Building a life with a recently-reformed supervillain isn’t exactly easy.
To be completely honest, you’re not convinced he ever fully got past New York. The things that he did. The fact that he did them, that he hurt all those people, hurt you - it haunts him. It haunts you , seeing the way the guilt clings to him, the memories sharp behind his eyes.
Especially on days like these.
He’s a little absent. With a snowfall this heavy, you’re relieved he’s elected to stay inside - he doesn’t always. Rationally, you know that you shouldn’t worry, that he can’t be hurt by the cold, that he is the cold, and yet you feel your heart ache every time you come home from work and find him standing in the backyard, knee-deep in white and staring blankly out at the woods. You know that, more often than not, he finds happiness in the snow, but there are other times when it only serves as a reminder of what he is. A reminder of the monster who, as a child, he used to fear would appear under his bed. The monster he now sees every time he looks in the mirror.
You do your best to convince him otherwise. You tried again last night, sitting next to him on the sofa.
It hadn’t gone well.
“You’re not a monster,” you had started, to which he responded with a forced chuckle and a roll of the eyes.
“Not to you.”
You shook your head. “Not at all.”
“I’m sure most people would disagree.”
“You can’t keep beating yourself up over things you did while you were being fucking mind controlled. That wasn’t you.”
“Intoxication doesn’t excuse attempted genocide,” he snapped. His sudden annoyance stung; too stunned to respond, you could only watch with tears welling up in your eyes as he continued, nearly pulling out his hair in frustration. “What if those desires were already been there, dormant, inside of me? If, if whatever spell I was under merely brought those urges to the surface? Made me act upon them?”
You didn’t have a good response to that. He could sense it, and it only drove the wedge between the two of you deeper. You eventually gave up. A kiss to his temple was the best apology you could offer before you climbed the stairs, brushed your teeth, went to sleep.
The bed felt colder without him.
At three, you wake up shivering. At least, you think it’s close to three - the alarm clock next to your bed is black. A glance out the window shows the picturesque winter scene interrupted by a fallen power line. The other side of the bed isn’t empty any more, but he is curled up with his back to you. Somehow, that’s worse. You’re too afraid to touch him, afraid to wake him, afraid -
You slip out of the bedroom and downstairs, thankful you never got around to replacing your old, rusty gas stove with a newer electric model. It takes few attempts with a lighter, but soon you have a flame going beneath the half-full kettle. Pulling two mugs out of the cabinet is almost an instinct at this point. You bite your cheek and put one back, not quite able to push down the ache rising in your chest.
The sound of the stairs creaking is masked by the suction-release noise of the fridge, but you hear it as you grab the milk. He enters the kitchen. Neither of you speak. You pour milk into the mug until it’s the color of a tawny owl, and pass it to him without making eye contact, going back to the cabinet to get a second mug, after all.
Hi hand closes over yours as you reach for the tin of the cocoa powder. You allow it. You expect him to bring it to his mouth, maybe press a kiss against your palm. Instead, he pulls you gently back against him, wrapping both arms around your waist. You feel his cheek, somehow smooth and rough at the same time, against your temple, the cold skin and warm breath, and it feels so much like coming home that your heart breaks all over again.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
You close your eyes, leaning into him. After taking a moment to calm down, you finally speak. “You’re not a monster.”
He pulls away slightly. “(Y/N) - ”
“Please just listen.” You turn to face him. All of your nervous energy has somehow ended up in your hands, and the whole time you talk you can’t stop moving them, first cupping his face gently, then taking both of his hands in yours and running your thumbs back and forth across his knuckles, then running them through his hair. “I know you. I know your heart, I - there’s no darkness there.” You wish you had better words. More eloquent, more precise, but your heart is too full, your mouth thick with emotions. “You’re not a monster,” you repeat.
He nods wordlessly. Turns away. Your heart sinks, until you realize he still has one hand gripping yours tightly, and is using the other to make another cup of hot cocoa: extra powder, light on the milk, just how you like it.
He gives you the mug, then grabs the other with his free hand. Together, you walk from kitchen to living room and plant yourselves on the couch. At first, there’s still a slight stiffness, but then he shifts ever-so-slightly, and you let your sleep-heavy head fall to his shoulder, and you sit there, hot cocoa in hand, watching the last remnants of snowfall through the window.