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Arthur is mad. At himself, at the Hex, at the Drifter. What should have been an easy extraction mission, grab the Techrot core and get the fuck out, has gone so terribly wrong.
There were too many of them. He should have brought more people. He should have been more careful.
And they shouldn’t have come at all.
Now, Arthur is lying on the ground, with his ribs crushed and his face slashed, and Ciaran is lying across the road, bleeding, their Warframe discarded to the side. Its arm is torn out and its leg is folded at a terrifying angle, and Arthur would rather not look at that mangled body, so much like his own.
He pulls himself up, leveraging himself on the arm, the only part of his that doesn’t bleed yet. He crawls, dragging his own weight, the machinery in it, grunting with effort. A Techrot Gallifex screams and rushes at him, but Arthur smashes his fist into the ground, sending an electric shock against it, pinning the thing to the ground in mechanical convulsions.
“Ciaran,” he whispers hoarsely, moving closer inch by inch until he is right beside them. Ciaran’s face is purple red with blood and bruises. They blink slowly and cough, blood on their lips and chin.
“Give me a sec…” They ball their hand in a fist, but Arthur takes their hand and forces their fingers apart.
“No time rewinding,” he warns them. “I’ll get you out of here. We can’t lose our progress of this year. It’s not worth it.”
Ciaran’s gaze hardens.
“Are you insane?”
“We can’t undo this. Better cut our losses with less.”
“I can fix thi- ah!”
Ciaran tries to move, protesting, but something in their hurt body refuses to. They cry out, falling back to the ground. Arthur kneels beside them, guilt eating him apart.
“My frame…” Ciaran tips their chin at the remains of the machine, slashed and cut and useless now. “I can’t…”
Arthur’s jaw tightens. It could be him. And if they linger, it just might.
“Use me.” He turns back to Ciaran, squeezing their hand. “I think I broke some ribs, but together we can get out.”
“But-”
“C’mon, Drifter, we don’t have all day. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“What if we don’t?”
“I’d rather try.”
“Stop playing a hero.”
“Stop playing the victim!”
His blood is cold, and the shame of his outburst is burning through it. He feels like a wild animal, trapped in a corner and flailing and desperately trying to claw out.
Ciaran’s eyes flicker. A strange, pearlescent teal flicker, so unlike them. There is a world of hurt in those irises. But it is gone as quickly as it comes, and Ciaran sighs, wiping blood from their mouth.
“Fine. Your way.”
They close their eyes and dissipate, transferring into Arthur’s frame. It feels like a cold spray of water and a warm blanket all at once. He moves, or rather is moved, as Ciaran controls every bit of him. There is just enough in him to keep going, even if it hurts like hell.
And he feels them, in his mind. A link between them, now thin and coated with poison. He regrets opening his mouth. He’d sacrifice the world to make up for it. And Ciaran, their presence is quiet, retreated more so than usual. They are almost a spectator pressed against a glass pane, with their hands puppetting him out of danger.
Ciaran’s fighting style is different to his. His blade is honed, and theirs is vicious, lashing out. They cut through enemies, one after another, the world around them but a blur of speed. Bits of Techrot fly to every side, and Arthur spits out what gets in his face.
When they are out, it is a deep dark night. Arthur falls to his knees as Ciaran leaves his body, scattering down the road.
Arthur pulls himself up to sit beside them. His comm, finally active and able to reach the base, pings the Hex for assistance.
“And get here quick,” he mutters before the comm goes quiet.
Ciaran is looking to the side. Arthur would not meet their eyes.
“I could fix that,” Ciaran says quietly. “Then neither of us would have gotten hurt.”
The double-edged meaning cuts Arthur’s heart.
He sighs.
“I… didn’t mean what I said.”
“Sounded like you did.”
“Sometimes people say things they don’t mean.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
They are quiet for a moment, and Ciaran coughs up blood again. Lettie and the rest better be here soon.
Ciaran looks up. Their eyes are clear now, and he can see them better in the neon light of an overhead advertising sign.
“I am a victim, you know. I wish I weren’t.”
Arthur moves his hand and gently takes Ciaran’s in his. They don’t resist, just watch him as he brings their bloodied fingers to his lips and kisses them.
“We gotta talk it out later, alright?”
Ciaran gently taps their fingertip against Arthur’s lips.
“Sure. Arthur?”
“Yeah?”
“Can two people be correct at the same time?”
“Sure. We all have our truths. They don’t always mesh together, but…”
“Maybe ours do. I could fix this. Take us all the way back to January.”
“Cold,” Arthur smiles.
“Not with you here.”
“I know it matters to you to keep us all safe. Guess we want to do it our own ways.”
“Do you hate me for it?”
“No, dummy,” Arthur sighs, feeling the last bits of energy leaving him. “I could never hate you. Not for anything you did or said.”
“I don’t hate you either,” Ciaran says. Arthur watches them, sometimes awed by how simple and clear-cut their mind seems to be, almost childlike. A strange notion after what they’ve told him about the Duviri and its winding, twisted essence. But maybe that is the only way they could survive
Sometimes Arthur forgets Ciaran is like no one he’s met before. Sometimes he forgets he loves them, and loves them anew.
He leans down and kisses their lips, once, a gentle pressure.
Lettie and the rest of the Hex will be here soon. But Arthur has things to mend, if he can.