#[ 𝙼𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙰𝙶𝙴 𝙳𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚃𝙴𝙳 . ] inbox.

[nonsupe-a]

“   i'm scared you'll disappear again.   to somewhere i can't follow.   ”           those words linger heavily in the air,      solemn and almost whispered across the small space between them.     easily he could reach across and close it,      reach over and brush away the small strand of hair that’s in her eyes,      trace his fingertips over the soft round of her shoulder.      but he doesn’t.      instead hands remain tangled with hers in his lap,      fingers twisted together as some part of him drifts to the awful reminders of what had been merely seconds for him and years for her.

for five years @firedblanks lost him.      it was like slipping into a heavy sleep:   one moment he was present and with the world and the next he felt himself drift.      there was no pain,      no warning,      no sudden flash of anything that would alert him to how wrong that moment was.      he remembered feeling lighter,      a funny feeling in his stomach.      by then he had looked down at his hands and realized most of them were gone,      up to his elbows had already been dusted and by then it was too late for him to panic or worry because he was already too far gone.      somewhere,      somehow,      there was peace in those final moments despite how desperately he wanted to reach out and anchor himself,      how much he wanted to fight it.      but the universe let him go and offered a tranquil silence instead,      peace in a hollow darkness that he knew only briefly before everything returned to as it had been.

shiloh remembered the suddenness of it.     the confusion that came immediately after this sensation of acceptance.      one moment he was eased into essentially dying,     ceasing to exist to the universe despite a last desperate and silent wish to stay for her,     and the next he was exactly as he had been before.     he even wiggled his fingers to be sure they were still there,    pinched his arms to be sure they were real too,     relieved when they were.      but thats when he knew there was something missing from his return.      really,     everything was.     the home they shared was empty,     devoid of anyone living in it.     it was cold and empty and sad.      colby wasn’t there,      not as she was merely seconds ago in the bright welcoming kitchen that stood miserably cold then.      he looked around him again and knew nobody had been there in years.      then a different thought came to him,      one that sank his heart:   she wasn’t there because he hadn’t been.      and clearly that had been a long time.      thats when he called her.

and while that had been years ago now,    the wounds still feel raw.    it still feels like it could have been yesterday.      five years and he thinks that he will spend forever making up for that lost time.      starting with these moments and hearing her pain,     hoping to heal it.    it will never be easy for either of them in the wake of this but at least they could do most of it together.

“   hey,   ”          he whispers,      reaching out to tuck that strand of hair behind her ear,      then tracing along her jaw to her chin and guiding her gaze to his.          “   it’s over,      that battle was won.      nothing like it is ever going to happen and i’m never going to leave you again.      you’re stuck with me.   ”

[nonsupe-a]

“   i need you to trust me.   ”           there is that word again.     trust.     sentiment that barely exists in him these days out of extreme caution and,      frankly,      a sense of paranoia that has kept him alive for years.      trust that he’s not often willing to give just anyone.      he knows to keep to himself,      reserve for only those he knows wouldn’t dare to drive a knife between his vertebra when he had his back turned.      but @firedblanks​ isn’t just anyone.      she’s colby.

she knows the ins and outs of him regardless of how much he thinks he’s hidden away in a dark far away corner out of some sense of precaution.     for himself or her is yet to be known,      even after all this time.      he’d like to believe it was a sense of duty that kept parts of his life in the dark even now.      to believe that it came from his sense of duty to her,      to protect or spare her from the watchful eyes in his life,      the awful brutality and insanity of his job,      but truth is   --   some small part of him will always be reserved.      not because he doesn’t trust her,     he does,     more than anyone and with his life,       but because its been burned into him that he can never trust anyone.     words of a old teacher come to mind:   trust makes you vulnerable,     vulnerability makes you weak,      and being weak gets you killed.

but she is colby.

the same colby who holds his face in her hands when the world has become too heavy for his shoulders.      the same colby who looks at him with compassion even when he feels like he deserves very little.     colby who still sees the man in him,      not the monster or the machine they have created.      he knows that she trusts him.     surely the least he could do is the same.      right?       right?

“   i do.   ”          said with conviction.      definitively.      there’s not another soul in this world that he trusts like her.      her above all else.          “   i trust you.   ”

[nonsupe-a]

“   i don’t understand,   why are you doing this?   ”          because there is a fight there.      because this has gone on for too long and he’s become frighteningly familiar with too many secrets,      helped to bury them too deep.      because he is finally awake again after far too long of being complacent,      and he knows that everything that they’ve done,      all they have helped to create,      the name that has come to be known worldwide as the source of “heroes,”      are the bad guys and they’ve spent too long being idle while everything burns around them.

because he knows where this road ends,      he’s seen it play out too many times in his life.      too much power leads to corruption,      breeds injustices,      feeds fear to the population and its used to their advantage.      and he’s not proud to say that he’s been part of it,      a big part of the corruption.      there is a disdain and boiling hatred in him that won’t die until this is over,      and he wants to be one of them carrying the torch when this fucking place burns to the ground.

because he’s tired.      the oceans of blood have long been drowning him with no relief in sight,      no one to pull him from the crashing waves and no opportunity to come up for air.      his armor has cracked and there is no repairing it to keep all of this at bay this time,      there is only the consequences.

“   because someone has to,      @failedcrown​.   ”          awake and drowning,      reaching for a surface always out of reach.          “   because i will not answer to him.   ”

[nonsupe-a]

“there’s nothing wrong with peanut butter on pancakes. they both start with p. it was always meant to happen.”

fAlS e

[nonsupe-a]

it shouldn’t take him as long as it does to answer,      to look up and find the soft greens of his eyes.      silence shouldn’t be as heavy between them as it is after the question leaves the other mans lips,          “   what makes me so special?   ”

to me?      or to them?

he could answer both in one swing if he wanted to.     with one word.     because it doesn’t take any kind of report or some kind of fucked scientist to know that he carried something in him that was different,      that was far better in every way it could be,      and it had very little to do with whatever mess compound v could do to a human being.      but shiloh remains silent,      unmoving.

what makes me so special?

“   everything.   ”        he finally says,      lifting his eyes to meet leons soft green gaze across from him.          “   everything you are and everything you want to be.      everything in here,   ”         reaches out and taps his index on @antisupe​s chestplate,      over his heart,          “   is what makes you special.      nothing more,      nothing less.   ”

[nonsupe-a]

mine 😈 ,      originally a response to this.

mine.     shiloh is certain he will never understand why that makes every nerve in his body come to life,      sparking alive a fire in him that burns intensely hot and only grows the longer leon looks at him,      white hot when he would inevitably reach out to touch.      will never fully understand the kind of hold that this man has on him that causes everything to melt every time he growls or whispers or plainly speaks one word.      mine.

but something in him decides to be brave or stubborn this time,      however one would like to look at it.      he bites back the smile that was allowed but a second and swallows the warmth that pools in him.     an inferno burning in his chest and threatening to take him whole the instant he allows himself to cave,     a moment that is just as inevitable as leons touch.      and still he’ll fight it for as long as he possibly can,      draw this out.      shiloh is a simple creature and folds under the right persuasion,      he knows it and @antisupe​ knows it.      this is his chance to tease and rile.

arms fold over his chest,      he waits for only a second before he speaks,          “   am i ?   ”          its to be a challenge.          “   show me.   ”

[nonsupe-a]

five years.     five long and terrible years without half the universe,     without so many people that she’s never even known.      thousands of others in exactly the same boat,      mourning their dead and disappeared,      as she must.     and he can’t possibly begin to imagine what it must be like on the other side,      her side.

for him it was merely seconds.     a moment when there was a pit falling from his stomach,      a knot simultaneously pulling tighter and unraveling in his chest as fingers slowly turning to dust before his very eyes.      a moment he almost can’t describe,      where he felt present and already gone before the dust had made it to his wrists.     a moment before it was clear that it was taking him away,     that he would only have a few seconds more before it was too late.      but it already was.      too late.      and when he realized,      half of him was already gone and the inability to reach out to her,      perhaps console her or anchor him,      he didn’t really know and still doesn’t now,      was a horrifying reality.

moments and then he was back,     like no time had passed.    and there was no recollection of what had happened to him,      only that he felt strange and there was an overwhelming sense of doom that grasped him tightly,      overwhelming sense of helplessness that came when everything was spinning around him too quickly,      the world beginning to blur together in one quick second before just as it had come,      it stopped   -   and @firedblanks was gone.

he was gone.      five years.

he missed five years.     five years with her that he will never get back,     that he can’t make up.      and that hurts more than anything.      there is a gap between them thats unfamiliar,      a part of him that he feels fits misshapenly in her hands now.     part of him that must feel like a ghost to her.

“   say my name again.   i missed hearing you say it.   ”

he can’t count how many hours   -   no,    how many days they have spent in bed together exactly like this:   with shilohs arms around her,      her body as close to him as she can get,      nose nuzzled into the crook of his neck if only to simply breathe him in.      

say my name again.      

“   wiktoria.   ”           hers.     the real one.     the one that only he knows,      that has become something only for him,      for them,      an endearment of its own in what time they had been together.      and then he kisses her forehead,      gently and he lingers,      speaking against her skin,          “   colby.   ”

[nonsupe-a]

“   what the hell are you doing here ?!   i told you to get out of here !   ”          she can call him crazy all she wants.     reckless even.    because he was and its not likely to change for the sake of anyones sanity,      nevermind his own.      the risks were titanic between them and there was no mistaken that,      and at least he could acknowledge how stupid this was the moment he turned around after telling the others to go ahead,      that they’d catch up.      when or rather   ...   if they could.     this is the part where they dig in deep and pray for the best.

pieces have been coming apart for months.      everything and everyone that has had a hand in creating vought as the towering villain has started to burrow like scared animals knowing that their time is inevitably coming to an end,      support beginning to wane.      almost everyone,      at least.      some of these pillars still stand strong regardless of what they do and have done to others,      regardless of who has already tucked tail and fled to hide somewhere in the foothills.      lab after lab,      hub after hub,      they’ve made their way through them like cutting heads off snakes:   one strike before they could find their venom.      quick and easy.      

and they thought this one was going to be the same as the others.      they were wrong.      this one is different.      they were waiting.

“   what,      and let you have all the fun ?   ”          the grin across his face grows when he checks how many bullets he has left in his side piece,     knows for sure he has at least four more rounds in the rifle slung over his shoulder.      down to the bone,      he hopes their cuts will sting enough to do the job.          “   i don’t think so.      you can’t get rid of me that easy,      @ecopoison.   ”          i’m with you.      if this is a last stand,      they do it together.      they’ll see it through to the end.

[nonsupe-a]

“   you did what you were designed to do.   ”         designed.      fuck,      it makes him sound like some kind of lifeless machine.      then again,     maybe he was in some ways.      maybe thats exactly what they wanted.      a lifeless machine that does as he’s told,      no questions asked.      maybe he is designed that way for their purpose,      voughts killer machine.      after all,      it is what he does best anymore:   takes orders,      gets his hands dirty,      asks no questions.      he’s silent,      observant,      obedient.      like a leashed dog waiting for the command to attack.

you did what you were designed to do,      @artisanals​ says,      and he can still feel it reverberate in his chest.      its not such a surprise.      shiloh warren has been conditioned since he was eighteen years old to know and understand the stark realities of the world and its tragedies,      to become familiar with the darkest sides of humanity.      its no surprise at all that he slipped to the shadows and found that he had a knack for it,      that he’s more than a little comfortable with the mess.      designed is perhaps the best word.

“   i did.   ”          he says firmly.      but his jaw sets,      and he doesn’t look her in the eyes when the words leave him.      not even when he speaks next,          “   i think i always will.      its not in me to change,      not like that.   ”

[nonsupe-a]

“   don’t  pretend  like  you’re  asleep.   ”          he can’t decide if its said because his head is currently stuffed under the pillow to block the sunlight or because he grumbled and gave a poor excuse for a snore when dean first wandered into the room and said   ...   something something morning.      the exhaustion is deep in his bones,     felt it heaviest in his chest and his shoulders that refuse to so much as acknowledge the idea of removing himself from the bed.      no,      its time to rest now,      body says;   its time to forget the world and stay buried under the covers for a while longer.

but alas,      its not an argument his body wins.      its not one he will win and he knows that well,      especially with dean in the room.      already he can feel the flutter that single organ in his chest makes hearing his voice,      an odd contrast to wanting to protest what @graceimbrueds presence means:  have to be awake now.      and instead of fighting his own body to sit up in bed,     shiloh moves the pillow just enough to speak but remains underneath.      hiding.          “   me ?      pretending that i’m asleep ?      i would never.     crazy and false accusations.   ”          there is no hiding the dumb smile he has across his lips now.          “   you might have to come persuade me to get up though.   ”

[nonsupe-a]

ever the doom and gloom.      it more or less travels with him,      sits over his square shoulders and makes home where he goes.     shiloh knows that its what comes with his ties to the company,      being who and what he is:   its in hushed tones but sometimes he can still hear the whispers.      bad news follows on his heels.      sometimes its him.

“if you’re here to tell me what happened last night, someone beat you to it.” ,      @decthbringer​.

smoke fills his lungs,     the last bit of his cigarette before the filter burned up and is snuffed out under his shoe when he drops it;   gravel crunching under his foot.      smoke is exhaled through his nose,      slowly first,      as if savoring the last moments and then it falls through his mouth as he speaks,         “   good.     then i don’t have to be the bearer of bad news.   ”          no other words;      no offered solutions.     barely even a hint of sympathy or .... whatever else she may be expecting of him,      or maybe she wasn’t expecting anything at all,      either way   ---    its not his job.      his part is to play the sides,      find who and what will be of use to him and take the advantage while he has it;   for himself or for the company,      sometimes its both.      and thats all this is.     bringing one step closer to his own goal.

[nonsupe-a]

maybe it shouldn’t be that easy,     maybe he should get it encrypted like the rest of his work equipment,      but he doesn’t know of anyone thats stupid enough or has much of a death wish to try and reach for his personal phone while its on his person.      people know to avoid him and to not touch his shit,      and those who don’t learn very quickly.

leon has been the only exception to that rule.      he’s only person that could ever touch his shit and get away with it,     the only hand he won’t break.     and that is mostly because he doesn’t have anything to hide from him.      vought might but he doesn’t;      whats given to shiloh is given to leon.

“is that seriously your password?” ,      @antisupe .

“   is that judgement in your tone ?   ”          cue the arch of his brow,      the faint smile that curls but a single corner of his lip despite how much he tries to appear upset.      it never works,      not with him.         “   its easy to remember an’ not a lot of people can even guess that.   ”          his mothers birthday.      was it more than a little cheesy ?     maybe,      but his birthday was too predictable.      while on the other hand,      at his defense,      very few people even have knowledge of his mother.          “   you’re even more of a dinosaur than i am ...    whats your fuckin’ password ?   ”

[nonsupe-a]

it comes on the back end of finally getting the fuck out of vought tower,      or at least the first couple floors.      after someone in the hallway made some fucking comment or maybe it was just someone whispering to another as he wandered past.      he’s not really sure anymore,      its become too much a blur and frankly he’s too tired to care.      tired of keeping up with it,      of knowing which rumor is going around about him this time,      of knowing what they’re saying behind his back or under their breath.      same fucking shit,      different day.      by now he’s accustomed to what his title brings him:   the caretaker,      killing machine.

but as it seems   ...   leon doesn’t share that sentiment.

“Why don’t you correct them? When people talk about you, and they’re wrong?” prime ,      @antisupe .

he gives a small shrug.      thats a bullshit excuse warren.       he knows why but the words are far too heavy to speak aloud without at least a moment to prepare them.     why don’t you correct them ?     because its easier not to;     because its easier to believe them;     because they don’t really care about what he has to say when he’s getting the job done and cleaning up the bloody fucking mess that they leave behind in the wake of their marveled “heroes.”      because maybe he has started to actually believe them:   YOU’RE JUST ANOTHER KILLER LIKE THE REST OF US.      ANOTHER MACHINE.      COLD BLOODED.      no more than another puppet that they use and pull violently at the strings of to get him to do what they want,     more product they control,     another pawn in a game he’s understood for far too long and still he heeds their beck and call like a fucking dog.

when people talk about you,      and they’re wrong ?      because you’re the only one that doesn’t see it,     he wants to say but he bites his tongue and shifts in his seat.          “   maybe because they’re not.   ”          self-hatred isn’t a good look on him:   crease in his brow,      the frown at his lips,      the way he takes in a corner of his lip and chews for but a second.          “   they’re gonna see me the way they want to,      leon,      and i can’t stop that.      neither can you.   ”

attack dog well fucking leashed.     gaze finally comes up to meet the other mans before him and suddenly he feels smaller.      readjusts and sits himself up more in his place,      another shrug when he continues,         “   they want to think that i don’t care because its easier.      its easier for them to sleep at night,      to shift the blame,      to look me in the eye and tell me my next job.      and i listen,      i take it,      and then i keep my fuckin’ mouth shut.      if they want to believe that i’m some kind of cold blooded killer,     fine.     as far as they know,     thats what they’ll get.   ”          a pause,      a moment to breathe.      then,         “   at the end of the day,      i get to shed that shit and move forward.      thats how soldiering on works right ?      and they don’t get to see me like you do.   ”

“   they see what they want,   ”          faint smile comes to his lips but its not one that reaches his eyes,          “   what do you see ?   ”

[nonsupe-a]

help me make decisions...   do we like the look of these ??

[   𝙸𝙼𝙰𝙶𝙴 .   ]      they call him the caretaker.

[   𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴 .   ]      you’ve become familiar with destruction   /   season 3.

[   𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴 .   ]      find peace to settle the storm in your heart   /   post series.

[   𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴 .   ]      you stay quiet while a war happens within you   /   preseries.

[   𝚁𝙴𝙻 .   ]      something something   /   url here.

[   𝚁𝙴𝙻 .   ]      you.  its always you.    /   antisupe.

[   𝚂𝚃𝚄𝙳𝚈 .   ]      a mouth full of lies.

[   𝙼𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙰𝙶𝙴 𝙳𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚃𝙴𝙳 .   ]      inbox.

[   𝚂𝙺𝙸𝙻𝙻𝚂𝙴𝚃 .   ]      my touch is lethal.   i am their weapon.

[   𝙰𝙴𝚂𝙷𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙲 .   ]      this is my world;   every beautiful and dirty corner of it.

[nonsupe-a]

of fucking course he’d gathered her attention,     and of fucking course there was shit she had to say.      of course he can’t go one goddamn day without this kind of bullshit.     he’s not a press handler.     he’s not here to hold peoples hand and give them what they want or answer stupid questions,      that isn’t his job.

“are you in the witness protection program, or what?” ,      @rubinsteind​ .

“   or what.   ”         flat,     to the point.      he barely even makes eye contact with the woman before exasperated sigh leaves him.          “   is there a point to that question or are you just here to fuckin’ bug me ?   ”

[nonsupe-a]

“   we’re standing in a puddle of blood.   ”          briefly he wonders if perhaps he means it metaphorically.      if theres some way that he means that they’re ankle deep in crimson that will be too difficult to wash away,      that they’re sinking in a hole they’ve dug themselves,     wading deeper and deeper into a crimson ocean they created all on their own after all these years.     but then he reminds himself where they are,      the purpose of their business this far from home.

the echoes of a firefight still ring in his ears.      silence perhaps more deafening than the piercing sounds of gunfire,      bullets that butchered half a dozen men on the other side before 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙴𝚁  and  𝚂𝙾𝙻𝙳𝙸𝙴𝚁 𝙱𝙾𝚈  could ever peer around the corner;   snagged the ground and concrete walls that stood between them,      ricocheting off the metal plates of armored cars that provided a one off means of shelter provided the enemy didn’t get smart and aim for boots.      but that was giving them too much credit,       he thinks.      they were messy killers and always seemed to aim high and sporadic.     amateurs.     they have no idea what they’re doing,      not really.      they were playing a dangerous game and it was going to eat them alive.      it did.      they did.

the objective was to clear the building,      make room for troops to move through after them so they didn’t get obliterated on sight.      messy fucking job it was but done with quick work.      twenty minutes of loud cracks and explosive charges going off from every which way shiloh seemed to turn,      then nothing.      awful yet simultaneously welcomed silence that chilled him to his core.

a moment longer before he realizes that leon means it literally.     they stand in a puddle of blood and wait for their people to clear through and make quick of their own jobs.      the hard part was over,      now comes the homework.      and the realization doesn’t phase him,      not like it used to.      not like it should.      not anymore.      instead shiloh glances back up from his boots and adjusts the gear on his shoulders and conceals his weapon,      dark eyes meeting @antisupe​.   

a lesson he learned a long time ago:   you’ve been around enough times and the ghosts just stick to you.      shiloh is haunted no matter what he does.

“   better theirs than ours.   ”