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fixfoxnox · 2 years ago

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Something In The Orange - Part 2

Chapter Summary: As Roach's return to the military continues, he learns he isn't as alone as he thought. Time passes, and he gets closer to the 141.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, sorta graphic depictions of violence

Note: This fic is also being posted to my Ao3 if you would prefer to read it there!

Word Count: 7k

"Hold on don't let go

It's worth the climb

These mountains become

Hills over time

And when the what if's

Outweigh all the knowns

You're right where you wanted"

"Hold On" - Cawlings

Getting his name back was the shock that Roach needed to pull that uncertainty that realizing Griggs didn’t remember had brought to him. All at once he felt filled with hope, hope that he didn’t think he’d truly had until that moment. He was one step closer to being himself again, and it felt good.

As the years went on, Roach’s name stuck, and along with his actual name, he and Jackson made names for themselves within their unit. In fact, they were considered good enough that when Griggs was placed in charge of the Demon Dogs, he requested that Roach and Jackson be transferred to the unit with him. It was a step in the right direction for Roach and he couldn’t help but be pleased. He felt closer than ever to the 141, he just didn’t quite know how close he was.

“I don’t feel good about this.”

Roach turned to raise an eyebrow at Jackson. “Nervous?”

Jackson snorted, “When am I ever nervous?”

Roach gave a chuckle, “Fair point, but hey,” he nudge his side, “You know if you are you can talk to me about it.” Roach pushed himself up further in the back of their transport. He and Jackson sat side by side, whispering to one another to avoid being heard by their teammates across from them. They were being transported to meet up with a soldier by the name of Alex and some resistance fighters. They were supposed to aid them in capturing the elusive Omar Sulaman, also known as the Wolf. “Even if you’re not nervous if you want to talk to me about anything, you can.”

Jackson had been seemingly lost in thought the whole journey to the meetup area. Roach had never seen him like that before, the man almost always seemed to have a rather cool and collected air surrounding him.

Roach watched with a raised eyebrow as Jackson glanced around the transport almost skittishly before his eyes found Roach’s again. “Okay, but listen, you’re not allowed to say I’m crazy.”

Taken aback, Roach responded, “Of course, what’s up?”

Jackson leaned towards him, “I feel like I’ve been here before.”

Roach shook his head, “I mean, Jackson we’ve been in this area before-”

“No! Not like that, I mean,” Jackson shook his head, “This all feels so familiar to me. The location, the situation, Griggs, being Sergeant Paul Jackson. Hell even the hunt for the Wolf,” he stopped then and muttered something to himself that Roach only just barely caught but was enough to send a shiver down his spine: “at least it isn’t Al-Asad again.”

“Al-Asad?” Roach questioned, “Khaled Al-Asad?”

Jackson stared at him in surprise and disbelief, “Roach? How do you know that name?”

Roach sat up fully then, staring Jackson down, “Al-Asad was a puppet in the middle east, he was being used by Imran Zakhaev. Marines were sent to hunt him down in the middle east but nearly thirty thousand of them died because of a-”

“Nuclear bomb,” Jackson finished for him. The two stared at each other in shock for a moment, understanding slowly filling both of them. “I died when the nuke went off,” Jackson admitted.

Roach sucked in a breath, no wonder he hadn’t ever heard of Jackson in his old life. There were so many names on that list, and Jackson had never been mentioned in any of the lists of important people who’d died. “I was killed too,” Roach admitted, “Betrayed and shot years later while trying to hunt down Imran Zakhev’s successor.”

“Holy shit,” Jackson muttered, “But you remember. Like me, you remember?”

Roach nodded and the two sat with the new information for several seconds, trying to take in the fact that they’d finally met someone else like them, that they’d been sitting beside each other as friends for years, never knowing that the other had suffered an eerily similar fate to them.

Just as Roach opened his mouth to ask a question, their transport stopped, the other members of their team climbing out of the truck with no knowledge of the discovery their teammates had just made. Knowing that the two needed to move, Roach settled on, “We’ll talk more later, and hey,” he made sure to look Jackson in the eyes, “I swear this won’t be the same as last time.”

The beginning of the raid was fairly easy thanks to the tanks and air support that followed the ground crew. Alex or Echo 3-1 proved to be useful when the group came to several booby traps set up. Roach made sure to watch Alex disarm them, trying his best to learn the process just in case they needed it later.

Once they’d made it through the alleys, they were able to meet back up with the tanks, one look at Jackson let Roach know how nervous the other man was becoming, even more so when the tanks were taken out by an IED and they were forced to find cover as they were faced with an onslaught of enemies.

Very quickly, both Roach and Jackson realized that the onslaught would be too much for the group if they kept on how they were. “Demon 1-2, this is Roach, we need to move now. If we stay here we’ll get pinned down.”

“I’m with Roach, we’ve got to move!” Jackson replied as well, popping up to take out a group of four enemies who had gotten dangerously close to their position. Roach did the same a moment later.

“I agree,” Griggs responded in their ears, suddenly they heard him shout, “Pop smoke and flank, up the high side!”

“Popping smoke!” Alex called. As soon as the grenade popped and smoke began filling the air the group pushed up and engaged the enemies that had been holding them back. They took them down fairly easily, but things could never truly be that simple, a mounted machine gunner coming through on a truck made sure of that. Only a second later and Alex had thrown smoke again, allowing the group to take down the gunner and push further up to flank the retreating enemies.

The next area came with a machine gunner hidden away in a nest in one of the buildings, his near-constant fire forcing the group to hide until smoke was thrown yet again. “Jackson, Roach, you two stay out here and cover us,” Griggs told them as he and Alex were able to push up to the building with the machine gunner’s nest.

Roach did as he was told, moving up a bit further to begin mowing down enemies in a way that he’d often been told left “no enemies for everyone else to take down.” Jackson joined him a moment later, their gunfire allowing them to continue to push up further until they’d pushed the enemies back past the building and closer to the hospital that they were aiming for.

Another moment later and they were joined once again by Griggs, Alex, and the rest of the squad as they continued to push towards the hospital, jumping from cover to cover and doing their best to thin the enemy forces out. As they grew closer, Griggs decided it would be best to call in one of the gunships to aid them, “Demon 1-2 to Red Hammer 7 - We're taking fire from troops defending the south entrance of the hospital - Request immediate suppression, over.” Then, moments later, “Marines! Hold up! We have overhead ordnance comin' hot on this grid!”

Sure enough, moments later and the group were all watching, some cheering as the building lit up with gunfire and missiles. The small break couldn’t last long though and once again the group was on the move up to the hospital, still having to fight their way in. It was once they’d cleared the lobby that Griggs stopped and made his way over to Roach and Jackson. “Jackson, you take three demons and make your way up the back, Roach, you stick with me.” Roach wanted to complain, but Griggs didn’t give any room for that, turning back to rejoin Alex.

“You gonna be okay?” He asked, turning towards Jackson who was looking rather uncomfortable with his marching orders. Roach couldn’t blame him, he was sure that if this mission had been similar in the slightest to the one he’d died on, he’d be nervous as well.

Jackson nodded to him after a moment, “I’ll make it.” He held a fist out to Roach, “See you on the other side.” Roach gave him a soft smile before bumping their fists together. They both gave each other one last nod before Jackson and his three men were taking off to the other side of the hospital and Roach was rushing to catch up with Griggs and the others.

The group pushed further into the hospital, suddenly coming face to face with several civilians and Al-Quatala fighters, Roach was quick to call, “Civies ahead!”

“Civilians,” Griggs mimicked, “Check fire! Check fire!”

Very slowly the group progressed, making sure to avoid hitting any of the civilians trying to escape the hospital as they pushed on. Eventually, they made it to the stairs of the second floor, “All stations, Demons are moving up to the second deck. No sign of the Wolf.” Roach could hear Griggs and Alex exchange some words after that, but he ignored them as the group came up to the second floor where they were faced with rooms of wounded and dead civilians.

“Shit,” Roach breathed out.

“Just… check ‘em,” Roach heard Griggs say, “Check all of ‘em.”

Roach watched carefully as the group made their way into the room, his eyes locking on to one of the civilians ahead who seemed to be more alert than the others. Sure enough, moments later and the “civilian” was jumping for a gun sitting next to him. Roach raised his gun to take out the target, but it seemed that Alex had been paying attention just the same and was quick to send the man to the ground.

Roach felt relief flood his system as Griggs called that the room was clear, but that relief was quick to fade as he heard Griggs ask into the comms, “1-2 to Demon 3, how copy?” That was Jackson’s group.

“Demon 3 dropped off, sergeant,” Another member of the team mentioned.

“Shit,” Griggs said, “Find them!” he called to the team. Roach felt like his heart was in his throat. He nearly wished he had a cross around his neck then, some form of comfort that would help him feel as though his prayer for his friend's safety would actually work.

The group continued pushing up into the building only to be met with a long hallway where Al-Quatala had set up another machine gunner at the end of the hallway. The rest of the team held back, but Roach, determined to get to his friend quicker, and Alex alternated throwing out smoke grenades that allowed them to slowly move up, taking out enemies along their way to the gunner’s nest where eventually Alex dropped the man and the rest of the team was able to move up behind them.

Finally, the group pushed up to the room that held the man they’d come for, the Wolf. Griggs and Alex used the snake cam to see what was going on inside and after a moment Alex pulled back to report, “Positive ID on the Wolf, three marine hostages. He’s gonna kill them, we’ve got to breach.”

Roach felt his heart drop when he learned that there were only three in the room. He could only hope that one of them was Jackson. As Alex moved around the back of the room to flank them, Roach moved in position to breach.

When the go was called the group bust into the room and took about the Al-Quatala fighters that were left standing, Alex already pinning the Wolf to the ground.

Roach was quick to move around and help untie each of the Marines, noting with dread that Jackson wasn’t among them. “Sergeant, Jackson’s not here.”

Griggs turned from where he’d been speaking to Alex and after taking in the three marines he let out a curse. He walked over to one of the Marines who was a bit more present, “Hey, brother, where’s Jackson?”

The man took a moment to respond before, “Trip mine on the way up, the Al-Quatala fighters set it off while we were close to it. Jackson took the brunt of it so they left him behind.

Griggs was quick to look over to Roach, “Roach.”

That was all Roach needed and soon he was darting out of the room and heading as quickly as he could down the winding hallways of the path that the marines would have taken. He could feel his heart in his throat and he knew that a few other Marines were racing after him, but he wouldn’t dare stop to wait for them, not when Jackson could be dead on the ground at that point.

“Jackson? Paul!” Roach turned down one of the hallways and immediately spotted where the trip wire had been set off. It took him only a moment later to spot his friend. Sergeant Paul Jackson was laying in a pool of his own blood, one of his legs mangled beyond anything Roach had seen on anyone living.

Roach slid to his knees next to his friend, checking his pulse and finding a weak one fairly quickly. He moved as fast as he could then, kneeling just above Jackson’s bleeding leg, where he guessed the artery was, and placing his full body weight there. He was quick to pull his scarf out from around his neck then a carabiner from his belt. He wrapped the scarf around Jackson’s leg did his first loop and tightened it as much as he could. He looped the scarf through the carabiner next tying that as tight as he could. Immediately after he started to twist the thing around. Just as he continued twisting it two of the other marines ran around the corner, both stopping short at the sight of Jackson.

Roach continued twisting but quickly barked out, “Left, you call medics, right, see if you can find an actual tourniquet, NOW!”

As the two marines lept into action Roach turned his attention back to the task at hand and finished turning the carabiner to the best of his ability. Holding it as tight as he could, he pulled a rubber band off of his wrist and used it to secure the makeshift tourniquet before using the ends of his scarf to add another layer of security and ensure it stayed tightened.

He kept pressure on Jackson’s leg with his own body weight as well, hoping that it would help keep his friend from tipping over into death's arms. It wasn’t even ten minutes later and the medical evac team was swarming the hallway. One of the medics took over holding the pressure the same as Roach had and within a few seconds Jackson was being attached to a cot and moved outside to be airlifted to the nearest working hospital.

Roach followed the medics the whole way out, watching as Jackson was lifted up into the air and carried off. It wasn’t until a medic approached him that he pulled his gaze away from the chopper.

“Are you hurt?”

Roach looked down at himself, finally noticing the blood that soaked his hands and his clothes. “No,” he spoke quietly, “It’s not my blood.”

Roach didn’t get to visit Jackson until a few weeks later when he finally had a bit of leave that he immediately used up to rush to the hospital where his friend had found himself a resident for the time being.

The nurse was kind enough to point him in the direction of Jackson’s room. Roach walked as fast as he could to the room without running down the hallway, quite a feat in his opinion.

He stopped dead outside of the room when he arrived, finding that Jackson's room was nearly filled to the brim with people that he could only assume were the man’s family. Roach watched silently from the door, observing the way that Jackson laughed at something one of his family members said. It made the heaviness that had settled on his chest over the past few weeks disappear. Seeing his friend with color back in his cheeks and so full of life was enough for Roach.

Just as Roach turned to leave he heard a call, “Sanderson?”

He turned back abruptly to find the eyes of every person in the room looking at him. His nerves shot up, but he did his best to focus his gaze on Jackson who was giving him a wide grin. “You’ve not called me that in a while.”

Jackson shrugged, “I figured it would seem less rude to my family if I called you Sanderson, you know some people probably wouldn’t take too kindly to being called Roach.” Jackson turned to his family then, “Guys, this is Gary Sanderson, we call him Roach. He’s the one who applied the tourniquet to my leg.”

In a flash, Roach was being dragged into the hospital room with numerous people crying and pulling him into hugs. All he could do was look to Jackson for help, but the man seemed to find his awkwardness amusing as he just gave a shrug and a grin to his friend. Eventually, after hearing nearly everyone’s thanks for saving Jackson, the group decided to leave the two alone for a few minutes.

Roach sat down shakily next to Jackson’s bedside. There was a comfortable silence that filled the air for a moment, neither quite sure where to start. Finally, Jackson broke the silence. “What have you heard?”

Roach shook his head, “Griggs just gave us the basics. You were alive, stable, they had to amputate your leg.”

Jackson nodded, taking in Roach’s words for a moment, “The doctors said if it hadn’t been for your tourniquet I would have been a goner.” Roach felt nauseous at those words. If he’d been any later or hadn’t been able to stem the bleeding…the thought of what could have happened sent a shiver down his spine. “I’ve been honorably discharged, of course.”

“How do you feel about that?” Roach asked after a minute. Jackson took a second to answer, considering his words carefully.

“Honestly?” He asked after a moment, Roach encouraging him with a nod, “Honestly, it's a bit of a relief.” Jackson turned to look fully at Roach, “I joined the military again because, well, I thought it would be the only way I could get back to normal.” He shook his head, “Then when I got back into it, I just felt…afraid. Afraid and sad I guess.” He let out a sigh, “I think I’m ready to live a life outside of the military, to really use my second chance.”

Roach nodded, fiddling with his hands for a moment, “I’m gonna miss you in the squad.” He paused, “I know that’s a bit selfish, but it’s the truth.”

Jackson let out a barked laugh, “It’s not selfish, I’ll miss seeing your dumb ass on the daily too.” Roach let out a chuckle at that, “And hey, I expect some phone calls, and maybe even some visits from time to time.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Roach threw out playfully. There was another bout of silence for a moment before suddenly Jackson was fixing Roach with a hard and serious look that took most of the air out of his lungs in an instant.

“Listen to me Roach, I know what it feels like to be you, desperately reaching for the normalcy of a life that's gone. Do not let it consume you.” Roach looked away, “I’m serious Roach. I know that you think getting back to some semblance of your old life will help, but that may not be an option. If you let your old life control you, you’ll get yourself killed.” There was a pause, “Tell me you understand.”

Roach gave a hesitant nod, but it wasn’t until he gave a fully confident one that Jackson leaned back in his bed, tiredness in his eyes but satisfaction clear on his face. After a moment Roach stood, “I’ve got to get back to base. Get some rest, Paul.”

He moved to leave the room only to be stopped by a call of his name from Jackson. He turned only to be forced to catch a box the man threw at him. “A replacement,” was all Jackson said in response to his look of confusion, “Stay safe, Roach.”

Roach didn’t open the box until he was back on base and in the safety of his bunk. It was a nice little red box, nothing fancy aside from the ribbon that kept it closed. He carefully pulled the ribbon to the side, setting it down beside him before lifting the lid off the box. A small smile crossed his face as he took in the contents.

Folded neatly in the box was a scarf, meant to replace the one he’d used to make the tourniquet for Jackson’s leg. It was a similar beige to his last one, though this one had a few more embellishments, particularly a few embroidered bugs that decorated the edges of the scarf.

He pulled it delicately from the box and saw that one corner of the scarf had also been embroidered with “Roach” in black.

Roach set the scarf out on his lap, observing it for a moment longer with a smile on his face before his eyes trailed up and locked on to the bunk next to his, where Jackson had slept for the past several years. He felt the smile fall from his face as, for the first time in years, a feeling of loneliness settled onto his shoulders.

The next three years were rather lonely for Roach. He continued to make visits with Jackson, his friend having been released from the hospital a few months after the hunting party for the Wolf. Roach couldn’t spend all of his time with Jackson though, so he decided it was time to refocus himself and return to the reason he’d come back to the military in the first place.

Soon after the end of the operation to capture the Wolf, Roach decided he needed to leave the Demon Dogs. While he appreciated being brought onto a specialized team with Griggs, Roach also recognized that he was unlikely to be scouted out of the group. Military respect went a long way and almost no one would be willing to swipe up a member of another team. So, he returned to a regular squad with glowing reviews from Griggs added to his file.

While Roach couldn’t exactly check to see if the 141 had already formed, he could keep an ear to the ground and piece things together with his own knowledge, which is exactly how he learned that this world had its own Shepherd, and the man had already betrayed his country.

“...officials are saying a power surge is to blame for an explosion over downtown Chicago last night due to severe winds leaving thousands of residents in the dark.”

Roach found that listening to the radio in between missions wasn’t too bad, but it wasn’t the real reason he’d taken to sitting at the second level of the training complex. No, the real reason was quite simple. Roach found that the second level of the training complex was the perfect area to listen in on others' conversations. Particularly some of the higher-ups on the base, as well as the soldiers who liked to use an area nearby for their breaks.

At first, he’d felt bad about the practice, eavesdropping wasn’t exactly something he liked to do. Soon that guilt disappeared. He found that people on base knew that he would frequently sit and rest at the training area, but none of them thought it wise to move to different locations for their conversation. If his fellow soldiers weren’t bothered, then Roach wasn’t either.

“Yeah sure, power surge.”

“What? You think something else was going on?”

“I don’t think, I know.” Roach perked up a bit at the voice. Private Smith, a rather chatty and egotistical newcomer to the unit, but a newcomer with a lot of good information on things going on outside of the base. He was behind the training center nearly every night to smoke and chat shit with one of his friends on base. “You know my brother works at the pentagon?”

“Course, he’s pretty up there in rank.”

“Well, he told me that the explosion was actually from a missile.”

“No fucking way dude.”

“No seriously! Apparently, General Shepherd was illegally sending missiles to some guys in Russia, but Al-Quatala got a hold of them. They launched one at the Pentagon.”

Roach could feel his heart start beating faster at the mention of Shepherd, he’d hoped that Shepherd of all people wouldn’t have made it over to this new world. Or, that this world's Shepherd would be dead before he’d had a chance to come across him.

“Shit dude, tell me they brought the asshole in?”

“Nah, coward dipped before the guys could grab him.”

Roach felt his stomach churn at the news. He brought a hand up to his throat, hoping somehow the pressure would keep him from puking his guts up. Not only was Shepherd still alive, but he was missing. Out, somewhere in the world, was the man who’d killed Roach and the man he loved.

“Man, I wonder what squad got caught cleaning that mess up.”

“It was a multinational group,” Roach snapped back to the men’s conversation then, his entire world came to a stop as he froze completely, “My brother called them Taskforce 141.”

That day couldn’t really let Roach’s emotions rest. His luck had never been good enough for that.

With the hit that learning Shepherd was alive, came the warring feeling of joy in learning that Taskforce 141 was still around and already in action. Those two things alone would have kept Roach up all night, but the world decided that it wasn’t quite enough. That night, on a Russian plane, a terrorist attack occurred, with only one of the attackers left behind to be found, an American.

Luckily the attack hadn’t been enough to bring about WW3, something Roach was grateful to learn after weeks of anxiety after Makarov’s terrorist attack. No one but him and, maybe, Taskforce 141 knew it was Makarov, but Russia and the US were much more willing to try to avoid war in this life, something Roach was endlessly thankful for.

Over those weeks Roach had found himself clutching the cross necklace he’d made a point to get after that fateful mission with Jackson. He didn’t find himself returning to the religion that he’d abandoned before joining the military in his first life, he didn’t think he could ever do that. But, he found that the weight of the cross provided him with comfort and reminded him of the home and family that he had in this life. He was sure he’d switch it out eventually, but for now, it did the job he needed it to.

It was while fiddling with his cross and trying not to let his mind spiral during dinner that Roach overheard two of the cadets at one of the nearby tables discussing the new arrivals at the base. He didn’t pay any mind to them at first, knowing that people were constantly coming on and off of the base, and with that the soldiers were constantly gossiping. So it wasn’t the discussion of the new arrivals that caught Roach’s attention, but rather what they were saying about the new arrivals.

“You see those guys that touched down today?”

“The Europeans?”

“Yeah!”

Roach was already tuned in to the conversation at the mention of Europeans, it wasn’t every day that the base hosted SAS or other European forces. Still, he was only loosely paying attention.

“Yeah dude, those guys were weird as hell. And talk about breaking regulation?”

“I know! The guy with the mohawk? Like seriously?”

“The mohawk guy? I was talking more about the dude with the creepy skull mask. He caught me looking at him and I really thought he was going to shoot me.”

Standing from the table abruptly caught the attention of a good few people, but Roach paid them no mind, shooting out an excuse about feeling tired before oh so quickly leaving the cafeteria and rushing to the outside of the base. It was already late, so he did his best to quickly pinpoint where exactly the Taskforce would have gone.

There was no doubt that the team would end up speaking with the Platoon Sergeant of the unit Roach was on, and, knowing his SFC, the discussion would be likely to pass by Roach’s usual perch at the training area. So, taking a chance, Roach took off towards the training area, hoping above all hope that he wasn’t too late and would be able to catch sight of the people he’d spent his entire life trying to find again.

The rush up to the second story of the training area was nothing new, and nothing that had to be rushed as nearly an hour passed with nothing happening. Roach tried not to be impatient as he waited, but after waiting almost an entire life again to see them, he felt he had a right to be impatient. Luckily he didn’t have to wait much longer than an hour.

Just as he started to believe that he’d been too late, his straining ears could hear a number of people approaching, being led by his Sergeant.

“...up there is our training area.”

“We’ll want to see your men run it. Along with a few other tests.” Roach easily identified the voice as belonging to Captain Price. He felt his heart skip a beat, knowing that just below him were the members of Taskforce 141.

“Right. Listen, Price, I have to ask. What is this about?” Roach could hear the group stop just below where he sat. “You know you’re welcome here, but why exactly do you need to see my men run the training area? And you asked for their files? I’d like to not be kept in the dark on my own base.”

Roach could hear a bit of shuffling around below, his mind racing as he took in the information. Could Price be scouting for new members of the 141?

Finally, there was a sigh before, “You know about the terrorist attack right?”

“The one on the plane in Russia? What about it?”

“It was organized by a man named Makarov, he’d hoped to start a war between the US and Russia. It failed. For now.”

“...you’re going after him?”

Roach tried to ignore the way that his nerves had been set alight at the confirmation of Makarov's existence in this world. Needing a distraction, he began slowly peeking over the edge of the training area, hoping that if he moved slowly enough, he would go unnoticed. It seemed to work as soon he was looking over the edge of the training area and down at the group below him.

The first person his eyes locked onto was Captain Price. The man looked exactly the same as Roach remembered, though maybe a bit younger than he’d been when Roach had met him in his first life. Still, he was eerily similar to the way he’d been when Roach had last seen him, all the way down to the facial hair and hat that Roach had always secretly thought was a bit silly. It was, oddly enough, nice to see the man. Even though Roach hadn’t spent much time with the Captain, he was a friendly face from the 141 and a man that Soap had trusted more than anyone else.

The darker-skinned man next to him was unfamiliar to Roach, so his eyes skipped over to the next person who happened to be none other than Soap. Soap also looked extremely similar to how Roach remembered him, though he had to admit, far younger. The most notable difference was that his beard wasn’t fully grown in, instead being nothing more than what Roach would call a bit of scruff. The sight of Soap had a happy feeling fluttering through Roach’s chest. The two had become close friends during Roach’s time on the 141, and the man had been one of the few people that Roach worked with who had never abandoned him during a scenario where lady luck tried to take him out.

Soap was standing quite close to another person, and it wasn’t until Roach locked his eyes onto the different, yet easily recognizable, skeleton mask that he realized exactly who it was. Ghost.

Roach couldn’t see his face, but that didn’t matter, this was how Roach knew him to be a majority of the time. He felt his heart pick up the pace and his cheeks flush. After all the years Roach had spent trying to hold on to the memory of the man he loved, he’d been terribly worried that when he finally saw Ghost again, things would be too different. Seeing Ghost and feeling that rush of affection through his body was one of the best feelings in the world.

Roach couldn’t pull his eyes away from the man, trying desperately to commit the sight of him to memory as Captain Price continued to speak.

“Aye, we’re going after him. It’s an assassination mission at its core, but the unfortunate fact is that we need another person.”

“Why?”

Price glanced back at his team, “We’re only four. While we’re experienced, we don’t know the area and Makarov is clever. We want one of your men to be our guide.”

“If they’re just a guide, then why the pickiness on who you choose?”

“They’ve got to be able to hold their own,” The darker-skinned individual chimed in. Based on his voice, Roach connected that he was British and started to run through the names of possible people who he could be. The closeness to Price rang in his mind. He remembered Soap mentioning an old teammate who’d died in the hunt for Zhakaev. Was it Gaz?

“This is a very dangerous op, if they aren’t good, it might be that none of us make it out alive.”

This was Roach’s opportunity. Though it was supposed to be temporary, perhaps if he proved himself it would turn into something a bit more permanent. It was exactly what he’d been waiting for. The conversation continued between the group, but Roach’s eyes moved back to Ghost, once again taking time to just watch.

Ghost’s mask looked different, though Roach was sure it was something that the Ghost from his past life would have loved to have. He couldn’t help but wonder how this Ghost had made the mask.

It was while Roach was absentmindedly following this line of thought that Ghost began looking around the area, as though alerted to a pair of eyes baring down on him. It didn’t take very long for his eyes to drift up to where Roach was peeking out from the training area.

When their eyes met, Roach was quick to drop back down so he couldn’t be seen, an icy feeling flooding his system at the knowledge that he was caught. Sure enough, only a second later and he could hear Ghost’s voice.

“Quiet! We’re being watched.”

“What?”

“Training area, second floor.”

“Woah, Woah! Put the weapons up!” Roach could have laughed. Of course, the taskforces first reaction would be to pull their weapons.

“We need to go see who that is. It could be one of Makarov’s men!” Price’s voice was hard. Roach could hear the hatred for Makarov in his voice, a hatred that was similar to what Roach had heard from the man in his past life.

“It’s not one of Makarov’s men! Just, just hold on.” The Sergeant sounded a bit tired and Roach winced, knowing exactly what was about to happen. “Sanderson?”

Roach considered his options. He could just run off back to the barracks, but with his luck, he’d get caught and be in more trouble than it was worth. His Sergeant already knew it was him, so what point was there in trying anyways? So, with those quick thoughts in his mind, he decided to just bite the bullet and stand. He didn’t quite like that this was the 141’s first time meeting him, but he couldn’t control everything.

He pushed himself to his feet and ever so hesitantly peeked out from behind the wall of the training area until finally he could be fully seen. “Sergeant,” he nodded meekly.

“How long you been up there soldier?” Came the harsh-sounding question from Price.

Roach winced a bit. He’d always made an effort not to get in trouble on base, he absolutely despised being yelled at. “About an hour and a half sir.” He responded.

Price seemed a bit surprised at that answer, but Roach’s Sergeant chimed in on his behalf, “There was no malicious intent or following Price. Roach likes to sit up on the second deck of the training area. Everyone on base knows that if you stop here to talk he may overhear you.” The Sergeant ran a hand down his face, “It’s my fault for not remembering.”

“Roach?” Came the question from Soap.

“It’s what everyone calls him, he’s had the name practically since he enlisted.”

“I remember your file,” Came the voice of Price. Roach’s eyes shot over to him. “You used to be on Grigg’s squad right? The Demon Dogs?”

“Yes sir,” Roach responded.

“You were on one of the teams that helped with the initial capture of the Wolf. What are you doing back on a basic squad like this? No offense Sergeant.” Roach watched as his Sergeant waved Price off before everyone’s gaze was once again directed at him.

Roach shuffled for a moment before clearing his throat. He couldn’t exactly tell them he’d left the Demon Dogs in hopes of eventually joining their task force, so instead, he offered the next available truth he could. “I joined the Unit with Sergeant Paul Jackson. He was the reason I joined. During the mission for the Wolf, he was injured, an injury that resulted in his discharge. I didn’t really have a reason to stay anymore.”

There was a moment of silence before Price nodded to him. “How much of our conversation did you hear, Roach?”

There was silence for a moment as Roach shuffled awkwardly. “Almost the entire thing sir.”

Price nodded, “Can I trust that you won’t go sharing this around the base?”

Roach nodded rapidly, “Wouldn’t have anyone to tell even if I wanted to sir. And even if I did, you’d know it was me who spread the word.”

Price gave a bit of a chuckle, “I suppose that’s true. Go to bed, Roach. I want you at the top of your game for the tests tomorrow.” Price gave a dismissive nod and, with one last look to Ghost, who was giving him a rather scrutinizing look, Roach gave a salute to his Sergeant before turning and scurrying down the training area, his heart beating rapidly in his chest the entire way back to the barracks.

“You’re thinking about the eavesdropper?” Gaz asked with a bit of surprise as he spotted Price looking over the file of one Gary “Roach” Sanderson.

“The lad seems a bit meek to help us out on this Price,” Soap called from his place beside Ghost. Ghost wasn’t very touchy, but he’d allowed an exception for Soap who was pressed right at his side with his head on his shoulder tiredly.

“Only meek because we caught him out I think,” Price responded. Roach’s file was filled with glowing reviews from practically anyone and everyone who’d met him. He had a number of amazing accomplishments in his file as well. Price was quite surprised to see that he wasn’t a higher rank, that and that he hadn’t already been scooped up by a special ops team. Of course, there were the Demon Dogs which, according to Griggs’ letter in Roach’s file, he’d excelled in. According to his file, he’d turned down only a few offers to join special ops teams and all but ignored applying for promotions. “Kids file is insane.”

“Good insane or bad insane?” Gaz questioned, leaning over Price’s shoulder.

“Look for yourself.” Price slid the computer in front of Gaz, allowing the other man to see the file better.

Gaz let out a low whistle, “And the kids only on a basic team? The fuck’s wrong with him?”

Price chuckled, “Nothing wrong with him, apparently it's more like what’s wrong with the teams. He’s turned down offers from six different ones.”

“I wonder what he’s waiting for.” The line came from Ghost, ever the silent member of the team. It was a bit of a surprise to hear him speak on the subject.

“Maybe people?” Soap questioned, “Kid said he only joined the Demons cause of that Sergeant Jackson and left after he did.”

Price let out a humming noise and used the database to pull up the file of one Sergeant Paul Jackson. “Let’s see here. According to Jackson’s file, the two were essentially partners on their teams. They were with Griggs before he formed the demons. Hold on…shit.”

“What?”

“During the hunt for the wolf, I thought the kid was on one of the Demon teams that were covering from the outside.” Price turned the computer to Gaz again and pulled out his phone, “The kid was on the primary team. With Alex.”

“Who are you calling?”

“I’m getting the opinion of someone I trust.”

The room was quiet as the phone rang for a few moments, finally, on the last ring, someone answered. “Price?”

“Alex. Don’t worry, the world isn’t ending.”

“Well, that’s a relief. What do you need?”

“I was wondering if you remembered a Gary Sanderson, would’ve been called Roach, he was one of the Demon Dogs that was with you and Griggs when you went after the Wolf. He would have been with a Sergeant Paul Jackson.”

“Scouting for new members?” Alex chuckled for a moment, “Yeah, I remember the kid. Hard to forget someone with skill like that.”

“Yeah?” Price asked, “Tell me.”

“Kid was good, really good. Helped me push up a blocked hallway with a machine gunner nest at one end without taking a shot kinda good.” He paused for a moment, “I think the biggest thing from that mission though was the deal with Jackson. Guy got injured and would have bled out if it wasn’t for Roach. He applied an emergency tourniquet to the guy's leg, was good enough that Jackson got out with only losing his leg. If anyone else had found him? I’m pretty sure the guy would’ve been a goner.”

Price took in the information with a nod, “And his shooting?”

Alex let out a low whistle, “He’s good, really good. Have you watched his end-of-basics test yet?” Alex responded, “Watch it. That was the kids shooting after basic, imagine how good he is now.” There was a moment of quiet before, “Hey, I hate to do this but I gotta go, something just came up with Farah.”

“Alright, thanks for the help.” Price was already pulling up the video from Roach’s file before he hung up.

“A glowing review from Keller too,” Gaz commented. “Kid must be good.”

“We’ll see,” Price said simply.

Prev: Part 1

Next: Part 3

#call of duty fanfic #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2 fanfic #cod mw fanfiction #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon ghost riley #captain john price #john price #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #ghost x roach #ghost x soap #simon riley #gary sanderson #gary roach sanderson #paul jackson #kyle gaz garrick

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fatal-iistic · 2 years ago

Text

Ties That Bind (Pt. 2)

Summary: There’s objectives to be followed, but First Lieutenant Blair Moore can’t help but deny the unwavering loyalty and devotion into protecting one soldier in particular.

Pairing: Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x F!Original Character

Words: 8.7k

Warnings: Swearing, war, minor character death, injury/gore (minor descriptions)

January 8, 2021

Eastern Sovereign Base Area, Dhekeila, Cyprus

Lieutenant Blair Moore's reputation reaches John Mactavish before he can physically locate her.

Major Sprik mentions offhandedly in Soap's arrival debrief of "the American girl" and how at home she's already become amongst the British soldiers. Rumors swirl that she'd beaten anyone willing to compete in a pull-up contest, and one could spot her in the obscene hours of the morning running laps around the base.

She is intense, if anything (Sprik uses a more derogatory term, one that irritates Soap, if anything).

Sgt. Mactavish last saw Lieutenant Blair Moore in person when swaddling the Greater Caucus foothills in Georgia nearly a year prior in search of Al-Qatala's newest successor, Khaled Al-Asad. Though absent in presence, Soap can't help but think about her every so often. She is a remarkable soldier, formidable and smooth. But Soap recalls the fleeting rays of humanity and humility shining through her rugged exterior.

After their three days in Georgia wrapping up a failed ops in locating al-Asad, it's time enough for Soap to find himself drunk on that woman. She's an enigma – densely cored emotions and perspectives shelled by a rugged exterior. Surges of personality harken closely to Captain Price, shared components that Soap is certain stem from years of experience in the field. Hypnotized, that boy, Soap, is.

He’s a fool. There’s no plausible deniability for that case. He’d dated one girl seriously in the past, right at the tail-end of primary school when he’d signed with the army. Wore his heart on a sleeve, that boy did. His ma was convinced no other woman could strike John’s attention when he’s become smitten with one individual. John MacTavish truly believed he’d make that girl his bride, but when the demands of service and the demands of a relationship did not coexist harmoniously, the girl broke his heart.

Soap reckoned he would keep his sights focused on what mattered: serving the great good, serving his country, saving lives. His track record thus far has been immaculate (love life, or perhaps the lack thereof; not military disciplinary record).

And then there was is Blair Moore.

Their zigzagging trajectories. Two comets always passing but never colliding.

He doesn't see her for months following Georgia. He's eventually summoned to Verdansk, but Blair is seldom to be seen. He wistfully admits to his own consciousness that he's disappointed by this fact, but does not allow the perspective to plague his mind too heavily. Viktor Zakhaev is at large in Kastovia. There's a mission at hand.

Now.

It's January of the new year.

Viktor Zakhaev is several weeks dead and underground. On one hand, Al-Asad remains at large and fully dangerous. But the world's superpowers decide to celebrate one less terrorist, resting their heavy heads on their pillows and popping champagne at holiday parties.

Task Force 141 does very little to sleep on their conflicts. One less psychopath with access to weapons of mass destruction is one less threat, sure. The cesspool he was plucked from remains abundant and as murky as ever. Al-Qatala remains a threat, burly in numbers, intel, weapons, and backing. People were still dying at the hands of AQ.

Christmas slips by as quickly and quietly as the soft snowfall Soap watches from the window at his flat in Edinburgh. Days of sleeping in his own bed, and crushing family members in giant bear hugs, and overeating his mother's cooking until he feels remorse. He wouldn't take those days for granted nor trade them for the world, but he's almost itching when Captain Price calls him up. Unsurprisingly, the enemy never slumbers, and Soap would be flown down to Cyprus for another operation.

Details are hazy. Al-Qatala smugglers undertaking operations in a town just outside of al Mazrah. Intel pointed more toward drug smuggling, but sources also cited a potential for arms dealing and clandestine rendezvous with foreign figures. If it smelled and looked like a fish, it was fishy.

What tempers his emotions is the news of who he'd be conducting the mission with. Lieutenant Blair Moore.

She'd been in the Middle East for months. Operations in the Republic of Adal, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia, among other places. Brushing shoulders with some of the world's richest individuals in Dubai and Riyadh. Collecting. Coercing. Confiscating. She's a master of covert affairs, coupled with an intense understanding of violence and timing.

John MacTavish can't tame his frivolity when he arrives on base in Cyprus (God, he feels like a schoolboy. Not a military-trained weapon of war).

Soap manages to solicit a late lunch ration from the mess hall before making his way out to search for Lieutenant Moore. Pvt. Reyes informs Soap that some soldiers were racing with Blair near the garages. So to the garages, he departs.

When he reaches the group, races are no longer being held. Blair is perched nonchalantly on a crate in her fatigues, cheeks touched rosy. She looks like a queen on her throne, shoulders rolled back as she laughs at something said by another soldier. Four other soldiers flock close to the crate, either propped against the building wall or lying docilely on the pavement. The other half dozen spectators mill about on their feet, passing jabs and jokes at the spent soldiers. Blair had just bested them; it didn't take further investigation to come to that conclusion.

"Oi, Mactavish, you come to get yer ass whooped too?" Sgt. Kelley calls out as Soap approaches.

"I think we've shamed the British Army enough by the looks o' it," Soap observes with a scoffing laugh. "I don't even need ta' know the stakes ta' know Lieutenant Moore would butcher me pride."

"Coward," a private whistles.

Soap is a millisecond from disciplining the private when Blair's airy laugh cuts through the tension.

"Ah, ya'll need to lighten up. Besides, I could use a break," Blair interjects spiritedly. Her deeply-Texan accent makes Soap smirk, so evidently different from the dialect of the UK-ers on base – her inevitable twang made her stick out like a sore thumb. She hops off her crate and strides towards the approaching Soap. "'Bout high time ya made it here, Sergeant Mactavish." Her eyes gleam with a hint of mischief.

"I told you before, call me Soap," he pokes.

Blue eyes sparkle in the mid-afternoon sun, as blue as the Mediterranean waters off the coast. "Ya haven't changed much, Soap," she remarks calmly. Her tone is genuine. Warm like an embrace. "I'm leadin' the team brief tonight. We'll do a recap tomorrow morning before wheels up."

"In the meantime, will you keep torturing these boys?" Soap indicates to the men still sprawled on the ground, blue eyes gleaming with a chuckle.

"They're already toast; anything else would be a war crime." She points her boots east, gesturing at Soap with an invitation to follow. "Walk with me, sergeant."

The two stroll along the sidewalk, quiet as the sea-salt breeze playful bats against their bodies. It's a beautiful winter afternoon here, the temperature is moderate for this time of year in Cyprus, but either soldier comes from snow-laden yards and blustery winds. They go without jackets, letting the sun kiss their bare arms.

Soap withholds his glances at Lieutenant Moore, but can't help but admire how her muscles ripple in her arms. One is completely covered in tattoo ink, images of dark trees and shadowy creatures, coupled with an intensely-detailed creature with a deer's skull and horns, adorn her skin. Haunting images. Fitting for the coarse woman.

"It's a wendigo," she notifies chirpily.

Soap blinks, dumbfounded. "Huh?"

She holds up her arm, pointing to the creature. "A wendigo. An evil spirit told of by the Native tribes in the Western Plains. They would kill and eat their victims."

Soap grimaces with a snort. His subtlety epically falters; not much escapes Blair's keen eyes. "Ain't that fitting, Moore," he rasps.

"You should see my other tattoos." She winks. A note of immodesty lilting on her tongue, something so fine Soap isn't sure if he's imagining the playfulness.

He blushes. "Uh…what?"

"Exactly." Her laughter is jovial, too much for a woman who can murder a man with her hands. A stark contrast to the woman he remembers in combat and under the duress of locating al-Asad in Georgia. Here on base, an amount of laxity manifests in the woman's persona.

Playful like a lynx.

Soap comes to the deliberation that he both admires and fears this woman, just as one would a natural predator. It's best to leave them at a distance, but Soap can't help but feel desperately entranced into her magnetic field. Hypnotized by her silken laughter and the mirth simmering in her eyes. The world is at war, all day, every day, but that detail doesn't burden him at this moment, here in the Cyprus sun.

"How about yours, Soap?" Without warning, she grasps his right arm, twisting it to inspect the artistry on his forearm. "That? Has to do somethin' with 141, huh? How patriotic. Price get one on his ass, too?"

Soap chuckles. "Fat chance."

"You're a proud soldier, through and through, hm?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replies back with a lopsided smile.

Blair pauses as she takes in Soap, her shoulders rolling back. Something brews behind Blair's eyes (blue; he reminds himself that his favorite color is blue, the color of her eyes). A storm at sea. Rigel, the brightest blue supergiant in the constellation of Orion. The toxic flesh of a dart frog. She possesses a minacious color of blue. Soap begins to brood that if he remains enraptured for too long in that gaze that perhaps he’ll turn to stone.

(But she is not Medusa, and he is not King Polydectes.)

The ice of her eyes lightens. Less like a storm. More like the gentle lap of ocean waves on the shore. A sapphire in the sunlight. The feathery plume of a kingfisher.

"I'm glad you have my back again, Mactavish. It'll be an easy op."

***

The chopper's rotors slice through the air as the machine prepares to take off again.

All seven soldiers kneel on the pavement until the metal bird levitates off the ground and suspends itself upward into the air. They remain fixated on the ground, faces tucked down as desert dust shifts in a cyclone around them. It takes until the helicopter is a safe distance back into the sky for the dust storm to relent. Another few minutes pass until it settles, and the soldiers maneuver to their feet.

The town outside of Al Mazrah is two hundred yards away from their landing site. The way is led by a trampled-down path created by the previous soldiers and Adal villagers, traversing these exact steps over time. They were sending a small team in to assess the direct danger. Six SAS soldiers. And then Blair — the latter informally labeled as their interpreter for the mission (it was simpler on paper than putting her down as a PMC consultant or combatant).

Even though the town had been labeled well and friendly to outside soldiers, any soldier worth his salt stayed on guard. Insurgents still slept in the bedrooms of these homes. They coerced, threatened, and harmed to get the job done. Any one of these villagers could have been paid or had their family and well-being menaced to produce cooperation. There was no absolute distinction between ally and enemy in this territory.

The trek through the taut desert grass is tense. Even a simple mission like this is riddled with anxiety. Enemies could be in any corner. Bombs planted under any surface. The local insurgents didn't play in terms of fairness and justice. They took the playing field and doused it in gasoline and fire.

They haven't been on the ground for more than five minutes before Blair feels sweat trickle along her spine. Uniformed, booted, and gloved, hardly an inch of skin is showing on Blair's body. It is the best principal she remains well-suited, the long blonde braid the only thing revealing her femininity. Protection from the sun. Protection from scrutiny from a majority of the villagers. Somewhere an old instructor says, “Protection from skimming bullets” (not that feeble material would safeguard from direct hits).

Blair props her M4 against the bulk of her vest. One hand caresses near the muzzle, the other trained close to the trigger (index finger kissing the cool gunmetal). If a firefight breaks out, seconds of time become either inefficacious or invaluable depending on the level of preparation. She keeps her cerebrum honed on her training, reflexes she's harnessed over the years in the field, holding those truths like a crux to her being. While adrenaline still runs in abundance through her bloodstream, she's tamed it to heighten her senses rather than hinder them.

The path remains unkempt but safe. No explosives. No concealed traps.

They step foot onto the cleared ground, following around residential buildings with fenced-in gardens and a few farm animals. It's a quiet afternoon here, Blair observes. Even the three pastured cows they bypass offer a hushed judgment from across their field.

The buildings become denser.

Private Shaw leads the way into the uneven streets of the town, McKinley and Kelly in step just behind him. Walsh and O'Conner are next, with Blair and Soap in succession at the rear. They walk with purpose, constantly scanning the scenery around them. Residents gaze back at the patrolling soldiers, hugging closely to their doors and not engaging any further than passing glances. They seemed heavily reluctant to acknowledge the presence of the Marines.

Blair's eyes sweep from corner to corner. Her mouth feels cotton dry. A wallowing pit of despair consumes all in her stomach. There's something deep within her gut.

This doesn't seem right.

But why.

She can't halt the troops based on feeling alone.

Bile burns from within. Her muscles scream with protest. Deep within her instinct, every fiber tells her to stop. Not to carry on.

Then something registers, white hot, in her cortex.

"Hold it," Blair commands with an absolute sense of resolve. Each soldier stumbles to a halt, pivoting to meet Blair's command with wide eyes.

"This doesn't feel right," she announces.

"Feel right?" Sgt. McKinley echoes, a bit of ridicule laced in his tone.

Eyes scan across the street and to the nearby homes. While the presence of foreign soldiers was typically met with a mixture of fear and excitement, Blair could not bring herself to accept the eerie quiet of the town. Only men stand in the doors or windows, gazing out with edgy curiosity at the Marines. She's been in many hostile environments, but most townspeople aren't part of the rogue militia – if anything, they are victims, scared and desperate for a way out. Albeit cautious, they typically respect and are receptive to foreign soldiers.

The people around them were craning on their toes, staying placidly behind the safety of their walls. As if watching and waiting, bracing for the impact of something ominous that Blair and the other soldiers couldn't see.

"Look around. There's no women or children," Blair mentions, blue eyes squinting to the horizon. She motions to the buildings around them.

"Children?" Not just McKinely repeats her words; nearly all six Marines join the chorus.

"The children," she repeats, firmer. She ignores the patronization radiating from her peers. "They usually meet us on the way from the landing pad, and not even a single one came out. Odd...isn't it?"

She thinks of little girls, hair twisted into ponytails or fashioned braids, totting younger siblings on their hips. They'd often been magnetized to her no matter what country Blair had visited – able to pick out the woman amongst the platoon, despite being covered in gear, head to toe. Soldiers would trade them a candy bar or a beanie baby to garner their favor. The small gestures won the adults as well. These soldiers, armed to the nines, aren't as bad as their local insurgents made them out to be.

An illumination of recognition lights up across the faces of each soldier. Enough of them had been on deployment before to know the cohesive bond between civilians and foreign soldiers. Even when language barriers and cultures from two ends of the spectrum wedged them apart, nothing could stop humans from being social. Their natural instinct to bond with other humans outmatches the tides of war.

Soap straightens, eyes sweeping back across the street. The town square is only a few dozen yards away. The town leaders await the SAS Marines and their interpreter to discuss the local smugglers. But that task would be put on hold.

A grip of stifled fear seizes the group of soldiers.

"Shaw, radio Wardog for immediate extraction," Soap commands. "Fall back to the landing zone."

No sooner have the instruction left his lips, the vehicle, a few meters ahead of Shaw and Kelly, ignites with a blast. The shockwave sends Blair crumbling across the ground, landing violently. She's lucky for her vest and helmet, the articles taking the brunt of the force from being tossed like a ragdoll. The smack of her guarded head still causes her ears to ring, and her vision blurs like bleeding watercolors for a moment.

Muscles tense as she fights through the scrambling of her neural circuits. Just as her training should, Blair's reflexes react swiftly to the situation. Cocking her rifle, she sends return fire into the street. There's an eruption of offensive shots, coupled with hostile shouts, as the enemy slinks out of their hiding places to rain bullets down on the soldiers.

"Return fire! Return fire!" Blair shouts.

Walsh, McKinley and O'Connor slip into cover and begin to counter their enemies' shots.

The state of Shaw and Kelly is questionable, and Blair hardly grabs a glimpse of where their bodies remain following the explosion. She can see Walsh grab his gun, firing rounds at several soldiers flanking him, and he doesn't last long before enemy fire brings him to the ground.

"Man down!" Another soldier cries.

The events unfold precariously.

It's incredible how seconds and minutes in a firefight seem to writhe by as if swimming in molasses. The viscosity of time is lost to the relentlessness of the moment. Blair can hear her rasping breaths and the roar of blood echo in her ears. It overtakes the distressing tinnitus from the bomb blast but mutes the shouts from the enemies and her comrades.

Two tangos to the left. Behind the truck, near the hood. Blair's inner voice instructs her motor control. She eases past the wall of her cover, catching one of the men popping above the truck's hood. She fires certainly, the man dropping to the ground. No sooner has he fallen, his comrade reveals himself and becomes victim to Blair's precision. Blair ducks back behind cover, bullets spraying around her.

The brick chips from the bullets, debris stinging against the exposed flesh of her face. Blair shutters, flinching away deeper into her cover.

Soap hunkers down behind the wall of the nearby building. He steps out to better aim at the enemies before suddenly crippling to his knees. He propels himself back into cover.

He's hit.

Blair feels the blood drain from her face. She sees O'Connor down the road. An enemy soldier slides closer, unloading bullets into the soft-spoken Irishman.

Her stomach sinks. They're royally fucked.

Firing several shots, Blair makes haste from her position over to Soap. She grasps the straps of Soap's vest, hauling the man to his feet before wedging her shoulder into his side.

"We need to get the fuck outta here, sergeant," Blair snaps.

They hobble down the alley, ducking behind buildings. She leads him further and further from the town square, slinking past small residential shacks and their ruddy, fenced-in yards. Soap is panting, sweating profusely from the shock the body has inevitably tapped into. Blair glances about, locating a rundown garden shed in one of the yards. She pulls Johnny into the shed, shutting the door behind her. She nearly crumples onto the ground on top of Soap, back propped against the door.

"Fucking fuck," Blair curses, jostling the M4 in her arms. "We are so fucked."

Soap is clutching his leg, retracting one hand coated in blood. A withheld groan rattles his chest, the man arching his head back and knocking it against the feeble boards of the shed wall. Blair shoots him a warning glance before sidling up closer to her comrade. She reaches behind her, jutting her shoulder uncomfortably to tear the medical bag from its straps on the posterior of her vest.

"I tooka bullet in my thigh," Soap grimaces. A breath hitches in his throat as he shifts his leg to catch a better glimpse of the crimson staining his pants.

Blair scoots, sitting perpendicular to Soap and propping his wounded leg on her lap. In any other setting, Soap knew he would've blushed. Her blue eyes don't unfocus themselves on the task, the woman fervently tearing packets of gauze pads open and antiseptic.

"It went into your lateral thigh," Blair observes plaintively, using two fingers to separate the shredded fabric of his pants. "I need you to prop up your leg. Bend at the knee." She doesn't wait for his active maneuver, and instead is already moving a protesting Soap before her command is finished.

"Whatcha tryin' to look at, Moore, my ass?" Soap growls, his additive response more solicited by the pain than any sort of emotional component, meaningful or otherwise.

Soap's prickly or suggestive remarks don't faze the Lieutenant. She's patched up soldiers a dozen times over, easily, and been in the same role of Soap as well (blast those bullet wounds, they'd knock you out of duty for weeks even if they were superficial). Pain mixed with the angst of a mission gone wrong is a hell of an irritant.

"I'm lookin' for an exit wound, douchebag," Blair snarls back, eyebrows furrowed. Her gaze never departs the bloody mess along his leg. "Don't get yer hopes up, Mactavish."

Despite himself, Soap stomachs a laugh. "Well, fuck me."

She clucks her tongue. "Not with a bullet wound like this, Mactavish," Blair replies cheekily. This time she flashes a gleam in his direction, smirking. "And definitely not in this shed."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" He hums.

Her back straightens a bit. A sudden air of normality, Blair's rigid normality, beseeching her once more. "Dead like our comrades in the town square," she responds, suddenly pressing a collection of treated gauze into the wound. Soap gives a surprised yelp, teeth slashing along the insides of his cheek to stifle the sound.

"Easy there, Mactavish," Blair murmurs. "It's a nasty wound, but you ain't dyin' on me."

"Medics always got sucha great sense o' humor," Soap accuses.

"Good thing I'm not a full-time medic," Blair reminds. She takes an unlawful amount of wrap, twisting the fabric around the outside of Soap's pants to hold the gauze she wedged over the wound in place.

Soap draws in several composed breaths. They bear a burdensome silence between them, Soap steeping in his pain while Blair listens attentively to the noise outside. They're far enough away from the commotion of the town center, but Blair keeps her guard raised. If the insurgents knew that only some of the soldiers had been caught by their attack, they'd be searching. As advanced of a tactical officer as she is, Blair can't make up for a sheer disproportion of numbers and Soap's currently-handicapped aim.

Neither can tell how much time passes before Soap draws in a long exhale and releases a sigh. He reverts his gaze upon Blair, who's painfully zoned out as she keeps in tune with their environment. In the dim light of this rickety old shed, Blair's stony demeanor is only shadowed further. Jaw clenched. Blue eyes icy. Wisps of her straw blonde hair stick to the sweat along her cheekbones. She's so direly beautiful, a fact Soap scolds himself for considering in a time like this.

And maybe it's the adrenaline mixed with the dismay, the fear that singes the tips of his senses as they lay cooped up in a rundown shed. The exemplification of otherwise diminutive emotions. But Soap can't deny the intense admiration for the woman who dragged his wounded ass out of the fire.

The attention manifesting back into Blair's body is clearly visible as her frame straightens and her eyes focus on Soap. She squints a bit, unearthing his admiring gaze.

"What's on your mind, Soap?" She prompts, almost innocently.

Soap snorts, shaking his head. When that response does not relent Blair, he decides to admit ruefully. "Yer the prettiest medic I've ever had, L.T.," Soap jests, masking his true intentions.

Blair snorts.

"Unfortunately, it seems like any blood in yer head is gone," Blair refutes.

"Well, if I die, 'least I got that off my chest," Soap replies with a touch of dramatics.

"We need a call in exfil," she ignores his remark. Gears are always turning, keeping in line with the objective. "We need to get out to the landing pad or beyond. But I'm not riskin' our hides with the heat on so high. We'll wait until nightfall."

"Aren't there dangerous creatures out at night?"

She offers an apathetic shrug, lacking concern."It's either a snake bite or a bullet in the head. I think I'll take my chances with the snakes."

Soap lifts his wrist to look at his watch. A coarse chuckle shakes him, the man wincing from the pain that pulses through him. "My watch is still on London time."

"We landed just a hair past 1300 hours," Blair informs. She squints up at the light streaming in from between the boards of the shed roof, as if she could determine the time by the rays. "We easily have…six hours…until dark”

"Tell me some good news, Rogue," Soap requests haughtily.

"You're alive."

Soap laughs lowly. It's rough and coarse, a vibrato that makes the hair on the back of Blair's neck stand at attebtion. "An optimist, aren't ya?"

"After all this time? Can't you see that I bleed sunshine and rainbows?"

His response is muted. The pain does wonders in altering Soap's nature.

"Mactavish," she states, resting her hand on his forearm.

"Call me Soap. Or Johnny. I don't care."

"Johnny," she tests the word against her tongue. For a fleet second, Blair seems consumed in her own thoughts. Reality snaps back into her prefrontal cortex; her blue eyes flick back to Soap's face.

"Joanna," she states. Soaps's only response is an unassuming, deadpan stare, to which Blair continues, "That's my legal name. I stopped going by that after we left my father."

"Left your father?" Soap echoes. She worded it in such a complex way. Confusing without context. It wasn't that her mother had left her father, but a collective we. A group effort. An entire family untangling itself from one entity.

"He…" she frowns, catching her breath in her chest. Suddenly, her gear feels cumbersome and her skin too taut against her body. Blair gulps, wringing her fingers against the security of her assault rifle. "Johnny Boy, I'm not sure you're ready to unearth my shitshow of a life."

"We have nearly six hours," he reminds with a fatigued smirk.

"Nothing of my past is normal."

"I didn’t ask for normal."

She resents him. Only because the code she's imprinted to her mind, the structural walls she's constructed over these years, don't yield to logic in his presence. Whereas others in the past, their brash judgment and lack of comprehension of Blair's uphill battles, made it evidently clear of their inability to withstand Blair's story, Soap had been opposite to dozens and dozens of their comrades. He's warm. Inviting. Like the sun in the springtime.

Chapped lips part, Blair contemplating the layout of her words. They burn like acid against her throat. A story she hasn't recounted in years.

"I was raised in a cult," Blair states. The sentence seems to flow from her lips before she has much sentience over them. A blustery confession. Her heart races from the adrenaline of its liberation.

She doesn't continue. Leaves that fact hanging in the air between them, dropped like a grenade and left to eplode. Soap's jaw drops indignantly when he realizes that she's concluded her life story in one sentence.

"What? That's it?" He snorts, unimpressed.

"That's it?" She echoes incredulously. "How many people do you know that were raised in a cult."

"Enough to know that story ain't finished at that, Blair Moore," Soap criticizes.

"What do you want from me, Soap?" Blair grouses.

"A damned good story to keep me mind off this wound. Or ya could listen to me bitch for the next few hours. The choice is yer's."

Blair scowls at Soap, sucking her cheeks in as she ponders her options. She drums her fingers against her rifle. A heavy sigh escapes her lips.

"My father was crazy. Still is," she starts, biting down on her tongue. The heat crawling along her skin as she thinks of Carl Moore beats anything the desert sun could provide. "He was in the Army for several years before being discharged. From there, he worked as a PMC. Eventually, he had some revelation, some calling that God was pushing him to do His work. So he enrolled in college to become a minister. He never graduated but still managed to kickstart a church in Texas."

"This isn't just some rip-off of Jim Jones, ain't it?" Soap jests.

"Nah. Google it when we RTB; it's valid." Blair shakes her head. She gives a deflated chuckle, her insides are aching but the weight of her recollection actually births a sense of freedom. "Hell, you might even see pictures of me as a kid. Pigtails n' everything, holdin' an assault rifle."

"Jus' another gun-lovin' American, no?" Soap tries to reason.

Her lips twist up with a rueful expression. "Perhaps, but when you start roping in the couple hundred people followin' ya, and you start delving into the deep end of politics, and the end times, it gets murky," Blair mentions. She sighs, a hollowness in her chest. "My dad...he was convinced that the government was hiding the AntiChrist. By the time I was born, he was making our home into a stronghold. My sisters and I were hunting and handlin' guns before we even had the training wheels off our bicycles."

"So you were just a dream for the Army to recruit, huh?" Soap quips.

Blair flashes him a scowl.

"Okay. Okay. I'll limit the commentary," Soap surrenders immediately, hands thrown up, "ya owe me more to this story, though."

She huffs. "To answer your question. I had a menagerie of religious trauma, emotional manipulation, and anxiety that stemmed from bein' trained as a soldier since I was two," Blair responds stonily. Her jaw clenches, fingers tapping anxiously on her rifle. "My father was a mean man. Strict too. Made my drill sergeants in basic look tame."

"What happened to him? To your family?"

"That's where I suggest you read about the coverage of the incident. From my perspective, federal agents were raiding our home to drag us and torture us into becoming followers of the Anti-Christ," Blair explains. "Really, my father had shot one of their agents sent to arrest him for evading parole. Led to a whole siege and raid. I almost shot an agent's head off during it all."

Soap snorts. "Your shot has improved since then."

"Thankfully," Blair exhales.

"And after that?"

"My family? We were victims. They tried to integrate us back into society," Blair replies (normal, they had wanted them to be normal despite no part of her upbringing was even in the same atmosphere as normal). "I did it all. The therapy. The doctor's eval. My sisters blossomed in the 'real world,' and I could hardly be more than what Dad manufactured me to be. I got in trouble. I wasn't interested in schoolwork, but I'd ace my exams. Hung out with the wrong people."

"So your only option after primary was the Army?"

She nods. "My only option was the Army," she repeats back to him. Her chest shutters. Ribs sore. She still feels the overpowering mass of her mother's grave disappointment, even fifteen years later. "My mom nearly had a stroke over it. We never saw eye to eye after that. I'd come home for leave, and it was always weird. We stopped talkin' nearly a decade ago."

"Oh."

Soap frowns. His mind wanders to his own family. They'd never understand the brutality and sacrifice he had to make, but he knew open arms and a fresh meal were waiting for him every time he came home on leave. Blair doesn't have that. She hasn't in ages.

"Joanna," Soap states, trying to divert that conversation from the bombshell Blair has just dropped on them. "It's a pretty name."

"Huh?" Blair blinks.

Even in the dim light of the shed, the bright blush of color washing Soap's cheeks is evident. "It's–uh, a nice name."

"My dad used to call me Jojo. Or Little Jo," Blair muses with a snort. "My sisters said I was always his favorite. But it left an even bitter taste in my mouth. Can't even use my real name without feelin' sour. I need to associate it with somethin' other than my bastard father."

"Well, ya could associate it with this damned shed."

She gives a loud, singular laugh – something more akin to a crow's squawk than anything human. Catching the sound on her tongue, she whips Soap an alarmed look – both mortified by her caw and acutely aware of how little noise they could have allotted. They held their breaths for a few seconds as if the timing afterward would erase the infringement she'd made.

"I guess that standard was set low," Blair remarks quietly, shaking her head with a controlled chuckle.

The two soldiers orbit back into another silence. It's at this point that Soap catches a yawn, body shuddering.

"Ya alright?" Blair quizzes.

"Exhausted," he sighs.

"Take a nap, Soap," she advises. "I'll keep watch. If I see or hear anythin', I'll be sure to wake you up with the gunshots."

He blinks, contemplating her offer. She scoots across the ground, situating herself beside Soap.

"It isn't 5-star, but I make a half-decent pillow," Blair instructs. "Catch a nap. Or so help me God."

He hesitates, mouth dry and hands shaking, before pressing his shoulder into hers and resting his head along it.

"Sleep tight, sarge," Blair breathes.

"Thanks, L.T."

The injured man slips off quicker than Blair anticipates. The military always bred oddities, one being the exceptional ability to sleep just about anywhere. However, Blair didn't expect Soap to knock out in less than five minutes. She stays alert, listening to the world outside of this damned shed.

Her senses feel pumped full of anxiety. At least the head-pounding adrenaline has subsided as she sits, reminiscing about her past to Soap. But there's nothing except the safety of the walls back at base that will allow Blair to relish in relaxation. Not in this shed. Not in Adal territory. Not with a collection of heavily-armed men back in town, probably sweeping the area for any survivors.

A manifestation of protectiveness flickers and flares from within the woman. She likes to perceive it as a conjunction of maternal instinct coupled and complimenting her resolute loyalty to her comrades as a soldier. Regardless, it is a hell of a stimulant. Even while her eyelids felt heavy and her body ached, Blair remains devoted to protecting her slumbering comrade.

Underneath the intense façade of soldier-like machismo, Blair also cradles the mere notion that she found favor with Soap. His willingness to see a human underneath her rigid soldier stature and all the blight she carries from her past. The sensation births a trembling warmth in Blair's chest, threatening to inhabit and overtake the empty space rented out between her ribs, spilling out into the light.

It scares her. It overwrites many competent functions of her somatic system, sending her into a muted frenzy of worry.

There are people Blair would take a bullet for. Any of her comrades. Any part of her squad. Anyone on mission with her. (She'd been manufactured for this.)

And then there are people Blair would die for.

That list was humble in quantity. Her mother and sisters, and her niece and nephew she'd never met, take the top echelons of that list. Kate Laswell meets the standards as well.

Some of the nominees are dead. That's how many vacancies persisted.

Sierra. Her first love. Twelve years gone.

Conrad. Partner. Confidant. Buried four years ago.

And now John MacTavish fits the bill.

It's a fool's errand to be divulging down this path. More often than not, anybody Blair gave a damn for wound up dead or ostracized from her. She isn't sure if either could be sustainable for her exhausted heart.

Beside her, Soap snores softly in his sleep.

Blair grimly smiles. She revels in his warmth, though it makes her slicker with sweat even in their shaded refuge. The closeness and contact, and her constant lack thereof, is poisonous yet something her body craves.

She catches herself nestling the side of her cheek against the top of Soap's head. He smells like polymer and dust.

There is no estate to entertain these consuming thoughts. The situation is extremely inappropriate, yet when all she can do is sit and listen and keep a hand on her gun, the thoughts scream over the white noise in her brain.

Fingernails dig into her palm, creating crescents in the calluses. She chews on the inner flesh of her mouth. In an attempt to divert the rage of emotions crashing tumultuously against her soul, Blair starts to imagine disassembling her rifle and cleaning it. She'd give her M4 the queen treatment back at base. Defaulting back to her factory settings, the one of a soldier, is the only thing capable of distracting her from the terror of giving a damn over John MacTavish.

She's onto round five of mentally disassembling and reassembling her gun when her consciousness slips. It isn't a fruitful slumber, but Blair loses acute awareness of her surroundings until a gusty enough breeze causes the boards of the shed to groan. She snaps back into wakefulness, pulse galloping.

Listening to the world around her, Blair realizes their little refuge is nearly bathed in darkness from the waning light beyond. The sky is a shade of navy, touched with a paling orange-yellow off in the western horizon. Somewhere an evening bird sings.

Blair releases a long inhalation from her lungs, settling her blood pressure. She'd fallen asleep, but they had been safe.

"Soap," her voice rattles his slumber. When he doesn't move, she places her hand on his forearm and shakes him. "Johnny."

He stifles a yawn, eyes blinking rapidly. "Hmmm?"

"The sun is goin' down. Let's get movin'."

Blair clamors to her feet, reaching for Soap's hands to haul him to a standing position. Soap gives a low groan as he places weight onto his wounded leg, wincing.

"We're gonna climb up into the hills. We gotta take the long way to the helipad."

"Can't just walk through town?" Soap quips. His voice sounds like it courses over gravel. Pale blue eyes blink away the sleep.

"Unless their opinion of us has changed since earlier…fat chance," Blair replies.

Blair steadily opens the shed door, rifle in arms, as she scans the evening terrain. These houses remain quiet. She wonders how long the residents will persist with hunkering down, turning face to the insurgents and their plans. It makes for perfection for two out-of-place soldiers, though. She doubts at this point the insurgents will be sweeping this area in hopes of locating the remaining soldiers.

The scene is clear, Blair motions to Soap for the all-clear. They thread between the outlying homes, Blair hovering close to Soap. The steep rocky slopes prove to be a challenge for the wounded soldier. He's a tough motherfucker, but Blair sees through the act.

Eventually, Soap stumbles, landing on his bad leg with a yelp. Blair hops down the slope to his side, pulling Soap onto his feet and wedging her shoulder into his side.

"Can't quit on me now, Soap," Blair growls.

They've trucked a distance before Blair eases Soap down. The landing pad is just over the next hill, but between Blair's own impatient dismay and Soap's deteriorating vigor, she determines it's a decent post to contact HMS Resolve. She takes out her radio and a small transponder from her pack. Working the wires, she rigs up something that can transmit a signal.

"This is Alpha Five-Two to Resolve Actual, do you read?"

Static bleeds back through the radio. Blair repeats the same call-out nearly a half dozen times before another voice finally breaks through.

"Resolve Actual to Alpha, status update. Over."

Soap and Blair flash one another a relieved glance. There's a heaviness that nearly uplifts itself completely from Blair's tightly wrung shoulders.

"Things went sour. We've lost five men," Blair rattles off. "Sergeant Mactavish and I are in the hills taking cover. Over."

"We can ready and send Wardog to extract you."

"Copy, Actual. I'll set a flare when we hear the angels chorus."

"Noted, Alpha. Readying a team and a bird now. Out."

Blair sinks to a seat on the dusty ground, finally releasing a sigh that's built up from the tension in her diaphragm for the last few hours. Her heart still hammers against her ribs, aching from hours of high stress. The moment the relief floods, Blair becomes acutely aware of the throbbing in her head, the ache in her left shoulder, and how scratchy her throat feels. She was in awful shape but still functional.

"We're gettin' out of here, Soap," she announces triumphantly, despite the burden of her discomfort.

Silence follows.

"Johnny?"

Her neck nearly snaps as she pivots to face her comrade. He's slumped on his seat upon a boulder, inspecting the soaked-through gauze.

"I'm bleedin' again," he wheezes.

Blair springs forward, kneeling down.

"You ain't gonna lose all yer blood, Mactavish. Take a deep breath. The shock and panic are gonna do you in sooner if anything."

She's crass. Words clipped. Coddling Soap at this moment probably won't nurse him along. But while her words are sharper than a cleaver, her hands are gentle. She fidgets to procure more gauze and wrap, packing it over the previously-instated supplies.

"Good as new, soldier," Blair remarks. She reaches and grabs Soap's palm, squeezing it. "We're gettin' out of here, you and me. Ya hear me?"

Soap twists a weak smile to his lips. "Yes, ma'am."

He manages to limp close alongside Blair up and over the last hill, boots sliding on loose stone with teeth gritting. At the landing pad, the duo crouch near the desert bushes near the edge. Blair scans the vicinity, grabbing her radio once more.

"Resolve Actual, this is Alpha. Requesting an ETA. Over."

Blair decompresses her lungs. Eyes rivet to the sky as if she could spot their guardian angel amongst the darkness.

"Alpha. Wardog One is six clicks from your location. T-minus ten minutes."

"Copy."

Tearing the package of flairs from her pack, Blair quickly strikes them to life. She tosses them to the edges of the cement of the landing pad, clearly marking the ground for Wardog to locate them. The area glows a surreptitious red, the smell of charcoal, sulfur, and fire burning against Blair's sinuses as she hunkers back next to Soap.

Commotion. Blair squats lower to the ground as she fixes her eyes on the town two-hundred-some yards away. The lights of the homes sparkle in the distance, but the noise exceeds that of a typical winter evening.

There are gunshots. Blair can't tell if it's in response to the sudden illumination of the landing pad or for other reasons, but she hunkers closer to the ground.

"Think you knocked on the hornets' nest, Moore," Soap remarks hoarsely.

Blair huffs, teeth grinding. "Knew it wouldn't be an easy extraction."

Across the two-hundred yards that plant them between the village of insurgents and the landing pad, she can perceive shadows galloping down the path. The gunshots seemingly pointed in their general direction -- though until they start striking the helipad's pavement, she cannot confirm or deny that these men were coming for the two 141 soldiers. Blair tenses, raising her rifle without hesitation.

"Looks like we're going to make friends," Blair expires.

Getting a good shot in the dark with minimal light is difficult. Blair sees her shots more as warnings. She doesn't need enemies down; she must keep them from lodging bullets into their skulls and sending them home in body bags. Beside her, Soap fires rounds into the long shadows of night.

Something explodes.

Blair is still determining what is launched in their direction. Still, it misses the actual target of the soldiers and desecrates the ground several meters off. The shockwave throws either soldier. Bones groan, and nerves sing as Blair is sent several feet across the land. She smacks her helmet against the concrete, brain-rattling like loose pocket change.

She combats the shiver of heat and pain that pulses through her body. Immediately she schools her dazzled eyesight for a glimpse of Soap, her heart thundering against sore ribs.

He's there in the dust, frame slumped.

"Soap!" She hollers, fingers scraping against the cement. Her eyesight is blurry from the smoke. She digs her fingernails into the ground for traction, fingertips hot from the pain.

Above the noise, through the shrill ringing of her injured ear drums, Blair can hear the radio crackle, "Alpha Five-Two, this is Wardog One. We are two clicks out from your location."

She throws herself over Soap, her torso flush to his back, and her limbs splayed to cover his own. She looks like a lioness protecting her cub, the features of her face sharing the same primordial savagery. Unholstering her pistol, she keeps firing shots into the dust to dissuade the enemy further. Once the magazine empties, Blair shifts back to her assault rifle.

The sound of chopper blades cutting through the air hums in the distance.

"Wardog Two, we are taking heat. I repeat–" Blair can't finish the call before her arm is shredded by a bullet. It tracks the lateral aspect of her shoulder, clipping skin and soft tissue but never fully entering her limb. Blood sprays. The woman bites down on her tongue to prevent a yelp from escaping her lips.

She falters off Soap's body, hitting the ground with an unceremonious thud. She remembers locking eyes with Soap, the man reaching out to grab Blair's hand and lacing his fingers through hers.

Not like this, comes a guttural cry from within Blair.

She pushes up on her free elbow. She's lost territory of where her pistol is. Her assault rifle digs into her chest, but the shredded flesh and crimson seeping from one arm makes Blair question the quality of her gun handling. Panic bubbles like boiling water in her chest, frothing over into an icy hot sheet throughout her torso.

From the skies, the chopper's blades cut through the air. Shots ring out from the helo, reigning down on the enemies present somewhere beyond the billow of dust enveloping Soap and Blair.

Blair's rattled thoughts are fractured by the crack of gunfire beside her. Soap musters a second wind and fires back at their enemies. Bullets ricochet off the cement, sizzling by both soldiers dangerously. Something nicks Blair along the cheek, whether it was a stray bullet or debris coming from another explosion, this one falling much shorter than the previous strike.

"Can't see much–" Blair hears Wardog warn, words clipping in and out of static even though they're only meters above. "Get clear, Alpha!"

Pushing up to her feet, Blair seizes an amount of Soap's uniform and hauls the man upward. They skulk to the far edge of the landing pad; eyes cast upward as the twister of dust whipped around them. It's an afterthought that both soldiers hold one another. Soap teetering on his wounded leg, and Blair's energy nearly sapped dry.

Their bird in shining armor.

Dust spits into Blair's sclera, mixing with sweat to create a burning in her vision. Eyelids squint shut. Fingers curl tightly around the straps of Soap's vest, body sidling closer. She tries to reopen her eyes, making out the form of the helo, the door sliding open, and boots hitting the ground.

Two soldiers assist Soap onto the helo, while another helps Blair limp to the bird. She nearly collapses onto the floor within the sheltering walls of the helo, head dizzying as the chopper begins to ascend while shots still ring out from the sides. One of the soldiers prop her up, shoving a plastic bottle of water in her direction and prompting her to drink.

The flight back to the HMS Resolve is terse. Blair remains glued to Soap's side, brushing off the medic who evaluates them both. Both soldiers are wrecked. Dust and blood and sweat drench their uniforms. They look more like prisoners than soldiers, which Blair could contemplate their entrapment in the shed for six hours akin to a jail cell.

"You're a tough motherfucker, sergeant," Blair rasps to Soap. She uses her frame to prop Soap’s upper torso up while the medic combs over his wounds. One arm snakes around his ribcage, a half-hug to support Soap’s waning energy.

His pants leg is permeated in blood, looking more crimson than camo. He hugs a swollen arm close to his chest, an injury the medic mumbling about potentially being sprained or broken.

A wiry, exhausted smile tugs at the ends of the Scot's lips. He looks bone-weary, beyond the ability to offer Blair much of a gesture.

Blair would rather be in a hundred places than in the Med Ward at ESBA. While the doctor assesses Soap, Blair sits across the room behind a curtain with a nurse. She cranes to listen in on Soap's condition. He is alive. He has all his limbs. But a pit of worry still festers deep in her gut.

"You need X-rays on the wrist, Sgt. Mactavish," Doctor Hanson reports, "And surgery to take that bullet outta your leg. But we'll have to transport you to Limassol General for that."

Blair fights to keep her focus as Doctor Hanson rattles off more details. The Limassol General Hospital was about an hour down the coast. They'd patch Soap up nicely. He is out of the woods – she hadn't completely failed in getting her comrades to safety.

Her stomach burns. She's been in squads and platoons with hundreds of other people. She'd failed many of those people during times of duress and combat. But she hadn't felt more resolute and devoted to ensuring Soap, of all people's safety. Blair inwardly chastises herself for the subtle fringes of attachment.

"Lieutenant," The nurse presses.

Blair snaps back to attention.

"Doctor Hanson can double-check, but you should be set to be discharged," she presses.

"What about Sargeant MacTavish?"

"He will most likely remain here until he's transported," the nurse replies.

"Then I'm staying."

"Lieutenant–" the nurse starts.

"I just lost a whole squad. I'm not leaving my last man," Blair argues, her voice rising.

"Blair," Soap heaves. She swings past the curtain of her space, retreating to his side immediately. "I'm alive. You look like hell. Go get some sleep. I'll still be breathin' by the time you get back."

She clenches her jaw. Eyes look ready to cry – or maybe that is just the reaction from the dust and sweat not quite evaporating. She'll play on the side of innocence, the adrenaline of her blossoming devotion to Soap still not comprehensible, and she's unwilling to face it head-on.

"Okay," she relents. Her chest caves in.

"Okay," he echoes with the ghost of a smile.

As she follows the nurse out of the room, Soap calls, "I owe you one, Blair."

She pivots.

Pausing.

"Joanna. You can call me Joanna."

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

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