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Abstergo's DEADLY Server Sweep: Can the Helix Initiate ESCAPE?
He knows Hound’s back by the collar and lead hanging up by the door, and the boots kicked haphazardly off in the corridor. He smiles, nudges the boots into something more orderly before taking off his own, and lets the door shut behind him.
Grizzer has his face in the bags Fox is carrying before he even manages to put them down.
“No, out. Nose out, Grizzer. Grizzer!”
Grizzer snuffles, pulls his face out of the first bag, and plonks it straight into the second instead.
“Grizzer!”
“Oh, let him,” Hound chuckles from the door. “He’s not doing any harm.”
“There’s food in there,” Fox grouses. He pulls the bags back from under the massiff’s nose and slings them up on the crowded sideboard instead.
Hound wanders out into the corridor and slinks his arms around Fox’s waist from behind. “Thank you for doing the shopping,” he says, cheek pressed to shoulder.
Fox looks up, watching their reflection in the hall mirror for a couple of quiet, comfortable moments.
“It’s no problem,” he replies. He lets his fingers rest on Hound’s arm. Lets himself relish the moment, though he’s been promised no one can come and take it away from them now. “Come on, let’s get these unpacked before the dog does it for us.”
“You all right, kid?”
Comet startles a little, blinking away the haze that’s had him staring into his locker for the past… something minutes.
“Yeah,” he says, “sure. What’s up?”
“Just…” Behind him, Boost waves his hand around vaguely. “Looking a little spacey there is all.”
Comet goes to smile. Gets something more like a grimace. “I guess.”
Boost hesitates where he is, half out of his cuirass. He starts shedding armour, stacking it nearly haphazardly in his locker, and then turns to help Comet out of the last of his.
“I can… I can do it,” Comet tries to protest, but Boost just waves him off and unbuckles his greaves with the ease of practise.
“Rough week?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Tell me about it. Sinker keeps riding my arse about getting promoted, like he’s got any room to talk. Wolffe wants better accommodations for the general, and guess who has to deal with maintenance and the techs? Oh right, I do, even though they all hate my guts for absolutely no reason.” He taps Comet’s leg so that he’ll step out of his boots and tucks them neatly at the bottom of the stand. “Good thing everyone loves General Koon as much as they do, huh?”
Comet finds himself smiling down at him, smiling properly, half distracted by the sudden, inexplicable urge to trace the pale gash scars over his right cheek with his fingers.
“At least they’ll do it if it’s for the general,” he agrees. “They might accidentally break the freshers closest your bunk, though.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised. That probably means you’ll get it too.”
Comet snickers. “I think I can forgive you for that.”
One eyebrow raised, Boost chivvies him back to a bunk (Boost’s own?) and pokes him until he sits down. “I’m grateful for your generosity of spirit, golden boy.”
Heaving a sigh and dropping down heavily, probably painfully beside him, Boost lifts an arm and pulls Comet into his side.
“So, tell me about that time you said you saw Sinker fall down that hole and promised him you wouldn’t tell me…”
“Just don’t—don’t open your eyes.”
“You said that already,” Waxer complains. Boil’s hands retreat from around his temples where his fingers were blocking his already dark vision. They’re in the front of the house, Waxer’s pretty sure, and he can smell something sweet and perhaps spicy, and is that…?
“You can open your eyes now.”
Waxer does. Whatever he’d been expecting, well—it wasn’t quite this.
Cody, Wooley, all of Waxer’s platoon and Boil’s squads, plus friends from previous regiments and friends of friends have all managed to fit into their rather-too-small living room. There’s a banner of felt fabric flags hanging along one wall, things Waxer’s fairly certain are called balloons in the corners, and the sideboard opposite the sofa boasts plates piled with little snack foods. In the middle of it all, standing beside Boil, little Numa grins up at him and holds out a large folded card.
“Happy life day!” she cheers, echoed by choruses around the room.
“I know we have the same life day,” Boil says. “And technically so do Sear and Fortune, but Numa wanted to do something special for you.”
Waxer takes the card from her with a smile he couldn’t even consider controlling and opens his arms to let her leap into them with bouncing excitement.
“Thank you,” he says, kissing her forehead. “And thank you.” He yanks Boil closer by the arm and kisses him too.
“Me next!” Wooley shouts from the armchair, and the whole room descends into cheers and good-natured jibes.
Coric reaches for the soap before Kix can gather the wherewithal to do so himself. He soaps his own hands, passes the bar to Kix, and then smoothes his hands all over the backs of Kix’s shoulders, down his spine, around his sides, letting the spray wash away the grime nearly as soon as he suds it. He works all the way from Kix’s nape to his heels, then turns Kix on his feet and works from chin to toes.
Kix watches with lidded eyes and leaden limbs. He grabs for Coric when he straightens up, clutches with wet hands at his waist and pulls him in close to hug. Coric’s laugh ghosts cold over his skin in comparison to the water (rare, and heated at that) and he winds his arms around Kix in return to hold them both steady.
“Missed you,” Kix mutters into his hair.
“I missed you too,” Coric replies. “Don’t like not knowing what’s going on down there when you’re not with me.”
Kix clutches him tighter, if only for a moment.
“Mmh, thanks.”
Wolffe places the signed pads down on Fox’s desk, on the edge of his work but still within reach. He kisses the top of Fox’s head, his temple, presses little circles into the tense muscles of his trapezius with his thumb.
“You going to be finished any time soon?”
“An hour,” Fox replies tiredly. “Less than, maybe.”
Wolffe hums and continues rubbing his shoulder. The little window of Fox’s office looks out over the plaza in front of the senate from an angle. Even at this time there are still loiterers, still people coming and going. He wonders how Fox doesn’t drive himself mad with it all.
He himself must have been more tired than he’d realised, because when he goes to take a drink from the mug he’d been holding in his free hand, it’s gone.
“Oi,” he grumbles, noting Fox’s cold, empty mug on the desk and Wolffe’s sheltered between thieving palms. “You could have asked me to get another.”
“Yours tastes better,” Fox mumbles, flicking through another lengthy document.
Wolffe sighs, knowing there’s no real difference Fox would be able to prove, and takes his empty mug to go and make him another.
There’s a tooka on the windowsill.
More specifically, on Bacara’s lap as he sits on the windowsill and reads from a pad. It’s curled up and watching the rain outside lash against the glass as Bacara’s fingers brush gently through long fur.
“Oh?” Rex says to announce his presence. He leans against the door frame and crosses his arms. “We’re taking in strays now are we?”
“I don’t see where there’s a ‘now’ about it,” Bacara says, neither pausing in his petting nor looking up from his pad. He’s right of course, evidenced by the regular rotations of guests they have for family meals and the piles of spare bedding and toiletries they have stashed in various places around the house. “Neyo needed someone to cat-sit.”
Rex smiles and uncrosses his arms, wandering quietly into the room. “I gathered.”
Bacara reaches out a hand for him; Rex takes it gladly, lets himself be pulled into the warmth of his broad side and held close by a strong arm around his waist. He leans down to press a kiss to the top of Bacara’s head.
Yes, he understands the appeal of such a good tooka perch.
“What’s all this?” Fox asks in no small concern, picking his way through all the datapads on the floor towards his desk.
“Planning,” Dogma says distractedly. He has a stylus hanging out of the side of his mouth.
Fox blinks. “For…?”
“For the next time the Five-oh-First turn up, and both Hail and Polo squad decide they need to wage war to show who’s top dog.” Dogma clicks off his pad with finality and stares Fox straight in the eye. “And you may be busy, but you never make sure Thire actually does any of the damage control you tell him to. He’s awful at it.”
“And?” Fox asks. If he’s pouting a little, Dogma probably won’t notice. “It’s the most fun we get all revolution.”
Dogma’s expression wavers and breaks after only a few moments of hard staring, with maybe a little more eyebrow gymnastics than Fox would ever admit to. He laughs, tired but loud and genuine, and Fox grins back and falls next to him on the sofa, just narrowly avoiding more pads.
“You’d better thank me later,” Dogma says, sliding over to lean into him.
Fox raises an arm to cradle him closer. “Of course.”
“Good. It’s hard being the only responsible one around here.”
