hi yall im just gonna. crosspost this from ao3 and tumblr. all smooth like. yeah.
there isn't a character tag for literally both characters in here so /shrug just gotta work with what i got i guess (big shoutout to ffn's nonexistent tagging system)
It's his scarf.
Time stops, slows to a crawl, and Gadget feels the oxygen in his lungs spill out, burst his lungs open, Jell-O flooding in where there used to be sweet, sweet air so that his chest jiggles and shudders every time he tries to breathe in. It's no use, to breathe, there's no conceivable way, not when that little strip of fabric caught his eye out of the thousands of gallons of fire raining from the sky, and now he can't look anywhere else. The scarf, his scarf, is right there, it's so close, and it's on him, but the wrong him, a different him.
It's his scarf.
Infinite is wearing his scarf.
It's for you!
Gadget sees the scarf, he sees Infinite wearing the scarf, and he freezes, blood ice cold and bones brittle, feet stuck to the ground, soles five feet under, hooked beneath the concrete and dragging him down. He can't hear anything; it's all white noise, the static of a television.
The scarf fits so neatly around his neck, under his chin, beneath the mask. White, pristine, a shining beacon amongst the dirt and scratches and strange blips and tears pulling apart his body. He stands there, menacing, and Gadget can't stop looking at his scarf, can't stop thinking about how he can't find a single imperfection on it.
Does he know? Does he remember?
There's a chill down his spine, a shaking, like a leaf, and when he looks up from his neck to his face he sees Infinite staring right back at him.
...What am I looking at?
Dude! It's a scarf!
You sure about that?
Hey!
Gadget doesn't know what to do. Everything's upside down and the weapon in his hand stings, burns, sizzles against his palm, his own body rejecting the notion of holding it up and taking aim. Attacking felt wrong; staring felt wrong; the distance between them felt wrong. Gadget should be by his side. They should be together. One unit, not two. Not separate.
Just pulling your leg. I love it.
He wishes, as he stares into the one eye not obscured by the mask, the one pool of gold, the one organic and real, living, breathing remnant of his friend, that he could just close that gap and slap him, smack the nonsense out of him, rip the jewel off his chest and chuck it away, far away, where it can't hurt him anymore, bury his face into his chest and sob, scream. He wants that, wants to show him his hurt and show him how stupid this all is, but he knows that's a death wish. There's no point. He sees no solace in that eye; the smacking and screaming and crying would only earn him a kick to the side, not the gentle combing through his fur that he clung to in his memories, in his dreams.
At the very least, he wants the scarf back.
—
"It's for you!" The cotton spills over his fingers as Gadget slaps it on his hand, eyes brighter than moonshine and smile filled with crinkles and mirth.
He looks down, looks at the even weave, the little squares one over the other making up the fabric's texture, the way it, the cotton, brushes against the fur on his wrist where it pools out of his hand, fluffy and expansive and probably far too warm for late September weather, and for a moment he's not sure what he's looking at.
"Gadget. Buddy. Quick question."
"Yeah?"
"...What exactly am I looking at?"
"Dude!" Gadget says, hand clutched to his chest in a faux display of hurt. "It's a scarf!"
"Are you sure?"
"Hey!"
He cuts in before Gadget can say anything else—the way his eyes scrunch up, the way his nose twitches just a little, the furious wagging of tail, these are all signs that he's about to launch off on a tangent—by placing a hand on his shoulder, soft, stopping Gadget with a feather's touch. "Just pulling your leg. I love it."
The tension between Gadget's brows washes away, the sun filling his smile until its brilliance near blinds him. "Really?"
"Of course."
He wants to say something else, to thank him, but his heart leaps out of his mouth when Gadget pulls him into a hug, senses flooded with everything Gadget, the smell of raspberries on Gadget's breath, the mint tickling the tips of his fur from the soap he uses.
He huffs, small, indiscreet, and rests his cheek on Gadget's shoulder. He can always thank him later. For now, this is more than enough.