Apex Legends One-Shots

Right as Rain (Fuse x Bloodhound)

Bloodhound shifted from foot to foot in the elevator, anxiously waiting to reach the 12th floor. They stared at their reflection in the mirrored walls. Today, they had foregone the full helm and wore only their goggles and respirator. Their hair was artfully braided back away from their face, the rest allowed to cascade loose over their shoulders in an auburn wave.

It wasn't often that they dressed so informally - jeans and a T-shirt topped with a hoodie, but usually, when they came here, they felt at ease. Recently though, worry had been gnawing at them, not permitting them to relax. Walter had been slow to answer their messages the past few weeks, and the last two days there had been no response at all.

They more than most understood the need for space, time alone to recharge through reflection and meditation. However, this was unlike the man they knew and had grown fond of - he was many things, but quiet was not one of them. With the recent addition of Mad Maggie to the Games, the timing was no coincidence.

The elevator slowed and dinged, opening to a short hallway lined with potted ferns. They approached the door at the end of the hall, crouching to touch the neglected plants. Their tiny leaves had begun to turn brown and curl from thirst, leaves shaking free at their gentle prodding.

Bloodhound stood and knocked on the door, three taps with their bare knuckles, and waited. When there was no answer, they leaned closer to the door to listen. The noise of a TV was audible, faint, but present. Harder this time, they rapped their clenched fist against the metal.

"Walter," they said loudly. "Let me inside."

They heard the clicks of locks being unlatched, the deadbolt sliding. The door opened inward and Walter leaned against the frame heavily. He ran his hand through his unkempt hair, greasy and unwashed, before sliding it down to rub his cheeks, shadowed from lack of shaving.

"Hey, Houndy," he said, his voice rough, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Bloodhound grimaced at the sight of him. The bags under his brown eyes were deep - late nights or poor sleep, perhaps both - and the white tank top that he wore looked sweat-stained as if he had worn it for several days. The same could be said for his blue flannel pajama pants, marked with a caked-on splotch likely from spilled food.

"Walter," they said, reaching their hands up to cup his face. They brushed their thumbs lightly over the tops of his stubbly cheeks. "What has happened to you, krúttið mitt?"

Walter lifted his hand and placed it over one of Bloodhound's, leaning into it. "It's been a rough coupla weeks." He stepped back to allow them in, then closed and locked the door behind them. "Didn't mean to worry ya."

Bloodhound looked around the apartment in dismay. His couch was covered in crumpled-up blankets and a pillow. The coffee table in front of the TV was littered with beer cans. In the kitchen, the recycling bin was overflowing with even more crushed cans and empty pizza boxes.

"Sorry - the place is kind of a mess now," he gestured helplessly.

"You have not cared for yourself as you should," they accused gently, cocking their head to the side.

"Reckon I haven't." He shrugged and scratched the back of his neck. His gaze rested on the dirty couch and he frowned. "Just gotta pull myself together. I'll be right as rain before ya know it."

They knew the man better than this by now. The pain in his face was clear to see, the tension in the corner of his eyes, the line on his brow, the tightness of his mouth. "How long has it been since you last washed?"

Walter pulled a face, trying to make light of the question. "Too long, prob'ly. Why, can ya smell me that strongly through all that?" He motioned towards their respirator, raised his arm, and lowered his head to his armpit. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.