one of the reasons why i like solittle so much, is because sol and ned are the mirror images of each other in so many ways, which i find very fascinating. both of them:
get knocked unconscious with the butt of a rifle in the back of the head
the historical people were from families with many kids
still followed the captain/a leader, but had a high hierarchical position, basically being in command in some way from time to time
got betrayed by someone they trusted (sol by hickey, ned by the men and dundy)
last man standing from each group, except for croizer (i don't count hickey as a last man, since he's a lost cause, even if he had survived the tuunbaq encounter)
it's especially the last thing that gets me going. because it would mean that in an alternative universe, croizer and sol could've both survived. and maybe, just maybe, they and silna could've saved ned as well. mirror images, man......
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oooohhhh 28 - "I know your friends" with either solittle or armitozer please! <333
(Putting this one under a cut bc it got a bit long!)
“What the fuck happened to you?”
It’s not as if Edward has any say in where Sol goes or what he does, as Sol had been kind enough to remind him on his way out the door earlier when Edward had asked where he was going (“None of your fuckin’ business Neddie, you’re not my boyfriend and you’re not my mum, so fuck off, yeah?”). He feels justified in asking now though, as Sol stumbles through the door just past one in the morning, lip split, brilliant black eye blooming on the right side of his face.
“Got in a fight, didn’t I?” says Sol, tugging open the fridge and leaning into it, pulling out a beer and immediately holding it up to the bruise on his eye. His eyes look slightly out of focus, and Edward doesn’t know if it’s from the injury or if he’s been drinking already too.
“With who?”
“Does it matter?”
“Your face is bleeding, Sol,” says Edward, shoving himself to his feet and walking across the kitchen towards him. “So yeah, I’d say it fucking matters.”
“A friend,” snaps Sol.
“What friend?”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know your friends.”
“Can we not with the third degree, right now?” asks Sol, and this time Edward is sure he’s drunk. Better that than concussed, he supposes. “My fuckin’ head is killing me.”
“Do you think it’s because you got punched in the face?” asks Edward, but he softens his voice, taking the beer out of Sol’s hand with one hand and turning his chin towards the light with the other. The bruise is nasty, but the cut on his lip isn’t as bad as it had looked when he’d walked in, only crusted with old blood, already mostly closed. “Come on, Sol,” he continues, even softer this time. “What’s going on with you?”
Sol lets out a long, slow breath through his nose, and finally looks at Edward properly, eyes big and far softer than Edward ever gets to see them when Sol’s sober. “Was seeing someone,” Sol says finally. “Didn’t work out.”
“They did—” Edward says, forcing himself to stay calm, to push down the anger rising in him, sure it’s the last thing Sol needs right now.
“I thought—” Sol starts, but he cuts himself off too, shrugging awkwardly. Edward realises all at once that his hand is still on Sol’s chin, but can’t bring himself to move it, especially not when Sol leans into the touch. “I don’t know what I thought,” he continues after a moment, and then, before Edward can say anything else, Sol leans forward and kisses him.
He tastes like blood and whiskey, his several days of stubble scratching against Edward’s chin, and Edward is already opening his mouth and leaning back into the kiss before he quite processes what he’s doing. Because they don’t do this, him and Sol. They’re flatmates, they’re old friends, and maybe they’ve gotten off together a few times when they were drunk, and maybe Edward fantasises about getting down on his knees and sucking Sol off every time Sol comes home from the gym all flushed and sweaty and grinning, but they don’t do this. Edward has never even dared allow himself to want this.
“Sol,” he says, pulling away, forcing himself not to react to the small, disappointed noise that Sol makes. “You’re drunk.”
“And?” asks Sol. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want you. That I haven’t wanted you for… for fuckin’ ever.”
“You’re drunk,” Edward says again, as much to himself as to Sol. “And bleeding, and… Let’s just get you cleaned up, alright? We can talk about this in the morning.”
Sol stares at him a moment longer, eyes still wide, before his face hardens again and he steps back, holding the beer can back up to his eye.
“I can deal with it,” he says tersely. “I’ve had worse.” Edward doesn’t know if he’s still talking about the black eye or not.
“Sure,” says Edward, taking a step back as well. “Yeah. I’ll just… leave you to it then.”
“Cheers,” says Sol, and then he’s stepping away, out of Edward’s orbit, and down the hall towards the bathroom.
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do you have any tozer headcanons of ur own?? 👀💖 /wllipt 🌟
HMM
I feel like I haven’t rotated him enough to have a ton of headcanons for him yet. I’m still figuring him out
However I do enjoy the idea of him being HOH or even completely deaf in one ear from an old incident in his service. Maybe that’s even when he started doing the Morse code hand thing with Heather. Maybe he does it with the other marines too. Sol’s hearing is shot and he probably gets headaches from it, so instead of talking they’ll pass messages back and forth in Morse code. Squeezing hands, tapping on shoulders— just quiet reassurances.
That being said I don’t think it’s something he’d make widely known. He’s too stubborn and prideful to let the others be aware of it, and he’s paranoid of it being taken advantage of. So he’s gotten into the habit over the years of sitting with his hearing ear towards the room as much as possible.
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