lt-crow

[lt-crow]

Crow pulls back, as if burned. He types furiously on his phone.

[YOU'RE ON PATROL?] The text-to-speech says, lacking the bewildered fury on Crow's face. He looks mad as he swats at Kieran's arm. [GET BACK TO WORK SOLDIER. NOW.]

Another low chuckle ran through Kieran and he showed Crow a genuine smile.

"Oh i would love to bed you bu'-- you should recover firs', otherwise you won' las' long~", he said and stole a small peck from crows lips, before he brought the younger man to his quarters.

"Shift's not over for another 4 hours. So you have the bed all for yourself until then~"

[lt-crow]

[ It was cold in Verdansk. Winter was on the horizon, the chill of fall giving way. ]

[ The mission was simple. Three teams: his, Price’s, and MacAndrews’. The target was some ultra-nationalist, the right-hand of the leader of the whole cell. If anyone had information on where the leader was, it would be him.

They’d surround him. Flush him out of the abandoned apartment building he’d made his base. Capture him. Simple—he’d done missions like this countless times.

The sergeant behind him was still fairly green, restless and uncomfortable. Anxious—he understands. He’d been nervous for ops like this once, too.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a smile, giving the sergeant a pat on the arm. “Be in and out fast, you’ll see.”

The sergeant smiles, uncertain. “Thanks, L.t.,” he mumbles.

“All good on your end?” Price’s voice comes from the radio. He hums.

“All good, cap,” he replies, peering out the window. “No movement. All quiet here.”

“Good. We breach in ten.”

Ten minutes is a lifetime in his line of work. A minute is a month. A second is a day. But he’s patient, always has been, always had to be.

A noise from the hall has him on alert, though—gun raised, he nods to the sergeant to cover him as he pulls the door open.

“Easy, doll,” MacAndrews says, with that lazy grin of his, hands raised. His gun is slung on his back.

“What are you doing here?” He hisses, bewildered. MacAndrews, on the best of days, has never been particularly careful—never follows plans, always throws caution to the wind. But this—this is reckless, even for him.

MacAndrews’ eyes flick to the sergeant, then back to him. “Wanted to see you before the mission. That a problem?”

Yes. He feels a migraine building, thunderclouds gathering before the storm. But he can’t say that, not to MacAndrews. Not when, on the best of days, he’s easily set off. Like holding a frag, pin pulled, he always has to maintain just the right pressure to keep them both intact.

“No,” he answers, and MacAndrews grins wide, bullying his way into his space. A possessive hand at his neck. Another at his waist. An uncomfortable sergeant, clearing his throat and turning away.

MacAndrews’ kisses always burn, like licking a lit butane torch. Hungry. Devouring. All-consuming. It makes him dizzy, weak in the knees, but MacAndrews’ hand keeps him steady and upright. Right where he wants him.

“Ah, fuck, doll,” MacAndrews murmurs against his lips, hand digging into his hip hard enough it’ll bruise. “Wish we had time for me t’fuck you good an’ proper.”

“Five minutes,” Price’s voice calls over the radio, as if to prove MacAndrews’ point. “Still quiet?”

He’s about to reply when MacAndrews puts a hand over his mouth. “Ah, cap can wait a bit, I think,” he says with a grin sharp as knives. The hand on his hip stops feeling possessive and feels more like a threat—and something twists in his gut.

He pulls back, a sharp step away that has MacAndrews’ eyes narrowing. “Why are you here?” He asks again.

MacAndrews sighs, rubbing his eyes. Anger isn’t uncommon for him, but something—something doesn’t feel right. “Fuck, doll, you always make things difficult, y’know that? Hate that stupid sixth sense you’ve always got.”

And, before he can reply, MacAndrews draws his pistol and puts several rounds into the sergeant’s chest. He’s dead before he hits the floor.

The gun turns on him, still hot from the murder. Still smoking a bit. He stares into the barrel because that’s easier than looking MacAndrews in the eye.

“All I wanted was to enjoy you one last time, but you can’t even give me that,” MacAndrews growls as the sound of boots in the hall fills his ears. “Typical. You know the drill: guns on the floor, doll.”

“I heard shots fired—everything okay?” Price calls, voice urgent. “—? Sitrep.”

Men filter into the room as he drops his rifle and pistol on the rotting wood floor. He raises his hands in surrender as three men clad in black flank MacAndrews. No patches. No identifications. Just heavy, black gear and grins on their faces.

“Ah, I told you he’d be good for this,” one of the men says, accent thick.

“You did,” another says with a light hum before shooting MacAndrews through the skull. He’s dead before he hits the floor.

“—? Sitrep, now.”

“You’re a hard man to catch,” the third man says, stepping forward. “Too many men loyal to the clock that keeps them ticking, yes?”

He spits on the man’s face. The man simply seems amused. A hand snakes out, gripping his jaw hard enough to bruise. “You know, boss thinks you’re more valuable alive,” the man says, turning his head this way and that, observing him as if he’s just some curiosity. "Personally, I don't see it."

Alive. They want him alive. He won’t give them the satisfaction; his thumb touches at the knife on his belt for a moment before he draws it, slashing at the man’s face. It slips through his flesh, easy and smooth, and the man swears. Guns raise on him, but they won’t shoot—he knows they won’t shoot now. 

He sinks the knife into the man’s shoulder. Twists it. Relishes in the way he howls, a wounded mutt.

The crack of gunfire rings in the room; his arm goes numb, cold, and the man snarls and rips the knife from his shoulder.

“Fuck what the boss wants,” he roars, lunging with the blade. It catches his arm, sinking easily into muscle. Another swipe, and it catches his jaw. Another swipe, and it drags a line across his side. Another swipe, and it drags along his face, through his lip—

He stumbles back. One arm hangs limply at his side. The other presses at his face. Guns stare back.

No one will save him.

For a second, he closes his eyes. The fear, the fire, fades into acceptance. No one will save him.

The man grabs him by the hair. Sharp and unyielding. And when the knife rips through his throat, he knows—

Carter will die here. ]

[lt-crow]

Crow pulls back just enough to give Kieran a flat, almost unimpressed stare.

"Trying to bed a sick man?" He rasps, and--smiles. Banter doesn't come easy to him, not anymore.

But Kieran's right: Crow is exhausted. Has been for a lot longer than he's been sick. And he definitely, definitely will not sleep in the infirmary again.

"What can I say? Don't get called whore for no reason~"

Kieran closed his eyes again and planted a gentle peck on his head, before he got his keys out of his pocket and gave it to Crow.

"If you dint wanna sleep in the infirmary; my bed is free right now. You really should get some sleep.", Kieran said with a wink and put his jacket around crows shoulders, before he took his cold coffee and exed the whole cup in a few big gulps.

[lt-crow]

"Ugh," Crow's nose scrunches, "you sound like Rook."

He laughs anyways, though. Soft. Raspy. Trusting. Kieran's hand on his head is steadying in a way Crow hasn't indulged in for... years. It's... nice. A bit terrifying, but nice.

"You think so birdie?", he asked quietly, a hint of amusement also in his words, before he placed his hand on the back of Crows head, once the man dropped it against Kierans chest, gently caressing his head.

"Depends on what you mean with 'we're fucked'. The sentence has at least 2 meanings~", he then joked and a low chuckle went through his chest.

[lt-crow]

Your recruits are dorks my rumour is the best rumor

i won't disagree that they're dorks. caught one of them playing one of those card games by himself. magic, i think?

[lt-crow]

Rumor has it that uh.. uhmm.. rumor says ... You're pretty cool......

i have a whole battalion of recruits that would disagree. i hear the words "lame" frequently from them. and boomer.

[lt-crow]

rumour has it that you and the other crow are the same person

we haven't been seen in the same room together. you may draw your own conclusions.

[lt-crow]

Crow, against all odds, gives a small laugh. Something--something settles. Boundaries. Boundaries. Kieran cares about boundaries.

"Think we're past that," Crow wheezes, a wry smile on his face. He gives another chuckle, head dropping heavily onto Kieran's chest. "We're fucked."

Kieran looked down to Crow, seeing the inner conflict in the other man's eyes... an inner conflict he also had but probably for another reason than crow. While the younger man searched something in his eyes, Kieran tried an sad attempt of a faint smile on his lips, which left his lips the same moment, he managed to put it on.

"If I'm overstepping your boundaries, let me know...", he mumbled, his voice tainted a bit with fear; the fear of letting someone closer to him, the fear of loosing them quicker than he would even know.

His eyes became dull for a short moment and Kieran closed his eyes, blending out the voices inside his head that told him, that he wouldn't be able to truly find someone that would love him, like he deserves.

[lt-crow]

Rumour has it the mask is what binds you to a humanoid form and when you take it off you become an eldritch horror beyond mortal understanding.

I think that ones a little far fetched though, the void rumor makes more sense.

i take it someone's offering creative writing classes on base again.

an eldritch horror. you know... i actually quite like this interpretation.

[lt-crow]

Everything in Crow screams at him to run. Everything. Memories and nightmares and reality, all colliding into a sickening and dizzying haze that threatens to swallow Crow.

Fear flickers in his eyes. Raw, unfiltered fear.

He takes a breath. He closes his eyes. And he forces himself to relax. This isn't Lieutenant MacAndrews. They're not in Verdansk. Crow isn't--

His eyes search Kieran's for any hint of betrayal. For anything to be afraid of.

Kieran could feel how crow relaxed in his hug, even if it was just a bit. He dropped his cigarette and put it out with his foot, before he wrapped his now free other hand also around the body of crow, holding him gently in his arms.

The hug also felt weird for Kieran but also good; like he belonged there in his moment. Carefully he lifted his head again, looking down at the other man's face, before he lifted one hand from the hug and gently brushed a few hairstrands out of crows face.

[lt-crow]

Rumor has it underneath the mask is another mask

occasionally, yes. layers are important for warmth in cool climes.

[lt-crow]

can't be telling them i have a face, lieutenant. the recruits enjoy their speculation too much.

Rumour has it you are an adorable cutie pie :3

unlike lt. riley, unfortunately i am ugly under the mask. apologies.

[lt-crow]

[ Crow sighs. ]

had a feeling. you're welcome to stop by my quarters on a free night.

Rumors said you're going to play the guitar for me once 👀

i'd have to know who you are to agree, but... sure. haven't played for anyone but myself in a long time. might be nice.

[lt-crow]

Rumors said you're going to play the guitar for me once 👀

i'd have to know who you are to agree, but... sure. haven't played for anyone but myself in a long time. might be nice.

[lt-crow]

Nuh uh i bet you cuuuteeee

denial doesn't suit you.

[lt-crow]

Rumour has it you are an adorable cutie pie :3

unlike lt. riley, unfortunately i am ugly under the mask. apologies.

[lt-crow]

Rumor has it you have a doll

you're welcome to confirm that for yourself--my quarters are unlocked. just be sure to close the door when you're done.