WHO: Dixon Albatroz & Ireland Rhodes WHAT: Resolution WHEN: Right after Apollo's capture WHERE: b52, q03 WARNINGS: N/A
Dick was a certain uncertainty in his life. When headquarters had blown up, one number had been dialled first; his heart beating fast, palms sweaty, throat knotted. Their apartment overlooked the HQs, right now it would be a good vantage point to see the ruins(and how could they have not expected something like this? Many convicts got out, alliances already in place within Pluto).
They often find themselves in the middle of trouble: cars, guns, knives. All part of their chosen profession, a tad safer than car racing in Mars(Ireland's vision blurring at the sight of that crash). At least here, within the RAC they can watch each other's backs; he has the certainty that pulling the trigger to protect Dix is a far better alternative than play cheerleader on the side.
Missions don't always end well, some better than others, and personally he feels that this is a success of sorts. Apollo had been caught, and with only a few knife wounds that weren't deep, Ireland was ready to grab Dix for a celebratory ramen bowl.
“Once a prison whore, always a prison whore,” Dix remarked, voice kept quiet to keep Ireland from hearing how terse he sounded. Ireland was fine now; there was no need for concern. Dix laid his hand over Ireland’s side as he led him out of the room. “You’re free to go? Now where’s the fun in that if I don’t have to bust you out.”
Ireland grinned, "No point, it's just a few scratches. The medics have actual things to do that clean these up." He pressed a finger over his shirt, where beneath a gauze covered the worst slash from their most recent bounty, where it was itching like crazy. He couldn't recall the knife being rusty, so for all intents and purposes there was no need for tetanus shots.
Maybe.
Bumping his hip against Dix's, "And we caught Apollo, this should be celebrated."
“I bet those weirdoes are jumping in joy inside at getting to deal with so much blood again,” was Dix’s last comment regarding the RAC’s medics. Probably far from accurate, for most of them anyway, but that didn’t keep him from saying most of the things he did. Since Ireland seemed just fine and more than capable of walking on his own, Dix retracted his hand, but didn’t pull away entirely. They walked down the hall together. “We can head to my room. There’s a stash Star hasn’t found yet.”
"The operative word being: yet." Ireland slipped one arm around Dix's waist, more out of habit than a need to lean on him(but without thinking too much, he was resting his weight, suddenly feeling tired). When they entered the room, Ireland went straight for the bed, dropping down unceremoniously and reclining back. "Wow, that was kind of exhausting, wasn't it?"
“Less people died than expected,” Dix said, dryly enough that it almost sounded like disappointment. The whole ordeal was anticlimactic now that they were lounging around in his room, and he lingered at the bed and regarded Ireland for a moment. Then he pulled away to rummage through the closet, reemerging with a bottle of unopened whiskey and a scowl. “She got to the good gin,” he muttered, and passed the bottle over to Ireland after opening it.
They drank together in silence for a while, Ireland's eyes half-closing now and again, "S'alot of things going on, yeah? Do you think it gets easier?" He wasn't drunk, despite the slur in his words, just tired and holding down on an increasing encroaching pain - poison that once they landed back on Ganymede would cause him to collapse on Dix.
It was just part of the job — their job. And Ireland would rather be the one poisoned than having to see someone he cared for be in this level of pain.
Did it get easier? “Nah,” Dix answered, hand sliding across Ireland’s back when he leaned against him. “Where’s the fun in that?”