A/N: contains major spoilers for route C, cross-posted on ao3
Empathetic
—
She's always been far softer than she lets on.
He's the Scanner model; he's never bloodied his own hands in combat, never forced to sacrifice his gentle nature for appointed responsibility. Her work is dirtier. She's accustomed to violence, familiar to death. He's seen her kill, over and over, without the slightest hesitation or tinge of remorse.
And yet.
The rare missions when they're given the possibility to save soldiers they've never met.
The disappointment in her voice when she realizes they're too late.
He kneels beside her, pressing a hand to her shoulder as she cradles fragments of an unnamed YoRHa unit. "The signal is gone, 2B. I'm sorry."
"I...see."
It's the way she breaks from her stoic facade just long enough to thank him for the support, making him feel useful and needed in ways he's never known. Or the way she inconveniences herself to protect him, when he's injured, her fiery determination burning the world just to make sure he's safe.
It's the warmth in her breath as they find momentary refuge behind walls of the resistance camp, her fingers grazing his cheek and his hands holding her waist.
It's the kindness in her eyes as he leans in for a kiss that further widens the rift between them.
Command sorely underestimated his ability to piece together obvious clues. It's offensive, almost, just how much they thought they could pass under his nose. As if he couldn't see all the YoRHa units they've ordered her to hunt under false pretenses, to murder with little to no justification.
Of course he would notice.
Of course he would realize.
She's far too gentle for her line of duty, and much too undeserving of the pain it brings her.
He wants to hate YoRHa for what they've done, for trapping her in their own sick interests—but he knows neither the operators nor the commander are responsible. It's all a twisted, fucked-up game that's been set into place by androids that preceded them. So he blames the war, directing his insurmountable hatred at the machines solely because he has no one better to blame.
But maybe it's his fault, for being too much of a coward to run away with her and find a life apart from the war. For being too terrified by the impossibility of rebirth to ask if that's what she wanted.
He hates how he'll always hurt her for circumstances he can't control. He hates himself for being powerless to change.
He just...wants her to be happy.
Even though he's unable to grant her happiness, he's still capable of easing her pain. So he ignores her secret. Pretends not to notice as their time together ticks to an end.
The day comes too fast.
He feigns oblivion at her clumsy attempt to take him by surprise, to make his death as painless as possible, as if the knowledge of her true purpose hasn't already been eating him alive for months. He braces himself as her sword pierces his abdomen, not bothering to fight back.
It hurts. So much. He tries not to scream, for her sake, and only half-succeeds.
Still, he forces what he hopes is a reassuring smile to his lips, reaching out a hand as the blood pools from his wound. She tugs away her blindfold, wrapping his trembling fingers in her own, holding him close as his vision fades.
It's the way she gazes at him in his final moments, so gentle and broken and full of regret.
.
She's far too soft to be his executioner.
The tears tickling his palm are enough indication of that.
.
.
.
.
oop he ded