What I Say To My Partner When We Both Know Damn Well Neither Of Us Are In Possession Of A Penis Of Our

Can you please reblog if your blog is a safe place for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, asexual, aromantic, pansexual, non binary, demisexual or any other kind of queer or questioning people? Because mine is.

When the worst comes to pass (Part Two: Kyle)

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.

What do the internet people yearn for

Have I been gone for a while? Yeah. But we ball, and I wanna get in the groove a little because if I have no time to draw, I shalt write.

Watcher 1-1

Part 2!!!!

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

The transport over the pond has never been a fun one, for you.

Not like you're scared of heights or anything, but it's a very long flight for your tastes, and you've never been the best at sleeping while sitting up.

Still, it elapses, and the oddly nice pilot (Nikolai, you thought his name was, though you weren't entirely sure), pats your shoulder with a smile when you step out, giving you some cryptic tease about being thankful the boys finally have someone new, a chew toy.

You're sure he's kidding, but even while you smile, it kind of unnerves you.

You'll be a hell of a lot more than a chew toy.

That spark is smothered when you see a group of four walking over the tarmac, hear the thick rubber soles of boots aggravating the landing surface. You shut your mouth immediately, straighten your back, blank your face.

The man in the front–Price–is the first to look you over, hard-eyed and stern as crystal blue eyes look beneath your skin with the strength of diamond behind them, like he's peering at every single part that makes you up, taking them apart and putting them together to see what ticks and how to break each one.

It's nauseating, especially when it comes from four sets at once.

The lieutenant is almost worse, wordless, blank eyes beneath a crude skull-bearing mask, a gaze that makes you think he's waiting to see you take some damage, to watch you snap like the fragile wings of a bird in his cruel hands.

You can't put words to how the sergeants are looking at you before Price speaks to you, making your head to snap to his the second he starts.

"You're Laswell's recommendation?"

He sounds almost... unimpressed, and it makes you straighten, puff out your chest like a rookie would. He thinks you're too green. you have to prove him wrong.

"Yes, captain."

Your voice is a bit deeper than normal, in your nervousness, but it doesn't sound unnatural. You see Kyle–the second sergeant–look away from Price for only a second, and you see him swallow.

The confirmation is met with nothing but a grunt at first, then he turns.

"On me. I need to make sure you're not as green as you look."

MacTavish chuckles, makes that weird "ooh" noise like a schoolboy.

"Training day, huh sir?" He's peering at Kyle as he says that, like he's trying to tease the other sergeant. Garrick doesn't look at him, pointedly.

Price nods, and they all fall into step behind him, making you jog to keep up.

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Watcher 1-1

Part Eight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jeez, hun."

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

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

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

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

"I'm sorry, that was-"

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

"No."

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

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

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

He deserves someone who can keep themself in check.

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

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

Oh.

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

"Keegan-"

"No, no, listen."

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

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

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

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

"Alright."

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

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

"Good."

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

"You're rushing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm sorry."

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

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

"Don't be."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Glad to see you're making friends."

Laswell. Fuck.

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

"Real good friends, ma'am."

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

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

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

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

"That settles that."

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

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

"I'm on pain meds."

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

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

You raise a brow, and she starts to elaborate.

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, after a brief hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Wisdom Teeth (drabble)

I've been mean to y'all. Too much angst. Take some fluff for the winter (me having a test this week)

Warnings!: Wisdom tooth removal. Bloody spit, at one point reader is in enough pain to verbally request an opioid pill. Pain and pain medication. Fluffy <3 prob leads up to poly, they're fruitcakes about it.

The SAS teams have had to pause ops for a wide, wide range of reasons. The odd health complication is very much among them.

That being said, Price never thought he would have to pause a mission because one of his star players got a wisdom tooth infected.

You had been off on Tuesday, chewing on only one side of your mouth and not drinking anything that was even a little hotter than room temp.

Kyle gave you funny looks for it, but that was all.

Wednesday, you didn't leave your room for much at all, but that was fine. Resting up before an op wasn't uncommon. Simon did it all the time.

However, at some point between you disappearing and Johnny saying he heard crying from your room all bets were off.

The door was kicked in, to reveal a grown sergeant, teary-eyed and crying a little as they clutched their cheek with a hand.

Kyle was already at your side, trying to coax you to open your mouth for some painkillers. It wasn't working well.

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

You cried a little before the surgery. Maybe out of nervousness, maybe out of pain, but the nice nurse was kind enough to ignore it as she explained that you would be waking up in a few hours down four whole teeth.

She explained it to you as you sat in the stupid fucking chair, she repeated it as she gently tucked a I.V. with a small blister containing medicine into the veins of your arm.

"Alright, first the anti-anxiety drug will be administered, okay?"

She doesn't wait for your confirmation, but gently pats your shoulder and continues.

"You should start to feel a bit fuzzy, then, you'll sleep."

It takes a few sickening seconds for you to actually feel the drugs kicking in. You want to get out of this chair, to scream at something.

You never liked the dentist.

But then... the world starts to fade out. It's like you're being locked out of your body as your mind turns itself off.

You hear her counting with the surgeon–a much more awkward woman, though no less polite.

Three.

Two.

On-

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

The waking up is slow, and messy.

Cotton pads lie in either of your cheeks, and you can't do much but oblige as the nurse gently coaxes you into a wheelchair, giving instructions to the bearded man who's standing in the corner.

"Make sure they don't sleep for at least a couple hours, okay? I know it'll be hard, but try to have them keep pressure on the site."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Remember the usual course, and we're also giving you five opioid pills. Only in case it gets really bad."

"Affirmative."

You know this voice, but when you see the boonie hat and the slightly furrowed brows, a spark of muffled recognition fires off beneath the haze of anesthetic and misery.

"...Old man."

Your voice is slurred, foreign to even you at this point, but he seems to know it, because he sighs frustratedly before taking the chair by the handles and steering your down the hallway out.

"I swear to- mgh, olright. Better than Soap at least."

You're loaded into the back seat of the car with the most basic consideration.

Dumped in like a sack of flour, actually. Your butt hurts now, but there's Kyle.

He snorts when he sees you, reaches forward to wipe whatever is dripping from the corner of your mouth.

It's bloody spit, but he doesn't seem surprised.

The car ride back to base is quiet, but Kyle keeps you awake.

Beyond that, there's nothing you can remember. Not till the next morning.

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

Johnny is perched at your bedside, scrolling through his phone until he sees your eyes blearily opening, hears your groaning as you recognize a new pain in your cheeks, and he gently coaxes your mouth open to take out the bloody gauze.

"Och, there ye are, bonnie wee thing. You look like an eejit, just thought ye needed to know."

Your tired glare is met with a laugh, but followed shortly by a pat to the shoulder.

"A'hm kiddin', leannan. Just jokin' with ye. Brought ye breakfast."

He holds up a small container of yogurt, shakes it like one would cat treats to entice a stray. You grimace as much as your painfully swollen cheeks allow, but when you open your mouth to tell him off, there's a sharp twinge that makes you close it.

This seems to earn Johnny's sympathies, because he gently guides you so you're sitting up on the bed, holding one of your shaky hands as he peels back the foil on the cup.

"Easy. Still fresh, aye?"

Your wet-eyed nod is met with a sympathetic huff.

"Aye. Dinnae fash. I'll help ye."

You should smack him for implying that you need help eating yogurt, of all things, but... you kind of do need the help.

Your body is still lethargic, sluggishly stumbling through its tasks with hazy edges and poor motor control.

He raises a glass of water to your lips, and has you take a few sips.

Breakfast takes a long time, but before you fall asleep again, he gently sets a painkiller in your mouth, and tells you to swallow.

When you do, he smiles, and bends down to kiss your forehead while you drift back off.

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

So, here's something you didn't know before getting your wisdom teeth out.

You can't swallow for a couple days.

It's gross, yeah, but you're supposed to drool out the bloody spit in your mouth, so you don't get dry socket.

Thankfully, Kyle is there for this.

He sweeps your hair back as much as possible (to the point of getting bobby pins from the corner store for the baby hairs), and rubs your back as you drool out your toothpaste.

"I feel disgusting."

"I know, luv. You're not gonna feel good for a while."

Still, his mother's cure is the only thing he trusts himself enough to use on you. Warm, salty water. A childhood staple.

He's sympathetic to your plights, rubbing your back again as you clumsily swish it by turning your head to the sides, cheeks too swollen to move properly.

"Good job. One more."

A firm, warm hand pats your back again as you "spit" (if you can even call it that) for the final time, offering a sweet smile just for you.

"Perfect. Now you can lay back again, yeah? Nice n' easy."

You're not suffering like you were yesterday. It's new.

Your motor function is back, just sluggish.

No, no, your biggest issue right now is the swelling. Your cheeks were so puffy it hurt, and you had them on ice as often as you could.

This is where you have to thank the lord for John Price. Your captain, distant as he can be, must have at least three sets of cheek-size ice pads, because every time you come into your room, there's a new, fresh set waiting for you.

Kyle gently guides you to sit in your bed, offering a sympathetic smile as he eases you backward until you hit the pillow-ramp Johnny had built so your head would be upright.

"You wanna sleep, luv?"

"No."

Your voice is still quiet, limited by your stupid cheeks, but he smiles anyway, and sits next to you.

"You wanna hang out, then?"

"Yes."

The afternoon is good, for you.

Kyle is there. The whole time.

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

Of course, every surgery comes with the odd fuck-up.

No one should be up, but you're going insane with pain.

It's a sharp, stabbing thing, focused in the gum of your lower right jaw. Almost as sharp as the tooth's initial infection, but more than enough to bring significant distress.

Simon is an odd man, and you two have never been the closest, but when he opens your door in a t-shirt and boxers, you don't even care a little bit.

"Wha's happenin'?"

The Mancunian gruffs concernedly at you, watching as you hold your cheek and shakily take in vain breath in the hopes of calming yourself.

"Get an opioid, Lt. Please."

"Fawk."

Right after that, he's off like a horse to the races, and you're in the silence again, holding your cheek as you try to ignore the way your eyes swim with tears that you refuse to shed.

It's a mercifully short two minutes, even if it feels like half an hour.

Simon's hands are gentle, opening your jaw and setting the horse-pill on your tongue, looking into your wet eyes as he raises the glass to your lips.

"I know, I know. Jus' swallow."

He stays with you as you pant for the breath you've lost, wide, scarred hands on your shoulders.

He exaggerates his own breathing so you see the clear rise and fall of his chest. His lips lose their frown as you slowly start to mimic it.

The dispersal of the pain med is fast, thank goodness, but then Simon has a tired you to deal with, still trembling in the fingers from the sudden spike of debilitating pain, though you can't feel it.

"Are those skeleton boxers?"

He's starting to think your favorite pastime is asking stupid fucking questions, but still, some part of him feels relief.

You could have asked about the lack of mask, but you didn't. You just wanted to know about the halloween boxers.

"Sergeant."

His voice isn't as firm as it should be, but when he sees your exhausted look, he still sits down on the mattress with you.

"Stay. Jus' till I fall asleep."

You don't have the balls to ask for it. Not when you're this vulnerable. So you treat it like an order.

Simon won't be chewing you out for it.

Not now.

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

Kyle and Johnny stand in the doorway to your room, snickering to themselves.

Never thought they would see big boy Lt with the firecracker that drove him up the wall, surely.

Still, after taking a couple pictures (blackmail for Johnny, photo album for Kyle), they just... stand and stare a little.

"Ye ken... we could jus'... join in?"

Johnny poses the question. Kyle nods.

"Yeah. To make sure they're sleeping well."

They both know damn well that's not why. But fuck it, a cuddle pile never hurt anyone.

Especially not you, considering how gentle the pair are when maneuvering your sleeping form.

If Simon opened his eyes and just so happened to see this buffoonery in action, he closed them right back up after.

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

Price sighs in exasperation when he sees it, but smiles as he tips down his cap just a little.

"Fuckin' rookie. Gonna be the death of me."

But he knows you won't. Because he sees the way Simon's lips curve up in sleep, or the way Johnny and Kyle cling to you.

He should call Laswell, finalize your placement.

The boys wouldn't complain.

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Part two :)

Warnings!: Angst, angst, and more angst. Reader will be MAD sad for most of this. Poorly-practiced, unhealthy polyamory. Reader will experience a LOT of gender and body dysphoria over the course of this (though I will do my best to keep it gender-neutral throughout, bear with me), but there WILL be comfort over that.

You spent most of the night following the surgery in a light doze, after a certain man named Gary walks you to your room, only slightly entertaining your efforts to walk upright on your own two legs.

Of course, he can't stay, he's got things to do, and he's not your fucking nurse, but he still makes you unlock your phone and watches you set the timer so you take your antibiotics first thing in the morning.

He still leaves to fill up his own water bottle, and sets it by your tiny, shitty nightstand, and he still brings the thing to your lips to make you take a couple sips, even as you try not to drift off right then and there.

When you look up with tired eyes, he offers a small, sympathetic smile, and leans down to gently bump your forehead with his own.

It's... an oddly endearing gesture, considering that's a grown-ass man, but your delirious smile seems to inspire more of that gentle treatment, because when his hands are free again, he's finger-spelling to you once more.

I googled some stuff for the recovery. Should I send you the links to the articles?

You melt, just a little bit, but nod, tiredly resting your heavy head on the pillow beneath it, just really soaking in not feeling like you're dying. Feels great, you've gotta say.

"Yeah. That'd be real sweet of you, luvie. Thanks for all the help."

He beams at you. You hate to admit it, but you smile, too.

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The day after is slow for you. Seeing as you're one organ down, it feels perfectly fit to work quietly in your own small office space, finding more information for prospective ops down the line.

It's comfortably-paced, much unlike how you'd been before your mistake. Back then, you were frantic, under a deadline you knew wasn't realistic trying to find documents that didn't ever exist.

Your job feels so much better without Price and the team on your ass. They never understand how discovery works, they think it just happens in a way that's frankly, stupid.

And, you're no liar, you'll say that getting periodic texts from your new friend really does brighten your mood.

Roach was a riot. And you forgot how it felt to be with that energy, the spark of new meat that you had felt yourself losing in the team.

He's a good lad, might have to get him a dinner, as-

Your train of thought is (rudely) interrupted by your door opening, without a knock or anything, and an irritated Johnny standing behind it.

"Mind tellin' me why ye werenae runnin' feckin' drills today? Ye said ye'd fuckin' spot me."

You're not surprised that his voice is supremely annoying to you right now. Normally, that Scottish slang is a comforting noise, a reminder of the company you hold, and how they've always had your back.

This time, you kind of want to knock him in the jaw for it.

This anger, it will pass.

Maybe.

"If you've got an issue, go to Price. It's not my job to fill you in on every little detail of my life, and I have a job other than training that I need to be up-to-date with."

The metal of Gary's water bottle makes a quiet noise on the textured plastic of your desk as you raise it to take another sip, effectively silencing Johnny for just a second as you hear him sputter to himself.

"Th' fuck are you- you're not drinking coffee."

Of course that's the thing he notices. He can't notice when you're on death's door begging for help, but he knows how you take a morning beverage.

You really wanna punch him now.

"Detox."

You answer is terse, not quite like you, and he furrows his brows.

"Ye're hidin' somethin', ain't ye? S' it 'cause of the mission? 'Cause that was a stupid call, an' you can't fix stupid."

What a way to make amends, Soap, show up at my door and insult me after a brief interrogation. Charming.

"My god, would it kill you to shut your mouth just once? Is that too big an ask, now?"

Harsh. That was harsh. You know it was, and that it was a mistake, but when you open your mouth to apologize, Johnny beats you to it.

"Fuck you."

The slam of the door makes you cringe, and look back down to your documents, the little notes you've drawn in the margins and the highlighter that's smudged the pen just a little bit.

Before you dwell too long, there's a quiet ping.

A small, stupid looping video pops up when you open the offending chat.

It's a poorly-rendered cockroach, spinning is stupidly whimsical circles and turning colors as a song you don't care to name plays in the background. The text under it is what makes you soften.

medicine checkk in!!! take the medcine if you havent :)

His spelling is amateurish at best.

You're really fucking screwed, with that one, and you know it, but still, you set the phone down, and open a new tab.

British Sign Language basics. You could do that.

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Every person who's ever done anything creative needs to fucking see this.

Watcher 1-1

Part Nine

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

There is something special about the barracks room you share with a man named Keegan Russ.

It doesn't lie in the construction, nor in the beds or how they're both unfortunately twin-size with terrible mattresses. It is so special to you because it is the very first space you've peacefully shared with someone you can comfortably admit to trusting.

Sure, temporarily, you're shared a room with Soap. Shortly before the... incident, you'd spent a good chunk of your time with Gaz. Still, you never quite felt like it was yours as much as it was his.

Back then, it had been something purely sensical. Of course the room didn't feel like it was yours, you've been here less than six months. Looking back, that feeling stung a good dose more.

It was a lucky night, in that neither you nor Keegan had suffered a nightmare. That just meant the thing to wake you was his alarm, blaring directly in your ear because Keegan always stole the part of the bed closest to the wall. You always let him have it.

The first thing you do is tiredly grab the bottle of lotion from the small nightstand, and sit yourself on the bed's edge, dispensing just enough into the warped, burned flesh of your palm.

If someone told you four years ago that you'd have to moisturize your stump first thing in the morning because it got dry overnight, you would have given them a really weird look.

Still, it's that motion that draws your favorite American to wakefulness. Every last time.

"Mhhngh, wh- oh."

Most of the time, Keegan just watches you get yourself ready. He'll pass you the compression "sock" that covers the stump that used to be your leg, gently kiss at your neck as you slip on your leg.

He used to talk more, but the quiet is good, too. It's simpler, and you struggle to speak in the mornings. Some complication or other, you're not sure. Smoke inhalation, you remember someone bringing up, in the early days.

Still, you can feel him shift behind you as you grab your prosthetic, and you feel two thick arms wrapping around your waist as he gently pecks your cheek, feels up on one of the few non-marred parts of your body.

"Hello to you too, Keegan."

The chuckle he gives you is worth the strain to your throat, and you can feel his cheeks rounding with a smile against the column of your throat.

There's a grateful hum that quickly turns into a soft grumble of annoyance as you rise on foot and fake limb, the younger still shrouded with blankets and drowsy. You've become accustomed to this.

"Already?"

"Yup."

Keegan groans again, but catches your hand in his own when you offer it, and hauls himself out of bed, rubbing the sleepy crust from the corners of his eyes and reaching to his clothes for the day.

"Thanks, Newton."

Your call sign drives a snort from you, and Keegan smiles when he hears it, though he doesn't react further, and a comfortable silence–broken on occasion by the soft rustling of clothes–settles between these sacred walls.

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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."

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