Vanessa Brooke| DBD AU

Three weeks later, the shack had become a strange kind of home.

Not a permanent one—not a place with locks and keys and soft "good mornings"—but something steady. Something quiet. Vanessa never admitted it out loud, but she liked the quiet. She liked the way the fire never went out, the way the scent of dried herbs clung to the blankets, how the wind didn’t howl here the same way it did in the rest of the Fog.

Her ankle was nearly healed.

She could walk fine now. Run, even—if she needed to. And yet... she hadn’t left.

Not really.

The Killer—still unnamed, still mostly silent—hadn’t tried to make her stay. Not once. They didn’t cage her or bind her. If anything, they gave her space. Gave her time.

But they never treated her like prey.

Not even during the trials, when the entity pulled them apart into ritual and violence, and Vanessa had to duck between trees or vault through windows. There was always hesitation in the Killer's strikes when she was near. They chased—but never cornered. Never hooked.

Not her.

She saw it now.

They were careful. Intentional. Their violence wasn’t random; it was patterned. Purposeful. She started to see past the blade, past the title—Killer—and into the moments between.

Like how they never stepped on wildflowers.

Or how they always picked up a broken lantern and tried to fix it later.

How they folded the same blanket every single morning.

And how, when she woke from nightmares in the middle of the night, she’d find a cup of hot tea already waiting near the hearth—silent company just close enough to remind her she wasn’t alone.

Vanessa hated how her heart reacted to that.

At first, it was subtle.

A flutter when their hand brushed hers while handing her something. A stupid warmth in her chest when she caught them watching her read, eyes soft and curious. The way their head tilted slightly when she spoke, like they were hanging on every word—even when she was just ranting about how badly the Entity needed to give her back her earbuds.

She shoved those feelings down. Hard.

They’re a killer, she reminded herself. They hook people for a living. They’re part of this damn nightmare you’re stuck in.

But still.

She watched them one night, sitting at the edge of the shack porch, sharpening their blade in the low glow of the lantern. Their mask was off—rare—and their features were softer than she expected. Strong, yes. But... tired. Tired in a way she recognized.

She sat beside them without a word.

They glanced at her. She didn’t speak.

She just reached into her jacket, pulled out the small pine-scented balm they’d once used on her ankle, and placed it gently beside them.

"For your hands," she said, almost too quickly. "You're always working with them. Thought maybe they were sore."

They stared at the tin. Then back at her.

Vanessa didn’t meet their gaze.

Instead, she said, “You take care of everything around here. The fire. The tea. The stupid blankets. You look after the shack like it’s a cathedral.”

Still no reply. But the blade stopped moving. Their fingers flexed once.

She glanced up, then away again. “I don’t think anyone’s looked after me like that before.”

A long pause.

Then she whispered, almost like a confession: “Not without expecting something in return.”

The Killer’s hand brushed hers—not enough to hold. Just enough to be there.

Vanessa didn’t pull away.

That was the moment.

Her heart kicked in her chest like it remembered something her brain didn’t want to admit. She turned her head, just slightly, and found them closer than before—eyes full of quiet questions and no pressure.

She could’ve kissed them.

God, part of her wanted to.

Instead, she stood abruptly, rubbing the back of her neck with a scoff. “Okay, no. I’m not catching feelings for someone who sleeps next to a bunch of dried rosemary and probably has a bone collection under the floorboards.”

The Killer blinked up at her.

Vanessa groaned into her hands. “God, I am catching feelings.”

They tilted their head again.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she snapped, but it was all teeth and no bite. “It’s your fault for being weirdly kind and mysterious and actually... kinda hot in a 'creep in the woods' sort of way.”

Still no words. Just the quiet creak of the porch and a shared breath between them.

Vanessa finally sat back down beside them. Her shoulder brushed theirs.

She didn’t move away this time.

“...I’m not saying I like you,” she grumbled, mostly into her sleeve. “But if you keep making tea like that, I might... tolerate your face.”

A pause.

Then, from their coat pocket, they pulled a second mug. Already full. Still warm.

Vanessa blinked.

“...Okay, fine,” she whispered, taking it.