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fatal-iistic · 1 year ago

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Ties That Bind (Pt. 3)

Summary: Blair is captured behind enemy lines. The primitive relationship she shares with Soap may be dead before it truly has the chance to live.

Pairings: Johnny “Soap” Mactavish x F!Original Character

Words: 7.9k

Warnings: Swearing, injury/gore, references to torture, slight insinuation to SA if you squint

May 23rd, 2021

Stirling Lines, Herefordshire, UK

Focus is a forlorn concept.

This brief couldn't be any more boring.

Half of the issue is the details have been intensely scrutinized a dozen times over with Kate Laswell until the back of Blair's eyelids is painted with the blue light of the projector screen. Another part of the problem stems from the late morning hours when Blair's body is flying on a measly four hours of sleep after catching a red-eye flight into the UK. The caffeine dependency only brings Blair along a certain distance, the rest of Blair's consciousness relying solely on willpower.

Something else plagues her – this ordeal is a three-headed monster, and the third part of the beast has no policy inhabiting the spaces of her brain. Plaguing thoughts ram themselves deep into the cerebral cortex like a splinter wedged under her skin. She should know better and do better. This has no place in her mind, not when duty is on the line.

Leg jostles as she swirls the endmost contents of coffee in its cup. She nearly jumps from her flesh as Colonel Lyons concludes the brief, and the room illuminates in full from the fluorescent lights overhead. Blinking, eyes glance at the eight other men, two Americans and six Brits, all rising from their seats. Lieutenant Spears, a SAS soldier, nods in Blair's direction and murmurs something about seeing her that afternoon for their flight to Germany.

They'd be subjected to another brief with German Special Forces in the evening. By 0200 hours tomorrow, a joint force of Americans, Brits, and Germans would be storming the estate of German gunrunner Hans Behrend.

Lofting her empty cup into the nearby trash bin, Blair departs the brief room with a stifled yawn. Her stomach, already clued in on the severe deprivation of food, gives a raucous protest as she weaves down the halls of the administration building and outside.

She's starving. But she also needs to locate him.

Him. John Mactavish.

The op in Al Mazrah had gone south in January. An entire squad, save herself and fellow 141-comrade John Mactavish, killed in action by the overpowering of the insurgents (the way the details were summarized in the reports still haunt her mind). These facts don't often bog Blair down, but the finer details still linger like a ghost. The intense desire to keep Soap alive. The hours wedged into an old garden shed, Blair sharing stories (see: her life trauma) to pass the hours. How she couldn't, nor wouldn't, leave his side until they'd made it safely back to base (even then, Soap had to be the one to dismiss her).

They sent her away before Johnny had been discharged from the hospital. Across the ocean to her American homeland, sent chasing after shadows before General Shepherd commandeered her back onto a flight to Europe. This op came in the variety of Bulgaria, partnered alongside Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley.

The duo seldom swapped much of a conversation, Blair relatively content keeping to her own realm while Ghost didn't seem to have a social bone in his body. At one point they'd brushed elbows over Al Mazrah, Ghost mentioning off-handedly that Mactavish had been sent back to the UK for R&R and reconditioning. The news cleaned out the guilt and worry that gnawed at Blair since she'd left the base in Cyprus, and while her mind desired to press Lieutenant Riley for more details, she knew better than to let her affections be compromised by Ghost's slick intuition.

Soap is safe. That much qualms her worries.

She only wishes it doesn't take until the end of spring to be catching Soap once more.

The mess hall is dwindling at this hour. There are roughly twenty minutes before operations shut down and soldiers return to their duties or back to their barracks. Tentative eyes scan the seating, bouncing on her heels as she goes through the motions of procuring a tray of what could be classified as mystery meat, a heap of undercooked green beans, and a blueberry muffin on the side.

Hope dwindling, Blair almost resigns to locating a lonely seat at the end of a table to dine alone when her eyes fall upon an undeniably familiar form. It's the man's unmistakable mohawk that seizes her attention. The sight grabs the air locked in between her ribs, her heart thrumming against the hollow space.

(She remembers the giddiness, akin to the same vibrations she'd get the mornings she'd turn in the old bedsheets of Sierra's childhood bed, finding herself nose-to-nose with the woman she'd swore she'd take to the ends of the earth with.)

Pulse ripples. Ushering her shoulders back and tilting her chin, Blair takes purposeful strides toward the table Soap occupies.

He sits with several other unrecognizable soldiers – a collective of fanboys, for all Blair cares. She isn’t allowing the masses to prevent her from seeing Soap after over four months when the last time she’d seen him, he’d been occupying a hospital bed. She ignores the foreign faces, unbothered by the gang of wet-behind-the-ears operatives. Landing her tray on the tabletop, Blair sidles down into a space allocated between Soap and another soldier – a space, in reality, much too small for even the woman, but she shoulders without apology into her seat.

"Gentlemen," she greets with a nod at the blank faces staring at her. Leaning her head towards Soap, an impish smirk creasing her lips, she then greets, "Sergeant Mactavish."

"Lieutenant," Soap utters, stumbling over the word.

"Don't look too surprised," Blair remarks coyly, blue eyes gleaming.

"Well, my sincere apologies, hen, just didn't think to see our beloved American so soon."

The other soldiers all exchange unsavory glances with one another. Something wanted to be mentioned, but each individual seems to withhold their comments. The dynamics, however unspoken, are extremely clear in this group. Soap may be friendly to a fault but commands respect amongst the crew. Whatever sat on the tongues of these soldier boys will die in their larynx before being summoned to existence.

"They shoot ya over here to embarrass another base of finest soldiers here in the UK?" Soap teases, head tilting towards the blonde soldier with dark brown eyes. "Reeves here might need some humblin'; bastard thinks he's the fastest thing in selection for the SAS."

The soldier, Reeves, squeaks in protest. A reddish blush dapples his cheeks and neck as he fumbles for an excuse, only for the scathing group around him to start heckling him.

Blair puffs her cheeks, chortling at Soap's comment. "If only that were what brought me 'cross the pond," Blair muses with a bit of deflation. "My talents might be goin' to waste. But I'm part of a joint op. Headin' to Germany here soon."

"Germany," Soap repeats with a quizzical look.

She affirms with a nod.

There are no more questions. Both soldiers know that even if asked, Blair's best interest and her automatic reply would be to stonewall the queries. At this point, most attention is riveted to teasing Reeves and others being poked fun at, but Johnny's focus never wavers from Blair.

"Todesser?" Soap murmurs. His voice low and rough.

Blair remains quiet, shuffling remnants of the green beans on her plate. She only nods softly, never verbalizing the confirmation.

"Is Captain–?"

"I can't answer anything else, Soap," Blair calmly states. Her tone edges with reproach, the woman perplexed by Soap's sudden rigidity over her mission.

Soap grimaces. "You're going to get killed," he huffs.

Their blue eyes lock after his utterance. Soap realizes his remark falls out of line, and Blair quickly hides behind the walls of her typical stoicism.

The two lapse into silence. Blair hastily downs the food before her, not wasting time determining whether it's tolerable or treacherous. The soldiers around them keep jesting, Blair interjecting with razor-sharp remarks to ground these hot-headed boys. There's an unspoken air of tension that counters Blair and Soap, a static thick enough the air could snap.

Hastily, Blair gathers her trey once she's finished her meal and bids the lively bunch of soldiers goodbye. Her cheeks burn as she disembarks from the mess hall, making it only to the outside door before Soap closes in.

"Blair, wait," Soap calls. He manages to catch up and fall into stride with the woman.

"I have a flight to catch, Mactavish," Blair reports stonily.

"I'm an arse. I didn't mean it like that," he apologizes fervently. "It's just…Todesser is dangerous."

Blair snorts, animosity settling in her veins. She's accustomed to unsolicited opinions and the oversight of a man – despite her credentials, her tact, and her kill record. She's a woman in a man's field, and she'll never belong. The emotion of feeling like Soap underestimates her feels like gravel and sand against an open wound.

"Dangerous," she echoes. "He's a fuckin' terrorist. They're all dangerous."

"It just…seems like an undertaking for an elite squadron. Not…"

"Three of the best covert operatives from the US? A squad of SAS soldiers and German Special Forces?" Blair questions vehemently. The moment the fire brims from her tongue, Blair regrets the immediate defensiveness. Her shoulders slump, an exasperated sigh exiting her lips. "Soap, I'll be okay."

"I-I know. It's just…" He chews on the inside of his cheek. "I worry 'bout ya. Al Mazrah and everythin' was a mess. We lost–"

"You and I have lost people before…" she interrupts. Seeing the flash of panic and concern that caresses his features, Blair relents. She reaches and folds her hands along the sinew of his forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'll be careful. I always am." There is a fleeting pause before Blair's lips curl faintly into a morose smile. "But doubly, seeing as you won't have my six this time."

Soap leans back onto his heels, smiling faintly. "Those boys better take care of ya."

"You SAS boys hardly ever fail."

Her comment does little to quell the inkling of worry that still festers in his gut. He forces a smile to play across his lips, unaware of the joking remark in her rebuttal. Blair bids farewell, mentioning the packing required before she hopped on a transport to Germany. She's several meters away when Soap finally snaps back to attention, heart pounding.

"Moore," Soap calls.

She halts, pivoting to face him. Her straw-blonde hair shifts in the wind, a plaintive smile creasing her lips.

Ask her out, ask her out, his mind patronizes.

"I-uh…" his brain seizes. "Good luck. I-I'll see you when you get back."

She pauses, nodding solemnly. "Sir, yes, sir," she quips with a lazy salute. "See ya soon, sergeant."

***

He hates running.

For Soap, he'd do the bare minimum for his PT tests when it came to running. Luckily the scores weren't based solely on those averages because Soap typically cruised in at the lower end of that scale. But he'd started running more once his leg healed. Blair ran. She ran a lot. He figured it could be a decent common ground.

Goddammit, Mactavish, yer a whipped sonuvabitch, aren't you? Each step chastises him as the treadmill belt rolls miles under his feet. He's a hair under 3 miles logged when Sergeant Garrick strides into the gym. Dark eyes scan the soldiers milling about, spotting Soap and making a beeline in his direction.

Soap tugs his headphones from his ears, pressing the Stop button. His stride declines, chest still panting.

"Mornin', Gaz," Soap greets with an exhausted smile. He reaches up with the back of his arm to wipe away the sweat that drips from his forehead.

"Brief Room C. Ten minutes," Gaz states. No formalities. No smiles.

Soap blinks, blindsided by the sudden command. Shock infiltrates his core. "What the hell is going on?"

"Dunno. Cap said it was urgent. Let's not keep him waiting, yeah?"

Gaz waits for Soap to gather his things from the locker room, both soldiers falling in step with one another as they make haste for the administrative building. They find John Price setting up his computer in one of the smaller brief rooms, a line of worry tracing across his forehead.

John Price has two emotions that ever reveal themselves. Sobering stoicism and bottled-up rage. Occasionally, he might fancy himself a smile when impressed. But the fatigue of disdain that paints his skin is enough to cause alarm for Soap and Gaz, seeing as they'd hardly ever witnessed such response from the Captain.

"What's goin' on, Cap?" Soap all but demands. His mind has revolved around every crisis requiring Gaz and Soap for an immediate brief. The world around them wasn't on fire, but that scenario isn't completely negated.

"Call from Laswell," Captain Price informs. There are no other details to it.

The soldiers all shift uneasily. For an emergency call directly to Price, it meant something dire. Kate Laswell has almost any American military and counterintelligence agent at her disposal.

Advanced operatives only. An individual she could trust. Maybe the world truly is ending.

The icon appears on the computer screen. Price hits the call button and the screen pops up.

Kate Laswell mirrors an expression similar to Price's. She's always tight-set, but the lines of worry betray her face. The screen lags for a second as it establishes a stable connection.

"She's missing."

There's a pause as the three soldiers exchange glances

"Who?" A chorus of voices came.

"Rogue."

The air in the room compresses. A pair of craft scissors could slice through its density as all three men share a mutual shift in dynamic. Soap feels the blood in his body chill, fingernails digging into his palms.

Not Blair.

The inevitable silence is only interrupted by Kate as she begins to rattle off details. "She went dark four hours ago around 0430 local time. Her squad returned to the surface within the hour, and could send traffic.”

"What the hell happened?" Gaz growls.

Kate's face, already somber and serious, draws tighter. "A firefight, which had been anticipated. But there was an explosion and a fire. Comms went down. Officials have immediately declared her MIA."

"Fuckin' hell," the Captain breathes.

"Did they even look for her?" Soap demands, the outrage clipping in his tone.

"This was black ops, Soap," Kate responds. "Neither the US, Germany, or Britain can authorize reinforcements to locate her. Right now, they want their soldiers sent home, and objectives reevaluated."

"No one's goin' for her?" Soap bursts. His cheeks burn as his eyes flick to Captain Price, embarrassed for speaking out.

"Neither country can allocate the individuals to rescue her at this time," Kate repeats differently, articulating her words. Same implications, a different tone.

"This is ridiculous," Soap breathes under his breath. Gaz flashes him a warning stare, painfully sympathetic but warding Soap to remain in line despite the circumstances.

"My hands are tied," Kate informs.

"Not mine," Price announces. Without any further contemplation, he states, "Send me coordinates and details, Kate."

There's a soft sigh laced with relief from Kate. "Will do, John."

"We're gettin' our girl back home. She's alive, there ain't a doubt about that."

***

One is none.

Blair knows better, but her hubris got the better of her. Armed to the nines, assault rifle slung around her shoulder, a pistol holstered on either thigh and a combat knife packed close to her heart, Blair truly believes she's invincible. Without her weapons, she is just as dangerous.

They needed a team to flank the compound. But Blair saw the back entrance and the guest house, and her gut said Niko Behrends would be found somewhere within.

She wasn't wrong.

She'd just sorely underestimated the personnel employed to protect the information broker and gun runner. She eviscerated two of the men while accessing the home (severed arteries, mutilated body parts – Blair had not been kind or clean about the actions), only to be brutally beaten by Behrends personal bodyguard, Hugo.

The next hour is a lucid fever dream. Behrends snide remarks are lost in the fog of what is likely a concussion. They drag her to a maintenance garage at the edge of the property. She's drenched in blood, so they douse her in frigid water. They strip the mask she had pulled over her face and take her tactical vest off and discard it. Dragged back to one of the support beams, they tie her up and wring her out for information.

There are three men. Neither Behrends nor Hugo join them, but the head honcho is a massive brute with a jagged scar along his jawbone. Blair mentally labels him Vollstrecker. Enforcer.

"Do you speak German?" He asks in his native language.

Blair glares and, through clenched teeth, replies back in German, "Go fuck yourself."

Something slams into the posterior of Blair's skull. The butt of a rifle. Her brain seems to rattle from the force, ears hissing like a chorus of cicadas. She sways, catching her breath in her throat.

"You get to determine the simplicity of this all," Vollstrecker remarks. He squats down on his heels, leveling himself to Blair's eyesight. "Stubbornness will only cause more pain."

Blair pants, drawing long breaths in an attempt to steady her racing senses. Pain isn't her biggest foe, it's the fear that typically walks hand-in-hand with the factor, and that's what her captors were banking on breaking her. The woman mentally psyches herself, trying to remind herself to hold steady. Hold the line, like she'd been taught in basic training years and years ago.

(Carl Moore had ensured Blair feared very little in her young years. Military training had been the icing on the cake for an agent like Blair.)

"Let's start easy. What is your name, liebling," he quizzes. His voice is lowered, almost deceptively kind if Blair allows for that reality.

"You're wasting your time. Kill me. I'm not going to say a fuckin' thing to you motherfuckers," she snarls. Her words were cut by another hand across the face. Blair spits, pausing momentarily as the heat dazzles across her face. "You'll have to try a lot harder than that."

Vollstrecker clicks his tongue, head shaking. "Can't say I'm disappointed."

He rises to his feet, motioning to his men. They flash one another a look before one steps forward, grasping Blair by the fabric of her shirt and hauling her to a standing position. The other aims a poised punch into her abdomen. It hits squarely in the solar plexus, triggering a chain reaction of muscular spasms in Blair's diaphragm. She seizes, biting down on her lip as she tremors for a breath of air. What is mere seconds feels like an excruciating eternity before oxygen floods back into her lungs.

Blair trembles, bracing her core as several more blows land against her body. She counts seven and eight, but nine never comes. There's a lull in the combat. Her head spins. Her insides quiver.

"Are you convinced yet?" Vollstrecker questions, his tone tainted with arrogance. He hums a bit. "That's just the icing, liebling. We can go all night with this unless you just tell me what I want."

Blair scowls. Damp tendrils of her hair cling to her face. Sweat pours from her skin. The acidic taste of metal burns the back of her throat.

"Who sent you?" Vollstrecker prompts.

She sucks in a deep breath. Articulating in German, slow and contemplative as if speaking to a child, she states: "I don't know a fucking thing."

There are handbooks about torture. Blair could've written novels by now on the subject. It's an inevitable part of warfare. An inevitable part of combating against the boogeyman. But it never fully prepares a soul, because every facet of torture is dictated by unpredictable variables. The only thing that can be controlled is the self.

Adrift in the vertigo of pain and dismay, Blair retreats back to the protective recesses of her mind. It's a sacred territory she hasn't unlocked in years. Not since Bosnia, some three or four years ago (she tries not to keep a tally on the ordeal, the volatile nightmares that occasionally haunt her twilight were enough). Every operative trained in counterterrorism and behind-enemy-lines assignments has constructed this dwelling place for this specific reason.

Blair's is a rocky outlook somewhere in Utah. It resembles Zion National Park. She lays on dew-sodden grass, staring at a vast, starry canvas above her. Her memory is futile in repainting the scene, but it's enough to transport her battered frame from the warehouse in Germany. Previously, Blair would lie next to Sierra or Conrad, both individuals she had to lay to rest, literally and figuratively. Now, she looks to her side, and she sees John MacTavish.

His presence in her subconscious is overwhelming. Her pulse heightens. Her chest flutters with a hummingbird beat. She doesn't know what to do with this situation. But the savagery she faces in the flesh pales when her mind is thousands upon thousands of miles away.

She remembers his warmth in al Mazrah. The way he'd grabbed her hand when they'd been under fire. They'd held one another before extract. The way he felt, flesh and bone and sturdiness, still emblazoned on her skin. They'd nearly died, but Blair couldn't help but thirst for that insurmountable closeness they had shared.

She may never be able to touch him again.

That desire is dead in the water before it had truly been born.

Vollstrecker and his men must grow exhausted by the lack of response they solicit from Blair. The final round of infliction, where one man broke Blair's pinky, concludes their focused efforts for the time being. They let her drop back to the floor, Blair's body landing with a deafening thud.

She rolls, releasing the contents of her stomach onto the grimy cement floor. She hears one of the men utter as if the blood and gore are tolerable, but vomit is where he draws the line. Blair blinks back the tears and glares at her captors, teeth bared. She looks like a wounded animal, bound back from being feral but with rage blazing like a supernova under the surface. Vollstrecker seems less fazed, actually more amused than anything, by Blair's poor state. His lackeys shift uneasily, frightened by the radiation of anger that expels from Blair's frame.

"Leave her. We'll let her simmer for a while." He kneels, propping Blair's jaw to gaze into her eyes. He uses his thumb to wipe the spit from her chin. "Perhaps you'll be more compliant in a few hours."

"Fat fuckin' chance," she growls. Her voice is hoarse.

He drops her. Her nose falls back into the puddle of bile on the ground. Blair cringes but doesn't move until all three men evacuate the room.

Her senses feel like television static. An image beyond the fuzz trying to coagulate. She's nauseous from the pain sloshing through her system. The pain is so prominent that Blair is hardly bothered by laying in her own vomit and bile. She remains limp on the floor, shoulders twisted in an uncomfortable mess, for an eternity. Mustering her strength, Blair shifts into a seated position. Sweat, blood, hair, and vomit cling to her face. She blinks back tears still residing in her eyelids away, gathering a long breath to compose herself.

Everything throbs.

The pain won't beat you first; the hopelessness and panic will, an instructor's voice (who, Blair can't classify the face or the name in her gyri) warns from the depths of her hippocampus.

Neural circuits begin to reconnect. Blair inspects the dark building. There are cabinets against one wall, and a few tools propped precariously in a corner, obviously never making their way back into their homes. There's equipment covered by a tarp, something Blair assumes is a lawn mower. Immediately, Blair can pick apart a dozen useful items.

They should've never left me alone.

***

"Radio silence unless you have eyes on Rogue," Captain Price indicates. He's taken a spot on the hills above Behrend's estate. Sniper barrel trained on the sweeping terrain below.

Songbirds chorus around Captain Price, a sweet, innocent praise to the tepid spring midday. In any other situation, John Price may find it ironic that he's stationed in this beautiful foliage surrounded by harmless songbirds and a nice view, arms cradling a weapon with bullets that could pierce a skull in milliseconds. Paint the ground with blood and brain matter.

(He intends to do so if he sees the men that took Blair hostage.)

It's been twenty-nine hours since Blair Moore has gone missing. Here, embedded in the dense foliage of the Black Forest in southwest Germany, the team of John Price, Kyle Garrick and John Mactavish, along with three individuals in their extract team, have come to retrieve Blair.

Behrend's estate is cobbled with chaos. Workers and individuals mull about the half-singed mansion, dragging things to the massive dumpster parked in the driveway. Price almost denotes the shame of the ruined architecture, the home seemed decades old and a piece of art. Whatever occurred now two nights ago had destroyed a majority of the home.

Eyes sweep across the vantage point of the property. Behind the mansion is a garden, and beyond that, a small barn and pastures housing three broodmares. It's a little gem lodged in the forestry of the terrain. Looks were deceiving when it homed one of Europe's most dangerous gun runners.

Soap had entered the property from the northwest, while Gaz had from the east. They'd sweep the remote parts of the property, since the likelihood Blair had been located in the dilapidated mansion was minimal.

In the northeast corner is a maintenance building. Tucked away from plain view from a majority of the property. Its private structure is still visible from Price's post. He squints, jaw tightening as he sees a billow of ashen smoke spit from the infrastructure. He trains his scope on the area.

There's a figure that trudges from the door of the building. While distant, John Price can't help but recognize the tattered figure and the mane of gold hair that undeniably belonged to Lieutenant Blair Moore.

John reaches up and presses the button on his mic. The fuzz in the comm shifts.

"There's smoke coming from the northeast. Maintenance building," Price informs. "I see our girl. Move in."

***

There isn't anything Blair is if not resourceful. The ropes are twisted and knotted in a nasty fashion, and she swears her fingertips are worn bloody by the time she slips them loose. But she liberates herself. One step in the right direction.

While her vest remains in the building, her knife is nowhere to be seen. Her guns had never even made it to this building. They've removed anything remotely useful, leaving her med pack, a flare, few other miscellaneous items, and her stash of gummy bears.

Humoring her sweet tooth, she wiggles a few gummies from the bag before hastily scanning over her options located within these four walls. Fingers trace over yard tools. Sheers. Shovels. She grips a screwdriver in one hand, limbs trembling as she hears the grind of tires on gravel. A vehicle has approached, and Blair doesn't have the liberty of time to plot her next movements. She skids across the floor to the support beam, wrapping her arms around and shuffling clumps of rope into her palms.

Vollstrecker comes alone.

He strides into the building with an air of arrogance. Like a predator marching up to a sickly, immobile piece of prey. Blair glares at him through strands of unkempt hair.

Fiddling with a box of cigarettes, he draws one up to his lips. In another hand he takes a match book, striking a match to ignite the end of his cigarette. Waving the match to kill the flame, he flicks the dead thing in Blair's direction. He stands there, massive body towering over Blair as he takes several long drags. He releases the smoke into the air.

"Anyone tell you not to smoke indoors," Blair rasps. Her words laced with venom.

She glares up through deranged bits of her hair. Jaw hinged shut. Teeth nearly bared like a hungry wolf.

Vollstrecker flicks a glance in Blair direction, amused. He approaches and brings himself to a squat, leveling his eyes to Blair's. He takes one last draw from his cigarette before extinguishing it on Blair's arm. She catches a gasp in her throat, teeth razing into her tongue.

"Who sent you out after the wolves?" He asks, tenderly caressing her cheek. A broad smirk twisting along his lips. "A shame to waste such a face on this dirty line of work."

The calluses of his palms brush like sandpaper along the refined skin of her face. Blair's flesh itches as she tries to jerk away from his tainted touch, the back of her skull knocking against the support beam.

"Nothing but a lying, treacherous whore, aren't you?" He hisses.

Blair's heart gallops against her chest. She releases the rope from her hands, fingers curling tightly around the screwdriver in her right hand. Muscles ripple in her forearm as she shifts and relaxes her shoulder to prepare for her strike.

There's a shuttering quiet that enters her brain.

It's as if the waves of time suddenly ebb to a halt. Blair stares at Vollstrecker with an amount of unperceived rage. An anger more volatile than a dozen nuclear fissions set off in the body.

Vollstrecker rises, fingers trailing to his waist to unbuckle his belt. She doesn't hesitate, springing into action and launching herself up to barreling into Vollstrecker's frame. It's a swift instant. Blair transforms the existing situation of helpless victim, projecting herself into the role of perpetrator. His balance compromised, Blair aims the tip of the screwdriver into his throat, sinking it past the shank and to the handle.

Hands cling to her arms, a dying attempt to cease her actions. He hadn't even the second to scream, a muffled, agonized gurgle spitting from his mouth. Blood pours from the wound, a liquid crimson spilling out onto his skin, Blair's hands and the floor. His thrashes to unmount Blair are futile. He's too far gone.

He might be dead, or maybe the final gasps of light exiting his body, when Blair continues to dig the screwdriver into his throat and chest. Her breaths come in rasping pants of despair, vision blurred as she strikes bone and cartilage and soft tissue. When things finally simmer, the massacre that is Vollstrecker lays underneath her.

Lungs depress. Hands slump. Blair gently rolls herself off of the man and scoots away from the carnage of his murdered body. There's tears stinging her eyelids – not from fear or shock, but from the tumultuous ire that had beset her. She can't mull over her treachery for too long, dragging her exhausted frame to a standing position. She needs to escape. And now.

The first thing she needs is to create a massive diversion. Bringing the foundations of this damned building down would suffice. An easy task when Vollstrecker inadvertently gifts her the matches, and the gasoline packed away for the lawn vehicles remain at her disposal.

Kicking over the gasoline can, the pungent liquid burns her nose hairs. She watches it dance across the cement, a deadly ballerina pirouetting to blanket a massive area in the center of the room. The afternoon sun glinting through the singular window on the door makes it gleam. Shuffling towards the door, she props it open before unpocketing Vollstrecker's matches. She strikes one, watching the flame dance at the end of the stick before flicking it into the garage.

Flames eat the building.

The searing heat pushes Blair away quickly. She turns on her heel and rushes to the vehicle that had brought Vollstrecker here. The buffoon had left the keys in the ignition and the door unlocked. Blair starts to scramble into the driver's seat only to see another vehicle barreling down the drive.

The SUV spits as Blair twists the ignition. The engine has hardly chugged to life before Blair is throwing the vehicle into reverse. She doesn't hit the gas pedal before the second vehicle slams into the fender. The SUV bounces several feet, Blair's forehead smacking into the steering wheel.

Ears ring. Mind bleeds. Blair isn't sure she's even conscious, but revives back to life as two men tear her from the driver's seat and drag her across the cement. There's harsh German words, something she fails to interpret in this grueling state.

She scrambles on her hands and knees, gravel digging into her palms. One man fists a handful of hair and yanks Blair's head back. Blair heaves, blinking up at the shadowy expression through foggy optics. Fear sinks deep into her cells.

And then blood sprays. His body hits the earth with an unceremonious thud.

Before either Blair or the remaining man have time to react, the other man pitches to the ground with a shower of red. Another sure shot, straight into the cranium.

Somewhere in the distance, John Price has once again played her knight in shining armor.

***

"East, Soap. About two hundred meters from your position."

Soap has been in about every type of operation. He's more used to having several of his brothers or sisters flanking him or on his six. Out here on Behrend's estate, the only cover Soap has is the camouflage of his uniform and the faint dependency that Captain Price offers overwatch. Even then, he knows Price's eyes aren't necessarily locked on him, but scanning for a sign of Blair.

Price's voice coming over the comm half-startles the seasoned soldier, shivers tracing along his arms.

Our girl.

Her. Rogue. Blair Moore.

My girl.

Soap pivots and sprints through the thicket. His heart thunders against his chest as he slides down a small ridge, shouldering past a thorny bush that clings to the fabric of his uniform. It snags through, catching his skin, but Soap has little allowance for his body to register the pain. Blair is here, and that is the singular thought that monopolizes his mind.

Every fiber of his being is refined and focused to reach Blair. The desperate need to protect her permeates his essence.

He trips, boots catching on turned up earth, into a clearing, eyes landing on two bloodied bodies and a shaking figure. He starts to sprint again, balance in full composure, closing the distance as Blair plucks a gun from one of the felled men.

Soap slides to a stop ten feet from Blair, met with the barrel of a pistol pointed in his direction. He holds his hands aloft, rifle hanging from its strap against his chest. There's a moment of contemplation as Soap tries to muster the words to soothe the feral woman, all while Blair's brain itself connects the imagery to her memories.

Never before has Soap witnessed such unhinged rage devouring the woman. In combat prior, she'd always kept a composition of coolness no matter the circumstances. She'd been through just about every militarized situation in the handbooks and then some, the calmness ingrained on a molecular level. But here, reduced to a level of primal survival need, Blair emanates with the undiscriminated choler of a lioness.

The relief, though, floods through her body like a possession. Fingers grow limp, the pistol hitting the ground.

"It's me, Blair," is all he states.

He reaches up, tugging the gaiter that clads the lower half of his face to reveal himself.

Her torso slumps, palms stopping her from planting face-first into the ground. He's at her side in an instant, hands securing themselves around her battered frame. The adrenaline and sheer willpower saps from her like evaporation, disposed with the bile that she coughs onto the ground.

"Hey, hey, hey," Soap murmurs, pulling Blair into a seated position into his lap once her heaving ceases. He holds her like a crux, her head cradled close to his chest. Close enough that she could probably hear the nervous hammer of his heart against his ribs. "I gotcha, yer gonna be alright Blair."

"Johnny…" the word leaves her lips like a prayer. Breathless. Coarse like gravel. Eyelashes flutter as she fights to keep her eyelids open. Throat burns. She can taste the intense metallic flood in the posterior of her throat. "You came."

Soap's eyes darken, a storm along the ocean's evening horizon. "Damn fuckin' right I did," he breathes.

Her lips turn upward. Weakly. An incoherent smile. "Glad ya know how to help'a damsel in distress," she rumbles.

"Price and Gaz are here too. We need to get ya to extract, Rogue," Soap informs. He repositions Blair, hoisting her up as he rises to a stand. Blair huffs slightly, biting back a cry as her wounds burn from the maneuver. "I'm sorry, hen, gotta get movin'."

"I'm okay," she pants. Her forehead burrows into the slope between Soap's shoulder and neck, faint breath dancing along his skin.

"And yer gonna be okay. I'm getting you outta here, yeah?"

"I wanted to see you." Her lips mumble, too weak to project her voice.

"See me?" Soap muses. His words are distant, distracted but still trying to humor Blair and keep her conscious.

"Yeah," she chuckles. It's weak, like the laughter of a dying jester. "Today kinda reminded me of how shitty al Mazrah was."

"That one went cheekily well, hm?" Soap remarks.

"It was our first date."

Soap snorts. He grits his teeth as he repositions the woman in his arms. He isn't going to let her go. Adrenaline kicks are a hell of a stimulant. "That's a horrible first date. Lemme make it up to you."

She chuckles, distantly, as if a lightyear away. "I'd like that."

"I know, I gotta get ya outta here first, Princess. Then why don't we put those dinner plans on the radar, yeah?"

She shutters, body growing limp in his hold.

"Goddammit, stay with me, Blair," Soap implores, shaking the woman in his arms. There's little response from her. He curses once more. "Hold on, bonnie, I'm gettin' you outta here."

Up ahead Gaz slides into their path. His eyes scan behind Soap, rifle pointed in ready. "Half a click to the van. Is she okay?"

"She's holdin' on."

Blair blinks, raising her head a bit in response to the introduction to Gaz's voice. Her vision is fuzzy. It feels like she's listening through cotton. "I'm…here…" she grumbles.

"Good to see ya, L.t.." Gaz rests a gloved hand on her shoulder. "We're bringing you home, yeah?"

Blair chuckles, warm breath dancing along the tender skin of Soap's neck. His fingers fasten tighter around her.

"Let's run," Soap states. Gaz confirms with a solemn nod.

They're off with their girl.

***

The sound of a doorknob turning and the wooden structure swinging open stirs Blair from her slumber.

Her pupils burn initially from the onslaught of light bleeding through the window. Blair blinks rapidly, trying to weather the sensory overload as she awakens in a place completely foreign. It's a bland room, save for the view of clarion blue skies and budding deciduous trees beyond the glass of the window.

Once her initial senses charge, the discomfort and aching and pain come in a subtle wave. She's sure that she's flowing with pain medication, but they didn't entirely pump her full enough to numb the entire sensation. Her ribs constrict against her chest, and her diaphragm bullies the inner core muscles of her abdomen. In her peripheral vision, Blair catches sight of purplish contusions littering her arms and the single singe mark from Vollstrecker's cigarette.

Out of her own curiosity, Blair wiggles all ten toes and then clutches her fingers. Everything is operational. By the graces, and by the tactful decisions of John Price and 141, Blair is safe and sound.

The nurse smiles faintly, acknowledging Blair's conscious state.

"Where am I?" Blair asks. Her voice sounds like sandpaper gritting against metal. She nearly winces at the sound.

"Landstuhl, Lieutenant Moore." The nurse speaks in English. Landstuhl is an American outpost. She truly is the next best thing to home.

Blair releases a long exhale, head pressing further into the pillow of her bed. "My squad…are any of them…?"

The nurse blinks, shrugging gently. "I, personally, do not know. I can ask my supervisor to contact someone."

"That…that would be nice, thank you."

Her nurse continues to assess Blair, asking evaluating questions before departing the injured soldier.

The room is bathed in a serene silence. From outside the door, Blair can hear the shuffle of shoes of a hurried nurse making their rounds with other patients. Somewhere far off, an office phone rings at the nurse's station. Eyelids flutter back shut, Blair shifting her focus to the soft rattle of her lungs. Broken ribs and a menagerie of wounds, but Blair Moore lives another day.

Thanks to 141.

She feels the slight slip of her consciousness. It feels like a slow ebb into warm ocean water, head floating at the surface while the sun sings down on her skin. Suspended in a state of grace. She might've fallen into a slumber did the doorknob not click once more startling Blair into full-fledge consciousness.

Concerned eyes, blue like the horizon opposite to the sunset, peer into the room. Soap quietly shuts the door behind him.

"Hey…" His voice is a rumble above a whisper.

"Johnny."

He grabs a chair and positions it at Blair's bedside, taking a seat.

"Ya worried us," Soap admits.

Blair grins. "I keep people on their toes."

Soap scoffs, head shaking as he reaches to collect one of Blair's bandaged hands in his own. "You're alive."

"That's given I survive any reaming from Kate. There's little doubt that debrief is going to wrap up favorably."

"Laswell was the one who contacted Price to send us in," Soap tries to console. "She of all people were concerned the most about yer wellbein'."

Blair pins her lips downward. "Hans Behrand got away. I also jeopardized two dozen men."

"Yer overthinkin' it," Soap gently presses.

There's an uncomfortable silence as Blair unravels the events of the previous two days in her mind. A violent supercut. The discomfort deep in her diaphragm threatens to plunder her breath. If she didn't forcefully inhale a chest full of oxygen, she would've grown dizzy from the thoughts.

She flits her eyes to meet his. "Thank you."

He blinks, dumbfounded by her gratitude.

"For what?"

"Seein' the silver linin'....and for savin' my ass."

"I owed you for al Mazrah," Soap interjects.

Blair fastens her grip around his palm. "Now we're even, huh?"

Soap shifts uneasily in his chair, eyes dropping for a fleeting second. He draws in a deep breath, shaking his head dubiously. "No. I'd save you a dozen times over, Blair. No strings attached."

Blair hesitates. While her expression remains impassive, the pregnant pause in their conversation speaks enough on the severity of Soap's words. A comrade doesn't just say that.

Her shoulders flex a bit as she tilts her head, smiling faintly. "You're a good soldier, Soap."

A good soldier.

The deflection in her response makes Soap's skin burn.

"Yes but–" Soap pauses, gulping. He can feel the deep scrutiny coming from Blair's exhausted eyes. He bites into his cheek. "I can't explain it. Bloody fuckin' Jesus, Blair."

The edges of her lips turn upward in a devious grin. She squeezes his palm and laughs, wincing as the maneuver constricts against wounded ribs.

"Johnny…I can't help but tease ya."

Soap scowls. "And here I was thinkin' you deserve a good night out. Now I'm reconsiderin'."

Blairs face falls and she glares back. "No, no, you promised! Ya can't fall back on a promise, Mactavish."

He grins, swatting away Blair as she attempts to pinch his forearm.

He leans closer, gently brushing bits of her hair away from her face. "Then it's a date."

The word makes Blair's head fill with static.

A date.

God, she hasn't been on a date in years.

And the one's with foreign kingpins and political bigwigs, for the sake of counterintelligence, didn't count. This was genuine. Two individuals with a mutual attraction.

Attraction.

She can't get over John Mactavish. He's filled her headspace every day since al Mazrah. He's become her safe space when everything around her goes sour. He has no amendment possessing every fragment of Blair's mind, but here he is. And here Blair is, sinisterly enamored by the Scotsman.

He traces the lines of her palm. "Joanna," he breathes. The word plucks Blair back from her lull, sending electricity up her spine.

Pushing her weight onto her elbows, Blair shifts herself into a seated position despite Soap's protests. She heaves herself up, sides stinging but her willpower trumping that reluctance. Soap jumps to his feet, hands cradling her forearms to offer stability.

"Yer stubborn as hell, hen," Soap growls.

Blair chuckles, reaching out and folding her arms around Soap's sides. There's a moment of hesitancy before Soap reciprocates the embrace, grip tender to avoid squeezing her injuries. She kneads her head against his chest. A warm sigh leaves her lungs.

There's never been a place Blair can call home. As a child, the notion of home had really been a prison, and so she lived with that same generalized philosophy throughout her life. People and emotions were a truer concept of home for the soldier. Sierra had once been a form of home. Andrew, however briefly and stormily, had also been a safety net as well. And the last, however poorly judged and mismanaged, had been Conrad.

Her "homes" always seem to burn. Sierra and Conrad had both died in combat. Andrew and her had nursed something so volatile in nature it threatened to burn both of them down. Things just didn't work out for Blair Moore, and she constantly tries to swallow that pill.

But those fears and racing thoughts fall to rest when she cradles herself in Soap's embrace. She's always so apathetic, yet she always falls so hard.

"Thank you, Johnny," she rasps. "For everything."

He smooths a palm along her hair. "Anytime," he responds, tenderly, quietly.

They linger in that embrace for what could surmount to an eternity. Blair eventually laxes her hold, leaning back onto the hospital bed. Soap peers down at her, completely smitten and unadulteratedly infatuated with Blair Moore.

A thought passes through Soap, his face suddenly twisting and a guilty chuckle rattling his chest. "Gaz n' Price are waiting….by the way. The nurse said we ought to ask you if everyone at once would be overwhelming," Soap explains.

"You should've started with that!" Blair exclaims, swatting Soap's arms.

"And not be able to steal this time alone with you?" Soap refutes.

Blair scowls, shaking her head. "You're devious, ya know? Go get 'em, I ought to let Price and Gaz see for themselves that I'm still kickin'."

Soap grins and gives a half-salute. He turns to leave the room.

"Wait, before you go get them…" Blair pleads, reaching a hand out towards Soap. Stepping back into her vicinity, he collects her palm within his own, skin brushing against the fragile layers that hold the fire within that is Blair Moore.

She jerks him forward, clutching a handful of shirt to pull Soap down to her level. Without hesitation, she crashes his lips against hers. Slow. Deep. Without an ounce of regret. They'd nearly died half a dozen times together, and second chances hardly came in abundance. There was no time to waste.

#johnny soap mactavish x original character #john mactavish x original character #cod fanfic #cod oc #call of duty oc #fataliistic writes #blair rogue moore

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