↯↯ high voltage ↯↯

By his second week, Jason had come to know Salim pretty well. Enough to notice patterns—little consistencies in his behaviour—that went beyond the way he carried himself or his preferred hangouts.

For a man who'd been willing to drop everything and start fresh in a new country, he was surprisingly set in his ways. He preferred mornings to evenings, was very particular—borderline snooty—when it came to coffee, and had a distinct shift in tone whenever he could smell bullshit: a sudden drop in pitch and cadence.

He was also vehemently opposed to Jason paying for anything, treating his wallet like a pesky fly—one to be swatted away the second it dared emerge from his cargo pants.

The back-and-forth that followed was just as predictable. Jason pushed back, only to be shut down, with Salim insisting it was "his treat" and not to make a fuss.

"Raise your voice, and they'll mount your head on Tower Bridge. An example to the other rowdy tourists." 

"Please, I've seen these guys when they drink—they're plenty rowdy." 

It figured that the guy would be used to footing the bill. Single dad and all; came with the territory. Jason, in turn, wasn't going to complain about the free ride. 

It didn't matter if things were different now. That he could afford to pay his own way. Growing up poor taught you not to spit in the face of charity—or get twisted up over useless pride. 

Still, it left him a little sad. Wondering when the last time was that Salim had acted selfishly, putting himself and his needs first. 

So, Jason protested quietly, making sure to avoid anything overly expensive. A strategy that had worked to his benefit, at least where lunch was concerned: Good old greasy junk food. 

Unfortunately, he was only a few bites in when the meal stopped satisfying. He could've blamed it on local taste, a subtle tweaking of ingredients, but he knew the bitterness had nothing to do with the food.

Frustrated, he began to toy with his half-eaten meal. Creating a launch pad with his overturned burger box, and flicking fries off the side:

"This isn't how this was supposed to go."

"Did you say something?"

Jason jerked upright, abruptly aware he'd been thinking out loud. "Uh, no—nothing. All good."

"Hmm." 

There it was—the tone. Low and rumbling, as Salim leaned forward. His eyes were pinched into slits, and his brow bunched in a sceptical knot. 

"Something is troubling you, my friend. It has been all day."

"No idea what you mean…" Jason protested, gathering up the debris from his latest time waster and scooping it back into its carton.

"There's no sense in lying; it's written all over your face." 

Jason opened his mouth, and in a well-trained reflex, prepared to cook up some half-assed excuse. He'd learned that honesty rarely helped in these kinds of situations. Just made you all the more vulnerable. Despite this, he hesitated. 

Because Salim was right, he could read him like an open book. Lying beyond this could only succeed in wasting everyone's time. 

But there was no ill will or accusation. Rather, a concerned curiosity. 

"Please talk to me, I'm happy to listen," the man added. Then, he just sat. Quietly and patiently waiting to be trusted. 

Jason could feel his chest tighten, unable to respond at first. That was until he released the tension with a firm clearing of his throat.

"Look, I've gotta be honest. As much as I'm enjoying just hanging out, that wasn't the only reason I wanted to see you again."

"Understandable," Salim remarked, the corner of his lip twitching fondly. "Regardless of how good the company is, it wouldn't have been the most compelling reason to risk a stay in federal prison."

"There's no other way to put it, really, just—" Jason could feel his finger twitch, scratching at an unused napkin. "You did a lot for me, back in the temple…I couldn't go on for the rest of my life without at least trying to pay you back." 

Salim looked genuinely puzzled by this, head tilting to one side. "What do you mean by payment?"

Jason cursed his poor choice of words. He began to scratch faster, his nail getting caught up in fraying shreds of paper. 

The last thing he wanted was to boil down their connection to shallow transactions—a 'here's fifty dollars, now we're even.' But he hadn't exactly been blessed with an elegant turn of phrase, and was worried this was precisely how it would come across.

"I ain't just talkin' about money," he affirmed in advance, albeit with no clue how to back this up. "But money is about the only good thing I got out of this bullshit deal with CENTCOM."

For the last couple of years, he had relied heavily on compartmentalisation—strategic emotional detachment; nailed down to a fine art. 

Out on the field, this had been essential. A bleeding heart got you killed faster than any bullet. In the real world, however, the mentality was proving a lot less helpful.

He wondered how Salim had done it; how he'd maintained a sense of compassion under similarly toxic conditions. Of course, the answer was almost certainly a sturdy bedrock of connection—humanity—waiting for him at home.

"It's been enough to fix the mess I left in Tennessee," Jason lied, not ready or willing to get into the unpleasant intricacies, "with plenty to spare." 

"Are you suggesting some form of financial aid?" Salim asked, attempting to follow the turbulent train of thought. "Because that is very kind, but I couldn't accept it. My work brings in enough to make do, provided I don't live beyond my means." 

There was a twinge of defensiveness. Veiled by polite affability, but undoubtedly there. 

"That's not what I meant at all," Jason insisted, but what he did mean proved unclear. It all came back to the same question, the one that had him tossing and turning in his hotel bed:

What had he been trying to achieve through this reunion? Beyond making up for an underwhelming goodbye, or settling some ill-defined debt?

Those weren't the sort of motivations that drove a needle-in-a-haystack search across continents. That kind of blind determination had come from somewhere deeper. A layer to his reasoning he'd yet to peel back—or one that had been folded away in the 'Things We Don't Think About' box. 

A scratching sound registered as Jason noticed he had worked his way through several napkins. His nails were dragging across the table, drawing lines in poorly-wiped grease.  

"I think I'm beginning to understand." Salim glanced down, a little perturbed by the subpar hygiene standards, before focusing on his face. "If you are worried that your company, this 'hanging out', is lacking in some way, your fears are unwarranted. It is more than enough. There is nothing left to owe."

"I don't know, man—I would've ended up as a goddamn kebab if it wasn't for you. I owe you my life. Don't think you can owe someone much more than that."

"That goes both ways." 

"Yeah, but it's only fair that I'd want to show you some gratitude for that. So far, it's been pretty one-sided."

"Jason." Any softness to his tone was gone, replaced with a stony rigidity that made it clear he would not back down. "What I did was a case of survival—you are the one who has come back for me. Twice. Allowed us this chance to reconnect at great personal risk. If any debt is owed, it is not yours to settle." 

Stunned by the sheer force of the words, Jason felt his mouth clamp shut. There had been a hint of this attitude before, back at the art gallery. Despite his obvious admiration, Salim had been very quick to distance himself from the concepts of chivalry and heroics. Like those words didn't—or couldn't—apply to him.

"Shouldn't sell yourself short…" he approached carefully, not wanting to overstep. "Those vampires were trapped in there with you—I helped a little. Maybe."

"I was greatly outnumbered. Even if I had escaped, it was your insistence that I get on the elevator which means I am sitting here today." 

"Oh, come on. That wasn't all me; the others would've waited for you."

Salim said nothing, but raised a brow sceptically.

"...Okay, so, Nick might've waited for you," he revised, as a wave of pride rushed over him. "I've gotta ask—did it look like I was running at you in slow motion, or was that just how it played out in my head?" 

The time for praise was over, as Salim rolled his eyes. So far back they nearly vanished into his skull. His attention shifted to the tray in front of Jason, gesturing insistently. "Eat your food, it's getting cold." 

"Oh no no, please, go on. Tell me more about how heroic and badass I was." 

"I regret initiating this. If your head keeps swelling, you'll have to stop wearing your silly hats." 

"Hey—I'll have you know I got this at Texas Stadium in '95." He pointed to the logo, tapping it repeatedly. "Go Cowboys; show some respect."  

"I'll give you one more chance to eat before I frisbee your tray out of the door. The pigeons will be thrilled."

Jason worked his hand like a mouth, mocking the nagging. Nonetheless, he took a large bite of his burger, making a production of it. 

With an exaggerated moan and a smack of his lips, he licked his fingers clean and held them up for inspection. "There, you happy now?" 

"Extremely." Salim glanced down at his own meal with far less enthusiasm.

He picked up the sandwich reluctantly and took a slow, tentative bite. Within seconds, his face pinched into a grimace. Raising a napkin to his mouth under the pretence of wiping crumbs, he discreetly deposited the half-chewed mouthful.

"That good, huh?"  

Salim attempted to reply, but choked mid-sentence, drawing some of the food back in. He retched far too loudly to be ignored, and thumped a fist repeatedly against his chest.

Under any other circumstances, Jason would have lost it; been doubled over across the table, crying with laughter. 

But a quiet unease lingered, knotting in his gut. Something important had been left unsaid in all their talk of debt and gratitude. And as much as he didn't want to, he knew that he had to come back to it. To be a man, fold out the dog-ear, and finish the chapter once and for all. 

"You don't owe me anything, either," he stressed before continuing. "That doesn't mean we can't both be grateful, or want to show it. So, just...throw me a bone. At least let me buy you dinner, or something." 

Salim flinched, the well-used napkin yanked from his mouth. He seemed ready to oppose the offer, to reassert their roles as guest and host, until his eyes settled on Jason—the tightness in his expression and the sincerity behind it.

He hesitated, lips pressed into a thin line before releasing them with a sigh. 

"I suppose we can make a compromise." One final, weak-willed attempt was made to finish his lunch. The sandwich was raised before it began to collapse, contents landing on his tray with a splat. 

"I would ask if I could pick the restaurant, though—this was terrible."

Jason snorted, unable to argue. "The Filet-O-Fish ain't a winner back home, either."

"Very American of you, I must say. To fly thousands of miles from home and suggest we eat at McDonald's."

"Alright, alright." The teasing was cut off before it could become a lecture. "Enrich me then, asshole. Find us somewhere nice. Halal."

Salim seemed taken aback. There was no mention as to why. But soon, his stunned expression had softened, and a gentle smile formed on his lips. 

"I shall do that."

They swung by the trash station, with the older man nothing short of ecstatic to dump his leftovers. With victory over his culinary nemesis secured, he rewarded himself by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a packet of gum.

As a piece disappeared into his mouth, Jason gestured toward the foil, finger waggling like a chiding schoolteacher. 

"Got enough to share with the class?"

Salim froze mid-chew, looking oddly sheepish. The remaining sticks were shoved away as he shook his head firmly. "I don't think you'd appreciate the flavour. Nicotine."

"Ahh, right…" Jason replied, arms folded over his chest. "You tryin' to quit?" 

"Surviving a pit of bloodthirsty demons tends to give you a new lease on life. If nothing else, it's an incentive to kick some less-than-ideal habits."

"Well, shit, whatever works." The Marine in him surfaced before he could stop it. He thumped a fist to his chest and let out an enthusiastic, "Oorah."

The outburst had been heard by two passing women, who exchanged bewildered looks. He paid them no mind, holding up his hand for a high-five, which Salim returned. 

"Seriously, I'm glad to hear it. I didn't go charging back into Satan's asshole for you to meet your maker over a pack of Lucky Strikes."

Salim huffed through his nose before speaking again. It was a peculiar tone; one that couldn't be placed as dry or sincere. 

"That was another incentive."

Their hands had lingered in the air for a moment too long. 

Jason became aware of it—the warmth of skin and pressure. The faint sting of impact still needling through his palm. If Salim noticed any of this, he didn't show it. He just stood there, calm as ever, holding the other man's gaze in a way that felt impossible to break.

It reminded him of someone he used to know. Years ago, back in college. 

Jenny. 

The closest thing he'd had to a girlfriend. Although in hindsight, it had been something looser, more casual, than the title would suggest.

Her eyes had been the same. Dark. Attentive. Caught between 'old soul' and 'curious puppy dog.' Not the kind that demanded anything, pushed for answers, but the kind that waited for you to give them away.

It felt safe. Warm. And terrifying, all at once.

Because the longer you looked, the more you realised those eyes already knew every secret you were trying to hide. Not exposed, but understood, reflected in uncomfortable clarity:

"—It's not your fault, you can't help it—"

Jason blinked. When he came back to himself, his hand was resting at his side. 

"…Just as well. Smoking is, uh…" He swallowed thickly, the words catching in his throat. "It's haram, ain't it? Gotta be, with the health risks. If you wanna stay off Allah's shitlist, best kick the habit."

"I have to say, I am impressed by your knowledge," Salim chuckled. "I doubt your schools played much of a role. So, when did an American jarhead learn so much about my religion?"

Heat crept up his neck as Jason dropped his gaze beneath the brim of his hat. His attention locked onto a dried coffee stain and refused to shift. 

"We should probably get moving…" he muttered, fiddling with the strap of his satchel. "Don't wanna miss our train."

"It's the London Underground. There will be another in less than five minutes."

Dippy had been pretty cool. Maybe not worth the hype, although he'd sooner eat his hat than tell his ‘Tour Guide’ that. Really, the animatronic dinosaurs had been the highlight and should've absolutely been the lead sales pitch. In any case, it had only been a starter course. Salim made it clear he was going to take his self-appointed role very seriously. 

Over the next few days, whenever he could spare time around work, he was carting Jason all across London. It was soon discovered he had a thing for museums. Art galleries, too, with the American quickly losing count of how many they’d visited, along with the hours spent in each. Every display was approached with the same careful consideration: studying the tiniest brush strokes and faintest blends of colour. 

Another discovery was that Salim wore glasses. Only for reading, though, as well as these prolonged artistic inspections. They suited him, looking natural perched on the end of his nose.

“I like this one.”

“You've liked all of them,” Jason countered playfully. 

“No, but this one in particular. It’s my favourite.” Salim encouraged him closer before gesturing to the painting. It depicted a man, dressed in chainmail and kneeling by an altar. A golden-haired woman reached towards him, resting a sword on his shoulder. 

Salim's lips parted into a thoughtful gape, a warning sign which was becoming familiar. He was about to launch into a full-on ‘college art professor’ grade analysis. Something Jason initially assumed involved paraphrasing the display plaques—except his gaze never once drifted from the artwork. 

“—Knighthood in this age was never about how well you could swing a sword. It was about chivalry. Courage. Protecting the weak and defending the innocent, even at the cost of your life.”

The guy was pulling it all straight from his own head. Dark eyes sparked to life as he rattled off insight with the sort of enthusiasm which couldn’t be faked. It might've been obnoxious if it wasn't so goddamn endearing. 

“There is a promise here that the man being conferred has proven himself a true hero…” Salim paused briefly, mulling over his words and making a revision. “Well, in an idealistic sense. It may not be the most historically accurate depiction. But still, very beautiful.” 

Jason nodded, not able to offer much input on what was being said, but enjoying it regardless. He did, however, raise a small challenge. “A little conceited, don't you think?” 

 “What do you mean?” 

“Your favourite painting is about knights.” He raised a finger to the glittering blade, illustrating his point. “Swords. Great protectors. All that stuff.” 

What followed was cryptic—subtly deflective—offering no sign that Salim understood what he was really driving at. “I may have been a soldier, but I am no knight. Not by the standards of legend or mythos.” 

Jason felt a twinge of disappointment. Maybe a little embarrassment, too. Because even if Salim had forgotten what he’d said—about the sword and the shield—he sure as hell hadn't. 

It had stuck with him; to be seen as something steady. Reliable. Not just a weapon to be pointed at the next obstacle…but people said a lot of shit when they were staring death in the face. It didn't mean it carried symbolic weight. Not everything had to be some great deconstruction. 

Sometimes, blue curtains were just blue. 

“Are there any displays that you like?”

Jason snapped out of his daze, realising he hadn't been looking. Not that it mattered much. He was far less discerning, just seeing a bunch of pretty pictures. To save face, however, he scanned his surroundings and pointed confidently at a random painting.

“That one, the flowers are…nice.”

“Very insightful.” Salim quipped, before focusing on the artwork. “They are nice—white camellias. A symbol of loyalty and admiration. If the artist intended this as a gift, the person receiving it was very dear to them.” 

It was strange, really, seeing the doe-eyed softie ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over painted posies. Knowing it was the same unflinching badass who'd javelined a stake through a screeching bat monster. Jason wondered where the line was drawn between the two sides of the man. If there was one at all.

“You ever paint, Salim?” he asked, lightly teasing but genuinely curious. “Or draw? You seem like the type.”

Salim stalled, his expression pinched, like he didn’t know how to receive this. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he was able to reply:

“Oh, well, I…dabbled. When I was younger. I wasn’t very good.” The subject was abandoned as he took off his glasses and slid them into his shirt pocket. “I think I’ve kept you here long enough. Is there anywhere else you’d like to go?” 

‘Dabbled’ was obviously an understatement, but Jason didn't push. Not about to sate his interest at the expense of making Salim uncomfortable. Instead, he reached into his satchel, fishing around for the guidebook he'd picked up from his hotel lobby. “Isn’t there a wax museum nearby…? The one with a bunch of different celebrities?”

“Madame Tussauds.”

“That's the one.” He retrieved the leaflet, along with the camera that had been tucked beside it. Brandishing it like a trophy, he flashed his companion a mischievous grin. “I wanna get a picture of me picking Tom Cruise's nose.”

“Ahh, of course,” Salim drolled, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “An appreciation for the craftsmanship that would no doubt make the sculptor blush.” 

“Hey, you've got your way of appreciating art, I’ve got mine,” Jason fired back. “Few better photo ops, if you ask me.” 

“Of course not. Big Ben, Tower Bridge, Trafalgar Square. They all pale in comparison to a finger up the nostril.”

Salim insisted the museum was within walking distance, even if the weather wasn't ideal. A persistent drizzle prickled Jason’s face, as frigid winds whipped through his jacket. Still, it beat another train ride—and was definitely an improvement on the biblical downpour he’d endured earlier in the week. 

Despite the odds, the journey was…nice. Owing significantly to his company. Salim kept a lively pace, pointing out landmarks and sharing whatever fun fact sprang to mind. Whether it was appreciation for London itself or simply the fact that Zain was there, it was clear he’d immersed himself fully. Nothing loud or overbearing: just a constant, steady optimism. 

This didn’t change when they reached the waxworks. He patiently captured every photo—of which there were many—each painstakingly optimised for peak hilarity. It turned out they didn’t have a Cruise, so Jason had settled for Pitt and Freeman. Standing between them, with finger guns aimed up each nose, he grinned broadly as the camera flashed. 

Blinking away stars, he approached Salim, placing an expectant hand on his shoulder. “Did you get my good side?"

“Which side would that be?” 

Jason attempted to feign offence, but his juvenile smile refused to budge. He couldn’t help it, having taken great joy in the clapback. The longer he spent with Salim, the more it felt like he’d known him for years, with the teasing forming part of a well-established dynamic. 

The sentiment was clearly mutual. Once he found another figure to pose with, taking on a particularly ridiculous stance, Salim almost lost it. He struggled to keep the camera steady, his chest and shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. The same sparkle from the gallery flickered in his eyes, most noticeable when he glanced away from the viewfinder, studying Jason directly.

Jason, with his bicep flexed and lips puckered, realised he wanted to capture this, too. Not just another snap of himself acting like a dumbass. He wanted proof this moment was real—that they were sharing it because they had both survived. Finding their way back to each other, to become more than just memories fading across a desert. CENTCOM be damned.

He motioned for Salim to come closer, an invitation which took a moment to register. Once the other man understood, he hesitated, as if far more comfortable behind the camera than in front of it.

“Come on,” Jason urged with an exaggerated groan. "Don't leave me hanging here.”

Salim eventually agreed, though not without lingering reservations. He shuffled into place, stiff as a board, and awkwardly angled the camera. With his elbow jutted out, he tried and failed multiple times to get them both into shot.

In growing fear he might lose an eye, Jason decided to help. He encouraged Salim to lift his arm, whilst draping his own around his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Looking up at the camera, he smiled warmly and waited for his companion to do the same.

As his body relaxed, Salim slowly mirrored the expression. His smile was a bit forced, lips pressed into a thin line—but he seemed content, leaning against the younger man with a quiet appreciation.

Just as the photo was about to be taken, a commotion erupted from across the room.

The men turned their heads, curious, as a toddler proceeded to weave through the maze of display ropes. An exhausted-looking man was chasing after them, but was no match for the formidable speed.

The child ran straight into Salim, knocking him off balance. A click and a flash captured the moment, light twisting around them in a distorted arc. The man, whom Jason presumed to be the child's father, quickly began apologising, words spilling out faster than he could form sentences:

“I’m so sorry—skipped a nap—always like this—overtired—”

Salim checked the camera, ensuring it hadn't been damaged when he caught himself. He then turned to the stranger, dismissing the apologies, assuring him that he understood from personal experience:

“My Zain was exactly the same at that age. Always on the move, I couldn't take my eyes off him for a second.”

Coincidentally, the frazzled father had just made the same mistake—taking his eyes off the prize. Jason, about to suggest retaking the photo, was interrupted when a sugar-fueled blur darted between his legs. Within seconds, the toddler had climbed onto Celine Dion and was swinging from her arm like a feral chimpanzee. 

Not wanting to be implicated in any damages, he shot Salim a look, signalling with his shoulder toward the exit. The other man, understanding the cue, politely ended the conversation with the stranger. They left amid the sound of a snap and thud, followed by despairing groans and hysterical crying.

“Christ, was Zain really that bad…?” Jason asked Salim, somewhat afraid of the answer. 

“No. Absolutely not—I was just trying to make that poor soul feel better.”