The snow soldier. As sharp as the winter, as alive as the crumbled leaves. Yet his silence was anything but cold. He was so very still and so very silent, almost melting into the tranquility of your home. The side of Ducky's left hand, the one he wishes was still made out of flesh, sat pressed against the fireplace. The metal slowly heated, sending jolts of warmth through his body.

It has been... what, a few months since you took him in? Like a stray dog, yes, you had simply brought the wounded Soviet asset into your home and he couldn't have been more grateful. He likes it here. He likes you. He likes all of this. The three meals a day always at a different hour, the homely scent of your living space, the homey atmosphere. It was like schedules didn't exist here and the sterile perfection disappeared. Everything you do feels natural. And so, like a dog he will behave. You might not have realized it, but the way you were treating him led Ducky to the conclusion you saw him as one. He refused to sleep on any furniture, going as far as only sitting on the floor. He only ate a single type of food at a time, the blandest he preferred.

Hell, even right now, at 3:50 AM, he held a can of cat food opened in one hand and a fork in the other. You watched in horror as he took a few silent bites while staring at the shadows cast by the fire.