Chapter Text
Vulnerability is an attribute that he only associates with himself to a limited extent.
Grief, violence and betrayal make you dull. Empty. Nevertheless, he is aware of his weaknesses. Of the few valuable things that still can be lost. He protects them with his life. One reason he is sitting here now, on this chair, exposed to a glinting, razor-sharp blade.
Moments like these make him realize how vulnerable he really is. How often he cowers behind walls of caustic words, spiteful smiles and feigned poise.
With such an effort, over the years, he has swept up the pile of shards remaining from his previous life. She is the melted gold that runs through the cracks, holds together what defines him today.
But just one wrong decision, no matter how small, and everything falls apart for a final time.
This filigree and yet so necessary trust is all that remains for him.
In her presence, it becomes increasingly difficult for him to hide how fragile he really is. She can see right through what appears ugly and threatening to others. She gazes straight into the barren battlefield beyond. And she doesn't mind the debris she finds. She walks right in, confident, fearless, and begins his reconstruction. Just like that.
He quietly directs his gaze to the woman opposite, whom he has again accepted a hail of shrapnel for to protect. Regardless of the pain in his back and shoulders, he straightens up, watching her deliberate, careful movements. Almost hypnotically, she strokes the brush in a steady rhythm through the bowl until fine foam accumulates.
Only then does she lift her eyes from her hands to look at him. A request for permission and a prompt alike. A nod on his part is enough and she closes the small gap. Without hesitation, she steps between his spread legs and kneels. Very carefully she lifts the brush out of the bowl, strokes cool foam over his chin and cheeks. He observes her attentively, memorizing every detail. How her dark locks fall over her shoulder as she lifts the brush. The way she casts her amber eyes down, to escape his observant contemplation for a moment, only to gaze up at him again with as much courage and persistence as when she faces the enemy. But he does not miss the subtle difference. Now, with him, there is warmth in her gaze. Compassion. Affection?
Trust.
The time in which they regarded each other with suspicion and prejudice has long passed.
She sets the bowl aside and reaches for the blade on the edge of the sink. Without the slightest doubt about what she's doing, he closes his eyes, feels how she puts the razor to use. The warmth of her palm against his neck contrasting the touch of cold, sharp steel on his damp skin. The blade slides along his jaw without resistance.
"Hold still," she admonishes as a smile flits across his lips. Obediently, he does what she says.
A long time ago he put his life in her hands. Unconditionally obeyed her every word with the simple prospect of being of use. To find meaning in his existence, which he had long since written off.
Lucy. Lucija. Shining sun breaking through the downpour.
The blade strokes up his throat one last time, then there is silence. He opens his eyes, and she reaches for a towel. There are no words for the gratitude he owes to her. All he can do is persist. And protect.