@deadwar asked for: reverse + [Β heart ] / simon, for roach. meme ; still accepting
Gary's nightmares are not frequent, not like they were, but they still were there. Lurking behind every good day like a phantom, or an assassin, waiting for the right time to pop up. The worst kind of paralysis demon - one made of memories he'd thought he'd made peace with, thought he'd worked his way through, but lingered still. Agony, as it turned out, was a hard thing to forget, harder still when the evidence of it still laid on his skin.
Most of the time, his nightmares are him alone in that pit. Staring at Ghost's back as he got away from certain death and left him behind - a memory that was false, made of insecurities, Roach had been unconscious by the time Ghost had crawled from their grave - and sometimes... Sometimes...
Sometimes, Ghost - Simon - was there with him. Eyes glazed with death beneath cracked sunglasses as fire consumed them both. The smell of burning plastic and material, their gear, turning into the smell of burning flesh as his gear gave way to his body. Flames eating at the other man's balaclava and sunglasses until all that remained was his face - and then -
And then it ate that too, leaving Roach paralyzed and in utter agony, staring as the man he loved, even back then, began to resemble his mask - a ghastly skull with an even more ghastly smile. One that seemed to remind Roach of his failure to keep up, to have been so weak, to have brought Simon down with him...
Gary wakes with a scream lodged in his throat, blocked by imaginary ash, by smoke, by the taste of burning flesh and petrol. He wakes with violence, soundless like how he's always been. Not a grunt falling from his lips as his hands swing and his feet kick, his body twists and pulls against the weight of his failure, the weight of his sin of inattentiveness heavier than he was strong.
And for a moment, all he can hear is the roar of an angry flame. The sound of flesh crackling beneath it. The pops of unused ammo from their gear as it went off. Then -
"Gary." A name, his name. Murmured like a plea against his ear as arms wrap tighter, and the man pressed against him tried his best to hold him down. "Gary, Gary, Gary. It's okay. You're here. Home. I've got you."
But was he, or was this another nightmare? It wouldn't be the first time he'd had them strung together. One horrible dream tied into another, like a train that he couldn't find the stop on. Each of the cars feeling more real, and more devastating, than the last.
"Breathe." The voice rumbles against his ear, almost a command, and Gary does out of reflex. Ribs expanding as he fills his lungs to the brim, all that he'd smelt before dissipating. Replaced with the smell of clean sheets and the scent of a man he practically worshipped, a man he'd loved so much even then, he'd been glad to die at his side. As he exhales, Gary goes limp in his arms, or close enough, and the action is rewarded with a kiss pressed to the soft, sensitive skin beneath his ear.
"S-Simon...?" It takes him a moment, not to speak, but to recognize the broken sounding voice as his own. The way it shook unfamiliar, unnatural. Not like Sergeant Gary 'Roach' Sanderson, who had survived so much at such a young age that even people with higher ranks were impressed with him. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up, it was just a nightmare."
It's so fucking stupid how quick he jumps to reassuring the other man, fucking ridiculous considering the situation, but Simon takes it with a quiet huff and no smart rebuttal. Just a shifting of his stupidly heavy arms as he releases Gary. Comfortable with the action now they he knew the younger man was fully awake, and not going to hurt himself with frightened flailing.
Gary sits up the moment he can, runs his fingers through overgrown curls and stares at the partially closed bedroom door. At the little light peeking through the gaps - a night light he'd installed months earlier so they both could stop tripping over dog toys on late night toilet visits.
"Don't."
Don't apologize. Don't get up. Don't leave. Simon's single word has so many meanings, and Gary recognizes them all. Obeys them without a second thought. Eyes closing as he presses his palms to them. Groans out something miserable and tired as sweat trickles down his back, cold and uncomfortable against his heated skin.
"Love?" It was a single, word - an affectionate nickname - but it was also another series of questions that Gary easily recognized. Their relationship unique, even among soldiers, entire conversations that could be had with just touches or looks, or single spoken words. Simon was asking if he was okay, if he wanted to talk about it, if he wanted to get up together and watch something on the telly until they both passed out again.
And honestly? Gary didn't know the answer. Hands dropping to his lap. Breathing in deep once more before shakily exhaling. Lips parting to say as much but - something else spilling out instead. "You were dead. With me." He shudders. "Burning. It was so real. I - I could smell it. You, me, us burning. I watched your fucking eyeballs - melt and I -" The sob shakes his whole being, his voice cracks from the strength of it, and the rest of his explanation dies on his tongue. Dies like they had - or maybe like they should have back then. "I'm sorry."
He expects to be engulfed again in weighted arms as he feels the other man shift on the bed. Expects to be wrapped up and coddled like a child by their nan. Cooed and rocked back to sleep in the safety of the arms of someone he trusted, someone he loved...
Instead, he feels the sensation of rough fingers around his own. Instead, Simon pulls his hand from the sheets and up towards his chest. Pressing an equally scarred palm against his chest as he breathes out something sad and small, and offers Gary nothing but the simple comfort of reassurance in return for his confession.
"It wasn't real." And they're not groundbreaking words, but still, Gary finds comfort in them. Comfort in the beating heart beneath is palm, the pulse that was strong and steady, and definitely not dead. "We lived. And we're here. I'm here."
It shouldn't be enough, but it is, because it's true. They'd survived hell. The nightmares was just that, a nightmare. Neither of them had died - and they were both alive, they were together. Alive and happy and in the flat they shared, with the dog Simon had taken home when he'd retired and his handler couldn't take care of him, They were living a life together, comfortable and cozy and normal and -
They were home.
