Work Text:
You have only been in Zaun for ten minutes when something explodes. You flinch in reflex, your healed broken bones crying out in upset and your mind screaming quite loudly ‘not again, not again, please gods not again, I am not ready to meet Kindred so soon’ . Your eyes close tight for a moment, bracing for impact…but none comes. Not even a gust of wind to blow your hair back. When you can finally open your eyes, there are no dust clouds around you, no breaking buildings, no crashing metal or anything to hurt you. For now, for the moment, you are safe.
“What the fuck-” you begin to say.
“That came from the manufacturing district!” Someone cries out, and you see a couple of kids climb up a streetlight to look. “It’s coming down!”
“What’s coming down?” A frantic voice asks.
Someone throws the kid up a pair of binoculars and they peer through the lenses. “One of the buildings. The big grey one with the pointed roof!”
There is immediately a flurry of activity and panic in response. Dread knots your stomach. You know exactly what building that is. It’s a machinery manufactory, one still currently in use, where you’ve seen a few parts that you know for a fact are used in Viktor’s work. However, despite that implication, one thought rings louder in your head above all others: how many people are in there. It’s a massive building with at least a hundred people inside, more on a busy day where they need to work overtime. How many people are about to be trapped inside?
You barely process that you’ve thrown your box of books into your scholar friend’s arms until you are already running towards the building as fast as your legs can carry you. There is another explosion by the time you get to the end of the block, another as you get to the next. Even from here, as you get closer and closer, the sounds change from explosions to the sound of crunching metal, twisting and screaming as constructs and supports fall apart. And in between the sounds of destruction, you hear screams. Screams of pain, fear, terror, agony.
You double your pace, taking shortcuts through the alleys, desperately hoping you can do something. Anything. Above you, you can hear the familiar sound of a heavy metal body jumping from building to building, crossing Zaun as fast as they can move. It settles something in your chest to know that Blitzcrank is on their way to help as well. Their programming is responsive, you’ll give them that.
By the time you get to the destroyed area, you can barely breathe. Academic study does not for good cardio make. Dust clouds fill the air, and you pull on your respirator as soon as you see metal glittering in it. Chemicals, you’re fine to deal with - that is a part of life living in Zaun - but steel? Oh, fuck no. You refuse to have to deal with getting your lungs replaced or someone pulling the metal out with a magnet. Not a chance. The respirator clicks into place and you pull on a pair of gloves, ready to start moving things around.
“Blitz!” You yell over the commotion, climbing over the rubble towards the sounds of crying. “Where are they?”
Based on initial life sign sweep, there are approximately 94 living trapped personnel of the original 119 workers.
Fucking hell. The flashbacks of your own injuries threaten to pass over you and drag you down, but you grit your teeth against them. Not the time. Not the time. “Gimme a direction, Blitz, something, anything. ”
Protocol 2.1. Accept help from you when necessary. Blitzcrank responds in kind. There are three individuals trapped approximately 15 feet to your northwest.
Right. To work. You clamber over the indicated spot and start pushing away the rubble that you can move easily. “We’re coming!” You call out, pressing as hard as you can against the rubble.
“We need a doctor!” A voice calls through the stones.
You cast your eyes back over your shoulder to see crowds of people already trying to help. Every citizen of Zaun comes to help each other when necessary, no matter if you have left or not. “We’ll find you one,” you say soothingly, putting your back into shoving a piece of drywall. “Hold on, we’re getting you help.”
A gust of wind surges around you, pushing the dust and steel away. You watch with wide eyes as it is carried up into the air, far away from anyone who can breathe it. Relief sweeps through you and you bow your head. “Thank you, Janna,” you pray desperately. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
There is a little tickle of wind against your cheek, but you do not take the time to think about it. You just focus on helping. The rubbles gives way, and you find a young man and woman holding someone’s stomach wound shut. “Shit!” You growl out, diving down to help. “DOCTOR!”
Someone comes up behind you to help, and you lift the two of them out. “What happened?” You ask desperately.
The woman, dressed in a foreman’s uniform, laughs bitterly. “That wolf thing came running through, chasing Jinx,” she shakes her head as she leans against your shoulder. “She threw grenades to make it stop. But she knew something was wrong with one of her throws, screamed for us all to run.”
“How much destruction can one woman cause?” The man spits, getting slowly to his feet. “We started running but not many got out.”
“What about the wolf?” You ask, leading the two over to the quickly assembled medical station. “Did he chase anyone?”
“Someone tackled it, I think,” the man says quietly, his breathing a little harder to get. “There was a flash of light and someone jumped it. Then I was just trying not to die.”
“Well, you did a good job at that,” you reply as gently as you can. “Now just rest up. We’ll get your friends out.”
The medical station gladly accepts the two of them, along with their friend who needs surgery as badly as they need air. Then you move on to the next group, helping hoist rubble off of some of the child workers that had dove under the sturdiest machinery they could find, and another. There is sweat soaking through your shirt, dirt on every inch of your body, and you’re fairly certain that someone else’s blood is on your hands…but you don’t mind. For all the terrible circumstances, it feels good to get back into the dirt and reconnect with Zaun. Sometimes, you feel untethered up in Piltover, not a part of it but not a part of Zaun below. To reconnect with your people and community…it feels good.
After you help the third group of people, you head back over to Blitzcrank, who is lifting aside one of the biggest pieces of rebar you have ever seen. They turn slightly to acknowledge your presence as their parts strain with the movement. Of the original 94 pinned, 18 have been rescued with minimal additional fatalities.
“Glad to hear it,” you say, wiping your forehead. “Any chance you can search for something else?”
Awaiting your command.
“Someone said Warwick and Jinx went through here and someone tackled him. That would be three unaccounted for bodies, if any of them remain. You got anything?”
Blitzcrank is silent, scanning the area around you, before pointing across the building. One unaccounted for figure found. Identifying…
Then there is a pause. A noticeable pause. “Blitz?”
Individual identified as Master Viktor. Present and injured.
Son of a goddamn motherfucking shimmered-out BITCH.
“I’ll get Viktor. You keep helping,” you pat Blitzcrank’s side in a hopefully soothing way.
Understood. Please find him.
To say that you are panicking is an understatement. You move as fast as you can through the rubble, clambering over large pieces of rock and metal, weaving through the groups of aid workers. There is dust smeared on your face, definitely someone’s blood on your hands, but your eyes are riveted to the spot Blitzcrank pointed out. Movement. All you need is a little extra movement, a little more sound, anything to indicate where Viktor is. Your boots crunch against the rubble, turning smaller chunks into power, and you keep your hands open.
“Viktor?” You call, voice a little desperate through the respirator. “Viktor?”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“Viktor, I know you’re there, Blitz sent me over,” you call again, walking around a particularly large piece of the metal roof. “I was told to help. Viktor?”
Finally, in a breath of quiet, you can hear it: the whirring of metal, of components trying to work and failing. You lock onto the sound and start following it.
“Viktor, for the love of Janna, please just tell me where-”
Oh no.
Your eyes follow the blood drops turned to blood spatter, to a near pool of blood and oil on the ground, and there, laying in it…is Viktor.
Oh NO.
You’re not sure which appears to have hurt him the worst: the falling building or the fight with Warwick. The answer appears to be both, in equal intensity.
With your final step, your boots crunch on the rubble. At the sound, you watch Viktor roll from his back, a hand pressed firmly to his abdomen, onto an elbow. What would be a simple motion looks difficult and clumsy, as though his body is rebelling against him. And no wonder - not an inch of his body looks intact or clean. The metal of his armour is cracked, bent, dented; the fabric torn and shredded. His mask is cracked, one of the lenses completely destroyed, and so you can see one of his amber eyes staring you down, watching you like a hawk. A little trickle of blood runs down his face, over his eye, and you wince at the sight.
Still, he doesn’t say anything. Frozen in horror, you watch as he tries to get to his feet, kneeling on his bad leg and trying to push up with his good leg, only to watch him fall back to the ground again. Then he tries again, shifting the good leg forward for better balance…only to fall again, buckling under the weight of his own body. He hits the knees with more force than is good for him, the sound of his kneeplates striking concrete snapping you out of your daze.
“Holy shit, Viktor!” You rush over, dropping to a knee beside the blood pool and checking him over. “How are you still conscious?”
“Because I was not hit over the head and I have been staunching my wounds,” he replies, his voice level and steady, if a little quiet. As if still not comprehending his injuries, Viktor continued struggling to his feet, each attempt as fruitless as the last as he collapsed back to the ground.
“And how are you not screaming in pain?” You ask, voice going a little more high pitched in worry as you dig in your pockets for anything to try and help the bleeding.
“When one eliminates the anticipation and fear of pain, it becomes entirely bearable,” Viktor’s voice is still just as calm, but you can feel him still looking at you. “Why are you here?”
“Delivery for work. Heard the noise. Came to help,” you say quickly, taking him in. “Can you walk?”
Once upon a time, perhaps he would have denied it. Too much pride, feeling his dignity and shame at odds with what he needed. Now, Viktor simply says, “No.” There is no explanation of his injuries or the failures of his body. It is a simple answer, and for a moment, you can imagine him as he was before when his leg cramps would prevent him from getting out of bed. His visible eye does look down at his legs, and it sinks in that the only leg he has to stand on is the one that has always failed him. His next exhale is a wheeze, and the fingers on his one good hand dig into the dirt.
“Then let’s get you where you can be fixed,” you say firmly.
“That is not necessary.”
“Look me dead in the eye and tell me that you can stay here, bleeding as you are, until Blitzcrank finishes rescuing the other 80 something people trapped there, and track down Warwick so he won’t hurt anyone else,” your voice drops to something low and harsh, staring at your former lover through his mask. “Tell me that if I leave you here, you’ll live.”
Viktor does not respond for a moment, his eye blinking slowly, but finally, he nods. Once more, he pushes himself up as best as he can with his one arm, and you slide your arms around him up. The good news, you are used to carrying Viktor when he is injured, so you know how to carry him and walk in such a way that it doesn’t jostle his injuries. The bad news, he’s far heavier than when you last carried him.
“Great fucking stars, Viktor, how much of your body is metal?” You grunt, slinging his arm across your shoulder.
“25%, excluding my armour,” he replies, grunting in turn as he grabs onto you.
“Well, it feels like more.”
“If it was more, you could not carry me.”
“Maybe I’ve gotten stronger.”
“You cannot carry a human-sized amount of metal, no matter how strong you are,” If you imagine, you can hear a twinge of amusement in his voice. “Unless you became more mechanized without me noticing?”
“The moment I decide to replace my muscles with metal, Vitya,” you grumble, “I will let you know.”
His response is to simply hold onto you tighter as the two of you navigate through the alleys towards his house on Emberflit. As you support his weight, you feel rather than see him straighten up. His head is held high, his back straight and shoulders strong as if nothing is wrong. As though he is actually taking each step on his own two feet, instead of each staggering step putting more and more weight on you. His right leg, ever unfaithful, takes most of the pressure, despite the bent brace squealing unhappily with the movement. His left drags along behind you, the boot scraping against the ground.
For a moment, it feels like all of the times Viktor’s leg has given out in the past and you have had to carry him home. Back then, he felt a bit ashamed of having to be carried home, when his body gave out and he was left seemingly at the mercy of a kind soul. You never minded, of course. It was Viktor, and he kept up good conversation every time you carried him. Now, though, he does not speak. He grips onto you with all of the necessary force of a man who needs medical attention, and his gaze appears fixed to the road ahead of you, as if he can will the street to be shorter by thought alone.
No, this is not time for a trip down memory lane. Not when every breath Viktor takes turns into a wheeze, how his weight against you becomes heavier and heavier.
“Warwick?” You ask instead. “Did he-”
“He ran after Jinx,” he manages.
“A worker said you tackled him.”
There are several unanswered questions woven into that statement. With a ravaged sigh, Viktor begins to answer, taking quick breaths between every few words. “I was present to ensure the quality of several constructs and implants that began production there recently. In Warwick’s pursuit of his target and Jinx’s wanton destruction, not only would the products be destroyed, but the workers who had learned to create them.”
“So it was in defense of your projects that you helped,” you say, words a little bit winded as you keep walking, “and your workers. You care about them?”
“It will waste time to teach new workers,” he says instead, “and I have never sought death for others.”
You know. “So…you tackled him.”
“I did.”
“I can speak from experience that that is possibly the dumbest idea you’ve ever had in your life, Viktor.”
In another life, you’re fairly certain Viktor would have laughed at that. Either way, you turn a little to see him looking at you. All he says in response to that is, “There is still error in my thought processes.”
You snort. “Clearly.”
The walk takes longer than you like. Your shirt is not salvageable, not after this much dirt and blood, but at least he seems to have stopped bleeding. As you approach, the fog begins to flare up in your path again, but Viktor presses something on his belt to make it dissipate. It makes you chuckle a little bitterly that now you can finally pass through that fog and reach his home. All it took was a life or death situation. Still, you push the hurt feeling to the side and keep up the slow trudge over to the front door of his house. His third arm reaches ahead of you to open the gate, thank the gods, and you push it open to walk him up to the front door. The arm turns the door handle easily and you practically drag Viktor over the threshold. “Where to?”
“The lab,” he gasps out, not quite able to get a full breath.
“Do you have anyone to help you?”
To your utter devastation, Viktor shakes his head. There is a very long debate in your head of if you have time to run and find a doctor for the medical care Viktor desperately needs. It ends the moment you realize that no doctor would attend him. “Please tell me you have saline.”
He turns to look at you, his eye widening a little bit in understanding. “Yes.”
“Great,” you get him onto a gurney. “And where are your medical supplies?”
He looks at you for a long moment, not answering you. You stare back at him, hoping your worried determination is open across your face. It should be an easy decision - if he wants to live, he lets you do surgery on him - but you know what that means. That means you have to take off his armour. That means you get to see exactly how mechanized Viktor has become. That means you get to see him vulnerable, and you wonder how often the Machine Herald lets himself be vulnerable.
Never. The answer is never, and Viktor stares at you, the person who once metaphorically held his heart in their hands, and wonders how you will react to perhaps literally having to do so. The idea was to never speak to you again, never engage with you, never seek you out, never let you get this close. And yet…here you are, and here he is without a choice in the matter.
Finally, he wins whatever internal battle he is having and points to a chest. “You know how to-”
“Fit an IV?” You tear open the chest and crack open a bottle of spirits, dumping the disinfectant on your hands. “Yeah. I learned when you really started getting sick First aid classes.”
His head rests back against the gurney. “Understandable," his voice is tired, "Insertion was one of your favourite activities.”
The laugh you let out is nervous and completely involuntary. “Even without emotion, you are a fucking menace,” you mutter as you get a kettle filled with water for sterilization. His third arm leans over to blast a laser at it, quickly heating the water up to what you need.
“I believe that was something you once appreciated about me.” You can swear his eye crinkles a little with a smile.
“I do, but it is also extremely fucking irritating,” you pour some of the hot water in to sterilize your tools, and move to his arm, “and I can’t make you shut up in the way I used to.”
“No.” He doesn’t move as you remove the armour from the arm you’re fairly certain is still human and free a spot for the IV.
“You can pass out if you need to, Viktor,” you say simply. “I’ve got you.”
He watches you again, intently, before nodding. “The Glorious Evolution is in your hands.”
Your mouth twitches for just a moment into a smile, despite your worry, “I solemnly swear to not kill the Glorious Evolution.”
He does not say another word, simply laying his head back on the gurney. For a while, you think that he is watching you work, but when you remove his mask to confirm his vitals, his eyes are closed and his breathing is shallow. This is not what you expected to do. You are not a doctor, not nearly trained enough in medical knowledge to be able to do this, but you can do your best. You connect the IV and stitch up the gaping wounds in him. The few bones that you can set, you do, and you pull off the pieces of his broken armor. With every piece of armour that you remove, the more unsettling realizations you have about what Viktor has become.
His left arm is, of course, completely mechanical, as you knew before, and goes all the way up to his shoulder. His bad leg is braced with metal around the knee joint, in addition to the external brace. His eyes were augmented, his neck and jaw encased in metal, and there are perfect metal lines that run from his temple to the waterlines of his eyes to his jaw. What they do, you’re not sure, but you imagine there is some purpose for them. To strengthen the bones in his face? To allow easier access to his brain for any work? These you could understand and didn’t seem too extensive. But when you remove his chest plate and see a tube connecting his stomach to a bag of fluid, and lines of metal crossing down his chest to his stomach and hips…you are still a little gobsmacked.
Twenty-five percent metal indeed.
Still, you focus on the work. All of the metal near the wounds is treated, although the things that are bent are completely out of your expertise. He’s going to have to rebuild his entire arm, at the very least. Never mind his armour and mask - some of those pieces must be completely completely remade, or at the very least, some extreme repairs.
(You may, may , go stand in front of a mirror with Viktor’s mask in front of your face, reciting a few of the lines the newspaper have said he yells in battle. Relinquish the flesh and Submit to my designs sound kinky coming out of your mouth, but it feels oddly powerful with the mask to yell Join the Glorious Evolution, even if you don’t believe it.)
But finally, you close every hole, swap out the bag of saline for another, wrap him in bandages, place a blanket over top for warth, and set his armour aside to be cleaned and fixed. With that, you are exhausted. You find a chair, haul it close, and sit down to watch over him. He will still need a doctor to look over him and make sure your work doesn’t actually kill him, but it’s a start. He’ll live. He won’t bleed to death, you’ll live, and you won’t have to watch the last remnants of the man you love die in front of you. Finally, finally, the adrenaline fades, and you feel your eyelids droop.
You wake up to a tap on your shoulder, and slowly, you come to from your spot in the chair. It is night outside now, but even in the darkness, you can see his bright amber eyes peering at you through the dark. There is no expression on Viktor’s face, as plain and still as it has ever been, but as you sit up, it does shift ever so slightly into concentration.
“Hey,” you speak softly, “how are you feeling?”
He leans back a bit onto the gurney, although his eyes do not move away from you. “There is some pain, but it is within manageable levels.”
“I would be surprised if you weren’t. Do you need anything for it? Cold, pain medicine?”
He shakes his head slightly. “No. It does not bother me.”
It bothers you that he knows how to function through that level of pain, but at this point, you know better than to say anything. “Any other biological needs you have to meet?”
He gestures towards the bag on his stomach. “I will require nourishment and for this to be changed.”
Ah. You are not exactly looking forward to that. “I can do that. I’d rather you not tear my stitches, sloppy as they are.”
“Perhaps I should tear them so you can redo them.”
You can’t help a smile. “I’ll get lots of practice then. Perhaps you’ll be the Machine Pincushion.”
With the mask off, you can see the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the briefest hint of a smile. It is so sudden and sweet that you feel yourself freeze, staring at it. As soon as he notices that, the smile fades away back to a smooth expression. “You can empty it in the washroom, and there’s food in the kitchen.”
“Got it.”
You are just about kicking yourself as you walk to do that. Stupid, stupid. He would be paying more attention to it now. No matter how breathtaking his smiles are, especially when he has just about ripped his heart out of his chest, they are not what he wants. There is a reason the Tin Man was made without a heart - they do not need one to work, and Viktor is trying to get rid of anything that did not matter.
Still, you got to see him smile, and that…that was worth it.
You return soon after with the washed out bag and a bowl of soup from a tureen in the fridge. Viktor has reattached a clean bag in the time you were gone and his eyes are watching you intently as you set them down. “None for you?” He asks.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Unlikely,” he takes the bowl. “You need to eat every five hours. Go get another for yourself.”
Why he remembers that, you have no idea. Still, you go get a bowl for yourself and come back. “Who makes the soup?” You ask. “Unless you suddenly learned how to cook...”
“Mafalda, as gratitude for helping her child,” he tips the bowl towards his mouth with the good hand and tips some of its contents into his mouth, not bothering with a spoon. “It is nutritious and easy to digest.”
“Is it hard for you to eat whole foods?” You ask.
“No. However, it must all be cooked and not overly flavourful.”
“So no goulash in your future?”
Viktor looks at you over his bowl, watching you eat in turn. “No.”
A shame. He’d always liked goulash with enough spices to make a lesser man flinch. “So…what now? Do you know a good doctor?”
“Now that I am not in immediate danger, yes, I do,” he has another swallow of soup. “I will contact him and ensure that I will heal appropriately.”
The sigh of relief you let out probably could be heard in Piltover. “I know you said you wouldn’t contact me again but…please let me know what the doctor says. Let me know that you’ll be okay.”
Viktor does not answer. The silence becomes tense, taut between the two of you as you both finish your soup. He reaches for a bottle of water near the gurney and drinks as you finish your own bowl. All this time, he does not speak. Not while you take the dishes to be washed, not while you remove the IV and bandage the spot where the needle went in. There is nothing but silence.
It is not until you think that it is time for you to leave that Viktor finally speaks. “Love and legacy are the sacrifices we make for progress.”
You pause for a moment. “And what does that mean?”
“It is what I was told, when I received the first vial of Shimmer to work with Hexcore. ‘I must warn you,’” he says, his tone unchanging despite clearly repeating someone else’s words, “‘if you take this path, they will despise you. Love and legacy are the sacrifices we make for progress.’ And as with so many things, I did not understand it until now.”
You don’t. “I don’t hate you, Viktor.”
“I am aware,” he replies, “despite empirical evidence suggesting that you should feel the contrary.”
Is he…? “Are you asking me why I don’t hate you?”
“No. I am aware of the answer. You still have feelings for me.”
Without the mask, it is all too easy to lose yourself in Viktor’s face, even with the obvious augmentation. It is still his amber eyes, the curve of his lips, the little beauty marks on his cheeks, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the thoughtful expression in his eye. Even now, you can see the metaphorical gears whirring behind his eyes as he thinks. He stares you down like you are a puzzle waiting to be solved, or an interesting bug, trapped behind glass. You’re not sure how you feel about the intensity of it.
“What is your point, Viktor?” You ask softly. “That I should stop?”
“It would be the wisest decision.”
“That isn’t an answer,” And there, finally, the lights click on for you. It is a remarkable sight to see Viktor…unsure. Uncertain. Because that is what he is, you can see it now, hidden behind his calm expression. His eyes look past you, towards his armour on the stand where you hung it up, awaiting its repair or replacement.
"Master Viktor says that he does not love you anymore. However, he did not delete Protocol 2.1 and he has requested surveillance of you during your visits to the Undercity. This appears to fall under his previous stated description of love as ‘placing individual as priority above all else, providing security, seeking person out when needs are not met’."
Maybe. Just…maybe?
You reach forward and touch his cheek, thumb resting on the line between metal and skin. “You are still making progress, Viktor. Love and legacy aren’t detrimental to your work.”
His eyes focus back on you, but he does not answer. His head does, of course, tilt a little bit into your hand, soaking in your contact. Every time he does that, your heart skips a beat.
“But to answer your question, I have loved you for all of my life. Through trials and errors, through thick and thin, good and bad. You were there when I had no one, and in every success, you were by my side. You were the most important person in my life,” you shrug. “You are different now, different to love as well, but I’m not about to stop now.”
Viktor snorts, an out of place sound in the laboratory. “There are those who would advise you against such a thing.”
“What was it you used to say?” You stand up, retying your shirt as best as you can to hide the massive bloodstain. “‘When you are trying to change the world, don’t ask for permission.’”
Another snort, but quieter this time.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking about, Viktor, especially regarding me. But…when you figure it out, you know where to find me.” He does not respond, but nods. With that, you gently pat his cheek, and rise to your feet. "Get some rest and take care."
He settles back onto the gurney, pulling the blanket up with his one functional arm. "...understood."
As you depart, you keep to the alleys, trying to avoid the sight of anyone who might stare at the sight of blood. It’s not going to be a fun walk through Piltover, or where you may have to convince enforcers that it is not your blood, you are not injured, nor did you commit a murder. Despite the impending difficult situation, that is not what you are thinking of. No, you are thinking instead of Viktor’s all-too-telling silence.
Love and legacy are the sacrifices we make for progress.
I gave up my love for you for my work, and yet, you support my work and love me all the same.
You should feel the contrary.
Your feelings for me are irrational and I do not understand why you still have them.
It would be the wisest decision for you to stop loving me.
That does not mean I encourage you to do so.
There are those that would advise you against loving me.
I would have been one of them before. Now, my answer may have changed.
And when you told him where to find you…he did not say that he would not come looking.
Perhaps there is hope. It is a small, fragile little thing, threatening to be squashed by the lightest obstacle…but it is small and mighty, living on in a single word.
Perhaps.
As you depart, Viktor leans back on the gurney and closes his eyes. Despite the lingering discomfort of his injuries and the priority of medical attention, his mind starts cataloguing the information gathered during this meeting. The confirmation that you still love him, not simply his past self. Your assistance with his medical care, without flinching. Your undying loyalty to Zaun, despite your residence above. The possibility, becoming more and more apparent with each exposure, that while feelings for you may be distracting, they do not impair his work. They are, in fact…useful, especially when circumstances overwhelm him. Not to mention that he can still feel where your fingers rested on his cheek, a warm brand, painless and tender.
Perhaps. It is not a word he enjoys, nor does he know what comes after the word, not without further investigation of all of the future options, but…
Perhaps.