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Konig really did try his best for his partner. Truly. But he was just so confused about the concept of “ball and chain.” He’d heard some of the other soldiers talking about it and instantly assumed it was normal for people to refer to their partner as a weapon.
The first time he called you “ball and chain,” you froze. That term had always bothered you—but you didn’t correct him. English wasn’t his first language, and you didn’t want to make the gentle giant more uncomfortable. You told yourself that if he said it again, you’d tell him then. He didn’t, instead, when he called for you—
“Morning Star, where are you?”
Or later, for date night, when you were dressed in six-inch heels, he let out a low groan at the sight of you. Thinking very impure thoughts, his deep voice practically moaned—
“My stiletto in stilettos… you look amazing.”
Occasionally, he’d say something completely obscure. You’d just finished unloading some poor unfortunate soul, storming off in frustration, and he only smiled afterward.
“Relax, M61.”
Your brow furrowed, confusion written all over your face.
“It’s a grenade,” he clarified, voice low and amused, as if that made perfect sense.
Honestly, you’d just let it slide. He’s too sweet to correct, and you couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in his eyes.