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There hasn't been a word between them since their violent confrontation an hour ago.
Graves doesn't feel he has the right to speak, nor that it's his best option, after everything that happened—everything he did—but they'll make him talk in due time. God knows Price won't hold back in torturing the words out of him, getting every last bit of information and intel and then some just for personal payback.
Graves swallows around the thickness of his tongue.
'Fuck,' he thinks, not for the first time, as he clasps his hands tight enough to ache. The handcuffs encircling his wrists clink with the movement.
Anger, guilt, and shame sit heavy in Graves's stomach, adding to the suffocating sensation permeating the air and his chest. It has him doubling over in the wooden chair next to Soap's hospital bed, forearms resting against his thighs, eyes forcefully trained on the plain white pattern of the floor tiles.
Soap hasn't spoken to him—only directing his words to the task force members. He thanked Price and Ghost when they not-so-gently dragged Graves to Soap's room, the shackles on Graves's legs preventing him from properly walking, much less making an escape. Soap had argued against letting either Ghost or Price stay in the room with them, saying he could handle himself in case Graves tried anything.
Price had eyed the freshly dressed gunshot wound on Soap's shoulder for a second, then at Graves's miserable form splayed out from being thrown into the only chair in the room before finally conceding and walking out with a huff.
"We'll be outside. Just call," Ghost had offered before following Price into the hallway.
Then, nothing. There was no explanation as to why Soap had requested Graves's presence, no bashing words, no semblance of Soap wanting to take revenge. Simply soul-breaking silence between them and the quiet sounds of Soap resuming eating the meal he'd been apparently interrupted from.
So, Graves keeps his head down, counting the tiles on the floor over and over to keep the suffocating feeling at bay. Tries not to lose count with the small sounds of Soap's fork scraping against his plate, the soft chewing, the satisfied hums and sighs after a sip of liquid to wash it all down.
The tangy aroma of citrus catches his attention, making Graves stop with the number eight fading to the back of his mind. He peeks through the corner of his eye, noticing the food tray having been placed to the side and Soap's hands making work of peeling an orange.
Soap's careful with it as his thumb sits between the rind and the fruit, gently lifting up and separating the skin without breaking. Graves lifts his head a bit more, getting a better look at how Soap's hands flex, how the tendons move oh so slightly with every swipe of his thumb. How the grip with his other hand tightens and loosens as he maneuvers the orange in it.
It's graceful in a way. Graceful how Soap handles and wields a knife; practiced, done with confidence. Just more mundane and domestic.
Tender.
Friendly.
The memory of them sitting next to each other at midnight three nights ago nudges at Graves.
He hadn't been able to sleep, stressed beyond belief, wondering how he was going to fix the fucking mess he'd gotten himself into. Especially after having to let the target they had been after this whole time go. He'd taken a walk around Los Vaqueros's base, hoping it would calm the oppressive feelings enough to get at least a few hours of sleep. And there he'd found Soap, sitting on a patch of grass, arms resting on drawn-up knees as he gazed up at the night sky.
"Still awake?" Graves had commented as he sat beside him, being mindful not to sit on the jacket placed on the ground beside Soap.
"Yeah," Soap had murmured. "Still can't believe we had to let him run free."
"Tell me about it."
Soap had shaken his head, a sigh followed.
Graves had nodded, lips pursed; he understood that the stress simply needed to be acknowledged but not discussed further. At least, not at the moment.
He'd clasped his left hand on top of Soap's shoulder and given it a firm squeeze.
"We'll sort this mess out," he'd said. If he was honest, it had been more to soothe his own conscience than to provide ease for Soap. But they'd both needed the reassurance.
"Och, we will," Soap had replied, a small but determined smirk lighting up his features. He'd removed his right arm from where it had been resting on his knee and stretched it over to Graves, unfurling the loose fist of his hand to reveal a peeled clementine in the center of it.
"Here."
Graves had stared at it for a second, a lightness lifting his chest. His eyes shifted back curiously to Soap's, crinkled in a kind smile as he'd leaned closer, gesturing for Graves to grab the fruit.
"Take it," Soap had gently insisted again with a jut to his chin.
And when Graves did, Soap's smile had spread into a charming, pleased grin.
'Bit of a soft heart on you,' Graves had thought as he said his thanks.
He'd thrown the entire clementine into his mouth, not even bothering with splitting the thing into sections, and almost choked as the fruit exploded after biting down. The juice had been sweet, although displeasingly warm—probably from Soap holding it in his hand for so long.
"Good?"
"Yeah," Graves had responded honestly through a mouthful before swallowing. "Y'got any more?"
"Took a whole armful from the canteen."
Graves had chuckled and shaken his head as Soap lifted his jacket from the grass to reveal what definitely constituted an armful of clementines. Graves had reached over and taken one, quickly making work of peeling it and dividing it in half.
He'd handed over the piece with an extra slice to Soap, who grabbed it with an amused snort.
"I give you the entire thing, and you only give me half?"
"Yes, how selfish of me to give you the bigger piece when I could've given you nothing."
And maybe it had been the light and effortless way they teased, Soap's easygoing eyes glinting as he playfully punched at Graves's shoulder, but breathing felt a little easier for the first time in weeks that night. Just the two of them, alone, sharing stories and slices of clementines, like sharing small pieces of their hearts.
The strong scent of citrus right under his nose makes Graves start, and he guesses he must have lost focus because Soap's hand is now outstretched toward him. Half an orange presented in the middle of his palm.
Graves snaps his head up, looking directly at Soap for the first time in ages. There's no trace of Soap's warm smile like there had been that night, and the sinking feeling of disappointment drags his body deeper into his chair. But, blessedly, there's no anger or resentment directed his way, either. Just Soap's face at rest, tired eyes staring back at Graves's own. They're a little imploring, and, as always, unwittingly kind.
He looks back down at the orange still being held in front of him, fingers twitching in his lap. There's no need for Soap to break bread with the enemy, yet here he is, sharing what should be his to have alone.
Graves picks up the half-orange between his finger pads and feels a wry smile try to tug at the corners of his lips, one he holds back by biting the inside of his cheek. He wishes he could wear this, keep it on himself like a bracelet or his tags. Treasure it like he does his most-priced possessions. Instead, he brings it up to his mouth, handcuffs clanking, and carefully bites off a single section of the orange.
The flavor bursts on his tongue, and tingles in his stomach as he swallows. The heavy emotions of shame and anger still sit inside him, but are somewhat alleviated by this olive branch's tangy taste. It's not sweet, not like the clementines; it's definitely more on the sour side, but the warmth of Soap's hands is still there. Graves doesn't find it so displeasing this time around.
He licks his lips as he glances at Soap's bandaged shoulder.
'Bleeding heart.' The words cross Graves's mind, mouth twisting at the thought of Soap adding unneeded strain to his injury—the very one Graves put there—so they could share a damn orange. The tiny, hopeful and naive part of him wonders if the reason Soap had called for Price and Ghost to drag Graves in here was just for this stupidly simple thing.
Strategically, he knows that's not the case; it's most likely a ploy to try and get him to spill before they have to resort to more violent means. Graves knows Soap still has to be furious at him (what sane man wouldn't?) and knows there will be consequences to follow for his betrayal of the task force. He's not an idiot, but he's gotta admit, it's an interesting angle to try and get him to soften up—if it is one.
"This is fucking sour," Soap's dejected voice finally breaks through their stifling silence.
Graves turns his head towards Soap, eyes meeting genuine seriousness and disappointment reflected on Soap's own. Neither breaks the contact, and there's quiet for a second. Then two. Then puffs of laughter slowly start to fill the air.
The first words said between them after trying to end each other's lives, and it's about a fucking orange. Graves shakes his head as he laughs, chest just a bit lighter with every chuckle shared between them.
Their eyes meet for a second time, mirth dancing in them at the slight absurdity of it all before they remember themselves, and their grins slowly slip into bittersweet smiles. Ones that speak softly, 'I'm sorry it had to end like this.' They look away.
This could be a covert interrogation technique. Perhaps it's merely Soap wanting to share something with Graves before he's locked back up in his cell, the actual interrogation awaiting him. Whatever it may be, Graves sanguinely chooses to believe the latter and lets himself have this small moment with an old friend in the liminal space of a hospital room.
So, he eats his sour orange section by section, slowly chewing and swallowing in silence with Soap. Tasting the same thing at the same moment. Just like before.