Sometimes you linger a little too long, a bit like the smell of rain clinging to streets even if the sun is shining again
Poly!141 x reader
Synopsis:
Maybe you aren't really there to them; you do not exist to any of them, but not because you are some top secret weapon or an enemy lurking in the shadows that they have yet to identify. No, your existence might just be a little too small for these four men.You're not so stupid as to not understand that their world is not yours, you are not a soldier you won't ever be. So you settle for lingering.
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A/N: I’m back from whatever hiatus I was on, and I bring an actual fic with me, not just a oneshot. This was originally posted on my ao3 but I'm rewriting parts so as I do that I'll upload the chapters here too. This will have fluff and angst in equal measures, but not for now.
Tags/warnings: No warnings apply for this chapter, beyond the fact reader yearns for what they can’t have and the 141 will seek to drag them down into their world with them anyways.
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Maybe you aren't really there to them; you do not exist to any of them, but not because you are some top secret weapon or an enemy lurking in the shadows that they have yet to identify.
No, your existence might just be a little too small for these four men, who regularly pride themselves with saving entire countries, to notice. Maybe you're in the background somewhere, filling a role that is just important enough to exist but not important enough to exist to them. But they exist to you, obviously enough. There's barely anyone on base they don't exist to. Four burly men, commanding obedience with their presence. Four men you get to see from only a distance, even while standing in the very same room as them. A natural distance, one you can't really get past, a distance you've accepted as law.
You work, you watch, you observe. You're not so stupid as to not understand that their world is not yours, you are not a soldier you won't ever be. So you settle for lingering. Watching. Observing.
Observing how after a particular mission Price's hand sometimes twitches while he grabs the documents you just delivered him. How his hand stiffens, his knuckles whiten just a tad before he can get his muscles to do what they're supposed to. He's not getting old; he's adamant about that, really. Just the wear and tear you get when fighting in countless battles. Someone should tell him he is getting old, and that it's okay to be getting old. There's no shame in it, he should know. It's not your place to tell him, or even speak to Price at all. You settle for watching.
Watching how Ghost's left knee does not support him as it's supposed to. A bare half a second of a sway, unnoticeable…controlled. He's the lieutenant; an old injury should not hold him back. The balaclava hides his grimace, not the way his shoulders draw up just the tiniest bit. You're an observer; you notice how they do.
Notice how Soap seems to always be cold, almost freezing. Even in the hottest weather, you've caught him shivering. Caught him tightening his jacket. Maybe he's cold naturally, maybe he feels haunted by memories you don't share, could and would never truly understand. You've never spoken more than three words to Sergeant MacTavish; maybe you never will. That is not your job. Neither is analyzing any of them. But you do. Out of curiosity.
It's why you notice Gaz crinkling his nose at the food slightly. But only particular food, a dish served sometimes. The texture you guess. It was the disgustingly dry fish they served with a mystery sauce of a taste you have yet to identify as anything beyond grease. He looks almost cute, you think. In the way a kid does when they refuse broccoli.
Sometimes you linger a little too long, a bit like the smell of rain clinging to streets even if the sun is shining again. And you find yourself leaving a cream that relaxes muscles in Price's office on one of your tours to deliver some files from the archive. You find yourself watching Ghost a bit closer, figuring out that it's when he kneels to aim he's in pain, so you leave some knee pads next to his locker in the gym room, all accidentally. You catch yourself making sure the blankets in the common room are always there, even during summer, and make sure there's one extra, in case Soap is too late to catch one of the few strewn across the couches during winter. And on those particular days when they serve fish with that horrid texture, you find yourself leaving a few coupons for a few different takeout places behind in Sergeant Garrick's office when you deliver him files from the archives. You catch yourself lingering, like the faintest petrichor.
They figure out what's going on, slowly. Of course they did, men like they were would notice when things were amiss, even if the changes were convenient to them. At first they point fingers at each other, cracking a joke or two at the fact they cared too much and had grown soft towards one another. But then it's quick they notice that none of them left the other what they found, not that they'd ever have the time to in the first place. Price is the first to connect the dots, a little at least. Somewhere there exists someone, out of their peripheral. Someone who cares, and yet they don't know them. It's... comforting, they suppose, and creepy. They all agree it is at least a little creepy, but also almost cute. They don't know who you are, but they're on your case now. They'll find you, find the cute little office angel. Or maybe they won't. How much longer can you linger, how close to a world not meant for you can you get before you're dragged into it and never let out again? You exist to them now, not by name or face nor a real identity. In their minds you're an office angel, and they'll move heaven and earth to figure out just who you are.
(n.) the colours and stars you see when rubbing your eyes. Sometimes they linger.
Poly!141 x reader
There’s a world, just outside of your reach exists a world you should never reach for. There are four men in that world, four soldiers you do not exist to. Different solar systems gravitating around different stars. You do not exist to them, not because you are some guarded secret or an enemy to yet discover. No, you fill a role important enough for it to exist, but not to them. Not yet.
Or: The author selfindulges with poly!141 and an archivist!reader too kind for their own good.
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A/N: This is the masterpost for my Tf141 fic, I originally posted the first few chapters on my ao3, but I'm reworking them and as I do so I'll post them here too
Tags: Fluff, Poly!141, non canon compliant unless it’s very suddenly convenient to me, there's angst but only a little, reader is not referred to by Y/N and will be referred to by they/them, in case of smut there will be two versions of the same chapter one with afab anatomy for reader one with amab anatomy, no beta reader we die like…that’s a spoiler, Ghoap happens, GazPrice happens, the 141 are in love and stubborn, reader is worse.
Synopsis:"Go on then, little doe. I know you're gonna run off at the first chance given." He was right, and you hated that. You hated the nickname given to you more. You wanted to tell him off, curse Simon out for calling you that, but you also liked living a tad too much to do so.
Or: Reader gets caught and a nickname. Their little game of cat and mouse is on.
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A/N: Chapter two of Phosphenes, bet you didn't expect that huh? We're staying with the fluff for another day but I won't make the same promise forever.
Tags/Warnings: No warnings apply beyond bad Scottish(I tried my best). Fluff and banter happens.
Taglist: @joyfulllittlething
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For a few weeks, closer to three months, you manage to keep up your game, sneaking about and leaving presents while keeping your head low. Though if you are honest to yourself it wasn't ever meant to last long anyways, was it? You had four of the scariest soldiers on your trace. Hunting you down to personally thank you all while you were busy leaving behind little gestures of kindness.
Bottled water in Ghost's gym bag, because you noticed he keeps forgetting to refill his and complains about it; a stash of snacks in Soap's desk, since he keeps staying late to finish reports; a new cigar or two for Price after every mission since you know he blasts through them. You buy weaker ones on purpose. You could at least try to wean him off.
It's Gaz who catches you in the act of leaving him new, fresh, and clean stuff to clean his guns; the old rag he used was filthy, you decided, so he needed new cleaning supplies. "You!" The sergeant exclaims, and you freeze. You're not meant to be part of their world, never meant for them to figure out you even really exist. "You're the one who's been leaving us stuff, right?" He questions, crowding you a little against his desk, and really you're left stunned. Gaz doesn't sound angry; you at least hope so.
"I am? I can stop if it's inconveniencing you four—" Within seconds, the sergeant looks like a kicked puppy, as if the possibility of losing your little gifts was a fate worse than death. "No, please! That's not what we think, I promise." It's almost adorable how dejected he looks, you think, and then weasel past him anyways. "Well I gotta go." And with that, you're off again, back to the safety of your archives. You don't exist in their world; you're not for them, and they're not for you. That much you understood. They didn't, though.
"I swear. Cute little thing. Dunno where they went after I caught them. Like a little fawn getting spooked and running off." Gaz explains, all chipper and proud of himself, that by sheer chance he had been the one to catch their 'Office Angel' red-handed. "Think they're one o' the secretary birds?" Soap suggests, offhandedly far too busy sifting and sorting through the snacks you had left him. "Nah, they're all too prim and proper. And they don't like us very much, thanks to you, Johnny." Gaz reminded, not too pleased about the reputation Soap had earned the sergeants with his incessant flirting. "Cannae be one of the lunch lasses either. Nothing cute 'bout those. I love them wi' me heart and soul still. But grease s' not exactly a very sweet perfume." Soap huffed, tossing one of the chocolate bars he didn't like over to Gaz.
"They smelt more like old books than grease. Cute lil thing probably works in the archives." He decided, a wicked grin on his face. "Yer gonna tell the Captain tha' too Kyle?" Soap asks, finally looking up to catch that glint in Gaz's eyes. That dangerous sparkle told him his friend had an idea. "Something like that. I'll get our little fawn somewhere we can all thank them, personally. Pretty thing deserve it." Gaz decides, as if he had the power to simply reign over your fate like that.
It's Ghost who catches you next, the cream against pain you kept delivering Price still in your hand as he opens the door to the office. "Captain, about—" He catches himself, catches you, and both of you freeze. "You're the little angel? Kyle was right." Ghost doesn't elaborate; you still don't move.
While Gaz was one of the more approachable sergeants, Ghost was a different story. Not one man on base was as infamously scary as the big, broody sack of emotional unavailability dubbed Simon Riley standing in front of you. "Go on then, little doe. I know you're gonna run off at the first chance given." He was right, and you hated that. You hated the nickname given to you more. You wanted to tell him off, curse Simon out for calling you that, but you also liked living a tad too much to do so.
"So Gaz tattled, did he? Tell him he's not getting anything for that for the next four weeks." You decide, cruel maybe. Or maybe just taunting a little. Messing with them now that you've conditioned these burly men to be expecting little presents and gifts at every other turn. Ghost lets you leave, texting Gaz right after. And if you catch the sound of his phone blowing up with, most likely, very angry messages, you pretend not to hear or giggle to yourself while skipping down the hallway.
You exist to them. At least in their periphery, you now do. What you didn't expect from that outcome is how bastardly Ghost was when he wanted to be. The first time you find a little thank-you note on your desk, signed by all of them, you almost find yourself nauseous. It gets worse from there, but not really.
Apparently Riley didn't tattle about where you worked, or so you hoped. None of them ever showed up at your desk even after a maybe too big present for Price; they don't. Even if Soap is whining in the little thank-you notes to make it up to you personally because you made sure he has a supply of heating patches, your newest idea to combat his freezing tendencies. They don't show up. Maybe because they don't know or maybe because Ghost told them not to. And for the longest time, you're thankful for that.
Until Ghost does show up unannounced, standing at your desk with a small bag that has tissue paper at the top. "From the others. Please take it, or I'll have two very whiny sergeants in my ear." He declares, and you stand there for a second looking at the bag and then at the man awkwardly holding it out to you, and somewhere in your dumbfoundedness, you manage a small "Thank you," and do grab the bag, finding all sorts of niceties inside. Lavender body wash, a mint-scented candle, a pack of green tea, and little honey pearls to dissolve in said tea. "Stay hidden for a while longer, will you, little doe? It's entertaining." You want to be mad at Ghost, mad he called you that nickname again, but he doesn't even give you the chance, disappearing as quickly as he appeared. It leaves you with the bag, the tissue paper, and the gifts standing there at your desk dumbfounded.
You suppose you will indulge Ghost and play this game, just for a little while longer.
Why do you catch yourself so concerned over men who don't even know your name?
Poly!141 x reader
Synopsis: "Sod off, you bloody therapist." Price decides that that was his answer to Kyle, but instead of pushing his friend away, he drags him against his side, arm wrapped around the other man's waist. "I'd kill for a batch of those brownies right now." John adds quietly, content with holding his sergeant to his chest for a while. Ensure he's alive and well while he fantasizes about what you're doing on the other side of the world.
Or: The author finally finds use in the fact that the 141 are soldiers.
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A/N: Silly, aren't we?
Tags: Descriptions of wounds, Descriptions of each of the 141 injured or potentially dying(they don't! I still need them.) A little fluff to sweeten it up again. There's a cat.
Taglist: @joyfulllittlething @c4s4nova
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You keep your game up, the hunt going, as best as you truly can. For one, because it's entertaining to you. The challenge behind it, to be sneaking about and not let yourself be caught by men trained to spot when something is amiss. On the other side of the bargain, you also keep this up because you found it strange that your little acts of kindness were so appreciated. As if nobody before thought to show compassion to the men saving the world as their daily job.
So you keep it up. And it's adding another level of challenge too, one that's self imposed. Simple gifts don't feel right anymore so you personalize a few of them. Self-knitted socks for Soap. You had taken to knitting in your break time to keep busy and not go stir crazy in the stuffy archives. A batch of brownies you baked last night when you couldn't sleep for Gaz, with a note to let you know if the team had any preference for other sweet baked goods. Ghost and Price got variations of the same little present, really. Wooden boxes you had spent time carving little details into, one for cigarettes and one for cigars.
The details were clumsy, unpracticed hands making woodworking all the harder, but they were your work, and you allowed yourself a semblance of pride over it as you left them for the two. All these things, as homemade and meaningful as they are, take time.
Time meant the inevitable would happen, and suddenly all four were gone. Off on a mission you'd never be privy to know about, for the first time in a way you actively noticed. Off to save the world, and here you were sitting in the archives, sorting files you had no permission to read. They'd gone on missions before in the last few months, but you'd never noticed as much or found yourself so lost in thought when it happened. Wondering. How are they doing? Are they fine?
For some strange reason, the thought of Gaz with a bullet in his side, of Soap stood on a landmine with one foot frozen for eternity to not blow up waiting for someone to rescue him, of Ghost with a knife in his gut, of Price barely winning a fight, muscles blocking in the worst moment possible, those images your mind conjured up left you feeling uneasy.
Silly, you try to scold yourself. They are soldiers; they know how to handle themselves. Silly, you try and fail to scold yourself and send those thoughts away. Silly, you scold yourself wondering just why exactly it was you cared for them. You hadn't spoken much more than three sentences with these men in total. Sure enough, you had watched them. And you'd decided to be kind to them. So now about seven or so odd months into your game of cat and mouse, why do you catch yourself so concerned over men who don't even know your name?
All four of them were miserable. Price's patience had run out two days in because the intel was faulty, and they were forced to retreat to a safe house, both Soap and Ghost nursing wounds from barely missed bullets. So now they were stuck, hundreds of miles away from base, trying their damndest to salvage the mission. In short, they were miserable.
Enough so that when Gaz caught Price on his second cigar that afternoon, unlike before, he decided to join his captain, sat down next to him at the windowsill, and looked outside. "Do you think our little doe is keeping themselves entertained while we're gone?" He'd murmur after a while, and God, Price hated how easy it was for Gaz to speak about something so irrelevant, something that would finally distract him at least a little.
"Probably. Keeping themselves busy by finding increasingly more ridiculous things to give to us, Johnny is still wearing those damn socks." The captain murmured half into his beard in an effort to not sound too fond of you. "It's sweet. It means they care for us enough to put in the effort. Don't pretend like you weren't wolfing down those brownies, Cap'." Kyle reminds him, a soft-spoken tease and a gentle reminder that Price was allowed to feel fondness. He was also only a person at the end of the day, and even if Ghost would vehemently deny it till he died, all four of them craved affection and attention like yours. Lonely bastards is what they are, the lot of them, even if they had each other.
"Sod off, you bloody therapist." Price decides that that was his answer to Kyle, but instead of pushing his friend away, he drags him against his side, arm wrapped around the other man's waist. "I'd kill for a batch of those brownies right now." John adds quietly, content with holding his sergeant to his chest for a while. Ensure he's alive and well while he fantasizes about what you're doing on the other side of the world.
You, in your blissfully peaceful life, were trying and failing to figure out how to embroider. You'd already gifted Gaz a fresh set of cleaning supplies, but they'd been unpersonalized, store-bought. So here you were in your living room, the big orange golden furball of a cat you called your own curled up next to you, swiping at your threads occasionally while you suffered. Embroidery was not as easy as you had yourself convinced it was.
Eventually you manage four sets of cleaning supplies for gun maintenance. Each of them had a folded-up rag in there, with 141 and a little image embroidered. A cartoon ghost for, well… Ghost, a couple of bubbles of soap for Soap, a cigar for the Captain, and a very crude image of Gaz's cap for him. You'd made little woodworking projects again too to have four boxes to store them in.
And all the while you were sitting there, on your living room floor, desperately trying to convince yourself you did this because the four of them would need to maintain their guns, of course. That this was a convenience to them after the mission. That you only did this to make their lives easier. Not because you cared, not because you actually wanted to do nice things for them to show them affection.
No. No, absolutely not ever. That'd be silly, wouldn't it? You do not belong to their world; you are not part of it; you should never become part of it. Slowly the lines are blurring, and you find yourself unable to even tell how far you're into their world and how far they've snuck into yours. And maybe in between all the convincing yourself how silly you are, how naive you have to be and how stupid for you to find such feelings for men who were definitely not good for you, you admit all to yourself and the softly purring cat besides you that maybe you do miss the four of them, maybe just a little.
Synopsis: "The boys know, little doe. They know, don't worry, luv. Wouldn't be a good Captain if I didn't tell them or worry about them half as much as I do." Price finally answers, and you swear he's choking on a full belly laugh at your expression. You want to see him laugh. You want to see him happy. You want to see all four of them happy. You want to—Stop that train of thought and kick this voice right to the other in a cage locked away at the back of your mind.
Or: Price meets reader and they talk because for once, you won't be allowed to flee.
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A/N: Welcome to Nick's personal John Price has unfair amounts of sex appeal agenda. It's unfair, it's unjust, I need him to also pour whiskey for me even if I don't drink any. I apologize for stopping the a chapter every two days thing, I have to like do adult stuff and work and get my degree I suppose. Take John Price as an apology for that and the slight angst from last chapter.
Tags: Mentions of alcohol, fluff, a slightly sexual undertone from readers thoughts, no other warnings apply.
Taglist: @joyfulllittlething @c4s4nova
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By the grace of some deity, whichever one was still willing to help them, Price and his ragtag band of idiots make it back to base in one piece, not entirely with the mission accomplished but at least with a good wad of intel he could give Laswell whenever they met for debrief. Right now Price was busy chasing off the other three, telling them to shower and sleep and destress before they'd have an actual debrief tomorrow morning.
The Captain himself? Right to his office, where he planned on Bourbon and paperwork, a cigar maybe, just to instead find you red-handed with the last little cleaning kit, placing it on his desk. "Well, isn't that a nice welcome?" The gruff voice makes you freeze and slowly turn around, looking at the Captain like he was a ghost. And then you melt a little because he's back and alive, and a little traitorous voice in your head tells you these feelings are stupid. That you have no reason or right to care as much as you do. You ignore it. "Well, do you wanna tell me what you're doing in my office, little doe?" You still hate that nickname. Price can probably tell from the way your eyes narrow just a little, but you relax quickly. Don't lash out at him; you could be mean to Soap and Gaz but never to the Captain. "I think with that question you know exactly why I'm here. I saw the state of Kyle's cleaning supplies. Got all of you a kit. Thought that'd only be fair." You offer in return, and there's that urge to dash and flee, but Price was blocking the exit, bastard man that he was. "Mhm, you have. Sit." The Captain ordered, pointing towards the chair in front of his desk. You swallow. Fleeing is not an option; insubordination towards a captain, even as a mere archive worker, was a serious offence. So against all instincts you sit, prim and proper, straight like a candle on that chair and wait, all while Price seems to have all the time in the universe to saunter around the room and grab a bottle of Bourbon and two glasses. He finally sits but doesn't speak, so neither do you, and you wait and watch with bated breath as he pours the drink.
A traitorous voice in your mind, a different one than usual, is screaming about the unfairness. That a simple act should not have this much sex appeal.
You silence it with a heavy swallow, and maybe Price interprets that as nervousness, so finally he speaks. "Calm down, little doe. I just want to talk; you're not in trouble." He doesn't look at you as he speaks; you are busy chasing away thoughts that add a traitorous little 'yet' at the end of Price's statement. "I just need to know why you do it. That's all." He continues, pushing one of the glasses over to you. "I—" Strange. Why were you doing it? Why can't you just tell? Why don't you know? Staring into the Bourbon isn't giving you the answer either, so instead you raise the glass carefully and nip on the amber-coloured drink. It burns in your throat, and before you speak, you have to cough just a little. "I guess I saw you four—that sounds creepy—I'm not a stalker, I swear, but it'd be more difficult to not see you four because you guys are like massive presences?" You stumble through that more than you did your first biology presentation in high school. Price has the audacity to laugh, but the politeness to hide it in a cough and then reduce it to a smirk against the rim of his glass.
Sex appeal, that voice screams, you beat it back into its cage where it's left to gnaw on the bars. "Yeah anyways—I saw you guys, but after a while I also saw that you're all struggling. All four of you. In idiotic, stubborn ways you won't speak up about. Lieutenant Riley's old knee injury; bet he hasn't told you about it making problems. And I doubt you told any of them about your muscle spasms, Captain. But I guess I just saw and thought that you four keep on risking your lives and doing everything in your power to keep as much of the peace as you can. You deserve kindness." Price doesn't laugh, and he's not smirking anymore either. He just listened. You can't for the life of you remember the last time any high-ranking officer on this base ever listened to you talk for so long. Even if you insulted him. Oh god. You insulted Price and his men; the thought of the potential fallout fills you with such dread it makes you pale, then blush, then hide, or at least try to hide by finding sudden interest in the contents of your glass.
"The boys know, little doe. They know, don't worry, luv. Wouldn't be a good Captain if I didn't tell them or worry about them half as much as I do." Price finally answers, and you swear he's choking on a full belly laugh at your expression. You want to see him laugh. You want to see him happy. You want to see all four of them happy. You want to—Stop that train of thought and kick this voice right to the other in a cage locked away at the back of your mind. "Honestly, I won't scold you for doing this. Just for the fact that Johnny hasn't gotten to see that cute little face of yours yet. He's a bloody menace about it; Simon has to hold him by the scruff of his neck when they pass the archives." Price continues, and slowly you relax. That wasn't a scolding; none of this was. Price was just messing with you.
"So—why am I sitting here, Captain?" You ask after a moment of watching Price swirl the Bourbon in his glass just for him to make a gruff noise. Some sort of chuckle. The bars of that enclosure are getting weak. "Company. I have a nasty stack of paperwork to fill out n' now that I know you're our little doe, I'll keep you a wee bit. It's past your hours anyways, isn't it?" All you can do is nod back weakly and then shift on that chair. Looks like you'd be here quite a while longer.
“(N.)A daydream or the condition of being lost in thought.”
Poly!141 x reader
Synopsis:It's adorable, plain and simple. He's adorable, you allow yourself to think that while you stand with him in the underwater tunnel watching two rays glide by. There's an excited sort of glimmer in his eyes, and for a moment looking at Kyle and not his scars or his rank or his uniform you could forget he's a soldier. Just for a moment Kyle Garrick is just a man on a not date because this isn't a date and he looks gorgeously alive
Or:Kyle and reader go on a not date date.
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A/N: Hello everynyan (I’m gonna find worse and worse greetings trust me) today I present to everyone here my Kyle agenda: He is the most gorgeous man to breathe and he is a nerd. This is the last at least partially prewritten chapter so I promise even less consistency, however if one(1) person can convince me to write smut next chapter I can and will.
Tags: Undertones of reader struggling with their self worth and loneliness, angst is not the main focus they are cute together that’ all.
You had been expecting worse after letting Soap know who you are, expected him to be at your desk bright and early the very next morning but no. Instead it was quiet for a long while, the ever same routine. You sneaked your gifts into places where the four would find them, Ghost came by like clockwork to bring you a gift bag. He looked tired every time he did so right after you found yourself stocking up on the tea he drank in their communal kitchenette.
It stayed like this for almost too long, so long you fell into a sense of security. One that was shattered by a pair of striking brown eyes and a chocolate melting smile to go along with it.
Gaz wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't. Ghost was tolerated because realistically, what could you do against him? Gaz wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be this close, this happy to see you. "Can I help you, Sergeant Garrick?" Your voice shook more than you'd like it to. Trembling with a sort of nervous energy you couldn't quite place. "This Friday when's your shift over, doe?" Kyle asked, smoothly ignoring the way your hands were trembling the slightest bit around the coffee mug you'd been holding. "At 5:30, why?" You had a feeling you wouldn't like the why. Whatever he'd planned in that stupidly pretty head of his you didn't like. "I'll pick you up at 5:45 then, doe. Wear something pretty alright?" Gaz didn't tell you and that feeling got worse. And then he left and you couldn't even curse him out for that slightly condescending prick comment telling you to wear something pretty. No, all you could do was stare after him, then down at your hands and finally grab your phone texting your friends about this rather unexpected development.
After an appropriate freakout from your friends, a good thirty minutes of debriefing on the situation and multiple suggested outfits, none of which you'd take because apparently your friends all decided that wherever Gaz would take you it'd be appropriate to dress like you're on your way to the club, you settled on working again.
It doesn't stop the thoughts from circling, the files you settled on sorting doing nothing to distract you from the myriad of issues your brain came up with concerning whatever it was Gaz just invited you to. Not a date, that much you decided then and there. For one, you were miles away from his league, realistically at least. If he hadn't chosen to be a soldier Kyle could just as much be a model for Calvin Klein. That train of thought has you shun your own brain right after, imagining that wouldn't ever be appropriate. Safe to say Gaz could have anyone on this base, man or woman, eating from his palm. Your brain simply couldn't agree with the concept he'd settle for a mousey little archive worker whose name he didn't even really know nor ever bothered to ask for.
Secondly you weren't meant for their world. Since the beginning that's what kept you from them and them from you. You weren't part of their world, only read of it in files left open or reports skimmed over to know where you'd put them. No, you with your one bedroom apartment in the city and a cat called Lightbulb in lieu of her not being very bright weren't part of their world. They shouldn't ever drag you in, you shouldn't let them.
A small whisper in the back of your mind begged them to become part of yours.
Your thoughts do nothing to stop the marching of time, nor do they aid in the anxiety that plagues you all week up until Friday at 5:40 pm when Kyle showed up. Your nails had long been bitten down to the nail bed, a habit you should really fix. He looked good, you have to admit but you don't say it out loud, not when the sergeant is already walking towards you with that self assured smile. "There you are, doe, looking cute just like I thought you would." Kyle greets and you resign yourself to this fate. A fate that had you walk beside Kyle, his hand splayed on your lower back as he guided you through the base, and yet his touch didn't feel invasive once. He wasn't pushing or shoving you, his hand wasn't wandering lower or gripping where it shouldn't. It was there more like an anker grounding you, like Kyle had even the slightest idea of how anxious you had made yourself about this and wanted to help.
He guided you to the parking lot and to his car, a sleek black E63 AMG that put your horrid twingo build in 2004 and held together by threads and dreams to shame. Kyle held the door open for you and slowly convincing yourself this wasn't a date got hard. It wasn't. It could be. You shouldn't think like that, even if you desperately wanted to. "Cap told us you're doing this to be nice." Kyle spoke to you so easily, like there wasn't a respectful distance you should've kept but hadn't. "We appreciate it, doe." He continues while starting the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot. "You four constantly do your best. I thought someone should recognize that and do their best for you too." You explain, and Kyle doesn't laugh, not in the way the Captain did. He smiled, a warm one that reached his eyes and showed he had dimples. God the things you'd do just to keep him smiling, keep the Captain laughing for just a little longer. That and different things. Thoughts you have to lock away in that cage you made in your mind. Why would they ever want you like that anyways? "When's the last time someone has done their best for you?" He finally asks, eyes firmly on the road even if just for a second Kyle has felt the desire to glance in your direction to catch your expression. Not that he'd expected the look you ended up wearing, nor did he end up catching it. No Kyle missed it, how there in that car for just a second you looked lost and miserable, reminded of the loneliness you'd put yourself into all by choice. It lasts no longer than his question had taken to be spoken. "You're doing your best for me right now, sergeant Garrick. I'm sure you have a busy calendar so taking me out like this must've been quite the hassle." It's said in a lighthearted tone, Kyle doesn't know you and doesn't need to listen to you whine either. Not tonight, maybe not ever.
"Where exactly are you taking me anyways?" You ask and he finally does look at you, weirdly excited. "The aquarium. I didn't think you'd enjoy dinner or the movies, you sit so much at work already." Kyle says, then turns back to the road, easily focused again. "I also thought you might look really cute getting excited over little sea critters." He admits and maybe the voice you've been very diligently beating to the back of your mind gets louder, demands to be let out and let Kyle know one too many inappropriate things. You don't let it, you wouldn't ever let it.
The drive is over before you can embarrass yourself by saying anything else, lest the voice wins and gets to escape its enclosure again. It's close though, when Kyle not only opens the door for you but also guides you, his hand returning to rest on your lower back. He doesn't say anything about it, doesn't push either. Just a touch, one you don't know where to place. You don't know how to feel about him paying either, not that he gives you time to think about it. Because in truth Kyle was definitely excited about being here himself. He's handsome for sure but you discover he's also a nerd. To every animal he recognizes, he gives you a fact, to every enclosure he has a comment on how close or not close it's decorated to the natural habitat of the critters inside. It's adorable, plain and simple. He's adorable, you allow yourself to think that while you stand with him in the underwater tunnel watching two rays glide by. There's an excited sort of glimmer in his eyes, and for a moment looking at Kyle and not his scars or his rank or his uniform you could forget he's a soldier. Just for a moment Kyle Garrick is just a man on a not date because this isn't a date and he looks gorgeously alive.
He's holding your hand while dragging you further, fingers intertwined. There's a war of thoughts in your head and you're not quite certain just the metal bar will be enough to beat them down. The two of you keep going through the aquarium slowly, Kyle making sure of that. He takes his time at every enclosure or aquarium, takes an extra moment to give you time to snap a picture.
It's 10 minutes to closing when you two leave the aquarium, Kyle leading you back to his car while he's quoting some stupid dad joke he's heard Ghost say and you giggle. Something about two goldfish in a tank, not that you can focus much on his words after his Simon impression, giggling so much you have to hold your stomach. "I prefer when you don't sound so emotionally dead I'd get more intonation from a rock." You wheeze out and in turn, Kyle also starts laughing. Infectious and warm and it does something to you. You've seen three of the four laugh, smile, be happy to be around you and it makes that damned voice in your mind practically purr from being validated. You prefer them like this. "I'll tell Lieutenant Riley you said that, he'll probably not like it." Gaz says, finally managing to open the door for you so you can sit. For the most part the ensuing car ride to your flat is filled with comfortable silence. He parks right in front of the door of the complex you live in and gets out with you too. "Did you have fun? I hope this was a welcome change of scenery; and a good thank you for what you do for us." Kyle asks and as he does he hugs you but you could swear, just for a second you saw something vulnerable in his eyes. "Yeah—yes, this was great. I loved it lots. Especially the facts you kept giving. I didn't know soldiers were that knowledgeable in fish." Your little quip earns you a huff of laughter and then before you can react, even say much of anything Kyle leans down just a little, his lips making contact with your temple. "I'm glad. I'll see you at work, little doe." He doesn't give you the time to properly process what just happens. Kyle is back in his car driving off, while your mind finally catches up and you turn a bright red.
There, all alone in front of the apartment complex you're left to spiral. There's no way a not date ends with a kiss on the forehead. You're not sure what that means, for you or for Kyle or for the game you've been playing with these men. All you know is that you will see Kyle at work, and you'll see the rest of the 141.
“Like Ghost said months ago, you flee at the first chance given.”
Poly!141 x reader
Synopsis: Soap isn't any better himself, helpless as he is in being a dog. The secretaries call him that, a nasty dog. He's not, though, really. He's not a mutt; he's not slobbering spit all over your hand whining and begging for something. He's a golden retriever or a more than a little stupid Collie. Big and boisterous, and he'd lay there on his back if someone were to offer him a belly rub. You don't, but you smile, and it's the same for Soap. He's not a nasty dog; he's not a mutt. He just likes to see the people around him even slightly entertained.
Or: Doe and Soap finally meet, but Soap doesn't know.
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A/N: Hello friends freaks and foes, today's agenda is: Soap is a dog but in the kindest way possible. That's it. For every 141 man I have an agenda and I'm making everyone read it.
Warnings/tags: brief description of Soap and reader injured but not in a graphic way, bad Scottish(I'm still trying) Soap's attempt at flirting. No other warnings apply.
A few days after the office encounter with Price, you deny yourself all thought of it lest that traitor of a voice squeals up again with nasty ideas; you find yourself in the base's infirmary. Workplace accident: nothing major, nothing traumatic, just a sprained ankle from slipping while grabbing a case of files. The nice medic gave you an ice pack and told you to sit while he'd grab an incident form, so you did.
As luck would have it, you even got entertainment in the form of a very loud Scott being rather displeased with the poor nurse sitting at the front desk. "Lass, ye cannae do this to me. Got work t'do." You recognise him as Soap immediately; not a chance in hell you'd not see that unkempt mohawk and not recognise Soap. Not to mention he was acting his very Sunday best trying to talk the nurse out of something, but to the misfortune of you, or fortune that traitor voice sings, and you want to beat it back with a stick; she remains firm and sends Soap over to sit next to you. It's then you notice that the sergeant is limping just a little, taking strain off his left leg. "A stab wound has nae killed me yet; it won't do it if I do ma work." Johnny grumbled, and you couldn't help the small giggle over it. Same idiot as always. "Maybe you should listen to the nurse; she knows best after all." You shouldn't talk to him; Soap doesn't know you after all, only about your presents, but you can't help yourself. Allow yourself the fun while you cool your ankle. Your comment makes Soap regard you for a second, and if this was a sappy little love story, you'd compliment his eyes. This is not, you beat that thought down with a lead pipe. His eyes really are pretty, though—enough. "Ach, she's just over-worrying, hen; she does it all the time." Johnny finally settles on just laughing and leaning over a bit more to you. "Just a tiny scratch; it cannae be as bad as she's making it oot to be." He continues, and it leaves you baffled, then smiling, chuckling and finally shaking your head at Soap. He's a moron, but at least a cute one. "Oh? Then why do I remember you saying it's a stab wound? Those aren't scratches, are they?" You ask back, and Soap groans out, but he doesn't look annoyed. Not really, anyway.
"Yer as bloody bad as the Cap'n hen." He huffs out, and it makes you laugh, honest and warm. "I'm sure the word you're looking for is compassion, Sergeant MacTavish." It's easy to tease him, you decide. A light-hearted sort of thing that you don't really feel about Price or Ghost. They're imposing; they command respect with every breath, and you're happy to give it to them, really. Soap feels like a boy in the grade above you in school; you should respect him, but it's less commanded to take him so very seriously. "Yer a mean little one, luv." And Soap isn't any better himself, helpless as he is in being a dog. The secretaries call him that, a nasty dog. He's not, though, really. He's not a mutt; he's not slobbering spit all over your hand whining and begging for something. He's a golden retriever or a more than a little stupid Collie. Big and boisterous, and he'd lay there on his back if someone were to offer him a belly rub. You don't, but you smile, and it's the same for Soap. He's not a nasty dog; he's not a mutt. He just likes to see the people around him even slightly entertained.
"Well, luv what they do to ya? Cannae be a stab wound too, nobody in their bloody mind would stab a pretty thing like you." Okay, maybe he is a little bit of a mutt. But no more than he should be. "Sprained ankle. Tried to reach for something and slipped. Not too bad; I'll live." You explained, and Soap made an actual thoughtful expression. Like he cared. Maybe you wanted him to care; maybe it was funnier, though, that he didn't recognise you. "Workplace safety is nae what it used t'be. Letting a pretty thing like you hurt yerself." Or maybe he was just a terribly bad flirt that makes you cringe and then giggle. Full, honest laughter, warm like with a friend. You'd missed having someone to laugh with like this. You'd never admit that. "You're gonna come save me next time, big boy?" You tease back, and maybe this time it's Johnny beating a voice back into the cage in his mind. "Yeah, I will, hen, I'll be yer personal Batman, signal n' all." is what he finally settles on. Soap's stupid little joke causes two things in you: one, you laugh at the absurdity of it. It was bad and cheesy and, at the point of being horrible enough to be good again. Like a deadpan dad joke delivered into uncomfortable silence at the breakfast table you can't keep yourself from giggling about. And secondarily, you start to feel just a little guilty. Guilty over not letting Johnny know who you are, of him being the only one left in the dark. In the beginning you had no issue with it, sure, but now it seemed to mean a thing to do to this glorified teddy bear of a man and his stupid lopsided smile you definitely didn't and shouldn't find eerily cute.
It's a medic who saves you from your troubles by finally handing you the incident form, but you can't help it. Johnny had spent the last twenty minutes talking and laughing with you, so maybe he deserved a little hint. "Are the heating patches I left in your office last week good? I know they're a different brand than usual… I couldn't get those, so I had to get these ones. I hope they're good." You stay just long enough after to see if Johnny catches on, watching as the cogs turn inside of his head, and then you're gone. Like Ghost said months ago, you flee at the first chance given.
You suppose the seeking part of this game is over now, and it's turned into a game of catch instead.
Synopsis: Johnny was singing, admittedly horribly. Some song Simon didn't recognize, he doesn't listen to that genre, admittedly. He does, however, recognize the twinkle in Johnny's eyes while he goes on and on singing about things Simon doesn't care for. He recognizes the twinkle and then, much worse, he feels something he shouldn't. Simon is straight as an arrow, undeniably so he thought. So why in this drag bar with his brother in arms up on stage, was he feeling heat pool in his stomach? Traitorous flames of arousal licking up his spine from the very bottom as if to mock him even further.
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A/N: Hello little freaks in my phone, happy pride month, sorry for disappearing I promise more phosphenes soon I've just been super busy with work. As an offering to my fellow queers and queer enjoyers: A oneshot inspired by nothing less than Andrew in Drag–The Magnetic Fields. And, it's actually not angst. Rejoice.
Warnings/Tags: No warnings, just some bad Scottish as always when I write Soap. They're both yearners, Simon just wasn't aware. Ghoap fic.
Simon isn't gay. He isn't. He can't be. Scratch that, that's a belief he's been trying to swallow and forget. But he's not gay, he's slept with women, he's liked it. He can't be gay. Right? Right. But there's been that mission. A couple of days ago. Undercover bullshit nobody would explain to him because why bother? They're all just dogs and when Price or Laswell call they heel. They jump. They bark.
But that isn't the issue, never has been. The issue is Johnny. The reason he's awake isn't not being told some detail, some reason. A why as to the what happened. No. He doesn't care. Simon didn't bat an eyelash when they'd told him he and Johnny had to go to a bar to meet with an informant. Hadn't batted an eye when he was told Johnny would have a special role to fill, because he fit it better than Simon. Until the very moment he was sitting at the bar, whiskey in hand even if he hadn't so much as glanced at the glass, Simon didn't care or assume much. He hadn't even read closer into what was happening on the stage of the bar, until a drag Queen stepped out, and the bar was suddenly all too lively. Whoops and hollering, cheering for her jokes as she explained all that would happen and that tonight they had a special performance. A newbie trying it out for the first time. That's when suddenly Simon cared. He wasn't gay, he didn't care, didn't mind all this all. Not until long after he'd gotten what they needed from the informant, Johnny stepped out on stage, dressed up in a blue dress matching his eyes and with a ridiculous blond wig that reached down to his ass.
Johnny was singing, admittedly horribly. Some song Simon didn't recognize, he doesn't listen to that genre, admittedly. He does, however, recognize the twinkle in Johnny's eyes while he goes on and on singing about things Simon doesn't care for. He recognizes the twinkle and then, much worse, he feels something he shouldn't. Simon is straight as an arrow, undeniably so he thought. So why in this drag bar with his brother in arms up on stage, was he feeling heat pool in his stomach? Traitorous flames of arousal licking up his spine from the very bottom as if to mock him even further. The show was over quickly after that and Simon hadn't said anything to Johnny, not on the way out, not on the way back to base, not before the debriefing nor after. No. He couldn't. How could he? Go and blabber, spill his heart and guts out on the metal table in front of him hoping Johnny wouldn't be disgusted, would see that past gore and anger Simon is just confused and maybe even scared? No, he'd rather die than that. So he didn't. He pushed it all down until the cold shower after, the silence in his room, until nothing was there for Simon to be distracted with and even the ceiling he was glaring holes into seemed to mock him.
Was he gay? Did this make him gay? Simon didn't know and maybe that was worse. Knowing less about yourself, having unanswered questions nobody can help you with. This wasn't some which sports team is better situation. He couldn't ask Price for his opinion, he'd be ridiculed. Couldn't go to Gaz either. What would he even say? 'Kyle, I think I got the hots for Johnny, but only if he's wearing a dress,' because it would be career-ending levels of embarrassing. The only thing left was avoiding Johnny, swallowing down his thoughts and keeping them for nights like these, where he could stare at the ceiling and forget himself in the what if's and the things that could all happen if only he had the heart to say something.
Incidentally, someone else on base was awake too, sat in his room frantically texting Gaz. Johnny had noticed the lingering stare, the way Simon's hand clenched around his whiskey glass like it owed him money. He'd seen it all because god did he have a thing for Simon. Simon who he knew, or thought was straight, so he never approached him. Never dropped a hint. But this felt different, explicitly queer in a way he couldn't explain to Kyle beyond his frantic slur of messages. About that stare, about the unusually tense silence after. Hell, there hadn't even been a single dad joke passed between them on the way back and for the first thirty or so seconds, Johnny almost assumed it was because Simon was in some way homophobic. Thirty seconds, though, was all it took for him to notice the shifting, the way Simon adjusted his position constantly. Not homophobic. No, Simon was just discovering something about himself he didn't know previously. That, too, is put into a message one of thirty by now because Gaz, like a responsible damned adult, had been asleep. Sure, Johnny's spamming took him a minute, but eventually, the other soldier did reply with a simple 'For Chris' sake, go talk to him,' Less of actual advice and more a stop bothering me and fix it yourself. So Johnny, more impulse than control, more action than consideration got up. He didn't know if Simon was awake or not, didn't care to think about it either. He was up, only half dressed, shirt undone and barefoot as he barreled down the hallways.
It's 0237 in the morning when there's a knock on Simon's door, and he has half a mind to explode at whoever disrupted his brooding and identity questioning, not that he was. He wasn't. Had no need to after all. There's an insult on the tip of his tongue when he opens the door, but a pair of striking baby blues kills it before Simon can even open his mouth to lash out. He stood there frozen while Johnny caught his breath, almost wheezing like he had run a marathon when really their barracks rooms weren't that far apart. Though with the pace his heart had going on, it felt the same. "We need ta' talk. And I willnae let ye keep ignorin' me." He finally mustered. As if he could will Simon out of the closet right there and now. And maybe he did. Maybe Johnny managed that much, since Simon didn't respond verbally, but he moved rough as he was with all the grace and finesse of a bull in a fine china store. He had Johnny in his room against the door all too quickly, standing over him as if he didn't know if he wanted to kiss or throttle the sergeant. Because he didn't know. "Wasn't ignoring you. Bloody fooking hell, Johnny, I was just—" when had Simon ever struggled so much with explaining himself? And worst of all? Johnny had that look in his eyes, that stupid look of understanding and almost pity. Something so soft it didn't fit. They had no business being soft anymore, not in their line of work. And yet when Johnny reaches up, movements slow and hesitant to give Simon all the time in the world to pull away he ends up leaning in anyways. Johnny doesn't push much beyond that, just slightly lifts Simon's balaclava over his nose so he could lean up. "Ye were tryin'? Let me help." Simon should say no, should stop this and put an end to this whole mess before he drowned himself in Johnny. He couldn't. Not when Johnny's lips were so damn soft on his own, not half as hungry or demanding as the kisses he was used to. Kind. Gentle.
Maybe Simon was gay, and maybe that would be okay, or just a thought for a different night. Not one where he was holding Johnny to his chest while he lost himself in a kiss he had denied wanting half an hour ago. For now, just for tonight this was okay and it was helping Simon realize something all too vital: he'd fucked those women sure but he'd never felt quite this content. No that sort of love seemed to be reserved only for Johnny, in or out of drag.
