I have gotten into the call of duty fandom, despite my slow progress through black ops II because the motion of the aim makes me sick, I will push through the campaign and make it to 3. And onward. All the campaigns I can get. In order.
All this aside. I need to learn how to draw military men. And I need to know now. I want to doodle Mason and Reznov- I want to doodle Woods, Weaver- EVERYONE!! AUGH
I think I’d be fine with a imaginary Reznov to guide my way through college lowkey
God that’d be so funny
PLEASE- I NEED TO KNOWHOW TO DRAW MILITARY GEAR MY FATHERS A VETERAN FFS I SHOULD KNOWWWW
Can anyone point me in the direction of where to find Woods' announcer voicelines in Black Ops 6. I saw one post with some but I lost it and I can't find ANYTHING
Author: @deadbranch
Pairing: Frank Woods x fem!OC Anya Stilwell
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, uncertainty, implied abduction or foul play, impolite language, Woods being Woods.
Summary: Woods & Stilwell decompress over some breakfast.
Word Count: 1k
A/N: Not a lot happens in this chapter, but there are moments. Tiny moments that mean something.
SERIES MASTERLIST
LAST TRAIN OUT OF PHILADELPHIA (5)
The drive to breakfast was relatively short, but the silence elongated the journey in ways Anya couldn’t have predicted.
The presence of a listening device in Meier’s office in unconfirmed, but for the sake of caution, Woods advised that they act accordingly.
The irony of West Berlin’s premier listening post being bugged is not lost on her. She always assumes someone is listening, but it's an easy thing to take for granted, especially with the cold malaise that settles in before winter, as though the enemy has gone into hibernation early.
Without the perceived freedom to talk shop, there seems to be very little to discuss with Woods.
Vaguely, she wonders if he has a hobby. As the thought passes through her head, the remembered sound of his sarcasm promptly chases that thought right back out again, like a broom pushing a cat from the porch.
The traffic signal changes and she’s back to thinking of the lyrics to that song she heard this morning. She hopes that Meier is alive.
Shit.
Woods gazes out the window, if one could call it gazing. He never quite seems relaxed, and the word 'gaze' seems too casual to describe what he does. He’s ready, but for what? She’d hate to imagine
Mason had mentioned Woods in more than passing, the last time they met for lunch in D.C. He takes some getting used to, but there’s not a more loyal person to have your back, in the world. Ever.
Looking back on her first day at 620 Kilo, she didn’t recognize the infamous Frank Woods. She thought he was still away, doing Uncle Sam knows what in the cold remote reaches of the less-than-free world.
“Thanks, Woods.”
He angles his head away from the window at the sound of her voice.
“For what?”
She thought she knew what to say, but the words are stuck.
“Don’t know. I’m just…thankful.”
He grunts softly as his blue eyes return to the icy streets of West Berlin.
“All in a day’s work, I guess.”
In her peripheral vision, he gives her a sidelong careful look.
“Am I as bad as you expected?” she asks, more for his benefit than her own.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
Anya can’t decide if his reply was too quick, or just one more answer in a sea of responses to which he pays little concern. He doesn’t seem like the type to overthink much of anything, especially people.
As they get out of the vehicle, the gray slush is pleasantly absent around her boots. Woods stands still on his side of the vehicle after he shuts his door.
“Hey.”
She faces him, already two paces closer to the walkway that surrounds the restaurant. She shades her eyes against the mid-morning sunlight, waiting for some platitude or the usual war-weary wisdom.
“You’re alright. Despite what you think, I like working with you.”
Anya tilts her head in the opposite direction, shifting her hand to shelter her gaze against the glare.
“Thank you. You’re alright, too.”
“Nah,” he replies, but his tone and hand gesture imply that he’s dismissing the conversation rather than disagreeing with her. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
Woods offers the pepper shaker to Stilwell but is met with a polite silent declining shake of her head as she chews.
He has no idea how any civilized human being consumes eggs without both salt and black pepper.
After setting down her cutlery, she adjusts her posture before speaking. He smiles to himself at the officer’s school behavior. He wonders idly if she attended West Point.
“What do you think happened to Meier?” she asks with measured care.
He glances upward at her as he bends for another bite of egg, chews quickly, then swallows.
“No way to know yet. MPs are there now. They’ll likely pull in CID before end of day.”
“Is that why we we’re here? To stay out of the way?”
He reaches for his coffee, sucking something out from between his back teeth before taking a sip.
“That…and it’s nice to talk without Ivan listening in.”
She lets out a dry, silent huff of laughter preceding her next bite of pastry. Woods watches her for a moment, hoping she doesn’t misconstrue his gaze for something offensive or demeaning. She’s unusual. Pays close attention to detail but isn’t ruffled by the bigger picture. She’ll go far.
He has no frame of reference for wherever she’s at in her head. He has no idea what it’s like to see nothing but good things while gazing down the long hallway of a life not yet lived.
For him, it’s always been more like staring down the length of a gun barrel, praying his next move is in the opposite direction of where they expect him to be next.
“You’re not wrong,” she finally replies after swallowing the bite.
It’s his turn to crack a smile and look anywhere but into her eyes.
“I’m used to it.”
“Used to what?”
“Not being wrong,” he says, his eyes glancing at her for a moment. Maybe half a moment. Nothing too obvious.
“And how’s that working out for you? Being neither wrong nor right?”
She’s clever. She knows it, too.
He traces the pattern on the napkin beneath his other hand before picking up a piece of sausage with his fork.
“Lonely. When you operate in the gray, nothing’s ever clear one way or the other. Just the moments. The ones that count. What’s the point of being right if you’re dead?”
It’s then that he decides he should take Stilwell to breakfast again, or at least invite her out. If she says no, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s been turned down by someone with a better offer.
When they arrive back at the listening post, the MPs are still there. A few unfamiliar civilian vehicles are parked out front in addition to the MPs' Jeeps.
Anya takes a deep breath just as Woods moves in front of her, blocking her view of the building.
“Hey. Just act natural. They’ve got a job to do, same as us. Same bullshit, just different paygrade.”
His platitudes aren’t as annoying to her this morning. Maybe he’s growing on her.
Author: @deadbranch
Pairing: Frank Woods x fem!OC Anya Stilwell
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, impolite language, eventual smut, Woods being Woods.
Summary: Woods assumes he’s being a pain in Stilwell’s neck. He’s right.
Word Count: 1.1k
A/N: We see Anya loosen up a bit, if only to wear civilian clothes. She likes Frank, but she’s also very career minded. They’re on two different pages of two different books right now. It won’t stay that way forever.
SERIES MASTERLIST
LAST TRAIN OUT OF PHILADELPHIA (3)
Stilwell looks down at her sneakers, jeans, and oversized sweatshirt. The soft cotton t-shirt underneath reminds her of her old PTs. Everything else feels out of place, overly casual. Civilian.
The idea for her to dress in civvies originated with Woods. Meier happened to agree with him, much to her dismay. This was intended to be a temporary assignment, but she’s now come to see it for what it is. Recruitment. But for what precisely?
“Let me take you on a tour of the city.”
Stilwell looks up without setting down her pen. She glances at her watch.
“Hungry, Woods?”
“What makes ya say that?”
“It’s not 10 am and you’re already talking about taking me to lunch.”
“I said a tour, not lunch.”
She tilts her head, peering at him over her glasses. He changes the subject.
“Got bad eyes?”
Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she continues writing.
“Hardly. Just some mild correction to take the strain off my right eye.”
“So, you don’t need ‘em?”
“Need what?”
“The glasses. Christ, I feel like I’m talking in circles.”
Stilwell pushes her glasses up onto her head.
“Maybe you are. Woods.” She enunciates his name with the annoyance that tends to creep in during safehouse conditions in winter. Shut in. Penned-in together. At each other’s throats. Unfortunately, they’ve only known each other 11 days and she’s already tired of his crap.
What’s Meier’s endgame?
“Hey. I get it. You feel trapped. This stint isn’t as glamorous as your previous one. Well, let me take you out, maybe for dinner instead. We’ll both get dressed up, I know a restaurant…if you want. Ya know. Team building, I guess.”
He changed tack near the end. He started off strong, staring up at the wall clock, then out the window, but as he continued to turn, he saw the look on her face. His body language and expression changed as he reconsidered his approach.
Stilwell returns her attention to her paperwork.
“I appreciate the offer, but I have plans tonight.”
“Oh really?” Woods quickly searches his recent memories for anyone Stilwell might be seeing. He doesn’t remember anyone specific. She treats everyone the same, at least all the men. He’s convinced she’s not actually a lesbian, but she doesn’t seem to tolerate men beyond professional candor, which means nothing. Petra is similar that way, and she’s not a…
He diverts his thoughts elsewhere. This was a waste of time, and he overplayed his hand. Petra’s right.
Not Stilwell’s type. Not by a longshot.
“Yeah. If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish this. I can’t stay late.”
“You got it. Range training at one?” Woods chucks his chin at her as he walks quickly toward the door, pushing both hands into his coat pockets.
“See you at thirteen hundred,” she drones loudly without looking up.
Woods mutters under his breath as he makes a hasty exit, “Always the wrong woman. Sure can pick’em, Woods.”
A burger sounds good for lunch.
Nah. Great.
Stilwell looks up as the door closes behind Woods.
“Fuck, me,” she says out loud in exasperation, pushing the heels of her palms against her eye sockets.
That man has been following her around like a stray dog for the last two weeks. Granted, they’ve had a relentless joint training schedule, but she can’t even eat in peace without him wanting to tell her some war story or without those bated silences followed by his seemingly random questions, likely his attempt to keep the conversation going.
He’s a good-looking man, but he’s…relentless. Very good-looking, she reminds herself. And funny sometimes…when he’s not being an idiot. Not the point.
She’s due for a talk with Woods. It’s time to be frank with Frank. She laughs at her own joke.
“He’ll love that one,” she remarks out loud before wiping the bleary tears from her dry eyes. “But for now. Coffee.”
As she walks down the short hallway to the break room, she dances to a song she heard this morning, still fresh in her memory and haunting her very existence the way Woods could only dream.
He’s due for a talk with her. To clear the air. This feminism thing makes things complicated. This is her world just as much as it’s his. He gets it. He really does. But goddamn why is this so hard to talk about?
He tosses his empty drink cup into the trash bin just inside the foyer as he returns to 620 Kilo. He contemplates taking a trip to his locker to get his toothbrush. Should he brush his teeth before he talks to her? I’m not gonna kiss her.
He laughs out loud at the thought.
Not unless I want to lose a few teeth in front.
He leans back to take a quick look at his teeth in the reflective surface of one of the light fixtures near reception. Woods is suddenly appalled at the number of gray hairs on his head. He’s getting more every day in his beard. Salt and fuckin’ pepper.
Petra says it looks good on him. He huffs out a laugh.
“Women.”
“Yes? What about us?”
She’s standing halfway down the hall with a rolled paper bag, likely with her lunch in it. She’s far enough away that she had to raise her voice to be heard but, obviously, she’s got ears like a twenty-something.
He keeps reminding himself how young she is. A grown woman, but still young enough to hear better. Know better. Do better. Better than…
“Nothing. Sorry.”
She looks skeptical as she nods, her glasses falling onto the end of her nose from her forehead. She quickly steps into the breakroom in what he can only surmise was an attempt to set down her lunch to adjust her glasses. He presses his lips together in thought, a smile in his heart.
“Cute,” he mutters as he walks toward the breakroom with intent to keep walking. The rangemaster could likely use some help.
He decides to give her space. He’ll only seek her out during training hours. Woods will make himself scarce otherwise, going forward.
He’s not her type.
That’s fair.
The least he can do for feminism is to stop being a pushy asshole.
He smiles to himself as he notices her glance upward as he walks past.
