Work Text:
The letter is typed, structured, exactly one page long. He thanks Jeanist for his coordination during the joint operation. He complements his structural foresight and his command under pressure.
He writes, “Your continued excellence in spite of physical limitation.”
Then he deletes it.
Too close. Too honest. Not what Jeanist would want in writing.
Jeanist had masked the strain well. Only a moment of tension when adjusting his support brace. Only one delayed breath behind the visor. Most would have missed it. Edgeshot did not.
He finishes the letter, signs his name, and folds it in perfect thirds.
Then he reads it again. Once for grammar. Once for tone. Then again to make sure it says nothing he does not mean.
He considers adding a line at the end. Something about resting. Something about not needing to prove anything.
He does not.
The envelope stays on his desk until morning.
When he mails it, he does so quietly, like the paper might shatter.
Jeanist receives it, reads it twice, and files it away.
The next time they meet, he nods once.
Edgeshot nods back.
It is not a conversation, but it is enough. Neither of them needs more than that.