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Chapter Text

Tesla hasn’t seen another tombsona in centuries.

Sometime during the 1800s they’d finally lost the last shreds of contact with their own kind, slipping into a host that would later become their namesake; a genius of a man whose work Tesla could throw themselves into wholeheartedly. A distraction, of sorts, from fresh wounds that never seem to heal right.

From there, they hopped from host to host, project to project, job to job. Whatever kept them focused and unable to think too much about themselves; whatever kept the time and distance growing, growing, growing.

Until now, somewhere in the 21st century, sprawled battered and broken in a ditch as rain patters down around them. Their face is halfway pressed into the mud, one eye stubbornly glued shut from where it mixes with the blood pooling from a cut above their eyebrow. Cars speed by, kicking up spray and pebbles in their wake, their headlights blinding in the post-dusk darkness.

Tesla just lies there and focuses on breathing.

Their current host is weaker than expected. Fragile, in ways their previous ones had not been, which lead to their current predicament. It’s nothing that won’t heal, but spending a night face-down in the mud amidst the beginnings of a storm is far from ideal.

Someone whips past on a motorcycle. Tesla pays it no mind — that is, until the rider loops back around. The stranger cuts the engine, flicking out the kickstand and giving their vehicle a quick once-over to ensure it won’t fall before their attention turns to Tesla.

“Shit, man, you okay?”

Tesla blinks with their one good eye, shifting minutely and wincing when it sends pain spiking through them. The first thing they notice about the stranger is that they’re one of Tesla’s own kind, bright green and somewhat scraggly, but a tombsona regardless. For a moment, they almost look like… No. Far, far too bright for that.

“‘M fine,” they mutter in response, pressing back into the mud. “Jus’ taking a nap.”

The stranger laughs a little at that. “Don’t really think that’s the best spot for it, honestly. Need me to call someone?”

“No one to call.”

“Oh.” The stranger shuffles forward carefully, tapping at the ground with their foot before setting their weight on it, slowly making their way down until they’re half crouching over Tesla in the ditch. “How’s your spine?”

Tesla knows what they’re getting at immediately. “You don’t have a car.”

The stranger winces. “Yeah, it’s not great, but… It’s like, five minutes down the road to my place. Better than just lying there, yeah?”

They choose to press their face further into the mud rather than respond. They’re less than fond of the idea, especially when their would-be-saviour is a tombsona rather than a human.

“Shit. You didn’t pass out on me, did you?” When Tesla lets out a low little grunt to confirm that they didn’t, the stranger continues with, “Great. Cool. Awesome. My name’s Rust, by the way. I’m gonna pick you up now.”

Tesla barely gets to try and protest before the stranger — before Rust is crouching down and slipping an arm underneath them. The mud sucks at Tesla for a moment, as if trying to cling to them, to get them to stay; then it gives them up with a gross, wet sound.

“There we go, easy, I— Oh, shit!” Rust jerks back, dropping Tesla, sending them careening back down into the muck. They let out a pained little sound, lying at a far more uncomfortable angle. Rust recovers quickly, moving to wrap his — and Tesla is sure that he is a he, by this point — arms around them again, hoisting them back upright. “Sorry, shit, just… Didn’t realise you were one of us.”

So there’s more than one of you, Tesla thinks, scowling a little. Rust seems entirely unbothered, hauling Tesla up and out of the ditch. They lean on him more than they’d like to, stumbling forwards alongside him in rain that grows slowly but steadily heavier as cars continue to fly past. Their feet and ankles are quickly soaked through.

“Okay,” Rust says, “You’re gonna have to hold onto me.”

“Obviously,” Tesla snaps. “Can we hurry this up?”

Unlike other people Tesla has encountered, Rust seems entirely unbothered by their tone. It’s a little unnerving, how little his demeanour changes; instead, his gaze flicks to the bruising around Tesla’s throat.

“Depends. You gonna fall off?”

Tesla scowls at him. Rust laughs, guiding them to his motorcycle. They study him as he helps them onto the back, watching the way his eyes dart over Tesla as if mapping out their injuries. There’s thinly disguised concern there, but nothing deeper than that — not a hint of the usual nervousness or trepidation most carry the second Tesla speaks.

“What do you want from me?” Tesla demands as Rust takes up his place in front of them.

He glances over his shoulder at them. “For you to hold on.”

Tesla opens their mouth to reply, to clarify that that’s not what they meant, but Rust revs the engine, and so they do as they’re told. They peel away from the roadside as the rainfall begins to grow heavier, zipping down the highway in a race against the storm.

Tiredly, and in too much pain to simply push through it, Tesla rests their forehead in the space between Rust’s shoulder blades. They can worry about what he’ll expect from them in return later. For now, they try not to fall asleep.

In the end, they lose that battle, slumping against Rust’s back as the darkness claims them.

Chapter Text

Tombsonas are, by definition, a social species. That isn’t to say that they cannot be solitary — plenty enough are. Some live their entire lives alone, and happily so.

But most do not.

Most are drawn to one another. Gregarious creatures that they are, they seek each other out, like wolves to packs, forging Bonds with those they deem worthy enough of keeping around. Something ultimately more than family, a Bond sits like a claim; a constant declaration of kinship and care. It is many things, from communication to connection, and such a thing is rarely severed. If it ever is, it’s far from pleasant.

Tesla only had a Bond once — and a false, half-formed one at that. This fact makes it, admittedly, strange to be around a rather tight-knit Bonded pack of four.

Initially, Tesla had kept quiet. Sticking to the small room offered up to them while their bruises slowly faded, avoiding talking where they could. Still, the youngest two — Rust, their so-called “saviour” from a night in a muddy ditch, and Zero_one — are loud. Tesla can often hear them even through several walls, yelling and causing a ruckus.

In stark comparison, by far the largest of their pack, bearing the name of Armstrong, is almost entirely silent. The last of them, Doc, falls somewhere in-between. They’re quite the odd combination, but somehow, it works.

And all of them are far, far too kind to Tesla.

That part is nothing new. While many would chalk it up to the social nature of their species, Tesla is not so naive. They know what they are — even amongst creatures of such alien origin, they possess a mental prowess others simply do not, even without the consideration of how picky they are with their own hosts. To call them a genius is not a compliment but rather a fact. They’re not unused to being treated overly nicely, sweet-talked into oblivion until they get what they want.

Inventions, ideas, weaponry. Everyone wants something, no matter how long it takes them to get it. While Tesla might not know exactly what they want right now, they know there’ll be something, sooner or later.

But it’s hard to plan an exit-strategy with nowhere left to go.

Tesla’s last base of operations was… Well, compromised would be a generous way to describe it. They’d returned once since Rust had picked them up from the side of the road, staring at the blackened, misshapen remains of what they had once called home, buried under a thin layer of ash with the smell of smoke still heavy in the air. Nothing of value was left in-tact.

Now, they stand in the middle of a kitchen that isn’t theirs, feeling vividly out of place. Seven months have passed just like this; Doc brushes past them with a nod and a smile, pressing a dirty plate into the waiting hands of Armstrong, who stands by the sink in a stupidly frilly pink apron. Tesla blinks, shaking themselves out of their stupor to slink back to their seat at the end of the table, hot black coffee clasped firmly in-hand.

Rust’s sprawled out one seat up, dirt-laden boots kicked up on the table — no regard for hygiene, in a way Tesla has come to learn is normal for him — as he leans into Zero, both of them focused on some video game on its Switch.

“No, dude, you need your trip shot for that one,” Rust is saying, jabbing at the screen with a finger. “There to there.”

“There’s no rocks or trees there.” Zero squints, determination and focus entering their expression. “Further up there’s a spot.”

To Tesla, it all sounds more or less like nonsense. They’d tried peeking at the game earlier, but it seemed entirely purposeless, all bright colours and food creatures. Regardless the two seem enraptured, arguing on and off all morning about strategies and solutions to the puzzles within. They sip at their coffee, the strong bitter taste pleasant on their tongue.

“Feet off the table,” Doc interjects, pushing between the two of them to reach for their now-empty plates. Rust mutters something under his breath, scowling, but does as he’s told, nearly scraping Tesla with the way he swings his legs. They flinch, clutching their mug a little tighter; no one seems to notice.

Leaning back into Zero, Rust says, “C’mon, c’mon, break apart, c’mon.”

“Finished with that, Tesla?” Doc asks, stepping around the back of Rust’s chair to reach for their plate. They’ve eaten most of it, despite not needing to eat; that little factoid is something they’re still opting to keep to themselves. The less strangers — or, if they’re feeling charitable, acquaintances — know about them, the better.

They let Doc take their plate, lingering. Despite the time that has passed, it’s still hard to gauge how much is expected of them. How long to stay in the kitchen after breakfast is just one of those things.

Tesla is hardly friendly with any of them. More quiet than not, even now they stay silent, sipping at their coffee and eying off the expressions of both Rust and Zero as they hunch over their game. With nowhere to go, they’re not keen on the idea of getting themselves thrown out.

“Hey, Tesla.” Rust is leaning in their direction. “We could use that big beautiful brain of yours right about now.”

They scowl at him, even as he grins right back. “No.”

“Awww, c’mon. Just help us with one puzzle?”

Tesla sips their coffee. They would, frankly, rather do anything other than try to decipher the video game the two have been enraptured by all morning, but… This also isn’t their house. They have to be polite — as much as they hate the very notion.

“Fine. Show it to me.”

Rust’s smile skews a little crooked and he kicks at the leg of Tesla’s chair. “Then get off your ass.”

Tesla sighs and picks up their coffee. It’s already shaping up to be a long morning.

In their time living with the group, Tesla has seen all manner of wondrous things. Rust and Armstrong are simple folk — but Zero and Doc are far from it. The former has a mind that almost rivals Tesla’s own, running at unfathomable speeds to solve calculations and factor in variables on the fly. It’s knowledge of software is uncanny, as seamless as if it were little more than code itself.

Doc, on the other hand, dabbles in the arcane.

Such branches of study more or less eludes Tesla. They don’t deal in the metaphysical. All talk of souls and the veil between worlds, concepts that simultaneously do and don’t exist, things that one cannot touch. Not without an outstanding amount of effort, anyway. Effort that, frankly, for Tesla, is far more than any of it is worth.

But that doesn’t makes any of Doc’s many trinkets any less fascinating.

Each of them are curiosities in their own right. Marvels borne of centuries, perhaps even millennia of dedicated experimentation and study. Tesla can’t quite place how old some of his possessions truly are on sight alone, but they’re sure some are older even than they are, carefully maintained and preserved to still fulfil their use even in the modern day.

Even something as simple as the arcane glyphs on the gears of the sunbathed terrarium on the kitchen windowsill is captivating. It cycles on an automatic timer between water misters, carefully placed bouts of shadow, and even an artificial sun when night falls. It’s meticulous, if rough around the edges and rusting in places, with a small patch of rather undersized brilliant blue chrysanthemums inside.

Tesla is hardly versed in flower meanings, but what they do know is a colour of such variety is far from natural. The result of careful crossbreeding and scientific experimentation, they’re almost as much of a marvel as the mechanisms that keep it alive, even more so by the fact that, as far as Tesla can tell of their age, they predate the far more public creation of such a variety by several decades.

“Do you like it?” Doc’s voice startles them. He’s standing just behind them, but leaving more than enough distance so Tesla doesn’t feel crowded. Funny, how considerate that feels. “It took me weeks to get the cycling correct, and far longer to automate it.”

“The combination of magick and technology, even as rudimentary as this, is incredible,” they say, eyes drawn yet again to the gears and the glyphs painted upon them. “But it could do with some upgrades.”

Doc laughs, soft and light. “So Zero keeps telling me. Though you seem to have more interest in the physical aspects rather than screens and code.”

“Hardware. It just makes more sense to me. It’s more…” They take a moment to search for the word. “… real.”

“Hmm.” Doc moves, brushing past Tesla to tap at the thin tinted glass of the terrarium. “Well then, what would you suggest?”

Any sense of comfort Tesla had dies in an instant. Their entire body seems to seize, frozen in place, Doc suddenly seeming far more sinister than he had just moments prior. What was it Tesla had learned, through years of life and many hosts?

Everyone wants something.

Even now, for something as simple and unimportant as a terrarium, Doc wants something. Wants their mind. And as much as Tesla itches to prod and pry into the intersection of the arcane, they refuse to do it on his terms.

They’d spent far too long playing into the schemes of someone far smarter than themselves. Lost years of research and work alongside a world of firsts, chipped at like a whittling knife carving into wood until little was left. Nothing is worth that same loss of self.

Especially not when the sun retreats behind a cloud and for a moment, with his top-hat and long coat, Doc almost looks exactly how it once had, soft eyes and a gentle smile, angled all directly at Tesla.

“Tes?”

But they turn on their heel, trembling, throat feeling thick and tight in a way that constricts their breathing as they flee the room.

In such an old house, there’s plenty of crevices to house secrets. The room Tesla occupies is shoddy at best, clearly intended to have been an office. When Rust had brought them in, soaked from the rain that had quickly turned to a heavy downpour and slicked the roads, nearly sending them skidding off into the brush more than once, the room had been nothing but storage.

Tesla had simply passed out on the living room couch, bleeding into the cushions.

After their stay shifted into something a little more long-term, the room had been transformed. The door Armstrong had nailed into the shoddy little frame is rickety, the hastily-constructed wooden additions clashing horribly with the solid, smooth plaster walls of the rest of the house, but it’s functional.

Tesla can’t fault them for it, really. The whole thing is far, far below their own standards, of course — but this is hardly a permanent addition. Even if it was, they’ve come to learn, over half a millennia of wandering the planet, that most living creatures simply don’t care to make things perfect. Functional is more than enough for them.

It just so happens that, when planning for contingencies, they’ve had to embrace this mentality too.

They scavenge what they can. Scrap metal, loose rusting screws and nails, the pieces of an old coffee machine Doc finally trashed in favour of purchasing a new one. They manage to sneak down to the junkyard a handful of times, under cover of nightfall and with careful knowledge of the schedules of their housemates, to find some better parts.

With it, they cobble together rudimentary and makeshift weaponry. Shoddy single-shot guns tucked under floorboards; weakly alloyed metal knives; something similar to an EMP, but nowhere near as powerful. Fail-safes in case the worst happens.

It’s not as if they make their enjoyment of tinkering entirely unknown — Doc had clocked it, when they had studied his terrarium, as had Zero when Tesla had offhandedly informed it how to rewire one of the gaming consoles to better the graphics — but they keep the extent of their knowledge to themselves. It’s safer that way. Keeps them from wanting.

Until Zero is knocking at Tesla’s door at a quarter past three in the morning, the rather pitiful remains of what was their Switch clutched in their hands. It’s cracked almost comically in two, glass shards and internal circuitry poking out at all angles. Tesla raises an eyebrow at it.

“I dropped it,” Zero says miserably.

“And?” Tesla taps their foot impatiently. Light from the hall spills into the dark corners of their room.

“Can you… Can you fix it? I’ll repay you, I promise, I just—”

“Give it to me.”

They’d had half a mind to refuse, at first, but, well. Fixing something like this was a harmless way to flex some muscles they haven’t gotten to in a while — and they don’t quite like the possibilities of some sort of repercussions if they did say no. After all, this isn’t their home.

Zero brightens immediately. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Calm yourself.” Tesla carefully plucks the device from their hands, wincing as wiring sparks. “I didn’t say that I could.”

The console is, admittedly, near beyond-repair. Half the wiring will need replacing, as will the screen; the upside seems to be that the game cartridge is unscathed, so there’s no chance of Zero later complaining its save data has vanished. It’s almost not worth it, almost enough that Tesla would simply suggest purchasing a new one.

“I’ll need some parts,” they murmur instead. “Don’t expect this to be fixed in a day.”

Zero nods vigorously. Too enthusiastically for such a late hour; too full of energy. Exhaustion suddenly seems to swamp Tesla, sapping at the very core of their being, but they straighten their back and stand as tall as they can so as not to let it show.

After all, they’ve been tired for centuries.

“Thank you,” Zero repeats, taking a half pace back before hesitating. “Hey, uh, I don’t really know how I can pay you back for this, but… I mean, I could take you to the gaming cafe ‘round the corner sometime?”

The gesture is somewhat sweet. It also sounds like Tesla’s worst nightmare.

“Maybe,” they say lightly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight! Uh, thanks aga—”

Tesla shuts their door, effectively silencing Zero. They stand still for a moment, mind whirring to catch up with the events that just transpired before they readjust their grip on the battered Switch and glass digs into skin. They hiss, almost dropping it on instinct, but manage not to, setting it down instead on the rickety desk in the corner — the one Armstrong had somehow managed to find free on Marketplace, of all things.

Blood bubbles where the glass had pricked them. Nothing dangerous, nothing to worry about, so they simply snatch up the nearest scrap of cloth to staunch it.

In the pale slivers of moonlight seeping in through the window, Tesla can see very little. But the Switch on the table seems to stare right back at them as they fumble for tape to hold the makeshift bandage in place, tearing a piece free with their teeth.

Broken wiring. Shattered glass. Crumbling plastic casing. That’s all the console is.

But it’s also not theirs. Nothing in the room truly is, but somehow such a valuable possession being left in their care makes their skin crawl.

They climb into bed and pull the covers over their head in an effort to forget about it.

Tesla keeps to themselves, mostly. Or rather, they try to, but Rust seems annoyingly concerned by this behaviour. He hovers around them, sticking to their side like glue whenever he’s not out “fighting injustices” or getting his ass kicked, and they’re quite frankly sick of it.

So they stop leaving their room.

Zero’s Switch takes some work to repair. They’re short on too many parts, unfamiliar with its blueprints or schematics, but it’s an easy excuse to keep themselves shut away. They tinker with what they can, soldering wiring back together and melting down the plastic to remould it into shape.

Rust, however, does not seem to heed the notice of total uninterrupted focus for very long.

Roughly a day and a half into their self-imposed isolation, he barges into their room. They pay him little mind, hunching further over their work.

“Shit, I thought you’d died or something,” Rust says half-jokingly. “You can’t love your room this much.”

“I’m working.”

“Clearly.” Rust leans against the makeshift wall for a handful of seconds before seeming to think better of it, with the way it gives a little under his weight. Instead, he peers over Tesla’s shoulder, standing infuriatingly close.

For a few moments, Tesla simply ignores him in favour of carefully prying free a frayed, half-ruined wire. When it becomes evident he has no plans to leave, they pause, scowling, and say, “Out with it. What do you want?”

“Missed you at dinner last night. And breakfast, too.”

“Did you now.” It’s not a question as much as it is a rather dry remark.

“C’mon, Tesla, you’re killing me. You need to lighten up.” Rust nudges Tesla with his elbow, and frowns when they flinch. “Play something with Zero, bird-watch with Armstrong, fuckin’… I don’t know, stare at Doc’s plants?”

Tesla sets their tools down and stares at him. “No.”

“Oh, c’mon. I didn’t pick you out of that ditch just to watch you wither away, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. They tense. It’s far from the first move Rust has made on them, but it’s definitely the most bold.

“I apologise if my priorities don’t align with yours,” they say, tone clipped and short. “But I have better things to do than simply mess around.”

“Jeez.” Rust sits down heavily in the spare chair and kicks up his feet on their desk, scattering papers and parts in his wake; Tesla scrambles to move the soldering iron, lest he kick it or injure himself. “Are you trying to be the boring-est person alive? At least ride with me to the store. Get outside. Touch some grass.”

Despite themselves, Tesla pauses. “Fine. I could use some more spare parts.”

Rust’s face splits with a bright, wide grin. “Great! It’s a date.”

A date.

The word choice makes the hair on the back of Tesla’s neck stand up. It’s not like he’s serious — they know he’s at least somewhat attracted to them, and Tesla is hardly versed in reading others, but there’s something light to his tone. Almost joking, but undercut with that edge of sincerity he always seems to have.

“Get your feet off my desk,” they say instead of acknowledging any of it. “And let me clean up. Then we go.”

“What, like, now? Shit, I thought you’d want an hour or so.”

“Is that a problem?” Tesla’s voice is icy smooth, but their heart-rate picks up. They can’t afford a single misstep; they can’t afford to anger one of the people whose roof they currently live under.

“Nah.” Rust finally puts his feet back down. There’s dirt over their notes and shards of glass scattered across the wood. “Just need to get my bike ready.”

Tesla thinks of the night Rust found them; of clinging to him, battered and bruised; of falling asleep against his back; of the rain soaking them both through. The idea of getting back on Rust’s motorcycle is hardly the most appealing thing in the world, but they’ve already agreed, so they make a shooing motion at him. “Out. I’ll be there shortly.”

Rust gets up, but lingers in the doorway. “Don’t fall asleep this time.”

They just scowl at him until he leaves, laughing, tugging the door shut behind him.

Rust hits the gas on the highway. His motorcycle hits high speeds, ducking and weaving between the cars in ways that Tesla is almost certain is illegal, but the thrill of it courses through their bloodstream. Awake and alert to experience it this time around, they find they quite enjoy it, even if they have to lock their arms into place to make sure they don’t lose hold of Rust.

“Nearly there!” Rust shouts over the rush of wind. “Don’t fall off!”

Yelling is far beneath Tesla, so they don’t respond. They’ve learned fast, mimicking Rust’s movements and leaning into the turn as they cruise down the exit lane.

They veer off into the carpark of the local hardware store — some store not part of a chain, far smaller than its competitors but with the lower prices to match. Rust brings the motorcycle to a sliding halt; adrenaline roars through Tesla’s entire body.

Flicking up the visor of his helmet, he says, “Alright there?”

“If not being dead qualifies me as alright, then yes,” Tesla responds, pulling off their helmet. “That was hardly worth it for some parts and wires.”

Rust pulls off his own helmet and twists in place, leaning a little close to Tesla. His voice lilts into teasing when he says, “C’mon, sweetheart, you love it.”

Tesla shoves at him. Hard. “I’m going to get what I need. If you have to accompany me, keep it quiet.”

As they walk, Rust scrambling to catch up, scuffing his shoes on the asphalt, they mentally run through their assessment of the console. The game-card holder had made it through the breakage unscathed, which made their job marginally easier, but the USB-C port had cracked in two, so that would need replacing. The sleek metal plating covering the inner circuitry would also need to be replicated and replaced, as well as a new motherboard, though thankfully all the other attached pieces had made it out unscathed. They also would need a new, better battery, thermal paste and fan casing. Most other parts had either been salvageable, or Tesla had simply had the pieces to replace it already amongst their small stash of components.

Obviously, there was also the question of the screen, but they can’t rely on finding an LCD screen here. If anything, they can’t rely on finding any pieces here, though Rust had assured them earlier that their computer hardware section was extensive. Tesla had decidedly not commented on the fact that Rust seems to know little of circuitry or computer building.

“You want the tech shit, right?” he says as they both step through the doors into the relative cool of the store. “It’s way up the back. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Rust leads the way deeper into the store. They weave through aisles full of handheld tools, paint swatches and roof tiles; they press deeper onwards, past the lights and lamps, beyond the gardening section and slightly-wilted potted plants that are clearly meant for the outdoors, stuffed under horrifically insufficient artificial sunlight. Finally, display computers blink into view, brightly inlaid with strips of LEDs and fancy fans whirring, all flashy charm with none of the substance or hardware to back it up.

“So, what’d you need?”

Tesla gives Rust a withering look. “I told you to be quiet if you came along.”

“Hey, I’m trying to be helpful,” he protests.

“I doubt you’d be able to tell a motherboard from RAM.”

Rust laughs, a sharp and barking thing. “Whoa, that was mean! I like it.”

“It was an accurate assessment,” Tesla snaps, face feeling warm, as they survey the mostly neatly organised sections. “Just stand there and—”

“Look pretty?”

“Wait.” Tesla starts down an aisle. They find a suitable motherboard quickly — not quite the right shape, but that’s something they can adjust with some effort — and suitable fan casing. Rust trails along at their heels, looking thoroughly like a lost puppy. They pay him little mind as they locate the thermal paste and tuck it under one arm as they press on.

“I can carry stuff for you,” Rust offers when Tesla crouches to reach for a battery to check what kind it is. “I mean, so your hands are free for, like, other stuff?”

Tesla’s gaze dips to his hands — large, rough, calloused, all meat and muscle — and then up to his face. “No. These are delicate.”

“I can be gentle. Promise.” Rust holds his hands out flat, palms up. They stare at him for a long moment before sighing and passing over the few things they’ve picked up, watching the way he cradles it all delicately in close to his chest.

The battery turns out not to be the one they need, but it’s close, and they find the right one a few spaces over. They pass it to Rust, who carefully nestles it in amongst the other pieces. It’s a little endearing, the mix of concentration upon his face and the gentleness with which he handles it all, in a way that circles right back around to downright infuriating.

Not for the first time Tesla finds themselves wondering what the hell he gets out of all this.

They find a USB-C port replacement an aisle over. More shockingly, there are LCD screens. They rifle through them while Rust stands to the side, shifting awkwardly on his feet.

“Those are for the screen, right?” he asks finally. Tesla eyes him, the twitchy way he seems to move and sway, as if standing so still is physically paining him.

“No shit.” They hold up the screen limply with one hand. “It is a screen. What else would you expect me to do with it?”

Rust averts his gaze, looking a little embarrassed, but he doesn’t. stop. moving. It takes Tesla a second longer to realise they’ve never seen him this still before, nor attempting to focus so hard on something that isn’t a video game.

It’s weird. But not quite alarming.

“They won’t have the metal plating I need here.” Tesla straightens up, the screen still in hand. “I’ll make that myself.”

“… So that’s everything?” There’s an undercurrent of something like relief to Rust’s tone. Anticipatory. Excited. He’s shifting more, as if itching to move, and Tesla idly wonders if it’s simply a quirk of his host, driving him to be always moving, always doing something.

“That’s everything,” they confirm. Rust lights up and takes the charge back through the store. When they pass through the gardening section, Tesla almost considers picking up a plant or two, if only for the sake of trying to save them from their inevitable slow death under the artificial lighting — but they hardly know how to care for them, and they’re not about to assume Doc would just because he has some other plants scattered throughout the place.

Rust pays. He insists on it, pointing out the parts are for Zero’s switch, and that the least he can do is foot the bill as a thanks to Tesla. He tips more than he probably should, smiles brightly at the woman behind the counter who seems to know him and hangs off his every word. They stare at the concrete flooring, if only so they don’t have to watch it.

“I’ll drive slow,” Rust says when they step out of the store, holding the thin plastic bag of items up as if to drive his point home. “Promise.”

For some unfathomable reason, Tesla believes him.

They pull into the dusty, dirt-laden garage as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Tesla rather ungracefully dismounts from the back of Rust’s motorcycle, pulling their helmet off and squinting against the dying rays of light.

Rust is more elegant with it. Practised, fluid with the motion as he pops out the kickstand and double-checks it won’t fall before getting off and reaching up for his helmet. When he removes it, he shakes himself out like a dog and sets it on the nearest counter-top as he says, “Back in the store. I liked it.”

“Liked what?” Tesla asks impatiently, because there’s too many variables. Too many things he could mean, with none of the clarification of what he actually does.

Rust gestures limply in their direction. “I dunno, just… You seemed more yourself. More real, I guess. Not all this shy, reserved shit. And I liked it.”

Tesla takes too long to respond. They recognise this fact when they realise their throat is all too dry, swallowing just to try in vain to wet it as they manage, “Well, I don’t care what you like. Don’t get used to it.”

He smiles, that wide and sincere one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “That. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Keep being that.”

Mean? they want to say, but can’t quite bring themselves to. Despite the roller door still being wide open, the space feels stifling. Rust is still grinning at them, all lopsided in a way that suits him entirely too well as he unhooks the plastic bag from one of the motorcycle handles and holds it out. Tesla hesitates for a few seconds too long before taking it, their fingers overlapping with his for a brief moment.

“And hey,” Rust says, leaning on his motorcycle, “If you ever need a second set of hands for those repairs, I’m happy to help out. Promise I’ll do whatever I’m told.”

And then he winks, because of course he does. Tesla grips the handles of the bag a little tighter.

“No you won’t.”

“C’mon, have I broken a promise yet?”

Tesla just stares at him. Perhaps not to them, not personally, but they can think of at least seven separate times in the last week the phrase I promise has left Rust’s mouth in a conversation with Doc before he’s turned around and done the exact thing he said he wouldn’t.

“Geez, if you don’t want the help, sparks, you can just say that.” Rust rifles in his pocket for his house keys. “You’re gonna kill someone with that look of yours.”

Impatiently, Tesla says, “Are you going to unlock the door, or are we standing in the garage for the rest of our lives?”

Rust nearly trips over himself in his haste to lunge for the front door. Tesla watches him with some unfamiliar feeling bubbling in their chest, warm and curling at the edges like a thick smoke. They grip the bag tighter and tighter until their knuckles blanch white, everything offset by the constant thrum of anxiety and fear that worms through their bloodstream.

Then Rust tugs open the door, and all they can do is step inside.

Zero’s Switch is more or less repaired when Tesla finally takes a break at a quarter to three in the morning. The screen needs installing, as does the replacement USB-C port, but everything else is wired in and functioning as intended.

Thin slivers of moonlight illuminate the insides of the house as Tesla slips down the hallway, peeking through the gaps in the curtains and blinds as a soft silvery-grey. In the living room, sprawled across the couch and illuminated by the bright glare of the television, Rust and Zero sleep in a tangle of limbs, almost comical in their positioning. A game controller is still clutched limply in Rust’s left hand.

Tesla carefully pries it free to set it on the floor instead and keeps moving.

The front door creaks a little when they push it open. They wince, glancing back towards the living room, but after a few moments of silence, they press on, slipping out into the front yard. The air is frigid and biting, flickering orange-yellow streetlights flooding the roads with light over the fringes of a sleeping city.

It’s more or less silent. The distant rush of cars, engines buzzing, is pleasant; there’s a mild breeze that weaves through the leaves and dislodges those that are dying. For a moment, Tesla is so, so small, and the world is so, so wide.

Behind them, the door creaks open.

They turn, a little startled, only to see Armstrong halfway over the threshold. His expressions are always harder to decipher than the others’, but the tenseness of his shoulders and way he holds himself betrays clear concern that mellows out when his gaze falls upon Tesla.

“Don’t worry, I’m not running off,” they say as they carefully lower themselves down to sit on the edge of the old, cracking concrete step, bare feet pressed into the cool grass. “Just needed some air.”

Armstrong steps fully through the door. He’s careful to make sure it closes slowly, with a quiet little click and nothing more. He sits next to Tesla, leaving enough of a gap that it doesn’t feel intrusive, but close enough that, were his host not dead, Tesla could feel the warmth of him.

He tilts his head a little. Tesla glances at him, then back out over the rows of houses that stretch before them, curving down the hillside and sinking into the denser and denser areas, the city centre a blotch on the distant horizon.

“I’m okay.” They hold up a hand, watching the way their fingers are wracked with tremors. “Just been working a little too long.”

Armstrong reaches out slowly, a little hesitantly. His hand — far larger than theirs, even as necrosis has set in — brushes against theirs, fingertips trailing over their palm. He’s colder than the night air, in the way only a dead thing can be, but there’s an odd sense of comfort to the way he loosely wraps his hand around theirs.

A concerned sound leaves him. It’s something like the trilling of a bird, akin to a killdeer, high-pitched and melodic.

“I’m okay,” they repeat. “Really. It’s just my body telling me to take it easy.”

Armstrong tugs their hand towards him. Tesla goes with the motion easily. Maybe it’s simply the late hour, or maybe it’s because something about him feels safer than anyone they’ve ever met. Either way, they let him bring his other hand up to begin to gently massage out their muscles in slow circles.

“Thank you.” They lean against him, shoulder to shoulder, not minding the way the coldness of him seems to seep into them. He massages their muscles for a good while, slipping his hands up to their wrist to work out the tension there too, then finally releases it and gestures for their other hand.

They shift so he can reach it. Tiredness slowly seeps into them as Armstrong focuses on the task at hand, until they’re fully slumped against him, all remaining tension and stress leeching from them. It feels almost as if Armstrong is pulling it from them, bit by bit, each pass of his thumbs across their palm, their fingers, their wrist coaxing a little more out until it bundles in the grass at their feet.

Armstrong chirps at them again, softer now. Tesla gives him a tired smile.

“Yeah, okay. Bedtime.”

The two stumble back inside together; Armstrong holds Tesla’s hand all the way to their room’s door.

Outside, a car rolls past the house, nearly invisible in the pitch dark. It slows, almost to the point of stopping, then peels away into the night.

Chapter Text

It takes Tesla another day to entirely repair Zero’s Switch.

They return the console unceremoniously over breakfast, sliding it across the table. Zero snatches it up, beaming bright and wide and spewing a thousand gratitudes. From his place next to it, Rust gives Tesla a small smile and thumbs-up; the gesture makes them feel oddly restless for a brief moment.

Doc looms in the corner, a little less threatening than he’d seemed when Tesla had studied their terrarium. They keep a distance between themselves and him anyway.

After breakfast, Rust finds them halfway down the hall. He leans on one shoulder against the wall, loose and casual in all the ways Tesla could never be.

“That meant a lot to it, what you did.” Rust’s voice is low and quiet. He gestures back down the hall towards the kitchen, where Zero has already lost themselves in a game on their freshly-repaired Switch. “I just wanted to thank you. Again.”

Tesla takes a moment to try and breathe right. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t that hard.”

“No.” Rust catches them by the wrist as they move to step into their room. “Don’t do that. Don’t— Don’t pretend like you did nothing. None of us could’ve fixed that thing. You did.”

They freeze in place. His hand is around their wrist, keeping them there, and it feels a little stifling and exciting all at once. His words swim around their head, as if he’s speaking underwater, and they can’t find the correct response.

The way he’s looking at Tesla is all intense and full of sincerity. There’s nothing there but a fierce need to impart his words upon them — to make sure they hear him. Somehow, that makes everything worse.

“Shit, sorry.” He finally seems to realise the position he’s in, dropping their wrist and rubbing at the back of his neck a little sheepishly. “Just, don’t act like you’re not… I dunno, kind of incredible, y’know?”

Incredible. The word isn’t inherently wrong; none of Rust’s assessment of them is. Tesla is leagues ahead of most of their kind, smarter and more willing to experiment with what they don’t know, but it’s still odd to hear that be said genuinely.

Though, they suppose he probably has his reasons for telling them.

It still takes Tesla far too long to reply. When they do, it’s a quiet, wavering, “Okay,” and nothing more. Rust softens, smiles and turns away.

Tesla draws in a shuddering breath and vanishes into their room.

Armstrong doesn’t get out much. Tesla has learned this in their time living with the others; besides the back and front yards, Armstrong tends to stay within the confines of the house unless something desperately and urgently requires him. Polite people would call him a homebody.

Tesla would call him agoraphobic.

It makes it quite the shock when Armstrong suggests, a little after lunch on a sunny Thursday, that they start taking walks together. Not every day, not long walks, but still. To get out of the house, was his reasoning, though whether more for himself or for Tesla, they can’t really tell.

Either way they find themselves picking their way down a steep hillside, surveying the terrain for rocks that jut out and provide enough of a foothold, Armstrong a few feet behind them, more or less following their lead. He’d been insistent that there was a lake down here, one that would be a little frosty around the edges even this early into winter, as if captured outside of time. Always cold was what he’d described it as. Something magickal.

Below them stretch trees. Old growth, possibly older than either of them. If Tesla were to reach out, they could brush their hand through the leaves, through generations upon generations of whispered secrets and history.

They keep firmly focused on climbing.

Finally, they reach solid ground. They take a few steps back, peering up at Armstrong, guiding him to better footholds until he stands beside them. Down here, by the bases of the trees, the tangle of roots through hardened soil, everything is darker. The sunlight filters through so many layers of leaves it’s near-nonexistent, dappling across the earth in tiny, barely-there patches of soft yellow.

“Lead the way,” Tesla says, nudging Armstrong with their elbow. He chitters softly, squints his eyes in the approximation of a smile, and steps forwards. He weaves through the trees and underbrush shockingly effortlessly given his size. Tesla finds themselves scrambling to keep up with him.

The deeper they go, the more the quiet calmness settles into Tesla. There’s minimal city noise polluting this little slice of nature. No lights, no cars, no roads. Just the two of them and the trees.

Tesla wonders idly how Armstrong manages to do it. He always seems to pry the anxiety and fear right out of them and leave it in the dust, letting them just be. There’s a comfort to him that they haven’t experienced in centuries; genuine and sincere, with nothing hidden under it. An open book.

Perhaps that’s the truth of it all. Tesla has spent their entire lifespan trying to outrun those who want their inventions, their genius, their body, whose motives lie hidden until they’ve managed to slip something into Tesla’s drink to make them more pliant. They’ve learned not to go to bars even if they can’t get drunk, to avoid big cities and tiny towns, that they can only rely on themselves and no one else.

Everyone wants something. Everyone is dangerous.

But not Armstrong.

For the first time in a long, long time, Tesla relaxes. They feel safe.

The lake is exactly as promised. Large and sprawling, but not so much so that they struggle to see the other bank, frosting around the edges, caught in time. Armstrong sits down heavily in the grass. He leans forwards to trail a hand ever-so-gently over the thin ice.

“Fascinating,” Tesla murmurs, sitting down next to him. Armstrong tilts his head and trills softly. “Yeah, I like it.”

He visibly brightens, nudging Tesla with his shoulder and pointing up into the trees. They follow it and spy a cardinal hopping among the branches, a brilliant red standing out starkly amongst the trees. They watch it idly, relaxed into the serenity of it all.

“Hey,” they say finally, shifting to lean somewhat against Armstrong, “Thanks for this.”

When he squints at them, all loose and relaxed and fond, they swear they feel it within their soul.

Zero gives Tesla a gift card to the hardware store Rust had taken them to as repayment for the Switch repairs. It’s a sweet gesture, even if Tesla still can’t quite get a read on its intentions.

The card sits unused on their desk for three days. They’re stretched a little thinner than usual, between their own tinkering and Armstrong insisting on some sort of daily outing. Not that they mind, but they find themselves awake a little past midnight just to get a moment to themselves.

Well, mostly.

They’re set up in the living room, tools scattered around them as they work at Zero’s PS4, which has inexplicably stopped working. The house is quiet; Armstrong, Doc and Zero are all asleep at this hour, and Rust had vanished hours prior to “interrupt a motion being passed through Congress”, a statement which reeks so much of danger and stupidity that Tesla is endlessly relieved they’ve never felt even slightly inclined to pursue activism of any variety.

The silence is nice. Humming electricity arcs through the house, the distant rumble of a car along the road, but nothing more than the minuscule sounds of nightlife. It’s soft enough that they can simply let it fade into little more than white noise, a backdrop to the task at hand rather than a distraction.

Tesla pries open plastic-coated metal panelling and exhales, sinking into the familiar feeling of work. There’s a comfort in it, in analysing a problem they can fix. Computer hardware and wiring never lies to them. The issues make themselves known rather quickly and easily every time, pushed out of place or broken in ways they can simply repair or replace. There’s no extra layers to it. No secrets.

As they work, carefully removing pieces and examining each one for damage, a light rain begins to patter down onto the roof. It’s barely-there, faint enough that you’d have to be trying to get even moderately wet from it, but it’s soothing in its mostly rhythmic falling patterns. Tesla pauses to appreciate it, and that’s when it happens.

The roar of a motorcycle speeding up the road. The rattle of the garage door rolling up. Rust.

They sigh, rolling out their shoulders before refocusing. If they’re going to be interrupted, they may as well get as much done as they can before then.

But the extra noise makes it hard. The door shuddering shut, the clunks and thunks of Rust shuffling around the garage the way he always does after any outing. Tesla leans back, rubbing at their temples.

Finally, Rust stumbles in through the front door. He’s a mess, helmet askew and lipstick smeared across his lips, along his jaw, down his neck. Marks bloom in the wake of the trail; his belt sits looser than it typically would.

“Good night out?” Tesla asks dryly, focusing back on the console under their hands. One of the wires is entirely shot. They’ll have to replace it with a new one, which means untangling it from the others.

“You could say that.” They can hear the grin in Rust’s tone. “Guess who got that motion entirely dropped?”

Tesla’s blood turns to ice. Everything seems to slow as they piece together the implications of his appearance with his words. They fight to breathe, every single suspicion they had confirmed all at once.

“— and no one got hurt!” Rust’s continuing to prattle on, entirely oblivious. “Left ‘em an apology note and everything, but I’m not sorry about stealing their supporting evidence, I’ll tell you that. Got back later than I thought, though. I was, uh… y’know, celebrating.”

Finally, he seems to notice the lack of a response from them. Every muscle knots tight as he steps closer.

“Tesla? You alright?” There’s concern in his tone. It almost sounds genuine. “It’s late, maybe you should—”

“I’m fine,” they snap. “Glad your night was… Eventful.”

Rust hovers. Lingers, longer than he should, longer than he’s welcome. He twitches, like he wants to reach for Tesla. At least he’s smart enough to piece together that he shouldn’t.

His gaze drifts to the interior of the PS4.

“It broke again?”

Tesla doesn’t reply. Their fingers blanch white where they grip the broken wire. If it were a living thing, they would be choking it by now, pressed into all the right points to kill it nice and slow, yet they can’t seem to relax. They don’t want to, not when Rust is lurking behind them, tall and threatening.

How much had they missed, before now?

Moreover, was his Bond with the others even real? Perhaps with Doc, but if his intentions were… other, then surely not with Zero or Armstrong. Definitely not with Armstrong.

“Hey.” Rust nudges Tesla lightly with his foot. They flinch on instinct, the muscles in their neck twinging with the movement, the wire slipping from their fingers a little painfully. “I aske— oh, shit. Are you— fuck. I’ll leave you be, yeah?”

Tesla stays still, half curled in on themselves. They stare at the floor, barely breathing. Rust hesitates a moment longer, then finally turns on his heel and leaves, vanishing down the hallway.

They don’t move for a long time after that.

The stars are bright where they shine far out of Tesla’s reach. They are the birthplace of their kind, the very fabric of the cosmos that made them to begin with, and despite the lack of self and free will that comes with it, all tombsonas yearn to be amongst them again from time to time.

Tesla feels this often.

Everything was simpler, before. With no hosts they had drifted, formless and weightless, a mere observer. Taking on their first host had changed that; it had grounded them, made them itch for things they never could have even comprehended when scattered amongst the stars.

All too regularly do they wish they’d never taken the leap. It would have been far more peaceful. It would have been better. But the choice has long ago already been made.

Strange, isn’t it? To be alive.

The crunching of dirt under heavy boots alerts them to Armstrong’s presence long before he even reaches their side. He keeps a careful distance, sitting down heavily in the grass of the backyard and tilting his head back with a sigh. Tesla glances at him, at the circular helmet they know hides a slowly decaying corpse, and they understand him — or rather, he understands them.

“Do you miss it?” they ask before they can stop themselves.

Armstrong turns to look at them. There’s sorrow there, deep and yawning like a chasm.

“Stupid question,” they mutter, turning away. “Of course you do.”

It’s instinctual, after all. That pull to return. To relinquish choice and control all over again.

Tesla reaches for Armstrong’s hand. For the past week, they’d avoided the others like the plague, especially Rust. The comfort of someone they know they can trust is needed more than ever now, and so they’re not afraid to make the first move, even when the first brush of their fingers over his palm stings like a zap of electricity.

Armstrong tilts his head, chirping softly. Tesla smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet their eyes.

“No, I’m not okay,” they say quietly, because it feels as if speaking any louder will shatter whatever lies between them. Will make the admission far, far too real. “But I will be.”

It’s only halfway a lie.

Tesla always has bad dreams.

They range in intensity, but the outcome is always the same: interrupted sleep and a creeping sense of dread. This time, the dream is abstract. The colour green, in so many shades, sometimes tinted blue, smeared in violent swirls around them. A blank landscape. Vastness so endless it circles back around to stifling.

They wake sweating and breathing hard. Thin slips of moonlight slice through their room. They scramble for the nearest object they can find — a half-finished project, a weapon of some variety — and clutch it with both hands just for something to cling to. Something to make them feel safe.

But that’s the catch, isn’t it? They never feel safe.

Maybe they did, to some degree, once; when their home had still been in-tact. When they’d been alone with their lab and their thoughts and nothing else. Before it had been burned down, before Rust had picked them up off the side of the road.

Rust. He wasn’t the only wicked green thing that had ever crossed their path, but he was the most recent. Parading himself around as some activist, a would-be saviour, as if he wasn’t bedding the enemy just to get the information or leverage he wants.

Tesla has a lot of feelings about that particular aspect of him. Lots of feelings, and no words at all.

They get out of bed, if only to try and distance themselves from the dream. The pillow, the blankets, the mattress, the frame. All of it seems so sinister, a beckoning thing hiding evils behind padding and wood.

The entire room feels stifling. Flimsy walls that seem to veer inwards, creaking floorboards and crooked curtains that don’t quite keep the light out. Tesla finds themselves stumbling out into the hall, trying to steady their breathing.

It’s not a conscious choice. They end up at Armstrong’s door without meaning to, shifting on the balls of their feet before the exhaustion and unending fear mixes together to drive them forwards. They press their palm flat to the door and push it open.

Armstrong isn’t asleep. He doesn’t sleep; with a dead host, there’s simply no need. He keeps the routine just like the rest of them, but when Tesla steps into his room, he’s reading, small round glasses perched comically over his helmet. He turns his head slightly and lets out a low sound.

“Hey,” Tesla responds, lingering on the threshold, suddenly unsure. “I, uh… Bad dream.”

Armstrong carefully slides a bookmark between the pages and closes his book, setting it down on the nightstand. He chirps, gesturing for Tesla to come closer with one hand while removing the glasses with the other. They note the way he bundles up the chain they’re attached to, all precise and practised.

They cross the space, shutting the door behind them. Armstrong’s bed dips under their weight. The mattress is thick and soft, more so than their own is. He holds out a hand. Tesla takes it.

Armstrong pulls them in closer, shuffling a little awkwardly to dislodge the blankets enough to pull them up over both of them. There’s a soft little humming coming from him, like a far-off birdsong, and he’s solid and comforting where Tesla leans into his side.

“You don’t sleep,” they point out as he settles back against the pillows, pulling Tesla along with him.

He trills softly at them. His arm curls around them a little protectively, but mostly in a way that’s comforting.

“Okay. If you’re sure, then…” They exhale, readjusting, resting their head on his chest. There’s no heartbeat there. Somehow, it’s more comforting than if there was one. “I’ll stay.”

Armstrong chirps again and begins to rub slow, rhythmic patterns into the back of Tesla’s shoulder. Their eyes slowly slip shut as they sink into the feeling of safety.

Then they wake, to sunlight streaming in through the window— now open, a gentle breeze battering the curtains, and something is wrong, something is so wrong that it physically hurts.

Armstrong is gone.

And, in his place, on the pillow still indented from where his head had rested, is a singular snake tooth.

Chapter Text

There’s a yawning chasm in the home where Armstrong should be. An empty room. A missing presence that is impossible not to feel.

The four of them sit around the table. They’d found little in terms of a lead beyond what Tesla had stumbled across that morning. They argue in hushed tones, hashing out plans and ideas.

Tesla just feels hollow.

The aching feeling of loss is sharp and strong. Why he’d been their target, why he was the only one they took, is beyond them. The why isn’t what’s important, anyway; he’s gone, and so Tesla stares at the tooth now sitting on the table. It’s a small thing, thin and wickedly sharp. Undeniably a snake’s, one of a venomous variety. Conversation continues on around them, discussions of how to even begin tracking whoever took Armstrong, but they aren’t listening anymore.

Carefully, they lean forwards and pick up the fang. It’s cold to the touch. They cannot place what species it comes from, but regardless, they know. They know as surely as they know their own name, or that the sky is blue.

The tooth comes from a king brown snake.

“Black car,” they say quietly. “A sedan. Number plate 0U7-BAK.”

Rust squints at them. “Huh?”

Tesla lifts their head to look at Zero. “Run the plate. 0U7-BAK. Check street cams, business security cameras, whatever. It’ll have been here.”

Zero blinks, then draws in a breath. It’s a little fascinating to watch, the way the light in it’s eyes instantly dies and then sharpens into something unnatural and unseeing as it taps into the networks and streams of data. For a moment, everything is quiet.

“They’re right,” Zero says finally, lurching back into motion as they withdraw back into themselves. “It was here.”

“Track it.” Tesla’s fingers curl protectively around the tooth in their palm.

“How the hell do you know this?” Rust demands. It’s the first words he’s spoken to them in weeks, with how much they’ve been avoiding him.

Regardless, Tesla ignores him, fiddling with the fang anxiously between their fingers. Zero’s dipped back into the network now, blank-eyed and lost among the data streams.

“Fucking answer me—”

“Back off,” Tesla snaps. Doc leans between them, expression pleasantly neutral.

“Enough. Zero, do you have anything?”

“They’re smart,” comes Zero’s reply, distorted and distant, delayed by the latency. “Avoiding cameras. I keep losing them.”

“Well, you know their car.” Doc glances between Rust and Tesla. “I think perhaps Zero will need some time to locate our, ah, aggressors. For now, I would suggest rest and preparation.”

Rust glares at him, but leans back in his chair. “As long as we get him back.”

Tesla stares numbly down at the tooth, rolling it between their fingers. Doc settles a hand on their shoulder for a brief moment. Perhaps it’s an attempt to comfort them— but it seems more likely he’s beckoning them to follow when he turns on his heel and exits the room immediately after.

It’s a tremendous effort to follow him. Every inch of them feels both hollow and heavy all at once. It is, without contest, the longest walk of their life.

“Are you alright?” is the first thing Doc asks. There’s concern etched into every inch of his expression, so clear and unfiltered and genuine that it makes Tesla’s chest ache.

“Are you?” is what they end up saying instead of answering.

Doc laughs, then. It’s a dry, humourless, almost nervous thing. “No. I’m frankly terrified.”

Tesla doesn’t know what to say to that, so they don’t say anything at all. They roll the fang between their fingers again. Try to focus on the sounds of the fringes of suburbia rather than the tight mix of anxiety and terror in their chest.

“I have to ask,” Doc says after a long moment, “How you knew. Let me be clear that this is not an accusation of any sort, just… Well, lets call it what it is. A curiosity.”

“I’m not…” Tesla swallows and tries again. “I’m not unfamiliar with who took him.”

“I figured as much.” Doc’s expression dips into something more sympathetic. “Anything more you can give us?”

They close their eyes, trying to keep their breathing steady. “They’re a group. Not very well put together— looking for something to make them money, and they’re crazy enough to try hunting monsters about it. Which I guess includes us now.”

Doc sighs heavily. “Then we’ll need to find them fast.”

Tesla makes to nod, but sharp pain flares in their ribs. It feels like a physical thing, a cracking and breaking, but when they lift a hand to press to it, nothing shifts. It’s solid bone.

“Shit.” Doc’s brow furrows. Tesla looks at him, at the way his hand has also lifted to gently touch his own ribs, and it clicks.

Tesla is Bonded to Armstrong.

Somewhere along the way, it happened. They can’t place when. But it’s happened, the dull flare of pain that they now recognise as distinctly not their own the living proof of that fact. Doc seems to realise this the same moment they do, eyes widening.

Then agony rips up their spine, and Tesla can’t think anymore.

Time blurs. Days blend together as Tesla finds themselves locked into an endless cycle of screaming until their throat runs raw, until their body gives out and they succumb to sleep, only to wake and do it all over again. Every inch of them hurts. Broken ribs, fresh bruises, some kind of spinal injury — and not a single one belongs to them.

Through the haze, they’re aware of the others; Doc, delivering food and water; Zero, pulling a blanket over them after the sun vanishes and the chill of night settles through the house; Rust, telling them to breathe and focus on the feeling of the world around them. When he tries to take their hand, promising to ground them, Tesla lunges, snapping at him like a rabid dog. Rust retreats with a yelp as their teeth catch on his thumb.

He doesn’t return after that.

Tesla rots in place. Nothing could have prepared them for the extent of carrying a true Bond; the only other they’d had before was half-formed, and therefore nowhere near as heavy. They could never feel like this, the pulsing fear and pain and suffering Armstrong is undergoing, possibly states away from where they are now.

Night-time brings some relief. No new pain other than that of Armstrong’s body painstakingly healing itself. Sometimes, the results are less than desirable; Tesla can feel the way a joint sits wrong or a leg bends backwards.

It never matters. Anything that heals wrong is re-broken with the rise of the sun, forcing Tesla back into wakefulness with fresh tears.

Now, they stare listlessly out their window, at the bushes bathed in the beginnings of dawn light. Their surroundings are eerily peaceful. If they were stupider, they might wonder how anyone can simply press on like normal.

The other three are faring far better. That much is expected— they’ve been Bonded far longer, have learned of its quirks. Some part of Tesla hates them for pretending they don’t feel every blow, as irrational as that is.

Their door creaks open. Zero slinks in, careful and quiet, and locates the chair by Tesla’s desk. It has its Switch in hand, which it promptly powers on, the soft music of some game Tesla can’t place filling the space.

It’s something they’ve taken to doing, since Armstrong’s disappearance. The company is not entirely welcomed, but Tesla cannot deny they feel a little less alone with the digitised beeps and chimes.

Bitterly, Tesla thinks of how much of a waste of time it is. Zero should be plugged into the data streams from sunup to sundown. Logically, they know breaks are important, and that it’s far too unsustainable to expect it to simply work itself to death, but they think it anyway.

Without looking at them, Tesla says, “Any leads?”

“Sort of.” It’s the same answer as always. “But I’m getting close.”

Tesla trails a hand up to trace a meaningless pattern in the cool, fogged glass of the window. “And what if you don’t find him?”

“… Tesla?”

“I just mean to be practical about it,” they continue, voice flat. “They’re covering their tracks well. If we don’t find him…”

“We will.” There’s a soft clinking noise as Zero sets down its Switch. “I will. Failing isn’t an option.”

Finally, Tesla rolls over. Zero looks almost as terrible as they surely do, and about half as terrible as they feel. There’s heavy bags under each of their eyes, the orange glow about them dimmed.

It’s suffering. Not as outwardly as Tesla, but still. The realisation makes them feel infinitely worse about their earlier thoughts.

The two stare at each other for a long moment. Understanding hangs in the air between them, a moment of solidarity in their pain.

“Have breakfast with the rest of us,” Zero says softly. Pleadingly.

With great effort, Tesla says, “Yeah. Okay.”

It’s sometime past midnight when Doc finally pushes open the door to Tesla’s room. Warm light spills in from the hallway.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and soft. “We found him.”

Tesla sits bolt upright. Exhaustion tugs at the very core of their being; every inch of them aches dimly as Armstrong’s injuries knit back together. “Where?”

Doc shakes his head. “No. You need to eat first.”

“There’s no time—”

“No,” Doc repeats, firmer. “Food. And some rest.”

Tesla wants to argue, but they know Doc is right. They’re exhausted, haven’t eaten in days, and certainly in no shape to set off on any sort of rescue mission. Still, the thought of eating, of sleeping, of wasting time when Armstrong is in danger is nauseating.

“Fine.” They meet his gaze steadily. “But we go tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Doc says, and it sounds like a promise.

Chapter Text

The warehouse is old. Rusted, with half-rotted wood beams breaking up the solid sheets of steel, warped by the wind and weather. Tesla has seen places like it before; has been in places like this before. Beside it sits a black sedan. The number plate reads 0U7-BAK.

Rust tilts his head in the direction of a side door, all rusting metal trapped in a wooden frame. “Pretty sure I can bust that open.”

Doc holds up a hand. “Scout first. There may very well be another way in. A quieter way.”

Tesla shivers in the pre-dawn chill. Dull pain flares in their ribs that is not their own. “Two of us should go left, the other two right. Meet around the back.”

Rust frowns. “You’re sure splitting up is a good idea?”

“It’s faster.” Tesla’s gaze flicks back to the warehouse, then up to the mostly-dark sky, less than enthused that Rust of all people was the one to question it. “We’re the only ones up at this hour.”

“Rust with me, Doc with you,” Zero pipes up. “We’ll be okay.”

Rust takes a moment to relent. “Fine. But you’d better be quick.”

There’s an edge to his voice. Harder, more serious than anything Tesla has heard from him before. It’s compelling in the way he always is and then some; it sounds like an order, albeit one coated in worry.

Zero’s suggestion for pairs is both smart and relieving. It divides their abilities cleanly and fairly evenly, and it ensures Tesla won’t have to be alone with Rust. They can’t bring themselves to trust him, even in his efforts to help locate Armstrong, but there is an aching under it all. A longing. Something akin to missing him.

But Tesla has missed plenty of people who don’t deserve it.

“Doc?” they say pleasantly, turning their focus to him instead. His gaze is unreadable, but he inclines his head.

“We’ll go left.” He gestures smoothly for Tesla to lead the way. They fall into step easily.

They find themselves not as intimidated by him as they once were. He’d been kind, when pulling them aside the morning Armstrong had gone missing, and now they can see the way he fidgets with the hem of his jacket. A subtle little nervous habit.

Everything is eerily silent. The steel sheeting of the warehouse warbles with the breeze that slices through the surrounding trees and gravel crunches underfoot until the two of them veer off onto the grass instead. Doc says nothing, gaze roaming over the warehouse to assess for weaknesses or any openings.

“These guys,” Tesla starts, voice low and quiet so as not to carry across the open space, “They’ll outnumber us. One of them isn’t very strong, though— she tends to keep out of it.”

Doc hums an affirmative. “Alright. Which of them is the biggest threat?”

The question throws Tesla off for a moment; not because they don’t have an answer, but because they aren’t expecting it. Doc seems far more serious about strategizing for a potential fight than they’d ever expected. It’s a respectable trait.

“Redback,” they say, “Or Saltie. They’re—”

A yell sounds from the right. Tesla pauses.

“Was that…?”

“Shit,” Doc emphasises, already turning on his heel. There’s a loud crashing sound — that of a body hitting steel sheeting. It seems to reverberate through the woodland.

Tesla’s blood turns to ice. They were ready for us.

The thought is entirely irrational. There’s evidence to suggest they were, but it’s hard not to think as much when they round the corner, hot on Doc’s heels, and see four of them, outnumbering Rust and Zero two to one.

Rust’s already bleeding. Zero is quick and agile, dancing away from blows before they can even land, but Tesla knows all too well that it won’t last like that. After all, they share that fighting style in common.

“Let’s even the odds, shall we?”

But Doc’s words don’t register. Tesla feels rooted in place, panic already constricting their airways as Rust rolls into a punch, throwing his entire body weight onto his foe to leverage it against them. Blood splatters across the grass.

Saltie. Redback. Roo. Malo.

Because they’d been expecting it, but still. Faces and names Tesla knows. People they recognise, deeply human yet no less formidable for it. Doc’s diving into the fray, trading off a broken arm in favour of sending Roo sprawling in the muck. Saltie catches Rust by the throat a second later, this time leveraging his body weight to slam him against the side of the warehouse and keep him there, pinned.

“Tesla!” Zero yells as Redback and Malo finally force them to the ground. Doc glances in it’s direction worriedly; it’s enough for Roo to dive for him, taking him down in a clash of limbs.

The warehouse door opens as a fifth person enters the scene.

Tall and thin, in a way that hides a shocking amount of muscle, all scruffy and spattered with scars. There’s a knife in his hand, a crowbar in the other, which he tosses to Roo carelessly. His sharp, keen gaze lands on Tesla in an instant.

Mulga grins, sharp canines on full display. Tesla can’t breathe. “Hello there, sweetheart. Finally decided to drop by again, huh?”

“Tes, what the hell’s he talking about?” Rust scrabbles at Saltie’s wrists, trying in vain to free himself.

“Didn’t they tell you?” Mulga’s smile widens, widens, widens. “We had a deal. And the red one was hard enough to move on his own. So I’d say that now, it seems, they’re here to deliver.”

All Tesla knows is how to run.

They’ve spent centuries doing it, fleeing from whatever trouble lunged their way, from their past, from anything that might hurt them. Even now, it’s their default, trees and branches whipping around them as they lose themselves in unfamiliar forest, tripping over roots and overgrowth. The sounds of fighting have long since faded.

But they’re not alone.

They can hear the heavy footfalls and breath of Mulga as he pursues them through the woodland. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t call after them, but they know he’s grinning. He’s always grinning.

They push forwards, faster and faster, pushing their body harder. Mulga is mortal; he’s fallible. Tesla will outpace him if they just. keep. going.

There’s a whooshing sound and pain flares in their right shoulder blade. They cry out, stumbling, left hand coming up just in time to feel the handle of the knife now firmly embedded in their back before Mulga is on them.

They tumble end over end in the underbrush. When they come to a stop, a rock presses uncomfortably into the small of Tesla’s back.

“Leaving your friends to die, are you?” Mulga purrs, all nonchalantly as if he’s not leveraging his entire body weight to press them into the ground. “That’s not very nice of you, sweetheart.”

Then he lunges forwards and his teeth sink into the meat of Tesla’s shoulder. Thick fabric crinkles then tears under the force; agony arcs up into their neck. They scrabble at him, trying to dislodge him, only to regret it a moment later when he rips his head back, taking a chunk of bloodied flesh and material with him.

Tesla screams. Mulga catches them by the chin.

“There there, doll. You’ll heal up nice and quick.” He flashes a wide grin and snakes a hand up to rip the knife out of their shoulder. “Learned that from the red one.”

Every muscle in Tesla’s body tenses at once, both with the sudden pain, and from his words. Armstrong.

“Touch him again—”

“Oh, darling.” Mulga’s fingers slip under Tesla’s chin to tilt their head back, forcing them into eye contact. “I’d be worried about yourself right now.”

And all at once, Tesla decides they’re done running. They lurch forwards and up, gripping at every bit of Mulga they can find. They curl their palm around bare skin and draw on their excess reserves of power.

“Touch him again,” they repeat, voice dropping low with threat, “And I swear, I will tear you limb from limb.”

Then the let the electricity arc out of themselves and into Mulga. They give him all the excess they have, watching the way the easy grin slip off his face as the shock rattles his body. He spasms, jerks, and finally falls limp, slumping face first over Tesla.

They recoil on instinct. Flail a little before calming themselves and refocusing to push him off of them. They leave him facedown in the leaf litter as they stagger to their feet.

They lean heavily on a tree and pant, fighting to catch their breath. They can’t stay here. They have to go back.

They have to go back for Armstrong.

Tesla stumbles out of the tree-line and back onto gravel-covered ground. The wound in their shoulder blade knits back together slowly; flesh regrows in tiny chunks where Mulga bit them. They’re bloodstained, jacket torn and tattered. Every inch of them hurts.

But the fight isn’t over.

Malo is out cold, sprawled in the dirt. Rust’s biting at Roo like a rabid animal, driving him backwards across the open space, while Zero dances around Saltie, dodging his blows a little less effortlessly now. Redback’s fallen back, relying on her gun, but Doc is matching her blow-for-blow with his own magickal brand of ranged combat.

They survey the scene for a moment. No sign of Dingo, which is at least something good. If she were directing the fight, things would be a lot more complicated. With that train of thought laid to rest, they recall Doc’s question from earlier. Which of them is the biggest threat?

Tesla draws in a breath, and darts towards Saltie.

He’s bigger than they remember; all brawn, heavyset muscle that speaks of years of hard labour. He takes a swing at Tesla the moment they get close, forcing them to duck away again.

“Where’d you go?” Zero shouts as it darts in to jab at Saltie’s ribs before dancing away again. Tesla sidesteps another punch and lunges to draw on some of their own power — which they technically need, but can spare a little of if it means they might make it out of this alive — to send a nasty jolt through Saltie.

“Doesn’t matter. Dealt with Mulga, now I’m here to help you with this guy.”

A look of confusion crosses Zero’s features, reminding Tesla all at once that they don’t know the names of the Pack, don’t even know that they call themselves the Pack, but there’s no time to dwell on any of it. Saltie’s slow, but he’s got the endurance to match whatever Tesla and Zero can throw at him.

They need someone who can pack more of a punch.

“Doc!” Tesla darts away across the space towards him. “I’ve got her; go help Zero!”

Thankfully, Doc doesn’t argue, nor question it. He just nods sharply, dropping his magick and moves towards Saltie. He’s limping, but Tesla has no time to concern themselves with just how many spells he’s cast when Redback is now firing at them. They duck and weave, making themselves as difficult a target as possible, and focus on closing in on her.

“Hey, Redback!” they yell, just to ensure they keep her attention, “Remember me?”

Her eyes widen a little, then narrow as she readjusts her aim. Tesla pushes harder, ignores the throbbing of their injuries, and dives for her. The gun fires. Pain flairs in Tesla’s calf.

They collide with Redback in a clash of limbs. She bares her teeth at them like a rabid animal, snaps at them but falls short. Tesla’s hands find her throat and squeeze.

Redback scrabbles at him frantically. She flails, nearly throwing Tesla off, but they hold firm. She’s strong — but not strong enough. They keep the pressure on until she goes limp. Still breathing, but not getting up anytime soon.

Tesla pushes themselves to their feet slowly. They inspect their calf, wincing at the sight of the bullet embedded in flesh that slowly moves as their body rejects it, bit by bit, in an attempt to heal itself. No time to stop. No place to lie down and die.

They turn back to the others. Rust’s gotten his hands on Roo’s crowbar, who in turn seems to be reconsidering his odds in the fight. Doc looks endlessly battered and bruised, leaning heavily to one side, but Saltie looks almost as bad, so that’s a plus. Tesla half-limps, half-drags themselves back over the gravel.

They’re not needed, really. Between Doc and Zero, Saltie hits the ground right as Tesla makes it to where Malo lies. Roo takes one last swing at Rust before fleeing into the woodlands; Rust has the sense not to try and chase after him.

“Doc,” Tesla croaks, leaning down to pull the bullet free from their own calf, wincing a little, “Are you okay?”

Doc turns and gives them a tired smile. “I’ll be alright, Tes. You?”

They nod, opening their mouth to reply, but then Rust’s gaze turns to Tesla. Still gripping the crowbar he’d snatched from Roo and splattered in blood, he’s intimidating, breathing hard and gaze unreadable.

Darting across the space, Zero pokes at Malo. When they don’t respond, limp but breathing, Zero reaches for the phone that’s halfway fallen out of their pocket.

“Gimme a minute to—” Zero suddenly yelps, diving out of the way behind Doc as Rust lunges forwards.

He drops the crowbar halfway with a loud clashing sound. Tesla flinches right before they collide, Rust ramming into them shoulder-first. It sends Tesla stumbling, wheezing for breath.

“He knew you,” Rust spits, and swings. Tesla barely ducks away in time, their battered body protesting the movement. “He fucking knew you.”

They don’t respond. They don’t have time to, with the way he keeps crowding into their space. A blow connects with Tesla’s jaw. Rust is solid and muscular, enough so that it sends them reeling, tears pricking at the corners of their eyes from the pain.

“Hey!” Doc snaps, but he sounds far away. Underwater.

Tesla’s back hits the wall of the warehouse. Rust moves fast to corner them in, his forearm pressed across their throat.

“Explain yourself,” he demands. They scrabble at his arm uselessly, trying to free themselves. “The hell did he mean? Was this a fucking setup?”

“Rust,” Doc tries.

“Answer me.” Rust leans forwards, putting some pressure on Tesla’s airways. They wheeze, fighting for a breath that doesn’t quite come.

“Not a setup, I swear,” they manage. Panic threatens to overwhelm them as they meet Rust’s gaze. It’s hard and set, scarily devoid of emotion, in a way they haven’t seen on him yet.

Everyone wants something.

The thought echoes in their mind. Rings in their ears. Right now, it seems, Rust wants them dead.

“Rust,” Doc repeats, harsher this time. “Let them go.”

It takes a few moments for Rust to obey. He lets out an animalistic snarling sort of sound and drops his arm, taking a half pace back. Tesla gasps, sucking in air greedily, coughing as their head spins.

“Tesla,” Zero pipes up, halfway hidden behind Doc, “What did he mean?”

Tesla takes in a breath before answering. “Met him a couple years ago. Wanted my tech, or… Or something, I don’t even remember. I said no. Beat the life out of me for it.”

Rust’s eyes widen as the pieces click together in his brain. “That’s why you were so fucked up when I found you?”

They nod, still breathing hard. “Said he’d find me again one day, for… For payment.”

“They want all of us.” Doc’s voice is steady, despite the way he’s leaned against the warehouse for support, his leg bent backwards the wrong way. “We can’t let them have us. With any luck, after this, they won’t come after us again.”

Zero holds up Malo’s phone. “Armstrong’s in here. But I can’t find out where.”

“Then we move fast.” Rust folds his arms, setting his jaw. “This place isn’t that big. We’ll find him and get out of here.”

Zero slips themselves under Doc’s arm to offer him support. Rust casts a glance at Tesla, hesitating before holding out a hand, palm up. A lousy attempt at a peace offering. They knock it aside with the back of their hand and stumble towards the warehouse doorway.

It creaks open easily. The inside is dark and dusty, dimly lit by down-lights that hang on thin chains. Tesla stares into it, at the sparsely scattered makeshift equipment. There’s blood on the concrete flooring.

Zero and Doc squeeze their way past them and into the warehouse. Tesla draws in a breath before following them; their calf protests every movement.

“Hey.” Rust ducks in front of Tesla to stop them from walking any further. “I just wanted to— I’m sorry. For—”

“We don’t have time for this,” Tesla snaps, pushing at him to try and get him to step aside. “If you want to apologise, do it later.”

“Tesla—”

“I said later.” They push him a little more forcefully this time, and he staggers back a couple of steps, but stubbornly remains in the way.

“I just wish you’d told me,” he blurts out. “I wouldn’t have— Fuck, I would’ve found these guys sooner. Before any of this. I would’ve made sure they could never touch you again.”

Tesla stares at him. There’s something about the way he says it, all low and serious and protective, that gives them pause. But Armstrong’s still somewhere in this damn warehouse, and they’re not sure how long the Pack will stay down, so they say, “Move out of my fucking way.”

Rust accepts it fairly gracefully. He steps aside, managing to mask his hurt in an instant to fall in step beside them as they both press on through the warehouse. Everything is quiet, only broken up by the occasional hiss of pain from Doc, and the shuffling of feet over concrete.

The further they go, the darker the warehouse gets. Down-lights become cracked and rusted, aged beyond their years, blinking and flickering, dimmer and dimmer until there’s almost no light at all. Each room they pass is the same as the last; yawning emptiness or messy storage.

Finally, they find a closed door. Locked and chained, a little flimsily, but clearly just enough security to secure whatever is inside. Whoever is inside.

Rust steps forwards. He grips at the chains, studies them for a moment then pries them apart with his bare hands. It’s this horrendous creaking snapping sound, one that pierces through Tesla’s very being, but still they dart past him the second they can, stumbling into the door and letting their body weight push it open.

“Armstrong.” Tesla breathes. They stagger across the room, dropping to their knees in front of him. It’s even worse up close, the glass of his helmet cracked and shattering, the smell of rot rising out from it. His shoulder is dislocated, fingers broken, body battered. Even through his suit, it’s clear that Armstrong isn’t conscious, drugged into submission; it grants Tesla some relief, to know he at least currently cannot feel the pain of his injuries, even if they still can.

Tesla reaches for his face slowly, sliding their hands along the underneath of his helmet. Gently, carefully, they tilt his head up so they can press their forehead to his. There’s a dog choke chain around his throat, restraining him to the ground by a roughly hammered in wooden stake, but it has just enough give.

“I’ve got you,” they murmur. “I’ve got you. You’re going home.”

Home. The word is foreign when it leaves their mouth, but somehow feels right. They don’t quite know when it started to seem fitting, when the idea of staying among their own kind became more appealing than being alone, but that hardly matters. They shut their eyes for a moment, drawing in a breath.

“Tes.” Doc’s voice is quiet and gentle. “Let’s get him out of here.”

Tesla leans back to look at Doc. “Be careful with him.”

Rust steps forwards and sets a hand on Tesla’s shoulder. “We’ve got him. I’ve got him. That’s a promise, sparks.”

And they still don’t trust him, not by a long shot, but they nod anyway, closing their eyes. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

Tesla sleeps the night through soundly.

They spend it in Armstrong’s room, on the couch that Rust had dragged in from the living room. Close enough to feel his presence, far enough to allow them both the space to heal. By morning there’s blood drying in the pillows and a dull ache throughout their entire body, but they’re healed.

Both of them are.

When they wake, shooting upright on the couch, Armstrong’s already up. His hand is on their face, knuckles brushing back and forth along their cheekbone.

And Tesla reaches for him. Their movements are frantic as they stretch upwards, catching Armstrong by the shoulder first, then the back of his neck as they draw him down to press their foreheads together.

“You’re okay,” they breathe. The words are only half aimed at Armstrong. “You’re okay.”

Armstrong makes a soft chirping noise. He settles an arm around the back of Tesla’s shoulders; loose, but grounding. He doesn’t pull away.

A soothing notion passes through their Bond. Warm and soft, like the gentlest embrace. It’s funny, really, that he was the one to be so close to death, and yet still Armstrong is providing comfort to Tesla.

“Don’t do that again,” they say quietly, as if he had any say in the matter. Armstrong coos, a low rumbling sort of sound, and through the Bond, his meaning is as clear as if he had spoken it.

I won’t.

They stay like that for a while before disentangling themselves and making their way into the kitchen. Armstrong pauses in the hall to allow Doc to draw him into a hug so tight it looks almost painful. Tesla slips past them, letting them have their moment.

“Hey.” Rust corners them by the sink. “It’s later. Y’think I can try that apology again?”

Despite all their wariness, Tesla offers him a tired smile. “It’s fine. The bruise is already gone.”

“But it’s not. Fine, I mean. I just— You ran off into the woods and I assumed the whole thing was, like, some kinda long con, y’know? But when you came back, I should’ve— I dunno, I just shouldn’t have gone for you like that.”

“Rust.” Tesla twitches, but otherwise doesn’t move. “I said it’s fine. Nothing that didn’t heal.”

He lifts a hand. Almost traces it over Tesla’s jaw, but doesn’t quite touch, as if scared of spooking them. His voice is soft when he says, “It shouldn’t have had to.”

Something warm kindles in their chest. Without knowing why, they tilt their head a little so that they lean into his touch. Rust lets out a shaky breath, the pads of his fingers brushing along their jawline just so, without any real intent behind it.

Then Zero steps into the kitchen, asking about breakfast, and they break apart.

Tesla feels a little lighter, if only for a moment.

Doc finds Tesla in the late evening. He has to duck under the doorframe of the entrance to their room, nearly knocking his top-hat clean off his head in the process.

“Mind if I give you some advice?” is the first thing he says, taking up a seat on the edge of their bed. Tesla’s hunched over their desk, tinkering with parts from what was one of the weapons they’d had hidden in the house. They’re working on deconstructing most of them to scrap for parts.

They set their tools down with a soft clink. “About?”

“Your Bond.” Doc leans forwards, hands folded neatly in his lap. “You don’t seem entirely familiar with having one.”

“I’m not,” Tesla admits. It feels safe to tell Doc that; it feels safe to tell Doc a lot of things, now.

“It’s helpful to envision it like a chain,” he says. “Or tubing. A physical thing you can sever or place something over to dull the stimuli. It’s especially useful when one of you is in pain.”

“Like a dimmer switch.”

“Exactly. You can acknowledge the feeling without it overwhelming you. I believe Zero has referred to it as being similar to rerouting a data stream— you know its there, what it is, and where it’s going, but it’s not directly to you.”

“Wires and gears,” Tesla murmurs.

“You can do the reverse to try tapping further into Armstrong’s feelings,” Doc continues. “That’s something you can try now. If you can work out how to do one, you can do the other.”

They lean back in their chair. They’re not sure where to start, but Doc makes a gesture of encouragement, so they close their eyes and try to focus. Tubing, chain, wires. Something physical and tangible.

What they find instead feels more like a current. Water streaming strong in a single direction before looping back around in a tight circuit. It’s closer to wiring than they’d first expected, simple enough to understand, pulsing with emotion rather than an electrical current.

For a moment, they simply study it, like they would any other physical thing. They prod at it, just to see how it bends, how it moves under their touch, and take a breath.

It’s something like shoving a hand into the flow of a river. Tesla twists and turns, feeling for what’s there, for what pushes so insistently at them it nearly knocks them over and what nudges gently, barely-there. They quickly learn its more than just emotion; thoughts and intent flows there too, mundane and benign. Plans for what to cook for dinner, a passing observation about some peeling paint on the wall.

Tesla can feel everything.

“Holy shit,” they mumble. From somewhere beside them, Doc laughs.

“Now you’ve got it, Tes.”

It takes a moment to re-centre. To pull themselves free again, to let Armstrong’s presence settle comfortably into the back of their mind again. It’s far stronger than the half-formed Bond they’d had centuries prior. Far more beautiful and welcome.

When they come back to themselves, nothing quite feels the same anymore. Their room feels endlessly more inviting. Doc smiles at them, bright and wide.

“Thank you,” they say, because there’s nothing else that they can say. Doc’s smile just widens a little and he gets to his feet.

“Anytime,” he says, pausing to set a hand on their shoulder. “If you have any questions, just ask me, alright?”

They nod; he slips from the room. Their mind drifts to the others; to Zero, who’d fallen into step beside them when taking on Saltie, and to Rust, who seems less malicious in the aftermath. Not quite trustworthy yet, but not as wicked as they’d once believed. Not after he’d helped to drag the couch in without complaint, not after he’d eyed off Tesla’s injuries like he was trying to gauge if he was allowed to offer to bandage them or not.

They dip a hand back into the current between themselves and Armstrong. They dig around, like they’re rummaging through the rocks embedded in the mud of a riverbed until they find what they’re looking for. Bright and shining and clear.

It’s a simple truth. Something so deep and intrinsic to Armstrong that it feels damn near as natural as breathing. He trusts Rust entirely.

Tesla supposes that, maybe, they should start trying to too.

“Hey,” Tesla says, two days after they’ve both healed up, as Armstrong stands by the front door, ready for their daily walks to resume, “Think we could bring Zero along?”

Armstrong chirps and tilts his head.

“Yeah.” Tesla exhales and smiles slightly. “I think it’d be good for them to get out, too.”

Good for me, too, they don’t say. It’s high time they start trying to make connections again; Armstrong gives them a knowing look. They skirt their way around the couch, now back in the living room, and down the hall towards Zero’s room. They hesitate on the threshold for a moment — they’ve never been inside, after all — then step inside.

It’s room is a sight to behold. Wiring all neatly zip-tied together and pinned in place neatly to the skirting boards or walls, powering a half dozen different monitors and systems. It looks almost cartoonish, like the evil lair of some tech-wielding super-villain.

“Zero?”

They’re bunched up in the corner, staring down at some gaming console, headphones on. Evidently, it doesn’t have the volume so loud as to drown out anything else, as its head shoots up and it pushes them off with a smooth motion.

“Tesla?”

They shift awkwardly on the spot under Zero’s gaze. Quiet encouragement pulses through the Bond from Armstrong, urging them onwards.

“Join Armstrong and I on our walk?” Tesla winces a little at their own voice, higher-pitched with nerves. If Zero notices, they don’t point it out, instead just breaking out into a wide, beaming smile.

“Yeah! Just lemme save this—” It’s focus returns to whatever game it had been playing beforehand. Tesla lingers in the doorway until they’re done; the two scurry down the hallway in relative silence back to Armstrong, who holds the door open for the both of them.

The day is overcast. A thin drizzle slices through the air. Zero kicks at a shallow puddle on the sidewalk and smiles despite it.

Armstrong slips naturally into the lead as usual. For someone who doesn’t get out much, he knows the area well, all the secret nooks and beautiful sights to be found. Tesla has no doubt he’ll take them somewhere equally as impressive today.

Zero bumps Tesla with its shoulder as they walk side-by-side and offers out its hand. Tesla hesitates for only a moment before taking it. Zero swings their arms like little kids, beaming wide, and everything feels warmer.

Armstrong weaves his way off the pathways into the woods. It’s the opposite direction from the lake he’d taken Tesla to on their first outing. The woods here are even thicker, an ashy grey colour with even darker leaves, washed out in colouration and oozing golden sap through cracking bark.

The deeper they go, the darker it gets. As the leaf cover grows thicker, blotting out more and more of the light, Tesla realises that the sap glows. Softly, faintly, but enough to light their path.

There’s silver blue-veined rocks studding the trail they walk. Zero trips on a root and laughs when they stumble into Tesla, who finds themselves laughing right along with them.

Magick hangs in the air, thick and heavy. It feels like that which Doc saps from the air when casting a spell, but more concentrated, almost stiflingly so. Tesla breathes it in, tastes the honey-sick sweetness on the tip of their tongue, and smiles so wide and genuine it damn near hurts.

“You always know the best places, Army,” Zero comments. Armstrong chirps and pushes aside branches to reveal a homely little clearing. Sunlight filters in where the trees line it in a near-perfect circle, bathing the space in a warm glow.

Tesla is suddenly struck by how safe they feel with the two of them.

Armstrong tilts his head, beckoning them inwards. Zero doesn’t hesitate, dragging Tesla along behind it.

Tesla stretches a hand out behind them as they pass; they feel Armstrong take it, strong and solid, and the three of them slip into the clearing as one.

Tesla finds Rust in the garage in the late afternoon. The drizzle had grown to a downpour, then petered back off until it barely was even there at all, only evidenced by the large swaths of water coating the streets.

Rust’s bent down, oiling the motorcycle’s chain. Tesla leans back against one of the work benches, watching him in silence for a few moments before commenting, “You look good on your knees.”

He jumps, whacking his head on one of the handles of his motorcycle. “Holy shit, Tesla, a little warning next time!” Then he looks up at them, squinting, and adds, “Wait. Was that a joke you just made?”

Tesla shrugs, but they’re smiling. “I don’t know, was it?”

Rust’s eyes widen a little. It’s an odd sight, to see him flustered, but he recovers fast. “What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” They pause, taking in where the helmet is haphazardly lain across the seat, and asks, “Going for a ride?”

“Not if you’re asking for me.” He slings the rag he’d been working with over his shoulder and pushes himself up to his feet.

“Then I am,” they say. “Asking for you, that is.”

Rust smiles at them. It’s wide and toothy and all manner of crooked. Something in Tesla’s stomach flips.

“I wanted to ask… You remember the night I was repairing one of Zero’s consoles, yes? You got back late.”

“Yeah.” Some wariness creeps into Rust’s tone— or perhaps apprehension is the better word for it. He’s suddenly a little guarded, a little cautious, and they can’t quite tell if it’s from fear of upsetting them, or something else.

“You didn’t—” Tesla pauses. Swallows around the anxiousness closing their throat and tries again. “Did you, for lack of a better word, seduce someone to get what you needed?”

Rust’s entire demeanour shifts in an instant. “Oh, Tes, I— I mean, a bit of flirting, sure, but I didn’t— Shit, you think I’d do that?”

They fold their arms and avoid his gaze. “That’s what it looked like.”

“I didn’t,” he says. “I told you I was celebrating, yeah? Met a guy at a club after. That’s it, I swear. I wouldn’t— It’s important to me that you know I wouldn’t, okay? I fucking wouldn’t.”

“I thought— Nevermind.”

Rust reaches out, but stops just short of actually touching them. “Hey,” he says, low and serious and a little stricken, “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Tesla studies him for a moment. His expression is open and plain to see, hurt and grief layered so thickly it’s painful to even look at. They stumble forwards all at once into his touch, his hand brushing over their shoulder before they’re pressed into him, shaking and trying not to cry.

“Shit.” Rust brings his arms up just to hold them, light and gentle. Easy to break out of. Unrestrictive. “I’ve got you.”

They want to apologise for the assumption. They want to say so many things, but it all just sticks in their throat and comes up as a broken little sound instead. Rust doesn’t comment on it, but his hold on them tightens a little.

It doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t change much of anything. But, for a moment, in Rust’s arms, Tesla just lets themselves exist. Lets themselves feel.

Outside, the rain grows heavier again.

Chapter Text

Tesla is drawn out of their room in the early evening by overwhelming panic.

Not their own, but Armstrong’s. Strong as it is, they struggle to blanket it in the way Doc had instructed. As they move through the house, not quite at a run but still more urgent than a walk, they tug at the current until it dislodges. Dampens, like a river being redirected.

The front door is already open. From it, they can see Zero sprinting down the street far ahead of them. There’s no sign of Rust, Doc or Armstrong.

Anxiety drives Tesla forwards. They shift gears to run, covering ground as fast as their shorter legs can carry them, across the pavement and down through the fringes of suburbia. They follow Zero, turn when it turns, push to try and catch up but never quite manage it.

They veer into a cul-de-sac with woodland at the far end and skid to a halt to take in the scene. Rust, Armstrong and Zero charge into the fray without hesitation; Doc lies limp in the gutter. There’s blood smeared across the asphalt, flecked with chunks of skin like the residue left behind from road rash. Blue chunks of skin.

Tesla darts towards the body.

“Fuck, there’s three of them?!?” Rust yells from somewhere to their left. They ignore him for now and press on.

Up close, the trail is worse than they’d first thought. Fleshy and bloody, it leads right to Doc and pools there. “Shit.”

Tesla drops to their knees by Doc’s side while the others continue to press forwards to cover the both of them. A quick-once over makes it clear Doc isn’t too badly injured; some broken bones, a couple of lacerations, the aforementioned road rash, bruising around his throat in the distinctive shape of fingerprints that are already rapidly fading. He’ll live — but it’s enough to put him out of commission for now.

Which meant no spells.

“Keep down,” they say to him, as if he’s even capable of moving, then get back up, eying off their attackers. Saltie is locked in vicious combat with Armstrong; Zero hits the ground, Roo standing over it, Rust darting in to shoulder him aside and clear the way for Zero to scramble against the asphalt to get upright.

That’s two, Tesla thinks, scanning the tree-line. Where the hell’s the third?

An answer comes in the form of a bullet, zipping just past the side of their head, close enough to graze them. They follow the trajectory of it just in time to spot Redback, grinning as she lines up the sights.

“Oh, fuck—”

Tesla darts aside just in time to avoid being shot. They glance back at Doc, where he lays drawing in wheezing breathes and bleeding into the gutter. He’s a sitting duck— an easy mark.

“Rust!” they yell, moving back towards Doc. Why he’s their first thought is something they can worry about later. For now, they set themselves over Doc as a shield, staring Redback down. Come on then, they think. Hit me.

Redback levels her gun. From their right, Zero yells out a warning.

Then, a flash of black and green.

Rust drops like a stone. The gunshot rings in Tesla’s ears as they find themselves suddenly eye to eye with Redback, who grins so wide and maniacally it looks like it might split her face. Armstrong charges past them with a yell; on their other side, Zero drops to its knees, grabbing at Rust frantically.

“Rust, oh shit, Rust, keep your eyes open—” Zero’s head whips up. Their wide, panicked eyes fall upon Tesla near-immediately. “Tesla, fucking— fucking help him—”

It shakes them out of their stunned state right as Armstrong and Redback collide, falling in a violent clash of limbs. Blood pools around Rust, spilling from the bullet hole in his shoulder. When Tesla crouches down, pressing a hand to it in an attempt to staunch the flow, his flesh squelches sickeningly under their palm.

“Why the hell did you do that?” they murmur, then turn their focus to Zero. “Bandages or cloth. We need to stop the bleeding.”

Zero opens its mouth to reply before Roo is crashing into it full force. Tesla instinctively scans the area for Saltie, only to see him face down in the street, blood pooling around his head. From this distance, they can’t tell if he’s alive or not.

“Tessie!”

The nickname makes them flinch, but they turn all the same, shooting their spare reserves of electricity directly at Roo and missing. They can worry about all of that later though, when Zero isn’t straining against Roo to throw something in Tesla’s direction— a decent chunk of cloth scrap, clearly torn clean off of Roo’s shirt.

It falls short. Tesla doesn’t dare move away from Rust to try and reach for it.

There’s a snapping sound. Zero screams. Roo laughs.

In amongst the trees, Armstrong straightens up, turning his focus back into the cul-de-sac as he wipes smeared blood off his helmet. They can’t see Redback anymore.

Tesla shuts their eyes as a crunching, tearing sort of sound comes from the direction of Roo and Zero. Zero’s screaming. They don’t. stop. screaming.

“C’mon, Rust, stay with me,” they murmur. “Just a little longer.”

Then he moves.

Barely. Weakly, even. But it’s enough to shock Tesla into opening their eyes.

“Hey.” Rust’s voice is raspy. As weak as his movements were. He lifts a hand, fingers stretching for Tesla’s face. They catch his hand in their own instead.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

Rust’s brow creases. “Couldn’t let you get hurt.”

Tesla stares at him incredulously. “I’m being fucking serious, Rust. What do you want from me? What’s your angle?”

“Jus’ want you to be safe.” Rust’s voice wavers. His eyes threaten to close.

Tesla digs their fingers into his wound. “Hey. Stay awake.”

Rust smiles slightly, his grip on their hand loosening. “Sorry,” he says, and his eyes fall shut. Tesla curses under their breath.

“Hey. Hey. Don’t you fucking die on me.”

Armstrong barrels past them, shouldering into Roo with reckless abandon. It’s enough that Zero slips free, sobbing and battered, bloodied and missing chunks, with a compound fracture in its left leg. Regardless of impairment, they snatch up the cloth and drop back down beside Tesla. It tears the material into rough strips and shoves it at Tesla. They let go of Rust’s hand to snatch the material from them.

“Put your hand where mine is,” they order. “Stop the blood flow until I can bandage it.”

Zero looks terrified, but they do what they’re told. Somewhere to their right, Roo hits the pavement, unconscious— or possibly dead. They can’t tell, and don’t have the time to try to. Armstrong nudges Tesla a moment later, holding something small and black and shiny towards them.

An earpiece.

Tesla takes it without even thinking about it, shoving it haphazardly into their ear before focusing back on the task at hand. As they gently nudge Zero aside to start the first wrappings, they hear it.

“—Roo? Status report.”

“Hello, Dingo,” they say smoothly, not slowing for even a second.

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Don’t remember me?” Tesla shifts Rust with a little effort, cursing under their breath when they spot the exit wound in the back of his shoulder, and redouble their resolve. “You wanted my inventions so badly I was sure it wouldn’t slip your mind, small as it is.”

“Tesla.” Dingo laughs. It’s a shrill thing that blows out the tiny little speaker, distorting the sound. “Of course it’s you.”

“You’re going to listen to me very, very carefully, Dingo, you hear me?” They tie off the makeshift bandaging around Rust’s shoulder and try to ignore the way he’s already starting to bleed through it. “If you send your Pack after any of us ever again, I will personally hunt you down. I don’t care how many years it takes, how many leads I have to chase— I will find you, and I will kill you, understand?”

“You little—”

“Oh, and Dingo?” Tesla pulls the earpiece out and speaks directly into it. “Go fuck yourself.”

Then they crush it between their fingers.

Tesla stumbles back into the house with Zero leaned on them for support. Armstrong carries both Rust and Doc, the latter of which has begun to stir.

He sets Doc on the couch. Chirps softly at Tesla, who nods and watches him carry Rust down the hallway.

They’ll follow later. For now, they get Zero to sit and eye off the bone protruding out of their left leg. Every other injury is something they can effectively ignore, but that one needs some degree of care, lest it risk infection or further injury.

“Hold still,” they say. “This isn’t going to be pleasant. I’m going to need a knife.”

Zero groans, stretching their leg out. “Just make it quick, please.”

Tesla nods and darts into the kitchen. It’s hardly ideal, but they snatch up one of the smaller ones from the knife block and hurry back. To its credit, Zero holds mostly still as they make incisions, careful of the muscle and sinew and nerves.

It’s tedious work. Zero’s blood makes everything slicker and more awkward to handle, but they manage, pressing the bone back into place and holding it there just long enough for Zero’s body to register it and begin the healing process.

“Thanks,” Zero says. There’s sweat beading on their forehead, muscles all tense from holding still, hands balled into the cushions.

Tesla wipes their own brow, smearing blood in its wake. “Don’t mention it.”

They clean up as quickly as possible. Rinse the blood from the knife, then from their own hands, and hurry down the hall to Rust’s room.

He’s semi-tucked under the covers. Still breathing. Tesla snatches up the old, beat-up chair at his desk and moves it to his bedside, taking his hand so they can set their fingertips over his pulse.

“I’m here,” they say quietly. “Rust, I’m here.”

Chapter Text

The night crawls by slowly. Tesla falls asleep twice, but never for more than a precious few minutes before they’re startling back awake, panic setting in all over again. It only subsides when they fumble their way to pressing their index and middle finger back to the inside of Rust’s wrist to feel his pulse beat there, weak yet steady.

He flat-lines at 5:17am. Tesla feels it happen, right under their fingertips. They scramble to set their shaking hands over his chest, drawing in a breath to steady themselves before pulling from their own electricity supply to administer a shock. His body spasms, scarily limp, but Tesla just presses their hand to the side of his neck, sliding up until they feel his pulse thump in reply and sink back into their chair with palpable relief.

At 7:42am, Doc enters the room, limping but otherwise healed. There’s an understanding sort of air about him when he looks at them.

“You should get some rest,” he says gently. “I can keep watch over him.”

Tesla’s grip on Rust’s wrist tightens minutely. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Doc visibly softens. Suddenly, he looks so, so much older — and more exhausted than he ever seems to have let on before. “I’ll bring you something to eat, then.”

They try to thank him, but the words stick in their throat. Emotion floods them, a thick and heavy thing that has them stretching out a hand. Doc takes it without hesitation, looking as if he’s about to say something before the Bond snaps firmly into place. There’s a rush of affection that hits Tesla, hard and fast as a tidal wave, and Doc is beaming at them a second later.

Neither of them say anything. They don’t need to. Doc’s presence sits in the back of their mind soothingly, calm and centred even when he leaves the room, and Tesla simply tries to take it in. Marvels at the feel of it. Taps out the rhythm of Rust’s pulse with their free hand and silently wills him to wake up.

By noon, Rust seems more or less stable. Still unconscious, but his body has done the work, healing the bullet wound in his shoulder more or less neatly. Tesla finds themselves leaning over to lightly trace the scar with their fingertips and wishing they could have done more.

Armstrong forces them out an hour later. Expresses, in his own way, that they need a break, even if just for an hour or so. Tesla begrudgingly agrees, if only because they know he won’t let them say no.

So they go to find Zero.

It’s still in the living room, perched on the couch with its leg stretched out. Compound fractures are a lot to recover from, even for their species, and Tesla isn’t entirely shocked to see there’s still an open wound where they’d had to cut into them the prior day.

“Healing okay?” they ask softly.

“Yeah.” Zero blinks at them. “Thanks again.”

“That’s alright.”

They tuck themselves into the corner of the couch. Far enough away that they don’t risk accidentally bumping Zero’s healing injuries; close enough that they can talk.

“Earlier, you called me…” Tesla starts, then pauses to steel themselves, spitting the nickname like it’s poison. “Tessie. In future, don’t call me that.”

Zero squints a little. It’s clearly refraining from pushing further, from asking why, because Tesla’s reasoning isn’t a puzzle to be solved but that fact doesn’t stop the itch of curiosity. “What can I call you, then?”

“My name.” Tesla takes a breath. “Or, well… Doc calls me Tes, sometimes. I suppose if you have to go with some sort of nickname, that one… Isn’t the worst.”

“Tes,” they repeat softly. “I like that.”

Something soft and warm and achingly fond settles in Tesla’s chest. It’s admittedly nice, even as every passing second away from Rust’s side prolongs the worry that he might die in their absence; but they trust Armstrong wholeheartedly. He won’t let anything happen to Rust, not under his watch.

So Tesla seizes the moment.

Clumsily.

“Can I…”

The words won’t come. They’ve never asked before. With Armstrong, they hadn’t even known it happened; with Doc, it was a wordless exchange. Somehow, for Zero, both those approaches seem like a terrible idea.

“Can I Bond with you?” is what they end up saying. It comes out rushed and a little higher-pitched with nerves.

“You want to?” 

And the nerves melt in an instant, because Zero sounds hopeful. Excited, even.

“Yeah,” they say, holding out their hand, “I want to.”

And Zero takes it.

It’s strange, to be Bonded.

And not just to one other individual, but to three. Three tombsonas whose presence now sits in the back of their mind, each distinctive and ever-there. Despite the comfort they offer, all Tesla can bring themselves to do is sit in Rust’s room.

Sometimes, they hold his hand. Sometimes they just sit there. Regardless, they stay.

The days stretch and warp together. They can’t tell how long it’s been. Too long.

But he doesn’t wake up.

Tesla turns every interaction they’ve had over in their mind, his hand gripped firmly in theirs. They study them from every angle, trying to find a motive. Trying to place when and where they became someone he was willing to die for.

None of it makes sense. Their mind may be invaluable, their inventions timeless, but Rust hadn’t been protecting those. He’d been protecting them.

Exhaustion tugs at Tesla all at once. They sink down in the chair, eyes closed, still unable to make sense of any of it. 

They slump lower and lower, mind going fuzzy around the edges with sleep, and then—

“Hi.” 

Rust’s voice is thick and gravelly. Tesla’s head shoots up, suddenly wide awake; they drop his hand, instinctively reaching for his face, pivoting only at the last second to feel for his pulse just below his jawline instead.

“You’re alright,” they breathe, then collapse back into their chair. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Rust blinks. “Huh?”

“You were hurt!” Tesla grips at their own forearm until their knuckles go white with the force of it. “You were shot.”

“You were going to be shot,” he argues, pushing himself up sit. To his credit, he only mildly winces when the position change tugs at the fresh skin and scarring on his shoulder. 

“You don’t know that.”

“What, are you fucking immune to bullets? She had a gun! Aimed at you! What else was I meant to do?”

“Not get fucking shot?” Tesla drops their gaze. “You could have died. You fucking flat-lined.”

“Hey.” Rust’s voice is gentler; coaxing, even. It’s enough to get them to look at him again. “Promise it takes more than a bullet to keep me down.”

“Fuck you,” Tesla snaps, and promptly bursts into tears.

“Shit.” Rust swings his legs over the side of the bed. He shouldn’t be moving, not yet, but he does anyway. He pauses just in front of Tesla, flexing his fingers in an internal debate with himself until he seemingly decides against reaching for them without warning. “I’m sorry, alright? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

They reach for him. Grip at his hand with enough force to shatter any mortal being’s bones; Rust takes it without so much as a whimper of pain. Their other hand stretches up, past his bare chest until their fingertips brush the scarring on his shoulder.

“I’m here. I’m here, Tes.”

They stay like that for a long while. Eventually, Tesla’s sobs trail off into pathetic little sniffles, and they kick at his foot lightly.

“Asshole. That wasn’t even a proper apology.”

“‘Cause I didn’t mean it,” he says. “I don’t regret what I did.”

“Asshole,” Tesla emphasises, wiping at their eyes with a hand. Rust moves then, cradles their face gently and brushes his thumb over their cheekbone to catch the tears that still collect there. They stare up at him, wide-eyed, and he suddenly jolts back.

“Sorry,” he whispers. Tesla just stares at him for a moment longer, the warmth from his palms lingering.

“I haven’t been very nice to you, have I?”

Rust takes a moment to process their words before he’s laughing. “No, you haven’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Tesla says, and they mean it. “I mustn’t have been nice to be around.”

“Hey, you’re a lot of things, sparks, but I’ve always enjoyed your company.” 

Masochist, they want to say, but their heart feels like its being squeezed painfully at the sheer sincerity of his words. Instead of anything witty, their voice dips low and a little raw as they say, “I like when you call me that.”

Rust visibly softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Then they shove at him, gentle but insistent. “Get back into bed. You need rest.”

“Whatever you say, sparks.”

The nickname kindles a warm feeling in Tesla’s chest. He smiles at them, and it grows stronger; dumbly, they think, oh and grasp onto the emotion with both hands, desperate not to let it go.

Not when, this time, they think it might just be real.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Doc informs them that they’re moving. Somewhere far away, even more remote. Off the Pack’s radar.

Dinner is underscored with a melancholy. Something like loss, like grief, but not quite. Rust’s foot presses against Tesla’s under the table; they don’t pull away.

They all pack down in silence. Tesla leaves the makeshift weaponry tucked under the floorboards. It’ll either serve it’s use in someone else’s hands, or simply rust away.

They don’t sleep much. The tiny, makeshift room they’ve spent so much of the past year in feels yawning and wide without their belongings within it. Everything feels so final, in a way that makes anxiety knot deep in their chest, even if they know they’re going with the others— that they’re not being left to rot.

When the dawn light filters in through their window, they get up and pace until enough time passes that they feel it’s acceptable to slip out into the hallway. Everything is quiet. Everything is empty.

Tesla isn’t one to be sentimental. Still, it feels strange, to stand in a place they’ve been for so long, knowing it’s the last time they’ll ever see it.

Down the hall, Rust’s door creaks open. He spots Tesla near instantly, a nervous sort of smile breaking out over his face.

“Hey, Tes.” He catches them by the wrist when he gets close, and drops it just as quickly. The action paired with the way he stands, pressed to the wall to leave most of the hall unblocked, makes it abundantly clear he’s trying to make sure they don’t feel trapped, even with the simple option to enter their room right beneath their fingertips. “I, uh. I just wanted to say—”

“I know,” they interrupt, watching the way Rust sags with visible relief at being saved from having to properly voice it. “You’ve been… Quite the opposite of subtle.”

“You don’t have to—” He pauses, swallows, then speaks again. “I mean, I just… I wanted to make sure you knew. No matter your answer.”

They study him for a moment. He’s all sharp edges, scruffy in that handsome sort of way that he always is, a little jittery but shockingly casual about the entire exchange. Under the loose-fitting shirt he wears, rumpled from sleep, Tesla knows there’s still scarring on the skin of his shoulder.

And they want him. They want him so, so badly it hurts.

But it’s all terrifying, in so many ways they can’t quite explain. Everything is new, from his words down to the way they feel, so they freeze up.

“I don’t know,” they say, sounding small even to their own ears. “It’s just— We’re moving, and— and you nearly died, and so much is happening all at once—”

“Hey, hey, I said no matter your answer, sparks.” Rust bumps them gently with his shoulder. “And I meant it. So tell me where we go from here. Lay off the flirting, leave you alone, whatever. It’s your call.”

Tesla takes a moment to respond. “Just… Let everything stay the same, at least for now?”

“You got it,” he says, soft and overwhelmingly fond, and they want to kiss him. They want to kiss him more than anything in the world, but anxiety nips at their heels, tightens their chest. They’d told him to keep things the same. They can’t take the change. But the want thrums through them all the same.

“Thank you.”

Rust smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “‘Course. Anything for you.”

As the conversation turns towards breakfast and their impeding move, Tesla starts to think they might just believe he means it.

In the end, they pile everything into a moving van and travel for most of the day. Tesla drives, because they’re about the only one who knows how, and also because focusing on the road keeps their mind from wandering too much. Rust and Zero follow them on his motorcycle.

Eventually, Doc directs them to a motel. It’s old, run down, flickering lights on the sign and everything. Just for the one night, Doc says. Tesla kind of hates that he won’t let them drive the night through.

They only take out the bare minimum essentials. An old, rusted key is pressed into Tesla’s hand with a room number attached. They dutifully find their way to it, as Rust finds a secure place to park his motorcycle and Armstrong reaffirms for the thousandth time that nothing got left behind.

Tesla slips inside the building and climbs the rickety, carpeted stairs with no fuss.

The room is small. A single mattress on an aged wooden frame, a dusty desk in the corner, a television model that went out of commission twenty years ago mounted on the wall. It feels empty and wide despite it.

Sleep eludes Tesla.

They can’t get comfortable. Somewhere along the way it starts raining, a loud pattering against the thin, dirty glass pane window; then it hails, and Tesla gives up on the pretence of sleep entirely.

Dipping their hands into the currents sitting at the back of their mind, they dive into the dreams of Doc and Zero instead. Their subconscious meandering, rambling thoughts and experiences are undercut by the thrum of quiet calm from Armstrong, who is no doubt spending his resting hours reading as per always.

There’s something abstract about dreams. Nothing solid, nothing entirely tangible, like strokes of watercolour running down a canvas. Tesla spends entirely too long marvelling at the fact that they can view them in all their entirety; Zero’s bright and shining, sparking with life; Doc’s soft and muted like a sunset.

None of it makes sense to Tesla. They revel in it anyway, in simply being allowed this, in being able to plunge again and again into that winding river and trace it right to the source. Connection in its rawest form.

Sometime later, when they withdraw into themselves again and the hail has eased, they find themselves wandering the dimly-lit hall of the motel. They linger in front of each of the rooms— Armstrong’s first, then Doc’s, then Zero’s — tracing the peeling numbering with their fingertips. They hesitate outside of Rust’s, one hand raised, then their resolve hardens and they rap lightly on it with their knuckles.

Silence stretches, long and tacky and honeyed. Tesla stares at the wood grains and patches of rot until the door finally creaks open a few inches, Rust peering out through the crack.

“Shit, sparks, its like…” He pauses, the gears visibly turning in his mind before he ultimately gives up and continues with, “Really late.”

“What do you dream about?”

Rust blinks at them. “… What?”

“I can feel it with the others,” Tesla explains quickly. “But not with you.”

“You could,” he says. After a moment, he tacks on, “That’s an offer, not a demand. I can just tell you, if you want.”

Tesla shifts in place and nods, just once. Rust takes in a breath.

“I dream about a lot of things. But, mostly, I dream about you.”

The sentence drives the breath from Tesla’s lungs. They feel like they’re suddenly floundering in far too deep waters; in over their head, lost beneath the waves. They want to ask for specifics, but the way Rust is looking at them, gaze a little sharper than it had been before, they think they already know.

They swallow, hesitating. “Can I come in?”

Rust stumbles backwards, pulling the door open. He gestures a little clumsily to the now-open room with a mock little half-bow and says, “Right this way.”

Tesla snorts, rolling their eyes, mildly amused by the entire thing. Still, they step in, noting the way the space somehow feels distinctly like Rust’s, even while the peeling wallpaper and thin window is the same as their own room. Maybe it’s something to do with how he seems to dominate whatever room he’s in, charismatic without trying and easily drawing the eye — or maybe it’s simply the fact that he’s here, and suddenly Tesla isn’t so alone.

“You doing alright?” Rust asks as he shuts the door. “I mean, with, like, everything.”

For a moment, they almost lie. The words I’m fine sit on their tongue and then simply die there, leaving behind an ashy taste.

“My room feels too empty.”

It doesn’t properly explain the feeling, the words too hollow, too weak. Yet Rust visibly softens all the same. He crosses the room to the bed and peels back the sheets. He gestures, loose and sloppy but still legible, and Tesla tentatively trails after him.

“C’mere,” he says quietly. “I don’t mind sharing.”

They slip in beside him. It takes a moment to arrange themselves, the bed clearly not meant for two, but they manage, Tesla half-pressed to the wall. They barely touch, Rust leaving a careful gap between them; Tesla’s grateful for it.

“Sorry if I roll on you in the night.”

Tesla offers him a weak smile. “It’s alright. I’m sure none of this is as good as your dreams.”

“No,” Rust says seriously, “It’s better.”

They swallow, biting down on their tongue so they don’t say something stupid like I love you. Instead, they sink a little more under the covers, pressing into the pillows, and murmur, “I don’t deserve you.”

“Oh, sparks.” Rust dares reach out to briefly cup their cheek. “You deserve so much more than me.”

“Don’t wan’ more,” they mumble, exhaustion tugging them down into sleep before they can say, I just want you.

They arrive at the new house by early afternoon.

Doc leads the charge, directing what goes where, assigning everyone rooms. When he pulls Tesla aside to quietly tell them that the basement is all theirs “to ensure you have enough space for your inventions and machines”, they nearly cry. It’s quite possibly the most thoughtful gesture anyone has ever done for them in their entire life.

They don’t have even remotely enough belongings to fill the space. A bed, a desk, some spare parts. It all looks pitiful, tucked into the corner, but the open space stretching around it is inviting. Exciting, even. Itching to be filled with shelving and new ideas.

They end up back in the living room around three-thirty in the afternoon, sinking into the couch cushions. To say they’re exhausted would be an understatement; every single event they’ve lived through in their current host seems to hit them all at once.

“Tired, huh?” Rust leans over the back of the couch, a box still tucked under one arm, brushing his fingertips over Tesla’s shoulder. Fresh energy arcs up their spine like a mild static shock. They startle, wide-eyed, and he laughs.

“A little bit of me to you.” He pauses, then grins, all crooked mischief, and says, “A little bit of me in you.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Tesla twists a little awkwardly and shoves at him, but they’re grateful for the boost all the same.

“Hey, that’s a normal thing to say! You’re the one making it weird.”

“You’re meant to be unpacking,” they point out. Rust leans against the back of the couch and grins.

“I’ve got more important things to be doing, sparks.”

Tesla squints at him. “If I ask what and you follow it up with you—”

He laughs, holding his palms up in surrender, wrists twisted a little awkwardly to avoid dropping the box. “Okay, okay, you know all my tricks. Guess that means I’ll have to think of new ones.”

Then he hefts the box back into both hands and scurries away. Tesla watches him go, all warm and fond, and it suddenly strikes them just how nice it felt to have a conversation like that. Meaningless nothing. No fear, no hidden agendas.

It’s something they think they’d like to get used to.

Chapter Text

The first night in the new house, Tesla hardly sleeps. 

They’ve set the basement up so their bed is tucked into a nook, half hidden behind a shelving unit Doc had insisted they take sometime after dinner, citing their need for furniture over his own. It makes for a cozy little space, warmer than if they didn’t break up the sprawling room, but it still feels a little isolating. They lie there and count the cracks in the ceiling until the sun rises.

After breakfast, which consists of about the cheapest and easiest combination of foods possible, Tesla seeks out Doc.

He’s in his room, arranging books that look old enough to belong in some sort of museum neatly onto his bookshelf by height and vaguely by colour, though that second category seems to be less important. 

“Hey,” they say. “I might have some questions, now.”

Doc slots the book in his hands into place and then turns to face them with a smile. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, besides any possible scientific explanations for this particular biological function of ours…” Tesla leans back against the wall. “How far does it extend? In regards to physical sensation.”

Doc fixes them with a pointed stare.

“Not like that,” they scramble to clarify, their face feeling hot. “Just… Does it go beyond pain?”

“It can. But it certainly takes some focus.”

He lifts a hand to his own forearm, trailing his fingers back and forth lightly. A moment later, as if he has thrown it directly into the stream running between them, they feel it. The softness of the sensation sends gooseflesh rippling up them.

“I can push a sensation onto you,” Doc explains, ceasing the movements. “The smaller it is, the more effort it takes me. Likewise, you can reach for the feeling, like with emotions, if you know what you’re looking for.”

“Interesting.” 

They push off the wall, crossing the space. Doc stays where he is, a hint of curiosity in his expression, but otherwise there’s little else there.

“If I—” Tesla hesitates for a moment, lifting a hand. “If I touch you, then concentrate enough, in theory, I could feel that?”

“Yes.” Doc holds out his own hand, palm up. Tesla takes it.

They plunge into the stream like always. Follow the current up to Doc’s thoughts, a beautiful tranquil feeling, and then press past it. It feels like trying to force their way through molasses, sticky and thick, but they push onwards, reach deeper.

They brush against something new. Something more solid, a rock amongst the ocean. They reach out to grasp it and suddenly they’re feeling the way their hand entwines with Doc’s own not just through their own experiences, but through his too.

“Shit,” they murmur, withdrawing their hand just to see how the loss of sensation feels. “That’s… Strange.”

Doc laughs. “Yeah, that’s why none of us try tapping into physical sensations that often.”

Tesla massages at their palm with their other hand to try and loosen the phantom remaining sensations. “I have one other thing I wanted to ask still.”

Doc motions for them to go on. They swallow, taking a moment to try and gather their thoughts.

“The very foundation of a Bond is trust,” Tesla says slowly. “So how do you… How do you know?”

“When to Bond?” Doc’s eyes crinkle at the corners with the force of his smile. “Tes, you’ve already got that one figured out. You’ve done it thrice.”

“I have, but…”

“You’re afraid.”

Tesla exhales. They know Doc can feel it, that they hardly need to say it out loud, but they do anyway. “Yeah.”

“Well, I can’t tell you how to stop being afraid,” Doc says gently, “But I can tell you that he almost never stops thinking about you. It’s quite sweet, really. I’m sure if I were to tap into his thoughts now, it’d be more of the same.”

“The last time I felt like this about someone, it…” They swallow, suddenly feeling small. “It didn’t end well.”

He softens, expression kind and open. “Then my advice is to take it at your own pace. He really cares about you— I can promise you, he’s worth the chance.”

Tesla exhales. “I hope you’re right.”

The second night, Tesla doesn’t sleep at all. Exhaustion drapes over them like a woollen cloak, thick and heavy, but they can’t seem to get comfortable.

They end up in the garden. The stars are the same as those they’d looked at with Armstrong, positioned into the same constellations and patterns. They spin slowly in place, mentally naming each one, until the roof blocks their view.

That’s when they spot him. Sprawled out on the tiling, right by the edge, head tilted back, looking at the stars just like they are.

“Hey.” Tesla squints up at Rust through the barely-there moonlight. “How did you get up there?”

“Safely,” Rust says almost instantly, startling a little, his tone a bit defensive. He shuffles back away from the edge a little, as if trying to prove his point, the shingles shifting with soft clinking noises underneath him.

Tesla rolls their eyes. “I’m asking so I can join you, not scold you. Idiot.”

“Oh.” Rust pitches forwards, leaning his palms on the gutter, which creaks under his weight. He points through the lengthening shadows to one of the trees. “There, see the branch? It basically touches the roof if you climb up onto it.”

Following his instructions, they climb the tree a little less than gracefully. It’s a spindly thing, bark flaky and cracking underfoot; they barely avoid slipping when they stretch across the gap, Rust reaching out to offer some stability until they finally collapse flat on their back onto the slope of the roof, breathing heavily.

“Safely,” they mutter mockingly. 

Rust grins down at them. “It is safe, if you’re good at climbing.”

“Hey.” Tesla props themselves up on one hand, leaning into Rust. Their shoulders press together; Tesla doesn’t flinch away. “I’m perfectly good at climbing normal things. Ladders, stairs, anything that is meant to be climbed.”

But Rust doesn’t seem to be listening anymore. He’s staring down at where their bodies meet like it’s something wondrous and new. Perhaps, in a way, it is.

“Earth to Rust.” Tesla shifts, tapping a finger against the side of Rust’s head. “You haven’t died up there, have you?”

With about as much grace and tact as a fish flopping on land, he responds with, “You’re— You’re touching me.”

“Incredible observation,” they say dryly. “Anything else you’d like to share with the class? Or are we quite done stating the obvious?”

“And I’m not dying.” Rust lifts his gaze to stare at them incredulously. “Am I dying? ‘Cause last I checked, I wasn’t, but, y’know, things have a habit of changing, and—”

“Rust.” Tesla cups his cheek with their hand, if only to get him to shut up and listen. “Calm down.”

“Yeah, uh huh, calming down,” he says, voice pitching higher in a way that only suggests the opposite. “Sooooooo so calm.”

And Tesla laughs, dropping their head onto his shoulder. Rust tenses for a moment, then he’s laughing too.

“Idiot,” Tesla says affectionately once they’ve collected themselves, leaning back to lightly punch him in the shoulder. Rust beams at them as if they’ve just given him the world’s greatest compliment.

The two of them lapse into a comfortable silence. Tesla tilts their head up to look at the stars again. 

Unlike with Armstrong, they find the innate yearning for the cosmos is dampened. There’s few places they’d rather be than here, with Rust, even if the biting chill of the night seems to slowly seep into their bones.

Their gaze slides to Rust. The flare of green hits them, and for a moment they think of someone else like that, tall and handsome, eyes shadowed by the hat it always wears, but then the moment passes. Still, the memories linger, and the need to voice them, to tell someone wholly and fully, bubbles up in their throat.

“I wasn’t always alone.” Tesla’s voice comes out a little strained, low and quiet yet all too loud in the cool, still night air. “I… Knew someone. A long time ago. I thought… I thought it wanted me. It said it wanted me.”

Rust seems to take a moment to digest the information, then lightly nudges Tesla with his shoulder. “But?”

“But it wanted this.” Tesla taps the side of their own head lightly. “My ideas. My inventions. And it… Well, it took me over a decade to learn that.”

“That’s why you were so sure I wanted something out of you,” Rust murmurs. It suddenly feels like Tesla’s throat is closing over.

“That wasn’t fair on you.”

“Wasn’t fair on me?” Rust looks incredulous. A scowl tugs at his features as he continues, “Tes, whoever it was that— that did that to you, it’s to blame. I mean, that’s— that’s fucked up, y’know? And I—”

Rust cuts himself off, his hands balling into fists, shifting a little so they’re no longer touching. He’s tensed, visibly shaking, and it takes Tesla a moment to place it as rage. They reach for his wrist, slipping their fingers downwards until Rust’s hand relaxes and Tesla can take it in their own.

“It’s… It’s okay,” they manage. “I have you now.”

He stares down at their joined hands for a long moment, that anger conflicting with sheer wonder, as if Tesla has just given him the entire world with one single, simple action. “You do have me,” he says, all soft and quiet. “All of me. In whatever way you want me.”

“I know,” they say, voice dipping into something a little fond.

“And if anyone tries to hurt you,” he presses on, tone hardening, “Then you can tell me, and I swear, sparks, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

“Okay,” Tesla says, pressing their shoulders back together. They believe him; they know he means it.

They lapse back into silence again. When Tesla starts to shiver, Rust pulls open his jacket, holding out an arm; they bundle in close, leeching off the warmth that always seems to radiate from him. Finally, they climb back down, Rust tripping on his way to the door and barely catching himself.

Tesla laughs. Rust shoves at them playfully before they slip back inside. They divert into their own rooms in the hall, Rust offering them a quiet “g’night, sparks” before he moves away.

They still can’t sleep.

But everything feels a lot brighter than before.

Chapter Text

The third day in the new house, Zero’s Switch malfunctions again.

Tesla sits them down in the living room a little tiredly, tools splayed out on the carpeted floor. Zero peers over their shoulder, hovering almost stiflingly close.

“You know how data flows, yes?” Tesla pokes at the motherboard with a finger. “Everything it passes through is connected to this. Think of it like a puzzle. All the pieces come together to make the bigger picture.”

Zero squints. “… It seems complicated.”

“Let me put it this way. You ingest food to fuel your body. Same principle. Everything flows from here—” Tesla gestures to the battery, “And through the rest of the systems to power it.”

“Not the same.” Zero taps the other end of the battery lightly. “This connects back in. That doesn’t happen with food, Tes.”

“It’s not a perfect metaphor, but I’m trying to—” They cut themselves off with a frustrated hiss. “You’re not stupid, Zero, I know you can learn this.”

It hesitates for a moment, drawing in an audible breath, then says, “Yeah, I probably could, but… Hardware is your thing. Software is mine.”

Tesla stares at them for a long moment. “Don’t you want to know how to do it yourself?”

“I mean…” Zero shrugs. “I’ve got you. And you enjoy it way more than I ever could. I don’t mind waiting a day or two if you’re busy, I just… I’d like to let you do it.”

They take a moment to try and digest the information. The weight of trust inherent to it, the dependability, all of it. If Zero wanted, it could learn the ins and outs of hardware in a heartbeat; Tesla knows this as well as they know themselves. Zero’s genius is almost enough to rival Tesla’s own, after all. But they simply choose not to.

Because they know that Tesla enjoys the work.

They lean backwards into Zero gently. “You’re a moron.”

“Y’know, Rust keeps saying the same thing.” Zero grins, slinging an arm loosely around Tesla. “But you’re aaaaaaall stuck with me. Foreverrrrrr.”

Tesla elbows them just under the ribs. “Moron,” they emphasise as Zero lets out a low oof sound.

“So, can you fix it?” It asks, propping its chin up on Tesla’s shoulder, seemingly unphased.

“‘Course I can. If you get off me.”

Zero simply readjusts, seemingly getting comfortable. “Better?”

Tesla rolls their eyes, but picks up their tools again anyway. “No. But I’ll make do.”

Night brings no more sleep than the last two did. 

Sometime past midnight, Tesla resigns themselves to wandering the house on too-tired legs. Everything is bathed in deep shades of purple and blue, shadows stretching through halls that are not quite yet familiar. Some small, selfish part of them aches for the house they’d had before; an even smaller, uglier, more irrational part of them yearns for someone who never cared for them to begin with.

It’s strange, to stand on wooden floorboards, staring in the moonlit-bathed bathroom, light glinting off the cool metal of the shower head, and realise that they’re home. That the place is theirs as much as it is the others, that they don’t need to worry about their next meal or where they’ll have to go from here.

Like the motel, though, everything feels too vast. Too empty. 

Maybe it’s simply a quirk of new Bonds. Maybe it’s the years upon years of careful isolation finally catching up to them. Either way, the pit of loneliness opens up in their chest like falling asleep— slowly, and then all at once.

They stumble back down the hall. Like the motel, they find themselves at Rust’s door. This time, they don’t hesitate. They don’t even knock.

The door swings open quietly under their hand. Rust’s room is dark, sparsely decorated with some collectables and a laptop that’s surely seen better days. He stirs near-instantly. Even through the dim light, Rust looks tense, like he’s expecting some sort of fight.

Tesla raises a hand in an awkward little half-wave. “Hey.”

Rust relaxes and blinks sleepily at them through the darkness, wiping drool from his chin. Somehow, even like this, he’s devastatingly handsome. “Too empty?” he asks, then, for clarification, adds, “Like the motel?”

That ache settles into Tesla all at once; deep-seated longing that shatters any hesitation they’d had. Not like the motel, they think, but all they croak out is, “Yeah.”

Rust lifts the blanket invitingly. Tesla darts across the room, slipping in beside him, feeling the tension leech from them in an instant. They press in close to him without hesitation, ducking their head to rest it on his chest.

“Not so much, then,” Rust murmurs with soft realisation. He slings an arm over them carefully. “Stay as long as you’d like.”

Forever? they think, but don’t say, because they already know what his answer would be. Instead, they make themselves comfortable.

Rust leans over and turns off the lamp.

Tesla wakes later than usual, thanks to two and a bit nights of almost no sleep, still rested against Rust’s chest. He’s already up, head propped a little awkwardly against the headboard, one hand idly trailing up Tesla’s spine and across their shoulders in meaningless patterns, phone in the other as he scrolls some social media site they’re too tired to try and place. It feels awfully domestic.

“Morning,” they mumble, voice thick with sleep.

Rust peers down at them, smiling all soft and fond. “Morning, baby. Get your beauty rest?”

Tesla’s mind whirrs to catch up with his words. “… Baby?”

“Yeah, I— Do you not like it?”

“Nah, jus’…” They yawn, stretching a little, willing their brain to wake up faster. “It’s new.”

“I mean, I figured—” He pauses, slides his hand up to rest gently at the back of their neck. “We’re… Together, right?”

Tesla blinks, a little thrown by the blunt question. The room feels small and isolated, sweetness curling at the edges, as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of them and nothing else. They like the feeling. They like this.

“Yeah,” they say softly. “We are.”

Rust breaks out into the brightest smile. Wide and genuine, so much joy it feels damn near infectious. They want to kiss him. They want to kiss him so incredibly badly. So they wriggle out of his hold to sit up, watching the way the smile slowly melts into an expression of something like mild curiosity. Maybe a hint of concern.

Tesla takes Rust’s hand and draws in a breath. Rust reacts the same way he does anything, like it’s the first time all over again, struggling to stifle a smile that threatens to stretch across his entire face to keep himself serious. It takes a few moments before they can get themselves to move, twisting to face him properly, other hand coming up to rest gently along his jawline. His patchy facial hair scratches at their palm. Their heart jackhammers in their chest.

“Can I…?” They swallow, not quite able to force the words out. Rust’s eyes go wide.

“You— You’re sure?” His free hand comes up to tentatively press over Tesla’s, as if holding it in place. “I mean, you want to?”

“Yeah.”

Rust looks at them with wonder; something incredulous, mixed with so much awe it feels staggering. It’s raw and painful and real. “As long as you’re sure. You— You don’t have to—”

“Rust?” Tesla says, surprising even themselves with how steady their own voice sounds, “Shut up.”

To his credit, he listens. Tesla hesitates for only a moment longer before leaning in. Everything about it is gentle, Rust tilting his head ever-so-slightly to get the angle right. The anxiety thrumming through Tesla’s very being reaches a fever pitch and then drops away entirely, replaced with the clumsy way they slot together, the awkwardness of how Tesla sits uncomfortable in a way that’s grounding, that makes everything feel far more real than it ever could’ve before.

Then Rust breaks out into a bright, wide smile, one that has him shifting back a little as it all but breaks the kiss entirely. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, bumping his forehead against theirs, “Just… You kissed me.”

“I would still be, if you didn’t ruin it,” Tesla complains, but there’s a gentle, warm, achingly fond feeling settling into their chest. Rust just laughs, turning to press a kiss to their wrist in silent apology, still smiling. 

They move, swinging a leg over him to settle into his lap before leaning in to kiss him again. Harder this time, with more intent, pressing him back down into the pillows. He makes a little startled noise, but melts into it in a way that Tesla can feel. He slips a hand up to their cheek a moment later, gently nudging them backwards to give him enough space to speak.

“Sure you don’t wanna slow down a bit, sparks?”

Tesla leans back, sitting upright in his lap, one hand on his chest to balance themselves. “Do you?”

“Just wanted to make sure this is what you want,” he says.

“What I want,” Tesla says, leaning back down until they’re sharing the same air again, “Is you.”

Rust’s gaze darkens just a little bit, his voice unsteady when he says, “Yeah, okay. You’ve got me.”

Tesla leans down. The way they kiss is a little frantic, verging on desperate; they peel away to mouth at the side of his neck, fumbling with the hem of his shirt until they can slip a hand underneath it to press to his bare skin. Rust lets out a breathy little gasp.

“This okay?” he asks quietly a moment later, hands hovering over Tesla’s hips but not quite touching. In answer, they shift to kiss him fiercely again; in the very same instant the Bond snaps violently into place. Rust gasps, pulling back to stare at them, lifting his hands to cup their face.

“Tesla, oh my gods, Tesla, Tesla.” His hands shake. There’s tears forming in the corners of his eyes; Tesla can feel it. They can feel all of it.

“Hey,” they say, before any other words stick in their throat. There’s nothing they can say, caught in the feedback loop of emotion cycling back and forth between the two of them.

“I love you,” Rust says desperately. As if Tesla can’t feel it. As if they don’t know; as if it’s not all that they can feel, waves upon waves of such strong affection it’s damn near overwhelming. 

“I…” Tesla swallows. It comes out shaky and weak, but they manage, “I love you too. And I… I trust you.”

Rust stares at them for a long moment then surges up to kiss them harshly. He’s crying, sobbing into their mouth, but Tesla is hardly faring any better, so neither of them care. They slide their hand around and up his back, pressing it between his shoulder blades, keeping him close.

When he finally calms, tears drying on his cheeks, his hand slides down to settle half under their chin as he murmurs, “What did I do to get to have you?”

Tesla doesn’t have the capacity to put it into words. They’ve lived more life than most other beings on this planet ever could, learned and seen more than one could even comprehend, and yet words still fail them.

They kiss him instead. Soft and slow and full of everything they can’t voice. One of his hands falls to their waist, urging them closer.

“Remember the night you found me?” Tesla barely pulls back; just enough to speak. “You took me on your motorcycle.”

“Y-yeah.” Rust sounds as unsteady as he looks. Tesla presses in close to him, rolls their hips downwards just to hear him whine, all light and breathy and full of so, so much restraint.

Leaning in close by his ear, they whisper, “How about this time, I take you for a ride?”

Chapter Text

Cogs.

                            Gears.

                                                       Machinery.

                                                                                           A humming that’s all it’s ever known.

                                                                                                                                                                                        Fog.

                                                                                                                                                                 A voice.

                                                                                       Familiar. Creeping. Ancient.

              One it’s known its entire life.

“Soon,” the voice promises, purring. “So soon.”

                                                                                                                    Humming.

                                                                                                                                                  Silence.