a use for this body
kyle "gaz" garrick x fem!reader | paramedic!gaz x critically ill!reader | masterlist
Chapter Five: out of order
cw: i am extremely sick, so it only makes sense to update this. also, there is a severe lack of gaz in the new mw4 trailer. fuck u activision, i'll do it myself.
Kyle Garrick would rather suck start a shotgun than ever work day shift again.
If the volume of calls weren't bad enough, then it's the watchful eyes and pressing noses breathing down the back of his neck that puts him on edge. He smiles and laughs when it's socially acceptable, and yet again politely declines another offer of becoming a supervisor, no matter how many times they dangle the pay raise and benefits in front of his face. Worst of all, he doesn't even get shift differential for this. Flat rate pay for flat rate shit.
His head aches by the time he's clocking out and groaning through the 5PM rush hour. He thinks of his bed and how much his muscles yearn for the cooling sheets and plush pillow and the mattress that always keeps his botched back muscles in place. He's near skipping through the complex door as he approaches the lift.
Out of order. Please use stairs.
Stiff fingers toy with the top of his trauma shears as he stares at the sign. He glares at it as if he can intimidate the lettering enough to morph before his very eyes and quickly bring the lift back in order, but thirty seconds later and he's still standing there, and the machine is still broken.
It's only one flight of stairs that separates Kyle from his apartment, but it's enough to make the pain worse. Tension grows in his lower back like tender breath on hot coals, blowing until they're glowing cherry red, searing through his skin until it's biting at the tips of his nerves. The door opens then closes. His gear hits the floor. One boot is left in the hallway while the other lingers by threshold of his bedroom.
He makes a bitter promise to himself to shower when he wakes up—whenever that may be—before collapsing on the bed, stripped down to his boxers. A little voice mocks him in the back of his mind.
If Price could see the mess I've just left after work, I'd never hear the end of it.
The end of that thought is nipped by his phone receiving a call. It's enough to send Kyle into fight or flight—more tones, pager buzzing on his hip, another call, more paperwork. Rolling over onto his side, he yanks it off of his nightstand and stares at the unfamiliar numbers with a squint.
"Fucking telemarketers," he mutters before declining the call.
The silence that follows is bitter. Whatever peace he was able to garner sours within an instant as he rests his phone on his stomach. The afternoon sun seeps through his blackout curtains like the glinting blade of a knife cutting across his ceiling. He thinks about how much he needs a vacation, but the idea dissolves in his skull the moment he remembers he doesn't have anywhere left to go that isn't tainted by his soldier past.
It's why he took this job. He can't deal with the trash of being a police officer and would never want to tarnish himself with such an idea, but any other job wouldn't be able to read his scars. No one else would understand the jokes, the umbra-tinted humor. The glassy stares, the long walks, the tight silence.
Once more, the phone rings. Something softer and less intrusive this time, but it's still enough to get Kyle's heart rate up higher than he'd like. It's the same number again. The text that illuminates his screen makes his stomach sink.
Hey, sorry if you're at work. I just don't know who else to call. A dog bit Ophelia and we're at the vet. They said we're good to go home but I'm not feeling well and I don't really have the cash for a ride or anything.
Don't worry if you're busy though. I can always find someone else.
Or I could take the bus, I just wasn't sure I could make it to the stop.
Sorry for the spam.
Suddenly, the ache ebbs.
Send me the address.
The sun is in his eyes for the entire drive over, and he curses throughout it all the way until he's parked and rushing through the front door to find you. Blood follows him. He's not sure why or where it comes from. Maybe it's continuing to linger after his shift, or maybe it's just stained in his memory from the first time he ever saw you and the subsequent scar that followed—forever ingrained in your forehead.
Kyle finds you sitting on a wide couch in the waiting room with Ophelia's head in your lap. The pup's hand rests on your knee, wrapped in pristine bandages that smell of antibacterial ointment and lidocaine. Her dark eyes grow heavy to the point she can't even garner the excitement in her gaze when she eyes him coming through the door. Numbed. Anesthetized until the throbbing stops.
Somehow, you look worse for wear than Ophelia. Puffy red eyes, nose sniffling every other second, fingers wrapped around your inhaler like it's the only lifeline you have left and you're clutching the remnants of the old one as she crumbles away in your lap. You manage the type of smile that makes his throat tight. It's fractured, and you're pulling at it so tight it spills; a laceration pulled too taut.
"Thanks for coming to get us," you sniffle, hand resting on Ophelia's head. She huffs, eyes closing tight as she melts into you.
Before Kyle does anything, he ignores the ache in his knees as he bends down to your height, keeping a comfortable distance from where you and Ophelia are curling around one another on the couch. "What happened?"
You roll your eyes in frustration, like the mere recollection of it pains you. "Headed to the market for some food, and some lady had her stupid fucking dog in there with her. She claimed it was a service animal, but he obviously wasn't because the bastard bit her."
Attention moving to your loyal friend, he cautiously eyes the bandages. His fingers twitch. He's used to poking and prodding, but this type of patient isn't one he's familiar with. "What's the damage?"
"Couple of stitches. Rabies booster in case the prick was sick. They're sending us home with antibiotics and pain meds for her to take, along with the orders to return in a couple of days so they can put a cast on her," you spew.
Kyle's brows rise. "Her arm's fractured?"
"Near her wrist, I think, yeah," you solemnly nod. "She's too swollen for a cast to do any good, and she can hardly walk and I just…"
Squeeze and inhale—medicine floods your lungs as you take a moment to breathe, then cough. Problems spew through Kyle's brain; crying, the increase of mucus, the physical movement are all undesirable aspects with your sickness. Pausing, Kyle reminds himself he isn't your doctor, and he can't cure you. But he can at least do this much for you.
"Come on, Sunshine, let's get you two home."
Ophelia is too inebriated and injured to walk, and when the sight of that alone nearly sends you spiraling once again, Kyle doesn't hesitate to scoop her into his arms. She's certainly the lightest patient he's lifted all day, and the pure shock of the image along with his request for you to open the car door for him is enough to snap you out of whatever frustration induced breakdown you were on the path towards.
On the ride home, Kyle sets one hand on the steering wheel and the other rubbing at his enervated eyes while he focuses too hard on the lines on the road to ensure he doesn't swerve where he shouldn't. Your talking keeps him awake. With heated words and fiery expletives, you retell the story of the market in greater detail. You curse everything from the misspelled lettering on the dog's vest to the blatant disregard for everyone's safety bringing such a misbehaved mutt into the store.
"She didn't even apologize," you rehash, arms crossed and eyes glowering through the window. "Told me Ophe antagonized him and that it was my fault. Left the store in a hurry so I couldn't even get any information from the cunt. Fuck, if I ever see her again, I'm breaking her wrist."
"Just, do it while I'm off shift," Kyle interjects.
"No promises."
When you arrive back at the apartment, Kyle once again lifts Ophelia into his arms and lumbers behind you with a wide stance to make up for the odd shift in weight. Your door seems to be in the process of being fixed, he notes. New wood to replace the splintered boards, hardware half drilled in, but not quite where it ought to be. The inside looks better—lived in, now, and no longer hospital plain. You have a futon shoved up against the wall next to a standing lamp that's illuminating the living room on the lowest setting.
A guitar hides in the corner. Soft grain and a worn neck that seeps through the dark stain between the frets. Well loved into destruction, he thinks about asking you about it until you're interrupting his thoughts, directing him to lay Ophelia on your bed.
She's grown more lucid now, but she's still not quite there. Looking up at him with glassy eyes, Kyle nearly feels his heart shatter as he offers her his palm to lick at. Heavy lids swallow her eyes as she rests her head on the mattress, not at all bothered by the way your weight dips in next to her. You cough and it's wet. It's enough to pull Ophelia from her slumber, but it isn't long before she's crashing again.
The sniffling returns. You rub at your eyes. Kyle already know what's coming before your mouth opens.
"I dunno what I'm gonna do." Your voice is tight. Incensed in the way frustration lingers after a wrongdoing. "She's not just some pet, she helps me. People don't fucking get that-that if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be able to live on my own and now I'm not sure what I'm gonna do while she's healing."
Even after all these years—or even these last few weeks since you've moved in—Kyle still isn't good with the mushy talk. With the reassurance. He's seen too much for that. Witnessed more meat and ichor than any human ever should. All he knows for sure is that he's got working hands, and he might as well put them to use.
"You've got my number," he gently reminds.
When you look away from Ophelia, you find Kyle leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face heavy. Scoffing, you shake your head. "Oh, fuck off."
"I'm being serious," he deadpans.
"What, so you want me to call you every time I need my inhaler?" you challenge.
He shrugs. "That's what I'm here for, Sunshine."
You're about to go off on another tirade when you pause. You raise a finger, grimace falling on your face with a poorly concealed smirk in disbelief. "That's not becoming a thing."
"What?" Kyle asks, feigning cluelessness.
"That nickname."
"Bit too late for that… Sunshine."
Exacerbated, you groan and throw yourself back onto your bed with enough violence to shake Ophelia. Peeved, she huffs and kicks her feet against your side, but her strength is negligible.
"Get the fuck out of my apartment, Kyle," you say, voice wooden.
Slipping out of the doorway, he gives a half-assed salute just out of your view. "I'll be right upstairs if you need anything."
"I won't! I'm not a baby, I can take care of myself!" you call.
"Whatever you say, Sunshine."
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