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Bloodhound always sounds pensive when they speak.
Walter, never being one to think too hard before he opens his mouth, is ever captive when their voice slips into the comm in his ear. He can’t help but admire them; the way they’re content to hum to their raven or voice an observation out loud. Thoughtful, introspective.
Octavio always vibrates with energy in his words, this constant, bossy tone that Walter has to chuckle at. Elliott sounds frustrated when he points out the distance between squadmates or the ring, Wattson lists out the dangers the ring poses, and Ash carries a tone of annoyance and callousness about her pings. And yet Bloodhound speaks as if they’re a passerby, quietly detached and yet twice as involved and attuned to the surrounding ring.
Walter shifts positions and looks over his shoulder at his companion, noting the way they’re kneeling. Triple Take propped up, scoping out World’s Edge just below. He’s not entirely sure why they’ve stopped here, but he trusts Bloodhound- and they trust me.
He hopes, at least. He wants them to. Some of the other Legends barely look at Walter and he, them. But maybe he craves Bloodhound’s attention. Maybe.
A subtle tilt of their head, almost in time with Artur’s little head, and they have his rapt attention.
“New ring is distant.” They murmur.
He nods, clears his throat.
“Right. Should we go?”
They’re silent for a second, before leaning back and easing the Triple Take onto their back. “Not yet.”
He doesn’t ask for elaboration, content to watch Fragment in the distance as the timer ticks down.
Their silence never feels forced. Elliott has remarked about it, finding it almost begging him to speak up and fill the void between the squad. Walter doesn’t mind; he finds noise is better optional, and their presence still helps quiet the ringing in his ears.
“Does your arm ever hurt?”
The question takes him by surprise, and he looks over at them with a raised eyebrow.
“The metal one.”
“Mm, sometimes.” He looks down and flexes the metallic fingers. “It’s got its perks, though. Reckon it doesn’t get tired during arm wrestling-”
Bloodhound comes to sit beside him and their fingers ghost over the imprinted ‘tattoos’ on his knuckles. He doesn’t know what to do, freezing with his eyes fixed on their gloves.
“Did Maggie know about the replacement?”
He grits his teeth and shrugs. Uneasy territory.
Bloodhound picks up on it, drawing back. “I’m sorry-”
“She didn’t know. Well, ah, she knows all about what I did later on in the games- but I didn’t speak to her at all after that day. Didn’t even see her.”
Their goggles don’t let Walter see their eyes, or where they’re looking, but he can tell they’re listening. He doesn’t hurt as much retelling the story, but he still feels pangs in all of his body.
“Do… you think things will ever heal between you?” An unsure tone.
“What, me and my arm? Nah, dunno where it’s gone. Sometimes, if I focus real hard, I can feel it somewhere across the galaxy-”
“Fitzroy.”
He intentionally dodges the question, and they aren’t amused.
He knows he doesn’t owe them an answer; he knows they don’t feel entitled to it either. Their response halts him, however.
Walter breathes deep. “Look, mate… We grew up together. When I ran off with my first boyfriend she dragged me back- turned out he’d been a pretty bad rich kid. When someone tried to jump her first girlfriend, we both found the folks who’d tried it. Chased ‘em allllll the way off Salvo.”
He laughs at the thought. “Almost got arrested for it. But they weren’t Salvonion and we got off on some wee technicality. We’d done everything together. She was always pushy and wild and people said we balanced out alright. So I- I kept tryin’. All the fights, all of our hurtful comments. When she pulled the pin, I couldn’t believe it.”
Bloodhound nods. He wishes he could see their eyes. “It sounds like you did what you could.”
“We never reached a breaking point, this’ll be like every other time, I’ll come back and she’ll-”
His voice cracks as he retraces all the thoughts that had raced through his mind. “The grenade going off wasn't even the worry, and then… Boom. When I stood up after the blast and realized where my arm wasn’t? I didn’t even feel the pain, Hound. It was like a switch. Was all numb till later.”
“And now?”
“You help,” he blurts.
“Do I?”
“Yeah, ‘course. Look, Hound, I thought I’d only ever had one person who got me. Y’know, you find someone who sees you and all that- don’t make me say it.”
They angle themselves in such a way that he’s unsure of what they’re doing, and then put an arm around his neck and one around his other arm. It takes some mental fumbling before he realizes they’re hugging him.
Walter blinks away tears briefly when he realizes it’s the first time he’s been truly hugged for a long time. He sits up with some difficulty, because their positioning feels rather awkward- and reaches out with his metal arm for them to slip better in his embrace.
Somewhere above, Artur caws.
“He’s, ah… not about to use me for target practice, is he?”
Bloodhound is silent.
“Hound?”
They snicker and he feels it against his chest as it hits him; the brat! Walter scowls playfully and draws back enough to look at them. “You made a joke!”
“I can make jokes.”
He rests his head against their helmet, chuckling along with them. This doesn’t feel like a hug anymore and he’s not sure if he should bring it up.
Bloodhound just stays there, not making any indication they’re going to get moving. He doesn’t want this to end, but it does feel like when a cat sits on his lap and he knows he’s there till they choose to leave- he minds it a lot less than with the cat, though.
In the distance, gunfire crackles to life and there’s the sound of Anita’s rolling thunder, and Maggie’s faint argument with Alexander.
“She knows a great deal of curse words,” Hound says softly.
“Yeah, her first word was ‘fuck.’”
“Really?”
He grins. “Uhuh. Honest. Her second word was ‘off’.”
They remain there, the sun warming his hair. He wants to ask if the armor is hot, but that feels like a conversation for another time. Walter is comfortable, and is aware that he might be dangerously close to falling asleep soon if they don’t move. Bloodhound’s reassuring weight against him isn’t helping.
Finally, they speak.
“I won’t let her hurt you again.”
Walter’s eyes are practically closed, and he moves his head just a little, trying to rouse himself.
“Hm?”
“Maggie. She won’t hurt you again.” They sound firm this time, and they pull back to sit up. Notably, they remain pressed against Walter’s side. It’s a fact he cherishes already.
He stretches, unsure of what to say. He’s been raised to be independent. Hell, he wasn’t even really raised, was he? All those years of going to Matinees, to bars, ditching school, learning to steal just enough food that the mean old baker wouldn’t notice those cookies were missing- till he was old enough- and guilty enough- to go back and leave half a match’s earnings from the Bonecage at the door one Christmas Night.
Maggie didn’t know about that.
“Hound, you don’t have to-”
“Walter, I don’t care.”
Ah? His mouth clamps shut.
“You chose your own path, and you’ve done nothing but treat me and plenty more with honor and kindness since we’ve met. You’ve offered sanctuary when I needed it, we’ve laughed together, we’ve won together. You almost gave your other arm to Maggie. You drew the red line on your skin yourself. Because we were threatened.”
Their voice goes from fierce and to soft, yet remains just as charged as they jab a finger at him. “Do not devalue your strengths, or yourself. Not in front of me, not ever again.”
Walter clamps his jaw shut, casting his gaze down to take Bloodhound’s hand in his metal one. Ever careful (still always adjusting to the strength of the metal and it’s mechanics) he squeezes it reassuringly.
He still wishes he could see their eyes.
“Okay, okay,” Just a few sentences and a ‘scolding?’ full of respect, and he feels like an errant child for ever hurting that bad and thinking he was such a big part of it. All this time, all they’ve seen. They’re not beating him down for the pain he’s felt; not reacted with vitriol. They’re… reaffirming their belief in him. He looks right at their goggles and swallows, searching for any gaze to meet underneath the tinted glass. “Alright… I’m sorry.”
They visibly relax and Artur comes down to land on their shoulder, crowing softly.
He lets go of their hand, and they push their palm against his chest, remaining there until he makes a quizzical noise.
“Just… don’t do it.” They say.
He knows they mean it and squeaks out an ‘okay’ before remarking about how they should arm wrestle later.
They agree if he promises to show them how to cook those steaks he’s always talking about.
Later, when the match is long over with Bloodhound and Walter coming in second against Anita and Elliott, Walter finds a new stickynote alongside the others on his doorframe on the dropship.
The others have reminders, simple ones. A green scribble from Octavio claiming Ajay made him set Walter’s music volume maximum much lower so he ‘doesn’t ruin his old man ears more’, a scratching from Ramya with a number to call if his arm malfunctions dangerously, highlighter from Dr. Somers that if he needs to talk she’s a hop, skip, and couple steps away… He stares for a moment, absorbing Bloodhound’s rant a second time. He does have some weird semblance of a home here, huh?
On another note, painted carefully with ink, is a symbol he recognizes as the Helm of Awe. No name or words written alongside it nothing is signed- but it’s glaringly obvious who put it there.
Walter smiles to himself a carefully raps his good knuckles on the door- a ritual he’s picked up from Bloodhound- and begins to get ready for bed.