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“You sure are bony,” he grumbles to Stinger one night in the kitchen, when all ten of them are packed in to get Spada’s baked lasagna fresh from the oven. He takes up one whole corner of the kitchen by himself, and Stinger is the only other person sharing his space.
Stinger glances at him, then at where his elbow rests, leaning on Champ’s arm. The tips of his ears flush red, but he says, in a voice that implies an eye roll, “Aren’t you a robot? How are you complaining about this?”
Champ chuckles. “Just ‘cause I’m a robot doesn’t mean I can’t feel you.” He catches Stinger’s hand before he can pull himself away. “Doesn’t mean I want you to move, either.”
“Oh.” Stinger blinks at him, then slowly settles back into his position against the wall, eyes darting away to survey the chaos of the rest of their team yelling for more food while Spada attempts to get everyone fed before curfew. “Bet you didn’t miss this, though.”
“Sure I did.” Champ looks over at him, finds himself suddenly lost in studying Stinger, the way he stands, the color of his hair, the cut of his jawline and the softness of his cheeks. The noise around them fades to a dull hum in his sensory systems. “Missed you and your bony arms, too. Suppose I just forgot, with the upgraded memory and all, just how you all are.”
Stinger looks sideways at him, questioning. “Forgot what, exactly?”
Champ gestures with the arm that Stinger hasn’t claimed. “How loud they are. How good Spada’s cooking is, and how much everyone wants it. How…” He pauses, shifting slightly. Stinger’s arm slides over his, the leather of his jacket wrinkling with the movement. When he speaks again, his voice is much quieter than it should ordinarily be. “I think I forgot what you looked like, for a bit.”
Stinger stops and turns, his eyes widening as he looks at Champ. His elbow is no longer digging into Champ’s arm, but he’s still close enough that, in the crowded kitchen, Champ can easily hear his breathing, can watch his hair falling into his eyes. Stinger looks – a little terrified, all of a sudden, quickly covered up.
“That’s weird,” Stinger says slowly. “I could never forget what you look like.” He stretches a hand out and knocks his fingers against the joints of Champ’s upper arm. “Always blocking my sun.”
Champ laughs, hearty and warm, feeling the strange sadness that had come from his admission dissolve around them. “Good to know, partner.”
Spada interrupts before Stinger’s smile can properly bloom, shoving a bowl of lasagna into his arms. “Take it and go,” he says with a sigh. “There’s probably not gonna be leftovers.”
“Thanks,” Stinger says, mildly amused. He glances back at Champ, then inclines his head to the doorway as Spada heads off to deal with Kotaro spilling the red sauce on the counter. “I don’t suppose you’re waiting for dinner, too.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Champ nudges him in the arm as the two of them navigate around their various teammates towards the door. “Had my dinner earlier at that party you skipped out on.”
Stinger’s lips twitch. “I see.” Out in the relative quiet of the hallway, he stops in his path and looks over at Champ, gaze turning soft and thoughtful as Champ draws to a stop as well. “Did you really forget what I looked like?”
“Not exactly, but…” Champ shrugs one shoulder. “They implanted all my memories into the new systems successfully, but they felt… distant. Like I remembered being out in the streets with you, but not…” He pauses and lifts a hand to touch Stinger’s head, just to remind himself that this is all real. “Not how you felt. You were like a picture in a storybook.”
Stinger tilts his head, leaning into the touch. His hair is soft under Champ’s fingers, falling loose from his usual style after the day’s lengthy events.
“Hey,” Stinger says. “I’m glad you came back.”
His voice is light, but far more earnest than he’s ever been, eyes wide like he’s trying to impress upon Champ just how much he feels this.
Champ laughs and slides his hand down Stinger’s face, stopping at his shoulder and squeezing. “Me, too.”
“Do you remember,” Stinger begins thoughtfully, turning and resuming their walk back to their rooms, “the first night I stayed on the Orion with all of you? And you followed me to my room and threatened me that if I ever hurt any of them, you’d make me pay?”
“I stand by that,” Champ tells him, mock-seriously. Stinger ducks his head to hide his smile and Champ chuckles. “I do remember that. And you told me to fuck off.”
“I didn’t tell you to fuck off,” Stinger protests.
“Not in so many words, no, but it was implied.”
“Well, you deserved it.”
“Not as much as you did.”
Stinger pauses, then concedes, “Fair enough.”
.
He’d also forgotten just how frustratingly fragile humans can be.
Of course, Stinger is neither human nor as fragile as any random Earthling, but the two of them are sparring in the training room below decks and Champ curses himself when he twists Stinger’s arm the wrong way and scratches the metal of his forearm against his skin.
Stinger, to his credit, doesn’t make a sound, but he pulls away as soon as Champ lets him go, his other hand rising to run over the raw red line of skin on his bare arm. He hadn’t been wearing his jacket, only his t-shirt and scarf, so the mark is especially noticeable.
“Shit,” Champ mutters, reaching forward to take Stinger’s arm and survey the damage himself. “I didn’t mean to – ”
“It’s fine,” Stinger says, shaking his head. “Relax. It’s just a scratch. I’ve gotten far worse just walking around on different planets.”
Champ has to physically calm himself down, to tell his core systems to stop whirring with worry. Of course, Stinger is right – it’s nothing, in the grand scheme of things. He’s definitely been hurt worse sparring with Lucky or Spada. It’s just a scratch.
And yet, the sight of it still unsettles him, like someone has knocked bolts and wires loose inside him. The skin he’s marred is so angrily red beneath the peeling white, running in a straight line up his forearm and stopping at his elbow, where his hand is curled, squeezing tight to displace the pain.
Stinger had been effectively benched following his departure from the Kyurangers to fight his brother, so he hadn’t been out in the field for weeks. Champ couldn’t even remember what he looked like when he was injured and in pain anymore, even though he knows, logically, that he’s seen it before.
“Champ,” Stinger says insistently, snapping his attention back to his partner. “Look at me.”
Champ looks at him. Stinger removes his hand from the scratched arm and lifts it to Champ’s face, cupping around the metal of his cheek and holding him eye level. Despite the appearance of his arm, he doesn’t look at all the worse for wear. Champ feels a surge of guilt, suddenly, for turning Stinger’s attention away from his own injury to comforting him.
But Stinger just says, voice soft and low, “I know it’s hard to remember, but you’ve seen me deal with worse. I’m going to be fine.”
“I know.” Champ exhales a puff of steam. Stinger doesn’t move away. “I know, you’re made of stronger stuff than that. I just… forgot.”
Stinger smiles a little, and lets Champ touch his arm gingerly, running his fingers over the soft skin, tracing around the scratches carefully. “What kind of partner would I be if I went down that easy?” he asks, lightly teasing.
Champ chuckles and pulls his hand back. Stinger keeps his where it is for a moment. “Well, let’s get you bandaged up, and then we’ll see just how easy you go down.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Stinger says, raising an eyebrow. “I was totally about to win.”
“Dream on, pal.”
.
There’s a room just off the hallway where all their living quarters are located, an empty study that opens up onto a balcony where you can see the stars floating around the ship.
Champ hadn’t gone there much – it was always more of a human thing; he’d seen Hammy and Spada both spend nights out on the balcony, stargazing and thinking and missing their homes. He’d mostly gone out there to make sure they weren’t freezing to death, or to keep them company while they sat there.
But he remembers he’d liked that balcony – it had two chairs, a table with fake flowers on it, and wind chimes above. More than that, it had the best view of the galaxy – not a single window elsewhere in the Orion could match that. And it was good for other things, like self-reflection and finding some peace and quiet away from the hustle and bustle of the ship.
Which was why he’s standing in the hallway, his systems whirring as he tries to remember which door it was that led to the balcony. He’s already tried three, to no avail.
Stinger finds him as he pinpoints door number four and gets ready to try the lock. “What are you doing?”
Champ turns to look at him, taking in the lack of Rebellion jacket and the mug of steaming liquid in his hands. “You’re awake,” he says in surprise. The Orion’s sleeping schedule is rarely enforced, but still, most of them go to bed for the eight hours that the ship is darkened all around.
Stinger nods and makes a face down at his mug. “This, uh, Earth substance? Coffee? Extremely good for keeping one awake, as it turns out.”
“Why do you need to be awake?” Champ asks suspiciously.
Stinger meets his gaze and arches an eyebrow. “Why do you need to be awake?”
“I’m a robot,” Champ reminds him.
“That’s a cop-out answer and you know it.”
Champ stares at him for a moment, then chuckles. “Fine. I didn’t need any rest, so I thought I’d try to… find this little balcony around here. But I guess – I guess I can’t remember where it is.”
He can feel his eyes flash in frustration, a snort escaping him. He hates this part, the rare moments after the triumph of coming back to the battlefield, where something he used to know by heart is just outside his memory systems, blocked off no matter how hard he tries to reach it. The Headquarters technicians had given him back all the most important parts of his life, but some of the little things managed to fall through the cracks.
“A balcony?” Stinger muses. He steps around Champ, studies the fourth door he’d been about to try, then walks further down the hallway, two doors down. “Try this one.”
Champ follows him to the door and presses in the basic keycode for the unused rooms. The door swings open with a creak, into a perfectly-arranged guest bedroom, and white curtains leading to a balcony.
Amazed, he crosses the room to open the balcony doors. “How’d you know where this was?” he asks Stinger over his shoulder.
Stinger shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. “I’m a spy. I had this whole ship mapped out the first time I came on it.”
Champ snorts in a way he hopes comes across more as exasperated than fond. From the little smile on Stinger’s lips, he doesn’t quite succeed. “You’re not a spy.”
“Anymore,” Stinger corrects. He waves a hand at the open balcony and adds, “All yours, then.”
“You’re not gonna stay?” Champ asks.
Stinger hesitates. “Do you… want me to?”
“Don’t be stupid.” Champ steps back and gestures for Stinger to join him at the threshold. “Of course I want you to stay.”
Stinger traces the edge of his coffee mug as he comes to stand next to Champ. “I just figured you wanted some solitude.”
“I’m not you,” Champ teases, nudging him in the arm. Stinger’s mouth quirks in a grin for a brief moment. “I don’t need to be totally alone to be at peace, or whatever. ‘Sides, I like having you around.”
Stinger looks at him sideways, going to sit down in one of the chairs. “Yeah?”
“‘Course,” Champ says, chuckling as he moves the table aside and pushes the other chair up next to Stinger’s. “That’s what partners are for, aren’t they?”
“I suppose so.” Stinger downs a gulp of coffee, then places his mug on the ground next to him, apparently finished with it. “I wouldn’t exactly know. I never had one before… before you.”
“Never would’ve guessed,” Champ says dryly. Stinger pushes his arm so it slides off the chair’s armrest, and he laughs. “I’m kidding. You know, if you weren’t so prickly all the time, I’m sure the others wouldn’t mind going on missions with you more often. You just intimidate them, is all.”
Stinger snorts. “I don’t think I could intimidate a fly in this ship anymore. They’ve all seen me being a sobbing wreck.” He says this with a huff of displeasure that Champ doesn’t think is entirely genuine.
“I think that’s a good thing,” he suggests, trying not to laugh. “Makes you seem more approachable.”
Stinger scowls at him. “I don’t want to be approachable.”
Sure you don’t, Champ thinks but wisely decides to let it drop for now. Stinger has come a long way since they met, but not everyone could just muscle their way into his life the way that Champ had.
Instead, he says, “Hmm,” and turns to survey the stars just beyond the balcony instead. The view of space here is something else – back home, in the Taurus system, stars had been distant, twinkling lights, often covered up with clouds. Here, floating around Earth’s atmosphere, they are bright, unrivaled by anything else, and compounded by the vastness of the sky around them.
Stinger seems like he wants to say something else, tugging on the edges of his scarf, but he seems to change his mind at the last minute. “Did you really forget where to find this place?” he asks, glancing at Champ as if to gauge his reaction.
Champ remains silent for a moment, thinking, then says, “Just couldn’t remember the right door, that’s all.”
There’s a pause where he thinks Stinger is going to drop it, but then he feels warm fingers slide into his palm. Stinger isn’t looking at him as he curls his palm around Champ’s, his hand terribly small and fragile in his, and intertwines their fingers, a blush rising on his cheeks as he does.
“Good thing you have me, huh?” Stinger says, a small smile quirking one corner of his lips.
Champ stares at him in surprise, then has to try and stop a loud laugh from bubbling out of him. “Yeah,” he agrees, running his thumb over the back of Stinger’s palm, relishing in how warm and soft his skin is, in the feeling of his pulse fluttering at his wrist. “Good thing I got you.”