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“How the hell did you manage to let the Reds and Blues get away, again?! I mean, c’mon, Locus! This isn’t rocket science, you’d think you could handle a couple of morons and not let them outsmart you.”
Throwing his arms into the air the orange and steel clad mercenary continues to point fingers, obvious irritation leaking into his tone. How long had he been there, walking back and forth and practically scolding his partner? Well, he’d lost track of time, though certainly, Locus had not. The more Felix spoke the more the silent man’s blood began to boil, fingers curling and uncurling, trying to decide if attacking his teammate would really prove to be the best way out of this.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the ‘perfect’ soldier? So how’d someone like you, let someone like them, get away so easily?”
Now that, that was the last poke the bear would take. Fist slams to the upside of the table, the chair he’d been seated on being pushed back as he stands, glowering over Felix from behind a helmet of black and green.
“Enough! I’ve heard enough of your god damn complaining, now stop!”
At this, Felix doesn’t even flinch, but merely pauses his pacing, staring right back at his partner, the amusement in amber hues hidden behind a dark visor. Ah, was this making him mad? Good.
“If you’d do your job right, we wouldn’t even be here right now.”
The mercenary bites back, though it’s obvious he’s merely egging the other on, Locus can easily pick it from his speech—which really, only irritates the man further. Teeth clench and grit together, Locus’s stance stiff and unwilling to move, sure that if he even took one small step toward the other, he’d lash out and attack him, and perfect soldiers did not go after teammates, no matter how much they asked for it.
“At this point, you’re no better than those shitty Freelancers.”
Hands throw themselves back into the air, Felix now going back to his pacing, his words meaning to hopefully, strike a chord. When it came down to it; he really did talk too much, pointed fingers, and found a disgusting amount of enjoyment in riling the other mercenary up. From the corner of his eyes it was easy to see the other man seething, trying to hold himself back, to stop himself from doing something he could sooner regret—which, in the end, only caused the smirk over Felix’s lips to grow.
Gloved fingers reach up, removing the helmet that often hid his face, the object being placed down to the table Locus stood by when Felix made his round to it, being sure to shoot the larger man one last challenging look.
Locus doesn’t move, but he tracks his partner’s movements with his hearing alone, the sound of heavy, armored footsteps easy to pick up within the ships interior. A heavy helmet being placed atop the table beside him cues the man, knowing exactly where Felix had stepped—and now, the last straw had finally been pulled.
He’s quick to reach out, gloved fingers taking ahold of the first thing they reach—and unlucky for Felix, it happened to be around his neck. Locus steps up to his capture, grip tight as his fellow mercenary struggles, the others fingers gripping at his wrist. A low rumble of a growl sounds in his chest, body leaning forward to have a masked face only inches away from Felix’s now, exposed one.
“When you’re told to stop talking, you stop talking.”
His grip shows no sign of let up, and yet, Felix still grins, voice strained as he tries to speak against the crushing feeling against his vocals.
“And—if I don’t?”
It’s another challenge, just to see how far Locus goes—to test him, to test his willpower and strength all in one go. It was always so difficult to tell what he was thinking; that hideous, bug-like helmet masking his expression time and time again, Felix having no insight to if he was really in danger or not.
Either way; he wasn’t going to let up.
He doesn’t receive an answer besides a tightening of fingers, the feeling causing the orange accented mercenary to wince, pulling back now on Locus’ wrists—moment by moment it was getting harder to draw a breath, yet, the sense of panic only pushes him to continue.
“C’mon, Locus—if you wanted to kill me—you’d do it already.”
Felix knew there wasn’t any way he’d let that happen—he or Locus, for that matter. If Locus was determined to end him then and there, it wouldn’t be beneficial for either of them, and their job would go incomplete. It would be an unacceptable failure.
Either way, the blackened edges that came into Felix’s view was a warning that if he didn’t get the other off him soon; he’d lose consciousness, and who knew what’d happen then. Maybe Locus really would kill him, throw him out of the ship, pretend like it’d never even happened—
The thoughts swim in his head before the grip is dropped, Locus letting his partner fall to his knees, gagging and coughing as he attempts to draw in a breath. There’s a slight shake wracking through Felix’s frame, though it isn’t so much from panic as it was from adrenaline, the rush hitting him as soon as breaths could be drawn again, knowing that once again, he was in the safe-zone. Fingers instinctively reach up, rubbing the spot that had been nearly crushed, dry coughs and heavy wheezing proving that perhaps, a bit of short-lasting effects would have to be dealt with.
“You—sure have a grip. Why don’t we—plan this again for next week?”
As his vision clears and muscles relax, Felix glances upwards, and still, that stupid, shit-eating grin is just planted over his features, a grin that Locus wants to just wipe completely off his face so he wouldn’t have to see that idiotic look again.
It almost frightens him, how his partner could look up at him like that and crack a joke after being nearly choked to death—after having his life threatened, and literally, being held in the palm of his hand. Felix was a god damn maniac.
“You’re disgusting.”