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Sarge starts slipping in the middle of the afternoon. He had been going downhill for the past year. Old age.
One minute he’s just sleeping under the bunk, the way he always does now, ribs rising a little too slow, paws twitching at something only he can see. The next, he’s struggling just to stand when Simon calls his name.
“C’mon, Sarge. Up you get.”
The old dog braces, claws scraping on concrete, shoulders shaking with the effort. He gets halfway to his feet before his back end gives out, dropping him onto his hip with a soft, broken sound. It’s that sound that makes Simon’s chest go tight.
“Alright-"” he murmurs, dropping to one knee beside him. “Alright, easy. I’ve got you.”
Sarge’s eyes blink up at him, cloudier than they used to be, but still that same steady brown. The dog huffs, tongue peeking out, tail giving the tiniest thump against the floor like he’s apologizing for being old.
Simon rubs a hand over his head, fingers threading through greying fur. “Nothin’ to be sorry for, Sarge. You did your time.”
He gets Price on the radio, gets the medics to come down again. They’ve already been through this conversation. No vet on base. No proper kit for animals. They can give pain meds, fluids. Make things comfortable. Draw it out just a bit longer.
“Sorry, sir-" one of the medics says quietly, after listening to Sarge’s chest. “His heart’s… it’s just age. We can up the dose, keep him comfortable. But it won’t change the outcome.”
Simon nods once, jaw locked behind the mask. “Do it.”
They do, careful and efficient, avoiding his eyes. They always do that, glance at the skull balaclava once and then look anywhere else. He doesn’t care.
When they leave, Price lingers in the doorway.
“Anything else we can get you, son?" Price asks. His voice is low, gentle in that way he saves for when his people are falling apart.
Simon shakes his head. “No, sir.”
Price hesitates like he wants to cross the room, put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, say something meaningful. In the end he just nods toward Sarge.
“He’s had a good run.” he says. It’s stiff and awkward, but his eyes are soft. “You call me if you need anything, got it? Anything."
“Will do.”
Gaz and Laswell drift in at different times during the day. Gaz brings some extra blankets, Laswell brings real coffee, not the instant base sludge. Someone strings up cheap, thin tinsel on the little artificial Christmas tree in the corner when Simon isn’t looking, like that’ll make his bunker less empty.
They’re all tiptoeing. Soft voiced, careful footed. Like the whole damn base is afraid to knock something loose in him.
He doesn’t blame them.
A year ago, Johnny was taken away from him. Just like that. One second Soap was there, loud, bright, infuriating, and the next he wasn’t. The world ended, and then, worse, it kept going.
Simon took down the photos the next day. They’d never had many. Just a few prints, taped up with cheap white tape along the concrete wall above the nightstand. Johnny grinning with black camo paint smeared across his cheeks. Johnny in civvies, squinting at the sun. Johnny, arm slung around Simon’s shoulders, forcing their heads together so close that Ghost’s mask had ridden up and you could see bare jaw under it. Sarge in the middle of the frame, tongue out, confused but delighted to be there.
Simon had ripped them down with shaking hands. It was either that or put his fist through the wall, or worse. Photos were easier to tear.
Now the wall is bare. Has been for a year. Just grey concrete and a faint outline where the tape pulled off thin flakes of paint. Sarge was the one thing he couldn’t box up or burn. They hadn’t wanted a dog, either of them. Not really. Too much responsibility for two men who might get sent halfway across the world on a day’s notice.
“Well, yer not always halfway across the bloody world." Johnny had said, hands on his hips, eyes flashing. “And I’ve seen ye when ye get back, Si. Ye need a wee buddy.”
“Don’t-" Simon had said flatly, knowing exactly where that tone and that look were headed.
Johnny had ignored him, of course. Showed up two weeks later with an awkward, half grown German Shepherd cradled in his arms, all ears and paws and terrified eyes.
“Look at 'im-" Johnny had said. “He’s perfect.”
“He’s a menace.” Simon had replied. “He’ll chew the place to pieces.”
“Only if yer a bad dad.”
In the end, what broke him wasn’t Johnny’s relentless nagging, or Sarge’s whining, or the way both of them ganged up on him like a storm. It was the night Simon came back from a particularly ugly op, head still full of screams and gunfire and the smell of burning oil. The door had barely shut behind him when Sarge barrelled into his knees, paws skidding, tail whipping like it would wag itself right off. Johnny had been right behind him, wearing Simon’s old hoodie and a smile so gentle it hurt to look at.
“Welcome home, love!” Johnny had said, voice soft. He stepped up to Simon, wrapping both of his arms around him, hugging him tightly. “We saved ye some leftovers. Sarge's been losin’ his mind without ye. I have too." Johnny had teased as he took a step back.
That was the night Simon had sat on the floor with Sarge’s head in his lap and realized the roaring in his skull had quieted for the first time in days. Maybe weeks. Now Sarge is old. Muzzle gone white. Hips shot. Vision dim. The medic said dogs don’t really understand time the way humans do. Simon thinks Sarge understands enough. Enough to know something important is missing. Enough to feel the hollow where Johnny should be.
He spends the rest of the afternoon making the bunker as comfortable as he can. He drags the spare mattress off the top bunk and throws it on the floor beside the little fake tree, so he can lie down with Sarge without his joints locking up. He pulls Johnny’s old blanket out of the footlocker, blue plaid, frayed at the edges from too many washes, and spreads it under the tree like a makeshift nest.
He hesitates a second before putting it down. It still smells faintly like Soap. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe it just smells like old detergent and dust and a life that’s gone.
Sarge noses at it when Simon coaxes him over, stiff legs shaking. The dog circles twice, then collapses with a soft grunt right in the middle of the blanket. He lets out a long sigh, head resting on his paws, eyes slipping mostly shut.
“Yeah-" Simon whispers, sitting down beside him. The lights on the plastic tree blink half heartedly, one of the bulbs already burnt out. “Good choice.”
He makes sure there’s water within reach. Soft food in a bowl, not that Sarge seems particularly interested. He draws up the meds in a syringe and gives them, ignoring the way his own hands shake around the plunger. He tracks the time on his watch, notes breathing rate, heart rate, the slow creep of it all winding down.
The bunker is quiet. Too quiet.
He gets up once, just to move, to keep from unraveling. His shoulder bumps the cheap metal nightstand as he goes, sending a stack of old dog eared paperbacks sliding sideways. Something slips and skitters across the floor with a soft crackle.
Simon looks down. There, half under the nightstand, is the corner of a photo. For a second, his lungs forget how to work. He stares at it like it might explode if he moves too fast. His hand feels clumsy and too big as he reaches down, fingers shaking just a little as he pinches the edge and pulls it out into the light.
It’s the picture from that first day.
Johnny is in the middle, of course, because Johnny always had to be in the middle of everything. He’s got one arm around Simon’s shoulders, dragging him in, the other hand holding Sarge’s collar to keep the squirming dog from bolting out of frame. Johnny’s grin is so big it looks like it hurts. There’s mud on his cheek. His hair’s a mess. He’s the most alive thing Simon has ever seen.
Simon himself is half turned, caught in the act of protesting, mouth open like he’s mid sentence. He remembers exactly what he’d been saying.
“Johnny, we’re not keeping-”
Click.
Sarge is a blur of fur and paws between them, ears too big for his head, eyes wide. On his collar is a scrap of duct tape with “SARGE” scrawled on it in marker, Soap’s handwriting barely legible.
Simon’s throat closes. His hand tightens on the photo until the edges bend. He’d forgotten this one. Or maybe he’d blocked it out, didn't want to remember.
When he’d torn the pictures down, he hadn’t had it in him to be methodical. Some had gone into the bin, some into a drawer, some… apparently slipped away and hid.
It feels like the universe taking the piss. Or Johnny, grinning from whatever corner of nothingness he’d been blown into, still finding ways to sneak in.
“Fuckin hell-" Simon mutters, but it comes out choked.
He stares at it for a long time. Long enough that his knees start to ache from standing still. Long enough that Sarge lets out a little questioning whine from the blanket, as if he can sense the shift in the air.
Simon swallows. The concrete wall above the nightstand seems to loom at him, bare and accusing.
After Johnny died, he couldn’t stand to look at any of it. Couldn’t bear the idea of catching something out of the corner of his eye and thinking, for one stupid, gut punched second, that Johnny was here. Talking nonsense in that Scottish brogue, he didn't understand. That he’d walk in from the shower, hair damp, complaining about the water pressure. That he’d yank his stupid blanket off the bed, toss it around Simon’s shoulders, and say, “Yer brooding again, love. It’s bad for yer complexion.”
So he’d made the bunker unfriendly. No photos. No clutter. Just his gear, his bed, his routine.
He’d thought it would hurt less.
It didn’t.
He looks down at the photo again. At Johnny’s smile. At the way Sarge is pressed against both of them, like he was always meant to be there. Something in his chest twists, sharp and deep.
Slowly, like his body’s moving without him, Simon reaches out and sets the picture on the nightstand. He props it up against the wall, smoothing the warped edge with his thumb until it stays.
It’s crooked. The lighting is dim. The colors have faded. It’s still the most dangerous thing in the room. He backs away like it might catch fire, then sinks down beside Sarge again, back against the bunk, legs stretched out. The dog shifts, wheezing softly, head lolling toward Simon’s thigh.
“Yeah..." Simon says hoarsely, laying a hand on his head. “I see it too.”
Time gets weird after that.
The lights shift from afternoon grey to evening dark. Somewhere above, the mess hall will be starting dinner. Someone will be bitching about something. Someone will be laughing too loud at a joke that isn’t that funny. The world moved on. Simon was just in-between.
Down here, there’s just the two of them. Three, if you count the the photograph. Sarge sleeps. Wakes. Pants. Drifts again. Every so often he tries to get up, and Simon stops him gently, easing him back down.
“No point, boy-" he murmurs softly. “Nowhere we’ve got to go.”
He wets Sarge’s tongue with water from his fingers when he won’t drink from the bowl. He coaxes him to take a few bites of food, then gives up when Sarge turns his head away.
Price texts once: How’s he doing?
Simon stares at the screen for a long time before typing back: Still here.
It feels like a lie. Like tempting fate. Eventually Sarge’s breathing changes. It’s a subtle thing at first, just a little more effort, a little more hitch on the inhale.
Then the pauses start stretching longer, each breath a mountain the older dog has to climb. Simon moves without thinking, sliding off the mattress to sit cross legged beside him. He eases Sarge’s head into his lap, fingers carefully cradling his jaw, careful of the arthritic spine.
Sarge’s eyes crack open. They find Simon, clumsy but certain, and hold.
“There you are, old boy." Simon whispers. His own vision blurs at the edges. “Hey, Sarge.”
The dog’s tail gives the smallest twitch. His ears lift a fraction, like he’s trying to perk up but his body won’t cooperate. Simon’s throat burns. He bends forward a little, hunching over him, creating a kind of shelter with his own body.
“Good old boy.." he says, and the words come out thick. “You’ve been such a good old boy.”
Sarge lets out a soft, high whine. It sounds like apology. Like goodbye.
“None of that now-" Simon says quickly, blinking hard. “You hear me? You did your job."
He cards his fingers through the dog’s fur, feeling each rise and fall of his chest against his thighs. The Christmas tree lights blink on and off, casting the room in shaky, coloured shadows.
“It’s alright, Sarge." Simon says. “I’ve got you.”
The words crack something open. They were the last thing he said to Johnny, too, though there’d been nothing alright about it. He’d had Soap’s weight in his arms, the world narrowing to a red smear and a ringing silence, and he’d said I’ve got you like he could hold him together by force of will alone. A whisper Gaz nor Price ever heard.
He hadn’t. He’d watched him go anyway. He squeezes his eyes shut. Sarge’s breath rattles, stutters.
“I’m sorry-" Simon hears himself say. He doesn’t know who he’s talking to. The dog. Johnny. Himself. All of them. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
The tears fall free from somewhere deep, dragging everything else up with it.
“I should’ve… I don’t know.” The words tumble out in a rough whisper. “Should’ve been faster. Should’ve seen it. Shouldn’t have let him-”
He bites down hard enough on his tongue that he tastes blood.
It doesn’t stop anything.
"One moment he was there, Sarge and then-"
He can’t say it. Won’t. He shakes his head, fingers digging into Sarge’s fur.
“They all say there was nothin’ we could’ve done.." he rasps.
“Price. Laswell. The medics. Nothin’ we could’ve done. Doesn’t matter. Should’ve been me.”
Sarge wheezes, a faint, shuddering sound. His eyes stay on Simon, intent despite the haze.
“You know he picked you for me?” Simon says, voice breaking around John’s own. “Stubborn bastard. Said I needed a ‘wee buddy.’”
The words come out in a bad imitation of Soap’s accent, and the sound of it makes something in his chest twist so hard he has to bend over his knees, curling around Sarge like the dog’s the only thing keeping him anchored. It was.
“I told him you’d be a menace.." he goes on, hoarse. “Said I didn’t have time for a dog. And then you chewed his boots and pissed on my kit.” A breath that’s almost a laugh shudders out of him. “And somehow you were mine anyway.”
He’s shaking now. Can feel it in his shoulders, in the way his fingers tremble against Sarge’s head. The dog’s breath is a thin whistle against his thighs.
“You were there.." Simon says quietly. “After. When he was gone. You tried to find him for weeks, you know that? Kept goin’ to the door every time it opened. I didn’t… I couldn’t…”
He swallows. The words are spilling out too fast now to stop.
“I loved him. Fuck, I loved him." he says, and the bunker goes very, very still.
It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. Not in his head. Not halfway into a bottle. Not into the empty pillow that still sometimes smells like Soap if he tries hard enough to pretend.
Sarge’s paw twitches. Simon smooths his hand down his side.
“I loved him.." he repeats, softer. “More than I had any right to. More than he ever knew. I don’t-”
His voice shatters. He scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand but the tears just keep coming, hot and relentless. “I don’t know how to do this without him. Without you... This. Any of it.”
Sarge’s breathing hitches again. The pause after the exhale is longer. Longer.
Simon leans down until his forehead rests against the dog’s, mask rough against thinning fur.
“I know it’s selfish.." he whispers. “Keepin’ you here. You’re tired. You’ve been tired a long time, haven’t you?” His throat works. “You stayed anyway. You stayed with me when he couldn’t.”
His voice drops to a tremor.
“Thank you, Sarge.." he says. “For not leavin’ me alone.”
His tears soak into Sarge’s fur. They’re ugly tears, raw and silent, his shoulders jerking with each sob he refuses to let make sound. He holds Sarge as gently as he can with hands that only know how to break things. Every breath the dog drags in feels like it pulls a thread out of Simon along with it.
Christmas lights blink.
Somewhere, someone laughs. Life marches on, boots on concrete, radios crackling.
But Sarge’s breaths grow further apart.
“It’s alright.." Simon whispers, when he feels the panic trying to rise. “You can go, old boy. I’ve got you. You’re not alone. I promise.”
He doesn’t know if dogs understand promises. He makes it anyway.
Sarge’s chest rises. Falls. Rises. Several times like that for thirty minutes.
Then stops.
For a moment, Simon thinks he’s just waiting longer. That another breath will come if he just holds still and doesn’t make any sudden moves. His heart hammers so loudly he can’t hear anything else. Then the silence settles. Heavy. Final.
“Sarge?” he says quietly, voice breaking.
No response. No twitch of an ear. No sigh. No faint, wheezing rattle.
The world tilts.
His hand tightens instinctively in Sarge’s fur, like he can anchor himself there, in the familiar warmth that’s already starting to leach away.
He doesn’t know how long he sits like that, bent over the still body, shoulders shaking, breath coming in ragged gasps that don’t feel like enough. Long enough that his legs go numb. Long enough that the Christmas lights complete another slow, mechanical pattern, blinking off, on, off again.
At some point his phone buzzes against his thigh. He ignores it. Then he remembers there are people who deserve to know.
People who have been waiting for this message with the same kind of dread he’s been carrying for months.
His fingers feel clumsy as he fumbles the phone out of his pocket. The screen blurs. He blinks until the letters stop swimming. He opens the thread with Price. The last message Simon had sent him.
Simon stares at the empty text box for a long time. His thumb hovers, then slowly taps out three words.
Sarge is gone.
He adds nothing else. No, explanations, no lies about it being peaceful even though it was, as much as it could be. He hits send before he can overthink it. He doesn’t expect an immediate reply. He doesn’t really expect anything. He feels a million miles away from the rest of the base. Like he’s sitting at the bottom of a well, listening to the echo of his own heartbeat.
The knock at the door startles him.
It’s soft. Considerate. Whoever it is waits exactly three seconds, then knocks again, a little firmer.
Simon swipes at his face with both hands, smearing tears into the balaclava, and forces his voice to work.
“In.”
The door opens with a faint hiss.
Price steps in first. He’s still in his field jacket, cap pulled low, the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper than they were a few years ago. Behind him, Gaz hesitates in the doorway for half a second before following, hands jammed into his pockets. Laswell brings up the rear, a soft scarf wrapped around her neck against the winter cold.
None of them say anything at first.
Their eyes go to Sarge, still curled on Johnny’s blanket under the Christmas tree. To the way Simon is sitting, one hand still in the dog’s fur, shoulders hunched as if he’s bracing for a hit.
Price’s jaw tightens. Gaz swallows hard. Laswell’s gaze goes bright and wet.
“Oi, Sarge-" Gaz says quietly, like the dog is just sleeping. His voice cracks on the name.
No one calls attention to the photo on the nightstand, but Simon feels their eyes catch on it, one by one. He imagines what they see: Johnny’s grin, Sarge’s puppy awkwardness, a younger, less broken version of himself caught mid protest.
Price moves first. He steps in until he’s close enough to crouch beside Simon, joints popping faintly. He doesn’t reach out, doesn’t touch him. Just settles down there on the concrete like they’re on some shitty stakeout together.
“Got your message." he says quietly, somewhat awkwardly.
Simon nods, staring at Sarge’s too still flank. “Didn’t want to… I figured you should know.”
“You did right.." Price says. He looks at the dog, then at the blanket, then at the tree. His mouth twists, like he’s chewing on words he can’t find. “Hell of a dog.”
“The best.” Gaz adds, coming to sit on the mattress on Sarge’s other side. He stretches his legs out, ankles crossing, shoulders leaning back against the bunk frame. “Remember when he stole that bloke’s entire MRE and half his boot?” His laugh is wet. “Thought the poor bastard was gonna cry.”
Laswell takes the chair in the corner, dragging it closer so the four of them form a loose circle around Sarge. She folds her hands in her lap, fingers tight.
“He was the only one Price would let jump on the furniture." she says softly.
“Only if he’d wiped his paws first." Price mutters, but there’s no heat in it.
They talk like that for a while. Little stories. Soft jokes. Nothing big enough to require eye contact. Just quiet memories tossed into the middle of the room like pebbles into a still pool.
Simon listens. At first he thinks he won’t be able to. That every word will feel like sandpaper on raw skin. Instead, it settles around him like another blanket.
Thin, but warm.
He keeps his hand on Sarge’s fur. It’s starting to cool now, not much but...noticeable. He focuses on the texture of it under his palm, on the familiar feel of the dog’s ear between his fingers. He realizes, distantly, that he’s not shaking anymore.
At some point, Gaz’s foot knocks against his. Not hard. Not deliberate, probably. But Gaz doesn’t move it away. He leaves it there, a solid line of contact along their boots. Price leans back against the bunk, head tipping up until it thunks lightly against the metal slats. His eyes slide closed, his breathing steady. Like he’s settling in for a long watch or a nap.
Laswell uncrosses her arms and lets one hand drop to the side, fingers resting on the edge of the blanket, just barely touching Sarge’s paw.
They’re not saying we’re here for you. They don’t have to.
The room is still cold. The grief is still a heavy, living thing in Simon’s chest. Johnny is still dead. Sarge is gone now.
None of that changes, but he is not alone in it.
He glances up once, just for a second. The photo on the nightstand catches the light from the crappy Christmas tree, colours flaring briefly before settling back to dull.
Johnny’s grin stares back at him. Sarge’s puppy ears are lopsided. Simon’s own younger self looks annoyed, fond, and completely unprepared for what’s coming.
Simon’s throat tightens. A fresh wave of tears threatens. He looks away, back down at the dog in his lap. He swallows hard.
“Good boy.." he whispers again, too soft for anyone else to hear. His fingers curl gently in the fur one last time. “I’ve got you. I've got you, like you've always got me.."
The lights blink on. Off. On.
Outside, the base carries on with its routines, oblivious. Inside the bunker, four people and one good dog sit together in the quiet, keeping watch over the space where something precious used to breathe.
It’s going to be a long night.
But it’s theirs.