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Spazz is the worst patient Simon has ever seen, and that’s saying something when half their pack is comprised of Wolves who heal at a supernatural speed, and therefore don’t believe that things like bed rest and taking it easy should apply to them. For a human, the boy is alarmingly unconcerned with his own health, his own mortality. It’s like he’s simply forgotten that he’s supposed to be careful, and there’s a reason for that, a darker story that lives mapped across the medic‘s body in a series of scars and punctures that can only have come from a monster’s mouth.
Really, it’s a miracle the boy trusts anyone at all. His file is a goddamn train wreck of red flags and redacted information, a minefield that sets off explosions of rage and horror. Johnny had cornered Price, had demanded to know, after Siberia. After Spazz had been kept muzzled and sedated like a wild animal until the doctors felt confident enough that flying him home wouldn’t cause a setback. He’d been mildly more amenable when it was König or Johnny there with him during any examination, but it was still safer for everyone to keep the boy drugged damn near to the gills. That kind of trauma response doesn’t come from nowhere.
Price had stood firm for all of two minutes until Gaz joined in. And then König. Against the combined power of the puppies, he’d sworn them all to secrecy, made them swear in word and writing that anything they read would stay in his office. That they wouldn’t take it anywhere beyond those walls, wouldn’t go on a manhunt. It prepared them for the worst. It hadn’t prepared them for what they actually learned.
Feren Elliot, no middle name, twenty two years old, birthday in April. No medical records from before eighteen years old. There was nothing before then, and Soap had called Laswell, had demanded answers she was unable to give. The first record of the boy existing had been when he’d been picked up, naked and filthy, in a little Irish village. Like he’d walked out of the wilds and into civilization, hadn’t understood why everyone was wearing clothes, why they were angry, aggressive, cruel.
It only got worse from there. So many fights, so many marks against him for being combative toward the people in his units. It’s a wonder he was never discharged, that he ever learned enough to be a competent medic at all with the way he’d been handled. It was like he had no idea how to act like a person. Had no inkling of how humans were meant to behave. Everything about him screamed Wolf, and yet there was no beast behind his eyes.
He’s more feral than Gaz or Price have ever managed to be, and there’s no off switch.
His file reveals just as much as it omits, gives them answers while telling them nothing. They’re flying blind, and Simon hates faulty intel. Knows that if they’re going to get anywhere with the boy, if he’s going to become pack the way Johnny is already determined to make him — and Gaz, and König, it would seem — then they’re going to have to learn Spazz from the ground up. He’s going to have to be the one to tell them the things his file hides; to reveal his blank-slate of a past at his own discretion to see if his brand of feral can even mesh with theirs well, or if he’s got more baggage than they can easily handle.
It won’t stop Johnny regardless, not now that he’s already decided the rabid puppy is theirs, and if he’s being honest with himself, that’s what worries Simon the most.
***
It takes two days of them being back on base for Spazz to get himself in trouble. If Simon is being honest, he’s surprised the boy waited forty-eight hours before completely disregarding doctor’s orders to rest, only rest, no activity of any kind. His torso is nothing but tape and wrappings to hold his broken ribs in place, the stark whiteness making him look even paler in comparison aside from the sun freckles scattered over his shoulders.
It was Gaz’s turn to check on their tumultuous teammate last. He’s going to have to ask what the fuck happened that Spazz got away from him, that he made it all the way to the gym without anyone catching him or stopping him. Johnny is the only one with an excuse; he’s been with Price, helping Keegan and Horangi get set up for their next steps toward being free and alive. Keegan had made noise about returning to America, but Horangi seems content to stay with the 141 for the time being.
Nowhere else to go; no one who’d care in any good way, he’d said, and they’d accepted that. Laswell had dug up his file and shipped it over, and they’d found themselves the only task force — the only pack — outside of Korea with an honest-to-god Tiger Shifter.
He supposes König can escape blame for this one as well; he’s been surprisingly attached to Horangi since they first met, so Simon can only assume that he’s made himself available to help the quiet man find his comfort in this strange new place.
A shout of surprise followed by a heavy thud makes Simon sigh. Really, for someone who loathes contact as much as Spazz clearly does, the boy is almost fanatically obsessed with sparring. He’s standing over his opponent, another PFC that Simon doesn’t recognize on sight. It’s possible they’re one of the new recruits that came in during his… absence. He hasn’t managed to track down all the ones who’ve passed selection yet.
The newbie picks himself up with a groan, runs a wrapped hand through his hair before shaking his head. “Seriously, kid, you’re fuckin’ nuts,” he huffs. Spazz’s back is to Simon, so it’s his opponent who clocks his approach first, eyes going wide and round as the nightmare looms at the ropes.
“I believe you are meant to be resting, Elliot,” he rumbles. Spazz shakes himself out, cranes his head back to look over his shoulder with defiance burning in his blue eyes. Simon blinks slowly at the sight of it, unphased. He’s seen enough people come through this task force to recognize a look like that. It’s no secret that he’s the Alpha of the Shifters, that he bows his head to no one but Price in that regard; Spazz isn’t the first to look at him with eyes that scream prove yourself, and he won’t be the last.
“Out of the ring, soldier,” Simon barks, and when Spazz opens his mouth to argue, he cuts the boy’s snarling short with a hard stare. “I was talkin’ to him.”
The nameless PFC all-but bolts out of the ring, and Simon swings a leg over the ropes to step in, watching the way Spazz skitters back with bared teeth and curled shoulders. He’s wearing a loose tank top, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s injured, that he doesn’t care if he ends up more broken because he tries taking on anything that’s bigger and meaner than him. Simon would think he’s got a death wish, if it wasn’t so obvious by all of his scars just how hard the boy has fought to stay alive up to this point.
“M’not one for bed rest, sir,” is the excuse he’s given, like it even matters. Simon sighs, pulls his hoodie off and tosses it into his corner. Rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck while Spazz watches without giving him direct eye contact; Johnny had mentioned he wasn’t a fan of that. He stares at Simon’s tattoos instead, at the skulls and smoke wrapped around weapons and stories that make up his history before those bright blue eyes dart back up to his face to settle in the center of his forehead.
“I can see that,” he allows dryly. “And I’m sure that if I ordered you back to your room, I’d just find you doing something else recklessly idiotic within the hour. So if it’s a challenge you want, then I’ll give you one.”
They haven’t had a chance to learn each other yet; to properly see each other in action. Spazz is a medic, but he’s also a soldier, and from what Johnny has told him, the boy isn’t afraid to throw himself head-first into a fight. He’s the reason 141 has their nightmare again; he’d been the one to realize that injuring Simon would save him in the end. Unorthodox as fuck, but clearly effective, considering their current situation.
“I didn’t get to see you fight in Siberia,” he says, tilting his head and rumbling when Spazz bares his teeth. “Not properly. It’s distorted, like I was watching the fight from underwater. Hardly seems fair that we haven’t both had the chance to really test each other, don’t you think?”
“What do you propose, sir?” The boy is up on the balls of his bare — bare, what the fuck, he’s lucky Price hasn’t seen him yet — feet, his stance more akin to someone who’s used to scrapping with opponents bigger than he is. His fists aren’t fully raised, aren’t curled like a boxer’s would be. It’s hard to tell what style he favors, if he favors any at all. The only way to learn will be with a demonstration, to see how they can match up against each other. To see who over- or underestimates the other first.
“First to pin,” Simon decides. “Best three out of five. If you’re still keyed up by then and you haven’t started spitting up blood because you’re an idiot, maybe we can go a few more rounds.”
Spazz bristles at that, just like Simon knew he would, but he doesn’t immediately fly into a rage or lunge. So the boy does have restraint. That’s good to see. His file marked that the majority of the fights were started by him, but based on what’s been clocked since he joined 141, Simon is beginning to doubt that. He’s feral, he’s not actually rabid. He has the ability to control himself, to size up his opponent and adjust accordingly. He’s clearly intelligent, knows the basics of strategy, has patience.
So what is it, then? What will it take? Simon decides to push a little harder; lets himself stand with his hands by his sides, loose-limbed and unconcerned. Deliberately looks the boy up and down, his eyes lidded and apathetic. When he breathes in, all he smells from Spazz is his deodorant and body wash; so he knows how to lock down his scent, then. Simon didn’t think it was possible for a human to learn that trick, but then, he’s never met any who assumed they would need to.
“Can’t say I expect these matches to last long,” he drawls lazily, aiming for meanness and knowing he’s hit right by the way Spazz twitches. “If you can even reach my face with those little legs, I’ll be impre-”
The only thing that saves Simon is the fact that he’s a Shifter. That his reflexes are inhuman. It still takes him by surprise, just how quickly Spazz can move, even with his ribs wrapped and taped. The amount of rage that someone so small can contain within himself without risking rupturing at the joints. The snarl that spills from his throat, so close to the sound a Shifter makes that there’s almost no waver. This boy is the closest he’s ever seen a human come to having a Wolf, and he catches his foot just shy of his cheek; feels the sharpness of the displaced air even muted by his balaclava.
He doesn’t whistle, but it’s a near thing, surprising even to him. He’s impressed, to be sure, but just as displeased.
“Courtesy is waiting for a match to start,” he rumbles, pushing the pup back with a light shove and watching him land nimbly, noting the way he balances on the balls of his feet before sinking back onto his heels. The feral light in those blue eyes burns brightly, such an impossible sign of a Wolf where there isn’t one beneath pale skin.
“Waiting just gets yeh dead, sir,” the boy growls, fists flexing like he’s full of energy. Like he’s looking for an outlet for the lightning sparking beneath his skin. Simon tilts his head, appraises him more closely.
“Practice matches are meant to be fun just as much as educational,” he chastises.
“Are they?” Spazz snarks, and the question is genuine. Enough so that Simon steps back deliberately and crosses his arms. Watches Spazz twitch and settle, muscles relaxing and head coming up from where his chin has been tilted down to guard his throat. He’s wary, but curious, reading Simon with all of the comfort and familiarity of someone who has spent a significant amount of time around Wolves. Who knows their mannerisms well enough to respond in kind without a moment’s thought. Natural, instinctive, always ready. Always on edge to defend himself against larger predators, to show them why they should never underestimate an opponent just because they’re smaller.
“Are you telling me that hasn’t been your experience?” he asks, tone calm and level. The boy blinks at him, frowns.
“Is tha’ a trick question, sir?”
Johnny has slipped into the gym at some point, leaning up against the wall beside the ring to oversee with dark, worried eyes. At Spazz’s question, gold overtakes the blue in a single blink and his scent spikes sharply. He’s fuming; recognizes the same as Simon the implications behind what Spazz has just said.
“Are yeh tellin’ me yer old units never gave yeh th’ courtesy of a proper fight?” he demands, and Spazz’s wary eyes cut to the Scottish Shifter.
“Of course they did,” he snaps. “They taught me the same as everyone else did. Doesn’t mean people listened.”
“Who oversaw the matches?” Simon asks. Unless fights were happening after-hours, which is a thought that presents its own issues to unpack at a later time, there should always have been others present. Even now, the gym is bustling around them; soldiers lifting weights, practicing takedowns, learning how to safely disarm each other. A lot of them are watching the ring, even though they’re pretending not to; waiting to see the nightmare of 141 take out the feral new guy, who’s damn near a foot and a half shorter than the Dire Shifter.
“Doesn’ matter,” Spazz growls, scuffing a foot against the padded mat. “You got enough room ta switch in here? Might as well get started if yer done yappin’, so ya c’n see what ya came here ta see.”
“I’m not going to fight you as a Wolf.” The thought alone is absurd. He’d kill Spazz with the first swipe — his Wolf is the entire reason the boy looks like the world’s most plainly and awkwardly wrapped Christmas present.
That, if anything, seems to make the boy angrier. “Held my own against ya once,” he snarls. Simon very much wants to say no, you didn’t, but that’s not quite true, and besides, Spazz clearly isn’t finished yet. “You gonna look down on me too, just like them? I c’n handle a fuckin’ Wolf. Been doin’ it my whole damn life.”
“Have you?” Johnny asks, equal parts curious and gentle. Always the first to try to soothe, his boy. “We don’ know anythin’ unless ya tell us,” he points out, which is a blatant lie, but it’s not like the boy can smell it. “We’re tryin’ ta learn yeh while yeh learn us, Spazz. We all have our preferred methods. If fightin’ is yers, we c’n do tha’, but we’d prefer teh fight on equal footin’. As humans, an’ when yer no’ recoverin’ from broken bones, aye?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve fought with broken bones.” Spazz crosses his arms, tilts his chin down to protect his throat and looks away. Rather than coming off aggressive this time, Simon takes it as more defensive, as if he’s trying to prove that it’s fine. That he can handle it. As if he ever should have to.
Johnny doesn’t growl, but it’s a near thing. He takes a deep breath and blinks the Wolf out of his eyes before he carefully asks, “Who made you fight with broken bones?”
“Y’all act like you’re the first Wolves I’ve ever met,” the boy grumbles, hugging himself more than anything now and curling his shoulders. “M’whole damn family is Wolves. Everyone but me. Why d’ya think everyone calls me runt?”
“Because you’re small,” Johnny replies. “They call me a runt too ‘cause my Wolf is small.” He shrugs. “Ah look unusual, barely even look like a Wolf, but Ah know what Ah am. Ah know who Ah am. What they say doesn’ matter at th’ end o’ th’ day.”
Spazz laughs, and it’s an upsetting sound. Simon’s Wolf hates it, has apparently already decided that this pup is theirs simply because Johnny claimed him weeks ago. “At least ya have a Wolf though, huh,” he sneers, and past the aggression, the bared teeth and narrowed eyes, Simon sees the pain. The vulnerabilities everyone always forgets about when they meet someone as feral as Spazz. A young man who’s barely passed the threshold into adulthood, who’s likely fought tooth and claw for everything he’s ever had in his life. Raised by Wolves, but tragically, unexpectedly human, and suddenly pieces of his file make so much more sense.
“The day you came to the 141,” Johnny says slowly, and Simon looks at his boy; glances back at the medic and watches the way his face twists. “You said your brothers had done worse to you than those other rookies ever could. Is that because they’re Wolves?”
“They prepared me for the world far more than basic training ever could,” Spazz snorts, and Simon suddenly remembers the horror on König’s face when he’d told them about the boy’s scars; how much damage had been done to him by Wolves. So it was his brothers, then? What the hell was the reason for it? To prepare him for the world? If they’re the reason the puppy looks like he was used as someone’s personal chew toy, it’s a wonder he trusts Shifters at all. It’s a wonder he trusts anyone.
“I changed my mind,” Simon decides. Spazz doesn’t need someone to beat the hell out of him; he needs somewhere safe. “Come with me, Spazz. I want to show you something.”
Spazz tilts his head with a frown, but he follows obediently enough. What a peculiar pup, that he can go from rabid and ready for blood to calm in the blink of an eye. “You takin’ me on a field trip, sir?” he asks. Simon glances back and watches Johnny squeeze the boy’s shoulder. Notices how Spazz leans into the contact, catches his soft trill that Johnny answers with a warm rumble.
“Somethin’ like that,” he drawls. “I’ll take a rain check on our brawl, if that’s alright with you, and I’ll make you a deal for it.” They pass through one of the main common areas, and Simon catches sight of Keegan in the far corner reading a book. The Fox looks up when they enter, brows furrowing until he catches sight of Spazz. They haven’t been properly introduced yet, with the pup being in hospital for two weeks and Keegan reacclimating to the world beyond a containment cell. And with the Fox planning to head back to America to tie up loose ends or whatever it is he plans on doing, there’d been no reason for the two of them to meet once Spazz had been cleared to return to base.
Keegan’s gaze tracks them across the room, but he makes no move to get up and follow. It’s good that he doesn’t; he doesn’t have permission to be in the puppy room, not the way Spazz does, even if the boy doesn’t know it yet. They haven’t told him, from what Johnny has said. They’ve been trying to get him used to the pack — specifically Price and Gaz, since they’re human. Simon understands them wanting to take it slow and make sure Spazz is comfortable, but it’s his job to push. Spazz needs a space like the puppy room, somewhere soft and warm where he can relax and not have to be so on-guard all day long.
“So, where’d yeh grow up, with four brothers who were Wolves?” Johnny asks, curious and light. “Ah was th’ only Wolf in my village, an’ it was a wee bit much for some’a them. Ah cannae imagine four Wolf cubs in th’ same village, plus yer parents. How’d yeh all manage?”
“Weren’t in a village,” Spazz mutters, and Simon can tell without looking that he’s sweeping the room like he’s looking for enemies. “We lived in th’ woods. What’s th’ deal, sir?”
He’s likely going to regret this, but desperate times and all that. “If you can restrain yourself from trying to fight everything that moves until you’re cleared by medical, I’ll give you that fight you want with the Wolf.” He stops, turns to face Spazz; lets the boy stare at his chest with intense eyes while he squirms eagerly. “Same rules, first to pin, best three out of five. Only if you listen to the doctor and rest, understand? I find out you’ve been sneaking off to spar or wrestle with anyone on this base, deal’s off.”
He ignores the look Johnny is giving him, knows his mate is already overprotective of this little medic of theirs, but his boy should know better than anyone that someone’s size can be their greatest advantage. Spazz deserves respect and honor same as any other soldier, has lost blood, earned his scars, and kept fighting even when he knew it would likely kill him.
“Do we have a deal?” he rumbles, and Spazz nods, his grin a crooked slash that pulls his lips high enough on one side to show a few teeth.
“Aye, sir, we’ve go’ a deal.”
Nodding, Simon starts walking again, letting a silence that’s not exactly peaceful settle over them. It’s not crackling with tension or barely-suppressed aggression either, which is the best he can ask for right now.
“We have a room,” he explains once they reach the corridor to the puppy area, watching Spazz relax as he takes in the quiet around them. No dorms, no other recreational spaces; there’s only one room used in this corridor. “No one is allowed in there without explicit permission from a pack member. You can say that the entirety of 141 is like one giant pack, but we have our core group. The ones chosen by Captain Price, and the ones they’ve chosen in turn. This rec room is specifically for us. We call it the puppy room, because it’s mostly used by Johnny, and Gaz, and König.”
Simon pauses at the door and levels Spazz with a look that makes the boy straighten his spine and stand at attention, his eyes forward and flicking back and forth like he’s trying to see through the wall in front of them. “We all have our own ways of coping with life,” he murmurs. “Sometimes they’re unconventional. Take what you’re about to see as a show of trust, and do not abuse it.”
He opens the door before Spazz can answer and steps aside for them to enter first. His boy herds the kid inside, eager and excited to finally be sharing this with him; to show Spazz that he’s considered part of the pack, that they’re waiting for him, for when he’s ready.
The first thing Spazz does is look down, surprised when his bare feet go from cold tile to soft, forgiving puzzle mats. The boys have changed them again, Simon notes; they’re alternating shades of blue and green now instead of the yellow and red they were before. Gaz is sitting in a nest of blankets on the floor in front of the couch, wearing a wolf onesie with the hood pulled up while he leans back against König’s legs. They’re watching Moana, it looks like, and both men turn to look at them when Simon closes the door.
“Hiya!” Gaz chirps, bright and welcoming. It’s interesting, to see the change in Spazz toward humans compared to Shifters, but here… it’s muted. Possibly because Gaz is wearing a onesie, looking soft and warm and content despite not being fully sunken into his smaller headspace. Maybe it’s the way König looks so relaxed, his head tilted back over the couch while he half-dozes until Jonny thumps down beside him and gives the other Shifter a kiss on the chin when he looks over. Simon watches Spazz take in the way Gaz whines until Johnny cups his face upside down and gives him a kiss too, sees the confusion and suspicion warring with the longing as the puppies of the pack tumble together.
“We’re watching Moana,” Gaz continues, giving Spazz a smile that Simon has often heard Price refer to as dangerous. All scrunched cheeks and happy warmth, like looking at a miniature sun from close enough to burn to ash without ever feeling so much as a flicker of heat. “Wanna watch with us?”
Spazz eyes the television with an uncertain frown. “Never watched it b’fore,” he mutters, slinking toward the recliner the Captain tends to favor. He sits in it like he’s not sure what to do with his limbs, back ramrod straight and fists clenched in his lap. Looks to Simon like he’s not sure what he’s doing is correct: like he’s expected to be yelled at for trying to make himself comfortable.
“Always a first time,” he says lightly, and Gaz nods in agreement, picking up the controller to restart the movie while Simon makes himself comfortable on the open cushion of the couch; lifts his arm for Johnny to press close and snuggle in, his boy’s legs stretched over König’s lap and a hand playing with the ears on Gaz’s hood. Spazz watches it all, slowly relaxing the tension in his spine until he’s curling back into the squashy softness of the recliner and pulling his legs up to hug them to his chest.
An hour later, Price walks in and pauses when he sees the boy curled up and sleeping deeply in his favorite chair, head cushioned on one of the arms. Takes in the rest of the puppies, König sleeping soundly and Johnny most of the way there while Gaz finishes watching his movie with heavy eyes.
“Well would you look at that,” their Captain murmurs, and Simon rumbles quietly in agreement. “He’s gonna hurt like hell when he wakes up,” Price adds, looking at Spazz again. “Think I should try to cover him with a blanket so he doesn’t get cold, or do you reckon I’ll catch a fist to the face for trying?”
“I don’t think an earthquake would wake him at this point,” Simon says honestly, and that’s all Price needs to hear. He picks up one of the softer plush blankets and pads toward Spazz on silent feet; covers him and clearly resists tucking the edges in before he steps back and redirects toward the other, less comfortable recliner.
“Think it’ll be a breakthrough for the lad?” he wonders quietly, and Simon wishes he could say yes, but if it was that easy, Johnny would have already blown through the boy’s iron-tight defenses the day after meeting him. His feral-sweet little Alpha just tends to have that effect on others.
“No,” he gets out around a yawn. Johnny snuffles at his throat with a tired whine. Licks at the underside of his chin until Simon strokes his arm and he settles. “Not even close. But it’s a start.”