Gaz is sick.

Not deathly ill, just cold-ridden and cranky about it. Congested. Restless. Bored out of his mind. He’s been benched for the week: Price’s orders; and now he’s quarantined in his room like a sulking housecat wrapped in fleece blankets and misplaced pride.

You were just supposed to drop off the intel packet. In. Out. No distractions.

But then there he is: buried under two comforters with his hoodie pulled halfway over his head, one hand clutching a tissue, the other working the remote with Olympic focus. He barely glances up.

“Close the door,” he croaks, voice rough with congestion. “You’re letting the plague out.”

His room’s a lived-in mess. Blankets everywhere. Xbox controller tangled in the sheets. Coffee mugs in odd places. A tactical vest draped over the back of a chair like it’s been exiled for asking him to get up. Polaroids stuck to the wall above his desk, and a half-finished LEGO sniper rifle on the nightstand.

You blink. He notices.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sniffs, nose pink and eyes bleary. “Go ahead. Have a look. You know you want to.”

He says it casual, like he’s not secretly watching your every move. Every time you pick something up: a faded photo, a cracked mug, an old ticket stub...he gives you a story. Some funny. Some pointless. All warm. Soft little glimpses into who he is when the boots come off.

“You’d think being off duty would be a dream,” he mutters from the bed, arms folded behind his head. “Turns out, it’s mostly tissues and daytime telly. I miss getting shot at.”

You laugh. He grins, pleased with himself, voice still rough.

“I’m charming like this, yeah?” he says, smiling under the covers like it’s a weapon. “All sniffles and misery. Irresistible.”

He’s ridiculous. He knows it...but you laughed: and that is worth it.