In my Solitude (You Haunt me)

by jujino

Summary:

Cypher’s used to nightmares; the kinds that leave you unable to breathe once woken up, body trembling and muscles tense. Unable to speak, move, able to do nothing but lay in his bed, wishing he could just melt into his mattress and disappear, hoping his blankets will swallow him whole.

He doesn't think he'll ever get better- doesn't think he deserves it, not after what he's done, and yet a single day spent with Omen and Sova somehow convince him that maybe, perhaps, he's worth more than his past.

Notes:

HELLO!!!! CW: Cypher is like. Going through it. Kind of Suicidal? Life's rough.

I wrote most of this while half asleep at night because it's the only time I get inspired and English is not my first language so please spare me

Cypher’s used to nightmares; the kinds that leave you unable to breathe once woken up, body trembling and muscles tense. Unable to speak, or move, able to do nothing but lay in his bed, wishing he could just melt into his mattress and disappear, hoping his blankets will swallow him whole.

 

The worst part about his nightmares is that they rarely start as such. Cypher dreams of warm days and sunburns on his skin. He dreams of sandy streets and busy markets, people all around him, each living a different life, free. 

 

Most importantly, he dreams of a warm smile, dark hair and kind eyes. Aamir dreams of his wife, of her cooking, of her stupid jokes that always made him laugh too hard, a smile almost permanently stuck to his face when next to her. He keeps those dreams close to his heart, fingers clutching them closer as if trying to protect his memory of them from fading away, from being taken away from him. He dreams of their house- their home, the burgundy rugs on the floor, protecting yet not wholly hiding the beautiful tiles from their view. He dreams of the smell of tea in the morning as he waited for his love to wake up, sitting on their balcony, surrounded by the sounds of busy streets and life. Aamir dreams of warm kisses in the morning, of the pleasant air on his naked face and through his unkempt hair. He dreams of Nora joining him once her alarm wakes her up, with a small bundle of life in her arms. Tiny fingers would reach for him and he would hold his daughter’s hands, pressing a kiss to her and his wife’s head before getting some food ready for the family. Aamir dreamed of a normal life in Morocco, surrounded by the ones he loved.

 

Cypher dreams of nothing and everything at the same time. He counts himself lucky when he wakes up having had no memory, no dreams, nothing but darkness; empty and lonely. Sometimes, he isn’t quite as lucky. Those days, Cypher dreams of blood and tears. He dreams of finding his daughter’s corpse along with his wife’s, the former pushed under the latter, as if, in a last-ditch effort to protect her, his wife had shoved his daughter under herself. Cypher dreams of burying their bodies, of walking empty streets, not a single life in sight, feet dragging in the sand, his hands so covered in blood he couldn’t tell what skin colour they originally were. He remembers barely being able to hold himself up, the weight of grief on his shoulders too much to bear for a single man. Kingdom had sucked his city dry- both of its resources and of its life- of its people.  Houses stood empty, windows shattered and walls barely holding on. Signs he once used to help his daughter around the market, showing her interesting vendors now stood broken and erased. 

 

Sometimes, Cypher dreams of putting his mask on and never taking it off, of a life where he never met his wife. That’s what he should have done for the start- he should have never let himself get attached, or grow comfortable, but deep down, at his core, Aamir is nothing but a man, who had been desperate for the normalcy of having a wife, having a home despite his work. He never blames his wife- why should he? Everything had been his fault. If he had been more careful, if he had kept them away from his work, if, if if-

 

There weren’t any ifs anymore, because they were dead. They were dead and Cypher is the only one who remains even though he should have been the only one to die. Everything was caused by his willingness to remove his mask, to pretend he didn’t deal in secrets, in information Kingdom would kill a million innocent people just to get their hands on. Because of this, because of him, his city and its people- his family had died and only he is left. From then on the mask stayed on. It shields him from people’s gaze; he would never admit it out loud, but one of his fears is people seeing his face and knowing. Knowing his sins, knowing what he has done, what he has caused. He fears seeing the resentment in people’s eyes, he fears their judgement, and so he keeps his mask, his shield, on him at all times. It keeps him together- keeps his thoughts inside his head, keeps him grounded, renders him unable to dig Aamir up from the depth of his soul, and keeps him locked tight in his heart next to his memories of his wife. To the Protocol, he is nothing but Cypher.

 

He vividly remembers when he joined the protocol. He was the fifth to join their merry little band, the fifth to be dragged into their mess. It had been easy for Brimstone to locate him, despite was some might think. In his grief, he hadn’t covered his tracks as well as he should have, he had been sloppy. He looks back on that time now and cringes. It took him a while to get as comfortable as he was going to get, and it took even longer for the other agents to get comfortable around him. As a last-ditch effort to keep others away from him, away from the guilt he still carries to this day, away from him, from his torn heart, Cypher decided to focus on what he knew best. He took secrets and gave nothing in return, accepted the secluded office Brimstone offered him in the range and got to work hours after joining. He took and took and kept passwords he shouldn’t have had and compiled information on Kingdom, on other agents on anything he could get his hands on. He made files, deleted files, compiled files, edited, wrote, commented, printed, saved, unsaved, and saved again- he dedicated himself to his work and hid his deteriorating body and mind behind carefully crafted jokes and quips. He made sure to mingle just enough so that he seemed present in the Protocol but not enough for people to form bonds with him, to build relationships.

 

It‘s better this way, he reasons with himself, when sudden pangs of loneliness sometimes hit him in the dead of the night. In those common time, Cypher makes himself remember and relive his memories, his trauma as if to hammer into his brain what happens when he got close to people when he opens his heart to others and let them in. 

 

He does what is asked of him,  jokes around with other Agents, dangles information in front of them but never gives it to them, and teases them with random post-it notes with their passwords stuck on their door when they wake up. 

 

He goes on missions, defuses spikes, kills Kingdom agents (the first time he went on a mission and killed a kingdom representative, Cypher had felt so good, so empowered, he never forgot the feeling. He wasn’t new to killing, but he had never let himself kill a Kingdom agent before and he kept the feeling of revenge he had felt close to his heart) and places his trips and cages like a good little agent.

 

Cypher goes all around the world. From freezing temperatures to feeling like the sun’s rays were searing his skin, he does his job. He works and works and if, when they’re on a mission to Morocco, to his city, he panics so hard he pukes and dry heaves on the side of the ship, body curling on itself and tremors shaking his body violently, then that’s his problem and no one else’s. He does, however, suspect that Brimstone had seen him because ever since others had started joining their little association, he has yet to be sent back to Rabat. 

 

He does everything that’s asked of him.  Keeps his family’s memory close to his heart,  jokes around and talks to other agents and mingles and yet the nightmares never stopped. He still wakes up drenched in sweat and body unresponsive, gasping for air and muscles so tense they feel like they will snap at any given moment. Cypher still wakes up scared and lonely and so, so guilty he feels like the world is going to swallow him whole and sometimes, he wonders if he would even fight it or not if he would let himself be taken into the void and forgotten, where he belongs. 

 

Cypher wakes up this morning, barely remembering his dream- his nightmare (they have been so much worse since Fade happened. Even if she’s with them now, it’s like her effects lingered on his mind after digging up beautiful, terrible memories) and like always, like how the sun always sets and the moon always rises, Cypher is stuck to his bed, body unwilling to move. He tries, bless him he does but his muscles won’t listen to him and his throat feels like sandpaper when he tries taking deep gulps of air, fingers clenching his sheets so hard they hurt. He lets himself cry- he always does, not sure how he’d deal with this if he tried bottling it up, and feels the tears soak his cheeks under his mask because yes, he also wears it when he goes to sleep. He exclusively takes it off when he showers and when he does laundry or eats, but he has another, less worked-on and a lot less developed one he wears when his main one is dirty, and he always triple-checks the array of locks on his bathroom door (along with his trip that he places there, just in case) before he takes it off in the security of his bathroom, bare of anything that could somehow reflect his face or of a window.  When he eats, he does so in the privacy of his own room, door locked down and password so encrypted he knows no one else will ever guess it unless given to them. 

 

He keeps his head down when he showers, and the lights off. He doesn’t want to risk seeing his face in the reflection of something. He wants his memories of himself to be when he looked happy, when he was healthy, not as he is, an empty shell of a man. He dodges the array of scars on his body when he cleans himself, which leaves…very little skin left to clean, actually. Sometimes, he traces his vitiligo spots softly, and then he remembers just how much she liked them, how she could’ve spent hours tracing them, and he flinches away from his own skin. 

 

His showers never last more than five minutes. 

 

He feels worse than usual today. He still feels like he swallowed molten lava after his shower, even though he drank some water. His bones ache more than usual (or at least he thinks so, hard to tell since he’s always in pain anyways) and his eyes hurt from looking through the mechanical glasses in his mask so much. Speaking of, he quickly slips it back on and starts the tenuous project of getting dressed. It’s so quiet in his bathroom that the ruffle of his clothes as he slips them on feels way too loud. His shirt won’t sit on his body like usual and his pants feel weird and his fucking socks won’t go on properly and he can feel every single inch of the fabric against his skin and holy shit he cannot deal with this right now-

 

He tries to smooth it down with his hands. He adjusts his shirt a handful of times, and yet no matter what he does it’s like it shrunk in the wash and now sits so tight on his skin it feels like a prison and he can’t breathe. His pants won’t sit on his hips properly, no matter how many times he undoes them and moves them around and his god-forsaken socks won’t sit right on his toes, the seams just always sitting uncomfortably. Every single square centimetre of his skin feels like it’s on fire, fabric burning his skin and stripping him down to his bones. He’s vaguely aware of how he’s hyperventilating but there’s little he can focus on apart from how painfully claustrophobic his clothes feel.

 

 He crumbles on the floor. 

 

He sits on the floor and he can’t breathe his clothes are sticking to him weirdly and he feels so uncomfortable at this rate, he’s going to miss breakfast, the one meal where Brimstone likes to have everyone around but he can’t bring himself to care. He sits on his bathroom floor and cries, for the second time today, except that this time it isn’t out of fear of his nightmares but because he feels so overwhelmed he doesn’t know what to do but cry. His breathing won’t calm down, and he starts to feel lightheaded and yet he’s not trying to fix it- he can’t bring himself to. 

 

Instead, he sits there, struggling to breathe, and he strips. He takes his socks off first and throws them away from his hunched-over body like they personally offended him (they did). His pants come off second and then his coat and shirt, all ripped off of his body in a hurry until only his mask remains. He must look ridiculous, sitting there on the cold tile, wearing nothing but a mask and underwear, back hunched and hands clenching down on his own skin, blunt nails pressing crescent-shaped marks into tanned skin. Leftover tingles under his skin, muscles, down to his very atoms make him scratch at his arms and legs but it doesn’t soothe them away.

 

He gives up. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll finally start working on bettering himself but today- today is just too much already; he’s just woken up and he’s cried twice already and he does not want to add a third time to the tally.

 

He steadies his breathing- or well he tries to and while it’s not perfect, it is better and honestly, at this point, he’ll take it. One limb at a time, he uncurls himself from the ground. His legs tremble when he stands on them, skin raw and slightly bleeding on spots his fingernails had dug deeper, and he grabs his counter out of fear of them giving up under him. They don’t, though, so he walks out of his bathroom, uncovered, and unprotected, and beelines for his wardrobe. Aamir used to own coloured button-ups with shapes and designs on them. Linen pants, vests, shorts- a wide array of clothes other than a mask and a coat.

 

Cypher owns three coats, six of his shirts, four pairs of pants, exactly six pairs of socks (although he is missing one, so he technically owns eleven socks) and two pairs of gloves. Apart from that, he owns a sweatpant, grey, and one slightly oversized turtleneck, black. It isn’t oversized to the point of the sleeves bleeding over his hands, but it doesn’t press on his body as his other shirts do, and his pants are soft and warm. Those are the clothes he puts on for now. The pants hang loose on him, and he refuses to dwell on how much weight he’s lost since-

 

The turtle neck slips on normally, now a bit bigger on his frame, and Cypher stands there for a moment. His other clothes are still strewn around his bathroom and they will stay there until tomorrow or even the day after that. Depends on his mood. 

 

(He does force himself to slip socks on too, but spends a handful of minutes making sure the seams won’t sit weirdly on his toes.)

 

His closet closes with a soft thunk and now he’s just- standing. A quick glance at his clock grants him the knowledge that he did, in fact, miss breakfast, which means people are either assuming he’s too engrossed in his work to realise the time or he is still asleep. In both cases, it grants him time for himself. 

 

He could read a book. He could get more sleep. He could play chess against himself, for the thousandth time, he could-

 

He could just lie down.

 

He does exactly that. 

 

His ceiling is bare of anything. He’s seen the little engineer’s room, decorated to the brim with gifts from others, blueprints stuck on the walls all around. She even has these…she calls them worms on a string- silly little fuzzy worms that have a string connected to their long noses. She has those taped to her ceiling.

 

Cypher has nothing.  

 

His walls are bare, his ceiling is bare, and his bed still has the Protocol assigned bed sheets that are way too scratchy for him and a terrible shade of cream and yet he does nothing to fix that very easily remedied issue. He learns to live with them as he does with so many other things that make him uncomfortable.

 

Cypher misses his old bed- a massive thing, all wood with colourful blankets, Nora’s design, and way too many pillows for two people- except it doesn’t matter that he misses it because it’s gone forever and the thought of trying to recreate it by himself, when it had been his wife’s work, makes his stomach churn and bile rise at the back of his throat. 

 

The one thing that seems to stand out against the otherwise untouched decor of his room is a small knitted plush, on his bedside table. It’s blue- the same blue that he dons every day, the same blue that currently is the only light in his room, courtesy of his lenses that slightly glow in the dark. Omen gave it to him, a couple of weeks ago, for no apparent reason. The wraith had simply walked up to him, shoulders back and head held high in confidence, before he dropped it on his chessboard in front of him, in the middle of his game against himself (he wasn’t even made that the plush had messed up his chess pieces). He hadn’t had the time to say anything, to react in any way; Omen was already gone, leaving it there.

 

Cypher refuses to think too much of it and refuses to believe this could be an invitation to friendship. He’s never even really held a conversation with Omen before, apart from a couple of sentences, therefore there was no way this meant anything. Plus, he has seen others with their own version- Jett even has one of herself. 

 

This was probably just Omen being Omen (even if he’s never seen the Wraith do anything of the sort before him, and Cypher sees a lot of things).

 

Yet Cypher isn’t able to throw it away. He isn’t able to stash it in a drawer and never thinks of it ever again in favour of moping around for the rest of his miserable life. Instead, it stands on his bedside table and every night, before going to sleep, Cypher looks at it and allows himself to feel the warmth seeping into his skin- allows himself to fantasise about a could-be friendship, but never more than that. Never more than a fantasy. Anyone who’s ever been close to him- who he’s opened his heart to, is dead- he’d be damned if he let his curse grow onto his fellow agents. Over his dead body. 

 

Cypher lays on his scratchy blankets and thinks. He thinks that he should probably get up, do something, anything. He could work on his cameras, could put to use those parts he stole from Breach and actually fix his trip wire. He could almost feel his legs twitch at the idea of getting up, and yet he doesn’t. Doesn’t get out of bed, move, or do anything but lay there, hair still wet from his shower, his mask now damp. It’s going to dry weirdly and he knows it’s awful for his skin but he can’t bring himself to do anything about it.

 

He clenches his toes, and digs his fingernails into his legs, just to make sure they still work, that they’re still attached to his body. His knuckles pop and crack when he does- he can imagine the sounds his knees and hips will make when he gets up, one day. He’s kind of aching everywhere already, and changing from his stiff plank pose would probably help. 

 

He can do that, yeah. He can move that much.

 

With a grunt, Cypher twists his body, and now he’s laying on his side. Congratulations to himself, his whole body still aches. He’s about to move again, trying and bury his face in his pillow, but a knock on his door stops him. Shit. 

 

Cypher needs to- he needs to get up, he needs to put his usual getup on, he needs-

 

Another knock, but this time, it’s accompanied by a voice.

 

“Cypher.” That’s Omen- fuck that’s Omen’s voice, which means-

 

“Cypher, it’s just us.” Sova.

 

They’re an item, both of them- Sova and Omen, Omen and Sova. Cypher knows because Cypher knows things. He also knows that they’re hiding it- both very private people at their core. They hide it because of Brim, too, and his rule against fraternization. Relationships create weaknesses where there were previously none (he speaks from painful experience) and their mirror agents could exploit it, but Cypher keeps quiet about knowing and lets them live their life however they want (he’s jealous. He’s so jealous it makes him sick). He also knows no one else is aware- they’re both incredibly good at hiding it (not from him- never from him). 

 

Another knock at his door lets him know that they are still waiting for him to answer them. Usually, he would have by now; would have clicked his camera on, shot a dart right next to them, just for fun, and opened the door to let them in. Not this time. This time, he’s still lying on his side, head facing the door, and he’s so grateful that his password is encrypted because he doesn’t know what he would do if they just walked in here and saw him looking so defeated, so pathetic . 

 

“Cypher, you missed breakfast. We brought you a plate.” A long time ago, seeing Sova near Cypher would have been impossible. The hunter hates- hated him. He knows why and yet all he ever did back then was tease him about it, which made the growing rift between them even greater. Sova had hated Cypher and Cypher had pretended he hadn’t felt sick when he heard the type of things that the hunter muttered at his mirror agent. He deserved it- still does. He deserves to be hated for what he does because it's wrong. He knows it is and yet it’s the only thing he’s ever known how else is he supposed to feel safe around others if not by knowing all of their secrets preemptively to meeting them?

 

Cypher knows that being with the wraith has mellowed him down. He and Omen are not close, far from it, in his opinion, and yet they also are not worlds apart. Cypher likes the way Omen gets things done in a straightforward way and Omen has mentioned to him how interesting his gadgets are (to which Cypher had replied that they aren’t that good- that Killjoy has been making things like them as a child, that they were mediocre at best and Omen had somehow given him a look ) and so Cypher likes to think they perhaps don’t hate each other. Dating Omen must have calmed Sova’s hatred of him, enough for the hunter to be civil with him. 

 

They aren’t hateful towards each other in any way but it doesn’t mean that Cypher can wrap his head around why they would save him a plate. He isn’t that close to either of them. Is this something more? Do they need his help with something- with some tinkering? In that case, Cypher has to get up- has to help them, it’s the only thing he’s remotely good at. 

 

He slings his legs over the side of his bed. He’s sitting now. He knows that as soon as he stands, his muscles will ache and his knees will tremble, but he has to be of help to the team- he has to continuously earn his spot in the Protocol.

 

With a groan of pain, he rises. Actually, he’s not even that old- thirty-six - and yet he’s never really taken care of his body correctly, and the countless hours spent sitting at his desk hunched over have kind of messed him up.

 

 He was right earlier, the second he steps towards the door, his knees and hips pop and creak uncomfortably.

 

He looks ridiculous, he knows he does. None of the other agents have ever seen him without his work clothes but he can’t be bothered to care at this second. 

 

He miraculously makes it to the door (miraculous isn’t really the word- Cypher thinks pathetically and painfully is most likely more accurate), debating on opening it or not. He’s worried that they’ll make fun of him, that he is not going to be capable of pulling his other personality out of the depth of his heart (he won’t be, he feels it in his soul). Cypher stands in front of his door, hand hovering over the keypad, and he takes deep calming breaths. He can’t walk away now- he knows Sova heard his footsteps, even through the soundproofing each room gets- he’s a hunter, his senses are keen like that. 

 

Sometimes, Cypher wonders if it ever gets overwhelming for him, too, processing everything all of the time. 

 

(They aren’t so different, the both of them, always reading into people’s body language, making sure to note the exits of any room they’re in- he’s seen the hunter before, he’s so focused, so calm while seizing up whoever he’s talking to, marking up their weak points, it makes Cypher flush under his mask. The difference is that Sova does it because it’s second nature to do so because he’s a hunter. Cypher does it because he is more akin to the prey).

 

He punches his password into the keypad.

 

The door opens.

 

 He was right to think so earlier, it is the couple standing on his doorstep. Usually, they’d be greeted by a ‘Hello, my measured friend, hello, Wraith!’ overly friendly and bitter on his tongue. The second he tries to get the words out of his throat, he’s choking on them. They won’t come out which leaves him to stand there very awkwardly, staring at the people in front of him. Only Sova is taller than him- the man is impossibly imposing when he wants to be- a tower of muscles on top of being built like a fucking quarterback, wide shoulders and all. Omen is closer to his height if only a bit shorter (that’s not to say that Omen isn’t scary when he wants to be, Cypher would hate being on the receiving end of his shadows).

 

He takes them in, the both of them. Sova is in his usual getup but Omen is wearing a hoodie that looks impossibly soft and warm paired with loose pants, along with, of course, his hood. It’s the Wraith that holds the steaming plate of food (the content of which Cypher does not recognise) and he wonders if it’s burning his hand judging by all of the steam coming out of the top. 

 

“Cypher?” Sova is calling out to him. He’s so tired , still a bit woozy from earlier and he still can’t seem to form words. Instead, he stares at the food and ignores the way his mouth suddenly feels dry and his stomach cramps up. He doesn’t want to eat, he just wants- he needs. 

 

He doesn’t know what he needs, but this isn’t it.

 

“Can I help either of you?” It comes out way colder and rigid than he means to, and he flinches at his own voice. His mouth is like cotton and his tongue feels like it’s gained ten pounds on its own- overall, he’d rate this feeling a massive zero out of ten.

 

This isn’t good. His metaphorical mask is slipping and he feels so naked, so raw that he needs- he needs to hide away, to forget that either of them saw him as he is and not as their usually happy sentinel. He needs to close the door-

 

Omen steps towards him and he panics, shuffling backwards. They keep this dance, this tango going until Omen is in his room and Cypher is too far away from the keypad to even think of closing the door.  He feels trapped and, in a way, he is. Sova is still standing by the door, which means he can’t sidestep Omen and run away, and even if Sova wasn’t there, Cypher has seen Omen’s reflexes on the field before. He wouldn’t be able to get past the Wraith if he tried.

 

“Eat.” An order, not a suggestion or a proposition. Omen stands in front of him, arm outstretched towards him, plate perfectly balanced on delicate fingers and dark claws and demands something out of him that he doesn’t think he can provide. 

 

Cypher, for all of his talk about trying to appear how he usually is, freezes in place. He feels so sweaty, so hot. His heart is hammering in his chest because Omen wouldn’t force him to take his mask off, right? He wouldn’t- he’s not like that, right? They might not be friends but-

 

“Omen.” Thank the stars Sova steps in because Cypher feels like he’s going to pass out from how hot and lightheaded he feels. “He cannot eat with his mask on.”

 

He looks like he wants to say more, maybe encourage the other to leave with him and leave Cypher alone with food he isn’t going to eat, but something catches his attention. Sova stands there, eyes trained on his discarded gear on the bathroom floor and Cypher curses himself for leaving the door open.

 

Mitch-matched eyes fall back on him like Sova just realised that Cypher isn’t wearing his getup, and he looks the spy up and down, appraising him. Cypher lets it happen, dreads the questions that the hunter is bound to ask and he feels so revealed under his gaze that his shoulders instinctively slump forward, trying to make himself look smaller like he might just escape the hunter’s keen eyes if small enough. Unfortunately, Sova is as good at hunting small prey as he is at hunting bigger ones and Cypher could qualify as both. Sova scans him from head to toe with a look filled with curiosity and worries except there’s no way he’s actually worried, right? Must just be his eyes playing tricks on him.

 

Being pinned under Sova’s gaze scrambles his head, making him forget, just for a moment, about the other man in the room. He’s startlingly reminded when he feels a hand on his forehead- the one that isn’t holding the plate up- and his breath hitches.

 

He remembers- Nora checking in on him, one of the times he got really sick. The soft skin on his feverish forehead, gentle nails scraping against his scalp, lips against his temple-

 

Cypher flinches away and wills his memories deep into his mind. They do him no good right now.

 

“Are you sick?” Straightforward, like Omen always is. If he’s offended by Cypher flinching away, he doesn’t show it, instead placing the plate down on a nearby table, next to tripwires, screwdrivers and other unaccountable pieces of junk Cypher had been messing with yesterday. 

 

Sova is in his room now, too, and the door hisses as it closes behind him. Is he sick? He might be, with how hot and sweaty he feels, and with how he can’t seem to take one normal breath in. He hopes he’s not obvious about all of this. He doesn’t think he’d ever live it down. Cypher isn’t supposed to be sick, he’s supposed to be witty and aware and always ready for a mission, not sick or feeling like however he is. 

 

“No?” It comes out more as a question than an answer and Cypher nervously wrings his hands together. Usually, he’d play with his tripwire, but it's back in his coat pocket, which is, once again, on the floor of his bathroom for everyone to see. 

 

“Liar.” How the fuck did Omen know? “You don’t feel well. What’s wrong.”

 

Could he lie his way out of this one? Most likely not. Omen seems able to look through his bullshit and Sova is still staring at him, reading his body language, as if the slightest twitch of Cypher’s finger will reveal to him why the spy is the way that he is.

 

“Why do you care?” Wow, that came out a lot meaner than he intended. 

 

Omen tilts his head at that, and for the first time since he’s entered the room, he looks nervous. He didn’t think the Wraith could even feel nervous, let alone display it like he currently is, head tilted away from Cypher and claws playing with the strings on his hoodie. “Is this not what friends do? Care?”

 

Oh.

 

Friends?

 

Cypher sputters, his eyes widening. Friends? Friends? Does omen think of him as a friend? His heart feels so warm, so pleasant and he doesn’t want to acknowledge it, because he could- he could have meant something else. What exactly, Cypher doesn’t know but maybe he had simply misspoken or- or- 

 

Sova edges closer, and Cypher spots how the two men’s arms brush together, how their fingers twitch towards each other like it’s simply muscle memory for them to hold hands this way and Cypher- Cypher is hit with a wave of want so strong his knees buckle and he has to catch himself on a table to stay up.

 

“Cypher!” Why did Sova sound so worried about him? He doesn’t deserve this- doesn’t deserve their friendship, all he does is bring misery and death to people around him, he can’t-

 

Cold, cold, cold hands are on him, holding him up. Omen’s grip isn’t tight enough for Cypher to feel trapped but strong enough to feel sturdy. Cypher doesn’t have the strength to pull away. He’s drained- from this morning, from the shower, from the endless nightmares, from feeling so fucking disposable all of the time.  It’s a mystery how he feels the grounding coolness of the Wraith’s hands through the thick layer of his top, but he’s not complaining. He lets himself be held up, even leans into the hands holding him up and gives up.

 

Sova seems to know something has changed in his attitude, and in his body language because he’s next to him in a second, cold, but less than Omen, and he’s holding his other side up and moving them towards the door. For a moment, Cypher panics, heels digging into the ground (it doesn’t do much with his socks on but the sentiment is there) as he desperately tries to break their movement. Sova is taking none of it, though, Cypher can see it in the way his eyes narrow and a tight but gentle smile graces him on the hunter’s lips.  

 

“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable, okay dorogoy? ” What did Sova mean? His room is comfortable, it has a bed and a window and yeah he’s lying to himself when he says he’s happy in his lifeless space but if he thinks it hard enough, fakes it enough, maybe he’ll start believing it. 

 

And yet Cypher does nothing else to stop their movement, can’t bring himself to. He catches Omen, who still hasn’t said anything else, grabbing the untouched plate of food and then he’s led away further down the hallway. It isn’t that far, not really, but the walk feels like forever as he’s gently being led to what he guesses (i.e: knows, because Cypher knows things) in Omen’s room. He doesn’t know what he expects (maybe some edgy emo room, with black walls black bed sheets, and no lights on) but he’s so far from the truth Cypher gets whiplash. When the door opens with the press of Sova’s thumb (they even have each other’s prints on their doors, how no one else has been able to tell they are together baffles him sometimes) he’s met with cosy cosy cosy, the complete opposite of him, of his (cold, he thinks for a second, dead ) bland room. 

 

Omen’s room is mostly soft purples and blues. Everything seems knitted here- from his blankets to his and most likely Sova’s slippers that rest next to the door, to his pillow covers- everything is handmade with what Cypher knows is love and attention. There’s a massive knitted octopus in a corner, and Cypher realises it’s a chair cover. God, that must’ve taken forever to make. 

 

He doesn’t have the time to really look at anything else because he’s led to a couch, next to a patio door that leads to a balcony, and he’s being sat down, so gently, he lets himself feel like they might actually like and care about him for a second. The plate of food is placed on his lap (by Omen), along with a blanket around his shoulders (thanks to Sova) and then the both of them back away from him, leaving him confused and, quite honestly, really fucking comfortable. The blanket has this weight to it- and the way it rests on his shoulders is extremely comforting, nothing like his clothes had been resting on his body earlier that day. He understands, now, why the Wraith seems to prefer his room over hanging out with others. There’s this energy in the air that lures you into a sense of security, of belonging, and Cypher feels his body get wrapped with it, similar to a warm embrace.

 

“Uh…” He mumbles out, swallowing into his very dry throat. “What?”

 

Sova tilts his head at his question, Omen just stares at him. The food is lukewarm at best now, and yet, for some reason, his stomach isn’t churning at the thought of eating it. Actually, Cypher realises, he’s famished. 

 

“Eat, Cypher. We can leave or turn around, whichever you prefer.” And oh- he’d feel too bad kicking them out of their own room, to deprive them of the warm feeling of home he knows they must also be feeling, judging by how relaxed their bodies are, so Cypher shrugs at the hunter’s words.

 

“Turn around?” Once again, it sounds more like a question than an answer, but they both take it as the latter. Sova takes a seat at the desk and starts working on something- Cypher isn’t sure what but it doesn’t matter because his back is turned to him which is all he wanted. Omen, though- he’s another case.

 

The Wraith is still staring at him, and Cypher wonders for a second if he’s ever going to look away or if somehow Omen wasn’t included in the whole ‘turning around’ thing. 

 

He does, eventually, but not in any way he could have predicted. Cypher blinks and suddenly there’s a dip on the couch next to him and a cool presence. He isn’t looking at him, his head is turned away, but Cypher tenses nonetheless. All he needs to do now is take his mask off. He’s done it before, it shouldn’t be that hard and yet-

 

And yet his hands shake so much, he isn’t sure he can even grasp the edge of it. He’s taken it off before, but not while this close to others, not since-

 

A face pops up in his mind, kind and young. His daughter laughing at him, holding his hand while on his shoulders, holding food in the other. She’s happy and that’s all that matters to him, even if his shirt gets messy.  He remembers looking at her and seeing her smile but his memory is wrong- it’s corrupted, unreliable, because when he looks up her eyes are wrong , too glossy, too dull to be anything but dead and there’s blood- so much blood, on him, on her, on the gash on her forehead that drips blood down her beautiful face. She’s dead and he’s holding her corpse and Aamir is crying and he doesn’t know what to do, how to deal with this, how to cope with losing the two loves of his life-

 

He’s brought back to the present by a cool touch. A hand on his knee is all it is, but Cypher could cry with relief at being brought back from his memories. Even while awake, he can’t seem to escape his nightmares, hands still shaking, eyes watery; he’s back now, he isn’t there anymore but the feeling of guilt, loss, fear lingers and festers in his mind, burrows itself into his bones, claws its way into his very being.

 

“Eat, Cypher. We won’t look.” grumbles out the Wraith and for some reason, he trusts his words, trusts that they won’t look and for one second, for one selfish, selfish moment, Cypher wants to ignore what has happened to people who have seen his face or been near him without his mask. For one second he needs to pretend he’s just a guy, a normal man about to eat with his…friends. He’ll have time to feel guilty about it later. For now, though, his stomach grumbles and he nods, even while knowing neither can see him.

 

He rolls his mask up, just enough to uncover half of his nose and from his mouth to his neck, where his shirt starts. This is the most he can do, and his hands are still trembling when he grasps the fork but he’s too far along to give up now. 

 

He takes a bite. And another. Before he knows it, he’s scarfing down his meal, each bite tasting better than the last one. He must have made some kind of content noise while eating because Sova is laughing softly, still tinkering at the desk, “You like it, Cypher? I made it,” but ‘liking it’ doesn’t do it justice; Cypher loves whatever is on his plate, feels like he could eat it forever if given the chance. It tastes like his mother’s food as a child, like what coming home feels like, like petting a stray cat in the street, knowing that it trusts you enough to let itself be touched.

 

 (He knows he’s going overboard, that it isn’t that deep, but Cypher hasn’t eaten a warm cooked meal in so long that isn’t scrambled eggs, he thinks he could cry).

 

He hums (he wants to fall at Sova’s knees and thank him for saving him a plate), and nods his head, even if they still can’t see it, earning him another chuckle from the hunter, “It’s beef stroganoff. My babushka used to make it for me, growing up. She’s always told me not to brag, but I’ve been told it’s to die for.” 

 

“It isn’t breakfast food, but I wanted something nourishing for you, moy dorogoy .” Then, softer, “I’m glad you like it.”

 

Cypher swallows another bite, the words hitting him deep into his chest and his heart hurts. “You made this…for me? ” And now he just feels guilty because Sova made something for him and he has nothing to give back, except information and he makes a mental note to give him some for free next time the hunter asks for it. 

 

“You seem…out of it, recently. I thought a home-cooked meal would maybe make you feel better. From how you sound, It must be working.” And Sova is right because he does feel better and he is more out of it than usual; he feels so content right now, surrounded by these two and he doesn’t understand why. He’s never been really close to either of them but right now he feels… safe. At peace. Perhaps it’s the way they haven’t asked to see his face once or spoke up about his clothes, or even second-guessed bringing him into their space, into their room, into their life, like Cypher might actually be worth something like this.

 

“ Thank you ,” Cypher wishes he could say more, thank the hunter from the bottom of his heart for the food, for being patient, for not commenting on how he looks right now, for just…being there. He wants to thank Omen, too, for being a grounding presence and for the hand that is still on his knee, keeping him here and not drifting away. He wants to, but the words seem stuck in his throat, like always, his mouth glued shut, eyes watering and god this is pathetic because he’s a grown man but he hasn’t felt this good in months, maybe even years and all it takes is a home-cooked meal for  Cypher to feel extremely emotional.

 

Had Omen’s hand not been on his knee, he probably would have thought about his wife’s cooking, about her and him dancing in the kitchen but as much as it pains him to admit it to himself, that was then and this is now. Cypher is sitting with a now empty bowl in his lap, stomach full of delicious food and he wants-

 

He wants to live in this moment forever. 

 

He knows he can’t, though, and with a soft ‘You’re welcome' muttered from the hunter, Cypher glides his mask back over his mouth and neck and clears his throat softly, “You can look, now. I’m finished.”

 

He expects Sova to look back first but is pleasantly surprised when Omen turns back around quickly, his…eyes? Slits? Cypher just assumes he’s looking right at him. 

 

“Do you feel better?” And Cypher is kind of used to Omen’s direct way of speaking now but even to him it sounds rushed out like the Wraith can’t help himself from asking, and Cypher nods softly, a soft smile on his features, hidden by the mask. “I do. Thank you too, Omen.” 

 

It might be his imagination but Omen seems to shine brighter at his thanks, his hand leaving his knees only to grasp his shoulder instead and oh he’s getting a lot closer to Cypher’s own face suddenly. He doesn’t seem like he’s about to stop moving anytime soon and why is he so close oh my-

 

His forehead bumps against Cypher’s and the spy gasps softly, unsure of what to do in this situation. Omen stays there, forehead against his, and Cypher spares a glance towards Sova, only to find him already watching them, a fond expression on his face. Their gases meet, the spy’s full of curiosity, but the hunter only smiles wider and gets up, walking towards them. He doesn’t seem mad at his boyfriend for being this close to Cypher but he can’t help but worry. He’d loath to be a rock in their relationship and he wills himself to pull away, Omen grumbling softly at the movement. The space Cypher puts between them grows, which only serves to displease the Wraith even more because he just moves closer to Cypher again, sharp claws pressing into his shoulder- not enough to hurt but enough so that he doesn’t move away any more than he has. “Are you uncomfortable?”

 

“Be nice, Omen,” Sova is right there now, on the other side of Cypher and he expects the claustrophobia to act up again, to feel cornered like prey. He expects panic but instead, his cheeks flush and his heart is hammering in his chest again, except this time it doesn’t feel like it’s necessarily a bad thing. “I’m not- I mean-” He’s fumbling with his words (which he never does) and suddenly his head is being turned gently and oh when did Sova get that close to him?

 

Another bump, this time softer, and it’s Sova’s turn to hold his forehead against his, heterochromatic eyes fluttering close. 

 

This is. Weird. But not in a bad way- no- but in an ‘if you don’t stop this soon my heart might just beat out of my chest and what are these feelings I’m feeling I barely know either of you and at this second it feels like we’re closer than we are kind of way. Cypher stands extremely still and he can sense Omen staring right at him. Perhaps it’d be okay to be selfish one more time this morning. Maybe he can pretend that they both like him, maybe even more than as a friend, maybe…

 

Cypher lets himself believe, for one second, that he’s being loved right now, that they’re not doing this because they probably want some kind of information out of him. He should stop it soon before it actually breaks his heart when they tell him it was all a show, but Cypher feels comfortable and calm for the first time in forever- since Nora and his daughter- and he pushes back against Sova, head bumping softly against the others. 

 

He’s feeling at peace for a grand total of three minutes before the hunter pulls away, and Cypher exerts herculean effort not to let out a displeased noise at the loss of Sova’s cool skin against his own feverish one. 

 

“I should be free later tonight,” he starts, pausing when both Sova and Omen give him questioning looks (well he has to guess what kind of look Omen is giving him but he assumes it questioning at the tilt of his head), Omen’s hand travelling back down to his knee.

 

“For the information?” He squeaks out, suddenly feeling like he missed something very important. This is why they’re currently being nice to him, right? Or maybe they didn’t want information and just needed him to fix something, “That’s why you’re both being nice to me, right? Because you need something from me?” 

 

The look of pure hurt on the hunter’s face makes him recoil, fingernails digging into his legs again, although this time it isn’t the check if they’re still there, but rather to keep himself from bolting away.

 

 “ What? ” Oh, Sova doesn’t only look hurt, he sounds hurt, too. His eyebrows are furrowed, in a way that Cypher might’ve called adorable were it not for the fact that the hunter looks so confused by his words. He feels a hand grasp his own, claws gently prying off finger after finger from where he was digging down into his leg. “Do you really…” Sova trails off, looking at the spy with his mouth agape. 

 

“That’s ridiculous, Cypher.” Omen interjects before he can just get up and run away, pretend this never happened and hide in his room for the remainder of his life. Cypher tenses. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do- because what can he do? He’s so stupid, such a fucking idiot, of course, they wouldn’t- they’re too nice for that, the both of them, they’re good people, not like you. 

 

“Listen to me,” and suddenly he’s being turned around, legs off of the couch but body turned towards Omen. “This will not go anywhere unless we are direct,” Cypher feels his heart hammer in his chest and he knows his hands are shaking- he can only pray that Omen can’t tell from where he’s still holding onto them. Is this it? The moment where they tell him it’s time to leave, that he’s not worth their time, that-

 

“We enjoy spending time with you. We want to spend more time with you.” He feels someone else against his back, thick, muscular arms wrapping around his middle. There’s a weight on his nape where Sova is currently leaning his head and he’s so close to the edge of his mask that Cypher tenses instinctually, ready to bolt at any moment. This. Is not what he thought Omen was going to say, and he’s unsure of how to respond, eyes darting all around the void that is Omen’s face, trying desperately to understand if this is a joke or not.

 

“We know that you know about us, Cypher,” he’s not surprised, really, because Cypher’s job- the only thing he’s good at, is knowing things, knowing what goes on around the base. There’s an apology on his tongue, words ready to fall out jumbled and quick- but Sova speaks again before any can come out, “We don’t care, it’s okay, moya Lyubov’”  

 

And oh how his heart calms at that. The words die out on his tongue and he tries to wrap his head around the fact that not only do they know that he knows, but they don't care- for once in his life, someone doesn’t care that Cypher dug around and found out, that he observed them enough to know every single little tick they have, to the point that he realised in seconds that they were together because of their body language. A language that they had tried to conceal, but not enough to bypass his eyes. 

 

His head is spinning, and he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to react, fingers clenching and unclenching repeatedly. He wishes he could fiddle with his trip wire, It always makes him feel better, calms his nerves.

 

The arms around him tighten a bit, and for the second time this morning, he realises that his usual feeling of claustrophobia, of stress and anxiety at being too close to someone, seems to dissipate when it’s Omen and Sova. He doesn’t really understand why, but he won’t complain. The weight he carries on his shoulders lightens when he’s between them, and Cypher chews on his bottom lip, wondering if he should say anything. He should, right? Maybe tell them that he doesn’t feel the same way, that they’re wasting their time, trying to befriend him, because it won’t work, he’s too self-conscious, too scared of others for a relationship to form. He should get up and walk away, forget this ever happened, maybe become even more of a recluse. He should- he should think about his past, a harsh reminder of what happens to people he gets close to would probably give him the courage to walk away now before he gets attached.

 

This isn’t familiar territory. Cypher is used to the guilt, the tears, the trembling, his inability to get a restful night of sleep. He’s used to constantly feeling paranoid, hiding behind screens and carefully crafted words to shield himself.

This? This feeling of- of calmness, of peace. It scares him to no end. He’s terrified, even.

 

“If you’re…uncomfortable, please, tell us. We can back off, Cypher, no questions asked. We’ll leave you alone.” He can’t see the hunter’s face, but he knows that it must have the same look as before- like a puppy who just got its toy taken away from it.

 

Omen is- as unreadable as always. But the way his hands are holding onto Cypher and onto his pants, claws digging into the fabric, makes him believe that he also wants him to stay.

 

He caves- because of course he does. Deep down, he’s as touch and attention-starved as one can get, and this- he wants to believe, even if just for today, or until they both get bored, that someone out there truly likes him. His past- his past is behind him (until it catches up to him and keeps him awake and crying for hours) and this opportunity is too good to pass up. He just wants friends, is that too much to ask?

 

“No, I’m…I’m okay, truly. Thank you both.” 

 

Omen grasp his hands and bring them up to his…face? Vague facial subliminal space? Slits? Whatever it is, it feels blissfully cool, even through Cypher’s gloves, and he instantly loses some of the tension he accumulated, shoulders sagging softly. The good thing about his usual coat and shirt is that they’re very light, compared to what some might think. He’s not used to the thick fabric currently on him, and everything he just went through had him sweating. This feels- refreshing. And intimate. It makes his heart race and a flush covers his cheeks. Omen holds his hands there, letting the shadows softly wrap around his fingers and move on his hands, and for a fleeting moment, Cypher thinks that this might be the equivalent of a kiss, for the Wraith.

 

He quickly forgets about it, though, because there’s no way Omen would ever kiss him. Not when he’s…himself. Not when his literal boyfriend is still holding onto him, forehead pressed into his nape. 

 

He takes a second to enjoy being held, being recomforted, and he closes his eyes, his mechanical lenses also closing. Sleep usually evades him but he’s so comfortable, he could probably fall asleep, just like that. He won’t though, in fear of bothering them if he has a nightmare, but it’s still a nice thought. 

 

“Brimstone let me know yesterday that there are no missions today.” Cypher perks back up, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. That was nice to know, it meant he could just sit at his computer all day and work until he either passes out or is called to do something else. 

 

“Would you like to spend the day with us?” Or he could forget everything he just thought of and do that instead. It did sound a lot nicer than what he was planning. 

 

“Alright.” It’s quieter than how he means to say it, and it comes out a bit mumbled, due to how boneless he currently feels. Omen is still holding onto his hands, Sova is still hugging him and Cypher would pay with everything he has in his bank account (which is quite a lot, he has to make sure he can afford the tea he loves so much) just for this moment to last forever.

 

“You’re tired.” Once again, the Wraith is direct to the point, and Cypher nods, trying to keep his eyes open. He knows his lenses are probably flickering open and closed as he does this, which means that the two others are acutely aware of his current tiredness, but he’s still on the edge about actually going to sleep.

 

He doesn’t want to wake up, breathless and unable to move, doesn’t want to do that to them, and puts the responsibility of calming him down on them. He’s afraid of what they might think, once they realise that he’s…a lot of work. Too much, really. Vaguely, he recalls a play he read a long, long time ago, before he even met Nora. He remembers a quote sticking with him, and he finds that it applies to him now more than ever.

 

Taking care of him- it truly is rotten work.

 

That’s why he shakes his head, trying to bring awareness back into his body. He’s still tired, the weight of hundreds of sleepless nights dragging him down, but Cypher is nothing if not stubborn and he refuses to sleep. 

 

“I’ll be alright, Omen, do not worry about me.” His words don’t mean shit to the Wraith, that much he knows, because Omen has always done as he pleases, but he hopes he’ll be let off for now. It’s barely morning which means they have the whole day ahead of them, bringing forth the question of what they are planning on doing today, with Cypher tagging along for the ride.

 

By the way the Wraith seems to flicker and…glitch? Cypher knows that his answer displeased him, but before he can probably be coerced into taking a nap, Sova unwinds his arms from around the spy (and he absolutely does not almost whine at the loss of pressure around his abdomen) and stands up, stretching his shoulders and arms. 

 

“I was going to train today, but I’m guessing neither of you want to do much of that, hm?” His sentence is punctuated with a small laugh, Cypher drinking in the sight of the hunter smiling like a parched man. 

 

“We’ll watch you.” He guesses that’s what they’ll be doing, then, except Cypher can’t go out into the common rooms without his gear and everyone must be out and about by now, which means he also can’t very well sneak out to grab the uncomfortable garments. On top of that, he absolutely did not want a repeat of this morning, less he makes a fool out of himself in front of his two new…friends? That’s what they are, right?

 

As if sensing his hesitance, Omen grunts softly, letting go of his hands and moving his face away, “What’s wrong?” What’s wrong is that he isn’t being held anymore, and Cypher despises how much he craves it after not having it for years. He won’t get greedy, though, not when it could weird out Omen or Sova. He shouldn’t be so touchy anyways, he’s a grown man, he’s fine by himself.

 

 (He absolutely isn’t, being held is the best thing that has happened to him since the little engineer fixed the AC in his lab, way back.)

 

“My gear…I would need it to go out, but I fear there are too many risks of others seeing me to sneak out and get it.” Cypher answers, biting his lip under the mask. He hopes that’s enough of a deterrent for them, so that they might just let him stay here while they go and train (well. Watch Sova train, in Omen’s case.)

 

“I could-” Sova starts, quickly cut off by Omen, “I’ll get it.”

 

Before he can object, smoke furls around Omen’s body, wrapping around him and then he’s gone, in the blink of an eye. It leaves Cypher alone with Sova and he’s not sure how to act now. 

 

“You don’t seem enthusiastic about Omen going to get your clothes, Cypher.” 

 

Fuck him and his ability to read people.

 

“It’s just, hm…” Cypher looks away from the standing hunter, instead focusing on the couch he’s sitting on, picking at the material, “Today, they feel…” He’s at a loss for words, free hand gesturing in circles in front of him. “ Mashdud… ” A pause. 

 

“Constricting ?” Sova offers gently.

 

“Yes, something like that.” It’s the most he’s ever shared with anyone about his issues, and yet he feels comfortable doing so with the hunter, like he subconsciously knows that he won’t be judged for it. “They simply won’t…sit right on my body.” He’s still not looking at his conversation partner, and yet Cypher knows that if he were to be, he’d be seeing an understanding look on Sova’s features. 

 

Sova hums, “I understand, Cypher. Omen also feels like that, sometimes. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Then, softer, “You do not have to wear them, if you do not want to.”

 

Cypher is about to protest, words on his tongue, ready to spill out in apologies and thinly veiled anxiety when Omen reappears in the room, smoke swirling around his body, hand holding onto Cypher’s gear.  His fingers leave the couch alone, head rising. He’s about to reach for them, tough it out and hopefully not have a panic attack in the middle of the day, but he’s interrupted once again by Sova, who simply places his hand on Omen’s shoulder, giving the Wraith a gentle smile.

 

“Thank you, luchik, but we will not be needing them, after all. Would you lend him some of yours? The ones you wear when your gear feels claustrophobic.” Sova leans towards Omen, and the other reciprocates, face leaning closer too. Cypher feels like he’s intruding- so he looks away quickly. He goes back to fiddling with the couch, nervously biting his lip. He’s fine, truly, there was no need for him to be so annoying, he should’ve closed his mouth and sucked it up. He doesn’t want to be a bother.

 

As if sensing his inner turmoil, they stop what Cypher assumes is a kiss (he looked away before seeing anything, though, he swears ), Omen unceremoniously dropping the clothes on the floor next to them. They clatter to the ground, due to the gadgets in his hidden pockets, and Cypher doesn’t even have it in him to be worried for their integrity. If anything, it’ll give him something to do in the upcoming days (although Cypher does catch Omen mumbling an apology). 

 

“Long-sleeved?” Is what Omen breaks the silence that settled on them with, already moving towards the wardrobe in the room. Cypher shrugs his shoulders, still refusing to really lay his eyes on either of the two men. He’s- embarrassed to be the cause of such a fuss when they could’ve moved on with their day already. 

 

He twists his tongue in his mouth, before squeaking out, “It’s alright, truly. I can wear my gear- please, and no one has ever seen me without, I-” 

 

“Long-sleeved?” 

 

Cypher huffs, eyes darting from the ground to where he was picking at the couch. “I have my own clothes, it’s not a bother, I’d hate to impose-”

 

“He won’t give up, you know.” The hunter moves closer to him, heterochromatic eyes trained on him. He could feel his gaze on his face, but Cypher refuses to look back at him, far too embarrassed and ashamed, “He is even worse than me.” There’s hands on him, and he flinches softly, only for two fingers to grip his chin lightly (giving him the option to move away, if he wants to, because Sova is a sweetheart ) and his head is being moved, guided into looking back at the hunter. When he inevitably does (because, again, for some reason, he can’t resist Sova nor Omen) he’s met with kind eyes and a soft smile that makes Cypher’s cheeks warm and his hands tremble softly. 

 

Sova’s cold hands gently cup his cheeks, thumb tracing his undereye, over his mask.

 

“This is okay, yes?” Sova sounds breathless, voice soft and Cypher has to strain his ears to hear it.

 

  Fuck , he’s so kind. The bar truly is on the floor.

 

Cypher can only nod, fighting back the urge to lean into the cold skin. He wonders, for a second, how their skin would contrast, how his pale hands would match the lighter parts of his skin, how Omen’s dark hands might look on Sova’s pale skin, how Cypher’s own-

 

He stops himself there. This doesn’t feel like something friends should be doing, this is- intimate, in some way, and yet when Omen wanders back into the room (holding both a long-sleeved and a short-sleeved shirt, along with some pants) he doesn’t seem annoyed at seeing his partner hold Cypher so gently. “Have you chosen, Cypher?” 

 

“Long-sleeved, please. My thanks.” And suddenly Sova is beaming at him, his smile creating small creases next to his eyes, and Cypher melts in his hands, face flushing bright red. 

 

A soft “ Good, ” is whispered from the hunter, which sends heat a complete other way than Cypher’s face, and he doesn’t have the time to suppress the full body shiver that goes through him and he knows Sova most likely saw and felt it. 

 

Before they can delve deeper into his reaction, Omen gently hands him a shirt, with long sleeves and completely deep purple. It seems made of a thinner, yet just as covering material as the one he’s currently wearing, and it’ll probably help with how warm he’s still feeling. Cypher takes a moment to feel the texture against his gloves, his fingertips gliding effortlessly against it; it seems so soft, and he observes his gloves, annoyed that they’re keeping him from feeling it. He’s given some pants, too, and they’re very similar to the pair he’s currently wearing. They’re black and the interior seems extremely soft, same as the shirt, along with a purple string to tighten them. Omen seems at least one size wider than him, therefore Cypher assumes he’ll be putting the string to use. 

 

He’s given the option to use the bathroom or for them to turn around, and Cypher chooses the bathroom. Earlier, he wouldn’t have minded if they would’ve caught a glimpse of his chin, but his full body-

 

Even Cypher can’t bear to look at himself. 

 

Unfortunately for him, contrary to his own, Omen’s adjacent bathroom does have reflective surfaces, and a lot of them. He catches a glimpse of a thin body, light vitiligo marks littering the skin along with various scars of all shapes and sizes. He closes his eyes, then, and shrugs the shirt on as fast as he can. He doesn’t have to take the mask off, and he’s grateful for it, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach seeing his face, and the inevitable hope in his eyes at the prospect of new relationships. He shouldn’t- he truly shouldn’t. Nothing good ever comes out of being near him. Maybe he’s cursed. Maybe the price he has to pay for dealing with so many secrets is that he is doomed to do it alone. 

 

One leg, the other leg, one after the other into the pants Omen gave him. He was right- they’re wide on him, and Cypher has to tighten them a lot more than he thought to make them fit, leading him to assume these are probably Sova’s (curse him and his good height genes and healthy lifestyle). Standing in the bathroom, his previous clothing folded in his arms, Cypher hesitates. He wouldn’t be much fun to hangout with, and he’d probably ruin their day by going. He…he thinks he’s going to say he forgot he has plans. Maybe that’ll get him out of this situation. 

 

His plan crumbles the second he’s out of the bathroom and stepping into the bedroom. 

 

Omen is holding Sova’s hand, clawed fingers interlaced with neatly trimmed ones. He’s looking at Cypher, gaze as intense as always, and he motions to a spot on the couch, with their interlaced hands.

 

“For the clothes.” Sova clarifies, smiling next to him, “You look good, Cypher.” 

 

An embarrassed mumble escapes him, and he cringes, quickly dropping his clothes on the couch, next to what he realises is his usual gear, also neatly folded. He wants to comment on it, to thank them because he despises wrinkles on his clothes (despite what you might think, from his behaviour today) but he’s cut off, words catching in his throat when a cold hand wraps around his own, clawed fingers interlacing with his. Now Omen is holding onto both his boyfriend and Cypher, and the latter feels warmth spread from his stomach up to his cheeks. 

 

“I-...thank you, Sova.” He gets an appreciative hum in response, and then Omen is leading them out of the room, towards the training range. After the accident with MaxBot (which earned the little engineer and her girlfriend cleaning duty for three weeks) another bot had been made, but this time a lot less aggressive. This one was good at training what agents seemed to lack- for example, patience, for Phoenix, forcing him to have to be patient to take it down by himself. He’d only ever seen the little star train with it, since he was usually engrossed in his chess matches against himself to really pay attention to others' training sessions (which absolutely does not mean he isn’t aware of everyone’s strengths and weaknesses- he’s studied every single one of them, after all). That’s when he was even in the common room in the first place; he could usually be found either in his room or his lab, rarely ever spending time in other places. He is a busy man, after all.

 

He’s extremely excited for this, though, even if he’s hiding it, and the prospect of others seeing him while he’s not hidden behind layer after layer of clothing and gear is making his legs feel like jelly. Seeing Sova train- god, just imagining his muscles flexing, the sweat going down the columns of his neck-

 

Cypher has to stop himself, before he does something embarrassing, like start drooling (not that he would ever drool just at the thought of Sova, couldn’t be him).

 

His nerves get worse before they get better. He spots Reyna in a corner, talking to Sage and Skye and she gives him a once over, purple eyes dragging up and down his form. His guts clench and he can start feeling his throat closing, but Omen grunts, the grip on his hand tightening and she simply laughs (god, she’s terrifying) and gives them a wink before going back to her conversation. If Sage or Skye have opinions about his ‘new look’, they don’t voice them out loud. Sova greets them, voice soft and smiles wide, like always, and he gets a hello back from them. The interaction ends there, with Omen leading them farther into the room, to a heavy metal door. It hisses open, mechanism making it slide open vertically, and they walk in. It’s just the way Cypher remembers seeing it a week or so ago- messy and clearly used.

 

There’s an old whiteboard on the wall in a corner of the room (they had access to better technology than a whiteboard, but the younger agents claimed it was ‘realer’ if written on one) with scores, keeping track of who’s doing better than who. Yoru seems to be on top, judging by the many blue streaks on his side of the board, and Cypher is hardly surprised; the rift walker is exceptionally good.

 

Next to the board is the locker room- like highschool changing rooms. There’s two- the ‘man’ one has bullet holes on it and a melted handprint near the top, from when Phoenix had gotten a little too excited after a vigorous training session; Cypher still recalls how everyone had poked fun at the little star after that incident. 

 

The ‘woman’ changing room had Raze’s drawings all over, along with some of KJ’s, and the old mechanism to open it had been fried so many times by Neon that they had simply installed a doorknob on it, instead of it sliding open like the others did. The changing rooms had been assigned genders and yet most agents just walked into the first one they felt like- too eager to finally shower after a rough training session than worry about going into the right one. The showers were separated by walls and doors, anyways, like weird cubicles to clean yourself.

 

Right under the board is a sofa- worn down and clearly loved by many agents, seen by the little touches that are added to it- Sage’s stitching on a pillow, a plushie Omen had knitted, a blanket Astra had contributed, depicting constellations and planets, and so much more Cypher would bet there’s little of the original couch even left. There’s a coffee table in front of it, along with beanbags and pillows on the ground, for when there were too many people to fit on a singular couch- like the time Phoenix and Yoru had a competition, gathering quite the crowd (every single agent present back then) which had resulted in Sage needing to step in before things got taken too far. 

 

(That woman is so scary sometimes).

 

It might seem unsafe to have a chilling spot right in the training room, and truth be told, it is. Often, agents have to scramble away from their sitting spot due to a multitude of bullets coming their way, and yet even while Brimstone scolds them time after time, no one really cares to move spots since they can see the entire room just sitting down. Cypher isn’t worried for today- he knows how well Sova aims, how precise he is, how controlled and calculated every single shot is, and if somehow a stray arrow makes its way towards him, oh well. 

 

The rest of the room looks boring, from a single glance, but the spy knows better than to be disappointed. He knows that the second Sova puts his pin into the pad near the chilling spot, his personalised training sequence will start, with pillars rising from the ground, enemy bots making their way out of their resting spots and targets appearing all throughout the room. The room is massive, after all, and from his research, he knows Sova loves running around during his training, most likely because it tires him out quicker than simply shooting arrows at targets. 

 

Cypher’s own training sequence also makes him run around, since apparently his cardio is extremely lacking, except he absolutely abhors running, so he’s never really used the training room. He prefers putting down his traps and waiting for idiot mice to fall into them, like they always inevitably do.

 

He doesn’t realise he’s being led over to the couch before his ass hits the cushions and he sinks him, a happy sigh escaping his lips. Fuck, this couch truly is amazing. Omen squeezes his hand softly, falling into the couch right next to him, thigh flush against his own (Cypher could cry of happiness at the physical contact) and he mumbles something to the hunter who’s standing in front of them, hand still intertwined with his boyfriend’s. Cypher doesn’t catch what Omen says, too focused on the contact their bodies are having, sparks flying under his skin where he’s pressed against Omen. He only looks up when Sova crowds into his space, crouching right in front of him, chin laying on Cypher’s knees, hand on his shin. It gives for an awkward angle with his arm, the hunter determined to keep holding onto Omen and him at the same time, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all, focused on keeping eye contact with Cypher instead.

 

Said man is flushed under his mask, bottom lip worried between his teeth at the sight before him. He feels guilty, ogling Sova while Omen is sitting next to him, but the hunter is so pretty from this angle- blue and brown eyes wide open, blond hair framing his face perfectly, like an angel. The guilt sits heavy in his stomach, along with something else Cypher refuses to acknowledge. It makes butterflies flutter in his chest, heat rising to his ears and he’s once again grateful for his mask hiding it. Sova speaks, then, voice soft and kind, “Thank you for joining us, Cypher. We love spending time with you.” He punctuates his sentence with a soft nuzzle of his nose against Cypher’s thigh and he has to fight with his own body not to let out an embarrassing noise at it. “After this, you can choose what we’ll do for the rest of the day, alright? I will be back.”

 

For a fleeting second, Cypher is nervous that Omen will somehow get mad at him for Sova nuzzling his thigh, even after how touchy the Wraith himself has been with Cypher, but his nervousness is quickly thrown out the window when the other man lets go of Sova’s hand, instead pressing himself up against Cypher even more, practically halfway into the spy’s lap. “Have fun, sweetheart.” He grumbles out, the pet name tumbling out of his lips seamlessly even though Omen rarely seems to use them, or at least not as much as Sova.

 

Sova shoots them one last smile, gently squeezing Cypher’s shin where his hand still lays and gets up, already wearing his everyday gear. Cypher loses sight of him when he enters the locker room, most likely getting his bow and a gun. For now, his entire attention is stuck on how close to him Omen still is, and how the Wraith doesn’t seem like he’s going to move any time soon.  He’s pretty quick to tune out Sova once he starts training, paying no attention to the whirring of the bots or the sounds of footsteps resonating around the room from the hunter jogging around. Instead, his sole focus is Omen, who’s blissfully cold hand is resting on Cypher’s thigh, claws playing with the material of his borrowed pants. He’s hyper-aware of every movement Omen makes, his own hands resting in his lap, relaxed. 

 

When Omen speaks, it’s with a softer voice than what he’s accustomed to, and it makes Cypher’s ears tingle, “We’ve been worried, Cypher.” And that’s such a funny concept to him, someone being worried about his well being, about his health. He hadn’t been expecting that from anyone since his wife and daughter died, let alone from two people, two of his coworkers with which he rarely conversed. Omen’s not looking at him while he speaks- face facing towards the room, most likely looking at his boyfriend. “You’ve been acting worse ever since the mission with Fade.” Had he been that obvious about it, that the couple has realised how much sleep he’s been missing? How he freezes when confronted about his refusal to work with the other agents in Morocco, how he’s but a shell of  a man, like an impostor trying to pass itself as him. Cypher buried Aamir so deep inside of him, as a coping mechanism, out of fear, out of guilt that he barely recognised himself anymore. He hides from his reflection out of fear of someone unknown looking back at him, unable to even recognise himself and yet Omen, cold and awkward Omen, (nice, gentle, sweet, caring , Omen) takes one look at him and is able to see past all of his carefully crafted walls?

 

He’s sure Omen doesn’t aim to make Cypher feel this way, but he feels cornered- he can’t just leave, without them both coming after him, and he can’t possibly stay quiet, not when he knows Omen is not letting this go. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, leading him to do something he’s used to- deflecting.

 

“When did you and Sova get together, exactly?”

 

“ Cypher. ” His deflection doesn’t land him far at all, and hearing Omen speak to him like this, voice dipping low, almost to a growl makes his heart jump and his stomach twist. He should’ve known it wouldn’t work with him, not when the Wraith already knows that Cypher most likely (he does) knows the exact date and time of when they agreed to being a couple.

 

“Thank you for your worry, Omen, but I assure you-”

 

“Stop the bullshit. You haven’t been sleeping, Cypher.” How the fuck does he know?

 

“How do you know?” His surprise is barely hidden from his voice, and he’s too confused as to how Omen seems to know everything about how he feels without even seeing his face. The Wraith is finally facing him now, and the three slits on his face seem to be flickering harsher than usual. 

 

“I can feel it, Cypher. The same way I know that you’re exhausted, and that Sova is having fun and yet worrying about us. Only strong emotions.” He explains it like Cypher’s the silly one for not knowing that about him, and he is once again rudely reminded of how little the two have talked recently (or ever, truly).

 

Cypher’s the one looking away now, mechanical eyes focused on anything but the man next to him. Suddenly, the walls are the most interesting thing in this place, and Cypher takes to mapping every little scratch with his eyes like his life depends on it. His hands are nervously wringing themselves together in his lap, boot-tapping the floor nervously with the leg Omen isn’t holding. He’s- nervous, for a lack of better words.

 

“Fade’s nightmares from that mission,” his walls are crumbling around him, and Cypher- no, Aamir , is too fucking exhausted to build them back up, to hold them together with glue and hope. He needs to let it out, he needs to confide in somebody, to finally let it out of his chest, “They haven’t stopped. ” 

 

(Cameras on his face, live, the whole world on the edge of their seats- who are you? they ask and Cypher can’t move, can’t struggle, he’s doomed here, to be revealed without his consent, to be shown to the whole world without his say, exposed . He panics, struggles, cries, screams and yanks at the black restraints that seem alive but nothing is working and his mask is coming off. ) 

 

He shudders at the memory, hands coming up to rest over the edge of his mask protectively like he wished he could have done back then. “I can’t sleep, Omen, but I’m not safe awake either. My memories plague me, day and night, constantly.” His walls are crumbling and he’s tearing at the bricks from the bottom, painstakingly throwing them away, forcing them to collapse on themselves. “I can’t move on, Omen,” he’s hunched over now, elbows on his knees, face in his hands and he’s trying to calm the shaking of his body, the nerves in his stomach, the bile rising at the back of his throat. “ I am cursed. Anyone who gets close to me- who sees my face, who I let into my heart dies. ” 

 

He doesn’t mean to say this much- at first he was only going to speak of his nightmares, but it’s like he can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tries. He had been choking on his words, before, but Omen took one good look at him and reached down himself, unplugged his esophagus, pulled the stuck words out with gentle promises and reassuring touches and Cypher couldn't do anything now but talk and talk and talk. 

 

Throughout his word vomit, Omen is silent next to him, a grounding cool hand still on his leg, squeezing gently. Cypher’s memories are resurfacing and he’s hopelessly trying to repress them, to forget what his  dear wife looked like dead, holding his sweet, precious daughter in her arms, the blood all over them, staining their clothes, the carpet, their home. He’s shaking worse now, but he needs this, he needs to let it out. Tears are soaking his mask, his nose is runny, making it hard to breathe, but he’s pushing through. “The only way I feel safe around others, Omen-” he gets cut off by his own sniffle, voice cracking, “Is when I know every single fucking thing about them. I need the upper hand, so that I can distance myself, play the part of the court jester and entertain others with my words.” There’s a soothing hand on his back now, gently rubbing circles into his shoulder blades. It’s cold and Cypher leans into it, head falling limp between his arms. 

 

“But you’re tired, aren’t you?” It’s the first words he lets out since Cypher started his little monologue, words spoken so softly yet bluntly that it forces a dry chuckle out of him. “I don’t know how long I can keep going, Omen. That’s why I have been worse. I am scared of people seeing between the cracks of my act.” His hands rub uselessly at his eyes, making his mask stick to his skin uncomfortably, suddenly bringing the feeling from this morning back- the constriction of his clothes, the claustrophobia. This time, Cypher can’t take his mask off to deal with it, making him grunt and pull at the fabric instead. His breaths, already irregular, quicken and his hands are now trembling too bad to do anything but even if he could, his gloves are too slippery for him to grab at the fabric. 

 

Omen seems to realise how quickly Cypher is spiralling and offers him careful help, claws trying to grab at the fabric to unstick it from Cypher’s skin. It isn’t working, though, and Cypher swallows loudly, breath hitching, voice coming out both desperate and scared. 

 

“ Omen. ” 

 

The Wraith hums, grabbing both of Cypher’s hands in his, making sure he’s not hurting himself in his desperation to get the damn thing off. “Calm down, Cypher. Breathe.” He tries, he really does, but the air just won’t make its way into his lungs no matter how hard he heaves gasps and he’s panicking, small coughs and wheezes escaping him.  He grabs back at Omen,  even if he feels pathetic, embarrassed, guilty about laying this all on the Wraith; he should’ve stayed quiet, he’s a grown man, he would have dealt with it himself one way or another  (he could not have, he knows he lying to himself) but instead he’s panicking in front of him and he’s terrified Omen will decide he’s too much to deal with and push him away.

 

He doesn’t, of course, he doesn’t, and instead does the opposite, hauling Cypher on top of him and tucking his chin tightly against his shoulder. Cypher hasn’t realised, but there are shadows all around them, hiding them from prying eyes. “I won’t look, Cypher.” His fingers are dangerously close to the edge of his mask, claws teasing it, slipping under it before retracting, making soothing circles on his back. “Can I?”

 

Cypher still can’t breathe, but the feeling of Omen’s cool body against his, even through his clothes, is soothing and he finds himself nodding. The way he’s positioned, legs on either side of Omen’s, chin tucked over his shoulder- the Wraith wouldn’t be able to see his face, so it must be fine, right? Plus it feels like his mask is tightening, somehow, and he needs it off, needs to breathe, to get rid of the claustrophobic feeling.  He keeps desperately nodding, not trusting his own shaking hands to be able to take it off, until he feels claws gently slipping under the fabric, pulling it up very carefully, as if Omen is ready for Cypher to go back on his decision anytime. It’s sweet of him, really, but he starts feeling better the second the fabric starts uncovering his mouth, and he tries to control his breathing, taking deep gulps of air. 

 

Omen lifts it higher and higher, over his nose, his ears, until the mask is in his hands and Cypher’s hair is free, long curls falling in a messy way, covering his face and sticking to his skin from sweat and tears. It feels nice, without it on, and with the help of Omen the shaking in his body subsides slowly but surely. Omen keeps his promise, not once trying to get a glance at his face and by now Cypher is limp in his lap, face pressed against his neck, hands resting on Omen’s waist, fingers digging into it softly, like he needs to make sure Omen is truly there and he’s not hallucinating. 

 

They stay like this for a while, the only sound behind the distant one of Sova most likely finishing up his training, the beeping of the bots powering down resonating throughout the room. Omen keeps a hand in his hair, pushing down so very slightly, keeping his face tucked against his neck. The other is on his waist, rubbing soothing circles and running his claws up and down his covered skin. “Sova is…better than me. At giving advice.” He starts, voice soft and low, a growl in his ear and Cypher nods, feeling his ears tingle pleasantly. “You need to make peace, Cypher. You do not deserve to suffer. You are not cursed.” And Cypher knows, he knows that he’s holding onto that guilt, that pain, because being haunted by his memories and hurting is always better than feeling nothing. He’s scared to forget his wife, his daughter. He feels guilty moving on, because it was all his fault in the first place; if he hadn’t worked such a job in the first place, if he had never let Nora into his heart, if he hadn’t started a family, knowing the risks-

 

Except that makes it sound like he somehow regrets it, and he doesn’t . Those years were the happiest in his life, never had he been so content with his life, so glad to be alive. His wife had been everything to him, and his daughter a constant source of joy. He doesn’t regret his years with them, he just…can’t move on. He knows that Omen is right, that he needs to make peace, but it’s so painful he hasn’t been able to bring himself to do it. 

 

Omen keeps him tucked against him, not expecting an answer out of him yet, and he’s graceful for it. He’s stained Omen’s hood with his tears, the purple fabric soaking all of them in, and he’ll need to apologise for it soon. Before he can, though, Omen hums and dissipates the shadows around them, keeping only a couple blocking the sight of anyone outside the training room who would be able to look in and see them. “Sova is coming.”

 

Cypher tenses, acutely aware of the position they’re in. He can’t move, body exhausted and quite honestly, really comfortable, but he prays Sova doesn’t mind him cuddling up to his boyfriend. He doesn’t seem the type, judging from the way he had been touchy with Cypher earlier too, but the worry still settles on his stomach, making him chew his bottom lip out of nervous habit.

 

He hears the footsteps coming closer, pushing his face as deep as he can into the side of Omen’s neck, wild curls covering the sides of it so that Sova can only see the mop of dark brown strands and nothing of his skin. “Is everything alright? I saw the shadows, so I ended my training early.” He’s breathing quickly, most likely not completely calmed down from running around and for a second Cypher wishes he could see the hunter like he must currently be; face flushed and breathing hard, sweat covering him. He throws that thought into the garbage, though, because of his lack of mask (he absolutely would have sneaked a peak, had he had the mask on, but no one needs to know).

 

Omen hums, the hand in his hair gently detangling itself, most likely reaching for his boyfriend. There’s shuffling, and then a warm presence near him. He hears what he guesses is a kiss to Omen’s body and he startles when he feels soft lips on the back of his neck, pressing a soft kiss against his skin too. There’s a new hand in his hair, this one distinctly lacking claws, and it’s softly playing with the strands, blunt nails scratching at his scalp, making Cypher lean into the touch slightly. This is…nice, being between the both of them. He feels taken care of and as much as it scares him, he craves physical contact desperately.

 

Sova chuckles softly,  not stopping his movement. He’s speaking quietly in Russian and he feels Omen hum in agreement and oh that’s adorable, that Omen most likely learned Sova’s mother tongue to speak with him. It makes him wish he had something like that- someone willing to learn even his mother tongue so that he could recite to them his favourite poetry in its original language. 

 

“Cypher,” Sova starts, nails still going at it on his head, “Are you willing to put the mask back on just until we get back into Omen’s room?” 

 

He isn’t happy about it- the fabric will feel scratchy and claustrophobic again and it’s most likely annoyingly damp by now but he won’t kick up a fuss, not when they’re both so nice to him, so understanding. He blindly reaches for the fabric, Omen handing it back to him with the whisper of encouraging words in his ears. He’s right, it is damp, and it’ll probably irritate his skin, but Cypher slips it back on with difficulty, Sova’s hand leaving his hair and he misses it, misses the feeling of fingers in his curls, of the touch of another on him. 

 

Still silent, he untangles himself from Omen, standing up and to his credit, his legs only wobble a bit before he’s steady on his feet, eyes focused on his shoes. Now that his panic has passed and he can’t hide, he feels the embarrassment coming back on tenfold, making him fiddle with his pants. They’re too nice to him, too understanding-

 

“You aren’t a bother. I…enjoyed having you on me, Cypher.” For the sake of his mental well-being, he chooses to ignore the second part of Omen’s sentence, instead focusing on how he apparently isn’t a bother to the other man. He nods, not trusting his voice not to crack, a warm arm wrapped around his waist. Sova’s holding onto him while Omen stands up, grabbing his hand on the opposite side. He’s still sandwiched between the both of them, in a way, and it pleases him. He feels safe. 

 

They make their way out of the training room, past the three women who are still talking in the common room. Reyna still eyes them but says nothing, simply going back to her conversation. Jett, Phoenix and Yoru are there, too, but they seem too busy with their video game to realise that there are others around them. He’s glad for that, in a way. He doesn’t want eyes on him (apart from Sova’s and Omen’s, of course) and they’re quickly out of the room and into the hallways, walking towards Omen’s room. He hopes they won’t mind him reclaiming the blanket they had lent him earlier. If they do, it’s not a problem, he can live without it. 

 

Omen and Sova are talking, like they’ve been doing the whole walk to the room, except it’s in Russian and Cypher does not speak it past knowing how to say hello. He does not mind, though, because the way they’re speaking it is soft and low and it’s quite honestly luring him to sleep. 

 

Omen’s room is the same way they left it, two sets of clothes neatly folded on the couch, blanket next to them. He beelines for it, gently untangling himself from the two men, already forgetting about asking permission. It’s wrapped around his shoulders in record time and he doesn’t miss the fond laugh that it gets out of Sova. “It is amazing, no? Omen made it.” There’s a fondness in his voice that Cypher doesn’t miss, and he feels himself nodding along, keeping it wrapped around his shoulders tightly. 

 

“It’s wonderful, Omen.” He agrees, now standing in the middle of the room with it around him. 

 

Omen hums, heading back towards the door. “I’ll make you one,” and with that he’s out the door, leaving him and Sova alone. 

 

The hunter must sense his confusion somehow because he’s walking closer to him, smiling softly, “He’s going to go grab some food for us. That’s what we were talking about while walking here.” His hand is on Cypher’s covered cheek, thumb tracing the details in the fabric. “I have to shower, but if  you’d like, after, we can…” He trails off and this is the first time he’s seen Sova seemingly embarrassed and shy, his eyes darting around the room. “The way you and Omen were sitting, I mean-” 

 

Oh.

 

Did Sova want him in his lap?

 

Probably not, he most likely just wanted him comfortable without his mask and that is the only position they can really have without the two of them looking away from him. He’s absolutely not opposed to it, though, because Sova has great thighs but he’s so tired, he’ll most likely fall asleep on him. He lets him know, voice only cracking slightly, “I do not mind, dear,” and the nickname slips out, out of habit (he always calls the little engineer his dear and his star his dearest- sometimes, Cypher feels like they think of him as a father figure. He fears what would happen if they learn about how much of a poor excuse of a father he is), but he misses the way Sova flushes at it, “But I will most likely fall asleep.” Cypher doesn’t think he can pass up this opportunity, this loophole they found, of him taking off his mask. Not when Sova had been so warm earlier, not when he’s experienced the way he plays with his hair, not when he’d been so comfortable on Omen’s lap, he can only imagine how he’ll be on the Hunter’s.

 

Sova smiles at him, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead, hand squeezing his arm gently. “I will not be long. Make yourself at home, malysh. ” And with that, the hunter grabs a change of clothes from the closet and enters the adjacent bathroom, leaving the door opened just a crack, probably just enough for the steam to escape. 

 

With that, Cypher looks around the room, exploring. He doesn’t snoop (that’s a lie, he absolutely does) around, simply looks at all the knick-knacks that Omen has, all the knitted blankets, furniture covers and little creatures. He seems to like doing octopuses the most, because there’s many in this room, from the massive chair in the corner to little gun buddies that he’s seen others sport during missions. There’s also some notes of Sova around the room- some stray arrows in a corner, parts of a deconstructed drone on the desk, a pair of archery gloves near the door- this room screams Sova and Omen and Cypher feels out of place inside of it.

 

When he’s done touring the room, he sits on the bed, fiddling with his own hands. He doesn’t want to lie down, because he can tell from just sitting that this bed is sinfully comfortable, and he does not want to fall asleep by himself, as childish as that sounds. He realises, then, that he’s not sure if Sova is aware of his nightmares, if Omen told him or not, if he should fight to stay awake (a losing fight, really, even he knows that much) or if the hunter would mind if he woke up from a nightmare, tears in his eyes. 

 

It’s how Sova finds him- eyes trained on the floor, hands absentmindedly playing with the blanket still over his shoulders, pondering about stuff. Cypher makes no move when Sova inches closer, until he crouches in front of him for the second time today, chin once again resting on his knees. That’s when Cypher inhales sharply, eyes darting from Sova’s own to the ground.

 

“Are you alright?” Sova’s voice is soft, and Cypher wonders if he truly spaced out this long, or if the hunter took a speedy shower. His hair is still damp but it falls beautifully around his shoulders and frames his face perfectly. From what Cypher can see, he’s wearing comfortable shorts that reach just above his knees, and a loose t-shirt. He seems ready for a nap, and truthfully, so is Cypher. His mask has been bothering him this entire time, and he wants nothing more than to take it off and feel the cool air on his skin.

 

“I’m alright, just…tired.” He admits quietly, hands urging Sova to stand up and sit down on the bed. The hunter is going along with him, letting Cypher move him and guide him to a sitting position against the mountain of pillows there is, a soft chuckle escaping him once Cypher seems satisfied with his position. 

 

“However you want me, moya luybov’ ,” Sova offers, making Cypher blush under his mask, shuffling until he’s seated on Sova’s thighs, hands hovering over his skin, unsure.

 

“Is this…alright with you?” He just- has to make sure, just one last time, even if Sova is the one who offered, even if he seems happy to do whatever Cypher wants. His question earns him a soft smile and nod, hands urging him to lay against him, chin tucked against his shoulder, a mirror reflection of how he had been with Omen just earlier. Sova is broader, though, in all senses of the word. His thighs are wide, Cypher’s legs needing to stretch more to comfortably sit on them. His chest is massive and his shoulders are wide- he’s nothing but muscles, but Cypher is comfortable against him, a pleased hum escaping his lips. He feels hesitant hands hover over the hem of his mask and he nods, giving Sova permission. 

 

He’s gentle, just like Omen was, and his mask is off in seconds, wild locks once again sticking everywhere. They tickle Sova’s jaw softly and because he isn’t wearing a hood like Omen is, he can feel the stubble of Cypher’s beard against his skin when the spy presses his face on his neck, dry lips resting against his carotid artery. The blanket on his shoulders is adjusted so it covers him and Sova, and then comfortable silence fills the room as the two men simply enjoy each other’s presence. 

 

Sova’s hands slip under Cypher’s shirt, gently tracing shapes into his back. It makes him tense for a second before he relaxes again, basking in the feeling. Sova is respectful with his movements- the second he feels Cypher tense, he’s moving his hands away from that spot, back to his shoulder blades instead, tracing his muscles and spine. Cypher is so comfortable, his mind is floating away, feeling nothing but joy for the first time in years. His shoulders feel light and he doesn’t feel the weight of haunted memories on his mind- only Sova’s hands on him and his steady heartbeat that he feels through his lips resting against his neck. 

 

The blond shifts under him, adjusting Cypher so he’s pressed even closer against him, the hunter’s lips finding Cypher’s shoulder and he presses a lingering kiss there, before moving up to where his shoulder meets his neck, pressing another one. They make Cypher melt, heat rising to his face. He doesn’t know how many times Sova has kissed him today, but he loves it, loves the feeling of his lips against his skin. A hand leaves his back to cradle his head instead, gently holding it as Sova peppers more kisses to Cypher’s skin. 

 

“Sova?” He finds himself calling out, shivering as he feels more kisses laid on his skin. He had been so close to falling asleep, eyes drooping closed until he felt the peppering of kisses against his skin. It woke him up, not because he was uncomfortable but because he likes it so much that he needs to be sure he’s all there to feel them completely. 

 

“No, not Sova, moye serdtse, Sasha. Or Sashka, Aleksandr, not Sova– not when we’re together, alright?” 

 

Cypher already knows Sova’s name (Aleksandr ‘Sasha’ Novikov, he figured it out before Sasha was even officially presented to him) but he has gotten that information himself- digging through years and years of Sova’s life and gathering intel on him. The fact that Sova- Sasha offers it to him like this makes his eyes water and his hands tremble. He’s vaguely aware that he’s nodding but his mind is nothing but Sasha Sasha Sasha.

 

“I have been wanting to kiss you for so long, Cypher. Omen too.” He’s speaking with his mouth right next to Cypher’s ear, his breath hitting the shell of it pleasantly, sending a shiver down his spine. 

 

Of course, that’s when said man decides to finally come back, three plates of food balanced in his arms. If Omen is surprised at seeing Sasha kissing Cypher’s ear and shoulder, he doesn’t voice it out loud, only softly chuckling and placing the plates of food onto the bed’s side table. Cypher feels him lean down and nuzzles Sasha’s temple, one of his hands running through Cypher’s hair as a greeting. 

 

“Sorry it took me so long. Fade was already in the kitchen.” He sits next to them, grabbing one of the bowls from next to him. Cypher can’t tell what it is but the smell alone makes him hungry, his stomach grumbling. “She and Astra made stew and gave me some for us.” He’s passing a bowl to Sova now, and Cypher feels the hunter’s hands leave his body to his great disappointment. There’s a moment of silence before the Wraith speaks again, this time directed at Cypher only. “How would you like to do this? We can look away this time again, if you’d like,” and oh, right he doesn’t have his mask on. He can’t eat as he is, barely held up by Sova’s body, but he also can’t ask them to turn around for him. They’re in their own room, and Cypher can’t ask that of them again, not after they were nice enough to do it once. 

 

He wonders- shouldn’t it be fine, now? For them to see his face. He knows Sova, he knows Omen, they’re strong, resilient. They already know his work, they’ve both been through the unimaginable…so it should be alright, right? They’ve been so patient with him, so nice even when he doesn’t think he deserves it. Omen has listened to him vent, he’s helped him calm down, Sova makes his heart feel fuzzy and heat rises to his cheeks when he handles him so gently. He wants to give something back to them.

 

Cypher hesitates for a moment, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, before he shrugs, clearing his throat softly. “No need, Omen, I’ll…” Slowly, so very slowly, he manoeuvres himself around, making sure not to spill the bowl Sova is holding, said man letting him move without interruption. Before he knows it, he’s seeing Omen’s face without the usual blue tint of his mask and Omen seems frozen in place, Sova too. They’re staring at him, the both of them, and Cypher thinks that it’s kind of funny, how they broke down walls that took years and years to build in a singular day just by being nice to him. He feels too exposed, though, so he tugs the blanket up to his head, letting it fall over his head, creating some sort of makeshift curtain around him. He can see Omen’s chest but above his neck is obscured by the blanket. This will have to do- it’s as much as he’s comfortable doing, for now, but it doesn’t erase the seconds during which Omen has seen his full face- has seen his sunken eyes, the bit of hair in the front that is white, the vitiligo spots all along his eyes, almost in the shape of his mask. He knows Sova saw a glimpse of it, too, as he was turning around, but he finds that it’s not bothering him- at least not this much. They’ve been so understanding with him, he can’t help but feel safe around them. 

 

He knows they want to ask- they want to see more, by the way they’re staring at where his face is now obscured, but they don’t (they’re so considerate it makes his heart throb). Omen hands him his bowl of stew- it smells amazing- he’ll have to ask Fade or Astra for the recipe-  and a spoon and Cypher gets to work on eating alongside the two other men. He’s scarfing it down, only now realising how hungry he is even after eating Sasha’s meal this morning. He blames it on the highs and lows of emotions he’s felt this morning (morning being a loose word- he’s pretty sure it’s past midday by now.) He’s glad Sasha and Omen decided on visiting him today. He probably would’ve spiralled without their constant presence, and getting some of his troubles off of his chest- even if he feels guilty about it- left his shoulders a tiny bit lighter. 

 

He finishes first, handing the bowl back to Omen who momentarily stops eating (where does the food even go; straight into his stomach or does Omen have a mouth somewhere in there?) to place it back on the side table. Cypher’s full and happy, leaning back onto Sova’s chest, head tucked under his chin now. The blanket is still covering his upper face but he knows Omen is staring at him, he can feel his skin tingling under his gaze.

 

“You have nice lips.” Huh?

 

He chokes on air, licking his bottom one nervously, not missing the way Omen’s face is angled to stare at them. The Wraith scoots closer to where Cypher is laying down on Sasha, slowly leaning into his personal space but not enough for it to be uncomfortable.

 

 “They’re plump.” And that just about does it for Cypher who feels his entire face go beet red, no mask in sight to hide behind. He sees Omen raise his hand, slowly moving it towards him, clawed fingers delicately cupping his cheek, thumb running over his wet bottom lip. Cypher’s brain is short-circuiting, unable to do anything but part them, letting Omen’s thumb dip lightly into his mouth. 

 

“Kissable.”  Omen’s always been direct with what he wants or how he feels, Cypher has realised that by now, but it still startles him and he takes a sharp breath. He waits for fear or disgust to set in after hearing that, and yet all he can focus on is the ever-growing want in his guts, twisting coiling in his stomach. He thinks that if Omen doesn’t kiss him soon, he might just implode except said man is doing nothing to get closer to him- to bring his lips against Cypher's. For a second, Cypher almost forgets that it isn’t only them in the room, eyes solely focused on Omen, but the shift of Sova’s body under him and the clunk of a plate being put away is a quick reminder of his current situation- his whole back against Sova and his front very close to Omen’s (not that he’s complaining, of course).

 

Cypher has the idea that this whole morning might have been a lead-up to this very moment- him trapped between them, aching for a kiss. The touches, the taking care of him, making sure he’s feeling okay, letting him get his feelings out, comforting him, handling him with care…he isn’t complaining, but he also can’t seem to wrap his head around why they would even bother will all of that in the first place, after seeing him practically at his worse. He doesn’t think he’s very attractive- at least not anymore, and his personality is not the best one out of everyone else; plus they already have each other, don’t they? What could he possibly bring to the equation, apart from unwanted trauma and a metric ton of anxiety?

 

It isn’t therapy- when Omen kisses him, the shadows that compose his face solidifying, it doesn’t suddenly heal all of his self-hatred and trauma, but as he kisses back, leans into the Wraith before him, into his cool hands, Cypher feels at peace for the first time in years. He hasn’t moved on, won’t start doing so any time soon, but at this moment, at this exact time, Cypher feels at peace. He’s whole again when held between them, Sasha’s lips on his neck and Omen’s on his own. He’s not magically healed, not suddenly cured of his anxiety and yet the shaking in his hands subsides and Aamir’s heart sings, louder than it has in forever. There are a lot of uncertainties in his mind about his position in their relationship, except Omen is pulling back now and Sasha has switched to whispering sweet nothing in his ear and he’s too weak, too pliant to think about anything but their hands on his body, touching him like he matters. He liked being with them- after today, he hopes they’ll let him come around more. They managed to find their way into his walls, into his heart in a couple of hours and Cypher knows that he won’t - can’t - let them go anymore. 

 

When he’s given the time to breathe, Sasha having tilted his head to the side to kiss him too, his lips far warmer than Omen’s, Aamir laughs softly. He’s so happy- so content, his eyes droop under the blanket that’s barely hanging on and he doesn’t fight it- doesn’t think it’s necessary, not when it’s Omen and Sasha next to him. They’re speaking again- softly, right in his ears- he can feel the sleep he fought back all day catching up with him. There are encouraging words being whispered to him- a soft sleep, Cypher followed by an equally soft sweet dreams, moya lyubov’ and he thinks he will. Have sweet dreams, that is, body lax against Sasha’s, eyes closing.

 

When he wakes up the following day, it’s with his body sandwiched between theirs, not a nightmare in sight.

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed it!! sorry the ending is a bit rushed and all but maybe I'll write another chapter if anyone is interested! Love u all feel free to leave a comment or kudos!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of val fics teehee