promptfic: uldren/jolyon, silent

[sword_logic]

Jolyon's fingertips graze the inside of his wrist. The touch is startlingly intimate, and Uldren looks at him in surprise before the touch turns into something more familiar.

time-query-amount, Jolyon taps in code. How long?

Uldren reaches over with his other hand and replies against the last knuckle of Jolyon's trigger finger, left bare by his glove. He's watched that finger squeeze the trigger so many times. They’ve never touched like this before.

1.3-sidereal-Iris, he replies. One hour, twenty minutes since the last transmission.

He’s lost track of how long they’ve been here, huddled together in a tiny crack in the ground. Their combined body heat isn't enough to set off any sensors the Fallen might have, but they're draped in baffling cloaks anyways, shoulders pressed comfortably together to ward off the chill. Their tiny sensor array has been dutifully capturing encrypted transmissions sent between Wolfships, storing them until Iris falls – or is held – or something gives – and he and Jolyon can crawl back to the surface and let the Crows feast on more data. They don’t need much more to break the encryption.

Jolyon is looking down at their hands, Uldren still with one arm crossed over his stomach, and something about his gaze burns. Unlike the princely and composed image he presents so often, Uldren feels his mouth go dry, his pulse beating odd and hollow, everything in his veins awry.

Pointless. Pointless. Jolyon’s only here out of obligation. Clearly. Wind howls across the cave mouth, setting off an ear-splitting shriek as it blows at just the right angle to sound some discordant note. Neither he nor Jolyon flinch, not exactly, but Uldren finds himself pressed closer and not by his doing. He nearly opens his mouth to say something, play it off as he usually does, but the press of duty stills the air in his lungs.

Jolyon is watching him carefully. Uldren wonders what he sees when they’re alone like this. Whether he sees a prince, or Mara's brother, or the Master of Crows, or something else entirely. He’s never been less sure of the answer than now, with Jolyon looking at him like this. Close. Wind and rock howling around them.

query-open, Uldren taps. Unsure. Not wanting to overstep. Not wanting to miss anything.

you, Jolyon replies. It's not a real you. Just a placeholder pronominal form, waiting to be applied to something. The next morpheme left open. Jolyon's eyes lower, just slightly, and he finishes, query-polar.

repeat-clarify, Uldren says. Bites his lip in a fit of nerves. Jolyon meets his eyes briefly, then lowers them again. Adrenaline floods Uldren’s chest, drowning him.

query-polar, Jolyon repeats, with no further clarification. They’re practically sharing air now. The query is clear.

“Yes,” Uldren breathes, and he feels the air beat back warm against his own lips, and he feels Jolyon’s fingers slide against his wrist, and he feels decisive pressure against his lips like the pull of a trigger, and he feels invincible.