Chapter Text
Deimos screams.
He hasn't stretched his withered vocal cords beyond a low rasp in years. But now, in this reeking hole, brimming with agony and death, he's found a warm, living body.
One of only two warm, living bodies he's loved since a too-brief childhood mostly forgotten long ago.
Abel is there in an instant. "What?! What did you find! Is it..."
It is.
They both ignore the increasingly concerned shouts from the radio, too absorbed in what they're seeing, until Praxis charges into the miserable little cell.
"DEIMOS! Are you OK?! Abel, what happened?"
The big Fighter grabs the tiny one and starts to examine him for injuries, knowing better than to expect a verbal response. Deimos gives one anyway: a harsh, painful cry as he clutches at Praxis with one trembling hand and reaches the other toward what lies between him and Abel.
Praxis takes one look, lurches to the other side of the cell, and throws up.
The crumpled mess is alive, technically, though they can't see how. Every limb is crooked in at least two places. Most of the skin is puckered and criss-crossed with scars and still-oozing wounds. Half of the face is practically gone. Even Abel wouldn't have known him but for a few faded aqua streaks in the filthy, matted hair.
Praxis picks up the limp, emaciated form as gently as he can. A few patches of damaged skin stick to the floor and tear off. Together, the three of them convey their burden back to where Ethos is guarding the Tiberius and the Equinox.
Through the whole walk, and the whole flight back to the Sleipnir, and the whole aftermath, and for as long as he can afterward, Abel refuses to be separated from what everyone else considers a corpse too stubborn to finish dying. He holds the twisted hands, strokes and kisses the ruined face, and whispers, "Cain. Come back. Please come back, Cain. I love you. Please come back to me."