Dum spiro, amo

Luffy, Zoro, Usopp and Nami have finished their meals and left the dining table some time ago. Sanji was washing the dishes. Dexterous hands worked while he watched you dissect your dinner: you were prodding at the piece of meat on your plate, fork and knife carefully cutting through the dish. Then, you examined the food from all angles before putting it in your mouth and chewing a bit too fearfully. It seemed as if you were expecting to find something off about the meat. That moment never came, so you continued eating slowly.

Sanji should wait until you’ve finished eating. That’s good manners and he thinks himself a perfect gentleman. But he’s been patiently watching you distrustfully inspect his food for weeks now. Isn’t that polite enough? He threw his rag on the kitchen counter and made his way to you. Sanji sat down on the bench, his knee bumping into yours for a moment.

“Tell me one thing,” he spoke up. Sanji wanted to sound casual but there was an unmistakeable tension in his tone. His fingers nervously drummed against the table. “Why do you always dissect my food?”

The question must be as surprising to your heart as it is to your mind, since the muscle halted its movements for a second. A wave of heat flooded your chest and face in embarrassment. Despite being careful, some took notice. “What?”

Sanji pressed his lips into a thin line. Whatever grip he had on his emotions, it was slowly giving in. Weeks of swallowing frustration have built up into an angry, lead mass lodged in his throat. “You dissect and inspect my food,” he explained, although it sounded more like an accusation. How will you plead? “Is something wrong with it? Do you not like it?” Sanji managed to stop the flood of questions only to cover it with an awkward, seemingly casual, chuckle. “I promise not to get too offended. ”Perhaps it’s for the better that he’s decided to be a cook – acting and lying are not his forte.

You’re quick to shake your head. “No, it’s good.” As if to accentuate your positive rating, you pointed to the meat on your plate with your fork. “Really good.”

Sanji, however, wasn’t too convinced. He bit his lip, staring at you like he could will himself to hear your honest thoughts. His fingers drummed a different rhythm on the table. Finally, he decided to be uncharacteristically blunt. “So what’s wrong?”

You shrugged in response. “Oh, you know, just checking it.”

His eyebrows furrowed for a moment. “For what?”

A moment of strange silence falls before you answer him. Your fork scraped against the plate. “Stuff.”

“’Stuff’?” Sanji repeated, confused. Despite understanding the word, it felt unfamiliar on his tongue. The vagueness only furthered his frustration. “Of course there’s ‘stuff’ inside, it’s food. Some butter with herbs, garlic, juniper,” he said while pointing out the specs of ingredients visible on top of the braised meat.

Embarrassment warms your cheeks again. Obviously, you know that there are spices involved in the arcane art of cooking, you’re not dense. The thought that Sanji might think you're not quite smart makes you all the more aware of how strange the real explanation is going to sound. His thoughts didn’t even venture in that direction. You’re sure he’s about to change his judgment from “silly” to “crazy”.

“No, like other…” you hang your voice for a moment, hesitant to share the dark truth. “Stuff,” you added in a whisper.

If Sanji changed his mind about your sanity, it didn’t show on his face. His dark eyebrows furrowed as frustration left him completely, replaced with confusion and something much softer. Concern?

He shook his head slightly. “You lost me, love. You’re gonna have to help me out a little here.”

There was an intensity in his gaze that you couldn’t quite name. Perhaps the closest word would be ‘pleading’, although for what, you weren’t quite certain. Was he pleading for the sake of his ego? Or to learn that one intimate detail of your life that will finally give explanation to everything you are?

“Stuff like…” You poked the meat again. The specks of herbs floated in the dark gravy: alone, lost, vulnerable. You understood them perfectly. “Stones,” you whispered. “Or nails.”

“Nails?” Sanji asked. The pitch of his voice raised along with his level of frustration and confusion. Now he’s sure to think you’re insane. “Why would there be nails in your food?”

Only silence answered his question. The words repeated in his thoughts like an echo, weighing heavily with every passing second as stillness wrapped tighter around the two of you. As he listened to the silence and sentence echoing in his own mind, Sanji began asking himself the same thing: why would there be nails in someone’s food?

It’s a horrid feeling, truly. To suddenly be exposed to an amalgamation of truths too putrid to be comfortably swallowed by an average person. It’s as if the sky of his life had suddenly turned black without a warning, elongating and deepening the shadows that he both knew were there as well as the ones he’d never noticed.

Something about Sanji shifted. His shoulders slouched, the wrinkle between his eyebrows disappeared and the strangest glint shone inside his blue eyes. Were those tears?

“Why would there be nails in your food?” he asked again, his voice smooth and warm. A barely audible tremble resounded in his tightening throat.

All the anger he felt as recently as a few minutes ago had withered into inexplicable grief. In some way, Sanji felt ashamed that he ever felt annoyed with you. It was unfair. No, more than that: it was cruel.

“The village I grew up in…” you began in a low voice. For the first time in your life you were going to tell someone what had happened to you; you were about to bare your soul in front of another. Stripping naked would have felt less exposed than this. After all, skin can be covered again. A story once told cannot be untold. “It was raided by pirates, long ago. I don’t remember what it was like before they arrived. They had some experience in exercising control because they were quite good about it, actually. One of the ways they’d scare everyone into obeying was controlling food.” Absentmindedly, you poked at your food again. Your appetite was gone. “At first, it seemed like a shocking show of good will. We were all starving but the pirate captain said that he’s willing to feed the children. That included me. Great conduct, right?” You pause for a second but Sanji doesn’t answer. His glazed eyes are stuck to your face. It’s hard to guess what he’s thinking about except for being deeply concerned. “Everyone thought so,” you continued, shrugging slightly. “And for some time it was great. Everyday, me and other kids would get fed morning and evening.” The silence that followed wasn’t voluntary. It felt like something was stuck in you throat and you were choking on it. You remembered seeing once a cat throwing up a ball of fur. Its whole tiny body shook as it retched and heaved. Such great effort to expel such a small thing. “It started after a few months. I bit into a sandwich and…” You hung your voice, images flashing before your eyes. For a moment, you swore you could feel the pain in your mouth. “Lost a milk tooth on a rusty nail. From then on the choice was simple: starve or risk ‘stuff’ in your food. The best way to check the food was to cut it into tiny pieces and check. I would wait for others to start eating in case the pirates put something in out food that you couldn’t easily see.”

Sanji’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Tears gathered along his lashes. The fist that used to tap rhythmically against the dining table now lay still. Considering the whiteness of his knuckles and the barely visible tremble of the fingers, Sanji was keeping his fist as tight as he physically could. Was he trying to stop himself from crying or was the reason entirely different?

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked after a few moments. The tone of his voice was pained, not accusatory. He made it sound as though he was upset more with himself than with you: how could he not have noticed it? Put the pieces together?

“Because it’s stupid,” you answered, casually. “I should be over it. I know you’re not going to put nails or stones in my food but…”

“You’re still afraid.”

The feeling of being naked and exposed returned, much stronger than before. This time, however, it didn’t feel threatening, quite the opposite – you felt truly seen. Perhaps it was for the better that Sanji finished your sentence. You weren’t sure if you had the grit to openly admit the truth yourself. It would a surrender, in a manner of speaking.

“Yeah,” you said barely above a breath. “I’m scared that this one time I don’t check, there’s going to be ‘stuff’ in my sandwich again.”

Paradoxically, it was quite freeing to say you’re afraid. Once that beast was named, its fangs weren’t as imposing. Maybe it wasn’t about naming the beast per se but having someone else give it the same name; share your belief that the beast was terrifying and it deserved a certain name. That beast seems to lose its power upon being seen and acknowledged by someone who is not afraid of it.

“What if you could watch your sandwich being made?” Sanji asked. “Would that help?”

The question surprised you. He could have, perhaps should have, ridiculed you for accusing him of potentially, theoretically, one day putting inedible objects in your food just to hurt you. If not that, he should have shared your belief that way too many years have passed and you should have already gotten over your silly little nonsensical fear. So why didn’t he?

Startled, you scrambled for an answer. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

Sanji’s lips twisted into a wide smile. The wrinkles around his eyes almost hid the tears still lingering along his lashes. He gently grabbed your hand, shaking it slightly as though you’ve come to some agreement. “Then my congratulations, you are my sous-chef. No food will be served without your approval.”

You pulled your hand out of his hold. Sanji didn’t stop you, although his quiet sigh revealed it wasn’t the outcome he wished for.

A nervous chuckle dismissed his unexpected kindness. Like a wounded animal, you refused to acknowledge the obvious injury. “That’s very nice of you Sanji but you don’t have to coddle me.”

Sanji wanted to argue about the meaning of ‘coddling’ and how you deserve to be pampered but he ended up rescheduling that lecture. There would be a better time for that. “No but I have to feed you.” Testing the waters, he intertwined your fingers with his. He was neither holding your hand nor was he not holding it. To his joy, you didn’t withdraw. “Besides, maybe I want to hear you praise my cooking as often as possible.”

The weight wasn’t lifted from your shoulders. The pain of the memories didn’t diminish, the fear didn’t lessen. But as you sat at the table, Sanji’s hand intertwined with yours, for the first time in your life you thought that maybe it’s okay; maybe it’s fine to be afraid. Maybe the only thing worth being afraid of is never baring yourself to another.

“Greedy for compliments, huh?”

The shift in your mood worked like a charm. Previously lingering tears no longer threatened to spill. Sanji buried his grief somewhere deep – somewhere where it could, with time, one day sprout into wildflowers. “You know me, love. Always hungry for the only approval that matters.”

We can demand others to conform to our world, to get over their irrational fears because they do not fit the rationality of the said world. But we can also be kind. And Sanji, most of all, wanted to be kind.

_________

With gritted teeth, you sigh audibly. Who put that joker in charge anyway? Since when are you supposed to listen to that man-child with swords sharper than his brains?

“You’re lost, Zoro,” you call out to him. “Let’s turn back.”

“I know where I’m going,” he answers, without as much as looking at you.

“No, you don’t. You’re clearly too stupid for that.”

The moment you hear the insult in your own voice, something switches inside you – anger and frustration suddenly disappear, like fog does in the early hours of a spring morning. Even if you were cross with him, it’s no excuse for being mean to him. When did you get so rude with him?

Zoro momentarily stops. Slowly, he turns around to look at you. His stern gaze, along with a blank face, doesn’t tell you much in terms of what’s going on inside his head. Whether he’s angry, surprised or doesn’t care at all, it’s impossible to tell.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The wanton tone of his voice drips from his words and burns through you like acid. “I didn’t realise I found myself in the presence of an expert navigator.”

He doesn’t seem interested in a response as Zoro turns around and continues walking forward. For a moment, you’re just standing there, watching his back steadily move away from you. Whatever guilt you have felt for being rude to Zoro is completely gone now. If he’s allowed to be snappy, why shouldn’t you be? Perhaps it’s high time you finally stopped excusing his childish behaviour and dish out what he makes you take day after day.

“This is the longest sentence you’ve said to me today.” Your voice cuts through the pleasant rustling of jungle foliage, the first lightning that splits the black sky on a stormy night.

Zoro marches on, swinging his sword to cut through vines and bushes. “You keep score?” he asks in a casual voice, seemingly unaffected by your comment.

Could he at least pretend to care about what you have to say?

Your hand clenches into a tight fist, nails digging into sensitive skin. “Yeah, a whole lot of zeros in there.”

He stops again. Zoro turns slightly, now standing sideways towards you. A tired sigh leaves his lips as the man barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“If you like talking, go find the cook,” he says. Despite the blasé attitude, there’s tension in his voice. “I’m sure he’d be glad to talk your ear off.” Having said that, Zoro turns his back to you once more. His shoulders sit strangely higher than they did before.

For a second, you’re completely speechless. It’s as though he’s grown weary of pretending to like you or even tolerate you. As long as you were convenient to him, Zoro was fine with putting up with you. Now that you’ve developed some backbone, he can’t be bothered.

“Hey, you green-haired ass! I’m still talking to you!” 

“And I’m not listening.”

“I hate you!” Your voice is carried by the echo of the jungle, long-held fury shaking ancient trees at their very roots. The chirping of small critters or insects suddenly dies down.

The silence that follows your words is strangely loud. It feels as though for a moment even the genius loci of the forest remains unnervingly quiet, awaiting what comes next. 

Zoro stands frozen, only a couple of metres away from you. He would resemble a marble statue if it weren’t for a slight twitch of his hand – he’s stopping himself from doing something terribly unwise.

His long-awaited answer comes in a shaky, strangely quiet voice:

“Cool.”

Roronoa Zoro is tearing through the forest like he has a personal grievance against the island of Little Garden. The loud rustling of foliage could well be a never-ending plaint from the woodland spirits residing in each leaf and each flower destroyed underneath Zoro’s heavy boots. With each swing of his sharp sword, the vines are silently begging for an explanation. When have they insulted him? Why is he taking his anger out on them?

Zoro’s breath is forced out of his lungs as he hits the ground with a loud thud. He has no chance to inhale – an arm wraps around his neck, it’s hold quickly tightening with surprising strength. Two legs circle his waist, rendering him immobile to simply shake off the attack. Tears momentarily fill his eyes. The foliage underneath him blurs into a vague sea of greenery. 

Somehow, Zoro manages to keep his focus instead of giving in to the rising, primal panic of suffocating. With a good kick against the ground, he turns over, forcing his assailant to lie against his rather large frame and the dirt. The right arm keeps choking him. Before the left hand can rest on the back of his head and finish the move, Zoro twists so that he and the attacker are lying on their left sides. The hand is stuck under the weight of his body. He easily kicks off the legs around his waist. Both of Zoro’s arms lift the assailant’s right hand and the swordman swiftly slides out of the deadly hold.

Zoro gasps for air. With oxygen returning to his lungs, the world surrounding him becomes sharper. Perhaps he was choked for a little too long, as he can’t quite believe the image before him is real and not a crazed nightmare brought by asphyxiation:

You’re staring at him with a frenzied look in your eyes. Fury melds with something as empty as it is terrifying; it’s as though your soul, your humanity, has left you for good. This husk has once responded to your name but it has nothing in common with the woman nagging at Zoro to clean up after himself or cuddling him as he sleeps into late, afternoon hours.

He knows you’re not being yourself. There is no doubt in his mind that if you had any control over your actions, you wouldn’t be trying to choke him. Still, he remains frozen. To his own surprise, Zoro doesn’t feel any will to fight. Even as much as defending himself carries the risk of hurting you. You wouldn’t hold that against him; he knows that. His heart, however, refuses to listen to reason.

I had no choice! You made me do it! I did it for your own good!

Isn’t that exactly what all brutes say? If he raises his hand against you, what exactly separates Roronoa Zoro from a violent tyrant? As the world is long and wide, is there a deity that would accept his excuse and grant him absolution for such a sordid sin?

Perhaps the question should be reiterated: could he ever deserve your grace and forgiveness for acting no better than a savage?

His moment of reckoning is fast approaching. Whatever beast resides inside your body now, it crawls on top of Zoro once more. Hands that used to caress and cradle are wrapped around his neck. They are choking his life out of him, yet he can’t force himself to fight back. To some degree, he’s willing to accept such an end.

Your voice sounds hoarse, croaked. It doesn’t resemble human sounds. “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired of your bullshit, Zoro.”

The realisation settles in his viscera like a blunt knife slowly being pushed through each layer of his body: there is no malevolent spirit, no demon or anything of that sort. All of the anger, violence and murderous hands… it’s you.

“What… the hell?” With your hands tightly wrapped around his throat, Zoro’s words come out as a wheeze.

“After all I’ve done for you!” One of your hands leaves his throat only to grab his jaw. You pull his head up a few inches and smash it against the ground underneath you. “All you had to do was be fucking grateful, you vermin.”

Zoro repeats to himself that something strange had to happen for you to turn into a beast blinded by rage. As you keep hitting his head against the dirt, the quiet reassurance inside him dies down. It’s replaced by high-pitched ringing. The deafening sound is disorienting, slowly making Zoro incapable of telling left from right.

His dying need to survive takes over for a moment. Large arms try to push you off of the man with pathetically weak shoves, no stronger than a child. He could free himself. Zoro knows that. However, a cruel sense of loyalty stops him from exercising any more of his power; Roronoa Zoro can’t bring himself to even risk hurting you. The infamous pirate hunter is going to die on some god-forsaken island because he can’t stand the sole thought of being unkind to you. Not a glorious end by any means but a fitting one. He vowed not to raise his hand against you and Zoro would be damned not to keep that promise.

Some die for honour, others die with it.

Everything stills. The ringing in his ears quiets down a little. A sense of relief washes over him. For a moment, he wonders whether this is what death feels like: time stops, the world becomes silent and he simply drifts away, as if carried by languid ocean waves. Peace, at last.

If there is some higher being watching over him, they’re making themself known. The hands clenching around his neck and jaw pull back. As Zoro tries to breathe again, a wheezing cough disturbs each shallow inhale. The weight of your body leaves him as quickly as it caged him to the ground in the first place.

When Zoro finally manages to sit up, he’s met with a quite dramatic scene. You’re leaning against a nearby tree, trembling body curling into itself in a futile attempt to become so small you could slip through the cracks into another universe where none of this had taken place. Tears are running down your face. Your breathing turns into shallow pants, chasing air that keeps escaping your lungs. Nails scratch palms with obsessive fervour, almost breaking open the sensitive skin. It’s as though you’re trying to remove the sickening sensation of feeling Zoro’s life slowly leaving him. 

He should be angry, wary. The same person tried to kill him mere minutes ago. Zoro may be a seasoned swordman but right now, he is only a man. And this man has to bear witness to how the woman he loves is losing her sanity, crushed underneath the weight of guilt that might not even belong to her.

The woodland shrubbery rustles underneath his feet as Zoro steps towards you. Immediately, you look up from your scratched hands and try to crawl back further into the tree trunk behind your back. There is nowhere else for you to go.

“Don’t come any closer!” you yell. Despite his better judgment, Zoro stops. The confusion and terror in your eyes are already gnawing at his lovesick heart. He doesn’t dare make it worse. “I don’t…” Your voice dies in your throat. How can you even explain yourself when you don’t understand what’s going on? “I don’t know what happened. I-I can’t control it.”

Some part of him begins to wonder whether this is some ploy to gain an advantage over him. Zoro, being just a man, decides to trust your words. He forgoes ideas of schemes or betrayals. You are under someone’s influence but demons, witches and evil spirits are all bedtime fairytales for unruly children. Since there is no magic involved, there must be something…

A speck of red catches his eye. There, right above your ankle, is a swirl painted on your skin. He’s seen it before.

“Miss Goldenweek,” Zoro says quietly, suddenly understanding what exactly had taken place in the jungle. The fight, the choking, the fear. “I’m getting that paint off of you and then I’m going to kill her,” he states. His voice carries no emotion, as though Zoro is announcing something completely ordinary, like killing someone is a routine on par with taking a shower and tying his shoes.

Hearing him mention paint and Miss Goldenweek, you start examining your entire body. There’s no way to tell when the hallucinogenic chemicals will start working again. When that happens, Zoro might not have as much luck as he had before. Considering his state, the fact that he is somehow still conscious and lucid, there’s no point in hoping for another miracle. He might, finally, drift away with the ocean waves.

The moment your eyes fall on the red paint above your ankle, something switches inside you: your head is filled with strange, violent thoughts that you grow to agree with. It’s impossible to tell where Miss Goldenweek’s work ends and you begin. As the whispers of fury gnaw at your brain and force you to believe them, a strange sensation burns right under your skin. It feels like a call to action that cannot be ignored. You have to move, to hit something or crush in your hands, maybe that will be some relief.

You have to make him pay.

Even now, he’s standing a few paces away from you, staring down at your curled body. He doesn’t offer to help you stand up. Your hands are almost scratched raw and he’s completely unbothered. Zoro couldn’t care less. As if a selfish, childish man-thing like him could ever look past the tip of his own nose. The fact that he’s refusing to fight back is further proof of how little he thinks of you. He doesn’t think your tantrum is worth as much as breaking a sweat. After all, he won’t have any trouble finding another commodity to take your place. One with even less backbone, perhaps.

You lunge at Zoro with speed and strength that surprises both of you. He falls, hitting the ground once more. This time, however, Zoro is prepared. When you try to put your hands on his neck, he grabs them. His hold is firm, yet strangely gentle considering the circumstance – he’s using just enough strength to keep your arms in place. In an attempt to gain more leverage against him, you pull your legs further up his torso. You’re almost sitting on top of his chest, knees closing in on his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Zoro takes notice of the red paint staining your skin. It’s withing reach, only if he decides to lower his defense. Not exactly a great choice.

The decision is made for him. Perhaps there is something, or someone, watching over him. Frustrated with your inability to end Zoro’s life, you sink your teeth into his forearm. Unfamiliar sweet and metallic taste overwhelms your senses, warm liquid running down your chin in a thin streak.

A groan of pain rumbles inside his throat. Zoro clenches his jaw, trying desperately to regain control over himself. He knows what he has to do.

Zoro takes advantage of your temporary interest in chewing on his forearm. He reaches his other hand towards your leg. The red paint smears into a stain that looks more like a rash, rather than an artistic design.

That unnerving silence again. It is the stillness of nature in the face of a prowling predator; the tense quiet of a necropolis awaiting its new resident.

You crawl off of Zoro in clumsy, hastened moves. He’s still within reach when your body shakes with emesis. Blood, bile and saliva mix in your mouth, only to be vomited onto the green foliage below you. A sour smell fills your nostrils, making you even more sick.

He’s quite unsure what he should do, so he settles for the most simple action. Zoro kneels beside you, a warm hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. He keeps whispering something but in your state of mind, you only catch every other “you’re okay” and “I’m right here”. Zoro consoling his would-be killer would sound hilarious if it wasn’t so sad.

There’s no telling how much time has passed until you stopped retching and sat down. Sweat and tears mix into one sign of suffering. The raw skin of your palms burns. Your whole body is tingling with numbness. If only you could claw your way out of it. Maybe then you could finally say that the one who tried to kill Zoro is not you; only then would it be true.

“So, uhm…” Zoro hangs his voice, silently debating whether he truly wants to meet the consequences of his pending question. “Do you really hate me?”

Roronoa Zoro is a formidable man. He towers over others and demands respect solely through his presence. A simple flicker of his gaze could bark orders that should not be defied. The man in front of you, however, has little in common with the infamous pirate hunter. He appears as a completely different Roronoa Zoro – small, fidgety, unsure. His silence no longer creates an aura of power but that of a boy wondering whether he deserves the love he so desperately craves.

“No,” you whisper, voice hoarse from throwing up. “I don’t hate you, Zoro.” The words bring you some sense of relief. It’s as though you’re expelling the remnants of Miss Goldenweek’s sick game out of you. Maybe it’s you who needs more convincing than Zoro. “I could never bring myself to hate you.”

He only hums in response. It’s hard to tell whether he believes you. He wants to believe, that much is certain.

“I care about you,” says Zoro. The sound is quiet, unsure. In some way, it’s fearful. What if some other incomprehensible malice hears his confession? “A lot.”

“I know.”

It is quite symbolic that it’s Zoro he reaches for you. Whatever strength is left in him, he uses it to pull you towards him in a tight embrace. Your head rests in the crook of his neck. One of Zoro’s arms circles your shoulder. Quite unfortunately, you have the perfect view of the bite on his forearm. Dark, crimson blood is already drying, leaving long streaks along his skin. This your doing. Your cardinal sin, a stain that shall cling to your very soul.

The rustling of jungle foliage almost drowns out your whisper. “I could’ve killed you.”

“Fat chance.”

Zoro’s eyes also stay on the wound. The bite will remind him for the rest of his days: Roronoa Zoro could fight back, and yet he didn’t. When it mattered, he chose loyalty and love over his own survival. Some might call that foolish. There is, however, much wisdom in that final sacrifice. To take lives in the name of adoration is easy. The tragedy belongs to someone else. The killer gains glory and power in exchange for their humanity, if there still is something to sacrifice. Death in the name of love is not unlike a leap of faith. Will it change anything? The echo of church bells and marching cortege shall repeat the answer until it joins the silence of aeons past: I hope.

Looking towards the person standing in front of you, you’re quite surprised to see the same face you’ve lost a few hours ago:

“Sanji?”

The man gives you a wide smile, clearly glad that you’re okay and the blast didn’t mess with your head too much. His hold on you doesn’t let up, even when Sanji knows you can stand on your own. Long fingers are digging into your arm right beneath your armpit.

"Fancy meeting you here, gorgeous,” he answers. Despite taking active part in the carnival-turned-carnage, his breathing isn’t laboured. Truthfully, he hasn’t broken a sweat. “Good thing you’re in one piece, ‘cause your boyfriend almost cut my head off."

Your eyebrows furrow when hearing the word ‘boyfriend’. It’s the notion that a head might have been cut off that has your mind trailing towards the only person besides Sanji willing and able to achieve such a feat.

"Who? Zoro?” Whether you’re asking for confirmation or are simply shocked, you’re not quite sure yourself. “He's not my boyfriend,” you add. The sureness of your tone doesn’t stop your face from getting significantly warmer.

Sanji can’t help but smirk. Your sudden nervousness doesn’t escape his attention. "Does he know that?” he asks. The teasing undertone hides behind candid words, almost flying over your head. “I don't think he got the memo."

You were about to ask Sanji for an explanation when a knife flew right in front of your nose. Right, inquiries into your alleged boyfriend can wait a minute or two.

Several fights and close calls later, you see a head of green hair in the corner of your eye. Part of you yearns to admire Zoro’s skill and fluidity but the more reasonable and less lovestruck part wishes to keep your limbs intact. Besides, getting gravely injured just to ask a man if he has feelings for you is… embarrassing. You’re an adult, not a school kid anymore. Those things can wait for the right moment.

Surprisingly, Zoro seems to be of a different mind. The moment you enter his field of vision, he’s calling out to you. His voice cuts through the clashing of swords and the painful grunts of the surrounding battlefield. Fighting his way through the horde of circus pirates, Zoro is making his way towards you. It would be like a scene from a movie, if the risk of actually dying wasn’t equally real. Death, however, doesn’t seem all too interested in the famous pirate hunter. He’s marching on without halting or slowing down, as though he isn’t a person but an icebreaker cutting through the frozen seas.

He calls out to you again, now much closer than he was before. You turn around, only to be met face-to-face with another one of Buggy’s pirates. Before either of you can raise your weapons, something glistens right behind him. In a quite grotesque manner, the pirate splits in half diagonally, along a clean line from his left shoulder to right hip. The corpse falls to the ground, turning brown dirt into a black, dense pulp.

Then you meet Zoro’s gaze. There’s some blood on his clothes but seeing as its a small spatter, it can’t be his. Brown eyes are piercing yours in an almost human way, as though the man is trying to put the beast inside him back in its kennel. It’s both terrifying and beautiful, as all beasts are. You remember Sanji’s words – he could have ended up no better than the dead pirate at your feet, should you turn up with as much as a bruise. Zoro has always been protective of his friends, yes, but there is a substantial difference between offering to die for someone and the willingness to kill anyone for them.

Zoro lets out a gasp that sounds like your name. “Where were you? Are you hu–”

“Are we boyfriend and girlfriend?” you interrupt. Truly, no better time than the present.

The once intense stare suddenly becomes vacant. It would be a hilarious image if the conversation were about anything else. “What?” he asks quietly, not sure if he heard you correctly.

“Right, I should phrase that differently.” As gross as it may be, you kick away the sliced corpse separating you. Zoro stands idly while you step closer to him. His eyes are glued to you, studying even the smallest movement. “Do you think of yourself as my boyfriend?”

The tiniest wrinkle between his dark eyebrows blears his otherwise blank expression. “What kind of question is that?”

Oh, Zoro, you’re really not making this any easier.

“A ‘yes or no’ kind,” you explain. “Unless you want to indulge me with specifics,” you add, shrugging. Although he’s not the kind of person to go on and on about their love for someone, it would be very satisfying to have this calm and collected warrior profess his hopeless yearning for you. Maybe one day.

Zoro swallows nervously, his larynx slightly bobbing up and down. “Then no.” He looks away from your face, pretending to be scanning your surroundings for more enemies. “I don’t even like you like that.”

Zoro’s nonchalant attitude can be heaven-sent but right now it’s the biggest tell he could have. For a man so unbothered, he seems awfully nervous.

“That’s not what Sanji said.”

The man meets your gaze again, only to roll his eyes. Of course, Sanji was going to milk that situation as much as he could. He saw Zoro lose his grip on emotions, making Sanji believe that he sees you as more than a friend. When, obviously, that isn’t true. You’re his good friend, that’s all.

“According to him, you almost cut his head off when he showed up without me,” you continue.

His fist flexes around the sword. A sudden surge of anger makes him want to punch holes in brick walls. Sanji is a lucky man not to be in the vicinity, or Zoro might do well on his threat. The swordsman can only do what he does best: look for a ‘friendly’ explanation of all the lovesick things he’s doing for you.

“Because he’s irresponsible,” he explains. At least in his head, it makes sense. “This place is crawling with Marines and pirates, so we should stick together.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Then maybe you should be the one keeping an eye on me.”

“I’m not your babysitter.”

As though he’s uttered some ancient prayer, you suddenly found yourself surrounded by more pirates. Your first thought is to turn to Zoro, come up with a strategy. It appears that he already has a strategy, a quite simple one at that: defeat everyone. His sharp swords slice through skin at a terrifying speed, as well as depth. You find it almost impossible to keep up with him but that’s hardly a concern. Zoro parries attacks before you notice them. His large frame stands like a defensive wall between you and Buggy’s goons. A few times, he’s pushed you away right before dodging another swing of a deadly weapon. Even if you wanted to help him in the fight, you couldn’t. And yet Zoro was the one who claimed not to be your babysitter just a few minutes ago.

When the pirates joined their unfortunate, sliced friend on the blood-soaked dirt, you continued the conversation:

“Yes, you’re not a babysitter, because I’m not a baby. Yet you always hover around me, even when I don’t need help.”

Zoro meets your gaze. There’s something strangely intense in the way he’s looking at you, as though he’s been itching to reveal long-hidden thoughts. Whatever dilemma he's solving in his head, he decides to fight his urge a little longer. The ferocious burn of his gaze dims, it’s place taken by Zoro’s typical blankness. The previous passion, however, still lingers in those brown eyes, almost imperceptible to anyone else. A famed warrior is losing a battle against himself.

“You’re slow and weak,” he states. Zoro pretends to ignore the blood and dirt sticking to the sais in your hands. Deep inside, he’s already studied the evidence of your fighting and sustained injuries. His ‘friendly’ feelings convince him that the result is completely his fault. “I’m just making sure you don’t die.”

“But you were more than willing to kill Sanji if something happened to me,” you point out.

The man doesn’t as much as blink while delivering you his judgment. “I don’t like him.” The heaviness of his tone reveals that there is much more to that statement than simple dislike of someone’s personality. It is the disdain for what someone represents with themself, the amalgamation of traits that Zoro lacks and how he thinks others view Sanji; it isn’t a dislike of who Sanji is, but who Zoro isn’t and can’t be. Some would call it ‘jealousy’ but Zoro can’t be jealous. He would have to be in love with you. How preposterous!

“So you do like me?”

Zoro sighs heavily. He’s clearly not enjoying the direction in which this conversation is going. You’re trading way too close to what he’s unwilling to admit even to himself. “I guess you’re alright,” he mumbles after a moment of silence.

You can’t help the frustrated groan brewing in the back of your throat. Zoro gives you a questioning look. Is his thinking you’re ‘alright’ such a tragedy?

“I’ve given you numerous chances, Zoro,” you say. The wrinkle between his eyebrows only deepens. “Help me out a little or do I really have to do everything myself?”

“What are you–”

Zoro doesn’t get the chance to finish his question. Your lips meet his in a clumsy, albeit passionate kiss. His moment of surprise dissipates quickly as he answers your pecks with even more ferocity. Zoro’s arm circles your waist much too low to be considered ‘friendly’ in any capacity. He pulls you closer to himself, chests colliding in a long-overdue embrace. The two of you crane your necks in a quite coordinated way, constantly searching for a deeper, even more intimate, angle.

Little do you know, Sanji and Nami witnessed the entire conversation. They may have been too far to hear your words but definitely close enough to see the searing kiss that befits a bedroom more than a battlefield. Nami is finally freed from the frustration of seeing your ‘friendship’ with Zoro. Truthfully, if this farce had gone on one day longer, she was willing to cause a scene, reveal your feelings for each other and leave you to deal with the aftermath. Her moment of serenity doesn’t last long, however. Sanji, a teasing smirk adorning his face, suggests that maybe they should follow suit. Nami only lets out a frustrated groan and mumbles something about ‘ruining a nice moment’.

______

On a deeper level, however, fanfiction is a personal experience, as well as social/communal. No two authors will ever write the same character identically. The character we write is solely our experience: of the source material, of the character, of their environment, of our experience with our world/reality, of our experience with similar stories and characters. When we share fanfictions, we share something more than a new storyline. We write a story and tell the entire fandom, "This is who this character is to me." Our own life bleeds into the work and when you start to notice it, each piece of text and each author becomes something irreplaceable. That includes you. Of course, we can argue about technical aspects of writing: grammar, style, syntax, worldbuilding, storytelling, etc., but that's not limited to fanfiction.

I think the most important part of writing fanfiction (to me) is being a little selfish about it. I write what I like, whenever I like. I have deleted requests that I didn't like or felt like I couldn't write them well-enough for my own standard. I'm doing this in my own free time, without any compensation, for my own enjoyment. The fact that there are thousands of people reading my works is just a byproduct. It was never my goal. At the same time, it's very rewarding to scream into the void and hear someone scream back, "I loved it!" We're humans, of course we like to be praised and for our work to be acknowledged.

Some works get more traction than others. That's internet for you. Sometimes, those less popular works are, in your opinion, much better than the popular ones. That doesn't mean there's something wrong with you, your writing or even your audience. That only means that some tropes/stories/characters are, at that time, more popular. Don't worry about low engagement, it's hardly a measure of quality. If that starts to get to you, take the number of notes/kudos and imagine them as the number of people sitting in an auditorium. Now stand in front of them, read your text aloud and hear the applause. Suddenly, a hundred isn't such a small number. Even fifty isn't. Think of it this way: there were fifty people who took a moment out of their busy day to read your work and liked it enough to give you a little thumbs up.

Last, but not least, remember that fanfiction is still creative writing. If your writing skills are good, the fanfiction will be at least decent. I started writing fanfiction like 5(?) years ago, mainly to practice my writing and get some feedback. Finding joy in the fandom spaces and fulfilling requests made me sit down and write every day. Now I'm a published writer. All because I took the time and effort to actually better my skills, fanfiction was only a method of doing that. When you're taking care of the quality of your writing, you're also showing respect to yourself as the author, the reader and the story you're writing. Every gift deserves nice wrapping paper, you know?

Since writing fanfiction is just a genre of creative writing, one of the most important rules is to read a lot. Learn how others have written similar scenes, how they present certain problems or characters. It will not only get you acquainted with good writing but might also give you new ideas. Stay open, stay curious.

And one more thing: allow yourself to fail. Actually, aim for failure. A person who fails is a person who is trying something new, who is broadening their horizons. When you fail, you learn what you're doing well and what needs a little more practice. Failure is just a stepping stone to improvement. Do you think Michael Phelps was born an Olympic swimmer? Of course not! He had to learn to swim and probably wasn't God-tier at swimming when his parents dropped him into the pool the first time. He has some natural-born talent, yes, but most of his success is hard work over an extended period of time.

Zoro bites his tongue and clenches his jaw when you announce that you’re going to stick with Sanji and Luffy in Loguetown. He was going to casually tell you to keep him company and not get into trouble, a plea disguised as an order, but it wouldn’t make sense anymore – he’d have to be your boyfriend, such a high-sounding title, to demand every second of your time. Because he is definitely not in love with you, Zoro simply refuses to comment on the arrangement. His silence earns him a questioning look from Nami but he pretends not to notice it. He’s good at ignoring things.

For a man who is not in love, Zoro thinks about you a lot. Although ‘a lot’ is an adorable euphemism. Ever since you disappeared into the crowd with Sanji and Luffy, Zoro’s thoughts have been occupied solely by you. Whenever his eye is caught by something in the shop window, he wonders whether you’d like it. Would you gush about the dress? Say a mean quip about a rather interesting top hat? Then his thoughts become more grim. You’re somewhere out there, going for a stroll in a fish market with Sanji by your side. Is the cook minding his manners or being sleazy as always? What cheesy line has he thrown at you this time?

Zoro’s eyebrows furrow. His face becomes almost the same colour as his hair. What if Sanji’s sleaziness is working?

The man takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw again. Why would he be even thinking about Sanji trying his chances? It’s not like Zoro is your boyfriend and has any right to be jealous about other men being interested in you. He’s not even in love with you, so why should he care about Sanji’s constant flattery?

He manages to push those thoughts away but they remain with him, lingering in the back of his mind. If he’s not careful, he might think about you and Sanji again. Perhaps there’s another, ‘friendly’, explanation…

When Zoro arrives at the square, two new swords adorning his hip, he immediately notices the absence of something. Well, to be exact, it is the absence of someone – you’re nowhere to be seen. Sanji appears to be perfectly content with holding a rather large fish as though the meat is going to be tonight’s date, not dinner. Whether it’s you being gone or Sanji having no care in the world, Zoro’s anger reaches the boiling point. Of course, it’s not because the girl he’s in love with seems to be gone and, possibly, in danger. He’s just looking out for his friend, while the blond dishie boy can’t split his attention between fish and people.

Zoro crosses the distance to Sanji in long, hastened strides. "Where is she?" he asks in a low voice. Despite appearing collected, there’s a sense of urgency in the way he speaks. This is the sound of a man holding on to his sanity by a thread. The question is when, not if, reason leaves him entirely.

Sanji, too busy admiring the fish in his arms, doesn’t notice Zoro’s angered tone. "Around,” he answers. The man lifts his gaze from the meat and looks to his right, then left side. "Somewhere…” His smile drops when he realizes that you’re not next to him. Sanji can’t quite remember when was the last time he saw you.

"This town is crawling with Marines, you idiot,” Zoro drones out. He gets even closer to Sanji. If it wasn’t for the fish in the cook’s arms, the two man would be touching foreheads. Something dark stirs in Zoro’s eyes; something that betrays all they lies he’s been telling himself. Only love can breed such anger. “How could you lose her?”

Sanji stares back at Zoro with apparent confusion. Since when is the swordsman so hot-headed? "Oi, pipe down, mosshead, will ya? She's a big girl, she'll manage.” It doesn’t escape his attention how the furious look in Zoro’s eyes only intensifies. Then, as if suddenly recalling long weeks of shared travels, Sanji completely understands the emotional outburst. His confusion subsides only to be replaced by a mischievous smirk. “Besides,” he begins in a teasing tone, “you should be the one looking after your girlfriend."

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Zoro answers, a little too quickly. The deadpan delivery rids his words of any credibility. He appears like a child, who just recently learned that they can lie. While trying too hard to sound honest, they give away their deception entirely.

Sanji’s smile only grows. He’s very much amused by Zoro’s poor attempt at hiding the truth. Weighing his chances of being skewered on a sword, Sanji decides to get under the other man’s skin just a little more:

“So you won’t mind if I pay her a little late-night visit?”

In a flash, Zoro grabs the collar of Sanji’s shirt. The blond man’s smirk doesn’t falter. It’s as if he’s been expecting such a reaction. Even more – he wanted to see it. The truth is, Sanji is counting on Zoro conducting a smidge of introspection to accept his fairly obvious affection for you. Maybe if the swordsman realizes that most people wouldn’t throw hands at others by the tiniest suggestion that their friend is unaccounted for, he’ll finally understand that the flutter of his heart is not excitement or nervousness.

Before Zoro can actually skewer Sanji, Nami steps in. “Now’s really not the time, boys.” She gives each of them a stern look and both of them know better than to defy her at that moment.

Although Zoro knows that Nami is right and he can set the record straight with Sanji after you’re safe and sound, he doesn’t let the cook have the last word. "If something happens to her, you'll be the first person I try my new swords on,” he says. It’s not a threat, as much as it is a warning; Zoro is not trying to scare Sanji, he’s simply informing him about the natural consequences of his actions.

Zoro lets go of Sanji’s shirt. His angered gaze lingers on the other man for a moment longer, before he turns around, ready to head back into the bustling city in search for you.

"Save some of that energy for the missus,” Sanji calls out.

The man stands still, hand gripping one of the swords. He looks over his shoulder, debating whether Sanji’s quip deserves an answer. As much as Zoro itches to respond to the annoying dishie, his mind is set on a different goal. Somewhere out there, you might be in danger. Whether its Marines or other pirates, a malevolent pair of hands could be reaching for something it has no right to touch. The thought makes his skin crawl.

With a sense of urgency in his step, Zoro leaves his crewmates at the town square. 

His legs collapse underneath him. He’s trying to say something but all that leaves his mouth is a gasp.

Your eyes open slightly with great effort. Tears roll down your cheeks. There is sadness and fear in the way you look at him but also a sense of defeat. For some reason, you’re choosing to give up on something.

Dry, cracked lips move slowly. “Just finish it,” you whisper.

Sanji, still cotton-mouthed, furrows his eyebrows. Surely you can’t be asking him to put you out of your misery? Neither of you is the type of person to ask for such a favour or agree to it.

As your hands move away from the large, red stain on your clothes, a deep wound is visible. It has no beginning and no end. Blood keeps pouring out of the injury. Sanji is unsure if he can see some of your internal organs or if it's just the reflection of the sunlight in the scarlet liquid.

“Why would–” Your sentence is cut short with a wheezing cough. “Why would you do this to me, my love?”

You must recognise the confusion on his face as your weak, trembling hand reaches towards his own. Your skin is sickly cold. Sanji’s eyes follow your movement. He stares at his own palms as though they are unfamiliar, hands belonging to another. Blood, your blood, is covering them completely. It drips onto his clothes but doesn’t ruin the clothing anymore – his pants and shirt are also stained red and brown. Sanji tries to wipe his hand on the surrounding foliage but no matter how much he rubs, the blood is still stuck to his skin.

“You’ve caught me,” you whisper between coughs. Your face is much paler than usual. “Now do what you must.”

Is that why he’s been running? To finish the most deplorable act of his life?

“N-no, I–” Words are stuck in his throat. There is so much to say that Sanji can’t decide where to begin. “I wouldn’t–” He stops himself, unable to speak into the aether the sin that has no absolution. His lips tremble as Sanji examines his bloodied hands again.

Perhaps he wouldn’t, and yet, he did.

Sanji is startled awake. He’s panting, trying to catch the breath that keeps escaping him. Clothes are sticking to the sweat covering his entire body. Despite being hot, a cold shiver runs down his spine. Frantic gaze studies the darkness surrounding him.

Whether it’s a conscious decision or an ingrained reflex, Sanji reaches towards the other side of the bed. His hand meets the soft fabric of your t-shirt. He feels under his fingers how your back slowly rises and falls with each breath. Sanji rubs gentle circles between your shoulder blades. It’s a soothing motion but he’s unsure whom it’s supposed to soothe – him or you?

He thinks back to the strange dream he just had. Images flash before his eyes while Sanji is trying to make sense of the horror conjured by his mind. The thought of hurting you, especially on purpose, scares him, although he isn’t sure it should. After all, what purpose is there in fearing things that are completely impossible? He could never raise his hand against you, so why should he be mortified by that ridiculous made-up scenario? It is then that Sanji questions his own identity. What if, through forces yet unknown to him, Sanji could hurt you intentionally? If there is even the smallest percentage of unspeakable malice residing in his lovestruck heart?

That thought scares him more than the sight of you bleeding out in front of him. What if that image isn’t as far-fetched as he likes to believe?

His hand momentarily retreats from your back. Sanji recalls the strange sensation of looking at his own hands and not recognizing them; the limbs that belonged to a stranger, and yet, it was his blood that run through them. If his hands could become estranged from him, perhaps it was best to keep them far away from you. Who knows when his body would turn against him?

The loss of the gentle, soothing caress stirs you awake. You slowly open your eyes and rubs them with your hands. Silvery moonlight crept into the bedroom through a round porthole.

 In the twilight of the night, you saw Sanji staring down at you. His eyes glistened in the crescent’s soft glow. “What is it?” you mumble, teetering the line between wakeness and slumber. “Something happened?”

Sanji shakes his head, while his eyes fill with even more tears. They remind you of the starry, black sky reflected in the ocean. As waves ripple the surface, the image gives impression of something incredibly soft – the rarest of velvets.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry,” he chokes out.

The audible tightness of his throat makes your chest clench. Here is the man who prides himself in being dependable, the devoted thistle stuck to the sweater of your heart. And that man is broken in a way you have never seen before, drowning in vulnerability even he can’t quite grasp. Despite that, he clings onto the role of the man he wants to be for you. Maybe in some strange, naive way, Sanji believes that if he can convince you, he might convince himself as well.

“Nothing?” you repeat. The word leaves a bitter aftertaste on your tongue as you take in the unspoken tragedy of the man in front of you. “You look like you’ve just run a marathon.”

“Had a…” he pauses for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line,” weird dream, that’s all.” Sanji nods slightly, more to himself than you. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart.” The back of his hand brushes your warm cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

Before he can retreat his arm, you grab his wrist and keep the palm of his hand against your face. Although Sanji is not pulling away, he’s not cupping your cheek either. He’s frozen still.

“Was it sexy weird or scary weird?” you ask, hoping that some humour might bring his walls down.

Sanji swallows with difficulty. The tightness of his throat is already painful, yet it continues to grow. Your concern and affection for him stands in stark contrast to the bloodied image from his nightmare. To think that he would ever choose to hurt you… Sanji feels the pit in his stomach turning into an abyss, greedily swallowing him from the inside. As much as it pains him to keep things from you, he knows that he has to make an exception. There is nothing noble about honesty if the truth is so terrible. No, it is much better for you if he keeps the horrors of his mind to himself. Whether it’s love or fear, if they are ever separate beings, Sanji decides not to share the wickedness of his mind that even he is afraid of.

What he cannot stop, however, are the brimming tears. One of them slowly rolls down his cheek, reflecting the silver glow of the moon. It looks as though it isn’t a tear at all but rather a star that has lost its way. Perhaps the sky is weeping with him tonight.

“Terrifying,” he whispers, barely louder than a breath. The tear falls from his jaw and lands somewhere on the duvet.

The answer is both exhaustive and vague – with so few words, Sanji has told you all that you need to know. When a suave man decides to remain quiet, his silence is louder than any flowery sentence he could string together. As you listen to everything Sanji is unwilling, or unable, to say, you can hear the faintest of pleading. He seems to be lost in his pain with no way to escape it.

Still holding his hand, you get up from the bed. With a slight tug, you give him a signal to follow you.

Sanji remains where he was, glistening eyes staring at you with confusion. His fingers are desperately clutching yours, silently beginning not to be left alone. It’s impossible to say whether he means tonight or forever.

“Come on.” You tug at his hand again, nodding towards the door. “Let’s go.”

“Wha- Where are we going?” he croakes out, while shuffling towards the edge of the bed where you’re standing. It would be faster and less clumsy if he let go of your hand for a moment. Sanji, however, seems to think that lovers’ hands do not come apart.

“I’m going to grill you a cheese.”

Now you’re the one staring down at him. Sitting on the bed, Sanji looks up at you. He’s closer to the porthole than before, finally allowing you to fully see the bloodshot blue eyes that never dare to leave you. There is sadness and fear in his gaze. The sorrow glistens along with moonlight in the unshed tears. Beneath it is something else – something so raw and essentially human that has to be felt, not named. No word comes to your mind, yet your heart immediately recognizes it as pleading: Sanji appears to be a sinner, kneeling before a goddess to beg her for a miracle that would somehow fix all of his troubles. He hopes that a deity larger than him, larger than life itself, might be the one to take away the rot devouring him from the inside because he has no idea how to be a person again.

“It’s the middle of the night, sweetheart.”

Feigning shock, you place your free hand on your chest. “Oh, I’m sorry, is making a grilled cheese legal only during daytime?” You lean in very close, nose brushing against his flushed cheek. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

Goosebumps litter his skin when Sanji feels your hot breath on himself. “I’m sworn to secrecy.”

You accept his declaration with a kiss on his cheekbone and the tip of his nose. With tears still in his eyes, Sanji smiles. The contradiction only makes him look more miserable.

As though he has no free will of his own, Sanji obediently follows you to the kitchen. There is a sense of deep trust and dependance in the way he lets you lead him. You’re aware of it – the firm hold you have on his hand seems to be a reassurance that you see his submission and vow to guard his vulnerable heart. In some way, you’re the only person who truly knows the value of Sanji’s heart. After all, isn’t the thief most knowledgable about the value of the items they steal?

Pale moonlight seeps into the kitchen through a large window above the dining table. The silver glow creeps along the wooden deck, curling around the furniture. It feels a little strange to witness the kitchen without Sanji preparing a meal. The genius loci is as if put on hold, patiently awaiting its master to return. 

You turn on the light, determined to return one of many favours. Even if Sanji doesn’t keep count.

With the darkness gone, something about Sanji changes immediately. The spirit of the place seems to have awakened and the man who was crying not five minutes ago is suddenly preparing his space to cook. He’s crouching in front of a cupboard, looking for a pan, when he calls out to you:

“Get sourdough. Gets more crispy and doesn’t soak up the butter as much.”

As confused as you are about the turn of events, you take the loaf of sourdough out of the pantry. You really wanted to make something simple for Sanji, let him enjoy being taken care of for once. On the other hand, what if this is what he needs?

The loaf lies on a cuttingboard. You open one of the wide drawers in search of a knife. When you pick out one, Sanji appears right next to you, pointing out a different blade:

“No, take that one, it’s better. Actually, let me do it. They’re really sharp.”

With those words, he takes the knife out of your hand, puts it back in the drawer and picks up the one he prefers. At this rate, he’s going to make himself a grilled cheese.

A quiet sigh leaves your lips. That’s now how you wanted tonight’s escapade to go but at least he’s distracted from whatever strange dream he had. Although, is he really? The way he suddenly snapped into being a chef seemed artificial. He went from broken to focused in a time short enough to give anyone whiplash.

Sanji is not distracted at all – he’s clinging to a sense of control after seeing something absolutely horrifying. Inside, he is no more whole than he was when you woke up. It’s all a farce of a man afraid of having someone bear witness to his vulnerability.

As though he can hear your thoughts and is adamant that you’re wrong, Sanji speaks over his shoulder:

“It’s best to use more than one type of cheese. Sharp cheddar might be a little overwhelming, so maybe some Havarti or–”

“Oh my God, will you just sit down and let me do something nice for you?”

The kitchen falls into silence. Sanji turns around to meet your gaze. In his eyes, you see the confirmation of your suspicions: bloodshot and filled with tears. His cheeks glisten in the yellow light of the overhead lamp, betraying Sanji’s attempt at not letting you see him crying.

Gently, he lays the serrated bread knife next to the cutting board.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, quietly. He’s well-aware that he should have known better than to try to fool you. You weren’t buying it before and you’re not buying it now.

Sitting idly is strange to Sanji, uncomfortable even. His slouched shoulders and restless hands create the image of a man who has forgotten, if he has ever known, how to receive care or affection; someone who doesn’t know what to do with the love he is given.

Neither of you say anything while you’re making the sandwich. Every now and then you look in Sanji’s direction, only to find him already staring at you. His gaze follows your every moment. You can’t be quite sure if it’s a form of quality control of your cooking skills or if he finds watching you relaxing.

When you finally set down the plate with the grilled cheese in front of Sanji, he inspects the dish down to minute details. The comfortable silence of the kitchen is finally broken:

“Why is there a tomato in here?”

Out of all the things he could have said, you shouldn’t be surprised it’s that one. If you weren’t so worried about him, maybe you’d even laugh.

“That’s how my mum always made it,” you answer, shrugging.” Cheese, ham, tomato and ketchup. She’d also add mixed pizza seasoning but that entails the forbidden herb starting with the letter o.” You lean in to Sanji as though you’re about to say something secret or outrageous. “The o-basil.”

For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Sanji chuckles. Here he is, being served a grilled cheese in the middle of the night with some bad jokes on the side. Not the finest of meals but he couldn’t think of anything more perfect than that.

Sanji feels your lips softly kissing his temple. They linger against his skin a little longer than usual. 

“Eat before it gets cold.”

Something about this scene thrusts him into distant past. For no longer than the second between an exhale and an inhale, he’s a little boy again. Scared, lost, embarrassed. But most of all, he is loved. More than he will ever comprehend. His vulnerability isn’t weakness, it doesn’t pose danger, if you’re the one witnessing it.

Despite the questionable preparation and flavours, Sanji happily eats your dish. It’s the best grilled cheese he’s ever had.

______

Sanji’s attention is diverted by a sultry voice all too close to his face:

“I’m not sure what I’d like tonight. Something sweet and strong, maybe?”

His eyes meet the beckoning gaze of two beautiful women. Something should stir inside him at such a gorgeous sight, yet he’s wholly uninterested. They’re smiling at him, awaiting his response. Sanji notices the mischievous glint in their eyes, instantly recognising their thoughts and desires. He could call them his own but their name would always be yours.

Sanji hears your laughter again. Jealousy and anger claw at him, his chest tightens. At that moment, he still longs for the woman who would never look his way, while two other women put their dignity on the line to have his attention. Maybe Sanji is finally ready to accept what he’s always known – you’re never going to love him the way he loves you and it’s utterly useless to dwell on that.

“You’re in luck, ladies,” he answers. “I know just the taste to have you begging for more.”

The women laugh at his words. Both of them lean forward, luring Sanji’s eyes to delve lower than good manners allow. He accepts the silent invitation. He’s a free man, after all. Sanji has no duty to another; he never made a vow of unyielding love.

Sanji once again prepared a cocktail in a highly gimmicky and impractical way. Despite the pretentiousness of the show he’s putting on for the beautiful strangers, there’s a lot more smoothness in his actions. His movements appear calculated.

At first glance, a handsome man doing his best to impress women is akin to an exotic male bird performing a dance to entice a female mate. To Sanji, however, the ritual has the complete opposite purpose. As naive as people in love tend to be, he believes that he can pour out his affection along with some vermouth; that logic and feelings are nothing more but lime juice and rum, mixed together into something new and more palatable than they are individually.

Sanji’s attempt at distracting himself from you seems to be working for the most part. Those two women are definitely enjoying both his cocktails and his attention. He even manages not to seethe with jealousy when he hears your laughter. He knows Zoro isn’t that entertaining. The sound of your happiness pierces his chest as though someone had touched an unhealed, open wound. Sanji forces his thoughts to go elsewhere, not dwell on how he’d risk everything to be the one making you laugh. Whether it’s a method of moving on from someone who could never love him or actual masochism, in those moments, Sanji turns his flirting up a notch. It’s all naive – he tries to convince himself that if he can seduce another woman, then he’s not really in love with you. Stuck between anger and sorrow, he might realise it was never going to work.

The true moment of reckoning comes with the proposition. When he is asked to join the two women somewhere more private, Sanji can’t help but glance in your direction. Tears are almost pooling in his eyes as he sees you lying with your head on top of Zoro’s shoulder. Sanji understands. Some may call it closure but to him it’s just a bitter end to a sad movie. You hope for a happy ending only if you haven’t read the synopsis.

Anger, jealousy and disinterest in the two women all mix into something unspeakably heavy. It churns inside him, making his entire body numb. His heart clenches painfully. When Sanji thinks he can’t take that anymore, the agony subsides. Now, there is nothing. Pure hopelessness. Pure apathy.

Sanji agrees and follows the two women upstairs. They don’t notice his sudden change in mood. Maybe he can pretend, even if for a few hours, that he’s more than some fun to them; that, in some capacity, they care about him.

He just wants to be somebody to someone; someone to you.

Although Zoro doesn’t have the inclination to embellish his stories, you still can’t quite believe what he’s telling you. It’s just too ludicrous.

You laugh at the conclusion to yet another unbelievable story. Thinking how talented Zoro is in terms of getting into all sorts of trouble, you shake your head slightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Sanji leaning over the bar counter, whispering something to an unfamiliar woman. She giggles and blushes in a way only befitting juvenile girls. Suddenly, it all comes back to you – every sweet word and sensual touch shared with other women but never you. It’s happened too many times for it to be just a coincidence. No, Sanji is actively denying you his affections.You know you’re too grown to be dwelling on such matters but in your heart of hearts, you’re just a woman in love. It’s impossible to argue your way out of something irrational.

Zoro lets out a heavy sigh. “Okay, what is it?” he asks, visibly annoyed. “If you keep staring at him like that, everyone will know your little secret.”

As much as his teasing irritates you, Zoro is correct. In fact, it was your stare that made him aware of your love for Sanji. You swore him to secrecy, accidentally giving him wonderful leverage to get whatever he wanted without complaints.

You lay your head on crossed arms on top of the bar counter. When Zoro takes a sip of his beer, you watch him from above your shoulder. The lighting of the bar accentuates his features, making his jaw look a little sharper and his lips plumper.

“Am I being stupid?” you ask.

The man raises his eyebrows. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

His answer makes you roll your eyes. “Zoro, I’m serious.”

“Me too.” He stares at his bottle for a moment. Despite his teasing, he’s actually considering your question. The silence ends with his sigh. “Right now, he’s trying to be all smooth with some random girl he’s never seen before and you’re sitting here all alone.” Zoro meets your teary gaze. There’s a softness in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yeah,” you whisper more to yourself than him. Thoughts and feelings scattered, you continue to quietly watch Zoro drink. Right then, as a drop of condensation runs along the beer bottle, do you realise that Zoro might yet hold important answers. You sit up, momentarily invigorated. “You’re a man, Zoro.”

He gives you a questioning look. “How observant.”

The quip earns him a playful slap on the shoulder. You almost miss the look of amusement on his face. He’s clearly enjoying getting under your skin. “I mean, you know what men think. What they like. So what is it that I’m missing?” You point to yourself. Zoro looks you up and down in the same way one might review a dinghy. “Am I not sexy enough? Or smart enough? Pretty enough?”

A short-lived silence falls between the two of you. Zoro stares at you for a moment, pondering what to answer. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. There’s a strange tension in his posture, as though he’s unsure whether he should share something with you. His gaze scatters, focusing on anything that isn’t you. Whatever words he has in mind, he dismisses them and instead says:

“You should ask the slimy waiter himself.”

Your groan makes Zoro tighten the grip on his bottle.

“Oh, that’s such great advice, Zoro.” The deadpan delivery is enough to make your point. “I never would have thought of that myself. Excuse me for a minute while I go up to Sanji and ask him directly why he’s flirting with every woman he meets but not me. That should go down well.”

Zoro is still avoiding your gaze. Although it would be more accurate to state that he’s not avoiding it per se – something else has caught his attention. A mischievous smirk appears on his face.

Still holding a bottle of beer in his hand, he points across the bar with one of his fingers. “I think that’s your answer.”

Your eyes follow in the right direction. There, you see a scene about as shocking as it should be obvious: Sanji is talking to two women, clearly admiring their exposed chests. None of them seems to be holding onto, even pretend, good behaviour. Judging how vigorously he begins to mix their drinks, Sanji has just gotten his favourite kind of tip.

“That’s–...” You hang your voice before you can say something crude. “I’m gonna need another drink.”

Zoro, the man that he is, opens another beer for you. The glass is cold and wet with condensation. First, you hold it against your cheek, enjoying the chill on your hot skin. When you finally take a sip, you have a moment of questioning Zoro’s judgement. You’ve had beer before, you’ve had bad beer before, but the taste of this one made you realise that “bad” is a bit too broad a category. Honestly, how could Zoro drink one after another? Maybe all the awful alcohol he’s drunk in his life has burned off his taste buds. Or, more realistically, he appreciated the effect, not the palate.

Mixed with the beer on your tongue is a bitter sense of amusement. Is that really the man you’ve been longing for? The kind whose attention can be bought with nice bodies and revealing clothes? Perhaps the funniest part was thinking you could have Sanji all to yourself. How could such a man hold you dear if the only dear thing to him is his own desire?

The two of you are watching from afar as Sanji continues to sweet-talk two women. They’re giggling and blushing – whatever he’s saying seems to be working extremely well.

“What do you think he’s telling them?” asks Zoro.

“The women or the girls?” you answer. Zoro almost chokes on his beer, laughing. “I really don’t care at this point,” you add, in between chuckles.

“Will you do me the honour of telling me your order, ma’am?” Zoro mocks the blond man. “Such spectacular bosoms, may I sample them, ma’am? Would you kindly hit me with a shovel if it was no trouble, ma’am?”

Your howling laughter could be considered embarrassing if you had the wherewithal to busy yourself with etiquette. Tears fill your eyes for the second time tonight, except right now, they’re welcome. Seeing that his joke had landed perfectly, Zoro smiles to himself, proud of the small achievement. A thought passes through his mind: you look absolutely adorable when you squint your eyes while laughing.

As though laughter was something magical, this moment of amusement clears your head. Sanji and his easy-to-gain interest are but a speck of dust, a matter so unimportant that thinking about it is wasting energy. So what if he desires every woman except for you? There’s nothing special about publicly available affection.

When you calm down, you review Zoro’s performance. “He doesn’t sound like that.”

He’s quick to agree. “You’re right, there should be more whining.”

Too busy laughing again, you don’t notice how Zoro doesn’t let his gaze stray from you. The longer his eyes linger on your face, the wider his smile gets. In some other life, he’d be sending ‘thank you’ cards to the cook. 

Lost in this newfound feeling, Zoro suddenly finds himself staring into your eyes. You’re much closer than you were before. A sense of anxiety and excitement blooms in his chest. “Good to see you smiling again,” he says, trying his best to stay calm and collected.

“Thanks, Zoro,” you answer, with a sigh. Starting to feel tired from all the emotions packed into one evening, you place your head on his shoulder. For a short moment, you get the impression that Zoro is flexing his muscles. “I know I’m not exactly cheery tonight.”

Fortunately, his voice doesn’t shake when he answers. “It’s cool”.

In the distance, you see Sanji following those two women upstairs. There’s no doubt about their intentions. As the unruly, woeful thoughts crawl into your mind again, you close your eyes. You try to focus on this moment of peace. There’s only you, disgusting beer and always reliable Zoro. Sanji is… a phantom. He continues to haunt, yes, but that's just what phantoms do. Yet, ghosts tend to disappear when morning comes. Will yours too?

You just want to be somebody to someone; someone to him.

____

He was walking right behind you. You couldn’t hear his footsteps but instead listened to the whispers and rustles of large shrubbery as he made his way through the foliage. At first, his offer sounded chivalrous – he wanted to be able to keep an eye on you, in case one of the hungrier islanders decided to make their move. Now, as your thoughts circle around dextrous hands firmly holding a large knife, Sanji’s “good manners” were nothing but a farce. His sweet gestures and even sweeter words had only one goal: gain your trust. Once your guard was down, Sanji could choose the most convenient moment to finally strike. You never would have seen it coming. You would have neither the time nor the sense to defend yourself. The fight would have been over before your heart could ever suffer the reality of such devious betrayal.

You realised he had the perfect opportunity. It’s just you and him, all alone, far away from any of your other crewmates. On an island with dinosaurs and assassins, another regrettable death wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. It was all too convenient for a man with Sanji’s resolve.

The question slipped past your lips: “Why did you bring me here?”

“The views are rather nice, don’t you think?” he answers, voice filled with amusement. “Although the hospitality could be a bit better.”

It struck you how normal he sounded. Nothing about his words or tone hinted at anything malicious. Sanji was relaxed, in full control of himself. You didn’t dare glance over your shoulder to see his expression. As it was with an abyss, when you stared into a murderer’s eyes, he stared right into yours. If he had realised that you were wise to his farce, you would have met your end right then and there. He couldn’t risk anyone else finding out.

He reminded you of strange flowers, bladderworts, that Nami had once told you about: inconspicuous white petals growing on lakes, waiting for anything small to get close. Once it does, the bladderwort momentarily swallows it whole. There is no escape, no warning, no second chance. Just a second of curious eyes enchanted by the pristine flowers. You could only wonder whether that was what the unfortunate fruit fly must feel.

Only then did you understand just how stupid it was to ask Sanji about his intentions. Truly, if he were cruel and smart enough to await the right moment, he’d never let in on the truth – even if you had seen right through him. Any and all denials would only work in his favour. He had everyone fooled. No one would ever believe you that Sanji was like a bladderwort. It was hardly their fault, really. You were the only one to get close enough to him. All the shared intimacy, secrets and beds… They had led you straight into his honeyed trap. And the fool that you were, you just revelled in how sickly sweet and slow the world became in Sanji’s embrace. 

There was no chance for you to fight him or outrun him. That only left you with one option: hide. Still, that included a fateful chase, where you’d have to get far enough to lose him. Even that sounded ridiculous at best but the terror gnawing at your mind only grew, pushing out all reason.

You stopped suddenly. Sanji, not expecting that, bumped his chest into your back. The heat coming from his body engulfed you. Once upon a time, it was a welcome sensation. Now, it was starting to choke you. He stood over you like a twisted guardian angel: there was nowhere you could go where he couldn’t get his hands on you.

“What is it?” he asked softly, hot breath brushing against the side of your face.

“I think something moved over there.” You pointed at a dense bush a few meters ahead. That distance and element of surprise should be enough to give you a head start. “I don’t know, maybe it’s nothing.”

Sanji laid his hand on your shoulder, giving you a slight squeeze. Maybe it was faux comfort, or maybe a warning that he’s still in control. “Alright,” he said with a heavy sigh. “You stay back, I’ll check it out.”

His steps are slow, yet sure. Seeing his cautious prowl only proves what you already knew: Sanji is smart enough to be patient. The good opportunity will find him. His bloodthirst will be satiated, just you wait…

It was now or never.

You broke for escape. Sanji yelled something after you but you couldn’t hear him clearly. No matter, you weren’t going to give in to his sweet words again. Not when you’ve seen right through him.

Twigs smacked your face as you ran through the jungle. Thorny bushes cut your skin. There was a continuous rustling somewhere behind you. You couldn’t be sure whether it was Sanji chasing you or some local animal making its way through. You weren’t going to check. There was only the forest ahead of you.

There was a distinct burn in your thighs and calves. A searing pain in your chest forbade you from taking deep breaths. You had no way of knowing how long or how far you’ve run. The jungle looked exactly the same wherever you looked: thick shrubbery, sprawling foliage, robust trees almost covering the sky with their leaves. It felt like running in place. Still, you pushed on.

You just have to find cover, somewhere to hide for a while.

The protest of your body became unbearable. Your knees buckled underneath your weight, sending you crashing to the ground. Cut, bruised and beaten down, you’ve wondered if you have ever felt anything different than this ache. The pain delved deep inside you, wrapping around your muscles and bones until it found your soul; the pain of ultimate defeat.

Crawling, you made your way to the closest tree. The trunk was wide enough to hide your body when you rested your back against it. Your eyes travelled upwards, for a moment taking in the lucious crowns. The large leaves swayed in the wind, rustling far above your head. They remained indifferent to your plight. Many have lived and died in their shade, why should they care?

Sanji called out your name. The echo of the forest kept repeating it, as though the genius loci of the jungle was wondering where you had gone. Sanji called out again, asking where you were and pleading for your return. Some forgotten part inside you wanted to give in. Perhaps there still was a piece of your soul naive enough to believe that man’s farce. 

The rustling of the shrubbery grew louder as Sanji unknowingly made his way towards you. Tears streamed down your face. All of that, for nothing. A grand escape just to end up where you were always going to end up: at the mercy of a man revelling in building trust just to end it with a swift flick of the knife. Although after your little “escapade”, perhaps Sanji’s hand wasn’t going to be swift at all. Maybe your getaway changed his mind and as his final triumph over you, Sanji was going to take his sweet time. He could make you beg. Your pleading for your life will be the music to his ears. He will listen closely, taste the delicious despair, only to grant none of your pleas. Yes, a man of his resolve was more than capable of turning death into mercy.

Sanji stopped. He called out for you once again. There was a sound of worry in his tone. You could only assume that he was concerned about losing track of you. That would only make his goal harder to achieve. As much as he doubted anyone believing your story, he couldn’t put it past his crewmates that they have been wise to his plan. He had to find you quickly and end this useless, theatrical chase. Sanji always got what he wanted. That wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

The rustling resumed but instead of louder, it became quieter. The man was retreating.

Seeing this chance, you leaned against the trunk to help you get up. Your legs were still shaking. You won’t be doing much running in that state. On the other hand, if you stay too long in one place, finding you will become easier. It didn’t matter whether you walked or crawled. Anything, just to add distance between you and him.

Snap.

The dried twig under your foot broke in half. The echo carried that little sound as far as it could, announcing to every pair of listening ears, “She’s right here!”.

Sanji called out your name for the third time. You could hear him marching towards you. With your desperation outgrowing the searing pain in your legs, you attempted to continue your escape. There was no strength left in your body. You fell to the ground again. The final time, perhaps.

Sanji didn’t know what to think. Everything was happening so quickly, he didn’t have time to make sense of your strange behaviour. All he knew was that you were running away from him, never even checking if he was following. The only thing that made sense to him, at the time, was to chase you.

As you lay on the ground, he stood high above you, ready to scold you for pulling such a sad excuse of a prank and making him worry. Then, he noticed something truly out of  place: paint on your arm. He recalled how Zoro couldn’t stop laughing and Nami became completely apathetic. For a short second, Sanji wished you did pull a bad joke on him. It would be much better than the pair of terrified eyes watching his every move like a deer staring down a hunting rifle. Tears pooled in your eyes, flowing down your cheeks as though you were mourning a tragedy that hasn’t yet happened. There were cuts all over your skin. Some already scabbed, others still bleeding. Even your face… It was the first thing Sanji saw in the morning and the last thing he saw before falling asleep. He knew it better than anyone, even yourself. But now, standing above you like an executioner over the block, he couldn’t recognize it. That face he’s grown to know so well had never stared at him with such horror. You never trembled in fear under his gaze.

Sanji took a small step forward, only for you to crawl away from him.

“Stay away from me!” you yelled through sobs.

He felt his throat tighten. It was almost impossible to hold back his own tears. “I’m sorry but I can’t do that,” he managed to answer in a slow, serious voice. 

In some way, it was all absolutely hilarious. Picture, if you will, a man about to die, awaiting his turn at the gallows. When asked about his final words, he tells a joke. The crowd is silent. When the noose tightens around his neck, the man doesn’t lose his humor. He simply says “Hey, now! Don’t leave me hanging!”. Sanji loved to play the distinguished role of your knight in shining armour. Every wish he granted, every question he answered, every threat he defeated. It brought him immense satisfaction to always be the one you turn to, no matter the situation. Whether it was cooking something for you or standing up to someone, the sweet peck he’d get afterwards was always worth the trouble. Although to Sanji, nothing to do with you was “trouble”. Despite all of his efforts to be the only person you will ever need, he is the cause of your fear. He had become the bad guy he’s sworn to protect you from. Sanji knew that your change is the effect of the paint. Still, as irrational as it was, he couldn’t help but feel intimate disgust towards himself. The only way to make things right was to wipe the paint off your arm. To do that, he had to get closer to you, intensifying your fear to a degree you shouldn’t ever feel. In some way, it was all absolutely hilarious.

Pushing through his own feelings, Sanji made his way towards you. As before, you kept crawling away. Tears streaming down your face, breath catching in your throat, glistening eyes begging for mercy – some part of Sanji wanted to let you go. Turn around and go the other way, just so he will never have to suffer your fear of him. His chest tightened, making it harder to breathe. 

“No, no! Please, don’t!” you yelled out. “Please!”

Sanji was crying. It was wrong, everything was wrong! He was meant to be that one person you could trust with everything, someone to lean on when you had nothing left. The one constant in your life. The man you deserved.

You couldn’t crawl away fast enough. Sanji’s strides were too long. As he got closer and loomed over you, you tried to kick him. He was faster and grabbed your ankle before your boot could make contact with his thigh. You tried to wrestle your leg out of his hold but his grip was too strong. He had you imprisoned. Using little to no strength, Sanji pulled you towards him and kneeled on the ground, right next to your hip. One of his hands pinned you down.

Your screams pierced the silence of the otherwise serene jungle. They were animalistic, in no way resembling a sound befitting a human. The shriek rang in Sanji’s head, clawing at his mind, heart and spirit. Although it wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t help the dull ache of guilt and regret gnawing at him. To some degree, he didn’t care that it was the paint that made you afraid. After all, you were screaming at him. It was his chest you were hitting in desperate attempts to fight back. It was he who had to hold you down using so much more force than he wanted. Whether real or imagined, it was Sanji who was the monster.

Sanji finally reached the paint on your arm. It smeared with a flick of his wrist. Momentarily, deep silence engulfed the two of you. There weren’t any screams, there was no rustling. Only steadying, laboured breathing. That lack of sound was deafening, like a warning siren that rattles your bones rather than pierces your ears.

With a wince and a whine, you sat up. Sanji instinctually reached out to help you but stopped himself just before his hand made contact with your back. For the first time in his life, he hesitated to show his care for you.

“Sanji,” you whispered. Your lips remained parted, as though there was something else you wanted to say; something that never came.

“I’m here,” he answered equally low. “I’ll always be here.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into a tight hug. His hands hovered for a moment, only for Sanji to give in to something much stronger than his doubts. One of his palms rested on your back, keeping you close to him; the other lay on the back of your head, as your face hid in the crook of his neck.

Sobs shook your body. Sanji tried to calm you down, reminding you that the two of you were safe, that he loves you and that you have nothing to worry about as long as he’s next to you. Little did he know, you weren’t crying over yourself. No, you kept remembering the heartache written all over his face. The way he looked as though he was about to collapse and give up on sanity altogether. But isn’t that what lovers always do? Take the other’s pain and make it their own? If so, then you loved Sanji to the point it physically hurt, as though your affection resided in the marrow of your bones, rather than your mind or your heart; a love that was intrinsic to your existence.

Sanji will never admit it to you but that day still haunts him. Some nights, when even the moon and the stars hide away from the world and the shapeless darkness moulds into horrors beyond comprehension, he relives your fear in his dreams. He finds you wounded and helpless, begging for mercy. When he kneels down to help you, he sees his own hands dripping with your blood. He tries to explain, argue that he would never do that. But the look in your eyes reveals the truth: he would and he did. Those nights, Sanji wakes up covered in cold sweat, shivering underneath the covers. He finds you asleep right next to him, one arm splayed across his abdomen. When his breathing steadies, he pulls you even closer. Then, barely above a whisper, he makes promises to you; vows that would make gods and deities laugh. The unending malice of this world, however, rubs its hands together. The same devilry that widows wives and orphans children, longs to test Sanji’s promises. Could the lovesick cook actually fulfil them? 

Deep in his heart, Sanji is terrified that he could.

_________

The silence that followed was unbearably loud. The foliage surrounding you rustled in a questioning manner. What on Earth just happened?

Your footsteps came to a halt. Both of you just stared at the other, quietly asking yourselves whether you really had just screamed at Sanji to shut up. You watched him press his lips into a tight line, jaw clenching hard enough to cause a headache in the near future. A sorrowful glisten appeared in his eyes and you couldn’t be sure whether he was angry or on the verge of tears.

Sanji was about to say something, no doubt to reveal his breaking heart, when you beat him to it:

“I’m sorry,” you squeaked out before covering your mouth, eyes large with horror. “I-I don’t know what-” 

A painful groan cut your sentence short. The sound came from your throat but it was in no way yours. It felt all too foreign, as though you were suddenly sharing your body with a beast far too old and primal to have a name. Your heart began hammering against your ribs, the echo of its rhythm rang in your ears. Blood rushed to your face. Hands trembled as they balled into fists. No matter how hard you tried, you could not stretch out your fingers. In a matter of seconds, the fighting stance started to feel good. Right. It was like finally giving in to an old, unending urge. The freedom this rage offered was nothing short of blissful.

“What’s going on?” asked Sanji. His hand lay reassuringly on your shoulder. The warmth coming from him was infuriating. What palpable audacity to patronise you like that. “Are you okay? Come on, talk to me.”

Your fist came in contact with his jaw rather quickly. Unfortunately, as you thought to yourself, not a crack was heard.

Sanji stammered backwards, holding the side of his face. Glistening blue eyes met yours. The look of hurt and betrayal on his face was sweet to you. It was exactly what people of his kind deserved and it was high time he learned that. There were enough sleazy, pig-headed men in this world. One less would do everyone a lot of good.

“I won’t waste my breath on a vermin like you,” you spat out. The voice belonged to you, yes, but you had no will in uttering those words. They came from deep inside – somewhere too out of reach even for you. It was as though you suddenly began rotting from the inside.

Another groan bordering on a growl tore from your chest. Your hands shook, aching fingers slightly opening tight fists. This wasn’t you.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me!” you called out to Sanji. He must have noticed a significant change in you as he once more reached out towards you. You stopped him, taking several steps back. “Don’t come any closer,” you warned. “I... can't... control it!"

Sanji’s eyes took in your hunched physique. There was a burning urge in him to defy your order, to hold you in an embrace so tight no other living thing could ever make your acquaintance. The man, however, was no fool. Despite what some green-haired swordsman might claim. Sanji was disillusioned about something being amiss.

His gaze stopped on a red mark right above your ankle. It was easy to miss among the large foliage and shrubbery surrounding you.

“The paint,” he whispered. “Love, there’s paint on your leg.” Sanji was trying to keep his voice calm, more for you than himself. In slow, short steps, he was making his way towards you. “We need to get it off. Now.” Despite the gentle sound of his voice, the grave seriousness of its tone was unmissable.

Normally, you would have agreed with him and devised a plan. But that required time and clarity of mind you didn’t have. Feeling the enraged beast inside you coming to take over control, you had to limit yourself to the necessities. "Just…” Another groan. “You stupid, little, man-thing!” you growled at him. The wrinkle between Sanji’s eyebrows only deepened his worried frown. Fighting against the paint’s maddening properties, you doubled over. It was physically painful to defy the chemicals. “Knock me out or something!” you gritted through your teeth.

Sanji took a deep, ragged breath. How brilliant of Miss Goldenweek to ask him to do something he simply couldn’t. And how pathetically lovesick of him to let his heart decide.

"I would rather die than hurt you,” he stated. His words sounded more like an oath than a personal preference; he announced to all malice residing in this world that there is only one weakness he shall suffer.

You wanted to tell Sanji that it really wasn’t the right time to be chivalrous. Instead, it was the frenzied beast inside you that answered him:

“Then you will perish.”

Sanji expertly evaded your swinging fist. Making true to his vow, he never parried or answered the attack. His body contorted in all sorts of ways to escape your punches. The assault was fast, without a sign of slowing down anytime soon. As Sanji continued to waste your efforts, it appeared that your rage only grew.

The insect is perfectly escaping the deadly swats.

If he were asked on any other occasion whether he likes being intimately known by you, Sanji would deem that question completely obsolete: of course he enjoyed it. What else could he answer? That if you stabbed him through the heart, he would be eternally grateful for being allowed to admire you one last time before he dies?

As things were at the moment, being so well-known by you could cause Sanji’s demise. You’ve seen him fight, you know his skills, tendencies and strategies. Which is why you did a small feint before hitting him right in the centre of his stomach. His diaphragm spasmed, he couldn’t take a breath. Another powerful punch made him fall, hitting the ground with a loud, muffled thud.

Sanji had no time to wrap his head around the turn of events. You sat on top of him, clenched hand flying down to make a dizzying impact with the side of his face. Unbearable, loud ringing filled his ears. His vision became spotty but remained clear enough to let Sanji turn his head and evade your continuous assault. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the red paint above your ankle. If he could just reach it…

One of your hands grabbed his throat. It was more surprising than painful, yet all the more terrifying for him. He gasped for air but his lungs remained empty. Another of your fists hung high above his head, ready to strike down with viciousness unknown to humane creatures.

Is this really how this ends?, he thought.

Still, he couldn’t force himself to overpower you, to fight back whatever malice resided inside you. Part of him started to accept the impending doom. In some other, less dire and heartbreaking circumstances, he surely would have made a joke about happily dying under you.

Your fist was coming closer and closer to his face.

He didn’t close his eyes. He wanted to see you.

But the impact never came. Your hand, as if held back by an invisible force, stopped a mere inch away from him. Sanji looked at you, not quite understanding what was happening. His eyes met yours. There was a sense of awareness in your stare. Tears were streaming down your face. Anger remained in your glistening gaze but it was much different. Sanji recognised it. He’s seen it a thousand times, whenever it took considerable effort to wake up Zoro; whenever you had a bad day and wanted to be left alone; whenever you crossed paths with petty bullies and their senseless violence.

A growl escaped your throat. In one moment, you let go of Sanji’s neck and hit yourself square in the jaw. Another punch met your nose. Blood streamed down your face. You felt dizzy but so did the relentless rage inside you. Using the last bits of your remaining strength and resolve, you rolled off of Sanji.

“Do… it!” you managed to say through clenched teeth.

Sanji didn’t waste time. Not when you were on the right track to knocking yourself out. Still coughing and trying to catch his breath, he reached down to your legs, wiping off the red paint in one swift motion. Momentarily, your body went limp. Sanji sat next you, pulled up your upper body by your shoulders and settled you against his chest. His hand was trembling as he gently, almost fearfully, caressed your face. The other palm rested on the back of your head, allowing him to see all of you. And as much as he loved taking his time admiring you, the sight before him was not one to behold. Blood that dripped from your nose was already drying on your lips and chin. Some drops stained your blouse. Red, bruised face had swollen in the past few minutes.

He whispered your name in a questioning manner, as if checking whether you still belonged to the land of the living. You slowly opened your eyes and met his gaze. Sanji was crying, doing his best to keep his body from shivering with every sob. It was an image of a man broken. Was it his heart that broke? Or his spirit? Perhaps his own humanity had shattered when he had to bear witness to cruelty beyond imagination.

“Sanji…” you muttered, voice hoarse and shaking. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t-”

“I know,” he interrupted. His face became all blurry and you couldn’t be sure whether it was because of your own tears or repeatedly punching yourself in the face. “I know, love.”

“I could have killed you.”

“Me?” Sanji laughed but there was no happiness in the sound. It was the amusement of a sole survivor; the chuckle of a man executed by a blunt guillotine. “You would never do that. You- “ A violent sob escaped his throat. “You love me too much.”

Your shaking hand slowly reached up to Sanji’s face. Cautiously, you touched his already bruised cheek. His slight wince didn’t escape your attention.

“Why would you let me do that to you, Sanji?”

His heart broke yet again, hearing your voice crack with emotion. What devilish sins had he committed in his previous life to be subjected to this suffering? What absolution was there in such agony?

Sanji’s hand left your face and gently grabbed your wrist. He lowered your palm to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on the knuckles.

“Because I love you too much,” he forced a smile on his face. It was in no way comforting. His expression contorted into an even deeper image of a soul torn apart and sewn together with little care or expertise. “How could I ever hurt my princess?"

It was impossible to say how much time had gone by while you and Sanji were silently holding each other. No words were spoken because what words were there to say? What should be said in such circumstances? Although words had failed you, that shared silence wasn't exactly quiet. Each gentle caress, a kiss left on the bruised skin, exchanged tears and glances - all of them told stories too grand for any known language.

You continued to retreat, gaze darting around in search of escape. How silly you really were – there was no way you could possibly outrun him. Finally, your back hit a large tree trunk. A muffled thud symbolised your impasse.

The man was about to take another step forward when your shaky voice called out to him:

“Stay there! Don’t come any closer!”

A desperate break in your voice rendered him immobile. Such an unfamiliar sound, yet more horrible than anything he’s ever heard. It resounded somewhere deep inside him, his own fears repeating it like an echo. His chest suddenly tightened and Zoro found himself both speechless and breathless. That unnamed sensation seared through his lungs, heart and spine. Trembling hands longed to claw his chest open and rip out whatever was hurting in such an unbearable, inexplicable way. It wasn’t human. It couldn’t be. Nothing in nature should be subjected to that agony.

Your entire body shook as you slid along the trunk and sat on the ground, knees held close to your chest. A violent sob escaped your throat. Trying to stifle it, you put your hands on your mouth, in vain. Hot tears streamed down your face, glistening in the high noon sun. 

Seeing the reflected sunrays, Zoro recalled one late night, when you begged him to stay up a little and join you in some stargazing. Bright, white dots littered the dark sky like precious jewels scattered on a sheet of black satin. There, sitting next you, Zoro finally understood the idea of art. If he could somehow save that moment, he would. Then, any time his heart desired, he could once again see your soft smile filled with wonder, faraway stars glistening in your eyes and the almost reverent look with which you admired the night sky. He recalled how you broke the long, pleasant silence: “I wonder what they see when they look down on us.” Zoro would have reminded you that stars, obviously, don’t have much internal dialogue but then you looked at him, casually decided to forever change the way he thought about you: “Sometimes I wonder what you see when you look at me. I mean, we’re so different and yet, we’re here. How does that happen?” The warmth of your skin against his was still fresh in his memory. Unknowingly, he clenched his hand into a fist, desperately trying to relive the sensation of holding you close.

“Fine,” he answered, after a moment of shared silence. Zoro swallowed with difficulty. He didn’t trust himself with longer sentences, not when you trembled in fear before him. “I’ll stay right here.”

He was terrifying.

It was like waking up at dawn and trying to remember the nightmare you just had. There were no details, only fear. A blurry set of silhouettes, their imposing aura only growing darker the harder you tried to make out their specifics. Similarly, you couldn’t recall a moment when one of Zoro’s blades lay threateningly against your exposed throat. The fear, however, remained, as though you remembered you had once remembered such a scene.

Even if you never had a direct reason to fear Zoro, wasn’t it simply common sense to fear a lion? It didn’t require being mauled to realise what a predator is. Although Zoro didn’t roar and neither did he have formidable claws, he was no less threatening: three sharp, well-made swords, years of experience in swordfighting, infamy amongst pirates for hunting them with a rettifying ease, an unshakable determination that even impressed one of the Warlords. Roronoa Zoro had the potential to be a nightmare brought to life. He could be a true demon, the personification of all vile fantasies.

But was he?

You held on to this sliver of clarity like a dying breath. It was impossible to tell which thoughts were your own. The fear directed at Zoro was suddenly directed at yourself – what was happening to you? How could you lose control of your own mind? More importantly: how can you escape the danger if it’s something inside you?

In that moment of clear thinking, you recalled as many memories with Zoro as you could. Maybe it was possible to convince yourself that he was never a threat. As images of shared laughter, intimacy and serenity flood your mind, you hold on to one, undeniable fact: Roronoa Zoro had countless opportunities to kill you in the most gruesome of ways. If he wanted to bring your demise, he already would have. After all, he’s not exactly fond of sitting idly.

“Help me!” you called out to him as your thoughts began to blur once again. Terror grew over them like ivy and moss hide once marvellous buildings. “I can’t stop it!”

“It’s the paint!” he answered, finger pointing at your shoulder. “You need to get the paint off!”

Confused, you looked at your arms. Your gaze landed on a red spiral painted on your skin. Something about this picture intensified your fear. The sliver of clarity was nowhere to be found; grim clouds covered every thought of yours that presented Zoro as anything other than a hungry predator.

You watched as Zoro slowly moved towards you. The beast was on a prowl, keen gaze observing you closely. Surely, he was looking for the quickest way to draw blood from your still-writhing carcass. Zoro was saying something to you but you couldn’t quite make out the words except for “paint” and “come”.

The conclusion was clear as day: Zoro put it there to lure you in. It’s all a scheme to get you to come closer to the swordsman. He was a predator and that was his hunting strategy.

What followed happened much quicker than you could realise. Roronoa Zoro, the beast that he was, pounced on you. Strong arms wrapped tightly around your frame. There was no escaping from that hold, like there was no escaping for the fly wrapped in a black widow’s cocoon. You tried to force your way out of that prison, pulling and pushing as strongly as you could. Tears rolled down your cheeks and onto his hands.

A piercing scream filled your ears. It might have been yours but you couldn’t be quite sure – the sound was inhuman, belonging rather to a wounded, frightened animal than a person.

Then, a warm hand rubbed against your shoulder. In a moment, everything went still. What a strange sensation it was, as though the time suddenly slowed down. The colours of the foliage became clearer. Your lungs filled with sweet-smelling, fresh air.

Your heart calmed down, returning to its usual steady rhythm. The fear… was gone. Completely. Along with the terror, all thoughts of Zoro’s murderous schemes disappeared. You could recall some of them, like one recalls a bizarre nightmare they had just woken up from. As the dawn breaks and sunlight fills the bedroom, the night terrors become ridiculous and laughable. How could you ever be afraid of something so calming?

“You with me?” whispered Zoro. His hot, shaky breath brushed against your temple.

“Yeah, I’m here,” you answered equally lowly. “Thank you.”

“Let’s not do this ever again, okay? I-” He cut his sentence before he could finish it. Zoro exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Your terrified shriek still rang in his ears, still asking him whether he truly deserved your trust. “I hated seeing you scared of me.”

His embrace remained just as tight as before. It was both bruising and grounding; one learns they are alive only when they greet Death at her door. Your face was nestled against Zoro’s chest, his chin resting on top of your head. The feeling of being engulfed by him had, strangely, the same power over you as that red paint: it confused your thoughts, taking control of your sanity. However, instead of fear, it instilled a deep sense of safety and belonging, as though the world began with Zoro’s left arm and ended with his right. Everything outside of that was nothing more than a mirage, an afterimage of a dream you had once dreamt.

“You will never have to be afraid of me. You know that, right?” Zoro’s question was met with silence but not with ignorance. The nod of your head was everything he needed to know. “Good,” he muttered under a sigh. It seemed that the acknowledgement was meant more for his own anxiety. The piercing scream continued to echo in his head, although quieter than before.

“You know what was the strangest of all?” you asked. Zoro answered with a low hum. “When I asked for your help, I had this moment of clarity. I tried to make myself remember that you’re not a threat. That I’m always safe with you. And the fear that clouded my mind was the scariest thing I’ve ever felt. The thought of me being scared of you was… “ You shake your head, looking for the right words. “It was more terrifying than anything I could imagine. I would hate to live in a world where, somehow, I should be afraid of you.”

“Good thing you will never have to.”

You felt a pair of lips softly kissing your temple. Was it a promise? An apology? Perhaps a symbol of duty to you.

When Lovecraft was visiting Salem, he made a note of the aged, undisturbed, beautiful architecture of some buildings. He was livid that some "filthy Polacks" were living there.

“Can you pass me the pepper, love?” Your voice echoes through the kitchen, mixing with the sounds of cooking.

As though he’s a mere machine, a husk operated by another, he slowly gets up and walks to the counter. In an automated gesture, Spencer gives you the pepper, never bothering to look your way. You could have easily grabbed the vegetable on your own – he doesn’t seem to notice that.

You take the produce from him, studying his profile with utmost worry and suspicion. "No fun fact?" you ask, trying a last resort at coaxing him into talking about what’s eating him.

Confused, unfocused gaze finds your face. "What?" he whispers. If you hadn’t known better, you’d think he’s just woken up from deep sleep. Squinted brown eyes study you with visible struggle, as though something silent was beckoning their attention away from you.

"You've been awfully quiet today,” you notice. “I'd say that you're just tired but you just passed me the pepper without indulging a fun fact about vegetables."

"Bell peppers are actually fruit, not vegetables,” he corrects you. A cold absence in his voice gnaws at you. How can he be right next to you and yet be half the world away?

Realising that this conversation will not be a short one, you turn the stove off. Carefully placing the knife and the cutting board away from the edge of the counter, you turn to look at Spencer again. "Seriously, Spence. I can see that something is troubling you.” He awkwardly presses his lips into a thin line. “Is it the case?"

"Yes,” he answers after a moment of quiet hesitation, “but it's more than that."

A soft smile spreads across your face. “Wonderful. That’s just my speciality.” Holding onto his arm, you lead Spencer back to the table. The two of you sit down across from each other, bringing to mind an interrogation room or a confession booth. In a way, it’s both and yet neither. They do, however, have one thing in common – only being honest can grant you absolution.

Spencer meets the first roadblock right at the start. He attempts to start his sentence a few times, only to back out after the first word or two. His eyebrows furrow as he stares off into space, searching for the right words. You’ve noticed long ago that he has this silly belief that there is a correct verbiage, the perfect way to say things.

Seeing his conflict, you reach out to grab his hand. As your fingers gently caress his, you give him quiet encouragement. “Just say it.”

When Spencer finally meets your gaze, you see a presence of mind that has been absent ever since he came home. He’s unearthing whatever snake had been biting at his heels. “The unsub was obsessed with the myth about Eurydice and Orpheus,” he begins. “He wanted his victims to reenact it. Once he kidnapped a couple, he’d bring them to a remote spot deep in the woods. That was his version of the Underworld. Then, he’d hold the wife at gunpoint and tell the husband to walk the trail in front of them but he made the husband wear noise-cancelling headphones, so he wouldn’t know if his wife and the unsub were actually following him.”

You’re slowly nodding along, putting together the scene in your imagination. The scenario does come close to the generic version of the myth. Except for one detail:

“And he killed them if the husband turned around, like Orpheus did?”

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand tightly as though you were no more real than a dream or a spectre. There’s a sense of pathetic desperation in clinging to the living like they are dead; a juvenile, misguided belief that strength or will can stop them from turning into ash.

"All of them turned around,” says Spencer after a while, “and had to watch their wives die in front of them, because of their choice."

You can’t quite put a finger on it but Spencer’s words sound more like a question rather than a statement. It feels as though some part of him wanted to begin with ‘why did’. For some reason, he couldn’t bear to ask that out loud.

Still picturing the scene in your mind, you find yourself shaking your head. "I can't imagine living the rest of my life knowing that your death is my fault. At least in some way."

"That's what got me thinking.” Spencer’s voice comes out small, fearful. “Would I have turned around if it were you?” His eyes study your face as though the answer could be revealed in your expression, like he can profile the truth about himself out of you. Spencer leans forward, towards you. “Is it proof of love if you turn around or if you keep walking?" he adds in a whisper.

Following his lead, you also lean towards him. You bring your intertwined fingers to your face and lay your cheek against the back of his hand. "What do you think?" you ask, voice equally low.

The moment of silence is no longer filled with the sounds of dinner being made. Sizzling, boiling and cutting are left in the past, now taken over by the muffled sounds of D.C.’s traffic outside the window. A siren rings a few blocks away but as you sit at the table with Spence, mere inches separating your faces, the high-pitched alarm seems to be worlds away. In a sense, it is. Perhaps the same place where boiling, sizzling and cutting had gone – the realm of an ordinary evening.

"I'm not sure,” admits Spencer. His eyes keep jumping from your loving gaze to the tightly held hands against your cheek. “I've always thought that, while understandable given the circumstances and Orpheus's young age, turning around is stupid. Impulsive. Why didn't he just trust Hades that Eurydice was walking behind him?” A heavy sigh leaves his lips as his expression falls. The mask of wonder cracks, revealing inexplicable sadness and confusion. He gives the impression of someone who feels lost, despite not knowing what their destination should be. “But I don't know anymore. Not since I've met you."

"Because now you can imagine what Orpheus felt." Your words should be a question but you don’t have to ask. You just know.

"Yeah,” he answers under his breath. His gaze falls to the table, scuttering away to admire the bookshelves and the couch.

In a way, you find this endearing. Here is a man who faces the worst of humanity on a daily basis and yet what invokes fear in him is telling the person he loves how much that love has changed him. Spencer Reid, the genius who welcomes grotesque and gore, is also a man who shies away from the raw humanity inside him.

"For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t be angry with you if you did turn around.”

Brown eyes snap back to you, suddenly startled awake. Spencer furrows his eyebrows, silently wondering why you would say that. As you’re watching him process the words and their meaning, it looks like he’s only spiralling further into his confusion and bewilderment. 

“But you would die,” he argues.

“Eurydice was already dead,” you counter. “She’d be brought back to life only if Orpheus walked home without turning around, right? So, technically speaking, she couldn’t die because she was still dead. At least she got to see her lover one last time.”

Spencer bites his lower lip. He shakes his head and lets out another heavy sigh. Tearing his hand from your hold, he gets up from the table. This sudden withdrawal leaves you cold, exposed. You’re the tail that a salamander discards for its own survival. Left to rot.

You stare at him walking in circles in the living room. After what feels like a hundred laps, Spencer suddenly stops. He turns to look at you, completely lost. His hands are restless, fingers anxiously fidgeting.

"Myths, legends, stories, fairytales – they usually have a moral or life lesson in them,” he says. “Not Grimm's tales, those were gory,” he adds in a quieter tone. “But the rest do have a teaching, I just… I can't figure out this one."

As his voice breaks on the last word, you get up from the table as though you’re following some primal instinct. A man who knows everything is cursed to always search for answers and right now, in the middle of your living room, he might just burst into tears because he can’t understand the problem in front of him. Spencer doesn’t move an inch when you walk towards him. Still restless and fidgety, his eyes follow your every moment. Years ago, when you met, it might have been born out of curiosity but now it’s more of a habit. There’s a compulsion inside him to commit everything about you to his memory. Even though he likely won’t forget any of you.

"Well, Greek tragedies are notorious for having only one lesson,” you say. Your hands are itching to reach out for Spencer but his sudden withdrawal is still fresh in your mind. “No matter what you do, if the Fates decide you're doomed, you're screwed."

"It's a little more complicated than that,” he argues, yet again. “Like Oedipus, who caused his fate because he was trying to run from it. One could argue that the lesson from that is that running from difficult and scary things can have worse consequences than facing them."

Another siren resounds through Washington. You understand perfectly.

"Maybe the lesson is that humans, as we are, do stupid shit because of love.” Your suggestion is met with silence but not a lack of reaction: brown eyes study you from underneath furrowed eyebrows. You continue, just as Spencer opens his mouth to say something. “But to understand that, you must first know what it's like to love and despair.” His lips move as he silently repeats the words. Spencer’s expression simultaneously brightens and twists into further confusion, as though the answer he’s seeking is at the tip of your tongue. “I think that he turned around exactly because he loved her and couldn't imagine a life without her. If he could hold on and abide by the rule, why bring her back at all? He clearly can go on without seeing her again."

“If I were desperate enough to beg a god to bring you back, I don’t think I would have the resilience not to look back,” he reveals, a sound of surprise chiming in his voice. Spencer is just as shocked as you are at his admission. “I’m not even strong enough to go a day without thinking about you. Is that a bad thing?”

You tilt your head, watching his expression change as miriads of thoughts and scenarios dance through Spencer’s mind. Maybe you’re focusing on the wrong part of the confession but you can’t simply let it go. “Would you actually? Beg the god of the Underworld to bring me back?”

“Assuming he’s real, then yes,” he states matter-of-factly. Not a waver of hesitation in his voice. “I would exhaust every option to have you back with me.”

Perhaps it is only minds as sceptical as Spencer’s that can fully grasp what it means to beg a deity. Anyone else, those with a shred of belief, do not haggle with idols they don’t believe in. And what love and desperation one must feel to pray when they know that no one is listening? The only thing that answers is the echo of an empty church.

“But you would turn around to look at me and all of it would be for nothing. You said so yourself.”

His expression suddenly brightens – an unforeseen eureka. “I could blind myself. Then I wouldn’t be able to look at you.”

Bitter laughter escapes your lips as you shake your head at Spencer’s idea. “Okay, we’re not going there, love.”

“It’s all just hypotheticals.”

You place your hands on his shoulders. Suddenly nervous for a completely different reason, Spencer swallows thickly. His eyes are examining you, looking for the smallest indication of what you’re about to say or do.

“And I hypothetically do not want you to blind yourself to trick the god of the Underworld, who you had begged to bring me back from he dead,” you say in a calm voice, the same tone one would use with a fussy toddler. “That’s a sentence I’ve never thought I’d say.” As you laugh at the strangeness of the moment, Spencer involuntarily smiles. The spark in his eyes returns, although not for long. “Why are you so hung up on this anyway?”

Spencer looks away, again. “I need to know what the right answer is because… “His mouth is open but no word comes out. He shakes his head gently, chasing away doubts and fear. Finally, he looks at you in that sweet way you’ve missed so much. The skin around his eyes creases, giving in to a profound happiness that brings him to tears. Sometimes you wish you could see yourself through his eyes, maybe then you’d understand. “Because you’ve changed me. Thinking about whether I’d turn around or not made me realise that the more I love you, the more selfish I get.”

“How so?”

His arms wrap tightly around your waist. Even if you wanted to get away, there’s no way you could do that now. It can be quite strange how strongly humans hold things they deem precious. They could simply leave them alone, safe from harm but they insist on caging them with their hands. Perhaps that makes all the difference.

“I want you to be with me every day and every night,” Spencer admits. “Every step of this bitter life. I can’t imagine living without you but neither can I imagine dying and never seeing you again. I can’t live or die without you. Sometimes it feels like I'm not real if I'm not with you because you make me feel truly alive. When I’m not careful, my thoughts are filled with you. There’s always a song in the back of my head, something you’d sing to yourself, making breakfast or driving. Every breath feels wasted if it doesn’t overwhelm me with the smell of your hair or your perfume. It’s like a need or a compulsion that forces me to stay close to you every hour, every waking moment.”

“That’s not selfishness,” you reassure him. “That’s the same thing that brought Orpheus to the Underworld.”

“Then I promise to always turn around.”

Spencer kisses you slowly, savouring the moment. The sentiment quickly goes away as the two of you giggle into the pecks. One of his hands leaves your waist to hold your jaw instead. Laughter gently dies down as you melt into each other, lips greedily capturing lips. Hypotheticals matter little when your bodies are tangled. The world begins anew with each kiss and ends for a short moment when you need to take a breath.

Golden and brown leaves cover the rain-soaked pavement. Groups of students pass by you, their laughter carried by cold, autumn wind. Grey clouds cover the once blue sky, foretelling weeks without sunlight and dry shoes. Old, baronial-style walls stare down at you with both curiosity and dominance. They were here long before you and will house generations born after your old bones turn into dust and return to the earth. Spiked tops of soaring towers claw at the rainclouds hanging over your head. They demand respect from Mother Nature, showing her that she’s not the only creature defying mortality. Standing before the grand university building, you feel small and inconsequential. You will never impress the spirit of this place. You’re merely a guest, a passerby.

Spencer isn’t as taken with the centuries-old university as you. He pulls you out of your thoughts with a question:

“What are we looking for exactly?”

Suddenly remembering why you came here in the first place, you pull out a notebook from your bag. Its edges are torn, old stains litter what was once a maroon cover. Small papers and bookmarks stick out from the ledger, each of them a different case you have investigated over the years. You open the notebook close to its back cover, sparking an idea for the perfect Christmas gift in Spencer’s head.

“There are several claims,” you say, looking through pages of handwritten notes. “But I picked the ones that have a little more detail than strange lights or unexplained sounds. You’d be surprised how many ghosts are actually water pipes. Oh, here it is. The first one happened not too far from here.”

As befits the superhero’s sidekick, Spencer silently follows you. He notices how students and university employees watch the two of you, clearly recognising the unfamiliarity of your faces. You, however, seem to be too preoccupied with your notes to see that. The unexpected attention flusters him. Given his experience with school, Spencer can’t help but feel eyes burning into his skin. He tries to remind himself that he’s no longer a student. His mind, ever busy, recalls what you have told him about your university days. You’ve shown him pictures of you from back then and although you made fun of the way you looked in your earliest twenties, he couldn’t agree with your comments. Spencer thought you looked really pretty in those photographs. Somehow, in a way that escapes his understanding, you’ve only grown more beautiful. He doesn’t believe in magic or the supernatural but in that one case, he’s inclined to believe that you’re something more than just a girl who randomly met him. That would explain the power you hold over him.

Lost in his own thoughts, Spencer doesn’t notice when you stop walking. He bumps into your shoulder, awkwardly apologising right after. A blush creeps onto his cheeks when he meets your curious gaze. He hates how easily he turns into a teenage boy around you but, at the same time, Spencer has no control over that.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” you ask.

His embarrassment only deepens. “N-nothing in particular,” he answers, a bit too quickly to be believable.

A sly grin enters your face but you don’t pry. Given the redness in Spencer’s face, you can guess fairly accurately what was on his mind. Honestly, when is it not you?

He clears his throat, looking around. “So, uhm, what ghost haunts a path with a bench?”

Spencer makes a good point – nothing about this part of the courtyard particularly screams ‘haunted’. The old metal bench and tall street lamps are on par with the dated architecture of the campus. In the distance, a greying maintenance worker is raking fallen leaves. When he stops the motion for a second, you can just about hear his faint whistling. Slowly revealed cut grass is a testament to the groundskeepers’ sense of duty. Spencer and you are standing on a narrow path laid with stone slabs. From what you can see, it leads straight to the deambulatory circling the main building. The clicking of heels echoes through the gallery as groups of students make their way to class or to grab lunch at a nearby cafe.

“The kind that likes to stare at people,” you answer. “Sarah Mortensen was walking down this path one night when she saw someone in that building.” You point at the structure in front of you, running perpendicular to the deambulatory to your right. Nothing about it stands out, aside from the mess seen through the windows. It looks as though a janitor, thrown into an episode of mania, attempted to renovate the rooms. When the high subsided, so did their efforts and the disarray was left waiting. “The ghost part of the story is that no one has entered that building since the morning on the day of. Employee-only spaces use a keycard to open doors. System logs every entry.”

“But not when they leave.” Spencer’s eyebrows furrow. The adorable look of the frown completely distracts from what’s going on inside his thoughts. “Someone could have entered and waited inside.”

“Could be,” you nod. “According to Sarah, the lights were turned off when she was walking by. She didn’t see a body, just the silhouette of a man. He was walking in the same direction she was, stopped suddenly and resumed walking.” Your finger drags from left to right, portraying the events. “What really scared her was that moment of stillness, when they were staring at each other.”

“Is it possible that someone got inside through a window?”

You answer with a shake of your head. “Not likely. All windows open from the inside and the next morning, when campus police came to investigate, they were all closed. No sign of a break-in either.”

“Do you know what they keep inside there?” Spencer leans forward, trying to get a better look. He could just walk up to the windows. For some reason, he stays glued to your side. “I can see chairs and tables.”

“Yeah, it’s a university-grade junk drawer. Only dilapidated furniture, which makes me think that Sarah didn’t accidentally witness a robbery. There’s nothing of value to steal.”

A group of students passes by the two of you. At first, they only stare, studying the strangers whose attention is focused on a very uninteresting part of the campus. Then, when they’re just out of earshot, you hear their muffled whispers. Before they disappear around the corner, the group gives you and Spencer one last look. They seem to be both curious and suspicious.

Spencer brings your interest back to the case at hand or, more probably, to himself:

“If she caught someone in the act of doing something criminal, they wouldn’t be standing and staring at her. They would  probably start running or try to attack her.”

That is another good point – whoever Sarah saw that night, he didn’t feel threatened by her presence. The fact that he stared at her for a moment could mean that he was equally curious about her as she was about him.

Spencer looks around again, although you’re quite certain he’s learnt the area the first time he glanced at the lamps and the bench. When his lips start to move in inaudible whispers, you realise he’s not simply familiarising himself with the surroundings. “She’s a young woman, walking home alone after dark,” Spencer begins, his voice slightly absent as he’s lost in his thoughts. “There are a lot of lamps here. This area must be well-lit at night, which is probably why she chose this route. Sarah took precautions and paid attention to her surroundings. She noticed the man because she was actively looking for possible danger.” His gaze returns to you. Brown eyes stare at you with that inquisitive look befitting an experienced FBI agent. “Maybe she was scared of somebody.”

Spencer’s conclusions make you think. To be exact, only some of it grabs your attention. If the area is so well-lit, why did Sarah see only the silhouette of the man? Secondly, if she were scared of someone, she wouldn’t stand around and stare at the faceless stranger. 

Staring at your notes, you tap your pen against the page in a steady but rapid rhythm. Spencer knows exactly what it means – you’re chasing a thought, a conclusion almost within your grasp.

The moment of enlightenment feels almost divine, even though you know it’s just your mind putting all the pieces together. Your face momentarily lights up as the stranger in the window suddenly makes perfect sense. Spencer unknowingly bites down on his lower lip, seeing your expression. He won’t admit it but he got a little jealous that a ghost story, not him, makes you smile like that. He really thought he had a monopoly.

“This is so simple, we’re like two halves of one fool, sweetheart,” you say. A giggle escapes your lips as you slightly shake your head. With your combined experience, this little mystery shouldn’t have taken you so long to solve. “She’s walking at night, it’s dark outside. There are a lot of lights here but the inside of the building is pitch black. The windows would act like mirrors, right? Sarah didn’t see anyone inside, she saw someone walking behind her. Whoever it was probably stopped when he noticed her stopping and staring at something. He didn’t see anything strange and kept on going. Probably turned the corner into the deambulatory and she never noticed him. If she heard his footsteps on the gallery floor, she didn’t associate them with her ghost.”

“So, an optical illusion.” Spencer can’t help the shy smile appearing on his face when you laugh at his dry joke. He knows he doesn’t have the most relatable sense of humour but if it makes you laugh, it’s the only kind he wants or needs.

“Come on, pretty boy.” Your lips meet his cheek in a chaste yet exciting kiss. “There are two more ghosts haunting this place.”

With a doofy smile, Spencer follows you as though an invisible chain disallowed him from being more than a few feet away from you. His face grows a few shades redder as your words, ‘pretty boy’, echo inside his head, silencing coherent thoughts. Maybe ghost hunting isn’t so bad? He could definitely get used to this.

Walking through the campus, you can’t help but notice the occasional date that, unless the couple finds a private place, will definitely end in public indecency. Seeing students in love makes you think back to your own experiences – first kiss, first boyfriend, first ‘I think I’m in love with him’. Whether it’s a conscious decision or not, you find yourself reaching for Spencer’s hand. Gladly, he intertwines your fingers. The warmth and familiarity of his touch sparks a juvenile giddiness inside you. It’s not all that different from what the couples making out by the riverbank are feeling right now.

“You know,” you speak up after a moment of comfortable silence, “that could have been us a few years ago.”

Spencer stares at you in confusion until you nod towards the young love blooming nearby. His lips press together as he looks away from the couples occupying the wide lawn.

“I don’t think so,” he answers awkwardly. “You wouldn’t have liked me back then. Plus, I was like fourteen.”

You giggle but not because you find his observation funny. In truth, you find his claim downright ridiculous. “I’m sure that fourteen-year-old Spencer was the cutest baby ever.” Then, you stop walking and turn to face Spencer. You know he isn’t the type of person to let his mouth run pointlessly, which makes you feel that there’s something he needs to hear from you. Holding both of his hands, you look right into his eyes. Every word you say comes out with a weight to it. You mean each of them. “I don’t think there’s a version of you I couldn’t love.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. At first, he furrows his eyebrows, silently scrutinising parts of your confession. When he can’t find an inkling of dishonesty, Spencer’s expression softens, appearing almost as sad as it is anxious.

“Even when I, you know…” his voice trails off, unwilling to speak into reality the months he wants to forget.

One of your hands gently cups the side of his face. He leans into the touch with a certain greediness that befits people whose hearts are filled with unspeakable yearning. His struggle with sobriety changed the two of you, there is no denying that. You remember those days when Spencer was stuck between the craving and the desperation to get better. He was being ripped open in the most violent of ways and the only thing you could do was sit beside him. No matter how much you begged some older, wiser being beyond your understanding, there was no possibility of taking his suffering on yourself. There was no sea monster you could kill for a god’s favour like the mythical heroes used to do. You could only watch as Spencer died with each craving, only to be reborn when the shakes temporarily subsided.

“Especially then, Spence,” you say. “Now come on, we’ve got two more on our list.”

But before you can nudge him onwards, Spencer grabs your face and places a kiss on the top of your head. There is something desperate, pathetic, in the way he’s clinging on to you.

Your walk comes to a halt in a less-than-welcoming place. The bathroom has definitely seen better days, just not during the last few decades. There are multiple cracks in the mirrors as well as the floor tiles. Paint is chipping off the stalls. Words, both vulgar and random, are scratched into the doors. The artificial lemon scent filling the room is suffocating.

This time around, Spencer isn’t so surprised by the place of the alleged haunting. To be fair, the bathroom looks not only haunted but as though someone tried to fight the ghost already. More than once.

You push open the door to the third stall from the entrance. The hinges whine slightly. All things considered, the place looks completely normal. “A haunted toilet,” you announce, unsure if the claim is funny or ridiculous. “Gary said he was partying with his friends, came back late. The alcohol got to him and he went into this bathroom instead of the one in the dorm. According to him, there was a ‘demon inside the toilet’. And it’s not a euphemism.”

“Why would that be a euphemism?”

“You have never seen a bathroom at a club, have you?”

A sheepish expression on his face, Spencer shakes his head. You sigh, realising that since he’s never been at a club outside of a case, he probably never had a chance to see what’s really going on in there during the night.

“Nothing you’re missing out on,” you say before Spencer can ask for clarification. “Anyway, as I said, Gary was drunk, probably on cheap alcohol, as students do. Maybe he was more intoxicated than he thought and started seeing things?”

“Not necessarily. Hallucinations can happen with prolonged alcohol abuse but rarely appear in occasional drinking. Unless he has a history of mental disorders or took something else, like LSD or metaamphetamine, the ethanol itself wouldn’t cause this.”

Staring at his profile, you can almost see the wheels turning inside his head. Last night, Spencer was questioning you as to why you would want him to come along for a ghost hunt. He’s an FBI agent, for crying out loud. Urban legends are a bit below him. He reluctantly agreed, seeing this as an opportunity to spend more time with you. Now, he’s standing in a campus bathroom, putting that genius brain of his into solving a mystery that is more ridiculous and less interesting than socks disappearing in the dryer. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s trying to impress you.

“You know,” you say, dragging out vowels, “because of you, I stopped googling things.”

Spencer looks at you, confused. “Because of me?”

“Yeah, it’s faster to just ask you.” Your answer is way too casual for what the confession entails. What Spencer is hearing is that you’ve become oh-so-sweetly dependent on him. “And I can’t help wanting pretty boy’s attention all to myself.”

Spencer suddenly becomes all too aware of how close your bodies are. Trying to both fit in the doorway of the bathroom stall, your back pushed against his side. If he wanted to, Spencer could easily rest his hand where it probably shouldn’t be in a public setting. No matter how much he wants to do that.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this,” he whispers, left hand curling into a fist to try and keep his composure, “but can we do it outside of the haunted bathroom? This place looks like it hasn’t been properly cleaned since the toilet demon got here.”

The mention of the gnarly ghoul residing in the bathroom makes you laugh. Nothing about this sounds serious but you made a promise to get to the bottom of the mystery. “Fair point. Infection is a real mood killer,” you nod in agreement. “Maybe he just passed out and had a dream about a toilet demon? It could be a case of sleep paralysis.”

“Ingesting alcohol does disrupt the sleep cycle, mainly REM,  increasing the likelihood of very vivid dreams or sleep paralysis,” Spencer recites. “Gary could have just had a nightmare.”

Before you can call it quits, a nudge of journalistic intuition makes you check your notebook again. You sigh and shake your head, realising that this isn’t as easy as you’d like it to be. Then, you feel Spencer’s hand on your waist as he leans forward to look over your shoulder and read the notes. Now, that’s just plain unfair of him.

“There’s only one problem with that theory,” you say quietly. With each exhale, you can feel Spencer’s breath on your neck. “Except for a massive hangover, he didn’t have injuries. If he fell asleep in the stall, he’d probably hit his head on the toilet, against the wall or even the floor. Actually, that kind of impact would wake him up immediately, no?”

“Not if he drank as much as he claims to have.” His low tone reaches parts other than just your ears. It travels somewhere deep, making you bite down on your lip. “When people pass out from significant alcohol consumption, it’s very difficult to wake them up and even if you do, they remain conscious only for a few seconds.”

“What could scare him inside the toilet?”

To his utmost displeasure, you escape Spencer’s hold only to crouch in front of the toilet. He remains right where he stood, unwilling to touch any of the bathroom surfaces. You open the lid and look closely at the white plastic. It just looks old and dirty. Spencer’s face twists into a grimace as he watches you scrub something off the lid with your fingernail. When you’re ready to leave, he will surely inspect how well you wash your hands.

The black and red particles on your finger are strangely rubbery. Feeling lucky today, you even try to smell them. The chemical aroma, along with weird texture, gives you an idea.

“Huh, would you look at that.” You show your fingers to Spencer, who takes a step back.

“That’s paint,” he answers, a questioning tone in his voice. He seems just as surprised as you are.

You push past him towards the sinks. As you dip your soaped hands into hot water, you look at Spencer’s reflection in the mirror in front of you.

“I think I know what he saw,” you start. “Someone painted a face on the lid. When Gary rushed to return his night of drinking, the first thing he saw was that face. Add in the fact that he’s inebriated and bam! A toilet demon.”

You watch as Spencer raises his eyebrows, contemplating your theory. Then, he furrows them and nods quietly to himself. Another ghost story has an FBI seal of approval.

Morning turns into afternoon when you reach the last supposed ‘crime scene’. The two of you are standing by the window, in a corridor leading to a rather large, two-floor library. The walls are covered with pictures from the last sixty years. All of them commemorate award winners, special events and famous guest lecturers, whom Spencer knew. Not only does he know all of their names but he went on about what field each of them specialises in. There’s a part of you that’s convinced that he’s making up half the complicated, science-y words on the spot. They don’t sound like the English you know.

“This one’s a doozy,” you say, leaning against the wall. “Mary Wilkinson was smoking by this window one evening when she witnessed a woman falling to her death. When Mary ran outside to help that woman, she was already gone. No blood, drag marks or other witnesses. Because she was on the first floor and the courtyard is well-lit at night, Mary got a good look at the woman’s face. The next day, she went around campus asking about the mysterious woman but no one remembered her. Mary checked the newspaper, even called a few hospitals. No Jane Doe found.”

There’s that cute frown again.

“Even if someone was killed before being dropped, there would be blood around the body,” Spencer thinks aloud. “Unless it was an embalmed corpse, that would explain the lack of blood and no notice in the newspaper. It wouldn’t be a newly-discovered body.”

Sometimes you think it’s weird how your boyfriend knows so much about corpses, death and mutilation but then you remember that you know quite a lot about crazy folk beliefs, old execution methods and body disposal. A match made in Heaven! Or rather Hell, depending on the perspective.

“Why would somebody throw a corpse out of the window?” you ask. “That has to be the least inconspicuous way of getting rid of evidence.”

“Maybe they wanted somebody to see.” Spencer opens the window and leans out, looking at what’s in the vicinity. From what you can tell, standing behind him, there’s only the courtyard and the deambulatory. “It could be a sadistic need for inciting fear and creating a legend around the killer. Feeds their ego.”

Finished with his inspection, Spencer closes the window. Only now do you notice how cold the corridor has become with the draft. Even if someone paid you, you wouldn’t stand here and smoke a cigarette as cold, autumn wind nips at your skin.

Desiring to be a killer of legends could make sense but it doesn’t account for the other strange things in Mary’s story. “Then why hide the body so fast?” you continue. “Mary had to walk down two flights of stairs to get to where the body fell. It would take some strength to pick up the body and get out of sight so quickly. Especially, when you can’t be sure how long it’s going to take the witness to come down.”

“A disappearing body makes a good story.” Spencer gives you an amused look. “Someone might even make a show out of it,” he adds.”

Gasping, you feign shock. “Spencer Reid, I didn’t know you were into dramatised retellings of hoaxes and unsolved mysteries.”

He laughs shortly at your theatrics. Spencer leans closer to you, his fingers gently caressing your hair and the side of your face. There’s an adoring look in his eyes. Its intensity flusters you and you try to look away but Spencer is having none of that. Resting on your jaw, his hand keeps your face mere inches away from his.

“I’m not but the pretty girl I’m kind of in love with is,” he answers.

“Such a lovely euphemism, ‘kind of’.” Jokingly, you roll your eyes. “Everybody knows you’re wrapped around my finger, darling.”

“It’s a great place to be.”

The earnest answer makes you blush. He says such wonderful things while making them sound like facts of nature. Perhaps to Spencer, they are just that – objective facts that he has the privilege of openly stating.

“Are you, like, flirting with me?”

“Is it working?” he asks back, nothing but honesty ringing in his voice.

You kiss him and he gladly accepts the gesture, returning it with even more enthusiasm. Spencer’s other hand circles your waist, pulling your body closer, flush against his. The kiss is slow, meant to be savoured with every long, lingering second that it lasts. When you finally pull away, he absentmindedly chases after your lips.

“How’s that for an answer?” you whisper.

Spencer barely registers your words, his eyes focused on your mouth. “I’m not sure, you might have to elaborate.”

Your giggles are stifled with another kiss. His hand moves from your jaw to tangle into your hair. Getting lost in the moment, you wrap your arms around his neck. Spencer smiles into the kiss. You’re no better than the kids making out by the river.

A loud harrumphing interrupts your little show of indecency. Despite being adults, Spencer and you almost jump away from each other like a pair of teenagers caught by their parents. The person who took offence to your romp appears to be a middle-aged man carrying a few books under his arm. Keen eyes behind rectangular glasses flicker between the two of you. A quirked brow poses a silent question.

“Terribly sorry, sir,” you apologise quickly. “We were just about to leave.”

You grab Spencer’s elbow and pull him towards the stairs, flashing the man an awkward smile. His gaze follows you until you disappear, descending the staircase. Thankfully, you don’t actually attend this university and don’t have to come back. Ever.

Only when you reach the courtyard do you let go of his arm. A flush of embarrassment makes your face feel hot. Spencer stares at you with a confused frown, not entirely sure why you’re suddenly so nervous. He finds you adorable, with red cheeks and a flustered look.

Even your anxious giggle is cute to him. “Just so we’re clear, this is all your fault,” you say.

“What?” Spencer laughs at your ridiculous accusation. “You kissed me first.”

“Yeah, because you said how nice it is to be wrapped around my finger.” The tone of your voice makes it sound like he had just asked an obvious question with an even more obvious answer. “What else was I supposed to do? Give you a ‘thank you’ card?”

“I only told the truth,” he states casually. “You decided to be indecent.”

You raise your eyebrows, hearing his apparent lack of responsibility. “Don’t pretend you had no part in that. You clearly liked my indecency.”

Spencer’s expression suddenly changes. Confusion subsides and is replaced with something softer, yet harder to put into words. “I like a lot of things about you,” he says after a short moment of silence.

Your heart flutters as though you’re a schoolgirl with a crush. It will forever remain a mystery to you how he can so easily make you a lonely planet orbiting the brightest star. “Spence, you’re doing it again.” Your voice comes out quiet, partly because you’re anxious to let him know just how much power he holds over you.

His voice comes out almost like a desperate whine. “How can you expect me to stop when you’re the prettiest girl in the world?”

You laugh at his question. What you would normally call cheesy or obnoxious sounds perfectly suave when it’s coming from Spencer. Maybe because you know he’s not putting on an act – he says what he means and means what he says.

“Wow, laying it on thick, aren’t we?” you ask nervously between giggles. “Let’s find Mary’s ghost and then you can wax poetic all you want, alright?”

“It was a mannequin used in a school play,” he says quickly. Lips pressed into a thin line, he’s staring at you, waiting. There’s a sense of impatience to his fidgeting fingers and darting eyes. He wants the case of the ghost to be over so he can carry on with things he actually enjoys. Like being a little indecent with you.

“And how do you know that?” you ask, suspicion burning in your squinted eyes.

At first, he feels a little guilty for holding back the crucial information but then he reminds himself that he had a good reason. Feeling your scrutiny on him, Spencer clears his throat. “There was a picture of the cast on the wall, taken on the opening night,” he explains. A blush creeps on his cheeks. “I-I might have read a little of your notes back in the bathroom and knew what the face looked like.”

Spencer’s gaze falls to the tips of his shoes. He hasn’t done anything wrong per se but he still feels guilty for not being completely honest with you. After all this time and confessions of love, he’s still chasing your approval as he did the moment he met you. As pathetic as it may sound, Spencer only wants to know that he’s treating you the way you deserve.

“So even though you knew all that, you still played along and pretended to be solving a mystery you had already solved?” you sum up. Still refusing to meet your gaze, Spencer nods. “Tsk, you are one bad boy, Spence.”

“You looked so excited,” he says, as if he’s a child scolded by their parent, “I didn’t want to ruin your fun.”

You set the coffee on a nearby table before coming closer to the two-way mirror. Rossi glances at you, his hands hidden in his pockets. Even in the darkness of the room, he can see the way you’re nervously chewing the inside of your cheek. With a small sigh, his gaze returns to the scene inside the interrogation room: Hotch confronting the man responsible for ten deaths.

“How’s it going?” you ask, quietly.

“Slow and painful,” Rossi answers. A tone of defeat rings in his voice. “At least for us. He seems to be having fun.”

“Hotch seems frustrated.”

The older man glances at you again. Hotchner is facing the criminal sitting opposite him, so you can’t see his face. Even so, through the way his body stiffens, you can easily tell his mood. ‘To be loved is to be known,’ as some would say.

“Who wouldn’t?” Rossi’s eyes focus on the scruffy men handcuffed to the table. His hands clench into fists inside his pockets when he recalls the macabre fate of the victims.

Hotch suddenly yells accusations at the man in front of him, hands slamming the table separating them. The murderer, however, continues to be still. Completely unaffected, except for a small, sly smile appearing on his lips. He looks insidious.

“Maybe that’s the point?” you think aloud. “He’s enjoying the fact that we’re banging our heads against the wall.”

“Well, if we stop banging, we will never know what happened to Jane Roberts.”

A nervous silence falls between the two of you. Anxiety and helplessness crawl up your spine, eating at your every coherent thought. Your fingers fidget, desperately looking for a way to relieve the unbearable, growing tension.

Hotch continues his aggressive, yet largely ineffective, interrogation. It’s been two hours and he’s no closer than he was before making the arrest. Your frustrated mind begins searching for new ideas: there has to be a better way to get him to talk. This can’t be it. No, the word ‘impasse’ doesn’t exist in your vocabulary. You’ve always made sure of that.

“You know, back at the Academy, I roomed with a girl who worked park-time as a call girl,” you begin, remembering something that might yet be of help. “Not the paid sex kind, it was more of a paid girlfriend experience.”

Rossi furrows eyebrows in confusion. He may have a less-than-ideal relationship history but he’s never sunk that low. “Guys would pay her to go on a date with them?”

An airy chuckle leaves your lips upon seeing his reaction. Truth be told, you were just as surprised when you learnt about that.

“As crazy as it sounds, the money was really good,” you say. “She’d always pick up the check when we went out. Sometimes I asked her for dating advice but she always said that she’s an expert at making men think they’re dating her, not actually dating them.”

Hotch yells again, making the scruffy man in front of him laugh.

“Any wise words that might help us here?”

Lonely businessmen might not have a lot in common with serial killers but they’re all men - there must be something connecting them at a basic level.

“She told me once that most men are identical, deep down,” you recall. “They all want to feel powerful, admired and accomplished. Their sense of power lies either in violence or sexual prowess, although most of the time, those are enmeshed. A vulnerable woman plays into their needs and fantasies, whether they know it or not. The difference is some will help her change the tyre, while others will kill her with a tyre iron.”

“But at the end of the day, it all comes down to the same need,” Rossi sums up, clearly pondering your words.

“It doesn’t always work, obviously.” You shake your head slightly. “Spencer would probably do neither and start talking about manufacturing tyres or the dangers of having the wrong pressure inside them.”

Rossi chuckles in agreement. If there is one person who can be used as an exception to a rule, it’s the boy wonder currently looking at maps of the local area.

“What do you make of these two?” Rossi asks, vaguely pointing at the tense scene playing out behind the pane.

“Normally, I’d say that Hotch is the type to change the tyre but right now?” You rub your hands together in slight discomfort. This is the first time you’ve ever seen Aaron acting like this. How much of it is an act, how much truth? “He looks like he’s about to kill someone with a tyre iron.”

“The problem is our unsub has more experience in that.”

Rossi’s defeated comment gives you an idea. Not a great one, definitely not an exciting one, but an idea that might yet be a checkmate. If the mountain doesn’t come to Muhammed, Muhammed must go to the mountain. Or, in this case, if the head stops banging against the wall, maybe the wall will come to the head.

“If he’s comfortable being the killing kind and not the helpful kind, we should probably use that,” you state. “Force his guard down. With Hotch descending on him, he’s focused on keeping his cards close. Maybe we’ll get him talking if he thinks we don’t know he’s holding that tyre iron.”

Rossi shakes his head. “It’s too late for that. He knows we’re unto him.”

“No, he knows you’re onto him,” you point out, making Rossi stare at you with squinted eyes. Reading between the lines. “You and Hotch. He hasn’t seen me yet.”

Intrigued as he is concerned, Rossi turns to rest his shoulder against the pane. Not watching Hotch’s futile attempts, his attention is now focused solely on you.

“Be straight with me, kid,” he orders.

The realisation dawns on you at that moment. Should he agree to your proposal, you will have to go through with it. Sit in front of a man who eats girls like you for breakfast. Even if Rossi dismissed your suggestion, you can’t take your words back. He will know how far you’re willing to go to succeed. For now, you’re unsure whether that’s good or bad.

“I’m gonna go in there, pretending to have no knowledge of his crimes or his victims,” you say. If he can see through your false confidence, he doesn’t let on. “I’ll play right into his little power fantasy and when he lets his guard down, I’ll nudge him into giving up Jane’s whereabouts.”

Rossi stares at you in silence. The longer he goes without saying a word, the more you’re convinced he’s in agreement. He’s probably gauging Hotchner’s reaction or his own thoughts about the possible consequences: will he be able to live with himself if you do go inside and things go sideways?

Finally, Rossi opens the door to the interrogation room. Hotch looks at him with a confused expression, but follows the man anyway. David wouldn’t barge in without a good reason.

Hotch stares between you and Rossi. Although he appears collected, there’s a sense of impatience in the way his eyes flicker. He doesn’t want to waste what little time you have.

“She wants to do it,” Rossi says, painting at you.

Hotch gives you a suspicious look before turning his attention back to the other man. “Do what?”

“Tell him, kid. It’s your idea.”

Rossi walks away from the conversation. He reaches for the now lukewarm coffee and stares at the unsub on the other side of the two-way mirror.

“I know we’re all doing our best here,” you begin, slowly crumbling under Aaron’s watchful gaze, “but this is getting nowhere. Clearly, that twisted cockroach of a person is having fun, while we’re ripping our hair out. Instead of putting up a fight, I think we should coerce him. Play into his fantasy.”

An almost imperceptible twitch of his facial muscles tells you everything you need to know - he’s already got a pretty good guess what you’re about to say. Still, he wants to hear you put it into words. Maybe there’s even a semblance of naive hope inside him, that you turn out to be more reasonable than he assumes.

“What are you suggesting?” he asks.

“I’ll go in there,” you state. The darkness of the room makes you almost miss the way his expression hardens. Defiance. “If he thinks I’m all pliant and vulnerable, he will put his guard down. Treat me like one of his victims. Then, when he doesn’t know he’s being played, I’ll get him to talk.”

Hotch doesn’t answer right away. Just like Rossi did, he’s pondering the consequences. In Aaron’s case, the situation might be even more complicated. How can he send the woman he loves into a room with a man who knows no fear or morality? After always making sure you’re safe, risking his own life to save yours, he’s being asked to leave you unprotected. Exposed.

In a way that defies all logic and natural laws, he nods quietly.

“I don’t like this,” he says after a while.

“None of us do,” Rossi chimes in. “But she’s right. We’re getting nowhere. For all we know, Jane Roberts might already be dead.”

Aaron clenches his jaw tightly. Two aspects of his life clash, leaving chaos and indecisiveness in their wake. Perhaps love and logic exist on one spectrum, always tugging and pulling in their own directions. The closer he steps to one of the ends, the more enticing its opposite seems.

Hotch exhales loudly, signalling a choice has been made.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks. What may sound like the stern voice of a leader hides a heartfelt tremble between words. Whether he’s putting up a front for you or himself, no one can really know.

“I’m sure we’re out of options and Jane is running out of time,” you answer.

Aaron’s gaze meets yours in a silent confrontation. A wordless probing, an attempt at seeing beyond what he’s shown. The look in his brown eyes softens, appearing somewhat sad, if not apologetic.

“He’s handcuffed to the table, he can’t hurt you,” he reassures. You think the words are more of a reminder for himself, rather than for you. It’s Aaron who needs to justify this decision to his own conscience.

Aaron Hotchner, however, isn’t the only person capable of reading between the lines, hearing conversations in silent rooms. In the confines of his home, you’ve learnt to see what lies behind the mask of an FBI Unit Chief.

“Even if he could, I know you’d stop him in time,” you answer, pertaining to all the things he’s too afraid to say outside the comfort of his bedroom.

It’s a split second but it happens nonetheless - a flicker of a smile appears on his face. Yes, to be loved is to be known. Right now, Aaron Hotchner is eternally grateful that the woman in front of him knows him almost better than he knows himself. Anybody else might crumble underneath the plight he carries within but not you. No, you treat old bruises and unhealed wounds like stars aligned in a yet unknown constellation. Only for you do they make sense and dear God, is it beautiful.

“You can end this whenever you want,” he continues. “Even if he doesn’t tell us the location of the body, I won’t be angry with you.”

“I know.” The tone of your voice sounds a bit too casual for the task awaiting you. “You like me too much to be angry.”

His lips stretch into a small, hel-back smile. “I will be here all the time.”

“Hey, Rossi!” You call out to the other man, who until now has been pretending to not hear a sliver of your conversation with Aaron. “Make sure Agent Hotchner doesn’t lose it, alright?”

“I’ll see what I can do but no promises,” he answers with apparent amusement. “I still have a few things I want to do in life.”

“Watch and learn, honey,” you whisper to Aaron before entering the interrogation room.

The door closes behind you with a fateful click. Like a ringing bell in a theatre, the curtains open and you must convince the audience that your act is genuine. Hopefully, your middle school drama teacher was right and you do have a talent for dramatics.

The man sitting at the table watches you like a predator. His eyes notice every small detail - the flow of your hair, the creases in your clothes, the slight glimmer of jewellery. Even the adorable way you nervously bite the inside of your cheek. He waits for you to sit down before he speaks:

“Well, hello there, little lady.”

In any other circumstance, you would bite back with a positively ‘unladylike’ response. Feeling Aaron’s stare on the back of your head, you give the murderer in front of you a coy smile.

“Good morning, mister Beckett,” you greet him. 

“I ain’t no mister, love.” The confident tone assures you that you’re neither the first nor last woman he’s spoken to this way. “Just Neil.”

“Of course, Neil.”

The man leans back in his chair. Lips turn into a sinister grin.

“Say it again,” he demands in a low voice.

“Neil,” you repeat, pretending that you don’t know why he’d ask you to do so.

Beckett’s sly smirk only widens, a wild look shines in his eyes. He makes you think of a nature documentary you’ve seen a long time ago. In there, a slowed-down footage showed a tiger at the zoo, attempting to pounce on one of the visitors when they turned their back to the animal. The only thing that saved them was a thick pane of plexiglass. Whether a beast is caged or not doesn’t change the fact that it remains a beast. No matter what we tell ourselves.

Hotch lets out a long exhale. If the breathing exercise is meant to help, it’s doing a poor job. Rossi tells him a reassuring ‘she’s okay’ but it does little to curb Aaron’s anger. He knows all too well what Neil Beckett felt the moment you said his name. Hotch feels that same primitive want and possessiveness every night, when your desperate gasps of pleasure fill what little space is left between your bodies. No other man should ever hear those sweet sounds. They wouldn’t know how to care for such a gift.

“What can I do for you, love?” asks Neil. He’s eyeing your silhouette with little, if any, reluctance. You take that as a good sign. After all, you are putting on a show just for him.

“Actually, I should be the one asking you this,” you answer, still as innocent as he wants you to be. “The FBI agents had to leave for a while. I’m here to make sure you’re comfortable and cared for.”

Neil Beckett leans forward. The low-hanging lamp is directly above his head, covering half of his face in a shadow. Whoever said that the devil has horns and hooves was deeply mistaken. Instead of looking like a goat, he resembles an average man living in the country: hay-coloured fine hair, a torn plaid shirt, sunburnt neck. A smell of motor oil and freshly cut wood surrounds him like an ominous miasma.

“So it’s just the two of us?” he asks, thrill peeking out from between his words.

“Yes, mis-...” you hang your voice, offering a smile. “Neil,” you correct yourself. “There’s just you and me, Neil.”

The answer seems to satisfy him. Restless, he begins to bounce his leg. His eyes flicker down your blouse, then at the two-way mirror behind you. Little does he know that Aaron meets his gaze. Hotch recognises the sexual, sadistic frenzy in Neil’s eyes. Aaron forcefully unclenches his hands, feeling how the tight grip is shooting pain through his joints.

“Turns out her friend was right,” Rossi says without looking at Hotch. “Some men can’t tell between lust and violence.”

“Maybe someone should teach him,” Hotch answers under his breath.

Rossi gives him an amused look that quickly turns into a sign of concern. Nothing about Hotchner’s stern expression suggests the comment is a joke. In fact, it seems like a promise or a resolution.

“He’ll get some good teaching in prison,” David says. Considering the ages of the victims and what Beckett has done to them, the lesson learnt behind bars will be fatal.

The thought of Neil dying after the first prison beating doesn’t satisfy Hotch. If anything, it fuels his anger. Still, Aaron tells himself that he’s not a sadist. Exercising justice is much, much different from vengeance or pleasure from violence.

Neil Beckett sharply tugs at his handcuffs. The table loudly drags against the floor. Your heart skips a beat, adrenaline tickles the tips of your fingers but you do your best to keep a coy, warm expression. Men bigger than Neil couldn’t free themselves; there’s nothing to worry about. Even if he did, Aaron is a few meters away.

There’s nothing to worry about.

Facing a definite defeat, Neil leans even closer to you. His face is no more than a hand’s length away from yours. As a last-resort defence, you could, of course, spit on him. Not that it would do much.

“I could make us both more comfortable and cared for,” he drones through clenched teeth, “if you took off these handcuffs.”

As befits this type of killer, his resolve is almost non-existent. Whatever he wants, he must get immediately. Growing frustration is the key to making him talk about Jane Roberts but not yet. First, you must make him believe that he has you all pliant and coerced.

You give him a sad, almost pitiful, smile. “I’m afraid Agent Hotchner left with the key.”

Now both of his legs are bouncing erratically. Is this what the tiger felt before pouncing on the tourist behind the plexiglass?

“No need to be afraid, doll,” he says. His tailored appearance is steadily slipping, revealing another piece of the true horrors churning inside him. It won’t be long before you see exactly what Jane Roberts did. “It’s just you and me… You and me,” he repeats, more to himself than to you.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Neil?” you ask.

It’s for the better that Aaron can’t see your face. If he did, he’d see the same big eyes you give him in the mornings, begging for just another five minutes before starting the day. So far, he has yielded each time. Had Hotchner seen the way you’re looking at Neil Beckett, his iron resolve would crumble immediately. Those pleading, glistening eyes are only for him. Other men might find them too inviting.

“We could talk,” Neil answers. “The other guy only knows how to yell. He better not be yellin’ at you, doll. I’d have to sort him out.”

When you giggle at the thinly veiled threat, Aaron clenches his hands into fists again. He knows you don’t mean it - nothing about Neil’s thinly veiled threat is amusing or heartwarming to you. Even so, Hotch can’t quite hold back the putrid feelings stewing inside him. He’s never considered himself a jealous man but a principled one. Standing in that dark room, watching you play coy with a criminal who only sees you as prey, he finally makes that admission to himself. He, Aaron Hotchner, is jealous that another man is hearing all your sweet sounds committed to his memory. While he realises his possessiveness is infantile at best, a semblance of pride justifies his anger. After all, wouldn’t any man in his place feel just as bitter? In fact, Hotch is doing much better than what would be expected of him in this moment - he stalls, trusting your judgement and skills. He could barge in and tell Neil Beckett exactly what he thinks about his disgusting attitude but he chooses not to. The poise of a saint, truly.

“Lucky guy waiting for you back home?” Neil continues his inquiry. Aside from his bouncing legs, you can hear the quiet, rhythmic clicking of the handcuffs. It sounds like he’s tapping his fingers against the table, recreating a racing heartbeat.

Neil Beckett wants to dominate, to conquer. That includes things he perceives as belonging to other men. However, if you seem too involved with a theoretical partner, Neil might lose his interest in you. 

“There is someone but…” You hang your voice, counting on the possibility of Beckett not pushing the matter further. Give him only as much as he wants to hear.

“He treatin’ you right, doll?” The tone of his voice comes off almost paternal.

Putting on a timid, abashed expression, you look at your fidgeting fingers, expertly coming off as embarrassed. 

“He’s trying his best,” you say.

The answer seems to be just right. Neil gives you a practised sympathetic look that does little to hide the frenzy in his eyes. If he felt the range of emotions an average person does, he’d make quite a good actor. 

“That ain’t enough,” he says in a low, hoarse voice. “For a girl like you, he should be doing more than his best. Men nowadays don’t know what a sweet girl needs.”

You look up at him, just as shy and hopeful as Jane Roberts was two days ago. “Do you?”

“Sure do.” Neil chuckles quietly. “I could tell you all about it.”

“Really?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, doll.” Beckett suddenly leans back in his chair, pulling away after a period of pushing. Abusive partners tend to do that, you notice. “But first, I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want that little agent back there freeloadin’. Turn that camera off and we’ll talk.”

You find it hilarious that Neil Beckett thinks that Aaron Hotchner would pick up a thing or two about flirting from him. As ridiculous as his claim is, you don’t let your composure slip. After this little lark is done, you can laugh all the way back home and into Aaron’s bed.

“Oh, I-I’m not sure if I can,” you stutter out.

“Come on, sweet thing,” he beckons in a condescending voice. “He ain’t your daddy, you don’t have to listen to him.”

Oh, Neil Beckett. If only you were at least as smart as you are perverted…

Pliant and gullible in all the right ways, you get up from the chair. You don’t have to turn around to know that Neil’s eyes are glued to your hips as you’re walking to the camera in the corner of the room. Turning the device off, you glance quickly at the two-way mirror in front of you. There’s no way for you to know if Aaron is facing you. You wish you could give him a signal that everything’s fine but considering Neil’s attention on you, it would be too risky. Beckett might start suspecting something.

As you sit down again in front of Neil, you realise that this is the most important part of the meeting. Every little smile and giggle lead you to this moment - Neil Beckett is convinced that you’re the only witness to this conversation. There can be no guesswork, only covert interrogation.

“Can you tell me now?” you ask him shyly, batting your eyelashes the same way you would at Aaron.

“Come closer, doll,” he demands, voice raspy and trembling. He’s reaching his limit.

You set your arms on the table, leaning in to the man. With a satisfied, sly grin plastered on his face, Neil leans forward as well. Again, your faces are no more than a hand’s length apart.

“Nah, a little closer.”

Anxiety clenches your stomach and chest. Your throat tightens around a lump inside it. As you fix your thoughts on Aaron standing guard on the other side of the mirror, you manage to swallow your fear, turning terror into an admirable show of juvenile bashfulness.

Then, you stop thinking about Aaron and begin wondering about Jane Roberts. She’s somewhere out there, helpless and hopeless. Now, you’re the only person she has, even if she doesn’t know it.

You lean in farther, feeling Neil’s breath fan against your face with each exhale. The tips of your noses are barely an inch apart. “Is this enough?” you whisper.

“It’s perfect, sweetheart,” he answers, voice equally low. His eyes study your features in detail. It seems as though he’s trying to remember the way you look or he’s imagining what you’re going to look like after he’s, well, done with you.

Aaron Hotchner is so beside himself, he might as well step out of his body and enter a new plane of existence. Focused on the scene behind the two-way mirror, he doesn’t even notice that Rossi has been observing him for quite some time now. David is worried about your well-being, that’s understandable. What concerns him more, however, is the impending possibility of Hotch doing something less than reasonable. He recalls what you have said at the beginning, that most men are identical in some ways. Staring at Aaron’s stiff shoulders and clenched jaw, he’s inclined to agree. Hotch, just like Neil Beckett, is a ticking time bomb. There’s no way to tell when either of them will give in to their needs.

The tension temporarily subsides when Spencer enters the dark room. He opens his mouth but before he can share the news, he freezes suddenly, seeing you leaning in so close to Neil Beckett. Rossi, all too aware of Aaron’s agitation, doesn’t let Spencer address the very obvious elephant:

“What is it, Reid?”

Spencer furrows his eyebrows as he stares between the two men, silently gauging all that they refuse to say. Judging by Hotchner’s expression, the unsaid words are not good. Spencer has seen Aaron angry but never as disturbed as now. Fury appears only secondary to something deeper, more primitive.

“The medical examiner finished the last report,” he says, voice revealing suspicion of the strange arrangement before him. “Hannah was missing a chunk of her ear. Judging by the ridges and circular shape, it was bitten off.”

Rossi’s face twists into a grimace. “Neil Beckett bit her ear off?”

“Part of the lobe,” Spencer corrects, “not the whole ear.”

Hotch turns on his heel. “I’m ending this.”

“Wait!” Rossi manages to grab Aaron’s arm before the man can reach the doorknob. 

While Hotchner doesn’t free himself immediately, the cold stare he gives David makes the older man let go. He leans backwards, silently moving away from the raging man. A falling knife has no handle and furious Aaron has, for lack of a better phrase, no handle.

“This may be our only chance,” Rossi argues. He’s clinging to remnants of Hotchner’s restraint. “Jane’s only chance.”

Aaron gives him a confused look. “Dave, I’m not about to let that man bite her ear off,” he retorts, voice trembling with barely controlled emotions.

“I know, just-” Rossi sighs, realising that Hotchner is past reasonable arguments. “Let’s just wait a little bit longer. He’s about to break.”

“Not just him,” Aaron mumbles under his breath.

Against his better judgment and itching hands, Hotchner chooses not to make a decision. He allows the situation to unravel naturally, with you leading the grand finale. Curiosity gets the better of Spencer and he stays in the room, intrigued by the upcoming unravelling. Besides, Rossi might need a little help in preventing an aggravated assault.

You swallow nervously. No matter how much saliva your mouth produces, your throat is still dry and painfully tight. Even if you wanted to scream, you don’t think you could.

Neil’s breath fans against your skin with each exhale. Stray strands of your hair dance sway on the gusts. It will take a few tries to wash out the smell of motor oil and freshly-cut lumber. His eyes continue to study your features, unblinking, as though he doesn’t want to idly waste time.

Beckett dives in towards your neck. His nose brushes against your jaw as he takes a deep breath. Whatever he smells on you, it makes him grunt with satisfaction. Under the table, you’re digging your nails into the flesh of your hand. The sharp pain temporarily distracts you from the unwanted close proximity. Neil has barely touched you but his sole presence feels intrusive. Like an invader outside the castle gates, he doesn’t need to attack for you to gauge the power of his army. All it takes is an attentive eye and a little bit of imagination.

“You’re all sweet and buttery,” he whispers. “Do you know what that means?”

“N-no,” you answer. “Is that good?”

“It’s perfect, doll. Just right.” Neil takes another inhale of your smell. His grunting sounds now more sexual than just satisfactory. It makes your skin crawl. “The lovely aroma of a ripe cunt.”

A sinking feeling in your stomach makes you sick to the point of throwing up. Digging your nails further into your hand, you try to think about Aaron. He’s on the other side of the mirror, keeping watch. Before you entered the interrogation room, he made a promise to keep you safe. There’s no reason for you to start doubting him now.

Neil has begun to talk about his victims, which is a green light for you. The whereabouts of Jane Roberts are within your grasp. He just needs the last nudge. What would a pliant, scared girl do in your shoes?

“The… others?” you choke out, tears falling down your face. You never thought the talent of crying on demand would come in handy after growing out of Barbie dolls and stuffed ponies.

To your horror, Neil licks a few tears off your cheek.

“Even your tears taste sweet, doll,” he murmurs. “Where have you been all my life? I could have your scent all over me.” Neil rubs his nose against your cheek, a pleased hum rumbles inside his chest. “I would get drunk on it. Bathe in it. Or better yet, drown your little man in it.”

His repetitive mentions of water make something click in your mind. All of his victims had pruned skin and water in their lungs but no algae. A body of water that is safe for drinking, deep enough to bathe or drown and isn’t natural…

Tears stop falling. You lean away from Neil, keen eyes focused on his face. The sudden change of your demeanour stumps him. The frenzy inside him subsides for a moment as he tries to make sense of the situation.

A sly grin spreads across your face.

"Oh, you little scoundrel,” you say, tone as amused as it is condescending. “You threw her body into the water tower, didn't you?"

What follows happens so quickly you barely register it:

Nostrils flared and eyes glazed with fury, Neil dives at you. Before you have the chance to get away, Aaron pushes Beckett away. The force of the shove makes the table drag along with the man as he almost falls off the chair.

Neil’s eyes remain on you. Again, you think back to that documentary. Strangely enough, that tiger in the zoo looked more human than Beckett does right now. After all, the tiger kills for understandable reasons: fear, hunger, protecting its cubs. Neil Beckett, however, murdered ten women for reasons you will never fully understand. Doesn’t that make him more animal than a tiger?

“You-”

Aaron stops Neils from speaking when he slams his fist on the table. You can’t see his eyes but you’re quite sure they have the same terrifying look as Beckett’s.

“One more word and I will gladly tell the DA how you assaulted a federal agent. Might add a few details of my own, for good measure.”

His newfound lack of respect for law and order actually makes Neil Beckett silent. The murderer seems unaware that a new charge wouldn’t change his outcome - he’s never going to see the light of day again.

Hotchner unchains the handcuffs from the table and forcefully pulls up Neil by his arm. Beckett winces for a second. Any more strength to that pull and he would have a dislocated shoulder. You have a burning suspicion that this was perfectly calculated by Aaron - enough to hurt, not enough to leave a mark.

After Neil Beckett is dragged out of the room, Rossi offers you a helping hand. You dismiss him, deciding to stand up on your own. That isn’t a smart decision, as your knees buckle under the weight of your body. David is quick to catch you, keeping a protective hold on your arm. He could ask how you’re feeling but he finds it obsolete. Legs tend to give out when people are definitely not alright.

“Reid ran to call the dispatch,” he says. You weren’t even aware that Spencer had witnessed the interrogation. “In an hour, Jane Roberts will be back with her parents.”

“Yeah and then it’s just the rest of her life,” you answer quietly.

Rossi gives you a look of confusion and disbelief. “You saved her, kid. In my books, that’s a good thing.”

“I know, it’s just…” Your voice trails off. You look at the other side of the table, where Neil Beckett was sitting just a moment ago. “I don’t think she’s going to share your opinion once PTSD sets in.”

“That’s between her and the therapist.”

You don’t respond, even though you know he’s right. When Jane Roberts is retrieved, your job ends and hers begins. The only thing you can do is pray that she’s equipped for it.

To your dismay, Aaron disappears until Jane Roberts is safe and sound at the hospital, her parents standing guard over their daughter. You keep telling yourself that he also needs to calm down but it doesn’t make his absence any less disturbing. As supportive as the rest of the team is, there’s only one person whose comfort you desperately need.

Hotch finds you in the conference room, alone. Everyone else left to give you some space, although in their minds, that means they’re still staring at you, worried sick, just on the other side of the door. Aaron doesn’t ask anyone about how you’ve been doing while he wasn’t there. That would be a waste of time. He needs to find out for himself

Hearing the door open and close, you turn around. Gone is the cold, professional demeanour. The man in front of you seems small, afraid. With his anger dissipated, Aaron looks strangely deflated as if he came home after a terribly long day of hard work.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

It’s expected of lovers to worry about one another. You know that. Even so, you’re reluctant to let Aaron know what’s really going on inside you. He’s got enough on his plate as is.

You giggle quietly, attempting to soothe his nerves. “Would it be very inappropriate right now if I said I’m hungry?”

He smiles at you but the expression isn’t happy at all. There’s something profoundly sad about the way he’s staring at you. “Not unless you’re planning to bite someone’s ear off.” Aaron vaguely points to the picture included in the medical examiner’s report that Spencer brought earlier.

A slight grimace appears on your face. “Ew,” you whine. Despite apparent disgust, you still lean closer to study the picture. “You know what’s worse?” you ask, making Aaron quirk his eyebrow in curiosity. “That didn’t kill my appetite.”

The two of you laugh dryly. You’re too loved, too known, by each other to believe faux nonchalance.

“How are you really, honey?” Aaron asks after a minute of silence.

What a strange dilemma it is - whether you’re honest or not, he’s going to be upset either way, just for a different reason. You want to spare him your grim thoughts but the way he’s looking at you makes you reconsider. A sense of understanding glimmers in his eyes. Whatever baggage you carry, no matter how large the piece of heaven on your shoulders, he wishes to know all of it. There’s no piece of you too unsightly that he couldn’t hold dear.

“Feeling a lot of mixed emotions,” you answer. As you exhale, you can feel poisonous tension leaving your body. With it gone, you can finally think clearly again. “On one hand, I’m kinda proud of what I did back there but at the same time, I’m disgusted with myself.” Unable to meet his adoring gaze, you look at your own shoes. “Playing into his game felt… wrong. Sordid. Even though I knew I was doing it for the right reasons.”

Feeling Aaron’s warm hand holding yours, you look up at him. His attentive eyes study you for a moment as he decides which one of the million things in his head he should say.

“You did what no one else could.” His voice is quiet, comforting. “Without you, we never would have found Jane Roberts.”

Hotchner sighs when he sees you shaking your head. Maybe the worst offender is that voice of doubt in the back fo your head. If only he could pluck it out.

“That hardly makes me feel better. It’s just…” Your gaze leaves his face again. Tears, honest this time around, gather along your lashline. All the bleach in the world won’t be able to make you feel clean again. “I know he was thinking about doing to me what he did to those women. And I indulged him.”

Aaron prefers to forgo considering that. Even a second of pondering that fact would make him go back to Neil Beckett and make sure that man can’t do much thinking for the rest of his short life. It’s better for everyone if Hotchner simply pretends that never happened.

Gently, he grabs your chin between two fingers. A tender, yet firm, pull forces you to look him in the eye. Seeing you cry, his own eyes glisten with tears. Somehow, he manages to push them back whence they came from.

“You beat him at his own game.” The confidence in his voice makes the statement sound lik a fact of nature and not just reassurance. “Not everyone would be smart enough or brave enough to pull that off. No matter what he said, you didn’t let fear get to you. It’s admirable.”

There’s nothing admirable about what you’ve done. In fact, that deplorable level of manipulation should be kept secret. It’s not good etiquette to let everyone know just how awful you can be.

“You don’t have to sweet-talk me, Aaron.” As you say his name, something about the look in his eyes changes. It softens. “I’m already wrapped around your finger.”

“Is that so?” he muses, a smile spreading across his face. “Rossi might have a different opinion. He had to stop me from coming in and giving Neil Beckett a stern talking to.”

The thought of Aaron barging into the interrogation room and re-enacting a scene from Rambo on a criminal makes you laugh. Not that it would be impossible, just improbable in given circumstances. It’s not like Neil actually hurt you or threatened you. He was just a deranged hick.

That little moment of humour goes a long way in lifting your spirits. No one is disgusted with you for playing into Beckett’s fantasy. Even more, they are impressed with your success. Their concern lies only with you being exposed to someone as vile as Neil Beckett. Whether he would have given up the location or not, the team would be just as worried about you.

Putting on a coy expression, you lift Aaron’s hand, playing with his fingers. A suspicious and amused look adorns his face.

“The dashing FBI agent has only one weakness,” you say in a theatrical voice, “a hardened criminal chatting up his girl.”

Hotch chuckles. His fingers move from your chin to your jaw, tracing it gently.

“I don’t like my girl,” he fondly stresses the title, “showing that side of her to other men, criminal or not.” While Aaron is willing to admit to himself that he gets jealous, he’s not about to indulge you. Knowing your antics, you would have a bit too much fun with that information.

“What side?” you ask, insidiously innocent as ever.

“The one that’s for my eyes only,” he whispers before kissing you softly. His lips move slowly, with purpose. He wants to feel everything about you, commit this very moment to memory. It’s a matter of principles, not jealousy, when a man stakes a claim on the woman he loves and enjoys every second of that belonging.

Or so he tells himself.

“You know, next time-”

“There won’t be a next time,” he cuts you off.