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The light had long since faded from the sky. A once vibrant, cherry-tinted airspace had sunken into pitch black darkness. Somehow, when the world was blanketed in shade, the desert sand at your feet felt more alive than ever. Vast, dry dunes felt like cold, still seas of blood, and that with one wrong step you’d fall below it and be swallowed whole. Nevada had truly devolved into a special kind of hell. If you were to survive in this world, you had only two options to choose from. Either you gave into the ever growing capitol that was Nexus, or you struggled to survive out in the middle of nowhere like the hellbeast you were. Many gave in after starving for months in the rugged terrain. Many lost their sanity. Many died.
Through the haze of a corrupted desert, a lone man trudged through it resolutely. His black leather jacket swayed loosely with the cold desert winds, brushing under his shirt and beneath his mask. The stiff, earthy smell of metal, blood, and dirt flooded his nostrils. It was a smell he had come to tolerate as normal. For Hank, this was all normal. The daily struggle. The constant fight for survival. This was his preferred reality.
Between his fingers, a long, heavy piece of jagged metal dangled loosely in his grip. The improvised weapon dug lines into the sand wherever he went, leaving behind long, shallow indentions in his wake. Sometimes the trail lasted for miles. Some, only a few steps. Yet his eyes remained transfixed far ahead of him, and no matter how far he seemed to come, his pursuit never slowed or faltered. Just a steady, constant pace that led him deeper and deeper into the inescapable sea of red. Not that he tried. Not that he ever would.
His muscles never seemed to tire. His pace never stalled. Yet after miles upon miles of aimless progress through pitch darkness, his destination finally became clear. Cold, desolate buildings; empty and long since neglected. Finally…
Hank couldn’t call it home. No place had ever felt hospitable enough to call a home, even before the Madness took over Nevada. He’d moved from place to place so often, never to settle down. This dim, barren facility was just another brick in the wall. Another story to tell. Another experience to tuck under his belt. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The black-clad renegade loomed in the doorway like a serial killer from a horror movie, the blackened void of Nevada’s night sky behind him highlighting his silhouette - though the outline barely discernible from the rest of his surroundings. With the poise of a war-hardened criminal, he stepped inside. The heavy metal head of his weapon scraped along the concrete as he entered, the awful scratching bouncing off of the plain walls and echoing far beyond their reach. Crimson sand followed just behind, leading a sequence of chalky white stripes across the room until the metal finally dropped from his grasp. It clattered to the ground heavily, announcing his presence to whoever would listen, but still fell upon deafening silence.
His heavy boots slowly progressed through the halls, gradually bringing him to the first room he could stumble upon. His hand graced the doorway as he leaned inside to check its contents, leaving behind a handprint painted with rust and blood. Under the darkened tint of his glasses, there was little to nothing he could see in the lightless room. Once he stood long enough, the outlines of the room eventually grew visible. Nothing but an empty, concrete rectangle. His attention slowly fell to the floor where an obscure shape began to take form, but found little interest in the motionless, humanoid figure. He idled in the doorway for what felt like a long time, watching the undefined shapes for movement.
Nothing came of it.
Hank dragged his fingers down the aging door frame before turning back around. This wasn’t what he had been searching for. His casual pace resumed once more, slowly investigating the rest of the facility. A dim, flashing light caught his eye from down the hallway. Quietly, his venture brought him directly to it, where he peeked into the room to satisfy his curiosity.
There it was.
The source of the light was cast from an open laptop, slowly flashing on and off again in a rhythmic pattern. Seated in front of the light was the outline of a chair. No, a man. Among all of the lifeless scraps and fliers was a single body. Him.
Hank, behind crimson glasses, scanned the scene silently, the sickly green light reflecting poorly off of his contrasting lenses. Once more he waited for any sign of life, but all the same, found none. It had taken several minutes of lingering before he was fully convinced that the shape was in fact stationary; only then did he enter the room. Every step he made brought him closer to the shadowed figure illuminated only by the dim red light flashing off and on. Off. And on. Wimbleton loomed over the chair’s shoulder when he came to a stop, peering down at the mass of black he could not comprehend very well. His breath was steady, falling and rising in his chest. The obnoxious fading and growing of light that radiated from the computer did him no favors to let his eyes adjust under the poor lighting. After some time, he felt it had been long enough. He raised his hand diligently, his fingertips gracing along the laptop’s edge.
The figure rose at once at lightning speed, slamming into Hank’s body with a force great enough to make him take a single step back. A sharp, aggressive pain plunged into the back of his wrist, and a burning hot liquid trickled down his skin at once. Savage claws gripped at his jacket and shirt, trying to take him down, but by then Hank had rooted himself firmly in place. He stood calmly for a long, quiet moment, the silence draining the room of any peace it had once holstered. His silent, methodical stare sat softly on the shadowed form now pressed up against him, baring its teeth up at him with a familiar, piercing shade of red to match. Hank’s fingers twitched on their own accord, blood running feverishly down his palm and onto the floor. Once the initial shock had worn down, the negative feelings began to clear. Everything began to clear.
“...Hank? Oh my god-”
The unspecific figure pushed away from the taller man’s clothes hastily, and darted toward the table he had previously been settled at. An unpleasant scratching sound caught in his ears, and a brand new spark of light flourished from a battered matchstick. The small birth of light was transferred to a candle that had long since been extinguished. It had seen much better days, but it provided a wider spread of light around the dreary room. It did the job. At last, Hank could see again. 2bdamned, in all of his flushed glory, briskly returned to his side. The blonde quickly set the candle down and grasped Hank’s hand in both of his own, examining the damage he had just done. An old, blunt kitchen knife, unevenly sharpened back into usefulness, was still firmly stuck between his radius and ulna. Blood dribbled from the large wound it had sliced open. Somehow, Hank didn’t seem the least bit phased
“Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of me. I’m so sorry-” The medic’s hands curled into Hank’s sleeve, getting a good grasp of the old, ratty leather. “Come here, let-”
The rest of the words fell from his lips without intention of ever completing the thought. Hank was beckoned to sit at the table behind them, furnishing that Hank was not unaware of, but was currently unable to see under the cover of darkness. With the aid of the candle, he managed to seat himself down among the wild scraps of paper strewn about. Their ‘dining’ table had been salvaged from the next building over, the wood molded and scarred after decades of abuse. Metal tools and broken machinery clogged up nearly all of its tablespace, some left abandoned on the floor when the surface proved insufficient. 2b brushed many of the table’s contents haphazardly onto the pale tiles, adding to the clutter in order to make way for the injured renegade. Among the mess, Hank set his elbow down in clear space. He seemed pretty neutral, all things considered.
Comfortable silence fell between them both as time followed. The knife was removed, carefully, and the gash was swiftly wrapped up to slow the bleeding. The open wound was cleaned with rationed out water. A pungent mix of antibiotics was applied at some point, though Hank had long since lost interest in the procedure. Instead, his sights remained fixed on the doctor himself. It wasn’t until the blonde had begun to stitch up the lesion that the silence finally broke. For once, it was not the medic who spoke first.
“Why were you sleeping in a chair?”
2bdamned hesitated above his patient, staring at the long, black threads without meeting Hank’s expectant gaze. Then he resumed, though slower than before.
“Do you have any better ideas? There’s only one bed. I’d rather Sanford have it.”
Hank tilted his head down towards his chest, letting the reply sink in without further prompting. There was no need to elaborate. His stare alone made Doc’s skin crawl. The curved needle wound in and out of Wimbleton’s skin, pulling the laceration shut stitch by stitch.
“I’m up late, anyways. It’s fine.”
2b snipped the end of the thread and set to packing away whatever was left. The tools were pushed aside to be sterilized, mingling with the clustered mess that already lined the table. His gloves came off quickly after, and the blonde was already in search of a replacement. The incisive red glasses stuck to his back stubbornly, evoking a progressively more defensive attitude.
“I’m fine, Wimbleton.”
The hacker stretched himself out as he stood, not so subtly trying to mask how he was avoiding the conversation. His body flinched suddenly, a painful crack emanating from his back that brought him to an immediate standstill. Doc softly pressed the back of his hand against his hip, nursing the pain until it faded away. Hank’s judgement did not cease.
The black-clad mercenary reached forward and pinched the wick of the candlelight between his fingers, snuffing out the miniscule flame.
“How did your scouting go?”
He hardly acknowledged the sound of leather shuffling behind him, taking the noise with a grain of salt. The rogue had been out in the deserts of Nevada all day. No doubt he was eager to get out of his day clothes, at least for a little while.
“Did you find any-”
2bdamned’s eyes shot wide open. He could hardly see anything in this darkness, but was well aware of the hands that chose to snake around his sides. He choked on his breath as his body was pulled backwards against his will, and soon found himself pressed up against Hank’s chest. His initial reaction was utterly disgusted, panic fluttering through his lungs. Hank had god-knows-what kind of germs all over him, and no doubt smelled downright unholy. His face crinkled up in horror as his hands graced the bare skin of the merc’s shoulder, searching for some ground to push away from, but couldn’t help but stall when he realized how careful the hold seemed to feel. Perhaps it was the drop in temperature the desert night beckoned in, but Hank was, thankfully, not tacky with sweat - as he had been worried he would. Both of Hank’s arms enveloped him stubbornly, and the medic began to melt into the black material behind him. Fighting against Hank was useless, after all. The man was an absolute monster. He had no hope of escaping such a position unless it was a fight to the death. Hardly worth the effort, if he must admit. Regardless, it felt rather...intimate. An anxious lump began to grow in the doctor’s throat, his head leaning back against the stiff muscle of Hank’s chest. Man was too well built for his own good.
“Hank-”
“You look like shit.”
2b suddenly frowned, unimpressed, and frankly slightly offended by how quickly the mood had shifted. God damn it. Slumping his shoulders, 2bdamned huffed and intentionally elbowed the rogue in his side. The attempt did not grant him any more slack in Hank’s grip. The motherfucker was built like a mountain.
“Thanks.”
“You need to sleep.”
The hacker opened his mouth to speak, likely loading up with another spicy backlash, but his intentions fell short as Hank tightened his hold around his body. The broad, black trench cloak Hank typically wore was draped around both of his shoulders, encasing the medic in total bodily warmth. The smell of metal, cloth, and dry desert sand flooded his senses, associating aspects of it with Hank’s personal scent. His hands cautiously curved around the smaller man’s arms, keeping him firm against his body while they slowly began to sink to the floor. 2bdamned had no other choice but to follow, bending his knees to the whim of Hank’s descent. It was here, on the cold concrete floor, that he lay flush against Hank’s body.
“Real. Sleep.”
“I-”
“Don’t lie.”
The hacker shut his jaw abruptly, shame flooding over his face. This was hardly the position he wanted to be in. Wasn’t it rather childish to be treated this way? So what if he had missed a few hours of sleep? He could always earn them back later, even though he honestly had no intent of doing so. Hank’s hand trailed up to the doctor’s shoulder, insisting that he remain in place.
“You were up last night.”
2b gave in and let his head rest limply against Hank’s pectorals, his cheeks burning hot from getting called out on his bullshit.
“And the night before that.”
The medic curled his legs up defiantly, pulling himself into an insecure ball.
“And the night before that.”
His hands found their way to Hank’s arms, awkwardly asking the scarred merc to keep them there.
“And the night before that.”
His dull, gray eyes slipped shut, knitting his fine eyebrows. Visions of the worst plagued his mind.
“Tobi...”
2bdamned was not okay. Hank could sense the inhibition from a mile away. That’s all there was to it. 2b knew this too. He couldn’t keep his poor condition from Hank much longer. The bastard was too observant for his liking.
“And what would you have me do, Hank? You know as well as I, they want us dead.”
Hank tilted his head to the side, letting the tone of voice sink in. Up until recently, it had only been 2bdamned and Sanford. The arsonist seemed more than capable of handling things on his own, but perhaps 2b did not feel the same way. Perhaps he knew things that Hank did not. They had not yet discussed where either of them had come from, but sometimes you did not need all of the puzzle pieces in order to get the big picture.
All of this restlessness. The paranoia. The violent reactions to movement in the night. Tobias slept with a knife, if he slept at all. Hank was a smart man. It had all come to the same conclusion.
Hank caressed his doctor softly, resting his cold, metal chin down atop the messy blonde hair in his arms. This time, 2b did not fight the embrace, no matter how alien it felt for either of them.
“Let me watch.”
The hacker swallowed the painful lump in his throat, fighting his pride above anything else. How could he? How could he put that level of trust into anyone else's hands but his own? How could he expect anyone to do the job correctly? Yet his mind was reeling with desperate sobs to let Hank take over, begging for the warmth that encapsulated him so willingly. Wantingly. Hank was a mortifying man; who in their right mind would think he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tear a man’s spinal cord straight from his body without a second thought? Hell, he had personally witnessed Hank take out droves upon droves of agents all on his own, sometimes without any weapon at all.
Despite his better interest, the fact was indisputable. If anyone could protect them, it was Hank.
2bdamned never agreed to this idea, but he never disagreed either. Instead, the muscles in his body gradually gave up and sank against the towering renegade behind him. His fingers, shakily, had begun to stroke back and forth along Hank’s battle-scarred skin. The pleasant warmth that surrounded him opposed Nevada’s icy night air, and was possibly the most gentle, welcoming thing he’s experienced in many years. The touch of a man so terrifying, now solicitous, was enough to make him want to cry. His eyes felt so heavy he couldn’t keep them open a minute longer.
The black-clad mercenary sat in silence, watching the man in his arms grow limp from exhaustion. For the next several hours, it was all he did, his breath slow and worn from decades of nonstop struggle. Considerately, Hank gently pinched the rose-tinted glasses from 2bdamned’s face and set them to the floor beside them. The blonde did not stir. Calloused, worn fingers ran through the short, pale hair, observing how the medic quietly allowed him to do so. He was quite certain Tobias hadn’t slept like this in some years, even long before they had known one another.
The vibrant, Nevadan light bled through the halls at long last. The unnatural warmth of hellfire crawled through the doorways, and with it came the fresh air of another day living in such a hellscape. What it held, no one knew. The only constant was how Hank refused to tear his eyes away from his medic until daybreak. And even long after that.