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akingdomscrypt · 4 months

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War is Over (and what have we done?)

Part Five

Paring; Graves x m!reader (slow burn)

WC; ~8.8k

Summary; where was Graves in all those months he was gone? What brought him back?

Warnings; just some general internal turmoil, brief imagery of death, implied human trafficking when including the context of past chapters, a lot of self doubt/feelings of betrayal. Tame compared to my usual stuff tbh

A/n; I hate dialogue. Also the moon phase mentioned in the beginning is what it would have been in-game for that mission too :3

---"And I'll crawl home to him"---

You arrive a few hours later, according to the ticking clock above the bed—knife still embedded into the plastic face and all, he hadn't bothered to remove it, even after all this time—and at that point Phil had started to believe Venn had chickened out. That, or she just didn't bother telling you.. perhaps she had forgotten. All were of an extremely low probability. He should know better by now than to doubt her.

Even now, only a few weeks later. You looked so.. so drastically different. Phil takes stock, compares your current form from when he had last seen you all those weeks ago—had it been weeks? Phil didn't even know what day it was.

Drifting. Up, down, and across every inch of your concealed form. Something foreign pulls at the hardened strings of his heart—strands of silk toughened up by years upon years of repressed emotion and poorly dealt hands—at the sight of you. Standing tall and confident, as if he can't see the strain buried in your shoulders from the effort of holding yourself up, keeping yourself from crumbling to dust right before his eyes. And he swears you've lost weight, a noticeable difference in the amount of muscle mass wrapped around your bones, even under all that clothing.

When his gaze meets yours, taking a peek into the torn and frayed patchwork of your soul, all he can feel is the stinging reminder of you wishing him dead. Telling him you'd hoped he'd died all those months back; suffocated by his own lungs.

And it's like the past decade of getting to know you, watching you open up, never happened. Wound so tightly, that all that progress is dumped right down the drain; he isn't sure if he'd ever be able to tear down those walls again. Not this time. He scrambles brick by brick to reach the top, but you're too fast, replacing those crumbling stacks with bolts and iron at an alarming rate.

He can't see over the wall anymore, it's too high to reach, too steep to climb. And he fears he may never have the honor of reaching that softer center ever again, barred by thick metal and scathing words.

“You wanted to see me?” Hell… you even sound different. Cool and collected on the surface, but there's an edge there that tells Phil you're not as put together as you are trying to appear to be.

“I did.” But now that you're here, he can't remember the script he'd spent the last week constructing, so delicately, in his mind.

“Well,” you drawl, lifting your arms and gesturing widely. Dropping back down to your sides with a dull smack. “I'm here.”

Are you? Phil doesn't think so. Not really.

Your eyes are the only thing on display, and just a year ago Phil wouldn've prided himself in the fact that he could read you so well. But not anymore.

He can't see that lighthouse shining through, guiding him through the night. There's nothing there. The lamp has run out of oil, and the keeper died months ago.

You're right here, and yet Phil has never found you to be so out of reach.

Who would've thought; his savior, and the one who had damned him to the fiery pits of hell, were both the same man. It felt almost poetic.

Phil thinks he had made peace with his death. Sure, this hadn't been what his younger self had imagined when the topic of death was brought up; still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, believing himself to be near invincible.

He had never been particularly religious, even after being forced to sit in those church pews and listen to some old man drone on and on about shit his child brain didn't care to make sense of. Bored out of his mind, but only sitting still, behaving, because doing the opposite meant taking over his younger sister's chores for the rest of the day.

Phil still couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was some sort of fucked-up retribution or some shit like that. Paying for the sins he'd committed within his lifespan, and so on.

And he wasn't just speaking of the blood that permanently stained his hands, no, he was thinking of you. Always you.

You and those endless pools of warmth that made up your eyes, always a slight glimmer in them when you looked his way. You and those rough, work-hardened hands, always so soft and gentle when you handled him. Like he was something delicate, something to be cherished and protected. Him the altar and you the devoted worshiper knelt before him, praying for the mercy of a god who never answered your calls.

And that laugh. Like nothing else he had experienced before, a blessed thing he was granted the honor of witnessing. Of having directed his way. So rare, but so carefully captured and sealed away in Phil's heart when he heard its boisterous sound.

The main reason Phil had never really connected with the religion he was raised into was, even though they were the same people who preached about community and loving thy neighbor and whatever the hell, they were also the kind to shun and exile those they deemed unworthy. Those who didn't fit into the cookie cutter shapes chosen for them before they'd even taken their first breath.

He had completely dismissed his family's religion entirely when, after one of the members of his church discovered him getting a bit too cuddly—nothing more than an innocent hug that lasted a few seconds longer than it should—with one of his male classmates, they were outcast from the very same church he'd practically grown up in. And Phil would forever be thankful for having parents who stuck up for him to the very end, he doesn't think he'd ever seen his dad so thoroughly pissed off than when going after a churchgoer who'd slung a few cruel choice words at a younger Phil.

And Phil can't help but feel he knew this was how it would end when he made the decision; like some cruel method of justice.

So, while he no longer considered himself aligned with any specific religion, Phil still held onto that deep-rooted fear of something. Of damnation and redemption. And in that moment, as his heart began to slow and stutter in his chest, when his head felt too heavy to hold up, and the simple task of breathing caused his chest to burn, he did something he hadn't done since middle school. Something he never thought he'd do again.

He yearned for forgiveness; begged and pleaded until black swallowed up his vision whole.

Phil doesn't remember when the world had gone dark; doesn't think he had even fought against the pull. Willingly, had he responded to the siren's call through the waves crashing in his ear, a sound so alluring he would never even consider resisting, one that held a certain likeness to your voice.

What he does remember is the sudden gulps of stinging ash in his lungs, shocking his system into alertness, and the touch of oddly cool hands pulling at his shoulders. Hard, sandy earth beneath him, but he can't look up, can't peel his eyelids open and take a glance at his savior when those hands disappear. Only to wrap a pair of arms snug around his waist and continue dragging him over jagged stones and bits of metal.

It's not until Phil abruptly feels a lot cooler than he did moments ago that he's finally able to force his eyes open, a gasping breath kick-starting his heart back into motion.

And when he looks up, dazed and more than a little out of it, what he sees nearly steals his breath away once again.

Smoke wafting off your uniform in waves, dancing with the remaining embers still shining bright in a sea of black like stars in a night sky. It should be terrifying, but it's not.

Because Phil cannot see how the material clings unnaturally to your body, his brain is too fogged up still to notice the torn patches in your clothing. Blood stains the dark fabric into a deeper shade, trickling from gouges in your skin and dripping onto his.

All he sees is that perfect, unmarred face of yours. Mask pulled down and out of the way as you pant for breath; the flesh warmed a more intense reddish tone than usual, but Phil didn't register that, unable to yet comprehend that what was once untouched would soon become scarred and disfigured within the next few hours.

And with the setting sun positioned behind you, glowing almost like an angel's halo to frame your head, he had never been so enraptured by the sight of you as much as he was in that moment.

It's clumsy and uncoordinated, taking a few tries to even get the limb to function, but he manages. Reaching up to gently cup the jaw of his savior, his guardian angel, to feel that familiar warmth against his skin.

Only to have his wrist snatched out of the air by your still gloved hand, the hold a little tighter than normal, held for a second before being dropped carelessly onto his chest. And Phil doesn't have the energy to lift it again.

“You breathin', sir?” Comes your once angelic voice, now sounding like someone had shoved a saw blade down your throat; scratchy and not at all the soothing rumble he was used to, a strange shiver alighting his nerves at the sound.

All Phil can muster up is a strained, grunt-like sound in response. But that seems to be more than enough for you as you stand back up from your crouched position, sigh, and look over the ruined training grounds.

There's a hard set to your jaw, and Phil begins to feel something akin to fear. An emotion he doesn't think he could recall ever feeling around you if he tried.

“Good enough.” You huff, leaning back down to wrap your strong arms around his waist. Dragging him like a ragdoll to a more secluded, out-of-the-way spot just outside the remains of the designated training area.

He can't fight it, can bring himself to move or speak or do much of anything, really. Laying limp in your hold and letting himself be hauled away.

Phil considers that whatever method of exfil you had prepared must be this way. He doesn't remember making any plans like that with you and the others. But why else would you take him here?

Those hopes are crushed when you prop him against a fallen log, the remains of Alejandro's base now just barely out of sight, then pull away.

“This should be fine,” you mumble to yourself, cold gaze studying him briefly before darting back to where you two had come from. “Mhm. They shouldn't patrol this far.”

“-nant?-” Crackles through your radio before Phil can muster the energy to ask you what you meant by that. The feed is distorted, the device had probably been damaged sometime during the fight, but it's clearly a panicked voice speaking on the other end. “-Lieu-en-t? Are- y- there? Pha-nt-m?-”

“2-3,” you respond, voice level. “I'm here. Problem?”

“-N-o, no problems, sir-” Kip, 2-3, says. A little calmer now that he has heard your voice. Phil watches the scene through blurry eyes. “-We got- he's- Viper is stable-”

“For now.” You mutter bitterly, switching the radio back on to reply with, “Give me a sit-rep, 2-3.”

“-V-enn’s got ‘em lo-aded up-” a pause. “-a quarter left, sir.”

A quarter left. Even in Phil’s muddled up state, he knows what that means. It meant three-quarters of the soldiers he had taken with him were dead. Too many to feasibly count. So many bodies left unidentified, in enemy territory.

“-How-re yo-u and the- c-mander, Lt.?-” Phil would've said something if he could. But his vocal cords are paralyzed and his tongue feels like it's constructed of pure lead.

“I’m breathing.” You joke, your slight amusement is obvious even in such a bland tone. At least to Phil it is.

“A-nd,” if Kip notices, he doesn't mention it. “-and the commander?”

You spare one glance down at his slumped, barely breathing form, gaze shut-off and distant, and a cavernous pit of dread opens up in Phil's stomach.

“KIA.” You grunt, eyes narrowing down at Phil. And he may as well be, to have you look at him like that.

Kip doesn't respond and you click your radio off. And it's as easy as that, as if Phil, your co-founder, your friend, you lover, meant nothing to you.

You turn and leave, and Phil doesn't even possess the ability to call your name.

The next time he wakes, Phil doesn't think he's been colder in his damn life. And he's done his time in deep dive operations in the frigid hellscape that is the wilderness of remote foreign bases just past the Bering Sea.

It's dark, stars and the illumination of the moons’ waxing gibbous all the man has to light his way.

For a prolonged moment Phil doesn't even consider pushing himself up from his current pathetic, slumped over position against the decaying log. Would it even be worth it? He had nothing but the singed clothes on his back to call his own, not a weapon he can use in sight. Not even a pocket knife up his sleeve or a heart nestled in his ribcage.

Phil has experienced his own fair share of betrayal within his lifetime; ranging from small, nonsense instances with his little sister, to slightly bigger ones like with the church; then there were the more prominent, glaring ones that stuck out like a sore thumb. From before he started this damn company, freshly enlisted, and only a year later when he met you.

With shitty, high ranked officers who didn't give a single fuck about what happened to him or his squad—not that that had changed much after being taken under the watchful eye of General Shepard. Freezing to death in bumfuck nowhere Russia, or nearly drowning in the middle of the goddamn Atlantic Ocean.

You had been there for every single one. Such a constant in his life; a steady, unmovable force by Phil's side no matter what happened. Even before he'd fallen for you, before you became more than just a friend. Like two peas in a pod, you two.

There was no you without him, and vise versa, the soldiers you two worked with knew it too. They were always sure to throw in a teasing jab now and again, asking the typical “trouble in paradise?”, when you were spotted away from each other for more than a few hours.

So forgive Phil for being a bit melodramatic, because, out of all the people on this godforsaken planet, he never expected such a thing from you.

Maybe he should have. He wouldn't be on the verge of catching fucking hypothermia in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country.

Phil tries to think back, to push past the pounding in his skull to recall even a moment that would have given away some sort of clue to your betrayal before it happened. Maybe he could've prevented it if he had just looked closer.

But no. There's nothing. If anything, Phil recalls you being a bit more.. clingy, before this whole thing started. In your own way, of course; he's pretty sure you would rather be caught dead than let someone catch you hugging him or, heaven forbid, holding his hand.

Your neediness manifested in standing just close enough to him that any shift in stance or movement caused your shoulders to brush together; getting up in his personal space and staying there.

Maybe that was it? Maybe you had been so unusually affectionate because you'd planned on betraying him. And Phil was just too blinded by the sudden influx of your undivided attention to see it; he's starting to consider that that may have been your intention all along.

To distract him with your attention, to hide your true intentions under the guise of gentle words and adoring eyes.

Phil gives it a few more minutes, shivering his ass off against that damn log, before he finally gives in and decides to stand. He wasn't dead—yet—and by staying he was nothing more than a sitting duck in shark infested waters—which was a weird saying, wasn't it; how could the waters be infested when that was a shark's natural habitat?

Traveling under the blanket of night provided him with the highest chances of survival, even if it meant he was constantly on the verge of freezing to death. Under the dark, star speckled sky, he was, for the most part, safe from the prying eyes of enemy soldiers. It would be much more difficult for them to spot him under the protection of a waxing moon than, say, the full, all-encompassing concentrated power of the fucking sun.

So he gets his hands under himself, weakened arms trying their damnedest to force him to his feet. Phil takes a moment, leaning against a strong, tall tree that was luckily rooted right beside its fallen brethren.

The last time he had put anything in his stomach was yesterday (?) morning before they had been so rudely interrupted by the 141 boys knocking on their—or, really, not theirs at all—front door. And after an afternoon like that, all his energy was beyond drained. It's a surprise Phil was still standing—not that he was exactly doing a very good job at that—, though, to be fair, he wasn't new to going lengths of time without proper sustenance. It was a byproduct of the job, of the life he led, after all.

Phil can't do anything to rectify his current hunger right now, so he has no choice other than start getting some miles between himself and the wrecked base next door.

Signing, he looks down, spotting a small dagger lodged into the tree he'd been resting against before. Huh, at least you hadn't left him completely defenseless.

Knife secured in his boot, Phil begins the long trek to who knows where. It's not like he could just make his way back to company HQ, now could he? Not when it was so damn clear he was an unwanted face there.

The chipped watch on his wrist reads o-five-hundred, giving him about an hour until sunrise. Phil has already made pretty good progress, if he did say so himself. And the Vaqueros base has long since faded from his view; leaving Phil to now wander aimlessly through the harsh Mexican terrain; traversing over dry, crumbling rocks through a sparse forest, avoiding sudden drop offs and twisted roots on wobbly legs.

Phil had detoured around the broken city of Las Almas, a certain brand of discomfort crawling up his spine and settling heavy across his shoulders at the mere thought of passing through the ruined city. The barest glimpses of it he'd gotten bore the harsh reality of cobblestone roads still bathed in watery crimson, the familiar color splattered over everything within reach; streaked over stone walls and staining the clothes of bodies still laying cold, face-down in the streets.

One look at the carnage left behind and he'd nearly doubled over from the sheer force of the sudden churning of his stomach. Expelling the bile building at the back of his throat would only end in the burning of his esophagus from his empty, acid-filled belly. There were likely valuable resources left behind in the town, something to aid him in his solo travels, but he quickly dismissed the idea at the sight.

He'd rather skip this city and continue to walk with nothing to his name but the clothes on his body and the knife in his boot then be forced to face that massacre.

Phil hopes, come morning, the very same people he'd stabbed in the back take the time to ghost over the town and dispose of the mess he'd left behind. To reap the souls of those innocent civilians and treat their bodies with much kinder hands than his own Shadows had.

Phil was really getting tired of waking up to people dragging his ass around.

Well, judging by the way, at least this time around, there were no sharp rocks digging into his spine and the fact that this ride was.. quite bumpy, it appeared Phil was being carried this time. What an improvement.

And while he should probably be very concerned as to who, or what, exactly, is carrying him from point A—aka, where he'd likely had passed out again—to point B, the man can't bring himself to care. He doesn't have the energy for it.

Instead, he's in a bit of a daze. Wondering how in the everloving fuck this damn country jumped from near freezing in the night, to scorching hot temperatures that could rival the damn devil. All Phil remembers leading up to this is him cursing the damn sun with his whole chest, feeling like his freaking skin was melting off, then somehow finding himself face-down in the goddamn sand—when had he made it into the damn desert??

And now he was here.

Being carried to God knows where, still sweating profusely under his clothes—how his body still had the capability to sweat when he was already so dehydrated, was beyond him—and too tired to do anything more than lay there.

Phil must've drifted off again at some point, because when he wakes again he's no longer moving. Instead he's flat out on his back, a hard surface beneath him not unlike the old bunks he'd slept on when he was a newbie, and his entire body feels like one giant ass bruise. An all encompassing ache that traveled from the base of his skull to the tips of his toes—as if, now that he was finally resting, his entire body had collectively agreed to seek revenge on his overused muscles.

Distantly, he can hear the chatter of a man and a woman speaking in hushed voices, muttered Spanish drifting from somewhere to his left.

Every instinct that had been ingrained into him screams at Phil to launch himself up and either attack or make a run for it. He does neither, too exhausted to even move or open his eyes, much less to try and stand.

He ends up dancing on the fine line between consciousness and slumber while the two strangers talk, presumably, about him. Lingering in that peculiar space where you're not quite awake, but you're not sleeping either; able to hear and feel, but not aware enough to get up and move.

Phil chose to use that time to attempt to listen in, see what all, if any, of the words he could catch. He wasn't going to pretend to know more than he did, as Phil really only knew the more simple Spanish phrases from his time in highschool when it was a required course. He picks up the usual filler words, a few pronouns, something that sounds much like ‘the American’, and the suppressed voices briefly increasing in volume, rushed, before quieting. Then silence.

With nothing to stimulate his brain, Phil once again falls into a fitful rest.

Power? Is that what this had been about? In all the years Phil has known you, he never would've thought of you as the type. But could that have been what you were after the entire time? And all these years you were just biding your time, waiting for the best time to strike.

How could he have been so blind, how did he not see this coming? The person closest to him, a man who knew more about Phil than any single other person to exist. He should've seen this miles away before it hit him like a fucking freight train.

This is why you had to turn on others before they had the chance to flip the blade on you first—a lesson Phil had learned oh-so long ago. After all this time, how the hell had he forgotten that?

Which is why, the second Phil has the capacity to, he bolts upright and does his best to regain his bearings. A little dizzy, body shaky, limbs trembling from a lack of nutrients, but no longer in the fetal position at least. As aware as he physically can be.

Somewhere between blinking away the blur obscuring his vision and forcing himself into a fully seated position, Phil hears the two voices again

Faint at first. Then growing louder. Closer.

Phil's eyes, still unfocused, dart around his surroundings.

A room. Closed off with only one door, and a window too small for his body. Below him is some sort of flimsy cot placed in the corner furthest from the exit, one that's metal frame squeals with the slightest movements.

Getting distinct now, one woman and one man, just as before.

Phil's hand shoots down, patting his boot; heart rate skyrocketing when the man realizes the knife is missing. His crutch, the only thing he'd possessed to defend himself beyond his own bare hands. It was gone.

They'd taken it from him.

Closer, closer, closer still. The door opens, hinges creaking as a tall, heavy set man walks in; black, cropped hair and a well kept mustache are the first things he notes. And Phil can immediately tell that, even if he were standing, there's no way this guy wouldn't tower over him.

That is a problem. Not because Phil hasn't taken on much large men than himself, but because he usually managed such a feat when fully put together and decidedly not when half-starved, dehydrated, and barely conscious.

While the man approaches Phil with a certain air of caution, the woman, on the other hand, stays behind. Leaning against the doorframe, watching.

But not afraid, no, there's nothing to hint at fear in her intense gaze. Long, dark hair pulled up and tied in loose updo, arms crossed tight over her chest, and mouth set into a firm line. And still she appears to be more curious, or concerned, than fearful; perhaps a bit heedful, but that's as far as it goes.

The man, surprisingly, seemed much more on guard than his counterpart. To be fair, and give the poor guy some credit, he was the one tasked with coming closer to Phil. And Phil, in all honesty, was not of the.. low-risk variety.

Not that the two would know that, all identifying parts of his uniform were either torn or stained, but it's always safer to be wary of strangers. And given Phil's appearance—dirtied, bloody, and cowering like a caged animal ready to strike at any given moment—he obviously wasn't just some random guy who they'd stumbled upon.

Come to think of it, Phil wondered what they thought had happened to him, or why he was out there—wherever he was when they found him—in the first place.

Beyond that, who were these people? Why did they bring him here, why not just leave him, a complete stranger and possible danger, where they'd found him instead of risking their lives carrying Phil to their home? At least they'd been smart enough to check him for weapons, for their sake.

Which begs the question; were these people just plain stupid, or did they trust enough in their own abilities to put him down if need be?

“So,” the man begins, now within a few feet of where Phil sits. Spine straight, chin lifted, and arms crossed much like his partner; posture firm, aiming to appear confident. “You military?”

Oh, what could have possibly given that away?

“Sorta.” Comes Phil's stilted reply.

To Phil's great unsettlement, the man smiles. Only a tiny thing, a barely twitch at the corner of his mouth before it's gone.

“Where am I?”

The man hesitates, and the woman chimes in with a few uttered words of Spanish again.

“Not too far from the border, a few hours most.” when Phil doesn't respond, the man continues. “Name's Eric and this,” he tips his head slightly in the woman's direction. “Is my wife, Sofia. We have.. decided to help you back onto your feet.”

Another murmur, then Eric corrects with an, “if you want.”

Lovely. Now it didn't sound as much like he was being held hostage.

“Y'all want to.. help me?” Phil asks, skeptical as he flicks his gaze between the two. Trying to decipher any double meaning, any sort of threat veiled under these too-good-to-be-true words. “...And why would you do that?”

“My wife was a field medic, and me a soldier,” he begins. “We know what a person looks like wounded.. not only physically.”

Oh, so they wanted to be some sort of great savior or some shit? Give Phil some weird form of therapy? He didn't need that, he didn't need anyone's pity. Especially not these strangers who knew absolutely nothing about him.

Eric must sense something off about him, because he immediately rushes to continue. “Like it or not, we are your best option. You go out there? Try to get home in the state you are in? You will die before the sun sets.”

Phil wasn't quite sure he'd be opposed to that.. but the man had a point. He couldn't seek his revenge if he were dead, now could he?

“I won't stay long.” Phil asserts, sitting up a bit straighter with a challenging glint in his eye.

“Of course not,” Eric agrees easily. “Just until you are better. Maybe a few days, yes?”

Phil shouldn't, he should get up, tell these people to go fuck themselves, and get as far away as he possibly can. Even if that means, come morning, he’ll have succumbed to the elements- “Okay.”

“Okay.” Eric offers a smile and Phil isn't quite in his right mind, but he swears that man, this complete stranger, has some of the kindest eyes he's ever seen.

A few days turns into a month, and a single month becomes four. Phil learns a lot about the couple he's been staying with.

Learns that Eric was telling the truth and that they both had met in the field; apparently the man had been outright refusing treatment so that his fellow soldiers could get it first, claiming it to be nothing more than a light scrap. According to Sofia—from what little Phil could gather with the language barrier; though narrowed eyes and flailing hands are pretty damn telling no matter the language, Phil supposed—it was most likely a lot worse than Eric let on.

Only when Eric had conceded and pulled down the collar of his shirt to expose the long, jagged scar that began at just below his collar bones then traveled further, larger than the tugged down fabric could show, did Sophia give a satisfied hum. And Phil could tell from the gentle way she looked at Eric as he spoke, this woman wholeheartedly adored that man—he had to look away after a moment, feeling out of place, like Phil was intruding on something not meant for his eyes.

Phil also learns that the couple is very active in their little community, often volunteering for social events and making whatever donations they could to the local church, and more specifically the program involved directly in helping children in need.

The two had discovered many years ago, after they left the service, that neither were capable of having children. And while it did put a strain on their relationship for some time, the couple loved each other too much to let that fact tear them apart. Instead, they dedicated their time and whatever leftover funds they had into helping provide for the few orphaned kids in the area.

They even had some adopted children of their own, ones now grown and dispersed around the country; attending college and creating families of their own.

At some point, Phil had been baffled by how utterly good these people were, he couldn't believe how lucky he had been to be found by such genuinely kind people, ones who knew nothing of him or his crimes. They would hate him, surely, either cast him aside or turn him in to local authorities. Who would then hand him over to federal.

He was a criminal on the run, something that had taken Phil a while to come to terms with.

A thing he had realized on the very same porch steps he was setting on right now in month two. Eyes on the horizon as the hot, late spring sun faded in an array of nostalgic warm tones of red and orange, of yellow and pink. Dressed in clothing a few sizes too big; the ones he'd donned when he had arrived far beyond salvageable.

A small, child sized soccer ball rolls to his feet. Bumping against the toe of his boot, quickly followed by little feet stomping over to where Phil sat. Picking it up, Phil cradled the ball in his palm, offering it to the boy running over to him with a soft smile.

One of the orphaned kids; has a sister only a year younger than himself, something Phil knows not because the couple told him, but because he'd started doing some volunteer work himself—with Eric and Sophia’s encouragement. It helped keep his mind wonderfully empty, able to concentrate on the now rather than past or inevitable future.

It also helped remind Phil why he'd even joined the military in the first place, what his younger self had aspired to be all those years ago.

Phil had been able to reflect on a lot over these past seven months. Given the opportunity to think on why he did what he did, who he wanted to be. And, most importantly, you.

After months upon months of denial, cursing your name before he went to bed each night. Reminded of you by the absence of a warm body curled up behind his own; the lack of a soft, rumbling voice murmuring a sleepy goodnight before you'd fall asleep with your face tucked away in the place between Phil's neck and shoulder. The gentle puffs of your breath ghosting over his skin and the secure weight of an arm draped over his waist, luring him to join you in the depths of dream land.

Always making him feel so warm, so safe, in that perfect in between, just after the sun set and right before it rose again. For a few hours you were his. For a few fleeting hours he had you all to himself; he had someone.

Someone more than the names of all the men he'd killed, ingrained permanently in his psyche no matter how hard he tried to ignore it; something more than a pen and himself up against stack after stack of paperwork containing nothing but political bullshit Phil couldn't care less about.

For that brief time Phil had belonged.

But now.. now he had nothing.

He wasn't a commander here, wasn't a soldier. Phil didn't have the responsibilities he'd had to manage back home at base anymore. He should probably be grateful, it was a stressful life.

But.. but he still wasn't quite.. anybody. He was nothing but the stranger who'd appeared in town out of nowhere. Who was silent and kept to himself, who barely even left the residence he'd been so lucky to be offered a place in. Not unless he was doing some volunteer work here and there.

He had nothing; he was nothing. Phil used to hold the reins of dozens who'd act solely with his interests at heart, and now he didn't even have an army to command. He wasn't anyone anymore. Not here.

At least, if he went back, he'd have something. Something more than this endless repetition of kindness he didn't deserve. You'd hate him, surely, after what he had done.

To you, to your friends, family, fellow soldiers. Phil was supposed to be a leader, someone who those under his command looked to for guidance. Someone dependable, someone trustworthy.

It was, again, sometime ago on these same steps, where Phil had the grand revelation that maybe, just maybe, you hadn't betrayed him. You were just doing what you thought was best for yourself and the rest of the company. It was in everyone's best interest—except his.

Phil had pushed you too far, stretched you too thin. Even though he knew how fragile delicate vulnerable-

Even though he knew damn well how you used to be, the cavernous depths of your own mind Phil had single-handedly had to drag you out of kicking and screaming several times over.

Phil knew all of this, and yet he still did it. Never considered the consequences his actions would have on you—or the others, but you were more important—, never stopped to consider your own feelings on, well, anything. On what your opinions were for improving the company—even though you two had built it up from the ground up, together—, or what applications to accept, or whatever it was that you two had going on that was surely more than friends and co-founders did with each other.

He'd pushed and pushed and pushed- and Phil had broken you.

Snapped you in two.

So, at the very least, if he went back, Phil would have someone to hate him. Anything from you was better than being nothing. Even if it were hatred; he just needed to be someone again.

Just needed to belong.

“You can't stay here.”

Phil turns his head slowly, the sun now barely a sliver as darkness overtakes the sky. Stars begin to join the moon in illuminating the town.

“I'm sorry?” He asks, spotting Eric standing on the porch behind him. A somber sort of expression painting his features.

Eric sighs, rocking on his feet briefly as his hands move to tuck into his pockets, seeking warmth as the lack of sunlight drops the temperature by several dozen degrees.

“I don't mean- I am not kicking you out,” the man clarifies, looking off into the distance. A bittersweet smile gracing his lips. “But you are not happy here, are you?”

It's a rhetorical question, and Phil, too, turns away, looking back towards the sky, mouth pressed into a thin line. The sun had disappeared completely, and Phil instead looked to the moon.

Now a completely different phase from that fateful day where you'd abandoned left him against that log. So long ago, and yet Phil swore he could still smell the smoke burning his nostrils and scorching his throat.

He was lucky to have not borne many scars from being trapped in that tank; he didn't want to know how you'd fared.

“You miss them.”

“What?” The words break Phil out of his trance, brows furrowing, but he doesn't turn back around.

“I don't know if it is a family or something else,” Eric continues. “But you miss them. This is not the life for you; you still carry that.. spirit I only remember having during my time in the army.”

“I can't go back.”

“Because you think they will not take you?”

“I,” Phil barks a hushed, humorless laugh. More of an exhale of air than everything, bitter and leaving a foul taste on his tongue. “I do not belong with them anymore, sir. They don't want me, I can promise you that.”

“So grown,” Eric chides, coming to sit on the same step Phil was on. “And yet still so damn naive.”

It's not cruel, but it does have Phil opening his mouth in protest, only to snap it back shut again with a huff.

“You don't know what you're talking about.” He grits out, mouth forming a small pout, an ache of something opening up in his ribcage. A void, once full, overflowing, almost, but now so, so empty. Starving.

“Did you even consider, maybe,” Eric continues on with the same patience he'd had all those months ago. “..they miss you, too?”

Phil swears his heart stops just then, slow, stuttering to a halt before ba dum.. ba dum.. it gradually starts back up again. A frog leaped, lodging itself in his throat, suffocating him, echoing the beat of his heart.

Eventually, he manages to croak out, “They don't.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

And Phil doesn't have anything to say to that, so he doesn't. Continuing to gaze up at the moon as if it held all the answers to his problems. Wondering if, maybe, you were looking up at it too.

“I will not pretend to know what you are going through,” Eric hesitates. “What you are running from. But.. but you cannot stay here, it's killing you. Sophia and I can both see it.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Phil forces out. “you don't understand. He is stubborn, he is childish, and he is- he was. You wouldn't understand.”

“You are talking about this man like he's dead,” observant, are we? “And yet he is not, is he?”

You may as well be. “No.”

“Then maybe it's not too late.. maybe..”

Phil could feel hope sparking in his chest at the man's words, and he immediately crushed it between his fists.

“It is.” Phil says, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “It is too late.”

A sigh. “But you're right. I can't stay.”

The distant sound of a coyotes’ howl and the rustling of leaves fills the space between them as the conversation lulls to a stop. It's peaceful out here, much more so than any base Phil's stayed on, and even before that, far quieter than a house full of gentle chatter wafting in from the living room, or the sounds of childish glee from his sister's bedroom when she had a few friends over. Drifting down through thin but sturdy walls; both a perfect ambiance to listen to while he did his homework at the dining table.

Nothing compared to the heartwarming sound of your laughter. Of your soft, rumbling voice; always so quiet, even when just chatting in his office or while overseeing the Shadows honing their skills in the courtyard.

Quieter than his family, but louder than the silence between you two when you would give him the cold shoulder; a sea of rage hidden neatly within a show of blank stares and empty words.

He misses you.

You didn't do anything wrong.

Why did he break you? When did he break you?

Was it just the incident all those months ago? When he'd forced you to shoot down people who, just the day before, Phil had told you to treat like family? Like brothers?

Or was it something far before that? Something you had been holding on to all this time; keeping caged within your heart instead of taking it out in him.

He wishes you had taken it out on him. Maybe then he wouldn't be considered KIA by his own people, men and women and all alike, whom he—and you—had practically raised as his own?

Anyone who tried to proclaim that Phillip Graves didn't care about his soldiers, his Shadows, was just flat out wrong. A piece of his heart, of his soul, had been ripped out of him when one of his squads died in that botched mission Shepard had sent them on. Ambushed by Russian PMCs. Now that had been one very dreaded set of paperwork; writing down the names and cause of deaths for people who he knew, his friends.

He hadn't even been able to tell their families what had happened to them when they came knocking on his door. No closure for any of those grieving relatives, phone calls day and night. Endless sobs and askings of why, why can't you? And my baby gave their life for your cause, but you can't even do me the honor of explaining why they're buried halfway across the world instead of with their family?

“Where will you go?” Phil had been so lost in thought, he'd entirely forgotten Eric was still beside him. Five months ago and that would've never even been a possibility.

He was losing his touch. Would he even be useful back home?

After all these months, surely not.

When the silence drags on a little too long to be comfortable, Phil murmurs a delicate, “I don't know..” then, “maybe I'll go back after all.”

Phil does, in fact, not go back.

Instead he finds himself staying at an apartment complex just a few cities away. Like a coward.

Phil had left that night, before the sun rose again, and without saying goodbye to the couple who'd let him stay with them for a little over four months. He's only left a little note as thanks.

Also, like a coward.

But Phil decided to embrace this sort of cowardice, at least for now. It's not that he couldn't just go over to the ol’ base, pop in and say hello to the people whose lives he had ruined- of course he could!

He could do it right now if he wanted. He didn't want to.

Phil could just pack up his shit—it had been fairly easy to retrieve his emergency fund, held in one of the many banks he had an account or two with; for security, of course—and skip over to that familiar town, take a few turns down some back roads and bam! Back home he would be.

Back home.

…

..would it still be home?

What if his Shadows hated him now? What if you'd turned them against him? Couldn't even stand the sight of him? Would they kill him then and there upon first sight?

Or would they detain him, torture him maybe?

Either way, Phil couldn't risk it. It's been a few weeks since he left Sophia and Eric's residence, and he's no more motivated to go back to you his old stomping grounds today than he was all those months ago.

He can't imagine which would be worse; seeing that look of disgust, of simmering hatred in the Shadows’ eyes or your own.

Phil tries to keep his mind blissfully blank every moment of his waking hours. Preferring more to spend his time sleeping, but when he could not do so anymore, when his legs ached with the need to move and his stomach rioted in the name of it's hunger, he would have to get up.

Reading, listening to a radio, sometimes even adding the background noise of the old TV in the corner of the living room whenever Phil needed to complete a simple task such as eating or another.

As of right now, he was doing just that. Only this time.. this time it doesn't work. Swirling around the remaining bits of cereal in the now sweetened milk, gaze drifting up from the little floating pieces to the window before him instead.

Thinking. Thinking of you. Because there wasn't any time where Phil wasn't thinking of you. Even with all these distracts, meant to keep his mind off his old life, off what he used to have, off you.

It didn't work. Not when it came to you.

Wondering what you could be up to right now. How you were faring commanding an entire army of your own—or however many were left—, how you were handling all the politics that came with such a job.

When you two shared ownership, Phil was always the one to handle the people, scheduling meetings and dealing with generals and such.

It's been months, surely you were handling this fine on your own. You didn't need him, there was no reason for Phil to go back. Nothing more than his own selfish reasons.

A little over ten months now, it has been. Phil shouldn't bother you. You were dealing with it perfectly fine, he'd bet.

There was not a single excuse for him to assume you didn't have everything under control, for him to swoop in like some sort of savior.

Sure, you'd always been a bit.. off kilter. But who wasn't in this line of work.. right? It was only to he expected after what you had been through, or what little you had told Phil.

He knew you didn't like crowds, didn't even like talking for that matter, hated interacting with the stuck up higher ups most of all, of course. Everyone did. But Phil knew you could also reign yourself in if need be.

Well, that was unless something threw you off center. It would have to be something huge, something life-changing for you to really-

Oh, fuck.

The metallic crash of his spoon bouncing off the ceramic bowl and clattering against the floor doesn't even register in Phil's mind. Not even the sweet milk that goes splattering everywhere pulls him away.

He'd broken you. He'd left you alone. Left you alone with her.

Fuck staying here, lying to himself and avoiding any and all subjects that reminded him of you. Reminded him of what he had lost.

Maybe if the event almost a year ago had never happened, and even if Phil had still been removed from your day to day, it wouldn't have been a possibility.

But you were broken. Shattered. Vulnerable.

And for someone like you; that was a concoction that spelled nothing but bad decisions.

Phil left a few hours later. A single stuffed backpack and a rental car all he took with him in his haste.

He hoped he wasn't too late. Hoped he hadn't broken you too much.

Maybe you were able to resist her offer.. maybe there was still a part of you left that knew it would bring nothing but your own destruction.

Maybe.

Standing before you now, with those empty eyes and stiff posture, Phil knew something was off. More than he had assumed before. Sure, he knew you were a bit fucked, had always been a bit fractured, but Phil had cared for you all the same. Knew there was something more to you beyond that rough, off-putting exterior.

But now, the way you covered yourself head to toe, the little twitches and fidgets you tried so hard to conceal—but Phil had been able to identify them then, and he still could now—, now it was obvious. There was no hiding it.

“You're..” Phil begins, hesitant. “Different.”

You scoff, something in those clouded depths flickering. “You've said that before.”

“No, no, Phantom-” he winces, noting the way the name has your right hand—concealed in a glaringly different glove than the other—twitches, fingers curling slightly in one, quick movement, at the name. Your head ticking a bit to the left.

“You are.. not yourself.”

“Is that all you had to say?” You grit out, gaze narrowed, voice more a growl than the gentle rumble Phil was used to. “You called me down ‘ere again to tell me I'm “different”. As if it hasn't been almost an entire fucking year since you last saw me.”

A step closer, another fidget. “People change, Graves. Just because you can't, too caught up in your own damn ego to care, doesn't mean others don't.”

Phil can think back on that little insult later, pick another time to lick his wounds. Right now he needed to know. Needed a confirmation.

“Just tell me-” he doesn't care if he sounds like he's begging. He needs to know. “You told her no. Please, for Christ's sake, tell me you said no.”

Phil can hear the way your breathing hitches briefly, see the way you try to shift your posture impossibly straighter. “I don't know who you are referring to.”

A part of Phil shrivels up and dies in that moment, frozen in time as you basically confirm what he already knew. What he knew and yet so desperately hoped he was wrong about. Hoped and prayed you'd be strong enough.

He was wrong.

“Oh, Phantom,” He breathes, right when his body kicks back into motion again. Unable to hide the pure, unfiltered grief in his croaked out words. “What.. what have you done?”

Phil never gets to hear your reply, because right then there's a frantic knocking at the door. Panicked or enthused, Phil cannot decipher.

It catches you both off guard, heads snapping to the person who hurts through the entrance. Not bothering to wait for an okay to come inside.

“Alik? What the fuck are you doing here?” You snap, glaring at the newcomer.

1-5 comes to a halt right in front of you, breathing heavily from the exerting of running from wherever the hell he'd come from. Phil feels himself stiffening, waiting for something, anything to happen.

“Sorry, sir,” Alik pants. “But this couldn't wait.”

“Spit it out.” Phil cuts in, seeing how you tense and ready to go on one of your rare—or maybe not rare anymore—tangents.

1-5 barely spares Phil a glance before locking eyes with you once more, unflinching.

“Viper,” he says, chest still heaving. A single word, a single word that bore so much weight within its five letters. “He is awake.”

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