Archive of Our Own

He wakes up slowly, his consciousness slowly filtering in through the fog of his head. The first thing he notices is not what he should notice first. It's obvious from the beeping of monitors and the smell of disinfectant that he’s in a hospital.

It’s a little odd, he’s reminded during times like this, how his head and body adapted to his career path. Because really, he shouldn’t be associating waking up in a hospital with a deep sense of comfort. He blinks a few times to get used to the white, fluorescent lights; something that’s just part of this routine.

The second thing he notices, the thing that should’ve been first, is that he’s alive. 

He’s not…displeased about being alive. But he gets the impression he should be more happy about this than he is. He tries to sit up and quickly realizes he should’ve waited a little longer. As he’s waking up, the pain of the last few weeks wakes up with him. He has to tense up and breathe for a minute before slowly rising up in his hospital bed.

It's now, maybe a solid minute after he’s woken up, that he notices the third thing.

He’s not alone.

Neck bent, hair askew, slightly snoring in the corner of his room is Guile. 

Charlie’s not shocked or afraid at his presence, Guile’s also part of the routine. Waking up in the hospital with new scars on his shoulders to have Guile burst in, or Guile waiting outside, or, like this: sleeping on a small, plastic, hospital chair.

He doesn’t make a move to wake Guile. Instead, he leans back into his pillows and closes his eyes. He’s not particularly tired, but he wants Guile to catch up on some rest. 

Although he’s awake, he’s not paying attention to how much time passes until he hears the door open.

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He asked Helen, once, how she revived him. More specifically, he asked how the green skin was part of the process. She told them they were grafts, that the tissue on his arm, face, chest, and back needed replacement tissue. When he asked where she got them from, because they were green, she got quiet and told him not to ask about it anymore. 

He relented at the time because he’d been alive for 26 hours and still wasn’t feeling very alive. Now though, as medical professionals swarm and examine him, he wishes he kept asking.

Guile had woken up at the sound of the nurse, and the two of them held eye contact for a few seconds before he left the room. Where he was now, Charlie didn’t know.

He parrots Helen’s words back at the doctors, who frown and tell him these are like no grafts they’ve seen before. Sure, because they’re green, but also because they can’t identify what or who they came from. They ask about the stone in his forehead, and he shrugs and tells him he doesn’t know what it's for, which doesn’t satisfy them.

The doctors continue to prod at him. He gets multiple tests all within that one day, is asked hundreds of questions, and barely rests before the doctors are happy and leave him be. 

He’s nearly asleep when the door to his room cracks open to reveal Guile. It's half an hour to the end of visiting hours, but he sits next to Charlie as if they have all the time in the world.

The two of them have always been ‘doing’ people over ‘talking’ people; is Charlie’s reasoning that he and Guile can’t seem to talk to each other. They could try, but all it would be is a pathetic re-creation of the past. So they only speak in professional, polite conversation about Shadaloo. It’s been three days since the raid on Shadaloo and two days since Bison’s demise, and it seems everyone’s been busy since then. Ryu and Ken are helping reconstruction efforts, Chun-Li’s been comforting the little girl Charlie only briefly saw, and Cammy’s back in England with her newly rescued sister.

And Guile’s here. With Charlie.

Guile tells Charlie how there’s a giant investigation into government agents who worked with Shadaloo, with names and bills traced from Shadaloo’s headquarters. Headed by multiple governments, the UN, and not a small number of third party organizations. Not everyone will be caught, Guile tells him, but the worst offenders will be.

Charlie wants to know who’s been caught already when a nurse peeks in and tells them visiting hours are over. Their goodbyes are short and simple but Guile promises to visit tomorrow. 

Charlie nods and smiles politely, but privately and in the confines of his own mind, he doubts it. He and Guile are better than co-workers but far less than good friends now. It’s been six years, and however much he wants to keep Guile close in his life, he knows how long the years have been for Guile. 

So as Charlie settles into his flat hospital pillows, he starts forming a plan of what to do next. It’s premature and there will certainly be curveballs, but he has to do this. He has to move on.

Because Guile’s not coming back in the morning.

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But he does, just before noon with coffee and a box of pastries. Charlie forgot to tell him he can’t taste anything, but still thanks him and absolutely devours the assortment of pastries. They don’t talk about anything personal. Charlie’s barely two weeks alive and Guile’s at least six years older than he remembers. They laugh a little, joke about movies and friends and the state of the world when Charlie was alive. Guile pretends he’s younger, pretends the world is a place Charlie knows with only a day or two passed in between. Charlie’s immensely grateful. 

Guile has to leave before 3, but he reassures Charlie he’ll be back tomorrow and this time Charlie can’t even fathom why he would doubt him.

The next few days are stagnant and Charlie spends the majority of his time without Guile sleeping. It’s odd, to be forced to stay somewhere long enough to rest. He doesn’t like it. But he’s incredibly tired, and often the only energy he has is wasted by trying to figure out the plot of a cop show. The doctors reassure him this is normal and fine, that his body needs to regain his energy and the best way to do that is lots of rest. Charlie would retort with something about never needing this much sleep with previous injuries, but he’s often too tired to retort much of anything.

Guile’s with him everyday, often and for long stretches of time. He obviously has a life outside of the hospital, but Charlie thinks it's sweet, the effort he puts in. 

They’re still fragile with what they talk about. Between years is a no go, the present not wise, and the personal past a hard no. With all that off limits, they only talk about the slivers of the in-betweens. They’re moving towards progress, slowly with questions like what Guile’s doing, and what good movies he’s missed, and the dreaded how are you feeling?

All considered, Charlie’s not feeling much of anything. When he first woke up in that temple of stone, he felt a lot of things. Years of his life, taken. Betrayed by the people he’s protected his whole life, left behind to rot at the bottom of a cliff and brought back to life only to be used as a weapon. All those feelings bunching up into a white hot, blinding rage. He was consumed by the idea of Bison’s downfall, his defeat somehow giving it all purpose. Spurred on only by his desire to inflict pain on the man who was responsible for his. What did this new life, this second chance, matter if the man who ended his first one was still alive?

But now he’s gone; and Charlie’s somehow, improbably, impossibly, still here. And with Bison gone, Charlie’s anger, the only thing he’s allowed himself to feel since he’d woken up, is gone with him.

Not exactly easy to explain. So he just says he’s fine and moves on.

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The hospital staff seem to see him as an unknown parasite over a human. And, if what they’re saying is true, he kind of is.

His grafts aren’t from a human or an animal. The hospital tells him it’s “from an organism that’s mimicking human anatomy,” whatever that means. Further tests show that parts of his muscles, organs, brain are of a similar material. They have no clue where the grafts came from and therefore no idea what kind of state they’re in, but Charlie hasn’t been in any pain or discomfort, so they all assume he’ll be fine. Still, he’s under strict instructions to monitor them.

This all said, it wouldn’t be hard to get him discharged. The Airbase’s hospital remained similar to when he was alive. Overworked, understaffed, and unable to keep patients with long-term conditions.

While he’s not unhappy about being in the hospital, he would prefer to go home. The problem with being discharged and going home is that, after years of being dead, he doesn’t exactly have a place to live.

It's then that Guile makes the offer.

”You know, you could stay at my place.”

He says it tentatively, like he’s not sure if he actually wants Charlie to hear him. But Charlie knows Guile, knows that if he didn’t mean it, he wouldn’t offer. It's a very tempting offer. It's also dangerous.

He doesn’t remember as much as he’d like to about when he was last alive. He remembers most of it, but there are certain sections, unexplainable sections, that are missing. They’re not critical parts, like his training or dead parents, they’re small things like what his favourite food was. Or he’ll remember the ending to a mission where the first part doesn’t exist. 

No one said coming back to life was going to be perfect. 

He does, though, remember what he felt for Guile. What they did. Where Charlie’s first phone number is forgotten, Guile’s daughter’s name isn’t. It isn’t because one critical memory was removed, but that he made a commitment to remember so many things about Guile over such a long period of time that one missing memory wouldn’t matter. And he remembers, remembers very well what he felt for Guile. And he wouldn’t admit it, but he’s pretty sure he’s feeling the same things all over again.

He wants too, is the first thing he admits to himself. He wants to take Guile’s offer, just to share the same space as him. The second thing he admits is that he’s not sure it’s a good idea to let this little sprout inside his chest grow. So he grasps Guile’s arm and says with his voice too soft, “I can’t ask that of you.” But Guile responds back, and he seems more confident this time, not like he’s half thinking about it.

“It can be only temporary.” Charlie’s hand is still on his arm. “You don’t have to stay for long. I think it’d be better than being cooped up here.” And he’s right, because of course he is. And it’s never taken much pushing for Charlie to follow Guile’s suggestions, especially because, as much as he wants to let the thing in his chest dry up and die, he feels a compulsion to water it and let it grow.

So a week after he’s admitted, the hospital discharges him with the promise of a checkup in two weeks time; and suddenly he’s in Guile’s car on the highway, driving towards Metro City on the horizon.

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In the over 15 years Charlie’s known him, Guile’s lived in a lot of places. But Charlie doesn’t think he’s been anywhere as long as his current Metro City apartment. Nearly eight years by now, but to Charlie it feels like two. Most nights were spent at Charlie’s, but if the bar was closer, it wasn’t uncommon for them to take a nightcap on Guile’s couch. Still, Charlie’s surprised by how little it’s changed. It's on the 17th floor of a brown, residential building just outside the heart of Metro City. It's small. The door opens to the back of a soft gray sofa with a TV in front of it, which isn’t far from the barstools of the kitchen. There’s one bathroom and it's a stretch to call the spare bedroom a room, instead it's more like a bigger than average closet with a twin sized bed stuffed inside. Likely because of its small size, Guile tells Charlie to take the main. 

It’s awkward, the first week, both of them act as if they don’t share anything but the living space. Neither the history, interests, and general enjoyment of the other’s company seems to be able to cross the vast time away from each other. Even meals are eaten alone, Guile usually leaving a plate for Charlie either in his room or at the table. 

It’s over a week into this schedule that Guile breaks it. Around 7, he shakes Charlie out of a nap for dinner. Charlie, unsure and groggy, only complies and follows Guile into the soft light of the rest of the apartment. 

Guile got wings from a nearby fast food place. They’re not on the kitchen island, but on the coffee table in front of the couch. Charlie sits while Guile turns on the TV. 

“Have you watched The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance?” He asks, switching between the home tab to the search bar.

The name was familiar, something Charlie heard in an orange, hazy memory involving skin and an aching in his chest. “I remember you mentioning it.” Charlie reponds. And with that, Guile presses play.

The film is old, as are all of Guile’s favorite films. How old Charlie isn’t sure, but he’d say classic Hollywood era. After weeks of cable cop shows, the black and white screen throws him off. The sound too, especially the actor’s voices.

But it's fun, eating wings he can’t taste while watching a movie from at least 50 years ago. It's fun, feeling the city descend into night, neon signs and the occasional shout. 

He looks to Guile beside him, who without the aid of a nap, has fallen asleep. It's with care that Charlie gets up, cleans the table, turns off the TV, and throws a blanket over Guile’s snoring form.

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The habit continues. At 7pm sharp, Charlie leaves the bedroom for dinner and an old Hollywood movie. He’s sure he’s watched some of them before, but if he has they’ve been reduced to gray fuzz. The first week includes The Long Voyage Home and The Searchers, the two of which become favorites of his. 

After that week, Guile does a mix of old movies and whatever sport is on. Charlie’s surprised at the amount of sport based entertainment Guile watches, from highlights and games to commentary. Charlie doesn’t like these as much, and over time Guile stops watching them at their nightly dinners. 

The comfort of these late nights soon seeps into the evenings, afternoons and mornings. It’s during the day that Charlie likes to watch Guile move around the apartment, running errands and doing chores with a surprisingly strict schedule Charlie now has memorized. Guile makes one grocery run per week, always on Sunday. If he needs to grab something mid-week, he’ll either make do without it or go to the corner store at the end of the block after work. He follows a strict grocery list he makes every Saturday night. He’s still as concerned with ’unnecessary purchases’ as Charlie remembers him to be. He goes to the gym three blocks away four times per week, with anywhere from one to four hour sessions. He also might go after being at the base, which is also around four times per week. Charlie remembers the work at the air force bases, which mostly consists of paperwork, mission reviews, community celebrations, and training new recruits.

Charlie doesn’t do much during the day. He rarely goes outside, mostly due to his green skin, but he can’t ignore the indistinct paranoia that bubbles under his skin when he talks with anyone but Guile. He was betrayed by the people he trusted the most, the people who, when he had his back turned, were supposed to provide him aid, not stab him. These memories have soured any interaction with other people, and he’s become something of a hermit living out his life in Guile’s apartment.

He finds ways to entertain himself, mostly through reading the seemingly random selection of books Guile owns as well as watching the possible thousands of movies he’s bought. One morning, he remembers that he used to cook. So once Guile’s gone to the airbase, he gets a pan and attempts a fried egg. But the minute he starts it becomes clear he’s out of practice. The egg has eggshells in it, the heat‘s continuously wrong, and the finished egg falls off the plate and onto the counter.

Cleaning up and sitting on the couch with leftovers, Charlie decides not to cook for a while.

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For all the distant, dissociated memories he has connected to it, the idea of them eating out is never voiced. It's mostly Guile’s cooking, sometimes delivery or takeout, but never going outside and sitting down in a restaurant. There are logical reasons for this, the reasons that outline Charlie’s condition and Guile’s role as caretaker. In a city as dirty as Metro City, there’s always a risk of Charlie getting sick from the dust and grime. There’s Charlie’s paranoia, which on its bad days causes him to view even Guile with distrust. 

But there’s also the sentimental ones. The dark blue and dim orange memories where he and Guile are stumbling home after a great dinner and a better bar, grasping at each other with enthusiasm only afforded by how much they drank. The times they don’t even fuck afterwards, talking with hushed voices and booming laughter over a wine they both think is shit. Falling into each other the hallway, or the elevator, or the lobby. Never the apartment itself. Simply wanting and having the excuse to be tender. 

Guile’s lived without him. He may be more sullen, more quiet and more composed, but he’s lived. And Charlie’s not the same. He may be alive, but the first him, the original him, was lost when he fell over that cliff. It just wouldn’t be the same.

There are reasons not to go out for dinner. Some logical, most sentimental.

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Even as a kid Charlie was a light sleeper. He remembers being very young, waking up in the darkness of his room and unable to fall back asleep, convinced that he was being watched. This worsened with both age and missions, and while on the field it was an advantage, it makes both trying and staying asleep an often fruitless process.

It's one of those nights he’s very familiar with. Waking up in the dead of night with nothing but ambient light and an inability to fall asleep. Knowing better than to even try, he pulls himself out of bed and heads for the kitchen. He might not be able to taste anything, but he’s still hungry.

The kitchen light is on, the balcony door wide open and letting cold air into the apartment. Snack temporarily forgotten, Charlie leaves the kitchen to join Guile.

Since the hospital, Charlie was banned from smoking. They told him it could cause complications and was generally unpredictable. He tried to reassure them that he smoked after his revival and he was fine, but the doctor glared at him and stayed silent. Still, he wasn’t able to stave off the cravings, but Guile had his stash hidden extremely well. The end result was that he was completely nicotine sober for the first time in nearly two decades.

Maybe it was the familiar smell of cigarette smoke then that had him on the balcony in the middle of the night, the familiar form of Guile smoking as he overlooked neon signs and concrete towers.

Guile doesn’t offer any greeting, so neither does Charlie. Guile wouldn’t give him a cigarette, so he doesn’t ask. He’s cold, but he doesn’t let it affect him. He doesn’t want it to affect him.

They stay like that for a while. Basking in the not-quite darkness of Metro City well into the night, Guile smoking and Charlie watching.

“What was it like?” Guile asks, disrupting the silence. “Being dead.”

Charlie shrugs, slouching onto the railing and looking down at the sidewalk. “I don’t remember.”

Guile hums, grinding out the cigarette only half smoked before lighting another. It’s after the first drag he would offer it to Charlie, which he obviously doesn’t.

”Why are you up so late?” Charlie asks him, only watching him through his peripheral vision. 

”Couldn’t sleep.” Guile lies. Charlie can tell from the way he’s leaning against the railing. He hasn’t even tried, but he’s not allowing himself to sleep. Knowing Guile, Charlie would guess it’s nightmares. But he doesn’t know for certain, not anymore. Not after this long.

It’s quiet out, this late. Surprisingly, Metro City does actually sleep. Above the city, it's clear that although there are cars and buses and people stumbling around the streets, the city is near silent, as calm as it would ever be. Maybe that’s not sleep, but a sort of tranquility unique to millions of people breathing and living all together. 

“I guess I should ask you why you’re up.” Guile chuckles, snubbing out his cigarette which he smoked all the way to the filter paper.

“I was hungry.” And he still is as his stomach’s been growling nearly the whole time in the cold.

Guile doesn’t say anything, not even pulling out another from the pack but just looking out into the city. Charlie suddenly realizes he remembers this, after they’ve fucked and everything is quiet; Guile smokes and watches the city. Why he did it Charlie never asked, always watching from behind the glass door to the balcony, never joining nor making it obvious he watched. Now though, he was beyond the glass, sitting beside but not indulging. 

“Charlie,” Guile says his name and Charlie looks at him. He’s clutching the railing, and he opens his mouth to say more before he cuts himself off. Charlie’s name on his voice sounds wrecked, and not in a good way. In a way that speaks fear, a desperate sadness and a primal terror that Charlie’s only observed and felt but never heard voiced. 

But Guile cuts himself off. Neither fear nor desperation is welcome between them, not anymore. And he knows. He just forgot. 

So Charlie decides to be kind and leaves Guile behind the glass door. 

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Charlie flexes his hand. He was at the hospital yesterday, and they decided on graft replacement. His surgery was scheduled in three weeks. He’s lived with Guile for almost a month, and still hasn't left. He hasn’t even been looking for new apartments. Guile’s still as welcoming as he was that first day, seemingly not minding nursing Charlie back to health. Charlie hasn’t even gone to work, he’s technically on medical leave. If he really wanted too, he’s sure he could go straight to the base and demand work. But he’s been avoiding the base for a reason. It’s easier to stay in this small, safe bubble Guile’s made for him, to shove down what he doesn’t want to think about.

At least, until Guile brings Byron Taylor home.

Charlie hears Guile opening the door, is about to go out and greet him when he notices a second pair of footsteps. He leans back, doesn’t go back to his room but doesn’t leave to approach the two coming in. Charlie recognizes Byron Taylor. When he died, he was Guile’s superior, a rank above Charlie himself. From what he knows, he’s still Guile’s superior, even if Guile himself outranks Charlie now. But it’s not rank that makes Charlie anxious. Charlie emerges from the shadows, shakes his hand and asks how work is, but he’s not actually listening. Charlie’s tracking Guile’s movement with one eye and Byron Taylor with his other. He trusts both of them, he does, but…there’s always the thought.

There’s always the thought that Byron Taylor ordered those men to shoot on Charlie. Was responsible for years being taken from him, placing him in this new body and mind. Responsible for Bison remaining at large for that long. Even if he didn’t order it, what about the likelihood he knew about it? Betrayed Charlie and is now standing here, asking about his recovery. Charlie, having to shrug and say it’s going along fine. 

The investigation, a voice that sounds like Guile reminds him. They caught the people who betrayed you. You’re safe. It tries to soothe him, but another voice speaks up, one that sounds more like his old training officer. There’s always people who escape justice. There’s always snakes that slide under the doorframe and escape back into the grass. What’s the chance Byron Taylor is just another snake?

The thought doesn’t leave his mind, picking up other, more vile ones as it marches forward in Charlie’s head. All of it so overwhelming that he goes quiet sometime through Byron’s visit. 

“How are you after the Black Moon ordeal, Guile?” He asks, leaning down on Charlie’s spot on the couch, shot glass in hand. Byron Taylor always sipped on his shots, no matter the crappiness of the liquor. 

Charlie pretends to look over to Guile, but he has Byron Taylor sinking deeper into the couch in the corner of his eye. He’s not sure either of the military men would pick up on what he’s doing, what he’s been doing all night. 

Guile takes a sip of his juice. He’s tired, not up for drinking tonight, but too polite to refute a friend. He used to do that with Charlie, but he needed new people in his absence. Charlie wonders how Julia is.

“I’ve been fine. Mostly taking care of this one.” He nods at Charlie. Something about that makes Charlie flush, and he lets up his watch on Byron for a moment to fully look at Guile. Guile returns his look. He goes back to glancing at Byron. “I’m not doing field work for now. Mostly paperwork at base. We have a lot of it after the raid.” He’s not as slumped into the couch as Byron, in fact he’s pretty alert, regardless of his fatigue. Charlie feels safer, knowing he’s not the only one keeping an eye out.

Guile glances outside. “You should get going, sir. It’s getting late.” Byron opens his phone. The baby blue clock on the wall is on Charlie’s left, but looking at it would require letting his eye drift from Byron. It’s easier to infer the time from Byron shrugging and standing. “You’re right. Well, I’ll be off. It was good to see you, Charlie.” He nods in Charlie’s direction, always a gentleman, making eye contact. Charlie returns the eye contact and nods, but doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t think he could without asking if he gave the order that had him dead at the bottom of a cliff.

Guile walks him out, says goodbyes for the two of them, all while Charlie watches. Close as a shadow to Guile, just in case. He doesn’t let his eyes wander from Byron Taylor, not even after the door’s closed and his footsteps wander off. Not even as the elevator’s dinged and gone. He still keeps his senses honed, alert and ready.

It’s why he’s prepared for Guile’s hand on his elbow, body on his right, head tucked near his ear. What he isn’t prepared for is Guile’s soft, gentle question that slips past his defences and makes him go a bit weak with it’s consideration. “Do you want to watch a movie?” 

Charlie doesn’t fully trust his ability to speak, his throat feels a bit clogged, every sense working overtime. So he nods, and lets himself be guided to his spot on the couch by Guile’s firm but gentle hand. The hand that doesn’t move from his lower arm even as he puts on Friendly Persuasion, doesn’t move as Charlie sinks more and more into the couch, alertness giving way to bone deep fatigue.

He’s stopped paying attention to whatever movie they’re watching. Charlie’s sunk into Guile shoulder and side just as much as the couch at this point, and only notices when Guile removes his hand from his arm.

“Charlie, we should get you to bed.” He mutters, somehow both too loud and too quiet for the room. Charlie wants to refuse, tries to snuggle closer to the warmth of Guile’s neck, but midway through Guile stands and Charlie’s tricked into surging up for the warmth.

“There we go.” Guile mutters as he grasps onto Charlie’s waist and gently pulls him up. Charlie’s so tired he can only be dragged along, his only movements being occasional big, sudden strides to get closer to Guile. 

This goes on until before he knows it, he’s dumped onto Guile’s bed. Cold sheets digging into his skin that make him wince. 

He hears Guile hesitate at the doorway, footsteps pausing for only a heartbeat, before closing the door. Steps becoming fainter as he goes back to the living room.

Charlie closes in on himself, pulling Guile’s blankets over him, searching for any warmth he left in them, knowing full well it’s only Charlie who’s slept in this bed for weeks.

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It's a Sunday a month into his new living situation when Charlie first notices.

Is what he likes to tell himself. Charlie’s been aware of it for two weeks at this point, but it's on this unremarkable Sunday when he’s forced to acknowledge it. 

Guile’s just gone out for his weekly bunch of groceries, and Charlie’s wandering the apartment when he sees it. A pristine white envelope, splayed onto the kitchen counter, slipping out of the mail pile.

He’s putting it back into the pile when he turns it over to see an upside down red triangle and familiar handwriting.

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Guile comes back from groceries to find a very displeased Charlie sulking in the kitchen.

“You alright?” Guile asks while setting the bags down and beginning to sort through bags.

“You haven’t been going on missions.”

Guile pauses and looks up to where Charlie’s leaning on the sink. “What?”

”Cammy needs your help. Apparently the situation with the gang lords has gotten out of control.” Charlie pushes himself off the sink to slowly stride towards Guile.

Guile’s lack of a move proves he noticed the agitation in Charlie’s voice. But instead of acknowledging it, he continues sorting the groceries. “I’ll send her a letter telling her I can’t go.”

“And why not?” Charlie’s starting to scowl. “Do you have anything going on that's more urgent than keeping people safe?”

Guile’s face twitches slightly, a movement only made when he’s too irritated to hide it. “Right now, your health is my priority, and part of that is making sure you have the resources to recover.”

“My health should not be your top priority, dammit!” Charlie finally yells. “It should be helping and saving the lives of the innocent!”

“Your life is a priority to me, Charlie.” Guile’s gripping the counter with both hands. His calm, usually stoic demeanor starting to waver.

“How many people will die because of that, huh?” Charlie hisses. He doesn’t feel satisfaction or pleasure at Guile grinding his teeth and saying nothing. Charlie wants to be tempted to keep pressing Guile. Get him to admit the fault in his logic. The training that coursed through their veins that demanded it. The same training that decreed that if Charlie died, Guile must keep going. The lives of others are more important than one man’s life, especially if it’s only Charlie. But he doesn’t feel tempted nor satisfied, only an oddly deep feeling of remorse and sorrow.

So instead he straightens himself and storms off to Guile’s room. 

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It's two days of near silence between the two of them. They’ve fought before, worse and sometimes with a little violence. They’ve done this routine before, and the best thing for both of them is space and some silence. Still, it leaves Charlie feeling hollow. After weeks of tenuous olive branches and small smiles, to be left without Guile made Charlie feel like nothing more than an empty husk.

On the second day, Guile orders takeout and sets the two of them on the couch with The Thief. It's then Guile tells him that he’s leaving for London and that he won’t be there more than five days.

“Good.” Charlie says, continuing to burrow himself into his favorite spot on the couch. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the night.

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Guile’s flight leaves in the evening.

They spend the day in an odd state of limbo. This would be the longest they’d be apart since Charlie’s ‘almost second death’.

There’s something unspoken in the apartment. Both of them wake up early, sit on the balcony as Guile takes a smoke, eat breakfast, and settle on the couch to watch four movies. All, by coincidence, starring Gregory Peck. 

It's when Guile has to leave that they both do something stupid. They’re both still on the sofa, two hours into Duel of the Sun, when the taxi for the airport is here. It's so natural, so fluid and so casual that Charlie honestly doesn’t think about it until the door’s closed. Guile leans over, and Charlie wants to say something but doesn’t but he still turns, and for some reason both of them seem to be going for the same thing, and they stay like that.

It’s not an explosion. It's not as if the world comes into color, coating Charlie’s life with renewed vigor and purpose. But it's nice. It's really nice, actually. 

Guile’s lips are chapped, slightly rough. Charlie doesn’t mind, it feels like how he remembers it. Charlie still can’t taste well, but there’s something on Guile’s tongue that is achingly familiar, something Charlie should know but doesn’t. 

He doesn’t let it bother him. Not while he has Guile, kissing him softly as if this was a simple ‘I’m going out for awhile, see you later.’

Guile’s the one who parts, and maybe Charlie’s memory has truly degraded in this new head, but Guile didn’t seem too fazed. Maybe it's because of that, that lack of negative reaction, for Charlie to give the corner of his mouth an additional peck. With that, Guile grabs his bag and leaves. No further words exchanged.

It's only then that Charlie realizes what he’s done. 

He doesn’t turn the TV off once the movie ends, instead stumbling off to Guile’s bedroom and not sleeping.

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It wasn’t really an affair. It really wasn’t anything, honestly. The first time was 2 years after they first met. It was during the rural years, helping law enforcement with doing the tedious and unwanted tasks. It had been a tense takedown preceded by nearly a month of sitting around and waiting. It was four of them in a cramped apartment on the edge of the desert, watching the warehouse across the street for when the killer went for his next victim. Besides the other two it was just them, a deck of cards, too much alcohol and whatever else they’d thought to bring. 

It had been over 3 weeks into the mission and it was nearing dusk. It was another lazy night, the day being listless and mind numbingly slow. The other two had left the apartment to sit in the truck outside the warehouse, monitoring cameras. Charlie and Guile had taken to drinking on their off nights, even though there was a risk if they were suddenly needed, they had decided it was a risk they’d gladly take. They had sat by the gas fire, drinking and munching on crackers that were too small to do anything to help the scotch in their stomachs. While both of them were pretending to be wasted, Charlie knows neither of them had enough to drink. But they were excuses, things to pile onto the morning after as apologies and justifications. It was in this safe little bubble then, that let them both move. 

The first time wasn’t notable. It would be a footnote in both of their lives if not for what came after. Charlie’s still not sure if it was actually pleasant or if he was drunk enough to pretend it was. Either way, it was done in less than 10 minutes. There was no comfort in the aftermath. They went to their separate rooms, showered separately and slept in different beds.

The mission ended a week later and the two of them didn’t talk about it. 

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The first day he’s on his own since waking up in the hospital, it snows.

He doesn’t notice it until he’s looked out the window to see buildings and streets blanketed in what looked to be white, fluffy, snow. 

He pads around the apartment, the loneliness fully setting in. Of course he’s been alone in the house before, but this was the first time he’s woken up alone since the hospital.

He makes himself some coffee and sits at the counter. Now that Guile isn’t here, he isn’t sure what to do. So he takes his pills, and settles in his favorite part of the couch with some western novel Guile’s fond of. The city swells, cars driving and honking and the occasional siren ringing by. The day is sluggish at best and stagnant at worst, but there’ve been worse days, he tells himself.

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The second morning he’s on his own, he wakes up early enough to watch the snow start to stop. As the last bit of snow falls on the windowsill, Charlie turns over and sleeps until noon.

He tries to get settled anywhere, but his usual spot on the couch isn’t as comfortable. He tries for an hour to nap it off but his arm can’t feel much and it would feel wrong to fall asleep. He spends the whole day wanting a drink, but the wine and whiskey mysteriously went missing by the second week. It was probably a good idea, but Charlie still sulks about it.

He’s like that the whole day, wandering the apartment, trying to find comfort.

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The second time was nearly seven months after the first. Their target had clearly anticipated their raid, and had hired some help. Charlie had flown the helicopter onto the roof of the mansion, Guile and him infiltrating from the top to close their target in. It was after the mission, after Charlie had nearly gotten his face shot off and the team had subdued the target, when they had turned a corner towards the roof that Guile shoved Charlie to the wall and sunk to his knees.

The third time, it was during a volatile mission and they weren’t sure if they were going to make it out alive. Charlie was not someone who didn’t pay his debts.

The next ten times were all done in a similar context. Either before or after a mission that could’ve gotten one of them killed, hands and mouths and bodies filled with desperation and a sort of premature grief. Charlie’s favorite times were when they were both euphoric, both still riding the high of success, giddy and possibly drunk. 

It became a habit after that. Charlie’s focus shifted from if they’d do it again, to when. The when turned out to be often, both on and off missions. A few memorable times were while undercover, in uniform, and on a boat. The only time it really, permanently stopped was when Guile met Julia. That lasted two years until their first separation. Charlie was in town and Guile invited him out for drinks, only for Charlie to find himself with Guile’s hand in his pants in a bathroom stall.

Charlie knew Guile’s relationship with Julia was complicated, and he did little in questioning it. After all, after the first separation it was always Guile who initiated, so he assumed it was alright. 

He didn’t want to question it.

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Day three isn’t much better. He wakes up well before dawn and thinks back to nearly a week ago. It was an early Saturday morning, and Guile made pancakes. The two of them were sitting at the kitchen counter, facing each other as they talk about something trivial and unimportant when Guile looks out of the window. It’s barely two seconds, and Charlie feels his heart stop as he sees Guile’s face bathed in the pale dawn light. And all of a sudden, Charlie knows. Knows that he’s probably going to be in love with this man for the rest of his life. He’s probably been in love with him for most of their 15 year friendship, and he knows with a finality that digs deep into his bones and finds a place there, that there’s nothing that will change that. He’s briefly reminded of his mother and a bible verse about sodomy, but that’s thrown out of his mind the second Guile looks over at him.

It’s overwhelming, the realization is, and Guile can see it on his face. His brow furrows and Charlie wants to kiss it, reassuring him that it’s fine. But he can’t, so he collects himself, smiles, and takes a bite of his pancake.

Nothing much happens that day. He skips lunch, he considers leaving the apartment for a bottle of anything, he goes to bed.

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He sleeps for almost the whole of the next day. He again thinks about leaving the apartment for the liquor store. It’s on day four when he realizes he’s been counting the days. He’s not sure what more he can feel over this revelation.

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He finally cracks on day five. The snow is slushy under his boots and the streets would be icy if not for the comedic excess of salt. He keeps his grafted hand in his coat pocket for the whole trip, but there’s no way of hiding his face. The liquor store has probably seen worse than a man with his face half green, so they don’t question it or his three bottles of Tequila. 

He pours himself a shot almost the second he gets back, downing it before turning the TV on. It's barely 3pm. The first hour is pretty slow. He flips between boring cable show to the next, doing two more shots before just starting to sip on them. Soon after his fourth, he feels a nauseating burning sensation in his stomach and heats up some leftover bucatini from nearly a week ago. Most of his tastebuds have remained fucked, so he can’t enjoy any of the food, but he feels it soaking up the alcohol in his gut so he keeps eating and doing shots.

The baby blue clock hanging opposite of the door remains in his peripheral all night. Once, Charlie looks at the small hand pointing at 7 and he blinks, he swears all he does is blink, and now it's 9. 

He tries to stand, but finds his legs trembling and his knees on the bridge of buckling. Still, he doesn’t give up, and hobbles his way over to the bedroom before promptly collapsing.

He’s not sure how long he stays like that, but the opening and shutting of the front door eventually jolts him awake. He’s contemplating getting up, but he’s lulled back into the mattress at the sound of heavy, grounding footsteps. Though, the footsteps might just be in his head. Nothing’s clear right now, it’s all surrounded in muck and mist.

“Charlie?” Guile’s voice cuts through the fog, aided by the fact it’s his name that's being called.

He pulls himself up to squint at the bright hallway light that shadowed Guile’s figure. He couldn’t see Guile well, so he shuffled closer, trying to block out the hallway’s light to at least see Guile’s face.

”Did you take your pills?” Guile sits on the edge of the bed, in his hand holding an orange pill bottle full of Charlie’s medications, which he… thinks he took.

The sight of Guile, still worn and a bit frayed after a mission, does something to Charlie that he thought couldn’t happen anymore.

Guile sniffs the air. “Were you drinking?” Guile says it slowly, trying to get it through to Charlie’s head.

It doesn’t work, Charlie’s too focused on how soft the skin just above Guile’s collarbones look. And he’s so close, and he’s been denying himself this for so long, so fuck it and he slouches into the warm and familiar spot between Guile’s neck and shoulder. He feels Guile freeze but feels him slowly go lax while Charlie breathes onto his skin. Guile feels like a deer below him, and one Charlie definitely doesn’t want to startle away. But he’s so close already, that it really didn’t feel like much to brush his lips over the skin. 

It was definitely the wrong move, because he feels Guile stiffen again.

Slightly desperate to know he hasn’t fucked everything, he doubles down and kisses the skin higher up, before softly nibbling on it.

He hasn’t drunk nearly enough to excuse this behavior, but it's still the excuse he’ll use in the morning. 

He sinks further into the space, starting to suck on the skin in the spots he knows Guile likes, and some part of him that should be drunk but is still somehow sober wants to make a mark in it. Any kind, with his mouth or hands or soul, something to claim Gulie belonged to him at some point, however short, unmeaningful, and bookended by tragedy.

“Charlie.” Guile is frozen under his touch. “Please, you’re drunk.” Charlie sighs, but kisses the spot one last time and leaves Guile’s nape to slink into his considerably less warm, less comfortable pillow. He pretends to pass out quickly after, not sure if Guile can tell if he’s pretending as he feels him staring. Guile doesn’t leave.

Charlie, eventually, does fall asleep. When he wakes up, Guile’s gone.

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They don’t talk about any of it the next morning. Charlie asks about the trip. He asks about Cammy, the gangs, and Guile responds how he should. He tells him that the trip was stale, Cammy’s good, and the leaders of the gangs had been arrested and it turned out to be nothing bigger than what was on the surface. Guile asks how he was, and Charlie says fine. They leave it at that as Guile leaves for his after trip grocery run.

They don’t talk about any of it later that night, as they’ve cozied up to watch The Grapes of Wrath. Guile has his arm around Charlie’s shoulder and Charlie keeps his knee on Guile’s lap. It feels more awkward than intimate and Charlie feels every step on the tightrope he’s walking on. Even after the first movie, they don’t clean up dinner and go to their separate rooms. Instead, Guile flicks to Blood on the Sun and after they finish that Charlie asks to watch The Long Voyage Home, to which Guile rolls his eyes but switches to the search bar to find it. 

The touch has evolved. It's no longer awkward and clunky, and with some bold moves on both parts, Charlie ends up essentially on Guile’s chest while Guile’s neck is lying on the couch’s armrest. 

They watch movies until 4am, when Charlie’s too tired to even pretend to be awake. It's then, half asleep, that Guile gets up to support Charlie, murmuring soft words of encouragement as Charlie leans on him to get him to bed. 

They don’t talk about any of it when instead of gentle touches or soft words the next morning, they only exchange cold greetings until Guile leaves for nine hours. 

They don’t talk about any of it when Guile’s making a stir fry, Charlie goes up to him while he’s at the stove and wraps his arms around his waist to hold him closer. Guile doesn’t even react, the only acknowledgement of Charlie being a hand over Charlie’s own at Guile’s waist. After they’ve eaten, Guile puts on a football game and Charlie goes to his room.

They really, really don’t talk about any of it.

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The last time, before Charlie’s first death, was in Thailand.

In many ways, it felt like the culmination of every previous time, every bit of knowledge about the other noted, learned, and mastered.

It wasn’t hurried or rushed, but somehow still carried that feeling of desperation. Clothes stripped and bodies laid bare with only acknowledgement before being thrust into.

The sheets were scratchy and Charlie’s skin bruised. Sex like this always took awhile for Charlie to get used too. There was always pain and discomfort in the act, some physical but mostly mental as he heard slurs and the disapproval of old friends and dead family. But eventually, the pleasure always won through, and it took awhile, but soon Charlie pushed back and both heard and felt Guile gasp against his skin.

But this time, Guile didn’t just gasp. Instead, with a half a moan and half a prayer he muttered, “God, Charlie, I love you.”

And what should’ve been a bucket of cold water to his system instead spurred him on, moaning and only holding Guile tighter as they finished.

They lay gasping and panting in the aftermath, slowly regaining themselves. The aftermaths of their fucking often varied from long, languid showers with possible round twos (or threes) to leaving as soon as the other came.

It looked like this time would be the latter. As soon as Guile regained his breath, he was getting dressed.

And in this moment of near supernatural clarity, Charlie knew this would be the end. At the time, he wasn’t even set on fighting Bison, but he knew that whatever came after, what he and Guile had between them would never be the same. 

It’s the finality of the moment, he blames, that caused him to murmur his final confession to Guile. The words they prevented themselves from saying, behavior they forbid themselves from doing. 

“I love you too.”

This was a line crossed, and they both knew it. Guile’s confession could be scrubbed, erased over and excused. This couldn’t be.

Guile straightened, looking over to Charlie who was still debauched and staring at Guile’s wide, fearful eyes with steel in his own.

It lasted a moment before Guile looked away, straightened his shirt, and walked out the door.

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They continue to not talk about it for the week leading up to Charlie’s surgery. They make the proper preparations for both the day of the surgery and the 3 weeks it’ll take to heal. Even with a proper, concise plan in front of them, Charlie’s silently lamenting. This obviously won’t be the end of his recovery, or even graft transfering, but it’s an end of this strange, revitalized thing that’s grown between him and Guile. After this, there’ll be no excuse to find a new place for himself, getting back on missions, and continuing to work. He and Guile will go back to how it was before Charlie’s death, close friends who see each other once every few months, with occasional sex when Guile and Julia are in a spat. 

It’s fine, it is. Because Charlie can easily forget how Guile looks in the late afternoon, golden hour streaming into the apartment, looking out the window while making dinner. Or him in the early hours of the morning, face scrunched up in concentration while vacuuming the living room. Or him going red in the face after realizing he backed Charlie into the kitchen counter, quietly and efficiently backing off into the bathroom. It’s not like all of these and more have slowly gathered up space in his mind, so much so they’ve started crawling down and imprinting on the backs of his eyelids. 

The thing Charlie can forget the easiest is how he’s made his space in Guile’s home. Pantry and fridge always stocked even late on a Saturday, his arrangement of pillows on the couch, his differently organized set of books on the shelf. He knows where the forks, cups, mugs, and bowls go. He knows where the medication cabinet is and what he can find in there. He knows that on the second shelf of the pantry, behind the cereal, are the extra coffee filters. 

All of this, honestly, is fine. Honestly, completely, fine.

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They’re on their way to the hospital, but despite all the planning they’ve done, despite all the assurances from doctors and independent research done, Guile looks more antsy than Charlie. Charlie wants to let it slide. They don’t ask the other about their problems, they shut up and deal with them privately. But Guile doesn’t deserve that, not after everything. So Charlie shoves down his instincts, balls his fists, and asks.

“What’s wrong?”

Guile doesn’t even make a sign to show he’s heard Charlie. He keeps his whole attention on the road. The silence stretches thin, and Charlie’s considering asking again before he mutters “It’s stupid.” 

It’s so quiet that Charlie’s sure Guile didn’t want him to hear it.

Charlie’s confused and slightly pissed off by the answer, so he decides to revert to good old ribbing. “Then, colonel, stop worrying about it.” 

He used to use Guile’s title when reprimanding him. It’s a little weirder, now that Guile outranks him, but it carries the emphasis all the same.

But Charlie thinks he must have miscalculated at some point, because instead of relaxing and responding with something as sarcastic and pushy, Guile’s hands tighten on the wheel. Charlie looks at Guile’s face, and to his absolute horror he actually looks distraught.

Charlie’s at a complete loss. Guile’s been angry with the ribbing before, but never distraught. He doesn’t even think he’s seen that expression on his face before, and he’s seen a lot of them.

The silence lasts longer than before, Guile’s face slowly relaxing into apathy and Charlie cautious to speak. He should just leave this alone, he thinks, as Guile’s face is empty of whatever emotion he experienced at the razz. But Guile doesn’t deserve that, so Charlie squeezes his own forearm and opens his mouth.

“I’m sorry.” He’s not looking at Guile, he’s slouched into the car seat looking straight ahead. “I take it back. I didn’t—“ is all he gets out before Guile swerves into an empty parking spot on the road, earning an angry honk in the process. He doesn’t even seem to notice, turning the car off and putting his head on the steering wheel. Charlie is fully stunned. He doesn’t even think he’s breathed since Guile parked. Guile’s not moving either, just lying on the steering wheel. 

Charlie’s still shocked dumb after at least a minute. Guile rights himself, turns the car back on, and drives back onto the road. 

They’re driving for another 2 minutes in silence. Charlie’s still shocked and Guile’s only focused on the road. The tension in the car is so thick that’s it's starting to clog Charlie’s lungs, so he shakes himself out of his stupor and takes a breath.

“Are you okay?” The silence that follows is different. Now, Guile looks less stern and more hesitant. It takes a while but eventually, he nods. “I’m fine. Just had a moment.”

It’s the truth as far as Charlie can throw it. “Okay.” He slumps back into his seat. “If you need anything, you let me know.” He hesitates for a second before saying the next thing. Not because it isn’t true, but he’s afraid it reveals more than it should. 

“We’re still friends, Guile.”

Guile slams the gas pedal and shoves the car into another open parking spot. Charlie thought the last one got angry reactions, but this one has the whole street honking and yelling. Charlie hisses as he suddenly lurches forward, and yells as he’s slammed back into his chair.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” He yells, as he’s holding the back of his head. 

“You don’t get to talk to me like that.“ Charlie turns and encounters Guile, wild eyed and face scrunched up in absolute fury. He’s seen this expression before, when he was younger and messing with him looked like you’d earn a beating. Messing with this older, clearly more mature Guile, looks like it’d get you murdered. “You don’t get to say my title sarcastically.”

Charlie’s stunned. He doesn’t think he can say anything, especially about a joke gone wrong. So he puts his hands up and in the softest voice he can manage says, “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

The clear show of vulnerability doesn’t seem to affect Guile, if anything he looks angrier. “I outrank you!” He roars, and Charlie’s actually scared for a moment, but then the serious image Guile’s put up crumbles. “And- and I’m older than you. Fuck, how am I older than you?” He turns very suddenly, face hard and almost angry. “You died. You died, and now you’re sitting in my car.”

Charlie’s not sure what to do. For as well as he knows Guile, he didn’t see this coming at any point when he decided to stay with him. 

While Charlie’s still strategizing, Guile makes his next move, which is to lean back and cover his face and mutter very quietly, “Me and Julia are getting a divorce.”

The first place Charlie’s mind goes too is not the whys or the whens, but the thing he knows will matter most to Guile. “What about Chris?”

”Julia’s taking her.” He lowers his hands, but doesn’t straighten out of his seat. The light ahead of them just turned red. “I can go and see her whenever. I don’t…I don’t think she’ll be wanting to see me.”

Charlie scoffs “Of course she’ll want to see you.” He looks straight out of the window. Guile and Julia haven’t had the…happiest marriage. But divorce was always the big word between them, the one they never said. They seperated countless times, always getting back together in some passionate, soulmates kind of way that would result in Charlie not seeing Guile for months. Then being called somewhere with him, fucking, and the whole cycle starting again. Distantly, Charlie wonders if this is just their new fashion of separating, but he knows this is it. It’s too clean, too official. This is it.

“While you were dead,” Charlie turns to Guile, who's looking straight ahead on the road. He’s fully alert though, sitting straight with his hands on the steering wheel. Guile doesn’t turn to Charlie, keeping his eyes locked on something in the distance. “They legalized it. Marriage and all.”

Charlie blinks. “What?” This couldn’t be about what he thought it was. 

Guile stays silent. He looks straight at the road and doesn’t move nor say anything more.

Charlie just sinks into his seat and sighs. “You’ve never wanted anything more from me.”

Guile’s hands on the wheel tighten. He doesn’t say anything.

Charlie’s getting angry. He tightens his hands into fists to resist punching his way out of the car. “I told you I loved you, and you walked away.”

Guile’s silent, still looking ahead at the road. The light’s turned green.

“Now you tell me, after I’ve died and nearly died again? After I’ve been living with you? Or is this all recent, hm? So recent you got a fucking divorce?”

“Just forget I said anything.” Before Charlie can say or do anything else, Guile pulls out of the parking spot and keeps driving. 

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He wakes up slowly, the hospital lights bursting past his eyelids and possibly kick starting a migraine. He looks up at the ceiling as his senses return to him, first noticing the smell of disinfectant, and next the rustle of people beyond the door.

He breathes in and finally notices that someone is holding his good hand. He knows who it is, the shape of the palm and the roughness of the hand, but he turns to look anyway. 

Guile’s sitting on a cramped, plastic hospital chair by Charlie’s bed. His hand is holding Charlies’, firmly as if he’s afraid it would slip away. Charlie looks up to Guile’s face, and finds his eyes very awake and very aware, watching Charlie’s face as he wakes up. 

Charlie clears his throat, wishing he had water he asks, “When are we leaving?”

Guile’s eyes have never left his face. They’re slightly red. He doesn’t respond for the first few seconds, but eventually he looks away from Charlie’s face and at their linked hands. “As soon as the doctors say we can.”

Even though Guile isn’t looking at him, Charlie smiles. He can feel himself drifting off again, so he squeezes Guile’s hand. Guile squeezes back, neither of them letting go as Charlie falls asleep. 

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Charlie’s been in plenty of quiet spaces, comfortable ones like a library or a late night at an empty bar. Stressed ones like crowding behind a wall during a mission, waiting for the first sign something’s wrong. Or, sometimes, the quiet is absolute and silencing, like being dead.

The quiet between him and Guile for the next week isn’t any of those, it’s deafening. It’s all that rests between him, all that surrounds him. They stop eating dinner together. They don’t talk. Charlie sleeps all day and a bit at night. It’s like that first week, but this time it’s worse because Charlie knows what he’s missing. And he aches for it. Guile, early in the morning with breakfast in hand. Guile, smoking on the balcony, backlit by the rest of the city. Guile’s general habits and happenings around his apartment. Even how he keeps the environment around him, his mail pile he diligently goes through every morning. The bathroom which is stockpiled with first aid and the bandages which take priority over floss. His smile in the late afternoon, content and at peace. His laugh in the early evening, which rings around the apartment and down the unit halls to the neighbors. It’s weird, very weird, for Charlie to suddenly know all this, to have all this for a short time, then have it ripped away while still being under the same roof.

He’s sick of it.

A week after his surgery and after this self imposed quarantine, Charlie breaks it. Guile’s making dinner and Charlie leaves his room and leans on the kitchen counter, watching him. Imperceptible to anyone else, Guile froze when Charlie entered the room. Guile didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t even nod or look in his direction. 

“Guile.” He says softly, not moving from where he’s learned on the counter. Guile turns to him, bowl still in his hand. He doesn’t do anything else, just looks. Charlie nods. “We should talk.” Guile hesitates at that, but after a moment nods. It’s good enough for Charlie, who sets up their spots on the coffee table and gets plates ready for Guile. When he’s done all he could, he sits on his spot on the couch and waits.

Guile isn’t long. He comes to the couch, gives a plate to Charlie, and sits on the floor.

The silence between the two of them stretches and stretches and keeps on going. This was much easier in Charlie’s head, but Guile’s patience doesn't let him forget it. They’ve never been talking people, the two of them. It’s always been like this, touches not asked for, spontaneous sex, hidden unspoken tenderness. But, they need words for this. However small and futile they seem for the two of them, who’ve seen the other at their worst and held on. They need to at least try.

So he takes everything Guile is to him, pries their earliest days from his foggy memory, cherishes their after mission drinks, and takes every emotion he’s ever felt for Guile and funnels it into one word. 

The “I love you.” comes out confident and almost stern, but his eyes betray the panic he’s feeling. 

Guile’s silent. He’s not looking at Charlie, but he’s not looking away either. After maybe a full minute of silence, he opens his mouth only to close it five seconds later. He opens his mouth again, only for the same thing to happen. He looks like he’s considering trying again before firmly nodding, once.

Charlie sighs. It’s not a rejection, but it’s hardly an answer. He rolls his shoulders. He wasn’t expecting this to be easy anyways.

“Guile.” He says it gently, almost placatingly. “I need more from you than that.”

He feels a bit cruel, saying it. Charlie knows better than anyone that Guile closes off and shuts out everything when he’s nervous. That’s likely why, after a minute of darting his eyes around the room, Guile fully looks at Charlie, and with little hesitation says, “I love you too.”

Looking back, Charlie thinks he should’ve been more surprised. But really, in what other ways could they have been clearer? Even if Charlie never dragged Guile to the couch where they’ve spent weeks together, this kind of relationship would’ve gone for years. Touched and lived with and at most vaguely alluded to, just never stated so explicitly. Charlie knows, instinctually, that Guile loves him. That he never would’ve done what he has for Charlie, not only just in the last few months, but in the last decade, if he didn’t love him in some way. They both have known, for longer than they’ve probably consciously registered it, that they’re in love with the other and the other loves them back. 

But, damn if it doesn’t feel good to hear it.

Guile’s still fully looking at him, eyes piercing through to see what’s laid in wait for all these years. 

Charlie laughs. It couldn’t have been this simple, after all this. All those near deaths, improvised makeouts, desperate sex. After all the piles of excuses, and low orange light, and whatever else they’d given to each other. The worst that could happen has already passed, so might as well be honest. Settling down his laughter to a chuckle, he says, despite its crudeness and simplicity, “I’d like to kiss you right now. I’m willing to figure everything else out later.”

Guile doesn’t say anything. He keeps looking up at Charlie, and gets up from the floor.

Slowly, slower than they’ve done anything, Guile nudges closer to Charlie, touches his jaw with rough fingertips, takes his face in his somehow still soft palms, and kisses him.

It’s also softer than anything they’ve done. It’s not what they’re used to with the other, mouths open trying to take as much as they could until next time. Both their mouths are closed this time, but it’s deeper than a peck. It’s a proper kiss, not shying away from anything, not hiding or pretending it’s not happening. Guile presses further while Charlie leans back, the two of them resting on the couch’s armrest. Guile moves away from his mouth, kisses right beneath his eye, then starts kissing his neck. Unlike Guile, Charlie’s not super sensitive on his neck, but in no way does it feel bad. Charlie sighs and sinks into the couch, his hand coming up to card through Guile’s hair, soft with the lack of product. Charlie likes it in the flattop, but down and in a ponytail looks really good too. Guile keeps kissing his neck, but it doesn’t change into anything heated. The two of them are just taking their time.

For the first time in 15 years, thousands of looks and touches, hundreds of bars and hotels, dozens of missions, they let themselves fully indulge.

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Epilogue

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Charlie’s not sure what time it is when he wakes up. He and Guile have taken to keeping the curtains closed, Guile insisting Charlie get plenty of sleep to recover. Charlie doesn’t mind it as much as he used to, getting to wake up plastered to Guile’s back, hearing his breathing steady and calm, legs tangled under the covers and being able to nuzzle himself into Guile’s neck.

There’s no light in the room, but Charlie’s eyes are already used to it. He’s up early, given from the lack of cars and noise outside. It’s Sunday, he remembers. 

Charlie gives the back of Guile’s neck a kiss and sits on the edge of the bed. The final bits of green graft were removed from his face three days ago. They’re yet to treat the bone and muscle, but that’ll be a long process that they’re still figuring out how to do, especially because Charlie wants to go back out into the field. Not for a while, he’s still not fully trustful of his superiors, and he thinks that he and Guile deserve a vacation, but soon. Eventually. 

Still, that’s a later thing, so he shrugs on a T-shirt and sweatpants and leaves an undisturbed, sleeping Guile in their room.

He pads out into the living space to find the sun’s rays barely peeking over the horizon. He can’t see it directly, but a building across from them with big, shiny windows lets him know. He opens the fridge to find comically little, half an egg carton and mustard. The weekly grocery list sits on the kitchen counter. He looks outside.

It’s barely 7:30 in late winter. This is the time the city’s sleepiest, the hour just before they wake up and start their day. Charlie looks again at the grocery list before stuffing it in his pocket, grabbing his jacket, tying his laces, and opening the door to the hallway.

No one’s awake this early. He passes maybe four people on his way to the grocery store. Two runners, a dog walker, and someone who just seems to be enjoying themself. They smile at him as they pass by. He smiles back.

He goes through the list meticulously, the only extra thing being a pack of bacon. He knows how Guile feels about ‘unnecessary purchases’. but he knows how to convince him it wasn’t a waste. 

The walk back is a little busier, people just starting to wake up and start their day. He passes by a few more dog walkers, a few more runners, a few more people just taking an early morning stroll. None of them pay him much mind. 

Guile isn’t awake by the time he’s back. He unloads the groceries, turns the stove on, rips open the bacon packaging, cracks some eggs, and gets to work.

The kitchen is a mix of crackling bacon and plated scrambled eggs when Guile walks in. He has a pillow crease on the right side of his face and has clearly been lured to the kitchen with the smell of coffee. He looks around the kitchen and blinks a few times, still waking up. 

“Did you go get the groceries?” He asks, starting to approach the stove. Charlie fully turns towards Guile now. “The whole list. Though, I got something extra.” He gestures towards the stove. “Do you mind?”

Guile makes Charlie turn toward him, kissing him square on the mouth before turning away. “Not as much as I should.” He hums as he opens the cabinet for a mug.

The sun’s just over the horizon now, its pale light spilling into the kitchen as Charlie smiles.