search as he might, he can’t find a drop of sarcasm between the syllables, nor the downward tug of a scowl at the corner of lips——- and he looks, oh, he looks, gaze torn from the rusted metal joints he’s tweezing bullet fragments from to narrow at his teammate, waiting to be scolded. to be told he’d been reckless. to be warned against doing any such thing again as the way he’d hooked his arms under jesse’s to drag him to safety. he looks, he waits, and he receives .. gratitude. tentative, a toothy smile makes its way onto soot - stained features.