There was...assistance, being offered to him. Reassurance. Neither of which he should need, accept, or require, let alone be offered. It should have been just an accident of timing that left them both standing so close together, in a way that he could lean just fractionally against his opponent. This he did, allowing himself a moment, with the justification that it was better to show a little weakness than to disobey.
In doing so, he lifted his gaze to regard the other man, now that combat was over and such things might be allowed. Dimly, he was aware of people talking around him, some thoughtfully comparing notes, otherwise gleefully collecting their takings from impromptu wagers on the fight. But it all felt like it was coming to him from very far away, as their gazes met across the short distance between them.
He flinched when the other man raised gleaming metal fingers, well aware that he had punishment due for his failure. But it didn't come, in that moment. Instead, that hand that had been created to take lesser men to pieces stroked his cheek so gently that he barely felt it, barring a little shiver that raced up his spine at the contrast of the cool metal and his flushed, sweat-stained skin.
The contact, and the lack of hostility behind it, set off something...warm, satisfied, deep in his chest. Something content, though he no longer knew the word as it might apply to him. To the point that he felt himself smile, brief and bright as summer lightning. He didn't know why. He had absolutely nothing to be pleased about. Maybe it was only the quiet assurance that he hadn't disappointed everyone, that his opponent, at least, was pleased by his efforts.
He almost staggered when the other man was brushed aside, but caught himself at the last moment. Instead, he stood, as straight and tall as he could through the weakness and pain. It would be taken care of in short order, one way or another.
The wound in his leg was prodded with mercilessly clinical fingers. Surgery would be required, but between that and his healing factor, he should be back on his feet in acceptably short order. His cuts and stabs were similarly diagnosed as needing treatment, but not life-threatening.
He heard them murmuring to one another, exclaiming over the unexpected results of the trial, how well the Soldier performed under orders. Privately, he thought it was more than that - those orders hadn't won the fight, the weapon had. But they weren't thoughts he spoke aloud.
The man saw the slap coming, but let it catch him on the side of the face. It barely moved his head to the side with such little force behind it, he barely felt it compared to his many other hurts, but the intent was clear enough even without the words that followed. He had performed disappointingly. This would have to be dealt with.
The order to sit still didn't come. In fact, they told him he could stay standing until they were ready for surgery. It could be the start of his punishment, the pain a reminder not to fail again.
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In doing so, he lifted his gaze to regard the other man, now that combat was over and such things might be allowed. Dimly, he was aware of people talking around him, some thoughtfully comparing notes, otherwise gleefully collecting their takings from impromptu wagers on the fight. But it all felt like it was coming to him from very far away, as their gazes met across the short distance between them.
He flinched when the other man raised gleaming metal fingers, well aware that he had punishment due for his failure. But it didn't come, in that moment. Instead, that hand that had been created to take lesser men to pieces stroked his cheek so gently that he barely felt it, barring a little shiver that raced up his spine at the contrast of the cool metal and his flushed, sweat-stained skin.
The contact, and the lack of hostility behind it, set off something...warm, satisfied, deep in his chest.
Something content, though he no longer knew the word as it might apply to him. To the point that he felt himself smile, brief and bright as summer lightning. He didn't know why. He had absolutely nothing to be pleased about. Maybe it was only the quiet assurance that he hadn't disappointed everyone, that his opponent, at least, was pleased by his efforts.
He almost staggered when the other man was brushed aside, but caught himself at the last moment. Instead, he stood, as straight and tall as he could through the weakness and pain. It would be taken care of in short order, one way or another.
The wound in his leg was prodded with mercilessly clinical fingers. Surgery would be required, but between that and his healing factor, he should be back on his feet in acceptably short order. His cuts and stabs were similarly diagnosed as needing treatment, but not life-threatening.
He heard them murmuring to one another, exclaiming over the unexpected results of the trial, how well the Soldier performed under orders. Privately, he thought it was more than that - those orders hadn't won the fight, the weapon had. But they weren't thoughts he spoke aloud.
The man saw the slap coming, but let it catch him on the side of the face. It barely moved his head to the side with such little force behind it, he barely felt it compared to his many other hurts, but the intent was clear enough even without the words that followed. He had performed disappointingly. This would have to be dealt with.
The order to sit still didn't come. In fact, they told him he could stay standing until they were ready for surgery. It could be the start of his punishment, the pain a reminder not to fail again.