Hey Y'all

Needless to say, you like Jack. You have no reason to think that anything was unusual, not even when your friends began to make comments. They joke that you're basically having an emotional affair. The first time one of them says it, you laugh so much you nearly pass out. You tell Michael about it on the ride home. He doesn't laugh when you mention the ridiculous little comment, but he does say how glad he is that you're getting along with Jack.

You don't tell Jack about it, though. Not even the next week, when Jack wakes up on your day off with a nice bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. You think about it though, in the moment right before you convince yourself that day-drinking isn't bad for you if you do it with a doctor. Fortunately, it doesn't sour your afternoon, which unfolds with laughter and good company. By sundown, you and Jack are huddled on one end of the couch, talking in hushed tones about, of all things, your weddings.

Jack holds it together fairly well. Despite the grief and the alcohol, his voice is solid when he talks about his wife. Perhaps he's always like this, but you prefer to think it's the comforting hand you place just above his knee that helps Jack speak so freely.

He talks more of their marriage, of his wife. You smile and nod along, sniffle when the emotions become too much for you. Eventually, your head falls to the side, resting against the bicep Jack has thrown over the back of the couch. Jack stops speaking then and observes you. He takes so long to do so that your heart begins to pound in your ears. Then, he speaks.

"You know," Jack brushes a strand of loose hair behind your ear. "You look like her."

That's the moment you first question it. For a fleeting second, but in a full, coherent sentence, you think— now, that's unusual! Quickly,, the thought passes. The brief contact– the comment –gets swallowed up by the booze metabolizing in your stomach, and in the matter of seconds you've entirely forgotten about it in the first place.

When Michael returns that night, he finds you with a lazy grin and a blushing Jack at your side. You point to the nearly empty liquor bottle and tell him to catch the fuck up. He does. Like you, Michael lets the liquor quiet those thoughts of why his wife was getting drunk with his best friend. Though, perhaps the bitterness linger, because when Robby fucks you that night, he makes sure that you don't swallow all those pretty noises you used to make before Jack moved in.

When you truly question the arrangement is at the start of a long weekend. You and Michael have off and decide that the best way to spend the day is by doing nothing, so you lay in bed, snoozing the daylight away. At least, that was the plan.

Ten minutes to nine, the sound of the front door opening and closing reaches your bedroom. It wakes you, but you know well enough that it's only Jack coming home from his double shift. Then, the door to your bedroom opens.

There isn't ample time for you to sit up before a warm body slides into bed behind you. Michael is free to jolt upright. He looks ready to kill before his face falls.

"Morning, sweetheart," Jack's voice fills your ears as arms— also Jack's! —wrap around you. When you attempt to remove yourself, Jack tightens his hold, "Jus' wait a bit. Wanna hold you when I…" Jack's breathing evens. You think he's fallen asleep, but when you try to slip away, Jack utters a name.

His wife's name.

Michael curses softly in front of you. His face is twisted in pain, but as much as your heart aches for Jack, you would very much like to not be spooned by your sleep-deprived friend in front of your husband.

"Michael—"

"Don't," your husband grunts. The blankets pool at his waist. You're still frozen in bed, muscles taught at Jack's hands glide along them. They're lazy motions, ones you've felt countless times from Michael when he's come home from a shift half-dead and almost entirely asleep. "Is he hurting you? Are you… uncomfortable?"

"No," you shake your head, slowing your breath to hopefully stop your heart from pounding like it is. Your effort is made useless when Jack's hand, the one that had been resting on your abdomen, shifts upwards. "Michael," you gasp, voice thin as you try not to look as affected as you are. "He's touching my…"

Your husband's eyes fall to your breasts, once barely covered by your nightgown and now encompassed by Jack's large hand. You feel the calloused pads of his fingers through the silk negligee. Michael's eyes darken, but you find no anger there. None, not even at the sight of another man's hand on you.

When his gaze find your face again, you find his expression that of worry. "Do you want him to stop?" Michael asks.

"What?" Your face heats as you stutter, "M-Michael, he's touching my tit!"

"That's not what I asked, baby," Michael says softly. "It's okay. If you don't want him to stop, that's okay."

Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. It feels as though your brain has stopped working entirely.

Michael just smiles, truly smiles. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and you're reminded of the same motion, done by hands so similar to the ones brushing your concealed nipple.

“What do you want then, sweet’art?” Simon asks you directly, his voice even more gravelly before he exhale a plume of smoke.  

Smiling, you give a little shrug. “What do I want?” You chuckle, feeling bold enough to crack a joke for once. “How about a fat baby and a husband who’s utterly obsessed with me.” 

And suddenly, the office goes eerily quiet; tension skyrocketing as your face begins to heat up furiously within seconds. Now too embarrassed to even look up, you miss the severe look all four share with each other, as if you’d just spoken some forbidden words—or given the permission to cross a line they’d drawn themselves. 

“Uhm,” you clear your throat awkwardly, tapping a neat stack of papers on the captain’s desk, “I mean uh... just some chips and–and a sandwich maybe?” 

But it’s too late, they all heard you loud and clear—noticed the underlying truth and longing in your words, even if you tried to mask it with humour.  

Both Johnny and Simon stare at you like they’ve finally locked eyes on their target, and while Kyle can nudge Johnny hard, the young Sergeant can only debate to throw a boot at the Lieutenant to snap him back to reality, but then Price clears his throat and takes the lead. 

“Right,” he says gruffly, “sandwiches sound good, darlin’.”  

The leather of his office chair creaks as he leans back leisurely, regarding you with a strangely soft look and a friendly pat on the back of your hand, like he’s soothing a bristling kitten.  

“Would you be a dear and call the sandwich shop to have ‘em prepare our order? I’m positive Soap or Gaz will pick it up for us later.”  

“Yes, sir,” you answer tentatively, and you catch how both Sergeants nod all too obediently, flashing toothy smiles at you with a rather suspicious glint in their eyes while Simon lights another cigarette with his broad back now turned towards you, now holding an awkward tension in his shoulders. 

“Brilliant.” Price clears his throat again and you suddenly feel lout of place, like they’re having a fully non-verbal conversation about a secret you’re not briefed on. It’s feels entirely different than the times they talk about anything classified—like this is personal. 

“Now, darlin’, if you have all the signatures you need, I’ll have some intel to share with the team.” 

It’s his polite and roundabout way to tell you to leave, so you give a quick nod as you gather the files you’d brought, and you hate how your hands are trembling with adrenaline, feeling like you’re watched by four apex predators. 

And when the door to the captain’s office closes behind you with a final click, it echoes inside the empty hallway along with the shaky exhale of a deep sigh as you curse yourself for cracking that joke and making the men uncomfortable. 

Meanwhile, just behind a heavy door and thick walls, the core of TF-141 is already planning their upcoming mission, now determined more than ever since knowing you to fulfil your greatest wish—