( deadshot. )
His shoulder rolled on occasion, the bullet having torn through masses of muscle and tight-roped tendon. As his gait lengthened, and his stride continued, the limb became inflamed and irritable. A simple lift of shoulder-blade warped into his opposite arm gripping the languid-healing wound. When a medic’s glance caught him in the aggravated action, his prying limb fell and attempted to elude their healing prowess. He’d only known Doc to trail after him, her resolute diligence forcing his hand. And now, statuesque before a band of fresh, unmarred recruits, they knew to cinch their lashing tongues.
The speech was archaic and delivered in monotone; its verbal recital may have taken the victory of his most professed dictation. The laws of war– where war permitted none– were laced within its cautionary tale. Peering at them as he did each delivered batch, the Commander knew that less than half would survive, that even less of the surviving remnants would become inducted Commandos. Their adolescent faces were proudly stern, but he knew how swiftly a bullet would fracture strong-willed features.
If Bane had been present, at least one would piss their assigned breeches. He’d sent the wolf scouting, the massive brute due to return at any passing moment. Yet, it was not the beast’s presence which interrupted his premature dismissal. Unruly curls latched onto his peripheral, and the voice turned his heels. A simplistic flick of hand sent the bundle of soldiers on their way. “Vrabie.” his features remained sedated, tone allowing no emotion to slip as he took the distance between them. “This isn’t your assigned area.”
Halting before him, the acted portrayal shattered. Both arms constricting beneath the younger’s thighs as he stole him from the ground. His shoulder howled against the movement, yet its bearer disregarded each aching protest as the Sparrow was whirled. When the celebratory spin ceased, his mouth sought the skin of Lucas’s neck in a confidential exchange. His head tilt back, sapphiric irises pinning his pilot. “Ai fost ratat.”
Lucas’ smile fell as Costin turned to him and addressed him as he might any other of his famed Commandos - perhaps he had been wrong to lead so openly, perhaps the his fears were correct, and their time spent apart had made Costin realise that they were better apart, that he could do better than a scarred little sparrow. He willed himself to be strong, not to let tears slip from his wide eyes in front of the man who held up his entire world. He grounded himself with the familiar sound of his nickname - a sound he had craved with every fibre of his being while he was miles away on leave, all alone while the other half of his heart fought on in one treacherous battlefield after another with no one to come home to when the battle was won to help him wash off the blood and kiss the sound of gunshots goodbye.
“Uh, n-no. No, it isn’t.” He shifted nervously where he stood, disappointed in the reaction he had received. Obviously the weeks of pining on Lucas’ end had been in vain... A lump in his throat was swallowed as Costin advanced towards him, and Lucas found himself crossing his fingers behind his back in the hopes that this was all a facade for the benefit of the new recruits, and not a premeditated attempt to break his heart.
There was no time to come up with anything else to say, not when Lucas found himself, quite literally, being swept off his feet into the impossibly strong arms of the man he loved. A chiming laugh tumbled from Lucas’ lips, and he tipped his head back in pure joy as Costin spun him around as if he were as light a feather, and they were in the middle of one of the romantic films that always made him cry and not the middle of a warzone. A flaming pink blush crept up Lucas’ neck to his cheeks as Costin pressed his lips to his neck in a private exchange of affection that was reckless, sure, but subtle enough to make Lucas giggle quietly at it’s tenderness that only the know of them would know had been exchanged. Costin had never been so transparent about his feelings out in the open like this, and Lucas couldn’t help but feel honoured by the attention being lavished upon him.
Lucas’ Romanian was not as comprehensive as he’d like it to be, but that look in Costin’s shining blue eyes said enough of his words’ meaning that a brilliant grin split the pilot’s features. “I wish I could say your letters were enough to keep me sane, but God, I missed you so much Cos.” His arms draped themselves around Costin’s shoulders, unwilling to let go in case he woke up in an empty bed hundreds of miles away with a letter in the Commander’s elegant script in one hand, and an almost empty bottle of liquor lying not far off while a record a little too melancholy played itself out in the background - an occurrence rather familiar during his leave.
