So recently I've been working another mission under the radar, right? Tracking, reconnoitering, intel-gathering . . . starving, because I can't show my face long enough to procure decent fucking food . . . after countless hours of filthy, hazardous work, I turn my nose homeward. I travel a few thousand more miles through the heat and the sand just to make it back to the secure little building I share with Gerard—whenever we see each other, anyway.
When I get here, I'm fucking exhausted. I throw myself into the bathroom for a good scrubbing, get some grub when I come back out, and make it to my room in time to collapse onto my bed.
So, here