Watcher 1-1

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Part two :)

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.

You spent most of the night following the surgery in a light doze, after a certain man named Gary walks you to your room, only slightly entertaining your efforts to walk upright on your own two legs.

Of course, he can't stay, he's got things to do, and he's not your fucking nurse, but he still makes you unlock your phone and watches you set the timer so you take your antibiotics first thing in the morning.

He still leaves to fill up his own water bottle, and sets it by your tiny, shitty nightstand, and he still brings the thing to your lips to make you take a couple sips, even as you try not to drift off right then and there.

When you look up with tired eyes, he offers a small, sympathetic smile, and leans down to gently bump your forehead with his own.

It's... an oddly endearing gesture, considering that's a grown-ass man, but your delirious smile seems to inspire more of that gentle treatment, because when his hands are free again, he's finger-spelling to you once more.

I googled some stuff for the recovery. Should I send you the links to the articles?

You melt, just a little bit, but nod, tiredly resting your heavy head on the pillow beneath it, just really soaking in not feeling like you're dying. Feels great, you've gotta say.

"Yeah. That'd be real sweet of you, luvie. Thanks for all the help."

He beams at you. You hate to admit it, but you smile, too.

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

The day after is slow for you. Seeing as you're one organ down, it feels perfectly fit to work quietly in your own small office space, finding more information for prospective ops down the line.

It's comfortably-paced, much unlike how you'd been before your mistake. Back then, you were frantic, under a deadline you knew wasn't realistic trying to find documents that didn't ever exist.

Your job feels so much better without Price and the team on your ass. They never understand how discovery works, they think it just happens in a way that's frankly, stupid.

And, you're no liar, you'll say that getting periodic texts from your new friend really does brighten your mood.

Roach was a riot. And you forgot how it felt to be with that energy, the spark of new meat that you had felt yourself losing in the team.

He's a good lad, might have to get him a dinner, as-

Your train of thought is (rudely) interrupted by your door opening, without a knock or anything, and an irritated Johnny standing behind it.

"Mind tellin' me why ye werenae runnin' feckin' drills today? Ye said ye'd fuckin' spot me."

You're not surprised that his voice is supremely annoying to you right now. Normally, that Scottish slang is a comforting noise, a reminder of the company you hold, and how they've always had your back.

This time, you kind of want to knock him in the jaw for it.

This anger, it will pass.

Maybe.

"If you've got an issue, go to Price. It's not my job to fill you in on every little detail of my life, and I have a job other than training that I need to be up-to-date with."

The metal of Gary's water bottle makes a quiet noise on the textured plastic of your desk as you raise it to take another sip, effectively silencing Johnny for just a second as you hear him sputter to himself.

"Th' fuck are you- you're not drinking coffee."

Of course that's the thing he notices. He can't notice when you're on death's door begging for help, but he knows how you take a morning beverage.

You really wanna punch him now.

"Detox."

You answer is terse, not quite like you, and he furrows his brows.

"Ye're hidin' somethin', ain't ye? S' it 'cause of the mission? 'Cause that was a stupid call, an' you can't fix stupid."

What a way to make amends, Soap, show up at my door and insult me after a brief interrogation. Charming.

"My god, would it kill you to shut your mouth just once? Is that too big an ask, now?"

Harsh. That was harsh. You know it was, and that it was a mistake, but when you open your mouth to apologize, Johnny beats you to it.

"Fuck you."

The slam of the door makes you cringe, and look back down to your documents, the little notes you've drawn in the margins and the highlighter that's smudged the pen just a little bit.

Before you dwell too long, there's a quiet ping.

A small, stupid looping video pops up when you open the offending chat.

It's a poorly-rendered cockroach, spinning is stupidly whimsical circles and turning colors as a song you don't care to name plays in the background. The text under it is what makes you soften.

medicine checkk in!!! take the medcine if you havent :)

His spelling is amateurish at best.

You're really fucking screwed, with that one, and you know it, but still, you set the phone down, and open a new tab.

British Sign Language basics. You could do that.

Part One | Previous | Next

When the worst comes to pass (Part One: Johnny)

WARNINGS: Reader dies! YES, there will be written gore and YES, the boys will be very sad. (vomiting, bleeding, guts, choking, drowning, all of it) Hurt/no comfort.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Everything hurts. That's the first thing Johnny notices when he manages to open his eyes, flat on his back on a cobbled road, smeared with blood that isn't just his.

When his mind comes back to him, Johnny feels his stomach both drop and slingshot into the stratosphere.

Fuck. The building, the objective, this was bad.

He scrambles to his feet so fast that his head pounds that he nearly misses an incoming transmission on his radio. It's Ghost, roaring into hie ear as he runs somewhere.

"What the hell was that, MacTavish?! The rookie's in there!"

Everything in the world quiets for a dragging moment as those words finally make it to his (probably bruised) brain. The rookie. How could he have forgotten the rookie was in there? Oh god. The rookie was in there. He hadn't known that when he blew that shit sky-high to finally clear it out.

Still, when he looks to the steaming rubble, so hot that some of the glass is melting, he knows it's a hopeless endeavor.

He knows it's hopeless, but that doesn't stop him from screaming your name, callsign, anything, trying to get a response.

Even as Ghost yells his ears out over comms. Even as Price joins in. Even as Gaz reports that he's at exfil, injured but okay, shaky-voiced like he's barely holding it together.

His knees sizzle and burn when he's on all fours, hopelessly scraping at the concrete and steel, overturning everything he can in some prayer to a god deaf to this moment to find you.

You, who'd stumbled ass-backward into this team and managed to root yourself down like a dandelion, so tenacious that even the usual harsh treatment had been anything more than an obstacle, another checkpoint in the game-ified quest system that you used to organize your life.

You, who'd been the first person to grab Johnny by the collar and scream so loud his ear had popped when he had knowingly slighted you to look better at the end of your first op.

You, who made him work for your time, who hadn't been scared to tell him straight to his face that you hated his guts.

You, who warmed up slowly.

You, who had become Johnny's very closest confidant, because you weren't afraid to call him on his shit, but always tried to understand.

You.

And now, like always, Johnny has done something too fucking rash. Made the wrong call, blew the bomb too soon to keep himself safe and now you're under the rubble of his mistakes, being crushed under the weight.

But he'll fix it. It doesn't matter that his skin is peeling back and singing off in his hands, or that one of his nails was pulled all the way out from a burr in the steel getting caught on it. It doesn't matter that Johnny knows he smells too much burnt flesh for it to just be his own. It doesn't matter that he can't see your form yet, because he knows that if he digs long enough, you have to be in here. And you'll be hurt.

But you'll be okay.

You'll be on his ass about this for years, and you'll chew him out when he patches you up, but you'll be okay.

He's not sure how long that frenzied state lasts. Not really, but he knows there's a hand on his shoulder when he tears a window from it's frame, cutting his hands.

It's Simon, standing over him. Johnny doesn't look back, but he knows, because it's too quiet.

"...Johnny. Exfil."

His voice is mercifully soft. Gruff, but soft, because Simon knows this stings Johnny far more than it does him. You'd been... good. He didn't let you close, but he knew he wouldn't have regretted it if he had.

You would have been a good soldier. Much better than him or Johnny. Fuck, maybe even better than Price if you really buckled down like you wanted to. You had been smart, just stubborn enough.

Kyle was already a mess in the helicopter, halfway to snapping as Nikolai talks him back down. Johnny was far more stubborn.

"No. M' gonna find 'em, Simon, m' gonnae fuckin' find 'em because they've gotta be in here somewhere an' I cannae just leave them behind-"

It's now that Johnny realizes he's been crying. The drops are fat and heavy, rolling down dirtied cheeks and cutting clean pathways, drawing lines of his own tanned skin.

He hears Ghost sigh, and a loud crack as the butt of a pistol is slammed into his head, and his thoughts are cut off.

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.

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.

Been looking for this for at LEAST three years.

me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit

mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters

me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU

Wisdom Teeth (drabble)

I've been mean to y'all. Too much angst. Take some fluff for the winter (me having a test this week)

Warnings!: Wisdom tooth removal. Bloody spit, at one point reader is in enough pain to verbally request an opioid pill. Pain and pain medication. Fluffy <3 prob leads up to poly, they're fruitcakes about it.

The SAS teams have had to pause ops for a wide, wide range of reasons. The odd health complication is very much among them.

That being said, Price never thought he would have to pause a mission because one of his star players got a wisdom tooth infected.

You had been off on Tuesday, chewing on only one side of your mouth and not drinking anything that was even a little hotter than room temp.

Kyle gave you funny looks for it, but that was all.

Wednesday, you didn't leave your room for much at all, but that was fine. Resting up before an op wasn't uncommon. Simon did it all the time.

However, at some point between you disappearing and Johnny saying he heard crying from your room all bets were off.

The door was kicked in, to reveal a grown sergeant, teary-eyed and crying a little as they clutched their cheek with a hand.

Kyle was already at your side, trying to coax you to open your mouth for some painkillers. It wasn't working well.

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

You cried a little before the surgery. Maybe out of nervousness, maybe out of pain, but the nice nurse was kind enough to ignore it as she explained that you would be waking up in a few hours down four whole teeth.

She explained it to you as you sat in the stupid fucking chair, she repeated it as she gently tucked a I.V. with a small blister containing medicine into the veins of your arm.

"Alright, first the anti-anxiety drug will be administered, okay?"

She doesn't wait for your confirmation, but gently pats your shoulder and continues.

"You should start to feel a bit fuzzy, then, you'll sleep."

It takes a few sickening seconds for you to actually feel the drugs kicking in. You want to get out of this chair, to scream at something.

You never liked the dentist.

But then... the world starts to fade out. It's like you're being locked out of your body as your mind turns itself off.

You hear her counting with the surgeon–a much more awkward woman, though no less polite.

Three.

Two.

On-

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

The waking up is slow, and messy.

Cotton pads lie in either of your cheeks, and you can't do much but oblige as the nurse gently coaxes you into a wheelchair, giving instructions to the bearded man who's standing in the corner.

"Make sure they don't sleep for at least a couple hours, okay? I know it'll be hard, but try to have them keep pressure on the site."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Remember the usual course, and we're also giving you five opioid pills. Only in case it gets really bad."

"Affirmative."

You know this voice, but when you see the boonie hat and the slightly furrowed brows, a spark of muffled recognition fires off beneath the haze of anesthetic and misery.

"...Old man."

Your voice is slurred, foreign to even you at this point, but he seems to know it, because he sighs frustratedly before taking the chair by the handles and steering your down the hallway out.

"I swear to- mgh, olright. Better than Soap at least."

You're loaded into the back seat of the car with the most basic consideration.

Dumped in like a sack of flour, actually. Your butt hurts now, but there's Kyle.

He snorts when he sees you, reaches forward to wipe whatever is dripping from the corner of your mouth.

It's bloody spit, but he doesn't seem surprised.

The car ride back to base is quiet, but Kyle keeps you awake.

Beyond that, there's nothing you can remember. Not till the next morning.

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

Johnny is perched at your bedside, scrolling through his phone until he sees your eyes blearily opening, hears your groaning as you recognize a new pain in your cheeks, and he gently coaxes your mouth open to take out the bloody gauze.

"Och, there ye are, bonnie wee thing. You look like an eejit, just thought ye needed to know."

Your tired glare is met with a laugh, but followed shortly by a pat to the shoulder.

"A'hm kiddin', leannan. Just jokin' with ye. Brought ye breakfast."

He holds up a small container of yogurt, shakes it like one would cat treats to entice a stray. You grimace as much as your painfully swollen cheeks allow, but when you open your mouth to tell him off, there's a sharp twinge that makes you close it.

This seems to earn Johnny's sympathies, because he gently guides you so you're sitting up on the bed, holding one of your shaky hands as he peels back the foil on the cup.

"Easy. Still fresh, aye?"

Your wet-eyed nod is met with a sympathetic huff.

"Aye. Dinnae fash. I'll help ye."

You should smack him for implying that you need help eating yogurt, of all things, but... you kind of do need the help.

Your body is still lethargic, sluggishly stumbling through its tasks with hazy edges and poor motor control.

He raises a glass of water to your lips, and has you take a few sips.

Breakfast takes a long time, but before you fall asleep again, he gently sets a painkiller in your mouth, and tells you to swallow.

When you do, he smiles, and bends down to kiss your forehead while you drift back off.

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

So, here's something you didn't know before getting your wisdom teeth out.

You can't swallow for a couple days.

It's gross, yeah, but you're supposed to drool out the bloody spit in your mouth, so you don't get dry socket.

Thankfully, Kyle is there for this.

He sweeps your hair back as much as possible (to the point of getting bobby pins from the corner store for the baby hairs), and rubs your back as you drool out your toothpaste.

"I feel disgusting."

"I know, luv. You're not gonna feel good for a while."

Still, his mother's cure is the only thing he trusts himself enough to use on you. Warm, salty water. A childhood staple.

He's sympathetic to your plights, rubbing your back again as you clumsily swish it by turning your head to the sides, cheeks too swollen to move properly.

"Good job. One more."

A firm, warm hand pats your back again as you "spit" (if you can even call it that) for the final time, offering a sweet smile just for you.

"Perfect. Now you can lay back again, yeah? Nice n' easy."

You're not suffering like you were yesterday. It's new.

Your motor function is back, just sluggish.

No, no, your biggest issue right now is the swelling. Your cheeks were so puffy it hurt, and you had them on ice as often as you could.

This is where you have to thank the lord for John Price. Your captain, distant as he can be, must have at least three sets of cheek-size ice pads, because every time you come into your room, there's a new, fresh set waiting for you.

Kyle gently guides you to sit in your bed, offering a sympathetic smile as he eases you backward until you hit the pillow-ramp Johnny had built so your head would be upright.

"You wanna sleep, luv?"

"No."

Your voice is still quiet, limited by your stupid cheeks, but he smiles anyway, and sits next to you.

"You wanna hang out, then?"

"Yes."

The afternoon is good, for you.

Kyle is there. The whole time.

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Of course, every surgery comes with the odd fuck-up.

No one should be up, but you're going insane with pain.

It's a sharp, stabbing thing, focused in the gum of your lower right jaw. Almost as sharp as the tooth's initial infection, but more than enough to bring significant distress.

Simon is an odd man, and you two have never been the closest, but when he opens your door in a t-shirt and boxers, you don't even care a little bit.

"Wha's happenin'?"

The Mancunian gruffs concernedly at you, watching as you hold your cheek and shakily take in vain breath in the hopes of calming yourself.

"Get an opioid, Lt. Please."

"Fawk."

Right after that, he's off like a horse to the races, and you're in the silence again, holding your cheek as you try to ignore the way your eyes swim with tears that you refuse to shed.

It's a mercifully short two minutes, even if it feels like half an hour.

Simon's hands are gentle, opening your jaw and setting the horse-pill on your tongue, looking into your wet eyes as he raises the glass to your lips.

"I know, I know. Jus' swallow."

He stays with you as you pant for the breath you've lost, wide, scarred hands on your shoulders.

He exaggerates his own breathing so you see the clear rise and fall of his chest. His lips lose their frown as you slowly start to mimic it.

The dispersal of the pain med is fast, thank goodness, but then Simon has a tired you to deal with, still trembling in the fingers from the sudden spike of debilitating pain, though you can't feel it.

"Are those skeleton boxers?"

He's starting to think your favorite pastime is asking stupid fucking questions, but still, some part of him feels relief.

You could have asked about the lack of mask, but you didn't. You just wanted to know about the halloween boxers.

"Sergeant."

His voice isn't as firm as it should be, but when he sees your exhausted look, he still sits down on the mattress with you.

"Stay. Jus' till I fall asleep."

You don't have the balls to ask for it. Not when you're this vulnerable. So you treat it like an order.

Simon won't be chewing you out for it.

Not now.

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Kyle and Johnny stand in the doorway to your room, snickering to themselves.

Never thought they would see big boy Lt with the firecracker that drove him up the wall, surely.

Still, after taking a couple pictures (blackmail for Johnny, photo album for Kyle), they just... stand and stare a little.

"Ye ken... we could jus'... join in?"

Johnny poses the question. Kyle nods.

"Yeah. To make sure they're sleeping well."

They both know damn well that's not why. But fuck it, a cuddle pile never hurt anyone.

Especially not you, considering how gentle the pair are when maneuvering your sleeping form.

If Simon opened his eyes and just so happened to see this buffoonery in action, he closed them right back up after.

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Price sighs in exasperation when he sees it, but smiles as he tips down his cap just a little.

"Fuckin' rookie. Gonna be the death of me."

But he knows you won't. Because he sees the way Simon's lips curve up in sleep, or the way Johnny and Kyle cling to you.

He should call Laswell, finalize your placement.

The boys wouldn't complain.

What do the internet people yearn for

Have I been gone for a while? Yeah. But we ball, and I wanna get in the groove a little because if I have no time to draw, I shalt write.

Watcher 1-1

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).

Laswell's office is a familiar place to you. Be it for reprimand (lighthearted), or the ongoing search for an actual field team, you've never been a stranger to these walls.

She looks flat-faced, as per usual, but you sense a crackle in the air that wasn't there before, so when you step in, you set your bag down quicker. Just by a tad.

"Good, you finally figured out how to tie your shoes."

Her tease doesn't go over your head, but it isn't met with a snarl or a dare to say that one more time, I fucking dare you, it's met with a familiar warmth that encompasses your mind, comforts you after another round of brutal training.

"You're excited. Don't drop the pantyhose just yet, okay? Save that for your wife."

Had you been anyone else, you would have been met with a shouting so loud it shakes the very foundations of the building. But you're not anyone else, so it's instead a smack to the shoulder, and the soft swiping sound of manila folders on her pretty, dark-wood desk.

Despite your own rebellious streak, you don't touch any of the information until she opens the first, revealing maybe the single most Scottish name you've seen in a while.

John MacTavish.

She must read through your confusion, because she smiles in that way she thinks you can't see, a slight twitch upward of her lips, only the corners.

"I found a team."

Everything stops right then. The air flowing in the room slows, your heart skips a beat (maybe more than one), and you feel yourself single in on that information, feel your brain grind to an achingly empty halt.

"What?"

It's stupid, you know you heard her right, but you have to ask. You just have to.

"You've got a team, kid. I found a team, they need new intelligence, intelligence that works on the field, too."

You might have just came in your pants. Laswell pats your shoulder, trying to bring you back to the land of the living, smiling wholeheartedly.

"Kid. Kid."

You finally brought yourself back into your brain to realize your fists are clenched and shaking a little, too excited to physically contain yourself.

"I'm listening, Laswell. I'm up." "Good, because you've gotta learn, too."

The conversation that results is one of the longest you've had, but infinitely worth it. It's your in, a short synopsis of these men you're going to be entrusting with your life, something that even the most dedicated reader couldn't gleam from the clinical, militaristic profiles that Laswell has her paws on (though you know getting those must be an already-impressive feat).

Mentally, you start to assemble a list by age, giving yourself advice to learn and test. For science, maybe, or just to game-ify this new experience. To find how to "win" this, because there just has to be a way, if you play your cards right.

Price is firm, yes, and steady in applying pressure, but he's also very clear when he gives approval.

Ghost is his second in command. Quiet, sarcastic. Not open but expecting no vulnerability. Respectable.

Kyle Garrick. Sergeant. Formerly non-military, recruited just a short while back. Playful, but willing, obedient. If you should shoot to emulate anyone, it's him. At least, until you see this dynamic in play.

John MacTavish. Often referred to as "Soap", sometimes "Johnny". Bomb tech. Passionate and fiery. Useful, but he comes on strong. Only play your cards like that if you already have their favor. Being stubborn either makes you a genius or an idiot, and having people think you're stupid isn't a good first impression.

"You think you can hack it, hun?"

You smile at the endearment (doubtlessly acquired through Laswell's habit of picking up her wife's manner of speech), bite back your nerves, and nod.

"Yeah."

"Good. Meeting's next week, so you should start resting up now. Write your lines, make a script, do whatever you need. Just come off as well as you work, and you'll be fine."

Her voice is the finally thing that makes you stand from the chair, beaming at her like a little kid. You know you look silly, but you feel... excited. Much more than usual, and you can't help how you express it.

Laswell knows that, and it is a mercy she offers, but you shake your head, dig your nails into your palm.

She understands. Your new team might not. It'd be best to keep a handle on things, for now. "Thank you, Kate."

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

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.

Shout out! This fic was inspired in part by the lovely @cielosafeplace's post. I will be taking liberties, but the bones are all from there. Thanks again for letting me use this, friend <3

Since you were young, you've been very aware that you aren't like very many other people. That's fine, really. Being weird is no sin, or at least, not one you care about. If you happened to have crushes who happened to overlap, that was no one's business but your own.

That being said, the yearning, gooey parts of you were something that you never did entertain, for your own sake.

Still, when there were four men who all seemed not just willing, but enthusiastic to fill in those needs, of course you let them.

Of course, why wouldn't you? When Kyle kissed you so nicely, when he took you apart to heal you back together? When Johnny showed you passions that you'd been missing out on? When Ghost had you at his side, with the lights off and the blankets warm? Why wouldn't you let them have you?

They were your team anyway, those four made damn well sure you were alright.

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Actually, that might be too nice a judgement.

You know your team has been... very upset with you, lately.

Most of that is your fault. It was a bad call, and Ghost nearly got shot coming to help you. Really, you do understand that anger, but it's gotten lonely.

Price has stopped talking to you outside of orders, just like Ghost. Johnny gave you a verbal lashing you might never forget, and Kyle scowled at you in a way that made you head inside your room for the rest of the day just to avoid him.

It's been a couple days, and you're still on a very short list with all of them.

But something's off.

It doesn't hurt too badly yet, you must admit, but something feels like it's wrong.

A bit of pain, near the center of your belly, right below the navel. Sure, you're grown, you've had your bellyaches. It's not too bad, but it's a sort of new that you don't trust. Not even a little bit.

So, you go to your captain. Of course you do. He's got the most power, why shouldn't you?

Smooth, dark wood knocks clear and sharp under your knuckles, and a gruff "Come in." is all the command you need.

"Hey, Price. I was going to ask-"

"Is there a reason you saw fit to come in during the busiest week of the year not on fire?"

The interruption makes you still as the pain fades just a bit, seemingly also slinking away as the nervousness takes root.

Sure, you might have made a wrong call last mission, but were they this upset with you?

"Uh- I wanted to ask you something-"

You shouldn't be nervous. Price is your captain. He's just a little grumpy, nothing more. He'll answer, or he'll know who to ask. You're one of his, he shouldn't hate you.

"Find someone else, then. Your incompetence isn't my problem."

You know better than to disobey that tone, even as the prickle of pain returns to you, so you shut the door.

It feels a little worse now, and an uncomfortable tightness rises as you step back, but it's easy enough to push away with a deep breath or two.

Alright. Ghost might know. He's not under the pressure Price is, making up for your mistake.

So, you seek out your lieutenant.

He's in the gym. Training rookies, but it seems you've gotten lucky, because he's just told the newbies to spar each other, and is currently watching over them.

The sharp spike of hot pain makes you gasp a little bit, but your voice calling to him is what makes the man turn.

"Ghost."

"Yes, Crash?"

Your callsign makes you smile, just a little bit, but his tone doesn't. He sounds... really stern, more upset than he usually is when he's on training duty.

"I think something might be off, my stomach's hurting and-"

The relief of finally getting to tell someone about this odd pain is cut as you're, once more, interrupted before you can finish.

"Take a painkiller."

Okay, now this is getting annoying to you.

"I already have, you're not-"

"Not your bloody nursemaid, that's what I'm not."

His voice rises in a way that makes you swallow once more. The way you brace a foot behind you makes the ache come back, flaring in your gut, a bit lower this time. It's so loud a few of the recruits turn to look, one or two snickering, making shame and anger roil in your hurting stomach.

Your silence seems to allow for more speech from the man, because the scowl you just know is under his mask hardens, and his voice gets even louder, purposely projecting so the full gaggle of rookies can hear him.

"It's not my responsibility to take care of a faulty informations "Specialist". If you're not going to be useful, leave."

He says your job title like it's a fucking joke, goes to the efforts of doing air-quotes around it. The rookies laugh like it is one.

The shame and anger meld into an ugly thing, burning behind your eyes and making the stabbing pain just that much worse. You understand. They're angry, you did something stupid. That's fine. The fact that Ghost deemed it necessary to shoot you down like that in from of the fucking rookies is shitty.

But that's still your lieutenant. And you're still bound by his word. So you do leave, return to the small space you call your office and see if this is something that you can ride out.

Maybe you were being some sort of dramatic, maybe nothing was ever hurting, even if you feel it getting worse by the hour.

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That might have been the worst mistake you've made in your life, because here you are, bent over the toilet, emptying your guts again.

You're losing track of how many times you've watched the swirling bowl swallow your vomit just to be refilled, but you feel abysmal, bad enough to check your phone for the fifth time this hour as the thing sits on just one percent of its usual battery.

An unread text sits on the screen, sent to a group chat cheekily titled "the sergeants" by one John MacTavish.

Something's wrong, please come help me

Delivered, but not responded to. Neither are picking up their phones.

Fuck. This isn't good.

The nausea has started to pass, but the pain hasn't. It feels like a hot spear is jabbing into your abdomen, lighting up the entire right side with a burning pain that's only starting to intensify further.

It hurts so fucking bad, every breath is a harder task than the last. You can't bear to rise from your haunches. The movement would be too much, it would make the pain spike to a level you know you can't handle. Pressing your hands to the pain that's stabbing into you is useless, but you do it anyway.

The realization that something is very wrong sinks in, and you can't help the fact that you start to cry. When you turn to try and send another text, a more urgent plea, your phone shuts off with a dead, black screen.

You think you might be dying. It's only getting worse, and the door's locked. No one's coming to help you. You're alone, and your dead brick of a phone won't fix that.

Crying is doing nothing to help you. In fact, it makes the pain worse, but there's no logic left for you.

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

The thing that pulls you from this is a quiet rapping on the bathroom door.

"Hey, um, are you good? You're kind of- crying."

It's not a voice you don't know. Awkward and fumbling, like they haven't used it in a while, and a little raspy. You choke a word of thanks as the pain spikes again, and sob once more.

"It fucking hurts. Please get a medic."

Your own voice is wet, it feels foreign to you. But thank the stars, the message gets across really well to whoever's on the other side.

A thick-soled boot makes quick work of the lock with the force of a good kick, and there's the rustling of clothes next to you. You don't move to look.

Almost delicate hands (when compared to your own team, of course) cup your own, putting just a bit too much pressure on the lower right side of your pained body and making your breaths trip again.

"Shit, I'm so sorry, just- I'm going to pick you up, okay? I- you look really bad."

His voice is gentle, the softest you've heard in the service. It's a relief to you, and you nod shakily as he hauls you up into comfortable arms, walking you over to the base's medical room as fast as possible without jostling you.

You'll admit that the next hour or so is... blurry, to you.

You remember the medic looking not-that-concerned when you came in, pressing their hand to your belly, the lower right side. When you whined in pain, they started looking worried.

Soon after, you were introduced to the emergency surgeon. She wasn't really clear, and kind of strict, but getting your stomach pumped was not a fun experience.

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Waking up from anesthesia is an ugly, uncomfortable thing, but you know the feeling while it hits you.

Your eyes are bleary, too-dry and unfocused, and your head is fuzzy with more than the anesthetic itself. Pain meds. Feels like... awful.

There's a little gasp when your eyes open, and you glance to the side to see maybe the last person you thought you would.

Not Price, or Ghost, or Soap or Gaz. No, it's the soft-handed, quiet voiced man, sitting in the chair and staring at you.

You're not sure what you expected, but you're not greeted verbally. It's an excited wave, followed by a lot of British Sign Language.

"I'm... I'm sorry, luv. I only learned how to finger-spell back in basics."

He doesn't look too dejected, which is honestly a relief. He switches over seamlessly, taking the individual letters slowly, for your sake.

It's okay. He spells the words slowly, forming the letters cleanly and precisely with practiced fingers that tell you he's been doing this for some time. You had appendicitis. The nurse said you were really lucky to get here when you did, and that they called your captain to tell him you'll be out for a day or so.

"Oh."

The cocktail of painkillers mutes your reaction, lowers it from sheer rage to a simple, tired acceptance. In that moment, you don't question why you're alone, sans this stranger. You just soak it in, really.

"What's your name, then?"

Gary.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

He looks confused, but spells it again for you, slower this time.

"No, I know your name is Gary, I'm just sorry."

You realize what you say the second it leaves your mouth, and shut your eyes to cope with the mortification. Instead, you hear a giggle, followed by a laugh.

It's a squeaky thing, Gary's laughter. He only seems to make noise when he draws in the breath, and it makes a high-pitched, slightly raspy sound, like he's taken damage to the voice box or throat before. You would liken it to a dying goose, if you were meaner.

I like you. We should talk more.

He's smiling. He's looking at you and he is smiling. It makes you feel useful again, like there is still something to be salvaged of the errors you cause.

You do, in fact, talk more with him.

A lot more.

Next chapter

Tf 141 with an s/o who loves fiber arts!

Word count= roughly 1,750

Warnings: No! Just fluff with the lads :) Enjoy (but inly if you wanna)!!!

Kyle, who really never thought that knitting would be this hard, considering how much you raved about it keeping you both calm and properly stimulated. Now, he sits by your side on the living room floor, shakily holding two bamboo needles in his hands and trying to hold the "working yarn" (the yarn attached to the ball, apparently) the right way as you tenderly lecture him for being a dunce. "No, baby, you need to get through the stitch first before you yarn over-" Your voice is so pretty like that, trying to steer him from making another weird-looking hole for no real reason, but Kyle just whines again as you take the swatch into your own hands, finish off the whole row like some magic creature of the yarn and thread.

"You said that this was supposed to be easy, luvie." He whines into the crook of your neck, having loosely wound himself around your side as you showed him exactly what to do for the fourth time this hour. Some part of him loves the unfailing tenderness, the softness of your voice and the way you poorly hide the fact that you're laughing at him under your breath. "Sorry, i just thought-" There's a snort from your lips as giggles envelop you, your smile turns wide. Kyle's heart melts a little in his chest "I just thought you'd be better at this-"

Kyle gasps in mock offense, before pushing the needles to the floor, already planning his revenge for that little slight. "Say that one more time, and I'll give yer little magic sticks to my nieces and tell 'em they're swords." He revels in the shocked gasp you give, and grins as you bat him upside the head. "Hah, funny man. Try." Your voice is quieter, a little bit more dangerous, just daring him to do that very thing. Kyle saves his own ass by pecking your cheek, gently taking your hands into his own. "I wouldn't, babes, you know I wouldn't." There's not a modicum of lie in that statement. Kyle knows that the sweetest ones are the most terrifying, and his mum would never let him hear the end of it if he lost you. "Yeah, I do know you wouldn't, jus' wanted to mess with you." It's Kyle's turn to gasp now, but he smiles when you kiss his cheek in return, leans into you like a lapdog despite himself. Tonight's going to be good, and he knows it.

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Johnny, who remarkably managed very, very well with embroidery. You had been so happy to see him, posted on the couch next to you, working away at the hoop, having only very few questions on how he should hold the thing, if the tension you kept talking about was a little bit off. For an hour, maybe two, it was lovely. Simple silence as you leaned up on his shoulder, working a larger project as the Scot figured out exactly what he was doing on his own. Deft hands, you watched him pick apart the small knots in the thread without issue. It flooded your heart with pride. "Are you finally going to let me see the thing, Johnny?" You questioned playfully, trying to straighten your spine to get a peek before there's a big hand shoved over your eyes, and a thick accent chiding you for your gall. "No!" He squawks, you just know that he relishes in not letting you see, riling you up through your own curiosity, because Johnny is, at his core, a cheeky little shit. "Ye gotta wait, mo leannan, ye cannae jus' peek like that!" It draws a grumble from your lips, but you close your eyes, gently take hold of his wrist in your hand and nod, giving a softer affirmation before he coos at you. "Don' worry, it's almost done anyway." He soothes you with a soft peck to your temple, and just like that, you're calm again, all heart-eyed and dumb with love, relaxed. It's another thirty minutes before the finished product is tenderly set into your lap, and you gasp in surprise before seeing it. It's... stupid. An old sketch of his that really had amused him all too much, one of you from a picture at a night out (you had tripped on a root and he managed to get a picture of your face mid-fall) that he had always seemed too damn enamored with. "Oh my god." You press your hand to your face in shame, already feeling ridiculous before Johnny laughs brightly, pressed a firm, wet kiss to your cheek. "You look lovely! Don't ye? I think you look lovely." It's a sweet sentiment, enough to endear you to the terrible, terrible thing that your fiancé has chosen to immortalize and drive a too-fond sigh from your lips. "You're lucky that I love you." You grumble, giving Johnny a half-hearted glare before he swoops in to sweetly kiss your lips, because he really does know you too well. "Aye, I really am" He doesn't miss a beat, still grinning like an idiot. It makes your chest soften, your guts go mushy and fluttery. "Don't be coy, MacTavish." You reprimand. He grins, and kisses you again for good measure.

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Simon, who really didn't think this would be necessary, but here he is, sitting next to you cross-legged on the floor with the hook in hand. "Like this, right?" He speaks gruffly, and loosens his posture for you to peek over his shoulder. He feels the ghost (pun intended) of a smile pulling up at his lips when he hears your affirmative hum. "Yeah. You're doing real good, honey," Your voice wafts into his ear so nicely, floods his mind so deliciously, the only person that Simon knew he would always listen to, his angel right here on Earth. "Out of curiosity, have you ever done this before?" When you finish your question, Simon does let that smile grow on his face, lets the warmth flood into the cavity of his chest, seep into the crevices of his soul, heal the damage bit by bit. Simon leans his head on yours, and takes in a breath. The truth was, he had. One night, after a particular date when you had entirely infodumped a current project to him, he had done a little research. Then, promptly after, learned to crochet, even if it was only the basics. It paid off now, with you on his arm and impressed with his skill. "Nah. Maybe I'm just good at this, hm?" He denies that, shuffles his cheek closer into yours, soaking up the warmth that you radiate, relishes in the soft chuckle that you give. "Mmh, maybe you're gonna be even better than me, is that your plan?" Your teasing is soft, given out of affection. It makes Simon smile, makes him relieved that he's once again managed to make sure that a date went well. "No. Just pick things up fast." The mood really is dead in the water, but Simon really loves that you seem to thrive in that, that you still peck his cheek anyway despite him practically having negative game. "Smartass." You chirp at him, setting down your own piece on the floor before wholesale resting your head on Simon's shoulder. He fights a chuckle. "Better than being a dumbass, isn't it?" The joke wasn't his (he stole it from Johnny), but when you laughed, Simon knew it was well worth it anyway.

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John, who was more than content to help you work on another big project of yours. He was endlessly proud of you, how wonderfully you worked on those commissions and how perfect they always looked when you finally shipped them off. But disaster always strikes at one time or another, and the cat is often the cause of that. After maybe an hour of soothing his panicking partner, John had you wrapped up in a blanket in the corner of your own office, gently taking the needle into his own hands to sew the small tear in the fabric back together as you sniffled a little bit. Were you more than skilled enough to fix this issue yourself? Yes. But John felt particularly loving lately, wanted to make sure that his lovely, hyper-competent partner knew that they could rely on him. Because they always could. When he speaks, its gently, glancing up from the fabric in his hands to look into your eyes, still a little bit bloodshot from the tears. "Don't worry yourself, sweetheart. My mother didn't raise a man who doesn't know how to do repairs." The comfort was genuine, both an assurance of his skill and a statement that you could just lay back, let him take the reins for once and allow you to calm down a little bit. "But-" you sniffle, wipe at your nose with a tissue, and John doesn't allow you to question this. "Nope. None of that self-doubt, yer therapist already said that's bad, didn't she?" You nod, John watches your cheeks flush a bit simply because he remembered, that he cared enough to stow that away in the back corners of his brain. Oh, if only you knew how much he adores you, your little heart would blow up. "I can't just let you do my work for me, John, that's not right." The small rebuttal makes him pause in the middle of a stitch, gently set the needle down. His darling had the morals of a saint, why was he surprised by that? "Who said that I was doing your work? Maybe I'm just your guest of honor, sweetness." John speaks softly, shoots you a cocky grin that finally brings a smile back onto your face. "Yeah, yeah, alright," He smiles as you stand, wraps a strong arm around your midsection as you tuck yourself into his side, calming all of the way back down, turning back into the wonderful, sweet, bordering perfect partner returning to form once more. "That means that you have to sign it, too, you know." You tease in return as John nervously swallows, knowing damn well he is hopeless to ever replicate the pure beauty that is your signature on professional pieces. "Well, I'm not so sure about that-" He uselessly stutters to the joke, feeling his own cheeks heat up more than a little bit at the invitation. "Oh, don't be like that, I could teach you." Now that makes Price melt.