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John was currently losing a war against a roll of fiberglass mesh tape. He was covered in a fine layer of white dust, his hair looked like he’d aged twenty years in an hour, and the guest bathroom—the scene of the Great Pipe Burst of last week—still looked more like a cave than a room.
He heard the front door open, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots that could only belong to one man.
"Nolan! Report!"
John winced at the volume. Usually, Tim’s "Sergeant voice" was a turn-on, but vibrating through a house with zero insulation, it felt like a tactical flashbang.
Tim rounded the corner, and John actually dropped his putty knife. Tim was wearing a black utility vest over a tight grey t-shirt—the kind with enough pockets for extra magazines, though they currently held a laser measurer and a bag of beef jerky. He had a brand-new leather tool belt cinched high on his waist, exactly where his duty belt usually sat, and he was carrying a heavy-duty plastic crate like it contained active explosives.
"What... what is all this?" John asked, gesturing vaguely at Tim’s chest.
"Tactical load-bearing equipment," Tim said, stepping into the cramped room and performing a 360-degree sweep of the ceiling. "I did some reading. You’ve been working without a proper support structure. I’m here to provide heavy labor and tactical oversight."
"It’s a bathroom, Tim. Not a breach site."
"Every site is a breach site if the structural integrity is compromised," Tim countered. He set the crate down with a definitive clack. "Now, give me the mission briefing. What’s our primary objective?"
John sighed, but the tired knot in his chest loosened. "The objective is to sand the joints I just taped. Light pressure, Tim. Circular motions. We want it smooth, not—"
"I’ve got it, Nolan. Move to the perimeter. I’m taking point."
Phase I: The Sanding
John tried to intervene. He really did. But five minutes later, Tim was inside the bathroom with a power sander, vibrating with the intensity of a man trying to stop a ticking clock.
Tim didn't do "light pressure." He treated the drywall like a suspect that refused to stay down. He leaned his full weight into the machine, "neutralizing" the high spots with aggressive, linear strafing runs.
When Tim finally clicked the sander off, the silence was deafening. He emerged from the room looking like a powdered donut. White dust was caked into his eyebrows, his eyelashes, and the valleys of his utility vest.
"The resistance has been neutralized," Tim announced, his voice muffled by his respirator. "The surface is now uniform."
John peeked inside. "Tim... you sanded through the tape. And the first layer of paper. I can see the 1970s through those studs."
Tim pulled down his mask, a smudge of white across his nose. "It was a tactical sacrifice. The wall was resisting the level. I had to assert dominance."
Phase II: The Grout Maneuver
By the time they reached the tiling stage, the sun was dipping low. Tim had decided that speed was now the primary tactical necessity.
"We need maximum integration of the bonding agents," Tim said, dumping a bag of grey grout into a bucket. He bypassed the wooden paddle John offered and reached for a high-torque power drill with a mixing attachment that looked like it belonged on the back of a boat.
"Tim, that drill is way too—"
VROOOOM.
Tim squeezed the trigger. He didn't ease into it; he went full-throttle, Sergeant-at-a-high-speed-pursuit style.
The centrifugal force was instantaneous. A thick, grey arc of wet grout caught the edge of the bucket and launched itself skyward. It hit the ceiling with a wet thwack, rained down over the window, and caught Tim squarely across the bridge of his tactical goggles.
John dived for cover in the hallway just as a secondary spray painted the doorframe. Silence followed.
John peeked around the corner. Tim was standing perfectly still, grey sludge dripping from his chin. Kojo, who had been watching from the doorway, let out a low, judgmental whuff.
"Target... neutralized?" John asked weakly.
Tim slowly wiped a dollop of grout off his cheek with one finger. "The bucket," Tim said, his voice dangerously calm, "was compromised. We need a secondary perimeter. And a sponge. Now, Nolan!"
Phase III: The Spacer Interrogation
Two hours of cleanup later, Tim was on his knees, staring at a single subway tile as if he were waiting for it to give up the location of a stash house.
"Why is it leaning?" Tim demanded.
"It’s just settling, Tim. Pop the spacer in the corner."
Tim took the tiny, cross-shaped plastic spacer. He didn't just 'pop it in.' He shoved it into the gap with enough force to make the mortar ooze out the sides. He withdrew his hand, and the spacer—slick with wet adhesive—slowly tilted and fell out, bouncing off Tim’s knee.
Tim froze. He picked up the spacer and held it at eye level.
"It’s insubordinate, John," Tim muttered, his jaw set. He pressed the spacer back into the gap, holding it there with a trembling thumb. "I am giving you a direct order. Stay. In. Formation."
"Tim, it’s a piece of plastic. I don't think it's registered as a peace officer."
"It’s a piece of plastic with a bad attitude, John. I’m about to call for a total demolition of this row."
Phase IV: The Hot Wash
By 2000 hours, they were sitting on the floor of the living room, leaning against the couch because they were too covered in dust and grout to touch the furniture. Tim had a small notebook out, scribbling with a pencil.
"AAR for the day," Tim said, his voice weary but steady. "Strengths: High morale, excellent PPE. Weaknesses: The grout bucket had a mind of its own, and the 'Subway' tile is a deceptive name for a product that has nothing to do with transit."
John leaned his head on Tim’s shoulder, leaving a white dust mark on Tim’s shirt that matched the dozen others. "You forgot: The Project Manager is extremely impressed by the Senior Apprentice’s commitment to the mission."
Tim closed the notebook and dropped it. He wrapped an arm around John, pulling him close, dust and all. The "Sergeant" mask finally slipped, replaced by something warm and quiet.
"Yeah, well. Don't get used to it," Tim whispered, his voice losing its bark. He kissed the top of John's dusty head, lingering there for a second. "You okay, John? You look like you're about to fall over."
John smiled, closing his eyes as he finally let himself drift. "I'm good. Best help I've ever had."
"Liar," Tim murmured, but he didn't pull away. "God help us with the plumbing tomorrow."
"He can try," John whispered. "But I've got the floor plan."