Laswell Cod - Blog Posts

audio was deleted but it's still good

he's my favorite balls@ck 🫶 /j

he's in the top ten

Watcher 1-1

Part TEN!!

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

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

Sarah.

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

"Captain."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How are you, in British Sign Language.

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

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

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

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

Roach could be... he had potential.

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

He'll be interesting.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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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Watcher 1-1 Masterlist

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

Status: Incomplete, fully plotted

Cluster One: Early Days

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Cluster Two: Tumbling Gracelessly

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Cluster Three: Time, and the things it just so happens to do to good people

Part Nine

Part Ten

Watcher 1-1

Part Eight

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).

Warnings for this specific chapter: Clear depiction of severe emotional distress, a very strongly-worded recommendation of transfer that will be heavy. If requested, I will section it off and add a TLDR, but it is very plot relevant.

Days seem to pass much faster when you have things to do with your time.

Wheeling around in your new chair. Learning how to switch from your chair to your bed to the toilet. Finally getting the dignity of tossing your bedpan in the biohazard bin, blasted thing.

Slowly, the inner workings of the simple lock Keegan gifted you have become a second home to your (formerly) achingly empty hands.

It's become your latest single-minded obsession, even if the tools are frankly, garbage and the lock is now your single closest companion. Maybe second to Keegan.

Speaking of, the man himself gently interrupts you halfway through another round of single-pin picking, gently tugging your reddened thumbs into his much less callused hands, frowning at you as he gently pries the lock from your fingers, pick still in the keyway.

"Jeez, hun."

The gentle tangling of fingers is what follows, as Keegan horsed around in his pockets for at least a minute, silently swearing at his own clothes until he produces a small band-aid and some ointment for your not-even-broken skin.

"You know, you're not going to need to use-"

"Shut up. You're hurtin' yourself."

His voice is just a little more firm, and, for just a second, you're quiet, and it makes the nurse seemingly regret the words and correct himself.

"I'm sorry, that was-"

At that singular second, you simply have to say otherwise, you've got to tell him that no, he didn't upset you, he never would. He couldn't ever do that, not to you. Never.

"No."

The force in your voice is the thing that makes him pause. Truth be told, it also surprises you.

"N-I- I'm not mad with you. Not with you, never. I would never be mad with you for trying to help me."

The blue eyes that look into yours make you weak. Uncomfortably so. You shouldn't be this weak, you should be strong. This time, not for your own interest. This time, it's for Keegan's.

He deserves someone who can keep themself in check.

You aren't fully sure how much time passes while you're staring into those endless pools of blue, or what exactly the man before you is thinking, until the tender wrappings of his accented voice are flooding back into your ears.

"Do you know what it is that you do to me? By being the person that you are?"

Oh.

Oh, dear. The way your cheeks are hot is not something you had been accounting for. This was not planned.

"Keegan-"

"No, no, listen."

You do. Dammit, you listen to him. You finally abandon your pride and look at him, really look at him, and see the single most daunting sight you ever have.

That is a man who is devoted. And it is scary, but not in the way you expect it to be. Because this look is not familiar to you. It is new and it is potent. It makes your chest ache in a way that makes everything in your body stutter before it starts chugging again.

"I'm going to put on the ointment. And I'm going to put the bandage on your finger, alright? And then, I will ask if I'm allowed to kiss you, because I really want to."

Your body is getting ever more fuzzy and hot and wiggly in all the ways you hate but cannot ignore. Your heart is pounding. Your mind is reeling. You know this feeling, but you don't want to admit it.

"Alright."

It feels disingenuous. You feel terrible, like you're lacking every ounce of vulnerability that Keegan offers to you. Like you're taking and not giving back.

He smiles, just a little. Only a little bit, it's a simple twitch of his lips upward, and you catch it.

"Good."

Keegan's hands are efficient, but you've seen him practice sutures and the like in front of you, and you see him nearly slip as he wraps the raw skin of your thumb in the fabric bandage. He's going faster than usual.

"You're rushing."

"Yeah, well, I really wanna kiss you."

Thank goodness that he isn't looking for the blush on the cheeks or the way your eyes are a little bit wider than they usually are. Keegan chuckles, and gently holds your callused, scarred hands in his own.

"You know you don't have to. You can say no. I'll never ask again."

You're still sitting there, one leg down and actively trying to start your brain back up again. No one's ever said something like that to you before. Sure, it was always implied, always written in little letters between the lines, but Keegan seems incredibly willing to just... give that power over to you.

You seemingly don't answer fast enough, and the nurse slowly eases himself back, out of your space.

This kicks off what you can only describe as a panic response.

Your arm moves so fast it bumps the lock to the floor, but that does little to deter you. Your hand finds short-cropped, dark hair, and pulls the nurse forward until your lips are crushed together.

It isn't gentle. It's not what someone like Keegan deserves, and you cringe when your teeth clack just a little in your desperation.

"I'm sorry."

Are the first words out of your mouth when you pull back just enough to say them, bashful and flustered that you'd been so easily picked apart by any odd nurse who bothered to really pursue you.

His grin is wide and boyish, even if his lips (chapstick-moisturized, you noted in that desperate second) are a little shiny with spit.

"Don't be."

The peck that follows might be the single best thing that's ever happened to you.

Two big, gentle hands are holding your face, stroking your hot cheeks like he's soothing a bird fresh from the cage, taking your frayed nerves and twisting them back together.

A quiet noise comes from your throat, though its foundation isn't immediate pleasure, not like it used to be. It's a grateful contentment, quiet and almost unstated except for that.

Keegan smiles against your mouth, and kisses you again. Not any harder, or deeper, or any of those bullshit words that say he wants any more. Just the same, almost loving press that is quickly lowering any of the remaining walls that surround your too-fragile heart.

You have no idea how he's done this. You don't want him to stop.

Unfortunately, a very familiar clearing of the throat sounds from the doorway. A voice you know, well.

"Glad to see you're making friends."

Laswell. Fuck.

Keegan is quick to efficiently end the short coupling of your mouths, and look up to the woman, sheepish.

"Real good friends, ma'am."

You should smack him for that, but some part of you that has become frustratingly understanding knows what it is he's doing. Taking her attention from you, funneling it into that stupid joke and hoping she'll have mercy on your pathetic ass.

It's admirable, and Laswell must catch the way you look at him, because she just sighs.

"Yes, well, you can kiss later. I have things to discuss with my soldier, so it really would be great if you-"

Keegan hauls ass. The door is shut before she can even finish talking, and Laswell shakes her head in a way that seems less disappointed and more... amused, almost.

"That settles that."

She sits in the chair next to your bed. You turn to face her, stump forward and leg folded over the edge of the terribly uncomfortable surface.

You watch her glance down, in sympathy or in pity, you're not sure.

"I'm on pain meds."

Her brows pinch, and she lets her head drop a little. Like she doesn't like what she's about to say to you.

"I know, peanut. I'd have everyone here out for malpractice if you weren't the closest to fine you could be. Just- God, this is a mixed bag."

You raise a brow, and she starts to elaborate.

"I've talked to doctors. Odds are, you can go back into the field, if you want to. If everything goes well, you could probably pass selection for the SAS or Special Forces again."

The smile that you hold is tempered by the fact that she doesn't look overjoyed by this. No, she still looks upset somehow. But you also know Laswell doesn't lie. At least, not to you.

"Something is wrong. And you don't want to tell me what it is."

She sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. Not out of annoyance, but some sort of empathy.

"No. I really don't want to, but I've held it back for too long already, and I know you'd like it if I came clean."

You nod, after a brief hesitation.

"You've been transferred out of the 141."

She lays it out there, plain and simple, and you're silent.

It makes so many hurtful things click. The emptiness of the small counter next to your bed. The reason none of your teammates have come to visit, why you haven't even gotten calls.

Because you really are a liability. Too slow, and now one leg down on the competition.

Laswell pipes up before the pain can entirely take you over, pulling your mind from the rapid downward spiral it was gearing up to take.

"I want to tell you now, that I read the letter that recommended the transfer. It was a load of shit, and I hate all of it. But, it got the brass on board anyway."

"I... also want to tell you that, for your own good, I'd steer clear of talking to any of the boys for a time." She gently sets your phone on the small "nightstand" beside your bed, again, almost hesitantly.

"They're a bit... heated, right now. Last I heard."

You can't talk. Or, if you can, you really don't want to. Your throat feels tight, and your eyes feel hot, and it's all too much. But you look up at her anyway, and she tried to give you the closest thing to a smile she can muster.

"Take your time, alright? You've always been a good soldier. Better than people think."

Laswell stands, then. You do nothing to stop her as she leaves the room, but you hear what she says to Keegan at the door.

"I don't know you, but they clearly do. Don't do something they don't deserve."

The instructions ring through your hollowed skull as you look toward the linoleum floor in front of you, and see the lock.

The fall must have bumped it just right, because it's open. This time, the pick looks like its stabbing into the cast-iron body.

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Watcher 1-1

Part Seven <3

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).

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. One character affectionately refers to another character as "slutbag"

Keegan is a good man.

You learn this quickly, as you get into moderate, common spats with the United States healthcare system.

In the days that narrowly follow the surgery, when you're more often unconscious than awake, you often wake with the nurse (technically certified, but you really have no idea if he actually works here) at your bedside who's just... doing whatever in the corner.

You're lucky you haven't been snippy enough to shove him away from you, just yet.

In your own defense, your dignity has been directly removed by most of this terrible shit.

You can't even get up to use the bathroom, anymore. It's a bedpan.

And apparently, you're still lucky. Because you're going to get your drainage tube out of the lovely leg wound in a few days.

You are, for all intents and purposes, about to kill someone or yourself. But Keegan is still often there, answering your questions or giving you just a bit of humor to hold onto as you go increasingly stir-crazy from waiting for Laswell to finally come and give you the rundown of the tatters that must remain of your career.

If you got lucky, she wouldn't be too upset. Maybe, if you were really lucky, she would tell you where the boys are. Why none of them have dropped in to see you yet.

It'd only be another week. You weren't sure you could last that long.

As if an angel somewhere has answered this thought, the door opens again.

"Hey, slutbag. I finally found you some enrichment."

Keegan's voice is playful, and he wears a shit-eating grin as he tosses a small bag to your bed, hitting you almost-square in the chest.

"Mm. Poor aim, Mr. Russ."

You may be tired, in pain, and you may be in a frankly terrible mood, but that doesn't mean you're not funny. Your name isn't Price.

Still, you open the little bag, and there's a box inside. You open that too, as Keegan plops himself in the chair that hurts his back because he can't be assed to bring in something better.

It's... a lock, casted out of clear plastic, with a small set of tools to pick it. Also a set of keys, which you already know you'll refuse to use for pride's sake.

Two watchful, fond blue eyes are scanning your motions and you can feel him smile, without even looking.

"I could have given you a manual, but I think you'd like it better to do it all yourself. Was I right?"

The tool's handle is smooth as you hold the lock steady, fighting to not immediately fiddle with the thing in front of Keegan. He would be too damned smug about it.

"...Thank you, Russ."

He did deserve that thanks, as far as you thought. You were pathetic right now, useless and bed-bound and panicky. And still, Keegan was willing to look upon you, he still willingly chooses to see you.

This thank you encompasses all of those things. You know you've been less than fun. Less than useful. And you know Keegan deserves to know that he's been good to you. Better than you've ever deserved.

He's quiet, for a time, but then you hear a warm chuckle as he reaches forward to give you a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"Don't say that like you owe me anything, kid," You really should interrupt him, tell him that, if you're not older than him, you definitely outrank him, but you don't. "You're much better than working in a shit-hole like this."

Your eyes find his, and you can see him smile as he lowers his mask. You're noticed that he only seems to do this in the room, with you. And only when you're both alone.

"...I know some people who could change that."

"Really?"

"I'm missing my leg, I still have my connections, Keegan."

His smile is worth the scolding you know Lawell will give you for trying to promise to pull him into the service.

You don't care. He's medically smart enough, and pliable enough to train into shape.

Maybe, if you can't serve anymore, you can bring someone who was more brilliant that you ever were. Maybe, your debt is still something you can repay.

His smile isn't wide, but it's happy. Something in your chest squeezes too hard, but he's kind enough to ignore how your heart monitor beeps faster. You know he notices, because his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"D'you want me to give you some hints to pick that lock faster?"

For once, you see that offer for help, and it doesn't strike you as a direct insult to you. You can see, right there before you, someone who wants to get close.

And it's so very stupid to trust someone. But something tells you that you will never be too slow for Keegan.

He seems fine with waiting for you to catch up.

Maybe that's why you nod at that question.

Maybe that's why he sits on the side of your bed, and starts to explain the basics, gently leading your hands into proper position as he starts to gently wriggle the tool agains the pins.

You would have never allowed this, otherwise, but it feels surprisingly good to have him there. Not because he thinks you're weak. Not because he thinks you'd be better if he taught you this.

Keegan is teaching you this because he thinks it's something you want to learn.

The tool turns before you're ready, and the lock pops open under your hands. Keegan's hands too.

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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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Watcher 1-1

Part Five!!!

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

Good luck, soldiers.

The early morning sun streaming into your room is a lovely little bit of accoutrement to getting ready for another mission, even if you're trying to persuade the prettiest man you know from sticking to your back like moss.

"Kyle, I'll be back by dinner, I swear to you-"

Your plea gets nowhere, as a light nibbling at your neck drives a squeal between your lips and a chuckle from the man behind you, a tender squeeze from the thick arms wrapped about your body as you try to squirm out of the warm, tempting hold.

"But I'll miss you, Firecracker, you can't just go out without me an' Soap like this..."

The whine is muffled on your skin, spoken through lovely, soft lips, still warm and a little swollen. You puff up a bit in pride, know that's your work, but mentally force yourself back to focus.

"C'mon, Ky. Just twelve hours or so."

He huffs in response, leaves one more kiss on your skin for good luck.

"Fine, but don't expect me to save a spot for you in the shower if you take any longer 'n' that."

You grin at the tease, and gently tug Kyle in by the shoulder for another little kiss, affectionate, before pulling back.

"See? That ain't too hard, is it?"

He swats your shoulder as he walks out. You chuckle.

There isn't much time to give Johnny a goodbye, but he manages to steal a short, teasing peck in the hallway, and he playfully smacks your ass in a way that just tells you he wants you in his room tonight before walking off with his usual swagger, outwardly unbothered.

"Prick!"

You call out after him, cheeks flooded with a familiar, pleasant heat.

"Arsehole!"

Is his response.

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

During the mission, your steps feel lighter, like you're somehow floating ever so slightly above the ground beneath you. You deem it adrenaline, and push forward.

"Still got my six, Ghost?"

"Affirmative. Keep goin'."

The thick, Mancunian brogue is what motivates you now, pushing further into the compound silently, trying to locate the objective as you listen for anything, even another footstep.

The tense silence is all you have, other than the beat of your heart or the way blood rushes too-quickly in your ears. You shouldn't be this nervous, this bad feeling is silly.

You're already here, opening the door to find your objective. It's almost time to go back.

The thumb drive fits neatly into your palm, but almost exactly after you take it, you hear a gunshot.

Fuck. Why did Price take a shot in here?

Every hair on your neck stands up, and they only get taller when you hear your captain in your earpiece.

"Tangos are alerted to our presence, roll-out in two minutes.''

Your blood is icy cold as you hear footsteps flooding into the hall, and you pocket the drive as you pray they'll pass in time.

"Sir, I'm on the third floor, I have the objective but I won't have the time-"

"We roll-out in two. Minutes. If you're there or not."

A hard shudder passes through your spine as you fight for a breath, to rebut this, to tell him that you just need time, you'll get back out. Simon does it for you.

"Thir'y more seconds won't bugger anythin', sir." Simon says that word like it's an insult.

You can hear their voices arguing through your headset as you bolt through the brutalist hallways, narrowly dodging and ducking but not covering enough distance.

An alarm starts to sound, a self-destruction and a warning to get into designated safety bunkers.

But you can't move, not fast enough, you're darting through the halls and you're not going anywhere, you must be going insane.

When you see the doorway out, you wonder if you're in heaven. The chorus of angels is welcoming you, telling you that you're going to make it.

You will.

The door is locked, and it wastes thirty precious seconds to open, slamming the butt of your gun against it as you fight the steel for your life.

When it opens, you can see the helicopter, you can see Nikolai behind the control panel, you can see Price and Simon and you see your lieutenant look at you.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it's all wrong.

Your ears are ringing, and you're on the floor, surrounded by fire and you only know that because you can smell the telltale odor of burning flesh and fabric.

A voice calls to you, but two sets of feet are in front of you, imposing and dark, thick-booted.

"Easy, Firecracker, we're going to get you out."

You can't look up, but when he tries to lift you, your leg feels like it's being pulled right off, like gnarly, twisted claws are digging between muscle and peeling them away from each other, burning and too much. The hot shiver of agony is making your entire calf throb, and you could swear the noise that comes out of you isn't real.

Tears, hot fat and heavy, are rolling down your cheeks like watery marbles, and your vision starts to blacken as a sick gush of blood leaves your damaged limb, making you feel like you might be dying.

You hear a few words exchanged, and there are no hands on your shoulders anymore.

The fall is short. You're out before you hit the ground.

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(Post-fic note:) Yippee! This chapter was unexpectedly hard to write, but I'm glad it's out. As always, enjoy sillies! New chapter might also take a while because of research, I wanna make it as good as possible :D (just found out I could copy-paste tags, holy shit that's crazy)

Watcher 1-1

Part Four

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

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

"This is Firecracker, completing final equipment check."

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

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

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

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

Like he's smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

It makes you frown.

"Gaz?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Absolutely not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuuuuucckkkkk..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Johnny, you're-"

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

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

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

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

"Do I really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shit. Johnny was right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Johnny and Kyle know this, too.

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Watcher 1-1

Part 3!!

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).

Also, bonus note for the special day!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!! I hope none of you are reading this on release because MAN you should be having a good time right now <3

You've never been trained so hard in your whole life.

Granted, yeah, Laswell warned you it would be brutal, but this is more than brutal, this is murder.

Four miles of running, then a full round of strength training, and there was still more to do.

Maybe the only good thing about this is that, as much as you're suffering, so is everyone else.

Soap tugged you up the final wall on the obstacle course, Kyle passed you his water bottle when yours ran empty (You would have proposed right then and there, if you'd only had a ring). Ghost did this weird blinking thing once, you're not sure what it was about, but it felt reassuring to you. Price just watched.

Now, you've worked with men before (shocker), but there is one trick of their you've never been able to shake.

The playful teasing they did to rile you up, talked down like they were just a little bit better. It always worked.

Johnny figured it out remarkably fast, early in your sparring match. Kyle was sparring Ghost. Price watched over your form like you would spontaneously combust.

"Issat really all ye've got, firecracker?"

You know he's trying to tease you, you know. Still, it lights a fire under your ass like no other, makes you duck under his swing and meet it with a jab to the gut.

Johnny's a big man. That's no issue, really, but the way he stands is, rooted to the floor like a tree, too stable to just swing for the legs.

But, fortune does favor the bold.

"C'mon, rooks, let me see all that skill Laswell talked about-"

Maybe that's why, as you circle around him one more time, instead of playing it safe, chipping at his stamina until he's too tired to really fight you off, you load all your strength into your legs and launch your body into Johnny's.

It sends the pair of you crashing to the mats, and before the Scot can think any better, you're on top of him and snarling down at his stupid, mohawked face as you gather his wrists into your hands, knowing damn well the leather of your gloves is digging into tanned, sweaty skin.

"Maybe you'd still be up if you knew how to shut that big mouth of yours, MacTavish."

You don't know who's speaking, but, in that moment, you're not fully sure it's you.

It's met with a hard buck of Johnny's hips, his feet flat on the mat as he tried to dislodge you. Cheap trick, not enough to catch you off your guard.

Maybe you're some sort of inept, but you don't see the way the tips of his ears are turning a reddish color, or hear the way his breath catches in his throat like the inside of his esophagus is suddenly closing in on itself when you slam your hips back down over his, keeping him pinned to the mat in an act of sheer defiance.

"Stay down."

There is nothing more fun than being the one who calls the shots after a good spar, It's endlessly satisfying to lock your free hand around his throat, only barely squeeze down on either side.

Yeah, yeah, you've not actually strangling your co-worker, but to Johnny it must feel that way.

His breaths are ragged beneath your hand, tired to the point that he can't steady the ins and outs anymore. It makes your feral grin soften a little, to something more sympathetic.

He's also tired, you remember. He's also pretty new to this team, he's your peer now. With that thought, you don't press him for a clear submission or formal surrender, you spare his pride and stand, with his body between your legs, and offer your hand.

Johnny swallows, but he grins widely, and takes it into his own.

He's not wearing gloves, that's the single cursory note your brain makes before you realize that he's only inches away from you, smiling and looking at you with warmed, bright blue eyes, panting a little faster than before.

"Tha's... feck, yer better than I thought you'd be, Firecracker."

Johnny says it differently this time, like it's your title now, but that thought is cut by him quickly stepping away, saying a couple words to Ghost, and getting a curt nod in turn before he scurries off to where you think the bathrooms are.

Before you really have the time to question that, Kyle is at your side, offering a playful smile.

"He's right, you know. Bold, but not bad." A stupidly pretty London accent rings into your ears, makes you tense for a second before realizing who's behind you.

Maybe this is the first time you've looked at Kyle this close, but you think you know why he doesn't talk as much as Johnny.

It would be unfair to the competition.

That thought makes you shake your head, try to clear the rancid thought from your skull. Co-workers. You're gonna watch this guy kill people, don't get hot and bothered about it.

"You think so?"

"Mhm. Always good to see someone get a little gnarly. Though Soap appreciates it much more than I do, I'm sure."

It's that moment that you recognize Kyle is teasing you, when he playfully pats your shoulder with a warm hand, shuffles just a tad closer to your side and watches as a smile breaks across your face.

That's the moment when Price nods, but you don't see it. Kyle doesn't either.

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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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Watcher 1-1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John MacTavish.

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

"I found a team."

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

"What?"

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

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

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

"Kid. Kid."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think you can hack it, hun?"

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

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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do you perhaps….. have any laswell thoughts? i enjoy her a lot, i think she’s awesome. hearing “you smoke laswell?” “i do, my wife hates it” made me go like INSANE i was so giddy about it

anyway, how are you buddy?? i hope good, remember to have a little snack and some water today if you can :3 bye!

oh my god. how did i not see this request. LASWELL!! MY ANGEL!!! — ofc this is kate laswell x fem!reader <3

Being Kate’s wife includes;;

Her ranting about what she’s legally allowed to tell you—stories from work.

You are also friends with Price. He asks Kate often, “How is the missus?” since he doesn’t have time to personally ask you how you are.

You always make sure she can take her mind off of work when she comes home.

Kate has you take self defense classes! She’s not particularly worried about you getting hurt, but she likes to make sure.

When she’s home, you often do chores together. Always a joint task!

When it’s late in the evening and you both have had a bit to drink, you’re slowly dancing with each other in the kitchen. This always ends up in her kissing your left hand, specifically right over the ring.

You love making her laugh because you adore her smile lines!!

Laswell definitely is some type of gay. Can't be anything other than that. Lesbian, bisexual, pansexual- she likes women. And sure, physical attractiveness is part of it, something about being with men and being about to not have to deal with yard work or killing the random spider that crept into the kitchen while she was cooking is great,

But women.

Something in her just clicks. It feels as if a puzzle piece she didn't know was missing was finally put into place. Being able to be both soft around them and have her domineering side makes her feel like she can finally breathe.

Coming back home to a girlfriend waiting oh so patiently for her with their cats in tow as she opens the front door, greeted by the smell of her girl's perfume, the candle burning on the coffee table, food cooking away on the stove and something inside her heals just a bit.

Being able to do her lover's hair since she always seems to make the perfect buns and can style bangs easily, cooking in the kitchen and laughing when she accidently gets covered in flour, stealing kisses in between bites of freshly made cookies, having wine nights while they binge watch some early 2000's TV series, their feet on her lap as she makes an occasional comment about the show. Smiling softly at her when she thinks they don't notice (they do) and imaging their future together.

Crawling into bed finally, tugging the covers over her soon-to-be wife's shoulders as she softly smiles at her, admiring the person that she's fallen hopelessly and honestly in love with. Knowing that the ring tucked into her work bag will finally see the sun the next day when she asks her to be her person, forever.

Mittens

@soapsdish