AO3: Otaku_girl | Fics only account: @otaku-girl-ao3-fics | ATJ character masterlist | June of Doom 2026 masterlist
Fandom: Fuze 2026
Summary: After months of being treated like a suspect in the wake of the London explosion, you finally track your missing husband down to Karalis’ nature reserve – and discover that Will never intended for you to find him at all. Furious, heartbroken, and very much not ready to forgive him, you decide that if Will wants his marriage back, he is going to have to earn it.
Prompt: June of Doom 2026, day 30. Today we have… I thought you were dead + near death experience + explosion + guilt.
Author’s notes: And we have the final day of June of Doom. So many fun prompts this year 💚 Thank you @juneofdoom for another wonderful year of prompts.
Tactical error
“Love?”
Will’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he says it, his smile wider than you have seen since his first tour of Afghanistan, back when he was still more of a boy than a man. He sounds so pleased to see you. He moves away from Karalis, leaving the low table covered with maps and blueprints and goodness knows what else, turning towards the tentflaps as footsteps approach and you slip inside.
Your pace doesn’t falter, gaze locked on him.
He looks good. Tanned, like he’s been spending more time out in the sun again. His hair is longer than the regulation cut he was allowed before, his stubble sculpted into something rapidly approaching a beard.
“You’re here,” he holds his arms out as if he plans to pull you into a hug.
The sound of your palm striking his cheek echoes in the late afternoon heat, your palm stinging and aching even as his cheek begins to redden. Will looks stunned; Karalis unsurprised. Will’s smile finally falters as silence stretches taut and uncomfortable between the three of you. Behind him, Karalis’ sharp gaze flicks between the two of you, assessing, reading the room far faster than Will. He has the good sense to take a step back from the blueprints, hands raising in silent surrender, as you round on Will.
“You found me,” Will says carefully. “I knew you would.”
You laugh, the sound brittle and humourless. “That’s really what you’re going to say to me? After almost a year apart?”
It’s not the longest you have been apart, of course. Multiple tours in Afghanistan, combined with being a specialist in Explosive Ordnance Disposal, and Will’s time has always been a premium; something to be competed for, not taken for granted. It’s not even the first time that the army has refused to give you details on where Will is, or what’s gone wrong – or if anything at all has happened to him. But it is the first time they’ve left you thinking he is dead.
You don’t stop moving until you reach the table, eyes flicking across the papers spread across it without really taking any of it in. You’ve already heard all about Karalis’ nature reserve. A lifelong dream? The thought makes you want to laugh. Your pulse is thundering too loudly in your ears for you to focus on anything else.
Weeks. Weeks of sitting, and waiting, and hoping, and uncertainty. Months of chasing rumours and dead ends and classified report after classified report. Nearly a year of military officials looking at you too closely, their suspicion not even thinly veiled, all the while refusing to tell you whether your husband is dead or alive, whether there are any pieces to send back to you or a random nobody is willing to pay.
You sweep the papers from the table, the faintest glint of satisfaction rising in your chest as glasses shatter on the hard packed earth beneath your feet. Will’s hand falls to your shoulder even as Karalis insists, “Will, it’s fine–”
This time, he doesn’t let your slap hit. His hand curls around yours, holding it with a stern gentleness that makes your knees want to buckle, tears creeping at the edges of your eyes. “They wouldn't even tell me you were missing at first. They told me they couldn’t confirm anything.”
He remains silent, watching you steadily with that blank, stony look he only ever seems to get as far as work is concerned. Anger rises like a tight and brittle ball in your chest, threatening to shatter and strike the sharp little pieces too deep to be retrieved.
“What was I supposed to think, Will? You get the call to go in. A fucking bomb turns up on the news. It goes off. And suddenly, you’re nowhere to be found and nobody is talking?” You pull your hand free from his grip. Palms flat, you shove roughly at his chest. It’s not enough to make him even take a step back.
“Love–”
“Don’t you fucking love me, you complete and utter arsehole!”
Read the full fic on AO3.
AO3: Otaku_girl | Fics only account: @otaku-girl-ao3-fics | ATJ character masterlist | June of Doom 2026 masterlist
Between the truth and the lies | Major Will Tranter x Gender Neutral Reader
AO3: Otaku_girl | Fics only account: @otaku-girl-ao3-fics | ATJ character masterlist | June of Doom 2026 masterlist
Fandom: Fuze
Summary: Ten years after the loss of his squad in Afghanistan, Will starts slipping into a silence you can’t follow. You refuse to let him go without a fight.
Prompt: June of Doom day 12, prompt: Don't lie to me
Between the truth and lies
You find him in the kitchen with the lights off.
Not fully off – there’s the thin glow of light from the extractor hood clock and the bright glow of the microwave, the door left open no matter how many times Will reminds you – but it’s enough that the house feels like it’s holding its breath. Will leans back against the countertop, wearing nothing but a low-slung pair of pyjama bottoms – worn out things in a washed-out grey, barely staying up even with the string knotted in place – one hand braced against the counter, the other cradling a cup of tea that has long since gone cold.
You hesitate in the doorway. He’s been getting like this more and more each time he’s home from base. It’s almost as if he doesn’t realise how long he’s been standing in here in the dark. Or like he’s forgotten what he came in for, and is still trying to remember.
Did something happen? Once upon a time, you would have known with certainty. Will didn’t keep secrets from you. Not the important kind. But as the years have crept by? You aren’t so sure.
“Will?”
He doesn’t startle. Stormcloud blue eyes flick to you, silence hanging heavily in the air. It’s nearly one; he’s got to be back on base by six, which means setting off not long after five. He’ll be lucky to get any sleep at this rate.
That he doesn’t say anything is the second sign that something is wrong.
He stands here, watching you with a stillness that he is usually more careful to leave behind at work. He knows how it unsettles you to see him like this. Cold, and calm, and somehow simultaneously like he is picking you apart and not seeing you at all. It’s enough to make you shiver.
Will turns his head, enough for you to see his profile in the low light. The set of his jaw. The careful neutrality on his face that he’s been wearing more often lately, like a layer of armour he forgets to take off now that he’s back home.
“You’re up late, love,” he says, the low rumble of his voice breaking the silence.
“So are you.”
You move slowly, telegraphing your every move as you make your way to the kettle. You have to reach up on tiptoes to get your favourite mug – something you are convinced Will likes to do on purpose – though when you turn around, his gaze isn’t locked on your behind as it usually is. There’s no teasing comment about the way your own sleep clothes hang around you, or gentle admonishments about caffeine this late at night.
It’s almost like Will isn’t really here right now. Like he didn’t come home from that last assignment. No, that isn’t fair; he’s been growing more distant for some time now, you think, heart aching in your chest.
You wish you knew what to do.
The kettle hums low and soothing in the background, blue light spilling over the countertop. It’s a horrid, cheap thing, but it’s better than the stovetop whistler you were using before you realised just how much the noise of it bothers Will.
Water bubbling, the kettle finally clicks off. Neither of you move.
You watch him for moments longer than you should, your discomfort growing as seconds stretch on into minutes. There’s a version of him you know how to read easily; tired and irritable, but with a soft smile for you, a kiss to your cheek, a grounding hand squeezing at your waist. This Will? It isn’t that same version. It’s barely a paper cutout of him.
“Love…” You trail off. You have been trying to broach the subject for too long. Whatever this is, it isn’t getting any better. If anything, he’s only getting worse. You know you can’t keep putting this off forever. Not if you want there to still be something left to fix. “You’ve been like this for weeks.”
Will’s gaze flicks to you, then away again, like he can’t bear to look at you. “Like what,” he asks, voice flat.
“No.” The word cuts through the stillness. He looks to you, eyebrow raised. Your irritation rises. “Don’t do that.”
He exhales through his nose; not quite a sigh, not quite a huff. He shakes his head, amusement curling on his lips but touching nowhere near his eyes. “Don’t do what?
“This!” The words come out sharper than you mean them to. “This thing where you pretend not to know what I'm talking about.”
You reach for the kettle, tossing a tea bag into your mug and filling it with hot water, giving yourself a moment to try and calm down, to try to re-center yourself. You half expect Will to be gone by the time that you turn back around. You take it as a win that he’s still here.
“The problem is that you’re not doing anything,” you say, allowing yourself no more than glimpses out of the corner of your eye as you fish the teabag out by the edge with your fingers – a habit that is entirely Will, and that you are annoyed at yourself for having picked up – before adding enough milk to turn the whole mug a pale caramel; just the right shade to draw a fond, teasing remark from Will. Well, usually, at any rate. “You’re not sleeping properly. You barely eat when I’m not sitting opposite watching you. You keep getting these calls, and you think I don’t notice you leaving the room to take them. But I do, love. I know you.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes tightens. “You know my work is confidential.”
You do. It always has been. One of the many downsides of becoming an army spouse. But this isn’t like before, when he would still share the little things. And a few of the bigger things he probably shouldn’t. Something about Will has changed these last few months. It’s almost as if he’s been withdrawing from you. It terrifies you to think why that might be.
“That’s not what this is. Don’t lie to me, Will.”
Silence spreads between you. The kitchen starts feeling far too small for all of this. You grab your mug. There was a time that Will would have followed you to keep the conversation going; now, you aren’t so sure that he will. You cross the kitchen to the tiny table, taking a seat. It puts you firmly between Will and the door; something you know that he doesn’t like. At this moment, you can’t find it in yourself to give a damn.
You take a sip, the taste of milky-sweet Earl Grey spreading across your tongue. Will’s gaze has wandered again.
You can’t allow this to keep happening. You can’t put it off any longer.
The clink of your mug on the table isn’t enough to draw his gaze, but your words are. “It’s been ten years, love.”
He turns towards you sharply. “Don’t.” It’s a warning and a plea all rolled up into one.
You want to go to him. To pull him into your arms, to have his familiar weight slump against you. To hold him, and tell him it’s alright. But pretending everything is fine has gotten you nowhere and, as the days pass, and Will’s gaze seems more vacant, the more that it feels like he is with you physically, but not mentally, the more that you know you will have to be the one to take the next steps.
“Will… I know what these kinds of anniversaries do to people. I know what it did to you that first year–” Stumbling home drunk, barely able to walk, too out of it to roll himself onto his side in the night as he started to choke on his own vomit.
“–and the second–” He hadn’t even made it inside; you found him passed out in the garage, the door cracked open, the car turned off, but Will still firmly inside.
“–and–” The years started to blur together. The fifth had been the worst. You had made Will swear not to bring his service pistol home after that.
“–every year since you have tried to pretend it didn’t matter. But this one… ten years–”
“Stop.”
You can’t stop.
Your throat is tight, tears leaking in silent trails down your cheeks. “It’s not just a number. It’s Afghanistan. It’s your squad. It’s–”
“I said stop.”
Will isn’t the kind of man to shout; it makes the bite of his words, the sharp edges, all that much more effective. You fall still and silent. Will takes a deep, shuddering breath, before letting it out slowly. Neither of you speaks. The house ticks and hums around you. Somewhere outside, a fox yips, the sound eerie in the stillness of the night.
When Will finally speaks again, his voice is lower, controlled in a way that feels almost less like he is angry, and more like his words are sharp. Dangerous. “You think I’m about to do something stupid.”
It isn’t a question. Your silence answers for you anyway.
He laughs, shaking his head. “That’s what this is. An intervention.”
“This is me scared, Will.” You shake your head in return. “You won’t talk to me. You won’t let me in. You just disappear into whatever this is in your head, you go back there, and I can’t… Will. I can’t lose you to it.”
Tears spill down your cheeks. Your chair scrapes across the floor, the sound of wood on linoleum enough to make you flinch. It doesn’t stop you. You cross the room before he can speak, hands rising to cup his cheeks. “You’re mine. They can’t have you.”
Not the ghosts of the people he has lost – good men and women, fallen in combat. Not the civilians he failed, caught in the crossfire or in the wrong place at the wrong time. And not the fucking army. Not the bastards who still hide behind their ranks and the safety of their desks, thousands of miles away from those sent to do their dirty work.
At last, something in his expression shifts. He doesn’t soften – not quite – but there is a quiet recognition there behind his eyes. It’s almost like he is really hearing your fears for the first time, and doesn’t quite know what to do with them.
He places his mug down, hands rising to rest on your shoulders. In the low light, you can see the dark ink of his tattoos against the stark paleness of his skin. A frisson of jealousy goes through you. The army has taken so much of him away from you. You refuse to allow it to take any more.
“You are not going to lose me,” he says, voice soft but firm.
“You can’t promise that.”
There is a beat of silence. Then, quietly, “Yes. I can.”
You can’t help yourself; you laugh. “Oh? And how’re you going to do that? I know you, Will Tranter. No man left behind. Captain bloody America has nothing on you. You’d throw yourself on a grenade if it meant saving a stray dog. I thought I told you to stop lying to me.”
He looks at you properly now. The weight of his gaze is like a physical thing. You think, sometimes, that he forgets how well you know him. Childhood sweethearts. You hadn’t quite managed to get permission from your parents to marry at 16 when Will had first enlisted, but the second he was back from deployment after you turned 18 he had proposed. You’d been married before his first tour.
For a second, you think he might finally say something. That he might finally talk to you about it – whatever it is, that is weighing on him. You don't care how ugly he thinks it is. He’s been carrying it around for so long, you want to help him carry it in whatever little way he will let you.
Instead, he exhales, long, and slow, and controlled. His lips brush against the crown of your head, and he pushes himself up and away from the counter, slipping past you with ease.
“You’ve built a story,” he says. “In your head. About what I’m doing. About what I’m going to do.”
Your brow draws down. Head shaking, your hands clench around your mug. This isn’t about your sleepless nights, or the days you spend staring out of the window, wondering if he’s ever coming back to you. It’s not about the way that your heart jumps into your throat every time you see a smartly-dressed stranger from behind passing by in the street, wondering if today might be the day that someone knocks on your door. That only pieces of Will come back to you. “No, that’s not–”
“It is,” he cuts in, not unkindly, but firmly enough that you know not to stop him. “It can be scary when I’m not here. So you’ve filled in the gaps.”
You reach for him, hand catching the soft grey waistband as he stands. He stops, turning back to you, eyebrow arched. Waiting.
“I’m not imagining this.” Your words are soft but firm. You hold his gaze, refusing to let this be brushed under the carpet again.
Will looks back at you as he says evenly, “And I’m not broken.”
“I never said you were.” Hurt blossoms in your chest. Some of it must show on your face, as Will sighs, reaching up to scrub roughly at his face. You can hear the rasp of his stubble against work-rough palms, the sound a soothing balm in the stillness. Every little noise he makes is precious. In his line of work, leaving no trace – making no sound – is expected. You know to appreciate each little noise for what it is.
“No,” Will concedes. “But it’s how you’re making me feel.”
You can’t breathe. His arms wrap around you, pulling you to his chest. He tucks his chin on top of your head, lightly squeezing you. His words are muffled as he promises you, “I’m not breaking, love.”
His words are simple. Clean. Final. You hate how much you want to believe him. You know, deep in your heart, that you can’t.
Silence stretches, long and heavy after that. He doesn’t try and move again, content to hold you in his arms for as long as you need. You don’t ever want him to let you go.
When at last he releases you, the first watery early morning rays of sunlight are starting to peek through the window. He moves around you, dumping his cold tea and yours, refilling the kettle, before setting about making you each a fresh cuppa as if it’s just any normal morning. As if you haven’t stood together in the dawning light for hours.
“You should head back to bed,” he says, pressing a cup – decaf, no sugar, the perfect amount of milk – into your hands. You don’t move. It’s his turn for concern to flicker across his face. “Love?”
“Will…”
He pauses, mug halfway to his mouth. “I’m fine,” he says, as if that should settle it.
It doesn’t. But you can hear it for what it is; a dismissal, yes, but something more than that. This is him choosing not to share this part of himself with you.
“I need you to know…” You leave your mug behind on the counter. There’s no reasoning with him when he’s like this. He’s always been stubborn. “I won’t ever forgive you if you don’t come home to me. And, more importantly…”
You pause in the doorway, looking back over your shoulder at him. Will meets your gaze. You take a deep, steadying breath. Calmness settles over you, as you say the words you have held inside for too long. A promise long since overdue.
“If one day, you don’t come home. If someone turns up on that doorstep with a flag, and a thank-you. A sorry-for-your-loss and a fucking photo of you and not enough pieces to fill up a matchbox, then I already have the bridge picked out. I’ll dump whatever ashes they have to give me of you. And then, I’m following right after you.”
You know that it is a cruel thing to say. That this is one of his weakest points. You mean every word of it.
Something catches in Will's throat. Not a word, not quite a sound, but enough to tell you that, if only for a second, Will forgets how to breathe.
You leave him standing there, wide-eyed and speechless. Trudging up the stairs, you feel lighter than you have in some time. You might not be able to stop Will and whatever he has planned. But at least now he knows the cost, should he choose to go through with it.
You lie awake listening to the house settle around you, every creak and sigh magnified, listening for any sound that Will has left, or has chosen to stay.
Eventually, you hear the creaking sounds of footsteps – down, not up – as he goes to that damned basement of his. Tears blur your vision, following you down into a fitful sleep as you try not to dwell on the fact that you just confessed your plan to your quite possibly suicidal husband of how you plan to join him. That he hasn’t chosen to follow you, to argue, to demand you change your mind and your plans.
You press a fist to your mouth to stifle your sobs. How can you come back from this? How can either of you ever come back from this?
A door closes. Footsteps move up the stairs, quicker now. Heavier.
You sit up sharply in your bed. Will fills the doorway. In his hands, there is a scrapbook.
He glances to his side of the bed and you scoot over, releasing his pillow from your clutch to make room for him. He slides in with an air of caution usually reserved for when he returns home, weeks or months away from you, not mere hours or days. He flicks the bedside lamp on.
The scrapbook isn’t anything new. The edges look worn and dog-eared, as if he has been maintaining this for some time. You wait silently. Patiently. Will needs to be the one to take the first step. You’ve taken this as far as you can.
He clears his throat. “Did I ever tell you about this man I met in Afghanistan?”
“You met a lot of men in Afghanistan,” you say softly. Civilians and soldiers, men and women, good and bad.
He shakes his head. “None like this one. South African bastard. Karalis. He’s a bit shit, but…” Will laughs, and your eyebrows rise. He flips past pages of newspaper clippings faster than you can catch the headlines. There are other things in there, too. Sketches. Schematics. Things that look like you shouldn’t be allowed near them. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you. “I owe him my life.”
Your breath stutters to a halt. You thought you knew the names of every man and woman who held that particular special place in his history, and in your heart. The ones you would – will – open your home to, no questions asked. The ones you can never repay for bringing your Will back to you.
There’s a softness on Will’s face you haven’t seen in more years than you can count. In a decade, if you had to hazard a guess. Slowly, carefully, you rest your hand against his thigh. He meets your gaze.
“I’d like to hear more about him. About how you two met.”
Will inclines his head, turning back to the scrapbook. He stops at a sketch of a bomb. “I’ll let him tell that story when you meet him. Right now… I want to talk about something more important.”
He searches your face, looking for something though you have no clue what. Whatever it is, you think that he must find it, as his eyes dip down, tongue darting out in a move that he only ever does when he is feeling nervous.
“How do you feel about meeting me somewhere? For our anniversary? I was thinking… Istanbul.”
Liked what you read? Consider leaving a kudos or comment on AO3.
Warning’s: tiny bit of swearing, mention’s of bomb exploding
Summary: You and Will are keeping your relationship a secret whilst trying to deal with an unexpected bomb. Events take a turn and decisions are made about the two of you
It was an unexpected day in London, you where currently helping corporal Martin, LT colonel headley and the others load up the vans as there was an unexplained bomb found in a building site.
Once you’d all arrived at the building site corporal Martin headed off to go follow and observe Captain Tranter in securing around the bomb site. You headed into the cabin and was beginning to set up the computer and get police coms ready whilst doing your best to avoid Will since your both keeping your relationship a secret from the others, the briefing had begun about the bomb and what was going to happen.
After that Will had checked the bomb and noticed it has a time fuse and had safely added a clock stopper everyone was busy making a wall perimeter around the bomb whilst you where sat staring at the computer screen watching the bomb rhythm.
Later on as the police had delivered some pizza’s corporal Martin and another soldier were inspecting the bomb and noticed it was new and something wasn’t right. You were still in the cabin when all of a sudden you heard ticking getting up and shouting thats when you heard Will shouting for everyone to get into hardcover and he was running towards the cabin when all of a sudden the bomb exploded throwing Will everyone in hide park heard the explosion the coms went silent.
Will groaned and yelled out to Corporal Martin to do a head count everyone was find suddenly his heart dropped getting up and running he screamed your name and headed into the cabin
“Y/n, please god be okay, hey y/n you okay”
He knelt down and cupped your face before leaning in a softly kissing you.
“Will no we can’t not in front of the others, I’m fine just a little shaken are you okay, love you Tranter.”
Once everyone has settled down you got onto the coms and told the police nobody was hurt but wondered about the Corden around the town after that Will told the police to swab the bomb and then the coms where to be disconnected.
When everything was safe you and Will decided to head back home the ride was very quiet, Will headed off to have a shower whilst your quietly staring at the wall unaware Will’s left the bathroom towel wrapped around his waist.
He gently wraps his arms around your shoulders and kisses your head before sitting and pulling you closer into him.
“Ugh what a fucking day, can’t believe I nearly lost you definitely made me think let’s not keep us a secret anymore so why don’t you and me go somewhere quiet and warm.”
You snuggled into Will and took a deep breath in slowly admiring Will’s toned Torso
“Yeah what a fucking day please do not pull that crap again, I seriously cannot lose you again remember I literally saved your life in Afghanistan, I don’t wanna keep us a secret anymore too he’ll think we deserve to live somewhere quiet and hot with all the shit we’ve recently been through, Marry Me Tranter.”
You and Will sent the rest of the night kissing and searching places to live that was in a hot country and deciding when to set a date for your wedding.
