Duo didn't flinch at Dick's touch. He'd known the man was there by the sound of his breathing, the warning crunch of approaching footsteps -- awkward because of Dick's injured foot.
Dick wasn't dead. That was one break. And judging by the flurry of swearing and yelling that had preceded him, Kisame was still breathing, too. Two breaks.
Duo knew what came next. He was supposed to deal and adapt and burn his dead -- burn me -- with a clear head and a grin. Because he grinned. Then he was supposed to figure out what the hell to do next. Figure out how to get home in time to stop whatever was coming. Two months, the recording had said.
Not an easy job, but simple enough to understand.
He pushed himself back from the doors, grazed palms leaving bloody smears over the cold alloy, and found his balance somewhere between standing and leaning a little against Dick. Not too much, a glance at the man showed he was about as close to the end of his tether as Duo was.
It was the shaking, panting, ashen-faced thing. It kind of gave it away for both of them.
"Hey, Dick," said Duo, with the same kind of voice he'd said 'hey, me' in. "So, I have to cancel our exciting plans. Turns out I'm dead. Who knew?" He dragged a hand over his face, smearing grit with blood, and tried to catch his breath all over again. "So that kills my day. How’s your morning going?"