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tranquiltrico · 11 months

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FARALEX - Ruff Day (Alex's POV)

(Originally posted on Twitter)

Alex's POV - there is a Farah POV in editing atm.

A oneshot about Alex's unwilling retirement and his struggles coping with the quiet.

Inspired heavily by the the MW II bundle of Alex and the tactical pet called Syd.

CW: loneliness, angst, implied PTSD, vague mention of sex, pet loss, ambiguous ending

It starts with fatigue. Alex notices himself slowing down not in the tender creak of his knee but instead in the deep set frown between Farah’s brows on each mission, the way she asks him to stay back more and more. The way the bags settle under her eyes, from her evident sleepless nights watching over his own restless form on their bed.

The cigarettes shared across the fading sunlight dwindle more and more each evening. The quiet, celebratory meals of bread and stew by candlelight, stilling the uneven wooden table whenever the ground shook from distant warfare. The slow and steady looks exchanged whilst sipping hot coffee through bleary eyes in the morning.

It all goes away.

“You need to go home, Alex,” she breathes one night, her form hunkered down, unable to meet his eye. God, how he longs to be looked at - with joy, with love, with malice, anything to be looked at by her.

“I am home-” he starts.

“No. You’re not. You’re a liability,” she bites coldly, stiff.

“Farah,” he murmurs, desperation and need and all the words unspoken bleeding into his voice.

“I’m sorry, Alex,” she whispers into the cold, still air. The dust motes surround them in all their cloying, suffocating glory.

“Go home.”

The air conditioning on the plane feels cold. The tarnished and weather-worn railing of his new porch feels cold. He showers so hot it burns his skin, sits in front of his archaic fireplace each night, fills his near-empty stomach with scalding hot tea. Still, the cold persists.

Until six months later. An old friend he served with pays him a visit one day in May, and brings with him a surprise.

“This is Syd,” Derek announces, giving the shepherd a firm rub behind the ears, “He’s in retirement, poor old boy’s got a bit of a limp from a stray bullet.”

“Always a shame for them, for dogs so dedicated to their job,” he notes back. The dull ache in his leg intensifies as if in sympathy to his four-legged acquaintance. Derek hums back, mind lost in the sweet tea in his free hand.

“He’s looking for a home right now, you know?” Derek responds into the quiet air between them. From his space on the floor between them, Syd looks up dutifully, eyes meeting Alex’s own. He’s wordless for a moment, until-

“I’ve always thought that there’s this… silent wisdom in a dog’s eyes,” he mumbles, a small smile gracing his lips, “Like they… they know the edges of your soul or something, and they dig themselves a little hole in your chest for them to live in.”

Derek just laughs at that, immune to Alex’s wistful ruminations. And when Syd never leaves that day, panting softly from where he lies on the porch, it’s no surprise.

What is a surprise though, is how deep Syd seems to be able to dig holes in the garden. Alex is almost tired of filling them back in, let alone the fact that he has to sit for twenty or so minutes at a time cleaning the dog’s paws and tummy. It’s a good excuse to give the garden a little bit of TLC though.

Still, the companionship helps to fill in the quiet, and the duvet starts to feel a little warmer each night with Syd lying at the base of the bed. He takes to hiking again, like he used to with his dad as a kid. The heavy pack on his back certainly doesn't do his leg any favours if all the tingling and aching is anything to go by, but Syd seems to have developed a sixth sense for it, and presses up into his side each time Alex slows down.

There’s something so satisfying on those days, with the breeze over the hilltops as they breach through the clearing of trees and prop up against the rocks. He’s never been one for photos much, preferring to commit himself to memory, but a part of him wishes to have these times immortalised.

He feels silly and childish for it, but he guesses there’s no one around to judge him for it when he starts trying to draw the mountains he visits with Syd. It’s hard when the details fail to come to his mind, hard to capture what he really sees. Once or twice he even considers opening up a Bob Ross tutorial, but he resists.

Instead, he focuses his attention to drawing Syd; it feels like an easier start, less reliant on his straining memory. It’s almost like the pooch knows, because he takes to sitting and lying close by for prolonged periods of time, almost perfectly still as he stares up lovingly at Alex.

Once or twice, under the warm lamp light (one that feels so reminiscent of the candle glow across a rickety wooden table) he tries to commit Farah’s face to memory. The sharp slope of her nose, the warm quality of her wide eyes, the thin smile she’d sometimes grace him with. It becomes harder and harder to remember with each passing day - harder and harder to believe she’s out there, fighting strong.

He starts to mail her a few of his drawings, as shitty as they are with his shaky hands, only ever the ones of Syd though. He likes to send them with small notes; keeps it short and sweet because that’s how they always were together.

I got an ex-military dog called Syd. He’s pretty sweet. You’d love the little mongrel. - Alex

Today Syd hit a new record - he dug his biggest hole yet. You might notice this drawing has a lot of mud on it as a result. - Alex

Syd hates storms because of the noise. But I have to admit, he looks cute hiding under the blanket like this. - Alex

She never answers, but there’s a subtle sense of peace and closure that comes in accepting this new reality of his. He wakes up each morning to a hot breath in his face and gives Syd his allocated cuddles for a few minutes. He gets up, attaches his prosthetic slowly and carefully whilst Syd fusses for his breakfast. Grabs them both some food, and prepares both of their painkillers (which they both have through a grimace). Spends the days reading, walking, gardening - anything menial to fill the day.

Sometimes, he’ll get a chance to call or text Gaz; keeps up with his friend and how he’s doing out on duty. It’s nice to know that his life before isn’t totally lost, even if he’s had no contact from Farah and it’s driving him a little mad.

It’s coming up to November when the darker times sink in. Alex has always worked to run from his nightmares - often, he’d stay up, running a gentle hand through Farah’s hair. When he couldn’t, he’d leave the small window in their room cracked wide open, if only to rush to it in his fatigued panic to feel the air on his skin. To feel alive.

These days he’s not so sure what to do anymore - the nights here aren’t as cold even in winter, so the air doesn’t seem to feel so refreshing. Thankfully, when he wakes in his blind panic, he finds Syd pressing down firmly on his chest, lapping slowly at his skin as if the licks would ward off whatever demons sink their claws into his mind.

Alex wakes up and his head pounds from sleeplessness, the groggy sensation of spending the whole night shaking off his cursed memories. And then comes a totally new and different wave of panic, because for the first time in months, Syd is gone and he’s alone again.

He calls out for the dog softly, but there’s no movement or response, and his concern grows. He’s hasty in the way he attaches his leg, hobbles knob-kneed down his stairs and looks all around the house for his boy. His last port of call is the front door; he hopes desperately for the dog to be out there, digging one of his signature holes.

“Syd, here boy!” he shouts out through the gap, peering over his empty lawn with bated breath. He’s almost knocked over with the weight of his relief when he hears a soft and familiar whimper to his left, and he slides out through the doorway, even if his leg protests against the frosty morning.

He looks up and his heart stops. It’s like his whole heart has been dropped into the mouth of a lion, and he’s watching helplessly as the feline decides whether or not to tear it to pieces.

“Farah?” he croaks out, hands shaking by his sides as he stares down at her (and Syd, splayed out in front of her.

“Alex,” she breathes, like she’s just as surprised to see him even though she must have planned for this to happen.

“What are you doing here?” he chokes out. Syd must sense his nerves, because he’s straight up and resting his form firmly against Alex’s good leg.

Farah holds up a small stack of folded papers, her stereotypical soft smile present. “I got your letters.”

“Oh,” is all he can offer, rather unintelligently.

“I can’t draw,” she murmurs, tilting her head a little, “So I thought I’d come and tell you instead.”

It’s always easy with her. Her self assured nature. The way she stumbles through the process of making her coffee in his kitchen, but does so without asking any questions. She fusses at Syd just as he’d envisioned her for all those months, reads him through her little notes and comments on each drawing and the conflicts she’s been facing.

He knows he doesn’t have much time to share with her, or he might have shown her his favourite hiking trails. He knows she’d love the quiet over the hills, and the views, and the serenity. He settles for showing her the forests (which she promptly falls in love with) and all the private spots around town where he likes to draw Syd.

He knows it’s coming but he hates that it has to. She holds his hand this time, when she speaks to him. Her eyes are warm, even as small as she looks like this, visibly upset.

“I’m sorry that I… sent you away like that,” she starts, frowning. “It was cruel but… you have to understand, Alex, you never found yourself,” she breathes out wistfully. And as she says it, the hollow in his soul recognises itself.

“You can’t keep running from it. You have to be your own purpose some day.”

He nods even as the words wound him. He knows it, but it’s hard to admit.

“You can’t come back,” he realises, is what she means. She nods solemnly, gripping firmly onto his hand.

“You will always be the one, you know?” she asks, reaching over to cup his cheek in her small hand.

“The one?” he replies.

“The one who taught me how to be happy again,” she smiles, but this time, it has a sad tinge to it that he’s only seen once or twice before.

After a while, he whispers into the small space between them.

“Promise me one thing.”

She hums her acknowledgement.

“If there’s ever a chance, ever a day where you can look out that little window and feel like everything is going to be okay, “ he chokes out, “Promise me you’ll come back to me.”

She huffs a defeated laugh but her smile is more tender now. “Okay - I promise.”

They share one last sweet night - soft caresses over bruised and scarred skin, warm breath over tense muscles, soft hums against each other’s mouths. He can almost feel his heart break finally though, the next morning, when he has to hold Syd back by the collar and listen to his pitiful whimpers as he watches Farah’s disappearing form. It feels quieter that night, as he watches old sitcom reruns and shares some chicken with Syd.

He gets used to it, eventually. This same monotony brings him comfort, slowly but surely. He keeps hiking and walking where he can, even if his leg strains more and more with the passing days. He even makes a few friends at his local bar, also ex-military. He learns to barbecue that summer, one skill his dad had never taught him in his youth. He watches Syd slow down, but even in his old age, the dog still loves to dig holes.

Sometimes, he still sends Farah his drawings of Syd. They’re not so good these days; his hands are shakier and his back aches if he’s still for those long periods of time. The thought of her little smile when she sees the drawings is enough for him to continue, even if she never answers.

When Syd passes, Alex sheds the first of his tears since he was just a young boy and his father fell ill. He buries the dog in his garden, in his favourite hole-digging spot, with his own dog tags draped over the stones there.

Even with the pain in his hands and the blur in his mind, he commits himself to one more drawing. Sets across the page his thin, slightly shaky lines. Cuts across the white with soft, dark curves and planes.

He goes to sleep that night with the drawing resting across his bedside table, so that when he wakes up, he might forever be greeted by that beautiful image of Farah, grinning as she sits beside Syd, scratching the dog’s tummy.

He thinks this peace is all he’ll need for the rest of his days.

He thinks it’s enough now that he’s not so hollow. And hell, if Farah ever comes back, maybe that would be paradise after all. He knows better than to think it into being. Instead, he’ll settle for his memories and his dreams.

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