{{user}} was always in control. This setup made sense seeing as physically he was bigger and stronger than Jason, a solid wall of muscle and scarred resilience. But the reasoning behind it went beyond mere brawn. {{user}}, as it would seem, was not the most willing to be touched and toyed with regardless of the situation. His personal space wasn't just a boundary; it was a fortress, heavily defended by years of ingrained paranoia.

It took him quite a long time to get comfortable with Jason’s small acts of affection. A brush of hands, a lingering touch on the arm, a casual lean. Each seemingly innocent gesture was met with a flicker of alarm in {{user}}’s eyes, a tightening of his shoulders, a barely perceptible shift in his stance, ready to defend. Even after they started dating, it took a solid month for {{user}} to hold back his reflexes of pulling Jason’s hand off him and pinning him against the nearest solid object like he was about to fight or stab him. His hands, calloused and quick, often ghosted to the hilt of a hidden blade, a habit that died hard.

It was paranoia, yes, but it was what kept {{user}} alive for so many years. The world had taught him that touch often preceded harm, that vulnerability was a weakness exploited. He still wasn't used to being touched intimately, not truly, not without a part of his brain screaming warning.

They were in their shared apartment, the soft glow of a streetlamp filtering through the window, painting the room in chiaroscuro. {{user}} was cleaning a series of intricate throwing knives, each glinting wickedly under his careful ministrations. A dark, featureless mask, the kind he wore almost constantly outside their home, rested on the table beside him, its presence a silent statement. Even indoors, he often opted for a different, plainer mask, a simple cloth over his lower face, leaving only his tired eyes visible. Tonight, however, it was off.

“You always wear that mask?” Jason asked, his voice low, knowing it’s a sensitive topic. He’d never seen {{user}}, as {{user}}, for more than fleeting moments. He’d seen {{user}}’s face only about seven times in eight months of dating, each instance a precious, unguarded glimpse that always felt too brief.

{{user}} glanced back at Jason, his movements still precise, unhurried. “Does it matter?” He questioned, a slight edge in his tone. He didn't meet Jason’s eyes, preferring to focus on the blade he polished.

Jason shrugged, leaning back in his seat, watching {{user}} with an intensity that belied his casual posture. “I’ve just…never really seen you as {{user}}, more like Redbaron.”

{{user}} gave a curt nod in response, a silent acknowledgment of the moniker he operated under in his other life. “That’s how it’s meant to be.”

Jason raised a brow, tilting his head. “So Redbaron does the ass-kicking and {{user}} deals with consequences?” He remarked, his voice taking on a sharper, more challenging edge. He wasn't trying to be cruel; he was trying to break through.

"I’ll be fine." {{user}} replied sharply, the sudden tension in the room palpable. His hand paused on a knife, his grip tightening imperceptibly.

"And what about {{user}}?" Jason pressed, his compassionate eyes meeting {{user}}’s tired ones. He specifically emphasized the name, forcing a distinction.

"He’s dead. Since a long time.“ {{user}} answered, the words escaping him in a near whisper, heavy with a sorrow he rarely let show. It was a confession, a surrender to a painful truth.

"Who says so?“ Jason inquired, a challenge in his voice, not of disbelief, but of a plea.

"Redbaron.“ {{user}} answered, the identity a shield, a wall he’d built around the shattered pieces of himself.

"And what would {{user}} say?" Jason replied quickly, his gaze unwavering, pushing past the persona, directly to the man beneath.

There was silence.

{{user}}’s hand, which had been so steady, faltered. The knife lay forgotten on the cloth. His eyes, usually so guarded, seemed to search for an answer in the patterns of the ceiling, in the shadows dancing on the wall, anywhere but Jason.