Imagine Wyoming gets hurt on the battlefield while protecting Florida. It’s not like him to do that; normally he goes after the ones who took down his teammates without taking a bullet for them, or in this case, multiple bullets. But this time is different. This time he gives in to that protective instinct and puts himself between the insurrectionists and his lover. This time he decides that Florida’s life is worth considerably more than his own.
The rest of the Freelancers are confused when their team returns and the duo head straight for medical, hearing the story from the three others on mission with Florida and Wyoming. They start taking bets, assuming Wyoming did something bad and was trying to make it up to Florida by saving him a few new scars.
It’s not the case, not by a long shot. They never leave things unfinished before jumping on a mission, its much too dangerous to leave those raw feelings ignored. Florida’s just as confused as they are, slumping against the wall in the hallway while they tend to Wyoming in the next room over.
For the next few days, Florida is quiet and avoids everyone when possible. He’s drowning in his thoughts, wondering what Wyoming’s gesture meant. The others are worried for the normally chipper blue, but give him space. He doesn’t even crack a smile until his boyfriend’s eyes open on the third day, and an inevitable joke tumbles from the Englishman’s lips. “Knock knock?”
Florida grins, moving to sit on the edge of the cot, “Who’s there?”
“Me, love,” he responds, sitting up with a wince. A small pang of regret flashes through his mind, but soon evaporates the second Florida asks the next line.
It seemed like a very short joke, of course he was here, that was the whole point of getting him to medical so quickly, but Florida responds just the same, “Me love, who?”
Wyoming smiles, and it’s all there, in the crinkles around his eyes, the fluorescent lights reflecting in his irises and dancing with something more honest, more pure. It’s all there when he finishes the joke with a breath of sincerity, “Me love you.”
It’s not the first time the L word has been spoken. It’s been repeated many times, from a breathless moan to a laughing jab. It’s not the first time the warmth in his chest doubled at the sound. And it’s definitely not the first time Florida has found himself grabbing Wyoming’s face and roughly bringing it closer to his for a kiss that would leave even Maine whistling. It is the first time, however, that they both feel the essence of love in it’s entirety. Sacrifice. Protection. Unity. It’s all there.
It’s about a week after that, after three days of depression and loneliness and the next few days of cheerful attentiveness, that North slips into the room with them while they are busy discussing the latest gossip of things while Wyoming’s been held up in medical. He hands a small box to Wyoming, in plain view of Florida who instantly gets curious. Wyoming and North share a wordless glance of gratitude before he hands the box to Florida, one finger raised as North escapes, “This is for you, but you have to listen before opening, got it?”
Florida nods, taking the box and setting it on the edge of the bed, fumbling with the sharp corner of the cardboard nervously.
Wyoming takes a minute, the heart monitor next to him beeping slightly more frequently but neither jump, knowing he’s just as nervous as Florida seems to be. Taking a deep breath, he begins, “I know that you can handle yourself on mission. I know you can take anything those we fight against throw at you. I know that you can walk into a flat full of enemies and walk out with a thousand and one holes in you and still be completely fine. But that doesn’t mean I can just stand by and watch you and not do a bloody thing to help, Butch.”
The atmosphere changes from uncertain to serious with a single word, a single name. They don’t use their real names often, it bothers the Director. What’s the point of having codenames if no one uses them?
Wyoming placed a hand over Florida’s when the edge of the box began to flake under his fingers. “Easy, love. This isn’t bad.”
Florida nodded, hands relaxing beneath his lover’s.
“Good. Now,” He pulls Florida’s soft hands away from the gift, enveloping them in his own, “I want to help, Butch. I want to take the burden of being target practice off your shoulders, if possible, if you’ll let me. It’s not fair to you to take all the shots and tomahawks meant for the lot of us. We know you care, we know you can take it, we know you want us to get home as painless as possible, but you don’t need to do that. I understand you want us to last in this project, but dammit, love, you need to last too.” Wyoming drops one of Florida’s hands to open the small, now tattered, giftbox and lift out an even smaller, round piece of metal.
Butch recognizes it instantly, after all, he’s been seeing it everywhere since the first day he set foot on this ship. It’s bleached white with a stud on the back. Reginald holds it out to him, the fragment of white armour looking spectacular against his pale fingers. It fits, it matches the Englishman, Butch decides. From the gesture, he can only assume it will fit with him too
Butch takes the earring and turns it over in his hands, examining every centimeter of the steel. He’s trying to read the inscription when Reginald speaks again, “I’m here for you, Butch. I’ll have your back, your front, and every last side of you. My armour is a second layer to yours, if you’ll have it.”
It’s not traditional, it’s not the right words, but the message gets across somewhat. His eyes snap from the two tiny words written in the metal to the lovingly warm gaze Reginald has placed him under. The message is much clearer now. Reginald’s face is set without fear or hesitation, a sheet of truth staring back at Butch with such intensity that he loses his words. The message is unbelievably transparent in that moment, and the pads of his fingers trace over the two words pressed into the steel of the earring.
