The veil on your head sticks to your forehead with perspiration and your fingers ever so slightly shake with nervousness. You stand before a large wooden door, and walking inside the room seems almost impossible for you. You consider calling a raincheck, or maybe running away from this whole arrangement - but your friend pats you comfortingly on your back and you feel somewhat grounded again.
This entire fiasco is for your own benefit, and you don't have any other alternatives.
So you suck it up and push open the wooden door, taking long strides to close the distance between you and your unknown betrothed.
The church is mostly empty save for the groom and a few key witnesses, thanks to a favor the old priest owed to the task force’s captain. The door’s loud creak gives you away, and everyone is now looking at you. Captain Price, the man who orchestrated this union, stands proud and steady as he eyes you down mechanically - possibly an old habit from his time serving in the army for so many years. The old priest stands in front of the pews with bated breath, almost impatient to get this over with. There’s a middle aged woman sitting in the front and she looks at you sharply with disdain, you’d assume she’s part of your betrothed's task force, if it wasn’t for the fact you were intimated last minute that she’s his mother.
And there’s your groom - Sergeant Kyle Garrick, dressed in an all black suit as he eyes you down with what seems to be wonder in his eyes. Apart from them, there seems to be no one else present here.
Your friend adjusts your veil as she walks with you down the aisle. You’re sure that by now, her hand must be throbbing in pain from how hard you’ve gripped her. When it came to tying the knot, you hadn’t exactly envisioned this in your mind - but you try your best to play with the cards you’re dealt anyway.
You almost wish you had dressed elaborately, instead of settling for a short white dress and a rental veil that makes your nape itch - but your wedding called for urgency and you had to ditch the elaborate bridal plans if you wanted to ensure your amenities are not cut off by the end of the month.
With bated breath, you walk down the aisle as you grip onto your friend for some comfort. The walk is finished in minutes, and your friend is quick to leave you standing before your groom and the priest as they take a seat in the pews nearby. You look at Mr. Garrick, and he’s even more ethereal up close. A light scar runs across the span of his left cheek, but it only adds to his charm. His warm brown eyes twinkle like stars under the yellow fluorescent lights lighting up the room. If you had met him under any other circumstance, you’re sure you’d been smitten by now. Maybe you’d have asked him out for coffee…
Almost sensing your nerves, Kyle is quick to flash a kind smile your way and you breathe deeply as you look back at him and smile back a watery smile of your own. For his sake, you’ll suck it up and deal with it just fine - no matter what.
Snapping out of your wishful thinking, you try to concentrate on what the priest is saying, but it is so hard to pay attention to the dronings of an old man when your handsome soon-to-be-husband stands in front of you. You notice that he taps his foot thrice at an interval of eight or so minutes, maybe as a way to deal with his nerves. After all, this is not just your wedding day.
You both soon dot your I’s and cross your T’s as you both give out short, succinct vows and promise each other the promise of love and respect ‘till death do us apart’, which leaves an ashy taste in your mouth. This is not how this was supposed to be, but you both have no other choice in the matter.
The rings are brought out, and you gape at how pretty the diamond looks on the thin platinum band. You wonder how much of his paycheck Kyle had to spend in order to find something this big and beautiful, and you almost feel ashamed for the ring you bought, a simple band with small gems encrusted in it - no cheaper in this economy, but still falling short of what the Sergeant had prepared for you.
With quivering hands you slip his ring onto his finger, and he quickly returns the favor with a steady hand holding onto you, the warmth of his palm feeling awfully nice and comforting against your clammy hands. The priest finally announces, “You may now kiss the bride.”
Fearing the worst, you close your eyes shut as you’re not certain on how to approach this step. You’re no virgin, but kissing a man you barely know (and marrying said man) is something you hadn’t anticipated in your twenty-something years of your life. You feel Kyle wrap an arm around the small of your back gently as he raises the veil on your head - only to give you a chaste peck on the corner of your lips, just shy of giving you a proper kiss. Everyone present in the church let out reluctant claps, calling curtains on the show you both have put out knowing well enough that there is more to come.
Now that the union was finally complete with witnesses and your marriage certificate soon after filed and to be submitted for review, you are looking forward to crashing on a bed and sleeping the day away after gorging out on some much needed junk food. (Especially if you wish to forget how Kyle’s mother has been eyeing you down like some filthy vermin throughout this sham of a wedding, really.)
“Welcome to the married life, Mrs. Garrick”, Kyle is quick to whisper in your ear as he ushers you out of the small church, and you’re yet to decide if you like the way he refers to you as his.
“Can we get some takeout on the way home?” you ask him, and he smiles that brilliant smile your way, the one that makes you just a little weak in the knees.
Warnings - Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots-in-love, pining, mentions of injuries and blood, mentions of needles, mentions of death, mentions of religious metaphors and the like (is it obvious that I have some religious trauma?), lots of yearning and tender moments(they should probably talk it out, but they won't - what a bummer), kinda whump/whumpee scenario, Gaz is forward with the praise, a lot of subtle yearning, somewhat open-ending.
Summary -
You're bleeding and bruised when he finds you.
Category -
1. One-shot
8. Safe House
Prompts -
5. 'I'll take care of you.'
11. 'Let me see you.'
14. 'Stay still.'
15. 'Take it off.'
Word Count - 2.8k
AO3 Version
Note -
This fic was written for 'Gazfest 2023' being organized by @glitterypirateduck. This event has led me to discovering so many writers and so many great stories for Gaz!
Check it out here: - Gazfest 2023
The mission had gone smoothly, for the most part.
No one had died, no one was compromised and your team had been able to locate the weapon cache the cartel had been hiding in their expansive warehouse - stashed in the very heart of their operations, surrounded by drugs, guns and blood money.
And yet you cannot help but feel like you have failed somehow.
You lean against the wall, sitting on the island of the wash basin as you calmly debate the merits and demerits of forgoing a much-needed bath. You make a little game out of it - writing in your little mental lists about how fucked you’d be if you decide to not clean yourself up.
Pros - you can go to sleep on the uncomfortable cot laid out in the small bedroom, you can go eat some awful MREs, you can talk to your captain and get an update on when you will leave, and did you mention that you can finally hit the hay?
Cons - you stink, your uniform is soaked in blood and sweat, you have injuries that you need to tend to (something that you do not look forward to), and you’re sure that you’d feel so much better if you take a steaming hot shower.
Too bad that the water runs cold here.
It is when you’re wholly absorbed into completing your mental checklist, when you see the door in front of you shake and hear the incessant sound of someone knocking on the wooden barrier as if it has personally offended them.
You call out hesitantly, unsure about your ability to get up from your uncomfortable seat without worsening the injury into the side of your torso.
“The door’s unlocked”.
And that is where you seem to have messed up.
The doorknob twists and the door is pushed open to the side, revealing a very pissed Sgt. Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick standing on the threshold of the room. You stare at him with wide eyes, and he wears an almost enraged expression on his handsome face, despite his best efforts in schooling himself to appear nonchalant to you.
He has shed off his heavy jacket, his undershirt peeking from the few buttons of his military shirt. In one of his hands, he carries a first aid kit. And you take a secret oath in your mind to kick ass of whoever tipped him off about you.
Probably Soap, that fucker-
The sergeant was the last person you wished to see at the moment, within reason.
There has been a weird tension between you and him for the past couple of weeks. Ignored texts, brushed off advances, physical barriers and distances initiated by him that made you wonder if the bond you shared with the man had been nothing but a mirage that helped you tether your sanity as you survived the everyday grimness that haunts a person working in the military.
The ache in your heart had soon turned into a silent indignation of sorts, egging you on to match each action of his with a petty counteract of your own.
You refused to seek his company, and malevolent compliance had been your best companion when the direct chain of command forced you to listen to anything the sergeant requested; clearly the head on your shoulders worked well enough for you to prioritize the mission and the safety of your comrades over anything else, but it was extremely satisfying to watch your friend (The same friend who had just cut you out of his life in all regards like an invasive weed - forgetting that once its roots take place, the weed is nearly impossible to get rid of; and you’d be damned if you let him get rid of you so easily.) seethe in anger as you obey his commands on your own terms.
It all came to a head a week prior to the mission you were supposed to go on with the entire team. You had been minding your business, really - barely sparing Garrick a glance as you went about your way to brew yourself a pot of coffee when you heard him muttering something under his breath. You ask him to repeat himself, and next thing you know is that both of you are screaming your heads off - him for your ‘insubordination’ and you for him being a major bag of dicks.
With defeat sagging your shoulders and a deep exhale to calm yourself down, you detach yourself from the scene, leaving the man behind to his own devices in the rec room. It’s a miracle you didn’t raise your fists against him - you’d certainly have ended up with a broken wrist had you not retreated like a poor prey with your tail between your legs. And Gaz would’ve ended up with a broken nose.
It was more astonishing that the angry cacophony of yelling had not summoned your captain to the scene of the crime.
You hadn’t spoken to the man since then.
He takes long strides towards the wash basin, and you are mere inches away from your superior - close enough to take note of the pensive look on his face, his eyebrows furrowed and enhancing his crow’s feet under the pathetic yellow glow of the shitty bulb-light illuminating the otherwise grim room.
If this was a lighter moment, you’d have eased the tension by pressing between his eyebrows - massaging away his tension with a simple roll of your thumb against his skin. If you were not mortally wounded and your sergeant wasn’t pissed at you right now, you’d have cracked a joke at your expense to see him laugh, his chuckle warming you up like the flames that licked at your fingertips whenever you got close to the fire to cook at home.
Unfortunately, this is not the moment for you to attempt to make merry.
He slams down puts down the kit on the island, next to your thigh and you flinch at the sudden movement. Your skittering only seems to make your injuries sting worse, and you grab at your abdomen, groaning at the sudden pain that shoots through you. You look down at your clenched hands, and notice how the blood paints them red. Your eyes widen a little at the scene, your fingers shaking with tremors as you try to appear unfazed at the crimson staining your skin and your clothes.
You are always surprised at the mortality you possess whenever you get a close brush with death, not knowing when it will be your last.
Gaz opens the metallic box open, meticulously pulling out various instruments to put at his disposal - gauze, bandages, rubbing alcohol, sterilized needles, and sutures. He looks up at you, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your pained expression and your crimson fingertips twitching mid-air.
With a ticked jaw, he demands, “Take it off”.
“W-What?” you mumble out the question, slightly confused at his sudden order.
With a sigh, he repeats himself for you, “I said, take it off”.
The blood loss, while not fatal, seems to be impairing you cognitively.
Dumbly, you ask again, “Why?”
He rubs at his forehead in frustration, and you’re almost inclined to apologize for worrying him. You wish to run your nails through his curls, quietly pinching at his nape as you rest your forehead against his and beg him to forgive you for being such an idiotic mess.
Instead, you lean against the tiled walls like a delirious fool, losing blood fast.
Patiently, he explains to you, taking into account your slowing brain, “You need to get those wounds checked, don’t you now?”
You nod at him with pursed lips, not at all happy at your current predicament. You can try and refuse, and he’d only end up butting heads with you again. Or you can swallow up your pride, and let him fix you up - awkward as that might seem.
“Let me see you, then”, he asks you, and the shake in his otherwise firm voice makes you comply.
Silently, you unfasten the buttons of your military-issued uniform shirt with shaky fingers.
One by one.
One by one.
One by one.
Your fingers give up on the task just shy of the last two buttons of the garment, the tremors making it almost impossible for you to even steady your aching arm.
“Shit, shit, shit”, you curse to yourself, your fingertips constantly missing the plastic buttons on the shirt despite your best efforts. Irked at your inability to master such a simple task, you cannot help the tears of irritation that well up in your eyes, blurring your vision and giving you a much harder time with something you could’ve been done with in seconds.
Calloused hands touch yours, and you can feel your skin set ablaze at the fragility of the touch as you look into the eyes of your dear friend and coworker. Glassy eyes look into his dark ones, conveying every little thing you wish to tell him - anguish, yearning, guilt, remorse, and love.
Every little thing that you fail to put into words and speech because your mouth is suddenly very dry, as if you have swallowed cotton and your tongue is weighed down by a block of lead.
He always made you feel so nervous.
He calls out your name (it sounds so sweet, so pristine when he says it - he exhales out each syllable of your moniker in reverence, as if you were a prayer to be uttered with utmost vigilance and devotion) and you snap out of your thoughts - your ears heating up partly due to embarrassment and partly due to the sudden proximity you share with the man standing before you.
“I’ll handle this, ‘k?” his fingers toy with your button, and you do not protest as he unbuttons the last few of them near the hem of your shirt, leaving the center of your torso exposed. The cotton fabric sticks to your skin, thanks to the oozing wound on your waist that you had been nursing in the bathroom for the past half hour or so.
You feel bashful, and yet you do not have the energy to express it - your eyes feeling heavier with every blink and the deft fingers of your sergeant feel warm against your cold, pallid skin. You fight yourself to stay awake, not eager about sleeping with untreated injuries and the dizziness that plagues you due to blood loss.
You feel him tap at your arms, and you raise them just high enough so that he can lower down the sleeves of your shirt and undress you, leaving you in nothing but in a pair of khaki pants and your plain black bra. This is the closest you have come to being nude around the man, and if you weren't in enough pain to want to shoot yourself in the foot for your stupidity, you’d have tried to cover yourself up with your hands at least.
Sadly, all modesty flew out of the window the moment you decided to get hurt on the field.
Sometimes, modesty seems to leave your brain whenever you’re around him too.
Kyle observes you with narrowed eyes, assessing the damage you had accumulated because of him. A lapse in judgment on his part had resulted in him not keeping a close eye around him and almost taking a bullet to his head - had you not tackled the henchmen to the ground; the scuffle had ended when you had slit his throat with your favorite knife, but not before taking some injuries of your own.
When he had asked you about it, you had shrugged it off at the moment, assuring him that whatever you are inflicted with is something you can handle just fine.
Clearly that was a lie, if your bloodied body is anything to go by it.
Your face bears a few nicks and cuts that have already ceased bleeding - nothing too bad. Your body from neck down, however, seems to be a macabre masterpiece. Purple and yellow bruises litter across your shoulders and love handles. There are a few cuts that are closed up with dried blood; some of them are long enough to warrant some surgical assistance for recovery. And then he takes into notice your bloodied waist - the gash still oozing with fresh blood.
You probably got it from the henchmen who almost blew his head off.
He cannot believe he had let you get hurt on his watch. And he chides himself even more for believing your lies so easily.
He is still so angry. At you. At himself.
He tears out a piece of gauze from the packet he had laid out beside you, before slowly soaking it in a generous amount of rubbing alcohol. Your shoulders tense at the implication, and Gaz notices. (Of course, he does. He always noticed everything when it came to you.)
“This one’s gonna sting” is all he says before he’s pressing the gauze against an open wound and you prevent the scream that works up your throat by biting your tongue, grinding your molars against the muscle and tasting iron in your mouth.
Your body twitches like a wild livewire as Gaz tries his best to treat your wounds, barely giving you a warning before you can feel the alcohol burn into your skin. You do not scream, but your sensitivity to pain leads you to shed a few tears of agony as you wait it all out with baited breath.
“.....So fucking stupid”, you hear the sergeant grumble to himself in your haze as he cleans your wounds and every time the gauze touches your skin, you cannot help but inch away from his hands, unable to handle the painful aftermath.
“Cannot believe…”
“You really had to-”
He cuts himself off before he could finish his sentences, or maybe your brain is on a gradual process of shutting down - making it harder with each passing moment to pay attention to what he has to say to you. Through your muddled thoughts, all you can decipher is that he sounds angry.
He’s angry.
You shift just a little, hoping to brace for the pain by moving away from it - your pain-addled brain making you believe that prolonging the contact with the rubbing alcohol would help you recuperate from the pain much better. It only made the wound in your side bleed more, the droplets of crimson flowing down your abdomen like an endless rivulet.
Kyle notices that, and he quickly grabs you by your shoulders to stop you from moving too much. You squirm under his touch; his palms are far too hot for your freezing skin, and you’d have probably jumped at the impact, had it not been for the indestructible hold he has of you.
“Stay still”, he commands you, and you stop any and all movement immediately. You’re not sure you wish to fire the fuel that has been ignited in him when he saw your injured body on the island slab of the basin.
“That’s it, sweetheart”, he assures you, his hands playing with the tips of your hair to soothe you, and you can feel shivers run down your spine. It’s soothing, to still be able to feel and react to his touch as if it’s the first time.
“It hurts”, you sob out to him, your hands itching to grab at the wound near your waist - desperate to put any pressure on it, to stop the red liquid from leaving you lifeless. You’re scared and it shows.
You won’t die, not yet anyway. And that is the only comforting thought you can muster to hold onto.
You won’t die, even if your insides scream from the agony it feels from all of its open wounds and the ache your relaxed muscles throb with incessantly.
You feel like you’re dying, but God has favored you today yet again.
You wonder if the reason is divine intervention or a divine curse haunting you.
“I know, sweet thing. I do. You did so good out there, having my back, yeah?” he asks and you nod eagerly in response, hoping to make amends with Gaz just in case.
Just in case you breathe your last right here right now. In case you have run out of favor with the unknown deity who has protected you all this time without you knowing.
“I got this, okay? I got you”, he leaves a soft kiss on your forehead, murmuring the affirming words against your skin. You feel yourself lighten up just a little at the gesture, knowing that this was not only to console you, but his own peace offering to you for earlier. For every little transgression he had committed against you.
For the fight. For everything.
“I promise everything will be okay. I’ll take care of you.”, he assures you, and for a moment you have faith that you’d live through the pain if he’s the one tending to it.
Note -
I saw Prompts 5, 14 and 15 on the list and I couldn't resist writing a 'tending to your beloved in the bathroom while they're sitting and you're standing in front of them' scenario. Also a long lost fan art of the bathroom scene between Kaz Brekker and Inej Ghafa is a huge inspiration for this fic. (I have the books but I haven't gotten around to reading them. I have seen clips of the show, and I regret not having Netflix. Also, the yearning between the two is immaculate and the fanart is like stuck in my head, so if anyone can find it and send it to me, I'd appreciate it a lot.)
This is my first time participating for an event (at least for this fandom and blog). I seldom do these challenges because I tend to procrastinate for too long and forget to write before the due date.
When I finally finished the initial edit of this fic this morning, I almost entertained the idea of extending this fic, maybe by writing a second part of this story and incorporating a few more prompts in the Gazfest. But I have way too many WIPs to pay attention to, an original manuscript I need to start working on (and another one I need to edit), and I need to prepare for my final year of college too - so this is all I can offer, I am afraid. Maybe I will write a continuation of this, maybe I will write things from Gaz's perspective, but I won't be able to finish it in time, I am afraid. But I hope you enjoyed reading it, just like I enjoyed writing it. :)
Also, nevermind the title. I suck at naming things and I suck with names - can never get it right anyway. (also the Taylor Swift song being used as a title was purely coincidental - I swear on it)
warning - Just some light angst. Nothing graphic, as far as I can remember.
word count - 1.1k
AO3 Version
note -
This is a product of a medicine reacting badly + with migraine + sleep deprivation. I am unhinged and I regret nothing, except for not proofreading this fic before posting. Bone apple tit, y'all!
You can tell that Kyle is falling out of love with you.
Distance seems to have that effect on people it seems - it has the strange ability to turn companions who have promised each other affection for an eternity and more into mere strangers in the blink of an eye.
You had sworn to yourself that you won’t let this happen to you.
And you’re failing miserably.
His deployments now last for months (going as far as stretching up to six or more months), and sometimes you forget what he looks like - his face turning into a blank haze of nothing as you desperately look at photographs you have of him and you try to remember the love of your life between hysterical sobs. He’s eager to please his squad and make his leader proud (you had met Price only once and he had seemed a kind enough man, and he cared deeply about Gaz) and despite your objections, you swallow your words and see him off with a watery smile and a light kiss against his cheek.
You rarely call, and his muffled voice from the mobile speaker sounds foreign to you as he promises to return home to you safe and sound. You hum at him, not entirely trusting his light promises and the background noise of your television sounds more convincing anyway. Otherwise, the pre-recorded sound of his voicemail message greets your ears whenever you muster up the courage to give him a ring, and when the beep follows soon after, you find yourself staring dejectedly at the phone in your hand before you press the red button to end the call.
It’s easier to text him, easier to pretend over carefully typed out letters and words over the small screen device than to admit to yourself that the grasp you had over this frail relationship is slackening. The man of your life turns into someone different, someone unfamiliar day by day and you’re not sure you can fight fate for the demise it has in store for your relationship.
He comes back after eight months of distance and unbearable silence.
You’re a light sleeper, so you feel his warm arms wrap around your waist tightly and you breathe lightly and pretend that he has not just dragged you close so that his bare chest touches your back as he falls asleep in a proper bed for the first time in almost a year.
You act as if you didn’t notice how his arms hold you more out of force of habit than out of love. How he didn’t gently wake you up with a soft kiss against your skin, reverent as he turns you over to face him and let him memorize each square inch of your very being, memorize the love his heart holds solely for you.
In the morning, it is strange to see him occupy the empty spaces that rightfully belong to him - the chair beside yours at the dinner table, the extra pile of war books he has recently borrowed from the local library, and his aftershave and toiletries all stocked up in the vanity cabinet of the bathroom. You’re not used to it.
The atmosphere at your home is stifling - you can tell he’s trying to make up for lost time; he invites you to the sofa to watch a romance movie, like you used to. He offers to order takeout for dinner, and even tries to fix up your car engine that keeps on whirring weirdly. You politely refuse his kind offers to assist you throughout the day with a myriad of excuses - legitimate and forged (the idea of spending time with Kyle making your heart ache).
All this progress for naught, you think.
Things will go back to the way they used to be when his burner phone rings with a familiar number and his captain summons him back for another long mission. You pity him, really.
A high-stake job where he could lose his life, and a girlfriend he could not fully commit himself to; a shitty girlfriend who’d always want more out of him like a bottomless pit of despair and want - more love, more attention, more time.
More More More More-
No wonder he doesn’t love you anymore.
When you come back home from work, you find Kyle plating up takeout from your favorite Vietnamese place - pho, bánh xèo, and cao lau noodles. He invites you to eat first before you dress down into PJs and go to bed. The food is steaming hot, and he laughs as you burn your tongue on the steaming broth. It reminds you of when you first fell in love with him.
He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and you cannot help but blush at the gesture as he asks you to pick out a movie for both of you to watch while he cleans up the plates and the takeout bags set on the dining table. He settles down beside you as you press play and watch ‘How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days’ before you settle in for the night.
What an apt choice, you think in dry amusement as you curl up on the sofa and cover yourself up with the throw blanket kept nearby.
The warmth of another body sitting beside you is welcoming yet unfamiliar. Kyle focuses his sharp eyes on the screen and his arm slowly stretches behind you until he finally gets the claw clip out of your hair and his deft fingers curl up into your scalp, gently massaging your stress away. You almost melt at the gesture, your spine tingling with comfort and pleasant shivers as your boyfriend plays with your hair at intervals for the duration of the movie.
There’s an air of finality in the room that you can feel as you lean onto your boyfriend’s firm shoulder, your head resting on him as your heavy eyes focus on the stream of color and blur of characters the big television screen reflects back to you and illuminate the otherwise dark room with.
You know what will follow next after the night is over. You’ve worried and cried and mourned over the untimely death of your relationship for weeks now. Your tears have dried up, and despite the sweet gestures Kyle bestows you with, you know that this will just make it harder for you to deal with the final blow. His sweetness just makes it harder for you to deal with all of it. You’d rather deal with him being mad, or being an insufferable asshole - anything that will make it easier for you to accept the end of your wonderful relationship, instead of him being his amazing self after so long and giving you a glimpse of the past you so cherish and miss dearly.
But for tonight, for your sake and his, you play pretend that everything is alright. This is just another night of the many nights you have spent with Kyle. Everything is alright, and Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick is still madly in love with you, as you are with him.
Reader's callsign is Artemis and Gaz calls reader 'Artie' affectionately.
No pronouns used so far. (unless my sleepy self missed any, for that I apologize. But I usually write for female or femme presenting readers.)
Reader is written as POC, although I haven't mentioned any racial features except maybe one mention of their skin color.
Gaz and Artemis are like more than best friends but not a couple per se? If my brain can keep up, I might work out a mini-series out of this, who knows.
Also, I HC that Gaz is a mama's boy and has a younger sister named Bianca, who he's like very close to. This headcanon is so dear to my heart (T_T)
I wish I could be more prosy, more poetic with this piece cuz that's what Gaz deserves. But it's already late at night and I need to sleep before I go out with my friends so this'll do (until I get fed up and re-write this a year from now lmaooo).
I was going to leave this untitled but AO3 needs a title in order for me to publish this so I guess...this oneshot is called 'in between' ig? bon appetite y'all
word count - 1.9k
AO3 Version
You can see he’s thinking again.
The bar is filled with only a few patrons. Price is quietly nursing his whiskey on the one end of the bar table as he quietly talks into the phone(probably talking to Laswell) and observes his subordinates - namely Soap and Ghost engage in a captivating game of billiards. As far as you can observe, Soap is too impatient and Ghost is taking advantage of his restlessness and leading the score. Gaz sits beside you, one of his warm, deft hands nursing his own glass of bourbon and yet, his eyes show that he’s a thousand miles away from you, somewhere you cannot reach him.
You want to be where he is.
Your thigh touches his, gentle and unassuming and you let him warm you up. The team needed a pick-me-up after the brutal mission and what better way to loosen up than to drink the night away?
But you can tell that even drinking heavy or watching Soap bicker with the usually dry Lieutenant about pool will not be enough for your Sergeant to forget all that had transpired this past week. You don’t blame him for it.
The mission is all you can think about.
It was pretty smooth-sailing - you got trustworthy intel, thanks to Laswell and so you planned an ambush to get a weapon cache, and trace an infamous cartel leader deep in Russia, hiding with his lackeys in bumfuck nowhere. And then things went south halfway through extraction, forcing you to barely get hold of the cache before you made a run for it - which led to you taking a bullet to the thigh while you covered Kyle and Price from roaming hostiles who spotted all of you because of a small error on your Gaz’s part.
Luckily the bullet had just grazed you, and Ghost helped you patch up with the first aid kit they kept in the helicopter. Throughout it all, Garrick had his eyes downcast as he barely spoke while you rode away back to base. After landing, Price took a meeting and dismissed you just as fast, ordering you to go get your leg checked at the infirmary. Gaz followed you to the doctors - barely speaking despite your attempts at lighting up his sour mood. The moment you sit down on the cold bed and allow the nurse to take a look at your injury, you see the quiet man abandon you in the medical bay - but not before your eyes meet his, full of sorrow and remorse and a hint of something indecipherable.
You know what guilt does to a man.
The silence is killing you now.
Sure, Soap is possibly the most outgoing out of your lot, and sometimes you’re even surprised at how your Lieutenant can make you choke on your own breath by making you laugh at his terrible jokes; and yes, Price and his odd way of comforting you works too. But all you want this instant is for your best friend to look at you like he always does (eyes brimming with mirth and warmth - so much so that you can get drunk off of it alone), you want to hear what he has to say about the faux rivalry between Soap and Ghost, you want him to ask Price to join you as he orders you another fruity mocktail because you’re the DD of the night (there’s a rotation set for it and it’s your turn now), you want him to drag your chair close and feel his body press to your side closer still as he talks about how his mother is, or what his sister is up to - you miss them, you really do.
(He was nice enough to take you to them off-duty once and his mother apparently approved of you for her son, which you consider to be honor of the highest degree, especially from your best friend’s only guardian no less. His sister had been accepting too, roping you in to stay for the night and you all ended up having a self-care night - watching movies in nothing but soft robes, face masks and eating hot cheetos while Bianca did your nails and Gaz laid with his head in your lap, your free hand softly massaging his curls. And you all looked the epitome of domesticity )
“Penny for your thoughts?” you nudge him with your elbow that was previously resting on the table, and you break whatever reverie he might’ve been immersed in for the majority of the night. You’re tired and you want your Kyle back.
You almost laugh at yourself, as you remember an old memory back from when you were new to the team and were not used to the British currency at all. You want to recall that memory to Gaz and watch him laugh, see his eyes crease into little moons that take away your breath every single time(you can never get used to the sight, never get used to him), hear the soft chuckle as he points out how silly it was for you to not know how pounds work. You’d rack your brain, settling for a half-hearted jab at him about him being British as you both laugh the night away, maybe joining your teammates for a round or two at the pool table.
But you know now is not the time for that.
You watch him intently, watch his brows furrow up as he closes in on himself, giving you barely a chance to penetrate his walls without setting off his defenses. You playfully shove at his shoulder, drawing his attention to you instead of whatever train of thought is running incessantly in his head.
“It’s all cool, man”, you say and you cringe at yourself internally. You have never been good at comforting others - you rough-house, you use sharp words and sharper knives, given your field of work. You have never been blessed with someone treating you with a kindness you know you’re wholly unworthy of. So you have no idea how to deal with someone like him.
He looks at you before his gaze flutters around your vicinity, dark pupils looking black under the dim yellow lights and his skin golden under the overhead bulbs (his skin against yours casts a nice contrast, despite the differences and the scars and burns - despite everything). You gently clasp his hand in yours, squeezing it in your palm as you look at him, unblinking and intense. He cannot take his eyes off of you even if he wanted to.
You whisper to him, leaning closely so he can hear you over the jeering of his teammates, the buzzing of patrons and the background droning of the TV as it plays a recording of a football match from last season.
“It’s not your fault”.
He swallows a lump in his throat, and you watch as his eyes turn just a tad bit glassy. He’s close but he won’t cry. He never cries, not in public at least.
He nods, and speaks, his voice throaty and scratchy and still him:
“I know, Artie. I know.”
He squeezes your hand back, the warmth emanating from his deft fingers grounding you as he continues speaking, “I know it’s not my fault. You’ve told me that. Heck, Price has told me the same, and yet…”
He drawls, and you almost lose focus because of how nice he sounds, because it has been a long day and you’re grateful that you can finally talk to your closest companion again, and so you nod in support, allowing him to talk, to cool off. Whatever he needs, you’d give him all in a heartbeat.
“I know you’re not mad, and you don’t think it’s my fault. And yet, you almost died cuz I was too dumb to check my ‘9 and Lord knows how sorry I am for that”, his voice is thick with remorse and unshed tears as he looks at you earnestly for forgiveness, for redemption.
But he doesn’t need those.
You shake your head, drawing circles on his wrist with your thumb as you quietly mumble at him, “ ‘s not your fault, Kyle. Moreover, that’s what friends are for. Saving each others’ asses is part of the job, and I’m too attached to yours to stop saving you now”.
Your other hand cups his cheek gently, wiping away at his eyes and you watch enamored as he blinks away a few small, stray tears and your thumb gently swipes them away without a question.
“So you like my ass, huh? That it, Artemis?” he jokes, and you can just softly laugh as you ruffle his head, his soft curls askew due to you playing with his hair gently.
You hum contently, turning your attention to your already empty glass, before looking back at your teammate expectantly.
“Also, who would buy me fruity, expensive drinks when I can’t have a lick of alcohol?” you jest, slowly pulling away from him as you sit and face the bar instead of him, failing to notice how he almost chases after your touch.
“Is that all I am to you, Artie? A means to an end? Someone who can get you freebies?” he laughs breathily, asking the bartender for a refill for you as he recovers from the withdrawals he feels at the lack of your gentle, familiar touch.
“Well it’s either pampering me, or dealing with Ghost behind the steering wheel” you both wince slightly at that, remembering the few times you have both survived Ghost and his impeccable driving skills.
You know that he’s far from over it, the mission is still something he’ll possibly worry about for as long as he can think - but you can see him ease up a little due to your antics. He’ll be alright, you assure yourself as you clink your glass with his, smiling at him as you slowly talk more and he shares all the stuff Bianca has been up to. He shows you the produce his Ma has just harvested from her home garden, and you marvel at how big her home-grown pumpkin is.
As you laugh and whisper to each other, your eyes travel to the end of the table and you lock eyes with your beloved Captain (now free from his long phone call), as he raises his glass to you and drinks - a small gesture of gratitude for getting his favorite Sergeant out of his head for the night.
You feel your ears warm up in embarrassment as you try to avoid the keen gaze of your Captain and focus on your friend right now. You think about how much he has observed - the soft, hushed words, the casual touches, the lingering looks of yours that carried love and yearning and something more for Kyle and no one else. You wonder if he’d reprimand you, give you a reminder about being a soldier and how fraternization with your comrades will not end well for you. But he says nothing - he doesn’t get up and chide you, he turns away from you both and instead focuses on Soap and Ghost as they bicker over who won the last round. You’re almost thankful to him for that, as your attention turns back to Kyle (your dearest Kyle, the only thing who keeps you going on days when your job gets too much for your brain to handle) and as he animatedly gushes about his family and talks about how you both need to go back home and try out his Ma’s famous pumpkin pie she’s making this weekend, you can only think about one thing only.
You would die for this man, easily.
You wonder if this is how Icarus felt when he was too close to the Sun. Not fear, but endless warmth and safety engulfing him just moments before he fell.
ik I said I'd be working on the Mafia AU fanfic I have just released and am planning for TF-141.....but a/b/o au....the trust issues, the abandonment, the exclusion from the pack....the slow burn, the care and pack bonding......the eventual groveling.....I-
