#GAZFEST

[captainfern]

Morning After Dark

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x fem!reader

["Morning After Dark" by Timbaland]

[18+]

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• summary - after a mission gone wrong, gaz is very happy to see you lol. • rating - 18+ • wordcount - 4k • warnings - fem!reader, heavy pining from gaz, sub!gaz? yeah, oral [f!receiving], unprotected piv, begging, praise, fingering, this man is in love with you, strong language, a bit of violence at the start?

decided to break the writers block by writing for GazFest - go check out @glitterypirateduck and read through the other works !!

enjoy the smut lol

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The entire mission was a complete and utter disaster.

You don't even know what really happened. One moment, you had split up from your task force to clear an enemy compound. The next, the building was collapsing around you.

You struggled to get out in time. Insurgents kept you busy, emptying their mags as you sprinted down the dark hallways, alarms blaring, lights flashing. You dodged bullets that flew hot past your head, the ceiling crumbling behind you and blocking the rest of the hallway.

Your legs were burning, lungs straining, heart hammering painfully against your ribcage. You could taste dust in the air, copper coating your tongue. Black particles flew around in the air in flurries, your vision becoming increasingly blurred.

You spluttered, squinting through the flashing lights and long shadows. As you ran down the hallway, you checked each passing doorway in search of your task force. You found nothing.

The compound rocked again, another explosion sending you off your feet. You flew forward, skidding along the dust-covered floor, the air being pushed from your lungs. You took a gasping breath, crawling back to your feet as the ceiling above you fell through. You scrambled out of the way just in time, a slab of concrete slamming into the ground with an ear-splitting thud.

"Oh my god..." You breathed, shuffling backwards. You pressed at your communication collar, trying to get through to anyone.

The only voice that filled your ears was your own as you called out for your comrades. Your comms were cut, buzzing with static.

You cursed, continuing down the hallway as the compound shook and shuddered around you. You could smell smoke now, the narrow hall filling with an acrid grey cloud that made your stomach churn.

You needed to get the hell out of there.

A surge of adrenaline taking hold of you, you kicked down the nearest door. It flew off it's hinges, and you ran inside. You swept the small room, finding it clear, before you rushed towards the window. As you ran towards it, you fired your gun, the bullets shattering the glass. Then, crystal fragments of the windowpane still falling like snowflakes, you leapt out the window just as flames began ripping down the hallway behind you.

You hit the grass and rolled, slicing your arms on the shards of glass. When you stopped rolling, you lay flat on your back and took several deep breaths.

But there was no time to lay down. With adrenaline still coursing hot through your veins, you got up and ran.

•º•

You searched everywhere. For hours, you searched through the debris of nearby compounds, also returning to the one you escaped from, combing through the chunks of concrete and steel. You couldn't find any signs of your captain, lieutenant, or fellow sergeants anywhere, dead or alive. You weren't sure if that gave you hope or not.

After what seemed like an eternity, you decided to fall back from the area. You knew there was a safe house a few miles out, and you just hoped that some of your task force had made it there.

So you ran.

Usually, you would never have willingly ran that far. But your body was drunk on adrenaline, your heart pumping so fast you felt as though it'd explode out of your chest at any second. So, clutching your assault rifle, you sprinted as fast as you could continuously for several kilometres in pure darkness.

Once the adrenaline wore off, your body would be not be happy with you.

You reached the safe house in the early hours of the morning. It was still pitch black in the area surrounding the house– shadowed woodlands to one side, dark farmland to the other.

You could still taste smoke and blood in your mouth as you climbed up the front steps. Coughing, you stumbled inside, and was immediately met with a gun to your forehead.

"What the–?" You stuttered through a cough, the muzzle of a pistol pressed between your eyes.

Behind the gun, Gaz let out a loud, relieved sigh. "Sarge, oh my god." His sentence was full of disbelief and shock. He lowered his gun and took a good look at you, his eyes widening. "Oh my god..." He repeated, more relieved this time.

He wrapped his arms around you, crushing you to his chest. Your face was pushed between his pecs, and you didn't have the heart to tell him he was literally suffocating you.

"I was... oh my god, I was so worried about you," he said, letting you go and closing the front door. "You weren't answering comms, and I was scared–"

"My comms are fried," you grimaced, yanking your collar off. Meanwhile, you kicked off your shoes and put your gun down too. "Where're the others?"

Gaz nodded behind him. "Soap got hit, so he's resting in the back room. Ghost is with him. Price's asleep. I was meant to be on watch–"

Your mouth dropped open. "Is Soap okay? Let me–"

You went to move past Gaz, but he stopped you with a hand to your shoulder. "Hold on, sarge, he'll be asleep. You can see him in the morning."

You released a short breath, nodding. Gaz smiled sympathetically, squeezing your shoulder. He continued to hold your shoulder as his eyes scanned your face.

You turned to him, frowning. "What?"

"You're a bit cut up," he whispered, bringing his other hand to your face. He pressed his thumb to a cut on your cheekbone, and you hissed in pain. He retracted his thumb. "Sorry. Let... let me clean you up."

"I'm fine." You yawned, shuffling away from him and sinking onto the couch. A cloud of dust lifted when you sunk down onto the cushions, making you sneeze.

"Bless you," Gaz said, appearing in front of you with a first aid kit. Where'd he get that? "And you're not fine, sarge. Just let me clean you up, eh?"

He situated himself beside you, opening the kit and producing some antiseptic wipes. You peered at him suspiciously as he tore the packaging open and held the small white cloth towards your face.

You jerked away. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

He smiled. "Not really."

He pressed the wipe to the cut on your cheekbone and you hissed out again, cursing beneath your breath at the sting. The pain was sharp, but his touch was gentle– one hand holding your face while the other wiped the dirt and dried blood away from the wound.

"You're not supposed to use antiseptic wipes on cuts, Gaz." You mumbled as he pulled the wipe away, your skin tingling.

Gaz tossed the wipe aside. "Why didn't you bloody tell me that?"

"Forgot," you told him. "And, hey, don't blame me! You've been in the military longer. Haven't you learnt this already?"

Gaz was now fishing some saline solution from the first aid kit. He uncapped the small bottle, then proceeded to flush the wound. The solution was cold on your cheek, and you shivered when a droplet rolled down your jaw and neck.

"Probably," Gaz said, a small smile cracking across his face. "But I wasn't really paying attention."

With his thumb, he smeared the small streams of saline across your cheek, inspecting the wound. He put the bottle back in the kit, producing a small plaster and tearing off the plastic backing. Carefully, he stuck it over the wound on your cheek, his other hand still cupping the side of your face.

Gaz's eyes fell across the rest of your face, darting between your features. His expression was soft as he held your face, his thumb rubbing along the edge of the sticking plaster. Dark eyes trailed the shape of your face through the semi-darkness, and you could feel the warmth of his hands against your cheeks.

Your heart was pumping, remnants of adrenaline lingering in your veins.

"Is this why you weren't paying attention during your med training?" You joked with a coy smile. "Got distracted?"

His eyes fell to your mouth briefly, before darting back up to your eyes. His brows furrowed slightly, giving him an expression of puppy-like confusion. "What?"

You laughed lightly. "Nevermind."

You could visibly see his heart rate pick up by the way his breathing quickened and the way his pupils began to slowly expand. You couldn't help but feel warm with the way he was looking at you, the way he was cradling your face like you were made of porcelain. You imagined you looked a mess with blood and dust across your face, sweaty and frazzled from your sprint through the forest.

But the way he was looking at you... your stomach was fluttering.

"Gaz..." You whispered, and his mouth dropped open a fraction, a breathy whine escaping. That surprised you, and you couldn't help but smirk at him. "What're you doing?"

He looked you in the eyes, whispering, "Sarge..."

"Yeah?"

"I really want to kiss you right now."

You almost choked on your inhale. That caught you off guard.

"What?" You blinked.

"I really want to–"

"Okay, no, I heard you, I'm just–"

"Gaz, mate, have you–? Oh."

You and Gaz's heads snapped over to the hall leading to the bedrooms, Price strolling into the room and immediately pausing. You and Gaz jumped apart, with you smoothing your hands down your face in an attempt to refocus yourself. Gaz dropped his hands nervously into his lap.

Price raised a brow. "O...kay. Are you two alright?"

"Yep." You and Gaz both answered at the same time.

Price gave you both another skeptical look, before he was picking up his own assault rifle from a nearby table, fishing a cigar out of his trouser pocket.

"Right, I'm going on watch for an hour, so I'll be outside if you need me," he said slowly, inching towards the front door. "And... the side room's free if..." He stopped himself, shaking his head as he opened the door. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Just keep in mind that Soap and Ghost are asleep."

"Bloody hell, captain." Gaz grumbled as Price closed the front door behind him.

You couldn't help but laugh, Gaz's head dropping in embarrassment. You shuffled towards him, placing a hand on his knee, and his body responded immediately, jolting beneath your touch.

"Gaz?" You prompted softly.

He looked up, clearing his throat. "Hmm?"

"You can kiss me. It's okay."

•º•

Gaz kissed you all the way down the shadowy hallway. He kissed you as he backed you into the side bedroom, closed the door and guided you back onto the bed. He kissed you as you whispered his name into his mouth over and over again as he pulled your dirty clothes from your body.

Everything about him was so warm. His lips against yours, his tongue in your mouth, warm and solid. The whispered whimpers he released into your mouth as your tongue met his were warm, too, heating your body up.

His hands burned a scorching path down your bare skin, smoothing down your sides, down your waist, circling your hips. His fingers pressed to the curve of your arse, forcing your hips up to grind against him. He was warm against your bare core, the material of his boxers damp with pre-cum.

When did he take his pants off?

You don't know. And you didn't care. You were focused on the way your body sweltered beneath his touch as he pulled and pushed the flesh of your arse and thighs like dough. The way he lifted your hips to press into his made you arch, your tits snagging against the tight compression shirt he had been wearing beneath his outer shirt.

Gaz finally pulled away from your mouth as you mewled, a string of saliva following and snapping as he sat back on his heels. His hands moved, massaging along your thighs and legs as his stare raked over your body. He let out a low moan, before he was ripping his shirt off and rolling down beside you. You gasped when he snatched your hips off the mattress, dragging you with surprising strength to sit you across his upper chest.

"Gaz?" You whispered down at him, and he moaned. You giggled, placing a hand to his mouth.

He could feel your bare cunt against the swell of his pectoral muscles, and he moaned into your hand again. You were throbbing against him, slick pooling against his burning skin.

"Ssmm-uhmmm-mmhmm."

You giggled again as he tried to speak into your palm. You tentatively lifted your hand. "What was that?"

"Sit on my face." He said a bit too loudly, and you were slapping your hand back across his mouth again.

"Gaz!" You scolded in a whisper-shout. "You have to be quiet."

His brow furrowed, before his hands were coming to grasp your arse cheeks again. He began grinding you against his chest, getting a full view of your face and tits directly above him. He moaned against your palm, eyes rolling as he felt your slit drag against him, warm and wet. Your mouth dropped open in a gasp, your swollen clit moving against the smooth mound of his muscle. The grip he had on your arse was vice-like, and you wondered whether you'd feel it in the morning.

Well, it was the morning.

Soft, orangey-pink hues filtered through the thin curtains, bathing you in the colours of the sunset. The pigments shimmered against your skin, making you look like an absolute dream. Gaz clearly agreed, because he moaned beneath your palm again, eyelids sinking low.

He continued to grind you against him, listening to the soft pants falling from your lips. You opened your eyes and looked down at him, finally moving your hand. Instead, you placed your fingers around his neck. You didn't squeeze, but the obvious pressure made Gaz whine out your name, hips bucking behind you.

"Sweetheart, please, fuck, please let me–" He grit his teeth as a moan bubbled up your throat, your core throbbing against his chest. "Please sit on my face. Please, baby, please, just let me... ah fuck, just let me taste you, please."

You shushed him gently, removing your hand from his throat. You smiled down at him, beginning to lift your hips so that you could move your hips over his face. But he beat you to it– hands against your arse, he pushed you forward so quickly you lost your balance and had to grab onto the headboard. He pulled your hips down, licking a stripe up your dripping slit before he was shoving his tongue into your hole, burying his face against you.

Now, he could be as loud as he wanted with his voice being lost inside you. He moaned against your folds, the vibrations making you keen. Gaz moaned again, his tongue pressing deeper inside you, in and out, in and out.

You bit your lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out. You were hyper-aware of Soap and Ghost sleeping across the hall. And your captain somewhere outside.

But Gaz couldn’t care less. He was whimpering and moaning as he tasted you, dragging his tongue through your folds until he found your clit. He circled it, before sucking it into his mouth.

Your thighs clamped around his head, and he felt his cock twitch in his boxers, pearls of pre-cum staining the fabric. Fuck, he was so hard.

One hand still on one of your arse cheeks, he moved one down to grab his cock out of his boxers. He fisted it, tongue stuttering against you. He was so sensitive, so needy for you. His pace resumed, and he dipped his tongue back into your throbbing hole, pairing the movements of his fist with his tongue.

"Gaz," you whispered down at him, waiting for him to look up at you before you continued. His dark eyes were glassy, pupils blown. He whimpered against your cunt when you flexed the muscles of your thighs, tightening around his head. "M'gonna come, Gaz." You whined, rocking your hips against his mouth.

"Please, please, please." He mumbled against you. You had no idea what he said, but he knew. He knew he was begging you to come in his mouth and he wasn't embarrassed to admit it.

You put a hand to your own mouth as you came, a moan falling from your lips and muffled against your palm. Your entire body shuddered as you came around Gaz's tongue, and he was disappointed he didn't get to hear you properly. He licked up your release, the loudest thing in the room being the sound of his lewd slurping.

It made your brain short-circuit as you came down from your high, and you managed to lift yourself away from his mouth. He tried to pull you back onto him, but you resisted, shakily climbing back down his body. He immediately sat up and chased you– slamming his mouth to yours and stuffing his tongue past your lips. You could taste yourself on him as you straddled him.

"Want you so bad, sweetheart," he said against you as he somehow managed to pull his boxers the rest of the way down his legs, tossing them across the room. "Need you. Come on, baby, please."

Gaz had one hand on your hip, the other around the base of his cock as he guided it up and down your slit. He collected your arousal against his sensitive tip, and he breathed out your name. You braced yourself with your hands against his shoulders as he clumsily knocked the weeping head of his cock against your hole.

"You have to be quiet, Gaz," you whispered into his ear, sucking a mark beneath the lobe. He whimpered, hips bucking, tip prodding at your sopping cunt. You smiled against his skin. "Can you be quiet for me?"

"Yes, yes, yes, fuck, yes, please." Gaz babbled quietly, squeezing your hips, circling the head of his cock against your hole.

You sat up, tits pressed flush with his chest.

"Kiss me." You whispered and he did. As he rushed upwards to place his mouth on yours, you sunk down onto his cock. He removed his hand, grabbing both of your hips, moaning your name into your mouth as you kissed him.

You took him all, and he whined the entire time you sunk down onto him. When you stilled, pelvis against his, clit pressed to the dark hair at the base, he whispered your name into your mouth and rubbed circles on your hips.

"You okay?" You asked, lips brushing his.

He had his eyes closed, panting. You lifted a hand to cup the back of his head, and he opened his eyes. When he saw your face, how pretty you looked, his head dropped back and he released a whiny moan. Your other hand was quick to slam over his mouth.

"Gaz," you whispered sternly. "You have to be quiet if you want to fuck me, okay? Can you do that?"

He nodded quickly, trying to rock his hips against you. The sensation made the both of you whimper. Even behind your palm, his sounds of pleasure were still louder than yours.

You slowly lifted your hand.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll be quiet, baby, I promise," he panted, slowly beginning to rock up into you. "Yeah, I'll be quiet, baby. I'll be good... fuck, I'll be good..."

He was muttering beneath his breath as his steady pace began, fucking up into you and nailing that perfect spot over and over again. You trapped a moan between your teeth, clutching at Gaz's shoulders as he fucked you. He watched you the entire time, eyes never leaving your face as his cock filled you. His cock making you feel so good.

The bed creaked lightly, the colours of the sunrise washing over the both of you as your bodies melded together. Gaz panted and whined beneath you, sucking kisses along the swell of your breasts and the curve of your neck and shoulders. You whispered his name, too, over and over again. The days extremities suddenly gone, the cuts on your face and arms suddenly painless.

All you could feel was Gaz.

He was doing so well.

And you wanted him to know it.

You looked down at him. Unsurprisingly, he was already gazing up at you, eyes misty and full of adoration.

"S'that feel good?" You whispered, bringing a hand down to stroke his face as he continued to thrust up into you. "Is this what you wanted? Yeah?"

Gaz nodded, humming his approval behind closed lips. If he opened them, he was scared he'd moan too loud. You were so warm and tight around him, so wet– sucking him in so well. It felt like you were made for him.

"Yeah?" You repeated again, cupping his cheek and pressing a kiss to his lips. It was over quickly, and he whined in the back of his throat.

"You're being so good," you whispered, meeting the thrusts of his hips and fucking yourself back down onto him. "You're such a good boy... being such a good boy for me, Kyle."

The government name.

His eyes rolled, and his mouth dropped open. He moaned your name loudly, before his words stretched out into breathy whimpers. His hips stilled, and you felt his cock twitch once, twice, before he was coming inside you. Your eyes widened as he filled you, string after string painting your insides hot. He whimpered through it, face now buried between your tits, hips rocking desperately as he rode out his premature high.

"Gaz..." You whispered, continuing to rock yourself against him. You were full of him, his cock semi-hard inside you, but you were so, so close.

"Fuck, m'sorry," he uttered into your skin. "M'sorry, baby, I didn't mean–"

"It's okay, Gaz, it's okay," you reassured him. "You did so well, it's okay. Just– ah, fuck, m'so close–"

With a groan, he pulled out of you and sat you back on his lap. He took two of his fingers and eased them back into your cunt. He plugged his cum back inside you, thrusting his fingers deep, curling against your walls.

It was your turn to moan loudly, and Gaz had to stifle the sound with his mouth. He kissed you as he added another finger. Three of his digits moved in and out of you, wet sounds echoing around the room, mixing with your breathless pants as you struggled to maintain a kiss.

"Come on, sweetheart, come on." He whispered against your mouth. Your orgasm built quickly in the base of your tummy, and you felt your thighs begin to shake, your cunt fluttering around his fingers.

"Kyle." You whimpered, and Gaz felt himself beginning to harden again.

"Come for me, baby, please." He whispered, and your body listened straight away.

You came around his fingers, walls clamping around him. You managed to keep your moan lodged in your throat– the only thing escaping being a whisper of his name. Your entire body trembled as you fizzled down from your high, and you slumped against Gaz with a content sigh. He caught you, lowering the both of you back into the mattress, removing his fingers from your cunt.

You stuck them all in his mouth, and you whined, slapping him lightly on the chest as he hummed around them.

"So good." He murmured, and you tapped his chest again.

"You're impossible." You mumbled tiredly.

He grinned. "Thank you."

"Oh my god–"

•º•

An hour or so later, the task force regrouped in the living room, gearing up for the evac. Gaz helped you fasten your tac-vest to your torso, running his fingers along your waist as he did so. You couldn't help but smile at him, and he winked. You could still feel him inside you.

Across the room, Price cleared his throat. "Alright, you lot, let's get moving."

Soap laughed from beside Ghost near the front door. "And don't worry, you two, we'll walk slow. Since, you know, you didn't manage to get much rest."

Gaz's eyes widened. "Well, wait–"

Your mouth dropped open. "Soap, you fucking–"

The Scotsman laughed again.

You and Gaz clearly weren't quiet enough.

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remember to go check out @glitterypirateduck and the other gazfest works !!!!

[roosterr]

bad idea

note: my contribution to gazfest 2023! check out @glitterypirateduck for the prompt list and more info!

paring: kyle 'gaz' garrick x gn!reader

wc: 1.5k

no use of y/n

genre: oneshot promts: 14. 'you're in trouble now' & 19. 'stay still'

summary: you do something dumb to get you and kyle out of a bad situation. he patches you up.

warnings: canon-typical violence, blood and injury, light whump, fluff, established relationship

ao3

of course, you’d expected resistance as you pushed into the building, but the crowd of enemy soldiers you ran into was a lot more firepower than you’d predicted

everything happened so fast; price, ghost, and soap dived one way, and you and gaz dived the other in the same moment the enemies opened fire, effectively separating the five of you and planting the seed of dread in your stomach.

before you knew it, you’d been cornered in a room, the only way out being the door you’d come in through, which was now crowded with people who very much wanted you dead. there wasn’t much in the way of cover in the room, but there was a large, sturdy table that you and kyle had flipped onto its side so you could hide behind it. a few hostiles had ventured closer to try and finish you off, but those foolish few quickly met their death.

you were well and truly pinned.

price had radioed that they’d make their way towards the two of you as soon as possible, once they’d taken out their own pursuers. the only thing you could do until then was try to survive and kill as many hostiles as you could in the process.

you aim down your sights, bones aching more and more with every second, but when you pull the trigger, all that meets your ears is an empty click. the noise sends an ice cold wave through your veins like an omen of death.

you're out of ammo.

shit.

"i’m out!" you call to gaz, and in response he shoots you a fleeting wide eyed glance.

"just hold tight," he calls back, furrowing his brow as he fires shot after shot, "reinforcements are on the way, we just have to stay alive ‘till then."

he tries to sound confident, but you can tell he's just as panicked as you are. your eyes dart around the space, desperately pulling at threads to find a way out of this impossible situation, to make it out alive – to make sure kyle makes it out alive.

it's then that you spot it.

a grenade, on the vest of an enemy solider you'd shot earlier.

his body wasn’t far, but it was beyond the cover of the table, meaning to grab it you'd have to run into open fire; but if you got it, it was a guaranteed way out of here.

you glance back at kyle, still returning fire with his own limited supply of ammo. he hadn't noticed the explosive, still focused on the group guarding the door, but he couldn’t defend your position forever. you'd be risking your life if you went for it, but you'd both be killed if you didn't.

it was a terrible idea, but you were doing it anyway.

with a sudden burst of renewed energy in your exhausted muscles, you launch yourself towards the body from your crouched position, wasting no time in pulling the grenade from his vest – except it wasn’t as easy to grab as you’d first assumed, there was a strap holding it in place that the tremor in your hands made unclasping difficult.

in the back of your mind you hear kyle scream your name, but he’s drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.

your heart is in your throat as your fingers miss the strap once, twice, and finally get it free on the third try.

you snatch the grenade and prepare to bolt back to cover, but before you can move a blinding pain shoots through your leg, knocking you off balance causing you to tumble backwards.

you’re hit, you realise that much, but through the panic you can’t focus on anything else. you desperately try to shuffle backwards, towards your cover, but without the use of one leg you just can’t seem to move fast enough.

another bullet whizzes by your face, just catching the skin of your cheekbone and leaving you with a noticeable slice. you can’t dwell on how close a call that one was, however, because before you can react you’re being yanked backwards by the strap on the back of your vest.

you hear gaz’s voice calling to you again, his words passing through one ear and straight out the other.

mustering all your remaining strength, you rip the pin from the grenade, push yourself up on your uninjured leg, and pitch the grenade through the doorway with surprising accuracy considering how much your head was swimming.

no sooner than the grenade leaves your fingertips, gaz has an arm around your waist and uses it to haul you to the ground with him. he doesn’t get the chance to scold you before the explosion, both of you squeezing your eyes shut at the flash of light and the boom that makes your ears ring.

when you pry open your eyes, kyle is hovering above you with his hands supporting him on either side of your head, glaring at you with a fury you've never witnessed from him before.

if you weren't so distracted by the agony radiating from the bullet hole in your thigh, you might have had the mind to be flustered by the position. but thankfully – for your dignity, at least – you don’t have the mental capacity to be embarrassed.

"you're in trouble now," he growled down at you, sharply pushing himself off you and leaving you heaving air into your lungs on the floor. you watch him peer over the table, gun poised as he waits a second or two for any movement, but he doesn’t fire.

if the eerie silence is any indication, it sounds like your slapdash plan actually worked.

"what the fuck were you thinking?" kyle yells, ripping the small medical pack from his vest and dropping to his knees next to you as he rifles through it.

"i was– ugh–" you grunt as you agitate your leg sitting up, "thinking, i’m gonna save both of our lives!" you hiss, leaning your back against the table.

"and let yourself get killed in the process?" he pulls out a roll of bandages, piling the material onto your wound and leaning on it with all his weight. a pained groan escapes your throat before you can stop it, but kyle doesn't relent. "you really think that's a good plan?"

"i would if it meant you would live!" you cry, gripping his wrist and clenching your jaw so tight you were worried you might break a tooth.

"just–" you jerk with a yelp when he shifts his weight on your leg, "stay still!" he sounds almost pleading, stunning you into freezing where you sit.

kyle sighs deeply, sitting back on his heels and dragging a hand down his face. when he drops his hand again, your heart clenches at the sight of his glossy eyes and conflicted expression.

"kyle…" you reach a weak hand out to him, resting it on his upper arm, and he snaps back to reality. with a slight shake of his head, he grabs a fresh handful of bandages, putting his weight back on your wound as quickly as he could.

"you're lucky it went clean through." he mutters, sounding significantly more choked up than he had before. "never pull that kinda shit again, you hear me?"

you smile, the pain twisting your expression slightly, and move your hand up to cup his cheek. "not plannin’ on it, garrick."

the bleeding has slowed significantly by now, allowing kyle to lift one of his hands to cover the one holding his face. your thumb strokes the rise of his cheekbone, exhaling as the tension melts from your shoulders. even with the ringing in your ears, the lack of gunshots was almost peaceful.

"oi!" kyle jostles your shoulder, your eyes snapping back open where you hadn't realised they'd fallen shut. "you're not allowed to die on me, love, i'll kick your arse if you do."

"i'll keep that in mind." you breathe an airy chuckle, giving his cheek a gentle pat and dropping your hand into your lap.

there's a pause in the conversation, as kyle grabs more bandages and concentrates on your leg – which had more or less stopped bleeding thanks to his efforts, but despite this, you could still clearly see the panic in his eyes.

"hey," you call out to him, his gaze snapping up to you with a concerned frown. you grin, and gesture for him to come closer, pointing to the small cut on your face. "you missed a spot."

kyle rolls his eyes. "you're an idiot." he chuckles, wiping as much of your blood from his hands as possible before swinging one of his legs over both of yours. he's careful not to touch your injured leg when he leans closer, cleaning the dried blood on your cheek and covering the cut with a large bandaid.

once he's sure you're not bleeding from anywhere else, he takes your face gently in both hands and presses a featherlight kiss to your cheek, right over where the cut was.

"there," he utters, moving to kiss your forehead, then your nose, and finally pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. "all better."

you bring your own hand to rest on his back, smiling against his lips as you press your forehead to his. "yeah, all better."

[peachesofteal]

Crane your Neck

"And I placed my palm upon your collarbone, and I wished to fall asleep deep in your marrow, as gently as a mouse curled up in a ball, as gently as a mouse until tomorrow" - Lady Lamb

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick/female reader 2.1k words Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Violence, blood, gore. Injury. Medical inaccuracies. Hurt/comfort. For @glitterypirateduck's Gazfest One shot/safe house + "I'll take care of you"/"Just like that"

The fire rages. 

It burns across the field, flames licking into the sky, smoke blotting out the sun until he’s not sure whether it’s night or day. Until it’s all he can see, all he can feel, the burn of carbon monoxide, carbon dioxide, seeping through his skin to his bones, burning into the whites of his eyes until he has no choice but to blink them closed, over and over. 

He ducks in between the row of houses, seeking shelter from the ash that falls from the sky. It’s not much, but enough, and he sticks close to the crumbling brick wall, debris and bodies and chunks of homes cluttering his route. 

He holds his weapon steady in front of his body. They come in waves, and he extinguishes each one, step by step, eliminating every single body between him and the last house on the left. 

Your last known location. 

One gets the drop on him, from behind, to his left. The man is fast, but not fast enough, nor skilled enough, to take him in close combat. A blade twists, there’s a flash of metal, of silver, before a prick of pain against his ribs, and then he’s burying his own knife into the man’s neck, seeking the soft spot beneath his jaw and ear. 

His blood spurts like a fountain. Kyle presses on. 

His mind is so focused, so dialed in, that the pain in his side is barely a hum. It sings with the throbbing of his knee, the song of the torn ligament in his ankle. They all come together to fade into the darkness, not even a thought. 

His brain will carry his body until he cannot walk. Cannot fight. Cannot breathe. It is his most powerful weapon. His sharpest tool. 

His radio is gone. The last crackle carrying just the hint of Price’s voice through to him before it chirped a final transmission and went dark. 

“- safe house.” 

He’ll make it. 

But not without you. 

"What is it?"

"What's that?"

"You're... staring at me." you motion with the rag you've got in your hand, and he can't fight the smile that pulls at his lips.

"'m not." He lies. He is, and has been, for the last hour. Staring at you, sitting in the bed of the truck, polishing some arbitrary piece of equipment while he sits and counts small pieces of parts. The sun has started to sink below the horizon, and it bathes you in a rainbow of orange and pink and red, dancing across your skin like a kaleidoscope, ever changing, but never less stunning. He's staring, because he's memorizing it, like a photograph he'll never get to take, something to hold close, to hold on to, to see again and again when he closes his eyes. When he's away from you, or across the room. When he's on a different continent, or buried in a shallow grave.

He finds you exactly where you said you’d be. Laid up in the kitchen of the last house on the left, your favorite LMG clutched in one hand, the other pressed to the wound just below your navel. There’s another body with you, an enemy’s, a man’s, facedown near the table. 

Your blood fans out beneath you, staining the worn linoleum of the room, a room that once probably, held happiness and sorrow. Family gatherings or quiet meals, tears or moments of joy. Now, all it holds is you and the dead man beside you. One in the grave, and the other, clinging to life that spills from a wound like water.

“D-damn, Gaz. Y’come all this way for me?” You cough, lips splitting wide to showcase a bloody set of teeth. You’re playing with him, as you’re prone to do. Fucking around, like you usually are with him, with Soap. It’s something he looks forward to, most days. The sound of your laughter, the way your voice changes when you’re telling a joke or, even better, the way you giggle when you’re laughing about something he’s said. 

“You’re a fucking riot, Garrick.” You’d wipe your eyes, pretty grin stretching across your face while you shook your head. It made him swell with pride, whenever it happened. Whenever he got you to smile like that. 

Now, your smile does nothing to hide the glimmer of fear in your eyes. The panic that ebbs and flows in the room with you, riding the tide every second you draw breath.

You’re in bad shape. 

“Couldn’t leave without my favorite sparring partner.” He kneels, wrapping strong fingers around your wrist. Your own dig into your jacket, trying to hold onto the wound, trying to keep him from lifting your palm. 

“Don’t.” You warn and he shakes his head.   “I’ve got it. Let me see.” His words are insistent, but patient. He won’t force you, but he’s got more strength, more energy than you. You both know it. 

“It’s bad, Kyle.”

“Can’t be too bad, you’re still giving me shit, yeah?” He smiles, and you heave a sigh. 

The exchange is quick. He’s got your hand free in one moment, enough time for blood to slick across your clothes faster than he likes, and then his hand covering it in the next. 

You weren’t wrong. It is bad. Bad enough that one look at it is enough to tell him it needs to be cauterized, and he curses himself for not getting here sooner. 

“What was it?” You grit your teeth. 

“Knife.” You jerk your foot towards the body a meter away, and he tries not think about the struggle that happened. 

“Got one of those too.” He motions to his ribs, and your face screws up into something stricken, something worried. 

“You should have gone right to the safe house.” You hiss, and he ignores it, switching his hand with yours again to source something from the kitchen. 

“Hold pressure.” He instructs, and your head wobbles when you see the glint of the knife in his hand.  “It’s too late for that-“ you mumble, but he shakes his head in denial. 

“Wait here.” 

“Obviously.” A half smile cracks across your face, and he returns it easily before slinking off into the back of the kitchen to find a burner. 

It’s the screaming, that he cannot bear. The act itself is not without struggle, but the sound of your voice breaking, again and again, would be too much for anyone to stand. The smell of your flesh searing is rife against his nose, worse than the smell of the ash and blood that permeates the air outside the door. The sounds of your screams are worse than the struggle of your body beneath his strength, the push and pull of your chest against the arm that pins you down, tries to hold you still. 

“I know, I know.” He murmurs, trying to comfort you, the blade still pressed to your skin as it finishes. “Breathe.” 

The raw scrape of your voice pains him, flickering down into his heart, past everything he’s built to keep you out, everything he’s built to keep his brain focused, to keep himself on point. 

“Almost done, love. Almost there.” He promises, letting the forearm that presses against your chest relax slightly as the knife begins to cool, pulling it away to reveal the burn that will undoubtedly scar and most likely get infected unless he gets you to the safehouse. 

The screaming has already burrowed itself beneath his skin, scarring him the same as you. Something he’ll carry always, the memory of your agony. The sound of your pain. 

He lets you rest, for a few minutes. Sits there in the house against the wall with you, your thigh pressed to his, your lashes sticky with tears. He watches your chest rise and fall, rise and fall, your deft fingers still woven with his. You haven’t let go, even when he repositioned you to rest more comfortably, even when he went to pull away. You kept your grip tight, your eyes trained on the ceiling. 

It feels like a good sign. Good enough of a sign that he’s ready to move the two of you.

“Got a radio?” 

“Negative.”

“Alright, then. Ready?” He shifts onto his feet, knees flexing as he hoists one of your arms around his shoulder. 

“You can’t be serious… I wa-was been bleeding for too long. It’s too far.” He’s a logical man. An intelligent one. He’s very good, too good at calculating the risks, and evaluating opportunities for success. He excels at his work. He strives to ensure his mind is sharp, that his tactical ability, his awareness, is just as on point as it ever was. 

You make this a challenge. More than he cares to admit to himself, to his captain, to his team. 

“Well, I didn’t come all this way for nothing.” He volleys and you scowl. “Let’s go.” It’s firm, and he’s adamant. He cannot be soft now, even though it’s what he craves. What he dreams about at night, in the room across the hall or the tent across the path from you. He dreams of folding your body into his, of holding you tightly against him, stroking your skin and pressing his lips against yours, plucking delicate sounds from your mouth with fervor. 

He wishes, so badly, to be soft but he cannot. Not if he wants to save you. 

And he will. He’ll get you there, to the safe house. There is no other option.

Your legs kick out from underneath you while you try to push upwards, and he uses your grip to leverage you against him, leaving you standing but pressed to his hip, his hand still cradling your stomach. 

You’re close enough to him now that he can feel your ribs expanding and contracting next to him, their slow and steady draw enough to settle the dark tendrils of fear that have sprouted in the back of his mind, quieting the thump of panic in his heart.  “One step at a time.” He encourages, and you glare. 

“Easy for you to say.” You protest, but you do it anyway, syncing your movements with his.

“Just like that.” You nod shakily, and he shoves down the urge to press his lips to the side of your head, to breathe you in. “That’s good.” 

“It’s too far.” You tell him again, but he rebukes it. 

“It’s not. Hardly a click.” The lie doesn’t go unnoticed, but neither of you speak on it. 

You collapse after a click and a half. Your weight sinks into his, head lolling back until he’s lowering you to the ground, squeezing your shoulders and shaking your body to jog you into consciousness. 

“Wake up, love. Come on.” He barks it, unable to be calm, desperate to get you to focus on him. 

Explosions boom from the north. Red streaks across the sky. 

They’re moving closer. The risk continues to rise. 

“Come on, come on!” You blink at him, a little out of focus but conscious, and he doesn’t bother to fight himself anymore, he strokes a hand across your cheek, rubs your temple with a thumb and the sweeps his palm over your forehead. “There you are.”

“Kyle.” Your color is off now, changing rapidly, and even in the glow of the fire, he can see how your eyes struggle to track him. 

You’ve lost too much blood. Even with the cauterization, there’s no reversing what happened before he found you. 

“Think you’ve got ‘nother click in ya?” 

“Kyle.” It’s a no, it’s a request, a protest. You want him to leave. You want him to run. “You have to-“ 

“Don’t.” He spits. “Don’ even bother, you hear me?” 

“I can’t walk.” You insist and he shrugs. 

“I’ll carry you.” Your mouth forms an o, and then closes, before you shake against him. Your fingers tighten in his tac vest, and he pulls your knees and torso towards his body, curving your spine to be carried against his chest. “I’ve got you, alright? We’re almost there.” 

When he breaches the door, it’s with a kick. Your breathing is shallow, and you stay curled beneath him, your head tucked under his chin, arm limp. 

Soap jumps to his feet with a shout, and then he’s clearing a table, helping Gaz lay you flat. 

They’re not medics, none of them have enough field medical training to do more than what’s already been done, but at least they can radio an evac and give you a sedative, some antibiotics. 

Your brow creases in pain. He strokes your cheek. 

“We made it.” He murmurs, and you nod weakly into his hand. 

Soap approaches from the other side with a needle, drawing up a vial while you stare up at Gaz. 

“Medevac?” you croak, and he squeezes your hand. 

“Yes, love. We’ll get you back, get you into medical. And- I’ll… I’ll take care of you.” You smile, teeth still splattered with blood. Smeared with it. “I’ll be with you, the whole way.” 

“Promise?” you slur out. Soap stabs your wound with the needle, but you don’t flinch, don’t even react. 

You just keep your eyes on him, until your lashes are fluttering shut with the weight of the sedative. 

He smooths his hand over your head, before leaning forward to press his lips to your forehead with a whisper. 

“I promise.”

[halfmoth-halfman]

forever is mine with you

Pairing: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x F!Reader Word Count: 3.2k Warnings: cheating (reader gets cheated on) & fluff Prompt: Neighbors Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. A/N: we've got more gaz for @glitterypirateduck’s GazFest 2023 💜

January

Kyle's new neighbor moves in the day after New Year's.

He hadn’t even known his old neighbor had moved out, so rare was it that he spent time at home. He sees the moving van just as he’s returning from his morning run, slowing to a curious pace as he passes by to get into the apartment building. The van doors are wide open, revealing a few larger boxes and a long, black couch, but there’s no one around. 

He knows this area is safe, that there’s very little chance of someone making off with any of the boxes–and no chance of someone getting away with the couch–but he’s a worrier at heart. So, he hovers near the entrance, pretending to be occupied on his phone while keeping an eye on the van through the large glass windows of the building.  

His breath hitches in his throat the second you step into the lobby. You look positively exhausted, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings with stray pieces of your tied-up hair sticking to your sweaty forehead. Deep bags run under your eyes as you blink away sleep and what Kyle suspects is remnants of a New Year’s well-spent. Despite your tired appearance, there’s a wide smile spread across your face that has his heart skipping a beat as you head out to the van and start pulling out another box. 

The box could be heavy, Kyle thinks, watching you slide it across the floor of the van. It would be rude not to offer help. 

He gets two steps toward the door when someone rushes past him, and a man hurries to the van to lift the box from your hands. You stick your tongue out at him and lean over the box to give him a quick kiss before you disappear into the van again. Kyle decides to wait to introduce himself and, with one last look at your grinning face, turns to head back to his flat.

February

He doesn’t see you again for a month. 

It’s not that he didn’t want to properly introduce himself, he just never had the chance. It seemed the two of you were operating on different schedules, only catching small glimpses of each other like ships passing in the night. 

He has one week of leave left, and Kyle intends to make every second worth it. He spends the day outside, enjoying the fresh air and treating himself to his favorite takeout. He’s reluctant to return to his flat, but the moment he steps onto his floor he can’t seem to remember why. 

All of his thoughts go straight to you, and the way you’re standing outside of your door looking like something straight out of his dreams. 

Not that he would ever admit to dreaming of you, of course.

You’re all dressed up, more beautiful than anyone Kyle has ever seen. Hair done and decorated with tiny pearls to match the string of pearls around your neck, makeup flawless right down to the velvet red painted on your lips, he can’t seem to take his eyes off of you. It’s the dress that does him in. All crimson silk as it clings to every curve of your body, a slit in the leg that is so sinfully high. 

You must feel him staring because you turn your head and meet his eyes with shocking quickness. Kyle composes himself, not wanting to be labeled as the creepy neighbor, and gives a wave with a polite, friendly smile. You smile back, almost bashful, as you shift on your feet. 

Say something, he scolds himself, don’t just stare.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks once he’s managed to find his voice. You raise a brow, something like amusement crossing your face. 

“Valentine’s Day?” you laugh softly with a tilt of your head. 

Right. It was the 14th, wasn’t it? It’d been so long since he’d celebrated–or had someone to celebrate with–Kyle had stopped thinking about the holiday. 

“Fun plans, then?” he says, nodding to your dress and trying his hardest not to stare at the way your pearl necklace dips into the deep neckline. 

You shrug, and there’s a quick, nervous glance back to your door, “Not sure, yet. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

Your smile falls just a bit before you overcompensate and replace it with an even bigger one, but Kyle–too observant for his own good–sees right through you.

“Not a fan of surprises?” Kyle asks before he can stop himself. 

“I–”

Your door opens, and Kyle notices the way you jump at the noise. He keeps the smile on his face, but he can feel his jaw tensing as your boyfriend steps out in his crisp black suit and red tie. He ignores Kyle altogether, sliding a hand around your waist and pressing a kiss to your cheek. The two of you exchange quiet words before he begins to guide you toward the lift. 

You glance over your shoulder, giving Kyle a quick smile. You turn away before he has time to smile back, and Kyle resigns himself to a night alone. 

April

He’s gone for a month, but he thinks about you every day. 

He tells himself it’s curiosity, that there’s nothing wrong with wanting to get to know the new person living next to him. It’s all purely platonic. 

He knows he’s lying. 

When he finally returns home, after a draining month of blood and dry sand, he finds himself hoping to see you.

He doesn’t, not for a few days anyway. You don’t appear until he’s coming back from his morning run. He’s walking into the lobby, too busy looking at his phone, just as you’re walking out, too focused on the drink in your hand. 

You collide with him, falling into a tangle of limbs and hot coffee. There’s a flurry of apologies from both ends, only worsening when Kyle notices the coffee stain on your cream sweater. You shrug it off, telling him you weren’t going anywhere important anyway, but the guilt is still there. 

He knows he should make it up to you, so he does the only thing he can think of.

He offers to bring you up to his place and take one of his sweaters while he cleans yours.

Your face drops into an expression of shock, and worry courses through him, but you shake yourself out of your daze and, surprisingly, you agree. 

He tries to ignore the hammering of his heart as he leads you up to his flat. You don’t seem bothered, perhaps a little too trusting, following him inside without comment. 

The first thing you do is compliment his home, and Kyle feels shyness creeping up his spine. He points you to his bedroom, telling you to pick anything you want while he waits in the kitchen. He makes himself a cup of tea, trying to soothe the nerves building up in his chest. 

This isn’t how he expected his day to go, but he’s not complaining. Not when you’re feet away in his bedroom, looking through his closet so you can wear one of his shirts. 

She has a boyfriend, you idiot. Stop it. 

No matter how much he bullies himself, Kyle can’t find it in him to care.

“Military, huh?”

Kyle looks up, ready to give some snarky retort, but he sees you wearing that worn grey sweater with his last name faded across the back and his mind stops working. 

You stare at him expectantly, clearing your throat as you hold out your ruined sweater. “You alright?”

Kyle snaps out of it, taking the sweater with a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” 

He most certainly is not fine and is quick to distract himself by setting your sweater on the counter as he fills a bowl with warm water from the tap. You take a seat at the counter, watching him mix vinegar and dish-washing detergent together with an adorable curiosity. 

“I had a cousin in the military,” you speak, leaning your elbows on the counter. 

Kyle chuckles, taking a rag and soaking it in the bowl. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “He never had any interesting stories, though.”

Kyle glances up at you, right in time to catch you looking at him with a sly, curious smile on your face.

“I take it you think I do?” he asks, smirk pulling at his lips as he dabs at the coffee stain on your sweater with the damp rag. 

“Do you?” You lean forward slightly, eager interest laced in your voice.

If you were anyone else he would say no, shut down the conversation before it could even begin. But you’re not anyone else, and all it takes is one look at those eyes for him to give in. 

He keeps things vague and harmless, enough to be interesting for you without revealing any important information or going into gory detail, and you hang on to every word with a refreshing fascination. You ask thoughtful questions, laugh at his cheesy jokes, and listen with an intensity he’s rarely seen, even on base. 

You urge him to continue once he’s done, pressing for more, and he’s all too happy to oblige. 

You spend the entire day with him, moving from the kitchen to the living room once your sweater is coffee-free. You don’t bother changing out of Kyle’s, far too interested in what he’s saying to consider even a few minutes of distraction. 

When the conversation shifts to lighter subjects, neither of you seems to mind. In fact, Kyle offers to make lunch, and you agree with a speed that has both of you laughing.  

You’re so easy to talk to, Kyle finds. He would talk to you forever if you allowed it, and he hopes you feel the same. He thinks you do, judging by the way you ignore your phone every time it chimes in favor of continuing your conversation.

Eventually, the sun begins to sink behind the horizon and your phone starts ringing. You roll your eyes, answering with a calm voice despite the way your shoulders tense. 

The conversation is short, and you hang up with a huff. 

“I should probably get going,” you sigh, offering him an apologetic smile. 

“It’s alright,” Kyle shrugs, an easy smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s not like you don’t live right next door.” 

You excuse yourself to change back into your sweater and bid him goodbye with a sweet smile that almost has him begging for you to stay. 

He finds his sweater folded up on the end of his bed, and his heart aches at the lingering scent of your perfume.

August

In the following months, you and Kyle become close friends.

Almost as close as he and Soap, which is saying something.

When he has to leave again, he lets you know, and you surprise him with a care package of homemade cookies and a letter the day before he leaves. You say it’s from you and your boyfriend, but you both know it isn’t; the man has actively ignored Kyle despite your best efforts to introduce them. 

Soap eats most of the cookies, but Kyle doesn’t mind, too enamored with your letter. Your letter is as cute as you are, well wishes for him to come home safe, and carrying the soft scent of your perfume. He reads it almost every night, and Soap has no problem making fun of him for it. 

“Some friend, ye got there,” Soap laughs. “Sure that’s all it is?”

Kyle knows what he should say. 

She’s seeing someone else. We’re just friends.

But Soap gives him that knowing look, and Kyle knows he can’t continue to lie to himself. 

It’s not like you’re happy with him. He’s heard you and your boyfriend fighting through the walls–voices raised, but not quite yelling–and he sees the irritation that causes you to tense when he calls or texts. You don’t smile the same when you’re with him, not like the happy carefree grin you give Kyle.

When the mission is finally finished, and Kyle is granted permission to go home, he’s made up his mind. He’s going to tell you how he feels, and let you decide where to go from there. 

Or that was the plan until he knocks on your door and you answer with red eyes, obviously swollen from crying. 

You don’t give him a chance to ask what’s wrong, throwing yourself into his arms as you sob into his chest. He guides you into your entryway, closing the door behind him with his boot. He calms and soothes you, cooing soft words and light kisses of comfort into your hair as he runs his hands up and down your back. 

He lets you cry as long as you need to, and it takes almost an hour for you to calm down enough to tell him what’s happened.

You had come home from work two days ago to find your boyfriend with another woman in your bed. He used the excuse that you had Kyle, so it was only fair that he got to get some for himself too. You had screamed and yelled and raged, throwing him out that same day as he spewed obscenities at you.

The crying starts again, and Kyle is quick to calm you, assuring you that everything’s going to be alright. 

“Didn’t need him anyway,” he huffs.

“Yeah, fuck him,” you pout, and Kyle agrees wholeheartedly.

The wallowing takes its toll on you, cries shifting to a long yawn as your eyes begin to droop. You lean your head on his shoulder, body sagging against the solid weight of him. Kyle urges you to get some sleep, offering to take the couch if you need him there. 

“No,” you mumble. “I can’t sleep here. Not in that bed.”

If he were a better man, he’d suggest the couch while he slept on the floor. 

Instead, he leads you next door, straight to his bed, where he helps tuck you in. Your eyes shut the moment your head hits the pillow, and something tugs at his heat when you subconsciously curl into his blankets. 

He turns to leave and let you have your much-needed rest, but the moment he does, your hand reaches out and wraps around his. You blink at him, eyes wide and sad, and whisper into the room, “Stay.”

And in that moment, Kyle knows he’ll never be able to deny you anything.

December

Kyle insists on taking time for yourself and letting you properly heal before jumping right into things with him. 

He’s frustratingly right, and you appreciate his concern for you, but that doesn’t change how much you feel for him. 

Your now ex-boyfriend had been right to an extent; you certainly felt things for Kyle you hadn’t felt for him in a long time. Of course, you never acted on those feelings–unlike him–staying close to Kyle while keeping things platonic. 

You’d seen it coming for a while, if you were honest with yourself. The new place was a temporary fix, a flimsy band-aid slapped over an ever-growing crack in the glass of an aquarium. You knew you deserved better than his dependency and weaponized incompetence.

You knew the flood was imminent, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.  

But now he’s gone, and while you know you need time to recover, it’s hard to concentrate when Kyle hands you a key to his flat and tells you you’re welcome anytime. 

You try to tell him you’re fine, that the ending of your relationship had been more like a weight lifting from your shoulders, but he insists you take at least two weeks and one therapy visit before making your decision.

You oblige, and you have to admit he knows what he’s talking about. When the two weeks are up, you tell him you need more time, ignoring the smug grin on his face. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t taunt you with an I told you so, but you can see it in his eyes. He does tell you he’s proud of you, and you ride the high that gives you all the way to your next therapist visit. 

Kyle leaves in the last week of August, letting you spend his last night with him in his bed. He doesn��t make a move on you, simply holding you close while murmuring impossible promises of safety and success to your sleeping form. 

It’s agony waiting for him to return, never knowing what could be happening to him while you’re safe and sound in the comfort of his home. The space is good for you, though. It gives you time to process things, to really talk through your emotions and concerns with your wonderfully patient therapist. 

You’ve barely been in your own home in the past few months, the anxiety and betrayal that stalks the halls too much for you to handle, and she helps you realize that you need to make some changes. 

So, when Kyle returns at the end of November, he finds you in his kitchen, dancing along to a song on your phone as you cook something that smells positively delicious. 

He’s content to watch you, welcoming the sight of you after a long and tedious mission.

It’s something he could get used to coming home to. 

When you finally notice him, it only takes a second for the realization to hit you before you’re leaping into his arms with an excited cheer. Kyle wastes no time, wrapping his arms around you as tightly as he can, welcoming your familiar warmth and scent. He tries to lean forward to tuck his face into your neck, but you stop him, placing your hands on his jaw.

He stares at you curiously, watching your eyes dip down to his mouth before you pull him forward to close the gap. A year’s worth of swallowed emotions pour into the kiss, and when you pull away, Kyle chases after you to kiss you again. 

You spend the rest of the night attached to one another. Kyle “helps” you cook, keeping his hands on your hips as he peppers smiling kisses and gentle nips down your neck. You push him away with sweet giggles, but he always comes back seconds later. 

When dinner’s done and eaten, he pulls you to the couch into his lap, so he can continue smothering you in kisses. You meet him kiss for kiss, unable to get enough of him. It takes nearly an hour before you’re able to separate yourself from him to give him your news. 

“I’m not renewing my lease,” you murmur against his kiss-swollen lips, a shy glance up to look him in his beautiful, brown eyes. “Figured I should look for a new place that isn’t littered with memories of that bastard.” 

Kyle hums thoughtfully, trailing kisses along your cheek. “Plenty of room here.”

You click your tongue, laying a hand on his cheek to turn his face to look directly at you. “Kyle–”

“It’s not like that’s not where this was going anyway, right?” He gives you another chaste kiss and a cheeky smile. “You already have a key. Might as well–”

“Make it official?” you laugh. 

“Exactly.” 

You let out a long, exaggerated sigh with a dramatic roll of your eyes. “Fine, you’ve managed to convince me–”

You don’t get to finish, as Kyle cups your jaw and pulls you into another kiss.

January

After a long night of celebrating and congratulations from his teammates, Kyle’s girlfriend officially moves in the day after New Year’s.

[mockerycrow]

You’re Alive (Gaz x GN!Reader)

gaz masterlist - gazfest 2023 @glitterypirateduck

PROMPTS: “One-shot” + “Safe House” + “Let Me See You”

SUMMARY: After receiving a facial scar, you have been jumpy—Kyle is here to show you that’s it’s all okay.

A/N: Honestly, I’m not the happiest with this but I decided to stop being picky with it!! So I hope my contribution to gazfest is satisfactory <3

[WARNINGS: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, moderate descriptions of gore, allusion to PTSD.]

Your leg kept bouncing like whatever gnawing feeling in your gut wasn’t going to stop unless your leg was going a million miles per minute. The clock on the wall ticked every second oh so quietly, and it was overall silent aside from the ticking and your body squeaking. You felt like a live wire attached to a brick of dynamite, ready to explode at any given time—ready to kill whoever holds the brick. Despite it being an hour or two since you and Kyle arrived at the safehouse, you remain at the only window in the entire building. In your arms rests your rifle with your safety switched to “semi” for semi-automatic, like you’re expecting someone to come barreling in through the door, or come through the tree line.

Kyle doesn’t blame you for the way you have been acting, honestly. He knows you’ve been different since you got your facial scar a few months back—you were required to go through a psychological evaluation to be deemed fit for duty, and it’s moments like this where Kyle—guiltily—wonders how you passed “with flying colors”, so the doctor said. He doesn’t understand how the Captain hasn’t see your behavior either, or if he has, he hasn’t done anything about it. Kyle means well about all of this, too. He’s worried about you. He’s seen the way your eyes scan every room, the way you’re too ready to raise your weapon to kill, the way you snarl at anyone who is casually holding a knife outside of combat.. There’s so many signs pointing to something, a deeper problem, that he is wondering how the psychologist still has a job.

You’ve begun to wear a mask that obscures your face from your nose down.

You offered to take first watch—he notes that you’re like Ghost in that regard, you can’t calm down after a highly intense situation, so you gotta do what you gotta do, right? But the way you’re so.. jumpy, you keep jolting and looking at Kyle every time he shifts, making a slight noise?—that’s concerning. He’s used to Ghost’s incredible alertness, the way he doesn’t like his back faced to the door of the rooms he enters, Kyle is used to when Ghost sits in the far corner so he can see every inch of the room—but he was terrified when you began to do it, too. You’ve always been vigilant, sure, but you’re.. Something is very wrong.

Kyle watches from his spot on the ragged, torn couch that had to be taken from the curb in a nearby neighborhood. His own rifle is propped up against the couch, his pistol resting on the coffee table in front of himself. He watches the way your eyes flicker across the skyline, the puffy eyebags you have almost seem like they’re worsening by the moment. Kyle is also exhausted—you two have been traveling from safehouse to safehouse for about a week, trying to meet up with the rest of the task force.. With no support, of course.

He calls your name, and he makes a mental note of how your finger twitches closer to the trigger than before. “You need to rest.” He grunts out, pushing himself off of the couch. Kyle turns and grabs his rifle, holding the hefty weapon to his chest as he naturally copies your perfectly practiced pose. He looks up and looks at you—and you haven’t moved a muscle. “Hey, y’hear me?” Kyle voice is laced with concern as he takes his steps towards you, and he makes the mistake of tapping your shoulder—because suddenly he’s facing the silencer of your semi-automatic rifle. Cold panic shoots through his veins and his gut, his muscles going rigid as if he’s a deer in headlights. His eyes search for yours, locking eyes; and you’re out of it. He knew something was wrong.

“Oi,” Kyle speaks with the softest tone he can manage with a gun nearly pressing into the bridge of his nose. “Oi, it’s me. Gaz, mate. It’s Kyle.” Your eyes search his face desperately, and he’s silently begging for you to speak. The tension in his stomach is twisting and turning, threatening to snap—you show no signs of any recognization of him, someone who you have trusted for years by this point, someone who was the one to get your guts inside of your abdomen after an ambush, the one who held your face together after the attack—

Kyle does things before he thinks about it sometimes, and it seems to happen a lot more often with you than anyone else, so he’s silently cursing himself out when he slowly raises a hand to your cheek—his heart pounding against his rib cage, like it’s screeching to escape and run away. He has a rifle pressing against his nose, nearly right between his eyes, and what does he do? Kyle holds your covered cheek, his gloved hand cradling it just like how he did when he found you. Your eyebrow muscles punch inwards for a moment, your eyelids fluttering from the touch.

He watches the way your eyes scan his face, the way you’re trying to decipher whether he’s friend or foe—and he sees it when you know it’s him. Your eyes widen every so slightly and your rifle trembles in your grasp, lowering it and you flip the safety back on. “Gaz, I..” You croak for a moment, taking a small step back. Kyle let’s out a breath he didn’t he was holding, along with all of that tension holding up in body. He reaches for you again as you pinch the bridge of your nose, one of his hands swiftly taking the rifle from you, the other gently cradling your cheek again. “Shh, it’s alright,” He murmurs, his stomach tightening with anxiety. Your eyes fall closed for a moment as Kyle lets your rifle drop to the ground next to where both of you stand.

“It’s alright.” Kyle repeats, his other hand coming up to cradle your other cheek. You ever so slightly flinch in his touch, but you don’t pull away. Your hands come up to cover his own, a choked noise leaving your throat. “Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe.” His lips are next to your ear now, voice dripping like honey into your eardrums, trickling down your spine with a warmth only he’s been able to provide for you. You can borderline feel his heat from beneath his gloves, seeping into your skin from on top of your mask, too. It grounds you enough for you to take a wonderfully oxygen filled breath.

“There y’go, yeah..” Kyle praises you softly, the air from between his lips brushing against your ear and causing you get goosebumps. You inhale once again, slower and deeper—and you get the comforting scent of Kyle, mixed in with the sweat and dirt. Nonetheless, it’s something you find extreme comfort in. As Kyle brings you down from your panicked feelings, he’s swaying you ever so slightly. After you let out a soft shuddering breath, he pulls away from your ear. “Let me see you,” He whispers, causing your eyes to shoot open, scanning his face with panic. You begin to shake your head but his hands remain in place. Kyle’s hands don’t move to remove your mask, as he’s always been good with your boundaries—but his eyes are pleading you.

“Please.” You lock eye contact with him as you debate this; you haven’t showed your face willingly since you were in the hospital, right? You began to cover your face as soon as you could without medical repercussions. You keep scanning his eyes, his muscles in his face, and then it hits you—Kyle doesn’t beg you of anything—the last time he saw your face, was when it was split in two, when he was holding your face in place. You know the attack fucked with him, too. Your barracks were next to his, and after the attack, you were hyper-vigilant. You woke up from every noise, and every night—you heard him stumble out of his room, always at night. Panicked.

You take a slow, deep breath—and you nod. You close your eyes, trying to give yourself some comfort. You feel his fingers hook into the soft material of your mask, and he pulls it down to under your chin. You don’t open your eyes just yet, but you can’t help the small flinch when you feel his gloved thumb trace part of your pink scar that’s deep in your lip. Your heart is hammering in your throat as his finger continues to slowly follow the scar’s path, from your bottom lip trailing to your nose, rearing a gory right, a deeper part of the scar scaling through your right cheek, and taking a harsh upwards turn, just narrowly missing your eye, but cutting deep into your eyebrow.

“There you are.” He whispers, his voice barely steady. Your eyes flutter open and you look at Kyle, and your eyebrows raise ever so slightly at the sight of tears brimming in his own eyes, pure relief all over his expression. “Thought I lost you forever, huh?” Kyle tries to laugh, but his voice cracks, causing a rare laugh to be pulled out of your chest. You reach up and your breath hitches as you wipe away a tear that had begun to slide down his cheek. “I’m.. I’m okay, Kyle.” You respond and he shakes his head, sniffling for a moment, his eyes tracing every part of your face, like you’ll disappear again. “You aren’t,” He confirms. “And that’s alright. You’re alive, and here with me, that’s enough for now.”

[siilvan]

sun showers

characters: kyle "gaz" garrick

summary: gaz warms you up after you get caught in the rain.

prompts: 2. "do i make you nervous?"

genre: fluff, very light angst, roommate!gaz, fem!reader (no desc.)

warnings: semi-proofread, light cursing, brief references to canon-typical violence, like one innuendo at the end lol

word count: 1.5k

note: learned about gazfest and proceeded to speed-write a drabble-fic to celebrate :) big shoutout to @glitterypirateduck for curating this!

wrote half of this in one day and the other half the next. the quality drop is very obvious lol. i promise i've got better gaz fics planned for the future </3

"y'look like you just went swimming."

you slam the front door behind you, dropping your bag on the floor unceremoniously as you glare daggers at your roommate. kyle is lounging on the sofa, hot cup of tea in hand, sending you an amused look after tearing his eyes from the television.

"there wasn't any rain in the forecast today," you grumble in response, kicking off your sopping wet boots. you can see kyle set his mug on the table and rise from his spot, casually strolling into the small kitchen you shared. you figure he's going to grab a snack for himself and ignore him before trudging to your room to change clothes.

when you emerge again, in dry clothes and with a slightly better attitude, you're immediately greeted by your designated mug sitting on the countertop, filled nearly to the brim with steaming tea. you glance over and see kyle standing at another counter, busying himself with building a small plate of snacks, quietly humming a random showtune under his breath.

you carefully pick up the cup and take a sip, a comfortable warmth flowing through you, chasing away the bone-deep cold that you couldn't seem to shake even after arriving home. your eyes squeeze close briefly as you revel in it, and you miss the way he glances at you with a smile on his lips.

"figured you could use a little pick-me-up," kyle says, catching your attention. he brushes past you gently, carrying the plate to the coffee table and setting it down. "c'mon, you're probably still freezing." he adds, patting the spot next to him after sitting on the couch again.

"sometimes i forget how sweet you are." you shake your head and settle in next to him, carefully lifting your cup as he tosses a blanket over your legs.

he turns whatever show he was watching back on - some history documentary, you realize - and munches on one of the cookies from the plate, quietly relaxing next to you. you, meanwhile, are sipping on your tea, split between paying attention the show and watching him from the corner of your eye.

moments like this were truly rare for you two, despite your living situation. you came home at the end of every day, but for kyle, that wasn't a guarantee. he'd be gone for weeks, sometimes months, at a time, leaving you to care for your flat until he returned. you've never said it aloud, but you've grown to dread him leaving. the place felt lonely without him, like there was something important missing.

the way he reassures you before leaving and the check-in texts you receive daily while he's gone makes you think he knows already, despite you never saying a word to him about your feelings. he's attentive to a fault - you wouldn't be surprised if he knows you just as well as you know yourself.

"you okay?" his voice interrupts your train of thought suddenly. you jolt, almost spilling your tea, and hastily set it down on the table before turning to him. kyle's gaze is already on you, and your eyes quickly dart anywhere but his face as a warmth slowly creeps up the back of your neck.

"yeah, of course." you wave him off, pulling the blanket closer around yourself. "just chilly, is all. i'm already starting to feel better."

he hums, and you can still sense his gaze on you when he goes quiet. you desperately avoid eye contract, electing to stare at the television whilst not comprehending a single thing on the screen. anything to convince him that you're not having an internal war over whether you like him as a roommate or as something more.

a minute passes, and you think he's dropped it. until his voice, dropped to a near whisper, suddenly speaks right next to your ear.

"do i make you nervous?"

you jump, again, and whip your head around to look at him. kyle's leaned in close, a kind yet nervous smile on his lips, his arm swung over the back cushion to face you properly.

you quirk a brow at him. "nervous?" you ask, gaze finally flicking up to meet his. "no, not at all. why?"

he shrugs his shoulders and chuckles, visibly relaxing at your reply. "i don't know, i just– i'm not here often, i guess. didn't know if i was overstepping or something." he waves his free hand as he talks, trying to find the right words.

"kyle, you're probably the person i feel the safest around." you remark, scooting just a bit closer to him to emphasize your point. well, and to steal some of the heat radiating off him.

"i get that you feel safe, but–" he drops his hand to his side and sighs. "maybe i'm misunderstanding, but you looked like you felt off. just wanted to check in."

tell him, your brain shouts at you, seeing the opportunity. he already knows, all you'll be doing is giving him the reassurance that he always gives to you. the worst thing he can say is no; you'll lose your best friend and have to find a new place to live if he rejects you. that isn't a terrible risk, right?

except, it is. you worry the inside of your cheek and leave the comment hanging in the air for far too long. just as kyle opens his mouth to say something, you interrupt him.

"i don't like when you leave for work," you start, hands fidgeting in your lap. "the apartment feels empty without you– i feel empty without you. i was thinking about that and how much i'll miss stuff like this when you leave again."

for a moment, he just stares at you. it doesn't help with the nerves at all, and you mentally squirm under his scrutiny. your discomfort seems to snap him back into the present, though. kyle's face lights up, practically beaming with joy as he finally responds.

"i'm not going anywhere, not right now." he cups your cheek when you attempt to look away, keeping your focus on him with gentle fingers holding your head in place. "i hate leaving you. if i could be in two places at once, i'd be here around the clock. seeing your smile fall every time i walk out the door hurts like nothing else."

you stifle a small laugh and place your palm over his. "kyle, you've been shot. pretty sure that hurts worse than seeing me sad."

he purses his lips, thinking, before making a noise of disagreement. "ah, think i'd rather take a bullet than see you cry." he counters with a pensive nod, sending you into a fit of bemused giggles.

when you manage to compose yourself, mouth split in a wide grin, you meet his gaze again. kyle's mirroring your expression, though his attention is very clearly elsewhere. his eyes narrow, head dipping ever so slightly as his eyes flit between your own and your lips. it's a subtle gesture, a quiet way of asking for something without pushing you in any particular direction. your tongue darts out to wet your lips, an action that he watches with great interest, and you take in a calming breath before making your next move.

you lean forward, hands finding purchase on his shoulders, and press a kiss to his barely-parted lips. he hesitates for a moment, taken aback, but the reluctance is short-lived as he responds in kind, his hand sliding from your cheek to wrap around the nape of your neck. he pulls you in closer as his unoccupied arm slides off the back cushion, snaking around your waist.

the kiss was saccharine sweet from the start, but as you both pour every pent-up emotion you've suppressed into it, it almost becomes too much.

keyword: almost. it's not enough to make you want to stop.

kyle pulls back just enough to talk a few seconds later, resting his forehead against yours. "that, uh... you have no idea how long i've been dreaming about this." he mutters, chuckling.

"dreamed about anything else?" you ask, lips ghosting over his. he leans in to the featherlight touch, chasing it, forcing you to tilt back with an amused huff. he groans under his breath and straightens his back, giving your words some thought.

"yeah, loads of stuff. about you, though?" he pauses, clicking his tongue as he recalls the aforementioned dreams. "not sure if you're ready to hear those yet. most of 'em are probably best saved until after a proper date."

"there's going to be a date, then?" you ask, draping your arms over his shoulders.

with a lighthearted roll of his eyes, kyle nods. "'course there will. several dates, if you'll have me long enough." he presses a lingering kiss to your lips, muffling your pleased hum.

your reply is a mere whisper fanning against his skin. "i'll have you as long as you're around. i'm already yours."

taglist: @sofasoap, @rohansregret

[mistydeyes]

an undercover beach episode

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summary: You find yourself undercover again with Gaz but this time your uniform is a cherry red bathing suit and his are swimming trunks. He can't help but flirt a little especially when you're wearing his favorite color.

Part of @glitterypirateduck Gaz Fest! Please check out the tag to see other amazing works or consider participating :) Category: undercover Prompt: "You're not going out in that"

pairing: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x fem!reader (codename: Genesis)

warnings: swearing, violence, the male gaze

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“Genesis, it’s almost time to go,” Price called as Gaz emerged from the adjacent room. Gaz smoothed out his swim trunks and looked at his name tag on the waistband. He mumbled something to Price about hating the uniform for this mission. “Just give me a second,” you replied as you tried to tie your bathing suit top. “God why am I always undercover,” you grumbled. Despite your technical skills on the field and being just as good of a sniper as Ghost, you someone always found yourself in some kind of outfit. It also somehow was always with Gaz. But you didn't mind being paired with the gorgeous man. “Gen let’s go!” Gaz's voice sounded through the door. “Fine but you’re going to have to tie this for me.” With that, you grabbed your sheer white coverup and put a pair of sunglasses on your head. You turned the knob to see Gaz standing on the other side.

He practically dropped the file in his hands when he saw you. You were glistening with suntan oil as you eyed him. You held the strap of your red halter bikini top, and Gaz’s eyes traveled down your fit body. The red perfectly matched your skin tone and the suit accentuated your assets. Is this heaven, he thought to himself as his gaze traveled from your chest downwards to your hips and thig- “Kyle?” you pulled him out of his daydream, “can you please tie my top? Then we can go.” He shook his head as you looked at him confused. “You’re not going out in that,” he coughed and tried to slow his rapid heartbeat. After many missions and shared safe houses, he wondered if there was a future between you too. The bathing suit was not helping, especially when he knew you were being used as bait. You rolled your eyes at his comment. “I only packed one bathing suit and plus we’re going down to the pool,” you explained, annoyed, “trust me I wish I was on holiday wearing this and not here.” He continued to stand there, dumbfounded. You tried to cover your wandering gaze to his muscular chest by feigning annoyance. “Can you please," you practically shouted and he brought his hands to yours.

Your fingertips brushed as he fumbled with the stretchy fabric. "Too tight?" he questioned as he finished and you shook your head. "Now how do I look?" you said, turning with a smirk. “Nice uniform, Gen” Ghost commented from near the balcony. You turned your body to him and Gaz took a moment to notice how the bathing suit barely covered your ass. He was glad you couldn't catch him peeking a look. “Shut up, you should be the one wearing this,” you mumbled as you glared at him. "You have a good look from here?" you asked as you motioned to the glass doors. Below sat the beaches on the Amalfi coast and beautifully striped cabanas. "Good enough," he said, lowly, "as long as you and Gaz can get the mission done then I shouldn't have to intervene." You nodded before turning back to the rest of the task force. "Ready to go, Gaz?" you asked, trying to avert your eyes from his sunscreen-covered body which looked perfect in his server uniform. He nodded and you allowed him to go first with Soap and Price following after.

After you exited the room, you went your separate ways. Gaz blended into the service bar while Soap and Price in their beach attire, took the elevator with you. "That come with more than a string, lass?" Soap joked as you descended the floors. You made sure to crush his toe in response. "Let's just get this over with," you mumbled before ignoring the eyes of the other guests and making your way to the warm sand. When you reached the cabanas, you placed your sunglasses daintily on your nose as you looked for your target. "Bingo," you whispered to yourself as you made your way to the Italian crime boss. "Mind if I join?" you flirted and he looked like a bull seeing a red muleta. "Of course, you can," he responded and gestured you into his cabana. You closed the white curtain slyly and sat on his lap. You hoped Gaz noticed you entered as you made a flirtatious conversation with the older man.

"I have a glass of sangria," you heard through the curtain and took a deep breath upon seeing Gaz with a tray. The man gestured to the table and Gaz went to put it down, accidentally spilling it on the ground and the man's feet. You jumped back with the man saying a handful of swears in Italian. As Gaz tried to clean the spill with a towel, he bent down and pulled out a syringe. The man barely had time to register the situation as Gaz plunged it into his thigh. You laid the now dead man down on the light blue couch and turned to notice Gaz's eyes on you. "Stop that," you demanded and he looked away. "I'm not the only one in a bathing suit," you joked before motioning for him to exit first. "See you soon, Gen," he winked and you hid your blush with your hands. You left soon after and pretended to say you'd be right back. With the mission successfully completed, you rendezvoused in the hotel room. Everyone was packing up their things as Gaz laid on the bed.

"What was in that thing anyways?" you asked as you fell next to him. "Lead I think?" he questioned, "Laswell gave it to me." You shared a small laugh at her ingenuity. Gaz suddenly turned to his side and you reflexively covered your exposed chest. The sheets felt cold as you felt heated at his gaze. "Red looks good on you," he smirked and you couldn't help but feel a little flush. "Really now?" you retaliated, mirroring his position, "Don't tell me it's your favorite color." Gaz couldn't hide the attraction to you and got up to avoid your interrogation. As he left you called out to him. "Maybe I can get this to be my swim uniform!"

[soapybutt17]

You Are My Sunshine

Summary: In which a year into your relationship, you began wandering if it's time to tell your father about your secret relationship. Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Price!Female Reader. John Price. Simon Riley. Soap MacTavish. Word Count: 2,441 Chapter Warnings: None A/N: Got Carried Away and just turned it into a whole ass one shot series.

for @glitterypirateduck's GazFest 2023 Category: One-Shot Prompt: "I always knew this day would come"

Masterlist | Series Masterlist || Request are Open

“Really sure I can’t drive you up to your boyfriend’s house?”

Trust your father to make things more complicated than it needs to be. You know what his true intentions were and you weren’t about to bite—yet. You shared a knowing look with the man that was not just your father (step-father, but it was beside the point anymore) but was also your Captain. So much was riding out on his offer and you weren’t about to deal with the mess that would come after.

“I’ll be fine, Dad.” You reassured hugging him hoping it was enough to distract him. “I’ll call you when I get there, I promise.”

With a sigh, his arms wrapped around you in his resignation for the topic. You truly didn’t know until when you could keep this charade up with him. Especially with the man he was hunting down so close to the both of you. Maybe it was time to finally come clean and maybe it wouldn’t be as hard as you think it would be,

“Maybe bring him in for the New Year? I’m sure your Mum would love to have him over.”

You rolled your eyes realizing your father wasn’t relenting on this topic just yet.

“When I’m sure you’re not gonna threaten him—or kill him, I’ll think about bringing him to meet you and Mum.” You gave him the option instead.

“Fine.” He muttered finally pulling away from you. “Keep safe and if you change your mind, I’m one call away, I’m sure your Mum and brother and sister would love to have you for Christmas.”

You sighed.

“Maybe next year, Dad. Please bring the gifts I’ve sent to them with you, okay?”

You heard a knock at the door and the sight of one Kyle Garrick had interrupted the little moment you had with your father. You shared a knowing look with the man and knew his reason for coming to your father’s office. It’s time for the both of you to head out.

What you father didn’t know and hopefully the rest of the people in the base, was the small fact that the boyfriend your father and both Ghost and Soap were more than willing to hunt down was within arm’s reach. The cheeky bastard even played the part so well in having his own ideas of beating the living shit out of himself with the rest of the team. Oh if only they knew.

“Ready to go, Nyx?” Gaz inquired.

You noticed your father’s brow raising in question.

“Gaz lives nearby my boyfriend, Dad.” You explained so easily. “Thought I’d save gas and drive with him to my boyfriend’s place.”

“Alright.” He nodded before his attention slowly turned towards your secret boyfriend. “You know what to do for me, Sergeant?”

“Yes, Sir.” Gaz answered so easily.

“No, Gaz. You will do no such thing.” You snapped turning your attention to your father. “Don’t drag Gaz into this mess.” You muttered making your way towards Gaz.

“Send the coordinate to me when you can.” Your father continued but the smile on his face was enough of an indication that he wasn’t serious about it anymore than he really was.

“Dad!”

“Have safe drive you two. Call me when you get there, understood?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Take care of my daughter, Gaz.”

“Yes Sir.”

Walking out of your Father’s office, silence had enveloped the two of you as you walked further away. When you were certain the distance was good enough, you finally held onto your boyfriend’s hand, how easy it was for him to hold onto your own in a firm grip.

“You think we should finally tell your father about us?” He inquired turning his gaze towards you for a moment before his eyes turn back in front of him as you two continued walking.

“I always knew this day would come.” You groaned rubbing your temples with your free hand. “Think you’ll be ready to deal with my Dad?” You inquired.

“More than I already do? I think I am.” He snorts. “If it means not having to lie to everyone’s face and we could be less—secretive and I think the reward would be better for everyone.”

He was right.

You know your father had this unprecedented rule in the base that so many other base have enforced with an iron grip. Relationships within the base were allowed to a degree, for as long as no one would let it hinder with their jobs or missions. It was a small little change that had so much impact for the entire team. Ghost and Soap were also few of the people that made the most out of it with their own significant others working in with the Medic Team.

But amongst the leniency that Captain John Price had decreed, there was an open secret that every single personnel was informed off, some even say that it was one of the first rules given to the new recruits when they arrive. No one is to date his daughter.

“After the Holiday?” You offered hoping it would be enough time to prepare for the inevitable chaos that would happen after the holidays.

“Enough time to enjoy the last days of my life, I think?” He teased.

“Kyle.” You warned, already worried for his safety now.

“Everything is going to be alright. We can ask Nikolai for help if we ever need it.” He continued earning a light nudge out of you.

One mission that had you, Gaz, and your father, it was somehow prophesied by one Nikolai that you and sweet Gaz would have cute babies together just to get a rise from your father. But that somehow, you end up getting together with the Sergeant just a few months after and you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Eventually, with your bags gathered and the two of you now shoving everything you have onto the truck it was time for the couple of hour long drive to the Garrick Household for Christmas.

“You think they’d like me?” You inquired leaning against the door of his red Opel Corsa car he got with his first paycheck.

“They’ve been pleading to meet you for months now since they learned about you. I doubt anyone would hate you.” Gaz reassured cupping your checks.

You took a moment to check your surroundings for anyone that could possibly recognize you before you wrapped your arms around your boyfriend. His own arms pulled you right into his chest.

“Even if I’m a Military Brat?” You asked, knowing it was the preconceived notion everyone had on you when they found out about your association with the Captain. You wouldn’t be surprised if his family would also share the same view the moment they meet you.

“Far from it. Mum and Dad are already planning our wedding and how many kids we would have. So I doubt they think so lowly of you.”

You laughed at the statement. You did envision yourself with Gaz and the little family you could have in the future. But it was all too soon to think of in the present. But it was a certainty that you hope would happen in the future you have together.

“Can I named the babies or do they already have name planned as well?” You asked nuzzling your cheeks against his chest.

“A few name suggestions were thrown, but we can veto some as far as I’m made aware.”

“Kyle Junior would also be a good name for a baby boy?” You continued hands rubbing his back knowingly. “You’d like that don’t you?”

“We’re not playing this game in the middle of the parking lot, Love.” He groaned.

“Inside your car would seem a better setting then?” You egged him on.

“Nyx.” He warned, hands falling to the curves of your ass.

“I’m joking.” You giggled pulling him in for a quick kiss before finally letting go.

You tensed as you looked out into the base, the sight of Ghost and Soap gaping at the sight of the two of you.

“Let’s go.” You muttered opening the door immediately giving Gaz a whiplash for the sudden shift in your attitude from a few seconds ago.

“What?” He turned and from the window of the passenger seat of the car, you could see the shock also written on his face as he made beeline to the driver side of the car.

Without another word, Gaz had started the car without turning back or even acknowledging the fact that your secret was now exposed to two of the last people you would have allowed to know about your relationship now.

“We’re fucked.” You muttered under your breath as soon as you heard the familiar ring tone of your phone and the all too family name of your father that was now made aware of the little interaction you had with one Kyle Garrick.

~

“Now I understand why you love her so much.” His mother was quiet for the most part, allowing him and the rest of the members of the Garrick Family and extended family to bring life to the childhood home he had grew up in.

Kyle could only nod, watching you as you continued on with your conversation with his sister and brother-in-law about some TV series that you’re excited to begin watching again while off-duty. It brings so much warmth inside of him to see you like this, so comfortable and in peace in a place that was his own.

All the worries of his family not liking you or the chaos that came with Soap and Ghost finding out about your secret relationship was put in the backburner for the time being. All that was important was the moment where you two were.

A time where he wasn’t out in some isolated country or in knee deep shit looking for enemies alongside you. You both were in a normalcy that doesn’t come often with either of you anymore because of your chosen profession.

“Hey Mum,” Kyle finds himself turning his attention back to his mother. The smile on her face as she caught him looking at you was all the sign he needed to push forward with what he was about to ask. “Think I can cash in on your offer about your wedding ring in the near future?”

Christmas in the Garrick Household was a success and true to Kyle’s words, everyone loved you. It was just like you to be loved by anyone and everyone you would meet. Contrary to your call sign of Nyx, you were a ball of sunshine that constantly lights up the room, only dimming at the most frail state of mind or during missions. You gave him the sunshine he had thought was lost in him throughout the time of blood and gore he had experience in his career.

Who would have ever thought the incident in Piccadilly would not only shape his career, but the future he never thought he was still allowed to have in his life when all was said and done.

“No funny business.” You had teased him the moment you both settled into his childhood bedroom for the night.

“Never said there was.” He teased you right back, pulling you into his bare chest.

The single bed wasn’t really good for either of you to stay in, but it was better than having to sleep in separate rooms for the night. He maneuvered the two of you until you were now resting completely under him. A smile was on your face, eyes a little glazed over from the few drinks you’ve shared with the rest of his family and your skin tinted a few shades of red because of it. But you were still the most beautiful woman he has ever laid eyes on.

“I’m happy.” You spoke plopping your face onto the crook of his neck. Arms wrapped around his chest.

“Meet too.” He admit. He was happy with you in his life, happy that there would come a time in his life that he would want to hang his boots and throw his uniform down the deepest depths of his closet but he would still have you in his life. It was worth being happy about for him.

“I never thought they’d actually like me.” You continued.

“Didn’t I say that a few good too many times throughout the car ride?”

“You did. But still. Actually seeing that they would like me was something I never thought would happen.”

“I can’t see a reason why they won’t like you if I’m being honest.”

“You’re just saying that because you love me.”

“Touché.”

“Now I’m actually excited for you to meet my Mum too.” You pointed out, heading lifting up to meet his own. “My Mum would love you. She already has an idea of you from Dad but genuinely meeting her in person, I know for a fact that she would love you just as much as I do.” You beamed.

“Will she now?” He smiled, surprised by the sudden shift. “And your Dad?”

“It might take a while for him, but I know he’ll come around. He’s just always been like that growing up.” You shrugged.

“How about we head to your place for the New Years?” He inquired.

With his phone shut off and your own turned off after sending both of your parents a quick text of arriving in your boyfriend’s home safely, he thought it would be a better time as any to finally have clean slate and throw the cat out of the bag.

“Really?”

“Better to rip the bandage off now than when we’re back in the base.” He shrugged, he could only imagine the drills he will be thrown in because of this.

“If you’re not up to it, we could wait a little longer.”

“We agreed that we’d do it after the holidays but since the jig is up because of the two bloke, I think it’s a good time as any. Good to also meet your Mum and siblings while we’re at it.”

The smile on your face grew bigger as you slumped right back to him and peppered his face with kisses as you continually thanked him for dealing with you and for anything that your mind could come up with.

But what you didn’t know was the small little box hidden deep inside his bag and the question that he was about to ask from your father when he meets him—after a good beating if he’s lucky enough to come out alive from.

Part Two: Light of My Life

[b1rds3ye]

A Gift for Two

Your new hot boss gifts you a fancy dinner for two, unfortunately you’re not seeing anyone… yet.

Pairing: Boss!Kyle Garrick x Secretary!Reader Genre: Fluff, Confessions(-ish), Colleagues to More Word Count: 1.4k For Gazfest by @glitterypirateduck

Categories: Alternate Universe (4), Boss Gaz (11), Civilian Gaz (12)

Prompts: “Do I make you nervous?” (8)

A/N: I’ve always written fics where Gaz and Reader are of similar rank/positions I thought I’d try something new 😌 (also ended up imagining a lil backstory for our boss and secretary I might come back and write some more about them)

Out of respect, you knock at the open door of Kyle Garrick’s office. Knuckles rapping against the timber quicker than a wood chipper, usually you announce your presence far more patiently but this was a matter of utmost urgency - at least for you. You knock incessantly for a good few seconds, only a few metres away from your target but it does little to stir your boss from his paperwork.

“Come in.”

He hasn’t even looked up from his paperwork but you don’t miss the upward quirk of his lips, it seems he’s enjoying your slight panic. Because really, who else would be knocking at his door at this time?

You hurriedly walk up to him, still in your outer coat and bag in one hand. In the other, an intricate invitation made of thick paper that you plop onto the top of his desk. Seeing them in his peripheral vision, Garrick finally leans back. He purses his lips a little to stop the smile creeping up on his face.

“Sir-" you stumble over your words as your mind crashes into your disbelief. “Just- what is this?”

It was him right? No one else would barge into your office before you - you’re not sure if anyone else can. And surely no one else here would have the money or generosity to provide a pre-paid package for two at the most expensive restaurant in the area, the card greeting you on the desk as you walked into your office. He mentioned before it was his favourite spot, and seemed offended on your behalf when you said you had never been.

Garrick gingerly picks up the card and his gaze told you all you needed to know.

“I think they call it a ‘token of appreciation’.”

You drop your back onto the ground.

“This isn’t just a ‘token’ this is…”

He tilts his head curiously.

“This is too much,” you shake your head. “Just- why?”

Garrick stands from the desk he is seated at, rounding it until he stands next to you. Reaching across the desk to brace himself against it, his arm is dangerously close to your waist, the voluminous creases of his rolled up sleeves brushing against your dress shirt. Not trusting yourself, you pull your head forward, staring unfocused at the distant skyscrapers peeking out of the window.

“It’s been a rough few months in the branch.”

He leans back, almost trapping himself between you and the desk, but he looks down the corridor to see the occasional colleague walk past, bustling and on the grind. Long gone were the days where the office was dead quiet even during rush hours, where you - bless your heart - had no choice but to religiously check that all necessary electronics and lights were turned off at the end of a shift to ensure not a single cent was wasted. This branch that Garrick was initially transferred to was a financial black hole; all he had was a bare boned office, piling debts… and an endearing little secretary desperately trying to keep the branch afloat.

Garrick stays silent until you look at him and you realise then how close your faces are. But you don’t pull away, you can’t when you’re trapped in his eyes that look at you with such gratitude and you’re taken back to the quiet overtime nights in the office, where the only souls are you two working side by side on the final pile of paperwork. His voice now is even quieter than the hushed whispers and giggles you shared in those nights (and upon reflection, you’re not sure if a secretary and boss are really meant to act like that).

“I owe you. This entire branch does.”

He smiles earnestly, honesty glowing through his pearly whites.

“You deserve the treat.”

He brings the card up between you, separating you. Bringing his gaze down to it, his smile takes a little bit more effort to maintain.

“And I’m sure there’s no better way to spend it than with your partner.”

“Huh?” You straighten at his assumption, card forgotten as you internally flail. “Actually, I- uh, I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”

“Oh?”

A singular word that ends with an upwards lilt. He looks at you curiously, eyes alight like whenever he’s scheming a new business venture - glee with a sprinkle of mischief - and you feel your stomach drop to the ground. Why on earth did you feel compelled to give such information to your boss?

Card still in hand, he tilts it invitingly in your direction.

“I’m sure you’ll find someone who is plenty happy to spend a private dinner with you.”

You bite the bottom of your lip as you reach up to grab the card between you. Fingers brush against his as you secure your grip but you don’t flinch nor do you pull away. And neither does he. Every moment is bringing you closer to him (or is he bringing himself closer to you?), pushing the boundaries of a purely contractual relationship. But that was your direct superior, the coy and unexpected tease who always says something a little off. Does something a little more than necessary for a “boss who cares”, who seems to take joy in putting you in situations more akin to a teen rom-com than an actual corporate job.

Situations such as now, where you swear he’s egging you on. Your years in the company have kept you on your feet, giving you wisdom and experience to decipher what other colleagues are thinking. And yet with the apparent answer that your boss wants to join you for dinner, such a notion is pummeled down into your doubts by corporate convention.

But then again, your boss wasn’t a conventional one.

You take a deep breath.

“Sir-”

“Kyle.”

First name basis. Your heart races as he offers a teasing tut of the lips.

“If you’re going to ask me, you’re not going to ask me as your boss.”

He says his own title with disdain and in any other scenario you’d laugh. But now you only feel your face heating up at how entertained he seems. He knows what you’re going to ask, but you still can’t manage to get the words out.

“Kyle.”

“Hmm?”

A little satisfied hum and you’re swooning at the sound. You really need to get a hold of yourself. You try to focus on the card but as you trace over every detail of it, the fancy calligraphy, your mind is wondering yet again. A dinner for two, potentially with your boss. Your boss who you’ve been admiring for far too long and is currently standing far too close. Even your addled mind is aware of the warmth gently emanating from his presence, how his steady breaths are all you can hear in the silence save for your racing heart-

“Do I make you nervous?”

You stare at him incredulously and he laughs and damn that’s probably the most beautiful thing you’ve heard in your entire life. Still, your boss - no, Kyle - is a little merciful at your struggle, the arm that was always so close to you now makes the short travel to hold onto your front. His hold is light, uncertain as he reads for any possible signs of discomfort from you and that consideration alone bolsters your confidence.

“Would you join me for dinner?”

He pulls a face.

“A secretary asking something from their boss? How bold-”

You groan in frustration at his antics and try to pull away but Kyle is far quicker (and probably stronger with how his muscles are clearly defined through his dress shirt). His hand quickly finds purchase on your wrist, just firm enough for resistance but loose enough for you to leave if you really wanted to. But you don’t, instead letting the momentum of your wrist in his spin you back round to face him. When you stand still he lets out a satisfied hum and his hand slips off your wrist to then interlace his fingers with yours and all you can think about is how perfectly your hands slot together. Your digits instinctively curl around his and he smiles.

“Of course, love. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Call of Duty Masterlist

Check out the Entire Gazfest Here!!

[sofasoap]

First time - part 1

Pairing : Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x F!reader

Summary: years of pinning, you find an excuse to get close to your best friend, Kyle.

Part of Gaz Fest 2023

Warning : M rating. Slight angst. Pinning. Friend to lovers. slight talk about bedroom related stuff.

A/N: Thank you @glitterypirateduck for organising the writing festival!! * cheering *

Enjoy!!

Master list

“Kyle.”

“Mmm?”  Sipping on his beer, he answered absentmindedly as he watched their group of friends playing darts, competition heating up. 

“Can you take my virginity?”

Gaz nearly choked to death. You sighed and lightly thump his back. You knew it was a bad idea. Before he does anything you probably kill him with a heart attack and choking to death with liquid bread. 

It took you weeks of self deliberating with the demons and angels and logic vs heart to summon up the courage to ask your friend.

Your best friend. 

Your partner in crime

Your childhood crush. 

The (one sided) love of your life. 

“You… You want me… “ still coughing away, he pointed at himself , and back at you. 

One single strong nod, you averted your eyes downwards, your hand fidgeting with the tumbler glass in your hand, not elaborating more. 

Shuffling closer to you as he lowers his voice, “Are you Ok? Someone pressuring you? Who’s the asshole?“ Getting agitated, he stood up from chair, ready to defend your honour. To protect you. 

Shaking your head as you take a sip of the strong whisky you decided to order to help you loosen up and gives you a bit more courage to ask him. “No one pressured me Kyle. I promise.” 

“Then why–” he opened his mouth, confused and … is that bit of hope? As he stares at you, waiting for an answer.  

“I… I am just.. “ You are just sick of people’s judgements. All your other friends and workmates talk enthusiastically about their life and sex lives, and you just felt… left out? You don’t know how to contribute to the conversation, since you don't have any stories of your own. The logical side of you knows it’s silly to think that way. You are not a teenager anymore, why would you care about others opinion or letting the social norms affect you?

Or , deep down, you just want to fit in. Want to be part of the “club.” Or the selfish part of you is just trying to find some sort of excuse, to be intimate with Kyle. 

And you are just too scared to declare your love to him, straight on. 

You have had a crush on Kyle since the day you met him. His family moved next door to yours when you were five. 

You hid behind your mum as his parents stood at your door, introducing themselves. You saw a boy, not much older than you, with short curly hair, standing between them. 

The two of you became fast friends. Getting up to all sorts of mischieves around the neighbourhood. He was the brain of the plot and you were the executor of the plan. 

You slowly fall for him as you get older. That little butterfly that starts flipping in your stomach every time you see him. His brilliant smile shows his pearly whites every time he sees your face. The way he greets you is always different from his friends, protecting you, entrusting you with his greatest secret. Make you laugh. Comfort you in sadness. How he always prefers to sit beside you at gatherings, and offers to take you home.

Both of your parents thought the two of you will end up together, since how well two of you get along with each other. So did you.

Your heart was totally crushed when he introduced you to his first date, excitedly.

“ I want you to be the first one to meet them. Since you are my best friend.” 

The amount of tears that you shredded that night. And the night after. But you put on a brave face, for yourself, for your family, for your friends. 

And for him. 

You don’t want him to be laden with your worries. You know him too well, even if he doesn’t love you the way you love him, he still cares about you. 

Protect you and ready to defend you when he senses a change of mood in you.

Your knight in shining armour. 

The brother you have from a different mother. But nothing more.

Reaching out and patting his hand, trying to reassure him and also calming down your own nerves, “I am fine. Well, sort of. But.. I've been thinking lately. I just.. “Shaking your head, “ I just want to experience what it is like, “ To be with you.  “There is no one else I trust more than you, to take care of me.” 

He frowned as he gripped your hands tight. “I am not going to do it if there’s no love involved.”  he insisted. Pressing his lip together, contemplating something before he open his mouth again. “Let's forget about this. You are drunk, sunflower, come on. Let’s get you home.” 

You feel like your heart has been shattered again for the second time. By him. That pet name just added to the pain. 

“Sunflower?”

“You are like a sunflower!” Kyle smiled. The families were on a camping trip once, and two of you were lying on the field of grass after running around and chasing each other.  He sat up, looked down at you with his signature smile, “You brighten up my day, and I am always in a happier mood after I see you!” 

Grabbing your bag, you stood up immediately, ready to dash out the pub door, embarrassed. You shouldn’t have asked. Well done, You think to yourself. Now you have totally ruined the friendship. How stupid can you be? There was that little sliver of hope when your mutual friends gave you the nudge and shove;

“You still haven’t told him your feelings?” “Shhhhh shut the hell up!!” you hissed. Clamping their mouth with your hands. “Can you be any louder???” 

“You…” your friend swatted your hand away, looking at you as if you had grown a horn on your head, “are you kidding me.. “ they mumbled. “ Look, you know what, just talk to him. You might be surprised.” 

You ignore his calls and the way your friends look at you, holding tight onto your jacket and bag as you hold back the tears that threaten to burst the dam. Before you could raise your hand and call for a cab, you felt a hand around your waist, pulling you in. 

That familiar warmth. Your once safety net. But now it hurts too much to be so close to him, to feel him.

Because he doesn’t belong to you. 

“Kyle.. Let go of me.” whispering, trying to hold yourself together, but you can feel your voice cracking. 

“No.”  pulling you into his chest, he buried his face into the crook of your neck. “I am sorry.”

“For what?” 

“For hurting you.” 

Wriggling around to face him, putting your hand on his chest to create a bit of gap between you and him, but keeping your head down, “I should be the one apologising, I shouldn’t have asked you such stupid thing.” your voice barely above a whisper as you try to push yourself out from his embrace. “Let’s just.. I am going home.”

“And not going to hear my answer to your request?”

You froze. 

I don't know what this is. but def smut coming next chap. of sort. * blame the three glasses of reds I had * I keep changing my mind what I want to write, from crack to fluff to one shot, and now it's turning into two-part series.

Tag list:

@deadbranch

@kaplerrr

@homicidal-slvt

@voxyin

@lia0-0

@floral-force

@saltofmercury

@siilvan

@rileyslibrarian

@mistydeyes

@okayyadriana

@a-small-writer-in-a-big-world

@jynxmirage

@nrdmssgs @schr-torta @glitterypirateduck @devcica @cumikering @roosterr

@groguspicklejar

@obsolescent @whydoilikewhump

[writeforfandoms]

Little Talks 3

Find my CoD masterlist

The final part of this entry for Gazfest, hosted by @glitterypirateduck

The team is assembled, and you need to figure out where you fit in.

Warnings: Swearing, roughhousing, zombie au.

Word count: 1.7k

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x f!reader

You woke alone, momentarily confused about where the hell you were. 

Until you heard soft voices in the other room, and the events of the day and night previous came rushing back. 

You sat up and took a moment to put your face in your hands and just breathe. Kyle was clearly up already. And you had no idea how to feel about any of this. 

But you forced yourself upright, getting dressed again. Kyle had left a bottle of water on your bedside table, which you chugged, head throbbing. Probably dehydration. 

At least Kyle was looking out for you.

That made you stop in the middle of the bedroom, because he was looking out for you. He was taking care of you.

But you didn’t want to be a burden. Couldn’t be a burden. 

So, what could you do in return? Part of that would depend on what the plan was going forward, but… you could cook. Bake. Maybe find some other things to take care of for him. Them. All of them. 

One last deep breath to bolster yourself, and then you left the safety of the bedroom to find the others. 

They’d gathered in the kitchen, mugs still steaming gently. Coffee, mostly, smelled like. Price spotted you first, gracing you with a small smile and a “morning”. Kyle perked up as soon as he spotted you, getting to his feet. 

“Morning, love,” he murmured, pulling you into a hug. “Feeling better?” He kept the words quiet, whispered just between the two of you.

“Better,” you agreed just as quietly, smiling at his clear concern. “Am I interrupting?” 

“No,” Kyle said quickly, pulling you over to the table. “Not interrupting. Soap just got here a bit ago.”

You blinked at the mohawked man grinning at you, hand held out. You shook his hand, giving him your name. 

“Aye, I figured. Gaz never shuts up ‘bout ye.” 

Kyle scoffed, getting out a mug for you. “I am not that bad!”

“Ye really are,” Soap drawled, humor clear to see in his eyes. 

Price sighed, and the other man at the table huffed softly. He had a balaclava on, one hand curled loosely around his mug. 

He did not offer to shake your hand, which was fine. “Ghost,” was all he offered. 

You returned the nod. You already knew who he was. 

Kyle sat again, setting your mug next to his, and pulled you into his lap, since there wasn’t another chair. You squeaked, surprised, but didn’t elbow him. 

“So what’s the plan?” Kyle asked, apparently jumping right back into the conversation. You didn’t mind, leaning back a little into him and holding your mug in both hands, letting it warm you. 

Price sighed, scratching through his muttonchops before he spoke. “We’re staying put.” 

“But–” Kyle immediately started to protest, tensing behind you. He stopped when Price held up one hand. 

“This isn’t something we can fix,” Price continued, gaze focusing briefly on you. You just blinked at him, staying quiet. “Travel’s being restricted across the country. Other countries are looking at doing the same. Won’t do anyone any good if we get stuck on a base.” 

That settled the other three to a degree, your gaze flitting between them. At your back, Kyle had relaxed a little again. 

“Laswell is keeping her ears open, so far no one’s owned up to this one.” Price sighed slowly, leaning back in his seat. “Until we know more, we’re staying put.” 

Silence fell in the kitchen as they all absorbed that. You were busy watching them, sipping from your mug absently. Ghost, of course, was the hardest to read, with the mask in the way. Soap looked discontented, but apparently not enough to speak up. 

Price was the first to speak again, seeming content to leave things there for now. “Soap, Gaz, check the vehicles. There’s another one in the shed.” 

Kyle patted your hip, and you got off his lap to let him up. You thought about going with, but Price met your gaze and nodded to the chair again. The back door shut after Soap and Kyle, and you sat again slowly. Without a word, Ghost stood and took his mug with him.

Leaving you and Price alone in the kitchen. 

“I understand you had a hard day yesterday.” His voice was a little gentler now, a little quieter. 

You snorted. “Zombies was not on my to-do list,” you quipped, looking down at your mug. 

He chuckled, leaning forward in his chair. “I also understand that Gaz didn’t offer you options.”

That jerked your gaze to him, and you frowned. “He undoubtedly saved my life,” you pointed out, trying not to be too prickly. 

“Still. Early enough you have a choice to make.” Price held your gaze, unflinching. 

“What choice?” Your fingers drummed against the side of your mug. 

“You can stay here. You could go stay with Soap’s family - they’re good people, they won’t mind. Or I can find somewhere else for you to stay.” Price didn’t look away, didn’t offer anything else. 

You narrowed your eyes a little, tipping your head slightly to one side. He’d purposefully gotten you alone to offer, and you knew Kyle wasn’t in on this. “Why?”

He blinked. Just once. “Hm?” 

“Why make the offer now?” Your gaze darted to the door when a shout from outside briefly caught your attention. Because you were the outlier here. Not part of the team. Potentially a distraction. Or something to tear Kyle’s attention, or loyalty. Your jaw clenched at your conclusion, but you waited for Price to give you an answer. 

He had yet to look away from you, having clearly watched your expression shift. “I’m offering now because you deserve a choice,” he answered. “I know you and Gaz haven’t been together that long. He complained about it when we got called in.” 

You breathed slowly, examining him. He didn’t look to be lying, but he probably could lie with a straight face. Hm. “You’re giving me a graceful out.” 

“If you like.” He spread his hands out on the table. 

You drummed your fingers against your mug again, irritation cooling. “Are you offering for me? Or for Kyle?” 

He tipped his head, brow furrowing a little. “Explain.”

You huffed a little at the order, but leaned back slowly, forcing your shoulders down from a defensive hunch. “Are you offering because you think I need a graceful out, or because you’re worried about me distracting Kyle?” 

That got him to huff his own little laugh, shaking his head a little. “I’m not worried about Gaz getting distracted.” 

You let that sink in, letting the silence settle over the table for a few moments. Your drink was barely lukewarm now, but you still took a sip anyway, giving yourself a moment to consider. 

What did you want? Now that the world looked to be going to hell in a handbasket.

“Kyle talked about you, some.” You tapped your mug with one nail. “All of you, really, but. He always spoke highly of you.”

Price raised one eyebrow but didn’t interrupt, further bolstering your opinion of him. 

“I don’t want to leave.” You swallowed hard, but refused to let yourself look away. You needed him to see that you were sincere, that you weren’t just bluffing your way through this. “I know I’m not prepared, not like you lot, but I can find things to do. To help.” One deep breath in to bolster your nerves, try to push down the heat of speaking so plainly. It was harder than you’d anticipated. “It’s not an exaggeration to say that Kyle’s the best thing to happen to me in years, and I’m not willing to give him up.”

Price smiled, leaving you startled at the warmth there. “Had a feeling you’d stay,” he murmured. “Gaz talks about you, too.” He huffed a little laugh. “Could think you hung the stars from how he talks about you.”

Face burning, you finally ducked your gaze. “Yeah, well. He’s being too flattering.” 

“Hm.” Price tapped the tabletop twice, pulling your gaze back to his. “He also mentioned you cook.” 

That made you chuckle, relaxing a little. “Yeah, I’m not bad in the kitchen. I like baking more, but I can cook.” 

“I can’t,” he admitted frankly. “Might just leave you in charge.” 

“I can do that.” You couldn’t deny that you perked up a little. You liked having something to do, some way to help. Especially these four. 

Price huffed in amusement and finally stood, taking your mug for you. “If there’s anything you need, you let me know.” 

You tipped your head, watching him for a moment as something Kyle had told you about Price came to mind. Maybe you shouldn’t, but… Well. You were going to be with them for who knew how long. If you couldn’t have a little fun with them, you’d very quickly be miserable. 

The back door opened again, Kyle and Soap tromping back inside. Perfect. 

“No wonder Kyle says you’re the team dad.”

Price fumbled the mug he was washing, and both Kyle and Soap sounded like they were choking behind you. A bark of laughter from elsewhere in the house made you realize you had no idea where Ghost was.

Eavesdropping, apparently. 

“Fuckin’ muppets,” Price grumbled, half-turning to glower past you at Kyle.

“What else did he say?” Soap slid up next to you with a twinkling grin, ignoring the warning noise from Kyle. 

“Oh, you know.” You couldn’t resist the urge to continue teasing. “The usual. Don’t get involved in a land war in Asia, and don’t start a prank war with the Scot.” 

Soap threw his head back to laugh, draping one arm over your shoulders to shake you affectionately. “Ah, hen, we’ll have a right grand time.” 

You just grinned, gaze focused on Kyle. “We’ll be fine,” you agreed.

Kyle smiled, scooping you out from under Soap’s arm to pull you into a hug. “Told you, love,” he murmured into your ear, ignoring the Scottish squawking with the ease of long practice. “I’ll take care of you.”

[yeyinde]

GAZFEST | fistful of ashes

for Gazfest by @glitterypirateduck

CATEGORY: alternate universe, AU | PROMPT: "I really want to kiss you right now."

"Did you know?" "Of course I knew," he reaches for you, mouth turning downward, bitter and sad, at the way you flinch back, shying from his touch. But he's relentless, and you feel the burn of the sun, of searing stars across the back of your hand when he runs his fingers over your skin. He dips down, wrist to vein to knuckles to— "How could I not?" He inhales long and hard, and takes all the air from the room. "When you're wearing my brother's ring?" 

Warnings: 18+ MATURE | infidelity/cheating (Reader cheats with Gaz, not on him; is married to Gaz's brother for political reasons), inaccurate historical descriptions, religious imagery, slight secret identity; Soap is a terrible wingman; angst; pining & yearning; allusions to smut but no descriptions

Word Count: 15,2k

Entombed between marble monoliths is a secret alcove, a hidden nook. It's a place of refuge when the howling winter winds seem to shake the foundation of the sprawling estate, screaming through the barren hallways. You spend most of your day curled on the day bed pushed against the far wall where the window sits, framed in thin, iron rods. On the opposite sides of clear glass is a stained mosaic depicting the fall of a dragon and the triumph of a king. Dusted in semi-opaque primary colours, it spills a kaleidoscope of beauty on the herringbone floor. 

Its discovery came weeks into your marriage with the eldest Garrick when you wandered down the sprawling halls of your new home, fingers trailing over mahogany walls with evergreen trim, contemplating your new forever. 

Then: a stutter. A gap. Your hands sunk into emptiness, into a vacuum just big enough for your frame to squeeze through on a halted breath. 

Inside this abyss, you found a circular room with a vaulted, domed ceiling of metal, and books shoved in a haphazard pile at the foot of the daybed. 

It smells strongly of toluene—that cloying scent of dust and rotting paper—and something breaks apart inside of your chest at the sight of this place. Cosy and small. An intimate, homey escape in the middle of stifling, oppressive opulence. 

The respite it offers becomes an anchor amid a turbulent storm. A crutch to curl your trembling fingers around, finding purchase in stone. An immovable object. You bury your nails into slate and hold on as tight as you can. 

No one can find you here. 

(You don't even think they bothered to look.)

But—

"Thought I'd find you here, birdy."

—He does. 

He always finds you. 

He. He. 

He introduces him—cheeks rudied and bashful, head dipped in a soft sort of reverence—and tells you that everyone calls him Gaz. You like the way it fits between your teeth. Gaz. It's a small blade you keep tucked in your breast pocket: unassuming and deadly. Gaz. Gaz. 

On the window pane, etched in a child's scribble, is that very same name. Gaz. He shows it to you after he finds you hiding away in the alcove and the shock of a man you don't recognise suddenly squeezing through the gap in the wall abates. 

You run your finger over the indents as he sits with his back against the marble pillar, eyes fixed on the horizon line as the sun dusts his face in a golden glow, and tells you this place used to belong to him. His escape when he was a child. 

Sheepishly rubs his head, then, and admits that he'd missed it more than he thought he would. 

"It's just a room, but—" one shoulder lifts in a tentative shrug. "'dunno. Just—kinda missed the peace of it all, I guess."

"Yeah," you whisper, your breath warm when it passes over your lips. Warm. It makes your heart stutter. "I get that. This place is—"

There are many words that buoy in your mind as you take a moment to run your eyes across the small dome, the well-loved books that line the walls, the marble pillars, the mosaic, the sunset in the distance. It feels otherworldly, in a way. A place etched out on paper and brought to life with a delicate hand. 

You catch his eyes, broken into fragments in the cuts of stained glass, and even through the frosted reflection of the window, warmth bleeds through. The gentle rays of the sun. Apricity. You press your knuckle against the blurry dip of his cheekbone and the frigid winter moulding itself to the outside burns your skin. 

He's different from everyone you've met here. 

Their frigid disposition isn't unlike the icy Chinook raging through the draughty insides of the sprawling palace—a polite indifference at best, a cold dismissal at worst—and the contrast between them and him is a startling one. The man whose domicile you stumbled upon exudes heat; blooming warmth. It fills the barren gaps between your lungs and prickles molten fingers across your pericardium, strumming it like the nimble chords of a harp. It reverberates inside of you. 

(Your heart is a gong. His hands are a mallet.)

The thought, intrusive and unwarranted, makes you jolt. It brings you back to yourself quite suddenly, and you're all too aware of the fact that you're an intruder in his private chambers, his secret home. 

The apology rushes to your tongue, clanging against the back of your teeth, and you breathe it out in a whisper, too afraid of speaking more than a breeze in this sanctuary. They'll find you. Drag you out because it isn't proper to hide in a corner surrounded by books and the heady scent of a man—woodsmoke, charcoal, vetiver; toluene, musk, sun-bleached linen—and make you hide away in your rooms where no one knows you exist, or sit you in the grand hall where everyone pretends that you don't. 

"I, um, don't mean to intrude. I can leave…"

His eyes are warm when you whip around to meet them, lips tugging downward in a harsh, fearful frown. 

He waves you off with a lazy roll of his wrist. "Nah, you can come as much as you like." 

From anyone else, you would have taken it as a banal pleasantry, but there is something about this man that bleeds true. And so, you do. 

Every day you find yourself sitting on the chaise, reading through the array of epics and poems, all still carrying the fingerprints of the child who carved his name into wood. He joins you often enough, taking his spot on the opposite side of yourself, sometimes reading or regaling stories of each blemish and imperfection you come across. The copy of Fall of the House of Usher is waterlogged because he once used it to balance a cup of water on the bed as he reached over to grab his matches; it's readable, he insists, but—

"That bit about the sister. It's all ruined," his brow pinches in a soft contemplation. "But it's probably not that important, anyway."

—The match he struck burned a hole in the side of the bed. He smoked tobacco that he knocked from his father's study and ashed it out on the windowsill, which still bears the scorch mark. 

It's lived in and loved. A haphazard bivouac pitched by a child who grew within the circular walls. Toys tucked into the corner. Children's books stacked at the bottom of the bookshelf, hidden from sight as his taste changed, grew more eclectic and matured. Singed tobacco leaves shoved inside naughty books he snatched from the maid when she wasn't looking. Alcohol stains the rim of an old mug with the faded painting of an old action hero smiling on the side. Childish delight stroking the walls with wonder and excitement to a moody teenager drowning himself in the plights and woes of others, to an adult sitting on the floor and musing fondly about the disarray and the decay. 

You watch it all unfold in a series of memories and soft, little moments that dance across his handsome face—some open, and spoken aloud; others hidden, a secret thing not meant to share (like the panties in the corner you'd found that turned the tips of his ears and the knob of his nose bright red—the maids, he'd stuttered out—and the old bucket hat under the pillow that made his brow pinch in a deep sense of dismay, of loss). 

He was in the war, he tells you one evening, eyes solemn, and brushed with pensiveness. One he never wanted to be in, but he met a man—a warrior, he calls him—and knew, then, that he’d go wherever he went. Following his cause until the bitter end. 

You know the story—how could you not when the bitter end was found the moment you signed your name away on a piece of paper? 

And so, you tell him. 

“I ended it. A trade, you know?”

“I know,” he says, scoffing. “Of course I do. I was there. I was close enough that I could have rescued him, I have—” 

“I’m sorry,” you speak to Gaz but can’t tear your eyes away from the hat clutched between his fists. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your apology, offering a quick shrug instead.

“Are you happy at least?” He asks, and what a strange question it is. Happy. Happy. What is happiness?

You let out a laugh that sounds brittle. Pieces of glass lodged in your throat. “What does it matter?”

It's this admission, and the palpable weight of his loss, of your own, that seems to serve as the catalyst that breaks open the levee between you. Gaz meets you at the door the next morning, ushering you in with a soft, secretive smile that turns his honeycomb eyes a startling amber in the yawning sun. 

He tells you about himself—he was always a rather quiet child but got quite restless in his teenage years; his father was never as proud of him until he said he was joining the war; he hid chocolates and treats in this room to eat later, and you spend an afternoon hunting down them all; he likes the ocean but loves the feeling of sand between his toes even more; he reads a lot, he confesses with a peculiar little flush darkening his cheeks: mostly poetry because it sounds like a song when he whispers it aloud, and you find yourself weaning heat from the sun when he relents to your pestering and finally opens his favourite book and reads it to you. His voice is a guitar strum. A piano pluck. 

It settles between the gap where your lungs hang, curling over moondust bones. It's a heavy thing to carry at first, but the weight feels like an anchor, steady and sure, against the turbulence when he's not around. 

You, in turn, give him pieces of yourself. Cleaving large swaths of your essence, your being, for him to wear over his shoulders like a quilted cloak. 

There are things you don't tell him. Things you keep to yourself because you like the anonymity this little haven affords, and how he treats you like a person and not like a pretty little trinket meant to be sealed away in a glass display case. 

You know that he's keeping things from you, too, like who he is—a guard, you think; a soldier, maybe—because the history he has with this place speaks of intimate familiarity but he owns up to nothing except a name that you don't really believe is his. 

But you think your secret is even bigger, more damning, and you keep it pressed tight to yourself—a putrid little thing made of rot and obligation, one that leaks noxious miasma into the air whenever it's touched. You don't want the stench to permeate the air of your sanctity, the one you share with Gaz, and so you swallow it. Choke yourself on the festering lump until it slides down your esophagus and moulders in your stomach. Far enough away from this place you never want it to touch. 

In between the worry, and the responsibility that makes you curl into yourself, desperately wishing for respite inside the dome with Gaz reading poems to you in secrecy, you find yourself slipping down a precipice with no clear end in sight. A steep slope into an abyss. There is nothing to suspend your fall. 

(You wonder, sometimes, if you even try.)

It should make you feel guilty, but Gaz holds your trembling hand in his and offers up books for you to read together, and suddenly the fall isn't as scary as it once was. 

Suddenly, it feels right to find solace in his touch and feel love bloom in your chest. 

How could it be wrong when he makes you feel as if the world that was once on fire is now just warm? 

On a whim, and filled with the courage of multitudes, you whisper the words threaded in the seams of your heart against the worn pages. Softly, slowly, and then all at once. 

"I love you, Gaz."

His hand shakes. There are stars in his eyes when he blinks. Orion gleams in umber. Sagittarius heaves in sard. He leans close and you smell lightning in the air, ozone and copper, and feel static on your cheeks. Magnetic, he pulls and pulls, and you go, quietly, willingly, and think of white sand bleached by the summer sun. Dancing for Ra with the ocean glinting like crystalline diamonds. Twin footprints in the sand. Love left behind on the shore. 

"Oh, birdy," he breathes, and the words are filled with elation but touched with a deep, unrelenting sense of fear. "Why would you—?"

But he doesn't finish. 

Gaz kisses you and it feels like the hot breath in the desert. All warmth and light, gentleness tinged with sadness. 

Sadness. Sorrow. 

Because you're not meant for him, and you're wearing another's ring.

Gaz doesn't return the next day. 

Or the next.

Winter fades into autumn, and you sit on the bed with your empty chest and your hollow marrow. 

Whenever he's gone, he still wears your quilt. 

And carries your heart in his warm hands. 

The marriage is at the end of November when the ground frosts over with winter's cruel breath, and the air bites your cheeks and stings your lungs. 

You'd have preferred the warmth of summer, when the sun reached the solace, sitting at its zenith and painting the world in lovely shades of bloom and green. Golden in its splendour. 

Idle dreams flicker by as you stand beside the altar, fingers caught in the webbing of your thick gown. Thought filled with a wedding on the sandy shores, with the humid air hugging you from all sides. The scent of the ocean in the back of your throat. The sun kissing your crown, wrapping gentle hands over your shoulders. Embracing you. Holding you. You bow to Ra, to Helios, and suckle on tart dragon fruit and sweet sugar cane. Rest wreathes of sunflowers and bluebonnets at the foot of their temple before dancing in the sand.

You dream of sweaty palms linked together, twin sets of footprints in the sand. The ocean calls out in bliss as you dip yours in the cool waters, and kiss under the fading sun. 

It bursts quite suddenly when a cold hand grabs at your wrist, pulling you from the yonder, the hinterland where you dream of a man with a smile as bright as the sun. You blink away the thought when it twists painfully at your chest. An ache of something that will never happen. Forever a dream.

Impatience seems to linger in the air when you sluggishly bring your trembling hand up, taking the ornate pen—the blessed metal cold and painful to the touch—and clumsily sign your name on the second line. 

It's a hurried thing. The air of celebration is moot; festivities hardly matter when the only point of intrigue is the signature wet ink at the bottom of a parchment paper, claiming your matrimony to the eldest Garrick, firstborn son, and the subsequent peaceful merging of families, dynasties with much to gain from two little rings. 

You barely finish the last letter of your name before they pull the paper away. A jagged trail of ink cuts a line across the bottom, down, down, down. The sight of it fills you with dread—a bad omen, maybe—but they pay it little mind as they swiftly stamp it, sealed and bound in royal wax; unbreakable, now, and permanent, and hurriedly roll it up, tucking it away where it's in the pocket of the officiate. 

It leaves you feeling colder than the Chinook roaring down the mountain. All air in your lungs is sharp shards of crystallised ice. Piercing and painful. Breathing through frostbitten lungs. 

Your husband, Griggs, is a handsome man, you suppose. Classically beautiful with his dark eyes and strong cheekbones. He's tall and stolid. You'd be remiss not to notice his attractiveness, but there's an air of distance, detachment, that seems to permeate over you like a looming storm cloud. He doesn't take your hand in his. Doesn't stroke the back of it with his thumb. There are no airy words of comfort or secretive smiles he can't hide. 

It's transactional. 

The ladies around you cup their hands over their mouths, whispering about how lucky you are to have such a man. But maybe it's the loss of agency, the lack of romance, that makes you sour at the thought of it all. 

How lucky indeed, you think when he turns you to, lips a grim line, and eyes several degrees colder than the ocean at the bottom of the cliff. 

"Right, then," he says, voice carrying the same echo as the barren gallows. "I suppose a kiss is in order? To seal it all?" 

His kiss is just as cold as his words. The dream in your head blurs, turning black as it streaks with tendrils of tar. 

Indeed, you think, breathing shuddering through the bergschrund of your lungs. Indeed, indeed, indeed—

Days bleed into weeks, months. Winter tangles into the seams of your new life, fraught with uncertainty and a deep-rooted despair. 

Your husband is not a cruel man, you know this, but there is an absence that seems to linger between you. An absolute nothingness that permeates the air, thick and stifling. The duties shared in matrimony reek of responsibility and obligation. Checking the boxes of an itinerary to appease everyone else. 

When he isn't in his war room, conduit to a bloody battle that seems to stretch into every crevice and corner of your life, he's weaving the merger (merger, because that's what it is; business first and foremost, romance an afterthought) into a new tapestry to proudly display the alliance of your families. 

Favours gained to everyone, your father had said. Everyone except you, of course, for nothing of this acquisition, this farcical marriage, is of any benefit. It's a new cage, gilded though it may be with the finest gems embedded in bars made of gold. 

Your mantra to get through the empty marriage bed, the isolation in this sprawling mausoleum where the people around you treat you like a tchotchke, a precious artefact meaningful in symbolism only, becomes: it could be worse. 

And it could be. 

Your brothers and sisters were married off to Lords and Counts and Kings who bestow their ownership in fine prints dusted across their neck, the gentle folds of their wrists. Cruelty is the only thing they've come to know after a lifetime spent languishing in a palace by the sea. 

It could come to you, too, and you hold on to that. Cling to it until your knuckles protrude from your skin. It could be worse. 

To avoid thinking of everything, anything, you hide yourself in the vast library, and find solace in the words printed on pages; tales and woes far greater than your own. You ignore it all, and it, in turn, ignores you. 

Left to waste away in a palace that feels as desolate as the moon, and just as familiar, too. 

It could be worse. It could be—

"My brother is returning," Griggs says, hands smoothing down the front of his shirt. There's an air of pride that seems to roll from beneath the small tick in his jaw. "You'll meet him soon. Do look your best, won't you?" 

You murmur your assent, but your head is elsewhere. Still stuck in that room with Gaz whispering poems in your ear. 

"Good." 

He doesn't wait around long. There is no kiss goodbye, and he leaves the room without another glance in your direction. 

The room always feels colder with him in it, but the broad expanse of his back hurrying through the door is just as chilling. 

You don't think he ever wanted to be a husband, but your sympathy, your pity falls short of missing true authenticity. He could have said no. The peace would have still come. The war would have ended. Allied in matrimony was a spectacle for everyone else—a true, unbreakable union; the merging of two powerful lineages—but the point would have been made with a paper, too. 

He condemned you to a life of lovelessness, a tchotchke no one knows how to act around, for the power it gave him. The dictation. 

Griggs might have been happier with someone else, but his pride is gluttonous. Ravenous. He needed more, more, to cement himself as an important man, incapable of being usurped. 

The pity you could feel is a saponaceous thing. There, maybe, but unable to be held; too slippery to touch. Each time you think you have a proper grip, you remember that he did this to himself, and he did this to you, and it falls back from where it came. Breaking into shards on the pavement. 

You hate him. Hate yourself a bit more for not running away after Gaz when you had the chance. 

(Too late. Too late.)

They fetch you later, wearing bright smiles on their faces as they talk about the return of the youngest Garrick. A hero, they wink, and you bask in their joviality after months of nothing but frigid indifference. 

"A hero?" You question. 

The lady nods. "He was in the war. I'm sure he'll tell you all about it. It's been so, so long since he's been home."

You tuck the information away with a soft smile. 

"What is his name?"

He stands with his back to you, hands moving as he tells a story to his brother and the men situated around him. You feel the barren space in your chest thud. 

You'd know him anywhere. The cape he wears around his shoulders is made from the fibres of you. In his warm palms sits your heart. 

"His name is Kyle," they say, but you know him as Gaz.

He carries the same aloofness as his brother, an inherited trait, maybe, but where there's distance in the umber druse of Griggs, canyons and unreachable valleys, Gaz's is full of warmth. Flickering campfire in the distance. A gentle sea breeze. Tigers eye. Sard. He burns. 

In spite of it all, you feel yourself unravelling under his heat. 

"Hi," he swallows, and you hear the hitch in his breath. The stutter in his lungs. Those honeyed eyes warm just for you. "I hadn't realised your—" he stumbles, swallows again. You feel heat brush against your cheeks. Warm palms on cool skin. "Your wife, ah, was this beautiful."

It's under his younger brother's acknowledgement that your husband seems to preen; prideful, now, that someone has assured him of your worth. 

"Yes," your husband murmurs, haughty and sure. "Quite the sight, no?" 

"Yeah," Kyle breathes, and his warm breath leaves scorch marks on your cheeks. "Quite."

Griggs folds his pride neatly between his Duchenne smile, and the sight of it makes you want to weep. How could you not notice such blatant similarities between him and the man who snuck around the estate like it belonged to him? 

Wilful ignorance, maybe. 

You look away from them, glueing your eyes to the glossy wood waxed to perfection until all of the roughly hewn mahogany is gone, erased, now just a shadow of itself, and try not to wallow in the loss of it all. 

There was real happiness in that alcove that now fills you with shame. Now poisoned by the rot you choked yourself on to protect him from the gangrenous mass growing inside of you. Shielding him from it all. 

You wonder if he was doing the same, and the words come, rain against moss: soft and soundless, before you can swallow them down, too. 

"Did you know?" 

His hesitancy makes sense now, in hindsight. A lot of things do. The missing pieces to a puzzle you didn't try very hard to solve fit together. 

How could you be so stupid? How could you—

There's a part of you that wonders if this was a ruse set up by your husband to test your—and your family's—loyalty to the Garricks. To wave a man in front of you, one who was patient and kind and much too good to be true, and see how hard you fall. 

But Kyle looks at you in dismay, and the sight of it twisting across the face of the man you love—loved—is almost too much to bear. 

He waits until the soldiers have passed before turning to you with a broken visage of a smile slipping across his face. His eyes are dark. Noculent. 

"Did I know?" 

He laughs but it's hollow. Empty. The vacancy in your chest aches at the hushed pain fracturing spiderwebs of grief over his expression. 

"Of course I knew," he reaches for you, mouth turning downward, bitter and sad, at the way you flinch back, shying from his touch. But he's relentless, and you feel the burn of the sun, of searing stars, across the back of your hand when he runs his fingers over your skin. He dips down, wrist to vein to knuckles to—

Your heart pulses in his hand. Aching. Shattering. 

"How could I not?" He inhales long and hard and takes all the air from the room. "When you're wearing my brother's ring?" 

(The only sound made is the shattering of your heart still clutched in his warm palm.)

To torture yourself for your transgressions—a form of self-flagellation, maybe—you think about what might have happened if you met him first. If the silly pride of the men you're forced to place your faith into had abated long ago, and the one you were gifted to was Gaz. 

You would have married in September when the world was still in a lush, green bloom; summer still clinging to its last vestiges and painting the world in cornstalk yellow and azure blue. 

The heat on your cheeks. The sun scorching your back. A perfect equinox of summer into autumn. Your honeymoon spent under the sheets all winter. It would have been perfect. 

He would have wed you on the shores instead of the cliff. He would have danced in the sand with your hands tangled in his. A mass of atoms merging into one. 

He would have been able to love you the way he wants to, and you would have done the same. 

It's a breathtaking hurt to think about such things. To dream of the life you would have lived and taste the sun on the tip of your tongue only to wake up in an empty bed with a ring on your finger that seems to grow tighter and heavier by the day. 

Agony fills the gap in your chest, but sometimes it feels like it isn't enough, that it should hurt more because as much as it burns, as much as it aches, you always go back to him again. Drawn to his arms: moth to a flame. 

You'll do it all again and again and again. 

At dinner, his hand slides under the table. 

You meet him in the middle, drawn there by a gravitational pull. Orion calling you. Cosmic dust fills your nose; a nebulous gossamer spooling over you in threads of weaving red. 

His hand feels like Gaz's when it folds over yours, and in that, you find home.

When everyone breaks away, wandering back into their fixed places within the sprawling estate on the better side of the war (aided, in large part by your father's considerable contribution in the form of your dowry), he gives you a knowing wink from across the table, an amalgam of cheekiness and subtly, and parts for the evening as well, leaving you to alone in a room much too big for one person. 

And so you go. Follow the familiar footsteps to the alcove where Kyle meets you by the door, palms flat on the frame as he leans in, pushing himself between the marble pillars, and kisses you until you see stars. 

He always pulls away with a smile that looks like it costs him a shard of his soul. And maybe it does. Maybe it chips at yours, too, but nothing matters anymore when his hand drops to your waist and he pulls you into this secret room where nothing exists except you and him. 

"Missed you, Gaz," you whisper, a secret confessional that no one should ever hear. 

But he does, and his smile looks like it pains him. "Me, too, birdy."

It pains you, too, but maybe it should. Maybe it should hurt more because you're certain that there's no room in the great beyond for the person who falls in love with their husband's younger brother. 

Unlearning Gaz to make room for Kyle brings up a strange assortment of emotions from within you. All slipping through the cracks that break apart against your skin, your person; hollow crevasses where you flayed yourself to give pieces to him. 

It's a slow process filled with trepidation, guilt, and uncertainty—

He left you once, after all, and a little part of you fears that he'll do it again. 

It gets harder to sneak away to the alcove with so many eyes on you—on Gaz. Kyle. Wonderstruck and filled with adoration, they follow his every move. Asking questions of his gallantry, of the war. Of the men he saved along the way. 

He's overwhelmed by it all. You know him enough to see through the gossamer of temerity he weaves around himself in golden threads is as much of a farce as the marriage you find yourself locked into. 

Broken people trying desperately to patch up the cracks with duct tape and false hope. 

Still. Still.

Underneath it all, the heavy blanket of lies that saturates the air between you, the glances met in the middle of a crowded room, gentle touches hidden behind marble monoliths, it's still Gaz. The man who whispered Byron's prose in your ear, and laughed at the absurd humour nestled in the fine print from Poe. Argued the semantics of Pliny's lies and painted a beautiful picture in the seams of Homer's epics. Who breathed life into words on paper, and stained your hands with borrowed ink. 

You love him. You love him. 

But you're not allowed to. 

Outside of the shared kiss between towering pillars, he barely touches you. Shunned, maybe, by the ring on your hand. 

You try to hide it, to stifle it down. To play the part of a loving, adoring wife to the man who is barely ever home. 

The alcove is forgotten. A place you pretend you don't know exists. 

It sits on his shoulders just as heavily as it does yours, but what can you do? 

You offer thin smiles and waning glances, hoping that this ache in your chest will dissipate with time—

nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?

—with distance. 

But Kyle's hand brushes yours in corners concealing your sin in thick drapes of tenebrous. Touches gentle and sparse. A tentative reacclimation of your still kindling love. It burns in these small moments, setting fire to the world around you until it's ashes in your palm. Where nothing matters except the heat of his skin on yours. 

"Missed you," he whispers in empty hallways. "Miss you so much, birdy, I can't stand it—"

"So don't," you breathe, silken petals on wrought iron. "Don't, Gaz—"

His responding groan is agony. The groyne splits into halves. 

The sound of it ripens in your barren chest. 

It's a heavy secret to keep, a burden that squeezes uncomfortably between your ribs. There's fear, of course—while the laws are no longer as archaic as they once were, no one would go after Griggs if he discovered this burgeoning affair and decided to kill you. Many would consider it justified. Even without knowing the way your heart beat so brilliantly when Kyle was near, or the feeling of permafrost that covered your flesh whenever Griggs deigned to touch you. 

Your own safety is a caveat to your secrecy, but you can feel the tension between Griggs and Kyle—some heavy, awful thing that rots in the air whenever they're together; and it goes beyond simple jealousy. You'll do whatever you can to protect him. To hold his soul in your palm, and keep it safe from the world that wants to hurt it. So, you swallow it all, and hide—

But one of the guards that came with Kyle, a soldier you think, greets you one morning and with his sharp smirk, shatters the illusion of safety you've constructed around yourself like it was a cheap, glass toy. 

He dips his head, and you blink at the cut of his hair—a mohawk, and quite unusual for this side of the court where there's always an air of propriety and decorum; a stuffy sense of prestige—but the confusion is bit down the middle when he smirks. 

"Don't worry. Yer secrets safe w'me."

"Oh," you murmur. Oh. 

"Does anyone else know?" You ask one evening, eying the way the man with the unusual Mohawk seems to smirk whenever you and Kyle are near. "About us?"

Kyle's easy grin turns sheepish. "Ah, well. My friend—Soap—" you make a face, and he grins. "Don't worry. His parents didn't really name him that. His name is Johnny. We fought together, with Price. He knows, but only because he's so bloody observant. He looks stupid, but he isn't. He's probably the smartest man in the room…"

You let the admission sit in your tongue, tasting the weight of being known, and gauging how it fits between your molars. You'd be able to kiss him freely, to love him openly, wholly. No one would even blink if you leaned over, resting your weary head on his shoulder after a long day in the waning summer sun. A kiss to his cheek would be as natural as the cool indifference etched in the harsh lines of Griggs’ face when he regards you each morning he deigns to join everyone at the table. The guards barely blink when he brushes his fingers over the back of your hand—a facsimile of a happy marriage for the men who watch you just as coldly as he does—and you imagine it's Gaz instead. Where there sits a frigid tundra is instead a lush savannah full of warmth. An oasis heated under the sun. 

A callous touch becomes a kiss. 

You would shy away from his affection, but your heart would thrill with the pleasure of his love. The openness in which he regards you—something to be cherished, worshipped. Your cheeks would burn in a flustered embarrassment as Soap barely tried to hide a jesting leer behind his cup, but it would be no match for the way your heart sang under the solace. 

Something creeps along the edges of your periphery. A phantom sensation that rots you from the inside out, makes you glow green—

Avarice. It takes you a moment to realise what it means, what this strange feeling in your chest is, but—

You're jealous of that person, that fictional you in the fantasy, who has everything in the palm of your hand but still shies away from his touch. 

Stupid. Stupid. It's so silly. So foolish. Your lips tug downward in a sharp, steep frown. 

Kyle watches the flickering emotions pass by, and quickly shakes his head, but how would he know the rotten tangle of contradictions within your heart?

"I trust Soap with my life." His words are sharp with his sincerity, and you know instantly the harshness isn't meant to scold, but to reinforce. He's trying to convince you of the same. You feel it in the sure way he reaches out for you, laying his hands on your shoulder, making you see the truth in his words as he speaks them aloud. "And I trust him with yours, too."

His probity thickens the air. 

"Okay," you say. Okay. You bring your hand up, pressing it against the steady beat of his heart. It's firm, true. You want it to echo in the hollow of your veins forever. "Then I trust him, too."

And, oh, how he smiles, then—

(Avarice. How could that be when you have the brilliance of his grin stretched out in front of you? When Kyle stands before you, the most beautiful kouros you'd ever seen?

That you who shies away from his touch ought to be jealous because in the palm of your hand sits pure happiness.)

The visits to the alcove become a distant memory. Large vacuums of time where you're both missing will undoubtedly raise suspicion, and with Kyle's return, Griggs seems determined to play the role of a dutiful husband. His personal passel of guards follows you around, an ever-watchful shadow. 

"He's not suspicious," Kyle shakes his head when you inquire about this presence. Was it something you've done? But no. "It's something a husband—" the disdain in the word makes you blink, but he leaves no room for you to ask: "—would do. And he's all about appearances. He's doing this because he thinks I'll notice if he doesn't."

With the alcove dashed—mourned over in the evening when you pass it by, fingers slipping sorrowfully into the cold vacuum—he whispers to meet him in the library instead. 

You spend many hours just sitting together, gauging the appropriate distance in the frown that lines the guard's face as he takes you in. All proper and cold. Polite indifference. You yearn to have Soap watch over the two of you instead, but Griggs is firm about his men watching you. 

(Following you.)

You pretend to be two people who have never known the taste of each other's breath, or the way his heart thundered under your palm. His lips on your lashes, smothering you in tentative kisses as he bid you that final farewell as Gaz.

The dance gets easier. 

You lounge on the chaise with a book open on your lap—sonnet sixty-five—and play the dutiful spouse happy to see your husband's younger brother when he wanders in, his own book tucked between his forearm and side. A pantomime of a happy family. 

He sits at a respectable distance after a perfunctory greeting, and opens his own book—Lancelot, le Chevalier de la charrette—and pretends he isn't more invested in meeting your furtive stare than he is at the plight of a lovelorn knight. 

Each meeting seems to triplicate the growing tension that has been there since he fell asleep one afternoon, still moonlighting as Gaz and sleepily turned toward you with eyes made of melted pennies and crushed umber. Soft, molten, and just for you. Just for you. 

"Sorry, birdy," he whispered, voice thick and rough from sleep. "Didn't mean to pass out on you…"

It was then that your heart began to struggle. Frantically pulling and pulling at the ivory prison it was kept inside until it became loose and freed itself from the confines of your ribs—a gnarled, rotting birdcage where it was meant to moulder for an eternity—and lept to him. The permafrost on its flesh melted the closer it got to him, to his touch, his warmth. 

Gaz runs hot. A lavascape. Thermal springs. 

(How could you have ever expected it to stay with you, shivering from the cold, when he soaked up the blistering heat of the sun?)

It's easy to toe the edge of that unseen precipice in these quiet moments. To shuffle closer when the guard watching over you leaves, satisfied that no harm with befall you (and encouraged by Gaz, warrior of the Garrick house, to take a break, to rest); to lean into the space he occupies until the heady scent of him—charred bundles of pine, evergreen, sycamore; the brininess of his sweat—fills your nose until you're lost in a daze, a cloud, where only you and he exist. A microcosm of your own making. 

He lets you rest your head on his shoulder as he reads to you about the perils of his latest book, voice a deep ravine, a fusillade against the palm you lay flat on his chest. 

But the peaceful innocence of a gentle love shatters when he begins the passage. 

Lancelot and Gunivere. 

Everything about it, them, makes you burn. 

His hands tremble, voice cracks. Adultery. Sin. It sucks the air from the room until you struggle to breathe. 

How could they? You ask, the stutter in your voice tangible. How could they?

Gaz presses his nose against your crow and breathes in deep. His whisper curls around your bones. How could they not?

(How indeed.)

Lancelot and Gunivere give in. 

Gaz places his hand on your wrist, eyes burning coals in the fading sunlight, and you find a question in those sweltering depths. A plea. 

They did it, so why not us?

You taste sweet jasmine petals and green cardamom when he leans in, his breath ghosting across your lips, your tongue. 

"Finally—" the word is mangled in his throat, shorn off by a groan when your lips touch his. Tentative and sweet. The slow unfurling of a late summer's morning when the shade is cool, but the sun burns your skin. A languid unfurl. 

When he opens his eyes, a slow, dreamy blink, you're reminded of an old calico you had back home. A lazy beast who was fed a little bit by everyone around it because no one could say no when it would mew up at them with large, glossy eyes. You caught it one morning on your balcony, slumbering next to the picked bones of a fish it must have snatched from the men at the harbour—the ones who always sent him on his way with a little herring or a piece of tuna. It blinked then, slow and full of torpor, much like Gaz right now, before it yawned, paws stretching across cement before it rolled over, soaking up the heat on its round, full belly. 

His likeness to that little beast fills you with longing for home, for the crystalline shores of a port town where everyone smiled at you, and didn't pretend you weren't there. Where you felt safe and happy and—

Gaz kisses you again, and it feels like you're there, standing in the square of the market, surrounded by jovial chatter and old ladies haggling the price of a fatty tuna and a pinching lobster. It's a warm embrace surrounded by familiarity. You lean into him and wonder if he'd leave here with you. If he'd run away back to your home. 

But you'd never ask because he'd never go. He would never betray his family like that just like yours would never accept you back. 

You're content with this. This sin is enough. 

Enough, enough, enough. 

The word becomes a mantra as winter slips deftly into spring. As the ground blooms in swaths of green, and the air turns balmy as the sun awakens from its hibernation. 

Enough, you think when Gaz presses his hands against yours beneath the table, eyes darker than obsidian and streaked with want, green with greed. 

Enough. Enough—

His kisses grow deeper as if he's trying to swallow you whole. To devour every part of you until nothing remains in this earthly realm; until the entirety of you is locked tight inside of him, safe and sound, and just for him. 

He kisses you like he's desperate. Like he's in pain and you're an antidote to his misery. 

(But when he moans so achingly against your lips until the vibrations run through your skin, making them tingle, you feel more like a poison. The catalyst.)

And maybe you are. Maybe every cell in your body is infectious, and he's been syphoning from the noxious sap that pools on your tongue. You, the personification of pestilence dragging him down, rotting him from the inside out. Him, the hapless victim. 

It would make sense, that. You've always been awful—so greedy for him, and wilful in the sins you're willing to commit against your marriage. 

"Fuck, birdy," he pants into the seam of your lips, nose grazing your cheek. 

You're burning. Feverish. 

You want, want, want—

"If we don't stop now," he says at length, fingers knotting into the fabric around your waist. 

Bunched in his fist, it pulls at the hem until just a sliver of your skin is revealed. His thumb brushes the heat of your flesh, then—whether by accident or design, you don't know, but the feeling of him, naked and bare, makes you shake, makes your stomach quiver under his touch.

There have been moments before this when it was just the sateen slide of skin on skin. The prickle of coarse hairs dusting across his forearms. The heat of his flesh searing your fingerprints. You've mapped the ridges and valleys of his face between your palms. Know, quite intimately, the way his cheekbones feel pressed tight to your lifeline. The little flutter of his lashes before he dips his chin, catching the inner knuckle of your thumb between plump lips. 

The stubble around his jaw tickles your hand and your upper lip when he kisses you softly. His nose presses into the skin of your cheek when he bows his head to syphon the air from your lungs. Or the soft push of his lips when he kisses the tip of your nose the weight of his hands on your waist, keeping you close. 

He likes to bring your hand up to the light sometimes, fingers laced together, palms locked in a tango, and charts the way the sun scatters over your flesh. 

You know him. You know Gaz, Kyle. 

But this—

The rough graze of his dry thumb trailing over your belly makes you tremble, and heats you up from the inside out. 

It's too much. It's too much. It's—

You mewl his name. A soft plea. 

Gaz groans like you've gutted him. 

"Oh, fuck, birdy—"

—not enough. 

He kisses you until you’re breathless, stealing small snippets of your soul with each fervid lash of his tongue on yours, chasing the poison leaking from within. 

(Poison, maybe—)

Gaz pulls away from your mouth with a reluctant dip of his chin. A mournful sound spills from his wet, bruised lips, but he doesn't give in and kiss you again. He rests his forehead on yours, and you feel the heat of him bleeding into you. Sweat drips from his hairline, and tickles your skin. You want to glisten in it. To drench yourself in him, wear it like shiny, new skin. The whole world would know then, that you belonged to him. 

(—or sweet nectarean.)

"Can't—," he makes another noise in the back of his throat when his thumb reaches higher, tip skirting the rim of your belly button. Your flesh is damp. Slick with sweat. You feel the fever in your veins, leaking from the cracks in your marrow. "Can't do this, birdy—"

He swallows. You hear the click in his throat like a gunshot cutting through a field. 

(You, the hapless fool, standing right in its trajectory.)

It must show on your face. The suddenness of your dismay, your confusion, because Gaz lifts his hand from where it was clenched tight around the back of the chaise and presses his knuckle against your hairline. A soft rap on your skin. 

Knocking sense into this head of yours, he joked once when you'd jump with fear over each noise made in the hallways. Mind always spinning, looping; weaving knots of spooled anxiety between each synapse.

He does it now, too, and despite yourself—and the anguish notching inside your chest (does he not want to? Does he not want you? After all this time, is he going to change—?)—your burning lips quirked up in a small smile. 

"—m'not gonna change my mind," he's whispering to the fearful, vindictive hisses in the back of your head. His knuckle drags down your temple, trailing up the incline of your cheekbone. Gaz's eyes are cloudy with want when he lifts his chin up, reinforcing his words with a blistering stare. "Just not—not here—not for our first time. You deserve better than a stuffy library." 

Nothing he says reeks of deception. There's nothing hidden beneath the surface that will come and tear you apart later. He's suffering in this just as much as you are. The weight of your combined guilt will surely crush you both one day, but it will be together. Together. And—

You splinter down the middle at his words. 

You reach up, cupping his fist in the palm of your hand. "Yes," you murmur, soft and full of adoration. "I want that, too. I want that for us."

Kyle smiles and you think of a supernova.

With your shared acknowledgement of this, this, and the inevitability of where it's all heading, Kyle seems to grow bolder. Boastful. More wanting. 

His touches linger. His smile seems to grow when you're around. 

"I don't want you to get hurt," you confess, hushed and severe as he peppers kisses down the column of your neck. "I don't know what they'll do to you if we get caught, but—"

He grunts. "We won't."

"Kyle—"

"My brother is the most daft man who's ever lived. You think he'll notice anything at all?" 

This, too, is new, but only just. You know there is animosity between them—covered in a thick layer of propriety and feigned familial affection—and that it doesn't have much to do with you. Not at first, anyway. This grudge they foster spans far beyond your arrival, but you're not oblivious to the way Kyle seems to grow darker, more possessive each morning after you've retired with his brother in tow. 

He kisses you under the shade of a marble pillar when no one is looking as if he's trying to erase the memory of him from your skin. 

He pulls away when you hesitate, brow knotted in a touch of contempt that hardens his words into a mallet. 

"He hasn't even noticed that you don't love him. Do you really think he'll find out about us?"

"That's—"

It's true. He doesn't question you when you disappear for most of the day, making sparse sightings around the estate just to have a story in place in case someone begins to wonder why you and Kyle are always absent at the same time. Not that it matters much, really. No one has. 

No one will, he promised. Not a single fucking person here likes the bastard. Do you think they'll rat us out? Run to my older brother and tell on me?

You acquiesce, but it sits in your stomach like a stone. 

"I've been reading something," he tells his brother at dinner, eyes dancing with derision over veal. "About Lancelot and Gunivere." 

You tense in your chair, knuckles whitening from the grip you have on your fork. That statement alone feels like a confession. 

But your husband doesn't even spare you a glance. "Really? Sounds—stuffy." 

"It's really good," Gaz grins at you, wide and sharp—a mouthful of fanged teeth—and you feel the heat spume in your belly. "You should read it sometime."

"I think I'll pass." He reaches for the glass of wine with a muted shake of his head. He'll be busy all night, he murmurs—much too busy for silly books.

Beneath the thick oak table, you kick Gaz in his shin, lips turning down in askance. A silent admonishment that doesn't quite reach your eyes. 

He doesn't stop grinning.

"I really want to kiss you right now." 

The words are a heated whisper that barely catches on the towering stelae concealing you both from prying eyes. 

It's wrong, you know. Heinous in the way that these sorts of affairs usually are. Wrongness emanates from your coupling, sinfully detestable; it calls upon illicit evils and conjures images of damnation and dread from the pit of your stomach, but—

"Yes," you breathe, heart sitting heavy in your throat. "God, yes. Please, Gaz—"

When he presses his lips to yours, it feels like coming home. It feels right. Like the shape of them were made to fit the curve of yours. 

How could it be wrong when it feels like this? When you can taste nirvana in his gentle breath, feel the burn of heaven on your skin when he touches you tenderly. 

It can't be wrong. It can't be—

Kyle lays you down on the daybed made of silk and dark pine, and touches places that feel like they were made to bear his fingerprints, to carry his mark.

There's a quiet reverence in the way he seeks you out, learning new arning the new flesh bared to his eager gaze, his wanting hands. A soft propitiation. Each stroke of his fingers on your body is painted in adoration, love, until you’re covered in the hues he makes of you. A pastiche in shades of love, passion. It seeps into the crevasses, and the valleys; floods your pores and burrows into your bloodstream. 

You colour so prettily under him. 

And he, a painter, an artist, pulls back in the fading light from the waning sun and admires his masterpiece. 

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps, nearly choking on the words as they claw their way out of his chest. “I could stay like this forever. Wake up to the sight for the rest of my life.”

It sounds more like a promise than it does a wish, and your heart aches for him, for you. For this moment that ought to be hung from the walls for all to see, to know, but instead is tucked inside a corner, hidden behind walls. You want to scream aloud how much you revere him, and love him, but the precariousness of it all dampens your voice. Dousing water on an incipient flame that hasn’t even had the chance to bloom. 

“Oh, Kyle—” Grief scorches his name until it’s charred, leaving stains of soot and ash between your teeth. 

He bends down, stealing the sorrow from your tongue. “Just for now, birdy, just for a minute—” 

He takes your hand in his—tender and bleeding warmth—and lifts it high above your head until your knuckles graze the pine of your headboard before he settles over you, broad shoulders blocking out the dying sunset until all you can see, all you can feel, is him. 

“This is just for us. Just for us—” Kyle swallows the anguish so it doesn’t hurt you anymore. “Let’s just pretend for a moment?”

And you do. 

“If I could steal you away from him, I would.”

It’s a balmy confession into your crown as he holds you tight. The steady beat of his heart is a testament to the truth in his words, and you long to burrow inside his chest, to fold yourself between the gaps in his ribs, and stay there for as long as he’ll let you. 

(And if it’s forever, you will merge into his bones until you’re suffused into his marrow.)

“I’d take you away right now.”

You think of that cat without an owner. The one who sleeps on any balcony that’s kissed by the sun and eats fatty tuna by the sea. It’s homeless but that doesn’t matter: it was never meant to be trapped inside where the sun cannot caress the soft spot between his ears, or tickle his chin. 

Sometimes he lounges on the top of the seawall, batting lazily at the waves, and you’ve always thought that was the meaning of freedom. To do whatever he pleased, to go whenever he wanted. To brush his body against the ankles of passersby, enjoying brief comfort in the arms of a stranger before wandering off to pester the tabby who mewled at him from behind thick glass.

Living that life blinks by, coloured in shades of flaxen and azure; warm honey, melted gold. Glittering pennies by the shore. Sand between your toes. Hot pavement burning your feet.

A little house—white stucco and royal blue trim—by the sea; living there in perpetuity with him. 

You think about asking, then. Voicing this little sapling aloud, nurturing it into growth. To make it real. To escape with him, and run until you find another alcove hidden between marble; a place just for the two of you. 

But you don’t. The words sour in your throat. 

It isn’t that he’ll say no that keeps the words at bay, but the fear that he’ll say yes. 

You’ll do whatever you can to protect him—even at the expense of yourself. Your happiness. 

(You’re content with this. This is enough.)

“Sounds lovely,” you whisper into his skin. “Maybe one day…”

And you tell him about that place. The cat that reminds you of him. The white house near the shore with a rickety pier you used to stand on for hours, just gazing out at the sea. 

He pulls you closer. "We'll go there. Just the two of us."

This—your consummation—breaks everything open. 

The feverish desire that bloomed turns rapacious—a near-constant ache from within that feels unquenchable even when you're still burning from the phantom whisper of Kyle's touch. 

That little taste was just a morsel. It whets the palette of the beast that resides in your soul, but it's ravenous. Starved. It wants and wants—unslaked with just a simple touch. 

You're not alone in this devastating agony, this heedless need. Gaz must feel it, too, because those soft, tender kisses turn biting and aggressive; possessiveness seems to bleed into the space where his body isn't touching yours. He rushes out the guard the moment you walk into the library, clumsy in his haste to finally be alone with you. To explore the charted valleys of your body and marvel at the way they seem to fit his peaks perfectly. 

("Made for me," he breathes against your collarbones. "Just like I was made for you.")

The broken levee is shattered at your feet. In the sudden rush of water, you become clumsy. Jaded with apathy when you're not in his arms, and careless with your passion. 

The book lay discarded on the table when Gaz slides his hand up your knee. 

"Again?" 

Your name comes out in a needy huff. "And again. And again. And—"

Sometimes, in Kyle's arms, you seem to forget that you're married. That his brother waits for you to finish combing your hair before he climbs into bed, murmuring soft nothings about the world around you, and how it all fits. 

He's quite taken with philosophy, you find, gazing at yourself in the mirror. It's startling to see how much you've changed since you first were told of this whole affair—the war, marriage, and how that single piece of paper, and this heavy ring, would be the cause to end it all. You were a sunken shell of yourself. Hollow, empty. 

But your cheeks are fuller now. The corners of your eyes creased with laugh lines. Your lips were redder from the kiss Gaz snatched before you were whisked away. 

You look different. Sunkissed. That cosy home on the cove, white stucco and royal blue, buoys in your mind again. With the sure set of your shoulders, and the ghost of a smile still whispering across your lips, you know that this is the closest you've ever come to being the first set of footprints in the sand. 

You almost reach for it. 

Let me go—

"And Price is alive, I suppose, so that complicates things."

His reflection waves a flippant hand when you dart to him, half visible in the corner of the mirror. 

"What—?"

Price. That name sounds familiar—

My captain, he whispers, tapping out a skewed rhythm on his bent knee. The hat dangles from the tip of his finger, but despite the almost careless disregard he shows for the item, you know it'll never touch the floor. Was a good man, but stone cold when he needed to be. Willing to do all the shite we couldn't. Respected him a lot, you know? Looked up to Price… 

"He's been imprisoned by Makarov for the last three years. Prisoner of war." He shrugs like it means nothing, but you suppose to him, a man whose signature is on tonnes of death certificates made in limbo during the war, it would be. "A right nightmare."

"Are you—? Have you told G—your brother?"

He scoffs. "No. The last thing I need is for him to run off and try to free him. Bad enough the Mactavishs' have heard whispers and haven't stopped pestering since then."

He moves closer until he's situated behind you, and for a moment you're startled by the sight of him. In the fading twilight, he looks striking. Where Gaz seems to glow in daybreak, illuminated by the coruscating sun and creating an almost breathtaking sfumato of copper, umber, warm gold, amber, and raw honey, his brother, by contrast, is suited for dusk. It casts shadows beneath his lashes, under his cheekbones, in a chiaroscuro. 

The contrast between them is unmissable—Gaz is made of starlight, and meant for sunrise and sunsets; and his brother for moonlight, for overcast days in Autumn—and it bludgeons into you, a mallet to your chest. 

The impact breaks everything into pieces, everything you thought you held firm. Guilt puddles to the surface, and overflows in a great deluge until you're swallowed down, falling into the abyss. 

You can't think about it. 

"Gaz will be furious if he finds out you kept this from him."

"Gaz?" He repeats, head tilting to the side. In the reflection, your eyes widen. "You call him Gaz? You're both rather close, aren't you?"

Your heart leaps to your throat, thudding painfully with each panicked thought that races through your mind, a cacophony of does he know? and when did he find out? 

Gaz called him daft. Oblivious now that the power of ruling over the court was in his hands. In many ways, it's true—his visits have been infrequent, sparse; and when he was there, his mind seemed miles away. It made the guilt churning in your stomach settle when he'd pass on a message that he wouldn't be retiring for the evening in your shared suit, but would be busy with other things. His absence was a notable gap in the estate, and without him there, you'd slipped so easily into Gaz. Fanning the flames that burned so brightly in the alcove all those months ago. 

He wasn't around enough to witness anything, and you've always been so careful. Hiding behind pillars, and sneaking into empty rooms. Evading the prying eyes of your appointed guard and the passel of workers who drifted around the halls as they needed. No one saw anything except the carefully curated picture of stumbling upon each other in the library where you both went to read, and you're sure that any reports he might have gotten would attest to this. 

It abates some of the panic, but there's a keenness in his narrowed eyes that makes you bluster. He knows you're not—in love with him, and so, your hesitation around him should be obvious. Normal. Nothing has changed except sometimes you catch yourself frowning at his back, desperately trying to pretend you weren't wishing he was Gaz when he rolled over in your shared bed. And maybe you pay more attention to Gaz at dinner instead of him, but how could he glean anything from that when his mind was elsewhere the entire time? When his circuit of advisors whispered in his ear and drew his attention away? It's normal. All of it. Everything you and Kyle have ever done in public is perfect chase, acceptable. 

You swallow thickly and his eyes drop to the smooth column of your throat, buoying in the reflection. There's something there in crushed amber, something knowing and horrid. It curdles your stomach, twisting in knots that keep looping over itself in tight tangles. 

"No more so than most."

His narrowed eyes slide across the unblemished skin of your neck, and pause on the soft patch of flesh beneath your jaw. Your heart seizes. The phantom graze of Kyle's fanged canines brims. He's grown rather fond of burying his face into the column of your throat, nipping along your sensitive neck. That place in particular he often peppers a series of soft kisses to before suckling on a patch of skin, drawing it between his lips, his teeth. 

But it's unmarked. 

Kyle knew his brother would be home tonight. It's untouched for that reason. And yet, he lingers there. Watchful. Keen. Is that suspicion in his eyes or has he always carried dark ravines in those drusy depths? 

You swallow again. An excuse—you need—

But he speaks before any form in the roaring tangle of your thoughts, and his tone is—upbraided. You burn. Shame, maybe. But no more guilt. Just—

Fear. Panic. 

"Mm, I suppose so."

The next morning, he presses a kiss to your numb lips when he wakes. It's soft. Chaste, almost. There's something sweet about it—but it's cloying. Saccharine. It rots your teeth. 

Thoughts begin to loop inside your head, weaving messy tangles as they arc high above before battering into the soft ceiling. There's a sense of chaos to them; unfettered terror. They push and push against the walls but there's no escape from their domed prison. They slip past, but they're sluggish even in their fright as if moving through thick molasses. Syrupy. Soporific.

But as he stands from the bed, and turns to you with a cold smile, one tangles around the tips of your fingers in a muted panic, seeking comfort from your own hand: 

He knows. 

He must because Griggs waits for you—an uncharacteristic move that only serves to reinforce the fear curdling, sour and acrid, in the pit of your stomach because he never stays, never lingers—and gives you no time to tell Kyle anything. About Price, about his brother and the poorly kept secret. 

You wonder when he must have figured it out as you comb through your wet hair, gazing vacantly at the etiolated spectre in the mirror. Was it when Kyle had you against the marble pillar? Mewling his name out in a scorching benediction to the night as he held you tighter than ever before, whispering hymns into the sweat-slicked heat of your neck? Or in the library when he spread your thighs apart, locking your knees on his shoulders, and took you to nirvana with just his mouth. 

Or maybe it was all of it. Each gentle touch, and press of his lips painted you in a mosaic of colour for everyone to see, to know. Every stain is a testament to the devotion echoing inside your heart for a man who is not your husband. 

Your face, once full and lustrous, falls sallow, clouding with determination. 

You'll save the man who makes you burn—no matter the cost. 

Despite the watchful eye he keeps on you, locked to his side, a prisoner in your own home, Gaz finds out about Price. 

Whispers, maybe, through the halls. The guards. Whatever the reason for the leak, you can see the way it makes his older brother burn with barely concealed fury. How dare they speak when he told them not to? 

It's matched by Gaz's own anger when he storms into the dining hall, eyes blazing with vigour. His wrath makes them darken to smouldering coal, and guncotton. You can almost smell the acrid burn of salt peate in the air. 

He seems to stutter in his march at the sight of you sitting so close to his brother, an unusual discovery, and you know the growing crease between his brows is in response to that, to the scant space between his arm and yours. You long to reach out, to tell him he knows, run, but the words are swallowed when Griggs drops his hand to your wrist, silencing you. 

Kyle takes in the sight with a steep tug of his lips, a flash of teeth, but he says nothing about it. Can't, you know. Can't because it isn't isn't his place. 

Instead, he seethes, and turns to Griggs with his nostrils flaring. "Price is alive?" 

Griggs tuts. "How did you find out?"

"That doesn't matter. When are we going after him?"

It’s cut down with a swift shake of his brother’s head. “We're not. It’s too reckless. We’ll end up back in war with Makarov, and I’m not going to allow—”

“So we just leave him there—?!”

A nod comes and you’ve never felt anything colder, more callous than that.

“Unbelievable! You’re just going to let him rot?”

“We’ll negotiate, but if it goes nowhere—”

“The MacTavishs won’t settle for this. Soap and Ghost won't, either.”

Griggs leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Well, they have little say in the matter, don’t they?”

"Are you serious?" 

He nods, and Kyle bears his teeth in disgust. "Price's predicament is of his own doing, not ours—"

"His own—?!" Rage turns his words caustic. Fury paints them charcoal black. "Some fuckin' leader you are! You've got a kingdom falling into disarray and a spouse that doesn't love you, so what do you know?" He scoffs, skewering his glare at the way Griggs' hand rests over your wrist. "War hero, they called you, but all I see is a fool. A coward. He was twice the man you'll ever be."

Kyle looks to you, then, nostrils flaring in his fiery anger, his hurt, but he waits. He waits for you. 

This is it. That moment he spoke of—steal you from right under his nose—and there's hope blooming in the fibres of your chest at his proposal. Run with me, his eyes scream, beseeching you. Run with me now. Leave this place. We'll make do on our own. 

Your mouth opens, but Griggs digs his fingers into your wrist. A warning. Griggs' grip is tight. Paralysing. You can't move. Can't—

The betrayal flashes across Kyle's face as he realises you're not going, you're not moving, and it rips through your core like the serrated edge of a white-hot knife, tearing your flesh into scraps, into pieces. They hang from your ruined flesh in drapes of agony, but nothing hurts more than the anguish on his face when his fist closes around the mournful brag of your heart in his palm. 

Keep it, you think. Keep it safe. It's always been yours. Always, always—

"Careful, brother," his tone is low, a rough scrape that cuts through the stifling heat of Kyle's trembling fury. It chills you. "That might get you in trouble one day, to speak so ill of your future king."

"That's what it's about, isn't it?" He spits. "Playing nice with Makarov so you get to be king? While Price fucking rots?! I'm not going to let you do this—"

"And who did this in the first place, Kyle?" He turns to you with a coy tilt of his chin. "Did he ever tell you?" At your confused expression, he seems to scoff. "Of course not. They're always the righteous ones, aren't they? Who do you think caused this war between Makarov? Who prodded the beast when he wasn't supposed to?"

Price is a bit… bloodthirsty when he sets his mind to something. Hard-headed. He'd have stopped at nothing to get Makarov—

"That's—" Kyle's eyes cut to you. "That's not—"

"Was it not you? Not Price? Did you not go and meddle where you shouldn't have, and cause this all to happen? Tell me I'm lying, Kyle."

"You bastard," he seethes, but he doesn't refute his claims. 

Your stomach plummets. This war was the reason you were made to leave your home, the sandy shores and the fat, lazy cat. The reason you had to marry Griggs. 

Your eyes burn with unshed tears. No, no. "Tell me that isn't true—"

"Oh? Had he not told you?" Griggs coos. "Did you know that you were supposed to marry him?"

I should have been here. I should have been—

You couldn't have stopped it, Kyle. 

…yeah. Yeah, I—

"Yes, you were meant to marry Kyle all along but he was too busy running around the countryside chasing after ghosts to be wed." He leans down, whispering mockingly in your ear until it burns. "A shame, isn't it? That you could have been his all along."

No, no, no—

He says your name, but it's strangled in his throat. "That's not—I didn't know—I had to–to find Price—"

His question is at the forefront of your mind. Mocking, now. Cruel. Are you happy at least? And, oh, how painful it is to have your heart cloven in two. 

There's a part you have to play to ensure Kyle's safety. A facade you must wear. The dutiful spouse does not leave their husband's side. 

And so, you sit. You stay, and you break into pieces when Gaz's shoulders shake with the weight of his grief, of yours, and he turns his back to you. 

It can't go on like this. It can't. 

Griggs strokes your pulse with the flat of his thumb. "Good choice."

Outside the dining hall, you can hear Kyle calling out to the men around him, ordering them into action. His voice is a powerful weapon, and he wields it with cutting precision, slicing down any question of his authority, his goal. 

You wonder what Griggs thinks about his men being tethered so tightly to Kyle, more loyal to him than their own eventual King. 

You wonder, too, if this was why he didn't show up to wed you. How cruel. How—

"What did he mean by that?" He asks, glancing down at the ring on your hand. "A spouse that doesn't love you. What does love have to do with anything?"

And you break. 

"It's a bit important, isn't it?" You snarl. "But you knew—you knew—"

For the first time since you've met him, he cracks a small smile, and the sight nearly cloves your heart in two. 

It's misery. It's resignation. 

"I can't relinquish you from this contract, you know I can't. The moment I do, I yield the power to keep Makarov away from my family. If you get caught, you'll be punished. Kyle will, too. Adultery used to be ground for execution but—" his smile, then, is an ugly, gnarled thing. "How am I meant to kill the brother I'm doing all of this to protect? How could I possibly become King with my younger brother's blood on my hands? But you… I can't be a foolish wittol."

"So, what will you do?"

He moves closer, arms folding over his chest. "Kyle is smart. Pragmatic. But when it comes to that man, well…" he offers a wan smile. "He's quite reckless. He'll go after him, of course. But I can't have that. I'll send him away."

"Where?"

"North, maybe. Send him on a merry chase through the countryside while I negotiate with Makarov."

"Gaz would never go. He's too smart. He'll see through it."

"I've never seen my brother so happy before…" There's a touch of wistfulness in his voice. A hint of regret, maybe. But when it looks at you, all you see is nothing. A frigid wasteland. "And I guess that's because of you, isn't it? So, you'll send him away. You'll tell him to go. And he will because it's you."

"No. No—"

"You will. You know you will, because accidents happen, don't they?" His smile is vicious. The threat, the implication, curls around your throat. "And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

Griggs is far more cunning than you could have ever imagined. 

"His hubris was your undoing," he murmurs, smoothing out the collar of your shirt. "Lancelot, le Chevalier de la charrette. He thinks I'm an ignorant fool, and always has because my idea of valour is much less—" his lips twitch. "Bloody than his. Or the Barbarians he sides with. You see, we never really got along much these days. I always thought Price should have been thrown in prison where he belongs for the stunt he pulled. The only reason he wasn't—well, Makarov got there first, didn't he?"

"You hate him this much?"

"He nearly got my brother killed," he says, but you know there's more to it. "And he killed Barkov. Caused a massive uproar in Urzikstan. You know they supported my rise to the throne? It was quite a nightmare to have to pick up the pieces and make excuses as to why it was covered up. Foolish, the lot of them. And that Riley—"

"I don't know him—" 

"Of course," he cuts you off with a wave of his hand. "It doesn't matter. You're going to send Kyle away. You're going to tell him you hate him, you never want to see him again. You wish he was dead. All those dramatic things, yes? And then he'll leave. He'll go with his guard under the careful orders of General Shepherd and Graves."

The names are meaningless to you—maybe you heard them in passing a long time ago, but they don't register any sense of familiarity, and you tuck them away with little more than a numbed nod. 

"Good. Now do what you're told, and we'll pretend this little—ah, affliction—never happened."

It did, you want to scream. It happened. It was real. It was. 

But in spite of your conviction, the unignorable weight of Kyle's involvement in this—in ripping you away from your home and into the cold embrace of a man you don't know, couldn't ever come to love—splits your resolve, and funnels the same anguish he tried to hard to swallow down into your heart. 

Griggs has you wait for Kyle near the entrance hall, standing bereft of comfort and numbed in the antechamber as he assembles his soldiers in the symposium down the hall. 

You haven't seen him since he stormed out, and it feels as if you've been gutted and hollowed out. A trojan horse meant to mislead and deceive. Caught in a political game of euchre between two brothers you have a tangible relationship with. You know which side you're on, who you'll always pick in the end, but still. 

It stands out again just how guileful Griggs is, and how deep those roots go. The unveiling truth of Gaz's involvement in the war is meant to shatter the relationship between you into pieces he can exploit. The betrayal sets everything up for him—pawns to his victory—and you're meant to lash out, to hate Gaz for this slight against you. A tool to inveigle him to the opposite side of where Makarov is while Griggs continues to play games behind the scenes. Master puppeteer. He'll play Makarov, too. Entice him with a treaty. 

The dominoes are stacked for him: you get to Gaz, sending him on his way. Griggs plays Makarov and gets rid of Price. He's crowned King, and you—

Somehow your affair will leak. A guard who saw, who was threatened into secrecy. He'll come forward once the throne is assured, and admit to what he witnessed. With Kyle in purgatory chasing ghosts, there is nothing in the way to stop you from being cast to the gallows. 

Adultery is more lenient now, he'd said, but you're not stupid. The time you had alone in the library was spent pouring over laws and loopholes. It might be outlawed in your kingdom, too barbaric, but here? It's antediluvian but still legal. 

You'll be convicted in court. His hands tied by the archaic legal system, all he can do is mourn your loss as you're sent away. Woe is him, the heartbroken fool. 

He'll change it after. He would have to, wouldn't he? In memory of you. 

Or an accident, perhaps. 

They do happen after all.

You suppose you have a choice here—or, rather, a test. Prove your devotion to Griggs and maybe he'll spare you. The implication of it hung so heavy in the air when he'd fixed the ring on your hand, and said—

With this, the whole kingdom could be ours.

Ours. All that power—

You hear footsteps and chatter before the door creaks, swinging open with a loud bang. It seems to shake the walls, and you brace yourself to face him again.

"Birdy—"

Hearing his voice makes you tremble. 

Gaz stands in the foyer, eyes widening at the sight of you. Prettied up in linen and lace. Made beautiful for him in the eyes of a man who thought he knew what Kyle wanted.

But it sits too heavily on your shoulders, and the weight of it all makes Kyle frown. 

"What—?"

"I've come to—"

He cuts you off with a shake of his head. "I can't—I have to do this—"

He stands, rigid and sure. Immovable in his decision. Beside him, Soap looks just as determined. Just as grim. 

It knocks against a tender spot inside your chest, and you think about the anger he'll feel after all of this, when he leaves and realises that Price is a placeholder for Griggs’ ascension to the throne. A peace offering to Makarov. 

He reaches out to you, but the action is full of hesitation, uncertainty. There's so much unsaid between you, so much rot putrefying at your feet. 

So much could have been different, and there's a small part of you that still seeks to blame him for it. All the whispered confessions, the heavy weight of your guilt—none of it might have happened if only he—

Gave up his dreams. 

A new shame is born from that awful, ugly thought. The reverence in his voice when he spoke of the man, the guilt that lashed at your sternum when he confessed in your arms about leaving him behind. 

I'll never forgive myself for it, birdy. I had to keep looking. I had to. 

Hindsight bleeds around the edges, tainting each memory with the gruesome truth nestled in his words. He kept so much from you, and the unignorable knowledge of it pools deep in your marrow, painting every moment with an ugly stain of envy, blackening it with anger. 

Were you ever a choice? Or were you—

An accident. 

A throwaway in the grand scheme of it all, easily passed off to the next available suitor. Unwanted. Unneeded. 

Until it suited him best. 

And you want to scream. To rage at him. To split your anger, your betrayal into shards and throw them at his chest. Daggers of fury, of heartbreak meant to maim, to hurt. You want him to feel the same anguish inside your veins, dragging festering blood to your pathetic heart that still sings for him, still yearns.

Under it all, a bigger part of you still understands why—why he did it, how he could. Kyle didn't know you when he made his choice, and you're sure that he's suffering for it just as much as you are. 

"I know this is something you have to do," you murmur, but your words are stilted. Mechanical. "And you—you should go."

It seems to throw them both. Soap looks pensive as he stands, rigid and faithful by Kyle's side. His hand lowers to his sword, and you're almost taken by the sight of his intuition; the way it flickers across his features is almost indescribable under the honeyed glow of the lanterns. 

He knows something is wrong. Tastes it in the air. 

Kyle, blinded by the sight of you, doesn't yet. And you know, then, what you must do. 

"Birdy—?"

"It's what you have to do, isn't it?" 

There's so much between you. A thundercloud looms overhead, threatening a downpour. You ignore it all—a conversation for another time, maybe (hopefully)—and move forward, gathering them into your arms. 

Hugging Kyle openly is unusual for you, but embracing Soap stands out. You feel Kyle tense in your arms. 

"Birdy…"

"Don't trust Graves," you whisper into his chest. "Or Shepherd."

"...what?"

"He knows. About us—"

"Birdy—" he tries to pull again, but you cling to him. 

"Don't. Don't. I know—I know this is something you have to do. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I'll be okay. Just—Makarov isn't where you think he is."

"That slimy, fucking—"

It's Soap who keeps Kyle from lashing out with a firm hand on his shoulder, and a pointed glance. "Yer sure?" 

You pull back with a muted nod, too aware of the guards standing just outside of the hall. Out of earshot, but still. Still. Much too close for comfort. 

"He told me so himself. Just don't—do what you need to, but don't let on, yeah?"

"Steamin' bloody Jesus… the whole fuckin' court is corrupt."

Soap looks startled, unmoored by the devastating blow you dealt to them. The betrayal, the treachery by their own men, their own commander, seems to dig deep into him. It hurts. You can see lashing across his face, the pain of it too deep for him to remain impassive. He buckles, but he doesn't break. It's tucked back into neutrality with a nod that feels like it meant more for himself than for you. 

But Kyle still looks wrathful—the picture of ferocious betrayal, hatred, and you think about Griggs and his own version of love in that instance. They wear their fury in the clench of their jaw, the furrow of their brow. It turns their eyes to lavascapes, melted pennies. Liquid gold. It drips from the drusy peaks of his iris, raking rivers of red through moonstone. 

Kyle comes back to himself, but worry paints his face a shade of grey. "Come with us."

"He'll know. I can't."

He waves. "You have to—"

But even as he says it, you both know it can't happen. Despite it all, you're safer with Griggs than you would be on the battlefield. You'd be a liability at best, and he needs to keep up the facade of loyalty to Griggs, to Graves and Shepherd, so that they can save Price. 

It's you or him. An ultimatum he's already been faced with before. 

Your smile is brittle. "Gaz…"

But he knows. He knows.

The careful visage of a determined warrior crumbles, leaving the shattered remains of a man, unsure and fearful, behind. It breaks you into pieces. One that drops over his shoulders like falling ash. 

He catches them in his fist, and holds tight. 

His voice is agony when he speaks. Broken timbre, charred wood, but he plays his role, now. 

He must. 

"I'll come back for you, birdy."

And you do, too. 

"I'll wander along the beach—" you breathe, forcing every ounce of longing, regret, heartache, and love into the words. A promise, an oath. You'll wait for him forever. 

"And I'll find you by the footprints in the sand."

"You might be right, birdy—"

You hum, and then:

"Why birdy?"

The hazy mirage of Gaz inverted in the foggy window, streaked with rivulets of rain, seems to blink as if started by your question. 

"Oh, uh… well," he clears his throat, a touch sheepish as he looks past your shoulder to the grimy window you stand in front of. "I saw you when I snuck home—here. When I, uh, when I snuck here."

"And you thought I was a bird?"

He moves in the reflection, taking careful steps to the edge of the daybed where you sit with your legs crossed, knees pressed against the wall, and your elbows resting on the ledge. Gazing, listlessly almost, at the rain-soaked world just beyond the thin glass. 

"Yeah, kinda. You might have been sitting just like this, but when I looked up, I just saw your face. With your arm like this—" he reaches over, grasping your left hand in his warm palm before pulling it up and tucking your knuckles under your chin. "Yeah, just like that, I think."

"And this made you think of a bird?" Your brow raises in the murky window. "Really?"

"From the outside, yeah. You looked—" his hand falters on your wrist, freezing in place. He swallows thickly, and you trace the bob of his prominent Adam's apple with a feverish fascination. He clears his throat before he speaks, eyes downcast. Lost in thought, maybe. "You looked like a trapped bird. A little birdy. Thought you were an owl or somethin' that got locked inside. I felt so bloody horrible—I couldn't remember the last time I'd been here. Thought you might have been starving—"

"But you found me."

His chin lifts. The weight of his stare paralyses you. "Yeah. I did." 

"Not a trapped bird, though."

"Birdy," he swallows again, and consternation gnarls across his brow. "You—fuck. I just—if I wasn't so much of a—"

"Gaz." You bring your hand up to his, trapping his palm against your skin before he can pull it away. "I'm fine. I'm better now that I have you."

But it doesn't abate his sorrow. Anguish collapses across his face. "Birdy, I'm so—fuck—"

You don't know why the thought of a trapped bird makes him so achingly sad, but the weight of his grief makes you mourn his loss alongside him. 

"It's fine. I'm fine." You kiss his palm. "As long as I have you, I'm fine."

"You can't mean that."

"I do. Always. And sometimes…" You fluster a little, heart racing in your chest. It beats so sharply against the fragile rings of your ribcage, that you wonder if a bird isn't trapped inside there, too. Longing to be free. "Sometimes I wish it was you."

"It will be," he promises, hushed and fervid. An oath for the walls to hear. Meant only for the room that watched him grow, that lead him to you. "I'll take you away from here. Somewhere far away—"

"Somewhere warm."

"The beach, then. The desert. I'll take you to the Sahara and we'll live with the birds and lions. So far away from anyone that could hurt you, birdy. It'll just be me and you."

"Sounds lovely." 

"I'll take you across the sea. I'll buy a boat. We could stay there forever at sea. Little, tiny spots in the great ocean. No one will ever find us." He bends down, pressing his lips to you temple. His eyes are embers: they burn with his conviction. "We'll forget what it feels like to be on land. We'll forget how to walk—"

"Maybe a house," you whisper. White stucco that absorbs the sun. Blue trim—as blue as the coruscating ocean. A fat cat, too. "By the sea."

"Yes. Yes," he breathes. His arm wraps around your chest, holding you close. "Just wait for me, birdy. Wait for me—"

"Gaz," you laugh. "Don't be silly. I'll wait for you forever. You can find me by the sea."

He shivers. "I really want to kiss you right now."

"What are you waiting for?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing—"

Credits: “Dante Swoons before the Soaring Souls of Paolo and Francesca, Virgil at his Side,” by Henry Fuseli (c. 1818)  / Madonna della Pietà (1498–1499) / Canto V (verses 121–123) of the Inferno from La Divina Commedia (ca. 1310–14) / Fitzwilliam Museum domed entrance ceiling / the Rising Sun by John Donne / The Cathedral by Auguste Rodin / Sonnet 40 by William Shakespeare / Cupid and Psyche by Antonio Canova (1808) / A Glimpse by Walt Whitman / 'La notte' by Hendrik Christian Andersen / Recreation by Audra Lorde / Unknown sculpture / Lancelot: The Knight of the Cart by Chrétien de Troyes

[ivymarquis]

Under My Skin

Pairing| Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x F!Reader Rating| M Content/Warnings| Angst, smut, miscommunication trope, two idiots in love

My contribution to @glitterypirateduck’s Gazfest! Squeaking in at the last second as per usual because nothing motivates me like a deadline

One Shot + “You’re not going out in that”

The setting would be romantic in another situation.

Rain is not at all an uncommon sight, especially at this time of year. All day the weather’s been dreary and drizzling.

Here, now that the sun dips below the horizon as the rain picks up- the dull lighting is cozy and you’ve gone and done the exact same thing you always do.

You’ll never figure it out, will you?

That would require learning from your mistakes, though, and Kyle Garrick is one habit you can’t bring yourself to break.

But when you’re on your back underneath him, knees drawn up as your ankles lock behind his waist-

You can trick yourself into thinking this is more than what it is.

What had started as a one night stand has become a situationship of sorts. He doesn’t tell you the dirty details of his job but his phone can go off at any point and that’s the end of the time you had with him.

His absence gnaws at you far more than you’ll ever care to admit- that would break the rules. Even with him buried as far in you as he can be, the anxiety of knowing this won’t last interferes with your ability to enjoy the present.

Everything you want is tangible and in your hands. You want him, and for tonight- for right now- you have him.

He holds you like he’s missed you over the past weeks.

You both said you wanted to keep this simple with no strings attached. That was before when you hadn’t known him as a person. Before, bit by bit, you learn his quirks and idiosyncrasies.

Simple has, at some point and without warning, packed her bags and runs clear out the door- never to be seen or heard from again. There are most assuredly strings where there should not be.

Fortune favors the bold but you are a coward. Too afraid to ask for what you want- what you delude yourself into thinking you can take in another life.

So you try.

Try to ignore the voice in the back of your head. Try to ignore that little incessant something eating away at you.

Try to enjoy the time you have with him, because you’ll never know if the last time is the last time.

It would be easier, you think, if he was like any number of your prior partners. Greedy. Self centered.

Kyle is giving and kind and attentive.

He reads your body language and verbal cues as easily as a book- knocks the air out of your lung with each stroke once he’s hit his stride. You’re helpless to do much more than cling to him, nails marking up his back in pleasure. If anything the scratches seem to spur him on.

“Kyle please- oh fuck-” your eyes squeeze shut in pleasure as he gets you almost to the precipice.

The rain builds outside much like you do.

“You getting close, doll?” It’s a rhetorical question, surely. Kyle knows your tells at this point, the way your body clutches and clings to his, the way you have to force your breathing to be steady.

“Yes!” Your answer is a wail that, were you in your right mind, would be embarrassing. As it is, your only focus is on the growing knot in your gut, the fire stoked with each wet thrust of his hips against the back of your thighs.

“Come on then, pretty girl,” he goads, one hand slipping between your bodies as the other supports both of your weight. “Cum for me, be a good girl,”

You would do anything for him. If you had a shred of shame or dignity left it would be embarrassing. As it is, he’s got you wound so tight it takes virtually nothing- just a few firm, steady circles of his thumb around your clit- to get you seeing white and clutching to him with a whine.

Your thighs are shaking as he works you through your orgasm, lips locked with yours as his thrusts sharpen for a few cants before stilling entirely as he fills the condom he barely remembered to put on earlier.

He’s always slow to work the pair of you down. You relish in the attention, how his warm hands span the length of your back, roaming down to squeeze the flesh of your hip or cup your bottom before trailing his fingertips back up and leaving you a trembling mess.

It’s later, once the pair of you have cleaned up that you start gathering your things. The rain still pelts down outside- you’ll need to be careful, but you’re certain you can make it home in one piece.

Neither of you stay the night at the others. You have your fun, pray he doesn’t get a phone call in the middle of things, get your clothes, and leave.

“Where are you going?”

You pause, finishing righting yourself after bending over to grab your bra.

“Home?” It shouldn’t be a question. You are going home. You’ve always gone home.

He shakes his head.

“You’re not going out in that.” Decision made, case closed, conversation over. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. That you routinely wait out bad weather with him.

“Here, I’ve got a shirt you can borrow somewhere,”

You stare at him like a deer in headlights. Not that the thought of him being kind to you is such an unimaginable concept.

But there are boundaries- rules of engagement- that the pair of you agreed to at the beginning of this all these months ago. To keep things unmuddled and uncomplicated.

It’s a simple interaction, the way you follow him to his closet. You could easily insist on wearing your clothes- there’s nothing wrong with them.

But there’s a gesture in the way he hands you a shirt that’s several sizes too big for you.

Maybe Kyle wants more too.

[peachesofteal]

Trick or Treat

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick/female reader 1.8k words For @glitterypirateduck's GAZFEST Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. No smut but contains suggestive themes, slice of life, dad!Kyle, light angst, fluff/comfort. Brief character appearance from another series. I didn't use a prompt for this but it is a one shot.

Trick or treating is an odd custom. 

You feel this way, because like Kyle, you didn’t grow up in a place where knocking on doors for candy was a predominant tradition. Halloween was celebrated, surely, but dressing up as little ghouls and running around, screaming ‘smell my feet’ to your neighbors was just… not a thing when you were a child. 

Times have changed though, since you were young. Customs have floated across the oceans. They have melted into new traditions, new practices that took over schools and playground chatter. 

“I wan’ ta be a ghost!” Oliver’s little face beams up at you as he clutches your hand, skipping beside your body with boundless energy, crisp brown leaves crunching beneath his heels. 

“A ghost?!” you gasp, fake fear making him shriek with giggles. “That’s too scary!”

“Naw it’s not!” it’s a playful protest, and you when you turn the corner, he forgets all about the allure of trick or treating for something infinitely better. 

The sight of his dad standing on the sidewalk in front of the house. His dad, who he hasn’t seen in nearly three weeks, waiting for him. For you. 

He takes off into a sprint.

He’s only four, but fast, and you stay on his heels as he flings himself into the arms of his father. 

“DADDY!”

“Don’t you look the part.” Kyle murmurs, heat creeping up your neck into your cheeks when his hands graze your waist. He ducks under the brim of the black, pointed witch hat you managed to find last minute, and presses his lips against yours. You savor him, soaking in everything, the smell of his skin, the remnant flavor of sweetened peppermint on his tongue, the heat of his body pressed to yours. 

Everything you’ve been missing. 

Everything you’ve ever needed. 

“Do you like it?” you croon, and his hands lift the edge of your shirt, just enough so that his palm lays flat against you, kneading against your hip. 

“It’s… bewitching?” He tries the word before the crack of a smile forms, a breathy chuckle, amusement at himself blooming across his face. 

He stuns you. Still. Even after five years. Even after being married, having his child, being separated across continents for too many too long stretches of time. 

“I think-“ you’re about to tell him that you’re thinking about after trick or treating, when Oli will be asleep, when the house will be quiet and dark, all of the candy given away, the candles blown out. When his body will be flush with yours in bed, and you’ll push and pull one another into a daze of pleasure. 

He’s been home for a week, but the longing, the wanting never stops. It only builds, desperate to drink up as much of him as possible, eager to hang on to everything he gives you before he goes again. 

“I’m ready!” Oliver’s shout interrupts you, chiming over some camp Halloween music crackling in the background, finally ready for his grand entrance even though you got him ready over a half hour ago, and Kyle huffs a laugh into your neck before you both pivot to where your son stands on top of the stairs, clad in his very fancy, brand new Buzz Lightyear costume. 

“What's this?” A perfectly packaged Buzz Lightyear costume sits on the kitchen table, and Kyle rubs the back of his neck. 

“He ah- didn’t want to be a ghost anymore.” 

“What?” The dog barks from the backyard, pulling a glance from you to where Oliver plays with her, where they chase each other around in circles in the dusk lit grass.  

“And I couldn’t tell him no…” Your husband tries to explain sheepishly, and you bite your lip to keep from laughing. 

“Yeah, you’re not really good at that.” His hand envelopes yours, lips pressing to your knuckles. “That’s alright though.” You know he feels guilty. He feels the weight of his absence, feels the pain every time he comes, or goes. 

You try to hold it for him. The sadness. The remorse. The struggle. Try to put the flames out, when they grow too high, when it’s too much for him to bear. After all, Oliver was a decision the two of you made, together.

Sometimes you succeed in lessening this weight that he carries.

Sometimes you do not. 

“Okay, hold still!” you hurry backwards, lining them up in the frame on the front step, flanked by the poorly carved jack o lanterns, the jagged teeth and uneven eyes glinting at you from where the LED lights flicker inside their hollowed-out guts. 

Oliver grins, looking between you and his dad, who crouches beside him, holding him close in an embrace. They have their arms around one another, and they're so happy, so sweet, that you have you hurry up and blink your tears away before Kyle’s super senses catch on. 

You click a million frames of the same photo, just in case, selecting the second one to send off in a group message. 

>Buzz and his favorite Sergeant go trick or treating!  >Soap: I thought I was his favorite Sergeant?  >Price: Enjoy, make sure you get some of the good candy for yourselves!  >You: Of course, and we will! Soap, send pics of Bee in her costume and the fam!  

The response comes fast, a picture, a selfie in an elevator. Soap’s got a half full pillowcase in one hand, and the phone in his other, their partner standing behind him, her fingers folded over his waist, face beaming and bright as she smiles up at the camera. Ghost looms next to her with a little girl curled up against his chest in a homemade bumblebee costume. 

Kyle barks out a laugh, and types out a quick reply. 

>Kyle: Who made that costume? I know it wasn’t you, Soap. >Ghost: It definitely wasn’t. 

“Muuum!” It’s an impatient whine, and you slide your phone away, handing him his plastic pumpkin. 

“Alright, rules.” Kyle begins, the tone of his voice serious enough to jog Oli’s attention immediately. “Stay with us at times. No running too far ahead. Mum or I should be able to see you, yeah?” Oli nods agreeably. “No crossing the street without a grown up. And say thank you at the door.” 

“But wot if they give me apples?” 

“Say smell my feet.” Kyle deadpans and Oliver’s eyes go wide, while you smack your husband’s bicep lightly. 

“No! You still say thank you. Buzz Lightyear likes apples, you know.” Oli deflates a bit, and Kyle laughs, pulling him in for a hug. The little boy melts, still content to just be cuddled and held by his dad, even though he tells everyone he’s a ‘big boy now’. You try to memorize the sight, something to think back on in a few weeks when your bed is empty again, and there’s one less setting at the dinner table. 

“What are we waiting for?” Kyle pats Oliver on the back, and then the three of you take off down the street under the orange glow of All Hallows Eve. 

“He’s cleaning up well.” Kyle muses. Oliver runs down the sidewalk, pointing at his orange globe with pure excitement. 

“Mmmm.” You hum your agreement, pulling your jacket a little tighter. It’s gotten cooler since the sun went down, and the crisp fall air nips at your skin.  “Cold, love?” A warm arm goes around your shoulders and then tucks you in tight, close enough that your face can nestle into his clavicle. “I’ll warm you up later.” He murmurs and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re so cheeky sometimes, you know that?” 

“I do.” He’s solemn when he says it, but his eyes twinkle, mischievous streak simmering just beneath the surface of his enchanting gaze. 

“No question where he gets it from.” Kyle’s fingers touch your temple and then swipe down, glancing across your cheekbone before he’s cupping your face fully, tilting your mouth up to his for a dizzying kiss. 

“You’re not so well behaved yourself.” He chides between the slide of your lips, and you smirk into it, nipping at him when he deepens the kiss. Your heart glows in your chest, warm, happy, sated, and you melt into him, content to be swallowed in the bliss of his touch, his love- 

Oliver screams. 

Everything happens at once. 

Oliver screams, and you both recognize it immediately. You gasp, moving to turn away but you’re too slow, far too slow compared to Kyle. You feel the strength of his body, his muscles turned to action in your grip, and then nothing, save for his absence. 

He’s already gone. 

He’s already over the fence, and up the little yard of the house where you son stands with tears streaming down his cheeks. 

There’s a bowl of candy on chair next to him, and as you get closer, you notice that it has one of those animatron hands in it, the ones that snap forward and grab someone unsuspecting when they reach for a treat. 

Oh. Your body sags with relief. Your heart slows to a slightly elevated pace. 

“You’re alright, shhh. I’m here. Dad’s here.” Kyle has Oliver in a hug, and he rocks him side to side, rubbing his back and whispering soothingly. “Just had a scare, is all.” Your son’s crying relaxes, and he sniffles, keeping his face pressed into Kyle’s chest, hands clutching at him. When Kyle moves to stand, he lets out a frightened cry, and your husband is quick to comfort him, shushing in his ear as he holds him tight. “I’m right here.” He coos, rising with the boy in his arms, looking at you over his head. 

“I think that’s enough for tonight then.” You whisper, leaning forward to peer at Oliver’s sleepy and tearful face. It’s late, well past his bedtime, and he’s already hit every house on the block, filling his little jack o lantern to brim. “Let’s go home?” Kyle nods his agreement. 

Your fingers intertwine with his during the walk home. He holds you, and his son, the entire way, until the front door is swinging open and the two of you are lowering Oliver into bed, tucking him in carefully and kissing him goodnight. Kyle strokes a gentle touch across his cheek, and you volunteer to do the clean-up downstairs so he can linger there, sitting by his son’s bed, watching over his sleeping form. 

When you’re done, and the lights have been turned off, the jack o lanterns no longer flickering in the night, the street nearly quiet, Kyle pulls you into your bedroom.

“Want to leave the hat on?” He raises a brow, and you smother a giggle before pulling the pointy hat off your head with a flourish.

“Trick or treat?” He steals the question from your lips with his, pulling you downwards, burying you between his body and the sheets. 

“I love you.” He whispers against you in the dark, mouth tracing a map across your skin. “Happy Halloween, my love.” 

[halfmoth-halfman]

chamomile kisses

Pairing: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x GN!Reader Word Count: 1.1k Warnings: illness, guns, fluff Prompt: Taking Care Of Each Other & "Are you wearing my shirt?" Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. A/N: next up, a little sickfic for @glitterypirateduck’s GazFest 2023 💜

It’s a ritual the two of you have.

When he gets back from a mission, Kyle sends you a text before he has to disappear into a plethora of debriefs, and you spend an entire day getting ready for him to come home.

It’s nothing extravagant, not wanting to overwhelm him after what is usually months of intense action. More often it’s a home-cooked meal, hot shower, and a night spent watching his favorite childhood movies in bed while you tell him about all of the “excitement” of civilian life. It’s simple, but an easy change from the blood and gunfire that always threatens to follow him home. 

It’s something he starts looking forward to the moment he steps onto base. Stress melts from his shoulders when he pictures your smiling face, the feel of your skin, the taste of your lips. It’s hard to keep the smile from his face as you flood his thoughts, and Price has caught him grinning to himself like an idiot on more than one occasion.

Which is why he feels a small, creeping concern when you don’t text him back. He tries not to let it bother him, telling himself you’re just busy getting ready for him. He talks himself through deep breaths the entire drive to the house, assuring himself that you’re perfectly fine and safe.

His heart is gripped with ice when he walks into a completely dark house with you nowhere in sight. He tries to calm himself, taking deep, steadying breaths as he shifts into Sergeant Garrick and searches the ground floor of the house. 

The doors and windows are locked, no signs of a break-in. Your shoes are by the front door, the fridge is fully stocked, and your bag is sitting safely on the counter. 

Panic seizes in his chest, and Kyle reaches under the sink to grab one of the various handguns hidden around the house. He rushes up the stairs two steps at a time, heading straight for the bedroom. 

The bedroom door is cracked, but there’s no light coming from inside. 

Kyle creeps toward the door, reaching out a hand to lightly push the door open. The bedroom is dark, the curtains closed so no light can reach inside. He blinks twice, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness as he scans the room. He spots you, a huddled lump on the bed buried beneath a pile of blankets with one of your arms hanging off the side of the bed. 

He hears you breathing, but it’s shallow and hoarse, more wheeze than inhale. There’s no immediate danger, and that thought is enough to lessen the anxiety in his chest. He moves quietly, careful not to disturb you, as he sets his gun on the dresser and toes off his boots before making his way to your side of the bed.

There’s a collection of mugs on your nightstand, interspersed with half-empty bottles of painkillers and cold medicine. Your phone is hanging off the corner, dead to the world just like you. 

Sympathy courses through him, and he leans down to lay a delicate kiss to your cheek before he starts collecting the mugs. He quietly carries them down to the kitchen, leaving them in the sink while he gets to work on making you a fresh mug of chamomile and ginger tea. 

When he finally returns to the bedroom, the light is on and you’re sitting up, one hand cradling your head while the other rubs sleep from your eyes. His eyes rake over your disheveled state, hair a mess, eyes swollen, and a familiar shirt hanging off of one shoulder.

“Are you wearing my shirt?” he laughs softly, watching the way your eyes widen in surprise as your head snaps to him. 

“Ky-le?”

Kyle winces at the rough state of your voice, hurrying to offer you the steaming mug in his hands. You take it with a thankful smile, holding the mug close to your nose to take a deep inhale of its scent. 

Kyle kisses your cheek again, waiting until you’ve taken a sip to begin undressing. He changes into a t-shirt and sweatpants–something more casual, more comfortable, than the jeans and hoodie he’d worn from base–and crawls into bed next to you.

He sits next to you, his side pressing into yours as he runs a soothing hand down your back. You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder, and he takes the initiative to slide his arm under your knees to pull your legs across his lap. 

Neither of you speaks as you settle against him, eyes sliding shut at the warmth that surrounds you.

“Don’t sleep until you’ve finished that,” Kyle softly chides, tapping on the tilting mug in your hands. You open your eyes with a quiet groan, lifting your head to pout up at him. 

“Is it too hot?” he asks, not letting you answer as he wraps a hand around yours and brings the mug up to his lips to take a testing sip. It’s a little hot, maybe too hot for your throat–

He stumbles as you pull one of your hands away, nearly dropping the mug. Before he can question it, you place your hand on his cheek and turn his face, leaning up to press your lips to his. It’s a brief kiss, but far from chaste as you run your tongue along his tea-soaked lips before pulling away. 

“Much better,” you rasp, a playful, mischievous smirk across your face as you lick the remnants of chamomile and ginger from your lips. 

“Cheeky thing,” Kyle laughs, the hand on your back sliding down to pinch your hip. You’d worry he was annoyed, but he leans in and pecks at your lips two more times before leaning back against the headboard. 

You get comfortable against him, working your way through the tea while you fight back sleep. The tea is almost done when you lose the fight, eyes sliding shut as your head droops against Kyle’s chest. He carefully pries the mug from your hands, setting it aside so it won’t spill.

He’s gentle as he grabs two blankets from your pile, trying not to jostle you as he pulls them over the two of you. You snuggle into the warmth almost immediately, and Kyle feels his heart skip a beat. 

Usually, this is when you’d help him decompress, overload him with stories about boring, everyday stuff to keep his mind from wandering until he falls asleep. But now, with you tucked against his chest sleeping peacefully, Kyle finds himself calmer than ever. It’s amazing how much your mere presence has the ability to soothe him, even sick like this. You don’t have to do anything special–you’ve never had to–for him to be taken with you. 

Having you near, close enough to hold, knowing you’re safe and sound in his arms, is enough for him. 

[cordeliawhohung]

Only in Dreams

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x fem!Reader

masterlist

your best friend gets wounded on the field, and it's all your fault.

warnings: slight wound description, mentions of guns, language, hospital setting. otherwise pretty fluffy, considering the circumstances. hurt/comfort

1-shot - 'i really want to kiss you right now'

wc: 2.6k

this is part of @glitterypirateduck gazfest! gotta show our boy some well deserved love (:

It should have been you. 

This wasn’t some guilt tripping desire, or depressing statement, and it was far from being poetic or beautiful. You could try and romanticize the gore and pain of it all. Try and tell yourself that it was just like a movie. Sitting in that stale smelling room, listening to the steady beats of the heart monitor, watching over him. God, maybe it could have been a movie. He looked so peaceful, and you always thought he had a face that would take the silver screen by storm. 

But it wasn’t a movie. It was real life and it was fucking terrifying because your best friend was shot. Your best friend had almost died and it was all your fault. 

“You can still make it,” he told you. 

Gaz’s words had sounded so far away you almost didn’t register them. Too concerned with the crimson that soaked into the fabric of his pants, your shaking hands fumbled with the items in your bag, searching through it like a madman. By the time your fingers wrapped around the tourniquet you could have cried, but you didn’t have the time for tears, or any other emotion for that matter. 

“Hold still,” you ordered him, ignoring his previous comment. 

Getting the tourniquet around his leg and up towards his thigh proved to be challenging. Every inch you moved it, the fabric of his pants would catch on it, or he would wince so loudly that you nearly stopped, not wanting to hurt him. But hadn’t you hurt him already? What difference was a few more tears?

Once you got it up over the gunshot wound on his thigh, you began to twist. Gaz was completely covered in sweat by that point, and his skin glistened in the dull light that seeped through the boarded up windows of the building you had taken shelter in. His head fell against the back of the wall he leaned against, chest heaving with each shuddering breath he took. 

“Stop it,” he said, grimey hands reaching up to try and push yours away from his thigh. 

At first you thought he was begging, thought the pain of the tourniquet clamping down on his leg and suffocating the blood supply to the wound had become too much for him. You had already told yourself that no matter how much he begged, or screamed even, you weren’t going to stop until the bleeding stopped. But he wasn’t begging. Despite the pain and his shaking, his voice was still firm. It was an order. 

“No,” you said with a shakiness in your voice that you wish wasn’t there. 

“If you stay here, you’re going to die,” Gaz continued with a grunt. 

“You don’t know that,” you retorted quickly. 

Finally, the bleeding had nearly ceased. Your fingers were sore from twisting it as much as you had to. Gaz was a soldier after all, so there was a lot of pressure you had to put on it to get past the thick muscles of his thigh, but you had to ignore it. Ignore it and push through it because if you didn’t he was going to die. 

God, he was going to die.

“Yeah?” he asked, almost as if he was teasing you. “We’re behind enemy lines. They’re going to tear apart every building in the vicinity searching for us. You can’t take them all.” 

He was right and you knew it, but you weren’t going to listen to him. So you answered him with silence as you rummaged through your bag one more, pulling out a roll of gauze. You had to pack the wound. Fill it so full to the brim so that it would hopefully seal whatever bleeding the tourniquet couldn’t. 

“Are you listening to me?” Gaz asked through gritted teeth. Whether he was in pain, or frustrated, you couldn’t be sure. He reached a hand out and with the strength that he could muster he grabbed your shirt, pulling you closer to him, forcing you to pay attention to him. “There’s a whole goddamn platoon out there! You can’t fight through that. I won’t let you sacrifice yourself over me.”

Your hands rested on his chest, propping yourself up so that you wouldn’t fully fall into him. Even with the gunshot wound in his leg, his strength was still impressive. He held onto the straps of your vest as if he was going to fall through the floor if he let go. God, he might have. You swallowed thick, trying not to think about how that might be the last time you would ever see him. 

“I would destroy the entire goddamn world if it meant you get to survive this,” you said, your voice shaking. 

Fuck, you didn’t have time for the emotions. But how were you supposed to hold back when he looked at you like that? With those soft eyes that acted as if they were glued to your face? As if it would be the last time he would ever look at you? You could stay like that with him forever if you weren’t afraid he would turn into a corpse. 

So you pushed back on his chest, causing him to grunt and let go of your vest. Immediately you were back to dressing his wound, and he let out a shaky wince as your fingers dipped into the hole that had been blown through his thigh, trying to pack the gauze in there as tightly as you could. 

“That bullet was meant for me and you know it,” you continued, a newfound hardness to your tone. “I should be dead right now, and you’re fucking kidding yourself if you think I’m going to leave you like this. Now shut the fuck up and let me take care of you.” 

Everything else after that was automatic. Calling for evac, packing his wound, attempting to steady the shakiness of your hands. All the while the same mantra repeated in your head over and over and over:

I love you. You can’t leave me.

That was hours ago. Or, had it been days by that point? Time seemed to blend together since you had been sitting in that room with him. All you knew was that help had arrived not too long after, and you were able to get Gaz on medical evac. By the time you made it to the hospital, they had already patched him up and assured everyone he was going to live. 

So why did it still feel like the world was ending? Every time you closed your eyes you felt your body being pushed to the ground, the rocks digging into your side upon impact. Heard the gunshot that tore through his leg, and the cry that followed shortly after it. Saw the look in his eyes as he begged you to leave him behind. Feel the dry blood that still stained your fingernails. His blood. 

It should have been you. 

Gaz’s stirring was the only thing that brought you out of your self deprecating thoughts, and you felt your heart leap into your throat. The steady beeping of the heart monitor slowly picked up as his pulse increased, and a soft groan rumbled past his lips. In an instant you were leaning forward, hands on the edge of his bed as your eyes studied his face. His brows drew together as his eyes fluttered open, and he looked around the room with glassy eyes. 

“Gaz?” you whispered softly, your voice raw from the embarrassing amount of crying you had done over the last few hours. 

His eyes found yours in an instant, and a boyish, almost child-like, grin broke out on his face. It felt odd to see him smiling so soon, considering the last time you saw him while he was conscious he was practically begging you to let him die. The relief that flooded through you was overwhelming, as was that fluttering feeling in your stomach. 

“I feel like shit,” he stated. The words came out slow and careful, as if he had to put every bit of effort he could into speaking. Still, the bluntness of it made you chuckle something bittersweet. 

“You look like shit,” you teased. 

He chuckled something dry as his head slowly glanced around the room. It was as if he was under water; every move he made was slow and lethargic. Though, it wasn’t as if you could blame him. Between the mission, the surgery, and being asleep for a few hours, you were honestly surprised he woke up being able to speak at all. 

“What’s this?” His hand was poking at his arm. Or, more specifically, the I.V. that had been started in his arm. You cringed at the sight of it, and you nearly lept from your chair when you saw him gently tug at the tubing that was hooked up to some sort of saline and painkiller combo. 

“Hey, don’t mess with that,” you warned softly. 

You reached out and pulled his hand away from his arm, not wanting to have to deal with the aftermath of what would happen if he decided to yank on it. The very moment your hand grabbed his, Gaz’s gaze shot towards you, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in a way that almost made you uncomfortable. Not because he made you uncomfortable, but because you knew that you were probably in desperate need of a shower and some self care. You were a mess and you hated that he saw you like that.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he blurted out. 

Wow. Those must have been some… strong painkillers. 

It was difficult to hide the surprise that showed on your face, and you froze in place as you tried to drop his hand. But the very moment he felt your grip loosen, his fingers came back for yours as if he would die without your touch. 

“You’re the most beautiful goddamn thing I’ve ever seen,” he continued as his eyes flickered around your face. “When I first saw you, I just remember thinking that… that a place like this isn’t suitable for someone like you. The way you walk, the way you talk… fuck, I’ve been whipped for you. So when I saw that merc aiming for you I didn’t hesitate.” 

He was rambling with a heavy slur to his words. You weren’t even sure if he was fully aware of what he was saying, but either way you knew there was a little bit of truth to his words. Even in his medically induced high he looked at you with so much sincerity it made your heart swell. God, what were you supposed to do? What were you supposed to say? Surely there were some sort of regulations restricting stuff like that. 

“Kyle,” you said softly, trying to urge him to quit. 

“I would have died for you,” he said, ignoring you. “Hell, I thought I was going to die. But I just remember thinking that I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to die. Not because I was scared but because I was selfish. I am selfish. I’m a selfish man, and I didn’t want to leave you.” 

He paused for a moment and you used that time to let out a shaky breath. His fingers tightened around yours, and you could feel the pressure build behind your eyes. You had already spent the better part of the last few hours crying, and you were about to do it again if he didn’t stop talking. 

“You’re talking nonsense,” you said, trying to bite back that choking feeling in your throat. 

You found yourself caught between a rock and a hard place. On one hand, you found yourself secretly reveling in his words, not knowing if you’d ever hear him spew something like that about you ever again. Because no matter how hard you tried to ignore those feelings, you loved him. More than he would ever know. But on the other hand, there was no way he was fully aware of everything going on. 

“This is a dream, isn’t it?” he asked softly. 

Blinking the moisture threatening to spill from your eyes, you saw his attention had been pulled away from your face. Instead, he looked down at your joined hands. Fingers haphazardly laced together, his thumb gently rubbed against your skin. You tried not to think about the blood you still needed to clean out from underneath your nails. 

“Of course it is,” he continued, mumbling slightly. “You only ever hold my hand in dreams.” 

God that broke you. It broke you in the type of way that almost made you feel whole again. In the way that made you forget about the gunshots and the smoke and the blood. In the way that made you fall in love with him even harder. 

“Go back to sleep,” you said softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You can hold my hand when you wake up.” 

The look he gave you nearly broke your strong facade. It took everything in you not to leap from your chair and climb into the bed next to him. Just to hold him. His eyes were so soft, so wet, like a begging dog. You swallowed hard as you watched his lips part to speak once more. 

“What if you don’t want me to?” he said in a whisper. 

Without looking away from him, you slowly raised your other hand so that you were holding his with both of yours. Once more his eyes flickered down to your hands before looking back up at you, the brokenness in his gaze slowly mending. 

“I want you to,” you assured him. 

The longer he stared at you, the more you saw him melt back into the bed. Every single muscle in his body seemed to relax, and his eyelids even grew a little heavier over his gaze. A large breath expanded his chest before he let it go in a heavy sigh. 

“Alright. You better be here when I wake up,” he said with a soft smile. 

You couldn’t help but smile back at him. “I’ll be here. I promise.” 

He fell back asleep sometime after that with little difficulty. The beeping of the monitor on his heart fell back into a quiet, steady rhythm, and you found yourself sitting there, your hand on top of his. Eventually, the dark depths of sleep lulled you into its embrace as well.

When Gaz next woke up, his mind felt much more clear. His eyes instantly focused on the ceiling as he tried to make sense of the feeling in his body. That terrible, dull yet throbbing pain in his thigh was nearly overwhelming, and his head felt as if it was being crushed under a rock. 

He went to move his hand to reach up and rub at his eyes, as his rest had left them feeling sandy, but his hand felt heavier to move than normal. When he looked down, he saw you, head against the mattress, turned to face him but with your eyes closed. Your back was curved uncomfortably forward, and yet you seemed to be fast asleep anyway. But most importantly, your hand was on top of his, resting there comfortably, as if that’s where it had always belonged. 

He opened his mouth to say your name, to wake you, but he quickly thought against it. You only ever held his hand in dreams, and though he was pretty sure this wasn’t one, he didn’t want to ruin it. He would stay asleep forever if that meant he got to be with you like this. So he stayed quiet, a small smile on his face as he watched your body slowly shift with your breaths.