Chapter Text
“Book of Isaiah, Chapter 6.”
It’s from the Bible, but anyone could have told him that. It stays with him though, even amongst the cigarette smoke and stench of gasoline, hangs in the air worse than anything. It weighs them all down with a harsh kind of comfort, all five men camped out in a space barely big enough for four.
The sergeant – and he can’t remember his name, though he tries – looks him dead in the eye as he says it. The soldier who stares back – that must be him, he thinks – laughs.
He laughs and nudges the officer’s knee.
“Yeah!” And it’s too joyful a sound for the inside of this coffin – it’s tank, isn’t it? “Yeah,” He must say the sergeant’s name, but he can’t hear it for some reason. “Exactly right."
He praises the man for the knowledge, though he’s not sure why he’s so pleased about it. He takes another swig of what must be alcohol.
The sergeant smiles. They all smile.
The cigarette smoke hangs in the air, accompanied by the stench of gasoline.
He opens his eyes.
A hazy white greets him, along with the clanging of steel pots and the chirping of birds from the window. The former must come from the kitchen. Unless his roommate has decided to bring their cooking ware into the bedroom. It wouldn't be the first time.
The ceiling swims a little bit as he stares up at it, fuzzy and slightly beige in some spots.
Sometimes he thinks he may as well be blind. Everything is such a blur like this, what more harm could be done with it being black rather than white.
He grunts, decides not to think about it, those thoughts too heavy for a morning this early. Rolling onto his side, he slowly pushes himself into a sitting position. The heels of his hands find his eyes and rub blearily at them, as if that will help the blurriness of the surrounding world.
It doesn't, but he didn't expect it to. He reaches out and pats carefully at the bedside table, searching for the cold touch of glass and metal. He finds it, taking the spectacles in both hands and sliding them onto his face. They sit comfortably behind his ears and he blinks, finally able to see in clarity.
March 18th, 2006 reads the calender by his bedside. The radio hums from the kitchen, the clattering of pots replaced by that of bowls and plates. The floorboards creak and the open doorway becomes occupied, a suspicious face appearing as a familiar friend squints in at him.
“Y’alright, Boyd?”
Boyd – and it’s strange, he’s almost glad for the reminder – blinks and raises his head. He smiles, dragging a hand through his hair.
“’m fine, thanks.” He huffs out a laugh, hands once again moving to scrub at his eyes, “Tired s’all.”
“Y’need more sleep, man.”
“Could say the same t’you, Trini.”
“What are you, my ma?” Trini plants himself on the opposite bed, a plate in one hand and a bowl in the other. The mattress dips under his weight.
“May as well be.
“Huh.” The Mexican man puts on a confused expression, “Then I guess it’s Mother’s Day. Breakfast in bed, m’amm.” He passes the plate across the gap between the two beds, and Boyd takes it with a chuckle and a gracious ‘thank you’. It’s piled with rashers of bacon and eggs.
“Ya’ didn’ have t'.”
“Yer’ getting skinny, man.” Trini protests, digging into his own loaded bowl of cereal, “Wasting away.”
“Mmn.” Boyd hums, nodding as he raises his eyebrows doubtfully. He picks at the food with a fork, placed helpfully on the plate’s edge. “Mnnn.”
“'Mnn’ nothin’. When they say a guy’s got skeleton’s in his closet, they don’t mean his starving roommate.”
“Thanks for that analogy, Trini.”
“I’m jus’ sayin’.” The man puts his hands up in surrender, as best he can with a spoon between his fingers and a bowl balancing on the opposite palm. “Jus’ sayin’.”
“Mnn.”
Boyd is nothing if not polite, and he shovels down the contents of his plate quickly. He pins the eggs with his fork and folds them into his mouth as efficiently as he can, chewing them tastelessly before swallowing them down. It’s the thought that counts.
“Thank you, Gordo.”
The man has already risen from the other bed. “Welcome.” He takes the plate as he leaves, with Boyd offering another thank you and a grateful nod. His hands move to rub his eyes again.
His gaze wanders to the bedside table. The calendar stares back, today’s date gleaming in the light. It doesn't feel like March. Gordo had found an unused party popper under the bed from New Year’s. The months were disappearing already.
Boyd inhales deeply, because he needs to. He feels like he forgets to breathe sometimes. A little too often, actually. The doctor’s are unsure if it’s asthma or simply a mental thing. A result of stress, maybe. Though Boyd’s not sure he’s ever experienced that much stress in his life. It’s been reasonably plain sailing up until now, and the winds have made no move to change yet.
“Boyd, get your ass up, before the water goes cold!”
His hand runs through his hair again, fingernails scratching at his temple as his body finally decides it’s time to get up. Bare feet planted firmly on the floor, Boyd stands, shuffling across the room to collect his discarded clothing from yesterday. Running to work is not something he’s in the mood for.
He’s almost forgotten about his dream by the time he’s made his way to the shower.
‘Hips don’t lie’ is on the radio and Gordo is singing along. Boyd’s trying not to laugh as the man swings his hips, his face contorting into dramatic expressions as he whispers the lyrics. Boyd keeps his laughter contained in a tight smile, and doesn't mention it. It’s nice to see the man enjoying himself, even as he flips one of the burgers on the grill.
Because their job isn't so much boring as it is repetitive. Boyd doesn't mind, since he had always taken pleasure in routine, but Gordo wasn't like that. It warms the Christian’s heart to see his friend happy, even in the most dreaded part of his day.
The diner is relatively quiet today. Though it was never too much to handle; it’s small and cosy, shiny 40's bar stools and all. ‘Themed’ doesn’t really cover it. It’s more ‘tacky’, with the silver counter and red leather booths. But the coffee's good and it makes up for the tasteless furniture.
Boyd watches the passers-by through the large windows, listening for the jingle of the doorbell. The wash-cloth in his hand glides lazily back and forth over the counter.
“Oh, we got company. 10 o’clock.”
Boyd feels Gordo tense up behind him, singing cut short as he lets out an abrupt groan. Boyd smiles.
The doorbell jingles as the door is pushed open a little too forcefully, Boyd abandoning his cleaning to greet the customer who makes a beeline for the two employees. He straightens up, trying to keep a serious expression on his face.
“Good mornin’, sir, an’ how can I help you?”
The customer doesn't disappoint, giving him the response he expects.
“Cut that professional shit, Boyd, do I look like some greased-up fancy-man to you?”
Boyd can’t hide his growing smile.
“It’s nice t’see ya’ too, Grady.” He glances over his shoulder, “Gordo, yer’ husbands here!”
“Vete a la mierda!”
“Wha’s he sayin’?” Grady injects, peering round the counter, “What you sayin’?”
“I said ‘fuck you!’.”
“Aw, maybe later, darlin’.”
Trini quickly appears at Boyd’s side, armed with a threatening spatula. He’s got a look of cold disappointment on his face that only an angry mother could conjure. Grady grins back at him, legs crossed as he leans his elbows on the counter top.
Boyd finds himself playing peacemaker, as usual, though he knows there’s no malice in it all. “What can I get ya’, Grady?” He asks, gently lowering Gordo’s spatula with a hand to the man’s wrist.
“I said cut that professional shit.”
“Yeah, Boyd.” Trini agrees, folding his arms, “I know his order. Quarter pounder with everythin’ slapped on top. An’ a special helpin’ of spit from yours truly.”
“Nice to know y’love me enough to make it special.” Grady drawls, winking at the Mexican man.
“Anythin’ for you, Coon-ass.”
“Ya’ll real cute.” Boyd interrupts, steering Trini back to the grill with one hand and shooing Grady into a seat with the other, “Mind if I keep workin’?”
Gordo mumbles something in Spanish as Grady pulls a dramatic face. They part ways though, with one moving back to his cooking and the other swinging a leg over the nearest metal stool, planting himself down with a huff.
Boyd starts pouring a fresh cup of coffee. He knows their silence won’t last, and he’s right; they bicker over the counter top, pretending he can’t hear. He pretends right along with them.
A hand reaching into the pocket of his shirt, Boyd puts the coffee pot down for a moment to adjust his glasses, pushing them up his nose. He sniffs as he pulls the small battered book from his uniform. Taking the coffee pot back in hand, he continues pouring out Grady’s order into a mug. He licks the thumb of his free hand, flicking through the Bible’s pages expertly, pinning it open on the counter with his fingers.
Even one handed, he doesn't spare his chance to read. Though he’s read it all before.
His lips move silently over the words that greet him.
“Book of Isaiah, Chapter 6...”