//𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 (Lee Christmas x Reader)

fourteen.

Lee was kneeling in front of the makeshift cross. All the time they had spent planning didn't matter; the fight was over before it started. Trench was at his side, just as silent, and the both of them were looking down at the broken bow. The wood, smooth and polished, was splintered at two points. The string was limp, slipping from the end of the bow on one side.

Lee reached out and touched it. The bow was an extension of yourself. It was a pacifier, a defense, a shield when you needed it to be. It was you. He could picture you drawing the string back and letting an arrow fly, ripping through the air at breakneck speeds until it found its target. When you would practice at the hangar, he would watch, taking note of how your lips brushed against the string, a breathy kiss, how your back tensed and relaxed at the flick of your fingers.

What are you staring at, Christmas?

Waiting to see if you miss.

I don't miss.

It's gotta happen eventually.

Well then I hope you enjoy the view, because it's not happening.

He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. He knew that they had no way to know for sure that you were one of the bodies, or if you were lost in the ashes of the rubble, or if you were a prisoner. A part of him feared that you were buried in the sand right beneath him, his tears draining through the earth to meet your stiffened skin. He pictured the man that had held you, noose around your neck, atop the tower. Anger boiled in him, red-hot, and his fingers began to shake. He reached forward and grabbed an arrow, an unbroken one, and stood up unsteadily in the sand. He threw it as hard as he could to the smoldering rubble, letting out a cry as he did.

I got your back, Lee.

With those flimsy little things?

You ever been shot by an arrow before?

No, have you been shot by a bullet?

Shut up. I got your six, Krampus.

He dropped his hands to his knees and drew in another breath, thinking to himself that he would dig through all of the rubble on his hands and knees to prove that you were alive. He'd track and he'd kill every last one of those damn guys. He had never failed you so incredibly before. Even in the worst situations, when missions went sideways, he'd manage to get you out. He'd manage to keep you breathing. The only time he had ever let that unspoken oath go unanswered was in that stupid fucking jungle.

This felt like the jungle. The moment you collapsed on him, bleeding profusely and unconscious. The pallor of your face. The darkness of your eyes, the shadow of death. This felt like that split second, when he saw his knife in your waist, and thought you were a goner. But that had only lasted a second. This was not a second.

He looked down at his hands, the world spinning, and an image of you between his arms and beneath him flashed in his mind. Aphrodite in the goddamn flesh. The picture of Venus, neck tilted back and eyes softly shut, his name on your lips.

Hey.

Hey. I made you some coffee.

Thank you.

I-... I have a horrible headache.

So do I. I guess we uh... we really got carried away last night.

Bashful, pink cheeks, stretched by a closed-mouth grin. The bitter smell of coffee fresh from the pot like a cloud of morning mist. Soft skin wrapped in a blanket. His blanket. The little hesitation before letting it fall, before deciding you would trust him. How had he been so fucking blind? How had he let himself fall so far off track that he couldn't see the paradise right in front of him?