fanfic_goblin

head in the clouds.

[schogotten]

[littlefanfictionfiend]

O.TBLAE CHAPTER ONE:

Based on THIS initial concept.

Also available on AO3.

Featuring: Captain John Price, Sergeant Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick, Sergeant Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish, Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, & Medic GN Reader.

✨️ This is my first time writing a gender neutral protagonist, so please, if you see something that is gendered in my writing, let me know so I may correct it! ✨️

Overall Warnings: The “can't keep a medic” trope, typical COD violence, potentially inaccurate military references, polyamory dynamics, queer romance, gender neutral pronouns for Reader, potential smut (not 100% sure about it).

Synopsis: It's not easy being a member of taskforce 141, never was really, but, with the team finally fully recovered after Soap's near death experience in Los Almas coupled with the men's stubbornness in welcoming an additional squad mate… things aren't looking so good for the special operations unit. Thank goodness Laswell is always there to help out her boys, offering them one final helping hand in the form of You, a battle hardened medic who doesn't quite live up to their jaded expectations.

John… had a problem. Or really, the brass that he had been standing before had a problem that was, by default, now his. His task force was a well-oiled machine. No one had disputed that. Especially in the early days of Price having put together the 141, but back then, his men and him hadn't been so entangled in one another's lives. There had been a clear line between his care for his men and the job.

But that was then, and this is now. It had been years since his tired eyes had wandered to his charming sergeant, his doting Gaz. Long since the two of them had danced around the inherent military hierarchy and their age difference. They were no longer behaving like schoolyard boys with crushes. And he could say the same about his Lieutenant, Ghost, and his rambunctious sergeant, Soap. The four of them ultimately gravitate toward and around one another in a pleasant orbit.

Soap and Gaz would like to boast that they were the masterminds that brought their little polycule together, but neither Ghost of himself would confirm or deny their lovers.

And in the now of their lives, John was handling the ire of the higher ups as they questioned the teams stability and his control over them, as yet another medic had requested a transfer out of the illustrious 141. In an attempt to keep his men together, John had relied heavily on the brass, turning their even blind eye away from the small transgressions that occurred within many high priority military groups. But they had pushed back one too many times.

. . .

“It's too late for that, John.” Kate's tinny, clipped voice filtered down the landline receiver in Captain Jonathan Price's cramped office. The phone clutched between his ear and shoulder as he fought to not grind his teeth.

The large man slowly rested back into his worn leather chair as he went through the motions of preparing a much needed cigar. Of course, Kate Laswell would know about his team's plight before he even got around to properly asking her for assistance. Brows pinching together, “... meaning?” he exasperated, cockney tone equally as clipped.

“You've pushed the board past their breaking point, John. This is the seventh GOOD medic that's requested a transfer out of your team... Did you think they would turn an eye forever?” The rather tired Station Chief held no hands as she laid John's predicament out to the man.

“I've kept them at bay for as long as I could, but you know every unit needs a dedicated medic. You can't expect me to convince the higher ups that dedicated field care isn't a requirement of highly trained task forces. They want their assets taken care of for as long as possible.” The woman sighed as John lit the end of his cigar and listened. One thing he'd learned to do quickly into his military was to know when to keep his mouth shut. This is one of those times.

John could only manage a grunt in reply as he took in a mouthful of smoke and braced, a hair's breath, into his chair. Of course, he knew that he couldn't keep his men hidden from the demands of the higher-ups forever. Knew they wouldn't stand for the unit's break in protocol and regularity. But the part of him that wasn't the Captain, that wasn't the hardened soldier, had hoped they had had more time.

He can practically hear the woman roll her eyes through the phone as he fails to provide a proper response. “... Clarke, I can understand, John. He was too bullheaded to handle Ghost on the best of days, but Taafee was an exceptional soldier and a top-tier medic! What could your men and you POSSIBLY be doing to make them fold in under a month!? A month, John! That's not even enough time to properly acclimate to base.” Kate doesn't relent in her questioning of her, typically collected, colleague behaving like... like such a schoolboy.

As concerned and perplexed as John feigned to be for his superiors, he couldn't convince Kate that he didn't know how his men were pushing out medic after medic. No. Kate had known him for too long, worked with him for too long to convince her that he didn't know how his own men operated. Taking a drag of his cigar, John released a rush of air and smoke through his nose as if he were some dissatisfied dragon. If he were truly honest with himself and Kate, he would acknowledge that his boys, and him included, often drifted into their own small universe together.

Sometime after all of them had sat down and finally had ‘the talk’ regarding their budding relationships with one another, Gaz and Soap having had to drag the other two into doing so, John had realized that they all were drawn to one another. Not just in the sense that their highly specialized set of military skills drew them all together. No. They sought one another out after hours of training recruits, between practice at the gun range and dinner in the mess hall, when reports were due and they didn't quite feel like being alone while rushing to write it, and when there was just nothing left to do for the day.

Whether his boys noticed themselves, well, he wasn’t completely sure. But he'd noticed the team unintentionally forgetting about the string of additions to the taskforce over the last year and a half. Unless it was directly related to the assignment set before them, they all still gravitated around one another. Having built orbits circling each other as their intimacy grew and having functioned as a four person task force for years made it hard for them to remember to include new additions to the team.

Some part of John wished it was something more petty, that it was something he could easily correct but… this was purely unintentional.

The team had its habits, not that that would be a justifiable reason for Kate. “You know how the lads are, Kate, bullheaded. The whole lot of ‘em. The soldiers they've sent over just haven't meshed right with the team,” he replied stiffly, like the words didn't feel right coming off his tongue. An uneasy silence settled between them as the call turned into a quiet standoff, both of them waiting for, hoping, the other to give in and comply.

“Mesh right?” Kate questioned incredulously, tone skirting the realm of chastising, “It shouldn't matter if they mesh well! You're all trained professionals. What matters is if they can save your lives.”

”We can save ourselves, ‘don't need a bloody medic to compress a wound or use a disinfectant packet.” John managed to defend between puffing on his cigar. His free hand drummed an agitated beat along his desk.

A short bark of a laugh comes down the line from Kate, both of them well aware of how paperthin his rebuttal was. “John. A medic would have stopped Soap's head wound in Los Almas from being so touch and go.” The American says flatly but not unkind. The unfiltered reminder of Soaps’ almost death rattling him in a way he hadn't expected. Conversation dying up on his tongue.

They had dealt with Johnny almost dying on them during the fiasco that was the Los Almas joint assignment. Ghost and Gaz had been inconsolable, Christ. He'd been barely able to hold it together between attending debriefings and staying vigil outside Soap's hospital room. And now they were finally settling back into their old rhythm only for it to be upheaved.

As the silence lay between them once more, Kate continued, “I won’t sugar coat it, John..” Not that she ever sugar coated anything in the years he’d known Laswell, “... the Brass is at its wits end with the sheer amount of medics that have transferred out of the task force. So much so that there is talk of disbanding the 141 until one of your boys is certified as a field medic..” The implications of that hanging between them, thick and cloying in John’s lungs like the cigar smoke already there. That would entail one of them being sent off to receive their nursing degree at a civilian university… meaning they would be disbanded for at least three years… four to five if he factored in the shadowing done in active hospitals. Enough time for the Brass to reason that the 141 wasn't needed anymore once one of the men had the education. Enough time to divide his lovers into new units and away from one another permanently. His mind spiraled through possible outcomes, none of them realistically positive.

“Kate…” John started in, about to ask for even a sliver of assistance, something to give him time to find a way out of the situation. Only to be cut off by Laswell as she offered a proverbial hand, "That's why you’re going to accept my recommendation for a medic with no complaints,” it was firm, an offer out of the hole he had let his team dig, that he couldn't refuse.

John's mouth opened as if he was going to quip back, but his voice fell short. This wasn't the time to have a proverbial dick measuring contest with his colleagues over who was going to take control of the situation. Chewing on his ego, he acquiesced, “Alright… send over their file.” Putting his men above his pride, he listens as Kate hums pleasantly and informs him that his new medic will be there in two weeks. Two weeks to somehow convince them all that this is what they needed, whether they truly wanted it or not.

✨️PLEASE NOTE!✨️ If you wish to be added to the taglist for continued chapters, please let me know!

Yes, I am working on further chapters for this story. I am just a slow writer when it comes to translating the story concepts I have in my head to actual well-written text. 😅

[ohclaire]

Reader who intentionally fucks up everyone’s call sign just to piss them off.

It started with Soap (because what kind of nickname is Soap?). You thought it was infinitely funny that all these big, bad, serious military men were going around calling their comrade soap. So obviously your first instinct was to bully him, sue you!

“You comin’, suds?” You honestly didn’t mean to say it out loud, but you’d been calling him it in your head for so long it was bound to slip out.

Everyone stops short, “…suds?” Soap questions.

You giggle a little to yourself, your joke finally revealed, “yeah! Cause like…soap makes suds.”

He’s confused for a second before he joins the bit like he always does, “aye, soap does. Wanna see my suds, if ya ken what I mean.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

The team groans, “oh, come on, Soap! Gross!”

“What! The birdie started it!”

Ghost was the next victim. Again…weird nickname. He was so serious and emo all the time, and then he walked around with a skull mask and skull gloves with a name like ghost? He needed to be teased. He was begging for it.

“Okay…what’s the plan, Boo?”

He looks disgusted. “What did you just call me?”

You say it again but jump at him a little and flash your hands, “Boo! Y’know…like scary…like a ghost.”

“Sounds like a pet name,” you can tell his lip is probably curled under his mask.

“It is!” You don’t deny.

He looks away and continues the planning. Soap snorts.

Your captain had no nickname, which honestly you didn’t think was fair, so you burdened yourself with the task of bestowing one upon him.

You pull it out once he ends up pulling off some, frankly, crazy maneuvers. “Woo! Way to go, Bill!”

He turns to stare confused, “who the fuck is Bill?”

“You are!” you smile unabashedly, “like…the price you pay…with a dollar bill.”

“We don’t use those here, love.”

“…irrelevant.”

He rolls his eyes and walks away.

Now Kyle, lovely Kyle, had a fairly normal nickname (bless him), but you still decided to change his.

“Hey, Gas.”

“Hey, where—“ he stops and blinks, tilts his head slightly, “did you…call me gas?”

“Yup! It’s what I thought they were calling you when I first got here.”

He shakes his head incredulously, “you can’t call me gas.”

“What? Would you prefer petrol?” You think you’re funny.

“You’re incorrigible.” He stands to leave.

“I have other options! Gas wait! What about garr-bear? Gas come back!” You run after him.

They hate you. (No they don’t.)