#cod male reader

   Report done, you let your head loll back, trying to breathe through the pain. You are partially pinned and won’t be getting out without help, but you have to stay calm. You’re probably in shock, but you’re aware enough that letting yourself panic and your heart rate increase would be very bad for you. The radio erupts with voices again, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and John all clamoring at once. But you’re tired. So tired. You should be trying to keep yourself awake, but you can’t. It’s just too much.

  The next time you wake, your husband is leaning over you, fear filling those frigidly blue eyes of his. John’s on his knees, helmet off despite the still present risk of snipers. He’s propping himself up on one arm, the other hand on your cheek. Oh, he’s talking to you. Trying to get you to wake up. Poor thing must be terrified for you. Your head swims, but his voice still rings clear, the deep timbre cutting through the fog in your mind. 

    “Sweetheart. Hey, hey. Sweetheart, ye gotta wake up. Show me those eyes, yeah? Wake up.” All he gets in return is a soft groan as your eyes flutter open. Your vision is blurry and you almost definitely have a concussion, but you can hear the utter relief in the exhale John lets out after you look up at him. You’re about to try and reply, but he interrupts you. “Shh, shh, sweetheart, don’t talk. Save your strength, med evac is on the way.”

     You just nod, letting John try and calm you, focusing on him. The boys are here too, Ghost’s gruff voice barking commands as he, Gaz, and Soap work to dig you out of the wreckage. John’s petting your head, murmuring down to you. His words are indistinct, or you’re just too tired to process them. The pain is unimaginable, but your husband wants you awake, so you’re gonna stay awake. Stay awake and stay alive. You try so hard, but you just can’t. The last thing you hear before you go limp again is your husband’s panicked voice snapping at the team. You have to talk to him about that later. If you remember. It’s not their fault you got exploded. “Hurry! Hurry up with that, he can’t hold on much longer! We’ve got to get to exfil.”

    This time you wake to a toasty hospital room, blissfully pain free. Your thoughts are foggy as you stir into consciousness, so if you add that to the little pain you feel, and prior experience, your addled math points to morphine. Fun. You must be really fucked up then. Slowly waking, you feel a weight pinning your leg down. For a minute, you think you’re still trapped in the rubble, pinned and dying, until you look down. Oh. Oh. It’s just John, squished into a plastic chair too small for his bulk, slumped over your hospital bed like the many times he’s fallen asleep at his writing desk. 

    There’s no telling how long you’ve been asleep, but your limbs are stiff with stillness, eyes crusted with sleep. So you shift the tiniest bit, extending scraped and bandaged fingers to card through John’s hair. The second you touch him, your husband’s head is jerking up and he’s staring at you. John’s eyes are red, and he’s obviously been crying. God, you’ve definitely been out at least a day for a look like that. He shifts, scooting up closer to you. 

   “Sweetheart? You really awake?” He’s whispering, voice thick with grief.

   You grumble a little, eyelids fluttering, and nod. Your head still aches and you want to go back to sleep, but John so clearly needs you. “How long have I been out…? Is everyone okay? How are you…?” Your voice is raspy, mouth dry and filled with cotton. Definitely been out a while. 

   John lifts a cup of water from the table beside your hospital bed, lifting it to your lips. “Shush, shush. Drink. You’ve been out for a week, sweetheart.” He huffs a weak little laugh. “Worrying about others when you’ve just woken up from a coma. Just like you, yeah. The boys are fine. Worried mad sick about you, but the worst injury was Johnny pulling a muscle in his arm lifting some of the concrete off you. As for me, I’ll be far better with my husband healed and out of a coma, so rest up.”

     But oh so predictably you, your eyes widen upon hearing about Johnny. “He pulled a muscle? Is he alright? Is it gonna heal-”

    John cuts you off with a quick kiss, grumbling again to shush you. “Quiet. Johnny’s just fine. He’d scold you for worrying about him in your state. So just relax, baby. You need to heal. Gave us all a big scare, yeah?” John’s voice is incredibly soft and soothing, talking you down from your panic, but you can hear the tremor of fear underlying his words. 

    You’ve scared him. Shaken the unshakeable, put ice into the soul of the legend. It may have been you, Lieutenant Price, trapped under that rubble, trapped and dying, but you’d almost taken Captain Price with you. The boys would reaffirm it later, telling you of how John lost his shit once you passed out again, lost his temper and control. He was normally a level and competent leader, but seeing the man he loved lying bleeding out under a collapsed building had snapped that. You’d nearly broken him. Broken your husband. You both knew injury and death was a very real possibility and reality in the service, but somehow you both believed it would never be you.    

Tears well in your eyes. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry, love. I’m sorry, I must’ve scared you so bad.” You reach out with trembling hands and he takes them so gently. He’s so gentle with you, shushing you quietly and getting you settled back down. You’re not even fully aware of your own injuries yet, but a nurse finally bustles in to look you over, shooing John out despite your panicked reach for him. You don’t see it, but John takes the time you’re examined to go complain to the charge nurse, angry that the nurse steamrolled over your fear. Ever the protective husband he is. 

   As soon as you’re cleared, John is bustling right back into the room, managing to tuck himself into the hospital bed with you. He’s got your back to his chest, one arm banded around your waist while the other is outstretched, fingers intertwined with yours. His calluses are familiar, thumb rubbing over your palm. You’re firmly tucked into him, breathing low and evenly. Finally, you can relax. John may be a great deal firmer than the pillows you were laying against, but he’s warm and familiar. In his arms, you can feel properly safe and relaxed. You could almost even pretend that you’re at home. 

    It’s a nice moment, curled against John as he rumbles in semi contentment. You’re alive and expected to be on the mend quickly. You’d been lucky, with mostly minor injuries amongst the few major ones. There’d of course been the shrapnel in your arm, but you’d also earned yourself a fractured skull, broken leg, and another piece of shrapnel to the thigh. That, and about a million cuts, bruises, and other lacerations. John tells you that as he holds you, confirming to himself that you’re still alive. That you survived the blast. He tells you, voice so quiet and more afraid than you’ve ever heard him, that during the week of your coma, infection had set in on your arm. 

   It had been terrifying, but you’d come back from it, none the worse for wear. John talks and he talks, telling you all about the last week, letting go of it to fill the space. His heart is wrung out, soothing himself by resting you in his arms and making sure you’re caught up on the going ons of the 141. You’re quiet, just listening to the protective gruff of your husband’s voice. You barely remember the actual explosion, which is probably good considering how badly it fucked you up. But you do remember the moments before, and how the last thing you’d been doing was giving a report on your position. Which probably meant… oh, did John hear the bomb go off? 

   How long had you been out? How long was your husband made to wonder if you’d survived the blast? You shift, tapping your fingers against his until he quiets, voice quiet with guilt. “Did you hear it? The bomb?” 

   John flinches. You can feel it, laying against him like you are, and that flinch tells you all you need to know. “Yeah. Your radio was still on when it went off. All we heard was the boom though, and then you must’ve let go of the button.” The answer is whispered, his head bowed, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s in prayer. “Longest fifteen minutes of my life to find you. Over half buried you were.”

     You press back against him, humming softly. “‘M sorry…”     You’re going to say more, to apologize again for the pain you’ve caused your husband, but he bites down on your neck. Bites you! Not hard, but still. And then he growls a little, the gravel leaking into his voice. “Stop apologizing. It wasn’t your fault. Christ, you scared me half to death, but it wasn’t your damn fault. You did the best thing you could have done. Lived.” The tension in the room drops as fast as it rose when he nips your neck again and jokingly admonishes you. “If you wanted attention that bad, love, all you had to do was ask. No need to go and have a building dropped on you.” 

     The giggle that comes out of you is like a waterfall, rich and unprompted. It’s exactly what John wanted to get out of you. He loves your laugh dearly and going a week without it had been hard enough. So he needs you to laugh now, needs to see you smile. You’re his husband, and you’re hurt and when it happened John was so far away from you that he couldn’t do anything. And now you’re hurt and all he can do is sit here and wait for you to heal. You’re hurt and he has to just… wait. He hates waiting. So the least he can do is make you laugh. 

     Because he doesn’t know what to do without that laugh. You’re snuggled up in his arms, giggling like a madman as he re-tells a series of Simon’s terrible jokes from the last week. John knows that for some reason you genuinely find Simon hilarious, and he wants to make you laugh, so he tells you all the ones he can remember. Because he’s desperate to keep you laughing. If you’re laughing, that means you’re awake and alive and happy in his arms. Not so fucking still. 

    Listening to you laughing chases away the shadows that have been plaguing your hospital room for the past week, while you’d been laying still and silent, unresponsive to any comments or jokes. Unresponsive and dead to the world in all ways but physical. It had changed something in John, watching you nearly die. Yes, he had you in his arms now, living and breathing. Yes, he’d watched other soldiers die under his command. He carried those names with him like stones, forever weighing him down, but even so… You had been different.

   Watching you trapped under the rubble, holding you and trying to soothe you while you bled out had been one of the worst experiences of John’s life. Something he never wanted to go through again. He’s really getting into his head, grumbling and thinking, when you nudge him. Your head is tilted back to look at him, a worried furrow in your brow. Worried about him, like you’re not the one laid up in a hospital bed, broken after nearly dying. You nudge him again, and John realizes you must’ve said something that he didn’t respond to. 

    “Sorry, sweetheart. Was thinking, what’d you say?”

    “I said, when are the boys going to come visit? I want to see how bad Johnny’s arm is.” You huff, sassing him after being ignored. 

    John grumbles at you. He doesn’t want the boys to visit yet. Wants to keep his husband all to himself. “They’ll visit when I let them. And Johnny’s arm is fine.”

    “How do I know you aren’t just saying that so I don’t worry?”

     You’re treated to a lighter version of the ‘captain scowl’ as John gruffs at you. “You don’t, but you can’t go anywhere to find out. ‘Sides, Johnny’s like a stress ball. He pops right back up as soon as ye let go of him.”

That makes you laugh again. He really does love your laugh. “I guess you’re right, love. But I still want to see the boys! I know it’s only been a bit but I want visitors.”

And that gets him laughing. Just a little though, John doesn’t want to jostle you from where you’re nestled against his chest. “What am I? Chopped liver? You want visitors, your poor old husband ain’t enough?”

    He’s obviously joking, and you know that based on the elbow you bury into his ribs that has him coughing. “You know what I meant! I just want to see them myself, with my own two eyes. Considering the last time I saw them I was barely conscious. Just wanna check in.”

  You’re a little fired up, but you settle when John kisses your cheek. “Gentle, sweetheart, gentle. Don’t want to strain your stitches, yeah?” You coo a little, settling against him, and John takes that as your agreement to be calm. “How about this, you rest for today, and I’ll bring the boys to see you tomorrow, yeah?” To John’s satisfaction, you start to nod to agree. 

   Of course, the quiet moment is ruined when the door swings open and the rest of the team piles in. Nosy little bastards, John can’t help but think. Johnny’s arm is indeed still in a sling, and you start fussing over him, which he quickly shuts down. Kyle gives you a gentle half hug, settling back and waiting for his turn to fill you in on the base gossip. And Simon starts with those awful jokes of his. John’s ready to start grumbling about how you shouldn’t be crowded, but you’re laughing in the chaos and he doesn’t want to ruin that. He really does love your laugh. 

“Fuck, Johnny, look atchu,” you speak in a hushed whisper, almost in reverence.

Johnny turns his head to look at himself in the mirror of the vanity you have him pinned up against. His mouth hangs open as he pants gently, fogging up the glass. And quiet, breathy moans leave his throat on every snap of your hips. His face is dusted pink, all the way up to the tips of his ears and down his neck, disappearing underneath the hem of his shirt. 

“You look so pretty like this, baby,” you coo, leaning over him, caging him in as you plant your arms on either side of him on the countertop.

The man beneath you shivers as your breath ghosts over the shell of his ear, and your lips curl into a satisfied smirk.

“Cheeky bastard,” Johnny huffs, wearing a smile of his own as your eyes meet in the reflection. “You’re way too into this.”

“Would you prefer it if I stopped?” You offer, slowing your thrusts and leaning back up as if to step away.

“Stop and I’ll gut you,” Johnny growls, whipping his head around to face you and gripping the shoulder strap of your tactical vest in a tight fist.

“As you wish,” you concede, picking the pace back up, exaggeratedly rolling your hips. 

“Don’t think- ah- you could if you… wanted to, anyway,” Johnny says with a growing smirk, turning back to face the mirror, his eyes once more catching yours in the reflection.

“You’re probably right,” you growl, dropping your head down to press your forehead against the back of Johnny’s shoulder. “You feel so good.”

Johnny chuckles and reaches back to you, curling his fingers into your hair. 

“Knew you’d be into this,” he says in a prideful tone. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

You think back to just moments before. When you had been so fed up with the Sergeant’s constant teasing, on route to- and the entire duration of- the mission, you had finally had enough and snapped. 

Grabbing Johnny by the shoulder, you had shoved him into the dingy bathroom and shut the door behind you. The Sergeant stumbled back and watched you advance on him with wide eyes like a predator stalking its prey. 

But still, a smile graced his lips, heart thumping in anticipation as to how you would finish what he started. 

Forcefully, you spun the man around to face the mirror, then slammed him down onto the countertop, pinning him there with his hands behind his back. 

“You fucking tease,” You had hissed, rutting your hips forward into Johnny’s backside, letting him feel the hard length of your cock, his doing, straining against the front of your pants. 

“Come on, big boy,” he goaded, looking at you over his shoulder. He pressed his ass back enticingly against your crotch and smirked when you sucked in a sharp breath, “You know you want to fuck me.”

Unfortunately, and much to your annoyance, he had been right. Evidenced even further by the fact that you were now buried balls deep inside him, in the middle of a mission, in a dirty bathroom, with the rest of your team who knows where. 

“We could still get caught,” you warn, moving your head to brush your lips against the side of his neck.

“And would ye stop if we were?” Johnny challenges. He’s got a cocky look on his face, along with that stupid, pretty smile of his. 

You don’t answer, knowing the answer is probably, most definitely, no. 

Johnny feels too good around your cock, and looks too pretty all flushed and panting. It didn’t matter who could come through that bathroom door right now and see you. Let them watch for all you care, you weren’t stopping for anyone. 

All you can do is growl and reach an arm around Johnny’s front, pulling him back against your chest as your thrusts become harder. 

“Kinky fucker,” Johnny teases.

And you hate that he’s right. Again. That you wouldn’t mind one bit. Might even enjoy it. At least whoever it was would know for damn sure that Johnny is yours.

“Don’t... worry about it,” the Sergeant says, trying to reassure you. “The building… is clear and the rest of the team… is nowhere near here, nobody-”

“Soap, this is Ghost, how copy?”

You freeze, stilling yourself for just a moment. You can feel Johnny having become just as rigid beneath you.

Again, your eyes meet in the mirror and you swear you can see a bit of color draining from Johnny’s face. 

“Soap?”

You smile mischievously at Johnny before slowly starting to fuck him again, and you tilt your head to whisper directly into his ear.

“Go on, Johnny, answer him.”

Another shiver rolls down Johnny’s spine. His eyes are wide, you can tell he’s reluctant. He looks like he’s about to refuse when Ghost’s voice comes over the comms again, a bit more urgency in his tone now.

“Johnny, how copy?” 

The arm still around Johnny’s front reaches down to his comm unit and presses down on the PTT button, all while holding eye contact with him in the mirror as you fuck him from behind.

Johnny swallows thickly before speaking, “Th-this is Soap. I… I copy, L.t.”

“‘Bought time, Sergeant. What’s your twenty?”

Just as Johnny gets ready to respond, your next thrust comes hard and fast. It tears a groan out of his throat just as you press down on the button, forcing him to bite down on his lip in order to try and cut himself off.

“Johnny, you alright?” comes Ghost’s voice. 

Obviously he hadn’t stopped himself in time, and he glares at you in the reflection. Though his expression doesn’t hold any weight, and looks more pleading instead.

“Y-yes sir, -ah- just… just finishing… the sweep, sir.” he huffs between thrusts. 

“Sergeant, what’s wrong? Are you injured?” Ghost asks, a bit of concern starting to seep in. 

You're starting to move faster, and Johnny preemptively grabs your wrist, holding your thumb off the button of the comm as he lets himself moan loudly. His eyes are closed in pure bliss and he leans forward and lets his forehead prop against the glass. 

What a pretty sight, seeing him so undone. It fills you with pride, and the grin on your face says it all.

Once he lets go, you retract your hand, giving him control back over the PTT. He fumbles his fingers over it for a moment, jostled by your sharp thrusts, but finally finds the button and presses it down.

“N-no, sir… ‘M fine. Just… finishing up here.. -AH!”

Johnny keens as the hand that was once pressing his PTT was now underneath his shirt pinching his nipple. Though, you think he had managed to release the button before crying out this time. Lucky little shit.

There’s a long silence over the radio, and you wonder if Ghost is buying it. You certainly wouldn’t if you were him.

Johnny also seems doubtful, glancing at you in the mirror with eyes full of uncertainty and a hand covering his mouth. 

“Copy,” comes Ghost, finally, though with a suspicious bit of resignation in his tone. “Evac is on route, ETA 5 minutes. Get your arses over here.”

“Yes, sir,” Johnny pipes, letting go of the comm and slamming his hand down firmly on the countertop. 

“Dirty bastard, I’ll get you back for that!” he exclaims, glaring at you over his shoulder.

You only grin, your fingers curl into the short mohawk and yank his head back as your other hand digs into the exposed flesh of his hip.

“I look forward to it, sweetheart,” you say, and any more words Johnny had wanted to say die on his tongue as your thrusts turn brutal, fucking him relentlessly. 

Johnny mewls obscenely, bracing his hands up against the mirror as you fuck him into it. His mouth hangs open, letting every lewd and wanton sound he can possibly make fall off his tongue freely. 

If only he was still on comms now, you think to yourself, imagining everyone hearing everything you’re doing to him.

Glancing down between your bodies and letting go of his hair briefly, you pull your shirt up, wanting an unobstructed view of your cock disappearing into Johnny’s eager hole. 

You can see him watching you in the mirror, watery eyes taking in your bare skin. And you watch as he reaches down in between himself and the vanity and starts to stroke himself to the rhythm of your thrusts.

“That’s it baby, you take my cock so well,” you praise, running a hand up his back underneath his shirt. “Such a good boy.”

“Oh fuck!” Johnny blurts out, goosebumps rising to the surface of his skin. He’s looking at you in the mirror, his glassy eyes pleading with you yet again. His strokes start to become erratic, hand shaking. “‘M close!”

“Yeah? Ya gonna come, baby? Go on, sweetheart, come for me,” you speak, and as if waiting for your permission, he does. 

Johnny comes, and you can tell he’s never came quite so hard before. The sound that tears itself from his throat is absolutely filthy and he looks surprised at himself for having it in him to make. His legs quiver and shake, and you think they’d probably give out if you didn’t have him in an iron grip.

As he comes down moments later, his top half slumps against the countertop, whimpering with oversensitivity as you still plow mercilessly into him. 

“Good boy. So fucking good for me, baby,” you growl through gritted teeth, feeling yourself nearing the edge. “‘M gonna come, sweetheart. God fucking dammit you feel so good. Fuck!”

The sound Johnny makes is somewhere between a sob and a moan and it’s what finally tips you over the edge. You slam into him one final time, pressing yourself in as far as you possibly can as your orgasm hits you like a freight train. You groan, deep and guttural, and your cock spasms as you coat his insides with your thick seed. Your hands are sure to leave bruises on his hips with the way you’re gripping them.

A moment passes where you are content to stay like this forever, buried inside Johnny with no care for the outside world and its responsibilities. But as you feel yourself softening, and your senses return to you, you become aware of time passing once more and pull out.

Stepping back, however, you allow yourself a moment to watch in satisfaction as your cum drips out of Johnny’s ass onto the floor or runs down the inside of his thighs. 

You hum contentedly, burning the sight into your memory for a rainy day.

Johnny is still whimpering softly, and you can see he still has his leaking cock in his hand.

“Alright, there, MacTavish?” you ask, pulling your pants back up and rearranging your gear. 

He only nods, and you smirk triumphantly before swatting a hand across his bare ass.

“Careful what you wish for, Johnny boy,” you say gruffly. You then grab your discarded gun by the door before opening it and walking out.

You can tell you’re a little late to the evac helo by the angry, irritated eyes Ghost was giving the two of you. 

“Everything alright, you two?” He asks, eyeing Johnny as you let him climb in first. 

“Yes, sir,” Johnny responds, avoiding his gaze, as well as the others, and taking his seat quickly.

Ghosts' eyes fall on you and you flash him a devilish smile.

“Just peachy, sir,” you say, and you swear Ghosts eyes narrow just slightly before you, too, board the helo.

Seated at one of the computers, you fumed quietly while typing as fast as you could. Sooner you finished this, the sooner you could go home. That was, until the charge nurse popped up. Great. She at least had the decency to look sheepish as she directed you to another room, saying there was a patient that needed you. You weren't even supposed to be working. Suffice it to say, you were scowling as you walked into the room, at least until you saw your patient.

Simon was seated on the bed, still wearing his balaclava, shoulders hunched as he curled half in on himself,. You'd noticed he did that around shorter women. Trying to make himself appear less intimidating, considering he was built like a living brick wall. Probably was trying not to scare your coworkers, which you did appreciate. You were fussed at enough about his appearances on your wing.

But you just smile, shutting the door behind you and drawing the curtain. "Just us, Si. You can take the mask off." Of course, you don't mean his actual mask. You've always let him shed that, shed Ghost, at his own pace. You mean the body language, making himself small. You'd never be afraid of him. "So are you actually my patient, or were you just lurking?"

Simon sits up, straightening as you speak. You can see his eyes crinkling as he smiles upon sight of you. The mask does shed, the tension unspooling from his shoulders, the stiffness of Lieutenant Riley, the Ghost, disappearing. He's just Si right now. Your Si. And to your surprise, he does peel the mask off.

His eyeblack is smeared underneath it, blond curls matted to his skull, but Simon gives you his trademark crooked grin. "Course I'm a patient, lovie. Look!" And he brandishes his finger at you. The index is a little bent forward, and you see that there's a small cut running down the pad.

Hands on your hips, eyebrow raised, your tone flat. "Simon Riley, did you drive all the way to the hospital to make me give you a band-aid?"

He shakes his head, looking so innocent. "No. I came so you could kiss it better." His tone is light, eyes filled with humor, but Simon did come just to see you. His mission was long, and he missed his boyfriend, and you were supposed to be on the tarmac waiting but work kept you, and he wanted attention, so he came to you.

You sigh, smile creeping across your face. You could never be around this ridiculous man for long without smiling. Shaking your head with fond exasperation, you step forward, nudging his legs apart so you're standing in between his thighs. You take his hand, ever so gentle, looking at the cut on his finger. Brows furrowed, you examine it carefully, humming thoughtfully.

Si's voice is raspy, low and quiet like it always is when you're this close to him. "So, what's the verdict, nurse? Am I gonna live?"

You huff, shaking your head sadly. "You'll live, but I'm afraid amputation is the only option." Your tone is all dramatic and sad, heavy like you're delivering truly bad news.

Simon whines at you, playing along. "Really, nurse? Nothing else you could do?" His eyes sparkle. This is one of his favorite games between you two.

You finally pull a smile, raising an eyebrow. "Well I could do... this." You raise his finger to your lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the pad. "There we go. All better." Just to be safe though, you do wrap a bandaid around it. And just to be a shit, you wrap it in one of the pink heart patterned ones someone put in here as a valentines day joke that has yet to be cleaned up.

Finally, Simon stands, sweeping you into his grasp with one strong arm. Tucked against him, Simon pulls you into a deep kiss, one that has your lips plump and your expression dazed when he pulls back and is most definitely a workplace violation. That gravelly voice is low when he talks.

"We're going home." He even starts to tug you towards the door.

"Si! I have charting to finish."

Simon grunts like he doesn't care. And he doesn't. "Your shift finished two hours ago. You are coming home with me."

And you do. When you get home, Simon's quick to tow you towards the bedroom, tugging at your scrubs. You're laughing, obediently following him along. You know what he wants, so obligingly, you peel off your scrub top, dumping it on the floor, getting a happy grunt in return.

In a few quick moves, you're both stripped to your boxers, and Simon is pinning you to the bed. Now, this is a situation you're not unfamiliar with, but right now, he's dumped his entire weight on you, and is pouting like a puppy made entirely of muscle.

"Missed you."

"Oh did you now?" You're still laughing, hands up so your fingers are scratching through his hair. He's wrapped around you like an octopus, eyes half closed in bliss under your attention. "I couldn't tell."

In predictable Simon fashion, he grunts in response.

Your husband is not the type of man to be contained, so you suppose for him, this is a holiday. Getting to drag the man he loves through a forest with no risk of danger further than a sprained ankle was probably as relaxing for him as sprawling out in the sun was for you. And you loved John. And this was supposed to be a holiday for him, to get away from the stress of being a military captain, so you would indulge him in this. For now. By god, you would get that man down to the pool if it killed you. You deserved a little treat for arranging this whole thing, and John in swim trunks definitely counted.

He slows to a stop on the trail, pulling you closer with an arm around your waist. You'd come to a break in the trees with a view of the forest spread out below you. Trees rolled out and down the hill, blanketing the world in green. It was absolutely beautiful, but you were mostly just happy that John was happy. He was a force of nature and if dragging you up and down a mountain made him happy, well then you would go.

You and John are at the top of the trail, ending partially up the cliffside. You may not enjoy hiking that much, nowhere near as much as John and his bone deep desire to be active, but you did love spending time with your husband. Sat at the top of the trail, you rest your head on his shoulder, leaning into his side.

After the last mission, John had come home wearier than you'd ever seen him, heavy with the self placed weight of the world on his shoulders. So you'd booked some time away, made sure John got the time off, and towed John away from the base. Away from the expectations of being anything except your husband. And it was helping, the sparkle in his eyes returning. If hiking all across the UK got him happy again, you'd do it. He'd gotten you out of funks before, and now it was your turn.

Soon enough, you two turn back, heading down the trail. It's a lovely day and John looks flushed with the happy pride of success. That expression only lasts for a moment though, because you slip, rolling your ankle in a dip on the trail and sliding a bit. Ow, to say the least. Soon enough, you're sat up against a tree with John looking at you in concern. He's checking your ankle, enough medical training to know whether it's sprained or not. Because it's definitely hurt in some way, based on the amount of pain you're in.

After a minute, John is rumbling out his opinion. "'S just a sprain, love. I'll have to carry you down though, you shouldn't put weight on it." Before you can protest, before you can respond, say it's 20 minutes back to the car, John! he's scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing, your head tucked neatly against his chest.

So your force of nature husband carries you all the way back to the car with ease, setting you in the passenger seat like you're made of glass. Really, you shouldn't have been surprised that he could do it, considering what he does for work. Concern is still filling those icy blue eyes of his, and you reach out to press a kiss on his cheek. That gets him smiling again, leaning over you to give you a proper kiss, in his words. John Price is a man who loves his husband utterly, and always wants your affection.

After making it back to the hotel, John wraps your ankle with the med kit you're silently vowing never to tease him for bringing everywhere again. John's a loving man, a force of nature, and always prepared. It was one of the reasons you fell in love with him after all. But what you do do, instead of listening to him ordering you to stay in bed, is convince John to take you down to the pool.

You were going to suntan and admire your husband with his shirt off if it was the last thing you do. After he agrees, he helps you change into your trunks and gets sunscreen on you, probably enjoying rubbing his hands all over your chest too much. And admittedly, you do ogle him as he changes. A few years ago you'd bought him a pair of black trunks patterned with bananas as a joke, but John, ever the stubborn man, wore them every time he went swimming.

And you do enjoy your turn rubbing him down with sunscreen. Nice big man with a hairy chest. Your exact type, and the utter joy rising in you is a familiar feeling, one you get every time you remember you're married to him. When you're both finally ready, John carries you down to the hotel pool, getting you comfortable on one of the lounge chairs. So you finally got to lay out and ogle John as he did laps in the pool, because he still couldn't sit still.

Beautiful fucking man, and he was an amazing husband too. Damn, you were lucky.

   Your handlers won’t care about your concerns though. Orders are orders, and if you don’t follow yours, they'll put you down and send the orders to the next operative. So you get up, beginning to pack a duffel. As per usual, your orders are much of a sent and respond immediately type. No prior warning. No notice that you’ll be shipping out. More of a summons, than anything. It’s okay though. What other life could you have, being who you are? Your handlers know you’re expendable and they make sure you know it too. So with nothing else left to do, you leave, locking the door behind you and heading to the airport, not knowing if you’ll ever see your flat again. Not much to miss, honestly.

    Your arrival at the tarmac doesn’t have much fanfare either. Most of the 141 has yet to arrive, but Price is there. Of course he is. The captain is leaning up against some supply crates that have yet to be loaded, smoking one of those cigars he always has. Because regular cigarettes just aren’t fancy enough. Prick. But you stroll over anyways, bag slung over one shoulder, hands in your pockets. Easygoing. Relaxed. Casual. Trying valiantly to pretend like you’re not in love with him. 

   Because you’re not. You can’t be. You’re a living dead man, more of a ghost than the infamous Simon Riley. See, you? You were ‘killed in action’ almost seven years ago, and picked up by your current handlers. Thus began your new life. Your new life that John Price could never be a part of. No matter how badly you wanted him to be. But you’ve never made your own life easy, so you approach him, utterly cool, calm, and casual. 

    “You look like a damn oil baron, captain! What’s with the chops?” You call out to him as you walk up, idly thinking about rolling your eyes. He did not have that last time you saw him. 

    John jerks his head up, evidently startled. He’d been zoned out smoking, not noticing your arrival. He may have a captain’s instincts, but you’ve always managed to sneak up on him. He begins to grumble, but responds anyway. “I’ve had them. They’re distinguished. And I do not look like an oil baron.”

    “You most definitely do. Combine that with the cigars, and it’s like you’re trying to emulate Winston Churchill.” You’re finally laughing. One of your favorite things to do before your ‘death’ and ultimate separation from him was to make fun of Price, to rule him up and get him as red as he is now. That, and watching him try to hold back the laugh from you making fun of him.

    He reaches over, swatting you on the shoulder. “Just because you’re off on all your fancy secret missions nowadays doesn’t mean you’re any different than the boy who trained with me.” Because you two had trained together, a lifetime ago. Trained as boys, before fate took you down different paths.

     By the time the other members of the task force arrive, you had already received the briefing from Price and tucked yourself back into the plane. There was no reason to connect with them when after this mission ended, you’d be splitting off, going back to the solitude you held. They’re staring, his team. Staring at you, the stranger, sizing you up. Wondering who the outsider is. You know all about Price’s team. The 141 is a legend across the entire British military, and probably out of it too. Each member is a legend in their own right, but you don’t care. The mission comes first. The mission will always come first. The mission is all you are anymore. 

   The mission had been to raid a weapons factory and shut down the terrorist cell running it. You had been told to assist with that, so you did. The team just didn’t need to know about your other orders. Having split off from the team to ‘hunt down stragglers’, you’d gone down to the basement to exact your mission. A prisoner was being held here, and you’d been instructed to execute him. You’d found the man and executed him, just as instructed. A simple bullet to the head. He may have been pleading for his life, but you at least weren’t a monster. You wouldn’t torture him. 

    You’d been heading back to the team when it all went wrong. Because of fucking course it did. What had you said? What was the rule? ‘Missions always go catastrophically wrong. Any operator that does a joint mission with them ends up either betraying them, horrifically injured, or dying.’ The mission sure did fucking go wrong. You were pinned down by enemy fire, shots ringing down the cramped halls. Before this had started, you’d been jogging up to exfil when you’d surprised the last few stragglers escaping. 

    So now you were hiding in an alcove, exchanging fire with at least five men from the terrorist group. Bullets are pinging off the walls, ricocheting like mad. Of course, because things can’t go any more wrong, one lucky shot had taken out your radio. So comms were dead, and you couldn’t reach anyone. Maybe you really would die down here this time. There would be a body to go along with the grave, left back somewhere in Hereford, forever marking you as almost a decade younger than you really were. 

    It was alright, though. You’d survived so much you never thought you’d live through. Dying now was okay, you suppose. It had been borrowed time all along. So why does the thought of dying make you so angry? Not like this. Not stuck in a basement, loaned out to task force 141. Not when John Price is the mission leader. Not when John Price would blame himself till his death bed, carry your name around his neck like a stone with all the others. That’s a surprising thought, and a distraction. And in this line of work, distractions are deadly.

   At least, that’s the last thought you have before the first bullet tears through your shoulder. The pain that flares from that is throbbing, and distracts you just enough for a second shot. The men you’re facing off against take advantage of the opportunity, rushing down the hall towards you. You’re quick to start shooting again, but you’ve been down here long enough that you’re low on ammo. And you were already outnumbered, so the last thing you remember before your vision going black is being surrounded. Surely that’s it. Surely, you won’t be waking up again. 

   But you do. You fucking do. You’re sore, stiff, can barely move, mouth drier than a desert. Your eyes are heavy, crusted with sleep and weariness. The light over you is bright, half blinding, so you let your eyes slide shut while you take stock of the situation. You’re laying on a thin mattress, a blanket, or some sheet covering your body. The light had been blinding, sterile and white. There’s a few different steady beeps sounding around you, and the whir and hum of machinery. 

    You’re in a hospital. That doesn’t make sense. Why would you be in a hospital? Why would your captors give you medical treatment this thorough? And what is the weight on your leg? Opening your eyes again, you groan at the light. Who put a miniature sun on the ceiling? As you make noise, the weight on your leg lightens suddenly. A voice greets you, one you know damn well. New, far more pressing question. Why the fuck is John Price here?

   When you don’t respond to him, he repeats himself. “How are you?” 

    You, ever so sociable, just grumble. 

     “Answer me.” He’s using his captain voice on you. Ordering you to listen. Ordering you to obey. 

    What gives him that right? “Answer me? Answer me? John, you have no goddamn right, how are you even here? Where is here?” You’re snapping, yeah, but you don’t give a fuck. 

    Since you can actually see him now, you see his face go red, eye twitching. “Shut up, soldier. Report your condition.”   You don’t take orders from him, and you choose to display this by picking a cup up from your side table and throwing it at him. At least, you try to. Your hands shake too much, and you can’t even grip it. What the fuck? 

    As per usual, John has all the answers. He’s still fuming red and snapping at you, but spits out one truly damning sentence, and just keeps going. “It’s been a month, soldier. You have been unconscious for a month. So out with it. What is your condition?” 

   You’re stunned into silence for a minute, but the shock takes over and gets you responding. “Fine. Sore, but not too bad. A little stiff. Can feel all the different parts. Solid six out of ten.”

   John nods at you, and stands up. With a quick step, he’s next to you, holding out the cup of water. “Here. Your mouth must be dry.”

   The conversation died after that, with you two just staring at each other. Hours must pass like that, sitting in silence. He’s still fuming, but he is here. After a month of you being in a coma, according to him. Finally, you snap, unable to take it anymore. “What are you doing here? I’m not a member of your team. Just because we trained together doesn’t mean you have to stay.” Your defenses are up, and yes you’re being cruel, but it’s true. He doesn’t have to be. Why would he stay? What force of the universe did you piss off so bad that they’re laughing at you now by taunting you with John Price? Holding the one man you want so badly but can never have right in front of you.

    You’re faced with those dauntingly blue eyes as he just stares. Price has never been an easy man to read, and he’s certainly not being clear right now. You can see the expressions flickering across his face though, turmoil, anger, distress. So many thoughts, so much going through his head. You’re about to speak when he starts talking, tone gruff and weary. “I’m here because you died. When you didn’t show up to exfil, we went back for you. You died on the way to medical, and you died again on the table.” You try to interject but he just keeps going. “I’m here because I don’t want that to happen again. We trained together. We were friends. If you keep going like you are, you’ll die. You’ll be alone again, and something will happen, and you will die. I don’t want that to happen.”

    Utterly taken aback, you start to sputter a response, but ever so used to giving orders as he is, John steamrolls over you, issuing an offer like an order, like an ultimatum. “Join the 141. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

    His words awaken something in you, the desire for home, a team, a life. But you can’t have that. Feeling the burn in your throat, like you’re a child being scolded, you look down at your hands. Bandaged, wrapped, held tight in your lap. “I can’t.”

     “And why the hell not? It’s your choice. Put in transfer papers. You shouldn’t be alone.

  “I can’t! You don’t get it. It’s above your clearance.”

  John’s face somehow gets redder at that. “Clearance? That’s the excuse you’re using?”

      “Excuse?” Your voice raises, and you can hear the machine tracking your heart rate beeping faster as it increases. “Get out! Get out! How dare you!” And John does listen to that, storming towards the door. It slams behind him, leaving you alone in the silence. Alone again. 

    A week passes like that. You get no visitors, save for one of your handlers visiting to drop off a supply bag for you. Otherwise, you sit alone and in utter silence. You’re prepared to wait until you’re discharged and receive your next orders. They did show up. A text had pinged in, instructing you to be at an airfield in 72 hours for an intel drop. A new mission already. So you just wait. Wait in silence. The fight with John probably burned all the bridges with him. At least, that’s what you think until the door to your hospital room swings open and John stomps in. 

    He sits by your hospital bed, and you wait. You two have known each other for years, and John has always been a stubborn bastard. One that you love, but a stubborn bastard nonetheless. And finally he speaks. “I don’t want you to be alone again. I want you to stay…” He looks down, carefully avoiding your gaze. “I need you to stay.”

His voice is so fucking tired. Weary. Lower and sadder than you’ve ever heard John before. So you ask him the one question you’ve always wanted to ask. The one you’ve never gotten to ask. The question that burns in your mind every time you two see each other, that builds in your throat every time you’re parted. One question. One word. One, single, damning word. 

“Why?”

  You can see it, the moment the question pierces his armor. John’s face crumbles, and the raw, shattered vulnerability that appears in his expression almost has you retracting the question out of sheer guilt. But you don’t, because he starts talking. “Because I love you. It took me a long time to come to terms with it but I do, and I already watched you die, and I can’t do that again. Because if you die on one of your solo ops I’ll never actually know. You’ll disappear and I won’t know whether or not you’re alive or dead. So please, fuck, just join the 141. Come with us. Don’t be alone. You’re not an army, no matter how much you like to think it.”

   Your heart breaks. You can actually feel it shattering. Of course he does. Of course, the chance for everything you want is being laid right in front of you and you can’t take it. So you look away too, able to bare your heart or bear the weight of his eyes, but not both. Never both. “I love you too.” Your voice is raspy, and you can almost feel the hope that fills the air, the hope that you have to shoot down. “But I can’t. You know I can’t. We can’t do that. There aren’t happy endings for people like us, John. You don’t want to watch me die? I don’t want to watch you die. But in this line of work, it’s going to happen. You and I both know that if we could walk away, he would have done it already. Death in the line of fire is the only option for us, so no, we can’t do that. I want it too, but we can’t.”

    His voice cracks, and you break. But he can’t disagree with you. You know you’re right, and John knows you’re right. Death is the only ending either of you have. There’s no retirement for men like you two, men with blood soaking their hands, who leave nothing but bodies in their wake. Men who do things that the average person would vomit to even think about. For men like you two, what John is talking about isn’t possible. It won’t ever be possible. But still, he speaks. Pleads.

    “Stay. We don’t have to be anything. Just stay.”

   It had been another of those days where everything seemed to rub in Gaz’s face that everyone else was happy and he wasn’t. Everyone else had someone and he was… alone. Stomping up the stairs to his flat off base, Gaz was sure the day would continue into an utterly terrible night. At least, until he turned the corridor corner and came upon the sight of another guy struggling with the door of the flat next to his, while also balancing a box he was definitely about to drop. At least someone was having a worse day than him. As soon as that thought crossed his mind, Gaz couldn’t help but wince. Of course someone like him would be happy that someone else was upset. 

    The flat next to his had been empty for quite some time, so based on the fact that the guy was a stranger, and the boxes at his feet and in his arm, this was his new neighbor. You were his new neighbor. And he was already being a spiteful asshole to you. At least, he thought he was being one. But the box in your arms began to tremble and Gaz, with the reflexes of his training, lunged forward as it slipped from your grasp, catching it before it hit the floor. Gaz can hear you swear as you drop it, and as he stands, you’ve turned to him with wide eyes, abandoning your fumble with the door. 

     “Thanks!” You gasp, eyes wide. You look almost comical, shock and warmth written over your face. “Nice save!” After a second, you realize Gaz is still holding your box and you snatch it back. “Sorry! Sorry!”

     Gaz is already quietly thinking you’re adorable. Maybe a new neighbor won’t be so bad. “It’s no problem. You moving in?” Stupid! Of course you are. Why else would you be lugging up boxes to an empty flat?

   You just give a sheepish look and smile, shrugging at him. “If I can get the door open, yeah.” 

   For some stupid reason, Kyle decides to help you. He gestures for you to hand him your key, and when you do, sticks it in the lock and jimmies it a few times. When he’s sure the door is well and truly stuck, Kyle braces, and slams his shoulder against the door in a miniature version of a breaching technique. Military training can come in handy sometimes. Your door pops open with no issue, swinging open to reveal the empty flat. And you? You’re staring at Kyle like he’s an angel sent from heaven.

    Six months have passed since then. Six months and Gaz is still miserable. Simon and Johnny are as happy as ever and every time Gaz sees them, he can feel the bile rising in his throat. They’ve done nothing wrong of course, and Gaz is overjoyed that they can be happy, given the rarity of that in their line of work. But this whole time, he’s still landed bad date after bad date and can’t find his own happiness. He’d put a name to it already. Jealousy. Envy. Whatever he called it, Gaz hated it. Because they didn’t deserve that. It wasn’t their fault he’d helped them find their happiness but couldn’t find his own. 

    You’d become a friend though. In the time you’d lived next to him, you and Kyle had grown close. More often than not, one of you could be found hanging out in the other’s flat, talking shit and gossiping about your lives. He’s learned that you apparently have the same problem as him. You helped two of your friends from work get together, but all you get is horrendous dates with people who are more interested in how you look on their arm rather than you as a person. Hell, you and Kyle swapped date horror stories about the insane people you’d tried to go out with. 

   Kyle can’t even begin to articulate how glad he is that he met you. How fucking relieving it is to have someone else understand that its not that he wants his friends to be unhappy, its that he wants to taste the same happiness himself. Whatever fate or chance had gotten your door stuck the day of you moving in and Kyle subsequently meeting you had led to one of the best friendships he’d ever had, and Kyle wouldn’t trade you for anything. Yes, he wanted good old proper romance, but you were his best friend outside of the military. You never judged, never pushed, never forced. With you, there were no expectations. You were just about the only person to make him feel fully normal since the day he joined up. Frankly, Kyle’s not sure where he’d be without you.

    It’s now been a year to the day since you moved in. And Kyle has a problem. He tries dates all the time but none of them ever work out. Most of them are bad, yes, but none of them work out for the same reason every time. Every single person Kyle has tried to date has refused him a second date for one reason. He was clearly already in love with someone else. And he was. You. Kyle Garrick was completely and entirely in love with you and he was pretty damn sure you didn’t feel the same way. 

    Sure, you two still had your constant gossip nights and went out for lunch and dinner and whatever. Everything you two did that could be understood as a date had Kyle burning in guilt because truthfully, they were the only dates he enjoyed. For so long, he’d struggled with no one loving him for who he was, but you did. You got him. But there was no way you’d be interested in him as a partner. As a boyfriend. Even if he wished that’s what he could be for you. But there was no way you’d ever go for him. On one of your gossip nights, you’d gotten a little too drunk and described your type to him. Gorgeous, sweet, a little stupid, sassy and smart and not afraid to show it and oh, did I mention kind of dumb? Those had been your exact words to him. And he didn’t match any of it. 

    Over the year you’ve known Kyle, you ended up at least mostly getting over your own belief that you were unlovable. Sure, you hadn’t found a boyfriend, but you’d grown to acknowledge that you were loved by your friends. You were happy. You had a good life. And if you had a massive little crush on your neighbor, was that really so bad? It wasn’t like you would ever, ever, EVER do anything to intentionally make Kyle uncomfortable, so you were ever so careful about what you said to him, even though you did stay close. 

   Of course, there was that one time you got a little too into your wine and described your type to him without outright saying it was him. Damn you and your type in stupid men. Kyle was literally the perfect man, but he was so oblivious to any moves you tried to put on him. Every time one of your wine nights ended unsuccessfully, you could feel your soul shrivel a little more. What would it take for him to realize how badly you wanted him? If he’d even love you back. For years now you’d dealt with shitty date after shitty date. All men who cared more about a quick hook up or how nice you looked, rather than you as a person. 

    For the longest time, you believed that you were just cursed to be an unlovable fuck up who was entirely in love with your best friend. Something you’d never told him though was that it was him who made you realize you were loved. You’d stumbled home tipsy after a bad date, and Kyle had found you crying in the hall, just drunk enough to not be able to open your door. He’d pulled you into his flat, let you cry it all out, and crash on his couch for the night. That had been the night you’d realized your feelings for him, and the night you realized that it didn’t matter if your dates never worked out, because your friends loved you. Kyle loved you, even if it wasn’t the way you wanted him to. 

   The thing was, Kyle did love you the way you wanted him to love you. You just hadn’t been expecting that. It’s wine night, and Kyle has just made what he thinks is the worst mistake of his life. You two had been shit talking about more bad dates and love life failures. Putting down his fourth glass, Kyle had looked you in the eyes and blurted out how no date he ever goes on is going to work because it’s you for him. It’ll always, completely and entirely be you. And you’re staring at him like someone has just shoved a still wriggling fish down your throat. In fairness, you two were already well through an entire bottle of wine, so you definitely weren’t firing on all cylinders. But you were just staring. Staring like maybe you were about to start shouting, tell him to go away and never talk to you again. 

    So he gets up, starting to stumble to the door, since wine night is being hosted in your flat tonight. “Sorry, sorry. Forget I said anything, I’ll go.”

   “Kyle, wait! What? Where are you going?” You’re considerably steadier on your feet, managing to grab onto his wrist. When he looks back, you’ve got those stupidly big pouty puppy eyes, staring like he’s kicked your cat. Even though you don’t have a cat. 

   "Shouldn't've said that. No. ‘Cuz now you’re going to think I’m weird now and you can’t even love me back-”

   You look baffled. “What? Why would I not be able to love you back?”

    “Because you’re straight?”

    Now you look even more confused. “What? Who told you that?”

     “You just, you never clarified and-”

      “Gaz.” Your voice is flat. “Kyle. Have you thought I was straight for the last year?”

     He blinks. The panic in his chest is dying down. “Um. Yes?”

       You frown, practically stink eyeing him into another panic attack before you explode. “Is that why you haven’t been responding to me flirting with you this whole time??”

      “You were flirting with me?” This entire conversation is a disaster, but it has an odd tendril of hope blooming in Kyle’s chest.

     “Of course! You bloody idiot, I love you too!”

      Somewhere through the half argument, your lips are crashing into Kyle’s and he staggers back to the couch. He hears something crash and shatter, probably a lamp off the side table, but he can clean that in the morning. Right now, he’s practically giddy with excitement. Even if you’re a bit angry right now, you’re in his lap, and you’re kissing him, and his arms are around your waist. It’s perfect. Well, it would be better if he was sober, because Kyle is almost guaranteed not to remember this in the morning, but still. You! You’re kissing him!

You nudge him gently, voice so soft, making sure you can't be overheard. "Kyle, we don't have to do this if you don't want to. I won't force you to get on."

Kyle shakes his head, akin to a dog shaking off water, and glances at you. "No, no, luv, it's alright. Just need a minute." He needs more than a minute. Definitely. Lucky you had enough to book this out for several hours, and not just the usual one.

You press up against him, tucking under his arm. "Take your time, love. All the time you need."

He nuzzles into your hair, taking a long inhale before sighing and looking determinedly at the open door of the helicopter. "How long do we have it for?"

"I've got it booked for four hours, but we can take as much or as little time as you want. And I already talked to the pilot about not flying too high."

Your husband makes a soft little grunt in response, looking down at you. You, his beautiful, sweet, and caring husband, who is so fucking supportive of him. You've booked an entire helicopter tour in the hopes that he can get more comfortable in them. He's not gonna let that go to waste, even though you'd be just as gentle with him either way.

So Kyle climbs into the helicopter, even though his hands are shaking and he's feeling a good bit dizzy. When he looks back over his shoulder though, back at you climbing in after him with the biggest grin on your face, it's worth it.

When the helicopter takes off, Kyle can't help but grab your hand in cling for a minute, even though he's fully strapped in and not even near the closed doors. But you leaning up to gently kiss his cheek settles him. Settles him enough that with you, his perfect, wonderful husband by his side, he actually makes it through the entire four hours. And Kyle also has to admit that there's some pretty nice views up here.

Technically, he was here for work, to pick up some maps for Alejandro, because digitization apparently doesn't exist. But his boyfriend works here too, and Alejandro knows that. The colonel also knows that his second in command had been having a terrible day. So it's no coincidence that Rudy's schedule magically cleared for this errand.

Entering the library though, Rudy is immediately greeted by the high pitched screams of a wailing child. Christ, weren't libraries supposed to be quiet? Rudy looks around taking stock of the situation, and hoping to find his boyfriend. There's dust dancing in the sunbeams coming through the window, and books stacked neatly on the shelves.

All in all, the Las Almas public library is actually pretty cozy, almost the stereotype of a library. And finally, Rudy sees who he's looking for. His sweet boyfriend is perched on a stool at the help desk, hunched over some forms.

Rudy wastes no time getting over to the desk before another patron can take your time, and leans over the counter in front of you. "And what are you up to, my dove?" You startle so cutely, nearly falling backward off the stool before looking up at him and frowning. "Rudy! What I have I told you about scaring me?" But you seem to get over it quickly, face settling back to your regular fussy expression. "It's just funding requests. You here for Alejandro's maps?"

"Sí, dove. You got them?" Rudy smiles down at you like the angel you are.

"No, but I can take you." You smile back at Rudy, getting up from behind the desk and flipping a little sign to read 'away'. Grabbing Rudy's hand, you trot off to a side room with a plated sign that reads 'map room'.