Work Text:
A well-dressed, middle-aged demon – gearless and surrounded by a handful of bodyguards – gets framed by a steady crosshair. He talks leisurely with the other demon of similar status beside him, hand in pocket, confidence radiating off of him even as the cause of his forthcoming death – because this demon is dying whether he wants to or not – aims his way.
Hyperlaser always liked this part of the job. Not the killing part; never that. He enjoys the silence that encases him as he readies to fire his gun; the wind rushing around him in a wild frenzy because of how high of a building he settles on; the utter tranquility settling into his very bones.
His finger nudges the safety off, easing its way to the trigger. The peace inside him wavers.
He breathes in and out. Three times. Relaxation seeps into his strung muscles as unease crawls back into his mind – the reminder of the aftermath of what he is about to do ringing in his ears. Death is coming.
Hyperlaser only wishes for a comfortable spot in Hell, even if he doesn’t deserve such a thing.
A suppressed bang shatters the tranquility. His target falls to the floor without any fanfare, a gaping hole clean through his skull, and Hyperlaser observes through his crosshair the shock, the panic, the horror running through the surrounding demons with a sort of apathy he forces onto himself before sighing softly and sliding back from his belly-down position.
He misses the peace already, but to be a murderer is one thing; to murder without a sense of remorse, a pinch of regret, is another thing. He likes to believe he has some semblance of humanity left inside him. The thought makes it easier to bear the way his mind tears him apart each time he fires his gun.
Like always, Hyperlaser finds himself at a bar in his free time. He took two lives today – one with his gun, another he had to finish the job on foot with a pistol – and most likely… well, definitely doomed three others. The scientists at BlackRock have been muttering about needing more test subjects. The higherups figured he could use some extra work, so Hyperlaser found himself stalking the streets of Playground to reach his quota.
He always hated that; walking through the streets, watching Playgrounders live their normal lives and knowing he is going to have a hand in ruining one of them. They seem so free of burden. Free of obligatory demands. Free of Blackrock—
Hyperlaser takes another long swig of his beer, willing away the jealousy brewing in his heart, the self-deprecation starting up in his mind.
He figures his way of life will lead to Hell eventually. There’s only so many demons one can kill before they’re unredeemable in the eyes of the gods – so much blood they can get on their hands before their entire body is stained black with filth, through and through.
Knowing this, he often considers dying as the better option to living as BlackRock’s pawn with immense guilt on his shoulders, but he never got the gall to actually end his own life; for a murderer who can easily kill another demon, taking his own mortality is ironically difficult. Some days he wishes someone would shoot and kill him while he’s walking through the grocery store. In his house doing chores. Living a normal life before he has to go back to death and murder and utter despair—
Hyperlaser watches the bartender pop open another bottle for him – the third one for the night. The bottle is a bit cold against his gloved hands. He nods cordially to the bartender as a show of thanks; the bartender grins back and says something along the lines of how well-paying of a regular he is.
Even if his face had been visible, and he had a social requirement to smile and frown and laugh in response, Hyperlaser isn’t sure he’d still be able to give the bartender a humored smile; his face remains lifeless as he forces a huff up his throat.
It’s getting harder nowadays; to smile and laugh and feel anything but negativity. The last time he smiled was probably a week or two ago – and even that smile wasn’t anything but bitter and condescending – and the last time he laughed…
Ages ago.
He isn’t sure he even remembers the motions – the correct sounds and expressions he’s supposed to make. The mirror in his house has been subjected to reflecting his naked face, burned and broken and scarred, as it strained itself out of the usual deadpan and tried to replicate what it was like to be on the verge of laughter, to replicate the result of happiness and humor. It’s humiliating to come back to himself after trying. Painful to acknowledge that he’s been so listless and apathetic and uncaring that he can’t even laugh anymore.
He feels stupid. So he dons his mask again and tries to forget he ever tried.
A warm hand settles on Hyperlaser’s shoulder, large and woefully familiar. Tugged out of the past, he flinches, combative responses not fully dimmed by alcohol, and immediately he tilts his head up just in time to see an owl-like mask and a broad, firm figure towering behind him.
Katana.
“He’ll have a water, thank you.” Says that rumbling voice, a voice that has talked to him for hours on end, offered comfort for hours on end, slowed the light-speed of his thinking mind for hours on end. The hand on Hyperlaser’s shoulder squeezes briefly, and the eyes of Katana’s mask slide his way, seeming to take him in.
Suddenly, Hyperlaser’s conscious of the faded bloodstains on his cuffs. Of the slackness of his tie and the wrinkles along his clothes. Of what could be smudges and debris and dust all over his mask.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Hyperlaser nods a greeting. “Katana.”
“Hello, Hyperlaser.” Katana murmurs after a few seconds of staring, the heaviness of his gaze leaving Hyperlaser as he looks at the array of bottles on the counter. A wave of shame, thick and choking, washes over Hyperlaser the longer Katana looks, and it feels like hours later that the bigger demon turns back to him with what can be a sympathetic tilt of his head.
He’s concerned.
No, he isn’t.
Is he worried then?
No. Not that either.
Then why does he stare like that—
“Hyperlaser.”
He pauses, bringing his lead-weight gaze back to Katana. “…Yes?”
“Are you busy tonight?”
Busy…? He shouldn’t be, right? Nighttime commissions were rare nowadays. It’s been a week or two since he had to sit in the dark with the sounds of night life all around him and death on his fingertips. He’s glad for that.
“No.” The bartender hands him a glass of water, and Hyperlaser takes it reluctantly, not yet ready to sober up for the night. It’s been a while since he fell asleep sober. He doesn’t want to. But Katana’s gaze is boring into him, and Hyperlaser has the feeling he doesn’t have a choice as to whether he drinks the water or not, so he throws most of it back.
A pleased air surrounds Katana then, his hand squeezing around Hyperlaser’s shoulder a few times for good measure. Hyperlaser pretends not to notice it. “Most nights I don’t seem to be very busy, so I suppose I’m free right now. Is there something you need? I figure you would’ve sat down next to me if you had plans to drink tonight.”
Katana, in the sincerest voice Hyperlaser has heard, says with an unwavering voice, “I wish to take you home.”
What?
It takes Hyperlaser a few seconds to realize he spoke out loud, far too perplexed to control his tongue, and Katana shifts where he stands, his shoulders curling in just the slightest.
He’s upset.
Why? Did he do something wrong?
The voice in his head doesn’t reply back; Hyperlaser finds himself at a loss, mouth working uselessly to find something to fill in the unpleasant silence.
“Do… do you not want to leave?” Katana eventually asks, head tilting to the side.
“No. No that’s not it. I… Why do you want to…?”
“Ah.” Katana’s voice takes on – Hyperlaser dare say – a bashful tone. The hand he isn’t resting on Hyperlaser’s shoulder comes up to awkwardly rub the uncovered skin of his fuzzy nape, and it is then that Hyperlaser’s attention keys into the thick manbun his mane of hair is in. It looks… nice. “That… that is a surprise. Ah, I mean—It’s not—”
“Surprise?” Hyperlaser can feel his face shift into a look of confusion, what’s left of his brows furrowing deeply. It’s been a while since someone’s come to him with a surprise. A surprise of the good kind, anyway. He has grown to not associate surprises with anything good. “Is that why you want to go home with me?”
Katana looks a bit deflated. Disappointed, perhaps. “…Yes. Is that okay with you?”
Hyperlaser glances at the bottles before him and considers the fact he has not yet reached the threshold of tipsy, never mind drunk. When was the last time he spent his nights anywhere other than a bar or BlackRock headquarters? Not more than a month, but definitely not anywhere near the past week or two.
Well, either way, the one who is asking is Katana. Earnest, quiet, comforting Katana.
“Let’s go.” Hyperlaser decides then, slipping off the stool and shouldering his duffel bag with uncontainable eagerness. The hand on his shoulder slips off as he does, but it very quickly situates itself on Hyperlaser’s forearm, an urging touch that leads him out of the bar and into cold, dreary BlackRock weather.
He forgot how warm Katana is; the heat of his hand bleeds into exposed skin from where he rolled up his sleeves, and Hyperlaser cannot help but wonder how that same warmth would feel all around him, enveloping his body and thawing away the frigid chill deep in his marrow, embedded in his soul.
He has to shove away the thought before he truly considers asking, shaking his head faintly, and he feels Katana’s attention, heavy and focused, flicker to him for a moment as they rush their way up the dark, lamp illuminated streets.
The large, warm hand slips down his forearm and into his own, grasping tightly.
Hyperlaser nearly stumbles on thin air, heart stuttering before pounding against his chest, face growing warmer than it has in months. The hand in his, it’s so warm. Rough to the touch in a way a warrior’s hand would be, but careful and gentle in holding another.
Katana doesn’t let go of him until they’re standing in front of his apartment and is physically obligated to, watching keenly as Hyperlaser fumbles for his keys with his other, much colder hand and unlocks his front door.
Without pause, Princess greets them in the hallway, tottering over and rubbing her face all over the dirtied hem of Hyperlaser’s pants. She chirps happily when Hyperlaser bends down and scoops her up, always so happy to see him. Always eager to greet him no matter how many lives Hyperlaser takes.
It’s with somber gratefulness that Hyperlaser lets her cling onto his suit with her claws and lick the visible skin of his neck, a habit she hasn’t broken since she was a gangly kitten, and she doesn’t budge as he toes off his shoes. She does, however, begin to purr loudly, and Hyperlaser glances over his shoulder to see Katana scratching her affectionately underneath the chin.
Adorable.
Hyperlaser isn’t sure if he’s referring to Princess or the demon behind him.
“I have to go get something. You should shower and change into something comfortable. I’ll be sure to return swiftly.”
“Ah, alright.” Hyperlaser thoughtlessly murmurs in reply, still watching the way Princess closes her jaw around Katana’s finger only to release and lap at it apologetically. “I’ll leave the door unlocked then.”
“Lock it. I’ll use the spare key.”
“Mhn.”
Hyperlaser understands Princess’s confused, pitiful meow when Katana steps back outside and carefully closes the door with another reminder to lock it, the warmth that seems to follow the other demon vanishing like a candle in windy conditions.
Hyperlaser locks the door. It’s been a while since he’s done that. He’s been leaving the door unlocked whenever he’s home in a pathetic attempt to increase the chances of his own death.
Princess clings to him as he drops his belongings by the door and goes into the bedroom, only jumping off when Hyperlaser peels off his clothes in preparation for a shower. The helmet comes off with a few clicks, and Hyperlaser grimaces as cold air hits his bare face, never quite used to the feeling after so many years. He’ll have to put it back on when Katana comes back.
Does he?
Yes. He does.
The shower he takes is cold. The tiles are even colder underneath his feet. But when he looks at himself in the mirror while toweling off, there’s a hint of something in his face. Not exactly happiness. Not exactly apathy. He looks… normal. Like he isn’t carrying the weight of his own actions on his shoulders.
It’s weird.
Hyperlaser pries his gaze away from the unfamiliar demon and slips his way into some insulated sweatpants and a well-fitted sweater, making sure the sleeves cover his chilly hands. The apartment is empty and quiet save for Princess’s occasional trills of interest, so Hyperlaser finds himself in the kitchen, starting up a kettle full of water and brewing a cup of coffee while he’s at it. Katana left two cups and some teabags last time he was here; Hyperlaser pulls them out from one of the cabinets.
The front door opens and closes.
Hyperlaser pauses, hands full of coffee and tea, and briefly remembers his lack of helmet. Curses.
As he’s setting down the items in his hands, the lights go off with a flicker, and his face scrunches up with confusion, ears straining for any sort of noise, eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden darkness. Is today the day he dies? But he locked the door. Unless… someone overheard his conversation with Katana and took the opportunity to end the life of a renowned mercenary?
Hyperlaser finds the thought less bothersome than he thought it would be, shoulders falling.
The creak of a floorboard rings out in the apartment. Someone inhales sharply. Whoever is trying to kill him; they aren’t doing a very good job at it. Just for the hell of it, Hyperlaser counts the number of chances he has to kill the intruder, getting to around five when there’s a snapping noise, and a spark lights up right behind the counter.
Hyperlaser peels his eyes open from where he had closed them.
Katana stares back at him like a child who’s been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, kneeling in front of the counter yet still peering over the edge. In his hands is a paper plate with a tiny chocolate cake atop it; a single candle sits on the frosting with a wavering flame, illuminating Katana’s mask in a warm glow.
Hyperlaser sucks in a sharp breath.
“Um, happy birthday. I didn’t know what flavor you would prefer, so apologies if this isn’t to your preferences, but it was all I could find. Ah, hold on, the candle’s melting… would you like to make a wish first?” Katana fumbles with the rapidly shortening stump of wax, unknowing of the way Hyperlaser’s stagnant heart thumps in his chest, ignorant of the fact it’s been years since he last found a reason to celebrate another year of his existence.
Why must the gods torment him with this… this warmth filling his chest?
“I forgot.” Is the first thing Hyperlaser is able to croak. Katana seems to glance up at him before humming lowly.
“I figured as much.”
A stiff silence settles over them. After a few moments, Hyperlaser reaches out and takes the cake from Katana’s awaiting hands, holding the flicker of light in front of him. Vaguely, he’s aware of the bareness of his face – the chipped stumps of what should’ve been his horns – and the warmth around him dampens.
He glances up, a bit self-conscious.
Katana’s mask is resolutely tipped towards the cake, the demon waiting patiently.
“Bloody hell.” Hyperlaser exhales tiredly and closes his eyes. Katana’s gaze settles on him then as he mulls over his wish, familiar and heavy but not at all judging, and somehow that stare makes thinking of a wish harder.
What is it he even wants? What is there to look forward to? Years ago, he wished for him and the demons that used to work and laugh and stick by his side to be together for years to come. That never happened. He also wished for happiness during the last year he celebrated his birthday; that never came true either.
Nothing he wished for in regards of himself seemed to stick.
Hyperlaser thinks back to the present. Blackrock. Commissions. The lives he’s taken. All things he would rather not remember.
…Katana?
Ah. He knows what he wishes for now.
Katana is still with him when Hyperlaser opens his eyes. He rounds the counter as Hyperlaser blows out the candle and leaves them in a world of darkness. His hands are warm and firm when they grab Hyperlaser’s shoulder and turn him so they face each other, and Hyperlaser pushes down the explosion of appreciation inside his chest as his helmet is slipped on over his head.
“I didn’t hear you move away.” Hyperlaser murmurs, unmoving as Katana’s hands secured his helmet. He can hear the smug curl of Katana’s lips when he replies.
“I can be silent when I want to be.”
“Considering how large you are, that is a feat in it of itself.”
Katana hums in reply. Thick knuckles brush over the exposed skin of Hyperlaser's nape, thoughtless and fleeting, and then a large hand cups his nape as his helmet is adjusted. Hyperlaser shivers at the touch, face scrunching up, his body fighting against the relaxation threatening to overcome him.
It takes a moment for Hyperlaser to reorient himself when Katana goes to flick on the lights again. Once Katana returns to the kitchen, he places down the cake and gathers Katana’s hands in his own, a bit awkwardly considering the size difference. He looks up at the demon in front of him; takes in the owl-like mask and the light flush of red dusting his pointy ears. The way his hands flex in his own, and the wisps of pale hair around his face. The low v-cut of his yukata and the peek of sanguine-stained gauze underneath it.
Hyperlaser wishes he could see the heart of this demon. The mind. The soul. The emotions running through him.
He thinks they would look rather beautiful. Warm and dim like afternoon sunlight.
“Thank you.” Hyperlaser finally says, squeezing Katana’s hands, making sure to hold his unmoving gaze. “I really didn’t think you would remember that today was my birthday, but I’ve been proven wrong once again, so… thank you. It’s… it’s been quite some time since anyone did something like this for me. I think I find myself at a loss for words?”
Katana hums softly, “That is unlike you. I take it that you like your surprise?”
“I do. I like it very much.” Hyperlaser, in a moment of bravery, brings one of Katana’s hands to his mask and holds it there as he slips his mask up until he can press a lingering kiss to it. The hand twitches as he does. Hyperlaser looks back up at Katana, taking in the deepening flush of his ears. “You are a very considerate demon.”
A croon rumbles out of Katana, soft and happy and endeared, all the things Hyperlaser found himself wishing for earlier – Katana’s happiness. He relents to the fluttering of his chest when Katana bends down and clinks their masks together, unable to help a stuttering, surprised trill of his own.
“Eat and come to bed with me.” Katana rumbles, hands moving to hold Hyperlaser’s biceps, thumbs stroking the clothed skin soothingly. “I found the movie you were interested in from a few months ago. Perhaps we could watch it before we sleep?”
Hyperlaser huffs, a short, brief thing. A genuine thing. “I suppose that is something we can arrange. Let’s find something to eat then, shall we?”
“Ah, actually—” Katana moves away, leaving him cold and confused, but the rustling of a paper bag catches his attention, and Hyperlaser’s eyes widen at the logo of his favorite Austrian restaurant. Katana looks at him with a heart-throbbingly endearing tilt of his head, holding out the delectable-smelling bag for Hyperlaser to hold. “I preordered this for pickup earlier. It should still be warm, so we can eat right away.”
Hyperlaser’s fingers clench and unclench around the bag handle; he takes in a deep, shuddering breath to resist the urge to yank Katana into a bone-crushing hug and never let go.
He can save all his urges for later when they’re tucked in bed, limbs tangling and warmth emanating all over them. Then, he can murmur all the praise he wants into Katana’s ear, hug the bigger demon to his chest and stroke his mane of hair. Yes, that would be well worth the wait.
Hyperlaser does just that, and he enjoys every second of it.