The Mistakes That Have Been Made

When the worst comes to pass (Part Two: Kyle)

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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Sorry, Garrick. No living prisoners." The soldier's voice in his ear breaks every last thing Kyle knows and holds dear. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – – – – –

Work for the SAS is an odd sort of thing. Kyle likes to think of it like standing in the ocean, dipping your feet in the waves and letting its state consume you. Some days, it's just simple and easy. Filling out a few papers and letting everything pass over you. Some days are rough, and some are brutal. Just like the ocean, though, this line of work is more than deadly. It's a constant risk that every single soldier has signed themself off to that at their own discretion, they all know that the date of their death could well be tomorrow. But there's an element of pride that comes with that. It's humbling, sure, but the pride is there, because you've operated in situations the average person couldn't even hope to manage, pulled off odds that inspire both a nauseating fear and a spark of courage that only grows into a raging inferno the more you do it. Still, Kyle sits with you at his side in the armory, making jokes and sharpening his kit as you polish yours. If he had to pick a favorite person he had met in the service... it would be you. Don't get him wrong, Price is a phenomenal captain, just like Ghost is a clinically effective lieutenant and Soap is a great work buddy and gifted sergeant, but you... god, none of them could even hold a candle to that. His loyalties lie with the team, yes, but everyone knows where the heart of that fierce, caring nature funnels. And why shouldn't it? You were like him. Quiet, but clever, a problem solver in your heart of hearts and Kyle was a sucker for someone who had at least a little bit of emotional intelligence about them. He still remembers the moment that really endeared you to him. He'd been injured, nearly fatally on a mission, but you... stayed with him. After he'd gotten a not-that-gentle sponge bath from a stressed-looking nurse, you had stepped in, done something that not many would dare to do. Washed his hair. Sure, it might sound small, but it wasn't. Your deft hands worked for an hour at least. Sectioning first, saturating the coily hair with water, shampooing it, everything, taking his broken body into your hands like he was a baby bird and fixing what you could, keeping him warm enough to last the night. You'd been wordless, too, apart from gathering his consent to help him clean up fully. You just... did that. For no other reason than you wanted to see a teammate thrive as much as he could. After that, you'd been inseparable. Maybe that's why his eyes are so adoring as he watches you sharpen your (favorite) knife, an old gift from him, but he'll never tell. Your voice is flooding the space, neatly tucking into every last corner and leaving every gun and ammo case with the beautiful, ghosting memory of you like oleander flowers. Deadly, but bright and lovely all the same, burned into the folds of his brain. He never wanted to lose that. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Kyle hadn't been on the mission that took you away from him. He remembered how you described it to him before you left, soft-eyed and quiet as you finally let him out of the pin you'd had him in on the sparring mats, helping him up with a hand despite knowing full well he wouldn't need it. He takes that hand. "It'll be easy, Gaz, I swear. Just an in-and-out. Easy as pie, right?" He didn't worry then. He hadn't had any reason to. He remembers it so well, feeling his cheeks round with a smile as he bumps his forehead against yours, how you grin and playfully pat his ass in response. "Right. Don't fall out of any transport." His voice was soft, then. Cheeky as he teases you just to hear you joke back with him. "I think that's your job, sergeant."

There it is. Kyle feels his heart squeeze around nothing, pumping his blood just a little faster. He's so glad you can't see the blush on his cheeks, because he just knows he'd be so nervous he'd pass out right then and there. "Yeah yeah, go fuck yourself."

Your smile is crooked, but it's every last thing he needs. It's the food in his belly and the blood in his veins and he loves it so fucking much. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – – – – –

"Sorry, Garrick. No living prisoners." The soldier's voice in his ear breaks every last thing Kyle knows and holds dear, hands him a small bag containing the items they thought were yours. It's been weeks already, he knows the odds are slim, everyone knows the odds are slim, but he held out for that miracle. A miracle that never came. It feels... empty, now. That night, when transport came back without you, Kyle had been fucking outraged. He had stormed to Price's office and chewed out his own captain because how in the hell could this have happened? Why were you left behind? No one had any answers, but the sympathy offered almost felt worse. Soap's quiet solemnity around him felt like some sort of insult, though Kyle knew it wasn't. Ghost's... weird hanging around and staring was a sweet gesture, but deeply saddening. But it's now, after all of that, that his worst fears come to life. Every feeling seems to flare and broil and Kyle excuses himself to his quarters before he falls apart. Most of the job is mental. You can be the most physically strong person on the field and you can still lose because you couldn't hold it together well enough. Kyle knows that. But part of that mental aptitude comes with knowing the grief he feels is necessary. He doesn't want to let you go. He clutches your dog tags in one hand, and your favorite knife in the other as he sobs with a force he hasn't had since being a little schoolboy, crying to his mother after scraping his knee. This is no scraped knee, though. This is an injury that will likely never scar, it's ugly and it will always hurt and Kyle knows that, but he would take this over letting you go any day. Because, when all is said and all is done, Kyle knows himself, and he knows that there is no one who would ever hope to compare to who you had been for him. When his mind clears, he holds the knife in shaky hands, and kisses the flat of the blade before polishing it the rest of the way. It still sits there now, on his dresser. Take a look for yourself, wouldn't you? Just don't touch. He treasures the thing.

Damaged, but not beyond repair

Warnings: deep pain and sadness (reader), big, ugly mental issues and also chronic pain caused by past neglect and injury. Pneumonia. Kortac finally getting a feature! Say hi to my garbage takes on König, Horangi, and Swagger. Yes, I wanted to add a whimsical Polish man (and yes, this urge was founded by yooo-lets-go). Characters playfully threaten cutting off each other's penis (flirting).

"Not everyone's made for the SAS. We see a fair share of... disappointments, every year. The people who just can't hack it."

The voice ringing in your ears makes you push harder still, redoubling your efforts to break your limits one more time, to push through and make it, to get this done.

A sharp, hot flash of pain chases its way up your ankle as you re-rack, letting the weight finally leave your tired hands, but it's worth it to hear the quiet, for just a minute.

Of course, it can never be that easy. No, you can take it. You don't want it easy. You can take it.

Maybe that's why you reach directly over the Austrian sitting on the bench next to you, grabbing your own water bottle instead of the one offered to you in a thick-fingered hand, and taking a few short sips. Too short, and you know it.

He knows it too, and König quickly makes it your problem.

"You are not drinking just that, yes? It is not enough."

He sounds almost annoyed. You'd rather he was, because you can hear the choking tentacles of concern staining his words, and it makes you scoff as you set the water bottle back into your gym bag, wordlessly leaving the small olive branch to rot in the soil beneath.

König quietly holds that feeling, counts to ten, and lets his eyes follow the way you favor one leg as you leave.

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Time always passes, but only cowards let it escape them.

Papers shroud the neat, smooth dark wood of your desk, clashing doubly with the flat surface and your own skin. Something tries to dig itself up in your mind, but you dutifully shove it back down and pick up your pen, jotting down the post-mortem of another mission in smooth, inky strokes. If you can't train, you will work.

Paper's texture has always let you drift away from the moment you're locked in. The rolling of the pen's ball scratches almost silently, filling what was once (and still is) soulless, bureaucratic nonsense with your work.

There is much to do, and you are nothing if not productive, so you do it. You work weeks ahead, and it's somehow a relief.

Your hip and ankle have been flaring up more and more lately, but the papers let you push that slow creep back for just a little while longer.

And, before you know it, it's been hours, and a Korean is at your door, with knit brows and a quiet voice.

Your name leaves his masked lips first, and it draws your attention to the following string of words you can't quite parse.

"괜찮으세요?"

When you raise a brow, still flat-faced and just itching to get back to your work, Horangi musters the nerve to ask in a way you'll understand.

"Are you okay? You've been working longer than me, and the day's over."

His voice is accented, clipped in spots you don't recognize. Then again, every sounded different here, who were you to judge?

"Sou bem, gato."

You're clipped, irritated, but he knocks on the doorframe twice, a silent call for translation. Blast that stupid Austrian and his little niche bullshit rules.

"I'm fine, Horangi."

He leaves unsatisfied and a bit annoyed. Your pen embosses the paper with the new force behind the nib.

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There's this one new rookie that keeps popping up around base and bugging you.

He doesn't seem to be malicious, but he's... fuck, he's actually not that bad. Even if he approaches you halfway through your meal time and stares for a good while before sitting down across from you.

You peep a small Polish flag on his vest, so imagine your surprise when you hear him greet you.

"Bonjour."

What the fuck.

"Oh, you're French."

Some deal of shame actually hits you, and you narrowly follow your words with a polite apology.

"Sorry, It's been a time since I heard the language."

There's a muffled noise (you hope it's a chuckle) beneath the gas mask you see, before it's taken off and set on the table.

His nose is thin, but the corners of his lips are twitching up as he looks at you, one brow raised in playful question.

It brings a shame that you didn't know you had, and you cough into your elbow to clear your throat, waving your other hand as if to silently waft away the social faux pas.

Swagger–no, you're not joking, that's his callsign–doesn't let you forget it.

Not for months, as he slowly pries his way into your routine. You know what he's doing, but you don't stop him.

You let him bring coffee sometimes, but you return the protein bars he keeps trying to get you to eat, because the things are genuinely repulsive.

It seems to put off König, but Horangi seems to be in a much better mood, lord knows why.

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This goes well until the misfortune of your biology forces you into an unprompted state of weakness.

It's been a long time. Or, at least, you think it has.

The world around you is warping, twisting like the drawings of a drunkard. Your sparsely-decorated walls are bending beneath their own weight, every noise sounds more and more like the foundation of your mind snapping beneath itself, threatening to crumble.

You only feel how sweat-soaked your sheets are when the door opens, prompting you to raise your iron-weighted head as much as your neck will allow.

There's a noise, a hollow, death-rattling wheeze that accompanies the movement. You don't know where this noise has come from. It seems to stress the figure in the doorway, it speaks to something you can't see.

The words are wiggly and clumsy, like they were shifted in just the wrong way in your ears to somehow make them illegible despite being spoken. Maybe it's just your mind shutting down.

Hands are everywhere. On your face, forehead, thighs. You don't know why, but it feels as though you're being submerged in a cloud, allowed to drift free of the mortal shackles that bind you to a faulty body, even though it must not be the case.

The force holding you up to the sky struggles briefly, and you feel something trying to worm its way up your throat as you're jostled. More hands, this time on your chest, and a soothing croon that you can't decipher.

You're tired. The hands let you sleep.

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Wakefulness is back before you know it.

The walls are straight again, and the wetness in the sheets beneath you is gone. It makes you groan, tired and confused.

A head pops up, and a stressed string of German greets you.

It makes your brainstem throb with discomfort, and the discomfort must be on your face, because two scarred, big hands reach forward. One takes your shoulder, and the other dares to reach to a small box of tissues, plucking one to gently sponge away the moisture on your face.

You want to be angry, but you let this moment hang in the air of the room, allow König his closeness to you, for just a little bit.

He hesitates before speaking again, watching your face for discomfort.

"...You are very sick. Should have told team."

He masks his frustration just for you, wraps up the feeling and jams it into the back of his mind. There must be a reason you're so unwilling to open your mouth and let your mind talk, he knows it. It will take time.

König can be patient, for you.

Your own eyes take more note of the room around you.

Another body rests near the bed, a head of somehow-messy, pin-straight hair is leaning against the bedpost, sleeping on the floor. Horangi.

"How long have you been here?"

Talking seems to agitate something in your throat, tracing the vibrations caused by your voice down to waterlogged lungs, drawing out a cough.

It doesn't stop at one. More and more liquid phlegm finds its way into your throat as you hack and shudder, trying desperately not to vomit at the sheer volume.

König shifts closer too quickly, gathering you up as distantly as possible–one hand on your upper back, the other on the crown of your head–to keep you steady. He looks wired, but in the stressed way, like a mother hen.

"Spatz." He mutters, following his words with a gentle shushing noise, trying to gently guide you back down from the coughing fit.

Horangi is awake again when König coaxes you into spitting the fluid into a tissue, and he takes it upon himself to wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes.

He worries over your wrist with his thumb, keeping a gentle hold over your hand with his free one, more gentle than the normal playfulness he shows you.

Dark, monolid eyes look you over, and he cringes under his mask, clicking his tongue.

"You look good for a corpse." Kim's voice is sleepy, still, a little bit deeper than normal despite him trying to pass it off as normal.

Before you can react, König smacks the back of his head (a little too hard), cussing once or twice before scolding the Korean beside him.

"Scheiße, do not flirt! They are pneumonic!"

"That's not how you use that word." Kim snarks back, undeniably wearing a shit-eating grin beneath the fabric that shrouds his mouth and nose. This earns him a scoff.

"Shut up."

He doesn't.

"Why do you hit me when the weird Polish one is still outside? Hit him!"

The bickering brings you some comfort, but you have to pause when you hear a reference to someone you think you might know.

You've learned your lesson from speaking, so you whisper a question. Its answer will either confirm or deny your suspicions.

"He speaks French?"

"How do you know that?" König tries to ask, before being interrupted by Horangi.

"He speaks French? He's Polish!"

Or it won't. Sure, that works.

"Gas mask?"

König nods.

"Ele é meu amigo. Let him in."

Neither knock on the nightstand to make you translate, but there's a confused glance they share before König opens the door, and shakes a silhouette sitting on a plastic chair in the hallway.

Swagger almost trips over himself, but wakes up quickly, dumping his ass right next to you on your bed, almost bringing on another cough.

He jams a small styrofoam container into your tired hands with his own, followed narrowly by a spoon.

"Peux-tu manger seul?" The thick accent makes you look up tiredly, and it seems that he's answered his own question, shaking his head as he opens the container.

Soup. It's not warm anymore, just room temperature, and it's composed of a very thin broth, but you only scowl when he tries to get you to drink from a spoon that isn't in your own hand.

"Mon ami, I will cut off your penis. Eat."

You shouldn't laugh at the threat, but you do, and it makes you cough (thankfully, less than before), into your hand.

"Merda, you're stupid."

You return, but just before you can close your mouth, he gently kisses the seam of your lips with the spoon, trying to guide you into eating.

And, despite yourself, despite the fact that both König and Horangi can doubtlessly see you being that vulnerable, you let the liquid into your mouth, swallowing it down slowly.

"Bon. See? Not bad, is it?"

You chuckle once more, but let yourself take another spoonful before your speak, silently thankful for how the salty sustenance soothes your raw throat.

"It's room temperature." You rebut, smiling just a little.

"You're room temperature."

The pair behind him loom, one over each shoulder, and Swagger doesn't realize this until Horangi is hissing threats into his ear.

"항문, don't talk that way."

König doesn't need to make threats, the force of his grip is enough. Swagger squirms in his seat, unable to pick which one to glare at first.

"Hey, I-"

"He's just that way. It's fine."

Three pairs of eyes lock onto you, and you sigh.

There is much explaining to do.

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

Recovery is mercifully short, but pneumonia has left you with three grown men who trail behind you like dogs.

König looms, straight-backed and menacing, watching as you work, spotting you as you train. He's been acting up less, so it's probably fine.

Horangi likes to push you forward through teasing. Just enough to get you to push more, not too much. He's become a good sparring partner, for you.

Swagger is that one weird dog that follows around the first person that feeds it. He's constantly with you, regardless of what's going on. Does he even have authorization to be in the range? You're not sure. But he chatters your ear off anyway, every time.

You find yourself falling into their silly little rituals more and more regularly.

In the mornings, you make the coffee. Swagger raids the cafeteria, and König glares at anyone who gets too close to the corner as Horangi wakes you back up with the stupidest shit known to man.

You have no idea why he has an account for a website that just repeatedly shows him a rainbow cockroach spinning weirdly (and several other digital curios), but you won't complain. You always thought cave divers were a little dumb, anyway.

Your head rests on Kim's shoulder as you take a bite out of a slice of buttered bread, reaching out to like the video before he can even try.

He chuckles. Swagger un-likes it, just to be a punk, before re-liking it himself.

"Hah. Very funny."

"It is very funny, mon ami, I am glad you think so."

"I'll cut off your penis." you retort.

Kim snorts, König pipes up.

"All of you are freaks."

You watch a grown man with military clearance (Horangi) blow a raspberry at his commander. Swagger chuckles.

"You love us, shirtman." He tries to tease.

"Not you." The Austrian retorts.

"Aww."

"Está tudo bem, cachorro. I like you." You pat his back. He grins, eagerly pressing his cheek into your face, hugging a bit too eagerly.

"Mon moineau, so kind." He flirts in turn, drawing another chuckle from between your lips.

Kim is doing that side-eye bullshit again.

"I don't want to hear it, Hong-jin. You've done worse for less."

He laughs, and wordlessly leans against König's side. The taller man doesn't stop him. In fact, he puts a wide hand on his shoulder in approval.

This is nice. Very nice.

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

KorTac often works with other military companies, or, on the odd occasion, some special service teams.

This is a routine sort of change, and you've long since become used to it.

Horangi naps on the plane on purpose. Swagger falls asleep despite always claiming he doesn't. König likes the one-on-one time with you, as you each hold your respective people, but he doesn't get to enjoy it as much as usual.

He worries about you. You're so fucking strong, and endless source of energy for the purpose of violence and rebellion, but you are not without damage.

The British have hurt you, specifically the ones you're about to be working closely with.

He knows you've chosen to do this. He wouldn't dare accept an assignment that didn't have everyone on board with it, but still.

It's you. And he knows you still struggle with telling others of your pains. So he asks one more time.

"You will be okay, spatzi?"

Your voice is gentler when you have Swagger sleeping in your lap.

"I'll be alright."

He nods, but reaches out a hand for you. You take it, and kiss his knuckles before releasing it. He sighs.

"I'll tell you if I'm not." You add, and it seems to bring him some relief, because you hear a short sigh, and he nods.

You follow through on this promise, but you don't end up having to tell König very much.

Seeing your old team standing next to the transport evokes... nothing but pity.

It is a scar now, the skin is healed and dull and numb to further prodding.

And you've got better people to worry about, now.

Much better people.

Watcher 1-1

Part Nine

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).

There is something special about the barracks room you share with a man named Keegan Russ.

It doesn't lie in the construction, nor in the beds or how they're both unfortunately twin-size with terrible mattresses. It is so special to you because it is the very first space you've peacefully shared with someone you can comfortably admit to trusting.

Sure, temporarily, you're shared a room with Soap. Shortly before the... incident, you'd spent a good chunk of your time with Gaz. Still, you never quite felt like it was yours as much as it was his.

Back then, it had been something purely sensical. Of course the room didn't feel like it was yours, you've been here less than six months. Looking back, that feeling stung a good dose more.

It was a lucky night, in that neither you nor Keegan had suffered a nightmare. That just meant the thing to wake you was his alarm, blaring directly in your ear because Keegan always stole the part of the bed closest to the wall. You always let him have it.

The first thing you do is tiredly grab the bottle of lotion from the small nightstand, and sit yourself on the bed's edge, dispensing just enough into the warped, burned flesh of your palm.

If someone told you four years ago that you'd have to moisturize your stump first thing in the morning because it got dry overnight, you would have given them a really weird look.

Still, it's that motion that draws your favorite American to wakefulness. Every last time.

"Mhhngh, wh- oh."

Most of the time, Keegan just watches you get yourself ready. He'll pass you the compression "sock" that covers the stump that used to be your leg, gently kiss at your neck as you slip on your leg.

He used to talk more, but the quiet is good, too. It's simpler, and you struggle to speak in the mornings. Some complication or other, you're not sure. Smoke inhalation, you remember someone bringing up, in the early days.

Still, you can feel him shift behind you as you grab your prosthetic, and you feel two thick arms wrapping around your waist as he gently pecks your cheek, feels up on one of the few non-marred parts of your body.

"Hello to you too, Keegan."

The chuckle he gives you is worth the strain to your throat, and you can feel his cheeks rounding with a smile against the column of your throat.

There's a grateful hum that quickly turns into a soft grumble of annoyance as you rise on foot and fake limb, the younger still shrouded with blankets and drowsy. You've become accustomed to this.

"Already?"

"Yup."

Keegan groans again, but catches your hand in his own when you offer it, and hauls himself out of bed, rubbing the sleepy crust from the corners of his eyes and reaching to his clothes for the day.

"Thanks, Newton."

Your call sign drives a snort from you, and Keegan smiles when he hears it, though he doesn't react further, and a comfortable silence–broken on occasion by the soft rustling of clothes–settles between these sacred walls.

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Of course, there are many parts to a morning, Keegan is not the only person you see anymore.

No, you do have people you... tolerate, now.

Maybe tolerate sounds rude. You do like Hesh and Logan, but in the mornings the younger really does test you.

At the very least, Keegan is the one who receives the brunt of that energy, as Hesh passes you the coffee.

"Real sweet, David, thank you."

The way the corners of his lips twitch up is enough to make you smile, too, and lean forward enough to press a little peck to his cheek.

It's always good to make sure everyone's in order before travel. You learned that from Sarah, and she'd hate to see you not living up to that.

Granted, she'll only be on the other side of the pond for another few hours, at the very most.

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Maybe the only person you can admit to missing from your old task force is Nikolai.

The big Russian is someone you were only granted the honor of meeting once or twice, but he'd also never been a person that's entirely defied everything you were supposed to know about them.

Your last text from Nikolai isn't a scalding "fuck you". No, that's Soap. Bitch.

The slightly angered reverie is broken by Logan, with a strong, slightly knobby hand on your shoulder. Just a short tap, to bring you back into it.

You'll give him the credit, he knows how to handle people. Sometimes even Keegan misses a slip that's quiet like that.

"I'm here, kid."

He offers a lopsided smile at the curt response, goading you into giving him just a little more, Newton, c'mon. You humor him, this time.

"Thank you, Sergeant Walker, I commend your work for this team's morale."

You can't believe you ever used to confuse the brothers, when you watch Logan beam and puff his chest up a little at the lightest praise. Youngest child, to the very end of the line.

His mother must have been a hell of a woman, if Hesh was right about Logan being just like she used to be.

That tender thought must make you smile just a bit too wide, because he leans forward, and taps you on your nose.

"Told you I would get you to smile by the end of my first year."

"That-" He's pulling you into his traps, you almost said it didn't count. Why in god's name does Logan do to make everyone horse around like school-kids? No rational team would take this seriously "Fine, you win, Walker. Enjoy it."

He does, right up until the copper starts to land. This time, on British soil.

Your thanks are met with a phrase you can't quite parse, but you give the pilot a firm nod anyway.

Today's been good to you, even if the change in pressure has caused the phantom pain to spike. You take a moment longer to savor it before the second shoe drops.

Keegan's right there behind you, one more time, pressing his masked face into your neck so you know precisely who it is.

"You know we'll all have you, right?"

You take a second to take a breath, hand settled on the door of the helicopter, still hesitating just a little.

"Affirmative."

The second thing he says comes in a whisper, intended for only your ears, from your very favorite nurse. Your person.

"They like you just like I do. Everyone's got you, and I love you."

Those words used to make you cry. This time, they make you nod, and push the door open.

"Good choice of words, Russ. We can discuss that later."

There will be no discussion that happens later. It will be much closer to an act of fraternization, and you both know this. You know he knows this because Keegan's bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

Still, your foot hits the floor, narrowly followed the running blade, and you give the men before you a deeply unimpressed look.

"Hello, Task Force 141."

Is it a purposeful disrespect to not greet your former captain by his name? They can't prove that.

Still, unless you've forgotten to count, there's one more soldier than there used to be.

"...And company. I didn't think you'd find new... backup so soon."

You hide nothing. Not as you look at who must undoubtedly be your replacement. Masculine-presenting, masked and he's... glued two little wires to his helmet.

What a fucking joke. They almost did you a favor by transferring you out, really.

"Firecracker?-"

Johnny is cut off firmly by you before he can finish, a tone that almost borders on reprimand.

"My callsign is Newton, MacTavish. I don't use anything unapproved."

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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.

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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-

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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.

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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.

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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.

For Joanna (pt. 3/3)

Warnings: Nikolai is a less-depressed bisexual man! kiss on the cheek, kiss on the mouth (yes, in that order), Joanna finally gets to rest peacefully in her hangar.

Good things can't last forever.

Nikolai knows this. You know this too.

Still, you've exhausted every last avenue before finally admitting that there are just somethings that are no longer fixable.

It's a slow trudge to your apartment, one that apparently wakes the sleeping bear that is your favorite Russian, napping on your couch like he didn't have your full (repeated) permission to use your bed.

Nikolai perks, but his brows furrow when he sees your slight exhaustion.

"механик?" His voice is soft, gently probing just how badly you've managed to overwork yourself in the few hours he's been unconscious. Judging by the new scrape on the elbow and the small burn on the side of your palm, far too much.

He sits all the way up just in time to catch you as you fall onto him, grunting in response to the new weight but handling it well, all things considered.

"I'm sorry, Nik."

There is no question that this single moment is solemn. In some silly way, you'd also grown attached to Joanna, busted as she was. She was your best project yet, your most impressive feat.

It was also the project that introduced you to your best friend, and that was something you couldn't ever replace.

Still, Nikolai holds you to his big, warm body, sighing heavily as he nestles his chin into the nook between your neck and shoulder, taking in your warmth and gently scratching the skin with his dark stubble. Just a bit longer than usual. "I know. I shouldn't have taken her to you, just the scrapyard."

He's quiet, too quiet, and it prompts you to maneuver backward, brows set in a firm line.

"Woah, woah, Nicky-boy, don't get too far ahead of me. Not yet."

He raises a brow, prompts you to continue. There's a sparkle of hope in his eyes.

"One last flight. You can give her one last, gentle flight."

God, you're a fucking angel. Nikolai feels his pupils turn into what might as well be cartoon hearts at the news.

He squeezes you so tight that something in your back cracks. The little squeal it pulls from you makes his heart thrum in his chest terribly fast.

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Nikolai could swear he had never set up for a flight so quickly as he did today.

He was just a man, one who was very much weak to finally getting you where he was the expert, quizzing you to see just how much you knew was going on when he was in the air.

You were still dead-out on the bed. Well, more like halfway on the bed, considering your whole left side was hanging over the edge, hand most definitely cold in the harsh cold front bringing the chill inside.

Who is Nikolai to do anything but warm it for you? What kind of friend would he be if he didn't tenderly take your hand into the both of his, gently breathe out a puff of air to bring heat back to the extremity.

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

Your eyes open with an incoherent grumble and a glare.

"Whatthe fffuhhhk, Nik?"

His smile is the first thing you focus on, an overly excited smile like he's a child on Christmas, breaking into their parent's room to wake them up far too early, too.

"Up. Fly time."

Your brain takes a second or two to chug back into "able to think" station, and you sit up with a long yawn.

"God, It's like-" You turn to read the small alarm clock on the side of your nightstand, the softly glowing letters are too dull to see without a squint. "It's 0530 hours." Nikolai answers right as you read the digits, and snickers to himself when you groan.

"Contrary to your beliefs, I can, in fact, read."

"Yeah, but you take a long time. I am much faster."

You groan again, just for dramatic effect, before raising up the covers to get ready.

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Being behind the wheel (?) of one of these things is something you can admit you haven't done in a damned long time.

Still, Nikolai looked so... excited, who were you to not let him have this little thing? Of course you hopped on, let him narrate your way into the air.

Your only qualm was the music, really. Nikolai, he is truly a wonderful, wonderful man, but that fucking metal is godawful. Saying what needs to be said of not distracting your helicopter pilot, you reach over and change the station anyway.

Everyone likes Queen anyway, it's not like Nikolai will care that much.

Wrong. Apparently, the universe is plotting against you, because right as the new song starts, a very familiar piano backing track and one Freddie Mercury is singing about gay longing again.

Goodness dude, now?!

When Nikolai grunts in your general direction, tenses a bit in his seat, you shrug.

"That garbage metal is a risk to your fucking person, Nik. Eyes forward."

You try to bark the order, but you're smiling, and so is he.

"Sure, but this one? Are you trying to send a message, perhaps?"

He's got this stupid, shit-eating grin on his face, but you don't bat at his shoulder like you usually would, for fear of actually throwing him off (you know you won't, but you still worry).

"Ssssshhhhhh, quiet. Focus."

You can see Nikolai rolling his eyes, but he smiles, keeps on flying.

It's... perfect, really. Your hand fits comfortably into the hold, but you don't use it, because you trust the man piloting this thing with your life.

The scenery is dark, illuminated almost entirely by the moon, but the first rays of the sun are already spilling over the horizon in their beautiful rivulets, staining the sky with oranges and pinks, tattooing the undersides of the wispy, feather-like clouds with their hues.

For the rest of the flight, there are not words exchanged, just the quiet sounds of the music and the rotors, muted by the thick headset Nikolai had given you so the noise wouldn't be overwhelming.

That made your chest warm, you can admit it. You were in no drought of little favors and good deeds, not with your Russian hanging around so much.

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Still, none of those things could have prepared you for landing.

Sunrise was in full swing, and you figured it's be cute to watch it with Nikolai, but he seemingly had other plans.

The second he helped you out of Joanne's seat, he pulled you close to his chest, wrapped you up in thick arms, and pressed a firm kiss to your cheek.

He feels your cheek heat beneath his lips, craves it like nothing else, but Nikolai still pulls back sheepish, smiling halfway like he was doing anything wrong.

"And... what's that for, Nik?" You question through a smile, not even taking a moment to question it. Just excited to finally have this moment, to finally get it all out there.

"You are–" The tips of his ears are red, he knows it from how you giggle, and he grumbles the rest of it "You are good, механик. Too good."

You seize the opportunity the second it's presented to you.

It's a snappy motion, but a smooth one, as you manage to capture Nikolai's lips with your own, slotting your mouth to his without hesitation nor remorse. No more pussy-footing around this.

Seemingly, fortune does actually favor the bold, because Nikolai melts like butter in your hands, crouching just to lift you up into his arms, not once breaking the connection between you two.

There is no heat. No pressure. No want for anything but each other.

When he pulls back, it's a moment Nikolai truly mourns. He could have died right then, and died happy. Still, seeing you like this, bundled up in his arms and smiling, he knows he's got a lot more living to do.

Not just surviving. Living. With you, if you'll let him (spoiler: you will).

"I'll make breakfast, механик." He lets the words leave his lips in a lovesick sigh, so dreadfully weak before his darling engineer, a simple man aching to finally have them as close to him as possible.

"Oh, you're only getting better." When you coo down at him, you pretend to be much more confident than you are. You know, though, you're no better than him, a lovestruck idiot so hopelessly caught in the snare that you're enjoying your time here.

You hope he never lets you go. Nikolai hopes for the same.

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You don't learn until years later, long after Joanna is decommissioned and a small scrap of her metal lies around both your and Nikolai's ring fingers in a thin band, that you learn he still names his planes.

His new thing, still fresh. A C-130 Hercules. Much too big for your space, but you also don't do very many repairs for your fiancé unless it's basic woodwork, either. Metal work gets tiring fast, and now that you had someone to take breaks for, why shouldn't you take them?

It's a casual dinner when he brings it up, tells you that you do have a plane named after you, actually, and that it's his, too. Beaming so bright he could rival the sun.

"Mhm? What do you call it, Ласточка?"

He could melt at your voice speaking his mother tongue, but he finishes the thought anyway.

"неразлучник."

Every person who's ever done anything creative needs to fucking see this.

Watcher 1-1

Chapter Six!!!

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).

Warnings for this specific chapter: (technically) main character death, written descriptions of injury, gore and blood talk. Included reference and experience with post-surgery symptoms of various degrees of seriousness.

Sometimes, during major traumas, people can "see" what is often described as a snapshot of a particular moment, sometimes several.

You can mentally hear a sweetened voice, masculine but tender, reminding you of that, even in the depths of your own bruised brain.

There's a loud beeping beside you, and everything hurts. Your head, your chest, your legs... it's varied, too. A throb of agony with each beat of your heart in some places, a wave-like wash of dull pain in others.

Something is wrong with you, and you don't know what.

You know, however, that your eyes are heavy, and your lips and nose are covered by an oxygen mask. The straps, thin and stretchy, still dig into your cheeks a bit.

The pain in your leg is the most present, but the monumental task that has become opening your eyes is interrupted by something else opening.

The door, to the white-walled room where you sit.

A curly-haired head is peeking through, and there's a gasp when they seemingly see that you're not dead.

"Holy shit. I have to call someone."

That's all the warning you're granted before they're scampering off, leaving the door ajar, and you to your own devices.

Your first attempt at movement incurs a harsh punishment from the binds that are your injuries.

The flash of tearing pain and hot blood in your veins is a cloying, clawing thing, and it pulls a noise from your throat, but it doesn't stop you.

No, no, what stops you is what your minds sees fit to conjure, at the sight you see.

The wrinkles of the blanket around your legs... it flattens, beneath the knee of the leg that was under rubble. Your left. There isn't anything there anymore.

Like a sick search engine, you're trapped in the moments you couldn't yet remember, stuck and helpless. Watching.

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

Price and Ghost stand over your body, talking heatedly as the Lieutenant fights to overturn the piece of concrete pinning you to the ground.

"I'm telling you, they're a liability, Simon. I won't put my team at risk just because you're partial to the first rookie you see that isn't utter dogshit."

His tone is final, but you can't look up, you can't plead your case.

You can just sit there and feel it, even as adrenaline starts to choke your senses and make your fingers tingle and jitter.

"So you're going to leave one of your own to get mutilated and immediately transfer?"

You feel your body tense. In the memory, in the real moment, you're not sure which. It might be both.

The Mancunian is harsh-voiced, like he's maybe one wrong look away from pistol-whipping Price over this. You can't see the look the captain gives him, but you know it must be bad, because his posture tenses so fast you hear his clothes rustle between the ringing of your ears.

"You want to risk it? Do you want to risk losing your Soap? Because they're too slow?"

Your chest is too tight for you to breathe right now, like you're being pressed in a vice, it only gets tighter. And still, your mind is racing too fast to handle any of this.

The oxygen is pumping into your veins, flooding your system more and more with every ragged, too-fast breath you take. It only makes you panic more, choke on the ugly, hard, confused sobs that want to leave your throat.

You don't know how long this state is the only thing you can feel, how long your existence is defined by this blind panic, but you know what pulls you from it.

"Hey. Did you know that frogs vomit by flipping their stomachs out through their mouth and cleaning it with their stupid frog hands?"

The question forces you to take a breath, shuddering as it is, and point wet eyes up at who's talking to you.

There's a man before you, crouching next to your side. He's your age–maybe a bit younger, he has suspiciously nice skin for someone who's wearing nurse scrubs–but he smiles crookedly as you realize how far you're falling.

"That trick always works."

He's uncomfortably smug, but there's a sort of sympathy in his eyes that makes your breathing halt as he gently slips the oxygen mask down just enough to let you breathe through your nose, taking in slower, shakier breaths. Like Laswell taught you to.

Maybe it's to comfort you, maybe it's because you look stupid, but the man grabs a tissue from your bedside and gently sponging off the tears from the corners of your eyes, cooing at you while he does.

"Right. You're okay, alright? Technically, I'm breaking the law by being here, by the way."

Your voice shakes terribly when you try to talk, raspy from disuse and strained from your own panic.

"What."

It doesn't sound like a question, but he answers anyway.

"I'm not any of your nurses, sugar. HIPPA violations, y'know?"

"... Still... leaving a veteran to wake up alone with one less leg than before don't sit with me."

His voice is gentle, and he's still sat in the plastic chair by your bedside, treating you like a piece of gold foil. Gently.

It should make you mad. You should want to beat his ass, for thinking you would ever need to be coddled like this. But you're tired, and the haziness of a painkiller cocktail is starting to nibble at your sense again. So you lay back down, slowly.

His hands help you by habit, even though he removes them from your shoulders when he sees you tense.

This is the first time you take a good look at him.

He's got a prominent nose, with a bump at the ridge, like it's been broken and reset. Blue eyes, that catch the sterile light and glint. You shudder at how it reminds you of Soap. of John.

But he's different. his stubble is lighter, trimmed closer to the cheek. His jaw is stronger, his hair is different. He wears a simple, thin black mask, for sanitation's sake.

There's a stupid little name-tag pinned at his breast, written with borderline chicken scratch. It reads: Hi!, my name is Keegan.

He knows you're looking down, and he smiles just a little bit. When you open your mouth, try to talk. He cuts you off.

"I already know your name from the charts. Don't strain yourself, I think the stern lesbian woman would kill me if I made your condition even a little bit worse."

The smile, the stupid joke makes the tiredness subside, for even a second. He grins when he sees your lips twitch up a little bit, his eyes crinkle at the corners, warm and playful. Almost fond.

It will take a long time. And a lot of work. But you have... someone here. Not a friend. Not yet. But he's still someone.

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BOOM, BUTT STUFF!

This is a direct quote from Scout TF2. Go ahead, find it. I bet you won't.

Good news, gays and theys (and others) So I actually haven't been writing at all the past few days (lmao sorry about that), BUT I found a really good comic series. It's called The Glass Scientists, and it's got two volumes right now, go read.

Alllllllllsssssoooooooo, if I have some free time, I have quite the fun project coming down the pipeline soon, and it's mega sad! Yay!!!! Get excited about a sad, stupid little guy who's going to lose a major body part!!!!!!!