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Elliott wasn’t supposed to see Bloodhound’s nest.
It’s not really a hard guess that he wasn’t: he’s never seen them nesting before, only allowed into their suite at the base a precious and strictly regulated handful of times, and overall their intense and unapologetic need for privacy is, ironically, a universally known fact.
Elliott is aware, in theory, that they do nest semi-regularly, not that he’s been paying any special attention to it - or any attention, in fact - but it’s just something you know among friends, just something you kind of piece together from signs and moods and scents, let it marinate in the back of your mind without a conscious thought. Because they are, in fact, friends, so they do, in fact, know these things about each other. In a friendly manner. Yup.
Anyway.
If Bloodhound wanted him to see it, Elliott would definitely have no doubt - they are nothing if not straightforward, to the point of bluntness sometimes, direct but with the slot in it that’s usually reserved for intention to harm filled with compassion instead. With compassion, and compromise, and competence, and - and - and many other com- words.
Elliott is getting off the track again.
The point is, he’s in Bloodhound’s quarters, and he’s not supposed to be here right now. He was so excited to talk to them about something - something he doesn’t even remember anymore, the sight before him ramming all thoughts straight out of his head - and he did knock on the door, he’s not some kind of asshole not to - but he could swear he’d heard them tell him to come in, and so here he is now.
Elliott could’ve...possibly...misheard them, though. There’s no way Bloodhound intended for him to see the - well, they are called ‘nests’ for a reason, after all - the interwoven pile of sheets and blankets and clothes taking up most of their bed.
A really, really small and really, really dumb part of Elliott, the same part that warms his skin and deepens his breaths at the thought, wonders if this is in any way - scripted. If there is a message here somewhere, an invitation maybe, a - he doesn’t even dare think of the word ‘proposition’ but - oh, never mind, apparently he does.
But Bloodhound is not a good actor. Unmasked, they wear their emotions as plainly as you’d expect from someone who’s been hiding their face for most of their life. And sometimes their glasses or the respirator help conceal at least parts of it, but right now their face is completely bare, and their posture is stiff where they sit on their knees in the middle of the bed, and they look - startled. Caught. Deeply uncomfortable.
“What are you--” Bloodhound snaps, incredulous - nervous? Their almost-unseeing eyes are burning Elliott’s face, and there is a blush on their cheeks, the web of discoloured scars stark against it. “Leave.”
Alarms are blaring in Elliott’s head, well-ingrained protocols on what to do and how to behave all telling him to get the hell out, a shock of cold water over the heady excitement at the scented, warm air, at the sight that, were it anyone else and were Elliott any dumber than he is, he would be inclined to interpret as vulnerable and in need of protection.
And he is ready to leave, completely ready to pull a U-turn and pedal right out - this is a den and he is an intruder and he is not welcome - when something catches his eye in the weave of the nest, something bright yellow in a sea of brown and khaki and off-white, an artificially bold colour among the muted earthy tones.
And Elliott is, frankly, too surprised to keep quiet.
“Is that - is that mine?” he blurts out.
And it is, Elliott recognizes it now as his mind rifles through images until something matches up: the thick fleece lining, the round patches on the sleeves arranged in the pattern of his holoplates. And it’s twisted and squished and half-covered by other parts of the nest but Elliott is pretty sure that if he takes a closer look he’ll see ‘MIRAGE’ embroidered across its front.
That’s - that’s his merch. Something he’s been missing for - he can’t remember exactly for how long, but for a while now. His softest hoodie, by the way, one of his favourites.
And now it’s part of Bloodhound’s nest.
Elliott’s head swims from the implications, from all the ‘What does that mean?’ and ‘What do I do?’ and ‘So does this mean it’s there when...’, and he is still close to the door, he is still going to step right out as he intended to because this is not his space and Hound has already told him to go, regardless of their reasons for taking the hoodie. It’s none of his business, but he can’t help wondering anyway.
...And then they tear it right out in one quick, violent motion of removing a plain arrowhead and hold it out to Elliott.
“Take it.”
No, wait, this is wrong, if it’s a part of it then it should stay there, a decision’s been made, he will respect it. “Hound--”
“Take it,” they repeat, more forcefully this time, a clipped note of anger staining their voice, that note alone almost enough to finally force Elliott out of the room. They turn away from Elliott and are staring straight ahead now, their profile a sharp, decisive slash. “Say nothing.”
But something irks Elliott, a detail he just keeps missing, and he searches and searches until it hits him, so obvious he nearly slaps himself.
Their outstretched arm is trembling.
It’s not anger. Or maybe not only anger.
It’s shame. Bloodhound is ashamed.
An acrid taste pricks the back of Elliott’s throat at the realization. Ashamed of - what? Being associated with him? Finding comfort in something that belongs to him? They are friends, at least - he should hope they are friends, it shouldn’t be a big deal no matter what a traitorous, longing little part of him keeps whispering. Why does it feel like a big deal?
He pushes the thought away. This isn’t about him, not right now. Right now, it’s about Hound’s hunched shoulders and the rigid curve of their spine as if they are protecting a fresh wound. It’s about the way they won’t meet his eyes anymore.
“Hound, wait,” Elliott asks them again, and a suppressed flinch locks up their frame at the sound of his voice, “I just - you can keep it. If it helps you.”
He can see the corner of Bloodhound’s mouth pulling down and their eyebrows pinching, their defiantly composed expression turning to ruins as a battle rages under the surface.
Elliott wants to help, so desperately. He wants the right side to win, whichever that is.
He takes a deep, careful breath. Steps over the point of no return. “Does it help you?”
For a beat, Bloodhound doesn’t move, and Elliott stops breathing altogether.
And then their face crumbles completely and they give a short, jerky nod and curl forwards over their own knees, their posture miserable and small. Their arm stays straight, outstretched towards Elliott, but they lower it until the hoodie rests on the bed. Their knuckles are bloodlessly pale around it.
Elliott’s heart breaks. It’s just a dumb fucking hoodie.
“You need anything else, maybe?” he asks before he can stop himself, a powerful swell of protectiveness pushing the words out and leaving him no room to think. “Extra blankets or - or I have more hoodies if you wanna. Washed and everything.”
Something warm pools in Elliott’s gut, right below the navel, at the thought of Bloodhound surrounded by his things, comforted by the closeness - and honestly, they don’t even have to stop there, he’d gladly stay too, he’d gladly help, they only have to say the word. Maybe not now, or maybe not ever, but - yeah. It’s up to them alone.
There’s nothing Elliott wouldn’t do for Hound, really, so sticking around like this, with them - it wouldn’t be a chore at all.
Bloodhound whips their head up, their clenched fist grinding the hoodie into the blankets. They finally look at Elliott again, their foggy eyes finding his with anger-honed focus.
“Do not mock me,” they warn, and Elliott throws his hands up in defense.
“No no, it’s not - it’s okay! I don’t mind. Uh - the opposite, really. Of minding, that is, not of - not of not minding. You get me.”
A beat passes, then another. Elliott remembers to breathe this time, at least.
Finally, Bloodhound nods, and a measure of tension bleeds out of the room as if through a puncture.
It’s a short, jerky nod. They turn away again, and all Elliott can see is the shell of their ear, the angle of their jaw, their bared nape with short hairs curling over it. Red, all of it red, the blush deepening with every passing second.
Endeared and chastised both, his mouth dry, Elliott looks away.
“Right! Awesome. Cool.” He clears his throat, willing it to unstick from itself. “Then I guess I’ll be right back? Bring you some stuff? That work for you? I’ll, I - I’ll knock again and everything. I can also come back later instead if you wanna? Or tomorrow even - but then you’d have to wait, and…”
“Elliott,” Bloodhound interrupts him softly. He can just about see the muscle in their temple work as they clench and unclench their jaw. “Now is fine. Please.”
His body instinctually relaxes from the word, given a clear goal to achieve, a directive to follow, a need to fulfil. A chance to provide, to make Hound’s life easier. He can do that. He can do that indeed, even though it almost feels like he should move carefully now, afraid to disturb the hanging weight of what they’ve confirmed. Of what they’ve essentially just...admitted.
But Elliott can obsess over that later. Right now, he is a man on a mission to collect blankets. He never needs so many of them anyway.