Cold-Blooded ❖ John Price

09. Housekeeping

CHAPTER NINE
HOUSEKEEPING

Warnings: Swearing, violence, blood, injuries, gun violence, terrorism, death.

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Splashes of colour danced behind her eyelids like those of a firework on a cloudless night sky. The pads of her tired fingers pressed into her sensitive eyes and an exasperated sigh tumbled past her dry lips as her elbows dug into the soft skin of her thigh. The force no doubt left a circular mark underneath the thick material of her cargos, but she paid the tension no mind as she continued to rest her head in her palms. 

Despite securing her place inside the building, the cold, late October air continued to leave an uncomfortable prickle against the apples of her cheeks and tips of her ears. Right now, she wished for nothing more than to have one of the hats Price adored so much covering her own head. 

"You good?" Came Thomas' croaked voice. 

The sergeant sat beside her with a packet of sweet chocolates in his hand. He offered some to her, and although she often refused the treats, this time she could not help but accept. She reached for the packet, and feeling it crinkle around her hand, she pulled out a small number of star-shaped chocolates. Placing them on her tongue, she hummed in delight as the sweetness gracefully crowned her tastebuds. 

"Just tired," she told him, rubbing her hands over her face once again.

"Me, too." Thomas hummed, "Hope I get shot and sent home." 

Her head snapped in his direction with a furious look. With a sharp swing, she slapped her hand against his forehead, watching amused when his head was flung backwards. His palm soothed the sore, red spot that was quickly growing on his assaulted forehead, and the scowl that formed on his face showed just how little he appreciated the gesture. 

Hesitant footsteps coming their way caused them both to turn before any more words were exchanged, their eyes landing on a very uncertain Gaz. He was biting on the inside of his cheek, and his hands moved from his pockets to cross over his chest in an unsure manner. The nervousness was practically radiating off him in waves, and so the two decided to take pity on him. 

"Garrick," called Thomas, his hand gesturing at the young Sergeant. 

He approached the two with a stiff smile as his hands fell limp at his sides. He sat on a small bench opposite them, a sigh leaving his parted lips when he rested his back against the cold wall. 

"Gaz, right?" No-Face asked with a gentle tilt of her head. 

He confirmed with a nod. 

"Cat got your tongue?" she raised a brow with a teasing smile. 

"Sorry," he suddenly straightened his back, "Yes, ma'am." 

"Really keeping up those formalities, eh?" Thomas chuckled, "Why the nickname? You gassy?" 

The young sergeant looked taken aback by the question. His brows raised and eyes narrowed slightly. 

No-Face almost laughed. Almost. She caught herself just before the sound escaped her lips, and sent a fake, scolding look in Thomas' way. 

"Wiz," she warned. 

"I'm only asking," he defended with a grin, "Come on, tell us." 

"It's Gaz, not Gas. Ga-z," the youngest of them all retorted.

Thomas puckered his lips, "So you're not gassy?" 

"No," he stated. After a short pause, he spoke once again, "When's the brief?"