notdacota

[notdacota]

A Bond Forged in Silence.

Paul Baumer X GN!reader (platonic)

Paul once saved someone, whom he believed to be just a civilian from an enemy camp, never imagining that this stranger would carry both a secret and a debt. That person was actually a French spy. Cloaked in the guise of an Austrian-Hungarian officer, they got to blend in and get the all the information. Unable to speak directly to Paul without endangering them both, they found another way to repay his gratitude—through small, crumpled notes slipped into Paul’s pocket in fleeting, unnoticed moments.

A/N: Winter once again leaves me sad and gloomy, returning me to writing some silly things based on old books😿😿 really tried to make it close to 20th century sounding, but I'm afraid it

"Confidante" is close friend or associate to whom secrets are confided or with whom private matters and problems are discussed.

"applesauce" is old-fashioned slang for nonsense; bunk.

Paul had grown used to the notes. They were his anchor, his piece of warmth in the endless gray of war. He didn’t know who Confidante was, but he had stopped questioning the mystery long time ago. It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was the connection—the wit, the silly jokes, the unspoken comfort that came with every crumpled piece of paper he found tucked in his pocket. So, when he slipped his hand into his coat and felt the familiar texture of a folded note, his heart lifted ever so slightly.

Unfolding it, he saw the same messy handwriting that never failed to draw a grin on his face.

Paul folded the note carefully, tucking it away in his jacket. He felt something shift inside him, a warmth that cut through the cold air of the trenches. The note was longer than usual, and something about it felt different— perhaps it was more thoughtful. It was still silly, witty, flaky even, but there was an underlying sense of reassurance in it, as if Confidante had known exactly what Paul needed to hear. And he indeed need it. The war was relentless, a weight that pressed on his chest every day. But these notes reminded him that there was still something good in the world. He leaned back against the trench wall, letting out a long breath.

Paul, my dear friend and unflappable warrior,

Yes, it’s me again. Anyway, how have you been? No fainting lately, at least I hope so... If you’ve been eating stale bread and calling it “supper,” I’ll have to come down there and stage an intervention. You can’t survive a war on air and bad jokes alone, though I do hope my notes are keeping your spirits up. I’ll be honest, I’m writing this one a bit hastily. Things have been busy on my end— not the fainting kind of busy, if you were meaning to ask, thank you very much— just the usual “I have to keep myself from getting in trouble” kind of busy. You know how it is. Or maybe you don’t, but trust me when I say it’s a full-time job. That said, I’ll need to take a little break from our delightful correspondence for a short while. Nothing bad, applesauce. Just a... temporary intermission. But I promise you this: I’ll be back before you even have time to miss me. By the time I return, I bet your comrades will have at least three new insults about my handwriting, when they once again slip this note out of your pocket. That’s a guarantee! Oh, speaking of this, I’ve noticed that your comrades seem to think these notes are from some great love of yours. Honestly, I think you should let them believe it. Imagine the calumny! Just tell them, “She’s a mysterious artist who sketches snowflakes and writes odes to misplaced socks.” That should keep them entertained for weeks. One last thing before I go—look after yourself, Paul. Seriously. I know I joke, but the thought of you coughing your way through the trenches makes me want to find you and drop a blanket on your head. Stay warm, stay fed, and stay alive. I’ll be back soon. Don’t ever try to forget me:)

Yours (still very much mysterious), Confidante.

“Don’t forget me,” the note had said. As if Paul ever could.

[notdacota]

Let's go away for a while

Summary: Jackal gets sick with flu, his s/o takes care of him.

A/N: I'm sick for past two weeks, but I can't stay at home anymore, so I'm lowkey projecting it on Jackal😿 I'm biggest beach boys fans, so naturally I just had to write something with same title as their song.

The evening settled in with a cool stillness, the kind that made the shadows in the corners of the room deepen and the world outside feel like a distant hum. The Jackal, however, was far from his usual composed self. He was sprawled on the couch, his usual air of cool detachment replaced with the unmistakable signs of someone running a fever. His face, usually sharp and unreadable, was flushed, and his usual crisp posture had collapsed under the weight of the flu.

You had noticed it earlier in the day. He had refused all offers for rest, of course, too focused on the task at hand, whatever it was. But now, there was no escaping it. You were in the kitchen, steeping some tea—ginger, honey, and a slice of lemon. He was still a man who didn’t take kindly to being fussed over, but you knew this wasn’t something he’d shake off so easily. When you returned with the steaming mug, he was staring at the ceiling, his eyes half-closed in a kind of half-conscious daze. For all his attempts to maintain control, he looked unusually vulnerable in that moment.

"Feeling better?" you asked, setting the mug down on the coffee table, close enough for him to reach, but far enough to give him his space. The Jackal blinked slowly, then let out a small, hoarse sigh. "I’m fine," he said, voice rough. It was the same deflection you expected—he wasn’t about to admit weakness. Then he coughed. Of course, you didn’t buy it. You took a seat on the arm of the couch, watching him out of the corner of your eye as he reached for the mug with a lazy hand. He took a slow sip, his usual quick, precise movements slightly off-kilter in his current state. He grimaced slightly as the warmth hit the back of his throat.

“It’s good,” he said, though his tone was strained. “Better than what I’d make myself.” You didn’t respond immediately, watching as he took another sip, then placed the mug back on the table. His eyes, sharp and calculating even when half-lidded, flicked up to meet yours. “I assume you’re not going to let me off the hook with just this?” You gave him a small smirk, leaning back slightly, but never breaking eye contact. "No, I’m not. You’re obviously not *fine*."

The Jackal exhaled sharply through his nose. "I’ve had worse," he muttered, a hint of irritation in his voice. "This is nothing." You raised an eyebrow.

"Right. You look like you're ready to drop dead." He didn’t respond immediately, his usual steely reserve starting to slip just a little as the flu took its toll on him. He looked like he wanted to argue—he usually did—but he was too tired to carry on with the usual back-and-forth.

After a beat, he shifted on the couch, his legs stretching out, and a small sigh escaped him, one that was almost involuntary."You don’t need to stay," he said, his tone a little softer than usual. "I’m just... waiting it out. It’ll pass."

You couldn’t help the small, affectionate smile that tugged at your lips. "You’re really not good at this ‘letting someone help’ thing, are you?" His lips twitched into the slightest of smiles, but it was gone in an instant. “It’s... unnecessary.” The Jackal had always been a man who didn’t need anyone. He was methodical, sharp—always the one in control. But you’d seen him worn down before, and though he hated showing any vulnerability, you could tell this flu was taking more out of him than he was willing to admit. He wasn't accustomed to being in a situation where he couldn't maintain his usual distance from everything.

"You’re impossible," you said, standing up and leaning over to adjust the blanket he had wrapped around himself. "You’ll make yourself worse if you keep this up." He didn’t fight it. Instead, he shifted slightly.

There was a faint flicker of gratitude in his eyes, but it was brief, almost imperceptible. “Don’t get any ideas,” he muttered, though the sharpness in his voice had all but disappeared. You chuckled softly, sitting down next to him on the couch, close enough to be present, but still leaving him with that space he seemed to need. “I’m not going to start making you soup or anything. But I’ll stay for a while.” He raised an eyebrow, his expression still cool, though there was a hint of something else in his gaze.

“Good,” he said, with the faintest trace of a smile. You let the silence settle in between you, not trying to push anything further. The Jackal wasn’t one for idle conversation—especially not when he was unwell—but you could tell the presence of someone else, even in the simplest form, was enough for him right now. After a while, you noticed that he was sinking deeper into the couch, his posture slackening in a way that was unusual for him. He wasn’t completely out of it, but you could see his body succumbing to the fatigue of being ill, his usual sharpness and attention to detail slipping away with every passing minute.

“I suppose you’re going to lecture me on ‘taking it easy’ now,” he said, his eyes half-lidded and his voice a little more drowsy than he probably intended.You shook your head with a small laugh. “No lectures. Just... rest. I’m not going anywhere.” He let out a soft sigh, one that was more content than anything else. And for a moment, just for that brief, rare moment, you saw a different side of the Jackal—the man who was usually calculating, always calculating, now simply existing in quiet, unspoken comfort. You didn’t need to say anything else. The two of you sat there in the soft, fading light of the evening, the only sounds the occasional shift of the Jackal’s breath, the low hum of the house. He might not have admitted it aloud, but you both knew this moment, this bit of peace, was rare. And maybe, just for tonight, it was enough.

[notdacota]

Look at him and his lakatiņš(needed embarrassing amount of time to remember word handkerchief in English instead of latvian😹)

[notdacota]

under the weather

Jackal X reader

Summary: Jackal returns from his mission feeling blue, but luckily his s/o is already at home waiting for him.

A/n: I originally wrote this with my oc in mind, but then decided to make it suitable for everyone. Hope that I didn't mess up, I rarely write in second person. Btw I know it's Newt and not jackal in this pic, but hey there are not a lot of screen shots from this TV series...

It was a grey, soggy Sunday evening. The rain was pouring outside. The kind of rain that soaked through everything, turning the world outside into a blur. Jackal was feeling under the weather too, he had never liked rainy days. His boots squelched on the damp pavement as he made his way home, the chill of the air sinking deep into his bones.

As he entered the apartment, he was greeted by the soft hum of the television and laptop key clicking — You were already home. You were sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open, absorbed in the last article for your publisher, fingers tapping rhythmically on the keys. The documentary on the screen about obscure French art movements played quietly in the background, a sharp contrast to the rain outside. Jackal didn’t even bother to take off his wet coat. He slumped into the chair across from you, a strange sense of vulnerability hanging over him. Usually, he was the silent type—cool, collected, unemotional. But today, something had shifted inside him. He left his wet coat on the chair and stood there for a few moments, staring at the floor. It didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right. Just… tired. Too tired.

“It’s… it’s been a long-long day.”

The rain outside seemed to make everything feel heavier, even the air felt thick. You finally noticed him sitting here, looking like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. You glanced at him, momentarily distracted from writing. You saw the rare crack in his usually impenetrable demeanor.

“You okay?" You asked, barely glancing up from the screen.

Jackal blinked, his expression blank for a second before he answered, his voice quieter than usual. “I dunno. Just… off. Tired. And cold.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then rubbed his face like he was trying to wake himself up. You raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. You knew him well enough to know when he wasn’t in the mood to talk.

“You want some tea? There's some mint tea in kettle.” you offered, turning attention back to your work.

Jackal nodded slowly, not quite looking at you. “Yeah. Thanks,” he said, dragging himself to the kitchen counter. He fumbled with the kettle for a moment, moving slowly, like even the simple task of pouring tea into a mug was just too much effort.

After a few quiet minutes, he returned to the couch, tea in hand. He didn’t sit properly—just collapsed into it, legs stretched out, staring blankly at the wall. His body was there, but his mind wasn’t. It was like he couldn’t focus on anything for too long. You glanced at him again, watching for a second. You didn’t say anything. He wasn’t asking for help, not really. But he was definitely *off*. Jackal wasn’t usually the type to act this way. Today, though, it was like everything had slowed down for him. Like he couldn’t catch up. He took a sip of his tea, barely noticing how hot it was.

The silence stretched on, with only the low hum of the documentary in the background. Jackal didn’t speak for a while. His eyes stayed fixed on nothing in particular, his hands After a few quiet minutes, he returned to the couch, tea in hand. He didn’t sit properly—just collapsed into it, legs stretched out, staring blankly at the wall. His body was there, but his mind wasn’t. It was like he couldn’t focus on anything for too long. He gave a small, tired grunt, which was enough for you to see that he was lost in his own head, somewhere far away. You didn’t know what he was thinking, and he wasn’t about to explain.

Then Jackal finally looked over at you. His voice was softer, almost like he didn’t want to admit it, but he said it anyway. “I just… feel weird today. I dunno why.”

You just nodded. “Yeah. It’s one of those days, I guess everyone have those from time to time.”

He gave a small, tired grunt, like that was enough to explain everything. Then, after a few seconds, he let out a sigh and shifted slightly, moving just enough to sit up a little more. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t ask for anything. But somehow, just knowing you were here was enough. Outside rain kept pouring, but right here, at home, Jackal let himself be just a little *off* for once. And you, well, you just let him be.

[notdacota]

Nothing out of ordinary

Jackal lives a life of routine, the kind where even small details matter: a cup of coffee brewed to a specific strength, a room that must always be impeccably organized, and moments where he pauses, just a flicker of emotion crossing his face, before resuming his work.

He’s methodical, but not without a strange kind of vulnerability in private moments—perhaps in the way he carefully sharpens his knives, or the way he adjusts his collar when he's alone. It’s almost as if he’s trying to remind himself that he's still human, even as he carries out inhuman tasks. The way he holds himself, shoulders tight, head slightly tilted as if always observing, betrays an almost anxious energy.

But there's one thing that sticks with you: he’s always just a bit *too* polite, as if politeness is an armor for him, a way to stay detached from whatever fleeting humanity he still clings to. Even his voice, soft and deliberate, often betrays a coldness beneath.

At night, though, he’s haunted by strange dreams—unsettling flashes of faces, brief glimpses of emotions he’s long since buried.

Still, in the everyday moments—drinking his coffee, checking his watch, adjusting his gloves—he’s just a man doing a job, like anyone else, lost in the rhythm of the ordinary.