Work Text:
“Can I sit here? The other tables are full,” Out of all the background noise that consists of cluttering utensils and busy chatter, a voice peels Mute’s eyes away from his phone.
“No.” That’s the whole point of sitting alone. Mute wants nothing more than a mealtime all by himself and his Lumosity games, and that’s why he deliberately chose a corner table that’s big enough for a person but quite tight for two. Besides, he has been actively avoiding the man for other excuses that are entirely too bothersome to even contemplate on.
“Naw, don’t be shy. You looked darned lonely and miserable there, mate.”
Mute slides his tray in the middle of the table to prevent the untimely intrusion, “Porter, really. Why don’t you go and look for your other mates?”
“I could, but it’s much better to accompany a mate in need,” Smoke winks as he places his tray on top of Mute’s, “And drop the formality! You know my name, Marky-poo.” There isn’t much that Mute can do when Smoke squeezes himself on a bench that barely fits the two of them.
“Kill me now.” Thus this is why Mute didn’t want to interact with Smoke. For a guy in his mid-thirties, James Porter has no shame in popping into other people’s personal bubbles. His first impression of Smoke was a chav who spews crude jokes, hardly has any dignity in his body language and is generally unruly at times.
Despite those negatives, people seem to adore him and Mute eventually came to agree admit there’s a certain charm in that man. He secretly admired the ingenuity that’s somewhere between insanity and wit, and most of all the confidence in any kinds of situations. Perhaps more than admiration at this point as Mute began to notice the change of mood within him. It happened whenever Smoke whipped an arm around his shoulder or any other friendly skin-to-skin contacts, to which made Mute wonder if he’s simply craving intimate touches.
“Need a hand there?” Sledge comes by to swoop Mute off from his seat. Yup, Mute is far from being touch-craved because having Sledge’s arms wrapped around him doesn’t stir a thing in his heart.
“There goes with the name again! You guys are too slack.” Mute pushes himself off and sees Thatcher approaching. Surely the eldest would set a good example to straighten out this overtly casual dynamics.
“Lay it off, Chandar. It doesn’t hurt to be friendly here.” Thatcher stares at Mute’s gawked jaw.
“Words of wisdom, Maggie.”
“That, I don’t approve of. I’ll see you all later in the briefing room. 1800, sharp.” Thatcher walks off and Sledge tails behind him, which leaves Mute with Smoke who’s grinning from ear to ear.
“You heard the man,” Smoke nudges on Mute, “But hey, don’t bother if you don’t want to. It’s not like you have to impress Mike.”
“Nor you for that matter.” Mute finishes the last piece of omelette from his tray. As he readies to pack away, there’s a tug in the back of his head; a small curiosity. What’s the harm in calling Smoke by his name? Yes, the SAS operators are renowned for their professionalism and yet the chummy attitude doesn't seem to taint their reputation. So he can give it a try if it’ll help him to feel more assimilated.
“Cold, Marky. Ice cold.” Smoke shrugs as he takes the seat after Mute and begins to eat his share.
“Good to see that you know. See you later, James.”
“Oh-” Smoke misses a cherry tomato that he was about to poke, “You’ve said it!”
“Don’t expect it to happen again.” Mute jogs out in haste. Certainly because of the way Smoke beams up or how adorably dumb he looked while doing double take that made him sloppy. All of that has an effect on Mute who refuses to let a silly grin spread; it’s a visual conflict on his facial muscles. Some say that he looks constipated and that’s how Mute spends the entire day hiding his mouth by looking down on his phone.
It’s been a week since their last encounter. Smoke never fail to remind Mute of the day when they began to call each other by their first name. A historic moment, he calls it. The throbs in his has heart subdued; in fact, he has been feeling much more at ease despite worrying about changes in the nature of their relationship. He also began to call the other members by their name, to which Thatcher thanked Mute for saying ‘Mike’ instead of ‘Maggie’ or ‘Mikey.’
The day is nothing out of the ordinary. Mute has decided to hone his skills at the shooting range and he ensured to be alone by checking other people’s schedules. This residential loner even asked Dokkaebi to ‘tweak’ the booking system, but he’s unsure whether she did as he bid.
“Hey look! An empty space right next to yours.” Looks like Dokkaebi wanted to flick a big massive middle finger at Mute by also allowing Smoke to come by.
Mute nearly misses his target when a familiar voice breaks his concentration, “The whole range is empty, if you can see.”
“Naw. Your spot is the least windy.” Of all the places in the shooting range, Mute stands right in the middle where it’s quite open. No obstacles to block the oncoming draft. The bullets they shoot will have the most air resistance that may change its course.
“Suit yourself.” Mute glances at Smoke’s choice of practice. An M590A1, the shotgun model that’s communally shared between them.
“Why aren’t you practising inside?” Smoke asks as he loads in the shells.
Mute stays quiet to keep himself steady. He tilts towards where the wind is blowing, holds his breath and centres the trigger, but only a few shots scatters close to the 10-point mark. “Figured I need some revision in outdoors. Being in the defending team made my aiming somewhat dull.”
“Diligent, aren’t you.” Smoke shoots as well and lands a perfect blow.
“Some say that I’m smart or a genius, but that’s nothing without a hard and solid effort.” Hearing the word that praises his work ethics elevates Mute rather than empty compliments that’s directed towards his brain. He shoots again and more shots pierce through the paper. It's far from being satisfactory.
“While I agree with you, there’s a certain talent that helps you to do better in the system,” Smoke lands another bullseyes, “And being lucky counts as well. I thank my parents for dealing with a devil's spawn.”
“That’s you?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t do shite in school because all they did was blah blah blah. I do remember my principal’s nose hair and how many of them stuck out. It would have been a blast to pull on them when he snored in his office.” Smoke collect empty shells before he loses them.
“Would've been? I bet you've done it already.” Mute doubts that Smoke only observed.
“Well, I left before someone stuck a sticky pencil in his nostril, so my alibi- I mean, I’m innocent.” The older man stuttered almost too dramatically. His wink explains the credibility of that story.
“Right.” Mute let out a soft laughter through his nose and tries again. Another incomplete shot towards the centre. He clicks his tongue in disappointment. Mute perseveres by unleashing more than a dozen shells and every one of them are either 9 or a solid 9.5. Frustration grows and there's a tension in his jaw. This is embarrassing, especially around Smoke who has been watching him quite intently. Having the guy’s attention could've been flattering if Mute wasn't so incompetent.
“Mark,” Smoke puts aside a container that has all of Mute’s empty shells. Mute didn’t even realise that the guy has been picking them up for him, “I think you could use a little help, mate.”
“No thank you,” And don’t call me a ‘mate,’ “I just need to practise a little more.”
“I helped Mike’s lot when we teamed up back in Hong Kong,” Smoke shuffles along to stand beside Mute, “Try me out.”
“That sounds dodgy.”
Smoke let out a low chuckle at such a remark, “I guess you hear what you want to hear, eh?”
“Shut it!” Mute rolls his shoulders as if that can shake off the spreading heat on his neck.
“But I’m being serious. Looks like you are determined to stay here all day and it would be a shame to miss out on McKinley’s fried chickens.”
“Oh. Is it his turn today?” Mute hates how his mouth waters.
“A bonafide flirty Colonel Sanders,” Smoke grins, “Come on. Don’t do yourself a disservice! Aren’t we working and earning money to eat and live well? And it’s part of our duty to live a regular routine. Mealtime is a requirement.”
Those are somewhat true if he disregards the lack of eloquence, “Alright. Show me what you can do.”
“Good! Now relax your body.” Smoke wraps his arms around Mute from behind.
“What are you doing?” Mute stiffens awkwardly.
“Fuck, is this how you relax? Calm down.” Smoke chides as he shakes to loosen the tension. He explains his teaching method, the process of identifying where Mute’s line of sight lays, knowing when to counter the draft rather than leaning towards the opposite direction at all times. Mute hears and takes mental notes, but it’s difficult to focus when his thoughts waver. How on earth is Smoke fragrant without the help of deodorant or body wash?
Smoke guides by adjusting Mute’s form and stance; thus Mute punctures the target in the stark middle. “That really worked.” An incredulous gasp from Mute induces another shoulder-hug from Smoke.
“I told you!” Now do some more and we can sink our teeth into the American diabetes.” The idea of holding a scrumptious drumstick coated in golden buttermilk sounds divine. But there’s a temptation that persuades Mute to explore the other heaven that he’s discovered a few minutes ago.
“I’m still unsure about it,” Mute lowers his gaze and taps his fingertip on the forestock, “Maybe I need some more help.”
Smoke cocks an eyebrow, “What? I doubt that.” But he gives in when Mute insists by saying that it’s the woe of being a perfectionist . They stay a few more minutes, some moments of preciousness as Mute enjoys the other man’s gentle touches. He finds it adorable to notice that Smoke stands on tippy toes to match their height while fixing his posture from behind. It’s almost a guilty pleasure to hold Smoke back in the shooting range for selfish reasons, but seeing those radiant smiles convinces Mute to think otherwise. He has every right to believe that they’re enjoying each other’s company.
Not every hostile encounter ends in victory. Mute won’t deny that he felt more than relieved to see Smoke’s name under the survivor’s list, but his heart sinks at the sheer number of deaths counter for their recruits. Those poor souls were somebody’s child, parents, friends and lovers. Mute strived tirelessly the entire week to recover their bodies and help out in the necessary paperwork along with Doc and the other SAS members. At the near end of the workload, he is the first one to realise that Smoke has vanished.
“Where did he go?” Sledge asks back at Mute who raised the concern.
“Don’t worry about it. He does that when the stress is too much,” Thatcher chews on his cigarette, “But we do need to check up on him. Try backyard by the garage, will you?” He taps on Mute before resuming on the last bit of paper to sign. Mute obliges and walks out of the office, then sprints as soon as the other two can’t see or hear him. The sheer thought of seeing their residential joker depressed is beyond heart wrenching, and yet Mute isn’t sure on what to say if he finds Smoke in such state. As he enters the garage and opens the back door, there’s Smoke leaning against a brick wall with his head held up to stare at the stars in vacant pensiveness. Mute is thankful at the fact that Smoke hasn’t seen him yet, so he combs down the windswept hair and busily thinks of something better to say.
“What a- What a beautiful spot to take a break at,” Mute approaches and locks his eyes with the other man’s wistful gaze, “Can I join you? It’s too busy back in the office.”
“Sure.” Smoke moves along to give Mute the spot on a wall that’s been warmed up by him. Mute takes the invitation and scoots to fit in.
“How are you?” Mute wishes to be more savvy in conversing, or comforting for that matter.
“Feeling like shite,” Smoke doesn’t mince around, “Too many died. I guess it’s not too bad since we killed just as many or even more.”
“Well, human lives can’t be quantified unless you are in the military,” Mute wonders if he should cut down on being brutally honest, “But we’ve saved a lot of lives. Of those who can’t fight against the terrorists.”
“You know it,” Smoke let out a soft chuckle, “Although I still feel shite.”
Mute calms down the urge to offer a solution. He could suggest alcohol, other distractions like choices of music that Smoke loves, or even therapy as it could be the most sensible choice. However, he chooses to be someone to lean on despite feeling unconfident in being a good listener, “Wanna talk about it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it’s about time to talk about it,” Smoke turns to face the younger man to assert his full attention, “You see, I feel like a scumbag because I felt happy.”
“That sounds... normal so far.” Mute hesitates as he searches for the meaning behind those words.
“Fuck being normal. I felt happy because you didn’t die while they did. Kinda feels filthy to think the dead as meat shields so you could survive.” While Smoke’s confession is a lot to take in, there’s a part of Mute that empathises. This may as well be the riskiest move of all, but Mute breathes in to have his say.
“Yeah that’s messed up,” It hurts to see Smoke falter even just a brief moment, “But that’s what I thought as well.”
“You don’t have to lie for me.” Smoke scoffs and about to turn away from Mute. Their conversation would have ended there if Mute didn’t reach out to hold those hands that are equally calloused as his own.
“I don’t spew bullshit and you know that,” There’s a scorching sensation that spreads from their hands, which travels up to his ears, “It’s natural to pray for a loved one’s safety.”
“A loved one-” Smoke repeats after Mute and stares back with eyes wide open.
“Well, not loved one, per say. More like those who are important. Friendship is a form of love and-” Mute’s blabber is quickly shut down by a sudden whoosh of lips brushing against his own.
“Mate, we both know there’s nothing friendly about two grown men holding hands.” Smoke parts themselves to give a room to talk.
“I never liked the way you called me a mate.” Mute laughs nervously. This rapid advancement of their dynamic feels appropriate with the build ups they shared from their past encounters, but they were talking about the tragedy that struck their team and he doesn’t want to ignore the elephant in the room just yet, “So what I’m saying was that, uh, I don’t think it’s bad to feel glad. But we need to think about the next plan to have the least amount of casualties.”
“Gods, that’s one way to feel less like a selfish prick,” Smoke pulls in for a hug. Not from the back; but heart to heart this time, allowing their necks to rub against and palms stroking on each other’s backs, “But I think we should grieve and promise them to live our best.”
Mute nods and blinks to dissipate the warmth in his eyes, “You’re absolutely right.”