The Invisible String Theory
PAIRING: König x F!Reader
SYNOPSIS: You didn't expect the man who gave you his coat to be the same one to bust down the door where you and the other women slept - sniper hood scaring everyone within an inch of their life. You didn't expect him to become so important to you, either. (Based on König's in-game backstory).
WORDCOUNT: 9.2k
WARNINGS: Human trafficking, mentions of unwanted touching, trauma, blood, gore, guns, bullets, protective!König, soft!König, nightmares, mentions of bullying, etc.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
'DATE: 25, NOVEMBER, 2021
LOCATION: BERLIN, GERMANY
TIME OF EVENT: 0230
MISSION REPORT: PENDING….'
You don’t remember much from the day that could be called out of the ordinary. Ever since you’d been moved here with the other girls, everything was predictable down to the time the men would come over, to the point where the screams had to be muffled by pillows.
Never in your life did you think you’d be part of the nearly fifty million people stuck in this situation, and neither did you think you’d be the one in one hundred who got out. But before you can think about November twenty-fifth and those pale gray eyes, you have to go back to the beginning. To Al-Qatala.
You hadn’t been with this cell initially—you’d been moved around and bartered off more times than you could count; the initial founder of your predicament was long gone at this point. North and South America, Europe, Africa, Asia, and Oceania…you’d been practically everywhere and on every continent barring the obvious last. In Europe, you couldn’t name the countries, but you knew this for a fact: you’d never been to Germany before.
They had you with five other women in a large SUV in the beginning, this international ring of human traffickers. You had watched from the window, face blank and eyes unblinking, at the men who met near the docks. They had brought you in through Hamburg, first—not only the largest seaport in Germany but the third largest in Europe; you think you read that on a flier at some point. One of those flimsy ones that you find in gas stations with bright lettering to attract the tourists with their interesting facts.
You wished you were only a tourist.
You’d watched the men shake hands, and that was when you knew your fate, as well as that of the five other women, was sealed. You were going to all be here for a long time.
This Al-Qatala cell was ruthless, but you supposed with being around terrorists, ruthlessness was better than being executed.
For days you’d be exploited with the false promises of moments of freedom, breaks, food, and water. For some of the women it was drugs or money, but when your stomach was empty and your eyes blurring from lack of sleep, even addictions seemed to pale for brief hours. But above it all was the threat of death at every corner. These men would kill you.
It was only a matter of time unless you could give them what they wanted.
You yourself had developed a system, and it was probably the only reason you were still alive. Pick one of the handlers, gain his favor, and pray that he treats you specially while you keep up the act of a mindless, weak, woman.
Ivon was the man’s name this time around. Born and raised here in Berlin before the clutches of his fanatical ideations brought him to Al-Qatala. You hated him.
Hated his touch—hated his scent and how he talked; every bit of him was corrupted like a black dog at a crossroads, always leading people down the wrong path. Your only saving grace was that he was stupid. The other girls called you Cat—said you managed to nuzzle up to someone and soon after got them to give you what you wanted. Everything you wanted except freedom, that was.
You didn’t deny that Ivon did give you privileges, but that was the point. About a week into your stay in Berlin, he allowed you to go into public with him. Arm-candy.
A doll.
The townhouse you’d been stuck in had disappeared into a spec behind the rearview mirror, the chilled air from outside making you shiver at the lack of heat and the thin shawl you’d been thrown. No jacket.
The care of your health only extended to how well you were able to work—at the moment you were relatively healthy despite the bulge of bruises and constantly shell-shocked look behind your eyes.
But the trip—the trip. You supposed that was when it had fully started, and you didn’t even realize it before you saw those gray eyes again.
“Come,” Ivon orders, holding tightly to your arm and dragging you along from the corner shop without making a scene. Your hands loosely brush the wrack of clothes, fabric soft under your fingertips as it sways.
Fixing your shawl, you try to burrow your neck into it, gaining what little heat is available to you. It was cold out—you were shivering. People send looks, eyes tight as they shift up and down your form, but no one ever says anything. To be this bold, this cell had to have been at this for a long, long time. The realization didn’t make you feel any better.
That was when you first saw him.
You were standing outside a coffee shop, quivering like a newly hatched butterfly, Ivon making a call only a few feet away with fast motions of his arms. It was hard not to make a run for it right then and there; hard not to take those few seconds of open air and dash away—start screaming and yelling until the authorities came.
It would save yourself, but what about the others? They wouldn’t be so fortunate, you’d be sentencing them to death. None of this was simple—it needed to be thought out. Two games of chess being played at the same time.
The irony of it was that König had been off-duty that day. It had been a shot in the dark.
“Are you alright?” A thick Austrian accent makes you flinch as it appears beside your right ear, grating.
Your eyes snap to the side, moving one foot back as you blink wildly up at the blue-gray orbs that would become a staple. You liked to call it as everyone else did—the invisible string theory. A theory that stated that the universe connected people who were destined to meet one day. Through thick or thin waters, it was inevitable. He was inevitable.
“Yes,” you say quickly, holding your hands tightly around you. The man ahead of you was tall, almost startlingly so, with muscles more bulky than a boulder and his buzz-cut head open to the chilled breeze. He wore a surgical mask over his lower visage, his hoodie under the thick material of a canvas jacket. “Yes,” you say again, hearing Ivon’s voice behind you still on the phone. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Gray eyes furrow slightly, gaze darting over your head.
“Are you…sure, Ma’am?”
“Thank you for your concern,” you fake laugh, eyes pained, backing up farther. That invisible string snaps into place, pulling tight at only those few simple words.
His stature made you slightly nervous—large, intimidating; those hands could do quite the damage if given the chance. Your eyes had hit and bounced off the identity discs at his chest with little thought, too preoccupied to notice the fact that he was in the Service.
König’s eyes had narrowed softly, dark brows minutely moving in.
Ivon hangs up his phone.
“Can I help you?” He asks, coming up and sliding a hand around your waist. The man had stared at him for a long minute, and you had felt Ivon tense slowly at the unblinking eye contact.
This stranger had commented in German a long string of frim words, hands going to his jacket and grabbing at the arms—he slips out of it while still uttering.
Before you can react, the large coat swallows you whole and you snatch at the heat that’s still inside instinctually, now only realizing how much you were shivering. Your body sags into the weight of the fabric, the scent of sweat and coffee.
You don’t even pay attention to the growing tones, shocked. People look over to the two fast words being tossed.
Yet it could only last so long.
Ivon’s hand latches onto the side of your arm, beginning to drag you back and away from this kind stranger like a lap dog while throwing curses behind him. Gray eyes meet yours as old shoes skid and stumble.
König had taken a firm step towards you that day, his body tense and his hands clenched at his side—ready to do anything on a moment's notice should you ask for it. But all you do is stare, jaw loose, and the given coat still on your shoulders. You just couldn’t understand why he would do that.
The stranger gets swallowed by the crowd, and just like that, he’s gone.
That was all it had been; a moment—a few mere seconds in the large plot that was this almost impossible tale. You were glad it had been him, or else the events of the future could have been very different.
Of course, they hadn’t let you keep the jacket, but the memory was enough to warm you for days even as old pains faded and new ones took their place.
But those gray eyes would help you in the future, like a guardian; a protector in your dreams as you watched the snow fall from the sliver of outside light in your room with the others. Your mattress was on the floor like the rest, thin blankets and clouds of cold breath wafting up from sleeping forms.
This was the time it happened, and you’d just woken up to find the curtains shifting as one of the women near it moved in her sleep. Shadows slip past, the light interrupted as it shifts over your tired face with broken fractures.
You were always kept on the ground floor.
'CLEARANCE: APPROVED
TRANSLATING MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’…
STAND BY…
Operation Red Freedom took place on November twenty-fifth, 2021, at approximately 0230 in the neighborhood of [REDACTED], at the residence of [REDACTED], Berlin, Germany. A squad of ten highly trained [REDACTED] personnel covertly entered the residence in two teams of five. Fireteam One advanced from the back entrance while Fireteam Two entered the residence from the balcony at the top floor, accessed via ladder.
Squad Leader [REDACTED], part of Fireteam One, set foot in the residence of [REDACTED] at approximately 0238 and began sweeping the ground floor as Fireteam Two cleared three of twelve known individuals belonging to the terrorist organization, Al-Qatala, on the top floor….'
You shift and shiver, your body trying to warm itself as the world blurs at the sides of your vision. Fingers twitch as your hand goes to wrap your waist, curled into the fetal position, creaking emanates from above you. Blinking softly, you frown and take a quivering breath, head nuzzling the thin mattress.
“Cold,” you say, the following low exhale of air out of your lips only making it all worse as everything seems to drop another degree. The darkness didn’t help either, only that one line of light trying desperately to fill the room like a bucket descending into a dry well.
You’re only clothed in the dirty and tattered remains of a large shirt, your legs feeling like they don’t hold any blood in them as they quiver without your knowledge—shaking the blanket above you. A few of the girls had said it would be okay to share, but everyone was afraid of the lock on the door clicking open and the men coming back in and seeing them. In the end, you could only look after yourself.
A thump makes you startle, drooping eyes snapping back open as you gasp.
Head shifting, you blink rapidly upward to the ceiling, confused as to whether that had been a part of a failing mind or if you’d really just heard a muffled bump upstairs. Brows furrowing, you lightly sit up, hands still around yourself and legs limply outward; spine hunched.
Your fingers had lost feeling, just as your nose had gone numb, but moving helped a little. Your hands dig into your flesh and your ears twitch at every creak in the wood—every pass of silent feet that suddenly becomes all the clearer as the sheen of fatigue slowly leaves your brain.
Walking? Small pains move along your body like needles, poking and prodding, but you ignore them as easily as you do the vile hands that had touched you. Survival had forced you into a constant state of self-preservation—pain couldn’t bother you, because if you stopped, you wouldn’t get back going again.
Your head tilts so you can side-eye the door to the room, sleeping forms all around shifting, singular groaning of tired lungs. But there’s something inside of you that stiffens like a prey animal, and you don’t know why. Inside of your sockets, your eyes hone in, bones stiff and your chest stilling as the grain becomes the most interesting thing to you beyond breathing.
There was someone….out there.
Watching, the sides of your vision shadow over to focus harder, your muscles tight. Your mind goes to the thumps from upstairs, the moving feet that sounded far more careful and deliberate than the ones your jailors took care to walk with.
Inside your ribs, your heart patters a bit faster, adrenal glands sending a certain flight or flight through the few veins you hold that aren’t chilled over.
Something was happening. Something wasn’t right.
Only when you move to shake the shoulder of one of the women sleeping beside you does it happen.
A yell.
A scream.
The girls in the room all startle awake, sounds of concern and shock entering the air that you mirror; faces snapping to the ceiling and the door. The townhouse erupts into gunfire and the sound of slamming wood—a warzone that only is separated from all of you by the thin material of the four walls.
You feel yourself being grabbed and held in fear in the dark, as your open face holds the expression of a rabbit in an open field, looking along the long, hidden grass.
The sounds persist, loud German shouts going up over the house and echoing with heated fever. This continues for minutes, added in with the sound of doors breaking off hinges, bouncing off the ground, and shaking the foundation so hard that you can feel it reverberate. The women go silent. Stone-still.
But the gunfire—so much gunfire. The constant pop of assault weapons and a pound of multiple booted feet.
What was going on? You can't make sense of it, so you only freeze and listen; trying to understand the longer the fight goes on, heart hammering; mouth slack-jawed. And then it’s like it never happened.
Silence.
You share quick looks with the others, all gripping one another and heads angled to the door. The heavy feet start back up again, coming closer. Your mind slashes to the window across the room, but it’s hard to think beyond the sudden body that shakes the door that leads directly to you all—the women scream, some standing up and racing to the glass with the same idea as you.
'…Squad Leader [REDACTED], and both Fireteams successfully eliminated all targets inside of the [REDACTED] residence, leaving the room occupied by known hostages last to prevent casualties and/or the usage of bargaining chips. Squad Leader [REDACTED] made contact with hostages at approximately 0244 after the final sweep of the townhouse had been completed and all personnel accounted for.
Local authorities had been contacted by neighbors due to noise but were dismissed.'
The door busts off its hinges and the room devolves into panicked yells and hurled bits of mattress material. Loud pleas and curses stuck like gums to teeth as they were forced out in fear and bone-crushing terror. You remember pushing back into the wall, many others doing the same, as a beast of a man enters the room with his face covered with a loose fabric hood of some sort.
Large—brutish. Like a demon walking with the color of black printed over his entire body; gear hangs from a combat vest, hands holding an assault rifle as a sidearm is strapped to his bulging thigh. Forearms the side of your head stays near his chest, and in order to not hit his head on the doorframe, the individual has to bend slightly. Over that hood, the lenses and head-gear of a night-vision rig sit heavily before it’s moved back with a firm hand that is nearly double the size of yours.
A monster.
Your entire being is tight with quivering tension, eyes blinking away tears at the smell of blood that rolls in from the hallway. The women at the window duck down, hands to their heads as if expecting a bullet to carve its way between their skulls.
“Cat,” one of the ladies behind you mutters, voice quivering. You shush her on bitten lips and move her farther behind you.
“Don’t speak,” you mutter. “Don’t move.”
You don’t know what you expect, but nothing about this is correct.
The man raises his hands, the rifle slapping his chest as it hangs from a strap. He speaks in German, and the heavy and fast noise of it makes your already addled head spin. No one answers beyond the slide of their own feet over the hardwood floors.
“Ich heiße König,” his head swivels from one to another, “Sprichst du Deutsch? Irgendjemand?”
You stare blankly, panting.
After a moment, and a slow step forward from the stranger, he speaks again, though this time, it’s in English.
“My name is König.” His voice is familiar to you, and you blink in confusion quickly, hidden near the back of the shaking bodies. “I am with the German Military, yes? We have conducted a raid on this residence.”
Military? Raid?
“...I am not here to hurt you.” He nears one of the women, beginning to bend down slowly. She squeaks, balking back—making him tense and halt. It didn't matter what he said, König was the epitome of a man who was intimidating on body alone; the gear wasn’t helping. Neither was the hood.
A soldier appears in the doorway, calling out to him in his native language as you flinch at the noise.
König calls back calmly, trying to keep an air of gentle strength around him.
The second soldier comes inside, dressed similarly despite the lack of fabric over his visage which instantly puts many at ease again. He clears his throat as König steps back, gargantuan hands coming up to rest at his vest collar as his legs shift. He seems a bit put off at the fearful stares from everyone, rolling his shoulders for a moment as he turns his head to look out of the doorway.
Your eyes don’t move from him, though. A nagging feeling in the back of your skull.
“We have to leave this place,” the second soldier tells you all, kneeling and resting a hand over his knee. “We’ll get you medical attention. Food. Water. There’s no need to suffer here any longer, hm? We can see to it that all of you will get the best care that can be provided.” A pause. “We can get you back home.”
That certainly got the attention that was needed.
Meek questions started falling out, then louder ones before pandemonium was roused in that tiny room pushed to the very back of the townhouse. Home. It was a word that had almost lost all meaning but was still that constant shining light in the back of everyone’s mind.
Home.
Did you even have one of those left?
As the rest of your fellows all got to their feet, taking you with them, you had to think over that fact as the soldier guided them gently out of the room to join the others waiting—trying to answer their questions and get them away from the gore before they saw it.
You stayed behind, feet shifting over the floor and your lips thin. As the silence settles in, you hold yourself a bit tighter and glance at the mattress all mashed together and stained—those thin blankets as you shiver.
“Are you alright?” Your head snaps over.
You’d forgotten about König.
He still stands there, still and with his hands at his collar; he clears his throat softly, speaking up from his low utterance. “Please…do not be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” you say tinily, your voice cracking in the lie.
You can’t see his eyes—not with the shadow from his hood or his head rig, but you can see the way his skull lightly tilts to the side, trying to see you better in the low light.
“That is good,” he answers, not convinced. “I’m glad. I did not wish to scare anyone.” He moves back and motions with a hand to the door from where they hang. “Please. It is best not to linger, yes?”
“Do I…” you hesitate, shivering. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
König’s face isn’t visible, but you can still sense the feeling of confusion leaking out of him. The man takes a small step closer, and you gaze up at him until his eyes are visible.
Blue-gray.
You stare, mouth parting in shock.
König blinks twice, quickly making a noise in the back of his throat at the sight of your eyes gazing into his—the same woman outside of the coffee shop from days ago.
That little invisible string pulls you closer, small millimeter by small millimeter.
“You?” You both say it at the same time, laced with surprise and shock.
It’s a long moment of gazing into each other, a battered body and another more strong than an ox. All fear of the man dissipates.
“You gave me your jacket,” you whisper, still torn up about it.
König’s hood shifts as he glances back to the door, German speech over the radio strapped to his chest which he takes in and processes in the back of his skull. But he always looks back at you, eyes crinkled with concern and perhaps even a bit of misplaced guilt.
A protective knife sides into his side.
“Come.” The man reaches out a hand, hovering it over your arm. You stare at the gloved limb for a moment before softly moving towards it with your breath caught in your throat, hesitant. König’s fingers delicately slide over the flesh, not closing around it until he feels your muscles loosen. “...Let’s get you warmer, Schatz, yes?”
You blink.
“It’s cold here,” you mutter, letting him guide you along, his gray orbs always keeping you in the side of his vision.
“Yes,” he agrees, nodding. “Very cold. Have you been to Germany during the winter before?”
Your head slightly shakes, bare feet padding along next to the pair of great boots—you lean closer unconsciously to the promise of warmth. König guides you away from the seeping blood on the floor and protects your eyes from the view of the bodies across the room with his own as a guard dog would.
“No.” He notices your leaning and brings you nearer to him, letting you use him as a brace. The man knows the effects of shock, and you wear it as plainly as any other. “I’ve never been here before.”
König hums and his free hand goes up to press into the radio, muttering in his native tongue. He releases the connection and asks as he blinks at you, “Do you require any immediate medical attention?”
Again, you shake your head.
“Where are the others?” You sink further into him, being guided to the front door, open to the soft snowfall and a chilled wind as your shoulder hunch.
“Just outside,” König glances at the bodies across the room—the ones he’d riddled with bullets that still twitch even as the minutes draw longer. Gray eyes going from one to another, the house is heavy with the weight of dead men. Twelve in total and all getting colder just like the temperature outside. König didn’t feel bad about it, and when he’d finally busted open that door to find you and the women, he was satisfied with the blood on his hands. If hell were to be his home, he would walk there with a golden-fanged smile.
But now wasn’t the time for that.
“I will bring you to them,” the soldier speaks, snow blowing in from the entrance. “Slowly, now, Schatz, watch the steps. Allow me to help.”
You stop at the doorway, bringing a hand to your mouth to cover a haggard cough as König makes his way down the first concrete step ahead of you—large armored vehicles had pulled up from a ways away. The women huddle around one another, the rest of the soldiers sticking by them and opening the doors to the vehicles as the night gets only more cold and stormy.
Gray eyes flicker for a moment down to your lack of proper protection, fingers twitching and tapping at his thigh as König remembers your expression the day he’d first met you.
“Do you want me to carry you?” He says slowly, cautious in his approach. The man wasn’t stupid—he wouldn’t touch you unless you explicitly stated it was alright for him to do so. “I will be gentle, I promise. I do not wish for your feet to freeze, I...” He pauses as you blink, staring into his soul. “I…will not touch you if you do not tell me to do it. You have my word.”
You continue to stand there for a moment, face unreadable before your head slowly turns to the vehicles in the street.
The neighborhood was so normal it still caused you to wonder how no one had spoken up and seen something. Rows of connected houses now with their lights on—faces peeking from the windows like little children on Christmas morning; trying to get glimpses of Santa and the man’s reindeer.
Finally, your gaze moves back to the hooded visage of König, able to see it better under the moonlight and the glare of falling snowflakes—a few of those frozen pieces sitting in the folds of the fabric.
“The hood scared them,” you utter about the others. König stiffens a bit, blinking at you but not looking away. “They’re used to people trying to hide their faces, but yours…with how large you are…”
“I understand.” König doesn't tear away his eyes. “...Did I scare you, Schatz?”
You don’t know why, but for what seems like the first time in years, the question makes you giggle. The beast of a man goes still with his feet on the ground, usually jittery and moving body captivated by the sound as it echoes over the night’s air—the puff of your breath as it moves around his hood; rustling it like leaves on a tree.
Eyes widening only a sliver more, König’s breath is in his throat.
It was like listening to a bird’s song.
“Maybe only a little,” you whisper to him. “But it’s okay. I’m scared of most things.”
He licks his lips, but you’re unable to see the slight quirk of them afterward.
“Then I will make it up to you, yes?” He holds out a hand. “Let me? The car is warm and your friends are waiting for you. My men say they ask about your health.”
You softly nod, the shadow of the house trying to drag you back into it—its blackened arms reaching and latching onto old scars. When your hand connects with König's, the man takes his time putting one foot back to a step and scooping you up from behind your knees. With a tiny grunt, you settle at his chest, calming your heartbeat with the fact that you know he won’t hurt you.
“I’ve got you,” he says.
In his arms, your bare legs hang in the air, hand wrapping his neck, and with a slightly nervous look to you as your body hovers. König watches for a moment, hesitating before he begins walking to the same vehicle the other woman had been moved into out of the snowfall.
“Can you tell me your name,” he asks to distract you from his hold, to get you more comfortable with him as his boots crunch through the packed powder on the ground—making sure to watch his step so as to not jostle you.
“Everyone calls me Cat.” Gray eyes blink your way, visible skin painted black. König’s head tilts. You can’t help but find it endearing.
“Katze?” He hums, and you can imagine his lips moving slightly upwards from the innocent tone of his voice as if taken by the strange moniker. “That is…interesting.”
You huff tinily, shivering again as your body moves to curl a little more.
The soldier quickly reassures you. “Nearly there.”
The vehicle is in front of you, and a nearby man opens the door for König as he carries you over. Nodding in thanks, the large individual eases you into one of the seats as the blast of warm air makes you sag—the other woman in there mulls closer, grabbing onto you and laughing through tears.
Looking back at them, you smile and feel yourself get a bit teary-eyed as everything starts to slowly come into focus.
Glancing outward, you stare at the snow that hits the dark hood of König, sticking and hanging off until the tiny white dots melt from the heat of his body. With his legs shifting he moves back a step and nods to you, eyes moving to stare at the ground for a moment.
“We will take you to base. From there you will all be given dorms and fresh apparel to—”
“Thank you, König,” you interrupted him. He stares, lips parted with the half-tones of cut-off speech. “And please extend my thanks to your men as well.”
“...Of course, Katze.” König stands straighter, always twitching fingers moving to the car door as engines start with a grinding roar. He nods again, the loose fabric swaying as the lenses of his rig stay firm at the movement. “There is no need to thank us. Relax. Sleep, if you wish to do it. The ride will be long.” The man’s gray eyes linger for a moment on your own, studying the bumps and small marks on your face. His hand tightens over the door as your gaze is stuck with his own; warmth blooming in his chest. He was glad he had found you.
König slips out a soft, “There are blankets under the seats,” before he closes the door with a firm thump of metal.
You can’t help but smile.
'…Hostages were taken back to [REDACTED] and received minor medical attention on site. Housed in [REDACTED] and were admitted for needed treatments/medications - all details/names listed in File 3 Section 6 for future reference. DNA was placed into databases.
Next of kin were informed of their family members’ position and/or state of being via phone call to the corresponding government official that then traveled through the appropriate channels once identified.'
You sit as a nurse hands you heating pads for your hands, which you take with a small thanks and clenched tightly, sucking every ounce of warmth from them to stop the shaking. Your body was heavy with the weight of new clothes and heated blankets, the room utterly normal in a way you’d not known for years. A corner table with books and a chess board—a connected bathroom stocked with amenities you may need; even a rug on the tile floor. You don’t know why that was shocking to you, but even the simplest thing was awe-inspiring. Your eyes had even slipped over a tiny nightlight near the door.
It nearly made you cry.
Your nurse moves back a bit, smiling down at you kindly.
“Is there anything else you might need, Dear?” Her accent is prominent, though not as much as König’s had been. She waits for your answer diligently as the pitcher of water and a similar glass sit on your nightstand.
“No,” you say, shaking your head. Your socked feet rub together like a grasshopper. “I think that’s all.” Your eyelids blink. “But…” you stop.
“What is it?” The lady asks gently, hands slack at her sides.
“The man—König,” you pause. “Is he here?”
Blinking at you, the nurse tilts her head to the side in curiosity. “Not currently, no. At least, not in this specific building. He and his men are being debriefed across base. They will be there for a long while.” At your blank look, her brows slightly move up in accommodating comfort. “Would…you like me to tell him something for you?”
Playing with the heating pads in your hands, your face gains a slightly embarrassed sheen. You liked the thought of being near König, truthfully. No one had made you feel safe like he did—him and his selfless action of a large coat given with no intention of getting anything in return.
“Just,” you breathe softly. “Just that I’m sorry for losing his coat, and that I hope it wasn’t expensive.”
The nurse stares, very much confused but not about to question you. Her feet shift over the floor, and a light nod is sent your way.
“Of course. I’ll tell him.” She motions to the bed with a hand and explains that whenever you wished to sleep, you were free to use the bed—and the TV was open to you as well, though you might not be able to understand the local stations. With that, she exited the room.
Left alone, your head moves around the room slowly, taking it all in once more as the small bandages under your clothes pull at your flesh. The tears start slipping down your cheeks with no warning.
Wrist coming up to your eyes, the limb presses in tightly, water staining the flesh as it dribbles down, and your lip quivers like a worm below it. You don’t know why you’re crying now and not when König had gotten you out of that townhouse. Why now, when there wasn’t anything prompting you to do so?
But something was prompting you—the knowledge that you would never be going back to anyone who would mistreat you again. You had your own room. Good food. All the water that your stomach could drink down. A nightlight that pushes back the darkness even if you’re so used to living in it.
Through your soft sniffles, chuckles move out, filling the space with a warm echo. You pull the blankets closer to you and collapse backward onto the mattress, smiling widely at the ceiling.
That little invisible string dances as your heart pulls at it.
—
König’s leg lightly jumps from under his table, signing off his name at the bottom of a report before he stands and rubs a hand over the top of his un-hooded head. He grabs the paper and slips it into a manila folder, hands pale with deep scars running the length of them like fissures in the earth. Deftly taking the item, he walks out of his office and begins moving down the length of the building, fingers tapping over the yellowish material with a small connection of flesh and thick envelope.
Tap-tap, tappity-tap.
His fingers were always fidgeting—moving, tensing, twitching. It was one of the reasons they never let him become a recon sniper; the more obvious being the blatant size of his body. Both of which had been the cause of much teasing throughout his childhood.
But König’s mind was on something other than the report in his hands, and it was starting to become a very strong distraction. You. The women. Al-Qatala.
He was angry he hadn’t acted outside of that coffee shop—angry he hadn't noticed the signs right in front of him even if he had been powerless to stop it then. The soldier’s jaw clenched, the strong muscles of his jaw roving.
“Verdammt,” he hisses under his breath, glaring at the tile. “Should have done something.”
König gets to his commanding officer’s office and knocks, only staying long enough to hand him the folder with his finished report and leave once more. His mind wouldn’t stay silent tonight. There’s no doubt that he won’t be able to sleep unless he reassures himself that you and the others are okay.
The man’s head shifts back to the email he had gotten from your assigned nurse, whom he’d taken it upon himself to know the name of when he carried you into the base’s hospital—Eva.
‘...She says she wants to apologize for losing your coat…”
König’s heart had twisted at that—that was what you were concerned about? He had to tell you that it was alright, or else he would never know peace. Perhaps even ask how you’ve been treated so far, just to make sure that everything was comfortable for you.
The man’s eyelids move slightly downward in thought, a pull at his heart to walk outside. He passes a few other soldiers in the hallway, nodding to them with a tiny greeting but unwilling to stop and talk. In only fatigues, König exits the main doors quickly, lightly moving into a jog as his body shivers at the sudden chill touching his arms under the black compression shirt. Under him the snow has grown deeper, the large lights illuminating the almost greenish reflections of the winter landscape of open roads and large buildings.
Curfew was long past—this had to be quick.
Just a check-in, König tells himself as he nears the hospital, his breath puffing in the air. Then I can wipe my hands of it.
He slows as he nears the doors, huffing a breath as he pushes on the barrier, opening it with a squawk of hinges and metal. Entering, the front desk staff looked up at him in surprise, muttering his name in question.
“Katze?” He responds, pushing a hand over his head and feeling the melting snowflakes. His cheeks are a light shade of exposure-red, and inquisitive eyes shift over the two individuals slowly. “What room?”
The pair share a glance and tell him in the same breath. Room ten.
It’s no sooner after that König finds himself there, hand hovering over the handle as the hallway clock ticks beside his right ear. His gray eyes blink at the door, feet shuffling from under him before he clears his throat under his breath, glancing away for a second in hesitation.
Was this appropriate?
König didn’t have an answer, but the pull in his chest was tight and firm—he just needed to see you. A glimpse, nothing more. He raises his fist and raps his knuckles over the wood delicately, three tiny knocks that hit his ears like bullets from a gun; the bullets he’s put into pathetic Al-Qatala bodies and watched burst like sacks of fluid.
He waits, hands going to grasp at his shirt collar, pushing out a low breath to calm himself.
After a long moment, his foot taps the floor, blinking. Again he knocks—a bit louder.
“She is sleeping, you evolutionsbremse,” he utters, accent low and grating. “Leave her alone.” But even if you are, his nerves peek their head over the brimstone wall of his brain.
With his fingers caressing the handle, slowly moved to clutch it fully, swallowing the metal in his grip. König takes a deep breath into his lungs, letting it fill them up. Again, he tells himself, just a check-in.
He twists the doorknob and sets his forearm on the wood, pushing the barrier open.
König moves so that his body makes no noise, even with how large it is as he angles the side of his head through the opening. He finds a large mound of blankets atop the bed—stacked and layered so heavily that he has to blink in surprise at how you can breathe under them; because you were under them.
Gray eyes make out the small sliver of skin peaking out from the side of the bed—fingers—and the top of your forehead near the pillows formed around your skull. Unconsciously, a soft smile works its way over König’s lips until he finds himself chuckling.
“Niedlich,” he mutters, scars over his face shifting as he speaks.
Sighing lowly, König pulls back his head, beginning to close the door once more.
“König…?” Your tiny voice makes him halt like he had in the townhouse.
Eyes wide and lips parted at being caught, the door remains open, only a sliver visible to your vision as your furrowed brows are stuck at the barrier. A red sheen moves across the soldier’s face in a slow sweep of embarrassment that goes bone deep.
With a lick of his lips, König re-opens the door slightly.
“I did not mean to wake you, Katze.” He finds your eyes and nods to you. “I apologize. Go back to sleep—you must be tired.”
“Wait,” you utter, moving your head fully out from under the blankets. König pauses, eyes staring as his other hand comes up to itch at the back of his neck.
“What is it,” the man asks, opening the door fully and moving inside. “Do you need anything?”
The question had hit you in your thin slumber, interrupted only partially by the opening of your door to the familiar pull of gray eyes and a strong build. A buzz-cut head. You take a slow breath to wake yourself up more, watching him from your bed. “...Did you know that I would be in that house?”
König tilts his head at the question, sighing slightly and glancing at the clock inside of the room on your nightstand. He frowns.
“No,” he explains gently, coming closer. “No, I did not. I do not get told such things—only where to shoot and where not to.” The man tries a small smile, kneeling on one leg down by the bed and staring into your sleepy eyes. “But I am glad I found you again, yes? You had me worried.”
“You were worried?” You can’t quite grasp it.
“Ja,” he nods. “Your eyes—they have stuck with me, Schatz, you understand?”
Your eyebrows pull up your face, blinking in shock.
“...Yours, too,” you confess. König’s heart flutters, listening until your lips have fallen still. “They’re very nice, König.”
He goes sheepish, lips flicking up into a smile and his eyes daring away for a moment. “You can thank my mother for them, then.” He chuckles. “I have stolen the family's eyes, I was told.”
You chuckle with him, hand coming to rub at your cheek. A silence falls between the two of you.
“I don’t sleep well,” you tell him in the relative darkness, light from the hallway and your night light illuminating the dips and bone structure of his face. “I was awake when you opened the door.”
He nods after a moment. “Ja.” A pause. “I don’t either…Nightmares?”
You watch him before nodding tinily.
“Ah,” he mutters. “They are not pleasant, I’m sorry that they have been plaguing you. Do you…” König wonders if he should leave—this was far more than he had anticipated. “Do you wish for me to stay?”
Why had he said that?
The string between the two of you tightens evermore, gaining another thread just as it would for the years to come until it became as unbreakable as steel.
“I don’t want to be a nuisance,” you begin but are quickly interrupted with a shake of a square head and a huff of a sharp nose.
“You are not. Do not call yourself such.” His accent deepens with emotion, eyes narrowing as the dark brows on his face pull in. “If you want me to stay, I will stay. Wake you if you become shaky, yes? Keep the bad dreams at bay.”
“But what about you?” Your voice moves around the room as König stands and goes to the table in the back, shifting one of the chairs so that it’s angled your way. You shift so you can watch him sit back, grunting as his legs move out in front of him, opening so he can be more comfortable. He needed a bigger chair, but he wasn’t going to complain about it.
“I’m not tired, Schatz.” A lie. His muscles are heavy, and he longs for his bed in the barracks. He pushes out, “Please, go back to sleep. I’ll watch over you.”
You stare for a long while, studying him and how he fidgets in his seat of choice. A small laugh meets the man’s ears as he crosses his arms over his chest. König pauses, blinking over in confusion. His lips move upwards slowly.
“What are you laughing at, then, hm?”
“You look like you’re about to break it,” you mutter, head nuzzling the pillow under you as fatigue claws its way under your skin.
König huffs, fingers twitching over the meat of his biceps as he slouches. He nods jokingly. “Perhaps,” he shrugs, the window behind him letting a slight tinge of cold air in from outside. “It would not be the first, I’m afraid, though it would be quite the embarrassment to do it in front of you, Katze.” He smirks. “But I’ll say, hitting my head on door frames hurts more than letting my arsch kiss the ground.”
You laugh under your heap, your body jerking to the movement of your lungs.
“I bet,” you say, fingers grasping one of your blankets and pulling it closer. “It’s a funny image.”
“You can laugh all you want,” König jokes, eyes soft as they gaze at you. “It does not bother me.”
Your sweet sounds of amusement waft out from under the crack in the door, where a small group of curious nurses mull and listen with glances to one another. A doctor moves past the hallway where they stand, and all scatter on quick feet.
'…Signed,
[REDACTED]
SUBMITTED: 0517, 25, November 2021
END OF MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’
RETURNING TO SELECTION MENU…
STAND BY…'
It’s only after most of the other women leave—sent home to awaiting families or loved ones—that you know your time is coming to a close here in Berlin, Germany. While you’re excited to put this behind you, you can’t help but feel a bit…lost.
There’s something that keeps you here, on this base, until you’re the last out of all of them, waiting. And then you’re given the green light to go—go home—and suddenly you have a backpack full of necessities and you’re closing the door to your room with the little nightlight’s plastic body pushing against your spine. Yet, you stand in the hallway for a long minute, fingers interlocked.
You take a long, deep, breath.
Over the weeks of recovery, König had been a constant companion when he wasn’t needed. He had eased you back into a comfortable state, letting you somewhat lose the black-and-white view you had gained of the world. But there was only so much he could do, even if his soft eyes were still stuck in your dreams—the good ones, of course.
You needed to go home, and, today, the C-17 was whirring on the tarmac, waiting for you to be transported to a military base far from here where you would be processed and, ultimately, let go.
Let go. It was jarring to think about, all of that freedom. What would you do with it? Right now, you don’t have the faintest clue. It was the best feeling you can remember having.
Smiling, you take one last look at the room behind you and walk on.
At the entrance, you say a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to the nurses and doctors in broken German, shaking their hands as Eva kisses your forehead and whispers how happy she is to have had you here for such little time—you know what she means and you chuckle with her at the double-edged sword.
König waits by the door, holding it open with…you blink at the item in his hands as well as his sudden appearance. Canvas fabric. A coat.
The coat.
“I had to have it processed,” he says, smiling as you gape at him. “Very long process. It was found in the closet in the townhouse.”
“Then why are you handing it to me,” you ask, tilting your head and walking closer.
“I gave it to you, did I not?” The man hums, head tilting as he motions with it again. “It’s a good coat, Katze. Winters get cold.” Gray eyes crinkle gently. “I would hate for you to shiver, wherever it is that you end up, yes?”
You shake your head, cheeks hot. But your hands don’t hesitate to grasp the item, König’s hold on it remains fast, though, and you blink at him as you both keep it gently clasped like it’s worth its weight in gold.
König stares at you, the door still kept open behind him. He opens and closes his mouth for a moment as you tilt your head.
“Keep it safe for me,” is what he ends with, but his expression tells you he’s not talking about the coat.
It makes your arms tingle—your heart skips a beat.
“I’ll be sure it never gets lost,” you smile warmly, eyes malleable as the make of their color glints. There is a connection to this man that transcends words, and it is tied to you just as heavily as it is to him; unexplainable, incomprehensible, non-describable.
Enigmatic.
König’s reverential face is soft with care.
“Good,” he mutters, unable to look away. “Very good.”
Clearing his throat, his grays dart to the floor, shifting his feet to move backward. He pushes open the door wider for you, and you hold your backpack in one hand as you shift past him and slip into his coat.
It was exactly how you remembered it, and you sank into the fabric with a thankful sigh and a fluttering of your lashes. You shift the bag back over your shoulders, letting the straps fall into the bulk of the extra material.
The snow wasn’t falling today, and the ground was shoveled of any white powder too. On the air, you can hear the whir of the C-17.
König comes up beside you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as he guides you along. For the most part, the walk to the tarmac is silent with the weight of the future. You had no phone. No socials. You didn’t even know if you wanted any, to be honest. Your mind had convinced you that a good bout of soul-searching was exactly what you needed. And you had to do that alone.
Your lips are thin as your legs take you closer to the plane, König’s scent stuck into the stitches of the coat and covered your senses.
At the ramp, he stops as your feet take you onto the metal. Closing your eyes for a moment, you turn and lock gazes with him—gray hiding away what other, more human, emotions to be found. It was a slate of carefully crafted acceptance, and your own followed soon after.
It had to be this. The string wouldn’t break, no, but it had to be stretched to such a point to come back stronger.
“Thank—”
“Don’t,” he says, not blinking, looking up at you.
You smile. “What do you want me to say, then?”
“You don’t have to say anything to me.” You hadn't known it then, but the both of you had truly thought that this would be the last of your meetings. It produced a pulse in both of your hearts that would never be told aloud. “....Live well,” König utters. “Heal, Mein Schatz.”
The soldier wasn't one to give his chances to hope.
Your eyes follow as he backs up, moving away as you stare. In his head, König pleads with you to stop and give him a reprieve from the hypnosis of your gaze, the addictive movement of your head as it tilts to the side.
Live well.
You send him a smile, a delicate thing, and then you back up a step and turn, disappearing into the darkness.
The string follows, and it continues to do so even as your hands slip into your pockets hours later, bumping into the small form of a black flip phone. The note hidden inside of it.
‘For whenever you find what you’re looking for.’
'REQUEST FOR ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE
REQUESTED BY: [REDACTED]
ENTERED: DECEMBER 15, 2021
TIME: 1422
OPEN FILE?...
REQUEST CANCELED….
RETURNING TO FILE SELECT MENU…
FILE SELECTED….
TRANSLATING…
STAND BY…
REQUEST OF HONORABLE ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE OF [REDACTED] APPROVED ON JANUARY 2, 2022
OPEN FILE?...
REQUEST CANCELED…
SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN'
You sit in a coffee shop in Berlin, Germany, by the window. It wasn’t just any coffee shop, but you try not to think about all of that. It was all in the past—three years, now. You like to think you’d learned something in that time.
“Danke schön,” you say to the woman who brings you your drink, nodding kindly. You take a small sip, humming and winking at her teasingly. “Perfekt.”
She chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron. “Möchten Sie noch etwas anderes dazu?”
“Nein, nein,” you shake your head, waving a hand that soft bumps the flip phone on the table. “Danke.”
The lady walks away, and you take another sip of the hot beverage, never put off by the heat.
It was winter again, and your eyes followed the flakes as they fell from a cloudy sky, finding the beauty in it easily as you sat inside. The scarf around your neck is loose—your gifted coat open. You smile to yourself and hum, watching people walk past outside, thinking about their lives and how they live them.
A large form travels out from a shop across the street, a plastic bag in his loose grip. He was not small, no, this man was a beast of height and strength alike. The loping, canid-like, walk was accented by the twitch of his fingers over his quarry.
Your wide eyes stay stuck to him for a long moment as he moves to the crosswalk, people shifting out of his way as he ignores them. Familiarity strikes like lighting—a buzz down your spine that leaves you straightening.
After a long moment, a breathless laugh sneaks out of you.
There were just some things that people were never meant to understand.
Your hand places your cup back on the table, picking up the old flip phone and pushing it open. Your thumb runs the keypad, moving to the only contact that had ever been entered into the device.
Pressing, you move it to your ear as you watch with a soft expression, heart pattering.
Across the way, the man tenses, hand patting his leg before the other hand moves inside his pocket and shifts the item out. People walk away, moving to the other side of the crosswalk as he stares at the contact.
A minute passes, and all the while you hold your breath.
He presses and moves the phone to his ear, staying as still as stone. As still as a man afraid his hood might scare a group of terrified women.
His voice graces your ear.
“...Katze?” You beam, trapped in the warmth of the coat around your shoulders.
“How do you feel about coffee, König?”
Blue-gray eyes had never been more beautiful than when they snapped up to meet yours.
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141 gossiping about Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley for roughly 3,000 words idk titles are hard
Price was the first to notice. Priding himself on being incredibly observant, especially when it came to his boys.
He noticed that whenever they had a break from trainings or meetings, he’d somehow always find the two of you in a room together. Never close enough to give him reason to say anything. You scribbling notes on a patient report at one table, Ghost at another, his chair angled just enough so that he could watch you from the corner of his eye.
Noticed the way Ghost’s hand rested on the small of your back for a heartbeat when you entered a doorway before him. Just a brush of his massive hand on you, quick enough to be mistaken for an accidental touch.
Noticed how Ghost’s eyes seemed to always flick to you from across the mess hall. Not often, but enough for Price to casually turn his head and see that same nurse Ghost seemed to have a preference for.
At first, Price thought he could help by being a wingman of sorts. When Ghost took damage on a mission, Price would escort him to medbay and watch as he dismissed nurse after nurse until you were finally available to treat him. Price lingered as long as he could before you inevitably waved him away, cheekily reminding him you always took good care of his team and that you’d have ‘Lieutenant Riley’ back in no time. The only thing he could catch was the way Ghost’s shoulders relaxed by a hair’s breadth when you drew the curtain shut behind you.
He tried again during a meeting with his boys. Suggesting they bring a medic on a mission with them. Said something about how it would be better to have the option of a patch-up readily available. Keep his team fighting fit in real time instead of having to wait until they came back to base. Price saw the way Ghost tensed slightly in his seat, the muscles in his jaw twitching under his balaclava.
The notion was quickly vetoed. Ghost grumbling something about not wanting to babysit any more than he already does. How it’s ultimately more paperwork he doesn’t want to have to deal with.
He tried once more, going to Ghost’s office one evening. Almost turning tail once he realized how ridiculous it was to be this insistent on figuring out if his Lieutenant had some boyish crush on the sweet nurse he always seemed to be lingering around. But ultimately decided that it was good practice to know more about his team personally. Better bonding meant better interaction on the field, right?
He asked Ghost to redo some paperwork. Add a ‘next of kin’ to his file in the event that something happened and they needed to alert someone. Ghost looked a little suspicious, shrugging off the request.
“Left it off for a reason, Captain.”
He said gruffly, waving a hand. Barely looking up from his desk.
Price pursed his lips, shifting his weight slightly.
“You sure, Simon? Haven’t got anyone that’d be interested to know what happened to you?”
Ghost rubbed the bridge of his nose, like the conversation was more trouble than it was worth, before shrugging once more. Finally looking up from his desk and leaning back slightly in his chair.
“You planning on shipping me off somewhere and not picking me back up?”
A small chuckle from Price. A shake of his head.
“Can’t say I am.”
“Cheers, then. Leave it off.”
This quelled Price’s curiosity for a while, unable to dream up any other reason to try and force Ghost to indulge him. It no doubt hurt his ego a bit, thinking about how his Lieutenant and one of his closest friends was so dead set on keeping his personal life so closely guarded. He’d push the feelings aside, chalk it up to being jaded by his work. Over-involved in the lives of Soap and Gaz. It was probably good for Simon to have something sacred.
Soap wasn’t as easily deterred once he caught on. Not as immediately perceptive as the others, but he knew Ghost well enough to know his tells.
It was after a long mission. Months long. Grueling, shitty, exhausting work. They got back in the early evening, mercifully spared from a debrief until the following day. Soap somehow ended up dragging Ghost to a dive bar a few blocks from base. Trying to sound persuasive when he mentioned that it was a Friday night and they deserved a few drinks and some female attention after all this time going without.
And they did get attention. Two good looking military men sitting at the bar were bound to. Soap knew that Ghost wasn’t one to play the field, but this was a bit frigid even for him. Ignoring girls who came up and tried to strike conversation. Rolling his eyes, or huffing a sigh like it was a chore to even dismiss them, drumming his fingers on the wall of his glass like he’s bored. It was baffling.
What was even more baffling was the way that Ghost’s knee bounced slightly against the stool. An infinitesimally small movement, but the way it caught Johnny’s eye made it seem like Ghost was all but jumping up and down. He looked almost anxious. Itching to get up and leave.
“Fuck’s wrong with you?”
Ghost’s head jerked toward Johnny, cold eyes narrowing in a way that would have been terrifying years ago- before he’d gotten used to it.
“Come again?”
“Got somewhere to be, have you?”
He sounds almost indignant. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Ghost is stand-offish by nature, but this is a caliber he hasn’t yet encountered. Almost enough to be offensive. To make him question the quality of his company.
“Maybe I do. What’s it to you?”
Ghost grumbled, killing the contents of his glass with a final mouthful. Setting it back on the counter and moving to drum his fingers on the bar.
“Been out of the country for months and you expect me to believe you’ve got plans tonight?”
This earned a sigh, low enough to pass as a growl.
“You keeping my social calendar now, then?”
He stood, digging through his wallet for a moment before slapping some cash down on the table next to his empty glass. Not giving Johnny an opportunity to lodge any further complaints against him. Before he nodded his goodnight and slipped out of the bar. Mumbling something about needing to get back to his flat and check on some things.
Soap couldn’t get his mind around it. Ghost was elusive, sure, but again; something seemed off. He was calm, cool, and collected. Wouldn’t be caught dead manifesting his impatience physically. The fidgeting and twitching in his seat. The first place Soap’s mind went was maybe Ghost was dying? That’d be the only reasonable explanation for his behavior. But even then, it seemed a bit extreme.
The next day after the debrief, which was nearly as brutal as the deployment itself, Soap was still so in his head about Ghost’s behavior he almost didn’t notice the pretty nurse who seemed to be waiting for someone at the end of the hall. In fact, he was so stuck in his own mind, he only caught a fleeting glimpse of Ghost’s back rounding the corner with the nurse at his side. Hushed conversation disappearing with them. A softer, much more pleasant voice than Simon’s.
He debated whether or not to follow them, maybe answer the questions that’d been plaguing his mind. Ultimately, he decided in favor of it. Padding down the hall behind the duo who seemed to be headed back to Simon’s office. They weren’t walking closely enough to touch, but Soap immediately picked up on the tension between them. Like the distance was serving some sort of purpose.
Soap lingered in the hallway for a few minutes after the two disappeared into Ghost’s office, trying to sort the pieces of the puzzle he’d barely began collecting. He ultimately decided to go the route he was most comfortable with. Not one for sneaking about, he simply strode up to the office door and swung it open.
You were sat at one of the chairs in front of Simon’s desk, him standing with his arms folded over his chest next to you. Not compromising enough for Johnny’s taste, but he still put on a wide grin and nodded to you.
“Forget how to knock?”
Ghost’s voice was calm enough, but his eyes were shooting daggers straight through Johnny. You looked stiff as a board, chewing the inside of your lip through the tight smile you were giving him.
“Sorry, L.T. Needed to know if you’re still on for trainings this afternoon.”
He didn’t miss the way your eyes flicked to Ghost, communicating something that he couldn’t quite decipher wordlessly before you began studying your nails in your lap.
Ghost cleared his throat, rolling his tongue in his cheek. Growling something obscene under his breath. The agitation rolling off of him in waves.
“No. Got another assignment.”
And with that, Soap was all but thrown from the office. Querying about this ‘new assignment’ the whole way. Simon crowding him to the door until he finally snapped it shut on his nose.
He heard later that day Ghost was seen in medbay with a toolkit swearing at an X-Ray machine that had been giving you trouble for a month. After that, Soap was on the two of you like a fly on shit. Never missing an opportunity to bring you up to Ghost or vise versa. Mock-innocently saying something to Ghost in passing at dinner about you. Asking if he fancied you. When he said no, Johnny shrugged and nodded. Saying he was glad because he had plans to ask you out the next time he was injured.
That comment landed Soap in the bay sooner than expected. Escorting him to a different nurse’s exam area and standing guard the entire time his black eye was being iced. Berating him for not being able to block a few punches when they had sparred after dinner.
And Gaz, sweet boy that he is, was always more emotionally in-tune. Observant about the little things. Able to pick up on queues Soap and Price may have missed over the years. He was keen as he was quiet, keeping all his little discoveries to himself. Over the years, he’d created a small arsenal of moments he wasn’t sure were significant enough to bring up. Things he could have talked himself into imagining if he thought about them hard enough. Not wanting to jump to conclusions about anything.
But he noticed the incredibly subtle tan line on Ghost’s left hand. Noticed the way he tapped his foot impatiently when the debrief after a long deployment ran long. Noticed the way you always seemed to be around the yard when they touched down after a mission. The way your shoulders dropped when you saw all four of them had returned home. Like you had just been relieved the duty of holding up the sky.
He didn’t immediately connect the dots. Initially thinking that you’d just taken a special liking to the task force. They were some of your most frequent visitors, after all. Price had all but claimed you as their own. Specially requesting that you were the only one to patch their wounds, claiming the other nurses couldn’t hold a flame to your skill.
He didn’t mind. Came to enjoy the little chats the two of you had when the curtains around the cot were drawn. The little kikis you had where you chatted about anything and everything. Complaining about your jobs, irritating patients, botched missions, the morsels of gossip from around base.
One day, after a particularly nasty skirmish on a mission, all four of the men had gnarly wounds. You looked a bit more tired than usual. A bit more on-edge. Your answers were a bit more flat than they usually were. So the first part of the assessment was left mostly silent spare for a few soft “thank you’s” on his part.
It was only when you were bandaging a wound on his thigh did he notice the shape of a ring on your left hand under your glove. A thin band that wrapped neatly around your finger.
“Didn’t know you were married, doc.”
It was a passing comment, more just to spare him the agony of trying to hide his soft groans of pain in the thick silence.
You hummed your acknowledgment, focused more on working sutures through his skin neatly than anything else.
“Lucky bloke. Hope he’s good to you.”
It wasn’t flirty or predatory, like so many of the soldiers could be. A genuine thought. He’d always thought you were sweet. Easy to chat with, always offering him a smile and a chirped greeting when the two of you passed in the hall. Thought you deserved someone to share in your kindness.
You smiled, brow still furrowed slightly in your focus while tying off the stitches.
“He does alright.”
You chuckled softly, straightening on your stool and rolling back just slightly so you could meet his eye.
“All these years and you never mentioned. I’m hurt.”
He words came with a practiced ease, slipping back into your usual playful chatter without missing a beat. Flashing a coy grin as he carefully flexed and relaxed his leg. Getting a feel for the newly patched wound.
You rolled the gloves off your hands and tossed them into the bin. Standing from your stool to scribble a few notes on his chart.
“Not something that ever came up.”
“Now it has. He have a name? How long you been together?”
You chuckled once more, looking over your shoulder at him with an arched brow. A little skeptical of his curiosity.
“A good while.”
He noticed the way you evaded his former question, like you’d done it before. It only fueled his curiosity.
“You worried I’ll know him? Or are you embarrassed? Not much of a looker?”
This earned an amused snort from you, turning away from the chart you’d been working on.
“Nothing wrong with wanting to keep my personal life personal, is there?”
You winked at him, pushing open the curtain that divided the small exam area from the rest of the bay.
He made a small sound of protest, making no move to stand from the cot just yet.
“Alright, forget it. Didn’t even want to know anyway.”
He sounded like a child being denied a sweet. Even playing up the act with a small pout on his mouth.
You tutted softly, conjuring up the best mock-sympathetic look you could before motioning for him to stand.
“We’ll talk later. Captain’ll have my hide if I keep you away a moment longer than is necessary.”
Another sound of protest, followed by a throaty groan as he finally pushed up off the bed. Unsure if he was being dramatic or if the aftermath of the mission had truly gotten to him that bad. Always a flare for the dramatics, him.
He muttered his thanks, cupping your shoulder in his hand as he trudged out. Making you promise to have a proper chat with him later.
He lingered in the bay, allowing himself a few moments peace before getting back to work. Just as he finally turned to leave, he saw Ghost moving stiffly- like he was trying to downplay a limp- toward your little exam area. Though for some reason, the scene looked a bit strange to him. He couldn’t help but peek in.
He caught the way you watched him lumber over with big, worried eyes. The way your nails dug into your palms until he was finally within arms reach. The way you quickly glanced around to see if anyone was paying the two of you any attention before your hands flew to his neck, fingers slipping expertly under the hem of his mask and yanking it up over his nose. Not rough or angry, but with the kind of urgency that suggested you may die if you didn’t see a sliver of his skin. Make absolutely certain he was truly there with you.
The most jarring part- Ghost actually allowing you to touch the mask. Allowing your little hands to breach his personal space. Hands that would have easily been dwarfed by his own, swallowed up and twisted or shoved away like he had seen happen so many times in sparring matches with prospect soldiers. But Ghost just let it happen.
It was a flurry of movement, so fast that Gaz was certain he could have blinked and missed it. Frozen watching the two of you from just behind another exam area. Feeling like he was intruding without even meaning to.
And then he saw the way Ghost’s big arms snaked around your waist, drawing you flush to his front. You leaning up onto your toes to bring your face closer to the Lieutenant’s. A fervid kiss. You flinging your arms around his neck. The way your shoulders shook. A small, choked sob that Gaz was all but certain he imagined. Drowned out for everyone else by the sounds of the bay.
He was almost shocked that the world continued to move after that. Shocked that something that seemed so monumental could happen tucked away into your barely private exam area. Shocked that your reunion hadn’t halted time and space for everyone else like it had for the two of you.
He felt dirty. Like he should go up and apologize for lingering and seeing what he saw. But he stayed rooted to the spot, finding it impossible to move.
Truly the most damning part was when he caught the quickest glimpse of your badge just before the curtain was tugged shut. The badge you kept carefully pinned to your uniform face-down for a reason he couldn’t fathom until now. Twisted free for just a moment and finally connecting the snippets of information he’d collected over the years.
(Y/N Riley)
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