Title: Doomsday Comes Late

Author: diayang

Rating: T

Pairing: Implied Ghost/Roach.

Summary: They sit, he cleans, he's on the laptop, and they talk. With more than innuendo.

Disclaimer: Call of Duty:Modern Warfare 2 (c) Infinity Ward

A/N: time: 0608 research: sadly minimal

All mistakes are my own.

"Can you believe this shit?"

He's laughing softly, kicked back in a chair, laptop perched on a knee, tapped into whatever illicit site of the day he's hacked into. A smile tugs on your mouth, only slightly reluctantly, while your fingers busy themselves cleaning your sidearm. Roach's amusement is infectious.

"Fuck'd you find?"

"Some site," he chuckles, tapping on the keyboard. "So listen to this, people actually believed the fuckin' world was gonna end in 2012. Someone has to tell them it's bullshit, it should have been 2016. I mean, look at us - here we are, in a safehouse, attempting to prevent the apocalypse. World War the Third."

"Those poor motherfuckers," you symphathise. The grin stretches the fabric of your balaclava as you spare him a quick glance. "Roach, you know that whole fuckin' fuss started with the Mayan calender only going up to 2012, right?"

"Yeah, I guess. And you know, all this other crazy ass stuff with photon belts and the universe going around another universe, or whatever. Hey, I thought shit was moving out and away after the Big Bang. People always love a good doomsday scenario, too. World's ended half a dozen times over, easily, yet here we are. Still kickin' and alive."

"Mmm. Make sure you stay that way, FNG."

"What, is the almighty Ghost professing to actually, God forbid, harbour good feelings for the FNG?"

He turns to you with that smile, broad and open with too many teeth. Gary fucking Roach Sanderson. His eyes glitter brightly in the weak light streaming in from the window, highlights struck from his hair, over the curve of his cheek, the line of forehead to nose to jaw.

"Don't fool yourself, lad," you chuckle, even as you make the concession and slide your shades up, hook a finger into the edge of the balaclava and tug it down. Both his eyebrows shoot up in a gratifying display of surprise and want, before his gaze flicks back to the laptop, fingers moving in that quick motion that reads Alt-F4. "Just because you're a good shot and we need everyone."

"Admit it, you like me 'cause I'm pretty."

"Pretty mouth, that's for sure." Even prettier wrapped around my cock, you think, your own eyebrows arching up in a look he's known how to read since - well, you have no idea when. But he does, and he reads it now, and before you're quite finished reassembling the M9, he's sliding into your lap with a hand trailing up the front of your shirt.

"I meant it about staying alive, you FNG," you hear yourself mutter, before his mouth drifts over yours and his hand between your legs.

"Trust me, I don't plan on giving in to doomsday scenarios anytime soon. Crazy ass people. Takin' it one year at a time, let's see how far past 2012 we can go," he grins. "'Sides, you're a ghost, and I'm a roach. We're fuckin' unkillable, mate."

"Fuckin' aye."