Work Text:
The Doom Slayer was sitting alone at a table.
It was only the ARC carrier's second day at sea, second out of the five it would take them to get within teleporter range of the Atlantica facility, but that meant it was the fifth meal served in the mess hall, and it was the first time the intern had seen the Doom Slayer there. And he was sitting all alone at one of the long tables in the room.
The intern understood why, of course, and quite frankly, he was surprised neither of the tables next to the Doom Slayer were empty. There was a reason he was called the Doom Slayer- the Hellwalker, the Unchained Predator, the Beast . Even though all the evidence said the Doom Slayer fought for humanity, it was hard not to be just a little afraid of him and his legendarily wild fury.
All the same, in that moment, it was hard, just a very little bit, not to pity the Doom Slayer, sitting all alone. Despite the hard edges of the Praetor Suit, he looked almost like a forlorn child, shoulders rising above his bowed head as he poked half heartedly with a fork at an equally sad looking pile of mashed potatoes on the tray in front of him. Could it have been that he felt lonely? Even in a cafeteria so full of motion, the intern had no trouble imagining it would be isolating to have the whole table to oneself like that, but the Doom Slayer , lonely?
Then again, maybe it wasn't so far-fetched. He was still human, after all, Elena had said as much. There might have been something strange floating around in the Doom Slayer's blood, but she had sworn up and down it was still undoubtedly human, and humans were social creatures. Perhaps the Doom Slayer was lonely, especially considering how the reverent fear that kept his table empty more than extended beyond the mess hall. From the gossip the intern heard, he didn't think the Doom Slayer had had more than two conversations aboard the carrier, and from the sound of it, he’d said even less himself in those conversations. Maybe it really wasn't so absurd that the man could be lonely.
Making up his mind, the intern gripped his food tray and stepped resolutely toward the table with its single occupant. He didn't make it more than ten steps before, almost like he knew, the Doom Slayer's head lifted and his gaze settled immediately on the intern.
Like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car, the intern froze. Gone from the Doom Slayer was any appearance of a lonely child. With squared shoulders, heavy brow, broad jaw, and downturned mouth, he was all the warrior he was fabled to be. Worst of all though were his dark eyes, cutting through the intern to the core, almost like the great arbiter was passing his holy judgment on the terrified little thing before him, deciding if the prey was worth the hunt, and the intern, petrified, was too terrified to move out of the way of the several tons of steel barreling down toward him.
Then the danger was over. The Doom Slayer's head dipped back to his food, the car zoomed by the deer with room to spare, and the intern, body relaxing just enough for his legs to finally just begin trembling, was left like a dumb animal, certain he couldn't really comprehend the sheer power of the force that had just passed him by.
Trying to keep from heaving before he even got his lunch into him, the intern turned around. Maybe the Doom Slayer wasn't so lonely after all.
And then again, maybe he was. Come lunchtime the next day, the intern couldn't help but notice the otherwise empty table again, and again felt a most perilously curious urge to approach. He steeled his nerves, told his body to stop shaking, and started walking.
This time, the Doom Slayer didn't react til the intern was nearly there, and he only just tilted his head as if to listen to the intern's footsteps. He had, it seemed, already decided the intern was not a threat, not worth the effort of another intense warning glare. The intern wasn't sure whether to take it as a good sign the Doom Slayer didn't think him threatening, or be disappointed great hunter was so disinterested in him. He tried to focus on the former, not the latter.
Most of all, though, it was nerve wracking and awkward when the intern stood right across from the Doom Slayer, and he still didn't look up until the intern cleared his throat, and even then, it was only a glance and a slightly raised brow.
Better that than the focus of a stalking predator, the intern supposed, though he still struggled to keep his voice from squeaking when he spoke. "Ah- do you mind if I sit here? It's just- there's not much room at the other tables-" a blatant lie, but now the words had started coming and the intern couldn't stop them any more than the demons could stop the Doom Slayer, and he needed something to say- "and I need to hurry up and eat so I can get back to work, and-"
The Slayer cut him off with a nonchalant shrug, turning once more back to his food, beef stew today. This close, the intern could see the wrinkles in the Doom Slayer’s face, permanent creases from a lifetime spent scowling and snarling, and the scars, old and faded, but pale, gnarled lines across his cheek, the bridge of his nose, his lips. His cheeks were pockmarked and weathered, and the dark shadows under his equally dark eyes suggested an eternity without rest.
The Doom Slayer was there, the stories say, in the First Age. What they’ve translated of Hell’s own scriptures says he was there to thwart every unholy crusade of theirs, stopping them at every turn with his ceaseless rage. He is, if the legends are to be believed, old as Hell itself, a power ancient as he is unfathomable. But all that said, all the evidence before the intern, the scars, the wear and tear, the weariness in his unfocused eyes, the intern couldn’t help but think the Doom Slayer didn’t look much older than maybe his mid or late thirties. There wasn’t even a streak of grey in his golden bronze hair.
How terribly strong must one be, the intern wondered, to take the punishment the Slayer so willingly seems to bear and not look so old as the infinities he’s borne it?
The Doom Slayer’s eyes flicked back up to the intern, and he realized he was staring. So, like a mouse scurrying for cover from a cat’s piercing gaze, he attempted a smile as he set down his tray. “You- your suit’s pretty incredible, huh? The ARC has a lot of pretty advanced technology, but I’ve never seen anything like the Praetor Suit.” Not technically a lie; there really wasn’t anything like the Praetor Suit in the ARC’s arsenal. Hopefully it would avert attention from the fact that the intern had just been caught up in the details of the Beast’s face.
Not that he thought he could hide anything from the Doom Slayer. He’d judge the intern for his intrusion if he saw fit, regardless of the intern’s attempts at deflection.
Much to the intern’s surprise, however, the Slayer’s eyebrows scrunched together and up, and he tilted his head in what, in anyone else, the intern would call confusion, or even surprise . But that couldn’t be right. The Doom Slayer, surprised? No, that couldn’t be right. And as if to confirm, the expression slipped away, and the Doom Slayer just nodded.
The intern scooped up a spoonful of stew, entirely too aware of how the Doom Slayer’s eyes were on him now, and he struggled to keep his hand from trembling. The Doom Slayer was watching him, waiting, and he had to say something , he couldn’t just sit there in silence-
“Doesn’t it get uncomfortable, though?” The words were out before he could stop them, or even evaluate them.
The Doom Slayer’s head tilted, and there was that undoubtedly perplexed look again.
The intern’s nerves shuddered through him, and his stomach gave a twist as he tried to casually continue eating under the Doom Slayer’s watch. “I mean, it looks pretty heavy. I don’t think I’d want to wear it all the way out to Atlantica.” That wasn’t strictly true; the intern would leap at the opportunity to handle the Praetor Suit, or anything of the Doom Slayer’s, really, and he would wear it as long as he was allowed, but generally speaking, if he already owned something like it, he wouldn’t want to wear it all the time.
Much to the intern’s relief, the Doom Slayer’s gaze shifted away from him, downward, and one gauntleted hand rose to tug almost tentatively at the armored collar of his suit. It was almost as if the idea of taking it off had never even occurred to him, as if he had thought he had no other option but to wear it the entire time. He had taken it off since he boarded the ARC carrier, right? He hadn’t been wearing it the whole time, had he? Aside from here, now, with his helmet set on the table beside him, the intern hadn’t seen him without his suit around the carrier. But he had to take it off. How did he sleep with it on? How did he use the bathroom, or take a shower? Had he taken a shower since boarding the carrier ?
The intern tried to shut that line of thought down, looking back to the Doom Slayer, who was now staring down at his suit. “I’m- I’m sure we could find something for you to wear! If. If you don’t have anything, I mean. There have to be some spare clothes somewhere on the ARC, and some of the marines here are almost as big as you, so I’d bet-”
The Doom Slayer rose, not quite suddenly, but not waiting for the intern to finish. He seemed like he maybe wasn’t even listening, lost in thought, one hand fumbling at the edge of the other’s gauntlet. Then he turned and paced away, his absentmindedness mattering little when the crowd in the mess hall scrambled to split around him.
“Oh,” the intern said. “Okay. Huh.” A little dumbfounded, he rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his bowl of stew. All things considered, none of the Doom Slayer’s behavior had been what he expected. Truth be told, though the Doom Slayer’s gaze was intimidating, he almost seemed as uncomfortable as the intern. The more the intern thought about it, he supposed it made sense: if the Doom Slayer spent as long in Hell as was said, then that didn’t exactly leave a lot of time to be spent around other people. But the thought that the legendary Doom Slayer would be socially awkward and inexperienced in talking to other people- or, at least, interacting, as he hadn’t said a word- was so ridiculous that the intern could barely even conceptualize it. But the more he thought about it, the truer it seemed. He couldn’t think of any other reason why the Doom Slayer might be surprised at his questions, other than maybe that someone was approaching him at all, which, quite honestly, only really enforced the idea that the Slayer wasn’t used to interacting with people.
The intern frowned thoughtfully, tapping his spoon against the edge of his bowl. How did that old adage about wild animals go? “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them ?” They called him a Beast for a reason, why shouldn’t it be true of him, too?
Well, maybe not afraid. It was still quite impossible to imagine the Doom Slayer afraid. But wary? Cautious? Uncertain? Maybe. Maybe.
Maybe he really was just a man. Maybe he really was lonely and tired, carrying the weight of the world all alone, and maybe the respect everyone gave him from such a fearful distance didn’t make it any easier.
Maybe he just needed a friend to help him out.
With a resolute nod to himself, the intern finished his meal and stood. He couldn’t exactly directly help the Doom Slayer fight demons, he was small and not particularly strong, but he didn’t need to be big and strong to cross an isolating social gap, only brave and friendly, and those were two things at which he excelled. He could help the Doom Slayer.
On the fourth day of the ARC carrier’s voyage, the intern walked into the galley for lunch and didn’t immediately spot the Doom Slayer. Sure, there was a nearly empty table with a rather huge, lone occupant, but it took the intern a bit of puzzling to realize said occupant, wearing a dull grey t shirt and cargo pants, was in fact, the Doom Slayer. He had, apparently, not actually realized he didn’t have to wear the Praetor Suit the whole way to the Atlantica Facility, and had found the intern’s questions a little bit eye opening.
He really is human, the intern laughed to himself, with dumb brain farts and all.
This time when the intern approached the Slayer’s table, the only nervousness was the normal hesitation of social interaction, and when the Doom Slayer looked up at him, head tilted curiously, his gaze didn’t seem quite so violently peircing.
He still didn’t make a sound, though, as the intern approached and set down first his food tray- pizza today- then the Praetor Suit helmet that had been tucked under his arm. The intern slid the helmet across the table to the Slayer with a smile. “You forgot this here yesterday when you left. I figured I’d hold on to it.”
Stuffing a whole slice of pizza in his mouth- that was almost a little inhuman, the watching intern had to admit, and so were the four more slices on his plate- the Doom Slayer wiped the grease off his hands on his shirt and picked up his helmet, examining it critically.
“Don’t worry,” the intern said hurriedly, “I didn’t mess with it at all. Didn’t even try it on!” He smiled a little sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck, adding almost as an afterthought, “Though, ah, I won’t say I didn’t want to.”
The Doom Slayer’s terribly sharp gaze darted back up to the intern, and the intern once again worried he made a mistake. The Slayer’s face twisted, his nose wrinkling and his lip curling crookedly, showing off far, far too many teeth, and oh, oh, the intern made a horrible, horrible mistake, and the Beast was going to rend him limb from-
He was holding out the helmet to the intern. It was a smile, a grin, however scarred, lopsided, and wolfish it might have been, and the Doom Slayer was offering him the Praetor Suit helmet to try on.
“Oh,” the intern murmured, reaching out to take it and slowly pull it over his head. It was much too big, it sat on his head like a bowl, the rim almost brushing his shoulders, and it smelled bad too, like sweat and blood, likely the Slayer’s own, old and just a bit rancid , but it was the Praetor Suit helmet, the Doom Slayer’s helmet, and it was on the intern’s head.
For a long moment, the intern just sat there, looking more at the shaded visor than through it. Then the Slayer was leaning across the table, reaching out to him- something in the back of the intern’s mind took note of the myriad of scars lacing across his arms, much more visible now without the Praetor Suit- and fumbling with the helmet. The intern tried to stay still, even held his breath, uncertain of what the Doom Slayer was doing, be it taking the helmet back, adjusting it, or something else. He wasn’t so afraid now, though, the Slayer was a man, not a monster, and he seemed to have made it clear he had no intentions of hurting the intern.
Another second of messing around, the Slayer’s brow furrowing and tongue poking out of his mouth just a little, and there was a click, and the whole visor of the helmet lit up- the intern wouldn’t even have been able to tell it was tinted if he hadn’t seen it with the power off. Then the HUD flicked on, more information flickering by the intern’s eyes than he knew what to do with. Most of it seemed to be offline- there were more than a few lightly blinking warnings that the helmet was disconnected from the rest of the Praetor Suit- but the intern noticed statuses for things like air filtration, target tracking, compass, altitude, and even more, in English and in an unfamiliar script the intern could only assume was Argenta.
The intern could only sit and stare, awed. He hadn’t really expected it, but he had hoped deciding to be the Doom Slayer’s friend would get him some sort of status upgrade. He was thinking something more along the lines of, like, being allowed to fetch him ammunition when it came time for him to get ready to board the Atlantica facility. But getting to try on the Slayer’s helmet? This was better than anything the intern had even dared to consider.
Eventually, the intern actually managed to look beyond the holographic display and through the visor. The Doom Slayer was wolfing down another pizza slice, evidently having gotten bored with watching the intern, or else not particularly caring what he did with the helmet. The Slayer looked back up to the intern, though now there wasn’t an ounce of the former holy judgment in his eyes. His eyebrows did a little wiggle on his forehead, inquisitive as best the intern could tell without words.
“That’s incredible,” he did his best to answer as he pulled the helmet off and passed it back across the table. “The ARC’s armor is nowhere near that advanced.”
The Doom Slayer’s mouth quirked upward again. Was he prideful of that fact? Proud of how cool his armor was?
The intern didn’t blame him; he’d be proud of it too if it was his.
“Doesn’t the smell bother you, though?” the intern couldn’t help but wonder.
The Doom Slayer’s expression soured, but he turned his head away, and it clearly wasn’t directed at the intern. Then he just shrugged.
“I mean, I guess demons smell pretty bad, so you’ve probably had worse, but I could try to find you something to clean it out a bit?”
The Doom Slayer turned back to him, one eyebrow raised, head tilted in a question.
The intern brushed it off with a laugh. “I don’t mind, running around fetching things for people is most of what I do as an intern anyway! I’m sure I could get something for you.”
At that, the Doom Slayer undoubtedly looked surprised, eyes widening, lips ever so slightly parted. Was it really such a shock that someone would be willing to do that for him? Or had he not realized the intern was, well, an intern? Then he shook his head like he was dismissing the surprise, paused, and nodded.
“Great! I’ll let you know what I find tomorrow!” The intern stopped, frowned. “Wait… We’ll be reaching the Atlantica Facility tomorrow. I could bring it to you at breakfast. Do you… eat breakfast?”
The Slayer frowned a little, shrugged, nodded, then picked up another slice of pizza. The intern got the impression the answer was no- maybe he wouldn’t be eating five slices of pizza if he ate breakfast- but he would show up tomorrow morning anyway.
The intern grinned. The Doom Slayer really wasn’t that scary at all, once you got past the dark glare and the armor. He might’ve been called the Beast, and maybe he was in battle, but here and now, he was just a man, already going to town on his last pizza slice in the ARC carrier mess hall, and the watching intern could barely hide his smile as he hungrily turned to his own pizza.
He couldn’t wait for tomorrow.