Chapter Text
It's dark out. It must be almost midnight by now. The curtains are closed. The only light on is the little lamp sitting next to the couch on that ebony end table. The TV helps to illuminate the room, softly playing some old cartoon that you vaguely recognize. There's some cats and they all play in a rock band together. It's cute, not as captivating as other old cartoons you've seen, but cute nonetheless. You wonder if this is one of the shows that Noir used to watch as a kid. The dark goggles of his mask are glued to the screen from where he's sitting on the couch. He likes cartoons with animals in them, you've noticed.
There's a blanket wrapped tight around the two of you and extra cushions creating a barrier around both of you. Like a little nest, you think. It's warm and that warmth is only accentuated by Noir’s body heat radiating off of him. He's always been so warm.
Your back is pressed against his chest. His arms are around you, holding you snuggly against himself despite all of his focus being on the TV. He only has on his undersuit, plus his mask and helmet. And, of course, he still has his codpiece on. His undersuit is tight and strains against his muscles, so that piece of armor only comes off around you in the bedroom.
You look down at his arms where they're holding you. You brush the blanket out of the way, uncovering his hands, which don't have gloves on them like they normally do. You were (and still are) so glad when he finally started taking his gloves off around you. You wanted so desperately to feel his skin. Although you'd love for you to be feeling his lips against yours instead, it's so amazing being able to hold his hand without those thick gloves in the way. You hope that soon he'll feel more comfortable around you that he feels he can take his mask off without judgment. You don't mind waiting. You just want him to feel safe around you.
His hands have scars on them. Nowhere near as big as the scars he tells you he has on his face, but there's still so many that cover both his hands. Jagged circles crowd his palms, old injuries you can only assume come from bullets. Slashes cover his fingers and the back of his hands, going right over and along his prominent veins. All of his knuckles have almost white scars covering them, the skin ripped off too many times to heal properly. They're rough but you love the way they feel against your soft and much smaller ones.
You wrap your hands around his and you startle him, making him jump just a little, but he relaxes almost immediately. His arms tighten around you even more, which you thought was impossible. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, the point of his helmet’s nose poking you. You hear him inhale deeply, breathing you in. Your heart flutters. You never thought you'd get to this point with him.
You turn around from where you're sitting in his lap, his arms relaxing around you when you go to move. You rest your hands on his chest, staring into those goggles. He gently places his hands on your waist, tilting his head at you. You can see his lips form a smile from where his mask is pressed against them. You lean forward, kissing him through the fabric. He holds you there as you lean your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. You feel your eyes grow heavy, so comfortable against him, so warm. You wish you could stay here with him forever.
When your eyes eventually close, drifting off to sleep, he fixes the blanket around you, making sure you're covered properly. He kisses the top of your head and goes back to watching the cartoons quietly playing on the TV.