Work Text:
“Isami…”
“No.”
The pilot makes his way out the hangar they’re hiding out in.
He’s exhausted. He’s astronomically, unfathomably exhausted, and he’d like just one hour of fucking sleep. The past days haven’t been kind to either him or Bravern – okay, mostly to him. Mostly. Maybe Bravern got a bit of a beating, here and there, but he should be able to deal with it. Being a giant robot and not a fleshy, dirty, injured, very, very tired human soldier. There’s no need for him to whine about some dust on his armour, considering...everthing.
The nondescript sound of a billion insect resonates in the air.
It’s hot. The humidity creeps into every crevice around here, and Isami, shoving any possible consequences into the deep, dark hole where his hopes and dreams lie, begins to unbutton his shirt for at least a small bit of relief when he hears a dejected ‘clank’ from the far corner of the hangar. He can’t see what’s happening there because he’s very decidedly walking forward, away, and outside, but he can picture it: Bravern, sitting in the dark, hugging his knees to himself like a large, miserable metal dog.
Alright, so he feels like shit. He looks the part. So does Bravern, if he’s being honest, shiny red, gold and green full of dust and dirt and…
He hears Bravern mutter to himself. “Okay. It’s all okay, I can wait. Until we’re both in fighting shape again, Isami…”
With the effort (and approximate tempo) of Atlas carrying the earth on his back, Isami halts. And turns back around.
“Thhhhhere’s a river.”
Bravern’s head immediately snaps upright. “Isami?”
Oh, bad idea. Bad idea. Are his eyes sparkling?!
“Found it while scouting out the area this morning.”, says Isami’s mouth against his better judgement.
Bravern stops hugging his knees and scoots toward him with the cacophonous sounds of metal against gravel and asphalt, dutifully stopping just short of where the sunlight hits the ground, palms planted on the floor, eyes bright as highbeams.
He’s waiting.
For something.
Isami doesn’t even notice his fingers reaching the last button on his shirt.
“There’s probably a rag in there. Or two.” He points into the hangar.
“Are you saying…” Bravern’s chin hits the floor as he bends forward, plane part ass in the air, staring directly into Isami’s face, which contorts instinctively but – dear god - will not stop speaking.
“Wait until night falls. I can…” He vaguely mimics a scrubbing motion.
The resounding shout of “THANK YOU!!!! ISAMI!!!!!!!!!!!!!” blows any hope of stealth they might’ve had in the first place into fleeting specks of might-have-been, but...at least the moping robot problem is resolved.
Even if he has to hop into Bravern’s cockpit dusty and shirtless because *something* is approaching, and fast. Some part of Isami wishes it were the fever dream of his delirious empty shell of a body – for slightly different reasons now, he admits to himself with grinding teeth, too busy trying to not throw up as Bravern accellerates about three times faster as before.