Page 28 of Mystic Wonderful

Lance sighed. “I know. I know, but–”

“You said yourself that prosthetics have come a long way.”

“They have. But we’ll have to see if one allows him to execute a regular drop. If he could sling one of us over his shoulder if he had to. If it’ll support his full weight if he needed–” Before Tris could protest, he held up a hand. “I like Gallo, okay? I don’t want to replace him. But we need to be prepared for every eventuality.”

The worst part was that Lance was right. Tris knew he was; a few months ago, he would have been the first person to insist that the company turn loose of a Knight who might prove a liability to himself and others. But Francis wasn’t simply a fellow Knight anymore.

When Tris had suggested to him that he might still be able to work on base, in the command center, operating a radio or acting as a Knight liaison with the army, Francis had gone white and turned his face away, throat bobbing painfully as he swallowed.

“This isn’t a fun gig,” Tris had tried, feeling helpless. “It’s just rain, and blood, and bullshit.”

Francis had blinked a few times, and then turned the fiercest look up at him, his jaw set. “I’m not going to fail before I ever got the hang of it.”

For reasons he didn’t quite understand, Francis was determined. It went beyond doing his part, or even following in his dead father’s footsteps, Tris thought: there was a need in him, a burning light, a call to prove himself, though no one had demanded it of him.

Tris didn’t see what he could do but be supportive.

Like he was trying to be now.

“Put more weight on your front foot,” he said, as Francis righted himself from another near-stumble. “You’re still balancing like you’ve got equal weight on both sides, and it’s throwing you off.”

Francis pushed sweaty hair off his forehead, nodded, and adjusted his stance.

His left arm, which ended in a now-smooth stump just past his elbow, had been declared fully healed by the doctors. He’d been given a sleeve to wear over it, for protection, and the doctor had looked grudging and unhappy when Francis had asked about returning to his workout routine – but ultimately agreed that he wasn’t going to do himself any harm hitting the treadmill, or elliptical, or even lifting weights with his remaining hand.

Francis hadn’t told the doctor about the sparring, but if it pained him at all, he hid it well.

Tris put up his hands and launched the next attack.

It was weak. He knew it was, but he didn’t care; didn’t push too hard, or move too quick, or even try to land a blow anywhere on him.

Of course, Francis noticed. He let out a frustrated growl and stalked around the edge of the mat, shaking his head. “Stop going easy on me!”

Thankfully, they were alone in the training room; it was late, well past dinner, the time they’d been taking for their own since Francis returned to regular activity. Tris had even locked the door, not liking the idea of someone coming in to gawk at the one-armed Knight trying to regain his stamina.

“I’m not,” Tris lied. Badly.

Francis shook his head some more, his smile tight and humorless. “Look, if you can’t stomach it, I’ll ask Rose to help me train.”

“Stomachit?” Tris had been surprised by the deep well of his own patience the last weeks when it came to Francis; something tender and previously untended had been coaxed to the surface in him, and he was damn near doting these days. But he bristled, now, because Francis, it turned out, sucked at being an invalid. “I’m trying to help you ease back into–”

“I don’t want to ease!” Francis shouted, flinging his arm out, the stump of the other lifting to show that it would have been a symmetrical effort, if he’d still had both hands. He turned to regard his own stump with open disgust. “I can’t even be properly pissed off!” He shot Tris a glare. “You could at leastpretendthat I’m worth your time on the mats.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“You don’t have to! Look at you, acting like I’m five-years-old. You’re – you’replacatingme!”

Tris ground his molars. “You wanted to spar,” he gritted out. “We’re sparring.”And you’re falling down half the time, he didn’t add.

Francis snorted. “You’re not even breaking a sweat.”

Because I don’t have to, he wanted to shout at him, suddenly.Because you’re not up to it, and this isn’t even a challenge. His heart twisted painfully with the knowledge, because this? This wasn’t the performance of someone who’d be allowed to go out on missions with the company. Francis was bound for a desk, and a chair, and, Tris could tell, a downward spiral into the sort of depression that killed people.

“What do you want me to do?” Tris asked. It came out a growl.

Francis stared at him. He looked older, now, post-injury. His face had lost some of its sweet softness, narrow and lined, now, a permanent-seeming groove notched between his brows.

When he moved, it was a sudden, forward burst. Three long strides that carried him across the mat and pushed him right up into Tris’s face. He gripped the front of Tris’s shirt, points of his knuckles pressing hard into his chest through the bunched fabric, and hissed, “I want you tofight me.”

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