"Why were you so nervous about getting your period?"

You groan internally and switch your phone over to the other ear. Everything was going so well, and you were just beginning to think Victor hadn't noticed, and now here you are, your only consolation being that he didn't start this conversation face to face.

"Well, obviously, it's embarrassing. And gross. And I was afraid to, um, disappoint you, if you wanted to, like, fuck, which you did, so I'd say it was pretty justified."

You lay on your bed and cringe, ready to dig in your heels about periods being gross, but he just says, "Do you know how many times I've had blood on me in my life?"

"No? A lot, I'm guessing?"

"Hundreds of times. Thousands. A whole lot more than I've had you on me."

God damn it. You stutter for a few seconds, trying to form your argument on the fly. "Th-there, look, there's a big difference between having blood on you, like, from a fight, and having to fuck someone who's bleeding out their fun parts."

"Having to fuck…?" he repeats incredulously. "Baby. Of course there's a difference. Cause one is some random bastard who smells like shit and drugs, and the other one is you," he lowers his voice, "making the cutest little noises."

Your fingers press into the bites on your neck, reassuring yourself that they're real with that sore ache. "You really don't care?"

"Not a fuckin' bit."

You try to imagine what period sex would be like, how you could possibly keep blood from getting everywhere while it's getting fucked out of you. The shower, maybe? Lay down a towel?

"You're gonna regret this," you finally promise. "I get really horny on my period."

Victor sighs on the other end of the line. "You gotta learn to make better threats, baby." And now you're just imagining him fucking you on every available surface as soon as he gets back.

"An-y-way," you interject pointedly, "how's Puerto Rico?"

Victor gruffs out an annoyed noise. "Sucks. Fuckin' hot as shit, and humid, and the guy I'm after is staying with someone who I'm pretty sure is trafficking. Everything locked down real tight. Gonna hit the house tonight and hopefully I can be on the first flight out in the morning."

"I'm sorry. William says he'll let you be the middle spoon when you get back."

"Hah. You know that'll last about five seconds before–" Victor cuts himself off, and there's silence for a moment. "Huh."

"What?"

"Roommate and his friends just left in a van." There's a full minute of silence, and your heart rate starts to pick up before he finally says, "I'm gonna hit it now."

"Oh my god," you breathe, "don't… get too hurt. Text me when you're safe."

"Bye, baby."

The call ends before you can respond. 'Don't get too hurt?' Really? You couldn't come up with anything better than that?

You've always known that he does stuff like this, like this is just a normal Wednesday for him, but actually hearing him mention the specifics feels stark and unsettling. This isn't some white collar dude walking down the street in Pittsburg, this is like, cartels. Even after seeing the perfect skin of his back the morning after you clawed it up, you still sit in your anxiety, as if just worrying about him enough will somehow help his chances.

You fill your time by emailing him a list of different flights for the next morning and afternoon, hoping he'll be on one of them and very glad you'll be the one picking him up from the airport. An hour goes by, then two, and you finally get a text:

VC: I'm fine, got some more I have to do. Book the 11a flight for me

It should be a relief that you hear something, and that he'll be back before night time tomorrow, but something about the 'more' he has to do sits odd with you. Granted, you don't know much about what he actually does right after a hit. Maybe there are loose ends to tie up, or fingerprints to wipe. Or, horrible idea that it is, wounds to heal.

You realize that what feels off about this is the fact that he even texted you at all. He never texts you before a job is finished, so why would he do it now?

That night is terrible. You're flitting in and out of dreams, checking your phone a few times whenever you're conscious enough to remember why you're stressed. But it isn't until morning the next day, after you've already broken down and used up your one allotted call which he didn't answer, that you finally get another text:

VC: Job is done

It's normal enough, concise in the way he always texts, but something still feels off. He'll usually call you back if you've called. Ever since he started including you in the planning, he's almost always called as soon as he's finished with a job. The only reason you can think of that he doesn't call now is that he doesn't want to talk to you, and that's worrisome because the only reason he wouldn't want to talk to you is if he doesn't want to talk to anybody.

Victor is completely closed off when you pick him up from the airport, and all it does is confirm the reason you were stress-chewing the inside of your mouth the whole way there. He hasn't even removed his gloves for the hour-long return trip, and just gives you the barest answers to your questions, eyes cast on his phone or out the window. It's surreal, because you had nearly forgotten that gutting feeling of someone you love intentionally not looking at you.

You know it probably has nothing to do with you. Something bad happened on that job, and your relationship simply hasn't progressed far enough for him to talk about it. He just needs a little space to decompress, and a decent block of sleep, and then everything will be fine again. All you have to do is not allow yourself to be hurt by it.

Marriage has unfortunately trained you very well for dealing with an emotionally distant man. You settle yourself back into that familiar mental hiding place, a little closet that cuts you off emotionally from the rest of the world. It's not soundproof, and it's not as good as running away, but it's the next best thing.

"Oh, shit," you mutter when you finally exit the highway. "I forgot to get gas. Do you mind if we stop real quick?"

"Sure," Victor says, barely flicking his eyes over to the gauge. "I need some cigarettes."

That's a little bit of a surprise because of all the times you've been intimate, he's never tasted or smelled like smoke. You kind of had this unconscious belief that he only smoked when you weren't romantically involved, like he didn't do it all that much and could stop whenever he wanted. Maybe he reserved it for jobs that went bad, and you just never knew enough details to connect the dots.

"I'll take care of the gas," you offer, pulling up to the pump, and he doesn't fight you on it.

You pause working through the hundred gas pump questions to watch Victor's back disappear through the doors covered in cigarette ads, and because you're in your closet, you don't feel a thing. No sadness that he's upset, no guilt that you should have said or done something different to make him happy, not even any longing for him to open up to you. Just… emptiness. He can't hurt you if there's nothing to hurt.

Hearing your name being called in a male voice from the other side of the pump snaps you unceremoniously back to reality.

"Aaron?" You reply, scrambling to adjust to how this day just went from bad, to the worst thing you could possibly imagine.

"Hey," your ex says, his familiar, tall frame coming around the pump so he can speak with you, as if he has some conceivable reason to do so. "You're still living here?"

"You know me," you reply, not even doing him the courtesy of forcing a fake smile. "Predictable."

"Oh, come on, I never called you that." If you remember correctly, the word he used was, 'boring,' as if he hadn't spent seven years sucking every bit of enjoyment out of your life.

"How's Chelsea?" you ask casually, turning back to the screen that's trying to verify for the second time that you don't, in fact, want a car wash.

"We… broke up."

"Aww, so sorry about that," you say, your tone suggesting very obviously that you are not.

"Yeah, that's just life. How are you doing?"

"Good." You grab the handle and start pumping gas, hoping the sooner you're done the sooner you can escape.

"Good. You look… good. New car?"

"Oh, it's–" you cut yourself off, suddenly realizing that if you admit it's not your car, he's going to ask a whole lot of questions you don't want to answer. "Is that why you came over? To ask about my car?"

"Well, considering you've still got my number blocked, I didn't want to lose the opportunity to see how you were doing."

You finally turn to him, fully intending on giving him some scathing response, but that impulse trails away to nothing because to the side of Aaron's body, you see the gas station door open and Victor walk out.

You picture it clearly, as your eyes make contact with Victor's, like the world has suddenly shifted to slow motion while the tempting scene plays out in your head.

Victor coming over to stand beside you, and Aaron taking in his height and power and stupid crazy sex appeal while you possessively link your fingers into his. You'd introduce Victor as your boyfriend, and gobble up the way Aaron's eyes narrow, picturing for perhaps the first time you moving on with someone far better than him. Forcing him to see you as desirable in a way he never has, with a man like Victor touching you and loving on you.

Victor would let you objectify him like that, you know he would. He'd overlook the fact that you've never held his hand in public before, and even as tired as he is, he'd stand there and look pretty for you. Let you make up some high-paying occupation and talk about the dog you adopted together, and the cushy life you now have, while your ex remains single and desperate enough to approach you at the gas station. God, it would feel good, and right, like the universe has finally aligned.

But your big, bitey man called you smart once, and impressing your shitty ex is cheap compared to living up to Victor's estimation.

"Aaron," you say, nodding to your man when he arrives, "this is my friend Victor. And Victor, this is… Aaron."

"The evil ex husband," Aaron supplies, holding out his hand and leveling Victor an assessing gaze, like he doesn't buy your 'friend' line for a second.

You freeze for a moment, just praying that Victor isn't the sort of guy insecure enough to start a squeeze-off, but he appears to shake your ex's hand quite normally, face unreadable, and says, "Hey. Heard a lot about you."

And that's a strange thing to say, because you've told him nearly nothing about him whatsoever.

"I would say I hope it's all good, but I doubt it, considering the nature of divorce."

Victor's eyes drift to you, and you just stand there helplessly, feeling like a kid whose parent just requested a behavior report from the teacher. Either way Victor replies, in the affirmative or the negative, it will strip you of the tiny amount of authority you finally managed to glean. They're talking about you, in front of you, and there's nothing you can do about it.

"Yeah, well, doesn't really matter that much any more, does it?" Victor drawls, and Aaron blinks like that was the last thing he expected him to say. Your ex husband glances over at you, and you see that recognition in his eyes, incredulity that you've already moved on.

The gas nozzle clicks, startling you, and Aaron quickly says his goodbyes while you finish up.

"It was good to see you," Your ex husband says over his shoulder.

"Bye, Aaron."

You and Victor silently climb back into the car, and you turn to look at him, mouth opening to say some kind of 'thank you.' But he's yawning heavily into his glove, looking absolutely exhausted, so you just turn on the car and begin to drive the short distance home.

"Why did you tell him I'm your friend?"

You glance over in surprise, for some reason unprepared for that question. "Um. Well, I couldn't say you're my boss, because he works for the FBI and I didn't want him asking questions. And I didn't want to call you my boyfriend, because… we've never had that conversation, and I'm not sure if we're, um, exclusive or not, and I didn't want to assume."

"Baby," he protests gently.

"What? Plenty of guys say 'I love you' to women they're not exclusively dating. You could have, like, ten other safehouse girlfriends for all I know."

There's a little pause, and you concentrate on waiting for a break in traffic to turn onto your street.

"Do you want to be exclusive?" he finally asks.

"Yes."

"Then we're exclusive."

The way he says it, like it's already occurred, has you narrowing your eyes in suspicion. "When's the last time you…?"

Victor sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Baby, I'm gonna shoot you straight. I'm fucking beat, and my ribs are still a little broken. I'm gonna need some sleep before we talk about stuff like that."

"Oh my god, are you alright? I didn't even think… I'm sorry."

He just brushes it off with a casual wave of his hand, like broken ribs are a slight injury compared to what he's used to. You're trying to remember if he's ever told you exactly how fast he heals, and wonder if there were any other injuries that are already better.

You want to ask what happened. The desire is so strong that you have to dig your teeth into your bottom lip while you pull into the garage, but you manage to restrain yourself. The attempt to carry Victor's suitcase for him only earns you an exasperated look, so you decide to give him space and take William out for a walk instead.

It's a long walk, because so much has happened that you want time to process it, and you want Victor to go right to sleep. Partly because he needs it, and partly because you hope it will get you answers sooner when he wakes up.

The house is quiet when you return, so much so that you wonder for a second if he's gone. But then William is running up the stairs and sniffing under your bedroom door, and you feel that rush of relief that he's home, safe and comfortable and asleep in the bed that smells like you.

Night still hasn't fallen, but you can't stand the idea of watching TV by yourself. You quickly eat some leftovers and move the laundry to the dryer, and then climb the stairs to your room, and attempt to sneak in quietly without William getting past your leg.

There's no need for such measures, because your bed is empty. You blink at it, heart dropping like a stone, and have to reassure yourself that the car is still there, so he can't have gone far. William finally gets past you with his ears perked up, searching around a little bit before he darts down the hall to Victor's old room. Of course, he wants to be alone. You restrain William and open the door a crack to check, and sure enough, there's Victor, stretched out on his side and dead to the world. It must be the right side ribs, then, that are broken, and you make a mental note to be extra careful with him when he eventually wakes.

There's a fizzing edge of adrenaline rushing through you now, so you head back downstairs. You scroll through videos on your phone while you watch TV and chew through half a bag of chips, anything to distract you until you're exhausted enough to sleep. It doesn't work. Nine o'clock rolls around, and you're just as stimulated as before. Giving up, you head upstairs and get ready for bed in your empty room, and lay yourself down in that lonely bed.

You try to close yourself back into the mental closet, but the thing is, you don't want to be there. It's been so long since you last used it that you can actually see it for what it is, a lonely, boring space that smells like cat pee and mothballs. What used to be your safe place from your husband's sour moods now feels a whole lot like jail. That knowledge makes you spiral, feeling more and more sorry for yourself, and finally you just get sick of it.

Your feet pad silently across the carpeted hall, over to Victor's room, and you slip inside. It's completely dark in there, but you're able to slowly crawl onto the bed without disturbing the other resident too much, and once you're settled under the blanket he wakes up enough to wrap his arm around you and let out a sleepy, happy noise into your hair. He smells a little like cigarette smoke, but it doesn't bother you. Lord knows you've coped in worse ways.

His warm hand snakes up under the hem of your tshirt, sliding across your bare skin until he finds your breast, and he just holds it there in his palm. You're expecting him to keep waking up and start something, but he doesn't. He falls back to sleep with you held against him like that, hand pressed against your breast like it's just a nice thing to hold, and you actually kind of feel for the first time like you have a boyfriend.

It's some time in the middle of the night when you wake up. Victor's hand has slid down to your stomach, and you lay there for a few minutes, slowly retrieving your consciousness, and wondering if he's awake too. His breathing doesn't feel like the usual deep, slow breaths his big lungs put out when he's asleep, and something tells you you're right.

"What happened in Puerto Rico?" you whisper into the darkness.

He shifts slightly behind you and takes a deep breath. You wait patiently, knowing that this is part of it. You'll be here for him and listen to whatever he's able to say.

"I found a dead kid last night, tied up in the basement."

"Oh, baby," you breathe, devastated on his behalf.

"Spent the rest of the night finding everyone and killing them."

That should be a shock to hear, admitting to that kind of murder rampage, but instead the only regret you can find within yourself is that he was the one who had to do it. That society had failed that kid over and over until the only redemption available was bloodthirsty revenge in the form of a hitman they didn't even know.

Your hand comes up under your shirt too, to stroke over the back of his in what you hope is a comforting gesture.

"Didn't want to sleep with you cause I get… weird, sometimes, after something like that. Didn't want to scare you."

"It's okay," you assure him.

There's this strange tension in his body, like he's dying to do or say something, but holding himself back.

"Tell me," you murmur.

"When… When I was a kid…" he trails off, still tense, so you grab his hand and slide it up over your breast again and hold it against you with yours.

"I had a brother," he finally says. "And this was a long time ago, mind you. He was a… a mutant, too. And when his powers came the first time, he did something real bad with them."

He pauses like he expects you to say something, or tell him to stop talking, but you don't. "My father was afraid of him, and what he could do, so he chained him up in the basement to keep everyone else safe."

"Victor," you breathe, heart breaking.

"My father was… someone you wouldn't like very much. He wouldn't stop telling me about it, trying to convince me that it was for the best, and my brother would eventually learn to be good. That he deserved what was happening to him."

"No, baby. No kid deserves something like that."

He sighs deeply into your hair, nuzzling his lips around until they find your neck. You try to imagine him as a boy, witnessing something so unspeakable, and too young to do anything about it. The violence and cruelty and fracture of the soul it would take for a father to do that to his own son.

Victor hasn't said anything else, and you're sure he's revealed all he wants to, but you can't help but ask, "What happened to your brother? Did he ever escape?"

You swear you feel a hint of claws on your skin, just for the briefest moment before his hand is kneading your breast gently. "No, baby. He died in that basement."