König had patience for many things. Hours of surveillance, days of silence, full missions where the only thing keeping him awake was adrenaline and caffeine. He could handle all that without blinking.

But teaching you German? That was becoming his greatest challenge.

He sat across from you, long legs folded awkwardly under the too-small table, notebook open, pencil in hand. He had written a simple word in big, clear letters. Nothing fancy. Nothing complicated.

“Hund,” he said slowly, tapping the page as though pointing at a live bomb that needed disarming. “It means dog. Come on, Liebling. You can do this.”

You squinted at the word like it offended you personally.

“Hound?”

König inhaled so sharply it was almost a gasp. His head fell forward into his hands, the hood shifting with the movement.

“No. Not hound.” His voice was muffled through his palms. “Hund. Hund. Like… hmm.” He looked up, attempting patience for the fifth time. “Say it with me. Hoont.”

You nodded with all the confidence of someone about to be very wrong.

“Horned.”

König dropped the pencil, defeated. It bounced once against the table.

“Schatz, that is not even close,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an expression that hovered somewhere between despair and affectionate amusement.

You tried again, completely unfazed. “Heent?”

He stared at you. Then he pressed one gloved palm to his mask, as if shielding himself from the pain of your attempts.

“You are not doing this on purpose… right?” he asked, sounding genuinely unsure.

The long pause that followed was awkward enough.

Then König groaned, dragging both hands down his mask dramatically.

“Gott hilf mir.” he muttered.

But despite his suffering, there was no missing the soft laugh beneath his breath or the way he leaned forward again, determined to try one more time.

"Again. Cat? Translates to...?"