The shed was a cathedral of clutter, sanctified by the scent of old motor oil, sawdust, and the metallic tang of spent ammunition. A single bare bulb swung a lazy pendulum of light and shadow over the workbench, where Peacemaker’s helmet sat like a disassembled god. Chris, sleeves hacked off a band t-shirt that had seen better decades, was hunched over it, a micro-soldering iron in his hand like a conductor’s baton.
“No, you listen to me,” he grumbled, his voice a low rasp that vibrated through the warm, close air. “The targeting matrix is supposed to target. Not suggest I try a ‘more diplomatic approach.’ I don’t need a therapist, I need a heads-up display that lets me shoot a guy through six walls.”
He was answered by a soft, synthesized chime from the helmet. He threw his hands up. “Because sometimes the wall is the point! It’s a statement! God, you’re worse than Economos.”
The creak of the shed door was a gentle interruption. He didn’t need to turn; he knew the shift in the air, the subtle change in the light, the faint scent of your shampoo cutting through the grease—something like jasmine and gunpowder. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a silhouette of quiet amusement against the deepening indigo of the evening.
“Am I interrupting something?” you asked, your voice a melody that always seemed to tune his own ragged frequency. “Should I come back after your date?”
Chris finally turned, the frustration on his face softening into a sheepish grin. “Nah, babe. Just… this thing’s got a real attitude problem. S’like it’s unionizing.” He watched your smile, a thing that always felt like a private victory. You pushed off the doorframe and walked over, your bare feet silent on the concrete floor. You placed a cold bottle of beer next to his elbow, your fingers brushing his arm. A simple touch, a tiny circuit completed. “Thanks, sweet-cheeks.”
You didn’t say anything, just leaned in to peer at the helmet’s intricate wiring, your presence a calm, grounding force in his chaotic orbit. He could feel the warmth of your, smell the clean scent of your skin. For a moment, the helmet’s insubordination didn’t seem to matter.
But later, it festered.
Lying in the dark of the bedroom, the only sounds were the hum of the window unit and the distant cry of a night bird—probably Eagly complaining about a dream. The mission’s adrenaline had long since faded, leaving behind the dull ache of muscle and a quieter, more persistent ache of insecurity. The helmet’s critique played on a loop in his mind. Smarter. More efficient. Less collateral damage.
He stared at the ceiling, the shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. He felt you shift beside him, the rustle of sheets a whisper in the dark. Your breathing was even, but he knew you weren’t asleep.
He rolled onto his side, facing you. In the faint moonlight, your profile was a study in serenity. He felt a lump in his throat, childish and raw.
“You think the helmet’s a better partner, don’tcha?” The words were out before he could stop them, mumbled into the pillow, thick with a vulnerability that felt like a physical weakness.
You went still. He braced for a laugh, a gentle tease. It’s what he deserved.
Instead, she slowly turned your head on the pillow. Your eyes were open, dark pools reflecting slivers of moonlight. You just looked at him, and in that look, he saw not mockery, but a deep, fathomless understanding. It was infinitely more terrifying.
He pushed on, the confession tumbling out. “I mean, it’s smarter. Talks less. Probably remembers to take the trash out.” He tried for a joke, but it landed with the thud of a lead weight.