Tactical-jellyfish - One Time I Licked A Battery :)

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

For Joanna (pt. 2/3)

Warnings: Nikolai is still a depressed bisexual man, google-translated Russian because I am writing this after two exams, in other news, reader finally figures out what feelings are and why they keep experiencing the pesky buggers. In other news, my hand is hurty and currently in a brace, but I refuse to fully rest it, so I'm writing anyway, but there might be minor spelling errors as my usual typing speed and rhythm is very much off.

Having a friend is... a new experience that you really happen to like.

Nikolai doesn't hang out often, but he's on the same wave as you when he is. Drinking slow and chatting, sometimes taking turns poking at the other's music taste because really, Nik? What is that shit? It's not "rock", I'll tell you that.

It's new, yes but... easy, so you let him closer than anyone else. When he brings his crackers, you bring your own snack in turn, an old favorite from the only corner store in your hometown that carried the brand, it used to be something you only ate with family, only on holidays. Now, you share it with Nikolai. And it's–it's not bad, not at all.

You'll admit, you're getting used to him. You like having him in the shop now, quiet or not.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ So, it turns out, you are far too stupid to know how to have a friend, even months into befriending your favorite pilot.

Granted, you've never been... the brightest, when it comes to social matters. And you know that, you accept it. But that doesn't make it any easier when another joke you had tried to give the Russian at your side in jest makes him pull back again, makes those pretty brown eyes point toward his glass instead. Calling it a glass is charitable, that thing is dirt cheap and made of plastic, your idiot brain adds, in some vain hope to not think about the fact that you seemingly bruised your best friend's feelings with the playful barb (Yes, Nikolai was your closest friend as of right now. No, you wouldn't be saying that aloud if you could help it).

You really didn't know why it seemed to make Nikolai recoil so hard so fast, to you it had just been a simple joke, because god, that English guy with the beard sure did talk nice about you, huh, Nik? I wonder about that sometimes. And seemingly, that had been squarely the wrong thing. So, you did the very best you could to backtrack when you saw him put his hands on his knees, almost dropping the glass in your hands as you race to meet him as he stands.

Maybe he doesn't see the panic in your wide eyes, maybe he chooses to ignore it because you've seemingly done so wrong by him that he'll just leave forever and never talk to you again, and- "мне пора идти, пока." You, admittedly, haven't picked up very much of his language yet, but you know that last part means goodbye and some part of your brain simply cannot let that happen. Nikolai doesn't say his goodbyes like this, he pats you on the shoulder and smiles, sometimes winks as he closes the door behind him.

His face is flat. It scares you.

So, you being the fool you are, grab his arm like he owes you money, take the cracked leather of his jacket into your hands, feel the dry texture because he forgot to take care of this one (it had since become his de-facto flying jacket) and hold. "Wait, Nik, please, whatever I said, I didn't mean to, just-"

You are not a person who sounds desperate. You are independent and you are a sharp bastard. So why are you stand here like a kid on their first day of school, desperately clinging onto your only lifeline to the outside world? You were supposed to like being a hermit, you've been fine for years now.

Nikolai seems to see this, and, despite his better interests, he pauses before he talks. Still flat, like he's barking out an order. "Do not speak of that. Not of John, and not like that." Ice water replaces every last cell of blood in your veins. What did you do? How did you get Nikolai to flip from being the single friendliest person (at least, an asshole like you) to the icy, distant tone that you knew you deserved?

You'll never say that you deflate under his pinning stare, but you know you did, to some extant, mentally riffling through every memory you had of the captain and all he said of the pilot. Nothing.

At least, nothing that would imply Nikolai was this willing to seemingly entirely cut ties with you because you had tried to make light of it.

Your brain never catches what's going on around you when you think like that. It doesn't catch the way he sighs or the slight remorse in his eyes at shutting off so hard, seemingly sending you into a tailspin. черт возьми, right. The Russian scolds himself for that in his mind. The mechanic is not often socialized. He takes a minute to stand, watch the emotions play across your face. Can't hide a thing. The touch of a callused hand pulls you from your thoughts for long enough to look back at him, and then at the big hand on your shoulder.

"Apologies. I have neglected to inform you of something personal to me."

To your shock, you aren't socked in the jaw, but rather, gently herded back into your (garbage) lawn chair (in the garage) and then Nikolai is before you, and he tells you a long, long story.

Of being young and in the military, before he branched off and did his own thing. Of falling head over ass for squarely the wrong person. Not because he had been bad, but because John was a man who knew his own values, and didn't make exceptions.

By the time the solemn tangent is finally concluded, you feel like hot garbage. In some part, because your friend is suffering under the weight of early-twenties feelings at least a decade later, but mostly because you dug that hurt back up. Unknowingly, yes, but you reminded Nik of love that wouldn't ever be given to him.

You've never been the sort to handle words. This whole incident proves that, so, instead, you reach out slowly. It isn't often you hug people, even less often you do it without them explicitly asking, but Nikolai seems to like hugs. You give him more than enough time to back out anyway.

He doesn't.

Instead, for a length of time that is between you two and the higher being (or lack thereof) of your choice. You hold each other in the shop.

"I'm sorry. I wouldn't have ever said it if I had known, I don't want to hurt you, Nik, I just-"

You're choking on words and apologies, some needy, selfish-feeling plea to just hold on to your friend, keep him around and not upset with you.

"I understand. Simple mistakes, yes?"

It's a heavenly mercy that is extended to you in that moment, Nikolai holding you by the shoulders just to pull back enough to smile at you, cheeks rounded and eyes crinkling at the corners, warming the lovely dried-mud color you'd grown attached to.

"Yeah, simple mistakes." Your voice contrasts his, a bit more shaky, still unsteady as you pull your mind back together.

In the silence, momentary and short, you decide there is one more than that much be said. You blurt it out before you can do any better thinking on it.

"You're a friend to me, Nikolai. A good one."

There's a soft chuckle, and a hand tenderly splaying over the small of your back as you're pulled close, flush to the warm oil-and-engine smell that always seems to hang on Nikolai more than you, despite this being your literal job.

His voice is warm again, you can feel his smile even if you can't see it.

"You are a friend too, механик. Very good."

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

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.

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Part Four <3 This is where shit will get GNARLY, lovelies, so mind the gap (between Reader and their three awful boyfriends [not counting Gary, obv])

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're comfortable there, in that bathroom.

Gary, even after he's wiped you down, treats you gentle. Sits you up in your own little corner and has you sip on some water as he showers in one of the stalls.

It felt nice, just letting yourself cool back off, but not really being on your own.

Gary was very kind with you.

Should bring him food, some part of your lizard brain supplies, he looked like he was struggling a little his last set.

With the new mission in mind (and a spare* hoodie that Gary keeps in his gym bag), you knock on the shower wall to alert him that you're leaving, and shove your phone from your own bag into your pocket without even taking a glance at it.

The calmer, almost content feeling abandons you as soon as you open the door and spot Gaz walking into the gym room.

Of course, his hazel eyes catch onto you, and of course (because you really can't catch a fucking break), he trots over.

He doesn't greet you as he typically does, not with a sweet endearment and a firm hug. Instead, you're met with an appraising, almost judgy glance–knowing Gaz, he probably is judging you–and a cocked brow.

"Didn't pick up your phone before you showered?"

The question rings out to you, but you know he's not all that in your answer. It's not a warning, but a reminder that Gaz has never been the most patient. He's never liked to wait.

"Haven't checked it in a couple days, actually."

You impart in kind, crossing your arms over your chest for your own sake. You really don't want to have any face-downs today. You'd been feeling so good before.

He looks you up and down once more. It feels like his eyes peel your skin back, taking in the appearance of the ugly, squishy bits inside you before he clicks his tongue and steps back a bit.

"Right then. Just so you know, Johnny's right miffed with you. Told me you were being a prick last night. You know why?"

You hate this. You hate this so much. You would have never signed up for this if you knew It would be so draining.

Soap who couldn't keep it in his pants long enough to treat you like a partner, Gaz who seemed to want to cut your head off every time tension arose, and Ghost. The romantic equivalent of an absent father you only see on Christmas or birthdays.

Maybe you're letting the anxiety of the last few days talk. Maybe it's rash (no, it's definitely rash), but you can't handle a second more of this.

"Yeah, I was, sorry." You pause, before just coming out with the rest of it: "I'm thinking about cutting off this... thing. Thought you should know."

Ooh. Spoken with tact. Good job. Your own thoughts mock, but the very worst part of this is that Gaz seems to finally snap out of whatever haze he was caught in. His face twists, and your stomach twists with it as you watch his brows pinch and hear his voice quiet.

"...What? Love, you can't-"

You've pushed him to the back foot now, and it feels horrendous. So, you try to harness the grossness you always feel when he touches you, the aching emptiness of your room when you hear Soap on top of Gaz.

Or the knowledge that Soap and Ghost stay with him longer than they ever have you.

You were too green, too new to the team and too stupid to remember that of course the others wouldn't offer too much. But something between waking up from emergency surgery alone and making friends with the guy who dragged you away from death's door made you open your eyes to it.

"It's fine. Not your fault, just my mistake."

"Mistake, what do you even mean mistake? We were supposed to be partners. You're supposed to be my partner, luv, can you not see that-"

"You're not missing out on much, don't worry. I can't fuck anybody for at least another week anyway."

"What the bloody fuck are you talking about?"

The door to the bathroom opens behind you at maybe the worst moment in history, revealing Gary, still a little damp-haired from the shower. His boots squeak against the floor as he pauses in his step, watching the conversation confusedly.

Gaz's eyes widen, and before you can stop him, he's giving you the nastiest glare you've got in your life, spitting words like venom.

"Oh, so that's why you've been so distant, huh?"

Words choke and tangle in your throat as you look forward at him, watch the resentment in his eyes undoubtedly grow into a bruning hatred.

"It's not-" You try to start, but you never get to finish.

"No no, I get it. Must be real hard hiding how much of a slag you are from the team, yeah?"

You're not sure if you want to punch him or cry out of anger. You end up doing neither, clenching your hands into fists to avoid dishing out pain.

Gary looks confused, and you lack the control to hold any amount of civility anymore. He didn't need to be involved with this.

You didn't want Gary to think you were some sort of slut. Not him.

"I had an appendectomy, you stupid prick! Days ago, if you really wanna know"

You've never been one to raise your voice. It feels rude, but when Gaz quiets, there's nothing to be done but go in for the kill.

"You didn't pick up. I could have died in a bathroom stall because you were so busy that you couldn't check your phone and help me."

Gary puts his hand on your shoulder as you step forward, silently talking you back from wailing on Gaz in the middle of the gym.

When you look back, he signs to you.

There's time for that later.

You grit your teeth, but nod, offering a simple affirmative sign in return before turning back to Gaz with venom on your tongue.

"Fuck you. If I see your face before the end of my break, I'll make sure no one ever calls you pretty again, hear me?"

He could beat the shit out of you. But he doesn't. Gaz looks... upset. You can't muster sympathy right now.

"Break?"

Gaz questions, quiet-voiced and not quite looking you in the eyes.

"Yeah, the brass gives you breaks after fuckin' surgery, numb-nuts. Might as well take it if I've got it, right?"

You're verbally shoving his face into the curb, grinding your boots down on his throat. It feels better than you thought it would, finally just letting it all out.

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

*Gary packed an extra hoodie because you seemed to like them. He's a little sad you didn't get to enjoy it too much. He has a feeling he might have more work to do for you to feel that comfortable again. (P.s. really just need to get it out of my drafts at this point, looking at it makes me sick now. So, enjoy what you can. Take it, my children.)

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

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

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.

Part One

Part Two

Part 2.5

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

Watcher 1-1

Part 2!!!!

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).

The transport over the pond has never been a fun one, for you.

Not like you're scared of heights or anything, but it's a very long flight for your tastes, and you've never been the best at sleeping while sitting up.

Still, it elapses, and the oddly nice pilot (Nikolai, you thought his name was, though you weren't entirely sure), pats your shoulder with a smile when you step out, giving you some cryptic tease about being thankful the boys finally have someone new, a chew toy.

You're sure he's kidding, but even while you smile, it kind of unnerves you.

You'll be a hell of a lot more than a chew toy.

That spark is smothered when you see a group of four walking over the tarmac, hear the thick rubber soles of boots aggravating the landing surface. You shut your mouth immediately, straighten your back, blank your face.

The man in the front–Price–is the first to look you over, hard-eyed and stern as crystal blue eyes look beneath your skin with the strength of diamond behind them, like he's peering at every single part that makes you up, taking them apart and putting them together to see what ticks and how to break each one.

It's nauseating, especially when it comes from four sets at once.

The lieutenant is almost worse, wordless, blank eyes beneath a crude skull-bearing mask, a gaze that makes you think he's waiting to see you take some damage, to watch you snap like the fragile wings of a bird in his cruel hands.

You can't put words to how the sergeants are looking at you before Price speaks to you, making your head to snap to his the second he starts.

"You're Laswell's recommendation?"

He sounds almost... unimpressed, and it makes you straighten, puff out your chest like a rookie would. He thinks you're too green. you have to prove him wrong.

"Yes, captain."

Your voice is a bit deeper than normal, in your nervousness, but it doesn't sound unnatural. You see Kyle–the second sergeant–look away from Price for only a second, and you see him swallow.

The confirmation is met with nothing but a grunt at first, then he turns.

"On me. I need to make sure you're not as green as you look."

MacTavish chuckles, makes that weird "ooh" noise like a schoolboy.

"Training day, huh sir?" He's peering at Kyle as he says that, like he's trying to tease the other sergeant. Garrick doesn't look at him, pointedly.

Price nods, and they all fall into step behind him, making you jog to keep up.

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Task Force 141 headcannons- art/paper

Warnings!: Nope, not any today. I'm being possessed by the spirit of creativity right now and I NEED to yap. Shoutout to @h1ccu9 for just being incredibly nice and amazing, and to all of you for your support! It means a lot <3

Johnny has always been an artist, in his mind. It's a fact that permeates his whole being, though it didn't come about how most think it did.

There was no single moment when he decided that it would be what consumed every other free moment he has, no Christmas present that spurred creativity any more than the others.

Slowly, when he was younger. Stupid drawings of cartoons he'd liked, the typical stuff for a kid. Then, more quickly. In Chemistry, he was so bored of hexagons, of compounds bound by singe and double lines and rote memorization.

So, he started with circles. They were ugly, at first, but he picked up shading, and then it spilled outward.

Stupid drawings of his teachers, made to draw a chuckle from classmates, drawn with the 5-pack of pencils that would last the whole year, no matter what.

Even in his adult life, when what fills his sketchbook is chicken-scratch and sketches of buildings (only sometimes people) it's only pencil.

A quiet tribute to the young boy in a big house where money was tight. Colored pencils and good graphite would be wasted on him. He has what he needs in his palm, and he's used to that. Sometimes, black and white works well enough.

Price is somewhat similar, but his skill is technical. Sharp lines composed of quick flicks of a controlled wrist (never mind the slight ache when he repeats the motion too many times) come together to form rough ideas, a tool more for communication more than anything else.

It's not a skill borne from anything too creative, no, it just boils down to the things he needs to know. Maps, structures from top-down and isometric angles. Plans of attack represented by smooth, even arrows like men haven't died following paths he's drawn.

John doesn't like to draw outside of work, not when he remembers how many lives have been mistakenly cut short by how he controls the ballpoint pen.

He's tried, once or twice. It always ends in a deep, stabbing guilt that takes a practiced hand to shake from his shoulders.

Kyle didn't have an affinity for art until his teen years. He'd gone to museums, sure, he knew it took skill, but it had never really piqued his interest in the way it seemed to captivate some people he knows.

He'd been stressed when he picked it up from a friend. Squiggles encased in squiggles on the margins of the page. His English teacher did nothing but mark down his essays for it, but dammit did forcing himself to focus on something else work.

His mother had soon gifted him a set of ink-basked, black liner pens. Middle-of-the-road, in both quality and price, but it was more than enough.

A simple notebook had soon become a haven for him. Dots on dots on dots, lines, big, swooping curves, you name it, it's there.

He holds one rule: No "drawing".

Of course, this feels silly when he tells it to people, but it matters. If he goes into the project with a thought of a desired result, it will just frustrate him more, when it inevitably turns out as less-than-flawless.

So, it's all amorphous. Sometimes it's spiky, sometimes he's almost scarily methodical, adding more and more detail until a whole spread is swallowed up, and his head is mercifully clear.

It's enough to pull him in, but the art always lets him go again, and that's what he needs out of it.

Simon doesn't draw.

That's not to say he doesn't make art, but his is different.

Origami is his trade. It has been for a long time. He'd tear the corners out of pages in school binders, find ways to fold them to make them more interesting.

A book from the local library was what had taken it from a child's passing interest to the work of the rest of his life. More patterns. A way to understand how to make patterns, of his very own.

But, perhaps most importantly, origami was a simple, cheap hobby he could pay for with quarters found on the side of the road. And it was easy to hide

A shoebox beneath his bed was where it resided for about a decade, and then he enlisted.

His first tour, an acquaintance had given him a good set of proper origami paper. He can't remember their name for the life of him, but he remembers them every time he sits at his desk.

Actually, to be fair, he remembers them every time he enters his room at all.

The walls are adorned in paper sculptures, some truly origami, some not. Some composed of thousands of fold and over a hundred hours of work, and some just five-minute warm-up cranes.

It's a soothing reminder that his life is his, now. No matter how bitter the past may be, the tamed roughness of paper on his burned fingertips is there, and his mind gets to shut off as he takes on a project.

He knows how to make cranes by heart, now.

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.