Part 12 SpecGru reader!!
No content warnings for this chapter.
You mull over your captainâs words in the hours before dinner. Sitting behind Nova in her temporary room, Doctor Whoâs opening theme warbling from your laptopâs speakers. You gently work oil into her scalp, following the precise alleys formed by her braids.
Itâs a soothing ritual, not just for her, but for you. An act of care for a woman whoâs been so kind and patient with you. Who always stood her ground on your worst days, and never allowed herself to be goaded into a useless argument. Sheâs warm beneath your fingers, soft against your chest, the scent of coconut and cinnamon sweet in your nose.
Slowly, you begin to card through memories you put great care into neglecting.
The day you left the hospital, feeling more pathetic than you ever had in your life. A packet of care instructions folded over in one hand. You remember the way Gaz hadnât quite looked you in the eye, mouth tight and regretful at the corners. Almost guilty. Even when he handed over a bag of fresh clothes, saying he was glad to see you on your feet.
Did you know then? Was there some twinge of foreshadowing in your gut? Did you hear a foreboding whisper in your mind, of how the following twenty-four hours would devolve?
Maybe you did or maybe hindsight is a liar.
What really stands out, even after all this time, is how betrayed you felt (still feel) when you reflect on that interaction with Gaz. That the best he offered was a weak warning that Ghost and Price were pissed off at you. The hurt that he didnât even ask how you felt before disappearing for the rest of that awful day. You never saw him after your initial discharge, he might as well have borrowed his lieutenantâs namesake.
And then there was Johnny.
Soap, who made himself perfectly visible, if only to express how pissed off he was. He never bothered to ask how you were doing either â didnât even seem relieved to see you conscious and in one piece. He was tight-jawed and tense; the few times he deigned to speak to you was clipped and terse.
When you finally left, you remember how your chest ached, knowing (intending) youâd never see his thousand-watt smile again. A fair few of your tears on that flight had been in self-deprecation for expecting anything but his total, unwavering loyalty to Simon. It stung that for all his crowing about being a team, looking out for each other, no one left behind â he couldnât spare you a crumb of forgiveness for a mistake in the field.
Price and Ghost had almost made sense, really. But Gaz and Soap had been a peculiar sort of pain. Your fellow sergeants, who had made you feel welcome and comfortable in the beginning â who had been the bridge and buffer between you and your intimidating superiors. And maybe it wasnât their fault that you never quite felt like you had a seat at their table, but theyâd tried.
Still⌠at least you can look at them. You canât imagine opening your mouth to face Price or Ghost and anything but acid pouring out.
âWhatâs on your mind, babes?â
You blink, palms automatically cradling Novaâs head as she tilts it back to peer at you. On autopilot, you dip down to kiss her forehead, then the gentle curve of her lips.
âHmm?â
âDonât get me wrong, the massage is nice,â she teases, âbut youâve gone over my whole head at least twice now.â
âOh,â you intone, swiping your thumb behind her ear. âJust thinkinâ is all.â
âI can tell,â she giggles, âthereâs practically smoke cominâ outta your ears.â
You grimace a bit, arms lowering down to circle her shoulders in a hug. She curls her clever, slender fingers around your forearm, tracing soft patterns with her blunt nails.
âSorry, love,â you mumble, flicking your eyes to the screen. Realize youâve only got a vague idea of whatâs going on. âIâm being a bad date.â
âYouâre not,â she insists, squeezing your wrist. âThis sâall been a lot, yeah? I just donâ want you being on your own in there.â
She taps two fingers against your temple. You used to spend all your time alone in your own head. Not because it was safe â it wasnât â but it was familiar. It took her and the rest of the team concerted effort to pry anything of value from you.
Now, you muster up an appreciative smile as you nuzzle into her hand.
âIâve just been trying to decideâŚâ
She pauses the show and wriggles to get a better look at your face, hums for you to continue.
âIf I should try talking to the 141,â you continue. âCap said I should consider it. See if we can put all that old shit to rest.â
âDo you want to put it to rest?â
âI should.â
âBut do you want to?â
The question brings you up a bit short. Being mad is easy. Youâve been mad at them for so long, one step short of loathing, that youâve settled into the feeling. Dug your heels in. Itâs an easy way to put a stopper on all the complicated hurt lying beneath.
âI want to talk to them the same way I want to go to the dentist,â you muse.
She picks up what you arenât saying.
âYou donât want to, but you know itâs healthier if you do.â
You grunt, still too proud to admit it outright.
âThe wound closed over, but it never healed properly,â she says. âMaybe youâve got to reset it, yeah?â
You sigh. âYeah. Just not sure where to start.â
She shrugs. âWherever you want to. Do it on your own terms. Only way youâll be able to stomach them.â
You chuckle. âYeah, youâre probably right.â
ââCourse I am,â she chirps. âIâm used to navigating bad weather.â
You nip at her fingers, prompting a bright peel of laughter as she tries to squirm away. As you wrestle her back into your lap, your nerves soften and settle.
Even if you excise this wound, you know you wonât be left bleeding alone. Not ever again.
You havenât come to any concrete decision after dinner. Not that anyone asks. Nova isnât one to push and your captain has already said his piece. You havenât told Nikto or Keegan about your dilemma yet, and youâre not sure if you will.
Niktoâs take on the situation isnât obvious â though if you had to guess, it would be similar to Novaâs. But Keegan? You already know what his answer would be.
Of anyone in SpecGru, he had to work the hardest to earn even an iota of warmth from you. He reminded you too much of Ghost â and how could he not? The perpetual mask, the sharp one-liners. Gruff and closed off, frighteningly capable, and a crack shot with a sniper rifle to boot.
It used to take everything in you to pull your punches during spars. The rare instances that you would agree to eat with your new team were never if Keegan was present. And more than once, you walked into the rec room, saw his looming figure, and turned right back around.
The only time you could stand to look at him was during missions, but your captain was always sure to receive a killer glare if he paired the two of you together.
Keegan was your partner on the mission that changed things.
It had been a week straight of shit sleep and bad memories, sick on loneliness and anger. When boots hit the ground, you stormed right in, eager to prove to yourself (but really, to them) that you were valuable. Didnât wait for Keegan, but that had never stopped him from keeping pace with you before.
You didnât clear your corners, got sloppy and hasty.
Took two stab wounds before Keegan shot the hostile in the temple. When he tried to call the others, you demanded that he finish the mission first. Would have rather bled out than be the reason another mission failed.
The pain and blood loss dragged you under as soon as you choked out the demand.
Then, Keeganâs face was the first thing you saw in the hospital room. Not the mask, him.
Even with dirt and black paint smudging his face, you could see the dark, worried circles beneath his eyes. Could read regret in his angular jaw, relief in the slant of his scarred mouth. For the first time, you looked in his eyes and saw more than an echo of your former lieutenant.
You saw your teammate. The partner youâd left to fend for himself because youâd been handicapped by your own pride. You saw Keegan.
âDid you finish the mission?â you rasped.
He frowned, but your captain stepped forward. âHe did â once we were there to stop the bleeding.â
You never saw Ghost in the weave of his mask again.
And soon after, Keegan was the first person you opened up to about the 141.
It was that very same week. Youâd been sick on shame and embarrassment, using your injuries to nurse your wounded ego. Skipping meals in exchange for raiding your snack drawers and moping in your cot.
Keegan hadnât made himself scarce after your discharge. None of your team had, really â but heâd made a point of checking on you. And lacking your usual sharpness, he hadnât been deterred by your comparatively mild standoffishness either.
Which was how you found yourself stubbornly tucked into the corner of your cot one night, while Keegan sewed the holes in your shirt. He kept shooting you amused looks â probably because you hadnât taken your eyes off him once. Half wondering why he was there, half waiting for the other shoe to drop.
âYou gonna say something, or you just glare all night?â he drawled eventually.
You narrowed your eyes. âDo you plan to stay all night?â
He shrugged, but his eyes flicked to yours, the corner of his mouth ticking up. (No mask. He hadnât worn one around you since the hospital. Not unless people outside your team were around.)
âIf youâll have me. Been meaning to get you caught up on the show weâve been watching.â
You huffed, frustrated. âWhy?â
He arched his brows at you, needle paused. âBecause I like you, despite your best efforts.â
You stared, a little appalled, a little touched. Keegan just chuckled and went right back to mending your shirt. You drew your knees up tighter and hid your quivering mouth with your arms.
âCap says your last team was shit to you,â he said into your sullen silence.
You scowled. He put a hand up as if in surrender.
âHe hasnât said moreân that, donât worry,â he continued, âIâm just sayinâ⌠I donât take any of it personal. Youâre a good teammate, I trust you with more than my six.â
Why, you wanted to demand, flabbergasted and all the guiltier because you knew you didnât deserve it. Why did he trust you? Why was he so patient? Why was he there at all?
You sniffled, but he just kept talking.
âI want to return the favor, ya know? Iâm not askinâ you to trust me after the mission, but you donât gotta be on your own either.â
You were crying quietly by that point, face so hot that your tears felt cold, stomach aching from more than stab wounds. He finally looked up, saw how you were falling apart. But he didnât shy away, didnât close himself off. It wasnât pity or sympathy that softened his eyes.
âThe shit you and I carry, weâre not meant to do it alone, sweets.â
And what else could you do, but spill your sorry guts?
You remember the expression on his face when you got to the part about Ghost. Remember how tightly he held you on your cot, all the distance (emotional and physical) closed between you two. Remember waking up the next morning, Netflix still open on your laptop and flopped gracelessly over Keeganâs stomach like a childhood sleepover.
You couldnât have iced him out again even if you wanted to, after that.
No, thereâs no question what Keegan would tell you, if you asked about talking to the 141. He would say thereâs no good reason to waste oxygen on a single one of them.
So, you donât ask.
You climb into his lap in your temporary room that evening, peeling his mask up and off with slow hands. His eyes are already half-lidded, the corner of his mouth curved fondly. His hands spread across your thighs, warm and rough. The scar twisting across his left palm is sweetly familiar when he draws it along your skin.
âIâm going to try talking to the 141,â you admit.
His jaw twitches, eyes flickering. âNow why the hell would you do that?â
You sigh, curl your fingers into the brassy crop of hair heâs been growing out. Heâs got a quick temper, and a habit of misplacing it when itâs been triggered by something out of his control. You donât take it personally, you never have â itâs gratifying to see how much he cares.
âThereâs no good reason to waste oxygen on a single one of âem,â he growls.
âThere might be.â
He sits back, skeptical but waiting.
You continue, âIâve got a lot of shit to say to them, and they seem eager to hear it.â
âWhy give âem the satisfaction?â he asks.
âMaybe itâll help with the nightmares.â That gives him pause. You draw your thumb soothingly across his temple â a bullet graze from saving your life. âWeâve got too much shit to carry, you and me. Unloading some of it is as good a reason as any.â
His hand drifts up your side, grazes the tattoo coiling down your arm. (The second you ever got â a big piece that took hours, Keegan never leaving your side. Nikto, Nova, and your captain periodically dropping in to provide snacks and water.)
He cups your jaw, guides your face down until your foreheads touch. You stay there, breathing him in. He smells like yours.
âWhat if they make it worse, huh?â His thumb caresses over your cheekbone the way it has a dozen times before, wiping away tears. âIâll have to kill âem.â
You huff softly, amused. âThen kill âem. But Iâm stronger than I was, Kee. Thereâs nothing they can weigh me down with that I canât carry.â
âI know,â he whispers, tilting his chin to drop a sweet, aching kiss on your lips.
âBesides, I wouldnât be carrying it alone anymore.â
His expression lightens, pride shining from his eyes. âDamn right.â
Itâs nearly midnight when you wake from a light doze. Keegan is snoring softly, an arm and leg each hanging over the side of the bed. Your mouth is dry, but you realize itâs your stomach that woke you â pangs of hunger from picking at your dinner earlier. You need to eat.
Quiet and careful, you crawl out from beneath the sheets. Keegan is a heavy sleeper compared to the nearly supernatural senses of Nikto; he hardly stirs as you pad for the door. The hall lights are dim, but you only open it a crack to slip out.
The hall is quiet, no lights on beneath any of the other doors. You hope that means the rest of your team is sleeping peacefully. If you remember right, Nikto and Nova crawled in with your captain this evening. Theyâre all in good company if nightmares creep in; you pray Keegan doesnât have any while youâre up.
Thankfully, the rec room is only two halls away. Light is spilling out as you turn the corner â thereâs a sensor that shuts them off if no movement is detected for a while. Someone is either in there now or was recently. You half hope itâs the latter, but that doesnât deter you from entering.
Your surprised to find Soap leaning against the kitchenette counter, a steaming mug in hand. His expression is flat, grim. Tired. You pause just inside the doorway.
âMight as well come in,â he says, voice low and rough. âIâll clear out in a moâ.â
Even from where youâre standing, you can see that his cup is mostly full.
You exhale and shake your head. âDonât have to.â
âHow gracious,â he rasps, brows twitching like he wants to scowl. Like he canât quite commit to being as bitter as he should be.
Youâre too tired for your usual acid, as well. Just sigh and reach for the fridge door.
âIs that how you want this conversation to go?â you ask.
âIs this a conversation?â he replies.
You pluck out a yogurt cup. âIt can be.â
Heâs glaring into his coffee now, index finger tapping at the ceramic. Thinking. Or maybe just leashing all the things he wants to say but knows will drive you right back out.
âWhy now?â he says finally.
You shrug. âBecause Iâm ready now.â
A tendon in his jaw twitches. âThatâs not fair.â
A hot flicker of anger ignites in your chest. You tamp it down with a spoonful of yogurt, measuring out your words and tone.
âHow do you reckon?â you inquire.
âYou left,â he says. Itâs been a while, but you can detect the hurt underlying the accusation. You suspect itâs something heâs wanted to say for a long time. âYou left us behind.â
You click your teeth off your spoon, take a deep breath. Itâs factually true. You are the one that left butâ
âI wasnât going to wait for you all to kick me out officially.â
He finally raises his eyes, a dark storm of emotion swirling within them.
âWe wouldnae have.â
You tilt your head, cynicism in the flat line of your mouth. âDidnât seem that way to me.â
âI ken you and Simon wereââ
âDonât.â
His mouth snaps shut, brows furrowed. You point at him with your spoon warningly but bite back the sharp remark on your tongue. Arguing isnât the point here.
Settle instead to say, âDonât speak for the others.â
Thereâs a beat of silence as he digests that, then finally nods. âAlright. Just you ân me then.â
You turn back to your yogurt, swipe up another spoonful as you reorganize your thoughts.
âI didnât leave because of Ghost,â you begin. âNot entirely. I left because I was never part of the team. And what happened after that mission just⌠made it all very clear.â
Soap frowns, opens his mouth like he wants to deny it, but you hold up a finger to stop him. He takes a long sip of coffee and waits.
âYou didnât check on me at all. You werenât there when I woke up. You never asked if I was okay,â you continue. âYou were too busy being angry on Ghostâs behalf.â
âYou almost got the both of you killed,â he argues.
âBut you cared more about Ghost almost being hurt than the fact that I was,â you say. And dammit, you feel your sinuses burning, but your eyes stay blessedly dry. The anger disappears from his face all at once as realization sinks in. âI mattered to you less than Ghost.â
His hand tightens around his mug, knuckles blanching. âNo. No, lass, thaâs noâ⌠you were always⌠you survived.â
âI felt the worst I ever had in my life, but you didnât care because I crossed the almighty Ghost,â you insist.
âI cared about you,â he denies.
âBut not more than you did about Ghost.â You drag your gaze up to his. Even his eyes look a little wet now. âAnd that⌠that wasnât enough for me.â
You suck in a shuddering breath, trying to loosen the tightness in your chest. Clear your throat once you feel the threatening prick of tears subside.
âI didnât⌠it wasnae that,â he rasps. âI ken you think Iâm full of shite, but âs true.â
You do think heâs full of shit. Maybe not on purpose, maybe he really does think he cared about you as much as Ghost, but you know better.
âI was just⌠so angry wiâ you,â he explains. âYou could have died. Nearly got Simon killed, all because you thought you knew better.â
You exhale hard. âYouâve never made a bad call?â you challenge.
âIt wasnae your call to make. You should have listened to Ghost. Instead, youââ
âI what?â
Your fingers tingle, numb. Canât even feel the spoon, or the chill of the yogurt cup anymore.
âYou disobeyed orders, it was soââ
âI didnât.â
He stops. Stares. âWhat?â
You stare right back, âI didnât disobey orders.â
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