#Birdie has her class write letters to Gaz so he ends up getting huge fucking care packages

[ghouljams]

Working on the ranch can't last forever. Gaz and Soap get their orders to return to the field. One of them breaks the news as soon as they get it, the other... not so much. Here's Cowboy!Gaz angst.

You stare at Kyle’s placating smile across the table, his thumb rubs over your knuckles, fingers tight as they hold yours. The devil, you think, he’s the devil. How can he do this to you? 

You stand from your seat, hear the clatter of the chair behind you without really hearing it, and turn for the door. You shouldn’t be upset, you hardly know the man, but he’s managed to creep past every one of your walls and make a home for himself in your heart. You knew you should’ve run, it’s always smart to run when you start getting visions of white dresses. You don’t run now. You stalk, stride purposefully, to the door and push at it. It doesn’t open. You push again with frustration, smack your hand against the damned thing and try not to scream at an inanimate object. Kyle’s warm hand reaches past you and pulls it open. 

“Let me,” He says quietly. You ball your fists and grit your teeth, shoulder past the partially open door and into the Texas sun. It’s childish to ignore him like this but you don’t care. You are childish, it’s why you’re so good with children, you know what it’s like to want to kick and scream when you don’t get your way. You cross your arms over your chest, hug yourself for comfort as you walk down the street. 

“Birdie, please,” Kyle follows after you, “I got the order, I can’t just ignore it.”

Of course not. You know that. There are enough military families in town for you to know the drill. For you to see the rotation of leave and tour, the ebb and flow of population. Why would you think yours would be any different? Because he didn’t tell you. You’d assumed his work at the ranch was just that, his work. You got so caught up in the excitement of a new… whatever this was, that you’d forgotten every foot that’s ever stepped on that damn ranch is clothed in tactical gear. 

Kyle grabs your arm before you can turn a corner and start making your way back home in earnest. “Talk to me,” He pleads, his eyes searching yours for any hint at what you both know you’re thinking. You don’t want to, you want to walk until you can’t walk anymore. You want to tire your body out so your emotions don’t have anything to hold onto. “Come on, doll, talk to me,” He tries again, brows drawn low. You’d almost think this hurts him as much as it’s hurting you.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” You grit out, shaking him off to keep walking. 

“Bird-”

“No,” You turn on him, “My friends get to call me that, you do not call me that, Kyle Garrick. You-” His eyes shine as he lets you yell, his mouth set, jaw clenched. You’re struck again by the fact that you hardly know this man as the wind leaves your sails. You don’t know his birthday or his coffee order, you don’t know what he calls his mom or why he joined the military in the first place. You don’t know what he looks like when he’s swallowing his emotions, but you imagine it might look something like this.

You don’t know why you imagined time with him, why you’d thought you had months, years, to learn about him. You can’t speak to why his leaving makes you feel like you’re losing a piece of yourself you didn’t even know was there to begin with. Kyle doesn’t waste his breath saying things he doesn’t think are important. He told you he was leaving because he thought you’d want to know, hell maybe he wanted you to know. Maybe he didn’t want to just leave you without an explanation or a phone number.

“I’m sorry,” He says, and you feel tears push at the back of your eyes, your throat tight, “I wish I could’ve told you sooner.”

“How long will you be gone?” You ask. He shakes his head, he either doesn’t know or can’t tell you. You swallow and nod, let him pull you against his chest and wrap his arms around you. “Okay,” You lean into him, feel him kiss the top of your head. There isn’t anything you can do to stop the wheels already in motion.

“I’ll be back,” He promises, it’s a hollow comfort. It’s as good as you’re going to get.

“Can I call you? While you’re-” While you’re off getting shot at. You don’t want to say it, but you think the feeling carries.

“Of course,” He reassures you, “and you’ll come see me off, right?”

“Obviously,” You hug him tight, he’s as sturdy as always but it does little to comfort you. You want to ask him to stay. You have no right to ask him to stay. You have no way to make him stay. You hardly know him.