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Red’s left arm locks up at random.
He’s pretty sure it’s a repetitive motion injury. He ate the recoil too many times while firing, let the kick judder up his bones and make tiny little cracks in his joints, and now sometimes his arm just doesn’t work.
He tries hiding it out of pure instinct. He knows what will happen if he’s defective, if he doesn’t work anymore - but it’s also pointless. It already happened. He was defective, and he didn’t work anymore, and his last owner gave him away to Hiller.
But he tries to hide it anyway, because things with Hiller - they’re good. Red didn’t know he could have a preference, but Hiller is so much better than his last owner. He doesn’t want it to change again, doesn’t want to be even more broken than Hiller thought he was and get traded again. He wants to stay with Hiller. And he knows he doesn’t get to pick, but -
Hiller notices. Hiller notices everything. He’s sharp-eyed, quiet. He doesn’t speak, so some people think that means he’s stuck in his own head, but it’s just the opposite. He catalogs everything, and even when Red tries to hide the state of his arm, the way the fingers have locked into agonizing curls and the way he can’t bend his elbow, Hiller clocks it.
And he reaches out. Gently, skims his fingers down Red’s forearm, grasps his hand.
Red doesn’t cringe. There’s no point - Hiller can do whatever he wants to him.
But Hiller only rubs his palm, gently, and then harder, helping the muscles relax. He slowly kneads the bases of Red’s fingers, helping the blood flow, making some of that agony dissolve into a pins-and-needles sharpness that then gets quieter and softer until it’s barely there.
Red gasps. He’s not supposed to make noise, but he can’t help it.
But Hiller just smiles. Those sharp eyes of his soften a little when he looks at Red, Red can’t help but notice.
Hiller moves up, kneads Red’s forearms, then gently prods around his elbow, looking at Red. He signs at Red with his other hand: Abort mission?
He will if Red doesn’t say anything back. He’ll just let go, like it’s Red’s choice. But Red shakes his head.
Is it wrong that he likes this? Sometimes it’s confusing, being with Hiller. His old life was bad, but it was simple. This one has soft touches and gentle questions, and he doesn’t always know the right answer. Hiller’s told him there is no right answer, which was so terrifying that Hiller caught the minute widening of Red’s eyes and amended that to every answer is the right answer, which felt like a philosophical trap of some kind.
But it must not be. Because Hiller gently massages Red’s arm until it doesn’t hurt, and then gives him one last, gentle pat before withdrawing.
Red flexes his fingers and thinks about touching back. About skimming his own fingers over the top of Hiller’s hand, and then drawing it up his arm, all the way to his neck.
He doesn’t, of course. But he thinks about it.
He can’t stop thinking about it.