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The tunnel sabotage resulted in disaster. Though the target was destroyed, it almost took you along with it. The second time you've nearly been lost to the coral, to the filthy ashes of his predecessors' sins.
Walter wouldn't have been ready to lose another hound so soon. Every time he'd visit his "friend" his face grew more weary with the guilt of knowing he'd be sending another to their death.
Three at once, it was, just a few months ago, mission accomplished, but his throat worn bloody as he screamed at the comms' screen with every signal lost. Their numbers were supposed to serve a purpose, keep him from getting attached, and yet to his dismay, a shred of humanity still burned alive within him.
Was the same true for you? Laying barely conscious on the medical bed, patches covering almost every inch of skin that was burned or irradiated by the coral. Every time you returned in a state like this, Walter couldn't help but think something was lost. There's a little less of you left, not that there was much to begin with when he initially dug you out from cryostasis. Weren't the horrors of augmentation enough to inflict on a single person? Was he forced to keep burning them up until nothing but black coal remained?
Walter approaches the bed where you lay. Despite the ungodly doses of painkillers you are still managing to feel your skin sizzling with residual fire. Above your breathing mask (which barely even fogged up as your chest rose and fell) your eyes shift to him, standing over you with an indecipherable air about him. Disappointment? Pity? Contempt? His hand grips the handle of the cane a little tighter. His face is dark.
Your fingers twitch. He notices (how could he not, given the amount of lines attached to your arm?) and stares inquisitively. Your fingers twitch again. Searching. Asking. Your eyes continue to peer at him.
The hum of the lights above you becomes painful as you wait.
Once he realized what you were asking for, his expression suddenly became one of restrained surprise. He meets your gaze with a drop of bewilderment. In his eyes after all, you think, you are barely human. You'd have no necessities for pleasantries like this. And yet.
Your numb throat wishes to cry out. You almost manage to close your fist before the jolt of pain stops your fingers from curling in further. A part of you flinches. He must have seen it.
Walter's stature crumbles away from his usual stiffness as he sighs, and with effort, drags one of the bedside chairs closer to your bedside to sit down. He leans his cane on the side, and then slowly, carteful not to touch the burns, he holds your hand.
You return the grip, weak, but thankful beyond measure. Human contact was a luxury not endulged in since long before you awoke in the AC. Your lungs shudder with relief at the small bit of warmth, the calloused skin against your scarred own. He passes a thumb gently along, in an attempt at comfort.
He speaks, at last, though his words come out strained with some unspoken emotion. "621. This mission wasn't supposed to go so wrong."
Your fingers twitch in his hold. a long moment passes between you, filled by nothing but the sound of machinery and your quiet breaths. it's the most peace you've felt in years.
"I'm sorry."
You didn't miss the way he muted the Redguns on your way out, nor the worry in his voice once he saw the plummeting readings on the mech's armor. The memory of it makes the corners of your lips twitch, even if a little.
"It hasn't been long since I've lost my last squad of hounds, I'm sure you're well aware. Being under my care isn't considered a particularly privileged position here, on Rubicon."
Plenty of conversations have already told you as much. Hell, Carla had stated it herself, and you personally killed the hired mercenary that was responsible for one of the hounds' deaths not so long ago.
"Still. You're the furthest anyone's gone yet. As such you remain a valuable asset to me. The cave-in today is a necessary reminder of the unpredictability in this field, and to me personally, a warning."
Strange. That was the first time you'd heard him attempt to make a genuine compliment towards you instead of having to overhear it from his comms with the other faction leaders. A first is a first in any event. Your hand twitches a little, almost appreciatively, and he responds with entwining your fingers and raising your forearm a little to make the grip easier. His head droops down, almost touching your knuckles doing so.
"I need you to rest the following few days. No taking missions behind my back, not from Balam, Arquebus, the RLF, Carla herself, or whoever dares contact you. If they try pestering too much I am disabling external comms myself."
Now that was... new. Surprising, even, moreso than anything you've experienced on this planet so far. You blink for the first time in the last few minutes and note his mood. Walter had clearly been brooding ever since you returned and staying still has made those thoughts catch up to him. A moment of weakness. It makes an odd echo of some old and sad feeling tug at your chest.
Your other hand moves, not as damaged by the coral fire, to tug at your breathing mask. Deep as he was in thought, Walter didn't even realize it until the soft pop of the plastic and the subtle hiss of the machinery filled the silence of the room. "621, what -", he reached out to put it back, but you stop him, fingers hanging at his wrist in pleading, your face now open for him to see. You take a deep breath as you struggle to lean upwards. Your efforts make Walter sit back again, releasing you as he observes. He knows well at this point you barely, if ever, express your wishes out loud - perhaps another quirk of generation 4 augmentation.
Suppressing the pain caused by movement, you manage to raise yourself from your back and onto your side, facing him, though wary not to put any weight on your injured arm. With already labored breath, you lift your head and healthy arm, however briefly, to reach for him.
He considers your gestures for a few seconds. "Do... you wish to sit up, 621? Are you hungry?" Nod. A little lie never hurt anyone.
Walter lets out a long breath as he drags the bedside chair just a little closer. His back is not doing him any favors either. Gently, very gently, he holds one hand under an armpit and the other on your waist to balance your weight out. A spark of glee passes through your mind as he does so. Once you're relatively upright, you push your face into the folds of his jacket and crumple the fabric on the back under your fingers, making the intent of your little deceit clear.
"Alright, 621, now let me -", it takes him a moment to realize you weren't about to let go. "What are you..."
He doesn't have to finalize that sentence. He knows. With some newly found strength you manage to crawl onto him a little further.
"621, I...", something in his quieted tone tells you he's not about to reject you. He lowers his face into the space between your neck and your shoulder, however, his arms take a long time to move from their rest on the bed-sheets and to settle around you.
They shake as he pulls you in, and you feel a shiver pass along his skin.
His heartbeat is irregular, and his breathing shudders as he settles in. You can feel the desire to hold you closer reigned in by the part of his brain that logically knows you're still injured. You don't mind though. It has been a while for you as well.
Some time passes, as neither of you bother to count the minutes. Something in your torso sends a ping of pain, likely a poorly placed stitch, and you wince. Walter shifts a little at the sudden movement, and passing his eyes along the sight of your back, comes to a realization. Where his arms lay pressed so close to your body was a particularly thick set of bandages. His jaw clenches with concern and guilt as he presses a question to the augmented human leaning onto him.
"621, doesn't this... doesn't it hurt?"
The words make you pause for a moment, but ultimately, you nod. No bother in lying now. And Walter knows not to aggravate it with more friction.
"...Do you want me to let go?"
A fierce no through the shaking of your head as you press your face into him a little more. No, of course not. It's hard enough to think about letting go yourself.
"Alright." Walter doesn't move any further, though, hesitantly, he finds a patch of clear skin in between your shoulder blades and gives it a slow and gentle stroke. It makes you melt instantly, easing off some of the pain caused by the tension in your muscles. Walter files the positive reaction somewhere in his brain, but doesn't stop.
The two of you sit there for a long while before you lose consciousness to the contrast of exhaustion and comfort.
The next morning you'd wake in your own bed with a blanket over you, bandages clean and replaced, the one offending stitch removed. You'd question how Walter managed to pinpoint it. But ultimately, the first thought that passed your mind was that in spite of the temperature of the room hanging slightly above the recommended 24°C, your arms felt cold.