The chaos of newcomers is never something Fit exactly...anticipates. In fact, he doesn't really like it all that much—not because he's anti-social, but because it just means yet another innocent being trapped on this island of hell with no way out, and frankly, he isn't quite sure they should be celebrating that.
That being said, he's not just going to let some newbie die because they couldn't find their way out of a stone tower.
Which is how he finds himself leaning against the doorframe in the loud room, watching people buzzing back and forth with excitement. He rolls his eyes, a small smile on his face at their chaos even as he steps back. Bad, Niki, and Cellbit are attempting to brute force the locked door—but that'll take at least ten minutes. He has time to burn.
His eyes scan across the room, unconsciously seeking out a familiar figure. He finds it right where he expected it: curled up on a couch, away from the crowds.
...there's an open seat nearby...so why not?
He sinks onto the seat next to Pac. The other man's drooping eyelids snap open as his weight is shifted, and Fit throws him a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you."
But Pac just smiles and shakes his head, sitting upright. "You didn't." It seems as though he wants to say something else, but whatever it is, he swallows the words. Instead, he simply stares down at his hands, fiddling with the cuffs of his hoodie, tugging his hands in and out of the sleeves.
Fit breaks the silence. "...how you doin'?" It's an innocent enough question, if they didn't both know what the scientist had been through. Sure enough, Pac sneaks a glance up at him, giving him a half-hearted shrug in reply.
"...I'm, um...well. I'm really tired," he murmurs, offering up a weak smile. Fit nods in understanding. The past week and a half had been exhausting enough for him, what with Ramon's disappearance and the impending stress of his mission—he can only imagine what Pac's been going through in the past day, much less the past week.
He'll admit it—he's worried about the younger man. Isn't everyone? It's no different than Bad or Phil's worry for Forever, or Cellbit's concern for his friends. Pac is just coming down off of a serious drug. Being tired is normal, right? Fit still isn't sure how he managed to find an antidote, either, or why it was necessary to take the drug in order to find one.
He tries not to worry about it—Pac would tell him if something was seriously wrong. Or not—it was his business, not Fit's. Just like his scientific process. Yeah. It was up to Pac to decide whether or not he wanted to share that information! Never mind the fact that Fit's thoughts were running a mile a minute with theories he did not want to even consider.
Besides, he knew a thing or two about keeping secrets himself. There were some things you simply couldn't tell people, for a variety of reasons: either it put them at risk, or put you at risk, or—
Oh.
He tries not to stiffen at the sudden weight on his shoulder, instead glancing to the side, where Pac's forehead now rests against his plate of armor. The scientist's eyes are closed, lashes sweeping the sunken bags under his eyes. The arms of his hoodie are curled carefully around Fit's prosthetic, gently holding him in place.
...oh.
He takes a careful breath, afraid to move too much for fear of waking the other man. After a few moments of hesitation, he decides to take the plunge: he adjusts his shoulder back a bit, moving the armor out of the way so that Pac's head falls to his true shoulder. Silently, his other hand finds purchase in the folds of Pac's hoodie, resting gently against his arm.
...the door is going to take a minute. They have time to rest.
It seems all too soon that there are cries of triumph from the other room. Pac's head jerks up off his shoulder at the excitement, blinking blearily in the dim light of the tower. Fit freezes, unsure of what to do. Should he play dumb? Act like nothing had happened? Let Pac take the lead?
The other man glances down, realization dawning on his face. Slowly, he untangles one of his arms, sitting up against the sofa back. (Fit misses his warmth already.) "...I guess I must've dozed off." Pac laughs softly, scratching the back of his neck as he looks away.
Even while avoiding Pac's gaze, Fit can see the deep crimson blushing up the younger man's neck. He shrugs. "Well, that's good. You probably needed the rest."
He tries to play it off. Tries to ignore the way his heart is still hammering in his chest. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes, why the hell is he acting like some schoolboy?
To his credit, Pac doesn't seem to be doing much better. "Y-yeah," he stammers out, grinning. "Probably." The dark rings under his eyes only compound that fact—has he been sleeping at all?
They sit for a moment, just staring at each other—until Foolish leans over the back of the couch opposite them, starting up some uproarious discussion about glue and vault mechanics and things beyond Fit's comprehension, and Pac is distracted once more.
But Fit can't help but notice that his arm still lays across the sleeve of Pac's hoodie, the other man's fingers still curled around his prosthetic.
He doesn't say a word.
318 notes
·
View notes