Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The small plane is silent, save for the dull roar of the engine. It’s been near an hour since takeoff, and not once have you ripped your gaze from the window. Like a statue, you watch the clouds roll by with your hands folded in your lap.

There’s little going on inside your head. You don’t want to think about the current predicament you’re in, so instead, you recall the moments that lead to it.

A recent mission went to shit. You’d been tailing one of Makarov’s men for information. But when you finally caught up to him, he’d led you into an entire den of wolves. The entire thing blew up in your faces.

141 was cornered. With your enemies threatening to close in, you had to scatter like rats.

“You need to lay low for a while,” Laswell had told you, her voice laced with underlying authority. It was a hidden command: you need to stay out of sight until I tell you it’s safe. There is no room for argument.

All you could do is blink at her. “Where do I go?” You had asked, tone nothing but neutral.

Both of you knew you had nowhere. An orphan, no known relatives, and nowhere to return to. That is who you are. The military was all you had.

You now also had 141, as of a few months ago. The change was jarring—it always is for you—but you can easily admit that your months in the task force were infinitely better than the army. They treat you with respect, something other men could seemingly never do.

Though, you’re not dense enough to see that the bond between the others was not shared with you.

And that was your fault.

You knew this. Laswell did too. Trust and coordination were of the utmost important in a small force like this. Operates poorly with others, is what your file says. She said it was the reason why you weren’t originally invited to 141, despite an impressive record.

But then, things got rough and four members weren’t enough. You were recruited to see if your cog could fit well into the machine.

Her mouth thins. “Sergeant MacTavish has space. He’s already agreed to allow you to stay.”

Your jaw ticks. MacTavish. If you had to pick a least favorite comrade, it’d be him. He was loud and thick-headed and a serial charmer. Like a dog he was—a mongrel—always running his mouth and chasing after everything that moved. And he had a mohawk, who did that these days?

He was always the one asking you to come drinking or shooting. Just a few drinks lass, or just a few rounds lass, he’d say. Even when you spelled it out plain as day, he just never got the damn message.

Was he good at what he did? Absolutely. But was there also something about him that rubbed you the wrong way? Also yes.

Somehow, she must know about this too. There’s no other explanation for the look she’s giving you.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say instead of asking her to reposition you. Of course, being alone would be the preferred option. You wouldn’t have minded Ghost: he’s quiet and reserved. Gaz would’ve also worked: he’s funny and polite. You’re not so sure about Price though; staying with your captain would’ve been awkward.

Still would’ve been better than MacTavish.

As you’re walking out, she calls your name. Not your callsign, not your title, but your name. That’s how you know you’re in trouble.

“It was agreed that 141 could benefit from a fifth member,” is what she tells you. There’s so much she leaves unsaid. It’s easy enough to fill in the blanks. Your stomach churns. You swallow thickly. “Find a way to get along with your comrade.”

Or you’ll be out, you finish grimly.

It always was like that, wasn’t it?

Before you depart, your Lieutenant leaves you with some words. He’s outside your door when you finish packing, leaning against a wall in the shadows with his arms crossed. You straighten respectfully.

“Lt,” you greet, shutting the door behind you. Ghost nods once.

“Play nice with Johnny,” he rumbles.

“Yes, sir.”

And that was it. You’d boarded the plane with the Sergeant behind you, now on your way to some random village in the middle of Scotland. And you had to find a way to bond with your least favorite teammate. Wonderful.

You’ve refused to look at him this entire time. He sits across from you, stuck in your periphery. Constantly he fidgets, resorting to bouncing his knee or tapping on the armrest. He’s always moving—ADHD most likely—and you fight the impulse to tell him to sit still. It’s distracting.

Several times you’ve seen him glance at you, his jaw working, probably debating on talking to you. But then he’ll shake his head and glance away. You try to make your expression as disinterested as possible so he won’t bother you. It’s not difficult.

But apparently, you didn’t do good enough.

“Y’ever been to Scotland?” He asks. His voice might’ve well been an explosion.

Irritation sparks in your gut. You deflate and finally meet his blue gaze. The other thing about MacTavish: he could hold someone’s eyes for hours. He stared at people like he was staring at their soul. And you hated it.

Your eyes narrow, a natural response to his prodding. “No.”

He grins, and that was yet another thing that irked you. Somehow, he was always smirking, no matter the situation.

“Awful dreich this time o’ year. Sorry it’s what you hafta experience.”

His accent makes it hard to decipher his words. You blink at him as you translate stupid to english. “It’s fine, MacTavish,” you reply simply.

The Scotsman sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Soap, lassie. You can call me Soap.” It’s something he’s been telling you since your first day. And every single time, you’ve ignored his request. It’s a stupid callsign. “What aboot you? Where you from?”

Your expression sours. “Unnecessary.” Nobody needs to know where you’re from, or how you grew up.

He finally frowns. “Really not gunna give me anything, huh?”

You answer by staring back out the window. He sighs and crosses his arms, like a child who doesn’t get his way. The rest of the trip carries out in merciful silence.

When you arrive, it’s dark and cold. There’s a car waiting for you where you land. You both bid goodbye to your pilot, Nik, and hop in. This ride is also silent. Outside, you can’t make out much but rolling hills.

After an hour or so, you arrive. The village is illuminated by a few sparse lights. You step out of the vehicle, puffing out a breath of air. It fogs up and drifts into the night sky.

MacTavish leads you through the stone streets of the village. Houses and stores are crowded next to each other on either side of the road. You pass by several rock fences with slumbering sheep nestled in the pasture. You think you see several large, pregnant ones.

Eventually, he stops and turns into the gravel path of a small house. Like many of the neighboring houses, it’s painted white with dark brown trimmings. It looks quaint enough, but it’s not what you’re used to.

You follow him inside, surprised to find it spotless.

He kicks his boots off by the door. “Looks like Meredith’s been keepin’ clean,” he notes, more to himself. He steps further into the house, cataloging everything. “Damn she does good.”

Whoever Meredith is, you have to agree. But then you wondered, who was she? Did MacTavish have a lover? Based on the lack of decorations, you’d have to assume not. You’re almost surprised, with the way MacTavish acts, you figured he’d have a pretty little woman keeping his bed warm.

Whatever.

The kitchen seems to be right next to the door. Further into the house is a small living area furnished with couches and chairs. A back sliding door leads to the porch. Next to this is a hallway with more rooms.

It’ll do. You still preferred the barracks.

Your housemate for the next indefinite amount of time turns to you and points down the hall. “Guest room’s on the left.” You nod and begin to head that way, itching to get out of his sight. That is, until you’re halted by his voice. “And lassie? Don’ be a stranger.”

You pause, considering it, before disappearing into the room. You close the door before letting out a big sigh. Your duffel bag falls heavily to the ground. The first thing you do is explore every crevice of the room. It’s simply a habit at this point, to search for anything out of the ordinary. Even when you find nothing amiss, you still feel uneasy.

With nothing left to do, you sit on the edge of the bed. And just. Stare at the floor. Laswell’s words repeat like a mantra in your head.

This was really happening. You had to be buddy-buddy with the sergeant. And if you didn’t, you’d lose the best home you’d had in decades.

Damnit.

But then again, the thing about you is that homes never lasted. That was something you’d learned a long, long time ago. In the end, it would be a futile effort to try and keep this one. It was like trying to hold onto sand and watching as the granules slowly slipped from your fingers. If you didn’t lose it now, you’d lose it later.

Better now than later. Better on your own terms that on someone else’s.

Mind made up, you try to sleep. But it doesn’t feel right. The bed’s too plush, the blanket’s too soft, and the smells are too sweet. You toss and turn and lay in every position possible, but nothing works.

In the time you try to sleep, you hear MacTavish eat, shower, and head to his room. That should comfort you—the only other person in the house is now asleep—but it doesn’t.

Finally, you take a pillow and a thin blanket to the floor. It’s uncomfortable, but in a way you’re accustomed to. It’s here that you drift into a featherlight slumber.

~~~

You wake up to nothing at all in the earliest hours of the morning. The sun has barely risen, so there’s no reason for you to be awake right now. Except for the fact that you have in internal clock engraved so deep that it’s impossible to break.

Sighing, you clamber up off the floor. You know you won’t be able to go back to sleep. So you get dressed in heavy layers. But you don’t put on your boots, not yet. You have another mission.

MacTavish is starfished across his bed when you peek into his room. He snores quietly, completely dead to the world. You roll your eyes. Figured he’d be a heavy sleeper. Makes things easier for you.

You’re careful not to make a sound as you pad around the house. Just like you’d done with your room, you search the premises for cameras, bugs, weapons. You don’t think he’d do something like that, but someone else could’ve snuck in while he was gone.

You find nothing, again. And you still feel uneasy, again.

Maybe a run can cure that.

Rays of yellow light start to peak over the hilltops. With how cloudy it is—dreich MacTavish called it—you doubt it’ll get much lighter than this. The soil is still damp and squishes under your feet. It’s not the best weather for running, but you could care less.

His backyard leads straight into the rolling hilltops. A stone fence bars you from entering. You find a tree and use it to hop over. Hopefully Scots didn’t care too much about fence hopping.

You start jogging at a moderate pace. The biting air chills your lungs as you breathe it in. If you try hard enough, you can imagine yourself on duty, hiking up hills under several pounds of gear.

But there aren’t any hostile, just sheep that lazily watch as you pass. There isn’t a loaded sniper in your hands either, and you ball your fists to cope with the loss. No way you’re sane—sane people don’t wish to rather be out in battle than in a cozy cottage in Scotland. Sane people don’t scour said cottage for things that aren’t there.

You make an irritated noise and run faster.

This is what happens when you aren’t working. You start thinking too much about your problems. It’s only day one and already you don’t think you can take much more.

You run until you’re immune to the cold and your calves ache. By that point, it’s closer to the afternoon than the morning. Then you start the long trek back.

When you enter the house from the porch door, MacTavish is lounging on one of the chairs. His eyes dart up to you, taking in your red cheeks and disheveled hair. He’s got a newspaper in one hand and . . . is that whiskey?

“Christ, what time did you get up?” He asks in a teasing tone. “Thought Price was the only one who rises at the asscrack of dawn, the old bastart.”

You leer at him. “Why are you drinking? Thought Price was the only one who drank before high noon,” you snark back. Your tone was venomous, sarcastic.

His expression falls into a frustrated scowl. “Fuck, lassie, who spit in yer porridge?”

“Mn,” you grunt, walking to the kitchen.

“Mn,” he parrots back mockingly. You glare at the back of his head and open the fridge door roughly. After fishing out a bottle of water, you start to scrounge together ingredients for a sandwich.

“Did’ja sleep on the floor?” He prods.

So he must’ve noticed your blanket and pillow. Stupid, you should’ve picked it up. “Yes,” you reply, because you both would know if you lied.

“Bed’s not to your liking?” He asks. There was an edge to his voice.

“No.” You roughly slap some ham onto a slab of bread.

“Why not?”

“MacTavish,” you growl in warning. “It is too early for this.”

He turns his head so you can see his face. His glare was something fierce. “It’s 11:30!” He guffaws. “And f’ fucks sake, it’s Soap!”

“Too early,” you reiterate.

A long groan escapes him. It sounds like he was actually in pain. “Okay, lass, I get it. You don’ like me, you want to smother me in my sleep—“

“Don’t tempt me.”

“—whatever, tha’s fine. But we’re teammates and we’re gunna be stuck here for a while. Maybe you could at least try to cooperate a wee bit.”

Your eyes narrow. You step a little closer. “Maybe we shouldn’t even be teammates in the first place,” you utter darkly.

Your fingers loosen; the sand starts to tumble.

His eyes widen; his mouth falls in surprise. Your breathing comes labored. But it’s at this moment that someone chooses to knock on the door. You shoot away to the hallway so fast it makes your head spin.

The sergeant sighs and stands. You hover in the hallway, fully prepared to eavesdrop on the conversation. The door opens.

“Joe!” A deep voice exclaims. “You are back in town! How was deployment?”

Joe? You snicker quietly.

“Can’t complain,” MacTavish replies, and you could hear his strained smile. “Still alive and kickin.’”

“Aye! Tha’s for sure. Yer back just in time too, ewe’s are just aboot ready to pop.”

“Need a hand with ‘em?”

“Sure do. I’ll swing by when I need help.” There’s a pause, then a rustle, like someone was shifting their weight. “Say, I heard you got a roommate now. Where is she?”

You’ve been here for less than a day and he’s already flabbed that big mouth of his? Anger coils inside you, hissing and potent.

“Oh, hidin.’” Asshole. “She’s often up tae high doe.” His voice was taunting; he knew you were listening. You fume quietly. What did he even say? “Might not meet her.”

“Well tha’s a shame. Tell her I said hi. See you around, Joe.”

When he shuts the door, you’ve reappeared in the room with your arms crossed. He smiles innocently. “The farmer says hi.”

“You told people about me?” You question. This boar-headed idiot. Now you were angry for a completely different reason, an effect only someone like MacTavish could cause.

“Now, how would it look for me when someone finds out aboot you and they realize I didn’ say a word?”

“That’s the point, Sergeant.” You step closer, resuming the spat that occurred not two minutes earlier. “They don’t find out about me. Do you know what laying low means, Joe? It means you don’t let everyone know you’re here, and it means you don’t help farmers. You stay put, and you stay hidden.”

“Ye’re the one who went prancin’ in the hills this morning,” he snaps back.

Your nostrils flare. Okay, fair point, but you’d never admit that. “No one saw me.”

He steps closer until he looms over you. “Ne’ermimd that. What was tha’ ye’re saying aboot not being teammates?”

“It’s because I don’t want . . . “ don’t want what? Don’t want to be in 141, fighting for a good cause? You can’t bring yourself to say it, even though it would make your death quick and painful. “I’m tired of putting up with your shit, MacTavish.”

His nostrils flare. “I haven’ done nothing to you!” He opens his mouth to say more, but he sighs and cuts himself off. A large hand pinches between his eyes before it scratches at his short hair.

And . . . you hate that. Suddenly he looked like all those adults who had grown tired of you in the past. It made you feel small—made you want to lash out and flee at the same time.

Suddenly you’re taking a step back, too close to him for comfort. A predator turned prey. His blue eyes follow your movements.

“I’m not tryin’ to fight with you,” he states.

“Then don’t,” you spit. You spin on your heel. “Just leave me alone, MacTavish.”

The slam of your door resonates throughout the house.

~~~

You wonder if he’s called Laswell or Price yet. You hope he has. Things would be over sooner if he did.

It’s been near a week now, and while you hadn’t had anymore squabbles, you certainly hadn’t made up either. In fact, you haven’t exchanged more than a few words. You’re like a phantom, appearing during random times of the day, only to disappear once more.

At least MacTavish has stopped bothering you, mostly. He’ll still occasionally knock on your door and ask if you wanna do something, like play a card game or watch tv. He’s always met with silence.

Why couldn’t he catch on already? Why must he draw out your death slowly, painfully, torturously? He’s stabbing you in the leg and watching you bleed.

Then tension is high. You can feel it. Just one more push.

Luckily, it doesn’t take long. He gives you the opportunity on a silver platter. You don’t even have to fake your rage.

He went out. Out out. Left you a little note on the table and even had the audacity to write the address with the words come hang out if you feel up to it.

This simple-minded, one brain-celled idiot. Is he trying to blow your cover? He went to a pub of all places. If he gets drunk, then he’ll get even more loud and loose-mouthed. Who knows what information he could spill.

But you don’t go after him. You sit at the kitchen table, posture dangerously relaxed as you imagined all the ways you could rip into him.

Hopefully, after this, you don’t have to worry about seeing him or any of the 141 again. If you’re lucky, you won’t even have to say farewell to the others. You can fade away back into the shadows.

But is that really what you want?

You shake your head and shove your doubts into the deepest pits of your mind. It doesn’t matter what you want. It never did. You knew this; you should be immune to this.

So why do you feel like you’re mourning?

The twist of the door handle pulls you from your thoughts. You sit up and your eyes narrow. Here it is.

When he ducks under the door, he winces at the bright light. He doesn’t seem too drunk, but still. He’d made a mindless decision, and for what? Were a few drinks really worth risking getting potentially killed?

His eyes land on you. He can sense your oncoming wrath, based on the way he straightens and faces you fully. A well-trained soldier, spotting a problem and preparing to deal with it.

“Lass . . . “ he starts, his voice cautious.

“You—“ you start, chuckling with a disbelieving smile, “—are a different breed of stupid, MacTavish.”

He has the gall to look taken aback. “Now, listen—“

“No, you listen to me. How are you even still alive?” You shout incredulously, smacking your palm against the table. Your rage propels you up to your feet. “Are you trying to get us killed, you imbecile?!”

“It was jus’ a few drinks!” He argues.

“Does the phrase ‘it’s better to be safe than sorry’ not exist in Scotland?! Our lives and the lives of everyone in this village are on the line!” Your voice is steadily growing in crescendo.

“Tha’s why I use a fake name, crabbit,” he growls.

“Your fake name is Joe!”

He paces angrily before you, shaking his head. “This wouldn’ even be a problem if you jus’ talked to me!”

Your hands fly wildly as you try to comprehend the absurdity of his words. “That has nothing to do with this!”

He stalks closer, the light from the kitchen illuminating the intensity of his face. “It has everything to do with it! You never even talk to me, lass! I’m losing my goddamn mind sittin’ aroond here all day. What am I s’pposed to do?”

“Suck it up and deal with it sergeant,” you grit out. “We’re not on vacation, and we’re not supposed to be friends.”

“But we are s’pposed to be a team!” He finally explodes. Your mouth snaps shut. “Fuckin’ Christ, lassie. You never talk to any o’ us, you do everything alone, and we never even see you!”

His shoulders rise and fall with every heavy breath he takes. Your eyes flicker across his face. It was time to drive the nail in the coffin.

Uncurl your palm, fully. Let it all go.

“Then you should call Price.”

MacTavish blinks at you, the anger dissipating from his form. “What?”

“Call Price. Or Laswell. Tell them I’m not fit to be in the force anymore.” When he blinks dumbly at you, you motion to the phone in his pocket. “Go on. Tell them.”

He finally finds his voice. “I’m not . . . lass, I don’ think a little disagreement means you should be let go.”

“I don’t care what you think, MacTavish. Call them,” you order with more force.

His eyes narrow questioningly. “Do you want me to call them?”

“I want . . . “ you trail off before snorting like an angry bull. “Just call them!” Your voice comes out desperate.

Just get it over with.

What you don’t expect is for him to toss the phone to you. You catch it clumsily, staring down at it stupidly. Your eyes dart back to his blue ones.

“You do it,” he says sternly.

He holds your gaze for several, long seconds. You feel like a deer caught in headlights. You look at the phone again and grip it tight. His stare bores into your head.

It would be easy. It would be just one phone call, and it would be on your terms.

But . . . you can’t find it in yourself to do it.

Coward, you hiss at yourself.

You slam the phone down before storming to your room. MacTavish watches you go, utterly confused as to what just happened. He sighs and runs a tired hand down his face. Then he picks up the phone and dials a number.

“Johnny,” Ghost’s voice is deep and scratchy in his ear. “Something happen?”

“Fuck, Lt. Where to even start.”

Chapter Text

“When do I get to go home?”

The nurse you’ve waddled up to blinks down at you. She had been picking up dirty plates in the cafeteria, her hands now frozen. “Pardon?” She asks, confused.

A younger you rocks back and forth on your shoes, the purple ones with velcro that your new family bought you. You’d picked them out because they matched the fluffy winter coat they’d also gotten you. Even now, you refuse to take the jacket off, even as the weather starts to grow warmer and warmer.

“My family,” you try to explain, finding that you didn’t really know how. You huff in frustration. “When do I go back?”

It’s been a few days since Mrs. And Mr. Weis—Mom and Dad—had brought you back to the orphanage. You’d been confused, but assumed it was a grown-up thing. Mom had kissed you on your forehead and Dad had patted your hair before they drove away, so they must be coming back for you. So you’d waited, and waited, and waited. But with each passing day, your confusion had grown.

When were they coming to get you? Were they really busy? You were starting to miss Spencer, the big furry golden retriever who laid across your belly whilst you slept. He’d always greet who with a big woof and slobbery kisses when you came home from school. Mom and Dad laughed whenever you played tug-of-war and he dragged you throughout the house.

For a few long seconds, the nurse simply stares down at you. Then realization washes over her. “Oh,” she murmurs. Her face falls, a sad frown pulling her thin lips.

“Will it be today?” You ask, suddenly excited. A smile stretches your features and you bounce on your feet. “Or tomorrow?” She chews her bottom lip. You tilt your head. “Why are you sad?”

Slowly, she kneels in front of you. Her soft hand grasps your shoulder gently. “Honey, they’re . . . “ her eyes search your face, mouth left open slightly. She sighs, her head dropping. “They’re not coming.”

Your movements cease immediately. You blink at her. “What?” You ask, your voice small and frail.

“They brought you back, sweetie,” she attempts to clarify.

“But—“ your gaze falls to the floor, tiny hands balling up, “—but they’re going to get me, right?” Before she can speak, you beat her to it. “Because my room’s still there, and-and I promised Spencer that I’d put bows in his fur, and Mom told me I was the best little girl.”

She’d said it after you brought home a math quiz with a bold one hundred written on the top. She murmured how you were the best and ruffled your hair.

You still remember one of your first nights in the house. Mom and Dad had tickled you until you squealed. They told you to call them just that—Mom and Dad. And you did. You had for several months.

So then . . . why? Why?

“I’m sorry,” the nurse whispered. “But they’re not coming back for you.”

The words are like stones sinking in the river of your mind and resting there forever. You stand still for a few seconds before your bottom lip starts to tremble. Not a second later you descend into tears. The nurse gathers you in her arms and holds you as you cry.

It doesn’t help.

~~~

“We just can’t connect with her,” the family after that had stated. They sit at a table with your social worker, while you listen on from the stairwell.

“It’s so strange,” the Mrs. whispered. “She doesn’t want to do anything with us. We try to take her out or play games with her. Even when we eat, she barely says a word.”

“I don’t think my wife and I can handle it,” The Mr. had added. “We were hoping for a kid that we could bond with.”

The family after that hadn’t gone any better.

“It was so weird. She’s been quiet ever since we brought her back. Me and my husband were okay with that, we’re both pretty quiet ourselves. But then yesterday she just . . . lashed out at us when we brought something home for her.”

A pause. You could hear your social worker’s voice over the phone.

“No, it wasn’t anything bad. It was just a toy we thought she’d like. I guess she . . . didn’t.”

Another pause. More hushed words.

“ . . . I just don’t think this is going to work.”

The story was always the same. Every. Single. Time.

~~~

“Do you even want to be adopted?” Your social worker snaps at you.

You’re sat in her office: your least favorite room in the world. It feels too small. You feel caged—cornered.

There are too many bad memories you associate with this place. Memories of being tossed around from home to home for months on end—of being berated for your behavior.

You look up at her, eyes full of tired defeat. She merely sighs.

~~~

There was another girl in basic training with you. It was the only other female there. You became friends, as much as the military would allow.

You ate meals together, slept in the same bunk, and even experienced a handful of punishments together. It brought you closer—closer than you ever thought you could get with someone.

Then the ten weeks of basic ended and you were transferred to advanced. Had you parted ways there, it would not have hurt as bad. You could’ve forgotten easily. But she was in advanced with you and you remained friends for the months that followed.

You grew even closer. You opened up about your shit, she opened up about hers. Whenever the men were being dicks, you had each other’s backs. No one could breach the tight circle you’d formed.

Then advanced ended. You both were sent to different units, and fuck if that didn’t sting.

We’ll keep in touch, you had promised. And you did . . . or, you tried.

Weeks stretched to months. Texts became more and more infrequent. You began to question what the point of it even was. There was nowhere left for you to go but up in the army. There wouldn’t be a chance for you to see her ever again, most likely.

You could tell the flame was slowly dwindling on both your ends, until eventually, you were the one to douse the tiny ember.

She had sent the last text years ago. A simple: How are you?

You never responded and deleted her number.

You didn’t befriend anyone in your unit, or any of the other units that followed.

~~~

A lot of shit happened after that. Shit you’d rather not dwell on. You’d done what you were good at, resulting in you rising in intelligence and skill. You were a fine-tuned machine—a one-man army.

Then you were approached with an offer. The woman’s name was Kate Laswell, and she worked for the CIA. She informed you that she funded a special operations force called 141, and that you’d been invited to it. You looked over the files of the four current members carefully. One had a mohawk, of all things, and was called Soap. One even wore a skull mask.

They were all elite soldiers. You’d been invited to a force of elites.

Really, what other option did you have but to say yes?

That’s how you found yourself sitting in a tree in the middle of a Russian winter, positively freezing your ass off. Snow billows around you, effectively covering your position. Sergeant Soap MacTavish snd Lieutenant Simon Riley—Ghost—were on your coms. The three of you were positioned around a facility, keeping a sharp eye out for anything.

The plan was to infiltrate, eventually. But you couldn’t do that without information. So here you were, gathering information at the price of a few fingers and toes.

You sigh, subtly wiping snow off your scope again. Your breath immediately clouds the frigid air. When you were joining a special ops force, this isn’t what you had in mind.

“My friend couldn’t pay his water bill,” Ghost’s scratchy voice filters in through the com. You tighten your grip on the gun. Was that a sign? Was something happening? Something with water?

You’re about to ask, but MacTavish’s voice cuts in first. “Yeah?” He says.

Yeah? What does that mean?

“I sent him a get well soon card,” Ghost replies.

Complete and utter silence follows his response. Was that . . . was that a fucking joke? A really shitty joke?

“Nice,” MacTavish comments.

Oh my god, it was. You’re tempted to check your ear for wax, just to make sure you’ve heard right.

“I got one,” the sergeant radios again.

“Lay it on us.”

“So I spent a hundred on a belt tha’ didn’ even fit . . . “

Oh, you know this one. Do you let him finish? You should just let him finish. You really shouldn’t pipe up . . .

You find yourself pressing the button anyways. “It was a huge waste,” you mutter into the radio.

It’s silent again. “Damn,” MacTavish curses.

“Ha,” Ghost laughs dryly.

“What aboot you, newbie? Got any good ones? You stole mine, it’s only fair,” he remarks, his tone playful.

You ponder this for a few seconds. You do, but you could end this right here. You should end it right here. You don’t make friends. But you’re bored and cold and could frankly give less of a shit.

“A man walks into a bar . . . “

“Mhm?”

“He lost the limbo contest.”

A small chuckle comes from MacTavish’s end. The sound makes you loosen. “Good one.”

“She’s got you beat, Johnny.”

“Not you though?”

“No. I’m the best.”

“You guys are weird,” you huff.

“Charming, you mean. We’re charming,” MacTavish counters. You shake your head.

You smile to yourself, the cold now in the back of your mind. This wasn’t so bad.

That mission had ended in absolutely nothing, as well as the ones after that. Eventually, you had enough intel to infiltrate. The day started with your nerves buzzing with anticipation. You’re not one to be trigger-happy, but you’ve just been itching to show off what you’re capable of.

And show off you had. You’d exited that facility proudly with valuable intel, now one step closer to Makarov. You’d walked on one side of Ghost while MacTavish stood on the other.

“Bloody good shooting, newbie,” MacTavish compliments during exfil. His brown mohawk’s slightly ruffled from the fight. Blue eyes crinkle from the weight of his smile.

“You doubt me or something?” You ask over the drum of the heli’s blades. It should worry you how easy you return his smile and conversation. Later, you’ll chalk it up to post-mission adrenaline.

You’ll tell yourself that you’ll never let it happen again, and you don’t.

“Not anymore,” Ghost cuts in, voice monotone. Your eyes dart to him, your smile falling at the insinuation that they ever doubted your skills.

“Aw, haud yer weesht, Ghost.”

Your Lieutenant blinks at him. “En inglès, por favor.”

“I second that,” you agree.

MacTavish looks to you sharply. “After I jus’ complimented you? Bunch of gowk’s, the lot o’ you,” he mutters.

You meet Ghost’s unimpressed stare from across the heli. He nods to you once—his form of praise—before leaning back and resting his eyes. You stare out the window, secretly pleased with yourself.

When you land, you’re forced to go straight to medical. But after that, you proceed to take the longest, hottest damn shower known to man. You feel like you deserve it.

Sometime after you finish is when someone knocks on your door. You open it to reveal MacTavish, seemingly cleaned himself. He’d thrown on a black shirt that hugged his chest and traded his winter camo pants for standard army green. He smiles down at you.

“Fancy a drink, lass?” He wonders, leaning against your doorway with crossed arms.

You press you lips together. “I don’t. Sorry, sergeant.”

“Aw, come on. It’s yer first successful mission! You’ve got to celebrate somehow,” he attempts to persuade.

The easy, obvious answer is no. You’ve never gone out drinking with coworkers, and you sure as hell weren’t planning on starting now. That would lead to you wobbling on the tightrope you’ve managed to walk on your entire life.

You’ve fallen once, and you won’t do it again.

But . . . you do feel triumphant, in a way that you never have before. And you want to commemorate it somehow. So, with a sigh, you answer, “just a few, MacTavish.”

He gives you a friendly punch to your shoulder. “Call me Soap.”

There is no bar in the barracks, but there is some liquor in the cafeteria. When you enter the small mess hall, it’s dark. Only one light is on, illuminating one of the corners. Ghost sits at one of the tables, a whiskey clutched in one of his palms. He’s forgone his skull mask in favor of a hood and a black balaclava.

You sit across from him and MacTavish, your own drink in hand. You watch with thinly veiled interest as Ghost lifts his mask to his nose to take a long swig. He meets your eyes afterwards, seemingly daring you to look away.

“A’right,” MacTavish states. He pulls out a deck of cards. “Thought we could play some euchre.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You got money, sergeant?”

He grins. “No, figured we make it interesting. Losers have to give a fact aboot themselves.”

“I’ll pass,” Ghost immediately states.

“Me too.”

“Och! You both afraid you’ll lose?” He taunts, shuffling the cards.

Ghost levels him with a bored look. “You cheat, Johnny.”

“I do not! Well what the bugger do we wager now?”

“My eternal love and gratitude,” you reply sarcastically. Ghost huffs; MacTavish chuckles.

A few drinks turns into a few more. You bicker and laugh and share more terrible jokes. Your smile is loose and tipsy. In a moment where your two teammates argue about something from Mexico, you close your eyes and inhale deep. You’re comfortable.

Then you realize. You’re comfortable. That’s never ended well.

Your eyes fly open and attach to something standing in the dark doorway. She’s small and young and wears a purple jacket and velcro shoes. Her voice echoes in your ears as she wails why, why, why?

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Ghost and MacTavish look up at you, falling quiet.

“Sorry, I . . . “ you look back at the hallway, finding the phantom has disappeared. “I need to go.”

MacTavish’s voice calls after you as you make a swift escape, but you can barely hear him over the roar of your mind. You cover your ears, pull at your hair, but it doesn’t go away. Even when you crawl into bed, it still haunts you.

You don’t go out with them again.

~~~

Price glares at you, the smoke from his cigar clouding his office. You stand perfectly still in the center, head bowed. It was all so damningly familiar. You fuck up, get sent to an office that feels too small, then get sent back out into the world.

Though, you suppose no fuck up is worse than botching a mission.

Your bandaged arm burns as a reminder of your failure. It was less than twenty-four ago that a bullet had pierced through muscle and tendons. You were lucky it hadn’t nicked an artery.

He takes a long drag, blowing out the smoke slowly. “What happened out there?” He demands, voice a low growl. Even sitting, his presence was a suffocating thing.

Your throat bobs. “Got stuck in my head, sir.”

He scoffs and shakes his head disbelievingly. “Yeah you did, and your head was so far up your own arse that you couldn’t see straight.” He takes another angry puff.

“It won’t happen again,” you say, but it sounds like a lie to your own ears.

His icy-blue eyes narrow. “It better not. Get out of my sight.”

~~~

There’s a few knocks at your door. “Lass?” Someone calls. You’d recognize that accent anywhere. You frown, already annoyed. You’re sat on the floor, cleaning your sniper. You look up at the door, decide not to move, and go back to wiping. “How’s yer arm doin’?”

He’d been there, when you got shot. He insisted on trying to help you, but you batted him away with bared fangs and raised hackles. As you fixed yourself, he had watched with pursed lips.

“It’s fine,” you grunt in response.

He pauses. “We were gunna do combat practice. Wanna come with?”

Your hands tighten on the disassembled barrel. “No thanks, MacTavish.”

“We haven’ seen you in awhile . . . “ he trails off, waiting for a response. You don’t give him one. He sighs. “Jus’ figured I’d ask. If you change yer mind, you know where to find us.”

His footsteps fade. You don’t change your mind.

~~~

It’s dark. You don’t know where you are. You think you’re standing, but at the same time, you feel weightless. Where are you?

Something’s here with you. You turn, and it’s there. The phantom. The one with tears streaming down her face and the purple jacket and the velcro shoes.

“Why?” She asks.

You frown at her. “I don’t know.”

She moves closer. You try to walk away, but you find that you can’t move. You can only watch as she approaches.

“But why?” She asks again, her tone louder.

You look away. “They didn’t want us.”

Her hand grasps your leg. “But why?”

You clench your jaw. “Because we weren’t good enough.”

“But—“ suddenly she has both her hands on you, gripping hard—gripping tight—until you feel the pain in your bones, “—WHY?!”

You jolt awake with a gasp. The world is spinning and the edges of your vision are tainted black. It doesn’t go away, even when you blink rapidly. You suck in more stuttered gulps of air, finding that none of them replenish your lungs.

Your heart is like thunder in your ears; part of you fears that it may beat out of your chest. Blood roars in your veins, pumping through your vessels too fast.

All at once, you realize what’s happening. It’s been years since you’ve suffered a panic attack. With how your mind races, you can barely focus on remembering how to calm yourself down.

Eventually you do, though. Remember. You take deep, slow breaths. The heels of your palms press to your eyes. You can’t backwards from fifty, realize that’s not enough, then start at one hundred. At the end of it, you find yourself calmer than before.

Your sweaty hands move up to push damp hair away from your face. You take one last deflating sigh before stilling completely. Your stare is on the ceiling, but your mind runs blank.

Fought with MacTavish last night, your brain supplies weakly.

You groan—though it sounds more like a whimper—now recalling the events that lead to you hiding in your room.

Why didn’t he just call them? Why did he have to push back? What were you supposed to do now?

You’re getting antsy sitting on the floor. Your thoughts start to spiral again. So you heave yourself up, and prepare for the only thing you can do here: run.

MacTavish should be sleeping. Key words: should be. But when you walk out into the kitchen, he’s there, sitting at the table. You freeze at the sight of him; he straightens at the sight of you. He’s already dressed and laced up, clearly intending to go out.

You lock eyes for several moments. His expression is unreadable. You don’t even want to imagine what you look like.

He clears his throat. “Mind if I join you?”

And . . . you don’t care. Not really. All your anger—all your fight—is gone. All that’s left is a harrowing emptiness.

You’re afraid that your voice will be weak if you speak, so you give him a small nod. You don’t know what he’s intending by running with you. Maybe he did call Laswell, after all. You don’t know if your stomach flips from dread or relief.

He’s quiet as you run, which is very unlike him. You can’t help but steal glances at him every now and then. His face remains stoic.

Eventually, he does speak, though very briefly. When you start to loop back around towards the village, he stops. You give him a quizzical look.

“There’s a river jus’ a little farther,” he points to the distant forest. “It’s a pretty sight.”

You weigh your options before nodding slowly. You continue on, now with MacTavish leading the way. The tension dwindles after that. He doesn’t seem mad at you. You’re not really mad at him, not anymore.

The river is pretty, you’ll admit. It’s a tiny, but fierce little thing. The water rushes rapidly over and around rocks. You and MacTavish slow to a walk beside to admire it.

At one point he halts entirely, sitting near the water and sharpening his combat knife. You realize that whatever he came out here to tell you, it’ll be here. You put some distance between him, hopping over to a rock in the middle of the river. Your feet dangle over the edge, nearly touching the water.

He doesn’t look at you when he asks, “what’s up with you?”

Only after he asks it do his eyes drift to you. You don’t meet them, choosing to stare at the river. You shrug, after some deliberation.

He sighs. “Don’ understand you, lassie. You do a bloody good job when you first get here, you go out with us once, and then you jus’ disappear and pretend we don’ exist. Did we do something to offend you?”

A pause, then you shake your head. Because they hadn’t done anything. Well, MacTavish was . . . annoying . . . but that wasn’t a crime.

“So then what?” He prompts. He sounds genuinely curious, and not just probing.

Your feet are starting to get wet. You don’t pull them away. “I think I’m just . . . broken, I guess,” you say, because it’s the truth.

His eyes are boring into your head, you can feel it. He sighs, and pushes himself up. He walks over to you, and you finally look up at him.

“Listen, lass, I really don’ need to know what shite you’ve been through. Tha’s yours to brood over, or whatever the hell you do when you hide from us. You want to spend time alone? Tha’s fine,” he informs you. Your brows raise slightly, and even more so when he extends his hand out to you. “All I need to know is tha’ you’ll have my six when the time comes. Can you do tha’?”

You stare at his hand like it’s an alien. It’s at eye level with your face: the only thing you can focus on.

The phantom sits in your periphery again. I want to go home, she whispers.

Me too, you tell her.

You reach and grasp his hand. He pulls you up and back over to land.

“I can do that,” you inform him. He smiles.

“A’right then. Truce?”

“Truce,” you agree.

He shakes your hand.

~~~

“I can’t do comfortable,” you open up to him later, randomly, while you sit at the table. He looks at you over his shoulder, busy making breakfast. He’d offered to make you some, and after questioning his cooking skills (to which he avidly defended), you decided that it wouldn’t hurt. “ It makes me . . . uneasy.”

He mulls over your words carefully. “Sounds complicated.”

You sigh, “it is.”

Silence envelops the room, save for the popping of bacon. You sip at your coffee, ignoring the slight tremor of your hands. How is he going to respond?

“ . . . so you want me to toss a rock in your bed or summat?”

You snort, his words catching you off guard.

The tremor disappears.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Lass?” Soap’s head pops into your room. You look up at him, momentarily lowering your book.

He’s about to ask you something he knows you won’t like. You can tell by his tone: it sounds like a kid about to ask his mother for a twenty. You narrow your eyes at him. “Spit it out, Soap,” you order. His callsign, much to your chagrin, falls from your mouth easily now.

It slipped one night during dinner, a few days after your truce. You’d asked him to pass you the salt while referring to him as Soap. Instantly you’d realized your mistake, body tensing.

It took a few moments longer for him to notice. He was halfway through the motion of grabbing the shaker before he froze. Slowly—a little comedically—he turned his head toward you.

“What was tha’, hen?” He’d wondered with a shit-eating grin.

You’d punched him hard enough to bruise. Thankfully, he didn’t tease you about it farther than that.

Now you call him by it more often than not, though there are still times you call him by his last name. Mostly when he’s irritating you. Like now.

“Some boys need help expanding the pasture, said they could use a few extra hands getting rocks,” he explains. He moves further into your doorway, leaning against the frame.

You sit up on your bed, giving him your full attention. “Plenty of other hands in this village, Serg,” you reason.

“Yeah, but I can’ let myself go to waste. You don’ get guns like these by sitting aroond all day,” he fires back, flexing one of his arms. You roll your eyes at the obnoxious display.

Though, you’ll admit he does have a point. You can run as much as you want, and Soap even has some ridiculously large weights. However, neither compare to the training courses back at base. Your entire body would be positively burning after those strenuous days. You can’t get that out here.

So you suppose his concerns aren’t entirely based on rubbish, no matter how cocky his explanation is.

“Whatever, go ahead,” you wave him off, returning to your book.

He grins at you, victorious. “Wanna come with?”

You peer at him over the pages. There’s really no need for you to go. You’ve already upheld your end of the truce by spending more time with him. Anything more than that could be . . . fatal.

“I’ll think about it,” you reply. Soap shrugs, disappearing around the corner.

Things had settled down considerably. He’d stopped leaving the house unnecessarily, and you started gracing him with your presence. You ate meals together, played a few old board games, and sat quietly in each other’s company. Although you still retreated to your room afterwards, you couldn’t deny that his companionship was adequate.

He was still a little shit though. You damn near killed him after he put a spider on the milk container. When you screamed bloody murder, he’d rushed into the kitchen, ready for a threat. But the only threat he saw was you glaring daggers at him, holding the plastic toy.

The second he started smirking, he was dead. Not two minutes later you had him held down in a rear triangle choke, not letting up until he tapped out. Afterwards you could have sworn you heard him mumble something about your thighs, but perhaps you heard wrong.

So yeah, things are okay. There’s not a single reason for you to go . . . what was it? Pasture expanding? Yeah. Whatever.

. . . But you are incredibly bored. With a sigh, you snap the book shut and rise from the creaky mattress.

Soap is waiting by the door, like he somehow knew that you were going to come after all. He offers you a smile and nothing more, opening the door for you.

“It amazes me just how bad Scotland’s weather is,” you remark. Gray clouds cover the entirety of the sky. Not a single patch of blue or sunlight peeked through. Somehow it’s gotten even colder, forcing you to bundle up.

He chuckles next to you. “Told you it’s miserable.”

“You said it was just this time of year.”

“And?”

“I’m starting to think this is the only season this god-forbidden country knows.”

“ . . . yer bum’s oot the windae,” he mutters.

You fix him with a look. “For God’s sake, speak english.”

“I am!”

The walk to the other side of the village goes fast with how you bicker back and forth. There’s more pasture over here. You walk along one of the fences, eyeing the structure of it. It was kind of cool how each stone was carefully packed next to the others. Everything just fit perfectly, somehow, despite the rigidness of the material.

There’s three individuals at the end of the pasture. An older gentleman seems to be actually constructing the fence, while the other two bring him rocks of different sizes. As you approach, they wave to you.

“Joe!” One of the carriers shouts. He’s shorter than the other, and supports a mop of unruly brown curls. What is with Scots and their weird hair?

Soap hugs him, patting him on the back. “Good to see you, Caleb.”

“And you too!” Caleb looks over at you then, his smile becoming something more nervous. You don’t miss the way his eyes quickly move up and down your body, though you’re not sure what to make of it. “This must be your friend from the army, then. It’s nice to meet you, my name’s—“

He’d been approaching you with an outstretched hand, only to get shoved out of the way by his taller companion. This one has gangly limbs and a sweeping haircut. “My name’s Dan, it’s lovely to make your acquaintance,” he greets. You narrow your eyes at his cocky grin.

Caleb pushes him back. “Bugger off, man! I was talking to her first!”

“I don’ care. Go away while I introduce myself,” Dan argues back.

You roll your eyes. Fuckin’ Scots.

Soap is the one to separate them with a hand on each of their shoulders. “Lads, lads. We’ve got a job to do, yeah? Quit yappin’ and let’s get on with it.”

So begins the endless fun of carrying rocks around. There’s a stream not far from the pasture where you gather the stones. You grab flat and round ones, heavy and light ones. It all depends on what the builder wants.

Though, you’ll admit that there are some . . . strange things that happen. At one point as you’re bending down to examine a rock, you hear a pained grunt. When you turn around, Dan is rubbing his shoulder. Soap glares at him before flashing you a thumbs-up. You quirk a brow in confusion.

Then Caleb tries to carry an armful that’s far too much for him. The entire time he keeps flashing you looks that read: see? See what I can do?

Dan had even lifted his shirt to wipe nonexistent sweat off his face—very obviously, you might add. You tried not to laugh at how little there was to show off. He was all skin and bone.

Safe to say, it’s not hard to piece together what’s happening.

“They’re fuckin’ peacocking,” Soap growls when you’re alone at the stream. To your surprise, he actually sounds annoyed. You can’t imagine why though. It’s not like he was the one being pined after. Maybe he’s just protective over his teammates; you could see him defending Ghost from encroaching bachelorettes.

“It’s kinda funny,” you reply.

“It’s sad is what it is.”

You eye him, a small smile forming. Oh, he’s unusually irritated. This could be fun. What a turn of events, you pushing his buttons for once.

“I don’t know,” you comment idly, picking up a flat stone. “It’s cute.”

Blue eyes immediately snap to you. “Now what’s tha’ s’pposed to mean?” You smirk and shrug at him before walking away. “Hold on lass!” He hurries to catch up with you. “Don’ tell me you’d actually get hot for skinny malinky longlegs or the peedie shrimp!”

“Don’t think that’s any of your business, sergeant,” you respond playfully.

He grumbles under his breath.

The final act comes some time later, when your muscles are starting to become pleasantly buzzed from the hard work. Even your mind is blissfully blank, now that you’ve started ignoring Dan and Caleb.

As you’re handing the builder a stone, his eyes suddenly go wide. “Uh oh. Watch your backs.”

You all turn around to find a large ram not ten yards away. He stares at you all and snorts.

“Well, shite. Is that the aggressive one?” Caleb asks nervously, his face a little pale. He eyes the daunting pair of horns on the ram’s head.

“Aye, looks like he’s gunna charge too. Watch it,” the builder warns.

Sure enough, the ram snorts again and stomps his hooves. Feeling a pair of eyes on you, you turn and meet Dan’s gaze. He gives you a smug grin before puffing up his chest.

“Don’ worry, guys,” he boasts, standing in front of the ram. “I can handle this.”

Then he’s lowering himself into a crouch, making direct eye contact. The ram snorts once more, shakes his head from side to side, before charging. Dan doesn’t so much as move an inch, though you spy some sweat beading at his temple.

Right as he lunges, Dan leaps out of the way. He laughs victoriously as he does. What he doesn’t expect, however, is that the ram immediately swings its head towards him upon landing.

A collective of oohs are let out as one of the horns makes contact with his crotch.

“Oh, holy fokin’ - steamin’ bloody Jesus,” Dan groans as he crumples to the ground. His hands cup his groin.

The builder cackles. “There go yer chances o’ havin’ kids, ya fuckin’ wankstain!” Soap laughs too, giving him a high five.

“Tongue ma fart-box, you fokin’ walloper! Go to hell!”

You hide your amused chuckles behind your hand.

But, the ram was definitely still a problem. There was still an open part of the fence it could sneak through if no one stopped it. You look at Caleb—definitely not him. The builder was currently hiding behind the fence, so probably not. Soap would do it . . . that is, if you didn’t feel like showing off.

You’re going to show those boys why they’ll never have you. Not in a million years.

You let out a loud whistle, effectively drawing the ram’s attention to you. It snorts again, dragging its hoof through the grass. Like Dan, you crouch down, giving it the incentive to charge.

When he lunges, you move to the side and grab one of its curved horns. You use the momentum to spin him around before slamming him to the ground. Quickly, you grab his other horn and shove his face to the dirt. He flails desperately, and you throw a knee over his body to keep him still.

He bleats in terror, but you just hold him tighter. You do this until you deem he’s had enough, letting him go and shoving him away. The ram shakes out his woolly coat and saunters back into the field. You stand, brush off your hands, and turn around.

Everyone’s watching you. Dan and Caleb might as well have hearts in their eyes.

“Say, could I take you out sometime?” Dan asks, a few hours later, when the fence is finally done.

You blink at him, one brow raising. “Out?”

“Yeah! We could get breakfast together, maybe even get some drinks at the pub . . . “ He continues to rattle off different ideas. Soap’s watching you; you can see him in your periphery. His arms are crossed. Maybe he thinks you’ll actually say yes. As if. “So? What do you say?”

For the sake of protecting his pride, you pretend to ponder it a few moments. “Sorry, but I’ll have to pass.”

He looks affronted. Soap, however, seems delighted.

“Wha-? But—“

You’re already turning and walking away. That’s when Caleb decides to step in. “I’d love too—“

“No,” you state, brushing past him. “Come on, Joe.”

He follows behind you with a huge smile. “That was awesome,” he mentions once you’re out of ear shot.

“Me wrestling the sheep?”

“Nah. Well, tha’ too. But mostly you rejecting those sorry wanks. Got tired of watching them act like eejits.”

You give him a look and sigh. You’re not even going to try asking him to speak a comprehensible language anymore.

~~~

“Lass, watch out, she’s aboot to go left . . . right, I mean right! Get her, get her! Aw, piss n’ shite, there she goes again.”

You pant, glaring at Soap as the ewe darts away. “MacTavish, I’m going to shove this where the sun doesn’t shine if you give me wrong callouts again,” you hiss, waving the snare pole in his face.

“Well it’s not my fault she’s a deceptive little thing.” He looks out to where the sheep has retreated to the opposite corner of the small pasture. It’s a fat, pregnant ewe, and currently in labor. “How’s she move so fast when she’s trying to push a barin out?”

“Told you not to underestimate her,” the farmer adds unhelpfully, leaning against the stone.

“Ah, thank you for your wonderful comment as you sit and watch us do all the running,” you drawl. Your pants and boots are muddy from the chase. The mud’s traveled up the back of your shirt from kicking it up as well. Meanwhile, the farmer—Austin—is mostly spotless. He’s an older man, the age showing in the crow’s feet by his eyes.

He merely chuckles, unfazed by your sarcasm. “You say that now, Edna, but trust me, you’ll be eatin’ those words shortly.”

You grumble at the use of your fake name. Not chosen by you, obviously. Soap went and chose one for you and of course he chose the worst one possible. You scowl at him as he snickers.

“What’re you laughing at, Joe? We still have a job to do.”

You both approach the ewe again, who bleats and eyes you nervously. The rest of the force would no doubt be laughing if they knew a single sheep was making two of their operators run in circles. Muppets, Price would call you.

This time, you have her cornered. She backs up all the way as you approach again. You get closer, and closer, until she finally makes a break for it between you. You reach with the snare, wrapping it around her neck and pulling it tight.

“Got her!” You exclaim as she flails.

“Hold ‘er down!” Austin orders, jogging over. Soap drops his pole and dives for her hind legs. He grapples with them until he has a good grip before flipping her onto her side. The ewe pants, but finally rests still.

“Make sure the snare isn’t too tight,” he nods to you before crouching behind her.

“E’erything look okay?” Soap asks. Austin examines her backside, where two small hooves protrude from her birth canal.

He presses his lips together. “Lamb’s elbows are locked.” You’re about to ask what the means, but then Austin’s pushing a hand into her. “Just gotta extend the legs.”

The ewe bleats nervously; you sympathize with her. You try not to gag at the downright nauseating noises that follow.

After a few moments of adjusting, Austin’s gently pulling the lamb free. He quickly pulls gunk off of the baby’s face before tugging him around so that he lays by the ewe’s head. The mom starts to lick it all over as it takes its first few breaths.

“A’right, you can let her go now,” Austin says. You and Soap are quick to give her some space. His arm is now covered in a bit of blood and other things that you don’t even want to know the name of. He catches your disgusted look. “You were saying, lass?”

You shake your head. “I’m never doing this again.”

He laughs. “Tha’s a’right. Thank you kindly, both o’ you.”

Soap claps him on the back. “No problem. Stop by when you need us again.”

It’s a little thing, just one word: us. But it still makes you feel . . soft, for a lack of better words. Your stomach flutters dangerously with the feeling of belonging.

“Edna? A word please, jus’ for a moment.” You turn to Soap, who shrugs and gives you some space. Then you look back at Austin. “Jus’ wanted to say that it’s nice to see Soap has a friend. I s’ppose some of us were worried he was a little lonely.”

You snort. “He has plenty of friends.” Gaz and Ghost come to mind. Whatever companionship you offered him was probably nothing compared to them. You don’t know why your chest sours at the thought. “I’m just the sorry sod who got lumped with him, he’d rather have anyone else, trust me.”

Austin’s eyes glimmer mischievously. “Dunno aboot tha.’ He talks aboot you more often than not.”

Soap talks about you. Suddenly that stupid stomach feeling is back. You squash it down as soon as it comes.

“It’s just because I’m the only one he has here,” you reply with a shake of your head. Austin looks like he wants to argue, but he’s cut off by Soap’s voice.

“Hey! You comin’ or what?” He hollers, loitering near the entrance of the pasture.

You squint at him. “The hell’re you doing down there?!” You yell back.

“First one back gets the shower!”

It takes a few moments for you to process his words. When you do, you bolt after him with an enraged cry. He takes off, laughing hysterically. Austin watches with a contemplative look.

Of course he’s the first one back—he had a head start—and he locks the bathroom behind him. You pound on the door furiously.

“Open this door, MacTavish, or so help me I will flay you!”

“Wanna see me in my birthday suit, is tha’ it?” He shouts teasingly. Your face flushes red and he laughs at your sudden silence. You kick the door once more for good measure before stalking back to the living room.

It’s not like you could sit down—you’re positively dirty—so all you can do is stand in the middle of the room and think. Think about how apparently Soap talks about you.

But why does it linger in your mind like a disease? It shouldn’t. Any thoughts about Soap shouldn’t be dwelled upon. It was just Soap. Loud-mouthed, one brain-celled Soap.

You chew your nails to keep yourself distracted.

It feels like forever until the water shut off. After a few minutes, the door opens and you hear him pad towards you.

“Think I used all the hot water, I’d give it a minute.”

“Dickhead,” you hiss. You’re going to spit at him some more, but all thoughts dissipate when you turn around and see that he’s shirtless. He’s wearing pants—thank god— but his entire upper half is bare for the world (you) to lay their eyes upon. You can see each gap between his abs, the swell of his pecs, the bulge of his arms. He raises an eyebrow at your shocked state. You swallow; it feels like your mouth has been stuffed with cotton. “Where is your shirt?!” You cry when you finally find your voice.

He shrugs. “Wanted to feel the air on my chest.”

“Not while I’m here, MacTavish!”

He flashes you a cheeky smile. “You don’ seem to mind that much.”

You gape at him like fish out of water. He’s not wrong, your right brain says. Yes he is, your left screams.

Unable to formulate your thoughts into words, you stalk past him. His eyes follow you with a teasing glint. The door slams shut behind you, and you bury your face into your hands.

He was right—the warm water is gone—but a cold rinse is exactly what you need right now. You bonk your burning head on the wall of the shower.

If Soap heard the noise, he doesn’t bother to ask about it.

~~~

“It’s nice, y’know,” he tells you during dinner. He’s wearing a shirt now. It brings you some semblance of of tranquility. Although, now it’s not hard to imagine what lays beneath that dark, woolen shirt.

You hide your face by taking a sip of water. “What is?” You ask nonchalantly, setting your cup down.

He smiles at you around a mouthful of food. “You,” he mumbles. “Finally comin’ aroond. Ye’re nice company.”

“ . . . Thanks?” You reply slowly. The words, he talks aboot you more often than not, float around in your mind. You shake your head. “Can’t say the same about you.”

Soap chuckles. “I’m jus’ sayin,’” he defends. “Glad to know you have a personality under there.”

“You sure know how to flatter a woman.” He’s laughing now, and you’re smiling. But then you’re looking around the cabin, and you’re reminded of the temporariness of the situation you’re in. It makes your smile slip into a frown.

While you have no intention of ejecting yourself from 141 anymore . . . what about here? What about this little cabin, tucked away in rural Scotland? In the end, you won’t have a choice, will you? You’ll have to leave and probably never see this place again. You can’t just build fences and chase sheep and laugh with your housemate forever.

The thought makes you sad and that terrifies you. You’re getting attached. It makes your entire body tense as fight-or-flight takes over because . . . because you can’t want something like this.

The army is all you have, you remind yourself. And it’ll be the only thing you’ll ever have.

You shouldn’t have left the house.

“What is it?” Soap inquires once he notices your expression. He sounds worried.

You rub your temples. “It’s . . . “ you cut yourself off with a sigh. “Nothing.”

He eyes you carefully. “You have that look,” he mumbles.

Your gaze snap to his. “What look?”

The look in his eyes turns into something pitying. “The one you get when you want to run away.”

You can feel your eyes widen, but it’s an involuntary reaction. The one you get . . . the one you get when you want to what?

Abruptly, you stand. Immediately Soap realizes his mistake. “Wait, lass, I didn’—“ The problem is that he’s not wrong. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? And you don’t even know if you’re angry or just . . . tired. “I’m sorry, tha’ came out wrong.” You linger at the entrance of the hallway. When did you get over here? “I jus’ don’ wanna see you close yourself off again.”

His words take a long time to sink in. “Don’t forget why we’re here, MacTavish,” you murmur. “We still have wars to fight, wars to prevent.”

“Well, yeah, I know tha.’ But we’re not fighting any wars now, are we?” He counters.

Not you, you think bitterly. You remain silent for a few moments more.

“You asked me if I could watch your six. And I said yes.” A pause. “So that’s what I’ll do.” You wait for a response, but after a minute of silence, you realize you won’t get one. “Goodnight, MacTavish.”

You can feel the phantom behind you, beckoning you to come back. But you don’t. You walk to your room, and gently close the door.

You really, really hope Laswell calls soon.

Chapter Text

Of course it’s this night, of all nights, that nightmares decide to plague your mind. It only makes sense that you’re tormented after an already sour evening. They always seem to appear when you’re at a low point, and honestly, you should have expected it.

They start with a familiar scene. This isn’t recent, far from it. It’s from before the military, before the foster homes, and even before that first family.

This is where it all began, when it all changed. It irritates you: how you can’t remember anything before then because that’s when you were normal. All you can recall now is everything that happened after.

Lights flash by the window. Soft voices talk to you from the front seat. Soft eyes glance at you from the rear-view mirror. Soft hands reach back to rub your knee. Everything’s so soft.

Then the squeal of tires. A crash. Glass being shattered and crushed. You’re rolling, rolling, rolling . . . until you’re not. You’re upside down, and there’s something warm dripping down your face.

The sirens come next, wailing things that sound like ghosts screaming into the night. Red and blue lights flash in front of you. Someone’s pulling you out, but they don’t have a face. You look around, and no one has faces. Not even the people laying next to the car who are supposed to be your parents. They don’t have faces, you can’t remember them—

You gasp yourself awake and blink at the ceiling. Sweat clings to your skin. After you realize what’s just occurred, you groan loudly. It was going to be a long night.

The ones that follow come and go like little needles to your skin, pricking once before disappearing. You see a car driving away, leaving you behind. The walls of your social worker’s office threaten to close in on you.

Eventually it gets to the point where you don’t even know if you’re sleeping anymore. You’re just drifting through memories that you’ve kept buried. Now they were all rising to the surface.

The last one is the worst. It’s unexpected because it’s not even a memory. No, this is a scene only the darkest, most fucked-up part of your brain could conjure up. It’s found the soft, fleshy part of and you plunged the knife in deep.

The night sky is illuminated by fire and smoke. Screams and bullets fill the air. You’re running down gravel streets, dressed in your combat gear. But when you pat yourself down, you find yourself unarmed. You have nothing.

Panicked, you look around. That’s when you realize, you know this this place. You recognize the fences and houses. It’s the village.

Where’s Soap?

You take off in the direction towards the cottage. The world around you distorts in black and red. You’re running fast—too fast. It feels like there’s no ground beneath your feet.

When you arrive, you practically kick the door down. The inside is dark and quiet, and your fear skyrockets. You stumble down the hallway and burst into his room.

“Soap,” you call frantically. Your voice echoes. No one responds. There’s a still lump under the blankets. You rush over, grasping onto his shoulder and shaking. He jerks like a limp rag doll . “Soap get u—“

His head rolls to the side. Your blood runs cold. His eyes were gone. Blood dribbles from his agape mouth and empty eye sockets.

You scream, the sound guttural and pained.

It follows you when you wake up.

The blankets are like vines wrapped around your body. When you try to stand, they just tighten and drag you back down. Your knees hit the hardwood with a dull thud. Shaking hands work to rip yourself free; you nearly tear the sheets in your haste.

Once you’re free, you stagger to the hallway. Soap’s door is left slightly ajar, just like it was in the nightmare. It feels too hauntingly familiar.

You push it open so hard that it bangs against the wall. Immediately the form under the blankets jolts. Soap’s head pops up from the pillows, his mohawk disheveled. His blue eyes blink rapidly.

“Wha . . ?” He mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “Lass?”

Your breathing comes in harsh pants. He’s alive, you realize, and you slump against the doorframe. He’s alive.

“You’re okay?” You croak, just to make sure.

He straightens, suddenly serious. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m . . . “ you stumble, head lightheaded and dizzy. Your breathing still hasn’t slowed. Another panic attack, fuck. “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

His voice calls after you as you head to the kitchen. But you don’t make it far: halfway there you’re crumpling to the floor. Your hands grasp for anything to hold onto—anything to ground you.

“Lass? What in the bloody—“ Soap rounds the corner, finding you on the floor. “Oh, Christ.”

“I’m fine,” you insist. Your voice cracks; you’re crying. “I’m fine.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. What’s wrong?” His voice is closer, but it sounds faraway at the same time.

“Water,” you beg. His footsteps fade. Moments later, a water bottle is pressed into your hands. You open it shakily and take big, greedy gulps. About halfway through, you make an annoyed noise when it’s suddenly ripped away.

“Calm down, hen. Ye’re gunna hurt yourself,” Soap tells you. He’s in front of you now, kneeled down to your level. A pathetic sound slips from you, maybe some start of a rebuttal. But you can’t talk—can barely think. “What happened?”

God, where to even begin. All that escapes you is a sob, and you curl in on yourself and cry. You don’t know what else to do.

After a few tentative seconds, a warm hand rests on your back. You jerk as though you’ve been shocked, but then relax into it.

Soap rubs soothing circles onto your shirt. The heat from him leaks through the fabric and onto your skin. You reach up with a hand—seeking more of it—until you grasp his forearm. He tenses under your touch.

You can practically hear him thinking. His hand moves, and suddenly you’re being pulled into his arms. Your head rests above his collarbone, chest pressed to his. The comforting warmth is everywhere now, sinking into your body. You welcome it like a flower opening to light.

Your eyes flutter shut, body relaxing with a sigh. He smells nice, like something spicy and undeniably masculine. It wraps around you and calms you. The strong arms hugging you bring you an undeniable sense of safety. You burrow further into him with another content noise.

He huffs. “You good?”

The small question brings you back from whatever fantasy your mind slipped into. You open your eyes, staring over his shoulder.

“ . . . You were gone,” you mumble.

His heart picks up after that. “I’m here now, right?”

“But what if you’re not? What if—“

“Shsh,” he hushes you. “Relax, hen. I’m not going nowhere.” One of his hand travels up to cup the back of your head. You lean into the touch like a kitten being scruffed.

You don’t know how long the two of you sit like that. Him, kneeling and holding you. You, kneeling between his thighs and pressed to him. You breathe in tandem.

Your eyelids start to droop. “I’m gonna fall asleep,” you mumble. It’s like you were being compelled—dragged back to sleep.

He chuckles. You can feel the sound in his throat. “Tha’s a’right. Go to sleep, I got you.”

In his arms, you fall. The nightmares don’t bother you after that, as though Soap himself protects you from the demons in your mind. Instead, you dream.

You dream of Russian winters and bad jokes, of card games and drinks.

It almost feels too good to be true. Like what happened was just another, happier scene that you made up to help yourself feel better. But when you open your eyes, he’s there. You’re on the couch; he’s slumped over on one of the chairs. Early morning light paints him bright and angelic. He could quite literally be your guardian angel.

His chest rises and falls with each breath he takes. It reminds you, again, that he’s alive.

You can’t help the way your thoughts drift to how he held you last night. Everything about it was so . . . nice. You don’t allow yourself to describe it further.

Your half-empty water bottle sits next to the couch. You drink the rest of it, letting the liquid wash over your dry throat. When you go to put it back down, you glance up and find Soap’s eyes on you.

His expression is unreadable. Though, it’s not hard to guess what he’s wondering.

“Nightmares,” you supply.

He nods in understanding. “Have my fair share of ‘em. They usually tha’ bad?”

You shrug and rub your crusty eyes. “Sometimes. Mostly when they get triggered by something.”

“And? What triggered them?”

Funny thing is, you don’t even know. Could’ve been Austin’s words to you, or perhaps Soap’s, or maybe the realization that you didn’t want to leave this place. Could’ve been all three. You just shrug.

Soap blows out a harsh breath. “Don’ gimmie tha’. Jus’ trying to understand.”

“But why, Soap?” You question. “You don’t need to understand. We’re just teammates.”

He groans, actually sounding in pain. “Well sorry to disappoint, lass, but ye’re a friend now, not jus’ a teammate.” Your gaze snaps to his, surprise etched into your features. “Aw, come on. Don’ tell me it’s tha’ hard to believe. If you say some shite like, ‘I don’ do friends,’ I swear I will throw you to the wolves.”

You cross your arms with a grumble. Despite appearing disgruntled, on the inside you were actually feeling quite warm. You want to punch yourself for it.

He wants to understand. You look at him: at the inviting gleam in his blue irises. You suppose he’d already held you at your worst. Couldn’t get much worse than that.

“I . . . like it here,” you murmur. “A lot.”

Soap shifts so that he’s leaning forward. His elbows rest on his knees. “Yeah . . ?”

“I want to stay here. Or . . . not stay, but . . . you know. Come back. Visit.”

He blinks at you. “Tha’ it?” You press your lips together. He scratches at the scruff on his jawline. “I mean, I don’ care if you feel like coming back. I thought you’d want to go back to your own place—“

“I don’t have a place, MacTavish,” you blurt. As soon as the words leave your mouth, you wish you could snatch them up and shove them back into your lungs. That was something that only you needed to know.

His eyes have gone a little wide. “Oh. I jus’ thought . . . that maybe you got compromised.”

You shake your head and bite your lip. Although you can feel his stare, you just look at your lap. How much more do you share? How much do you reveal?

“I didn’t . . . They never . . . “ you choke on your words. Take a deep breath, carry on. “None of the foster homes ever lasted. They always brought me back.”

Silence encompasses your words. You chew the inside of your cheek.

Finally, he says, “I’m sorry, hen.” The sincerity in his voice makes you falter.

“Don’t be,” you mutter. “Shit’s in the past now.”

He thinks for a moment. “But it gave you nightmares . . ?” Your mouth twitches. He wasn’t wrong. “If you’ve got nowhere else, then you can stay if you want. I really don’ care. Actually, I’d prefer it.”

You look at him sharply. “You don’t mean that.”

He answers your challenging look with one of his own. “Yes, I do.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“No you—“

“Why the hell are you deciding what I think? I swear, sometimes you are so . . . “ he makes a frustrated noise. He buries his face in his hands.

You stare at him, then around the house. “I can really stay, if I want?”

“Yes!” He exclaims. “Christ almighty, you can stay whenever you want. Even when I’m not here.”

When he’s not here . . ? You imagine wandering the house alone, without your annoying Scottish housemate. It should be a nice thought. You wouldn’t have to put up with his stupid antics or loud voice. It would be complete and utter peace.

But he’s also been your running partner in the morning. He’s the one you eat half-decent breakfasts with. He’s the one who held you.

Without Soap, it wouldn’t . . .

It wouldn’t be . . .

He pats your shoulder on his way to the kitchen. “Lesgo, I’m starving after all tha’.”

You stare at your hands.

Fuck.

~~~

Soap brings you drinking. Although you weren’t a big drinker, you join him just to get out of the house. And, to be honest, you’ve been searching for a way to get your brain to shut up. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Your thoughts have been annoyingly restless and loud. No matter how much you try to think about something—anything else, your thoughts always seem to drift back to Soap. His smell, his smile, his voice . . . it was all driving you insane.

For one, it was Soap. You’re not supposed to like Soap. You didn’t like him, but when did that change? Why did it change? How come you were so comfortable around him, whereas a few months ago you despised being in the same room as him?

Secondly, it was highly unprofessional. Having . . . feelings . . . for a comrade? There was no time for that, and certainly no place for it. The battlefield did not leave room for love.

Lastly—and most importantly—you were a friend to him, and no more. He said so himself. He’d given no insinuation that it was nothing more. None.

All you could do was wait and hope they faded over time.

So you go drinking with Soap to forget. You decidedly don’t think about how roundabout that is.

The pub isn’t necessarily busy, but there is a steady chatter that fills the room. It’s nice to just fade into the background of it all and simply listen. Throughout the night, Soap has been happily chatting with whoever’s thrown his way. People tried talking to you, too. You’re something of a mystery, a myth, Joe’s military friend who scarcely leaves the house. However, they quickly realize that you’re not really there to chat, and they end up drifting back to Soap.

Despite the different faces that come up to talk to him, Soap stays put by your side at the bar. You’re tempted to tell him to go join his buddies, but you hold your tongue. His elbow constantly knocks into yours—on accident or on purpose, you’re not sure. You find that you don’t mind.

What you do mind, however, is that there’s a woman who keeps giving Soap the fuck-me eyes from across the pub. She laughs loudly, fake and high-pitched in an attempt to get him to notice her. He hasn’t, though, and you can tell she’s getting annoyed.

You excuse yourself for a moment to use the restroom. While inside, you point at the mirror and tell your reflection to pull yourself together.

When you return, you’re downright livid to find the woman in your seat. She sits there as if she had no idea you were there, even though she must have seen you leave and swooped in. She has a hand resting on Soap’s forearm. That only fuels your anger.

You stride up to her, casual and calm like a predator stalking prey. The woman looks up at you when your shadow engulfs her. She wrinkles her nose. “Can I help you?”

“You’re in my seat,” you inform her.

She huffs. “Plenty o’ other seats.”

And that is true. Honestly, you could just leave. Whoever Soap spends his evening with isn’t any concern of yours. Might even help with the whole forgetting thing.

But . . . you can’t help but feel that something’s been stolen from you. That seat next to him—the one he’s chosen to remain beside—is yours. It has been yours for the entire night. Who is this dainty little thing and where does she get off thinking she can just take something from you?

You cross your arms and continue to level her with an even glare. Soap’s staring at you; you don’t bother to look at him. He could be upset that you’re cockblocking him, but you could really care less.

Finally, she frowns in a sulking manner and gets up. You reclaim your rightful spot, hoping that she scurries back to the dark corner she came from. But to your annoyance, she merely takes the seat on the other side of him.

“So,” she says, voice low and laughably sultry. “Where were we?”

“Aye, listen—“

“I was jus’ thinking,” she purrs, “that you’re much more impressive in person. I’ve heard about you, and it doesn’t really do you justice.”

“You flatter me, lass. But—“

She suddenly loops an arm with his, pressing her cheek to his bicep. More disgusting, syrupy-sweet shit pours from her mouth. As the cherry on top, she bats her lashes and squeezes her cleavage together. You fight the urge to roll your eyes. If that’s what Soap’s into, then whatever.

He taps his right pointer finger repeatedly on the counter next to you. You pay it no mind at first, recalling his fidgety nature, but then realization dawns on you.

It’s morse code.

H-E-L-P M-E

You nearly burst out laughing right then and there. You look up at him, finding his eyes already on you. He pleads with you silently. Ah, so Soap MacTavish didn’t know how to reject a woman, is that it?

Though you want to help him, you also want him to suffer. A bit of payback, for letting her take your spot. You start tapping back.

H-E-L-P Y-O-U-R-S-E-L-F

He frowns. You snicker quietly.

“So what do you say?” She asks. “Wanna get outta here?”

He sighs, shifting on his chair. “Sorry lass, I’m flattered, but I’m not . . . “ he trails off, searching for the words. “I’m jus’ looking to have a few drinks.”

She puffs up at that, like her goods were insulted. “Well, why not? You’re not into me?”

Nervously, he scratches at his nape. “I’m . . . I like women in the army, y’know?”

That catches your attention. It makes your brain stop to process and do the math. You’re a woman, and you’re in the army. One plus one was two.

“Well,” she tries once more. “I may not be enlisted, but I can certainly work a barrel.”

The line is so bad it has you choking on your drink. You spew out the last remaining bit before descending into a fit of giggles. Even Soap is trying to hide his chuckles.

The woman leans back to glare at you. “What’s so funny?”

“That,” you start after wiping your mouth, “was the worst line I have ever heard.”

She fumes. “Who even are you?”

“A friend. From the military,” you explain, a little smugly. She pieces two and two together. Once she does, she hugs Soap’s arm a little tighter.

“Surely a friend doesn’t need to stick their nose into his business?”

You shrug. “Sure, except I live with him. I’d rather not listen to a guinea pig squeal all night.”

That draws a few surprised chuckles from the people around you. It’s only then that you realize that basically everyone’s listening to you. It makes you feel powerful, like you commanded the room.

She gapes at you; you swear her face turns red. “This has nothing to do with you! So you can just take your shite and shove it up you’re—“

In a blink, you’re looming over her. Her words die on her tongue as she stares up at you in fear. Your arms cage her in, preventing her escape.

“I believe he told you he wasn’t interested. He’s too nice though, so let me spell it out for you in a language that you understand,” you growl, your face inching closer to hers. “He’s doesn’t fancy dainty little flowers, so fuck off before I acquaint you with a real barrel.”

Her eyes are so wide. It sends a little thrill down your spine. After a few moments, she quickly scurries under your arms and out the door. You watch her go, very pleased with yourself.

You and Soap excuse yourselves not long after that.

“Bloody hell, hen. A little overboard?” He asks as you trek back.

You shrug, indifferent. “You wanted my help. I helped.”

“Yeah I did. But Christ, think you made her piss herself.”

“You don’t sound too upset,” you note, eyeing him. He walks next to you, nearly shoulder to shoulder.

He huffs a little, mouth ticking up into a smile. “No, guess I’m not.”

“Should really learn how to tell a woman no, Soap,” you tease. You bump your shoulder with his, purposeful. What’s wrong with you? You’re never this touchy. “I won’t be here all the time to ward them off.”

“Damn, really?” He laughs. “Was hoping you would be.”

You don’t respond. Your throat is full of butterflies.

The night doesn’t end there. When you get back, Soap breaks out the whiskey. You continue to drink, just the two of you, sharing idle conversation.

You know it starts to get dangerous when your skin buzzes and your mind goes fuzzy. But you just keep going, prompted by his laugh and smile. You’re drunk off the knowledge that he’s apparently into military women. It makes your tipsy brain happy.

“That woman . . . “ you slur. There’s a large pause between your words, as though you actually have to think about what to say next. Soap eyes you, amused. “Was a bitch.”

He laughs. “Yeah she was.”

You frown, glaring at him. “You let her take my spot.”

“I know, hen. I’m sorry. Tried to tell her no.”

You grumble, finding his explanation apparently satisfactory enough. “You’re a good friend, Soap.” A few beats of silence. “A good friend with . . . with really big boobs.” Soap chokes on air as he lets out a full-belly laugh. You just stare at him, wondering what he found so funny. “Like, they’re bigger than mine,” you whine, feeling your own. “What bra size are you?”

His blue eyes sparkle with mischief. You probably won’t remember a single thing about this, but this is something he wants to savor.

“Triple Ds.”

You just gape at him. “You’re lying.” You grasp one of your own boobs, then reach out for one of his. “Let me measure you.”

He bats your hand away with red ears. “A’right, hen.” He leans over and plucks the glass from your hands. “Think tha’s enough for you.”

“Nooo,” you cry, trying to take it back. “ ‘m not done.”

“Yes y’are. Ye’re bladdered.”

“My bladder is—“ you burp, “—perfectly fine, thank you.”

He just chuckles again. You lean back into the armchair, letting the cushions swallow you. He watches as you blink slowly, lazily, trying to stay awake.

“Soap?”

“Mhm?”

“You’re not gonna leave, right?”

His smile falls. “Leave where, hen?”

“Leave me,” you snivel. You look up at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “They always left. Are you gonna . . ?”

Soap frowns. His heart aches for you and whatever you’ve gone through. He still doesn’t think he’s even close to understanding you. The more layers he pulls back, the more he realizes that there was just so much to you.

Call him greedy, but he wants to explore it all.

“No, hen. I’m not going anywhere,” he answers with a smile. You smile back at him, dopey and drunk.

“Oh. That’s good.”

You struggle to keep your eyes open. Like a gentleman, he helps you to your feet. “Up you get. Think it’s time to turn in.”

“Mm,” you hum, leaning into him. He supports some of your weight as you waddle to your room. He notices that your spot on the floor is gone—you’re actually sleeping on the bed now. Pleased with the thought, he helps you onto the mattress.

“There you go,” he murmurs as you burrow into your blankets.

You peer up at him, thinking hard. “John?”

His breath hitches. Only in his wildest dreams have you called him by his first name. Hearing it now, in real life, is a surreal fantasy. He swallows thickly.

“Yes, bonnie?”

“I’m in the military.”

He quirks a brow. “Yeah?”

You stick out your bottom lip. “And I’m a woman.”

It takes a second for his brain to catch up. His eyebrows might as well be in the sky. You simply grin at him before your head falls limp.

Soap stares at you, unsure of what to do with your drunken confession.

Chapter Text

The next morning, you wake up to a blistering headache and bile rising in your throat. You nearly don’t make it to the bathroom in time. As soon as the toilet lid is up, you’re lurching forward and heaving your guts into the bowl.

When the first wave passes, you groan and rest your cheek against your arm. The regret that always comes with hangovers starts to settle in. What were you thinking, drinking as much as you did? And then, a more important question; did you say anything sober-you wouldn’t?

There isn’t much time to dwell on it, because the second wave hits you like a truck.

In the room over, you hear Soap stir and pad over. “Everything okay?” He asks, a little amused. You scowl because he doesn’t even sound like he has a hangover. Screw him for being more responsible than you. It’s supposed to be the other way around.

You promptly flip him off, unable to meet his eyes. “Fuck off, MacTavish. I’m busy.”

“I see tha.’”

Your cheeks burn with humiliation when you convulse again. Why wasn’t he leaving? This was so embarrassing. You’re so disgusting right now and you couldn’t believe that you let yourself get that drunk—

Suddenly he’s pushing the hair from your forehead. You jolt, a hand flying up to hide your face.

“What’re you—go away!”

“Easy, hen. I’m jus’ trying to help,” he murmurs. You hold back a gag so that he doesn’t see.

“It’s gross, Soap,” you moan pathetically. “Let me rot in peace, asshole.”

But he doesn’t leave you to rot in peace. Instead, he sits by your side and holds your hair dutifully. At least he looks away while he does so. The kindness makes your stomach twist, and not from nausea.

When you’re finally empty and drained, you sit back on your haunches and sigh. His hand is still on your face. You freeze when he tucks a few strands behind your ear.

“How aboot you shower and then we’ll have breakfast, yeah?” He suggests.

His hand falls away and you secretly mourn the loss. “Don’t tell me what to do,” you grouse.

“Ouch, someone’s grumpy when they have a hangover.”

“I will kill you. Slowly.”

He throws his hands up in surrender. “A’right, a’right. I’m going, bonnie.”

Your head snaps up, cheeks dusting red as he leaves. Bonnie? That was new. And . . . you liked it. A lot.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

As you wash away the stench of sweat and alcohol, your mind drifts to what you do remember last night. Sitting by Soap, the woman at the bar, going home and laughing with him. After that, things were fuzzy.

The thing you remember most is him uttering those fateful words. I like women in the army. You can still see how his mouth moved around the worlds—can still picture how they orange light made his skin glow and his blue eyes glimmer.

That doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. Just because he liked military women did not mean he liked you.

Fucks sake, so much for forgetting.

After you’re dried and dressed, you wander to the kitchen. Soap’s started on breakfast, so you sit at the table. While you wait for him to finish, you can’t help but steal glances at him. Nervousness makes your palms sweaty.

“So,” you begin, not-so-smoothly, “did I say anything last night? While I was drunk.”

His movements falter. God, you wish you could see his expression right now. The silence stretches so long that it makes your heart rate skyrocket.

“You told me I have big boobs,” he states. One second passes, then two, then three, and even then you can’t seem to process what he’s said. You did what? “Then you tried to measure me. With yer hand.”

He finally turns to you then, and of course he’s wearing a smirk. Your face heats up and your first instinct is to bristle like an angry porcupine.

“I did not!” You defend indignantly. Your face feels like it’s on fire.

Soap’s grin only grows. Somehow—though you will avidly deny it—you know he isn’t lying. You may have . . . given some thought as to how his pectorals would feel.

“Whatever you say, bonnie.”

That fucking nickname again. You cross your arms and mutter under your breath.

Breakfast is served not long after that. Though he doesn’t tease you anymore, you can’t help but notice that Soap’s expression is forlorn. You can see it in his unfocused eyes and how he stabs at his food more than he eats it.

It should bother you—how his trouble influences you. But it doesn’t; you’re too concerned with what’s bothering him.

“Something happen?” You wonder, tone neutral. It’s the closest to an are you okay that you’ll get too.

He looks at you over the rim of his coffee mug. Then he sets it down with a sigh. Ponders for a few seconds before informing you, “Laswell called. We got the green light, Nik’ll be coming to pick us up in a few days.”

Your muscles tense, then relax. “Ah,” is all you can say.

Part of you isn’t bothered by it. That part of you is the battle-hardened soldier, always ready to leap into action. That part of you reeks of smoke and metal and puts bullets through skulls without a second thought.

Some time ago, that was the only part of you that you knew. But not there’s another half of you that likes to wake up to the smell of rain and see rolling hills outside your window. That part of you belongs here, in this house, with the man who’d forced himself into your life.

Now you were a mix of both, so the revelation both stings and relieves.

A few moments of awkward silence lapses between you. Soap clears his throat. “Price is gunna work is like dogs when we get back.” His tone is light, but it lacks the usual spark of humor. Seems he might not feel too differently than you.

You smile ruefully. “Yeah he will.”

More quiet as you both process the news.

“I meant it, y’know. You can stay here, if you want,” he mentions. “Could talk to Laswell.”

You nod slowly. “That would be nice.”

“Anything you wanna do before we have to go?”

The first thing that pops into your mind is what you would do when it was raining. Those days were always spent on the couch. Sometimes you would talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. It was nice either way. You wouldn’t mind spending these last few days like that.

“Let’s just . . . hang out.”

He smiles. It’s not cocky or teasing or victorious, it’s just that: a smile. “Read my damn mind, bonnie.”

~~~

Two days later, you wake up in the middle of the night hot and bothered and with a lingering ache between your legs. The dream you’d been having slips away. All you’re left with is the phantom sensation of lips on your neck and hands on your hips.

You pant heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly. You squeeze your thighs together to bring yourself some sense of relief. It’s been so long since you’ve had those dreams. What were you, a hormonal teenager?

And the worst part? There were two things you could recall. Clearly. Blue eyes that dragged you in like a strong current. A low, thick voice accentuated by a heavy accent.

The frustrated scream you let out is muffled by the pillow.

“Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, eh?” Soap remarks later. You say nothing. Instead, you fix him with a scowl.

Your grumpiness continues throughout the day. You try to push them away—the thoughts of that dream—but to no avail. It only makes your temper, and your core, burn hotter. You feel like a sizzling volcano about to explode.

Soap makes it worse by just being him. He just keeps calling you bonnie and talking with that accent. Before last night you never realized how attractive it was. Honestly you wish you could go back to that because now you couldn’t stop noticing it.

At dinner, you angrily poke at your food. Now used to your mood, Soap prattles on, unaware that he’s making it worse.

“Can’t wait to see the boys again. Gaz still owes me a fifty, the bastart.” You grunt, letting him know that you’re kind of listening. “Told Ghost to bring back some bourbon too. Don’ know if he will or not.”

“Starting to miss your cuddle buddy?” You coo condescendingly.

He scoffs. “That man wouldn’t cuddle to save his life.“

“Maybe it’s just you. I mean, I wouldn’t touch you with a twenty foot pole,” you lie easily. If you believe it hard enough, it’ll come true.

He raises an eyebrow. “You were pretty keen on trying to feel me up the other night.” The effect is immediate. Your face heats and you quickly stand from the table. Soap’s chuckle follows you as you beeline for the sink. “Aw, bonnie. I’m sorry, come back.”

“I was drunk, Soap,” you remind him as you thrust your dishes under the cold running water. Maybe the cold could travel across your body. It doesn’t.

“I know, bonnie.” A pause. “You’re not anymore though.”

You roll your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “No shit.”

Another beat of quiet. “You still want to? Feel me, I mean.”

The world around you seems to freeze. Your body suddenly runs hot and cold all at once. Arousal and fear war in your body, and the effects are obvious. Your body tenses, but at the same time, your thighs press together.

“ . . . No,” you murmur. It’s a horrible lie.

“No?”

“No,” you try to repeat with more force, but it doesn’t work. You roughly turn the tap and dry your hands. “Plenty of other women who want to feel you, Soap.”

His hand suddenly appears on the counter beside you. You jump. You didn’t even hear him approach, but now he’s right there. If you turned, you’d probably be staring right into his eyes. But you keep your eyes trained on his hand and how it squeezes the countertop.

“Don’ want any other women,” he murmurs, voice pitched low. You shiver and swallow thickly.

The fear wins against the arousal. “I shouldn’t . . . you . . . “ you mumble as you start to pull away. Retreating, again.

But then his hand hold your arm. Not tight, just enough to keep you still. “Bonnie,” he says. It’s not a warning. It’s just . . . desperate. “Please don’t go again.” You’re starting to tremble. His voice comes softer, next. “You called me John, the other night. You probably don’ remember.”

You begin to lean back to him, but still refuse to meet his gaze. “And?”

“I liked it,” he confesses. “A lot.” He allows his words to sink in. He liked it. “Bonnie if you . . . if you want this then all you have to do is say it.”

That finally has your eyes lifting to him. You’re pulled back by the current in his eyes. The same eyes that search your face.

“What if I do?” You ask quietly.

He lets out a breath and gives you a small smile. “Then you can have me.”

You hum, shuffling just a centimeter closer. “I’m greedy.”

“That makes two of us then.” His eyes are a little darker now.

Your hip knocks against the counter. Soap places one hand to your right. When you show no signs of complaint, he places the other to your left. It forces your back to meet the edge of the counter. You’re caged now, caught and reeled back in.

“You want me?” You question with a small, sly tone.

“Only everyday of the damn week.”

Your hands find his abdomen. Not pushing or pulling, just holding. He tenses under your touch.

“Then show me,” you demand.

He waits a second, then two, before he leans down and slants his mouth with yours. You make a pleased noise and crane your neck to meet him. He pushes forward until you’re pressed against him.

His lips are searing against yours—like a brand. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to forget the feel of his body against yours. You slide your hands up his chest until they rest on his neck. You can feel his pulse under your fingertips, fast and strong.

He pulls away momentarily to sigh and catch his breath. “Show you, huh?” He parrots. “Yeah, I’ll show you.”

Then he’s kissing you again. His hands roll up your shirt and find purchase on your waist. You gasp at the contact and he swallows the noise. His paws leave trails of warmth as they travel up and up until they’re pushing under your bra.

“You’ll never forget when I’m done with you,” he promises. With that, he cups one of your breasts and squeezes. Your breathing stutters and it turns into a whine when he pinches a nipple and rolls it.

“Soap,” you whimper. Then, remembering his earlier statement, “John.”

He reacts better than you thought he would. He curses and ruts against you. You can feel his length pressing into your belly through his jeans. The weight of it makes you dizzy.

Your shirt and bra get tossed somewhere in the room. He immediately goes back to palming your breasts, now bare and pert to the cool air. His touch is torturous and hot.

“John they’re still gonna - mmf - be there later. Can you . . ?”

He hums, dipping his head to nip at the flesh below your collarbone. “Why the rush? Got somewhere to be in the morning?”

“No?”

His lips press against yours again. Then to your cheek, your jaw, your ear. “Good. Would be a shame if you did and you had to limp there.”

Eyes narrowing, you grab a fistful of his mohawk and yank his head back. He makes a choked noise, then groans when you sink your teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. It’s your turn, then, to tease him with slow hands. They travel under his shirt and over the hard planes of his stomach.

Then they finally land on what you’ve been yearning for. You give his pecs a generous squeeze.

“You keep making these threats, Sergeant,” you growl into his skin before nibbling again. “When are you going to act on them?”

He snatches your wrists. You glance up at him, hoping to find some kind of irritation. But he’s only grinning.

“Right now. Turn around.”

It’s like someone’s plunged a molten knife into your core. The command makes heat spread across your body, consuming you from head to toe. You obey him, skin buzzing with anticipation.

He drapes himself across your back like a giant blanket. He must’ve taken his shirt off, because now you could feel the blistering warmth of his skin. His arms wrap around your waist, hands traveling up to your breasts once more. You’re about to scold him again, but then one of his hands is moving down, down, down.

“Think you’re all bark and no bite, bonnie,” he whispers into your ear. One of his fingers toys with the waistband of your pants.

You grit your teeth to prevent anything from slipping out. “I literally just bit you MacT - hahh,” your words taper off into a gasp when his hand slips under your sweats. And then it devolves into a choked moan when he finally cups your clothed sex.

A chuckle runs through his body. “Yeah, but look at you now.” He’s not wrong. You’re bucking into his hand as he massages you up and down. Little mewls fall from your agape mouth. His movements are calculated: careful. The heel of his hand presses firmly onto your clit as his fingers rub against your slit. It aches but it aches good. Honeyed warmth pools in your belly.

You’re nothing but putty in his hands: willing and malleable.

His other hand holds you at the throat. Not choking you, but simply preventing your head from dropping. It gives him full access to the supple skin below your jaw. He takes the opportunity to press sloppy kisses and stinging bites to your exposed neck.

The onslaught of sensation is too much. His stubble grazing your skin, his pelvis pressed against your ass, his fingers winding you up and up—

But then he’s pulling away just as you were starting to taste something you hadn’t had in years. “John,” you plead.

“Shh, I know, I know.” He pushes your sweats and soaked panties down to your ankles. A large, warm hand rests between your shoulder blades. He gently pushes forward until your elbows rested on the counter. It makes you present yourself to him, and despite the situation, you flush red in embarrassment. “Gunna make you feel good, m’kay?”

With that, he starts to trail kisses down your spine. He descends lower until he’s kneeling behind you. You shiver when each of his hands finds your ass. He spreads you like an overripe fruit: soft and sweet.

“Look at tha’,” he murmurs when he finds you wet and glistening for him. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

Then he’s leaning forward, swiping his tongue through your folds. Your breathing stutters as he probes, tastes. Then he circles your clit, and it rips a wail from your throat.

He hums into your skin, shuffles closer, and resumes the torture. You’re whining and heaving and scrambling to find purchase on anything. The sensation is so foreign but so good—you don’t know whether to try and squirm away or closer. You don’t get a choice, though, because John holds your hips in an iron-grip. You wouldn’t be surprised if you wore bruises tomorrow.

A thumb starts to toy with your clit. His tongue prods at your entrance before impatiently slipping in. He curls it within you, and you let out the filthiest moan yet.

The sounds are obscene. You’re dripping around him—onto him. You should feel shameful, but pleasure burns it away. His tongue is brushing against that spongy spot within you and his thumb moves in tight circles over your nub. The embers in your abdomen are roaring now, all-consuming.

Then something inside you starts to wind up tight. Your eyes fly open, fear coursing through you. “John, wait—“

He stops immediately, panting. “What is it?” His tone is full of worry—worry that he’d hurt you.

But that’s not it at all. He’d given you nothing but toe-curling pleasure. How were you supposed to tell him that you were afraid?

He must see it, though. Sense it. “It’s okay, bonnie.” He beckons for your hands, and you give them to him willingly. They’re held in his larger ones next to your hips. “I’ve got you. Let me do everything.”

Like a loyal canine, he awaits your command. You swallow and nod at him. He enthusiastically goes back to lapping and sucking at you.

It doesn’t take long for you to reach that same point. His tongue flicks rapidly over your clit and it makes your belly impossibly tight.

“Fuck—“ you whine as it starts to snap. Then, like a bursting star, everything explodes. “John!”

He growls into your cunt and buries himself deeper, eager to work you through it. You sob and cry and shake like a frail leaf as the waves crash into you. John draws it out for as long as he can until you’re sniffling and overstimulated. Only then does he pull away.

He rises behind you like a god, or a titan, or both. You find your chin being tilted toward him so he can claim you in a burning kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“We can stop here,” he murmurs gently.

But you frantically shake your head and push your ass onto him. He lets out a choked noise as you grind onto his pelvis. The fabric of his jeans scrapes deliciously against your clit. “Please,” you beg.

He curses, finally freeing himself. Your walls clench on nothing when you see him—long and thick. He takes himself in his hand and guides himself between your slippery thighs. You spread your legs more and stick your rear out farther.

You gasp when the head starts to press against your entrance. He’s slow and gentle when he feeds more into you with small ruts of his hips. It isn’t hard with how wet you’ve become.

“Thassit, thassit, steamin’ Jesus—“ he groans when his hips press to your ass. You can’t help but moan as well. You can feel every inch of him inside you, pressing so far that it has you gasping for breath. He gives you a few shallow thrusts to get accustomed to him.

Then, when you’re ready, he starts actually fucking you. Hard and deep. The pace is bruising and forces you up the counter with every thrust. Your mouth falls open; you have no control over the whimpers spilling out.

“Wouldn’t believe how long I’ve thought about this, fuck—“ he grunts. His hips continue to piston forward mercilessly. You can tell he’s staring at where you’re stretched around him—where you bounce on his cock helplessly. “Knew you’d be obedient, under all tha’.” You try to refute, but a hard snap of his pelvis leaves you breathless. “Jus’ be good and take it f’ me, yeah?”

It’s not like he’s giving you much of a choice. He’s holding you down with one hand on your neck and the other on your hip, wringing your body for all it’s worth. Every drag of his length sends sparks dancing across your skin until you’re nothing but a heated, whining mess.

That wave starts to build again, but stronger than before. You start to quiver uncontrollably under him. “John,” you warn with a sob. He slows for a moment, only to lift you until your back was flush with his stomach. One hand splays across your sternum and keeps you pinned to him. The other disappears below you to press against your clit.

When he picks up the same brutal pace as before, you practically scream. “Nngh! John!” You wail over the clapping of skin. You try to thrash in his grip, but he just holds you tighter.

“Come on, come on bonnie,” he growls into your ear. You sob in his arms. He starts to pound into you harder, more purposeful. His finger on your clit moves faster. “Give it to me, let me have it.”

The hand on your chest moves up to your throat. He squeezes softly—just barely restricting air flow—but it’s enough. Without warning, you shatter over him.

It blinds you—leaves you mute and deaf for a moment. It’s so intense that your legs would’ve given out, had he not been holding you.

John grunts as you tighten around him. He continues to ram into you desperately.

When it finally finishes, your body starts to prick with overstimulation. “ ‘S too much. John, please,” you beg.

“Almost there, bloody hell. Where-?” He chokes out.

“I’m on the pill, please, inside—“

That’s all he needed to hear. His hands grab your hips, holding you still as he drives into you three more times before spilling deep inside. The groan he releases is so rich and drawn-out, and you know then that you’ll never forget it.

For a minute afterwards, you both simply stand there, panting. It takes a while for your mind to come back to you. In the meantime, all you feel is sore and pleased.

He starts to kiss along your marked neck. “You did so well, bonnie. Feeling okay?”

“Mhm,” you hum, tilting your head so he can kiss you. It’s long and slow, so different compared to the mindless pounding you just received.

“So,” he clears his throat, nose pressed to your temple. “Wanna go again?”

He shifts, and you realize he’s hard again.

After that is a blur. He takes you on the wall next, pinning your back to the surface as he bullies himself into your puffy cunt. When you start sobbing, he’s there to lap up the stray tears.

Somehow you make it to his bedroom, where he gets you on your back with your thighs pinned up to your chest. At this angle, you watch each inch of him disappear in every hard thrust. When you start to whimper, he’s there to swallow the noises up.

In the shower, you get on your knees and take him in your mouth. You work at him until he spasms on your tongue. And when your knees wobble, he’s there to hold you steady.

When all is said and done, he crushes you against his chest and murmurs sweet praise to you as you fall asleep. He tells you that he’ll always be here and that he won’t abandon you.

You believe him.

~~~

“Did you mean it?” You ask him the next morning. Your legs ache, and you know that you won’t leave his arms for the better part of the morning.

He shifts, cracking his blue eyes open to glance down at you. “Mean what?”

“What you said about how long you’ve thought about me,” you explain, letting your head fall against his collarbone.

He hums, pressing his lips to your crown. “Course I did. I don’ lie, bonnie.”

“But why?” You crane your neck to peer up at him. “I was always so . . . distant.”

His hand cradles your jaw, thumb caressing your cheek. “Not the first few days, you weren’t,” he murmurs. “There was something there. Jus’ had to find it again.”

You hum, running your hands over the hair between his pecs. Your hand rises and falls with each deep breath he takes. His dog tags draw your eyes as the morning light catches on them. Yours rest heavily on your sternum.

A sigh escapes you. “War isn’t the place for relationships, John.”

“I know, bonnie.” He shuffles closer until he’s draping himself over you. “Told you though, we’re not fighting wars right now.” Several small kisses are placed around your face, until you guide him to your lips. You share the same breath. “Don’ worry your pretty head aboot it until we get there.”

“You’re a bad influence,” you huff tiredly. “I should cut you off.”

“Too late now. I’m with you like a disease.” He snuggles into your neck. “We’ll be okay.”

As he falls asleep on your chest, you don’t doubt it for a second. The thought doesn’t bother you, and you aren’t angry at yourself for it. There in his arms, you find what you’ve been looking for all along.

“Yeah,” you agree. “You’re right.”

You’re home.