#eagly peacemaker

You blink, try to keep him in focus. He’s still pacing. Hands gesturing wildly, words spilling too fast for your brain to catch up.

“…plus, blood is like… mostly water, right? People exaggerate how much they need it. You’ve got tons. You’ll be fine. Like, eighty per cent fine. Seventy-five. Okay, maybe sixty-five, but…”

You let your head fall back against the peeling wallpaper. Your body feels heavy, too heavy. The burn in your side flares with every breath.

You barely register the moment it changes. One second he’s on the far side of the room, muttering to himself about blood loss percentages, and the next he’s there.

Kneeling between your legs.

The first aid kit is open on the bedspread, its contents spilt in a half-circle around his knees. He’s close, so close, gloved hands already tugging at your shirt to press gauze against the wound. His movements are clumsy, rushed, but focused now in a way that makes your stomach twist.

And then he does it.

He yanks the mask up, just far enough. Just above the nose. Enough to show his jaw, his mouth, the sharp line of stubble. Enough to speak clearly.

You’re suddenly aware of everything: his breath, hot and uneven, ghosting over your skin. The way his lips part as he concentrates. The faint quiver in his mouth when he curses under his breath, low and raw, like he doesn’t realize you can hear him.

“Jesus… you’re really, fuck. I should’ve noticed sooner.” His voice is clearer now, cutting through the fog in your head. He presses harder on the gauze, and you bite back a groan. His mouth twists. “Sorry, sorry, I know. Hurts. It’s supposed to. But you can’t just… sit there looking like you’re fine when you’re not. God, why didn’t you...why didn’t I—”

His words dissolve into a jumble again, but this time you catch them, every syllable tumbling out.

“Shit, you’re pale. You’re too pale. Look at me. Please.”

You do. Against your better judgment, you do.

His visor hides his eyes, but the rest of him is too exposed. His lips are soft and trembling, his jaw tight, breath shaky as he tapes the bandage in place. The intimacy of it makes your pulse stutter. He doesn’t even realize he’s too wrapped up in panic, in guilt, in muttering to himself about all the ways he’s already fucked this up.

You want to tell him to shut up. To keep talking. To kiss you. You don’t know which need burns hotter.

He presses the bandage down firmly, gloves slick with your blood, and finally stops rambling long enough to say one thing, clear and low, the words scraping like they cost him.

“You can’t scare me like this.” And for once, he sounds deadly serious.

You reach up, tentatively, and touch his arm. His body jolts at your contact. He clears his throat and mutters, “Don’t do that, you’ll distract me. Or… actually, maybe do, because if I can’t focus on patching you up, I might spiral even worse. Spiral worse is… not good. Bad. Very bad.”

You wince as he leans closer to smooth the tape, his chest brushing yours, the scent of sweat and smoke hitting you full force. “You’re insane,” you murmur.

“Yep. Certified. Gold star. But that counts for something, right?” His lower face curves into the faintest smirk, lips pressed into a line of concentration and something else, something you can’t name, but it makes your pulse hammer.

The room grows smaller as the neon flickers, buzzing in tandem with your heartbeat. You realize you’ve been holding your breath. He’s so close, so impossibly close, kneeling between your legs, mask lifted just enough that his jaw and mouth are exposed, hands firm but careful on your ribs. And somehow, all the panic and clumsy jokes and chaos of his voice makes him… dangerous in a way that’s not about guns or knives.

He notices you watching. His hands pause, tape halfway across the gauze. “You’re staring,” he mutters, almost embarrassed, almost defensive. “You shouldn’t be staring. That’s… that’s inappropriate. Totally inappropriate. I mean, technically, maybe this is slightly okay because… life-threatening situation and—god, stop staring. Focus on breathing, not… stuff.”

You bite your lip, hiding a laugh as your hand twitches toward him. “This is ridiculous..” you whisper again softly as you take the view in.

“I know..” he whines, voice cracking, as if shouting might absolve him. “I’m aware! I’ve been aware for, like, three seconds too long! Why didn’t I notice sooner? You’re hurt! Really hurt! I’m supposed to fix this! And I—ugh!”

He shakes his head, muttering under his breath now, a chaotic mix of guilt and panic.

His hand brushes against yours on your side, and he freezes like it was electricity. His thumb hovers, just barely brushing your knuckles. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension between you, the impossible closeness of it.

“Stop moving,” he mutters suddenly, voice low now, intense. “I can’t… tape it if you squirm. I swear if you move.. ugh.. this is literally life or death, and I’m not handling it well, okay?”

You stay still, too aware of him kneeling there, hands firm on your side, mask lifted just enough to see his lips move when he speaks, the faint curl of stubble along his jaw catching the neon glow. You realize, half in shock, half in something dangerous and burning, that this—this proximity—is something you didn’t expect, something you didn’t ask for but can’t pull away from.

“You’re… really close,” you whisper, eyes darting all over his exposed face.

He freezes. The tape in his hands shakes. His lips part, and for a split second, you see panic, guilt, and something else flash across the curve of his jaw.

“I—yeah. I know,” he mutters, voice quieter now.

Adrian looked at you with an expression hovering between uncertainty and annoyance. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve insulted them for saying nonsense like that. But you weren’t just anyone. His features softened when you stumbled closer to him. It made no sense that this unstable figure swaying side to side was the same person who happened to be one of the best killers he knew.

You tripped over your own feet and crashed into his chest, laughing softly, the warmth of your breath seeping through his shirt. He held your waist firmly to keep both of you from collapsing to the ground. He didn’t like physical contact in excess, but yours didn’t bother him. It had become a habit—one that was annoying at first, but one he had learned to enjoy over time.

You climbed clumsily up his chest until you found a steady spot in the hollow of his neck. You stayed there with your eyes closed, breathing in his scent. You murmured something happily, but he couldn’t quite catch the words. He lifted one of his hands and set it on your upper back, giving you a few pats, as if consoling you. He was learning—you had been the most persistent teacher, and he the worst student imaginable. But in that moment of weakness, it felt like the most genuine show of affection you’d ever received.

You brushed the base of his neck with the tip of your nose, smiling when goosebumps rose on his skin and you felt his throat swallow with difficulty. You made your way to his ear and planted a small kiss on his earlobe. He let out a sharp exhale and glanced around, checking if anyone was paying attention. But he stopped looking when he heard you speak so close.

“I think I know what we could dress up as for Halloween. You could go as Chris, and I’ll go as Eagly.”

What the hell was it with you and Eagly lately?

His train of thought was cut short when a pleasant warmth settled in his abdomen. You were stroking him absentmindedly, no clear intention behind the gesture, but he always had trouble understanding certain signs of affection. It felt good, so he didn’t stop you. He was in some kind of bubble. Normally his head was a swarm of ideas, concepts clashing for his attention. In those moments when he had your warmth near him, your scent, his brain seemed to short-circuit and go into standby.

White noise, and a little sign that said: We apologize for the inconvenience. We’ll be right back.

Heat rose to his cheeks when you began planting scattered kisses on the exposed skin closest to your lips. Your caresses slid lower until he felt them dangerously close to the waistband of his pants. He gently moved you back, careful not to make any sudden movement that could send you tumbling with your terrible coordination.

“No. No exhibitionism. You’re not making me commit any infraction, especially not in front of our friends.”

He said it very seriously, but something in your brain wasn’t registering the words properly. You laughed, eyes half closed, body loose and trusting completely that he would hold you up if you couldn’t stand on your own. And you were right—he would.

He shifted his grip to hold you by the upper arms and spoke slowly, as if the problem were a neural failure rather than the effect of several beers in your bloodstream.

“We’re going to say goodbye and I’m going to take you home.”

“Home? The two of us together?”

It irritated him a little that he couldn’t just be bluntly honest with you, to tell you that you were only saying obvious nonsense. But then he remembered the pout you’d made the last time, when he told you your aim was crap while you were crying. His heart ached a little at the memory, and for a split second he wanted to pinch you so you’d share the pain. It wasn’t fair that it only hurt him.

“That’s what taking you home implies—that we both have to go together.”

He had underestimated your strength because, within seconds, you launched yourself forward with everything you had. You landed with your chin against his sternum, grinning from ear to ear. The rest of your body stayed where it was; only your top half had gone forward. He hissed at the impact and looked down at you, his chin pressed to his chest.

“I like that idea.”

You closed your eyes and puckered your lips, waiting for a kiss. Instead of giving in, Adrian separated you and half-dragged you back toward the rest of the group, who were still chatting casually.

“I think I’m gonna take her home before she decides it’s a good idea to test if she can fly like Eagly.”

Everyone looked at you both with a strange expression. Adrian searched his mental notes—what had you told him those expressions meant? Ah, expectation. Wait, what? They were going to figure it out.

He straightened you up as you clung to him like a life jacket in the middle of a storm at sea. He moved his hand from your waist to your shoulders, much friendlier.

“Don’t think that… I’m not going into her house. I won’t even step over the threshold. I’m just gonna drop her off and wait until she goes upstairs. Why would I go into her house? Pfft, that’s ridiculous.” He let out this weird fake laugh, way too loud and way too forced.

Nobody laughed with him. Not even a pity chuckle. The group just kind of… froze. A couple of them exchanged these sideways glances, others took these very deliberate, too-long sips of their drinks. The silence stretched until it was so thick you could choke on it, and Chris—poor Chris—looked like he’d just swallowed a whole ball of guilt he didn’t know what to do with.

“Yeah, buddy. Sure. You’re just gonna drop her off,” Chris said finally, shrugging in a way that screamed please, everyone, let’s just move on before this gets more awkward.

Adrian nodded rapidly, like three, four times in a row, convinced that he’d just completely smoothed over the whole situation. You waved this wobbly little goodbye, your hand flapping lazily in the air, muttering “thanks” several times. Nobody knew exactly what you were thanking them for, but they all assured you it was nothing.

By the time you reached the fire escape, you slipped one hand into the back pocket of Adrian’s jeans with this little mischievous giggle. He still had an arm locked firmly around your shoulders and gave your arm a quick squeeze.

“You’re touchier than ever,” he muttered, trying to sound unimpressed.

But he couldn’t stop staring at the ridiculous grin plastered across your face. It was… absurd. And yet, it got under his skin in the best possible way. He liked it. He liked that grin, how it softened you, made you look younger, lighter. He loved your sharp edges too—maybe more, honestly—but seeing you like this, so open, it tugged at something deep inside him. He hadn’t seen much of this version of you lately, not since the butterflies were gone and the missions had stopped. And he missed it more than he wanted to admit.

“Just because you look cuter than ever,” you blurted out, words tumbling out too fast.

You kissed his cheek, and he smiled despite himself. Compliments still hit him like bullets—unexpected, disorienting—but he craved them too, impatient for the next one. He lived for you pointing out that his hair looked good, or that his aim was deadly, or that you thought he was adorable in his glasses. “You’re a kinky boy, aren’t you?” you teased.

And he couldn’t deny it. Not really.

The climb up to your apartment took twice as long as it should have. It wasn’t just keeping you upright—though that was a whole mission in itself—but also fending off your increasingly bold attempts to peel his clothes off in the middle of the damn street. You pulled out every trick: complimenting him as Vigilante, whispering he was the “best boy,” rattling off random new facts about owls. He suspected most of them were made up, but it still punched something warm into his chest to realize you’d actually gone out of your way to look up owl trivia—just because it mattered to him.

At the door, he plucked the keys out of your hand, trying to juggle unlocking the lock while you pressed yourself against his back, arms limp at your sides, your cheek smushed against his shoulder blade. You mumbled something incoherent about how good he smelled, and it nearly made him drop the keys.

Spinning carefully so you wouldn’t collapse, he frowned down at you.

“What’s up with you tonight? Did Chris give you some of that stuff he smokes in his pipe?”

You shook your head, shoved him through the door, and laughed way too loudly. Adrian clamped a hand over your mouth, whispering sharp sshh sounds over and over that did absolutely nothing. You mumbled against his palm, words dissolving into nonsense, then suddenly went quiet. And then—your tongue. Flat against his palm. Slow.

He didn’t even flinch. His face stayed perfectly deadpan.

“If you think that’s gonna gross me out, you clearly forgot that I’ve had your saliva literally all over my body.”

You whined when he finally pulled his hand away. Your eyelids were heavy, drooping like lead weights, and he wasn’t sure you’d last much longer before passing out completely. Still, he wasn’t convinced the neighbors wouldn’t call the cops if you laughed like that again.

You stared at him for a beat too long before blurting:

“Abby’s not here. She’s with her girlfriend’s family for the weekend.”

Relief slammed into him so hard he actually exhaled.

“We’re alone.” You arched your brows up and down in this ridiculous, suggestive rhythm.

“Why are you doing that? Do you need me to take you to the hospital?”

“What?”

“Your eyebrows are moving independently of your face. That’s weird. Looks like some kind of neurological malfunction. I’m worried.”

You groaned, gave up on explaining, and tugged him down the hallway by his shirt sleeve until you reached your bedroom. Then you flopped face-first onto the bed with a dull thud, limbs splayed out like a starfish. Lifting your head just enough to pout at him, you demanded:

“Lie down with me.”

“With these clothes? Street clothes? Uh, no. Absolutely not.”

“Then take them off me.” You said it with clear suggestiveness, but his sharp nod told you he’d interpreted it as nothing more than a practical task.

He bent to start tugging at your sneakers, but your whole expression crumpled. Your lip trembled, your eyes glossed over, tears pricking before you could stop them.

“Adrian… do you even like me?”

He froze mid-motion, sneaker halfway off, his hand still gripping your leg to keep it propped up. He blinked down at you like you’d just pulled a gun on him.

“What?”

“I think… I think you feel obligated to be with me.”

Your lip wobbled harder, and then tears spilled, hot and fast, down your cheeks. He finished pulling off the shoe, gave your thigh two awkward pats, desperate to redirect you. These situations always made his stomach knot—because he didn’t know how to fix you when you broke like this, and that made him feel like a failure.

“I don’t hate you, if that’s what you’re asking,” he blurted finally.

The words landed like a grenade. Your tears doubled, morphing into an unstoppable flood as you dropped your head into the mattress. You wanted to curl into a ball, vanish into the sheets, but even that felt impossible.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry. Please?”

The answer was a louder, messier sob.

He gave your other thigh a couple of awkward pats, like that was going to magically fix anything. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. You knew Adrian wasn’t like everyone else—it took effort for him to show any kind of emotion. But in the past few months, you’d thought you’d broken through, that maybe you’d carved out a space where his affection lived. Never in a million years would you have expected him to say: “I don’t hate you.”

“What I meant was… I guess I like you. Like, actually like you. God, I’ve done things with you I never would’ve imagined.”

The crying stopped almost instantly. After a couple shaky breaths, you lifted your gaze. Adrian looked like his brain was doing cartwheels, like he was digging around for words he didn’t usually keep in stock.

“I’m not—” he scratched the back of his neck, glancing away, “I’m not good at this. Feelings. Or, like… saying things that don’t involve knives or bowel movements. So maybe I don’t show stuff like normal people. Not the way you’d expect. But, uh—I’m here, right? That counts for something.”

You blinked hard, drunk brain clinging to every word. Normally you would’ve stopped him, told him that was enough. But you needed more. Since the Butterflies, you hadn’t known who you were, or what you were good for. You weren’t needed. Adrian had tried in his own awkward way to pull you out of it, dragging you along on patrols, but that wasn’t your path. You still longed to belong to something bigger.

Your insecurities slipped out raw and loud, more than you wanted. And you needed him to tell you—you were worth something. At least to him.

“If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be with the others, or—hell, I’d have let you jump off that stupid fire escape to test your flying theory. I wouldn’t give a crap how you got home. I could’ve just stayed home sharpening knives, which, by the way, is very satisfying. But I didn’t. I walked you home.” He lifted a hand as he listed off his alternatives, then let it smack against his leg with a thunk. His eyes tracked your face, and when he caught your lip trembling again, he made an exaggerated tsk. “I’m here. With you. Holding you up so you don’t faceplant on the sidewalk. Stopping you from stripping me naked on Main Street, which, by the way, is illegal in several states. I Googled it. It’s a felony in Utah. Just saying.”

You bit your lip, holding back a laugh at his very specific worry about laws. You didn’t remind him that he was the one who’d once ended up in his underwear, drenched in beer, in front of the whole team.

Adrian’s words started tumbling out faster, like a faucet he couldn’t turn off.

“And I don’t like you in the boring way. Like tacos—I love tacos, I’d marry tacos.  It’s different. It’s like…you make my brain shut up. Normally it’s all noise in there. Like a hundred radio stations playing at the same time, and half of them are talking about murder techniques. But when you’re around? It’s like static. Quiet static. And that’s… actually really nice. I didn’t even know I wanted that until it happened. So yeah. You’re basically like my human white noise machine. But better, because sometimes you kiss me.”

He scratched his neck again, eyes darting up like maybe he’d find a trapdoor in the ceiling.

“And also—you touch me. Which is insane, because usually I hate people touching me. Like, don’t touch me. Ever. Handshakes? Gross. Sweat, germs, hand oil—blegh. But with you, it’s fine. It’s… more than fine. It’s… I don’t know, it’s good. Like I want it. Which means, scientifically speaking, that I definitely like you. Because otherwise I’d have pepper-sprayed you and sprinted home. Fast. I’m very fast.”

He shrugged, like he’d just presented a flawless math equation.

“So yeah. That’s it. You make me want to stay. You make my brain stop screaming. You’re the only person alive I’ll let touch me without stabbing. If that’s not ‘liking,’ then the dictionary is a liar.”

You just stared at him, chest pulling tight, while he rambled. Then, suddenly, the tears returned—hot, fast, unstoppable. But this time they were different. Your lip wobbled, and you started crying again, only now you were smiling too.

Adrian’s face twisted in horror.

“Oh no. Ohhh no, no, no, no, no. Not again. Why are you leaking? I literally said nice stuff this time! Do you have, like, a tear duct malfunction? Should I Google it? I can Google it. Wait—no, my phone’s dead. Don’t move, I’ll—”

“Adrian.” You laughed through your tears, catching his wrist before he could bolt. Your voice cracked, but you got the words out. “I’m not sad. I promise. I’m just… happy. You don’t usually say things like that and… it’s a lot. In a good way.”

He froze. Rigid. Deer-in-headlights.

“…Wait. You’re crying because you’re happy? That’s not real. Crying is for funerals. Or when your burrito falls on the ground tortilla-side-down. Not for happy.”

You sniffled, wiping your face clumsily. “For me, it is. My brain just… reacts like that. Too many feelings at once, and this is what comes out. And what you said… it made me feel safe. And wanted.”

He blinked. Hard. Mouth opening like he wanted to argue—but shutting again. Then he leaned closer, squinting like he was trying to read the fine print of your soul.

“So… you done crying now? Happy crying, sad crying—what category are we in? Because I wanna lie down with you. I like when you pet my hair while I fall asleep.”

Something warm spread through your chest, drowning out the last of your doubts. You almost laughed at how he suddenly couldn’t stop listing things he liked about you. You nodded, smiling, opening your arms in invitation.

But he shook his head, leaned over, and started undressing you again.

You couldn’t stop laughing as he fought with your jeans, cursing under his breath. He froze only when he caught sight of your underwear. You cupped his face, making him meet your eyes, biting your lip in what you thought was a sexy smirk. In reality, your eyelids were so heavy you looked like you were seconds away from passing out.

Adrian stifled a frustrated noise, kissed your forehead, and tugged your shirt off gently. When you were settled, he tucked the blanket over you, then clumsily stripped out of his own clothes. He slid into bed, hopeful you might still be awake—but your eyes were already closed.

He lay facing you, studying your flushed cheeks, puffy eyes, steady breathing. Something strange bloomed in his chest—habitual now, even if it wasn’t natural. Without overthinking, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you tight against him until your warmth quieted the buzz in his skull.

Half-asleep, you stretched out a hand, playing lazily with his curls, mumbling something dangerously close to I love you.