Curate, connect, and discover
Part Three <3 The fluff before the storm
Warnings!: Angst, angst, and more angst. Reader will be MAD sad for most of this. Poorly-practiced, unhealthy polyamory. Reader will experience a LOT of gender and body dysphoria over the course of this (though I will do my best to keep it gender-neutral throughout, bear with me), but there WILL be comfort over that.
Training with Gary was a good idea, no matter how much you hate to admit it.
He forced you to take it easy, as much as you griped at him for it. You could do more. You knew you could do more. But the both of you knew damn well that you shouldn't be doing any more, either.
It was a simple hour. He did the exercises with you, mostly simple stretches and the like.
As infuriating as it was, you felt much calmer after. Maybe that was because you'd managed to avoid your team up until now. You hadn't had to look at any of them today.
That was oddly relieving, but the way he was looking at you wasn't. Gary was scanning you like he was trying to figure something out, between friendly jokes and quiet banter. It wigged you out a little, but when you tried to go to the showers, as usual, he stopped you with a hand on your hoodie-clad shoulder.
"You know you're not supposed to wet the dressings, right?"
His soft voice is right next to your ear, the muffled heat of his breath thankfully not making you shiver as it usually would, thanks to the mask.
"But I've still gotta shower, y-"
Gary chuckles gently, and pulls you (gently, he gives you more than enough leeway to wriggle free if you really want to) into the smallest bathroom attached to the gym.
You've never been in here before, but you don't stop him when he turns you around, and starts to sign again.
You didn't read the articles I sent, did you?
You sigh, and give him a slightly sheepish glance as you sign back (much more clumsily, to be sure, and slower.
Doing other things, bug.
Do you know the sign for "Roach"? No. It doesn't stop you from hearing Gary's little gasp, and watching the way his cheeks round with a bright smile as he slips his mask down, revealing maybe the brightest grin you've ever seen.
Before you're fully aware of it, you've been engulfed in a firm hug, and you're being squeezed tightly by the gentle man before you, an ungloved hand splayed over the small of your back.
"I was right about you."
His voice is still raspy, almost whispered, and you frown just a little at the way he's straining to talk, even if you want to smile at the words.
"You've done a lot for me, luv, I practically owed it to you. Don't strain yourself."
The silent bounces of laughter rock your chest as Gary gently rests his face on your shoulder for just a moment, seemingly fond of the way this feels.
What makes you pull back is the way you feel a warm, scared hand under your hoodie (and over your undershirt, thank goodness) right after leather hits the floor.
Gary seems to sense your unease, and gives you a reassuring smile.
You can't wet your dressings, so I brought wet wipes for you. Figured you could use the help.
He uses more complete sign than before, only bothering to finger-spell the harder words to gleam in the sentence. You pick it up well, but still squirm a little when you see yourself in the mirror.
Gary knows it, because you pointedly look away from the wall behind him. The confirmation makes his smile fade a little, but his hope skyrocket.
You're more like him than you think. Even if you don't know it yet.
He clicks his tongue, and turns so you're facing the wall, pulling the small pack of sanitary wipes from his bag and handing them to you.
"Do you want me to help?"
You can't reach every part of your body just yet, but Gary still offers to let you do it yourself. He lets you choose. It makes you a little weak.
When you nod, he gets to work.
It's maybe the best thing you've ever felt. His hands are cloaked by the wipes, smoothing over your skin, wicking away the thin layer of sweat that clings to it. Soothing you in a way no one has every bothered to before.
Your phone pings somewhere in your gym bag. You ignore it, opting to lean into a gentle swipe over the broadest part of your back.
"You're good to me, Gary."
He nods. It makes you sigh.
"I really want to be with you more."
He nods again. This time, he gently hooks his chin over your shoulder, pulling your hoodie up just enough to clean around the small bandages you changed just this morning. When you tense, he scoots his head a little closer to your neck, to comfort you. It works well.
It's a hard balance to strike, but he's pulling it off. You feel seen, but somehow just as much you feel like he's not really looking. It takes that ugly, twisting feeling away, and puts it to bed.
Your body may be wrong, but right now, it doesn't matter. Gary doesn't care. That makes you feel... good. Maybe not good. It makes you feel understood, for the first time.
"Why are you so good at this?"
You feel him smile, and gently take hold of your hand, before leading you to feel a scar that stretches beneath his chest.
Huh.
Oh. Oh, shit.
"Gary-"
He interrupts you when he releases your hand, and signs once more.
I'm like you.
"I... Fuck, luv, I'm not- I mean, I- I-"
Let me help you. I want to.
You're in deeeeeeep shit.
"Alright. Yeah, as long as you stay."
Part 2.5 (bonus for the people. I think you guys need some good soup, from moi <3)
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.
The team dynamics of the 141 have always been messy, ugly things, but this is ugly. You wouldn't wish it on anyone, really.
When you'd walked back to your own room, you'd heard Soap railing the daylights out of Gaz, cussing your name beneath his breath as the other sergeant groaned, high and throaty.
As awful as this feels, at least he's not doing that to you.
Johnny's always been a bit of a... rough bed partner, you know that, he's so eager to get into the heat of it that he never gives himself the time to warm up or cool down. Tends to be so enthusiastic that he doesn't offer much aftercare before he falls asleep, either.
Still, walking past Gaz's room brings back memories of that nasty, sick feeling that follows every intimate experience you've ever had.
It's the feeling that your body is somehow wrong, too tight in some parts and too loose in others, like the very existence of your form is a contradiction that just can't stand a second longer.
The way you hold your laptop shifts, pressing the metal into your chest to somehow remedy this ill. How? You're not sure. It doesn't work very well.
You try to shake it off as you open your door and sit on your bed, but the moans still breach your walls.
God, since when did Gaz sound like that? It feels like it's choking the air out of the room.
You put your best effort toward minding your own business, but you felt like you were losing your mind a half-hour into that endeavor, and instead thumped your fist on the wall, loud enough to send the message. Learning how to sign and trying to ignore... that was simply not a feasible task.
The moaning and creaking stops shortly after, and the sigh you heave is like no others, though you know damn well those two will definitely be pissy with you tomorrow.
Finally.
Plastic buzzing against the "wood" of your nightstand (shitty plywood painted white, as is standard issue) draws your focus away from that, if only for a second.
Heyhey! Do u wanna train together tmrw?? I think you'd do good if you took it easy w/me 😊 <33
The rubber and plastic of your case isn't all that comfortable in your hands, but you hold the magical little glass box in your hands anyway, peering down at the screen before chuckling to yourself.
Why should I?
Is your reply. It doesn't strike you that it might have been a bit on the nose, or that Gary might have read it differently, until the text bubble appears and disappears several times in a row, and you re-read it.
Oh no, you sound like an absolute asshole.
Sorry. I do want to, I just wanted to tease.
He's typing for another few seconds, before the bubble disappears one more time, and it starts to make you panic. More than you want to be panicking over him.
Don't be mad please, I'm sorry. I want to train with you.
How the mighty have fallen.
Look at you, desperately prostrating yourself before a rookie because you're absolutely moronic, praying that he'll offer you a reply. Whatever happened to four times the love?
Fuck. Don't think about that.
im not mad, ur fine just thought you might be a little grouchy from the meds or smth, wasnt sure if i should ask
You breathe a real sigh of relief at the returned messages, already more than tired by the day, but slightly soothed as you look down at the blue light of the screen, and send your last message of the day.
I'll see you at 0630. Goodnight.
A little red heart appears over your message, in the top left corner of the rounded bubble.
You plug in your phone and try to ignore how something in your chest squeezes at being deemed worthy of making plans more than two hours in advance.
It's a shockingly new thing, but goodness does it feel good, even if it brings on a sting of a more somber feeling.
Gaz and Soap sure as fuck didn't do this. Ghost either. You never expected Price to do that for you in the first place. Did they just... not think you were enough to make plans for? Was this pity?
You try to shake off the feeling as you bunch your blankets around your body, allowing your tired form to sink into the mattress and rest. The morning will clear your thoughts.
First | Previous | Next
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
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
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