#platonic!cod

[roughlydustychronicle]

Not A Ditz

Pairings: John Price & Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley & John ‘Soap’ Mactavish & Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick & You

Summary: You’ve been clumsy since the day you were born and you’re still somehow alive.

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You weren’t sure how you weren’t dead yet. Alive for 27 years and getting into all sorts of dangerous predicaments, yet it seems like you’ve got supernatural luck on your side.

Johnny thinks it’s a divine gift from God. You think that’s a load of horse shit.

You’re naturally klutzy—full on tripping on air. It’s gotten to the point to where you’ve been nicknamed “Crash”; you can thank Simon for that honorary callsign.

When they first had noticed it, it started off small. You bumped into desk corners, spill coffee everywhere, trip up the stairs, the works.

“Wee bairn is starting to walk for the first time, how cute.” Johnny would tease.

“Survival instincts of a foal, kid.” Simon had gruffly muttered.

You hardly noticed when Simon started to cover sharp corners with his palm when you would pass by—God forbid you get another hip bruise.

Kyle would herd you like a cattle dog to the middle of the room; the safest place, he’d reckon. Although, he’s sure you’d still manage to get hurt.

John would place his hand on your lower back and carefully guide you when he noticed you were extra off balance that day.

And Johnny?

Johnny is trying his hardest. It’s like giving an egg to a Great Dane to see how gentle it’d be. “Careful, hen!” Johnny would screech, yanking you from the edge of the stairs.

It took some time to get used to but they started to feel like your Guardian Angels.

[roughlydustychronicle]

Beloved

Pairings: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley & Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick & Johnny ‘Soap’ Mactavish & John Price & You

Summary: You, a soldier from America, slowly win the hearts over the cold Task Force.

A/N: The only thing consistent is my lack of motivation. I thought it’d be fine now that uni is no longer a chip in my shoulder, but dear God, that procrastination is hitting HARD. I need a little fix-me-up or SOMETHING T^T.

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They weren’t too keen on having an American on base. Sure, they could use all the help they could get, but seriously?

An American? God help them.

John had felt immediate relief when he found out you weren’t some ‘rootin tootin cowboy’, only staring blankly at the file Kate had given him. They didn’t need another Johnny on base, let alone a Southern one.

At least you had some experience and you weren’t some fresh private.

When you finally arrived on base after an eight hour flight, you received mixed reactions.

Johnny was jittery from pent up energy. Simon was, well, off doing Simon things. John was curt, but polite (he honestly expected you to be insane in the stereotypical American way). Kyle was the most helpful; he even helped you unload your duffel bag in the room you’d be staying in.

And except Johnny, they were all…recluse, in a sense.

It took months for them to warm up to you. Hell, even Simon started taking a liking to you. “My personal cowboy.” he’d say in the most deadpanned tone ever. His stance never changed even when you told him you were from Milwaukee. “Midwestern cowboy.” he’d amend.

Even John started pitching in. He’d out his hat on your head, tug it down, and give your shoulder a pat. “Lookin’ like a real Brit now, hm? None of that American shite.”

[roughlydustychronicle]

Dramatics

Pairings: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick/You

Summary: You haunt the common area with your illness and Kyle takes care of the drama queen that you are.

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It started off as a sniffle. Then you threw up mere feet away from the toilet. Needless to say, your morning was off to such a terrible start.

“Remember to drink water, birdie,” Kyle called from the common area couch, sipping his tea. You trudged to the armchair, giving him a nasty look.

“‘Remember to drink water’—“ You sneered before succumbing to a coughing fit. You curled up on the chair, sipping your water like a gerbil. “Of course I will.” Kyle raised a brow.

You always got insanely snappy, and bitchy, when sick. You knew you were being mean but man, you couldn’t stop yourself. You were just tired of everyone hovering over you.

“I can fuckin’ take care of myself. I’m not a child.” You continued, glowering at Kyle with glazed over eyes. You reminded him of a petulant child. It would’ve been adorable, if not because of the circumstances.

“I never said you couldn’t take care of yourself, sweetheart,” Kyle replied calmly. He puts his mug down on the coffee table. “I just think you merely forget what your body needs at times.” You were about to protest, yet again, when he placed the back of his hand against your forehead. “Hm…not as warm as you were earlier. Not the best either.”

You blinked. His warm brown eyes just looked so inviting, it made you melt like a puddle. He smiled a little before ruffling your hair. “You messed it all up.” You pout.

“It was messed up before.” Kyle countered, draping a blanket over you. You sneezed in response. “Poor thing.”

It wasn’t a huge surprise when you fell asleep shortly after, clutching onto Kyle like he was your lifeline. Kyle, as always, didn’t necessarily care. It’s not like he had better things to do.

[roughlydustychronicle]

Miss American Pie

Pairings: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley & Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick & Johnny ‘Soap’ Mactavish & John Price & You

Summary: You, an annoying American turns into the one thing you swore not to be: a Brit.

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“‘Ello, gov’na,” You cheerfully grab the coffee pot, pouring the remnants of the caffeine into your mug. For extra affect, you tip an imaginary tophat. “Top of the mornin’ to you.” Simon gives you an unamused look, Kyle and Johnny hold back snickers, and John simply blinks.

“You should work on your accent, love,” Simon grumbled, sipping his tea. “It’s fuckin’ horrid.” Johnny wheezes at that and grasps Gaz’s chest for dramatic stability.

“Wot accent? Blimey, this is my truth!” You lean down closer to Simon and a grin slowly grows on your lips. “Did you know I’m 13 percent British?”

“Oh, for fucks sake—“

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“Blimey, is that the time? Welp, time to have tea and crumpets with the Queen.”

“There’s a special place in Hell for you.”

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It’s all fun and games until you genuinely start to use some of their vocabulary.

“Where’s the hoover?” You ask, opening the common room closet. “Wait, never mind. Fuckin’ thing was hiding from me.” The room practically went silent.

“…’hoover’…?” John repeated, raising a brow. “You really just said ‘hoover’, love?” You paused and then let out an involuntary groan.

“Oh, sod off, Price.”

[roughlydustychronicle]

Sluggish Day

Pairings: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley/You

Summary: You have POTS and fail to manage it properly during work hours.

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You knew how to manage your symptoms, you have since you were fourteen. Drink water, use compression socks, cane if necessary, repeat. It was a steady cycle that you used every single day—and it worked.

But today was just not your day.

You overslept, HORRIBLY. You winced when you practically tumbled out of bed. “Shit shit shit—“ You swore underneath your breath, pulling over new clothes and fighting back the overwhelming wave of dizziness. You got up way too fast. Black spots filled your vision.

You managed to somehow get on base at a decent time, maybe a few minutes after 9:00. Not bad.

You stumble towards your cubicle, sweat dripping down your forehead and huffing. A neat stack of papers met you.

This was going to be a long day.

“Hen! There y’ are!” Johnny’s boisterous voice suddenly filled the air, a large grin on his face. “Cap’ wanted meh to give these to y’,” He placed another stack of papers, more messy and less pristine than the other one.

Your smile didn’t reach your eyes. “Thanks, Soap.” Like you needed anymore work.

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You’ve been overworking yourself, Simon could tell. He had been watching you from the doorway, eyes tracking your sluggish movements. God, you were so tired.

Today was not your day.

Your thoughts trailed off when the spots in your vision returned. Your head hung heavy as you made your way back to your desk, hand outstretched to your chair. “So close—“ You murmured absentmindedly. Your water was right there, and so were your snacks. Then all would be right in the world again.

You slumped forward just as calloused hands supported you from behind, eyes fluttering. “I gotcha, I gotcha,” Simon soothed, leading you down to the floor and leaning your sitting form against the desk. He straightened your legs out and tucked your jacket underneath them. “You’re alright, lovie, just breathe,”

“Ghost?” You mumbled, eyes cracking open. His hand ran through your matted hair. “Yeah, I’m here.” He answered gruffly. “Water please.” He held the bottle up to your lips and you drank slowly.

Your eyes met his and his softened. “You overworked yourself again.” He hums, lips pursed.

“I know. I could push through it, I knew I could, but I just went too far this time—”

“Shit excuse. You and I both know that’s not how it works.”

You let out a soft snort. “Damn. And here I thought I could get away with it.” You snapped your fingers, a slow and tired smile gracing your face.

“Little shit.” Simon shook his head. His eyes stay on yours before looking away. “Take better care of yourself, love. We only got one of you.”

[roughlydustychronicle]

Babysitter

Pairings: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley (Alpha) & Johnny ‘Soap’ Mactavish (Alpha) & Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick (Beta)& John Price (Omega) & You (Beta)

Summary: You, the poor sergeant in TF141, have to put up with your packs shenanigans.

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You loved being a Beta, absolutely flourished in it. You didn’t have to worry about Heats, or Ruts, or anything remotely of that nature.

It was amazing.

Except for two things. One: you had a horribly sensitive nose. “Put on a patch, Mactavish. You’re stinkin’ up the room,” You’d say. Or even, “Jesus Christ, Price, your time of the month already?”

Needless to say, it got pretty bad.

And two: you were always the mediator. It was like trying to separate a pack of fighting toddlers.

Which leads you to now: a highly decorated sergeant tasked with babysitting three middle aged men who are practically at each other’s throats. The common area smelt thickly of Alpha pheromones and red hot anger. Your nose wrinkled up and you winced as the smell bodyslammed into you; you could already feel a headache coming on.

Wonderful.

Johnny was trying, and failing, to put Simon in a headlock—for reasons you don’t care to know. Price was a smart man and hid out in his office and Kyle was on the couch egging Johnny on.

“Pull yourself together, Captain.” You hissed, dragging Johnny off of Simon.

“But he started it—“ Johnny whined, lips pulled back and huffed. “I don’t care who started it; I’m ending it,” You turned to Simon, who looked unbothered. “You are grown arse men, start acting like it.”

“Fine by me.” Ghost grumbled, smoothing out his now rumpled clothes before leaving. You turned around and met Kyle’s eyes.

“And you, Garrick. You should know better than egging them on.” Though, you couldn’t be too mad at Kyle—this was the most entertainment he’s had in weeks.

You ran your fingers through your hair as the boys half-heartedly apologized in unison.

“Dumb arses.”

You plop down next to Gaz, tilting your head back and staring at the oddly stained ceiling. “What even happened?”

Kyle snorts. “What didn’t? Ghost misplaced that weird mug Soap’s attached to and Soap went ballistic. Rightfully so, I think.”

“…you lot are a bunch of toddlers.” You buried your face into Kyle’s neck, taking in a deep breath of a nothingness scent as your headache went away. “Smells like shite in here.”

[roughlydustychronicle]

Happy Feet

Pairings: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley & You

Summary: After years of service, you finally got your long awaited callsign.

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You certainly weren’t expecting this. You thought it’d be something cool. Strong. Badass—? No, badass was pushing it.

Instead, you got the stupidest callsign: Happy Feet.

The ground nearly swallowed you open mid mission when Simon had referred to you as so. “C’mon, Happy Feet, let’s not waste the day by standing around and lookin’ useless, hm?”

“Happy Feet?!” You trailed after him, your brows raised to the high heavens. All the ones he could’ve chosen, he chose Happy Feet? “I don’t have ‘happy feet!’” Your words fell on deaf ears. Apparently everyone called you that behind your back, Simon was just the first one to tell it to your face.

“Happy Feet seems to be in a good mood, yeah?”

“Ope, look at Happy Feet go, always moving that one is.”

According to them, you subconsciously tapped your feet together in a seamless rhythm; tapped the left ankle two times, tapped the right ankle for three, repeat.

Sure, you might’ve done that one or two times—no, definitely every waking moment of your life.

“Dammit, Ghost—“ As if the higher being up above had some sick humor, you tripped over your own two feet and barreled into your lieutenant. It’d be a lie to say this was the first time that’s happened.

“Like I said, Happy Feet.” His mask hid his expression but you could tell from the crinkle in his eyes, he was grinning. He stabilized you, broad hands holding your shoulders.

“I hate you.”

“I love you too, Happy Feet.”

“Fuck you.”

[roughlydustychronicle]

What’re You Going To Do, Fight The Sun?

Pairings: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick & You

Summary: England heat has it out to get you.

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It was hot. God, this had to be a once in a lifetime event because why was England of all places hot? Yesterday it was just shy of seventy degrees but it’s pushing ninety today. Of course inside wasn’t any better; the damned base relied on cracking open a window. Absolute bollocks.

“I’m melting, Garrick!” You whine, dramatically wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. Inches away from the cracked open window, your body was draped on the peeling leather sofa.

Kyle snorts and offers a sympathetic look. “You’re not melting, per se. Just lightly…”—he pauses—“moist.”

Your upper lip curled. “Don’t describe me as moist,” You huff. “That’s just weird.” It took you a few moments more before you realized you had to do something about this. You stand up a little wobbly before moving your way to the dusty mini fridge in the cooler, Kyle in tow. “I swear, Garrick, this weather is unbelievable.”

You go to bend down towards the handle, well, at least you think you do. Your vision clouds for a second, black dots swimming around as if in a rough current. You sway. Then, your wide glazed over eyes suddenly stare up at Kyle.

His hands were firmly grasping your shoulders, your chest heaving against his. “Alright, let’s move you back on the sofa.” He quickly shushes the protesting sound you make, half supporting your weight and he leads you down.

When did he look so angelic in this light?—

“I’ll get the water,” Kyle comes back seconds later with a nice, crisp bottle. He guides it up to your mouth, motioning you to take a sip with concerned eyes. “C’mon, sweetheart. You wanted a water, right?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I guess I did,” Coldness rushes down your throat. Immediate relief and you almost wanted to thank the heavens. “Shining knight in armor, hm?”

“I would rather you not try to fight the sun and die. I like you alive, thank you very much.”