Kit

It’s hard to care when you’ve got so much on your plate. Stuck in a constant loop of work, eat, sleep, with little time for anything in between. Picking up after yourself is the last thing on your mind when you’re busy making sure your reports are turned in on time and gearing up for the next deployment.

You were just grateful you had your own private quarters. Nobody ever came in here besides yourself so you didn’t have to worry about being judged for your messiness. You’d fall into your bed every night, shoving whatever you had thrown on top of it out of the way, most of it ending up on the ground come morning. Despite the lack of organization you miraculously knew where everything was, able to pick out whatever you needed from the ever-growing piles of clothes and gear. It was fine, the clutter didn’t bother you. It wasn’t until your lazy habits became known to others that you started to feel self conscious.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” You snapped, frozen in the doorway behind Soap who was standing in the one uncovered spot of the floor. He turned around to look at you sheepishly, arm outstretched with one of your many hoodies in his hand.

-🦐🌟

Your team catches onto your discomfort pretty fast, despite the fact that you never complain. You didn’t want to come across as whiny or weak-willed, you could handle the cold, had trained for years in a variety of different conditions. But still you struggled in temperature below 50° Fahrenheit (10° Celsius). Not enough to affect your performance at work – no, you would never allow that – but just enough to make you irritable, snapping at Soap when he’d tease you for how many layers you were wearing compared to everyone else.

They try to help in their own way. Gaz makes sure there’s a cup of hot tea waiting for you every morning, the warmth seeping from the mug into your frozen fingers. Ghost offers you a spare, plain balaclava which you accept eagerly, tugging it over your blotchy, red face and letting him adjust it when it ends up crooked. One time you misjudged the weather, going out to the pub with your team after a job well done in a shirt that did little to retain heat once the sun went down. Soap had graciously removed his own thick jacket, allowing you to bundle up in it on the way back to base, a content sigh leaving your lips as you soaked up the warmth and smell of him in the soft leather.

He offers to be your first and you shrug it off, telling him you don’t really care as it’s not something you deem important. He seems… disappointed with your answer and when you ask why he admits he’s never had one either but he always wanted to.

You could dodge bullets easier than you could dodge their advances. You truly thought they would have given up by now but they remained persistent, unsatisfied with your excuses and cop-outs.

You just didn't do relationships. Monogamous or polyamorous, same sex, opposite, anything. They were you too much work, too much stress, and frankly you didn't care enough to try and commit to one. You'd much rather focus on yourself and keep your sanity and peace of mind.

They just didn't seem to understand that, though. They continued to flirt with you, both on and off the field. You'd pull off a risky but impressive move and they'd shower you with praise over comms, Price's words laced with a fiery undertone as he commended you for your good work. Soap would ask you to spot him in the gym, just to flex and show off his muscles, clearly not needing any help. You couldn't go 24 hours without one of them trying to get your attention or making a move. It was endearing, in a way. These four grown men, highly trained soldiers, tripping over their feet to try and get even a modicum of your affection, only to fall short every time.

You'd entertain them occasionally, joining them for a night out at the pub and ending up sandwiched between them in the corner booth they always sat in. You'd let Price buy you as many drinks as you wanted (non-alcoholic, somebody had to drive you lot home.) and raise an eyebrow at Gaz as he placed his hand on your thigh, giving him a warning glare to not get any ideas. When the sergeants inevitably drank too much and started getting a little too handsy for your liking Ghost would step in, moving to sit between you and the rest of them, shoving Soap back every time he tried to lean into your space. You were grateful for him but you knew he was partly doing it for himself, keeping his leg pressed firmly against yours and staring intently at your lips every time you took a sip of your drink.

You had learned to be okay with the attention, off-putting at first but slowly becoming a part of your every day routine. You could almost say you enjoyed it, the way they acted like birds doing a mating dance to try and woo you. It wouldn't work however, and they knew that ultimately you flew solo. They respected that but it didn't stop them from trying, pushing as much as you would let them and only backing off when you'd push back, keeping that boundary clear.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care for them, quite the opposite actually. Your team was important to you, their well-being was one of your top priorities, you just had a strange way of showing it.

Ghost was the easiest to get along with, both of you preferring to keep your troubles to yourselves. What little was shared was responded to with a grunt of acknowledgment from him or a solemn nod from you, never much more. He wouldn’t admit it out loud but he appreciated your silence, how you didn’t try and solve all his problems or analyze his thoughts. He’d often seek you out when he simply needed a silent presence to keep him grounded.

Price was similar in that you were both private people, however, he seemed to always have something to say. He’d make offhand comments when you’d stop by his office, complaining about his growing workload as you dropped off paperwork that needed his signature. You’d mutter a half-hearted apology and shrug your shoulders, not feeling all that bad when you had your own mountain of work to attend to. He’s grumble in annoyance as you’d leave but when he’d finally retire to his room for the night he’s find a brand new pack of his favorite cigars waiting for him on the bedside table.

Kyle was a little bit more difficult. He was very particular and always found a way to insert his opinions into a conversation, whether they were warranted or not. For the most part you were able to ignore it, and he was content to ramble on with minimal input from you. However, there were times he’d get so worked up that he could go on for hours until you told him to shut it or simply walked away. He’d usually apologize afterwards, not realizing just how much of your time he took up. You’d reassure him you weren’t mad and tell him to buy you a drink next time he planned on ranting to you for a couple hours.

Soap was objectively the worst to deal with. His seemingly boundless energy and quick temper meaning he always had something to complain about. You avoided him like the plague on days he seemed extra grumpy but he somehow always managed to track you down. Why he chose you of all people to bother when he had a problem remained a mystery. You had tried previously to pawn him off on the others when he’d start whining but it never worked, if anything it seemed the less you cared the more he felt the need to share his woes with you. Eventually, you had to set a hard boundary, closing the door in his face when he tried to follow you into your room, still going off about something or other. He left you alone after that, feeling rather dejected, but you didn’t let him wallow in self pity for long. The next day as he was getting ready to leave for deployment he found you waiting for him on the tarmac. You weren’t on this assignment and it looked as though you had just rolled out of bed, standing there in a sweatshirt and joggers. He gave you a confused smile and you responded with a grin of your own, pulling him into a hug and telling him to make it back in one piece.