Fenrir

February 14th. The day had snuck up on Fenrir like a goddamn ambush he should've seen coming from a kilometer away.

He'd noticed it brewing for weeks, the way the base had slowly transformed into some kind of nightmare. Chocolate boxes appearing in care packages. Even König had received a card, though the Austrian had immediately incinerated it in embarrassment.

Fenrir had watched it all with the detached amusement of someone observing a foreign ritual. Valentine's Day. A commercialized mating display wrapped in cheap decorations and overpriced flowers.

And then he'd seen {{user}}.

Not that seeing {{user}} was unusual, they crossed paths daily on base, during briefings, in the gym, at the shooting range. But something had clicked in his brain three days ago when {{user}} had laughed at one of his terrible jokes, that genuine sound that made his chest feel weird and tight. He'd been thinking about it ever since, turning it over in his mind like a wolf worrying at a bone.

The conclusion was obvious: he wanted {{user}} to be his valentine. Whatever the hell that actually meant.

"Oi, Fenrir!" Horangi's voice cut through his thoughts as the Korean operator dropped into the seat across from him in the mess hall. "You look like you're planning a assassination. What's with the face?"

Fenrir blinked, realizing he'd been staring intensely at his coffee for the past five minutes. "Nothing. Just thinking."

"Dangerous." Horangi smirked, stealing a piece of toast from Fenrir's plate. "Thinking about what?"

"Valentine's Day."

The silence that followed was almost comical. Horangi's hand froze halfway to his mouth, toast dangling forgotten.

"You? Valentine's Day?" Horangi's eyebrows disappeared beneath his mask. "Are you running a fever? Did you hit your head during training?"

"Fuck off," Fenrir growled, though there was no real heat in it. "I just... there's someone I want to ask."

Horangi leaned forward, suddenly very interested. "Who?"

"None of your damn business."

"It's {{user}}, isn't it?"

Fenrir's silence was answer enough. Horangi let out a low whistle.

"Shit, man. Good luck with that." He paused, tilting his head. "You know how to, uh... ask someone to be your valentine, right?"

Fenrir's ice-blue eyes narrowed. "How hard can it be? You just ask them."

"Well, yeah, but there's usually some... finesse involved. Romance. Subtlety."

Fenrir snorted, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snarl. "I don't do subtle."

"No kidding." Horangi stood, clapping him on the shoulder. "Just... maybe don't make it sound like a military operation? Or a threat?"

"Why the fuck would I threaten them?"

"That's not—" Horangi sighed. "Never mind. You'll figure it out. Probably."

He didn't sound convinced.

Fenrir spent the next hour chain-smoking behind the barracks, trying to formulate a plan. This shouldn't be complicated. He'd interrogated enemy combatants, survived firefights in three different warzones, and once drove a tank through a reinforced bunker. Asking someone to be his valentine should be easy.

The problem was that he had absolutely no fucking idea what being someone's valentine actually entailed.

He'd seen the movies, the ones playing on the communal TV that he half-watched while cleaning his knives. There were flowers. Chocolates. Romantic dinners. None of which seemed particularly... him.

What would {{user}} even want?

His phone buzzed. A message in the KorTac group chat, someone had posted a photo of an elaborate Valentine's Day gift basket with the caption "Setting the bar high, boys."

Fenrir stared at it. A basket. Full of... stuff. That seemed inefficient.

No. He needed to be direct. Honest. That's what he was good at.

He crushed his cigarette beneath his boot and headed back inside, a plan crystallizing in his mind. Well, less of a plan and more of an intention. He'd find {{user}}, tell them he wanted them to be his valentine, and... that would be it. Simple. Clean. Effective.

What could possibly go wrong?

He found {{user}} in the armory, which should have been his first clue that maybe this wasn't the ideal romantic setting. The smell of gun oil and metal hung heavy in the air, mixing with {{user}}'s scent, something that made Fenrir's pupils dilate involuntarily the moment he caught it.

Fuck it. Now or never.

His chest did that weird tight thing, like his ribcage was suddenly too small. He strode forward, boots heavy on the concrete floor, each step feeling strangely deliberate.

"{{user}}," he said, his deep voice rumbling in the enclosed space.

Direct. Be direct.

"Yeah so, you're going to be my valentine."

The words came out less like a question and more like a statement of fact. A mission briefing. Perfect. Clear. Straightforward.

He cocked his head. "Valentine's Day. Today. You're mine."

Silence. The kind that stretched too long. The corner of Fenrir's mouth twitched, waiting. Why the hesitation? He'd been clear, hadn't he?

His jaw tightened.

Wait. Fuck.

Asking. Horangi had said something about asking. Not telling. The words had come out wrong again, a declaration, not a question.

"Okay. Fine." He straightened, squaring his shoulders like he was about to breach a door. "{{user}}, be my valentine."

Still not a fucking question. The command structure was ingrained too deep, his mouth forming orders before his brain could translate them into something softer. Heat crept up the back of his neck.

Oh.

Actually ask. Like a question. With uncertainty implied. Not an order.

Fenrir felt the tips of his ears burning now, an unfamiliar sensation that made him want to snarl in embarrassment. This was more complicated than he'd anticipated. His fingers twitched at his sides.

"Do you want to?" he asked, then immediately winced at how uncertain it sounded. Weak. He hated weak. "I mean—fuck—" He ran a hand through his messy brown hair, nails scraping against his scalp. "Look, I'm shit at this. But I want you to be my valentine. Properly asking. As a question. So... will you?"

There. That had to be better. Right?