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Richard always sounded at least a little bit tired, or bored, perhaps, but that was just his natural intonation. The fact that he was silent, barring a few lackadaisical attempts at a joke or quip, was the real tell that his seemingly teeming fountain of energy and invincibility was finally dried up. Even then, it took an unholy amount of begging for him to come and lay down with you- even for a moment. 'There was work to be done', he had said, 'Money doesn’t make itself', but with enough skilled manipulation (pestering), he had finally given in. You had settled on an ugly, uncomfortable and dirty cot situated in the corner, away from most of the pained groaning and agonized screams coming from the numerous victims that littered the level. He wasn't exactly the most tidy of people- for example, a bone saw sits intimidatingly at the foot of the bed you'd decided to share- a bone saw you eye with a particular amount of caution. Losing a toe and getting whatever disease the blade carried on it didn't sound too pleasing.
His nails rake through your hair with a unique tenderness, one that he had never shown verbally, or through any other medium, as he toys with your tangles, while you're facing away from him, situated upon a mattress between his legs. Part of you wants to protest- gore covered fingers weren't exactly things that you wanted anywhere near your scalp, though he was too quick, and didn't give you the opportunity to voice your mild displeasure. Besides, plucking sinew and bits of bone fragments from your hair was a problem for future you. Right now, you didn't mind- it felt surprisingly nice- unexpectedly nice, even. His hands were welcomingly warm, and you realize that it was almost painfully cold here, after the heat from excitement and adrenaline finally died down.
You lean back against his shoulder, tilting to expose your neck to him, unafraid of any potential harmful impulse that might overtake him upon viewing the vulnerable bare skin. Admittedly, you hesitate before completely closing your eyes, but feel liberated upon doing so. Your throat now exposed, you feel his breath, which, quite like him, was so very warm, and brought with it an immense amount of comfort- an odd feeling of safety. Funny, considering it was likely that Rick was the most unsafe person you knew.
Your hand reaches behind him (with some difficulty- it took some adjusting, much to both of your chagrin) to curl some of the few strands he had left around your finger, and he elicits an endearing, though uncharacteristic hum at the welcomed sensation. Upon feeling something warm and wet abruptly slide against your neck, and you tense up, suddenly weary, but relax after you realize it was a well meaning attempt at a kiss. Your eyes are brimming with what some would consider a misplaced fondness, as you take your index and thumb to tilt his head away from your neck and towards your eyes. You take a moment to survey his features- scarred, but still just right- perfect.
Trying to tug down his tattered surgical mask was always a bit difficult, seeing as he was always slightly reluctant- not that it hid anything very well. Of course, you weren't one to lecture him on what made him feel comfortable, let alone force him to do something he wouldn’t want to, so you rest your thumb against his cheek, and softly pluck the string of the mask- a wordless question. He replies by lifting bony, emaciated fingers up to his mask very slowly, and with an even slower pace, does he lower the flimsy piece of cloth from his mouth. Had you not known better, you would have missed the millisecond of unease that surfaces in his eyes as he does so.
Richard's lips were- well, they weren't. Mostly . Not that it mattered to you. Raggedly ripped pieces of flesh that now revealed the bright pinks and reds of muscle and the yellows of teeth part, and he makes the first slight advance. You close the gap, and pressed your own lips against what was there. He made a vague, but still eager attempt to reciprocate. You can feel him half smile- not that he could smile anymore than half- into the kiss. As you pull away, he looks smug- painfully so. The subtle urge you had to punch his arm conveyed itself in the form of a playful eye roll, and a poorly suppressed grin.
He tugs his mask back into place, and you trail a couple fingers along his chest, and the concerning sunken pit that was supposed to be his stomach. You didn’t quite think this was love, and part of you didn’t know if he was going to get bored of you one day, maybe even use a scalpel on you for purposes other than some consensual fun- but you didn’t really want to think about that. Especially not now, with two arms curled around your waist, his head buried in the crevice between your neck and your shoulder. As far as you were concerned, he was your doctor, and right now, you certainly needed whatever medicine he was dishing out.