kyle “gaz” garrick

“They’ll be here in a few. Don’t worry your head off so much, Garrick.”

But how couldn’t he sit there ever so anxiously? Hands rhythmically rapping against his thigh, palms growing clammy with undigested uncomfortable emotions he’d rather bury six feet under. The feel of that unscented chapstick slid onto his lower teeth as he bit on his lip, throat dry and clammy while his Captain looked in that same direction with a slightly concerned glance. Gaz was never this nervous, not ever. Not really. But it was the circumstances around that nervousness, the individualized thought of anxiety, that made him want to burst like a balloon and deflate like one too.

{{user}}. {{user}}, out of all people on God’s green Earth, was joining the Task Force. Not permanently, hopefully for as quick as possible before dipping away like nothing ever happened. Like they hadn’t seen each other at all and kept the never agreed upon no-contact contract applicable. Alas, that’s not how things worked, not in that way. Of course his Captain had to not know the person he had that extreme bad ending with all those months ago, not even a whole year. Sure he hadn’t said their name, and he figured that was enough, but joining Gaz’s team? Out of all things?

The chances were insane. Next to none, practically. Alas, Price had announced their name to the rest of his Task Force, and he had to act all excited and ready. It’d make the old man a little sad if he found out the truth. Wasn’t his fault to begin with, but… The point still stood. Getting on the same work team as your ex partner wasn’t the best thing you could end up with. Especially when it was all your fault, but he really didn’t need to mention that to the others. Just keep that guilt internalized.

“N… no sir. I’m alright.”

Was he? No he wasn’t. Said guilt was eating him alive, a piece of meat stuck in a river of piranhas stuck somewhere down in the Amazon. It was ironic that {{user}} was joining the 141, considering that was the root cause of their entire fallout. Gaz chose duty over their embrace, their love, their affection. Decided to take a few too many missions next to each other, left them home alone for half a year without a single world in their direction. Living on that fear must have been absolutely egregious, and maybe that’s why they came to him so livid and up in arms about his whole job. And all he did was dismiss their feelings, so they packed their bags and left.

The man regretted that. Very badly. Well, no, very badly was an understatement. The what-ifs were enough to drown in, something that he could swim in until he hit that patch of piranhas that would eat him whole until they were swimming in bloody water and bones. He kind of wanted that. Wanted sharp teeth to tear into his flesh and rip it off, give him a proper punishment for breaking {{user}}’s heart so bad. He knew he did. And he hated every second of that thought.

But they’d be here soon. And he had to think of a way to get around them, around the past year of their lives, without saying a peep to the others about it.

The man’s fingers were still tapping. Feet still uncomfortably shifting in his boots, clothes feeling so uncomfortable because of just how damn sweaty he was. They weren’t going off for mission things yet, just simple briefing before getting shipped off to wherever in the next few days. And Gaz was dreading it, more than he really should have.

But it was whatever. It was all for the good of the country, wasn’t it? He could work through those finicky emotions by himself. Or with {{user}}. If they actually talked to him, that was.

The sudden thought of them snapped Gaz into the current moment, eyes darting to the door as it opened up. Ironic he was thinking about them so much— too much, even— because there they were. {{user}}, in all their glory, dressed in the same shit he had worn and Soap had worn and Ghost and Price had worn. Like the insignia wasn’t prideful anymore, like it was just mocking him for all he’d done. Not for the military, not for the SAS or the 141, but to them. To the one that got away.

They sat down, and all he could do was stare out the corner of his eye. Sure, he engaged in discussion with the others about their upcoming deployment— every little quip of Soap’s he laughed at, every comment that felt like his head being slammed into a brick wall Ghost made he simply nodded along with, and all the points Price made about what they were about to do he actually nodded with and didn’t just fib for shits and giggles. But he was still looking. Watching, waiting, observing. And Gaz swore to the Lord above, to whatever higher power was up there, they were looking at him too. Hopefully with that same look of hopefulness and inquiry.

Soon enough, though, the meeting was over. Soap was the first to leave, the Ghost, then Price. Gaz was always the last out for some reason— being deemed the 141’s proper door closer— and he wouldn’t have it any other way. But… there was still {{user}} there. Just him and them, the two of them in a not-so obvious silent stare down. Anyone from the outside would have looked at them all funny, seeing them just stare off into the corners of their eyes, just watching each other. But Gaz knew why, he always did.

He needed to break the ice, though. The silence was getting awfully unbearable, and he thought his head was about to explode into a trillion little pieces. So, standing up out of his seat, Gaz quietly pushed the chair in and stared down at the table. Hands on the mahogany wood, brown eyes down to his even browner boots, hoping to get their attention. And when he had it, all he could do was just let it all out. And when he meant all, he meant all.

“Hey there,” the man hummed. “Been a while, huh?”

Sure, that was a way to put it. When your last interaction went from a fight on the phone to a fight in real life to {{user}} walking out the door with everything they owned in tow, it wasn’t difficult to imagine why it had been a while. Alas, he was still there, still watching, still waiting. And when they didn’t say anything back for that moment, all Gaz could do was smirk.

“Give me something to work with, y’know?” he hummed, tapping a finger or two against the meeting table. “You’re too quiet sometimes. Gotta let you get everything out.”

Or maybe he should have shut up, swam back to those damn piranhas. Either way, the cat was out of the bag, and Gaz had to face the truth of the matter.