Herc doesn't care that his broken arm is between him and the solid surface of Chuck's drivesuit. He's ignoring the pain, eyes screwed up futilely against his own tears. He brings his hand up, threading it into Chuck's hair, gripping it, not painfully, as though to remind him that it's there.

He lets out a choked sob-laugh at the curse. "That's Marshall old man to you." He growls back. He's not letting go. He doesn't want to let go. This is real, because he can feel it. Not just physically, but it echoes across the connection, the one he felt severed.

"Oh, fuck..." He mutters, pressing his head against Chuck's. "This is real, isn't it?"