black dream war machine

It’s not as if he hasn’t been trying. Not as if he’s not aware he’s being—difficult. It’s just…

Wrecker’s eyes soften. He shifts his grip on Hunter to something a little firmer, a little more deliberate, palms flat and soothing, and smoothes both hands across the tense muscles of his shoulders and up his neck. He goes slowly, so slowly, dragging his thumbs across Hunter’s carotids and then stopping to cradle his face in both hands, rubbing circles into his temples. Rubbing away Hunter’s anxiety about being cornered alone and replacing it with relief that no one else is here to see the flush that spreads across his cheeks down his neck and out to the tips of his ears. The way his eyes slide shut. The soft noise he makes when Wrecker leans in and presses his forehead against Hunter’s.

“You’re hurting, yeah?” Wrecker murmurs, still rubbing those impossibly slow circles. He’s so gentle. So careful. Like Hunter is a live explosive and fuck, between the migraine and—fuck. He feels that way. “You got a headache?”

“…Yeah.” Has since that fragging stim shot in the alley, but when he’d finally had the chance to get some real rest with the ship empty of everyone except his family, rather than the reprieve a few hours of sleep sometimes got him, he woke up out of a heart-stopping nightmare into a migraine and only just made it to the ‘fresher before throwing up. That had been ten hours ago, and things haven’t much changed. Except now it’s hot and humid and he’s at a fucking birthday party.

Wrecker breathes deeply and steadily. “Kinda figured. You want to head back to the ship?”

He doesn’t, not really. Doesn’t want to disappoint Omega for the millionth time this week, doesn’t want everyone to see him slinking off to go sulk like he always seems to have to lately. Sulk or explode because he can’t sleep, can’t relax, can’t catch a break from headaches and arguments and everything.

He’s just tired. That’s all. Really, really fragging tired.

Wrecker moves his hands again, pushing his fingers into Hunter’s hair and scratching at his scalp and once again Hunter is glad they’re alone. The sound he makes is only for Wrecker, as is the sigh when, after Hunter finally admits, “Please,” Wrecker kisses him with the same slow deep gentleness as he’s been touching him with. Finally, some of the freezing hollowness he’s been feeling since the landing pad starts to ebb. He hangs onto Wrecker’s wrists and leans up on his toes and tries to fall into the fact that he’s here right now. The presence of him. Wrecker holds him steady, keeps holding him, won’t let Hunter go or go further, just kisses him as slowly and thoroughly as he always does. Hunter’s panting by the time he breaks away. He doesn’t pull back, though, just stays there with his forehead pressed to Hunter’s. Hopefully can’t feel the way he’s trembling.

“Thank you,” Wrecker says, as if Hunter’s the one giving him something. “Come on. Tech’s makin’ our excuses.”

“Tech’s coming?”

“Yup. Just the three of us. Meg’s gonna stay with Shep and Lyana tonight. We’re gonna get you medicated and fed and then do something about this, okay?” He tugs gently at a particularly snarled section of Hunter’s hair. Another flush. He’d been hoping they hadn’t noticed how little he’s been keeping up with that lately, but he hadn’t had much actual expectation of success. It just hasn’t been a priority. Especially wasn’t on their last mission. And once it’s this bad, it takes forever and it doesn’t feel great, especially not on top of a migraine. Well, not when he does it. Hunter’s hands are built for brute force, for shoving his vibroblade through metal and bone and apparently, ripping out chunks of his own hair when he’s frustrated enough. When Wrecker and Tech do it, it’s different. Bomb tech different. Engineer different. Settles all the awful shit under his skin rather than sets it off.