hmmmm Lt. John "Soap" Mactavish (jr) who has constantly lived in his father Capt. John "Soap" Mactavish's shadow, constantly been expected to follow the same path in life, and for a while didn't mind because it was treated as a success --proof he was as good as his father had been, right down to earning himself the same nickname-- but has started to resent it the more he realizes that he and his father might have the same type too... especially since you're the third partner he's had that's mentioned how good looking his da is
Call Sign: Good Boy, Part 2 | Rating: M | Words: 3, 249
Guns don't get Soap off, but threats of violence and C4 do. Ghost knows this. Now so do Price, Roach, Laswell, and Graves — because there is a fine line between a mission briefing and a hostage situation, and Ghost is using it to run a private show for an audience of one. Gaz would like to be shocked by this, but he's lost that luxury.
Soap is, predictably, making this everyone’s problem.
Gaz is having a terrible time. König is suprisingly cool about the whole thing. Too bad that’s gonna bite him in the ass later.
[Read on AO3]
(Full fic under cut)
Gaz had stopped taking notes the moment Graves started negotiating. There was a line between mission brief and hostage situation and Graves was dancing right across it on the oversized monitor, wearing that too-bright, too-practiced smile that made Gaz’s brain itch. The man could piss in a fire, call it rain, somehow expect you to thank him for the weather report.
Laswell’s carefully schooled expression filled the left side of the screen. Gaz respected the hell out of her for maintaining the poker face she did. He was struggling.
His thumb pressed into the pen cap until it clicked and set it beside his notepad. The first half of the page was neat enough: a name, a time window, a grid reference Laswell had to repeat because Graves talked over her the first time, and an abbreviation he already couldn’t place. Soap had been muttering something under his breath at the time, and whatever Gaz wrote down was now some unholy fusion of the two. He glanced at the page. GVRCK. That wasn’t a word. Not even close.
He left the gibberish to rot and looked up. Price was sitting at the head of the table, leaning back in his chair, limbs loose. One hand was wrapped around a chipped mug.
Price’s silences were an arsenal Gaz had spent years cataloging. He knew the heavy pause that offered a final heartbeat to unfuck yourself and the sharp, cold quiet that made his spine go rigid.
But this was different. Price watched Graves over his tea with a look of mild, predatory amusement. He’d already handed Graves the rope and was just settling in to watch it snap.
Beside Gaz, Soap made no attempt to hide his irritation. He was slouched in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest. His fingers bit into his biceps like a sulking teenager and his furiously tapping heel was counting down to something Gaz was sure was going to ruin the rest of his afternoon.
König’s massive frame sat on the other side of Soap, arms crossed and legs stretched out in front of him. His chair was pulled out slightly from the metal table and angled toward the screen. Gaz wondered how the giant managed to sit comfortably in these awful chairs at his size. His left leg was already going numb and they’d only been enduring this shit show for a half hour or so.
Roach sat quietly behind Price, his wiry frame settled back in his chair. Gaz couldn’t help a snort when he realized that Roach was looking down at a blank page full of randomness, not briefing notes. No surprise there. Behind him, Ghost leaned against the wall, a casual wraith.
Jesus, the man doesn’t possess the ability to not be intense for two seconds.
A slight movement brought Gaz’s attention back to Roach. The man had a shit-eating grin on his face. Gaz’s eyes narrowed. For fuck’s sake, what now? Roach’s eyes darted to Soap and then up to Ghost behind him. Gaz tilted his head and turned slightly to look at Soap. Oh. Oh. Oh, no.
Soap’s mouth had settled into that unmistakable pout. It was one that Gaz knew all too well, that suggested that someone had taken away his favorite toy and then had the nerve to suggest he behave like an adult about it.
Soap had a lot of favorite toys — most of them were explosives. The other was standing behind Price, eyes locked on Graves. No, not Graves. What was he — oh, come on. Gaz closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ghost’s body was angled toward the monitor, but his eyes were locked on Soap.
Soap’s fidgeting got progressively worse as Graves droned on about some intelligence he had no business being within five feet of. Soap exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tapping out some rhythm against his bicep that Gaz couldn’t identify. Gaz didn’t even need to look; Soap was about to say something. He could feel it. It would be loud, impulsive and with a thick enough brogue that Gaz or Price would have to translate while those stupid wrinkles formed at the corners of Ghost’s eyes that meant the bastard was enjoying every second.
Graves leaned into the camera, his face filling the right side of the split screen with that practiced look of wounded sincerity. “You act like I’m being unreasonable here, Price” he said, dropping into that smooth, honeyed register that made Gaz’s stomach churn. “My shadows are putting their lives on the line for this intel. You don’t think Shadow Company deserves a little peek at whatever’s so special on that drive?”
Price didn’t look up from his tea, “Your men aren’t my responsibility. And they won’t buy you a seat at this table.”
The only sound that could be heard was the faint thump-thump-thump of Soap’s heel on the linoleum. Graves’ smile stretched and his eyes tightened. He leaned back in his chair, his head dipping. A sharp exhale cut through the speakers. Graves spread his hands, palms up, fingers loose, and then locked them across his chest.
“Now, help me solve this little problem, Captain,” Graves drawled. “Full debrief after the op. I’d consider it a personal favor.”
“It’s not a favor when you’re getting paid, Graves,” Price countered, sipping his tea.
Graves’ mouth flattened, “You boys could do with learning a little Southern hospitality, John. You know how Shepherd gets when you won’t share your toys.”
A smile slowly spread under Price’s moustache, “General Shepherd can take it up with Her Majesty.”
Graves’s jaw tightened. He wet his bottom lip, his mouth resting in a snide smile. On the screen, Laswell’s expression remained carefully neutral, but her pen stopped writing.
“Alright, Price,” Graves said, his tone flat, “Alright, We’ll do it your way.” He smoothed his shirt, “But when this op goes tits up because you refuse to compromise, I want it on the record that —“
“Is that a threat?” Price’s shoulders tensed and he sat forward in his chair, “Because the only way this goes ‘tits up,’ Graves, is if your men don’t do their job.”
“My Shadows —“
“I could break his jaw.”
Gaz’s eyes locked on Ghost as he unfolded his arms from his chest and pushed his large frame from the concrete wall. The low baritone of his voice stole the air from the room. Even after serving multiple missions together, Gaz still found himself feeling off-center when Ghost proposed war crimes in the same tone that most normal people would use to discuss the weather.
On the screen, Graves paused. He blinked and cut his eyes to Laswell, then back to Ghost. “Excuse me?”
“Mm. Efficiency,” Ghost drawled and tilted his head toward the camera. His brown eyes were dark and flat against the black oil paint behind his balaclava and mask, “One hit. Front or side. Either dislocates the jaw, stops the negotiation, secures the intel.”
Graves’ face turned red, “Laswell, if this is the kind of —“
“Could go slower.” Ghost paused. His gloved fingers tapped against his bicep. “Make it last. Knees first, maybe. Then elbows. The jaw. ” Graves opened his mouth, but Ghost cut him off. “About four minutes if I’m thorough.”
Across the table, Roach’s smile spread. Gaz raised an eyebrow in question as the man lifted his chin in Gaz’s direction. Gaz looked to his left.
König’s head tilted slightly. Gaz turned and met the man’s pale blue eyes as they flicked to Ghost from beneath his hood, then away. Soap, Gaz realized, had gone quiet.
Gaz leaned forward slightly, his eyes cutting to Soap’s face. He knew that quiet. It usually preceded Soap doing something spectacularly stupid, like the time he’d tried to rappel off the roof of the barracks with a bedsheet because Ghost had told him it was impossible and then stood by with an amused smirk.
“Captain,” Ghost started, his head angled toward Price, “Am I authorized to be thorough?”
Price’s moustache disappeared behind his mug as he took a very long sip of tea. His shoulders shook once.
Graves leaned forward again, his face filling the screen, “Now, Ghost, that is not nice —“
“Could use a baton,” Ghost said. He tilted his head toward Graves and rolled his shoulders. His voice dropped, quieter, “Knees. Elbows. Jaw. The baton adds weight. More force. Less effort.”
Price raised his hand, motioning a warning, “Ghost.” A clear order. Stand. Down.
Gaz’s eyes met Roach’s across the table. The man wagged his eyebrows as he mapped Ghost’s eyeline. Directly to Soap.
“Efficient,” Ghost said with finality.
Soap’s breath caught. He sat up slowly, arms uncrossing. His fingers gripped the fabric of his pants, causing the chair to scrape against the floor. Ghost hadn’t even addressed him, but it didn’t matter. Soap was already leaning forward, waiting for the next threat to drop.
König leaned forward toward Soap and Gaz, “I think Ghost may need therapy…” he said in a low voice, his words coated in his German accent.
Gaz crossed his arms and huffed, “Mate, we’re all going to need therapy after this,” he muttered.
Soap went rigid, his shoulders squaring as he leaned just an inch forward. Gaz recognized the posture immediately, deeply regretted that he did, and went right back to staring at his notebook.
“Could use a knife,” Ghost continued. His voice dropped into a register that Gaz had never heard outside of a firefight. It was calm. Precise. “Shallow cuts. Cartilage. The jaw comes apart easy if you know where to press.” The fabric of his mask shifted, wrinkles forming at the edge of his eyes, “I know where to press.”
König leaned in again, “What is happening —“
Soap shot König a look like he was interrupting a private conversation and batted his hand at the Colonel as his eyes locked back on Ghost. König’s eyes widened and he pulled back slightly.
Gaz sighed and shook his head, “Eyes forward, big man,” he said low enough for just the three of them.
On the screen, Graves was apoplectic, “Price, I am trying real hard to be reasonable here – get your lieutenant in line.”
“Could use C4.”
The room froze. Soap’s head turned slowly, like a man in a dream. Gaz had seen a lot of looks on Soap’s face. Fury. Exasperation. Desperation. Manic glee when he got the rare opportunity to stand back and watch his handiwork fell entire structures. But this — this was something else entirely.
Gaz stared down at his notepad. He pressed his thumb into the pen cap until it clicked, then clicked it again. The small, rhythmic gesture was the only thing keeping him from reaching over and smothering Soap with his own jacket.
Soap went rigid. He did a weird, miserable little arch of his back before snapping himself straight again. The back of his neck turned a blotchy red that bled right into his mohawk. He made a small, restless shift that scraped the metal chair and made Gaz want to leave the room.
König made a strangled noise that turned into his throat clearing. Gaz looked up and saw Roach nod, clearly entertained. He looked up at the ceiling, then willed himself to look at König, whose wide eyes were locked on Soap’s lap.
Soap's fingers dug into his own thigh, his whole upper body tilting toward Ghost at a genuinely concerning angle. Gaz watched the slow-motion lean and couldn't help a snort, torn between grabbing Soap's collar to keep him from tipping out of his chair and seeing how long it took until his center of gravity gave out entirely and dumped him onto the floor.
Soap swallowed.
“Christ, Simon…” he said, breathless, “Aye, that’d dae it.” A crooked smile broke across Soap’s face as he and Ghost made eye contact. Ghost’s mask shifted as he huffed.
Gaz’s head shot toward Soap, his eyebrows nearly hidden under his cap. His best friend was apparently so deeply, pathetically gone for his LT that the mention of his favorite explosive was being treated like a marriage proposal.
Fucking. Assholes. Both of you. C4 is not a goddamn love language.
He huffed, ready to tell Soap to get it together, when he saw it. Soap’s hand reached up and embedded his fingers in his mohawk against his scalp. With a low, soft grunt, his fingers curled in on themselves.
Gaz’s eyes went wide. He leaned into Soap, “Are you fucking kidding me?” He hissed, “Here? Now?”
Soap’s hand left his hair in a hurry, but his eyes didn’t leave Ghost, “Ach, mind yer business, Garrick.”
“Mate, you are making this everyone’s business,” Gaz retorted, his voice low and staccato.
Soap looked at him this time, his pupils wide against his bright blue eyes, “Ah’m no’ doin’ anythin’!” Soap’s hand hovered from the table, his palm open, shoulders up in confusion.
Next to him, König leaned forward, “I am right here, and I can see you —“
Soap snapped his head to the larger man, “Oh, aye! Ye can see, can ye? An’ why are ye lookin’?”
König’s eyes went wide at the accusation, “I am not — I wasn’t — you —“
”Ah whit, big man? Ah’m whit?” Soap leaned in toward König, his nostrils flared.
Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose again, “Let it go, König,”
Konig sat back, his eyes rolling to the ceiling, “Warum bin ich hier?” He muttered.
“Bless ye,” Soap replied, eyes still on Ghost.
“Ah … uh … danke,” König replied. He leaned back in his chair, the metal creaking under him. He tilted his head, taking a mental inventory. Soap and Ghost were partners. They were always together. Like partners. Like partners. König’s eyes widened. “Ah. Ja. The closet. It makes sense now.”
Gaz’s head shot to König. His eyebrows furrowed, “… what closet?”
Konig leaned forward, “Soap and Ghost were displeased that I was completing inventory in the medical closet when they opened the door. I was very confused. Now I understand. They were looking for a … ah ... private place.”
Soap’s head snapped to König, “Aye, and we had one, but ye were there, weren’t ye?” he spat.
Konig’s head tilted, “It was not a good location for such things. Too small. A larger space would be more suitable to your extracurriculars. The armory is good.”
Soap snorted a laugh at that. “Aye, extracurriculars. Thank ye for the recommendation, mate.”
Gaz leaned back in his chair, his eyes rolling to the ceiling, “Try the armory, he says,” he grumbled. He sighed and tried to turn his attention back to the briefing, but instead found Roach with a wide grin and tiny finger guns at his chest. König gave Roach a pleased nod, clearly happy to have been of help. Gaz’s head went to his hands.
“Everything alright over there, boys?” Graves’ drawl dragged the room back to the present. His eyes locked on Soap, “You’re looking a little distracted there, Soap.”
Soap’s jaw set and a crooked smirk spread across his face. “Aye, ah’m distracted. It’s hard tae focus when ye’ve been listenin’ to a man beg for the last hour. Some of us find it uncomfortable tae watch.”
Graves sat back in his chair, studying Soap. A smile spread slowly across his face as he turned his attention to Ghost, “That was quite the performance, lieutenant. I’m just not sure that I was the intended audience. Laswell, we’ll be in touch.” The screen went black as the call disconnected.
Price turned to Laswell, “He’s not getting that intel, Kate.”
Laswell chuckled, “I know, John,” her head shaking slightly, “I’m not sure Graves agrees. He’ll be going to Shepherd next.”
Price nodded, “Aye, I’m sure he will.”
“We’ll talk soon, John. Boys.” She nodded at the room, the monitor going black as she ended the call.
Price braced his hands on the table, pushing himself up. His lower back was whinging from sitting in the unforgiving metal chair for so long. He silently closed his notebook and lifted his mug to drain the last of the tea. He could hear the restlessness of his men behind him, waiting for their Captain’s dismissal.
Ghost had returned to his post against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Most men wouldn’t have seen anything past the mask. Price had served with Ghost long enough to know better. He nodded once. Ghost dipped his head slightly in return.
“Right,” Price said, collecting his notebook, “Dismissed,” he said, walking out of the room.
König stretched his arms and legs and rose from the chair, pushing it back under the table with a loud scrape. He laid a massive hand on Soap’s shoulder as he passed, “Armory,” he said as he passed behind Gaz and walked out of the room behind Roach.
Gaz closed his notebook and stood. “You coming,” he asked Soap as he pushed his chair in.
Soap looked at Gaz and then cut his eyes down to his own lap, “Aye, in a minute.”
Gaz looked at Ghost, who was still leaning against the wall, and then back to Soap. He snorted and shook his head, “C4. You are unwell, mate.” He clapped Soap on the shoulder and walked out the door, leaving the two men alone.
The latch clicked softly as the door engaged. Soap leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.
Ghost pushed off the wall and slowly rounded the table to Soap. He leaned against the table, facing the door, arms crossed again over his chest. “You’re in a right state, Sergeant.”
Soap rolled his eyes, “Aye, and whose fault is that, ye bastard…”
Ghost huffed, his shoulders shaking.
Soap snorted, “Aye, laugh it up, ye weapon. Ye’re the one who put on a wee show for our friend.”
Ghost shrugged, “Entertainment.”
“Right. Entertainment,” Soap said with a chuckle as he shook his head. He looked up at Ghost, “Ye remembered,” he said softly.
“Dunno what you’re on about, Johnny.” Ghost’s low voice rumbled through the mask. He uncrossed his arms and leaned back, his hands bracing against the table, one hand right beside Soap.
“Ach, Simon, dinnea make me sae it, ye numpty.” Soap looked up at him, his blue eyes narrowed. Ghost huffed, his shoulders shaking. Soap’s hand shot up, “Ye know what ye’re doing ye bloody arse!”
Ghost dipped his head to look down at Soap.
Soap shook his head, snorting a laugh, “Aye, ye’ve got a way wi’ words, LT. Ye really dae,” he said, his brogue snaking through his words.
Ghost tilted his head, offering only a contemplative “Mm” in response.
Soap’s smile twitched, “Ye’re no’ gonna say it, are ye?”
“Go on then. Say what?”
Soap’s shoulders dropped and his eyes drifted to Ghost, “Simon.”
Ghost shifted, moving his hand closer to Soap.
“Ye remembered,” Soap said again, quieter this time.
Ghost tilted his head, watching him. A pleased rumble settled in his chest. Soap went still as Ghost leaned down. He traced his thumbs along the edge of Ghost’s balaclava. His fingers lingered, giving Ghost a chance to swat his hand away. When no rejection came, Soap pushed the fabric up, just under Ghost’s nose.
Ghost leaned in and pressed his lips to Soap’s forehead. Soap closed his eyes. His shoulders dropped and he sunk back into his chair.
Ghost straightened and pulled his mask back down. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, but didn’t pull out of Soap’s space. “C4,” he said.
Warnings: discrimination, violence, descriptions of illness and injuries, death and violence on the basis of discrimination, implied suicidal thoughts, brief mentions of torture
Summary: you never planned to reveal your identity to your team, however being trapped in a safe house with them for over a week may not allow you to keep your secrets hidden for much longer
A/N: my chronic pain has been an absolute BITCH this week which means i have had to work from home :/ at least i can use my normal commute time to do more writing
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It seems like hours before Soap returns with a bundle of clothes in his arms, every second you had sitting down in that dark hole feeling like an eternity. You manage a small sigh of relief when he finally comes back in sight, passing the clothes to you through the narrow opening.
“Thanks,” you murmur softly, grabbing the items with eagerness. It’s difficult to get the outfit on, the space not allowing much movement. You have to lie back on the dirt to shimmy the pants over your hips, hissing through your teeth at a sting in your back when you shift against the rough surface. Soap offers a hand once you are dressed, helping guide you out into the open with one hand while the other lifts some of the paneling upward to allow more space.
Your movements are clumsy as you right yourself, limbs stiff and sore now protesting being straightened fully. The sun scorches your eyes, forcing you to squint as you adjust to the change in lighting. Soap is moving to steady you instantly, watching your staggering movements with a pinched expression. His hand lands firmly between your shoulder blades, meant to be a form of support, instead it has you twisting away with a sharp yelp. The stab of discomfort you’d felt moments prior returns, only this time it is hotter, spreading in an intense wave along your spine. Before you can stop him he is hiking the back of your shirt up to look, one hand holding your shoulder firmly to keep you still.
“Fuck did ya do?”
“I uhh…” you shake your head, trying to remember the full events from the hours earlier, “must have hit it on the beams of something.”
“Hit-” he lets the shirt fall back down, stepping back into your line of sight, “you ‘ave a cut the length of my forearm ya’ eejit.”
You blink at him, “... I didn’t-”
You blink again, shaking your head in confusion until your eyes land on the hole Soap just pulled you through. “... the wood- I remember it dug in a bit when I went down there, I didn’t realise-”
“Jesus Christ,” Soap moves a hand to the back of your neck, steering you toward the office building, “team’s waitin’ for us, I’ll let cap know you need the medic.”
You don't have much choice but to fall in step beside him, allowing him to navigate you forward, “how bad is it?”
“Shallow, won’t need stitches at least,” his grip on your neck tightens momentarily in what you think is meant to be reassurance, but all it does is remind you of the feeling of someone's tight grip on your scruff.
“Soap could you-” your shoulders tighten in discomfort, “move your hand please.”
The man's footsteps slow, the hold he has on you loosening. His eyes sweep over the tension in your shoulders, the way your face has stiffened. With a slow nod he shifts to gently holding your bicep, not willing to let go completely with how unsteady you still look. “Tha’ alright instead?”
With a soft breath of relief you manage a small nod in return, “thanks.”
Soap hums softly, moving his gaze back to the path ahead as he again increases his speed. The two of you walk in silence for a few minutes, him staring pointedly ahead while you focus on steadying the ever fluctuating pace of your heart.
You break the silence with a soft voice, throat feeling tight as you do, “sorry for… disappearing.”
He hums, eyes flicking toward you in his peripheries briefly, “was a pretty stressful night.”
“Night? What do you mean?” you frown.
He fully looks at you then, brows narrowed as though you’ve said something in another language. His voice is slow when he speaks as if worried what he is about to say will frighten you, “... you’ve been gone since 3pm yesterday.
“Three-,” you cough violently, feet catching on the pavement as you stumble. “I thought it had been a few hours not…”
“A whole day,” Soap fills in.
You fall back into silence, trying not to spiral over the thought of losing that much time without realising. Soap seems to understand it’s best to stay quiet too, just concentrating on keeping you moving toward Price’s office. The hallways are relatively empty, which you are grateful for knowing the state you currently look. It doesn’t take long to reach the captain’s office, they door cracked slightly open allowing the sound of quiet discussion to float into the corridor. Soap releases his hold on you, pushing the door open and stepping inside. All eyes are on you in an instant, Price, Gaz and Ghost all pausing their conversation as you tentatively step into the room, pulling the door closed behind you. A white bandage is wound around Gaz’s palm, the sight making your stomach churn with shame.
Soap makes his way to Price, leaning close to murmur something in the man's ear. Soap nods toward you and you can only assume he is filling the captain in on the state he found you in. You shift from foot to foot, hands interlocked behind your back to stop yourself from fidgeting. Soap finally takes a step back, letting Price’s attention turn fully to you.
The captain taps his index finger on his desk twice, tilting his head to the side, “it’s time for a long overdue chat.”
You dig your nails into the palm of your hand, forcing your shifting feet still as you wait for him to continue.
With a sigh Price runs a hand through his hair, tilting back in his chair, "withholding your status as a changeling raises some serious concerns surrounding your reliability on this team, coupled with the incident yesterday raises some warning signs. Do you have anything you would like to clarify about your actions?”
You flinch at the term, head shaking as you look toward your shoes, “don’t call me that.”
“Excuse me?”
Your eyes flick to the captains, steely and firm. Your voice comes out sharp and unwavering, “I said don’t call me that, sir.”
His jaw ticks once, “we are discussing your future upon this team and you believe it’s a good time to correct my grammar?”
You take one step forward, nails digging into your palm harder as you stand firm, “I will not stand here and be demoralized. If you expect me to be grateful that you decided to keep me alive, to allow you to treat me as lesser now that you know what I am, then you may as well draft up my discharge papers because I would rather walk away completely than be the team's shit kicker.”
Four sets of eyes all locked on you, none of them saying a word. This would be the time most would back down and apologise, rather than jeopardise their entire career over a single word. But with everything that has happened yours is probably already up in flames, you owe it to at least advocate for yourself.
“.... sit down kid,” Price gestures to the empty chair in front of his desk.
“I’d rather-”
“Sit your arse down sergeant,” he orders, fixing you with a stare that has your heart stuttering. Slowly you slink into the seat, hands clenching together in your lap as the bravado evaporates as quickly as it had appeared.
“Rest of you, step out,” Price one hand at the other men, pointing them to the exit. That order shocks you. Your eyes widen as you watch the other three file out of the room without so much as a protest, the door clicking shut behind them.
“Talk.”
You swallow hard, voice catching roughly in your throat, “... what?”
“I’m not a mind reader kid. You don’t trust the team, can’t fix that unless you tell me why,” he leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, “so talk, I’ll listen, we’ll go from there.”
You shrug, staring at the edge of his desk rather than meet his eyes directly, “I don’t know what to say.”
Price hums, tapping his desk lightly again, “start with why that word bothered you so much.”
With a sigh you sink further into the seat, shifting uncomfortably as the cut on your back protests, “... it’s not a kind term for people like me.”
He tilts his head in consideration, “like an insult?”
“Yeah, something like that,” you pinch and twist at the skin on the back of your hand, the slight discomfort bringing and odd sense of soothing.
“Right, I’ll make sure not to use it anymore.”
You freeze, wondering if for a second you misheard the man, “... just like that?”
Price nods, “it’s a simple request sergeant, would make me a right wanker to continue on saying it if the word makes you uncomfortable.”
There aren’t any words you can seem to form in response, so you elect to stay quiet. Price waits a few moments before speaking again, “we should talk about what happened In the humvee-”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” you say sharply.
If he was bothered by your tone he doesn’t show it, instead just narrowing his gaze in assessment, “you were somewhere else.”
You let out a surprised laugh, “... I don’t know what you-”
He holds up a hand to stop you, “I’m not asking for the full story, not right now. But I will need some sort of explanation to fully consider the likelihood of an incident like that occurring again, especially in the field.”
This entire conversation has your head in a spin, feeling like the world has flipped on its axis, “I don’t understand.”
“Understand what?” Price asks.
You shrug as if it’s obvious, “your angle. What are you hoping to get out of this?”
“Some clarity on our current predicament,” he speaks the words slowly, like talking to a child. That has something in your gut flickering with heat.
“Bullshit.”
He sighs, “Is it so unbelievable that there is no ulterior motive?”
“Yes,” you say bluntly. When he stares at you in a way that can only be described as at a loss, you continue to explain knowing he can’t deny it is you bring the situation to light, “you were all angry and now suddenly you're not… the only reason I can think of is you’ve got some sort of plan that requires my cooperation.”
“.... Sergeant, why do you think the team was angry with you?” he says quietly, expression softening.
“Because I’m a shifter. If you all had known you wouldn’t have put me on the team in the first place,” you say, chewing the inside of your cheek once you finish.
Price stares at you for what feels like a long time, causing you to shrink instinctively under his gaze. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. Price crosses his arms on the desk, leaning forward, “We were never angry with you kid, we were hurt that you not only lied to us but also put yourself at risk. Your illness was preventable, and allowing yourself to get to that bad a state affected not only you but the entire taskforce.”
That is…. Not the answer you were expecting. You don’t have long to contemplate before he continues, “I understand you didn’t have faith we would react to the news kindly, but your decision to withhold that information until you were almost requiring hospitalisation was, in the nicest way possible, idiotic.”
Price shakes his head, one hand lifting up in slight frustration, “we are all fortunate that this did not occur under worse circumstances. If we had been in an active combat zone, or unable to get medical, or god forbid you did more than just bite Gaz on the hand. It could have been far more detrimental.”
“So you all think I’m a liability now,” you murmur quietly.
The captain scoffs, “kid, we are worried about you. After everything that happened yesterday, do you want to know the first question Gaz had when I checked in on him at the infirmary?”
You don’t respond, instead swallowing down the lump in your throat.
Price nods his head toward the door the others had left through, “He asked if you were alright, and when I told him you were still missing he tried to head straight out to join the others looking for you. Had to order him to stand down. Hell Ghost and Soap would have been out there all night too unless I’d forced ‘em to rest.”
“...oh,” you feel as though your entire body is deflating.
He clears his throat, “You are a valuable asset to this taskforce, I would prefer you stay a part of it. However, if you can’t trust your teammates to have your back and disclose relevant information then perhaps it’s not the best spot for you.”
That has your breath catching in your throat, the reality of your situation careening down like a slab of concrete, “so you’re discharging me.”
“No,” he holds up a hand, “I’m giving you the opportunity to reflect on what you believe is the right step forward for yourself. I can’t make the decision of whether you trust us or not, it has to come from you.”
“But…” he sighs again, “if you do choose to stay, understand that will be on the condition that the entire team is brought up to speed on any information I deem necessary, that is non-negotiable. I will not have us blindsided again.”
Price scratches at the back of his neck, “I wish I could offer you as much time as you need, but you understand the nature of this job as well as all of us. The best I can give you is the week, if you haven’t made a call by then I will have to.”
“And what call will that be?” you ask quietly.
“By not making a decision, you would be making one anyhow. A non-committal is not a dedicated member of this team,” he pushes his chair back from the desk, stepping toward the door and pulling it open for you, “go get yourself cleaned up kid, and check in with the medic about your back.”
The hallway is empty when you step into it, and you don't know whether to be glad for the lack of stares, or if it is just a reminder of how alone you truly feel.
Warnings: discrimination, violence, descriptions of illness and injuries, death and violence on the basis of discrimination, implied suicidal thoughts, brief mentions of torture
Summary: you never planned to reveal your identity to your team, however being trapped in a safe house with them for over a week may not allow you to keep your secrets hidden for much longer
A/N: this chapter was originally going to be a lot longer but i decided to split it in two which in theory means the next part will be out very soon... no promises though lol
Series Masterlist | main masterlist
Part 1 | Previous Part | Next Part
The feeling of the humvee coming to a stop should bring some feeling of relief. You have been curled in the same position for what feels like the better part of a day and your limbs have been cramping for at least half of that time. However when you hear the rear doors swing open and then shut as both Gaz and Soap make a hasty disembark all you feel is the deep brewing a dread begin to coil in your gut. Back on base, at the mercy of your comrades. Exposed.
The door beside you swings open and Gaz is reaching toward you in an instant, but you don’t see Gaz, all you see is the hoard. Once again you are twenty two, desperate for your rifle, not a form of protection but instead a security that you can control the outcome before others have the chance. But you don’t have your rifle today.
In truth it’s not your fault, they all should know better. A cornered dog always bites.
This time when you lunge toward the fingers you don’t miss, teeth in flesh, blood in mouth and a sharp yell echoing from the startled man. The metallic taste is bitter upon your tongue, acidic, and it should make you draw away but instead you just sink your teeth in harder. Screaming. The sound of tearing flesh. A swarm of people.
A hand pulls at your scruff, tugging you backward, lifting your front paws off the floor. Your bite on the palm releases immediately, focus shifting to ridding yourself of the hold on your neck. A high pitched yowl rips from your throat, ricocheting within the vehicle. The grip on you falters, and that’s all the opportunity you need to wrench free and launch yourself outside, slipping between the two figures by the door. Yelling follows as you sprint across the dirt, pounding footsteps in pursuit that only spur you to run faster. But you know you can’t run forever. You need somewhere to hide, someplace they can’t get to you, and when your eyes land on the broken paneling spanning the base of a nearby building you decide that is your best option.
It’s a tight squeeze, the splintered wood scratching at your pelt as you force yourself through the small opening, but you do not slow even as it bites into your skin. The space beneath the building is dark, the ground covered with dirt and rock. Pipe work and beams span the area, making for a difficult maze of obstacles for any person to navigate through, but in this form it offers little trouble. The further you scramble, deeper into the abyss, the more the light diminishes until it is almost impossible to see.
The sounds that had been following you are long gone now, unable to pursue you any further which allows you enough reassurance to finally still. It is only then that you notice the shakiness to your limbs, the tremble that travels across your body. Your lungs burn, chest heaving with each shallow breath you draw in. As the adrenaline withers and your heart slows all you are left with is exhaustion, unable to go on even if you wanted to. You fall heavily to the rough ground, legs extended as you lay on your side. Just a small rest, enough to recover, then you can think clearly. Sleep comes for you fast and unforgiving.
You wake to the cool press of dirt against your cheek, dust filling your nose when you inhale sharply causing you to cough and wretch. Your head collides sharply with the wooden beam above you as you push yourself upright, vision spotting as your hand moves to cradle your now pounding skull. It takes a few moments to realise where you are, for the memories of hours prior to come flooding in all at once. Your throat is dry and scratchy, mouth parched after breathing in the dust for however long you have been down here. There’s a sharp pain in your back that flares each time you twist your torso and the taste of old blood in your mouth.
It’s hard to move, limbs knocking with pipes and stones as you try to navigate toward the sliver of light you can see in the distance. The process is slow and tedious, often finding yourself coming to spaces too narrow to squeeze through and having to backtrack to find an alternate route. Getting in seemed like such an easy feat, you don’t understand why getting out suddenly poses such a problem.
You find yourself breathing a small sigh of relief when the way out finally becomes clear in your line of sight, the same broken paneling you had slipped through earlier. However something seems wrong, the hole looks entirely too small to get through now. Your fingers trace along the gap, pulling at the wood to try and widen the opening, hoping the wood is loose enough to pry off. A sharp his leaves your mouth as a splinter lodges its way into your palm, and as you press the stinging skin against your teeth to try and pull the piece loose you finally realise why getting out is suddenly such a difficulty. Fingers. You have fingers. A quick glance down at your own body affirms the situation, you shifted back in your sleep.
Your skin is covered with dirt, small scrapes covering your knees and shins from crawling over the rough ground and worst of all is your distinct lack of clothes. Two weeks ago if you had been told you would wake up cold, dirty and naked in a small dark space you would assume you had been taken captive, instead you just lay in the hole of your own making. With a growl of frustration you punch at the wood, dislodging a few planks. Not that it does you any good, even with space to crawl out you have no intention of stepping out into the open with your current appearance.
You sink backward, leaning against one of the upright support beams with a sigh, tucking your knees to your chest. If the team wasn’t angry with you before you have no doubt they would be now, how the hell are you supposed to go back to them in this state. The sound of footsteps approaching pulls you from your thoughts, a shadow passing over the hole blocking the light from entering. Instinctively you curl in on yourself, drawing your legs closer in an attempt to stay hidden but the effort proves futile.
“Tha’ you sergeant?” Soap’s voice echoes toward you.
There’s no use denying it, the man only needs to crouch down to be able to confirm his suspicion. You clear your throat lightly, voice coming out in a croak, “I’m here.”
The man is squatting down to get a better look at you in an instant, shifting to the side to allow some light through in order to make out your figure better in the dark. His eyes sweep over what you can only assume is a very rough view, a flutter of discomfort growing in your stomach at his scrutinisation.
“Ya’ shifted back,” he says, tone laced with surprise.
“Yeah,” you tighten your arms around your legs, trying to shield yourself the best you can. After a few quiet moments you murmur out a soft request, voice cracking as you do, “could you get me some clothes please.”
Soap stares at you for a tense second, the churning in your gut only increasing until finally he offers a stiff nod. He stands quickly, disappearing from sight. You can hear his brisk footsteps fade away until finally they disappear completely and you are left hoping that he does indeed come back with only the clothes and not the entirety of the 141 on his heels.
Warnings: discrimination, violence, descriptions of illness and injuries, death and violence on the basis of descrimination
Summary: you never planned to reveal your identity to your team, however being trapped in a safe house with them for over a week may not allow you to keep your secrets hidden for much longer
A/N: taglist is still open so let me know if you want to be added!
Series Masterlist | main masterlist
Part 1 | Previous Part | Next Part
It’s been six hours, and you still haven’t moved from your place beneath the sofa. Ghost has been back for a few hours, bringing food and hot drinks for the team. It seems he had been slightly optimistic about your predicament as he had even brought a drink back for you, it now sits undrunk and cold on one of the bedside tables. Gaz and Price have yet to make another appearance, though you know they haven’t gone far as their scents still waft through the door every so often and you catch the faint sounds of conversation. You have overheard enough to know that Price has been in touch with the base, apparently the team is expected to return within 24 hours now that the storm has broken.
The thought of them leaving you here has a deep ache settling into your chest. Even though it was you who made the offer for them to leave you behind, note you down as MIA, it doesn’t make the reality of it any easier. You just hope they might leave you the motel room for a few days longer, even if they don’t owe it to you. Despite the storm having passed, the temperature outside is still far from forgiving. If you were forced to brave the wild still stuck in this form, the likelihood of survival dwindles exponentially, a fact you know they would be aware of.
Soap has tried a couple times to coax you out into the open, mainly with the offer of food. It was getting harder to deny that you are hungry, the scent of the sandwiches Ghost brought back leeching into your nostrils no matter how hard you try to ignore it. With how ill you were in the previous days, and now being stuck shifted, your body has been without a meal for quite some time and your stomach has become quite persistent with its protests.
You aren’t sure if it’s intentional, the way Soap almost taunts you with the food, holding it just far enough from the couch that you would have to step into the open in order to snatch it from his hand. And you know better than to do that, there’s no saying what they plan to do once you are exposed, if Ghost is just waiting for the right moment to grab you while Soap has you distracted. So you stay put, pressing your flank against the peeling paint of the back wall, watching each movement they make from your hideaway.
The slam of a car door draws both of their attention, the noise causing one of your ears to flick toward it. There’s heavy footsteps trenching through the snow toward the door, based on the smell you know it’s Price and Gaz. When the door to the room opens both Ghost and Soap are on their feet, casting one last glance toward you before stepping out into the living room and pulling the door shut behind them with a soft click. Their voices are quiet, as though they don’t want you to hear, but with your sensitive hearing you hardly need to try and decipher the words as the conversation remains clear despite their attempts.
“Any change?” Price’s voice is rough from the cold, throat slightly hoarse.
“Still dinnae wanna come out, can’t get ‘em to communicate either,” Soap says with a deep sigh.
The captain huffs through his nose, “command wants us back asap, so we’ve run out of time to wait this out.”
“What’s the plan?” Ghost grunts.
“As soon as we are back on base the sergeants will get them back to the barracks as quickly and discreetly as possible. I’ll stop the humvee by the back entrance to avoid too much attention and then Ghost and I will go return the humvee as normal. If any of the higher ups are waiting on our arrival they’ll be in the vehicle bays, if they question any of your whereabouts, I’ll tell them you have all come down with a mild illness and have been dismissed to the barracks in order to recover. That should buy us at least the rest of the day before being expected for the debrief,” Price explains, voice methodical and assured.
Soap clears his throat, voice lowering further “and what if they are still stuck by the time we are expected to debrief?”
You can hear Price shuffle his feet slightly, “then we cross that bridge when we get there.”
“Not like you to be without contingency plans,” Ghost says in return.
“Can’t say this is a scenario I have ever prepared for, if you have suggestions I am more than open to hearing them.”
It falls silent, clearly none of the other men having a better idea as to the best steps forward. After a few moments, the door to your room pushes open, the captain entering quietly and pulling the door shut behind him.
“Did you hear all that?” His tone is surprisingly soft, like he’s talking to a frightened animal and you suppose in some way he is.
You offer a soft rumble in affirmation, not quite a growl but with enough deepness to make your displeasure toward the plan clear.
Price takes a few careful steps toward you, still far enough that you don’t feel boxed in, but close enough that he can find your eyeline when he crouches down to glance at you, “you know you’ll need to come out from down there, I’d rather you do it on your own volition.”
The thought of exposing yourself draws a whine from your throat, high pitched and almost pitiful. The captain's voice drops softer in response, holding his hands up in placation, “no one’s gonna hurt you kid, won’t even touch ya if that’s what you want. But you can’t stay under there forever, we have to head back.”
It’s not as though you have any other option. You can choose to stay hidden, but it’s likely that Price will just move the sofa eventually to get you out. No matter your choice the outcome will be the same, only one will result in an angry captain which is something you would rather avoid.
Slowly, you inch out into the open, tail low in wariness. You don’t move your gaze from him, ready bolt at the sign of sudden movement. Price takes in a sharp breath, sweeping his gaze over your appearance for the first proper view of your shifted shape. You pause a few feet from him, waiting out his reaction with bated breath. His hands are empty along with his holsters, which at least reassures you that there’s low intention to cause you harm, but the sight of disgust from him would still be a damaging experience.
“.... least no one will pay too much attention to ya’, don’t know what I would’ve done if you were something exotic or god forbid humongous,” a small attempt at humour, one you are grateful for. The hackles that had been brimming along your spine lower, ears no longer stiff and alert but instead moving toward relaxed. Price smells… calm, which surprises you. Over the smell of guns, cigars and sweat, there’s something distinctly him and though the comfort it brings you is small, it is still a comfort none the less.
“The others are packing the gear, can take you to the humvee while they're distracted if you want.”
It’s an offer you weren’t expecting, one that has you perking up in interest. You’d been preparing yourself for the presentation, for Price to force you in front of the group like a show pony on display. It’s… thoughtful, which is not a trait you would have ever thought would be displayed in this scenario.
“Want me to carry you out so your paws don’t get damaged on the snow?”
The idea of being carried has your heart beginning to race. It’s a risky position to be in, unable to get away if you were in danger, at the mercy of the captain completely. Do you trust him enough? That’s the question you have to ask yourself. If he wanted you dead you already would be by now, but that still doesn’t offer full clarity to his motivation keeping you around. You believe he does want to take you back to the base, which means he will indeed take you to the humvee as offered. You can let your guard down for now, at least for this, then once you're on base you can figure out what exactly he wants from you. As Price said before, you'll cross that bridge when you get there.
His hands are firm but comfortable when he lifts you from the floor, holding you securely against his chest as he carries you out the bedroom and toward the door outside. The others are indeed packing as he had claimed, too busy in their task to offer more than a quick glance toward the captain who has angled himself in front of your body as much as possible to shield you from view.
The air outside is still bitter, your short coat not designed for temperatures this low. Thankfully the humvee is already warming up, the temperature inside much more comfortable. Price places you on the floor of the front passenger seat, the heater blowing directly on you which draws a satisfied huff. The captain offers you a small smile before shutting the door. You are quick to curl up in the footwell, as out of sight as you can be in the limited space.
It’s only a few minutes later that you hear the rear doors open, a cold breeze slipping while the rest of the team load up. You can feel the glances toward you, finally able to make out more of your form. They don’t say anything, for that you are grateful. It’s a long drive back, you just hope that they keep whatever thoughts they have to themselves for the duration.
Warnings: discrimination, violence, descriptions of illness and injuries, death and violence on the basis of descrimination
Summary: you never planned to reveal your identity to your team, however being trapped in a safe house with them for over a week may not allow you to keep your secrets hidden for much longer
A/N: taglist is still open so let me know if you want to be added!
Series Masterlist | main masterlist
Part 1 | Previous Part | Next Part
It’s been six hours, and you still haven’t moved from your place beneath the sofa. Ghost has been back for a few hours, bringing food and hot drinks for the team. It seems he had been slightly optimistic about your predicament as he had even brought a drink back for you, it now sits undrunk and cold on one of the bedside tables. Gaz and Price have yet to make another appearance, though you know they haven’t gone far as their scents still waft through the door every so often and you catch the faint sounds of conversation. You have overheard enough to know that Price has been in touch with the base, apparently the team is expected to return within 24 hours now that the storm has broken.
The thought of them leaving you here has a deep ache settling into your chest. Even though it was you who made the offer for them to leave you behind, note you down as MIA, it doesn’t make the reality of it any easier. You just hope they might leave you the motel room for a few days longer, even if they don’t owe it to you. Despite the storm having passed, the temperature outside is still far from forgiving. If you were forced to brave the wild still stuck in this form, the likelihood of survival dwindles exponentially, a fact you know they would be aware of.
Soap has tried a couple times to coax you out into the open, mainly with the offer of food. It was getting harder to deny that you are hungry, the scent of the sandwiches Ghost brought back leeching into your nostrils no matter how hard you try to ignore it. With how ill you were in the previous days, and now being stuck shifted, your body has been without a meal for quite some time and your stomach has become quite persistent with its protests.
You aren’t sure if it’s intentional, the way Soap almost taunts you with the food, holding it just far enough from the couch that you would have to step into the open in order to snatch it from his hand. And you know better than to do that, there’s no saying what they plan to do once you are exposed, if Ghost is just waiting for the right moment to grab you while Soap has you distracted. So you stay put, pressing your flank against the peeling paint of the back wall, watching each movement they make from your hideaway.
The slam of a car door draws both of their attention, the noise causing one of your ears to flick toward it. There’s heavy footsteps trenching through the snow toward the door, based on the smell you know it’s Price and Gaz. When the door to the room opens both Ghost and Soap are on their feet, casting one last glance toward you before stepping out into the living room and pulling the door shut behind them with a soft click. Their voices are quiet, as though they don’t want you to hear, but with your sensitive hearing you hardly need to try and decipher the words as the conversation remains clear despite their attempts.
“Any change?” Price’s voice is rough from the cold, throat slightly hoarse.
“Still dinnae wanna come out, can’t get ‘em to communicate either,” Soap says with a deep sigh.
The captain huffs through his nose, “command wants us back asap, so we’ve run out of time to wait this out.”
“What’s the plan?” Ghost grunts.
“As soon as we are back on base the sergeants will get them back to the barracks as quickly and discreetly as possible. I’ll stop the humvee by the back entrance to avoid too much attention and then Ghost and I will go return the humvee as normal. If any of the higher ups are waiting on our arrival they’ll be in the vehicle bays, if they question any of your whereabouts, I’ll tell them you have all come down with a mild illness and have been dismissed to the barracks in order to recover. That should buy us at least the rest of the day before being expected for the debrief,” Price explains, voice methodical and assured.
Soap clears his throat, voice lowering further “and what if they are still stuck by the time we are expected to debrief?”
You can hear Price shuffle his feet slightly, “then we cross that bridge when we get there.”
“Not like you to be without contingency plans,” Ghost says in return.
“Can’t say this is a scenario I have ever prepared for, if you have suggestions I am more than open to hearing them.”
It falls silent, clearly none of the other men having a better idea as to the best steps forward. After a few moments, the door to your room pushes open, the captain entering quietly and pulling the door shut behind him.
“Did you hear all that?” His tone is surprisingly soft, like he’s talking to a frightened animal and you suppose in some way he is.
You offer a soft rumble in affirmation, not quite a growl but with enough deepness to make your displeasure toward the plan clear.
Price takes a few careful steps toward you, still far enough that you don’t feel boxed in, but close enough that he can find your eyeline when he crouches down to glance at you, “you know you’ll need to come out from down there, I’d rather you do it on your own volition.”
The thought of exposing yourself draws a whine from your throat, high pitched and almost pitiful. The captain's voice drops softer in response, holding his hands up in placation, “no one’s gonna hurt you kid, won’t even touch ya if that’s what you want. But you can’t stay under there forever, we have to head back.”
It’s not as though you have any other option. You can choose to stay hidden, but it’s likely that Price will just move the sofa eventually to get you out. No matter your choice the outcome will be the same, only one will result in an angry captain which is something you would rather avoid.
Slowly, you inch out into the open, tail low in wariness. You don’t move your gaze from him, ready bolt at the sign of sudden movement. Price takes in a sharp breath, sweeping his gaze over your appearance for the first proper view of your shifted shape. You pause a few feet from him, waiting out his reaction with bated breath. His hands are empty along with his holsters, which at least reassures you that there’s low intention to cause you harm, but the sight of disgust from him would still be a damaging experience.
“.... least no one will pay too much attention to ya’, don’t know what I would’ve done if you were something exotic or god forbid humongous,” a small attempt at humour, one you are grateful for. The hackles that had been brimming along your spine lower, ears no longer stiff and alert but instead moving toward relaxed. Price smells… calm, which surprises you. Over the smell of guns, cigars and sweat, there’s something distinctly him and though the comfort it brings you is small, it is still a comfort none the less.
“The others are packing the gear, can take you to the humvee while they're distracted if you want.”
It’s an offer you weren’t expecting, one that has you perking up in interest. You’d been preparing yourself for the presentation, for Price to force you in front of the group like a show pony on display. It’s… thoughtful, which is not a trait you would have ever thought would be displayed in this scenario.
“Want me to carry you out so your paws don’t get damaged on the snow?”
The idea of being carried has your heart beginning to race. It’s a risky position to be in, unable to get away if you were in danger, at the mercy of the captain completely. Do you trust him enough? That’s the question you have to ask yourself. If he wanted you dead you already would be by now, but that still doesn’t offer full clarity to his motivation keeping you around. You believe he does want to take you back to the base, which means he will indeed take you to the humvee as offered. You can let your guard down for now, at least for this, then once you're on base you can figure out what exactly he wants from you. As Price said before, you'll cross that bridge when you get there.
His hands are firm but comfortable when he lifts you from the floor, holding you securely against his chest as he carries you out the bedroom and toward the door outside. The others are indeed packing as he had claimed, too busy in their task to offer more than a quick glance toward the captain who has angled himself in front of your body as much as possible to shield you from view.
The air outside is still bitter, your short coat not designed for temperatures this low. Thankfully the humvee is already warming up, the temperature inside much more comfortable. Price places you on the floor of the front passenger seat, the heater blowing directly on you which draws a satisfied huff. The captain offers you a small smile before shutting the door. You are quick to curl up in the footwell, as out of sight as you can be in the limited space.
It’s only a few minutes later that you hear the rear doors open, a cold breeze slipping while the rest of the team load up. You can feel the glances toward you, finally able to make out more of your form. They don’t say anything, for that you are grateful. It’s a long drive back, you just hope that they keep whatever thoughts they have to themselves for the duration.
