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a rabbit-hearted girl, frozen in the headlights || Simon "Ghost" Riley

pairing → Simon "Ghost" Riley & Reader

summary → It's the first time your team, the 141, sees the other you during a mission—the animal, the wolf, the monster—and it's everything you've feared it would be. They're afraid of you, afraid of your violent nature you can never fully control. But your handler, Ghost, makes you understand nothing could be further from the truth.

warnings → fem!reader, k9!hybrid!reader, shapeshifter!reader, reader's first appearance in her wolf form let's go, (canon-typcial?) violence, blood, reader gets injured, angst & hurt/comfort, big on the hurt but even bigger on the comfort, misunderstandings, protective!Ghost, reader gets so many pets in this, no use of y/n

author's note → This was actually the first thing I wrote for "wolf to the slaughter" when the series didn't exist yet like three years ago. I edited and wrote like 5k additional words of it, and now it's officially part of the series!! I'm so excited to post this, I really, really love this part so much, and it does hold a special part in my heart because it was the actual starting point of the series, and I really hope you'll like this part as much as I do! Let me know what you think about this, every like, reblog or comment is hugely appreciated! 💕 Title is from Florence + The Machine's "Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)".

word count → 7k

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You taste blood, the warm liquid flooding your mouth immediately as you sink your teeth into the flesh of your enemy.

You feel the man's bones shatter under the force of your jaw, sharp shards boring into the roof of your mouth, but you pay it no mind, only ceasing when you stop sensing the soldier’s heartbeat. You let the lifeless body drop to the ground, already having located your next target taking cover behind a destroyed wall in the next room over, breathing heavily while reloading his gun. But you are determined to get to him before he can fire another bullet.

Smoke and dirt fill your lungs as you leap forward, the stench of gunpowder invading your senses and the sound of weapons firing all around you ringing in your ears, but still you are acutely aware of your surroundings. You can accurately pinpoint the different positions of your team members, can distinguish their voices over the deafening noises of the battlefield, can hear everything they're yelling to each other over their comms—even though comprehending each and every word takes a lot of concentration from your animal brain which you simply cannot sustain in this form while fighting in an active firefight.

So you primarily focus on the most important things: Protecting your team and incapacitating anyone remotely hostile.

Because, to their great misfortune, it's the same for the enemy soldiers currently fighting you and your team. You know where they stood or cowered, sensing their elevated heartbeats, hearing even the faintest of movement which makes you able to predict where they will run to, take aim or cover.

Like this, transformed into the wolf slumbering at all times beneath your human form, you're better than everyone around you, faster, stronger, more resilient, fighting heavy automatic weapons and explosives with only claws and fangs, but still your enemies stand no chance against you. If they see or even hear you, it is already too late for them.

Your target emerges from his protected spot, standing tall and bravely aiming his rifle at your running form, his finger about to pull the trigger when you pounce on him with a snarl, latching on to his arm before he can take his shot.

The man screams in pain and horror, trying in vain to free himself from your bite, which only causes you to growl lowly and sink your teeth deeper into his flesh, your strength outmatching that of a mere human by far. You easily oppose his frantic but meek attempts at shaking you off, and you allow yourself to give in to this tempting little game of tug-of-war, pulling with just enough force to counter the man’s unimpressive strength, letting neither of you gain the upper hand just yet.

“Stop playing with your food, Fangs!” a booming voice then suddenly sounds across the battlefield, a direct command from your handler you understand and obey without hesitation. You are in enough trouble with Ghost as it is, having transformed on a mission without his authorization, which could just earn you a permanent place in the silver-enforced kennel on base and your old collar and muzzle to top it off.

With one swift and abrupt pull, you claim your victory against the enemy soldier, making him scream in agony as you all but rip his arm from his body, breaking bones and tearing flesh and muscle just as easily as the fabric of his clothes.

The man drops to the ground with a dull noise, his gun following with a clatter before you let go of his arm that limply lands next to the soldier’s head, his blood now staining the fur around your muzzle and front, making it wet and cling to your body unpleasantly, the taste of blood almost unbearably strong on your tongue.

Nausea hits you unexpectedly and all at once, a slight tremor taking hold of your body despite yourself, and your gaze frantically searches for your handler among the chaos of the destroyed house.

That is, until you hear Soap curse to your right, too Scottish for you to understand, probably even in your human form, which makes it impossible for you to comprehend now. Still, your ears instinctively turn in the direction of his voice, your eyes following immediately after, and suddenly you can't move a single muscle in your body, simply frozen to the spot in the middle of an active battlefield. Because as your teammate's impossible blue eyes meet yours, usually so kind and gentle when regarding you, you realize what he said wasn't an expression of excitement or delight at your way of handling enemy soldiers.

Human facial expressions are even harder for you to interpret in your wolf form than spoken words, but repulsion and fear are things you have been regarded with all your life, and you just know this is what you see written all across the Sergeant's face at this very moment.

Your hackles rise immediately as you shift your body weight back, the feeling of lightheadedness and shortness of breath taking hold of you suddenly and without warning.

It was always bound to happen like this. Desperately, you have clung to the naive hope your team would accept you as you are, as the hybrid capable of turning into the monster of their childhood stories. That they would trust you no matter what. And for a while, it seemed like they had, looking out for you on base and accommodating you wherever they could, never making you feel less for being different, never letting themselves be blinded by the stories and warnings surrounding your kind.

But now, seeing you like this for the very first time, seeing your true colors, brutal and wild, reduced to nothing more than an animal, they realize just how dangerous you really are, that they should've been afraid of you this whole time.

That you're not a friend at all—only a threat, never to be trusted.

A low and dangerous growl forms in your throat without you meaning to, your awareness narrowed to only you and Soap facing each other, but the sound suddenly turns into a high-pitched wail, white-hot pain exploding through your body.

A bullet pierces your flank, ripping open your flesh, and you stagger to the side with the force of it. Soap yells something unintelligible to you at the same moment Ghost’s voice registers in your mind, more gunshots ringing in the air before you regain your footing and can think clearly again.

Your eyes flicker from Soap to Ghost to your attacker hitting the ground, lying unmoving on the dirty ground in a pool of his own blood. You make a displeased noise, your tail flicking in annoyance behind you when you take several steps towards the lieutenant, pain shooting through your body with every single one. The man in question gives you what is most likely an unsympathetic look over above the edge of his skull mask, and the tilt of his head foretells that a long lecture is waiting for you as soon as your team would be back on base, holding a monologue about distractions on the battlefield and that the slight limp you will have to endure for the next day or two has been your fault alone. And he would be right about it, of course, which would only sour your mood further, hiding under the covers of your bed in his room and licking your metaphorical wounds while resisting doing the same to your literal ones.

“You alright, pooch?” Soap calls then, his eyes and weapon trained on another enemy, downing the soldier before looking over to you again, not sounding overly worried, but at least that horrible look has disappeared from his eyes. Not that he actually has to worry about you. Even with a gunshot wound like this it isn't necessary for you to take a trip to the infirmary; your wolf form also gifts you with an accelerated healing ability that you don't possess before transforming. As long as you're not hit with anything made from silver, the wound will close on its own quickly and the blood loss will only be minimal.

Instead of giving Soap any sort of comprehensible answer you could provide in this form, a growl forms deep in your throat as one last enemy soldier decides to seal his fate and storm into the destroyed room, his weapon at the ready. But before he—or Ghost or Soap for that matter—can fire, you already jumped at him and thrown him to the ground, holding him down with one massive paw of yours on his chest. Your long and sharp claws rip open his skin and only sink deeper into his flesh while you bare your teeth. The soldier's scream is silenced by the sound of his neck breaking into a thousand pieces under the force of your bite, fueled by your frustration, anger, and anxiety about this mission, your transformation and Soap’s reaction to you—the other you.

Not the human with the funny ears and tail that always betray her feelings, the one that can track down Gaz's lost hat within moments because of her amazing sense of smell and gets uncharacteristically excited when she spots a squirrel climbing on one of the trees near the base.

No, this is the version of you that the special forces are interested in—interested in controlling and having it fight for them.

The hybrid.

The descendant of the werewolf.

The monster.

The reason why the military has been the only place left for you. A place where, for once in your life, you're accepted, not feared, even if only by a handful of people.

Or so you have hoped.

“Fangs.”

Ghost’s voice, calm but firm, snaps you out of your thoughts and immediately you let go of the soldier's corpse, his lifeless eyes staring back at you full of terror, his head hardly connected to the rest of his body anymore.

You trot over to your handler, your head hanging low, avoiding any eye contact with him and Soap. You come to a stop next to Ghost, close but not touching, your whole body still tense with your ears pinned tightly to your head and your tail down.

There are no more enemies left, the only living people you can sense nearby are your team—Ghost and Soap in the house with you and Gaz and Price just outside of it, emerging from a neighboring building, on their way to regroup with the rest of you.

But still, you can't calm yourself, can't shake off the restlessness and anxiety that have taken hold of you. The stillness of the battlefield feels like it's crushing you, suffocating you, while you can only wait for the inevitable to happen. For your captain and Gaz to enter the room and see what you have done, what you are capable of. For them to look at you the same way Soap has looked at you. For all the trust and friendship you have built with the team over the last several months to be lost in a single moment.

“Don’t worry.”

When you look up at Ghost, he's already watching you, his brown eyes gentler than you have ever seen them before, and you feel yourself relax just a fraction. As your handler, Ghost is the only one who has seen you like this before, not in action but in this form, and both then and now, his calm, almost indifferent reaction to the other you and your abilities comfort you greatly. And you have believed, against your better judgment, that the rest of your teammates would have a similar reaction, that they would, after having gotten to know you, recognize that the beast they saw before them was still you at its heart.

But seeing how Soap has responded to you in this form, you have little hope that it will be any different with Gaz and Price.

Seconds later, the captain and the sergeant enter the room, their low conversation abruptly stopping as they take in the aftermath of the fight that has happened here only moments before. A low whistle sounds from Price as his eyes scan the mutilated bodies scattered all across the room while Gaz actually freezes in the doorway for a good few seconds.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles under his breath before following the captain into the room. You watch their boots step over debris and dead soldiers, not brave enough to meet their eyes and see the look on their faces as they realize that the stories about you and your kind are true, that your nature is brutal and ruthless, and that you never can be fully trusted and therefore will never truly be a part of their team.

Before you can even think about stopping it, a growl breaks through the silence surrounding you, pained and angry, having no other outlet for your fears and frustration while you were in this form. The air around you shifts immediately, your teammates tensing up around you, except for Ghost by your side. You see Gaz taking a step back and Soap gripping his weapon tighter, and suddenly you feel the ground underneath your paws crumble.

Your team—your family, your pack—has rejected you, like everyone in your life you thought had come to care about you has done before. The realization would have brought tears to your eyes in your human form, the loneliness and heartbreak restricting your throat painfully until it's hard for you to take a single breath. But now, with your mind trapped in a wild animal’s body, you can only make yourself smaller, cowering next to your handler with your tail instinctively tucking itself between your hind legs.

You don't notice the confused and concerned glances your teammates share over your head, the way Gaz takes a hesitant step in your direction at the same time Soap tentatively opens his mouth only to be stopped by a firm shake of his head from Ghost.

Your mind barely registers your handler's words as he calmly tells the rest of the team that you and he will check the perimeter one last time before getting the hell out of here, Kyle and Price having successfully collected and secured all the data the 141 has been tasked to retrieve before you were suddenly attacked.

As you limp behind your handler, your head hanging low and your usually sharp eyes almost unseeing, you hope, desperately, that your team knows you would never hurt them.

You can't tell them, not in this form, but you hope, after all, that they know.

You feel Ghost's eyes following your every move as you patrol between the now abandoned and destroyed buildings, walking ahead of him, your ears flicking this way and that, your eyes following just as frantically as you scan your surroundings, knowing very well that you and your teammates are the only living beings—four soldiers and one lonely monster—left in the area.

Still, you can't seem to calm yourself, even this eerie stillness of the battlefield after the fight too loud and overwhelming to your senses, the stench metallic of blood and gunpowder ever-present, carrying it with you, the substances clinging to your fur, staining it.

With every step you take, your paws create little clouds of dust rising from the dry ground, lingering in one spot longer than yourself as you restlessly move ahead of your handler only to circle back a few moments later, brushing past him and again ahead of him, before continuing this little routine anew.

Your tail flicks behind you in agitation, but with every step you take, with every circle you complete, you regain some composure, the sound of your pulse roaring in your ears slowly ebbing away as your heartbeat calms, finding great comfort in the fact that whenever you turn around, the Lieutenant is still behind you, still following with steady steps and regarding you with the same imperturbable expression through his mask.

The grip on his weapon is attentive and fighting-ready, trained soldier as he is, but his gaze is solely focused on you, just as aware that every possible threat has been systematically neutralized by the team.

But when you abruptly stop in front of him, every muscle pulling taut in your body, a low growl rumbling through your chest, ready to attack at a moment's notice, his attention too snaps back into place, training his weapon up at the balcony that has evidently caught your attention.

At first, he can't discern anyone or anything up there, but Ghost knows by now not to question your instincts in matters like these, trusting them completely, even with how distracted and worked up you still are about the rest of the team seeing the other you for the first time.

He deliberately slows his breathing when something moves on the balcony, the barrel of his weapon following the movement as his finger grazes against the trigger, not in the mood for any more surprises today—

—only to immediately drop his rifle again when nothing more but a little calico cat steps out of the shadow, its head held high as it slips through the railing of the balcony, gracefully and noiselessly jumping down onto the roof of the house underneath before hopping down from there too, landing on the dusty street right in front of you and him.

Ghost fights the urge to roll his eyes behind his mask—so much for trusting your supernatural instincts; your transformation in front of the team must've taken even more out of you than he thought—as the feline slinks closer to you specifically.

It's almost comical how fast the fight leaves your body and you all but drop to the ground, making yourself as small and non-threatening as possible, which in this form is a hopeless endeavor, he fears. Transformed, you're bigger than even the largest species of wolves on the planet, your head reaching his chest, just standing on your four legs while your paws are quite literally the size of his own head. Still, you desperately try your best to communicate to this little feline in front of you that you're completely friendly, your ears and eyes turned firmly forward while your tail starts to wag in cautious excitement behind you, every ounce of your attention now fixed on the cat.

Ghost can't decide if he should laugh or sigh at this ridiculous picture you make, so he just stays quiet, not wanting to ruin this moment, ruin this welcome distraction from your current worries.

By now he knows you well enough to be aware of how much you adore cats—and that this love is tragically one-sided. Even in your human form, cats give you a wide berth whenever they spot you, hissing at you when you try to get closer to them before simply bolting away from you, and he can't imagine it will be any different after you have transformed, but he lets you have this moment. After all, maybe this cat will finally surprise both of you and take a liking to you, even when you must be the largest and most terrifying dog this little kitty has ever seen in all of its nine lives.

God knows you could use this small comfort, he thinks.

The cat continues to take deliberate steps towards you, and both you and Ghost dare not to move even an inch as to not scare it away now, waiting with bated breath to see what it will do next. Ghost doesn't pretend to be an expert on cats, always having been more of a dog person—even wishing for a puppy from Santa when he was maybe seven years old and somehow, in its own strangely ironic way, being granted that wish almost thirty years later when the brass had decided to make him your handler—but as far as he's concerned the little feline seems relaxed and curious about you.

When it steps right into your personal space, you almost can't keep the exciting wagging of your tail under control anymore, your whole body vibrating with barely contained elation. You wait in breathless anticipation for what it'll do next—maybe sniff you cautiously at first before rubbing its little head against you? Would it maybe even cuddle up to you eventually, purring contentedly while being pressed close to you? You have half a mind to just transform back right this moment, even if it means leaving you stark naked in front of your handler, just to be able to pet the cat, to pick it up and hold it in your arms!

But your dreams are shattered when the little feline stops right in front of you, just centimeters away from where your head rests between your paws on the dusty ground, and suddenly its whole demeanor changes, hissing angrily before swiping with one paw at you, its razor-sharp claws striking you right across your sensitive nose.

You can't help but yowl in surprise and indignation, your nose stinging terribly as you jump up to your full height again, snarling viciously at the cat as it bolts away, vanishing into the shadows of a narrow alleyway between two buildings.

For a split second, the violent urge to retaliate—to track the cat through this whole ghost town and to corner it, to sink your teeth into its weak little body, breaking every bone in it, warm blood flooding your mouth as its lifeless body hangs from your jaw—flares up in your mind. But it's gone as quickly as it came, and you're left standing there shocked and dumbfounded, baring your teeth as an angry growl rips from your throat, the sound low and dangerous even to your own ears, but you don't move. Only staring in the direction where the little cat has vanished in betrayal.

But before you can even begin to wallow in your sorrow, a laugh rings out behind you, raspy and unguarded, and your head whips around just in time to watch your handler regain control of himself, his shoulders shaking and his brown eyes crinkling at the corners behind his mask with fading laughter. You're dimly aware you've never made Ghost laugh before since joining the 141, but your nose, feelings, and pride are bruised too badly for you to truly acknowledge this fact.

Without thinking, you snarl at him, betrayed and angry that your handler would make fun of you after everything that has happened today, your teeth on full display while your ears are pinned back against your head—only to realize too late what you're doing.

You freeze instantly, panic and dread choking you as you frantically try to think of a way to apologize to Ghost without having a shared language at your disposal, to somehow communicate to him that you didn't mean it, that it was just an accident, to tell him you accept every punishment he deems fit for your transgression—locking you away in the kennel on base or having you wear the silver collar again—if he just doesn't hurt you.

You whimper pathetically when your handler wordlessly takes a step towards you, your terrified eyes never leaving his approaching form as you cower in front of him, your ears and tail instinctively tucking close to your body, making yourself as small as possible.

Ghost stops dead in his tracks immediately, regarding you with an unreadable look in his brown eyes as his jaw ticks almost indiscernibly beneath the thick fabric of his mask. Then he simply lifts his gloved hands in a placating manner, one hand still holding his rifle, and murmurs, "Easy there", followed by your name.

When that doesn't seem to calm you down in the slightest, even backing further away from him while your eyes never leave his, he crouches down in front of you, trying to make himself as non-threatening as possible for a man of his size and stature, going as far as gently lowering his weapon to the ground next to him.

"'m not gonna hurt you, I promise, Fangs," he says then, his voice deadly serious while being softer than you ever heard it before. "I'd never hurt you, you understand? Just want to take a look at your nose, that's all."

Ghost lets his words hang in the tense space between the two of you, simply staying put as he watches you assessing him, still curled into yourself protectively. You whine quietly, desperately wanting to believe your handler while knowing the painful consequences of misplacing your trust in someone. But you're also achingly aware he's never given you a reason not to—freeing you of your restraints the moment he met you, always looking out for you on base, dragging you to the infirmary no matter how small your wound, and willingly sharing his room with you, sacrificing what little privacy he's granted on base just so you have a comfortable place to rest.

And even after months of him being your handler and you trailing after him like a little lost puppy, he's seemingly never tired of your presence despite not being able to stand anyone else talking to him for more than ten minutes at a time—his own team included. He just continues to accommodate you without comment or complaint, never losing his patience with you even though you're nothing but trouble for him, never raising his voice at you.

(Except for the time he saw you happily munching on a piece of chocolate Gaz has kindly shared with you, Ghost having all but shouted at poor confused you, demanding what you were doing while hauling you towards the base's hospital until you explained with tears in your eyes that chocolate isn't dangerous to you at all. Just to almost disprove your own point the very next day, having gotten sick from eating all the chocolates he has gotten you as an apology for his earlier behavior without restraint, your hoarse voice explaining to him between waves of nausea that you really can tolerate chocolate just fine, except apparently in large quantities when you're not used to eating much of it. Your handler just hummed noncommittally, still a little unconvinced, still a little guilty, as he gently held your hair.)

Your heart still pounds anxiously against your ribs as you slowly get up from your cowered position, taking tentative step after tentative step towards Ghost, your nose stinging and your flank protesting with a dull but manageable ache while you desperately hope you're not wrong about him.

But your handler simply proves again that he more than deserves your trust when he simply waits for you to make your way towards him, watching you patiently before slowly getting up when you come to a stand right in front of him, his weapon still on the ground beside him and his hands where you can clearly see them.

"Atta girl," he mumbles proudly and gingerly holds out one of his hands, palm facing up, without touching you. You look down at it, then up at him where his brown eyes watch you with nothing but kindness, and you only hesitate for one more second before letting your head rest heavily against the offered hand, nuzzling against it, relief washing over you almost violently.

Ghost chuckles quietly as he starts rubbing strong fingers along your jaw, his touch more pleasant and relaxing than you could've ever anticipated. Eventually, he brings his other hand to your face and you allow him to gently tilt your head upwards, his eyes sweeping critically over your bruised nose.

You think you see him wince in sympathy behind his mask as he declares matter-of-factly, "Little cat got you good."

But his words only register at the margins of your mind as you're too busy melting against his palms, sensing the warmth of his skin even through the material of his gloves, and your tail starts to wag behind you in cautious excitement all on its own.

"We'll find you a cat that likes you someday, I promise, pup," Ghost adds just as one of his hands wanders between your ears, giving the top of your head a hearty scratch. It punches a sound of pure bliss straight from your chest, making him bite back another chuckle while he continues to pet you, wondering absentmindedly if your fur would feel as soft between his fingers as it looks like.

The two of you silently stay like this for a long while, your wagging tail gaining more and more velocity the longer your handler's fingers run through your fur, scratching behind your ears and petting your head and down your neck. Ghost only stops his caressing when his eyes catch sight of your flank, dried blood making your fur stick together where the bullet has ripped open your skin.

"Gonna have a look at that too, yeah?" he tells you as he moves to your side, carefully examining the wound which is already closed by now. His fingers gently press against the still tender skin, brushing your fur the wrong way just to get a better look at it.

"Bullet went clean through," he says, more to himself than to you, his voice sounding equal parts surprised and impressed. "Really weren't lying when you said you heal fast, huh."

You chuff in agreement, impatient for him to continue petting you. When he doesn't return to his earlier position fast enough for your liking, too fascinated by your surreal healing ability, you give him a nudge with your head, intending for only a soft push. But you underestimate your own strength in this form in contrast to that of a mere human and send your handler, despite his build and mass, staggering a few steps to the side.

"Fuckin' impatient," you hear him complain without any heat behind it, but his voice gets drowned out by the euphoric rush washing over you when his fingers return to scratching behind your ears and under your chin, eliciting an elated rumble from deep within your chest.

Ghost shakes his head in amused exasperation but continues to dutifully stroke your fur, noticing that his gloves, but also his pants and shirt have already started collecting your hair on them and wondering who on base could provide him with a lint roller.

"Getting shot today was absolutely stupid and unnecessary," your handler eventually tells you, completely unprompted, and while you agree with him, it's not something you're keen to hear at the moment, too busy reveling in the first gentle touches you received in literal years. That is, until his next words register in your mind, making your eyes snap open despite yourself and look up at him in complete and utter shock.

"But I'm proud of you, Fangs."

His hands move so he's holding up your head, forcing you to keep looking at him even when every instinct in you begs you to lower your eyes, helplessly overwhelmed. And Ghost doesn't stop there either, brown eyes boring meaningfully into your own as he continues speaking.

"You did well today. Was the right decision to transform, even without my authorization. You saved this mission and all of us, you hear me?"

You do hear his words, but it's difficult for you to process them, much less to believe them. Your whole life, you've been nothing but a burden, a dangerous thing needing to be controlled and contained, so you can't just accept your handler's words now.

Futilely, you try to escape his hold on you, to shake him off, but Ghost's fingers only tighten along your jaw, firm but not painful—never painful. For someone usually not overly keen on prolonged eye contact himself, he's very adamant about this, about you absorbing what he's saying and understanding and trusting the truth in his words.

"I'm not afraid of you like this, and neither are the others," he says when you stop struggling against him, his usually gruff voice uncharacteristically gentle and sincere. You don't know if he's aware of how desperately you have longed to hear these words for a long, long time; for someone, anyone, to tell you that they see you as more than the monster of their childhood fairy tales, see the real you even when transformed. It leaves you shell-shocked, unable to do anything more than to stare up at him, the storm of emotions forming in your chest threatening to overpower you while your throat constricts painfully.

But still, Ghost is not done.

"Price, Kyle, Johnny—they're not used to seeing you like this, but that's all. They trust you, trust your instincts, trust you with their lives, just like I do. Earlier, back in the house, that was nothing more than a misunderstanding, I promise you."

A second passes, and then another one, and then you do the only thing that makes any sense to you in this moment.

You press close to him, as close as you can, forcing Ghost's hands to fall away from your jaw as you rest your head heavily against his sternum where his heartbeat is loudest, putting a little too much of your weight against him, but he doesn't object. Doesn't tell you off or push you away like you feared he would.

Instead, he simply puts his strong arms around you as best as he can and holds you close, his fingers sinking into your fur, not letting go of you for a long while.

The flight back to your current base is uncharacteristically quiet, no mindless chatter can be heard from Soap just to fill the space, no attempts to bait either Gaz or Ghost into a friendly, albeit not less heated argument, are started by him, and not even a casual conversation between the four men starts to form like it usually does even when fatigue begins to settle heavily in their bones after a mission.

Instead, the only sounds filling the tense silence inside the aircraft are the hum of the plane's engine, one of the men shifting in their places, or the occasional cough or hum from someone or another.

Still transformed, you're lying down a little way away from where your team is sitting strapped into their seats, your head resting wearily on your paws as you pretend to not watch your teammates anxiously, who in return pretend their eyes are not also flitting over to your corner from time to time, exchanging worried and helpless glances between each other in the meantime.

Despite Ghost's words, you're still wary of approaching the rest of your team, especially when you can't yet properly communicate with them to show them that you're still you. Still fear that having seen you on the battlefield, having witnessed what you're capable of, has damaged your friendship with them irreparably—that even if they're not afraid of you, they can never truly forget this glimpse of the savage animal slumbering underneath your human facade at all times.

Wallowing in your self-pity, you must've accidentally made a little noise, because suddenly four pairs of eyes are firmly fixed on you with varying degrees of concern visible in them. It's Soap who eventually speaks up first, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.

"How're you feeling, Fangs?" he asks you carefully, leaning forward in his seat and letting his gaze sweep over your body where it inevitably gets stuck on your hind leg, the area still an unsightly mess of bloody fur and tender skin. "The wound giving you trouble?"

He looks and sounds heartbreakingly guilty, almost as if he's blaming himself for you getting hurt back in the house. Perplexed, you stare up at him before vehemently shaking your head, your ears following the movement comically. You vocalize a sound, trying to make him understand that the injury is nothing to be concerned about, that he can probably watch it heal during the rest of the flight, only to remember in frustration that words are currently not something at your disposal.

Your head whips around to where Ghost is seated, his gaze already trained on you, and you give him a pleading look, begging him to explain what you're not capable of in the moment instead. Your handler sighs heavily, as if what you're asking of him is a great burden, but answers your request anyway.

"Don't worry, MacTavish," Ghost addresses the Scot, his eyes meeting his teammate's blue ones for only a second before returning to yours, "she's alright. Had a look at it myself. Bullet went through cleanly and the wound's already closed itself."

"Fuckin' hell," is all Soap can reply as his blue eyes widen in surprise, looking as impressed as Gaz and Price at their teammate's words.

"Still," the Scot says to you after a moment, shifting in his seat as if he just can't get comfortable, "I'm so fuckin' sorry that you got hurt because of me, Fangs. Wasn't my intention to distract you, I just didn't realize how strong you actually are like this."

He says it like it's a compliment, like it's something to be admired, something you can be proud of, and it wrecks you completely. Not to mention that you can't recall the last time someone sincerely apologized to you.

When you don't react, too stunned and moved by his words, Soap makes a move to open his safety belt, but you're faster than him.

In the blink of an eye, you're up and in front of him, and without checking your strength, you press close to him, your head all but slamming directly into poor Johnny's stomach, who doubles over with a breathless 'oof'. But to his credit, he recovers immediately, even before you can freeze in horror at having accidentally hurt your teammate, and throws his arms around you, welcoming this opportunity to pet you to his heart's content.

He's ashamed to admit it, because it makes him every bit a bastard as the people constantly taunting and insulting you on base, invading your personal space and grabbing you without your consent, but he's always wanted to touch your ears, always wondered if they're as soft as they look. But now that you've initiated the touch yourself, he allows himself to carefully trace a finger over the shell of one ear, over the little notches where pieces of skin are missing, watching your reaction closely so he can stop the moment you show any signs of being uncomfortable. But judging from your happily wagging tail, you seem to thoroughly enjoy it, especially when he begins to scratch behind your ear.

Just as Soap's hand moves to the side of your head to give you a good and affectionate ruffling, chuckling in boyish delight while the continuous thumping noises your tail makes on the floor of the plane get faster and faster, he stops his ministrations abruptly when he notices the sorry state of your nose.

Concerned, he guides your face closer to his, trying to get a better look at the cuts visible on this sensitive part of your body, and asks, "What happened to your nose, pooch?"

You only huff in annoyance, not keen on having your embarrassing one-sided scuffle with the little cat repeated to your teammates, but Ghost doesn't share that sentiment.

"Cat," he simply tells the rest of the team, the smirk audible in his voice.

There is a beat of silence before Price closes his eyes and grins while Gaz and Soap break out into unrestrained laughter.

"Ohh, did the big bad wolf try to make friends with a cat again and got her ass handed to her?" Soap teases by literally baby-talking to you, a fat grin plastered across his face which only grows bigger when you growl lowly and bare your teeth at him, clearly not as amused by your little misadventure with the cat as the rest of the team.

"Look at these pearly whites," the Scot continues undeterred, still using that stupid baby talk with you, "look how scary you are!"

You roll your eyes at him, but halfway through the motion, Soap begins to scratch under your chin which forces your eyes to fall shut in pure pleasure, a happy sigh escaping you as he shows no sign of stopping to pet you anytime soon.

Besides, you can't really be mad at him, or the rest of the team for that matter, for poking a little harmless fun at you, not when Ghost was right and your teammates really do accept you for who, and what, you are.

Not when you finally have found a place among people who genuinely care about you.

The rest of the flight is defined by your tail thumping joyfully against the metal floor of the plane while you happily let Gaz and Soap try basically every stupid thought that comes into their minds with you.

At first, they're just petting you in tandem until Soap has the brilliant idea to stick a finger into your mouth and curl it around one of your massive canines, tugging while you playfully pull against him, obviously using only a fraction of your strength. Otherwise, you'd simply drag him out of his seat, or worse, bite his finger off like it's nothing.

Now, the two muppets are amusing themselves with putting Gaz's iconic hat on your head and taking pictures of you while you sit primly in front of them, seemingly not opposed to their antics at all. They even try begging Price for his bucket hat, but the captain sternly refuses.

And maybe, after the plane has landed, Ghost goes out of his way to track down Gaz again to ask the younger man to send him the pictures they have taken of you for no reason whatsoever, really. Certainly not for the pure and adorable look of happiness he can see in your eyes even in your wolf form, surrounded and accepted by the first real family you had in years.

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