Everything That Ever Was
Author: @deadbranch Characters: John “Soap” MacTavish (2022) x fem!Reader Summary: Soap tries to give you space, but you can’t seem to avoid each other. Something unexpected reopens an important conversation between you. Word Count: 1.4k Warnings: 18+ MDNI, light whump, light angst impolite language, tobacco use. A/N: Written for @glitterypirateduck ‘s #SoapItUp challenge. This is the alternate version of events from For What It’s Worth (Captain MacTavish, 2009) if reboot Soap (2022) were sharing the scene with Reader instead. Sounds like a lazy rehash of plot, but I assure you this took some work on my part.
SGT SOAP MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST (all @deadbranch content)
EVERYTHING THAT EVER WAS
Your lighter snaps open with a practiced flick of your wrist, the spark wheel cracking beneath the pad of your thumb, numb with cold and the bored malaise that accompanies a Friday afternoon.
The smoke fills your lungs, flooding your bloodstream with the buffered rush of nicotine that’s been taunting the steadiness of your brain for the last four hours.
You officially kicked the habit six months ago. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you smile. So much for the official report.
A familiar silhouette gives your eyes a reprieve from the midday sun as it steps between you and the cause of your squinted frown.
“They need me back?” you ask automatically, anticipating the answer. They forget how to act when you’re not in the room.
Soap’s hesitance gives you a different kind of reassurance. They’re not asking for your return. He’s out here for himself.
He’s been ignoring you recently or trying to. You still catch his eyes on you from a distance now and again.
You were interested in John MacTavish, and for a while you thought the feeling was mutual.
He left suddenly, called away while you were both half-dressed. You assumed that your little exploratory exchange would resume upon his return.
You assumed.
A month later, here you are. Consciously taking deeper, more frequent drags to get through your cigarette. You’ll find a way to excuse yourself again in an hour, but for now you need to get back inside and away from Soap. You hate that he’ll always be that open question in the back of your mind. You don’t care about the answer, but it’s been asked, nonetheless.
“No, they're fine.”
“MacTavish?”
“Yeah?”
“What the fuck are you doing out here then?”
You look up. He takes a seat across from you, knees spaced wide apart, as though sitting on some reluctant throne in a distant realm of lonely fantasy.
His right eye is swollen, the flesh below it darkened with a bruise that couldn’t be more than a day old.
“Christ, Soap. Who did…that…to you?”
“Ya noticed?” He smirks with a shrug. “Just no’ wearing makeup today.”
You glance upward into the skeletal trees above the parapet, a guarded laugh in your throat as you draw another cigarette from the hidden pocket sewn into your coat sleeve.
“Doesn’t answer my question. Who did this to you?”
“It's fine. It’ll heal.”
That’s not like Soap. Always ready with a wild tale, leaning heavily into his accent, even when sober.
“You sure you’re alright? Maybe flirted with the wrong woman last night? Had to fight her legion of boyfriends to win her heart?”
You feel only mild guilt for prodding him like this. You want the old Soap back. The cheeky fire.
He raises a brow as he contemplates the cracked pavement below his boots.
“Just…dinnae agree with someone last night.”
“Was it worth it?
You suddenly remember yourself as you mumble around your unlit cig. Patting the pocket, you retrieve your lighter. Out of a comfortably exaggerated sense of superstition, you stare into the inscription in the cold steel. 'The hardest choices take time.'
“Aye. It was in defense of someone I care about.” He glances up at you, likely gauging your reaction.
After the end of your cig catches, you smile tentatively. You slip your lighter back into a side pocket of your BDUs, careful not to appear too interested in what he’s offering. He’s baiting you. He wants you to ask.
“Why do you do that?” The question chills you even before it leaves your mouth. You’ve never cared before, nor paid him any mind, but there’s something about that shiner that bothers you.
“Do what, bonnie?”
His sharp intake of breath informs you that he didn’t mean to call you the silly little endearment that always made you smile.
You forgive him instantly. It’s just Soap. He can’t help the mess he is sometimes. He’s an efficient soldier. You’ll always want him at your back on mission. A good man. A greater friend. So unabashedly endearing, but difficult to read at the worst times.
“Avoid saying what you mean. You do it often. Life would make more sense if you’d just say what you mean. What you want.”
He stares into the palms of his gloved hands, fingers flexing, elbows to knees.
“I know what I want. And it’s terrifyin, if I’m honest.” His hands are shaking.
“Do I make you nervous?” you ask quietly, hoping he doesn’t notice your change in tone. You’ve tried so hard to convince yourself you don’t care about him. You tried. Still trying.
“No,” he hedges, clasping his hands together as he meets your gaze, “But I’m afraid.”
“Says the man who picks fights and has the shiner to prove it.”
He appears ashamed before he glances down again, as though his hands hold the answer.
The smoke in your lungs doesn’t soothe anymore. Something’s wrong. You stub out your half-smoked cigarette and flick it into the ash bin.
“Soap…”
He shakes his head. “John.”
It feels like a punch in the stomach. The one time you’ve called him John was when he was kissing your neck as he slid one hand into the front of your knickers. Then his phone rang. Whatever was said on the other side prompted him to leave.
“I won’t call you that,” you state simply. You consider explaining yourself, but you won’t. You owe him nothing. He left you thinking there was more to be had between you, and there obviously wasn’t.
He closes both fists tightly, the leather creaking in the frosty air. As though reading your mind, or perhaps he, too, is haunted by memories of the same night, he enlightens you.
“It was CoC. They told me it was either me…or you. If I told them no, your number was next on the list. The mission calculated at a 78% casualty rate, hen.”
Your hearing muffles as you reframe your memory of events from the last thirty days.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you woulda stopped me. I know ya, bonnie. You woulda stopped me. Or you woulda come with. Couldn’t have either.”
“I make my own decisions...”
“I know ya do…”
“...don’t need you to save me.”
“...and that’s why I’m afraid.”
You break eye contact and stare into the distance toward the rugby field.
Your mouth tastes of ashes and regret. The moment Soap left your flat in a rush was the moment you decided to pick up the habit again.
“What do you want from me, Soap?”
“It doesn't matter what I want.”
“I think it does.” You shove both hands into your pockets, your numb dry knuckles reminding you of the neglect you’ve paid yourself in spades since that night.
“I’m selfish, bonnie. You don’t know it…but I’m fuckin’ selfish. If I had what I want…you’d be safe at home. And I’d be out of the service, so I wouldn’t run the risk of leavin’ ya all alone…”
Looking down again, he shakes his head.
“Soap. Look at me.”
He shakes his head again but eventually meets your line of sight.
“Can’t bear tha thought of you with someone else. But I don’t want you to be alone either. I want you happy. Safe. Alive. But I don’t know if all that can happen if we’re both still doing this for a living.”
“So, the answer was for you to avoid me this rotation?”
He gives you a wear smile. “I’m daft, bonnie. Ya know that.”
“What happened, when you got popped?” You gesture toward the right side of your own face to indicate his injury.
“Someone…said something about you. I’d had a drink and couldn’t let it go.”
“Just one?”
He shrugs, the easy smile emerging on his lips. “I had a drink or four.”
There he is. There’s the old Soap.
“What’d they say about me that got you riled up?”
“Tell you what. Meet me here after COB. I’ll explain over a pint, if you’ll let me.”
“Just one?”
“Well…a story like this takes time.”
As he follows you back into the warmth of the building, you hope you still have chewing gum in your desk.
Today seems like a great day to quit smoking.
Alternate version with 2009 Soap
Extended author's notes
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