#faralex

[l3ibnest]

Death awaits

[temeyes]

gaz, the designated third wheel

[cod-dump]

Sharing Food

---

*after ordering the same meal*

Farah: Oh, you got more tomatoes than me-

Alex: *immediately switches their plates*

Farah:

-

König: *picking olives and onion off his pizza and putting them on Gaz's plate*

Gaz: Babe, you do this every time. Why don't you order it WITHOUT olives and onion??

König: You like them

Gaz:

-

Nik: *staring at Price's plate*

Price: *positioning his fork like he was prepared to stab Nik as he ate with his free hand*

Graves: You know there's plenty to go around, right?

Nik: He has the best ones

Price: Damn right and I'll kill you for them

Nik: *grins madly*

Graves: ... is this foreplay?

-

Ghost: *grabbing chips off of Soap's plate and stuffs them into his mouth*

Soap, jokingly: tell me if any are poisoned

Ghost: *grabs Soap's plate and drags it over to him*

Soap: ... really? All of them?

Ghost: Just to be safe

-

Rudy: Stop staring

Alejandro: ... can I have a little?

Rudy: No

Alejandro: But-

Rudy, smacking his hand: LISTEN TO YOUR DOCTOR. I'M KEEPING YOU ALIVE UNTIL YOUR BONES TURN TO DUST

Alejandro: ... I love you

Rudy: I LOVE YOU TOO

[laswells-ashtray]

Farah only ever trims her dead ends by herself. It's a matter of autonomy, having control over her own person and what happens to it, hair included.

When she sprains her wrist, she's forced to evaluate her trust for the man she loves. Her ends are dead, they need trimmed and she cannot do it herself without further injuring herself or risking a hack job.

Alex doesn't make a thing of it, he accepts the task without faltering when her hands tremble as she watches him. He doesn't take it personally when her breath stutters in her chest as he makes the first snip. He talks her through every step, to make sure the length is alright and she knows what he's doing.

What she loves most about Alex, is that he allows her to walk away without a word, to stand outside and breathe until her mind and body are free from the stress of the endeavour.

When she returns, he only has one question.

"Do you want water?"

[forsaire]

ghost and soap: 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨

alejandro and rudy: 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨

nik and price: 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨

farah and alex: 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨

gaz: 🧍‍♂️

[bluebonnetbandit]

Price doesn’t mind when he has an op with Farah and Alex. They aren’t really affectionate in front of Price, Kate, and/or Nik. The most he has seen is Farah leaning on him or Alex resting his head on her shoulder when they are standing around waiting, but they don’t ever flirt over comms, kiss each other, or anything else in an op or around them. But THEN there is Soap and Ghost. They weren’t PDA people but Price has caught then kissing multiple times on ops and he had heard the dirtiest, most disgusting and annoying flirting over comms almost every time he’s in an op with them

[cchipollo]

double ale on rudy action (young alejandro is jealous and protective even though he doesn't even know rudy's got a crush on him but old alejandro knows everythingggg 😁) + faralex f1 au

[hatsbuckets]

faralex and Alex is devoted and actually shcndicndjcn

cw: none, religious references/imagery

He was not a praying man.

He had tried, in the way that men try things they were handed as children without ever being asked. He folded his hands, aimed his words at the ceiling, waited for something to move in him.

Sometimes it almost did.

In the quiet before a mission, in the specific dark of three in the morning with nothing between him and his own thoughts.

He would reach, and there would be a moment where reaching felt like enough, and then the moment would pass and he would be left with just his hands and the ceiling and the same quiet as before.

He had never been able to make himself mean it.

He means it now. Just not toward anything with a name he was handed.

There was a moment, he doesn't particularly dwell on it, but it is always there, he keystone at the center of it all, where the math was simple.

Her or him.

It is the kind of equation that clarifies things permanently. He didn't deliberate. He didn't't pray. He didn't bargain with anyone or anything or reach toward any ceiling.

He just chose.

And afterward, when the noise stopped and the dust settled and he understood that he was still alive in the surprised way you come to realize things like that, he lay there and thought about what it meant that there had been no deliberation. That the math had been that simple. That he had not needed to think.

He has not needed to think about it since.

She doesn't know all of it. She knows enough—she is not a woman you can keep things from entirely— but she doesn't know the specific force of that moment, the way it rearranged something fundamental in him.

Certain, in a way he had never managed to be certain about anything before.

The small devotions came after.

Learning her coffee, how she takes it, when she wants it, when she doesn't want it but needs it anyway. And learning the difference, which took time, which she did not make easy, which he considers some of his finest work.

The Arabic. He had started before, practically, because the work required it. But there was before and there was after and in the after he learned it differently. Slower and with more attention.

Like learning the language she dreamed in was the closest he would ever get to the inside of her, and he would need nothing beyond it, and he would die satisfied having only ever had that much.

The way he always hands her things, a weapon, a mug, a piece of information, handle first, always. Every time. A small thing. Not once has he thought about which end faces him when he does. The blade points at his own chest every time. He has never considered it otherwise.

Waking before her when they are in the same place and lying still so she can sleep, because she does not sleep enough, because the particular stillness of her in sleep is one of the few times she is not carrying anything and he will not be the one to end it a moment sooner than necessary.

None of it is a sacrifice, none of it compares. But it is what a sacrifice became, spread out across ordinary, the large thing broken into small ones, practiced quietly, without expectation of recognition.

Devotion, he has learned, is mostly just attention. Sustained and specific and freely given.

He has never been more willing to pay attention to anything in his life.

He had tried God and found the ceiling.

He had tried for anything more, something to reach for, and he found her instead, standing at the head of a table, giving orders in a voice that did not shake, and that thing in him that had been reaching his whole life finally, finally stopped.

Not because she is holy. She would hate that. She is practical and unsentimental and has no patience for men who make her something symbolic.

But he had aimed himself at grace his entire life without knowing what it looked like. Now he knows.

It takes its coffee a particular way. It speaks three languages and is working on a fourth. It presses its palm flat to his chest when he needs to stop talking and somehow always knows when that is.

It chose him back. Not in one large moment—she is not given to large moments—but in the small ones. In the particular way she says his name. In the fact that she lets him stay.

He is not a praying man. But he is, without question, a devoted one.