A/N - I had this idea ages ago but never really worked on it but thanks to Sarah, I've finally put this in words. Bless her for helping me write this. It was supposed to be a one-shot but we got carried away so, this will be in two parts.
As for the content, most of the army location, name, and details are pretty accurate but my apologies, if you do find any fault. I've used military timing in this, so, heads up on that. Also, it's not properly edited, so, excuse the errors - if any - I'll fix it later.
And that's it, enjoy!
It is 5:28 AM, and Dean's losing his boy today.
He feels sick. He's curled up in the balcony, chair creaking slightly as he tucks his legs up and rests his chin on his knees.
It's that familiar nausea; days like today always bring it. He can't quite sit still, always shifting, moving or fidgeting, because if he pauses he thinks he might freeze. He'll see Seth tonight, in any case, it's sort of a ritual that when their boys board that plane they spend a few miserable days together, because company is always nice at the beginning, and the company of someone who understands is better.
It's 5:28 AM, and in two minutes their alarm will go off, Roman will wake up. In three and a half hours he'll be gone. Three more months. Three more months as Roman completes his last tour of duty. He'll be home safe, after that, back at the base nine to five. But he has ninety-odd days to get through in Afghanistan, first, and an hour in that place is dangerous. Ninety days is a lifetime.
He tries to think about something that'll calm him down, mundane nothings. His job, he's taking two weeks off starting today, but he'll be back on the road after that doing what he does best — wrestle, he thinks about the weather, the crack in the wall, anything.
It doesn't work.
He swallows, takes a deep breath and rests his head back against the wall, shuts his eyes for a moment. He didn't sleep all night, of course, and it's catching up with him now. He supposes he should take the opportunity to get used to the silence. Of course, at that moment Dean hears the balcony door move just a fraction, and looks up behind him. Roman's poking his head through the door, watching him with this unbearably fond look on his face.
"Hey," Roman says, smiling, "what're you doing out here?"
I don't want you to go.
It's the first and only thing that will enter his head every time he looks at Roman today, he knows it. He'll never say it out loud, of course, but those words are a constant stream in his mind; I don't want you to go, I don't want you to go, I don't want you to go.
"Just wanted some air," he says with a smile, as Roman walks over and stands in front of him, hands lazily entwining with Dean's. Dean's chest feels tight, but it's not time for that yet.
"Yeah, hey," Roman says, face lighting up in a smile, "I love you."
Dean rolls his eyes and laughs; they're always so, so ridiculous on mornings like this. And this isn't even the worst of it; Roman's only been home for two weeks on his mid-tour respite. When he goes after six months, they're more or less tripping over each other to see who can say it first.
"I love you too," he says, standing up. He throws his arms around Roman's neck and jumps up, wrapping his legs around his middle. Roman laughs, hands coming to hold Dean against him, and Dean loves that, the feeling of his fingertips pressing into his skin.
He kisses him gently; he can feel the muscles in Roman's shoulders and back flexing and tensing under his weight. There aren't a lot of advantages to dating a boy in the army; this, however, is one of them.
Roman breaks off after a while, lazy kisses falling to a smile and their foreheads pressed together.
"I'm gonna have a shower," he murmurs, voice a little strained under Dean's weight, and Dean loves that, "come with?"
"Sure," Dean says, feet curling against the cool tiles as Roman puts him down again. It'd been quite a night last night – always is, when Roman's about to go back. He can't drink on those nights, but boy can he fuck. Nonetheless though, Dean's happy to go for round two this morning. He dreads the day he won't be able to; but for now he's twenty-eight and he'll be damned if he turns down shag.
He lets Roman go into the shower first, wraps himself up in the duvet for a moment and tries to center himself, calm the nausea in his stomach and the pounding in his head; I don't want you to go, I don't want you to go, I don't want you to go. By the time he makes it to the bathroom and opens the shower door, the room is full of steam; Roman grins as he slips in, curls an arm round Dean's waist and kisses him properly, water running between them. He fucks Dean up against the bathroom wall relentlessly, hard, his breath hot and wet in Dean's ear, moans drowned out by the sound of the shower. He rocks up into him, again and again and again, and Dean tries not to think of it as goodbye, as the last time, tries to enjoy it. He fists a hand in Roman's hair, tugs on it with a stuttered groan, and when he comes, Dean tries to keep his eyes open, because these are the last few hours he's going to see Roman's face for a long, long time.
0840.
There are too many clocks at the base, Dean decides. Always have been, since the first time he came here to see Roman off. That time, it'd only been a few weeks in Sudan, a small peacekeeping mission. Sometimes he wishes he could go back and tell that nearly naive version of himself to chill the fuck out, and to trust him, because things get a thousand times worse.
He glances round the holding room for a second, takes in the all too familiar sight. All the boys in uniform, kissing teary goodbye's to their significant other, hugging small kids while their other parent watches on, lips pressed into a tight smile and eyes worried. From eight till eight thirty, the place is generally chaos, everyone running around and saying hello and goodbye, last minute checks and packing. But at that half hour mark the shift always comes in; it gets quieter and a little more subdued and if they're anything like Dean's, everyone's hearts get a little heavier, it becomes a little harder to breathe, think straight and put one foot in front of the other.
He hates these mornings. Hates the way the nervous, dull fear sits in the air, hates even thinking about the other people here because, Jesus, he doesn't know how they do it. He can barely handle it, and he's only got himself to worry about. There are people here with two or three kids, mortgages, cars and school fees and, like, lives.
Dean sees Seth and Randy in the corner; Seth leaned up against the wall rolling his eyes as Randy laughs and runs a hand down his cheek, but smiling a moment later, threading his fingers through the tags around Randy's neck. He draws his gaze away after a moment; he and Seth will catch up later. It's a tradition, of sorts, that on days like this they watch the plane leave, find the nearest bar, and drink themselves under the table. Besides, he has his own goodbye to focus on.
Fuck.
"Don't let that fucking couple next door keep using the car space, okay, I mean it. They're such assholes about it; if they want it, make them pay the fifty."
Dean just blinks up at Roman a little disbelievingly.
"That's it? You're about to fly off for three more months and your parting words are about my parking space?"
Roman laughs, threads his fingers through Dean's gently, between them, a little hidden. "No," he says, "no, I just…you know. I'm bad at this. It's the worst part."
Dean nods, smiles down at his shoes. "Yeah, I know."
"We board in three minutes," Roman says, glancing at his watch. Dean always loves how he looks in uniform, all pressed and strong and proud, shoulders broad, jaw set. He likes the way he has his bag slung over his shoulder, the lazy walk in his boots, and the metal flash of his tags. Today, though, it's just making him want to burst into tears.
"This is a record," Dean notes, "this is the longest I've gone on one of these mornings without crying."
Roman laughs, surprised.
"Am I losing my touch, Deano?" he asks, pressing a kiss to Dean's right cheek, then his left. Dean stops him from placing the third on his lips, though, smiles at him gently and brushes a thumb across his mouth instead. Roman always gets a little handsy on these mornings, and Dean doesn't want him to do something he's going to regret, it's an army base after all. His thumb catches on Roman's bottom lip, drags a little. Roman just laughs again, but it's quieter. Dean can tell he's just looked at the clock behind him.
"Nah," he replies, grinning, he knows that the fondness in his eyes can probably be seen from space but he doesn't really care anymore, "of course not."
He runs a hand down the curve of Roman's neck, wishes he could see his collarbones and the swallows and the star. "Just saving myself. I was considering breaking security and running out onto the tarmac this time. Too much?"
Roman hums a little and pulls Dean in by his belt loops. Dean doesn't stop him this time, can't, suddenly. Roman hugs him impossibly tight, breathing him in, his neck, his hair and his smell.
"Maybe," he murmurs, like he's trying to bury the words under Dean's skin, "just a tad."
Dean glances back up at the clock from where Roman's got his head pressed into his shoulder. 0843. They're running out of time now. He never knows how to do a long goodbye, the drawn out saga. He never knows how to do it until it's a matter of seconds till Roman's gone, and then it's like his brain kicks into overdrive. He feels it now, the way his heart flips and tries to jump out of his chest, the way his arms involuntarily hold Roman tighter, the way his legs feel like they might give out, if he let them. The tears prick at his eyes, fall into Roman's neck as he tries valiantly not to let them spill over.
"I'm going to miss you so much," he says, voice small, lips pressed to Roman's ear. He's barely aware of how shaky his own breath sounds, how shaky he feels, like he might topple over should there be a particularly strong gust of wind. Roman pulls back from the embrace that holds them like a vice, brushes his fingers tenderly through Dean's hair.
"I'm going to miss you more, babe," he whispers, all husky and gravel and Dean isn't going to hear that for so many, many weeks and he has to bite his thumb to stop himself letting out a choked little sob at that.
"Not possible," he says, voice wavering, sniffing a little to try and regain some semblance of self-control. "And, you know, at the risk of sounding completely fucking redundant," he says, swallowing hard, "please be safe. Please. Please come home."
"I'll always come home, baby" he says, and before Dean can respond, Roman takes him by the wrist and drags him through the small terminal door, round the corner into a corridor.
Dean knows it well, it's the goodbye corridor, he has been here countless times. But it's 0844 and suddenly he feels like he hasn't said enough, like it's come too quickly and he's not done enough, not told him how much he loves him, how much fun this two weeks have been, how much more fun it'll be when Roman's home properly, where they're going to go on holiday, that he knows his top five favorite shirts, bands, TV shows, that he makes Dean want to go and save the world or give all his money to charity because he's just so good that he makes Dean want to be good too, and Dean wonders if he's ever told him that. Because what if I never get to tell him again, and he fucking hates himself for thinking that but he can't help it, none of them can, no one in this whole terminal, it's always there, niggling away, and Dean suddenly feels like there's not enough air in this long dark corridor to fill his lungs up.
"Ro, babe," he says, a little choked up, and then "Roman," because maybe if he just keeps saying his name something will change, he'll have more time, because he just needs more time, needs a few more minutes, just a few. Just to tell him everything once more.
"Oi," Roman whispers, pressing him back into the wall, "it's okay. Listen to me, take care of yourself. Don't go into overdrive with your body; give it a break once in a while. Don't make your injuries worse. I love you. We'll talk, we always do. They have this thing called the cell phone now, you know, have you heard of it?"
Dean laughs, a little hysterically, fists a hand in Roman's shirt before he can stop himself. The fabric's rough, he doesn't like how it feels but it's something; it's attached to his boy and that's the only thing it needs to be right now.
"I need to go, Dean," he says quietly, "so you gonna kiss me or—"
And Dean doesn't need Roman to finish that sentence, just surges up and crashes his lips with his own with a little noise, a little stuttered breath. He can feel Roman smiling against his lips, his hands snaking around between Dean and the wall, holding his small waist and Dean wants to cry because Roman knows he loves that. Roman always says he thinks he could fold Dean up and keep him in his pocket; Dean wonders vaguely if they could try that now, just in case he's right. Roman tilts his head up, tongue flicking into Dean's mouth, hands roaming around his hips and his ass and fuck, its 0845, Dean can hear the commotion outside, and Roman's pulling away and no, I don't want you to go, he thinks desperately, and it's so loud in his head that he wonders if Roman can hear it too.
Roman lays one last kiss on him, sweet, slow and tender, before pulling away. Dean can see it in his eyes, the way he's getting himself into the right mindset now. He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair.
"C'mon," he says quietly, picking his bag up and brushing his fingers over Dean's hand one last time, "come see me off."
Dean does. He watches him walk out onto the tarmac, jogging to catch up with Randy, his best friend since they started training together, and Dean roughly wipes at the tears on his cheek.
He catches a small smile from one of the women across the room; she's older than him, maybe in her late thirties. She has a look in her eye that says I know how you feel, and Dean wonders how long she's been doing this. How long he'll be doing this, how many others there'll be after Afghanistan.
The boys pile into the C-141 in single file, and Dean sees Roman disappear up the ramp after Randy.
Bye, he thinks, please come home.
Seth's sprawled out on Dean's couch; waving emphatically at the TV frustrated at how bad his team is playing and spilling beer onto the floor. Dean has absolutely no idea what's going on. Seth laughs a little delightedly at that, buries his head in a cushion and groans loudly. They've been drinking since midday and it's coming up on midnight now, so, it's been a marathon, to say the least.
"I feel like shit," Seth slurs, "what day's it?"
Dean sighs, "Still fuckin' Monday."
He wonders what Roman's doing, if he's okay, if he's on night patrol and up thinking about him, or is he's sound asleep, dead tired from the plane. It'll be getting on eight in the morning there; Dean's so used to the conversion now that he can still do it when he's downed about a dozen of beer. Which is saying something, because he's not even sure he can walk in this state.
"Eighty-seven," Seth murmurs to himself, and Dean snaps back into the real world, "eighty-fuckin'-seven."
"Huh?" Dean asks, finishing his drink with a smack of his lips.
"Eighty seven days till Randy and Roman are home," he says with a sigh.
"Oh," Dean says, glancing at his watch. It's 01:06. "Well. Eighty-six, now."
Seth hums thoughtfully, and Dean feels himself drift off to sleep.
The first week is always utterly shit.
By the time he's got rid of the crick in his neck from sleeping in the armchair that night, not to mention his two-day hangover, he's fairly sure he's going to die.
But that's okay. Because it's Thursday, which means tomorrow is Friday.
Tomorrow is Friday. Friday, Friday, Friday, Friday, and Dean's not heard such good news in what feels like years because today's Thursday which means tomorrow is Friday and when Roman's away Dean basically lives Friday to Friday. Friday's the day Roman calls home, and home is Dean. He gets a half hour of call time. Randy's day is Tuesday – Seth would not let go of his phone the whole day, which nearly drives Dean insane with all his nervous finger tapping, but Dean knows how it gets.
Tomorrow's Friday, and Dean holds onto the thought of that like it's the breath in his lungs.
Dean opens his eyes, adjusts to the light in his room. It's Friday.
It's Friday and Camp Leatherneck is nine hours ahead of Dean's flat in Seattle (well, their flat, really, this is where Roman stays when he's on leave and most weekends when he's at the barracks, so theirs, his, whatever, it's all connotations), so if he's right it's just past midday over there. So sue him, he's up early.
He gets out of bed and has a cup of coffee, reads the paper halfheartedly, doesn't shower because if he misses this call he's quite seriously not getting out of bed until Roman comes home.
So he waits. And waits and waits and waits and considers going for a run or doing his laundry but strikes both those things down because they'll probably be too time consuming and he'd go to the pub but what if it's too loud and he doesn't hear his phone, and he kind of wants to call Seth but he can't be on the phone because it's Friday and Roman's calling today, Jesus, Dean, pull it together, and he just about considers cutting his two week long leave from work short, but they'll be fine without him anyway, and now that he's looking at it, the light bulb seems kind of dim and he should probably replace it but he's not got a ladder and it's not like—
Rrrrrrrrrring.
Dean startles and lets a squeal escape him.
Rrrrrrrrring.
That'd be the phone. He should answer it.
He picks it up and slides his finger shakily across the screen, puts it on loudspeaker.
"Hell—"
"You are receiving a call from," the prim automated voice cuts out, replaced with another, "US Army Base Camp Leatherneck." The first voice chimes back in. "To reject this call, please hang up now. To accept, please —"
"God," Dean hisses to himself, pressing 1 before it tells him to. He's done this what feels like a few thousand times, he knows the drill.
The phone rings twice, and then connects. It's a crackly line, satellite phones inevitably have that affect, but he really doesn't fucking care, because it's Roman.
"Deano?" His voice comes down the line, Dean can hear the smile in it and practically see the crinkles by his eye and he has to rest his head in his hand for a moment to steady himself.
"Baby, you there?", Roman asks, sounding confused at the lack of response.
"Yeah," Dean answers, a little louder than probably necessary, but yes, he's here, "Hi, darling. How…" he takes another breath, and he hears Roman laugh down the line, and Dean wants to die, because it's his boy and he's not spoken to him for what feels like a small lifetime and he's here, now.
"How are you?"
He hears a rustling, expects that's Roman falling down on his bed or something. He's so far away. Dean feels it right in his chest, that distance.
"M'good," he says, and he sounds tired but Dean thinks he's telling the truth, "hot. So fucking hot here"
"Yeah," Dean says, "well. Few thousand cute boys packing the place out, Ro, I expect it is."
Roman just snorts, and Dean has to bite his lip because he can see the look on his face, the delightfully bewildered furrowed brow. Except, of course, he can't, and it sits on him a bit like a deadweight.
"You're so dumb," he says fondly, "tell me about Seattle."
So Dean does. He tells him what he's eaten for dinner and about his jeans that came yesterday that are sinfully too small for him. He tells him about Seth, the new Batman film and all that. Dean's gotten good at this, that's the thing. When they'd first started doing this, Dean had never known what to say when Roman said that; tell me about Seattle. But now, now he catalogs everything. Reads an article and thinks Roman will like that, hears a song on MTV and writes down the name of it if he thinks it sounds like that stupid indie stuff Roman likes, buys him a t-shirt and anything that makes him think Roman. That sort of thing.
And for a second, sometimes, if he talks enough, if Roman laughs or gasps or makes an impressed little noise in the right place, it's almost as though he's sitting right next to him. Just for a second.
"You still there?" he asks suddenly, because Roman's not said anything in a while.
"'Course," Roman says, "just like hearing you talk."
Roman hangs up twenty-seven minutes later, and Dean's heart doesn't quite stop aching. Because that's it, he's got a whole week to wait to hear him again, now. It's been five days. Eighty-two to go, he thinks, and fuck, he always forgets how hard this is.
The snow falls for the last time this season. Roman isn't here to see it. Roman loves winter; he's not a creature of heat. (Dean ignores the fact he spends half his time in a desert.)
The ache in Dean's chest grows, and although he tries to brush it off as something else, he knows it's because it's nearly April 4.
April 4 appears kind of out of the blue, funnily enough. Dean's been trying to keep busy, going to work, going to the gym, getting back to the road; it's important to get back into everything, his own life, after the first couple of weeks. He's had a not-awful fortnight, which is about all he can hope for when Roman's overseas.
But it's April 4, now, and it's been a month.
More importantly, though, it's been three years.
Dean's stayed up till midnight even though he has to be up at 5 am, because it's important to him. Even if Roman's not here, it's important. He wants to celebrate it properly.
He distinctly remembers the fourth day of Roman's mid-tour break, when they'd realised their anniversary would be while Roman was away.
"No," Roman pouted, pulling Dean closer so he was sat in between his legs on the couch. Dean just leaned back into him, pressed a kiss to his cheek. "No, no, no, we're not allowed to go three years without me here."
Dean smiled at that, hooked Roman's legs round his own. "'Nothing we can do, babe. It's okay. We'll have the next one."
Roman had sighed, unsatisfied with that. "You know the present for three years is, like, leather," Roman grumbled, "The sexiest one, especially on you, and I don't get to be here for it.". Then started kissing the back of Dean's neck.
"I think those guidelines are for wedding anniversaries," Dean had noted dryly, "but still. You better not have bought me a whip that I can't use, or I'll end you."
Roman laughed into his hair, chest pressed to his back, silence taking over for a moment.
"Write me a letter," Roman said suddenly, after a moment of silence, "Write me a letter and I'll write you one and we'll swap and we won't open them till the day. It'll be nice."
So they did. And Dean's rifling through his bedside drawer now, memory playing like an old record in his head, until he pulls the card out with his name written on it followed by a heart.
He thinks his heart might break in two. He tears the envelope open, though, pulls out the goofy card with two little ducks nuzzling each other on the front. He opens it, gingerly, wills the lump in his throat away.
Deano,
I'm going to be a couple of oceans away from you when you read this, unless you've opened it early in which case, fuck you. But I hope you haven't. I hope it's April 4 and you're sitting on your bed and doing that thing where you bite your lip so you don't get too teary, like when we watch shitty romantic movies and you pretend to be bored but you're actually way too into it.
Dean lets out a surprised laugh, bites his lip harder and sniffles a little.
I'm so sorry I'm not there, baby. You know this stuff means the world to me, and you do too, and I'm just so sorry. I don't mind missing Christmas, or my birthday, or Valentine's. But I'm sad I'm missing this.
I don't even know what to write, really, because I'm not that good with words. But you're sitting opposite me right now and I think you're reading the TV Guide even though you're holding up Sports Talk. You look lovely with your hair pushed back, you don't wear that look enough, which I might start bugging you about once I'm back. But anyway, you're sitting opposite me and every time I look over at you I keep smiling like an idiot. And I smile like an idiot every time I think of you when I'm away, too, when it's too hot over there and I can't sleep or when we're out in the desert for eight hours or whatever. Even when I'm just at the base back home, and I'm cold or tired or angry; you always make me smile. I don't have a lot of people in my life who I know are going to be there, which is why I joined the Army in the first place, I guess, and I've met some great people who I know have got my back. But no one's ever been there like you're there, Deano. So thank you, for all of it. For the key to your flat so I can always walk in (we seriously need to buy a house together once I'm back long term), for the low fat milk you have in the fridge just for me, for buying me concert tickets you know I'll want even though you think the band's dumb.
But mostly, I guess, thank you for being there every time I come home. Thank you for being the person I think of when I'm on the other side of the world and I think of home. Thank you for being my home.
Three years is 1095 days, did you know that? I didn't. I googled it. But the point is, I've been yours for one thousand and ninety five days now. And I want to be yours for a thousand and ninety six more, and another few after that.
I love you, and I hope you make me smile like an idiot for a million more years. I hope I sometimes make you smile like that too.
Lots of love,
Roman.
(PS: your present's in the cornflakes box, you dick, bet you didn't think to look there.)
Dean reads it again, the whole way through, then his favourite parts, then just two lines: Thank you for being there every time I come home. Thank you for being my home.
He wipes at his eyes, pushes his hair off his face and stands up, pads out to the kitchen and opens the pantry, smiling in spite of everything. The letter's still held fast in his hand, he doesn't expect he's going to let go any time soon.
He fishes the cornflakes out from the back of the pantry, Roman's right, he didn't check the box, mostly because cornflakes are disgusting. But he sticks his hand in, comes up with a box and a note.
Give you the whip when I get home! Happy leatherversary. R x
He lets out another little laugh that kind of threads in with his tears, and with his goddamned shaky fingers he opens the box.
It's a book, or something. Dean furrows his brow, not quite sure what it is. He sets the letter down, box too, and pulls the book out. Then he opens it.
And it turns out that it's not a book, it's a leather bound photo album.
He flicks through it slowly, biting his lip the whole time. He and Roman in Paris last Christmas, Roman's 28th, Seth's wedding. Reels and reels of photo booths from clubs, bars and parties, Dean drunk in Roman's uniform one night; he, Roman, Seth, and Randy dicking around on photobooth, the two of them shirtless and clutching cocktails in Barcelona, the day they went to Cali for no apparent reason and ate at that endearingly shitty Italian restaurant they love. The grainy iPhone photo taken by Seth of the time Roman had first come back from Afghanistan and an embrace so tight Dean's not sure how he survived it.
And then it's small things, like Dean's coffee mug on the bench and photos Dean didn't even know Roman had, the two of them around the flat, Dean sprawled across the couch and reading, wearing nothing but one of Roman's white shirts and his briefs, Dean in his aviators looking thoroughly unimpressed at Roman's barracks, a photo Roman's obviously taken himself of him making the album.
And then on the very last page is Dean's favourite picture in the whole world that Roman's sister had taken when they'd gone to Italy with her last year. The two of them asleep on each other in an airport, maybe it was Venice, Dean thinks, the world moving impossibly fast around them, a blur, but the two of them sleeping softly amidst it.
Roman and Dean and all the little bits and pieces that make up their world, and yeah, Dean's not bothering to bite his lip now, he just smiles and cries quietly all at once.
For the first time in thirty-one days, it doesn't feel like a million miles when Dean falls asleep.
Roman calls two days later, Friday. Dean punches 1 into his keypad so quickly he thinks he might have broken the screen, but the line connects soon enough.
"Roman!" he all but shouts, "good morning, babe, or wait, is it afternoon there? I'm shit at math," he laments.
There's a small silence.
"It's afternoon.", his voice is quiet, guarded. Dean closes his mouth, bites back his slightly hyperactive word vomit. He swallows.
"Okay," he says gently, "how you doing? Miss you."
Roman sighs, "I'm just tired. Really tired, you know."
I miss you too, Dean thinks, please say it. It doesn't come.
So he waits for what always comes next; tell me about Seattle. But it's just silence. He's not sure they've ever had one of these conversations without that question.
"Yeah, babe, I can imagine," he says, let's the sentiment in his voice hold for a moment, "hey, I read your card, though. Proper catch, you are."
He expects Roman to laugh, even just to smile. To say, I got yours too. Happy anniversary and two days.
"What?"
He doesn't, however, expect that. His heart rate quickens, or maybe falls, he can't tell.
Your card, your card, your card, the one you wrote me, and please don't say you've forgotten it, the best card I've ever been given, the card I'm considering sleeping with every night you're not here.
"Your card," he says again, carefully, trying to keep the edge out of his tone but failing.
Roman sighs. And if Dean's not mistaken, he sounds irritated, "Dean, what? My card for what?"
Dean traps his breath in his lungs, closes his eyes for a long moment. He shouldn't be disappointed. Roman's on the front fucking line of a goddamned war, for Christ's sake. It's not a felony if he's forgotten a date in their calendar. He's got one or two things going on.
It doesn't stop the sinking feeling that runs through Dean's whole body, drags him down.
"Anniversary, babe," he says quietly, "it was Wednesday." And I stayed up till midnight, he thinks, and I slept with that card in my hand.
"Oh," Roman says after a long moment, and for a second he thinks it might be okay, that Roman will apologise and rifle through his bag till he finds Dean's card, read it as they're on the phone and maybe, maybe, maybe it'll be okay.
Instead, Roman says "shit," like he's forgotten to put the towels in the drier or record The Voice, and Dean wants to cry.
Dean swallows, takes a deep breath.
He forgot.
"Yeah," he says, out into the silence, "shit. A bit."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Roman snaps.
Dean blinks. Thinks he might need to check he's got the right number, because this whole conversation has been stilted and odd, but that tone, harsh as though he's looking for a fight, that's not his boy.
"What?"
"Look, Dean, I'm sorry I forgot, but no need to get all fucking melodramatic on me," Roman says, in there before Dean can even wrap his head around what's happening, "do you think you could just say, oh, hey Roman, you're in the middle of fucking Afghanistan, it's okay if you forgot our anniversary and not treat it like a federal fucking case?"
Dean opens his mouth, closes it again.
"I said, like, four words."
Roman snorts. "Yeah, with about a thousand fucking words worth of passive aggression embedded in there so cheers for that."
"Jesus, Roman, what the fuck?" Dean's reeling, voice a little high, panicky. He doesn't know how to do this, doesn't want to spend the thirty minutes he has fighting.
Roman's silent for a long moment, and Dean thinks he might've hung up. His stomach lurches when he speaks again.
"I'm trying, Dean. I call every week and shit, I try. I'm sorry I've got a little more on my plate than worrying what my hair's going to look like if I don't blow dry it, but—"
"What the fuck does that mean?" Dean asks quietly, and he's so fucking humiliated, feels so childish and stupid, for giving a fuck about three years when Roman's sitting in some base camp, on the other hand for rising to his bait. It doesn't stop him.
"I have a job too, you know, where I put my body through hell and back day after day barely getting to go home, and bills, and friends and my family. Not to mention my fucking boyfriend who's roaming around Af-fucking-ghanistan for a living. So don't go acting like it's all fucking sunshine and roses for me, Roman, everyone's got shit."
Roman snorts, and it's derisive and mean. "Yeah, well, I'm sure it's a struggle," he bites back, deathly quiet, "why don't you tell me all about it."
The silence hangs in the air between them. Dean doesn't rise to his challenge again. It's not that he couldn't, there's no one who knows how to fight dirtier than Dean when he needs to. It's, quite simply, that he's too terrified to, too afraid of what's happening here.
"You don't have to call if you don't want to," he says quietly, "if, you know, if it's gonna upset you this much.", Dean quietly said.
No, he thinks, no, no, no, you absolutely have to call, please, please know me well enough to know I don't mean that.
"I'm not upset," Roman says roughly, "I'm fine."
Dean wonders just what in God's fucking name Roman's seen today – heaven forbid, what he's done – because this isn't his boy.
Happy anniversary, he thinks.
The line goes dead.
Five days later – three years and a week, but he doesn't think about that – he thinks he should probably tell someone, because he's not been able to relax ever since that day.
Seth comes over to his hotel room, Chinese food in one hand, bottle of Tennessee in the other. They just got back hotel a while ago from a show in Houston and although Dean didn't fight tonight, he still feels exhausted. Not physically, but mentally.
"You look like shit," Seth says when Dean opens the door, but he's not joking. There's a softness in his eyes, because he knows, he's the only person in Dean's whole life who knows, and Dean just sort of falls into him, let's Seth hold him up for a minute, because it's been five long days of doing it himself and he's so tired.
He lifts his head from Seth's chest slowly. "Hi," he says miserably, "sorry. Come in."
Seth does, closes the door and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, steers him to the couch and starts unpacking the food. Dean's barely slept since Friday, he likes that someone else's taking control for the time being.
He passes Dean a spring roll. "Bad week?" he asks, "you kinda fell of the radar, Deano."
"I know," he murmurs, "Sorry. But it's Roman…" He trails off.
"What is it? You look upset" Seth asks gently.
And Dean is sad, right to his bones, because Roman feels so far away. Roman is so far away, and Dean is used to that, as used to it as he can ever be. He's not used to this, though. He's not used to it being a question, whether Roman will call him or not.
So he tells him. He tells Seth everything, the letter, the album and the call; Seth winces in all the right places and by the end, has pulled Dean in for a hug, rubbing small circles into his back.
"I would've been here in a fucking nanosecond if I knew, man, I'm so sorry."
"Me too," Dean says, quirking a small smile. He feels washed out, now, all the buzzing, anxious energy replaced with a kind of numbness.
His fucking boyfriend is in Afghanistan and for all he knows, isn't going to call on Friday. He doesn't care about much else, not really. It's all background.
"Randy did that once, you know," Seth says suddenly, and it makes Dean sit up. "Like. Few years ago. We were talking and I brought something up. Something about how I was feeling the wedding was happening a bit too early, I was obviously kidding. And he just…fuck," Seth says, shaking his head like he still can't believe it, "lost it at me."
"What happened?" Dean asks.
"He just, like, really dug into me. Kind of like Roman, you know, you've got nothing going on in your life that's why you're digging deep into this, I'm trying my best to keep you happy, that's why I want to marry you as soon as possible, all that kinda stuff."
"Yeah," Dean murmurs.
Seth grabs a box of noodles, hands one to Dean.
"Didn't sleep until he called the next Tuesday" Seth says, rolling his eyes fondly, "but then tripped over himself trying to apologize."
Dean just laughs, a little; he loves Seth so much, for being here, for getting it, for knowing what to say. For bringing him noodles and wine, too.
"I think they feel guilty, sometimes, when they're out there," Seth says suddenly, "Randy told me that once."
"Why guilty?" Dean asks. Roman loves prawns in his noodles, he remembers out of the blue, so he leaves one aside automatically, before remembering that Roman's not actually here. He feels a pang of vague queasiness at that; and he doesn't eat the prawn.
"I guess because we're back here, waiting for them, and they don't know how to deal with that," Seth says slowly, "I only ever said it once to him, you know. Imagine if it was me going over there, how would you feel, all of that bullshit when you have those fights. His eyes just about popped out his face. I don't think they like thinking of it like that."
Dean nods, considering what Seth said for a moment. "I know he didn't mean it," he settles on saying, "I just. You know. Wish I could hear from him, or something."
"I know," Seth says, smiling sympathetically, "but hey. Five weeks down, right?"
And seven to go, Dean thinks.
Seth stays for a few hours. They kick back and watch Match of the Day and Dean doesn't care in the slightest about the fucking English Premier League right now, but he feels better, lighter, than he has in days.
"Talk about Europe, God, I hate this," Seth yells at the TV, voice getting slightly louder as he goes, "I can't watch this anymore, sorry. Mind if I flick around?"
"Go ahead," Dean says, tossing him the remote, "you know it's only England though, yeah, it's not like, UEFA, or anything."
Seth flicks him a look that just makes him laugh. "Shut up," Seth says, before the TV grabs his attention again, "oh, look. Kardashians.", Seth starts to laugh. They'd be lying if they said they never watched it.
"Nope," Dean declares, "vetoed. We're not watching this."
"Are so," Seth retorts, topping up both their whiskey glasses, "don't pretend you're too good for it, Dean, don't chuck a bloody Roman type snobbery episode at me."
"Oi!" Dean exclaims, tossing a cushion at him, "he's not a snob. And I am too good for this, thank you very much."
Seth just rolls his eyes, points at the screen one of them is crying, dabbing at suspiciously waterproof eyeliner with the corner of a tissue.
"Oh please, that's fucking ridiculous," Dean says, "I guarantee you her make-up would be a mess by now."
"How would you know? Got a secret career in drag you've not told me about?" Seth teases, and Dean just laughs over his shoulder as the doorbell rings. Dean stands up, wanders over to the door, alcohol catching up with him a little.
"Yeah, bro, you know me. Done it all on the street" He opens the door a little, not turning round to see who's there. "So what, I'm like, shit, what was that name—"
Seth's face has gone very, very pale. Dean stops talking. Seth's looking over his shoulder, craning his neck to see who's at the door.
Dean pulls it open wider, and finally turns to see who's there.
"Sir, are you Dean Ambrose, designated proxy of Lieutenant Roman Reigns?"
He doesn't even remember it, not really. All he sees is the camouflage green, the decorated left pocket of the two men at his door, the grave eyes staring back at him. The way the one on the left opens his mouth and starts speaking, but all Dean can hear is Roman Roman Roman Roman Roman Roman, over and over, like someone's shouting it right into the back of his brain.
The crash of red as he drops his glass, hands shaking furiously, shards flying and settling like dust over his feet and the boots of the men at his door, the sharp little cry that escapes his mouth as he takes a step back, eyes wide and full of terror, the same terror that's turning his blood cold in his veins.
And the last thing he remembers before he blanks out, before Seth's arms somehow appear around him, holding him up, is the last thing Roman said to him.
I'm fine.
Of the many ugly and terrifying moments Dean's experienced in his life, nothing beats last night, the uniforms at the door. After Dean blanked out, the officers thought it would be better to talk to him the next day when he's not buzzed and a bit stable.
Dean remembers to take a breath as the officers tell him about Roman's situation.
Roman is not dead.
Those are the four words that keep Dean sitting upright, keep him listening as best as he can to the rotating group of Lieutenants and officers from Roman's branch that are coming and going in and out of his hotel room in the morning. Seth decided to stay with Dean to make sure he'd be fine. They woke up around 8 and the officers were at the door an hour later.
Roman is not dead.
Yet.
There was an explosion. Just outside the boundary of Leatherneck where Roman was patrolling. Roman and five other guys, blown halfway to heaven by kilo upon kilo's worth of explosives.
And you better hope it's not the whole way, his brain says before he can stop it, and he wants to switch himself off, go on standby for a bit, because he doesn't think he can do this.
Roman and five other guys. That was the sentence that had Seth go from best friend to party-with-a-vested-interest in four seconds flat.
"Could you, um," Seth says, hands not moving from Dean's shoulders. He feels numb all over, like he's not really here. The only reason he's registering this is because Seth's voice is a welcome change from the droning of the man in front of him. "Could you say who the other five are?"
The Lieutenant shakes his head. "Sorry," he says, "Can't release personal information to the public."
"Of course," Seth says hurriedly, "just. My husband's in the same location too. Can you just…" he swallows, "Randy Orton? He there?" He blinks a few times.
The Lieutenant considers him for a while. Fletcher, his uniform reads. He casts his eyes down the list momentarily.
"No," he says shortly, "not here."
Seth's shoulders sag in relief, and for the tiniest of flashes, Dean fucking hates him, wants to punch him till his knuckles bleed.
He shudders and sits up straight, extracts himself from Seth's hands for a moment. He leans forward, runs his hands through his hair.
"Can, you, umm," he says, furrowing his brow, shaking his head slightly. The sun's just rising, an odd cool light. "Is there any news?"
"I'm going to go and place a call at the base now," someone says.
"Great," Dean says, although what he wants to say is okay, and next time could you've done it five minutes before I ask? but doesn't, because it feels like there's too much and not enough information in his head all at the same time.
"Mr Ambrose—", the Lieutenant starts, but Dean cuts him off.
"Dean, please," he says, so strange that they still bother with formality.
"Dean," he amends, "is there any reason why you're Lieutenant Reigns' next of kin? It's just irregular, is all, to have someone outside of parents or a spouse. We looked for any documentation that said otherwise, there was none."
Dean blinks up at him, confused. "Oh," he says, "yeah. Well, Roman's not that close with his parents but he has a sister but we don't know, like, what continent she's on most of the time, and, us, we've been together a long time now. So, yeah, just me."
The Lieutenant nods. All seems to be in order, then, Dean thinks, except for how it's not.
Seth's sitting a fraction too close, and Dean just needs space, needs all these people out of his apartment and to stop hovering like they're going to need to prop him up.
"Seth," he says, "go to your room and get some rest."
"I can stay if you want," he says.
No you can't. It's not your boy. It's not your boy, it's not your boy, it's not your boy.
For the first time, he realises, Seth doesn't get it. He can cry and hug and empathize all he wants. It's not his boy. And it shouldn't, but that's seems so, so unfair to Dean. He can't even look at him; the worry in his eyes feels false, trite, surface, because it's not his boy.
"Get some rest," he says quietly, and Seth slips out five minutes later, closing the door behind him.
From what Dean can gather with the information he's been given is that Roman's been in surgery for eleven hours. Or a thousand years. Whichever, it's all the same now.
Eleven hours doesn't sound great to Dean. Roman is, apparently, in desperate need of an actual hospital but nowhere near stable enough to survive the hour long trip to there. And God fucking damn it, but Dean would've thought in the however many hundreds of years of the US Army, someone might have figured that out by now. All he can think about is every World War II film he's ever seen, every half standing, dust covered, understaffed field hospital he's ever glanced at on TV.
He shakes his head, takes a breath.
Lieutenant Fletcher and who he has learnt to be Captain Anderson are talking in hushed tones at the door after one of them got off the phone. Captain Anderson drops his head, and Dean springs up.
"What happened?" Dean asks immediately, seeing stars, breath shaking. He looks up at him sadly.
"One of the six officers died, they haven't given a name yet," he says, "internal bleeding, couldn't stop it. 0718. 1648 local time."
And Dean's chest tightens at that, he feels like he could throw up at any given moment, he's struggling to breathe as the tears start prickling in his eyes. He wishes he could find it within himself to be upset at them for giving half the information, to furrow his brow and ask them to find out who it was as soon as possible, but he couldn't. What if it's Roman? He doesn't ever want to hear that. The only thing he hopes for that it isn't Roman.
You have to come home, Ro, Dean thinks as the tears stream down his cheeks, I'm waiting for you.
A/N - The second part is already drafted, so it will be up tomorrow or the day after.
Anyway, I hope you guys liked it. Thank you for reading.
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