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Rude is not aware of his feet hitting any ground of any kind until he makes it from the steel of the plate to to the steel of a helicopter wrung, and all of a sudden the brief impact rattles through him like scattershot.
He is not aware of weight until he sits down, and all of a sudden Reno's weight in his arms is a cold, dead thing. Even though Rude know's he's not, know's he's not but -
A cold dead thing like the breaths he's finally able to be aware of crawling into his lungs, like what will be left tomorrow when the steel has stopped screaming and the fires have died.
Rude didn't know what living through this was supposed to be like.
He hadn't been supposed to know. It hadn't been supposed to be his job. And he had been.
Gods. Rising bile.
He had been grateful for that. Grateful that someone else, that his-
He curses out a Heal, shaking Reno.
Shaking.
Of course the idiot would have nothing on himself to heal with. Stupid bastard had never planned for preservation and-
-That's part of why Rude had been relieved, after all. Wasn't it? It wasn't supposed to be him to press the button, it wasn't supposed to-
Shaking.
Green light and scarring heat unbidden from his fingers, into the fabric and the flesh beneath.
Tomorrow, the entirety of the sector would be a bit of cold char. and Rude. Rude wasn't supposed to have done that but-
Is he breathing? He isn't sure.
Are his breaths supposed to hurt like that? Is he the one shaking or is it the shocks of heat bouncing off the chopper or-
He's jerked back, for a half a second, by shifting, and warmth.
"Partner..?"
But only a second.
And he is cold again, the oncoming cold curling it's fingers around his and it's breath into his lungs and the scream of metal, twisting, which he'd always love before but now twisting,
Twisting
Fingers in his suit jacket. Alive and hot and metal-clutching and
Not Metal
Not Metal
"Partner?...Rude?" The words come out slurred and hesitant, but the grip on his collar is firm, and the force of the face thrust against his shoulder is firm.
Breath hot
Breathing.... "Fuck!?"
Grip slackening, then pulling harder. It feels to Rude like his blood pressure is tied to that grip. Like a valve. Rising when it slacks, falling when it grows and -
Breathing. Trying to.
Muffled
The body in his arms jerks. Twitches and a sound comes out of Reno like he can't control his own voice. Like he's about to seize. And that brings Rude back enough to be surprised when two arms go around his neck and hold on with a fierceness and stay there."I'm sorry, yo."
And then all there is, at least for a moment, at least away from the whir of the helicopter blades and the screams of distress he only thinks he can hear and the and the cold, the cold, the cold
There i's at least one living thing.
There is Reno's breath hot against his throat and arms strong around him and heartbeat under his palm and... and
"I'm so sorry. You did it didn't you. You weren't supposed- I'm so sorry."
He can breath, just a little more. Just because the heat from the body that's pressed against his soothes his muscles and his bruises. At least a little.
At least.
But he can't.