He had gone on another mission, leaving you to wait in that little dingy apartment the two of you called home. You ran a hand through your hair. It was raining today.
It’s been almost a month since he left.
You licked your dry lips, leaning your head back. Sitting on the couch, with nothing but the rain and the ticking of the clock in your ears left your mind to wander. He always told you with that insufferable and sexy smirk that you loved so much not to worry, but that’s just what you were doing.
You were thinking about all of the things that could happen to him when he went out on these missions. You thought about all the things that he had to do, that didn’t just scar his body but his mind as well. Sometimes he’d come back and you knew he had done something that, if he were in any other position in life, would have never done. Those were the times when he would silently seek you, letting you comfort him with your touch and voice. Let him forget in you.
You didn’t mind. You knew he loved you and you loved him, too.
There were those times too, that he had come back and wouldn’t let you touch him. He would go to the shower and stay there for hours before letting you see him again. But he’d always come to you in the end, pleas in his eyes and tenderness in his touch.
You didn’t want to know what he’d been ordered to do and he would never tell you.
You turned your head to the window, watching the rain poor down. Your arms were folded loosely over your stomach, your legs crossed on the coffee table before you. It was getting heavier. You sighed as you heard a small commotion outside the door but didn’t turn to look.
The apartment door opened. Step-thump. Step-thump. Someone had a limp. The door shut quietly, like he didn’t want you to know that he was home. Sniffing emotionlessly, you finally turned your head, lolling it to the other side. He was dripping wet, his crimson hair sticking to his face and white button up shirt. His suit jacket was thrown over his shoulder. His goggles were resting around his neck today, and his arm was in a sling, his hand an ugly purple color.
He grabbed his suit jacket and let it drop to the floor with a wet slosh, raising his uninjured hand to start unbuttoning his shirt. His mako-blue eyes swept the room–“Habit, yo,” he told you, with that insufferable, sexy smirk–before they fell on you. He froze in place.
You raised an eyebrow at him from your lazy position on the couch.
“That looks like it hurts,” you murmured quietly, nodding to his hand. Your eyes never left his. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he limped further into the room, dropping down on the couch beside you, his crimson hair fluttering over his eyes to conceal them, dripping wet. You swallowed as you watched the way the water slid down his neck and to his collar, dragging your eyes to the bruised skin of his shoulder that just peeked out from beneath.
You pursed your lips, slowly moving yourself until you were kneeling beside him. You reached out, gently taking his hand away from his shirt. He was having difficulty undoing the buttons with one hand. You did it yourself, swiftly and efficiently, trying to hide the fact that your hands were shaking.
Gently, you pulled the materiel over his injured shoulder. He rolled it, sucking in an almost unnoticeable breath through his nose. You didn’t say anything. Instead, you pulled the shirt down his arm and off his hand, leaning across him to pull the shirt off the arm with the sling. It brought you closer to him and instead of letting you finish, he turned his head and pressed his face into your neck, his freed arm encircling your thighs.
You stopped. The rain outside continued to fall and the clock continued to tick. It was so loud in this little dingy apartment you shared with this man who always had you worrying when he was gone.
Your arms wrapped around his head and you hugged him, burying your face in his hair. It didn’t matter that it was wet or that he was injured.
What mattered was that he was alive.
You pressed your lips together, your eyes shutting tighter as you tried not to cry. You promised him you wouldn’t, but it hurt you so much when he came home like this.
He felt your body quake with your attempt to push back your emotions. He tilted his head up, sliding his cheek against your throat until he could see you. Your forehead pressed against his own and you cradled his head gently. He took in the way your lips were quivering and your eyes were turning a light red from suppressed tears.
“It’s okay,” he whispered quietly. His hand rubbed you the back of your thigh. It wasn’t sensual like it would be on any other occasion with this man, but soothing. Comforting. “Everything’s okay, babe…” In your little dingy apartment, his words sounded so loud, even with the rain and the clock ticking away. The dam behind your eyes broke and the first of many tears slid down your cheek. You blinked your eyes rapidly, sucking in an uneven breath as you raked your fingers slowly through his hair again and again, tugging at knots, wet strands sliding through your fingers, (e/c) eyes flicking over his features.
You could touch him. That meant he was here. Here.
His arm tightened around your legs, tugging you closer. He twisted so that one leg was bent on couch and the other, the one with the limp, stayed on the floor, letting you sit in his lap. His arm moved around your hips, eyes still on your own.
Your eyes left his first and skimmed down to his chest. The (e/c) orbs widened at the sight of the large, dark bruise in the center. “Th-That looks like it hurts,” you whispered, tracing your fingers around the blotchy green edges.
The muscles of his chest twitched and you whipped your hand back. Coughing, he grinned at you, that insufferable, sexy, gorgeous grin that was all yours. “N-Nah. They just got a lucky shot, yo.” His arm squeezed you in reassurance, and he even winked one mako eye at you.
You laughed weakly, tears still flowing as you cupped his cheeks, running your thumbs over the tattoos beneath his eyes. His smile faded and that tender look he only showed you, in the secrecy and protection your little dingy apartment, returned.
“(Name),” he whispered, letting his lips brush the corner of your mouth. You sighed, tilting your head to the side. He did the same in the opposite direction. His crimson hair brushed over one of your shoulders, tickling your neck, reminding you that he was here. With you. Alive.
Just before his lips, the lips you hadn’t tasted in so long, sealed over your own, you heard him breathe those words he’d only ever dare to breathe in your little dingy apartment.
“I love you.”
It was in your little dingy apartment, shared with the man you loved, that sorrow, time, and the outside world didn’t matter.
Because in this little dingy apartment, you had each other and that was all you needed to survive.