The Mistakes That Have Been Made

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.

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.

The introduction

Gay people, rise up. It's Hobie time.

Warnings:

-swearing

-Miguel O' Hara

(This takes place around two and a half years before the main story, I'm working on organizing it into a masterlist rn)

You don't know exactly where you are.

That's getting more and more common these days, though, so you don't hold it against the very upset-seeming Latin man or the weird asshole hologram lady, and look forward to the small camera before you.

"I'm- I'm really sorry, what is it I'm supposed to be doing again?" Your hand finds the textured, plastic back of the chair, and you run a thumb over the grain to soak in the feeling. The man whose name you're already forgetting scowls, and he steps forward.

"Can you just- Lyla, can you do the thing?" He sounds annoyed. It makes you shrivel in on yourself, smile sheepishly as you pray that you'll make it out of today without having to deal with him any more than this.

"What thing?" Lyla, as you find out her name, seems to revel in that question, cocking out her hip in that too-big jacket and grinning as she responds.

"The information- explainy thing. You know what I mean." Lyla crossed her arms, and stuck her tongue out a little bit.

"Hah, you're talking about a different thing. You know, for someone with such thorough naming conventions-"

"I know! I understand, I get it, ay-" You've just been sitting there this entire exchange, borderline shaking as you try to understand what the fuck is going on here.

The screeching on a loud guitar makes you jump, and cover your ears. The frustrated man glances for a second, before nodding ever so slightly to Lyla, who seemingly makes a note somewhere.

"Sensory sensitivity, got it-" She speaks as you lower your hands, eyes wide and anxious like a feral cat trapped in a corner.

The big man seems to soften his posture a bit more, but he balls his hands into fists before stomping off in the direction of the guitar.

"Alright kid. Let me help you out a little here." She swoops through the air until she stands behind the camera, and gives you a seemingly more considerate smile.

You hear the shutter open.

"Introduce yourself." You don't think you pulled a face at that, but the way Lyla reacts, you simply must have. She sighs, but remains patient.

"Like your name-"

"My name??? No, no, no, no, no. I wanna do this my own way." She steps back, puts her hands up causally, before she seems to blip out of existence again, seemingly content to let you work this out on your own.

The camera is, in fact, scarier alone, but you swallow down that fear and start to talk.

"Uhhh- Hi. I'm- I- I- I-" Words seem to evade your idiot mouth as you look down the lens of the camera, before you pinch the bridge of your nose.

"Motherfffff-" You cut yourself off at the "f", remembering the single, beady eye scanning you, the piercing vertical eye of the moitor at it side that likely shows you there, too. So you correct yourself. "I shouldn't say that."

"Y- Ugh, goddammit. Webs, spider, you get the gist. Call me Orb-" Before you can finish your poorly-planned little clip, the door opens, but the cadence of the footsteps are different.

There's a stupidly lanky boy there, with a guitar on his back and adorned in spikes.

Twists stick out from his scalp, honeyed a nice yellowish at the ends, and he wears a lip ring and earrings, though they don't go up past the lobe very far.

He seems to be made of some sort of collage, infinitely shifting snippets of newspaper and color in his little backdrop as he changes color. Currently, he seems to be sticking to gray. It's neat, but you don't yet know how it works and that only sours your already confused mood further.

You frown a little, he seems to catch it.

"Oi, mate. Who're you?" Wow. He is stupid British. Some part of your brain lights up with that, chews on the way that voice rings through the space.

Not rich, from the slang, and he's clipped, so you guess somewhere South-East, judging by the jacket, near Camden.

The punk seems to squirm a bit, and he less confidently says "Wot the fuck's up with you? You're starin'"

You feel your cheeks heat with shame, but you speak up.

"Not staring, just… observing. It's different." He raises a brow, but lets you finish.

"I like your twists. Very… cool."

He pauses, before taking one of them into a gangly hand. You see the corner of his lip twitch up but you don't know why

"Thanks."

There's a moment of dead air, but you both ask the same question at once.

"Do you know why we're here?" "Do ya know why we're in this shithole?"

You meet his eyes. They're a nice brown, your brain supplies, but they would look much better in warmer lighting.

He starts to giggle. You think his laugh is funny, and chuckle too.

"Right, I guess we should get to know each-other if we're stuck here, yeah?" He's walking over now, asking that question like you know what you're doing.

"I'm Hobie. Hobie Brown." He doesn't offer a hand. You're grateful for that, this has all been too much already.

"I'm Orb-weaver." Your voice is flat enough to make him raise a brow, but he shrugs, seemingly fine with dismissing that as just how you are remarkably fast.

"All business, huh?"

"No. My name is just on a need-to-know basis right now." You answer, and he leans on the edge of your chair, smiling.

"What if I-"

"You don't need to know." His lips lose some of that smile, and, for a second, you flounder to fix that, at any cost. But you can't tell him your name.

"But… I appreciate your tenacity." It's a compliment, one of the rare ones that you give, and Hobie seems to register that, because the papers surrounding him shift again and he turns… pink. Huh.

"That sounds like a label, mate, I don't do those."

"What?"

The recording stops.

The conversation doesn't.

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.

remembered that I accidently created a whole folder of these so here's part two of ???

give it up for the 141 and friends! (they're all unhinged your honour)

Never reblogged something before, but this shit is low-key weird. If you like my ramblings and want to follow, feel free to do so! Feel free to send asks and all your stuff!! I don't know what would compel someone to be so rude to strangers online. Follow and reblog, it's Tumblr, of course do those things.

So I just saw a post by a random personal blog that said “don’t follow me if we never even had a conversation before” and?????? Not to be rude but literally what the fuck??????????

I’ve had people (non-pornbots) try to strike conversation out of nowhere in my DMs recently, and now I’m wondering if they were doing that because they wanted to follow me and thought they needed to interact first. I feel compelled to say, just in case, that it’s totally okay to follow this blog (or my side blog, for that matter) even if we’ve never talked before.

Also, I’m legit confused. Is this how follow culture works right now? It was worded like it’s common sense but is that really a thing?

Never really thought I would get tagged in something like this but I think it's cute, so I'll join :D.

Thanks Cheese for the tag!

last song: Little Girl Gone-Chinchilla (character inspo.) Squabble up-Kendrick Lamar (because I like it)

Favorite color: Yellow! (Specifically brighter shades, but nothing neon)

last book: Comic-The Glass Scientists. Book-World War Z. Both are great, do give them a read.

last film: School of Rock (w Jack Black).

last tv show: The oldest View (analog horror, it's on YouTube).

sweet/savoury/spicy: Savory. I love my salt fam. Mmmm, salt.

relationship status: Having a wonderful, perfect time w my partners whom I love very very much <3

last thing i googled: Amputation recovery timeline w/ prosthesis (It's for a fic I have all my limbs)

current obsession: The glass scientists. Currently learning how to pick locks with my old 8 dollar lockpicking set from Wish <3

looking forward to: Writing a couple new chapters for Watcher 1-1, opening the new cylinder lock I got :)

@loveydovey489 @laswells-ashtray (the only people I know here)

10 things for 10(ish) people you'd like to know better

thanks @se7entyrell for the tag!

last song: spooky by dusty springfield (bc i'm on my 60s vibes shit — again)

favourite colour: any shade of blue!

last book: divine rivals, by rebeca ross (loved it! it's been a minute since i've read a book front to cover so fast)

last film: woman of the hour

last tv show: the consultant

sweet/savoury/spicy: savoury for food, bitter for drinks!

relationship status: single. forever.

last thing i googled: xo kitty season 2 date

current obsession: i've been watching any romcom that is recommended to me, old or new, good or trash.

looking forward to: start my new job, write a few more chapters for death defying acts and the tortured firefighters department, go out with my friends to celebrate

tagging: @munsonsreputation @live-love-be-unique

Watcher 1-1

Part 3!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, fortune does favor the bold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stay down."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would be unfair to the competition.

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

"You think so?"

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

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

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

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Winding down

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.

Watcher 1-1

Part TEN!!

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

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

Sarah.

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

"Captain."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How are you, in British Sign Language.

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

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

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

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

Roach could be... he had potential.

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

He'll be interesting.

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