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"You’re next."
The words are not threatening, or ominous, or evil.
They’re simply facts.
Fear leans his head against the wall and sighs through his nose, staring at nothing, thinking nothing, feeling nothing. Joy— Boss, he mentally corrects, recalling her insistence weeks ago, about how there is no longer any “joy” left in her (it seems like a distant memory, though it occurred so recently after their reunion)— sits next to him, doesn’t face him. He can see her out of his peripheral vision, clear as day, and he smirks triumphantly in his mind because he’s bested the doctors from twenty-two years ago that said he might go blind by age thirty-five.
Still 20/20, motherfuckers. Still got it. (His joints ache but he doesn’t reach for his painkillers.)
They sit in silence for what feels like another seventeen years. Boss breaks the silence with her calm, even tone, strong and commanding even when she isn’t trying.
"How do you feel?" They both tell themselves she’s asking out of purely professional interest.
Fear shrugs. Casual as ever. (Boss remembers when he didn’t have to make an effort to not care.)
"Fine. Frankly, I’m still shocked I didn’t blow myself up twenty years ago." A snort. It’s almost as if Fear isn’t about to die. He grins and turns his head to Boss, who still doesn’t face him. "I can still do a backflip, you know. I tried yesterday. Wanna see?"
In his mind’s eye, Joy, not Boss, Joy laughs, and shakes her head, maybe she sighs. She says something like, “Oh Fear, what am I going to do with you?” or “I’ve seen you do enough weird stunts to trust your word on that.”
That is not what happens. Boss, not Joy, Boss' lips remain a straight line, and she says, “We don't need your joints in even more ruin than they undoubtedly already are.”
Fear’s smile fades. She’s right (like always) but he’s always hated reality.
At least she’s facing him now.
"Do you have your pills?"
"Yep." He shakes the little container. "Thank God for Tylenol, right?"
No reply. Just a curt nod.
She’s not going to say anything else. They’ve both checked, double-checked, triple-checked. His William Tell is strapped securely to his back, his Little Joe lying on some table gathering dust. This isn’t a stealth mission, he doesn’t need it. He knows it was for “just in case”, but Fear likes to think that Boss brought it to make him feel more comfortable, or some bullshit. More at home. (As if he wouldn’t feel at home with his unit.)
Gloved fingers curl around two loops in his pocket: one of chain, one of wood. He releases the chain and draws out the wood. Prayer beads. A rosary. Forty years old, and worthless now— he’s not Catholic anymore, but no less religious, and Fear has always been an oddly sentimental man.
"Do you pray, Boss?" The question tumbles out like the sudden rains of the damp forests of his youth. Still thinking nothing, it seems. (He tries to regret it, but he can’t bring himself to. Regrets are stupid at this point, anyway.)
He slowly realizes that the question is rhetorical, and that he’s not expecting an answer. It catches Boss off guard, anyway, and though she remains silent, she once again gives Fear her full attention.
Fear does not return the favor. His eyes are transfixed on the beads. She’s not sure what he’s thinking. He’s not, either.
His lips press to the crucifix, but it feels less like a kiss and more like savoring its warmth. “Stupid question,” he murmurs against the cross, “I know you don’t. But today, at least… today, pray for the wicked. They’re the ones that need it most, and no one ever prays for them.”
A pregnant pause. For a long time, the only thing Boss can think about is how, twenty years ago, Fear would have laughed at this. He would have scoffed at the old man clutching his religious beads and begging for prayers and acting so melancholy.
"Oh, come th’fuck on!" Words from yesterday ring throughout her mind. "Why ya gotta be so damn sad ‘n shit? You’re ‘bout ta’ fight someone! Get excited! Get movin’! We ain’t got all day!”
Sometimes, it’s not war that changes people, but the lack of it.
For the first time in twenty-two long years, Boss understands Fear.
"Okay."
That’s it. Just “okay”.
That’s all he needs.
Fear turns to meet Boss’ eyes for the last time, and for the first time in twenty-two long years, he sees the understanding in her eyes. He smiles, sincere and content.
"Thank you."
As if scripted, as if this entire situation was just one giant movie, Boss’ radio picks up static. Lots of static. They both turn to it as if it’s about to convey the secrets of the universe. It’s not. No, the message is far more important than that.
Fear hears buzzing first. Then, a voice— Pain’s voice, and it doesn’t register that this is the last time he’ll hear it, through all the murky interferences.
A split second before the line goes dead, there’s a boom.
An explosion.
The microbomb, patiently waiting for its time to shine since 1942.
They mourn in silence for all but a minute. There’s no time. There’s never any time.
Fear rises when Boss does, and they do not say a word. They both know what they must do. (Words mean little now, anyway.)