#sh warning

bloodshed at work, bloodshed at home.

könig cant even bring himself to force an expression onto his face. instead, he raises the soapy rag to your back again, gently rubbing it over the soft skin.

“you’re mad at me.” you mumble quietly, watching the pink-tinged bathwater between your knees. könig sighs deeply. 

“not mad, just-”

“just disappointed,” you finish for him, “i know.” 

könig sighs again and shakes his head, continuing to scrub slowly and intimately along your back. You don’t move as he does, unable to bring yourself to do much of anything except sit in the hot water and let your husband take care of you. you can’t take his silence.

“not disappointed either, liebling.” he whispers quietly, his voice echoing against tile as he continues to clean your skin. “i am… upset. that i couldn’t protect you. that i can’t protect you, can’t save you from yourself.”

if it was possible, you dip your chin closer to your chest and wrap your arms tighter around your folded knees. embarrassment and shame mix together and cloud your thoughts, but könig is there to stop them, at least for a moment. he raises his free, heavy palm, and rests it atop your bare knee. a gentle squeeze is all he offers you before continuing to scrub your skin. he’s been washing your upper half for minutes at this point, unable to go beneath the mirror of soapy water and see the damage you inflicted to yourself. 

you know it hurts him, but you’re hurting more.

könig leans in to press his scarred lips to your temple. you don’t react, still sitting closed-off in the tub. with as much strength as a warrior can muster, he removes your arms from around your knees, and continues to get you clean. he’d never leave a job half-finished, after all.

“i wish i could, you know.” you remain silent when he speaks up, even as the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt grow damp from scrubbing your feet beneath the water. “i told you it when we met, on our wedding day, and as many times as you need. that i’d do anything for you, mein hertz.” he’d reached your knees by now, his scrubbing growing more insistent. he pauses with a gritted sigh and squeezes the washcloth, frustrated. your eyes burn. “but i cant-” he chokes and shakes his head, turning his stormy eyes away from you. unable to see his heart in such a state. “but i can’t even do this.”

he exhales shakily, and continues to wash you, behind your knees and up the curve of your thigh. his icy gaze has melted, what remains flowing from the corners of his eyes and down his pale, freckled cheeks. he hates crying, but he hates seeing you hurt more. he scowls as he reaches the damage, crooked teeth digging into his scarred bottom lip. with a shake of his head and the resolve of a man who’s been through everything, he carefully cleans the ripped skin.

he’d seen far worse, done far worse. dug out bullets from comrades with gloved fingers, held intestines and organs and stuffed them back into their cavities. crushed skulls, broke doors off hinges, and demolished entire units with nothing but the strength in his body. and yet, this is what left his nose scrunched and his cleft lip curled. those were all meaningless to him right now- a part of the job. but this, the damage inflicted only to yourself, was a slash through his own soul. 

“oh, baby.” he drops his forehead to your shoulder as he carefully cleans your thighs, the weight enough to make you lean to the other side. the shame only grows at his whisper, cheeks hot in embarrassment. you can only mumble an apology. disappointment and sadness radiate off of him in waves, as if he was transmitting it directly from his skin to yours.

he washes you fully though. makes sure every inch of you is clean before he pulls the drain plug. könig decides he’ll wash away the stains once you’ve been tucked in bed. when he wraps the towel around you after standing in the tub, he does so with a hug. his arms engulf you fully, his crooked nose buried in the softness of your clean hair, and he inhales slowly. he murmurs expressions of love into your hair in his native language, like singing to a plant to make it grow, like saying it to your brain would make it finally click. would finally make you understand how much he loves you, how much he’d do anything for you, if only you could bring yourself to ask him to.

könig reeks of earth. of gun oil, of smoke, of dirt. of work, of warmth, of home. the smell relaxes your shoulders and makes your head less heavy, because you truly are where you need to be. washed away was the shame, the self-hatred, the anger, the embarrassment- left only with your husband’s love for you. had it always been there? deep inside of you?

you were left alone from him for so long, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like. forgotten that it existed at all. that you were held, were warm, were safe. guilt twinges in you at the thought- that you’d forgotten so easily. that he’d gotten home from doing hard– but necessary– work, only to return to his forgetful spouse. 

but that’s okay. he’d wash those thoughts away too, if he had to. to leave you soft and sweet and his. he’d wash away that blood of yours as many times as it’d take. 

the towel falls off of your shoulders, and you wrap your arms around his midsection. he tightens his hold on you just a little bit more.