Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The house has changed. The outside, at least. The familiar white overlay of the walls has turned grey with age. The roof panelling has come off, and long and thick vines are replacing them. The lawn grass had overgrown so much that you can’t see the walking path anymore.

His father used to be so adamant about keeping the lawn fresh and neat, the footpath had to be seen, otherwise, there was no way he’d be able to get to and fro. At some points, Gaz could see the soil had flipped over, crashing against the concrete sadly, like waves. There were stone walls around the entire front, caging the overgrown vegetation inside just barely. The front garden had trees, too. Massive with age and yet, slouching as the wind pushed the leaves quietly, quietly making a whistling sound. That whistling sound was the only noise throughout the entire air, save for his breathing. The large trees had a swing. The rope was broken, now, and the wooden plank used as a seat was far past rotten from what he could see. He took one more glance around the entire front. Everything was dying.

Gaz felt stuck to the pavement. The air he breathed felt tense and got trapped in his throat. His grip was tight on the handle of his duffle bag, his heart in his ears as he finally began to move. His footsteps echoed in his head, bouncing around uncomfortably. Sweat began to form on his forehead, despite it being a cold day, anxiety brewing in his empty stomach. 

His hand was shaky when he finally brought it up to the decrepit door. The white paint was slowly chipping off, showing its true brown colour underneath. He knocked once, twice, and almost a third time before it swung open.

There, it revealed his mother in all her glory. Her eyes were tired. Her wrinkles had wrinkles. She was shorter than he remembered, but then again, he was 16. It’s almost been a decade since then. She was an ageing woman, and he was an ageing man. Things were going to change, no matter how much Gaz didn’t want them to. Her hair was tied up in a low bun, just at her neck. He could see grey peeking out, so he looked away, looking at her eyes again. They were a dark brown, like his own, and held a certain type of warmth that he hasn’t seen in a while. 

“Kyle,” she said quietly, her lips turning upwards in a smile. Her hands were brought up, cupping his face gently. Gaz had been so used to expecting pain, it had been a while since he’s felt comfort, a motherly comfort. He didn’t think he'd ever experienced it. 

“I’m so glad you’re back.” her voice was low as if speaking too loud would break the moment entirely. Gaz could only nod, words lost on him now, trying to agree with her. She took pity on him and patted his cheeks softly before beckoning him inside.

The wallpaper was yellower than before. It’s been many winters before he had seen it last. When he left, his mother had quit smoking, afraid it’d damage his father’s lungs even more. Gaz supposed ever since the man died, she picked the habit back up again. He didn’t feel the disappointment he expected to feel. 

There were picture frames across the walls. Some were crooked, and others dusty. The frames were rich, dark wood. They were all family photos, with finger-sized marks on their faces. They featured them all. His father, his mother, his oldest sister, him, and then his youngest sister. His mother didn’t let him stew in the memories for long, pulling him gently into the kitchen.

“Tea, darling?” she asked as she walked to the kettle. He nodded a quiet yes. The kitchen, thankfully, was just as he remembered. With wooden pillars supporting the room, there was a full set of appliances. Nothing had been thrown away, nothing had been bought. The fridge was the same, with all the same colourful magnets he had begged his mother to get so he could spell out a random word every day before school. His heart tightened with nostalgia. 

He sat down at the breakfast counter. There was a wooden tray in front of him, with some chips and dents. The thing was older than himself, he could barely blame it for showing its age. Gaz watched his mother as she walked around the room quietly, fetching the separate ingredients for his tea. 

“How many sugars was it again, Kyle?” she asked, glancing back at him. 

“Two,” he replied, just as quietly, not making eye contact with the woman who raised him. Energy thrummed in his stomach as he looked around. On one of the pillars, there were height marks. Three different colours, one for his older sister, one for him, and the last for his younger sister. His own stopped at 14, thinking it was a childish thing to do. He could only regret it now. For some strange reason, he felt the urge to mark his height down on the pillar once more, as if marking his presence here. 

As the steaming tea was pushed in front of him, his mother patted him on the shoulder gently.

“Your room is just as you left it,” she mentioned. He looked up at her, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. If he was honest with himself, which he rarely was, he thought she hated him before. And, if he was honest once more, he didn’t entirely think she doesn’t hate him now. Her voice and touch were too gentle. Too gentle for the firm and assertive woman he had grown up for. Maybe his father’s death kicked the life out of her. Gaz couldn’t say he missed her old personality, though.

For the first time today, Gaz collected himself and took in his mother’s appearance once more. Her clothes were slightly rushed. She had a soft red plaid shirt on, faded with life and use, and her blue jeans in the same condition. She looked domestic, a look he had never seen on her before. 

As if she could feel Gaz’s stare on her back, she sighed, her shoulders sagging.

“Kyle.” and there was that tone again, her old one, gentleness lost on her now. She turned to look at him. Gaz looked away almost immediately, forgetting himself and the fact that she didn’t like when he looked away from her. Kyle had his shoulders slouched, staring down at the steaming tea in front of him as he waited for it to cool down just enough so he could drink it.

“Kyle,” she muttered, “don’t be like this. You used to be so talkative. What happened, sweet?” 

So much, Gaz thought, so fucking much. He didn’t know how to explain it. He had done it to himself, he enlisted as soon as it was legal too. He had to escape it all. He ran toward the violence. He has no one to blame for its consequences other than himself.

“I joined the military,” he offered as a short explanation. 

There was a lull in the wind, and her words, and possibly her thought process. Now, Gaz could feel her stare on the top of his head. He bit his lip, distracting himself from the sudden tension in the air. 

As if on cue, the wind began as she took a deep breath. She nodded, turned away and looked outside the window. It wasn’t the best view, even though he knew that. Gaz took the opportunity to sip his tea, as quietly as possible.

“I think you’ve had a long journey, isn’t that right, Kyle?” she said after a few more silent minutes. The tension slowly dispensed, but not fully, still evident on his shoulders. He nodded despite this. Now that she said it, he could feel the exhaustion tugging at his soul with its comforting chains, pulling him down into a sense of safety. He wasn’t there yet, though. 

He drank the tea slowly, letting its warmth settle in his empty stomach comfortingly. It filled his coldness quickly, and soon, there was barely an inch left of the liquid. 

“Go on,” his mother said suddenly, grabbing the mug from his hands. He was trying to savour its warmth, but then he remembered his bed. That would be warm, too. “You must be exhausted. You do have some rest now, darling.”

His mother leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. She had never done that before. Never. Not even when he had a fever, or when he had a nightmare. What is so different now?

Gaz nodded, ignoring his internal conflict. 

He followed his memories to the stairs. The planks were darkened at the edges and frayed. The ends looked fuzzy. In his memories, the railings were painted white and had a sense of elegance with the patterns that were etched into them professionally. Now, the railings had no trace of white, only a dim light brown with small dents from where all his mother’s children had run their fingers along. He did the same, yet his fingertips were far too large to fit into the small crevices.

Gaz felt childish to be doing such a thing, so he hurried up the stairs, ignoring how the floorboards creaked underneath his weight. On the landing, there were three doors. His parent's bedroom, his own, and then his sisters.

The door looked the same as if it hadn’t been touched ever since he left. A feeling of uncomfortable guilt crawled up his gut and into his throat. Gaz ignored that, also. The door opened with a loud creak. 

Just as his mother said, his room was the same. It was stuck in time. The walls were still painted blue, not as fresh as they were when he was 16, but still the memorable blue he grew to love. His desk was pushed into the corner with a singular bookshelf on top, with GCSE books settled on top. The desk was covered in sheets of paper and an open notebook. His bed was still unmade, and the pillow still creased.

He had been arguing with his mother when he left this room. Arguing about what he didn’t know, his mother was volatile back then. Anything was an argument. If he coughed too loud, or if he breathed in the wrong direction. Anything could be taken as an attitude . He had been kicked out that night. He stayed with his friend until he enlisted in the army a few days after his 16th birthday. 

Gaz clenched his jaw and toed off his shoes. He dropped his duffle bag and walked up to the window and opened the night sky curtains, exposing the real-life sky. Moonlight illuminated the room beautifully and skillfully, the shine cold on his skin despite his window being closed. 

Gaz didn’t move an inch for a while, just basking in the sight. Just as before, his view wasn’t as beautiful as it could’ve been. Fields upon fields, with wild trees and overgrown grass. The gardens fit in perfectly within the uncared-for acres. 

After what could’ve been mere minutes or an hour, he moved away from the window. He settled down on the bed, the sheets soft yet dusty on his skin. He didn’t bother wiping it off, figuring it a mission for tomorrow. He was here for two weeks, after all.

Two weeks. 

-

How long has it been? A day, or two, maybe? Three? He had lost count, but he knew soon it’d end. It had hurt at first, but now, it was just a hollowness in his torso, the feeling of hunger gone. 

This was one of his mother’s strange forms of punishment. The pantry was locked, and he had been banished from the table for dinnertime. His father was too ill to do anything about it and his sisters were terrified to speak up. It seemed like he was the only one capable of speaking back to her. 

Harmful words had been thrown at each other, back and forth like a hurtful game of ping pong. He wasn’t entirely innocent, but his mother said some things to him that made him want the punishment to last. 

He could tell the difference in his appearance already. His usually-dark skin took on this ghastly undertone, sickly. His eyes had bags underneath them, and his lips were chapped. His friends had mentioned it to him. Only one knew of his home life, and that one was the only one truly concerned. Gaz didn’t know what it felt like to be worried over, and he didn’t like whatever the feeling that stirred in his gut when his friend looked at him like that, so he brushed it aside with “studying for the mocks”.

It was affecting everything, too. He had passed out during PE, doing the stupid bleep test. His lungs felt like fire, the feeling of dying sending him into a blind panic. He had trapped himself in the bathroom and could feel his ribs trying to accommodate his growing lungs, but no, they were ever so tight, like a cage fighting against a ravenous and wild bird. Breathing became hard to do, so he stopped, passing out right there in a locked bathroom stall.

-

When he woke up, he didn’t know what time it was. Panic immediately filled his lungs, waking up in the room he despised ever since he was 16, his lungs instantly working over time. Gaz sat up, in a panic, looking around, sleep-muddling his memories and making him confused.

Where am I? What happened? Was my entire life just a dream?

“Kyle! Are you awake?`` His mother called her voice sweet, unusual for such a fiery woman. Gaz forced his breath to slow down, clarity coming into him slowly. No, the pain in his leg reminded him, he was here to recover. He winced quietly as he swung his legs over the side of his bed. He had slept in his jeans and shirt. He had been so exhausted. 

His hands were trembling, his mother’s words wasted on deaf ears, and his mind felt trapped in post-nightmare anxiety. He slouched over, his head in his hands as he took in shaky breaths. His fingers clasped in unison on his neck, pressing gently into the sides to keep him grounded to reality whilst also trying to distract him from it. The reality was confusing, and whilst nightmares were terrifying, Gaz had also somehow found… comfort in them. Around him, his reality was always changing, twisting and turning into something he could barely recognise. Nightmares stayed the same. There was never anything new about them, nothing ever different. Not yet, at least. 

Seconds, possibly minutes passed by with no change. He breathed slowly, counting the seconds between each breath. Eventually, far too soon, he stood up, stretching lazily as the adrenaline from his almost-panic attack left him. He rubbed his face, picking up his duffle bag and setting it on his bed. He had multiple rolls of bandages and some fresh clothes. 

Gaz avoided the mirror for as long as he could as he got dressed. He couldn’t bear to see the sight. 

He had been getting better. His eating habits had changed for the best in the military. On the days when they barely had anything to eat, whilst the rest of the 141 were complaining-- save for Ghost-- Gaz felt at home, despite how morbid that sounded. The hollow feeling in his stomach eventually became a comfort. He didn’t know why, had never bothered to mention it to someone, afraid they’ll send him for a psych eval. He hadn’t done one in forever. Gaz did his morning routine quickly.

He limped downstairs, sparks of pain shooting up his spine. In the kitchen, his mother greeted him with a smile. 

“Go into the living room, sweet, we have a lot to catch up on,” she gestured to the room with the closed door. Gaz didn’t speak a word, merely nodded to her, and followed her instructions. A lot to catch up on coded for we have to talk about what happened that night. Gaz didn’t want to, and he knew his mother didn’t want to either. So why was she doing it?

He coughed into his closed fist quietly as he opened the door. This room had changed a lot, he immediately recognised. The sofas had been rearranged, giving the room more space and an airy feel to it. The TV stand was pushed to the corner, and a coffee table between the sofas made it all feel incredibly domestic and cliche. The sofas were still plain old ones from before, except for blankets covering the leather cushions. He untucked one blanket slightly and saw a hole in the fabric of the sofa, and tucked it back in. He sat down on a sofa. The leather was fake, a yellowy colour just bordering on the shade of beige. The walls were the same, save for the occasional darker stain. Gaz sat slouched over himself, his elbows supporting the majority of his weight. 

The window was open, the curtains flowing gently in the morning wind. It was a cold day, the shivers being sent through his body reminding him that winter was upcoming. Though, despite this, the golden sunrise shone through the window, cascading the entire room in a gentle glow, like a comforting blanket. 

Gaz sighed softly, rubbing his hands together as he waited. There was a faint whistle coming from the other room, possibly the whistle; the only sound that echoed throughout the house. His shoulders were tense, cold from the still air. He didn’t put many layers on, not thinking the ground floor of the house would be as cold as it was. He looked at the radiators in the room. They were old, dusty and the metal golden from the many winters. He supposed they didn’t work, or that his mother didn’t have enough money for heating. He wondered how many winters she had gone without warmth. The sour taste of guilt rested in his mouth. 

Just before he got lost in his thoughts, his mother came in, holding the old wooden tray, which held two steaming mugs. She set it down on the coffee table in front of him and came to sit down next to him. 

There was silence for a few moments before the woman looked at him with a familial fondness, a smile residing on her face that creased the corner of her eyes.

“You’ve put on a few pounds since you left, haven’t you?”

He stared at her. She stared back. Seemingly not knowing what she said was wrong. So, so wrong, he didn’t even know what to say to her. His stomach churned uncomfortably, and the feeling of unease sat unsettled in the bottom of it. Gaz let out a nervous chuckle.

“Yup,” was all his mind had come up with. Great, he thought, sign me up to be the next Shakespeare. What the fuck was that? 

He picked up the mug so he wouldn’t have to talk. Here he thought his mother had truly, from the bottom of his heart, changed. She hadn’t changed. She was the same, just covered in honey and sugar. She was still the same old woman underneath all that skin.

His thoughts came to a screeching halt when she rested a warm hand on his shoulder.

“I’m so happy to have you back, darling,”

And then, his thoughts went. Instead, the taste of guilt grew, confusion alongside it. He shouldn’t be thinking about his mother like that. She raised him. Albeit in a strange way, he’d admit, but she raised him. She was his mother. 

“I’m happy to be back,” Gaz lied through his teeth. He had wanted to see her, but this house was the epitome of nervousness for him. Seeing the house he grew up in look so defeated had made him feel an emotion he couldn’t describe properly.

“I bet you have nice stories to tell me,” his mother prodded. Gaz smiled slightly, her comment from before lost on his mind now, and shook his head.

“Nah, confidential, mum. Not allowed,”

“You’d have to kill me if you told me?”

“You get it.”

She smiled and nudged him playfully with her elbow. There was another silence, minutes went by as the tea cooled. Eventually, his mother cleared her throat and sighed.

“Why’d you leave?”

Gaz looked at her. Truly looked at her. She looked better today, her skin no longer had that strange undertone that made her look ill. He hoped she wasn’t ill, and he ignored the small part of him that hoped she was. It would give him the closure he needed from her. Gaz didn’t think an apology would suffice. 

“I had to, mum.”

“You didn’t have to. I would’ve let you back in.” her tone had taken on a pleading effect, that almost made Gaz feel guilty. But, Gaz shook his head.

“I was 16. I didn’t know that. I couldn’t risk whether you’d let me back in or not,” there must’ve been something in Gaz’s voice that made his mother’s demeanour switch suddenly. Her kind eyes turned cold in seconds, and the adoring shine disappeared. Her smile pressed into a line.

“You’re making it sound like I abused you.” she spat bitterly.

‘Abuse’ was barely enough to label what she did to him. The unusual punishments were one thing, but the verbal violence was another thing entirely. Gaz didn’t have a word for what she did to him in his childhood and beyond. ‘Torture’ fits best.

Gaz broke eye contact, looking down at the warm mug of tea in his hands. He was holding it with both hands, the comforting heat bleeding into his palms. He ignored the image of holding someone's bullet wound down, blood seeping into his pores and staining his hands red. Gaz pursed his lips, staring down at the light brown liquid with faux interest. 

His mother huffed at his silence. She shook her head slightly.

“I’ve tried being nice to you, Kyle,” she remarked abruptly, “You’re just brushing me off like you don’t give a shit.”

The funny thing was he didn’t. He wasn’t the same scared-shitless boy she loved to torment a decade ago. He was different now, they were different. 

But, as he glanced at her, seeing her brown eyes turn with frustration and anger, a decade-old fear stirred in his gut and alerted him to get away. Gaz was a man hardened by war, he had seen things his mother can’t even imagine, and yet here he was, his hands trembling at the thought of prolonged eye contact with his mum. A familiar whisper of pathetic rang in his ears. He ignored it.

“Why are you so silent? You used to chat me up the walls when you were 15.” his mother tried again, trying to get him to open up. He didn’t want to talk about what happened to him. Betrayal, grief, injuries. The only reason he was here was that this was the first address that came to mind when he thought of home. 

The silence was uncomfortable. Kyle had the urge to fill it up with chatter like his mother just said, but the fear of her ignoring him and neglecting his words was stronger. Gaz felt her frustration piling up, the silence stretching on. 

“Kyle, look at me.” 

He didn’t. 

“ Kyle. ”

Despite her warning voice, he still didn’t. It was the only thing he was technically capable of controlling. He had nowhere else to go, and he was hours away from wherever the 141 was at the time. He didn’t want to burden Price, Laswell, or anyone else that came to mind. He just had to suffer through the next two weeks. Maybe he should go back to his room. That’d be a good idea.

Before he could get up, his mother’s fingers found their way onto his jaw, gripping tightly and forcing his head to look at her. The pain wasn’t much, his skin had hardened, after all, and her grip was frailer than before, he could easily break out of it.

“Kyle. You’re living underneath my roof,” she began, her words slow as if she was talking to a baby, “you’re living by my rules. Are we clear?”

He didn’t want to break out of it, didn’t want to face the consequences. The phantom ache of hunger reminded him to follow her rules. She was the boss of his life for the next two weeks. 

Gaz nodded quietly.

“ Words.”

“Y-yes, mum, I’m sorry,” he stuttered, his words slightly muffled by the force of her grip. She smiled, letting go, and patted his cheek. Gaz hid the flinch.

“You go upstairs now, I reckon you need some more rest, don’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. He nodded, putting the mug back down on the wooden tray. He hadn’t drunk a single drop, and it was cold now. He hurried through the old hallway, memories chasing him along the way. Memories of his older sister running for him, playing tag whilst his little sister was in the walker, trying to run after them. There weren’t many years between them, barely a few years, so they grew up close. 

He ignored the memories though. He couldn’t afford to miss his sisters. Gaz walked up the stairs, avoiding the creaky floorboard as he went into his room. It was barely noon. He had nothing to do, and no one to talk to. It felt just like old times. He looked out the window. 

Like old times, he had the urge to jump out. The recovering bullet wound in his thigh disagreed with him. 

Gaz sat down on his desk chair. It was an old wooden thing and creaked when he put his full weight onto it. He turned to the desk and began to look through the drawers. There were lined papers and cards with chemical equations on them which he ignored with a passion. In the lowest drawer, underneath small Maths books, was a journal. The journal. Not the smartest place to hide it, but then again, he wasn’t the smartest of kids. 

The brown cover was dusty. It hadn’t been touched in years, which gave Gaz a feeling of uncontrollable relief. The cover was rough underneath his fingertips as he pushed around the dust, trying to reveal its true colour with little to no success. It was about the size of his entire hand, fingertip to the heel of his hand. When he was younger, the journal was massive, but he supposed he had grown up.

He opened it. The spine creaked and stretched. The yellowing pages were full of writing. There were not many dates, as he couldn’t be bothered to jot them down. He knew the book was pretty much full, only a few pages left unspoilt, so he opened a random page and read.

This one did have a date on it.

Thursday, 14th November.

No year, though.

He read a few lines and closed the book with a thump. His curiosity fled, already knowing what that day was about. He remembered it clearly and pushed it out of his mind. He didn’t want to think about that anymore. He put the journal on the desk and leaned back in the wooden chair, clenching his jaw as memories swam in his mind like eels.

Hands, hands pushing him downー

He shook his head, hiding his face in his hands as he tried to stop the onslaught ー

ーLaughing, someone was laughing at him, who was laughing at him?

He groaned at the echoes, his fingers curling against his face, nails digging into his skin just like his mother was doing mere minutes ago. He slouched further, curling in on himself. His breath stuttered in his lungs and tears breached his eyelids, the repetition of his youthful voice in his ears, screamingー

Stop, stop, leave me alone ー

He wanted to go home.

He was home. He had nowhere else to go except here, he was trapped. Gaz slipped off the chair, the thump far away. He curled up, the pain in his leg protesting. He hugged himself and leaned his forehead on his knees, his fingers clutching desperately at his clothes as he kept his cries quiet, just like old times.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, his heart pounding and his adrenaline coursing through his veins hotly. All he knew was that it must’ve been a long time, as his body creaked and ached as he tried to move his limbs. He sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, wincing as the movement tugged on his healing wound. He leaned back against the drawers of his desk, feeling exhausted. Gaz rested his head back against the wood. There was a familiar ache behind his eyes, a feeling he was used to. His throat was parched. He closed his eyes, savouring the quiet darkness that his room held. 

He was just tired now.

Gaz stood up, exhaustion tugging at his limbs and especially his leg. He didn’t want to be reminded of how he managed to get shot in the thigh. Gaz slowly laid down on the bed, not bothering to look at the time, and felt his tension seep into the bed like blood seeping into the soil. He stared up at the ceiling, his palms connecting on his stomach. There were patterns scarred into the ceiling, swirls like abstract winds, like petals of a flower. He swallowed, emotions stirring in his stomach like his ceiling. Too many emotions to count, too many to put a label on. Guilt, sadness, frustration, and many in between clouded his vision as a new onslaught of tears came rushing through.

He clenched his teeth together, unwilling to cry again. He was a man, hardened by war. His hands were permanently stained red with the blood of his friends. He turned onto his side, staring at the desolate wall. From this close-up, he could see where the plaster ribbed the walls. He reached out, one arm stuffed underneath his pillow and the other running along the wall. It was rough underneath his fingertips, and when he pulled his hand away, his fingers were dusty. 

He wiped them on his bedsheets and curled up even further, his wound yet again protesting against the action. 

His ribs hurt. That might just be from the fact he cracked them on the mission that landed him here or the fact that he had a panic attack. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, stuffing his face partially against the pillow to try and fall asleep. 

-

Gaz woke up to the sound of whistling. It came from outside. Immediately, he knew it was the wind. There was a faint tapping against the window as if someone was trying to get his attention. He knew it was nothing, maybe just the overgrown tree branches hitting the pane. When he moved to look out the window, it was still dark outside. The moon barely illuminated the room. 

His stomach grumbled. He hadn’t had anything for the entire day. He mostly slept through it. He didn’t know if he was allowed to get something to eat, though. 

Gaz clenched his jaw. Barely two days into living here and he was falling back into the routine. He closed his eyes again and moved so he was on his stomach, desperate to get some more sleep.

-

He woke up at 9:37. His eyes fluttered open. He winced at the harsh blade of light crawling through the chipped corners of the tinted windows. It was cold in his room. Gaz curled up instinctively, attempting to preserve the little warmth his body had. His stomach groaned once more, reminding him that he had things to do.

After a few minutes, he stood up. Gaz breathed in and out, beginning his morning routine. He finished his business in the bathroom and as he was washing his hands, he made the mistake of looking up at the mirror. The skin under his eyes was heavy. His eyes weren’t as bright as they used to be. His lips were chapped, and bitten raw. He looked like a dead man walking, and the hollowness in his chest didn’t mind it at all. He felt like this even before he was sent home. Just… one day, he woke up. The grass was duller and his limbs felt like lead, and his head hurt, a bitter aftertaste left in his mouth no matter how many times he had brushed his teeth. Price had mentioned it, and yet, he couldn’t bring up an answer for the man.

He still had that aftertaste in his mouth. He knew it was a phantom, that it wasn’t real. It probably represented an emotion that his mind couldn’t let go of. So, what was it? Guilt? Grief? He splashed some water on his face and dried it, not having the energy to psychoanalyse himself today. 

Gaz shrugged on a hoodie and went downstairs, where his mother was clambering about happily, listening to the radio. It reminded him of old memories of him rushing down the stairs, late for school. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as his mother turned around.

“Oh!” she gasped, and then laughed lightly, “well, don’t just stand there like a stranger. Come, I bet you’re starving, I haven’t seen you eat at all.” She beckoned him to sit down. Gaz felt inclined to follow her instructions. He slouched forward, purposefully ignoring the pain that sparked in his ribs. He leaned on his folded arms, staring down at the creases in the brown hoodie.

“I’ve made you some breakfast, kid,” she declared happily, the radio chattering in the background about the song that just played. Gaz hummed.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. Her demeanour changed. One second she was dishing out the food, the second she was in his face, holding it in a pinch of one hand. The other had a wooden spoon, clutched tightly in her fist. 

“Keep acting like that, and I won’t be so nice next time,” she warned slowly. Gaz could only nod. She smiled, letting him go. She went back to dishing the food out whilst Gaz processed what just happened in those seconds. Gaz turned his stare back down at his arms, suddenly not feeling hungry. 

His mother sighed again.

“I’m trying to be nice, you know,” she voiced suddenly, “you’re not making it very easy to. I don’t want to be like this, so demanding andー” she huffed, giving him his plate with a clatter. She sat down next to him with her plate and cutlery, “you make me so stressed out sometimes. It’s necessary. It was necessary. You’re a military man now, surely you know about discipline?” 

Her voice made it seem so casual as if they weren’t talking about the mental torture she put her son through. She dug in, cutting the sausages open and dipping them into the beans, waiting for Gaz to respond. He wanted to say a lot of things. His superiors didn’t restrict their food supply if they made a mistake, or talked back. His superiors didn’t lock them in their barracks. 

Gaz couldn’t talk to her like that, though. He nodded his head and began doing the same as her, even though the food tasted like ash in his mouth, disgusting and powdery. It wasn’t an insult to her food directly. He remembered how her food tasted, and it wasn’t like this.

She made a happy hum sound. 

“ Thank you. I’m not crazy. You know this, right? I tried my best to raise you and your sisters. Your father wasn’t much help, that’s for sure.” She laughed.

He had lung cancer. He could barely stand because you were putting him through torture, making him get chemo. He was suffering. It was your fault he ended his life, it was your fault, your fault ー

Gaz laughed quietly with her. 

“I did try my best with you three. And look where it ended. Ada is the CEO of her own company, and Jess is making six digits a year. And you…” she trailed off, waving her hand vaguely, “I don’t know what you’re doing. You rarely call, not even on Christmas. ”

Gaz nodded guiltily. His hands were trembling slightly, but he forced them to stop, holding onto his cutlery tightly to stop the shaking. She didn’t notice, or if she did, she didn’t say anything about it. 

Gaz stayed silent. He could tell it was annoying her, but he had nothing to say to her. 

They continued to eat in uncomfortable silence, the wind howling in their ears like wolves. 

-

The next few days went exactly like that. His mother is trying to start a conversation, but Gaz is too anxious to answer back. On day 7, she had finally had enough of his stubborn silence. He wasn’t doing it on purpose, he tried to think of something to say, but it often came out as hums or grunts or shrugs. She had hit him around the face. She apologised profusely after that, but he knew the apologies weren’t genuine. They never were. 

He stayed in his bedroom for the rest of that day, staring at the door handle, lost in his thoughts and too scared to try and find his way out of them, despite the map being right in front of him. For the rest of the day, he stayed in his youthful mind, afraid to go back to reality. Just staring at that door. Awaiting the inevitable, the inevitable that never came for him.

-

The next day his mother asked him to wash the dishes. Not really asked, but demanded him to. Her tone and her voice triggered something deep inside of him, a trauma he had yet to discover. His hands were trembling, and he accidentally dropped a plate. It didn’t shatter, it was more a chip than anything, but it didn’t matter to his mother. She slapped him so hard that his ears rang, and that wooden spoon she threatened him with within the early stages was finally put to use against his head. 

He thought himself to be pathetic. He was a 25-year-old man in the military, a Lieutenant, and he was ordered around by a 5 '4, 46-year-old woman. Gaz wondered what his superiors would think about him when he came back. Would they know? Would they care? 

-

Days went by seamlessly. Gaz hadn’t checked his phone not once through the days. He was on day 10 now. Four more days, and then he’ll be back home with the people he trusts with his life. 

He'll survive. Somehow, he always does.

His mother snapped once more. Her words weren’t enough to let her emotions out on him. She had gotten a cord one night, and after another bout of silence from Gaz, she struck him around the face. 

As he looked in the mirror that night. There was a small, shallow cut on his cheek, and a bruise forming on his jaw and the side of his face. He didn’t look beaten but he couldn’t shrug any of these injuries off as an accident. Gaz had that thought, and then, he had another. Maybe, if he didn’t talk to them, they wouldn’t question it. Maybe they didn’t care enough to question it. That’s what his mother said, at least.

Her words rattled in her head. Just because words weren’t enough one night doesn’t mean she stopped it.

“You’re just the same boy I knew before! I knew you’d never amount up to anything.” 

Gaz let it happen. Maybe he thought it was a punishment, maybe he thought it was discipline. Either one worked in his logic. 

He was 25, and he was letting it happen. He could just up and leave, steal some money from her and stay at a hotel for the rest of his recovery. But for some reason, he was trapped in this house. The vines encasing the stone walls felt like they were encasing his soul, binding him to the house with some supernatural force. He was stuck. 

On day 12, two more days until he left, she took the wooden spoon and dug the handle into his recovering bullet wound. She was happy she finally got a noise out of him, even if it was a gurgled shout of pain. He walked with a slight limp for the rest of that day. 

Her emotions were like the weather, too. One minute she could be screaming, yelling and shouting, throwing things at him, and the next she could be kissing his bruises and apologising, her touch gentle. He knew it was a trap to let his guard fall, to let his walls collapse just so she could break his heart again. 

He just didn’t know how to not fall for it.

In moments like these were times he missed his father. He missed everything about him, even though he barely got to know the man. Gaz was six when his father was diagnosed with lung cancer. Ten years old when the man was bedridden and too ill from chemotherapy to move. Though, he was still comforting. When the man couldn’t sit up, he held Gaz’s hand. When his mother was too much to handle, he retreated into his father’s bedroom, knowing she wouldn’t cause a commotion in there. He felt guilty about it. His father encouraged the behaviour, making him use whatever works best for him. 

Gaz was in his bedroom again. It was late, later than he should be awake. Daybreak was seconds away. He reckoned he could taste when the night dies. He sat at his desk. He was resisting the urge to look through his journal again. Gaz sighed quietly, leaning forward and resting his forehead on the cool wood. 

One more day.

-

His limp had gone now. It was mostly healed over, a horrid-looking scar being left in its wake. There was nothing he could’ve done to avoid the scar.

He was going home tomorrow, early in the morning, 6 am to be exact. He was so happy about it that his chest hurt. He was leaving, and he’ll tell Price never to send him there again, to just let him heal in the barracks. He will tell Price. Or someone willing to listen.

Would he tell anyone? He can’t tell anyone anything. His voice had been lost for two weeks. How could he go back to his usual chattery self without attracting suspicion? 

That led him back to the common internal question. Would anyone care enough to ask? He didn’t think anyone cared enough about him, to be honest.

Gaz was staring at the door again. Waiting for someone to come in. Waiting for the rusty knob to jiggle and for the door to open with its creak. It never happened. Or, well, it hasn’t happened yet.

He remembered being in this exact position when he was 14. Staring at the door. Waiting for someone to come in. Memories dragged him down. He hadn’t been able to stay afloat for the entire two weeks. He rubbed his face with his hands, wincing slightly as he accidentally pushed down on the bruises. They wouldn’t heal in time for tomorrow.

His stomach rumbled. All it seemed to do was rumble recently. He didn’t dare get up and leave the safety of his bedroom. Because that was one rule of his mothers. She never hurt him in his room. She may lock him in the room, may keep him there or keep him out of it, but she never dared touch him in the room. He had realised that when he was 13 when he was in this exact position. Staring at the door. Waiting for her to come in. It never happened, but you couldn’t blame Gaz for thinking it. She was an unpredictable force of nature and unlike his sisters, Gaz was the one who paid the consequences. 

He’d like to think he was at peace with how he was treated when he was younger compared to his sisters. But no, he wasn’t. He was bitter. Watching his little sister get the treatment he yearned for, the hugs he needed and the kisses on the forehead he craved. 

The sun-shadows from the window steadily changed, shifting slowly as the sun rose. He sat, thinking about the two weeks. Her voice rang in his ears. His jaw ached from how many times he clenched his teeth together over the past two weeks. He rubbed his hands together nervously, the new day bringing up old anxieties. 

His room was cold, and so was he. He leaned more forward, not breaking eye contact with the door, his unease not settling, the paranoia that she’d come banging into his room any moment. He rested his elbows on his knees, his shoulders hunching slightly. His heart stuttered in his chest as some noise was heard downstairs. It reminded him of a mission.

Gaz glanced at the duffle bag resting on his bed. He had barely unpacked, reusing the little clothes he brought with him. He had brought a book or two, thinking his mother would leave him to it, a naive and hopeful thought. He couldn’t’ve been more stupid. The books had been collecting dust in the bag, and he didn’t think he’d ever want to see them again. It was dramatic but true. He didn’t want to be reminded of this place ever again, but he knew that’d be a difficult feat. 

Gaz rubbed his hands together again, trying to will some warmth into his cold fingers. It didn’t work but it was worth the shot. He pursed his lips, feeling the rough surface and the subtle rip of skin that had the taste of blood lingering on his tongue. That one was his fault.

He took in a deep breath and stood up. He had been sitting like that for hours, his bones and muscles creaking like the old floorboards in the house. He rolled his shoulders. He had noticed the atrophy in his muscles on day 9, but he didn’t do anything to stop it. He still looked the same, but as he walked, he could feel the muscles in his legs working over time. A sense of laziness and bitterness crawled up his gut and stained his mouth.

He brushed his teeth in an attempt to get rid of the taste, but again, to no avail. Gaz wanted to work his muscles again, to get the blood pumping. The motivation wasn’t there, and he wondered how long Price would put up with his depressive state until he has kicked off the team. He wouldn’t blame Price. He would do the same. Gaz looked at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t looked in the mirror for days after that first time. His eyes had a bleak glint in them, the usual bright brown now dull. The bags under his eyes had lifted slightly. His cheeks were hollower, and his skin a shade paler, his lips chapped and split near the corner. He ran his tongue along his lips, trying to ease how terrible they looked. It didn’t work.

He splashed some water on his face and looked back up. He still looked the same, just dripping wet. He had a bruise on his jaw and a cut high on his cheekbone. He didn’t look all that bad, per se, a lot of the bruises had healed but a lot of them were also bad enough to still be visible for tomorrow. 

Gaz dried his face and left the bathroom. 

“Kyle!” his mother called from downstairs. Gaz stuffed the fear down deep into his stomach and willed it to not make an appearance whilst she talked to him. Gaz went down the stairs quietly, avoiding the creaky floorboards. She didn’t sound mad today, though her emotions could flip like a switch. It made Gaz constantly on his feet. He walked into the living room, standing at attention, his hands together in front of him. The TV was on, and some football game was playing.

“Make us tea, will you?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the TV. Gaz nodded quietly and retreated into the kitchen. He knew where everything was so he didn’t have to go searching for it. 

He made her the tea in record time, holding it gingerly. Just as he was about to leave the kitchen, she yelled at the screen, causing Gaz to flinch and spill some of her tea on his hand and onto the carpet. He winced quietly, looking down at the small stain in the brown carpet. It was small enough that his mum wouldn’t notice. Hopefully.

Gaz walked into the living room slowly, being careful with the mug. He passed it down, keeping it out of the way of the screen. He didn’t wait for a thank you, already knowing she was too engrossed in the game to even register he made her the damn tea.

He went back upstairs, yet again avoiding the creaky boards. He opened the door and walked inside his bedroom. He hadn’t turned on the lights since he got here. He took a deep breath, looking around the bedroom he won’t be able to see for ages. Most of his walls were bare, probably stripped down one night by his mother in a fit of anger. He wasn’t there to let it out, and she’d never touch her angels, so she did the next best thing. 

Gaz looked down at his hands. The side of his thumb was slightly red from the tea. It didn’t hurt. He sat down on the edge of his bed, closing his eyes against the small headache. 

He lay down, staring at the ceiling again. The patterns kept him entertained as his eyes grew dry, reminding him to blink every once in a while. 

His room was cast in a golden glow, shifting as the leaves near the window moved also. Gaz didn’t move his head, not as his stomach grumbled for something to eat. He was hungry, he just didn’t have an appetite. When he thought of food his mouth felt dry with ash, and he didn’t even want to try eating. 

He closed his eyes. It wasn’t near a proper ‘bedtime’, probably around 6 pm, but he didn’t have the energy to check. He took a quiet yet deep breath and turned onto his side, not bothering to get underneath the warm sheets. He let the cold draw him into sleep, the thought of being home comforting him. All he had to do was wait. He was good at waiting.

Tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

Tomorrow arrived sooner than he thought it would, but he wasn’t complaining. Gaz got up with a spring in his step, unusual only for the fact that he hasn’t felt so at peace in three, almost four weeks by now. He couldn’t wait to see a safe face. Price, especially. All doubts had left his mind as the moon stayed bright in the sky, shining through the window. Gaz didn’t even mind, didn’t even care. He was going home. He’d be able to sleep peacefully tonight, passed out on some thin mattress bed but it didn’t matter, because he’d be surrounded by people he’d come to trust, come to love. 

Gaz got dressed. Exhaustion still tugged at his limbs, trying to persuade him to come back to bed. He ignored the urge and walked into the bathroom, quietly. Happiness didn’t make him stupid and waking his mum up, that’d be stupid. He took in a deep breath as he looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked the same. He didn’t know what he was expecting, what he was hoping for. Maybe for the bruises to have magically healed overnight, for the cut to close up already. He hadn’t been taking care of his body properly, that’s most likely why it was taking forever to heal over. At least his skin looked better today. He washed his face, hoping for the water to wake up him a bit. 

When he went back into his bedroom, he fished for his phone for the first time in two weeks. He had no idea where it was, hoping it was in his duffle bag at least. Instead what he found were the clothes he came here in, the two books, multiple empty packs of paracetamol and ibuprofen, and his phone charger, but not his phone.

Gaz didn’t remember where he put it, and the thought frustrated him because he didn’t know when exactly Price was going to be here, and if Price honked to let him know, he’ll be chased out of the house by his angry mother. His mother was never really a morning person, to begin with. Being woken up by that, she’ll be pissed enough to start at him, even with a military Captain there. 

He willed himself to remember. All his mind seemed to maintain was the feeling of dread, pain, of fear and anxiety, all the feelings from the past two weeks. 

Eventually, after far too long, he found his phone. It was old and cracked in several places after he dropped it twice in the same hour. It was 12 per cent. It was good enough to check his messages quickly. His most recent message was from Price at 2:12 am, telling him he was on his way. Excitement filled his lungs uncomfortably. He felt like a kid on Christmas Eve. He was finally going home, after two weeks of mental torture. He willfully ignored the 141 group chat and the private messages from Soap. He saw the most recent message from Soap, two days ago, asking if he was alright. Guilt rose but he shook it off. He’ll apologise to him when he sees him.

Conveniently, a new message from Price rolled in.

‘15 mins out.’

Gaz’s heart skipped a beat. He clutched his phone. He rubbed his face with his calloused palms, taking in a deep breath, and then out.

It was embarrassing that he was acting so childish. He was 25. He was too old to be like this. Gaz took another deep breath. He pocketed his phone in his hoodie. He specifically picked a hoodie big enough to hide how much his body deteriorated, and a hood that would cover his face in the car. He wouldn’t be able to hide both forever, but it’ll give him some time to compose himself. Price would ask, he knew that. Gaz didn’t know how he’d respond. He came up with a few excuses; ‘I got mugged’, a believable lie considering his state; ‘Got in a fight down at the pub’, an un believable lie. Both excuses wouldn’t work in a million years. He has too many tells, and it was almost impossible to lie to his Captain. The man would see right through him, especially if he didn’t make eye contact. 

Gaz sent a thumbs up to Price, noticing that’s the first he’s even acknowledged any member of the 141. 

He waits. Gaz waits because that’s what he’s good at. Just 15 more minutes. 15 minutes and then I’ll be on my way homeー

“ Kyle!”

Gaz flinched at the voice coming from her bedroom.

It used to be his parent's bedroom, but it hadn’t been that for years. Even before his father’s death. He sighed quietly. Her voice was honey-coated and yet held that bitter, sickly undertone that she recently took up. He breathed in deeply and steeled his nerves before walking out, and into her bedroom.

“Turn the lights on,” she demanded, her voice coming through from the darkness. He flicked the light on in an instant. The room became illuminated with a soft yellow glow.

It was a basic master bedroom. Messy. Her clothes were scattered on every surface, and there was a slight tinge of sourness in the air that made Gaz scrunch his nose up slightly. He was thankful and surprised that he wasn’t made to clean her room.

Gaz waited for her to get up from her bed. It took her a small while, but ever so slowly, she walked up to him. In a second, she wrapped him in a tight hug. He froze his breath and heart stuttering in his chest and closed down his throat like a valve. His arms were stock-still at his sides. He didn’t know what to do. This is what he had been longing for, yearning for years on years. And yet, it wasn’t enough. 

“Kyle,” she warned softly. He could feel her hot breath on his skin. He wanted to cringe away, the feeling sending sparks in his brain. “Hug me back.”

And he did. His hands were trembling ever so slightly as he wrapped his arms around her warm shoulders, not fully hugging back.

After a few seconds, she pulled away, her hands finding themselves on his face. Her palms were warm and her fingertips cold. Gaz hid a flinch and looked at her nose, avoiding eye contact. People say that the eyes are the gateway to the soul, and Gaz couldn’t quite face his mother’s soul just yet.

“You look just like me, you know,” she whispered, like the first day, as if she was scared to break the moment. The man held in a gag at that thought. He didn’t want to be like either one of his parents. He didn’t want his mother’s temper and he didn’t want his father’s fate. 

Gaz always had a feeling about how he’ll end up. He knew he’ll bite the bullet before his 30th birthday. Whether that bullet was his own or an enemy’s, that’s yet to be decided.

Gaz nodded slightly.

“I’ll miss you, Kyle. It was nice having you back, it’s been so long. You’ll call, won’t you?”

I don’t want to see you again.

He nodded.

“I don’t believe you,” she grinned slightly. She was trying to go for a tease, but her tone sharpened at the end like a weapon. “You’ll have to tell me properly.”

His eyes snapped up to hers. He didn’t know how many minutes had passed since Price’s message, but he desperately hoped it would be soon.

The man was never a good liar. He could nod or shake his head, a yes or no, shrug and deflect questions with topic changes, but talking? He can’t lie like that.

“No.”

It was a simple, two-lettered word.

He watched as his mum’s face twisted and turned.

A small, feeble word.

The sound registered before the pain did. A harsh SLAP resonated within the walls, and a faint ringing resided in his ear. 

His mum grabbed his face in a harsh grip, her long natural nails digging into his cheeks brutally, forcing him to look at her. Through his semi-blurry vision, he could see rage spilling from her.

“You listen to me, Kyle, and you listen to me clear,” she spat out his name like a slur, “I am your mother and I will not be treated like shit. You will not talk to me like that and you will call me soon, or so help me Godー” 

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes to keep the anger in, and opened them again, still holding Gaz’s face in a tight, tight grip.

“Do you understand me? Tell me properly.” her words held a threat that Gaz had no choice but to listen to.

“Y-yes, I understand, I’m sorry,”

“Sorry isn’t enough this time, Kyle! You apologise and apologise but nothing ever changes! You’re still the same bitter little man I kicked out all those years ago,” she spat, shoving his face away with a feverous strength. She pointed at him, her lips twisting in an almost animalistic snarl.

“Who do you think you are, Kyle, talking to me like that? Talking to me like I’m scum? Am I not good enough for you?” her tone was just on the verge of sadness, leaving the anger alone. Remorse filled his lungs and choked him, a vice around his neck, a chain keeping him locked down. He didn’t know what to say. 

“I’m not, am I?”

Tears filled her eyes. She lowered her hand and wiped them away reluctantly, sniffling loudly. 

“Y’know what, just go. I don’t want to see that face anymore.”

Gaz left in an instant, her touch leaving fire underneath his skin, tickling and stinging with ferocity. He pursed his lips as he retreated into his room, his heart in a stressed clutch. Every heartbeat was hard to come by, and his breath picked up.

No, he thought desperately, now’s not the time. Please, not the time, he’s almost here. I’ll be gone soon.

It had been 13 minutes since Price sent him the message. His guilt was interrupted by a loud honk from outside. Relief instead exploded in his mind. He put on his hood. He shoved his shoes on and grabbed his duffle bag, rushing out of his bedroom and down the stairs, stepping on the creaky floorboard and almost tripping over himself in his eagerness to leave this blasted house.

The door opened and shut with a slam. The familiar black military car entered his eyesight, and he slowed his footsteps, the pain in his thigh igniting slightly but not enough to inspire a limp, thankfully. 

Gaz knocked on the window quietly, looking back at the house. His mother didn’t make him do any outside work, but he had a feeling if he stayed another week the lawn would be gone and the vines would be, too. The door unlocked and he couldn’t hide his enthusiasm as he threw himself into the car.

“Eager, are we?”

Gaz felt like he could cry. His voice was rough and scarred from war, but familiar and so fond. He bit the side of his cheek to stop the tears from flowing. He made a humming sound, looking back at the house. 

“Can we go now? Please?” Gaz scrunched his eyes shut at the sound of his voice. His heart was in his throat, making any result come out scratchy and like from a broken record. He could feel Price’s eyes on him, so Gaz moved his hood slightly more down.

Price didn’t say anything, but he knew that the older man had noticed. There was a slight tension in the air as he began to drive. Gaz’s leg went up and down, up and down, up and down, his arms crossed against his chest, tight and pressuring on his ribs. His ribs, which were still healing and still ached from time to time, were a cage around his lungs. It was hard to breathe. The man’s fingers clutched at the sides of his hoodie, looking outside of the window, watching as the trees went by.

His mum lived far away, in the countryside, as his parents attempted to live that countryside dream. It didn’t work as well as they thought it would, and made it much more difficult for things like school, but at least the surrounding scenery was nice. The sun had risen by now, and the dawn glow brightened the acres of fields. The road was close enough to see the slight frost and dew on the shards of grass. 

Price’s eyes kept glancing up at the rearview mirror to look at him. The man must think he was being discreet, but he wasn’t. Gaz always knew when eyes were on him, and he was fairly certain Ghost was getting annoyed with how easily he could tell when the man was there.

“Something on my face, Cap?” it still hurt to talk. He didn’t want to, but he also didn’t want Price’s eyes on him when he was meant to be concentrating on the barren road. It stirred some unresolved attention problems in his stomach. Gaz always hated being the centre of attention.

“Just a bruise or two, it seems,” something in Price’s voice made him uncomfortable. The man was trying to figure something out. Gaz resisted the urge to curl up, seeing it as childish. His leg bounced up and down even faster, but quieter, releasing the unwanted energy. He pursed his lips slightly, not replying to Price. He kept his eyes stubbornly glued to the scenery, refusing.

It went silent for a few minutes, the only noise being the heating and the wheels running over the rough countryside roads. 

Price sighed quietly, disturbing the silence. The younger was usually the talkative one of the pair, willing to just rant at Price and not minding the little reply he got back, but now he found that the mere thought of talking made him tired.

“Gaz, what happened?”

Gaz made an involuntary glance at the rear-view mirror. Price was already gazing back at him with those comforting brown eyes that made Gaz want to spill all his secrets. Gaz looked away immediately and concentrated on how the sun peeked out through the speeding trees. He pursed his lips and bit the inside of his cheek, using the physical pain to distract him from the mental. The outside blurred with tears. 

“Gaz,” Price’s voice softened but demanded. Gaz’s throat went dry, his heart suddenly in his ears. He blinked the tears away furiously. The man stayed silent. He didn’t open his mouth because he knew he’ll say anything Price asked him. The thought wasn’t too bad, but his little dignity was something he held close to his heart. Price had seen him cry before, on numerous occasions. The most recent one was the incident on that fateful night that landed him back in his childhood. Gaz’s leg had been shot up. He had been choking back tears and bloodー he still felt the trickle of blood running down his cheek and head . Price held him through the pain as they waited for the medevac, muttering reassurances to try and keep him awake.

Gaz didn’t respond. Price didn’t try again. The car ride soon turned into an uneasy, tense air, both biting down any urge to say something.

He must’ve dozed off at some point because when he came to, rough hands were shaking him gently awake at his shoulders. They were warm and he instantly recognised them. Price’s face came into view. 

“C’mon, mate,” his voice was uncharacteristically quiet and soft. Gaz nodded, sleep blurring his senses, unsure if this was even real or not. Price helped him stand and put the hood back over his head and slowly led the younger man to the barracks. He was surprised that none of the 141 have made an appearance yet, not even Soap, and it was hard to keep that man away from an arriving team member. 

The base was the same as he remembered. Concrete walls, concrete roofs, concrete floors. Yellow, old-looking lights hanging from the walls that weren’t on as it was at day time. The wind jostled the leaves of the overhanging trees nearby, and there were new officers training in the middle field. The base sometimes reminded him of the bad motels you see at the side of the road. 

Gaz could barely register the excitement swelling in his stomach upon seeing the rows of beds. They were all neatly made, everyone being awake and doing their duties already.

Price’s hand clapped his shoulder, warm and steady, jostling his body forward slightly. The touch made fire go into his skin, uncomfortable.

“Sleep, you look like you need it. When you wake up, come see me in my office.”

Gaz nodded through his exhaustion. Price smiled fondly, waiting until the younger was in the bed before leaving quietly. He heard some mumbling outside the closed door. It sounded like Price was talking to someone or someone. All the man could focus on, however, was how his body practically melted into the thin mattress and the hard pillow. It was all enough for Gaz to fall asleep in seconds.

He woke up slowly, and the first thing he knew for a fact was that it was freezing. He fell asleep over the covers. At least he had the hoodie to preserve some kind of warmth in his body. He stayed put for a few more minutes, his body too achy to move at first, his head hurting slightly and his throat dry. He reluctantly pushed himself up to get out of bed, remembering what Price told him to do.

First, though, he had to wake himself up properly. He wandered to the bathrooms, his socked feet echoing quietly in the large room. Tiredness tugged at his limbs mercilessly. He opened the door, shivering at how cold it was in the tiled room. Gaz walked in sluggishly, going up to the sink to wash his face. Instead, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His face still held a ghastly undertone, his lips were still chapped and the bruises made him cringe and look away. He glanced at the clock hung up on the wall loosely. He was surprised everyone let him sleep in until 3 pm. He guessed he did need the nap. He washed his face hurriedly. The bruises were a harsh dark colour, almost resembling his eyes, with hints of blue and purple. It made him regret not taking up his sister’s offer how to cover bruises with makeup. 

Gaz sorted himself and fixed his appearance as much as he could. By the end of it, he felt much better than he had a few minutes before.

He rubbed his face as he left the room, his fingers and socked feet freezing. He shoved some heavy-duty winter boots on and some thick gloves, rubbing his fingers together in hopes of restoring some sort of warmth in his palms. He must look stupid and disproportionate, and walking was a bit of a pain with the boots and the added injury. It had scarred over now, but it still hurt occasionally, with the same ferocity as it had hurt that night.

Gaz knew what Price was going to say. That not responding is an act of insubordination, and he was close to getting suspended. And if not that, then something worse. The man clenched his jaw as he sat back down on the bed. His mind helpfully flashed back to the days when he used to spend 30 minutes every day before school staring at the ground in front of him, contemplating running away and finding a new life somewhere else. It was longer than 30 minutes on the days when his mother decided that food was a luxury and not rather a necessity. Gaz breathed in deeply, trying to clear his mind of any doubts and worries. Though it was hard when all around him, there were doubts and worries. 

He rubbed his face as if that’d physically get rid of the thoughts. 

At last, after possibly five minutes of thinking and pure thinking, Gaz stood up. He decided that maybe just getting it over and done with would be easier than guessing. He had nowhere to go if he gets suspended. There was no chance he’d be going back to her.

The man walked out, trying to keep his footsteps to a minimum, the rest of his senses heightened. He had no hope of interacting with anyone for a little while, his energy and voice took from him as soon as he stepped into the overgrown grass of his childhood home.

Far too soon, he was met with the wooden door of his Captain’s office. He stayed in front of it for a while, anxious. Gaz sucked it up and knocked, the wood grating against his knuckles.

“Sir?” Gaz called out tentatively, his voice cracking slightly. His face flushed with embarrassment, before clearing his throat.

“Come in,” Price’s voice came from inside the room. Gaz walked in and closed the door immediately, looking back at Price. The man was sat at his desk, a lamp hanging over him as he wrote down multiple mission reports. Papers were scattered everywhere, and he had a certain look of tiredness in his eyes. It was hard to keep the guilt down this time. His Captain was busy, he always was, and here he was, annoying him with his problems. 

Price had his fair share of personal issues, too, he bet. Personal issues that were way more worthy of tears than his own. 

The man in question glanced up at him and gestured to the seat in front of him. Gaz sat down on the leather chair. Even through the gloves, he could feel that the leather was real and smooth. In front of him, Price was wearing the most casual wear he’s ever seen the man in. Combat trousers and boots, sure, and a black loose shirt. His well-known hat was on the desk. He waited for Price to say the first word. 

Gaz’s leg started to move up and down as he glanced around. It wasn’t the first time he’s been in here, and by far the last time. There was a clock on the wall, an analogue. A few shelves with a couple of personal items, a stack of old-looking books. The room wasn’t entirely that big either, but it certainly wasn’t small. In this room, the floors were wooden planks. 

Gaz didn’t want to be the first one to say something, but it seemed like he had to, as Price wasn’t going to start any time soon.

“You called me in, sir?” his feeble voice said, shaking slightly. Gaz pursed his lips, hoping Price would ignore how weird his voice sounded. Price glanced up, still writing manually with a pen. He signed the paper off with a signature and finally put the pen down, looking at Gaz in the eyes. Gaz lowered his gaze to the man’s nose, biting the inside of his lip subtly.

“Gaz. We have to talk about what happened. How did you get those bruises?”

He didn’t think they had to. It wasn’t important. It wouldn’t affect how he performed.

“Iー”

“The truth, Gaz.”

Gaz slouched slightly in the chair. This felt like he was being reprimanded by the headteacher. The younger stopped looking at his face entirely and instead moved his gaze down to the plate where it says Capt. Price in fancy golden letters. Gaz’s leg didn’t slow down at all. The silence stretched on for a few minutes as Gaz thought about what to say. 

He could say the truth. His mum gave the bruises to him, with a hard cord, a wooden spoon, her own two hands, and her rings. 

His hands started to shake slightly, her eyes flashing in his mind, her nails digging into the skin of his arms, face, legs, everywhere. Her touch was seared into his mind like branding, and it was hard to shake off, even if he was hours away from her. He crossed his arms across his chest and ignored the stale feeling in his throat. 

Lie, or don’t lie. 

Lie, and he’ll get in trouble for lying, and he’ll have to tell the truth anyway, at some point.

Don’t lie, and it’ll be over and done with, and he’ll finally leave.

That was the better option. 

Price waited patiently as he watched Gaz’s expressions shift and change. The boy was contemplating the truth, he knew it, it was obvious. 

Gaz has never told anyone before. He tried to, tried to make it obvious. He tried acting up in class. The only reason his friend knew was Gaz had been too hasty in changing for PE, and he saw the wince and the bruises. The other boy had guessed it from that.

He focused back on reality slowly, biting the inside of his cheek, the pain bringing him back. He pursed his lips again. Don’t lie.

“My mum,” is what eventually came out, far too soon and after far too long. His voice was hoarse, his throat not unlike sandpaper. Gaz watched Price’s expression change as if Gaz just confirmed something he didn’t want to think about, and then a silent rage. Gaz’s stomach clenched in slight fear, and he knew he’ll deal with the guilt later.

“I’mー”

“Why didn’t you tell me before I sent you back there?”

“So you believe me?” the younger asked out of shock, not registering it before it was too late. 

Price’s eyes sharpened a little.

“‘Course I do, Gaz. You wouldn’t lie about that sort of thing.” he said as if it was obvious. He supposed it was. Gaz slouched further in his seat, slowly closing in on himself as he nodded slightly. 

“What did she do?” Price asked after a few seconds of silence. Concern and fondness filled his expression, not an ounce of pity. Gaz hadn’t been met with pity yet, but he knew he wouldn’t like it. 

The question was, what didn’t she do?

“Cord,” Gaz answered shortly, hoping the look on his face would be enough for the older man. Price’s face turned from confused to shock, to rage, and concern so deep and caring it made Gaz choke up and look away.

“She hit you with a cord?”

Gaz’s fingers clutched at his hoodie, tight enough between them that it hurt. Gaz stared at the golden plaque as he nodded. 

“What else?”

Gaz laughed slightly, wiping at his eyes, “A spoon . ”

“A spoon? ” came the confused reply.

“A wooden one.”

Price’s jaw clenched and he nodded. The man leaned back in his chair, the thing creaking as he did so, and sighed. For some reason, Gaz took the sigh as one of disappointment. 

“I made her mad,” Gaz said. Or, tried to say. It came out as more of a hoarse whisper, words slowly being lost on him. The man opposite his eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment before shaking his head.

“Hey, no, I’m not blamin’ you,” Price adjusted his position, sitting up with his hands up. “No way in Hell it’s your fault.”

Gaz wanted to talk about it all now. Price didn’t blame him like he thought he would. Gaz made eye contact with him, jaw clenching together as he tried and failed to keep the tears at bay. He blinked them away. 

“Gaz,” Price called softly, making Gaz focus back on him. “Son, you can talk to me. How long has this been going on?”

Son. 

A tear escaped. Price had called him son. He had never been called son before, not even by his father. It was always Kyle, kid, boy, but never a son. And it broke something in him. His vision blurred with tears, and in an instant, his cheeks were wet. 

He wiped them away, sniffling, still trying to keep his composure. He wanted to leave, didn’t want to be asked any more questions, his heart in his ears. His face felt incredibly hot, and his hands were trembling as he brought them to his eyes to wipe away the repeated tears.

“Long time,” came the throaty reply. Gaz didn’t know when it started. Ever since he was born, maybe? Ever since his little sister was born? The earliest memory he has of her hurting him was when he was five. 

She had started yelling at him for being moody, and when he started to cry, she screamed at him the classic “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about”. When he didn’t stop crying, she dragged him by the arm, her nails digging into his skin so deep he bled, into his room. She threw him inside and locked the door.

“F-five, maybe? Five, yeah,” 

“ Five. ” Price bit out, hand coming up to cover his mouth. “You were five, ”

Gaz nodded wordlessly. Words weren’t needed for this, not anymore. 

“Where’s your dad?” Price asked tersely, his voice rough in the silence of the room. Gaz clenched his jaw slightly.

“Gone.”

A simple word. Four letters. Price looked at him to continue.

“Lung cancer,” he offered for an explanation. This was the first time the younger man was admitting it. To himself and someone else, it was the first time he’s ever said out loud he was gone. It felt like a kick to the gut, the admittance. He remembered when he was told by the hospital. 2 years ago. He was getting ready for sleep when a call came through from a hospital in Birmingham. He already knew what the call was before he answered it.

When he raised his head, Price’s gaze still didn’t hold any pity. It was rather a sympathy, and Gaz found that he liked that one better. 

He sniffled, rubbing at his nose with the glove, lowering his eyes once more. Eye contact was too much right now, felt like he was being picked apart and inspected. 

Price stood up suddenly, chair scraping against the wooden floorboards. Gaz followed his movements as he came to stand near him.

“Stand up, son,” Price gestured for him to get up loosely.

There it was again. Son. 

Gaz did what he was asked to do.

Gaz was taken by surprise when the Captain's arms wrapped around him. It took him a couple of seconds to register what was happening, and when he did, he dropped the act and returned the hug. He was a little desperate to do so, clutching at the man's shirt as he stuffed his face in his neck. He couldn't keep his tears at bay. 

And with that, his inhibitions crumbled, his fingers trapped in the smooth fabric. He was probably getting Price’s neck wet with the onslaught of tears that wracked his body in sudden movements. The Captain’s arms were wrapped tightly around him, keeping him grounded and at the moment. Gaz didn’t think he even wanted to leave the moment, but he appreciated the sentiment.

He’ll never tell anyone else, but Price was warm, like a radiator, and sturdy, like a pillar. Gaz had a feeling he could lean all his weight into the man and he wouldn’t even notice.

One of Price’s hands came up to cup the back of his head, keeping his head against his shoulder, showing him that he didn’t mind it. The gesture, the warmth, the pure thoughtfulness of it allーhe couldn’t remember the last time he was held like this. Not as a child as fever struck him late in the night, not after a nightmare. Not as an adult when he saw his friends die with their blood on his hands. 

“Life hasn’t been too kind to you, has she?” 

The gentle crying wasn’t enough anymore. Gaz shook his head into Price’s neck, still clutching desperately at Price’s shirt. He felt like a child, clinging to the first person who showed him genuine care and love without some twisted reason behind it. He curled inwards, leaning into Price unwillingly as raw cries filled the room. It wasn’t pretty. It was ugly, his throat hurting, his ribs, his leg, and almost everything else hurt, but especially his chest, his lungs. It was hard to breathe. He tried to breathe deep, but it kept catching in his throat, stuttering and making him panic, forcing hoarse noises out of his chest. 

Gaz was holding onto him like Price was a lifeline, clutching, and with a stutter of his heart, he realised he was the kids' lifeline. The thought just made him hug him back just a little bit tighter.

Price didn’t shush him. He just held the kid through it, just like that fateful night two weeks ago, holding him through the pain.

“You’re alright now, Gaz,” he reassured, his voice soft, “you’re alright. You’re with us, now. I‘ll never send you back there again, don’t you worry.”

Gaz has never been so thankful for him.

After a few minutes of Gaz’s troubled tears, he forced himself to pull away, wiping at his face harshly, hoping the gloves would soak up the salty tears. They didn’t. The scratchy material was pulling at his skin. Price let him compose himself, concern still etched into his featuresーbushy eyebrows drawn together and a slight frown hidden by his beard.

“’m fine, sorry, ‘m fine,” his apology comes out as choked up and rough. His hands were shaking too much. He feels his face burning, his lungs overworking themselves and pressing against his aching ribcage. He tried to breathe in deeply, like how he taught himself when he was a kid; when he cried so hard he couldn’t breathe when crying became his only option. This was raw, something he couldn’t force away, and it wasn’t going to stop. He thought he had exhausted all the tears when he found that little journal of his, but his body kept surprising him.

Price’s heavy hands were set on his shoulders, thumbs rubbing comforting circles into his collarbones. 

“What’re you doin’, wiping your tears?” Price rumbled, sounding genuinely confused.

“‘Causeー ‘cause this is pathetic,” I’m pathetic. Gaz stuttered out, his voice catching in his throat, his hands gesturing vaguely.

“If I started to cry in front of you, would you think I’m pathetic?” the man reasoned. 

Gaz saw what the other was getting at, but he was still stubbornly standing by his argument. “No, but that’sー that’s different, Price. You have reasons to cry. But me? ” his voice cracked embarrassingly. Gaz lowered his head, staring firmly at the ground, at their feet, “I’m crying because my mum said a few mean words.”

“It wasn’t just a few mean words, though, was it?”

No. It wasn’t. It wasn’t just a few mean words. It was torture for 11 years straight, and yet no one saw it, so it couldn’t have been that bad. Or maybe they did see, but he wasn’t important enough for them to care.

He shook his head slightly, his eyes blurry and his head was beginning to hurt behind his eyes. He was forever thankful that he wasn’t having an attack in front of his Captain, though.

“What else was it, Gaz?” Price asked quietly, voice matching the tone of the room. His mind flashed with images. His mum threw him into his bedroom, locking him inside. He remembered getting small splinters from where he banged on the door, pleading to anyone who would listenーhis father, his sisters, and his mother. Another moment that came to the forefront of his mind was his mother deciding that enough was enough and dragged him out of his bedroom, and kept him out, making him sleep on the sofa for weeks. The sofa back then had been a ragged old thing, the springs lose and digging into his back hard enough to leave bruises. He remembered the hollowness in his stomach that radiated through his entire body, sluggishness becoming the norm. He remembered Thursday, 14th of November , and wished he didn’t. 

“Gaz,” Price’s voice snapped him back to reality. Gaz sniffled, glancing up at Price’s eyes to test if he was ready enough, and then immediately decided nope, not ready enough. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m fine, seriously, I just needed a good cry is all. Everyone needs a good cry every once in a while, don’t they?” he tried to go for a humourful approach, but it fell flat.

Price’s hands didn’t move. Instead, they tightened slightly, letting Gaz know that Price wasn’t going to fall for it. Gaz rubbed his eyes again, breathing deep and slow, his dignity trying to come back, and failing as more tears kept leaving his eyes.

“Gaz. You’ll have to tell me what else she did to you.”

He thought about leaving. The thought became more and more pleasant as the silence stretched on, his hands shaking as he fought the effort to move them. The thought of letting Price know about everything hurt. He didn’t want to see the man he admired and adored see him any differently than he does now. He knew that if Price saw him as weak, or cowardly, it’d break him more than his mother ever did. He risked it and glanced up at the man. The pure care and empathy in his brown eyes made him double back on what he was thinking about.

Price wouldn’t view him any differently. 

He was going to tell him. 

“Starved me,” he said finally, not making eye contact again, keeping his gaze down as he cleared his throat, “locked me in my room for days, sometimes, too,” his voice quietened, taking Price’s silence as a bad sign. Price took in a deep breath, anger rushing through his veins.

“Sheー” Gaz started again, “I made herー I made her mad, back then, too,” he defended her. He didn’t know why. She made him miserable, and here he was, defending her.

“That’s no excuse for her to do that to you, Gaz. You know that, don’t you?” it was a rhetorical question, Gaz knew that, but he still had the urge to answer.

"I was prepared, but it still hurt ー" Gaz's voice cracked. He forced himself to stop speaking. He was about to continue, but Price broke through.

"She's your mum. She's meant to protect you, but instead, she's the one you needed protecting from." Price stated, his voice wavering. Gaz knew the man's anger wasn't pointed at him, and rather at his mother. 

He sighed, grip on Gaz’s shoulders tightening before he brought the younger into another hug. It was calmer, now that all the bottled-up emotions were let loose, and in the open air. Gaz reciprocated immediately, closing his arms around Price’s steady form, resuming their position from before. He didn’t think he had any more tears left to cry, but just as his body continued to shock him, a few more slipped out. He closed his eyes and hugged Price a little more tightly. Price tightened his hold in return, keeping the boy close.

One hand resting on the back of Gaz’s head, the other running up and down Gaz’s back slowly, Gaz felt his bones growing heavier and heavier.

“How much sleep did you get?” Price broke the silence just as Gaz’s mind grew quiet. Gaz shrugged.

“Don’t know. Few hours, at least,”

“And how many hours did you get when you were at the house?”

The question made Gaz think a bit. He shrugged again.

“On average?” a hum, “Mm.. don’t know, either. 5 hours every night?” He guessed vaguely, his mind still fuzzy and warm from the hug. Price hummed again, and he could feel how it rumbled in the man's chest. Price didn’t relinquish his hold until Gaz felt like he was about to fall asleep standing up.

“Bloody Hell, I’m tired,” Gaz complained, rubbing at his face as he pulled away from the hug. He shivered from the lack of warmth, and Price laughed.

“You can sleep in my bed for now, and then later, we’ll think about seeing the 141. Everyone’s been dying to see you again, you’d think you died,” Price joked. Gaz hummed a laugh. The older gestured to the closed room.

“In there you’ll find it, go on. I’ll wake you up in a few hours, how’s that sound?” Price offered gently. Some small part felt bad about stealing the man’s bed, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to use it any time soon. He nodded.

“G’night,” he said absentmindedly, opening the door. He left it open as he flicked on the light, listening to how Price settled back down on his chair to continue his work, listening to how the pen scratched against the paper.

He tiredly shoved the boots and gloves off, sleep drawing him to the comfy-looking bed. It looked far better than the ones in the barracks. Gaz practically flopped down onto the bed with a sigh, worn out from the day's events, melting into the blankets. He had just enough energy to shout out:

“How come you got the comfier bed?!”