"Stop fockin' lickin' yerself!" Johnny's voice is a mix of concern and disgust. You look up blearily from where you were nuzzling into the cuts on your forearms. You weren't aware that anyone else was in the room. You don't even know where you are, come to think of it. Or how long you've been here. Or why. No matter. Nobody else is gonna groom you, that's for sure. Johnny moves into your line of sight, and as you try to focus on his sideways form your sudden dizziness distracts you from your task.

"Jesus, ye open yer eyes and instantly go full fockin' feline- don't you know we've been- been waiting for you to wake up for fockin'- Christ." His agitation dissipates somewhat and his voice draws closer. You realize you can see a little better - Johnny's big head is blocking the painful lights.

"You... yer a right fockin' eejit you know that?" It takes a second for you to realize what he's said, because his words are so at odds with the softness of his tone.

"Boil y'r head." You croak, more dust than sound.

"Naw ye cannae do that. Sounds daft when ye say it like that," he grumbles. The sound of a door opening has him turning, light suddenly piercing into your eyes again. You turn your face into your arms more, but there's a tugging on your wrist.

"Hey, hey you'll pull your IV out." The voice is Kyle. The lights dim after a few seconds. Cool hands help settle your limbs beside you. You want to turn onto your back, but something is wedged behind you. Your ears flick at the rhythmic click of a machine nearby.

There's noise filtering in from outside, too. Too much of it. Talking and beeping and clattering. And the smells! You aren't sure if the strong, chemically smells are hurting your ears or your nose- your tail hurts too.

"Shhhhh-shhush," you wine.

"Sorry. Loud out there, I know. They didn't have any hybrid rooms available."

"Guess she's not the only dumb animal trying to get herself killed," Johnny mutters. If it was a human saying shit like that, you'd bite them in the face. But Johnny just makes you snort. And then you're coughing, because your throat is so dry. And then you're gasping, because you had been blissfully unaware of any pain in your side but boy did you notice it now.

"Here, water." A straw pokes at your lips. You open your mouth clumsily to receive it. Your teeth clench automatically around it - which makes it hard for you to drink. But the cup's empty before you're ready.

"Johnny'll get you more," Kyle says, to Johnny's annoyance. But the door opens and closes, and its just you and Kyle.

"Is Price mad at me?" You murmur weakly, voicing the concern that sits top of mind - right next to the stabbing in your side, of course. Kyle lets out a startled laugh.

"Mad? Oh, he's...uh, you know what, don't worry about that. Focus on getting better so he can kill you properly," he jokes.

You nod, as if his suggestion is entirely serious.

"Did it help?"

"Hmm?"

"The manual."

"...it did. But... no don't go grinnin' like that you little menace, you're lucky you're still loopy and Price has the sense to give you some time before he chews you out."

"...never let me do anything...just...useless..." you breathe, your mirth fading.

"I just wanted..."

"I know."

"I don't wanna be a burden." It must be the drugs 'cause you haven't cried in ages, much less in front of a coworker, much much less in front of a man.

"...I know. I..." Kyle's hand settles cool and comforting on the back if your neck.

"I miss being- some... somebody... I miss my pride," you admit tearfully. "I just-"

"I know." Kyle's voice sounds watery too. You hope your emotional state isn't contagious.

"I can't even begin to... we didn't mean to-" he sighs.

You nod, though you don't really know what you're nodding about. But even through your hazy, pain-addled mind you feel like there's something to agree to, some kind of understanding forged between the two of you. Idly you hope you can remember the conversation. You also kind of hope that he'll forget the way you sniveled about being homesick.

"We'll have lots to talk about later. You just get some rest." The hand on your neck pulls away. You reach out blindly and catch it before it can go further. Johnny's scent is fading - you don't remember when he left - and you're worried the room will go back to just the stale, cold, hand-sanitizer-y smell you catch beneath Kyle's scent when he leaves too.

You're sure you're in no position to keep his hand immobile if he doesn't want you to, and besides, they owe you - so you take his wrist and press your nose into to, inhaling his warm, earthy scent. Your ears droop forward, no longer scanning through the noises in the hall. Your tail twitches minutely under the blankets. He lets you nuzzle him for a moment longer before pulling away - only to rub his scent into the pillow, right next to your face.

"Sleep," he says again. He sounds tired. You're tired too. You yawn into the smell of him and hear him echo it resentfully, clearing his throat afterward.

"We'll be back," he promises.

You're inclined to believe him.

"Nope, I'm all here," you wince. Ghost tilts his chin down to level you with a look of concern. Light filters through his lashes, making them glow white over his shadowed eyes, stark against the surgical mask he wears.

"They tell me you requested t' be off'a the pain meds. Tryn'a prolong your medical leave?" It comes out with a casual huff, but enters your ears as a threat to your work ethic.

"What? No, I just- I didn't like feeling so out of it. I heal fast, I can deal."

"Hm. Nobody's askin' you t' deal, kid." He crosses his beefy arms, leaning back on his heels. "We want you t' take y'r time t' heal up."

You tilt your head on the pillow to look at him. That was... surprisingly sincere. And then he opens his mouth again.

"You a masochist then? Tha' it?"

You probably look a bit like a petulant child, he way your brows scrunch up and your lips pull down. But you aren't used to this kind of talk from Ghost. You want to assume he's mocking you, but his plumey white tail is swaying behind him, exposing his good humor. You give him the benefit of the doubt. Just this once.

"Is this... are you... teasing me?"

"God forbid," he sighs. But you hear a hint of a smile. So you can't help the quirk of your own lips, however small.

The moment passes, and he shifts his eyes away.

"Listen, usually I'd be a hundred percent on board with Price's take, but... I don't think he's got your best interests in mind."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you need to advocate fer yerself, kid. You need more rest, you get more rest. Don't give him another reason to say you're unfit for the job whenever you do come back."

"Is that what he's saying? Now? Because I can-"

"Rest," he cuts you off. And you see then in the drooping of his lids and the limpness of his tail that he should follow his own advice.

"You on the clock?" you ask.

"Nah." He looks off to the side, his eyes wandering over the bubbly glass that separates you from your neighbor. "Price le' us do an informal debrief and sent us back to the apartment. But as soon as you're good to travel and we can head back to base, there will be hell to pay - for all o' us."

"Then... you don't have to visit. I mean, you should stay there and get rest yourself, all of you. Save your strength for paying hell later," you attempt lightheartedly.

"Christ kid, you... you need to learn when to shut your mouth and when to open it. And not just on command."

Your expression turns from puzzled to scandalized, and he's quick to elaborate.

"Ugh, I mean that you need to stand up for yourself when others want you to be quiet and shut up when others are doing the standing up for you."

"Oh." Your cheeks turn pink. There's a bit of silence, Ghost chewing on his next words.

"I'm sorry for pushing you away before. It wasn't right to keep you at arm's length. You're part of our team. And... I hope you stay. Part of our team."

You blink, refusing to cry. Kyle was bad enough, this would be simply unacceptable. But as nice as it is to hear Ghost say these things, the question goes unanswered.

Why? Why couldn't they accept you before? Did it really have to come to this? What would have happened if you had just done as you were told?"

"It's... I understand." You don't. "I appreciate that." You do.

Simon nods, then, seeming to have just remembered, pulls something out of the pocket of his hoodie.

"Hope these fit. Gaz mentioned you probly want 'em."

You go to take the headphones, but then Ghost reconsiders and pulls away.

"Want me to put 'em on?" He speaks quietly, like he's afraid you'll say no.

You don't think your limbs are very useful, one stuck with a needle and attached to muscles in your side that currently have no function and the other tucked under your body, so you nod.

He's gentle when he takes the stiff band and slots it over your head, sliding the adjustable muffs until they fit into your hybrid ears. The shifting, muffling sound has your back tingling, and then everything is blissfully muted.

"Thank you," you drone, already nodding back off to sleep.

"Mmhm," Ghost says, but you only see his eyes move in a tight smile. His eyebrows raise and he turns to look at the door, then back to you. Then he points, and does a little wave goodbye. You smirk, and fall into a comfortable sleep.

Wanted to get this little bit out. Do not ye worry, price will still be mean to reader. There is angst and conflict in your future!

The first time you attempted to nip playfully while sparring, Soap flinched and growled. It seemed so out of character coming from the usually upbeat and respectful fox hybrid. So you didn't try that again.

But you thought it'd be fine to rub your shoulder against Ghost's when you're both waiting in the hall to deliver a report - it's something you'd done all your life with other cat hybrids, even bears and birds were usually ok with it. And you'd seen the way the team ping-ponged between each other, like playing a game of scent hot potato. But the borzoi hybrid's head snapped to face you, the rest of his uncanny, large form unmoving. He didn't growl, but he didn't let off his sharp stare until you pulled away the offensive touch and folded your arms instead.

Gaz once found you asleep on the couch in the 141's barracks, your arms curled around the decorative pillow like a lifeline after a grueling day of training in the rain. He had politely woken you up and (strongly) suggested that you not make it a habit to "take up too much of the shared space". Which seemed odd for a jackal hybrid who consistently forced the others to go have a nap somewhere, anywhere, when they were obviously running on fumes.

Price was reasonably distant for a leader you weren't familiar with, and you didn't try to get chummy with him. But you couldn't help noticing how he checked over each of his men when heading out to an op, noticing every detail - did Ghost have an extra mask, and a pair of gloves? Was Soap hydrated, with enough snacks stored away? Was Gaz fully, fully recovered from his cold, and did he text his nephews to let them know he'd be gone for a while?

But when his eyes shifted to you, it was like the dingo hybrid didn't know what he was looking at. Didn't know what to look for. So he looked away.

You get left behind in ops, barely getting cover fire when you call for it - not that you need much, the team works so quickly and so in sync, hardly ever missing a target - and you desperately try to make it to the front of the action to prove yourself. But before you can make a move all the rooms are swept and the enemy is engaged with your teammates, only slim pickings for you. It makes your ears twitch, makes you reckless, and when you finally catch up, you're flinching against hold orders to be there first, to do something. Ghost has to yank you back by the straps of your vest more than once, and you get a gruff talking to from Price during debrief. Your impulsively burdens the team. I'd expect more grace from a cat hybrid. Just let the others do the job and keep the hell outta the way an eye out. Double tap, clean up, look for intel. When you rest after a grueling day, you find yourself on the outskirts of the pack, the backs of the others as they coil around each other giving you the sense of a cold stone wall you can never breach. Five is not an even number - no one there to run beside you on drills, or to engage you in conversation at meal times. There's no room for you. Why did Laswell recommend you for this crew to begin with?

Eventually you're so starved for praise, to be a part of the team, you go on a suicide mission. Nobody had expected it to be feasible, it was an option Soap threw out just for the hell of it. Almost a joke. You know that. Instead, they would rest and regroup, plan around their resources and find a strategy that wouldn't get anyone killed. Once they had the info they needed, they would jave a foothold in the region and the other teams would be able to make a final push toward victory. But for now, they were all tired. So it wasn't hard to sneak out of the safe house and treck through the city's underbelly to the target. What was more difficult was sneaking in to the fortified "sanctuary of depravity" (Price's words) unnoticed. You were almost vibrating with the bliss of being able to let your instincts take the wheel, to stalk and pounce and pad silently through the now bloodied halls. And miracle upon miracle, the sun rose, and you made it out alive. The intel the team required was now strapped inside your vest, likely stained with blood. All you wanted to do was collapse into the makeshift nest at the safehouse and sleep for days.

When you slink back to the entrance of the unassuming residence, you aren't prepared to guard yourself against Price's sudden movement, pinning you by the throat against the door frame before you manage to come inside. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and you felt the ambush hit you like a ton of bricks.

"What the fuck have you done?"

You suppose by now the smoke has risen high enough over the watery sunlight to be seen. The smell of blood fills your nostrils, and your hand grips Price's, claws blackened by dirt and viscera. The rest of you must look like a wreck.

"Sir," you manage, the word eeking out of your collapsed throat, but his teeth snap at your face when you move your other hand to your vest.

"Cap," Soap says tentatively. Not coming to your defense, more like he worries his superior will do something he might later regret. You spot Ghost behind him, arms crossed, looking too big for the room. Your tail whips dazedly this way and that, the way a dead body jerks before it realizes it's not supposed to.

"What could you possibly have to say for yourself?" Price barks, and grabs you by the collar, moving you only to slam you against the wall inside the small room. Gaz shuts the door, eyeing you suspiciously. Price's claws press into your chest, just above your heart. A warning. He'll let you speak, for as long as he's willing to listen.

"Your-... intel," you gasp, your words coming out weaker than you feel. But you know the crash is tumbling in, and you need to fix this before you do something stupid, like pass out. Or throw up. Your jaw clenches as you notice a sharp pain blossoming in your side. "Ugh- my vest. Got you the manual you r-ugh, the manual... you requested. Sir." You gasped. "Ple-ease un-nsheathe y'r claws fr'm'my side sir," you squeak out, your face going red from the pain. Price's eyes lose a bit of the rage sparking behind them and instead take on a look of frustrated consternation.

"The fuck are you talking about soldier?"

"My... the intel, I have-" Price steps away from you suddenly, and you wait for the pain to recede. But it doesn't. Instead you're falling to the floor, curling around the tender flesh of your side like it's a broken support column and you're some sad, terrorized building.

Ghost steps forward and crouches before you, looking you over intently.

"He didn't touch you," he says, mildly, like an afterthought. His attention is on the thick cardstock cover he can see poking out of your vest. He rolls you onto your back, and it feels like you keep going, keep spinning into yourself and into that pain in your side, in your head. You hear more than feel the sides of your vest unbuckle, the wet, tacky sound of it pulling slowly away from your undershirt.

"Steamin' bloody-" Soap's voice, cut off by your own choked scream when you feel hands on you, too close to the region of your body to which your entire perception has collapsed.

"How is it?" You hear Gaz ask.

"Legible," Price grunts.

"Jesus Cap, I meant the wound, not the bloody booklet!"

"Bad," is all Ghost says. At least, it's all you hear befor◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️◼️

TMI my little friends. As I was writing this I was suddenly struck with a bout of the violent shits. So I was sitting there, clenching in pain, and found myself using the opportunity to voice reader's words as if I was being threatened by a feral dog and not my own asshole. You are most welcome.