#yslt

The two of you stand there staring at each other, achingly aware of the last time you were together. The air feels charged with shared memories and mingled pheromones, heavy with the weight of a million things neither of you is willing - or able - to voice.

The moment lasts only a few seconds, but it feels like entire days from sunrise to sunset go by before you remember that he just asked you a question. 

“I … I was …” You look down at the device in your hands, then back up at him looming over you. “I was putting this back."

He blinks down at you from behind his dark frames, but he still doesn't say anything.

He's ... hesitating?

No, that can't be right. What would he have to hesitate about? What could you have possibly done to make him hesitant? What could you ever do to make this man in particular hesitate?

Unless ... ?

Did he somehow register your split-second desire to charge at him face-first so you can inhale him properly? The thought alone makes you wince in self-consciousness.

Your Lord's silence drags on for a few more agonizing seconds, just long enough for you to wonder if you should repeat yourself.

"So you admit it."

Huh?

His tone is strangely ominous. Which in itself isn't unusual, but the extent to which its noticeable is concerning.

"Those are good instincts." He nods sagely before he plucks the proffered device out of your hands. "Keep listening to them, and you might just make it out of this alive."

You stare at him blankly as he opens up the tape deck and pulls out the cassette inside, beginning to question both his sanity and yours as your already-tenuous grasp on what this conversation is even about continues to fray.

"Recruiting you must have been an eventful process," he says casually before glancing down at the tape in his hand.

... The hell is this man talking about?

Before you can even begin to think of a reply, Lord Heisenberg does a double-take.

His brows knit together in visible confusion, as though he's not quite certain he's seeing what he's seeing. He pushes back the wide brim of his hat and even pockets his signature frames, as if to get a better look at the object in his hand.

And in doing so, he gives you a much better look at him. 

Your eyes widen. He looks awful.

Without the hat and shades in the way, his hair swept back from his face, you can see the clear signs of extreme strain and exhaustion dragging down his features. He looks almost ... haggard. Like he hasn't slept in weeks.

It's no secret in the factory or the village at large that Lord Heisenberg despises his family and resents the trips he has to take in order to maintain cordial ties with them. That's never been in question.

But seeing the dire aftermath up close ... What happened to him? Did something happen to him? Was he ill while he was away? Is he ill right now? Is that why he's talking utter nonsense? What could have -

“... Astronomy?” he hisses. "Astronomy?"

Against all possible sense, you find yourself stifling a nervous laugh at your Lord's outburst. He sounds so unreasonably upset, you have no idea why, and the absurdity of the situation nearly overwhelms you before you get a grip.

"Well … yes," you answer gently.

His hands drop to his sides as he gawks at you in stunned silence.

"I'm guessing that was a side-project? Or something you were doing in your free time?"

You're starting to feel self-conscious again. And the resumed protracted silence is definitely not helping.

"Um ... it was fascinating," you continue, beginning to squirm under the weight of his stare. "I-I'll admit, I don't know much about planetary alignments, but your thoughts on Keplar-"

Your words grind to a halt as you watch Lord Heisenberg drop the tape and the player on the ground. He begins to stomp the two objects over and over again, crushing them repeatedly beneath the sole of his heavy boot.

Sensing this isn't quite the moment to intervene or comment, you watch in silence as he continues to stomp until the items are reduced to unsalvageable scrap, stopping only when both are basically unrecognizable. Then with a final flourish, he kicks the remnants across the floor, sending the parts scattering all over the place.

He swings back around to face you, breathing heavily and looking absolutely furious.

You pick this moment to smile.

Or at least, you try to. It doesn't quite come across, feeling more like a polite grimace etched into your face.

His scowl only deepens in response.

"Here's what's going to happen."

You straighten instinctively, hands folded primly in front of you. Okay. Orders. He's going to give you orders now. Yes. Familiar territory. Totally professional.

"You're going to get out of my fucking sight."

Your stomach drops. "You want me to leave?"

"Yes."

"The ... The factory, my Lord?" You can barely get the words past the lump in your throat, it's a miracle he can even hear you.

Then, seeming to finally register both the stricken look on your face and the lack of clarity in his command, he sighs.

"Let me clarify," he growls. "You're to leave this room. You are not to return until I give you clearance to do so."

Your Lord closes in on you again, crowding you against the edge of the workbench as he glowers down at you like he wants to stomp you into oblivion, too.

"If you attempt to leave the factory grounds," he continues, "there will be consequences."

The implicit threat behind his words has a paradoxical effect, giving you an odd kind of reassurance. He's not sending you away. Not really. He just needs some space. A bit of breathing room to deal with ... whatever this is about.

"Do you understand?"

You nod. “Yes. Understood.”

“Then why are you still here? Get out.”

You incline your head with frosty deference before attempting to leave. 

It’s only an attempt because the second you try to walk around him towards the door, you find yourself jerked immediately to a halt by his hand fastening on your arm.

What now?

He's looking at you again, but not at your face. He's looking much lower.

“... Is that my shirt you’re wearing?”

Did he just realize that?, you think incredulously. He's more tired than I thought ...

You can't really blame him. Somewhere in all the confusion, you also somehow managed to completely forget that all you’re wearing is one of his shirts.

A hot flush creeps under your skin from head to toe. He's staring at your bare legs with barely disguised interest. Almost like he hasn't already seen a lot more of you.

You don’t know what it is exactly - maybe the fact that he’s standing so close to you - but you’re suddenly hyperaware of just how small you are compared to this man. 

It's strange. You’re not at all accustomed to feeling small in very many contexts, and even all this time spent so close to this man, you’re still not used to it.

All things considered, this shouldn't really be anything new to you. You’ve gone toe-to-toe with men bigger than you before.

You’ve had to, just to get by. To make it from one day to the next over the past few decades without much in the way of family, friends, resources or overall stability. 

Not a single one of those men ever made you feel as small as you do right now. Or fragile.  

And even the ones that did ... never made you feel so at peace with that feeling.

With a jolt, you realize you’ve zoned out again. He asked you a question. You've left the conversation hanging. Your knees have started to shake a little bit. And because he's staring at you, he can see that plainly.

You clear your throat, trying to salvage the tattered remains of your dignity before you answer.

“I was out of clean laundry,” you lie.

Karl doesn’t say anything. Instead, he quietly zeroes in on the conspicuous coffee stain on the garment's shoulder at the exact same time that you remember it’s even there.

Damn it.

“... You were … also … out of clean laundry."

His eyes lift from the stain to meet your gaze. Your heart begins to thud as he arches one gray eyebrow at you. The tiniest hint of a smirk teases the corners of his mouth.

He begins to pull you closer. You can’t help but notice that his grip isn’t as firm as you initially thought. You could probably wriggle out of his grasp. 

Probably.

If you wanted to.

But that doesn’t seem to be something you want right now.

“Listening to my monographs … Wearing my clothes,“ he murmurs, his tone soft, almost feather-light. ”Making yourself right at home, aren’t you?”

You’re staring at his mouth, trying so hard not to get tangled up in his scent that you almost forget to reply. 

All you can manage is a low, breathy "Yeah."

You’re not certain if that’s quite satisfactory for him because he still doesn’t release you. 

“...Yeah?” he echoes, his eyes tracing the curve of your lips. 

An unmistakable ripple passes between the two of you, invisible but incandescent. As close as the two of you are standing to one another, you both have the sense that you’re much further apart then either of you would prefer. 

You look back up into his eyes.

God, even dead-tired and clearly not well, he is a sight. Those aquiline features at odds with those long lashes and soft lips. A gray lock falls over his forehead as he leans further over you.

You could look at him forever. And he seems to be giving you ample opportunity, since he’s in no particular hurry to let you go. His scent and body heat is muddling your senses. You feel it mingling with your own, the two seeming to knit together in a way you can't quite describe, but can feel down to the marrow of your bones.

Oh, please, fucking put me out of my misery, you whine silently as a curious immobility takes hold of you. The words echo nonsensically inside your head. Are you begging to die? Surely not. What are you begging for exactly?

You’re staring at his mouth again, thinking back to the last time you saw him. Covered in sweat, flushed, emptying himself inside you as you lay twitching under his weight pressing down on you in the dark. You force yourself to look back up into his eyes.

His fingers shift, and you feel that shift even through the combined layers of his leather glove and your - his - shirt. Unseen, a telepathic exchange takes place: what if we were naked right now? Wouldn’t that be lovely? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we were -

Then your Lord blinks, the current cuts off and the moment passes.

He releases your arm and turns his back on you.

You stay perfectly still, waiting to be re-dismissed and trying not to focus too much on how rejected you feel.

"Go."

There it is. The re-dismissal. Permission to leave. Permission to get on with your day and try to put all this behind you for the time being.

And yet, your first impulse is to disobey.

You hesitate. 

You're not entirely sure why, but a foreboding sense that he shouldn't be left alone right now keeps your feet from moving. 

That's when you hear it.

A chorus of moans and mechanical buzzing coming from beneath the trapdoor.

The soldats.

"Now," he snaps.