Freeguy117 is a really funny ship. You have the ultimate super soldier, a gigantic demon-killing maniac, and their third: a nerd with an opioid addiction.
A commission for @nuclearnerves featuring freeguy117/freeguy. Thanks so much for the comm, I had a blast writing it. If you like this check out my pinned post!
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The light glinting off the barrel of the .357 revolver caught John's eye as he saw Dr. Freeman -Gordon- and The Doom Slayer -Flynn- packing up and taking stock. A 9mm pistol tucked away here and another handgun there, weapons disappear into the dark depths of jackets and pockets and a duffel bag that even John would perhaps describe as conspicuous or maybe even overkill. There was a knife as long as his hand tucked away in Taggart's boot. Bulky nondescript clothing covered the guns stowed in hidden holsters and waistbands, the fabric barely stretching over Taggart's broad frame while Dr. Freeman, lanky as he is, was swimming in his thrifted gear.
Their apartment was small for a base of operations, especially for two super soldiers and a physicist, so patrols weren't out of the ordinary. But this seemed a bit much for the quiet night he had assumed they had planned, even by his standards.
Still, the crowbar was being left behind so he assumed it wasn't going to be that bad.
John had stopped asking if Dr. Freeman was going to take the crowbar everywhere when the scientist had leveled a flat glare at him over the morning coffee and responded in a sign that the Spartan knew all too well and had gotten thrown his way a few times in his long career.
"Where are you going?" John asks as he finishes up the dishes from dinner. It was his turn after all.
Dr. Freeman shoulders the duffel bag, unlocks the deadbolt and three extra locks, and silently walks out the front door without glancing back.
Taggart grins. It's a wicked thing with too many teeth that would unnerve a civilian, but John's come to recognize that his face just works that way. It doesn't help that the man has a hard time fitting through doorways.
"Date night." He laughs, and pats his favored shotgun before following the doctor out the door and into the night. Warm summer air washes in from the doorway alongside the trilling call of cicadas.
"Remember we're keeping a low profile!" John calls out towards the closed door and hears a resounding bark of laughter echoing off the concrete outside. He listens to them clomp down the steps and then start the truck in the parking lot.
The engine rumbles to life and revs once before they depart.
John dries his hands and touches the datachip next to his dog tags.
"Date night?"
"Maybe they're going somewhere nice. You used to take me to such nice places."
"Used to?"
A blue figure projects from the chip in his hand, her form covered in lines of code and geometric lines like tattoos. Cortana looks up at him with a hand on her hip and eyebrow raised.
John hums and looks her in the eye, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure I can think of something."
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The truck creaks to a stop, brakes squealing and engine sputtering as it idles on the ridge. Rust eats away at the bumper and wheel wells of the ancient vehicle, and the paint seems to flake off whenever they even look at the beast. Still, it was able to carry them to where they needed to go reliably, so none of them had questioned it too closely. Gift horses and all that.
A key turns and the engine cuts off. Doors open and the call of cicadas becomes a roar without the refuge of the cabin buffering them from the warm July evening. Boots hit dirt and the truck raises a few inches as its occupants depart.
This far out of town there's no light pollution and the stars are visible above them. It's a clear night even if it smells like a storm is coming. Both men can feel it in the air, a heavy thing on the horizon, charged and waiting. Unknown and powerful, it weighs on them both.
But for now there's a quiet moment in the bed of the old truck, a case of beer, the stars above them, and a shitload of guns in the duffel bag pillowed beneath their heads.
The field they're in gives them the advantage of 360 degrees of sight lines and Gordon is comforted by that fact. No one can approach them without being noticed, with the added bonus of escaping the cramped apartment for a few hours.
That, and the fact that the man next to him can rip out people's spines if need be.
It's warm, too warm for a jacket. It could be the summer heat, or the warmth of the body next to him, or something deep in his chest he won't bother to name or think about because this isn't the time. So he frowns and shucks off the jacket, mindful of the weapons hidden there, and pillows it behind his head.
They lay there for a while, taking in the view. Gordon nods as he listens to the other man regale him with tales of his own journey. It was something they had in common, both still living martyrs raised up on pedestals and crushed under the weight of responsibility.
Mars was bright tonight, a bright speck in the southeastern sky. The Slayer gestured to it briefly and then to the other more interesting celestial bodies. He didn’t seem too keen on recalling his time there, and from what he had told him, Gordon understood far too well. One thick finger traces out the constellation Scorpius and with his other hand he opens a can of beer with a practiced move and a soft hiss, before promptly cursing as it foams over and gets on his pants.
Gordon huffs a breath out his nose and catches his attention. It might as well have been a guffaw for all the noise Freeman actually makes.
"Something funny, Gordon?" His voice rumbles and they make eye contact for a moment, matching grins before realizing how close they are to each other. Gordon can make out the small scars he's never noticed before and his eyes dart from his eyes to his mouth and away as The Doom Slayer beats a hasty retreat himself and chugs his drink.
Gordon grabs his own and holds it up for a brief moment before opening it carefully and takes a drink without spilling a drop. He side-eyes Flynn with a smirk and receives an elbow in his side for his effort.
"Okay wiseguy, congrats you can open a beer. Really putting that PhD of yours to good use." The words are grumbled into the second beer he opens and starts nursing with his own poorly hidden smile.
Gordon returns the comment with his own elbow to the side of the super soldier, which feels like he's hitting a very warm wall.
"You're boney as hell, Gordy. We need to start feeding you more if you're going to try hand to hand combat."
Empty cans clatter around them as the two men who have killed dozens and survived world ending events, devolve into a childish slapping fight. Grunts and yelps and curses can be heard echoing over the field as the truck rocks from their combined movements.
Eventually they break, chests heaving and hands locked to stop the other from retaliation, faces flushed in the low light. They turn away from each other in tandem, glaring at the night sky as if it was responsible for the outburst.
Gordon points out another constellation with his free hand in the resulting silence and Flynn leans in to follow his finger to the Sagittarius constellation.
They sit there a while longer in companionable silence that goes unbroken.
Neither pointing out how well their hands fit together or how long they've spent watching the stars.
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