Where There's Smoke
Jean Havoc stared down at the blankets covering his legs and willed his toes to wiggle. It would be the first victory in the grand campaign he had planned, a small step towards the result he was damn well going to get. But first…he needed that toe to move. A wiggle might have been a high order. Perhaps a voluntary twitch would be a good start. If he could just jostle another wrinkle into the blanket…
A short, firm knock on the door, as crisp and professional as the man who followed it, had Havoc reflexively scrounging after some relative of parade attention from his place on the bed. He managed the salute and his spine scrambled out of its slouch, but that was about it. Roy swept into the room, hat under one arm, bringing in enough of a hint of smoke to set Havoc’s neglected habit tittering in the back of his brain.
“Sir.”
Roy returned the nod and settled into the chair on the other side of the room.
“I’m not contagious, ya know.”
“That was not…” Roy scowled, dropping military precision like the convenient façade it was.
Havoc allowed a crooked grin as Roy scooted the chair to his bedside, gave into an addict’s bliss at the proximity of the cigarette smell. “Since when do you smoke?”
“Since this morning.”
Conversation floundered into a pit of awkward silence as Roy tried to ignore the hospital and Havoc tried to disregard the oddity of a smoking Roy, built in lighter aside.
Havoc snagged a toothpick from the bedside table and gnawed at it with a rather pointed ferocity.
Roy adjusted his collar.
Havoc considered asking if Roy had any paperwork he could do.
Roy fidgeted with his insignia.
Havoc had had enough of things not being said, things being thought loudly enough that they might as well have been spoken, and did what he was best at. He took one for the team. “Mind if I lay my head on your lap, Sir?”
Roy made a sound that suggested he might have just choked on his tongue, but didn’t actively protest.
Bracing himself with his arms, Havoc managed to shift around enough on the bed to accommodate his request. Roy was tense; Havoc could feel it in the thigh against his cheek. Havoc inhaled, tried not to let it sound like a sigh, pulling in all the familiar smells of gunpowder, ozone, sweat, and that musky cologne Roy used to try to cover all the rest up. It was the scent of late nights in the bar, cold nights on the job…
A weight settled atop his head, Roy’s hand as it tentatively brushed through his hair.
Havoc closed his eyes and relaxed for the first time in days. A good half of his body was on strike; he flopped around like a beached fish on the best of days, the dead weight of his legs out to thwart him. But right now that didn’t seem such an insurmountable obstacle.
“You know, we could get you outside and set up with a rifle if you want to get some time at the range in…”
Havoc grinned. Snipers were best belly down, not belly up. Roy had that way of making the impossible seem almost probable. And Havoc would follow him to the ends of the earth, even if he had to drag himself in an undignified crawl.
Jean Havoc stared down at the blankets covering his legs and willed his toes to wiggle. It would be the first victory in the grand campaign he had planned, a small step towards the result he was damn well going to get. But first…he needed that toe to move. A wiggle might have been a high order. Perhaps a voluntary twitch would be a good start. If he could just jostle another wrinkle into the blanket…
A short, firm knock on the door, as crisp and professional as the man who followed it, had Havoc reflexively scrounging after some relative of parade attention from his place on the bed. He managed the salute and his spine scrambled out of its slouch, but that was about it. Roy swept into the room, hat under one arm, bringing in enough of a hint of smoke to set Havoc’s neglected habit tittering in the back of his brain.
“Sir.”
Roy returned the nod and settled into the chair on the other side of the room.
“I’m not contagious, ya know.”
“That was not…” Roy scowled, dropping military precision like the convenient façade it was.
Havoc allowed a crooked grin as Roy scooted the chair to his bedside, gave into an addict’s bliss at the proximity of the cigarette smell. “Since when do you smoke?”
“Since this morning.”
Conversation floundered into a pit of awkward silence as Roy tried to ignore the hospital and Havoc tried to disregard the oddity of a smoking Roy, built in lighter aside.
Havoc snagged a toothpick from the bedside table and gnawed at it with a rather pointed ferocity.
Roy adjusted his collar.
Havoc considered asking if Roy had any paperwork he could do.
Roy fidgeted with his insignia.
Havoc had had enough of things not being said, things being thought loudly enough that they might as well have been spoken, and did what he was best at. He took one for the team. “Mind if I lay my head on your lap, Sir?”
Roy made a sound that suggested he might have just choked on his tongue, but didn’t actively protest.
Bracing himself with his arms, Havoc managed to shift around enough on the bed to accommodate his request. Roy was tense; Havoc could feel it in the thigh against his cheek. Havoc inhaled, tried not to let it sound like a sigh, pulling in all the familiar smells of gunpowder, ozone, sweat, and that musky cologne Roy used to try to cover all the rest up. It was the scent of late nights in the bar, cold nights on the job…
A weight settled atop his head, Roy’s hand as it tentatively brushed through his hair.
Havoc closed his eyes and relaxed for the first time in days. A good half of his body was on strike; he flopped around like a beached fish on the best of days, the dead weight of his legs out to thwart him. But right now that didn’t seem such an insurmountable obstacle.
“You know, we could get you outside and set up with a rifle if you want to get some time at the range in…”
Havoc grinned. Snipers were best belly down, not belly up. Roy had that way of making the impossible seem almost probable. And Havoc would follow him to the ends of the earth, even if he had to drag himself in an undignified crawl.
