Wastelands (Act One, Chapter Three)

[thehonorablebat]

 

Shen put the photo of his daughter back in his pocket. He reached for his mug.

“And you two, any children?” he asked, then took a sip.

“None that I know of,” Weir said, more to himself than to them.

Bradford and Shen both raise their eyebrows, but choose not to comment on that.

“No, no children,” Bradford said to take the attention off Weir. A good rule of thumb in intelligence work is to understand all your co workers have proclivities that aren’t discussed...unless it’s being used against them. Weir could have one child in every state, and frankly Bradford wouldn’t want to know about it. “My folks won’t stop bringing it up whenever I’m home.”

Okay, no, not his folks. Bradford didn’t have any living relatives. He suspected that was part of why he got selected. But he had friends back in Kansas. All married with kids, and they had Opinions. Nevermind how his last long term relationship went down the drain after he got back from Green Box.

Weir nudged a hostess cupcake towards him, shaking him from his thoughts.

He smiled and shook his head.

To Weir, offering him a precious dessert was a grand, sweet gesture. He could appreciate it for what it was. But he could live without sugar. He had doubts Weir could.

Shen watched the exchange over the rim of the mug doing a bad job of hiding his knowing grin.

Bradford cleared his throat and returned to his oatmeal.

--

Staff meetings happened on a weekly basis. Sometimes over dinner to minimize time spent away from projects.

On those nights, Bradford missed his and Weir’s private dinners. Dinners that ended with a movie on Weir’s computer. Them wrapped up in each other’s arms dozing or discussing things they needed to accomplish. Sometimes the comfort was the only thing getting him through each new hellish day. Something to look forward to most nights.

“How are we doing on stockpiling?” Weir asked.

“The men are getting antsy with the scant rations we’re giving them,” Bradford said. It wasn’t an accusation, just a fact. He knew why Weir wanted to squirrel things away. The council wasn’t giving them emergency supplies. They had to make their own in case they got cut off.

Weir nodded. Not much he could do about it.

“Doctor Vahlen, research?”

Vaheln glanced at him, mouth set.

“Coming along fine, Commander.”

She only came to staff meetings grudgingly, and because Bradford always went down to collect her.

The less time Weir and Vahlen spent in each other’s company, the better.

“When can I expect the alien containment to be completed?” Weir asked.

“In a few days, Commander.”

The pair had a silent stand off in which neither budged an inch.

Yeah, Bradford missed the private dinners.

--

You don’t look gift horses in the mouth. Bradford knew that.

But he was also a man who liked to know every working piece of an operation. He knew everyone in the control room. Their temperaments, who worked well with who. Ect..

What he didn’t know was how the Commander worked.

He stared down at the report he had to send to the Council.

(Why they wanted one from him was a mystery, one that made him cautious in the words he chose)

It occurred to him that the Commander’s unprecedented success on the battlefield made no sense when you considered he spent the entire time away from all the special instruments and data coming in from the battlefield. It all had to be relayed to him. That took precious seconds. It should be detriment.

Bradford tilted his head up to look at Weir writing his own report. They sat on the floor in his quarters, legs tangled together. If he leaned over just a few more inches they could be cuddling. He imagined Weir wouldn’t hesitate to put an arm around him. He could relax, let the tension from the day drain away.

If only he didn’t have reports to finish.

Weir caught him looking. He raised his brows in question.

“How do you run missions from your office? You only have access to your computer and the intel I feed you.” If there was one thing he knew about Weir, it was that beating around the bush got you nowhere. He’d happily dance around an issue with you as long as you let him. Being direct was a must if you wanted to get anywhere.

Weir stretched out his long legs in front of him.

“I was chosen to lead XCOM for a reason,” he said.

“Is it one of those things where if you told me, you’d have to kill me?”

Weir grimaced

Bradford took that as a yes.

--

He had known it would only be a matter of time before they had to deal with profiteers and others willing to take advantage of the situation. Didn’t mean he had to like it.

Bradford glanced at the monitor as Strike One led their new prisoner off the Skyranger. Hands bound and a bag over his head. With luck, the man would give up the rest of his cohorts and they could put this issue to bed.

Until the next group popped up, that is.

The mission over, and the squad safely returned (uninjured once more), Bradford reported to Weir’s office. He didn’t have to. He just got into the habit of checking in after a mission. And Weir liked to hear his opinions.

He got there in time to witness Weir taking Ibuprofen once again.

He wanted to give him a massage, but they were still on duty. They had a silent agreement anything involving their relationship had to occur after hours.

“I suppose it’s too late to doctor records to show we found no survivors.” Weir rubbed the space between his brows.

“To what purpose?” Bradford asked.

“The Council is going to call very soon to order us to release our prisoner into their custody.”

Ah.

“And we’ll only get what they deem fit to tell us,” Bradford said.

“And left guessing about how much of it is true.” Weir put the pill bottle in his desk.

Bradford shifted his weight.

“So what are you going to do?” With Weir it was never a question ‘if’. It was always ‘what’ and ‘when’.

Weir leaned back in his chair.

“I want you to help Dr. Harrier with identifying the bodies we recovered from France.”

“Now?” Bradford asked.

“It’ll mean overtime. I apologize, John.”

Bradford knew what this was. Now he had a choice to make.

To hell with it.

“I don’t know what you’re planning. But I know you could use help.”

“I am not going to drag you down with me.” Weir stood.

“Too late, Will.”

He meant that as a ‘we’re in this together’, but Weir looked like he just slapped him.