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Tenor
Palomo doesn’t call his shots anymore.
“It makes it like a game, see?” Felix had said. Palomo never held a gun before. He had only ever seen them in movies. Even in a video game, he could barely hit anything. But Felix pressed the gun into his hands and guided him over to the targets.
Everyone else had left, more than a few snickering behind their hands at the loser who dropped his gun the first time he pulled the trigger, so startled by the noise, he almost screamed. Palomo’s face still burned under his helmet as he watched Felix set up the cones and empty boxes. He moved back to Palomo’s side and clapped his shoulder as he pointed at the last cone. “That one, the very top.”
Felix pulled the trigger and with a pop that only made Palomo flinch a little as the cone toppled over, the bullet barely grazing it. “See?”
“I guess.” He didn’t really see, but Felix didn’t have to know that. “It’s not like there’s points though.”
“There can be.” Felix shrugged and pointed at the next box over. “See that one? You hit the top right corner, that’s twenty points. Ten for the bottom right, and fifty if you hit that stupid sticker on the side there.”
Palomo frowned for a second. The points weren’t real, they didn’t matter, but… he was pretty sure he could hit that sticker. He couldn’t, but he still grinned when his shot struck the corner and made the box turn sharpy and slip off the ledge Felix had stacked it on. “Twenty points!”
Nodding, Felix brought a hand down on Palomo’s helmet, almost like he was ruffling his hair. “Not bad, kid. Let’s line up some more.”
Felix was right, calling shots, making up scores, it made it easier, almost fun. He used to do it with Rogers and Cunningham, then Bitters and Jensen. But now he has to wonder, if Felix took a shot at him… how many points would he be worth?
The shooting ranges in Armonia are, well, a lot nicer than the ones back at the old base. Everything’s a lot nicer here. Tongue between his teeth, he takes aim at the target across the way as Jensen lands a shot on the one next to it.
“Yes! Ten points!”
Palomo winces. He can’t help it. His arm feels a little wilty as he holds it up to meet her for a high five. “Y’know, I’m kinda over the whole ‘points’ thing. It’s not like there’s any actual scores,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “Captain Tucker says it’s immature.”
He doesn’t, but Jensen doesn’t need to know that. She’s not wearing her helmet, so he can see her lower lip stick out as she fusses with her braids. “Really? That doesn’t sound like him.”
“Yeah, well, he said it. So.” Palomo shrugs like that settles things and turns his attention back to the targets.
“I think you’re just mad I had more points than you.”
Palomo flinches and his shot hits the wall behind the target. Not even close. “Am not! Keeping score is for stupid kids.”
Jensen’s got her hands on her hips, obviously not buying it. Crap. “That’s not what you said last week. You were rubbing it in Bitters’s face when--”
“Yeah, well, that was before.” It’s been a long week, one of the longest in his life, Palomo doesn’t need more reminders of that. He turns away and tries to take another shot. There’s an unpleasant clicking crunching sound as the gun jams and he groans. Stupid old thing.
“Before what, Palomo?” Jensen sounds like she wants to argue. She’s good at arguing when she wants to be.
“Nothing. Just forget it. I’m gonna get a new gun.” He tosses the old one to the floor and gets twenty steps out of the building before remembering he needs to bring it with him if he’s going to make a trade. Stupid gun. Stupid points. Stupid Felix.
Jensen doesn’t follow him at least, but he almost wishes she would. Being left along with his own stupid brain is worse. There’s no one at the armory but the weird robot guy when he gets there. He triest for about ten minutes to try to talk him into trading weapons before the robot puts a ‘closed’ sign on the desk and just stares at him over it. Well… if they’re closed, there’s not much he can do about that, so he sighs and walks away.
He keeps walking until he’s back at their building. He’s stuck close with the other rebels, a building away from the captains. The rest of Armonia still feels dangerous, like he doesn’t really belong there. Sometimes he’s pretty sure the Feds are just waiting for a few of them to go off on their own so they can kick the crap out of them. A couple of guys almost cornered him the other day before Captain Caboose showed up, one massive hand settling on Palomo’s shoulder as he gently babbled at the Feds until they awkwardly backed away.
The captains are all really cool. Palomo casts a glance toward the building they’ve called dibs on it. There’s splashes of blue and red paint all over it. For a second, he almost goes over, almost knocks on the door, almost tries to nag Captain Tucker into hanging out with him. But… he can’t.
How would Tucker feel if he knew Felix had him calling his shots? Counting up points for every hit he managed to land? Palomo feels his stomach turn and heads for his room.
A couple members of Bitters’s squad nod at him as he passes through the main room, but none of them look like they’re feeling very chatty. Orange squad has that whole ‘too cool for school’ vibe down. Blue squad are the ones to go to when someone needs a shoulder to lean on, but… yeah, Palomo doesn’t think he could tak Smith’s gentle voice and consoling tone right now. And he’s been sort of… distant the last few days. Maybe Felix is bugging him too.
But when he gets up to Smith’s room, he lifts his hand and can’t bring himself to knock. He’s probably got better things to do. And it’s not like Palomo even knows what he wants to say, maybe if he writes it down first… yeah, yeah that’s a good idea.
Or it is until it’s three hours later and he’s got a floor covered in crumpled up bits of paper and a datapad he’s only been using for spell check laying face down on the floor where it landed after he accidentally kicked it off his bed. What is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to talk about this? Bitters keeps saying it shouldn’t matter, Felix didn’t care about them, so they shouldn’t care about him, but… but that’s not the problem. It’s not that easy.
Palomo smacks his hands against his bed and lets out a noise of frustration. Sitting up, he presses his forehead to his knees and throws his arms over his head. He can’t do this. He can’t talk about it. He shouldn’t.
Because it’s not just Felix. It’s not Felix he’s mad at. Not really. It’s himself. Felix gave him the idea, but he’s the one that bought into the game.
There’s a light knock on the door and Palomo looks up sharply. Jensen leans in through the barely opened door, lip already caught between her teeth, braces glinting in the low light of the room. “Charles? You okay?”
Palomo opens his mouth and then shuts it. His shoulders start shaking and he doesn’t know why and all he manages to get out is a loud, pitiful sniff. He presses his face to his knees again and hears the door shut. For a second, he thinks Jensen left, but then his bed creaks and shifts with her weight and an arm goes around his shoulders.
“Hey, Charlie, it’s okay. What’s wrong? Did something happen?” Her voice is soft, but steady, her hand rubs gentle circles over his back.
And Palomo has no idea how to answer that. Nothing happened. Not now. It’s too old a thing to be crying about, but it’s never really stopped. Calling shots, keeping track of points.
Shooting Feds became a game, and he was finally starting to get good at it.
He can’t make the words happen, and after a few minutes, Jensen stops trying to get anything out of him. She just mumbles soft, comforting words and tucks him in against her side, resting her cheek on top of his head and lets him cry himself out. At least he can’t say anything dumb like this. Probably better that way. It’s not like he ever says anything else anyway.
He’ll have to tell her at some point, how he knows exactly how many headshots he’s got, how it was ten points a torso shot, twenty points for an arm. How he kept track and used to show Felix after every mission, used to puff himself up so proud. How he lived for the way Felix would grin at him and ruffle his hair.
How deep down, part of him misses that. How the worst part of Felix turning bad is that now it’s not a game, it’s all been real and he doesn’t know how to live with that. And he doesn’t think he ever will.
Alto
Jensen doesn’t wear short sleeves out of armor anymore.
She’s never disliked her scars, not really. A few of them are kind of boring, like the one from her appendix when she was thirteen, or the one on her chin from when she lost her grip on the monkey bars as a kid.
It’s the ones she’s gotten in action that she kind of likes. There’s a burn on the back of her left leg from where she was too close to a rocket misfiring. A thin line wraps around her right side, just under her ribs where her armor ends, just a hair shy of where the shrapnel had bitten into her. Her favorite is on her right arm, high on her bicep, where a bullet had skimmed her arm as she’d pushed Wexler down and out of the way.
But the one on her left forearm… that one she could do without. It’s long and thin, barely visible really, but she knows it’s there, the line of it slightly lighter than the rest of her arm. The stitches had been careful and precise, like the hand holding the needle had done it a dozen times before. Jensen remembers being surprised when Felix had sat her down, pulled her arm over to him and set to work.
He had been just coming by the base for a visit, which was a bit of a surprise. The position wasn’t an important one, it was a smaller outpost, kind of out of the way, just there to make sure that supplies got through okay. Jensen had almost fallen out of her seat in the security monitoring room when Felix had plopped down next to her.
“Anything fun going on in here? I don’t think I got your name before,” he said, offering his hand.
“Oh. Uh. Katie Jensen. Pleased to meet you, sir!” She had shaken his hand with probably a little too much enthusiasm, but he didn’t seem to mind. From there, conversation was easy enough.
Thinking about it now… he had asked an awful lot of questions, hadn’t answered many of the ones she’d asked. Maybe she should have known, should have realized something was off. But she didn’t. And then the outpost was under attack.
That’s strange now too, when she thinks about it. Not an hour after Felix got there, the Feds were attacking a random, middle of nowhere outpost. Jensen’s sure now… the only reason she survived is because she was in that back room with Felix.
He had cursed, springing out of his chair, moving to the door, peering up and down the hallway before looking back to her. “You stay here, I’m gonna try and go around and surprise them. Radio in if you see anything. You’ve gotta be my eyes here, kid.”
“Felix, wait!” But he was already gone.
Jensen hadn’t even been wearing most of her armor, she didn’t think she’d need it. And now there wasn’t time to get it back on, not when she was busy watching the cameras and biting her nails down to the bud. Felix was moving carefully through the base, but there were too many Feds. They were going to cut him off. She jammed her helmet on and hissed at him over the radio. “Felix! Felix come in! Darn it--”
Static was the only response. They must have been jamming their signals. The Feds were getting closer and Felix was headed toward an end. Oh no. No no no. She had to do something. Grabbing her gun in a mad fumble, she darted out down the hall and through the closest door. The outpost wasn’t much more than an old school building they had repurposed, most of the walls too thin to really give a whole lot of protection.
But that just meant they were that much easier to drive a jeep through.
Jensen had been glad she’d thought to keep her helmet on as she plowed through the wall. There was a sharp pain as a jagged bit of wood caught her arm, but she didn’t give it much thought as the tires screeched and she wheeled around, stopping just in front of a crouched Felix. “Get in, get in!”
He had cursed up a storm, but didn’t even pause, leaping into the jeep and firing out the back. Jensen nearly crashed four times before Felix finally grabbed the wheel and pulled them to a stop in a dense cluster of trees. Halfway to a panic attack, Jensen had jabbed at her radio to report in to base. Backup would be sent to the outpost and she and Felix were to wait there for them. She had been one of three people stationed there. The Feds had taken down Stern on their way in, and she had no idea what’d happened to Garcia.
She should go back, she should call in again, she should do something! But all she could do was pace and drum her fingers against her helmet until Felix caught her elbow, pulling her to a stop. “Hey, you’re still bleeding, Katie. Sit down for a second.”
It was only then that she got a good look at the gash running almost from wrist to elbow. Wow, she hadn’t even felt that. But she could definitely feel the needle as it passed through her skin.
“You got any family, Jensen?” Felix had asked, pulling her focus away from the pain.
“Oh uh… not really. It was just me and my dad, but… he died a while ago.” That still hurt to think about, and it must have shown in her voice.
“Sorry to hear that.” And Felix sounded like he meant it. Liar. “Y’know, I had a sister once… you kind of remind me of her.”
He had spent the better part of an hour telling her all about his sister. About how she was brave and funny and liked to wear braids a lot like Jensen’s.
She can’t believe any of that now. Her fingers pick at the scar absently as she stares at the bubbling water of the fountain in front of her. Armonia has a lot of nice parks. She’s only been to the city once before, back when she was a little kid. The fountain had been there then, she’d almost fallen into it. She kind of wants to jump back in now, just sit there and let the water wash all her scars away.
Footsteps approach slowly and she nearly jumps when Bitters drops onto the bench next to her. He flicks at her hand. “Stop picking at that, you’re gonna make it bleed.”
Her arm is red and irritated around the scar now, her fingernails digging in more than she had thought. Sheepishly, she drops her hands to her sides, fingers drumming on the bench instead. Bitters sighs, but doesn’t tell her to stop that. He just pulls out a cigarette and lights up. Jensen can’t stop herself from pulling a face. “I thought you were quitting.”
“Smith thinks I am.” He cocks an eyebrow at her, expression appraising. “Five bucks not to tattle?”
“Ten.”
“Seven and a pack of oreos.”
“Done.” Jensen leans back against the bench, grinning until Bitters flicks her hand again when she starts picking at the scar, not even thinking.
“You should go to a medic if that’s bugging you,” Bitters says, using the tone that means he’s trying to sound like he doesn’t care.
“No, it’s fine.” And it is. It doesn’t hurt or itch or anything. She just wants it gone. Pulling down her sleeve, she lets out a huff.
Her fingers drum on the bench again and she lets her gaze go back to the fountain. Better that than she sneak look after look at Bitters. She half wants to ask him about Felix, if he ever really talked to him. If he had any idea what he was really like. If he wants to scream as much as she does about the truth. But he probably wouldn’t tell her even if he did. Bitters doesn’t talk about this stuff.
But if she doesn’t say something, her head’s going to explode. “Hey Bitters.”
He groans, she goes on. “Did you and Felix talk a lot? Y’know, before?”
Bitters frowns at her, hesitating for a moment before responding. “Not really.”
“He never said anything about… about family stuff? Like having a little sister?” Her fingers bite into the bench, she’s probably going to get a splinter.
Bitters is still frowning, but it looks like he’s thinking about it for a while before he shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Why?”
“No reason.” Jensen feels like she’s burning. She wants to dive into the fountain. Her hand comes up to her mouth. Better to bite her nails than pick at the scar.
Felix probably never had a sister. He just made it all up to get on her good side. Or maybe he did have one. Maybe he had a sister and he killed her, or he hated her every second she was alive and that’s why Jensen reminded him of her. She doesn’t know what option is worse. Nothing Felix said can be trusted now. She doesn’t even know who he is, not really, none of them do.
It’s not like they hung out a lot, but… he knew her name. He fixed up her arm, told her she was good out there, great thinking, nice driving. Just like his little sister. She hates it. Hates him. Wants to forget, wants to close her eyes, shove her fingers in her ears and wake up back in that security room and never see the Feds coming.
“You’re gonna bite your fingers off.”
Jensen jolts and yanks her hand away from her mouth. Bitters is looking at her like she’s lost her mind and she wants to run. Standing, she takes a step to do so, then stops, turning back toward him. “Do you… do you think of me as a little sister?”
Bitters just stares for a second. Then he glances around like he’s not sure who she’s talking to. “Uh… I dunno. I never really thought about it. I guess kinda.”
That burns and her hands curl into fists at her sides. “Well, don’t. I’m not your little sister. I’m not anyone’s little sister. I don’t want to be. I don’t want to remind anyone of anything. I’m just me. Just Katie Jensen!”
“Okay, okay!” Bitters holds his hands up like he’s surrendering and she realizes she’s been shouting. “Jesus, would you calm down? The hell is this about?”
“I…” She doesn’t know, there’s not a good answer. Her hand goes back to her mouth before she can stop it and she drags her foot over the grass, smashing it down. It springs back up slowly, some pieces staying bent. “Felix said...”
That’s apparently enough, because Bitters swears under his breath and puts out his cigarette, leaving a little smudge of ash on the bench beside him. He leans forward, arms resting on his knees and doesn’t look at her.
Standing there feels awkward, so does just walking away. Jensen’s still gnawing at her nails when she moves to sit next to him again. The quiet isn’t comfortable, but at least he isn’t trying to tell her is doesn’t matter. Doesn’t say she’s overreacting, he just curses again and lights up another cigarette.
“Do you think about him at all?” she asks because she can’t help it.
Bitters shrugs. “Try not to. I figure he never really gave a shit about any of us, so why should we give a fuck about him?”
There’s too much hurt in his voice for him to really mean any of it, but Jensen just nods. “I guess. I don’t want to care about it, but…”
“Yeah,” he says, apparently understanding the part she can’t say. “It sucks.”
Jensen sighs and tips her head back. The sky is a soft blend of colors, the sun setting somewhere behind the tall buildings of Armonia. Someone should paint it. It doesn’t seem right feeling like she wants to burn up under a sky so pretty and picturesque. Nothing on Chorus should look that nice. Not when Felix is still here.
Something nudges at her arm and Jensen blinks. Glancing down, she finds Bitters offering a cigarette. It’s already lit, smoke slowly curling off one end. She probably shouldn’t but… it’s probably the most comforting thing he’s going to do here. So she takes it and almost hacks up a lung when she tries to inhale.
Bitters only snickers at her once and pats her back until she manages to stop coughing. “I don’t think of you like a sister.”
Jensen’s wiping at her eyes when he speaks and has to blink a few times before she can really process it. “What?”
“Nah, you… you and Palomo, you’re more like… weird little kids that me and Smith just picked up and accidentally adopted and now we can’t get rid of you.”
“What? Excuse you, Antoine, you’re only three years older than me,” Jensen says, hands going to her hips.
He scoffs. “No way, it’s at least five years. And you look like you’re twelve.”
“Jerk!” She punches his shoulder, but the corners of her mouth are already pulling up in the beginnings of a smile. “I’m so not calling you ‘dad’. That’s just weird.”
“Nah, I’m the cool uncle.”
“What does that make Smith?”
Bitters snorts, cocking an eyebrow. “Are you kidding? The dude’s made to be a mom.”
Pressing a hand to her mouth, Jensen tries to stifle a giggle. “Yeah, I guess I can kinda see it.”
Talking gets easier as the sky gets darker. She still hates the scar, always will, but the need to scratch and tear it from her skin lessens. And Jensen thinks, maybe someday, she won’t mind someone thinking of her as their little sister.
Bass
Bitters tries to burn out the tattoo on his leg with the butts of his cigarettes. He shouldn’t have gotten it in the first place, shouldn’t have let Felix talk him into it.
“It’ll look awesome. I swear, I’ve done this a million times,” Felix had said, prepping the needle. Ever since they had found an abandoned, but mostly still together tattoo parlor on the outskirts of a blown out town, half the army hard started inking themselves up.
Bitters had had a few before he ever picked up a rifle. His sister’s name on the inside of his wrist, barbed wire going around his bicep Matthews had talked him into, and a watercolor sun on his upper back. The dagger on his left calf was Felix’s doing.
It was a reward, for finally nailing a target dead center in knife practice. He had been working at it for weeks. The blades finally felt right in his hand, the weight familiar now. Felix had picked him for training personally, said he’d had the best eye for it.
“You look like the kinda guy who knows his way around a knife,” he had said, pressing one into Bitters’s hand. “Trust me, I’ve got a sense about these things. Give it a try, man. Worst that happens is you miss and have to go again.”
He had missed, of course he did. Bitters had never thrown a knife before in his life that didn’t belong in a kitchen, and even then it was only because he was too lazy to get up and go drop it in the sink. The next throw was better, hitting the target, but not sticking, bouncing off and clattering on the floor a few feet away. Huffing, he glared at the rest of the knives Felix had laid out for him. This was pointless, he wanted to say. They were going to be fighting assholes in full armor, what good was a little knife going to do?
But Felix’s hand landed on his shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. “Giving up already? C’mon, Bitters, you just started. Y’know, chicks dig guys who can do tricks with knives.”
Scoffing, Bitters shrugged his hand away, moving to grab another knife in spite of himself. “Yeah, newsflash, dude, I don’t really care what chicks dig.”
“Dudes then. Whatever you’re into, man. I bet it would knock that goody two shoes Smith for a loop seeing you take down a guy with just a knife.”
Bitters faltered for a second, glancing across the training room before he could think not to. Of course, there was Smith, standing a head taller than everyone else, smile brighter than the sun as he guided his squad through basic drills and warm ups. Watching him always made Bitters’s hair stand on his end. The dude’s so fucking perfect, everything a good soldier should be.
Bitters wanted to ruin him.
He still does, even now. He wants to run his hands over Smith’s head, feel for the places where his neatly shaved hair is growing back. Wants to drag his nails down his back, put marks on that too beautiful skin. Wants to know what to say to make his voice hitch, his steps falter. Just wants to know that for once, he’s the one that made Smith anything less than the model soldier.
Felix knew, within three days of knowing them, he had Bitters fucking pegged. He has to wonder now… if Felix looking at him was like looking in a mirror. If that was why he picked him to line up with the target, to talk through the proper way to throw a knife, how to hold it right, where to strike to wound. Where to hit to make sure the bleeding never stopped.
That’s probably why he had talked him into the tattoo, pulled up the leg of his own sweatpants to show the one he had that matched. “Used to know a whole squad of guys that had ones just like this,” Felix had said. “We were the best of the best. And I mean… you’re not quite at that level yet, but fuck it. C’mon, you know you want one.”
And Bitters did.
At least he hadn’t shown it off. That he wouldn’t be able to live down. Because it wasn’t about showing off. It was about… about knowing Felix thought he was worth it, thought that, on some level, they were similar. Burning it bit by bit doesn’t seem like nearly enough. The pain doesn’t go deep enough, won’t burn out the part that matters.
Nothing can ever get those roots out, not really. But the pain’s a decent distraction.
He’s got a corner room in their new building. It’s not great, Matthews is right next door and Smith and his squad are just across the hall, but hell, it’s better than nothing. Better than the shit base underground. It still feels cramped, like there’s not really enough air no matter how many windows they have open. The whole damn city sort of has that going on. Too many Feds, all kinds of bad vibes still clinging to everyone and everything.
It’s not like the war is over, not really. Everything is just on pause, and sooner or later, someone’s gonna hit play again. It grinds on Bitters’s nerves. He just wants this stupid war shit to be over and done with already.
His room has a balcony, that’s about all it has going for it. The view is shit, just another back alley, but at least that means no one else is ever hanging out on any of the other balconies, so no one can see him when he presses burning paper and ash to his leg. It stings, but it’s sort of grounding. The burns aren’t enough to really hide what the tattoo’s supposed to be, but the lines are a little harder to make out now.
Headphones on, he plays his music loud, trying to get his brain to just shut the fuck up for once. It doesn’t really work, but it’s better than the vague city sounds. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s anywhere else. He’s never been great at the visualization thing, but Captain Grif had talked him into playing ‘anywhere but here’ enough times to get a picture in his head of where he’d like to be.
There’s this beach by one of the big lakes on Chorus. The sand is cool and smooth. Bitters only went once, back when he was maybe nine or ten, but he still remembers the way the water had licked at his toes, how the wind had been warm as it tousled his hair. It’s where he likes to go when he closes his eyes. He thinks up a small cabin, the kind that could be built with a few pairs of strong, confident hands. It’s only big enough for two, but that’s okay. That’s all it needs to hold. Eyes shut, he tries to feel the warmth of an imaginary sun on his face, overpowering the burning at his leg. And the smoke he lets fill he lets fill his lungs when he lights up a new cigarette becomes fresh air that carries a bit of the pine scent from a nearby woods.
In his head, a large, warm hand curls around his hip and he leans back against Smith’s broad chest. He uh… he leaves that part out when he plays this stupid game with Captain Grif, but he’s pretty sure that when Grif trails off and looks over toward Maroon squad, he’s not exactly alone at his Hawaiian beach condo either. At least Bitters isn’t the only loser on this planet who can’t figure out how to talk to a kiss ass loser.
His fourth cigarette is starting to burn down. Eyes shut, he takes another long drag. This should probably be it for the day. Too many and it gets kinda hard to explain why he’s not putting as much weight on his left leg.
He’s about ready to put it out when a hand gently alights on his shoulder. For a second, he thinks he’s at the beach, at the cabin, that he could lean in and Smith would move to meet him. But then his eyes open and the breeze is too cold and Smith’s eyes are filled with concern, too open and honest. Bitters can’t find his voice, it’s lodged in his throat, trapped with smoke. Not like he would have a good excuse for the mess that’s obvious where his pant leg is rolled up to his knee. Three fresh burns and a dozen more old ones, the cigarette dangling from his lips not leaving much question as to how they got there.
Smith opens his mouth, then his eyes go to Bitters’s leg and he shuts it again. There’s a painfully long moment before he moves, and Bitters almost wants to ask him to just pick him up and toss him over the edge of the balcony. At least that would put a fucking end to the heavy uncomfortable air settling all around them. But Smith doesn’t, of course he fucking doesn’t. He just sits next to him and winds a gentle arm around Bitters’s shoulders and reaches up to pull off his headphones with his other hand. The music still plays from them, distant and less than half as distracting as Bitters wants it to be.
He wants Smith to yell at him. To ask him what the hell he’s thinking, what the fuck he’s doing out here, what he’s been doing to himself. But Smith doesn’t. He just looks at him with those too soft brown eyes, brow all furrowed with too much concern and care that Bitters doesn’t know what to do with, has never known how to handle.
His hands are too gentle, too soft as he pulls Bitters in close, envelopes him in strong arms and holds him there. Eyes shutting again, Bitters lets himself melt, lets himself have this, if just for now. It can’t last. Nothing ever does on this fucking planet.
Smith doesn’t ask him why until after he’s coaxed him into the shared bathroom in their hall and left a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door. There’s a little footstool that’s usually used to change the always burning out lightbulbs, Smith carefully nudges at Bitters until he takes a seat on it. Apparently satisfied that Bitters isn’t going anywhere, Smith turns away to dig through the small chest of medical supplies under the bank of sinks.
The silence is the worst part. Smith’s always got something to say. Gritting his teeth, Bitters grabs at his legs, nails biting through the thin fabric of his sweats. Why isn’t Smith giving him hell for this? He’s seen all the burns, he should be telling Bitters that he’s stupid or demanding an explanation. But there’s nothing. He’s just moving quietly and methodically as he pulls a small tube of burn ointment from the medical supplies and a roll of bandages and sets to work, kneeling beside the stool.
Bitters can’t take it as careful fingers press the cool gel to his leg. “So?”
Smith blinks up at him, one eyebrow rising. He still doesn’t say anything and Bitters’s face starts to burn.
He huffs and looks away. Fuck, he can’t look at Smith like this. “Aren’t you gonna give me shit about this? Tell me I’m a dumbass?”
“Would you like me to? I don’t see how that would help,” Smith says, too quiet, too casual, like he hadn’t just walked in on Bitters burning the shit out of his leg, like he’s not staring the evidence in the face that he’s been doing it for weeks.
“That’s not the fucking point!” Bitters hates how his voice echoes around the room, too loud. He just wants to jam his headphones back on and drown it all out. Dragging his hands through his hair, he glares at the wall over Smith’s head. “Why aren’t you pissed at me for this?”
“Bitters--”
“Shouldn’t you be calling Dr. Grey? Or Kimball and tell them that I’m losing my fucking mind or something? Call Captain Grif and tell him I’m unfit for duty or get Wash on my ass to make me run laps until I promise to never do it again?”
He’s shaking when he forces his mouth shut with a click that feels like it should chip a tooth. Smith is staring, he can feel it.
“Would any of that help?” Smith asks, his voice very soft. “If I talked to Dr. Grey or General Kimball… would you stop hurting yourself?”
“I… I don’t know.” It’s an honest answer at least. He’s thought about it, talking to someone, at least vaguely. Because he knows it’s not great. It’s not helping anything, not changing anything. But it’s better than just sitting on his ass and feeling like shit all the time.
Smith doesn’t say anything else for a minute. He just goes back to the burns, carefully smoothing the gel over the entire tattoo, as if it’ll do anything to heal the weeks old marks.
“There are other ways to remove the tattoo,” is what Smith eventually says. “I’m sure Dr. Grey has something that would--”
“That’s not the point.” Bitters blinks, almost surprising himself. This time he can’t look away before Smith’s looking up at him again. “I don’t… just getting rid of it isn’t good enough. I… I want it to hurt.”
“Why?” And Smith looks so fucking open and honest and something in Bitters’s chest turns sharp and painful and he wants to scream.
How the fuck is he supposed to explain it? And to Smith of all fucking people? Mister Perfect isn’t going to understand a word of it.
Bitters lets out a shaky exhale and stares at the tiled floor. He can still feel Smith looking at him, patiently awaiting an answer that’s not fucking coming. But there’s no way he’s getting out of this without saying something.
“Felix. He… the tattoo was his idea, he did it himself. Just getting rid of it isn’t enough.” It’s bits of the truth, sort of. Not the whole thing, not even close, but maybe that’ll be enough to get Smith off his back.
“I see,” Smith says slowly. He shifts a little and Bitters risks a glance to find him looking at the tattoo now, eyeing it curiously. “I suppose it must feel like you’re still carrying a piece of him around then?”
No. Not really. It’s not Felix that’s the problem. It’s him. It’s that Bitters keeps looking in the mirror and expecting weasel like features to look back. But he nods. “Kinda.”
Smith pauses, brow furrowed in thought as he moves to start wrapping up his leg. “Would it help to have the tattoo made into something else? Or to have it covered up?”
Bitters shrugs. “Not really, I mean… I’ll still know it’s there and what it means.”
“Can you give it a new meaning?” Smith asks, like it’s the easiest thing in the world and Bitters has to fight to keep his jaw from clenching. He doesn’t have the greatest poker face and something has to show because large, warm hands cover his and give a slight squeeze. “Bitters… look at me. Antoine, please.”
He flinches, but he can’t not do it when Smith uses that soft, pleading tone. His shoulders shake as he meets Smith’s eyes. God, he’s too fucking earnest, smiling at him with a gentle reassurance that he definitely means. It makes Bitters’s stomach flutter and tie itself in knots at the same time and he hates it and wants to lean forward and just smash his lips into Smith’s.
“If there is anything… when you feel like hurting yourself, can you please come find me instead? We can do anything you like, anything to take your mind off it. Please.” His eyes are shiny and fuck, how the hell is Bitters supposed to say no to that?
There’s a lump in his throat he can’t swallow, so he just nods. It’s not quite a promise, not really, which is good cause Bitters knows for a fucking fact he’s not going to be able to keep it. But… but maybe he can try. It’s enough that there’s only a little tingle of guilt as Smith leans up, hands moving to cup his face as he presses their foreheads together. It’s too fucking much, his hands are so warm and he’s right fucking there.
All Bitters has to do is lean forward and wreck him.
But he can’t. So he just holds onto Smith’s wrists and tries to pretend his hands aren’t shaking. He wants to let his mind wander, anywhere but here. Maybe… maybe he can find a place where he’s good. Where he deserves this, where he never fucking met Felix and let him crawl inside his head. Just for a second, he lets himself go there and he wishes more than anything that he didn’t have to come back.
Baritone
Smith tries to mourn.
It’s easier to think the Felix he knew once dead and replaced with an imposter rather than try to reconcile the man for what he truly is. Smith knows he takes things at face value, it’s always been a failing of his, looking for the best in people, refusing to see the worst until it’s thrust in front of his face. He knows, but… there’s so much of the worst all around, if he goes looking for it, that’s all he’ll ever see, and he won’t survive that.
So he constructs a small grave just outside Armonia. It’s one of many. Much of the planet is a graveyard. Smith likes to think that one day, the graves will be covered with a thick blanket of grass, not forgotten, but left to rest long enough that new life can spring from them. But he knows better than to make a memorial for Felix anywhere near the other graves.
There’s no body to bury, because the man is still walking around, killing his fellow soldiers left, right, and center. That makes finding a place for it easier. The space is a small one, at the foot of a large tree not far from Armonia’s walls. It doesn’t seem right to dig a grave and leave it empty, so Smith buries the set of gauntlets Felix had given him months before.
It had seemed a thoughtful gesture at the time. Smith’s own gloves had been damaged in an ammunition test. He had barely managed to yank them off before his flesh burned away like the thick fabric. The New Republic had never had a wealth of armor to distribute and Smith had had enough difficulty finding a suit of armor that all matched and fit the first time around. A set of replacements had been more than he could hope for.
So when Felix knocked at the training room door and dropped a new pair into his lap, Smith hadn’t even thought to refuse. They were perfect, and from Felix’s grin, he already knew it. “Those gonna work for you?”
“Yes sir! They look perfect. Where did you find them?” Smith had turned them over in his hands a few times, looking for telltale signs of paint. The New Republic couldn’t be above scavenging bits of armor from the enemy. His own boots had been hastily repainted with Bitters’s help after they pulled them from a Fed’s body. But there wasn’t a trace of quickly sprayed on paint.
“Don’t you worry about that, kid,” Felix has said, winking before clapping him on the shoulder.
Smith frowns a little as he inspects the gauntlets now. There’s a sickening feeling churning his insides. He hadn’t thought about it since, hasn’t really let himself wonder until now… just where Felix got them. It’s too easy to connect the dots now, to the group of their soldiers that had been lost in an ambush, Felix getting there far too late to be of any help, or so he had said.
Shutting his eyes, he takes a few deep breaths through his nose. There’s nothing to be done about it now. Nothing he ever could have done. He didn’t know, none of them did. That wasn’t the Felix they knew.
So he digs a small hole and places the gloves in an old shoebox before setting it inside. Dirt creeps under his nails as he carefully covers the box. Smith sits back on his heels as he glances over the small patch of earth. It isn’t enough, but it’s the most he can do. He ought to say a few words, though there’s no one around to hear.
It’s still difficult to know what to say, to know what was the man who wasn’t, where the lines were drawn, what parts of Felix he’s trying to bury, trying to grieve. How can he pick out those pieces alone?
“Goodbye Felix,” he says, voice low, not meant for anyone but the wind. “I will miss the man I thought you were. We all will.”
The words aren’t enough. The grave doesn’t make it much better. How can he put to rest all the help Felix brought them? The hope that he continued to give them? The hand they all thought was there to catch them if they began to fall?
Because, whatever else Felix is--was, those feelings were real. And they ought to be honored somehow.
“Smith? Shit, John are you okay?” Palomo’s voice cuts into his thoughts and he turns, half rising as Palomo scrambles over tree roots to his side. Hands fly toward him and stop halfway there as Palomo gets a better look at him, likely checking for blood.
“I’m alright, Palomo,” he says, reaching up to gently pat Palomo’s arm. Letting out a soft sigh, he turns his attention back to the tiny grave. “I only came out here to think.”
“Yeah?” Palomo crouches next to him. His helmet must be left somewhere behind him, along with much of his chest armor. Smith should reprimand him, being outside the walls without a full suit is dangerous. But then again, his own helmet lays useless on the ground at his side and he of course has no gauntlets to speak of.
There’s a slight frown on Palomo’s face as he looks at the newly turned patch of dirt. “You burying something out here? Did you find a dead bird?”
“What? Oh no, I’m…” Smith pauses, the words stalling on his tongue. It’s probably going to sound silly if not far stranger if he says it out loud. He sighs and ducks his head. “I was trying to burying some memories. I don’t believe it’s working though.”
“Oh. Okay. Can I help?” Palomo doesn’t look as though he’s anything particularly strange, his expression only briefly bemused before a small smile replaces it.
Smith nods. He isn’t… entirely certain how Palomo can help here, but the offer is a kind one, so he can’t refuse. “If you like.”
“Okay, uh, lemme see.” Palomo shifts, sitting at attention as he clears his throat. “Dearly departed, we gather here today so say goodbye to uh Smith’s memories. Um, they were probably pretty important, but also sad since he doesn’t want them anymore. Which I kinda get cause I have a lot of crappy memories I kinda wanna just put in a hole and forget about too. So yeah. Amen.”
Smith bows his head and tries to fight down a slight smile as he reaches over to pat Palomo’s shoulder. “That was very nice. Thank you, Charles.”
“Yeah, I’m getting pretty good at making speeches. But uh… are you feeling better now?” He blinks up at Smith, concern still lingering over his features.
“A bit,” he says nodding. And in a way, he is.
When he gets up and offers a hand to Palomo, he doesn’t truly leave anything behind but his gloves. It was probably foolish to think that he could. He still wants to mourn, but… not for Felix, not really. He can grieve for the ghost of a person who guided them through training exercises, who taught Palomo how to fire a gun, who convinced the motorpool not to bar Jensen from entering, who always smuggled Bitters extra rations.
Those are still good memories in a time when those were few and far between. It makes more of a stance to not let them be tainted, to hold them close and keep them guarded. Felix has taken so much from them already, Smith will not allow him those.