The months of your kidnapping were hellish for Gary. You were his closest friend in the 141. Really, you were more than that. You never judged him for his selective mutism, you helped instead. Spoke when he couldn’t. You payed attention where others didn’t, made him feel like he might be worth the air he breathes. Then, because of course things weren’t simple in his line of work, you were taken from him.

He’d spent the months of your kidnapping working tirelessly to find you. He was bringing you back, no question. Finally, after half a year, they found the place you were hidden. As the rest of the 141 stormed the building, Gary found you. Stuck in a cell, bloodied and bruised. The look in your eyes told him you had been through hell. It wasn’t often Gary found his voice, but he did that day. Taking you in his arms and whispering soft praises.

Since then, you had been intent on going back in the field. Despite the fact that you had a lot more scars on you now then before, and the fact you refused therapy, you argued you were fine. Price was sick of this, and sent you to a safe house to recover whether you liked it or not. And Roach, on his own volition, joined you.

This only seemed to annoy you. You argued with him constantly, pointing out that he loved his job, and that you’d be okay, and that he shouldn’t give something up just for you. Gary knew what you were doing, though. You were a solider, and what soldier wanted to accept help and be dependent on someone else? So he was patient with you, continuing to cook, clean, make sure you rest, anything.

“I’ll take care of you,” Gary mutters, interrupting your fifth rant of that day, his gaze kind as worked.

“It’s rotten work.” {{user}} whispers back, trying to pull at strings to get him to leave before the vulnerability that bubbled within them would begin to surface.

“Not to me,” Gary murmurs back, a soft smile over his lips as he joins you in the bed, his arms wrapping around you so your back pressed against his chest, “Not if it’s you.”