#Meabh 'Pirate' O'Malley

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Gone. (Ghost x OC) - AU!!!

for @xxshadowbabexx 's angst competition using prompts 1, 2, 6 and 9.

pairing: F!OC! Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x Simon "Ghost" Riley bonus: Moot!OC (Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley) x Johnny "Soap MacTavish words: 3.7k~ summary: An AU where Ghost died with Soap, leaving behind Whiskey and Meabh who are grieving for them :) cw: death and dying, loss, grief, blood, vomiting, crying, ghosts

At first, it was cold. Dark. The feeling of the blood seeping down his skin and pooling on the floor behind him. 

The air was thin, he couldn’t breathe, his chest heaving, sounds of grunts and gunshots echoing around him.

His head lulled to the side, long enough to catch the sight of Soap. He was already unmoving. 

Then, his eyes slowly unfocused.

Not the first time he felt it.

But the last time, whatever powers that be decided to spare him.

Not this time.

Then came the feeling of nothing. No pain, no coldness, no… nothing. No air in his lungs, no saliva in his mouth, no weight on his joints. 

He opened his eyes and he was still here… and his body was, well… there. He looked down at it. A sorry sight, really, to see his body on the floor, the blood around his head, mingling with Soap’s next to him.

Soap was standing by his side. They could see each other, half-translucent, not quite there, but not quite gone. Neither of them seemed confused or lost… Only mildly resigned to the fact that This Is It. 

Gaz and Price succeeded in disarming the tunnel bomb and Ghost turned slowly, looking at them as they approached the two bodies, Price’s voice announcing: “All stations, this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralised, bomb is safe… Two K.I.A.”

…

Soap and Ghost stood over Price’s shoulder, eyes locked on his own front door. Gaz stood beside him, both men looking solemn, Price holding Ghost’s dog tags.

It was just past 3 A.M., he’d noticed, when Whiskey opened the door, wrapped in one of her silk-like robes, the hall light illuminating her from behind.

She locked eyes with Price before he could even speak and her jaw clenched tight, her eyebrows rising lightly. 

He knew that look. He knew it all to well. It was the same way she had looked when she told him about her father and brother.  He knew the others could tell too, of course, but what they couldn’t tell, were the subtleties of it. 

To him, she looked like she was about to cry, even if her tears were nowhere to be seen, and the swallowing of a lump stuck in her throat, which was, in reality, a scream she wanted to let out… And how, once they were gone, she’d cry herself until her throat was raw.

He wanted to hug her, fuck, he wanted nothing more than to hug her. To pull her tight into his chest, to murmur into the crown of her head that he’s here, that he’ll always be here. But he couldn’t. Not today. Not ever again.

“Don’t.” Whiskey said as she raised a hand to stop Price from speaking the same moment he opened his mouth. He knew better than to try to use the bullshit prepared speech they always give to grieving wives. She wasn’t just a grieving wife. She was a soldier.

“Give me the dog tags.” She demanded and presented her palm. He slowly set the round disks and chain in her hand. She, slowly, rubbed her thumb over them as she looked at them, Simon noticed how her skin traced his surname tenderly.

“I don’t want a big fuss. It’s not what he would have wanted.” She told Price and raised her eyes to meet his again. Had Simon been alive, he would’ve felt his heart swell in his chest, she really did know him so well… 

Price nodded at her in understanding. “I know.” He told her in earnest.

“Do whatever you need to do… I don’t want to attend a funeral. Just bring me back his ashes and his mask and gloves.” She demanded.

“Okay. Should take a few days.” Price assured her with another curt nod. 

“That’s fine.” Whiskey nodded at him and, slowly, she slipped her husband’s dog tags around her neck, the longer chain meaning they disappeared below the collar of her t-shirt. One of his, actually, full black, with the scraggly name of a metal rock band on the front.

“Soap?” She asked him as her beautiful hazel eyes returned to Price after fixing the chain. The man replied by shaking his head. “Give me a minute to get dressed and pack a bag. I’ll go with you.” She announced and turned around to disappear back inside their home.

-

Whiskey looked at him with a cocked brow as they laid tangled up, in her barrack’s bed.

“If something happens to me, I’d want you to get the widow’s pension.” Simon mused aloud as he stared at the ceiling.

“Yeah, same, it’d just make sense to-” Victoria began to say before she stopped herself and her head shot upwards, glaring into his eyes. “Are you proposing to me, Simon?” She asked him in shock.

That hadn’t been his intention. They had just been halfway through discussing what life would be like for the people around them, once they’re dead. But now that she mentioned it… “Yes.” He replied deadpan.

Victoria continued staring at him like he was insane, eyebrows scrunched, eyes narrowed… But then she simply answered an “Okay.”

“That doesn’t scare you, does it?” Simon asked her as he dipped his head to the side, looking at her through down his nose as her head rested on his chest again.

“No. Just caught me off-guard.” Victoria said with a shrug and a silent exhale of a laugh, shaking her head against his chest. Her ear was right on top of his left pec and she could hear his heartbeat, slow… steady.

Simon watched her lay against Meabh, staring at the ceiling, as Meabh slept against her, in the same position Simon and Victoria usually fit into, Meabh’s head on Victoria’s chest. Johnny sat on the edge of the bed next to Meabh, resting his ghostly hand on her head even though she couldn’t feel it. 

It had been a shit show, telling Meabh that Soap was gone… Messy. Messier than any of them had expected.

They had witnessed Meabh losing her mind, denying it over and over and over, shaking her head, not believing the words Price spoke, the way he tried to hand her his dog tags, the way the tears rolled down her face even with her smiling in disbelief. 

Victoria had risen up to take Meabh back to her room and let her cry it out, having shooed Price and Gaz away… then, in her room, Meabh screamed at God, pleaded for Soap’s return, bargained and begged, tried reasoning with God that He couldn’t take him, not before she had a chance to tell him she was pregnant…

Victoria struggled to wrangle her into bed, both falling to their knees, Whiskey clutching her tight to her chest, as Meabh screamed and cried, doubled over herself, making herself look so small for a woman that was usually so strong. Soap had cried with her, fallen to his knees beside her, and tried telling her he was right here… not that it made a difference.

Only the two of the women and their ghosts remained.

Meabh had another one, Simon had noticed. A curly-haired man lurked and loomed outside her window. Soap hadn’t noticed, too preoccupied with his woman’s grief and the recent discovery of the baby in her belly. He knew he was likely Meabh’s father. They looked alike. Same eyes, same hair, same facial structure… But he kept away for now.

Victoria was awake, eyes locked on the ceiling as she held Meabh close, the sun shining in, at 6 A.M., but Meabh had cried herself to sleep. Simon didn’t dare approach her, keeping to his namesake, and simply watching his wife from the sidelines, his lips pressed together.

He could see her clutching onto her emotions with an iron grip, her brows scrunched and her jaw clenched, teeth grinding loudly. She couldn’t let it go. Not now. Not when Meabh needed her most. 

-

The funeral had been beautiful. Mr and Mrs. MacTavish were too much of a wreck to plan anything, his sisters even more so… So it fell on Meabh. It would’ve either way, she was his wife, after all. 

It ended up being a beautiful celebration of Johnny and his life. Sharing stories of him, food and drink, and music… Full of fun and happiness and light, just how he deserved. It was an Irish tradition, Victoria came to find out. 

The American had only left Meabh’s house after a week by her side, having traded spots with one of Soap’s sisters. She went home for a day, just needing a break. Three days' worth of celebrations plus four extra ones dealing with a grieving Meabh and a large family such as Soap’s had taken a toll on her. Simon went with her.

She crossed the threshold into their home quietly, not even bothering to turn on any of the lights in her wake. Then, she tossed her duffel bag aside, kicked off her sneakers, and pressed herself into the wall right past the living room door, sinking down to the hardwood floor.

Even in the darkness, he could tell she was crying. The way her breath hitched and her silhouette trembled against the wall. She cried like that for a long, long while.

Then, the tears got harder, faster, her breath rose and rose in volume, desperate for gulps of air, like she was suffocating and unable to breathe and she started openly sobbing, letting out these primal sounds of grief from the back of her throat.

Simon’s eyes welled up with tears too as the screams coming from her throat scratched at his dead heart. He wanted so badly to hold her… He wanted to. He wanted to. She cried and cried and he couldn’t do much more than kneel beside her.

He watched as she curled herself onto her hands and knees and screamed raggedly in pure and absolute pain, like someone had ripped her heart out of her chest. He had. Her heart had been his, and he had taken it with him when he died.

Primal, painful shrieks came from her mouth, so deep and loud that her whole form shook… or maybe it was the hiccups from the lack of air and the lump in her throat. He couldn’t tell. She banged a fist on the floor in front of her, once and twice and three times, until her hand hurt, until the external pain countered the grief. It didn’t.

Victoria ran herself ragged while she cried over Simon, crying so much and screaming bloody murder until her throat was raw and red, until her voice went hoarse and her throat hurt and her stomach churned…

And then she vomited, hurling whatever food Mrs. MacTavish had made for dinner that day onto the hardwood floors, then cried some more, hiccuping and trembling as she looked at the mess of her vomit on the floor through tear-filled eyes.

Simon’s sat beside her as she pulled herself back against the wall, breathing desperate, greedy gulps of air, feet parted and planted on either side of the puke puddle, as she wiped her mouth clean with the back of her right hand and then hung her head down, resting her forearms limply on her knees.

“God damn you, Simon Michael Riley…” She spoke in a whine, her voice hoarse and shaky, too broken to speak properly. “You can’t save me and then leave me here to bleed… What am I supposed to do without you?”

Simon leaned against her, pressing his bare lips against her temple, hoping, praying to a God he doesn’t even believe in, that she can feel it, can feel him… That Victoria gets some sort of realization that he’s not gone, not really… That he’ll spend a lifetime by her side, waiting for her time to come.

-

Victoria spent the next couple of days at home, having texted Meabh some excuse about wanting to be home to receive Simon’s ashes from Price, who was going to deliver them soon.

Meanwhile, she simply went about cleaning their house. They had had plenty of fresh produce, fruit, and meat in the fridge, which had spoiled after a week away. He watched her, like always, make herself feel better by deep cleaning the entire home.

He hovered over her shoulder the whole time, wishing he could just reach out with a firm hand on her shoulder like he usually did, making her turn around, hugging her tight to his chest, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head… But he couldn’t. So, instead, he just hovered… watching her as she went about it all.

It was only after she was done cleaning, after she showered, after she took some melatonin gummies and passed out on the couch on day two, clutching his dog tags tight in her fist, along with her brother’s and father’s, that he heard it.

“She’ll be alright.” A manly southern-American-accented voice reverberated from behind him. 

Simon turned slowly, coming face to face with an older man with short black hair, greying stubble, and intense, stern blue eyes.

“Are you-” Simon began.

“Owen Callahan, son.” The man introduced himself with a light, lazy salute. Simon returned it without even thinking about it.

“Worst possible way I can think of to meet my father-in-law.” Simon muttered sarcastically.

Owen’s eyebrows raised and he smirked a bit. “Can’t kill you again, son, so don’t be scared.” He added.

“‘m not, sir.” Simon added and shook his head, watching his father-in-law’s ghost move about the room, coming to stand over Victoria, a hand caressing her head, much like he’d seen Johnny do to Meabh while she slept, and her dad, Seamus, as well… when John was too busy fussing about his mam and sisters at the funeral. He didn’t want to show himself to Johnny, Simon had noticed.

“Is her brother around? Nathan?” Simon asked and looked around himself, seeking out another ghost. 

“I’m here.” Nathan muttered as he fazed through the bedroom wall into the living room. He was a handsome young man. A crew cut worth of black hair, a shaggy stubble that extended down his jaw onto his neck, slender hazel eyes, and a notch cut into his left eyebrow.

“So… you two been here this whole time?” Simon asked as he looked at them, brows raised in confusion and surprise.

“Haunting her? Yeah.” Nathan replied as he came to stand by Simon’s side. He was a few inches shorter than him.

“So you’ve seen… everything?” Simon asked as he looked at them.

“If you mean you fuckin’ my daughter, no. We made sure to be far fuckin’ away from here when you two would get close to it.” Owen muttered crudely from next to Victoria.

“Ah-” Simon nodded a bit and scratched at the back of his neck, feeling, for once, a bit embarrassed. He could, strangely enough, feel at himself, just not others.

“Don’t get all coy now. Like I said, should be grateful I can’t kill ya again.” Owen added.

“I am, sir.” Simon nodded. 

“But, all things considered… she could’a married worse, dad.” Nathan muttered as he slid over to Victoria and sat at her feet, on the armrest of the couch.

“I know…” Owen grunted as he looked at her. Then, he looked at Simon. “You did her good. Ain’t seen her smile as much as I saw her with ya, since we passed.”

Simon nodded and looked away. He’d never been good at this. Taking praise and compliments. Socializing. “Thank you, sir.”

-

On day three, she was awoken by a knock on the door. She was still in the clothes she had changed into last night. Not pajamas, but rather a pair of black leggings and one of Simon’s t-shirts. 

Simon followed after her, like a lost puppy, constantly wanting to stay around her. Nathan and Owen remaining lounging about in the sitting room. They had more experience and no longer followed her so desperately… other than when she went into battle.

Price and Gaz stood on the other side of the door. Price held a non-descript matte black ceramic urn. Gaz, next to him, held Ghost’s balaclava and gloves, as well as a few of his throwing knives.

Victoria took the mask, gloves and knives first, looking at them closely and taking a deep breath before she set them in a shelf inside the coat closet. Then, she turned to Price and looked at the urn closely.

Her hands shook as she took the urn into her hands, feeling the weight of it. So much of Simon had been condensed into ashes inside a small pot that could be confused for a decorative jar if one wasn’t paying attention.

“Thank you.” She told them with a nod as she carefully wrapped a hand around the urn and clutched it to her chest protectively like it was a baby, and not just her husband’s ashes.

Price gave her a look and then looked down at the urn. She seemed to pick up on the sign he gave her, and returned the look with a barely-there nod.

“Do you need anything?” Gaz asked her softly, politely, caringly. “Food? Company?”

Price was still silent, however. He knew better than to offer. He might not have known Victoria as well as Simon and Meabh, but he knew enough.

“No, thanks,” Victoria said as she nodded at them. “I’m fine.” She lied and forced herself to smile a bit.

“Are you su-” Gaz was about to ask but got struck to silence by a sharp elbow to his side, from Price.

“We have things to do, Gaz. Gotta get back to base.” Price said, cutting him off.

“But si-” Gaz attempted again, instead, simply earning a glare from the man.

“We have things to do, Gaz.” Price repeated sharply. Then, he turned to look at Victoria again. “Will be expecting you to report to base on Monday.” Price told her, knowing she’d want to work through her grief. Just like Simon would.

“Copy that.” She nodded, then, the two men stepped back, and she closed the door in their faces, walking her urn back to the couch and carefully setting it atop the coffee table.

Simon was hot on her tail and sat beside her on the couch, peering over at her with a tentative glance. He could tell she was on the verge of breaking down again, now that she had Him home.

Nathan and Owen were gone. They tended to do that, sometimes. Disappearing.

She took a deep breath and popped open the lid, peering inside the urn. The ashes were inside a ziplock bag inside, as usual… But, atop of them, rested a small black velvet box. She pulled it out of the urn and onto her lap, then, slowly, opened it.

Inside, nestled in a foam pad, rested two rough-looking wedding bands. Made of gold but full of marks and scuffs… and with a dark grey piece of rough stone on the center, where one would expect to see a precious gem.

Simon wanted to hide away in shame when he saw them, groaning loudly, glad she couldn’t hear him. Of course Price would go and find his failed metal-work creations and give them to her.

Simon had spent the last year in a metal working class, trying to make them a proper set of wedding bands. They had gotten married without one, instead using their dog tags during the vow exchange, and then had never bothered buying some, because Victoria thought they were stupid, and it’s not like they could wear them out in the field…

But Simon wanted to give her something. He wanted her to surprise her! Wanted to make her all kinds of gold jewelry because he knew how much she loved to wear it when they were on leave… He just had to get good at it first! But he didn’t. 

These rings were the most recent pair he tried to make, gold and meteorite stone, which, one day, he’d hope to substitute with an actual precious gem, once he got good enough, once the rings were smooth and sleek.

He just wasn’t good at it no matter how many times he practiced. They were still rough and uneven and her wedding band was twisted and strange… He just wasn’t made for making beautiful things… But he was willing to try… for her.

And yet, as she looked at them now, clutched in her hand, tears streamed down her face… All Victoria could think was how beautiful the rings were. “Fuck…” She grunted through her teeth. She slowly grabbed her ring and rolled it between her fingers, feeling the rough texture of it with her fingertips… 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Simon…” She murmured as she looked up at the urn, almost like she was looking at him, unaware that his ghost was right there, beside her, wanting nothing more than to wipe her tears and hold her hand.

Simon slid away from the couch and sat across from her on the coffee table, parking himself over his ashes, wanting to feel like she was looking at him… even if she couldn’t see him. “How long did ya keep these a secret? I wish you would’ve told me you were making ‘em…”

“I’m just fuckin’ unlucky, ain’t I?” She muttered to herself as she kept gazing upon her ring. “You ain’t that lucky either, are ya?”  She asked, soft tears rolling down her cheeks, sniffling away the tears, batting her eyelashes to try and contain them. It was unsuccessful.

“You couldn’t tell me you were making these… I couldn’t tell you ‘I love you’...” She trailed off as she looked at him, smiling sadly as more tears ran down her face, her lips scrunching up to stop a hiccup and a sob.

“It just wasn’t in the cards for us, huh? Never is… for people like us, ain’t that right?” She asked him, looking right at him, but not seeing him. “It was never gonna end with us (retiring) together, was it?”

Simon reached out and placed a hand over her cheek, unable to do anything more than hold her like he had so many times before, muttering a reply that she wouldn’t hear: “I love you too, Victoria. You’ll see me again.”

the rings in question:

@crashtestbunny better see some tears bestie

[the-healthy-human-mind]

Bastard

A/N: When depressed, don't do it alone, make others suffer- (/j)

Pairing: F! OC Evelyne "Snake" Gray x Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, mentioned Moot! OC Kathleen "Brass" Moore x John Price, Moot! OC Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley-Mactavish x John "Soap" Mactavish

CWs: Canon MWIII, Major Character Death, ANGST, hurt/no comfort, talk of death, funerals, cursing, canon-typical violence, mention of past scars.

Kyle could see the stress on Evelyne's entire being, her body tense, and her eyes flickering across the tarmac, mind on high alert. Her body jerks when he steps out of the helo, instantly moving into motion. He's almost shocked when she throws herself in his arms; almost. He wraps his arms around her, holding her close. This mission was hard on all of them, and yet Makarov still got away. Evelyne pulls away from him when she deems his body free of major injury.

His heart aches when she looks over his shoulder, a mix of anxiety and confusion plaguing her features when she only sees Ghost and Havoc walk out of the helo after him.

"Where's Soap?"

Evelyne's voice cracks on the name of her friend. John steps into her line of view, face grim. The captain holds his hand out, Johnny's vest patch sitting in his palm, the British flag glaring back at her. When she looks up at him, she doesn't see John William Price, she sees the same monster she saw in her father. A bastard who doesn't give two fucks about those around them, making decisions based on how it affects them, damning innocent people involved.

"You bastard!"

Kyle barely has a second to react before his wife lunges and lands a solid right hook on the face of his captain. He can hear the crack of John's nose breaking upon impact, the smell of copper filling his own nose.

"You killed him! This is your fault, Price!" Evelyne screeches into the night as Kyle tries to hold her steady, failing until Havoc comes over to assist.

"It should have been you!"

John watches as a wailing Evelyne is carried away by Havoc and Kyle. He should start coming up with excuses to give Kathy as to how he broke his nose. He tightens his grip on Johnny's dog tags, coming to terms with what comes next. If Evelyne could bring even a SAS soldier to his knees with her words, Meabh could move mountains with her voice. There was nothing more powerful and fearsome than a woman who has lost everything.

Ghost rests a hand on John's shoulder as he walks past. Kate takes the patch from his hand, promising to give it to Evelyne when she calms down. John doubts that will happen anytime soon.

Evelyne was never one for poetic things in life, but it was damn near ironic that it was raining the day she visits Johnny- well, his grave, that is. She tries to imagine how his wife reacted; if she screamed, or if she was in too much shock to react. Her curls rest on the nape of her neck, hidden beneath the hood of her sweatshirt. Her hand shakes around the handle of her umbrella as she stands before the tombstone, her boots sinking in the mud. Her lower lip wobbles as she sucks in a breath.

"The intel was bad, Johnny, I fucked up."

The ground beneath her moves as Evelyne falls to her knees, the fabric of her jeans darkening from the wet soil.

"I'm so, so sorry"

Next to the other flowers that rest there, Evelyne lays upon the disturbed earth a single rose.

"Kyle?"

"Yeah, love?"

Evelyne moves onto her side, slowly laying her head on his chest. Kyle's hand hesitates before lightly resting on her scarred back.

"Promise me you won't leave me."

She knows it's a cruel thing to ask, given their line of work, but she can't help herself. Hot tears stream down her cheeks when Kyle places a kiss to the crown of her head, holding her close, before uttering the words she needed.

"I would never,"

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Based on I'm Not In Love, Meabh having a cigarette while wearing Soap's coat 🫶

for @crashtestbunny

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Plans. - OC story

pairing: COD OC!Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x Simon "Ghost" Riley; pairing #2: Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x MootOC!Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley (platonic) extra: Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish words: 350~ cw: angst, loss, grief, disregard for one's life/no self-preservation instincts, paranoia, escape plans, runaway prepping.

From the moment she lost her brother and her father, Whiskey stopped caring about her own life; and her own safety. She began throwing herself headfirst into dangerous jobs, getting more injuries, and more scars, in a stupid attempt at covering the emotional damage and the grief, to keep it from resurfacing.

She didn't care about the people she killed, the enemies she made, or the danger she put herself in. She cared only about surviving for the sake of one day putting a bullet in the skull of the man who ordered the firing of that missile, the one that took her family.

But after meeting Simon… she finally cared about something. About surviving, about making it another day. She finally lived for something. Her mind finally caught up to her, years of backlog of people who might come for her, for her loved ones, who might come back to bite her in the ass.

So they started prepping. A secret code system "It's me, I'm alone."; a bag in the wardrobe: a change of clothes, an envelope of cash, a couple of weapons, non-perishable food; a gun hidden under a pillow, a rendezvous point.

They bought a house with an addition on the back, a sloping roof, a quick escape through the bedroom window, make a break for the car, the gate is always unlocked so you can drive through, "I'll hold them off so you can run. I'll meet up with you.". Counting the days. Checking and checking.

And then Johnny died. And now the plan included someone else. An extra change of clothes. "Leave and get Meabh.". That was the plan. The plan changed too. Don't stop driving. Go, go, go. A silent "Go and don't look back. Take her and run."

And then Fiadh came. And as they brought Meabh home and got her situated in the spare bedroom, the MacTavishes coming and going to visit, they started swiping little things. Nappies, pacifiers, onesies, diapers. Stuffing them in the bag. Baby food. Extra bottles. A bottle of water.

Meabh doesn't know… but the plans changed: "Take Fiadh and go."

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

The Meeting.

pairing: COD OC!Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x MootOC!Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley (platonic) words: 1.7K~ cw: canon-typical violence/talk, use of weapons, attempt at military accuracy(?? idk)

November 12th, 2015. 0632 hours 12 Miles off the coast of Romania.

Command: "Shamrock, this is Command. Requesting status update, over."

The Black Shamrock: "Command, this is The Black Shamrock. We have visual on the cargo ship. Cargo ship identified as target vessel. Standby for interception coordinates, over."

Command: "Roger that, Shamrock. We cannot let them cross into Russian waters. Standing by for coordinates and situation report, over.”

…

The Black Shamrock: "Command, this is The Black Shamrock. Target cargo ship intercepted, speed successfully reduced to 5 knots. We've cut them off right before international waters so this has to happen now. Transmitting coordinates, over."

Command: "Copy that, Shamrock. Good work on slowing down the cargo ship.”

Command: “All units, this is Command. Urgent update. Eagle Eye, you have limited time for insertion. The success of the operation depends on The Black Shamrock holding down the cargo ship. Expedite your approach. Over."

Eagle Eye: "Command, this is Eagle Eye. Copy that, limited time for insertion. We're three mikes out from the current coordinates. Ready to expedite approach. Over."

Command: "Shamrock, keep them busy! Eagle Eye, you're clear to proceed with insertion. Approach from the North. Expedite your approach and secure the cargo ship. Weapon’s hot. Over."

Eagle Eye: "Command, this is Eagle Eye. Copy that, proceeding with expedited insertion. Will confirm drop zone secure before departure. Eagle Eye out."

Command: “Roger, Eagle Eye. Shamrock, standby for immediate support and prepare teams for follow-up action once the ship has been secured.”

The Black Shamrock: "Roger, Command. Will stand by for support. Continuing to monitor the situation and standing by for further instructions. Shamrock out."

-

“Time to move, SEALs! Hope you’ve got your sea legs on!” Lieutenant Alex "Ace" Rodriguez’s voice reverberated through the headsets before he got up from his seat, and approached the exit.

The remaining SEALs sprung to their feet, getting into formation. One group dropping at the forecastle, another downrange at the poop deck. Five SEALs in each, meeting in the middle.

A young Victoria Callahan rappels down the line and drops atop a cargo container, immediately opening fire on the hired guns controlling the cargo ship, to cover the descent of her crewmates. 

The helicopter’s blades are loud, and, mixed with the sound of gunfire, it prevents her from hearing the Russian commands being shouted by the traffickers around the ship. But nothing they can say would stop the assault. She downs three hired guns in the time it takes her squad to fully insert.

Dropping from the cargo containers, the team slips into an assault formation, marching forward and peeking between the rows of cargo containers, clearing them efficiently.

They quickly continue taking out the majority of the traffickers, plucking them out one by one, as they come out to try and defend their precious ‘cargo’. As if human beings could or should be considered such a thing.

Once they lock eyes with the crew coming from the back, they split again: 

a group of four led by Lieutenant Alex "Ace" Rodriguez going up to the bridge and crew deck;

four others led by Chief Petty Officer Michael "Bulldog" Thompson heading below deck to clear all the halls;

and the last two, amidst which is Senior Chief Petty Officer David "Wolf" Miller, going container-to-container, popping them open and looking for ‘stragglers’ (aka other hired guns, mixed amidst the terrified, groggy victims, to keep them secure).

Victoria descends the stairs in the second to last spot of the standard CQC formation, right behind her squadron’s leader. As the only woman in the whole team, she’s given the ‘less burdensome’ task of carrying a bag with dozens of flexi-cuffs in her pack, so they can restrain whoever they find.

After they start clearing room-to-room, restraining or killing whoever they find, Bulldog’s radio goes off: “All stations, this is ‘Ace’, we have taken control of the ship. I repeat: target has been seized.”

Command: “Copy that, Ace. Shamrock, you are clear to onboard.”

The Black Shamrock: “Roger. Sending a vessel lead by Lieutenant-Commander O’Malley, callsign 'Pirate', over.” 

“Ace to Bulldog, how copy?”

“Go for Bulldog.” Cobra answered, stopping the crew’s march so he could respond.

“Bulldog, finish clearing below deck and standby until we get back to land.”

“Copy that, Ace.” 

“You heard the boss, team. Let’s continue clearing these rooms.” Bulldog said as he looked around at his small crew.

“Yes, sir!” The group replied.

-

After clearing all the rooms and securing all the not-neutralized prisoners below deck in a locked room with Special Warfare Operators Third Class William Brown and Cole Johnson watching over them, Victoria was left pacing the halls, some of the other Second Class operators being sent down to assist her, pacing the entirety of the below deck, in alternate hallways.

It’s during her pacing that she suddenly hears steps behind her, echoing on the metal platforms above and coming thundering down the staircase. Assuming it to be a straggler, one of the traffickers, making some sort of break for it, Victoria whipped around, aiming at the unknown intruder on the stairs. “STOP!” The girl shouted.

A woman. With wild curly brown hair, wearing a Navy uniform, stopped in her tracks, hands already reaching for a pistol at her hip. “Don’t you fucking DARE. Who the fuck are you?” 

Standing a few feet from one another, at an impasse, stood the only two women aboard the entire cargo ship… Other than the poor trafficking victims still inside the containers.

The woman’s eyes locked onto Victoria’s uniform, seeing the American flag she wore front and center on the chest panel of her chest rig. Then, she stopped reaching for her pistol and said something in reply, hands held out openly on either side of her, to demonstrate she wasn’t a threat. Unfortunately for her, Victoria didn’t understand it.

“What the fuck kind of gibberish was that? English or Russian, pick one, damnit.” The American raised her voice, her southern accent becoming increasingly stronger as she shouted commands at the other woman who was only looking at her with a softened gaze and a bit of a smile.

The woman before her simply turned a bit to display the sleeve of her uniform. The Irish flag. “Lieutenant-Commander O’Malley, soldier.” Her voice was a lot easier to understand this time, a conscious effort to soften her strong brogue for the American to understand her.

“Oh SHIT!” Victoria said as she quickly lowered her rifle under her arm and raised her hand, saluting the foreign Lieutenant with a sharp, respectful salute. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Didn’t know who you were and didn’t expect anyone to come down here without communicating-” Victoria was quick to justify herself.

O’Malley descended the last few steps. “At ease. You don’t need all that formality with me.” She assured the American as she approached, hands on her hips.

Victoria nodded fervently. “Sorry…” She huffed and fixed her grip on her rifle, holding it at a ready carry. 

“What’s yer name?”

“Special Warfare Operator Second Class Victoria Callahan, ma’am.” She replied.

“Christ, that’s a mouthful.” O’Malley replied. “I’m Meabh.” She introduced herself. “And I think Imma call you Tori, if that’s alright with ye.” The Irish one replied with a smirk.

Blinking a bit, Victoria nodded. “This is the weirdest interaction I’ve ever had in my time in service. But, yeah, that’s okay.”

“You Americans are so serious.” Meabh teased with a smile. “Walk around like you’ve got a stick up the arse.”

Victoria couldn’t help but laugh at that, looking away for a moment, to try and conceal it, still too molded into the standard ‘Don’t get too friendly with superiors’ mantra.

“Oh, come on, I told ya to stand at ease. C’mon!” Meabh teased and nudged Victoria with her elbow before she started walking off to go retrieve whatever she came below deck for.

“Sorry. Not used to this…” Victoria admitted and gulped as she walked by Meabh’s side. Should she, realistically, be walking along with the Lieutenant Commander and deserting her position in the hall? No. But she was going to.

“How old are you?” Meabh asked her, causing Victoria’s eyes to widen a bit.

“Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four?! I’m twenty-two!” Meabh replied cheerfully. 

Victoria’s eyes are widened. Not because Meabh was young, she looked it! But because she was extremely cheerful, almost like she was trying to make a friend out of Victoria, rather than walking around like they were mere colleagues.

It was bizarre.

“You’re very…” Victoria dared to speak, her voice level and even. “...bubbly.”

“Should I not be?”

“I had a rifle pointed at you a minute ago.”

“But now you don’t!”

“I could’ve shot you.”

“But you didn’t!”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Really? I’m trying to soften my accent for you!”

“No, your personality!” Victoria explained as she looked to the side at Meabh, her head craned. “Is it an Irish thing or a you thing?”

“Probably a me thing.”

“Oh.”

“I just don’t see the point in being serious and bossy when I don’t have to be.”

“Hm.” Victoria murmured as she looked away, lost in thought. 

“You’re a stunner.”

Victoria’s head snapped to the side, eyes widened as she stared at Meabh. “Huh?”

“A stunner. Pretty. Beautiful.”

“Thank you…?”

“You’re welcome!”

As they reached the room Meabh had to get to, Whiskey opened the door with one of the ID cards she had swiped from one of the hostage traffickers, allowing Meabh inside.

“You’re… pretty too.” Victoria ended up returning the compliment just as Meabh was going in the door.

“I like you. We should hang out after this. Get a drink. Do you drink?” Meabh asked, excitedly. “Where are you stationed?”

“I do. And, uh… Italy, supposedly. Naples. But… all over Eastern Europe really.” She admitted. “Haven’t stopped in the last six months.”

“I’ll write you, then. We’ll plan something while we’re on leave! Could have a ceilidh.”

“A... what?”

"A party!"

"Oh. Okay..."

Meabh turned to gather the ship logs she had wanted to get before she bounded back down the hall. "Come with me."

"I can't desert my station-"

"Yes, ye can. Your CO's 'Ace', right?"

"Yeah?"

Meabh turned and grabbed her radio from her belt. "Ace, this is Pirate, how copy?"

"Send traffic, Pirate."

"Relieve Petty Officer Callahan of her duties ASAP. I'd like her assistance up in the bridge."

Victoria's brow raised in surprise when she heard Meabh and her CO discussing it.

"As you wish, ma'am...? Copy that."

Victoria's radio buzzed on her shoulder strap with Ace repeating the command, causing Meabh to smile broadly at Victoria, showing off her gap tooth.

Victoria meanwhile simply blinked in surprise and shook her head, before smiling in amusement. "I think I like you too."

@crashtestbunny for you bestie

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Clockwork. - OC Story

pairing: COD OC!Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x Simon "Ghost" Riley bonus: MootOC!Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish words: 1.4k~ (on the dot, bby!) cw: canon simon backstory. + none. just toothrotting fluff.

December and May are Simon's least favourite months of the year.

December because it's the constant reminder of his family passing.

May because it's the constant reminder that he was the cause of all his family's issues.

Simon was born within days of his own father's birthday; "a late birthday present" everyone called it...

Nevermind the fact the druggie was too high to even attend his own son's birth, and that his mum had to get herself to the hospital alone, with a young Tommy tucked under her arm.

Simon had a bad birth, having breached feet first, and having to get rotated in utero, and then having been born with the umbilical chord around his neck, which meant he needed extra care afterward.

Simon needed to get surgery at age 3 because of tonsilitis.

Simon needed glasses growing up, which is mum could barely afford.

Simon had trouble saying his Ss, so for a long time, he got mocked at school for calling himself "Shimon"... and ended in him having speech classes.

Simon's grades were horrendous, and he had a tendency to get into fights at school, which caused his mum to have to take hours off work to come see his teachers.

Simon.

Simon.

Simon.

Always him, at the root of every problem.

And yet Simon was the only one in the house to raise his voice (and later his fists) at the drunk that was his father, which earned him countless trips to A&E.

Simon was the one with the neglected birthday, not because his mum and Tommy didn't remember, but because being right after his own father's, the leech would blow all their money on a rager, and leave the family unable to eat, let alone buy the boy a cake.

So Simon learned to not care.

Going into the Army, people didn't really show that big of a deal about it like they would at a normal job. Hard to, when you spend all your time fearing a bomb will fall on you or a bullet will bury itself on your body.

But then he went home, and when he kicked that bag of bones out of the house, and got Tommy into rehab... It got different. Got... better. The birthdays got easier. There were phone calls, and cards, and he actually... sort of... looked forward to it.

Whenever he'd be scheduled for leave, he'd go home, and mum would've bought them a cake and they'd sing happy birthday, and mum would give him things he needed; clothes, boots, they'd watch films together, she'd kiss his forehead so often...

Then, Beth came along. And now he suddenly was being forced fed cake and handed gifts that he had no clue what to do with... So his barracks suddenly had color. There were new towels, and little trinkets, picture frames with photos from home...

Then Joseph came, the little boy that had been the apple of his eye, that learned to talk in May, at 10 months old, and Simon got an e-mail with a video from them, where little Joseph mumbled his way past a 'SiSi!' while pointing at a picture of him in Tommy's phone... One of, if not the, best gift he'd ever received.

And they they were gone.

It only got so much worse after that night.

He swore he'd never celebrate his birthday again.

All he had ever loved had been stripped from him.

He wondered if it was his fault.

If he was, somehow, destined to bring bad luck to all those around him.

If he was, somehow, the root of all evil.

If, because he spited some God, all that he loved, all that he touched, was destined to die in his hands.

He spent three years locked in a haze. Mission to mission, job to job, move move move, and never stop.

He spent three Mays buried in work so he couldn't think, and buried in alcohol so he couldn't feel.

And then, on the fourth...

“He tried to get the radiophone off me, so I broke a couple of his fingers… And his wrist. And kicked him in the balls.”

“It's a… Mexican-style MRE. Has beans and cheddar cheese or something. It's the only one I actually don't mind eating. The others are disgusting.”

“That feels like a dig at my social skills.”

“I've been swimming since I was a girl. Navy made sense too.”

“Took a napalm bath.”

For once since that bloody fucking day, he actually wanted something more than to simply forget, to drink himself into a coma and only waking up days later with his phone ringing and Price talking about a new mission.

God, Victoria made him laugh. She made him roll his eyes. She made him scoff. She made him talk. She made him listen.

Of course he couldn't let that go... let her go.

Of course he went looking for her once he was on leave.

Of course he held her close for those two nights.

Of course he held her close in that safehouse.

Of course he bore his face out for her when he got shot.

Of course, of course, of course.

He didn't isolate anymore, every May after that.

Simon'd wake up on his birthday and throw back the covers and sit on the edge of the bed and before the thoughts got to him, she'd already be wrapping her arms around his midsection, and pressing her cheek to his back.

And he'd put his hands over hers, and hear her breathing, and her heartbeat pressed against his back... And he'd close his eyes.

They didn't need to speak.

Victoria never wished him a 'Happy Birthday', but she'd always make sure to bake him a little sweet treat for dinner.

They share it the same way they shared their ''wedding cake'': sat across from each other in their kitchen, with a backdrop of trees beside them, a single knife to cut a slice, feeding each other pieces off the blade.

And when the thoughts got to be too much, on his birthday or all throughout the month, he'd simply turn and look at her, cup her face in his hand, and look her in the eye...

In those moments, he wanted to say it, he could feel it in the tip of his tongue...

That he cherished her.

That he appreciated all she did.

That she kept him sane.

That she was the best thing to have ever happened to him.

That she was like a lighthouse when he felt like a bloody gondola lost at open sea (wildly unprepared and definitely about to tip over and drown).

That he'd die for her.

That he'd kill (and had killed, and would kill again) for her.

That even if there was nothing else to go on for... he'd keep going for her.

That he loved her.

The words were always at the tip of his tongue.

Not just then, but every day. At all points of the day.

Whenever they touched, he'd want to say it.

Whenever they spoke, he'd want to say it.

Whenever they'd lock eyes, he'd want to say it.

Whenever he breathed, he'd want to say it.

His tongue would swirl with the taste of it, of the love he felt for her...

But the words never really made it out...

But he knew. And she knew.

Extra:

Then the news came, the baby, Meabh, it was always go go go, on the move, at home, never time to rest, just Meabh and the baby, and Victoria and him, and...

By the time Simon noticed, Fiadh was here, lying in his arms, little hands closed into fists, her small wrapped in a white blanket with anchors and fishes drawn on it...

And he looked up at his wife who stood beside Meabh, doting on her best friend and caressing her head, cooing at her that she did a good job, the girl a bit dozy from exhaustion from the recent breast feeding...

And then at the clock on the wall, marking 00:13 of the 19th...

And he felt his eyes begin to prickle, his jaw clenching under his surgical mask...

He looked back down at his niece again, little blind blue eyes, the same ones that used to belong to his best friend, staring up at him...

Maybe he didn't hate his birthday so much anymore.

for you @loveandplanet for making me sad ; and also @crashtestbunny sorry for this :)

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Bonded Pair. - OCxGhost Backstory.

|| [Part Two ->] ||

pairing: COD OC!Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x Simon "Ghost" Riley bonus: Moot!OC (Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley) x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish words: 2K~ cw: injury (nothing major or too explicit)

May 2020

“How long until the American comes?” Soap asks to Ghost’s right as the lieutenant is halfway through assembling their camp/nest for the foreseeable future.

“Laswell said he’d come before sundown.” Ghost muttered. 

“What do you think he’s going to be like?” Soap asked.

“I think you should start heading to your spot and setting up camp, instead of yapping. It’s gonna get dark soon. You don’t want to spend the night lying on a pile of sticks, do you?”

“Jeez, L.T., calm down.” The Scot quipped with a chuckle. “I have plenty of time!”

“You really don’t. Sun’s setting soon.” A voice called out from behind them, causing them both to turn sharply, already pawing at their guns. The southern american accent was the only reason they didn’t draw them or shoot at the source.

Whiskey stepped out from behind the treeline, setting her hands on her hips after slinging her rifle onto her shoulder. She was on the tall side for a woman, standing at 5ft8, and had broad shoulders and strong arms.  Her dark brown hair was tied back into the usual military-standard low bun, though a few loose strands of damp hair were glued to her forehead, and the lower half of her face was concealed by an Army green neck gaiter that was pulled up to her nose. 

Ghost wasn’t particularly keen on working with her. But at least she looked more capable than some of what he’d seen come from the US.

She wore the standard combat uniform he had grown used to seeing on the Americans: camouflage cargos trousers, jacket, and Kevlar with the American flag. To keep her warm from the unforgivingly rainy and cold weather, she wore a brown fleece jacket under her camo, which was zipped up all the way, covering her neck and the bottom of her gaiter. She had on tan fingerless gloves, tan combat boots, and a camo backpack over her shoulders, from which hung her helmet. 

“You’re the Navy SEAL?” Ghost asked in greeting as he approached her.

“That’d be me.” Whiskey replied evenly as she reached forward to shake hands with Ghost. 

“I’m Ghost, this is Soap.” He explained as they shook hands, eyes locked into a strong, unyielding eye contact. 

“Whiskey.” She replied as she let go of his hand and turned to shake Soap’s. Only for her eyebrows to knit together and then set dangerously low, darkening her hazel-brown eyes. “You.” She said as she pulled her hand back before he could shake it.

“Me?” Soap asked, his own eyebrows rising up to his hairline.

“You’re screwing my best friend!” Whiskey said bluntly as she pointed at him.

“Am no! I have a girlfriend!” Soap said while shaking his head, entirely convinced of 

“Yeah, my best friend!” Whiskey replied with a nod.

“No? My girlfriend’s name is Meabh and her best friend is Victoria.”

“Right. Victoria, who’s American and part of the SEALs?” 

“Oh shit!” Soap said in surprise as he looked at her. “You’re her?”

“Yeah I am. And you’re the piece of crap that-” Whiskey stopped herself, biting her tongue and pointing a finger at him.

“Woah, you’re nothing like Meabh said you would be.” Soap said with a dropped jaw. “What’s with the aggression? I dinnae do nothing to ye-”

“You did enough.” Whiskey hissed at him through gritted teeth, her hand shaking as she wagged her finger in his face. She seemed so pissed off at Soap, Ghost couldn’t help but wonder what the sergeant did.

Ghost was watching the whole scene go down, the entire situation sending some alarm bells ringing in his head, not because of the animosity… But because Whiskey was loud and feisty. And he already had Soap to deal with, and now there was another one?

He didn’t even want to imagine what comms would look like between them, how they’d talk his ear off.

Whiskey turned away with a huff, shaking her head. “I’m gonna go set up shop. I suggest you do the same.” She told the lads.

“Wait!” Soap said as he stepped forward toward her. “What’d I do? Why do you hate me so much?”

Whiskey looked back over her shoulder, eyes locking onto Soap’s. Then, she looked up at Ghost and, for a moment, Simon swore he was seeing right into her soul and her right into his. Whatever reason she was pissed at Soap, it was bad, and he could tell.

“Just get to work and don’t piss me off. Gonna have to deal with you for three weeks…” Whiskey grumbled about Soap as she turned and walked off, heading downrange to her own overwatch coordinates.

Soap exchanged a glance with Ghost as she walked off, before softly murmuring. “What was that about?”

Ghost shook his head. “Fuck if I know. Just do as she said and get to your campsite.”

“Yeah…” Soap trailed off and waved a goodbye at Ghost before he headed out to his camp, following after Whiskey’s trail.

-

Night 1: 2000 hours

“I was thinking we take turns sleeping. 24 hours in a day, we could trade and do 4 hour straight of sleep.” Ghost suggested over the radio as he snacked on a protein bar.

“Copy that, L.T.” Soap replied, his voice chewed up, a clear sign that he was also eating.

“Sounds good to me.” Whiskey replied from her camp, her voice clipped and curt, even through the radio. “You can take first shift, Ghost.”

“I’d rather take last.” Ghost replied.

“Alright. Soap. Take first shift.” She demanded.

“Nae? I wanna stay up and speak to you about something.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Victoria, c’mon, I don’t even know what I did.”

“It’s ‘Whiskey’, Soap. I still outrank you and we’re still at work. Haven’t given you permission to call me by my name.” Her voice was so blunt and strong, Ghost found himself almost impressed.

“I’m sorry.” Soap ended up saying with a sigh. 

“Save your sorries. Go to sleep.” She demanded. 

“Aye, ma’am.”

It took a good half an hour or so, but soon, Johnny’s PTT was turned off, so, Ghost spoke up.

“Switch to 3, Whiskey.”

“Copy that.”

After switching frequencies, he finally spoke. “What’d he do?”

“Something he shouldn’t.”

“Cheated on your friend?”

“No. He’s stupidly devoted to her. At least from what she says.”

“Sounds about right. He talks about her a lot. Tires me.”

“Bet it does.”

“Then what?”

“Can’t talk about it.”

“Hm…” Ghost murmured. “Okay.”

-

Ghost was supposed to be sleeping. He really was. But with a new team member alongside them, he knew he wouldn’t be able to. 

Besides, he wouldn’t risk missing the shitshow of the other two bickering.

“So, how long have you and Meabh known each other?” 

“Longer than she’s known you.”

-

“How’d you meet?”

“On a ship.”

“Her ship?”

“No.”

-

“So how is it, being a Navy SEAL?”

“Fine.”

-

“So, how old are you?”

“Old enough.”

-

“Where are you from?”

“America.”

“Yeah, but which state? You’re obviously from the south.”

“None of your business.”

-

“You and Meabh ever work together?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Classified.”

-

At one point, Ghost couldn’t help but start to smirk at the way the conversation was going. All throughout Days 1, 2 and 3 of their watch mission, she answered Johnny’s incessant questions with nothing but nonchalant dryness.

He could almost guess what answer she’d give and what tone she’d use whenever Johnny asked another question. 

While she had been sleeping, the Scot had confessed he had wracked his brain thinking of reasons why she didn’t like him and had come up short… And that he wanted to make friends with her, for his bird’s sake.

But he wasn't succeeding. She was cold and stubborn and curt with her answers, not giving him more than a few words at a time.

Even as the questions got more probe-y and personal… She gave him nothing. In a way, Ghost saw himself in her answers.

“What do you and Meabh usually do when you’re together?”

“Hang out.”

“Yeah, but what do you do? Go out for drinks? Go on holiday?”

“We hang out.”

-

“So what does Meabh tell you about me?”

“The usual.”

“Elaborate?”

“No.”

-

“How come Meabh has never shown me a picture of you?”

“I don't do pictures.”

-

“Why the mask?”

“To hide my face.”

-

It’s as the sun sets on Day 4 that she finally gets tired of playing nice:

“You know, Meabh described you as really cheerful and funny… But I don't see it.”

“Meabh sees the best in people. Don’t take it personal. She lies about you a lot too.”

“I’m not that bad, you know? I don’t know what your problem is with me but… I’m just trying to befriend ye.” Ghost can pick up on Soap’s annoyance in his tone of voice.

“I wish you wouldn’t.” Whiskey replied.

There’s a long, long moment of silence before Johnny tries again.

“How often do you and Meabh talk?”

“Often enough.”

“I miss her a lot when I’m on missions… Can’t talk to her steadily…” Soap admits, this time a lot more sincere. “Do you miss her too?

“No.” She replies. 

“No? Do you not like her the same as she does you?’

“I do.” Whiskey tells him. “But I’ve got ways of communicating with her.” She announces. 

“How’s that? Sending a letter and waiting weeks for a reply? I’m not satisfied with just that. Need to hear her voice… and she doesn’t have signal out there in the ocean…”

There’s a sound from the radio, which Ghost can swear is a snort from Whiskey laughing. Then, she speaks again.

“Can you see my camp from where you are?”

“Yeah?”

“Alright well, take a look at this.” 

Out of curiosity, Ghost decides to turn his binoculars toward Whiskey’s nest too, and adjust the focus until she comes into view.

“It’s a real shame that you can’t talk with your girlfriend.” Whiskey said while waving a black radiotelephone in the air for them to see. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Ghost smirks at the sound of her sarcasm, shaking his head, already anticipating the dramatics that Soap would engage in.

“Wait, you’ve got a phone to talk to Meabh WITH?!” Soap’s voice is so loud and high-pitched one would think he just suffered the greatest betrayal.

“Oh yeah, I’ve been speaking pretty consistently with her the past 4 days.”

“No?!”

“Oh yes.”

“That’s it! I’m going down there, I want to talk to Meabh!”

“No you’re not, don’t you desert your post!”

“I’m not deserting! I’m going to you!”

Ghost has to turn off his PTT so he can laugh without them noticing. Soap had been talking about Meabh for forever, talking the ear off anyone who’d listen, raving about the girl and how much he loves her. At this point Simon feels he himself is dating her with how much he knows about her… 

And now, here was her best friend, showing him just how much higher she ‘ranks’ in the girl’s consideration.

Turning his binoculars toward Soap’s nest, he watched the younger sergeant slip out and, under the shadows of the rapidly approaching night, rush out behind the treeline, dashing toward Whiskey’s nest about 2 kilometers out.

“He’s really going over.” Ghost murmured into the PTT.

“I know he is. Meabh is laughing over it.”

“YOU’RE TALKING WITH HER RIGHT NOW?!” Soap shrieked into his own PTT. “Tell her to hold on!!! I want to hear her voice!!!!”

Ridiculous, Ghost thought as he heard Soap’s desperation. How ridiculous it was to be so obsessed with a woman. Girlfriend or not.

By the time he reached Whiskey’s station, after a few minutes, Ghost got to watch a flurry of limbs happening.

And, after a moment, Whiskey came back onto the PTT. “Ghost contact Laswell, Soap needs to be sent on medical.”

“What happened?”

“He tried to get the radiophone off me, so I broke a couple of his fingers… And his wrist. And kicked him in the balls.”

Ghost pressed his lips together to stifle a smile. He shouldn’t be as amused as he is… But God, is the situation hilarious.

“Rog.”

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

The Event. (Part Two) - OC Backstory.

|| [Part One] ||

pairing: none. -> COD OC!: Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan extra: OC!Whiskey x MootOC!Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley (platonic) extra: MootOC!Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish words: 2.3K~ cw: ANGST, HURT/NO COMFORT, body gore, loss/grief, existential dread/crisis, loss of identity?, depression probably?, death?

2011, aged 20.

Waiting, waiting, waiting. She felt like she was standing in that line for an hour as the CO talked and talked and talked…

There she stood, shoulder to shoulder with her fellow enlisted, recent graduates of Navy bootcamp, their sea legs not all he way adjusted to life on sea, but adjusted enough that standing on solid earth already Felt Off.

They waited until the CO finished his speech and then it happened. Hundreds of family members came down from the stands. Victoria saw her mother and father approaching and Madilyn coming running ahead. She quickly tapped Victoria on the shoulder, tapping her out of formation.

She threw her arms around her sister, her mother quickly following. Her father only gave her another friendly tap on the shoulder and a harsh rub, signaling an innate sense of pride that he never quite voiced.

-

2015, aged 24.

“And finally, our second-ever female U.S. Navy SEAL graduate: Special Warfare Operator Third Class, Victoria Isabelle Callahan!” The CO announced into the microphone. An uproar of cheers came from the crowd. 

She crossed the stage, her CO pinning her SEAL trident to her breast with a ‘Good job, kid.’ muttered under his breath. He shook her hand for a picture and then they saluted each other before she returned to the formation.

Her eyes sought for them in the crowd… And them she found. Madilyn and Mom, and, of course, Dad, and Nathan, who recently arrived from deployment, both of them in full dress blues.

Once they were released, she quickly approached her family. Hugged her sister, mother, and brother… And when she was going to salute her father, the man pulled her into a tight hug, strong arms around her back, head buried in her hair, pressing kisses to her temple and calling her ‘my girl’. She nearly started crying.

-

2018, aged 26.

After being flown home and having all their matters arranged, Victoria was allowed to attend.

It was a military funeral. They pulled out all the stops. Dozens of Marines in attendance. A myriad of flower arrangements being sent both to the church, the cemetery, and to their home. There was the band, and the procession, two caskets, two hearses. 

Victoria wasn’t supposed to even be standing on her own for too long, due to her weakened legs, which were still wrapped in taut gauze.

And yet she forced herself to don her full dress whites, helped carry her brother’s casket, marched the whole way behind the hearses but ahead of the Marines, and insisted on taking part of the three-volley salute, as they presented the flags to her mother and sister.

Then, they went home and she locked herself in her room, refusing to exit.

A day went by.

Then two.

Then a week.

Then two.

Her mother and sister came to her door a few times to check on her, to try and coax her out, have a conversation… But she turned them away sharply with a “I’m fine. Go away.”.

They only saw Victoria a few times. Whenever she left to go to P.T. and hydrotherapy, and whenever she had to be driven to the hospital to check on her legs.

Whenever she did, wherever she went, people would whisper and point and sometimes, if they were brave enough, they’d ask her questions. And she’d answer. But, of course, never with the truth, just a sarcastic joke delivered in such a deadpan tone that it made people wonder if it was true:

“So, what happened to your legs?”

“Had a lighter and a whiskey flask in my pocket. Real flammable, you know?”

Victoria’s friends all drove over many times, coming to knock at her door, but earning the same reply from her. Nothing.

No answers to texts or calls or social media posts.

Cold.

Distant.

Even Meabh’s letters didn’t get a reply. The Irish woman was sending them often, three or so times a week, multiple pages long. Sometimes Victoria didn’t even open them.

Victoria was like a ghost. 

She only left her bedroom after dark to have dinner, shower, do the dishes and tidy up as a ‘thank you’ for her mother cooking for her.

She slept whenever she wasn’t in rehab, and stayed awake most nights, holding a pistol and sitting up in bed.

By the end of the first month, her CO, Cobra, came by. He was the only one who was able to beckon her out of her room, much to her mother and sister’s amazement.

They sat on the back patio, Whiskey wearing a pair of short shorts, her legs too sore and raw for any type of pants, the painkillers she was given slowly being weaned off her.

She had her arms crossed over her chest as she looked at Scott sitting next to her. He had entertained her with some small talk, not probing at her recovery, nor her at his.

The left side of his face was almost unrecognizable, with scarred red burns, an eyebrow fully gone, and part of his hairline having receded. She couldn’t imagine the state he was beneath his civvy clothes.

“What’d you want?” She ended up asking with a cocked brow as she glared at him, done with playing nice and polite.

He had never seen her so serious before. Usually, Victoria could put a smile on a dead man’s face… Oh, how many times she got scolded and yelled at for pulling harmless pranks around the barracks…

“Are you going back to work when you recover?” He asked her as he looked at her, worried.

“I am.” She replied. “Intend to at least.”

“You think you’re gonna pass the PEBs?” He asked as he looked down at her legs and then up at her.

“I will,” Victoria replied as she stared at him. “I’ve still got a whole two months of medical. I plan on spending them getting back to training.”

Scott nodded as he looked at her. “What if you don’t pass?”

“I have to.” Victoria told him, her voice terse, lacking any of the emotion he expected her to have.

“Are you still going to your psych appointments?” He asked, unsure. She could tell he was indirectly asking if she was fit for service.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nodded as he looked at her. They held eye contact for a moment. 

“What else?” She beckoned.

With a sigh, Cobra continued. “I’m thinking of going private. Asking for a discharge and joining a PMC.” He told her.

Traitor.

Quitter.

Turncoat.

Victoria turned to look at him, eyes solemn before her eyebrows raised, unimpressed. “And?”

Scott leaned forward, clasping his hands together and laying his arms on his knees. “Don’t give me that look-” He told her. “I want your opinion.”

“My opinion is that you should do whatever you think is best.” She replied with a shrug. “It’s your career, not mine.”

“I know but-” He trailed off. “I worry about you.”

“Don’t.”

“You can’t tell me not to worry when-”

“Don’t.” She insisted, her voice clipped and headstrong.

“Vic-”

“Don’t worry about me.” She insisted. “Don’t be wondering about all the ‘What ifs’. And don’t you dare use whatever guilt you feel as an excuse to not move forward because then you’re just gonna turn around and blame me for ‘holding you back’ despite me telling you to go.” She scolded him.

“You’re such a bitch sometimes, you know?” Scott asked in a sarcastic tone, earning a simple shrug and a little amused, conceding tilt of her head. The most emotion she’d shown this whole time. 

“What about you, though? Will you be alright going back to the SEALs without me?” He asked her, his voice softened.

“I will. I’ll be fine.” She nodded, her tone confident. 

“Okay.” He added and nodded. “And, well, if it ever comes down to it… You could go to the Officers’ Academy and start bossing people around.” He joked.

“Yeah.” She nodded before she shifted and got up off her chair, a wince covering her features. “I need to go lay down, my meds are making me woozy.” She lied. “You know where the door is, right?” She asked as she was already approaching the sliding back door to go back inside.

“Yeah…” Scott said as he got up too, eyes locked on the back of her head as he followed her back inside. “It was good to see you, Vic.”

“Yeah. Good to see you too.” She responded.

“Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

“Mhm.” She added before she climbed up the steps to go back to her room upstairs.

-

Two months later, Evelyn Callahan woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of the door downstairs closing hard and loudly… And a car driving away beneath her bedroom window. 

She hadn’t spoken with her daughter in three months if whatever kind of ghost Victoria had turned into could still be considered her daughter. But she knew. A mother always knows.

She got up and padded over to her daughter’s childhood bedroom, popping open the door and flicking on the light. The bedroom sat perfectly clean and tidy, not a thing out of place. The bed was perfectly made, military corners tucked in, the trash taken out, the closet void of any belongings.

Two days later, Victoria had joined the Officer’s Academy with a bit of help from her old CO… A few strings pulled to allow her to join and resume training before her doctor cleared her. She graduated a Lieutenant Junior Grade within three months.

Three more months after that, Victoria Callahan was passing the Navy SEAL Physical Evaluation Boards to go back on the field, as The Event had never happened, her results somehow more impressive than they had ever before.

And then she was back on the field. Her results, seniority, and recently acquired Officer title allowed her to address command and directly reject being fully integrated into a team. 

So, she started working alone.

She became the go-to person for jobs no one wanted, could, or should do. 

Gave herself a new callsign.

She became more of a contractor than an actual officer.

Working with all four main branches of the military, being sent everywhere and anywhere.

Domestic or international, it didn’t matter.

USMC, Rangers, Delta Force. JTF2. SAS, SBS. NATO. UN.

Getting called in for a job while already in the middle of one, departing directly from the middle of the desert to the rainforest to the tundra to the city to the countryside to the desert again.

Temporarily placed with teams, sure, but never the same one twice, never getting close enough to mourn whenever she lost someone during an op.

Missions gone wrong, giving herself shitty medical aid in abandoned buildings while on the run, suffering ambushes, captures, torture sessions (of herself and others).

Her confirmed kill count grew and grew and grew. 

Enemies in all sorts of places.

Always on the move.

Except for two weeks in early 2019, when she dropped everything and took forced leave, to spend time glued to Meabh’s hip in Glasgow, keeping an eye on her and making sure she didn’t strain herself, after she got put on medical leave.

Whiskey would look after her the way she would’ve looked after Nathan when he was younger, the boy always so tough, but thinking himself too hard to be a wuss… Until Victoria would have to tuck him in or force feed him or sit by his side as he ran high fevers.

“Realtin.“ Meabh would call her, while too high on painkillers to even think, while Victoria tucked her into bed. ‘Little star’, like the ones the Irish girl always prided herself in being able to use to find the way while out at sea.

But how could anyone use her to find themselves when Victoria herself was so fucking lost? 

She felt like her soul was burning alight like her legs had, consumed and constantly fed by the whiskey of her moniker.

As soon as she heard that Johnny was coming home, she took off in the night again.

Back on the move.

Didn’t ever step foot again in Nashville. Couldn’t face her family. Couldn’t put them in danger either.

Started carrying a garrote wherever she went, sleeping with a knife under her pillow, and walking with a gun in her holster whenever she was on leave back in Virginia.

She wasn’t good company. 

After that, she went months without hearing her own name.

“Whiskey.” this.

“Whiskey.” that.

“Whiskey.”

“Whiskey.”

“Whiskey.”

The only person to still call her by her name was Meabh. Her lifeline.

2020, aged 28.

“Tori.” Meabh’d say whenever Victoria dared to pick up her calls instead of letting them go to voicemail.

Sometimes Victoria wondered if the fire that licked the skin clean off her thighs had also licked away the humor and playfulness from her soul.

The ease that 26-year-old Victoria used to have was long gone now for 28-year-old Victoria.

“Ye should come stay with us.” Meabh said on the phone. “Ye could finally meet Johnny and everything.”

Sometimes she'd make some type of poor attempt at a joke.

"If I meet the bastard, I'm roughin' him up, darlin'. Can't do that or you'll get mad at me." Whiskey'd reply in a deadpan tone, which Meabh would always laugh that.

It wasn’t the same anymore. No more fun jokes slipping past the American lips with a need to hear the other laugh. Everything was deadpan and sarcastic.

Now only Meabh made the jokes. It earned her little else than a soft chuckle or huff of air from Whiskey still, but not that cackling and snorting she was used to.

Most of the time Whiskey'd just come up with some excuse for not going, with 'COVID' and 'the missions', just to avoid further discussion…

But that was all bullshit.

The fact was that most days she didn’t feel human. 

And just because Meabh was the only person keeping any type of tether between her soul and her body, didn’t mean that Whiskey would cling onto to it with tooth and nail.

But that didn’t mean she wanted to die either.

No.

Even as she laid on the floor of her cold, empty apartment in Virginia, staring at the ceiling, her legs prickling and painful, unable to stand up... The nerves having come alive, a consequence of the skin grafts, she didn't want to die.

She’d force herself to survive.

She would keep going even if she had to rip herself up and make all her skin go raw, just like her soul had.

She’d keep going until she could get those fucking Ultranationalists to pay for what they did.

for @crashtestbunny bc she loves my OC