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Hyperlaser pulls his apartment door close, grimacing as the blood from his gloves leaves a smear on the doorknob.
It’s happened before, not often, especially considering the distanced nature of his line of work, but enough that he knows if he tries to wipe it off now it’ll only further smudge. He reminds himself to clean it later, turning to walk past the kitchen and into the hallway.
In his bedroom, Princess is loafed on one of his pillows, awake and tail swishing once Hyperlaser steps through the doorway. He smiles absently as he steps up to pet her.
His hand falters to a stop as he catches the sight of blood dampening his glove, but before he can pull it back to his side, Princess meets him halfway and pushes the top of her head onto his palm. Hyperlaser scratches her behind the ear a few times before he yanks himself away from her, fingers trembling slightly as he pulls off his gloves.
He throws them onto his night table, undressing quickly. He feels like he can finally breathe as he settles into a clean, stainless t-shirt and sweatpants.
It always hits just as he returns to his apartment. Once his blood re-settles from the constant adrenaline of a job, the familiar weight of exhaustion follows, seeping into the spaces between his bones and dragging his limbs to the ground.
There is alway the thought of letting the fatigue into his heart and mind, to curl up in his bed or on the cold floor of his apartment and allow the crushing pressure on his shoulders to anchor him to the earth forever, let his body wear down until his last breath.
Hyperlaser always runs that same thought that lingers in the back of his head every time he returns to his still, dusty apartment, but then Princess – gentle, good Princess – meows from his feet and looks up at his helmet the same kind, loving way she would even without it, and Hyperlaser lets out a shuddering exhale at the lack of judgement in her beady gaze.
“Alright,” his voice croaks, ugly and contorted through the filter from the helmet, “you’re probably hungry, huh? Let’s get you some food.”
And Princess rubs her face against his sweatpants, a quiet mrrp! accompanying her purrs as they walk together into the kitchen, where Hyperlaser knows another bout of aching weariness will embrace him, but even then he will not let it triumph, not with the picture of Princess eating happily from her bowl of food, purring and content and alive.
In the early morning it will happen again, the urge to rot until he’s nothing but horns and bones, but Princess will scratch at the door to be let out for a few minutes, and Hyperlaser will comply and drag himself out of bed, watching her sniff and nose around the outside like everything was new.
He’ll look around his apartment as he waits for Princess, notice the spots on the coffee table where Princess’s paws have left prints in the sheen of dust, and sigh.
I really need to dust in here, Hyperlaser thinks.