Archive of Our Own

Man, he really needs to talk to someone about getting more padding for his suit (although it’d probably be… weird to run in) because wow, he feels like Octane shredded through him with that Devotion.

He didn’t even get the brunt of it. He can walk just fine, thankfully, due to the technology that the Syndicate had gotten for their most beloved face of the Outlands (that’s him), but he’s more worried about his teammates. Bloodhound, especially. 

And nothing quite hurts more than a barely-lost match. 

Maybe that’s just him and his ego talking, though. Bloodhound’s usually better about losses. 

“Waiting on someone?” The nurse asks, peering over her clipboard at him. 

“Uh… maybe? Actually, they’re probably not here; they’ve got a habit of-” He makes a motion with his hand, mimicking walking. “Doing that. Causes the docs to stress out, I’m sure. Lucky us that we’ve got an actual doc in our ranks to fuss at ‘em for it.”

The nurse stares at him still. She’s not exactly sure where he’s going with the conversation, it seems, so Elliott lets his hand drop. 

“Uh. Bloodhound. I’m guessing they’re not still here, so I’ll just… go?”

He turns on his heel, about to walk away from the desk. Bloodhound has a habit of just disappearing from the infirmary after matches. Probably a privacy thing, he guesses, which he doesn’t really mind. He knows they’re stubborn in their own way, and probably patch themself up on their lonesome, and it seems like it works, so… Elliott can’t really point any fingers. 

“Room 201.”

“Huh?”

She raises a brow behind her glasses. “Room 201. They’re there.”

“Oh, they’re-?” He raises a hand to point down the hall, and she nods, expression starting to inch more towards expersated. “Down there. Okay. Yeah. I’m gonna go- visit.”

Smooth, Elliott. 

He jogs down the hallway, skimming over the name-plates of each room until he reaches the one labeled 201. Once he gets there, he pauses, squinting at the numbers for an extra second to make sure he doesn’t mess up- thanks, dyslexia- and accidentally intrudes on some poor soul. But hey, looks like this is the right room. 

He tests the handle, calling out a brief ‘Hound?’ to see if there’s any response. He hears some sort of muted reply from inside, so he takes that as a clear and opens the door. 

The first sight he’s greeted with is an empty bed. Which he isn’t really surprised with, considering Bloodhound’s stubbornness, and he instead finds them by a window, holding themself up by a crutch and gazing outside. Their mask is in place; he’s not sure why he thought otherwise, and their head tilts a little towards him as he enters. 

“Uh… hey,” Elliott says, offering a two-fingered salute. “I’m surprised you’re not sitting down.”

In response, Bloodhound turns back to the window. As he approaches, he can see that they’re looking at a bird hopped up on the tree through the window. “I miss the fauna from this place. It had been lively. I hope that they return one day.”

He doesn’t really have much else to say besides an awkward ‘uh.. yup’. Instead, Elliott looks around, taking in the very minimally-touched room.

“You… uh… must’ve taken quite a beating. With the entire- cliff falling and all.”

He had seen them tumbling down to the lava in the last few moments of the match, having taken a nasty shove from Valkyrie. He’s not too surprised that they’re on crutches, especially after hearing the sickening crack over the communications. 

“I will recover,” Bloodhound says with a shrug, then squares their shoulders as something tighter goes through their frame. 

“You okay?”

“As I said. I will recover.”

“I dunno, Hound, for a second there, you almost looked like you were still in pain.”

“I am fine.”

“I’m just saying!” Elliott holds up his hands. “Usually you just- sorta… ghost on- well, me, I guess, but everyone really? But I wanted to check in, because that was a pretty… crappy loss. Like, just between our teeth sorta loss, or however it goes. And it’s mostly ‘cause of me, so… sorry.”

“You fought well,” Bloodhound says with a shake of their head. “The fault does not lie over your head.”

“I mean, I was the entire reason-”

“Mirage,” they interrupt, turning away from the window to look at him. “Do not blame yourself. I know you credit yourself with many things, but those are hardly negative. This is scarcely your fault either.”

He presses his lips together, debating, then decides to leave it be. No need to pile onto the self-deprecating Mirage train today. “Uh, yeah, I guess. Just… sorry about botching it- I know, I know. Don’t look at me like that! Just lemme put it out on the table. But uh… hope you’re recovering well.”

They nod, carefully. The movement is stiff though, tense, and Elliott takes a moment to squint at them. 

“So, are they going to let you outta here soon, or…? ‘cause, you’ve got the crutch and everything, so…”

“I will soon.”

“Do you want help?”

When they look at him, curiously behind their goggles, he hurries to explain. “Like- walking! You’ve got the crutches, which- I think means you fractured something or broke something-”

“Several bones.”

“Several,” he exhales through his nose. “That’s great. That’s just great. What I was saying is that I thought I could help you out? I dunno, but if I were you- hospitals are not my forte. Or just… anywhere up near my favorites list, so I’d want to book it as soon as I can.”

They spare one last glance out the window. They’re leaning heavily on the crutch as they muse, turning thoughts over in their head. Until, finally: “If you wish.”

“If I wish! I mean, I put the offer on the table, so of course I wish. Not that. It’s something I absolutely want for you-” He winces. “Ugh. That sounds bad. I’m not gonna do it if you don’t wanna.”

The silence that ensues sort of makes Elliott want to die inside, but it’s soothed over when Bloodhound cocks their head and goes: “I shalln’t need help, but I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“Company! I can do that. I can be company.”

“Then come.”

They motion to him with a hand and start to walk towards the door. He lets them pass and does a quick scan of the room before he shuts the door after him, looking for any personal belongings, but- it’s Bloodhound. He’s not sure what he’s expecting- their dropship area is just books, skulls, knives (and he means a lot of knives), and a perch for Artur so… he’s not sure what they would’ve brought into here. 

Surprisingly, they’re the one that leans into the nurse’s room, who glances up at them. She pulls something up on the screen as she indicates for them to stop, assumedly Bloodhound’s vitals, and lets them pass moments later. 

“So… what’s the plan?” Elliott asks as they leave the infirmary. 

“I intend to head to my heimili. Will you join me?”

“What?”

“My residence.”

“You have one of those?”

He realizes how it feels to say it out loud, and winces to himself. He’s been trying to impress Bloodhound (subtly! Very subtly. Although he’s not great at that) here and there, although sometimes his brain to mouth filter definitely screws up here and there. 

“I mean-”

“I am not there often. I prefer to lie in nature, but I need a place for my belongings,” they readjust themself on the crutch, and Elliott hurries to their side to help them down the steps. He realizes now that they’re not wearing their gloves.

Instead, their hands are bare, intricate with dark scars that remind him of spider-webbing, spiraling across their skin. And where they touch, it’s warm.

Elliott gulps. Okay. It’s just hands, Elliott, do not think of the dream you had where you held hands. Maybe it had been two dreams. Or three. Or- point is, he’s trying not to think about it. 

They accept his help for guiding them down the steps, worn hands over his own as they do. 

“Is your place in Solace City? Do we need a carrier ship or something?”

“It is on the outskirts of Eelhead Bay, which is close by. I think a car will suffice, if you’re willing to ride.”

“Eelhead Bay, huh? Somehow that suits you. All right, I’ll use my Mirage Charm and get one for you.”

“Your charm, hm?” They make a little noise at the back of his throat. “Please, tell me how that goes.”

“You’ll know how it goes because this guy- ” he lets go of them briefly to point a thumb at his own chest. “Is gonna hitch a ride.”

He prefers making conversation to silence, which is the exact opposite of Bloodhound, who seems entirely content in walking in silence, now relying again on their crutches. So instead, Elliott just walks along, a niggling urge in his chest to pull up some sort of conversation starter or joke or something. 

But thankfully, the station where numerous cars are stashed is close to the infirmary. Probably something about commuting back and forth, especially when they have so many people coming out of the games with a lot of injuries. They probably have a field day with some of the legends. 

Half of him wishes that they had a couple Tridents here, but that’s probably a bad wish because one, hello, the heat gets unbearable here sometimes, and people would probably cook if they were out in the open like on a trident. And two, Solace is… rocky and dusty, and he’s pretty sure a Trident around here would either end up in a broken Trident, sand and flies in someone’s mouth, or broken bones. Or all three, if someone’s luck is… particular.

He waves off the man that seems like he’s some sort of cab driver, hurrying to the car as he sees the famous Mirage approaching. “No worries! I passed my driving test. I’ve got this.”

He passes him a few coins and bills, gives him a wink and even an autograph when the man starts to fumble, stuttering. Man, I’m a genius for putting that little heart in the i for my signature. Charming. 

The car isn’t anything much- darker red against the browns and oranges of Solace’s dust, and definitely scrapped up. But hey, he’s not picking Bloodhound up for a date, so… hopefully it’s satisfactory? 

Elliott clambers into the car, hums to himself as he searches for the brakes and the gas. The machine vibrates underneath him, and he settles it by patting the dashboard. “All right, we gotta go pick up a bud of mine. I- wait, you’re not a person- sheesh, Elliott.”

When he manages to drive back to Bloodhound, they’re sat on one of the benches outside of the infirmary, their hand held over their middle. They glance up towards the car as they hear the rumble of its tires against the rocks and dust.

Elliott jerks the wheel so the car is more parallel to Bloodhound, then proceeds to roll down the window as he thumbs at the button. 

“See? Told you this guy would hitch a ride! You’re welcome.”

“I see that,” Bloodhound says with a tilt of their head, examining the car through dark disks. “Is it yours?”

“Mine? I wish! I mean. I’d get something better-looking than this. Not that this is bad, but… gotta get the bedazzled bamboozle in there somewhere. I’ve got a brand.”

“I’m well-aware.”

As they rise to their feet, Elliott realizes that he should try and be a gentleman and help them out. 

“Here, lemme-” he opens the door, then slips out and hovers around them as they walk to the other side of the car, opening the door for them. Taking the crutches from them, he tosses them into the backseat, then focuses on them again.

“ Takk, ” they murmur as they slide into the passenger seat, and Elliott swears their hand lingers a little longer at the base of his elbow, where they had held onto for stability. 

Or maybe he’s just desperate. He doesn’t like to admit it, but very well could be. 

As he slides into the driver’s seat, Elliott glances at his companion. “You’re gonna have to help me out, bud. Know it’s hard to believe, but geography is not my strong suit.”

“Solace is an interesting place. It is hard to track creatures amongst its grounds,” Bloodhound says, a small dink coming from their direction. Elliott glances at them to see that they’ve settled their head- and helmet, really- against the side of the car, near the seatbelt. “It is no wonder that you struggle here, despite it being your home. The sandur makes it difficult.”

“I’m gonna pretend that that’s not an insult wrapped in some weird sort of compliment-”

“It was not an insult.”

“Sounded like one.”

“Mirage,” Bloodhound hums, and there’s a certain way their tongue slides around his name that makes his skin prickle. “I will never insult you. You are a warrior, and you are better than you think with your tricks.”

Okay.

Um.

Drop that on him, sure, why don’t you?

He’s about to fumble out a response, hands flexing on the wheel, but Bloodhound continues, threading a finger up the line of the seatbelt. “But… if you wish to become better with examining your surroundings, I am always available.”

“Oh- uh… sure, I’ll take you up on that? Not sure how we’re supposed to do it in the middle of a match, but…”

Bloodhound points to where he’s supposed to turn right. He does. “I can take you on a hunt, if you wish.”

“Uh… sure. I’ll take you up on that.”

Bloodhound seems content with his answer, then. They drive in silence, with Elliott’s fingers tapping against the wheel when it gets too quiet, and eventually the dry brown outskirts of Solace fade away as the lush trees near Eelhead Bay come into view. 

“We close?”

“Yes.”

They direct him onto a rumbling road leading down to a tiny cottage at the end of it, hidden away in the shadows of sparse trees and decorated with a river smoothing underneath wooden steps leading up to the door. 

As Elliott slows the car, Bloodhound turns their head towards him. 

“ Takk, Elliott. For the ride and your help.”

They move to get out of the car, and he’s quick to open the door himself and shuffle around so he can open their side of the door too.

He’s gentle in guiding them down, especially knowing that he’s the pivot for their support. 

“I can go from here.”

“I would not be a gentleman if I let go into your house like that, so-”

He glances up at the cottage. It strikes Elliott: yeah, it does remind him of Bloodhound, with the worn brown and the moss trailing up over the side. If the inside is anything like Bloodhound’s dropship room, there’s probably dozens upon dozens of books stacked up in there.

“I assure you, I will be fine. You must be busy with your fans.”

Bloodhound takes a step away from him, turning their back on him. Elliott’s a friendly guy, but he knows not to push, especially not for Bloodhound’s privacy when he doesn’t want to make them uncomfortable, so he’s about to throw in a towel when Bloodhound stumbles. 

Immediately, Elliott springs to their side. 

“Whoa, whoa, hang on, lemme at least get the crutches for you-” his hand passes over their abdomen, and Bloodhound recoils with a hiss through their respirator. “You’re injured down there?”

“I am not-” Bloodhood tries to protest, and then lets out a jagged wheeze. They brace a hand against the car, and the words come short and curt when they speak. 

“Uh, yeah, you are-”

“It-” He sees- and feels, really- the way they tense up, muscles in their shoulders going rigid. “My apologies. I hadn’t… I thought I would be able to hold out.”

“What, did a bandage slip or-”

“No, no,” they shake their head. For a moment, they pause, clearly hesitating. “It was never wrapped.”

“It’s actively-” At that, Elliott finally takes a step back, glancing down at Bloodhound’s midsection with alarm. He’s not exactly sure why he does it, as Bloodhound is still clad in the gear they always wear, several layers of it, and it doesn’t offer any answers. “You’re bleeding? Like, right now?”
“Most likely,” they confirm with a tight nod. “It… ah, the car ride might have… opened it further. I will… bandage it when I get inside.”

They start towards their house again, but they don’t get another step before they stagger. Elliott rushes to grab their arm, then pulls it around his shoulder to help them with the weight. He’s careful not to touch anywhere near their torso besides how he pulls Bloodhound to his shoulder. 

“Okay, I am not letting you leave on your own like this. Ajay’d kill me.”

“I think I would be at the end of her hand first,” Bloodhound murmurs, and he hears the wince in their voice. “But yes, we would both be scolded.”

“Definitely. And hey, I’m not looking forward to that, so just let me…”

Bloodhound seems to fight him for the first few steps, trying to be independent in their own way, but it stops once a solid hiss comes from their mouth. From pain, he guesses. Instead, they sag against him the last few steps as he hobbles up the wooden stairs that bridge across the  small stream. 

“Door open?”

Bloodhound nods against his shoulder. He pushes it open with his free hand, and they both go inside. 

He has to support most of their weight the last few steps as something in them seems to give away, and when they reach a couch in the room right past the doorway, Bloodhound breathes into his ear, “there is fine.”

He moves to try and lay them down, gently, but Bloodhound mostly just- slips from his arms (oops) and flops onto the couch. 

It’s a little undignified, which is sort of funny considering that almost everything Bloodhound does has some sort of dignity, but this one doesn’t. 

They sit there, splayed out on the couch and looking up at the ceiling. Elliott realizes that he’s staring and jolts himself into a more living sense of existence. 

“Let me- bandages! Bandages. Uh. Lemme get bandages. Because I am not letting you bleed out on your own couch.”

He accidentally walks into the kitchen first thing, turns around and heads for the other side of the living room. It takes a few tries and several turns in the wrong direction, as well as a solid encounter with a giant flyer skull mounted on one of the walls, but eventually he finds himself in the bathroom, flicking through the cabinets for bandages. 

Maybe I should’ve asked if they even have bandages. 

They do, right? They go on hunts and stuff all the time. They probably get attacked by a bunch of beasts. Not a fun picture, but I’m sure it happens. Should I go back and- 

Andddd found it. 

Elliott unrolls the gauze for a moment just to ensure it’s what he needs, grabs some antiseptic, then stands up and walks back to Bloodhound immediately. They haven’t moved from where they’re splayed out on the couch, but he can hear their breathing filter in through their mask, heavy, labored. 

“Can you-” now, Elliott pauses, a certain sort of heat flaming up the back of his neck. “Is it- on your stomach.”

Bloodhound nods, muted. 

“You’re gonna have to- take off your shirt? I can- I can try and bandage with my eyes closed! Or you could do it. That’s probably smarter. If- if you don’t want me looking. I wanna respect your privy-privit- you know what I mean.”

Their head rolls towards him. When they speak, their voice is lower, quieter. “May you turn around?”

“Turn around-? Yup. Yup. Can do that. Lemme- turning.”

He rotates around, hands held awkwardly still at his side. There’s still that heat collected against the back of his neck that intensifies when he hears shuffling, thunks of what he assumes are boots being taken off and Bloodhound undressing, and he almost feels like a schoolboy because of it. 

To try and push it off, he tries to focus on what he can see of the living room- there’s multiple windows towards the top of the room, where he can see the house extend into several wooden beams that hold up the roof. Natural light bleeds in through there. The living room itself is full of books and shelves, with two on the table near his knee. A perch is tucked near the corner- Artur’s, probably. He can see a couple candles, too, the gleam of a knife or two.

A noise of discontent and discomfort comes from behind him. He tries to keep his back still to push back the instinctive urge to turn and help. 

“You good?” He calls back, mostly to help with his nerves. 

“Andartak. ”

He doesn’t know what that means, so he just… leaves it be. 

“All right,” Bloodhound says on an exhale. He turns around, slowly, not to startle them, and locks eyes with them on the couch. 

They haven’t shed all their gear down which- thank god, frankly, he’s not exactly sure how he’d deal with that, but many of the outer layers have been set aside on the couch, the heavier layers. Their pants are pulled a little lower, just to expose the line of their hip bone, and their undershirt is pulled up. 

Elliott swallows. Whenever that’s because of his brain going ‘ oh hey the person that I may or may not like is sorta kinda very underdressed right now compared to normal ’ or the ‘ oh my god you have a giant gaping wound in your stomach how did you last this far without passing out ’, that’s up to debate. 

The wound is… nasty, is the best way Elliott can put it without feeling nauseous. It doesn’t look like it’s been made from a bullet, as it extends from low on their hip up towards their sternum. It splits, wickedly so, in the middle of their stomach, leaving two identical scrapes trailing upwards on their chest, bleeding actively. Numerous smaller cuts scrape across their ribs, along with smears of blood and- holy shit, is that a stab wound?

“Hound,” Elliott breathes, mostly in alarm. “How- how did you- how did they miss this?”

“I wanted… Privacy. And I thought I would be able to manage on my lonesome.”

“That’s- that is not something you can manage on your own, bud,” Elliott breathes. He shuffles a bit closer, unsure where exactly to start.

Do these need stitches? He feels like these need stitches. 

He shuffles a little bit closer, dropping down on one knee to try and get a closer look. He can see a knot of scar tissue on Bloodhound’s hip, even more further up that wrap around their ribs. They’re covered with scars, knotted and twisted that covers inches of their skin. Elliott also swears that he sees a little hint of black ink against their hip bone, ducking back towards the base of their spine.

Right. Wounds. Not thinking about their scars or their tattoos. 

He takes a deep breath to steady himself. Nothing he’s never faced- the scars on his own face seem to tingle in memory, and all the times in the ring where he had been slick with his own blood are not easily forgotten either. 

“Gonna start binding, okay?”

He readjusts so he sinks onto the couch with them, reaching out to touch them on their knee. They jerk at the sudden touch, and he mumbles a sorry out of the corner of his mouth as he passes the gauze between his hands. 

“I’m gonna have- fuck, okay, Ajay told us about this. I’m gonna- have to wash it first.”

They nod, tight, and he takes off the couch before they’re done, mostly just to try and get the shakiness out of his hands. Elliott comes back with a wet washcloth and a tub, and sits down again.

He hears each hiss from their lips, even as they try and trap it, and Elliott tries to soothe it over with ‘sorry, sorry, I know it hurts, sorry-’ because yeah, he knows that it’ll hurt like a bitch. His guilt even intensifies more when he fumbles with the cap of the antiseptic. 

The wound looks better now, at least, even if the rag he’s holding is wet and dark with blood. Maybe he should’ve grabbed a darker one, he realizes, as he considers it in his hand. But point is, it looks better and not bleeding everywhere. 

“Gonna apply the stuff,” he mumbles out of the side of his mouth, and Bloodhound manages a tight nod. 

They tense up entirely when he starts to, and he mumbles another apology as every muscle goes rigid. They seem to purposefully try and mute their noises, as if that would diminish Elliott’s opinion towards them or somehow change them, and they turn their head away from him. 

“Do- do you want like, my hand to hold or something-”

He offers his hand up, palm extended towards them. He doesn’t know if they’ll take it, but mostly just has it there for support. 

At first, they don’t take it. They just tense up again as he swipes over the scrape near their hip bone. Then, with a surprising amount of softness, they reach for his hand, tangle their fingers and his. 

“Do you mind?” They ask, their voice raspy. 

“Yeah- I mean, no, I don’t mind, just- do whatever you gotta to make yourself comfy?”

They squeeze his hand briefly, perhaps in thanks. When he moves to clean the wound higher up on their stomach, they tense again.

They work in silence for a few moments, which makes Elliott’s skin crawl because wow, he hates that. But he’s not the one injured, so he won’t chat if Bloodhound doesn’t wanna talk. He’s already pretty sure that they think he talks too much, and, well- he’s mostly just trying to impress, not annoy. 

He finishes with the antiseptic, and then moves to grab the wound dressing he had snatched up from the bathroom. He’s no Ajay, but he hopes he’s decent, as Bloodhound doesn’t tell him to stop anything. 

“Okay- gonna put on the gauze now.”

Bloodhound readjusts, pulling away from where they had splayed themself across the couch, preferably to make it more easier. He grabs the gauze, wincing to himself at the slick blood that found its way onto his hands- yeah, he’s not a fan- then starts to wrap it around Bloodhound’s torso. 

“I, uh… need my hand back? Two hand job here.”

“My apologies,” Bloodhound murmurs, something knotted in their voice as they remove their hand from his. 

In another situation, Elliott might’ve noted that Bloodhound is… well, pretty much ripped, with a physique that explains everything about how they move with so much power in the games. He’s definitely aware of the line of their muscles underneath his hands, but there are more… pressing matters at hand, so Elliott just tosses it to the back of his mind for ‘ stuff that I most definitely shouldn’t think about right now ’.

The bandages at least don’t stain red instantly, so at least he has that going for him. 

“Okay. Okay. That should… hold, I think. At least for a little while?” His hands hover over their stomach, unsure what exactly he should do. Man, maybe he should’ve paid more attention to Ajay whenever she fussed at one of them or tried to patch them up. 

The technology in the Games allows them to patch themselves up at moment’s notice, but the Syndicate didn’t allow things like that outside of the Games except for emergencies. That, and it’s supposed to stay inside the Games rather than out. Something about money, probably. 

But he wished that he had something like that right now. Anything that would help loosen and relax Bloodhound’s shoulders. 

“Thank you,” they murmur as they unfurl their fingers- their knuckles are white, probably with strain- and then pull down their undershirt so the fabric falls over the wounds. 

“You… okay? Not too tight, or anything? Because I wouldn’t want to… yeah, I’m pretty sure too tight would hurt your ribs.”

They consider it for a moment, head tilting, before they attempt to rotate themself around on the couch, carefully readjusting. 

“It is fine. Thank you. You can be on your way.”

“Nope! Not gonna leave you like that.”

Their head tilts again. More perplexed, this time. “Pardon?”

“Not leaving you like that,” Elliott repeats again. He stands up from the couch finally, giving him an excuse to move back and try and ignore the flame at the back of his neck for being so close to their bare skin. “Ajay’d kill me, again, and I am a way better host than to leave you like that.”

“I am the host. This is my residence.”

“Yes but also no,” Elliott clicks his tongue, fires a fingergun at them. “You, my friend, are currently on the couch from several wounds that should most definitely gotten tended to like, hours ago. And now you got a makeshift doctor trying to take care of you, so you are out of commission for host things. It’s me time.”

Bloodhound pauses. It seems for a moment like they might protest and fight back against them, but another lance of pain probably stopped them, as they finally give up and lean back against the couch pillows. “Very well.”

“And I mean, hey, look on the bright side! You get bonding time! With me. Great company.”

They make a noise of affirmation, which Elliott will take as a compliment. He holds up his hands, then, examines them and wiggles his fingers in where blood smears over his skin.

“I’m gonna- go clean up, if that’s okay.”

He leaves without looking back, instead heading to the kitchen to scrub it off. It’s a homely kitchen- small, rustic, with another perch in the corner near an open window. Probably for Artur to come in and out of. A book is closed on the table, with a ribbon spilling out of the pages, and as Elliott wipes off with a towel, he shuffles closer to examine it. 

He doesn’t recognize the title, as it’s in a language he can’t recognize- Bloodhound’s, probably, but the cover displays some knight rescuing someone in their arms. Huh. Never struck him as a romantic fairy tale type, but he doesn’t know a lot about Bloodhound, even with his teeny (maybe a bit bigger than teeny), so… he’ll just take it. 

They have several plants near the window as well, succulents mostly by the looks of it, all well-taken care of and lively. Huh. Cute. Noted for when I try and woo them off their feet. 

“All right, so, Hound, I don’t know if you want me to-”

He pauses as he comes back into the living room. 

Bloodhound looks out. 

It’s hard to exactly tell because of their mask and goggles in the way, which he’s sure can’t be comfortable, but their helmet had been placed on the table, set aside with care. Now, they’re splayed across the couch, head tilted into the pillows, still covered by their cap, and Elliott watches as their shoulders rise and fall. 

Are they sleeping? He’s pretty sure they’re sleeping. 

He can’t blame them- he’d be exhausted after walking around with those wounds for a while. And they need the rest, so.. he won’t disturb. 

Elliott spots a nearly-folded blanket near one of the chairs. Wool, he realizes as he grabs it off the arm rest, unfolding it so he can throw it over Bloodhound’s body. 

Hopefully they don’t mind. 

He reaches out to readjust the corner near their shoulder, making sure it covers there as well. Then, with a quiet, “Night, Hound”, Elliott heads back to the kitchen.

- 

He knows he should’ve asked beforehand, but he really didn’t wanna bother Hound, but here he is: with lasagna in the oven and him standing there with his hand on his hips. 

He hears a fluttering noise behind him, and as Elliott turns, he watches Artur hop through the window and to the perch. 

“Uh… hey, buddy?”

Artur ruffles its feathers, making eye-contact with him with those beady eyes- before it takes off and sweeps towards the door. 

As Elliott follows it with his eyes, he freezes at the sight. 

Bloodhound strokes Artur as it comes to a stop on their shoulder, lifting a bare hand to caress its feathers. “Hello,” they murmur, and he’s not sure if it’s to him or the bird. 

“Uh… hi?”

They’re still wearing their goggles, and he stands up straighter as their gaze slowly moves from Artur to him. 

“Sorry if I- uh. Overstayed my... stay?” He glances towards the stove. “And I made some food? I know, I should’ve asked, but-”

“I was unaware that you cooked.”

“Me? Yeah! Yeah, I cook. What, the talk about pork chops was not enough for you?”

They take a couple more steps in the kitchen (they can walk! That’s better). As they do, Elliott realizes that they’re actually still covered in their blanket- the one hand that hadn’t been stroking Artur is instead at their throat, holding the blanket over their shoulders by curling a fist there. 

The blanket swishes against the ground as they take a few steps towards the stove, examining the lasagna. 

“To your taste, hopefully?” Elliott tries. 

“I hope that is the case, yes. Thank you for making it.”

“Yeah! No problem,” in attempt to be casual, Elliott leans back against the counter. “Wouldn’t want you at and up it- up and at it. Yeah. Not with… that going on. Uh, speaking of- are you feeling okay?”

“I recover quickly,” Bloodhound responds. 

“You sure that’s not just a high pain tolerance talking?”

“Perhaps. But I do not like being inactive.” They pause then, glancing up towards the cabinets. “I am glad I can walk, at least.”

“Yeah, that’s good. And also lemme. Get that for you before you rip somethin’ open.”

He hurries over to the cabinet, reaching up around them to open the doors. He overshadows them like this, with how his arm brushes their shoulder and how he hovers near them. 

“Thank you. And for the blanket as well. Unless Artur somehow grew hands to do so?”

“The blanket was me! Yeah. Don’t give the bird credit.” 

“I will not, then,” Bloodhound says with a little noise at the back of their throat. They start to spoon out some lasagna, then turns towards him, extending it to him. 

“Uh- I’m good! Already had a bit. You go eat up. Gotta get stuff in your body, y’know.”

They make a noise of affirmation, tapping their finger against the side of their container. “Do you mind?”

“Mind…”

“Turning away.”

“Oh! Yeah. Lemme. Turn away. Lemme turn away into another room, actually.”

Elliott nods, shuffling into the living room. Arthur squawks from behind him somewhere, fluttering into the room and jumping onto the perch nearby. He sinks onto the couch, on edge, and taps his fingers together as he looks around the room.

The first thing that he notices is the bird looking at him. 

“Uh. Hi?”

Artur cocks its head. 

Must take after its owner and companion then, huh. Or maybe Bloodhound learned it from Artur- that’d be pretty funny. 

Elliott, albeit nervously so, extends a hand towards Artur. Slowly. He’s not exactly sure how to interact with birds, much less ravens (he’s pretty sure Artur’s a raven. If not, he’s about to make himself look like a fool).

Artur cocks its head. Looks at him.

Then hops forward to nudge its beak against his fingers. It’s not done with malicious intent, instead curious as it pokes around its fingers. 

“Whoa, easy, buddy. Don’t get touchy. I gotta keep these in good shape,” Elliott says. Artur nudges its beak against his fingers again. “Yeah… gotta have a skin routine and all that ‘cause of my holotech. Working on it gets rough.”

“She likes you,” Bloodhound says from the door. 

His head turns towards them, then Elliott remembers that they might still want their privacy and rips his eyes back down. 

“I have my mask in place,” Bloodhound informs him, probably in response to seeing how his eyes had jerked the other direction, and Elliott raises his eyes to theirs. 

“Right. Should’ve known that,” he offers them a light grin. “So… thoughts? Did I knock your socks off?”

He swear he meets their eyes through the goggles, for one moment, and also swears that they smile. A little bit. There’s no way to tell, actually, but… gut feeling. 

“If you are willing, I would… prefer it another time. When I can properly appreciate it.” With one hand, they motion down their torso. “But enjoyable nonetheless. Thank you, Mirage.”

“Yeah! Yeah,” Elliott can’t help it; there’s a certain energy that’s brought to his posture at the praise, even if it’s minimal. “Sounds good. I can do that. And I mean… next time I can actually give you my famous pork chops? If you think that’s good, those things are gonna make you go crazy.”

“We’ll see,” Bloodhound says with a hum. They take a few steps into the living room, cross over to the couch he’s sat upon himself and lower themself onto the edge. They do so with a minimal wince. 

“Pain-killers?”

“I do not have any,” Bloodhound says, and their bare hand flexes in the fabric of the blanket as they pull it over the couch, tucking it into their body. Elliott readjusts himself so his legs don’t actually bump theirs, suddenly aware that they’re close by and he has no idea what to do with himself. “I will be fine.”

“Okay, uh… Do you want like… tea, or something? That helps me whenever- well, it’s mostly when I feel sick, ‘cause Ma used to make some for me, and it wasn’t exactly because of-” he motions to the lower half of his own body. “That, but it helps-”

“Not now,” Bloodhound shakes their head. “You have been going in and out of rooms like a býfluga. Rest, for one moment.”

“Oh- Okay. Gotcha.”

He sinks back onto the couches in where he had been moments away from getting up.

“So… uh… what now?”

Bloodhound is not looking at him. Instead, they reach for one of the side desks near the couch, making sure to be careful as they do. They pick up a smooth piece of wood, as well as the knife next to it, setting it against their knee and dragging the blade along the side of it.  

“You may stay if you wish. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“I’m cool with staying! If you’re cool with me. Staying. Yeah.”

“I would not ask you to stay if I did not want it.”

Their knife slides along the wood in calm, long strokes. They’re carving. 

“I’ll be outta your hair- cap?” He squints at their cap. “Soon enough. Just… I wouldn’t want to be alone, like that. My thoughts would go… yeah. Just wanted to offer some company.”

Their carving knife pauses, for a moment, before it slides down, wood curling away in flakes. 

“I appreciate yours,” they say, carefully. “I would be… having a harder time if I was alone. Thank you.”

“So, uh… whatcha carving?”

For a moment, they pause, slipping the knife further into their palm as they run a finger over the wood. They had already had some progress done when they grabbed the wood, but Elliott can’t tell by looking. 

“A fox is my intention.”
“A fox! Love those guys.”

“I do as well. I have only met a few due to the terrains of the planets, but they are lovely.”

Bloodhound scrapes their knife along the wood again, careful and intentful in where their knife falls. They seem content to work in silence, and Elliott just looks on, unsure what to do. He finally glances upwards, at where the light had completely faded out of the windows near the roof. It’s dark. He hadn’t even realized that Bloodhound had switched on the artificial lights of the lamps. 

They continue to carve, idly so. Elliott taps his finger against his knee, chewing on the inside his cheek as he decides to go out on limb:

“Would you be okay if I spends the night? Spent. Spent the night.”

Man, if he had a dollar for every time he made Bloodhound’s carving knife pause, he would have several. 

“If you wish.”

“I just- wanna make sure that you’re okay! And I don’t think anyone else knows that you’re injured, and being injured sucks, so… it’s easier when someone else is around? To help out.”

“I understand.”

“Just… tell me when you want anything?”

All he gets is a nod in return. They seem focused on carving. 

“I’m gonna go check out a room if I can? Unless you want me sleeping on the couch! That’s cool.”

“You may take my bed if you wish.”

“Your bed?” Okay… uh… don’t be weird about it, Elliott. 

“I will most likely stay on the couch,” Bloodhound says. “Unless you wish for me to stay in bed with you?”

“Nope! Nope. I’m good. Your bed’s fine. You’re fine. More than fine, really, and it’s not that I don’t wanna share a bed with you, it’s just- you’re injured, so we probably shouldn’t.”

“Those were my thoughts as well.”

Elliott stands then, hand on his hips. “I’m gonna- go then. Because I’m like… really, really tired. Peachy, actually? Maybe not peachy but man, that match took it out of me.”

Bloodhound nods as another shred of wood falls from the block and onto the floor. “If you need anything, you know where to find me. And if you need a pair of clothes, you may use mine. We are of similar build.”

“Yup. That, my friend, I do,” he says with a click of his tongue and finger guns, walking towards the opposite side of the house where he had seen the bathroom. He takes a right instead of a left and finds himself in what he assumes to be Bloodhound’s room.

It’s dark, and he fumbles out for a light. Eventually, his fingers hit something metal, and he hits a switch that lights up a small lantern near his hand. 

He picks it up, examining the room through the dim light emanating from it. The room seems very similar to the rest of Bloodhound’s cottage- books, lots of books. Lots of weapons, too, he realizes with a jolt. 

Not sure why he’s too surprised though. This is the same person who carried weapons on the dropship when explicitly said not to. 

He moves over to the bed, sinking down moments later. The blankets are soft- exceedingly soft, like fur rather than the wool in the living room- and it’s easy to spread across the covers. He supposes he should change, probably, and he rolls over to pull out a drawer from a large, old dresser. 

He doesn’t want to intrude too much, so he digs around for a singular shirt, tugs his own off after a day of sweat, and slips it on, trying not to let himself linger on the connotations so much. Crawling into bed then, Elliott lets his head fall against the pillow and then to sleep, even as his brain strays with concerns of the person on the couch the next room over. 

The smell of rain and the forest swirls around him, oddly comfortably, and Elliott lets a little tension let go from his shoulders. 

-

When he comes too, he hears squawking that he’s 90% sure is Artur. 

And sure enough, as he rolls over, Artur is perched on one of the shelves, head cocked, looking down at him. 

“Haven’t you learned that starin’ at people is creepy? Even if you’re a bird?” Elliott rasps out,  pulling his blankets up to his neck although he is already covered up. Artur squawks in response and takes off. 

His side is aching. He knows it’s not as bad as Bloodhound’s injuries, but holy shit, Octane did a number on him. Swinging his legs to the side, Elliott takes a moment to stretch and yeah, that feels a lot better. Maybe he just pulled something. 

He picks himself up moments later, striding over to the open door of the room. With the natural light flooding the room, it’s easier to navigate, and it doesn’t take long for Elliott to start padding down the hallway. Something cold is creeping through the house, even with his socks on, and he’s starting to regret leaving the cocoon of warmth he had created in Bloodhound’s blankets. 

Thanks, Artur. Real helpful bird.

“Uh, Hound?” He calls as he doesn’t see any figure near the couch. “Hounddd?”

“In here,” he hears the call from the kitchen. Immediately, he makes his way over, hesitating just before the door to make sure he doesn’t intrude on anything. 

But actually, Bloodhound comes to retrieve him, poking their head out the door. They’re still wearing their goggles and mask, surprisingly enough, although Elliott’s never seen them without it- but their cap is gone.

Instead, vibrant red hair spills over their shoulders, glittering in the few rays of sunlight that smooth through the kitchen. It isn’t braided, or done in any sort of updo, instead simply shrouding the line of their body. 

“Uh- good morning?”

“ Góðan daginn ,”  Bloodhound responds, head tilting. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah! Yeah, your bed is comfortable… so… yeah. Really appreciate it. Thanks for the shirt too- wish I had a toothbrush or something, but…”

Bloodhound examines him through the goggles of their mask again, then nods to themself. “You look good in that shirt,” is all they say after a beat. “I hope it isn’t too uncomfortable.”

“Yeah- well, no, not uncomfortable! It’s perfect. Just perfect. I can definitely swing by my own place later and get my own stuff so I don’t have to keep borrowing, but-”

“It is fine, I assure you.”

“‘Kay,” Elliott says with a nod. It’s then that he’s hit with a gaping sense of hunger, and it’s even more intensified as Elliott turns his head towards the stove, where it looks like Bloodhound has eggs cooking. 

“It is not my best work,” Bloodhound says, following his gaze. “Considering my limited condition. But in the very least it is something rather than just sitting around.”

“I’m gonna have to make you ‘sit around’ again soon, bud, we gotta change those bandages of yours. And man, I should’ve grabbed you a new undershirt yesterday,” Elliott squints at the one they’re still wearing. He hadn’t realized underneath the swarth of the blanket yesterday, but yeah… they’re covered in dried blood. “Gonna have to change that.”

“Seems like you’ve established yourself to be quite the doctor.”

“Me? Oh, nope. Just a lot of bar fights.”

A beat, as Bloodhound looks at him. 

“Solace City is rough sometimes. It’s just normal around there?”

“I see. Well, nonetheless, I do appreciate your help.”

Elliott squints at them for a moment as they move to pull out a kitchen chair, trying to examine their movements. “You feeling okay?”

“I will recover.”

“I asked if you were feeling okay.”

Their hands flex on the rails of the chair, for a moment, before they respond, “As I said, I will recover. It is nothing I cannot handle.”

Elliott considers pushing it, but yeah, no, maybe another day, especially not in a house with several weapons if Bloodhound decides he’s being too annoying.

“So, hopefully the plan is just rest today? I was thinkin’ that I could go get you painkillers, but I mostly wanna make sure you don’t accidentally sneak off into the woods.”

“You think that I will?”

“You’ve disappeared into the woods before!”

Their head tilts. “Ah. My hunts. I assure you I will stay here.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” He shivers, suddenly noticing the chill in the room. Probably because of the open window, and the early morning temperature is starting to seep into the kitchen. “I gotta get myself something warm, too.”

“It is not cold.”

“Uh, yeah it is?”

“Solace is known as a planet of eternal summer. This is hardly cold.”

“Okay, just because you’re from-” he stills, realizing that he doesn’t exactly know where Bloodhound is from. He squints. “P… Psamathe?”

“Talos.”

“Talos! Just because you’re- wait, you’re from Talos?- but point is, just because you’re from there does not mean it’s not cold.”

“It is mild at best.”

“Mildly cold, more like it,” Elliott’s nose scrunches as he looks over to the window. “Can we close that?”
“Surely this supposedly ‘cold’ is not that much trouble to you.”

“I said it’s cold! I’m a Solace native! You gotta believe me. This place is a desert, and then it does that weird environmental thing when it gets stupid cold at night.” He shivers to himself. “Ugh.”

He hears a little thing from them, like a muted laugh, and he straightens up a little bit as he realizes that it had been a laugh, especially with how their shoulders are starting to shake. They lift their hand to their mouth, then realize their respirator is in the way and lets it drop. “You’re welcome to help yourself to my blankets if you wish.”

“Might take you up on that offer. My toes are gonna get hypothermik-hypotherm- hypothermia at this rate, and I like having my toes.”

He takes off towards the living room and comes back moments later with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, tucking himself further into it to ensure maximum warmth. While he had been gone, Bloodhound seems to have finished cooking their eggs and is starting to slide them onto the plate. They glance up towards him. 

“I imagine you’re hungry.”

“Little bit, yeah,” his stomach rumbles in response. “Okay, maybe a little more than a little bit.” 

“Enjoy. I will be back soon,” they say, and turn to leave the kitchen. 

He’s fine to eat on his own, humming to himself as he digs through the really good eggs, even though they’re just eggs. Probably best for Bloodhound to manage something easy during their condition, but man… he doesn’t even want to start to imagine how well they could cook at their best. 

Another ploy to get closer to Hound, Elliott reminds himself, keep yourself in check, Elliott. Don’t go grasping at straws just because you don’t know how to deal with your feelings and it’s been like, a solid five years since you had a crush on someone like this. 

But also if they cooked again, he would really, really, really want to come over and eat it. 

He ends up putting the plate in the sink, to which Artur squawks at from its perch. Elliott squints at him. “What, you’re gonna wake me up and now criticize me for how I put my plate in the sink? Man, you’re a tough crowd.”

Another squawk. Elliott’s brows furrow. 

“And here I thought you liked me, and now-”

From behind him, he hears someone clearing their throat, and Elliott spins around and offers an awkward smile as he spots Bloodhound. “Uh. Hey.”

“Hello. Having fun conversating?”

He glances back up at the raven, who seems to be done with him, having turned away. “Uh. Yup. Riveting, really,” his eyes drop to their hands, where he spots a brush. “You going to the hair-dresser?”

“I always do my own hair,” Bloodhound says. They extend their hand towards him. “But I am afraid that due to my… condition and my current wounds, it is… difficult to braid my hair as I normally would.”

Elliott waits for a few more moments, not wanting to interrupt. When he realizes that Bloodhound is looking at him, most likely expectant underneath their mask, he startles. “Oh, are you asking me to-”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure! Sure. Yeah.”

They turn on their heel then, leaving him in the kitchen and clearly indicating that they want him to follow them. He shuffles into the living room to find them already seated on the couch, legs crossed with their hands curled over their ankles. 

On the table, he can see their brush and several bands. Elliott takes several steps over there, hovering near Bloodhound. “I’m gonna preface this now- before I massively screw up- that I’ve never braided someone’s hair before.”

They hum, seemingly unperturbed by his lack of skill. “Do you want me to show you?”

“No! No, I’ve got it. Just wanted to let you know that it’s not… exactly a hobby of mine.”

“I trust you,” is all they say in response, still not at all disturbed. Elliott swallows, something bobbing in his throat, and he shuffles around the couch to sit in front of them first thing. 

“You’re gonna have to… take off your goggles, if that’s okay? Just to make sure I get everything and there’s no stray hairs or anything. You… are you good with that?”

Bloodhound hesitates for a moment. 

“It’s cool if you don’t! I just wanted to get everything so it looks- good. Not that it won’t look good- well, it might not the first time, but-”

“It is fine. One moment.”

They reach up, and Elliott tries his hardest to remember how to breathe and not to stare. 

Their goggles come off moments later, and they reach over to set the pair on the table, folding their hands over one another in their lap. 

“Will this work for you?” They ask finally, and Elliott remembers that he needs to speak. 

“Yeah! Yeah, yeah, that works- yeah.”

He swallows. Bloodhound keeps their eyes aimed toward their hands, as if to protect their own privacy fiercely even with the goggles out of the way, but that doesn’t stop the way his eyes are instantly drawn to the spider-like scars that spread across the side of Bloodhound’s face. The same sort of scars that cover their hands.

Bloodhound’s eyes snap up to his, intense and burning and icy. 

“Are you done staring?”

“S-Sorry,” Elliott stutters out. “It’s just-”

“I do not need any commentary about my scars nor my appearance.”

“It wasn’t about your-” he bites his tongue because it might’ve been about their scars, but really he was just: taking it in. “And uh- your appearance is- nice?”

“I had just said-” their head ducks, hair falling in front of their face to hide their eyes from sight. Their folded hands tighten. 

“I don’t mean it in a bad way! You look nice, you’ve got nice eyes, and you’re-”

“Mirage,” they say, putting a heavy amount of force and heat into his name, and he holds up his hands. 

“Okay! Okay. Sorry. Sorry.”

The silence afterward lingers in the air, and he swallows. Slowly, he moves to take a seat right across from them. “Gonna touch you, okay?”

A tight nod. Their head is still tilted down, so Elliott reaches over and carefully fits his fingers underneath the curve of their respirator, tilting their head up. Their eyes catch his: they’re still just as fierce as before, a bright blue that cuts to his core.

He lets go of their chin now, and they still keep his stare. His hand drifts a little higher, to find the strands of hair floating by the sides of their face. With a gentle touch, Elliott tucks it back, smoothing a finger over the side of their temple and slipping their hair behind their ear. 

“Okay. That’s easier to work with,” his voice sounds higher in his own ears. “Yeah.”

Bloodhound nods, mutely. The motion makes his finger brush against their skin again, the heated surface of it, and Elliott swallows. He gets up before he can make a fool out of himself, smoothing his palms down his thighs as if that would reduce the amount of heat collecting at the base of his neck. 

They had made eye-contact with him when he had tucked their hair back.

He hadn’t missed it. 

He sits behind them then, stomach flip-flopping, mind straying between wanting to keep as quiet as possible and to talk. He wants to talk; it’s an instinct, but it feels like it’s intruding on what had just happened. 

Leaning forward, Elliott attentively gathers Bloodhound’s locks in one hand, grabbing the brush with his free one. They’re trembling, mildly so, and he’d deny it if anyone asked about it. 

Their hair is exceedingly soft, which should be illegal considering that they’ve had it in a cap for the past day and also had been moving around in the Games. It should be sweaty and messed up because of how long they had it in their cap, but it’s not that. 

Elliott’s nose crinkles. He wishes his hair was manageable; instead, he spends several hours a week in the mirror trying to tame his hair.

“Your hair’s really nice?” He tries, trying to fix the silence between them. Bloodhound doesn’t respond, but their head moves towards him, clearly listening. “Like… man, I wish my hair was this nice. I gotta spend all my time putting product in.”

“Mm. You take clear care of your hair,” Bloodhound nods. 

Elliott grins to himself a little bit, although there’s really nothing much to smile at. Just conversation, maybe? 

“I mean, yeah, I gotta. You see how good I look.”

A noise of affirmation. Or at least, Elliott thinks it’s affirmation, and that’s enough for his hands to get a little more shaky as he braids their hair. Focus, Elliott, you’re trying to impress. 

“I gotta get the curls down under control… missin’ my product. It goes everywhere, and gets in my eyes and stuff. Think people like it better that way, anyway.”

A pause. A beat. 

“I think you look nice,” Bloodhound murmurs, the words quiet enough that Elliott nearly misses. “While yes, I like your hair with your product, this isn’t an unwelcome sight.”

Elliott’s hands pause in where he’s braiding.

He doesn’t have any product in his hair right now, and he had slept on it like this, so his hair right now is reminiscent to bedhead, and he wouldn’t go anywhere with it in its current state, but Bloodhound- 

Bloodhound thinks he looks nice. 

Is he overthinking it? He probably is. 

He realizes he has yet to speak since then, and he attempts to clear his throat. “Y-Yeah. Thanks. ‘ppreciate it.”

Bloodhound nods again, staring ahead and at a wall of the room, taking interest in the skull that hangs from there. Everything still feels mildly warm around them, as if the tension is starting to warm up the air itself, and Elliott takes a steady breath through his nose to focus on the rest of the braiding. 

He can’t really do anything complex, so he settled on a single braid that travels down the expanse of their back. Bloodhound’s hair is not only soft to touch and well-taken care of (obviously), but it’s long, extending down towards their waist. 

It definitely busies him for a bit as he braids, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he repeats to himself how to fold the divided hair locks over one another. 

Bloodhound, once again, is content to sit in silence, and Elliott doesn’t wanna disturb even if he really wants to talk. 

He finishes off the last of the braid, lower near the small of their back. Reaching for a band on the table, he plucks up a yellow one and wraps it around the end of the braid.

“There ya go,” he says, smoothing a hand down their back, and he swears that he sees them shiver a bit. “Hopefully that’s- okay?”

Now, Bloodhound finally moves from the statue-like posture they had been holding themself in, turning to pull the braid he had made over their shoulder. They glance at it, and Elliott holds his breath as he waits. 

Thankfully, in their ice blue eyes: there’s no rejection. Instead, Bloodhound’s eyes flick up towards him, and they let the braid swing back over their back. 

“Thank you, Mirage.”

“Elliott,” he blurts. 

They pause. Their hand flexes on their thigh.

“Elliott works. It’d figure if I’m hanging around that- not a callsign would be better? I mean, if you wanna call me Mirage, that’s cool, it’s just- I’m Elliott, so…”

“Elliott,” Bloodhound echoes, and something prickles up his neck. “Thank you, Elliott.”

“Y-Yeah. Welcome. Uh. Did you wanna do your bandage change, now? ‘cause I was figuring that I’d head out soon, so…”

“ Já. Can I help in any way?”

“Just stay there and sit tight. Doc Elliott coming through.”

He takes off, now knowing where the bandages and the dressings are, returning moments later. Bloodhound seems to already know the routine, as their shirt is pulled up again

 to display the sculpted lines of their stomach muscles, even through the bandages wrapped currently around their abdomen.

Okay. They’re gonna have to stop showing off like that or else Elliott’s going to have a hard time.

Already, he drops to one knee to peel off the bandage wrappings. They’re not crusted with blood, which is a good sign and shows that the wound hadn’t soaked through the dressing. “Looking good here, bud.”

“I feel better, so I would hope so.”

He finally manages to unwrap the entirety of the bandages, fingers brushing over the bare lines of their lower back, and tosses it to the floor. Peeling off the dressing, Elliott squints at the wounds.

It does look a lot better than yesterday. Surely better than the mess of blood he had seen. The wounds are still red, and doesn’t look like they’re scabbing over quite yet, instead raw skin stretching around the wounds. 

He gets up to grab a wipe again, coming back to Bloodhound stretched over the couch. “Do you think I should reapply the stuff? It’s not- it’s not a bad idea, right?”

“No, it would not be a bad idea.”

“Great, ‘cause I’ve got it right here.”

It’s an easier process this time, to reapply the globs of antiseptic he gathers on his fingertips. Bloodhound makes a noise of discomfort at the back of their throat, fingers flexing into the muscles of their thighs- haha, wow, okay- as he applies it. But eventually Elliott’s putting new wound dressing over each one of the injuries, reaching around them to wrap the gauze around them. 

“See? I’m learning! How do you feel?”

“Improved,” Bloodhound says, a hand drifting to their ribs. “Perhaps a little warm, but that is surely because I am on the blanket.  Thank you, Elliott.”

“You, my friend, are welcome. Now, I’m gonna go be a dear and get some painkillers.” He pulls himself up from the couch. “You need anything?”

“Some soup would be nice.”

“Soup,” Elliott clicks his tongue. “Can always rely on soup.”

- 

He definitely feels better once he’s gone home and taken a shower. Sure, he could’ve asked Bloodhound, but something about that makes the heat at the back of his neck start up again, so… he just went and opted for his own. And he got some painkillers. And some soup. You’re welcome. 

It’s nice to slide into his own shirt and pants, in addition to actually being able to brush his teeth and get the lingering feel of morning breath out of his mouth. He glances at the mirror for a moment, checking over the state of his beard and his hair. 

He reaches for the product near the sink, then hesitates. 

Bloodhound had said they liked his curls, right? Just… how they are.

Slowly, Elliott lets his hand fall, then slips out of the bathroom.

He considered calling Ajay because that would probably be a smart idea, then decided against it because he’d rather not her chew her out for every wrong thing he’s done. He’s got this in the bag, right? He hopes he does. 

And last but not least, he’s got a change of clothes for tomorrow and some bits of his holotech to work on over there. He doesn’t know if Hound’ll take a nap, but they conked out yesterday like that, so… just in case he needs to pass some time?

The ride back is a little clumsy, and he may or may not have missed a turn (or two), but eventually Elliott pulls up to Bloodhound’s cottage again, tires rumbling against the pebble. When he comes inside, he’s greeted with Bloodhound on the couch again, comfortably seated on top of a pile of blankets that he recognizes from their room, head tilted downward as they immerse themself in a book.

“Uh… hey, buddy,” he says as he comes in, moving to set his backpack against the side of the table. “You holding up all right?”

“Elliott,” Bloodhound greets, and he swears that he sees them lean a little further up on the couch, as if straightening at the sight of him. “How was your excursion?”

“I got your soup! So you’re welcome,” he fires a finger gun over in their direction. “Got some other stuff too. And I’ve got your shirt in my bag as well, so- I’ll just return that to you.”

“Ah. You changed,” their head drops a little bit as they skim him from head to toe. “Thank you for the return.” 

“Yup,” he moves to pluck at his shirt, a black shirt with gold thread laced through the sleeves and across the collars, where it dips briefly. “And now here’s yours truly! But uh… if you were busy, I could just leave you to it? Wouldn’t want to interrupt any… you-on-book time.”

“I had just finished my chapter,” Bloodhound says, reaching for a bookmark on the table and tucking it into the pages, closing the book cover over it. “You’re not interrupting.”

“I mean, yeah, but you deserve some… you time! Not around me. I mean, I’m great company, but… uh… I’d get tired of me at some point too, so… I’m just gonna…” he hooks a thumb to the kitchen. “You want me to put on soup?”

“Yes. I would appreciate that.”

He can sort of navigate the kitchen now, and at least this time he doesn’t cause a commotion as he rummages around for a pan. Set it on the stove, heat it up, and then he moves to open the can, trying to pry it open. 

“ Shit! ”

A streak of pain lances through his hand as Elliott drops the jagged piece of the tab, it scattering across the counter. He brings his thumb to his mouth and tastes the metal of blood, his brow furrowing as he examines the beads of blood on the tab. “Jesus, it’s that sharp?”

“Elliott? Are you okay?”
“Yeah!” He calls back, the word muffled around the thumb in his mouth. “‘m good!”
Some footsteps. Elliott curses to himself; he hadn’t wanted to bother them. Bloodhound shows up in the doorway, standing there surprisingly steadily with a hand braced against the door frame. They scan him. 

He realizes he must look weird with a finger in his mouth, so he tears it away, moving to instead hide his hand behind his back. “Uh… hey! I told you I’m good, so… you can go back to book time?”

Bloodhound turns their head to examine the counter as if it’d give them any clues. Then they turn their eyes to him. While Elliott may have been unnerved by the glass stare of their goggles before, that doesn’t compare to their eyes uncovered, as it feels like it cuts straight through him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yup. Good. I’m-” He balances a hand on the counter, hisses as the newfound cut brushes against the counter. “Ow. Okay.”

Bloodhound takes a step closer, and he can’t pull away when they reach out, the movement dignified and pointed, to carefully grasp his wrist and pull it out in front of him. 

“Ah,” they say, and Elliott swallows. 

“That’s all you got? I’ll be fine, I promise, just-”

They pinch his finger between theirs, and Elliott yelps. 

“And here I thought I was to be the only one injured,” they say, fingers brushing against his palm. “One moment. Stay here.”

“Hound-” Elliott moves to protest, but they’re already moving away with surprising speed for someone with several abdomen injuries. He barely has the chance to follow them when they return, a pack of bandages in hand. 

“May I?” They ask, extending a hand towards him. 

“Hound, I can put on my own bandage-”

“You have helped me with bandaging not once, but twice. Allow me to do this little thing,” they pull his hand towards him, firm but gentle. Giving him a chance to pull away if need be, if he’s uncomfortable. And he doesn’t. 

They pull his hand underneath the faucet as they flip on the running water, letting the water wash over the cut. Then, with an expert hand, they wrap a bandage around the tip of his thumb. 

“Hope that doesn’t scar. I’ve already got a bunch, and I don’t have to add to the list.”

They hum in affirmation as they let his hand go, letting it fall to his side. “I don’t think it will, no.”

“Good! Good. These scars-” he points to the ones on his face. “help with the roguish handsomeness, but a fingertip scar? That adds up to just about nothing.”

“You will be fine.”

“You sure, because-”

They reach up then, grasp him by the chin so firmly that Elliott’s breath just about freezes in his throat. He can see how their eyes search his face, lingering over his cheek, his nose, near his eye. Near his scars. 

He forgets how to swallow. Remembers it, and swallows. 

“If I may ask,” they say, words soft but carefully measured. “Do these still hurt?”

“Nah. I got past ‘these hurt like a bitch’ a while back. They just took a long time to heal over.”

Their head cocks to the side by a minimal degree. “Again: if I may ask, what is the story behind them?”

“Ah, trying to wrangle out a story from me, huh- if you wanted me to talk that much, you could’ve just asked-”

Their eyes meet his, for a moment. There’s a question in there, a curiosity that he hadn’t even realized that Bloodhound possessed. 

“Hey, how about this. You tell me a story about your scars, and I’ll tell you mine.”

A beat. He can tell they hesitate. 

“And- and it doesn’t have to be three. Three stories, I mean. It wouldn’t be- an exchange thing. You tell me one, and I’ll just sum up these three. And you don’t have to do your- hand scars. Or eye scar… things. Facial scars.”

Bloodhound releases their grip on his chin, and he remembers how to breathe clearly. But still their hand hovers. 

“I am…” they pause. Start again. “I prefer my privacy, Elliott.”

“Yeah! I get that. I totally get that. That’s cool. It’s all good.”

Their finger brushes over the scar on his cheek, just over the line of his cheekbone. “But perhaps… another time. If I am up for it.”

“Yeah! Yeah. Sounds good,” his voice sounds high in his own ears, and mostly he’s just mentally smacking himself. Of course Bloodhound wouldn’t be open to that. “But, uh- these scars. They’re just from… stuff in Solace.”

“Stuff?” They echo. 

“Y’know, like… I dunno. There’s not a lot of folks to mandate the law over there, so…” he shrugs. “And a bar’s like, a cesspool for some rough people, so…”

Their brows furrow. 

“Someone did this to you?”

“Uh… someones, if that makes it any better?”

Their brows furrow even more, a hard line appearing between their eyebrows. “Multiple people?” 

“One guy sorta took a swing- granted, knife in hand, that’s that one on the cheek right there- and the rest of them just… piled on,” he shrugs. “You see a bartender on the ground, and apparently the given is to pounce on him and join in.”

Their eyes sharpen as they look at him, although the emotions lurking behind their eyes are not necessarily aimed at him. “That is unfair,” they finally murmur, hand dropping from where it had been hovering over the scar on his cheek. “To you and to anyone else that they hurt with that method.”

“It happened,” Elliott says with another shrug. 

Although that doesn’t seem enough to placate Bloodhound, as a certain sort of cold fury seems to light up the blue of their eyes, they turn away. Picking up the half-opened can of soup that he had left on the counter, they’re the one that pours it into the pan. 

“If there is ever an instance like that again,” they start, back still to him. “Do not stand down. You are better than them, Elliott.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not too hung up ‘bout it. It’s a thing of the past. Hey, I’ve got better things to focus on.”

“That is a good view to have.”

He clicks his tongue, aiming another finger gun at them even though they’re still not facing him. “Here to supply all of the good attitut-attitit-attitube- all the good energies.”

They nod, mostly to themself more than anything, turning the knobs on the stove. They seem to be swaying unsteadily on their feet, almost fidgety, moving back and forth, but Elliott decides not to question it. 

It’s hard to question it, actually, when there’s still this prickling on the side of his face where they had touched him. And how his mind had definitely jumped elsewhere when they had grasped his chin like that. 

Keep it together, Elliott. Gotta keep it cool for at least another day. 

They move in silence afterward. Bloodhound spoons soup for themself, whereas Elliott just takes a seat at the table and watches them, rapping his fingers against the table. They head back into the living room, and he doesn’t follow. 

He chews on the inside of his cheek, unsure what to do with the stirring guilt in his chest about stepping too far into their boundaries. And just hopes that they won’t want to… just… not talk to him or something. 

He’s flighty during that evening. Bloodhound spends most of it leafing through their book by the looks of it, and Artur comes in to visit through the kitchen one time before hopping back out again. Elliott comes over to help for their bandages again later in the evening, but most of the time he ghosts between the kitchen and the living room, unsure what to do. 

And he wants to talk, as he hates how silence feels over his head, but he’s pretty sure if he opened his mouth, Elliott’ll regret it. 

“‘m gonna- head to bed, if that’s okay,” he says finally, hovering in the doorway of the kitchen. “G’night. Did you- still want your bed?”

“I will be fine. Good night,” Bloodhound calls after him, voice surprisingly quiet, as he makes his way down the hallway. He does a quick check-up on himself in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and changing into a pair of clothes he had specifically grabbed for comfort. 

Sliding into the bed, Elliott lets his head fall on the pillow, tries to lull himself to sleep. 

But it’s hard to, when the distinct smell of Bloodhound drifts around him, the same scent that he had caught when they had leaned in close like they did earlier. The intense look in their eyes, the steel of it, the storm of it. 

And it doesn’t help that the sensation of their fingers on his cheek, careful and ginger, doesn’t go away. It feels warm. 

Elliott groans and tucks his face further into the pillow, hoping that somehow it’ll help bury those feelings. 

It doesn’t work. So that’s… fine. Guess Elliott’s going to sleep tonight with way too many thoughts on his mind about the person literally in the other room. 

He groans again. Rakes a hand through his hair, thinks he hears a squeaking noise from another room that sounds a little bit like Artur. Thanks for your help, buddy. 

His sleep is restless. The heat really never goes away, and there’s several times when Elliott wakes up thinking that he feels something next to him. But eventually sunlight starts to break through the window, and Elliott rolls away. 

Although he feels like a bit of a mess, he stumbles to his feet, passing a hand through his bedhead to part it into something a bit more manageable, then stumbles towards the living room. 

“Hound?” He calls, glancing around for them to see if they would be awake like they were yesterday. “Ho- oh.”

Hound’s curled up on the couch. It wouldn’t be a strange sight, if not for the way their hair sticks to their forehead and how they’re curled up underneath a mound of blankets. 

“Hound?” Elliott asks again, voice dropping to a whisper, and Bloodhound’s eyes flutter open. 

They roam the room, then settle on him, and it’s at that where Elliott’s stomach sinks. Their eyes look hazy, unfocused, glazed over as they try to look at him. 

“Holy shit, Hound,” he whispers, dropping to one knee. All his exhaustion from the night tossing and turning just about disappears. “Hound? You good, buddy?”

They don’t respond. Instead, they seem to burrow themself further into the cushions of the couch, as if to hide away from sight, head dropping into the wrap of blankets. 

He reaches out to press the back of his hand against Bloodhound’s forehead, then winces as he feels the clamminess to their heated skin.

Yup. Definitely breaking a fever. 

Elliott cups the side of their face gently, murmuring a quiet ‘hey, look at me’. Their eyes flutter open, and he has to subjugate a wince again at how weak they look, skin slick with sweat and them looking sickly. 

“How are you feeling?” Elliott murmurs, still cupping the side of their face and letting his thumb stroke against their cheekbone. 

Bloodhound makes a small noise. Even with their respirator on their face still, they press their face into the cusp of his palm, nuzzling a little bit into it. The cold of the metal brushes against his skin. 

“Do- do you want tea, or something? Like, is your stomach hurting, or…”

“I believe just chills and-” they pause, lifting their head away from his palm, and a sharp cough wracks through their frame, turned mechanical through the modulator of their respirator. “And- I have struggled on and off with a cough.”

“And a fever. Shit, uh… how’d you even... “

He rolls around thoughts in his hand, trying to figure out exactly how they got to this point before it hits him. Shit, their wounds. 

“Hound, I’m gonna have to ask you to uh… pull up your shirt, if that’s okay?”

They make a noise of discomfort and tuck themself further into the blanket. 

“Please?”

He can see how their nose crinkles, smooth skin wrinkling up. Clearly they’re not a fan of the idea. 

“I know you’re hot-” he clears his throat. “You’re running a fever, like I said. I just wanna take a look at your wounds- we gotta rebandage them, and they might be infected.”

“Very well,” Bloodhound’s voice is raspy. “Give me a moment.”

They unfurl from their mound of blankets, then. There has to be at least three pulled around them, and they shove them towards the side of the couch. They readjust themself, scooting towards the end of the couch so it’s easier for Elliott to reach. 

As they pull their shirt up, Elliott gets to work unwrapping bandages, peeling it away from Bloodhound’s torso. And when he finally manages to peel away the dressing, Elliott curses. He doesn’t even have to look at it for long to tell that the biggest one, the one that spans from their belly button up to their sternum, is infected.

The other smaller scrapes don’t look infected, but… 

His mouth quirks down, his brow furrowing. He glances up towards Bloodhound, and realizes that they had been watching him. Not his hands like they had before, or something else like the time before that- but him. Their eyes are half-lidded, watching him carefully. 

“How are you feeling right now, bud? Symptoms?”

“ Kaldur ,” Bloodhound murmurs, then blinks. “Ah… my apologies. Cold.”

He spreads his hand over their hip, thumb set right underneath one of the wounds. Almost instantly, he feels how they shiver. 

“You feel very warm,” they murmur and shiver again. 

“Well, I don’t have a fever like you do, so at least I’ve got that goin’ for me,” he purses his lips. “You’re running like real hot, Hound, you sure you’re cold?”

“Yes. I have chills,” another shiver runs its path through their body, and their shudder. 

“‘m gonna have to get some antibiotics for you, prolly. Anything hurt?”

They shake their head. 

“Okay! That’s good. We just gotta take care of that fever, then, hopefully the rest of it goes away after that. Let me just- reapply this and clear it up because wow, that pus looks nasty. Just… stay there.”

He takes off with something a little more hurried to his step and nearly trips over himself. Grabbing the bandages and the antiseptic, he heads back over to Bloodhound, who hasn’t moved, eyes still hazy. 

He uses his teeth to rip the gauze, and then tosses the used ones aside. Their skin is heated and clammy where his fingers brush over it, sweat-slick, and he frowns every time his hands pass over. 

“There you go,” he says as Bloodhound lets their shirt fall back over their stomach again. “Do you want tea or something?”

“I would… like that, yes.”

Already, they’re starting to furrow back into the blankets, swinging their legs back onto the couch after they had moved to make it easier on him. They pull one of the blankets up to their neck again, nestling under it. 

Huh, cute. Elliott thinks as he throws a glance over his shoulder as he heads to the kitchen. 

It takes a bit of fumbling around to brew a cup of tea, especially because he’s done this like one time, and he hopes it’s at least… not bad… but eventually Elliott brings back a mug of tea and sets it on the table. 

“Uh… hey. Here. It’s chamomile… hope it’s okay.”

Bloodhound’s head lifts from the mound of blankets. They regard him, then the mug, then a single hand breaches the mound and reaches for the cup. 

“Whoa there, easy. You’re gonna have to get into more of a sitting position-”

“I can drink it just fine the way I am.”

“And risk spilling it down your front?” Elliott shakes his head. “Nuh uh. Sit up.”

Bloodhound makes a noise of complaint. But, seeming to listen to him, they sit further up in the pile of blankets. He slides into the spot right next to them, and even from his spot nearby he can feel the heat radiating off them. 

“Man, you’ve got tea, you’ve got blankets… what next, a book?”

Their head turns towards where he can see a stack of books near one of the armchairs. 

“Yes. That would be nice… but I am afraid that I am…” they pause. Then sigh. “Scatterbrained, I believe is the word?”

“Scatterbrained. Got it. Yup. I get you.”

“I’m afraid I would not be able to focus. Much of the world seems blurry.” They seem almost disheartened by the fact, their voice a little lower. 

“What, do you want an audio book? Hey, could be by yours truly.”

“Are you offering?”

Elliott blinks. Straightens up a little bit, like he couldn’t believe what he had just heard, then remembers that he has to ask people to repeat themselves since they can’t read his mind. “Sorry?”

“Are you offering?” Bloodhound repeats again, their voice a little quieter. 

“Oh- uh- sure? I mean, I’m sure an audiobook by me would be loved across the Outlands, so-”

“I was not talking about a book deal,” Bloodhound says, their voice still a little weak. They twist on the couch and reach for a book nearby, dragging it to them, and then offers it to Elliott, spine-first. “If you are not opposed to it.”

“Oh… uh…”

Immediately, they draw the book back towards their lap. “Ah… I did not mean to intrude. It was simply-”

“No, no, you’re good! You’re good! I’ll read.” He reaches out towards them, inching towards the book. 

For a moment, it almost looks like they’re not going to give it to him, hands folded in their lap in a brief moment of stubbornness after they had extended a piece of them out to him in vulnerability. Hell, if they weren’t sick, he would’ve guessed that they would’ve clambered into their shell entirely after that. 

But apparently their fever is wearing down on them, because Bloodhound carefully slides the book over to him.

He plucks it up, turning it from cover to cover so he can examine the back side of it, skimming over the summary. 

“I’m gonna preface- I think that’s the right word- this with a, uh… I’m bad at reading? Reading out loud, anyway. Words just sorta…” he makes a vague motion with his hand. “Mix together. Get mixed up, too. So hope it’s not that big of an issue?”

“It shall not,” they assure him. “There is nothing to worry about.”

“All righty then.”

Elliott drags a finger down the spine of the book again, realizing that their eyes, although still clouded by the fog of a fever, are trained on him, and intently so. He leans forward so he can pluck the mug off the edge of the table and hands it to them. Their fingers brush when he does, and Bloodhound nods their thanks. 

“Get cozy?” 

He expects them to settle in their blankets again, and it actually surprises Elliott when Bloodhound chooses to tuck themself a little bit closer, then pause. 

“May I?” They ask in a rasp. 

“Yeah! Yeah. Do… do whatever you gotta do to make yourself comfortable.”

His heart seems to leap up into their throat as they slowly inch closer to him. He can feel the radiating heat of their skin this close, especially with how they fit into his side. 

“Do you want a blanket?” Bloodhound murmurs, and haha, wow, their voice that close to his ear should not cause the streak of lightning down his back that it does. 

“‘m good,” it comes out mumbled. “I’m good. Warm enough. Yeah.”

He settles the book on his knee, using one hand to open it and balance it against his leg. There’s no bookmark between the pages, so he’s about to start on the first page, but Bloodhound reaches over and flips several pages. 

“I was further along,” they murmur. 

He manages a ‘gotcha’ out of the corner of his mouth, although it’s oddly quiet and feels watery in his own ears. Clearing his throat, Elliott glances down at the page they directed him too and starts reading. 

He can’t process what’s going on in the story. Not really. All he can really process is the fact that the plotline is about someone running from home for an adventure. But it’s hard to put together the pieces when he’s focusing his best to try and not let his dyslexia get the best of him for certain words, and even harder as he notices the weight of Bloodhound’s head fall on his shoulder. 

It’s a little uncomfortable, especially where their respirator lies against the bones of his shoulder, but they’re the one that’s sick out of the two of them. So he doesn’t complain. 

They lift themself off him one time, and he hears the noise of the respirator unclicking. Elliott keeps his eyes trained on his book, but they flick up as he sees Bloodhound set the mask on the table. He assumes they’re sipping their tea, and panic thrills through him as he hears wet coughing. 

Immediately, even before Elliott manages to turn, Bloodhound reaches for their mask, pulling their hand back to them and taking a strong inhale through their respirator. It sounds raspy, and Elliott immediately stops to smooth a hand down their back. 

His hand falls to the small of their back, and he can feel the heat through the fabric of their undershirt. They had changed it sometime yesterday, probably when he was away, so the material is clean of any old blood and is instead soft to touch.

“You okay?”

“Yes, I am fine,” Bloodhound says, although their breath catches on a rasp. He studies them, waits to see anything more because an inkling of worry strikes him with their cough. 

Then, he remembers something that one of his brothers always used when it came to coughing fits. “Do- do you have an inhaler?”

A pause. Bloodhound looks towards him, and he presses back into the couch at the sudden sharpness in their eyes. 

But it disappears out of them. Their shoulders slacken. 

“How did you know?” 

“Your- uh, mask,” he motions towards it, and their hand lifts to it as if they had forgotten they were wearing it. “I thought it was for cosmuh-comseh-comeh.. thought it was for like… y’know. Like Octane wears it. Just for appearance reasons. That’s what I thought originally, anyway! But I know now that it’s not… for that, it’s to help with your breathing.

“My brother- the doctors really didn’t say it was asthma, but he definitely had issues when he was younger. Needed an inhaler to breathe, that sorta… stuff. He turned out to be an athlete once the issues disappeared, but I think he hung onto it for a while in case an impromptu fit came up.”

“... I see.”

“And uh. You reached for it when you started coughing. So.”

Another bout of silence.

“And I figured if you’ve got a mask like that- you don’t have to tell me why, it’s just- something I’ve noticed- I thought maybe you might have an inhaler around?”

They readjust on the couch. For a moment, Elliott thinks that they might leave. 

“You are observant,” they say, finally. “I was unaware that you… knew.”

“Just… pieced it together,” he tries for a half-hearted shrug although it does not feel half-hearted. “That’s all.”

Their shoulders fall again in where they had tensed up. “I do have one, yes… I will be able to brave this without it.”

“I mean, I can go get it if you-”

“No,” Bloodhound says with such firmness. Elliott stops. “I will be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I will brave this,” their head falls back onto his shoulder, now seeming at ease since the coughing has stopped. One hand is held gingerly to their respirator. “And I… do not want you to go.”

“Not going anywhere. Gotta take care of you first.”

“I mean from this position. You are… comfortable,” Bloodhound confesses. “It brings some ease.”

“Oh,” is all Elliott can say before he remembers that yikes, sometimes that can be taken in a bad way. “Yeah, that’s cool. I’ll grab it later. Whatever you want, Hound.”

They hum, close enough that he can feel it vibrate through his own body, and settle again comfortably against him. They’re practically cuddling up to him, is the way that Elliott would put it, letting their body fit against his. 

And it’s… pretty nice. 

Elliott clears his throat, trying to will himself to focus on the book again. His voice is a little shaky in the beginning, but eventually he settles into it. And again, he can barely keep up with the plot because of the undeniable warmth in his side (up his neck and across his cheeks too, if someone’s paying attention).

And just as Elliott’s turning a page, as they advance onto the twenty-fifth chapter, after at least a couple hours, he’s about to turn towards Bloodhound and ask if they want more tea when he pauses. 

Bloodhound is asleep on him. 

Their eyes are closed, something much more peaceful on the half of their expression that he can see. He can see how evenly they breathe, the cough absent now. 

On an instinct that he hadn’t known existed, Elliott reaches out to tuck a loose strand that had freed itself from its braid away from their eyes. Their skin is still sweaty to touch, unbearably warm, but they seem content enough to share the heat with them. 

Their eyes flutter open, and Elliott’s breath catches in his throat as they crane their gaze up towards his. He’s close, lips parted, and he would’ve probably felt Bloodhound’s breath against his skin if they hadn’t had their respirator. 

“Um.” He swallows, realizing that his hand is still hovering over their face. “You- uh. Fell asleep. How- how are you feeling?”

“Rest always does well,” they say. “I think that’s the best I have rested in a while.”

“You’re welcome~ it’s my charm.”

“Mm,” Bloodhound makes a noise in the back of their throat. “You have quite a bit of charm, it seems.” 

Elliott just about explodes in heat. He slides a palm down his thighs, he wipes off the sweat that’s probably completely his fault. 

“Uh. Did- we should probably get you some water. Gotta keep you hydrated,” he mumbles, tongue feeling like wood in his mouth. Taking the excuse to get off the couch, Elliott heads off to the kitchen and returns with a glass of water. 

“I ammm… gonna go get those painkillers now too. Because I’m helpful.”

He turns on his heel to go rummage through his bag and produces a small white bottle, to which he sets on the table. “There you go.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind,” Bloodhound exhales. “You have been kind through this entire process.”

“Like I said! Just here to help.”

“As I said. Takk, ” their hands tighten around the glass of water. They seem to be pondering something, and after a moment of debate, they reach up to disengage their respirator. 

It comes away with a click and a small hiss, and Bloodhound sets the mask on the table. Their eyes are still aimed down, as if they don’t want to make eye-contact with him. 

Their mouth isn’t exactly startling or anything, just strong lips and a stronger jawline caressed by the same scars that surround their eyes and ears, and cover their hands. 

Except Elliott is a guy with an almost schoolboy-like crush and his mind goes places at the sight of their mouth. 

Okay. 

Gonna rein that daydream in real quick. 

Bloodhound seems to keep to themself after that, which is fine. They ask him for a little help for feeding Artur once the bird comes fluttering through, to which Elliott tries his best. He’s not exactly sure what else that Bloodhound has in their house besides knives, books, and skulls, but he wants to make sure they’re comfortable. 

They take up their carving knife and the wood block again not after long, but the movements are slow. Hesitant. Probably making sure that they don’t accidentally cut themself through the exhaustion of the fever. They don’t keep at it for long, however, and set aside the knife and block in exchange for curling up on the couch again. 

Even though the circumstances around it are a little bit saddening, it’s awfully cute how they sort of just… curl up. Elliott catches himself glancing a few times at Bloodhound tucked into the pile of blankets, hidden somewhere underneath, and it’s a little funny. 

He had always seen the embodiment and epitome of strength and bravery in Bloodhound. Hell, who couldn’t when they act like that in the Ring? It was practically impossible to ignore the hold and the careful direction they gave their teammates, even if you were on the enemy team- you’d know Bloodhound is calling some of the shots. 

So to see the greatest hunter in all of the Outlands curled up in a little ball… yeah. Definitely adds to the more human side of them. 

He reaches out to tap one of the blankets on the side, where he knows muscle and flesh rests under, and Bloodhound stirs a little. “I’m gonna start cooking lunch, ‘kay? Or uh… dinner? I dunno what time it is. But you gotta get something in you.”

Not waiting for a response, he grabs his backpack, then grins at the contents he had secretly prepared inside. Oh, yeah. Even if they’re dazed by a fever, Bloodhound will be blown away by this. 

Making pork chops is always something he did for a little delight in himself. It’s mostly just him, sometimes his mom if he makes them for her as a treat. But he does like to cook, even if he doesn’t look like it. 

Elliott shifts into his own little world when he pops on the stove, cracks open the package of pork chops and starts them going. The distinct smell of maple syrup and honey mixes together, floating out of the kitchen. 

He dips into his own little world of cooking and spinning around the kitchen. Once he’s done, Elliott flounders back into the living room, a steaming hot plate on his hands, pride swelling in his chest. 

“Hey, Hound-”

He quiets near instantly. 

Bloodhound is asleep on the couch again, their respirator still on the table. Now, as he can see the entirety of their face, they look peaceful, mouth pursed in a small o as they breathe in and out. 

Elliott shuffles a little bit closer. Sure, he wants the pride from the reward and their compliments (not that he doesn’t love being complimented by anyone, but being complimented by Bloodhound just feels… different), but they look so content… 

He sets the plate on the table in front of them, then picks up the glass (empty, he notices. That’s good) and goes back into the kitchen to refill it. Even with the soft noise of his feet padding on the floor, Bloodhound stays asleep. 

He places the glass down next to the plate, then glances up at Bloodhound again, splayed across the couch. Reaching over, he tugs one of the blankets where it had fallen off their shoulder, then plucks up his backpack, digging around for the pieces of holotech he left in there. 

He had a new idea for the games, things he called holosprays, a display of the legends and some sort of catchy test that the fans would love. They could probably create merch out of this stuff if he can manage to make it a masterpiece. 

He only has one piece done so far, a base with a holographic chip in there. He needed to work more with the actual display of the hologram piece itself- he doesn’t have enough pieces around him to work on it at the moment.

For now, all he can do is try and make sure this piece doesn’t get his face wrong when he turns it on and that the projection turns out okay rather than all over the place. 

So Elliott sits across the couch from Bloodhound, pulling up a chair to the table, and hunches over his work, tinkering with a screwdriver and messing around with the wires. 

He wants to be close when they wake up. So he buries himself in his holographic work and waits. 

-

He knows he gets in these… moods a lot. Where he starts working and suddenly Elliott can’t stop and doesn’t realize his eyes are burning until someone pulls him out of his hyperfocus. 

Thanks, ADHD. Real helpful that he’s working until he drops. 

He’s fiddling with a wire, using tweezers to twine it together and fit it back into the base he had created, his brow furrowed. It’s when a quiet ‘Elliott’ breaks through the air that he jolts, dropping the tweezers and yanking on one of the wires. 

“Shit, I-” He swallows, glancing up to meet the attentive gaze of Bloodhound. “Oh. Uh. Hi. I didn’t- I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Holy shit, his eyes ache. Has he blinked recently?

“You did not. I have been up for a while.”

“You’ve been-” he glances down at the disc on the table, where the spiral of wires bursts from it. “You’ve been up? Sorry if you said something, I was-”

“No,” they say softly. “I have been watching.”

“You’ve been-” He pauses, cocking his head, eyes still trained on his work in progress. “I dunno about you, Hound, but I wouldn’t exactly say me cursing at some of my tech is exactly entertainment. ”

“I was not watching for entertainment,” they say, and he looks up briefly to make eye-contact with them. Their eyes are sharp- that’s good, in terms of their sickness, but Elliott almost shivers underneath their gaze. “You are a driven man when it comes to your tæknifræði . And yet in the ring, you pretend to blunder. You pretend not to be as smart as you are.”

“Uh-”

“You are a curious man, Elliott Witt. You are more than what you pretend, although you pretend quite a bit,” their head drops a little further onto the pillow. “You wear many masks, even in your natural element. But allow me to give you this: your technology is a curious thing as well, and you are clever enough for it.”

“Well, it’s mostly just my ma’s work, so... “ he shrugs a shoulder. “I can’t take much of the credit.”

“Were you not the one to figure out how to create decoys of your own teammates when we fall from the dropship?”

“I mean, I was, but-”

“As I said, you are clever enough for it. While yes, your mother may have given you the blueprint, you are the neisti,” their head cocks as they straighten again. “If I may… what are you working on now?”

“Oh! Uh… nothing much. Just… trying to figure out how to get this piece to display. I’m trying to get some uh… how do I put it. Souvenirs? Like, you’d be able to toss them down and show ‘em off. It’s like a bragging thing? Like displaying medals, but they’re not-” he rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m. Uh. Rambling. Just- it’s a little wonky, right now, and I think I tore one of the main wires, but- lemme just.”

He decides to stop talking, and just reaches over to flick the small switch that he has on the side of the base. It flickers, weakly so, but a shower of light pixels flourish up from the base and waver in the air. 

“So the plan is that this- ” he points to the hovering pixels in the air. “Is eventually gonna be my face with something catchy on it. And the people’ll love it. And you can just toss it somewhere, and it’ll show up.”

“I see. Is it to add to your tricks during the hunt?”

“Nah! Nah. Just… a passion project, I guess. I was planning on making some for everyone- maybe not Crypto, because he keeps being an ass and acting all smug for just pressin’ a couple buttons- but uh. Yeah. I just gotta get mine working first.”

He clears his throat once they don’t respond, as they’re still clearly studying the holographic pixels. 

“Hey, if you’re interested, I can definitely bump you up the list of priort-priortis-priortist- I can put you up there! Like putting in a friend favor, that sorta thing.”

“That is not necessary,” Bloodhound lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “It is your technology; you are the creator.”

“I mean, it’s whatever! Just… tech’s cool. Yeah. I like working on this sorta thing,” he chews on the inside of his cheek. “Fun stuff to me. Yeah. Speaking of tech, actually- how does your… uh…”

He gestures to his own wrist, realizes that it won’t help much because he doesn’t exactly have a watch or anything he can gesture to. “Your scan stuff! I always see you do this thing with your wrist. And then suddenly you know where folks are.”

“Ah. My sonar.”

“Oh, is that what it’s- yeah, your sonar.”

They nod, carefully. They seem to ponder answering for a moment, thumbing at a loose thread coming off one of the blankets.

“My sonar is from my goggles,” they respond finally.

“Wait, your goggles? I thought-”

“It is a combination of sonar technology and thermal imagery. An… old friend of mine had great ambitions for it, and he had helped me develop it. It is very useful on a hunt when tracks are not enough.”

“That’s-” Elliott blinks. Try not to nerd out, Elliott, but something in his stomach is itching for more, for them to take it apart for him and explain it piece by piece. Hopefully he’d be able to pay attention- anything that’s not holotech has a hard time keeping his attention for a long time, but hey, he’s interested! “-that’s cool! That’s really cool. Yeah.”

They nod curtly. 

“And what is this?”

They pass a hand over the table, where his pork chops are still out. They’re probably cold by now, and Elliott scrubs at one eye as he realizes that he has no idea how many hours had passed. 

“Uh. Made you some pork chops. They’re best warm, but they’re still a ‘knock out of the park’ even cold! You’re welcome.” 

He shifts on his feet, winces at the small ache it has. And his back too, ow. Exactly how long had he been there?

Bloodhound pauses again, and he waits, patiently, fingers tapping against his thigh, for their decision. 

“It’s fine if you don’t wanna eat any, it’s just-”

His stomach grumbles, and Elliott digs a hand through his hair. Bloodhound looks alarmed. 

“Have you not eaten?”

“You have your pork chops first.”

“Elliott, are you aware of how late it is?”

“No?” He says, almost meekly, and Bloodhound glances up towards the roof of their house. He follows their gaze and sees where the moon glitters out near the stars that he can see through the window. 

“Have you been working this entire time?”

“Yes?”

They sigh, shoulders shifting as they release the tension in them. “You shouldn’t do that to yourself,” they murmur, then, something softer in their words. They pick up the knife and start to cut into the pork chops, slicing it cleanly in two. 

“And after this, you must rest.”

“‘m not that tired, Hound, I promise-”

“It is late,” Bloodhound says, folding their hands in their lap. “We don’t want you falling sick either.”

“I mean, I’m a big fan of my own pork chops, but you definitely need it more than me.”

“Elliott, please.”

He presses his lips together, hearing another rumble from his stomach, and desperately tries not to look guilty. Bloodhound pushes the plate towards him, and he reaches out and pushes it back. 

“Hey, at least don’t make the chef eat his stuff first.”

A small noise that he swears is a chuckle. “Very well. I should abide by the chef’s commands, then.”

“And doc too! I’m your doc now. Don’t forget that.”

They hum in affirmation, starting to cut through the pork chops. 

“Did you- want me to warm that up? They’re better warm.”

“It will be delicious anyhow,” Bloodhound responds, completely genuine in their tone, and Elliott can’t help it: he smiles, genuine around the corners of his eyes. 

Yeah, that’s enough for him. The little noise of delight they make on the first bite is pretty good, though. 

He gets up pretty early to fish them another glass of water, which they thank him kindly for alongside the pork chops, and Elliott beams underneath it. Once they push the plate over to him, he’s happy to polish it off. 

“ Man . Even cold, Elliott, you’re good.”

“You are indeed,” Bloodhound agrees with a tilt of their head. He sees the little twist of their mouth, and realizes that they almost have a pleasant smile in place, one that immediately makes something flutter along his ribs. “Are you tired?”

“Me? Nah, nah, I’m not-” and just then, his body decides to betray him again (thanks, body), and Elliott’s words are broken by a yawn. “‘m not tired.”

“It is late.”

“I’ve pulled all-nighters before,” he mumbles, waving them off with a hand. “I’ve gone through worse. Mostly getting shot through the head.”

“Elliott.”

His name is said with such a firmness that Elliott snaps his jaw shut and forgets just about everything he had been about to say. “Yeah?”

They pat the spot next to them. It’s a clear invitation. 

He swallows down the last of his pork chops, pushing the plate to the side. “Did you- did you want me to like, change your bandages or anything?

“I will be fine.”

“But we should-”

They pat the spot next to them again. It’s not debatable. 

Shuffling his way on over, Elliott takes a seat on the edge, then sinks into the comfort of the cushions. His body immediately agrees in the comfort it brings him: he had been on his knees, kneeling at the table to tinker at his work since it’s a low table, and being hunched over didn’t help. 

“Your neck will hurt if you rest that way,” Bloodhound murmurs, and their lips sound close to his ear. He hears the shuffling noises of them readjusting, and as he moves his head to glance at them, he sees that they’re now laying vertically across the couch, head comfortably against the pillows. 

The couch is big enough for the both of them to fit comfortably without being squished, and Bloodhound indicates for him to join them with a simple beckon of their hand. Elliott shimmies his way over, laying down next to them, and his body gives a sigh of relief once his head hits the pillow. 

“God, I needed that,” he mumbles.

Their body next to his is warm. Not as heated as before, not physically, although everywhere their skin touches- even though Bloodhound’s decked out in clothes that covers almost all of their skin aside from their hands, neck, and face- feels like it burns.

“Rest,” is all Bloodhound says, their voice quiet and lulling, and it seems like a hypnotic command, because Elliott drifts off. 

-

He wakes up to the sun streaming in through the windows of the roof. Elliott blinks blearily at the sudden stream of light, trying to sway away the befuddled state of his mind. And his mind, in a very logically helpful manner, tells him to go back to sleep. 

However, his neck is protesting, aching, so Elliott groans and tries to roll it. His head bumps against something else, and Elliott pauses, craning his head to look. His eyes fall on a vibrant red head of hair, comfortably settled next to the juncture of his neck.

It’s Bloodhound. 

Elliott realizes in a shock of heat that they’re practically wrapped around each other- Bloodhound is held close against his own body with their head near his collarbones, and their legs below are almost tangled together, to the point where Elliott can’t tell their legs apart from his at first glance.

Elliott considers the situation for a moment, two. He should get up, but he could risk waking Bloodhound… and he’s like really, really comfortable right now with how Bloodhound is wound against him, and he still feels decently sleepy-

“ Góðan daginn, ” Bloodhound says out of the blue, their voice a little quieter but still enough for Elliott’s neck to prickle in where their breath brushes over his collarbones. 

“Uh. H-Hi. Did- did I wake you?”

A minimal shake of their head. He can feel several strands of their hair tickling against his skin.

“I have been awake for a while, when the sun taka the skies. I had gotten up to change my bandages, and you looked cold when I returned. I thought I would sit with you again.”

“O-Okay. Gotcha.” 

“Did you sleep well?”

“Definitely- definitely slept! I needed it, though,” he cocks his head to the side again, winces in pain as soreness strikes him. “Neck hurts like a bitch though.”

“I see. My apologies.”

“But you! How’d you sleep, bud? The good ol’ Elliott charm help?”

Bloodhound shifts a little bit, and it’s in that moment that Elliott realizes where exactly his hand is. It’s fit underneath Bloodhound, frames them close to him and wraps around their shoulder, as if he’s cradling them. Holding them close.

“I am able to replace my own bandages, so if that is thanks to your ‘charm’...” they let the words linger, and Elliott chuckles weakly. 

“You, my friend, are welcome.”

They hum another noise of affirmation, and he can feel it vibrate through him. Everything feels like it’s intensified to a higher degree, and Elliott is aware of every single movement Bloodhound makes. 

“Thank you for your help, Elliott,” they murmur after a bout of silence. “For the past few days.”

“You’re welcome! It’s- it’s nothing much, so…”

Another bout of silence. Bloodhound readjusts, tilts their head up a bit. Elliott readjusts himself, shifts around on the couch so he can properly look down at them. 

From this close, he can see every single scar that mars their skin,  the long lashes of their eyes, the pucker of their mouth. Things he wouldn’t be able to see if he wasn’t this close, wouldn’t be able to appreciate. 

Their mouth wrinkles a little bit, twisting, at the eye-contact, and for a moment he thinks they’re about to pull away. He wouldn't be able to blame them, especially when they’re used to privacy, and Elliott’s just sorta staring, so he’s sure it’s awkward-

“I hadn’t noticed you have little flecks in your eyes,” Bloodhound says, the words barely a breath that he has to strain to hear. “As if you have fragments of gull there, amongst the brown.”

“Y-Yeah. It’s- it’s a wonder, huh?”

Bloodhound doesn’t respond. Instead, they keep looking at him still, through half-lidded eyes, and he can feel the spark of their gaze as it roves over each inch of his face. Everything feels like it’s on fire, and he swears he feels the static of electricity moving across his skin.

He can feel them admiring him, something that they might have been able to hide behind their mask and their goggles beforehand, but are unable to now. Maybe Bloodhound is used to being able to hide (Elliott gets it), but now… 

“You’re. Um,” Elliott swallows, his eyes flicking across the lines of their face and traces the line of their mouth with his gaze. “You’re really pretty.”

Oh why did I say that. 

Bloodhound pauses. 

Holy shit, why did I say that. 

“Thank you,” they say, words quiet and carefully measured. 

Elliott swallows. 

And hell, if he’s regretting things and doing things on the limb, maybe he should just-

“Um. Hey, Hound, can I-” he bites on his tongue. Lets his eyes flick down to their mouth again, and he knows they see it because their own eyes track his. And then drift to his own lips. Intently. 

“So I’ve…” he chews on the inside of his cheek. Everything feels like it’s on fire. “Hound, I- I don’t really know how to say this, but-”

“Take whatever time you need,” they say, words barely whispered. Clearly they’re focused on something else. 

“But bas-basically, Hound, I’ve liked- I’ve wanted to take you on a d-”

His phone rings. Both of them jerk their heads to look towards it. 

His phone . He had put it on the table while he had been working, and he never had it silenced in case his mom called him for an emergency, and- holy shit, what a way to ruin the moment. 

“Perhaps you should attend to that,” Bloodhound says, their voice sounding a little higher as they pull away from him and stand up from the couch. “I will prepare breakfast, if you are hungry.”

Before Elliott can even muster up anything to respond to them, to pull them back down on the couch and say the feelings he’s been harboring for a while, Bloodhound turns on their heel and disappears into the kitchen. 

Elliott rakes a hand through his hair, something festering in his gut, before reaching out to grab his phone. A spare look at the home screen tells him that it’s not his mom, in fact, but rather Ajay fussing at him for ‘keeping Bloodhound to himself with a selfish crush’. And, if he had any sense, he would come by the legend compound to pick up some medicine for them.

And since Elliott prefers still having kids, he’s definitely gotta listen. 

He’ll figure it out. Right? He’ll be able to talk to them about it eventually, right? 

“Hey, uh,” he calls into the kitchen, hoping that his voice doesn’t crack like he thought he heard. “So Ajay’s- wanting me in the compound? So I’m gonna go- yeah. Get that. I’ll uh, see you later?”

“Very well.”

The words sound stilted, and Elliott swallows. “Uh. Yeah. Gonna go get that.”

He leaves before the embarrassment burns through him. Bloodhound and Ajay on him? He’s a dead man.

-

Elliott pulls up to Bloodhound’s cottage, medicine on hand and also ear aching from where Ajay had pulled on it. Ouch, can’t she see that he’s trying to impress here?

The door is still open when he tries the knob, so he pokes his head in. 

“Hound?”

Nothing. 

“Houndie?” He calls out again, taking a few more steps into the house. He had only been gone for a few hours, so they should still be here, right?

Something on the table catches his eye. And Elliott takes a seat on the edge of the couch to examine it. 

On a small sheet of paper, in clean, scripted writing is:

I am out on a walk. I am also safe, there is nothing to worry about. We will talk when you return. 

And right next to it, in its small but intricate glory, is a wooden carved fox. 

Elliott smiles to himself, small butterflies starting in his stomach, and settles back against the couch.