Skyrim One-Shots

Mercer Frey x Reader ~Wounds and Makeups~

You paced the floor of the living room, lip bit nearly to shreds and eyes constantly blinking back tears. Moonlight glimmered in through the single window, the only light other than the dim lanterns around the room. Exhaustion lidden your eyes, the weight of your worry only adding to your miserable state.

Salty, scorching liquid dripped down your cheeks, connecting at your neck and quickly flowing, your breathing but mere gasps.

You let out a choked cry, finally lowering yourself to a chair at the empty dining table. You hadn't sunk into it, you had dropped yourself upon it like you would drop a heavy backpack on the ground after a hard day of travel.

Your head dipped, leaning against the wooden table as tears pooled on it, the cotton of your nightgown dampening because of the said drops of agony.

Where in the hell was he?

Mercer had promised, promised, he would be back by nightfall.

It was nearly dawn, and he had yet to be seen.

"Fuck," you utter out, running your hands through your hair, eyes red and swelled slightly from the tears that still flowed. It was a breathless curse, and you could bare contain a loud sob seconds later. Your hands formed into fists at the roots of your locks, mouth in a tight line in a fruitless attempt to keep yourself centered.

An echo of a key unlocking the front door.

You didn't hear it- too consumed by your hopelessness to pay attention to anything other than... well, nothing.

The door swung open, and a quiet sigh of frustration followed, before being cut off shortly.

Silent footsteps neared.

"____?"

Your traitorous forced an intake of air from your nostrils.

A chair was pulled out beside you, and Mercer seated himself upon it silently, dark leathers of his guild riddled with deep gashes and covered in blood. His hair hung limply an inch before his shoulders, the light brown darkened with gore. Brown, almost amber eyes gazed to your figure with guilt.

Silence hung thickly as you tried to force out some sort of communication, your face a mess of emotion as you refused to meet his eyes.

"You... you're hurt," was all you could get out, glancing up with tear-stained eyes.

His shoulders fell, his knees barely touching your legs as he moved his chair over. "I got caught up with some assassins- Astrid figured it would be a prime time, I guess, right after a client meeting," he moved a hand to rest upon yours. "I'm sorry."

Honest. Sincere.

You shook your head, wiping your eyes and plastering on a weak smile. "Let me clean you up, alright?"

"You sure?" he questioned, eyes watching, waiting for some sign of disagreement.

"Take your armor off," you murmur. "I'll get the bandages from the bathroom."

And so, you stood, walking off to an adjacent room as he internally cursed himself, unclasping his armor and throwing it to the floor.

You, no matter how many times he tried to tell you Tonila could do it, would repair it with careful inspection, taking time to ensure it was equal and seamless to the rest of the armor. Often times he'd wake in the morn to find you fixing it up in the dining room as something cooked.

Honestly, how the hell he'd ever gotten you, he never knew. You'd showed up on his doorstep on one of the rare days he was actually in his house, dirty and starving, but sternly declared his house looked like shit.