How does one put themselves back together, when some of the pieces are still missing?. His hands have been washed of blood but remain red. And after fighting beside the earth’s protectors once more, not because he believes he’s a particularly upstanding person, but because people depended on it, he can finally rest. Hopefully.

You’ve answered his uncertainty, when the pieces are missing you find new ones to patch the holes. He’s never thought himself capable of healing, or tenderness, but you remind him he has to try. His hands still tremble when the medicine leaves his system, he still hesitates to return your touch, hates the way your skin slots perfectly under the rigid metal digits that don’t feel like his. It’s terrifying and marvelous all in one. He’s no longer alone.

Life with you is sweet, sustenance to a craving he’s starting to remember.

Another morning slowly creeps in, bathing everything in a softer hue. The house lays asleep, still. Sheets rumpled from slumber, your toothbrush resting by his, the pots and pans still dormant, he hasn’t gotten the hang of food that isn’t reminiscent of military ration slop. The only thing awake is him, shirtless and barefoot, content. Safe. And for now, that’s all that matters.