Chapter Text
Today, you tell yourself as you lie in your bed, I will leave my room and make food. Your brain steels itself from thinking about all those damned ‘what if’s’, willing yourself to just fight through. It’s fine, you think. It’s fine. It’s just a kitchen, and it’s just cooking. Don’t be stupid. You dress slowly and lethargically, you were still in a slump regardless of your determination to do this seemingly meaningless task. You tie your unbrushed hair back into a rough ponytail before placing your hand on the handle. It’s cold, and you can vaguely see your reflection in the chrome material.
You don’t want to open the door.
You do it anyway.
Quietly, you walk down the hall, posture terrible from your body trying to fold away inside itself. Your hands are shoved into the pockets of your hoodie, fiddling with any piece of fluff or paper or whatever you can get your hands on. Your eyes are locked onto your own feet.
The kitchen is small and is only really used for snacks or lunch, like sandwiches or microwave meals or fruit. The lighting is harsh and industrial, unlike the soft light fixtures in your room. Generally you’d get your meals from the dining hall, but you cannot face that place. You’re not even that hungry, anyway. You should just go back to your room.
You don’t, and you grab some bread from the counter and begin to search for some of your favourite sandwich ingredients.
Someone comes in. You freeze. Believing that mostly everyone in your hall was away on missions or asleep, you were not expecting anyone to be here. You weren’t planning on anyone to be here. It’s bad, you’re not dressed well, you haven’t showered, you look like you haven’t slept in ages (though you have, a lot). Worrying someone was never part of the plan.
Bandit leans on the counter and faces you as he waits for his coffee. You vaguely decide to cut some fruit in some stupid mockery of self care when he starts talking.
“I have not seen you around for some time, huh,” You halfheartedly laugh in agreement. “It is a shame.”
Trying to smile at him was hard.
Distracted by your rampaging thoughts because of his sudden appearance, you feel a sharp scratch on your hand. You look down, and your hand is bleeding. Holding it out in front of you, you stare as it drips down onto the cutting board. You make no move to stop it.
Bandit notices your stillness and looks down, too.
“Hey,” he moves forward quickly, taking your hand in his own, palm up. He guides you to the small table in the room and pushes you slightly to sit down. Moving to the cupboards to get the first aid, he notices that your hands are shaking. He quickly and efficiently patches up your hand, and pats it gently once he finished. He sits in the chair directly in front of you, so close you can hear him breathe. You find it within you to meet his eyes, glassy and sad, and you smile shakily.
He smiles sadly back, and he hates how much of himself he sees in those eyes. Internally, he’s kicking himself for not noticing. He missed you, of course - you’d practically disappeared after the last mission.
“I’m sorry, mein Schatz,” your tired eyes look quizzically at Bandit before continuing. “I didn’t realise. It must be hard. You know I am here, yes?”
Without thinking, for once, for the first time in maybe a week, you lean forward and let yourself rest your head on his shoulder. And without thinking, he puts his arms around you, warm and gentle, and you let yourself cry.
“It is so hard,” you manage between rough breathing, “to leave the mistakes behind and to keep moving.” Bandit rubs a soothing hand up and down your back. “I am so nervous, all the time, and it’s stupid, and I think of everything I’ve done wrong, and it makes me a huge liability, I could never, ever forgive myself if someone got killed because of my hesitation.”
He lets you ramble on, eager to be the shoulder for you to lean on (literally). He knows you need it, from his own prior experience when he wished he had someone himself.
“People are dead at my hands, Bandit. I know no one here takes this lightly, of course they don’t, but sometimes I feel like the guilt is going to crush me from inside.” You turn your head closer into his neck, taking a deep breath.
“My love, that only means you are kind. I would be more worried if you felt nothing at all. And, take my advice, guilt is part of the job. But staying busy and surrounding yourself with friends who understand will help you heal.”
The term of endearment is lost on you as you consider his words. You hum into his shoulder, as he talks again, quieter and more gentle. “Please do not hide away again. Not from me. I need you just as much.” You move back a little, looking at his face, his eyes staring ahead, watery. It’s the most private thing you think you’ll ever see. You remember all the things he must’ve gone through and you soften, kissing his cheek lightly and feeling yourself blush bright at your reckless action. He jolts and blushes just as much. You giggle a little, feeling better at seeing such a cute reaction from someone usually so cocky and sure of himself.
The tiredness of crying behind to set in (for both of you, really) and you sigh heavily. Bandit, ever the gentleman, offers to walk you back to your room. It was silent, though not uncomfortable; everything that needed to be said was said, and you both needed to be vulnerable sometimes. But when you got to your door, you freeze up, your body tense. You really didn’t want a night alone in your sad, dull room, no matter how much of a safe haven it was to you. And Bandit felt so too, with his hesitation to turn around and say good night.
“I don’t want you to leave.” you whisper, Bandit nearly missing it. He smiles, and it softens when you look over to him.
“Then I will stay.”