had an idea of them having a conversation discussing on their...seemingly impossible future
"something on your mind, your majesty?"
"....Eira"
She feels the way his hand curls along her side more, offering a light squeeze as she glanced up at him.
"I know what we have...and want is but a fleeting dream but..."
"Some day I do wish I am but a commoner, or a knight, just to have you"
"...you still have me, your majesty"
"not this way, no..."
They sigh quietly, as the king's hand wandered over to hold her gloved hands
"it's possible, you know"
"....people are replaceable, they could find prosperity under someone else other than me"
"your majesty..."
"I don't want you to love me from a distance"
"I want you to be by my side for the rest of my life and yours..."
"If I let you go...I may never find anyone who holds me in such high regards and care....as you do"
"In the face of everyone's opposition...your loyalty, your devotion...are a boon"
"...but who will lead if you are not there, your majesty?"
she brushed his palm, tracing the small faint scars along his knuckles as she sighs
"this is...not as simple as putting away your crown away and...disappear"
"I know"
He replies quietly, glancing at their crown and mask on the floor beside them, their responsibilities laid away for a moment.
"....would you stay by my side always, Eira?"
He knows it's foolish to ask such a question, given she has always been a pragmatic and fiercefully protective royal guard, more than anyone else in the unit, doing what's necessary to protect the kingdom and by extension - him.
At any cost, even if it's her own life.
"I promise, your majesty"
but it feels nice to be reminded sometimes.
"promise me more..."
"I promise to stay by your side, even when the world is out to get you"
"I promise to be your sword and shield, that your safety will always be granted when you are with me"
"I promise to be there with you, if you ever need me, at any moment"
Wesley settles in for a visit with the commander. Exhaustion isn't his friend.
WC: 10,235 (all together)
AO3 Link
Tumblr link to part one
Read below the cut
The couch leaves an ache in his back that makes itself ever apparent with each step down the dreaded hallway to the commander's office. What the fuck is he doing? Empty hands clutching around nothing… Had it been a hint? Were there supposed to be papers in his grasp? Was the second option the only actual choice?
Don't come see me 'til you hand me papers or tell me you're talkin' to someone…
Is there a correct answer? What is he supposed to be doing? He needed an order, someone telling him exactly what to do. There isn't procedure for this. No code he's supposed to follow. No one to look to for help. Then again, when has there ever been?
Lack of sleep and anxiety don't mix well. Over the last four days he's gotten, what, five.. six hours of sleep? It's still problem after problem of things he's caused. This time it really is his fault, too.
His heart pounds in his chest with such force that he's sure it's visible to those coming and going around him. Papers or agreeing to talk… God, did he pick the wrong one? He stayed up all night, and he still picked the wrong option.
In the dark of his apartment, he looked over webpage after webpage of people who just might listen to him. Maybe it was the headache burning in his skull, but none of the people ever seemed right. Every last one, it seemed like something was just off in a way he couldn't quite place. Weird techniques, confusing reviews, being too nice or not nice enough, an odd combination of dumbing things down and then making it a million times more confusing... It's a childish complaint, he knows that.
It might be his worst idea yet to want to walk into Graves' office and talk to him. Not some professional, not make a new friend, or, god forbid, sit at a cold and damp headstone. His thought of 'how bad could it be' quickly gets it's answers as thoughts surface in his mind. His career could be over, Graves might call someone to get rid of him, someone could overhear… The list goes on and on, never a shortage of 'what-if's.
Yet, he finds himself standing at that door anyway. A hand hesitating over the door handle as if he could slow his rapid heart beat solely by staring down at the steel. What if this is a bad choice? Could he find work elsewhere if he had to?
His shoulders squeeze in tighter to himself, the oversized hoodie pulled over his shirt doesn't help his efforts to make himself look any smaller. Less like a target... He can't remember when that idea was drilled into him. It definitely hadn't worked when he was little, why would it now?
As he goes to grab the handle, the door swings open instead. He can't help the way he freezes, brown eyes blown wide as he narrowly avoids cursing.
"Shit-!" He hears, blinking the nerves and shock from his eyes as he finds himself almost chest to chest with the commander again. This time, at least one of them looks somewhat rested. Those blue eyes a little less sunken than the night before… Not that he paid attention to that.
"I didn't- sorry, I should've- uhm, I should've-" Wesley stutters, unable to find the words. He carefully steps to the side to widen the gap between them, twitching hands brought to his chest.
"It's alright, I-" Graves pinches the bridge of his nose, "Don't stand by the door like that unless you're gonna knock or somethin'." He sighs, the hand falling away from his face to hold the door instead.
"You're okay though? I didn't-?" He squeezes his hands together, rubbing at the tense muscles in his palm. God, maybe the sleep deprivation does do something to him. Without any caffeine, he's already jittery and jumpy. A new, small wave of pain lights in his chest every so often, sending a burning sensation all the way down to his fingertips.
"You look like you've seen a damn ghost, Walker… Go sit, gimme a minute." The commander murmurs, taking a step back to give the other enough space to pass through the doorway.
"Yes, sir." He clears his throat as he walks into the room, glancing around the well-lit space. A deep, stained wooden desk sits near a window, two chairs in front of it. Filing cabinets line one a little nook off to the side, filling the space just perfectly there. Like the entire building, he can hear the electricity coming off the overhead lights.
Warily, he keeps his head down as he takes a seat in one of the two chairs meant for guests. Feeling for his mask, he takes a breath as he feels it missing from both his pocket and around his neck. Somewhere in the journey from home to the building, he must've misplaced it or lost it. There's so many spares, they came in a pack after all, but he was supposed to have it. Dammit.
His hands tremble where he forces them into his hoodie pocket. The worn orange fabric only barely covers the way his fingers twitch despite his clear efforts to stay still. Good posture, minus the way his head refuses to look up over the desk.
"No papers. 's a good thing, 'm guessin'?" The voice calls from behind him, accompanied by quiet shuffling and little clicks.
"Was hopin' to talk to you about it, sir." Wesley responds, throat tight. His eyes focus on the folders and pages on the desk. Nothing important enough if they weren't shuffled away or covered when he came to sit, he assumes.
There's a soft mutter he can't understand, then footsteps coming closer until they pass the desk and Graves comes into view. Wesley can see him better this time, now he's not frozen still. A plain black shirt and similar blue jeans he always seems to be wearing. Professional attire clearly doesn't matter much if you run the place.
"Talk to me, son." The wheels on the chair behind the desk squeak as the chair is pulled out and Graves finds his place in it, arms rested over the cluttered desk. He takes a quick glance over at a monitor on the desk before fixing his eyes on his soldier.
"Actually, I- I thought… Well, you said-" He leans forward slightly, taking a breath, "You said to talk to someone 'n' I was thinking that could be.. you..?" His eyes don't look up to Phil's face, conveniently looking anywhere but there.
A hush fills the room. What if he made the wrong choice? What if that wasn't an option and now he really was going to get fired? Did he do the wrong thing? Fuck, he should've just handed in a resignation or-
"Okay," Phil purses his lips, "Wasn't what I meant but.. yeah, no, we can work with that." One of his hands presses against the top of the desk, fingers absentmindedly playing with the edge of a page.
Immediately, Wesley looks up. Brows furrowed as he looks for any sign of this being a fucked up joke or something like that. His chest squeezes, constricting his breathing further and further.
What?
"You don't got anyone else, huh?" The soft look Graves shoots him feels almost exactly like that; a shot barreling through his chest, leaving warm blood trailing down the skin. No, he doesn't have anyone else.
How could he when his touch, his love, destined them to a hand picked plot, six feet under? In all his years, funerals became the only event he dared to go to. There, he could stay tucked away in the back, keep his head down without a single soul knowing it was his own damn fault for the loss. He can say sorry so many times, that doesn't mean there was a point to it when he knew he should've done more in the first place.
He can't escape those memories. Flickers of all of them stay in his head, from the first smile, the first laugh or hug, all the way to the times he used his shaking hands to stop the bleeding, while yelling his voice raw screaming for help.
One, though, hurts a little more than the others. Two boys playing out in the front lawn; the green eyed boy holding the little toddler up and spinning with him until he squealed so much that he started gasping. These are more splotches, given to him only as an outsider to his own memories. Watching them like tapes on replay, the damaged film only shows darkness as it comes up. The littlest things he's tried so hard to hold onto fade to that darkness with time; all of the loud, scary, angry moments get stuck instead.
All of the times he had a meltdown where he cried his throat raw and clawed at his skin until it was bloody. Not once was he yelled at, not by his brother. Never by his brother. Though, he always had to hear a different booming voice from the end of the hall after being tucked into bed, he barely slept those nights.
There's nowhere to go to after burying the one person who came to him when he cried. Those green eyes closed for the last time and Wesley didn't even get to see his face. He didn't get to cry for his big brother to save him again, to wake up, when all that was in the casket were scraps of an unrecognizable body.
Somehow, in his mind, it became his fault as soon as he forced his tired body to shovel the dirt into the ground and everything flooded over him. If he had just been a better son, a better brother, stopped himself from screaming and fighting every little thing, the army wouldn't have been his brother's only option. Maybe—just maybe—their parents would've loved them more and it would've been okay.
The privilege of crawling back to family was gone as soon as Lukas was, their mother didn't come to the funeral… Wesley didn't go to hers.
"No," He rushes to say, "I- I mean, no, sir."
"Professionals off the table?" Phil raises an eyebrow.
"Gimme time and- and I'll get over it, I just.. let me work, sir, I need to do something." Wesley's jaw tightens, looking between the desk and Graves face.
"I told you I'm taking you out of the field for now and I meant that, son… There's gonna be evals, re-certifications." He says, leaning back against the chair. His fingers tap at the desk, Wesley's eyes following the movement.
"But you're not.. getting rid of me?" The shadow blinks, shoulders bunched up in preparation to be told once and for all to go home. This could be it, one more thing and he's gone. No more playing games, Graves would get tired of that anyway.
"Just demoting you… 'm takin' your team away, putting you under someone else's command. It'll be a smooth transition, she'll have your back. You ain't ready for all this now… This'll keep you and your team safe, you get me?" Phil purses his lips, those blue eyes watching Wesley with rapt attention. The gaze simmers on his skin, burning past the walls he'd been building for decades.
"I- uhm, yeah. Yes, sir, I got it…" He breathes, shuddering and slow. Does he get it? No, he's not ready for leading like that, but god, is he ready to work knowing that he's not the one controlling the situation? Listening to orders without the authority to ask what was happening… All of that again.
"'m glad you came to a conclusion 'bout all of it, but you snap at me like that again, you won't be given another shot." The commander warns firmly, that gaze feeling warmer and warmer on his skin.
Wordlessly, Wesley nods. Fuck, he really isn't playing. Not another second chance… Anxiety courses through his body, a subtle sting to the smallest twitches of his fingers. He didn't deserve that second chance in the first place, did he? Does Graves see the blood on his hands?
"We're gonna talk, eventually, just you 'n' me 'til you find a long term option, 'cause I'll tell you right now, Wesley," Phil chuckles quietly, "I ain't it." He grins with a shake of his head.
Again, all over again, he feels that tightness in his chest grow that much more constricting… No, of course this wouldn't be a long arrangement. Thank god it won't be. Even as he just sits here, it's as if Phil can see through every layer he's built to protect himself—like Phil knows what he's hiding. Does he see the blood?
In his pockets, his hands ball up. This was what he wanted, to talk, to get cleared enough to stay here, but being faced with the knowledge that this means Graves will have to see him? All of the small cracks in his facade, to the deep ravines where water still flows, threatening to break through the glue he just put on the surface. Graves has to see it, see him. When was the last time he wanted that? Has he ever wanted that?
Being visible only ever hurt. The eyes on him meant he did something wrong. The smallest sign something was off with him earned glances that never seemed to stop. Distress, vocalized or not, was seen as something to gawk at when he portrayed it 'wrong'. He can't remember when he stopped reacting to the smallest of aches and covered it with wall after wall to protect himself.
"Wesley?" A hand reached over the desk, his body remaining frozen as it pressed into his shoulder. "Son?"
He doesn't look up, his eyes can't move from where they were glued moments before. Graves will have to see him. All the way to his bare bones. What if he can't do that? What if he can't let anyone see whats there? Is all of him rotten? Soaked with the viscus blood and mold? His commander, his boss, can't see that.
What is he supposed to do? If Phil knows, if he sees, there won't be another option but to let him go. He already grabbed him, he already touched when he wasn't supposed to and dammit, he's adding to the bodies on his shoulders just by being here. He trusts Graves—How many times does he have to learn that it won't turn out well?—He touched him, he fucking trusts him and he'll die all because Wesley's too close.
"Wesley??" The commander calls with more urgency. Somewhere between his thoughts, Graves moved closer. When did he move?
It's too late to do anything but accept that, isn't it? Phil won't make it home next mission if past experiences said anything at all. Somehow, they never made it home as soon as he dared to think he could have something for once. He thought he could have the job, he thought he could stay but he can't. He can't stay.
The burning in his chest sends radiating pain throughout his body, shooting up and down his frame. At some point, one of his hands began to dig and claw at his leg in a painful, familiar way. Anything for something to be normal. His eyes refuse to focus, too blurry to make out whether the movements coming closer would hurt or not.
Fuck, fuck. He wanted to talk to Graves, he wanted. He's not supposed to want like that. Not a person, not to talk. It's just him, it's supposed to just be Wesley. His apartment is supposed to be quiet when he comes home, no one is supposed to wait for him, there shouldn't ever be anyone to miss him.
A blur settles over his vision. Why does this feel familiar? He blinks, though the movement feels so slow. It doesn't clear the haze, eyes stuck where they're glued. Everything feels so, so slow, all while his heart rapidly thrums against his ribs.
"For fucks sake..!" Graves mutters under his breath. He crouches in front of Wesley, the hand on his shoulder falls to his lap to force away his soldier's hand from his leg. He keeps a tight grip on his wrist, waiting for him to stop wriggling.
Unfocused, Wesley's eyes glance around 'til his gaze lands on the commander's form sitting in front of him. He blinks as if it could clear the glaze over his eyes, despite it not helping a moment ago.
"What?" To his own ears, it sounds muted, ran through some kind of voice changer. Is that his voice? His body shivers slightly as his eyes wander again, unable to stop them.
"What'd'ya mean 'what'? Fuckin'- Wesley, look at me!" Phil squeezes the twitching hand in his grasp.
"What're you doing..?" He exhales, shaky and slow. His eyelids flutter when he looks at Graves, barely managing to stare there. Why won't his eyes clear up right? His face isn't wet, he can breathe, albeit poorly…
"Fuck, you scared the shit outta me, zonin' out like that." Graves keeps a hold of his hand as he speaks, relief heavy in his voice now that he's getting a response.
"It won't… It won't happen again." Wesley murmurs. His eyes squeeze shut, letting the sight of stars cover the back of his eyelids before opening them. That glaze over his eyes lessening slightly. He shakily adjusts his posture, blinking and blinking in an attempt to make the film go away.
"Just sit…" The commander softly says back, attempting to hold onto Wesley's hand when he quickly pulls it away from Graves instead of allowing that gentle touch.
"No, no, I'm… I got it." He insists, rubbing his eyes with the ball of his palms. Why won't it let up? Is it the exhaustion? Out of everyone, he's supposed to be fine with all of that. He doesn't need the sleep, it won't kill him to go without. Then again, when has anything else?
"You don't look like you've 'got it', kid…" Phillip sighs, using the edge of the desk to pull himself from the floor. "Honestly, looks like you just lost it a little bit…"
And god does it feel like he did. His heart won't calm down and the air feels thin no matter how he tries to fix his breathing. That fucking pain won't let up—is he losing it? Or does he just need to go to sleep?
Humorlessly, Wesley scoffs out a tired laugh.
"'s nothin', I swear. I- I need this, I'll talk whenever. Just- just gimme the word." Walker looks up at Graves as he moves to lean on the wooden desk. Can he swear he'd do it, truly, if he was ordered to? God, if he says something wrong, there's no buffer of a third party, it'll go straight to Graves… Fuck.
"That's not the whole problem and you know that. Look at yourself, son…" Phil crosses his arms, gaze flickering from the window off to the side, then back to Wesley, "When's the last time you slept, Wes?"
After a moment of thinking, his posture slumps forward slightly. A hand rubs over his face, taking time to massage over his tense jaw for a brief second. When he looks back up, his eyes lock on Graves but don't entirely focus on him.
"Two days, at least..?" Is that right? God, he can't fucking tell. His mind feels fried, his body can't pick between high-wired or exhausted. Whatever his heart's doing certainly doesn't help.
"Then your ass is supposed to be in medical, not here." Graves grunts, rubbing at the back of his neck.
"No- no, I'm- I had to come in and tell you that I could- I could work." The words don't feel right on his tongue, forced out with all the air in his lungs. Wesley bites at the inside of his cheek, watching the way Graves turns to face him again.
"And then almost, what? Pass out on my floor?" Phillip says, exasperation in his tone.
"Graves, I need this, I- just.. I need… Fuck." His chest heaves slightly as he pulls in a breath. Why does it feel like he's running? Why does his heart refuse to let up? He's not being fucking hunted and yet it feels like he is every time Graves meets his eyes. His hands hold his head as he leans on his elbows, rested on his knees.
"What you need right now, Wes, is to go sleep. I don't care if you do it in medical, or at home."
"I can't, dammit! I can't sleep- Sleep isn't…" He trails off, voice caught in his throat.
The rest he's gotten in the last few days has been nothing but nightmares. Guilt pulling him down and under crashing waves he can't get out of. No matter how much he gasps and kicks in his bed, his eyes won't open and he can't wake up.
He can't get it to stop. No amount of kicking and clawing at his own skin in his sleep seems to be enough to make any of it go away. The water keeps crashing and crashing against him, every gasp of air he got was pulled from his lungs the very next second. Salt sits heavy on his tongue, the taste of the water wasn't just ocean. It's heavy, thick on his tongue, and the moment his mind notes what it is, the water around him is no longer empty. Bodies upon bodies floating with him, surfacing just in time to hear all of their screams go silent.
He can't wake up from that dream. It's the same one. Over and over and over.
If he was stronger, if he was faster, he might've been able to pull them out of there. His body was weighed down enough but he could've tried, he never tried. He can't kick fast enough to stay above water, let alone pull anyone out of it. Yet, he knows it's his fault for not doing anything. Keeping himself barely alive wasn't enough.
One of his hands shakily run through his hair. When did he wash it last? Oils cling to his dry hand, unable to stop the weak grimace as he rubs his palm against his pants to get the feeling off of him.
"Nightmares?"
Wesley doesn't have to look up to know the face Phil is making; somewhere between sympathy and concern. Sprinkle in a little annoyance at this behavior, too. He's a grown man, dammit, this isn't anyone's problem but his own.
"Nightmares…" He murmurs in response.
A soft sigh comes from ahead of him, steps slowly approaching again. He doesn't have the energy to worry why. The last of it is coursing through his veins nonstop despite him just sitting here.
"Up, son, c'mon." Graves orders, though it's soft. Delicate, like he knows it could only take one wrong move for this to turn into a screaming match, or his soldier unconscious on the floor.
"Where're you..?" Wesley slowly sits up, his hazy eyes follow the commander's movements around him.
"Told you that you needed medical, 'n' I ain't so sure you're gonna make it there yourself." Phil tells him, offering a hand to pull him out of the chair.
"I don't need.. I don't think I need medical…" He shakes his head, but reaches for the hand offered to him. His trembling hand settles into Graves' cold one, his own hand only a little warmer than that.
"Didn't ask that, now did I?" Graves chuckles dryly.
Wesley only hums in response as he lets the other pull him out of the chair. The quick change in position has his head swimming, black static washing over his vision for a moment. Fuck… Is it the exhaustion, or is this some fucked up punishment for not saving the people he was supposed to?
Every part of him feels heavy, pulling him down like the water. He's been without sleep for longer, what made this any different? His heart squeezes in his chest. While his eyes furiously blink away the dark, two arms come hold onto him, supporting him while his body attempts to sway.
"Now that.. That earns you a more thorough check up, I think." He hears from beside him. There's no point to denying that anymore, Wesley acknowledges. His hands shake where he's grabbed onto Graves.
The moment the black static fades away, just that slightly more clear film remaining, he simply nods. A sigh falling from his lips as he parts them to breathe.
"Good to go?" He's asked, Graves' raised eyebrows visible when he glances towards him.
"I got it." Wesley nods, planting his feet better on the ground. On top of everything, fuck, of course it's more crap to deal with. His legs feel like jelly, but he forces his knees to lock just so he can do at least something on his own.
He's letting Graves get too close. Just because he needs help, Phil is getting too damn close to him. The blood will get on him and Wesley can't stop it from happening if Phil keeps trying to hold him up. It's dangerous, this is dangerous. Every touch is damning Phil to an early grave.
"Hold onto me if you need to." The commander says, taking the first few steps towards the door and waiting for Wesley to follow.
He nods. The "I won't" goes unsaid, the two words sitting on his tongue nonetheless. If he needed to, he'd grab the wall. They can clean the blood off of that, but the stains on his skin, the one's he touched Graves with, won't wash away. That much he knows. Ever since the first little drop he spent hours scrubbing, he learned it doesn't. That's a marker on his skin, one that showed everything he's done.
The lights in the hall burn his tired eyes, illuminating his face better than the lights in the office. Bags rest under his red eyes, puffy as if he'd just been crying. His rosy cheeks and nose contrast to his otherwise pale skin. Shit, he looks just about as bad as he feels.
Distantly, he can make out words being said to him, but not the actual things said. Something about not expecting something, it's not worth asking Graves to repeat it. Is it rude to not particularly care?
The ground feels like it shakes, enough to keep him on edge, as he walks. Obstacles like discarded chairs and rolling tables feel like they moved a few inches since he last walked these halls. Did they move? He turns to glance behind him at a chair that almost tripped him. It looks like it's in the same place.
"Walker?" Graves calls, looking back. It sounds distant to his ears, as if they're not a few feet away from each other.
"Huh?" Wesley quickly spins back around, brows furrowed.
"What're you lookin' at?" Phil stops walking. Blue eyes slowly look Wesley up and down, eyeing the way his hands seem to shake at his sides and his unfocused eyes. His chest rises and falls with a nervous breath.
"I thought.. I-" He hesitates, biting at his lip, "Nevermind."
"C'mere, let me…" The commander presses a hand over Wesley's chest, keeping him still for a moment. Careful as ever, guiding, rather than pulling.
The touch is gentle, far more than he deserves. His mind screams that over and over as he feels the touch. Something shouts that it hurts. The soft touch hurts and he needs to get away. It hurts- it'll hurt Phil, he's going to hurt Phil like this.
With as much energy as his body can muster, he pushes the hand away from his chest. His shoulders tensing and pulling in closer to his chest. The beating heart under the skin and bones only feels like it thuds with more aggression.
Everything zeros in on Graves. Conflicting things yelling in his head. If he lets Graves touch, if he reaches too close and sees every little thing under the layers covering the blood and bodies, he'll get hurt. The red will mark him and he won't come home. But something else yells to let him. Let him see, let him feel. He can't do that. Fuck. He can't.
"Wesley," Graves voice rings firmly in his ears, "You're five minutes from falling flat on the damn floor. Let me, or I'll call a medic if you'd rather that, huh?" He presses. The push had barely made him stumble, concern growing in his blue eyes.
"I can't-" The soldier chokes. The glaze over his vision settling just enough to see the way Graves looks at him perfectly. Worried, with anger simmering beneath that. Wide eyes stare at his face, noting every crease.
He reaches for Wesley's arm, a wave of hurt washes over the latter's figure. Everything in him yells to do something, but his body freezes. He can't move out of the way, he can't shout or push. He can't move.
Don't. He doesn't want to be the reason Graves ends up dead. He doesn't want to go to another funeral he caused. It'll be his fault, again. Barely, he can make out remnants of red over the other's sleeve, dripping down to his fingertips. What has he done? Fuck, what did he do?
"'m sorry." Graves mutters under his breath a second before he continues the movement. His hand grabbing Wesley's forearm and slowly pulling him closer until he could put his other hand on his back.
He can't breathe. As he's lead closer and closer to medical, he can't even breathe. His body doesn't want to move, legs making stuttering movements while Graves is what mostly keeps him standing upright. All he can focus on is the way he let his bloodied hands touch Graves, he let himself think it was okay for even a brief second. He can't. He can't do that.
That's how people end up dead. He thinks it's okay once, then he doesn't see them again. He can't fix it, he can't wash it away. God, he's tried. Soap and water can't fix what he's done wrong. He failed everyone, so, so many times and Graves is still holding onto him, pulling him along to see if he's okay. Why won't Phil just let him go?
Medical isn't far. The sign glows ahead of them. The further the commander leads, the less of a fight Wesley puts up.
It's familiar. Agonizingly so. Barely, he can taste the memory of something so close to this. Him, just a little boy, fighting and wailing as someone dragged him away by the arm. None of the people have faces, not any that he can make out. All he could feel was their anger swallowing him whole. It was all directed at him, at his cries. No matter how much he looked around, there wasn't a sympathetic face. His peers laughed, teachers peeked their heads into the hall to see whatever Wesley did wrong that day.
He can't even remember what he had done, it was so damn long ago, but the sinking feeling comes back with the same force as it had then. There's nothing but bile in his stomach to react to, empty and he hadn't given himself a single second to notice that.
Shame simmers across his skin, burning brightest where Phil holds onto him. Every step, he's rubbing off on Graves, leaving his own rot to fester in his commander's skin.
"I- I'm sorry." Wesley shudders as they turn the corner into the medical office. He stumbles in the brief moment Phil lets go of his arm. Fuck, what is he doing? What the hell does he think he's doing? Needing like this?
He can't. And yet, he does.
"I know." He hears from his side, almost too soft. That hand grabs back onto him, guiding him to the closest chair and easing him into it. Then the touch is gone.
Silently, Wesley sits there. Wherever he looks, there's a darkness around the edges. It's all too distant to make a good image of, or maybe it's the blurriness. Had that gone away yet?
The shuffling across the room barely catches his attention. Instead, his eyes stay glued to the commander's back. Something drawing his gaze there. It feels.. safer. Safer than the cold look of the medical room, at least.
Strangled breaths claw at his throat, too slow to get any proper relief when his lungs fill. Between every other breath, something in his chest spasms. Why does it feel like dying?
All the way back there in some foreign ground, gasping and gasping but all his chest did was spasm and hurt. A vein was shredded, he learned later on. Fuck, it feels too close to the way his heart overcompensated, trying to send blood to the wound to fix it, while forcing him to sit there and bleed. Aware and awake while he choked on his own blood.
To the untrained eye, it looks like he's sitting and waiting. But his chest doesn't rise and fall correctly, his eyes won't focus, and his face is flushed with exhausted features. It looks wrong. Wesley, with his constant perfect posture, sitting slumped like that? Not fixing it? It's all wrong.
At some point, Graves started walking back to him. A sigh on his lips as he crouched down to get a good look at Wesley. Blue eyes scanning over his face slowly.
"Hey," He begins, placing a light hand on Wesley's knee, "You see me, son? Medic's gonna look you over."
This angle makes it much easier for him to meet Graves' eyes, though his eyes trail down to the hand rested on his leg. Shame burns too bright to make eye contact. After doing this, he can't make himself do it. Graves has seen too much of him in the last thirty minutes than anyone should ever have to.
"Yeah- Yes, sir." Walker quietly says.
"You can, y'know, if it helps…" Phillip murmurs. He turns his hand over, offering his palm.
Timidly, the shadow shakes his head. He can't. After so many damn years of proof, he doesn't want to anymore. Why won't Graves let up? He can't, he won't. It'll hurt, in the end, it always hurts. Somehow, it'll always end up being his fault.
But, fuck, he wants it. He wants to hold onto someone and know they won't go. That just isn't an option for him. No matter how many times he begs and prays, getting too close to someone meant they didn't have long. If he just keeps pushing away from everyone, they'll get to live.
It doesn't matter if he doesn't get to. When he was first handed a gun and sent out, it didn't take long for him to figure out what he was. Some inhuman monster watching everyone around him bleed and bleed because he cared. He ordered them back and watched every last teammate die because he wanted to save them too much.
Does he want to save Graves from him too much? Will he end up dead on the pavement because Wesley cared, again?
Caring can be so cruel. It mingles with every little emotion and fills it with so much love that he can't breathe. Why did he have to love like that? It swallows him completely, wraps him in warmth and tells him every time that it might be okay. He let himself think it might be okay and this happened. Phillip looking up at him with blood on his clothes, marked to die by Wesley's guilt.
"They'll keep you here for a lil' while, try to get you to sleep." Phil tells him, his hand pulling away as he stands.
An ache stabs him in the chest when he sees Phillip look towards the exit.
"Graves…" Wesley murmurs with a threatening tightness in his chest, he continues, "Can you- can you wait..?" It comes out before he thinks to stop himself. Out of everyone on base, Phil is the only one he can think of that would willingly sit with him for a little while.
He trusts Graves. Maybe more than he should some days. Even from before he joined Shadow Company, his brother sung his highest praises of the commander. Never once did he doubt those words, not when Graves had so kindly been there for every part of the process when Lukas passed. From bringing the body home, to the funeral, to keeping Wesley afloat with a job after it.
"Yeah, no, 'course, kid…" Phil softly says, "As long as you need."
Even as the medic comes to take vitals, he stays. Being moved to an actual bed, Graves follows. While a firm look masks his face, those blue eyes constantly check every little thing around them. Double and triple checking, just in case.
Something about it lights a different fire in his chest, it's different. Warm, not searing. It doesn't hurt. Wesley doesn't question it. Not when it finally feels like he's not so terrified anymore.
It gives him a reason to look up at Graves while an IV gets settled into his arm after a series of questions he could barely answer. When did he last have something to drink? When's the last time he ate? Slept? All he knew was that it wasn't within the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
A trip to medical is so much different when he's not completely alone. As long as he keeps his eyes trained at Graves' face, he doesn't have to acknowledge the stains, right? He won't have to see what he's done and can remain in this fragile bubble where sleepiness has started to pull him into it's grasp.
"Do you want a blanket?" Phil whispers, the lights dimmed around the little cubical they've been pushed into.
Slowly, he shakes his head. As he lays here, finally, he can feel his heart start to calm down, and with that, his breathing.
One breath after the other, his eyes try to close. Only being kept open by force, pure refusal to look away from Graves just yet. He didn't hesitate to bring him here, let him keep the job, and didn't laugh when Wesley asked to talk to him, just him…
"You can sleep, y'know." A small smile shines down at him.
Quiet as ever, Wesley grunts. His brown eyes blinking up at Graves, like a little deer saved from the middle of an intersection. He turns his hand sightly on the bed, open in an invitation for Phil.
"Yeah," The commander breathes, his hand softly taking Wesley's in his own, "'m right here."
UPCOMING SCENE, fanart for my fanfic readerxsoapxghost
They are in Soaps and Sgt. Garrick room. Soap is shirtless, Trousers undone. He looks really buff and all and the reader is properly intimated and fucking flushed. Soap is already hard, his shaft poking out of his boxers - flush and leaking onto his clenching stomach muscles.
Ghost: Go sit in him.
You: Sir -
Ghost: Do as I say or i am going to let you undress first, Corporal. Seargeant is gonna learn how to take care of his weapons properly, is that right?
Soap: Yes sir
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scene from the upcoming chapter of Blue Falcon
🔗 Read the full fic on AO3
COD-Fanfic #BlueFalcon #ghostsoapreader
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Guys, I am trying- though, as you can see (T.T) I didn't get Soap's face right... and let's not (yet) talk about his expression. I migh discard this alltogehter, but wanted to share it nonetheless.
Really, this feels like multilating the words I have saved for a later smut-heavy chapter in my fanfiction.
Aaaah the torture of putting ideas in my head into real, phyiscal forms. It huuuuurts. It's just never good enough!
Hey there! I present to you another fic for PriceRaven :D
read it here
This is a smut (with feelings) fic, therefore I've uploaded it onto my Ao3 instead of over here, BUT here's snippet :p
big big thanks to bressynonym for bringing this vision of mine to life! her commission details are linked here
.....his thoughts were interrupted when he felt a swipe on his philtrum, the cold finger coming in contact with his warm ones made him shudders slightly as he trailed his eyes up to meet the birdie’s brown eyes.
Brown, honey eyes that are now blown out.
He felt the low vibration of her hum as she swiped her thumb across his lips, where she cheekily painted his lips with his blood like lipstick.
“Playing with your food, are you, birdie?”
“More like prepping my meal…”
Meal?
He hummed back quietly, as their eyes met again for another moment.
It's undeniable that they have been building up tensions since their first encounter, and the realisation only continues to deepen.
They both want more out of this.
Birdie who scratches the metals of her cage, begging to be set free, tempting him with a promise he’ll find pleasure in.
Or rather, more so an orange, dangling before him seemingly within reach, deceptively sweet but turned sour and bitter if he sank his teeth into it.
A forbidden fruit begging to be torn apart.
He might answer the plea and temptation after all.
Out of the infirmary. Into surveillance.
Celestia Nobel doesn’t flinch, but she notices everything—
new motion sensors, new silences, and one very real man she brought back from the dead.
(Ghost would like a word. Preferably at 4AM. In a stairwell.)
Read on AO3 → VANTAGE: Emotional Damage In Formation – Chapter 7
🔒 Archive-locked on AO3. Login required. HALCYON isn’t the only one trying to steal things.
She didn’t sign up for metaphysical surveillance, tactical babysitters, or raising her son over video calls.
But Kayla Davis doesn’t break easily. Not for guilt. Not for grief. Not even under observation.
(Somewhere down the hall, Rudy Parra is taking notes.)
Read on AO3 → VANTAGE: Emotional Damage In Formation – Chapter 6
🔒 Archive-locked on AO3. Login required. HALCYON isn’t the only one trying to steal things.
