Regret to Inform

Title: "Regret to Inform" (500 words)
Author: Jimbo
Fandom: 'S.W.A.T.'
Pairing: Gamble/Street (Jeremy Renner, Colin Farrell)
Date: February 25, 2006
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters -- just borrowing them for the fun of it.
Warnings: None really. References to violence.
Notes: Written for Challenge #65 "I'm Sorry" at slashthedrabble.

Grey skies, grey seas, a grey haze in front of his tired eyes. It seemed fitting that the California sun had been muted by some unseen hand, even if it was nothing but a droning meteorologist's offshore low.

Brian Gamble's burial lacked ceremony, with just one lone figure in attendance. The small, straight headstone read only the name and the years. But there was still the matter of the flag.

Jim Street clutched the precious bundle next to his chest as he walked back to his car, unsure of what the hell he planned to do with it. Before he ever partnered with the disgraced Gamble in L.A.'s elite S.W.A.T. unit, the two had crawled on their bellies together through sticky mud, squinting into the murky jungle with blackened faces as they honed in on their assigned targets. One a demolitions expert, the other a skilled sniper, Street handled the insertion so Gamble could take the shot.

Had Gamble been more interested in serving their country or in serving his own scary-assed talent? It hadn't mattered to the brass, and it hadn't mattered to the more traditionally heroic Street. He and Gamble were a perfectly matched team, and their dynamic pairing resulted in repeated successes.

Once a nearby explosion had sent them rolling together, reeling from the shock of miraculously missing the deadly mine. That was the first time they fucked, their hearts still racing from fear, their camouflage-colored trousers bunched up around their boots, sweating faces pressed together as Street's strong fingers tattooed Gamble's white ass, cleaving it open.

They had sweated even harder during their final fight, the one that left Gamble dead. They had grappled just as roughly, grunted just as loudly, and the culmination had been even bloodier. And final.

Street sighed as he climbed in the convertible, glancing west. The slate sky was starting to flicker with light. By evening the stars would be visible.

Somehow Gamble's fall from grace had been Street's fault. He had missed something, failed in some way, not loved Gamble enough or perhaps expected too much, and the result had been a deadly snowball careening downhill. Street owed his ex-partner something, maybe just a small acknowledgment of the man who had once done it right, who should have probably died in the jungle when his death would have meant something to someone, resulting at the very least in official regrets, the kind that used to come in a dreaded telegram.

Street hit the gas and raced down the hill, the small triangle of cloth on the seat beside him, folded perfectly thirteen times. The third fold was to honor the veteran, the fourth fittingly represented man's weaker nature, the sixth symbolized where the heart lies, Street recalled. He glanced down at the unexpected memento, the remnant of one man's short life. He could see the color of Gamble's eyes in the starry blue field.

Jim Street blinked and stared ahead as he steered the convertible home.

He'd keep the flag.

The End