Look, hear me out.
You’re an emotional support dog shifter – a springer spaniel, specifically. A soft thing that sighs and has long ears, the fur on them curled into tight, multi-colored rings. You were brought on at the insistence of Laswell, the woman claiming that if the lot of them refused to get their shit sorted with their assigned shrinks, they’d be getting themselves a mutt to help manage their trauma.
It was only after a few rounds at the pub that Kate begrudgingly admitted to John that you were a failed service dog – kicked out of the school for being perpetually sleepy. She and her wife didn’t have the space to keep you permanently while they fostered you, and the missus was too distraught at the idea of you going to strangers, so this was the next best thing. Give the tired pup a group of equally tired, emotionally constipated men to hang out with.
John? He was not thrilled. Not at first, anyway. He believed you’d get in the way of their duties, take up space, require attention and care that they didn’t have the time nor capabilities to provide.
Boy, did you surprise him, though.
Multiple daily walks in your dog form? Nah. There was the sporadic occasion that you’d join Gaz on one of his early morning jogs (mostly because he didn’t jog particularly fast, preferring distance over speed), though that only happened once in a blue moon. He offered every day, but the majority of the time, you’d simply look at him from your bed in the corner of the rec room with droopy eyes, huff through your nose, and go back to sleep.
Constant need for attention? Nope. You never begged or demanded for any of them to play with you or entertain you. If you needed stimulation, then you’d help yourself to a book in the rec room, or maybe watch some TV in there. You also had your favorite toy – a short length of rope with thick knots on either end – that you chewed on when your teeth itched. Never once did you bother the captain when he was in the middle of mountains of paperwork; never once did you paw at his door and whine to be let in.
The only time he found you near there was when he’d stayed in his office extra late one night, only leaving close to two in the morning. You were laying in the hallway by the door, and when he came out, you got up, looked at him for a few seconds – then, you were yawning and stretching, and trotting away back to your bed, content to see him still alive.
You were quiet, too. No incessant barking whenever someone came over, no jumping on people with excitement (or lack of control). You didn’t bite or claw, and you required basically no training. If one of them told you to come, you would without issue (though, maybe you’d give them a bit of side-eye for waking you).
When one of them took you out on the field to watch over rookie training, you’d obediently sit at their heel, observing recruits run laps until they lost their breakfast, passed out, or both.
Mess hall? Not an issue, even with the overwhelming amount of soldiers present. You took your spot on Gaz’s free side, the seat that had been designated yours when you first joined them, ate all your food, and cleaned up after yourself. Just for that, you were a gem to have.
Then, the actual emotional support.
It started slow. It took you time to settle in fully, get used to your new space and roommates. It also took the boys time to get used to you – Gaz and Ghost still teased Soap about the time he hadn’t noticed you standing behind him and screamed like a little girl when he turned around and saw you. You were patiently waiting for him to move out of the way so you could make yourself a cup of tea, but redirected to bumping into his side and holding onto his sleeve until he calmed down.
He took to you the quickest after that, though. At the end of every day, he was making his way straight to you to enjoy some warm, fluffy cuddles. More than once, the rest of the team had watched him simply lay down on top of you on your bed, amused to see the Scot face-down on your side while you laid your chin on his mohawk.
Gaz was also fast to warm up, enjoying the quiet company you provided him. Shared reading and tea time, you lending an ear (both human and dog) to listen to the gossip he’d gathered around base that he had to spill. That boba he’d been dying to try? You were more than happy to go with him. Self-care days? Make it double.
Now, Ghost; he refused to admit that you’d wormed your way into his heart, but something settled in his chest when you laid yourself across his lap, or plopped down directly on top of him anytime he chose to nap on the couch. You’d rest your head on his collarbone, tuck your paws, and let out one of those big, deep sighs that dogs do when they’re content and comfortable. Instinctively, he’d scratch behind your ears, and you’d lean into his touch with a happy little grumble. Ghost never understood the appeal of weighted blankets until he had you on top of him, giving him deep-pressure therapy.
Price was the hardest to win over, but the most rewarding. The old man went from secluding himself to his office 90% of the time, to finding excuses to take a break and check on you. He’d pretend that he just so happened to end up where you were on his way to do something else, and then he’d invite you because he was a gentleman and it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You never called it out for what it was, but you would smile softly and accept his invitation to take a walk or grab a snack.
In no time at all, it was like you had always been there, chatting with Soap, helping Gaz with puzzles, and napping on the dingy sofa in Price’s office while he worked. Ghost wouldn’t push you off when you flopped beside him while he cleaned his guns, stuffing your cold, wet nose under the hem of his hoodie to hide the sensitive thing from the acerbic stench of gun oil and polish.
It’s like you always belonged with them.
So, after they came back from a relatively short mission – their first time being away from you – and you were nowhere to be seen, they immediately knew something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
In the couple months they’d gotten to know you, they knew you weren’t one to wander. In fact, being a springer spaniel shifter, you were prone to separation anxiety, so they figured you’d choose to rest in one of their rooms, or stay in the spaces they tended to occupy most. But they checked every room, every office, and found no sign of you.
It took an hour or so after their return for them to find you – Gaz, specifically. He spotted you hiding under the coffee table in the rec room, refusing to come out. He had to coax you out slowly, using sweet words and that gentle voice of his that could soften into a tone none of the others could match. He was the best man for the job, and you eventually crawled out.
You were limping, refusing to put any weight on your back left leg whatsoever, ears tucked close to your head. There was crusted blood stuck in your fur, and a small, raw patch where fur was missing entirely, revealing wounded flesh.
Ghost saw red. Blistering, bleeding, crimson red.
As soon as you were close enough to Gaz, you collapsed back onto the floor, evidently exhausted, like you hadn’t slept in days. You let out a broken whimper, your eyes wide and wet and so full of fear and hurt. Things you were never supposed to feel, to know. All the man could do was soothe and comfort you, Soap joining in to help with little coos and featherlight petting.
Price didn’t hesitate. He did what he did best – be a soldier.
He began digging, putting his skills and knowledge to use. Given his position as Captain, it wasn’t difficult to get answers out of people, figure out what happened to their poor pup while they were gone. A few questions, a bit of parading his rank (and abusing it, just a little), and he had all he needed to know.
It was a trooper – some new face in the SAS who managed to land himself a spot in it and thought it made him untouchable, made him entitled. He’d been following you around base, to and from the mess, gym, the field, anywhere like he had nothing better to do. He catcalled you incessantly, despite how you ignored him, or told him you weren’t interested, but he wasn’t having it.
On the third day of him harassing you, you decided you had enough. Not wanting to deal with him, you shed your human form, intending to quickly get away from him.
And he shot you.
By some miracle, the bullet only grazed your leg, but it still hit your ankle, nicked the bone. The trooper was immediately grounded, put on indefinite suspension and isolated to constant, intensive watch while he was being investigated. But it wasn’t enough. Not for your boys.
They knew well just how corrupt the system could be. Chances were, the trooper would just get let off with a warning, nothing more than a slap on the wrist that’d only further inflate his ego. They had to handle it.
Johnny and Kyle volunteered to take you to the medbay to get your leg checked, x-rayed, and treated. Ghost and Price stayed behind, sharing a look that nobody dared question. They all knew what was going to happen to that trooper, and neither sergeant had any plans to stop their superior officers from doling out justice at their own hand.
Kyle only briefly paused in front of Simon on the way out, after he’d carefully hoisted you into his arms to carry you. It gave Simon just enough time to scratch your head, run his rough, undeserving fingers through your impossibly soft fur, and murmur, “We’ll take care o’ it, pup. Y’re olrigh’ now,” before Kyle was carrying you away to get taken care of.
The door to their barracks closed, and Price and Ghost donned their soldier skins once more, knowing it wasn’t time for them to rest. Not yet, not until they fixed the issue.
Permanently.
— — — —
When Ghost and Price returned later that day, hands already scrubbed clean from the mess they made a few hours ago, you and the others had already returned from medical. You were curled up on the couch next to Kyle, chin resting on your front paws, a cast secured around your hind leg.
“Fractured the bone,” Johnny informed them, his voice quiet as to prevent waking you up. You were sedated, medicated with some heavy painkillers and still coming off anesthesia, but he wouldn’t dare bother you while you rested. You needed every moment of it to heal quickly and well. “No’ a full break, thank god, but they had ta put a pin in ‘er bone. Puts ‘er at risk o’ a proper break. So, cast, an’ strict instructions ta nae shift back inta human form fer the time bein’.”
Price sighed heavily through his nose, pinching the bridge of it. Ghost stared at you, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Even though they just finished… interrogating the trooper, hearing what you had to go through, the pain you’d been dealing with alone for god knows how long, it renewed his rage all over again.
“What’d ye do ta the poor sod?” Johnny asked as he gazed at you, his arms folded over his chest. Evidently, he was fighting for control, too.
“Did a lo’ more than jus’ break the bastard’s leg, can tell ya tha’,” Ghost answered cryptically, receiving a pleased hum in return.
“Least the fecker deserves,” the sergeant commented.
Price lightly clapped both men on the back, attempting to reassure them. “It’s alright, now. We got it taken care of, Johnny. She’s safe.”
Muscles in the Scot’s jaw fluttered, teeth grinding together, eyes refusing to leave your form. “Shoulda been ‘ere.”
“Soap.”
“Isnae right,” he hissed under his breath. “Look at what happened. We shoulda been ‘ere.”
Simon lightly squeezed his shoulder. “Won’ be leavin’ ‘er alone again, no’ anymore.”
John took off his bucket hat, running a hand through his hair. He was in desperate need of a shower, eager to wash off the blood that still clung under his nails, and hopefully some of the week’s stress, too. “We’ll debrief in the morning, boys. For now, keep an eye on her.”
“Yes, sir.”
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