Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hank isn't one to exactly enjoy committing murder. They see it as something of a necessary evil in a world they played an unfortunate hand in creating, both the beginning and the end— the aftermath of an impulsive decision that they probably existed to carry out, or some shit like that. What they lacked in critical understanding of the larger forces at play, they made up for in tactical ability. Few others, if any could replicate their physical prowess and affinity to think on their feet in combat scenarios, and while they don't quite wear it as a badge of honor they are definitely sure of themselves if nothing else.

So why, pray tell, did another waltz into their life, holding up his own badge proudly and insisting he possessed things that Hank did not? It wasn't hard to be capable of things they weren't, Hank wasn't perfect. They struggled to keep friends before everything, drank a bit too much liquor, and didn't make the volleyball team. That doesn't mean they need a right hand man to shoot a gun in their stead, though.

But that man wasn't trying to hold guns for them, at least he didn't mention anything about it, probably. Most of his words went in one ear and straight through the other, aside from the parts that Hank determined were pertinent to them.

That man only ever referred to himself as 2BDamned, a moniker he'd bestowed after leaving the A.A.H.W on his own terms that happened to be leagues apart from anyone else's. He says that he was a top-notch scientist and spearheaded their internal medicinal care. How cute.

He didn't talk very much about himself, truly he seemed to prefer to talk about Hank. Nothing he said seemed to be in Hank's best interest despite his insistence that it most definitely was. The explanation of how useful it would be for them to have someone who could fix their wounds and help to keep them alive didn't do much for them, nor did a brief mention of how he understood the makings of Nevada. Hank was unimpressed and quickly told him to fuck off.

2BDamned did not fuck off. 2BDamned actually did far from that. He'd taken up residence in an old building that Hank used to occupy for a time, and when they'd reunited by chance in a seemingly desolate agency base afterwards he'd kindly informed them that not only had those old digs been blown to smithereens, but it was kind of his fault. Moreso the fault of the agency for raiding him, however Hank would still blame him for shacking up there in the first place (not that they truly cared about a dime a dozen busted up building, but it was the principle of the thing.)

He'd said some more things, tapped a few buttons on a tablet the same size as his face, put the tablet into Hank's face to show various bits of intel and data he'd gathered. They still really aren't enthused with him and would much rather continue to brute force their way through everything, although they can't deny there is a level of conviction to his words. 2BDamned speaks in an almost irritatingly calculating manner as if he's a machine programmed to recruit them into his bullshit mission, enough so that Hank feels a small temptation to rip into him and see if there truly is buttons and wires under his worn out coat and respirator mask.

They're tempted to take the easy way out and just end his sorry life much more than to agree to whatever he's going for. If they're going to keep running into each other like this, it'd make things much simpler were he gone. Hank even poses the concept to him, wordlessly holding up their gun and taking aim for his head in response to him spilling everything upon them. It's downright insulting how he refuses to take them seriously, shaking his head and tutting at them as if they were a disobedient child and not a grown man two inches from splattering his brain matter over the concrete.

"Are you going to do it, or are you just going to stand there?" 2BDamned had reached inside a pocket when he asked, eyes narrowed beneath his goggles, breathing remaining level despite the threat. Hank watches even that small movement with rapt attention, well aware that he could have a plethora of things inside. Be it a blade, a gun, or something far wilder cooked up by the agency or by improbability.. 2BDamned planned for this to some degree, if he arrived armed. Maybe he wasn't planning to use it on Hank initially, but he was willing to do so.

That admittedly intrigues them. This is moderately annoying and extremely weird, but curiosity did get the better of them every now and again. Should he pull anything funny, they're still confident they could easily take his life, and even the worst outcome is a net gain by crossing a potential enemy off their list. They lower their weapon and agree to his terms.

Hank is not the only one intrigued, they quickly learn as they spend more time with 2BDamned. He remains a man of carefully curated words, but they're far too many for Hank's liking. It's as though whenever he speaks he's performing an analysis on them, even when they're en route to a mission that he had planned and insisted on joining despite Hank's blatant refusal to the concept. Regardless, there was no arguing and they still didn't really feel like shooting him yet— not when an agent could do that for them and save them a bullet, of course. They looked forward to having a meat shield to carry through the barrage, then 2BDamned could finally be useful to them.

At first, Hank enters alone. If asked they would claim it was because they don't want 2BDamned there to begin with and ignore that he had even put that in his plan. They take no issue with doing what comes natural to them, until 2BDamned continued his efforts and began following behind, ducking and weaving through rooms and stairwells even if every agent within them was already dead. Apparently he wasn't kidding when he said he understood and wouldn't underestimate madness, the anomalous nature of Nevada.

Hank had heard that word used for the first time the other day, when 2BDamned was going on about them again. How it's nothing short of anomalous they'd managed to get themselves out of the Other Place not once or twice but three times, or.. something to that effect. They're too busy slaughtering L33T agents like animals to pay attention to any thoughts about that—

"Damn dissenter," they hiss under their breath, feeling 2BDamned behind their back, suddenly closing in on them without them noticing ahead of time (just a fluke, they figure, their attention was elsewhere.) The mere presence gets on their nerves, the way he kept a close eye on their every move and all of the moves around them without so much as a weapon in hand was unbelievably frustrating. They don't enjoy murder, no, but they can't say they've ever disliked it more. "Knock it off."

2BDamned rolls his eyes, moving ahead of them and tucking himself beside the doorway to the next room, undoubtedly full and at the ready for them. He digs into his coat, inside an inner breast pocket that Hank is starting to consider may contain the secrets of the universe, establishing eye contact with Hank before tossing something to them. They catch it swiftly and take a look, holding in their hand a small device with an occasionally blinking red light.

"Straight three rooms, hang a right and go down two more." he makes hand motions with his instructions, likely a precaution in case he's speaking too softly to be understood, but Hank will still take it as an insult if they so choose to. "Stick that on the wall and get the hell out of there within five minutes, because I'm not going to scrape your blood from the floor and stick it in a jar to put you back together later if you get blown up."

"I wasn't going to ask you to."

"Good, because I wouldn't."

"Great." they look at the device again. "And I should listen to you.. because.. why."

"Because—" 2BDamned has to pause, "Because.." he huffs, "Because I told you to. And I know what I'm doing."

He did tell them to. They can't really argue with that. They could probably argue with the rest, but they don't have time for that right now. "If I do it, will you fuck off?"

"Sure." his reply is nonchalant and disingenuous, but he is moving to leave the building. That's promising. Hank can take that and run with it, they figure as they move deeper into the base.

It's quiet as they continue along the path 2BDamned laid out for them, not following it because he said so but because it's the most logical path to take, of course. Those two things coexist completely unrelated to one another, surely.

They're unused to hearing only their own thumping footsteps while in a place like this and it leaves them on edge, eyes scanning every corner and a bullet already loaded into the chamber of their gun. That gun is aimed when they bust open the door to the room they were instructed to enter, to be met with an uneventful, boring, big fat nothing. Their eyelids twitch as they step inside, grumbling to themselves about how 2BDamned didn't know shit about fuck. Visiting an agency base has never been such a snooze, not until he came around and started pointing them in directions and telling them what to do.

Hank sticks the device to the wall. It rotates and makes a clicking noise.

They aren't stupid, they do know an explosive when they see one. Momentarily they question if 2BDamned constructed the device, what with how much technology he's always dragging around. Watching it so closely as it blinks off and on makes them almost not notice probably 3 more pairs of footsteps moving to occupy the same space.

Finally. They could have fallen asleep.

Even if murder isn't really fun, at least it's no bore. It's engaging and intense, it makes adrenaline pump through every part of their body when survival instincts overtake them. It makes them feel alive, and they're well aware that being alive scarcely feels good.

2BDamned's little machine starts beeping. Hoardes close in at a rapid pace— in hindsight they really should have anticipated being ambushed, but that assumption would have felt like putting too much hope in the enemy's intelligence. It's powerful, sure, but Hank is too. They prove that every time they kill an agent with his own weapon.

Grating beeping presses on as they work, only getting faster as time goes on. They aren't ignoring it necessarily, just find close-range attacks a little more important to tackle. That is, until the small beeps change to a loud buzz that finally draws their eyes away from their slaughter.

The red light has gone out. Where it once was sits a small bit of text boldly reading; "LOL".

"Shit."

Even with moving away as quickly as they possibly could, managing to get out of the room and press tightly to the wall, they know the moment the bomb goes off they're not getting out unscathed. They cough and sputter as the smoke clears, taking heaving breaths through their mask. There's an attempt to put a hand over their nose and mouth to help some with the inhalation, but their arm doesn't seem to work how they want. That's odd, they had just held it in front of their body to shield themselves a moment ago.

Oh well, they figure, they did what was needed and then some. They're sure any other agents around have gone running by now after the blast, all that was left to do was get the hell out of dodge and show 2BDamned they didn't incidentally kill themselves. Not that they care what he'd think about it if they did.

When the room is clear enough to see in front of them, the first thing they notice upon peering back in is the piles of discarded agents amongst the rubble. It's impossible to tell who was killed by their hand and who was technically 2BDamned's doing, what with how they're all mangled fairly equally now. The second thing they notice is an exceedingly difficult to manage pain in their shoulder, coinciding with the arm that wasn't working.

Hank looks down at their feet. And at their mutilated arm, laying on the floor in a pool of bloody sludge. A smirk twists onto their face.

They exit the building. 2BDamned scowls when he sees them holding up their own severed arm's gore with the one still attached. They even wave it at him.

2BDamned bitches at them the entire time he packs the place where their arm used to be (after bundling up the remainder the best he could and insisting he'd put it back later, whatever that meant.) He is bitching for certain, but Hank is only listening to every other handful of words. Something something ungrateful, something something get over yourself..

"I mean— fuck sakes, Wimbleton, this is like some kind of sick joke to you. How am I supposed to put up with your shit?"

Hank turns to him when he releases them, leaning down to loom over him threateningly and snarl, "Then go."

2BDamned doesn't shrink in on himself or step back, only narrows his eyes a bit. "Excuse me?" asked less out of desire to clarify the meaning, moreso to check the audacity. Hank leans even closer, almost resting their head on his and boxing him in with their body.

"Go." spoken in a low, vicious growl. "Leave me the fuck alone."

There's a beat of silence hanging heavy in the air, draping over them like that ugly coat with the fluffed collar the medic wears. They stare at each other wordlessly for what feels like hours. 2BDamned is ultimately the one to shatter that quiet discomfort. Hank feels they may have gotten somewhere when they see his shoulders shake, but the noise that reaches them swiftly proves that wrong.

He's laughing. 2BDamned is fucking laughing at them, a soft rumble from his chest, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Good try." he says, condescending enough to make their blood boil. "No, not on your life, but good one."

Chapter Text

Hank is getting really sick of trying to work as a team. They had been accomplishing everything perfectly fine, with or without someone attached to their hip. There was some genuine gratitude to be had when 2BDamned explained to them that his work was getting a bit larger than mere reconaissance and resource gathering, thinking things would return to their semblance of normal and that they'd finally be rid of that pest.

Until he made the additional comments that he'd enlisted two others to accompany Hank in his stead, and that he'd be around to hang behind dealing with all of the technical aspects. Gratitude canceled, this still sucks.

2BDamned rarely accompanied them on field missions now that.. what were their names again? Sanford and Phobos? No, the other one— Deimos. Now that Sanford and Deimos joined their rag-tag little group. Status Quo, 2BDamned had christened them, S.Q. for short. Hank thinks it's cliche and stupid. 2BDamned could really give a fuck less what Hank thinks. He shows that very well by giving them more company to despise.

Deimos is annoying. He has the smell of cigarette smoke glued onto his person, dragging behind him wherever he goes and making Hank feel ill. His laugh is grating, his voice so loud and raspy it brings upon the urge to scratch open the sides of their head until they're incapable of hearing anymore. Cocky to a fault and uncomfortably brazen, Hank might want him dead almost as much as 2BDamned. At least he occasionally says something funny.

Sanford is on the other hand is surprisingly rather palatable. He's much quieter than his counterpart, in fact Hank isn't sure they've heard him speak at all when it isn't absolutely necessary— like when 2BDamned says something stupid and Sanford tells him it's stupid, that's pretty good. The way he's glued to Deimos is a bit disconcerting, though. Hank can't imagine being that attached to another person, but at least it keeps him far away from them. Apparently 2BDamned obtained some parts from him to build that thing that blew their arm off.

Said arm is back on their body now and decently functional at that. 2BDamned did put it back for them when they were far enough away from most potential lines of fire, and they'd hated every second. The pain was no issue, no, it never would be. Having another person's hands on their body, especially while they were at a slight physical disadvantage, that was an entirely different can of worms. Truthfully they had half a mind to rip it back off and beat him to death with it.

Those urges surface again when they’re embarking on their first mission as a quartet, sat in the passenger seat of a beat up old truck belonging to Sanford. His ratty little friend and that stupid doctor-not-doctor are sat in the back. Deimos made a big deal about giving them shotgun as if it was the Nobel Prize, Sanford seemed less than enthused to have someone else sat beside him, and 2BDamned was tapping away at three little devices, as if his usual one giant screen wasn’t enough. Everything about this was complete and total misery.

They don't see why it should take four people to drop some agents and steal a few things. On their own they could do it with their eyes closed and one arm tied behind their back. Apparently the other two had been sent on similar missions for 2BDamned before and come out successful, and that was nice and all but it had absolutely nothing to do with them. When they'd agreed to this mutual assistance schtick there were no words around additional recruitment. They told 2BDamned as much before piling into the pickup—

“This feels like a pretty big breach of contract, y'know."

"You point me to our written agreement and I'll see to it your complaint is assessed in a timely manner, Wimbleton.”

—and it got them nowhere fast. They don’t really know what they expected from that prick.

That prick runs back over the mission plan once the vehicle is parked at their destination. Hank doesn't earnestly think they need to listen seeing as they've done field recon probably 500 times over by now, but they don't feel like being bitched at more either. So they stand still and glower at 2BDamned while he talks.

They'd be splitting up and tackling each half of the building in pairs (of course they would), Sanford with Deimos and 2BDamned with Hank (of course). The former two would be dismantling a security system for the latter to get through and obtain some agency intelligence 2BDamned is after. Hank supposes it does have some purpose after all. 2BDamned could do to have some intelligence.

They tense when Deimos nudges their arm, giving him an equally unamused glare. "Pfft.. don't look too excited 'bout allat, big guy." They shake their head as if to say they wouldn't. Deimos isn't perturbed, holding one of those little devices 2BDamned had been so occupied with out to them. He has to move his hand closer to make them realize he wants them to take it from him.

Hank turns it over in their hand, feeling over the sides with their fingertips. It looks similar to a standard smartphone, with a large screen and a few buttons on the sides. They blink at it stupidly.

"Let me put this in a way your little brain can comprehend, Wimbleton," 2BDamned says with a snarky tone that makes Hank want to squeeze him until his eyes pop out of his goggles, "They're for long-distance communication. That way we know we're all alive and so these two can let us know what to expect."

"I know what to expect." Hank snaps back, taking out those wants by holding the device tightly enough it makes an airy crack, threatening to shatter into pieces. 2BDamned's brow furrows in frustration.

"'Ey," Deimos interjects, "We put a lotta work into these things, I ain't programmed 'em for nothin'."

"When do you get to the part I'm supposed to care about?"

Sanford finally speaks for the first time that day, "Hold it down. We got shit to do here, let's just get a move on."

Finally, one of them is saying something that makes sense. Hank could be thankful for that and shut their mouth for a few minutes so it could be over and done with sooner.

Sanford and Deimos make their way inside, leaving Hank behind to hear all of the action without any chance to participate. Time utterly crawls by as they lay in wait. While they could simply brute force their way in, shoving ahead of everyone else and flipping off 2BDamned for good measure, they're taken out of any internal fantasies of doing so by that dumb machine vibrating in their hand so hard they nearly drop the thing. They hold it up in front of them, squinting to read the scrolling messages.

BIGKIELBASA: IN PLACE AND AWAITING ORDERS
BIGKIELBASA: DEI WHY IN THE ABSOLUTE FUCK IS MY USER TAG ABOUT THAT KIELBASA SHIT, YOU'RE STILL ON THAT?
BIGKIELBASA: YOU GOTTA CHANGE THIS SHIT BACK
F1REBRAND: :)
F1REBRAND: YOUR MOVE BIG D!
BIGKIELBASA: NOW YOU'RE CALLING DOC WEIRD SHIT TOO, HAD TOO MANY SIPS OF THE KOOL-AID BUD
F1REBRAND: DOC CALLS HIMSELF THAT.
2BDAMNED: STOP FUCKING CLOGGING THE MESSAGEBOARD
2BDAMNED: DUMBASSES
2BDAMNED: HANK AND I WILL COVER YOUR BACK, MOVE IN AND SHUT IT DOWN

Tucking his device inside of his coat and zipping it up, 2BDamned gestures Hank first. As if they weren't going to rush ahead and get things done anyway, every little action he does in reference to them feels like an insult at this point. They were literally just thinking about that before his invention got in the way.

They do as their thoughts tell them, bolting inside haphazardly. There's disappointment mixed in with bubbling rage when 2BDamned actually manages to keep up with them on foot, telling them where to go as if they couldn't figure it out themselves from auditory cues and context scattered through the building. Intelligence means technology means following any cords on the floor or buzzing noises. It's not brain surgery, though they're curious if 2BDamned would understand that better than the situation at hand.

Relying on predictability will be his downfall, they decide as they drop his instructions without warning and make a sudden diversion off his course. It makes him skid to a stop and call after them, not that it matters to them. The room along the path they chose themselves had guards at the ready, and they have some pent up emotions to let out.

2BDamned had come in behind them at some point in time, they have no idea when and don't particularly care to either. They only notice his presence by the sound of another gun that isn't their own— so he wasn't above bringing weapons after all, the other times they'd done this together he was actively choosing to be a dick about it and make Hank do all the dirty work. How mature of him.

The two of them slash through bodies until none are left standing. 2BDamned looks daggers at Hank. Once again, he's denied the joy of giving them a snappy quip, this time by way of those devices vibrating.

F1REBRAND: LIKE TAKING CANDY FROM A BABY. ORDERS?

The medic ducks out of the room, taking only long enough to breathe and type back a simple reply.

2BDAMNED: KNOCK EM DOWN!

He peers back inside at Hank and makes a daring comment, "Try to keep up." before hurrying off to follow a path only they don't have laid out.

That son of a bitch.

As much as Hank would love to go their own way in refusal of childishly playing cat and mouse, their fury blocks the concept from their mind completely. They charge after 2BDamned, catching up in mere seconds. They don't mean it to be as obedient as it appears, following behind him until he reaches the computer room he's so eager for.

Upon entering Hank grabs 2BDamned's arm and yanks, making him stumble to a stop. There's fire in their eyes and their voice comes out rough when they bark, "Do you fucking mind?"

"I do, yeah." the way 2BDamned overtly refuses to treat them as a threat only serves to make them angrier. They don't release him when he tries to pull away.

"Stay the hell out of my way, doctor, before I bury a knife in the side of your head. You're so lucky I haven't ripped you to shreds yet, you know that?"

"Oh yes, lucky me." his words drip with sarcasm, emphasized by a roll of his eyes. "If you're so pissed off, will you let go of me so I can do my job?"

Hank doesn't really know why they haven't dropped his arm yet. Maybe they want to watch his face contort in pain should they grip hard enough, maybe they want to rip it off completely so he matches how they looked a little while ago. Maybe they just want to make a decision for themselves for a change, yet being left with the option in this moment has them speechless. They scoff, but ultimately don't let go.

"Go to hell."

"Working with you, Wimbleton, I'm already there."

"I prefer hell to working with you."

"What high praise."

"I'm tired of you talking to me like I'm your goddamn dog—"

Amidst their arguing, a shadow approaches over Hank's shoulder that they don't see. 2BDamned acts immediately.

Hank's interrupted by a loud crack right beside their head, ear immediately starting to ring as something splatters over the side of their face. It happens in such a quick flash it takes them a moment to piece together what had gone on.

2BDamned is still brandishing his pistol, adrenaline freezing him in place while he catches his breath. Hank watches him wordlessly, studying the bloody spotches over his clothes, his face, his hands. They only look away long enough to turn around and see what their medic had previous. The agent in question now sports a bullethole directly between the eyes and a bloody puddle beneath.

Hank turns back to him, awestruck. 2BDamned is in a similar state. The only thing that snaps him from his stupor is the sensation of a vibration against his leg. He shifts as though he's come back from the dead, mumbling something about stains as he wipes his hands on the sparse clean spots of his coat and fishes through his pocket. The screen's light reflects the mix of red and yellow smudged across his goggles.

F1REBRAND: OVER AND OUT DOC
F1REBRAND: HOW ARE YOU AND BIG MAN HOLDING UP?

2BDamned looks to Hank for a moment. Their eyes are large as dinner plates, staring and watching with an intrigue he's never seen in them before. Hank only looked at him to give remorseless glares, yet in this moment they are absolutely enraptured. The two make eye contact again, and while Hank would typically itch to look away and retch at that kind of thing, right now looking away seems like a fate worse than death. 2BDamned appears to agree in the way he barely glances aside to finish typing.

2BDAMNED: SEND FOR A CLEANER
2BDAMNED: ENEMY'S BROKEN.

Chapter Text

Hank never thought they'd be stuck with a permanent injury of this magnitude. Frankly, it's more annoying than anything else. They've long been aware of how to cope with pain and do so fairly well by their own judgment, give or take a few extra brutalities inflicted upon enemies as projection. It would be a little silly if they didn't have that locked down by now.

That doesn't mean they can't be bothered by anything and everything to do with said injury, of course. And they would be, probably for the rest of eternity.

They're in 2BDamned's office for the fourth time that day, sat atop his medical table with their shoulders slumped forward and jaw hung open. Calling it a jaw feels like a bit of a stretch to them, really, but that's what everyone has been saying and they lack the real jaw to tell them to call it like it is— a hunk of scrap metal, bent into a curve and cut into jagged points along the top to resemble teeth. It's a piece of shit now forever fixed onto their face.

For what its worth, 2BDamned was highly disappointed in Sanford and Deimos.. for all of two seconds, until he considered how irritating it would be to revive not one but three people had they not just thrown Hank a sword and gone on their merry way. He'd said they got what they deserved, what with having to deal with the clown themselves while Hank lay in a gory heap. That doesn't make it any less of a dick move in their eyes.

Most of what went on around the time their head was bashed into the concrete is a blur muddled by the scent of their own blood. Somehow they had ended up back at the makeshift base 2BDamned had assumingly staked claim in, or so they figure by waking up laid on a table, delirious, with what felt like half the fluid drained from their body. Their comrades had been nearby, idly chatting while they lay there still lacking a jawbone and sporting a new Y-shaped scar across their chest and abdomen.

Hank had tried to laugh when Deimos sheepishly admitted to 2BDamned that there was no way they could return Hank's jawbone. It came out in a fried raspy puff of air and blood droplets. 2BDamned had been frustrated with them, but not anywhere near as much as he'd appeared when Hank talked shit to him. That made them laugh more, until 2BDamned swiftly told them to shut the hell up before they choked on their own tongue. In that moment with pain searing through their entire skull they'd have been pretty okay with that outcome. 2BDamned on the other hand just wouldn't have that.

"Can't ya just.. I'unno, revive the guy back to before he got hurt?"

"Deimos, I'm not a time traveler."

"We got his head, ain't that what matters? Don't gotta be so uppity 'bout it, be grateful Dei n' I came back safe."

"That's not the point, Sanford—" Hank is certain 2BDamned had more to say to that, but the blood loss and general wooziness from coming off of surgery had them passed back out before they could hear it. And that was a damn shame, too, they loved overhearing Sanford knocking that guy down a few pegs when he got too condescending.

At this time, a few weeks after that incident and into the healing process, Hank has had a lot to adjust to. There's a permanent ache ringing through their head at all times. Speaking is out of the question, unless they want to make that ache impossibly worse. They're exhausted of the checkups, of sharing a space with 2BDamned so often. His presence is oddly polarizing when you're completely alone in a closed room with him, having him tilt your head this way and that, coax your faux jaw-like thing open and closed.

The two of them would meet like this continually throughout each day. 2BDamned would survey their wounds and ensure everything was properly healing (as properly as it could, at least), then send them off until he decided they needed to be looked at again. 2BDamned was kind of putting a weird level of care into this, much more than Hank would have expected anyway. Maybe he's milking the circumstances of having Hank trapped as his own personal study specimen for a little while. Maybe it's that Hank is allowing him to scope things out rather than shove him away or make it difficult by other means. It was tough to say.

Even they themselves find it strange, how they aren't immediately pushing back at the medic's ministrations like they usually do. Merely the intensity of their trauma, they figure. With something this dramatic, impacting them more heavily than anything else they'd sustained, it makes sense for them to give a little more of a fuck about the treatment, right? So it's totally logical that all this touchy-touchy care and being stuck with 2BDamned so much doesn't make them feel blinding rage like it would have a month ago. Yeah. For sure.

Occasionally 2BDamned will talk to them during the process, updates on how they're healing and the like. Hank can't reply due to reasons including but not limited to 2BDamned's digits inside their mouth, prodding at the large screws he'd used to attach their prosthetic. It burns where he touches and all they can taste is copper.

2BDamned pulls his fingers from Hank's jaws, wiping them clean. "Well, at least your salivary glands are still doing their job, I guess. What remains of them." He snickers at their expense. It doesn't make them angry. They've actually gotten rather used to 2BDamned's laugh, in the scarce moments they overhear it. That reverberation from his chest actually sounded.. sort of nice. It's pleasing to the ear.

They're still delirious somehow. That has to be it. It just has to.

"You've really got to be careful when you're back on the field with those two. I know you don't do careful, but.. whatever your idea of it is. You're pretty lucky I was capable of reviving you," he pauses, "and if you break this jaw I'm out of ideas."

Hank looks to 2BDamned. Their eyebrows furrow as if to say both "I already knew that" and "why does this matter to me?"

"Don't give me that look, Wimbleton.. if we're going to actually succeed at this mission, you've got to stop screwing around."

I wasn't screwing around. I was trying to do your mission. They huff at him, splattering small droplets of blood onto his hand. 2BDamned doesn't flinch or move to wipe it away, but he does make a displeased noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

Hank stares at 2BDamned's fingers, their vision momentarily flashing between the current scattering of red specks and the image they'd seen before— L33T blood sprayed over those hands, gun in a tight hold. They have to blink to get their sight straight again, allowing him to tilt their head aside and survey what still vaguely resembles their top row of teeth.

It has never truly mattered whether Hank survived a battle or not. They would always find a way to come back, initially from a desire to give a big middle finger to what wanted them dead now out of a sense of obligation. At times, they'd just as well stay dead. It mattered enough to 2BDamned for him to bring Hank back by his own hands, for him to stop them from being killed in the first place when he was able to do it. How odd it was, occupying space with someone who held a desire to heal rather than harm.

It'd be just plain stupid to think it was out of the goodness of his heart. 2BDamned has a goal to meet, dishing out objectives to them essentially every day in accordance. Keeping Hank out of harm's way is a no brainer for him, they're sure, as a way to make himself less work and streamline operations. The impact isn't lost on them, despite the stupidity, and it muddles their mind uncomfortably. Their health has never been of grand importance as far as they can recall, and even if it's for a strictly selfish and superficial reason, 2BDamned has his moments of treating them as if it is important. Regardless of reason, it's meaningful to him. That alone weighs heavy on them.

There's a certain vulnerability to it that makes their stomach turn so hard they feel at risk of vomiting all over him. Having him poking inside of their mouth, inside of their chest cavity, willingly coating his fingers in their blood and saliva and whatever else horrible lay inside them. It was one thing when they couldn't refuse, only a dead body on his slab awaiting treatment. Right now they could do so easily, since they awoke they could.. and yet, they don't. They can't. Something in them forces them to sit still.

They think about the way he looked in the aftermath of that mission. His huffing breaths through the respirators of his mask. His eyes, focused intently and trapped within their own. His hands still covered in blood splatter, the outline of his pistol's trigger guard visible across his fingers. It had utterly stunned them then, the memory still does, and they are absolutely clueless as to why.

Hank doesn't like 2BDamned. Hank never has. The difficulty and denial that comes with saying that they hate him, that they want him dead, that is something new. It's vile, it's upsetting, it's turning their entire thought process about the man upside down.

All because he caught them in a moment of impulsivity, and instead of using it to take advantage and drop them, he saved them.

They couldn't possibly tolerate him enough to care that he did it. That's ridiculous. What does it matter if he technically rescued them, they'd probably have noticed that agent at some point and done away with him then taken 2BDamned down after. They shake their head at the mere notion, earning a pointed noise from 2BDamned. Right. He's touching them still. That's a thing he does. Hank holds themselves in place.

2BDamned brought them back to life after that clown pummeled them into a pulp. It's nothing they couldn't do on their own, they'd proven that enough to inadvertantly catch 2BDamned's attention in the first place. He knows they can do it, and yet he made the decision to take it into his own hands and revive them. Likely nothing more than a demonstration of his own power, and it served its purpose. 2BDamned and them agree on one thing and one thing only— put up, or shut up. He put up and then some. They were impressed.

They might be a bit more than impressed, if the consistent crashing of their trains of thought is anything to go by. Considering that makes them feel something they can't put words to, and it's not pleasant. They'd frown if they were capable of doing so.

"Sanford should be done cooking. After we're done here I'll get yours taken care of."

As part of their treatment plan, 2BDamned had been ensuring they were able to eat by way of chopping their food so finely it doesn't pose a choking risk. He doesn't have to do that, they're sure he knows so. He does it anyway. He even blended it into a paste and gave them a straw when the smallest of pieces weren't viable. It's a step just beyond the obligatory caring for their wounds that worsens all of these feelings rotting them from the inside out.

2BDamned stops his investigative poking, holding Hank's metal jaw in his hand. They make eye contact. Hank's intestines tie themselves in knots.

"I think sometimes you forget that just because you're hard to fuck with doesn't mean you're invincible. And that even if I'm someone capable of practically anything, more than anybody in this godforsaken state.. I'm not a miracle worker."

2BDamned's tone is different. He sounds his usual level of exasperated, much less than pleased with them, but he's speaking with sincerity, with clear thought behind his words.. just not the kind that implies he's got Hank on a slide underneath a microscope. There's an odd humanity to it that makes Hank look at him strangely again, the same way they had when he shot that agent point blank in the head for them.

Something about the work this man does is admirable, as questionable as his intentions are. Hank doesn't know what to do with the way it makes their chest tighten, feeling a rush of air force its way up out of their mangled throat into a choked exhale. It's non-committal, not an agreement or denial of what they're being told. They can't offer anything else, they don't think they want to regardless. They're confused and aching unspeakably without a clue what for.

Hank is tired of having these conundrums every day, multiple times a day. They have to put a stop to it somehow before it eats them alive and corrodes their form down to bone.

Coming up with a plan is much, much easier when the force causing it all isn't running his fingers down their chest, mumbling to himself about how it should be fine to remove their stitches. They'll do it after this checkup is over.

Chapter Text

Hank is used to dying every other week. They've grown numb to the concept of waking on 2BDamned's examination table with him asking who they are and how they feel, so much so that they've began immediately spelling out their name in sign language when they come back to consciousness. It's merely another part of the strange routine that was their life, and they accept that it will probably repeat again and again until Nevada is recovered, or some almighty force decides the world really is better off without them. They'd find that a reasonable decision.

What they do not find a reasonable decision is 2BDamned being the one to come under that fire. In fact, they demand to speak with whoever had a hand in choosing it— and by speak, they mean so many bullets in the skull that the brain is reduced to sludge.

"Ford, go get the truck 'round!" Deimos is behind them, serving as their cover fire as they tear through the building, slashing and crushing anyone that dares to cross their path. Sanford had already taken off to follow his comrade's commands, leaving the two of them to handle the vicious barrage that they'd stumbled into.

Ambushes weren't the most uncommon thing in supposedly empty places. They'd come prepared in case of one regardless, as they always had. Hank hadn't been the biggest fan of 2BDamned wanting to go his own way, far from it, but they've learned that there's no arguing with him once his mind is set. They allowed him to take his own lead and continued onward as usual. There was an unspoken trust that 2BDamned had everything necessary to protect himself.

That trust had shattered with a single message over their communcative devices. A simple, straightforward, universally understood code; "SOS".

They shouldn't have let him go. Their mind reminds them of that mistake in an endless mantra as they shove through anything in their way. It's not their fault, of course, it's 2BDamned's fault for being so headstrong and the agency's fault for continually fucking with him. That doesn't mean they won't see to it that this misstep is paid for on his behalf.

Even with what felt like a lifetime of unending viscera burned into their retinas, none of it could be enough to prepare them for the sight they barge into. Their medic lying in a puddle of blood on the floor, weakly clawing at the concrete as if trying to pull himself out of the room he'd been left in. Clutched in one of his reddened hands is his trusted gun, shakily lifted up in a sad attempt at self-defense before clattering to the ground once his eyes set on Hank.

Hank storms into that room so fast their head spins. They reach right for 2BDamned, lifting him up as gently as they possibly can when in such a huge rush. 2BDamned hisses and writhes from the movement. He's warm and heavy in their arms. For a single moment, everything else grinds to a halt.

"Doc—!!" Deimos hurries to 2BDamned's aid, all but ripping off his vest to press into the other's still profusely bleeding abdomen. 2BDamned gives a weak groan. "We got ya, Doc, we got ya— 'ey, Hank!" he's cut off by Hank forcing their way past him, making a beeline for any possible point of exit. They hear Deimos behind them again, shouting directions to them for where Sanford had parked. That isn't the correct voice telling them what to do, and they wish they were in a circumstance where they could tell him to shut up.

When the truck jerks to a stop, Sanford is clamoring out of the front seat and throwing his keys to Deimos. "Drive! I'll get in the back n' work on Doc! Move, move, move!" Deimos slams on the gas before all of their doors have even been closed.

The entire trip back to the base, Hank holds 2BDamned. Sanford does his best to clean him up despite the fast and rough ride. Deimos has never driven so erratically for as long as Hank has known him. 2BDamned stops responding.

"He's breathin', he's still breathin'," Sanford assures, seeing Hank's eyes ready to bulge out of their goggles. "Hold strong, big man, c'mon." he presses tight to 2BDamned's wound and has a bite to his tone when addressing the unconscious, "You're not dyin' on me today bozo, it ain't your time."

No, it wasn't. Hank could agree to that a million times over.

There's an off-putting sense of togetherness in the cab of that vehicle. Things had changed drastically since the four of them initially came into each other's lives.

When you're boarding together, fighting battles together, spending essentially all of your time in one another's company, you learn things about each other. You form somewhat of a mutual respect through learning to cover each other's backs and keep an eye on people that aren't yourself or strictly labeled an enemy. It's unconventional and unexplainable, but it is the reality of living this way. Hank knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that 2BDamned earning that respect from all three of them over time is the catalyst for them respecting each other. 2BDamned had an impactful existence, one that was not allowed to end.

It's an intense, desperate hustle to get him inside and settled. Hank rushes in ahead of the others, as they were apt to do when under pressure, straight to 2BDamned's office. They set him down as tenderly as they possibly can on his operating table. Sanford is barking instructions at the both of them the entire time, telling them what to find and how to use it.

He says something about letting 2BDamned breathe properly and reaches for the clasps on his mask. Hank grabs his arm to stop his movements, a little too tight judging by the noise he makes. They leer at him with eyes full of fire, and he returns that energy in a mutual glare until Deimos catches sight of the situation and pipes up, "He's right, Doc breathes better with his mask! C'mon, ya can't be fightin' right now!" Sanford softens. Hank releases him. 2BDamned's wound is wrapped in saline-drenched bandaging, allowing time for the blood flow to lessen.

In the meantime, Deimos clatters away at 2BDamned's keyboard. He'd said something about being given access to the vital parts of his logs in case of an event like this, when 2BDamned deemed him trustworthy enough. Hank wanted to grind their teeth at the concept of Deimos being more trustworthy than them, but Sanford making an offhand comment about how Deimos had essentially been trained the way they wanted 2BDamned to turn out soothes them ever so slightly. The fact that they don't have a lower jaw to grind teeth properly definitely has nothing to do with it.

"He said he kept all these logs from when he revived Hank 'fore," Deimos muses, chewing on a toothpick while he combs through files. "Guy couldn't be bothered to label anythin', think I'm gonna have to check 'em all."

"Holy fuckin' shit.." Sanford sets his hand on the back of 2BDamned's chair, tilting his glasses down to watch Deimos scroll through a seemingly endless list of text and audio files. "Doc ain't played 'round with keepin' track a 'em, did he?"

"No sir.." Deimos sighs, plucking the toothpick from his mouth and holding it just as he'd hold a cigarette between drags. "I got file dates to go by but that ain't tell me shit." he rests an elbow on the desk, holding his head in his hand. "Like I'd know what the hell he found out on the 25th a July? When the fuck was the 25th? When the fuck was July?" he takes ahold of his hair and pulls, "Man, I'm not— I shouldn't even be touchin' his shit."

Sanford exhales through his nose, moving his hand to clap it down on Deimos' shoulder. It startles him, making him drop his toothpick to the floor. "Doc said to do it when we needed to. Ya look at that man n' tell me ya think when he wakes up his first concern is gon' be your hands on his tech." Deimos looks up at him with wet eyes. He mumbles a string of curses and crushes his toothpick under his boot.

"I'll just.. start at the fuckin' beginnin' I guess."

Hank sits crumpled into a chair way too small for them at 2BDamned's bedside (tableside, really.) They've been staring at him since they set him down, eyes trained on the rise and fall of his chest to ensure personally that it's still moving. They want to ask when he'll wake up, but they know that none of them possess that answer. They don't move, hardly even noticing when Sanford approaches them, standing beside and following their gaze.

"Y'know, big man," Hank doesn't say anything in return, leaving Sanford to only hope they're listening. "When people are unconscious like this, they can still register if ya touch 'em." as if to demonstrate, Sanford reaches over their shoulder to tap his fingers on the back of one of 2BDamned's hands. "His hands are freezin'.. how 'bout ya keep Doc warm over here, aight? Help 'im out with that temp regulatin'."

The concept sounds foreign. Not only touching him, but touching him beyond what's medically necessary.. unless this is medically necessary. It's to help him recover, Sanford said. Maybe then he wouldn't mind should he find out they touched him, if, no— when he wakes up.

Their hand trembles when they reach out. Fingertips rest over his knuckles, feather light, before moving to sit over the top of his nails, palm pressed to the back of his hand. Sanford was right, he is cold. They apply just a little more pressure, relaxing against him.

"We're lucky he's got pretty much one a every fuckin' medical product 'cross Nevada." Sanford continues, striding over to 2BDamned's other side. There's an IV drip with a blood bag hooked at the top, ready to replenish everything that had been forced out of him. "I ain't sure I wanna know where, how, or why he had spare blood layin' 'round.. but I ain't exactly sure I don't wanna know, either. Once I got that thing closed up proper, this should get him in a better spot soon enough."

It's unlike Hank to feel thankful for other people in the traditional sense. They know that they could probably have figured out how to do a blood transfusion on their own, especially after spending so long doing their own patching up, but it's relieving to have someone who understands it better to do it for them. They could say the same of Deimos getting through the digital security and fluently understanding the technical terms of it all. Hank has always been one to not do it if they couldn't do it themselves, one who always found a way to do so even with all of the odds stacked against their success. Not being forced to for once is mostly uncomfortably foreign, partially consoling.

None of them are clueless. There's more intelligence between the three of them than probably the rest of Nevada put together, and Hank says that with utmost certainty despite some of the stupidity each member holds in their own way. Hank's not in possession of a golden brain, isn't as if they earned the killing machine moniker for being smart. Neither are Sanford and Deimos as far as they can see.

Sanford is resourceful; he knows his way around basic medical care and can stretch minimal rations to keep them all supplied for much longer than should be doable. Deimos is resourceful; he's incredibly tech-savvy and has an affinity for calciulating the agency's moves long before they make them. Hank is resourceful; they know hundreds of ways to kill with whatever you put in front of them, and are both capable and willing to brute force their way through anything blocking their path. There's comfort found within capability.

It's just not enough comfort to make that sinking feeling disappear, and it leaves them how they always are when what's left intact of their mind reminds them that they're somehow remaining human through the nightmare— confused, frustrated, horrified at themselves. They should know how to retain someone from their own experiences of coming back to life, but they cannot fathom what that's like on the other side. They don't even know the full intracacies of doing it themselves, only that they did it. None of it had been pertinent until now. It brings about a sense of failure for a task that hasn't even come to an end yet.

The situation is flat-out wrong. 2BDamned never has been and never should be the one down and out. Their first and last line of defense has gone cold. It makes them sick. Even if they and the others know how to give him proper care, even if they're only pulling out all the stops in case of the worst scenario possible, even if he isn't dying today.. it's just not right, and they hate every moment more than the last.

Hank gives Sanford and Deimos a saddened look that's incredibly ill-fitting for them. "Does it always feel like this?" They rasp out through the pain of talking, much to the surprise of their comrades. Sanford makes an inquisitive noise, earning a shrug and a wave of their free hand in exasperation. "When I die, and he has to make me not dead, is this how it feels?"

Deimos' shoulders stiffen. Sanford's breath hitches. They look to each other in a silent mutual plea for help.

It's too quiet in that room for too long. Hank wishes they could take back every word that had come from them. This is absolutely pathetic, they lament as they punch the side of 2BDamned's table hard enough to leave a deep indent in its side. Someone as capable and strong as they are, glued down unable to do anything. They don't do well with being put into a corner, especially when it's the last place they want to be, and they've never been so effectively trapped in one before. It's enraging, it's exhausting.

"I mean.. I gotta, y'know.." Deimos gestures to 2BDamned's computer, then his tablet.

Sanford perks up, "Shit, yeah, with all that diggin' Dei's gotta do, think you'll get your answer one way or 'nother."

"Here, big guy, wanna help me out?" Hank tilts their head. They wonder if 2BDamned would be bothered by them looking at all his files and information.. for all of two seconds, until the curiosity of what lies in his precious technology sets in again. Deimos passes their medic's tablet to Hank, which they release 2BDamned's hand to take and hold properly. Any urges they'd felt to break it previous have long passed. "Can ya look through that list I got pulled up and tell me anythin' good ya find on, uh.. stuff to do with S-3LF retrieval, n' enmeshment."

Sounds better than effectively serving as a watch dog until this was over. They nod and dive in.

Deimos reads a hell of a lot faster than them. He's seemingly flying through pages and pieces. Their hands are too big to comfortably hold the damn thing and tap all the little buttons. When they find anything containing his sought after buzzwords, they hold it back out to him and let him look it over. He always has something to say to new information, mumbling to himself in some garbled shit language Hank doesn't understand.

Sanford either doesn't understand it either, or is too busy with 2BDamned to humor it. He's got a steeled gaze zeroed in on stitching up the medic's sustained wounds with ease. The damage done to his abdomen, now fully visible and able to be studied more closely, is brutal. Assuring it's nothing he can't fix, Sanford got right to work. Hank had peered in, too, after boring themselves of reading things that only about halfway made sense anyhow. They sign to Sanford their minimal input, ricochet off the bone. He nods, more than willing to take Hank's word for this kind of thing. "Fuck, least it ain't hit a major artery. Think he just lost too much blood."

Hank peers in further. Their eye twitches when they see the bullet that caused the damage. Rather than letting the anger boil over again, they use it to their advantage and continue signing. They spell out the caliber and rattle off a few guesses regarding makes and models judging by the appearance. If you get it out of him I'll test it in some of mine.

"Good a plan as any." Sanford concurs. It's not the most pertinent thing to know who shot the gun, no, but to Hank it's necessary. They need to grind whoever pulled that trigger into a bloody unrecognizable pulp if it's the last thing they do in this horrible purpose they serve.

The two of them make it a joint effort to fix up 2BDamned, "talking" amongst themselves during. Once he's closed up properly, Sanford gets the IV running and Hank pokes it into 2BDamned's arm. He congratulates them when they nail the vein on the first try. Today they learned their precision had good uses off the battlefield too.

They had overheard Sanford and Deimos talking amongst themselves about what they should do by the time night fell. Deimos had insisted upon continuing his research just in case of emergency, but urged Sanford to get some sleep. Sanford refused outright and said he'd spend the night trying to restock all of 2BDamned's supplies that had gone to his care, and Deimos couldn't deny that in good faith. It's not lost on Hank how Sanford assures that he'd be careful, and Deimos tells him he'd better be.

Hank is pretty used to sleepless nights, but they can easily say this one is the worst they've faced. Deimos stays awake as well, still pawing through 2BDamned's files. The floor surrounding him is covered in broken toothpicks, a cup emptied of coffee three times over sat nearby. He looks exhausted, slumped into the surface of the desk with a heaviness to his gaze. The kind to wear his heart on his sleeve, Hank has learned that it doesn't stop when under deeply frightening pressure like this.

He'd been reading and listening for hours straight, having hooked his headset up to hear 2BDamned's words as clearly as possible. He hasn't said much about the information he managed to gather from it, whether it was enough to meet his needs or not. It seems less important now that he's stitched up and fully cared for, left to a mere waiting game. That doesn't mean Hank would leave his side for even a minute, though. Just in case.

"Fuck.. missed one." Deimos grumbles, tapping on an audio file and letting it begin to play.

"Medic's log, this is 2BDamned." Hank snaps to attention, stare boring holes into the tablet in Deimos' hands. Deimos jumps too, just as surprised. He grabs at the cord attached to his headset, dangling loose by his legs. There is no questioning how that happened. He only sets the tablet down on the desk, leaning back in 2BDamned's chair. "Hank actually did something right for once and allowed my touches to grace their.. pfft," 2BDamned snickers. Hank's stomach drops. "if that body is a temple, it's a fucking Indiana Jones "touch the wrong thing and down comes a boulder on your head" kind of temple. Shit."

Hank looks to what's currently become of 2BDamned, still out cold on the table. Their hands start to shake, so they squeeze his tighter.

In the recording, 2BDamned details the immediate aftermath of his first time successfully bringing Hank back from The Other Place. He speaks about their prosthetic jaw, how it made them the quietest they'd ever been while inside of his office.

"They had been.." he makes a noise as if trying to think of the proper nomenclature, "Agreeable. Very, very agreeable. I don't know what's gotten into them, nor do I expect to.. there's just something off about the way they look at me now. Maybe the whole getting their head pummeled into the ground thing gave them brain damage too, I don't know. Whatever is wrong with the inside of their head requires somebody with a lot more credentials than I have. I'm not going to bitch about them not jerking away every two seconds while I try to do my job." he mumbles, "They're not bad company when they aren't being an ass."

The audio crackles to a close. Deimos tentatively asks, "That was.. promisin', right?"

Hank signs to him, again.

Deimos lets it replay in full.

They sign thrice this time. Again, again, again.

Deimos chuckles, "I see ya, big man, I see ya. Here."

The recording plays through three more times.

There's a beat of silence after the last play comes to a close. Deimos gives a wistful sigh before asking, "Ya really got somethin' special with Doc, huh?"

Hank is taken off guard. They freeze like an animal caught in a trap, tensing and squeezing 2BDamned's hand as a result. Something special, is that an implication? Are they supposed to feel insulted? They already kind of do by the fact that Deimos is making weird observations. He's making this weird. This is weird. A frustrated huff comes out in response.

"It's pretty nice, ain't it?" Deimos isn't looking at them directly, watching out of the corner of his eye while facing the screens in front of him with a self-assured little grin.

Hank releases 2BDamned's hand to sign to him. Like.. you and Sanford.

"Yessir.. all the same, huh?"

Doc and I don't cuddle. They pause. Or talk about our dicks.

"Ey now, 'ey— " Deimos starts to snicker at his own expense. "Really, none, nada? Ya ain't up to no funny business?" They growl at him threateningly. "Not the dick part not the dick part— I mean, ya don't never settle in with Doc like Ford n' I? Nah?" Hank blinks in disbelief at the mere concept and shakes their head vehemently.

They can't say they've ever entertained the idea, being so close-knit like the other two. They can't imagine 2BDamned doing it, either. Regardless of any attachments, there are no strings behind them to guide along even in an alternative universe where they did daydream about being closer to him. Should they dare to play that stupid game, they'd win a very stupid prize. Their lack of consideration only makes them further baffled by Deimos' insinuations.

Why are you asking?

Deimos isn't intimdated, in fact he looks the happiest he has in the past day. It's still a bit foreign to Hank, having people around that are willing to toe the line and pick on them. Not entirely unpleasant, kind of nice having someone not so serious to shoot the shit with every now and again. "I'unno man, just thought ya might like to settle down after all the crazy shit ya get into. N' ya spend soooo much time alone with Doc.."

Hank's body is on fire. They hate this, actually, they've changed their mind. Their creaking jaw is forced open to rumble out a deep "No." as the only defense they have for any of this. Deimos shakes his head.

"Aaah, damn.. guess I do owe Ford twenty bucks after all.."

You what? Hank shoots him a glare, resorting back to their sign. What's that supposed to mean?

Deimos laughs again, softer this time, and his grin turns sheepish. "Heheh, uh.. well.. y'know, I really thought that— maybe.. ya n' Doc were.. y'know."

No, I don't know. Hank thinks about all the time they've spent holding 2BDamned's hand recently. Did that really incriminate them bad enough for all of this fanfare?

Deimos groans and covers his face with his hands, "You're killin' me Smalls." He finally spins 2BDamned's office chair to face Hank and speak to them properly, "I thought ya n' Doc had somethin'. Numbnuts."

Hank blinks at him. They don't know what to ascribe to the way that makes them feel. All of their organs are doing discomforting flips, and they can't tell if that's anxiety or disgust or curiosity or all of them thrown together in the metaphorical blender. He wouldn't like that. Not his scene.

"Well, not openly, yeah.. man, it's Doc, ya think he's gon' be all—" Deimos raises his voice a few octaves higher, clasping his hands and batting his eyelashes. "Aw, Hank, you're so thoughtful," his voice drops back to normal, "like that?" the mental image of 2BDamned behaving anything like that almost makes them gag. They shake their head, slowly. They know much better than to assume he'd ever behave in that manner, but it doesn't do much to sell them on Deimos' point of potential happenings. "See! Course not, dude, Doc ain't all tender like that. He probably just wouldn't know how to react."

No, he wouldn't. Despite holding so much brainpower and seemingly always knowing what to say, being presented with genuine care wouldn't make 2BDamned feel in any certain way. He'd probably be pretty befuddled by that kind of thing, maybe even disturbed depending on who it came from. He'd be lost as to why. Just like themselves, they lament as their head drops along with their hands, ceasing any response.

Deimos huffs out through his nose, readjusting in 2BDamned's chair. He cracks his back, stretches his arms up above his head, and ends on a simple note, "Least you're happy with him, sport."

Saying they were happy with anything is a stretch. They suppose if anything were to cross that line, though, it may as well be him.

A vibration makes one of those pesky devices clatter against the desk. Deimos grabs it a little too quickly, nearly falling out of his chair. He smashes the buttons, entire body tense, before ultimately going lax with a rough exhale. He looks to Hank as if embarrassed by his reaction. Hank tilts their head. "Oh, uh— Ford just got back, is all. He's askin' me to come help out unloadin'.."

He sits for a moment, likely unsure of how to answer, looking between Hank and the offending text. Hank waves their hand towards the door. Deimos appears uncertain, but nods his head despite himself and pulls his headset off to leave it on the desk.

"You'll be fine like this?"

Hank waves their hand once more, extra insistently this time. It draws a snicker from Deimos, who mumbles a "yeah, yeah.." as he leaves the office for the first time in what felt like forever.

And now, they're alone, in an utterly backwards position from their normal.

The absence of other company simultaneously lightens and deepens the weight on their shoulders. Being isolated with 2BDamned tended to do that to them, but this felt different. The heft to his presence is doubled. It shoves their hands towards him, one finding what feels like its designated place resting atop his, lacing their fingers together. The other moves daringly closer, settling gently on his head, fingers petting through his mohawk.

Their history as a unit is thick and rich with moment upon moment that brings that bittersweet taste back to Hank's tongue. It's unlike them to look upon someone so fondly. With such a tenderness to their touches, they know they look foolish. Nevada's most wanted man, practically coddling someone who walked the line with death— a line that Hank danced along freely more often than they did anything else, a line that may as well be their second home aside from anywhere 2BDamned may go.

Hank thinks about when 2BDamned dared to break past the professionalism and speak to them like a human being. They remember when he let them sleep all day, underneath a blanket he insisted they use because he was tired of watching them drown in their own gradual decomposition. He'd given his own shred of comfort to them to make them feel better. In exchange, they brought him a heart straight from the chest of a deceased agent (to aid in his studies of agency cloning, that's all.) To this moment it sits in a jar on a shelf in his office, perfectly preserved.

The rest of the world dyes itself in sepia and burns away. Everything but his hand, his hair, the continual slow rise and fall of his chest keeping him tethered to this plane of existence. Violence and death is a demand of the higher forces at play, of the ones 2BDamned spoke of and spoke to. They believe they may finally have an inkling as to the difference between those universal needs, and what it means to need something personally.

"..Hank?"

For a second, Hank assumes they're hearing things. Fair to consider, seeing as it's far from common for things they desire to fall into their lap. To confirm their suspicions they look to his face, meeting his eyes. Eyes that are open, bleary, blinking a few times beneath his goggles and watching up at them. He shifts some on the table. "Wimbleton.. are you touching me?"

They really want to tell him how stupid that question is considering their current circumstances. They'll give him a break for the whole passing out from blood loss thing. Slowly, the hand that had been on his head retracts back to their lap. He stretches his fingers underneath their palm, but doesn't pull away. His free hand lifts from what had seemed like a permanent spot at his side, feeling over himself until he reaches the bandaging on his abdomen.

Hank and 2BDamned stare at each other for a while. The gears in his head rotate visibly behind his eyes, recollecting what could have gone on and attempting to retrace the path from point A to B. Hank doesn't think 2BDamned should be doing all the mental gymnastics immediately after waking. Hank knows 2BDamned doesn't give a fuck what they think about that.

A soft squeeze to his hand, in hopes of getting him off those gymnast bars when he's not in the correct form. Slowly, 2BDamned squeezes back.

"Your jaw looks the same from when I cleaned it before that mission.. were you even eating while I was out?" Hank shakes their head. 2BDamned smirks, "Can't fucking trust you with anything, can I." They shake their head again. It makes him laugh. Relief crashes over them. "Don't tell me you thought I was going to die or something."

That's easy for him to say. 2BDamned is self-assured as ever, despite the turmoil of himself and the others over the past day. It's equal parts charming and tedious to be met with such a show of confidence. They release his hand for the sole purpose of signing, at the ready to tell him that it was a real possibility for a real reason and that he could do to not be so cocky about his capability when he's freshly awakened from what could have easily been an eternal slumber. At the ready, until they think on his words a bit harder.

2BDamned is self-assured, confident, and cocky. All of those things are true. None of those things are what kept him alive. They can't say he didn't contribute at all, he did leave notes they could peruse, but they wound up actively utilizing none of them. It was all of their work, of Sanford's, of Deimos', that aided his recovery. He couldn't have been there to make changes or corrections.

They were anticipated to return what he did for them. Even with all of his reservations, his complaining, his attempts to be prepared for anything just in case they couldn't.. ultimately, he trusted them to fill in his gaps when he needed them. Hank was relied upon, in ways that didn't end in them coated in red and yellow. In ways that were strangely human.

2BDamned knew, with certainty, his life was safe in Hank's hands. That fact makes all of their emotions meld into the shape of a tannerite target, pierced by a bullet from 2BDamned's rifle to burst into flame and ash. He would keep them alive for eternity, and they would return the favor tenfold.

Finally, after a far too lengthy pause of Hank staring at him with their hands poised to start signing, they respond. Not on your life. They didn't give it a good enough try.