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r0ttenb0gb0dy · 6 months ago

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Coda "Rex" Morelli — After The Fall

“You heard me.” Graves’ voice rings out, making Rex’s vision tunnel as he focuses on the men before them.

“You’re crazy, this is my base.” Alejandro quips, but Graves seems to already have a reply locked and loaded.

“It's not a base. This is a sizable covert facility and I admire it — so, I'm takin’ it. You boys have been relieved. Thank you for your service.” Graves’ tone was low, vicious even. Rex looked over with worried eyes, the information he had just learned minutes prior still fresh in his mind. What had happened in Russia, what Shepherd was asking them to do. It felt wrong, but at the same time he knew that when it came down to the wire he would always choose Shadow Company. Every time, without fail.

“No, no, no, no…I don’t take orders from you.” Alejandro stepped forward slightly, earning a glare from Sergeant MacTavish. Rex grips his rifle with an iron touch.

“Didn’t Valeria say that? Now, that makes me wonder what else I don’t know about your affiliation with a drug lord.” Graves says with all of the coy confidence of a fox, tilting his head slightly before everything exploded

In an instant, Alejandro stepped forward, beginning to close the distance between himself and Graves. MacTavish grabbed him by the arm, stopping him just short. Still, Rex couldn’t blame him. This was absurd from either perspective.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, pendejo?” Alejandro barks.

“You’re out of line, Graves — Rex, yae can’t be alright with this —“ MacTavish speaks up, but before Rex can reply he’s spoken for.

“Don’t…Don’t do that. Don’t talk to them.” Graves’ voice cut like a knife, a searing red pain sending signals through Rex’s body. He looked up, eyes locked with MacTavish, wanting to tell him to run. His gaze shifted to Riley, to Rodolfo and Alejandro. Rex went to take a step forward but Graves’ grip locked on his vest strap stopped them, even yanking him back slightly much to MacTavish’s surprise.

They hadn’t seen it before, had they? It was a blatant display of their power dynamic, and Rex felt embarrassed. His cheeks heated up and he tensed up.

“No one needs to get hurt here.” Graves spoke again, his voice low and dark. It terrified Rex. He had no idea up until this moment, right here and now, that the mission with Shepherd had failed. So, on top of mourning dead friends that had supposedly been on an extended leave, he was now faced with the immediate future.

Graves was going to take direct orders from Shepherd to harm the 141, and he was going to go along with it.

“Are you threatenin’ us?” Lieutenant Riley asked, his hand wandering but not quite grabbing the rifle hanging from his carrier.

“Soldier, I don’t make threats. I make guarantees. So, let’s not do this.” Graves replied with a smug callousness that sent a chill down Rex’s spine, even in the Central American heat. Their gaze shifted between the men in front of them, locking eyes with Lieutenant Riley. He gave them a knowing glance before looking at MacTavish.

“I’m callin’ Shepherd.” MacTavish spoke up, pointing a finger at Graves.

“General Shepherd sends his regards.” Graves' hand left Rex’s vest, traveling to the assault rifle in hand. His finger lingered on the trigger. “He told me y’all wouldn’t take this well.”

“He knows about this?” Lieutenant Riley asked, disbelief in his voice, but when he looked at Rex he knew it was the truth. He was too scared to speak, truthfully, so he didn't. He knew if he spoke up he would only defend Graves and Shadow Company. It would only stoke the flames.

“He’s put me in command of this operation from here on out. So, y’all need to stand down, it’s time to let the pros finish this.” Here Graves stood, betraying the people that Rex had grown to trust. They’d laid their lives on the line right alongside themselves and Graves this entire time, this is not what they deserved. “And why the hell are we talkin’ like this is some kind’a negotiation? It’s not. I’ve got my orders, and now you have yours.”

“And who the fuck do you think you are, cabron? My men are inside!” Alejandro snapped, eliciting a response from Rex. They looked to Graves, stepping back slowly, out of his peripheral vision. Their back was met with the broad side of Wasp’s chest. It only took a moment for Wasp to grab his plate-carrier strap, quelling the desire to jump to Graves’ defense. He could feel it welling, some kind of vicious remark, but he couldn't have anticipated what was coming.

“I’m afraid not. Your men have been…” Graves bit back a smirk, looking to the ground and then up at Alejandro. “Detained.”

It all happened so quickly.

Alejandro was zip tied and held against a vehicle whilst Rodolfo, MacTavish and Riley made a run for it.

Everything in Rex’s head was quiet. All he knew was that he had to finish the mission, find Hassan and the final missile. It didn't matter the cost. Rex felt Wasp let him go and his rifle was aimed upwards in an instant, boots already migrating down into Las Almas after the escaped Task Force operators.

Indiscriminate killing did not begin to describe what MacTavish and Riley were doing. Rex stepped over corpses around every corner, over shattered ceramics that smelled of gunpowder, and spent shell casings. He couldn't breathe. It was a vicious effort to recover every tag that he could, knowing that they couldn't drag every single Shadow back to base, but he began to run out of room to carry them. It didn't take long before he started shooting back at the ghosts he heard around the streets, pulling familiar knives out of bodies if only to throw them back at Riley when he saw him.

This was unnecessary. Just make the escape, that was all they needed to do, and yet here they were. Slaughtering Shadows in a fucking massacre. His anxiety got the best of him and he returned to base to regroup whilst the others cleaned up the streets, ensuring Hassan wasn't anywhere to be found and that both of the 141 members had escaped before they did.

He sat in the stolen MexSpec-Ops facility with shaking hands and wired nerves, every little sound setting him off. No amount of comfort from Graves quelled it. Cigarette after cigarette, taking in deep breaths and letting them go to no avail, images of what could come to pass haunting him. It should've come as no surprise whenever Graves formulated a plan for the coming days. He should've known it would be a disaster plan.

“I’m what? You’re not sending me back to HQ, not fucking now.” Rex barks at his Commander, his partner, shoving him with open palms. He’s angry, being cornered back into a Jeep with little more than Graves’ orders telling him to do so. The Commander would never lay a hand on him, he knew that, not now anyways.

“You have to, Rex. This is what that fucking promotion was for, now use it.” Graves replies, calm in comparison. He’s riled up too, though, and Rex can tell. “If I get blown to hell here, then someone needs to keep the Company afloat. That someone,” he places a finger in the middle of Rex’s plated chest, “is you.”

“No.” Rex huffs. Their back is to the door of the Jeep. “No, I’m not leaving you.”

“That loyalty'll get you killed.”

“Good. Better me than you. I want revenge for the Shadows, Graves, I need it—”

“Then go home, tend to our wounded and wait for me there.”

“You promised me I’d never have to run this shit by myself, don’t be a fucking liar.”

“You won't have to. I’ll come home when this is finished, we’ll get what we need from Valeria in the meantime and use it to find that last missile. Take Hassan down and come home, right t’you, sugar.” It was a promise, a big one, and Rex was unsure if Graves could hold up his end of it. Coming home was an uncertainty that most would not try to guarantee. Especially up against the likes of the 141, trained killers that were unlikely to stop at the orders of anyone except Laswell or Price.

“You’re suicidal, you know that?” Rex scoffs. “If you had any self preservation instincts, then you'd have me stay here and deal with their inevitable assault. I’d do anything for you, Graves—”

“Then go home.” Graves says quietly, pulling Rex in by the front of their vest, hands gripped onto the sides of it. He can see something flicker across those lovingly familiar green eyes, something rebellious, but Rex bites it down. “S’just two hours t’get there, babe, I bet I can make it back ‘bout an hour or so.”

“Better not be lying to me, Shadow.” Rex murmurs, grabbing Graves by the collar of his blue dress shirt. He pulls the blonde down to be eye-level with himself before crashing their lips together in a heated exchange, all terror and feverish tension, not knowing what was going to impact them. It left them breathless, wanting to take a moment longer to revel in the fact they were both alive, but a loud thunk of the Jeep door slamming cleared Rex's mind of any impure thoughts.

“Let's go, LC.” Maverick’s voice calls, the Sergeant Major entirely oblivious to what's going on around the opposite side of the vehicle he’s in the driver's seat of.

“Go on, Coda. Just a few days.” Another brief kiss and Rex is ducking away wordlessly into the Jeep, glancing back only to see Graves smiling back. Cobalt blue eyes and a pipe dream about a perfect world in which the 141 shows up alone, but they both knew that wasn't going to happen.

Rex regretted staying silent the moment they saw the American border come into view and passed into Texas. He wanted to call, but he also knew that he had things to attend to at HQ that required his immediate attention. Assisting the medical staff in tending to wounded Shadows from Las Almas, who had somehow survived the trip back. Filling out the after-action reports for all of the missions, writing detailed explanations of what had gone down with the help of bodycam footage — sifting through tags to catalogue the deaths. It was a lion’s share of work, but he thought that whatever he couldn't put a dent in, Graves would return to finish off with him.

Days passed sitting in that office.

He had started sleeping in there, the bed far too empty without Graves in it, an increasing stack of files sitting before him. There were at least twenty-five dead from Las Almas, another fifty or so from the prison they were keeping the Vaqueros in, and an unreported amount from the MexSpec-Opsnbuilding. No correspondence yet about what had gone down, not until Wasp walks into the office with a sort of fear in his eyes that instills immediate terror into Rex.

“Where’s Graves?” Rex asks, quiet at first. If Wasp has returned, that means that they finished up in Mexico. He was staying there to assist in the defense of the facility.

If he was back, then Graves should be too.

“Rex, I—” Wasp starts, patting at his vest to search for something in his pockets.

“Where. Is. Graves?” He’s angry now, standing up, hands planted firmly on the desk in front of them. Their eyes are firmly affixed on Wasp’s hands as he pulls a chain out from one of his pockets, the tags clinking together. It's realistically quiet, but it sounds like gunfire the way Rex’s brain shuts everything else out.

He holds his hand out and it's trembling.

“I did everything I—”

“Give.” Rex barks, more wrath than sadness. The chain coils up in their palm and the crinkled metal of the tags follows suit. He turns them over, caked on blood and soot making them hard to read at first, but whenever he can read them it's like a shot to the head.

CDR PHILIP GRAVES.

SHADOW 0-1.

OPOS. CATHOLIC.

He doesn't say a word at first. He turns the tags over again and again, gently smudging off the stains until they're mostly silver once more. It's impossible to believe that these came from thee Philip Graves. They’re mangled. Rex looks up at Wasp, who is just barely holding it together himself.

“What do we do?” Wasp asks just above a whisper.

“What happened?” Rex doesn't give him the grace of an answer, not yet. He sinks back into his seat — Graves’ office chair — and clutches the destroyed tags between shaking fingers. Feverishly rubbing over the embossing like prayer beads, hoping that maybe if he holds them tightly enough then this will be over sooner.

“You don't wanna know.” Wasp replied without hesitation.

“Oh no, no, I do want to know. What happened?”

“Rex, I swear—”

“Don't fucking promise me shit, Walker, what the hell happened?” Rex is firm in his questioning, knowing better than to take more oaths from men around here. He didn't care if anyone thought he didn't need to know, if they swore he was better off unaware. There was no sense in dancing around the facts, plain and simple. Graves was dead. He was likely not in a box outside, and if he was then he was likely unrecognizable. If anyone ever deserved an answer about what happened to someone in full truth, it was Rex.

“We attempted a counter-assault on the 141, but they brought the Vaqueros as well as their, uh, friend in the chopper. Nikolai. Facility was in rubble, we needed to use a last resort and Graves hijacked a tank from their hangar—”

“He specifically did? He didn't have someone else do it?”

“Yeah, he…he said that we needed to get as many of our wounded out as possible, that he would take care of the remaining assailants.” Wasp speaks like he’s giving a mission report. Partially because it's easier than the alternative, which is greeting Rex like a newly widowed spouse. He takes in a breath through his teeth and looks up at the ceiling before his eyes met Rex’s again. “Between MacTavish and his…um, proclivity for explosives and — the, um, Nikolai in the chopper…”

“He didn't stand a chance.” Rex murmurs. Explosives? That would explain the state of the tags.

“Not even a little.” Wasp replies. Solemn. “I rallied the survivors, they left after they I.D’d him. Aggressively. I’m surprised that they didn't take his tags, but…”

“That’s it, then, isn't it?” Rex unclasps the clip on the back of Graves’ chain before placing it around his own neck, clipping it shut once again. It's warm, the metal, as he tucks it underneath his shirt.

“What do we do now?” Wasp asks again, and while he’s relieved that Rex didn't shatter into a million tiny pieces at the news, he’s certain that a hurricane is coming. Brewing deep in his chest, just waiting for the right moment to spill out and take everything down with him. Rex hadn't ever thought about what was supposed to happen whenever this day came because he was promised on repeat like a broken record that it never would, but there’s only so many ways to break the news to an entire PMC of men and women. He glances around the desk, pushing papers and files aside to grab the microphone to the P.A. system. They rarely used it, given that little had changed in long enough that no service announcements needed to be made, but that changed today. Rex blew the dust off and pressed the little red button on the front, which started glowing afterwards, signifying that he can begin.

“Alright, Shadows, I need all units to report to the tarmac ASAP. This is your Commander speaking.”

Nothing felt worse than dragging himself down there, than fixing his face in the reflection of some picture hung in the hallway, taking a deep breath and attempting to look like he had some sort of clue. It got easier, though. There were hang-ups in the first few weeks, but eventually Rex adjusted to being called Commander. He knew that this was on his shoulders now, that handling the legal case was on him and so was continuing to make Shadow Company a profitable business as its CEO. Aside from burying the charred remains of his person, that was the worst part of all of this — trying to seem as though he could keep his head above water as well as everyone else's.

There was a part of him that thought if he simply pushed hard enough that he could ignore the grief. Maybe he could avoid it entirely by just working until he forgot that he was unhappy, that his bed was going to be half-full forever; that his husband was dead.

Rex looked up one morning and didn't recognize that person in the mirror. His hair was down past his shoulders now, his cheeks less full than they had been. Every scar felt more apparent with every passing day that he spent running drills outside with the Shadows, because his skin was flushing a shade of tan that it never had before. He stopped taking hot showers. Fucking warmth reminded him of Graves. Winter came quietly to Texas as it always did and still he slept with the windows open.

Graves would've wanted them closed.

He left the television on all night.

Graves would’ve wanted it off.

He got a new vest without the strap on the back because who was he supposed to kneel to now? A patch on the front reading Commander still doesn't feel at home on his chest, neither does the Shadow 0-1 callsign so he refuses to use it outright. Rex pushes the court case against Shadow Company back even further due to the lack of a man to charge, as they can't be held liable for a dead man’s crimes. He knew it was getting bad whenever the Justice of the peace actually let it slide.

Shadow Company returned to some semblance of normal within six months.

Rex never felt like himself anymore, but at least everyone else seemed to have recovered. The newest Shadows never even met Graves — brought on by Rex to replace the mass losses taken in Mexico. He could barely believe it, he was actually doing it all alone and somehow he hadn't given up on the people or the place. It was running smoothly as far as anyone was concerned, at least further down the ladder of command.

The Shadows knew. The officers, at least. Wasp and Spitfire weren't fucking stupid, keeping a close watch on everything Rex got his hands dirty with to ensure he wasn't just running headfirst into his own death. They watched him take a backseat to his own life, everything he worked for passing him by whilst others reaped the benefits. Graves would be proud of how efficiently the Company ran, that was for damn sure, but he wouldn't be happy that it came at the cost of Rex’s spark.

He lost it. That quick wit, the bite that backed up his bark, the things that made him…well, him.

The day that a ceasefire was pushed across his desk by Kate Laswell, she knew it, too. This wasn't the Rex that would kill someone for speaking ill of his Commander, no, this was Commander Morelli, or what remained of him at least. She looked up at Rex with an understanding in her eyes that the 141 could not possibly fathom, not for a monster like Rex that would turn tail on them so quickly.

“You don't have to sign it, I…I just want you to know that they’re intent on closing this chapter. We have work to do, business that needs tending.” Kate says with all of the bureaucratic charm she usually has, a kind enough smile tugging at her features. Rex nods slowly as he looks it over, seeing a spot at the bottom for his name. Captain John Price has already signed it. It’s August. He looks out the window of his office before looking back at the paper, pressing his pen to it with nothing short of defeat. “Thank you, Rex.”

“No problem.” He sort of nods as he pushes it back to Kate. “I just want this to be over with. Any luck finding Shepherd?”

“Not yet…we have bigger fish to fry, I’m afraid.” Kate purses her lips in thought. “Would…Shadow Company be interested in working with—”

“Absolutely not.” Rex cuts her off. “I appreciate the kind gesture of the ceasefire, but I won't need a gun if I have to work with a single one of them brits again.”

Point made.

“I understand. Just…don't hesitate to reach out, alright? I know we have a rocky relationship now, but the C.I.A. is happy to continue to administrate your contracts as we have been. I’ll leave Price's men out of them.” Kate is nothing short of a saint. Rex is all teeth and flattened ears, somewhere in the valley between anger and depression. He’s armed with those emotions because it's easier than admitting he’s nothing like how he used to be on the inside, and though Kate can see right through it she chooses to say nothing.Professionalism is what she aims for and it's not exactly the picture of it to call him on his bullshit.

She disappears as quickly as she came to HQ and Rex can safely say he’s relieved. His hands find the top drawer of the desk and he pulls out a half crumpled pack of Newports and a lighter, not hesitating to spark one up inside. The window is open anyways. A playing card shaped ashtray on the desk with a spade in the center taunts him, though he chooses to ignore it whilst he looks down at his copy of the ceasefire.

…hereby agrees to cease all hostile contact with Shadow Co. as long as said agreement is upheld inversely towards Task Force 141…

“What a bunch of bullshit.” Rex mumbles to himself as he stuffs it into his desk, sighing as his forehead meets the warm surface of the hardwood.

It changes nothing. They operate as per usual, carrying out the typical business that they had beforehand without any special addendums. No intentionally risky missions, no smuggling American made missiles for a disgraced General, nothing out of the ordinary for a privatized military group. A ceasefire only matters in wartimes and as far as Rex is concerned, they aren't involved in any wars. Kate doesn't contact them about any ongoing changes in the worldwide political climate, so he rightfully assumes that everything is coasting along as it should be. He never asked about the PMC that assaulted them in Urzikstan and stole the missile shipment for Hassan because, truthfully, he knew nobody outside of Shepherd would have answers. The Konni PMC was placed on a back burner in his mind, at least until his phone starts ringing.

It's a Tuesday when Farah calls him.

He doesn't pick up.

Instead, he goes outside.

There's a tree on the back of the property, a weeping willow in all white. Whenever Graves passed, Rex knew they weren't going to be able to give his remains up to some mortuary, so they buried what they had out in the back 40. It's what he would've wanted, anyways, not some cramped cemetery. Rex came out whenever he needed to think or breathe, mull things over with the only motherfucker that would've been real with him. Graves would always be honest about things even if it meant knocking Rex down a peg or two. Rex crossed their legs and sat down, pulling out an all too familiar flask from their pocket. P.G. embossed in the leather casing, a playing card shoved in there too. The ace of spades. Rex threw back a shot and let the warmth settle in his stomach.

He isn't sure how long he's out there when he hears someone behind him.

Footsteps, then the clearing of a throat.

“You mind?” Rex doesn't even look back. He knows that only a newer Shadow would be so dumb as to traipse on up whilst he’s sulking out here. Commander Morelli is very famously armed at all times, this they know. “I’m a bit busy, recruit, what do you want?”

“Didn't anybody ever teach you some god damn manners? Your daddy didn't hug you enough or somethin'?” Rex whips around with all of the fire of a sun, his eyes locking with a set of cobalt blue ones that stand behind him. He stares for just a moment, entirely slack jawed, his hand still gripping the flask as if it's a lifeline.

He clears his throat again, whoever it is, and Rex makes a mental note about making them run laps later.

He’s wearing a light blue dress shirt, a Lacoste, and faded blue jeans. The belt around his waist is black with a red stripe down the middle, matching the magazine holder that dangles from it, a snake embroidered on the front panel. He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets save for his thumbs, a silver watch on his left wrist that Rex recognizes well as he was the one who purchased it. There’s a nauseatingly familiar scar just below the man’s right eye, running back across his cheek and back through the top of his ear. Clipped like a feral dog that’s been taken to the vet.

“He didn't, actually, how’d y'know?”He says with a hum, rocking back on his heels ever so slightly. He has boots on, casual ones, though the leather is worn all the same as a pair of tactical ones. Rex can hear the material creak. It's been a long while since anyone wore them. “Well? You just gonna stare or what?”

Rex has pulled his sidearm before he can even consciously think about doing so and its pointed at the imposter’s forehead, pressed up against it actually.

“Bit much, ain't it, sugar?”

“Go fuck yourself — who the fuck do you think you are? What kind of sick fucking joke is this? Huh?” He taps the barrel against the man’s forehead. The imposter’s hands are up and behind his head in a quick movement that almost gets him shot. Rex is so certain this isn't Graves, because he isn't smiling about it. He doesn't have that smug grin that says ‘surprise’ as if this is something laughable.

No, he actually…he looks distraught.

“Answers. Now.” Rex slowly turns to walk the imposter backwards from the grave, never taking the pistol from his forehead. They’re not even shaking, hands entirely too steady for how electric all of their nerve endings feel. “Spill.”

“Coda, can you put the gun down?”

“Who? That isn't my name, I’m sorry, try again.” Rex taps the barrel off his head and the lookalike shifts his gaze away.

“Rex. Put the gun down.” His voice is too eerily similar. Rex feels faint. “What do I need to do to convince you that I’m me?”

“Explain how the fuck I buried a body, that’s what. Philip Graves is dead, he’s in a pine box three feet behind and six feet under me.” Rex clicks the hammer back into place on the revolver and the man tenses up, though his pupils are blown out wide. He doesn't look afraid for his life, if anything he looks oddly relieved.

“How else did you expect me to win down there in Mexico, huh? Gave ‘em some bait, they took it. I had to disappear, Rex, or they would've kept botherin’ us. Would’ve really put us both under.” He seems genuine, but Rex isn't buying it. This is all too convenient. Graves wouldn’t have left him out of the plans, would he? Not intentionally. No, this had to have been a last minute decision. Wait. Why is he even believing this sick fuck? Pretending to be a man’s dead husband? Rex shakes his head to clear his thoughts and grabs at his belt, feeling around for his radio. “Who are you calling?”

“My Lieutenants, that's who.” Rex huffs as he picks the radio up.

“Wasp and Spitfire let me in, sugar. Can you put the gun down, now?” Graves isn't quite begging, but he sounds exhausted. Rex falters for a moment, his aim wavering, before giving out all together. The revolver falls to the grass and he clasps his hand over his mouth, looking up at the blonde before him with something close to what they used to share. Things are different now, though. Terribly. It had been a long, hard year. Then his arms are open and are can't process if he wants to hug him or hit him. “C’mere.”

It hurts.

Real, physical pain.

He wants to scream, cry, something.

Don't call me sugar, don't do this to me, look at the fucking wreck I've become.

He can't.

“No, no, this…this isn’t…you’re not him.” Rex stutters, shaking his head. Before he can back away completely Graves has him in his arms, smothered into his chest, and all of those nagging thoughts disappear instantly. He smells how he always did. The cross around his neck is cool metal where Rex’s face presses into it, the expanse of his back is warmed by the sun. His arms are strong and capable, swearing silently to protect Rex from everything he had failed to.

“It's me, Coda. M’home.” Graves says with that familiar sickly sweetness that almost makes Rex forget the suffering he endured. The longest year of his life, burying Coda for good. Graves hadn't really died, but he wondered if he could resurrect the other version of himself that he used to be.

The days and weeks that follow are filled with a kind of tension that everyone is sick of within a few hours. Rex has developed the capability to run the Company with nothing short of confidence and self assurance, becoming much more than just the leashed animal he had been before. He’s skin and bones and claws, all bloodied maw and choked up flesh, a promise to die for this Company.. The problem is that Graves doesn't recognize that person wearing the Commander badge, supposedly his partner, though he can't be sure through the unkempt mess of hair and tired eyes. Rex doesn't look like that, no, Rex is soft on the edges even when he’s baring his teeth.

Whoever he came back to isn't him, but he tries to love him all the same. Rex doesn't let him close enough for that.

They still don't really trust each other whenever they arrive in Urzikstan to meet Alex and Farah. Though, there's something to be said about the surprised smirk Alex gives when they walk into the room. He straightens up, sort of tilts his head like a curious puppy when he speaks.

“The Shadow himself.” Alex speaks, followed by Farah.

“Welcome, Graves.”

“Heard you died in a tank in South America.” Alex smirks.

Rex freezes instinctually. South America? They were in Mexico. Who the fuck told them South America? Farah sounded like she knew what had happened whenever they spoke on the phone, did she not? Either Graves doesn't clock the mistake or he chooses to ignore it.

“Well, I wasn't in that tank.” Graves says with all of his usual smug confidence. He suppresses a smile, though. “What else have you heard?”

“We’re fighting our battles, here, no time for rumors.” Farah cuts off his curiosity. Rex can't help but wonder who gave them their information — as far as Rex was concerned they had only communicated with Shadow Company about the events of the last year. Had they been in contact with John Price? He knew that they'd worked together to retrieve Kate Laswell from captivity at some point, sure, but Rex was of the understanding that they’d ceased contact as Farah didn't even ask about Las Almas over the phone.

Did they not know why Graves’ life had been ‘taken’? What Shadow Company had done to the 141? Rex had a million questions that would go unanswered for far, far too long, but he was at least able to come to grips with the fact Graves was alive.

He didn't understand why he was left out of the plans, why the entirety of the Company was, or where Graves was for that excruciating year. He didn't understand why it had to be so hush-hush. If anyone should've been in the loop, it should've been him. They sit on the jet ride back to Texas, to prepare the shipment of missiles to be cargo-shipped to Urzikstan’s coast for Farah to retrieve. It's deathly quiet for the longest time, just the two of them in the cabin, splitting a bottle of whiskey.

Rex thumbs over the tags still around his neck, crinkled metal against the smooth surface of his own tags, glancing up to meet Graves’ gaze. They still had yet to share a bed again, let alone anything more intimate than a ‘hello.’

It feels more like a mercurial affair than what was previously a marriage, but theres some sort of hope buried in there somewhere. Like maybe if they can dig Farah out of this mess then maybe they can find themselves again, but they both know it's not that simple.

For now, their boots touch and Rex doesn't pull away. They share a drink on the ride home and the silence as well, wondering how many more miniscule heartbreaks it will take for them to need each other again.

—

💫 tags // @simonrriley 💫

a little more of the rexgraves lore in-between mwii and mwii ❤️‍🩹

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