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“You can’t stay in that suit forever,” Fred said, stepping up beside John where he watched the stars. Fred flexed his fingers within armoured gloves, wanting to place a reassuring hand on John’s shoulder. But there was an absence now within John, isolating him from the rest of the universe.
Fred didn’t know how to deal with isolation.
“I know,” John said. His helmet turned to Fred, face unseen behind the mirrored visor. Fred didn’t need expressions to read his friend; he could see the fight in John’s broad shoulders as they held steady beneath unimaginable guilt and loss; he could hear the hollow echo in John’s voice that could be mistaken as simple exhaustion if Fred hadn’t known him so long.
They were both so tired that if not for his Mjolnir, Fred’s legs would be trembling with the fatigue. “We can’t keep doing this,” Fred said. He removed his helmet and clipped it to his hip. “You know we’ll follow you to the end of the universe, but we need rest, John. You need rest.”
John looked away again, back to the glittering black. “You’re right.” He turned to Fred, his hand clasping friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Fred almost laughed, because if he didn’t he might cry instead. His heart ached at the pain in John’s thrumming voice, because that voice had always sung along his nerves—but he hadn’t realized just how much until the Forward Unto Dawn was torn asunder.
Yet John remained absent even as he returned. Part of him was still out there, scattered among debris like stardust. Fred wanted John, all of John, back. With him. He placed his own hand atop John’s and forced a smile.
“We’ll live,” he said. Realized it was the wrong thing to say a fraction of a second too late, as John’s grip tightened. He could already hear Kelly’s sarcastic, Great work, Fred. He knew what John was thinking, and what he was hiding behind his helmet. Sam, Tillson, Bah’d, Cortana. Countless unnamed soldiers and civilians. He held every single death within his ribs, heavy and agonizing as if carved into bone.
“I know you’re scared, John,” Fred said, low and soft.
“I’m not―”
“Really, you’re going to try pretending I don’t know everything about you?” He cocked his head, lips quirked. “Well, almost everything.”
John let out a short, hah . “Definitely some stuff I wish you’d forget.”
Fred squeezed John’s hand, a gentle reminder that he wasn’t alone, then sighed, sliding his hand to the crook of John’s elbow, fingers playing at bracer lines. “Look, I get it. Not knowing what happened to you? Worst four years of my life, man.” He faltered then, and looked away. Even hidden behind amber, John’s gaze was intense. “I know I’m not her, but I—”
“I know.” Low, heavy, slicing clean through skin.
Fred laughed, short and surprised. “Of course you do.”
“Almost like I know everything about you.” Gloved fingers guided Fred’s face back with such gentleness despite Mjolnir weight. Had they lingered at his jaw before dropping? The touch left fire in its wake.
“John,” Fred said, and he hated how much need came through in that one word. He stepped in, at the edge of John’s physical grief. Reached across the gulf and pressed his palms against John’s armoured chest, as if he could reach beneath. Lingered along bevelled ridges, thumbs stroking at the gaps between plates. The Mjolnir was John just as much as his physical body, a form built for him rather than grown, and Fred realized suddenly how desperately wanted to explore it, but also to dig beneath, to find John and drag him back out.
He slipped his hands to John’s throat, between armour and undersuit below helmet. Paused as he felt John stiffen. He had gone too far, brushing against the neural chip port. But when he moved to pull away, John grabbed his wrists.
“No,” he said. “It’s okay.” A long pause, then almost to himself said, “It’s you.” He loosened his hold, waited.
The seal broke with the release of anticipatory breath. Fred lifted the helmet free, lungs light at the reveal of familiar skin, scarred and lined with decades of war and death. Oh, he knew this face, branded forever behind his eyes, but John’s helmet cradled in his hands made this different.
John cracked his old grin, but his eyes crinkled with regret. Fred grinned right back.
“Look at that, there’s a human in there after all.”
John frowned, jaw tight. “I can’t be what you need, Fred.”
“Yeah, and I know I’ll never be what you need,” Fred said, one hand cupping the side of John’s face. “The galaxy already asks too much of you, I’m not about to add to the pile”
A rumbling chuckle resonated along Fred’s arm, and John, unphased by the bulk of their suits, grabbed Fred’s face and kissed him hard. He tasted of fire and ash and sweat; of pain and despair and desperation.
“You could never ask too much,” John said, quiet and close. Fred cocked his head, smirking.
“Then let’s go get this armour off.”