With careful fingers and precious seeds, right from the Arctic apocalypse vault somehow still unearthed and undisturbed, Bradford and the Commander have begun a garden out back of the house they moved into at the end of the war.
Said House was his work, all by hand and furnished with items stolen or bartered for or ‘borrowed’. Said garden is full of hardy vegetables: beans and kale and cabbage, mostly, and when Bradford visits it at the heat of the day, he finds the Commander napping amongst the sprouts, cheek against the planter’s wood frame.
Bradford gingerly steps through the rows to them, stares down at their slumbering form. They look almost elegant in a way, curled up snug to the planter with a beam of sun illuminating their skin, sending notes of dust and pollen swirling around them like some kind of glitter.
He absently wonders if glitter still exists somewhere as he sits in the edge of the planter next to them. Their breaths are soft, even, not the chaotic panic they are sometimes when he is woken in the night to them clinging to his body slick with sweat and with fear.
“You’re going to get a crick in your neck,” Bradford murmurs quietly to them. Right then, he decides to make a hammock.
Sure, he’s got no idea how but it can’t be any harder then building a home- they’ve fought two wars to get here, a hammock should be a piece of cake.
There are two trees at the far end of their backyard, where the grass gets longer and more wild, where their property becomes possibility and wilderness. Bradford jogs back into the house and grabs a blanket from its draped position on the couch and comes back out, where he ties both ends of the blanket to the ties and forms a pocket of fabric between them.
Bradford tests it first, and thanks himself for doing that as the hammock breaks under him. A tighter tie at both ends, and another test— it holds this time. Good. The Commander weighs much less then him, it should be fine.
Bradford eases them up, careful to make sure they’re still sleeping as he carries them across the distance to the hammock. Gently he sets them down into it; for a moment he fears it will break and he will have to explain himself to a bemused and grass covered Commander, but it holds, even as they shifts in their sleep.
He stands there, watching their chest rise and fall, and feels warmth erupt in his own heart. Twenty years of searching and occupation had all but beaten even the slightest idea he would ever get this from his head. He had been ready for so much less, had all but settled for so much less…
But here they are, him leaning against a tree and the Commander sleeping soundly in the hammock, with the garden growing and Earth freed.Bradford isn’t sure if he’s ever been happier.
Central has never seen someone cry over cupcakes until today.
The Commander is staring down at the slightly off white open box, mouth parted slightly, blinking tears. Their trembling hands hold a chocolate cupcake-- it's a little small, and the frosting is lumpy, and the XCOM logo is a simple blue fondant piece, but he made them with all the love in his heart.
And by God, is there love in his heart.
"Happy birthday, Commander," he says.
They choke a sniffle and beam at him, lips wavering. "How did you get the ingredients for this?"
"Trading, calling in favors, other things that don't really matter," he answers.
The Commander shakily opens the bottle of white grape juice he brought up with the cupcakes and pours them both drinks. They drink slowly and evenly, and the smile on their face stays all the way through.
"It reminds me of home," they say, and then add in between smaller swallows, "Well, not home, but traditions."
"I understand." The taste hangs on his tongue, sings of simpler times and cornfields and farmer's markets his mother took him to when he was young. He smiles over the rim of his cup at them and takes another drink.
The Commander sets down their cup against their knee and with careful hands picks the cupcake up again They unwrap it and for a moment they just sit and stare at the dessert in their hands, new tears in their eyes.
Central finishes his drink and looks at them, smiles disappearing into worry. "Commander?"
"No, it's okay, I'm okay." They gingerly bite into the cupcake, as if it's going to dissolve into the air, as if it's a bomb primed to explode. Then there is a long sigh, their eyes are closed in bliss, and the rest of the cupcake is gone in moments after.
"Holy shit, that is a baller cupcake."
Central turns his head away to hide the fact that he blushes. "You flatter me, Commander," he says, reaching for one of his own.
"It's true," they say. "They're good. They're really fucking good. Holy shit. How did you get chocolate." It's less a question and more a exhalation of euphoria.
They grab another and this one is eaten quickly and somewhat messily; the Commander comes away with frosting on their nose. Central shifts his own half eaten cupcake to one hand and reaches over to wipe their nose with the other.
They blink at his touch, and then smile; a somewhat sticky, crumb covered finger gently presses his nose back
"Boop," they murmur.
"Boop," he repeats, returning the gesture. They laugh, smiling ever wider as they wipe the debris from around their mouth and tears from their cheeks with the back of their wrist.
The Commander pulls a third cupcake from the box and offers it wordlessly to him. Once he's swallowed the last of his first and takes the new one, they shut the box and gently place it into the ice chest by the foot of the bed, putting the grape juice with it.
He's gingerly eating the edge of the cupcake as the Commander lays their head in his lap, eyes shut.
With a free hand Central tousles their hair and then shifts to gently running his fingers through it, massaging against their scalp, and they sigh happily.
"I love you," they say, and the words are half muffled into his thigh. They shuffle, until they are on their back, looking up at him with eyes full of adoration.
"I love you," they repeat.
"I love you too," Central says, popping the last piece of his cupcake into his mouth and then leaning forward to touch their nose with his own. Then he picks them up under their shoulders and hugs them back first to his chest. They lay their cheek against his breast, ear over his heart.
"Happy birthday," he says softly.
"Only because of you," they answer, snuggling closer to him.
"Again with the flattering."
"No, again with the truth."
"I'm so glad you're back, Commander."
"I'm so glad you came and got me, Central. I love you."
There's candles lit in the bar when Bradford comes in.
Cheap birthday candles, deliberately alternating blue and white, dripping wax down a old bronze hanukiah onto a piece of cardboard.
The Commander sits up on the bar counter next to them, a paper wrapped package in their lap with a container resting on it, cheering on the heated game of dreidel at their feet by reaching into the container and throwing more into the prospective pot of winnings every so often.
There's no gelt to gamble for, there hasn't been for decades, but there is the small plate of decently dried fruit in the middle of the shouting circle that's in a constant state of flux, so it is a almost substitute.
When they see him, their eyes light up as bright as the flames that burn at their side. "Central! Chag sameach!"
"Commander," he answers, gingerly stepping around the group on the floor to orient himself on a stool, flinching as Kelly shouts a swear when the top lands on a symbol that the Commander tells him is nun ('funnily enough, its name means exactly what you get-- none.')
He sweeps his gaze across the rest of the room-- there are yellow gold fairy lights strings up around the walls, someone is playing a guitar that's missing a string, and it seems almost all of the ship's crew is scattered about talking and drinking and eating what at first he thinks are pancakes but are in fact what the Commander calls 'latkes'.
"They're a little shitty," they say, "but I didn't have much time or material to work with."
He doesn't ask how they got everything. Sometimes it's better to just not know.
"You missed me nearly setting my eyebrows on fire," they say.
"How did you manage that?" he asks with a laugh.
"I am multitalented," they say. "Hey, you still able to whistle loud?"
Bradford cocks his head. "Think I've still got it in me. What's up?"
"This ain't just a celebration," they say. "There's a history, a story to it, and as a Jew, well...I feel a little duty to make sure I tell my people's stories. I don't suppose there's too many people left able to do that so I gotta. I gotta, Central." They go quiet for a moment and then shake themselves, the smile returning but it's still a little distant, still a little sad. "I also think everyone will find it's rather...relevant."
Bradford gives them a nod and puts his fingers to his lips. The loud noise that splits across the bar causes heads to turn with gasps and swears, the guitar to stop with a startled and discordant twang, a dart to impale itself into the wall, and someone to drop their beer.
"Well, you're all certainly attentive when you need to be," the Commander says, laughing.
"I could have taken out someone's eye with that!" comes a shout from a solider on the far side of the room, who's gesturing pointedly at the dart in the wall as he struggles to remove it.
"But you didn't! That's what counts," they answer.
"Jesus, Commander," says a exasperated chorus from the dreidel players.
"Moses would maybe be a better figure to use there but..." They give a shrug at Bradford.
"Moses?" calls a young voice.
"Yeah! Moses! Y'all know Moses? Please tell me your parents were able to teach you at least some of the universal stories of the Old Testament...people younger than 40! Do you know any bible stories at all?"
A murmur of sound across the bar. Bradford shakes his head at them. They look up at the ceiling and mutter under their breath.
"Oy, well then y'all are gonna learn one today! It's more a Jewish story then a universal bible story, but goddamn it, it's Hanukkah and that story is why we celebrate it."
"Hey that's not fair! I know religion," says a female voice.
"The Elders don't count as religion," retorts a male voice.
"Technically," the girl replies.
"Absolutely fucking not," the Commander interrupts. "There will no talk of Elder worship in this ship of Elder hate. I will eat any one of you if you remotely believe in that shit. I swear I will."
"Commander, please don't channel Volk," Bradford says, just quiet enough for only them to hear.
"I'll channel him if I want to! I'll channel him for justice!" they snap back. "Cannibalism for justice is good!"
"No."
"Yes."
"Just get on with your story," he says, a note of pleading in his voice.
"Alright, but know I am entirely serious with my policy of eating."
"You truly terrify me sometimes."
"I love you too." They take a drink from the can of the concentrated grape juice at their hip. "Okay, listen up, folks! It's story time with the Commander."
"Is this gonna be a regular thing?" asks Kelly.
"Do you want it to be?" they ask back.
"Depends on if we like the story, which we won't get to hear unless you be quiet," Outrider says as she leans against Kelly, who flushes a little red about the ears.
"Have I told you I love you, Elena?" the Commander says.
"Sorry, Commander, I'm already taken," she answers, and Kelly goes redder.
Someone shouts "stop flirting and tell the damn story!" from the back.
"Okay, okay." Another drink from their can. "So, a long long time ago...and I'm talking long, like even pre-Old World long. Long as fuck. Ancient. You get it. A long time ago, Israel got invaded by the Greeks. What's a Greek? I really don't know, but I know they had a god pantheon and neat food. Anyway! The Greeks invaded, led by this king named Antiochus, and they came and just went 'fuck your temple and God and Passover and you' and destroyed the temple."
"Temple?" someone asks.
"Synagogue," the Commander answers. "Jewish place of worship; we call 'em temples informally."
"What's a Passover?" calls someone else.
"Another 'they to kill us, they failed, let's eat' holiday. You'll get the unabridged version in the spring. Can I go on with my story?"
There is quiet enough among the low tittering of the crew that the Commander is able to go on.
"So the Greeks are like 'everyone worship Zeus or die' and everyone kind of has to go along with it, while the Greeks just desecrate the temple with pigs and it's all sorts of fucked," they say. "Then there comes this dude. This guy's name is Mattathias, and he goes 'if you wanna rebel COME THE FUCK ON' and flees to the hills, so people go on and join the Maccabee rebellion. All the while the Greeks are occupying Israel and basically torturing people, like for example they're trying to make people eat pork, which if you keep kosher and they all did back then is like a terrible terrible thing, so the Jews that the Greeks are tryna force go 'no fuck you' and die instead."
They pause and drink, looking thoughtful. "Which, all things considered, is pretty damn heroic in my opinion. Fucked up, but heroic. I mean...the Greeks are a empire at this point in history. They got horses and elephants and a whole damn army. The Jews only have the Maccabee family and those with them."
They grin over the rim of their cup. "So, naturally, guess who wins."
Whispers flicker through the crew, until Mox, who has been listening intently, speaks. "The Maccabees," he says, the word hesitantly said.
The Commander nod at his pronunciation. "Exactly. They kick the Greeks out and go back to the temple to clean it up and..."
They glance at the hanukiah with a soft gaze. "So there's a thing we have in our temples. It's called the everlasting light. Don't ask me the Hebrew for it, I've forgotten, but the important thing is the light represents God."
They look back at the crew, sip at their grape juice. "The Jews come in and see the light is super close to burning out and go 'shit', and since it's a fire cause they don't have electricity yet, they use oil to fuel it. So they check how much oil they've got and it's only enough for one day, and more oil is eight days away. 'Oh shit,' say the Jews again. So they send off one dude to get more oil and clean up the temple and keep a nervous eye on the light, as the first day passes...and then the second and third and fourth and the light stays. It stays for eight days, enough time for more oil to be brought back."
Bradford is acutely aware that their gaze is resting on him now.
"It didn't go out the entire time," they say, voice softer. "It didn't go out, even through destruction and rebellion and waiting...and that's the story of Hanukkah."
"What about this?" asks Kelly, throwing the dreidel to them. They start, and a purple glow freezes the top in place, leaving it hanging in the air.
"Christ, warn a guy, would you?" They reach over and pluck it from the air, the glow fading from the dreidel and their eyes. "This," they say, waving the dreidel around, "is called a dreidel. It's basically a spinning top, but it's got Hebrew on it."
The Commander taps each side as they speak the names. "Gimmel, nun, daled, and shin. These folks--" A foot waves at the gambling group "--know them as meaning 'get all', 'get none', 'get half', and 'put half of yours in', and sure, that's the meanings for the game, but not the real meaning of this thing."
The Commander tosses the dreidel to Bradford, who clumsily catches it, nearly tumbling off the stool.
"The Jews who stayed in occupied Israel and studied the Torah in secret would pull out dreidels and pretend to playing when the Greeks came around to their homes to see what they were doing...or at least that's how the explanation I know goes," the Commander says. "The letters themselves come together to mean 'a great miracle happened there', there being Israel and the miracle being both the light's lasting and the rebellion's victory."
"Is this really a story or did you just make it up to inspire us?" asks a young solider. He's narrowing his eyes at them.
"Yeah," says another. "Is this some sort of metaphor for us winning against ADVENT?"
"If you want it to be," the Commander answers with a shrug. "Anyway, I'm done now, you lot can get back to eating and ruining the walls."
The chatter slowly fades back in; Bradford hands the dreidel to a waiting Kelly. He looks to the Commander as they drain their cup and pass the container down to Outrider, which prompts a cacophony of excited noise from the circle. They hop off the bar counter, package in hand and motion at him to follow.
They lead him to the hall outside the bar, where the pair stand in the half shadow half gold light. The guitar is playing again, music that Bradford recognizes as from the Commander's notebook of half recalled, half made up pre-ADVENT culture.
He sees them glance back through the doorway, closing their eyes as a wave of singing hits them. "That's the Shehecheyanu," they murmur. "The version my temple always used."
The Commander opens their eyes again, wiping at them with the back of their wrist, and looks at Bradford, shifting the package between their hands. "Usually people give their other presents during the holiday," they say. "Mostly parents to their kids. What I'm saying is this is for you."
They push the package into his hands. "Go on, open it."
Bradford pulls off the twine and tugs the paper off of the plush-feeling bundle. He feels his heart freeze as his fingers brush wool.
"How the hell did you find one of these?" he asks as he removes the rest of the makeshift wrapping, and his voice is very small and shakes.
A green army pully is in his slightly trembling hands, a handmade yellow XCOM patch over the breast. The Commander just smiles.
"I made that," they say, reaching over to tap the patch. "Sorry if the stitching is a little messy--"
He tucks the sweater under his arm and hugs them before they can finish, hoping the fact he's slightly crushing their ribs distracts from the fact his eyes and cheeks are moist.
They hug him back, whispering in his ear a language he does not understand, voice rising and falling along with the melody of the music.
[The Shehecheyanu blessing is a common Jewish prayer said to celebrate special occasions. It is said to be thankful for new and unusual experiences.
The English translation is as follows: Blessed are you, Adonai our God, ruler of the universe, who has enabled us to reach this season. Amen.
Examples of when recited:
* Generally, when doing or experiencing something that occurs infrequently from which one derives pleasure or benefit.
* The beginning of a holiday, including Passover, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Simhat Torah and Hanukkah, but not holidays commemorating sad events, such as Tisha B'av.
* The first performance of certain mitzvot in a year, including sitting in a sukkah, eating matzah at the Passover Seder, reading the megillah, or lighting the candles on Hanukkah.
* Eating a new fruit for the first time since Rosh Hashanah
* Seeing a friend who has not been seen in thirty days.
* Acquiring a new home, or significant new articles of clothing or utensils, such as a new suit.
* The birth of a child
* A pidyon haben ceremony.
* During a ritual immersion in a mikveh as part of a conversion.
* On arrival in Israel
If two or more occurrences that call for the prayer happen at the same time, it is only said once.]
Instead of trying to permanently kill them, the Commander slowly sways the Chosens' alliances over to their side over the course of the war using genuine kindness and a strangely detailed understanding of psychology. By Operation Leviathan they have basically broken the Chosen's bonds with the Elders, and adopted the three aliens whose sole purpose was to kidnap them. Central is suspicious and exasperated and awed. He asks why. Why do this? Why for them? The Commander just smiles a little sadly. "Well...let's say, in a certain way, we're not so different, the Chosen and me. I see parts of myself in them. Parts that need help and love. And that similarity was enough for me to have wanted to give it." A pause. "Also I know it pisses the Elders off to no end that their attack dogs are now loyal to me and will answer my call instead of theirs, and basically I live to spite them."
I feel like one of the Chosen are gonna go "the day we find you is the day you die/return to us, commander" in a transmission and I'll just look them head on and respond in all seriousness "hurry it up then. ive wanted to die for years. THE ELDERS MUST KNOW THIS. chop chop motherfuckers." Said chosen: "....I know i just tried to be intimidating but like, from a personal place, are you...are you like, okay?" Me, bursting into tears: "NO!!!!!!!"
