Curate, connect, and discover
Synopsis: Sometimes, things don't work out. Sometimes, you're going to be the idiot on the wrong end of a deal. It hurts the most when you're training the next idiot in line.
Warnings!: Angst, angst, and more angst. Reader will be MAD sad for most of this. Poorly-practiced, unhealthy polyamory. Reader will experience a LOT of gender and body dysphoria over the course of this (though I will do my best to keep it gender-neutral throughout, bear with me), but there WILL be comfort over that.
Part One
Part Two
Part 2.5
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Warnings!: Angst, angst, and more angst. Reader will be MAD sad for most of this. Poorly-practiced, unhealthy polyamory. Reader will experience a LOT of gender and body dysphoria over the course of this (though I will do my best to keep it gender-neutral throughout, bear with me), but there WILL be comfort over that.
Shout out! This fic was inspired in part by the lovely @cielosafeplace's post. I will be taking liberties, but the bones are all from there. Thanks again for letting me use this, friend <3
Since you were young, you've been very aware that you aren't like very many other people. That's fine, really. Being weird is no sin, or at least, not one you care about. If you happened to have crushes who happened to overlap, that was no one's business but your own.
That being said, the yearning, gooey parts of you were something that you never did entertain, for your own sake.
Still, when there were four men who all seemed not just willing, but enthusiastic to fill in those needs, of course you let them.
Of course, why wouldn't you? When Kyle kissed you so nicely, when he took you apart to heal you back together? When Johnny showed you passions that you'd been missing out on? When Ghost had you at his side, with the lights off and the blankets warm? Why wouldn't you let them have you?
They were your team anyway, those four made damn well sure you were alright.
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Actually, that might be too nice a judgement.
You know your team has been... very upset with you, lately.
Most of that is your fault. It was a bad call, and Ghost nearly got shot coming to help you. Really, you do understand that anger, but it's gotten lonely.
Price has stopped talking to you outside of orders, just like Ghost. Johnny gave you a verbal lashing you might never forget, and Kyle scowled at you in a way that made you head inside your room for the rest of the day just to avoid him.
It's been a couple days, and you're still on a very short list with all of them.
But something's off.
It doesn't hurt too badly yet, you must admit, but something feels like it's wrong.
A bit of pain, near the center of your belly, right below the navel. Sure, you're grown, you've had your bellyaches. It's not too bad, but it's a sort of new that you don't trust. Not even a little bit.
So, you go to your captain. Of course you do. He's got the most power, why shouldn't you?
Smooth, dark wood knocks clear and sharp under your knuckles, and a gruff "Come in." is all the command you need.
"Hey, Price. I was going to ask-"
"Is there a reason you saw fit to come in during the busiest week of the year not on fire?"
The interruption makes you still as the pain fades just a bit, seemingly also slinking away as the nervousness takes root.
Sure, you might have made a wrong call last mission, but were they this upset with you?
"Uh- I wanted to ask you something-"
You shouldn't be nervous. Price is your captain. He's just a little grumpy, nothing more. He'll answer, or he'll know who to ask. You're one of his, he shouldn't hate you.
"Find someone else, then. Your incompetence isn't my problem."
You know better than to disobey that tone, even as the prickle of pain returns to you, so you shut the door.
It feels a little worse now, and an uncomfortable tightness rises as you step back, but it's easy enough to push away with a deep breath or two.
Alright. Ghost might know. He's not under the pressure Price is, making up for your mistake.
So, you seek out your lieutenant.
He's in the gym. Training rookies, but it seems you've gotten lucky, because he's just told the newbies to spar each other, and is currently watching over them.
The sharp spike of hot pain makes you gasp a little bit, but your voice calling to him is what makes the man turn.
"Ghost."
"Yes, Crash?"
Your callsign makes you smile, just a little bit, but his tone doesn't. He sounds... really stern, more upset than he usually is when he's on training duty.
"I think something might be off, my stomach's hurting and-"
The relief of finally getting to tell someone about this odd pain is cut as you're, once more, interrupted before you can finish.
"Take a painkiller."
Okay, now this is getting annoying to you.
"I already have, you're not-"
"Not your bloody nursemaid, that's what I'm not."
His voice rises in a way that makes you swallow once more. The way you brace a foot behind you makes the ache come back, flaring in your gut, a bit lower this time. It's so loud a few of the recruits turn to look, one or two snickering, making shame and anger roil in your hurting stomach.
Your silence seems to allow for more speech from the man, because the scowl you just know is under his mask hardens, and his voice gets even louder, purposely projecting so the full gaggle of rookies can hear him.
"It's not my responsibility to take care of a faulty informations "Specialist". If you're not going to be useful, leave."
He says your job title like it's a fucking joke, goes to the efforts of doing air-quotes around it. The rookies laugh like it is one.
The shame and anger meld into an ugly thing, burning behind your eyes and making the stabbing pain just that much worse. You understand. They're angry, you did something stupid. That's fine. The fact that Ghost deemed it necessary to shoot you down like that in from of the fucking rookies is shitty.
But that's still your lieutenant. And you're still bound by his word. So you do leave, return to the small space you call your office and see if this is something that you can ride out.
Maybe you were being some sort of dramatic, maybe nothing was ever hurting, even if you feel it getting worse by the hour.
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That might have been the worst mistake you've made in your life, because here you are, bent over the toilet, emptying your guts again.
You're losing track of how many times you've watched the swirling bowl swallow your vomit just to be refilled, but you feel abysmal, bad enough to check your phone for the fifth time this hour as the thing sits on just one percent of its usual battery.
An unread text sits on the screen, sent to a group chat cheekily titled "the sergeants" by one John MacTavish.
Something's wrong, please come help me
Delivered, but not responded to. Neither are picking up their phones.
Fuck. This isn't good.
The nausea has started to pass, but the pain hasn't. It feels like a hot spear is jabbing into your abdomen, lighting up the entire right side with a burning pain that's only starting to intensify further.
It hurts so fucking bad, every breath is a harder task than the last. You can't bear to rise from your haunches. The movement would be too much, it would make the pain spike to a level you know you can't handle. Pressing your hands to the pain that's stabbing into you is useless, but you do it anyway.
The realization that something is very wrong sinks in, and you can't help the fact that you start to cry. When you turn to try and send another text, a more urgent plea, your phone shuts off with a dead, black screen.
You think you might be dying. It's only getting worse, and the door's locked. No one's coming to help you. You're alone, and your dead brick of a phone won't fix that.
Crying is doing nothing to help you. In fact, it makes the pain worse, but there's no logic left for you.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The thing that pulls you from this is a quiet rapping on the bathroom door.
"Hey, um, are you good? You're kind of- crying."
It's not a voice you don't know. Awkward and fumbling, like they haven't used it in a while, and a little raspy. You choke a word of thanks as the pain spikes again, and sob once more.
"It fucking hurts. Please get a medic."
Your own voice is wet, it feels foreign to you. But thank the stars, the message gets across really well to whoever's on the other side.
A thick-soled boot makes quick work of the lock with the force of a good kick, and there's the rustling of clothes next to you. You don't move to look.
Almost delicate hands (when compared to your own team, of course) cup your own, putting just a bit too much pressure on the lower right side of your pained body and making your breaths trip again.
"Shit, I'm so sorry, just- I'm going to pick you up, okay? I- you look really bad."
His voice is gentle, the softest you've heard in the service. It's a relief to you, and you nod shakily as he hauls you up into comfortable arms, walking you over to the base's medical room as fast as possible without jostling you.
You'll admit that the next hour or so is... blurry, to you.
You remember the medic looking not-that-concerned when you came in, pressing their hand to your belly, the lower right side. When you whined in pain, they started looking worried.
Soon after, you were introduced to the emergency surgeon. She wasn't really clear, and kind of strict, but getting your stomach pumped was not a fun experience.
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Waking up from anesthesia is an ugly, uncomfortable thing, but you know the feeling while it hits you.
Your eyes are bleary, too-dry and unfocused, and your head is fuzzy with more than the anesthetic itself. Pain meds. Feels like... awful.
There's a little gasp when your eyes open, and you glance to the side to see maybe the last person you thought you would.
Not Price, or Ghost, or Soap or Gaz. No, it's the soft-handed, quiet voiced man, sitting in the chair and staring at you.
You're not sure what you expected, but you're not greeted verbally. It's an excited wave, followed by a lot of British Sign Language.
"I'm... I'm sorry, luv. I only learned how to finger-spell back in basics."
He doesn't look too dejected, which is honestly a relief. He switches over seamlessly, taking the individual letters slowly, for your sake.
It's okay. He spells the words slowly, forming the letters cleanly and precisely with practiced fingers that tell you he's been doing this for some time. You had appendicitis. The nurse said you were really lucky to get here when you did, and that they called your captain to tell him you'll be out for a day or so.
"Oh."
The cocktail of painkillers mutes your reaction, lowers it from sheer rage to a simple, tired acceptance. In that moment, you don't question why you're alone, sans this stranger. You just soak it in, really.
"What's your name, then?"
Gary.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
He looks confused, but spells it again for you, slower this time.
"No, I know your name is Gary, I'm just sorry."
You realize what you say the second it leaves your mouth, and shut your eyes to cope with the mortification. Instead, you hear a giggle, followed by a laugh.
It's a squeaky thing, Gary's laughter. He only seems to make noise when he draws in the breath, and it makes a high-pitched, slightly raspy sound, like he's taken damage to the voice box or throat before. You would liken it to a dying goose, if you were meaner.
I like you. We should talk more.
He's smiling. He's looking at you and he is smiling. It makes you feel useful again, like there is still something to be salvaged of the errors you cause.
You do, in fact, talk more with him.
A lot more.
Next chapter
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.
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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.
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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."
First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter
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
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.
First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter
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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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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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.
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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)
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.
First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter
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.
First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter
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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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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Synopsis: Nikolai has been trying to find the right person to repair his beloved helicopter for a while too long, now. And then, he meets you.
Status: Completed!
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
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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.
Synopsis: Sometimes, things don't work out. Sometimes, you're going to be the idiot on the wrong end of a deal. It hurts the most when you're training the next idiot in line.
Synopsis: You've been on the team for a while now. It's been a task to get used to, but you've been getting on just fine with the boys. Or maybe, juuust maybe... better than fine.
WARNINGS: Reader dies! YES, there will be written gore and YES, the boys will be very sad. (vomiting, bleeding, guts, choking, drowning, all of it) Hurt/no comfort.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Sorry, Garrick. No living prisoners." The soldier's voice in his ear breaks every last thing Kyle knows and holds dear. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – – – – –
Work for the SAS is an odd sort of thing. Kyle likes to think of it like standing in the ocean, dipping your feet in the waves and letting its state consume you. Some days, it's just simple and easy. Filling out a few papers and letting everything pass over you. Some days are rough, and some are brutal. Just like the ocean, though, this line of work is more than deadly. It's a constant risk that every single soldier has signed themself off to that at their own discretion, they all know that the date of their death could well be tomorrow. But there's an element of pride that comes with that. It's humbling, sure, but the pride is there, because you've operated in situations the average person couldn't even hope to manage, pulled off odds that inspire both a nauseating fear and a spark of courage that only grows into a raging inferno the more you do it. Still, Kyle sits with you at his side in the armory, making jokes and sharpening his kit as you polish yours. If he had to pick a favorite person he had met in the service... it would be you. Don't get him wrong, Price is a phenomenal captain, just like Ghost is a clinically effective lieutenant and Soap is a great work buddy and gifted sergeant, but you... god, none of them could even hold a candle to that. His loyalties lie with the team, yes, but everyone knows where the heart of that fierce, caring nature funnels. And why shouldn't it? You were like him. Quiet, but clever, a problem solver in your heart of hearts and Kyle was a sucker for someone who had at least a little bit of emotional intelligence about them. He still remembers the moment that really endeared you to him. He'd been injured, nearly fatally on a mission, but you... stayed with him. After he'd gotten a not-that-gentle sponge bath from a stressed-looking nurse, you had stepped in, done something that not many would dare to do. Washed his hair. Sure, it might sound small, but it wasn't. Your deft hands worked for an hour at least. Sectioning first, saturating the coily hair with water, shampooing it, everything, taking his broken body into your hands like he was a baby bird and fixing what you could, keeping him warm enough to last the night. You'd been wordless, too, apart from gathering his consent to help him clean up fully. You just... did that. For no other reason than you wanted to see a teammate thrive as much as he could. After that, you'd been inseparable. Maybe that's why his eyes are so adoring as he watches you sharpen your (favorite) knife, an old gift from him, but he'll never tell. Your voice is flooding the space, neatly tucking into every last corner and leaving every gun and ammo case with the beautiful, ghosting memory of you like oleander flowers. Deadly, but bright and lovely all the same, burned into the folds of his brain. He never wanted to lose that. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Kyle hadn't been on the mission that took you away from him. He remembered how you described it to him before you left, soft-eyed and quiet as you finally let him out of the pin you'd had him in on the sparring mats, helping him up with a hand despite knowing full well he wouldn't need it. He takes that hand. "It'll be easy, Gaz, I swear. Just an in-and-out. Easy as pie, right?" He didn't worry then. He hadn't had any reason to. He remembers it so well, feeling his cheeks round with a smile as he bumps his forehead against yours, how you grin and playfully pat his ass in response. "Right. Don't fall out of any transport." His voice was soft, then. Cheeky as he teases you just to hear you joke back with him. "I think that's your job, sergeant."
There it is. Kyle feels his heart squeeze around nothing, pumping his blood just a little faster. He's so glad you can't see the blush on his cheeks, because he just knows he'd be so nervous he'd pass out right then and there. "Yeah yeah, go fuck yourself."
Your smile is crooked, but it's every last thing he needs. It's the food in his belly and the blood in his veins and he loves it so fucking much. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – – – – –
"Sorry, Garrick. No living prisoners." The soldier's voice in his ear breaks every last thing Kyle knows and holds dear, hands him a small bag containing the items they thought were yours. It's been weeks already, he knows the odds are slim, everyone knows the odds are slim, but he held out for that miracle. A miracle that never came. It feels... empty, now. That night, when transport came back without you, Kyle had been fucking outraged. He had stormed to Price's office and chewed out his own captain because how in the hell could this have happened? Why were you left behind? No one had any answers, but the sympathy offered almost felt worse. Soap's quiet solemnity around him felt like some sort of insult, though Kyle knew it wasn't. Ghost's... weird hanging around and staring was a sweet gesture, but deeply saddening. But it's now, after all of that, that his worst fears come to life. Every feeling seems to flare and broil and Kyle excuses himself to his quarters before he falls apart. Most of the job is mental. You can be the most physically strong person on the field and you can still lose because you couldn't hold it together well enough. Kyle knows that. But part of that mental aptitude comes with knowing the grief he feels is necessary. He doesn't want to let you go. He clutches your dog tags in one hand, and your favorite knife in the other as he sobs with a force he hasn't had since being a little schoolboy, crying to his mother after scraping his knee. This is no scraped knee, though. This is an injury that will likely never scar, it's ugly and it will always hurt and Kyle knows that, but he would take this over letting you go any day. Because, when all is said and all is done, Kyle knows himself, and he knows that there is no one who would ever hope to compare to who you had been for him. When his mind clears, he holds the knife in shaky hands, and kisses the flat of the blade before polishing it the rest of the way. It still sits there now, on his dresser. Take a look for yourself, wouldn't you? Just don't touch. He treasures the thing.
WARNINGS: Reader dies! YES, there will be written gore and YES, the boys will be very sad. (vomiting, bleeding, guts, choking, drowning, all of it) Hurt/no comfort.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Everything hurts. That's the first thing Johnny notices when he manages to open his eyes, flat on his back on a cobbled road, smeared with blood that isn't just his.
When his mind comes back to him, Johnny feels his stomach both drop and slingshot into the stratosphere.
Fuck. The building, the objective, this was bad.
He scrambles to his feet so fast that his head pounds that he nearly misses an incoming transmission on his radio. It's Ghost, roaring into hie ear as he runs somewhere.
"What the hell was that, MacTavish?! The rookie's in there!"
Everything in the world quiets for a dragging moment as those words finally make it to his (probably bruised) brain. The rookie. How could he have forgotten the rookie was in there? Oh god. The rookie was in there. He hadn't known that when he blew that shit sky-high to finally clear it out.
Still, when he looks to the steaming rubble, so hot that some of the glass is melting, he knows it's a hopeless endeavor.
He knows it's hopeless, but that doesn't stop him from screaming your name, callsign, anything, trying to get a response.
Even as Ghost yells his ears out over comms. Even as Price joins in. Even as Gaz reports that he's at exfil, injured but okay, shaky-voiced like he's barely holding it together.
His knees sizzle and burn when he's on all fours, hopelessly scraping at the concrete and steel, overturning everything he can in some prayer to a god deaf to this moment to find you.
You, who'd stumbled ass-backward into this team and managed to root yourself down like a dandelion, so tenacious that even the usual harsh treatment had been anything more than an obstacle, another checkpoint in the game-ified quest system that you used to organize your life.
You, who'd been the first person to grab Johnny by the collar and scream so loud his ear had popped when he had knowingly slighted you to look better at the end of your first op.
You, who made him work for your time, who hadn't been scared to tell him straight to his face that you hated his guts.
You, who warmed up slowly.
You, who had become Johnny's very closest confidant, because you weren't afraid to call him on his shit, but always tried to understand.
You.
And now, like always, Johnny has done something too fucking rash. Made the wrong call, blew the bomb too soon to keep himself safe and now you're under the rubble of his mistakes, being crushed under the weight.
But he'll fix it. It doesn't matter that his skin is peeling back and singing off in his hands, or that one of his nails was pulled all the way out from a burr in the steel getting caught on it. It doesn't matter that Johnny knows he smells too much burnt flesh for it to just be his own. It doesn't matter that he can't see your form yet, because he knows that if he digs long enough, you have to be in here. And you'll be hurt.
But you'll be okay.
You'll be on his ass about this for years, and you'll chew him out when he patches you up, but you'll be okay.
He's not sure how long that frenzied state lasts. Not really, but he knows there's a hand on his shoulder when he tears a window from it's frame, cutting his hands.
It's Simon, standing over him. Johnny doesn't look back, but he knows, because it's too quiet.
"...Johnny. Exfil."
His voice is mercifully soft. Gruff, but soft, because Simon knows this stings Johnny far more than it does him. You'd been... good. He didn't let you close, but he knew he wouldn't have regretted it if he had.
You would have been a good soldier. Much better than him or Johnny. Fuck, maybe even better than Price if you really buckled down like you wanted to. You had been smart, just stubborn enough.
Kyle was already a mess in the helicopter, halfway to snapping as Nikolai talks him back down. Johnny was far more stubborn.
"No. M' gonna find 'em, Simon, m' gonnae fuckin' find 'em because they've gotta be in here somewhere an' I cannae just leave them behind-"
It's now that Johnny realizes he's been crying. The drops are fat and heavy, rolling down dirtied cheeks and cutting clean pathways, drawing lines of his own tanned skin.
He hears Ghost sigh, and a loud crack as the butt of a pistol is slammed into his head, and his thoughts are cut off.
Synopsis: A mission's end is always an odd thing to live through, but you've found ways to manage, WARNINGS!: depiction of injury, pain, description of gun sounds and bullets. Canon-typical violence (mission) Little notes: Hurt my thumb (big typing finger for me) so if there are any errors with spelling, please don't mind This blog is still very much new to me, so if you have any little silly comments or requests for bonus stuff, send an ask! It'll make my day :) enjoy! (but only if you wanna)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- There was dust in the air, swirling like a typhoon that simply ached to consume you and all you held dear. It doesn't throw anyone off, though, you've all been trained better than that. Price's voice is in your ear again, biting out the order to "get out of there, you dolt, bomb's off in thirty seconds." It's nothing you've never heard before, you know you've cut it closer and got out fine, so you wait until you have to reload to push the button on your radio and bite back a response. "Give me ten, Cap, and I'll be clear. Stragglers." You can hear him growl under his breath, but quiet. Some part of you would smirk in satisfaction, tease the old man over knowing damn well you could pull your weight, but there isn't time for that now. You're on the clock, and it ticks much too fast The familiar, satisfying click soothes any remaining thought as you slam the gun's magazine into your thigh to push it in the rest of the way, peek out from behind your cover to unleash another spray of shots into the idiot who was trying to creep up on you. Fifteen seconds
If your ear serves you right, only one left. if you take him out in five, that leaves you ten to get out. Risky, but the odds aren't zero. Your radio buzzes back to life, but now it's the other John yapping at you, something something "Get out of there." and then your name. Johnny doesn't use your callsign, but your name. It pulls you back from the edge of bloodlust just long enough for your mental count to hit ten. "Right. Clearing out." That's all you bother with before setting on your mad dash for the exit of the decrepit concrete rectangle that is this building. West's compromised, too piled with bodies to be a safe bet for running, and East is blocked. So you run North, through unfamiliar, winding hallways, for your life. Six seconds
The thumps of your boots aren't alone. You were right, though, there's only one more soul in this nasty shit-hole. Five seconds You hear a magazine getting knocked into place, cuss to yourself and push even harder, try your damnedest to get out of this unscathed. It isn't looking good now. Four seconds A bullet tears through the wall right next to your head when you turn the corner with a resounding crack. Fuck. The thrum of adrenaline is the only thing that supports you as you continue the mad dash for the door, see it at the end of a long, straight hallway. Three seconds This is getting worse by the second, and you know it. This fucker has good aim, there's no space to zigzag or dash in a random direction like a flighty, scared animal. Two seconds Time to run the gauntlet. Glass crunches beneath the soles of worn boots, you fly through the hallway as fast as your legs will allow, silently screaming a prayer to a god you know never listens. One second
Right as you cross the doorway, there's another crack of a bullet, but it's drowned out by the bomb finally going off. The shockwave is so intense that it launches you into the air (it feels much higher than it is), and, all at once, you turn to get a look of who almost managed to put you in a box. They're all dolled up in tac gear, but you know the look in their eyes the second you spot it. It's the same determination that drives you forward, raw and feral and it's tinged by the rush of adrenaline you live for. Young, too, they couldn't be older than you were when you first joined the task force. Then, when the ceiling above them cracks and stars to come down, it's fear. Your memories of the minutes after are loose at best, but you try to piece them together. You know that, at some point, you rose to your feet, made the jog back to the evac point with that rookie's blood sprayed on the vest that caught their last bullet. It would have hit you right between the ribs. You know that Kyle wordlessly sets a cigarette between your parted lips, pulls you in by the neck to light it with his own, hazel eyes focused as he calms himself back down. You know that he's there, next to you, like always, it warms you, if only slightly. Kyle doesn't press, doesn't try to talk, but he makes a point to show you that he's there. You know that Johnny breathes out a plume of that weird vape shit he's been swearing by (it smells like a public restroom if it was mint flavored), makes a bad joke about "butt fucking" because that's what they call bumming a light in Scotland. You think his friends just picked it up from shitty American movies and lied to him. You know that, when you finally take a drag, the nicotine shocks your systems back into full function. You know that when you open your eyes again, the world is clear. You see Price trot forward and let out a breath of both annoyance and pride. He used to tear you a new one every time you pulled a stunt like this, but now he knows better, knows you operate at your best in the split second between like and death. So now, you feel his hand pat the shoulder of your vest, resigned but proud. You feel your cheeks round with a small smile when you finally pull the cig back from between you lips, finally yourself again. "Not bad, ain't it? All targets neutralized." Your voice is just a little raspier than normal, tinged with the fading of your adrenaline high. From the corner of your eye, you see Ghost, leaning on the helicopter's side. He nods. "Aye, that was feckin' pretty, ye stupid lil cunt!" Your snort seems to make Johnny beam even wider than before, you feel the warmth of his side as he pulls you into a firm, one-armed hug. Out of sheer habit, you retch jokingly, and shove him back. "Gross! You're fucking sweaty, Soap, don't muck up my good shirt!" Your 'good shirt' is torn at the bottom hem, has a fine spray of blood on it, and is half-covered in concrete dust from the former building that is now a pile of smoking rubble a few hundred meters away. It'll all come off in the wash, just like today's sins will spiral into the drain of a weird-smelling communal shower room. And you know, come tomorrow, you'll be training with your boys once more, trading quips and barbs and soaking in camaraderie. For now, that's more than enough.
Word count= roughly 1,750
Warnings: No! Just fluff with the lads :) Enjoy (but inly if you wanna)!!!
Kyle, who really never thought that knitting would be this hard, considering how much you raved about it keeping you both calm and properly stimulated. Now, he sits by your side on the living room floor, shakily holding two bamboo needles in his hands and trying to hold the "working yarn" (the yarn attached to the ball, apparently) the right way as you tenderly lecture him for being a dunce. "No, baby, you need to get through the stitch first before you yarn over-" Your voice is so pretty like that, trying to steer him from making another weird-looking hole for no real reason, but Kyle just whines again as you take the swatch into your own hands, finish off the whole row like some magic creature of the yarn and thread.
"You said that this was supposed to be easy, luvie." He whines into the crook of your neck, having loosely wound himself around your side as you showed him exactly what to do for the fourth time this hour. Some part of him loves the unfailing tenderness, the softness of your voice and the way you poorly hide the fact that you're laughing at him under your breath. "Sorry, i just thought-" There's a snort from your lips as giggles envelop you, your smile turns wide. Kyle's heart melts a little in his chest "I just thought you'd be better at this-"
Kyle gasps in mock offense, before pushing the needles to the floor, already planning his revenge for that little slight. "Say that one more time, and I'll give yer little magic sticks to my nieces and tell 'em they're swords." He revels in the shocked gasp you give, and grins as you bat him upside the head. "Hah, funny man. Try." Your voice is quieter, a little bit more dangerous, just daring him to do that very thing. Kyle saves his own ass by pecking your cheek, gently taking your hands into his own. "I wouldn't, babes, you know I wouldn't." There's not a modicum of lie in that statement. Kyle knows that the sweetest ones are the most terrifying, and his mum would never let him hear the end of it if he lost you. "Yeah, I do know you wouldn't, jus' wanted to mess with you." It's Kyle's turn to gasp now, but he smiles when you kiss his cheek in return, leans into you like a lapdog despite himself. Tonight's going to be good, and he knows it.
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Johnny, who remarkably managed very, very well with embroidery. You had been so happy to see him, posted on the couch next to you, working away at the hoop, having only very few questions on how he should hold the thing, if the tension you kept talking about was a little bit off. For an hour, maybe two, it was lovely. Simple silence as you leaned up on his shoulder, working a larger project as the Scot figured out exactly what he was doing on his own. Deft hands, you watched him pick apart the small knots in the thread without issue. It flooded your heart with pride. "Are you finally going to let me see the thing, Johnny?" You questioned playfully, trying to straighten your spine to get a peek before there's a big hand shoved over your eyes, and a thick accent chiding you for your gall. "No!" He squawks, you just know that he relishes in not letting you see, riling you up through your own curiosity, because Johnny is, at his core, a cheeky little shit. "Ye gotta wait, mo leannan, ye cannae jus' peek like that!" It draws a grumble from your lips, but you close your eyes, gently take hold of his wrist in your hand and nod, giving a softer affirmation before he coos at you. "Don' worry, it's almost done anyway." He soothes you with a soft peck to your temple, and just like that, you're calm again, all heart-eyed and dumb with love, relaxed. It's another thirty minutes before the finished product is tenderly set into your lap, and you gasp in surprise before seeing it. It's... stupid. An old sketch of his that really had amused him all too much, one of you from a picture at a night out (you had tripped on a root and he managed to get a picture of your face mid-fall) that he had always seemed too damn enamored with. "Oh my god." You press your hand to your face in shame, already feeling ridiculous before Johnny laughs brightly, pressed a firm, wet kiss to your cheek. "You look lovely! Don't ye? I think you look lovely." It's a sweet sentiment, enough to endear you to the terrible, terrible thing that your fiancé has chosen to immortalize and drive a too-fond sigh from your lips. "You're lucky that I love you." You grumble, giving Johnny a half-hearted glare before he swoops in to sweetly kiss your lips, because he really does know you too well. "Aye, I really am" He doesn't miss a beat, still grinning like an idiot. It makes your chest soften, your guts go mushy and fluttery. "Don't be coy, MacTavish." You reprimand. He grins, and kisses you again for good measure.
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Simon, who really didn't think this would be necessary, but here he is, sitting next to you cross-legged on the floor with the hook in hand. "Like this, right?" He speaks gruffly, and loosens his posture for you to peek over his shoulder. He feels the ghost (pun intended) of a smile pulling up at his lips when he hears your affirmative hum. "Yeah. You're doing real good, honey," Your voice wafts into his ear so nicely, floods his mind so deliciously, the only person that Simon knew he would always listen to, his angel right here on Earth. "Out of curiosity, have you ever done this before?" When you finish your question, Simon does let that smile grow on his face, lets the warmth flood into the cavity of his chest, seep into the crevices of his soul, heal the damage bit by bit. Simon leans his head on yours, and takes in a breath. The truth was, he had. One night, after a particular date when you had entirely infodumped a current project to him, he had done a little research. Then, promptly after, learned to crochet, even if it was only the basics. It paid off now, with you on his arm and impressed with his skill. "Nah. Maybe I'm just good at this, hm?" He denies that, shuffles his cheek closer into yours, soaking up the warmth that you radiate, relishes in the soft chuckle that you give. "Mmh, maybe you're gonna be even better than me, is that your plan?" Your teasing is soft, given out of affection. It makes Simon smile, makes him relieved that he's once again managed to make sure that a date went well. "No. Just pick things up fast." The mood really is dead in the water, but Simon really loves that you seem to thrive in that, that you still peck his cheek anyway despite him practically having negative game. "Smartass." You chirp at him, setting down your own piece on the floor before wholesale resting your head on Simon's shoulder. He fights a chuckle. "Better than being a dumbass, isn't it?" The joke wasn't his (he stole it from Johnny), but when you laughed, Simon knew it was well worth it anyway.
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John, who was more than content to help you work on another big project of yours. He was endlessly proud of you, how wonderfully you worked on those commissions and how perfect they always looked when you finally shipped them off. But disaster always strikes at one time or another, and the cat is often the cause of that. After maybe an hour of soothing his panicking partner, John had you wrapped up in a blanket in the corner of your own office, gently taking the needle into his own hands to sew the small tear in the fabric back together as you sniffled a little bit. Were you more than skilled enough to fix this issue yourself? Yes. But John felt particularly loving lately, wanted to make sure that his lovely, hyper-competent partner knew that they could rely on him. Because they always could. When he speaks, its gently, glancing up from the fabric in his hands to look into your eyes, still a little bit bloodshot from the tears. "Don't worry yourself, sweetheart. My mother didn't raise a man who doesn't know how to do repairs." The comfort was genuine, both an assurance of his skill and a statement that you could just lay back, let him take the reins for once and allow you to calm down a little bit. "But-" you sniffle, wipe at your nose with a tissue, and John doesn't allow you to question this. "Nope. None of that self-doubt, yer therapist already said that's bad, didn't she?" You nod, John watches your cheeks flush a bit simply because he remembered, that he cared enough to stow that away in the back corners of his brain. Oh, if only you knew how much he adores you, your little heart would blow up. "I can't just let you do my work for me, John, that's not right." The small rebuttal makes him pause in the middle of a stitch, gently set the needle down. His darling had the morals of a saint, why was he surprised by that? "Who said that I was doing your work? Maybe I'm just your guest of honor, sweetness." John speaks softly, shoots you a cocky grin that finally brings a smile back onto your face. "Yeah, yeah, alright," He smiles as you stand, wraps a strong arm around your midsection as you tuck yourself into his side, calming all of the way back down, turning back into the wonderful, sweet, bordering perfect partner returning to form once more. "That means that you have to sign it, too, you know." You tease in return as John nervously swallows, knowing damn well he is hopeless to ever replicate the pure beauty that is your signature on professional pieces. "Well, I'm not so sure about that-" He uselessly stutters to the joke, feeling his own cheeks heat up more than a little bit at the invitation. "Oh, don't be like that, I could teach you." Now that makes Price melt.