"That shouldn't have mattered." That was what he had heard them say when one of the technicians had brought this up as a possible explanation for failure. So that was what he said, because if that was what they told him then it was as good as true.
But the words were...good to hear, all the same. If only for the reassurance, such as it was, that he was not irreparably broken. That he could improve, and keep surviving. Somehow, the other weapon's opinion mattered. Maybe only because they were equals, in as much as they could be anything.
More than that, this, all of this - the closeness, the contact, the words - felt like a reward, not a punishment. So much of a reward, in fact, that his wounds and bruises and blood seemed a fitting price to pay to earn it. It was a sense that was only reinforced when he felt his counterpart's flesh arm ease around his waist, taking more of his weight and in a way that could not be so easily hidden or brushed aside from the technicians.
So he allowed himself a soft exhale of relief, a moment of genuine weakness. And he moved his other arm around the other man's waist, keeping a hold in turn. If they were going to toe the line, risk punishment, they might as well do so together. He would make it clear that if this was wrong, that they were both misbehaving.
Otherwise, he merely waited, head bowed subserviently, waiting for orders and allowing himself to believe that he would still be standing when they came. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men go off to ask what should be done. No one seemed to want to risk pulling them apart.
They would be allowed a couple of hours or so to stand together before a couple of guards came to take him away for surgery. For one flash of a dangerous moment, he wasn't sure he wanted to let himself be taken away, but an angry throb from his injured leg insured his cooperation in that, at least.
So it was a relief, almost a blessing, that they informed the man with the metal arm that he was to bring Steve to the surgery rooms, with the air of men conferring a great honor. This was his "reward" for a good fight, after all.
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But the words were...good to hear, all the same. If only for the reassurance, such as it was, that he was not irreparably broken. That he could improve, and keep surviving. Somehow, the other weapon's opinion mattered. Maybe only because they were equals, in as much as they could be anything.
More than that, this, all of this - the closeness, the contact, the words - felt like a reward, not a punishment. So much of a reward, in fact, that his wounds and bruises and blood seemed a fitting price to pay to earn it. It was a sense that was only reinforced when he felt his counterpart's flesh arm ease around his waist, taking more of his weight and in a way that could not be so easily hidden or brushed aside from the technicians.
So he allowed himself a soft exhale of relief, a moment of genuine weakness. And he moved his other arm around the other man's waist, keeping a hold in turn. If they were going to toe the line, risk punishment, they might as well do so together. He would make it clear that if this was wrong, that they were both misbehaving.
Otherwise, he merely waited, head bowed subserviently, waiting for orders and allowing himself to believe that he would still be standing when they came. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men go off to ask what should be done. No one seemed to want to risk pulling them apart.
They would be allowed a couple of hours or so to stand together before a couple of guards came to take him away for surgery. For one flash of a dangerous moment, he wasn't sure he wanted to let himself be taken away, but an angry throb from his injured leg insured his cooperation in that, at least.
So it was a relief, almost a blessing, that they informed the man with the metal arm that he was to bring Steve to the surgery rooms, with the air of men conferring a great honor. This was his "reward" for a good fight, after all.