Watcher 1-1

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Part Three <3 The fluff before the storm

Warnings!: Angst, angst, and more angst. Reader will be MAD sad for most of this. Poorly-practiced, unhealthy polyamory. Reader will experience a LOT of gender and body dysphoria over the course of this (though I will do my best to keep it gender-neutral throughout, bear with me), but there WILL be comfort over that.

Training with Gary was a good idea, no matter how much you hate to admit it.

He forced you to take it easy, as much as you griped at him for it. You could do more. You knew you could do more. But the both of you knew damn well that you shouldn't be doing any more, either.

It was a simple hour. He did the exercises with you, mostly simple stretches and the like.

As infuriating as it was, you felt much calmer after. Maybe that was because you'd managed to avoid your team up until now. You hadn't had to look at any of them today.

That was oddly relieving, but the way he was looking at you wasn't. Gary was scanning you like he was trying to figure something out, between friendly jokes and quiet banter. It wigged you out a little, but when you tried to go to the showers, as usual, he stopped you with a hand on your hoodie-clad shoulder.

"You know you're not supposed to wet the dressings, right?"

His soft voice is right next to your ear, the muffled heat of his breath thankfully not making you shiver as it usually would, thanks to the mask.

"But I've still gotta shower, y-"

Gary chuckles gently, and pulls you (gently, he gives you more than enough leeway to wriggle free if you really want to) into the smallest bathroom attached to the gym.

You've never been in here before, but you don't stop him when he turns you around, and starts to sign again.

You didn't read the articles I sent, did you?

You sigh, and give him a slightly sheepish glance as you sign back (much more clumsily, to be sure, and slower.

Doing other things, bug.

Do you know the sign for "Roach"? No. It doesn't stop you from hearing Gary's little gasp, and watching the way his cheeks round with a bright smile as he slips his mask down, revealing maybe the brightest grin you've ever seen.

Before you're fully aware of it, you've been engulfed in a firm hug, and you're being squeezed tightly by the gentle man before you, an ungloved hand splayed over the small of your back.

"I was right about you."

His voice is still raspy, almost whispered, and you frown just a little at the way he's straining to talk, even if you want to smile at the words.

"You've done a lot for me, luv, I practically owed it to you. Don't strain yourself."

The silent bounces of laughter rock your chest as Gary gently rests his face on your shoulder for just a moment, seemingly fond of the way this feels.

What makes you pull back is the way you feel a warm, scared hand under your hoodie (and over your undershirt, thank goodness) right after leather hits the floor.

Gary seems to sense your unease, and gives you a reassuring smile.

You can't wet your dressings, so I brought wet wipes for you. Figured you could use the help.

He uses more complete sign than before, only bothering to finger-spell the harder words to gleam in the sentence. You pick it up well, but still squirm a little when you see yourself in the mirror.

Gary knows it, because you pointedly look away from the wall behind him. The confirmation makes his smile fade a little, but his hope skyrocket.

You're more like him than you think. Even if you don't know it yet.

He clicks his tongue, and turns so you're facing the wall, pulling the small pack of sanitary wipes from his bag and handing them to you.

"Do you want me to help?"

You can't reach every part of your body just yet, but Gary still offers to let you do it yourself. He lets you choose. It makes you a little weak.

When you nod, he gets to work.

It's maybe the best thing you've ever felt. His hands are cloaked by the wipes, smoothing over your skin, wicking away the thin layer of sweat that clings to it. Soothing you in a way no one has every bothered to before.

Your phone pings somewhere in your gym bag. You ignore it, opting to lean into a gentle swipe over the broadest part of your back.

"You're good to me, Gary."

He nods. It makes you sigh.

"I really want to be with you more."

He nods again. This time, he gently hooks his chin over your shoulder, pulling your hoodie up just enough to clean around the small bandages you changed just this morning. When you tense, he scoots his head a little closer to your neck, to comfort you. It works well.

It's a hard balance to strike, but he's pulling it off. You feel seen, but somehow just as much you feel like he's not really looking. It takes that ugly, twisting feeling away, and puts it to bed.

Your body may be wrong, but right now, it doesn't matter. Gary doesn't care. That makes you feel... good. Maybe not good. It makes you feel understood, for the first time.

"Why are you so good at this?"

You feel him smile, and gently take hold of your hand, before leading you to feel a scar that stretches beneath his chest.

Huh.

Oh. Oh, shit.

"Gary-"

He interrupts you when he releases your hand, and signs once more.

I'm like you.

"I... Fuck, luv, I'm not- I mean, I- I-"

Let me help you. I want to.

You're in deeeeeeep shit.

"Alright. Yeah, as long as you stay."

Watcher 1-1

Part Four

Call this shit the silly before the storm because they're getting SILLY!!!

Warnings!: The 141 will be criminally stupid, fumblers, all of them. Death (canon-typical), Violence (canon-typical), loss of limb (no, I won't tell you who yet >:), but I will cover the symptoms as well as possible) They do get kissy, but no smut (that I'm writing, but it's very much implied).

"This is Firecracker, completing final equipment check."

You can hardly keep the tremor from your voice as you grin into the radio, finally wrapping up your very first official mission on the 141.

It went just as it should have, a quick in and out, with the exception of a small gash on your thigh, an order not followed quickly enough from Price's end that left you in the hot seat. Ghost was watching your six the whole time, just like he'd promised on the fly in.

He'd said I always will, sergeant. Something in your gut squeezed when he did, but you ignored it.

Now, that skull-masked Brit sits across from you in the big belly of the helicopter–a stupidly pretty Pave Low that Nikolai was flying, as per usual–and you see the fabric rustle a little on his cheeks.

Like he's smiling.

Before you can really ponder that, or why it makes you want to see it again, Johnny is attaching himself to your side, waxing poetic about how good ye were, leannan, I knew we were right to go wie ye.

You grin wider than you would like to admit as you shove him lightly, one hand right on his waist to hold him at least a little further back, to pretend you weren't stupidly fond of him already, like he hadn't proven himself to be a wonderful teammate and... fuck, a good friend to boot.

Helping you unjam your gun, correcting your posture with a sort of gentleness you never knew you were deserving of.

Of course, thoughts of Johnny always bring thoughts of Kyle, too.

You can see him there, sitting next to Price, looking like an outside observer, like he's just passing by.

It makes you frown.

"Gaz?"

His head perks, stupidly pretty brown eyes locking onto yours without a moment of delay, always at the ready.

Goodness, you're terrible for finding him so pretty.

"Fuck're you sitting over there for? With the geezers? Did we suddenly get boring or something?"

The toothy grin you give must be enough to prevent the individual wrath of both your lieutenant and captain, because when Price gives you a look, Simon taps his thigh, just once. John huffs, but relaxes again, still looking squarely at you with something sharper than before in his eyes.

When you look away, slightly unsettled, Kyle's there beside you too, and you gladly pull him in to your little predicament with one very clingy Scotsman.

Yes, you're all grown adults. Does that make tussling in seats that should only be sat in any less fun?

Absolutely not.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You're not exactly sure why or how you let this happen.

All you're fully aware of is that Johnny and Kyle managed to drag you out to an actual bar to celebrate.

It's a small spot, but cozy and playful, balmy in atmosphere with some temptingly good hip-hop that you don't quite recognize, but listen to anyway.

Kyle sits on the end of the booth that's pressed to the wall, Johnny on the other side. You pick the wall, get a good look at the men before you.

Johnny's wearing a nice deep red shirt, unbuttoned enough to show off the glint of dog-tags on his pale skin, and the fabric of Kyle's thick cargo pants brushes against your thigh, forcing you to swallow as you smile.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Most of the night, the chatter is sweet, you'd be hard pressed to understand how you got here.

Something is roiling in your gut, but it's most definitely not the shot you've just knocked back, it's hotter.

Johnny's since taken up his place by your side, already flushed from how tipsy he is. You're gonna need to flag a cab home, all three of you, considering Kyle was just as blasted as the two of you, even if he's drinking you and Johnny under the table. you have no idea how he does it.

"Fuuuuucckkkkk..."

You groan as the sting of alcohol wears away to leave the bitter taste of the shot itself. It's not worth how bad your head is going to hurt tomorrow morning, but the way Kyle's looking at you is.

His eyes are terrible in the way they make you desperately try not to shiver, a beautiful brown yellowed to a lovely syrupy color in the warm lighting of the bar.

Before you do something stupid, or worse, say something stupid, you force yourself to comment on the shot instead.

"Is... is this 80 proof, Kyle?"

Your voice is tripping over itself a little, tongue slowed in your mouth until its motions are clumsy. You know he hears you, and you know he understands by how he swallows before meeting your eyes, opening his mouth to reply before he's cut off by a slightly pink Scotsman.

"Och, feckin' naughty dog, aye? Wha' do ye think we should do wie him, Firecracker?"

Johnny's breath is right against the column of your throat, teasing at the side with a warmth it has no right to have. A hot shiver grips you by the base of your spine, and you can feel your breath get caught in your throat for just a second too long.

"Johnny, you're-"

"I ken. Jus' havin' a wee bit of craic, tha's not a crime, is it?"

You're too focused on the blue-eyed menace to spot how hungrily Kyle is looking at the pair of you, the way his hand reaches out until it's holding you by the chin, gently guiding your face up to his.

"You know, you do things to people, Firecracker. He's just returning the favor."

His voice is ever so slightly lower, a little blurred by the liquor, but fuck it makes you swallow all of your pride anyway.

"Do I really?"

You're trying so hard to tease, you really are, but even you can catch how breathy you sound, and you can see Kyle's plush lips turn up at the corners, you watch him lean down until there's barely any space between your faces.

Maybe it's habit, maybe it's a mindless craving, but your head tilts to the side, and you watch him chuckle.

That's all that you can really see before there are lips on yours.

He's so warm, you can taste the sweetness of his old scotch when he parts his lips, tenderly traces his tongue on the seam of your own, like you're something to be revered, durable but deserving of good treatment.

You can feel your cheeks flame with color so fast it's nearly dizzying, every single system of your body lighting up as your gut flutters and your brain shuts itself off, focused entirely on the sensations that envelop you.

Johnny's at your back now, so very close to kissing at your neck, his breath ghosts over your pulse, and the feel of a strong body behind you makes everything double, forcing a muffled groan that Kyle eagerly swallows up before pulling away.

"Shit. Johnny was right."

Truth be told, Kyle had held his reservations about this. But having you there, flushed and hot and swollen-lipped from his kissing, he's struggling to think of any of those reasons.

Instead, he cradles your flushed face in his hands, and you spot him leaning down to peck Johnny's lips, too.

"You're gonnae be good, leannan, I cannae wait to have ye."

Johnny isn't as gentle as Kyle, you can feel his eagerness in the way his teeth catch a little against your skin before he really plans to, kissing and nibbling at your flesh as he suckles on it.

Kyle's grinning now, and he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, playfully licking into you with an energy that makes you want to sob.

It felt so wonderfully good. Terribly good, it makes you grip at his shirt, trying to pull him close enough to get a real kiss.

You can feel him smile against your lips, shift enough to give you what he knows you need.

It's wonderfully filthy, hot and heavy and you know you won't last much longer.

Johnny and Kyle know this, too.

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outside :(

One wishes to go outdoors, to ensure their health and better their situation, it is a simple desire.

And yet, it rains.

Can you please reblog if your blog is a safe place for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, asexual, aromantic, pansexual, non binary, demisexual or any other kind of queer or questioning people? Because mine is.

Watcher 1-1

Part TEN!!

Warnings!: The 141 will be criminally stupid, fumblers, all of them. Death (canon-typical), Violence (canon-typical), loss of limb (I will cover the symptoms as well as possible, but any and all corrections are welcome) They do get kissy, but no smut (that I'm writing, but it's very much implied).

Before you can tear Soap's throat out, you see your fucking savior appear.

Sarah.

Her tanned, sun-darkened skin is exactly what you've been missing, the neatly-done braids that you remember helping her put in sway as she walks toward you.

"Captain."

You call out flatly. She smiles, knowing damn well you're calming at the sight of her.

The dog at her side (technically, Hesh's dog, Riley) gives a soft noise of greeting before lightly pulling at his leash, requesting to be let go but knowing better. Well-trained, like you would expect from Hesh. He does good work.

You assume your place by Sarah's side as Riley trots over to Hesh's legs, sitting by his booted foot.

"Right, let's handle this properly, yes?"

Her voice is polite but firm as she looks at the other team, not even a little fondness residing in her dark eyes as she gazes at Price, on even ground with the Brit in a way you never were.

In a way you would never need to be, with her. With your team at your back.

"This is Hesh, my lieutenant, Newton, my second lieutenant, and Newton's sergeant, Keegan. Hesh handles Logan. If you have questions, address them to me."

You know Price is looking at you. You know all four of them are, in part. But you also don't care nearly enough to react to it with anything other than a slight scowl.

You don't offer much attention as Price introduces his men, but you do pause for the last one.

"This is Roach. He don't talk much, but he's good people."

The stupid little antennae bob when he waves excitedly, before making a gesture that you know.

He waves, and swipes his hands up from the bottom of his ribs, before presenting both to your team in a 'thumbs up' gesture

How are you, in British Sign Language.

"I'm good, Roach. I don't talk much either."

Your voice is accompanied by some of your old BSL–a bit rusty, no doubt, and a little muddied, because you've been using ASL as much as you can, to squeak by in the US–reaffirming to the masked man before you that you might be a little off, but he's got some company.

Roach jumps a little, before flapping his hands excitedly while trying to stay in place.

You hate to admit it, but it's kind of endearing to you. Reminds you of the way Keegan bounces up and down when he gets excited, or how Hesh fiddles with any little piece of string you give him.

Roach could be... he had potential.

You'd look into him more, in your free time.

He'll be interesting.

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Shorter chapter today, but it's more of a set-up for later shit, so get ready for the fecal matter to hit the fan, lovelies <3. Thank you for all the support today, it's been amazingly overwhelming to see :D

sorry to all y'all, I'm being evil. The lie is only technically a lie. If requested, I will tell the truth after the poll's over. Update: all of you were SO wrong. My god.

fuck it. tag game

make a poll where the options are two truths and one lie and have your followers guess the lie

I’ll go first

npt: @starkissed-mars @l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft @garden-of-runar @loozerboykisser @aesthetic-writer18 + anyone else who wants to <3

The introduction

Gay people, rise up. It's Hobie time.

Warnings:

-swearing

-Miguel O' Hara

(This takes place around two and a half years before the main story, I'm working on organizing it into a masterlist rn)

You don't know exactly where you are.

That's getting more and more common these days, though, so you don't hold it against the very upset-seeming Latin man or the weird asshole hologram lady, and look forward to the small camera before you.

"I'm- I'm really sorry, what is it I'm supposed to be doing again?" Your hand finds the textured, plastic back of the chair, and you run a thumb over the grain to soak in the feeling. The man whose name you're already forgetting scowls, and he steps forward.

"Can you just- Lyla, can you do the thing?" He sounds annoyed. It makes you shrivel in on yourself, smile sheepishly as you pray that you'll make it out of today without having to deal with him any more than this.

"What thing?" Lyla, as you find out her name, seems to revel in that question, cocking out her hip in that too-big jacket and grinning as she responds.

"The information- explainy thing. You know what I mean." Lyla crossed her arms, and stuck her tongue out a little bit.

"Hah, you're talking about a different thing. You know, for someone with such thorough naming conventions-"

"I know! I understand, I get it, ay-" You've just been sitting there this entire exchange, borderline shaking as you try to understand what the fuck is going on here.

The screeching on a loud guitar makes you jump, and cover your ears. The frustrated man glances for a second, before nodding ever so slightly to Lyla, who seemingly makes a note somewhere.

"Sensory sensitivity, got it-" She speaks as you lower your hands, eyes wide and anxious like a feral cat trapped in a corner.

The big man seems to soften his posture a bit more, but he balls his hands into fists before stomping off in the direction of the guitar.

"Alright kid. Let me help you out a little here." She swoops through the air until she stands behind the camera, and gives you a seemingly more considerate smile.

You hear the shutter open.

"Introduce yourself." You don't think you pulled a face at that, but the way Lyla reacts, you simply must have. She sighs, but remains patient.

"Like your name-"

"My name??? No, no, no, no, no. I wanna do this my own way." She steps back, puts her hands up causally, before she seems to blip out of existence again, seemingly content to let you work this out on your own.

The camera is, in fact, scarier alone, but you swallow down that fear and start to talk.

"Uhhh- Hi. I'm- I- I- I-" Words seem to evade your idiot mouth as you look down the lens of the camera, before you pinch the bridge of your nose.

"Motherfffff-" You cut yourself off at the "f", remembering the single, beady eye scanning you, the piercing vertical eye of the moitor at it side that likely shows you there, too. So you correct yourself. "I shouldn't say that."

"Y- Ugh, goddammit. Webs, spider, you get the gist. Call me Orb-" Before you can finish your poorly-planned little clip, the door opens, but the cadence of the footsteps are different.

There's a stupidly lanky boy there, with a guitar on his back and adorned in spikes.

Twists stick out from his scalp, honeyed a nice yellowish at the ends, and he wears a lip ring and earrings, though they don't go up past the lobe very far.

He seems to be made of some sort of collage, infinitely shifting snippets of newspaper and color in his little backdrop as he changes color. Currently, he seems to be sticking to gray. It's neat, but you don't yet know how it works and that only sours your already confused mood further.

You frown a little, he seems to catch it.

"Oi, mate. Who're you?" Wow. He is stupid British. Some part of your brain lights up with that, chews on the way that voice rings through the space.

Not rich, from the slang, and he's clipped, so you guess somewhere South-East, judging by the jacket, near Camden.

The punk seems to squirm a bit, and he less confidently says "Wot the fuck's up with you? You're starin'"

You feel your cheeks heat with shame, but you speak up.

"Not staring, just… observing. It's different." He raises a brow, but lets you finish.

"I like your twists. Very… cool."

He pauses, before taking one of them into a gangly hand. You see the corner of his lip twitch up but you don't know why

"Thanks."

There's a moment of dead air, but you both ask the same question at once.

"Do you know why we're here?" "Do ya know why we're in this shithole?"

You meet his eyes. They're a nice brown, your brain supplies, but they would look much better in warmer lighting.

He starts to giggle. You think his laugh is funny, and chuckle too.

"Right, I guess we should get to know each-other if we're stuck here, yeah?" He's walking over now, asking that question like you know what you're doing.

"I'm Hobie. Hobie Brown." He doesn't offer a hand. You're grateful for that, this has all been too much already.

"I'm Orb-weaver." Your voice is flat enough to make him raise a brow, but he shrugs, seemingly fine with dismissing that as just how you are remarkably fast.

"All business, huh?"

"No. My name is just on a need-to-know basis right now." You answer, and he leans on the edge of your chair, smiling.

"What if I-"

"You don't need to know." His lips lose some of that smile, and, for a second, you flounder to fix that, at any cost. But you can't tell him your name.

"But… I appreciate your tenacity." It's a compliment, one of the rare ones that you give, and Hobie seems to register that, because the papers surrounding him shift again and he turns… pink. Huh.

"That sounds like a label, mate, I don't do those."

"What?"

The recording stops.

The conversation doesn't.

For Joanna (pt. 1/3)

Warnings: Mild injury to reader (they are stupid an thwacked themself with a tool or fell or something)+ Nikolai is a depressed bisexual man.

There are a lot of things Nikolai knows that he can never hope to understand.

One of them is how many truly brilliant individuals lie unknown, being that single guy at the end of an "I know a guy" trail that's always way harder to follow than it sounds.

Price had said he knew some other tech who knew someone who was nothing short of a genius with a toolkit. Nikolai had never met them, but when Price showed him a gun that this mystery person had worked on, the Russian was sold, no contest.

So, now he stands before an only slightly rusted hangar space, cloaked by the depth of night and shielded from the chill by his leather jacket. It's small, for aircraft, but it will definitely fit his Joanne. He knocks hard on the shutter, and hears an almost girlishly loud yelp over the buzz of tools that sounds out despite the stupid late hour.

In a minute or two, the shutter opens, to reveal a very much upset person behind it.

They're wearing a thick shirt, probably flame retardant considering a welding torch was in their hand, turned off only recently.

"You better have a good reason for fucking up my last electrode and my gas shield, you little-"

"Привет."

Seemingly, they had not planned on Nikolai being there, because they quiet almost immediately, and swallow.

"I don't know you."

Nikolai fights back a small chuckle at how flat your voice is, just noting a fact right after being seemingly ready to tear his throat out and throw it in his face.

"Correct, you do not know me."

You seem to pull back a little bit at his voice, eyes opening just a bit more before your face hardens again, steeled even under his piercing eyes, catching the light of the moon.

"You're... very Russian."

This time, Nikolai does chuckle, but your brows pinch together, and you snip back at him.

"You heard of me from a man named Johnathan Price, didn't you?"

That makes Nikolai freeze in place, some mix of confusion, anger, and... a sort of fear in his eyes. Price had referenced you to him once, two and a half years ago, said he'd had a short conversation with you, nothing crazy.

And now, you stood before a man you didn't know, correctly identified why he was here, and knew exactly how he found out about you.

Seemingly, his pause brings you some sort of satisfaction, and you give a chuckle. It's a sharp, almost mean sound, like a cat batting a bloody mouse around in its paws, sinking its claws into flesh.

"Bring me my project in a week. Saturday, no later than 8 pm, or you're moving to the back of the line. Check only, don't bring cash."

Nikolai feels something bubble in his guts. It's hot, but not like anger, it doesn't twist and pull like lust, but it's close to both. His throat feels like it's been shrouded with drought.

He swallows, and you seem satisfied enough with yourself to let the shutter fall closed again, and Nikolai hears a lock click.

God, what is he getting himself into?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This client was... odd.

Even weeks into the repair process, even after acknowledging that he thought you were good at what you did, Nikolai hung in the corners of your hangar, always in a radius of Joanna, like it hurt him to be parted from the dinged-up thing for more than five fucking seconds.

A Pave Low, which you knew wasn't cutting edge anymore, named Joanna. And it's not uncommon to name a plane, or, in this case, a helicopter, but... it feels different, here, solemn. But that story isn't your job, fixing the little shit is. So that's what you'll do.

Your drill is whining under the force it takes to screw in yet another loose panel, but Nikolai remains in his spot, unmoving.

It's starting to annoy you, enough that you lose your focus for a critical moment, you don't pull away the drill fast enough.

Right as you turn to cuss at him, maybe just kick him out of your shop altogether, the screws holding the panel steady snap under the force of being bent, and your drill gives out, sending half of the thing flying toward you.

Your eyes widen, and a portal to hell seemingly opens in your throat as you fall backward, hand stinging and ground fast approaching.

"FUCK!"

Nikolai lets out a matching noise (much deeper, of course, and somehow still accented), and rushes forward.

He isn't fast enough.

It wasn't a long fall, but the air is knocked out of you anyway, leaving you panting and teary-eyed as you desperately try to coax air back into your lungs.

Your hand is at a, frankly, terrible angle, and as Nikolai stand over you, you try to move more.

Biiiiiiiiig mistake.

It's sprained, badly, but not broken. After your entire career up to now, you've (majorly) injured yourself at work with your least favorite client rushing to try and make sure you're not fucking dead.

"ты в порядке?? Are you dead??"

You choke on a sniffle, and cough to clear your tight throat, finally managing a full inhale.

"'M-" When you try to push yourself up onto your hands, you grunt in pain, prompting Nikolai to stoop to a knee before you, set his big hands on your back instead.

"M' fine. Just fuckin' dandy." You finish, despite not at all being dandy. Nikolai knows it from the way you grit out your voice, and you know it because you think you might have a broken tailbone.

It's that night that Nikolai starts forcing himself into your work day.

This first instance, it's... obnoxious, but acceptable, sitting in your spinny chair and letting the big man wrap up your hand, nice and tight, and hold some ice to it.

It's then that you finally get a good look at him. After weeks, yes, you're a little late, but you finally do.

He's... uncomfortably pretty, for a grown-ass man. There's a slight bump in the bridge of his nose, like it's been broken and healed before, thick but short-trimmed, scratchy stubble and neatly-combed-back hair.

It's professional, but almost boyish, antithetical to everything he should be on paper. He's military, or close to it. Russian, and you have never once met someone entirely content who had grown up with such boring, brutalist architecture.

But he still talks your ear off for the rest of the night, sends you home dizzied and confused, with a lot more knowledge on how to wrap up an injury.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ After that, you had thought (maybe stupidly) that Nikolai would fuck off a bit, maybe leave you the hell alone while you work on his trash-copter and honor your little "alone space".

He does not. You have decided, in all your wisdom, that this is an act of the highest disrespect because he not only doesn't trust you but distrusts your methods and your work.

So, you work doubly, hard, doubly good, just to get him off your ass for the next few days of repair.

Little do you know, Nikolai stand in that corner for a different reason now. He stand there to admire, to watch you do what he can't, and, to some extent... protect you.

He had been too slow, that day. He had been too slow and you had gotten hurt. Not only had it slowed the progress on this project, but he could still see you wince when you tightened down bolts with your dominant hand, grimace when you moved your wrist too far in any direction.

The final day rolls around faster than either of you think it will. You're excited to never talk to him again. Nikolai wants so dearly to thank you for saving his most prized possession.

It's a shock when you see the Russian bring more than a check and a few choice words as payment.

He's holding a small packet of biscuits, brightly colored, with a little cartoon cow on them, some Russian word you can't read in gold cursive. It looks cheap, but charming, like a childhood snack.

Seemingly, your look of question doesn't deter him, because Nikolai talks before you can question his intentions any further than you already have.

"For you. Because you did such a good job repairing her."

You feel... something odd in your mind open a set of floodgates, and realize that you've been misinterpreting at least three months of interactions.

This is nothing someone would do for someone they disrespected, this was a gift on top of a check that is at least two-hundred dollars more than what you had been asking, and even that price had a little wiggle room for your sake.

This is a present.

You take the biscuits into your hands first, trace the smooth, embossed letters of the packaging with a callused finger.

And, for the first time in a while, you find yourself... thankful.

You look up to Nikolai, see big, warm brown eyes looking back at you.

"Yeah... come back any time you need, alright? My door's open for you."

He nods. Nikolai, that motherfucker, he just nods like he hasn't uprooted every thought you'd had of him and turned it on its head. He smiles, like you didn't hate his guts before this conversation.

But you'll keep this promise anyway.

Nikolai is you best customer, after all, who would you to turn down... a friend? Yeah, a friend.

How the 141 handles long-term relationships

Warnings!: Nothing, other than a reference to Simon's dad. Just silly fluff to tide my sillies (you guys) over until the new chapters of the big boy fic(s) are done :)

Also: Price isn't included in this because I wrote a fic where he's an absolute asshole and accidentally made myself dislike him. Might add him later, idk.

Simon Riley is not nearly the stern man everyone thinks he is when he's at home.

It's kind of funny, really, but he's quiet, and he is stupid in love (assuming he already trusts you as a partner, which, if he's dating you, he does). Something like a cat, really.

He wants to be in your vicinity, always. He wants to know you're safe and okay at every hour he can, but sometimes he can't handle all that lovey shit.

This is why I do think Simon would spring for someone who is very quiet, and not very touchy. He adores that, he really does. It would be even better if you didn't mind having a big, bulky man staring at you while you work for hours on end.

It's to the point that, when the rest of the task force comes over, they aren't sure if you're a roommate or a spouse(?) until they see Simon gently bump his forehead with yours, watch how he follows you the same way a prissy longhair will trail after its nonchalant owner.

Price pulls you over that night and tells you that you have his full permission to marry the lieutenant. Simon hears him, but he doesn't say anything.

Another thing: He wants desperately to take your last name. It doesn't matter if it's stupid, he wants it so badly.

He's a bastard even with a father who was a bastard. His name links him back to corpses and an abuser, he wants to be rid of it. He won't ask, but if you do, he cries.

You've seen Simon cry before. You have. Mostly after nightmares, the especially bad ones. This is nothing like that.

He cries of joy before you twice. The first is when you let him take your last name, and the second is on your "wedding" day.

There is no ceremony, just a short trip to the courthouse. He cries anyway, watching you sign the papers, pulls you into a firm hug as he sniffles into your shoulder, tells you how much he fucking adores you.

He won't let you forget that. Ever.

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Johnny MacTavish is a harder task.

He's always one very predictable sort of way in his relationships: Playful. Loving and witty, always ready to tease.

Sure, there are days he's tired, days he's beat to the bone and he just wants to collapse and let moss grow over him, but he sees you and he gets a shot of something divine.

It doesn't matter who you are, really. Sometimes he needs you to match the energy a little, but other than that, he could get on well with any partner, as long as love is reciprocal.

Weddings, though... it depends.

This is where most of my more personal headcanons come into play here. I really think Soap's family is very Catholic. And that Soap is very bisexual.

If his family doesn't know (assuming the relationship is straight, too), it's great! It's a packed venue, sure, but it's raucous in the loving, familial way.

Soap wears his best kilt, cries a little as you walk down the aisle and kisses you so long his mother smacks him over it.

If not (he got kicked out, presumably years before)... it's much less fun.

He still adores you, truly, but, again, it's a bit solemn for him. Seeing you, perfect you, ready to marry a man who has no family left who wants him, it's a nasty feeling.

Johnny sees you the way he thinks everyone should. You're a person, yes, but of practically biblical levels of perfection, in his eyes. You've put up with so much, done so much, and you want him.

He won't ever get to show you to his mother, or his sisters, or his cousins, but he wants to. God, does he want to. He just knows they would have adored you, as they should.

But he can't. And it bums him out, it really does.

Still, he takes your face into his hands, and kisses you like the sinner he is, pours himself into your silhouette like he could somehow peel your ribs apart and find a space near your heart, to sit and love you for as long as he can.

No one is there to smack him for taking too long, and you hold him. And that's enough.

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Kyle Garrick is honestly the least challenging to end up in the good graces of.

He wants, more than anything, a peer. Someone who he can talk shit with and feel good confiding in.

So, of course he fell into a relationship with you. How could he not? Look at you. Brilliant, he'll say that. Brilliant, and an absolute menace with the silveriest tongue he's ever seen.

Again, like most, he's not really crazy about getting married. Not while he has a job so risky and at his age. It's more of an eventually, he feels no pressure to lock you down so fast, he already knows he has you, and that's enough for him.

This is most of the reason why the engagement is so long. I'm talking several years. Yes, multiple years. Moved in together, got a pet or two, even the rings.

And it's great, everything he could ask for. He comes home to a brilliant partner every day he's got the time, and he always wants to see you, because you're you. You can discuss, you can debate, and you can pull him over and tell him when he's being stupid.

The partnership works. And it keeps working.

At some point, you two were effectively married in everything but law, so you just forgot about the "wedding" bullshit and got one of his aunts to officiate in the living room and had a party that night with family.

Like any good soldier, Kyle has many issues with stress when he's home. His ultimate solution is to cuddle you whenever you won't be annoyed with it. Sometimes you talk, sometimes it's quiet, he doesn't mind.

He just wants you. Always.

And he knows he always will.

Masterlist

For Joanna:

Synopsis: Nikolai has been trying to find the right person to repair his beloved helicopter for a while too long, now. And then, he meets you.

Status: Completed!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

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Watcher 1-1:

Synopsis: You used to be a star member of the Task Force 141. Good things never seem to last, and change paves over your old friendships. Now, the only issue is that those old friendships are staring at you across the table, with anger in their eyes.

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Synopsis: Sometimes, things don't work out. Sometimes, you're going to be the idiot on the wrong end of a deal. It hurts the most when you're training the next idiot in line.

Valentines

Synopsis: You've been on the team for a while now. It's been a task to get used to, but you've been getting on just fine with the boys. Or maybe, juuust maybe... better than fine.

Drabbles: Winding Down

Fiber Arts S/O!

Wisdom Teeth

Breakup Day (Johnny)

Damaged, but not beyond repair