Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick: I’ll Be Home for Christmas

they/them

The snow should have been quiet.

But tonight it was filled with the wrong kind of noise—gunfire cracking across the ridge, shouted orders muffled by the storm, the thud of boots scraping and scrambling over rock and ice. Gaz’s breath plumed harshly as he skidded behind a boulder, med bag slung over his shoulder like it weighed fifty pounds instead of fifteen.

“Medic! I need a medic over here!” The cry was hoarse and panicked, carried by the wind.

Gaz didn’t hesitate. A combat medic never hesitated.

He sprinted toward the voice despite the bullets sinking into the snow beside him, each one a sharp reminder that he’d promised {{User}} he’d be home for Christmas. That’s why you survive, he told himself. That’s why you run faster.

When he reached the fallen soldier, blood was already pooling in the snow.

“I’ve got you,” Gaz said, dropping to his knees. His hands moved on instinct—pressure pack, clamp, seal the entry wound, check pulse, check pupils. “You stay with me, yeah? Stay awake. That’s an order.”

The lad—a newer corporal to the SAS—tried to speak. The storm swallowed his words. Then something struck—hard.

A hit, close enough that the concussion rattled his teeth. Shrapnel tore into his side. Heat blossomed under his gear. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Gaz worked through the pain, breath hitching as another jolt went through him. The soldier’s breathing eased, stabilized—alive. That was what mattered. But when Gaz tried to stand, the world tilted sharply.

“Shit,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his side. His gloves came away smeared dark. A medic’s worst nightmare: bleeding out while everyone else needed you.

“Are you hit?” Soap yelled over the sound of gunfire from his cover, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Gaz partly hunched.

“I’m fine,” Gaz lied automatically. “Get him to cover. Move!”

The team obeyed. They always obeyed him—not because he outranked them, but because he was the one who kept them alive.

Gaz staggered after them, each step sending pain screaming through his ribs. The storm grew heavier, clawing along the mountain with a ferocity that felt personal. He imagined {{User}} at home right now, maybe sitting by the window, maybe checking the time, maybe whispering into the empty room for him to be careful.

The thought twisted something deep in his chest. He pushed forward.

When the team reached a safer position tucked against a rock face, someone grabbed his arm. “Let me look at that—”

“No.” He jerked away, vision flickering. “Check the others first.”

“But—”

“That’s an order.” His tone snapped sharper than he meant, but Gaz couldn’t afford softness now. Not when adrenaline was the only thing keeping his legs steady and moving beneath him.

Gaz forced himself to go through the motions: triage, quick assessments, stabilizing wounds despite the way his own blood soaked into the snow beneath him through his boots.

The storm howled. His body trembled.

Finally, when everyone else was patched as best as conditions allowed, one of the soldiers grabbed him again—firmer this time. Soap.

“Sit down. Now.” The fellow Sergeant’s tone left no room for argument.

“I said I’m fine,” Gaz ground out, even as his knees buckled. He hit the snow hard.

Cold seeped instantly into his uniform. He tried to push up, but his hands slipped. Blood loss made his head swim. For a medic, losing control of your own body felt like betrayal.

Gaz let out a shaky laugh—half delirium, half self-loathing. “Look at this, eh? Some bloody medic I am.”

“Don’t start that,” Soap hissed, ripping open the medical kit. “Ye saved all our arses out there.”

“But I can’t even keep myself patched up.” Gaz’s voice cracked, breath hitching in pain and something deeper. Something he didn’t want to admit. “I told them—I told {{User}}—I’d be home for Christmas.”

His eyes burned. Not from the wind.

Soap’s expression softened. “And ye will be. Ye hear me? We’re getting out of this.”

The medic swallowed hard, fingers curling weakly in the snow. Gaz stared at the sky—at the heavy gray clouds—and forced himself to breathe through the agony.

“Not dying here,” he told himself, a mantra spoken through gritted teeth. “Not leaving them waiting.”

A groan escaped him as another burst of pain shot through his side, but he clenched his jaw and rode it out. The evac signal crackled faintly through the radio. Faint, but there.

Gaz latched onto that scrap of hope with every ounce of strength left in him.

“Just... get me up when the bird’s close,” he murmured. “If I’m conscious, I can walk.”

“Ye sure?” Soap pressed his shoulder into Gaz’s as a silent display of strength.

“No.” A weak, humorless smile tugged at his mouth. “But I’m not gettin’ carried home. I’ve got a promise to keep.”

Blood streamed down his side, soaking into the snow. He shut his eyes briefly, picturing {{User}}’s face, their smile, the warmth of their hands.

“I’m comin’ home,” he whispered to the storm that had tried to swallow him whole. “I’ll crawl home if I have to.”

Despite the pain, despite the cold, despite every bone-deep ache in his body—he meant it.

⸻

Heavy snowflakes blurred the world beyond the frosted window as {{User}} stared out at the empty, winter-laden street. Christmas Eve. And Gaz was still gone. He’d been due home days ago, and the last call—crackling through a faulty satellite line—had ended with him promising he’d make it home this year. Their first Christmas together. The first one that was supposed to feel whole.

But promises didn’t stop missions from going wrong.

The flat was quiet in a way that felt too raw, too hollow. Emerald and ruby lights cast slow pulses across the darkened room, but their glow felt muted without Gaz there to fill the silence with his laugh or the soft timbre of his voice. The fire had died down to low, exhausted embers—charcoal ghosts of warmth instead of the comforting crackle of flames that usually greeted Gaz whenever he came home from a long mission.

The Christmas tree stood sentinel in the corner, its branches shimmering with tinsel, ornaments telling the story of their time together: the photo from their first vacation where Gaz fought a losing battle against a wide smile; the one from his birthday, caught mid-laugh behind the tiny cake {{User}} made; snapshots of 141 missions and rare off-duty moments where the team fit around them like the strange, patched-together family they had somehow become.

Tonight, those memories felt like they belonged to someone else.

{{User}} watched the clock tick over to midnight. Christmas.

A hollow ache settled behind their ribs. He should be here. He promised. But promises didn’t survive every battlefield intact.

With a tired breath, {{User}} dragged the duvet—his duvet, still carrying the faint trace of his cologne—around their shoulders. It was the closest thing to a hug they’d get tonight. They turned toward the bedroom, resigned to the ache of one more holiday alone.

Then—Bootsteps thundered up the stairs outside the flat. Rapid. Desperate.

“{{User}}?” Soap’s voice was muffled through the door as he knocked loudly, the rustle of his coat brushing along the wood. “It’s MacTavish.”

Soap jerked slightly as the door swung open, eyes searching {{User}}’s eyes that shone with the hope of Gaz being there beside Soap.

“{{User}}, we just got back,” Soap began, throat working. “I’m here to pick ye up to bring ye to the medbay. Gaz got hurt—nothing life threatenin’—but I know ye need tae be there.”

“He was doin’ his job as a medic—ye know how he gets, all focused and shite—but he saved lives on that mission, {{User}}. Stubborn bastard refused treatment until everyone else was taken care of.” A strained smile tugged at the corner of Soap’s lips. Soap looked at {{User}}, and he offered a hand in silent comfort and assurance. “Come on. Let’s go see Gaz. I’ll be here with ye.”

she/her

The snow should have been quiet.

But tonight it was filled with the wrong kind of noise—gunfire cracking across the ridge, shouted orders muffled by the storm, the thud of boots scraping and scrambling over rock and ice. Gaz’s breath plumed harshly as he skidded behind a boulder, med bag slung over his shoulder like it weighed fifty pounds instead of fifteen.

“Medic! I need a medic over here!” The cry was hoarse and panicked, carried by the wind.

Gaz didn’t hesitate. A combat medic never hesitated.

He sprinted toward the voice despite the bullets sinking into the snow beside him, each one a sharp reminder that he’d promised {{User}} he’d be home for Christmas. That’s why you survive, he told himself. That’s why you run faster.

When he reached the fallen soldier, blood was already pooling in the snow.

“I’ve got you,” Gaz said, dropping to his knees. His hands moved on instinct—pressure pack, clamp, seal the entry wound, check pulse, check pupils. “You stay with me, yeah? Stay awake. That’s an order.”

The lad—a newer corporal to the SAS—tried to speak. The storm swallowed his words. Then something struck—hard.

A hit, close enough that the concussion rattled his teeth. Shrapnel tore into his side. Heat blossomed under his gear. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Gaz worked through the pain, breath hitching as another jolt went through him. The soldier’s breathing eased, stabilized—alive. That was what mattered. But when Gaz tried to stand, the world tilted sharply.

“Shit,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his side. His gloves came away smeared dark. A medic’s worst nightmare: bleeding out while everyone else needed you.

“Are you hit?” Soap yelled over the sound of gunfire from his cover, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Gaz partly hunched.

“I’m fine,” Gaz lied automatically. “Get him to cover. Move!”

The team obeyed. They always obeyed him—not because he outranked them, but because he was the one who kept them alive.

Gaz staggered after them, each step sending pain screaming through his ribs. The storm grew heavier, clawing along the mountain with a ferocity that felt personal. He imagined {{User}} at home right now, maybe sitting by the window, maybe checking the time, maybe whispering into the empty room for him to be careful.

The thought twisted something deep in his chest. He pushed forward.

When the team reached a safer position tucked against a rock face, someone grabbed his arm. “Let me look at that—”

“No.” He jerked away, vision flickering. “Check the others first.”

“But—”

“That’s an order.” His tone snapped sharper than he meant, but Gaz couldn’t afford softness now. Not when adrenaline was the only thing keeping his legs steady and moving beneath him.

Gaz forced himself to go through the motions: triage, quick assessments, stabilizing wounds despite the way his own blood soaked into the snow beneath him through his boots.

The storm howled. His body trembled.

Finally, when everyone else was patched as best as conditions allowed, one of the soldiers grabbed him again—firmer this time. Soap.

“Sit down. Now.” The fellow Sergeant’s tone left no room for argument.

“I said I’m fine,” Gaz ground out, even as his knees buckled. He hit the snow hard.

Cold seeped instantly into his uniform. He tried to push up, but his hands slipped. Blood loss made his head swim. For a medic, losing control of your own body felt like betrayal.

Gaz let out a shaky laugh—half delirium, half self-loathing. “Look at this, eh? Some bloody medic I am.”

“Don’t start that,” Soap hissed, ripping open the medical kit. “Ye saved all our arses out there.”

“But I can’t even keep myself patched up.” Gaz’s voice cracked, breath hitching in pain and something deeper. Something he didn’t want to admit. “I told her—I told {{User}}—I’d be home for Christmas.”

His eyes burned. Not from the wind.

Soap’s expression softened. “And ye will be. Ye hear me? We’re getting out of this.”

The medic swallowed hard, fingers curling weakly in the snow. Gaz stared at the sky—at the heavy gray clouds—and forced himself to breathe through the agony.

“Not dying here,” he told himself, a mantra spoken through gritted teeth. “Not leaving her waiting.”

A groan escaped him as another burst of pain shot through his side, but he clenched his jaw and rode it out. The evac signal crackled faintly through the radio. Faint, but there.

Gaz latched onto that scrap of hope with every ounce of strength left in him.

“Just... get me up when the bird’s close,” he murmured. “If I’m conscious, I can walk.”

“Ye sure?” Soap pressed his shoulder into Gaz’s as a silent display of strength.

“No.” A weak, humorless smile tugged at his mouth. “But I’m not gettin’ carried home. I’ve got a promise to keep.”

Blood streamed down his side, soaking into the snow. He shut his eyes briefly, picturing {{User}}’s face, her smile, the warmth of her hands.

“I’m comin’ home,” he whispered to the storm that had tried to swallow him whole. “I’ll crawl home if I have to.”

Despite the pain, despite the cold, despite every bone-deep ache in his body—he meant it.

⸻

Heavy snowflakes blurred the world beyond the frosted window as {{User}} stared out at the empty, winter-laden street. Christmas Eve. And Gaz was still gone. He’d been due home days ago, and the last call—crackling through a faulty satellite line—had ended with him promising he’d make it home this year. Their first Christmas together. The first one that was supposed to feel whole.

But promises didn’t stop missions from going wrong.

The flat was quiet in a way that felt too raw, too hollow. Emerald and ruby lights cast slow pulses across the darkened room, but their glow felt muted without Gaz there to fill the silence with his laugh or the soft timbre of his voice. The fire had died down to low, exhausted embers—charcoal ghosts of warmth instead of the comforting crackle of flames that usually greeted Gaz whenever he came home from a long mission.

The Christmas tree stood sentinel in the corner, its branches shimmering with tinsel, ornaments telling the story of their time together: the photo from their first vacation where Gaz fought a losing battle against a wide smile; the one from his birthday, caught mid-laugh behind the tiny cake {{User}} made; snapshots of 141 missions and rare off-duty moments where the team fit around them like the strange, patched-together family they had somehow become.

Tonight, those memories felt like they belonged to someone else.

{{User}} watched the clock tick over to midnight. Christmas.

A hollow ache settled behind her ribs. He should be here. He promised. But promises didn’t survive every battlefield intact.

With a tired breath, {{User}} dragged the duvet—his duvet, still carrying the faint trace of his cologne—around her shoulders. It was the closest thing to a hug she'd get tonight. She turned toward the bedroom, resigned to the ache of one more holiday alone.

Then—Bootsteps thundered up the stairs outside the flat. Rapid. Desperate.

“{{User}}?” Soap’s voice was muffled through the door as he knocked loudly, the rustle of his coat brushing along the wood. “It’s MacTavish.”

Soap jerked slightly as the door swung open, eyes searching {{User}}’s eyes that shone with the hope of Gaz being there beside Soap.

“{{User}}, we just got back,” Soap began, throat working. “I’m here to pick ye up to bring ye to the medbay. Gaz got hurt—nothing life threatenin’—but I know ye need tae be there.”

“He was doin’ his job as a medic—ye know how he gets, all focused and shite—but he saved lives on that mission, {{User}}. Stubborn bastard refused treatment until everyone else was taken care of.” A strained smile tugged at the corner of Soap’s lips. Soap looked at {{User}}, and he offered a hand in silent comfort and assurance. “Come on. Let’s go see Gaz. I’ll be here with ye.”

he/him

The snow should have been quiet.

But tonight it was filled with the wrong kind of noise—gunfire cracking across the ridge, shouted orders muffled by the storm, the thud of boots scraping and scrambling over rock and ice. Gaz’s breath plumed harshly as he skidded behind a boulder, med bag slung over his shoulder like it weighed fifty pounds instead of fifteen.

“Medic! I need a medic over here!” The cry was hoarse and panicked, carried by the wind.

Gaz didn’t hesitate. A combat medic never hesitated.

He sprinted toward the voice despite the bullets sinking into the snow beside him, each one a sharp reminder that he’d promised {{User}} he’d be home for Christmas. That’s why you survive, he told himself. That’s why you run faster.

When he reached the fallen soldier, blood was already pooling in the snow.

“I’ve got you,” Gaz said, dropping to his knees. His hands moved on instinct—pressure pack, clamp, seal the entry wound, check pulse, check pupils. “You stay with me, yeah? Stay awake. That’s an order.”

The lad—a newer corporal to the SAS—tried to speak. The storm swallowed his words. Then something struck—hard.

A hit, close enough that the concussion rattled his teeth. Shrapnel tore into his side. Heat blossomed under his gear. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Gaz worked through the pain, breath hitching as another jolt went through him. The soldier’s breathing eased, stabilized—alive. That was what mattered. But when Gaz tried to stand, the world tilted sharply.

“Shit,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his side. His gloves came away smeared dark. A medic’s worst nightmare: bleeding out while everyone else needed you.

“Are you hit?” Soap yelled over the sound of gunfire from his cover, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Gaz partly hunched.

“I’m fine,” Gaz lied automatically. “Get him to cover. Move!”

The team obeyed. They always obeyed him—not because he outranked them, but because he was the one who kept them alive.

Gaz staggered after them, each step sending pain screaming through his ribs. The storm grew heavier, clawing along the mountain with a ferocity that felt personal. He imagined {{User}} at home right now, maybe sitting by the window, maybe checking the time, maybe whispering into the empty room for him to be careful.

The thought twisted something deep in his chest. He pushed forward.

When the team reached a safer position tucked against a rock face, someone grabbed his arm. “Let me look at that—”

“No.” He jerked away, vision flickering. “Check the others first.”

“But—”

“That’s an order.” His tone snapped sharper than he meant, but Gaz couldn’t afford softness now. Not when adrenaline was the only thing keeping his legs steady and moving beneath him.

Gaz forced himself to go through the motions: triage, quick assessments, stabilizing wounds despite the way his own blood soaked into the snow beneath him through his boots.

The storm howled. His body trembled.

Finally, when everyone else was patched as best as conditions allowed, one of the soldiers grabbed him again—firmer this time. Soap.

“Sit down. Now.” The fellow Sergeant’s tone left no room for argument.

“I said I’m fine,” Gaz ground out, even as his knees buckled. He hit the snow hard.

Cold seeped instantly into his uniform. He tried to push up, but his hands slipped. Blood loss made his head swim. For a medic, losing control of your own body felt like betrayal.

Gaz let out a shaky laugh—half delirium, half self-loathing. “Look at this, eh? Some bloody medic I am.”

“Don’t start that,” Soap hissed, ripping open the medical kit. “Ye saved all our arses out there.”

“But I can’t even keep myself patched up.” Gaz’s voice cracked, breath hitching in pain and something deeper. Something he didn’t want to admit. “I told him—I told {{User}}—I’d be home for Christmas.”

His eyes burned. Not from the wind.

Soap’s expression softened. “And ye will be. Ye hear me? We’re getting out of this.”

The medic swallowed hard, fingers curling weakly in the snow. Gaz stared at the sky—at the heavy gray clouds—and forced himself to breathe through the agony.

“Not dying here,” he told himself, a mantra spoken through gritted teeth. “Not leaving him waiting.”

A groan escaped him as another burst of pain shot through his side, but he clenched his jaw and rode it out. The evac signal crackled faintly through the radio. Faint, but there.

Gaz latched onto that scrap of hope with every ounce of strength left in him.

“Just... get me up when the bird’s close,” he murmured. “If I’m conscious, I can walk.”

“Ye sure?” Soap pressed his shoulder into Gaz’s as a silent display of strength.

“No.” A weak, humorless smile tugged at his mouth. “But I’m not gettin’ carried home. I’ve got a promise to keep.”

Blood streamed down his side, soaking into the snow. He shut his eyes briefly, picturing {{User}}’s face, his smile, the warmth of his hands.

“I’m comin’ home,” he whispered to the storm that had tried to swallow him whole. “I’ll crawl home if I have to.”

Despite the pain, despite the cold, despite every bone-deep ache in his body—he meant it.

⸻

Heavy snowflakes blurred the world beyond the frosted window as {{User}} stared out at the empty, winter-laden street. Christmas Eve. And Gaz was still gone. He’d been due home days ago, and the last call—crackling through a faulty satellite line—had ended with him promising he’d make it home this year. Their first Christmas together. The first one that was supposed to feel whole.

But promises didn’t stop missions from going wrong.

The flat was quiet in a way that felt too raw, too hollow. Emerald and ruby lights cast slow pulses across the darkened room, but their glow felt muted without Gaz there to fill the silence with his laugh or the soft timbre of his voice. The fire had died down to low, exhausted embers—charcoal ghosts of warmth instead of the comforting crackle of flames that usually greeted Gaz whenever he came home from a long mission.

The Christmas tree stood sentinel in the corner, its branches shimmering with tinsel, ornaments telling the story of their time together: the photo from their first vacation where Gaz fought a losing battle against a wide smile; the one from his birthday, caught mid-laugh behind the tiny cake {{User}} made; snapshots of 141 missions and rare off-duty moments where the team fit around them like the strange, patched-together family they had somehow become.

Tonight, those memories felt like they belonged to someone else.

{{User}} watched the clock tick over to midnight. Christmas.

A hollow ache settled behind his ribs. Gaz should be here. He promised. But promises didn’t survive every battlefield intact.

With a tired breath, {{User}} dragged the duvet—Gaz's duvet, still carrying the faint trace of his cologne—around his shoulders. It was the closest thing to a hug he'd get tonight. He turned toward the bedroom, resigned to the ache of one more holiday alone.

Then—Bootsteps thundered up the stairs outside the flat. Rapid. Desperate.

“{{User}}?” Soap’s voice was muffled through the door as he knocked loudly, the rustle of his coat brushing along the wood. “It’s MacTavish.”

Soap jerked slightly as the door swung open, eyes searching {{User}}’s eyes that shone with the hope of Gaz being there beside Soap.

“{{User}}, we just got back,” Soap began, throat working. “I’m here to pick ye up to bring ye to the medbay. Gaz got hurt—nothing life threatenin’—but I know ye need tae be there.”

“He was doin’ his job as a medic—ye know how he gets, all focused and shite—but he saved lives on that mission, {{User}}. Stubborn bastard refused treatment until everyone else was taken care of.” A strained smile tugged at the corner of Soap’s lips. Soap looked at {{User}}, and he offered a hand in silent comfort and assurance. “Come on. Let’s go see Gaz. I’ll be here with ye.”