Erin

cosplayer | 🇸🇬 | Leon Kennedy | Chris Redfield | Carlos Oliveria

[wendymeowmeow1997]

Photo: Pinterest

Masterlist

My Love For You

Another Soul

In Sickness And In Health

You, Me and Her

Still here

The Morning After (SMUT)

Rewrite The Stars

Chaptered story

Viral Hearts

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

TAGLIST ARE OPEN! COMMENT BELOW FOR TAGLIST!

[lucid-ivory]

M A S T E R L I S T

updated on: 15.09.25 (DD/MM/YYYY) (i didn’t add anything new but just so you know i’m still alive) + BACK AFTER TWO YEARS DID ANYONE MISS ME? IS ANYONE HERE? ANYONE SEEING THIS ????

COD MW2 . cod men x equestrian reader [headcanons] . ex Anam Cara (in which reader is betrayed by a close friend) AVATAR . coming soon! RESIDENT EVIL . N/A (yet) GENSHIN IMPACT . genshin boys x reader who controls two elements

[midnightcrw]

Protect her

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x Fem! Reader

Summary: Who would have thought that such an adorable dog would be so protective?

a/n: One-shot based on this request.

It all started six months ago when your husband told your golden retriever, Caramel, to protect you while he was deployed for another mission. But Caramel seemed to have only caught the words, "Protect her," which was now making your lives a bit more difficult.

At first, it wasn't much of an issue. Leon was gone for about a month, and during that time, your dog kept you company and never left your side.

She was also a lot more gentle, even when she just wanted to play with you. The usual hyperactive golden retriever was much softer in her actions, even giving you the time to fully catch your breath.

Obviously, pregnancy had taken its toll on you. You had become a bit slower and needed to take more breaks.

You missed going on missions with your husband, but you also knew that you needed to stay home and relax.

But now came the issue.

Once Leon came home after a month, Caramel started to bark and show her teeth even at him. No matter what you two tried to tell her, she seemingly didn't care.

Now, five months had passed, and your husband practically needed to run from her whenever he got too close to you - even when you two simply needed to sleep.

“I don't even know what to say,” Leon murmured beneath his breath while taking a spare pillow and blanket from the closet, preparing to make his way downstairs.

Another cold night sleeping on the couch while your dog slept on his side of the bed.

“You could try staying,” you said while taking a step closer to him as Caramel stared at the two of you from a small distance.

“Yeah, and almost lose my hand again.” The exhaustion was evident in Leon's voice as he let out a sigh. His under-eyes were a lot darker than before, and the way he walked and moved around showed just how much pain he was in from sleeping on the couch, which was far too small for him.

You fumbled with your fingers as you looked at him apologetically.

“But at least you still have it.”

He looked at you, dumbfounded.

Yeah, it was pretty bad.

During your pregnancy, Leon and you had been more than cautious, scared that something might happen. So, you hadn't been intimate, even though the gynecologist had already told you that it was perfectly fine.

And then, one night, you simply wanted more than light grazes of skin. You needed to feel him, so you did.

But the moment his hand lowered and a moan escaped you, Caramel jumped out of nowhere and onto Leon, sending the two of them tumbling to the floor.

That night, you had to take him to the ER because Caramel's teeth had bitten deeply into his skin, making him bleed quite heavily.

“I love you,” Leon said, only able to look into your eyes as he made his way downstairs.

“I love you too,” you mumbled back.

Your eyes shifted toward Caramel as she happily started walking toward your bed, her tail swinging left and right while your shoulders fell in disbelief.

'Such a cute golden retriever, and she happens to be a menace.'

Just standing there wasn't going to change Caramel's mind anyway, so you went to lie in bed. The moment your back made contact with the mattress, Caramel's paws were on your round belly as she laid her head on you.

You knew that she was able to tell you were going to have a child. In fact, she had noticed much earlier than the two of you did.

She had constantly stayed by your side, touching your belly whenever she got the chance. One day, you and Leon had gotten curious and later found out that there was going to be a mini version of the two of you.

Your left hand started softly petting Caramel's fur as you closed your eyes.

“You don't have to be so protective of me while Leon is around, you know that, right?” Sometimes, you felt crazy for talking to her as if she were a human, but that didn't matter.

“He would never do anything to hurt you or me. He just wants his family to stay safe, but I miss him even though we're in the same house.”

Your mumbling grew quieter as your hand went slack, sleep slowly taking over.

Caramel's eyes remained open as she whimpered gently for a moment, her head still resting on your swollen belly while the hours passed.

And gradually, you started to notice a change in Caramel's behaviour. She was still protective and constantly by your side, but she tried to stay a couple of steps away whenever Leon was around.

At first, you two thought that she had gotten scared of him.

But then you realised that she was simply trying to let your husband get closer. You couldn't have been happier.

She must have understood what you had told her that night.

[mactavsh]

The Time in Between

Synopsis: Soap always knows how to put the pieces back together.

Relationships: John “Soap” MacTavish x Gender Neutral Reader

Word Count: 1.2K  

Warnings: mentions of death, grief

Masterlist

Keep reading

[mactavsh]

Watching Over

Synopsis: Price tries to keep you awake while captured.

Relationships: Father Figure!Captain John Price x Female Reader, John “Soap” MacTavish x Female Reader

Word Count: 1.5K

Warnings: violence, swearing, mentions of blood/injuries

Note: Debated posting this one because it is quite self serving, but maybe someone else needs their fictional father figure to tell them they’re proud of them too. The title was inspired from this song.

Masterlist

Keep reading

[mactavsh]

Out in the Cold [John “Soap” MacTavish x Female Reader]

Synopsis: The team goes looking for information on Makarov, things go sideways.

I certainly wasn’t planning on writing more fics but here we are lol. Shoutout to @uselsshuman​ bc I can’t get enough of the Bird callsign, it’s so sweet. Also all the headcanons.🥰 

So here’s this please enjoy. // also on ao3

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: violence, swearing, mentions of blood/injuries

Keep reading

[mactavsh]

Follow the Bird [John “Soap” MacTavish x Reader] Part Two

part one here // also on ao3

It wasn’t unusual for a mission to go sideways, hell you’d grown to expect it at times. Going into an op alone was dangerous, but you knew the boys had your back. Soap would fight his way to you no matter the cost.  

Warnings: violence, swearing, mentions of blood/injuries

Keep reading

[mactavsh]

Follow the Bird [John “Soap” MacTavish x Reader] Part One

It wasn’t unusual for a mission to go sideways, hell you’d grown to expect it at times. Going into an op alone was dangerous, but you knew the boys had your back. Soap would fight his way to you no matter the cost.

Warnings: violence, swearing, mentions of blood/injuries

Keep reading

[larvamars]

banger mod

[grapenamjams]

⛓️task force 141 + ⛓️

Drabbles

Presence- soap is touched starved ( suggestions of nsfw)

Friends to lovers- Gaz

Fatally Injured Reader Scenarios

König,soap& ghost

Gaz & Price

Rodolfo & Alejandro

Recovering Reader Scenarios

König, Soap &Ghost

Captain Price

Gaz

Receiving & Giving Love Languages

Soap, ghost, gaz, &könig

Captain price

Going to a Carne Asada Headcanons

Soap

Ghost

Captain Price

NSFW

Look at you looking at me- ghost x fem.reader

Taste - 141 + König headcanons going down on you

Taste w/gaze

[grapenamjams]

笨ｨMasterlist 笨ｨ

Last Updated: 12/17/25

Keep reading

[tacticaldiary]

Call Of Duty Masterlist

Last Updated: 10/12/2023

Requests: OPEN

Current Works: 29

This is the masterlist for all my Call Of Duty work! Make sure to check back frequently for updates and feel free to send in your requests!

⭐ - Fan Favourite!

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

Jealousy, Jealousy

Anyone But Her ⭐

It Was Never Meant To Hurt

Painless Bruises ⭐

Captured In Tandem , Recovery In Tandem⭐

Forget Me Not

Bone Tired

Night Terrors

A Cracked And Fissured Door ⭐

To Hate A Heart That Beats For You

Where One Goes, The Other Follows

It All Comes Crashing Down ⭐

Solace For The Rough Nights

To Coax The Love From A Ghost

Meant To Be a Ghost, Not a Shadow

Superficial Wounds, Deep Devotion

I Swear I Asked For Two

The Price Of A Secret , 

A Fighting Chance,  Frayed Stitches Don’t Hold (Pt 2)  ⭐

Till Death Do Us Apart

Frightened Of The Fall

Cut From The Same Cloth

John Price

Sacrifices

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish

Taken

Gentle Hands

A Still Beating Heart

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

Welcome Home, Love

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

I know your requests are closed so feel free to ignore this but if I don’t type it somewhere I WILL forget it lol. I’ve been re-binge reading your works and just thought of this…

Civilian reader kills someone out of self defense for the first time. And it’s the whole staring at her bloody shaking hands panic attack what have I done fiasco. And her boyfriend or husband helping her through it and dealing with it all (I can see it with Ghost or Price idk)

But yeah feel free to ignore, I know your requests are closed rn

Love your work! You are so talented!

This has been in my inbox for so long, lmao. Sorry for not answering right away - take a few paragraphs w. soft, worried, Simon in compensation.

Warnings for gore, death, blood, panic attack, etc. F!Reader.

Your body shakes violently, blood dripping down like crimson tears from your hands. The overwhelming sense of dread sits with bullet fragment aggression in the delicate make-up of your psyche.

You weren't meant for this.

Not the blood or the terror. Certainly not the body laying out in the hallway.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp out, shuddering as your throat swells in on itself. Your form had slipped down the wall just across from the door not minutes prior, legs weak and heart pounding like a war call. Now all you can do is stare into the vacant eyes of some random burglar—at the knife you'd stuck in his chest when he'd backed you into Simon's office.

It was a miracle that you remembered where your husband's combat blade had been, seen on some off chance when you'd been cleaning. He tries to keep this all separate, you know.

The blood just keeps slipping out of the corpse. It's a pool now, and you don't know how long you'd been huddled like this until the sounds of rampaging feet and hurried yells of your name bounce off your eardrums.

All you can see is the uncleanable amount of red.

Simon had only gone out to the corner store half an hour ago, getting a quick supper so you both could sit in each other's company. You'd been hesitant to watch him leave so soon after getting home, but he'd sworn he'd only be a few minutes.

None of you had thought too much about the local break-ins. After all, Simon was...well, Simon. And he was home.

S-Simon was home.

There's a loud, barked, curse when the body is discovered, stomping feet that make the entire house shake like it was the epicenter of an earthquake. Your husband's form slashes the front of your vision as he kneels in the blood on the floor. Frantic brown eyes behind his balaclava snap from place to place; taking in the familiar handle and blade in nanoseconds. In his left hand he clutches a pistol, white-knuckled.

But you can't even say anything, because you're as still as stone—breathing in concrete as the gravel shreds your vocal cords and trachea. Reality slips in quick streaks of color as Simon's face flashes into the open doorway.

He sees your wide eyes with a mirroring of his own, bone-deep fear striking in his head with a heated pulse.

"Love!" Simon's rushing to you. Your body can't help but startle back, spine shoving into the wall; fingers still saturated and stained.

Inside your chest, your lungs jerk in a strained whimper.

Your husband freezes, one foot ahead with his widened legs as he fights his mind to rush to you and take you into his arms. Simon puts the gun away with little thought to look for more assailants—all that matters is you.

And you looked terrified.

"Hey," hands reach up to this balaclava, slipping the fabric off as he kneels down slowly to one leg. He tosses it to the floor and you try to focus on the strength of his jaw; those scars and pale hairs as your eyes well with tears. A delicate sob builds. "Hey, now. It's just me, alright?"

Simon speaks softly, hands splayed out and a few feet from you. He wishes to hold you tightly but refrains even as his chest tightens at not being able to calm you. The man can't stand that look on your face.

Your fingers curl into shivering fists, "Simon," you cry, finally able to get a solid word out even if it sounds slurred and ragged.

It's all the permission your husband needs.

Simon jerks forward and takes you up into his large arms; the wide encompassing of his palm on the back of your head and the other circling your waist. He angles you away from the body as he glares into it with hatred and vile curses, hissing venom.

When he found the door busted off its hinges, he'd never felt so panicked. Even now as you release a small wail into his neck Simon's heart races, breath coming in short puffs.

"You're alright, Sweetheart. You're alright. I'm right 'ere." You sag into him, grabbing at his leather jacket with nails digging into the brown material. Simon nuzzles his nose into your scalp, muscles tense, "Breathe, it's over."

All you can focus on is Simon's scent, his words. They're the only thing keeping you from oblivion. Eventually, as your husband rocks you back and forth, you can gasp enough air down to push away the black at the sides of your vision.

"That's right," he whispers, gritting his teeth. "Good girl, keep focusin' on me, yeah? You're doin' perfect." Simon doesn't care about the blood or the screams of sirens in the distance.

For the first time in his life, he doesn't care if someone else happens to see his face.

Your husband pulls his head back and shifts his hold to your cheeks, angling your runny and chilled face upwards. He grits his teeth and his eyes bleed with concern; fear.

"...He do anything?" You can only make out half the words as the sounds all huddle together in a ringing tone, but you shake your head in small flinches. Lips find your forehead—heated and firm. Muttered words. "Did so good, Love, I'm so proud of you. S'not your fuckin' fault, you hear?"

Sniffling, you only whimper once more before lips kiss away your tears; thumbs coming up after to swipe at the remnants. Curling over you, this beast—defined so often as ruthless and deadly—shields you from the image of the man you'd killed in self-defense like a demon of smoke and ash. Holding you as if he can make everything else disappear.

After all, you weren't meant for this. You were meant for your soft skin and your loving eyes. Everything else that Simon tied himself to you for—goodness.

"Simon," you gasp again and shove your face into his chest. For the life of you, you can't say anything else. He knows what you mean.

"I'm here," he repeats. Caressing the back of your head, his hand tenses and softens with leaving adreanaline. "Nothin'll happen to you again. It's all gonna be alright."

You believe him.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

To Be Alive In Summer

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Betrayal had never been in your cards, and you definitely didn't see yourself being the one responsible for the act. When having to go undercover, first comes the problem of staging your death.

WORDCOUNT: 8.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, betrayal, intense gore, violence, death, allusions to intimacy, weapons, vulgar language, recovery, torture, happy ending, etc.

A/N: The final request is finished, hope you enjoy it @l-inkage! Onto the AUs next.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You didn’t want to do it, but in this job, comfort was always an option and never a guarantee. It needed to be done. And that meant sacrifices had to be made to the dark altar of your contract with One-Four-One.

But this one just might break you in the process. 

“Are you sure that,” you pause and think over the instructions that Price had just given you—straight from the top of the line. “Are you sure that this is the best way, Sir?” 

The man’s lips are flat, eyes narrowed, he doesn’t like this either—especially if you don’t. John’s a Captain, he tallies out orders and expects people to listen without hesitation; doesn’t express his worry about their safety because that isn’t what this is about at the end of the day. It’s about keeping the good people outside of bases like these alive and breathing.

And right now that hinged on you being dead.

“Berto needs mercenaries,” Price grunts, “and any record of you needs to be wiped before we send you in.”

Vito Berto—head of a crime family that had been picking up traction in recent years, so much so that One-Four-One had to be put on it for covert reconnaissance before any more people ended up dead.

You would be sent in under the cover of an experienced mercenary; one among the ranks that Berto would need for a hostile takeover planned in three months on the Palace of Westminster in London. The House of Parliament. 

Vito was one cocky son of a bitch if he expected no one to get word of this.

Your job was to uncover the exact date, time, and the mission plan before getting out as quickly as possible. In order to do that, the soldier holding your name needed to be dead so nothing could be traced back to you, your task force, or your loved ones. 

And people needed to believe it.

“Can’t the records just be forged, Sir?” You ask, the meeting room dark and pulsing with the cold air from the vents. “What about Gaz and Soap?” Your throat closes for a moment and you speak slightly lower. “Simon?”

Price sighs and crosses his arms, fixing the stance of his feet.

“They’ll deal with it.” Inside of your pockets, your hands twitch. 

He won't. Not inwardly.  

“I…” your jaw clenched. 

Your relationship with Ghost was…strange. You’d both had your fun, of course, and you had a casual air about that sort of thing—it had happened, but nothing more could ever come of it. There was a modicum of soft care with you two; an acknowledgment of partnership in the field and out of it. 

You didn’t have to explain to people that Ghost was closer to you than others. You’d seen his face; that says enough. 

“It needs to look real,” Price explains, tilting his head down to you. “Not only for Laswell's state of mind but yours. I won’t be putting you in without giving you the best chance.” 

“You can’t tell them?”

“Negative. Security measure.” You frown, biting at your lip.

John closes his eyes and shakes his head. A second later a hand is set on your shoulder and the man leans in slightly to reassure you like a relative. You look up into your Captain’s gruff face, seeing the small amount of care he levels into his cerulean irises for you. 

He squeezes your flesh, watching hard.

“We need you for this, Trick.” The nickname was exactly why you were the only one who could do this. 

You were the first choice. No one was better at undercover work.

“How long would I be gone, Price?” Shifting out of the hold, you cross your arms and level him with a dead stare. “How long do they have to live with this lie?”

John grunts. “Less than three months, yeah? But all of it’s up to how long it takes to gather intel. Full black.” 

“Exfil point?” 

“Town five miles from Berto’s estate. Cafe with a red door near the bookstore. Woman inside’ll be your handler.” You turn away to glare at the far wall, hesitant even when you know you shouldn't be. This was your job. 

Brown eyes keep flashing behind your eyes—a skeletal mask that stares with stained glistening blood, blood you yourself feel reflected on your own visage. A shared damning of two people who would never see those great halls of the afterlife. Neither of you are good.

Simon had to understand. 

The Captain sees the shift in your expression.

“You in?” He asks you with a blank look. 

You take a deep breath, chest heavy and heart hurting. “I don’t like it,” your voice is low, monotone. “But, yeah, Sir, I’m in.”

“Good,” the man nods, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “It’ll happen in three days. Be ready.”

You watch him walk out of the room, patting you on the shoulder one last time before the door shuts behind him with a click of finality that pierces your lungs. You clear your throat and swallow down saliva, turning your face away as if ashamed. 

It’s the quiet that gets to you in that moment—the encompassing nothingness. So often you would have moments like these with Simon. Just sitting; not taking. But this silence was so different. 

This was betrayal. 

After you steady the slight tremor in your hands, you scoff and shake your head backing up a step before leaving the room; turning off the lights. 

You walk down the long hallway, feet heavy as your mind runs, and overhead the lights buzz like flies. Eyes stuck to the floor, your shoulders are hunched in with thought and your lids half-closed in a display of obvious inner turmoil. 

The shadow that waits for you, leaning against the wall, you walk past entirely—missing it and not hearing the confused call of your name behind you because of it.

“Trick!” Your hand comes up to itch at your chin, fingers pushing into your flesh. The aggressive Manchester accent slides off of you until large fingers curl into the back collar of your vest rig. 

You breathe in sharply, blinking in surprise as your feet get pulled back a step or two, pace halting as Ghost curls around your body, staring down at you. His brows are narrowed, that mask still on and the bottom fabric twisted in the obvious downward press of his lips.

“Bloody hell is wrong with you, then?” 

Sighing, you scowl and shake him off of you, moving back to allow yourself some air. Did he really have to show up now? Why was he even here, you had to ask yourself. Was he…waiting for you?

“Nothing,” you don’t look at him, speaking low. “Distracted, is all.” 

Ghost crosses his arms slowly, his brows flinching briefly as he makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Meeting go well?” 

“Fine.” He can tell something’s wrong; you know he can—he’s the best at interrogations for a reason. Ghost knows when someone is lying to him. 

You glance at his chest before you begin to open your mouth. 

What could telling him hurt? Just a hint. He’d get it—I know he would. Berto had the nickname ‘The Tanner,’ given to him by his men. When he found out anyone had double-crossed him, he’d take a large breaking knife and separate the thin layers of skin from his victims. Intel suggests he keeps them awake for all of it, stopping when they pass out only to start again when they wake back up. 

If there was any leak in this base…any at all…you wouldn’t be coming back. 

You wouldn’t be coming back to him. 

Simon’s thighs shift.

“Talk to me.” He always speaks like he doesn’t care about the answer, but you’d be a fool this far into your… relationship? To believe that he didn’t. You’d seen Simon panic over your injured body before—it told you enough. 

The easy moments and the side-eyed looks when he thought you didn’t notice or weren’t doing the same to him. 

Your fingers twitch, forcing a smirk that didn’t convince even you. Your heart was telling you to explain it to him, but your brain was firmly set behind iron doors; tongue held back by iron tongs. 

“Personal matters, Simon. Nothing you need to worry about, Big Guy.” He doesn’t look away from your eyes. Brows set in a line and that mask jeering at you; almost mocking. 

The Lieutenant doesn’t answer and your heart is visible from under your gear.

“J-just,” you stutter, face getting hot as you look away. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s…” 

Trailing off, you rub at the back of your head in a self-soothing motion. 

Simon blinks slowly and you hear a large chest-rattling sigh. He shrugs in that way only he can—a fast jerk of shoulders that looks more like he’s trying to push off a bug than simply trying to move past what you’re saying to him. 

“Doesn’t make a difference,” it does. “Garrick and MacTavish are waitin’ down at the firing range. Best get down there ‘fore one comes looking like a kicked dog.” You can still feel him digging into you. Knives and the suspicion in his tone. 

You don’t want to do this to him. Not after all that you’ve gone through together. 

“Right.” Your feet are moving before he is, planted into the floor and pushing off through the small pinches of electricity in the nerves. Pushing out a hard laugh, you try to send him a light smile. “Did you tell them to be ready to get their arses beat?” 

Simon looks down at you as he walks beside your form in large steps; arms swinging. “Haven’t seen ‘em yet. Waiting for you.” 

If it were possible to shrivel up from guilt, you’d be nothing but bones.

“O-oh,” you huff, but it sounds like all of the air has been expelled from your lungs. “You didn’t have to do that, y’know.”

Simon grunts, accent grating as he stares ahead. “Wanted to.” 

“Good. That’s nice.” You feel like screaming. “Thank you.”

It’s nearly instantaneous how fast his eyes go dark with concern. “You sure that head of yours is on straight, Trick?”

You push open the doors outside and wonder if you even have the ability to answer him; out of everyone, you can’t lie to Simon.

“No,” your lips admit quietly, self-degrading in its own right. 

A hand grabs you by the wrist and before you can slip out, you’re being pulled back into the building and pushed into a side room. 

“Hey!” You shout, eyes flashing as the door is shut behind you. You’re released and the light is immediately turned on. “Simon, what the hell are you doing?” 

“Enough,” he levels, and your arms are clasped so you’re facing his chest, looking up into his serious and hard gaze. “Fuckin’ speak to me.” 

You’re surprised at how insistent he is about this. 

“I’m not telling you anything,” you speak through stutters and he growls in his throat. His hands are like motel lava even under his gloves and above your skin—burning like a brand.

“What happened in that meeting room, Trick?”

“It’s classified,” you say, harder than intended, spitting the words with a hint of desperation. If not for your own safety, then for his, but you know that if he keeps asking then you’ll tell him the truth. 

They were going to stage your death, and they won’t be making it pretty. 

“Fuck classified,” he leans in closer, curling over you. “You’re acting like someone’s bloody taking you hostage.”

“Simon! It’s not—”

“Cut the bullshit!” You growl and try to shove away from him, struggling with glaring eyes that go sharp with the onset of tears. “Somethings got you worried and I wanna know what it is.”

Simon wasn’t the greatest at articulation, but neither were you. 

You knew he was trying to tell you he was concerned. The man was holding you tight, but not hurting you; his face close and his shoulders wide. Along your face his eyes were darting, as if he could peel back your skin and make you explain what Price had told you. 

The Captain had given the Lieutenant a look as he’d seen him waiting for you but had said nothing. That alone had tipped Ghost off to something being wrong. 

But you weren’t having it.

Yanking out of Simon’s hands, you shake your head and put on your worst glare—meeting muddy brown and huffing. 

“Mind your own business, Riley. It’s for your own good.” The man blinks in mute shock, fingers in the air twitching before they fall to his sides.

You speed-walk out of the room before he can speak, lips slightly parted at your strange behavior. 

For his own good? What in the hell did that mean? 

Simon’s jaw clenches, a grunt in his chest as he aggressively rolls his wrist. He turns to follow after. The both of you don’t talk for the rest of the day.

—

Your body shakes along with the helo as it takes off, carrying you away from the scene of gunfire down below. In your earpiece, you hear the loud calls and yelling from your friends. Gaz is calling out to Price to give him permission to move up; the Captain too busy grappling Soap to the ground. 

Ghost is taking cover behind a wall, but he’s not quiet. 

“Trick’s in the damn building!” 

No, I’m not, you want to flick on the line and tell him. Over the three days before this operation you'd barely spoken—in fact, you’d been avoiding all of them fervently by the mass amount of guilt in your stomach. 

In the nights, you hadn’t even slept, and now you’re sure it’ll take even longer too.

Their forms become tinier, and you grasp the roof’s handle as the helo rises farther and farther. 

“Price!” Simon barks. “We have to get her—”

“There’s no time!” John responds, grunting and forcing Johnny down as he spits curses and tries to call your name over the comms. You flinch violently, looking away for a moment. “We’re surrounded!”

“I can get through!” Bullets wiz through the comms, and you can nearly imagine you are down there—trapped in the house down the way after being shot and injured by hosties. But you’d never been in that house. Never been alone down the way for recon. 

You’d been at the second exfil point. Price knew it. Laswell knew it. 

But Simon had not. 

“Negative, Ghost! Keep where you are, we can get to her later. We need to—” The building you were supposed to be in explodes in a fiery wreck; a great bloom cloud going into the air as the helo shakes from the after-blast. 

You have to turn your face away, shielding your eyes. The pilot calls to see if you’re alright, but you don’t answer. All you can hear is the screams.

“Trick!”

“Simon, get back into bloody cover!” 

“Fucking Hell! Trick, answer me!” It gets too much—the bareness of his panic for you. The panting breath; the running stomp of feet.

You rip the connection from the radio on your vest and place a hand over your mouth, breathing as if you had really been in an inferno like a piece of fodder. 

Simon had already been through so much in his life, and doing this to him as well as the task force was the definition of betrayal of the loyalty you’d cultivated.

Of the love.

Because you did love him—even if you’d never say it to each other. If he found out about what you did, which he would eventually, in one way or another, he’d hate you for the rest of his life. So perhaps you were mourning, as you stare below as the helicopter takes you higher and higher up. Farther away from him. You were mourning what you had, because you knew it would never be the same. 

Simon Riley would never trust you again, and all you had to blame was yourself. 

The tiny tears dribble out of you and fall all the way down to the ground, where the man still screams for you to answer him; John barks orders with a sheen of panic in his eyes from the bare-bones ferality of the Lieutenant. Brown eyes blazed and cities burned in his pupils. 

John had underestimated the bond that the two of you shared. 

And he just might pay the price for it.

—

Getting through selection was far easier than getting through SAS training, Vito Berto seemed to only want mercenaries that had the faintest hint of the ability to hold a smuggled weapon. It made sense because if the people he was planning to send in were well-trained, it would be easier to trace to him—ability equaled a higher level of intelligence. Planning. Resources. 

To fit in, you made sure to miss a few of your shots, even if it made your instinctual perfectionism rise. John would have torn you a new one if you’d missed this many during your selection all those years back. Probably would have asked how a Muppet like you had gotten this far with shite aim like that.

But Berto ate it up like Sunday dinner. Gave you the nickname Cross, actually. Like the crosshair of a scope.

It was safe to say you despised him. 

But the days grew longer and the nights short with all of your running around. You’d found out that your Captain’s timeline was incorrect—the attack wasn’t in three months, it was in two. And while Berto was cocky, he wasn’t reckless. 

He somehow knew there was a breach in the ranks; you could see it by how he looked over the squads in the underground bunker, all of you hidden under rock and stone like prisoners. The man would sneer, eyes filtering back and forth from the perch. 

Sometimes you had to stop yourself from simply taking the shot presented in front of you and deal with the consequences afterward.

Price had been clear: all of the people gathered here needed to be taken care of quickly and quietly—if you snapped, the rest would disappear like roaches. Alive and biding time.

During those two months, the thoughts of Simon wouldn’t leave you. 

Moments that seeped in behind closed eyelids after you’d slunk back into bed, the USBs full of vital intel stashed into the lining of your uniform in a small hidden pocket. His twitching smile and those deep scars along his face; the ones that would never go away. 

In those moments you wondered what it would be like if you had told him how much you cared for his quiet company or his dark humor. The way he would level a hand on the small of your back off duty at the bars as a way to silently shield you from the stares from patrons. 

You’d never be able to tell him now. 

Vito “The Tanner” Berto knew of a leak, and when you came back to the bunker after sending out the multiple USB sticks, the physical files, and the first-hand accounts of what was going on—eager for just a little more to make this betrayal worth it…he was waiting. 

You could only fight off so many others, no matter how subpar the training on their part, before sheer mass overtook ability. Like a house of cards with a bowling ball, you were shoved to the ground surrounded by multiple dead bodies of those you’d taken down with you—writhing and hissing as if a feral animal. 

Restraints were leveled with your wrists; your head pulled back so your nose faced the ceiling. You only stopped struggling when the chilled barrel of a pistol was set under your chin.

Breath stilling, it was hard to understand how, even then, all that was in the front of your mind was Simon. Simon and his brown eyes. Simon and his screams when that building went up in fire and smoke.

“Trick!”

You could still hear the exact pitch and rhythm like it was yesterday.

“Cross,” Berto mutters, gun heavy as it digs into your flesh. Men pant and grapple to keep you back as you sneer and jerk your arms. “I should have known it would be you.” 

“Well,” you growl, teeth bared, “obviously you didn’t.”

A slow smirk runs on his lips. 

“No, but I’ll have to rectify this. I can’t have you getting in the way.” You can only hope that the intel gets out before the end of the second month—if not, then all of this was for nothing. 

Why couldn’t you have left when you had the chance?

“Fucking Hell! Trick, answer me!”

He was why. 

Simon—the source of all of your problems and the only person who could fix them besides yourself. It’s a sick joke really. 

Vito grabs your chin and you huff out a swift breath, heart skipping beats as he burrows his digits tightly into your skin; hard enough to leave marks. He sighs and clicks his tongue and you have to keep back a whimper as his nails create crescents along your jaw. 

“You won’t tell me anything, will you, then?”

“Negative,” you spit, heated. 

He scoffs. “Of course.” 

Berto throws your head back as you try to snap out and bite at his hand, rabid, but the man’s already gone and the mercenaries behind you yank you back like a dog on a leash. Your knees slide along the floor and you rage trying to turn around before the others are forced to shove your face into the ground. There is a distinctive snapping in your nose bridge as the concrete comes up to meet you; the tears come instinctually after—unable to be stopped as you yell in pain. 

Blood floods your nostrils and mouth, making you cough as Vito’s voice echoes in your ringing ears. 

“Let me get my knives.” 

—

They had you chained in some damp back room, the corners riddled with mold spores and the air heavy with condensation. You were tied to the ceiling—feet dangling uselessly below you and the tips of your boots dragging across the floor with a quiet scrape and a creak of metal. 

Above you, on the hook, the chains were tied so ruthlessly that you’d lost circulation to your arms entirely, nothing but an electric buzzing far inside of your bones. Akin to the static of a TV screen in between connections. Your clothes had been shredded by blades—long sections of your flesh underneath, cut away. 

Blood stains most, if not all, of the floor. It drips from your nose; it falls like rain to pool at your feet in rippling crimson. 

Simon had been your partner during required interrogation training and he was far better at it than you. The man could go for hours through the mental strain that was leveled out by other soldiers on him; stoic and silent. It was the way his eyes would blank that told you he could live through far worse—that he already had. You’d had your fair share as well, but never before had you felt as hopeless as this. 

There was a slim chance that anyone would come for you here. Laswell and Price would carry the guilt of it, but you didn’t want them to. 

The blood slips over your lips, and the taste of copper makes you gag; spitting out saliva from your lips. 

It was half your choice, after all. 

You try to slip into a happy memory as the lights fade in and out, the footsteps and mutterings outside the door of little interest anymore.

ironic, that the man with the mask of a dead person brought you comfort when so little could. 

You never got to tell him how much you loved him. A thin smile comes across your lips. 

“Shouldn’t be out here this late,” the man utters as you lay out in the field, arms and legs splayed and twitching when the long grass brushes against them. “Past curfew.”

“Like you aren't out here with me?” You raise an eyebrow, looking up at the stars now that the large base lights have been dimmed. The air is cold, and the breeze makes you shudder through a chill. But you don’t wipe that smile from your lips. “Bit hypocritical, Simon.”

You hear a low grunt. 

“Out ‘ere because you weren’t answering your damn door.” A shadow slips to your side, and the man settles down with a huff on his lips. Simon retired his combat mask for a simple balaclava instead, and he sighed long as he settled his arm on the bent form of his right leg. 

You blink over at him, raising a brow. 

“Looking for me, Ghosty?” 

“Bloody hell, Trick.” You chuckle, shifting your arms to rest on your chest as you look back at the stars far above. 

“Oh, it’s alright, Big Guy.” The man shakes his head. “I won’t tell anyone you’re going soft for me.” 

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

“Trick, I’m tellin’ you to—”

“Shh!” You wave a hand in his direction, silencing him and making him blink at you in deep annoyance and confusion. Ghost’s eyes were narrowed, the black of his face paint gone and smelling like standard issue body wash. 

He must have gotten out of the shower and come to see if you were still awake before making his way outside when you never answered the door. Funny how he knew where you would be.

“Fucking what, then?” He growls, shoulders wide.

You place a finger to your ear, shifting so you’re sitting up on one elbow and facing Simon. On your face, a wide smile lingers, but on his, the dark brows narrow with knowledge of a deceitful event incoming. “Listen.” 

A silence falls, Simon’s ears twitching for something in the long grass or across the field. Nothing. Nothing but the breeze and the way your face glowed as you watched him, eyes glinting with amusement. 

After a long minute or two, he looks at you with utter bewilderment. You lean in closer, poking a finger into his bicep.

“Can you hear it, Simon?” You’re one of the few he lets call him that, though never in public.

He glares. “No.”

You flutter your digits in the air, giggles trapped in your mouth. A whisper hits the Lieutenant’s ears. “Silence.”

“Bugger off,” he hisses as you reel back and belt out laughter, holding your sides and lightly curling into yourself. “You’re worse than Johnny. Jesus.”

“Aww, c’mon!” You let your laughter die down to chuckles, sanctity of night broken, but not so between the two individuals who look at each other with brimming affection none will name. 

“You’re the one that came to find me, remember?” Your tease makes Ghost roll his eyes, looking away across the open area with its wave-like grasses.

“You’re right, then, I did,” Simon grunts, his hand coming up to rub his neck. “Mistake on my part.”

“Jerk,” a soft slap is leveled to his arm and he chuckles deeply. “But you can’t fool me, Ghosty. I know you’ll always come lookin’ for me—I’m too important to you to lose.”

“Keep kiddin’ yourself, Trickster.” He doesn’t say how he would agree with the statement, it was true after all. “I won’t be dragged into your bloody messes.”

He wouldn’t leave you behind to drown in them, even if it was as simple as you sneaking out of your bunk to watch the stars. 

You’d both known each other too long for that.

You smile over at him as he sighs before slipping off his mask, itching at his stubble with hard fingers. The air settles. No comment about it entering in on the see-through waves—there didn’t need to be one. 

“Mhm,” you hum, beaming. “You keep thinking that, Big Guy.”

“Trick!” Your memory shifts, and you sit up immediately. You’d thought you’d just heard…

Eyes dart out over the field, jumping back and forth rapidly. You look to the side, but Simon is gone entirely.

“Simon?” Heart beating, you stand fully up and turn in a fast circle, confusion and fear infecting your mind.

“Trick!” Pain sparks in your body, and you hiss and grab at your clothes. You blink so fast that you half-believe the world is ending.

“S-Simon?!” What was happening? What was hurting so bad? Where did Simon go?

“Trick, fucking wake up!”

Your eyes snap open and you instantaneously feel the burning pain inside of your ribs. 

The ground is underneath you, hard and wet from your own blood as you yowl and cough, air entering your lungs in quick bursts. 

Hands encase your cheeks, shaking your head—keeping you present. 

A skeletal mask littered with droplets of human fluid stares down at you, and behind it, panicked brown eyes slash through your psyche in the small moment between agony and confusion. 

Simon?

“Holy hell.” It’s that same Manchester accent. The same scrape of vocal cords. “Alright, Sweetheart. Keep those eyes open—keep ‘em on me, yeah?” 

What was going on? You try to open your mouth to say something but all of it is lead. Were your ribs broken? How? And why was Simon’s bottom covering pushed up to his nose; his lips stained with blood? 

The man frantically goes to press into his radio.

“This is Bravo 0-7,” he breathes, and you whimper as your throat gets clogged with congealed saliva and blood. You cough violently, gagging, and Ghost quickly turns you on your side to help you expel it. His hand is hard on your shoulder. 

“I say again, this is Bravo 0-7!” Those browns never leave you, shocked and serious. “Price, I’ve got ‘er. It’s not good; had to revive but I don’t know how long she’s got.”

Revive? You’re spacing in and out, limp, and trying to breathe. 

Simon tears open his medical pouch and begins wrapping tourniquets—packing the wounds with gauze until you can get proper medical treatment on the helo back to base. 

“Bloody…” he trails, Price barking an order over the connection to bring you out; the firefight was moving to the East to give him an opening to sneak back out. “C’mon, Trick.”

Everything swims; you want to go back to that field—those stars. 

Simon was here? Truly? The thought was hard to understand in your state. 

“S-Sim—” Your voice gurgles, and you can’t feel your legs. You had to tell him. Tell him the good and the bad; all of it.

“Don’t talk,” he growls, moving you as your body seizes in a state of static shock. “I’m getting you out of ‘ere.” You’re lifted up in one grand movement, Simon grunting as he shifts you carefully into a bridal hold. “Then you’re going to explain this to me when you’re squared. Won’t take no for an answer.” 

You could feel the anger sizzling off of him even half-conscious. The mixing emotions that convulsed into a mess of adrenaline and desperation. Forcing your eyes to stay open, you blink up at him as he glances down at you at the same time, just before he exits the door he had broken down. 

The visible skin of his lips and chin tighten; going down with the twitch of with a serious frown. Something flutters behind his eyes as he stares before glancing away and clearing his throat. 

“Eyes on me, Trickster. Don’t you dare close ‘em.” You grimace as he begins jogging, heavy boots echoing along the empty corridor as the sounds of gunfire and pandemonium sound off from the other side of the bunker. 

It was hard to push back the black at the sides of your vision; already it was seeping back in. Ghost holds you tight, unwilling to even let you slip an inch from his grip as the lights above swirl, brightening and dimming. 

“Oi!” You’re jostled, and you snap back to it, tensing as your wounds flex and pull. Simon glares. “What’d I just say?”

Your weakly poisoned grimace makes his lips twitch up. 

“Good.” 

There’s the sudden flick of a safety being clicked off, and the Lieutenant halts in a jerking of feet and a ruffle of canvas.

“I’ve heard about a Ghost making his rounds, hm?” Berto stands at the end of the hall, pistol held in front of him. “I saw an apparition disappearing to find one of its own. No worries. She’ll be a ghost, too, soon enough. Perhaps I’ll have to put you both to rest together.” 

The voice makes you go panicked, remembering the tear of flesh and the sharp blades slicing your skin away, chunks that peeled, and the long stripes of flexible tendons. Your lungs fight for breath, your head weakly slapping into Simon’s neck after an attempt to move your body. Limbs shake and battle nerves; the fabric of your brain.

Your blood stains the man’s gear all the way down the front. It’s dripping to the floor, down his arms and off his elbows. You’re bathing him in it—a full-body baptism of betrayal. 

“Berto,” Ghost says, accent casual despite the gun leveled at him. The name is drawn out. “Apologies, but I’m taking back what’s mine.” He tilts his head. “Scratch that, I’m not apologizing for getting back on a Bastard like you, eh? Pity I can’t hang you up like a hog, I’m proper good with a blade too, but as you can see, I’m on a crunch.” 

Vito’s face goes confused, skin scrunching. “What—”

The bang of a bullet being discharged echoes down the way. The clatter of a great expulsion of air from lungs. Stumbling. Gargles. 

The slam of a body to the ground. 

Smoke spreads up from under the clutch of your knees, where Ghost holds the abyssal body of an M19 forward, his finger lightly on the trigger before he shifts it back in well-practiced discipline. 

“Slag,” he spits. 

Simon hikes you farther into him, lending over his available body heat as you shiver. He presses his face into the top of your head, sighing in relief before starting his pace again. The man’s lips brush your flesh as your lids flutter. 

“Still with me?” You whine into his neck, fingers twitching. “I know it hurts, Love. I know. Easy with it.” 

It didn’t just hurt, it burned. Buried like the nine layers of Hell. 

He keeps whispering to you, slinking around corners and stepping into shadows. By the time he makes it outside with you, the chill of the air on the bottom of his face he didn’t even bother to re-cover, you’re tapering on the edge of oblivion again. 

Teetering like a porcelain doll on the end of the high shelf. 

“Bravo 0-6, leaving the bunker now, I need that MedEvac prepped and ready to go,” Simon speaks quickly, not wasting a single instant. 

John’s voice wafts through. “Copy, 0-7. Helo is comin’ in, be ready it’s going to get hot!” 

“Affirm. Keep it frosty down ‘ere.” There’s a low chuckle and the swift wizz of bullets. 

“Get our Trickster back in one piece, Ghost.” Simon hears the buzzing of helicopter blades in the night, a slick form descending from the dark clouds not moments later. He turns away from the flurry of air, walking hurriedly backward so the air doesn’t aggravate you. 

“Trick,” Ghost calls to you above the noise, hearing the hurried feet of medics coming out to take you from him. Your face is scrunched and you burrow into him. “I’m handing you over!” 

You try to open your eyes enough to convey your unease at that. You have to tell him. You have to explain why you had to do it. The guilt is eating you; gnawing with red teeth and gripping with devil’s claws. You have to explain that you love him even if he hates you now. 

Medics grapple you away, and you are in pain, lips peeling back to gasp sharply, thrashing. 

No!

“Fuck,” Ghost growls, pulling you away from the men as they ask him what in the bloody hell he’s doing. He doesn’t even know—all he knows is that he’s pissed at you for what you did, but never in a million years did that mean he wanted to see you in pain. 

Simon can’t lie, when he was told you were alive, the universe had held its breath. A miracle. A ruse. But alive. Alive and trapped. 

“Stop it!” He yells, caging you into him. “I’m here! I’m right here, Trickster!” 

You’re already too gone for it, not recognizing the metal of the helo as you’re settled on your back, the loud slam of the door. Fingers pull and prob as you hiss and snap, suffocating. 

Ghost holds down your shoulders, his eyes right above yours—but you’re not looking. The helo takes off

“Bloody hell,” Simon yells. “Look at me!” 

You don’t know what compels you to do so, but your eyes open just the slightest bit wider. Brown melts into your pupils, taking you in and reminding you of chilled summer nights. Simon. You pant but stop struggling. 

The medics jump into action, ripping away the remains of your shirt and pants so they can get to the wounds; assess the damage done. 

“That’s it,” Simon sighs long, swallowing. “That’s a girl. There we go, Sunshine.” 

You blink, face peeled as everything swirls far more aggressively this time. 

“Listen to me, Trick. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, you understand. You said I’d always find you, yeah?” Hands grab your cheeks. “Well, I fucking did, eh? I found you. We’re gonna fix you up, Sweetheart. It’ll all be gone by morning.” You stutter down a breath, ragged throat stretching.

“Let ‘em fix you up—”

“I love you.” 

It all fades to black, but all you remember is the sweep of horror that spreads behind the man’s eyes.

—

“You went back,” Price’s arms are crossed, and he stares at you as your fingers play with the sheets of the hospital bed. “Why?”

You sigh and rub at your face.

“Trick.”

“I felt like I needed to,” you give away, twitching your fingers out in an expression of nonchalantness. “I felt…” Your voice trailed off into a growl. “Bad.”

“Feelings aren’t a part of this, Trickster, you bloody know that,” John hisses, leaning his head closer as you glare silently. “If you’d left when you could, none of this would have fucking happened.” 

“I feel bad, Price!” You break, snapping. “I fucking know! But I-I thought if I just got a bit more intel, then this would have been worth it.” Taking a deep breath you shake your head and rub at your face, all of the bandages and stitches pulling tight. “It’s eating at me. I can’t…I can’t just act like what I lied about can be forgotten.” 

You shrug as the man listens silently, monitors beeping and the small buzz of the overhead lights. 

“Soap barely looks at me—Gaz gave me that fucking pity smile and it makes me want to scream.”

“They’ll get over it.” The Captain repeats what he said months prior firmly. “They know the Op was top priority, they’ll grow up and be back to fucking around in days.”

You scoff, muttering in a dejected tone. “He won’t.”

John is still, fixing his feet from under him as he rolls his nose and looks away slowly. 

Simon hadn’t come to visit once in the time you’d been here in the ward—four days. That fact alone makes you restless. You don’t remember what you said to him, if you said anything. But you knew that he wasn’t going to be going out of his way to be near you anymore. 

You’d taken a grenade to the relationship you’d built. Toy building blocks are scattered. 

“Simon’s…Simon,” Price ends on. You groan and itch at the IV in your hand. “He cares about you more than anyone, yeah? He just needs time. Wasn’t himself after the set-up.”

“I’ve been told,” Gaz had informed you about the Lieutenant's self-isolation after your ‘death’. The snappy orders—deathly glares. He’d gone back to the ruthless man he was in the field and instead of being directed at his enemies, it was directed at them.

Kyle explained how he’d argued with Price about how he could have gotten to you, before abruptly falling silent and stalking away as if a flip had been switched. Snake eyes and clenched fists. 

They’d heard him in the gym late at night, reaming on the punching bags. They didn’t think he slept more than three hours per day if the red lines in his eyes were anything to go by.

And then they were told that you were alive but captured, and he’d gotten worse.

You’d nearly started sobbing when the Sergeant had told you all of that.

“I betrayed his trust, Price,” you level. “I…I never wanted to do that to him. Ever. Not Simon.”

A shadow passes by the door just as the Captain grunts. “That’s the job.”

“That’s not the job I signed up for when I got into this. We don’t lie to our own.”

“‘We get dirty, the world—’” You cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘stays clean’.” Your eyes level with his. “I can do the dirty work, John, you know that. Infiltration and undercover work is what I’m good at.” The man nods slightly. “But if you ask me to betray One-Four-One’s trust again, I’m out.”

Blue eyes blink in shock, but you don’t let him speak.

“Find someone else to get fake blown up in a building. I can’t get his fucking screams out of my head.” John watches you silently, eyes narrowed. 

You meet that gaze head-on, not backing down from this.

The Captain shakes his head a minute later. “Bloody made for each other,” he mutters under his breath, grunting. Another shadow slips past going the opposite direction, probably a nurse.

Without another word John turns and exits the room, tossing a hand behind his head casually in a way to say goodbye.

You huff and roll your eyes, heat on your cheeks. 

The day wains, and you let the nurses come in to do their checkups and replace the IV. As the curtains are pulled back into place, supper sits heavy in your stomach. 

You wanted to see Simon. 

You knew it wouldn’t go well, and wouldn’t be the goody-goody outcome you prayed for…but you felt wrong without apologizing in person. It went against your morals, and already those were incredibly skewed. Maybe he’d yell, or even ignore you as if you weren’t there.

Simon wasn’t above not speaking to people he didn’t like.

You had to try.

When all was dark, you shuffled out of the hospital bed and fought the weakness of your legs. Shaking like a leaf, you walked around with only your tied gown, unapologetic of the slit down the back showing flashes of your bra and underwear. 

It wouldn’t be anything the Lieutenant hadn’t seen before.

Walking through the silence, you sigh and stand outside of his door; dread in your heart and seeping from the pulled stitches of your wounds. Your bare feet on the tile make you shiver. 

Lifting up a fist, you hesitate. 

Your hand hovers over the wood, sliding forward before you pull it back to you. Closing your eyes tight, you clench your jaw once and take a deep breath.

Knock-knock-knock. Knock-knock.

The sequence was your call sign. If you knocked like that, he would know it was you—whereas Simon's own was just a single slam of the side of his fist.

The only real problem now was that he wasn’t answering.

You stare dumbly at the barrier, blinking like a fool. It takes you longer than you’d like to admit to understand the realization that he wasn’t ignoring you—he just wasn’t in his room. 

Taking a step back, you rub the back of your neck in exasperation and hurry to the nearest exit.

“Of course,” you breathe. You know exactly where he is at a time like this.

The field holds a standing shadow, a ghost of issued fatigues with a thick jacket against the chill that leaves you shivering. Simon stares out over the training grounds with his hands in his pockets, balaclava pulled all the way down to hide him from you. 

You come to a slow halt behind him and stare. 

It’s not long before the man gunts, turning his head back from over his shoulder to look at you blankly. He knew you were there.

The eye contact stays for a long, long while—until you’re hypnotized in the shades of brown and amber and the large build that seems to broaden because of your appearance.

“I’m here to apologize.” You say it breathlessly. “I’m not asking you to hear me out, but I have to let you know I regret doing it. Price said that it was time-sensitive and I—”

Stopping yourself, you look away. It sounded too much like an excuse, you hissed to yourself. At the end of the day, it was still your acceptance that pushed the pawn forward. 

“I’m sorry, Simon,” you breathe. “I betrayed your trust.”

His eyes are piercing you, but you still can’t look at him. The man slightly turns your way. His voice was monotone and grunting out like a dog.

“You think I couldn’t handle it?” Your heart starts, and you’re shaking your head instantly.

“No.” You explain quickly—honestly. “It’s that…I didn’t want you to.” 

You hear his lips take in a quiet breath. Simon rolls his shoulders before looking away from you. Nothing could have prepared you for what came next.

“You said you loved me.” Your body freezes, jaw going slack as your face drops. You don’t speak, mute as if the air in your lungs has been stolen.

You had done…what?

All of your tricks couldn’t get you out of this one.

“I,” you force a fake laugh, hands beginning to shake. “I, what? No, I’m sure that’s not what I said. A-are you sure it wasn’t, like, an ‘I appreciate you’ or maybe a…a,” your voice catches. “A whole ‘I’m fond of you’ sort of thing…? Hm?”

Simon takes a step forward and you take one back. This was worse than torture, you decided. The pain in your pulling stitches and re-set nose was welcome here.

“Trick,” Ghost utters, and you stare hard at his neck, humming. “Stop talking.”

“Copy,” you whisper quickly, shoulders falling. 

He’s so close you can feel his body heat melting into you, and you want nothing more than to touch him. Simon’s hand comes up to your chin, and he angles it up as you stop breathing, lips parted.

“I heard you in the med ward talkin’ to Price. Was outside the door the ‘ole time.” The shadow. 

He tilts your head to the side to stare at the medical tape over the slashes in your skin. The scars won’t bother you—you had plenty of others to show as well. But Simon was…studying you. Assessing. 

His eyes blink slowly with those long pale lashes, and they slide up to you as he leans in close to your ear. Still, you stand comatose.

“You put me through a fucking heap ‘o hurt, Love.” You stare over his shoulder, not speaking, not moving. 

Simon leans back and lets go of your chin, brushing a finger over your nose and the puffy skin there.

“Never do that again.” It’s final, how he says it. But the layers of depth are plain to hear. Simon speaks low and even—gaze trapping yours like a curse. 

You know he won’t talk about the things you’ve heard. The aggression or the late-night gym trips. You’ve known him for years, and know his brain like the back of your hand.

Shivering, you nod once, content with not answering verbally to break the sanctity of the moment. Seeing Simon like this made you ease your fears. You clear your throat to push back the stuffiness.

“Thought you held grudges, Big Guy?” Nearly not heard, you mutter and pick at where the IV needle is supposed to be. 

A hand catches yours and stops you from making it bleed.

“Do,” Ghost grumbles, turning your hand over and moving his face closer until you feel his breath. “Just not with my Bird.” 

His balaclava is suddenly up to his nose, and those lips that had been covered in your blood previously situated themselves perfectly to yours. 

You gasp, arm outstretched beside you in shock. 

You’d kissed him before, but this felt different. More intimate. Simon’s arms slip around your waist, and you retaliate by locking your shaking arms behind his back, feeling the gentle passes of his lips. 

Mouth to mouth, you breathe each other in as if grasping for the other’s soul in desperation. A desperation that tells you how much the beast of a man around you was terrified of your death and the body he had to carry into the helo—of the lengths he would go to stave death from touching your tender flesh. 

No, only he was allowed to do that, and he was a reaper in his own right.

A small death that infected you at every breath puffing into your mouth, every whine and whimper he could draw like water to swallow down as ambrosia. Nectar of the Gods, and it was right there in his arms. Back. Alive. 

To be alive in the summer field of this old military base was to accept that death, and into it, hope that the few moments you had together truly made a difference. 

Simon would hold you there—and when that was done, wrap you in his jacket and carry your battered body back inside; watching your swollen lips and the wide eyes as they gaze back at him. 

Because he could hate you all he wanted for this, for the lies, for the way you made him care…but the both of you would still be alive to do so.

He guessed that was all that mattered.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @l-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

For a request:

Maybe a rescue fic with ghost, price, or soap? One where they rescue their non military fem s/o? I know you’ve written some already and they are so good but I EAT THEM UP EVERY TIME and love that trope so much!!!!!!

Hurt/comfort is my drug I swear

I know that’s pretty vague so maybe I’ll think of more eventually but that’s what I’ve got for now.

I love your writing!

- 🧚🏻‍♀️🧚🏻‍♀️

None Lacking Sins

Pairing: Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

Synopsis: It started with the incident at the grocery store and then built to the hidden gun in the nightstand and a quick, frantic, call to your boyfriend.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: Implied stalking, violence & blood, angst, protective Soap, suggestive language and conversations, implications of wanting a kid, vulgar language, fluffy banter, hurt/comfort, canon typical actions, edited in the middle of the night

A/N: I've been in a Soap mood lately, tbh. I think I'm going to flip-flop uploads for my Gaz series and Requests too...anyways. Enjoy, anon! You can never go wrong with a rescue fic!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*  

You called him for the first time when you were at the store, picking out dinner and asking what he wanted for a welcome home meal.

“Well,” his sly voice made you roll your eyes, but a smile still blossomed over your lips. “If you want me to be rash, Bonnie, I’d say that I wouldn't mind a good bite out of your–”

“Johnny, you finish that sentence, you’re not going to get anything besides butter on toast. Give me a recipe before it gets dark out.” Veiled glee was obvious from your tone, and the heat on your face could all but be heard over the line. Two months apart had made you both eager to be in each other's presence. 

Picking up a box of pasta, you flip it over and check the price, sticking to your budget and tilting the phone parallel to your chin. A deep chuckle meets your ears, and your chest feels light as it pierces your lungs. 

Your boyfriend was off in Australia this deployment—he’d been complaining about the heat nonstop on those few and far between video calls the two of you shared. While it was a step-up to know where exactly Johnny was this go around, the prospect of his job still made you incredibly nervous. There was never a time you could remember when he came home without a new cut or scar; bruises were all but guaranteed. 

Sucking down a soothing breath, you place the pasta into your cart and fix the phone’s position. The Scot was coming home in a day or so, you wanted to make him feel at home again. Destress.

You’ll see him before you know it. There’s no need to worry.

“Bit snappy, then, eh? Oh, alright.” The man huffs good-heartedly, and you hear the springs of those thin barracks-bed mattresses as his large frame shifts. Johnny lets off a soft sigh before continuing. You listen intently, leaning onto the handlebar ahead of you. “What about a nice plate ‘O that one you always make—hell—the…the one with the Pollock and cabbage.”

You blink through a laugh, shaking your head and pushing yourself off to go find the needed ingredients. The dish wasn’t easy to make, in fact, it took a helluva lot of time, but you didn’t mind in the slightest when it came to cooking for Johnny. He deserved it. 

“Hey, now,” He teases, smirking to himself, “What’s so funny over there, Dearie? You makin’ fun of me?”

“I would never dream of it, oh great and wondrous, Mr. MacTavish!” You huff, fake serious, as you place a box of cookies into the cart and pass a few strangers who raise an eyebrow at your conversation. A man passes by with a blue cap on, and you swerve the cart to move around him while tossing back a frown. You soon continue on like nothing happened, pulling back the sense of security from the man over the line. “Do you want mashed potatoes with that as well? Wine?”

Johnny groans, “Hey, you’re the one that asked me!” 

Divulging into giggles, you make your way around the store and stock up, holding a light conversation about how he and the rest of the boys were doing. 

“Ghost told me to let you know he appreciated the book you lent him, said he’d get it back to ya as soon as he’s able.” The Scot comments, and a hum makes its way from you as you head to the self-checkout. 

“Well, that’s good. I said he would like it – the bastard’s so tight-lipped about what he enjoys it was hard to nail-down a genre.” A chortle sounds off when you gather the chilled pollock and scan it; the phone was held against your shoulder to your ear. “High Fantasy for the win, I guess.” 

“I should get the man to read ‘The Way of Kings’ next time—form a little book club, y’know? Get all the boys in on it like some old ladies.” It was adorable how cute Johnny sounded, like a kid on Christmas. “Stemin’ Jesus, could you picture that, Bonnie?”

“I’d pay to see you pitch that, Dear.” A cheeky tone leaks through. “Price would laugh straight into your face.” 

“Please, the old man doesn’t know how to laugh….He’d just puff cigar smoke in my face and tell me to fuck off.” 

“As I said—I’d pay to see it.” Your boyfriend grumbles under his breath as you place the paper bags into your cart, the contents heavy, and grab your receipt with quick fingers. “Gaz would definitely be in for it, though.”

“I don’t doubt that. Anything beats playing cards for weeks straight, aye?” Your hand can finally grip the phone once more, and you sigh contently as the strained position of your neck finally rights itself. 

You’re about to answer but slow your pace with a scrunched look of confusion as you exit. 

Passing through the front doors, you suddenly get a strange sensation in the back of your mind to turn around. The hairs along your arms stand up as a breeze passes the steadily chilling dark sky, but the way the shiver ran down your spine wasn’t due to cold. Lips thinning, you spare a glance over your shoulder and look along the brightly lit grocery store as its windows leave cascading rays of light over the sun-bleached concrete. The black asphalt of the parking lot is hard under your feet.

There are a handful of other patrons at the checkouts—mothers with children and others buying quick meals for dinner—but none are out of the ordinary. 

You huff and roll your shoulders.

Maybe the day’s just getting to me.

“Bonnie,” Johnny’s slightly concerned voice brings you blinking back, turning your head back to the sparsely lit parking lot and realizing you had stopped walking completely. Your hand was sweaty like you’d just run somewhere. Fixing your hold on the device, your boyfriend continues, “...Everything alright? You’ve gone all quiet over there.”

“Yeah, sorry,” you laugh dismissively, trudging forward to your car, “I just got the weirdest feeling right outside the grocery store.” 

The cart makes a loud rumbling sound as it goes over loose rocks and the bumpy texture of the asphalt, the metal rattling loudly so you have to strain your ears to hear Johnny’s next words. 

“What kind of feeling?” His drowned-out voice was so serious that it shocked you—you’d only ever heard him use a tone like this when he had briefly talked about nightmares that had woken him up in your shared bed. 

The Scot’s words were monotone, slow, and even if the sound of the cart’s wheels was raging all around you and making your skull rattle, you’d still swear you would identify that tone over a hurricane. It made your gut churn. 

“Really, it’s probably nothing,” you play off with a tense shrug he can’t see, coming to a stop at your car and reaching into your pocket for your keys. “I just got a chill.” 

Your eyes look around before you open the trunk, biting into your lip at the long shadows that the tall street lamps give off. Licking over your teeth, you bink dismissively and shake your head, unlocking the vehicle and huffing as you begin loading in your purchases. 

“Anyways,” you try to ignore the hard build of your spine or the way your eyes travel back to the brightly lit store. There wasn’t anyone out here but you and the dead forms of cars, trees off in the distance, and far-off lights of other buildings. You swallow and clear your throat. “I was thinking about getting us a dog.” 

“You’re not gettin’ out of this that—wait, did you say dog?” Across the world in a shitty bed, Johnny’s once concerned eyes widen, jaw going slack. “No way in Christ’s Hell, Dearie.”

“Oh, come on!” You groan, placing the second to last bag into the car and tuning your back to the street, throwing out your hand. “It doesn’t have to be a big dog—just one I can go on walks with and keep me company. I know you have a bad past with them, Love, but I just want someone to help not make the house so empty when you’re gone.” 

Your voice slides off near the end of the sentence, and you try not to sound so sullen. Johnny frowns as he stares into the far wall of the barracks over the heads of sleeping men, itching at the back of his neck. It was no secret that the Scot wasn’t particularly fond of canines—his encounters with them were almost never pleasant unless he knew the handler. 

But…

“I’ll think it over, eh, Bonnie?” He relents, sighing, and he thinks he hears snickers from a dark form in the distant corner. The Sergeant glares over at it and continues with a pang of internal guilt about how lonely you must feel most of the time. “Promise…but you’re more likely to get a cat dressed in a suit than a mangy mutt anytime soon.” 

You laugh at the attempt of a lighthearted joke, closing the trunk with a roll of your eyes. A breeze goes by and your arms erupt into shivers, clothes not enough to keep out the chill. 

“I’ll take it.” 

“Hm, you know,” Johnny smirks, rubbing at the sleep in his eyes and grunting out huskily, “there’s another way to make sure the house won’t be all quiet when I’m gone.”

“Keep it in your pants, MacTavish. You’re not even here yet.” Smiling through the heat of your cheeks, the skin of your cheeks glows; your body rolls with heat. “Save it for tomorrow.”

“What, am I gettin’ you all worked up over there?” He hums, and you grab your cart, pushing it into one of the specific areas where someone would grab it in the morning. “‘Cause I have no problem with waitin’, Dearie, all the more perfect when I get to be with ya.’”

“You wish, handsome.” Walking back to the slight rumbling of your car, you speak through tilted lips and completely miss the form walking up beside you. “I think that—”

“Excuse me?” 

Yelping, you nearly drop your phone to the floor as it slips out of your startled grip; heart jerking at the sudden intrusion into an intimate conversation. Swiftly turning around you spot the same man as before—the one with the blue cap that had passed by quite rudely in the store. His strong face looks sheepish.

Johnny quickly calls your name through the line, and you let off a reassurance before tilting the device down.

“Holy hell, man, give a girl a warning next time, yeah?” Chuckling weakly to push back tension and the twisting of your intestines, you notice the stranger’s tall frame is covered in a heavy jacket. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, actually,” He’s not outwardly alarming to look at, the man, with his loose body gestures and controlled tone. “Sorry, but I was just wondering if you could lend me a hand. I found a kitten under a van back there,” he points, and you look over to the far corner of the parking lot. Sure enough, there was a large van surrounded by two black cars. Your eyes narrow on the scene, already getting a prickly feeling. “Do you have any food that might bring it out? Or maybe you’d be willing to reach under and grab the little bastard?” 

The stranger laughs and continues with a jerking of his shoulders. You watch every movement with an upticking pulse, fingers tight over the phone as Johnny listens with growing worry. 

The Sergeant's dark eyebrows pull tight, and he stands like he could run out the door to you; jaw tight and muscles wound.

“Put me on speaker.” You decline silently. Better not to get a hotheaded and protective Scot involved when he was thousands of miles away.

“Sorry,” Clearing your throat, you take a step back, attempting a friendly smile. “I have to get home to my husband.” It wasn’t the first time you’d had to use the spouse card to get away from creeps, and it won't be the last. Worked better than just the boyfriend title, honestly. And there was something about this man’s eyes that didn’t sit right with you. “Work night and all, you understand?”

“He left yet?” Johnny asks, gruff as his accent gets stronger. “Else I’m callin’ the store and sending security out to you.” 

“It shouldn’t take a long time,” the man begs and you take another slow step back to the car door, pupils going tiny. Breaths shallow. “You’ll be back to your…husband, in a few minutes. I’d hate to leave the poor guy all alone.” 

“Sorry.” You say again, firmer. “No.” 

Not wasting any time, you open the car and jump inside, wrenching it closed once more and pressing the lock. Breathing heavily, you stick the keys into the ignition, missing a couple of times, and look into the side mirrors to spy on the tall shadow that hovers like a plague. 

“Sweetheart? Hey?” Johnny calls out your name as you force the car to start driving away, face tight and limbs shaking. “Hey, are you alright?” 

The man has half the sense to wake up Price, but with the stirring bodies around him, there’s half a chance the Captain already knows something’s off. Johnny hadn’t bothered to check his noise level when the uncomfortableness seeped from you over to him. What kind of a man approaches a woman near dark and asks a question like that? The action didn’t sit right with the Scot. 

Johnny’s body hums with energy—volatile rage keeps his heart in a tight fist with a deep seething hatred of not being with you to help force back the freaks in person. He wasn’t above getting into someone's face if the situation called for it; after a couple of outings to less-than-nice pubs, all it took was a few nervous glances from you nowadays for him to create a barrier out of his own flesh.

“I’m okay,” you whisper to him, biting at your lips and peeling back flesh. “It’s all good. I-I’m on the road already.” 

A great weight falls from the man in the form of a sigh. He slowly sits back down on the mattress, lips thinning and slightly shaking his head. His free hand comes up to rub over his cheek. 

“Good. That’s good…” He snaps out of his concerned stupor quickly, but the fast beating of his heart does anything but slow. “You’re okay.” 

It wasn’t worded as a question, maybe more of a reassurance, but it helped you immensely. Your tension lessened at the comforting sound of Scottish drawl and deep, silver, voice. But you wanted him to wrap his arms around you; gaze into those cerulean orbs.

Tomorrow.

“Keep on the line until I get home?” You ask feebly, not able to resist looking in the mirrors as you turn out of the parking lot. 

The blue-capped stranger was still standing there, and one of the black cars in the far corner had turned its headlights on. A deep dread overtakes your ribs like you’d just gotten out of something very, very, bad. A sense of a lingering morality stays in between your ribs.

“‘Course. Wouldn’t be doin’ anything else, Bonnie.” Johnny utters, glaring at the floor. “I’ll be ‘ere the whole time.”

It wasn’t fair that he was unable to be there with you—never before had the constraints from his job hit him full strength in the chest like this. If he can’t protect the ones he loves back on the home field, then what was the point of the Task Force in the first place? 

By the time you get home after taking the fastest route, you quickly gather everything from the back and shuffle inside, pulse still racing. You lock the door behind you and take a deep breath, closing your eyes. 

Johnny’s soft breath over the call was like a lullaby, right in your ear as if he was beside you in bed. Oh, you missed his soft snores more than anything. Your gaze goes glossy, but the tears are held back stubbornly. 

As if sensing your turmoil, your boyfriend speaks lowly. 

“Y’know, I bet the rest of the boys would really love it if we kept ‘em over for a drink and a bite when we all get back. I can whip up something quick on the grill and you can take a breather, eh?” He speaks so softly it almost makes the tears worse, heart palpitating. 

You wetly laugh and place a hand to your mouth, standing in the dark foyer with groceries on the floor and a primal fear slowly leaving you. The familiar scents of charcoal and birch wood from the Scots hair product are stuck into the very walls of this shared dwelling, along with the scuffs on the floor from play-wrestling during movies; a light that needed to be replaced due to Johnny accidentally running straight into it at two am. He had thought an intruder had broken in, but it was just a bird that had snuck in through an open window.

The signs of a well-lived and loved home. 

“But you wanted pollock,” you grumble with a hidden smile and burning ears, pushing the tip of your shoe into the front rug.

Johnny beams and goes to lie back down, putting a hand behind his head against the pillow.

“Well, now I’m makin’ burgers. Guess you’re just going to have to sit back and watch my fabulous arse from the porch, yeah, Dearie? Don’t burn a hole into them, now, they’re the only pair I’ve got, and I know how much you like ‘em.”

“Shut up.” 

“I’ll even wear that apron you got me—what was it you said it did,” the cheeky Scot smirks, all teeth and crinkled eyelids, and hears your complaints get louder as your mind flies away from what had happened almost immediately. “Made me look like I should be in a porno? Hell, if you were in it with me, I’d not complain ‘bout it. Steamin’ Jesus, I’d let you do horrible things to me, Dearie.”

From somewhere in the barracks a low groan echoes out and Johnny snaps his hand down to stifle his loud laughter as you bark at him. 

“MacTavish!” 

Great bouts of laughter leave everyone glaring from atop pillows and from over fingers stuffed into ears; some even get up and gather blankets, leaving the barracks room entirely.

In your foyer, your body blazes with heat like you’d been set on fire, a hand placed over your eyes and a treacherous grin on your mouth. 

“Keep your voice down, you absolute arsepiece!”

“Aye—! That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell ya!” 

“Johnny!”

—

The second time you called him was out of pure curiosity, only a few hours before your lover was scheduled to come home and cook for you and his Task Force. Around six o'clock. 

“When was our postbox all scratched up?” Your thumb runs over the black numbers of the sequence, blinking with wrinkled skin as you take a glance at the neighbors’ and frown. No one else's was like that. “I thought you said you compromised with the local kids and would give them money for sweets so they would stop messing with our stuff?” 

“Little fiends were sucking me dry!” Johnny huffs, “No way the devils would pass up more sugar and do something like that. What’s it look like, then? A few stray rocks manage to dent it?”

Your lips release a sigh and you pick up your mail with an annoyed grunt, closing and locking the cubby as you reply. “No way, it looks like someone took a knife to it.” Clicking your tongue, you shake your head. “God, things have just been going wrong lately.”

Shuffling his feet over the tarmac and hearing the plane engines die down behind him, Johnny takes a glance back. Price was standing at the top of the C17 arms crossed and head tilted—the Scot could imagine the raised eyebrow almost immediately. 

He grimaces and holds up a finger, walking a few more steps away as Gaz leaves the hull with his bags slung over his shoulders. 

“I can’t talk any longer, Bonnie, Price’ll wring me for not helpin’ unload the gear. He’s damn near skinnin’ me already.”

You chuckle, “Tell him I said ‘hello’ and not to damage the face.” 

“Oh, you’re a horror, you are, Dearie.” 

Quick declarations of love and see you soons were exchanged before the connection was cut, and your feet carried you back into the house. Your phone and the mail went to sit on the tiny hallways table, shoes tossed onto the plastic mat sitting on the floor with a small thump. 

Sighing, you rub over your eyes, thinking over if it was worth calling the post office or just trying to fix the scratches yourself. 

“I think we have some paint in the garage…” You trail off. 

Ultimately, you just pushed that to the back burner. Johnny was coming home. Your lips peeled into a large smile, and you’re rushing off to get into a nice outfit for the rest of Task Force who was coming a bit later than your boyfriend. Thoughts of finally being able to be picked up by your boyfriend's strong arms were all-consuming, being held into a broad chest and digging your nails to the dip of his spine. 

Just being able to be around the mohawked-man was a blessing that you’d never take for granted. 

You settled on a nice top and casual pants—you’d met the others before, so there was no need to go overboard. Smoothing your clothes down, you enter the living room and go to open the curtains, letting the light of the interior spread to the small lawn and the street. Humming under your breath, the vehicle outside doesn’t catch your attention immediately; the black metal is just another parked entity sitting still. 

When you do pause, your curtains half-opened, the delayed shock makes you lose precious time as you stare slack-jawed at one of the twin cars from yesterday at the parking lot. Your fingers clench into the fabric in a sudden moment of frozen shock. As if a mythical creature had just run past your field of view, the parting of your lips is instinctual before the widening of your eyes. 

A still second passes before you’re sprinting to the front door—locking it and snatching your phone. Heart pounding, you make a dash to the bedroom, dialing Johnny with fear-tight pupils. 

He had told you if there was ever an emergency to call him right away, he’d get there faster than any police officer; for the record, you believed that wholeheartedly. Johnny was more loyal than a dog in a pack, once someone raised the alarm the Sergeant was locked in. 

Rushing into the bedroom, you trip over the tossed covers but right yourself as the dialing tone sounds out, heavy breathing making your lungs hurt. You open the nightstand table and dig under a collection of books, hand meeting the smooth metal of an M9 pistol. 

Putting the phone on speaker, you throw it onto the mattress.

Legally, you shouldn’t even have this—while Johnny had been teaching you to shoot, you didn’t have a license for it yet. But he’d insisted on leaving you behind with something to defend yourself with.

The confused voice of your lover sounds over the open space. “Jesus, Bonnie, you miss me that much? It cannae ‘ave been more than ten minutes—”

“The car from yesterday is outside the house.” You throw the books to the floor and hear them make a clatter just as you pull out a box of ammunition. Taking out the gun’s magazine, you load bullets with a violently shaking hand. Some hit the ground with a metallic ping, but you pay little attention, just blinking back anxious tears and a harsh focus on the sounds of the front door handle being jimmied.

“I…what?” Johnny’s voice gets heavier, demanding with a snarl trapped in the back of his throat. 

Standing stationary in the doorway Base—about a twenty-minute drive from home, the man’s heart suddenly jumps in his breast. Did he hear you right? Behind him, Ghost slows to a stop at the now blocked opening, watching with narrowed eyes; a large rifle slung over his shoulder and a carry bag in his arm. Johnny’s shoulders wind tight, feet parted as he suddenly turns on his heels and takes off back the way he came in, the phone still at his ear where the Lieutenant knew you were on the call.

“What the fuck?!” Ghost’s skeletal head follows after and pointedly notices the Scots lack of care for how his bags hit the ground but keeps the pistol holstered at his thigh and the combat knife strapped to his upper shoulder. 

“Johnny?” He calls out, but only the wind answers him. “The hell are you off to?!” The gargantuan man sends a glance over to Price who was watching just as intently, lids narrowed. Gaz cleared his throat.

“....Shouldn’t we follow him? Sounds pretty serious.” 

Price sighs, taking a moment to watch Soap sprint to the main building and shove past other soldiers and staff. He grunts.

“Move light.” 

The phone call was filled with heavy breathing and hurried orders. 

Your boyfriend was running you down the basics of firing at a moving target as the sound of pounding at the front door became more hurried.

“It’s not like a stationary target—when someone’s runnin’ at ya, they're gonna be moving quick and you’re not going to be able to fire if you don’t mean it!” 

“Okay, okay,” you mutter with a shaky inhalation, loading the M9’s magazine and clicking off the safety. “What the hell do they want with me?” The whispered question is more for you than it is for anyone else, but the answer from the sprinting Scot startles you. 

At that exact moment, the pounding of a fist stops completely.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re gonna fire at the first bastard that comes down that hallway. We’ll ask the questions later.” You hear a car door opening and a yell from Johnny’s side, soon the clammer of grunting breaths an exclamation of ‘hurry the fuck up!’

“I—”

“If you need to, leave through the window and go to the neighbors. Take cover in the foliage and slip away to the back alley.” Johnny never spoke like this to you—clipped and deathly serious. But now that you think about it, as you stay frozen and barricaded in the bedroom, if he spoke any differently you’d probably break down. “Do you copy?”

This was Sergeant MacTavish, and damn him if anything came between that man and the people he cared about. 

He barks your name, “Do you copy?!” 

“Yeah,” the gun shakes in your grip, but nonetheless you hold it at your hip and turn your eyes to the window. It would be easier to leave, you think. You’re not trained for this! “I–I think I’m going to—”

The front door’s window is broken with a shattering of glass. You rush to the phone and turn off the speaker, afraid that the sound would immediately tell these people where you were. Loud shouts flow into the foyer and spread like venom under the crack of the thin barrier separating you and the intruders. 

“Spread out and find her!”

“Yes, Sir!” 

Sir? You ask, eyes snapping this way and that as Johnny is dead silent on the other side. You think you hear the slam of a foot to the pedal, but you can’t be sure. Fuck, there was so much going on, you didn’t know what to do.

“Screw this, I’m going out the fucking window.” You gasp out, lungs tight and skin sweaty, you turn on the safety on the gun and stuff it into your belt. 

One-handed, you unlatch the lock and strain your ears, hearing feet getting closer. Grunting, you shove the heavy frame up and try to stop the ringing in your ears. Whoever these people in your house were—they were professionals. They had patience; studied your intellect with the trick in the parking lot and followed you home so they could mark your postbox number as a reminder of your address. What the hell was happening? 

Just as you’re about to make the small drop into the flower bed, a creak echoes from behind the bedroom door. You freeze in place, one foot dangling into the backyard. 

Breathing slowly, your eyes lock to the deep shadow that spreads like two distorted poles as the large feet face the very place you’d holed up. As delicately as you’re able with an award-setting tremor in your gut, you place the phone down onto the window sill; Johnny’s loud and worried voice dims as all attention moves to self-preservation. You’re just about to reach for your gun when the door busts off its hinges. 

Starling, and before your hands can find purchase, you’re tumbling backward—out of the house entirely with a stifled shout of alarm. Slamming to the ground and crushing flowers in the process, you have no time to think about the pain going up your spine or at the base of your skull before you’re scrambling for the M9. 

Just as someone peeks out from the window, face covered and holding an assault rifle, you’re firing three shots in rapid succession as you don’t even remember flicking off the safety. 

Two shots miss entirely, but on the last and final press of the trigger, as your arms catch the recoil, it connects. 

A comment is cut short as blood explodes in a great wave of velocity, coating the house upwards almost to the shingled roof. The body slumps, weight bringing it down to hang limp over the frame.

Wide-eyed, you still hold the shaking gun in the air, muzzle smoking, breathing fast through your mouth. Had you just…

Your stomach bunched, acid traveling up your throat to pool under your tongue. Perhaps you would have thrown up at that moment, the setting reality that you’d just shot someone in the head like an anvil in your pounding skull. But the barking voices from inside the house snap you back. 

Gasping down the breaths you realized you hadn’t been taking, your wobbly feet dart to shove you up like a newborn deer as sprinting bodies close in on the porch’s sliding door. God, you could only imagine what Johnny was thinking. 

Bolting out of your backyard fence, you remember your lover’s orders and run as fast as you’re able to the neighbor's open yard, using the darkening sky to help cover you. Cursing under your breath and thinking over all of the ways this should have already gone wrong, you wipe at the tears cascading down your cheeks. 

Don’t think about it—just get away.

It wasn’t long before you were down the alleyway, feet weak and lungs burning. There was a stickiness to the back of your scalp, blood, undoubtedly, from an injury caused by the fall.

It’s a damn miracle I didn’t break anything. 

What would you have done then? Just let those people take or kill you? You shiver at the idea and force yourself to go faster. Darting around a corner, your feet skid to a quick halt. 

The barrel of a gun was pointed directly at your face. 

“Had a feeling you’d be slippery.” It was the voice of the man from the parking lot—the man with the blue cap. Your face jerks to an imitation of confined horror and unease at the same eyes boring into you. He was dressed in gear like the rest of the men now exiting your house to hunt you down. The stranger shifts his feet and you flinch. “Drop the gun, Sweetheart.” 

“Who the fuck are you?” You find your voice, hissing out. The pistol clatters to the floor as it slips from your grip and you hate how you flinch at the sound. 

“Your boyfriend and his buddies are hard to track down.” Blue Cap huffs, and the tall stature of the man makes you incredibly nervous. Backing up a step instinctually, he follows and smirks. “But I figured the best way to meet him was to find his little bird first—he’d come right to me. Cliche, I know, but you can’t fault me. Works every time.” 

What did this guy want with your Johnny? Gritting your teeth, your fingers shake at your sides, hips tense and ready to run.

“He’ll kill you.” You level, not keen to show this man how disgusting you felt being near him. 

He shuffles up next to you, grabbing the meat of your arm. Trying to jerk away, the barrel of his weapon is shoved into your ribs; gasping, your body goes rigid.

If your heart goes any faster, it’ll break.

“Not if I threaten to kill you first.” Forcing you forward, you glare and feel the urge to spit in the man’s face. “C’mon, hun.”

“Don’t fucking call me that, freak.” 

“Ooo…fangs. Can’t be surprised, you did shoot one of my men, after all. Not a bad trigger finger, but you do need decent work on your accuracy if you wanna make anything out of it.” Your eyebrows pull in as you’re corralled back out of the alleyway, barrel bruising your skin and blood dripping down your neck. The man’s grip hurts as a strangled whimper falls from your bitten lips. 

Feet scraping over concrete, you’re brought out into the street as neighbors peak out of windows with drawn curtains; phones to their faces. Did these intruders not care about the police? If anything, that made you sweat more. 

“Ride’s waiting.” 

“I’m not getting into that.” Grunting, your eyes are stuck on the black void of the car parked in the street. A menagerie of other armed men stands all over. “Hell no—you can just shoot me now if that’s the case.”

“Don’t tempt me, I can still go after the Sergeant’s dear old mom,” your lungs chill as the man chuckles to himself, looking down at you through dark lashes. “He has a cousin, too, am I right?” 

Rageful tears spark behind your lids as you blink. 

No way it was going to go like this. Where’s Johnny? 

The gun was taken from your ribs as you’re shoved forward. 

“Get in. Now. We’re already behind schedule.” You stare into the interior and clench your fists, lips quivering but jaw clenched. Your Lover’s voice comes to you, sure of himself and laced with stubbornness. 

If you’re ever in trouble, you wait for me, Dearie. I’ll be there ‘fore you know it, ready to defend your honor like the knight in shinin’ armor I am, eh? Why are you laughing…?

Turning back around with every ounce of courage you can muster, you splay your feet and cross your arms.

“No.” The gun is raised to your head, and you want to flinch back in terror but restrain yourself. 

“Get in.” 

“No.” How your voice wasn’t breaking was a question in and of itself, but Johnny had always said you were stubborn like him. Best time to prove him right was with a barrel to your face, apparently.

The stranger’s eyes light with anger, hands clenching over the body of the weapon as the rest of his men stare on in shock. A growl meets air.

“I’m not asking for a third time, Sweetheart—” One loud boom later and you’re ducking down with your hands over your head, ears ringing and body unsteady; a great weight hits the ground right next to you.

The sound of gunfire rattles the world all around the once quiet street, and you think that you and your Lover will have to move after this. No way the neighbors could let all this slide. Looking up, your eyes jump from the corpse spasming near you to the running men, chaos breeding in the lines between shouts and dropping bodies. 

A hand latches into your waist, and you’re being lifted into strong arms moments later. Squealing, your head snaps to the size and meets cerulean blue inlaid in a strong brow line. 

“I’ve got ya.” Your body loses all tension at the accent that you would know anywhere, even in death, a strong grip picking you up and keeping you close to his broad chest. 

Johnny carries you away in the midst of battle as the rest of the 141 get involved, making quick work of the remaining men. Breathing in his scent, you force your face under his chin, feeling the stubble scrape as your fingers dig into flesh. 

He’s here. He’s—he’s right here.

“Don’t worry, Dearie, I’m right here. It’s nearly over, now.” You try to bring him closer as he takes cover behind a wall, pressing his shoulders against the grating stone as he shields you closer to him. Sliding down to the ground.

His eyes snap back and forth, heart rapid. God, he was nearly too late. Johnny presses his nose into your hair as he breathes deeply, watching bodies fall and feeling you shake. Feeling you shiver; now finally able to let everything sink in. 

“Shh,” the Scot mutters, pressing you closer as you whisper his name in a hoarse breath. “You’re alright. I’m ‘ere, Bonnie, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” His hands filter over your skin, checking for injuries and feeling over growing bumps from under-the-skin abrasions.

His teeth clench together in hate, hotheadedness taking over for a moment as part of him wants to rush out and pick a few of these bastards off himself. But it’s just not that simple. 

Looking out into the street with serious eyes, the radio attached to his vest sounds off as the last of the firefight ends almost as quickly as it began. 

“Clear.” It was Price. “How is she?” 

Johnny sighs, looking down at you in his hold as he whispers comforting words in quick succession.

“Shaken, but alright…” The reply is muttered as you sniffle, your fingers going to wipe away tears. “She’s—she’s alright.”

Johnny beats you to it as he tries to calm down, large digits tilting your head to the side and studying intently as he swipes them away with a firm thumb and a careful frown. 

“Johnny—” Your eyes stay locked on him as the Scot gets rid of any trace of fear or sadness, calluses burning your skin just as they always did. His gaze flickers to you; lips pulling tight. None of you choose to move, too content with being this close to one another and safe, even if the situation was serious. “I…”

You trail, not even knowing what to say as the wetness of your eyes blurs your vision, body hot, and the back of your skull aching. Your hands go to cup his cheeks. It’s all the words he needs. 

Eyes soft, the Sergeant attempts a weak and worried smile. “I’m so proud of you, Dearie, y’know that? So damn proud.” Your lips quirk, a strained laugh echoing out. A finger pokes the side of your nose. “Hey, I’m serious now. Stop your foolin'.” 

Johnny’s fingers run deep circles into your temples as you trace the lines of his cheeks. 

“Shut up.” You huff, straining against a wide smile. It was easy to push all of this behind you when you were looking at him. He made everything better.

“Hm,” He moves forward and presses his lips to your forehead, quickly going to lay kisses all over your face until giggles spill out from the alleyway to the waiting three. 

Gaz smiles to himself, Price grunts lightly, and Ghost gazes off. 

“I’ll just have to prove to my Bonnie Little Lady that she’s a prime piece of work, then, eh? Smarter; more quick than a fuckin’ recon team,” he leans close and you have to try and shove him away playfully when he starts to squish you against him. Your laughter grows as his scratchy chin nuzzles your neck. “And don’t mind me sayin’ now, but a proper fine pair of tits and arse to go along with the brains of ya, Dearie.”

“MacTavish!” you squeal, “I should call your mother up and explain how you speak to me—that’s vulgar! I know for a fact she didn’t teach you that.”

“Teach me? Oh, now, then, no one could teach me a thing when you’re around. Cannae think a bit; better off talkin’ to a pile of stone.” You punch his solid chest and laugh so hard your face hurts, breath fanning against his neck as his roaming praise continues as if his mind was a bag of water punctured by a knife. “I’m always thinkin’ ‘bout you, my Little Bonnie.” 

The last sentence is quietly muttered into your temple, a kiss pressed tight. He pulls back slightly and feels at the dried blood on your locks, fingers separating to find the scalp. Johnny’s chest rattles in a sigh, hand shaking slightly when he sees it. 

He’d also seen the body on the window sill, though he knows not to mention it.

Christ, you’d had to kill someone. 

The prospect of taking a life was easy to the Scot—some days he felt like he had been born and bred to do just that. It became simple. Elementary. Like his mother could memorize a recipe, he could memorize the position of arteries; what shot to take at that instant, and which to wait on based only on past missions that resonated like past lives.

But for you…

Oh, it was never supposed to happen to you.

“Are you alright?” Johnny breaths, humor gone and left with guilt. 

He feels your lips on his raging pulse and lets his eyes close, content to feel you move against him as your head remains in his neck. Shifting his body into a more comfortable position, he cages you in protectively. Never again would he allow this to happen.

“I shot someone.” The man’s lips quivered, heart hurting at the blatant shock in your voice. It hadn’t hit you yet, and, hell, Johnny still remembered his first kill like it was yesterday. It wouldn’t be good when all this calmed down. He’d thrown up for two days straight, himself.

“Aye.” He breathes.

“His blood’s all over the house.”

“It is.”

“Is…is that,” you’re shivering, so he massages your spine soothingly until you find the words. “Is that a good thing?” 

He should say no, tell you that the situation that you’d been put in was never supposed to happen and it was just an unfortunate reality. Death wasn’t a good thing, per se. But the man had broken into your shared home—busted down the bedroom door with the intent of using you as a bargaining chip to get to him. So, to the Scot, the answer is clear.

No one messed with his family and lived.

“Yes.” Taking down the air of a dusty alleyway as sirens wail a street over, you weren't surprised that your boyfriend had managed to get to your home far faster than the police could. He said he always would, didn’t he? 

The bills for the speeding tickets and the running of red lights were going to be atrocious.

“Okay.” Your answer is muttered as you peel back, pressing a kiss to the corner of Johnny’s lips. You believed him. Always would. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me.” His bright teeth show off a smile as your mirror. He kisses you heavily on the lips. Whispers against your lips, a promise. A vow. “As long as you put up with me, I’ll always keep you safe.”

“Soap,” Price yells, snapping the two of you out of it. “Get on with it!” 

The Scot raises a shocked brow and smirks down at you as you tilt your head and listen in happy confusion. 

“Y’know, those shots weren't half bad back there. ‘Specially after takin’ a tumble into the flowers.” Your expression freezes in denial as you’re lifted bridal style into the air. Speaking over the calls of police and firemen as they come to the scene, your voice monotones as your legs swing.

“...I missed two out of the three, you dork. That’s failing.” Johnny gapes in mock surprise and you refrain from snorting at the boyish glint in his eyes.

“Jesus, is it really? Hell, you’ll be comin’ for my job in no time, won’t ya? That’s one better than me!” 

You kiss him and feel the grunt through your lips.

TAGS ||

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @neelehksttr, @shoe1412,@jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet​, @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @nanialis, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9, @anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @emerald-valkyrie, @michirulol, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora21, @bespectacledhuman, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @astronaunt2009, @shmaptin, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce,

[mockerycrow]

Sgt. John Soap MacTavish

cod masterlist - crow’s mega masterlist

☁️ = fluff || ⛈️ = angst || 🔥 = sexual content

Soap Kiss Headcanons ☁️

Undercover Series Masterlist (GN!Reader) ☁️⛈️

Summary: You were working an undercover operation, formed by the CIA and MI6, under the guise of being a sympathizer of Makarov’s beliefs and actions. After spending years as this fake persona, Makarov figures you out. You’re found in one of Makarov’s warehouses, beaten and half-dead— found by the 141. As far as they know, you were one of Makarov’s right hands.

NSFW Alphabet 🔥

“I thought we were past this.” ☁️

Mark Me Up (Please) - GN!Reader 🔥

Sub!Soap With A Pain Kink (GN!Reader) 🔥

July 2023 Smut Prompt Masterlist 🔥

Soft Moments (GN!Reader) ☁️

Sub Moments (GN!Reader) 🔥

Payphone (GN!Reader) ⛈️

Mine, Oh Mine (GN!Reader) ☁️

I Want It (GN!Reader) 🔥

I See You Everywhere (GN!Reader) ⛈️

Karma (Fem!Reader) ☁️🔥

[key201303]

Off Duty.

Pairing: K9 search and rescue officer!Leon x gn!reader (I wrote this thinking of re2 Leon when he joined the unit and started training the dog and the oneshot itself is developed when Leon is around 28/29 yo so thought Infinite Darkness Leon could be a good fit) Words: 8k words Warnings: brief mentions of a missing kid at the beginning. Plot: After nearly a decade serving side by side in the Search and Rescue K-9 Unit, Duke is finally retiring. Now that his service has come to an end, it’s Leon’s turn to take care of him. Some partners wear a badge. Others have four paws. A/N: I came up with this idea a few days ago, and I couldn’t wait to write it 😭 calling the dog Duke just like my childhood dog hit me harder than I expected 😭 pets should be immortal 😭 Taglist: let me know if you want to be added! On Duty (Chris' version). (COMING SOON) Resident Evil's Masterlist.

The forest was alive with noise. Radios crackled somewhere between the trees, voices echoed through the undergrowth as officers called out the missing boy's name, and every gust of wind sent branches swaying high above the canopy. It had only been forty-five minutes since the school reported one of their students missing during a hiking trip, but that was more than enough time for a frightened child to wander farther into the woods.

Several search teams had already been deployed. Maps were spread across the hood of a patrol vehicle while officers divided the area into sectors, each one disappearing into a different stretch of forest. Leon barely looked at the map. He was already kneeling in front of Duke. The golden retriever sat perfectly still between his legs, his bright orange search-and-rescue harness resting loosely over his shoulders while Leon checked each buckle out of habit. "Looking good." Duke's tail brushed lazily against the dirt. Leon smiled to himself before adjusting the GPS clipped to his vest. "You know the drill," Leon said.

The moment Leon stood, Duke rose with him, alert and focused, waiting for Leon. The search leash hung loosely between them as they crossed the tape marking the edge of the search area. Most handlers relied on a steady stream of commands to guide their dogs through difficult terrain. Leon didn't. He had long since learned that Duke didn't need constant direction; all he had to do was trust him. "Search." The single word was enough.

Duke immediately lowered his nose, moving through the forest with calm confidence. He didn't rush from the scent or dart aimlessly between the trees. Every step was measured, every pause deliberate, his tail swaying gently behind him as he sorted through hundreds of overlapping scents invisible to everyone else. Leon followed several paces behind, matching Duke's pace without ever trying to control it.

The leash remained slack in his hand. Whenever Duke slowed, Leon slowed. Whenever Duke changed direction, Leon followed without hesitation. To anyone watching, it looked effortless, but the reality was far from that. Years of early mornings, endless training sessions, failed exercises, successful rescues, and countless hours spent together had built something far stronger than simple obedience and more like complete and unwavering trust.

Duke suddenly stopped beside an old fallen log. His ears twitched; his head lifted. For a second, the forest seemed to disappear around him. The golden retriever took two careful steps to the left before turning sharply uphill. Leon released another few feet of leash. "Go." Duke broke into a run. Leon followed without hesitation.

Low branches scraped against his jacket as he climbed after his partner, boots sinking into damp earth while Duke moved ahead with practiced confidence, weaving effortlessly between rocks and dense bushes. He never looked back, perfectly knowing Leon was exactly where he expected him to be.

Less than a minute later, Duke slowed before stopping. Hidden beneath the thick roots of a fallen oak, a small boy sat curled into himself, his knees pulled tightly against his chest. Dirt streaked his red cheeks, and fresh tears clung to his eyelashes as he looked up at the sudden movement. Duke didn't bark or jump; he simply sat a few feet away, tail gently brushing the dry leaves, his calm presence far less frightening than the uniformed officer emerging from the trees.

Leon approached slowly, lowering himself into a crouch. "Hey, buddy." His voice remained soft. "You gave everyone quite the scare." The boy sniffled, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. "I couldn't find my class..." The kid explained between quiet sobs. "I know." Leon offered him a reassuring smile. "But you're okay now."

By the time another search team arrived to escort the boy back to the trailhead, relief had settled over the forest like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Only then did Leon finally turn his attention back to Duke. The golden retriever was watching him with the same quiet patience he always had, tongue lolling happily from the side of his mouth, as though finding lost children was just another Thursday, which it actually was.

Leon chuckled under his breath. He crouched beside him and unclipped the orange harness, lifting it carefully over Duke's head before scratching the thick fur along his neck. "Good job, buddy." Duke's tail thumped enthusiastically against the forest floor. His chest puffed ever so slightly beneath Leon's hand, his entire body radiating the unmistakable satisfaction of a dog who knew he'd done exactly what he was trained to do. Leon smiled, giving his neck one last affectionate rub. "You never let me down," Duke answered with a proud bark before leaning a little more of his weight into Leon's side.

By the time they returned to the police station, the sun had climbed high above the city. The command vehicle had barely come to a stop before the missing boy's relieved parents were already thanking every officer involved in the search. Leon accepted the gratitude with the same modest smile he always wore, giving most of the credit to the golden retriever walking faithfully at his side. Duke, completely oblivious to the attention, was far more interested in the tennis ball someone from another K-9 unit had rolled across the parking lot. Leon laughed quietly. "Not while you're working." Duke's ears twitched at the familiar reminder, and just like that, his attention shifted back to Leon, professional again.

Inside the police station, the atmosphere was comfortably familiar. Phones rang somewhere beyond the reception desk, officers came and went with cups of coffee balanced in one hand and stacks of paperwork in the other, someone congratulated Leon on another successful search as he made his way down the hallway, earning nothing more than a small nod in return.

Before he could reach the K-9 kennels, a voice called after him. "Kennedy." Leon turned. Captain Harris stood outside his office, one hand resting against the doorframe. "When you've got a minute." Leon frowned slightly. "Sure." He gave Duke's leash a gentle tug, and together they crossed the hallway.

The captain's office hadn't changed in years. Framed commendations covered one wall, filing cabinets occupied another, and the scent of old paper and black coffee lingered permanently in the air. The moment Leon stepped inside, Duke walked ahead without being told. He settled beside the visitor's chair with practiced ease, lowering himself onto the floor until his chin rested comfortably across his front paws. The exact same spot, every single time. Leon couldn't help smiling. "Showing off your manners again, huh?" Duke responded with a lazy wag of his tail before becoming perfectly still.

The captain watched the exchange in silence. His eyes drifted from Leon to the aging retriever lying beside him. For several long moments, he said nothing at all. Then he sighed. "He's getting older." The words landed exactly as Leon expected them to. His smile faded almost imperceptibly. Without thinking, his hand found the top of Duke's head, fingers disappearing into the soft golden fur between his ears. "I know." He had noticed months ago.

The gray creeping around Duke's muzzle, the way he took a little longer to climb into the SUV after long shifts, how he still ran with the same determination during searches, yet slept a little harder afterwards. Age hadn't made him any less capable. It had simply caught up with him.

Captain Harris folded his hands across his desk. "The vet completed his annual evaluation this morning." Leon remained silent. "He's still healthy." A small breath escaped Leon's lungs before he even realized he'd been holding it. "But..." The captain nodded. "...it's time." The office fell quiet again. "He's done everything we've ever asked of him," the captain continued. "More than that, honestly." Leon looked down. Dike glanced back at him, completely unaware that the conversation revolved around him. His tail gave one slow thump against the floor. Leon reached down absentmindedly to scratch beneath his collar. "He deserves to enjoy whatever years he's got left without spending them searching through forests or climbing over debris."

Leon swallowed. He had always known this day would come. Every handler did. No K-9 served forever. Captain Harris opened a folder resting on his desk before looking back up. "Department policy gives the handler first option to adopt their partner after retirement." He didn't need to explain the rest.

If Leon declined, Duke would eventually be placed with another family carefully selected by the department. A good family that would love him and that would take good care of him. Leon didn't even let the thought finish forming. "I'll take him." The answer came so quickly it almost overlapped with the captain's question.

Captain Harris smiled softly, as though he'd expected exactly that response. "I figured you would." Leon looked down again. Duke had shifted closer at some point, resting the weight of his head against Leon's knee. Completely unaware that, after years of spending every day by Leon's side, nothing was about to change. Except this time, when the shift ended, they would finally be going home together. "Hope it doesn't get you in trouble with your spouse." Captain Harris said with a small smile before Leon left the office. "It won't." Leon chuckled.

By the time Leon pulled into the driveway, the late afternoon sun had begun to dip lower in the sky, bathing the neighborhood in warm shades of gold. The engine fell silent. For a moment, Leon simply sat there. One hand rested loosely on the steering wheel while the other absentmindedly tapped over the metal of the gear lever. After a long silence, he climbed out of the truck, grabbed his bag from the passenger seat, and walked towards the front door.

The familiar scent of dinner greeted him the moment he stepped inside. "So?" You called from the kitchen. "How did the search go?" Leon closed the door behind him. "We found him." Relief softened your features almost immediately. "Oh, thank God." You wiped your hands on a kitchen towel before walking into the hallway, already smiling. The smile faltered the second you looked at him properly. It was subtle, to the point that most people would've missed it.

Leon was smiling, talking normally, and yet, something about the way his shoulders sat just a little lower than usual, the quietness in his eyes, the thoughtful expression he hadn't managed to shake since walking through the door. You knew him too well. "What happened?" Leon looked at you for a second before letting out a quiet breath. "It's Duke." Your gaze immediately shifted with concern.

"Is he okay?" You asked, walking closer. "He is." The answer came quickly. "He passed his physical." He added. Then, after a quick pause, he rubbed the back of his neck. "They're... retiring him." The words hung gently in the air. A smile slowly appeared across your face. The dish towel dropped from your hand as you crossed the small distance between you and wrapped your arms around him without a second thought. "Leon," you laughed softly against his shoulder, "that's amazing."

For a moment he stood there frozen. One arm still hung awkwardly at his side. Then, he let out a quiet laugh. A genuine, surprised laugh that escaped before he could notice. "I was expecting... I don't know..." He looked down at you with an amused shake of his head. "...a much longer conversation." You pulled back just enough to look at him. "A longer conversation?" You frowned. "You know..." He smiled sheepishly. "I figured we'd have to talk about the responsibility, the space, the schedule..." You stared at him as though he'd said something completely ridiculous. "Leon." Your hands found his again. "You've spent years coming home and telling me stories about Duke." You smiled at the thought. "I've heard about every single rescue, training session, and birthday." You continued. "Did you really think I'd need convincing?"

Something warm settled quietly in his chest at your reaction. Even though a small part of him had worried about what your reaction would be, he knew you'd been wanting to have Duke at home for many years now. The golden retriever wasn't just a dog. Now he was older, retired, a responsibility that would only grow heavier with time. But you couldn't help seeing any of that first. You had simply seen Duke, the partner Leon had loved for years, the dog who deserved somewhere safe to spend the rest of his life.

Leon reached for your hand once again, intertwining his fingers with yours. "They're holding the retirement ceremony next week." Your smile only widened. "I'll be there." You didn't even hesitate. Leon looked much more relieved. For the first time since leaving the captain's office, the weight pressing against his shoulders felt just a little lighter. Probably because, without realizing it, the hardest part of the conversation had never been telling you; it had been imagining a future where Duke wasn't coming home with him. Now he knew he would never have to worry about that.

The following Saturday somehow became entirely about Duke. What was supposed to be a quick trip to the pet store turned into wandering every aisle at a pace that could only be described as painfully thorough, Leon reading nearly every label he picked up while you followed a few steps behind, trying very hard not to laugh. He approached the entire shopping trip as if he were on another rescue mission.

"If he doesn't make a spreadsheet by the end of this," you murmured to yourself, "I'll be impressed." Leon either didn't hear you or chose not to. You suspected the latter. The shopping cart was still practically empty by the time the two of you reached the beds. Leon stopped walking. There had to be at least twenty of them lined nearly against the wall.

He crouched in front of the display as though he were about to solve an impossible puzzle. His fingers pressed gently against one mattress before moving to another. Too firm, too thin, not enough cushioning.

You folded your arms, watching him move from bed to bed with complete concentration. After several minutes, he still hadn't chosen one. "Leon," you called. He simply hummed. "He doesn't need to pass a comfort inspection," you joked. "I'm comparing them." Another bed followed by another thoughtful expression. Then Leon stopped in front of an oversized orthopedic mattress with memory foam thick enough to rival the one in your own bedroom.

You glanced at the price tag. Your eyebrows shot up. "Leon." He looked at you. "He doesn't need a three-hundred-dollar orthopedic bed." Leon looked back at the mattress. "His hips aren't what they used to be." You blinked. "...You're buying it, don't you?" Leon remained suspiciously quiet. "...Yes." You couldn't help laughing. He smiled sheepishly, already lifting the enormous bed into the shopping cart with absolutely no intention of changing his mind.

"He deserves a comfortable place to sleep," Leon defended, trying to prove his point. "I'm not arguing," you chuckled. "You kind of are." Leon looked down at you. "I'm arguing with the price." Leon considered that for a few seconds. "...Fair." The bed stayed in the cart, though.

The rest of the trip only became worse. Or better, depending on who was telling the story. Leon spent nearly ten minutes standing in front of an entire wall of dog toys, turning plush ducks, ropes, tennis balls, and rubber bones over in his hands like they were pieces of evidence. "He already has toys," you reminded him. "He loves tennis balls," Leon said thoughtfully as he reached for a pack of yellow balls. "So buy tennis balls," you chuckled. "I am." He placed the pack into the cart. Then another.

"And those?" You pointed towards three different squaky toys. "They're enrichment," he said proudly. "What about the rope?" You pointed towards the red and white rope. "For his teeth," he answered. "The stuffed moose?" You added. Leon looked genuinely confused by your question. "...Because I think he'll like it." You laughed again. "I don't think I've ever seen you spend this long shopping for yourself," you joked, slipping your hand into his. "I haven't," he admitted with a quiet laugh.

By the time you reached the food aisle, the cart looked less like it belonged to two adults and more like someone was preparing to spoil the most beloved dog in the state. The cart was full of a stainless-steel food bowl, a matching water bowl, a raised feeding stand, treats, far too many treats, a new brush specifically designed for golden retrievers, and a durable leash Leon insisted felt more comfortable in his hand than the old one. And finally... A small display filled with personalized ID tags.

Leon picked up one shaped like a simple bone. He ran his thumb over the smooth surface before handing it to the employee behind the engraving counter. "Duke." The woman smiled warmly. "That's a nice name." Leon smiled back. "It suits him." You watched quietly as the employee typed the letters into the machine. Duke.

Eight years of search missions, countless rescues, dozens of commendations, and somehow, seeing his name engraved onto a simple tag for a house collar felt far more emotional than either of you had expected. Neither of you said anything for a moment. It wasn't replacing his badge or his service; it meant he was about to have something he'd never truly had before. A place that wasn't temporary anymore.

When the cashier finally scanned the last item, she looked at the overflowing cart before smiling at Leon. "Looks like someone's excited for a new puppy." Leon chuckled softly as he reached for his wallet. "Not exactly." He glanced down at the engraved tag resting carefully in his hand. "I'm bringing my partner home." For reasons you couldn't quite explain, those words made your chest tighten more than anything else he'd said all day.

The ceremony took place exactly one week later inside the training building where Duke had spent almost his entire life. The search-and-rescue trucks had been moved outside to clear space, rows of folding chairs replacing them for the afternoon. Officers from every shift filled the room, conversations blending together beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights while cups of coffee rested forgotten in people's hands.

At the front stood a display board covered with photographs. Duke as a gangly, oversized puppy wearing a harness far too big for his tiny frame, Leon kneeling beside him during certification, their first successful search, a newspaper clipping after locating an elderly woman who had been missing overnight. Pictures taken in forests, mountains, flooded neighborhoods, and collapsed buildings. Years of service compressed into a collection of faded photographs.

You wandered slowly along the display while Leon spoke quietly with a few colleagues nearby. Every picture told the same story. Leon was always there. Sometimes covered in mud, sometimes soaked from the rain. But every single photograph included one constant. Duke. Always close enough that their shoulders touched as though neither of them had ever learned how to stand apart.

The room gradually fell silent as Captain Harris stepped forward. Duke, blissfully unaware that the afternoon was about him, sat neatly beside Leon in his orange search harness, watching the crowd with calm curiosity. The captain smiled. "I've been trying to write this speech all week." A ripple of quiet laughter passed through the room. "I've rewritten it four times." He looked at Duke. "Turns out it's difficult to summarize nearly a decade of service." The room settled once more. "There aren't any officers who can say they've never once failed to show up when someone needed them." His gaze swept across the audience. "Duke can."

He spoke about the rescues, the children brought safely home, the hikers found before nightfall, the elderly couple rescued after the flood three winters ago, and the countless hours spent training long before anyone ever saw the successful missions. Every achievement was met with quiet smiles from officers who had witnessed them firsthand.

Occasionally someone chuckled as another story surfaced. Like the time Duke proudly carried an officer's lunch across the parking lot because he'd mistaken it for training equipment. Or when he'd refused to leave a frightened little girl until paramedics arrived, lying beside her for nearly an hour despite repeated attempts to call him away. Even Leon laughed at that one. "You were impossible that day," he muttered quietly. Duke answered by wagging his tail once against the polished floor.

Captain Harris eventually reached for a wooden presentation box resting on the podium. Inside lay a polished plaque engraved with Duke's name beneath the department crest. He stepped forward before stopping in front of Leon. "I think you've earned the honor." Leon looked at him, understanding immediately. His throat tightened. Slowly, he crouched in front of Duke. The retriever looked back at him exactly as he always had.

Leon rested one hand against the side of Duke's neck before reaching for the buckles of the bright orange search harness. His fingers paused just for a second. He swallowed. The room had gone completely silent. There had been countless mornings where he'd fastened those same straps. It had become such an ordinary routine that he'd never once imagined how difficult this particular moment would feel.

His hands finally moved. One buckle, then the other. The familiar click echoed far louder than it should have. The harness loosened. Leon carefully lifted it over Duke's head. For the first time in nearly a decade, his partner wasn't wearing the uniform that had defined his entire working life. Leon stared at it for a long moment. The bright fabric was worn in places, the reflective strips had faded slightly with time, and there were tiny scratches across one of the buckles from missions neither of them could remember anymore. Every memory they had built together seemed stitched into its seams.

He folded it carefully against his chest. When he finally looked back at Duke, his smile remained, but his voice betrayed him. "You did good, buddy." It came out quieter than he'd intended. Duke tilted his head before stepping forward on instinct, pressing his forehead gently against Leon's shoulder as if comforting him. A soft laugh escaped Leon, followed by a shaky breath he couldn't quite steady.

His free hand found the thick golden fur behind Duke's ears, scratching there the way he always did after every mission. "Yeah..." He smiled, blinking once. "...You always did." No one in the room spoke. Several officers looked quietly towards the door.

Captain Harris waited until Leon stood again before placing the plaque into his hands. "For outstanding service, unwavering loyalty, and nearly ten years of helping bring people home." Leon looked down at the engraved name.

DUKE. Search & Rescue K-9.

The words blurred for the briefest moment. He blinked once, steadying himself before looking back at the dog standing proudly at his side. He was no longer an active search-and-rescue K-9. In a few short minutes... he'd be a dog who had finally earned the chance to simply be a dog.

The parking lot had grown quiet by the time the ceremony came to an end. One by one, officers drifted back inside the precinct, carrying empty coffee cups and folded chairs while conversations slowly returned to the usual rhythm of another workday. A few stopped to pat Duke on the head before leaving, thanking him as though he could understand every word. Maybe, in his own way, he did.

Leon thanked each of them with a tired smile, the folded harness tucked carefully beneath one arm and the commemorative plaque resting inside a cardboard box. He hadn't let either of them out of his sight since the ceremony.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky as you both reached his truck. For a brief moment, he simply stood beside it. The parking lot looked exactly as it always had. You unlocked the passenger door. Before either of you could say a word, Duke leaped inside with the practiced ease of someone who had done it thousands of times before.

He settled into his usual spot without hesitation, turning once before sitting upright, ears perked towards the windshield, waiting. You and Leon couldn't help smiling. "You've got the routine memorized, huh?" Duke answered with an excited bark.

You stepped into the back seat as Leon closed the door gently, perfectly knowing there was no way Duke exchanged seats with you. The engine rumbled to life. Leon rested both hands on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield at the building ahead. The station doors slipped open. Another handler walked out with a young German Shepherd at his side, both disappearing towards one of the department's SUV's. The sight tugged at something deep inside his chest. It felt strangely familiar, like watching a chapter of his own life continue without him.

He shifted the truck into drive. As always, Duke remained perfectly still. Leon turned onto the main road. Instead of heading towards the interstate that led to the department's training grounds, he took a different exit. The one leading home. Duke noticed almost instantly.

His head tilted ever so slightly as the familiar route disappeared behind you. Leon caught the movement. For a second, brown eyes met blue. Confused and curious. Leon looked back at the road. "You'll get used to it." His voice was barely above a whisper.

The city slowly gave way to quieter neighborhoods lined with trees, afternoon sunlight flickering across the windshield as they drove beneath their branches. The truck was unusually quiet. Only the low hum of the engine and Duke's steady breathing filled the space. Every now and then, Leon glanced towards the rearview mirror. Each time, you wore a wide smile on your lips as you looked at him through the same mirror.

The truck rolled into a quiet residential street. Past familiar houses, past nearly trimmed lawns, past the corner where the neighborhood kids rode their bikes to school. Duke leaned forward slightly with perked ears. He recognized this route from some evenings and weekends.

Leon slowed as the house came into view. He pulled in the driveway and switched off the engine. Silence settled over the cab. For the first time in years, there wasn't another shift waiting tomorrow morning for both of them. Leon rested a hand against the steering wheel for a long moment before looking into the rearview mirror one last time. You quietly nodded.

Duke was still watching him, waiting for the next order. Leon smiled softly. "You've done enough." He climbed out of the truck and walked around to open the passenger door after opening yours. Duke jumped down immediately, landing beside him with the same eager expression he always wore at the beginning of a shift.

The front door swung open with its familiar creak. Duke stepped over the threshold slowly. Unlike every other visit he'd made to the house, he didn't trot confidently towards the living room or wait by the back door for Leon to finish grabbing his things before heading back to the truck. Instead, he stopped.

His nose twitched with one careful breath. You and Leon remained by the doorway, the absurdly oversized orthopedic bed balanced awkwardly beneath one arm while a shopping bag filled with toys, treats, and a brand-new leash dangled in your hand. He smiled to himself. "Go on." Duke glanced back at him before taking another tentative step forward.

The hallway came first. His nose brushed along the edge of the show cabinet, the coat rack, the umbrella stand, every familiar scent carrying something subtly different today. He lingered for a moment by Leon's work boots before continuing deeper into the house, tail swaying in slow, thoughtful arcs behind him.

You watched him with a smile that softened almost immediately. He was trying to understand that he belonged there. "Come here," you said gently, walking a few steps ahead. Duke followed without hesitation. You led him into the kitchen first. "This is where you'll pretend you haven't eaten." His ears perked again. Leon laughed quietly from somewhere behind you. "You've already figured him out."

Duke inspected every cupboard, sniffed around the kitchen island, investigated the dining table, and paused beside the refrigerator for considerably longer than seemed necessary. You scratched behind one of his ears. "No snacks in there unless you're exceptionally convincing." He looked at you with wide brown eyes that suggested he fully intended to become exceptionally convincing.

The tour continued. The laundry room, the guest bedroom, and the small office where Leon occasionally finished paperwork from home. Each room received the same careful inspection. Nothing escaped Duke's attention. He walked slowly, calmly, committing every scent to memory with the quiet confidence of a dog who had spent his entire life learning unfamiliar places.

Leon followed a few steps behind, still carrying the enormous dog bed beneath one arm. "You know..." you glanced over your shoulder, "you can put that down." You pointed towards the bed. "I'm waiting until he sees it," Leon explained. "He won't see it if you keep carrying it around," you chuckled. Leon smiled without arguing.

Eventually, the three of you reached the living room. Sunlight spilled through the windows, warming the hardwood floor and filling the room with a quiet stillness. Duke wandered inside. His nose drifted over the coffee table, the rug, and one of the bookshelves. Then, he stopped.

His eyes landed on the sofa. A long, comfortable couch sitting beneath the front window. He stared at it. Then looked at Leon. Back to the sofa. Back to Leon. You knew that look immediately. Slowly, you turned your head towards Leon. Leon met your eyes. "...Don't." Duke continued staring at the sofa.

His tail gave one hopeful wag when silence settled in the room. Another few seconds passed. The golden retriever remained perfectly still, looking between the couch and his handler with the kind of patient optimism only a dog could possess. One... Two... Three... Four... Five...

Leon let out the deepest sigh you'd ever heard. "...Fine." The reaction was instantaneous. Duke climbed onto the sofa with surprising elegance for a dog his size before turning twice in place and settling against one end with a long, satisfied sigh. Leon looked down at the orthopedic bed still tucked beneath his arm. Three hundred dollars, memory foam, joint support, cooling fabric. He slowly lowered it onto the floor beside the fireplace.

You bit your lip, already laughing. "I tried to warn you." He looked at you, defeated. "He hasn't even tested it," he quietly complained. Then, folded his arms, pretending to sound actually offended. "I bought that specifically for him," Leon looked back at Duke. The golden retriever had already stretched comfortably across one side of the sofa, his eyes drifting closed in complete contentment. Another dramatic sigh escaped Leon. "I've been replaced by a couch." You laughed softly before walking over to sit beside Duke.

Without opening his eyes, he shifted just enough to rest his head on your lap. Leon watched the two of you for a moment before shaking his head with an amused smile. "So that's how it is." He sat down on the other side. Duke, apparently deciding there was still room for improvement, lifted his head once more before shuffling across the cushions until he was pressed comfortably against both of you.

One hand found the fur behind his ears; the other rested absentmindedly along his back. Outside, another patrol car drove past the house. Its siren echoed faintly somewhere in the distance before disappearing again. For the first time in his life, Duke stayed exactly where he was, curled between the two people who, whether he understood it yet or not, were finally taking him home for good.

Sometime after midnight, the house settled into silence. The television had long since been turned off, the dishes from dinner washed and put away, and the lights downstairs left dark except for the small lamp glowing softly in the hallway. It had been an ordinary evening. Duke had accepted exactly three treats, investigated every toy Leon had bought him and, despite the expensive orthopedic bed waiting patiently beside the fireplace... He had still chosen the sofa.

Leon hadn't complained. Eventually, the three of you had gone upstairs. You had fallen asleep almost immediately, lulled by the familiar rhythm of the house and the comforting weight of Leon's arm draped loosely around your waist.

For a while, everything was quiet. Then... Click. Click. Click. The faint sound of nails against hardwood stirred Leon from sleep. His eyes opened slowly. For a moment, he simply listened. Another soft click echoed somewhere downstairs. Careful not to wake you, Leon slipped out of bed and quietly made his way into the hallway.

The staircase creaked beneath his weight as he descended into the darkness. Moonlight filtered through the front windows, casting pale silver patterns across the floor. That was when he saw him. Duke sat perfectly still in front of the front door. His back was straight, his ears were forward, his eyes remained fixed on the handle as though he was waiting for someone to open it.

For the briefest second, Leon was transported back to hundreds of mornings just like this. Five-thirty. The alarm barely finished ringing, coffee brewing in the kitchen, boots laced, uniform on, Duke already waiting by the door before Leon had even picked up his keys.

Leon stood there quietly for a long moment. Something tightened painfully in his chest. Slowly, he crossed the hallway until he reached him. He lowered himself onto the floor beside the golden retriever, the wood cool beneath his legs. Duke glanced towards him. His tail gave one gentle thump. Then his attention returned to the door. Waiting.

Leon already knew what for. He smiled sadly. One hand found the fur behind Duke's ears, scratching gently in the spot that had always made his eyes soften. "We're not on duty anymore." Duke's ears twitched. He looked up at Leon, then tilted his head ever so slightly, confused and waiting for the word that usually came next.

Leon swallowed. "You don't have to wait anymore." His voice was barely louder than the silence surrounding them. Duke continued looking at him with complete trust. He didn't understand. How could he? For nearly ten years, every morning had begun exactly the same way. Waiting by the front door was his purpose. The thing he'd spent almost his entire life believing he was supposed to do.

Leon rested his forehead lightly against the side of Duke's head. His eyes slipped closed for a moment. "You've done enough." The words were meant as reassurance, not only for Duke but for himself. After a quiet few seconds, Duke finally sighed. A deep, tired sigh that seemed to release the last of the tension from his body. Without any encouragement, he leaned gently against Leon's side. Leon smiled faintly. His fingers continued scratching behind Duke's ears while the two of them sat together in the moonlit hallway.

Eventually, Duke lowered his head onto Leon's knee. Leon looked towards the front door one last time before wrapping an arm loosely around his old partner's shoulders. "Come on, buddy." This time, Duke followed without hesitation.

At exactly six o'clock, something cold nudged against Leon's hand. Once. Twice. Then a familiar nose pressed insistently against his forearm. Leon let out a quiet groan without opening his eyes. For years, that had been all the alarm clock he'd ever needed.

Another gentle nudge. A soft huff. Then the unmistakable sound of a tail brushing rhythmically against the side of the bed. Leon smiled before he was even fully awake. "...Five more minutes," Duke answered by nudging him again, slightly harder this time. Leon cracked one eye open. The golden retriever stood beside the bed exactly as he always had, ears perked, posture alert, his expression carrying the quiet determination of someone absolutely convinced the workday was about to begin.

Leon reached blindly towards the nightstand. His fingers found his phone. 6:00am. Right on time. A laugh escaped him, low and sleepy. "You're unbelievable." Duke's tail wagged proudly, as though punctuality itself deserved recognition. Leon pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face while the room slowly came into focus.

For the briefest moment, instinct took over. His eyes drifted towards the chair where his uniform normally rested after being ignored the night before. Then he stopped. The realization settled gently this time. He looked back at Duke. The retriever was still waiting patiently beside the bed, ready for whatever came next. Leon smiled. "Guess we're both still learning."

Instead of reaching for his uniform, he pulled open the dresser and grabbed a faded gray hoodie, an old pair of sweatpants, and his running shoes. Comfort instead of duty. The change felt strangely unfamiliar. He had just finished tying his laces then the bedroom floor opened a few inches. You stood there, wrapped in one of Leon's oversized sweatshirts, your hair still tousled from sleep as you blinked against the early morning light. Your gaze drifted from Leon to Duke and to the clock glowing on the nightstand. "Already?" Leon chuckled. "Old habits."

You smiled knowingly. "I should've guessed." Duke wandered over to greet you, gently pressing his head against your hip in search of morning scratches. You obliged immediately, fingers disappearing into the soft golden fur. "Good morning to you too." His tail answered before he did.

A few minutes later, the three of you stepped outside together. The morning air was cool enough to carry the scent of freshly cut grass, and the neighborhood still slept beneath the pale colors of sunrise. Leon locked the front door before slipping the new leash onto Duke's collar. For a split second, Leon's thumb brushed over the polished metal of the engraved tag.

Duke trotted confidently between the two of you, occasionally glancing up at Leon as though waiting for the familiar turn towards the department. Instead, Leon crossed the next intersection towards the neighborhood park. Duke hesitated for half a heartbeat. Then he happily followed.

The park was almost empty. Only a few early joggers passed along the winding paths while birds fluttered between the trees overhead. Dew still clung to the grass, sparkling beneath the first rays of sunlight. Leon unclipped the leash as soon as you reached the open field. Duke looked back instinctively. Leon smiled. "No commands today." The golden retriever blinked. Then, almost cautiously, he wandered forward.

He stopped to sniff a patch of wildflowers, sneezing a couple of times. Then, he watched a squirrel disappear up the trunk of an oak tree. Then, he accepted enthusiastic pets from an elderly couple passing by. He even chased a tennis ball across the grass after you threw it, returning it with the happy, lopsided trot of a dog who had forgotten, if only for a moment, that every game used to be training.

Leon watched in silence. His hands rested inside the pockets of his hoodie as a small smile settled permanently across his face. You slipped your hand into his. "He looks happy." Leon didn't answer at first. His eyes never left Duke. The golden retriever had stopped near the middle of the field, standing with his face lifted towards the morning breeze, his tail swaying lazily behind him.

For the first time since the ceremony, he didn't look like he was waiting for work. Leon squeezed your hand gently. "Yeah." His smile softened a little more, if that was possible. "I think he's finally figuring it out."

The first weeks felt different for all three of you. There were moments when Duke still paused by the front door at dawn, waiting for the truck keys that never came. Other mornings, he wandered into the garage only to stand quietly beside the empty space where the department's SUV had once waited after long shifts. Old habits rarely disappeared overnight. Neither for dogs, nor for the people who loved them.

Little by little, though, something began to change. It started with a tennis ball. Leon had tossed it almost absentmindedly across the backyard while the three of you enjoyed a quiet Saturday afternoon. The bright yellow ball bounced once. Twice. Then, rolled through the grass. Duke watched it with perked ears. For a moment, Leon thought he was about to ignore it.

During training, balls had never simply been toys. They had been rewards, exercises, and another part of the job. Then, cautiously, Duke chased after it. It seemed like he finally found it fun to do so.

He returned with the ball proudly clamped between his teeth, his tail wagging so enthusiastically that his entire back half seemed to move with it. Leon laughed. "There he is." After that, the tennis ball somehow became part of the morning routine.

Then came the naps. For years, Duke had only ever rested when there was permission to rest. Now, however, he discovered that no one minded if he fell asleep right in the middle of the living room, across the rug with all four paws sticking out at impossible angles, rolling onto his back, completely exposed, one ear flopped inside out while soft snores echoed through the quiet house.

Leon often found himself smiling before stepping carefully around him. "You know," you whispered one afternoon, "I don't think I've ever seen him sleep this deeply." Leon looked down at the golden retriever lying upside down in the middle of the room. "I haven't either."

The backyard quickly became another favorite. Especially the warm patch of grass beneath the old maple tree. Almost every afternoon, Duke wandered outside, turned a slow circle beneath the sunlight, and lowered himself onto the lawn with a content sigh. There he remained, eyes closed, face lifted towards the warmth. It felt as though he was making up for every naphe'd postponed over the years.

The first time the doorbell rang, Duke was on his feet before either of you. His posture straightened instantly, his ears lifted. Every muscle in his body tensed with familiar purpose as he hurried towards the front hallway. Leon caught up beside him before he reached the door. He rested a gentle hand against the side of Duke's neck. "It's okay." The retriever looked up at him, confused. The bell rang a second time. Duke remained perfectly still.

Leon smiled softly. "We're off duty, buddy." A few seconds passed. Then Duke slowly relaxed. His tail gave one uncertain wag before he leaned lightly against Leon's leg instead of watching the front door. The mail carrier waited exactly where he was, entirely unsearched. It became easier after that.

The weeks passed. Duke slowly learned that visitors weren't emergencies. That the sound of a car pulling into the driveway didn't always mean another deployment. That radios no longer dictated the rhythm of his days. And somewhere along the way, he discovered affection. Now, whenever Leon sat down, Duke wandered over almost automatically. Sometimes nudging beneath his hand until the scratches began, sometimes resting his chin against his knee with quiet determination. Leon never once pushed him away.

One evening, after dinner, the television played quietly in the background while rain tapped gently against the windows. You sat curled beneath a blanket, only half watching the movie. Leon occupied the opposite end of the sofa. Duke climbed up between the two of you without asking permission anymore. That battle had clearly been won.

He turned twice, let out a long sigh, then rested his head across Leon's thighs. Leon looked down instinctively. His fingers scratched Duke's fur absentmindedly while keeping his eyes on the television. It happened as naturally as breathing. Minutes passed, then half an hour.

Eventually, you glanced over. Duke was fast asleep. His breathing had settled into slow, peaceful rhythms, one paw twitching faintly as he dreamed. Leon hadn't moved. One hand still rested gently against the back of Duke's neck, protectively. You smiled to yourself before turning back towards the television.

Duke had spent his life making sure Leon always came home safely. Now, as the rain continued falling beyond the windows, it seemed only fair that Leon finally had the chance to return the favor. To make sure his partner could sleep deeply, comfortably, and without ever needing to wait for the next call.

A month later...

The routines that had once felt unfamiliar slowly became ordinary. Morning walks through the park, afternoons spent in the garden, evenings on the sofa, lazy weekends with no alarms, no radios and nowhere in particular to be. Somewhere along the way, Duke stopped waiting by the front door. The house had become enough.

The morning sun bathed the front porch in a warm light, filling the quiet neighborhood with the distant sound of birdsong and the occasional lawn mower humming somewhere down the street. Leon sat in the old wooden chair with a book resting open in his lap. He hadn't turned the page in several minutes because every now and then his attention drifted elsewhere.

You stood a few feet away, watering the flower boxes beneath the porch railing, humming softly to yourself as droplets of water shimmered in the sunlight. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and summer.

Just beyond the porch, Duke slept peacefully beneath the warmth of the morning sun, completely stretched out across the lawn, one front paw extended lazily in front of him. His muzzle rested against the grass. His breathing was slow and deep. There was no tension left in his body. He looked exactly the way every dog deserved to look. Safe.

You followed Leon's gaze before smiling softly. "I think he's finally enjoying retirement." Leon didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained on the same dog who had disappeared into forests without hesitation. The same dog who had searched collapsed buildings, climbed over fallen timber, crossed rivers, and walked through rain, snow, and darkness without ever questioning where Leon asked him to go.

A quiet smile settled across his face. "Yeah." He said proudly. "He spent his whole life taking care of everyone else." His gaze softened as it dropped to his old partner. "Now it's our turn to take care of him." As though he had heard his name carried on the breeze, Duke's tail gave a slow, sleepy wag against the grass with his eyes still closed. Leon laughed quietly. "There he is."

The golden retriever stretched with an enormous yawn before slowly climbing to his feet. He wandered across the grass at an unhurried pace, climbed the porch steps, and stopped directly beside Leon's chair. He gently rested the weight of his head against your husband's knee out of pure habit. Leon smiled. His hand immediately found the familiar spot behind Duke's ears before drifting down to scratch gently beneath his collar, fingers moving with the effortless rhythm of someone who had repeated the gesture thousands of times before.

Duke's eyes fluttered closed again almost instantly. You set the watering can aside before walking over to join them. Settling onto the step beside Leon, you rested one hand along Duke's back, your fingers slowly combing through the warm golden fur. Neither of you spoke.

The breeze drifted lazily through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, children laughed. A bird landed briefly on the garden fence before taking flight again. And there, beneath the morning sun, sat a retired search-and-rescue dog between the two people who loved him most.