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Cold ravioli from the can, ketchup on stale hot dog buns paired with warm applesauce. If his mother was lucky enough to get some extra cash, Simon rode the high of mac and cheese with hot dogs and the rare kid cuisine. He didn't really know how to cook until he got to the military, and even then, he learned surviving cooking.
Nothing that helped him in a real kitchen where he stood still beside Kyle. The younger man explains smoothly how to dice up the chicken breast on the cutting board. Kyle knew how to cook. His parents didn't make him take care of his siblings. It was something he adopted naturally as he got older.
Namely, he liked to cook for people, especially his partner. "Simon, love, are you listening?" Kyle nudges the stock still man softly with his elbow, looking up at him. Simon was unreadable to almost everyone, but Kyle could see that small scrunch in his brow that meant he was anxious.
"Not really." Simon admits quietly as he fiddles with Kyle's shirt slightly, hands finally settling on his hips. "This is a lot for me."
"That's okay. You don't have to learn this all at once." Kyle assures as he wraps Simon's arms more firmly around himself. "I really like taking care of you. You're finally gaining some weight." Simon grumbles slightly at that, nuzzling into the smaller man's neck.
"Trying to fatten me up?" He grunts, pleased when Kyle nods enthusiastically.
"I'm gonna make you the biggest you've ever been."
hybrid!ghost getting affectionately and forcibly taken care of got a hold of me...
Ghost’s wings are magnificent, broad, shadow-black with that slick sheen that catches green and purple in the right light. He's every bit of crow hybrid, dangerous, watchful, and beautiful if you get close enough to notice.
He makes for a deadly operator, of course. One snap of his wing and a man's sternum is cracked. Can fly into any scenario. Doesn't hesitate to sacrifice the health of his wings if it means meeting the objective.
He doesn’t like people touching them. He doesn’t like people looking too long, either. He thinks the wings are too soft for someone like him. They’re always tucked in tight, always ruffled with old dust and ragged bits of down clinging where they shouldn’t.
Price notices, of course, and one day, after a debrief, after watching Ghost try to rake his fingers through a tough patch of tangled covert feathers with all the gentleness of a bear trap, Price finally just huffs.
“Sit. Down.” He points at the bench in front of him like it’s a battlefield command. “Wings out.”
Ghost gives him a look, like he might snarl or argue, but he doesn’t.
Reluctantly, stiffly, Ghost shrugs out of his tac vest and lets his wings stretch, arch, unfold. They’re massive, their span easily wider than he is tall and gorgeous in a way that makes Price’s tail sway once before he reins himself back in. He’s an Airedale Terrier hybrid, and sometimes he can't keep all that energy and excitement pinned down.
“You’re butchering them,” Price says, offended for the wings more than anything. “What the hell have you been doing to these?”
“Of course it bloody matters. You’ve got flight feathers folded in on down, you’ve broken at least three coverts trying to rip through mats—Ghost.”
“I tried,” Ghost snaps. “I don’t—no one ever taught me.”
That shuts Price up. And then, he tries again: “Do you want help?”
Ghost’s shoulders tense and he wrings his hands together once.
“I can call Gaz,” Price adds. “He knows what he’s doing. Might be good to learn from another flyer.”
There’s a long, long silence and then Ghost nods.
Gaz arrives not long after. He's a goldfinch hybrid, light on his feet, golden yellow plumage flashing, his wings a dazzling contrast of velvet black and sunbeam. He slows when he sees Ghost, feels the tension in the room, but he just gives Ghost a gentle nod.
“Can I touch?” he asks, crouching slightly to Ghost’s level, right in front of him.
Ghost breathes out. “Yeah.”
What follows is… careful.
Gaz sits next to Ghost. The angle is a little awkward but he doesn't dare ask Ghost to move. He starts slow, doesn’t dive right in. His hands hover just past Ghost’s shoulder blades, waiting. “Just gonna start with the primaries, yeah? You got some twisted ones from that drop last mission, and the barbs are dry as hell.”
Ghost nods once, he still doesn't look up, but his wings shift and fan slightly. That’s as much as permission as Gaz needs.
He works so slowly. His thumb and forefinger guide along the shaft of each feather, stroking with the soft cloth Price handed over earlier, clean, warm, a little damp. He talks as he goes, something between explanation and comfort.
“You want to work with the feather, not against it. Always down and out. Like petting a cat backwards’ll get you scratched, yeah? Same rules here.”
Ghost doesn’t respond, but he breathes deeper.
Price watches, arms folded, leaning against the edge of the his desk. He’s a strong presence, but he doesn't impose. There’s a softness in his gaze, a curiosity with respect. He’s quiet, letting Gaz guide the rhythm, letting Ghost feel safe.
And Gaz is guiding. He knows Price doesn't exactly understand what it means for Gaz to be here. Doing this. And hell, maybe Ghost doesn't understand it. But Gaz feels it through his spine how... intimate being allowed to do this is for an avian.
“This bit here,” he murmurs, fingers skimming up the secondaries, “it’s sensitive. Nerve clusters just under the skin. Some hybrids don’t like it touched.” He pauses, then gently, “You okay with this, Ghost?”
Ghost exhales. “Yeah. Keep going.”
He says it low, but there's something warm now.
Gaz hums. He works upward, slower now. The cloth is almost abandoned, traded out for his fingers. They’re gentle, and they know exactly where to press and where to stroke.
Ghost shifts wings twitch at the base. One of his fingers curls into his thigh. Price notices.
“You alright, son?” he asks, voice gruff but careful.
Ghost clears his throat. “Fine.”
Gaz’s fingers slide just under the joint where covert feathers overlap, the plumage soft as smoke. Ghost shivers.
“You’re warm,” Gaz notes, just observing. “That’s normal. Grooming triggers a parasympathetic response. It’s supposed to feel good.”
Ghost twitches again and draws in another breath a little too slow.
“It’s… not bad,” Ghost mutters.
Gaz smiles. “You keep saying that like you’re not two minutes from melting into the bench.”
Price rubs at his jaw, clearing his throat. “Maybe I should step out—”
“No,” Ghost says immediately. “Just... stay.”
Gaz catches Price’s eye and nods once, just a flicker of understanding.
“I can teach you both,” he says, and he means it. “Ghost, you can learn to do this better. And Captain…” His eyes lift, smile soft. “You’ve got steady hands. He trusts you. That’s half the battle.”
Price looks a little flustered. His ears twitch and his tail sways, one of the few obvious tells he has.
“I’m a soldier, not a birdkeeper.”
Gaz laughs, low and warm, and it rumbles through Ghost, who huffs a sound that might be a laugh.
Now Gaz’s hands are under the down, fingertips brushing the base of his wings. It's right where they root into the muscle of Ghost’s back. And that makes Ghost breathe in sharply.
“...Told you it’s sensitive,” Gaz murmurs, his voice dips a little lower.
Price’s eyes narrow faintly, brow quirked. Ghost still hasn't looked up, but his wings ease open just a little wider.
And Gaz carefully leans in to the left wing. Lets his mouth brush the curve of one feather, exhaling a slow breath over it. Ghost lets out a quiet, rough sound, a shiver traveling through his spine.
Gaz stays right there, murmuring as he works. “You can ask next time. Doesn’t have to be a fight every time your feathers mat. Doesn’t have to be shameful.”
Ghost’s fingers uncurl. His head bows. He breathes through it.
Price shifts his weight and kneels in front of them, eyes on Ghost, not the wings. “You’re not a burden, Simon, let us help.”
Ghost blinks and finally looks up, “...I know.”
Later, when Gaz finishes and pulls back, and Price offers a thermos of tea like it’s armor, Ghost catches them both in his periphery.
“I’d return the favor, y’know,” he mutters.
Gaz raises a brow. “What? You wanna preen my wings next time?”
“Maybe.”
Price just snorts, tail swaying a few times. He doesn't try to stop it. “God help us all.”
Kyle watches as Ghost stands, stretching his back, wings expanding all the way. The speed at which his blood moves through and down his body is down right embarrassing.
Ghost's huge, Gaz knew this. His wings are huge. And to see Ghost so relaxed and just moving them, dark and gleaming and clean now, Gaz nearly faints.
Because he did that. And fuck he hopes it's not the last time.
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Soap fed up with being told to speak “English”. So he starts using the most atrocious and obscene English words/sentences he can think of. More effective to annoy people. Gets them to stop ragging on his verbiage.
Gaz: bloody hell- how’s rain on your side, Soap?
Soap: it’s pishin’ in doon out over here
Ghost: Johnny, English.. we talked about this
Soap (Mentally Cursing Ghost out): this deluge comes across as plunking egregiously fucking onerous, sir
Ghost: … fucking hell
Gaz: pssff, can’t say you didn’t deserve that one, sir
Eventually, people stop complaining about it so much. Making Soap feel very deservingly smug.
on the field and on base, Gaz is nothing but professional and polite. He'll smile and charm and woo his way through conversations with people that don't respect him, and he does it easily. But around his team? Gaz is blunt, he's ranting about the "righteous" path they're on, complaining about all of the wrong and evil in the world. And the team listens with only half of their attention, already used to these rants.
Ghost watches and waits, much less professional about his lover, his pants tight and his cock aching as he watches Gaz get fired up. He drags the sergeant into a supply closet, worships him while Gaz continues to rant. The only hold Gaz has is the way his fingers grip into Ghost's hair and mask, head tossed back as he finally loses his train of thought.
But off of base? When Simon and Kyle set up tenuous dates and hesitantly brushing their hands against each other, it's blushing faces and soft words. Kyle makes the first move, hooking his pinkie with Simon's ring finger, the blonde man missing his last finger.
They don't talk about it, and it never happens on base. No tangible evidence of just how soft they can be, how they fill a spot of weakness with each other, for any other soldier or enemy to use against them. But Kyle and Simon will link their fingers together while out in public, both of them blushing like school kids, and smile to themselves about that warm spot that's grown in their chests.
