~MOUSE~
Ophelia lay still on the bed, the soft sheets pressed against her back.
She was too exhausted to think about the fact she was wearing his shirt and that he was helping her.
If anything she would have thought he'd be glad to see her in pain.
As Zero had pointed out. He seemed to hate her more than the others.
The room hummed with the soft whirr of electricity as she kept her arm over her eyes.
The antiseptic scent hung in the air, a sharp reminder of the pain that was about to rock her.
God how she fucking hated antiseptic. It hurt much more than it needed to.
With a gentle touch, she felt König apply a fresh layer of antiseptic to her side.
As the cool liquid made contact with the raw, tender skin, Ophelia couldn't help but wince, a soft hiss escaping her lips.
Her grip on her face tightened in response to the sting, a feeble attempt to escape the pain that lingered beneath.
She wanted nothing more than to rip her hands away from her face and use them to ground herself but he had asked her to to look.
She had been on a few teams, and if the Colonel said don't look, she wouldn't look.
Ophelia, her senses heightened, felt the shift in the air as the man above her shifted closer.
She could sense König's deliberate and careful movements, a juxtaposition to the violent image etched in her memory.
His hands, capable of snapping necks, now worked with a tenderness that defied the darkness that clung to him.
She couldn't help wondering why he was helping her.
She guessed Zeus had told him to. And if he was the only one experienced enough then maybe he had to.
The large shirt, an improvised shield, draped over her legs, providing a modest cocoon that covered her body fully.
It was a kindness. He didn't have to protect her modesty, but he had anyway.
Ophelia could not figure him out.
Her mind shifted as she felt fingers grip the shirt at her side and carefully lift it up.
Each noise resonated through the room as her muscles went rigid, getting ready for the pain.
The sharp bite of the needle in her side ignited a primal response, causing her to grit her teeth and emit a low groan that resonated through the room.
Stitching up wounds was a ritual she had become accustomed to but holy hell if it didn't hurt each time.
This time was no different.
The pain was raw, throbbing and an immediate reminder of her defencelessness.
The needle punctured her skin once more, and this time, her body rebelled.
Ophelia's fist shot out instinctively, a primal response to the pain radiating through her.
The impact landed on König's chest, a futile attempt to share the discomfort she was enduring.
However, to her surprise, he remained unmoved.
He just seemed to go still and she felt his gaze move down to her as if shocked by what she had just done.
Without a word, she felt him continue to stitch.
Her pain turned to anger as the pain in her side doubled.
"Did that even hurt?" she hissed through her teeth as she felt the needle break her skin.
The needle continued its relentless journey through her flesh, and in the brief pause that followed, she thought she detected a subtle rumbling noise.
It was almost unnoticeable, like a suppressed chuckle.
"No," he replied, his tone steady but she thought she could detect a hint of humour.
His hands moved with practised precision, weaving the needle in and out, closing the wounds with an efficiency that spoke of experience.
She wondered how often he stitched himself back together.
The pain radiated through Ophelia's body, each stitch pulling at the tender edges of her wounds.
She gritted her teeth, attempting to anchor herself in the discomfort that threatened to overwhelm her senses.
"Can you at least talk so I have something else to focus on?" Ophelia's voice carried a note of irritation as she wrestled with the pain.
The request hung in the air, a fragile hope that conversation might provide a respite from the physical torment on her body.
He paused in his stitching, and she could feel his gaze on her face as if assessing the request with a detached curiosity.
She almost wanted to giggle.
If she was ever asked to describe the man above her she would use the words 'detached' and 'curious'.
"What do you want me to say?" he inquired, his tone devoid of emotion and harsh as he hovered above her.
Ophelia rolled her eyes behind her arm.
He was so weird.
"Tell me about yourself," she suggested as she let her fingers grip the sheets beneath her for comfort.
The needle dug deeper into her skin and she hissed loudly.
"Classified," he replied stiffly, the words falling like a steel curtain.
His hands continued their task, pulling the thread with precision.
It was silent for a few moments before Ophelia burst into a fit of laughter.
She hadn't expected to laugh, and apparently, he didn't either as he went still.
The sound of her laughter, tinged with a hint of pain, reverberated through the air.
Tears spilled from her eyes, blending with the beads of sweat that adorned her forehead, and her side ached in protest.
She scrunched her nose at the pain laughing caused, a smile lingering on her lips as she caught her breath.
He was funny. Though she figured that wasn't on purpose.
"Why are you laughing?" König's voice, with its thick accent, cut through her laughter as he continued to stitch.
Ophelia smiled wider as she pressed her arm further into her eyes.
For some reason, she wanted to look at him.
"You've seen me naked but won't tell me anything about you. It makes me feel weird," she confessed, her words hanging in the air with a lightness that defied the gravity of the situation.
She wanted to slap herself for outright telling him the truth but she couldn't seem to close her mouth around him.
König stilled, the needle poised mid-air as if frozen by her frank revelation.
Again it was silent.
"What should I say?" König's question hung in the air, his gaze fixed on Ophelia as she lay on the bed.
Ophelia felt her eyebrows pull down.
There was an earnestness in his inquiry as if he really didn't know what to say to her.
But there also seemed to be an invitation. If he didn't want to talk to her he would just stay quiet.
"I don't know," she began, a mischievous twist on her lips as she tried not to be amused at how awkward the man above her was.
"If it were me, I'd say... I'm twenty, grew up in a little town called Verdantville in France. Went to school. The only thing that took was languages. Joined the forces at sixteen. Had my first kiss in the fields at Jardins de Lavande. Lost my virginity in a Church of all places, to the pastor's son. My favourite animal is a bear—I don't know why, they just are. My favourite food is baklava, and in my spare time, I like to paint."
As the words spilled from her lips, she felt a shift in the room.
König, his hand pausing mid-stitch, listened in a rare moment of stillness as if he were really listening, taking in her words.
The air seemed charged with a newfound tension as if the act of sharing these personal fragments had unravelled something within him.
She knew it probably would. People in their line of work didn't share things.
Unless they trusted each other.
And she had practically thrown down the gauntlet and was waiting for his move.
He seemed frozen. Not moving and not speaking as he sat beside her.
She was telling him she trusted him, but he didn't seem to believe her.
Ophelia took a deep breath, breaking the stillness that enveloped the room.
She hesitated for a moment, her trust in the terrifying figure above her was strange, but she did trust him.
And for some reason, she wanted his trust as well.
"I'd also tell you that my name is Ophelia," she said softly as she slammed her eyes shut and felt her stomach flip.
He didn't move.
In fact, everything in the room seemed to go completely still.
She couldn't even hear his breathing.
Just nothing.
Her eyes remained shut, but she could feel the weight of his gaze as it seared her face. As if he was searching for something.
Names were a rare currency in their world.
It was a place where faces could be seen if one chose, but names were different—they held power, identity, and a vulnerability that transcended the visible.
And she had just given it to him.
"Ophelia Moreau," she repeated softly, the sound of her own name hanging in the air like a delicate thread.
Her arm remained draped protectively over her face, shielding her eyes from the unseen gaze that she could feel penetrating her skin.
The shift in the room was palpable. As if the man had gone into shock.
"Thought you should know," she said as a wry smile curled her lips again, fighting away the vulnerability she was feeling.
"I don't wear tags," she said with a light shrug that pulled at her sore side and made her hiss with pain.
This seemed to pique the man's interest. She felt him go rigid as he dabbed her side with antiseptic again.
"Give them away?" he asked stiffly as he pressed the cloth to her side.
Ophelia groaned in pain as the wound throbbed through her entire body in response.
Her mind darted back to that day. Her fallen teammates. The rubble. The blood.
She had died there.
"Something like that," Ophelia said softly as she tried to push the memories from her mind.
"Hm," was all the response she got before the sharp bite of the needle tore through the stillness, eliciting a hiss of pain from Ophelia.
"Son of a-" Ophelia's words hung in the air, interrupted by the cadence of his voice.
"Alpental, near the Austrian Alps. Didn't like school, joined at seventeen. I like small birds, there's a lot back home. I'm not good at English. Kartoffelsuppe is my favourite food," he concluded, his words delivered with a stiffness that mirrored the guarded nature of his persona.
Ophelia, her hiss of pain fading into a quiet exhale, couldn't help but smile.
The revelation, however brief and matter-of-fact, felt like a victory.
He trusted her...a little.
Her smile grew as she let his words ring in her mind.
"What the fuck is Kartoffelsuppe?" Ophelia blurted out, the unfamiliarity of the word betraying her in the pronunciation.
Her attempt at German was met with a distinctive rumble, a sound that seemed to escape from König like distant thunder.
A soft chuckle, or something resembling it.
Ophelia, despite the pain, couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment.
He had a nice laugh.
"Like a soup, with potatoes and vegetables," he explained, his voice softening as he provided a simple translation.
Ophelia, her head still nestled in the crook of her arm, nodded in understanding.
"Small birds?" she echoed with a laugh, the image of delicate creatures flitting about in her mind.
She sensed König's nod even though her eyes were still shielded by her arm.
His hands, steady and skilled, continued the careful work of stitching her wounds.
"Ja, sie sind hübsch, They're pretty," he affirmed in German, his words carrying a softness that made her smile grow.
The unfamiliar syllables flowed with a grace that made the language seem like a melody.
The needle, like a relentless messenger of discomfort, bit into Ophelia's skin once again.
In response, her fist instinctively flew back, connecting with König's chest.
This time, the room echoed with his laughter.
It was a genuine laughter that seemed to emanate from the depths of his being.
It was a deep laughter, a rich and hearty sound that rumbled through the room.
Ophelia grit her teeth as she tried to lessen the pain in her side.
"Glad you find my punches amusing," she huffed as she felt her smile fall and her annoyance kick back into place.
The man above her only chuckled lightly in response.
"You can't hurt me, Maus," he said softly and again Ophelia felt as if he were saying her name differently.
He said it gently and softly as if it were a compliment.
Clearing her throat and forcing the heat from her cheeks she huffed again.
"How tall are you anyway?" she said as she shifted on her back.
Ophelia's question hung in the air and she immediately felt her stomach drop as his laughter and calmness disappeared.
She felt him stiffen as if the question had touched a nerve.
Though she had no idea why.
"Six ten," he replied softly, his words carrying weight and hostility she didn't understand.
A smile spread across Ophelia's face.
The mental image of someone standing at such a towering height, especially juxtaposed with her own more diminutive stature made her want to laugh.
"I'm literally half your size and still managed to tackle you," she declared proudly, a playful smile etching her lips.
With a triumphant expression, she raised her hand and patted herself on the shoulder, a physical representation of her achievement.
She thought she heard him huff in amusement but pushed it aside when he tugged the needle back into place.
She hissed through clenched teeth, her fingers pressing tightly against her hair.
"What does König stand for?" she asked as the pain in her side grew.
König's hands stilled, and once more, she felt his penetrating gaze on the spot where her face was hidden behind her arm.
As if he wanted to look her in the eye.
"Why do they call you a mouse?" he asked gently, the timbre of his voice weaving through the dimly lit room.
Ophelia laughed a little, the sound carrying a hint of bitterness as she recalled the days when she was just a rookie.
"They thought I was weak," she replied with a smile playing on her lips.
After they saw what she did they never thought that again.
He stared at her for a prolonged moment, the intensity of his gaze burning through her skin.
"Means King," he said softly as he carefully pulled the needle back through her skin.
A small, rueful laugh escaped Ophelia's lips.
"We sound like a bad joke," she said, maintaining a wry smile as she cradled her face in her arms.
"A king and a mouse walk into a bar..." she trailed off, her voice carrying a subtle hint of irony.
Again, the room resonated with the sound of König's chuckle, a deep and rich resonance that seemed to vibrate through the air.
"I guess we do," he said and his tone sounded light.
As if he were smiling.
Ophelia felt the subtle tremor of the sound, and an unexpected flutter stirred in her stomach.
Her chest tightened and her mind seemed to go blank.
Her stomach never fluttered.
And she had no idea what that meant.
~~~~~~~~~~
TRANSLATIONS
German
Ja, sie sind hübsch- Yes, they are pretty