Work Text:
“Hold on, you died.”
“Yeah, well it didn’t stick.”
You've been standing at the bottom of the ladder that leads into the Midnight Crew headquarters for over five minutes now, soaked to the bone from the torrential rain outside -why the fuck was it raining so hard out here in the dessert suddenly? You have no fucking idea, but you do know that you're cold. There's a rather nasty gash that's splitting the carapace on your shoulder open. Your blood mixes with the water and makes a puddle on the tiles below you. Droog has been here for a total of 43 seconds, staring at you with wide white eyes, and somehow looking pale despite his dark shell.
He takes a step away from the doorframe. "You can't be real, you're just another.... another dream." It's so unusual to see his composure completely dropped like this. You can hear how heavy he's breathing from where you're standing. Fuck, your arm hurts like a bitch, and it's your real arm too, so you don't wanna lose it.
"I'm really fucking real, asshat, and my arm also really fucking hurts, so can I get some help getting to the bathroom so I can patch myself up?" He seems to snap out of it, at least a little, and he's suddenly marching up to you. Before you can ask what he's doing he sets his hands on your shoulders. He takes a shaky breath.
"Fuck-" His arms wrap around you like a vice and your chest aches. He's hugging you, and you know what it means. Droog, Mr.Clean and Spiffy, Sir Perfect Clothes, is embracing you while you're sopping wet and slowly bleeding out from your newest wound.
"Droog, your suit-"
"Can be replaced," he growls, his hold only tightening. "...You can't be." The tidal wave of emotions that hits makes you feel nauseous. You get your robo-arm around him and cling, body trembling. You only get a few more moments before he pulls away. Then, he holds your hand tightly as he drags you down the hall.
In the bathroom he sits you on the edge of the tub and helps you out of your suit jacket and undershirt. It takes you a moment to notice but even with all the moving around he does, even gathering supplies from the cabinet, he doesn't stop making contact with you, one way or another. He pours antiseptic on a cloth and dabs at your wound- you hiss and try to pull away in turn. He doesn't let you, a strong grip on your wrist holding you in place.
The room falls silent as he cleans the injury. There's a certain tension in the air you can't quite name, but you just want to pop it. "So...where's the rest of the-"
"Out." He cuts you off and your jaw snaps shut with a loud clack of sharp teeth. "They're... out on the town right now." He applies some carapace repairing gel; its cold and you shiver. His hands are gentle as they wrap you in gauze. "Why aren't you dead." The question snaps through that tense silence like a whip. You refuse to look at him even though you feel his eyes burning a hole through your skull.
"You can't just ask me that, Droog, I-"
"LIKE HELL I CAN'T, SLICK!" In all the centuries you've been with him, he hasn't raised his voice once. It takes you off guard and you look at him with wide, scared eyes. And just as quickly as it appeared his anger vanishes. His hands frame your face, thumbs stroking over your cheeks as he clicks and chirps to soothe away the anxiety. Until he wipes the first tears away you didn't even know you were crying.
He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and struggling to keep himself calm. "I...Its been months, Slick-" his voice cracks and your tears fall harder hearing him sound so vulnerable. "I, I thought you... I thought you were dead, I've been trying to get past it, and then you just-"
You kiss him- you put your arms around his shoulders and you kiss him. It hurts a little, the pull of your shoulder making the move uncomfortable, but you don't fucking care. One of his hands stays cupping your face, but the other slides around your waist and pulls you in tight. It's desperate and messy but you couldn't give less of a damn. You only pull back when your head starts spinning from the lack of oxygen. You're both panting, warm breathing against each other's lips.
"I'm sorry," you blurt out. He seems shocked and hurt for a moment before you continue. "Not about the kiss... About disappearing." He relaxes, and let's his eyes slide closed.
"I'm not mad at you, Slick, I just... I missed you."
"I'm sorry I was gone so long." He doesn't cry, not like you're still doing, but he sure looks like he wants to. He takes a deep breath.
"Just... please, don't do it again." You hadn't necessarily left willingly, but you still want to promise him, even if he doesn't know that.
"Not by my own will...never again, Droog." He pulls you into another kiss and you let him until your shoulder pops and you wince in pain. He helps you back to your feet and takes your hands again. There's no need to ask, you both know the answer already. .
He half carries you to his room, getting you on the bed and offering you one of his shirts to sleep in. Of course you accept. He also gets you some dry undergarments, and after changing you settle back into the pillows. The shirt makes you feel like he's holding you with the way his scent is embedded in the fabric. It's better when he actually scoots under the blanket and slips an arm around your waist. It's comforting...he's comforting. You missed this, missed him. Somewhere in the silence there's an 'I love you,' that neither of you need to say out loud, but both of you feel. You fall asleep faster in his arms than you have in all that time you were alone. Safe, warm, and finally home.