowing Gilbert wasn’t in the right mind when it all came crashing down, —but more than that, it’s a reminder to Serge that it’s his solemn duty to keep those memories alive until he’s food for the worms to eat.

There wasn’t enough love in the world to save Gilbert from himself, and Serge has yet to reconcile with the bitter truth that he knew that all along. He’d known it from the moment they met in that claustrophobic dorm room when Gilbert came crashing in, teetering on the edge. It was only a matter of time before his sadness caught up to him. He was running from ghosts and the whispers of his mind, from the attention he craved and begged for, and found in the arms of whatever upperclassman or old, nasty man he could sink his teeth into for a night.

And Serge couldn’t kiss that away.

He couldn’t ever hold Gilbert tight enough, so he settled. He settled for the tanned hands brushing golden strands from his face, caressing him gently even when he begged to be hurt. He settled for whispered words against his neck instead of canines on his flesh, for big, brown, innocent eyes that were just so disgustingly kind. Gilbert settled for love when he wanted to be hurt.

Worst of all, he liked it.

He liked how Serge held his cheeks and kissed his tears away and how he always kept the promises he made.

Now, Serge sifts through memories of pale skin and lean muscle, —emerald eyes that never really had a spark. But heaven knows they were so, so pretty when Gilbert wanted them to be. His heart wanes like the humble moon, the ache of loss still ever-present, no matter where he goes. He lives with a chill that follows him wherever he ventures, undeterred by the warmth of his tender memories or the cup of quickly cooling tea in his palms.

Gilbert’s love was never perfect, and it never came without great costs, but Serge would have traveled to every end of the Earth to keep it. He’d have paid every price imaginable just to pull him from the depths and breathe new life into his fragile lungs.

But it’s too late now. . . So Serge sits alone at this table, holding a cup of chamomile tea the way he once held both their hopes and sorrows. He clings to what he has left, —the reminders of what he lost and what he gained. 

The last sip lingers like Gilbert’s lips always did on his collarbones, and Serge settles the empty cup back onto its saucer.

Mike is used to people leaving. They come and they go like stray cats who've found someone better to nab food off of, —leaving him with more ghosts in his life than he'd care to admit. At least these ones are metaphorical and melodramatic, though. His saving grace has been the fact that he chooses wisely who to introduce Abby to, just in case. She's been through enough, and she's so young that the absence of anyone would be duly noted. Not that it isn't when it comes to himself, it's just. . . He's learned how to live with loss. Maybe not effectively, but he does it, and for right now, that's probably as good as it's getting.

He's got more pressing matters to attend to. He always does. That's what he argued about with you, —what he fought tooth and nail to defend, even when you backed off. At the end of it, he knew he'd gone too far for no real reason. He wasn't arguing with you at that point, he was arguing with all the people that have left him starved for their affections and their care. The words he said to you were so far beyond your scope that it was almost pathetic to think about all the bullshit he unloaded on you like it was somehow your job to fix it, even when he knew it wasn't. So really, it's no wonder he's adding you to that list of people who've walked away.

For once, he truly deserved it. 

And now he's got to explain this to Abby. Because she likes you almost as much as he does, —almost being the operative word there. Mike sucks at a lot of things, and showing you he cares tends to be one of them, but he loves in his own ways. . . And now, he fears he'll have to do it from afar.

He sort of wishes Abby was the kind of kid he could bribe with ice cream for breakfast to break bad news to. It'd be easier to scoop her some off-brand Neopolitan and tell her she'd never see you again if that would help soften the blow. But it won't, and he knows that. He knows her too well to even try.

Still, he finds himself putting chocolate chips in her pancakes that morning in spite of himself.

When he places the plate in front of her, she narrows her eyes, as if to ask him what he's done so wrong. . . Asking what he's offering silent apologies for in the form of sweet pockets stolen away inside her favorite breakfast food. He opens the fridge in search of orange juice just to avoid her gaze.

Before she can even take a bite, he opens his mouth.

"Listen, Abby—"

She looks up at him with those big, doe eyes, and he probably would have cut himself off anyway if not for the knock on the front door. Mike mumbles for her to hold that thought, then goes to check who's outside.

And there you stand a little awkwardly on his doorstep, a brand new bottle of orange juice in your hand. Once again, it's like you've read his mind, and he's as sick of it as he is thankful for it, especially right now. Still, he can't turn you away.

"Morning," you say, almost hesitantly. "I brought juice. . ."

He tries to think of something to say, but hears the quick pitter-patter of Abby's feet fastly approaching. She calls your name so happily, and you smile at her.

"Good morning to you too," you laugh, returning the hug she gives you with no hesitation.

Mike just stares, as if he can't believe you're even here right now. If you're just here to grab the items of yours strewn about his house, he feels like the least you could have done was wait until Abby was asleep or something.

"Can I have some?" Abby asks, pointing to the orange juice in your hand.

"Yeah, that's what it's for," you smile, handing the bottle to her.

She scurries off to the kitchen to pour herself a glass.

"Mike," you say softly now that she's out of earshot, "can we—"

"I'll get your stuff together," he cuts you off.

Your jaw slacks.

"What?" Is the only thing you can manage to muster up in response.

"You could've done this at a different time," he snaps, trying to keep quiet so Abby doesn't hear. "It's gonna be ten times harder on her now for me to explain why you're not coming back."

You stare at him, trying not to cry. Out of all the things you expected to happen this morning, such a drastic change of heart on his part wasn't one of them.

"You. . . You're breaking up with me?" You question.

He pauses, a lot of the frustration dissipating from his features, replaced by genuine confusion.

"Didn't you already break up with me?" He asks.

Your brows knit together quizzically. 

"No? What are you even talking about, I never said I wanted to break up with you," you point out.

Sure, you didn’t say it. But most of the others had never said it either. It was like flipping a lightswitch. One minute they were there, and the next they weren’t. That's why he'd gotten so good at keeping his relationships at a distance, and he'd taken the biggest leap of faith in introducing you to his sister.

"Yesterday evening?" He says, but it sounds more like a question.

"We had an argument," you acknowledge. "It was stupid, and you hurt my feelings. I'm sure I hurt yours too. That doesn't mean I want us to be over."

Mike stares at you like he's not sure what to say, because he isn't. He's not used to someone caring enough to fight for him, and for what festers between himself and someone else. He's learned to let go before the thread pulls too tight, —before it wraps around his throat and slices through every defense he's built up for the sake of protecting himself, his heart, and the little girl that depends on him.

"Mike," you say softly, almost cautiously. "I care about you. One bad night doesn't change that. . . Not for me."

God, it was stupid. It was so stupid. You weren't even mad at him specifically, and you're fairly certain he wasn't really angry with you in particular either. Long days on both your parts collided like a warm front to a cold one, and the things both of you said in the wake of it were uttered through venom and gritted teeth. Sweeping generalizations, a lot of rolling eyes, some tears that were more about frustration than they were anything else. . . But you still loved him at the end of it, even as you found yourself walking home alone.

In fact, that walk was particularly sobering. The crisp chill of the autumn evening was enough to convince you that you'd rather be back at his place where he keeps an extra toothbrush for you in the bathroom and emptied out a drawer just so you could have a place to store some clothes. The sleep you got in the night that followed was shallow at best, restless enough to leave faint bags beneath your eyes by morning, and you were determined to make up any excuse in the book just to swing by.

So you went out and got some orange juice, knowing there wasn't any left in the fridge, and you stood outside his door for a while, working yourself up just to knock. You thought about all the things you'd need to apologize for, and you were ready to push aside your ego if it meant Mike could understand just how much you care, even when you're upset.

He swallows, just to give himself something to do while he prolongs his own response, because he's just not sure what to say. Somehow, a part of him is whispering that this would be easier if you just didn't give a fuck. . . If last evening was the end, and he could go back to finding comfort in silence again.

That's how it's always been. Someone leaves, and he copes, and then he files them away with the rest. But here you are, and Mike knows he can't bring himself to put you in with the others.

"Mike, I'm—"

"No, I am," he breathes, reaching forward to pull you into his arms. "I'm sorry that I hurt your feelings, and I'm sorry that I suck at being a boyfriend, but I don't know what I'm doing and all I can tell you is that I'm trying."

He feels the tension meld away from you, and it's then, before you even open your mouth to reply, that he starts to think everything is how it should be.

"You don't suck at it," you answer lightly. "I know you're trying, and that's genuinely all I could ask for, and I'm sorry about yesterday evening. I was in a bad mood, and I took it out on you, and that wasn't right."

"We both took shit out on each other," he corrects, ready and willing to share the blame.

"True enough," you acknowledge with a weary smile, finally pulling away from his embrace.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "When things go wrong, I. . . I've just learned how to slam on the breaks. If I stop things before they feel like they'll suffocate me, I can avoid them. But I love you, and I know I don't want to avoid that."

"This isn't a one way street," you remind him. "Relationships are hard, and sometimes things happen in a way that they shouldn't, but I'm here for you, and I want to be here for you. . . It's not contractual. One bad night doesn't take away all the times you've made me feel like the happiest person on the face of the planet, Mike."

He sniffles a little, then lets out a relieved sigh.

"Are you hungry?" He asks. "I can make you some pancakes. Chocolate chip."

You raise an eyebrow.

"Chocolate chip? Are you apologizing to Abby for something?"

God, a part of him hates that he's so obvious, but another part loves that you know him so well. It makes him feel even stupider for just assuming that you'd be willing to throw in the towel after one rough night.

"No, not really," he shakes his head. (Not anymore, at least.)

Mike glances toward the kitchen, just to make sure Abby's still preoccupied with her breakfast, then steals a quick kiss from your lips.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

You smile.

"Me too."

"And I love you," he adds.

Your smile widens.

"I love you too. Promise."

With that, he pulls you to the kitchen, and you sit down beside Abby at the table. She tells you that when breakfast is done with, she'd like to show you some new drawings she's done, and you nod, telling her you're excited to see them. And you are.

Mike stands at the stovetop, his back to the both of you, not bothering to bite back his grin. 

He feels his foot ease off the break.

＃ PHARAH (FAREEHA) !! ♡

In spite of the soreness and the body aches from parading around in her heavy armor for the last few weeks, Fareeha’s face lights up with a smile the moment she sets her eyes on you. All those restless nights on duty simmer out to a distant memory now that she’s seen your face again. She doesn’t care who's around to see as she pulls you in, hugging you tightly, —almost crushingly (in a good way.) You bury your face in her chest, taking in her scent and her body’s natural warmth. In the embrace, she revels in your presence, allowing herself the time to reacclimate to your affection in lieu of the harsher conditions of battle. Though she’s trained long and hard to be the top-notch soldier that she is now, it’s hard to deny the downsides of her job now that she has someone waiting for her back home. The drawbacks aren’t enough to keep her on the ground forever, at least not right now, but one day she knows there’ll be a time when she returns, and it will be the last. The frontlines won’t call her name any longer. . . But you will. And you’ll let her hold you all the same. She leans in to kiss you, cradling your cheeks in her calloused hands, mumbling how much she’s missed you against your lips, and in a rare lack of stubbornness, she won’t argue when you tell her she should go and get some much-needed rest.

＃ MOIRA !! ♡

Moira doesn’t like to be fussed over, but she’s not beyond affection. Not in private, at least. Upon her return, she’ll take her time tying up any loose ends from the mission, walking through the labs on three hours of sleep at most, but her mind still sharp as ever. It’s incredible, really, the force that woman is even on the worst of days. She’ll make you wait until her work-related tasks have all been handled appropriately, —and then she’ll finally turn her attention to her sweet, lovesick angel who’s been waiting so long for her arrival. When she does, it’s almost like the weight of the world falls away, both from your shoulders and her own. She may not show it outwardly, but you can tell by the way her body loses the majority of its tension that she’s relieved, at least in part, to be home with you. The intensity of her focus is always the same, whether it falls on one of her experiments, or on you, —the one who waits so patiently for her to come back. There’s a warmth in her eyes when she looks at you that she seldom shows with others, and it leaves you weak in the knees. Although Moira isn’t keen on the over-the-top reunion sort of greeting, she’ll welcome you into her arms once the two of you are alone, and she’ll have no problem kissing you deeply, if only to remind you that she truly does love you, even if saying it isn’t her strongest suit.

＃ TRACER (LENA) !! ♡

Lena doesn’t waste a single moment from the second her two feet hit the ground. Any thoughts of a relaxing cup of warm tea or a hot shower to soothe the lingering aches are drowned out entirely by her tunnel visioned desire to see and hold you as soon as humanly possible. She’s been thinking of you the entire time, especially so since she began the journey back home, every inch of her just thrumming with excitement. The instant she sees your face, she meets your gaze with a wide, happy smile and dashes over, arms wide open to wrap them around your frame. She showers your face in a cascade of peppered kisses, hoping they might get her point across better than murmuring “I missed you” a thousand times over ever could. You giggle at the display, and she keens at the sound, —it’s like a long overdue melody that soothes all the bruises littering her skin. It’s all too easy to get lost in the togetherness, and Lena practically melts at the feeling your lips pressed against her own in an ardent kiss. Sure, she loves her job. She loves helping people, loves saving the day, —loves being a hero for those who need it. But at the end of all things, she knows the fulfillment of going on missions will fade one day, and when she’s left only with the bliss of savoring your lips on hers. . . Well, she thinks she’ll be just fine.

＃ SOMBRA (OLIVIA) !! ♡

For all the things she is, Olivia has never been particularly sentimental. She plays life fast and loose, taking risks that no one else will, —and sometimes it’s just for the sake of it. Still, she comes back and it’s like she left a little part of herself in your hands the entire time, hoping you’d keep it safe and secure. Though she teases you for tearing up or openly admitting that you missed her, there’s always an unspoken admission that she feels the same way, even if she’s a little too proud to say it. She isn’t too proud, however, to hold you close, —tightly enough to convey all the feelings she bottles up to keep herself from looking like a fool, stumbling over pathetic attempts at confessions of love. It’s easier this way, when you take her playful ribbings for what they are: a love language within themselves. It’s easier when she doesn’t have to bare her soul and strip herself apart for you to believe that she cares. She’ll jest with you about how smitten you are, never losing that nonchalant facade; but in between the lines is a warmth unlike any other. A love like hers really seems to transcend the need for explicit declarations of infatuation, so even when she doesn’t lay overt affection on thick enough for you to drown in, you never doubt that you’ll always be the first to know when she arrives back home.

＃ ASHE !! ♡

When she’s certain that all of her ducks are in a row, Ashe doesn’t mind letting you fawn over her a bit behind closed doors. If you were anyone else, she’d be halfway to biting your head off the moment you smooth your hands over her shoulders, asking if she’s hurt, —if things went well, if she needs anything from you now that she’s back. . . But you aren’t just anyone, and she’s begrudgingly accepted how much she cares for you, even on her worst days. She never goes into much detail about what happens while she’s away. That’s for her to know and you to stop thinking about, but she’ll offer little tidbits every now and again, and she’ll talk to you in that smooth, southern accent that drips just like molasses until she grows tired of the monotony of conversation and shuts you up with her mouth on yours. Words become obsolete, and the warmth of her lips speaks volumes that even prose never could. The unspoken parts of her endeavors might remain locked away, but the sweetness of her affection is an open book. As far as she’s concerned, letting you sit on her lap is proof enough that she’s just fine, and you’ll get the hint sooner or later. You’re a clever one, after all. Above all else, Ashe isn’t keen on living in the past. When things happen, the pieces fall where they may, and she’s long since decided that it’s better to just move forward, closure or not. Needless to say, she’s found that a little make out session never hurts to push the progress onward in that regard, so you can keep her company for a bit before she returns to her typical position, and she’s always sure to make it worth your while.

The house is dark and shrouded in silence, broken only by Mike’s uneasy groans and his occasional writhing in his sleep. What seemed peaceful at the get-go has become something less content, leaving him entangled in the sheets and pulling most of the shared blanket to his side of the bed. The late autumn chill hanging thick in the air has you shivering, casting a tired, half-lidded gaze to the digital clock resting on the nightstand. It’s four minutes past three thirty in the morning, displayed in vivid, neon green digits that prompt a slight scrunch of displeasure from your face at the glaring brightness.

You remind yourself that this really has gotten better. It’s been weeks since the last time, and he’s been going to therapy like you suggested, even if he was a little unsettled by the idea at first. His new job cleaning up after club-goers at a nearby joint pays pretty well, all things considered, and with your income added to the mix, money is still tight at times, —but he’d decided after the first few sessions that you pressured him into that it was worth the trouble.

Still, that doesn’t negate the obvious. Mike has suffered a lot in his lifetime, and that’s hardly lent itself to consistency or stability. Some of it has been his own doing, while other parts have been far too out of his control, and he’s been learning how to maneavour his way around that misty grey area in between to the best of his ability. But he’s not ineffable, and sometimes, especially on nights like this, the cards fall where they may. At least this time he’s not waking up in a cold sweat, halfway to a panic attack, sweat drenching the mattress beneath him. At least this time he isn’t gasping for breath, clawing at something unseen in the shadows of the bedroom, jerking away like a rodeo bull the moment you reach out to ease him down. 

He mumbles something that sounds like a plea in his sleep, but it’s muffled by the pillow his face is squished against. If he weren’t obviously disgruntled, you might have been tempted to admire how cute he looked for a little while longer.

“Mike,” you say softly, reaching out to rest a gentle hand on his bare shoulder, “hey.”

He reacts slightly to the touch, but isn’t fully awake, so you try again.

“Mike,” you repeat, fingers curling around the curve.

This time, it’s enough. His eyes shoot open, taking a moment to adjust to the darkness, then locking on your face. He sits up slightly, perching on his elbows. The breath he lets out in the aftermath is sobering.

“Sorry,” he utters, letting his head hit the pillow unceremoniously.

You ignore the unnecessary apology in lieu of brushing some loose strands of brown hair away from his forehead.

“You alright?”

He gazes up at you with those sweet, puppy-dog eyes that he doesn’t even have to try to put on. They’re just his natural state, and heaven knows you could spend a few lifetimes gazing into them if it were possible.

“Yeah, yeah,” he huffs a little, reaching up to grab your hand and hold it in his own.

His touch is so soft and tender, albeit calloused and a little clammy from the leftover adrenaline of his nightmare. He’s really come a long way, and you hope he knows that. You wouldn’t mind saying it, but he’d definitely get embarrassed by it, so you avoid laying verbal praise on too thick when you can help it. This time three months ago, he’d have been jumping out of bed to rush down the hall into Abby’s room, only letting himself relax upon seeing her sleeping form bundled up beneath her covers. Now, he takes a deep breath, exhales it slowly, and kisses your wrist.

“Nothing to worry about,” he assures you.

“I always worry about you,” you answer, offering him a lopsided smile.

He gives you a knowing look and replies: “That’s exactly the problem.”

You roll your eyes playfully and watch as he fiddles with your fingers for a bit before glancing in the direction of the clock.

“What time is it?” He asks.

“Too early for you to be awake,” you respond lightly. “You can sleep for a few more hours at least. You’ll need it.”

Mike nods, letting his heavy eyelids close again.

“Bit of an understatement,” he jokes.

It really is though. If anyone knows about hard work, especially hard work for the sake of anyone but himself, —it’s him. The least he deserves is a proper night’s sleep. You figure that’s why it’s so hard for you to see him like this, even when it’s getting better. You’d trade your dreams for his in a heartbeat if it meant he could be less haunted at night.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice laden with drowsiness.

He drops your hand only to open his arms, encouraging you to take your place on his chest. It’s comfortable and intimate all the same as you nestle against him, seeking comfort and closeness, and hoping with every fiber of your being that you can offer the same to him. Mike tugs the comforter up to your neck, one arm folding around your shoulders, thumb caressing the fabric of your pajama shirt. For a moment, you find yourself wishing you’d gone to sleep without it, just so he could rub against your skin directly.

You relish in his warmth, body molding to the contours of his own, —finding the closest thing you’ve ever known to heaven on Earth. Quiet connection simmers in the surrounding air, sparking like static electricity, and you let your eyes close.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” You ask quietly.

He probably won’t, but it’s always better to ask, if for nothing else than to let him know that the option is available.

“Not right now,” he replies, and though he’s turning your offer away, there’s an undeniable softness threaded amidst it all.

“Later, then?”

He hums, and you feel it ripple through his chest.

“Maybe.”

Later might never come, but that’s okay. As long as he knows that you’re a safe haven to seek refuge in, then that’s enough for you.

“Just get some sleep for now,” he continues, craning his neck forward to ghost his lips against your forehead, his stubble scratching your skin in a way that makes you smile on command.

“Night,” you mutter quietly, snuggling further into his chest.

“Night, baby,” he returns, smoothing a hand along your hair.

It’s quiet for a moment or two, and then he sheepishly adds: “I love you.”

No matter how many times you hear it, it still gives you butterflies.

“I love you too.”

Jihyun craves control in what feels like a necessary manner. He doesn’t like to have things thrust upon him without warning, doesn’t like to be out of the loop. It’s a matter of security, and that's why he scrambles to understand things at their very core. Even when he asks questions more than once, try to give him some leeway. He doesn’t mean to be overbearing or distrustful, —he simply craves details down to the marrow. It’s a tool he’s found that soothes his worries, and it’s a small price to pay for his peace.

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t seem like we have a reservation for that name,” the young woman at the front of the restaurant apologizes.

“Are you certain?” Jihyun asks, —and you can feel his grip tighten on your hand a bit, even as his tone remains incessantly polite. “I booked a table over a month in advance for our anniversary. . .”

She flips through the little booklet on the desk again, pursing her lips before shaking her head.

“I’m not sure what happened, but there’s unfortunately no tables available for this evening,” she replies. “You’re welcome to stay for a bit and see if anyone misses their reservation time, but that’s the best I can do. I’m very sorry.”

“That’s okay,” you assure her.

It’s not like she has anything to do with it. She’s just doing her job, and whatever happened, it likely wasn’t even her mistake to remedy. Moreover, it’s not like this was the end of the world. A block over there was a nice little steakhouse serving roughly similar menu items, and you’d been there on dates with Jihyun before. It might even be nice to go back and spend your second anniversary with him in a more familiar and welcoming place. . . But he felt like his head was swimming by the time he made it back outside.

His grip on your hand was unusually firm, —not painful, but more desperate than it had been a few minutes prior, and you could feel his palm getting clammy. Jihyun had always been a calm and reserved man, the type that took a while to warm up to people. At least, that’s how you’d always known him to be. Jumin told you he was a bit less reticent once upon a time, that he trusted more freely and cared more forwardly. But that was before, and things have clearly changed, and much of that change came at him in a sort of insurmountable way. It wasn’t the kind of thing anyone could prepare for, and bizarreness aside, Jihyun had by no means been afforded all the opportunities to feel safe and secure.

“Hey,” you say softly, looking up at him, “are you alright?”

The breath he utters is shaky at best, and he finds it difficult to meet your eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he says quickly.

You barely catch the words as they spill past his lips in rapid succession.

He said them like he was sputtering out his final phrase, scared he might not have another chance to express it if he didn’t let it burst forth. 

“Sorry? —For what?” You ask, reaching up to cup his cheek in your free hand. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

When he looks at you, it’s like he’s seen a ghost. There’s a distant sense of fear and a few tears welling up, clumping together above his lashes.

“The table, it. . . I. . .” he tries, but the articulation doesn’t come to him.

He’s not sure what to say or how to say it, and he’s terrified of the fact that you’re being so calm, even when he knows he should be thankful for it. A part of him even thinks it might be easier if you just yelled and let him swallow your frustrations like the words he’s choking down. This gentleness is still foreign, even after all this time.

You walk with him a little ways, keeping your fingers laced with his. There’s a small community garden spot where everyone is free to come and admire the flowers, and it serves as an easy way to put some space between yourself and others strolling along the sidewalk.

“Jihyun,” you say, “it’s really okay. I’m sorry the reservation didn’t work out, but we can still have dinner down the block.”

But at this point, it’s less about any steak he’s missing out on and more about the fact that something has gone wrong in the first place. It’s out of his hands now, and he can’t stop thinking long enough to let himself drown in yours.

“I just wanted everything to be perfect,” he replies.

You kiss his frigid knuckles and look at him like he’s the only person in the world.

“I know,” you tell him. “And it might not help to say this, but I think you should know that it’s perfect to me anyway, no matter where we go. As long as I’m with you tonight, we can do anything, go anywhere, —I just love you, and as long as you’re here, I’m happy.”

Jihyun stills, and you can see the cogs turning behind his gaze, processing what you’ve said as if he finds it hard to believe. Sometimes, he forgets that this isn’t conditional. You know certain things linger longer than either of you would like, but it’s not really something he can help. Not right now. Two years doesn’t erase all the time he spent pining for forgiveness from all the wrong people in all the wrong places. Time hasn’t healed his wounds as well as he would have liked. They still pry themselves open and leave bloodtrails in his wake every now and again, and sometimes it gets on you.

He takes a breath and tries again.

“I booked the table,” he says firmly. “I remembered that you said you wanted to give the restaurant a try, but we could never find a good time, and I thought this would be the right occasion.”

You smile, because it’s sweet that he remembered such a small thing. It was a comment made in passing more than anything else, but he still cared enough not only to listen, but to keep it in mind.

“Thank you for trying,” you tell him in earnest. “But we can always book another reservation for another time.”

“It won’t be our anniversary for another year,” he explains.

“No, it won’t,” you agree, “but that’s okay, isn’t it? You brought me roses last month, and there was no special occasion for it.”

Jihyun purses his lips for a moment, then nods. He sees what you’re getting at, even though his disappointment is still palpable.

“You’re right,” he acknowledges.

“And you’re amazing,” you reply, pressing a hand against his warm chest.

He lets out a breath and pulls you closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. A wave of relief washes over you upon feeling some of the tension leave his body.

“I’m really sorry,” he says. “Things weren’t supposed to go this way.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” you insist.

“Yeah. . . Maybe. I just feel like it’s my fault,” he answers.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” you mumble, pulling away just enough to cup his cheeks again, hoping he won’t mind the mild shock of your free hand’s chill. “Sometimes things just happen.”

A part of him wants to argue, but he loses that urge the moment you brush your lips against his so tenderly. It’s the kind of softness he craves when he gets a little too wound up, and you can almost feel him melt into your embrace where he stands.

“Happy anniversary, Jihyun.”

He smiles, and it reaches his eyes.

“Happy anniversary, my love.”

The halls of this strange place are dark and dreary. The air is perpetually moist and it smells musty no matter where you go. Around every corner there’s something that makes your nose turn up in disgust, be it the cobwebs littering the ceilings from above, and subsequently the spiders resting all about them, or any of the other unsavory attributes this hell-hole has managed to acquire after being seemingly left to rot away for so long.

But you know you’re not alone here. Though you’re certain the residents you’ve come across aren’t truly human at all, —you know you’re not the only sentient creature here. For the sake of simplicity (and easing your weary mind of one thing, at the very least) you’ve taken to referring to them all as what they appear to resemble most: men. One walks the halls dressed in nothing but scarlet, carrying an umbrella to match his attire. You only caught a glimpse of him as he passed by, but a strange feeling overcame you when he sauntered through the dingy walkway, head facing straight forward like he was hyper-focused on something unseen just up ahead.

Though he was likely the most outwardly human-seeming of them all, you kept the farthest distance from him. If there was anything you had to rely on down here, it was your intuition, —and going near him was the exact opposite of smart decision making, according to your gut.

Another wore a grimy hood that smelled faintly of mildew and covered the entirety of his head, so much so that his face was completely shrouded by the shadow it cast down on him. . . If he even had a face at all, that is. It was an unsettling thought, but he was helpful in spite of your hesitancy, and he seemed to be guiding you in one direction or another. His voice was gravelly, sounding like he hadn’t used it in a long time. He made no move to accompany you past the small room you’d awoken in, but after encountering a plethora of oddities soon after leaving, you began to understand why.

Some were worse than others, like the man dressed in piercing red who made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Others spoke to you in spite of your inability to answer them in whatever native tongue they were using, appearing kind enough on the surface. You even half-heartedly followed the directions of a dismembered wrist and took the severed head of an auburn-haired male down a flight of janky stairs, almost tripping down the second flight when the lights flickered on and off overhead. It was a wonder the bulbs were still working, or that electricity still flowed through any of the wires of this place. Presumptuous as you may have been for it, none of those you encountered seemed like the type to work on circuitry. . .

Surprisingly expressive for being little more than a lowly head, you traded him off to a man with ghostly pale skin, silver-white hair, and bandages over his eyes that moved around just fine in spite of them. You sat with the two of them for a bit, receiving a lackluster language lesson that you didn’t retain much from, but thanked them for anyway on the off chance they might understand you somehow.

And then you high-tailed it out of the lowest level you’d been on thus far, narrowly avoiding an injection to the arm that you may or may not have accidentally agreed to. When you stopped to catch your breath, you found yourself concerned for the safety of a chopped head, —something you never thought you’d be worried about in your lifetime. Still though, the two of them had seemed cordial enough. . . Friendly, even, but a part of you feared you were anthropomorphizing entities much unlike yourself a bit too much.

Worse off, you barely circumvented the swipe of a strange hand with fingernails dirty enough to have colored themselves black that reached for your chest, —or, for the organ inside of it, rather. All that because you offered a weak smile to a creepy half-face peeking through the gap of a doorway.

Needless to say, you were done being naive by the time an oddly moving silhouette rounded the corner of the room you were hiding away in. After heaven knows how long of slipping between rooms and making generally poor choices, you’d come to the conclusion that enough was enough. The next thing that tried to test you, be it human, monster, or something else entirely, you were going to make them regret it. So you armed yourself with a rusty crowbar left behind in the rubble of the building and you tucked yourself away into a little cavern just barely wide enough for you to squeeze inside of. From the quick look you stole of it before slinking away inside, you could only assume it was the result of a half-finished wall demolition.

Steps came nearer, as if smelling you out like a bloodhound. Instinctively, you held your breath, hands shaking wildly, even as the hunched body rounded the corner and seemed to look at you through a mess of long, greasy, black hair. He only stumbled back slightly as you clipped his forehead with the crowbar. All things considered, it wasn’t much of a strike. It drew some blood, but had he been anything like you feared, he’d have clawed you to pieces there and then.

But he slumped back a little awkwardly, almost seeming dejected by your violence. When his forearm raised to his injured head, he mumbled something you couldn’t understand in a quiet, somber tone. A small amount of blood trickled down his forehead and he shuffled away just out of sight to sulk in the same corner you’d snagged the crowbar from. Now you just felt bad. So much had happened within your short time here, and you’d gone and taken it out on the only creature who didn’t seem to have any ill intentions toward you. And perhaps worst of all, you didn’t even have the vocabulary to properly apologize.

“Um. . .” you utter nervously, crouching down to his height, “I’m sorry. I thought. . .”

And then you trail off, realizing that it doesn’t really matter what you say anyway. It’s not like he understands you, and it’s not as if you’re in any position to be asking for forgiveness from someone you just bludgeoned with a rusty crowbar.

The way he turns at the sound of your voice nearly causes you to jump out of your skin. It’s not that he’s ugly, —his appearance is just. . . Alarming. Pair it with the location you’ve found yourself at, the inability to navigate this god forsaken building to any degree of efficiency, and recent previous encounters with those much like him, and you have yourself a recipe for disaster.

He’s responsive to the softness of your tone in a way you hadn’t expected, shuffling around until he’s facing your direction. His features are hidden behind the mess of his hair, and he moves toward you again, almost like he’s trying to figure out if he can trust you or not.

When you shift a bit, he shrinks back, but you utter another apology and do your best to remain still thereafter so as not to frighten him away. He wipes some blood from his forehead and slathers it onto the dirty floor, then comes close enough to touch you, leaving some smears of crimson in his wake. His placement is firm against your thigh, but it doesn’t feel salacious in the slightest. His hands are cold, but there’s a warmth he exudes that you can’t quite explain nor put your finger on.

Maybe it isn’t the smartest move you’ve ever made, —but you’re going with your gut again, and it’s telling you that this time it’s okay to test the waters.

There’s no malice in the way he kneels before you, head tilting up so he can see your eyes through his stringy hair. He smells faintly of metal from the blood on his forehead and hand, but it’s nothing that won’t go away after he cleans himself up. That lingering scent of mildew that the hooded man also had might stick around, though. . .

In a place like this, you’re sure it can’t really be helped.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, even if he can’t make sense of it. “You scared me, is all. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

There’s nothing in particular he does to indicate that he understands what you’re blabbering about, but he moves a bit closer again, invading your space to touch your shoulders. Thankfully, that wound you gave him seems to be superficial at most.

He says something, but you can’t make sense of it, so you stare at him blankly. He repeats it, a bit louder this time, and you shake your head.

“I don’t understand,” you reply.

He likely doesn’t either, and you’re playing a game of cat and mouse, but he doesn’t seem to mind much. His lingering touch is more curious than anything else, traveling from your shoulders down the length of your arms, then fiddling with each of your fingers on either hand.

You find yourself wondering what he is, —how he got here, what he’s thinking, what any of his unfamiliar words might mean. All things considered, he’s being exponentially gentle with you. Somehow, you come a little undone as a result. All the adrenaline has faded and you find yourself tearing up, the realization of your situation sinking you under all at once in a way it somehow hadn’t before. When you were moving through the halls and the stairways, there’d always been something to focus on, but now that you’ve come to this standstill with him, it’s impossible to keep yourself from unraveling a bit.

A soft sniffle makes his head snap upward, and he cups your cheeks in either of his cool hands. His nails are long and they sit against your skin so gently, though you know he could use them to rip at your flesh at any moment if he really wanted to. But he doesn’t.

His head tilts to the side like a small, confused animal, and he mumbles something that you obviously can’t comprehend.

He’s a bit rough as he wipes the tears from your eyes, but you’re almost certain it’s unintentional. Though he’s strange and you don’t understand a lick of what he says to you, —you find yourself feeling grateful for his presence. It’s the first time since you found yourself stranded here that you don’t feel so alone.

One of his hands moves away from your face, instead planting itself on the crown of your head. He stills for a moment, then drags his hand along your hair, as if petting a kitten or a puppy dog. You don’t complain, instead offering him a sad smile, which he returns (although his is much more unsettling.)

“Thank you,” you say, even though he can’t decipher it.

After a moment longer, he shuffles back toward the room’s opening and gestures toward the hall. You can only assume he’s trying to lead you somewhere, and you make the decision to trust him for the time being. Though he’s odd-looking and moves only by crawling on all fours, there’s something comforting about the idea of being less lost at sea with no one to help guide you through the maze that surrounds you.

Thus, you pull yourself to your feet and move toward the doorway, readying yourself for whatever comes next.

Moira likes you in the way a cat likes a mouse. There’s layers to the fun, and you’ve been in the “playing with your food” stage for a while longer than you’d have been willing to admit to anyone on the outside. In here though, where she’s free to run about and experiment to her heart’s content, well. . . You don’t have anyone to explain yourself to anyway. Talon wasn’t your first choice, to be clear on the matter. In fact, before the fall of Overwatch and the subsequent destruction that waged on your city in the wake of it, it probably wouldn’t have been an option at all.

But you know better than most that sometimes things just don’t work out the way you’d hope. This was one of them, though there’s plenty of times when you’ve been able to swallow that fact a lot easier than you can right now. It’s not always so drab or hopeless, and the feelings come and go as they would if you were being holed up anywhere else. You try to soothe yourself by insisting that this place isn’t any worse than those well-protected shelters out there that monitor your food intake and your whereabouts at all times. In that sense, you’re sure you might even have more freedom than those subjected to those so-called havens spread across the world’s face.

You’re less stifled here than you probably would be at any of those safe spots, even if danger is more liable to lurk around the corners here. It’s give and take, —unlike this twisted thing you’ve got going on with Talon’s most notorious geneticist. That’s just give. Give, give, give until you’ve spread yourself so thin that there’s nothing left to offer, and then give some more, because she asks it of you. But she still cares in her own way. . . At least, you think she does. Or, maybe you’d just really like to.

It’s been a few days since you last heard from her, which isn’t particuarly unusual. She’s a grown woman, after all, with her own endeavors that she often gets so lost in that time becomes a meaningless construct only serving to interfere with her work. Beyond that, she’s a top choice for field combat at Talon, despite much preferring to stay in the labs where the both of you have long agreed she belongs. Her, because it’s a preference, and you because it’s easier to ensure that she hasn’t gotten herself killed on the battlefield when you know exactly where to find her.

She didn’t tell you she was leaving this time. You chalked it up to a midnight ushering of her out of bed and off to some other place in need of defending for now, stifling worries that she’d just chosen to up and leave without telling you beforehand. Every other time, she’s mentioned it in advance, even if it always seemed more like a casual slip into a conversation than a true heads up for the sake of your sanity.

It’s not like you’re naive to what’s going on between you. As cold as many assume her to be, she’s not some repitlian creature posing as a woman in human flesh. She’s just as much a person as you, albeit quite a different one, —and sometimes she gets a little lonely. So when those cravings seep out and she’s in need of a fix, you’re the one she reaches for. But all the same, you’re replaceable.

“Doctor O’Deorain isn’t in.”

You pause in the hall, looking over at the man who’d spoken to you, —mid thirties, by the look of him, scraggly facial scruff and tired eyes. If he hadn’t said what he did, you’d have deduced as much by the exhaustion written all over his face. When Moira’s away, someone has to be there to pick up the slack.

“I don’t know when she’ll be back,” he explains, as if having read your mind.

Though you don’t recognize him, you’re sure he’s seen you come and go from her personal office every now and again. Nobody has ever dared to question it, granted, but you’re certain they must be curious about what happens behind that closed door. It’s none of their business, but human curiosity is seldom concerned with what it needs and needs not be piqued by.

“Okay, thank you,” you answer simply.

He seems confused when you keep walking down the hall toward the labs, but doesn’t bother to question it actively. Being part of Moira’s “in-crowd” must give you some kind of special privileges down here that you hadn’t been previously aware of.

The button on the outside of the door takes a lot more force than one might expect to press it inward, but you’re used to it by now. The two iron slates pull apart and give you access to the main lab, —one that branches into several other rooms, all of which have identical doors to the main entrance. These, however, are all guarded by fingerprint recognition software, and your hand only offers you access to a single one. . . That aforementioned personal office of Moira’s that, as far as you're aware, has only ever seen your face and hers since she took over its residency.

The main lab is empty, save for a few test rodents in their various containers. You pay them the same kind of attention you would if they were on display at a pet store and not sitting in wait to be experimented on. All white fur and red eyes, you whisper little greetings to them in the same way Moira has poked fun at you for in the past; only this time, she’s not around to snicker at you just under her breath. You kind of wish she was, though. It’s a dull ache, but not one that you can completely ignore in this nearly silent lab.

Hand against the sensor now, you wait for it to recognize and authorize your identity. When it does, the second set of iron slates come apart, granting you access to the small room behind. It’s nothing grand, in spite of Moira’s well-known status amongst the rest of the staff. As far as you know, she’s the only one who even has an office at all though, so its size isn’t much indicative of its importance.

It’s just as neat as it always is, —papers mostly filed away, and the few left on her desk neatly aligned and set off to the side. To be honest, you’re not completely sure why you even came down here in the first place. You could just as easily have gone to her apartment just a few blocks from Talon’s base of operations. She gave you a key a few months back after deciding that you could probably make more use of it than she did most days. That’s probably why you’ve found yourself here rather than there. . . The sheets of her bed smell more like you than her, but the lab coat draped across the back of her chair is rich with her fragrance; a little musky, a little citrusy, but still so feminine and divine.

You might often chase after Moira like a feline on the prowl, but make no mistake, —you will always be the mouse. No matter how many times you all but purr beneath her fingers, no matter how many times she has you mewling at her touch, you are and always will be the shivering little rodent to her devilish lioness.

“Am I really this foolish?” You mumble softly, a bitter laugh catching in the back of your throat.

You are. It's a rhetorical question, —you already know the answer, and you've known it perhaps since that very first kiss. No matter how often or in what manner, it's always nice to be wanted by her. . . To be desired by the kind of woman that lives and breathes on what often feels like a completely different plane of existence. Sometimes she speaks and it's like the world has caved in at her will, and you feel yourself crumble into pieces at her feet. She can look your way and leave you stuck with thoughts of her for hours, even days, to come; until she decides you're once again important enough to spare another glance at.

So yes. Yes you are really that foolish.

You stand around in her office for a while, fiddling with things you know she wouldn’t mind you touching, like her excessive collection of ballpoint pens and the fake succulent she keeps on her edge of her desk to “liven the place up.” Even if she isn't there right now, a part of you feels more connected to her here than anywhere else. It's where she beckons you to whenever she has an itch to scratch, —where she pushes you against the off-beige wall and kisses you until you're not sure what it really feels like to breathe anymore. It's where she sits in a variety of odd positions very befitting to her long legs and talks with you about the progress of her work, about the grievances she has in her day-to-day life, and sometimes, even about her past as a part of Overwatch.

It doesn't hurt that your opinion of the organization is about as positive as her's, which is to say it's rather low, all things considered. You found them to be undeniably underhanded and the fall of the organization was simply all too convenient, leaving people like Moira to pay the final resting price. . . Leaving people like you dispersed from the only real home you'd ever known.

So you made a new one amongst the rubble and destruction, and it's fucking beautiful. All smooth skin and ginger hair, —dual-colored eyes with lips like fire that set your heart ablaze.

You're thinking too much, you've concluded by the end of it, so you snag her lab coat and make your way through the winding halls of Talon's base. You're just another civilian they've taken in, convinced that because you survived the wreckage, you must be useful for something. . . That you were strong enough to make it out, and wise enough to accept their help. You're not sure how true you really believe that to be, but at least you're not alone sometimes. The quenching of your lonely ache might even make up for the various acts of horror you’ve been instructed to perform that you’d much rather forget about and pretend like they never happened at all.

When you’re with Moira, it’s a lot easier to pretend that you’re still an innocent. She wears the remnants of her perhaps more nefarious misdeeds on her own augmented arm, —always an angry shade of purple with protruding veins, and she never holds you with it. You still hold out hope that she might one day, when you’ve both grown much too used to one another and she doesn’t swallow “I love you”’s down like bile. You’re holding onto hope that one day she’ll call this what it is.

You flash Moira’s key at a Talon operaterive who asks where you’re going on your way out the door. Question answered, and she doesn’t even ask why you’ve got the good doctor’s lab coat clutched in your grip like a vice. Nobody has to say their worries out loud for you to know they’re festering just under the surface. They choke back warnings to be careful, to be mindful, to not let yourself get swept up in Moira’s game of life.

But the truth is, this is all you’re getting, and you don’t even feel like you’re settling. It could always be worse, and for whatever it’s worth, you feel pretty damn good when she’s around.

And when she’s not, you manage. Some times are better than others, though. This time, you’re somewhere in between lost and peaceful, okay with the quiet, but disconcerned with the lapse of warmth in her absence. So you’ve found yourself here again, that spare key in the lock of her door, letting it swing open to this all too familiar place of near nothingness. Moira spends more nights in the lab than she does here, but there’s little traces of her splayed around, —like the bottle of red wine on the counter, or the few books she has on an otherwise barren shelf.

Past the wine and the books and the coffee table littered with syringes, you enter her bedroom and find yourself pausing, just looking around at everything (though you’ve likely seen it a couple dozen times before by now.) Her lipstick sits on the vanity shoved over in the corner, a reddish-orange color that you’ve watched her apply through half-lidded eyes in the early hours of the morning. That same color has stained your whitest shirt collars, and you’ve chosen not to wash those marks off just yet.

Pencil eyeliner, likely once sat right beside the other cosmetic, has rolled nearly to the edge now. She’s just as precise when she adds it to her eyes as she is when she measures chemicals in her lab. A little collection of nail polishes sit off to the side, —black, red, white, and the half-empty shade of deep violet that you see her don most often.

Her closet door is half open, slid away from the wall just enough that you can see a sliver of her collection of white button-ups hanging down from the rod inside. You wonder if they all smell as much like her as the lab coat in your hands, but you doubt it.

There you are again.

Foolish little you, wrapped in her sheets that hardly have a scent at all beyond the detergent she uses to clean them, her lab coat positioned just so that you catch hints of her with every breath you take in. You close your eyes and let lethargy win. It’s hours before you stir again, awakened by the rustling of Moira stealing her coat away from your grip. You don’t bother to open your eyes, letting her take it away and slip it on her lithe but surprisingly muscular frame. It’s hers, after all. . .

You imagine she must look tired, —but you know it’s not enough to make her stay. That’s never been enough of a reason. So you don’t ask for it. She’ll go from this apartment to her lab, and she’ll stay there for hours upon hours, from the early hours of the morning to egregious hours of the night, and somewhere in between, she might call upon you to stop by so she can tease you for taking the coat from her office, for sleeping in her bed while she was away, for stopping to wave to the test rodents, —and then she’ll press your back to that beige office wall, slit her knee between your legs, and take your breath away again.

Like she always does.

And you might even ask why she didn’t tell you where or when she was going when she left this time. She might even reward you for your nerve by cooking up some half-baked reply about responsibilities and authority and blah blah blah, all those things she’s told you a million times before in lieu of just being straightforward. You’ll take her explanation with a grain of salt as you always do, and she’ll sense your apprehension just in time to nip it in the bud, —hand under your chin, forcing you to look up at her, asking if you trust her.

You’ll say: “Yeah, of course I do. . . You know that,” even when that’s flimsy at best.

She’ll give you a smile that’s more reminiscent of a smirk before leaning in to hold you captive in her kiss. You’ll give, give, give, and give some more. . . Because she asks it of you.

Your thoughts still when she rests a hand against your head, smoothing it over your hair, petting you like a kitten.

But you’re still the mouse.

“Sleep well, darling.”

You can still taste the lavish vanilla of Leon’s birthday cake on your tongue. Yves had spared no expense baking and decorating it the night before, insisting upon maximizing the freshness, even if that meant losing some sleep. To say you helped him with it would be a bit of an overstatement, —but you tried your best to be of assistance where you could (and where Yves, in all his perfectionism, would allow.) It was three tiers tall and masterfully prepared, and when Sariel sliced it open to spread the goodness around that morning, Leon hummed in delight and thanked his younger brother so profusely for taking the time to bake it in celebration of his birth.

Twenty eight had never looked so good on anyone. Not because the mere age of twenty eight was indicative of anything in particular, —but because anything on Leon was simply something spectacular, a sight to behold in every way. He was the kind of man that owned any room he set foot in just by virtue of being himself. People revered him without question, his charm winning over so many hearts (even when he wasn’t trying.) People trusted him. . . You trusted him.

Yves never did like to be the center of attention if it wasn’t on his own terms, so he begrudgingly accepted the thanks of his elder brother and then insisted they talk about something other than the wonderful cake everyone enjoyed without fail. Even Chevalier, in all his broodish angst, bothered to drop by that morning for a slice (that he only took a few bites from, granted, —but the fact that he even came at all was the real surprise.) He wasn’t exactly the leader of the Leon Dompteur FanClub, but he had a healthy enough respect for the Fourth Prinnce to give him a little nod on his way out the door. You guessed Leon had taken that as “happy birthday.”

Luke was there mostly for the cake, and because it gave him something to do that would justify (in his mind, at least), sneaking off to take a nap somewhere around noon. He scarfed down two pieces before even acknowledging what the dessert had been baked for, but Leon didn’t seem to mind the mooching. Luke was more of a stranger than a family member to him, but Leon always looked at him like he was waxing nostalgic. You always suspected Luke reminded him of someone, maybe of his younger self, —a version of Leon you never knew. . . Another part of you wondered if there was something he was making peace with when he looked at the youngest of his siblings; some shattered part of him he was learning how to live with.

You never asked, though.

Licht didn’t say much of the occasion, but paid his brother a greeting, quietly said happy birthday, and took a slice of cake even though breakfast had never been much of his thing. You guessed it was more out of respect for Yves and his efforts than for Leon’s special occasion. Nokto and Clavis each took turns slinging their arms around Leon’s shoulders, shaking him a little, and saying he was getting old. That was a little rich coming from Clavis, in your opinion, but you didn’t bother to speak up about it. Jin placed a large hand on Leon’s shoulder and bid him a happy birthday, almost offered to take him down to the taverns for a bit of fun later in the evening, then glanced to you and clammed himself up.

Sariel was more concerned about Leon fulfilling his duties than celebrating the Prince’s birthday, —to absolutely no one's surprise, and Rio poked his head in after a morning of being put to work to sneak a slice of cake away and say happy birthday before Sariel could catch him “slacking” and demand he go find somewhere to be of use.

It was a normal morning in the castle, all things considered.

He worked, even on his special day, —spent hours training his soldiers, skipped lunch (to your disapproval), and scarfed his dinner down like a famished dog. Or a lion, rather.

The sun had already begun to set when you were able to find some time to be alone with him. Up in his room, you brushed some of that unruly brown hair out of his eyes, letting him kiss you to the point of breathlessness and then some.

“Happy birthday,” you finally told him when he pulled away to get some air.

A lopsided smile spread across his features, one so infectious that it made you grin up at him in turn.

He didn’t tell you that your birthday wish was the only one he really took to heart that day, but he didn’t have to. You just knew. And call it your dastardly intuition or the sadness that lingered in his gaze, but a part of you just knew that much like Leon’s birthday, this wouldn’t last forever.

You used to really like August. Sunny days and clear skies, the sounds of children playing on cobblestone. It was warm and comfortable, and you’d stay up late to look up at the stars and make wishes that would never really come true.

These days, August haunts you like a bittersweet ghost, and it tastes just like lavish vanilla.

It’s not the sun-filled, fun-loving month you once knew anymore, —no, August comes like a phantom and it swallows you whole, eats you up inside, and spits you out at midnight on September 1st, daring you to live and keep pushing, waiting for another August to suck you under again.

I’m sorry, he said to you, and the worst part was that he meant it.

He was so sincere in the way he broke your heart, so gentle in the way he smashed you into a million little pieces and left you scattered there. Nothing had ever hurt quite like that.

 It’s safer this way, he insisted, —but for who? Certainly not for the stupid organ in your chest that seemed to wane at every syllable of his tear-filled apology and subsequent explanation of why he couldn’t promise to love you until the sun exploded.

It’s better this way. But it wasn’t.

It won’t sting like this forever. And maybe it won’t.

He was probably right. You’re sure some fifteen years from now, you’ll be happier, and you won’t sit and stare at the ceiling on August nights anymore. You’re sure this’ll pass one day, he’ll lead this little country to new heights, and you’ll stay where you’ve always belonged, down in the city, running your bookshop, waving to his brothers when you see them on the streets. You’ll find someone else who’ll kiss away your tears, who’ll hold you when you fall apart and meld you back together so neatly. . . You’ll get better. It won’t always be this way.

You’ll grow up a little more, learn to stop and smell the roses again, whether they’re planted on castle grounds or not. You’ll accept what you can’t change and it won’t hurt like it does right now. You’ll taste vanilla and it won’t make you feel so small, —it won’t arouse all the memories of Leon and his dark chocolate hair or his sunlit eyes or his strong arms holding you close enough to have tricked you so selfishly into believing that he might never let go.

For whatever it’s worth, which doesn’t feel like a lot right now, —he’s probably right. Maybe it won’t sting like this forever. Maybe time will heal your wounds, stitch them up and kiss them like a caring mother. Maybe you’ll just learn to live with how badly it hurts until it turns to white noise inside your chest.

But that’s then, and this is now, so you sit around and sniffle over a piece of cake with frosting that’s too sweet, because you’re not Yves in all of his perfectionism, and you hope Leon’s cake tastes a lot better than yours. You hope he’s safer and better and that it doesn’t sting anymore, —but a part of you can’t help but want him to be a little sorry, even now. You hope all of his brothers will come around again and say happy birthday to him in their own ways, —Chevalier with his little acknowledging nod to Clavis and Nokto’s teasing. You hope he’ll eat lunch this time, that he’ll take a few breaks between tasks, and that he’ll think about you fondly for a little while when he goes back to his room to sleep for the night.

Most of all though, you’re still sure twenty nine has never looked so good on anyone.

＃ JUMIN !! ♡

Jumin, who never really thought himself to be the romantic type, but loses himself so easily in his relationship with you that he’d do anything imaginable just to see you smile for him. This sophisticated, pressed-suit wearing, stone-faced man who just crumbles when it comes to you, —who once thought love was some sick ruse made to rope people in and keep them hostage to their feelings, suddenly realizing that this rush is marvelous, and he can’t quite clearly remember a time before his heart seemed to beat for you. This man who swore he’d never love someone enough to put aside everything else on his mind and just live in the moment who sheds that dry cleaned business attire at the end of every workday and lets himself come undone for you. His walls come down and he welcomes you inside, and for once, he’s not scared of what will happen when you see the parts of him that perhaps aren’t as pretty as others. He lets you see the beautiful mess he’s made of himself over the years, and it’s then that he begins to pick up all these tattered pieces, finally preparing to put himself back together again. And recognizing you’ll help him do so is the sweetest comfort he’s ever known.

＃ HYUN (ZEN) !! ♡

Hyun, who stops pretending to be perfect over time and lets you see him in all the stages of healing. This man who often shields himself from the world, hiding behind a mask of narcissistic confidence, who finally lets his imperfections seep through to the surface and breathes another sigh of relief every single time you stay in the aftermath. He lets you in on the insecurities that lap at his ankles much more often than he'd ever had liked to have admitted before. He lets you hold him when he shatters instead of pushing you away, —dulls all his rigid edges to feel your warmth surround him, as if lowering all his defenses for the very first time. The world can be a cruel place to those that have made mistakes, but Hyun feels like he's finally found someone who can look at him for more than just the pretty, well-kempt face he maintains for the public. There's no sense of shame he feels the need to drown in when you let him fall apart in your arms. There's no crushing feeling of disappointment or suffocating feeling of disdain. He's more human than he fears he's ever been when your thumbs wipe the tears from beneath his eyes and you whisper to him that everything will be okay.

＃ YOOSUNG !! ♡

Yoosung, who learns over time how to not let things fester until they’ve built up so much he can’t keep them in any longer. For all he is and might not ever be, he’s come to realize that it’s okay to express his emotions before they reach a boiling point. He comes to you at the onset of upsetedness, —allows himself to feel frustrated without stuffing it down and pretending the problem doesn’t exist until it explodes. He finds that it’s so much easier to be earnest when you never talk down to him or make him feel like he’s any less of a person in your eyes because of it. Sometimes he needs advice, and other times, he just needs someone to talk to. No matter the case, he seeks you out before anyone else, knowing that you care enough about him to value his thoughts and opinions without qualifiers or regulations. He holds grudges sometimes that aren’t good for his own sake, and being shut down when he tries to address them only adds fuel to the fire. Having someone who truly listens and tells him that it’s okay to feel the way he does goes such a long way, —perhaps longer than you’ll ever know.

＃ SAEYOUNG (707) !! ♡

Saeyoung, who lets himself be honest eventually, —who lets himself chip away and then lets you smooth him over. He’s done a lot of things he’s not proud of, and he doesn’t need anyone to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. Whether it was or wasn’t doesn’t matter as much as what he knows he has to do going forward, and the last thing he really wants is to be coddled out of pity. He just wants to be heard, no sympathy necessary, no fawning over the way he sheds the skin he used to wear when he felt like happiness was millions of miles away. He just wants to be listened to. To Saeyoung, it’s the ultimate show of trust to admit to all the things he regrets, let them spill out like word vomit and not have to worry about the consequences. He doesn’t need you to understand, and knows you likely can’t given the specifics of his life’s course thus far, but knowing that you’re keen on carrying the burden with him is such an insurmountable feeling of relief. Finally, someone knows every grimy little corner of his soul and they still love him, still hold him, still want him. . . There’s nothing quite like it.

＃ SAERAN (RAY) !! ♡

Saeran, who lets little things slip as time goes on, —stares a little longer when he passes twin popsicles in grocery stores because he knows you won’t ask why. As much as he likes to pretend that he can fix things by pretending they never hurt him in the first place, there are always scars that linger just below the surface, ready to burst at the first sight of mint-colored liquids or at the first sound of deceptively sweet voices offering commands from the shadows. He carries a lot around with him wherever he goes, and just loving him until the sun dies isn’t a cure-all. You can’t turn back time and shield him from all the things in his life that have left him feeling like a shattered stain glass window. All the love in the world can’t fix the past. But there’s nothing that means more to him than knowing he can lean on you, —even if he doesn’t always do it. There’s such a sweet comfort in knowing he can turn to you when he feels like he’s drowning. And if sometimes that manifests only in letting himself shed a few tears while he eats an ice cream cone outside next to you in the sunshine, then so be it.

＃ JIHYUN (V) !! ♡

Jihyun, who talks about it all a little at a time, —about the good and the bad, the ugly and the beautiful; because it wasn’t always bad. There were times before you came in which he’d been so in love that he’d have done anything to stay exactly where he was, to freeze those moments up and keep them in a capsule that could never be shaken. And it’s important for Jihyun to tell you about those things every now and again, to let you in and reminisce on the way he’d once been so sure of it all, so ready to settle down and stay exactly where he was. But it’s equally as important for him to bare the remnants of the betrayal for you to kiss, and hold, and make peace with. He likes to think you understand him better in the wake of it, —that you’ve seen him in a new light every time he sits with you and tells you of the loss, the desire, the yearning, and all the ways he wishes things could have been different for everyone. In the end, he’s here, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

＃ HYUN (ZEN) !! ♡

Hyun, who buys bouquets of flowers every now and again on his way back home from rehearsals. He does his best to match the colors to your needs, —yellow on sad days in hopes they might lift your spirits, blue when you’re frustrated so that it might calm you down, etc.. They always smell so sweet, and you cherish them deeply. They always live longer than they typically should as a result of how well you care for them, and he loves to see the bashful smile tug at your lips as you accept them gracefully, even if you always tell him that he “really shouldn’t have” or that he “didn’t have to.” He does it because he loves you, and he thinks someone as beautiful as you should be presented with something just as gorgeous every now and again (even if he admittedly thinks you’re worlds prettier than flowers could ever be.)

＃ JUMIN !! ♡

Jumin, who writes little notes on the corner of the napkins he rests your coffee or tea on each morning, delicate and elegant handwriting in black ink sinking so perfectly into the ivory material. They’re never the same, always a different expression of his love or his admiration. You like to tear them off and keep them safe in a little box, and you open it up to read them when you’ve had a hard day or when you’re just not feeling your best. He always tells you that you don’t have to keep them, that he won’t be offended if you simply toss them away after you’ve read them and they’ve made you smile, —but you can never bring yourself to do it.

＃ SAEYOUNG (707) !! ♡

Saeyoung, who folds little origamis for you when he gets the chance and leaves them somewhere around for you to find. It started with a tiny paper star he was folding for the heck of it, but you liked it so much that he decided to do it again, and again, and again. So now you have a neat little stash of different animals, shapes, and otherwise cool-looking creations (all of which have silly, blank expressions drawn onto them as faces that really add a sweetness to their personality.) You like to sit and fiddle with them every now and again, just to feel the sharp edges of the crane’s beak against your fingertips or to split the little heart apart and see the “i love you <3” written on the inside.

＃ YOOSUNG !! ♡

Yoosung, who buys sticky notes for his studies but ends up using most of them to leave you little notes with cute messages and silly doodles. He likes to think this is a better usage for them, especially when he watches you spot one out of the corner of his eye, and you hold it in your hands like it’s some kind of love-stricken poetry from a wordsmith he knows he’ll never be. They might be simple and straightforward, but there’s not much room for stanzas of prose on these little post-its, and reminders that you’re doing a good job or that you look cute are so much more than enough.

＃ JAEHEE !! ♡

Jaehee, who bakes you little desserts for you to eat when you get home, often heart-shaped or dusted in romantic colors, —always in your favorite flavors. Cookies with little jam hearts in the center, cupcakes with heart sprinkles and a cream just to your liking filling up the inside; each and every one made with so much love that you can practically taste it on your tongue. There’s no one else she’d rather bake for, and no one else she’d rather spend the rest of her days with. Sometimes words are hard to come by, and she worries she won’t always get it right, but when you kiss her on the cheek before taking a bite of her treats, well. . . She thinks things will be alright anyway.

A: affection. | are they affectionate? how do they show affection?

Nozel can be surprisingly affectionate in spite of his cold exterior. When it comes to his lover, he tends to let his guard down after a while, and in doing so, he affords you the right to see the softer, sweeter sides of him when it’s just the two of you. Nozel tends to show his love physically, —he’s not great with words and fears he might say the wrong thing or come off the wrong way, so he settles for letting his hands roam the plane of your shoulders and letting his lips capture yours as your back is pressed against his bedroom wall. He might not say “I love you” as often as he should, but he hopes his actions are enough to get the point across.

B: bizarre. | something strange they do or a weird quirk they have with or without their partner?

Nozel eats everything with silverware, even when it would be worlds easier to do it with his hands. You tend to think it’s just a silly quirk he’s developed since childhood, growing up royal and all, but you still can’t help but smile when you see him do it. It’s genuinely really cute!

C: comfort. | are they good at comforting their partner? how do they do it?

Nozel isn’t great at offering comfort to people. He’s not even good at comforting himself. Even so, he tries his best when it comes to you, even if it’s not always very effective. It’s hard to stay miserable when he makes the effort, pushing himself out of his comfort zone to pat your back and tell you everything will be okay, even when the future seems uncertain or bleak. The fact that he tries means the world to you.

D: domestic. | how do they feel about settling down? do they cook/clean?

Nozel, coming from a royal bloodline, tends to value more traditional unions. Marriage is something he holds in high regard, and he’s of the belief that when you promise your love to someone forever, you should do your best to uphold that promise, day in and day out. As for cooking or cleaning, Nozel doesn’t tend to do either (and never really learned how.) His family was very well-off, so others cooked his meals and cleaned up his messes. Still, he wouldn’t mind learning the basics or helping you around the house, although his busy schedule as a Captain may well get in the way more often than not.

E: ending. | if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?

Nozel would do it in person and would probably be a little cold in his delivery. When he’s faced with feelings he doensn’t want to delve into, he tends to stuff them down in hopes of numbing them out. All the sadness and guilt would likely manifest as indifference, but deep down, he’d mourn for months to come and have a very difficult time moving on.

F: future. | do they think about the future? how does it look?

Nozel is always thinking about the future, whether professionally or personally, and he really hopes you’ll be in it. He likes the idea of having someone to come home to, having someone to rely on, having someone to share his most intimate moments with. For all his independence, he enjoys thinking about sharing meals with you after long days and retreating to bed after harsh times, wrapping you up in his strong arms, holding you close. Moreover, he likes to think you’re hoping for the same, even if only every now and again.

G: gifts. | how often do they give their partner gifts? what kind of gifts are they?

Nozel is nothing short of wealthy, and what he has, his partner will have in turn. Gift giving is probably his main love language since it’s a bit hands off and he can put a lot of time and thought into it on his own time. Jewelry is a staple of his gifts, —shimmering crystals dangling from the lobes of your ears or hanging around your neck, shining stones on your fingers (that many people often mistake for engagement rings), and finely crafted beads hooked around your wrists that he agonized over choosing for you. He certainly isn’t above coming home with flowers, newly crafted weaponry or armour, and any other array of trinkets or indulgences for you and your hobbies.

H: honesty. | are they honest with their partner? do they keep secrets?

Nozel is both brutally honest and painfully secretive, which is a strange mixture, but one he learns to temper over time for your sake. It might take a while, but eventually, he finds a nice middleground where he can express things to you while also protecting your feelings, as well as be honest about things without causing you too much worry or concern. Just as well, he does eventually figure out how to let himself be vulnerable, and while he may still keep things to himself every now and again (if for nothing more than to save some face), he does his best to be as open as he can.

I: i love you. | how fast do they say the L word? who says it first?

Nozel probably won’t say it first, but he would definitely say it back, and probably with reckless abandon. As soon as you work up the courage to confess the true extent of your feelings for him, he’d be quick to return the favor, and the relief of you feeling the same would be palpable. It wouldn’t be quick or easy for either of you, honestly, but the time and effort would be well worth it.

J: jealousy. | do they get jealous? does it show?

Nozel can be a bit of a jealous person, —not because he doesn’t trust you, but just because he’s kind of insecure about relationships in general. This gets better over time, and he doesn’t tend to act on it, but it’s a familiar sting that he knows a little bit too well. He likes to think he hides it well, but you always notice, even if you don’t say anything about it. Instead, you just give him a little bit more affection to offer some reassurance, and that tends to work like a charm.

K: kisses. | what kind of kisses do they like to give/receive?

Nozel is a lips man through and through. If he’s kissing you, nine times out of ten, he’s pressing his lips to yours and is hoping you don’t mind the way he holds it for a while too long. He’s definitely not above giving some forehead kisses though. Strangely enough though, his favorite place to be kissed is his shoulder. It feels warm and intimate, and he really relishes in that.

L: likes and dislikes. | favorite and least favorite things about being in the relationship?

Nozel’s favorite thing about being in a relationship is having someone to confide in. Having gone so long keeping up a certain image and never letting the mask slip, it feels way too good to be able to be his true self behind closed doors with you and not worry that any shred of weakness might push you away. Still, Nozel is and always has been an introverted person, and he doesn’t like feeling guilty when he doesn’t share something with you immediately because he needs time to think it over. It’s not even that you make him feel that way, —it’s largely something he does to himself, and he wishes that weren’t the case.

M: mornings. | how do they spend mornings with their partner?

Nozel is pretty indifferent to mornings. Waking up kind of just is what it is within itself. Even so, he’s a tad more affectionate when the two of you are in bed together, and he much prefers to take “five more minutes” when he can, even if all that entails is faking sleep to count the beats of your heart.

N: nicknames. | what do they call their partner?

Nozel likes to call you “my angel” or “my love” more often than not, but he’s also impartial to “darling.”

O: out of character. | what is something people would be hard pressed to believe they do/enjoy in a relationship?

Nozel loves to be fawned over. It even takes you a while to figure that out, because he’s definitely not the type to just outright ask for attention, but there are definitely times where he wants nothing more than to have you all over him, being the clingiest person imaginable.

P: pda. | do they like public displays of affection? if so, what types?

Nozel’s not a fan of PDA. He’s not embarrassed to be in love, but he does have an image to keep up, and he prefers to be affectionate behind closed doors.

Q: quirk. | what is something they do that their partner finds cute or endearing?

Nozel’s very strict and serious persona that he always upholds in front of his squad has become something of a novelty to you after having gotten to know him so well. It’s a very different side of him to the fairly sweet, somewhat tempered man you share your most tempered moments with.

R: rough times. | arguments? how often and in what manner?

Nozel tends to get frustrated more than genuinely angry. He might raise his voice from time to time, but all his time as a leader has given him some pretty solid reasoning and problem-solving skills, all of which he utilizes in his personal affairs. As long as there’s no egging him on purposefully, he can usually see through the initial upset and deal with whatever has gone wrong after he takes a bit to think and work things over by himself.

S: sensitive. | what’s a sore spot for them that their partner should steer clear of?

Nozel doesn’t like to be pressed about his family dynamics. He’ll open up about them in time, but only when he’s ready, and he’d much rather do so when he truly feels comfortable.

T: thrill. | do they need surprises in a relationship, or do they prefer a routine?

Nozel prefers routine and stability. His schedule can often be overwhelming, and as a Captain for a Magic Knight Squad, he gets his fair share of thrill and surprise while on the job. Really, the last thing he wants is to come home and not know what to expect there. Within reason, he doens’t mind surprise dates or something of the like, but he would definitely rather be in the know and have a solid idea of what’s going on.

U: unacceptable. | what is something they cannot tolerate in a relationship? what is something they would never do?

Nozel couldn’t tolerate someone being overly critical of him in a relationship. He’s hard enough on himself in just about every aspect of his life, so to hear his insecurities constantly echoed back at him would be way too much to shoulder. Nozel would also never project that outwardly and is surprisingly careful not to be nitpicky of his lover. He knows what it’s like to feel like all eyes are always on you, waiting for you to make a mistake, and the last thing he’d want for someone he loves so intimately is to cause any low feelings about the place held in their relationship.

V: vanity. | how concerned are they about their looks? are they insecure about them?

Nozel can be a bit vain, but it might come as a surprise at first that most of his external arrogance is more of an act than anything else. He sees himself as very attractive, and he puts both time and effort into keeping his appearances up, —but in his personal life, he tends to be a lot more tame about stroking his own ego. He also isn’t one for insecurity as it pertains to his looks, but it never hurts to throw him some bones and tell him he looks handsome every now and again.

W: wild card. | random headcanon?

Nozel really likes to style his partner’s hair, especially in braids. He’d take all the necessary time to understand the needs and texture of your hair, and would work with that accordingly.

X: xoxo. | how often do they hug/kiss their significant other?

Nozel isn’t anywhere near as stingy with affection as most people would assume of him. At the very least, he’s kissing you good morning and goodnight, but he tends to throw in a lot of back hugs and he adores the way you slip into his arms when he gets back from a mission.

Y: yearning. | how do they feel when their partner is away?

Nozel prefers it when you’re next to him, but that’s not always viable. When the two of you are apart, he thinks of you often and likes to remind himself of the warmth of your skin against his and the sweetness of your lips on his mouth. He’s a little too sentimental about it for his own good from time to time, but hey, what’s a lovesick fool to do?

Z: zzz. | how do they sleep with their partner? how do they sleep alone?

Nozel has long been a restless sleeper, but that simmers down quite a lot after getting used to having you in his bed. When he’s alone, it tends to be shallower, but it’s nothing that would stop him from doing his job. He moves around more and tends to stir awake a few times throughout the night. With you, however, his rest is usually more fulfilling, and his favorite position is him resting on his back with your head on his chest.