#cod 22

Price’s breath becomes heavy as you lay underneath him, wrists pinned to the bed. He mutters a string of curses as he thrusts into you, hips meeting yours. You can tell not by his pace, but by the force with which John digs into your hips with his hands as he grabs hold of you that he’s had a rough day. So rough, in fact, that he’s being rough with you; because on those days, you woke up the next morning with purple bruises that perfectly matched the shape of his fingers.

When your hands traveled along his body, and found their grip on his back as your nails dug into the skin, he shuddered. Obviously, you’d done it on purpose, knowing full well how to elicit that kind of reaction– it wasn’t your first time doing that to him. You were gentle, though, just barely grazing the skin as you scratched his back, careful to not be too rough. You both knew the rule– no visible marks. After all, you had appearances to keep. If he were to change in the locker room with his team in the vicinity, he didn’t need all the questions as to where he got all the marks on his back from, and he especially didn’t need them to ask about you; and you, for one, could really do without having to waste makeup on hiding hickeys and bruises again. But, you did wonder what it might be like if you did happen to break the rules a little. Just thinking about other people seeing the marks you’d leave on his skin the way you used to, made your heart race; or if he just let loose every once in a while and accidentally lost himself in you, and left a hickey or two on your shoulder peeking out of the collar of your shirt so that your friends could see; and they could ask you who left it, and you’d giggle shyly, telling them about your rekindled romance. 

Yeah, that was something you’d sell your soul for.

With the way he begins to slow down and make sure that he’s inside you as deep as possible with every languid thrust tells you that he’s close. He was easy to read like that. As he buries his head in your neck, the hair of his beard tickles your skin and his deep groans become louder for you to hear. You place your hands on the back of his head, softly tugging at his hair, coaxing the orgasm out of him the way that you’d done before, knowing that it always made him cum just a little bit harder. You smirk a little when you’re proven right and feel him twitch; all he can muster out is a breathy “fuckin’ hell”. When his body collapses next to yours, you have half the mind to curl up closer to him, to nuzzle your way around his arm and place a hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat. But that would be too intimate– and that’s against the rules.

Sex was just sex. Simple as that– two consenting adults in an agreement to use each other without any kind of romantic feelings. And who better to be in this kind of agreement with than your ex-lover? The one who knew everything about you, down to how to make you writhe and beg for more. The rules in this agreement were his idea, so as to not get confused, given your history with each other. And you had been perfectly fine with them at the time.

But that all began to change.

“I’m gonna shower. You’re more than welcome to join me,” you say cheekily as you enter the bathroom, and he chuckles slightly. “But if you’re gone by the time I get out, have a good day. Tell the boys I say hi.”

He was always gone by the time you finished showering after sex. And tonight was no different. But that didn’t stop you from wishing that maybe one night you’d come back to find him sleeping soundly in your bed again. Or that you’d wake up in the middle of the night with his arm draped over you, thumb softly rubbing your arm as he drifted off to sleep because that’s how he fell asleep the fastest. You scoffed at yourself in the mirror as you combed the tangles out of your hair.

How pathetic, you thought. You’re over here losing your fucking mind dreaming up some perfect little fairytale where you and John Price live happily ever after when you’re the reason you’re broken up in the first place. Hell, for all you knew, there was some other girl waiting for him in her bed too. But maybe he took his time with her, talked with her about things other than work or the weather; or better yet, maybe on her bad days, he didn’t know what to do, so he just held her. Or maybe he was the one who confided in her, and talked through his frustrations with her and thanked her for being there for him, instead of taking out his frustrations on her with her ass up and face in the pillows like he did with you. Obviously, you weren’t complaining about that, but you wanted more. You wanted the relationship that you and Price had agreed to keep out of whatever this was. No other woman had known him like you did—how he liked his breakfast in the morning, and that he preferred to spend his weekends out and about, but appreciated weekends spent inside the house. And the thought of him going to someone else for the things he used to go to you for, made you sick. 

Physically and emotionally ill.

But it wasn’t that John was some animal, some kind of alpha type who didn’t suddenly didn’t care about you and your feelings, since technically you weren’t together anymore. That wasn’t the case at all—it was the opposite. He always made sure to talk to you, make sure you were good to go, or that you were okay afterwards, and that was the problem, ironically. John Price treated you like something more than just the woman he was fucking and somehow in the middle of all the complexities and hesitations, he made you feel like you were his again and you fucking hated it. You hated it because it hurt too much to admit that you missed him. If only he’d been mean, or treated you like you meant nothing to him–then your life would’ve been easier.

But, no.

Instead, he treated you as he always had done, even way back when you were dating; from greeting you with a smile to offering to help clean you up if need be—but you never let him, electing to take a shower each time instead. Not because you didn’t want him to, but because you couldn’t stand to sleep while smelling of him, not when you couldn’t call him yours. With every quick hug or kiss on the head, he only made you fall harder, which went against the whole foundation of what you guys had. It was rule number one, and you had gone and fucked up and broken it like a fool.

A couple weeks had gone by since the last time John had heard from you. Every time the ding of his phone went off, he hurried to it, hoping that it might have been you. Of course, none of his notifications were you, as he’d kept your conversation muted on the ‘do not disturb’ setting on his phone. It was too risky. If his task force ever caught a glimpse of your name in his phone or any of the messages, he’d never hear the end of it. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by you, but more so that he had a reputation to keep. How was it going to look if he, the captain, were distracted? If something went wrong on a mission, he’d blame himself for being too caught up in his own world than paying necessary attention to what really mattered.

That’s what he told himself anyway, and for a while, he believed it.

But it drove him fucking crazy. If he could, he’d go back to that Monday night all those months ago, and ignore the tension between you as you tried to talk through your relationship; he’d put aside his own desire and he’d stop himself from making the second worst decision of his life by declining your proposal to continue seeing each other with “no strings attached”. But if he really could, he’d go back to the beginning of that stressful phase in your relationship that took a toll on both of you; and he’d stop himself from making the worst decision of his life–letting you go.

Every time you sought each other out, he became more addicted than the last. And John knew it was starting to affect you too, he hoped it did. With the way you’d softly touch him when you thought he’d fallen asleep, or the way you wanted to just talk with him. He saw it in your eyes when you held back, wanting more so desperately but were afraid to do it, afraid that you’d push him away. 

And when you sent him a text during the third week of not having heard from you, he knew he was ruined for good.

—

You promised yourself that you wouldn’t do it, that you’d keep your urges to yourself and find some other way to satiate the hunger that ran rampant through your body. But there was nothing like John and there was no way you were going to be satisfied until you had him.

So there you were, sat on top of him, legs on either side of his waist as you take every bit of him inside, and ride him in a way that his cock hits your walls with every movement of your hips. He sits up on the bed, while his big hands keep you in place. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, pulling him close so that you’re chest to chest. Hiding your face in his neck, you want to scream his name, but you hold back, biting your bottom lip and only allowing yourself to quietly moan. But the way that he holds your waist, guiding you up and down, or forward and back in such a way that he knows makes your body react more, makes it harder to keep control. You need more. You want more, but it feels so fucking good right now that you’re practically put into a trance, like you’re moving on autopilot with not a care in the world. Your vision becomes blurry, and your brain is consumed with the feeling of ecstasy that comes with riding John like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

“Nghhh,” you cry out when you feel his cock hit just the right spot, nearly making you cum right then and there that you have to grab onto his shoulders for support and lift your head. “I-I’m… God, fuck–”

“That’s it,” he coos, trailing his hands up your body, giving your breasts a rub and a pinch to your nipples, sending a sudden shock through your body. “That’s my girl.”

He didn’t mean to say it, it just came out in the heat of the moment and he regretted it as soon as the words fell off his lips. Price wanted to apologize, but he feared he’d be making a big deal out of nothing because, of course, it was just sex. Maybe you didn’t even realize what he’d said. Still, “my girl” was way too out of line. It was reserved for those people in relationships, the ones who talked about their feelings and waited for the other to get home from work. “My girl” was what he had called you before and he hadn’t said it since until now.

Your whines fill the room and they show just how much you need him tonight. Nearly reaching your climax, it’s like a red alarm went off in your head—you don’t want it to end. Because when you cum–which won't be too far off in the future–John will leave and you’re left alone again, as always. So you slow down your impending high as much as you can, slowing the rock of your hips and slowing the way your body slides up and down on his cock. It was supposed to help keep your orgasm from crashing down on you, but the way you’re suddenly forced to feel every inch of him, every vein so slowly, it feels like it’s going to make you burst. The knot in your stomach grows, and you can feel your body desperate to let go and feel the wave of desire wash over you. And the way that John’s practically an expert when it comes to your body makes it hard. He knows exactly where to touch you, how to make you cry out for more, and he’s using that to his advantage. The way your eyes turn glossy, with not a thought behind them spurs him on and inflates his ego. He wants you to cum, he wants you to come undone on top of him, right before his eyes, knowing that it’s his cock that’s got you losing control of your own body. He couldn’t care less about his own pleasure, but with what you’re doing and how absolutely fucking beautiful you look while doing it, he’s not far behind you. He flexes and thrusts his hips back into you so hard that his skin slaps against yours. John is just as eager as you, but he’s not the one trying to hold off from cumming. He knows you want it too, if not more than he does, and every time he bucks into you, you can feel him subtly pick up his pace.

“J-John… wai–”

It’s too late, you can’t even finish your sentence before tension within you snaps and euphoria clouds your mind. And you’re still coming down from your high as John continues to fuck you, his thrusts becoming more erratic and sloppy. This was his favorite—well, aside from having your lips around his cock and fucking your throat—watching you ride the waves of your orgasm; whether you were on top or underneath him, there was something angelic about the way you fluttered your eyes, trying to keep them open; and the way that he could see your cheeks turn red, even in the darkness of night with only the dim brightness from the string of lights around your room. The sinful sight of your gorgeous form above him is what sends him right over the edge and leaves him in a cloudy state of mind.

When you both catch your breath, he shifts his body backward onto the bed, and lays down. Gently, he guides you down, allowing you to lay on him for a moment, which isn’t necessarily new, but it makes you feel complete. Your head lays on his shoulder, while a hand of his travels up and down your back. The roughness of his palm and fingers send shivers down your spine, and threaten to lull you to sleep.

John brushes the hair out of your face with his fingers, wanting to get a better look at you in your peaceful state; he had to admit, though, this might be his new favorite sight. Your eyes open, and you look at him, confused. There was a soft tiredness behind them, that reminded him of a waking puppy. And god, every time you blinked with those eyes, he was willing to ruin his life a hundred different ways.

The rough pad of his thumb swipes across your cheek. Staring at your lips, he leaned forward and kissed you, catching you off guard when his tongue brushed your bottom lip and easily slipped into your mouth. It’d been so long since he kissed you like this; with such fervor, such desperation, like suddenly his life was dependent on tasting you, and your heart pounds as John kisses you eagerly, so hungrily. But as much as you’d been conjuring up scenes in your mind about what this would finally feel like, you can’t help but wonder if this is all just some cruel dream that you’ll wake up from in a matter of minutes; you can’t enjoy this, your mind refuses to let you because he’s just broken his own rule and he doesn’t seem to care.

Pulling away quickly, you climb off of him, and search for your clothes scattered all over the place, “I-I can’t do this anymore, John.”

He’s taken aback, watching you hurriedly pull a t-shirt over your head and not realizing that it’s actually inside out. John gets up, pulling his clothes on too, and follows you into the living room of your apartment. You’re grabbing his things, shoving them into his arms like you’re a teenager trying to rush a boy out of her parent’s house.

“Hang on a minute,” he says, setting his keys and wallet down on your counter. “You can’t do what?”

“This!” You shout, pointing a finger at both you and him. “Whatever fucking mess we are, I can’t do it anymore!” Clutching your hair in your fists, you pause to take a breath, “I just… I can’t…” And as quickly as the anger came, it left; and was replaced by a familiar sorrow. “I can’t keep pretending like it doesn’t hurt every time you leave. Like I don’t lay there alone at night, wishing you would just stay.”

“And what about me, eh? You don’t think about what I’m going through?” Price is slow as he takes small steps toward you, afraid that any sudden movement will set you off and scare you away. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he was angry with you, but what you hear in his voice is frustration. “You take your showers after our nights together, probably hoping to rid yourself of me, and I bet it works, doesn’t it? But everything about you is so ingrained into my mind and body that showers can’t fix that problem for me.”

Price stands directly in front of you, rubbing your shoulders as he closes his eyes and presses a kiss to your forehead. Wrapping his arms around you tightly, he rests his chin on your head. It’s the first time you feel this close to him, despite all of these months spent entangled together in your bed. He just stands there, hugging you, and softly rubbing your back. Your arms inch their way around him too, and you give him a small squeeze. John’s grip around you doesn’t waver, and for the first time in months, you’re not afraid of him leaving.

“I regret this,” he says, lifting your chin up, so that you’re looking at him. “So fuckin’ much.”

The way your eyes look like you’re about to cry makes his heart ache. He can see the tears filling the brim of your eyes, and he knows how much you’re holding them in.

“I should’ve never agreed to this.” His voice is soft, nearly a whisper.

For a moment, you’re afraid that he’ll leave again and not come back so you grab onto his arm, begging him to stay. “I’m sorry, John,” your voice cracks as some of the tears finally break free and slide down your cheek. “For everything. I-I should’ve.. I should’ve fought harder for us.. I shouldn’t have let things get in the way, of what we had, I.. I ruined us.” By now, you’re choking out sobs, gasping for breath, but all you can do is lean into his chest as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a hug.

“Shh, take it easy, love, don’t blame yourself,” he rubs your back soothingly, the way he once did. “I’m not faultless here. I should’ve taken more care of you, should’ve seen the signs…” He presses a kiss to your head, “I want us to date properly again, celebrate our anniversaries, and do other things in that bed of yours, like sleep for once.” You chuckle at the last bit, and he smiles; he’s always loved hearing your laugh. “Because I don’t think I can go another day like this. I don’t just want you at night, I want you all the time.” 

“A-are you sure you want this again?” You ask, wiping your cheeks, and having a hard time believing that you were having a crisis over everything you lost and yet gaining it all back in the same night. “What about the rules?”

“Fuck ‘em,” he shrugs, reassuring you that you are what he wants. “We’ll break every last one.”

Things didn't rush into place like you thought they might. Maybe you expected those nasty thoughts about your body to leave, or that you'd have some greater outlook on life. But everything settles back down into normalcy.

Simon doesn't change much, but his team notices he stops talking about his 'bird' or his 'girl'. Price assumes that you two broke up, Gaz assumes the same but is a bit more saddened for his Leftenant. Johnny doesn't believe it for a minute, would be able to tell if Simon broke up with you. He wouldn't have that dopey smile on his face after his lunch breaks, and he wouldn't be so adamant about leaving the office he's been assigned at a reasonable time.

It comes to a head, a few months later, when Simon invites his mates along to the pub. You haven't changed much, neither you or Simon make enough to afford any surgeries so soon. But you've put on some muscle, you keep your hair shaved, got better at cutting it yourself with Simon's help. And you've let yourself actually explore a sense of style you like, stealing quite a bit of inspiration from Gaz. The man dressed nice, you can't be blamed.

Johnny, Price, and Gaz all arrive at the set time, and each of them notice the new look you have. Johnny is particularly smug, grinning ear from ear as he picks up what you've gone through immediately.

"Told ya Lt didn't break up with the lad!"

It sets the tone for the night, and it's surprisingly easy for you to fall into being 'one of the boys'. Price slips a few times, but no one makes a deal of it when he apologises each time. Gaz acts like nothing has changed, like you've always gone by a different name and looked like this. Soap acts like you're the internet, shooting off question after question. Simon is quick to shut the man down, but you pipe up with a few of the sites you used for research and that seems to quell the barrage of questions.

By the time you and Simon get back to your flat (you finally decided to move in, now you just have to wait for the lease to end) you're both tired and happy. Showering together is nice, the defined muscles of your body have helped quite a bit with what you've identified as body dysphoria, and Simon praises each part of your body, teasing and laughing.

"Got a real strong man here, eh? Gonna start carrying me when I'm tired, luvie?"

When you do finally settle into bed that night, curled up together in just boxers, your hand finds Simon's cheek. He leans into the touch, kisses your palm, his hand rubbing your back as he curls further into you. It's a good night, spent laughing with Simon's mates, listening to him complain about being on desk duty now, laughing at Johnny's stories. You almost don't hear it, almost miss the quiet and whispered question, ask Simon to repeat himself. His shoulders are tense, eyes won't meet yours.

"Asked if ya'd marry me. Want ya to be my husband. Won't repeat myself a third time, ya deaf twat."

Second lieutenant Gary Sanderson climbed out of the back of the truck, adjusting the straps on his vest before helping unload the truck of equipment. Bee pushes the crate towards the edge of the truck, and Gary grabs the handle to help carry it off. They drop the crate by the others, nodding to a dark skinned soldier with a clipboard and a baseball cap. He goes to turn, wanting to help unload the last two crates, but the man grabs his shoulder with a polite smile.

“Sergeant Kyle Garrick. Captain Price wanted me to introduce you all to the base before the briefing.”

Gary stares at the man for a moment, eyes flitting over his face from behind his goggles. He knows he should be speaking right now, that his mouth should be moving behind his mask and words floating through the air. But it takes longer than is considered polite.

“Second lieutenant Gary Sanderson. Call me Roach.”

Kyle either doesn’t notice the prolonged silence or doesn’t mention it, which Gary is thankful for. They nod to each other, Kyle not bothering to salute and Gary honestly not caring. His captain, Spencer Anderson, had warned him that the 141 played fast and loose with regulations and rules. Not that he cared much for them himself, but he was glad for the warning anyways.

Sergeant Belinda Hughes, aka Bee, called out to him from where she’s dragging a crate. Gary gives Kyle another nod before leaving to help his team unload. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, one he hasn’t felt since his childhood, and he’s forever grateful about his mask and goggles. He’ll ignore the feeling for now, it’ll either dissipate or it’ll makes itself obvious soon enough. Either way, Gary has a briefing to go to.

~~~

Simon doesn’t like the second lieutenant. To be fair, he doesn’t like a lot of people, but the second lieutenant, Sanderson, just pokes at something in him. He’s sitting too close to Gaz, laughing too loud at Soap’s jokes, he’s too impersonal with his own soldiers. But it’s not a regular dislike. It’s like looking at a puzzle piece that almost fits, the right colour, the right shape, but just different enough to not fit.

Simon doesn’t talk to Sanderson during or after the briefing. He knows that they’ll have to interact, both of them being lieutenants, but he’s planning to keep everything short. He’ll go through the mission like every other mission, keep a closer eye on his sergeants, and then wait for the team to leave. Price told him to play nice, that this team was full of potential and had more than a few eyes on it. It wouldn’t do good to create bad blood between them.

~~~

The mission goes well, minimal injuries and a successful grab and go. Gary’s team was tasked with infiltrating the compound and grabbing several hard-drives worth of information. The 141 was on watch, being comprised of snipers. The only major injury was Gary, a shot that grazed his side, just barely missed his vest. It was a lucky shot from the guy, but one of the 141 had dispatched him barely a second later.

Bee and sergeant Antonio “Texas” Valdez need to drag Gary to the infirmary. He’s reluctant to go, not liking the idea of missing the group debrief because of a graze. But when Bee and Texas shove him towards one of the nurses, he finds that he’s not alone. Lieutenant Ghost is getting his arm stitched up, his gear gone to leave him in his jeans and shirt. Gary has to wonder how the hell Ghost beat him here, the 141 truck had pulled in behind theirs.

“Go ahead and sit down, Sanderson. One of my nurses will be by to stitch you up.”

Gary sits on the small bed across from Ghost, and he can’t help but turn over all of the information he has about the lieutenant. Ghost hadn’t given a name, just a call sign. Gary didn’t give his call sign, too busy trying to keep Bee from bullying Texas. Ghost is massive, easily one of the biggest guys he’s seen besides that one Austrian kid over at KorTac. Gary’s not small by any means, 175 centimetres and a little over 80 kilograms, he’s packing some muscle. But Ghost is nearly a head taller than him, easily twice his width, probably over 100 kilos.

They sit in silence as the nurse stitches up Ghost, another nurse coming in to start stitching up Gary. He sheds his vest and jacket, grimacing at the hole in the car-hart. The nurse guides him to lay on his side, and he ends up facing Ghost as the nurse stands behind him. He tries not to make eye contact with the lieutenant as he winces from the sharp needle. Shoot or stab him, and Gary will brush it off to get the mission done. But bring a needle to his skin and he’s practically a kid again, wincing and fidgeting and pushing down tears.

~~~

Simon had a friend when he was a kid, back before Tommy got custody of him and his parents were arrested. Living in an apartment meant Simon knew almost everyone on his floor, and that meant he was there when some short bastard moved in as his neighbour. Only a year younger than Simon, the kid latched onto him like a microfiber towel, and then grew on him like fungus.

He doesn’t remember the kid’s name, just the nickname Simon gave him. He watched the kid take a punch right to the face, watched the bully turn away laughing, and then nearly screamed when his friend jumped up with a bloody nose and a black eye like nothing happened. Simon never called him anything but “Roach” after that, liked the way he popped up to his feet no matter what.

Unless it was a needle. This kid, one who took a baseball bat to the ribs and still managed to run for gym the next day, nearly fainted when the school was doing their vaccines. 7 years old and balling his eyes out, holding Simon’s hand like it owed him money. Simon remembers telling him that needles weren’t scary, that Roach was being a wuss. But he still made Tommy take them out for ice cream after school, still gave Roach his free piece of fudge that came with the cone.

Simon looks at the second lieutenant lying on the bed, tears in the man’s eyes as the nurse stitches him up. Simon hadn’t given out his name to the visiting team, content to keep his identity a secret just for fun. He’d been the one to shoot the tango Sanderson was fighting, the one who’d been just a second too late to prevent injury. Simon had been prepared to switch his comms to their team, to the 283 frequency and let them know their second lieutenant was injured. But the man just got up, popped to his feet like it was nothing and continued with the mission.

That’s when Simon knew why he didn’t like Gary Sanderson. He was familiar. Without being able to see his face, Simon had been forced to watch mannerisms. Skittish around strangers, able to fit into a surprising amount of spaces he shouldn’t be able to fit into, and resilient as hell. He acted like a fucking roach. He acted like Simon’s best friend. The one that he watched die, missing during a fire in their apartment building, one that Simon himself barely got out of. The best friend that dropped off the face of the Earth after that, no funeral, no mention in the local paper. Just gone.

The nurse has been finished with Simon’s stitches for a long while, but the lieutenant just sits and watches this grown man cry over getting stitches, over the needle. He knows, despite his mind trying to tell him the logic, that Gary Sanderson is familiar for a reason. Tries to ignore the slim chances that Simon would get such a lucky break in his life. But it’s not him that speaks up, it was never him who made the first move during childhood.

“You gonna watch me cry, sir?”

~~~

The words have more of a bite to them than is probably respectful, but Gary is feeling a bit embarrassed at the moment. The nurse is finally done stabbing him and has moved on to bandaging him. Ghost is just watching him, and Gary takes the chance to look over the man. Wearing the short sleeved shirt, Gary can see the edges of a burn scar peaking out from the sleeve, mostly covered by the sleeve tattoo. Gary’s not judging the scar, not when half of his chest is just one large burn that creeps up his neck and jaw. But there’s something familiar about it.

There’s something familiar about the honey brown eyes of Ghost. How despite the confident air around him, Gary can see the way his shoulders are tense and his eyes dart between the stitches on Gary’s side and the tear stains on Gary’s face. Can see recognition in those honey coloured eyes.

The moment the nurse leaves, with orders for Gary to take it easy and for Ghost to be careful with his arm, the air gains tension. Or maybe it was already tense, but being alone together just brought attention to it. Because Ghost stands up as Gary turns to lay on his back, the lieutenant coming to stand next to Gary’s bedside. Officially, they’re both free to go, but neither of them move to actually leave.

"You always cry from needles?”

The question is unexpected, makes Gary tense up and grimace behind the mask. But it’s the first time he’s heard Ghost speak beyond barking orders over the comms. Gary is thankful that the bullet grazed his clean side, the unburned side. Because being asked about needles is much easier than trying to explain the burns.

“Yessir. Ever since I was a kid, couldn’t stand needles. Nearly broke my friend’s hand during school vaccinations.”

And oh dear, it must’ve been the right thing to say because Ghost tenses up like a deer in headlights. He raises a slightly shaking hand to his face, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door and the blinds pulled shut, before grabbing the back of the balaclava.

Gary can feel tears pool in his eyes as he find those familiar brown eyes again, his stomach twisting with too many feelings to decipher. Relief, surprise, anger, longing. But Gary manages to lift a very shaky hand to his goggles, pulls them up to rest on his helmet, pulls down the neck gaiter he likes to wear.

“Simon.”

“Roach.”

The names are traded, a mountain of questions being placed on each. Where have you been? What happened? How are you here? Each question hangs in the air, waiting for an explanation, needing an answer. And Simon, for the first time in his life, speaks up first with Roach.

“You died. The apartments burned down, they didn’t get you out.”

“My mum threw me out a window.”

Simon makes a pained noise that almost sounds like a laugh, a bewildered look pulling at his face. It makes the scar on his lips pull up, the upper row of teeth just barely visible through the gap of muscle. His eyebrows twist upwards and his eyes widen slightly, just like they did whenever Gary said stupid shit as a kid.

“My mum, she threw me out of the window cause the door was blocked. Landed in the dumpster outside of the building, firefighter found me after most of the ambulances left.”

“Oh.”

Simon sits down in the chair next to the infirmary bed, arms crossed over his chest as he tries to wrap his mind around the explanation. He knew Gary’s mum had loved him on some level, though it never stopped her newest boyfriend from sneaking into Gary’s room some nights. So it shouldn’t be a huge surprise that she tried to save him, but it still makes Simon want to laugh.

Simon pulls his phone out, an old thing with a cracked screen that Laswell had practically forced him to get. It’s only got a few contacts on it, Farah and Alex, some of the Los Vaqueros, Laswell herself, and his team. Jonny’s at the top, a soap bar emoji in place of a name and a star marking him as a favourite. Simon makes a new contact, putting a cockroach in the name line and marking it as a favourite before handing it over to Gary.

The second lieutenant takes the phone with a confused look, understanding flashing across his face when he sees the empty contact. He punches in his number quickly, something close to excitement starting to bubble up in his chest. He knows that this isn’t how old friends are supposed to greet each other, but Simon and Gary were never normal friends.

So, he takes a blurry and picture of his face for the contact picture and hits the save button, handing the old and busted phone back to Simon. He watches as his old friend pockets the device, his mind still trying to wrap around the situation. But Gary can adapt and survive, it’s why he earned the nickname “Roach”. His face pulls into a smirk as he looks over Simon’s shoulder, seeing a frantic looking scott arguing with a nurse.

“So… what’s going on between you and MacTavish?”