Pairing: Doom Slayer x Reader
Reader type: gender neutral
How easy it is to forget the touch of another. Part 2.
"You don't get to die and be reborn the same. You come back, but you come back wrong. This is the price you pay for resurrection."
Nathaniel Orion G. K. (via nathanielorion)
It is bright when you wake. Artificial light blinding you when you first woke.
That was almost an hour ago.
You didn't know what to do. Where you were. Dressed in strange clothes. Far too large on your frame. Some faint scent clinging to them. Like rain in the distance.
Cold. God you were cold. The blanket that you were left with doing little to keep it out. Whoever this person was. Maybe they are not bad. Not like.
Your wounds were bandaged and cared for. The bandages fresh and new. Your body was clean. Which both raised your spirits and made your stomach turn. Who is to say nothing happened? That.
You closed your eyes and drew in a shuddering breath.
No. Not going there. Not now.
Instead, you sit up. Cold air attacking bare skin the moment the blanket falls into your lap. You gather the fabric around your shoulders and dangle your legs over the bed you were sitting on. And, for the first time since waking up, actually looking around the room you were in.
Strange and foreign machinery surrounded you. Blue-grey walls and floors giving the place a dismal feeling.
To the right of the bed, near where your head had been, laid a mess of bandages and creams. Including various pink tinted rags and a bowl of water.
Someone was caring for you. Why?
And what did they expect in return?
You worried your lip between your teeth. Pulled your arms tighter around yourself. You felt ill. Stomach turning against itself. When was the last time you ate? How long have you been here?
You jumped when you heard noise to the left of you. Coming from the foot of the bed.
A noise left you before you could take it back.
Slowly, they came in. Steps near silent despite their size. The suit of metal they were wearing. Carefully they rounded the bed you were sitting on. Stopping about a foot in front of you.
Not once had you met someone of their size. Their stature. You don't think the demons counted. Mutated and monstrous. Or the vids of the robot man you've seen.
The air seemed to still. The helmeted visor solely on you. They stepped forward. Waited. Then stepped again. Not stopping till their stomach brushed your bare knees.
They placed something next to you. A soft looking bundle of clothes and more bandages.
Thier hand brushed your arm when you weren't looking, and you jumped. Looking quickly back to the visor. Thier hand instead hovered over your arm. A deep hum emanating from them. Him?
The helmet looked down. You hand to crane you neck to look up at him. Slowly you brought your own shaking hand upwards. Almost pulling back when it neared his helmet.
Eyes. You could make out his eyes behind the visor.
Your fingers brushed against the metal. Warm to the touch. You traced over nicks and small dents.
His hand came up to yours. Softly wrapping around yours. He held it there for a moment. A blink. A breath of air. He brushed a thumb across your wrist. The snow-white bandages around it. Exhale. He brought your hand to your lap before going back to your arm. Lifting the loose fabric.
He was here to change your bandages? And he did. One after the other. Inspecting them for any sign of infection. To your wrists. Ankles. He paused at the one on your thigh. Waiting for any sign you wanted him to stop as he lifted the hem of your shirt. Balling the fabric near your hip.
He was trying to keep you covered.
Something in you relaxed. You had not noticed until the muscles in your shoulders untensed.
You held the shirt in place as he took the soiled bandages off. One hand under your thigh to lift your leg as he did so.
When he finished, he pulled back. Pulling the blanket over your lap. He looked to the door. Then to you. Then pointed a thick finger at the pile of clothes next to you before leaving through the door he came from.
What? You looked at the clothes. Laid your hands on top of them. A faint warmth came from them. Did. Did he just clean these?
Not wanting to wait to see if the metal man was going to step back through the door to check on you. You got to changing.
It was just another shirt. Deep blue in color. It looked like a long tunic, like the kind people in old medieval stories would wear. It fell well past your knees. The long sleeves spilling over your hands. You hold your arms up and shaking them. Watching as the sleaves bundle up around your forearms. Grabbing the old shirt, sighing as the sleeves fall back down, you go to the door.
It opens before you could knock. The man turns and looks down at you. His shoulders rise and lower as if he had just taken a deep breath. With nothing else to do you hold the old shirt out to him.
You were not short by any means. Often you were one of the taller ones in most groups of people. But him? Your head barely reached in chest. His arms alone looked like it was the size of one of your thighs.
Jesus? What does this guy do for a living?
He takes it then turns. Takes a few steps then looks back at you. You tilt your head, and he does the same in turn. The slightest motion of his hand. Does he want you to follow him?
You felt your heart patter in your chest.
What if all this was a ruse? What if he hurts you?
You ball the fabric of the shirt in your hands. He would have done it by now.
Or he wouldn't have pulled you out from there. From them.
He was the green armor you saw. He. He helped you.
You take a tentative step forward. Then another. The floor ice cold against your bare feet. He waits until your right behind him before continuing down the hall.
You can't help but stop and look around every so often. Looking at the carving in the walls or the paintings hanging from them. Your fingers brushing against railings as you descended downstairs. He waited for you each time. Letting you pause for as long as you needed. Watching your every move as you went down the stairs. Maybe waiting for your leg to give out. It shook every time you put your full weight on it.
Before long he brought you in front of another door. You found yourself hoping that you could sit down soon. Your body screaming at you to rest. To eat. To drink. You felt dizzy. Little bits of colorful static taking away the edge of your vison.
You almost wanted to laugh.
Here you had been. Scrounging old cans of food from burned down homes and stores. Fighting off strays for scraps of food.
And this giant metal man had a full kitchen.
You stumbled forward when he pressed a hand to your shoulders. Leading you to a tall chair. One you had to lift yourself into. It was a short table with few chairs in the center of the kitchen. Everything else looked like a normal kitchen just. A little bit to the left. And the right. And maybe shaken all about a bit.
That had to be a stove. Maybe that was a sink. It had to be. With the large basin and curving handle.
When you had been figuring out an oven that wasn't an oven. He placed a plate of food in front of you.
You looked at the plate. Then him.
Was this. For you? You could feel warmth from it. Smell spices. Your mouth watered and your stomach growled.
Your face flushed as you looked down. Spaghetti. You never though you would be excited to see a meal you used to hate seeing. Normally it meant a weeks' worth of leftovers. But now? Now you would give up your left hand and right leg for a single noodle.
You looked back up at him. Faintly you could see his eyes looking from you to the food. Deep and intense. He held something in those eyes. Something you couldn't name. Not yet.
He took the fork and pressed it into your hands.
And left. Pulled away by some unseen force.
A knot formed in your throat. Your ears ringing in the silence. You swallowed thickly.
The tears fell. One after the other. Curling past your lashed and down your cheeks. Before briefly clinging to your chin before falling to the table.
What did you do to deserve this? Kindness.
Did he expect something in return? How could he so freely give this away? To you of all people.
You ate. Despite every conflicting feeling you ate. For the first time since all of this happened you were not hungry. No wishing and wanting for more. You ate until you felt uncomfortably full. Stomach yelling and turning against the rich food.
You sat back in the chair when you were done. Cold metal digging into your back. Knees drawn up to your chest and your arm around your stomach.
Still the tears fell. Softly and one after the other. Your body was heavy. Worn. Your chest ached with some unknown feeling. Leaving you empty. How many other people was left back, out in the open? No food. No nothing. Yet here you were with a full stomach. Clean. New clothes. Or rather, clean shirt.
What did you do to deserve this outside of pure luck?
And just where were you? Where did he take you?
You jumped when the door opened again. You unfurled yourself. Letting your legs dangle over the edge of the chair. Quickly you wiped away the tears with the sleeve of the shirt. Praying that when he comes closer, he won't notice that you had been crying.
You didn't want to seem ungrateful.
Not when it's somebody of that size.
Not when you don't know a thing about him. Outside of the fact that he is willing to help you. Feed you.
When he comes nearer, he grabs your plate. Making a noise that you can't tell is good or not. He pushes the plate closer to you. Barely half is gone from what he has given you. You say nothing. He pushes it closer. Edging the fork closer to your hand.
It barely comes out as a whisper. Your stomach turns and the food you just ate threatens to return. Your gaze firm on the plate he is pushing in front of you.
You don't want him to be mad at you. You don't want to seem as if you're taking advantage of him or ungrateful. You just could not eat another forkful. If you did, you would either burst or throw it all back up.
He makes another noise. The plate disappears and so does he.
You don't look up when he comes back. Nor do you look up when his hand presses against the back of your shoulder. Barely do you feel it.
Yet another noise. Guttural.
"Hmm." A finger hooks your chin and makes you look up. The helmet tilts. He looks to the door then you. Gently he pulls you from the chair and sets you on your feet. A push on your back. He brings you to the door and back down the hallway.
Where he brings you to takes your breath away. A wide-open room with strange markings and machinery. Things of the like you have never before seen in your life.
What has you taken back the most is the view out the window.
From here you can see more ruin and wrought the demons have brought on your home. The fire and brimstone like something plucked straight from the bible. Almost everywhere is decimated in some shape or form. No hope of life. No hope of renewal.
You press your hands to the glass. Strangely warm against your skin. Your legs are weak. Slowly you sink to the ground. Arms wrapped around your body as you kept your gaze on the planet before you. The moon long since gone. The only sign of it is the ring of rubble around the planet.
Strangely, you cannot find it in yourself to cry. To mourn the loss of your home. Of what once was your life.
You can see the reflection of the man behind you. Standing strong and proud behind you.
Why did he show you this? Why did he bring you here?
"Thank you." You find yourself saying. The words stick in your throat. More of what you want to say caught. Pulled back. You had no use of words. Didn't know what else you could say. You didn't know what to do. So, you thanked him. For getting you out of there. For saving your life in more ways than one.
He could have left you there on the table that night. He didn't have to do anything. Not a damn thing.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .
The Slayer found himself at a loss.
What was he going to do with them?
What was he supposed to do?
Nothing felt right. Every time he thought he was going right he was actually going left.
It has been far too long since he had the company of another. In any shape or form. It has been a lifetime since he was able to just. Exist, in the presence of another and not have to worry about his wellbeing.
They looked to lost in the med bay. Eyes wide and body drawn in so tightly it was a surprise when they didn't spring loose when he first touched them.
They looked afraid of him. Of what he could do.
There has yet to be a moment someone hasn't looked at him like that. Like some frightful being rather than who he was.
The barely ate. It worried him. They were small. More so than they should be. Body eating away at itself so that they could live. He didn't want that.
Didn't want that for anyone on Earth. But them. He could do something about that.
They had been crying when he had gotten back. That much he knew. From the way they refused to look at him, the rapid clearing away of tears. The subtle shake in their shoulders. And when he pushed the plate closer to them.
Demons he could kill. He could fight. A definitive end for them. An absolute answer.
But that fear that you held in your body.
He had no answer for that. It was the last thing he wanted.
The Slayer was many things. Cruel in not among them.
And in the here and now. Seeing you before the falling Earth. He wanted to give you something to fight for. To show you what he was trying to do. He failed at that. That much he knew. The Slayer had no words to give you in this moment.
"Thank you." Those words. So timid. Quiet. So unlike the person Vega first showed him on the consoles. You had lost your fight.
The Slayer intended to help you get that back.
