Chapter Text
Floodlights hummed against the silence, casting long cones of light across the base’s perimeter. The rest of the compound had gone still hours ago, barracks sealed, the motor pool quiet, only the hum of a generator breaking the hush.
Ripley ran.
His breath rasped, his stride steady, hard, almost punishing. Steam curling from his mouth, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt and darkening the fabric down his spine. Blisters had broken open inside his shoes two laps back, each footfall sticky with pain, but he didn’t let up. That was the point–if he stopped when it hurt, he’d never stop hurting. Breath burned his throat, the night air cutting sharp in his nose, layered with the salt tang of his own sweat.
Puck paced him stride for stride, tongue lolling, his ears pricked. The Belgian Malinois matched Ripley’s pace as if tethered by thought alone–gliding ahead when Ripley leaned into speed, dropping back when his handler faltered, circling in a blur before settling at his side again. Not a single order passed Ripley’s lips–he didn’t have to. Mostly, they ran in silence, the rhythm of their feet the only conversation.
The Malinois was a lean streak of muscle and drive, slipping a few strides ahead before he looped back, brushing Ripley’s leg and surging forward again. He kept perfect time with his handler as if he knew Ripley’s rhythm by heart.
Another lap, another burn in his lungs. The world blurred into repetition–the fence line, the floodlights, the distant tower, the stretch of dark. Every so often, Puck glanced up, catching Ripley’s eye like he was checking in: Still running? Still alive? Ripley answered with nothing more than a twitch of his fingers or the set of his jaw, and Puck adjusted. Ripley’s world narrowed to pounding feet, ragged lungs, the dog at his side, and the thick shadows.
Ripley glanced down once, caught the flash of eager brown eyes and the swing of Puck’s tail. The dog wasn’t tired–he never was. When he finally slowed, Puck didn’t protest. It was routine, just him and the dog. Always just him and the dog. The brunet bent forward, hands braced on his knees, and spat hard against the asphalt. His legs shook under him. He pressed a fist against his thigh until they steadied. “Good lad,” he praised breathlessly, reaching down to brush his hand over the dog’s head affectionately. Puck shoved into the touch, greedy for it, his eyes bright despite the ground they’d covered.
The young sergeant huffed, straightened, and began the cool-down lap. Puck fell into perfect heel without a word. Regulations said he should’ve been leashed, even in the dead of night, but Ripley didn’t bother. It was late. Too late for anyone else to be out there. He liked it that way. Green eyes slid toward the barracks. The smart thing would’ve been to call it–shower, crate the dog, and sleep for a few hours. Puck was still buzzing at his feet, tail wagging against the pavement. And Ripley? He wasn’t wrung out yet.
He cut across the asphalt, shoes whispering against the paving. Puck padded at his heel, silent as a shadow.
The base gym smelled of iron and sweat, even at that hour. Fluorescent bulbs hummed above the racks, throwing a hard light over the empty space. It was late enough that no one else bothered coming through. That was how Ripley preferred it–no eyes on him, no voices to break his rhythm.
Ripley started with pulls-ups, palms already raw, the bar biting into previously torn skin. He didn’t count. He went until his arms shook, until his shoulders felt ready to tear loose from their sockets, until the burn in his chest drowned out everything else.
Puck settled at the edge of the mat, head resting on his paws, brown eyes watching intently. Ripley dropped down, rolled his wrists, and pointed. “Up.”
The dog bounded onto the mat, tail a blur. Ripley patted his thigh and Puck leapt up, paws against Ripley’s chest. The sergeant braced, shoved him back, then caught him again, turning the motion into resistance work–a game and a drill all at once. Puck’s blunt nails scrabbled against the mat, his jaws snapping playfully for the tug toy Ripley produced from his pocket.
“Down.”
Instant. Puck flattened, muscles coiled, eyes locked onto the tug in Ripley’s hand.
“Stay.”
Ripley moved through push-ups, every rep steady and deliberate. Puck didn’t budge, just tracking him with that intense stare, waiting to be released. Sweat slicked down Ripley’s back, dripping onto the mat. His arms trembled, chest heaving, but he forced himself through one more set. Only then did he snap his fingers. “Break.”
The Malinois launched forward, tearing into the tug with a growl that reverberated off the cinderblock walls. Ripley held fast, let him thrash, muscles screaming as he fought against sixty pounds of furious energy. A smile ghosted across his mouth–brief, fleeting, gone as soon as it came. He dragged Puck side to side, testing his grip, challenging his possession.
They worked like that until Ripley’s shirt clung to him, until Puck’s sides heaved and his jaws dribbled spit onto the rubber mat. Ripley ended it with one word:
“Out.”
Puck spat the tug at once, tongue flopping, eyes bright. He collapsed beside Ripley’s feet like the exercise hadn’t touched his reserves–like he could go another round at a moment’s notice. Ripley stripped off his running shirt, skin slick, chest rising hard, and began wrapping his hands in reverent silence. The fabric pulled tight across split knuckles already raw from overuse. He flexed his fingers once, twice, testing the wrap, then stepped up to the heavy bag. Ripley steadied it with one palm, drew in a breath, and drove his fist into it hard enough to make the chain above rattle.
Thud.
His fist cracked against canvas.
Thud-thud.
Left, right, hook. The sound filled the empty gym, deep and meaty, echoing off of the walls. Puck sprawled at the edge of the mat, panting from their tug-of-war, but his eyes never left Ripley. His ears flicked with every strike like he was tracking the cadence. He didn’t wander, didn’t need tethering. He never did.
Ripley drove harder–jab-cross-hook, body shot, pivot, knee. Left, right, hook, body shot. His breath rasped in short bursts, the chain squealing. Pain bloomed sharp in his wrists and knuckles but he leaned into it, welcoming the sting. Over and over until the bag rocked on its chain. His shoulders burned. His ribs ached from the force of his own blows. He didn’t stop.
He shifted combinations, pivoting on bare feet. Jab-cross-hook. Uppercut-hook-cross. Elbows snapped sharp, knees driving into the bag when his fists slowed. He moved with brutal efficiency despite his size, the kind of training that wasn’t about finesse or aesthetics–it was about breaking a man down fast, keeping control in the chaos.
Sweat streaked down his jaw, dripping off his nose. He breathed in harsh grunts, the bag swaying harder with each strike. His fists stung, his wrists ached. Still he kept going, punishing, the skin beneath the wraps splitting and warm pricks of blood darkening the material. Ripley hammered the bag again, elbows snapping in brutal arcs, then spun into a punishing backhand. He dropped into push-ups beside the bag, chest slamming the floor, palms scraping the mat raw against the grit of the rubber. His knees took the punishment of the hard surface, skin rubbed open to sting in the cool air. He forced through rep after rep until his ankles–blistered from the run–stung from the friction of movement and sweat.
Another round, and only then did he stop. He caught the bag against his chest, pressing his forehead to the torn canvas for a beat, breath sawing in and out. The canvas reeked of leather and old sweat, and beneath it, the copper bite of his own blood filled his nostrils. The sting in his hands was sharp, electric, but grounding.
Puck padded over, nudging his leg with a wet nose, as if reminding him he wasn’t completely alone in the room. Ripley reached down, scratching behind the dog’s ear with a bloodied hand. “Good lad,” he offered softly, crouching down so that he could be level with the canine, smushing his cheeks with his hands.
Puck’s ears flicked, nose twitching. He prodded at Ripley’s hand, then caught the edge of the bloody wrap between his teeth, tugging insistently. The Malinois whined low in his throat, as if trying to pull the fabric away so he could lick the raw skin beneath.
“Oi,” Ripley huffed, though his voice lacked heat. He let the dog worry at the strip for a moment, the warm rasp of a tongue brushing against his knuckles, before reclaiming the wrap. “Daft bastard. Not yer job.”
Puck sat back on his haunches, tail thumping once against the mat, brown eyes fixed on Ripley’s hand like he hadn’t given up his point. Ripley exhaled, the sting of his skin making itself known now that the adrenaline was gone. He leaned his forehead against his dog’s nose for a moment, eyes closing, catching the warm, earthy scent of Puck’s coat–a smell baked into his life as much as sweat and steel. Puck rolled his tongue over his glabella affectionately, then huffed as if to say enough.
The brunet released him to collect his shirt, unwrapping the ruined tape from his knuckles and tossing it in the bin on his way out. The gym door groaned shut behind them, the silence of the base settling back in like a held breath.
The corridors were empty, fluorescent strips flickering in a patchy pulse above them, half of the bulbs dead. His shoes whispered against the linoleum, damp from sweat and blood, each step leaving a faint squeak louder than he liked. Puck padded close, nails clicking, his shadow stretching long under the buzzing lights.
It was late enough that even the night staff had vanished to their corners. No voices, no laughter, just the hum of the building’s bones–vents, wiring, the far-off growl of a generator cycling. By the time they reached his quarters, the ache in his joints had set deep. Ripley swiped his keycard, shouldered the door open, and let the familiar dark swallow them both. The room was small, squared off, functional. Bed shoved against the wall, footlocker beneath it, a narrow desk cluttered with nothing but folded reports and a battered rubber ball. No photos, no mementos. The only personal touch was the space given over to Puck–a crash-tested crate with a mat in the bottom, a box of toys on top, and a bowl that always smelled faintly of meat.
Ripley stripped out of his soaked shirt, dropping it into the hamper with a wet slap. His knuckles throbbed, his knees and ankles stinging where the skin had broken. The metallic tang of blood clung to his nose.
Puck hovered close the whole time, watching with the same vigilance he showed in his work. When Ripley reached for the brush, Puck sat without prompting, leaning his weight into Ripley’s thigh as the bristles dragged down his coat. He didn’t shed much, and didn’t require the grooming, but it was a nice way for the both of them to wind down after a long day. The Malinois sighed, eyes slipping half-shut, content as his tail thumped now and then against the floor.
It was routine. Run until it hurt. Train until it bled. Tend the dog. Sleep. Repeat.
When Ripley finally set the brush aside, Puck was already half asleep. Ripley pressed his forehead to the dog’s skull briefly, then released him. The Malinois eased up and circled once before entering his crate and settling down on the mat inside, not moving even when the door shut behind him. Ripley checked the latch, making sure it was secure and wouldn’t rattle, then reached for a towel and the small toiletry kit he kept on the shelf above his desk.
He always waited until lights-out for this. The communal showers were hell during the day–bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, reeking of soap and aftershave, too many glances that lasted too long. Privacy wasn’t a luxury; it was survival. Ripley had learned years ago to hold off until the base slept. So he trained until the base was dead quiet, until the men were snoring in their bunks, and only then could he move through the tiled corridor without a dozen sets of eyes on his back.
The shower room echoed when he entered, every drip from the pipes magnified in the still. His footsteps slapped against the damp tile, hollow. Rows of stalls stood open, steam long gone cold. Ripley chose the farthest one, where the wall offered cover on two sides, and set his kit down with mechanical care.
The water sputtered, then hissed alive, hot enough to sting. He hissed back through his teeth, pressing his raw knuckles under the stream first, watching the blood thin and swirl pink down the drain. Soap, rinse, repeat. His motions were efficient, brisk, done with no lingering. The scent of industrial cleaner clung to everything, sharp and artificial, a poor attempt to mask the mildew sunk deep into grout.
Ripley scrubbed himself down in silence, the scalding spray biting across his blistered feet, his scraped knees. He tilted his head back and let the water burn the ache out of his shoulders, but only for a moment. Too long under the spray meant too long exposed.
He dried off in quick, practiced swipes of his towel, and dressed without once looking at the warped mirror bolted above the sinks. The mirror had never felt like his ally.
By the time he padded back down the corridor, the base was still quiet, sealed in sleep. His keycard beeped softly as he slid back into his quarters, the latch clicking shut behind him. Puck shifted in his crate but didn’t rise, tail tapping once against the kennel before settling again.
Ripley set the kit aside, sat on the edge of his bed, and exhaled.