Curate, connect, and discover
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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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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