[ He doesn't see it coming. That's the point he'll return to later, when the dust has settled. That he was too caught up in his own head to see her move and when his head finally made the connection, she was already in too close. One arm around his shoulder and a hand at the back of his head, pinning him tight. And he flinches. Stupidly, he flinches.
It shouldn't matter. She already hugged him back in the desert. They held hands in the aftermath, reaching out willingly to activate the empathy bond and paint the walls blue. But it had been more than that, too. More than just necessity. There had been trust, the sort of connection Ephemera had thought he had left behind. He let himself forget what it felt like. Fell into the battlefield patterns. Everyone is an enemy and every enemy wants to destroy you.
Do not let them, soldier. Finish your mission. Finish your fucking mission.
Their chests glow blue right through their clothes and Ephemera shudders all over. He feels too much. She understands and she knows and she wants, and he is so, so tired. The anger is comforting, a focus point in a universe that makes too much sense, and so he treasures it like a friend. But he can't be angry all the time, not in a way that matters, and it's those quiet moments that kill him. Because he starts talking to people and he'll come to know them if he's not careful. And he does know her, now.
Not in all ways. Not like his sisters. But it's been so very long since he's had a friend that his first impulse is to reach up and run a hand through her hair. To offer whatever comfort he can because Angela seems so very alone and she deserves something better. A chance to live her life, to find her people. Everyone should have that at least once.
He thinks of her origami, strangely. The precision of the angles. The sound it makes when she folds a crease. Clean, exact. And yet she still comes away with a picture at the end. A symbol, something tangible, that can be held in hand. He called her a SPARTAN when they first met and intended it as a taunt, a warning. I know what you are.
Funny, that. They know too much about each other now.
He shivers all over. Stands rigidly for too long, expecting pain. Her grip is solid, her hands strong, but she doesn't snap his neck. Doesn't slip a knife into his throat. Just holds him, one hand in his hair, brushing the edge of his scars, and the other arm tight around his shoulder.
Breathe, little brother.
Slowly, very slowly, he leans forward and bumps their heads together.
This cannot last. He knows how it's going to end. But, selfishly, he's glad they had a chance to met. That they could stand together for a little while. He thought he was done with that. Not enough of a person left in him to try. But here they are, here they stand, and there's a part of him that wishes it could last. He reaches up and touches her hair, lightly.
no subject
It shouldn't matter. She already hugged him back in the desert. They held hands in the aftermath, reaching out willingly to activate the empathy bond and paint the walls blue. But it had been more than that, too. More than just necessity. There had been trust, the sort of connection Ephemera had thought he had left behind. He let himself forget what it felt like. Fell into the battlefield patterns. Everyone is an enemy and every enemy wants to destroy you.
Do not let them, soldier. Finish your mission. Finish your fucking mission.
Their chests glow blue right through their clothes and Ephemera shudders all over. He feels too much. She understands and she knows and she wants, and he is so, so tired. The anger is comforting, a focus point in a universe that makes too much sense, and so he treasures it like a friend. But he can't be angry all the time, not in a way that matters, and it's those quiet moments that kill him. Because he starts talking to people and he'll come to know them if he's not careful. And he does know her, now.
Not in all ways. Not like his sisters. But it's been so very long since he's had a friend that his first impulse is to reach up and run a hand through her hair. To offer whatever comfort he can because Angela seems so very alone and she deserves something better. A chance to live her life, to find her people. Everyone should have that at least once.
He thinks of her origami, strangely. The precision of the angles. The sound it makes when she folds a crease. Clean, exact. And yet she still comes away with a picture at the end. A symbol, something tangible, that can be held in hand. He called her a SPARTAN when they first met and intended it as a taunt, a warning. I know what you are.
Funny, that. They know too much about each other now.
He shivers all over. Stands rigidly for too long, expecting pain. Her grip is solid, her hands strong, but she doesn't snap his neck. Doesn't slip a knife into his throat. Just holds him, one hand in his hair, brushing the edge of his scars, and the other arm tight around his shoulder.
Breathe, little brother.
Slowly, very slowly, he leans forward and bumps their heads together.
This cannot last. He knows how it's going to end. But, selfishly, he's glad they had a chance to met. That they could stand together for a little while. He thought he was done with that. Not enough of a person left in him to try. But here they are, here they stand, and there's a part of him that wishes it could last. He reaches up and touches her hair, lightly.
It won't last. But it's nice, for a moment. ]