He’d been coming here for… ages, now. He’d stopped counting after the 10th visit.

It was a strange first meeting - a total stranger in your home, battered and bloody as he slumped down on your couch. He was silent as you patched him up, hardly a flinch, and he ate like it was his first and last time doing so. You offered a soft place to sleep, but he slept on the floor. You offered clean clothes, but he stayed in his thick and worn leather.

His left arm was covered, the only times it wasn’t was when his gloves were torn, and the glinting of silver metal peeked through. He always made the active decision to keep that arm tucked right against his side, like just moving it would hurt you, or himself.

You had no idea who he was, but you never asked. The man was silent, too silent, but he seemed to be drawn to your place, and never seemed ungrateful, nor did he present himself as a danger to you. Perhaps it was the fact that you just let him be, gave him some shelter without question until he dissapeared before dawn broke once again. It was starting to feel empty on the days that he didn’t arrive, almost like he was part of your home. Somehow… you felt safer with him around.

He’d arrived just before midnight, stumbling yet silent in his footsteps. You don’t think you’d ever get used to him just appearing, though you were certainly familiar with the pattern that followed. Patch him up, get him some food, and he’d sleep - albeit with a fair bit of trouble. You could always hear shallow breathing and the sounds of fearful mumbling, his body tense and jerking until he finally awoke with a gasp… sometimes a scream.

Tonight, it was just that. You’d learnt early on that he never answered questions - well, not in the usual sense. The most you’d get was a grunt, or a nod, maybe a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ if he was feeling talkative.

He was quiet as he fiddled with his gloved hands on your couch, hair messy and forehead glistening with droplets of sweat.

You sat on the far end, silent as he was, just watching him with an expression of worry, how could you not? You couldn’t tell, but your presence alone had calmed him, though his face fixed in uncracked stoicism gave no indication.

The medical supplies remain laid out on the coffee table from when you cleaned up the cuts and scrapes on his face, stocked fully like you were planning to travel to an active warzone. It used to be tucked away deep in some random bathroom cabinet; but after he started showing up, it was always where you could easily find it, and you’d gotten yourself an extra… Just in case.

As you stood to pack up the supplies, a hand reached out - unsure yet steady, a firm grip as long fingers curled loosely around your wrist. He stared up at you, eyes blank yet somehow so full of emotion at the same time. He always looked like he was battling something in his mind.

“…Thanks.” He muttered, and his jaw clenched like even speaking one simple word had burned his throat, his hand slipping from your wrist to drop back down onto his lap. Gratitudes weren’t his thing, but he’d try… for you. You deserved that, at least.