We Break So Beautiful

To say that Mitchell had complicated feelings about his prosthetic arm was an understatement.

It had been the plan to eventually get a prosthetic, once the military combed through his medical insurance to find out what he could actually afford, which likely wasn't much. When Will's dad approached him at the funeral, and offered him a way out of the hole of misery he had dug himself into, Mitchell lunged at the opportunity. The chance to have a prosthetic that was functional at a military level, was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and so Mitchell knew his answer was yes, even as Mr. Irons was handing over the card.

Mitchell thought nothing would compare to the searing pain of having his arm blown off and his body tossed onto the ground like a rag doll. But he severely underestimated the amount of pain that the surgery entailed.

A fully functional prosthetic. Not a simple on-and-off job. A graft that surpassed the strength and dexterity of a normal human arm. Hours of reconstructive surgery. Days of nerve regeneration. Weeks of testing. Months of physiotherapy

It glitched. The first simulation he ran with his new commanding officer, Gideon, it glitched. It was fucking embarassing.

He wanted to refuse the hand that Gideon offered, but knew that throwing a temper tantrum wasn't the best impression either. So Mitchell reached up with his good remaining arm: the one with real skin, that still pumped red blood, and had all of its original nerves, and grasped Gideon's, accepting the offer of help.

He could feel the strength, the tenseness of the older man's muscles as he heaved Mitchell upwards. And the warmth. Oh, the warmth. Mitchell's fingers twitched involuntarily as a brief mental image of running his hand along those forearms, helping to ease the tension, shot through his mind. Mitchell shook his head, trying to banish that thought from his mind as he forced himself to let go of Gideon, prying himself away from that warmth.

It was a comfort that he had no business taking.

But after the technicians fixed the glitch, repairing his hand with a few quick lines of code, it was Gideon that took Mitchell's hand in his. Running his fingers along the palm of Mitchell's prosthetic, carefully turning it over to check the joints and then carefully, but firmly, wrapping his hands around Mitchell's, making sure it could close tightly. Gideon then let go, patting Mitchell on the back and leading the way to the firing range.

Of course Gideon had to make sure his arm was in working order, Mitchell told himself as he followed after the other man, having to break into a jog a couple times to keep up. And it's not like he could feel the other man's touch. Not really. For all the time and effort spent on nerve regeneration, the sensation in his hand and forearm were still greatly diminished. It was more pressure that he could feel, not texture or temperature. But he could have swore that Gideon's hands lingered longer than they needed to...even if he didn't know why.

*

Over the next couple years with ATLAS, Mitchell slowly got more used to the feel of Gideon's hands.

At first, it had been a simple pat here, a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, or a congratulatory hug at the end of a mission, but over time, the touches came more frequently, each more daring. A hand on his lower back when squeezing past him in the kitchen, touching of thighs while watching a movie, the offer to massage a sore muscle, and so forth.

Mitchell loved them all. He tried to not be too reactive, but he couldn't help but lean into each and every touch, chasing the warmth that Gideon shared, the comfort he offered.

Mitchell prided himself on being a great observer, able to decipher other people's motivations and actions, and adjust to meet changing situations in the field, but the first time he found himself pressed up against the wall, Gideon's mouth on his, he realized that his observation skills could use some more work.