Archive of Our Own

Omen is uncomfortable.

He’s surrounded by noise- people chatting left and right, each person talking louder than the one next to them, in an effort to be heard above the pulsing bass of the music and the grating, booming noises the younger agents seem to enjoy. He can feel the vibrations, the rumble of the sound waves travelling through him, messing up his already delicate, unstaple grip on his own vibrations, his own being. Sure, the bandages he cocoons himself in every day help to keep him together, but he’s quickly come to the realisation that his own, natural (or as natural as whatever he is made up of can be) vibrations, the constant humming of his body in its relaxed state go against the ones that travel through the floorboards from the massive speakers propped against the wall.

It makes him dig his back deeper against the wall he’s leaning on, not having moved from this very spot since he first settled in it, the second he had been dragged here by Fade. 

In her words, ‘If I have to suffer through this, so do you, Omen’. 

It’s like he’s grown roots against the uncomfortable cement. He feels tethered to this corner- like a dog to a fence post, able to move around, grab himself a snack from the many tables filled with food yet never straying too far, always dutifully coming back to his spot, his home. He’s lost count of how many times he’s wandered about just to get overwhelmed and scurry back to hide, hoping that, despite his dark colouring, he might blend against the light colouring that has been painted over the hard cement, in a poor attempt to make the protocol’s base more…’home-y’.

Don’t get him wrong- if he truly wants to, he can simply wish himself away- teleports somewhere far away from the offending bass of the music, far away from the constant yelling and laughing, somewhere quiet. Peaceful. But doing so would only make others look for him- ask him questions, ‘why did you leave, Omen?’ ‘do you not like us, Omen?’ ‘can’t you stay this one time, Omen?’

He’s quite frankly not in the mood to put up with the incessant questions the younger agents would throw his way should he disappear, so he stays. He grows his roots deeper into the minuscule cracks in the cement, tries his best to make his own humming, his heartbeat, really, go with the flow, instead of against it. He knows everyone else is having a fun time- can feel it deep in his core, his chest, like he does whenever someone near him feels something strongly. It reverbs back to him, echos in his limbs, travels to his mind and settles there. All in all, this could be worse. They’re having fun, so, by default, Omen also feels…content. It doesn’t stop the itch in his scars, nor the headache he can feel forming, but it’s okay. He’s okay.

He’s vaguely aware of his vision landing on the reason he’s currently being forced to socialise with others- hard to miss him, with the neon green hair and purple sweater. Gekko, if Omen recalls correctly - And he does recall correctly, malgré his wish to be unaffected by the new arrival. He won't admit it, not even to himself, but the young agent had caught his attention, be it with his hair, personality or creatures, - seems to be at the heart of the party. It’s clear he’s in his element, surrounded by people, an arm thrown around Phoenix- they’ll be a menace together, he thinks, with their similar personalities. He’s happy the newest agent seems to be integrating himself well. Contrary to what some might think, Omen does care about the agents. He haunts the halls late at night, making sure everything is alright, even with Cypher’s trusty surveillance system. He would hate for anything to happen to his…friends, especially while asleep, defenceless. He’s just not the most sociable out of them- he struggles in conversations, preferring to grunt and groan his way through questions and topics instead of giving straight answers. Harbor seems to have taken a shine to him too, calling him his apprentice, and Omen is glad that the young man already has all of this support system in place for him, here. 

He knows it hasn’t always been like this- so friendly, so…accepting. He remembers joining and being given a cold shoulder, kept at arms’ length by everyone but Sabine, though that most likely has to do with his appearance than anything else. He’s aware that he might be a bit harder to look at, what with no face and clear body, and all. 

He’s lost in his thoughts- a cup of juice held between his clawed fingers. He’s unsure of what it is yet certain that it has no alcohol- not his cup, at least. Now, the other agents’? That’s another business. He’s absolutely sure he’s seen Sova drop some kind of liquid from a flask in his drink and Neon spiking the punch while Brimstone has his back turned. Perks of being a wallflower, he guesses- being aware of everything happening in the room, able to watch people mingle. 

A glance at his phone tells him he’s been here for an hour and a half. He thinks he’ll make it to two before he excuses himself under the pretence of being tired, knowing damn well most, if not all of the protocol knows that he doesn’t sleep much at all. Maybe he should’ve brought his knitting needles- at least then he would’ve had a way to pass the time doing something else than people-watch.

He let his vision sweep over the room once more. Sova, Skye and, surprisingly, Yoru are all huddled in a circle, talking about something Omen can’t possibly hope to make out. They seem to be keeping it quiet, judging by their small movements and glances around. Maybe they’re plotting to spike more of the juice. If that’s the case, Omen needs to grab himself another glass before it happens- he’s running low. 

Reyna, Sage, Astra and Harbor are all talking, too, yet a lot more relaxed than the three previous agents Omen observed. They’re all sitting down, body relaxed and hands holding a glass of something. Next to them, Breach is napping on a couch, leg thrown over the side, snoring away. How the hell did he fall asleep in here?

Omen’s gaze finally lends on the life of the party, the heart of this gathering. Gekko still stands surrounded by people. Neon is clinging to him, way too drunk to probably still be drinking, but who is Omen to judge? Phoenix is there, too, singing along to a song Omen doesn’t care to try and look up, Gekko leaning against his side, singing just as loud as him. 

There’s a lot of people he knows are around him, yet he can’t seem to go back to his people-watching. His gaze is stuck on the green-haired agent and the creatures - pets? - he carries around. He knows there’s supposed to be four on him, yet Omen can only count three. He’s missing the blue one- the one who spat all over Jett during practice the other day and made her laugh so hard she had to step outside for a moment.  They’re usually hidden away- something to do with the brightly coloured bag and clothes he wears, like he can store his ‘buddies’ away when they’re not being used, maybe for them to rest comfortably? Omen doesn’t know, yet he’s aware of the missing fourth, the three others all in close proximity to Gekko. One is being held by Neon, clapping along to her off-key singing, the two others resting on him- one in his arms, the smallest, and one at his feet, the biggest. 

He can’t recall any of their names, yet he knows that the second Gekko realises he’s missing one, the party will be over. The buzz of happy emotions Omen has started to appreciate inside of him will disappear and leave him anguished again, alone.  He doesn’t want.- Not yet. He can put up with the dizzying pressure in his limbs and temples a bit longer if it means seeing the rest of the protocol having fun, for once. Not worrying about living another day. 

Omen makes a choice, then. He’s still very much tethered to his wall, his roots having done nothing but grow deeper while he thought his life away in his corner, yet he has another goal in mind now, other than the snack tables.  A quick appraisal of the younger man and his friends leaves him with the knowledge that he’s too engrossed in his singing to realise anything, for now. 

Good.

Omen heaves himself away from his comfort zone. His limbs feel like jelly and he can’t help but notice he’s…spasming…more than usual, his body fighting to retain its physical form, yet he’s a Wraith on a mission. 

He checks corners first, passing by a working Cypher who gives him a weird look. He ponders for a second the pros and cons of asking the information broker for help, yet knows it’ll only lend him in more of an annoying situation than now. Without a word, Omen moves past him, deciding to ignore the tingle on the back of his neck signalling to him that Cypher is openly staring at him, most likely wondering what made Omen finally start moving around. 

He clears each corner quickly, looking under tables, under chairs, coats, legs- anything. He comes up empty, dragging a discontent grunt out of him. Okay, so, maybe deeper in the room? A glance around him shows people still talking away, too distracted by other things to pay attention to him wandering about, which is exactly what he needs. He needs to blend in the shadow, a feat that is unsurprisingly easy considering he’s made - at least partly - of them. 

He’s sweeping the room now, looking above heads, under feet, between furniture pieces- nothing. He’s coming up blank. Nada. Nicht. He’s growing more and more frustrated by the second- why does it matter anyways? It’s not his job to do this, he should just let Gekko realise that he’s missing the blue one, stop the party and free him from this agonising socialisation. What was he thinking, trying to find it? What did he think? That maybe doing so would make people like him more? Stop being so afraid of him, afraid of how unstable he is? That maybe, if he kept the party going, he could absorb and crudely recreate a semblance of the happiness the others around him are feeling and forever keep it in his chest so he doesn’t feel so alienated from his peers anymore?

Ridiculous.

Omen knows he’s starting to drag attention to himself, now. It’s hard to blend in the shadows when his own body is twitching and jerking, glitching away in the middle of the room, smoke quickly slipping through carefully applied bandages. He thinks he hears KillJoy ask him if he’s okay, but Omen can’t. Think. He needs his wall, needs the cool cement to ground him while he presses his back against it. Needs to go back to just watching, not participating.

He has half a mind to just get himself out of here and back to his room when he sees it. 

A tail, blue and glowing, sticking out from under what he presumes is Gekko’s coat, thrown on a chair probably to try and fight how warm the room is with so many damn people in it. He’s not surprised he missed it- the chair is close to his corner, in his dead angle, and Omen had expected the creature to be somewhere far away from him, not right there the whole time.

Legs moving automatically, Omen makes his way to it. It’s dozing off, he notes while bringing himself to a crouch next to it. It croons softly when he readjusts the coat to cover its shell and the Wraith feels something in his chest tighten. Curiosity, maybe? He does find it endearing, in a way. He doesn’t note how his own body seems to calm down, no longer so unstable and volatile. Doesn’t note how much calmer he feels now that his pseudo mission is complete, hands hovering around the sleeping creature, not touching, yet wondering if it would be soft to the touch- maybe it would nuzzle into his fingers, his palm? Perhaps it wouldn’t be scared of him due to his external appearance. 

Omen fails to note the brown eyes zeroing in on him from the other side of the room.

His sole focus is on the little creature in front of him. Already, knitting patterns are appearing in his mind. He could make it a little sweater, maybe a deep blue to match the rest of it. Maybe even a little hat- or better yet, both, in matching colours, so the little critter could have a set. Omen feels his claws itch with the want to knit and grumbles softly, straightening his back out, no longer hunched next to it. At this  moment, Omen wishes he was better with names and remembering things, certain that its name has been told to him before, yet he can’t wrack his memory enough to remember. 

Still hesitant to touch the little creature, lest it decides he’s an enemy and stuns him, Omen gently manoeuvres the chair closer to his corner, where his roots are still planted deep into the concrete. There’s less traffic there, less chances of someone bumping into the chair and startling the poor thing awake. Omen has never interacted with it, apart from seeing it from afar, but he finds himself needing to push down the fondness radiating in his chest, in his lungs and into his mouth, his head. He can’t get attached, for fuck’s sake, he’s never even talked to its…handler? Friend? Father? It’s unclear what Gekko is to the creature, but Omen is certain that, once this get together is over, he’ll most likely never get the chance to see it, be so close to it, apart from on missions where their lives are at stake. Not the best moment to ask questions, like if it likes certain foods, or if he’d like Omen to knit it a little sweater.

(He’s most likely still going to knit one- it’d just be nice to know that it won’t be thrown away.) 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, a pulse that signifies he’s spent an adequately long amount of time socialising, that he’s now free to leave without any consequences, and Omen sighs. He should get going. He’s spent enough time here, a particularly loud boom of bass reminding him of the pulsing headache he’s nursing and the discomfort he can feel down to his very being. He presses himself back against the wall, as far into it as he possibly can, and lets shadows envelop him, surrounding him in never-ending darkness. He’s moments away from teleporting into the hallway to make a speedy exit when he hears his name being called out.

Shit. 

It hurts. To reform himself, painfully place each of his atoms back into place, cancel out his power to close to it being finished. He’s groaning before he can help himself and swallow it back down, his core burning low before settingling back to its usual soft blue. Shadows warp and twist around him, swallowed back under his bandages and Omen settles back against the wall, legs weak for a passing moment. There’s a warm hand on his shoulder and it startles him more than he’d like to admit, not used to people touching him.

Not used to enjoying it.

There’s nothing but bright green in his vision, Gekko holding his shoulder in a steady grip, talking to him. He can’t make out what he’s saying, not yet, while there’s still a ringing in his ears and a lump in his throat. Omen grunts, shakes the warm grip off of his shoulder and settles into his limbs, feeling more sturdy now that he’s had a second to come back. It’s always a pain to cancel out his powers, especially teleportation. 

“ ¡Perdón! No quería asustarte- You good, man?” 

Nothing but a grunt escapes him. Gekko is practically yelling at him, trying to be heard over the music. There’s eyes on them, he can feel them crawl all over him. Probably due to his shadows. Omen wishes his powers were more…discreet. Instead, he’s getting stares and whispers in his ears. His one consolation is how worried the…taller, Omen notes, man seems in front of him. Gekko sports a look that screams Guilt onto his features, and Omen sighs, straightening out. He has zero idea as to what was said, apart from the end question, and he mentally shoves down the thought of how nice the other language sounded while being spoken by the younger male. Smooth, off the tongue, nothing like how he speaks. 

“I’m fine.” Christ, why is he so awkward. He knows he can barely be heard above the bass and other conversations in the room, but Omen has never been one to raise his voice. 

His awkward attempt at a conversation doesn’t seem to deter Gekko, since he smiles, a blinding thing that should be considered as a flash bang, in his opinion, and claps his hand on Omen’s shoulder softly, taking the shorter by surprise. “Ay, that’s good! Look, I just wanted to thank you, y’know? Saw you move Dizzy-” Ah. That must be the creature’s name, then.  A glance in its direction tells him that it’s awake and looking at him, now floating instead of resting under the coat. It seems happy, as far as he can tell, and Omen is kind of disappointed in himself that he most likely woke it up by accident. “- And she told me how you tucked her in, so. Gracias, amigo.” 

He’s not sure if he should be thanked for something that he had done out of pure selfishness, wanting to look at her, not it, for a bit longer, intrigued, but he doesn’t say as much. Instead, Omen simply nods, huffing out a breath as he, once again, gets rudely reminded of his headache. He can’t teleport again- not so soon after cancelling his last one out, so he instead gives Gekko another short nod and moves away, fully intent on finally being able to leave and retreat to his room. Pop a handful of Advils - literally. medicine doesn’t seem to be as efficient on him as on others - and knit for the rest of the night. There’s less eyes on them now, most people having gone back to their own conversations, yet he can feel that some people are still staring, probably waiting for Gekko to stop wasting time with him and go back to them, to the party. 

He grants them their silent wish by sneaking around the crowd and escaping through the door, shoulders already feeling less tense the second he’s out of the stuffy room. The bass is finally muffled when the doors close behind him, only now being vague vibrations in the ground he can easily ignore the farther away he gets himself from the party. He’s in the main hallway, now, the one that leads to the kitchen, but Omen doesn’t care about eating, not right now. Instead, he makes a right and continues towards another door, legs striding towards his one goal- his own bedroom. He’s almost there- almost to the door that leads to an intersection of hallways, when he hears a door slam open, a shout and then something so terribly soft settling on his shoulder. 

Out of reflex, Omen freezes, reaching for a gun that isn’t there. He glances to his shoulder and is surprised to see the creature - Dizzy - he reminds himself, on his shoulder. She seems happy, letting out soft croons and resting against him, hiding her face in the fabric of his hood. Offhandedly, he registers footsteps coming their way, but Omen is mostly focused on how she seems to be the same shade of blue as his softly pulsing core, in the middle of his chest, under all of his armour and layers. He lifts a hand- fingers hovering above her shell, unsure if he’s allowed to touch, when Gekko finally scrambles up to him, apologies spewing out of his mouth faster than Omen can comprehend. 

“I am so sorry, Omen- Dizzy, c’mon girl, vamos!” He whines softly, trying to coax her out of Omen’s hood. She’s nuzzled in there, though, and Omen tenses from the proximity of hands, other than his own, to his hood. “She’s not usually like this, I swear! I think she just really likes you.”

Likes him?

He takes another good look at her- she’s looking at him too, nuzzled into the fabric of his hood, ignoring Gekko’s ( warm, so warm) hands trying to grab her and Omen finds himself not really carrying that she’s there. He raises a clawed finger, unaware of the brown eyes now watching him instead of her, and reaches slowly, oh so slowly, towards her. All it takes is one touch of his finger, barely a graze of his claws on her head, between her ears for her to melt and croon happily, burrowing even further into the fabric he’s wearing. She’s weirdly smooth to the touch - like something you’d expect to be wet yet isn’t, almost slime-like without the annoying residue that sticks to your fingers. Omen finds he quite enjoys it.As long as she’s not going in his hood, Omen can’t bring himself to care. She looks cute, and he’s happy someone doesn’t seem afraid of him, even if she’s not exactly human. Gekko, on the other hand, looks mortified. 

“ Dizzy! Por favor, vuelve, no le molestemos más, ¿vale?” The younger agent seems to be blushing, Omen not really knowing why. Maybe he’s embarrassed? He shouldn’t be- Omen is having fun, more than he ever was back in the stuffy room. 

The door to leave this part of the base is right there, though, and he’s unsure how much longer he can ignore his own discomfort. 

“Walk with me.” Straight to the point- he’s too tired for anything else, though not physically. It’s mostly mental, shadows seeping out of his hood and swirling into oblivion above his head. He doesn’t wait for an answer, either, simply assumes Gekko will do as asked, and heads out the door and into the hallway leading left. This part of the base is mostly empty- empty rooms for more agents, a yoga studio Skye begged to be built that she uses regularly, but quietly, a server room, for Cypher’s surveillance system and other rooms made for quieter activities. There’s also a nap room there, complete with bunk beds, an adjacent toilet and comfortable couches, for when someone needs somewhere to sleep that isn’t their own room. 

The set of footsteps next to him (along with the constant warmth radiating off of the other) tells him Gekko did exactly as he wanted. Dizzy seems content with staying on his shoulder, and Omen sees the other creatures out and about, following them, out of his peripherals. They’re both quiet, which gives the Wraith the opportunity to wonder what the fuck he meant, by saying ‘Walk with me’. Is he lonely? Not really, he enjoys the peace and quiet being alone brings. He’s not friends with Gekko, today being the first time they really spoke. He’s certain he could’ve dislodged the creature on his shoulder without even breaking a sweat, but he can’t help but think she would’ve been sad. Is this is, then? He doesn’t want to make Dizzy sad. She’s soft, nice, and interesting. He’s always had a soft spot for animals, recalling the one time he had asked Brimstone for a cat, only to get shut down, since his return from missions could take up to months. He understands, he really does, but he still felt a weird feeling in his core at the answer. Unfortunately, due to his soft spot, he now had company following him to his room, the one place he was supposed to be able to truly be alone.

“Hey, so, where are you taking me? Not that I don’t mind taking a walk or sumn, but I’ve never been down this hallway.” Gekko sounded curious, if not a bit scared, and Omen couldn’t blame him. Past the used rooms stood…nothing. No carpet on the floor, no decoration on the walls, nothing. Just the bare VALORANT Protocol cement walls and the soft thump of their footsteps resonating through the corridor. 

Omen’s room stood at the end of said halfway, next to a locked down door that would have lead to outside, had it not been closed down by Killjoy, since no one used it. 

(He does, or, well, did use it, yet said nothing when the engineer placed a weird device on it, making sure no one could come in or out anymore. Another way to keep the base safe, he guessed.)

“My room,” is the short answer he gives the other, risking a glance in his direction. He finds brown eyes already on him, a soft smile on his features. He’d made note of it earlier, but the other really is taller than him. Skinner, and most likely more agile, but not lanky. His green hair looks to be yellowing a bit, not that it will make him look bad in any way. Omen finds that Gekko is…pleasing. To look at. Nothing more.

 He ignores how he’s never invited someone back to his room ever, never let anyone touch him, let alone softly slap his shoulder while talking or almost never cancels his teleportations for anyone. He blames it on his interest for his powers, his animals, not the fact that Omen can’t help but be intrigued by the other, his colourful sense of fashion, his smooth voice. He shoves down thoughts of taking Gekko’s hand in his own and feeling the warmth of the other, comparing their hand sizes, right back where they came from, refusing to let himself be attached to someone who he’s talked to once. I mean really, were his standards that low? Talk to him once with a nice voice and suddenly he’s not some weird creature, a monster , without a real heartbeat or organs, and is instead someone you might want as a friend? Yeah, right.

Snap out of it, Omen.

“Is your room down this creepy hallway- Wait! Not like weird creepy, I just mean, like, y’know! Cool-creepy, like a movie! Right, Thrash?” A noise comes out of the biggest creature, the one that’s undulating on the floor at their feet, following them. “She says she agrees with me, ¡Lo juro por mi vida!”

He doesn’t take offence- knows damn well he chose this room for that exact reason; creepy, isolated and, most importantly, quiet. Omen doesn’t dignify Gekko’s question with an answer, simply stops abruptly in front of a door and fishes out a keycard from the depth of his pants pockets, swiping it through the mechanism. It beeps, flashes green and slides open in complete silence, thanks to Raze who made sure to oil and maintain her girlfriend’s tech whenever the latter got too distracted to remember. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even really acknowledge that the other man is still there, opting to make a beeline to his bedside instead, hands reaching for a bottle of Advils. He’s aware of footsteps on his carpet, muted by the lush fur of it, and fights back the overwhelming urge to tell Gekko to take his shoes off before entering, apparently having forgotten to do it himself in his haste to finally get his hands on some pain medication. 

Omen pops a literal handful of them, huffing out a breath at the concerned noise his guest makes, and kicks off his shoes, exposing fluffy purple socks. “What are…their names?” Is what he uses to break the uncomfortable blanket of silence that had settled on them, turning to face the younger. He’s met with a vision of Gekko perusing his collection of knitted plushies, some of them resembling the other agents of the protocol. 

“Who’s names?” Is what Gekko answers, not taking his eyes off of the trinkets Omen owns. He’s touching some of them and misplacing them, which usually would’ve earned him a growl paired with a rough shove out of Omen’s sight. Instead, the Wraith grumbles unhappily, not moving to stop him, and decides to settle into his plush chair instead, dragging a knitted blanket over him, making sure Dizzy is still comfortably rested on his shoulder. 

“Your…animals. Friends? Do not touch that one.” He grumbles out, stopping Gekko before he places his hand on a set of knives Yoru had gifted him after the Wraith saved him back in the day. He’s never used them in battle, but knows from personal experience that they are extremely sharp, enough to cut through anything without their wielder breaking a sweat. Omen doesn’t care about their sharpness, though. He likes them because they’re purple. 

Gekko finally turns to face him, flashing him another one of his blinding smiles, “Oh! ¿Mis amigos? I guess you weren’t there when I told everyone else! The small one here is-”

“I was.” He cuts off the other, trying to will himself not to spasm too hard in his chair, his control slipping over himself for a moment, “It’s…my memory. I don’t remember much.”

Wow. Isn’t that a first. Sharing bits and pieces of himself with another? Just what is wrong with him today. It’s like every single one of his carefully created filters amount to nothing when it comes to Gekko, someone who, might he remind himself, has known him for a grand total of three-ish days. He’s never been this open with anyone, never let anyone into his room, let alone touch some of his possessions, but he can’t bring himself to care. He feels…content, here, in his room, Dizzy on his shoulder and Gekko exploring. 

“Oh! Don’t worry, then, I got you! This one is Mosh- he likes to stay in my bag a lot.” He gestures to it as he speaks, Omen taking note of the small creature residing inside of it. Vaguely, he recalls someone saying something about Gekko throwing him, almost like a grenade, and Omen hopes he’ll remember that for later.

For now, though, he let himself settle deeper into his chair and focus on his company. 

“The small one running around your room is Wingman- ¡Hey! Vamos, ahora, deja de hacer un lío-” He hears a thump, and notes how some books have fallen off of their shelves after Wingman bumped into it while running around, “Sorry, Omen- He’s usually more well behaved..” Gekko scratches the back of his head, picking the hyperactive creature back up into his arms and back into…his tattoos? Omen must’ve guessed wrong earlier, when he thought they came from his clothes. The tattoos make a lot more sense. 

“It doesn’t bother me.” Is his answer, mumbled over the waves of tired energy overtaking him. Not one for sleeping often, whenever Omen does get tired, he goes down under fast, barely able to really keep himself awake for more than half an hour after they begin. He needs to wrap this up somehow, but the smooth tone of Gekko’s voice is lulling him deeper into his restful state. He’s practically melting into his chair, soft hums and vibrations escaping him at random intervals. 

Gekko nods and shuffles around his room, finally deciding to settle next to Omen in the adjacent, matching chair. They’re both covered by deep purple blankets and black pillows, made for comfort since Omen spends hours upon hours in them while knitting. “The biggest one is Thrash, like I said earlier. She’s also-” he gets cut off by his own body, a yawn escaping him. He seems to settle more into the chair, curling into one of the arm rests and tugging a blanket over himself. The Wraith can’t tear his gaze away- Gekko surrounded by purples and blacks, blankets and pillow covers he made, looking at peace next to him, like Omen isn’t some sort of monstrosity.  

He has to physically restrain himself from cooing at the sight. Disgust - not towards Gekko, never - fills his stomach, settling there. He despises how…soft he seems to be around the other. 

“Sorry, man, I guess I’m a bit more tired than I thought. You don’t mind me crashing here, do you? Please?” Little does he know, Gekko doesn’t even have to plead Omen- the Wraith would’ve said nothing had he fallen asleep without notice. He wants to know more about his companion- about his abilities, his likes and dislikes, anything of the such. But the pull of sleep is stronger than he is, and Omen grunts out a ‘ Quiet, ’ to the other and settles in for the night, tucked into himself, shadows surrounding him and reaching towards his guest, settling at his feet. He’s almost forgotten about Dizzy when she suddenly seems to be sucked back into Gekko’s arms, same with Thrash who had been rolling around in his carpet. 

He barely hears the mumbled ‘Good night’ from the other before he’s out like a light, sleep crashing over him. He can berate himself for falling asleep next to someone who he barely knows later. For now, he dreams of neon green hair and a smooth voice in his ears. 

—

When he comes to, Omen finds that he’s shifted sideways onto his chair, legs thrown over one of the arm rest, head over the other. He catalogues what he can see first- it’s bright out, the sun trying its best to shine through the thick curtains Omen has on his windows. He can’t see much else, apart from his ceiling. 

Next is what he feels- the pain in his neck, from sleeping in such a weird position, the ache in his legs from being thrown over. He’s warm under a blanket he doesn’t remember draping over himself, thick wool covering his whole body.

He can hear shuffling around his room which isn't usual. For a second, he feels himself tensing, trying to reach for a weapon that isn’t there, commanding shadows to gather in his palm. He’s seconds away from blinding anyone near when a voice cuts through the daze of sleep and settles in his chest comfortably. 

“Shhh, ¡Silencio!” He hears Gekko bite out before whumps and warbles sound out around his room, coming from multiple directions. 

Ah.

The creatures must be out and about outside of their tattoos, then. 

Omen grunts to show he’s awake, body stretching out on his chair, similarly to how a cat would, legs straight and back arched. He can feel eyes on himself as he does, a soft exhale leaving him, cut short as if Omen kept himself from chuckling. 

“Mornin’ Omen! Thanks again for letting us sleep here-” Gekko let out a little bashful chuckle, standing over Omen, blocking the sun from hitting him straight in the face. He looks good like this, Omen thinks. Surrounded by a halo of light, a bright smile on his face, “Our room’s like- all the way in the other direction, I think?”

“You think.”

The younger man looked away, picking at a strand on his wool shirt, “Yeah, I’m not too sure anymore, but hey! I can always ask Neon, she’s rooming next to me.”

Right. Omen hums, giving himself another short stretch before getting up, shuffling past Gekko, who hadn’t moved from his position above him, feet shuffling about his carpet until he reached his bathroom, door sliding open. Hesitantly, he looked back, taking in the sight of someone so bright, surrounded by colourful animals, standing in Omen’s dark room, between purple shelves and black chairs.

“Later,” Omen starts, voice slightly more scratchy than usual, as a result of having just woken up, “I will have…something. For you.”

“For me?”

He hums, entering his bathroom without looking back. The door slides close behind him, trapping Omen under artificial, bright white lights. He hears shuffling outside of the bathroom, but pays it not attention. Instead, he makes sure that the door is locked, before starting the painstakingly long process of taking off his bandages, to change them.

 Metres after metres of used bandages fall on the floor, ripped off by clawed hands. The more he takes off, the more shadows seem to settle around him, coming from his exposed limbs. Past a certain point, where Omen barely has anything left on him, he takes all of his focus not to lose his form, shadows steadily leaking out of him. His core feels exposed, wracking him with violent shivers everytime Omen accidentally brushes against it. It’s almost a pleasurable sensation, yet the simplest touch seems to be too much, seizing Omen deep in his nerves, pushing grunts and groans out of him. He doesn’t dwell on how his pants seem to tighten for too long. It’ll go away. 

Once he’s re-bandaged, stable and his…problem, has gone away, Omen reemerges from the bathroom, taking in the empty bedroom. Already, his fingers itch to pick up his knitting needles, so much he almost misses the way that his room has been tidied up. The books Wingman had knocked over last night are back on their shelves, the chairs have been placed back to how they were, blankets folded on top of them. It warms Omen, an unfamiliar feeling that takes hold of his heart and squeezes. 

For a second, Omen debates skipping his knitting session and going to Sabine, inquiring about why Gekko seems to birth feelings he’s never felt before. She’s most likely busy, though, and he doesn’t want to bother her with questions she most likely doesn’t know the answer to. Maybe it’s something to do with him. Maybe, after all this time, the nature of what he’s made of has become a bit more unstable. 

With a shake of his head, Omen dismisses his thoughts, settling into his chair instead. It’s the one Gekko had taken to sleep, and it smells of his cologne. Something fruity, yet not overwhelming on the nose, like Omen finds Chamber’s cologne to be. He settles deeper into the creases of the chair and reaches into his knitting pouch, a massive thing he keeps in range of his favourite spot at all time. Most colours are blues, blacks and dark purples, but Omen knows that at the bottom, past the yard and yard of wool he’s bought himself, are the colours he received from Brimstone, an attempt to encourage him to open up about his hobbies, and to the other agents. Claws burrow into green, white and lilac wool before pulling them out and huffing at how tangled into the others they are. It takes him a handful of minutes but they’re soon on his lap, being knitted into patterns and squares. 

Omen doesn’t see the time pass- rarely does, when he’s knitting. One second he’s simply starting a project and the next, he finds himself completely in the dark, the sun having set hours ago. He just finished the last part of his little project, having switched from the three original colours to instead settle with blues and purples. It’s not the colours he wanted, but trying to get new wool would’ve taken at least a week, since the protocol had gotten their shipment of personal purchases two days ago. Downside of living on an isolated island. 

In his lap, Omen has one knitted vest, white and green squares taking up the majority of it, with a lilac contour to the v-line of the neck and the holes for the arms. It’s almost the same shape as the one Gekko wears all the time, and Omen made sure to make it bigger than usual, since the other man seemed to enjoy looser clothing when it comes to shirts. It’s horrendous, in his eyes, yet the thought of it on Gekko simply makes sense, an article of clothing made for him, that only he can pull off. Next to it, are four sweaters, all different sizes, all in blues and purples. They’re for his animals, his friends. He isn’t sure of their sizes, or if they will even wear them, but Omen found himself wanting to, in a lack of better words, please them. He wants them to like him, spend more time with him, maybe even-

That train of thought cut short. Absolutely not. Omen isn’t made for relationships. Who in their right minds would ever think of him that way? Plus, he’s given knitted gifts to others before- Jett has a pair of leg warmers, Skye a hat, Sage a blanket, Harbour has gloves…he just enjoys giving away some of his knitted projects, that’s it. Nothing more. Sure, they all had asked Omen for them, something Gekko hadn’t done, but it was still the same, right? Right. He quickly decided not to dwell on the reason for his gifts (courting?), for the sake of his already fragile mental wellbeing.

One quick glance at the antique grandfather clock that’s displayed in the corner of his room tells him that it’s getting late- not late enough for the whole protocol to be asleep, yet getting there slowly. Rising, Omen put away his yarn and needles before grabbing his gifts in his arms, exiting his room. This time, he made sure that the wool would not get tangled together before his next project. The lights in the hallway were dimmed, something they did automatically past a certain hour, making it easy for Omen to adjust from going to pitch black darkness to light in seconds.

Judging by the time, Gekko would most likely be in his room. Probably still getting settled in, after all, he had arrived only a handful of days ago. He most likely still had boxes of belongings to unpack and put away.

He knows where Neon’s room is, his feet taking him there quickly. It’s true, what Gekko told him yesterday; that the duelist’s room is completely opposite of his, down another stupidly long hallway and next to an outside courtyard, only accessible from three different points. It’s a massive thing, with plants and trees growing tall and proud. There are benches and a swing, in case it’s nice out and agents want to relax in the sun and have picnics, or simply to sunbathe after a long mission on Icebox. It also happens to be where Sage keeps her medicinal herbs, due to the proximity of her room to it. Everyone knows better than to mess with them, though, and Omen winces, remembering what had happened to Phoenix when he had accidentally singed a couple leaves off of one. 

Omen ignores the courtyard for now, though, focusing on his current mission. On one side of Neon’s room is Phoenix’s, told by the fire decals all over his door and the burn marks on the floor, most likely the result of the fire agent forgetting that not everything outside of his room is fireproof. Neon’s own door seems to have a brand new mechanism for the keycard, the red light blinking at him, the result of her most likely frying her old one again with her powers. If Omen’s count is right (and he knows it is), this is her fifth one this month. 

On the other side, a blank door. Omen can faintly hear shuffling from the inside, a good sign that tells him Gekko is, in fact, in his room. Knocking on the door proves difficult, with his arms full, yet not impossible. He balances his gifts in one of his arms, making sure that the top one won’t fall on the ground and knocks on the door, the thumb echoing around him. 

It’s a matter of seconds before the door slides open and a messy Gekko fills his vision, paint all over his dark blue jeans and white tank top. Omen registers more on his arms, face and hands before he’s given an award winning grin and welcomed inside, his shoulder grabbed in a friendly hold. 

“¡Omen, oye! ¡Entra, entra! Come in!” 

He does just that, stepping into what is most likely the messiest room he’s ever been in. All over the floors are boxes and boxes of packed belongings, stacked on top of one another. On the floor, next to a wall, is a tarp covered in paint, with several cans of spray paint on it, some knocked over and some others having rolled away, ending up in the middle of the room. The colours match the ones all over Gekko and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what the younger man had been doing before he walked in. Above the tarp, on the wall, is graffiti, halfway to being finished. Omen can’t tell what it is yet, but likes the different colours Gekko has used so far: yellows, greens, purples and pinks. There doesn’t seem to be any of his friends out and about, most likely to stop them from also getting covered in paint, and he finds himself slightly disappointed that he can’t greet them like he wanted. 

“Sorry for the mess-” Gekko sighs, running a messy hand down his face. That must be why there is so much paint on his cheeks. He seems tired, like he’s been at this all day and Omen can only guess how stressful it must be to completely up and move your life into a single room without it looking terrible and unfamiliar at first. 

“Joder, es muy desordenado- You can sit on the bed, make yourself at home! Let me just-” and with that, the younger man starts putting away the cans of paint and some boxes, making a way for Omen to reach the bed without tripping over anything. He does just so, stepping over a pair of pants strewn on the floor and a lot more pairs of shoes than he thinks anyone should have, but ultimately making his way there without falling on his ass. He’s hesitant to sit for a minute, unsure of how long he’s even staying in the first place, but a glance at Gekko’s smiling face as he tidies up settles in his mind that he’s probably wanted here and not bothering the other at all. 

“I can come back, if this is a bad time,” he starts, claws digging into the clothes he’s holding. He can’t help himself, wanting, needing, to make sure that his presence is allowed, that he isn’t taking up more space than he has the right to.

“No! No, No, please, it’s fine, I was done for the night anyways.” Gekko shuffles around, putting the last of the pain away and grabbing a rag, trying to get the few spots of colour that are still wet off of his hands. He makes his way to Omen, settling next to him on the bed, uncaring of the paint he’s probably pressing down onto his blankets, “If my mom could see me now, she’d ‘prolly be yelling at me for getting paint everywhere.” It’s said with a longing, homesickness coating his words and the Wraith hums, settling deeper into the comfortable blankets. He adds one to the list of gifts he can make the other. As a friend. 

Omen nods as Gekko keeps talking, smooth voice sounding out in his room. He’s trying so hard to stay focused on what Gekko is saying, but his brain can only focus on how close they’re sitting next to each other. One wrong move and Omen’s thigh would be pressed against the initiator’s thigh, knee to hip. Warm skin against cold. There’s a spasm in his arm, shadows glitching a bit before settling, a sign of Omen’s inner turmoil. He wants to touch the other. Him , someone who usually stays far away from contact, wants Gekko to press against him, settle against his shoulder, enough so that Omen might greedily seep the warmth from him and wrap it around his heart. It scares him, how someone he barely knows seems to catch his attention so much. Perhaps it’s because they’re polar opposites- a dog and a cat, fire and ice, the sun and the moon. 

“What’cha got there?” 

For a second, Omen forgot where he was, too deep in his thoughts. Gekko’s question yanked him back to reality, noticing how the younger one seems intrigued by what he’s holding. His hands curl over them protectively by instincts before relaxing again, looking away from his companion.

Right. The gifts. The whole reason to have come here in the first place. 

His arms extend, holding the articles of clothing for Gekko to take. His hands seem relatively clean by now, the paint left on them dry enough not to stain the wool. He meets Gekko’s questioning gaze, not that the other would know, due to his lack of conventional eyes, and a rumble rises from deep into his chest.

“For you.” He pauses, letting the other take the offerings from his hands, “and for your friends.”

Omen watches him unfold them, watches in real time how his eyes widen, a smile breaking out on his face. Sees the joy settle on his features, eyes darting between the vest and him, back and forth, back and forth.

“¡Mierda! ¿Esto es para mí? ¡Estás bromeando, es genial!” he laughs out, the sound reverberating in the still mostly empty room and Omen preens at the happy tilt in his voice, straightening his back a bit, leaning closer to the other just a smidge. “Omen! This is so good! I need to try this on, hold on-”

Gekko jolts onto his feet, vest in his hands, and yanks his dirty tank top off of him, giving Omen a first-row seat at seeing his tan skin, soft brown hair littering his chest and forming a line that disappears into his pants. He has more tattoos on his chest; they seem to run down until the hem of his jeans, more shapes and depictions of objects and animals but unfortunately for Omen’s wandering gaze, he covers them up by putting his gift over his head and letting it fall on him. It fits perfectly. Loose enough to be comfortable, yet not too much for it to look tacky. Omen’s certain that he’s the only person on this earth who could pull it off and observes as Gekko runs to a tall mirror on a wall that Omen had missed when coming in, giving a twirl in front of it and trying to see all of his angles. 

“It’s amazing! Where did you get this?” 

Omen warms, letting  a smile spread on his feature, not that Gekko can see it, “I made it.” 

It earns him a gasp, Gekko dramatically twisting around, to face him, brown eyes wide, “ What?! ”

Omen simply nods, fingers digging into the blanket under him nervously, picking and pulling at any thread he finds or any feather that sticks out of the pillows around him. He shuffles in his position, sinking more and more into the comfort of the other’s bed, as if trying to hide away, “My hobby. I knit.” He gestures, then, to the rest of the gifts on the bed, “For Mosh, Wingman, Dizzy and trash. I hope it fits.”

If his eyes could widen more, Omen is certain that Gekko would’ve done so. He rushes back to Omen, almost tripping in the process, fingers grabbing the rest of the little outfits. “I don’t want them to get into the wet paint, so I won’t bring them out,” He starts, looking back at the Wraith, “but these are amazing! ¡Joder, qué talento tienes! They look like they’ll all fit!”

Omen nods, unsure what to do with himself now that his task has been completed and utterly lost at what to do and how to react with the praise. It’s late, so he could probably settle next to the fireplace in the common room and read without interruption. Maybe even brew himself some tea to go along with it. Or perhaps-

“Wanna chill in here a bit more? I can draw you something, to pay you back, y’know.”

Omen tilts his head, looking at Gekko, who settles next to him on the bed again. Pay him back?

“There’s no need-”

“Aw, c’mon, these are amazing, let me do something back for you! I’ll draw you something, and you can keep it in your room, next to all your other stuff. I’ll even have Dizzy sign it, I know you like her!”

Omen grumbles softly but relents, nodding once. How obvious had he been in his preference for the small, blue creature for Gekko to pick up on after seeing him interact with her once? Maybe he isn’t as hard to read as he likes to tell himself or, perhaps, Gekko has already figured out how to read between his gruff voice and dry humour. A record, truly, to be able to do so after knowing him for so little time; he knows for a fact some of the agents that have been here far longer still struggle to fully understand him. 

 He finds that he probably could never say no to Gekko, though, not with how excited he seems at the prospect of paying Omen back for something that Omen was more than happy to do. Seeing his agreement, Gekko darts around the room once again, looking through box after box for something. Omen lets him, happy to simply look at him in his new knitted vest, a soft possessive feeling curling around his heart. He should make more of them, so that Gekko always wears something that he’s made. The thought settles in the back of his mind for later  and Omen lets it, reclining on his hands on the bed , chest out towards Gekko, feet dangling off the edge. 

An exclamation from farther in the room startles him and Gekko comes barreling back, a pencil case and sketchbook in his hands. He throws himself on the bed which, considering the position Omen had taken, is a terrible idea . The sudden dip in the mattress makes him fall back to his elbows, Gekko landing practically on him, the sketchbook knocking into his chest before falling back on the bed, the pencil case landing god-knows-where. The other man has one knee between Omen’s leg as he tries to situate himself back correctly onto the bed, the other on the outside of Omen’s body, practically straddling his thigh. They’re chest to chest for a second, and it’s more human contact than Omen has had in years . Gekko is warm and solid against him which drags a content rumble out of the Wraith’s chest, like a cat purring in happiness. 

He hears Gekko apologise and scramble to get off of Omen, knees knocking into Omen’s thighs as he tries to move away, taking his warmth away and not closer, how Omen subconsciously wishes he would do. 

(It’s actually not subconsciously at all- Omen is very aware of how much he wants to yank him back, keep him completely pressed against him, every single inch of his skin somehow in contact with the Wraith.)

The rumble stops immediately the second Gekko is sitting back on his haunches, guilt written all over his face. His mouth opens, like he’s about spout out even more apologies , but Omen doesn’t want to hear it. He’s had a taste of warmth, of companionship, and now he wants more. He’s never  found himself to be greedy to this extent before, but he finds himself laying down completely, elbows no longer holding him up but instead reaching towards Gekko, yanking him back down onto his body. The younger man feels both like a heated blanket and a weighted one at the same time, his body moving back to his previous position under Omen’s grip easily, like fighting against the hold the Wraith has on hins never even crossed his mind. In the middle of readjusting the other on top of him, Omen finds himself unable to stop the rumbling from picking back up. He’s certain that, had he had a tail, it would’ve been happily wagging right about now. 

“Omen?”

Gekko holds himself up (not close enough, Omen’s brain whines at him), arms on either side of Omen’s head. It tugs a displeased grunt out of Omen, who tries to make him settle against him once again.

“You want to… ‘pay me back,’ no?” Is what he asks, looking back up at the other. Gekko doesn’t look mad, quite the opposite. There’s a healthy blush on his cheeks, down to his neck. His bare arms are right next to Omen’s head, who can’t help but nuzzle against one, shadows wrapping around the other’s wrist for a second. 

He can’t help but notice this is the most stable his body has ever been- he’s barely twitching, as if his core itself knows that it is safe here, under the initiator’s body.

  He sees Gekko nod from above him and if Omen was a lesser creature, he would crane his neck a bit to be able to look down the V of Gekko’s vest and stare at the expanses of his chest.

He still has some common sense, though and therefore ignores the urge to look and wraps his legs around Gekko, flipping them around. He’s on top, now, laid down on Gekko’s chest like a cat, head tucked under his chin. He can feel his doubt bubble under his skin, never able to be at peace for more than a minute before his self doubt begins picking at him again. The fear that Gekko will think he’s weird, that he’ll gross the other out, with his inhuman skin and shadows coils in his guts and bubbles up his throat, burning and uncomfortable, just like bile. This is impulsive, unlike him, unlike anything he’s ever done in his life (that he remembers, of course, not one to forget about the massive chunk of his memories, as ironic as that sounds, that are missing from his mind). For a second, he thinks of teleporting away and never speaking to Gekko again, shame settling in his guts, but then arms are settling around him, hands on his back, warm, warm, warm , and Omen sighs, shoulders relaxing. 

A soft laugh escapes right next to Omen’s ear and Gekko settles into the bed, gently nudging Omen in a more comfortable position, “Eres como un gato, y’know? Like a tired cat.”

“You don’t mind…this?”

“Nah,” Gekko starts, legs tangling with Omen’s, “I’ve been…well, interested in you? Wingman has been trying to push me to talk to you more ever since I got here.”

Holy shit.

Omen nods, aka the only thing he seems able to do at this revelation, words stuck in his mouth and buries his face deeper into Gekko’s neck, desperately trying to hide away his reaction. Gekko likes him? Is interested in him? The same way that Omen is? The news that the other doesn’t see him as weird, as a monster, hits Omen deep in his chest, settling right in his softly pulsing core. There’s indescribable happiness welling in his guts, pushing him to wrap his arms around Gekko’s neck, supporting the back of his neck into a more comfortable angle. The other reciprocates by cupping the back of Omen’s hood with one hand, fingers tangling in the fabric. Out of muscle memory more than anything, Omen flinches at the feeling of something so close to the one piece of fabric that really protects him, but wills his fear away, not wanting to ruin this moment. 

“I think,” Omen starts, voice muffled, “That I like you too. You’re warm. Solid. And your presence doesn’t bother me, like with some others.” There must not be a more awkward way to put his feelings into words in the world but he hopes that he somehow got the message across- that in the short, insignificant amount of time he’s known the other, let alone the even smaller amount of times he’s spoken to him, he has already dug himself a hole in Omen’s chest, next to his heart. The Wraith has never before found himself wanting and craving another’s attention so badly, and now that he has it, able to feel Gekko’s gaze on it and the happiness the other is feeling, echoing and rippling in his core, Omen wants to never let it go. Cradle it close to him and keep it forever. 

Fuck, what a sap. 

He hears a snort, Gekko jostling both of their bodies by laughing, “I’m glad to know I don’t bother you, mi querido.”

Omen huffs out a laugh. He feels safe here, surrounded by Gekko’s nice cologne and colourful walls. He’s warm, and feels more human than he ever has. 

He thinks of the other in his vest, the possessive feeling that had curled around him and let his hands wander down Gekko’s sides, not stopping their course until they rested at the edge of it. He craves to see more- to rest skin against, well, bandages, in Omen’s case. Gekko says nothing, which Omen takes as an ‘okay’ to continue,  claws gently curled into the fabric, lifting it slightly. He has to sit up for this, his body blocking his hand’s path and keeping him from lifting the wool higher. He doesn’t think long about how he wants to whine and grumble at the loss of the warmth on his body.

 Finally, his hands slip under the fabric, earning him a small noise from Gekko, aking to a gasp and squeak at the same time, which the Wraith quickly catalogues into his head to remember, planning on replaying it later when he’s alone in his room. He let his hands trail upwards, sliding the fabric of Gekko’s vest up with them, exposing more and more of his golden skin.

Gekko stays unmoving, save for his hands that settle on Omen’s hips, anchoring him down to reality, assuring him that this was reciprocated. 

“Is this okay?” The Wraith asked, moving his gaze from his hands to Gekko’s face, which had done nothing but flush a gorgeous shade darker.

“Yeah,” is the answer, soft and breathy. 

With a nod, Omen slipped off the garment, carefully setting it aside before returning his hands to the warm chest, dark skin against tanned one. He let his claws dig down into his partner’s pecs for a second, not hard enough to sting yet just enough to feel how sharp they are. Gekko’s breath hitches at that, which Omen once again catalogues in his head for later.

He takes a moment, then, to really take in the sight in front of him. It’s a pleasant surprise that Gekko seems to blush all the way down to his collar bones, brown eyes fixated on Omen’s own body. His hands, previously on the swell of Gekko’s pecks, wander down his side, letting his fingers hook teasingly into the other’s pants before moving back up, exploring the tattoos and scars he finds there. He hears how the man under him seems to be trying to keep his noises down- swallowing back gasps and soft moans as Omen keeps his movements going, even taking his claws all the way up to Gekko’s neck, letting them dig into the soft skin for a second before moving away.

As tempting as getting the other riled up is, he doesn’t think he should move too fast, lest he scares his companion. That’s why he gently stops his hands from trailing anywhere else on the smooth skin under them, gaze meeting Gekko’s half lidded one.

“Do not move,” he requests, shuffling back so he’s barely sitting on the other anymore. “Please,” he adds, like an afterthought.

“I won’t, Omen.”

He nods, hands leaving Gekko’s chest to instead come up and pull at his chest armour, undoing intricate straps and buckles before it gives away, Omen leaning backwards to put it on the floor carefully. Without it, he feels exposed, an uncomfortable shiver wracking up his spine at the thought of someone coming in and seeing him so unprotected. With a gunt, Omen stands up, careful not to bump into anyone or anything, his shuffling feet taking him towards the door.

True to his words, Gekko stays still, only protesting by letting out a soft whine when Omen stands up and moves away.

“Omen?” He hates how unsure the other sounds, hating the thought that Gekko might think for even one second that Omen is leaving him like this. 

“One moment.”

Careful fingers lock the door, the physical mechanism, not the electric one, guaranteeing that no one, keycard or not, will be able to walk in on them. Once he’s satisfied with their level of privacy, going as far as taking a detour back to the bed, pulling the curtains on Gekko’s window closed, Omen makes his way back to his awaiting partner, sprawled out on the bed. He settles back on top of him, knees on each side of his hips, crotch against crotch. He ignores the interesting twitch his dick gives, not having done all of this for the privacy to fuck the other. What he wants is more intimate, to him, and it has his guts tightening in stress.

 Instead of falling into his self-induced anxiety rabbit hole, he lays himself back down carefully, chest to chest, until his head is back against Gekko’s neck and tucked under his chin. The lack of armour doesn’t mean he’s skin to skin with the other- he still has a sleeveless compression shirt on him, due to his core being so sensitive and the compression making him feel more solid, more tangible, but it’s still more exposed than anyone has seen him in forever. It’s as far as he’s willing to go for now, and it’s practically as close to skin to skin contact Omen can handle, the bandages also secured around him.

He hears and feels Gekko miss a breath, warm arms circling back around Omen as soon as he can, “Qué frío, Omen, do you want the blanket over us?”

Does he want the blanket over them? What a stupid question, of course he does. 

With a soft exhale, something close to a laugh, Omen pulls the blanket around them over his body, making sure to carefully tuck it all around them, creating a cocoon of warmth with only their heads poking out of the top.

Cradled in Gekko’s arms, he’s the most comfortable he’s ever been in his faulty memory. Like this, he can convince himself he’s just like everyone else, deserving of love. They can talk about their feelings more in depth later; for now, Omen lets the rumble in his chest increase tenfold and closes his eyes, basking in the feeling of being appreciated and cared for.