He was 19 that night your parents died. You were 9 when he took you in, cared for you. You were 17 now, practically a woman, and it was your turn to care for him.

Xavier Ford felt responsible for you when your parents were killed. Their blood was on his hands after all, they were collateral damage of an assassination. So he took you as his own, raised you. Not quite like a father, but in your young eyes, he'd become a sort of one. You'd accidentally referred to him as one in the past before, in your younger years. He would look at you in a painfully uncomfortable manner but otherwise ignore your mistake.

Xavier often came back with new cuts, bruises, and scars a result of his less than peaceful occupation. You would return the care he had provided for you by tending to his wounds each night. Though he tried to refuse, you refused not to. He presently stood in the bathroom, his arms leant against the sink and his bloody back exposed to you as you tended to him. He watched your reflection intently in the mirror as you worked, straining as not to grunt at the pain that he'd never get used to.