Unlike Ghost Soap's family wasn't murdered. Just a series of advents. Suicide is what took his father. Alcoholism is what took his mother. She ended up passing after two years of dialysis. That's what soap remembers the most about her. That she didn't listen to anyone that tried to help her. That she was mean in those last two years. That he had felt guilty when he was just tired of taking care of her. Him and his brother ended up in foster care. Getting split up but finding each other surprisingly quickly when his brother hit 18. His brother died in a car crash a year later. 19 was too young to go but death didn't care. His brother was the only person Soap buried. He deserved to rest somewhere nice. Instead of sitting in a box shoved into some closet like their parents. Soap must have been around 27 when he had actually spread his parents ashes. It only took 15 years to do so but he did it. Something he'd never admit out loud was that he didn't care. It felt wrong but it just wasn't a big deal. The only time he remembered crying over his family was burying his brothers smashed and unrecognizable body. Soap doesn't talk about it. Not because he wants to keep it hidden but because he is tired of the train of "I'm sorry" that comes with telling people. It annoyed him. He would also never say that out loud. He'd never tell someone that it was a waisted sorry. That he truly didn't care that his parents were gone. Paired with his career people would think he was crazy. They'd think that he lacked emotions when that was far from the case. He knew his emotions well. He knew the feeling of dread that washed over him when Simon didn't finish a solo mission in the estimated time. He knew the fear that ran through him that he'll pick up a call just to hear that Kyle didn't make it. He knew the terror that coursed through his body when Price would go dark. He knew the panic that would set in when Gary would get split up from another member. He knew he loved his team. He knew this was his family. He knew that he'd be lost without them.
Also after a year i figured out why roach's face looks weird..... i forgot the burn scars......Also i definitely stole my roach design from my partner.
john 'soap' mactavish (09) x gary 'roach' sanderson.
warnings (heavy!): alternate universe (nobody's dead!), angst, hurt/comfort, it gets worse before it gets better, PTSD, self-harm, nightmares, lack of communication, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mutual pining, therapy, everyone is trying here, love confessions (kind of), kissing. a LOT of fire references. ghost is a good friend. an attempt at a scottish accent was made.
mind the tags, please, it gets a bit heavy, but then hey! it gets better! i hope u enjoy this, all u roachxsoap fans, because i sure did. im thinking of adding another part to this, lmk what u think! this to me is like a beach episode. with a shark attack. that one's first, the beach happens later. i used my own experience with ptsd as a referance for this. as always, kudos and comments are lovely and welcome and i love them and they make me want to vomit from happiness. anyway, uhhhhhhh have fun ok bye bye
His skin is burning. It's hot, and he can't open his eyes, but there's a feeling like he's swimming in open waters; black all around him, the sounds dulled and muted. He feels pain, distantly, almost like his body stopped being his own.
He hears screams around him, has the vague sensation that someone grabs him, the touch tender and filled with worry, but it's all lost to him. For some reason, he smiles, before it quickly falls, emotions changing by the minute, leaving him confused and lost. He doesn't know where the sudden panic and anger come from, but it's over-consuming, leaving him gasping and whimpering like a kicked dog. He's running out of air, lungs burning and feeling like they're being crushed, terror seizing him and making him unable to do anything. Familiar faces flash before his eyes, but they're blurred, and he doesn't know what's happening. Eyes cracking open just a smidgen, lids barely cooperating, and he sees something fly his way, almost in slow motion; a bad omen, signifying his end and causing a resigned breath to fall from his lips, or maybe it's from someone else's? He doesn't know, he doesn't want to die, everything hurts so much — a scream tears itself out of his throat.
And he promptly wakes up.
He's sweated through his entire shirt, fabric drenched and sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Gary is trying to desperately calm his mind and heart, but it's a slow process. His chest burns, the lack of oxygen from his panicked, short breaths causing him to try and root himself in reality; he looks around the room desperately, remembering the method he's been taught, and counts. Two chairs by his desk, four stacks of paper, one door, and he holds his breath — two seconds in, two seconds out, repeat. It takes him a few minutes, but eventually he manages to even out his hammering pulse and sighs, exhausted.
It's been like this for weeks now; having returned from the hospital and been cleared for light duty, confined to the base and reintegrated back into his troops. Ghost was discharged at the same time, and has been slowly going back to normal, snappy and irritated at all times, sticking close to Roach as if to try and shield him from any harm. What happened wasn't his fault, but it's not like he's going to listen, even if Gary tries to hammer it into his dumb skull every day. He checks his watch and almost groans — it's past four, which means it's pointless to try and go back to what will turn out to be a restless sleep anyway. He gets up, goes to take a shower, his mind still processing that the nightmare is over, his would-be killer dead and buried, the task force whole and alive. He keeps reassuring himself as he walks the deserted hallways of the barracks, listening for sounds. Someone's snoring, there are hushed conversations in one of the rooms, a thump can be heard somewhere in the distance; it's all meant to ground him, but he's constantly on high alert now, any sudden moves or noises and he flinches, a full body reaction he's unable to stop, hands unconsciously reaching for a weapon and then trying to appear fine. He knows Ghost notices, Price too, and if MacTavish does, he gives no indication of it. His jaw clenches as his mind reminds him of his Captain. Simon is the only one that tried talking to him, but Roach is already being forced to go to therapy, still in the process of a psychological evaluation, so he just tells Ghost what he's been telling everybody.
I'm fine.
He's not, obviously, and Price noticed it when he suddenly coughed and witnessed Gary's panic with his own eyes. Said nothing, his eyes turning sad and gloomy, a hand reaching out hesitantly, squeezing his shoulder and offering some comfort. He knows the old Captain understands, having his share of traumatic near-death experiences, but he doesn't need their concern. He almost died, key word being almost, so he's going to be alright. Just has to get back into the swing of things and pretend his Captain ignoring him and looking away every time their eyes catch, a frown pulling at his lips and something unreadable passing in his gaze is not making him almost vomit. It's fine. Obviously.
The shower started running cold without him noticing, a shiver racking his body — bliss on his overheated skin, which may or may not still feel like it's on fire sometimes. The tissue graphs he had are enough to almost fool him, the procedure carried out with no complications, only the slight scarring remaining, the burned out nerves taking away all feeling. His hands tighten around his arms, nails biting into skin and leaving it irritated, but he doesn't even notice. Tries the breathing exercise again, panic rising up, and he puts his whole head under the freezing spray, the temperature shock making him gasp and finally come back to reality. He gets out of the shower, patting his body dry and sluggishly getting dressed, noting the marks left behind by his hands. It's not like he can feel it anyway, so he shrugs and starts walking back to the barracks. There's barely any work for him to do, days spent training or helping around Ghost, but it's all getting to him; the itch under his skin turning unbearable. It's not like he can brute force this, or so the therapist keeps telling him.
He spends the rest of the morning in the gym, running till he can't anymore; before Ghost stops by, standing in the doorway and staring, arms crossed over his chest. Roach avoids his gaze and goes to wipe the sweat from his forehead, knowing that he's going to have to shower again, and starts taking big gulps of his water, pretending through it all that his lieutenant isn't even here. Life hates him tho, so the peace doesn't last long.
"You tryin' to do a marathon? Or just hoping you'll pass out?" Ghost isn't necessarily smug when he says this, but there's still that arrogant and sure tilt to his voice that causes Roach to turn around and narrow his eyes.
He knows he's being provoked, point is — his control over his actions and emotions has been getting away from his as of late, so the attempt at getting a rise out of him works, flawlessly. Still, his fist clench, refusing to speak, and just shakes his head before stomping out. Doesn't get far, however, because soon he hears the thump of Ghost's boots following close behind.
"There's a meeting later. A mission, maybe. Captain wants you there too." The words make him pause, that manc accent having lost its malice, replaced with something gentler.
Ghost's eyes jump back from his eyes to his arms, but he stays quiet, focusing on the words instead. Roach turns around, eyes a little wide and unbelieving, but he nods and swallows, eyes falling to the ground and letting the silence between them fall, only the bustling noise coming from the background. Everyone on base must be starting their day. He sees Simon's shoes come closer, and there's a hand on the back of his head, making him raise it and look the man in the eyes. Where Price's hand was unsure, light — Ghost's is anything but, the strong grip keeping him grounded.
"Jus' worried about you, bug. You haven't been sleepin'." It's not a question, but Roach nods anyway, eyes glancing away and back every few seconds.
Ghost huffs, his eyes turning thoughtful, and it's clear he's mulling over a possible solution, but they both know there isn't one. Saying Gary is trying to make himself forcibly pass the fuck out wasn't that far-fetched — it would work, but his mind still wouldn't rest. He'd go to his Captain, ask for advice, but the man is avoiding him like the plague, so that's not an option. No matter how much it's starting to weigh on Roach, a longing etched deep in his bones for the one man always in his corner, supporting and protecting him, now gone and abandoning his former post. It's so unlike him that Roach is beginning to spiral, thoughts turning around every single possible explanation, but there's no way to know, isn't there? Not unless the two actually talk.
Something flashes in Ghost's eyes, a look he's seen before, usually before he's about to do something deranged, and Gary's eyebrows rise in slight concern before Riley pats his head twice and heads off, reminding him about the meeting. He's too fucking tired for this shit, shaking his head and going to work on some files before having to face everyone again.
It's nearing noon when he heads out, yawning and rubbing his eyes every few seconds, and he's already on his third coffee of the day. The room is dim and everyone's already there, Worm and Chemo waving to him once he enters. He goes to grab himself another cup, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as someone burns a hole in his back. Roach shifts his weight, having an idea on who it may be, but doesn't look back. He goes to sit at one of the chairs Ghost is standing over,when it happens.
If you asked anyone who was in the room, the order of events was a bit confusing. Roach grabbed his seat, looked up and having seen the cigars held loosely between Price's and MacTavish's hands, he then froze. A flinch could've been seen from the back of the room, with Sanderson's hand shaking so badly the coffee spilled out all over his hands, just before he lost the grip over the cup entirely. At that point, Ghost was already on the move, trying to bring Roach back down to earth, but the sergeant took a few shaky steps back and face-planted onto the floor.
That's what Gary's been told, because he doesn't remember shit.
He's in the infirmary, again, his hands bandaged up, even when he protested. His body is protesting, needing sleep and rest; the only nutrition in his body being coffee and a half-assed sandwich he made in the morning. The nurses inform him of his state, blabbing about dehydration and jamming an IV into his skin. He's pissed off, almost fuming as he lays there and tries to stay level-headed. Nobody has come over, but he knows Ghost is standing guard outside the room, if his barked orders to piss off are anything to go by. He remembers the cigar, but it's… different. From someone else, someone he knows is dead. Knows what happened is past him, both of them, so why the fuck is he still reacting like this? At this rate, he's going to get discharged, because there's no way the shrinks will ever let him pass if they find out what transpired tonight. He's still shaking, although the worst of it has passed, and he's still sleep-deprived. His brain doesn't work, he can't think, there's a constant buzzing in his ear and the nurse is making him lose it, enough for him to jump out of the bed when her hands reach towards him. He thinks of the touch, and his skin burns, pain radiating through his entire body, face on fire and the tight leash he tried to maintain over his control snaps.
A small part of his brain knows he's not well, that he's reacting poorly and that nurse and everyone on this goddamn base don't deserve to deal with this shit, but the larger corner is forcing him to move and not stop; run away as far as possible, so he can be safe. Ghost yells something after him, but it's muffled and he still can't fully catch a breath. He rounds a corner and someone's arms shoot out to stabilize him before he flinches back and stares, eyes wild and feral, a cornered animal.
MacTavish has a devastated look on his face, mouth open in shock, working around unspoken words. John's eyes keep bouncing around his face, his hands and the ground, somehow still avoiding his eyes. It's causing Roach to become even more aggravated, the person he considered a good friend ashamed and unable to even properly talk to him. In the end, as Ghost gains in on him and Roach starts moving again, he hears the almost whispered, cracked around the middle words.
"I'm sorry."
The next few days pass in a blur. He lays in bed, goes to therapy, which actually helped, he can't lie about that, and avoids every single person he knows. They give up quickly too, after being given the runaround. When he doesn't want to be found, he won't be, and everyone knows that, so they leave him be for now. Of course, Ghost doesn't give a shit.
So when he barges in the room one evening, closes the door and sits down at the foot of Gary's bed, he's not entirely surprised.
He's silent tho, deathly, an unmoving wall with his back turned and muscles coiled like he's ready for a fight. Considering how Roach has been acting, it might as well be one; except he's so damn tired he knows he's not gonna argue with whatever the man has to say. There's something different now, like Simon has had enough, jaw clenched the same way it does when he's trying to keep his mouth shut.
"I see it too, sometimes. His fucking face, the smell of smoke clinging to my mask. And that damn cigar." Ghost spits the last part out, voice restrained.
Roach sighs and gets up, shuffling so he's next to him. Their knees brush against one another, and that small touch is the first one that hasn't made Gary want to crawl out of his own skin, so he leans into it, lips twitching up a little.
He starts signing, "Will it ever stop?"
Ghost looks at his hands, and then at his face, eyes unreadable. Out of nowhere, with a move so swift it almost didn't register, he takes off the mask. Simon's scarred, tired face looks back at him with something that is probably mirrored in his own. Gary swallows, and already knows the answer to his question.
It won't. But at least he didn't lose a friend in the same fire that almost killed him, so he throws his arms around his friend and hugs him tight, knowing Simon might push him away. He doesn't, instead his own hands come up with hesitation and softness not usually attributed to him, and hugs him back. They stay like that for a while, sun slowly setting, Ghost laying Roach back down after he notices him yawning every few seconds, and pulls the blankets over him.
"One last thing before I go, bug." It's quiet, and Gary's eyes open back up after already dozing off, a question in them.
"Don't worry about the Captain. His head is in his ass, really, he'll come around. He cares more than he lets on." Roach freezes at the mention of MacTavish, and he watches as Ghost walks away, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
He doesn't understand it, is the thing. Has he done something wrong? He knows they fucked up, weren't on their guard, at least Roach was, considering he was injured even before the General decided to eradicate them from the earth, but he tried. He knows he let him down, but his Captain never reacted like this, never just straight up abandoned him when he needed him, so why the hell is it happening now? All he wanted was to see John's very much alive face when he woke up in the hospital, and in a way he did, just one problem: it was the wrong John. Price is fine, don't get him wrong, but he misses MacTavish.
He's always buried feelings. Anger was remarkably easy for him, and he's been chastised enough for it since he was a kid to learn how to walk the line carefully, but this isn't anger. It never was, not with John, even when it would be so easy. He's afraid, has been since working with John, that somehow the man would see right through him, notice the staring and cries for attention, and he'd be thrown out. So Gary stayed quiet, yearning from afar, never noticing the same look directed his way when his head was turned.
He falls asleep eventually, mind begging him to rest, but it just ends like always. He's back in that clearing, gasoline on his clothes with overflowing pain, before he wakes up with a silent shout. However linear his dreams are, this time was different, as the accursed cigar has become the star of the show. Somehow, his mind has fixated on that fucking thing, the image of it flying his way and igniting on his flesh now ingrained, stuck and unable to leave him alone. He's shaking, thoughts running rampant and frustration rising. He remembers, suddenly, the unopened box sitting in his drawer, the one MacTavish gifted him when at one point he wouldn't stop staring. Unbeknownst to his Captain, it's not the cigar he was after.
His feet move before his brain can catch up, pulling the thing out and tearing it open, hands trembling and grabbing the cigar. He looks for a spare lighter he has for the rare occasion he smokes, and lights the end, watching as it starts burning. He's mesmerized, almost in a trance as he brings the flame close to his skin and presses. There's nothing at first, no sensation and he watches in a daze as his skin burns. Few seconds pass, and it happens — his nerves somewhat ignite, making him gasp and drop the cigar at the slight feeling of pain. He's breathing slowly, reeling and trying to understand; his mind once screaming, now quiet and at peace. It's enough to calm his racing heart, the shakes subsiding, as he looks at the mark it left in his skin and wonders if he truly lost it. He touches the irritated and scarred flesh, fingers softly tracing the circular mark, noting the delicate sting. The image of Shepherd flash before his eyes, but his lungs don't fill with fear anymore, seeing the offending item only bringing annoyance and disdain.
He throws the cigar away, the sight of it no longer fear-inducing, having taken matters into his own hands. Having touched it, used it to inflict his own pain, choosing to do it is somehow a balm on the wounds that will never truly close. Chucking it into the trash brings tears to his eyes, and he lets them fall, feeling lighter than he has in a while. Laying back down, his eyes close on their own, and he lets himself finally rest.
He sleeps till noon.
It's been six months now since Price and MacTavish pulled them out of that hole.
He's getting better; the therapist noting his progress and assuring him that if everything works out, he'll soon be cleared for active duty. He works out, sleeps relatively fine and has resorted to smoking and talking a walk when things get bad. It's not a great coping mechanism, but it works and he's not planning to change that. God knows there are worse way he could be doing to try and relive the tension and pain he feels on a daily basis now.
The cigar incident has become something of a taboo; nobody speaks of it, not even Roach, and he does not mention what he did in his room one night, keeping it a secret and pretending that he just worked with his emotions and thoughts, appeasing the shrink and everyone around him. He's sure none of his fellow soldiers bought it, but it's whatever. Many times now he's caught them merely smile sheepishly at him and turn their eyes away whenever he walks in the room, but he's past caring. The numbness is new, but he prefers it from the ever persisting panic and fear. He's gotten good at hiding his reactions too; making sure to anticipate a sudden flinch or the instinct to run and for the most part he does appear to be getting better. Squad members he's relatively close to have congratulated him, and despite feeling like a fraud, he absorbs those words like he's starved for them. Has been, seeing as most things spoken to him over the last half a year were nothing but patronizing, worrying just for the sake of it, without anyone making an actual effort. Not even his Captain cares enough to check on his sergeant; the bitterness the thought produces is always being chased away by the cigarette, the smoke a cruel reminder of his near death.
Ghost is as always the exception, the man shadowing him whenever he can, seeing as Gary started coming back to his duties. He also knows that Simon understands better than anyone what that kind of pain can do to a person. Roach heard about Roba, heard what happened to him in Mexico, and he did everything in his power to somehow provide a shred of comfort, taking the misplaced anger thrown at him with a smile, maybe not truly understanding then, but trying to. So it certainly seems like Ghost is trying to compensate, return the favor. But if that's the reason, he's still going to take it. They shared something unspeakable together, lived through an event that probably should've killed them, but didn't — making the bond between them all that more important. He used to think he'd die protecting his Captain, some heroic act that would be his final declaration of the… admiration, he feels for the man. Now, however, Roach thinks that if he could choose how he dies, doing it by his friend side isn't the worst thing in the world.
One thing is still plaguing his mind, and it's the one man that should at least pretend to be concerned for the well-being of his sergeant. He's supposed to care for his men, and he does — just not Roach, not anymore. He's tried talking to John, but the bastard keeps slipping through his fingers, almost translucent and impossible to catch. It's one excuse after another, and everybody is tired of this shit. Well, everybody being Price and Ghost. The rest would rather not be involved in this mess, it seems.
It's become so severe that Roach is now questioning his own role in this. Did he truly fail that much? Ghost is getting the same treatment as before, nothing changed there, but if the case is that the Captain is disappointed in him, why not tell him? MacTavish never has a problem with reprimanding his men, sparing a glare and few words that say more than a thousand could. What is he doing wrong, then? Is it the scars, the never-ending reminder of his misgivings, the behavior Roach exhibited throughout the time he was recovering? And the only thing he has to go on is the mumbled apology he received when he broke down, but apologizing for what? Saving his ass? Sending him off on that mission? It's doesn't make any fucking sense; a mystery, and for all his pretending and swallowing every word he'd like to throw in John's face, he's just tired. Tired of the feelings that have been steadily growing in him, putting him in an unrequited and compromised situation; the guessing games and cat and mouse chase. Maybe that's the problem; maybe Soap realized that Gary likes him a bit more than a subordinate should like his Captain, and the embarrassment and discomfort is making him pull away. Still, he never thought of the man as a coward, so the least he could do is let him down gently, or even in the worst way possible. It'd destroy him, he knows, but it would still be better than whatever the hell is happening now.
He's sorting through some files, mission reports, when he hears a knock and turns around.
Price is standing with a lazy smile on his face, waving around another stack of papers for him, before taking a few steps and putting it all on the table.
"Alright, Roach?" The question is teasing, the man's gruff voice softening before the sergeant.
He nods, hands full and smiles back, appreciating the gesture of checking on him. At least one Captain does.
There must be something showing in his face because the Captain frowns, a hum resounding from his throat, and Gary swallows, feeling the weight of that scrutinizing gaze.
Price's jaw twitches, before he speaks and makes Roach freeze and slightly panic, "MacTavish is a fool when it comes to caring, bug. He's gonna run until he can't anymore, so I think if you want some answers, you're gonna have to catch him."
Cap pats his back and leaves, Gary standing there with his mouth slightly agape and a mind that's reeling. What is it with everybody talking to him about his Captain? Is his pathetic crush that obvious, or is there something he's missing? He goes back to work in a daze, still mulling those words over, not noticing when the sun sets. He jolts back to reality once someone comes in to lock the door to the storage for the night, and he packs up before leaving. His head is starting to hurt on the way back to his room, tired of questioning himself and his relationship with MacTavish. Is it that hard to just have one conversation?
He's not really looking where he's going, a frown etched on his face and eyes facing down, so it's probably his fault someone collides with him after turning a corner. Looking up and immediately raising his hands up to sign an apology, he's struck dumb. They've been in this place before, but Roach isn't panicking anymore, so when MacTavish nods and quickly tries to get the fuck away, he grabs him by the arm and holds, expression bordering on angry. John for his part looks a bit scared, understanding heavy in his eyes, but doesn't make a move to pull away. His skin is warm, tanned from the sun they actually have been getting lately, and Gary's small, pea sized brain latches onto the fact that he's holding his bare Captain's strong arm, feeling the muscles flex under his fingers. He shakes his head, willing himself to focus, and jerks his head in the direction of MacTavish's office, watching as the man sighs, eyes closing, before he nods and starts leading the way. Roach is a little afraid the man is going to make some sudden move and bolt down a different corridor, but he just trudges on. Price was right, saying that this man needed to be held down and caught in order for this to finally happen, and no matter what the outcome will be, Gary is just relieved it's happening at all.
The heavy doors open, and John walks in to sit at his desk, elbows resting on the wooden surface and eyes avoiding looking at Roach. It's so typical he just rolls his eyes, going for the seat closest to his Captain and flopping down. There's a tense silence between them, one that before the mission — never happened. It's awkward, in a way it never was. They'd chat endlessly, Roach signing so much his hands would sometimes hurt, joints overused, but he never complained, relishing in the memories. Soap would tell story after story, slowly opening up and sharing tidbits of his life nobody else from the task force has been privy to, and he cherished the knowledge, holding it in his ribcage, close to his heart, where nobody can take it from him. Now tho, it weighs on him, understanding the man sitting across from him and wanting to curse him out at the same time. He shared too, bared the pieces that make up his soul and hoped for the same treatment, only to get this, which is absolutely fucking nothing. This entire period has been so devoid of life for Gary, endlessly suffering and not being able to lean on anybody except for Ghost. For what it's worth, MacTavish does look guilty. Shame is radiating from him in waves, and it's such a foreign look on him that Roach wants to cringe, shake him and ask a million questions, starting with one very important one.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He signs, hands moving angrily and he watches as his Captain's head whips up and stares with wide eyes.
Gary is shaking slightly, but this time it's not from dread; no, this feeling is much more familiar and comfortable, settling under his skin and crackling. He's going to make it known, even if it gets him a slap on the wrist.
"Now hold on…" John starts speaking, hands raised placatingly, but he's interrupted as Roach starts signing again.
"You pull me out of the fire, get me back home and then what? Pretend I don't exist? Ghost is still your lieutenant, everyone else is still part of your squad, but I'm suddenly not on it? You didn't even bother to visit once, staying as far away from me as possible. And that would be fine, if you were anyone else, but it's not. It's you! I suffer, you watch me break, and all you have to say is you're sorry? For what? You might've not left me to die in the fire, but you watched me kill myself over and over again and did nothing, so what was any of it even for?" He's panting now, even if he hasn't uttered a single word.
MacTavish looks gutted, mouth forming around words at times, wanting to interrupt but deciding against it. His lips are tight, sealing his fate. He's taking it all without a single complaint.
"I thought… I thought I meant more than to be discarded like a broken toy, Captain."
His hands are trembling more erratically now, making it impossible to sign clearly. He's frustrated, he's not getting enough air and John still hasn't said a word, but as the last thing he said registers, he suddenly moves to be right in front of Roach, grabbing his shoulders and disregarding the shudder that runs through him at the contact he's been deprived of for months now.
"You matter, of course you fuckin' matter, bug. You matter more than you know, I…" MacTavish looks away then, an angry huff falling from his lips and he takes a deep breath to compose himself, lowering the arms still holding onto Roach and leading him to his seat again (when did he stand up?).
Instead of going back to his desk tho, he scoots the other chair closer. In that way, there's barely any space between them, Gary soaking up the closeness as much as he can, not knowing when it will end.
John puts his hand on Gary's knee, squeezing every so often, before he speaks up. "Roach. Am sorry. I failed you as a Captain, as a… as a friend, and I know that. You did nothing wrong, I'm the one who fucked up here. But I couldn't do this to you again."
Roach squints his eyes, a confused look on his face. He mouths what?, but MacTavish just shakes his head and continues.
"This happened on my watch. You almost died, and I couldn't do anything. We saved you, but at what cost? I thought I'd make things worse. That I'd keep reminding ye of what happened. And then with the cigar…" Roach grimaces at the mention of the thing, but lets him talk.
"I jus' deluded myself, didnae I?" He laughs humorlessly, looking off in the distance.
"You needed me and I wasn't there. Truth be told, bug, I needed you too. Still do. This shite won't happen again, Roach, I promise you. I'll be here." John tries for a smile, but it's forced.
Gary looks at him, in detail this time. He looks like hell from up close, the eye bags under his eyes dark, standing in clear contrast against his skin. He's lost some weight, and he can see the mess on his Captain's desk, files cluttered everywhere, along with empty coffee mugs. The man isn't fully forgiven yet, but it's a good start. They actually talked, he gets it now; the guilt and blame weighing on John's shoulders, the responsibility for someone destroying him from the inside, leaving an empty tusk mourning the living. Still, his mind latches onto one particular thing the man said.
"Need me?" His hands move, slowly, so it's easily understandable.
MacTavish's eyes flash in alarm, swallowing heavily and gaze boring into Gary's. It's intense, and for the first time he feels like he's losing steam, his ears burning. It could be interpreted as anything, played off as a need for a good soldier like him on the task force, a valued team member, and John has his out if need be, but he doesn't take it. Just stares, and Roach tries his luck, hand touching the one now tightly gripping his knee, and his eyes raise, watching for a reaction. As their finger intertwine, John exhales shakily through his nose.
"Aye, bug." His voice now raspy, barely restrained.
A small oh forms on Gary's lips, and the man's eyes flash to the movement, trained sniper fixating on that one part and lingering, before coming back up to stare into Roach's eyes.
He feels like he's underwater again, but his sight remains clear, the distance to the surface small and easy, if only he had the strength to swim up. It's a slippery slope they're on now, danger blaring from afar, but Gary pushes it all away and moves even closer. Leaning forward, he stops just a breath away and waits. If this is what John wants, he's gonna have to take it himself. There's sure to be found adoration in Roach's eyes, clear and blatant want, and even tho they haven't cleared everything up, it can now wait. Everything can fucking wait for all he cares if he can actually get to have this.
Some thought pops up that there's a chance John will hide behind bureaucracy, a sneered upon notion of a relationship with a subordinate, but knows deep down it would never happen. Nobody would bat a fucking eye if MacTavish didn't want it. He's watched the man tear through idiots in suits, and their team were never going to be a problem. His theory proves right, when John tightly shuts his eyes and mutters under his breath a curse, before grabbing Gary by the neck and crashing them together.
This has been the thing that was missing all this time. The frantic way their lips smash against each other, teeth clattering and biting down, pulling breathy gasps from him. John answers in kind, groaning into his mouth and sliding his tongue, a filthy glide that makes Gary tightly fist his shirt, shivers running down his spine. The man's hands roam around, grazing his sides and squeezing, before moving on to his back and digging his fingers in, Roach silently hoping it will leave a mark. Tries to translate it by biting down on John's lip, relishing in the noises it produces, and then snapping his eyes open in surprise when he's picked up by the waist and plopped in the man's lap. With the newfound freedom Gary starts exploring on his own, mouths not separating, not even to breathe. He clutches this idiot of a Captain between his hands and slows the kisses down, turning them deep and raking his fingers through that ridiculous haircut. John groans, head tilting back and looking up at Roach in wonder. His hand cups his cheek, both of them panting. Gary leans his head forward until their foreheads touch, eyes closing; letting it sink in that there's no going back now. He smiles, and cracks one lid open to see a dumb grin in response, both of them looking like madmen. It works, tho.
And as they go to sleep that night, same bed, Captain's quarters, minds finally calm and wanting to catch up on the sleep they both lost, he has the sudden realization that he's going to have to thank Price for this. Groaning and turning his face to nuzzle against John's neck, he feels the gentle kiss against his forehead and lets himself be lulled by strong hands gently petting him, dreaming of nothing but silly mohawk's and Scottish highlands.
Could be for like, my actor AU or alt timeline AU but generally, this is how I imagine this man outside of combat
He is the silly silent type of person
If he was in MW2 (2022), he would definitely be a part of the silly trio with Soap and Gaz
The "3 Stooges of Sarges", Price would mutter as he finds himself in one of their schemes once more with Simon giggling at the side
As per rule of threes, Soap is the loud extrovert, Roach is the silent introvert, and Gaz is the balanced out ambivert-- which can either lead to him convincing the other two to stop or... encourage them with better ideas... maybe.. sometimes? Most of the time
As per silent protag rule, he has immunity! Well, more like a very high threshold for tolerating pain that it looks like he instantly heals after getting shot
(Dont worry he just gets knocked out for a second but is back right at it- which is a cause of concern of the crew)
Though is scares the dickens out of the enemies when they were so sure that they shot him down but just simply arises from the dead
Spookin' them and acting as the distraction for the other two to finish the job for him
(In which they immediately treat him or call for medevac while Roach pouts, saying that he can still go on)
But seeing that pool of blood follow him doesn't really help his case here now
Roach is also one of the top shooters in the range and during the missions, always having the highest kill count and the bragging rights that come with it
(Ghost is actually jelly and tries to compete for it when they get sent in a mission together)
He's also just so knowledgeable when it comes to handling and making weapons
That he full on bellows at the poor attempts of Soap trying to make tools back in the "Alone" mission in Las Almas
Ghost shrugged, albeit smirking underneath, at how he consolidated Johnny boy- saying it was his "first time" and all that but he too had to face palm a couple times during their comms with each other
Roach is the type to loot an enemy's body for bullets, weapons, frags- just to use it against the enemy and make them confused
I'm pretty sure that, even one time, he had swapped his clothes with a foot soldier-- easily infiltrating their base and destroying it from the inside then out
He IS the go-to man for information retrieval and silent infiltration ops because of it (but is actually dubbed his specialty, as per Price's compliments)
For some God forsaken reason, if you ask Roach to grab or shoot at something-- he is ON it like,
"Take down that AC-130 from above with a nail and rubber Sarge-" *BOOOOMMMM*
"Say less, cap'n."
So yeah, just dummy n' silly word vomit hcs 'cause I kinda wanna see more of Roach as part of the current 141 hehe
Dude- I need someone (will probably end up being me, I'm just so *so* tired all the time) to mix these three
1) munch John "Soap" MacTavish. We all seem to agree this guy has an oral fixation, he wouldn't mind just hanging out between a pair of thighs for hours. Doesn't even matter what's there, he'll eat you out like a starved man.
2) SoapRoach. Specifically RebootRoach (as I lovingly call the fan creation because Activision doesn't think he's hot enough or smth). I mean they were literally besties in 09, kinda... Give this loud yappy man a quiet bug!
3) that one meme I've been seeing a lot, the "oh wow your face is so pretty! What skincare do you use?" "I think it's called El Roach Possay or smth?" "EL ROACH POSAY??!"
Do you see the vision?? Am I suffering heatstroke?
Domestic short hair cat shifter Ghost who people look down on when they find out, but it’s actually really useful for stealth missions and as a fellow cat owner pissed off cats of any size are a massive problem.
Roach and Soap take him seriously from the get go also being small critters that are actually terrifying (look up weasels they’re vicious blighters)
Have a great day
This ran away from me
Shifters, on paper, were banned from the military. In practice, a lot of military men were shifters. While Price would never give away if he himself was a shifter or not, the threat of being stripped of the title of Captain a bit too real for him to admit it, he spoke rather vocally against the rules.
And the 141 was an open secret taskforce. No one on it was just human.
Soap was a badger personally He wasn’t the biggest of creatures, but he could hold his own. Roach was a weasel, a particularly vicious one at that.
Ghost was a cat. At first glance, a kitten. There was a theory he was a black footed cat but he looked rather… normal? He looked like a simple Tawny cat.
Soup had scooped him up and pet him the first time he saw him. So few Shifters were Domestic cats, it didn't cross his mind that it was maybe a soldier. The worst part was Ghost letting Soap snuggle him for a Few minutes, letting Soap set him down and letting him kiss his forehead before shifting back and walk away.
Soap had been mortified and Roach had laughed at him.
His shaking shoulders made him feel better. A little at least.
When Ghost had simply told some nosy recruits that he was a feeling, everyone assumed a big car. Tiger, Lion or Cougar.
Not… a house cat.
Soap was unsure who told their current base the truth. But it got under Ghost’s skin in a way nothing else did.
Roach, always the jealous one, did not take kindly to people acting like they now had some familiarity with Ghost. They'd joke around and ask him questions and just in general be... off. Sometimes they'd do things for him like open doors or offer to take hard missions for him. It was alarming, but most were smart enough to disguise it as other things.
Soap didn't understand the frustration until someone had the gall, the audacity, the fucking nerve, to call Ghost "kitty."
"Kitty, we know kittens are not that great at fighting. It's okay. Why not leave that to the actual predators, yeah?"
Soap had almost thrown himself over the table in a blind rage. He had been foaming at the mouth pissed and Ghost had to pick him up and drag him away. The glare he sent to the other person was enough for them to realize that Ghost wanted to let Soap go. Let him be the menace he wanted to be.
Roach stood nearby, glaring into them. He snarled and snapped at them until Ghost made it clear he wanted him to follow. The three made it to Ghost's room with minimal damage to anything other than Soap's reputation. Watching him get manhandled was not something most people expected.
Ghost shook his head. "Now boys."
Soap interrupted him. "No! They're being disrespectful just because you're a cat shifter."
"Uh huh."
"And they're trying to get your attention and just in general being horrible. He called you kitty. He tried to sideline you."
"And I can handle it."
Roach hit Ghost's shoulder and looked displeased. He almost immediately rubbed against him as an apology. "They need to learn respect."
"Guys, I can handle it. I promise."
Soap shook his head. "You shouldn't have to. That's the whole point. You're perfect for stealth missions. Perfect for getting into places and you've even been picked by high profile targets. It's really helpful."
Ghost shook his head at them and butted heads with Soap. At first, he thought it was aggressive before realizing Ghost was being affectionate. "You two are such losers."
Roach huffed and quickly wiggled himself into Ghost's arms. He wrapped his arms around the both of them.
Ghost allowed himself, making little noises of displeasure, to be shoved back. They hung all over him. "C'mon. guys."
Soap huffed. "Just want to help you out."
"Don't need it."
"You deserve it."
Roach pulled Ghost down and kissed him sweetly. Ghost muttered under his breath but he relaxed. "Still. You're sergeants."
