Work Text:
Some children are born into loving families. You know this for certain even though you've never seen it firsthand because Helmut exists. Not to say he had a good home; his father was a strict man. An iron fist kind of man.
No, it's because of Carl and the look of pure unrecoverable grief that crosses Helmut's face whenever he thinks of the son he could not save. Of the wife you choose not to view as competition but instead as a part of him that should be loved and tended to. It would be terribly petty for you to think you should compete with a dead woman.
But you know that childhoods are important, parents play roles, and siblings nurture or set fire to parts of their siblings.
So though you don't want to introduce Zemo to that side of your life, you also know that avoiding it forever isn't going to make it any easier for anyone in the long run.
It's not like he's the kind of man you'd be ashamed of bringing home. He's a wealthy colonel from a foreign country. Intelligent enough to take down a team of Avengers. His manners are immaculate; he's charismatic. No, Helmut isn't the problem.
You're the problem.
As far as your family is concerned, you're the resident circus act. You don't talk about your family much, and he knows not to ask. Zemo knows how painful a family can be. So he's surprised when you tell him you'll be going home for the holidays.
Surprised but acquiescent with joining on the trip. He agrees without needing the push. It's you that nibbles at your fingernails and overthinks the decision the entire time. Helm simply steps in tandem with you, just like he does with all other things.
Your family home is nothing like his own; there's no grand manor to take him to, just a normal farmhouse in the countryside. A home with siding in need of replacing, an old pickup in the front, and a broken-down one in the back. The swing from your childhood is still hanging in the front yard. It is a far cry from the European properties he is most familiar with.
American culture has always confused him, so drastically different from his own. So as you pull your rental up the gravel drive to park out of the way of the mailbox, it might as well be that he's stepped into a different world altogether.
You stay there in your idling car, far too luxurious for this backwater hole. Your hands grip the wheel, tightening and loosening. He understands little about your family, only that you don't get along. Only that going home is like pulling teeth.
You have not told them that they laugh in the face of your transition, that Southern tradition laughs in the face of everything you want to become. You do not have the words. You do not know how to voice the poison that chokes you when you think of home and the people who are supposed to love you the most.
Unconditional love comes with so many conditions. Some things, you think, may simply have no words.
You need to turn the car off, but you cannot bring yourself to let go of the wheel. If you let go, then this is real. If you let go, it means getting out of the car; it means going up the semi-rotted front steps into the home where you used to build blocks you thought were castles.
Something that should be endearing but instead is a cloying disappointment that has wrapped around your limbs like thorned vines.
Helmut picks up on your anxiety where he sits in the passenger seat with his black button-up and Rolex and pressed trousers. He does not belong in a place like this; he never will. There is no part of him that can match the tall grass and inhospitality colored as kindness. You had to convince him not to wear a full suit.
His hand comes out against your jeans and squeezes. "How can I help?" He asks, and you wish there was some easy answer you could give him.
Instead, you flex along the steering wheel again before you let your hands fall in your lap and consider turning the hell around. You swallow hard, glancing down at your plain sweater, the slope of a chest you can't seem to bind tight enough, and the fat of your thighs.
The urge to scream rises up inside you.
He likes spoiling you; it's something you never really know how to wrap your mind around. The idea that someone wants to shower you with gifts and praise. The clothing you wear is old, the stuff you put in the back of the closet in a box half forgotten.
You're not sure why you packed old clothes outside of the desire to step into shoes that no longer fit. Trying to morph into some mold that has never suited.
Helm leans forward, and you see the first true flash of concern in his dark eyes. It's sinking in. His mind is putting the pieces together as fast as he can, trying to see the picture of who you will become at the end of this.
"Drahý?" The term of endearment slips from his tongue, and you wish it filled you with the sun like it normally does. Instead, it sounds out of place, like hearing a word you only sort of remember.
The swing in the yard moves in the wind, a barely noticeable rock that catches your attention because it is easier to look at than it is to look at him. Helmut's hand comes out to your jaw and coaxes your gaze away until there's no swing, just him.
All him. All sun. All home.
He looks like a soldier, pouty lips and determination scrawled across him. "We can leave."
You know he means it; you could turn the car right around and head back the way you came, and he would never judge you for it. Not once has he ever tried to guilt you into seeing them or used his dead family as the reason to visit.
But there's a lot to learn about someone from where they grew up. It's important to you that he sees it, that he understands, even if you don't necessarily even want him to understand. It's a mess; it hasn't even begun yet, and it's a mess.
His understanding helps you turn off the engine. You take a slow breath through your nose and release it through your mouth. Smelling the roses, blowing out the candles.
Zemo waits, hand tight to your leg, steady and reliable. He breathes with you, mimicking in that way he does to make you feel less alone.
"I will be here." He whispers into the silent car, "Before we walk through that door and after it."
That's what scares you more than anything, that the two of you will walk in there together and walk out separately. That he'll see your terrible family and decide that this isn't what he wants after all. Too much baggage.
Maybe they'll convince him that you're foolish, caught in your own head. Silly, silly girl. Not a boy at all, no, never a boy.
In through your nose, out through your mouth.
You step out of the car and shut the door too hard when you push it closed and find yourself standing there in the gravel. Stopping makes it harder to move again, and yet you can't seem to do anything but stall at every opportunity.
The other door opens and closes, and Mutt sweeps around the front of the car to stand next to you. When you peek at him, it's enough to lift your spirits, just barely. He stands there at attention, as he's prone to do. Feet level with his shoulders, hands flat behind his back, shoulders squared.
Your war-torn baron.
"I love you." The words don't come easy, but you force them from your throat anyways.
His chin lifts a fraction, pride and solid steel. "As I love you."
Neither of you moves. When you finally break the moment, he is taking the step with you, matching pace despite your smaller size all the way up to the front door. Unlike some children, you don't walk inside; instead, you stop at the door and reach up to knock.
No one answers, and you are forced to knock again. Helm's hand has somehow found its way to your lower back, resting firmly against your sweater.
It's your brother who answers the door. He takes one look at you, and then Helmut and his eyebrows shoot up. You should have warned Mutt that you've never brought anyone home before. There's probably a lot you should have warned him about, but it's too late to do so now as you step into the house.
He follows, allowing you to close the front door. Your voice cracks when you speak, "Brother, meet Helmut, and Helm, meet my brother."
They stare at each other before Helmut extends a hand for him to shake. He's learned his lesson on American greetings well enough, given that if he kisses anyone else's cheek, you get spitting jealous, which amuses the holy hell out of him.
Your brother looks at his hand before he clasps his hand into Helm's for a quick shake, letting go too soon. "Mom's irritated you're late." He mumbles, not saying anything to Helmut.
It's no surprise to you that she's already mad about something. She lives her life in a constant state of endless anxiety that gets thrust upon anyone else in hearing range. You mentioned to them you were bringing your boyfriend, but you're pretty sure they didn't actually believe you.
As you cross through the foyer into the dining room and see four place settings, you know you were right. They didn't even set the table for him. Helmut, of course, notices it immediately. He eyes the plates before his eyes find yours and soften.
You want to take him away from this place before it's even begun. He doesn't belong here among the outdated blue paisley wallpaper and your childhood dining room table you laid beneath to cover in stickers that probably never got taken off.
He looks so out of place there in his creaseless black shirt and gold cuff links, not a hair out of place and the whole world at his feet. His shined loafers do not match the old uneven floorboards.
The dining room has a wall of picture frames on one side and a clustering of crosses on the other. It's the pictures that catch his attention; he turns, pressing his hands into his pockets as he looks at them. All from when you and your brother were little.
Some of your brother now that he's older and none of you after you turned eighteen and vanished like smoke. He looks at your baby pictures, the princess costume for Halloween, your prom pictures in a big blue dress, and sweet smiles with blank eyes.
He presses a finger to one of the frames, a trail of dust catching on his finger. "This one, I like."
It's you when you're maybe nine or so, completely coated in mud. You've crafted deep trenches in the wet dirt for your brothers' monster trucks, the brightest smile as you look up at the camera. "It looks like you." He whispers and wipes the rest of the frame of dust with his fingers before he rubs his hands together to get rid of the dust.
"Oh goodness!" Your mother's voice causes you to jump as you turn to see her there in the arched doorway between the kitchen and dining room. "You brought company."
"I told you I was bringing my boyfriend." You reply, trying not to sound irritated that they haven't even set the table with him in mind. You don't want him to feel unwelcome with so much already stacked up against you.
Your mom blinks. "I thought you were kidding." She turns her head and barks out your brother's name, "Get a plate for your sister's friend!"
Not his sister.
Not your friend.
Mutt steps around the table to hold out a hand just like he did with your brother. "I'm his partner, Helmut Zemo. A pleasure, paní."
You like the way he says it, sure in the fact of who you are and what he is to you. No hesitation in the words his partner. As your brother passes through the room, you see him wince when Helm says it.
There's no way this ends in anything less than disaster, but at least your paramour won't have to eat off the fucking bare table.
Your mother brings her hand into Helmut's, her other curling over the outside as she gives it a shake. This would be easier if she were starry-eyed, but she's a hawk looking for something to pick at already.
Helm smiles, that sweet smile that works on most people, especially the ones who don't realize what he is capable of. You do. You know he talked his way out of prison. You know he never bothered with a kill count after it hit triple digits.
They part as your brother awkwardly adds plateware to the spot next to yours that no one ever sits at. The chair there is a little rocky. You want to warn him, whisper in his ear, but your mother is too close, too shrewd.
"Helmut." She says his name, his accent garbling the sound so it sounds like he's become a bicycle helmet. This at least is an American problem and not just one that's unique to your family, and so it's nothing he hasn't heard before.
He doesn't bother to correct her pronunciation. Even you are guilty of butchering his name in the beginning. Now it comes without difficulty; now you can say it with flair, low or high, breathy or in mid-laugh.
He has nicknames: Helm, Zee, and Mutt, and then terms of endearment on top of it. You're always a little happier when you're talking to him, no matter what you're calling him.
"What is that?" Your mom asks, blinking at him, "Where's it from?"
His accent is camouflaged, not nearly as heavy as you know it to actually be. Helm's accent comes out when he's passionate, when he's chattering away late at night, exasperated, angry, when he's teasing, or early in the morning, rough from sleep.
When he's in public, you watch it get tucked away behind the facade he lets the rest of the world see—Baron Zemo. But his accent is still there enough that he couldn't pass as a native unless he's first generation.
He could get rid of it entirely; you've heard him speak in a clear, sharp New York-style accent, in sharp German, in several other languages, and even some Wakandan. Helm chooses not to hide his accent; you love that about him.
"Sokovia." He replies, and you both hate and adore the pride in his voice.
Your mom pauses. You watch her process the information, blink, and frown, and then it all comes together. "Why, that's that country that blew up, isn't it?"
All of the tact of a grenade. You flinch. Helmut stills, fingers twitching at his sides. The worst day of his life, all rolled up into two neat words, blew up.
"Mom," You chastise, because what the hell do you say to a question like that?
"What? I was just asking."
Helmut shifts from foot to foot. Before he can try and fill that violent silence, your father walks into the room.
He looks between the four of you, your brother straightening Helm's spoon. "Was wondering what the ruckus was in here." He eyes Helm from top to bottom like a call girl. "This the boyfriend?"
"Yes, pane," Helmut holds out a hand to him too. You'll give it to him; he's thorough. "That would be me."
Your father follows through with the handshake, a nice, firm grip. That's his way; he thinks gripping the hell out of someone's hand for no reason other than to pretend he's the bigger ape is the best way to go about things.
"Pane." He says it like a cooking utensil, "What is that, German?"
Helmut says, "Sokovian."
The exact moment your mother says, "That country the Avengers fought in."
Your flinch this time might as well count for double. Zemo pulls from your father's hand and slides it into his pocket. His wedding ring still on his right-hand finger.
"You kept us waiting." Your mom sets you with a long, disapproving look. "Everyone sit, and us girls will bring out the food before it needs to be reheated."
Something like shame curls in your chest like a long-dormant eel come alive in your stomach acid. You swallow, give Helmut a nod, and slip around the table to help carry the food out.
The moment you're in the kitchen, your mother is on you like a fly on shit. "He's a little odd."
"You've known him for two minutes." You say, reaching for the casserole dish. Despite her complaints, when you grab the glass, it's bordering on uncomfortably hot.
"It's an odd name, that's all." Your mom collects the much lighter salad bowl. "Those Europeans can be a little strange."
"That's a lot of people you're lumping together right there." You reply without missing a beat. "America is a country of immigrants, ma."
She huffs, because what God-fearing American would ever want the reminder that they didn't sprout out of North American soil like gnomes? The two of you carry the food out, and to your amusement, Helmut, unlike your father and brother, remains politely standing.
It's not until you arrive and he pulls your chair out for you that he sits down. You're pretty sure that if your mom hadn't said blown up he would have pulled her chair out too.
The food gets passed around, drinks are poured, and thank yous are muttered, and then comes the dreaded small talk, and given the way they've started, they'll have the tact of a chainsaw through a tree.
"So, Helmet." Your father starts the game of questions, "This your first time in the States?"
You fight the urge to correct his pronunciation, but Helm's hand is on your leg beneath the table. "No." He shakes his head. "I'm a bit of a traveler, but New York and DC mostly."
You cough into your water. They would all shit bricks if they knew what he'd been doing there. His fingers playfully squeeze your leg.
Your old man eyes Zemo's nice clothing and his combed hair. "You work in foreign relations or something?"
"No." Your boyfriend brings his cup up to his lips and looks ten times richer than everyone in the room, even drinking out of a plastic cup. "I was a colonel; I spent most of my life serving my country."
Past tense—was serving.
"Ah." Your mom nods, between bites of her salad, "Suppose all that went away when they got rid of it."
His hand tightens on your leg, and it's the first sign of genuine annoyance. "Annexed, yes." He says.
"That's a fancy word for it." Your father adds, sawing at his chicken with a butter knife. Your mother was never a very good cook.
"Well." Helm takes a small bite, finishing it before speaking, "I am retired now."
Retired from Eko Scorpion, but not so retired from the world of superheroes and protecting the innocent. He keeps himself busy with the Thunderbolts. You're proud of him for never backing down.
"Did they pay you for all that?" Your father asks.
You don't actually know. You doubt even Mutt knows the specifics; those days were dark for him. It wasn't until years later that he was able to put resources back into helping the Sokovian people. The blood fog took a long time to lift, leaving permanent red in the corners.
Really, you don't think things changed for him until Bucky came back. Something you personally feel grateful for—that's why you know Mutt. That's why you have him to rely on.
"Not me." He shakes his head, pushing the food around on the plate. He doesn't like it."But I know there were organizations that came to supply aid. I was ... preoccupied at the time."
"Is the barn still standing?" You ask, trying to steer them away from the inevitable mention of Carl and Heike that you don't want to give them. They don't need to know about that part of his life; they don't need that kind of power, because whether he loves you or not, you know when it comes to them, Helmut will always be a fuse lit from both ends.
"Yeah." Your brother answers, "There are four cats now; she had kittens."
A much easier topic. "You name them?"
He shakes his head no.
"Surprised a fella your age can retire."
You silently chew your chicken and rest your hand over Helms. Outside of directly cutting in, which you're not against doing, there's clearly no changing your father's one-track mind. Not unless you give him a bigger target like yourself to question.
You know what would do it, just mention your transition, and the whole table will suddenly spontaneously combust into a blazing fire.
Mutt hums and takes another bite as he stews over his answer. He could jump to the chase and state that he has an insane amount of generational wealth, or he could mention his ten years in prison. Hell, he could outwardly lie to your father's face, which is what you would do.
"I'm a baron." Helm says, and you eye your family curiously. They've never had anyone filthy rich over for dinner. Helmut has been your first taste of real wealth; even now it's hard to wrap your head around.
"That some kind of retirement plan?"
You were raised by idiots. You sigh into your unseasoned mashed potato casserole.
Your paramour takes another bite of his food; you're pretty sure he's using the dry chicken to process each answer. "Nobility." He explains. "I come from a long line of Sokovian aristocracy. When Novi Grad fell, I lost - I lost the family estate but not my wealth. I have not had financial difficulty; however, many of my people cannot say the same. The annexation of Sokovia already displaced its people; the Blip decimated the rest."
Even now you're not entirely sure if getting blipped was a good or a bad thing. Zemo spent those five years resolutely in a cell; you spent them somewhere. Existing in the shade of a second before everything returned and was gone and back again.
"You're rich?" Your brother asks and cuts it down to a simple yes or no.
Helm has more grace where your brother is concerned, it would seem, because his lip tips up in the corner. "Exactly so."
"Like you could buy me a car?"
Your mother says your brother's name, sharp and quiet, "It's rude to ask a man for money."
Out of the three members of your family, you bear the least ill will toward your brother, but you would not call your relationship close. No, he's too far involved with your father's thoughts and ideas for that. But you're not fond of bailing anyone out.
Perhaps that's petty, but years of being pressed into a cookie-cutter mold have made you sharp along the edges where you've cracked.
"In theory, certainly." He gives your brother a smile that sort of reaches his eyes. "My family actually has an expansive car collection, most of which were salvageable from the wreckage."
You love his collection, have driven several, fogged up several, and sat in many passenger seats. You have the keys to a vintage El Camino that you're particularly fond of. As far as he's concerned, it's your car.
The spark in your brother has more to do with what he might be able to take and less about Helm or you at all. He sees an opportunity, and that's as far as he sees.
"A baron." Your father's voice has that casual edge to it that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "And you settle down with a country girl. Can't tell if you're unlucky or she's lucky."
Helm blinks, and for one delicious moment in which your love for him expands like heat in a hot air balloon, he looks genuinely confused about who is being talked about. And then it sinks in like a diagnosis.
"Pardon?" Helm asks, accent hanging heavy along the word.
"Just surprised with how you two met?" Your dad's confused now too, thrown off by the need to clarify.
You think Helm might be the cleverest son of a bitch in the whole world, but especially in this small musty room.
"Ah, that is a tale." He looks over at you and smiles. This time it's genuine. "He came into my life unexpectedly, the way I've found the best things often do."
"So you've ... bought into all that?" Your mother asks, and any joy at telling what would have otherwise been a happy story dries up until it's nothing but the burning in the back of your throat.
Helm straightens, near imperceptibly, but the hand on your leg remains. "I don't catch your meaning."
Your parents share a look before deciding on Christian love. "That transsexual nonsense."
His tongue trails out along the bottom of his lip, and this time when he takes a bite, you know for certain that he's using the time to gather up his thoughts. Everything Helmut does is intentional; he is a well-intentioned man by his very nature.
You know this too; he will approach like a battle. "So it is to my understanding then," He sets his fork down, and your dad's eyes go sharp. At least you don't have to worry about Helm losing in a fistfight. "That you do not respect your son?"
This is new. You've never had anyone defend you to your family before. Anyone who knew about your transition when they were around always rolled with it, pretended it was fine, and apologized afterward. Not your Mutt.
"Respect him plenty." Your father says and nods his head toward your brother, who is very much attempting to make friends with his chicken breast. "If you're talkin' about my daughter, she could use a few pointers."
You've told people to get fucked, flipped them off, and walked out on dates. You've been unabashedly yourself for years now, making steps toward who you want to be, and somehow the moment you sit at this table, you become nothing but the little girl who hid in her room.
No anger, no irritation, only a blanketed cold resignation that this is the way it will always be.
You underestimate how much Colonel Baron Helmut Zemo loves you.
"You know," Helm stops eating, leans back in his rickety chair, and all out pushes the food away. "In many cultures, transformation is seen as something remarkable. Something to be celebrated. Sokovia has its own legends and stories that further this. Perhaps even we could consider Christ, risen and changed, yes?"
Your hand comes to squeeze his where it's still on your leg, not really a warning. You're not sure what you mean by it other than the desire to hold him. To cling to the one thing that is yours in this hollow place.
"You're in my home." Your father says, like he has a castle. Like he is king to all the wheat fields. Messiah of the weeds.
Helm pushes his chair back. "Frankly, I do not give a damn."
Your brother releases a squeak of a sound at that before he goes back to his plate. Your parents are starting to look exceptionally offended, which really you saw coming. It's not like you didn't expect all of this, but you hoped maybe, just maybe, there would be change.
But your childhood home is a time capsule that no longer suits you. The shoes no longer fit, outgrown and torn soles.
"I am a father." Helmut says with such vitriol as he stands that you can't help but stare at him in something that might just be wonder. "And I am incapable of understanding you. If my son needed this, needed to change to feel whole, then I would be the first person to help him do so. What is a legacy when you have failed your children, when you raise a sheep of a boy on one hand and Atlas on the other?"
He pushes in his chair hard enough that it smacks into the table before he offers his hand to you. "Come, drahý. We are leaving. I will not subject you to such idiocy."
Your old man stands, masculinity challenged by Helmut's dismissal. "You come into my house, insult me at my table. That shit doesn't fly around here."
Zemo doesn't move his hand, waiting for you to take it, but he does turn to look in your father's direction, head cocking to the side. Like he's looking at a bug.
"That is not a fight you win." Helm's voice is ripe with warning you know to be completely true. He is a soldier, a Thunderbolt; he does not bow to lesser men.
You take his hand, lifting yourself from your chair. To keep him from acting out on the aggression curled through his body, you curl your fingers between his. It's no surprise that Helmut is protective, but you've never really had the chance to see it in action until now.
"Let's go." You whisper. The fatigue drapes down on your shoulders, and suddenly all you want to do is run away and sleep.
Across the table your mother stands, all tears and broken heart on her sleeve. Forever ready to let the world know how she's suffered, whereas you stand stony-faced and quiet. "I just wanted a nice meal. A family dinner with my little girl. You ruin it. You always ruin it."
Your dead name long buried lashes across your face as she says it. And you are so very tired.
Helm's free hand snaps out in a slash in front of him, "To hell with you and your false desperation. We are leaving."
He pulls, and all you can do is follow, eyes on the threadbare runner as he leads you back out the front door. Your father follows, and for a moment you expect him to attack Helmut, but instead his hand comes hard to your shoulder and jerks you back.
You let out a startled noise, hand slipping from Helm's as you try to shrug away from his hard grip. Zemo pivots, and there's a wild look in his eye, some abject triggered panic that you know has less to do with you but instead has to do with forty-eight hours of digging through rubble.
He swings before you can tell him not to, clocking your old man hard in the jaw. He sprawls out onto the foyer floor, and you jump into action, hands pressing to Helmut's chest, easing him backward, "I'm here. I'm here."
He doesn't see you, not at first. "Helm, love, Helmut. I'm here. I'm safe. We need to go."
Your mom might call the cops, and it's imperative that the cops keep thinking of him as a hero and not a criminal. You're not going to lose him to the system, back to the Raft.
He blinks and the haze clears; he frowns, looking over your shoulder back at your father. He's pulled himself off the floor, holding to the doorjamb as he glares out at the two of you.
"Don't come back," His voice is harsh, cutting through you like a freezing winter wind: "If you're with him, living the life you been living. Don't come back until you're the daughter I raised."
Even this does not feel unexpected. Helm shoves into your hands, and you know if you let him go he'll beat your father bloody in his own house. So you don't let go, leading him back into the car. You practically shove him into the passenger seat and toss yourself into the driver's side.
Your hand is shaking as you turn the key, stalling the engine. It takes longer than it should to pull out of the long gravel drive, your father's silhouette in the doorway until you hit the road and drive out of sight.
As you drive, you white-knuckle the wheel to keep the shaking at a minimum. It starts in increments; at first the road gets blurry, and then your breath gets shorter. Instead of breathing, you wheeze, eyes burning. The world falls underwater.
"Pull over." Helm's voice leaves no room for argument. He sounds like he wants to walk back to the house and attempt to solve this with his hands.
You do as you're told, pulling next to a cornfield, letting go of the wheel. You forget to put it in park and roll forward through the grass until Helmut slams it into gear.
Everything swims; don't take a full breath, or you'll drown. It gets hard to take in any air. Your body fights the natural instinct. With your eyes squeezed shut, you only hear the click of your seat belt being undone before there are hands on you, catching you under your arms, and then it's a scramble. Somehow you end up yanked over the median, your foot almost hitting the car horn before you're in his lap.
He's speaking Sokovian; you don't know much of his native tongue, only a few words here and there. Swears, common phrases, "I love you, things like that. The words are fast, tumbling out of him, and you think he needs to say whatever he's trying to say, even if you don't understand it.
There are some things that don't translate well, and he's running into that now. You catch a few words, mainly cursing. Fucking bastards. Sorry. Fuck. I love you. That's all you really get.
It's not until he's stopped speaking his long train of words that you realize your breathing has evened out, so distracted with trying to understand what he was saying that he cut the panic attack off before it could fully sink into your bones and weigh you down to the bottom of the lake.
The look in his eyes when you glance up at him says that was his intention, because when you lock eyes, he smiles, relief on the edges of it. "There you are."
You nuzzle into his shirt, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric, catching the scent of his cologne. All of it sinks the tension from your bones until all that's left is the sinking realization of what just happened.
"You're all I have." You whisper, even if that was mostly true to begin with, it is certainly a complete fact now.
His arms tighten around you. "To je mi líto."
You bury your face in his chest and let the world disappear. It's not like you want to be this way. You don't want to be displaced from what you are and aren't. You never asked to have to change to survive.
That's what your parents never understood; if you could stay a girl and be happy, you would. It would be a fucking relief to fit into the right mold without having to rip apart chunks of yourself to make it all fit.
Helm says your name, soft and quiet, like an apology, and his grip pulls you all the closer. "Life has a habit of lacking fairness." He murmurs, "But I see you, beloved; I see you completely. And I am not ashamed."
You let out a shaky breath into his shirt and nod. "Thank you." It barely sounds genuine with how bone tired you are, but you mean it. "For coming with me."
His hand cards through your hair, and you know despite everything that it's going to be okay. "For you, I would go anywhere."