sine-nomine-ferrum:
Raiden wrestles—with memories, maybe—and this time the Whaler has to bite down on their cheek to keep from reaching for him. He looks so vulnerable, this man made of sharp edges and steel, and they want…
They don’t know what they want. To hold him, wrap him up tight in their arms, tell him he’s safe? Yes, though they’re loathe to admit it. But there’s something else, too; something aching for— for some unnamed, buried thing they can’t even begin to articulate. They just ache, and want.
Raiden breaks the moment with a joke, and the Whaler manages to force a huff of laughter in response. The issue isn’t that simple; re-learning how things feel, what texture is: that’s easy. But they can’t take off their gloves. Any piece of their gear missing is like the corresponding limb is missing too, replaced with someone else’s body. Their face is as much a stranger to them as Raiden was half an hour ago.
But Raiden is serious. He shuffles closer, the distance between them closing to almost nothing with just a couple of awkward steps, and before the Whaler has time to even blink he has their wrist gently in hand and is peeling off their glove.
They don’t dare breathe as he coaxes their hand free. Their heart thuds in their chest, whispering inexplicable, unintelligible things to them, as each second draws out into a lifetime, until finally he wrests the glove off and holds their bare hand in his.
Immediately they’re assaulted with sensations—and almost as immediately, they’re all drowned out by Raiden’s hand, smooth and cool, around their wrist. It’s indescribable. Agonizing. They slip their own hand—bone-white and alien—around his wrist, tracing the lines of his metal bones in reverence, every slight catch in the metal sending sparks through the tips of their fingers and up into their brain.
Raiden shifts and the Whaler lets him, unquestioning, entranced, and is rewarded with his fingers entwining with theirs. He gives their hand a gentle squeeze, and tugs at their hand.
For a half second, it seems as if he’s going to pull them into him, and the undefined ache of wanting lodged somewhere in their chest explodes into a need—to be closer, closer, closer—that catches in their throat and chokes them. But then he presses their hand against the wall and lets go, leaving them dizzy, and with a gaping hole forming in the pit of their stomach
For a moment, the wall isn’t even there to them; Raiden’s touch burned out all their nerves and they have to wait for them to wake up again. And then it’s… damp. A little tacky. The Whaler slides their forefinger down the wall and pulls it away to stare at the residue, rubs it against their thumb.
“That’s… a little gross,” they say, staring at the thin layer of grime accumulated on their fingertip. Their voice comes out hoarse and trembling, despite their best effort, but they wrench their focus away from the ghost of Raiden’s hand on their bare skin and onto the strange stickiness on their finger.
The Whaler turns back to Raiden, rubbing absent circles into their slick coat. They can’t quite meet his eyes.
“I, uh—” The words come out a little strangled, and they’re forced to clear their throat before continuing. “Thank you, Raiden. That’s— I don’t know what to say.”
It’s too much. He can hear it instantly in their voice; it’s too far, too fast, and the nausea that follows the realisation is a biting kind he hasn’t felt in years. It would have been kinder to cut the Whaler in half down the centre and leave their guts splayed out across the floor than do this to them, to tear them so roughly from their comfort zone and force them into the light. But he’d moved without thinking about them and what they wanted - he’d taken off their glove to try and help them, but perhaps he’d only wanted to help himself. Just like - just like-
Raiden closes his eyes, dizzy.
But it seems to be alright. They seem to be alright. Thankful, even. He’s tempted to give them Rose’s phone number - she’s a great therapist, when she can’t follow you out of the appointment room-
He waves the Whaler’s thanks away. “You should... try it again on your own,” he says. “Go back to your room. Take off your gloves and take it slow. It’s hard, readjusting to something like that, but you will, eventually.”
The Whaler is slipping their glove back over their hand, wriggling their fingers into the tips, and Raiden has to look away at how strongly he wants to reach out and hold it again, purely for the human contact. He hasn’t touched anyone in weeks, in or out of combat, holding himself apart from everyone he meets at the Ark so as not to frighten or threaten. But there is also - well, it hadn’t really hit yet back in his own world how alone he is now.
And whose fault is that? say his voice and Rose’s together.
“I gotta get going,” Raiden says to the Whaler. “I was heading to the markets for something before I saw you, so... I’ll see you around sometime.” He hopes, genuinely, that he does.
