IMPORTANT Author's Note: I honestly don't remember what the inspiration for this one was, just that I found it half-finished in the back of one of my notebooks, and if the state of page is anything to go by, it was during one of my "coffee and cigarette diet" moments, which explains the following warning... ANGST WARNING! The "alternate" ending is actually the original ending, but it depressed me too much, so I tried writing a happier one. I honestly think the "alternate" is the better ending, but opinion isn't truth. ;)
Arhani "Hanny" Daforcena: I'm working on it. Things are just... No es bueno ahora. So, yeah. My update schedule is trashed right now. -_-; But I'm glad you're enjoying what I'm managing to accomplish. ^_^
WillowRavenBloodstone: I like keeping them as stand-alone stories for the moment, because I generally lack the motivation to drag something on for that length of time. I've tried more than a few times, buuuuuuut... Yeah. -_-; I am, however, working on a continuation of the high-school bit, and it may be a multi-chaptered thing like "Drinking Games" was. Just depends on mah motivation. ~_~
xStealthxSniperx: It really would be terrifying for someone you love to just be that close to dead. :/ I think it's nice to trade off who's being irresponsible. A nice change of pace, as it were. :3
PhonyPrincess: ;D Glad you're enjoying the other site, lovett. Yaoi is always the best therapy. ^_^
xGhostxStealth: There was a vague reference to Halo in there too; the book John was reading at the table about space Marines? Heh heh. I am uber nerd. XD
knuckleduster: I'm so glad you're enjoying things, and I try to update regular-like, it just doesn't always happen so well ^^; I like to examine characters from all possible angles, and I can't stand limiting a character. People are dynamic, fictional or otherwise. I don't like Mary Sues, and think that everyone has to be flawed somehow. Kira's immature and overbearing, and Stray is almost bipolar between calm confidence and needing validation at times. Real people have real issues, why not OC's?
Mangoesaregood8: There are always problems. Just problems of different varieties. ;)
Life in The Shit isn't easy. Nothing is ever quite easy in the middle of a war-zone. Things are different, tarnished, tainted, disgusting, filthy, dirty, horrifying. All things beautiful are trampled and ignored. There is no time to stop and smell the roses when you're running from bullets, from bombs, from mines and vicious dogs. War his hell, and beauty holds no place in the darkness.
Hair is not so soft when it's matted with blood.
The problem with war is how it follows you, sneaking behind you, tracing your footsteps, hiding in your shadow and blending in with your darkness. You'll hear a song and it will inexplicably remind you of that time in Nepal when the airstrike you called in set fire to a dried out forest and burned an entire village to the ground. It's a darkness that, at times, seems completely inescapable, and it will rear its ugly head with no warning, and will not leave with ease.
Blue eyes aren't so clear when they're rolled back.
You can look at a collection of people and pick out those who could possibly be a threat. You size your lovers up against the secret violence you know you hold. Even the standard GI has to bother with trying to make sure their partner can tolerate months apart on a typical deployment. But working under the cover of darkness, looking at a file with most of the information blacked out and classified was something completely different and infinitely more difficult. You could make plans for an entire month of leave and end up with an order to be on the next helo so Serbia after only a few days home. And you went, and you couldn't tell them that's where you were going. They had to understand, and they had to deal with it. Lovers were taken, but rarely kept. Long-term relationships were virtually unheard of, especially in the 141.
Teeth aren't so white when they're covered in cum.
It wasn't terribly uncommon for the men to go out, get drunk, lie to the barflies about their professions, tell them they were just specialists, apologize for only having one night left in town. They would fuck, go back to base, and make sure to avoid that bar the next evening. The lucky ones didn't have to leave base for sex, and the luckiest of them didn't have to go outside of the team. Outsiders would claim that Ghost got special treatment, got more perks and amenities than anyone else because he slept with Soap. But everyone else knew the truth; being the Captain's lover was a responsibility in itself.
Hickeys aren't as noticeable when surrounded by bruises.
They would say that they held a certain degree of attachment to one another, that they would be upset if the other died, probably even a mite depressed or enraged. But they would never apply the forbidden "L" word to their relationship. They both agreed that if you had to vocalize it, had to remind your partner of what you had, then you never really had it to begin with and you're just wasting your breath with a useless word that holds no meaning. They were very, very deeply attached to one another, and that knowledge was all they needed. There was no time for emotional break-downs in The Shit.
Hearts can't break if they aren't beating anymore.
When it became too much of a hassle to seek one another out on base, they eventually decided to become roommates off base, rented one of the first houses to come up on the market still a reasonably close distance to their work. Technically, they had their own rooms, seeing as how it was a two-bedroom house, but most of their nights were spent fucking, and it didn't make sense to use another bed for only a few short hours. It would be a waste of time, energy and resources. There was no need for complications when simplicity was an option.
Muscle memory isn't so useful when you find yourself incapacitated.
John wasn't quite an alcoholic; he didn't get the shakes when he went without booze, but he certainly liked to drink himself to oblivion. He liked to stumble drunkenly through the house, knock things over, scream about battles long since lost and won. He liked to feel the liquid fire in his veins, liked the burn of the whiskey and the way it made those old wounds seem so dull. He liked how the bottom of a bottle distorted reality for a few short hours. And Simon would always be there to make sure he didn't pass out with his face in the toilet and accidentally drown. Simon would always sweep up the broken glass and put the furniture upright again. Simon would always hide the aspirin for a few hours, just to make John suffer a little.
Pain hurts less when it's all that you know.
There are dozens of potential psychological hazards that come with any sort of work in the military, and that list is increased exponentially by working special operations, doing things under the cover of darkness and only with weapons, vehicles and technology that won't be missed or spotted amongst expense reports. Their memories were forever tainted and stained with flecks of blood and blinding explosions, and they often relived their missions while they slept. Flashbacks to horror and blood-chilling fear would spring up at random and without warning, interrupting their dreams and trapping them in the frigid, relentless grip of inescapable fear. They would always awake with a start, forever expecting to hear the lingering remains of a scream long since silenced, or feel the heat of a wound long since healed. The best nights were the ones where the exhaustion was too strong to permit the dreams.
Sleep is hardly a refuge when monsters have burrowed into the subconscious.
Their arguments were rarely as serious as their nightmares, and often times were silently forgiven and forgotten in a relatively short time-span. Of course there was always the rare occasion when they fought with the sole intention of causing as much damage as possible, and those arguments never remained strictly verbal for very long. One of them would through a punch, which would be followed by another punch, a kick… They would find themselves battered, bleeding, bruised, and they would stalk off to separate corners of the house to lick at their wounds until they finally decided they were done "acting like women" and patched each other up.
Undamaged skin is surprising when scars are so abundant.
Many of their less serious arguments were sparked by Simon's immaturity. He was convinced that they were paid to be professional in the field. How they acted off of the front line was nothing of anyone's concern. John would come home and walk from his car only to find himself pelted with water balloons in the summer and snowballs in the winter. John would be pissed, but he would inevitably get over it. Riley didn't laugh beyond an amused chuckle, not often, but when he did, it was infectious. For all of his seriousness, MacTavish rather enjoyed it when Riley forced him to do something stupid and out of character.
War must be reminded that its place is not the home.
There were multiple incidents when Simon would talk him into staying up late to play video games or watch movies and just generally act like they were still in high school and it didn't matter how late they stayed up because they could always retake their classes next semester. The would order in pizza or Chinese take-away and refuse to vacate their seats on the couch until they absolutely had to, and even then it was only for a quick run to the bathroom or to get more beer from the kitchen. They would often fall asleep on the couch, or just barely manage to fight their exhaustion long enough to crawl their way to the bedroom. Riley would always tease his lover at how much fun he'd had for someone with so sour a disposition.
Not all insults should be yelled in anger.
One of their neighbors thought they were immature. The rest didn't really mind. They would come home from the bars late, paying the cabbies a little too much, stumbling up the walk, singing songs older than they were, leaning on one another, fumbling with their keys, yelling terrible things when the locks didn't open immediately. They'd occasionally stumble back to the bedroom and just sleep, but they would often stumble back to the bedroom to fuck before passing out. They would, of course, wake up half in bed, half on the floor, sore, aching, and wishing they'd never heard of alcohol. They would close the blinds on all the windows and they would put down aspirin like candy. They would sit in front of the television and move as little as possible without being unconscious again. At least for a few hours.
Not all wounds are inflicted by an enemy.
John rubs his eyes and looks to the far side of the bed with a faint smile. He can tell Simon has been having nightmares with the way he is curled up on his side with a spare pillow crushed to his chest. Soap leans over him and tugs the pillow out of his grasp. With a faint scowl, Riley rolls over, still asleep, and latches onto his lover instead. Securely wrapped around the annoying Lieutenant, MacTavish settles back in and closes his eyes, content with the way things are for the moment; there's no need to worry about tomorrow when tonight is going so well. Simon shifts with a sigh and buries his face in John's shoulder murmuring something incomprehensible, his lips brushing over his lover's skin. John smiles to himself and works on getting back to sleep.
Even war can be a distant memory.
x+x+x+x+x+x+
ALTERNATE ENDING:
Undamaged skin is surprising when scars are so abundant.
He still wakes up in the middle of the night, searching out the warmth from another body long since gone cold. He still wakes with a start when he rolls over in the middle of the night and isn't met with the hard planes of Riley's back, but instead the cold, crumpled sheets. He smokes in the bedroom, hoping that one day the door will open and he'll be on the receiving end of a lecture in a familiar Cockney accent instead of having to make do with his memories. His only consolation is that he is on the run, and the hiding and paranoia fill most of his waking hours. Those that are left for thinking are more terrifying than any combat scenario he'd ever faced. He never got all of the details on Simon's death, and his imagination drives him crazy with the possible scenarios.
Wars fought with bullets are not always the worst kind.
One of their safe-houses had a piano in it. Had. Until John worked his way through a bottle of tequila and broke it into tiny pieces and set it on fire. Simon had been a musician, never met an instrument he couldn't work; he'd especially liked the piano and the guitar, and he would occasionally indulge John by playing a bit, just for him. John doesn't listen to music often, not anymore. Every guitar chord makes him nauseous and prickles his skin with cold sweat. Had Riley's fingers ever plucked at the strings to recreate this song? When he was younger and just learning, perhaps? Classical music doesn't cross John's mind, no matter how drunk he happens to be. Riley could play Beethoven better than Ludwig van himself, and the way his fingers would move over the keys, so effortlessly, so tirelessly.
Even the most vibrant life pales in the face of death.
Soap continues fighting for one simple reason: he will not let Simon become another faceless casualty in a war started on a lie. Once the world knows John could have never killed anyone in his team, much less his lover and the clumsy Sergeant he treated as a brother, he will find the time to rest. He will no longer stare at himself in the mirror and wonder what happened. He will no longer stare at the far side of the mattress and wonder if the bed would feel any smaller were there another occupant. When the time comes and his fight is done, he will again lay with Simon Riley.
Life is empty when love is gone.
A/N2: And there is the reason for the angst warning. Future chapters will be happier, honest. ^_^