Curate, connect, and discover
Warnings: deep pain and sadness (reader), big, ugly mental issues and also chronic pain caused by past neglect and injury. Pneumonia. Kortac finally getting a feature! Say hi to my garbage takes on König, Horangi, and Swagger. Yes, I wanted to add a whimsical Polish man (and yes, this urge was founded by yooo-lets-go). Characters playfully threaten cutting off each other's penis (flirting).
"Not everyone's made for the SAS. We see a fair share of... disappointments, every year. The people who just can't hack it."
The voice ringing in your ears makes you push harder still, redoubling your efforts to break your limits one more time, to push through and make it, to get this done.
A sharp, hot flash of pain chases its way up your ankle as you re-rack, letting the weight finally leave your tired hands, but it's worth it to hear the quiet, for just a minute.
Of course, it can never be that easy. No, you can take it. You don't want it easy. You can take it.
Maybe that's why you reach directly over the Austrian sitting on the bench next to you, grabbing your own water bottle instead of the one offered to you in a thick-fingered hand, and taking a few short sips. Too short, and you know it.
He knows it too, and König quickly makes it your problem.
"You are not drinking just that, yes? It is not enough."
He sounds almost annoyed. You'd rather he was, because you can hear the choking tentacles of concern staining his words, and it makes you scoff as you set the water bottle back into your gym bag, wordlessly leaving the small olive branch to rot in the soil beneath.
König quietly holds that feeling, counts to ten, and lets his eyes follow the way you favor one leg as you leave.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Time always passes, but only cowards let it escape them.
Papers shroud the neat, smooth dark wood of your desk, clashing doubly with the flat surface and your own skin. Something tries to dig itself up in your mind, but you dutifully shove it back down and pick up your pen, jotting down the post-mortem of another mission in smooth, inky strokes. If you can't train, you will work.
Paper's texture has always let you drift away from the moment you're locked in. The rolling of the pen's ball scratches almost silently, filling what was once (and still is) soulless, bureaucratic nonsense with your work.
There is much to do, and you are nothing if not productive, so you do it. You work weeks ahead, and it's somehow a relief.
Your hip and ankle have been flaring up more and more lately, but the papers let you push that slow creep back for just a little while longer.
And, before you know it, it's been hours, and a Korean is at your door, with knit brows and a quiet voice.
Your name leaves his masked lips first, and it draws your attention to the following string of words you can't quite parse.
"괜찮으세요?"
When you raise a brow, still flat-faced and just itching to get back to your work, Horangi musters the nerve to ask in a way you'll understand.
"Are you okay? You've been working longer than me, and the day's over."
His voice is accented, clipped in spots you don't recognize. Then again, every sounded different here, who were you to judge?
"Sou bem, gato."
You're clipped, irritated, but he knocks on the doorframe twice, a silent call for translation. Blast that stupid Austrian and his little niche bullshit rules.
"I'm fine, Horangi."
He leaves unsatisfied and a bit annoyed. Your pen embosses the paper with the new force behind the nib.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There's this one new rookie that keeps popping up around base and bugging you.
He doesn't seem to be malicious, but he's... fuck, he's actually not that bad. Even if he approaches you halfway through your meal time and stares for a good while before sitting down across from you.
You peep a small Polish flag on his vest, so imagine your surprise when you hear him greet you.
"Bonjour."
What the fuck.
"Oh, you're French."
Some deal of shame actually hits you, and you narrowly follow your words with a polite apology.
"Sorry, It's been a time since I heard the language."
There's a muffled noise (you hope it's a chuckle) beneath the gas mask you see, before it's taken off and set on the table.
His nose is thin, but the corners of his lips are twitching up as he looks at you, one brow raised in playful question.
It brings a shame that you didn't know you had, and you cough into your elbow to clear your throat, waving your other hand as if to silently waft away the social faux pas.
Swagger–no, you're not joking, that's his callsign–doesn't let you forget it.
Not for months, as he slowly pries his way into your routine. You know what he's doing, but you don't stop him.
You let him bring coffee sometimes, but you return the protein bars he keeps trying to get you to eat, because the things are genuinely repulsive.
It seems to put off König, but Horangi seems to be in a much better mood, lord knows why.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This goes well until the misfortune of your biology forces you into an unprompted state of weakness.
It's been a long time. Or, at least, you think it has.
The world around you is warping, twisting like the drawings of a drunkard. Your sparsely-decorated walls are bending beneath their own weight, every noise sounds more and more like the foundation of your mind snapping beneath itself, threatening to crumble.
You only feel how sweat-soaked your sheets are when the door opens, prompting you to raise your iron-weighted head as much as your neck will allow.
There's a noise, a hollow, death-rattling wheeze that accompanies the movement. You don't know where this noise has come from. It seems to stress the figure in the doorway, it speaks to something you can't see.
The words are wiggly and clumsy, like they were shifted in just the wrong way in your ears to somehow make them illegible despite being spoken. Maybe it's just your mind shutting down.
Hands are everywhere. On your face, forehead, thighs. You don't know why, but it feels as though you're being submerged in a cloud, allowed to drift free of the mortal shackles that bind you to a faulty body, even though it must not be the case.
The force holding you up to the sky struggles briefly, and you feel something trying to worm its way up your throat as you're jostled. More hands, this time on your chest, and a soothing croon that you can't decipher.
You're tired. The hands let you sleep.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wakefulness is back before you know it.
The walls are straight again, and the wetness in the sheets beneath you is gone. It makes you groan, tired and confused.
A head pops up, and a stressed string of German greets you.
It makes your brainstem throb with discomfort, and the discomfort must be on your face, because two scarred, big hands reach forward. One takes your shoulder, and the other dares to reach to a small box of tissues, plucking one to gently sponge away the moisture on your face.
You want to be angry, but you let this moment hang in the air of the room, allow König his closeness to you, for just a little bit.
He hesitates before speaking again, watching your face for discomfort.
"...You are very sick. Should have told team."
He masks his frustration just for you, wraps up the feeling and jams it into the back of his mind. There must be a reason you're so unwilling to open your mouth and let your mind talk, he knows it. It will take time.
König can be patient, for you.
Your own eyes take more note of the room around you.
Another body rests near the bed, a head of somehow-messy, pin-straight hair is leaning against the bedpost, sleeping on the floor. Horangi.
"How long have you been here?"
Talking seems to agitate something in your throat, tracing the vibrations caused by your voice down to waterlogged lungs, drawing out a cough.
It doesn't stop at one. More and more liquid phlegm finds its way into your throat as you hack and shudder, trying desperately not to vomit at the sheer volume.
König shifts closer too quickly, gathering you up as distantly as possible–one hand on your upper back, the other on the crown of your head–to keep you steady. He looks wired, but in the stressed way, like a mother hen.
"Spatz." He mutters, following his words with a gentle shushing noise, trying to gently guide you back down from the coughing fit.
Horangi is awake again when König coaxes you into spitting the fluid into a tissue, and he takes it upon himself to wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes.
He worries over your wrist with his thumb, keeping a gentle hold over your hand with his free one, more gentle than the normal playfulness he shows you.
Dark, monolid eyes look you over, and he cringes under his mask, clicking his tongue.
"You look good for a corpse." Kim's voice is sleepy, still, a little bit deeper than normal despite him trying to pass it off as normal.
Before you can react, König smacks the back of his head (a little too hard), cussing once or twice before scolding the Korean beside him.
"Scheiße, do not flirt! They are pneumonic!"
"That's not how you use that word." Kim snarks back, undeniably wearing a shit-eating grin beneath the fabric that shrouds his mouth and nose. This earns him a scoff.
"Shut up."
He doesn't.
"Why do you hit me when the weird Polish one is still outside? Hit him!"
The bickering brings you some comfort, but you have to pause when you hear a reference to someone you think you might know.
You've learned your lesson from speaking, so you whisper a question. Its answer will either confirm or deny your suspicions.
"He speaks French?"
"How do you know that?" König tries to ask, before being interrupted by Horangi.
"He speaks French? He's Polish!"
Or it won't. Sure, that works.
"Gas mask?"
König nods.
"Ele é meu amigo. Let him in."
Neither knock on the nightstand to make you translate, but there's a confused glance they share before König opens the door, and shakes a silhouette sitting on a plastic chair in the hallway.
Swagger almost trips over himself, but wakes up quickly, dumping his ass right next to you on your bed, almost bringing on another cough.
He jams a small styrofoam container into your tired hands with his own, followed narrowly by a spoon.
"Peux-tu manger seul?" The thick accent makes you look up tiredly, and it seems that he's answered his own question, shaking his head as he opens the container.
Soup. It's not warm anymore, just room temperature, and it's composed of a very thin broth, but you only scowl when he tries to get you to drink from a spoon that isn't in your own hand.
"Mon ami, I will cut off your penis. Eat."
You shouldn't laugh at the threat, but you do, and it makes you cough (thankfully, less than before), into your hand.
"Merda, you're stupid."
You return, but just before you can close your mouth, he gently kisses the seam of your lips with the spoon, trying to guide you into eating.
And, despite yourself, despite the fact that both König and Horangi can doubtlessly see you being that vulnerable, you let the liquid into your mouth, swallowing it down slowly.
"Bon. See? Not bad, is it?"
You chuckle once more, but let yourself take another spoonful before your speak, silently thankful for how the salty sustenance soothes your raw throat.
"It's room temperature." You rebut, smiling just a little.
"You're room temperature."
The pair behind him loom, one over each shoulder, and Swagger doesn't realize this until Horangi is hissing threats into his ear.
"항문, don't talk that way."
König doesn't need to make threats, the force of his grip is enough. Swagger squirms in his seat, unable to pick which one to glare at first.
"Hey, I-"
"He's just that way. It's fine."
Three pairs of eyes lock onto you, and you sigh.
There is much explaining to do.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Recovery is mercifully short, but pneumonia has left you with three grown men who trail behind you like dogs.
König looms, straight-backed and menacing, watching as you work, spotting you as you train. He's been acting up less, so it's probably fine.
Horangi likes to push you forward through teasing. Just enough to get you to push more, not too much. He's become a good sparring partner, for you.
Swagger is that one weird dog that follows around the first person that feeds it. He's constantly with you, regardless of what's going on. Does he even have authorization to be in the range? You're not sure. But he chatters your ear off anyway, every time.
You find yourself falling into their silly little rituals more and more regularly.
In the mornings, you make the coffee. Swagger raids the cafeteria, and König glares at anyone who gets too close to the corner as Horangi wakes you back up with the stupidest shit known to man.
You have no idea why he has an account for a website that just repeatedly shows him a rainbow cockroach spinning weirdly (and several other digital curios), but you won't complain. You always thought cave divers were a little dumb, anyway.
Your head rests on Kim's shoulder as you take a bite out of a slice of buttered bread, reaching out to like the video before he can even try.
He chuckles. Swagger un-likes it, just to be a punk, before re-liking it himself.
"Hah. Very funny."
"It is very funny, mon ami, I am glad you think so."
"I'll cut off your penis." you retort.
Kim snorts, König pipes up.
"All of you are freaks."
You watch a grown man with military clearance (Horangi) blow a raspberry at his commander. Swagger chuckles.
"You love us, shirtman." He tries to tease.
"Not you." The Austrian retorts.
"Aww."
"Está tudo bem, cachorro. I like you." You pat his back. He grins, eagerly pressing his cheek into your face, hugging a bit too eagerly.
"Mon moineau, so kind." He flirts in turn, drawing another chuckle from between your lips.
Kim is doing that side-eye bullshit again.
"I don't want to hear it, Hong-jin. You've done worse for less."
He laughs, and wordlessly leans against König's side. The taller man doesn't stop him. In fact, he puts a wide hand on his shoulder in approval.
This is nice. Very nice.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
KorTac often works with other military companies, or, on the odd occasion, some special service teams.
This is a routine sort of change, and you've long since become used to it.
Horangi naps on the plane on purpose. Swagger falls asleep despite always claiming he doesn't. König likes the one-on-one time with you, as you each hold your respective people, but he doesn't get to enjoy it as much as usual.
He worries about you. You're so fucking strong, and endless source of energy for the purpose of violence and rebellion, but you are not without damage.
The British have hurt you, specifically the ones you're about to be working closely with.
He knows you've chosen to do this. He wouldn't dare accept an assignment that didn't have everyone on board with it, but still.
It's you. And he knows you still struggle with telling others of your pains. So he asks one more time.
"You will be okay, spatzi?"
Your voice is gentler when you have Swagger sleeping in your lap.
"I'll be alright."
He nods, but reaches out a hand for you. You take it, and kiss his knuckles before releasing it. He sighs.
"I'll tell you if I'm not." You add, and it seems to bring him some relief, because you hear a short sigh, and he nods.
You follow through on this promise, but you don't end up having to tell König very much.
Seeing your old team standing next to the transport evokes... nothing but pity.
It is a scar now, the skin is healed and dull and numb to further prodding.
And you've got better people to worry about, now.
Much better people.