#solicitude

“You needn’t… I mean, I can walk.” You offer shyly as the front doors of his home are opened by a neatly dressed butler.

“Certainly,” he agrees, making no move to set you down. Warmth rushes up to your face and you try to relax in his arms.

“… I am in your care, then.”

His home is comparable to yours in terms of size. A large open foyer, a curved staircase up to the second floor. The style and designs are more modern, something built for him, and not something refurbished over a dozen generations like your home.

Though, now, you supposed, this was your home.

The butler opens one final door, giving a short “Sir, Madam” In acknowledgment before closing the door after Marco carries you through it.

The room seemed to be prepped for your arrival. A large four-post bed, the headboard against one wall, and nightstands on either side of it, were the primary items for the room. A dresser and vanity were also in the room, both with covered trays on them, and wine vases beside them, likely filled with ice, the actual bottle poking over the top of the vase.

A single chair was set near the bed, made with rich wood and thick cushions, and this is where Marco sets you. There’s room enough for him to walk around the chair and between the bed, and as he steps back to remove his jacket and shoes you have a second to take in more of the room.

The hearth in the corner, and a lamp by the bed are providing light, though it’s a little dimmer in this room than out in the hall. The hearth is also providing warmth, which is a little too much right now, but you’re sure you’ll appreciate it once you get out of your dress.

You could also see an attached bathroom, but from your seat and the position of the door, you don’t know what all is in there.

Kneeling before you, Marco begins to take your shoes off. You make an odd sound, but it doesn’t stop him and you aren’t even sure what to say. The warmth of his hands is fleeting against your legs, a soft brush of his thumb or finger as he undoes the straps, ties, and buckles of the heels. Taking one off, and then the other, setting them aside before turning back to you.

“Relax,” he murmurs quietly, looking up at you as his hands go under your skirts. It’s the same way he’d gone after your garter earlier, though this time he presses his hands against your feet, working his way up to your calf, one leg at a time. The warmth, the pressure, and the motion melt the ache in your feet and legs, and despite the situation you can feel yourself relaxing.

“There you go,” he smiles, kissing the fabric of your dress around where your knees were. “I’ll take care of everything, so just relax.”

His hands move further up, slipping the stockings off the garter clips, and pulling them down slowly. One leg, then the other. His eyes watching your face the entire time, as you tense a little, sighing quietly when his bare hands are on your bare calves, urging you to relax again.

“Alright, turn to the side.” He instructs and stands up, making a motion with his hand. “Stay seated.”

You turn so that you’re facing the bed, the back of the chair at your side, and Marco stands behind you. He begins to carefully and methodically take the pins and bands out of your hair. The care he takes, and the warmth of his fingers, is almost enough to lull you into a soft doze, but nerves are enough to keep you from nodding off while he works.

Parting your hair, he begins to unbutton the back of your dress. The garment is held in place with a series of satin-capped buttons, hooked through loops all the way down the back of your gown.

“This had to be a pain to get into.” He muses, halfway down your back.

“My mother and sister had to trade off about halfway.” You agree. “It creates a pleasing look when it’s done, but it was certainly time-consuming.”

Marco kneels again, before finishing the rest of the buttons. There’s no conversation between you, but between each button he presses his lips against your back. The bare section at the back of your neck, the lace-covered parts of your shoulders. Warm and tender, each one makes you twitch and gasp softly. Somehow the actions were both relaxing and not, but it didn’t feel like it was nerves that twisted in your skin.

Or at least not nerves alone.

His hands move up your back, slipping beneath the lace of the dress. The pads of his fingers against your bare shoulders pulls a quiet noise from your lips and your body trembles softly as he pulls the sleeves down. It’s a slow act, careful and deliberate until the top of your dress is down around your waist, his fingers over the top of your hands.

The corset beneath still has your breasts and stomach covered, but your shoulders, arms and back are bare before him. It’s the most any man has seen of you, and he holds your hands before taking a moment to press more tender kisses into your back. The soft pleasure has you tensing and shifting within his hold.

He continues to press soft kisses against your back when he lets go of your hands and arms. He begins untying the corset and you can feel a shiver roll over your skin. You’re going to be completely bare before him and there’s no stopping it. You aren’t afraid of him, but nerves are coiling fear in you, fear of an unknown you can’t avoid.

When the last of the tension gives, he pulls the corset open and off. You put your arms over your breasts once the corset’s out of the way, and Marco takes a moment to set it aside neatly like he had your shoes and stockings.

You feel him shift away before he speaks. “Turn around, so you’re facing me.” He says it gently, but it’s certainly not a suggestion. You turn on the chair, arms still over your chest. You can feel the rush of blood, and the heat beneath your skin.

“Move your arms, sweet dove.” He doesn’t move to help you, staying knelt before you. “Fold them behind your back, if it helps.”

Shivering, you move your arms away. You put one hand on the back of the chair and the other against the end of the seat, clamping the skirts of your dress between it and your hand. Marco laces his fingers through the hand clamped onto the dress, easing your grip and bringing your hand to his lips.

“Relax,” he hums again, kissing the knuckles of your fingers until they release their tension. Standing up, he has you stand as well, and begins the process of removing your skirts. It’s the easiest part of the whole dress, and you only have to put a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself as he helps you step out of the mess of skirts.

He leaves you standing there for a moment, taking time to right the dress and hang it up. You almost step back from him when he steps toward you, as exposed as you are, but you manage to keep yourself in place.

When he gets back down on his knees, you can’t shake the feeling that you are being worshiped. As though there is something about you he reveres. You aren’t sure how to pose the feeling, and the thought scatters from your mind when he kisses your hip.

“Answer me honestly,” he begins, his fingers lingering as he undoes the garter before looking up at you. “Have you ever pleasured yourself?”

You shift, starting to shake your head before nodding once.

“When?” There’s a clinical tone in his voice you shouldn’t be surprised to hear, but you aren’t sure why he’s asking.

“Th-the year before my debut ball.” You admit, flinching softly at the heat of his hands on your hips, his pinkie fingers slipping under the band of your lacy panties. “It… felt good, but it was odd, and I didn’t really care for it.”

“It can be frustrating when not done correctly.” He says. Marco tugs at your underwear, still looking up at you and holding your gaze as he speaks. “Even when it’s your own body, it takes some practice to figure out how to do things properly.”

He watches you as the last of your clothing is pulled carefully down your legs, taking in the flutter of your chest as your breath hitches. The way your body trembles against him. He only looks away when he helps you step out of them, and it’s the only piece of clothing he doesn’t set aside neatly. Instead tucking it into his pants’ pocket as he stands.

Guiding you to the edge of the bed, he has you sit before he loosens his tie, removing it and setting it aside on the vanity.

“Tonight, I’ll show you how it feels when done properly.” Placing a hand on either of your knees he spreads your legs open. You gasp in surprise, a sound devoured by his lips as a sudden kiss addles your mind, splitting your focus between the two actions. The rushed kiss becomes persistent, and he leans you back until you’re laying on the bed, legs held open by your knees, your hands clutching his shirt.

Breaking the kiss, he leans back and looks between your open thighs.

“You don’t touch yourself, but you trim yourself?” He questions.

“Just for the wedding, my… my mother’s suggestion.” You answer, squirming under the intense gaze.

“Mm, well, never again.” He commands. “I want all of you, no matter how unruly.”

“It’s not-not all that d-different,” you stammer, putting an arm over your face and trying to not simply die from embarrassment. Your legs were trembling and you cry out in a surprised squeak when he presses his face into your crotch, breathing in deep.

“Good.” He husks.

Holding your legs open he kisses heavily along the insides of your thighs, licking along the crease where your legs meet your torso. The sensation makes your body move, and an airy “oh god” to slip past your lips. His hands slide down your thighs until his palms are holding your legs open, and his thumbs are spreading your labia apart.

“Nngh, don’t-don’t look,” you barely whisper the words, covering your face.

“You can say no, dove,” he answers, his breath hot against your folds. “As long as you don’t deny me, you can say whatever you want, yoi.”

The verbal tick slips right out your brain as his tongue licks against your exposed pussy. The tip of it flicks against your clit and your legs jerk against the jolt. Your hands move to cover yourself, but his lips are already pressed against your skin and your fingers have nowhere to go but his hair.

“Haaa-no, no wait, it feels - it feels weird! Oh god what, what,” you whine the words, gasping as the strange sensation turns to an odd pleasure. Strained, heavy panting breaths are all that can escape between your lips, and tears prick at your eyes from how sudden it is.

Nerves, anticipation, and fear had taken you to a ragged edge, and Marco had done all he could to smooth that line. But even within the act of trying to relax, you had been getting worked up. You knew that the inevitable act was looming over you, and you didn’t know what to do with the feelings inside you.

Of everything that could have happened, you did not expect his tongue to be pushing into your vagina, his nose nuzzled into your clit. No one had told you that people did such things with their mouths.

“M-M-Marco! Marco, it fee-feels weird!” You cry out. You don’t know what it’s building up to, but you aren’t sure what’s going to happen. “I … I-I feel like I’m going to… to, haa,” you can’t bring yourself to say it, but you’re worried you’re going to pee on your husband on your first night together.

“Please!” You beg.

“Don’t fight it,” he says before diving back in.

“I don’t, I don’t want to—to, oh gods!” Your fingers tighten in his hair as something jolts through you. “W-what’s this fe-feeling?” The odd question breaks past your lips a few more times as something swells inside you. You still don’t know if you’re going to pee, pass out, or die, but the building sensation isn’t fading. Your heart’s pounding and you can barely control your body as it begins to shiver.

Sweat slicks your skin, and fear has you crying as the building sensation seems to crest. A powerful shivering pleasure tears through your body, making your limbs curl and shudder. You scream at the peak of it, gasping as the rush makes you dizzy and threatens to steal your consciousness.

When Marco’s tongue relents, you sink into the bed, panting from exertion. The tough of his hands against your legs make you twitch, the gentle warmth sending a brief shiver through you.

“What?” You ask, wiping tears from your face as you catch your breath. “Was that?”

He grins, pressing a kiss at the top of your mound. You tremble from the feel of it, but are shivering less when he starts to trail kisses up your stomach.

“An orgasm.” He explains, standing up and leaning over you. “Not nearly so frustrating when you get all the way through it.”

Marco presses more kisses up your stomach and between your breasts. His legs are keeping yours open now, and he gathers your hands into one of his, pressing them into the mattress. You gasp, and he slips his grip down to your forearms.

“Leave your hands there.” He commands, his hand moving along your arm, to your side. He cups your breast in his hand, moving his thumb gently over your nipple. You close your eyes and grip the bedding so you don’t physically knock his hand away. The pleasure is a mix of the same sweet tingle that brought you to orgasm earlier, only this tickles as well.

“When you orgasm, several things happen, but most notably it’s common for women to become very wet.” He explains it in a tone that manages to be somewhere between clinical and intimate, but as he speaks he presses a finger into your vagina. You suck in a breath, back arching as the long finger pushes in deep, filling the air with a wet sound.

“Just like that,” Marco hums. He works the single finger in and out a few times, letting you hide your face in your arm. A gift for being so good and keeping your hands where he told you to put them.

You mewl when he pushes a second finger in, thrusting the two of them for a minute. His thumb presses against your nipple a little more, and he shifts enough to lean down and kiss your other breast. You moan, white-knuckle grip on the bedding, legs shivering against his.

“Are you going to orgasm again, little dove?” He questions and you shake your head.

“I don’t - I don’t know,” you whine the words, peeking out from behind your arm you catch his eyes on you and you can’t look away.

“I think you are,” he says. “Look at me. Don’t hide that sweet face of yours, and look at me.”

You do your best to acquiesce, turning to face him. He licks your nipple heavily before moving enough to kiss you again. You squeal into the kiss when he presses three fingers inside you, rolling his thumb against your clit.

“Does it hurt?” His question is almost a growl, as though he’s forcing it past his lips and doesn’t actually want to ask.

“N-no, no it doesn’t hurt!” You sob softly.

“Hold onto me.” The command is enough, your fingers release the bedding and you grab onto his shoulders. “Good girl,” he grins, his kisses moving down your jaw, his lips teasing your neck.

The praise sinks into your brain and when he pushes his fingers deeper it’s enough. Your hands tremble against his back and you cry out next to his ear as you cum on his fingers. Your legs kick and curl around his, and your body twitches. When he slows and lets you start to come down from it he kisses the tears on your face.

“There you go. You’re doing so good.”

Marco works his fingers out of you slowly, moving them around inside you and making you moan into the soft kisses he was stealing before he finally straightens up.

“As this is our wedding night, I should do this properly.” He says, speaking mostly to himself. You can barely manage to look up at him, your limbs feel like jelly. He’s unbuttoning his cuffs, and his dress shirt. When he takes it off you’re surprised to see a tattoo in the center of his chest.

Your father has said that tattoos are for brutes and criminals, and you never expected to see one on Marco. He notices the look on your face, and looks down at his chest as he tosses the shirt aside.

“All of Pops’ sons have one.” He explains, stripping off the rest of his clothes. “Something to bind us when blood can’t.”

He moves you easily, lifting you up into his arms before laying you out in the middle of the bed, letting your head and shoulders sink into the lush pillows. He climbs onto the bed, opening your legs and settling himself between them. You keep your eyes on his face, or the room, you can’t bring yourself to look down. You know what’s down there, but at the same time you don’t, and you’re worried you’ll lose your nerve if you look.

Marco pushes his fingers back inside you, lifting one of your legs and beginning to maneuver you even as he smears your slick on his cock. Grabbing your other leg he pushes them back, rubbing his length against your soaked folds.

“Relax, don’t start getting nervous now,” he chides gently. “I said it wouldn’t hurt, right?”

You nod.

“I won’t ever lie to you, sweet dove.” He promises you in a quiet voice. “I’ll prove it.”

Marco lines himself up with you, and you can feel pressure at your entrance, but no pain. His eyes are on yours, and he leans over, so he’s just a few inches from your face, watching you intently as he slowly pushes in.

“Breathe in deep,” he instructs, and you do. “And out, slowly.”

You breathe out slowly and he pushes in until your breath comes out a little faster, pulling out slightly and then pushing back in. He works his way in slowly, speaking gently the entire time, making sure you’re not feeling any pain. His hands are on either side of your shoulders, your ankles against his upper arms, the muscles flexing against you.

He looked lithe, but solid, when he was dressed, but now you could see the body beneath the clothes. He was as solid as you expected, but it was steel cords and deep lines when he flexes. It’s steel that is pushing so carefully inside you, and steel that has you caged beneath him. The idea that you could physically deny him, despite his words earlier, was almost laughable, and if the sensation of him filling you up wasn’t almost overwhelming, you might have honestly laughed.

Once his hips rest against your thighs, he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, and a shivering sigh escapes his lips.

“Sweetest of mercies,” he whispers hoarsely, staying still for a moment before moving inside you. You can feel his body tense, his hands gripping the bedding with almost as much ferocity as you had been earlier.

“Just breathe,” he says, and you aren’t sure if he means for you, or himself at this point, his teeth grazing against your skin.

Pulling back he thrusts his hips, filling you back up quickly. The rush and weight of the motion sends a thrill through you, and pushes a gasp from your lips. The soft sound is enough and he repeats the move, again and again, his pace picking up with each thrust. Every now and then he presses in, rubbing against you, teasing your clit with his body, only to return to the heavy pace that pushes air from your lungs with each motion.

It’s all you can do to breathe. It doesn’t hurt, even with how it makes your whole body tremble and shiver. The pleasure that follows each movement escapes your lips in shuddering, crumbling cries.

Your hands paw at his shoulders, fingers flexing against his skin.

He presses kisses into your ankles, before shifting your legs and changing the angle of his thrusts. Leaning back he wraps your legs around his waist, pressing his thumb into your clit in tight circles until you’re reaching for him.

Marco leans forward, letting you grab onto his shoulders again. The different angle has him rolling his hips, bullying your pussy and teasing your clit at the same time. It seems softer than the earlier thrusts, but it has your legs twitching and your body shivering as the orgasm builds. You know what it is this time, but the extra stimulation has the blood rushing through you.

“Too much!” You gasp, pulling on him as though bringing him closer will bring you some relief. Instead Marco braces himself with his arms, curling a little as he leans over you so he can lick and kiss your breasts, adding even more pleasure. Your desperate whine breaks into panting cries of pleasure as the orgasm rushes in.

It feels like you might drown in it, the pleasure shuddering through your body and stealing the air from your lungs. You’re dizzy from the pleasure, dizzy from the heat, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, and probably on the edges of exhaustion, between the ceremony and this.

Marco bites a growled swear between his teeth, grunting as he fills you up. The heavy and erratic thrusts pushing the last few desperate breaths from you. For a moment you worry you really will pass out, but your body starts to come down from its high, and Marco moves his hips slowly, giving you plenty of time to catch your breath before he leans down and kisses you.

“Marco?” The question leaves your lips with only a small amount of concern. You’re quite certain he’s in the room with you.

“Please, call me Dr. Edward.” He instructs in the same professional tone you’ve heard him use at the sanatorium. The blindfold comes off and he’s standing before you, his white doctor’s coat over his clothes.

You feel your heart quicken, blood rushing to your face. “I-, sorry, doctor?”

Marco smiles, and then gestures, causing you to look around. The room was rearranged. Everything that was normally in it was pushed to the sides, covered in white sheets, and in the middle of the room was an exam table.

After number seven, Sam’s handwriting had become messier; he had just begun adding more numbers to his list and more frustrated question marks. He was fed up with it all, she could tell plain as day. He had been barely keeping himself from throwing something, but he had succeeded thus far. When she’s asked why he’s added so many more numbers, he’s told her that he was sure Cas had been unable to retrieve some of the ingredients, like the angel had hypothesized. She’d asked him why he thought that, and without turning to look at her, he’d replied:

“Because that would be too easy.”

She sighed and scooted up so she was seated on the desk, her feet up on a chair so she had a place to rest her elbow. Holding her chin in her hand, she frowned at the list for a long while in silence, contemplating what numbers two and three could be, seeing as she was not the most well-versed in lore, just in how it was stored. Truth be told, she didn’t have the greatest interest in any of it—the lore—but sticking around here and helping was better than wandering around aimlessly, wondering if she had a purpose outside of being the second Eldredge—if she knew of any way to live that wasn’t constantly entangled with her siblings, both of whom seemed to be moving on just fine without her. She shoved that thought away and straightened with a sigh.

Footsteps to her right drew her gaze. She looked over to see Sam shuffling up the steps from the war room, a mug of coffee in one hand and a dour look on his face. She swallowed, trying not to look like she was pitying him too much—she could tell that would make him feel worse. He nodded in acknowledgement but didn’t look into her eyes. Despite this, he still moved to sit at the same table, across from her. She took a seat too, her face puckered as she contemplated a question that had been weighing on her.

“Sam?” She asked.

He sighed, rubbing one hand down his face and sighing a bit exasperatedly. “What.”

She swallowed the swell of anger that rose in her at that tone, then watched his expression sour. He shook his head slowly, eyes closed and shoulders slumped.

“I’m sorry.” He said, taking a deep breath and fixing himself to look as put-together as he could. When he looked up at her, she was staring at him with a look he didn’t know how to decipher. He was much gentler when he said, “What did you want to ask me, Sadie?”

She gave him a little smile that felt hollow and shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

He wanted to protest, but she moved back to her work, effectively ending the conversation.

They stayed like that for hours, quietly researching at the same table and almost existing in their own worlds. After what felt like only a blink, he looked up at his computer to see that it was the morning; the sun would be coming up soon. She sighed across from him, drawing his eye.

She had one elbow resting on the table, that arm’s hand holding her head up by the temple. She looked like she would be frustrated if she had any energy, and the circles under her eyes looked stark in comparison to her pale skin. Sadie had a natural red in her cheeks that was always there. She’d told him once that it was some kind of benign rash, but he still thought it suited her—if she didn’t have that color in her face, she’d look like a ghost, but the intense tinge of pink in her cheeks made her seem so alive. At least, it did in concept. Currently, she looked ready to both flop face-down on her bed and also flip the desk over in the grumpy display of a woman in need of rest. He thought she could use a break.

Sighing, Sam pushed his chair out. She blinked and looked up, confused as to why he was going. He gave her a small smile, standing to his full height.

“Let’s go for a walk.” He said, voice a little raspy from having not talked in a long while.

She heaved a sigh, looking from him to the work left out in front of her, then nodded, closing the heavy book she had been reading.

They were quiet as they wandered up into the power plant that sat above the Bunker. The nearby river was what provided the power, and water, leaving the Bunker completely self-sustainable. It was mostly automated and didn’t do much but power the Bunker, but it was still relatively intact. On the higher floors, the large windows could open wide. Since they were above the tree line, the view was vast and peaceful.

Sam leaned his forearms on the cement windowsill, staring out at the world as it grew lighter with each passing moment. Sadie watched his profile as she did the same, then looked out at the view, too. He glanced over at her after a moment. She didn’t seem to notice him, her gaze following a bird across the great blue dome above.

“What were you gonna ask me earlier?” He spoke softly, gentle as the morning around them.

She took a deep breath, “Well, I was gonna ask you what happens when you lose your soul. I mean, I know what happens to a prophet that loses their soul, but can normal people lose them too? How does it happen?”

Sam swallowed and faced forwards again. There was a long pause, and then he spoke.

“Yeah, normal people can lose them, too.” He began, staring down at his folded hands. “But it’s not like it’s an easy thing to just misplace, I mean, you have no reason to worry about whether it’ll happen to you.”

She pondered this for a moment, then glanced up at him. “What does it do to someone? Losing it, I mean.”

“Well,” He heaved a long sigh, “for one thing, y’ don’t sleep anymore. Like at all.”

She frowned, perplexed by this—well, that explained Donatello not sleeping. Beside her, he straightened, tucking his hands into his coat pockets.

“And you…” Sam started shaking his head slowly, staring out the window. “…you don’t care about anything anymore.”

She stood fully, too, turning to lean against the ledge, eyes only on him, now. He avoided meeting that gaze, for fear that looking into her high beams would make him chicken out of telling her, and he wanted to respect her request—he wanted to be honest with her. It was good if she knew everything, then she’d know to stay away from him. Or… maybe… maybe she wouldn’t care. He didn’t let himself think that the second option was a real possibility.

“You don’t feel anything anymore.” He took a breath, “But there’s still this… this hollow ache in you. You remember that you used to feel things, but it’s like the… synapses got damaged. You just can’t find your way back to them. The, uh, the feelings, I mean.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the vague outline of her expression—the sympathy etched into her every feature.

“You do anything to try and feel something because you don’t know what else to do.” He said, “You live with the memories of what it felt like to enjoy things, to love people, to… to feel self-worth. You go on knowing that once upon a time, you had something other than the hunger that… that drives you to chase after sensations you remember feeling so powerful, and every time… you… you get let down.”

He shifted a little, leaning his shoulder against the opposite side of the window. She cocked her head, unable to tear her eyes away.

“You, uh,” He paused momentarily, rubbing his eyes before returning his hand to his pocket, “you want to feel angry, but there’s just… there’s just… ruthlessness. That’s… that’s the only way I can think of describing it. It’s like… it’s like each time you catch the feeling you’ve been chasing—a fight, pleasure, some sense of power, or—or contentment—it’s… it’s still not enough. And you always make up some lie to yourself like, ‘that was just this time, there’s something else out there that will work, I just haven’t found it yet.’”

There was a beat of silence.

“And then, to get to that next experience, you tear through anything in your way.” He swallowed, “You go around and around in a circle, too lost to even know that you’re just running in a hamster wheel. You never feel fully-rested, and you also never feel fully satisfied.”

The sun broke over the horizon and one-by-one, birds began singing to each other.

“On the other hand,” He tilted his head, a strange ambivalence to his expression, “you also don’t know how to feel sad. You don’t know… well, you don’t know anything but a ghost of what it feels like to be angry, but even then, that can seem so powerful to someone when they don’t feel anything else. I guess, your, uh, mom kind of had a point when she said it’s the easiest emotion to access.”

A little part of Sadie was touched that he remembered that, but she didn’t dare interrupt.

“Any… any pain that you carry with you is… is just memories. The kinds of things that you spent all of your time wishing you didn’t have to bear before you lost your soul just become facts. They’re just… fixtures of a life you can’t even connect to anymore. All of the things that’ve guided you—all the experiences that’ve made you who you are, they… they don’t hurt anymore, but they also don’t help. You learn from the things you feel, and since you can’t remember how to feel, you can’t… you can’t remember what you’ve spent your whole life learning. Empathy, compassion, morals, guilt—all of it, you just… you just remember how it felt to be you.” He let out a small, humorless snort of laughter, “By the end, you don’t even know who you are anymore. There’s no long-term direction, and there’s… there’s just nothing.”

He nodded slowly, staring out the window, a set expression on his face.

“There’s just nothing.” He finished softly.

She didn’t look out at the view like him. She stared right at his profile, and he could see it out of his periphery. He wondered what she was thinking. Sure, he hadn’t said it aloud, but anyone could guess from that explanation that he knew from experience.

“How long?” She asked, voice barely above a murmur and cracking slightly.

He swallowed and looked down at his shoes.

“How long did you go without one, Sam?” She repeated, a bit more firmly this time. It was not a demand, of course, it was a tentative askance.

He sighed, “About a year and a half.”

She didn’t respond for a long moment. “And you… you lost yourself that much in that time?”

He nodded almost absently, still not looking at her. “Sometimes I don’t—”

He stopped himself and she cocked her head, waiting patiently. He let out a self-deprecating sort of chuckle.

“Never mind. I don’t want to sound dramatic.” He put on a hollow smile, wondering if she would take the out he was offering her, or if she’d ask him to continue.

“You won’t.” She insisted gently, ever patient.

He wasn’t sure if he was grateful or crestfallen that she hadn’t taken the lifeline.

“Sometimes…” He knew he just had to say it, so on the exhale of his next breath, he forced it out. “…Sometimes I’m not sure if I ever found all of me again.”

Before he could think better of it, his gaze moved to cautiously look at her. She was staring at him with her head cocked, a little crease between her brows and her eyes glassy. There she was; the woman who felt so much empathy for everything around her. He thought to himself then that she wouldn’t be herself anymore if she couldn’t feel. She practically lived to experience emotion, and if she lost that spark—if she lost the translator that let her feel—then who would she be? Who had he been? Was he someone else, now, or was he just the same man, now able to carry around his guilt once more? Was he still just running around in a hamster wheel?

“I’m sorry, Sam.” She said softly.

He nodded and turned his head away. “Yeah, well, nothin’ we can do about it now, right?”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “You don’t have to do that with me, you know.”

He frowned a bit and looked over at her. The breeze picked up a strand of hair off her corduroy jacket, but she didn’t lift a finger to set it straight; all she did was stare at him.

“You don’t have to try and make me feel better.” She said, “It’s not on you to try and keep everyone else afloat, you know that, right?”

He sighed and faced forwards again. “I don’t know. I guess… I guess I always just feel like: ‘who the hell wants to hear about all that?’”

“Me.” She replied.

He blinked and looked up, a deep need inside in his gut to see if she was being earnest. She stared right back at him.

“I want to hear.” She insisted so very gently, “I want to hear what you need to talk about. I don’t get upset because I’m sad to hear about it, I’m sad because I… because I hate that you had to experience it, and live with the memory of it. I don’t… I don’t get anything out of it; I listen because I care. That’s all the reason I need. And the people who care,” She nodded a little, “they’ll always listen because you’re… you’re worth caring about. You deserve kindness, and sometimes… sometimes we have to learn that again from other people. So,” She smiled a little, “tell the people who you know want to listen because that’s… that’s how it’ll get better. That little voice in your head that tells you ‘no one wants to hear it’ is a liar. Self-hatred is a learned behavior, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t unlearn it.”

He smiled sadly to himself. “You know what the shitty thing is?”

“Hm?” She cocked her head.

He swallowed, “Part of me is already convinced that you’re just saying that to be nice.”

She sighed, nodding a little in understanding.

“That… that it’s just some knee-jerk response because you’re…” He didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

There was a pause, and then she spoke, “Hey.”

He looked over at her, and she stared directly into his eyes.

“You tell that little part of your brain that it has no clue what goes on in my head.” She said, a warm sternness to her voice. “I speak for me, not that guy.”

He was paralyzed for a moment, just letting her eyes bore into his. Awe filled him at the way she just brushed past all the things that felt to him like they were weights he’d never be rid of. Almost despite himself—despite that little part of himself—a small smile made the corner of his mouth tick up. She smiled at him fully, all warmth and tenderness in her gaze. It felt like looking into the sun in the best way possible because it wasn’t a sun that burned at all.

She swallowed, looking a little tense. Her eyes flickered away and she shyly asked, “Can I, uh… can I give you a hug?”

Her nervous gaze moved back to his. He knew she would take “no” for an answer and do her best not to make him think he’d disappointed her somehow, but at the same time… he hadn’t been hugged in so long. All of him ached to feel the physical experience of someone holding him, and so he pulled his hands from his pockets.

“Sure.” He murmured, giving her an awkward little nod.

She didn’t hesitate. Her arms slipped around his ribs, and she rested her nose on top of his shoulder. She pulled him close, and he moved to tentatively hold her back. She didn’t make him bend down—though he wouldn’t have really needed to go that far anyhow—and she stayed still, waiting until he was ready. When he realized he was in control of this, and when he became cognizant of how good it felt to be hugging her, he held her tighter. A small sigh escaped her nose and she turned her head, laying her cheek against the top of his shoulder, her soft hair tickling the sensitive skin of his throat. He bowed his head a bit, pulling her just a little closer.