Your gateway to endless inspiration
I've been mean to y'all. Too much angst. Take some fluff for the winter (me having a test this week)
Warnings!: Wisdom tooth removal. Bloody spit, at one point reader is in enough pain to verbally request an opioid pill. Pain and pain medication. Fluffy <3 prob leads up to poly, they're fruitcakes about it.
The SAS teams have had to pause ops for a wide, wide range of reasons. The odd health complication is very much among them.
That being said, Price never thought he would have to pause a mission because one of his star players got a wisdom tooth infected.
You had been off on Tuesday, chewing on only one side of your mouth and not drinking anything that was even a little hotter than room temp.
Kyle gave you funny looks for it, but that was all.
Wednesday, you didn't leave your room for much at all, but that was fine. Resting up before an op wasn't uncommon. Simon did it all the time.
However, at some point between you disappearing and Johnny saying he heard crying from your room all bets were off.
The door was kicked in, to reveal a grown sergeant, teary-eyed and crying a little as they clutched their cheek with a hand.
Kyle was already at your side, trying to coax you to open your mouth for some painkillers. It wasn't working well.
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You cried a little before the surgery. Maybe out of nervousness, maybe out of pain, but the nice nurse was kind enough to ignore it as she explained that you would be waking up in a few hours down four whole teeth.
She explained it to you as you sat in the stupid fucking chair, she repeated it as she gently tucked a I.V. with a small blister containing medicine into the veins of your arm.
"Alright, first the anti-anxiety drug will be administered, okay?"
She doesn't wait for your confirmation, but gently pats your shoulder and continues.
"You should start to feel a bit fuzzy, then, you'll sleep."
It takes a few sickening seconds for you to actually feel the drugs kicking in. You want to get out of this chair, to scream at something.
You never liked the dentist.
But then... the world starts to fade out. It's like you're being locked out of your body as your mind turns itself off.
You hear her counting with the surgeon–a much more awkward woman, though no less polite.
Three.
Two.
On-
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The waking up is slow, and messy.
Cotton pads lie in either of your cheeks, and you can't do much but oblige as the nurse gently coaxes you into a wheelchair, giving instructions to the bearded man who's standing in the corner.
"Make sure they don't sleep for at least a couple hours, okay? I know it'll be hard, but try to have them keep pressure on the site."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Remember the usual course, and we're also giving you five opioid pills. Only in case it gets really bad."
"Affirmative."
You know this voice, but when you see the boonie hat and the slightly furrowed brows, a spark of muffled recognition fires off beneath the haze of anesthetic and misery.
"...Old man."
Your voice is slurred, foreign to even you at this point, but he seems to know it, because he sighs frustratedly before taking the chair by the handles and steering your down the hallway out.
"I swear to- mgh, olright. Better than Soap at least."
You're loaded into the back seat of the car with the most basic consideration.
Dumped in like a sack of flour, actually. Your butt hurts now, but there's Kyle.
He snorts when he sees you, reaches forward to wipe whatever is dripping from the corner of your mouth.
It's bloody spit, but he doesn't seem surprised.
The car ride back to base is quiet, but Kyle keeps you awake.
Beyond that, there's nothing you can remember. Not till the next morning.
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Johnny is perched at your bedside, scrolling through his phone until he sees your eyes blearily opening, hears your groaning as you recognize a new pain in your cheeks, and he gently coaxes your mouth open to take out the bloody gauze.
"Och, there ye are, bonnie wee thing. You look like an eejit, just thought ye needed to know."
Your tired glare is met with a laugh, but followed shortly by a pat to the shoulder.
"A'hm kiddin', leannan. Just jokin' with ye. Brought ye breakfast."
He holds up a small container of yogurt, shakes it like one would cat treats to entice a stray. You grimace as much as your painfully swollen cheeks allow, but when you open your mouth to tell him off, there's a sharp twinge that makes you close it.
This seems to earn Johnny's sympathies, because he gently guides you so you're sitting up on the bed, holding one of your shaky hands as he peels back the foil on the cup.
"Easy. Still fresh, aye?"
Your wet-eyed nod is met with a sympathetic huff.
"Aye. Dinnae fash. I'll help ye."
You should smack him for implying that you need help eating yogurt, of all things, but... you kind of do need the help.
Your body is still lethargic, sluggishly stumbling through its tasks with hazy edges and poor motor control.
He raises a glass of water to your lips, and has you take a few sips.
Breakfast takes a long time, but before you fall asleep again, he gently sets a painkiller in your mouth, and tells you to swallow.
When you do, he smiles, and bends down to kiss your forehead while you drift back off.
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So, here's something you didn't know before getting your wisdom teeth out.
You can't swallow for a couple days.
It's gross, yeah, but you're supposed to drool out the bloody spit in your mouth, so you don't get dry socket.
Thankfully, Kyle is there for this.
He sweeps your hair back as much as possible (to the point of getting bobby pins from the corner store for the baby hairs), and rubs your back as you drool out your toothpaste.
"I feel disgusting."
"I know, luv. You're not gonna feel good for a while."
Still, his mother's cure is the only thing he trusts himself enough to use on you. Warm, salty water. A childhood staple.
He's sympathetic to your plights, rubbing your back again as you clumsily swish it by turning your head to the sides, cheeks too swollen to move properly.
"Good job. One more."
A firm, warm hand pats your back again as you "spit" (if you can even call it that) for the final time, offering a sweet smile just for you.
"Perfect. Now you can lay back again, yeah? Nice n' easy."
You're not suffering like you were yesterday. It's new.
Your motor function is back, just sluggish.
No, no, your biggest issue right now is the swelling. Your cheeks were so puffy it hurt, and you had them on ice as often as you could.
This is where you have to thank the lord for John Price. Your captain, distant as he can be, must have at least three sets of cheek-size ice pads, because every time you come into your room, there's a new, fresh set waiting for you.
Kyle gently guides you to sit in your bed, offering a sympathetic smile as he eases you backward until you hit the pillow-ramp Johnny had built so your head would be upright.
"You wanna sleep, luv?"
"No."
Your voice is still quiet, limited by your stupid cheeks, but he smiles anyway, and sits next to you.
"You wanna hang out, then?"
"Yes."
The afternoon is good, for you.
Kyle is there. The whole time.
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Of course, every surgery comes with the odd fuck-up.
No one should be up, but you're going insane with pain.
It's a sharp, stabbing thing, focused in the gum of your lower right jaw. Almost as sharp as the tooth's initial infection, but more than enough to bring significant distress.
Simon is an odd man, and you two have never been the closest, but when he opens your door in a t-shirt and boxers, you don't even care a little bit.
"Wha's happenin'?"
The Mancunian gruffs concernedly at you, watching as you hold your cheek and shakily take in vain breath in the hopes of calming yourself.
"Get an opioid, Lt. Please."
"Fawk."
Right after that, he's off like a horse to the races, and you're in the silence again, holding your cheek as you try to ignore the way your eyes swim with tears that you refuse to shed.
It's a mercifully short two minutes, even if it feels like half an hour.
Simon's hands are gentle, opening your jaw and setting the horse-pill on your tongue, looking into your wet eyes as he raises the glass to your lips.
"I know, I know. Jus' swallow."
He stays with you as you pant for the breath you've lost, wide, scarred hands on your shoulders.
He exaggerates his own breathing so you see the clear rise and fall of his chest. His lips lose their frown as you slowly start to mimic it.
The dispersal of the pain med is fast, thank goodness, but then Simon has a tired you to deal with, still trembling in the fingers from the sudden spike of debilitating pain, though you can't feel it.
"Are those skeleton boxers?"
He's starting to think your favorite pastime is asking stupid fucking questions, but still, some part of him feels relief.
You could have asked about the lack of mask, but you didn't. You just wanted to know about the halloween boxers.
"Sergeant."
His voice isn't as firm as it should be, but when he sees your exhausted look, he still sits down on the mattress with you.
"Stay. Jus' till I fall asleep."
You don't have the balls to ask for it. Not when you're this vulnerable. So you treat it like an order.
Simon won't be chewing you out for it.
Not now.
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Kyle and Johnny stand in the doorway to your room, snickering to themselves.
Never thought they would see big boy Lt with the firecracker that drove him up the wall, surely.
Still, after taking a couple pictures (blackmail for Johnny, photo album for Kyle), they just... stand and stare a little.
"Ye ken... we could jus'... join in?"
Johnny poses the question. Kyle nods.
"Yeah. To make sure they're sleeping well."
They both know damn well that's not why. But fuck it, a cuddle pile never hurt anyone.
Especially not you, considering how gentle the pair are when maneuvering your sleeping form.
If Simon opened his eyes and just so happened to see this buffoonery in action, he closed them right back up after.
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Price sighs in exasperation when he sees it, but smiles as he tips down his cap just a little.
"Fuckin' rookie. Gonna be the death of me."
But he knows you won't. Because he sees the way Simon's lips curve up in sleep, or the way Johnny and Kyle cling to you.
He should call Laswell, finalize your placement.
The boys wouldn't complain.