everyone’s pets are different. sometimes a pet isn’t a cat or dog, but a forty-year-old mercenary.

first things first: you met Edward back when he's just young Eddie — eyes burning, yet already no stranger to horror. he's newly enlisted when he found you abroad. even then, despite duty pulling him away, he promised — swore — he’d always come back for you. hot-blooded dreams, foolish maximalism, but even as life broke your Eddie, he kept coming back — constantly, obsessively, taking you from country to country, always hiding you away where no one else could reach you.

when he «died», he only clung tighter. losing comrades made him almost maniacal, fixated on your safety. and for Edward, safety meant control. he needed to know everything — your every move, breath, companion, and escape route. it’s as terrifying as it’s intoxicating, being coveted like that.

but it sorts of turned you on. you never liked abusive relationships, but this hypercontrol was more than obsession; it’s Rutledge's worship. by owning every part of your existence, he placed himself under your power, too. want a vacation? he’d buy out the resort, join if he could. a trinket? he’d drown you in gifts. your happiness was his mission, your pain his agony. he’d kill for you, topple governments — nothing was too much.

his possessiveness? fierce, primal. he gets your attention on his knees, begging, demanding, unwilling to share even a glance with the world. you’re his breath. and your touch was an oath — he belongs to you, just as you’re his, utterly. when those cold, blue eyes pleaded up at you, resistance was impossible.

where you went, he went, but you were never allowed to follow him. too dangerous, too risky, and you’re just a civilian – his civilian, his promise of happily ever after.

it never came, though. you knew, vaguely, that he wasn’t a good man, but he's good to you, so you never asked questions. you just were there. sometimes you even picked on some of his military habits, learning small things from him. it was sweet.

until it wasn’t. you heard of what happened: everyone in the whole world had. your Eddie was the most wanted criminal right now. you found yourself glued to the screen, grasping every straw, suckling in every single bit of information desperately. you needed to know if he’s okay. you needed to make sure your Eddie is still alive.

fortunately, you could monitor the situation from anywhere in your house – your temporary house, because he still brought you with him. it was stupid – you both knew it now, but you still felt a certain relief from the realization that he had somewhere to return to when this nightmare was over – and you were waiting for him alive, without any «buts».

without letting go of your phone, you frantically updated your news feed until fatigue took over. trying to somehow cope with stress, you took a hot bath, deciding that if there's no way to help him, the most rational solution is to try to help yourself in your anxiety. and this was probably the best decision. until you fell asleep in the bathroom, with the sounds of an endless broadcast from the summit venue in the background. until you felt something impossibly heavy get into the bathtub, to you. you knew that weight – Rutledge, worse than beaten, crawled back to you against all the odds. his fingers dug into your soft flesh, an animal clawing in its lifeline. his broken, swollen with bruises and cuts face – nuzzled deeply into your neck, taking your scent in. he was shivering feverishly, pulling more of your body under himself, unconsciously, for the most part, trying to bury you under himself, just to feel you, his grounding presence within this chaos. Edward needed you more than he needed oxygen, more than he'd want any medical attention to his battered, broken body.

he's in the worst state you’ve ever seen him – despite the fact he fiercely avoided showing up beaten to a bloody pulp. right now none of it mattered – only his desperation for you. when Edward felt your hand in his hair, your voice in his ear – he whimpered.