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The withered ends of bird-pecked string sit trapped, pinned between the flats of his claws. The third presses a sharp tip on its woven throat. The threat is real and impending; his winding muscles find the wall a tantalising target and he can't get the fucking string through the damn hole. Drilling the hole bigger doesn't help, tweezers are of even less use to him and he'll grind the blitzleopard teeth to atoms before he even considers asking for help.
It was supposed to be a simple, easy thing. His hands know the finger movements, now impossible to make with sharp and sleek claws. Bits of the string fray from accidental picks or a too-tight grip between points. Frustration only dives the sharpness deeper and it worms a hole into his lung. The organ fills with the dark poison of longing for what he gave up, what he turned into, and his wish for proof of his humanity.
His talons were hard to get used to. The mutations remained out of mind before he'd reach up to gesture, rub an eye or grab his gun and it'd wind him like a sudden strike. It was hard for them all; clumsy grips, squadwide scratches and scuffs, the startle of movement in a thousand peripheries. It all haunts him still. Mirror glimpses crush the small, guileless sparrow in his chest. He's really trying to let it thrive, to accept himself. It's the hardest thing he's ever done.
It hasn't been long since the war, he thinks -- the memories float unfettered in dark fog, in impossible chronology -- but he still feels young and lost. He's forced to adopt his new self, detach from what his mind is desperately trying to keep hidden no matter his heart's bared teeth and desperate wails. There's no way he can return to his old life; his home; his family, when he looks like this -- when he's got tridents for hands and disconnected spotlights for eyes.
He bears this curse alone now, like each rub of thread against tooth. Therapy is a nagging quote and impossible. Trust is scarce within this ship's walls and unwarranted elsewhere. Parnell and Cabot is his first strict line of defence. Out of their presence, stuck alone in a room with a stranger, he is defenceless against gas and wire. On a hunt there's alert soldiers, witnesses, -- someone who would search for him, maybe -- and a real and unavoidable punishment waiting for them on their return.
The tooth slips and clatters to the table. Slim swears and drops the frayed string, shaking his hand to free his claw of caught fibres. If not even one tooth is possible, all five is a child's birthday wish.
Without checking the state of the tooth, he stands and leaves. He's getting nowhere with this -- going backwards even, he thinks, looking at the unfurled string. He's frustrated and knows he's getting worked up to his limit, recognises the roaring engine of anger. He's getting better at taking a step back. This isn't urgent; he can walk away, shoot some gun and come back later, better prepared and with new strategies. A tactical retreat.
---
---
A necklace. What the fuck is he thinking?
It's another level of stupid to give a quiet, abstemious man a material object. Jewellery is a disrupting disinterest, one caught branch away from a flesh wound. Sure, the man's long-range with his rifle and Gobi, but he's still a tracker. Still wearing dark colours, camouflaged and quiet against flora. There's no point in giving someone a gift they won't use.
The more stable part of his mind argues yes. It's not the gift in question that's the point of giving but the act itself. A gift of flowers, food and tech all have their own usefulness and effective duration, if any at all. Petals can't defend you. Goggles won't keep you alive. Food would last an hour at most.
That's not the point.
It's just a gift of thanks. For not shooting him on sight, and the hunts after that.
The feeling of awkwardness doesn't leave, like this gift is out of place. It's a thankless job to look out for your squad. Crow isn't above a jab of fun, playing fool when a teammate steps in an untagged carnivorous plant and slipping a smile when he thinks no one's looking. It's different for Slim, a callout always saving his pride even at the last second. It's barely favouritism; protecting the medic is far above a joke, especially at their expense -- it's best not to laugh at the one who'll stitch you up later.
Not really something gift-worthy. That part of his head speaks again to reassure him that 'you don't need a reason to give or receive a gift,' and he sighs, leaves the range and searches for something to make his life a little easier.
---
---
He'd asked for wire. They hadn't asked why.
It's not unusual for Slim to reclude, keeping to himself and staying out of mind. Too many look at him with pity. Too many times he's reminded of his past self -- human, with fingers on his hands and hair on his head. It's simpler to keep away most days, easier not to be talked about.
People knowing of his giftmaking would raise questions. They'd ask why, and if he lies they'd know once it's finished -- once it doesn't hang and crown his chest. If he's honest they'd think more of him, of Crow, and give attention neither of them wish for. Rumour and talk would circulate. Everyone would know. People would give them congratulations or look at them differently, smile when they stand alone together.
The wire is thick and stable in his hand. It doesn't give under the pinpricks of claws and he can snag it like a mouse, the tail pressed between precise nails. He flips the tooth around on the table before he picks it up with a hold growing familiar.
The first tooth threads not unlike a sniper's bullet. A shot just underneath the back of the skull, angled perfectly through brain and blood and eye. Slim can still see it, the stilled expression of his bug-brother as blood and spray spits forward, a slow and ribboned river leaking from the canal in their head. True, instant death. He doesn't think they even knew they were hit. He couldn't check their body, the sniper a real threat and infantry pushing in, his team pulling him back.
It's not right, though. He lets go of the tooth, lets it slide down the wire to the table. A zipline to the depths. The next comes bigger than the first. Talons pinch the wire, grip the tooth, and thread.
It's more akin to a second bullet; impossibly precise through meat already carved. A gun without recoil against a man nailed to the wall.
He can imagine how he'd heal this one. Even without his combat equipment his brain pieces together biotic canisters, flesh gauze and stitch pads. Pack gauze into one side, throw a stitch pad over it. The third tooth slides down the wire. The body accepts the gauze as its own flesh, regrows and connects to it as it holds organs together. The stitch pad numbs and pulls skin together, automatically stitches up bullet holes within a certain size. Back around the front the pill-sized canister is primed and pushed in with more gauze and another stitch pad on the end. The timer ticks down before the canister releases a mixture of biotics that sink into the flesh and promote quick regeneration. It's common for combat medics to use similar equipment -- Slim even has his own healing field, enhanced with the biosynthetic discharge of his shotgun's maggots. The canister is small to prevent overhealing rather than dispersed like the field. Although one canister would suffice for the hypothetical wound, perhaps two would be better for this case, especially if the victim has been enduring blood loss. The fourth tooth rests with the others.
There's not much Slim could do after that. He's a field medic -- not a surgeon, nurse or doctor. He can stop a person dying but he can't fix them up proper and send them off with a smile and nod. The people he saves are transported away, out of the battlefield, away from him and the war. He never sees them again.
He doesn't have the time nor energy to dwell. All he can do is move on, keep living where others can't, experience things while he still can; create and nurture, give and take.
The fifth and final tooth hangs silently from the wire.
His claw digs in and cuts at synthetic, fraying enough to keep the teeth evenly spaced. It ends with a secure knot, the drape loose. Slim fits it over his own head and watches how it sits against his chest. The teeth neither slip loose nor dig into his exoskeleton, accepting his scrutinisation.
It doesn't look bad.
He tugs on the knot, tests the wire. Nothing moves or breaks and he thinks it's done.
---
---
The hardest part is handing it over.
Forget the couple hours he spit nothing but ire at string. The urge to throw the damn teeth into the star-dotted sea grows exponentially against his mind's immediate crumbling at the sight of Crow's room. He'd retreated back to his own, tucking the necklace under his bunk and laying face-down on his pillow to block out the world.
All that anger and frustration he'll gladly throw away, have it be for nothing. If this necklace never sees the light of day, he's completely fine with it.
...
Tomorrow. He'll do it tomorrow.