Chapter Text
"Hey, mute, you gonna stare at In and Out all day or actually order something?" Gaz nudged Roach's shoulder, grinning as he tapped the menu glass with his knuckles. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the laminated pictures of burgers.
Roach rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the smile tugging at his lips beneath the tan fabric of his mask. His fingers moved in quick, fluid motions—*You're paying*, he signed, punctuating it with a sharp jab toward Gaz's chest.
Gaz clutched his heart dramatically, staggering back a step as an elderly woman shuffled past them with a tray. "Oi, that's assault," he hissed through laughter, ducking when Roach flicked a fry at him from the nearest abandoned table. The salt hit his eyebrow, and he wiped it off with exaggerated indignation.
The cashier cleared her throat pointedly, pen hovering over her notepad. Roach straightened immediately, shoulders hunching slightly—old habit—before rattling off his order via the Notes app on his phone. Gaz leaned over his shoulder, warm breath tickling Roach's neck as he added, "And double the pickles for this one, yeah? Freak likes 'em *spoiled*."
Behind them, the kitchen vent roared to life with a metallic clank, flooding the space with the greasy scent of frying oil and—distinctly—burnt onions. Roach's nose wrinkled, and Gaz caught the expression instantly, bumping their hips together as he muttered, "Relax, mate. Worst case, we nick some paracetamol from Price's stash later."
The cashier slid their tray across the counter with a thud, the paper-wrapped burgers already bleeding grease onto the waxed paper. Gaz grabbed it before Roach could react, holding it just out of reach with a smirk. "Say *please*," he teased, knowing full well Roach wouldn't—couldn't—bite.
Roach's eyes narrowed. Quick as a snake strike, he stomped on Gaz's boot, grinning behind his mask when the taller man yelped and nearly dropped the tray. His hands flashed, *Should've worn steel toes,* just as a glob of ketchup oozed from Gaz's burger and plopped onto his tactical pants.
Gaz groaned, staring at the stain. "You're buying me new trousers," he said, but the way his thumb rubbed circles against Roach's wrist as they walked to their booth betrayed the irritation. The vinyl seat cracked under their weight, sticky with decades of spilled soda.
Roach peeled back the wrapper of his burger—extra pickles, just like Gaz had said—and inhaled the sharp vinegar tang. His stomach growled, loud enough that Gaz snorted and kicked him under the table. Roach flipped him off with one hand while shoving a fry into his mouth with the other, the salt sharp on his tongue.
Outside the window, rain began to patter against the asphalt, blurring the neon sign of a pawn shop across the street. Gaz nudged Roach's ankle with his boot, nodding toward a couple arguing by the dumpsters. "*That*'s our entertainment," he murmured, tearing into his burger with exaggerated relish. Roach watched the man gesture wildly, his voice muffled through the glass—*probably about money*, he thought, before Gaz flicked a crumb at his mask to reclaim his attention.
The warmth of Gaz's knee pressing against his own under the table was a quiet counterpoint to the storm brewing outside. Roach caught himself staring at the way Gaz's fingers curled around his soda cup, the scarred knuckles from years of close-quarters drills still faintly visible beneath the diner's harsh light. He signed *slow down* when Gaz nearly choked laughing at the couple's escalating drama, but the bastard just winked and stole a pickle from Roach's tray with his teeth.
A clap of thunder rattled the windows, and Roach felt Gaz's leg tense momentarily against his—old instincts die hard. The couple outside scattered as the rain turned torrential, leaving behind a half-crushed cigarette and the echo of their shouting. Gaz exhaled through his nose, bumping their shoulders together. "*Bet you twenty quid Ghost texts Price within the hour about 'operational weather concerns,'*" he whispered, fingers brushing Roach's wrist to mimic a phone vibrating.
Roach snorted, signing *you're on* before stealing Gaz's last onion ring. The storm drowned out the diner's tinny radio, but neither of them noticed, too busy trading silent jokes across the sticky tabletop. Gaz's laugh was low and warm when Roach mimicked Price's infamous scowl, the ketchup smudge on his pants forgotten as rain streaked the glass beside them like war paint.
Home wasn't the base's stiff bunks or the safe houses with their sterilized silence. It was this—Gaz's thigh pressed firm against his under the table, the sour tang of pickles mixing with the metallic bite of the storm, the way his hands stilled mid-sign when lightning lit up the scarred curve of Gaz's jaw. Roach caught himself staring again, fingers twitching with the urge to trace the familiar terrain of his boyfriend's knuckles.
Gaz's phone buzzed against the Formica, the screen flashing *CAPTAIN* in all caps. Roach didn't need to hear the message to know Ghost had, in fact, panicked about the weather—Gaz's triumphant smirk said it all. He pocketed the phone without reading it, instead nudging Roach's boot with his own. "*Told you,*" he mouthed, licking salt off his thumb. "*Pay up, mute.*"
Outside, the downpour softened to a drizzle, leaving the neon pawn shop sign outside sputtering in the puddles. Roach flipped a soggy fry at Gaz's forehead—his version of *in your dreams*—but let their fingers tangle together under the table when Gaz reached for him. The cashier glared at their lingering presence, but neither soldier moved. Not yet. Not when the rain still smelled like the cheap shampoo Gaz stole from Soap's locker, not when Roach's mask hid the grin he couldn't stop.
Gaz's phone buzzed again—Laswell this time—but he silenced it with a flick of his thumb, eyes never leaving Roach's. "D'you remember that safe house in Kyiv?" he murmured, tracing idle circles on Roach's palm. "The one with the piss-stained mattress and the—" Roach's hands cut him off mid-sentence, signing *moldy bread* with a shudder Gaz felt more than saw. They'd spent three days there waiting for extraction, Gaz's jokes getting progressively worse as the ceiling leaked onto their only intel folder.
A truck roared past outside, sending a spray of water against the diner's window. Roach startled—just slightly—but Gaz's grip tightened instantly, his thumb pressing into the pulse point of Roach's wrist. No words. Just the quiet understanding of someone who knew what gunfire sounded like in the dark. The vinyl seat groaned as Gaz shifted closer, close enough that Roach could count the rain droplets clinging to his hair.
"Home," Gaz whispered against his temple, like it was a secret. Like it wasn't already written in the way Roach's shoulders relaxed when Gaz hummed off-key, or how Gaz's laugh always came easier when Roach's fingers were laced through his. The couple outside had vanished, the storm had stolen their argument, and for once, the only mission was finishing their fries before they got cold.