Work Text:
There was a new scar on Kix’s armor, a wide gash across the back seeded with rock and dust that Jesse brushed his fingertips across like a secret. And Kix breathed, soft and even, like it would hide the fact that the air couldn’t seem to find the other side of his diaphragm. The drama of the cracked plastoid would hide the matching set of bruises and broken ribs, and Jesse would busy himself with wiping the grime from both of their faces.
Kix would sip Jesse’s cup of water, they would share the ration bar he pulled from his belt. They would try to breathe, and remember that the other one still was, and then their moment to feel the aftermath would wrap up as easily as a wrapped sheet. Jesse would know better than to talk, and Kix would need the silence.
Except that Jesse was a kriffing idiot, one who kept both of their hearts too close, one who danced on the edges of new scars like he knew how to heal them, and Kix would never give him the satisfaction of admitting that sometimes he did.
“Did you get that checked out?”
“No.”
Kix shifts. The ration bar tastes like chalk, memories shoved to the back of a dusty shelf.
Jesse raises his eyebrows. Kix pretends not to notice.
So Jesse pouts instead, and Kix’s rebel heart betrays him, and Jesse matches the escaped smile like he’s won. Kix swats him.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s fine,” Jesse echoes, and rolls his eyes. “Hypocrite.”
“It’s fine,” Kix insists. Mutinously, he takes another bite of ration bar.
Jesse hums, noncommittal, amused. It’s infuriating. His fingertips trace the cracks in the plastoid again. His breath tickles Kix’s ear.
He doesn’t even have to say anything, and that’s infuriating too.
“You,” Kix sighs, “are a pain in my shebs.”
Jesse hums again, almost a laugh. “It’s why you keep me around.”
He’s right - of course he is - and Kix won’t say it, but they both know it. Jesse is brilliantly bullheaded enough for the both of them.
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.” Jesse hugs him closer, and Kix sighs and lets himself bathe in the warmth. Even fresh out of the firefights, Jesse still smells like Jesse - something almost nutty, rich and warm and thick enough to bury yourself in.
And then Kix grunts, and Jesse pulls back, and Kix’s ribs are still broken.
“You’ve got to get that checked out,” Jesse says again.
“It’s fine.”
But Kix’s words sound hollow, and his breath still doesn’t quite reach the other side of his diaphragm. Jesse’s hand finds his instead, tangling their fingers together until Kix doesn’t have the energy to untie them anymore.
“Why do you have to be so stubborn?”
“You grouse when I win.”
“You deflect.”
“Awwwh, Kixystix. You know me so well.” Jesse tips his head, overdoes the innocence.
“Wish I didn’t.”
Jesse huffs, mock exasperation. His free hand traces circles at the base of Kix’s neck, drops down to find the spot where the edge of his hip flares out a little too far, and there’s another reason Kix can’t breathe.
He should maybe get that checked out. But Jesse is insufferable when he’s right.
So Kix lets himself melt, lets himself bathe in the warmth, lets the moment draw out like the whole thing is a tease.
Jesse can be right later.