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It takes Elliott seven months, two interventions, and a drunken confession to actually internalize that Bloodhound is interested in him.
He is all weak jokes and bravado, he is all nervous nights with nails bitten to the quick and fleeting daydreams of a hand on his, clad in worn leather. He is stolen looks at competent hands wiping a knife clean, at the delicate motions of Bloodhound feeding Artur at dawn, at their bowed head murmuring a prayer as they ride the dropship.
They are not always on the same team-- keep your friends close and your enemies closer, after all-- and it is, frankly, a relief. The sound of Bloodhound’s croon in his ear all game twists his belly up into knots. Emerging triumphant in a firefight to see fingers tugging down the brim of their hat in staunch approval of his work--
Elliott tucks these memories away like a squirrel prepping for the hard days, the cold days, where he needs to turn inward and desperately reassure himself that someone-- a very specific someone-- has seen him.
He has never seen them without their mask, and it doesn’t make a lick of difference, until he gets the chance to. At dinner-- they are the last two to eat, the canteen quiet and still, Natalie and Wraith burning the midnight oil in her workshop instead of their usual late meal-- Elliott almost chokes as Bloodhound pulls down their respirator. They tug the underlying mask up just enough to eat, and even that feels like a...a violation. He averts his eyes so fast he doesn’t even catch a glimpse, heart beating in his chest. A rabbit running, running, running. Too fast, too fleeting. He carries on the conversation with his usually st-stut-stam-stumble, dark cheeks flushing red and hey, how great the weekend off is going to be, offering up a clumsy invitation that he trips over every word to get out.
His jaw clicks shut when Bloodhound offers a quietly murmured yes, robbed of every possible casual acceptance of the expected rejection that never comes. Warmth bubbles up inside him; carbonated joy, helium hope, gravity-defying enthusiasm. You won’t regret it, he wants to say, but instead his smile is wobbly and his wink is almost watery.
He’s never had the bravery to ask before, not when it was just them. He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants and can’t stop smiling into his meal, even though it’s just cafeteria soup. It’s the best thing he’s tasted in years.
They’ve been to the bar before-- as part of the group, in the small herd that sometimes swings by-- so he takes them somewhere else. The local ramen stand that’s half hidden by a tattoo shop that does illicit mods. A night market with the best ddukbokki he’s ever had. A makeshift museum of patchwork history from across the Outlands, much of it written on paper by hand, paying respects to life before the war in analog.
Elliott talks too much. He does, he knows he does, a nervous tic that gets him into trouble, built on insecurity and fueled by silence. Bloodhound, though, is merely quiet. As the night goes on it gets a little easier to pull words from their chest, easier to trust his familiarity with their tells on whether or not they’re interested by the tilt of their head, the intent of their raised gloved hand before it gently lays itself in the crook of Elliott’s arm.
Conversations are so much more than words, after all, and when they end up back at his bar at three in the morning, a few glasses into pinot, bathed in dim and brassy light, Elliott lays himself bare. He is a dog at their feet, love offered up, tail posed to wag or tuck between his legs at a moment’s notice.
Bloodhound stills, and the air between them is fragile, gossamer wings frozen in time, and he can see his own stupid, hopeful face reflected back in their goggles. His pulse thunders in his ears, drowning out the din of Solace City just outside the thin walls of his bar. It is them, only them, trapped in this space together in a secret way that he covets and--
Slowly, they pull off one of their gloves to reveal a much scarred hand-- some old, some new, and gently-- as though Elliott were an animal that might dash if spooked at the slightest of things, which, fair-- slides it into his.
He short circuits, eyes flying wide as he openly stares at their linked fingers, tongue swiping at his parted lips. Bloodhound smiles-- he can’t see it, but he can hear it, in their words so careful and fond, can feel it in the way they gently squeeze.
For once, Elliott Witt is at a complete loss of words, and for once?
He’s just fine with that.