⸻ 𝙶𝙾𝙻𝙳𝙴𝙽.

This was the plan. Well, his plan. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to Price or anyone else, but this is what he knows. If he can't torture information out of someone then they'll definitely talk their ass off torturing him. It works the same way every time. They all think that they've caught him -- that they've got the upper hand and they even think they can kill him ; which is why he's so confident it'll work. They talk because they think he won't live to tell anyone. It's fucking hilarious, really.

The mask is taken off and he stares back at them, brows together as his gaze grows colder. It doesn't move from them for a second. Each punch and slice they make, it only makes him think harder. Again, they talk and talk. Plans to do this and plans to do that while Ghost knows well that Gaz is listening from somewhere else. There's no mic here ( they couldn't risk that ), but the surveillance is enough. It feels like hours later and Ghost is wheezing breaths, blooding dripping from the mouth as amusement begins to rise. Laughter bubbles up and escapes, wet and cracking as the blood catches in his throat. It hurts, but they got enough.

𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙳𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝙸𝙽 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃, 𝙶𝙰𝚉 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝚂 𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝚃𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙶𝙷𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙽𝙾.  No matter how desperate the situation, no matter how practical his plan may be, this man could definitely benefit from being told  no  every now and then ⸻ especially if it's going to land him in situations like this; especially if he's going to have sit and listen it all happen, all the while holding his position and fighting the anger   (  and an equal part concern  )   simmering in his gut and itching to take control of his hands itself, since he won't use them. But this is why Ghost asked  him  specifically to do this job: that control, the trust that Kyle wouldn't throw the entire plan out the window and come to his rescue until the objective was met.

He knows this, but it doesn't mean he has to like it.

Watching through the patchy, soundless signal of their cam was bad enough; hearing it now, up close with just barely the thin wall between them was torture in its own right, knowing he has the very tool in his hands to stop it, but wholly and completely forbidden to do so until the right moment. Another punch. A taunt from Ghost. A punch. Another taunt. Punch. Taunt. More punches. Muffled voices  ...  more taunting.  He's having a strong and wholly futile talk with Ghost when they get out of here.

It's the moment the thought crosses his mind that the yolk breaks: Ghost's finally gotten what they came here for.  Thank fucking god.  It's short, effortless work, then, to detach himself from the shadows and dispose of Ghost's torturers  (  he won't think too hard on the spark of twisted satisfaction he gets from watching their bodies drop to the concrete  ),  and takes a much greater effort not to flinch at the sight of his teammate, beaten black and blue and spattered and dripping with red, and to close the distance between them with a straight face and begin freeing him of his restraints instead.

❝    Sorry to disappoint you, mate, but you won't be kicking any buckets today, if I've got any say about it. Now let's get the fuck outta here, yeah ?     ❞

To Trick, Gaz was special. His person. Not a fuck-around, hang-around that he was going to get over quick as a snap of his fingers. Gaz was his - but only for as long as he wanted to be.

OH, HE'S FUCKED. He's only just recovered his bearings, his sensible mind that urged him to remember where he is ⸻ where they both are: at work, in the open hallway, exposed to anyone that may choose to make an unknowingly unfortunate turn around a corner at any moment; but it's nearly gone again, quieted by that look in Trick's eye that weighs on his skin like a physical touch, warm and addicting and so, so very perfect. He'd give almost anything to have Trick look at him like that forever. And if there's the slightest change in his breathing, that's no one's business but his own.

He attempts to mask the pout that follows when Trick pulls away, but it's still there, all the same, if not in the tiniest furrow of his brow, then definitely in the displeased look in his eye. His grip tightens ever so slightly on Trick's forearm. Bold contradiction from a man that's just made a disingenuous attempt at shooing his partner away to do his job. ❝ Never in my life, sir, ❞ he all but whispers. ❝ Would just prefer you not get in trouble because of me. ❞ Sure, Kyle ⸻ is that why you won't let go of him ?

HE TRIES ⸻ REALLY, TRULY TRIES ⸻ to contain it, that prickling itch to keep everything about his person nicely put together. It’s simply an impossible goal in his line of work; he gets messy, he gets dirty, his clothes get torn and shifted out of place. He knows. Y et when he’s here, outside of the danger hot spot, the prickling gets stronger, a jab and sting, rather than an itch he can ignore and scratch later, and he’s almost annoyed that he was reminded of it. Almost. The Urge overrides it almost immediately.

So he just nods, offers Gary a small smile. ❝ Appreciate that, mate. Thank you. ❞ As much as he misses Soap, as much as he genuinely hopes he can come back to them swiftly and soundly … this guy isn’t so bad, he thinks.

Do not ask him why he was looking. It was respectful.

HE CAN'T SAY HE DIDN'T notice; he did notice ... when it happened thirty minutes ago ⸻ thirty minutes that have long since pushed it out of his brain. But leave it to Roach ... He turns, eyes tired, and a sigh on his lips. ❝ I did, yeah. Pizza sauce, I think. ❞