The clock glowed green, the only light in the room aside from the street lamps that shone weakly through the drawn curtains.
Reno glanced at the glowing numbers. 12:06 in the morning. Less than eight hours before he had to wake up for work, and yet he was sitting on the couch in his apartment, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of him, his handgun clutched in one sweaty hand.
He was such a coward. You can't even pull the trigger, can you, Red? Reaching for the whiskey bottle, Reno took a long pull, feeling his head spin with the strength of the drink. His body relaxed further, the buzzing feeling in his head wrapping around him with familiar comfort.
The destruction had been terrible. It was one thing to press a button and watch an entire sector get crushed when you couldn't see the people it affected. It was another to go down and see what you had done, the lives you had ruined, the broken bodies of families—and gods, the children—lying amidst the rubble. Reno scratched at the red stubble that now shadowed his face, took a deep breath, and pressed the gun's barrel to his temple hard enough to leave an indent. He could feel his hand trembling, his index finger slipping on the trigger. Pathetically, he hoped he would accidentally pull it.
There was a quiet knock at his door, and Reno jumped slightly, pulling the gun a few inches from his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, hating whoever was on the other side of the door for interrupting when he'd almost raked together the courage. Reno got unsteadily to his feet, flipping back the lock with his nimble fingers and reaching for the knob. With luck, it would be someone coming to kill him to save him the trouble.
He yanked open the door, his body slumping in disappointment at the sight of Rude's dark face.
Reno looked pissed to see him, Rude noticed. But beyond that, he looked haunted. His face was gaunt, his aqua eyes burning with a feverish light from deep in his face and the tattoos that curved across his cheekbones stood out starkly against his skin, which was even paler than usual. Most shocking of all was the stubble that fuzzed his cheeks and chin. It wasn't like Reno to let himself go.
"What are you doing here, partner?" the redhead rasped. It sounded like he had sandpaper in his throat.
Rude cleared his own throat and adjusted his tie. "I was on my way home…I just—" He broke off when he caught a glimpse of the handgun dangling from Reno's left hand. "Just…wanted to see how you were doing," he finished in a murmur, his sharp eyes raking over Reno's form.
Reno snorted and tried to close the door, which proved difficult when there was an ox of a man in the way. "Fuck outta here, man. Why wouldn't I be doing okay?" He turned to go back to the couch. "Just go."
Rude's hand shot out, fisting around his collar. His other hand closed on Reno's chin in a bruising grip, turning his partner's head to the side where, in the weak light from the outside lighting, he could see the imprint of a gun muzzle.
"What," Rude said quietly, shoving Reno back into his apartment and advancing on him, "do you think you're doing?"
Reno sank down on the couch again, looking at his hands, still clutched around the dark metal of his pistol, a sharp contrast to his white skin. "I…" The words caught in his throat, and he looked up at Rude looming over him, the older Turk's dark face still expressionless, yet exuding a foreboding aura. "I don't know," Reno whispered, shifting his gaze away again. His hands were shaking again, and Rude knelt in front of him, gently prying the weapon from his numb fingers. "You didn't see them, man." He was still speaking softly, barely audible even to Rude's sharp ears. "When Rufus ordered me down the Sector 7 after I dropped the plate, I knew it would suck ass." He laughed humorlessly. "I just didn't know it would suck quite so much." He covered his face with his hands, leaning back on the couch. "All those people, Rude, just…gone." His voice broke a little on the last word.
Rude reached out, laying a hand on one of his partner's shoulders. "Reno, you were—"
"I know!" the redhead snapped, looking up sharply. "I was just following orders. Well, fuck that, Rude. That only works for so long. The people we kill, I'm fine with it. I'm a Turk. It's what I'm made to do. But you didn't see those people, caught under rubble, dying slowly. The kids, man. Fucking kids. Their heads were smashed, their bones were broken, and it was all because of me. It doesn't fucking matter if I was following orders or not. It was still me!" He was shouting now, oblivious to the late hour and his neighbors who were probably trying to sleep. He grabbed Rude's hand that was still holding his gun and pressed the muzzle to his forehead. "Fucking do it, Rude. I can't do it by myself."
Rude's jaw tightened at the sight of his own hand holding a gun to his partner's head, and he tried to pull away from Reno's feverish grip. The redhead clutched tighter at his hand, and in a flash, Rude was jabbing at a pressure point that had Reno's entire arm throbbing sharply and then going numb, his fingers loosening uselessly. Rude set the gun on the coffee table, and then Reno's good hand was grabbing at his blazer, and his head was bowing, his forehead pressing to the bigger Turk's wide chest.
"Just do it," he said again. "Please." The last word caught on a sob in his throat.
Rude sat down on the couch next to his partner, not knowing what to do. He had never quite seen Reno fall apart like this. The redhead was cheerful, cocky, and a bit lazy, but he didn't cry, he didn't beg, and he never had this tone of dead hopelessness. Rude settled for awkwardly patting his partner's shoulder every once in a while. Reno wasn't crying, but his breath came in ragged gasps, as though he was having an asthma attack.
"Reno," Rude murmured. "It'll be okay." It clearly wasn't okay, though, and he had no idea how to fix it. He wasn't good at comforting people, had never been good at it, and yet here was Reno gripping his blazer in white-knuckled hands, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking, silently asking him for help. "Breathe," Rude told him in his deep, calming voice, smoothing a hand over his partner's slender back. "Just breathe, Reno. It's going to be okay."
Ever so slowly, the tension drained from Reno's hunched shoulders, his hands loosened their death grip, and he slumped against Rude's chest, his breath even again. Too even. Rude muttered a curse to himself when he realized Reno had fallen asleep. Carefully, the big Turk shifted his partner so the redhead was lying on the other end of the couch, his head pillowed on the armrest. Rude smoothed his shirt and blazer, grimacing when his hand touched a slimy wet spot. The little asshole had drooled on him.
He settled back on the couch, reaching for the nearly empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table and taking a sip, wincing at the burn in his throat as it went down. The clock now read 1:37 am.
Reno's first thought as he stirred awake was wondering why he was curled in a c-shape on his couch in yesterday's clothes. His back was stiff and aching from the position.
Reno's second thought was that his head was pounding something awful, and that he really, really had to puke. He stumbled from the couch the bathroom, falling to his knees in front of the toilet just in time as the little food and lots of drink he'd had yesterday expelled itself violently.
The sound of someone vomiting woke Rude. He too was confused at first, wondering why he was in Reno's apartment listening to someone puke their guts out, but when the night's events flooded back to him, he stood up with a groan, his neck aching from falling asleep in a sitting position. He went to check on Reno, only to find his partner on his knees in front of the toilet, forehead resting on the rim. His hair had come unbound and was falling around his face as he heaved. Rude gathered it into one hand and knelt beside the redhead, holding his sweat-slicked head steady. Reno vomited again before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and lowering himself to the ground with a groan, pressing his hot cheek to the cold tile floor. Rude rolled his eyes at the dramatic display, stepping over Reno to fill a glass with water from the sink.
"I'm never drinking again," Reno moaned as Rude pulled him into a sitting position and handed him the water.
"You say that every time," Rude told him with a small smile. He pressed a hand to Reno's forehead briefly, grimacing at the slick feeling of sweat. "I can't tell if you're sick or just hungover."
"Sick in the head," Reno murmured, leaning back against the cabinet and closing his eyes, and Rude had nothing to say to that.
"Come on," he said instead, pulling Reno to his feet. "It's eight o'clock. Get in the shower, change your clothes, and I'll drive us to work."
Reno flushed the toilet and rinsed out his mouth, easing off his blazer and unbuttoning his shirt. "No rest for the wicked, huh, partner?" he asked with a smirk, but there wasn't much humor in his words.
Rude shifted uncomfortably, both from Reno's bitter words and the fact that he was now unbuttoning his trousers, his delicate abdominal muscles rippling against his scarred, snow white skin. "I'll…let you get ready," the bigger man said, somewhat flustered. "You can manage?"
Reno dropped his pants with no sexual innuendo or lewd comment of any sort, which told Rude he was still feeling trashed. "I'll be fine," the redhead told him, turning on the shower. Rude turned to leave, pausing when Reno said his name. He looked back, focusing on Reno's face instead of everything down below. There was a shadow of gratitude in his blue-green eyes. "Last night," he began. "I just…" He trailed off.
Rude pushed his ever-present shades up on his nose. "Don't mention it," he said, knowing how difficult it was for Reno to even begin to open up about anything. Reno flashed him a shaky grin before stepping under the shower spray.
Rude busied himself in the kitchen making coffee and toast, knowing Reno would need his caffeine boost more than ever after the amount of alcohol he'd consumed the night before. He'd just finished eating when Reno stumbled out of the bathroom, his hair damp and nothing but a towel around his narrow hips. He disappeared into the bedroom, reappearing soon after in a Turk uniform. His shirt was still untucked and half-open, but Rude relaxed slightly. This was the Reno he knew. The redhead eased himself into one of the bar stools and raked his hands through his hair, pulling it into a messy ponytail. Rude slid a steaming mug over to him and he croaked out his thanks, shying away from the plate of toast that followed.
"Do I look like I can keep food down, partner?" Reno slid the plate back, but Rude was firm.
"You need to eat something, Reno."
Reno made a face and nibbled on one of the pieces of toast, barely managing half of one before he caught sight of the clock. "Shit," he muttered, gulping down the coffee and scalding his throat. "Let's go."
They didn't talk about what had happened the night before for three years.