Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

TW: references to torture and drugs

Fingers pried open your right eye before you even opened it. Scorching light spat down onto it. Then a jab in your left shoulder. What in the fuck? Your senses clawed through a thick and sickening fog, pain piercing the veils draped over your consciousness. 

Pain was gnawing at your wrists. Burning, cuts and carvings burning through your thighs. Each breath scraped the inside of your lungs. Violent tremors wracked through your body. Your left eye throbbed uselessly.

Midazolam. Must have been what those bastards used on you. Little syringes, clear as glass lies. No pain. Then, drowsiness. Confusion. Detachment. Dissociation. That’s what you’ve seen and felt. Then you thought you were lying. You’re sure you must have managed to lie through the confusion. Afterwards, nothing. Someone took the film strip of your mind and smeared the frames black. Perhaps that’s their mercy.

If you talked, you don’t remember it. But God, you hope you didn’t.

The ceiling pulsed above you, now far too dark at once. The shadows in the corners crawled - long, spindly fingers that folded into themselves when you blinked. The tremors were getting worse.

Yet, the pain was foreign, muted, like a radio playing in the next room, crackling through the wall. You drifted somewhere above it, detached, feeling your own wreckage behind locked doors. How confusing for you, spectator of your own demise. Maybe this is the end. 

Then, it crashed back all at once, violently. Your spine arched with the jolt of it, like your nervous system had just rebooted mid-scream. Blood pounded against your eardrums. A sharp gasp tore out of your throat, only to splinter into a choked cough. The suddenly white-hot light above you seared your vision through fluttering lashes, and your stomach lurched sideways. There was an uneven hum in the background.

Maybe this was it. Afterlife. 

You were still tied down. The straps bit into your abdomen. You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Static shivered through your jaw. A hand pressed flat against your chest. Flickers hovered just beyond focus, pulsing and gone like something alive. Swarms of lights.

A booming voice over you. “L.T., he's up, Jesus, fuckin’ hell, breathe, mate. You’re safe. You’re out. We’ve got you. You’re on a bird.”

Wait, what? Who’s that? Another one of them? No. No, this was different. The air was rushing. Thudding. The stink of rot was gone. Something cold brushed your cheek. Your right eye, half-lidded and burning, caught a blurry British flag, almost swallowed by the haze.

Is this real? A dream? A fucking trick? Did you have another choice than to believe him?

The hand tapped twice on your chest. It made you lurch forward violently.

You tried to speak, but your tongue caught on your teeth. Heavy. Swollen. Your mouth was full of metal, thick and warm. Blood?

“Tac,” you slurred, barely above a breath. Or the idea of one. “T-Tac… where's Tac? N’ Toe…?” 

The voice hesitated. And so did your heart. Then it sighed. “They’re in another ride.’

Your chest convulsed, lungs catching on something sharp. Panic, or hope. “They - they’re okay?” you asked. “They got out?”

Silence. The kind that wraps around you like gauze. Sedative. Gentle. Too gentle.

“Aye,” the voice then replied. “They’re stable. Gettin’ looked after. Same as you.”

Relief broke like a bone. You nodded. “Thanks. They… prom’sed…S-said we’d go… t’gether. Last one out, no one left behind.” Your vision melted sideways, you body unresponsive. Maybe it wasn't you. Maybe the sky suddenly tilted. Your teeth clacked together hard. You tasted blood. This time, fresh. Your words bubbled through the hot, metallic warmth.

“For fuck's sake, he’s bit his tongue!" the voice snapped. "Christ, L.t., can ye not fly straight fer once, ya eejit?”

They were alive.
They were alive.

You were gone before the relief finished echoing. And the darkness that followed wasn't kind, but it wasn't Hell. They were alive. That was the promise. For now, that would do.

First comes naïveté. Then stupidity. Then idiocy. And then - then there's you.

You should have known better than to believe what the voice had said. Calm. Reassuring. Bastard. Liar. Traitor. Bloddy son-of-a-bitch- That- Whoever he was, whatever he thought he was doing, one day, if you ever find him, you’ll thank him for dragging your half-dead body out of hell… and then you’ll put your hands around his throat and squeeze until he can’t feed you another lie.

Tac and Toe weren't extracted with you.

They were left behind. Or worse. You try to not think about the worst.

The truth rotted beneath your skin. Yet, your mind slipped. The details were slowly scrubbed away from you as one day stretched onto the other. You were not allowed to remember. Against your own mind, the details of your interrogation slipped from your grasp. That's funny. Toe used to say that you're not the brightest of the group. "Lights on, but no one's home."  You wished he'd tell you that once more, so you could punch him again for it. Just to know he was still breathing. 

Either way, by the time the film reel started playing again, you were already in Ramstein. Some NATO hospital, generic walls, generic doctors, generic nurses. Standard procedures carried out in careful voices. Standard questions, answers duly noted. The voice was gone. So was your squad. The pain subsided. Your left eye disappeared behind thick gauze. You could not see your thighs through the bandages. But not everything vanished. You remembered enough. Enough to know something had gone horribly wrong. Just enough to know the presence of all that was missing.

You were still trying to place the accent of the voice from the chopper when a soft knock broke your focus, mid-slurp of a lukewarm chicken noodle soup. You already knew who it was. 

Laswell stepped in with that calm, unreadable look she always wore. She paused just inside the door, taking out a small container.

“These are the cookies that my wife has made you. She says hi. The JTF2 sent me instead of your WO,” she said. “They want to pull you out. Said it’s time for an honourable discharge. Said you've earned it. Called you a good kid.”

"You'd think that after all these years, they'd have the decency to do it themselves after lending me out to you."

She just stared at you. Right. Then, she asked: “You feel alright about that?”

You didn’t answer. The silence stretched out, heavy and slow. She knew the answer. She glanced at the heart monitor beside your bed. “Look,” she said, voice tighter now, “I can pull some strings. Get you transferred to another unit once you’re cleared. Maybe CIA. Somewhere that’ll take you. Somewhere you can still do some good.”

"You know that that's not what's important to me, Laswell."

Laswell gave you a slight nod, as if she expected it. She crossed the room and sat down without asking. Her voice lowered.

“Tac and Toe…” She hesitated, just a second too long. “They’re MIA. Presumed KIA. ”

The world didn’t stop, but it should have. Your hand clenched around the spoon. Your throat constricted. Bile and soup surged up and tears punched to the corners of your eyes. You pulled back your head. Swallowed. Breathed - in or out? Out. And in. Air was not coming in. Breathed in. In. You were choking. In, dammit. You coughed. Breathed in again. Slowly. Slowly suffocating. You coughed again. Try to breathe out.

“You’re lying.” Your voice was hoarse, even to your ears. “They’re not dead. They’re not.”

“ We didn’t recover them. Best guess is that they were displaced before our people got there. It means that there's still a chance. Until we know for sure, I won't close their files in the CIA,” Laswell said gently. “We have no further intel. I’m telling you what’s on record.”

“That's not what the voice said." Your eyes stung, your chest caved in on itself. You whispered: “They’re mine. You can't take them from me. Please.” The last word shattered as it left your lips, small and broken. Pathetic. "They're still there. You have to go back for them. I can go. Yeah. I'll get better, then I'll go and get them back. I just need you to organize my transport. Please. We can't just leave them there."

Laswell didn’t flinch. Briefly (or maybe you imagined it), she looked tired. Or guilty. Or maybe nothing. "Then get well first, Tick. What's the voice? You're hearing one?"

Did you answer that? You're not quite sure that you did. But you do remember your tears mixing with the chicken noodle soup. Gross.

The lights stayed on. No one was home. Which hardly mattered: since then, there has been no home.

You've decided that you're going to find them yourself

No matter how long it takes. No matter how cold the track will be at that point. You'll feed on every scrap of information and claw your way to them. Dig until your fingernails are gone, until your fingers bleed, until something gives. Because you have to.

It might take years.

That is evident; so you accept that now. In the slow, solemn way someone accepts winter's first snows. Accept that for years maybe there will only be fields and fields of blank space to thread through. But that's alright. You'll learn to dig through the cold. It will be a long season. Inevitable, but not forever.

One day you'll reach them. You have to believe that. No, you do believe that,

Nor Tac, nor Toe would go down this easily.

Not Toe with his crooked grin and his endless, southern charm. He's always had his way of making war feel a little less like hell. Field surgery on a Humvee felt like a stroll on the porch with him around. He had a joke for everything, even the things that shouldn’t be joked about. Especially those. And somehow, he made it work.

Not Tac, who was your anchor, Tac's never told you that he was proud of you, or that he believed in you. But the way he stood beside you in the aftermath of every mission, he didn't need to. Calm and level-headed, Tac had this way of looking at you like he already knew you’d get through it, even when you didn’t believe it yourself. In that look was everything he'd never have said. "You’ve got this.", "You’ll make it.". "I’ve got your back". You’d come to count on that silence like you did on oxygen. Still do.

And Toe. Oh, Toe hated the fact that Tac was promoted Sergeant first. You’d never seen a man sulk so dramatically while fighting so hard to hide his smile. For two weeks, he had muttered about how “quiet doesn’t equal leadership”, knowing full well that Tac just sipped his coffee, five feet away, unfazed. You and Toe were stuck at Master Corporal like bad jokes without a punchline, while Tac got to play Dad like he'd always been meant for it.

Once, in private, Toe even mockingly saluted him with the most disrespectful salute imaginable (to Toe), with three fingers and a wink. 

But it was all in good faith. Toe had a special way of lingering a little longer when Tac was around. Used to nudge him during debriefs just to watch the poor man blink.  You’d caught Toe watching Tac afterward, like he was waiting for something. A crack, anything. Tac just blinked at him, then continued. Oblivious as ever. Maybe too oblivious. Once, Toe had said that Tac's resting face made him feel "oddly safe and wildly judged all at once." Tac hadn’t even blinked at that either. He'd just raised an eyebrow and passed him the mission file.

They were your world. Tick was the little dumb one. Smiled too easily, cared a little too much, missed some cues here and there, believed in people after all the evidence to the contrary. Tick was nothing without Tac and Toe. Tick did not work alone.

That's the thing about parasites. They die without their hosts.

But you were never meant to be a parasite. More like a canvas. After all, that's how you three had gotten your callsigns. You'd passed out on the cot, bone-tired, when a drunken Toe had gotten his hands on a sharpie and got himself and Tac into your room. You should have known better. Hell, Tac should have known better. But maybe Tac was also drunk. Or maybe too amused to stop Toe. He never really did, when Toe got like that.

You had woken up groggy, still shaking off the exhaustion of training. You hadn't found a clean shirt to slip on that morning. It was only when Toe kicked your door open with breakfast in hand and burst into one of his wheezy laughing fits that realised something was off. That always meant trouble.

You looked down and noticed the game of Tic-Tac-Toe scrawled on your left chest. A full game; and Tac had won. He always played Xs.

That’s how it started. Tac. Toe. Tick. Somehow, it had stuck. It was still sticking.

And they’re still out there. Somewhere. You feel it in your bones - in that same quiet place inside you that used to settle when Tac was near, that same breath of laughter that Toe used to drag out of you when nothing was funny. And you, the idiot, the parasite, the dumb one, you're going to bring them home.

Hope was sour in your chest. Hope meant that they were still alive.

And you would not let that sparkle go out. Not while there was even a flicker left.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 20--/11/03, 1500

"A Joint Task Force 2 squadron attempted to intercept a cargo convoy last week in Kastovia. You have recovered, last Friday, what was left of the personnel. From what we can tell, they have underestimated both the nature of the shipment and the firepower protecting it. We now suspect the presence of chemical weapons.

We are taking over the operation, effective immediately. The JTF2 has silently covered a big part of this operation already. This is the last step. We don’t get second chances with these kinds of shipments. We’ve tracked the convoy again, this time near Tessalit. If it crosses into Adal, it’ll be beyond our reach. Once you secure the shipment, the CJIRU will step in for containment and transport.

The initial reports mentioned a possible addition: a secondary shipment. No solid visuals yet, but we believe it’s moving in parallel. Likely a decoy. Intercept it if you can, but the primary objective is the original shipment. You have execute authority.

This is an unsanctioned mission. No formal presence. No acknowledgment. At no point should it be evident that American or British forces are operating on Kastovian soil. We have secured the collaboration of the local authorities. They will stay out of your way.

The rest is in the files. Gear up. You move in two.”

Soap's notes on this mission (IDK why the embedded link did not work, here it is): https://imgur.com/1VVFiRZ

Tuesday, 20--/11/03, 2300

The transport plane rumbled steadily through the night. The ribbed fuselage curved around Soap, groaning with the occasional shift in wind. The engines hummed in unison, twin hearts pulsing in his ears. He shifted uncomfortably on the webbed bench, rubbed a line of sweat from his brow, and cast a glance across the dimly lit interior.

Soap hated evening transports. To be fair, he also hated it during the day. Or overnight. No time’s right for this. In or out of daylight, every flight made his skin crawl.

He sighed, then looked sideways.

“Tell me you'll gonnae cook under all that in Kastovia, Lt. Steam a little? ”

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He sat statue-still, gear secured, the skull mask as blank as ever. His arms rested casually over his rifle. Soap wasn’t even sure if the bastard was blinking.

“Wouldn’t be the heat that kills me,” Ghost said finally. “It’d be the company.”

Soap scoffed. “Well, no one forced you to park it next to me, did they?”

"Mate, he hasn’t moved since we left Niger." Gaz chimes in from the front row, leaning back just enough to smirk around the bulk of his helmet. "Pretty sure you’re the one always parking next to him"

"Oi, jog on. Whose side are you even on?"

"The one that's letting me sleep in peace." Price groaned from beside Gaz. His voice was rougher than usual. “Cut it, Johnny. I’m tryin’ to rest.”

Soap raised his hands in mock surrender, then slouched back with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A'right, a'right. Shuttin’ up.” 

Soap rolled his eyes but fell silent. From the corner of his eyes, he caught Gaz wordlessly peel open a pack of wet wipes and press one into Price’s hand. Price took one with a muttered thanks, dabbing at his brow before leaning back again, eyes shut.

Soap didn’t watch them. Not really. Just noticed.

The kind of noticing you filed away for later.

Soap turned his gaze toward the bolted floor, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. Price didn’t usually snap at him for that little, not even when things were tense. If he was like this now…Well. Maybe the promise of heat wasn’t the only thing sinking into their bones.

His silence did not last long. Soap did not know how to shut up. Don't take it wrong. He could, when it counted. He is no idiot. When it was vital that he did, when a word too loud could become a hole through his mates' head. He's trained, disciplined: he could cage his words behind his teeth and shove them down his throat. Drown out his perpetually spinning mind with the op and the adrenaline. Bite down onto them so the syllables bled out before they ever saw light. But not now. After the extraction last week, silence had teeth.

Soap didn’t mean to speak, not really. The words sneaked out of his mind and slipped out quietly. “…Bin thinkin’ about that medevac last week.”

Ghost didn’t react at first. Then, just the faintest tilt of his head, enough for the skull mask to angle his way. That meant "go on".

“The JTF2 lad ye near took out.”

That got him. Ghost’s shoulders twitched, a minute shift in the way his fingers curled around each other. "Was barely a pull, Johnny."

“Didnae even have a chance, did they? Probably strolled right intae a fuckin' trap," Soap said quietly. “Ye think Laswell kent?”

Ghost gave a slight shake of his head. “Don’t think it was Laswell."

"Team still fucked it."

"Teams fail all the time.”

Ghost's voice was factual. Facts, like saying that war was loud, or that his rations would be nasty. Like it wasn’t worth the breath it took to say aloud. Just the hard, unflinching weight of something too common to mourn properly.

“…Hate that I'm used to that.” That part came out smaller than he meant it to. Soap hated that it was true. His shoulders sagged a little. “I still hear him sometimes,” Soap muttered. “In the bird, when he kept askin’ where the others went. Think he knew he was the only one left.”

“Still not used to it, Johnny? We're not supposed to care.” Silence.

After a beat, Ghost spoke again, low and dry. “He’s wishin’ he died with the rest.”

Soap frowned, uneasy at the truth of it.

“I would,” Ghost added after a moment. "After getting revenge. Wouldn't be the only one left breathing again."

There was no good answer to that. Ghost's declaration landed square in his chest. The heat from the belly of the plane seemed heavier all of a sudden, pressing just beneath his sternum. The fuselage shuddered again, wings flexing against the wind, its ribs moaning under the pressure.

“You get used to hearing it,” Ghost said, “or you get out.”

Soap swallowed hard. “And if you don’t get out?”

Ghost’s fingers flexed once, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly.

“Then it stops hurting the right way.”

Again, no good answer for that. Soap stared straight ahead. “Hope Katsovia’s cleaner,” He muttered.

Ghost didn’t move. “Don't count on it.”

Wednesday, 20--/11/04, 0120

The chilling desert night swallowed them whole as a transport helicopter were dropped 3 clicks north of their destination. Turns out, Soap had conveniently forgotten how deserts cooled down like corpses once the Sun dipped west. Now the heat was gone, and Gaz was sure that the cold bit through his mate's gear like a bitter old ghost with a grudge.

Above them, stars blinked to life, scattered fireflies frozen mid-flight, too far to warm, too many to trust. They littered the sky in trails of distant gleam, memories of stars perhaps long-gone, beautiful in the way frost is, aching with silence. Dying lights, pretending to be whole. 

They swept forward in a tight formation until the road came into view. It slithered like a scar through the terrain, carving itself around a rocky hill. Perfect kill zone.

Price pat him on the shoulder and stayed on the other side of the road as Gaz crossed with Ghost and Soap. Their comms buzzed alive.

"Soap."

"Ghost."

"Why did the chicken cross the road, Johnny?"

Soap didn't miss a beat. "Dunno, mate. Suicidal tendencies?"

“Negative. Better cover at a lower Price.”

“Keep this on, Ghost, and I'll you lot will have less of me... on latrine duty.” Price’s voice crackled with that dry edge that meant shut up and get ready. The laughter died down. Silence settled in its place.

Gaz reached the top and exhaled slowly, watching the faint puff of dust swirl around his feet. His rifle was already in hand, instincts wired tight. His heartbeat was slow, but he could feel it in his chest. No fear. Just anticipation, and readiness.

And above all, determination to stay sharp. To stay between Price and the bullet. That's... just his duty, as his sergeant.

Right?

Of course, he knew he was wrong. That's why he'd never say it out loud.

That's not how things worked. You could take a bullet on command. You'd have to. But choosing to take one for your captain? That was something else. 

What he felt was something else, he was sure.

Gaz knew where he belonged in every formation: three paces behind, eyes sweeping, boots steady. When Price moved, so did he. Always a breath closer than protocol allowed. Always the first to breach, if it came to that. Because if someone had to bleed, let it be him. Let it never be Price. Never him.

So now, as he stood across the road and not beside his captain, there was something wrong in his chest. Yet, he stayed put, like the good sergeant he is. Regulation perfect.

But Lord, was his heart thumping loud beneath the kevlar. It wasn't just the adrenaline. It was him. Always has been.

Below, the CIA detachment had also taken position, tucked behind sand-coloured boulders, their forms huddled low. From up here, they looked like shadows stitched into the landscape. Gaz raised his rifle and looked through the thermal scope. The lens flickered to life with colourful outlines. Bushes, sparse and solitary, glowed faintly, still warm from the sun, dying embers under the looming sweep of the night sky. The road below, stretched thin like a brittle vein through the rock, laid lifeless. For now.

His thoughts skimmed back to Price, who waited not far, stationed on the opposite side. concealed by a little more than a rise in the terrain and a scatter of brush. It was hardly a step. More like a bump in the rocks.

Gaz settled beside Soap, waiting, half-crouched behind his cover.

“You always go quiet before a fight. Nerves?” Soap asked, tone casual but alert.

“Focus,” Gaz murmured, not looking away from his scope. “You should try it.”

Soap chuckled low.

They didn't have to wait too long. The convoy emerged slowly from the far edge of the road, without lights, almost hesitant in its movements. Gaz watched it creep forward. Dust rose beneath the tires in soft clouds, stirring into faint plumes that lazily coiled and drifted behind each silhouette. 

“Convoy confirmed. Six vehicles, not five. They match description." Soap comfirmed.

"One's potentially the secondary shipment. Must have joined the convoy. Tagging it now.” Ghost relayed.“Soap, eyes on the third truck." 

The ambush started perfect. Controlled. Swift.

Soap took the first shot. A clean burst into the third truck’s gunner. Gaz followed, sending lead into the driver of the rear vehicle. Chaos spread through the convoy like wildfire.

From the far end of the convoy, the secondary shipment peeled away, faster than anticipated. The slick bastard veered off-road, kicking up a wall of dust, racing toward the other flank.

Right towards his captain.

"Price! Decoy’s flanking right. It's coming straight at you! Wait, I'm repositioning."
"Gaz, stay in position, cover Ghost."

But Gaz was already moving without thinking. His gut clenched. The simple evasive manoeuvre put Price on the line. 

He abandoned the perch, bounding downhill, knees burning with the drop. By the time Price finished his sentence, he was halfway down the slope. He spotted the fast vehicle tearing over the rock-strewn trail, its headlights flicking wildly. The person riding shotgun lifted something out of the window, aiming at the convoy.

Gaz sprinted faster. “Vehicle Six has a launcher!” His knees hit the dirt as he took a shot. The person dropped the weapon. The truck kept roaring, wild and blind, right towards where Price was. Gaz aimed again, this time breaking a window.

The vehicle veered, clipping something, swayed left. Gaz breathed in relief.

"Gaz, fall back! You're exposed!"

Then, a salvo of bullets flew beside his head, murmuring blurred screams of death into his ears. A coloured arc crashed into the ground beside him. It boomed, brutally blossoming into a convulsing bloom of flame and shrapnel. Gaz hit the ground with a sharp, wet grunt. Something molten was burning through his left side. As if fire had found home beneath his ribs.

“Kyle! Kyle, report!” He heard Price barking into the comms. Smoke wrapped around him like a blanket, replacing the night sky. His fingers twitched against the trigger. He couldn’t move. He should move. Price was still up there. Soap. Ghost. He had to get up. Had to do something.

His vision blurred. He blinked. Not good. No use. The stars were swimming. He pressed a hand on his side, fingers curling instinctively. Warmth writhed between them. His lungs dragged at the air, shallow and sharp. A noise escaped his throat.

The world had fallen silent. Oh, the rest of the teams have probably controlled the convoy already.

Well, it was silent, eerily so, except for the crunch of a pair of boots near his head. And then he was there: Price dropping beside him, hands already tearing at his straps and fabric. Voice shaking with something Gaz didn't dare name.

"Kyle... Kyle. Bloody hell, stop moving. Look at me. Don't you close your bloody eyes, you hear me?"

He managed a small smirk with his blood-crusted lips.

Wednesday, 20--/11/04, 0200

They had lost track of the secondary shipment. That was not important. That was just a secondary objective. Acceptable loss. No one high enough would care.

Yet, Price cared : they were supposed to be the best of the best. And Gaz would be damned if he's dissapointed Price.

Soap did his best to pack his wound with haemostatic gauze, hands clammy with his blood. Gaz gritted his teeth, the strain plain in his jaw, but he didn’t make a sound. The bleeding was stubborn, pulsing through the gauze faster than Soap liked. Still, he kept at it. Steady pressure. Controlled breath. Focus.

Laswell had kept a helicopter hot just in case. Gaz silently thanked her for the foresight, at the best of his capacities. As they lift off, his world narrowed down to noises and pressure.

Price hovered like a shadow behind Soap. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, as if they couldn’t decide whether to fight or pray. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Gaz once.

Gaz still hated the choppers. At least he's strapped down this time.

Gaz blinked up, woozy but smiling faintly.

“I'm not hanging by a thread, Price. Swear you're worse than my mum,” he muttered, eyes flitting to Price. “Worry too much. I'll be fine.”

Soap pressed a little harder. No one said anything for the next hundreds of breaths. 

"Bleeding’s stopped," Soap announced, loud enough to be heard over the chop. "We’re good ‘til the med team picks him up at base."

For a moment, there was only the roar of the blades and Gaz’s rasping breath. Soap meant it to be reassuring. But behind from him, Price’s eye widened like he’d just been slapped. Then:

“Good? Good? Oh, we are so not good! Kyle, what the hell were you thinking back there?” Price’s voice wobbled on the edge of fury and fear. He stomped past Soap, beside Gaz, eyes blazing. “What the fuck were you doing, charging in like that?”

Gaz stiffened, groaning as it pulled his fresh wounds, The adrenaline had barely faded from his system. “I thought they'd-"

“You thought?” Price’s tone rose, sharp and scalding. “You thought throwing yourself out there was a good call? Thought that'd be clever?”

“I was covering you,” Gaz muttered, jaw tight. “They were lining up-”

“I don’t need you playing bloody hero. I need you. To stay alive,” Price snapped. “Jesus, Kyle, I nearly lost you today.” His voice cracked, raw and hoarse, less like a shout now and more like a confession. “You get that? You don’t just get to throw yourself away like that. Not for me. Not for anyone.”

Gaz gave a weak chuckle. “It was a clean shot. Seemed like the right call.”

“No,” Price snapped, his hands tightening into fists. “The right call is living. The right call is making it home. The right call is -” He choked on the next words, swallowed them, and dragged a shaking hand through his beard.

Gaz clenched his fists in his lap, heat rising in his chest. This felt personal. Too personal. “I was just trying to -”

“Don’t,” Price growled. “You nearly got yourself killed. And that’s the last goddamn thing I need right now.”

Price’s jaw locked, then he looked away entirely, staring out through the opening of the helicopter, as if the darkness might chew up his doubts and answer his questions. Maybe the stars blinked Morse. Or maybe they were blinking his tears away. Maybe the yawning dark would send his fears astray.

But one hand reached down and wrapped around Gaz’s wrist. Just tight enough to feel the pulse.

None said anything about that. And neither did Price. 

Gaz was taken aside the moment they disembarked. A medical team was waiting, guiding him off the transport.

Price watched him go, tearing his hand from Gaz's wrist. But he followed with his eyes. Then, when Gaz was out of sight, swallowed by the white coats and distant lights, he followed him with his soul.

Laswell was waiting for them, arms folded and shoulders rigid, face bleached pale from the sodium lights.

“They've told me everything. You four are a mess,” Laswell said, loud enough to cut through the wind. “Involved. Compromised. Stupid. Entitled. Do I need to go on?”

Price, even though he was tired, opened his mouth, with something probably to a warning, his posture drawing in like a storm. “Laswell -”

“No, John. I have warned you that this would happen. I told you. It's so painfully obvious. And now all of us is in trouble.” Her voice sliced cleaner this time. “All because the three of you can't keep your emotions in check. Never thought I’d see the day when Ghost’s the steadiest of the lot. You're putting yourself and my teams on the line. As your friend and ally, I'm not letting this happen again. You're taking on an additional member. That, or we're done. That, or our collaboration ends here.”

Price’s eyes narrowed. A slow breath in. Then out.

Soap moved to protest, but Laswell's look silenced him cold. He huffed. 

He was not compromised. The hell that's supposed to mean? That's just loyalty. That's his teammates she's talking about. He just fought like hell to keep Gaz breathing. That made him compromised? Fuck'im for caring, right?

“Fine,” Price spat, the word short and low.

"I'm going to brief him. He should arrive by next week. He's not cleared for combat yet, but with Gaz out of commission, you're all grounded anyways."

Soap gasped. “You’re giving us someone not cleared for combat?”

Laswell shrugged. “Well, he’s not fucking compromised, so I’d say he’s ahead already. And John? Get used to it. He’s yours now. Try not to chew this one up." She softened, almost apologetic. "Next time my wife invites you for lunch, don’t turn up classified because you died over a damn crush fest. I'm not losing another team of good men.”

And suddenly, Price didn't even find the strength to protest anymore.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 20--/11/04, 0300

5 days in this damn hospital bed. Laswell never answered your calls. Your stitches still tugged every time you breathed too deep, and the eyepatch's band chafed against your temple. You kept your hands folded, your words polite. Saying thank you when they brought you your pills. Nodding when they told you to rest. You played the part. Ate the meals. Answered the questions. You kept your breathing even. You blinked slowly, like you were tired. Kept the tremor out of your voice when they asked if you were sleeping. You said yes. That was a lie. You didn’t argue. Let them think that.

What a good little soldier you have been. Courteous. Quiet. Compliant.

How grateful you were to be alive, propped up in bed with your IVs and clean sheets! You didn't dare move, for the needles still buried in you would shift, bite. You didn't dare vomit, for your heart might burst out with the bile. You didn't dare protest, for it would only spiral into sobs, then pleads for sedation.

No. You knew the script. You knew exactly what to say to make it easier for the personnel. You were one not that long ago. 

Truth be told, you were not necessarily pretending. The medical personnel had done their best. They brought you meals on time, explained your vitals, adjusted your bandages with practiced hands. They informed you of what they were allowed to know. You didn’t blame them for what they didn’t tell you. How could they know whatever Laswell was trying to pull behind your back? 

Still, your patience was running thin.

You’d passed the point of pretending to care about protocol. Now, you were just waiting. Calculating. Aching to make the matter into your own hands.

You had work to do. 

Tac and Toe were still out there. Maybe suffering. Maybe worse. The thought of them alone somewhere, dying slowly while you lay in clean sheets and fluorescent light, was unbearable.

You weren’t in the JTF2 anymore. That meant fewer resources. It also meant that you didn’t have to follow their orders.

You still had your base clearance. Still active. Nobody had revoked it yet. Paperwork normally takes a month. You could walk back into your old locker, sign out what you needed.

They're probably transporting Tac and Tic with the convoy. If you were right, they should be almost in Adal. These things moved slowly.

Plus, you wouldn't be alone. You had favours built up like a private bank. People who owed you, people who remembered what it meant to wake up on the floor, lungs burning, bleeding out, only to find your hands already working on them. Medics heard everything. You helped everyone. That kind of thing hopefully bought gratitude. And you were not below using that.

Graves owed you. Philip Graves, of all people. Al Mazrah. He should’ve died and you didn’t let him, which was completely out of humanitarian values: after combat, treat everyone you can, without regards to factions or nationality.

Now he’s some big shot with Black Shadow or whatever merc outfit he runs these days. You didn’t keep tabs, but you knew he's grown a lot.

He’d given you a burner. No name. No number saved. Just said: "In case you ever need me." That phone was still in your locker. All you had to do was pick it up.

He's a mercy. Maybe he'd turn you in for cash afterwards, if his words amounts to nothing, which might be the case. Hopefully, you were not valuable enough for a bounty. You'd find out in due time. Plus, that would not be a sacrifice to steep for the lives of your squadmates.

You’ll cash in every favour you’d earned. Every whispered thanks, every terrified glance turned grateful. If that’s what it took to bring Tic and Tac home - you’d burn the whole bank down.

But there was a problem.

The nurses had orders. Keep an eye on the patient. Keep him stable. Keep him still . 

You were not that good of an actor, after all. And Laswell knew you too well.

You hadn’t slept in days. You didn’t need to. Not now. Not yet.

Because they’d made one mistake. A simple one. Stupid, really. Big mistake.

They gave you a window that opened.

Just enough. Enough to fit your frame, if you turned sideways and gritted through the pain. It faced the alley between the hospital wing and the old admin building. You didn’t care about cameras. No one’s ever checked them live, and by the time they notice, you will probably be out of the country. It was 3 AM. The next round was in 5 hours. That’s enough.

You packed quietly. Methodically. A few bandages. Stolen gauze. Medical tape. Small trauma kit, smuggled into a drawstring laundry bag. You had a sidearm, unregistered, of course, and a single clip. Just in case. You changed into civilian clothes.

You sat on the edge of the bed and flexed your fingers. One last check. Stitches tight. Shoulder screaming. Vision still one-sided and kind of blurry. Fine. Never been better.

You stood. Slowly. And then you limped to the window.

Step one: Swing out.

Step two: Get to your base. Get your locker. Get the phone.

Step three: Find them.

You'll figure everything out when you'll get there.

Now. Now was good. You swung a leg over the window’s ledge. Your hip locked for a second too long, the rust in your articulations grinding together, coal fire beneath the bone. The stitches on your thighs protested, like fishhooks, clawing at your skin to pull you back to your bed. You had to bite down on the sound rising in your throat. 

C’mon, Tick. Don’t whine now.

Instead, you braced a hand on the wall and waited for the nausea to ebb. Something creaked. Your vision sharpened too fast. Light slammed against the corners of your room. For a second, it all blurred together: white walls, white light, white pain. Your spine prickled.

You squinted, body stiff, mid-step out the window.

“What the fuck, Tick?” 

Shit.

Laswell. 

Wednesday, 20--/11/04, 0330

“Last year, I told you to show initiative. You were too soft-spoken for the field. Glad to know that they’ve made such a formidable soldier out of you that you’re sneaking out on medical leave now.” Her tone was colder now, losing the initial rage. You flinched nevertheless. “In the middle of this damned night, when I'm just trying to see you, the one - Do NOT interrupt me! - who’s supposed to be the most obedient out of the bunch, what do I see? You trying to sneak out via a goddamn hospital window like a feral dog. Do you know how that looks? After everything? What the fuck was your plan?”

“It’s for Tac and Toe. I wanted to… I waited for you,” you said quietly. “I gave you time. Days of it. You ignored me.”

“Because I was trying to keep you alive,” she hissed. “Sometimes, I feel like I’m the only one keeping all of you alive. I’ve been patching holes in every team since day one. Every time one of you lots runs off on some righteous suicide mission, it’s me they call. Me who has to lie, smooth it over, make it look clean on paper. I bury the bodies. I rewrite the after-action reports. I convince command that it was justified. You think that makes me proud? That it doesn’t keep me up at night wondering when it’s going to fall apart for good? And you never tried to cause me that kind of trouble before. You were supposed to be the better one. I was using you as an example. I gave you a room with a window. And a bathroom. Why is everyone asking for a foot when I cede an inch?”

She fished something out of her pockets.

“You’re going to wear this all the time.” The device was cold when she clipped it onto your ankle. Tight, unremovable. She had a tracker ready. On her. Just how prepared was she for this? “Yes, it’s tracked. If you take it off, I will know. If you damage it, I will know. If you jam it, I will know.”

She didn’t look at you when she said it. You could feel the fire leeching off her.

“Consider yourself lucky, Tick. If you were not still full of stitches, I would have locked you up.”

You cringed at her tone. “You would not,” you murmured.

That was not well received. She glared. Eyes sharp, blazing, barely held back by professionalism and protocol. You went still, suddenly aware of your own voice. You felt the last hint of impulsiveness fly out of the window. Where you should have been by now.

"But Tac and Toe...

“Don’t test me. There is no use to your actions if they kill you before they come back, alright? Drill it into that thick skull of yours.”

You opened your mouth, but she cut you off.

“I’m putting you on 141. You want to be useful? Prove thayt you can be trusted again. Prove that you're not going to throw yourself into a grave. And keep them out of one.”

You went very still. “I’ll make it count, Ma'am. But please...” She glared again. You feel tears gather behind your eyes, and shameful.

She stared at you for what felt like a full minute. Slowly, the rigidity in her shoulders shifted. “You think you’re the only one who lost someone. You’re not. You'll learn that in due time.” She sounded tired, which somehow made it worse. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because she was right, and that truth was a bitter thing to swallow.

“I’ll divert a team after Tac and Toe,” she said finally. Each word was careful, measured like it cost her something to give you this. “I’ll embed a 141 operative. He’ll relay updates to you.”

It was her turn to wait.

“Is that enough?”

You looked at her - really looked at her. The steel was still there, the fire, the fury. But underneath it, something quieter, something not quite pity but close enough to twist in your gut.

It wasn’t everything. But it was more than nothing. And right now, it was the best shot you had.

“It’s enough,” you said, and forced yourself not to say thank you.

“Good. For now, you stay put. And don’t make me regret this,” she added. “And Tick? If you pull something like this again, I will lock you up, stitches or not, need or no need.”

You gave her the faintest nod. “Deal.”

She sighed and turned towards the hallway. “Now, c’mon,” she said, brisk and clipped, like she wasn’t just yelling at you. “We’ve got a short flight ahead to join them in Hereford.” She didn’t wait to see if you followed, but slowed down her pace so you could limp after her. Just slowed enough that you didn't have to ask.

Wednesday, 20--/11/04, 0500

The flight was silent. You didn’t dare speak up, and Laswell certainly didn't offer anything.

Raindrops greeted you on your way to England by racing across the window of the plane in crooked, silvery lines. Sunlight refracted through them in fractured hushes, scattering into millions little wings of light. They blinked out as quickly, fleeting and delicate, there and then gone again. You watched them fall, not knowing if they were trying to leave or trying to stay.

The tarmac at Hereford was slick. A light fog clung low to the ground, bleeding into the treeline, softening the silhouette of the facility that loomed ahead like something half-swallowed by the earth.

“Welcome to Hereford, Tick.”

She didn’t pause to let you take it in. Laswell wasted no time leading you into the building. You tried your best to keep up. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above you, casting everything in a faint antiseptic hue. It smelled like gun oil, rubber, and recycled air.

She stopped without warning in front of a scratched door with a reinforced keypad. You barely had time to readjust your stance before Laswell turned.

“This is you,” she said.

You blinked. “That’s it? You’re not coming in?”

Her boots were already clicking away down the corridor. No goodbye. No answer.

“What about Tac and Toe?” you called after her. “Ma'am! My gear?” 

She hesitated, just for a heartbeat. Then she kept walking. Not a glance back. Like she hadn't heard you. Or worse, like she had and decided it wasn’t worth responding to. You stood there, the silence wrapping tight around your throat. It was stupid to expect more. You knew that. But still.

You stood there, lips pressed thin, the echo of her departure trailing down the hall like a retreating verdict.

Fine.

You adjusted your posture, rolling your shoulders once, steadying yourself before you raised a hand, grimacing, and reached to knock. You’d come too far to turn back now.

The door opened before your knuckles touched metal. You froze, hand still raised, caught like a child about to ask for something he wasn’t sure he deserved. A tall man stood in the doorway, arms folded, the black tee he wore stretched across his shoulders. His eyes, through the openings on his mask, flicked to your raised hand, then back to your face. You dropped it slowly, unsure if you’d just failed a test.

A beat later, a second figure stepped into view. Older, steady in the way that made your spine straighten on instinct. Definitely an officer. A thick cigar smouldered between his fingers, its scent curling around you.

“You’re the lad Laswell sent for us to babysit?” The older man asked.

Babysit? What did he mean? Maybe you should just ignore it.You dropped your hand and straightened immediately, shoulders back, chin level. “Affirmative, sir. Callsign’s Tick.” Your voice was steadier than you expected. “Reporting as ordered.”

His expression didn’t shift, but something about your posture must’ve been enough. “I’m Captain Price,” he said after a moment. “This is Lieutenant Riley. Goes by Ghost.”

You offered a sharp nod to each in turn, eyes lowered just slightly in deference. “Sir. Lieutenant.”

Ghost returned a slow nod, arms crossed, unreadable behind the skull-patterned balaclava. You couldn’t tell if he was sizing you up, or already dismissing you.

“Follow me,” Price said, stepping back to let you in.

You obeyed without hesitation, boots clicking softly on the concrete floor as you crossed the threshold, ignoring the pulling on your thighs. Whatever this place was, however unwanted your arrival might’ve been, you’re here to stay. So Laswell can rescue Tac and Toe.

Dear Tick, welcome to the 141.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 20--/11/04, 0812

The door clicked shut behind you with a heavy, echoing finality. 

Ok. Cool. Serious door. 

You took a step. Pain immediately reminded you that your thighs were not cool.

It was raw and pulsing in your thighs, where your stitches strained and tugged. 

Had they left the damn needles in? You wouldn’t be surprised. It sure felt like it.

You gritted your teeth. Bit down the gasp. Your breath came shallow as you forced one leg forward, then the other. . Each one worse than the last. Your hands were clammy. 

Don’t stumble. Don’t stop. Don’t embarrass yourself. Don’t make a sound.

You swallowed the flinch. Kept your head down. Moved anyway.

First impressions were everything. And they were already annoyed with you. You could feel it - or was it nerves? But it didn’t matter. Either way, it was your job not to make it worse. First impressions were everything. Tac always said that. First impressions are the moment someone decides if they want to save you, or leave you behind.

And you weren’t exactly inspiring confidence. You had a limp.

Laswell had done you a huge favour. Gave you this shot after JTF2 washed their hands clean. 141, ex-special forces. Still elite. They weren’t supposed to take outsiders, especially not bleeding, broken ones. But here you were, dragging your sorry body through their quarters behind a man with the most captain-looking shoulders you’d ever seen, on a favour and a gamble.

You’ve been failing a lot of things lately. First, the mission, which cost you Tac and Toe. Then, with Laswell. Don’t you dare fuck this up too . 

They were a team of four. You’d heard. Proper soldiers.

You didn’t want to be the limping fifth wheel with very little tread.

Don’t fuck this up. You’ve fucked up enough already. With Tack and Toe, then with Laswell. Mostly with Tac and Toe.

Your thighs screamed as the torn skin beneath your uniform grew slick again. No time to look. No time to break. Later. You were a medic. You could… fix things later. Tie it together. Tape it down. You’d apologise to your legs later.

You just had to look fine. Be fine. Not faint. Definitely not faint.

You’d tie it later, hands trembling, teeth clenched. Whatever it took. Make it through the door. Keep upright. Anything but fall.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there. Eyes closed, thinking too hard. Tac would have smacked your head. Called you dramatic. Told you to get your shit together and keep moving.

God, you missed him.

Price was watching you now, huffing. Like a dad at a school play, wondering if his kid was going to puke or pull it off. You wouldn’t know. You’ve never been to a school play. Just read about it in a book once.

You shuffled forward after him. His cigar smelled nice. Warm. Smoky.

“Welcome to the den,” he said.

The lighting was soft amber. Someone pinned a beat-up dartboard near the door. There was a couch, low, beaten, sagging slightly in the middle, and a scratched coffee table with a mug and some ammo mags. Across from it, a wall mounted TV. 

Your mouth opened a little. You weren’t sure what to say, so you just blinked.

“Common room’s here. Try not to spill anything on the cushions. Gaz gets pissy. Leave any weapons in the closet at the entrance, unless you’re doing maintenance. No explosives in the quarters.”

You made a soft noise in your throat. Was that a joke? Was that your cue to laugh? You couldn’t tell.You nodded, stupidly.

The hallway that led off the rec room was narrower, and lined with four thick metal doors. One had a smiley face drawn on it in sharpie.

“Left to right,” Price said, gesturing as he walked. “Sergeants, bathroom, Ghost. Don’t bother Ghost. I’ll add a bunk for you with the sergeants. They’re two. Soap and Gaz. You’ll meet them later. You’ll have a footlocker, desk, and a shelf. Laundry rooms are common, we share them with Bravo 3. Try not to piss ’em off.”

“Noted, sir.”

He threw you a look. “You can stop calling me sir. This is Ghost’s office. Same thing. No bothering.”

Price opened the door at the end of the hall. Inside was what you’d expect from a captain: a sturdy desk, maps tacked onto corkboard, and a small Union Jack on a shelf behind him. A brass nameplate: CAPT. J. PRICE. Two chairs, one clearly used more than the other, stood on a carpet and faced the desk. A locked filing cabinet stood in the corner. A small couch. The air carried the faintest trace of smoke and leather. Not unpleasant.

“I’ve prepped your paperworks. Laswell mentioned your condition, but you’ll have to explain it again.”

You blinked. “Affirmative, sir.”

He gave you a dry look. “Didn’t I say enough sirs?”

“Right. Sorry. I mean, yes. Got it.”

“Good,” he said, sinking into his own seat with a creak of the leather. “Now. Before you meet the rest of the squad, you’ll get a day to settle in. Tomorrow, you get your gear, and we see what you remember from your training. You're not combat-cleared yet, but that doesn't mean you can slack off.”

You shifted your weight and nearly hissed. Pain flared again behind your knee, crawling up into your hip. You straightened instinctively.

Price noticed. Of course he noticed. Nothing got past a captain.

“Sit down before you fall down,” he muttered, waving to the chair that looked less used.

You obeyed with all the grace of a collapsing tent. Sitting down tugged on the stitches in your thigh, hard enough to make your eyes blur. Something gave.

You felt it before you saw it: a warm tickle sliding down your thigh. You dropped your gaze, quick and subtle, just in time to catch a single, dark bead of blood rolling down your ankle, absorbed by your socks. 

Price glanced your way. “You alright?”

“Yessir,” you said quickly. “Just, uh… stitches pulling. Could I use the bathroom for a second?”

He stared at you. Not in suspicion, but with the slow patience of a man who already knew what happened and was waiting to see if you’d admit it.

“You’re bleeding, aren’t you?”

You hesitated. “Only a bit.”

His gaze dropped to the floor. Your gaze dropped with him. Your sock was red. The lateral sides of your boots were also red. Please don’t let that be blood on his carpet. You didn’t want to look. Maybe it wouldn’t show. Maybe it was already there. Maybe the rug was dark. Or patterned. Please be patterned.

You looked. It was brown. Just brown. Well, it had little dots of red, now. For your defence, it was a really ugly rug.

“That was a gift.” Price grumbled.

"Sorry, sir." you tried to stand up and move off the rug, but your thighs locked up in protest. A wet tug of skin and gauze made your stomach flip. You definitely were panicking a little.

“Stay put, Tick.”

You froze. Great. Now you’d bled and disobeyed.

His jaw ticked. Then he sighed, long and slow, like a man with too many problems and not enough hours in the day.

You probably just shaved a few years off his lifespan.

“You’re not on parade, son,” he said, not unkindly. His lips pinched thin around his cigar as he grabbed a box of gauze from a drawer. “You bleed, you say something. You pass out, you stay down. Clear? Now take your damn fatigues off.”

Your hands fumbled at your belt, stiff with shame. You nodded, throat tight. The fabric stuck to the wound, crusted over, and peeling it back made you nauseous. He crouched beside you and pressed gauze to the worst spot on your thigh, like it was just another Saturday.

“Laswell sends me a medic,” he muttered, “and the first thing he does is bleed out on my rug.”

You winced. “I’m sorry, sir. I know better, normally. I swear, sir. Just didn’t wanna mess up.”

He let out something like a chuckle, all gravel. “That’s enough sirs. Hell of a job, Tick.”

Then, without ceremony: “Up we go. Infirmary’s down the hall.”

He slung your arm over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, though you knew it didn’t. You were not a small man. Not light, either. But Price carried your weight without a word, like hauling broken medics around was just part of the job description. It probably was.

You half-limped, half-dragged beside him, boots scuffing the floor with every uneven step. You recognised the route. Same direction Laswell left in earlier, probably off to do something important, like CIA things. Satellite imaging for international coordination of something in 32 countries. Or whatever she did before breakfast. That’s what women with cum laude diplomas from Cornell did.

You two passed by Laswell talking to Ghost and some other man in front of the infirmary, which you recognised by the smell. 

The man beside Ghost was broad-shouldered, in a black quarter-zip and fatigues. His sleeves were pushed up, showing forearms covered in a patchwork of scars, and he had a kind of effortless confidence to him, the kind people had when they were used to being loud and usually right. A dark mohawk, sharp jaw, and a grin that looked like it got him into trouble at least once a week. He had a relatively recent scar sizzling on his left temple. He looked like someone who would laugh while rappelling out of a helicopter. Or while being shot at. He looked like he’d act like Tac.

Oh, you were staring. Don’t stare.

He glanced your way mid-sentence, grin widening slightly like he'd spotted a joke about to happen. There was a flash of amusement in his eyes when he caught you staring. 

“Keep walkin’,” Price muttered under his breath. Like he’d seen it happen before. Like maybe the man had that effect on a lot of people, and maybe you were just the newest victim.

You limped on with him, cheeks warm. It was the blood loss. Definitely. Had to be.

The infirmary was cold and quiet. Your shoulders slumped the moment the nurse left you on a bunk, your thigh restitched and rewrapped in gauze and your body swimming a little from a light sedative. It felt safer. Easier to pretend nothing hurt. 

At least they didn’t handcuff you to the railing of the bed. It’s a small victory. For a moment, you stared at the smooth railing beside you, half-expecting to hear the sharp click of restraints anyway. It would not have surprised you, part of you had braced for it. You were relieved that Laswell didn’t add “flight risk” to your file. You knew how that would have looked.  Hard to tell why, though. Laswell was good at not showing her cards. 

That is not entirely true. Tac could keep pace with Laswell’s mind, land on the same wavelength without even trying. He could anticipate her needs, finish her thoughts. He wasn’t just smart, but in step. 

You just were never much of a leader, always a half-step behind Tac. Absorbing orders, relaying, executing. You were the one who patched the pieces back together after the damage had been done, not the one people turned to when it was time to make the hard calls. 

You were reliable. Predictable. You were not much if not of service. 

And you managed to fuck that up too.

You’re just deceiving. You’ve been bluffing since day one, and now the cards are all on the table. No Tac to cover for you. They trusted you with their lives. Let you carry wounded men on your back. You thought that meant something. You thought it meant you meant something.

Yet, you let them down. You failed them.

The truth is: without someone to follow, you fall apart. You stall in place, waiting for orders that aren’t coming. You were trained to serve, not to decide. Not to act alone. You’re not built for freedom. You don’t know what to do with it. It sits on your chest like dead weight.

You couldn’t even stay in your bed like you were told. Already were thinking of windows, exits, favours to call in. Already scheming. Already lying.

And for what?

They’re probably dead.

And if they’re not, they deserve better than you.

Wednesday, 20--/11/04, 1149

It was around noon, but you were tired. You lay back against the thin pillow and stared at the ceiling, breathing out through your nose. The overhead light buzzed faintly, and you pretended that was the only noise in your head.

You closed your eyes. Just rest a bit. Just float a little. You’d fix things tomorrow.

You were a medic. You fixed things. Right?

"You alright, mate? Why’d my captain carry you in?" someone in the bunk next to yours asked, voice smooth, low, warm, even.

A hand pulled back the curtain between you. There was a man propped up in the nearest bunk, half-turned to face you, one arm slung across his ribs where thick bandages peeked from under a loose shirt. He looked like he hadn’t had to shave in a few days.

He held out a hand. “Kyle. Folks call me Gaz.”

You took it, carefully.

“Tick.”

The man squinted. “That a callsign, or…?”

“It’s what they gave me,” you said quickly, fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. 

The man chuckled, good-natured. “Alright, alright. No judgement here.”

Gaz leaned back into his pillows again with a sigh. His right ankle was elevated, wrapped in medical foam and tape. One whole side of his shirt was darker, cleaner - clearly changed more recently - where his ribs were still bandaged.

“Dunno what kind of welcome you’ve had so far, but you’re not the worst we’ve seen come limping through that door,” Gaz said. “Anyways, I have been here for at least 6 hours. Entertain me a little, will you? Did Price tell you anything on the way in, when he was hauling you? Heard we were getting someone new. Supposed to be joining our unit. ”

You stiffened, letting out a noncommittal “Oh?”.

Gaz let out a breath and sat up.

“Nothing? Well,” he said, voice low, “Since we’ll both be stuck here for a while… Maybe we should talk a little?”

You blinked. “Talk?”

“Like human beings,” Gaz said, flashing a crooked grin. “Don’t look so terrified. I’ll start. I’m one of the sergeants in the 141. The one who half-carried you in was my captain. Captain Price. You probably noticed. You SAS?”

He was insistent. 

“No. Not really.”

He raised a brow. “Price usually doesn’t walk people around unless they’re his.”

You didn’t say anything.

“Didn’t peg him for the gentle type,” Gaz added lightly. “But I guess everyone’s got surprises.” Weird. His smile definitely did not reach his eyes.

There was no real accusation in his voice. Not quite. But the words curled a little at the edges.

“I didn’t ask him to,” you said quietly.

He caught that. Let it hang for a moment. “Then why’d he do it?”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Those did not feel like regular questions. The silence stretched, long enough to feel like a test.

Gaz’s gaze stayed on you. Measured. Not predatory, but sharp, like he was fitting you into some kind of puzzle.

“I asked you a question,” he said again, voice even. “Why’d he do it?” 

There was an edge between these words- .

Wait. You’ve seen this somewhere.

Clipped tone, check. Fake-casual vibes, check. That sharp little hook buried in an otherwise even voice, check. Yeah, he sounded like Toe, but Toe only ever sounded like that when someone tried to talk to Tac over him. When someone started circling too close.

But that didn’t make sense.

Toe was frustrated. Territorial.

Why would Gaz be frustrated with you?

You stared at him. “I bled on his carpet. Sorry.”

Gaz blinked, and laughed. Just once, through his nose, like he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction. But it cracked through whatever tension had stretched between you. “Didn’t think anyone'd be brave enough to take it out.” A pause. “Nice one.”

“Thank you?” Mentally, you gave yourself a nice pat of your head. Not so dumb, Tick.

“And what were you doing in his office?”

“Paperwork.”

“Right.” Gaz said, dry as dust. 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. His tone shifted.

“Guess it’s not my business,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then, softer, “Sorry. You alright?”

You did not answer. Not really, but you figured you’d shut up instead of lying.

“Didn’t mean to grill you, mate. I’m just on edge. You know how it is. Captains, yeah?”

He laughed under his breath, bitter and quiet. “Figure I’m just looking for someone else to be the problem right now. ”

You didn’t like that. “My sergeant was always giving me shit too.” You offered.

Gaz glanced over, probably surprised by the honesty. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Tells me I hover over him too much. Overpatch.”

“That a bad thing?” he asked, almost gently.

You shrugged. “Guess it gets annoying when you’re trying to look tough and your medic keeps mothering you.”

“So you’re a medic?” Gaz tilted his head. “Heard our new guy’s a medic too.”

“Yeah. They’re trying to wedge one of us into every team now. Keeps you lot from bleeding out too fast”

Gaz didn’t push. “Right. Laswell was talking to Soap about it, earlier, right outside. Thought they were gonna argue through the drywall.”

So black quarter-zip guy was probably Soap. Right. You blinked. “Argue?”

“More like bicker,” Gaz said, amused. “Apparently no one tells Soap anything until the last second. He’s going on a mission. Lucky bastard. I wish I could go on one.”

You coughed lightly, shifting in your bed. “Sounds… intense.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Gaz said, with a knowing look. 

“I think he’s supposed to pull back some friends of our new guy.”

You froze. Or at least, your mind did. The sedative dulled your muscles too much to be dramatic about it.

Gaz didn’t seem to notice. Just went on with a slight shrug. “Not sure on the details.”

You nodded, or tried to. Your head moved a little. Enough.

Your chest went tight. Tac and Toe. They were talking about Tac and Toe.

They were going after them.

Soap was going after them.

It hit like a tremor running up your spine, a jolt of something sharp and sudden beneath the blanket of sedative. You clung to it. You needed that spark, even if it burned.

“Do you know when they leave?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

Gaz tilted his head at you, something wary in his eyes now. “You have clearance?" You nodded. "Alright. Soon, I think. They're still prepping. Why?”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You didn't have a lie ready. Just the truth, raw and bleeding in your throat.

“They’re not just friends.”

Gaz was quiet a beat too long.

You nodded. “They’re my sergeant and my major corporal. I need them back.”

“You mean…?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’m new guy. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hide it. You asked if I was SAS. I’m, I'm not. 141 is not SAS. I was in the JTF2. Major corporal. Just got in today.”

“Right, Because you were JTF2”. Makes so much difference.”

That was definitely sarcasm. Great. You’ve irritated another one of them.

“Nice to mean, meet, nice to meet you, sergeant.  I figure I’d also be a sergeant, since I was a Major-Corporal, and our sergeant was the equivalent of your lieutenant. But yeah. Sorry. Hi.”

Gaz stared at you.

The silence stretched too long. Your mouth moved before your brain could stop it. “Uh… as your medic, I’d… probably tell you to lie back down.”

He raised a brow. “Bossy.”

Still, he eased down without a fight.

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

“Sorry.”

Gaz sighed and stared up at the ceiling like he was regretting his entire life. “You always like this?”

You bristled, just a little. “Would you rather I was mean?”

“Nah.” He closed his eyes. “Just didn’t realise they were sending us someone who apologises more than Soap talks.”

“I used to talk less.”

He cracked one eye open. Studied you again. “Yeah? What happened?”

You gave a small smile. “Some asshole told me I needed to ‘show initiative.’” You shrugged. “I think she regrets that now.”

That got a second huff of laughter from him. “Right. Bet she does.”

Another pause.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

You didn’t ask what he meant. You weren’t sure you wanted to know.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 20--/11/04, 2330

Forbidden jealousy echoed hollow.

Gaz lit his cigarette with a shaky hand, the flick of the lighter too loud in the infirmary. It was a small, deliberate rebellion when the base had gone quiet, nicotine burning where smoke had no right to bloom. 

Just this once. In the dark. When he could pretend to be alone.

After reading your file, Gaz had decided that you weren’t too bad.

Lost, clearly. Traumatized, no question. And yeah, a little shit for not saying anything at first and letting him run his mouth like a right idiot. That had stung. Still did, if he was honest. 

There was something in you that disarmed him. Something unguarded, almost naive. Like you were cracked open and didn’t know how to hide it yet.  You wore your pain too close to the surface. Too honest, disarmingly so, as if you haven’t learned how to lie properly yet. In a way that caught him off guard, in ways that made him want to look away. 

After spending the day trying to get you to open up, he wasn’t that entitled in his jealousy anymore. You eventually got tired. You started mumbling, at times, when you spoke at all. That is when your guards dropped, and Gaz is not the worst at asking the right questions.

He’s noticed, of course he has, the way you didn’t flinch when they prodded at your thighs, the way you didn’t ask for painkillers, didn’t ask for anything. You laid there, emptied out. Yet you were so eager to please.

You already cared about the 141. He didn’t hate you for this. Not yet.

But then there was the thing in Price’s office.

You, this new guy, this quiet, hollowed-out thing they’d dropped in the middle of their team, had just waltzed right into that gravity without flinching. Straight into Price’s office. Straight into his attention. Attention that you have not earned. You had still sat in front of Price’s desk like you belonged there. You’d still met his eyes like you didn’t know what it meant, like you didn’t now what it cost to be seen by him. What it meant to carry even an ounce of his attention.

Stop. Jesus Christ, Gaz.

Who was he to judge?

“What were you doing in my captain’s office?” Like a jealous boyfriend. Like an idiot.

He winced, the memory stabbing into him.

It’s Price’s office, Gaz. A bloody office. Not his bed. Not a secret. The new guy had to fill out forms, maybe needed debriefing, perhaps Price just wanted to size him up like any captain would. It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t…

He scrubbed his hand over his face, fingers dragging over tired eyes, jaw clenched. The cigarette nearly slipped.

What the fuck was wrong with him lately?

He's always been one for the rules. Kept his head low, didn’t question orders, not out of blind obedience, but because he trusted his captain, trusted Price to keep the chaos at bay. Price held the line so no one else had to. That was how it worked. That was how one stayed sane: follow the rules and stay upright while the world burned.

He used to joke about it. teased Price for being married to the job, like it wasn’t exactly what kept them alive, like he didn’t secretly envy the clarity of it. He’d laughed then, before he understood what it meant to need someone like that. Before he understood the weight of loyalty that turned into something worse. Something softer. Sharp.

But now he was looking at you, this quiet, grief-stung mess of a man who didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, who spoke like you’ve relinquished yourself in the desert, and all he could see was himself. 

Two soldiers, both once so good at keeping in line, now bleeding through the seams: one out of love, one out of loss. Him, starving, breaking formation with every sideways glance at a man he could never touch. You, staggering through grief, reckless, because you didn’t know how to keep living.

It was quiet. Too quiet. Except for the soft sound of breathing. Yours, steady and low. You were asleep.

Gaz exhaled slowly through his nose. That had to be easier. Sleeping. Shutting it all down.

He’s fallen low. He wanted to cry. He had been exemplary. Had been.

Except when Price walked into a room and everything in Gaz went quiet, like his body was standing to attention before his mind could catch up. Except when he caught himself watching the man’s hands. Except when he listened too closely to the sound of boots in the corridor, and could tell it was Price by the cadence alone. Except when a single word,  “Sergeant”  in that voice made something curl, hot and helpless, in his chest.

All of it mattered, every shameful little piece. 

Especially when Price was the one everyone looked to. Gaz would burn himself to ashes if it meant keeping him close. The love of his life, if he could admit that. If it was allowed.

Gaz remembered the sound of Price shouting his name, but louder was the silence where he hadn’t regretted it. Not once. He would’ve died for him. No hesitation. No glory. Just instinct, out of love. Rotten, useless, terminal love. The cigarette was burning down to his fingers. He still hadn’t taken a single drag. its tip flared in the dark, pulsing. It hovered between his fingers, the faintest glow feeding on itself. 

Gaz had a death wish. 

A moth’s purpose was to fly towards light, yet who could blame Price to shine so bright? And God help him, Gaz had never learned how to fly in any other direction. It wasn’t bravery. It wasn’t some noble act of service. It was gravity. It was a pull in his chest, a string drawn too tight, wound around his ribs, around his sight. Every look, every order, every flicker of affection from Price only pulled the thread tighter, drawing him closer, ever towards heat. He had mistaken it for a choice.

He knew how it ended. Every moth does.

The ember of his cigarette breathed and died in the dark. Gaz’s eyes bled out the last of its glow, leaving behind the scorched amber of his gaze.

But then you shifted. Just barely. A sharp inhale. A whisper.

Two names.

Something cracked in Gaz’s chest, quiet, clean, and without permission. Like a match against the box.

Wednesday, 20--/11/04, 2200

Ghost did not like people.

It was not in that cliché way some men said it, as if it was a badge, with the smugness of someone who thought they were better than the crowd. Ghost simply didn't bother to like people, he did not waste his time at it.

They were too loud, too nosy, too close. They pressed in with questions and opinions. They lied without needing to, pointless ones, just to fill space or smooth tension. Ghost didn’t understand that. If you were going to lie, it should be for survival. Not for comfort.

He's seen that too. Lots of lies, for survival, and understood these. He'd made them himself. Those made sense, those were tools.

Still, people stupidly believed each other anyway, pretending to some kind of virtue: kindness, empathy, whatever new term they'd invent for it. That's what baffled him: not the cruelty, but the denial. All sharp smiles and hidden hands, traded secrets like currency, made quiet calculations behind kind eyes, cutting where it counted, then acting surprised when it was their turn to bleed.

Fools. They basked in it, wallowed in closeness, pretending that proximity made you immune to deceit. Believing that "we're family" or "we're brothers" rewrote something fundamental about human nature. It didn't. It never had. Ghost had heard "I've got your back" echo off walls a second before the shot went sideways. Desperation and greed always undid trust and devotion.

Perhaps it was cowardice: an existentialist's twisted virtue of authenticity, of pretending that being known was worth the sacrifice. Beyond the reach of conventional morality, they lied, to themselves, to survive, , because living dangerously was better than dying alone.
"Should I perish, let it be a hand I've seen steady in battle, a voice I've followed through smoke. Better a warm lie than the freeze of truth."
A knife in the back was still one in the fight, on your side until it turned. Ghost had not understood it, but he'd seen it, over and over. He understood it now.

Ghost knew better.

And yet, paradoxically, stupidly, he basked in it too. With the 141. 

He stood at a distance, sure. Barked orders. Remained masked. Pulled weight. But he stayed, didn’t he? Year after year. Mission after mission. Ghost told himself it was practical. Efficient. They were the best. Reliable, skilled, predictable in the way only battle-forged soldiers could be. Because Price never asked more than he needed but always noticed when Ghost gave more anyway. Because Gaz fought like a man with something to prove and then looked at Ghost like he already had.

He now understood now, how one could offer up their raw and shaking heart and ask "Please. Don't aim there." 

That didn't mean he'd do it. He was not a fool. Unlike Johnny.

Because Johnny... He never pulled away.

Johnny didn't fill the air with questions or pry at old wounds. He stayed. Loud where Ghost was quiet, loyal where Ghost doubted. A ridiculous, reckless, shining thing that somehow, against all logic, never stopped making room for him.

Soap didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t try to fix him. And maybe that was the point. Ghost didn’t need someone to crack the shell. He just needed someone who didn’t mind the silence inside it. And for some godawful reason, Johnny MacTavish had never minded. That entitled little shit made himself comfortable, brought his own blanket, settled in, like he'd always belonged. Soap lingered near him, in his room, like he belonged there. Lingered in his mind too, like he belonged there. It was the way he filled silences without smothering them. The way he asked questions Ghost never answered, and grinned at the silence, an answer in itself.

Ghost had spent years refusing the closeness, scorning it, mocking it in others. But here he was. Embedded in it. Dependent on it. Basking in it.

That was a problem he did not want to solve. 

It was not his only problem, but the one on his mind as he walked to the sergeant's room only to find it empty. Right. Laswell had sent Soap away, alone, like the last mission hadn’t carved pieces out of all of them. Ghost had watched him board the transport with that same easy swagger, all muscle and mouth and bravado, but something had caught in Ghost’s throat anyway. Something he didn’t name.

Gaz was still in recovery, down the hallway. He was probably asleep or pretending to be. Not that it mattered. Ghost had no reason to check on him. None he’d admit out loud, anyway.

But he’d seen the explosion.

He’d seen Gaz hit the ground like he meant to stay there. Had felt the same sick twist in his gut that he’d felt the first time Soap nearly got shot.

That’s what terrified him.

Not the pain. Not the mess. But the instinct.

The fear.

Because it meant something had shifted, again. He tried not to think too hard about it.

Ghost was not used to silence anymore.

So he walked into Price's office, knowing the captain would still be up. Paperwork. The old man worked too hard. The door creaked softly as he pushed in, without knocking. Price never expected one. Sure enough, the lamp was on. 

Price didn't even bother pausing his pen, or looking up. His brows lifted slightly.

"You're supposed to be sleeping, Ghost."

He sat down. A red stain now adorned the carpet underneath his chair. "So are you."

"Touché. Just finishing the paperwork for Tick."

Ghost didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, arms crossed, letting the quiet settle in his bones.

“How is he?” Price asked.

"Unfit."

That was the objective truth. Ghost didn’t hate you. Didn’t pity you either. 

He doesn't know how you were in the JTF2, but you would not last in here. Now like this, anyway. Ghost has seen plenty like you. They burned bright, then out. You were not built for the long haul. It is not because you were weak. Ghost had seen weak men with iron wills survive the worst. It is because you seemed untethered. You had been broken. That made you inconvenient, unsteady, probably more a liability than an asset. Sloppy. All nerve and grief and damage. The kind of soldier who got people killed because he couldn’t get his head straight.

"Incompetent." That was the verdict. In Ghost's world, incompetence was a kind of irrelevance.

Price did not give him an answer. He sat, listened and watched until Price drove him away. 

Now what? Right- there was Gaz.

He hated that he noticed. Hated that his boots had carried him halfway to the infirmary without thinking. Hated that he paused the nurse station. Hate that he was just outside the door now, listening for breath, for movement, for some proof that Gaz was still on this side of the line. He smelled cigarettes.

He lingered. He'll check on Gaz again, just to be sure.

The craft of dreams glows
anchored in the oldest dust
when the dark first spoke.

The sun was too bright, the grass too green, and everything smelled like oranges. Not the heavy, rotting kind. Sweet ones, fresh and cut open, the scent catching on the wind like laughter. You were walking easy.

You crested the hill before you even realized you were climbing one, and there they were, in the grass.

“Toe? Toe! And Tac? W-What?”

The figure ahead squinted at you, the sun catching in his hair like it belongs there, and laughs, a short, puzzled sound.

“Who’s Toe and Tac?” Toe said, amused. “You hit your head on leave or something?”

You stopped short. Stared. It’s him: the voice, the stance, the same easy slouch and crooked smile that never quite reached both sides of his face. But he was wearing civvies. No gear, no dirt, no bruises. He had less lines on his face. Just a plain shirt and old trainers and a brightness in his eyes.

“Oli,” you say, like you’re tasting the name for the first time. It feels wrong and right all at once.

His smile flickered into something curious. “Yeah. That’s me. You okay, man?”

You nodded before your brain even caught up. Your heart was hammering from some terrible, collapsing relief.

You blinked. “It’s you. It’s really you.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Last I checked. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Tac came closer and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Samuel. Uh… you’re crying.”

Have you started crying without noticing? You wiped your eyes, hands coming wet. 

You tried to speak, tried to explain, but your throat closed up. You just shook your head, and then it happened: your body folded under the weight of relief. A sob escaped you, raw and aching, before you could stop it. You covered your mouth with your hand. Too late.

Tac looked freaked. Not scared, just completely unmoored, like he’s watching a stranger fall apart and doesn’t know whether to intervene or call someone else. Toe’s smile faltered. “Hey, hey. Whoa.” He reached for you instinctively, hands warm on your arms, like he’s not sure if he should steady you or hug you. “I was joking. You okay? Seriously.”

“I’m sorry,” you managed, barely. “I just, God, you’re here. You’re both here.”

“Man,” Tac said, voice softening, uncertain. “We just met.”

You laughed again, sharp and wet. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess we did.”

He stood there awkwardly for a second, shifting his weight like he was debating what to do. Slowly, he walked up offered you his hand. Tentative. Warm. You didn’t dare move.

You took his hand, yanking him forwards and crushed him in a hug. He stiffened, spine taut, arms half-raised like he wasn’t sure if this was a mistake. You could feel the hesitation in every inch of him. Then, gradually, something eased.

There was a moment of hesitation, then Toe gently guided you off Tac, pulling you into a quick, awkward hug that turned steadier when he felt you clutch the back of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the world. Tac didn’t move, but you caught the flicker in his expression. Something patient. Watching.

Toe exhaled near your ear. “Okay. Okay, alright. Jesus. You’re not making a lot of sense,” he says, but his tone is gentle. “But you don’t have to, alright? You’re okay now. We’re here.”

“By the way, this is the new corporal,” he added, tipping his head toward Tac. “He’s coming into our squad. I figured you’d meet him in a casual setting first, you know, get comfy.”

He leaned back just enough to smirk at you, teasing soft at the edges.  “Didn’t know you were gonna be a crybaby about it.” Behind him, Tac snorted under his breath.

“You died. You died, okay? I don’t know how - maybe this is another universe or I’m dreaming or I finally fucking lost it, but you died.” You felt Toe stiffen. His smile faltered, frozen, taking a half step back, like you'd just swung at him.

"What?" Toe stuttered. "That's not... that's not funny, man."

"You're both MIA. I wished it was a joke."

“Bullshit. Stop messing around, man.”

Toe was glaring at you. 

"We took a mission. We, we were in Katsovia.” You choked out, “Because… because we took some op, dirty, dark one, the ones we’ve never done, and- and it went bad. So fucking bad.”

You scrubbed at your face with the heel of your hand, arm coming around Toe’s shoulders, breath catching.

“You got hurt. They got us. And the SAS, they came, but they were too late. You were already moved. Gone. The recovered me. I think I was left for dead. I, I should’ve been.”
A hiccup tore through you.

“And now I’m in some NATO base, in a fucking infirmary, and you’re just, just gone. Just MIA. I tried to go for you and it never worked, Laswell caught me. I can’t. I can’t do anything. I’m just, just useless. Stuck here. Lying in a bed while you’re-”
You couldn’t finish the sentence. It strangled itself halfway out.

“I am so alone, Oli,” you said, and your voice cracked right down the middle. “I miss you. Oh, God, I miss you.”

"So we died?"

"You did."

He rubbed the heel of his palm over his face. His jaw worked, something clenched behind it.

“Fuck. I mean, what do you even say to that?” He muttered. “I’m still here, standing here, but… in your world, I’m gone. That’s...” He stopped. Laughed, once, hollow. “That’s a lot.”

"Sorry."

"Oh, oh shit." Toe's expression shifted. He came close, pressing his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut, as if he was trying to will your pain into something he can carry too.

“Hey, whatever this is… you’re not alone in it, alright? We’ve got you. I'm here,” He murmured, softly, as if saying it enough might make it true. “I’ve got you.”

Tac had his brows furrowed. He didn't believe you. That alone was worse than anything he could have said. Irrationally unbearable.

“You curse at your coffee every morning to keep it bitter. Swear at it. Tell it the coffee tree isn’t proud of it..” you said, barely above a whisper. “And you hate olives. Except when it’s on pizza. Then it’s fine.”

There was a pause, sharp, clean, like the second before a shot lands.

“Oh, shit,” Tac muttered, more breath than words. His brow furrowed, not with confusion, but recognition. “Uh… he’s right.”

He looked over at Toe, who had gone quiet too, his usual grin slipping, the light behind his eyes dimming just slightly as the weight of it settled in. The sun was still too bright, the grass still too green, but for a second it all dimed under the weight of them.

“Fuck,” Tac murmured, more to himself than anyone. Then his eyes flicked back to you. “So you’re saying that in the future, maybe, we’re in Katsovia, I get captured with Oli, and you’re barely alive? And what? We don’t make it?”

“Yeah, you’re the stupid sergeant who accepted the mission.”

“Wait, Sam got promoted? Did I also get a promotion? Am I, like, a warrant officer now?” You shook your head. “Impossible. See, that’s how I know you hit your pretty little head. It’s okay, it was never too useful anyways, darling.”

Tac actually huffed a quiet laugh at that, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “God. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact I apparently walked us into a death trap, or that your hallucination gave me more rank.”

“Hallucination me should’ve been a master warrant officer.” Tac murmured. “Aim higher. I’m not staying a master corporal, alright? ”

You laughed, rough and uneven. It broke something loose in your chest.

“I still don’t even know how to find you.”

They were quiet for a long beat. The wind shifted the grass like breath. Somewhere in the distance, birdsong curled into the warm air.

“So,” Tac started slowly, watching you with that same steady squint he always used when reading a difficult map. “Is someone coming after us?”

You nodded, too fast. “Yeah. I made sure. Laswell said, she said she’d put a team on it. Not me, I’m grounded, but… someone’s looking.”

“You sure?” Toe asked. Not accusing. Just soft, like a hand on your back in the dark. “Cause you said that like you’re still carrying it. The guilt.”

“I am,” you said. “I always am.”

Tac leaned forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly serious in a way you weren’t used to seeing. “Then let it go. Just a little. We’re not gone. You said you made sure, right? So trust that. Stop bleeding for us before we’re dead.”

That hit you sideways.

“And don’t do that thing you do,” Toe added, trying to lift the moment with a crooked grin. “Where you look like you’re nodding, but actually you’re just spiraling inside. You always do that. I can see it.”

You tried to smile. It hurt.

“You gotta rest, Tick. Heal up. Get your legs under you,” Tack said, quieter now. “Be ready. Not broken. So when we get back, we don’t come home to an empty room. Don't think to hard, Tick.”

You nodded again. Then it struck you. Wait. “Wait, how do you know my callsign?”

They didn’t answer.

“Tick.”

The voice was gruff.

Your eyes snapped open. The warmth, the sun, the smell of oranges- all gone. You woke up in shadow, the sterile chill of the infirmary crawling up your arms.

Ghost was standing at the side of your bed, tall and still, his mask unreadable in the dimmed lights. He looked up, just slightly, at Gaz, who hovered near the foot of your bed like he’d been there a while. You groaned.

“Good morning, lieutenant. Gaz, I told you to stay put. Go back to your bed, and do not stretch the bad side.” You managed that while trying to process the dreams that just happened.

It came out more hoarse than you meant, and weaker too. Your throat was raw. Your chest ached. You didn’t remember crying, but your cheeks were wet, and your hands were clenched in the thin blanket.

Gaz shifted his weight, eyes flicking over your face. “You were talking in your sleep,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t want you to say anything you wouldn’t want us to know.”

Ghost returned to a chair he was probably sitting in, picking up a book where it was flipped onto Gaz’s covers, spine bent, pages splayed like wings. He settled in again, silent as ever, the mask turning unreadably back toward the pages, but his presence lingered beside you.

Gaz lowered himself back into his bed. “Ghost, you staying long?” 

“As long as needed.”

You yawned. The ache in your ribs had nothing to do with your injuries.

“I said their names,” you murmured, not to anyone in particular. “In my sleep.”

Gaz made a small sound. Affirmation, maybe. It was hard to tell what emotion lived behind it.

You couldn’t meet his eyes. Not yet. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” And then, softer: “They matter. You can cry.” You were grateful that he didn’t use the past tense.

You finally looked at him. Gaz was now staring up at the ceiling, his good arm folded behind his head. The room smelled like cigarettes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

You hesitated. “They told me to stop bleeding for them. To rest. Be ready.”

The silence that followed had weight. Gaz breathed in slowly, and you could hear how it caught slightly at the top.

“Then you should listen to them.” Gaz said. 

“Gaz, you believe in ghosts?”

He smiled faintly, not looking at you. “I think... sometimes the dead stick around. Not because they want to, but because we won’t let them go.” You turned back, and closed your eyes.

"I can't let them go, Gaz."

After a moment, Gaz whispered, barely audible: “Tick?”

You hummed.

He hesitated. “What are their real names?”

You opened your eyes again, staring at the ceiling. “Olivier and Samuel.”

Gaz smiled. “Thanks.”

And then, for a little while, there was nothing but breathing. Yours. Gaz’s. Even Ghost’s, subtle and steady. 

The orange-sweet wind swirled at the edges of your mind.

Chapter Text

Friday , 20--/11/06, 0230

Two days since their return, two days of silence. No debrief, no dressing-down, no word at all. Not even the cold edge of disapproval that Gaz had been bracing for. Just the quiet churn of paperwork and clipped orders to rest, passed through others: nothing he could claim. Nothing that meant anything.

Gaz had tried to wait it out, had told himself that silence was better than anger. He’d clung to the thought that maybe Price wasn’t talking to him because he didn’t know what to say. Maybe it meant he was still thinking, still weighting it all. Maybe there was still room for grace. Maybe it was restraint. Maybe it was mercy. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But as the hours stretched thin and brittle, the quiet curdled into punishment. The absence of Price’s voice wasn’t peaceful: it echoed louder with each passing hour. It left him suspended, frozen, under the silent stars of Katsovia.

Gaz was left adrift, his mind ever a storm

He’d come to hate it.

It filled his chest like smoke, bitter, clinging. It got to the corners of him that had always stood steady, the places that used to feel sure. He felt dull, like a knife left too long in the rain.

The Gaz he used to be, the one he thought he was, would have understood. He would’ve taken it on the chin, accepted the consequences with quiet resolve. That version of himself would’ve nodded, maybe even apologized, and then gone on pretending it didn’t hurt. Because of course he’d messed up. He’d disobeyed a direct order. He’d gone rogue. He’d jeopardized the mission, and worse, he’d betrayed Price’s trust. He knew that. He knew the chain of command, the weight of responsibility, the rules they didn’t write down but still bled for. He understood every angle of his failure.

What he hadn’t expected, what he wasn’t ready for, was that Price might believe it too. That Price might look at him and see not a good soldier who made a bad call, but a liability. A threat. Something that needed to be managed, not trusted.

He wasn’t wrong. Gaz was a liability. He could admit that now. The facts lined up clean. But he could not be one to Price.

Gaz just needed to see his eyes. Please. That's all he's ever asked for. Just this once.

That was the truth of it, stripped bare and trembling. He needed to look Captain John Price in the face and find something human there, something other than the silence that had stretched between them in these past two days. He needed to make sure the man he trusted more than anyone wasn’t looking back at him with anguish or, worse, hate.

Price’s eyes were blue, not the icy kind, but deep, washed-out in the wrong light, stormy in the right one, blue. And right now, under the quiet buzz of the desk lamp, they looked tired. Not sharp with blame, or brittle with rage. His eyes just looked... tired. And clear. No cruelty. No condemnation. No hatred for what Gaz had done. For the order he’d broken. For the risk he’d taken. For the way he’d thrown himself like a lit match into the kindling of their mission, dragging others with him into the flame.

Price had built this task force with his hands and his heart, shaped it out of blood and loyalty and long nights, and Gaz had endangered it. Had endangered the men who made it home. He knew that. But Price didn’t look at him like a saboteur.

He didn’t look at him like a failure.

He just looked at him. Blue eyes steady, exhausted. And Gaz, braced for anger, was undone by the absence of it. Gaz wanted to fall to his knees. Not in apology, but because his legs could no longer carry the weight of being forgiven.

Price was behind the desk, manning their task force one stroke of his pen at a time.

Gaz hovered in the doorway, one arm still cradling his side where the wound hadn’t finished healing. It took him about an hour to reach Price's office from the infirmary. The bandages were tight, but not tight enough to keep him upright without leaning on the frame, as he's used to, every time he could not sleep. He didn’t speak.

“You’re late,” Price said after a long moment, still writing. The cigar moved with his lips.

Gaz let out half a breath. Not quite a laugh.

“Didn’t know I was expected, sir.”

“You weren’t.” Price capped the pen. “Sit.”

He did. The couch groaned beneath him. A real one, not military issue, but something worn and quiet and private.  It had a low back and deep cushions that swallowed him in seconds. It was the kind of couch someone had once chosen carefully to press a bit of comfort into this utilitarian mess of a room, a small, foolish hope that his captain might remember to rest.

He remembered hauling it in himself, years back, pushing it in with bruised shins and stubborn hands, slipping it into the corner of Price’s office without asking. His captain hadn't even said thank you - just left it there. He had accepted it, like he accepted most things Gaz gave. Just the soft creak of canvas beneath Price as he seldom sat beside him, and the pull at the corners of his mouth that Price called a smile. Gaz remembered, too, the mornings after, waking stiff and half-curled beneath a jacket, the couch pressing a seam into his side, having fallen asleep the night before waiting for his captain to finish. He’d lie there blinking at the window, the low light of dawn leaking through the blinds in silver slats, the scent of stale cigar smoke hanging like a curtain. 

The couch hadn’t changed since. Neither had Gaz, really. Except now he wasn’t sure if he still belonged in that corner.

They sat like that for a while. No words, just the dull hum of the desk lamp and the sound of wind rolling against the roof.

“I came to say that I’m sorry,” he said.

Price didn’t answer right away. He leaned forth in the chair, fingers laced in front of his mouth like he’d heard it all before. Maybe he had. Gaz couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.

“For what?” Price asked.

“Katsovia”

“Be specific.”

Gaz looked down at his knees. They were shaking faintly. Nerves or pain, or both.

“I was reckless,” he said. “You know that already.”

“I do.”

A beat passed. Gaz swallowed.

“I’d do it again.”

The silence that followed took Gaz by the throat.

“I know you would.” He said. “That’s what worries me.”

Gaz didn’t look up. He didn’t have to.

“You get yourself killed like that, you take me with you, Sergeant.”

The words struck with a quiet finality. Price pulled rank. Yet, no good captain would say that. The uniform does not grieve. A captain should not falter when his sergeant falls.

Price was meant to be better than that; so, the déchéance had taken them both. Gaz did not fall alone.

Gaz knew better than to push for more. Whatever it was, something tender and terrible, they weren’t ready to name it. The silence remained, and a line had been drawn in the sand, and the storm inside him, ever-rising and relentless, didn’t dare wash it away. Not yet.

It was settled, then.

And for the first time in this game, a concession from his captain: not surrender, but recognition. His captain did not forgive. Gaz did not regret. That was the shape of them now, edged and unsaid. Still, it was something, a place to stand on. 

He felt it swell in his chest, that raw, burning place where shame and pride twisted together. It sat behind his ribs like a fist.

He wanted to cry. Not from guilt: he had made peace with that. But from the weight of being seen and still not saved. From the way Price’s silence had hurt more than a shout ever could. From the ache of loving someone who expected you to be better than you were. At last, he had mercy. The gods, his god, showered him with the unbearable kindness of being seen and understood.

“John…” He choked.

“Goodnight, Kyle.”

He sank further into the cushions without answering, the quiet permission unravelling something inside him. He closed his eyes for just a second, long enough to barricade the tears gathering behind them.

When he looked again at his captain, Gaz realised he’d gone still, blurry and sideways, and that they were alone with the hum of the desk lamp and the pressure of truths lodged between his ribs.

Out of the dirty office window, he could see the dull gleam of the training grounds, light seeping weakly from between the blinds. A few windows still burned on the far side, fractured into gold through the shifting leaves. The wind had quieted, but the night pressed in heavy, the clock on the wall tickets softly, old and tired on his chest. Somewhere outside, someone darted across the floodlit yard. He followed them with his eyes, across the window to come back to Price, when he saw - he saw that he wasn’t alone.

His captain was still behind the desk, eyes stapled on something invisible past Gaz’s head. Something in the set of his shoulders, the slow ease of his breathing, made it feel like the world had paused for Gaz. Like all of this, the night, the silence, belonged to him without his asking.

Gaz thought of saying something. He wanted to, maybe. Something small and terribly human. But then, John moved, just barely, and Gaz saw the tired lift of his gaze, reaching across the desk, like a man reaching for something he knew wasn’t his to take. Like a man who would keep reaching anyway.

The lights dimmed.

As sleep overtook him, Gaz kept his eyes on his captain - and distinguished nothing but a singular ring of light, trembling and molten, as if it marked the end of his world.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 20--/11/04, 0837

The hallway outside the infirmary was all sterile shine and silence, the scent of antiseptic clinging sharp in the back of Soap’s throat. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to be annoying, and the windows, small, bulletproof, and square, let in a drizzle-muted grey that flattened everything it touched.

Soap leaned back against the wall, arms folded, boot tapping once against the tile. Ghost stood beside him, motionless. Laswell stood in front of him, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

Laswell did not waste any time. "The convoy we intercepted wasn’t just running cocaine. It was sarin.”

“Bloody hell.”

Laswell nodded grimly. “We’ve traced the vehicles back to the Grenat Initiative. Their core operations are based in Katsovia and neighboring countries, for now, but they’ve got strategic ties in Eastern Europe, especially Poland. That’s where they route finances, manage off-site logistics, and train the new personnel.”

Soap let out a low breath. “Didn’t peg them for having a reach like that”

“Neither did I." she said. “I sent in Tick’s unit for medical support. Thought they’d just help secure the site, check for explosives and take care of any injuries. Looking back, that may have put them too close to the fire.”

“You want me in?” Soap asked, already shifting his weight forward, keyed up like a dog hearing the leash jingle. Hell, he was always game for a mission. Especially if it meant explosions.

“You're the best we’ve got for demolitions, and the only one available right now in the 141 to keep me informed. I’m grounding Price and Gaz for now and Ghost is to be pulled in a week. He’s been seconded to debrief an asset connected to the Grenat network, and we need his interrogation skills more than his rifle.”

Soap’s grin spread slow and wide. “So I get the boom and the babysittin’. Lucky me.”

Laswell gave him a look, dry and knowing. “Try not to flatten the whole site, MacTavish.”

“No promises.” he said, already feeling the charge in his chest. “But I’ll be quiet about it.”

Laswell gave a small shake of the head, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth, but she was already carrying on, and that was when Soap’s attention slipped.

Out of the corner of his eye, movement pulled at him. Price was coming down the hallway, half-hauling a lad whose shirt was hanging loose and wrinkled. His legs were bare, save for dark briefs and gauze wrapped tight around both thighs. The bandages were blotched through with dried blood, but worse were the streaks below, crusted down his thighs and knees, tracing the path where it had run and clung before it dried. He wore a plain black eyepatch, stretched across the left socket. One foot dragged behind him with each step, his weight slumped heavily against Price, as if just staying upright was a battle he hadn’t fully won.

The lad was staring at Soap. Eye locked. Familiar – unnervingly so.

The air changed. The corridor buzzed on, Laswell still talking beside him, but her words faded under a memory. Hot air, heli blades screaming through the sky, and that lad, same one now slumpin’ in Price’s arms, flat out on a stretcher back then, legs gushing blood, chest lurching, skin grey as ash. Soap’s own hands ramming into the gauze, shouting at Ghost to get the bird moving smoother

That face had been there back then too, stretched out on the stretcher.
Same fuckin’ eye. Same jawline.

Well… At least the poor bastard was still kickin’.

“That connection should’ve been made earlier.” Laswell was saying, voice steady. “It wasn’t.”

Soap blinked, dragging himself back into the present. He forced a breath out, tried to nod like he’d been listening the whole time. She didn’t seem to notice his lapse.

Soap glanced toward Ghost. The other man didn’t even blink.

“You’ll have a partner.” Laswell added. “We call him Chops. He’s not green, but he’s reorienting to demolitions and is still learning about the quieter side of things. You’ll meet him soon. Handle the substation. Quietly. And keep me in the loop, I need to keep Tick informed."

Soap blinked back to attention. “Right. Quiet approach. Thermate’s my go-to. I’ll keep you looped.”

Laswell gave a crisp nod and turned on her heel, disappearing down the corridor. Ghost didn’t move for a moment.

Then, with a glance at the infirmary door, he said, “You missed it.”

Soap raised an eyebrow. “Missed what?”

“You’re going alongside a SOG team. She said they might’ve been moving the other survivors. Your targets, Johnny.”

Soap stared at Ghost, heart skipping a beat. “Shite. I didn’t catch that.”

“Thought you didn’t.” Ghost’s voice was low, without judgment, just firm. “You were looking at Price.”

Soap exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “I recognised the lad he was carrying. From the medevac.” He nodded faintly toward the infirmary door, where Price had taken the newcomer. “Didn’t know he made it. Think he remembers?”

Ghost did not answer.

Soap rubbed at his jaw. “So , I’ll go look for ghosts.”

Ghost looked at him sideways. “Wrong word.”

“Aye, fair. Still. If they were movin’ Laswell’s people in that second load...”

“Then you might not be too late.” Ghost finished.

Soap squared his shoulders. “Right. Time to get loud.”

“Laswell said quiet.”

Soap grinned, teeth flashing. “Quiet first. Loud later. You know how it goes.”

 "Just watch yourself, Johnny. "

Friday, 20--/11/06, 0238

Oh, Soap loved to blow shite up. But a clean breach did have its own kind of thrill, he’d have to admit, and arriving during a storm was almost cinematic.

The fenced perimeter didn’t stand a chance.

Under the downpour, Meat knelt fast at the base, in front of Soap, his gloved hands already fishing the cold spray can from his kit. “Time me." He muttered to the team, who stood just behind, watching their six.

A few sharp bursts of the freezing compound hissed into the night air, condensing into a ghost-white frost where it met the metal links. Meat didn’t wait long. Once the steel dulled, now brittle under the chemical chill, he snapped the links clean through.

"Seven seconds." Chops said.

Not bad, but Soap had seen Gaz do it in six. Still, it was clean, nearly silent and textbook perfect.

“New record.” Meat whispered back, teeth flashing as he peeled the loosened flap of fencing aside

They easily dealt with the fence with a cold spray. The Grenat had posted a guard near the small distribution substation this time; guess they were learning. But just one guard was no use: Soap raised two fingers. Across from him, also hidden in the shadow, Chops nodded and slipped into motion, moving fast, flowing out of the dark. His hand clamped hard over the guard’s mouth before a sound could escape. The jagged edge of a blade found the soft space under the jaw, and just like that, the sentry crumpled backwards, hauled into the dark with barely a rustle.

Substation clear.

Soap crouched at the base of the main converter as he unpacked the thermate with the kind of reverence most men reserve for fine whiskey or first loves. The bars were compact, dense with potential, and warm to the touch, begging to be ignited, but he didn’t start working right away.

Instead, he gave the kid beside him a quick look: fresh face, wide eyes, brimming with excitement. “Alright, watch close. You mess this up in the field, you're not walkin’ away with just a bad review. And don’t touch. Not yet. You’re still in your formation.”

The young CIA operative nodded once, crouching beside him but keeping just enough distance not to get in the way.

He leaned closer. “God, that’s beautiful. But why not C4?”

“Love C4, but nah, not for this job. We’re not lookin’ to level the place, just melt the guts out of it. You choose the tool for the job. This is a hostage rescue.”

“So we want stealth.” The operative finished, grinning. “Which is also why we chose to go in during this storm”

“Aye. Quote me: noise gets you bodies. fire gets you silence. We’re lookin’ at thermate infused with barium nitrate, sulfur, and a polymer binder. This beauty doesn’t explode per se, but it’ll leave one hell of a mess. Burns hot enough to melt straight through the casing and the wires.”

He stepped back, giving the charge one last glance, a final check, not because he doubted it, but because it was his, and he wanted to admire the work. “C’mon. You don’t want to be here when it burns down.”

Chops gave a low whistle. “Mate, I barely wanna be here now. But I gotta say, you Scots sure know how to make fire look romantic.”
He grinned, eyes reflecting the growing glow. “Bet this is what you do on dates, yeah?”

His boots sank into the mud, thick and sucking from the storm’s runoff.

Soap snorted. “You’d be lucky to make it to dessert, mate.”

Soap ducked behind a corner, Chops tight on his heels. They jogged back into the shadows of the secondary entrance, where the rest of the team waited.

“Right then.” he murmured, tapping his comm as his finger hovered over the det signal. He looked up to Nomad, the team leader, who gave him the go signal. “Power’s about to drop. Let’s make some noise.”

It started, slow at first – the high whine of metal heating. Then came the light: searing white, blooming from the converter’s guts like a star being born. “Listen to her sing, Chops.” Soap murmured, eyes glinting in the glare. “That’s thermate for ya.”

Rebar, the marksman, joined them at a jog. There was no use for fire cover when they were going in hallways. Chops clicked through the comms channels to ensure that they were clear.

“All green.” he said, eyes flicking between the team. “Let’s be legends.”

Soap cracked his neck. “Wouldn’t want to steal your thunder, but it’s about to burn.”

The second the current died, the compound exhaled into total darkness. Soap smiled into it, not because he’s hidden, but because now the world was just quiet enough to hear the screech of metal giving away, as his rigged packs of thermal feasted on the frames and wires, and the rain, hissing helplessly against the heat.

“Watcher-1, we’re breaching.”

Meat drove the hydraulic spreader into the door, that burst open with a crunch of surrender. Chops was on point, clearing left as Nomad and Rebar flowed in behind him. Soap shoulders his carbine and slips in last. Laswell didn’t pick names out of a hat for this one. She’d sent in the best. SOG with their razor-sharp precision, and him, Johnny bloody MacTavish, who lived for moments just like this. She gave a damn. And when someone showed up for their people like that, with that kind of fire, you didn’t question it. You matched it. Every step. Every shot. Every breath.

First contact hit fast, two guards rounding the corner, walking towards the door from where Soap entered the compound, complaining about the sudden blackout. Probably on their way to check on the guard posted at the substation. Chops took the near one with a quick two-tap to the chest. The other turned and bolted.

“Runner!” Soap took the shot mid-stride. The round caught the fleeing man in the thigh with a wet snap, and he crumpled hard. Soap surged forward, booted the weapon out of the man’s reach, then fired once more to keep it clean.

“Clear.” He called, breath tight but steady.

“Stacking left,. Meat said, already pressing to the next door.

Down the next corridor, a side office door creaked. Chops pressed to the frame. One breath, two… He then cracked it open and went in. Soap followed, covering.

Inside, another guard. Young. Reaching for an pistol

Too late.

Chops caught his arm mid-motion, twisted it hard behind the guard’s back and slammed him face-first into the desk. The man struggled, panicked, gasping, but Rebar was faster. A sharp crack of his elbow to the back of the head, then a second for good measure.

The guard went limp.

“Quiet.” Soap muttered, stepping past. “Just sleep, mate.”

They made it three more rooms deeper in the hallway:, office, supply room, some half-used bunk room. Soap swept each corner with clinical ease, carbine steady, boots whisper-quiet. They were ghosts, almost out.

Then, Meat kicked a bloody table. The metal legs scraped against concrete with a screech, like nails down a chalkboard. A mug broke on the floor.

Shouts erupted down the hall.

Soap hissed through his teeth. “That’s done it. Go loud!”

Alarms hadn’t yet blared, but doors hissed shut down the hall, and shouting broke out near the eastern wing.

“Go loud.” Soap growled, swinging up his carbine.

The hallway exploded into motion, boots on tile, orders yelled in a language Soap didn’t bother to translate. A rifle cracked downrange. Chops dropped to a knee, returned fire with surgical bursts. One enemy went down; another ducked back and fired blind.

“Contact front!” Chops barked, sending a burst down the corridor.

Return fire ricocheted off doorframes and lockers. Soap ducked behind a steel bedframe, racking another round. “We’re burnin’ daylight, move!”

Smoke grenades out, and they pushed forward under cover. The hallway became a blur of muzzle flashes and shouted commands.

A rifle broke through the haze, the figure just clear enough. Soap didn’t hesitate. He fired once, center mass. The target dropped with a grunt.

“Clear left!” Chops shouted.

Before Soap could pivot, another shape burst through the smoke. Lower, faster. Too close.

A body slammed into him hard, shoulder to chest, and they went down together, the wind knocked clean from Soap’s lungs. His carbine skittered across the floor.

Shite.

The attacker was on top of him, a flash of bone-white eyes behind a gas mask, knife swinging for Soap’s throat.

Soap jerked his head to the side just in time. The blade scraped off his shoulder plate with a metallic screech. He grabbed the wrist, muscles straining, teeth bared.

The knife came down again, closer this time.

Soap twisted, barely dodging the first strike, arm up to block, but the blade came again, closer this time. He grabbed the attacker’s wrist, trying to force it back, the weight bearing down on him. Boots scraped against the floor. Soap could feel the bastard’s breath hissing through the mask.

Crack.

The attacker’s head jerked sideways as a suppressed round punched through his skull, just above the ear. The body slumped, heavy and sudden, pinning Soap for a heartbeat.

“Y’know.” Chops called out, stepping through the haze with his carbine up, “You’re a bit high-maintenance for someone with your résumé.”

Soap shoved the body off, coughing. “You took your time.”

“I was giving you a moment, mate. Thought you might wanna kiss him first.”

“Chops.” Meat warned him, low and clipped.

Soap grabbed his weapon, eyes rolling. “Save the pillow talk for after we clear the floor.”

Chops winked behind his scope. “Can’t help it. You bring out the poet in me.”

Meat groaned. “You’re embarrassing us.”

“Speak for yourself.” Chops muttered, stepping over the corpse. “I’m thriving.”

They moved on, smoke swirling at their heels. One last room. They had breached their cover, but none of the others had contacted reinforcements.

They regrouped in front of the last room. Big steel door. Reinforced hinges. Chops ran a scanner over it and shook his head.

“No heat signature.” he said. “Room’s shielded. Could be a killbox.”

Nomad gave a sharp nod. “We breach.”

Meat stepped forward, hands already on the hydraulic spreader. With a hiss and a crunch, the door gave. Soap swung in first…

Nothing.

“Clear.” Rebar muttered behind him.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Meat asked, low but tense.

No hostages. No guards. Just a single chair in the center of the room, overturned, and a faint, still-warm cup of coffee left on the desk nearby.

Soap’s jaw clenched. “Shit.”

Chops peered past him. “Either we’re early…”

“Or we’re already too late.” Nomad finished grimly.

His face was wet.

Toe came to with the sting of dried blood crusted in the corner of his mouth and the dull throb of a headache blooming behind his eyes. His wrists were zip-tied behind his back, plastic biting deep into the skin. Feet too, he confirmed with a twitch, tied at the ankles.

He searched frantically, settling down only when he saw that Tac, who, thank God, slumped against the partition beside him, unconscious, lips parted slightly as he breathed. His forehead glistened with sweat. He looked alive. Hurt, but alive.

He scooted closer to Tac, awkward in his bindings, shoulder brushing against his friend’s. He nudged him with his knee.

“Tac.” he whispered.

No response.

Toe blinked into the dark, eyes adjusting to the dim strip of light cutting in from a loose panel and turned his gaze to the other side of the van. Dou-Mac was tied up like him, a dark line of blood running from a cut above his eye. Fountain looked worse, slumped in a pile of limbs, one leg twisted at a sickening angle, face ghost-pale. Rook was piled under Fountain, so Toe could not access him, but he was relatively unscathed last time Toe was awake.

Water was dripping from the edge of the panel to where Toe’s head had been resting. They were wet, but the rusted canteen their captors had given them for water was empty.

Hey, at least they moved a guard up front after the stop.

It was still nighttime, or it was nighttime again. Hard to tell. The van rocked beneath them. They were in movement. Last time, there were gunshots, a swerve, then they drove until they stopped. Their captors took photos of them, then bashed them unconscious.

And there he was now.

Fuck, they should learn to use black bags over the heads instead of just knocking people out. His head was throbbing and his ears ringing.

“Serge, wake the fuck up” He nudged Tac again.

Beside him, Tac stirred. A low, pained grunt. Then a sharp inhale.

Toe twisted toward him as much as his restraints allowed. “Sam. Hey, come on, wake up.”

Tac blinked slowly, eyes unfocused. Then he turned his head and winced. “...Shit.”

“Yeah.” Toe said, voice dry. “Welcome back to the land of the kidnapped.”

Tac groaned, shifting against the partition. “You good?”

“Define good.” Toe muttered. “Still got all my limbs. Head feels like it went a few rounds with a frying pan or a church bell. You?”

Tac looked down at himself, testing the zip ties with a small grimace. That alone was answer enough.

“I’d have given you water, but we seem to be out.”

Toe rocked forward on his heels, trying to wedge his shoulder under one knee and contort for leverage. Maybe he could twist the plastic enough to snap it, but it was tight, flush against skin and bone. He hissed when it dug deeper.

“Don’t.” Tac said. “You’ll just cut circulation. We need your hands working if we get out of here.”

“When we get out, Serge.”

Toe looked at him. “You’ve got a plan?”

“Nope. But we’re not dying in a damn van.”

Toe almost smiled. Almost. Then the vehicle hit a bump, jarring everyone, and somewhere near the front, a muffled voice shouted something in a language Toe didn’t understand.

“Reckon you can wake them up, Toe?”

Toe exchanges a look with his sergeant. Dou-Mac first. He was the closest. Toe shuffled forward on his knees, inch by painful inch, shoulder scraping the metal wall. When he got close enough, he leaned in and whispered. “Mac. Wake up, man. Come on.”

No reaction.

He pressed his shoulder against Dou-Mac’s arm, gave him a small shove. The man’s head lolled to the side, blood trailing from the gash over his eye. Still breathing. But deep. Out cold.

“He should be fine anyways, barely some cuts. I’ll try Fountain.”

Fountain was harder to reach, and Toe didn’t want to move his already broken leg.

“Fountain. Hey. Wake up.”

Nothing.

He tried again, harder this time. “Fountain!”

No movement.

Tac was already angling toward the last of the pile. “Rook?” he called, low but firm. “Kid? You with us?”

Toe could barely see him, just a mess of limbs and gear and what might’ve been Rook’s shoulder.

“Just make sure he’s breathing, then.” Tac murmured.

“Yes, sir. They’re all still unconscious, though. You recon they’ll be alright?”

“Heck if I know, Toe. I’m not Tick.”

Toe froze. Your name sat heavy between him and Tac.

“I’m sorry.” Tac said, quietly.

Toe didn’t look at him. He didn’t have to.

“Don’t.” He replied, voice low. “Don’t start that. He’s still alive.”

Tac didn’t argue. Didn’t nod, either, as Toe wiggled back beside him.

The van rattled around them, tires grinding over uneven road.

“Can’t believe he never got to see the cottage.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Barely more than a breath.

Tac didn’t answer right away. Just shifted, a tiny movement that made the zip-ties creak.

They’d talked about it for months. Toe had picked out the damn place himself: a battered old thing, sagging into the dirt. No electricity, leaky roof, moss nibbling through the cracks in the stone porch. Didn't matter: he'd seen it and thought "Yeah, this." He was pretty sure that he had with stars in his eyes when he told his sergeant: “You’ll see. It’s quiet. Real quiet. You can sleep without a gun under your pillow.”, and he meant every damn word, with his heart pounding. He said it like a secret, as an offering.

Because that was the cottage: a maybe. Toe could see it, some nights, how he could rewire the house, patch the roof. How sunlight would stretch across the floors, how they'd have a little table on the porch, and sit out there in the evenings, to grow old. Just them. Well, sometimes you, but not all the time. He didn’t know if it was foolish, thinking that way. Didn’t know if it made him soft, made him naive. But he’d rather be a fool with a dream than a corpse without one. Could you blame him?

“Shut up, Toe.”

Toe flinched, just a little.

His voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath. “No.” He swallowed. “He should have seen the cottage, Tac.” Did Tac not understand?

“Is this the time?” Tac snapped.

“Yes, Serge. I’m trying to not cry again.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. He should have seen the cottage.” Toe offered again.

“You know he’d hate it.” Tac murmured beside him.

Toe glanced over.

“He needs internet and electricity and working water. Good pressure, too.” Tac added. “Bit of a princess when he’s on leave.”

Toe felt his chest loosen, just slightly. Damn, it's true. His mouth twitched. “Yeah. He made me carry his rucksack that time because his back ‘hurt from sleeping wrong.’”

“Not his fault, he barely slept that night. Kept practicing stitches, to do them faster.”

He turned his head toward Tac, slowly. The van rattled, its bones groaning over another stretch of bad road, but all he could hear was that one sentence, looping. You,  alone at night, hunched over, threading needle after needle while the he slept? God. No wonder they had to buy bananas the morning before. Why didn't you tell him? Why didn't Tac tell him? he should say something. Laugh it off?

“You should have told me. You let me make fun of him!” he muttered. “I kind of hated that, watching him try so hard. It’s not his fault. There will always be men we can’t save.”

“I dunno, Toe.”

Silence.

“He should have seen the cottage, Tac”

Silence, again. A

“You still left him a room, but not for me, Toe. Just one master and a guest bedroom.”

Toe's heart lurched. He blinked into the dark.

Oh. Was that what bothered Tac when they checked the cottage out?

The corners of his mouth twitched up, unsteady. Something sharp and sweet and bitter in his words. “Jealous?”

“I wouldn’t want to live there anyways. I’d have to see your mug everyday. I would rather bleed money paying rent in Toronto. Get real peace and quiet.”

Tac’s voice was tight, too stiff. Toe could tell the lie from a mile away.

“I just didn’t think you’d do that.”

Toe couldn’t see his face, but he pictured the set of his jaw, the way he probably wasn’t looking at him. The way he never did when something mattered too much.

He let out a slow breath.

“I didn’t think you wanted the bed.” He said, words clumsy with honesty. “Figured you’d take the couch. Or make fun of me. Or, I dunno. I thought if I asked, you’d laugh.”

His throat felt thick. He forced the next part out.

“I didn’t want you to have your own room.” He added, breath catching. “That was the point.”

“What the fuck do you mean, Toe?”

“I figured you’d be in the master, with me.”

Silence. No jostle of movement. No mocking retort. Just the hum of tires on rough earth and the faint creak of the van's suspension.

Toe’s heart hammered behind his ribs. Maybe he’d fucked it. Maybe Tac was just stunned. Maybe he was disgusted. Maybe he was…

“You’re an idiot.” Tac said.

“Well, it’s kind of now or never, in case you’ve not noticed.”

He meant it to sound light, but it landed hoarse. Fragile. His throat burned. They were tied up in the back of a van, maybe being sold to warlords, maybe being marched out to die, perhaps they were going to torture them, like… and this was what he’d decided to say. This was when.

Tac didn’t answer. The quiet was thick again. Not empty, not cold, just, waiting.

Toe’s pulse thundered in his ears. He stared at the far wall of the van like it would give him some kind of sign. A crack. A light. Anything. But all it gave him was darkness, and the distant jolt of a bump in the road.

He wanted to say more. Wanted to fill the silence before it swallowed him. But if he spoke again, he’d beg, and he couldn’t do that. Not to Tac. Not after all this time.

Then, softly, so softly he almost missed it: “I noticed.”

Toe blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Tac exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet. “You’re still an idiot.”

Toe felt like crying. He couldn’t decide if it made him feel lighter or like he’d swallowed a stone.

Part of him wanted to rewind, to claw the words back and shove them down where they belonged, behind years of jokes and jabs and sideways glances. But the bigger part, the part of him that had been screaming since they’d been thrown in the back of this van, was glad. Thankful he’d said something before the world had the chance to end again.

Because it was ending. Not in fire and brimstone, maybe, but in the grinding tires of this van, in the weight of zip ties slicing his wrists raw.

Sincerely, he was terrified. Of dying. Of being sold. Of waking up alone in another empty cell without Tac, or you, or any of the pieces that made him feel human. But somewhere in that fear, curled like a thread of warmth in his ribs, was the fact that he’d said it. He’d meant it. Tac knew.

And Tac hadn’t pulled away.

Toe wanted to live. God, he wanted to live. Wanted Tac to live. But if he didn’t, if they didn’t, at least it wouldn’t be one more thing unsaid. At least Tac would know, now, that Toe hadn’t given him a guest room because he wanted space.

He never had. All he’d ever wanted was to be close.

“Sorry.” Toe offered.

That stunned him. Toe blinked in the dark. He hadn’t expected Tac to land the punch.

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

Tac let out a breath, tired and not quite bitter. “I couldn’t tell you either, Toe.”

Toe turned his head, not sure if he could meet Tac’s eyes even if he could see them in the dark. “Why?”

“We’re three.” Tac said. Quiet. Heavy. “If we got together, I was afraid Tick would feel left out. And it would’ve messed with team dynamics.”

Ah, now he was feeling guilty. Toe felt that guilt settle into his ribs like an old bruise. The three of them had always been a unit. Not just a team, but a triangle with no weak side. He’d known it, deep down. Maybe they all had. And even though his chest ached with wanting, he understood.

Still, his voice came out hoarse when he replied. “He’d have understood. Eventually.”

Would you have? Tac didn’t answer. Maybe because they both thought you’ll never get the chance to.

Toe blinked hard, jaw clenched against the burn in his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry again. Not tonight. If he collapses, so will Tac.

“I… I was thinking about team dynamics, Toe.”

Wait. There was a hint of laughter in that sentence. That wasn’t the calm, even-keeled Tac he knew. His voice cracked on the words, high and tight and not quite steady.

Toe turned his head sharply, instinct kicking in. Tac sounded hysterical. Not good.

“Fucking team dynamics.” Tac choked out. “When I accepted this mess of a mission. Fucking black ops, too. I should’ve known better as your sergeant. We’ve never done black ops before, Toe, we’ve always been clean.”

Toe could feel Tac’s voice slipping, frayed by guilt and exhaustion. It wasn’t just the mission. It wasn’t just the capture. It was everything they didn’t say, piling up in the dark, pressed under the weight of all that could’ve been.

Toe could hear it - the guilt bleeding through every syllable. Not just for Tick, but for dragging them into this nightmare. For letting this happen. For choosing duty.

“I failed, Toe. I failed us.”

The words landed like a stone in Toe’s chest. Heavy. Final.

He shook his head, slow and small. “No, you didn’t.” But it felt weak. Hollow. Like patching a bullet hole with a Band-Aid.

Tac was breathing hard beside him now, like just saying it took the air out of him. Like he’d been holding it in too long and now it was all crumbling no, crumbling was too soft. Tac was fracturing, quiet and sharp, a kind of collapse no one else would see.

And Toe… he couldn’t bear it. Not after everything. Not after you. Not after this confession, this closeness. Not when they finally said the quiet part out loud.

“Tick would disagree. You know, he’s always on my side.”

You would. Toe was pretty sure that you would.

“Stop thinking too hard, Serge.”

He leaned his head just barely above Tac’s shoulder. Close enough to touch, if he wasn’t bound.

“I was always yours.” He whispered. “Even when we were three. And I know that Tick would have followed you here, too, knowing everything.”

“I know.” Tac choked out.

“…”

“I mean, I’m yours. If you’ll take me.”

“Of course.”

“Of course I’d be yours, or of course you’ll take me?

“You’re insufferable.” Tac laughed again, like it hurt, like the sound was caught between a sob and a grin.

That was the best he could get for now, Toe assumed.

The night was clearing up. Through the loose plank in the van’s wall, a faint glow had begun to seep in, soft and rosy, with the pink hue of the early dawn. It now spilled over Tac’s bruised cheeks, shimmering where it was wetness had parted the grime.

It was no use thinking anymore. Toe had gone over every angle before their previous stop. Without weapons, without tools, or even just a sharp edge, there was nothing left to try. They’d already tried everything to get out, but without weapons, without ways to get unbound, there was simply no hidden miracle.

Perhaps Toe’s chance ran out, tapped dry. They were lucky, in a way, to not have been tortured yet. Not that Toe had any intel to spill. So, eventually, he had stopped trying. Not from hopelessness exactly, more resignation. Acceptance without peace, when nothing else was left.

“Serge, if they try to get us out, pretend to be passed out. I’ll try to fight us out of this.”

“I won’t let you fight alone, Toe.”

“Call me Oli. I’d like to die as Olivier.”

“Well, Oli, I love you.”

Toe chuckled. “You’re moving fast.”

“We don’t have much time left, do we?”

“I love you too, Sam.”

Their mobile prison was now almost golden, bathing in a shade of burnished orange. The first lights trickled inside, hesitant. A few rays caught into the dusky air, igniting the particles into a slow, weightless blaze. The gilded motes fluttered in unison, delicate and luminous, swarming towards the opening, teeming for freedom.

They spun like tiny souls fleeing their wreckage, false but defiant stars in their crumbling sky, drawn to a light they could never reach. Each flicker was a breath. A heartbeat. A life. Fleeting. Beautiful.

“Look, Sam. Fireflies.”

He didn’t need to say more. He watched them vanish into the shaft of light, one by one, until there was nothing left but air again, still and empty, as if nothing had ever been there at all.

And… oh. He was crying. For himself, for Rook, for Fountain, for Dou-Mac.

For you. For Sam.

The world outside kept moving, indifferent. Somewhere far off, an engine droned. Toe blinked, and wiped his face on Tac’s shoulder.

The van halted to a stop. Toe could hear the doors open, then slamming close. The two captors who were transporting them were disputing.

It was an unusual language. He didn’t understand it.

“That’s Polish.” Tac said quietly, like he knew Toe wouldn’t get it. “One of them’s nervous about the deal. Thinks they should kill us now. No loose ends.”

The rear gate clanked open, sudden and loud. Toe’s body tensed. He coiled like a shrimp, aiming a wild kick toward the light.

It didn’t work.

Rough hands caught him by the ankle. He was yanked out awkwardly, his back scraping the floor of the van and head caught once on the step, dragged like dead weight into the dirt and dawn.

A moment later, he heard Tac grunt, then a second set of footsteps, a second body hitting the earth. They hauled him out too, dumped him without care.

Toe’s cheek pressed into gravel. Cold bit through his shirt. Beside him, Tac lay close, too close, and too still, both of them shoved down flat, face to the ground.

One captor paced behind them, breathing hard. The other muttered something in Polish, low and rapid, probably a threat.

“Sam.” He pleaded.

“I’m here, Oli.” Tac’s voice was steady. “I’m right here.”

He closed his eyes. Someone positioned themselves over Tac.

A fast beating filled his ears. His pulse was deafening, a frantic drumbeat over his senses. The captor behind him shouted.

Gunshot. Tac convulsed beside him.

Toe bit down on his tongue, waiting for his turn to come.

Friday, 20--/11/06, 0425

The storm and the night had passed by the time they finished checking the inside of the building, leaving behind nothing but churned-up mud and a sticky, humid mess outside. It was a new dawn.

The team waited inside the reinforced room. Rebar and Soap moved to complete rounds to check the outside of building while they waited for extraction: Laswell was sending them helicopters for exfil. They just had to told tight.

Rebar crouched a few meters ahead, inspecting the tire impressions by the front of the compound. Soap followed his line of sight.

“Soap, come check this out.”

Soap knelt beside him, gloved hand brushing over the edge of one rut. Deep enough to have pushed through soaked ground, not deep enough to be military.

“Rebar to Nomad, over.”

A pause. Soap stood nearby, boots sinking in soft, storm-soaked earth. He could hear the squelch every time he shifted his weight.

“Go ahead, Rebar.”

“Be advised: tire tracks out front. Single vehicle, deep impressions: ground must have been mud when it rolled out. Civilian thread.”

Nomad’s voice came back: "Say again, Rebar. Confirm movement?"

“Negative. No movement currently. Vehicle’s long gone.”

“Understood, stand by.”

Soap’s stomach turned. If they’d missed the convoy by hours, hell, maybe minutes.

“Nomad to Watcher-1. Possible exfil of targets via civilian vehicle during storm, before our arrival. Rebar has tire sign. Request aerial sweep and route analysis, over.”

Laswell’s voice cracked through comms, cold and sharp.
“Got a satellite pass coming through, standing by for feed. Exfill’s ETA in 20”

Soap exhaled through his nose. Too late, maybe. But not too far gone. Not yet.

He stood there, boots shifting in the mud, watching the empty road for nearly twenty minutes, patience fraying with each breath.

“Nomad, it’s Watcher-1. We found possible matches of the vehicle the one in the secondary convoy, first, 50 clicks north, second, 60 clicks east. Recommend immediate pursuit. Diverting exfil. Your birds are now your ride.”

Soap caught the transmission and felt a jolt of momentum spike through him. They were skipping the exfil and going hunting instead. So, there was still hope.

Nomad split them fast.

"Soap, you're with Meat and Rebar. First bird, North lead. Chops, you're with me. Second bird heads east. If they split, we flank. If not, go down fast."

Soap followed, sliding in smooth, fingers tightening on the grab rail. He turned, scanned the field one last time, then slapped the fuselage twice.

The pilot needed no further cue. The bird jolted as it lifted, rotors screaming, the world below shrinking fast into a blur of tan and gray. Soap strapped in. Dust still clung to his collar and drying mud to his boots.

The second helicopter was already banking east with Nomad and Chops aboard, kicking up another cloud as it rose, breaking formation just enough to flank the wider arc.

“Eyes open.” Nomad said in the comms. “They’re running away scared. And scared men don’t drive smart.”

The landscape rolled beneath them. They did not bother closing the open hatch. Wind was funnelling hard and fast into Soap’s mohawk. He didn’t mind. He felt light and restless. The light was changing now, bleeding orange into gold.

The pilot informed them through the comms: “Visual, two clicks north, immobile. Looks like your van.”

Soap’s hand was already on the grab rail, body tipping forward, eyes narrowing. The coil in his gut pulled tight.

“Then let’s catch the bastards.”

Rebar positioned himself near the open hatch.

A dirt road slicing through nowhere. The van was parked crooked, door yawning wide. Two figures were face down in the dust: their soldiers, motionless. A figure stood over the body on the right, gun already raised. The other paced a few meters off, scanning the horizon. The front of the van was empty.

Soap’s heart slammed once in his chest.

“That's them.” He snapped. “That’s Toe and Tac.”

The pilot’s voice buzzed over comms, clipped and calm: “Can set us down in twenty seconds.”

Soap's jaw clenched. “We don’t have twenty, this is an execution. Align the hatch with them.

“Rebar, take the shot.”

Rebar’s breath slowed. One finger on the trigger, the other steadying the barrel against the side doorframe. He fired once. The target dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, onto their objective.

The second hostile jerked toward the sound, weapon halfway raised.

Meat opened, stitching two clean bursts into the man’s torso before he could turn. Dust kicked up, then settled over the stillness.

“Targets down.” Rebar confirmed. “Both neutralized.”

The pilot circled down, rotor washing grit into spirals across the road.

Soap leaned out further, scanning fast. “Eyes on the objectives. First one’s moving. Jesus. The other one’s bleeding out. We’re landing. Rebar, you check the van. Weapons hot.”

“Three figures in the back of the van.”

The helicopter dropped hard, skids barely brushing the ground before Soap jumped. He hit the dirt running, heart hammering in time with the rotors.

“Tac, Toe?” He hooked his hands under the corpse’s shoulders and hauled it back with a grunt. Blood smeared across the target’s side where the body had slumped.

“That’s Tac. I’m Toe.” Came a hoarse voice. Soap’s head snapped to the side. The taller figure was struggling to push himself up, trembling hard. “Is he…?”

“Give me a second, Toe.” Soap dropped to his knees. “Tac?”

Nothing.

He shifted his hand, brow furrowed. Still nothing.

Soap’s stomach turned. “Shit.” There was blood everywhere. Too much.

Toe flinched like he’d been shot too. His breath hitched. “No, no, no. No…”

Soap rubbed Tac hard on the sternum, muttering something under his breath.

A twitch. A flutter under his fingers.

“There.” Relief broke through Soap’s voice like sunlight. “He’s alive. Unconscious. Airway is clear.”

“He’s alive. Unconscious. Airway is clear.” There was no gushing wound where Tac was covered in blood.

Something broke in Toe’s face then. Not loud. Just the silence cracking all at once. He turned his face away, pressing it into the dirt like he didn’t want to be seen.

“Alright, alright. Stay down.” Soap ordered, “You look like shit”

Soap took the knife and sliced Tac and Toe free, the zip ties giving out with a sharp plastic snap. Toe lunged the second his wrists were loose. He grabbed Tac’s shoulders, shook him, gave him a light slap that was more panic than force. “Sam. Sam, hey. Hey.” His voice cracked.

Tac stirred with a low groan, barely conscious.

Toe froze. His eyes welled up fast, and he looked down at his own trembling hands like they didn’t belong to him. Like he couldn’t figure out where the blood had come from. Couldn’t tell if it was his or Tac’s or both.

“Uh, don’t think it’s my blood.” Tac mumbled.

“I heard a shot. Thought…” Toe started, voice unsteady.

Soap cut him off gently. “It was Rebar. Laswell sent the SOG”

Toe let out a noise. “Didn’t think anyone was coming.”

“We always come.” Soap said. He glanced at the van, then tapped his comm. “Watcher-1, two recovered. We’re bringin’ ’em home.”

“Watcher-1, add three to that. One has fractures.” That was Rebar. Over the comms, Soap heard Meat ask for a backboard.

Soap hurled Tac up, pulling an arm around his shoulders. “Easy, mate. I’ve got you.”

Toe stood up, unsteady, and followed them, one step at a time.

“Watcher-1, think you can let Tick in on the news now, ye?”

Tac stirred at the sound, barely conscious, his head lolling towards Soap’s. “Tick?”

Toe looked up. He stopped, and stood there, stunned, tears streaking clean lines down his dirt-caked face.

“You’re telling me.” he said, voice thin with disbelief, “That after all this… after everything… he’s alive?”

Soap adjusted his comms “Watcher-1, please confirm that Tick is alive for Tac and Toe over here?”

Laswell’s voice came through, crisp but cautious. “Affirmative. Tick made it out. He’s in our custody.”

Toe let out a shuddering exhale. His knees nearly gave, and Soap saw it. He stopped, shifted Tac’s weight to one side, and reached a hand toward Toe.

“C’mon. He’s waiting for you on the other end.”

Chapter Text

Friday, 20--/11/06, 0832

Gaz woke to a hand upon his cheek.

It was warm, coarse, unmistakably real, yet impossibly tender, achingly present. In the delicate blur between slumber and truth, where dreams still wrapped themselves around his limbs as he clung to that single point of contact, he did not question it. How could he, when the world had quieted to this? His head was laid against something solid. A body, breathing slow and deep beneath him. Gaz was warm. Not just comfortably warm, not merely sheltered: Gaz felt home, felt the elemental feeling of belonging that anchored in his marrow. 

John.

He accepted the moment in blind faith.  He didn’t open his eyes. He couldn't: to do so would risk breaking the illusion and waking to something colder. The hand moved again, dragging slow across his cheek. The pad of a thumb brushed the edge of his jaw. Gentle, almost tender, almost reverent. Gaz felt the digits wrap around his heart. Like a promise, whispered through skin. His chest pulled tight.

He sighed, soft and helpless, and turned into the touch. God help him, poor him, he was in love. Price had seen him curled up on the couch, vulnerable and asleep, and decided to stay close. To hold him, like this.

Then the hand shifted. Two fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose, pinching it, childishly.

Gaz snorted, a half-laugh leaking out before he could stop it, which broke his cover. Teasing. John was teasing him. He wanted to cry again. God, if that was what it could be like, he’d give anything to keep this side of his captain.

Then came the flick, a solid flick square against his nose. A flick born of affection, probably. But a violent one, all the same, with enough bite to draw tears to his eyes. His eyes, which were now very much open.

And blinking up to Soap.

“Oi, Sleeping Beauty.” Soap said, grinning down at him like a devil who knew exactly what he’d done. Wanker. He had replaced Price, cocky and far too close, his hand still hovering near Gaz’s face. Gaz had his head on the thighs of Johnny fucking MacTavish.

Wanker.

Gaz blinked again, felt the firm shape of Soap’s thigh under his cheek and groaned from the sheer embarrassment, yielding to the truth of his predicament.

“I hate you.” He muttered. Betrayed. He felt betrayed.

“Didnae seem like it a second ago.” Soap chirped, way too pleased with himself.

And that hand? Yeah. It patted his head. Lightly. Affectionately. Like he was a dog. Gaz swatted it away with the coordination of a man still half-asleep and fully offended. His heart was still sprinting. He sat up too fast, pulse stuttering, and Soap shifted to let him move, casual as anything.

“Wanker. Where’s…” He started, but Soap just smirked. “Price is gone. Had to step out. Left you lookin’ like a right cuddly little bastard, so I figured I’d keep you company.”

That was… weird. Soap’s tone was casual, offhand, like it was still a joke. His eyes said otherwise.. The poor Scottish never could hide anything in those big, blue eyes. Soap looked like he startled himself.

Their gazes locked.

Gaz held it, confused, pinned, and Soap looked away first.

“Ye were, uh, droolin’. Thought ye’d wanna, y’know.. wipe it off yer couch.” Soap was scratching the back of his neck, already turning like he had got somewhere better to be. The words tripped over each other on the way out, accent thick, all tangled in nerves and bravado. He didn’t meet Gaz’s eyes.

“Give me a minute, wanker.” Gaz muttered, scrubbing at his face. He meant it.

“Price’s off debriefin’ in Ramstein. I bought you coffee. Black, nae sugar. Just like yer mood this morning. Price said I’d meet the new lad today. Do you know anythin’ about him?”

Gaz stared at him. Is Soap playing dumb?

Soap threw up his hands. “Shite, alright. I put two sugar and cream, eejit. Drink up, we need to stop at the infirmary. They straight-up called Ghost when they clocked you went missing during the night.” 

Soap huffed. 

“Bastard was waitin’ for me in our room, couldn’t even get a proper rest after the mission. Said he wasn’t fetching you from here.”

Then, grumbling under his breath: “ Sent me like a dog. Go fetch, Soap! Bloody hell.”

Soap was rambling. He usually talkative, sure, but this was rambling, even for him. “Let’s get you checked out.” Soap was now fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. “Missed you in our room. Not sayin’ I cried or nothin’, but it was dead quiet.” 

He blew out a sigh through his nose. Gaz watched, still a little stunned. “Anyway. I’m gonnae nap once I get you shoved back into bed where you belong, uh, medically, not making it weird. But when I wake up, you’re watching me train, aye? Deal? The weights never flirt back.”

“Why were you stroking my face?”

Soap’s head snapped back, wide. His mouth hung open for a second too long.

“Why were you cuddling Price when I came in, then?” Defensive. Soap was too defensive, but the words hit nonetheless. 

They locked eyes. Gaz couldn’t breathe. Gaz tilted his head. Soap looked away first. His ears had gone red. Gaz was the one sitting, still half-wrapped in sleep, but somehow Soap looked like the cornered one.That didn’t make sense. 

Oh. Wait. Gaz let the sudden warmth hang in the air for a beat longer, watched Soap stew in the silence, ears still glowing. Then he made a decision.

Gaz conjured the best lazy, teasing version of his voice, that he knew was deep with sleep, the kind that curled at the edges. Gravel and heat, he told himself. Gravel and heat. Let’s see if Soap would squirm.

 “You flustered, Mactavish?” Soap didn’t quite rise to it.

Soap’s mouth was open again. “Whit? Flustered? Me?” He squawked, far too loud, voice cracking like a teenager. “Dinnae flatter yersel’, mate.”

“Not ma fault ye sleep like a bloody cat.” Soap added quickly, like that cleared anything up. “Anywan’d be flustered, wakin’ up tae ye makin’ wee noises an’ cuddlin’ yer CO.”

Gotcha. Too easy.

“English, MacTavish. Remember to speak English.”

Friday, 20--/11/06, 0810

Kyle was warm. That was the first thing.

Price did not want to open his eyes. 

His back ached. His thighs had been numb beneath Kyle’s head and shoulders. It was a steady pressure, the gentle insistence of water against stone, wearing away edges, he thinks.

Gaz had been asleep by the time he finished. “I’ll just sit with Kyle.” Price had thought. Just for a moment, just until he settled. It would help him think, or so Price had thought. So he did. He sat stiff on the couch, arms crossed and legs wide. Kyle was curled tight in the corner, knees drawn up, head sideways on the armrest. He barely took half the couch.

Price had watched the soft rise and fall of Kyle’s back, had let his eyes follow the shadow of his jawline, and the fine lines etched between his brows, even in his sleep. 

His cigar eventually went out, but he couldn’t be bothered for another. He shifted to throw it out.

Kyle had stirred, still half-dreaming. He shifted too, unfolding from his curled-up place, turned, and, without ceremony, laid his head down Price’s thigh.

Price had grunted. He had been lenient once, let Kyle have the last word for this once. “I’d do it again.” Kyle had said. Price hadn’t answered. He should have, should have said something, anything. But he was choked. Words had caught up in his throat. He let the silence stretch between them, and maybe… maybe Kyle heard what he wanted in it.

And now here was Kyle. Head on Price’s lap. He mumbled something. Nothing coherent. Just the soft drag of his breath against fabric. 

Price hadn’t moved. He should have. He was the superior officer, and this was his office: he was meant to be the still point, not a pillow. Yet, he was too tired to fight it. Too worn down, by weeks of tension and worry: that’s what he told himself.

But how could he? How could he, when Kyle thus took comfort, without hesitation, with belief? There had been nothing tentative in the way Kyle had laid his head down, no pause for permission, no flicker of doubt. Like a man wading into the tide, unafraid to get soaked. It had always been his place. The sheer amount of trust overwhelmed him. Kyle had the right. That was the cruelest part. Kyle had the right, and Price didn’t have the guts. He didn’t have the guts to be cold when Kyle felt so warm, when he himself had felt so warm. 

It had been a wave kissing the sandcastle, and then again, and again, until the towers melted, the walls caved, and the careful lines he’d drawn were swallowed up, smoothed over.

The wave has been knocking at his heart. A patient rhythm, like it knew that the door would give, eventually. 

So Price, stupid bastard that he was, had let him.

He had rested a hand beside Kyle, on the couch. Not on Kyle. Not yet.

The office had been quiet. The base beyond, even quieter. And somewhere in that hush, he had fallen asleep too.

Gaz was warm and smooth, like whiskey, he thought . That was the first thing, and will always be the first thing.

Price stood in the recovery wing of the Ramstein base, lingering in the residual warmth inside of himself, waiting for Laswell to arrive so they could debrief Toe and Tac together. Then came a creak. Then a chuckle. Price sighed before he even looked up.

Christ.

Price has seen a lot in his years of service. He’d seen men carried out, stacked side-by-side, when urgency demanded so. But he’d never seen two grown soldiers voluntarily squeeze into a single stretcher like a pair of sardines. Logistically, it was possible. Apparently. Because he was watching it happen now. 

The taller one, Toe, if he remembered right, was awkwardly twisted, trying to settle on his side without rolling off entirely. His arm was curled around the other. Both of them had matching sets of bruises and bandages. Mild concussions, nothing life-threatening, but enough to knock them out cold and leave them floppy as corpses back in the field.

This was absolutely against decorum, not that Price gave a damn when the men were injured, but it did make him pause. Tac had more stripes under his maple leaf on his patch. That made him the sergeant. It didn’t seem to matter to Toe. Nor did it seem to matter to Tac: he let his subordinate have the last word too. Funny how rank didn’t mean much, after all.

Who was he to talk, anyways? Lately, he’d found himself letting a few things slide too. Letting lines blur, just a little. Not saying anything when comfort came too easy. Not pulling away when he probably should’ve.

Tac was now whispering into Toe’s ear. That felt a little too intimate for Price.

He can’t believe he left Kyle for this. 

He looked away. Let them have it. Ran a hand down his face. Christ. He was so done with this. 

Where the hell was Laswell?

Speak of the Devil - she arrived with her tablet, tapping at the screen like the rest of them had all the time in the world.“Sorry.” she said, without looking up. “Was just updating Tick. We’ll do this quickly. Just one question first. You’ll get a full psych eval and CI interview in Hereford. For now, I needed to confirm risk level.”

Then, without missing a beat: “Toe, get out of Tac’s stretcher. You can stand.”

Price raised an eyebrow.

Toe stood up immediately, sheepish. So did Tac, though with a grimace and some very dramatic effort.

Price stared. Then looked at the now-emptied stretcher. Then back at the two of them standing just fine.

Right. So the whole sardine-can stunt had been for show.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was not paid enough for this.

Laswell didn’t bat an eye. “Sergeant, Master-Corporal, did you leak any classified information during your capture, or do you think that you might have leaked classified information?”

“No. We were not even questioned. They got the time to go for Tick before the first base was raided, and then they were on the run, moving constantly. No time to organize interrogations.” Tac did not hesitate. Good sign.

“Any gear, devices, or access codes compromised?”

“They took everything, yeah. Radios and weapons. But they didn’t use any of it. Not that we saw.”

Price stepped in. Please let this be over with as soon as possible. He needed a bloody tea. “Then we treat it as such. IDs and auth codes will be cycled. If anything’s turned on, we’ll see it.”

Then, Tac asked: “And Tick? Did he say that he let anything slip during his interrogation?”

“I can’t tell you, Tac.”

“What? Did he tell you not to? Did he let anything slip? We don’t even have intel.”

Laswell looked uneasy. “No. I can’t tell you because you don’t have the clearance for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tick was honourably discharged from the JTF2. I put him in the 141, under captain Price, here.”

Tac stared at her. “You…what?”

“You weren’t recovered yet. His unit, you, was considered gone. He’s on the books as Task Force 141 now.” She glanced at Price, then back at Tac. “And that means what he told us goes up the chain. Not sideways. You'd have to ask the captain.”

Tac looked like he’d just been slapped.

Price rubbed the bridge of his nose. He really, really needed that tea. And whiskey. He was considering the heresy of drinking them together. Maybe in the same mug.

“He didn’t tell anything.” He grumbled, more to the air than anyone in particular.

That seemed unimportant to Tac. The younger man was staring in what seemed to be disbelief into Laswell. he did not seem pleased. "I'm gonna talk to Tick. Then we have to talk."

Price watched as they stared. 

Laswell thankfully and mercifully cut it short. “Let's keep this for later and go, to not keep Tick waiting, God knows where he’ll want to slip off again if I make him wait any longer.”

“Again, what do you mean?” Tac asked, strained. Distressed, even. “He tried to run away?”

Laswell didn’t even look back. “You’ll see.”

And that was somehow worse.

Friday, 20--/11/06, 0920

You didn’t remember much about the time you spent alone, in the very uncomfortable stretcher of the infirmary, wrapped in enough blanket to preserve your dignity - after all, your pants did not fit over the swell of the bandages on your thighs - and too much silence. Laswell had left you an encrypted tablet. You could only check the “Ongoing” status of the mission so many times before the word made you want to throw up. 

At least Gaz was there. He had a fortress of readings, printed out guides with folded corners and pencil annotations: gospel, for those unlucky enough to see too much blood on their boots. 

Ghost had been in and out. When he stayed, he had his face plunged in a gutted book, said little, and barely moved, except to flip a page or to adjust his mask, tugging the cloth subtly when the holes didn’t quite align with his eyes.

You had opened your mouth once or twice, to comment on the shitty weather, or the tasteless sludge they served on plates, but the words had gone limp before they left your throat. So eventually, you pointed at Gaz’s pile and asked for some readings, to force yourself to settle in the almost comfortable silence. 

“Just don’t fold or unfold the corners.” He said lightly. “Believe it or not, I have a system.” Gaz picked out a document and hesitated for a beat, probably considering the distance between the two of you and his own bandaged side. You checked, trying to help. Then, without a word, he nudged Ghost with his foot.

Ghost did not look up, but he reached out anyway, palm open and waiting, taking the pages without complaint, and handed it over. You nodded your thanks, and he returned to his book like you’d never existed.

Gaz gave you a small, satisfied grunt. The delivery system was working.

You spent about 4 hours on high-risk hostage rescue, then another on air reconnaissance. 

“It’s ‘cause Soap gets to do a mission, and damn if I let him beat me one day in this.” Gaz explained, eyes skimming the margins of the same printed documents like he already knew them by heart. Apparently, someone was still sore about being slower in the CQB test, and Gaz had sworn on the spot that he’d never let him win at anything. Ghost chuckled when you asked who it was, so you dropped the subject.

It was not much of a conversation, but it was enough to remind you that you weren’t really alone.

Your body had shut down after a while, just before supper, you think. You woke up once, in the middle of the night, to pick from the plate they left in front of you, and found from the encrypted tablet Laswell made Price give you that the mission was still ongoing. Gaz was also curiously missing. The space felt colder without him.  

It was a little harder to sleep after that, but you passed out again, your body taking over.

You woke up to the nurse tapping your face. Not gently, but with the practiced firmness of someone who’s done this a hundred times and doesn’t have the patience to baby soldiers. Her voice followed, brisk and low, telling you it was time to take blood samples again. You went still during the few seconds the needle wiggled beneath your skin. 

She asked if you knew where Gaz went. You didn’t. That seemed to satisfy her.

With no one there anymore, you slowly pulled yourself into the wheelchair, careful not to tear anything open again. Your legs protested, the bandages tugging as you shifted your weight, every motion sharp on your senses. Damn. The few days of rest have made you soft. You settled in with a shallow breath, reached for the second blanket you had left crumpled over the armrest, and noticed the soft blink of the tablet screen.

There was a notification.

Hold on. There was a notification on the tablet.

“(0658 SC. LASWELL) Tac and Toe at Ramstein. Mild concussion, soft tissue trauma. Stable, Debrief pending. Will transfer to Hereford after.”

You refreshed, and read again. The words sat there. Something in you unknotted. Just a little, just enough. 

You let your head fall back against the wheelchair’s rest and closed your eyes.

Everything went faster afterwards. The world was a blur of motion around those words, until they morphed into “On our way, 5 hours.”

You were waiting for them on the helipad by the time the sound reached you, a drum you felt in your chest before you heard it with your ears. The beating of the rotor matched the rhythm of your heart, fast and full and aching. The wind pushed against your face, stung your eye, carrying the scent of wet earth and what felt like the end of a long, long silence.

Laswell was the first to get off, waving you over, but you didn’t have the strength to turn the wheels at your sides anymore. So instead, you raised your hand in a lazy salute, fingers trembling. Price followed next. He caught your eye and pushed something like a smile in your direction. He stomped off to the elevator, clearing space. Making way for the ones you’d come for.

Toe appeared next.

He was hunched slightly, and his gait was uneven, but he moved on his own two feet. His hair was a mess. There was a fresh scrape on his cheek. But he was smiling, or trying to. You watched it bloom slowly as he saw you sitting there. Like he hadn’t been sure he’d believe it until he saw you with his own eyes.

Toe dropped the bag, stumbled a few steps closer, then broke into a half-run. He didn’t say your name, he just reached you, dropped to his knees, and wrapped his arms around you. His elbows grazed the bandages - ouch - and you were waiting for the comment on your eyepatch. It was perfect. Your head was pushed into the crook of his neck.

“I thought you were dead.” You mumbled into the fabric, and he laughed, short and broken. You sniffled. The tears came anyway.

“Same, Pirate.” There it was. “Fair warning, Tac is pissed.”

You smiled into his shoulder, lungs shaking. “Of course he is.”

“Like, properly mad. Might hit you with a clipboard or something. Don’t take it personal. Serious mad.”

Oh. Uh-oh.

You lifted your head. Tac was staring at you from the open hatch of the helicopter. He was blurry. Toe gave your arm one last squeeze before standing.  He extended a hand, and Tac took it, climbing down stiffly, never breaking eye contact with you. Toe said something you couldn’t hear. Tac didn’t answer.

Toe fell into step beside him, walking him toward you. Tac’s limp was subtle but visible, his posture tight, guarded. His expression was closed. That’s how you knew he was, as Toe said, “proper mad.” Tac didn’t get loud when he was furious.

You gulped and tried to rein your tears in. You wished you knew the extent of what he’d been told. How much he’d heard, how much Laswell had said. What Price might’ve admitted, out of obligation or guilt. You wished you knew which version of you Tac carried in his head now: the one who tried to go AWOL? The one who bled on Price’s carpet? Should you apologise first? None of them made you look too good.

“I’m really glad that you’re alive, Tick.” Tac was very formal. You didn’t like formal. You wanted to hug him. Pull him down into your arms, feel the solid weight of him against you. To know for certain he was there, not just walking and talking, but there.

“Yeah. You too. Really, really glad, even if you look like you’re about to deck me.” God, control yourself, Tick. It wasn’t the time to cry.

“Why would I deck you, Tick? You got into trouble?” Ok, we’re going for rhetorical questions now.

You sighed, tipping your head back a little. “Define trouble.” Alright, the tears were under control. Barely, but if you smeared the wetness across your cheek with the back of your hand - 

“I was detained, not dead." He replied dryly.

“Right.” You shifted in your wheelchair. “So technically, you didn’t miss much.”

Tac raised an eyebrow. Toe, somewhere behind him, let out a quiet, pointed “Hoo boy.”

Tac was looking at the ground in front of you. You followed his gaze, leaning slowly forward, eyes landing on…. oh, right. You pulled the blanket tighter around your legs, heat prickling up your neck. The edge had slipped. You wished you had fatigues on. Maybe later, do they have super-large sizes that could fit the bandages?

“What’s that on your ankle, Tick?”

“It was totally justified.”

“What’s that on your ankle, Tick?” He didn’t even blink. That reminded you of Ghost. They had the same eyes, almost. Ghost's eyes... Toe went behind your wheelchair and grabbed the handles. Maybe he was afraid that Tac would push you off the helipad. 

“I planned on going AWOL on Laswell to look for you.”

Tac’s voice cracked the air like a whip. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Are you stupid?” Okay. Maybe that was not the point you were trying to make.

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“That is not your choice. Like how running away when you’re that damaged is also not the choice to make, fucker!”

“I had a plan!” He stared at you, clearly waiting for your explanation.

“I was going to call Graves. I was going to cash in every favour I had to find you. JTF2 had already tossed me out, but you know I could’ve pulled it off.”

“Graves? Philip Graves?” Tac surged forward, face flushed, furious. Fuck, Tick. Not the right thing to say.

“Uh… yeah, I saved his ass once in the field and he gave me a burner phone…”

“You were going to call Graves?” he repeated, voice low and tight, like it was taking real effort not to shout. “That’s your big plan?”

You nodded, shoulders squaring despite the weight pressing down on you. “And some others. I didn’t have a lot of options left. But I wasn’t going to sit on my hands while you two disappeared.”

Tac’s hands were fists now. He looked like he might hit you. Maybe he wanted to. “You’re absolutely insane.”

“Should I not have tried?”

“No!”

“So what then? Just leave you to rot?”

“YES!”

“Graves owes me that favour!” You protested.

Tac stepped in like he was going to shake you. “Graves! Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you?! We don’t associate with people like that! He's a war criminal."

“Hey,” Toe snapped, stepping between you. “Calm down first.”

“He was gonna disappear on his own! Tracker on his ankle, Oli. You know what that means?! They don’t even trust him not to bolt! What if he got taken? What if he actually went to Graves? He had never learned to act without orders!”

“I can make my own decisions!” you shouted. “I don’t need permission. Just because I follow orders doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I’ve got a better field record than half the men you’ve served with, Tac! I know what I’m doing, and I was ready to risk it to bring you back!”

Tac looked stunned.

“Tick…” Toe’s voice came quieter, more cautious now. “We’re not saying you’re dumb. We’re saying that we are scared, because you made that decision when none of us could have your back.” He was almost right, not that you’d admit it.

Tac turned away, breathing heavy, running a hand through his hair.

You kept going, heart thudding. “It’s condescending. Every time. You all think it’s fine to treat me like I’m soft, but I’ve made it this far. I would have made it.”

You watched the way his back rose with every breath, slow, tight, uneven.

“I would’ve.” You said it again, because maybe this time it would land right. “I really don’t want to fight you on this, Tac.”

“Fine.” He knew you wouldn’t concede. You hoped that he would continue to respect that.

“Alright, alright. Don’t be drama queens. Hug it out.” Toe said.  He reached for Tac’s arm and pulled his hand toward yours, firm but not forceful. You tugged a little.

Tac fought a smile: maybe you did something right? You saw it. The corner of his mouth betrayed him, just a flicker, quick and unwilling, but it was there.

“Just another thing.” Tac said. “Before we hug.”

You blinked. “Is this where you finally hit me? Cause I can’t run, and it’s unfair.”

Tac didn’t smile, but his eyes narrowed like he wanted to. “Tempting. But no.”

Tac tilted his head, gaze steady. “Next time you get a brilliant idea like calling Graves, you tell me. Or you tell Toe. Or you tell someone who can stop you before you light yourself on fire.”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

"Second thing. You're with the 141 now." That was an affirmation.

"You know what you just walked into taking Laswell's deal?" You winced.

"No, you don't. Obviously, you don't. She didn't tell you, huh?Of course she didn't. I'm gonna rip Laswell a new one. I'm telling her wife. I asked her specifically not to... This, what the fuck was she thinking, what again were you thinking..."

"Tac, just keep on course," said Toe.

"They take black ops, Tick. No one comes alright from black ops. The one you just survived? That was barely grey. There is a reason why the 141 stays off the books. They go dark, they stay dark. That shit sticks to you, gets under your skin."

"What do you mean?"

Tac tilted his head, like the question insulted him.

"Is there a reason you never trained in torture methods?"

"But I was trained?" 

"To stabilise our operators in the field, Tick. Not to make them. And that's not even the worse they can make you do."

You went speechless. He stared. 

"I don't seem to have much choice now, Tac."

"Exactly, Tick. That's how it starts."

Dread was washing over you. Shit. It was crawling up your spine. Maybe that spine could help you say no? Could you even say no, if Price asked?

"Pirate's on a pirate ship." Toe murmured. Not helpful.

Tac sighed. "It's not his fault. I'll go talk to Laswell."

"No, I'll go." You said. "This is about me."

Toe groaned softly. “Alright, can we not spiral during our reunion? You’re allowed to breathe for five seconds. This can wait. We're alive, that's what counts."

He was right. You pushed the heel of your palms into your eyes. You'll deal with it in due time.

Then, Toe, without ceremony...

“I’m dating Tac.”

Silence. 

You stared. Then turned your head, slowly, mechanically, to look at Toe, who gave a small, sheepish wave and a wince that didn’t even try to pass for innocent. 

“This Tac?” you asked. Was there another Tac in this world?

Tac shrugged. “Sort of. We figured things out.”

Toe muttered, “Thought we'd die, got emotional, things happened.”

“Ew.” You said, automatically. It was surprisingly disturbing.

Tac’s brow arched. “Are you homophobic now? Cause two years ago, in that bar…”

“No, what? No! It’s just the idea of you two…” You made a vague, distressed gesture between them. “It shouldn’t work.”

“It does.” Toe said, with the air of someone who had clearly won some argument behind closed doors and wasn’t going to let it go. How? They haven’t even been together that long, right?

“Yeah, it does.” Tac echoed, with just a little smugness.

You groaned, rubbing a hand down your face. “Someone shoot me.” At least it distracted you from the fact you just joined an off-the-books team.

“Not funny, Tick.” 

Toe grinned. “Aww.”

You groaned again, louder this time. “I should’ve stayed unconscious.”

"Still not funny."

Toe leaned down and ruffled your hair, which was rude, considering you were still in a wheelchair and had dignity to maintain. “C’mon. I have to meet your new team, dear Sergeant. Not that you outrank me now.”

Toe took the handle of your wheelchair with his left hand. You cranked your head to see him support Tac with the other arm. Tac didn’t lean much, but he let him.

“You’re still gross together.” You muttered.

“Thanks, Love, or whatever they say here.” Toe said cheerfully. 

You smiled. The kind that didn’t hurt.

And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for anything.

Chapter Text

Friday, 20--/11/06, 0835

Soap stepped out of Price’s office, forcing himself to slow his racing heart. Right. Deep breath. In. Out. He had this under control. No need to panic.

Just walk it off, breathe through it, and do not think about anything too hard: no point in letting his thoughts wander down dangerous paths before Gaz appeared again. Or before he saw anyone else. Sure, Ghost had cornered him in the sergeants’ room, this morning, all gruff and rough and ordering him around, fingers pressing into Soap’s collar like he was made of something Ghost had every right to grab, which was normal, for them, he was sure. And sure, he had walked in on Price, shirt undone, half-asleep, with his thick thigh used as a pillow for a very lucky Gaz, Price, who just blinked and smiled at him, slow and unbothered, and now there was Gaz, sweet but serious and dry Gaz, bandaged and exhausted and mushy, who’d breathed and giggled in his lap and scrambled with his brain. Again: no need to panic.

None at all.

Just standing here. In the hallway. Breathing very normally. Thinking rational thoughts. Being a good soldier, a better sergeant, and the perfect friend. Not a man going over three scenarios with three different men for three completely unrelated reasons. Nope. Just regular, stable, emotionally regulated Johnny “Soap” MacTavish.

He had at best two seconds before Gaz would join him. He can calm down, put on a game face, act casually. Then he would take Gaz to the infirmary, check him out so they can go back to their room, where he can crash and Gaz, rest up.

…Was Ghost still in their room?

Please don’t let that be true.

No, wait. Maybe do. Maybe he should still be there. For answers. Or a fight. Or… God, Soap didn’t even know anymore.

A panicked man would be spiralling about that. He wasn’t spiralling. No, no. He was perfectly fine. Not panicking. A panicked person would have a racing pulse and intrusive thoughts and would be sweating under his collar thinking about masks and thigh pillows and soft noises. Soap was not; therefore, Soap was not panicking. Simple.

So when he heard the faintest scuff of a boot behind him, just a shuffle, a grunt, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re trying not to cry or swear, Soap turned with all the grace and calm of a man who definitely hadn’t just spent the last century and a half in emotional freefall.

He turned.

And there was Gaz.

And that, unfortunately, was when things got worse.

Slow and hunched over like an overloaded greenie after cross-country, one hand hovered just shy of the wall, too proud to use it for balance but too smart not to pretend he didn’t need it, was Gaz. His bad leg was dragging just slightly, bandages peeking under his rolled-up fatigues, jaw tight with effort.

Gaz was panting. He looked like he was trying to outstare gravity itself.

He had managed… what, five steps? Maybe six if Soap counted the lean.

It had been two minutes and seventeen seconds. How did he even drag himself here last night at this pace?

Gaz squirmed uncomfortably. “Uh… sleeping somehow made the bandages tighter,” Gaz mumbled, voice rough with annoyance and pain.

Whatever. Watching his friend hobble along like that was against every principle of common sense, military efficiency, and his own nerves. Enough was enough. He was not to stand there any longer.

This was simply the natural, logical conclusion to a test of endurance. It had nothing to do with the tight line of pain around Gaz’s mouth. Or the way his eyes flicked up, just briefly, just enough to catch Soap looking, and then quickly away again.

Gaz looked like a martyr.

“Alright.” He muttered, already stepping in. “That’s enough.”

Gaz’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you -”

Too late.

Soap stepped in, arm sweeping under Gaz’s knees and the other curling behind his back. The movement was smooth, practiced and tactical, standard lifting technique. Gaz’s breath caught as he was lifted off the ground like he weighed nothing, his good hand scrabbling briefly at Soap’s vest in protest.

“Soap! No. Put me down,” Gaz hissed, twisting slightly in his arms. Not enough to fight, not really… more like a reflex. Like a cat startled mid-nap, all tense limbs and wounded pride. Gaz’s voice had that sharp edge of someone more embarrassed than angry, which Soap took as confirmation that he’d made the right decision. He moved forward, easily. They passed a row of windows. The light swayed around them, slanting in lines across concrete and skin, and he walked through it as if through a haze, the brush of fabric against his arm as soft as reaching hands.

“Gotcha.” Soap just grinned. “See? Easy.”

He meant to sound casual, maybe even selfless. The words came out lighter than they felt. Gaz was not weightless, not by a long shot, solid muscle, warm and close to Soap, who tried very hard not to notice how natural it felt to hold him like this. Not just physically, muscle memory and training and all that, but emotionally natural, which, frankly, was much worse. Natural, yet outside of duty. But appropriate, since they were close friends.

“This is undignified.”

Soap grinned down at him. “It’s efficient.”

“It’s humiliating.”

“And yet,” Soap said, adjusting his grip again, just to be annoying, “you’re not fighting me.”

“I can’t, you’ve got my legs, and I can’t use half of my body.”

“That’s on you, then.”

See? This was going way quicker. Carrying a downed teammate was second nature. Efficient, as he said. The hallway slipped past in quiet rhythm, and the infirmary was already coming into view.

It was a simple, necessary thing. Same way Price had done it, not long ago. He’d carried some lad down this hall, steady and silent, before Soap headed off for the mission.

Now here he was, arms full of Gaz, handsome and very much watching him, under those thick lashes, like he didn’t know what that was doing to Soap’s nerves.

He slowed at the door, bending slightly, setting Gaz down in front of the nurse’s station with more care than he’d ever admitted to. “Hold tight.” He muttered. “Won’t be a sec.”

The curtains had been drawn partway across each bed, pale and weightless, catching the breeze from the ceiling vents and stirring like waves. At the far end, Tac lay stretched out on a cot, and Toe was pointed at by a third figure in a wheelchair who gestured with clipped, impatient precision. The light touched him gently, softening the ridges of his form, casting a faint glow that settled over him like dust in a vacant room.

“Fuck off, dumbass.” He said. “You’re on light physical rest. You’re exhausted, and have a concussion. So you’ll lie down and take a nap like a good boy.”

Toe spotted him and opened his mouth to speak, only for the person to slap a hand over it, muffling whatever came out.

“No, you’re not getting your phone, screens will make it worse. Be like Tac, listen a bit.”

Toe huffed, peeled the hand off, and jabbed a finger toward the doorway with exaggerated effort. “Soap’s behind you,” he muttered.

The man turned halfway, brow furrowed. “What soap?”

Soap blinked. Then snorted, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Me, though that might be the weirdest way I’ve been introduced.”

Friday, 20--/11/06, 0831

The initial shock of him being alive had barely worn off when it hit you: they both had concussions. Toe should’ve been resting, not pushing your wheelchair around.

You were just going to get them settled before talking to Laswell. That was the plan.

Christ, you felt like a single mother of two.

At least one of them was behaving.

Toe, on the other hand, was not. Restless, fidgeting, always trying to sit up like he hadn’t just been pulled out of Hell a few hours ago. He was already talking about meeting the 141, like this was some kind of fan convention. How did he know about the members when you had never even worked with them? He had given you a totally unjustified portrait of Ghost.

Apparently, Ghost was seven feet tall, spoke exclusively in threats, and could smell weakness like a shark smelled blood. Toe’s version of Ghost only ate MREs cold, on purpose, for efficiency and intimidation. According to Toe, he also once bit a man’s ear off in silence. Also, allegedly, he had a secret pet cat and has never needed night vision.

Toe finally claimed to have higher marksmanship scores than Ghost.

You didn’t believe it.

So naturally, he asked for his phone to prove it, which caused your current predicament.

Toe was trying to reach his phone, which you have tucked between your back and the wheelchair for exactly this reason. He twisted half over you, groaning dramatically, like he was fighting for survival instead of his phone, and had his arm shoved across your face.

His palm smashed into your cheek, one finger sliding dangerously close to your good eye, another jamming against your nose and pushing it sideways.

Textbook close quarter combat technique, everyone.

“Do you mind?”

He manifestly didn’t.

“Tac!” You gritted out. “Get your boyfriend under control, he’s a nightmare.”

Tac didn’t even look at you two. “I know. I’m more than aware of that.”

“Then help!”

Tac finally looked up, slowly, like it physically pained him, and raised an eyebrow. “I delegate command. You’re in charge. Hide the phone.”

“I did.” You snapped. “Between me and the chair. Like a normal, rational human being who didn’t think he’d try to dislocate my nose to get it back.”

Toe, still half-flopped over you, made a noise somewhere between a triumphant grunt and a wheeze. “Just lemme prove my scores.” He sulked, fingers blindly patting along your upper back.

You swatted at his hand. “Touch me again and I’m launching you across the room.”

“Romantic.” You hated him. It was so good to have him back.

You shoved him, harder this time. He finally flopped back into the cot with a dramatic grunt. “The only reason you’re not on your ass is because of the concussion.” You grated. “I’m trying not to disconnect what few neurons you’ve got left.”

He gave you the finger, so you fired back: “Fuck off, dumbass. You’re on light physical rest. You’re exhausted, and have a concussion. So you’ll lie down and take a nap like a good boy.”

You slapped a hand over his mouth before anything wicked could come out again. If you gave in just once, if you made this one exception, there would only be endless exceptions.

“No, you’re not getting your phone, screens will make it worse. Be like Tac, listen a bit.”

He huffed, dramatic as ever, then peeled your hand off his face like it personally offended him. One arm flailed up with exaggerated effort as he pointed toward the doorway.

“Soap’s behind you.”

Soap? Like the item, a bar of soap? Was this some kind of weird diversion? A codeword? Was he trying to mess with you just to get his phone back?

“…What soap?” You asked, genuinely baffled, still making the mistake of turning halfway to look.

And then you saw him. Not a bar of soap.

A man.

A very real, very solid man, standing just inside the doorway with one eyebrow raised and an expression hovering somewhere between confused and mildly amused. What a man. Actually, that was the one who’d been talking with Laswell earlier. And if you remembered right, that was also the man you’d locked eyes with while Price was carrying you like a dummy.

Well. This was embarrassing.

He held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then he stepped forward, calm, casual, and far too composed for someone witnessing your slow descent into secondhand shame.

“Hi, I’m Soap.” He said, voice smooth and low, with a lopsided smile that made it worse. “Think we’ve met.”

Of course he remembered.

You opened your mouth, tried for something neutral. Cool, even.

“Right. Yeah. I - ”

You felt movement: Toe’s fingers sliding down your back, sneaky and triumphant. You tensed just in time for him snatch his phone from where you’d wedged it behind you.

You twisted, tried to grab it, missed - of course you missed. You turned back towards Soap, who was definitely still watching.

Great.

“I had it handled.” You muttered, nodding at Toe. “Until you showed up and distracted me.”

Soap blinked. “Distracted you, did I?” He said, tone dipping. “That wasn’t my intention. But if I’m that distracting, maybe I oughta give you a warning next time.”

Toe snorted behind you.

You were going to kill them both. It was a good thing for Gaz to come in, also in a wheelchair. He clocked the scene, took one look at your face, and said nothing.

Soap glanced at him, then turned back to you, his grin softening just a touch. Still smug, but it looked like less of a performance now.

“Oh, right,” he added, like it had just occurred to him, “I’m the one who pulled Tac and Toe out. Last op. That was us.”

Your brain took a second to catch up.

That was him?

You looked over at Toe, who was too busy to be helpful, then at Tac, who gave a quiet acknowledgement. You abandoned the kidnapped phone to the first dumbass and rolled to Soap, looking up, staring again.

“…Shit,” you said. Then, quieter: “Shit. That was you?”

Soap gave a little shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. He looked unwell. “Part of the team, yeah.”

You cleared your throat. “That’s... I mean, thank you. Seriously. You didn’t just get them out. You got me back too.”

"It's what I do, but it wasn't just me. I'm sure you'd have done the same."

Humble, but smug. It was not annoying.

You offered: “You're right. I’m Tick. Laswell just transferred me into the 141.”

“Medic, right? We'll be working together, then. I do most of the demolitions and the breaching."

Then: "I like the name, Tick. You explode easily?"

“Not if I can help it.” You shot back, a little wary but not backing down.

Soap grinned like he was enjoying himself, but there was something else under it, something flickering. His gaze drifted briefly behind you, then back.

“Reckon you’ve had a hell of a few days,” he said, almost thoughtful. “Getting pulled out like that. Landing straight in Laswell’s war machine.”

You shrugged. “Could’ve gone worse.”

Soap dipped his head “Hey, do you remember anything from your medevac?”

That threw you. “No, why?”

He shrugged, casual as ever. “Just that I’ve got this story I tell sometimes, about being stuck in a medevac with two operatives and not getting a single thank-you.”

Your brows pulled together. “...Huh?”

Soap’s grin didn’t budge, but his gaze slid sideways, just briefly. Like he had already said too much and was pretending he didn’t.

You didn’t get it. Still, something about it snagged in your thoughts.

This was Soap. The man who’d pulled Tac and Toe out. That was been enough.

So you let it go. For now.

Fucked. Soap was proper fucked.

He’d never expected to see you again, not after the medevac. On that bird, soaked in adrenaline and blood and the silence between heartbeats, he’d made the call: lie to you, keep you calm, keep you breathing. Then walk away. You’d forget him, or hate him, or never even know.

Either way, he wouldn’t have to deal with it.

Just one lie, buried in the pile of shite you’d be handed when they told you your team was gone. What was one more in the wreckage, eh? What, if not something kind and easy?

That lie would’ve never caught up to him.

But now here you were. Alive and upright. Looking at him like he was a hero.

Worse, you looked like your hero might be flirting with you. Sort of. Not because he meant to. It was reflex, muscle memory. It’s what he did when he didn’t know what else to do: smile, tease, fill the silence before it turned on him. And sure, you were… not hard to look at. More than that. But that wasn’t the point.

You had no memory of what he’d said. No idea. And now they expected him to stand beside you, fight beside you, train beside you, and keep it all down. The lie wasn’t the problem: he had carried worse.

It was the guilt.

You were earnest, open, and he was throwing out easy charm and flirty lines, sitting atop a lie you don’t remember existed. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Well done, Johnny. You’d managed to fuck up the newbie before even meetin’ him proper.

It felt lie kicking a puppy and getting thanked for it.

Gaz tapped him on the side.

He didn’t move. Gaz was beside him, and he could feel the eyes reading him. Aye, Gaz had seen the look. Of course he had. Would’ve clocked it before Soap even realised he was wearing it. Probably recognized it for what it was.

Dread.

Chapter Text

This was sickening, Soap had decided so. He had never been good at keeping secrets.

Behind him, Soap could hear the low hum of Toe’s voice, never quite loud, never quite quiet. Just there, constant, like a tap left running.

He turned, just enough to glance over his shoulder. He wanted to talk. The lie sat in his gut, in the back of his skull like over chewed gum, dense and begging to be spat out.

Tac and Toe had managed to wedge their two cots together, which was impressive, considering the wheels on the beds were meant to lock and absolutely not meant to be dragged around by two recovering lunatics

You had been very vocal about Toe staying lied down, but had lost the battle somewhere along. Toe who was now very comfortably wedged between Tac and wall, waving his phone in the air, gesturing as he murmured along, never ending, a stream of uninterrupted words spilling from his mouth. Tac was stretched out, head pillowed neatly on Toe’s abdomen, face hidden beneath your baseball cap. His arms lay folded across his chest, body heavy.

You were sitting beside Toe, framed between the curtains, thumb stroking through Toe’s hair in lazy, absent motions. Every now and then, you paused it to flip the page of the document balanced in front of you. Every flutter of your hand, every casual outpour of your attachment to them made Soap’s throat thick and raising.

None of you seemed to be listening to him, but Toe alone was enough to fill your end of the infirmary with unilateral chatter.

“Are you even listening?” Toe asked, his voice a little slurred, but sharp enough to cut through the infirmary’s sleepy haze.

Soap did not mean to tune in. He didn’t. Really.

It wasn’t like he wanted to eavesdrop. But he’d been pacing for so long his boots were starting to squeak against the linoleum, and there were only so many tiles he could study before his brain begged for distraction. What did you want him to do? Close his ears? Right.

“Yes,” Tac answered, patient in the way only someone with saint-like endurance or deep, overwhelming affection could manage. Guess he really loved this man. Gross. “You’re asking for almond croissants and ginger ale, you don’t like the flecktarn pattern of your shirt, which I think doesn’t look bad on you, you want to go back at defusing imitation explosives again, which, I’m sorry, you’re not going to do before you heal, you want your gun back, again, and you were wondering when Tick would finally get a guy and date him now that we’re dating, which is news to me, since you’ve technically never asked me out.”

There was a sharp little shuffle from behind him, pages shifting, movement too sudden to be casual.

Soap didn’t turn. He stared hard at the dot on one of the pages of Gaz’s document. A print error, maybe. A speck of dust. Whatever it was, it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. It looked ugly enough to justify his attention, alright? The diagrams in his own field journal were way better, and he’s an amateur at that.

Maybe he should just walk out. But how would that look?

He tapped the heel of his boot twice against the floor, trying to play it off. Because slamming his head against the wall to escape this situation was apparently not socially acceptable. Fuck’s sake.

 “I totally can get someone to date me.”

Your head probably whipped up from the reading from hearing your name, Soap guessed. He refused to turn back to look if that’s the truth. He stared at a dot on one of Gaz’s page and decided that the schemas in his journal were way better.

“Not my point. This is about getting your bottom whore ass to settle down.” Toe said.

“I’m not a whore, I’m in the military. Also, I’m vers.” You replied flatly.

There was a loud wheeze from Tac, still facedown on Toe’s stomach. “Oh my god.”

Soap pressed his knuckles against his mouth. You are a what? Damn it, this… this is why you don’t eavesdrop, MacTavish.

Gaz spoke from behind the document, not even bothering to lift his head. “Mate, that’s not the rebuttal you think it is, you know.”

Soap’s eyes flicked to him, sharp. Mate?

You protested. “Gaz, I thought you were on my side?” Since when? Did Gaz already bond with you?

“He’s no-“

“Soap, report to Price in an hour. Sergeants, you’re both to start light rehab starting today.”

Ghost’s voice cut through the room and the conversation.

Toe, mid-sentence, shut his mouth with a small hmph and folded himself further between Tac and the wall. Soap looked to the door, where his lieutenant was standing rigidly, looking at him.

You spoke up. “Does it mean they cleared me for movement? Like... walking around?”

No answer.

Ghost didn’t even look at you.

His arms remained folded, one boot planted slightly out, weight balanced just enough to suggest movement, but everything else about him was rigid. His eyes stayed on Soap, like you hadn’t spoken at all.

Soap tried not to flinch under it. His skin prickled. He knew what this was, knew why Ghost was looking at him, not you.

He hadn't meant to lie. Not exactly. Just… to stall. To give you time. To protect you, maybe, from the weight of what you weren’t cleared to know yet. But standing there now, watching you squint with honest confusion, Soap felt that lie settle into his chest like wet cement.

He should’ve told you. Should’ve at least said something real, instead of dodging your questions earlier with half-smiles and easy deflection.

You deserved better than that.

A soft rustle broke the silence as Gaz slid the report from his lap and dropped it onto the bedside tray with a flat clack. When he spoke, his tone was level. Dry.

“What kind of rehab, Lieutenant?”

That got a response.

Ghost’s head tipped the barest fraction. “Mobility and breath work to start. Gentle weight shifts. Assisted stretches. You’re not running laps.”

Tick stared at the ceiling like it had insulted his bloodline. The silence curled up the back of Soap’s neck. Prickly and too close.

“Anything we’re supposed to prep?” Gaz asked next. Calm. Adjusting against the pillows with a practiced looseness.

“Just be ready. Don’t eat like an idiot beforehand.”

Soap shifted. Glanced at Tick.

Tick didn’t reply. Just crossed his arms, jaw tight as his shoulder flinched. Under the sheet, one leg gave a short twitch—he tried to play it off.

Ghost checked the wall clock.

“I’m off-base until further notice. Intel op."

He lingered a second longer, like he wanted the weight of it to stay behind after he left. Then he turned and made for the door. “Laswell’s waiting in the captain’s room.” He said, already walking out.

Soap snapped out of his transe. Ghost didn’t reply. He was already gone.

Slapped a palm to Gaz’s shoulder as he passed. “Wait for me, Lt!”

“What’s the op?” Soap caught Ghost’s arm before he could disappear down the hall.

Ghost didn’t shrug him off, but the way he slowed down was enough as aknowledgement. “One of Garnet’s convoy drivers finally woke up. Command wants answers before he’s shipped off”

Soap’s grip loosened.

“They’re sending you to crack him?”

“No.” Ghost’s voice was flat. “They’re sending me to have tea and ask nicely.”

Soap exhaled. “Got it. How long?

“Long as it takes.” Ghost adjusted his gloves, the motion deliberate.

Ghost’s steps paused. So did Soap’s, too. “You’re off with that guy,” Ghost said, not looking at him. “Whatever’s on your chest, you should get it off. And keep Gaz in line. If he tears his stitches ‘training,’ I’m benching him for a month and making you clean and oil every weapon in the depot.”

Soap didn’t respond right away. His throat felt dry. Yeah. That tracked. He had been already half-convinced his lieutenant knew something. Or everything.

He mustered his best smirk. “Aye, Lt. Bring me back a souvenir.”

Ghost didn’t dignify that with a reply. Just turned and walked, his silhouette slowly blinking in and out of the light as he passed the row of windows, bright, then shadowed, then bright again, leaving behind nothing but the echo of his boots.

What’s Ghost’s deal? You wondered as Tac steadied the chair and helped lower you into it, your muscles protesting with every shift. Yeah, it was time to physio, you were rusting away.

“Ghost’s always like that,” Gaz said without looking up, still focused on the folder in his lap. “He’ll warm up once you prove you’re not dead weight.” He flipped a page. “I’ll fill you in during physio.”

Soap came back into the room, eyes on the floor, almost walking into you. He did a double take, like he hadn’t expected you to be moving. His eyes flicked from your hands on the wheels to your face and stayed there a beat too long.

“Hey,” you said, nodding toward him. “Mind pushing me back to the quarters?”

Soap didn’t answer right away. He was staring at you.

“Uh… Sure. Rolling out already? Damn. I was all ready to swoop in and carry you off.” He smiled, wide and bright and a little too fast. It curiously made your chest loosen. That kind of enthusiasm, even if it was awkward and a little mismatched to the moment, felt real. And real was rare these days.

It struck you how easy it would be to like him. Not just the charm - though he had that, undeniably - but the warmth behind it. The way he looked at you like you were already part of something. Like he’d decided you belonged here before you even had the chance to prove it.

Shit. You were falling. And here you were, supposed to be the one with the playboy reputation to uphold.

His warmth caught you off guard. Price and Ghost felt like they were expecting something before trusting you. Even Gaz, friendly as he was, had held back a bit, as if he was waiting for you to pass some invisible checkpoint before dropping his guard.

But Soap had no brakes. His friendliness hit like a truck. Loud, fast, and genuine. You found yourself leaning into it before you could stop yourself.

“I wasn’t kidding, if it suits you.” You said, quieter this time. “About wanting to be carried.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe just to see what he’d do with it.

Soap’s hands adjusted slightly on the grips, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his posture.

“Oh, don’t tempt me.” He said, still playing it off. But now his voice dipped a little lower, just slightly. “You’re gonna get me court-martialed for fraternizing.”

You laughed under your breath, but you didn’t stop looking back at him. Something in your chest hummed, low but interested.

Maybe was gratitude – he did rescue your mates. Maybe you were just touch starved. Hell, maybe Toe was right, and them getting together made you go soft.

But you couldn’t help thinking: if this was what welcome felt like, you could get used to it.

The chair started rolling forward. A soft whir rose beneath you, the gentle hum of movement down the quiet corridor. Next thing you knew, suddenly, you were momentarily blinded by the light. It kissed your cheek in passing, gliding in warm slants though the hallway windows. That day, the sky was of an endless, soft blue, almost the same shade as his eyes, easy though the grimed smudge of old glass.

Soap dropped you off in front of Price’s office. You knocked once, knuckles firm against the wood.

“Good luck.” He said. “I’ll see you later, probably supper at the mess. I’ll, uh… show you the edible stuff. Chef’s secrets, just for you.”

The wink he threw you was definitely practiced, but it was compensated by the small smile worn on the corner of his lips. Soap lingered a second longer, then gave you a small smile before retreating down the hall.

Your head snapped forward as you heard a sharp, “Come in!”

You rolled in. Figuratively.

“Morning, ma’am,” you said, voice tightly held.

Laswell looked down on you. Damn it, stupid wheelchair being too low, now you’re not even intimidating. “Good to see you mobile. I figured Tac would wait until you were ready to talk.”

You nodded once. “He’s good at that,” you said. “Letting people make decisions. With the full picture.”

There was a pause. Brief. She didn’t flinch. “If I’d told you everything from the start, you wouldn’t have come.”

“Kate… I know I signed up to serve. But… this? It’s not what I thought I’d be doing. Not like this.” You sat back, pulse quickening, but your voice barely above a whisper. 

“No. The point was seeing if you could handle it once you did.”

“You know I don’t do well with black ops, ma’am.” Slow breath in, slow breath out. Control your voice. “Or with the things that come with them.”

“I need you here anyway.”

That pissed you off even more. Of course, you were a soldier and obey command. But she had given you a choice knowing full well what it would cost. Knowing it would trap you in something you couldn’t walk away from without dishonour or damage. You needed to fight, get something in return-

“I don’t want to do black ops.” You said finally. “And I can’t promise I won’t… struggle.” Damn, Tick. That was not the strongest voice you've heard. You straightened, as much as you could, pulse kicking hard under your skin. Steady your breath, Tick. “You don't need me here. You gave me this one choice, and you knew I’d live to hate it.”

Laswell didn’t blink. “I decided I need you here. You signed up to serve. I’m asking you to serve where it counts.”

“I do not see how I’m essential for the 141. In all due respect.”

“They’re fraternizing.”

That cut a breath short somewhere in your chest. “…What?”

“All of them.” Her voice didn’t rise, but there was something tired and less professional in it. “Gaz got hurt during the convoy op. He disobeyed a direct order. Broke formation to intercept a vehicle headed toward Price. It was reckless, emotional, and it nearly got him killed.”

You exhaled once through your nose. She kept going.“

“They’re attached. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Price… They’re not just teammates anymore. And they’re starting to act like they don’t expect consequences. I need someone with eyes on the inside. Someone they trust, who isn’t tangled in whatever this is. You’re not here to be liked, Tick. You’re here to keep them alive.”

“I… Kate, I can’t play double agent. I was not trained.”

“I’m not asking you to spy. Just to patch them up. Keep them grounded. Keep them out of trouble.” She paused. “Price is a long-time friend. And I’ve come to care about the others. They’re good men. Do me a favour.”

"Fuck, Kate.” How were you going to be angry at that? “It’s unfair. For me.”

“I know.”

“I can’t do black ops. I’m not even used to fighting like that.

“They won't force you to assist in torture. If they need to do their job, you can sit that part out."

"What about my role as a medic? Am I supposed to execute wounded or unconscious people now too? Civilians, if necessary?"

Laswell’s jaw tightened just slightly. “No. That’s not your job.”

“But it might be someone’s. And I’ll be in the room.” You shook your head. “You can’t pretend this isn’t part of the deal. You want me here, you get all of me, including the part that’s going to lose sleep over this. It's gonna be hard on me, Kate."

“Maybe you can keep them from crossing that line. When it’s not vital.”

You looked at her, incredulous. “Do I look naïve to you?”

"Careful, sergeant." The warning under her voice almost made you wince “You could. Tick, I didn’t want to lie to you.” She said finally. “I just… couldn’t give you the full picture until you were in it. You’d have walked away.”

“You mean I should’ve walked away.” You said, resigned. “And now I can’t.”

She hesitated. “Tick, I am scared for them." 

Fuck. That was low. That was dirty. Laswell is not one for fear.

"I need someone in the room who has a straight mind.”

You huffed, dry and bitter. “Then it’s really hilarious you picked me.”

A pause. Your eyes met hers.

Laswell gave a small nod, like that was all that she hoped for. God. Was this what being someone’s son felt like when your mother asked you to do something awful, and he did it anyway, not because it was right, but because you understood why she asked?

“Maybe just for a year.” She said, almost gently. “Give me time to find some rookie who would replace you.” She won. She knew that.

“Oh, right. A million boys would kill for this job.” You leaned back, something wry tugging at your mouth. “Or have killed. Lucky me.”

Laswell didn’t deny it.

You exhaled hard through your nose. “One year, then. But... I want it in writing that I’m not signing up for more. And no extension. And, uh... good pay.”.”

“That’s fair.”

“No, Kate. It’s not.” You could hear the resignation in your own voice.

She smiled, weirdly, and reached into her coat pocket instead. Drew out a small remote, like something you’d use to open a garage. A faint beep followed. You looked down. The tracker on your ankle flashed red once, then powered off.

“Consider it a show of good faith.” She said. “Not that you can run much now..”

You let her have the final joke. You let your mouth twitch, too tired to fight. You didn’t want to resent her. Because she was right. The 141, from what you could tell, were good men. She was trying to make sure that no one would slip through the cracks. It made sense, it even felt noble, in a bleak sort of way.

You sat there silently as she drafted the contract.

“So." You said, voice even. “What am I now?”

“Leased to the 141. Not attached to any particular force.”

You nodded slowly. “Black asset.”

She gave the smallest shrug. “Yes. Like Ghost. Unless you convince the JTF2 to take you back.”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t think so, no.”

She didn’t press. Just kept typing. “I won’t have to cut ties with Tac or Toe, right?”

“No.”

The printer hummed. Laswell pulled the contract, flipped through it quickly, then slid it across the desk with a pen.

“This is temporary,” she said, watching you now. “But it gets you moving again. It’s work.”

You picked up the pen. “I’m not here to disappear, Kate.”

“I know.”

You signed. Simple as that.

She pulled the contract back, stacked the pages neatly, tapped them once on the desk. Some part of her expression eased.

Knocks at the door.

“Come in! See? Right on time.”

Before you could respond, the door opened.

Soap leaned in first, then stepped fully inside. Civilian clothes, sleeves pushed up, a slight grin like he was trying not to look too curious. Or too ready.

“Good morning.” He said.

You gave him a nod. “Right on time.”

“Ghost said an hour. Got a watch in my spine, mate. Always on time.” He grinned, tipping his head toward Laswell. “What is it for, Laswell?”

“Yeah, you’re the designated driver. He’s yours now. Brief’s in the file. First op comes through Ghost.”

Soap gave a short, two-fingered salute. “Ah, babysitting. Roger that.”

“It was nice to see you, Tick. Get well soon.

You offered the barest nod. That was all you had left.

He looked back at you, head tilting slightly. “You ready?”

You gestured at the chair. “Does it matter?”

“Not really,” he said cheerfully. “But it’s polite to ask.”

You pushed the wheels forward, slow and even. Soap stepped aside, held the door.

“Room’s prepped,” he said, falling into step beside you. “Not much, but someone shipped your stuff in. If you want help unpacking after physio, I’m around. Gym’s across the south wing. Might be a pain to find the first time, but I’ll walk you through it. You’ll get the layout quick.”

There was a pause. A small breath. Then he filled the space again.

“The actual mess is not awful. Decent coffee if you get to it before the privates do. Showers are temperamental. Laundry’s cursed. Not my problem, though.”

You gave him a look. “Why not?”

He scratched the side of his neck, sheepish. “I’m banned.”

“Banned?”

Soap looked entirely too casual. “Almost put a grenade in the washing machine once. Honest mistake.”

You blinked. “You almost…

“Small, tiny grenade.” He said, holding up two fingers like that made it better. “Was barely bigger than a belt buckle.”

You stared.

“It’s a long story,” he added, grinning. “And before you ask—no, it didnae go off. But Price hasn’t trusted me since. He makes Gaz do both of our laundry.”

“That’s hardly fair for Gaz.”

“I keep his weapons clean for him.” He said, with the kind of confidence that suggested he considered this an even trade. You shook your head, but your mouth was already pulling into a smile before you could stop it.

He caught the edge of it and smiled back. “Hey, if you find it that unfair, you can do it for the three of us.”

For a second, your brain just blanked. Tripped over itself trying to figure out whether that was a joke or a test or something else entirely.

You glanced over, trying not to look too long. He was still grinning, but something about it felt warmer than before. You heard yourself wheeze. “Right. Because that’s what I came back for. Folding your underpants.”

“Can’t trust Ghost with fabric,” Soap said solemnly. “But I think I would trust you.” This felt good. It hit deeper than it should have and ridiculously good. Just the way he said it, like you were already a part of them.

You’re not supposed to feel this good, Tick. Fuck, this was your problem with authority. No spine, Tick. You have no spine. You’re supposed to have a spine, take your own decisions and not do everything you’re asked for. Toe said that. You know it. Or not. You’re in the military. You didn’t know.

Sometimes you wished they’d give you an actual reason to be mad. Can they be selfish a little so you could get a proper explosion? An actual lie, perhaps? A lie you could sink your teeth into. Just once, a clean excuse to yell and crash out and feel like you were unequivocally right to do it. So you can get violent, flip tables, slam doors. Throw some punches, feel good. Just one tiny mistake, please.

Not “I know I lied but sorry, I want to save my friends.”

Not “Hey, I’m your new teammate. You’re supposed to hate your new team, because you were forced to leave behind the old one, but I’m not rude and I’m good-looking as fuck.”

Ugh.

What follows is not part of the official story but something I wrote for fun. 

It's a fever dream, or something. 1367 words of self-indulgent, fuck-I'm-gonna-make-them-kiss, fever dream. It's out of character (for Soap) and there is no way he's that uncoordinated. This is a kiss for the sake of a kiss.
It was also a small apology for not updating, I was trying to see which option works the best for the future. And I have some essays for uni.

Sorry, it's too long to fit in the notes.

This was sickening, Soap had decided so.

Behind him, Soap could hear the low hum of Toe’s voice, never quite loud, never quite quiet. Just there, constant, like a tap left running.

He turned, just enough to glance over his shoulder.

Tac and Toe had managed to wedge their two cots together, which was impressive, considering the wheels on the beds were meant to lock and absolutely not meant to be dragged around by two recovering lunatics

You had been very vocal about Toe staying lied down, but had lost the battle somewhere along. Toe who was now very comfortably wedged between Tac and wall, waving his phone in the air, gesturing as he murmured along, never ending, a stream of uninterrupted words spilling from his mouth. Tac was stretched out, head pillowed neatly on Toe’s abdomen, face hidden beneath your baseball cap. His arms lay folded across his chest, body heavy.

You were sitting beside Toe, thumb stroking through Toe’s hair in lazy, absent motions. Every now and then, you paused it to flip the page of the document balanced in front of you.

None of you seemed to be listening to him, but Toe alone was enough to fill your end of the infirmary with unilateral chatter.

“Are you even listening?” Toe asked, his voice a little slurred but sharp enough to cut through the infirmary’s sleepy haze.

Soap did not mean to tune in. He didn’t. Really.

It wasn’t like he wanted to eavesdrop. But he’d been pacing for so long his boots were starting to squeak against the linoleum, and there were only so many tiles he could study before his brain begged for distraction. What did you want him to do? Close his ears? Right.

“Yes,” Tac answered, patient in the way only someone with saint-like endurance or deep, overwhelming affection could manage. Guess he really loved this man. Gross. “You’re asking for almond croissants and ginger ale, you don’t like the flecktarn pattern of your shirt, which I think doesn’t look bad on you, you want to go back at defusing imitation explosives again, which, I’m sorry, you’re not going to do before you heal, you want your gun back, again, and you were wondering when Tick would finally get a guy to date him now that we’re dating, which is news to me, since you’ve technically never asked me out.”

Tick got who do what? Damn it, this is why you don’t eavesdrop, MacTavish.

There was a sharp little shuffle from behind him, pages shifting, movement too sudden to be casual.

Soap didn’t turn. He stared hard at the dot on one of the pages of Gaz’s document. A print error, maybe. A speck of dust. Whatever it was, it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. It looked ugly enough to justify his attention, alright? The diagrams in his own field journal were way better, and he’s an amateur at that.

Maybe he should just walk out. But how would that look?

He tapped the heel of his boot twice against the floor, trying to play it off. Because slamming his head against the wall to escape this situation was apparently not socially acceptable. Fuck’s sake.

 “I totally can get someone to date me.”

Your head probably whipped up from the reading from hearing your name, Soap guessed. He refused to turn back to look if that’s the truth. He stared at a dot on one of Gaz’s page and decided that the schemas in his journal were way better.

“Yeah right.” Toe said.

“I could!” You voice rose a little. “I could do it right now.” Soap’s left brow was itchy. Gaz had stopped reading, and was looking at him now. He wiggled the itchy brow, and Gaz scoffed.

“Oh yeah?” Tac was still at it. “I’m not going out with you out of pity.”

“I could, uh…” Your voice wobbled, just a bit. “I could ask Gaz. He likes me.”

Soap blinked.

What?

Gaz wasn’t looking at him.

He was looking past him. Calm. Neutral. His expression unreadable in that infuriating way that only Gaz or Ghost could manage when something was definitely happening.

Soap narrowed his eyes. “You like him?” he mouthed silently, without sound, shaping each word deliberately.

Gaz turned his eyes to him then, slow and steady.

And shrugged.

Casual.

Infuriatingly casual.

Soap’s thoughts crashed into each other like a four-car pile-up. Before he could even process what the shrug meant, his body decided to short-circuit next.

He turned toward Tick. Too fast. Forgetting that he was still mid-step, and therefore resting in his right leg. He spun, caught himself, and then immediately didn’t.

His hand reached for the curtain to stop his fall. It did not stop his fall. The curtain dragged him sideways instead, an awkward swirl of vinyl and panic.

He flailed. Twisted towards Gaz. Desperately tried not to land on Gaz’s injured side, eyes fixed at the bandages on one side of Gaz’s lap.

Instead, he landed directly on Gaz, which would not be problematic under normal circumstances.

Soap’s head pitched forward—he was trying to look at Gaz, to make sure he hadn’t crushed his ribs, to say something, and in the half-second he had to adjust, to apologize, to scream, to somehow teleport out of his body…

Their mouth collided.

It was a clumsy, full-force collision. Skin, breath, lips, everything in the worst alignment possible. It wasn’t anything like the daydream version he would never admit to having.

Soft. And brief. And searing.

Soap’s lips landed hard and fast against Gaz’s, then, in his fall, his teeth clipped Gaz’s lower lip. His body followed, arms buckling as he fully, catastrophically crashed onto Gaz’s chest. His cushion let out a choked oof.

Soap’s brain stopped working. Just completely ceased all logical function. His entire nervous system was replaced by static and heat. That flicker. That one charged, traitorous second between impact and horror, where the world narrowed down to how it felt. The warmth. The softness. The heat. The fact that Gaz didn’t jerk away.

Embarrassment that hit harder than the landing. He scrambled, flailed, the rational part of his brain screaming to move, fix it, erase it, but it was too late.

His hands scrambled for purchase, trying to push himself off without making it worse. Which, of course, only made it worse. He shifted, and his thigh brushed Gaz’s. His elbow planted next to Gaz’s ribs. His other hand landed somewhere near the book Gaz had been reading, creasing and folding the pages with sheer panic.

Behind them, a grunt.

“Oi!” Toe yelped. “Tick, fuckin’ hell, that’s my hair!”

Soap finally managed to hover above Gaz in a stiff, breathless plank trying to pinpoint where all his parts had landed: right elbow on the mattress, left knee jammed between Gaz’s thighs, for some reason, and all of it dangerously close to Gaz’s bandaged side.

Christ. One wrong move and he’d snap a rib.

Gaz was staring up at him, lips parted, eyes wide. Still stunned.

Soap opened his mouth.

No words.

Gaz blinked.

Soap wished for death, again.

“Are you trying to fucking scalp me?” Toe hissed.

“Shhhhh. They just kissed.”

“See, they’re not going out with you.”

“Ah… that wisnae a kiss!” Soap barked suddenly, to no one and everyone.

Gaz raised a brow, still beneath him. “I wouldn’t call that a kiss. You’re an awful kisser.”

“I was tryin’ not tae crush ye, ya dafty!” Shoot him. Somebody just fucking shoot him.

“My lip’s bleeding,” Gaz added, wiping at the corner of his mouth. There was, horrifyingly, a small smear of red on his thumb. Soap’ dignity was already hemorrhaging out on the floor. Might as well finish the job. Bury him behind the compound an’ tell Price he died doing somethin’ noble.

Soap groaned. “I’m leaving.”

He shoved himself upright, stumbled off the cot, got tangled in the blanket and finally, finally managed to stand.

“Nobody saw that,” he announced.

Gaz sat up slowly, rubbing his jaw. “Oh no, not at all. Stealth mission, that one.”

Soap pointed an accusing finger over his shoulder.

“Never speak of this again.”

Gaz’s laughter followed him down the hallway.

Chapter Text

You were not whiny, or fragile.

You were an elite operative. Not the fastest to clear a stairwell, nor the first to fire in a breach, but a field medic. Damn good at it, too. You studied hard, practiced hard. You knew more than you were supposed to. You’ve had your hands deep in strangers’ insides, squeezing arteries shut with your thumbs while bullets still howled overhead. You’ve cut people open with pocket scissors and prayer. You know how to cradle a man’s head while he dies in a way that lets him think he’s safe, but you haven’t had to do it yet. That’s luck. Nothing else. Dumb, borrowed luck. And one day, you know, it will run out.

You try to not think about when that day will come, whether you’ll see it from the inside of a chest cavity or hear it in a last, rattled breath, or carry it in your hands like something you should have been able to hold. But lately, everything that happened – your own capture, Tac and Toe’s recovery, your attempt at going AWOL, felt like you were circling it, testing the edge of what happens when the luck doesn’t hold anymore.

You had been lucky, until now. Insanely lucky. It felt unearned.

So no, you were not whiny.
You were not fragile.
You were not stupid.

Except maybe you are, in your own way. In the way your shoulders twitch when someone raises their voice, out of some hardly buried instinct to make yourself smaller. In how quickly your mouth moves before your brain catches up: yes, sir; copy that; on it, when you obey too fast, speak too soft, and hover too long. In the way you fold yourself small around the men you care for. Your spine knows how to snap to attention, but it rarely stiffens for your own sake.

Fuck, you’re starting to sound like Tac. Only he gets that philosophical.

Being obedient has gotten you here. Among the elite. Yet the truth was that you’ve never been particularly good at wanting things.

And yes, the last month has cracked you open like rotten fruit, soft in the middle, sour in your taste. But you’re alive. You’re here, and you’ll get back on track.

Still, if you could, just this once, permit yourself the indulgence of complaint…

You wanted to cry, and you wanted to puke. Physio was a fucking nightmare.

No one said that. Not even you, when you were the one to assign it. It was “hard” or “grueling” or “vital”. You had never said that it feels like your body betraying yourself. That dragging yourself out of bed will feel like peeling skin from muscle. And you know what boiled skin does, how it slips off under gloves, clean and quiet and too fast, like fruit left in water too long. They don’t say that the ache behind your knees was a living thing now, or that your legs had forgotten how to cooperate halfway through a hallway. They don’t say that you dream of running and wake up short of breath from just standing.

God.

How had you even walked behind Laswell to this base? You must’ve been upright out of habit. Or shame. Or stubbornness. Or all three. Your thighs had been a stitched-together thing. No wonder you had opened some stitches. Right, probably the painkillers. And if you’re being honest, fully honest, in a way you’ll never admit out of fear of “addiction” being added to your file, you kind of miss the painkillers they gave you at Ramstein. Whatever cocktail they hooked into your veins had taken the edge off the nausea and made the pain abstract. It was like reading symptoms off a chart that was not yours.

That nausea was entirely yours again as you stepped slowly on the treadmill.

The nurse had unwrapped your bandages beforehand. You had caught her look she gave when she saw the scars. You knew that they spelled words, you know that, but you also know better than to read them. Then, Soap wheeled you and Gaz, across the compound, to the gym, each hand on a wheelchair. Yours kept veering slightly left, just enough that your wheels bumped Gaz’s every few metres.

“Ghost’s off to his mission, so I’ve gotta be the one to file for hazard pay if one of you chunders.” Soap said. “Should have left you both to drag yourself like sad little slugs, Better yet, next time I’ll bring a leash.”

“You’d like that,” Gaz had replied dryly.

“Oi.” Soap had tapped the handle of Gaz’s chair, “You wish. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart.”

“Terrifying concept,” Gaz had murmured. “Your heart, I mean.”

You hadn’t said a word, but you had reached forward, fingers tightening around the front handle of Gaz’s wheelchair, just enough to keep yourself from bumping into him too hard when the wheels veered.

Which, in retrospect, had not been all that useful, because by the time you came off your treadmill, 3 hours into the session, having already gone a little too far – they had told you to stop as soon at the first sign of pain - Gaz was already bent forward, vomiting into a plastic kidney dish with… uh… English grace, surely, if such a thing existed.

“This happens more than you’d think.” The physio, crouched near Gaz, said. You winced, suddenly aware of how condescending that sounded, and noted to never use that sentence yourself. There had to be something better to say when someone that proud was folded in half. The physio was brilliant at her job, no doubt, but pity was not something Gaz would do well with. Gaz held himself to some kind of divine standards. You’d seen it, these past days. You had felt how he wanted to get back on his feet as soon as possible. Men like him felt constantly the itch to be useful.

You looked away, but not fast enough to miss the way his fingers dug into his knee.

You used the last of your energy to shift a few unsteady steps beside him, and laid your hand gently over his.

“Gaz, darling, you’ve gotta stop, ‘cause I also want to puke. My turn with the basin.” You joked. His hand lifted to cover yours, and squeezed it.

“Alright,” You said quietly. “You finish your steps, and I’ll tell you something embarrassing.”

You paused, shifted your weight, felt your knees protest.

“I’ve got about three more minutes of standing in me.” You added. “Then I’m gonna fall on my arse. Literally. Legs’ve been trembling since the treadmill. So please, do yours, so I can rest. And you get a story.”

He didn’t look at you.

But after a breath, just one, he shifted, shoulders drawning back, like he was putting on a uniform. His movements were slow and heavy, but he did stand up, swaying a little to the left, but upright. You felt the tremor in him as he rose. He was using your hand as a lever, almost taking you down too, but it was fine. You didn’t release his hand until his balance found him again. And even then, only because he was going too far.

He took a step. Then another. Each one short, measured, with the flat-footed gait of someone trying not to black out. Arms kept close to his body. Breathing shallow. Not ideal, but conscious. Stable enough.

He paused a few meters ahead. Didn’t turn around, but angled himself back slightly, as if listening.

Then, still slow, still unsteady, Gaz extended a clean basin towards you.

You accepted it with a smile, turned your back. One clean heave into the bucket. Controlled, quiet, if slightly pathetic. Your abs cramped; your legs protested from the lean. You didn’t lift your head until the worst of it passed.

“Thanks.” You said over your shoulder. “Told you I was next.

You heard him move behind you, in almost steady footsteps. You slowly sat down on your wheelchair, put your heads between your knees. By the time you wiped your mouth and sat back upright, Gaz had finished the rest of his circuit. Not far. Maybe two dozen steps in total. Ugh, you were proud of him.

He turned as you looked up, breath still hitching slightly in his chest, face pale but proud.

He was smiling. Well… heaving, and smiling. Another wave of nausea hit you, with a hat sharp, ridiculous pull towards him, towards someone who was louder than you, braver than you, someone who knew how to stand in their skin like they’d earned it.

God. This again?

Same damn weight curling in your chest. First Soap, now this. It’s like your brain didn’t know how to draw a line between admiration and what seemed too close to wanting.

You looked down, wiped your mouth with the towel again just to have something to do with your hands.

What the fuck was wrong with you?

Were you that desperate for attention? Soap smiled once – or existed once in the hallway, and you’ve been carrying these moments ever since. Now, Gaz did his fucking physio reps, and your heart took it personally.

Gaz, who was still looking at you, smiling and breathing through his teeth. His eyes were glinting. Your heart was beting against your throat. You told yourself it was from the exhaustion. God, you were really pathetic.

“What?” You asked, voice thinner than intended.

Gaz nodded. “You said there’d be a story.” He said. Great. Now, please humiliate yourself in front of your second crush, you whore.

“Can we wait till we go back to the quarters? I need to breathe.”

By the time you wheeled yourself back to the infirmary, you were dizzy and holding it together on nothing but residual pride. Toe and Tac were playing cards.

“Still breathing?” Toe said. “Shame. I was taking bets.”

You lifted an arm as a reply. You’ve seen him in worse shape for less.

You transferred and collapsed into your cot like you’d been dropped there. Gaz lowered himself more carefully, but you heard the hiss of pain through his teeth.

And then, finally, inevitably, Gaz turned his head, still a little pale, and looked at you.

“Well?” he said. “I walked.”

“What’s the deal?” Toe asked.”

“He took his steps.” You said, voice rough. “So now I owe him something embarrassing.”

“Oh, tell him what happened last year in the tent.

“No! I’m telling him the promotion stuff.”

“The promotion stuff?” You had Gaz’s entire attention. He was comfortable, good arm propped behind his neck.

“All right.” You said, because otherwise, Toe would not shut up and might really say what happened in the tent, and because Gaz was still watching you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll flinch.

“It was during an evaluation. You know, one of these shadow assessments they do when no one tells you it’s happening until someone gets promoted and you’re expected to pretend you’re not surprised?”

You heard Tac snort, but you kept going.

“It was hot and humid. Suffocating. Late into the afternoon. We were two weeks into that mock deployment, and everything smelled real bad. If you think that unshowered soldiers stink in their bunks, try injured ones packed under canvas tents. Oof. But it wasn’t bad, lots of contusions because of the mud and some cuts. Anyways, I was dead on my feet, and I got called to check on a guy who caught a atone to the knee during a drill.”

You inhaled, exhaled.

“I had been resting, so I didn’t have my belt on. Thought it’d be quick. I didn’t lean sideways while going off the hill, because, well, it wasn’t that steep, but it was still muddy because of a recent storm.”

Toe was trying to control his giggle. You could see him biting his hand and shaking in the background.

“I jogged, the hill was slick and slipped. Fatigues came down mid-fall, and I skidded in my briefs into a tent. Hit the canvas hard enough to rattle a whole table inside.”

“Tell him which tent it was, Tick.” God, could Toe just shut up?

Tac swat him on the back of his head, for you. You thanked him silently: Tac knew that you’d thank him.

“It was the mess, and it was supper for the command. The major stepped out. Saw me, helped me up. Sweet old man. Two weeks later, Toe got a promotion out of us three.”

“They said he was real cute, bleeding from the chin and face-down in the mud.” Tac said, dead serious. Traitor. The lot – the pair of them. “He was lucky to not be called Moonshot now. You know, for showing the whole moon.”

Toe was wheezing. You hoped he’d choke on it. Gaz, still lounged back on his cot, let out a low, breathy chuckle.

“I’d bet that you were cute. Can’t believe you mooned command and still didn’t get promoted. I mean, if I’d been your CO, I’d give you a medal. Maybe even offer to stay behind and help you back into your trousers.” Huh?

Did he… did he just?

No.

Your brain was misfiring. That was a joke. A joke. British banter. Dry and sharp and layered. It wasn’t serious. He was being friendly. That’s all.You looked up just enough to see his grin. You blinked at Gaz, too stunned to breathe, your brain buffering so hard it might have crashed entirely.

Gaz winked. Like he hadn’t just dismantled your soul. You were going to overheat.

“My briefs were on.” Great comeback, Tick, because that’s so much more dignified?

“Not the point. You said it was hot.” He added. “Could’ve used the help.”

You dropped your head back against the pillow and covered your face with both hands. Gaz, my good sir, was that the point?

You were never telling another story again.

“Was that the real reason why they didn’t choose you?”

“No, but I’d like to think so.” You smiled hesitantly. “It was lack of leadership.”

Gaz shrugged with just one side. “It’s not that important. We follow. I was told I don’t have the stomach.” His voice felt off. It was a little too serious for the moment. “Anyways.” You decided not to press. Gaz didn’t sound like he wanted to share that.

Instead, you let your hands fall away from your face and glanced toward the dimming light above. The room felt smaller, quieter, wrapped in a fragile calm.

“So.” You forced yourself to return to the lighter mood. “How do I take a shower like this?”

“Ah’m bored, Captain.” Soap was bored. He’d taken you and Gaz to your physical training, which fulfilled his quota of enthusiasm, and still had energy bussing under his skin. That was the problem with finishing this early: too much time, not enough chaos. Now, he was stretched out across Gaz’s suspiciously high-quality couch in Price’s office. Price had eventually stopped to even comment on his regular intrusions anymore, which was probably a sign of either resignation or affection. Soap liked to think it was the latter. He lay there upside down, legs thrown over one armrest, his head hanging off the other. He stared at the ceiling, then at Price, then back at the ceiling. Price, ceiling, Price. Couch. Ceiling. Shirt, Price.

Price hadn’t moved in nearly an hour. Just paperwork. Endless, soul-sucking paperwork.

He repeated. “I’m bored, Captain.”

Price didn’t look up. “That a cry for attention, Sergeant?”

“Maybe.” Soap grinned, tilting his head far enough to see Price’s shoulder blades tense slightly. That was the game, wasn’t it? “Come to the gym with me.”

“You’ve got a regimen.”

“Done it already. Still bored.”

Price paused.

“We can wrestle,” Soap added, voice a little too eager.

That got him a look. Brief, appraising. Like a predator sizing up prey it didn’t quite trust to stay put.

“What do I have to gain from this?”

Soap sat up, quick as a shot. “I’ll do the reports for the extraction.”

Price leaned back in his chair, finally giving Soap his full attention. The captain’s eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest glimmer of amusement at the corners.

“Alright.”

Soap blinked. “Seriously?”

“You’re offering free labor. I won’t say no.”

“Hell yes,” Soap said, already on his feet. “Prepare to lose, old man.”

Price stood with the slow, steady confidence of someone who had never once doubted the outcome. He rolled his shoulders and grabbed the towel hanging off the back of his chair.

“You say that every time,” he said. “And every time, I leave you face-down on the mat.”

“One of these days,” Soap grinned, holding the door open like a gentleman, “I’ll surprise you.”

Price walked past him with a smirk and a quiet, low response.

“Today’s not that day.”

It was not the day. Price had ended up behind Soap, legs locked around his waist. Soap has his shoulders locked. Price had a grip on one of his forearms. His other arm was on the mat, but didn’t offer much to get out of his position. His breath hitched sharp in his throat as he squirmed, trying to find leverage that didn’t exist. Price’s grip was getting tighter with each breath. The bastard’s probably trying to snap one of his ribs. Tap out?
No.
Absolutely not. He was not giving Price the satisfaction.

Then, Price’s legs moved a fraction of an inch, and the pressure doubled. Soap’s ribs compressed like a vice had clamped around them. His vision flickered for a moment.

Right, no, screw his pride. Tap out, out.

Price released instantly, smooth and practiced, like he hadn’t been using half his strength in the first place. Soap collapsed flat on his back, gasping. He was going to die.

Above him, Price stood tall and calm. Not a hair out of place.

He offered a hand. “Reports’ll be on my desk by morning, then.”

“Best two out of three.” Soap rasped, still flat on the mat. He didn’t want to reach for Price’s hand.

“Then get up.” Price said, voice maddeningly even.

“Jus’ gimme a second, Price. Think one o’ ma lungs’s gone missin’. Might’ve rolled under the bench. Check for mae?”

He heard Price huff, one of those barely-there laughs that said you’re an idiot, but also I’ll wait.

Which was good. Because Soap wasn’t entirely sure he could move yet. But he had to. Soap let out a sharp breath and batted the hand away. He got to his knees, settled for a moment, squinting, then dragged himself up. Maybe Price’s spirit animal was a road roller. It would explain his strength. “Alright. You caught me nappin’. Won’t happen again.”

They reset, Soap rising into a crouch, circling this time instead of charging in like a daft rookie. His eyes flicked to the way Price shifted his weight. There. He darted in low, aiming for Price’s waist.

“Not this time, ya smug arse,” he muttered, teeth grit, breath already catching in his throat from the residual ache in his chest.

But of course, Price saw it coming. Saw it before it happened. Twisted at the last second, dropped his center of gravity, and used Soap’s own momentum against him.

It happened in a blink.

Soap’s face was mushed against the mat. His arm was pinned at a brutal angle behind his back, and Price’s entire weight was pressing into his side. A low grunt escaped Soap’s throat. Son of a - His thoughts cut off as the pressure on his shoulder cranked tighter.

Then Price leaned in, close enough that Soap could feel the warmth of his breath against his ear. “Still bored, Sergeant?”

Soap, ribs screaming and face mashed against the mat for the second time in five minutes, let out a wheezing, half-laugh. “Absolutely. This is shite.”

He could feel Price’s smirk without looking.

They had showered. Soap had whistled the whole time, of course, like he hadn't just spent the last hour getting crushed into a mat. The man had a strange definition of boredom. Or maybe just wanted to be beaten. Either way, Price let him have it. Soap had earned the right to hum through his bruised pride.

Back in the office, the calm returned like a tide. The thrum of the gym and the heat of contact dulled to the background. Work was waiting it always was. 

Price sat, towel still draped over his shoulders and flicked open the folder labelled with Ghost’s name in a clean, black scrawl. This was Ghost's third interrogation this quarter, which was concerning. There was a pattern in the files. Three of these sorts in such close succession was not standard. Someone was trying to force connections out of corpses and misery.

Was it the Garnet group? They certainly didn't seem capable. This was something larger, agile enough to scatter before they could get names and coordinates but organized enough to keep reappearing in fragments. Hopefully Ghost could get the necessary information this time, because the alternative meant more bodies, and more weight on Ghost's shoulders. Interrogation work was necessary. Hell, sometimes it was the only thing that got results. But it left marks. No matter how cold you were, it bled through eventually.

God knew Ghost had enough of these already.

Price exhaled slowly. He had half a mind to go himself. Sit across the bastard, do it clean, do it fast. But time was not on his side. Logistics, meetings, inter-agency briefings. Whole op-chains were resting on some decisions he hadn't had time to make yet. Gaz and Soap are not ready to lead an interrogation on their own. Not to mention that Gaz was still out of commission.

Soap didn't protest.

Good.

They couldn’t afford gaps anymore. Not in coverage. Not in people. Not in trust.

Price gave him a short nod, then turned back toward his desk. His fingers already itched for the next file.

TW: torture

The subject was younger than expected. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. He sat cuffed to the chair across from Ghost, arms tense, jaw tight, blood already crusting at his hairline from the last time he tried to bolt. He wasn't talking yet. Nor really, just posturing. Ghost had seen it before and was tired of it. This one will crack. They all did.

His name wasn’t on file. He drove for Garnet, probably ferried cargo, munitions, messages. Disposable.

“Name." Ghost said flatly.

The subject kept his head down. Didn’t answer.

Ghost’s hand twitched. He could break a finger. Elbow the rib, quick and hard. He’d done worse for less. If he did it right,  the subject would give up a name, a location, anything he wants, all within ten minutes.

Ghost moved, crossing the distance in two strides, fisting the subject's hair and yanked his head back, hard enough to snap his posture alright. "Your name."

The kid hissed, eyes snapping open.

Eyes. Blue. Icy in this light. Wide. Wet.

Bright, defiant, stupidly young. They weren’t the same shade. But they were close enough to sting. Close enough that for a split second, Soap’s face flickered through Ghost’s mind, flushed and grinning. 

Ghost blinked, and it was gone. 

The mission came first. Always had.

He reached for the tool roll. Unfolded it slow. But his hand hovered. Just for a second.

Anger flared, Not at the driver, but at the pause. This was the job. Necessary evil. He’d always understood that. He’d survived because of that. If he did it, it meant Soap didn’t have to. It meant Gaz didn’t have to. That was the point.

So why was he hesitating?

Ghost gritted his teeth behind the mask. No one could see his face. That helped. He curled his fingers. Focused. One broken bone, probably, one scream, and intel would start pouring out into the stale air. Fear was the truest language there was.

He leaned in close, until the mask was inches from the kid's face. Close enough for him to feel his breath, for his cuffs to clink slowly as he shrank back. Low voice. He forced himself to meet the kid’s eyes again.

“You’re going to tell me what I need to know. And if you’re lucky, I’ll let you keep your teeth.”

The kid stiffened. His resolve cracked, for just an instant. But it was there. Ghost saw it, and he hated himself for feeling relief.

Fear alone should be enough this time.

Christ, let it be.

Chapter Text

The day closed in as it always did, gently expiring like the last breath of a long sigh.

You and Gaz had barely touched the meager supper. Between the physio, the dry heaves, and the taste of bile still clinging stubbornly to the backs of your throats, neither of you had much appetite. You poked at the meal tray out of obligation, picking at the mucky potatoes and bland chicken, and eventually passed it off to Toe, who happily made it vanish with animal greed, like he hadn’t had his portion beforehand. Gaz didn’t even bother trying.

After lights dimmed, the infirmary quieted as you did, slowly, like a dog settling down, kneading the ground under it, restless and sighing, before it finally curled up. Toe and Tac finished their last hands of cards under the too-yellow glow of a battery lantern, but even that faded. They too eventually fell quiet: only a few muted snickers died on their lips as they rolled away for the night in a soft rustle of blankets.

You turned onto your side, gingerly, wary of whatever aches might tug at you. You heard Gaz do the same, the soft creak of his cot, the hiss of breath through his gritted teeth as he shifted carelessly. Neither of you needed to say anything: everything that needed to be said had already passed between the two of you. That felt good. The hours of shaking and heaving together were more than enough for you to feel alive and seen and cracked open, and now there was nothing left except the quiet beat of your pulse and the warm thrum of your blood reminding you that you were still here, and that he was most probably feeling the same leftover ghost of motion and strain under his skin.

You let out a ragged sighed, shifted again, seeking a slice of comfort, but your legs refused to cooperate. A sudden flare of ache in your thighs flared bloomed in your thighs. You breathed through it, letting your body sink back into the sheets, and closed your eyes. For a moment, the darkness seemed to swallow the ache, and you hoped for oblivion You try to ignore the tide of nausea at the back of your throat, willing it away with shallow breaths.

It smelled like cigarettes, as it always did. Gaz’s.

The ever-mind-numbing scent burrowed deep into your lungs. You knew it well. The acrid tang of tobacco is no stranger to this infirmary. Old habits, surely. It seldom nibbled at your nostrils, when Gaz smoked at night, the cigarette breathing for him, up and low on the cot besides yours, when he thought no one watched. He was sitting on his cot, half-lit by a faint circle of light, rolling an lit cigarette between his fingers, between two puffs.

The buzzing in your ears had returned. Gaz was blurry.

You were hurting again. It came alive, unconstructed, flooding through you in thin and shallow waves. Although hazy at the edges, it was not dull, but distanced, like an entitled weight onto a sunken couch. Pain, it seemed, was memory’s cruel gift, one of the most horrible kind. Where once you floated above it, numb and detached, now every fiber of your being thrums with remembrance. The agony in your thighs flares with terrifying clarity.

You willed it to stop.

But perhaps you should not have hoped. For then, it was not just suffering you felt; it was the cruel intention behind it, the reason it had been unleashed. Without the veil of reality cloaking your pain, your body was mercilessly communicating what it once shielded you from. Your pain was alive once more, its flesh rotting hot and alive in your thighs.

You were alive, yes, alive in your body, that much you know for certain. But oh, let no more of this come. You have borne enough in this world.

Doubt crawled around your mind: were you truly safe, truly done? The world began to fracture in your vision. Here, then, you lied on your cot in the dark stillness; and yet you were somewhere else as well. One moment you felt the thin hospital sheet against your back, and the next your feet were against a cold tile floor as you sat under a glaring light, with cool metal pressed into your skin and warm blood already sticky between your knees.

They had trained you, hadn’t they? Had you not endured the lectures, the drills, the calm, clinical promises that you would be ready if ever the time came? The procedures of resistance, the psychology of duress: all dust in the mouth now.  Nothing had warned you about the density of the pain when it’s delivered sickeningly slowly, a torrent of drips onto your sanity.

You buckled before you even realized what you were doing, a convulsion, small and useless, some form of tangled revolt against the invisible force that pressed upon you. You were trapped, sitting up. Your body jerked upwards, against your sheets were damp and heavy, and you kicked against them as a drowning man tearing at the surface of the waves, only to find the air gone and the water endless.

Yet, as you looked down, your legs were bare.

Of course they were.

They had always been bare, in that room, bare like meat at the butcher’s. and now, in the half-light of the infirmary, they were bare again, and the blade, though it was not there, came anyway. Your eyes followed the past of its path, where it once moved out of hunger, covering your thighs with a blanket of cuts, painted by a careless pair of hands, armed with an even lighter voice.

“You know what I do to you and your little friends, eh? We sell you together, I think. You and the loud one, alone, you are nothing. But as bundle, maybe someone buys. I’d hate to cut you for parts.”

You can’t move. Your chest is rising in uneven jolts, but your hands are dead weight. You’ve stopped trying to fight the memory and now you’re just inside it, bracing for each word, each next line.

The man’s voice was soft and amused, as if you were agreeing with him.

“Or maybe I keep the loud one for myself. Babam wouldn’t mind. We sell so many people. People like you disappear. Some go in boxes, some we keep in pieces. Babam’s choice. So just let me have my fun.”  

He left the knife planted inside you, buried to the hilt, Then, with the delicacy of a man savoring his own illusion of gentleness, he brought his hand to your face, gently cupping the side of your face with some perverse tenderness. His fingers press behind your ear. His thumb settles along your jaw.

He leaned in.

Exhaled.

A cloud of smoke washed over you. Your body recoiled. It moved before your mind could catch the cue, recoiling instinctively from the smoke, from the man, from the memory he was carving into your flesh with every deliberate gesture. You braced yourself, hollowed yourself out, prepared for what followed.

Except… it didn’t come, not this time. It never came again.

Only the silence remained.

And though your body still trembled, and your mind still waited for the next cruelty to fall, it never did. Not again. Not ever.

You hovered there a while longer, suspended like some tattered scrap of cloth caught on a nail.

The sheet beneath you was rougher than before, and colder. Your breathing came ragged and shallow, like a swimmer just cresting the surface. Somewhere close, a cot creaked. A cough, not your own.

You were here.

You were back.

You blinked.

Gaz was still smoking. His shoulders were loose, his profile limned faintly in the damp hues in the penumbra. He let out a low breath. The insolent smoke coiled upwards.

You turned your head slightly, the cotton of your pillow rustling beneath your cheek, and summoned the shards of your voice from wherever they’d been scattered.

“Hey,” You rasped, the syllable feathered. “Put that out, will you?”

Gaz turned your way, slowly. “What?” Perhaps your voice was too shaky.

“Just… put it out.” You whispered.

“Bad dreams?”

“Second time you see me with them.” You said. “Don’t be surprised if there’s a third.”

Gaz looked down and pressed the cigarette hard into the tin tray by his cot. It went out with a hiss. “Don’t make it a habit”

“Same thing with you smoking in the infirmary.”

He softened in the dark, his silhouette rounding down.

“I need some air. Can you come with me?” The room steadied around you, still thick with the residue of your fear.

He didn't answer at first. You wondered, in the space between your question and his silence, if you’d asked too much.

Then, finally, he nodded.

“Yeah.” He said, his voice even lower than before. “Yeah, alright. I’ll come with you.”

You shifted your legs over the edge of the cot with a wince, the chill of the linoleum bleeding through the thin socks the infirmary issued. You stood up, wavered, but moved anyway.

Behind you, a sigh, one that’s starting to become familiar.

“Use your damn wheelchair, Tick.”

Price watched as Ghost removed his plate carrier, the skull on his mask glinting under the single bulb. Price flew out to Ghost for this time, on a last-minute decision. Ghost stepped forward, and placed a slim data drive on the table between them before retreating a step. Price reached out. "Go ahead, Captain."

Price reached out, and with the briefest touch, patted Ghost’s chest once. Old habits. Ghost’s shoulders tightened, but he didn’t reject the touch. Just restraint. Always restraint.

"The flashdrive."

Price froze, a slow, awkward smile tugging at his lips. Right. Clearly, the pat caught Ghost off guard, but hopefully not unwelcome either. "Sorry."

Price looked at the drive. He knew what it had: a single debrief note, a footage of the interrogation, likely in two angles, its transcription, and maybe a report, if Ghost had conclusions to give. Laswell was waiting for it impatiently. But not Price. The intel was important, yes, but secure. There would be ample time, later, to comb through whatever was pulled from the captive driver. Surely Laswell would be the one sitting, and he’d have to stand behind her again, and he’d have to grab some tea first, since he didn’t want to endure Lawell’s microwaved atrocity. Anyways, it was for later. The fact that Ghost hadn’t radioed in anything urgent told Price what he needed to know: nothing critical, nothing pressing.

Price exhaled through his nose. He realized too late he’d been looking directly at the lieutenant for about 20 seconds too long. Ghost glanced away.

Shit, Price thought. Didn’t mean to make it a stare-down.

He shifted his weight, hand brushing against the table edge as if to steady something in himself. "What did you do with the driver?" Price asked, because he had to, surely, as Ghost’s superior.

"Just some scares. Not even a scratch." Ghost replied.

Weirdly, Price was relieved. Not for the driver: he wasn’t about to go soft for men who ran guns and intel for monsters. Sure, they were human, and technically had human rights, but necessity had teeth. No illusions there. The bastard knew who he worked for, and Price wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. You can’t always meet violence with open hands and good intentions.

That was for lambs.

Still… the line between necessity and cruelty mattered. If only by a thread.

"Sir?" Damn, Price must have been more distracted than he thought, if Ghost was the one prompting him.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, thumb pressing just beneath his temple. "I’ve got a headache." Price muttered. "Just tell me what you’ve got here."

Ghost put his hands behind his back, his weight settling evenly between both feet. like a good little soldier reporting to his superior.

Price almost sighed. He’d tried, more than once, to talk Ghost out of doing that for official reports. Price did not need the parade rest posture, especially not when it was just them. But Ghost liked his formalities. Price understood: the lieutenant used them as armour, for habit, structure. It kept things neat.

It kept things distant. Or so Price figured.

"I got the destination of the shipment." Ghost began, voice flat, almost bored. But Price could read the tension in the angle of his shoulders. "A patrol already checked there, yesterday and the day before last. Must’ve moved the goods after our ambush. They’re not fools."

Price nodded once. He didn’t interrupt.

Ghost continued, tone even. "The name of his command was the Hook. Nothing else."

There was a beat. Ghost’s fingers twitched slightly behind his back—just once. Price clocked it.

"Oh." Ghost said the word like an afterthought. “Didn't know they were carrying people. Said no one told him.” His tone had not changed, but Price could notice the shift, the deliberate style of his intonation.

"Laswell’s take him." Ghost went on, staring somewhere over Price’s shoulder. “He’s green. Scared shitless the whole time. Figured he wasn’t worth breaking.”

That last line caught Price off guard.

Was that… compassion? No.

Price didn't let it show. He didn’t so much as blink, but just a flicker of something warm, endearing, in a way, went though him. He hadn’t expected that from Ghost. Not because he thought the man was cruel - he wasn’t - but because mercy wasn’t usually part of his toolkit. Price found himself… not proud, no. That wasn’t the word. It wasn’t about Ghost needing his approval. It was more like a very quiet reassurance.

He didn't speak. Just gave the faintest nod, more to himself than to Ghost.

And when he glanced at the younger man again, he caught it: Ghost’s shoulders had loosened, almost imperceptibly. The tension that braced him a minute ago had bled out by a fraction, like a wire gently uncoiling. His hands came forward again as he crossed his arms.

So Price looked away, giving him back the distance he always seemed to want.

"So nothing too useful?"

"For the moment."

Price took the drive in both hands. The metal felt cold, smoothed by use, but it carried the heat of Ghost’s hands. Still faint, but there. He rubbed his thumb over the casing, as if testing the temperature again.

Ghost wasn’t wearing his gloves. Price hadn't noticed that until now. He hid the drive into his pocket, away from his sight. Broad, calloused hands, surprisingly pale at the knuckles. Strong and steady, but measured, never one to waste even a twitch. Maybe now capable of gentleness, too. And maybe that was what caught Price off guard the most—the idea that Ghost could choose to hold back, just for the sake of it.

"Laswell’ll want a sitrep."

Copy that.”

Price patted the data drive, feeling the lingering warmth as if he anchored it deeper into his pocket, though the fabric.

"Good work." Price added quietly, his eyes briefly meeting Ghost’s before looking away. "We’ll figure out the rest, soon."

Chapter Text

Price checked his kit again, a ritual that didn’t soothe much. Couldn’t shake the itch. “You’ve not asked for Soap or Ghost. We could use their eyes.”

Laswell hallowed by the pallid glow of her tablet, didn’t move. “Light recon, John. They’re grounded.”

It sat poorly with him. He shifted in the harness, boots set squa re against the deck as though bracing against more than the swaying of the bird. His lads. His call. “I’m their captain.”

“And I’m the one who knows when you’re compromised. You’ve got a soft spot.”

Soft spot. He chewed it over. She wasn’t wrong, not entirely. He’d watched them, shielded them, bled beside them. What had been forged wasn’t fragility but faith. They’d shown it enough times.

Yet the words from her cut, a line crossed. As if he hadn’t borne enough of those choices, burying the weight of them in shallow and deep graves alike. No one questioned if he could make the hard call when it came.

He paid for the hard calls too. Everyone had to.

He let the retort die before it left his mouth. No use sparring with her here. “Then why me for this one?”

Laswell finally met his eyes “Not many others to trust, John.”

The cabin light snapped green. The punch of a button and the ramp yawned open. Night and sea rushed in, the marine machinery black and endless, rotors hammering it all to pieces. Salt in the air, chill in his lungs.

One step into the gale, boots on steel, then nothing beneath him. A single breathless beat, a free fall into the black immensity. Shock of water. Darkness above, darker below. The ocean seized him whole, salt and shadow, and for a moment he let the weight of his gear pull him down to silence, before clawing back to breath and surface.

The bird was gone, only the chop and hiss of the tide left behind.

Only the sea remained, hissing and restless, as if conspiring against all men. Ahead, the port rose monstrous and gleaming. It was a fortress of a port, its containers stacked high, row on row, of a nameless, lawless kingdom. Cranes loomed above them like sentries. Floodlights swept trembling corridors onto the decks, cutting through the mist.

He heard Rebar and Chops drop behind him.

A marksman and a greenie. Heard Soap’s worked with them before. Wonder how good they are.

Recon. Quiet work. Dangerous work. Price floated low, eyes fixed on the steel and light of the shoreline. He started swimming in, every stroke pulling him closer. Mission first. Always.

He switched to team comms. Static rasped into his hear.

Chops coughing into the channel.

“Water in my mask. Standby. Sorry sir.”

You were reading. Your fingers traced the notes and diagrams detailing procedures. Every operational nuance was new to you, but you were determined to learn.

This was one of the few times of the day during which the outside noise faded to nothing. Golden hours, for studying.

Oh, how you wanted to be outside.

“How are my notes?” A voice boomed, unhelpful as ever. You smiled at the source.

“Your scribbles aren’t too bad, Soap.” You lifted your gaze to meet his. “I might actually understand half of it.”

He strode into the room like he owned the place, though the grin on his face gave away his playful intent. Without a word, he flopped onto the couch beside you, kicking his boots off with a soft thud. Then, lazily, he propped his feet up, mirroring your posture.

Soap let out a long, contented sigh, flopping slightly to one side, arms sprawled behind his head. “Ah… this is the life.” He murmured, voice softening with satisfaction. His eyes flicked to you, glinting with mischief. “I could get used to this.” He wiggled his toes, stretching like a dog in the sun, then lazily nudged your shoulder with his elbow. “Don’t mind me.” He said with a cheeky smile, “I’ll supervise you studying.”

That was a lie. You knew him too well. He’d be talking again in forty-five seconds, tops. Maybe just twenty.

Sure enough, he let out a soft hum “You ever wonder what it’s like being in the thick of it?”

You felt your pride take a hit. The thick of it? You’ve been there. “I’ve done plenty of missions before, Soap. Seasoned. Saved lots of people.”

“Yes, but not that many raids. You’re mostly there for the aftermath.”

Oh? That was borderline insulting. Did he really think you were some desk jockey cleaning up someone else’s mess? You were not taking it. “I do hostages, Soap. Don’t like to deal with powers and shipments.”

You caught his glance, the corner of his mouth twitching into that lazy, teasing grin of his. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Of course he’s smirking. Of course.

“I deal with people too.”

“Oh?”

“Alright then, listen up. I’m gonna tell you about Las Almas” He said, settling a little closer on the couch.

“You ever heard of Hassan?” He asked.

You shook your head. “Can’t say I have. Who’s he?”

Before you could think, he leaned against you, head resting lightly on your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. Warm. Solid. Comfortable. Great. Focus, Tick. There’s a handsome man on you. Don’t flinch.

“Right, you should know this one. Hassan’s a big-time arms broker, one of Makarov’s main contacts. Moves weapons, plans attacks… all the nasty stuff. Proper slippery bastard, that one. Managed to slip into Las Almas with a hand from the local cartel, yeah? So, naturally, we went in after him. Full-on manhunt.””

As he talked, you could feel the slight weight of him leaning against you.

“Right, so we’re moving through a town, tracking the bastard, working with the Los Vaqueros. Solid bunch, might team up with ‘em again. Then, of course, the Mexican Army decides to crash the party so we improvise. Me, Ghost, Alejandro, we lure ‘em through the mountain trails, down the bloody river, cover the others while they clear out. Then Graves, fucking bastard, turns up with a gunship. Right, that tipped the scales, enough manpower to hit the compound and finally bag Hassan. Which, of course, we do.”

You tried to picture it, following every word, and your chest tightened at how natural he sounded recounting it.

“Right, so after we clear the main buildings and Hassan’s still nowhere in sight.” Soap continued, shifting a little closer so the lean of his shoulder pressed lightly against yours, “We head for the greenhouse. Packed with hostiles, by the way. Ghost’s scanning, Alejandro’s on point, and me? I’m just keeping my eyes open, making sure nobody sneaks up on us. Standard procedure, of course, but… gotta keep it smooth, yeah?”

His hands were fiddling across the air. You were not sure what he meant by those gestures.

“The TV operator spots nothing inside,.” He went on, “So boom! The greenhouse gets taken out. Alejandro radios Rodolfo for exfil, and of course, more cartel lads start showing up. Typical, yeah? You think it’s done, and suddenly you’ve got twice as many enemies. But that’s when it gets fun. Ghost, Alejandro, and me, we handle them. Little bit of chaos, a lot of firepower, and we come out on top.”

Yes, yes, that’s very impressive, Johnny.

He let out a soft hum, like he was savoring the memory. “Then Shadow Company smashes the gate, clears the way for us to breach the main villa. That’s where I corner Hassan. Ghost has my six, Alejandro covers the flank. One clean sweep and Hassan’s secured, convoy shows up, we deal with it, and we’re out. Smooth as you like. Couldn’t have done it without me, obviously.”

You two lingered there, simmering in the moment. Right. Soap was very proud, let’s not ruin it for him.

“Wait.” You finally said, breaking the silence. “Am I supposed to learn anything from that?”

“Nah.” He said, grinning like a kid showing off a drawing. “Hassan’s dead. Never gonna be chasing Markarov again. Just remember who kept everyone alive, yeah?”

Men and their egos.

“Only lesson; stay the hell away from Graves, yeah? Proper backstabber, that one. If anyone tells you anything about Shadows or that American son of a bitch who plays both sides, run.”

“Huh.”

“What?” He pressed.

“What you told me gotta be classified.” You shrugged, glancing at him.

“Below your clearance, Tick.” Soap smirks, tilting his head and letting a finger drum lightly on the side of his head.

He waits a beat, watching you, as if daring you to push further.

“Then say, Soap, why are you called Soap?”

“That’s classified, mate. Above your clearance.” He crossed his arms.

“Classified. Does Ghost know it?”

“Dunno, probably. You’d have to read my complete files.” He shrugged, tugging lightly at the cuff of his black quarter-zip. Lucky him that Price liked to keep his room a bit cooler than usual.

“Also, another quarter-zip?” You teased, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He gave a half-shrug, casual but with a spark of pride. “What can I say? It grows on people.”

He tapped you on the head. Was it not enough to tap his own? “Why are you called Tick?”

You stood up, making him drop slightly as he lost your support, spinning to face him. Arms crossed, you raised an eyebrow. “Wait, so your callsign origin is classified but you have the guts to ask about mine?”

“Well, yes. Spill.” Soap supported himself, sagged mostly straight into the cushions.

You started to strip yourself of your shirt. The air felt cooler against bare skin, and you didn’t bother hiding the way you stretched your shoulders, deliberate, just to show.

“Oi… didn’t see that coming.” He murmured, voice a little huskier than usual. You caught the way his eyes flicked to your finger as you pressed against something on your chest.

“You’re named after a scribbled game on your chest?”

“Tac and Toe played it on me one night when I was blacked out,” you replied, smirking. “Some idiots doodled it on me when I was blacked out. I liked it, so I kept it.”

“And now you’re Tick.”

“And now I’m Tick.”

A low whistle slipped from him, subtle but loaded, and the couch shifted under his weight as he leaned back slightly, clearly entertained.

It was doing wonders to your ego. You let yourself have the moment, because honestly, why wouldn’t you?

He leaned forward, fingers hovering. You nodded once, and then dropped your hands so there was nothing between his fingers and your skin.

His fingertip came down slow and deliberate, tracing the little tic-tac-toe as if following a map. It was warm and annoyingly intimate, the lightest pressure that sent a small, ridiculous thrill up your spine.

“Not bad, eh?”

He pulled his hand back with the smallest curl of his lips, like a man who’d been stung and enjoyed it.

It was doing wonders to your ego. You let yourself have the moment, because honestly, why wouldn’t you?

The marked containers loomed close, each one thrumming faintly through his night vision goggleslike a heartbeat muffled in steel. He thumbed a small capsule from his vest pouch. Orange, the same colour as the container, no larger than a coin: a tracker, humming to life with the quiet blink of a green diode before he pressed it flat against the corrugated wall. He switched to public channels again.

“One’s live.” He reported.

“Roger that, Bravo 0-6. Watcher confirms.”

A rookie could’ve done it. The yard lay half-asleep beneath floodlamps; not a guard where one ought to be. A place worth breaching should at least make him work for it. For Price it was almost insulting: a mission that might as well have been a Sunday walk.

. Price didn’t like being bored. He tightened his shoulders and pulled Rebar and Chops in with a short, practiced hand signal, two knuckles, hold, and watched them fold into shadow. Rebar’s breath came slow through the mask; Chops’ sling gave a faint creak when he adjusted his rifle. Little tells. Little lives to read.

Laswell’s voice came not on the squad net but down a private channel, the two of them tucked into their own line. It had some latency, enough that Price made a mental note: he’d get the comms swapped out when they were back. “Sulking, John?”

“My best eyes aren’t with me.”

“You’ve got eyes. Rebar, Chops, and me.”

A silence stretched, brittle as glass. The wind shifted, and the floodlamps swept wide, briefly illuminating the cranes like towering sentries. Price raised his hand, guiding Rebar into cover, Chops close behind.

Then Laswell dropped the line he used when things were about to get messy. “John, there’s something you need to hear.”                                                                                                                

He hated that phrasing. Meant trouble. He almost sighed. “Now’s a fine time. I’m not busy or anything.”

“Tick’s got a contact with Graves.”

He froze, palm against the sweating steel. “Laswell.” He said. “Tell me you didn’t plant a rat on my team.”

“No. Tick pulled Graves out once. Graves owes him. In blood or favour, don’t care which.”

“You mean Graves owes him?” The words felt sour in his mouth.

“That’s right. Doesn’t compromise you. If anything, it’s leverage.””

 Price finished at last, though the words came through gritted teeth, his breath shallow so it wouldn’t echo in the headset.

Price pushed forward, flattening himself against the shadow of a container. The floodlight rolled past like the sweep of a searching eye. He glanced up and motioned for Rebar to hold.

“Leverage.” He said it low, almost conversational. He pictured a ledger: favors on one side, men on the other. “Funny word for trusting Graves.”

“You trust me, don’t you?” She asked

He let a corner of a smile cut the dark. “On my better days.”

Laswell hummed, quiet as a note of agreement. ““One more tracker, then exfil. No heroics, John.”

“We’re not working with Graves again, right?”

“Do I look like a fool?” She shot back.

“Yes.” He said, dry. “Most of the time.”

He slid another tracker into place, pressure precise, fingertips trained. For now the plan was simple: mark, watch, withdraw.

He didn't like the plan.

Your days in the following three weeks settled into a quiet rhythm: breakfast, physical therapy, gym with Gaz, shower, lunch, and readings. Soap joined when he wasn’t with Ghost, and sometimes with Ghost. None of you saw much of Price during these days.

The gym sessions during the first few mornings, especially, felt like punishment. Not from Gaz, though he took far too much joy in pointing out your form, but from your body, still resting.

“Shoulders back, Tick. Chest up. Don’t look at me. Eyes forward.” Gaz muttered, hands hovering below the bar across your shoulders as you sank into the squat. You were tired, alright? Your form tends to slip when you’re tired. You wanted to curl up on the floor.

“No excuses.” Gaz said, as if he’d plucked the thought straight out of your head.

You heard Soap heckle behind your back. You inhaled sharply, fought to keep your balance, and thought, not for the first time, that you sincerely hoped the bench weights would crush him. Ghost commented at this point, and Soap turned his attention to the lieutenant for the next thirty seconds.

On days when Ghost chose Gaz as his partner, Soap was handed to you instead. Those days he never shut up, not for a second.

Not that you minded too much.

Anyways, that was most of your mornings during the latter two of those three weeks.

Tac and Toe rarely joined you, their brief appearances often just to watch your shared misery with a knowing glint in their eyes. Though they were well on their feet, they systematically refused to join you in the morning's torture sessions or any other heavy physical endeavors. A few drills here, a short run there, nothing more.

“I’m fit enough, Tick.” Toe had said one morning, leaning against the wall with arms folded. “Dream body, almost perfect scores: wouldn’t want to humiliate you lot if I get under the bar.” He flexed idly as if to prove the point.

And maybe, if he’d said that three months ago, he wouldn’t have been wrong. Both he and Tac had always kept themselves ready, but their captivity hadn’t been kind on them, either. They hadn’t gone soft, no, but the way they worked out now was different, measured, as if they were more interested in staying upright than staying combat sharp. You’d noticed that Toe’s mile had slipped behind yours, on the days he even bothered to run, but you never pressed him to chase it. You didn’t know why.

Still, if they skipped the gym, they more than made up for it at the table. Meals were their arena, and Toe treated every plate like a contest. That's perhaps why Toe would pile an ungodly amount of food onto his plate.

“It’s coming out of your pay, anyways.” Toe would say with a shrug, just before Tac delivered a sharp elbow to his ribs for you. Toe would clutch his side, feigning a look of profound betrayal. He'd hold the same wounded expression as he watched Tac serve himself from his plate.

Soap and Gaz would look at them with a strange expression on their faces, before looking at each other. You didn’t know what it meant, but it was some shared, silent conversation between the two of them that you were not in a part of.

You snapped out of your thoughts to find yourself standing over Gaz, his face straining for his final set. Your hands hovered below the bar as it stubbornly raised. A low groan escaping his lips before he finally locked out the rep. With a final heave, he guided the bar back into the rack with a satisfying clang. You beamed at Gaz as he stood up and turned back at you to flex.

“That’s how it’s done, mate. Your turn.”

You shook your head as you slid onto the bench, one hand on the bar to steady yourself. “That’s how it’s done”? Gaz was healing up, and with it came the return of who surely was his old self: according to Soap, a smug bastard. He moved around to spot, planting himself above you. You tilted your chin upwards, towards him, a grin tugging at your mouth. “You know what? Slap tens on each side for me.”

He stopped, one brow arched, giving you a look like you’d lost it. “You’re mad if you think you lift more than me.”

Flat on your back, you steadied your breath, voice dripping confidence you didn’t feel. “Match and learn, Kyle.”

He loaded the plates anyways. You ran a little checklist, just to make sure. Feet flat on the ground, check. Arch a little, check. Pinch and tuck the shoulder blades, check.

“Full grip. None of that suicide nonsense.”

Fuck. You’d forgotten. You complied, and Gaz nodded.

You inhaled as you slowly lowered the bar to your chest, touching in an almost trembling way the bar to your mid-chest. Heavy. Heavier than you’d let yourself remember. Twenty extra pounds didn’t sound like much until you felt it grinding your joints together.

It really was heavier than usual. Wonderful discovery, Tick. 20 pounds more than what you were used to lift was… well, heavier than what you were used to lift. The bar shook in your hands as you exhaled and painstakingly pressed upwards. The first few centimeters of ascension were brave and even, but you had to slow down after a quarter of a second.

“Leg drive, Tick. C’mon.” Gaz urged, his voice a low rumble that somehow sent heat crawling up your spine.

Focus, Tick. Now is not the time.

You dug your heels into the ground, trying to channel every ounce of leg drive you could muster. The bar was barely budging, but you could see how feasible this weight was. Gaz’s hands hovered close, but he didn’t touch, just that faint smirk teasing you like he already knew how this would go.

You pushed, and the next seconds were stretched into oblivion. Sweat slid inside your eye and forced one of them closed. You felt alive, every one of your fibers working to push the damn thing up. And then, just as the bar threatened to betray you, a spark of fire, a surge you could not name, ignited from somewhere deep inside. Your arms locked, your chest flared, and the bar rose with a slow, triumphant rhythm.

Gaz’s voice reached you, or maybe it didn’t; for it was muffled by the pounding blood in your ears, a low vibration in your skull. The bar continued upward, stubborn yet yielding, until, finally, with a final, exhaled roar from your lungs, it clicked into the rack. Gaz’s smirk widened, approval and amusement dancing in his eyes, and for a fleeting second, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you, and what you would dare to call victory, pure and slightly electric.

“Watch and learn, Kyle.” You murmured, unable to resist the temptation to gloat. Passing up the moment would have been impossible anyways.

“I’ve seen better.” Gaz shot back. Yeah, yeah… Sure he did. You totally didn’t just crush his personal best. You ignored him, chest still heaving from the lift. “But you’re not too bad, I’d say. You’re growing into your strength. I like that.”

“What now?” You swallowed, refusing to let him see that his words, casual as they seemed, made your pulse spike. “Careful, Gaz. Careful, or I’ll start thinking you’re flirting with me.”

He laughed, a short, sharp sound, tilting his head like he was genuinely considering it. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just messing with you. Can’t tell, can you?”

Now, how do you answer that?

Then Gaz’s voice dropped into that familiar, casual, infuriatingly relaxed tone.

“You don’t need to worry. Only got eyes for the captain.”

Yeah, of course. You froze, mid-breath, caught somewhere between confusion, exasperation, and the faint, inevitable amusement that always followed his antics. That wasn’t exactly a secret to you. At this point, it was barely a secret anymore. You still had the professionalism to feint surprise.

“Wait… you’re serious?” That was smooth, Tick. 10/10.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Might be others on the team worth a look too.”

Now, that was news.

“Even Soap?” You asked, doing your best at hiding the shark spike of surprise in your voice.

“You got something against Soap?” Gaz said.

You shook your head. “Oh no, it’s just that sometimes I know someone for too long, and then no matter how attractive they are, I just can’t seem to see them that way, you got me?”

“No?” Gaz tilted his head. He looked genuinely curious.

“Like take Tac, right? He’s hot. Objectively. But like I have known him for so long that thinking about him that way would feel incestuous, you know? So I thought Soap would be the same to you.”

Gaz was staring at you.

“But no.” You added quickly. “Soap is hot. Forget it. I understand why you’d crush on Soap.”

Gaz just kept staring, that damn smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, eyes sharp and unblinking, like he was waiting for something.

You cleared your throat, words tumbling out faster than you intended. “I do! I mean… yeah, I get it. Soap’s… he’s… fine, obviously. And he’s nice. And Ghost too, I guess. He looks fine, not that I’ve ever seen his face, though, so I’m not saying I don’t get it, I just… I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting you to… well, that is, you know, that’s… forget it. I’m rambling. Why are you telling me this now anyways?”

Fucking beautiful job, Tick. Really. Good thing Laswell had told you that maybe they were in love with each other. Soap–Ghost on top of Gaz–Price was complicated enough to manage. Laswell would probably have a heart attack if you updated her on how Gaz might go for all the other 141 members. Hell, you were about to have a heart attack thinking of how dangerous something like that would be in a team like the 141.

Not that you would go snitching, at this point. But Laswell doesn’t know that.

Finally, Gaz bothered to answer, low and smooth, that sound wrapping around you like a challenge. “Tick. You’re ridiculous when you get flustered.”

You blinked, frozen, part mortified, part… strangely thrilled. “It’s just… I get Tac and Toe, and now… now-” You floundered, mouth open, no idea where that sentence was supposed to end.

There was a rubbery squeal on your side.

"Tick!" Laswell's voice cut through the air. You snapped up, your forehead catching the bar. You pressed a hand to it, blinking against the sting.

She stood by the open doorway, framed in the brighter light of the hallway, her hand already beckoning you over. You gave Gaz a quick, reassuring pat on the shoulder and muttered, “We’ll talk later,” before breaking into a small run toward her, chest still pounding from the lift and the lingering thrill of the earlier conversation.

"Laswell." You saluted. "Everyth-" Your words died in your throat when Toe's face suddenly appeared in the doorway, only to be yanked back out of sight. You blinked. "Everything alright, I hope?"

Toe’s face appeared again, smiling wide, alongside with Tac. You gave them a small wave, before turning your attention back to Laswell. Laswell’s gaze followed yours, her expression closing with brief, weary exasperation before she sighed. "Five minutes, Tick. C’mon.” She brushed against Toe, fully ignoring the pair of them. But you, whose pay was far below Laswell’s, felt like they were absolutely worth your time.

Toe straightened with a shit-eating grin. "Tick, buddy. How are we? " Tac’s eyes flicked toward him. Toe’s grin twitched but didn’t fall.

"Just broke Gaz’s PB. You up to anything good?"

Toe paused a beat too long, then croaked out a thin, “Yes?” Oh, okay. The way he said it was worse than if he’d lied outright.

"Ignore him. You look almost mission ready." Tac looked too amused. "Go see Laswell. We’re gonna check up on Gaz , maybe drag him out to get some range time."

You gave Tac a quick nod, resisting the urge to glance back at Gaz one last time. You jogged to keep pace with Laswell, returning to the 141’s quarters. It was empty: Soap and Ghost must have been training, and Price was out for a meeting.

She stopped in front of a cluttered table, leaning her back against it. “Alright, Tick,” she said, voice brisk but not unkind. “I don’t have a lot of time. We need to go over the intel from the last op and prep for the next one.”

You swallowed, trying to smooth your breathing and shake off the lingering adrenaline. “Right. Got it.”

She glanced at you sharply, eyebrow raised. “You’re… a little off today. More jumpy than usual. Everything okay?”

You hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of the tightness in your chest. “Yeah. Just… post-lift energy, I guess.”

Laswell’s eyes softened for just a fraction of a second, then returned to her usual precision. “Mm-hmm. Just focus. I need you sharp. Five minutes is all I can spare for this debrief before my actual meeting here.

“With Price? Why didn’t you just call in?”

She ignored the question, moving straight to business. “You’ll be flying out soon. Ghost questioned an enemy operative a while back. The name of a contact within Garnet has been confirmed: The Hook. We’ve pinpointed a possible location. You’ll have to scout the area.”

“Where exactly do you need me there?” You asked, leaning in.

“It’s not about your role. You’re going with the 141 because I need someone I trust to keep them safe. You’re a medic first, Tick. Your skills, judgment, and instincts could make the difference if things go sideways. Don’t underestimate that responsibility.”

She paused, and for a moment you wondered why everyone seemed determined to remind you of things you already knew today.

“I’m worried because this is your first mission without Tac in a long time. Your objectives are critical. Tick. The 141... they’re all capable operatives, but right now there are factors that make them more vulnerable than usual. Do not hesitate if things go sideways. You can, and should, use any and all means necessary.”

“Of course. I was already-”

“As in, put this directive above any orders you may be given later.”

Scratch your earlier thoughts. Everyone seemed determined to scramble your head. “Even Price?”

She hesitated. “Your priority is the 141.”

“Laswell, I-”

“That's an order, Tick."

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, but she was already striding for the door.  "I’ve got a meeting.” One last sharp click and she was gone, leaving the air colder and heavier than it had been a moment before. You stood there a long second, mouth still half-open, the words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

Excuse me. No. Excuse you, Laswell. Too busy for a question? Not that you’d ever dare to oppose her orders, but still. When did you get this whiny?

You found yourself moving without really deciding where to go. Your feet took you toward the gym, even if the thought of working out didn’t seem as inviting as it was. The space had emptied out while you were gone. The fan turned lazily on the ceiling, stirring air for no one.

Did Laswell know what it meant for you to prioritise other orders than Price’s on the field? You were a soldier, goddammit.

Price might just put a bullet inside your head the second you go against him. Hell, maybe Ghost would do it before Price even asks: because that was the point, right? Obey and protect. Obey came first. The chain of command was the spine holding up entire taskforces. Break the chain, and everything splintered.

And yet… here you were, with one superior telling you the chain might need breaking.

But then, as always, Tac’s voice crawled back, steady as stone: You’re not an officer, Tick. You’re a medic. You don’t make the call. You patch up the ones who do.

You pressed your tongue to your teeth, hard. If you weren’t the one making the call, then why did Laswell sound like she expected you to?

“What are you starin’ at?” Soap’s forehead dropped onto your shoulder from behind. He was still sweaty, shirt damp and clinging, hair plastered to his forehead like he’d only just left the weights.

You jolted, nearly biting your tongue, and Soap’s laugh cracked through the hallway like he’d been waiting for it.

“Christ, Johnny. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“That wasn’t sneakin’.” He said easily, still leaning his weight into you. “I walk loud enough. You're just off in yer daydreams again. Could've stabbed ye a thousand ways.”

You grumbled under your breath, too worn to argue. Fucking Soap and his accent. 

“Yer face is doin’ that thing again.”

“What thing? You can’t even see my face”

“Don’t need to. The broody one. You look like Simon when you do that.” He shifted to hook his head onto your shoulder blade.

You tapped his head since his chin started to dig into your shoulder a little too hard for your liking. “I do not.”

“Aye, ye do. Difference is, his dead stare’s menacing. Yours just looks constipated.”

You swatted at his head, earning a loud laugh.

“And you’re on your tippy toes.”

“Easy, Tick. Don’t be sore. Just sayin’. Broodin’s Ghost’s thing. Best leave it tae him.”

You rolled your eyes and started walking, feeling his head slide back from your body. Your steps dragged, heavier than you meant to. Before you’d made three paces, Soap’s arms hooked around your waist.

“Johnny, don’t you dare-”

Too late. With a grunt and surely a wicked grin, he hefted you clean off the ground and slung you over his shoulder like a sack of kit.

“Jesus Christ.” Your voice broke sharper than you intended. “Put me down.”

“Nah.” He said, cheer sharp as a knife, already striding down the corridor. “You’re officially under arrest for mopin’. Sentence is to accompany me cleaning.” You let your fists tap weakly against his back, not really fighting. Your cheek pressed against his back. For a moment you just let yourself hang there. Soap didn’t comment on it. He just kept talking, loud and easy, carrying you as if you were weighing nothing. “Good behaviour might get ye early release. Maybe even a pint if ye stop lookin’ like the world’s endin’.”

It felt good to be carried away. To not be the one choosing where to go, what to do, who to listen to. No orders to weigh against each other, no voices in your head demanding a verdict. Just Soap’s shoulder digging into your stomach and the steady rhythm of his steps thudding through your skull, making the decision for you. In that instant, you didn’t have to hold the weight.

Chapter Text

Soap dumped you on his bunk, no gentler than if he’d slammed you straight onto the floor. The thin, scratchy wool slid beneath you like sandpaper, and the mattress gave way so fast it might as well have not been there; your spine jarred against the unyielding wood slats beneath, a sharp, dull ache blooming at the base of your ribs that made your eyes water. .

“Son of a-.” Half a curse knocked against the back of your teeth and was choked off by a breath that came in a ragged, wheezy gasp. You laid there, arms splayed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling of the barracks, and let your thoughts hang above your head. Breathtaking. Every second with Soap managed to knock the air out of you, one way or another.

Soap’s shadow fell over you then, broad and warm, until all you could see was an outline.

He did laundry this morning, you realized, dizzy in the way he now loomed over you. You could smell the faint, familiar scent of pine on his fatigues. It was the industrial grade mix he called detergent, which he swore was “the only thing that really gets the blood out”: the harsh chemical edge would fade by tonight, as it always did. Cinderella’s scent. Gone by midnight, back to the rough, unpolished Soap by dawn.

Soap’s mohawk was due for a cut. The sides were growing out, no longer the crisp fade he liked. The middle section was ridiculously long. You watched as he brushed a stray strand of that overgrown middle section away from his forehead, his calloused thumb catching on the hair.

It made your chest feel light, lighter than dull ache of your back- and of your heart.

“Yer like a sack o’ tatties.”

When you met his eyes, you saw that he was fighting with a smile. Soap’s smiles came easy and stayed precious.

“And your mohawk’s a disaster.” You said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt, proud of the way you didn’t sound winded. You lifted a hand, fingers brushing the edge of his fatigues, worn cotton, soft at the cuffs, and gave a tiny tug. “It’s like something nested on your head.”

Soap huffed a laugh through his nose, still grinning, and you blinked at him. “…The hell’s a tattie?” You asked at last, suspicion edging your tone. You weren’t sure if you’d just been insulted or not, but his expression made you wary. Your fingers lingered on his fatigues. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or keep holding.

He just shook his head, chuckling. That was the thing about Soap: he could call you anything, and half the time you wouldn’t realize until later.

You let your hand fall. Fucking Scot.

Then his gaze sharpened, catching something in your eyes. Soap leaned closer, voice quiet but sharp, cutting through the fog of thoughts still spinning in your head.

“Tell me what you really were thinking about in the hallway.”

Your stomach knotted, and your fingers twitched instinctively, brushing against his arm before you could stop yourself. Words caught somewhere between your chest and throat. You’d been juggling Laswell’s orders, the weight of it all, and the lingering adrenaline from earlier. And here, somewhere under what’s left of all that, there was Soap, so close and alive, making it impossible to just think your thoughts, not with him noticing.

You swallowed. Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “…I… I was just-”

Soap’s expression in the claire-obscure was patient but impossible to ignore. He didn’t push, not yet, just let you stumble through the start of your words, letting the silence stretch long enough for you to realize that saying nothing wasn’t an option this time.

“I was thinking of how I beat Gaz’s PB today. Felt unreal to be back in shape.”

“Ye looked defeated.” He said quietly, with a finality that indicated that he saw through the lie. Yet the words that you should have said, about Laswell’s orders, about the impossible weight she had put on you, stayed locked well within.

“It was the post-lift crash.” You explained.

“Very creative.” He sounded unimpressed.

The room felt smaller, tighter. Every diversion, every small excuse, fell flat against the quiet certainty in his gaze. How could you tell him, in that space, that you’d go against Price in a heartbeat, Price, his captain, your captain? How could he ever have understood?

So there it was: a lie, inevitable, awkward and flustered, but safe.

“I think I have a crush on you.”

It was Soap’s turn to blink. The corners of his mouth softened, his eyes gentle. His mouth twitched, almost a smirk, then flattened. He shifted his weight, leaning back just slightly. You counted three Mississippis before he spoke.

“You’ve got shite taste, Tick.”

“I’m serious!” You rushed your answer.

Soap gave himself a moment to think. “Right.” You struggled to describe his tone. Careful would be the word: Soap was speaking carefully. “That’s… nice to know, but I’m not looking for that.”

His accent was gone.

Relief flickered briefly at having deflected suspicion, and then a strange hollow sank in, heavier than the guilt you’d expected. You blinked. One, make your eyes flutter, two, open. Shoulders sagged. A long, quiet exhale.

Your chest still felt hollow.

Your fingers twitched, and you turned your face sideways. Inhale again, exhale.

Your chest felt as hollow as your act.

Wait. That had been a lie. You hadn’t meant it. It wasn’t true. You knew better. You know better! It was a harmless little lie. It was supposed to be safe. Words stuck, caught in a tight loop in your mind. You hadn’t meant it, no. Absolutely not: you were not dumb enough to fall for your teammates.

And yet.

The truth slipped in anyway, pressing through the lie. Tiny, sharp flutters of air brushed against your eyes, which watered uncontrollably. Weeks of subtle, unacknowledged feelings snapped into place in your mind, undeniable now, and impossible to shrink back into their hidden corner.

“I’m joking, Johnny.” You blurted, voice light, a forced laugh tumbling out of your throat. “I’d never date a guy with an outgrown mohawk.”

“Huh.”

It was soothing, almost automatic, the kind of sound you’d skim over without thinking twice. And you did. You couldn’t look at Soap.

Keep going. Don’t stop for thoughts that are out of order, Tick.

“You still want to know what I was thinking about?” He hummed; you assumed it to be a yes.

“I was thinking about Olivier and Samuel. Tac and Toe. I don’t think they want to be here anymore.” The words were clumsy, a sincere shift. Anything to pull attention from the lie that had slipped into truth. “They’ve… they’ve been pushed too hard. And especially now that they’ve got each other…I just… I don’t think they’re comfortable being part of all this anymore. Not like before. I wouldn’t be.”

You kept talking, words spilling faster now, a mix of worry and something you didn’t fully understand about yourself. “They hiding it. I mean… they’ve been trying, you know? I can see it. And I’d be happy for them. Really, if they were to retire. I just don’t know where that leaves me.”

Your vision looped back to Soap, who in the meanwhile had been looking away. He was rubbing his head, thumb smoothing over his scarred left temple.

His jaw was tight now, more than usual, and the faint twitch of his lips had vanished completely. His shoulders were hunched, And in that stillness, in the slow inhale that lifted his chest, you almost caught something decryptable. You thought, or maybe did you think, that there was something there.

“Ye worry too much, Tick. You’d still have us.” Soap’s voice had no lilt, no grin buried in it. Flat edged, scraping.

The words landed unsteady, not the usual sharp grin of them, not teasing or biting or any shade of mischief you’d expect. You nodded anyway, eager to take them as reassurance. “Right, yeah. It’s just… different, you know?”

Soap made a sound low in his throat. “Different’s not always bad.” A pause, then quieter, like he wasn’t sure you’d believe it unless he said more. “We like you here. D’you get that? All of us. Price, Kyle, Simon…” He trailed, swallowed, then pushed on, voice tightening. “And me. Especially me.”

It landed heavier than you expected, and for half a second you thought maybe he meant more than the words said; yet you were grateful and eager for the reassurance. Yeah. Yeah, I get it.”

Soap’s gaze stayed fixed on the wall, his voice rougher now. “Good. Then keep it in that thick skull of yours.”

You huffed a laugh, desperate to lighten it. “I’ll keep it in my tatties.”

His head gave the faintest of shakes, followed with a very thin smile.

You draped your left arm on your eyes, observing Soap through the crack supported by the bridge of your nose.

You were glad that he let go of your almost-fake confession.

You adjusted your arm, just enough to catch the line of his jaw, the tired cut of his grin, the way his thumb still traced idle circles over the scar at his temple. If you stared too long, you swore you could see something behind it.

Better not to.

After that, Soap spent the next thirty minutes cleaning. The scrape of the mop echoed across the floor as he scrubbed the railings, muttering about dust he hadn’t noticed before. He stripped the sheets off Gaz’s bunk, then yours, humming under his breath like he always did when he worked.

You laid on his bunk, arms crossed behind your head, watching him work. When he nudged you to move so he could replace his own sheets, you stayed still. With a sigh, he dumped the warm sheets over you. The faint scent of detergent and the lingering tang of disinfectants made your chest unclench slightly. You still didn’t move, letting the weight of the sheets settle around you.

“Gross. Gym sweat and all on my sheets.” Soap muttered.

“Not like I walked over here by myself.”

You stayed put, letting the light catch on the edges of your eyelids. Soap coughed.

“I’m done then. Next thing. Ghost wanted me to find you for a gear audit. You’re part of 141 now, so we gotta make sure you’re kitted like one.”

“My gear is fine.”

There was a scrape of metal on canvas: your rucksack being dragged across the floor.  

“Aye, I’m not touching your medic kit.” He grunted. “But you need to think mobility first. And lose the sub-arctic junk, we’re gonna be in the middle of a bloody desert.”

“How do you know I have sub-artic survival kits?”

A rattle of zippers cut you off. Soap’s voice came muffled, bent over something. “You’ve got so many packs in here.”

“Don’t touch my hypo kits. I paid for them myself.”

Soap just chuckled, unfazed, and kept digging. “And socks. Course ye’ve got socks. Three pairs… four? D’ye just… buy oot the supply depot back home?” The wool bundle thudded to the floor.

You froze. For a moment, your brain didn’t register the sound, canvas shifting, straps tugged, zippers being opened. Then it clicked into place, and your stomach dropped. Your pack. He was elbow-deep in your pack, where his hand didn’t belong. Heat prickled the back of your neck, the kind that had nothing to do with the delicate and awkward warmth you felt moments ago. You were already halfway upright before you realized you’d moved. The corner of the pack gaped open, fabric yawning wide enough for you to see the edge of a pouch you hadn’t meant to expose. Black nylon. Too ordinary to stand out, unless someone was looking. Your throat felt dry. You’d checked a dozen times that the content of that pouch could pass for nothing. Checked, but never trusted.

Soap glanced up at you, one eyebrow arched, hand still buried in canvas. “What’s this?”

One wrong move and whatever was inside would be compromised. You counted the contingencies you hadn’t thought through since Graves handed you the burner.

“It’s personal, Soap.”

“Don’t keep it in your pack then.” He replied, still completely unaware of the stakes.

“Seriously.” Your hands went clammy. You leaned just enough to pin his wrist, the sudden contact sending a jolt up your arm. “Just… leave it.”

"Aye, of course"

You exhaled sharply, fighting the tremor in your hands, willing your pulse to slow. The pack looked harmless again, just black nylon and straps, but the weight in your stomach wouldn’t ease. Someone else might not be as careless.

The pack looked harmless again. You knew what it contained.

It was a small, black box, rudimentary in every sense. Rough edges, no markings, almost unremarkable if you didn’t know better. Two copper wires curled out from the sides like antennae, stiff and wiry. You remembered disassembling it after Graves handed it over, comparing each component to diagrams in the manuals. He hadn’t included a tracker, not exactly: the component which could locate the burner phone would only activate after the call. You made sure of it. You had also found a tiny battery, wrapped and placed dead center, feeding a web of wires and crude circuitry that fanned our like veins. Some of those wires or chips were engineered to melt under the battery’s intense heat, a built-in self-destruct mechanism meant to erase everything after use, according to the manual you had found on Tac’s shelves.

Functional but barebones, it had the necessities for communication. Graves placed it at a pitch higher than the normal range of waves used for communication. This thing wouldn’t work anywhere too far from an antenna.

Later, you rolled the device into the foil blanket that came with the new pack. Somehow, the newly issued ones didn’t have a vacuum seal. The crinkle of the foil against your fingers sounded louder than it should, and you worked deliberately, folding the edges over the device until it disappeared into the folds.

Even once it was safely wrapped, your hands lingered, restless, tracing the contours as if memorizing every inch.

Your old packs had been better. Vacuum-sealed kits, everything in its place, each item exactly where your fingers expected it to be. The new one felt loose, with fewer straps and less compartments. The space organization was off, especially on the right-hand side, and you’d inevitably pull out the wrong kit on your first few tries, fumbling like a rookie. You ran your fingers over the packs again, noting the empty spaces where compartments should have been, imagining the dance of your hands going wrong in a high-stakes moment. Even a second’s hesitation could cost precious time, or cost you precious people.

The unfamiliarity gnawed at you. You couldn’t find things with your eyes closed without feeling around extensively, and every misstep reminded you just how much you relied on familiarity.

It was alright. With some practice, you could get used to it. You weren’t a rookie, after all. But a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help longing for the certainty of the old packs, the satisfying click of each sealed pouch, the effortless rhythm of a well-worn kit that had never let you down.

Hours later, Soap was tossed in his now-changed sheets, too wound up to sleep. The mattress was roasting him. Gaz was missing again, off doing… who knows what, probably sleeping in Price’s office. And you were there, snoring like it’s the world’s most soothing lullaby or something. Supposed to be comforting, Soap supposed so, but all it felt like was just rubbing in how wide awake he was.

He grabbed his phone, that blue glow stabbing through the dark. Ghost. Simon. Should he text? Could he even text? Fingers hovered, typed something half-baked, deleted it. Stared at the blank screen again. Can’t sleep. No, too weak. You up? Too casual. Soap stared. Fiddled with the phone case, trying to make it feel right. It didn’t. Nothing ever did in moments like this.

Then the bloody phone buzzed like it had something important to prove. A call from the lieutenant himself. Of course. He swiped, voice still hoarse. “McTavish here.”

“Soap. Stop faffing. What do you want?” Ghost. Deadpan as ever, but with that tiny edge that made Soap straighten up a bit without meaning to. Yeah… couldn’t quite relax around him, even when he tried.

“Wut?” Soap muttered.

“I can see you typing on the bloody app. What d’you want?”

Soap snorted. “Aye, trying tae sleep. Didn’t think you could spy on me though the app”

“Don’t sass me, Johnny.”

“Never would. Can’t ye sleep, Simon?” Because of course, it wasn’t just him tossing in the dark. Ghost was probably staring at some ceiling somewhere, pretending he wasn’t.

The line went dead. Soap stared at the black screen, half-smiling, half-frustrated. Classic. Ghost must have seen him hesitate. That was the lieutenant's way: impatient with dithering. Ghost never had time for second guesses, for half-finished words left hanging. If Soap was going to poke, Ghost would drag it into the open. Of course he’d call.

A moment later, the reply popped out: “Come over. Quietly.”

Soap grinned. Quietly, eh? Could do that. Mostly.

He stopped outside Ghost’s door, taking it slow. Eased it open just enough to slip in without announcing himself to the world. Heart thumping like he’d just jumped out of a helicopter, he froze for a second, picturing the perfect moment to strike. Feet planted, shoulders squared. Every muscle coiled like he was breaching a room in hostile territory.

Open the door. Throw the (verbal) grenade.

“Tick has a crush on me.” Soap leaned back against the frame, arms crossed, trying not to flaunt it too hard. “And before ye start, no, not Gaz. Me.”.”

Close the door. Boom.

Ghost was at the table, rag in one hand, rifle in pieces before him. He didn’t even look up. “He’s told you?”

“Right out confessed, Simon. Looked like he might combust, poor lad.”

The only answer was the sharp clink of metal as Ghost slid a pin home, his hands steady and unbothered.

“Come here. Something’s stuck.”

That was it? Nothing about the confession? Nothing about Tick? It felt like setting off a firecracker in the middle of the night and having it fizzle before anyone noticed. A flashbang in an empty room.

“Johnny.”

Soap blinked. “Ye called me over for a gun jam? It’s three a.m.”

Ghost finally looked up, eyes flat behind the mask. “What else? You got better plans?”

Soap had plenty of suggestions, none fit for saying out loud, but Ghost’s curt little wave pulled him forward anyway. It was sharp, economical, like a tug on a string looped round his neck. He grumbled for show, rolling his eyes, but his boots still carried him to the table.

He stopped there, studying Ghost’s hunched shoulders, the set of his neck. For once, the usual quip never made it past his lips.

Soap wanted to put words to the mess in his heart.

He wasn’t even sure when this urge had started. Perhaps back there, in the impossibly warm dorm room, as he pushed you away. Perhaps it was even earlier when he almost lost Gaz. Soap loved. Properly, with his whole messy heart. Gaz, with his stubborn loyalty; Price, with that steady hand; Ghost, with his impossible calm beside him. Maybe you, too, though he wasn’t too sure. Different kinds of love, sure. It was all tangled, all part of the same thread.

You deserved gentleness, deserved someone who could show it plain. So did Ghost. He did, though he’d never ask. Soap wasn’t sure if he could give either of them what they wanted, not properly. But what he could give was this: closeness, steady hands, no jokes.

Ghost had already lost enough. Soap had seen it, under and through the balaclava. If Ghost ever let him in, ever peeled back even a fraction of that wall, Soap knew he’d have to be ready. He couldn’t break that trust. Couldn’t joke it away or half-arse it like he sometimes did with himself.

So he made the promise right there, quiet, unspoken, just a thought tucked deep in his chest as he watched Ghost’s broad shoulders move over the rifle. If Ghost ever gave him an inch of himself, a scar, a secret, a bare sliver of skin, Soap would guard it like he guarded his own heartbeat. Never use it against him. Never pry it open just to make himself feel better. He’d just… hold it, steady and careful, the way he’d always wished someone had held him when he needed it most.

It wasn’t the first time. No, he’d whispered that vow in different shapes before, when he patched Ghost up after a mission and pretended not to notice the wince, when he caught him standing alone in the dark after a briefing and chose not to fill the silence with chatter. Soap had promised before, each time softer, each time smaller, like a prayer from a bird to the winds. Yet this one seemed more significant, for he was about to act upon it.

He slipped around to the other side, close enough their shoulders brushed when he leaned in.

“Mind if I?” He hovered his hand over the jammed bolt, over the line of Ghost’s wrist.

“Get on with it, Johnny.”

Soap murmured, the grin clear in his voice. “Lucky for ye I’m a dab hand wi’ stubborn parts.” Because of course, he had to make a joke. Even now. Even when Ghost didn’t exactly need it. Soap needed it.

Ghost sighed, out of weariness, surely.

The rifle should have cycled clean: Ghost kept his gear immaculate. Yet, the bolt was jammed halfway. The round had fed wrong, brass caught at an angle so sharp it threatened to split the casing. If Ghost had forced it, it could’ve bent the extractor or worse, cracked the bolt face.

“Christ, ye choked it, Simon.”

Soap thumbed the magazine out, tilted the rifle, eased pressure off the bolt. Twist, coaxing pull. Twist, coaxing pull, and the cartridge popped free with a metallic snap. It fell onto the table, bouncing once before coming to rest. Soap set the rifle down, leaning it against the wood. “There ye go. Made it seem so complicated.”

The jam was nothing. Soap could have cleared it blindfolded, one hand tied behind his back. So could have Ghost.

But that wasn’t the point.

Soap glanced over to judge Ghost’s reaction, expecting the usual “keep your distance” Ghost, and nope. It was then that he realized how Ghost hadn’t slid away. He was right beside him, shoulder to shoulder, watching him work, sitting there silently, hands on the table as Soap hunched over it. Watching. Not the rifle. Him.

And damn, that was… something else.

The awareness of Ghost so close pressed in. It made the bolt slip slightly under his grip. Made him feel small. Exposed. Fiddly, foolishly aware of every little micro-movement. Every shallow breath suddenly sounded like a drum.

His hand went slack, and the rifle tumbled back onto the table.

Oh. Oh.

Soap felt like he’d sprinted half a mile. His chest heaved though he hadn’t moved, every muscle locked tight under his skin. He could feel Ghost’s breath seeping through the mask, spilling into the thin space between them. Slow. Hot. Deliberate. It curled against his face, his throat, slick and poisonous, a promise of what Ghost could do if he chose. Soap swore he could feel it ghosting across his skin, hot even in the chill of the room.

And now here they were: Soap, hunched over the table, clinging to the excuse of a jammed rifle when the truth was already strangling him, and Ghost, silent and immovable, watching. Not the gun. Him. Always him. Waiting, patient, merciless, the hunter letting its prey writhe in the trap a little longer before tightening the snare.

And Soap, God help him, was thrilled to be caught.
“So Tick had a crush on you.”

“Yes.”

“And what did you answer, Johnny?”

Soap’s throat cinched tight. The words speared through the silence like talons. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His heart hammered so violently it hurt, every beat an animalistic panic against the cage of his ribs.

The question came again, syllables slowly slithering into Soap. "What. Did you answer. Johnny?"

Soap’s mouth opened before his brain could fight it. The truth spilled out, naked and helpless: “That I was not interested.” The pause that followed swallowed him whole, until he felt he'd gond blind, deaf, dumb.

And then Ghost spoke. A low hiss coiled through the mask, serpentine, satisfied, vile in its pleasure. The sound of a predator savoring the whimper of a trapped thing.“Good. And what do you want?”

Soap's whole body jolted with a shudder.

"Whatever you give."

Chapter Text

Nighttime was almost always meditative for Ghost. It was his time, and the only time of the day that felt like his own, his time, to strip thing down: his gear, his weapons, himself. To de-load, to reset, to breathe in the silence and let his thoughts unravel.

That was what he was doing now, seated in the dim glow of a lamp, a rifle laid out before him. His actions did not take too many thoughts: his hands moved on instinct while his mind wandered places his tongue would not.

Hardship was coming. He could feel it in his bones, as sure as the weight of steel in his palms. Garnet was out there, moving unseen, coiled in the dark. Or worse, already everywhere at once, striking already wherever they could. Yes, it must be feeding, like a snake, on the sewers rats who fancied themselves militias. Ghost pictured the city as a carcass, its bones rattling with every distant gunshot, its flesh stripped piece by piece by predators wearing human faces.

That’s what he would do if he became its leader. Recruit, retain, resupply: bringing in new members, keeping them loyal, or fearful enough to follow, and ensuring that logistics and equipment are always ready for battle. Ghost had spent hours thinking about it, studying the mechanics in his downtime, piecing together the patterns he’d seen while observing Farah’s troops. He could see how Garnet could be applying the same principles.

Problem was, retention didn’t look too strong. Not if that truck driver was anything to go by. Too clean, too innocent. He too was surviving them. Civilians, really, swallowed by a machine of war. Sons and daughters of farmers in the hands of devils. Sons and daughters of farmers, of shopkeepers, fledglings who had known the sun and soil and the sweat of honest work.

Ghost hated how familiar it looked. Ghost hated the elegant precision of it. Hated that he could see it, hated that seeing it meant he understood it. And understanding it meant he could anticipate it and anticipating it was the only thing keeping everyone alive. Garnet was just the hungriest of them, and more than that: impossible strong.

Think of it. Garnet had managed to kidnap Laswell’s men. Ghost didn’t take that lightly. He’d been on the ground both times they’d stormed Garnet. The first time had been when the 141 went in to retrieve you. The second time was when Gaz got hurt. The first operation was an overwhelming failure. Out of six objectives, they only managed to extract one, and you came with the cost of a brutal, grinding struggle in which Soap and him dragged you back piece by piece, bloodied and barely breathing, but alive. It felt like a lifetime.

No. Nothing was earned. No victory felt clean. And the thought that Garnet was strong enough to kidnap elite operatives terrified Ghost.

But then the thought stopped him cold. Ghost was feeling dreadful.

He couldn’t afford to lose anything this time, not that he could have afforded it the previous times. But your detention striked home for Ghost.

The kid looked too much like Soap. What if he was taken?

He had only ever been terrified once. The bullet had carved a trench across Soap’s temple, nearly killing him, and Ghost had felt a cold, raw panic burn through the adrenaline of the firefights.

“Tick’s got a crush on me.” Soap lobbed it like a charge through the door. He was filling the space in front of the door now, closing it and pressing his back to the door. Ghost could feel it without even lookimg.

Ghost didn’t bother to look. He knew that Johnny looked proud.

Nothing too surprising about the confession of someone who’s worn his heart too close to the surface since the day he was dragged into their fold. Brave enough to confess, apparently, which was surprising.

Brave enough to stay, too, but that’s nothing surprising.

Ghost had been observant. For absolutely no particular reason, of course. You were not as catastrophic as he thought you would be. Gaz was the proof.

No need to give Johnny more than that. Ghost wasn’t letting Soap use someone else’s feelings as cover. Ghost doesn’t get jealous. If Soap wanted to confess anything, it had to be his own words, not Tick’s.

Ghost leaned back in his chair. “I’m not safe to want, Soap.” He forced his gaze to the right, anywhere but at the heat bleeding from Johnny’s shoulder. It pressed into him with steady insistence, through the fabric of his quarter-zip, settling into the spaces he usually kept sealed. The brush of cloth on cloth was negligible, yet the vibration traveled up along his collarbone, and Ghost stilled his own muscles to feel it.

Johnny’s shoulder rolled. The air itself seemed to shift with that motion. Ghost tracked it, cataloguing, the way he always did: the restless pulse of life Johnny carried, his immutable tempo. Johnny never sat still; every breath, every twitch spoke of movement waiting to happen. Now that current flowed through the chair into Ghost, an encroaching rhythm he could not ignore. A faint scent clung to the folds of Johnny’s shirt, catching at the back of Ghost’s throat when he inhaled.

Ghost felt Johnny shake his head beside him. “I think you’re worth the risk.”

Warmth. Scent. Motion. Rhythm. Pulse.

Johnny.

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Ghost realized, belatedly, that Johnny had gone still. For once Johnny rested, and Ghost, without needing to see it, knew why. Johnny was pleased. Trying not to show it, but pleased all the same. This was no act Johnny was running; it was satisfaction, plain and unpolished, leaking out in spite of himself. It hummed steadily through the slackness of his breath.

“Maybe,” Johnny said. “But I know I want you. That’s absolute on my balance.”

Ghost could have taken Johnny apart in seconds. He knew the angles, the tricks, the twitch of a finger that gave away a man’s fears. If he turned his focus loose, he could chart every contour of Johnny’s satisfaction until he understood the very root of it. It would’ve been easy. It was always easy.

And because of that, he didn’t see it coming. One moment the air was only heavy with presence, the next there was weight against his shoulder: Johnny’s head, lowering with a patience that was anything but innocent. Ghost almost thought it was a mistake, letting his guard slip far enough that Johnny’s movement caught him unprepared.

It read on the surface like surrender. The quiet tilt of a man laying down his rest, the warmth of another body finding purchase in his silence. Yet Ghost knew better: Johnny knew better than touching him this sudden, without warning. Hell, even Price had to wait for his nod before tapping him on his chest before missions.

Johnny was stealing this touch from him.

He could almost laugh at the cunning of it. Johnny had dressed the theft as gentleness, as though the press of his temple against Ghost’s shoulder was meek, docile. Docile… what a wrong word for Johnny MacTavish. Johnny was never tame, not even here. It was the fox-and-tamer kind of audacity: the patient appointment at the edge of a field, nearer today than yesterday, until the wild chooses the waiting hand.

Bold, Johnny. Bold. And clever.

And bolder still, that Ghost let him.

Ghost held still. Every fiber of him was alter, but he didn’t pull back. A soft exhale escaped him, unintended, carrying more acknowledgment than he meant to give. Johnny’s head tilted fractionally, pressing a little closer, and Ghost allowed the contact to linger.

“Johnny.” Ghost murmured, almost to himself. He hadn’t meant the words to reach the air, let alone Johnny’s ears. He didn’t know if it was a plea or a warning. Perhaps a warning to himself to not break under the weight of Johnny’s touch.

“You let me.” Johnny intoned back, with a fondness in his voice that Ghost could not ignore. “Jus’ this once.”

Sure then. Just this once. He looked at Johnny.

“Then many more.” Johnny added. Greedy bastard.

Ghost’s hand twitched, almost imperceptibly, and he let it on Johnny’s head, going through the hair. Warm, alive, insistent.

“Sit down with me.” Ghost breathed.

“There’s only wan chair.” Johnny countered, eyes flicking up, amused.

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Johnny straddled him, moving with the ease of someone entirely confident in his claim. One hand hovered at Johnny’s waist, then drifted up, faltered, pressed lightly to the small of his back. The other followed slower still, fingers splayed over hard fabric, the contact hesitant, unsteady. He was holding on, yes, but the way a man who’d forgotten the steps might fumble through a dance. Finally, Ghost pressed the flat of his palm between Johnny’s shoulder plates.

Johnny’s head came down on his right shoulder, nose resting against the fabric of Ghost’s quarter-zip. It infused his shoulder with the warmth of his breath.

It was his turn to be bold: Ghost turned his head and pressed a brief, masked kiss into Johnny’s temple. A soft hum was the only response, approving, content, and just enough to pull Ghost further into the indulgence.

“Ye know.” Johnny sighed. “I could get used tae this.”

Ghost’s fingers return tangled in his hair, tracing strands without thought. he contact was a quiet thrill, a heat he let crawl along his ribs, his chest, his pulse. Dangerous, if anyone saw. Irresistible, if no one else existed.

“Don’t push it, McTavish.” He said finally. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”

Inside, though, he was far from making anyone regret anything. His chest throbbed, a warmth crawling under his ribs, and his mind buzzed with the ridiculous, delicious certainty that Johnny had him exactly where he wanted.

His head dipped by degrees, cautious, until his nose found the warm hollow of Johnny’s shoulder. He stayed there, breath caught. The touch wasn’t firm, not yet. It trembled on the edge of letting go, and Ghost half-expected Johnny to slip away at any moment. And still, he held on, weaving his hand deeper into that hair, needing the anchor against the tide that threatened to pull him under.

Ghost wanted to cry. He couldn’t, then. He would, later.

His eyes grew heavy, lids drooping like the surrender was physical, like the very act of giving in was a drug. His body sagged into the heat, into the audacity, into the press of Johnny against him. Breath became jagged, slow, precious, each inhale barely enough. Minutes - or was it longer? - passed in the quiet rhythm, time dissolving around them.

The pull came slow, familiar, dangerous. He’d trained himself for years to snap awake at the faintest drift. Now he caught himself tipping toward it and made no corrections. If Johnny wanted him defenseless, then so be it. Ghost would hand it over, just this once.

His body sank. Ghost felt consciousness slip like light through water, darkness pooling around the edges, patient and suffocating. He exhaled everything left in his lungs into the swell of his chest until the currents pulled him under, until he was utterly undone and alive.

Ghost woke up with the alien realization that he’d slept dreamless. His eyes blurred at the edges, eyelids tacky with a rare kind of weight. He’d slept well, as though Johnny’s presence had stood guard over the dark.

Johnny was still asleep, head tucked against his shoulder. Ghost tightened his hold, arms closing out of need. Ghost clutched tighter, a sob catching soundless in his chest, spilling wet down his balaclava.

He didn’t loosen his grip.

For once, he could keep what had been given, keep it as his. Johnny, the 141, belonged to him. And he would not - could not - let Garnet, or anyone else, take it away.

His office's door creaked open on Price's way in. 

“Sir?” The word came slurred.

Price froze, breath lodged in his chest. He had not expected anyone, at least not Gaz, curled into the corner of his couch, one arm crooked over his head. The light must have dragged him from sleep. His eyes blinked open, unfocused, still caught between dream and waking.

Price muttered. He set down his rifle, water dripping onto the desk, his shoulders aching from the cold. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Price closed the lights again, going for the desk light reaching across, before peeling off his gloves. The room smelled of seawater now, of the docks. His jacket hit the chair with a heavy slap. Gaz stood, moving as though in a daze. Price turned and pressed his thighs back to his table.

“It’s… nice to dream about you. Why do you smell like a wet dog in my dream?”

Price blinked, caught between irritation and something warmer, more dangerous. “You’ve got nerve.” He said quietly, voice low.

Gaz swayed ever closer, rubbing at the corner of his mouth like he wasn’t sure if he was awake. “I do. And maybe I like wet dogs.” He murmured, dazed.

“How do you know it’s a dream?” Price asked.

Price felt it before he realized what was happening, a soft heat brushing against the edges of his consciousness, the faint press of lips that belonged to no one but Gaz. He froze, the world narrowing to that small, insistent weight, and in that instant, he knew the night had folded in on itself.

It was so sudden that his heart momentarily forgot to beat beside the tremor of another body, as it pulled him under too, to a delirious moment, half-dreaming, half awake, and entirely there.

His hand rose almost without thought, resting against Gaz’s jaw, thumb tracing the line of bone, steadying, grounding. It was as though every restraint he had ever cultivated melted into the shadows of the office and vanished. Gaz tugged at him, and Price could feel the slow, uncertain rhythm of breath, a kind of suspended surrender.

It left him dizzy.

“Because you can’t smell like that unless you’ve actually been in the rain.” Gaz said. He didn’t look away. “Or because you’ve been in my head for longer than you should.”

That didn’t make sense. Was he dreaming? Was he dreaming of Kyle dreaming about a dream?

"Sandcastles, John. Waves and sandcastles."

He forced his mouth to work. “Are you awake?” he asked, because it felt like the simplest way to find out which half of this was real.

“It’s the third time I’ve kissed you in my dreams,” Gaz murmured, eyes half-lidded, warm against the dim light. “Third time’s the charm.” The words were a gentle tease, half-sung by sleep, yet they carried an unexpected certainty. Price’s chest tightened. “Don’t ruin it, yeah?”

Price looked at his watch again. Time was steady. The strap was starting to bite into his wrist.

Bloody hell. Not a dream.

Without hesitation, he leaned in, pressing his lips to Gaz’s again. It was delicate at first, but it hastily deepened, gathering weight, pulling them both into a quiet orbit. Price wanted it to be breathtaking, wanted it to leave a mark beyond memory, and judging by the small, startled gasp that trembled through Gaz, it had.

Time paused again before he reluctantly pulled away.

“Now a fourth.” Price murmured.

Gaz’s lips curved into a lazy smile, glistening. “Then I’m dreaming, I guess.” His eyes carried a daring innocence that gripped Price’s heart, stopping it for a breathless instant, only to set it trembling and thrumming again, as if it had never truly belonged to him before.

Price let out a short laugh, quiet, lost in the hum of the lamp and the faint whisper of the port outside. “How is it that I appear in your dreams?”

“Dunno. It's always like this, but you're never quite this wet. Better than Ghost. Never lets me kiss him.”

“You dream of Ghost?”

No answer. Gaz had taken one of his fingers as hostage, holding it lightly but firmly, turning it over as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

“You got a scratch here.”

Price glanced at it, something tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s from the port… or maybe from you.”

Gaz stayed silent, fingers still curled around Price’s, thumb brushing lightly over the scratch.

“Well.” Price said. “I’ll shower. See you outside of this dream.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He whispered, letting the words hang, soft and certain. He stepped forward, unwilling to let go. Gaz instinctively stepped back, pressed against him. Slowly, deliberately, he guided Gaz to the couch, the motion precise, controlled, until Gaz settled where he once slept.

“Goodnight, Kyle.”

Chapter Text

Love takes. To be loved is to be taken.

Gaz stayed on the couch after that. He had learned there was no point in walking around in dreams. Movement only risked breaking the illusion, and he wouldn’t dare shatter this one, not when it was the nicest lucid dream he’d had in months. So he stayed where he always stayed, on the couch he called home, and savoured the faint aftertaste of the kiss.

Among the top four, easily, he thought, dazed. Maybe higher.

Gaz told himself not to expect footsteps, not to wait for the squeak of boots or the clatter of gear. Dreams didn’t bother with details like that. Object permanence was never part of the bargain: when someone left, they were simply gone, erased without ceremony.

Still, his mind strained in the silence, listening for echoes that didn’t exist. That was how dreams worked, wasn’t it? They gave you the outline but not the texture. Rooms blurred at the edges, conversations stopped midway, doors led nowhere. Sometimes the world skipped forward like a broken reel, whole hours vanishing in the blink of an eye.

He’d learned not to chase those gaps. If you asked too many questions, the dream buckled, folded in on itself, and you woke up with nothing. Better to stay still, accept the strangeness, let it wash over you.

So he sat on the couch, refusing to move. If this was the price of holding onto the kiss, he’d pay it gladly. The silence meant the dream wasn’t finished yet.

Damn, they were not lying about the fuzzy feeling in the chest.

Time stuttered forward in that slippery way dreams had. He blinked at the window, and the sky had already softened, washed in morning light. He closed his eyes, waiting for the usual fade. Dreams always bled out by morning. It was as if he was transported into another night, and it would recede in the morning. He braced for it.

Gaz knew when to be satisfied.

There was triumph in usurpation, in the kisses he could steal behind the veil of dreams, claiming in secret what he dared not reach for in reality. Awake, he brushed close, and only in these dreams were he bold enough to seize the counterfeit of what hopefully will be his. 

It was sacrilegious, this love. Sacrilegious to covet one he set so high, as if Price belonged on some altar, untouchable. Sacrilegious, also, since he didn’t dare. He could grin at the thought, because dreams bear no witness and no judgement. They were his land, uncharted and wholly his. Dreamy love always faded, the way the psalms of his heart dissolved in the chapel of oblivion.

A chapel in which was he knelt, readily oblivious, before forbidden fruits.

So he sighed again, the sound neat and cheeky in his own skull, in his mind raising a toast to the one he loved most, raising a toast to the wish he’d never voice.

Toast, to himself. A lie dressed up as a celebration. The faint taste of salt lingered on his lips. The oldest sign of loyalty was his to have as an aftertaste.

Satisfied.

He was satisfied. He was sure of what he meant. He repeated it as a creed, each resonating stronger than the last.

Time stretched. He let it. He had won, already.

He shifted once, experimentally, pressing his palm flat against the armrest. The fabric rasped against his skin. That wasn’t supposed to happen, textures in dreams were vague, slippery, never this insistent.

He waited.

He did not wake up.

Wait… he did not wake up?

The floor beneath him pressed solid and cold. The taste on his lips, the heat on his chest, the ache in his fingers…

Eh?

He kissed Price… outside of a dream?

Gaz bolted upright, lungs filling with air too fast, heartbeat hammering like a drum in his chest. Two long, reckless steps took him to the bathroom door. His hand shot out, yanking it open. Steam rolled in lazy curls, warm and slightly scented, pouring out of the doorframe and sweeping past his face. And there he was, Price, utterly oblivious, sound asleep in the bathtub. Lukewarm water sloshed gently around the captain, foam clinging in soft floating clouds, and for a terrifying, impossible moment, Gaz thought he might be hallucinating.

Gaz’s mind raced. What the hell did this mean? What the hell was he supposed to do? Panic tangled with adrenaline. He swallowed hard, trying to calm the thrum in his chest, but it wouldn’t. He was too alive, too aware, and the evidence of his actions sat right in front of him.

Fuck.

Object permanence.

Gaz groaned softly, half-laughing, half-groaning, because yes, he was totally, absolutely, irreversibly fucked.

Now, outside of my dream, I see you, John. And in this one, you’re finally mine.

He stepped forward, and aliped on the wet gear scattered on the ground. His boot skidded, heel scraping, arms pinwheeling in a graceless arc. The slap of his arm against porcelain echoed sharp in the humid air as he lurched forward, barely catching himself on the rim of the tub, and his knee cracked against the floor.

He hissed, but even that dissolved into a laugh, giddy and unstoppable. He felt warm, ridiculous bubbles in his chest.

The wet gear squelched under his other foot, traitorous, and he had to steady himself again, leaning in so close that for one insane moment he could smell the faint trace of soap and smoke still clinging to Price’s skin beneath the lavender foam.

His hand was hurting, so was the knee that knocked against the hard floor. Gaz’s chest was hammering, but it wasn’t panic anymore. It was pure, dizzying, ridiculous joy. He laughed, short and breathless at first, then louder, fuller, unable to contain it.

Price stirred, blinking groggily through the steam, eyes half-lidded in confusion. Gaz didn’t care. He was elated, ecstatic, like he’d stumbled into a world that had finally folded itself perfectly around him. He pressed a quick, reckless kiss to John’s shoulder, laughing into it.

“You promised.” He sounded like he might break if he tried to say it any quieter. “You promised outside the dream, and now… now it’s real.” His forehead rested briefly against Price’s wet shoulder, breath hitching as the scent of soap and water filled him. “I can’t believe it. I actually kissed you, and, and it counted. It really counted.”

Gleeful wonder, washing over him. He felt it replace the very air he was breathing, yet he couldn’t have cared less.

“Kiss me again.” He begged, ridiculous and raw.

Price looked at him, very, very confused.

Gaz grinned, reckless and incandescent. “C’mon, Captain. Kiss me again.”

Price’s eyes widened, blinking through the steam. Gaz held his breath, every heartbeat a fragile thread between them.

Then Price moved.

Water surged over the rim in a hot rush as he turned and pressed his chest against the bathtub, the wave splashing across the tiles and soaking into the front of Gaz’s shirt and pants and’s knees where he knelt. The quiet bath exploded into violence in an instant, waves slapping porcelain, foam spilling. His shirt clung, heavy, ice against his skin while steam scalded his face.

Price's hand came up, wet and heavy, to grab Gaz by the jaw.

Gaz barely had time to gasp before Price’s mouth crashed against his. Rough, insistent, nothing like the gentle dream he’d been clinging to, urgent and messy and credibly real. Stubble scraped his skin raw, water dripped down their faces, and still Price pressed harder, like he meant to brand the kiss into him, leave it undeniable. 

The kiss stole everything: his balance, his breath, his sense. For a moment all that remained was salt, steam, and the sheer force of John Price kissing him. He clutched back, clumsy, fingers sliding over wet porcelain, then the back of Price’s neck, pulling through the damp mess, his nails accidentally scraping the scalp, until he was gripping Price’s neck. His grip tightened, dragging himself closer, half-hauling at him like he’d drown if there was even an inch of space between them.

Pain flared in his knees, his hand still throbbed, water chilled against his soaked clothes, and still Gaz laughed into the kiss, giddy, half-crazed and delirious. It was rough and imperfect, and it was his, finally, finally real.

Price pulled back, just far enough to breathe, and Gaz’s mouth chased after his, desperate, unwilling to lose even the ghost of contact.

Why was his captain pulling away?

“There. You got it.”

The roughness in Price’s voice fried Gaz’s brain. He was sure some of the fuses blew and left only sparks and fireworks inside. And in the static that pleasantly stung his mind, he had no choice but to press onto Price’s neck again, dragging their lips together once more. Gaz clung to him like a moth caught in a storm, wings wet, drenched by the flood of water and heat, gripping desperately just to survive the torrent.

And thus the condemned was crowned.

He could feel Price’s smile pressing through the kiss, in a pulse that set every nerve on fire.

Toe’s pillow smelled faintly of detergent and skin oil and that cheap deodorant. You buried your face in it anyway, wishing you could dissolve into the mattress and sink clean through the concrete slab beneath.

“You told him you’ve got a crush on him.” Toe’s laugh rattled the bunk frame, ugly and joyful, like it hadn’t gotten old yet. He said it again, slower, like savoring a good wine: “You. Told. Him.” Another fit of laughter.

You groaned into the pillow. “I’m ruined. Absolutely compromised. Worst soldier on the payroll. But have you looked at him? He’s… he’s unfair.”

Your hands were clutching at the bedsheets. They were already wrinkled when you flopped yourself over them, s0 Tac should have no business to complain.

Toe shook his head, still laughing. “That’s an understatement. That’s… catastrophic. I mean, come on, you actually said it out loud. To him. Do you even realize what that means?” He leaned back, shaking like he was trying to contain another round of laughter but failing miserably.

You turned your face into the mattress. “I want to disappear.”

“Disappear? Oh, you’ll disappear alright. Into the most mortified corner of your own brain and never come out.”

Tac snorted from the other bunk. “I gotta admit, you’re entertaining when you panic like this.”

You peeked one eye at him. You'd like to imagine that it cut though his like a glass shard across butter. “Not helping.”

“Aw, buddy.” Toe stretched the words, still grinning. “You’re doomed. Tough life.”

You twisted your head just enough to glare at him with one eye. “You two aren’t saints either. Terrible soldiers.”

And for not much longer, which was ridiculous. They’ve been tiptoeing around it for a while. Were you that oblivious normally that they thought they were doing a good job hiding it? They stopped training, goddammit. What soldier in their right mind stops training while claiming to be back on their feet and preparing for active service?

“You think I’m stupid.”

“No?” Tac stepped in.

“You do. I mean seriously. At least try to hide it.” You pushed yourself up on one elbow, the pillow tumbling to the floor.

“What are you even talking about now? And let’s not be embarrassed and angry.”

“Your retirement, assholes.”

The words hit the air heavier than you meant, but you didn’t pull them back.

Toe’s smirk froze, caught halfway. “That’s a hell of a leap, buddy.”

“Well, you’re a hell of a bunch of jerks.” It came out childish, defensive. Fine. Better than the way your throat wanted to tighten. It would be really, really embarrassing if you cried now. “I’m not fucking blind.”

Toe’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t have a comeback ready. For once, his mouth worked without sound, the grin sliding clean off his face.

“I mean I just wished you told me.” C’mon, get angry.

Toe rubbed the back of his neck, restless. “We weren’t… trying to keep it from you, Tick. Not really. Just didn’t wanna lay it on you all at once.”

“That’s bullshit.” Your voice rose, then cracked down into something quieter. “You made the choice. You’ve been making it for weeks. Just not to me. And that’s what hurts. Not that you’re done. That you didn’t trust me enough to say it.”

Silence stretched, heavy as stone. Tac’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. Toe’s hands kept moving, fidgeting with the hem of the blanket, as if staying still would nail him down.

“Tick…” Toe finally said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “We weren’t trying to screw you over. We just… didn’t know how to tell you yet.”

“Don’t make the choice for me!”

You let out a breath that felt like it scraped your ribs on the way out. “I can take the truth. But treating me like I don’t matter enough to hear it is so below you two.”

Toe’s head dipped, voice quiet. “Sorry, bud.”

Tac gave the smallest nod, his eyes steady on yours now, like he was finally standing in it. “You’re right.”

Asshole. Wait, did he say that you were right?

You huffed, leaning back onto the mattress, wishing you could sink through it. “No shit. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Sorry again.”

“Could you not? Just… let me stay mad for a little longer. Seriously. I need this. You two have been maneuvering around me for weeks, treating me like I’m invisible, like I don’t get to have a reaction. I want to feel it. I need to feel it. Six minutes, maybe ten, I don’t care, but let me have it before you smother it with fucking apologies.”

It was so unsatisfactory!

The room stayed silent. You stopped waiting for a reply.

It was hard to be mad. First, you saw it coming, and second, they were right to leave now. Compromised soldiers never lasted too long. A sensible choice. You were partially glad that they didn’t kill themselves with their stubbornness.

Anger was useless against them anyways. It’s not like they would ever intentionally hurt you.

And that is where Toe had the audacity to say :“So are you not going to start yelling?”

The words barely left Toe’s mouth before you lunged.

Your hands shot around his torso from behind, sliding under his arms, catching him in a tight, controlled grip. Your forearms pressed against his neck in a chokehold, precise enough to restrict airflow without causing real injury.

“Tick!” Toe’s shout was cut off, muffled against your arm. He struggled, twisting, but you felt the familiar rhythm of muscle and leverage, knew exactly how to counter him before he could mount anything substantial. He was slow, sloppy, and you relished the clarity that came with the upper hand.

Tac moved next, stepping in to sweep him free. His approach was deliberate, almost polite—but sluggish, mistimed by a fraction too much. You shifted your weight, rolling your hips, wrapping your thighs around his midsection to neutralize the sweep before it landed. His eyes widened as he realized too late that his attempt had been anticipated.

God, it felt good to have control, to impose order for once.

Toe kicked, desperate, trying to pry your arms loose, but his reflexes were absent, reactive rather than anticipatory. You adjusted your grip, your forearms locking around his neck, thumbs pressing against the sides, for the fun of it.

Tac lunged with another attempt, this time aiming for your shoulders. You twisted, sliding Toe between you to block his advance, using both of them against each other. You pushed them both against the furniture, and swept Tac off his feet. As Tac went down, you hooked both legs around his waist and locked your ankles together behind his back, using your thighs to trap him against your body. Your core held the weight, your grip on Toe still firm, forearms pinning him lightly against your chest. Now both of them were constrained: Toe restricted by your arms, Tac held immobile between your thighs.

Toe’s flailing became desperate, but even in his panic, you guided his movements, redirecting the energy without breaking your balance. This was so easy. And it felt good to have them alive and struggling. Reminds you that he’s not dead.

“Sh…. Not gonna kill you now.” You might have had a touch of amusement in your voice. You weren’t sure.

You were not that mad in the beginning, but who’s gonna tell them?

In a final, clean sweep, you adjusted your grip on Toe, forcing him to his knees, your forearms pinning him lightly, your thighs still immobilizing Tac. Both of them were breathing hard, flushed, probably realizing just how far behind they’d let themselves slip.

“You’re… slow.” You said, voice low, almost amused, letting the tension of the hold linger. “And sloppy. God, you’ve been slacking.”

And fuck yes, it felt good.

“I can take the both of you. Really. I’m disappointed. Good thing you’re not staying or you’d get swept off in a second.”

“H-have… you made… your point? I-I need… teu breathe.” The words were squeezed out of Toe. He’d be fine.

“Six minutes, Toe. We agreed to six minutes of anger.”

“Did not!”

Wetness.

On his chest. Right side.

Soap was not a light sleeper: he tried not to be. In the military, you learned to fall asleep anywhere, anytime, and to wake at the first twitch of trouble.

So pardon him if he woke up to Ghost hiccupping.

At first he thought it was the pipes in the wall or some poor bastard choking in his sleep. Then he shifted, blinked in the dark, and the sound resolved into something smaller. Not pipes. Choking, yes. Ghost.

Soap froze. Not out of fear, but because there were very few things on earth more dangerous than witnessing a man like Ghost break apart.

Had he gone too far last night?

The shape below him hunched forward. Ghost’s head was now not resting on Soap’s shoulder. No, his forehead dug into Soap’s chest instead, tucked low, like he was trying to fold himself out of sight. Hiding, of all bloody things. Soap’s first instinct was to crack a joke. His second was to reach out. Both instincts fought each other into silence, leaving him with nothing but the hollow thud of his heartbeat.

He tried leaning back, just enough to glimpse him, but Ghost’s hand slid from Soap’s waist up his spine, quick, fierce, yanking him flush again.

Alright.

Jesus, Ghost was strong. Not that Soap didn’t know it before, but feeling it this close, this sudden—Christ, it rattled him. That grip wasn’t something you broke. He almost forgot that the man could snap him in half without blinking. Awe prickled under Soap’s skin, the kind you got watching lightning split the sky too near. He felt some residual buzz where Ghost had held his waist. Damn.

It rattled through him, all tangled. Awe, first, because who the hell holds like that?

Ghost nuzzled – nuzzled! - into him. As in – folks (Soap was very aware of the correct appellation of the crowd of his head), please allow him to explain - rubbed his face into Soap’s chest like a goddamn cat.

Soap’s brain stuttered. Oh, Soap was a goner.

“Don’t go.”

Sweet fuckin’ Christ.

“What is it, L.T.?” Soap tried, gentler than he meant to. No answer.
He shifted, craned his neck, but Ghost only shoved him back into place with that iron grip.

He had never seen this part of Ghost before. Ghost was not one to cry. He turned anything negative (panic, Soap assumed) into cold fury and violence. Soap knew how Ghost dealt with situations. There was rarely anything upsetting left at the end.

If there were anything left at the end.

For him, Ghost’s beginning was a British voice through a radio. A dry, witty humour so Soap could keep being himself, his usual smart ass, because he suddenly had someone to talk to, so there would be one to bear witness to his existence, should he have slipped in the misery pouring down from the veiled stars that terrible night.

He wonders what happened to the encaged dog. Was it ever freed? Soap hoped so.

Ghost’s voice became far less mysterious than it had been. In the end, he was a trembling voice calling out his first name, a hand on his chest.

“Johnny.”

The name came to him in fragments, trembling over the trebles of his pain. Relative to everything else, Soap felt the world shaking and Ghost’s hand convulsing against his chest. A spectre who tore through firefights without hesitation would never have sounded like this. The name that marked Ghost as human made Soap more aware of his own heartbeat, who’s been ever so frantic.

He must have lost a considerable amount of blood in that tunnel, for his heart had been working overtime ever since, pumping too fast, too loud. He’s been lightheaded, it made him lightheaded, as it did now, staggering in the hiccups Ghost tried to hide and the heat of his palm against Soap’s back.

Soap knew Ghost’s at his beginning and almost at his end. What came between was a patterned balaclava and sharp brown eyes. A careful mask for a careful man. And even from behind that balaclava, Soap has rarely seen Ghost sentimental.

“Talk tae me. C’mon. You cannae just…” Another hiccup broke against his ribs. “Christ, Simon, you’re scarin’ me here.”

Still nothing. Just weight, heat, and a hold that made his spine creak.

Soap’s mouth went dry. He tried again, filling the quiet because somebody had to. “If this is about last night, aye, maybe I pushed too far, maybe I, fuck, I dinnae ken. Just tell me. Say somethin’, anything.”

“You’re daft.” Did Ghost just say “daft”?

Soap could feel his own pulse thundering where Ghost pressed into him, like his heart was trying to beat loud enough for the both of them.

He huffed out a shaky laugh, desperate. “You’re killin’ me here, L.T. I dinnae know what the hell to do with that.”

Ghost burrowed lower, face damp against his chest, and held on tighter.

Soap’s lower back was getting very sore very quickly.

Soap swallowed. “Alright then.” He muttered, softer, defeated. “Alright. I’ll stay.”

Ghost’s balaclava was around his forearm.

Chapter Text

Soap watched Ghost, drinking in a rare sight. From above, the crown of Ghost’s head was all thick, disheveled curls. Ghost was buried into his chest. Each breath came warm and damp, hiccupping now and then, caressing the strip of skin between his pectorals.

The sobs had ebbed, retreating like the tide, leaving behind their silence, and he was now left in front of a shore laid bare, and Soap felt his limbs sink into the mud left by the waves. He felt heavy, weighted by the hush, as if he spent an afternoon laying between land and sea, soaking in a gentle sun and a few inches lukewarm saltwater.

He tilted forward, daring a kiss on top of Ghost’s head.

Then Ghost lifted his face.

Soap had spent time imagining, idly teasing himself with guesses, but the reality was far crueler. Ghost was beautiful. Not in the polished or neat sense of it, but beautiful with his skin blotched from crying and his bottom lip bitten war. Beneath the ruin was a face so arresting it stole the words off Soap’s tongue.

It was unfair how Ghost could steal what little breath Soap had left when his embrace was already so suffocating. Soap finally understood why Ghost wore his balaclava. He was used to reading the lieutenant through the subtle shifts in his eyes and his posture, but, seeing him bare-faced, Soap realized he could have read Ghost like an open book, for Ghost was wide open. Expressive. Right. Wearing a mask all those years must’ve dulled his instinct to guard what crossed his features. 

Ghost’s eyes were rimmed red, lashes damp. A scar ran from his left cheek across the bridge of his nose, ending at his right temple. Soap’s heart tripped at the rhythm of those lashes, the watery sheen clinging to Ghost’s gaze. And then Ghost grinned at him.

He was, without doubt, quite the opposite of ugly.

Christ, Johnny, he’s bleeding inside and you’re noticing he’s handsome? Fucking horny bastard. Remember your promise: to never break what Ghost gives you. ou promised yourself you’d never break what Ghost gave you. And now he’s giving you this, letting you see the truth behind his eyes, and all you can think about is how badly you want him?

Guilty, in all of the ways.

Their embrace was unfairly broken by Soap’s growling stomach.

Not the time, goddammit. Of all the bloody moments.

The jarring intrusion, a reminder of the body as his soul was still trying to linger in the uncomfortable sleep, did nevertheless plunder Soap to the present.

“Ignore it.” His voice came out sharper than he meant, strung tight with nerves.

Ghost gave a shaky huff, somewhere between a scoff and a sniffle. Amusement.

Soap’s chest ached. He wanted to hold the moment. “Hey,” he murmured, softer now. “We can do this again, yeah? Anytime you want.” He didn’t dare look Ghost in the eye, so he fixed on the blank wall across the room. “Doesn’t have to mean more than you want it to.”

Silence followed. Soap hated silence: they meant an absence of retroaction. He always wondered if he was saying the wrong things. That was one of the moments. Against his better judgment, he imagined what Ghost might say. Maybe a grudging aye that carried more weight than the word ever had before. Maybe something awkward, clipped, but soft enough to mean don’t leave, again. Or even just Ghost’s hand tightening on his arm.

Ghost had done that half an hour ago, but Soap had to be sure. It still didn’t feel real. Not that Ghost had cried into him. Not that they’d slept tangled together in the same chair, Soap sprawled across him.

Ghost had never been one to be too vocal about… feelings. That much, Soap knew. But it didn’t make the waiting any easier.

It hadn’t felt real then. It didn’t feel real now.

Hope’s a bastard: hard to tear, worse to bear.

He heard a sigh.

“Move it. Mess’ll be out of sausage if you keep dawdling.” Soap didn’t know who Ghost was talking to.

They untangled from the chair, stiff from sitting too long. Soap stretched his back with a wince; Ghost rolled his shoulders like nothing had happened, mask tugged back into place before Soap could blink.

As they reached the mess, the day had already begun to move without them. Soap plopped himself into the seat beside Gaz. Gaz, who was smiling at nothing at all, fork hovering mid-air, scrambled eggs still cooling on the tines.

You’d claimed a spot across the table, squeezed in beside Tac, chatting diagonally with Toe, who sat left to Gaz. Toe lounged to Gaz’s left, tearing into toast with more enthusiasm than manners. Bits of crust clung to his stubble as he spoke over the table, easy and loud.

Soap followed the line of Gaz’s gaze across the mess. Just the usual scene: rookies hunched over trays, a pair of sergeants arguing, someone yawning so wide it looked painful. Nothing worth grinning about. No one interesting enough to hold a man spellbound mid–bite of his eggs. “Mate, what are you looking at?”

Gaz blinked, slow, like dragging himself back to earth. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Just… thinking.” He speared the eggs and stuffed them in his mouth before Soap could press, grin still tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Since when you bother to think?”

Gaz snorted around his bite, nearly choking. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Offense. “Whatever, is Price back?” He let the words drop casual, though his gaze skimmed the room as if the captain might materialize out of the steam rising from the coffee urns.

“Yeah.” Gaz ducked his head quickly, busying himself with his eggs, which Soap knew to be barely worth the proteins. A warm flush crept up Gaz’s cheeks, darkening the skin at his cheekbones and the tips of his ears.

“Caught you on the sofa again?” Soap drawled, leaning in, teeth flashing.
Gaz’s fork clattered against the plate.

“No. Why did you come in with Ghost?”

“Ran together this morning.” Perfect excuse.

Ghost chose this moment to arrive with his plate. He always took more, and went for variety. Sausage, eggs, beans, even a hash brown stacked on top like a crown. Soap followed him with his sight, silently celebrating how relaxed the lieutenant looked.

“Morning, L.T.” Gaz said. “What’s the plan today?”

“Running and trail exercises. Then meetings and readings.”

“Ah, you started without me.” Gaz pressed, brow quirking.

Ghost tilted his head. He had lifted his mask to eat. “No. I don't run before breakfast.”

Soap had opened his mouth to interject, but Ghost's answer was so much quicker to say that whatever he had planned,

Silence. Soap's eyes went from Ghost to Gaz. Gaz pivoted, comically precise, to lock eyes with Soap, expectant and unblinking.

Well, isn’t this one of his best intel coups.

Ghost munched obliviously, Sauce-and-eggs oblivious, while Soap’s brain pinged red alert: smooth, Johnny, real smooth.

Soap slowed his pace just enough to level himself with Gaz. Ghost had them both carrying heavy weights cross-country, but Soap was never one to let that silence linger. “Right, you spill why the hell you were grinning at the wall, and then I’ll tell you why I dragged myself in there with Ghost.”

Gaz’s brow furrowed, eyes narrowing. “Sure?” Really, Gaz ought to trust Soap a little more. It was offending at this point. He’s not a gremlin or a fae, was he? No tricks.

“We cu....”

He was promptly cut off.

“I kissed Price.”

“You, what the hell did you just say?!”

“MacTavish! Stop chattering and pick up the pace!” Ghost barked from behind.

Soap ignored the lieutenant. “You fucking did what to Price?”

“No, like… he did it to me.”

Soap froze mid-stride. Price did what?

Ghost’s footsteps thudded behind them, oblivious, the bark of “MacTavish! Move!” echoing in the back of his head. Soap barely registered it.

The brute would have stopped too.

“You, holy shit, you didn’t stop him?”

“Mate, I thought it was a dream.”

“A dream?! A dream?! You’ve lost your bloody mind, haven’t you? Are you daft? Feverish? Did you see stars or something?”

The bastard had the audacity to say yes.

“What were you and Ghost doing together?” Oh, how nice of Gaz to deflect. Soap knew that they would talk about Price and Gaz later. But about this question... He should’ve kept asking for everything, and should’ve screamed nothing, but his brain was on fire and his mouth only managed a single answer.

“Cuddling.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Aye, Soap couldn’t bloody believe it either.

Snow buried the field

Fractured minds obey the smoke

The Blind wrote law.

WARNING: MILD DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT. It's nothing too bad, really mild, but I prefer warning you. It's really, really mild and nothing, barely graphic. Barely anything I just found it weird so I'm tagging this out of precaution. If necessary, skip to the end note, where you will have the plot of this chapter without the descriptions.  Click on the hypernote below to skip to the end note.

¹¹¹¹¹.

The world was white.

There was no snow, no sky, nothing but a glare to total it stripped the horizon naked. Your eyes watered, stung, but no matter how hard you blinked you couldn’t separate ground from air.

You sank with every step. The sharp snow clutched at your thighs, gnawing at your exposed skin, its teeth directly at your bone. You tried to move but your muscles seized, jerking in violent tremors. The burn sank deep, blistering from the inside, until frost replaced your marrow and burrowed into your lungs. Your hands, naked, were clumsy slabs of meat, fingers stuck without dexterity.

You reached for your pack: a flare, fuck, even the socks… You twisted, patting around your body.

Nothing.

There was nothing except a trail of footsteps behind you.

Just the wind, peeling strips from your chest, slicing through the thin cotton clinging wet to your back. Stripping you to a body too fragile for this place, exposed and breaking.

No, no… this wasn’t true.

You joined Ghost and Soap for breakfast, dragging behind you Tac and Toe. You heard Soap’s spine crack as he stretched himself before sitting down in the cafeteria.  You asked for a day of rest, which Ghost agreed, weirdly complacent. Then Tac dragged you three to a hiking trail, which took most of the day.

Then you had… you had supper. Then Tac and Toe in the hall, a goodnight mumbled, the sound of their doors closing. You’d tucked yourself in. You had a bed. You had warmth. Soap’s phone light glowing soft in the dark, his laugh low as he scrolled. You remembered.

You did. You were sure of that.

Then why was your teeth clattering so hard you heard it over the wind’s howl? Why did your knees buckle, pitching you forward into snow that swallowed you whole?

Why could you not breathe?

There was no past, no warmth, no Soap, no Tac, no Toe. Only white, hard cold that would not end.

Then you were pulled, your frozen body serving as a lever in the solid snow as you were yanked by your waist. Your spine snapped. An orange rope was constricting your waist, grinding against bone, dragging you backwards. Your hands scrambled to close around the rope, its fibers cutting into the skin. You turned and pulled, and for a second it would not come back.

Then it did. Price was staring back at you, well-wrapped in a thermal sheet, strapped on a backboard, ice crawling across his face. He was in full gear. You tried to reach  You dug your heels into the snow, but the ground gave way, sucking at your legs, swallowing them thigh-deep until the pain in your muscles drowned in a sick, spreading numbness.

The ropes had breached the skin on your palms, and you could see crimson each time you lifted a hand to pull Price’s slid closer. Perhaps your pack was with Price. With this snow, it would have been easier to put it on the same slide as Price, to make it easier for your back.

“Captain?” No answer.

The air erupted. Rotor blades thundered above, gouging a pit into the snow, the wind flaying your skin raw. Suddenly the world dimmed, for a even stronger light formed a cone. From the helicopter dropped a rescue litter, and your body bent forward, shoving, hauling, until Price slid into the crater of light, and you undid the rope around your waist. A cable with a hook descended. You clipped it into the central ring. Then Price was reeled up, with the tag line wildly whipping the wind.

You waited for a ladder, or some rope.

A booming voice over you. “L.T., he's up, Jesus, fuckin’ hell, breathe, Captain. You’re safe. You’re out. We’ve got you. You’re on a bird.”

You snapped your head up. The words had no face, no mouth, no medium, just noise poured into your ears. Better off pouring lead instead.

The helicopter rose. Without you.

You lunged, but your legs stayed rooted. You looked down and saw ice sheathing them clear, up to your pelvis. You strained against the prison of glass, and the cracks began. White fissures spelled out old scars, spiderwebbing out.

You never had the time to register the scars, the words spelled out with the cracks, before your legs burst open at the seams, blood welling hot against the freeze before solidifying into crimson ice. It trickled down, slow, viscous, in layers that glued you to the ground.

You tried to scream, but your throat only convulsed. The cold ate it before it left your mouth.

The world stayed white. And you bled, locked there, freezing and burning at once. Your eyes rolled back, and there was darkness. They kept rolling, further than they ever should, completing an impossible rotation in their sockets, and the white funneled down, narrowing to a single point that seared your pupils. You snapped your eyes shut, but your right pupil had frozen open while your left eye throbbed uselessly.

A flashlight. There was a flashlight burning your right eye.

The numbing pain had turned into real blades in your skin, under your skin.

“Why don’t you make this easier and tell me why you’re here? It’ll be a shame for you if I had to play with your little friends after I break you.”

Drowsiness. Confusion. Detachment. Dissociation.

Pain.

Cold. So utterly cold, again. But in a dull, detached sense. Yet somewhere in the back of your mind, a puzzle piece clicked: the memory of heat. Containers baked by the white-hot sun would sizzle on contact when you were shoved against its walls. But the burn had bled out long ago, and what remained was its opposite, leaving you cold and empty and numb.

Of course, your legs were bare. In that room, they always were. Nothing real had ever covered them.

Nothing real covered you.

What did they want?

What did they – did they want?

Something familiar, something remembered but long buried.

Oh.

This time, it came fully. Not as a whisper, not as a shadow. This time, the memory didn’t just scratch at the edges of your mind. It struck, full force, and you remembered.

“I hate to do this, I do. Poor you, when he’s going to be done…” Another voice, slurred.

There was a hand in your hair. A hand shot into your hair. Sharp nails, strong fingers, tugging, twisting, hauling you upright. Pain flared through your scalp, raw and immediate, anchoring you to the present. Your neck ached from the sudden jerk.

The flashlight cause your eye again, slicing across your vision. Light swam and etched itself into your retina. Rust splat onto corrugated walls, a chair, a figure in the chair…

And you saw him then. Not fully. Just enough to know what was coming.

You woke upright, someone braced against your back, Gaz shaking you by the shoulders. Your hand shook out for a strike but was caught mid-air, held fast by a firm grip.

The grip in your hair loosened just a fraction, enough that you could tilt your head, let the tremor in your legs falter, and press against the weight behind you.

Your head snapped forward, a cough tearing your chest raw. The room swam in shapes, colorless at first, then bleeding into the outlines of faces. Gaz was too close, eyes blown wide, jaw tight, and Soap’s breath was gusting hot against your ear.

Haunted, you carried with you residues of the pain.

“Tick, you’re here. You’re here, mate. Stay with us.”

Warmth. Too much of it. After the snow and the ice, it scalded. Heat pressed into you from every angle: Gaz’s arms dragging you close, Soap’s palm dug firm into your lower stomach, his grip almost painful. Your body couldn’t hold it all. The sobs tore out sharp, and you buckled into Gaz, face smashed against his chest as you gripped his shirt in return. The heat of him soaked through your skin, crowding out the memory of white void.

You could barely, barely breathe between the sounds coming out of you.

You heard yourself asking for pen and paper, but a second later, your hands were still shaking too violently to take what Soap shoved into them.

“I’ll write for you,” Soap said, voice low but urgent, already pulling the notebook free.

You nodded, desperate, forehead still pressed against Gaz. He anchored you with both arms while you rasped out fragments, each one cracked and uneven, spilling from between sobs.

You couldn’t feel Soap, but you knew he was close, and hopes that he wrote it all down, without pause. Every scrap of the nightmare, every sliver of intel that had clawed its way out of your mind, you made sure to include it.

“Drink.” You rasped, hardly above a whisper. “Something strong. Just, just knock me out ‘til morning.”

Gaz’s eyes narrowed. “Tick.”

“Please.” The word cracked in your mouth. You didn’t care if it was pathetic. Anything to drown the echo before it dragged you back under.

Soap moved to his cubit by the foot of the bunk and came back with a dented tin cup and a hip flask that looked like it had been through worse than either of them.

Gaz pressed the cup into your hands. Your fingers fumbled, trembling so violently that half the liquid sloshed over the rim before it even reached your chin. You froze, chest heaving, taste already sour.

“’s okay. Lemme help.” Soap said, before taking the cup, refilling it and feeding it to your lips.

The heat hit your mouth and throat like molten iron. It burned through you. Made ou feel alive again. You gagged, half-choked, half-shuddered, but Soap’s hand stayed firm against your wrist, guiding the cup until the liquid finally settled, a jagged warmth crawling down your spine.

Another cup followed. Then another, until you stopped counting.

It was disgusting, and exactly what you needed.

The edges of the white void were still there, swirling at the corners of your mind, but the drink and Gaz pressed against you, weights dulling their teeth.

Your eyelids grew leaden, each blink taking longer to lift, each breath shallower than the last. The world tilted, first just a little, then more insistently, the lines of the room bleeding together. Gaz’s arms around you, Soap at your side, their warmth pressed you into the floorboards and the mattress, anchoring, grounding, and yet, you could feel your thoughts start to tumble, slipping through the haze of heat and alcohol, until the gentle tide of warmth and alcohol pulled you down for good.

11111. Tick experiences a disorienting, intense nightmare in which he is somehow dragging a wounded Price in the snow. He then have flashbacks from his interrogation at the hands of Garnet. He wakes to find himself supported by Gaz and Soap, who provide warmth and reassurance. While still shaken, Tick manages to record the fragments of intel recalled from the dream. With Gaz and Soap’s help, he calms himself, drinks a strong alcohol (from Soap) to knock himself out. return to text

Chapter Text

“So you’re saying it’s not just civilians they’re trading, but they’re also snatching specific targets along with their shipments?”

You were back in the chair, staring at the little red spots on the carpet. They blinked when you did, tiny wounds in the weave.  There was a constant pounding on the bricks that replaced your brain and it was pushing needles behind your eyes, hammering rhythm without pause. You clenched your hands on your thighs.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, son.”

The gravel in Price’s voice dragged your chin upwards. In your unsteady trance you sailed upon his eyes, a blue vastness that belonged less to a man than to the sea itself. Something must have knocked your vision apart: as they fixed on him, the rest of the room blurred into haze. The blur deepened at the corners, heat slicking your lashes. To look too long felt like steering through a strait, but his gaze held you steady in the channel. Your throat gave a small, treacherous hitch, and once again the ache behind your eyes pressed outward, wanting to spill.

But you couldn’t again. It was too soon for an encore. Instead, you blindly, erratically patted to your left, where Gaz sat, and felt him catch you, his grip silent yet grounding.

“Yes, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow, and you remembered, too late, that he told you not to call him that.

“And what did you hear during that time?”

“They, there were… people. Moving people, and kidnappings. They were talking about some important people they took from “squads”, and how some of them were specially wanted by their customers. And… threats, just generally."

Not the best report of your life, but it’ll do, hopefully. Dammit, they trained you to keep your head. It just seemed so vivid, the truth exploding in your dream as it breached subconscious.

“Who?” The question was soft but hard-edged; it forced you to sift through the haze for something resembling certainty.

How to even explain it when you didn’t know the beginning of the fragments of information you felt yourself? “It’s… it’s hard to remember clearly. There are voices, bits of conversations, but mostly meaningless. I don’t know whose voice it was.”

He was looking at you. You couldn’t really read, in the breeze of your mind, what he meant by his look. You assumed it would be to analyse you, since it’s what you would have done, at his place. Not that you knew what higher-ups do: there is a reason Tac as the one promoted.

“The first is a weird, slurred one. He talked as if he had cotton balls in his mouth. Did give orders to the one called “the Hook”, so I think he’s a superior.” You watched Price for a reaction, and found him taut.

“Another one from the helicopter. I don’t remember the tone exactly, just what he said.”

Gaz leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a stillness in him that pressed against your nerves. You momentarily cut yourself off to follow his movement.

“I think he… he told me that he got me. In a good way, I think. And he said he knew where Tac and Toe were.”

“That must’ve been during your extraction.” Gaz added, voice calm but firm. “I’m sure he meant no harm.”

You swallowed past the sour taste on your tongue and pushed the most stubborn pieces forward, trying to force clarity through the haze. “That’s probable.”

Ghost stepped up from behind Price, a shadow folding into the room. “You said they wanted to sell you. What use did you even have for them?”

You blinked, trying to understand the question as anything other than rhetorical. You found nothing. Your voice came out smaller than you felt. “I would not know, Lieutenant.”

“Did you have intel?”

“No.”

You glanced back at Price.

“Are you famous?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Again, I really wouldn’t know, Lieutenant.”

“You sure this is real?”

“Affirmative.” It didn’t feel real.

“But they were going to sell you. Do you even know what you’re talking about? Because right now, this all reads like a bloody dream.”

“Well… it was a dream, yes.” Which was also in the report, so that question was truly useless. “But I’m sure of it.”

“Yet you don’t know anything we could use for sure.”

Price’s hand shot up . “That’s enough, Ghost.”

Ghost froze upright, eyes glinting, but the command held. The shadow had hit a wall.

Price sighed. “We might have the answers soon. We’re planning a strike against the Hook. Two, three days maximum.”

"We're cleared for a mission? All together?" Gaz's words came breathless. 

Price dipped his head.

“Finally! About time, right?” His eyes were alight. Gaz stood up, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet

Price’s mouth was a thin line; there was resolution there, and something colder beneath it: inevitability. His gaze finally left you, and you felt yourself relax, shoulders falling with your breath. He nodded once, slow, and felt Gaz’s hand clamp your shoulder.

“Alright,” Price said, voice crisp. “That’s enough for now. Go. Tell Soap, too.”

“C’mon, Tick, let’s get you a coffee.”

“What was that, Ghost?”

Between protection and defence there was hardly a line at all, only the distance between love and ruin. Armed with good intentions, blindness often mistook one for the other.

Ghost was not blind, and defence was his forte.

But he was uncertain. There was an inevitability he could not accept, which was the resolution with which Price seemed to have blinded himself.

If, in that fear, he was harsh, it wasn’t anything a soldier worthy of his name could not bear. If it was fear at all.

“You know what it was.” Ghost said. “We were getting somewhere.”

Price was pacing, the end of his cigar glowing red in the half-light. Ghost took his place, in Price’s chair, but sat upright, out of respect. 

“We were getting nowhere,” Price said at last. “You’re going to give him nightmares for nothing.”

Maybe. Maybe he didn’t. Ghost stayed still, hands clasped between his knees.

“So nightmares are intel now, then. That’s new. Nightmares.”

Price huffed. Ghost knew the sound: even through radios, he’d learned to hear its shape.

Was this it?

See? Price was slipping these days. Going lax. Tired, probably, and too bloody busy kissing Gaz.

The thought wasn’t unbidden. Soft leadership. An oxymoron if there ever was one, and one that only morons would find true. The Captain was splitting his focus when he could least afford to. Ghost told himself that professional concern was nothing over his reach as a lieutenant.

He almost believed it. Ghost was a skilled liar.

Fuck them for it.

Price mumbled. “Human trafficking. I wished they found something original.”

“Nothing more original than kidnapping, Price.”

Price didn’t answer right away. He stepped up to the desk and tapped ash into the tray, the red ember bowing under its own weight. Ghost watched it lazily die.

“Maybe that’s the point.” Price muttered finally. “Nothing’s original anymore.”

Ghost didn’t argue. He leaned back in the chair that wasn’t his, boots planted, eyes on the captain’s shadow pacing the floor.

“Spit it out, Ghost. You’ve got a question, ask it.”

“What were you thinking when you kissed Gaz?”

It was not questioning. Ghost’s tone didn’t know how to hold that kind of inquiry, but curiosity seeped through anyway. The question has lived in his head ever since the day before, when he heard Gaz announce it to Soap.

And the ease with which Gaz did it haunted him.

Fraternising. He had warned Price about it, even when his captain should have known better. Their art, the one to infiltrate, to neutralise and ultimately to kill, didn’t come with the luxury of hesitation. He had learned it painstakingly.

He had hesitated, once, weighted with worry.

“Soap, Soap!” Price’s voice had cracked through his comms, loud enough to cut through the static and let Ghost know that something had gone to hell. Ghost was already moving before the thought had formed, rifle up, flashlight slicing thin beams through the dust. The tunnels pulsed with the echo of distant gunfire.

He was swift, yet never swift enough. He never was in moments like these. The world funneled down to a single corridor of noise and shadow. He took the last corner fast, boots skidding left as he made the right turn towards the platform.

Shadows everywhere, men and devils dancing the flicker of his light.

Ghost didn’t remember aiming. Just the weight of the trigger breaking under his finger, the sharp recoil in his shoulder.

He remembered being afraid.

The bullet had torn through Makarov’s hand, just enough to wrench his aim. The shot meant for Soap had grazed his temple, carving a red streak towards the back of his head.

An instant slower and it would have been his skull collapsing instead, the tunnel walls painted with the silence Ghost feared most.

He’s been fearing it ever since.

He had wanted to vomit.

Ghost fired again. One, two rounds, clean, precise, dropping the men behind Makarov. A third fell before he could find him; must’ve been Gaz’s work. The rest had broken and ran, one of them dragging Makarov away. He had found his hand slightly shaking.

Ghost had taken a shot again, but the passing train cut the shot clean out of existence.

He rushed towards Soap yet didn’t know what to do. Was he supposed to move him? Or had he needed to keep him still, in case the shot had gone deeper, cracked bone or spine? His training had told him one thing, instinct another. Soap’s blood, a thin, bright smear, had already traced down to his jaw. His eyes were open, blinking slow, trying to focus.

He had heard himself rasp out a “Stay with me.”

At the end his hand had trembled once against Soap’s chest before he’d stilled it, afraid to make things worse.

He had seen men die like this before.

But never him.

Never.

He had wondered, even then, if it were to happen now, if he would fail to defend Soap. Or Price, or Gaz.

Ghost blinked. The tunnel dissolved. The low hum of the office returned the absence of shuffle of Price’s boots on the floor.

“Price.” He heard himself asking again “What were you thinking when you kissed Gaz?”

“That I wanted to. That I was honoured to.”

Ghost couldn’t tell if he envied him or admired him.

“We’re just men who get lucky, one mission at a time, Ghost. We lose enough without pretending we don’t care.”

He wanted to slap the captain. Slap him awake or unconscious, he didn’t know.

Instead, he stayed seated, uncomfortably.

Price never was afraid of silence. The captain just watched him, the faintest glint of weariness in his eyes.

“You think I’m wrong,” Price said.

“I think you’re reckless.”

Price’s mouth twitched. “Comes with the job.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“We can’t be two to fail, Price.”

Ghost could see it in the way the captain’s shadow stilled against the floor.

“Since when do you fraternize?” Price asked, his voice quieter, cautious.

“About 30 hours ago.”

“You…”

“Soap.”

“Right. So you went there first.”

Ghost did feel like it was a question.

Price let out a slow exhale. “Huh.”

“Don’t make it complicated.” Ghost said. “I still have all my head.”

Price chuckled softly, a dry, low sound. “I like that about you, Simon. Always the report, never the confession.”

“Are you not even a little bit wary, Price?”

Price leaned back against the desk, eyes narrowing slightly, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Wary? Sure. But there’s a difference between cautious and cowardly. You’re cautious. You think too much. I trust that.”

Price was watching him, patient.

“You ever wonder, Ghost,” Price said after a moment. “why you warned me about fraternizing, when you’re the one who’d die for them?”

Bullshit. Ghost snapped, eyes locking on Price, who had his head tilted to the side, watching him. He had the faintest smile around his cigar, sharp and deliberate, daring Ghost to bite.

And Price was wrong. Ghost would not…

No. Ghost would have died for them. For all of them.

Shit.

“It’s different when it’s you lot.”

“Exactly. Now, we assume what we did and hope for the best.”

“You don’t sound yourself. We could die because of this.”

“We could.” Price’s gaze didn’t waver. “But we’ve lived worse.”

A lost cause. The whole lot of them.

Gaz’s arm slung over your shoulders, steady and reassuring, guiding you as you moved together through the den, his steps unhurried, yours uneven. He hummed, tunelessly, and as your head turned his way your eyes met his, and he smiled.

Looking back, it had probably been a song.

You felt better now that there was light. You tried to match his smile. The muscles in your face felt like they’d forgotten how.

There was something of morning in him, as though the sun had decided he’d make a better vessel for its light. The corridor opened into a spill of day, and daylight tumbled across him. You flinched a little. It turned his hair to soft bronze, caught in the texture of his close-cropped curls and, with it, your attention.

He had a smooth skin, rare for the troops. It warmed up to the light, made it hesitate before moving on. He carried the light deeper, fuller, and you were tired of the light’s deceit, tired of how it favoured men who, yet at that instant it seemed as though he turned it back towards you, like the ocean giving back the sky’s relfection. Nothing possessive in it, really.

Gaz was abundant in light, enough to share.

It made you want to look longer. To see what it was about him that made the light stay. Perhaps another day, when you’ll have the peace and time for it, after you’ll have turned this chapter. For now, he seemed satisfied, and so you tried to be, too.

It was just a dream.

“You with me?” He asked.

You nodded.

“Good. Just breathe.”

“What’s got you smiling, Gaz?”

He laughed under his breath, and you felt yourself return a small, unwilling grin. Burying yourself in fear and misery felt absurd beside a man like him.

A small betrayal of yourself.

“I’m in a good mood.”

“What for?”

He leaned a shoulder to the wall, casual in a way you have seen before. “You can keep a secret?”

“In my best capacities.”

“I’m seeing someone. From here.”

The words fell through your head, slow as a malfunctioning round, clattering on their way down. “I’m sorry?”

He laughed, not meanly, by the looks of it being amused by your expression. “You heard me.”

You didn’t know what to say. He looked so happy that anything more than a surprised “Wow” would’ve ruined it.

He was grinning now, wide, bright. You understood that he’d been waiting to drop it. “Happened after the mission. Felt like the right thing to do.”

And then, because it was easier to talk than to think, you said, “That’s when I make my most important decisions too.”

Gaz laughed again, low, unbothered, almost tender.

“You like to make my job hard, don’t you?”

“What do you mean? ”

“The rest of the taskforce would already hover if I had to patch you up, now it’s going to be another one breathing down my neck about how this looks too tight, that seemed off, can you check the pulse again… Huge distraction. Almost like an additional report ”

“Not exactly. Mission first.”

“Oh please. Could have fooled me as a rookie.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head, but didn’t deny it. The smile stayed on him.

Gaz rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… guess it’s a bad habit to care.”

It was, most of the time. You haven’t spent enough time to really know them by heart, but through caricature and trope you understood that Gaz cared about his team in some ways that made him feel responsible for their safety.

You knew how that was, and you knew it wasn’t easy, especially when what happens in the battlefield can hardly be in the capacity of one person to control.

“Dangerous one.” You said.

“You don’t?”

“I do. You’ve met me.”

“I did get the time to, yes.”

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt something you could call uncomplicated. “So what are you thinking?”

“This is it, I think.”

“Locking down?”

“If he lets me.”

“Must be nice.” You said before you could stop yourself.

“Not the first year I’m entertaining the crush.”

“I wished I had one on someone, I’m bored. Where are we going?

“Cantine. Coffee, hashbrowns. Fruit too, if you want.”

“It’s a little loud for me right now.”

Gaz shrugged. “Fair. Room then. I’ll bring the food back.”

You ate together, quiet but companionable, the silence between words not awkward this time. He didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t volunteer any. When he left for training, it was with a light pat to your shoulder and that same unassuming steadiness that had carried you through the morning.

A day off, to be yourself again. Sounded like a good deal.
You stretched out on the cot, letting the weight of exhaustion pin you there. The ceiling hung above, as it was supposed to, mottled with shadows from the low light, and your breathing came in slow, shallow pulls. Thought slipped loose, wandering without shape.

What a shit show.

Now you doing nightmares. What a trope, really. Oh, flashbacks! Who doesn’t want to have the brain’s funniest party trick of recycling trauma every time you tried to shut your eyes now?

Because that’s totally going to make you useful.

Good thing nightmare didn’t happen in broad daylight.

Not to mention the slow, massive professional slide you can already feel starting. That won’t help either.

Cause fuck, whoever designed the men of 141 had taken their sweet damn time, and you didn’t know what to do with that. Whatever forces had gathered them around you must’ve had the malicious sense of humor of a torturer.

Maybe this is what crabs feel when a cook boils them alive: the tickling, creeping, endless agony as they redden and cook and die.

The brazen bull of crushes on every man you met. Criterion one: breathing. Criterion two… was there even a two?

How Soap breathed sometimes…Christ. Don’t think about that. Not today. Unprofessional. Incompetence stacked up day by day.

Why were you even thinking about that?

The weight of what the fuck am I gonna do pressed down again. Laswell wanted a secret “keep them alive” priority shoved up your chain of command, explicit instruction to disobey Price. Last time you checked, nobody in the taskforce had a higher authority except the ones who shouted louder. You were so fucked.

At least you’re still important enough to get fucked over, and that this position is not that uncomfortable for passing out. You stayed supine

That is, until the door slammed open, with the handle knocking against the wall.

Soap filled the doorway, all stomping boots and too much energy for the hour. Even from across the room you could see the sheen of sweat at his temple, hair damp and falling toward his brow.

He ought to get a haircut sometime. It was getting unruly, and you had this absurd urge to shove it back yourself.

“Tick, c’mon. Some help?”

Grogginess evaporated. “You’re hurt?”

“Nah.”

You squinted at him, trying to parse what justified this level of entrance. “Then what?”

“This!” He stepped closer and held it out.

You frowned. “Soap, is that a bird?”

“Yeah.” He looked like he half-expected you to be impressed. “Found it on the trail. Looks like a busted wing. Care to gibe me a hand?”

“What?”

You swung your legs off the cot and closed the distance fast, eyes narrowing on the poor thing. “Jesus. I don’t know how to fix that.”

“Aren’t ye a medic, then?”

“For people, Soap. Not pigeons. Broken wings? That’s vet work. Avian ortho, even. Closest I came was stitching up a K-9 once, and that was desperation.”

“This is a - nevermind, do you know one?”

“A vet? Is there no vet on base?”

“We replaced the dogs wi’ drones, Tick. Guess no’.”

Well, you were definitely out of options, the only one being a vet.

He shifted, stubborn. “So we’re just gonna let it die?”

The bird twitched weakly in his hands. You sighed. “No. Give me that.”

You took it gently, setting it down on a clean towel from your footlocker. The poor thing’s feathers were ruffled, one wing crooked at an ugly angle.

“Okay,” you muttered. “We stabilize it. Popsicle sticks, tape, gauze, improvised splint.”

“Where’re ye gonna get those?”

“Canteen and infirmary. Don’t you dare lose that thing.”

Soap frowned like you’d accused him of murder. “Ah’m no’ gonna lose it, Tick.”

“Good. Because if it dies, you’re giving the eulogy.”

The canteen gave you popsicle sticks and napkins. Back in the room, you laid out the makeshift tools beside the bird.

“This feels illegal.” You murmured.

Soap crouched beside you, peering like a kid at a science project. “Ye sure that’s how it’s supposed to look?”

“No.” You said flatly. “But neither did I, after my last mission, so maybe we’re fine.”

You looked at the little bundle on your table, feathers ruffled, eyes half-shut. Soap had placed in a clean metal tray, flanked by a couple of popsicle sticks you’d grabbed from the canteen and the roll of thin, clear tape. The simplicity of it made you wary. Birds, Google said, had pneumatic and fragile bones.

Which you knew already, so it was not helping.

You’ve had worse on your hands.

“Ain’t no vet in the town.” Soap confirmed.

“You sure?”

“The daft map thing says so.”

“I’ve stitched up K-9s.” You said, trying to sound confident. “This… is basically the same, just… tinier.”

“Tick, is that YouTube ye’re watchin’?” Yes, Soap, it was YouTube, and it was your best shot at seeing an actual ornithologist.

“Shut up.” You grabbed a stick, held it against the underside of the wing to gauge length., before the person in the video, who was holding a real pigeon, held up some dressing. “So we don’t need the sticks, apparently. No splint. I’m gonna wrap its wings. Come help.”

He didn’t help, but instead crouched beside you, too close.

“Ye sure that’s safe?”

“For me or the bird?”

“Aye”

You gave him a look, then started winding gauze gently around the wing and body. The bird protested, feathers flaring, and let out a sharp chirp. Soap cooed, and stroked its head with a finger.

“Hold still.” You muttered. “You’re making this worse.”

It didn’t. It jerked its head and pecked Soap’s finger.

He yelped. “The hell was that for?”

You didn’t look up. “Must’ve sensed your personality.”

He scowled, sticking his finger in his mouth. “Ungrateful wee bastard.”

“Wonder where it learned that,” you said.

Soap huffed, and sat himself on the lower bunk. The bird had quieted now, either tired or resigned, chest fluttering under the gauze. You adjusted the edge carefully, thumbs steady despite everything.

“There,” you said finally. “That’s as good as it gets without a vet or a miracle.”

Soap leaned in. “Ye think it’ll make it?”

You exhaled. “It doesn’t look dead. What are we going to do with it when we’ll leave? It’s gonna take some time according to the video.”

“Infirmary?”

You shot him a look. “Not giving a pigeon to the nurses, sorry.”

Soap snorted. “That’s really no pigeon.”

There was a knock. The door creaked open before either of you answered

Gaz stepped in, two folded sheets in hand. “Change of plans. We’re wheels up in two for what looks like at least a few weeks.” His eyes flicked to the table, then to the bundle of feathers you were still guarding. “Oh, you got the bird?”

“Some damaged bird.” Soap cursed.

You scrambled to get your kit together. There was an hour and a half left before you were supposed to be crammed inside a plane, and you still didn’t feel ready.

You ended up putting the bird in the infirmary after a minute of pleading and an exchange of looks that probably counted as pity. You left before they could change their mind.

Thoughts didn't form. Your hands moved out of habit, packing the new and not yet familiar kit.

First mission with the 141.

Luckily, it wasn’t supposed to be anything too hard, a standard recon job, low-risk, low visibility. Routine intel work unless the brass spotted something worth chasing. Good for your first mission back, which you were thankful for.

Which didn’t mean good, either. It never did. Only when command had nothing solid did they start spreading operatives thin, tossing lines into murky water and hoping something bit back.

The air on the tarmac bit cold against your neck as you boarded.

But it was not your job to think about these things.

“Better?” Price asked, voice low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

“Yes, Captain.” You said, shifting your kit into the rack. “Thanks for asking.”

You nodded to Soap as you sank into the seat near the rack, his grin easy despite the cold metal of the aircraft walls. He patted the seat beside him.

You headed over.

“That’s Gaz’s seat, mate,” Soap said, tone light. “Furthest from the exit.”

You blinked. “Why, does he jump?”

“You have no idea.”

You clipped yourself in beside him. Waiting for Gaz and Ghost to arrive, you shifted the strap across your abdomen, trying to get comfortable.

Planes suck.

Chapter Text

Scratch it, you loved planes.

You especially loved it when people were not shooting at you, but there was no time for thoughts or prayers, let alone preferences. A bullet chipped the edge of the low retaining wall against your back, sending grit on the back of your helmet. The bullets must have dug through the once uniform soil and was now greedily perforating the concrete, some going into the treeline, shredding bark, stone, and any illusion of safety you had left.

How did Garnet even get ahold of a minigun-mounted attack helicopter? And who parked that in a forward campment? It surely was too sophisticated for a militia: it was pouring thousands of rounds per second of mechanical rage despite losing its pilot.

Good thing Soap had taken out the pilot first: if it had flown, you would have been Swiss cheese by now. Bullets would have been raining on you.

That was enough jokes. Another burst cut your thoughts off.

You fired blindly, arm stretched out past the corner, the recoil jerking in your grip. Rounds cracked back instantly. You ducked, teeth clenched, heart thundering as dust filled your lungs.

“Cover me!”

You were punched on the shoulder. It was Soap, beside you, you was inserting a warhead into an RPG. Where did he find it?

“Soap, I’ll flashbang them first!”

You unwrapped the stun grenade attached to your hip, throwing the pin away, before tossing it over your head. Its explosion left a ringing in your brain despite your best effort to muffle your ears.

You felt the impacts stop, the bullets instead making a rain of leaves on your position.

“Soap, use your goddamn RPG!”`

What was he waiting for-

“Get down, Tick!” Soap twisted and stood up beside you, and fired his newfound weapon.

A whump that tore across the valley. You felt your lungs empty out. For a split second you thought it was the end, then the shockwave hit, kicking dust into the air, flattening the grass.

The world went white.

When your hearing came back. You blinked against the haze. Before you was one of the rotors, bent and fractured. The mist was burning now, lit orange from the wreck. The helicopter was split open, flames crawling along its side.

Soap must have aimed for the hatch.

Holy fuck.

The plan was simple : Soap and you were to clear the forward campment, Ghost were to clear the barricaded parking lot. Then the four of you, along with Bravo-3, should breach the base where Laswell had tracked the shipment to be. Retrieve the shipment, execute if necessary, detain all other personnel. There were to be no civilians on site and nothing chemical or nuclear. It fit nicely on one whiteboard with Price’s scribbles.

Soap clasped your hand to pull you up.

“Hospitable, aren’t they?” He yelled in your ear.

It was hard to hear him over the rining in your ears.

You exhaled, shaky, tasting smoke. “Thanks.”

“Must have hit the ammunitions.”

You watched as he reached for the comms.

“Soap to Price, rise and shine, they’re alerted. We’re going in.”

“Copy. I’m sending a drone your way. You can proceed” Price’s voice hissed through the comms, hald swallowed.  You picked up the rifle that had fallen two steps from you.

“Next time,” you said under your breath, “we do the slipping-in part first.”

Then he stopped, crouched, and pointed ahead: a break in the treeline. Between the fog and shadow, you could make out the outline of concrete and steel.

Somewhere behind you, the wreck finally gave up, the last of the ammunition cooking off in a dull secondary explosion that rolled through the valley like distant thunder. Neither of you looked back.

Ghost and Gaz were already there, half-turned and leaning against the side of a ridge. On the line, Gaz’s voice came clipped and smooth. “We’ve met at Point Quebec, Price. I have visuals on Soap and Tick.”

“I’ll create noise at the north ridge. Draw the guards that way. Bravo-3’s on their way with the charges.”

You realised that you could be walking into a meat grinder.

“Bravo‑3’s here,” Gaz muttered. You saw three more silhouettes emerge from the treeline, carrying the long, slim packages that held the frame charges.

“Do us the honours, Soap.” Ghost said, voice flat.

“All set,” Soap said, checking the connections once more.

You watched the numbers on the module blink down in tiny, cruel ticks. “Three seconds.” Soap said.

“Two,” Ghost breathed.

One.

The module bit into the weld with a wet, metallic cry and then tore away, spat off the door.

Soap had spent some time explaining it to you. The module punched a focused jet of heat and metal through the seam, more like a pierced-shot than an explosion. The blask would peel the weld back and send a fan of shrapnel sailing into the room beyond.

Soap seemed like a big fan of his new toy.

In fact, he was glancing over his shoulder at you, smirking. “Told you it’d sing.”

It sang, and Ghost was walking through the chorus.

Chaos always made his mind sing. Controlled mayhem, precise violence. Every move of his squad a note in the same brutal symphony. Ghost shifted left, lined up, and painted the far end of the corridor red. Three targets went down.

He heard Soap declare the left side clear.

“Stacking right.” Ghost answered, voice calm, almost bored. “Tick, follow up.”

Gaz kicked a door.

“Hands up!”

There was a duo of masked personnel working on around a green surgical drape: in the drape’s opening was an open wound on what looked like a leg. The one with her back to the door, who must have been the lead, hesitated only for a breath before she lifted her needle holder high, turning slowly. The other followed. Ghost snapped his rifle downwards twice as Gaz warned them to kneel.

One of them spoke, voice cracking through his mask. “We’re almost done removing a bullet. Please.”

“Gaz, stay with them and let them finish, then.” Ghost decided before continuing his way further inside the complex. He went past a row of rooms, all dormitories, each one empty.

Strange.

He raised two fingers. You moved up beside him, weapon ready.

He pointed at the last door.

“On me.”

You nodded, grabbed the handle, and pulled.

Ghost heard Gaz update the situation: "Price, we've got three civilians, one unconscious. Making our way out."

A hiss of pressure. Then a thin plume of smoke curled out, thick and acrid, catching the light like mist over a grave.

Ghost stepped through the threshold into a room half-swallowed by smoke. Firelight licked the walls, painting the concrete red. Files were scattered and burning, pages curling midair, between wooden crates. One of the militia member was still inside, desperate, pouring liquid over a pile of documents. Fuel, probably, trying to erase what Ghost was sent here for. He was swinging a sidearm in his left hand.

The man barely turned before a single shot from you caught him clean in the chest, dropping him into the fire. The jerrycan tipped, spilling its last breath of fuel into the blaze.

The blast punched the air out of the room. A crate flew his way. He caught a flash of metal before it struck his hand, driving him backward into a weight.

When he came to, he could not breathe.

It came small and absolute in the dark: he could not breathe.

There was blood pooling in the back of his throat, thick and hot, refusing to move as he drew what little air he could, and his chest, weighted with the remnants of armor and shattered ribs, would not lift, would not rise no matter how hard he tried.

The world was still screaming, but from a distance. His ears worked like old speakers, sound filtered through water.

“Ghost! … L.T., you stubborn bastard, answer me!”

Someone was calling Ghost. Soap. He knew it was Soap.

He wanted to answer. Wanted to say something, to tell them he was fine, that he was still here, still holding on, but his mouth filled with blood instead. Thick, coppery, choking. The breath that left him gurgled wetly, carrying iron and dirt and the taste of his own mortality.

He blinked, trying to make sense of the world, but his eyes refused to focus. The compound was gone. Everything was blown open. Dust and flame swirled in the air, and he was flipped to the side.

The weight was his own ribs, surely fractured, pressing inward, stabbing pain with every shallow attempt at a breath. Armor dug into the wound, and something slid inside him when he moved.

He was drowning.

He tried to pull together the shape of himself, tried to find Simon in the shadow of Ghost, but the man before the mask, the weekday version of memory, had been folded away somewhere along the route to this face. Simon was a word that would not sit right on his tongue.

Who was Ghost? A son once, a brother. They were gone. There was no time for that now.

Only his blood.
Slow.
Tidal.
Dragging him under.

Oh, Christ, he was detaching. The world receding, quiet and polite, like it didn’t want to disturb the dying.

A face flickered.
Tommy? Grinning through teeth lost to time.
Soap. Rough grin. Cutting through blur.

“L.T., look at me! Come on, you’re fine!”

Was he hurt? Was Soap safe?

“Don’t - ” He coughed, the rest lost in a wet choke. Blood sprayed across his mask.

Soap’s grip tightened. “Yeah, yeah, don’t move, I know. You’re all right, mate. You’re all right.”

But Ghost wasn’t sure.

“Medic!” Soap yelled.

“Tick’s out cold! I got his kit!”
I can’t breathe.

Help.

Soap’s voice. Far. Tunnelled.
“Stay with me. You hear me?”

He wasn’t.
Air. Short.
Shorter.
Bubbling.

Familiar.

Pain. Always pain.
He had survived worse. No use trampling a flattened can.

But pain did not have purpose.

He felt himself slipping.

Don’t let go. Don’t let me go.

More time. That’s all he wants. Just more time.

“We’re just men who get lucky, one mission at a time, Ghost. We lose enough without pretending we don’t care.” He understood it now.. He wasn’t done.

This…this wasn’t supposed to be it. Not like this.

He’d always thought he’d make peace with death: a soldier’s death was by definition clean and inevitable.

It wasn’t the case anymore. He wanted to fight it, to claw his way back into the body that was failing him, to demand one more breath, one more heartbeat. Not for glory. Not for the mission. Just because he wasn’t done yet. He hadn’t finished being alive.

He had just been alive, his life had just begun.

Hot anger flared under his ribs. Why now? Why here? He had unfinished business, names that mattered. Faces he needed to see, hands he needed to grip one last time.

He reached out.

Hands. Warm. Strong. Insistent. A voice shouting his name.

“Ghost! Stay with me, stay with me!”

Then “Medic! C’mon! I don’t know what’s wrong with him!”

Your voice cut through : “I’m up, wait, wait, I’m up!”

There was knocking on his chest. It resonates in waves of pain and shock.

His right arm was lifted.

He’s holding someone’s hand.

Soap’s voice was strained. “Just a little more. Hold still. You’re okay.”

Was he hurt?

The question hung there, sensible and absurd, before the body answered with a movement of its own. Ghost’s hands, traitors and faithful, contracted; instinct shoved his fist into something solid and a man staggered with a startled exclamation. It was clumsy, reflexive, the product of machinery overridden by primal engines.

As if by small, astonishing mercy, his next breath found a sliver of room. Thin, insufficient, but it reached past the pain long enough to furnish him with an argument against surrender. Enough to cling. Enough to fight.

He blinked, and the act of looking seemed to restore a scant proportion of order. Soap’s face came into focus: wide-eyed. “Easy…easy. Welcome back.”

“Johnny, are you hurt?”

He looke startled. “M-me? No. No. Easy…easy. Welcome back.”

Ghost caught the tremor under his tone. It made it unbearable. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think. He lashed out, instinct and fear and need all tangled, grabbing Soap’s shoulders, pulling him down before he could protest in a painful hug.

He couldn’t care to stare at the skull reflected into Soap’s eyes.

Because he knew, at that point, that Ghost had lived through Soap, through Gaz, through Price, that they were ever bearing the reflection of his relentless existence.

The thought had the strange, clean clarity of a vision in the Highlands, where the air was thin and the horizon far. The Highlands where Soap took him.

Ghost was the sum of all he had buried and of every hand that’s hauled him off the ground.

There was again a time of darkness.

You woke again in a kind of twilight when one is unsure whether the world has ended or simply paused to consider it. There was a burn low in your back, and a steady vice clamped to the left side of your skull. There weren’t many moments anymore when your head felt whole, and this, quite certainly, was not one of them.

A voice reached you first, distant, almost formal in its insistence, but the words didn’t have time to matter before they were replaced by a sharp pressure of fingers on your shoulder. Gaz, you realised dimly, pinching your trapezius in a death grip. It would leave a bruise. There was dust in your throat; you could taste it, the bitter film of concrete and smoke.

An explosion, then. Yes. That explained it.

You tried to open your mouth, but the sound that came was not a word. A click, a dry cough swallowed by air too heavy to move. You blinked hard now, trying to make sense of the shapes around you. The sky was there, faint and indifferent. The ceiling must have come down; you remembered being indoors, behind Ghost.

Gaz was saying something again. Your name, maybe, but it drifted pass you. You swallowed and this time found the taste of blood.How was Ghost?

“Who’s hurt?” You asked.
Gaz shook his head.

It could have meant anything. It could have meant too late.

You tried to rise from the tilted ground, and the world tilted with you.You ran the check automatically: fingers, legs, ribs.. Your body answered itself mechanically: fingers moved, legs obeyed, ribs ached but held. Pain everywhere, but no silence, which was what mattered.

Your leg was wet. Blood, perhaps. Or water. Or someone else’s life, carelessly shared.

You closed your eyes. Just to steady things. Just a second.

When you opened them again, Gaz was leaning close, his face streaked with grime, his hands firm at the sides of your head as if he could will the world to stay still.

“Where’s Ghost?” you said again.

“He’s stable. Gettin’ looked after. Same as you.”

Wait. You heard the words, and with them came an echo, soemthing said once before in the same even tone. The smell of burnt wiring. The taste of copper. A voice on the helicopter saying the same thing, and you remembering only later what it had really meant.

Bullshit.

So they’d learned the same lie.

The same voice was calling.

“Medic!”

The sound went through you, simple and absolute. You knew that voice. They all sounded the same in panic. You felt the pain return, but it came smaller now, manageable, something that could be filed away.

You. He was calling for you.

“C’mon! I don’t know what’s wrong with him!”

You breathed again. The pain was still there, the spinning too, but smaller now. Of lesser importance.

You weren’t done..

“I’m up.” You rasped. “Wait, wait. I’m up.”

You pushed his hands aside and forced your knees beneath you. The ground wavered once, then steadied. There was noise everywhere, but it all receded beneath a single thought.

Your job, Tick.

That was the only thing that survived the blast intact. And somewhere in that ruined light, with the air still trembling and your pulse like a drum in your ears, you remembered why you were still here.

Someone needed you.

You forced yourself fully upright, sweeping the wreckage. And then you saw them: Ghost, on his back, and Soap, half-kneeling, aside.

The sight stuck you sharply. Soap’s hands were travelling, patting Ghost’s body, unrestrained yet careful, in such a way it made the scene fragile.

You realised that Ghost was hugging Soap.

You dropped on your knees beside Soap. At first, nothing seemed wrong. Ghost had the stillness of someone who’s survived worse. And yet, there it is: the subtle betrayal of his chest. The right side rose with each breath, deep and deliberate; the left moved only slightly, shallow.

Soap had stripped Ghost’s gear away. Good job.

The voices in your head stopped for an instant. You tried to move your left hand along his chest but it refused to obey. Pain shot up your forearm. You stared at it wordlessly.

Traitor.

The wrist was misaligned, already swelling, useless. 

It had to do. Right hand instead, then. You would work around it.

Fingers pressed gently along the ribcage. Behind you, Gaz clamped a hand back onto your shoulder. You flinched, shooke him off. You didn’t need him crowding you then.

Instead, Gaz shouted. “He can’t fucking breathe, Soap! Move!”

Soap scrambled, hands flailing, and Gaz yanked him back. You barely had time to register your relief. Finally, some space. You could focus. You could think. You could keep Ghost alive.

The skin gave under your touch, but a small, unusual bulge beneath the left shoulder blade betrayed something amiss. Crepitus whispered beneath your fingertips.

Ghost had a fractured rib, and probably a pneumothorax.

Hands shaking from pain and adrenaline, you shifted your weight, bracing Ghost’s shoulder with your right arm.

You found your tube and your catheter the gauzes in your kit.

You estimated the distance: chest wall about four centimeters. Fenestrations needed to clear it all. About ten centimeters from skin to ensure the whole vented portion was inside the pleural space.

A mark on ten centimeters, then.

Teeth clenched, you grasped the tube between the side of your face and your shoulder. There would be plenty of time for antibiotics later. Using your right hand, you located the fourth intercostal space, tracing the upper edge of the fifth rib carefully with your fingers to avoid the neurovascular bundle.

“Gaz.” Your voice felt muffled and rough. It hurt to you’re your jaw against your shoulder and the catheter. “Elevate him. Thirty… no, more, closer to sixty degrees. Torso up. Keep the left side supported, don’t jostle him.”

Gaz’s hands moved instantly, heavy but careful, lifting Ghost’s shoulders off the ground. You guided with your right hand where you could. “gaz, chlorohexine in one of the brown bottles. Dump it over here.” You gestured toward the chest. He complied without hesitation.

“Grab the scalpel in the third side pocket, Gaz.” He did, wordlessly feeding it into your good hand.

You made one of the best 2cm skin incision of your career, which counted considering the circumstances. You then jammed a finger in, manually widening the tract. No adhesions. Good.

You dropped the scalpel onto the ground. You guides Gaz as he took the tube from you and clamped it on two places, one at the outside end, the other pinching the tip.

Grasping the tip clamp with your right hand, you slid the tube carefully through the tract you had created, angling it towards the base of the lung.

Blood, dark and viscous, hissed and spurted softly into the tube as gravity pulled it downward.

Good. He should live. Gaz could take it from here.

You tilted your head to the side, the pain coiling up your back and through your broken hand, and collapsed to the right onto your elbow. A cough seized you, sharp and uncontrollable, then wrenched into vomiting. The bile burned. Pain, fatigue, and vomit mingled with the hiss of blood in the tube, and the rise of a siren.

You felt Soap pull you away. He was firm against your back now, murmuring something you didn’t hear over the ringing in your ears.

Minutes dragged. You didn’t know how long you stayed with your back to him. The sirens were close. You could feel the tremor of their engines, the thrum of rotors if it was a helicopter. Relief mixed with dread. Too many things could go wrong in the moments before help arrived.

Soap, still pressed against your back, murmuring, “You did it, mate. You got him.”

You found Ghost surrounded, Ghost alive, breathing despite everything. As they carried Ghost away, the sirens growing louder, you stumbled forward, the world swinging and rolling beneath your feet like a ship caught in a relentless tide.

Chapter Text

Four injured, no casualties. A win. A miracle.

Your luck did not run dry this time. Well, the man on the table was unstable, but you did not have time nor the mind for a stranger riding in another helicopter, under the care of two physicians. Maybe he died, or maybe he would. You wouldn’t be one to mourn him.

It would take all the time in the world to mourn the unknown innocents. The nameless stay obscure for a reason, and no one still sane would make the mistake of tagging their bodies.

Strange, still, that the Brass had ensured there would be no civilians in the base before sending you in, yet there was heen a surgery underway. Medics on a base were expected; they came and went with the rhythm of war. Not general surgeons.

You wondered if you might have become a good surgeon too, had you not chosen to follow Toe into conscription.  There was a numbness in your brain that radiated to your wrist and resonated to the tip of your fingers.

Your kit sat on your knees, your good arm looped around it. It was a familiar weight. You realized, with your forehead against it, that you were dozing off, the adrenaline draining out and leaving you behind and empty.

You were probably not supposed to sleep.

You flexed your hand. Nothing. The fingers barely twitched.

“Soap.” You called him over from the helicopter. He was slouched across from you, helmet tilted back, eyelids heavy.  His fix of adrenaline must have run off, as you were at least a quarter hour into the evacuation.

“Tick?” He slanted his eyes open.

“I need your help.” You lifted your left hand, watched it tremble. “My wrist’s going numb.”

Soap straightened. “We did forget about it, didn’t we?” His mouth twitched, half a smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, I’m the stupid one.”

He unbuckled, the straps clattering against the metal seat, and pushed himself upright. His hand caught one of the overhead rails for balance as the chopper lurched. He shuffled forward until he was nearly standing between your knees.

“Ah,” he paused. “Suppose we should get you a splint?”

He started foraging through the kit on your lap before you could agree. Fine. You still protested when he pulled out the gauze rolls and trauma shears you’d packed neatly on top, dumping them into the narrow space between your kit and your lap.

“I’m working with one hand here, mate.” He shrugged, bracing himself on the seat frame as the helicopter jolted. “Always hold yourself in a bird.”

You wordlessly watched him as he dug deeper, fishing out the small rectangular box. He held it out, and you took it with your good hand, popping it open for him.

“Want something to bite?” He was grinning at you.

For a fleeting second, you were glad your fake confession hadn’t stolen that grin from you.

You nodded.

Soap tugged one of his gloves off with his teeth and shoved it toward you.

“Here.”

You took it automatically. The fabric was slick, warm from his hand, the shape if his grip still pressed into the leather.

He let go of the railing and closed your kit. So much for always holding himself.

Grimacing, you placed your hands prone on the kit before you.

“Alright.” Soap murmured. “Ah’ll count to three, aye?”

You nodded again, looking up at him.

He gripped your forearm, thumb pressed hard into the muscle. His other hand steadied your wrist. You caught the faint shift of his breath.

“One…” Your stomach tightened.

He pulled. The sound that tore out of you was half a muffled snarl, half lived, much more out of surprise than of pain.

“Yer wi’ me?” Soap asked.

“We said go at three.”

“Ya know the trick, Tick.” The bastard had the balls to grin while taking the orange splint from your good hand and already wrapping it around your knuckles. “Hold the board for me and don’t be whiny.”

“Fuck off. I’m dizzy.” You gently kicked his boots in the blind.

“An’ don’t bite th’hand that heals yer wrist.”

Soap’s grin didn’t falter as he cinched the splint wrap tighter, the orange fabric creaking between his fingers. You hissed through your teeth, jaw clenching.

“I wish I didn’t ask you to.”

“Ye know you don’t.”

He finished the remaining wrap, tapping it for good measure.

“Good as new.” He was slightly arkward as he said this.

“Thanks.”

“Good thing ye’re no back in that wheelchair. Ah don’t miss reelin’ ye around.”

"Oh fu-"

You were cut off with a groan. “Do you mind doing this on a private channel?” The man on the stretcher that laid across the helicopter was looking up, craking his neck, and glaring angrily at you two. Bravo 3-4, if you remembered well. Red hair, freckled across the bridge of a nose that had probably never been broken yet.

You looked up to Soap. “What’s his deal?”

“Broken leg.” Soap said without missing a beat. He tapped your shoulder, and began making his way back to his seat.

You glanced around. Only the three of you in the cabin. No one was checking on Bravo 3-4. He looked over again, eyes narrowing into something between suspicion and indignation.

Well, this was cosy.

You sighed, letting your kit slide down to the floor as your hands lingered on the straps. You stood, strapped the kit down to the rail, and crossed the short distance to the stretcher.

“Man.” You said, crouching beside him. “What’s the deal?”

He huffed. He looked young, probably several years younger than you were. You tried again.

“You… need anything? I’m pretty sure I might have a snack somewhere in that kit if I search far enough.” For a moment, he didn’t answer, just watched you with a wary sort of disbelief, like he wasn’t sure if you were joking. Then his shoulders eased by a fraction.

“Just tryin’ to sleep without y’all flirtin’ over the goddamn radio.” Already was he sounding appologetic.

“They gave you something, right?”

“Codeine.” he admitted.

“For a broken leg?”

“First time.”

Soap’s voice, again. “First time and you’re in the military?” You felt his gaze trace your back. It itched between your shoulders climbing before resting somewhere near your neck. You shot him a look.

Bravo 3-4 said. “Oh shut up.”

“Ma fault for askin” He lifted both hands in suddender.

“It’s my first mission with my team too.”

“No shit? Thought they’d been runnin’ you for a while.” You were secretly pleased by the surprise in his voice. Of course you were no rookie.

“I was out of commission, and before that I was with the Canadian forces.”

He huffed again. “So what? You’re fresh back. They just throw us all in with the legends and hope for the best?”

You thought about correcting him since you had been with an elite unit before, but you saw the exhaustion in his face. He didn’t need the reminder that you weren’t quite as green as he was. “Pretty much.” You said instead, and left it at that.

“Damn.” He said, blinking slow, his words slurring slightly, from the meds. “Remind me not to piss off whoever’s doin’ the assignments.” He paused, then added, “You still got that snack you promised?”

You rolled your eyes, pushing up to stand. “You’re lucky I’m nice.”

Your turned towards your kit, crouching to unzip the top flap. The zipper teeth rasped. That’s when the helicopter lurched hard to the right, the momentum ripping you sideways. The slider remained between your fingers as it was torn off the teeth. The sudden drop tore you off balance, your shoulder slamming into the bulkhead.

“Missile lock! Hold on!” The pilot craked over comms.

Shit.

You tried to catch yourself, elbow scraping, glove catching on a latch that tore skin even through the fabric. You pressed yourself low,  face nearly smearing against the cold metal before the cabin filled with the gut-deep howls of alarms and groaning steel.

You ended up with your cheek pressed against the closed hatch. There was a concentrated gust of wind coming from the hatch that stung your right eye.

Thank God it was closed.

The helicopter pitched again, the floor vanishing, a violent drop that made your stomach lurch into your throat. Someone swore over the comms. You searched for balance, found the floor again when the chopper caught air, then lost it a moment later when the tail whipped sideways. The impact flung you into the hatch again. Pain bloomed behind your ribs this time, sharp and hot.

“Tick!” Soap’s voice, sharp.

“I got this!” You didn’t.

The floor tilted out from under you. For one sick and weightless second, you were floating once more. You hit the second a missed heartbeat later, and something yanked hard at your collar before you could tumble further.

Your vest bit into your neck as you were dragged backward. His forearm locked across your ribs like a makeshift seatbelt. You felt the tremor of the chopper through his chest as he steadied both of you.

At least the stretcher was fixed and Bravo 3-4 didn’t risk being thrown out.

“Flares out!”

Through the narrow gap, the sky burst orange, light cascading through the cabin in violent flickers. The overhead strobes pulsed red, drowning everything in blood-colored flashes. And then, in one blinding instant, the world went white.

A shockwave rolled through the fuselage. Your head snapped forward and jerked as it recoiled onto Soap. You heard him groan, but he held still as your boots glided on the steel ground again.

“Close! That was close!” Bravo 3-4 shouted. “Fuck!”

Your heart was still hammering, the edges of your vision pulsing with leftover white.

“What if there’s a second one?” Bravo 3-4 asked.

You turned your head, disbelieving. Was the guy fucking serious now? What’s he going to say next? That it was quiet?

“There won’t be.” Soap was yelling into your ear so he would be heard over the siren by Bravo 3-4. Still you felt the words more than you heard them, in vibrations.

“How do you know?” Bravo 3-4 called back.

“What’s your name?” Soap said. He shifted underneath you and clipped something on your vest.

“Logan!”

You squinted past him, trying to look intimidating. “Logan,don’t jinx it.”

“We’re going to hug the treeline!” The pilot’s voice broke through comms again. He sounded scared. “Strap in.”

You looked back to Soap and found his face bloody. He had a nosebleed smeared across his lip. You followed his gaze to the D-ring on the size of your belt.

“Did I do that?”

Soap sniffed, wiped his wrist under his nose, and gave you a lopsided grin. “Eh. Wait.” He clipped a thick nylon tether to the D-ring. “What’s that good fo’ if ye don’t attach it?”

You supposed that it could have amused you in a better day.

“Thanks. Sit straight.” You said. You reached out and pressed your thumb and forefinger over his nose, pinching firm to stem the blood.

Soap froze, eyes crossing slightly to look at your gloved hand, then obeyed, tilting his head back with exaggerated obedience. The gesture was small, almost childish in its mimicry. “Aye, doc.” He muttered, voice thick through blocked nostrils. The warmth of his breath brushed against your glove.

“Don’t call me Doc.”

He made a muffled sound that might’ve been a laugh.

The helicopter dipped slightly, the ground falling away beneath you, the thrum of the engines vibrating through the cabin and into your bones.

You wondered if flying low really would have hidden you from future missile strikes.

“We should have an hour left in the trip.”

“An hour,” Soap repeated, low. “Long enough to die of boredom or get made into confetti.”

“Not a word about death, MacTavish.”

“Aye, fine. No death. Just a very scenic fall, then.”

“You never stop talking, do you?”

“If ah did, you’d start thinking too much.”

You let yourself fall beside him, leaning into his shoulder and closing your eyes, forcibly, in the vain hope of the passing of your nausea. Your wrist ached where the splint pressed into it, and you stopped holding his nose. You felt Soap’s breath stop briefly, as though the release startled him. Then a quiet inhale, drawn through the blood still drying on his upper lip.

Soap chuckled softly, “You’re no’ built for the sky, Tick.”, and you let yourself pretend that the world outside wasn't still trying to kill you. The vibrations under your boots climbed through your knees, into your chest.

Not to be melodramatic.

Soap exhaled, again, and it was loud for your ear.

“Ye should sleep, Tick.”

“Not sure that’s smart.”

“Not sure anything we’ve done today was.”

Fine, then. You were getting to tired to argue.

"Wake me up if the world ends."

It got you half a promise. 

"Aye. I'll try."

To say it troubled Price that Garnet had access to ground-to-air missiles would be the mildest of euphemisms. The strike was no mistake, and from the pilot’s report it had almost taken out the helicopter trailing the formation, the one that carried Soap and you.

A matter of seconds, a shift in wind, and you would have been names on the next day’s list.

He informed Laswell with a voice that didn’t quite sound like his own and prayed, in a way that men like him weren’t meant to pray, that there wouldn’t be another missile waiting in the trees. Then he looked at Gaz. The younger man was bent over Ghost’s side, fastening a strap that had worked loose during the flight. In your work you had cut open Ghost’s shirt: it exposed some scars that he certainly did not want left in open air. Gaz was working carefully, guiding the fabric around the catheter so as to give the man some dignity, or at least the illusion of it

Price watched, not because he needed to as a captain, but because he needed to. There was a difference. He watched, superfically, to note what to report, and his gaze stayed on because Gaz’s hands on Ghost’s wounds seemed to be the only thing real in this gaddamned helicopter.

He felt the last struggles of panic pounding against his ribs as it was dying out, swallowed by some form of regret. He thought, absurdly, of the bathtub. where Gaz was alive under his grip, of that moment where, foolish, he thought he understood and had it all. That he’d been taught, by the edge of death and the mercy of reprieve, to cherish what he had while he had it. That he would remember next time, and not waste the brief grace between missions on silence and restraint.

Try teaching tricks to an old mule, yeah?

He pushed himself in the space on the other side of Ghost’s stretcher, guiding Gaz’s hand away to replace it with his own.

For the awful second where the comms had gone dead, he thought that was it, that he’d lost them for good. The mayhem that followed the explosion had almost taken his heart out. He thought that again he had lost it all.

That he had missed his chance, again.

He would make sure, consequently, to eradicate what could hurt them once more.

Which evidently meant more work. Another evil to uproot. And that was the trouble, wasn’t it? Every time one militia fell, another rose to take its place, one vacuum to another filled with flags and grievances.

He’d seen it too often to believe in endings.

“This is Price. Send a med team to the tarmac; prepare for priority evac once we’re down. Someone, set perimeter. I want a sweep on that launch vector as soon as the birds are clear.” He kept his voice even. He hoped they carried weight despite how rushed he felt.

He glanced toward the two civilians they'd intercepted, the memory of the operating lights still raw. “Search them again, anything that points to coordinates.” The words were blunt because there was no room for sentiment.

Injuries, and sacrifices: tangible proofs that the harm he inflicted on himself and others was a necessary shield against greater damages.

Evil is what hurt his men. The very men he sent in the mud of a foreign country, in harm’s way, so somewhere, someone got to live an ordinary life.

That’s what he told himself. That they were doing good. Price still believed in the work, or told himself he did. It all had to mean something. The premise of his missions could not be doubted. As a captain, expected to lead and make the impossible calls, he needed to believe in the righteousness of his actions. But what is a captain if the justice he wields betrays the conviction that he held?

Farah had asked that once. He did not know then, in a moment of weakness.

John Price never makes the same mistake.

But he was tired. Bone-deep, years-old tired.

The medic assigned to Ghost asked him to take his hand off to allow the blood pressure cuff to work. It had a faint, pneumatic whirring, and released to a number that seemed satisfactory.

Price watched it all and felt a flicker of gratitude, an old and unwelcome feeling that had begun to visit him too often of late. Gratitude was a surrender to luck. The helicopter was still in the air, his men still breathing, and he had done nothing to guarantee either. They had been spared, simply and again. Mercy had a fodness for irony.

Grattitude happened to him.

He’d been here before: for Soap, once. Gaz, then. Ghost, now. Each time he’d told himself he’d learned something. But one by one they had slipped through the cracks of his control, and each return felt less and less like victory

Cowardly, he accepted yet another chance life had forced upon them.

He came back into his body and looked at Ghost, at the rise of his chest beneath the torn fabric.

At life.

“If you’re going to burden me with your face, at least don’t make it all grim.” 

“It’s contemplative.”

“Save it for my funeral,” Ghost replied, voice dry, eyes never leaving him.

“Wouldn’t be smart with me right now if I were you, Ghost.”

Ghost's head tilted slightly as he openly studied Price. Price almost smiled, almost.

Ghost continued as his fingers twitched against his thigh. “Why did it explode?”

“We’re still trying to find out.”

“What about the shipments?”

He exhaled, slow. “We found them. Don’t worry.”

“How’s Tick?” Ghost’s gaze flicked away, unfocused, as if he was seeing something behind Price. Price noted the way the tension ran along the line of his jaw.

“Fine too.”

“He was behind me.”

“I know, stop talking.”