#jealuc

Diluc.

The reporter had called him her bodyguard, but their relationship couldn’t be boiled down to such a simple term. 

Diluc winced as he gingerly pried off his bloody shirt, his breathing laboured from the effort, and Jean clenched her jaw. Ever since he’d dragged her into the safe room, he hadn’t said a word to her aside from Stay. Even now, he refused to ask for help. Even now, he had to do everything by himself. 

There was a reason they had broken up, and it was apparent with every second that passed that he hadn’t changed in the least. 

Moving the bandages and alcohol to the side, Jean sat on the coffee table in front of him and leaned forward. “Let me do it.”

Diluc stiffened, grabbing her wrists before she could touch him. His voice was as coarse as his skin. “I can handle myself.”

“No, you can’t,” she replied obstinately. Just who was he kidding? Yanking her hands free, Jean reached for his shirt once more. His skin was pale from blood loss, the wound seeming even worse now that it wasn’t covered. “This…”

“It looks worse than it feels,” Diluc said softly, suppressing a hiss when she started to dab around the gouged skin. 

“Don’t lie.” Fortunately, the bullet had only grazed his skin but that still looked bad enough. Heading to the attached bathroom, she grabbed a towel and filled the small tumbler with water. “You should go to the hospital.”

“Not yet.” Despite his injuries, Diluc didn’t slouch once, his body tense as he kept an eye on the door and windows. The radio host rambled about the police investigation, listing long-winded excuses for why no one knew anything yet. Barbara hadn’t been mentioned once and Jean didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse. “We haven’t caught your assassin yet, and there’s no telling if there’s a second player or not.”

Reluctantly, she had to admit he was right. In his condition, there was no way he could handle (or survive) a second attack. Jean pursed her lips as she returned to the coffee table, situating herself in front of him once more. “You’re stubborn.”

At that, Diluc’s lips twitched. “So are you.”

They’d had arguments like that before—even before they’d started dating, they’d always been set in their ways. Was he remembering them? Did he miss them, too? Jean couldn’t bring herself to look up at his face as she cleaned his wound. It had been years since they’d last been this close, since she’d breathed in his smokey scent. His skin was still warm under her touch, like there was a fire burning inside as bright as his hair.

When he’d first been hired as her bodyguard, he’d been standoffish and cold. Nothing at all like the serious but optimistic childhood friend she’d known. It had been like looking at a stranger, as though everything between them had been buried along with his late father.

But now… like this… maybe it was because of how close they were, but it felt like no time had passed.

The radio crackled, and Jean shook herself out of her thoughts. This wasn’t the time and place for that. Reaching for alcohol, she poured it on the cloth before sanitizing his injury. This time he couldn’t hide his reaction, his teeth grinding as he gripped the couch tightly. 

“Sorry.” She eased her touch. 

“It’s…fine,” he said through gritted teeth. His hands fisted, nails digging into his palms. “Just keep going.”

The gash was an ugly red, like someone had carved a chunk out of him. Ever since she’d started rooting out the corruption in Mondstadt, she’d expected the Fatui and Abyss mafia to come after her. She’d been prepared for it. 

But theory and reality were two different things. Jean bit her lip to stop her fingers from shaking as she reached for the gauze. She could still feel his weight on her from when he shielded her, his warm blood seeping into her clothes. It almost all ended a few hours ago. For her. For him. For any of the many lingering regrets.

“You could have died,” Jean mumbled.

“You would have,” Diluc replied, a raw edge to his voice.

She peeked up, finding his eyes, finding the sheer fear and relief in his expression. It was something Jean had felt earlier, when she’d helped Diluc into the safe room and realized his injuries weren’t life-threatening. “I didn’t.” When he remained tense, she repeated, “I didn’t. I’m here.”

He turned away. Shoulders square, he refuted, “You might not be so lucky next time.”

“We’ll be ready next time.” Jean frowned. Cupping his cheek, she forced his gaze back on her. “This isn’t your fault.”

“In case you forgot,” Diluc replied bitterly, “I am your bodyguard.”

However, he didn’t pull away from her touch, and Jean chalked that up as a minor victory. “In case you forgot, nothing happened to me.”

She could feel his expression tighten, the hard bone of his jaw pushing against her palm. Then he sighed, saying nothing but visibly relaxing.

Her point made, Jean returned to her task. The wound was clean but already, blood dribbled down the scarred skin. Quickly, she covered it in gauze and tape. It was a stopgap measure, but something was better than nothing. “Let me know if it’s too tight.”

Diluc breathed in, breathed out. His muscles tensed and flexed under her palms. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t just—” The words froze in her throat as she peered up. Jean hadn’t noticed it before, but they were close. Too close. His skin felt hot to the touch. Their eyes met and she flushed.

If Diluc felt just as awkward, he hid it better. Softly, he grunted, “Jean.”

Sorry, she meant to say. She meant to pull away, to sit back on the table, to keep the distance they had had for the past few years. But he had almost died and so had she and the question that she had wanted to ask since the day she’d woken up to an empty bed bubbled out. “Why did you leave?”

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. Diluc flinched. He didn’t ask what she meant; he didn’t have to. His mouth opened, closed, and then he finally uttered, “That isn’t important.”

Those words hurt more than she expected. With a courage Jean didn’t think she still had, she pressed, “It is. To me.”

He tried to pull away but there was nowhere to escape on the couch. Diluc gritted his teeth, grabbing her hands and prying them off him. “Jean. Don’t,” he warned. “Some things are better left buried.”

“Not this,” Jean disagreed, twisting her hands so she could grip his wrists. “I need to know.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. His pulse beat erratically under her fingertips. Realizing he was trapped, Diluc turned away. “...I couldn’t stay.”

That wasn’t anything new. Jean waited, but when it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else, she prodded, “Why?”

Diluc’s breathing shallowed, his expression laboured. “You… When my dad… when they killed him, I—”

His voice trailed off. Jean relaxed her grip, rubbing her thumbs in small circles on his wrists. When Crispus had died, it had been obvious to all it was a mob hit. A warning on just what would happen to anyone else who stood in their way. 

“I just… I couldn’t stay. I had to do something. Anything.” Diluc’s eyes met hers, hard as stone. “I always thought we could clean out the corruption, but it’s too deep. You saw how they treated my father’s death. It’s bigger than any of us.”

“It is big but not impossible.” Jean pursed her lips. Each word stoked a fire she had long forgotten. She couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice. “You could have stayed on the force. We could have worked together. There’s only so much you can do as a freelancer.”

“I have more freedom,” he disagreed.

“Freedom but not ability.” Jean countered sharply. Diluc fell quiet, but it was clear he wasn’t convinced. She lowered her voice, gripping his hands tighter. “I could have helped. I still can, you know.”

“Jean—” 

She interrupted. “I want to bring them down just as much as you do.”

There was a long pause before he acknowledged her. “I know.”

He wasn’t changing his mind, his tone resigned—for years, she’d wondered if the next time she found him would be in a ditch. A lonely death. Desperately, she added, “The corruption’s decreased now. And I… when I win, I won’t let things get that bad. I’ll clean the department. All of it.”

“I know.” Diluc was looking at her now, their eyes locked, and she wondered if he also expected to die alone. If he had counted on it.

“You don’t have to do this alone.” She interlaced their fingers, trying to ground him to this moment, this connection. “You don’t. I can help.”

He extracted his hand and hesitantly reached out for her. His fingertips skimmed her skin, almost withdrawing before cupping her cheek. “I know.”

Diluc believed her. He believed her, but he wouldn’t change.

And somehow, that made it all the worse.

Jean wasn’t sure who moved first. Diluc. Her. It didn’t matter; their heads drew close, his hand tilting her jaw. His breath warmed her skin, sending a shudder through her before they kissed. Unlike their previous kisses, this was slow. Languid. 

Bitter.

No, not bitter. Jean gripped his collar, pulling him close. Diluc was in front of her. After all of these years, he was here, he was here, he was here. All of her regrets, all of her what-ifs, she wouldn’t (couldn’t) let them haunt her any longer.

This time, she wouldn’t let him go without a fight.

This time, she wouldn’t let him just disappear without a word.

They broke apart for air, still millimeters from each other.