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jillsandwhichs · 2 months ago

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Heart on my sleeve

A Valenfield Story , Chap 2 , Talkative

Masterlist

Pairing: Jill Valentine & Chris Redfield

Summary: It's Jill's second day at the RPD and whilst having lunch, her and Chris talk and she gets to know him a little bit better

WC: 4.2k

Type: SFW

A/n: Hi! Hope you all enjoy. Please check out my masterlist, there's a lot of stuff there. You can get to know me, you can see the rules of my blog and then you can see all of my fanfictions. You'll be able to find the previous chapters to this fic and upcoming ones. You'll also be able to find my Wattpad & AO3. Comments, reblogs & likes are appreciated. Thank you

Slamming her car door shut, Jill let out a large sigh. She scanned the massive 'R.P.D' logo rested on top of the establishment.

This is her life now.

The fact she is now working for an elite police force is like a dream come true. She went through hell like training to get her. She never once stopped having her own personal ambitions and goals, and now look at her! While she didn't personally apply, rather she was seeker out by Captain Wesker, it still feels all the same. Actually, it makes her feel even better - Knowing she was recruited for her skill set.

So far, working for the S.T.A.R.S unit has been pleasant. Whereas it has only been a day, it's been a handful but in a good way. Not only has the work been flowing nicely, her co workers are also kind. Despite the fact she's only interacted with three of them, they seem cool enough. Especially Chris. She really knows nothing about him besides his music taste and a drabble of his family life but other than that, he seems like a great guy and considering he's her desk partner, she'd love to know more about him.

The other person she spoke with - Other than Chris and Captain Wesker, was Barry. He's the oldest one on the team and he is just so sweet! He told Jill all about his wife and two little girls, they seem like absolutely cutie patoties and Jill already adores them. She can tell that Barry is sort of the mentor of the squad, everybody goes to him for advice. Jill also heard from him that Chris isn't necessarily liked on the squad and to just be careful, his fuse is short. But Jill doesn't see what he's talking about, but maybe he just hasn't had enough time with her to show his true colors yet.

Outside, the day was becoming abloom. It was frosty out, then again, it was six in the morning, of course it is cold. The snowfall was light but evident, some cars in which must have been parked for awhile already have snowflakes covering them. Jill isn't used to this complete cold weather and icy snowfall all day long, she's from Georgia. Of course it snows there, but no where compared to how much snow R.C endures year round. It's a significant change but not one she can entirely complain about.

The only downside to the winter here is how the roads get, she was warned ahead of time that work may be cancelled sometimes due to harsh weather. Not only that, apparently blizzards are horrible, they can cover up someone's entire door step. That's freaky.

In hand, Jill had some files she was given yesterday, ones that she'll have to turn in to Captain Wesker. She spent a decent chunk of her evening working on them, hopefully they're to his liking. It's also unknown when she'll get her uniform, for now Wesker just told her to dress casually. So today, she is wearing a navy blue sweater with jeans, in case of an emergency, it is indeed an outfit she can do hard labor in. Although, the coldness emitting from outside would add to the struggle of it.

She entered the building for only the second time ever, taking the view in. The Police Department was genuinely beautiful. One thing that specifically caught her eye - And many others, is the statue rested in the back. It's referred to as 'The Goddess Statue'. It is a fitting name, it's a gorgeous piece of artwork. Jill is aware of the R.P.D and it's magnificent history. This historic building was once an art museum rather than a Police Department. They even kept one of the art rooms for old times sake.

If Jill had to complain about one thing son far, it would most definitely have to be the walk from the entrance, all the way to the office. It's a hassle, but her legs do get a workout. Not that she needs it or anything, but she doesn't mind gaining more and more strength through everyday activites.

Eventually, she entered the dimmed hallway that leads up to her assigned office. Whenever she walks in it, she gets chills. It's just so weary, the atmosphere drops and it gets silent - Up until you get to the S.T.A.R.S office door, then you either hear Barry's loud laughter or Wesker scolding someone yet again.

Jill ambled into the office, being greeted by Barry and Brad, whom she hasn't really gotten to speak with yet.

"Jill! Glad you could make it another day." "Me too, Barry." Jill chuckled, holding the papers closer to her now. "Hey Jill, welcome to the team, I'm Brad." "Hello Brad, pleasure to meet you." She shook his hand back. When needed, she could definitely remain professional and modest. "I hear you were one of very few women to complete the Delta Force training. Man, I gotta say, that's impressive. Nice work." Brad praised her. "Well, thank you, it was tough but I like a challenge." Jill smiled. She appreciated the appraisal.

Jill took a brief scan of the office, her gentle eyes landing upon her desk, noticing Chris wasn't even there. Does he have a different schedule? Did he skip work? Is he sick?

"Oh, where's that Chris guy at?" Jill asked the two men whom are standing before her. "Uhh." Brad began, glancing back at the shared wooden desk. "No clue, Chris is the rebellious type though, who knows what the kid got himself into this time." Barry scoffed, his burly arms crossed over his fibrow chest. "You know, you told me Chris can be a bit of an ass and I still have yet to see it." "Oh sweetheart, you've been here a day. I hope you don't see it but there's a likely chance." Barry bellowed, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Jill just quietly chuckled alongside with him.

"I'm guessing he won't show up today." Brad shrugged, his eyes shooting from the front wooden door and make to Chris's lengthy desk. "Enjoy the free desk space." Brad added on with a snicker, treading off to his desk in the corner of said office. Jill's face contorted into one of concern. Was it common for Chris to stray away from work? Just yesterday he seemed to have healthy work ethic. She always assumes the best of people.

"Does Chris usually opt out of work?" "It really depends, I don't know why he would today, then again, he hasn't said much to me recently." Barry hushly spoke. She nodded slowly in reply. It wasn't a big deal or anything. She just thought it'd be nice to get to know him somewhat better, besides, they'll be desk buddies for who knows how long. This isn't like Middle School where a seating chart is needed in order to be changed monthly.

"Well, thanks, I'm gonna go talk to Captain, he needs these." Jill said, showing her personal papers off. "Up and at em, sunshine." Barry laughed himself up again, finally making his way back over to Brad.

Wesker's personal office, which is a smaller sized one inside of the main office is directly by the front door. Jill gave the door a couple knocks before she then heard the man welcome her right on in. She opened up the door, his office smelt so good compared to the main one. She spotted a candle lit behind him, resting on his brown file cabinet.

She took in the sight of his office. It was packed full of trophies and awards, he must be a very skilled man. It also seemed oddly cleansed, as if it's dusted everyday and vacuumed consistently. She could tell Wesker was the nit picky type, but definitely not to this extreme.

Clearing her throat, Jill began to speak up. "Hey, just wanted to give you these." She chuckled, setting her work in front of him. Wesker's fierce eyes trailed from her beautiful face, to the led covered papers; She put an intense amount of work into them. Like she thought of earlier, she's aware of his perfectionism, she wanted to appeal to that standard of his.

He took ahold of the papers, articulating the words in his head as he read them off of the page. Jill stood there, sort of awkwardly, not knowing if she should stay or leave, he hasn't said a word yet.

After a minute or two, Wesker took all of the papers, spinning around in his black mesh chair and slipping them into one of the filing cabinets. A wave of happiness clashed over Jill - She won't have to rewrite them! "So?" "So? What?" Wesker responded, his tone plain. "Oh, sorry, I thought you'd say something about them." "What is there to say? You did as I asked of you, thank you." Wesker replied, he seemed very nonchalant. At least he wasn't a difficult boss. "Well then, cool." Jill gave him a quick smile and nod before exiting his space.

Mission accomplished!

Everyone but Chris was in the office. Jill's just assuming he decided to skip work, according to the others, that isn't surprising.

Heading over to her desk, Jill sat down, letting out an expire as she powered up the computer. Today, she just has to watch out for emails. She was told numerous times that it's not rare if they go out on missions, but it isn't common. She'd love too soon.

Once the PC turned on all the way, she logged in using her provided username and password, allowing everything to load in before she did anything. These old finicky computers can go out on you with one wrong move; These ones are from just a couple years ago though, even so, it still applies. Jill took a glance at Chris's desk. He had a lot on it. There were CDs, notebooks, notepads, glasses, tacks and some other knickknacks.

Not only that, above his desk he has a big brown leather jacket hanging. The insignia on it appears to be an angel of some sort holding a weapon. The words above it read 'Made in Heaven'. Jill isn't stupid, she knows the pop culture reference. He did mention having a matching jacket with his younger sister. Jill finds it to be cute. It's definitely his style. To her, he seems to still dress like he's in highschool. Baggy jeans, long sleeves, letterman jackets. It's stylish though.

Jill would say her style is much more casual. Sweaters, skinny jeans, leggings, long sleeves and rarely anything else. She only owns a few outfits of formal wear and that's only because she assumes there'll be events she must attend where the formality is to dress accordingly. She can't even remember the last time she wore a full face of makeup with an elegant outfit. Maybe when she was ten and playing dress up.

The computer booted all the way up, allowing Jill to get to work, at last!

About twenty minutes later, the office door swung open. The room went silent and all eyes went to said door. The sound of squishy watery shoes was heard, and a rubbery leather sound. It was Chris and Jill didn't look all too surprised. Only a little. She suspected he'd be home all day and not even make it into work but here we are. He isn't completely drenched but his clothes appear to be soaked in some spots. She has no clue what could've happened to him; It isn't even raining.

Once Wesker spotted him, Jill knew it was over for Chris. He seems so intimidating, like he'd just give you a look and you'd know he's enraged with you. Luckily, Jill hasn't seen that look and hopefully she never will. He closed his office door, set his hands on his hips and looked the muscular man up and down. It seemed straight up out of Fight Club or something. "Chris, why are you once again late?" "I had to do something, then my car broke down and I fell into a puddle." He grunted out, running his fingers through his hair.

"Oh yeah? And what was more important than work?" "My younger sister." "What did Claire need?" Wesker knew Chris's sister by name. Interesting. "Family business. Listen, can I just get to work? I'll write an extra whatever and do what you want to make up for it." Captain Wesker contemplated what Chris said. His face had it written all over that he was upset, but not angry, which was odd. You'd think if you've done this numerous times, your boss would end up becoming furious. But Wesker just seems irritated by it, no more.

"Very well then." Wesker hummed out. "Get to work, you'll have another report to do." The man chuckled, turning around and going back into his office. Chris yielded his head back, letting out a groan has both of his hands rubbed his damp face. He dreaded his walk over to Jill, not even because of her, but because it was such a walk of shame.

As he sat down, Jill looked at him, giving him a slight smile. She wasn't affected by his entrance at all, she just found it rather silly is all. Chris gave her a nod back before whispering, "Sorry." Jill was utterly confused. Why was he apologizing to her? He didn't do anything, or did he? "Uhm, why?" "I dunno, just saying sorry if I distracted you at all or anything, damn." Chris scoffed and switched on his PC. Okay, is this what they meant by he's an ass at times?

"Sorry..." Jill whispered, turning back to the PC, the light on it reflecting onto her face. She'll just work until it's lunch break. She can't wait to get some food in her system.

Many hours later, it is now noon and finally, she's able to eat. She brought her lunch in today, it's just resting on the corner of her desk. She already plans to eat now near the east gate. Ever since she got a tour of the RPD, she can tell that'll be one spot she visits a lot. There's nothing necessarily special to it but she likes how quiet it is and now you get a nice view of the city if you're high enough on the steps.

She brought in leftovers from her dinner last night - Chinese food. She doesn't have many groceries considering it's only been a few days since she moved here but gosh, the Chinese was delicious and she most definitely will be ordering it again. She also plans to order from somewhere called 'Jims Crab' tonight, it's just a block or two from her place and she's heard great things about it through the web.

Once Jill saw Brad walk out of the office, she knew she was going to be able to as well. She grabbed her pal and made her way outside.

From the S.T.A.R.S office, the east gate wasn't too far but it wasn't very close either. It was either the east gate or she eats in her car, she'd rather sit outside and eat. It isn't hot nor too cold, as of right now at least. It was freezing this morning. Hell, Jill's fingers were so cold, they felt numb to the touch. Felt like they'd break if she bent them a particular way. But the sun is out now, gleaming upon the Police Station and she is guessing it's heated up the outside world somewhat.

Walking through the waiting room and past the artroom, she opened the door that leads to the east gate. She wasn't wrong either, it felt just right outside. It wasn't snowing either, but snowfall is expected to begin later in the day.

The sound of the stairs clickety clacking beneath her was noisy, they were steel and had little to no snow covering them. Jill already decided she'd sit on the last few steps, that way she wouldn't be in anyone's way if they had to come through. The step wasn't wet from the snow either, which was a plus for her. She dreaded having a wet bottom for the rest of the day. With the open space beside her, she set her pal there, that way she'd be able to just keep her food in her lap.

For yesterday's dinner, she ordered quite a bit. She had purchased Orange Chicken, Lo Mein, Beef on a stick and Coconut Chicken. To be fair, she plans to save it for the next few days, but it was a lot. For work though, she just brought in some Orange Chicken and Lo Mein - Her personal favorites. She also made sure to not forget chopsticks, she doesn't wanna eat with her fingers, it's so unprofessional and gross to do in a work space. She remembers one time at her old job, one of her coworkers saw her eating dumplings with just her hands and he never stopped teasing her about it. Now she's always sure not to.

She unclicked the tabs attached to the container, shoving it into her pouch. She began to dig in literally immediately; It was safe to say she needed to fuel her body with tasty food. On top of her orange chicken, onion chives were set on top of the array of it. With the Lo Mein, broccoli surrounded it. She did have some of it last night but the taste is too good to pass up again.

Taking her chopsticks, reusable ones, she began to pick up a piece of chicken, taking a bite out of it. It was so good. Jill's eyes practically rolled behind her head. She knew the Lo Mein will be so delicious too.

Continuing to eat, she hadn't even noticed the door above her open up. But once she did, she glanced upwards, seeing Chris standing there with his own personal pouch. He must like to eat out here as well. The way he was looking down at Jill - It made her feel speechless. His eyes were so pretty and entrancing. The sunshine mixed with the bright snow caused a ray on his eyes, making them glow gorgeously.

"Hey, do you need me to move?" Jill asked if Chris, getting ready to step up and leave. "Nah, that's fine, I can go somewhere else." Chris stated, beginning to turn around but Jill couldn't stop herself, she wanted him to stay. This was a perfect opportunity. "No, that's okay, just eat here." Jill replied softly, scooching over to make room for Chris. Chris obviously hesitated. It appears he doesn't feel too comfortable with her yet. Jill doesn't blame him for that, they only met just yesterday.

Chris obliged, tightening the strap of his pouch on his shoulder. He popped a squat beside Jill and zipped open his bag. In it, he had a sandwich and chips - Classic.

Jill couldn't help but smile to herself, he smelt good. He smelt very manly and musk. She's just a fool sometimes.

"How are you today?" She broke the silence, taking a sip of her iced tea. Chris took a double take at her; He most likely didn't expect her to start up a conversation. "I'm alright, you?" "I'm okay as well." Jill responded, continuing to eat. Chris gave her a nod, taking a large bite out of his sandwich, he was probably starving. After the morning he has seemed to have, she wouldn't be surprised if he hasn't ate yet.

She decided to break the ice. Break the awkwardness. Just make conversation overall.

"How long have you worked here?" "Almost a year now." Chris chomped down some chips. Jill scanned his face. He was attractive. Though, she'll never admit such. "I see. You like it here?" "I do, for the most part." Chris added on. "Other than that, it's a pain in the ass." Chris snorted. Jill let out a giggle, slurping up some noodles. "Oh yeah?" Jill bit down on some chicken. "Yeah, this job has its ups and downs, it's pros and cons... Eventually you just get over it and learn to manage and handle it." "I see, well, I think I enjoy it so far besides the amount of paperwork." Jill snickered, licking her fork.

"Thought you weren't going to show up to work today." "Oh?" "I just heard you miss work here and there." "Let me guess, Barry?" "Yep." Jill said, sipping her beverage. Chris scoffed, tossing his sandwich back into it's ziplock baggy. "I wish Barry would just keep to himself sometimes." "It's not that big of a deal though." "To you, sure, but he has not right to butt in on my life." "I get how you feel but I did ask him, I was curious." Jill hummed to Chris, her food was already almost gone. "I guess that's different." Chris sighed deeply, his eyes going from her to his food every so often.

The silence between them would last for a minute before they'd speak again. Oddly enough, Jill didn't mind the quietness. It felt rather serene. When other people are silent around her, it feels weird. The atmosphere feels icky. But with Chris, she just feels safe. It feels peaceful.

"Is your lunch good?" Jill questioned him, glancing down at his food. "Average, yours?" "Great. The Chinese food is good." "Oh yeah it is, sometimes I get it for lunch." "What do you usually order?" "God, it depends. Sometimes Mongolian Beef with Sesame Chicken and other days I'll get Noodles with Egg Rolls." "All of that sounds sooo good." Jill drew her words out, her mouth watering up again as she thought of all of the other foods he listed off.

"I plan to go to 'Jim's Crab' tonight, do you know if it's any good?" "Been there a couple times. Not the worst, not the best. I think it's just worse for me because seafood always makes me feel a bit sick." "Understandable." She responded, giving him a nod, her face having a smirk on it. "But hey, give it a shot Jill, maybe you'll like it." He gave her a quick smile. She had yet to see it. Barry said he rarely smiles. Did he lie?

Chris seems like an alright guy. Jill is still confused by what Barry and Brad meant. Maybe she still has yet to see it, she has only been here a day but the two of them made it seem like he was borderline verbally abusive. Does Chris just not like Brad or Barry? Or just Brad? Because from what she's learnt, Barry is a sort of father figure to Chris, there's no way he has any sort of resentment towards the man.

"Is the 'Moon's Donut's' spot any good?" "Fuck yes." Chris chuckled out, swallowing the last bit of his sandwich. "Jill, the food from there is heavenly, you should most definitely get some on your way to work tomorrow." Chris expressed, clear passion for the place. Jill couldn't help but snicker at his words. He seemed so jolly. "Maybe in my run this weekend I'll stop by and give it a go." "You go on runs too? No one else around here does." "Of course I do, I did back at my old place as well." Jill replied to Chris's surprised and surprising words.

She couldn't wait for her run. She'll toss in some earbuds, connect it to a cassette and begin her run. It's always so calming. It's sort of a way to relax the mind. All of her problems seem to dissipate when she's on the go. Her cardio gets pumpin hella quick. It's even better when it's cold out, she swears more and the second she gets home, she takes a nice hot shower. The contrast from the previous cold air makes it all the more better.

"I have a question, Jill." "Shoot it." Jill then shot him a look. "Wanna run together? I mean, this weekend, when you do? It's just nice to not always have to go alone. From time to time, me and Brad will but he's sometimes a buzz kill." Chris chuckled out to her. "Aw, well sure, I'd like that. I got to ask, how is he a buzz kill?" "Geez, he'll complain. Oh it's too hot, too cold, his feet hurt, body is sore... Just very annoying at times." "Yeah, sounds like it." Jill replied with a snort, beginning to put her food away. She didn't finish it all the way but their break is hitting the brink of being complete. Chris has already done the same.

"You're done?" "Yeah, it's almost 12:15 so I just wanna get back to the office, don't wanna be late my second day here." It was a good way of thinking, Chris thinks so. "Guess you're right." Chris also stood up, placing the strap onto his shoulder once again. "Walk together?" Jill said with a kind voice. Chris didn't say anything at first. Starstruck was what he was feeling. No one tends to even want to walk with him and now, someone is asking him? And it's Jill? Paint Chris surprised. "Sure." Chris nodded slowly, "Ladies first?" He stepped to the side, giving her room.

Jill giggled, stepping in front of him.

The two of them had a lovely talk on the way to their office.

#resident evil #jill valentine #chris redfield #valenfield #valenfield fanfiction #valenfield fanfic #chris x jill #jill x chris #re1 #re1 remake #albert wesker #barry burton #not a one shot #this is a series #tumblr fyp

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invisibleraven · 1 year ago

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🔹"It's damn cold out here!" Reggie and Anyone

"It should be E major."

Luke looked up from his guitar and smirked. "Oh so you know music now?" he asked Julie as she sat beside him.

"Well you do," Julie said with a shrug. "Plus my mom was a musician. So was I once upon a time."

"And now you're a graphic designer?" Luke questioned.

"When she died..." Julie stopped, smiling as Reggie appeared, laying an arm over her shoulder. "It was like music died with her. So I took to my other passion-art and design, made a career out of it."

Luke laid a hand on her knee, squeezing it. "Do you want me to stop playing then?"

Julie shook her head. "No, it was hearing your music... even when I didn't know where it was coming from that made me feel okay about it again."

"What about you Reg?" Luke asked. "You like music?"

Reggie looked up at the sky, the gentle snowfall catching on his eyelashes and hair. "My MeeMaw taught me piano and my Pops taught me how to shred on the banjo. I always wanted to learn bass, but we could never afford one. I play with numerators and quadratic equations more than instruments now."

"Weird how we all have some connection to music, but I'm the only one who made it a career," Luke commented.

"Maybe that's why we have this connection," Julie said with a hint of contemplation in her voice. "Other clusters may have another type of connection, or maybe they have nothing in common."

"Weird that we're all over the globe and can still have things in common," Reggie said, and then shivered. "But maybe we can head inside? It's damn cold out here!"

"Georgia boy," Luke teased with an eye roll.

"I'm in San Juan, so I'm with Reggie," Julie said. "Why are you outside in the middle of winter when you live in Canada?"

Luke shrugged. "I grew up here, it doesn't bother me as much. But I came to my family's cabin to get some writing done. Reconnect with nature, help get the creative juices flowing."

"Yeah until you get frostbite in your fingers," Reggie said. "Inside, or someplace warm."

"I think Willie is on a beach in LA," Luke offered. "Though Alex is actually there visiting, so who knows what they're doing."

"Let's go to mine, MeeMaw just made a pie," Reggie said, blinking out.

"Pie sounds good," Luke said. "See you there?"

Julie grinned. "Sure. Maybe we can get Reggie to take up the banjo again?"

Luke screwed up his face. "I'm not one for country music."

"Well you're stuck with us now, learn to love it," Julie replied, blowing him a kiss. "Race you to Georgia!"

Luke laughed as she disappeared, and though he was tempted to beat her there, he decided maybe it would be a good idea to visit while his body was inside. Not that he would ever admit to Reggie that he was finding it cold.

But the steaming peach pie did wonders in warming him up!

#filled prompts #ficlet #rukebox #peterpatterlina #sense8 au #julie and the phantoms

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dixonlvr-online · 2 years ago

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Day 4: Snowed in

Pairing: Pre-prison group x Reader (platonic)

Genre: Fluff, family

Summary: The group is snowed in at their current house. Reader suggests a festive game to lighten the mood.

A/N: So on this one I just wrote and didn't edit and had fun with it. Hope you enjoy :)

advent calendar masterlist

“Hey! Look at this!”

You followed Maggie’s voice down a long hallway, where she stood gaping at something in the master bedroom. Turning the corner, your jaw dropped. Carved into the wall was a walk-in closet full of the most outlandish and eccentric clothing you’d ever seen. Polka dots, neon, leopard print, cowboy hats, feather boas and more from floor to ceiling. This room was a living, breathing creature, the most lively one you’d seen in a while.

“Oh my god. This is incredible.”

Maggie nodded, still eyeing it up and down with a wide grin. “We need to show the others.”

Turning to do just that, you caught a glimpse at the window. That morning you’d all awoken to light snowfall, just enough to coat the ground and give you a pretty view. None of you were worried until Daryl pointed to the sky, claiming a snowstorm was about to hit.

“Nah. It’s Georgia. Ain’t gonna snow that hard,” was what Rick said. But now the window was solid white, flakes swirling so thickly you couldn’t see the tree line. You tapped Maggie’s arm to show her and the two of you shared a look. This’ll go over well.

Downstairs, Rick was pacing with his hands on his hips. He was the most motherly man you’d met in your life and it made you smile every time he proved it. His grumbles reminded you so much of your mother, it squeezed at your heart.

“Damn snowstorm…why the hell…for God’s sake…”

The rest of the group was standing around him, shuffling on their feet as they awaited his verdict. Only Daryl seemed unbothered, standing by the window and looking out. Your eyes lingered a little too long at the sight.

“Alright. We’ll stay until it clears up,” Rick announced, heads shooting up when he spoke. He turned to you and Maggie, having finally caught you creeping down the stairs. “Did ya see any extra blankets up there? Some warm clothes?”

You shared a knowing smile with her, picturing his reaction when he found out.

“Oh yeah. We found a whole closet full of clothes.”

An hour later you were all dispersed around the room, bundled up in your new coats (Rick had scoffed when he saw them and tried to pick out the least ridiculous ones, but some of them were still laugh-inducing). Daryl had refused to wear one, claiming “he didn’t need no ugly coat to get him by.” Lori had smiled for the first time in days when you handed her an oversized leopard-print fur coat.

The remaining food had been divided and eaten, no point in savoring what little you had. Now came the worst part of the end of the world: boredom. You sat next to Carol, staring at your boots and pretending they were in conversation.

What would you like for Christmas, Mr. Boot?

I don’t know, Mrs. Boot. What would you like for Christmas?

Well there isn’t much around here in way of presents. Maybe a nice new pair of laces.

Laces sound like a fine gift! But where will we find them?

You sighed, the make-believe talk only reminding you that the holidays were upon you with no chance of being celebrated. It was a bummer, truly. You loved the holidays, especially Christmas, and had been looking forward to celebrating at the farm. Now, with all the moving around and never having enough time or energy to do anything but sleep or eat, holiday spirit was the furthest thing from your mind.

You glanced at Carl, who was rolling his empty can back and forth on the floor. A sinking feeling hit your stomach, knowing that his youth would be wasted on death and pain. Knowing that he may never have Christmas again. No cookie baking, no decorating, no presents…

The thought struck you like lightning, excitement coursing through your veins. This area was a wasteland, where nothing shiny or intriguing enough to consider as a gift could be found. Not until now…

“Hey guys. I have an idea for something to cheer us up.”

All eyes were on you in an instant. That was something you’d realized quickly since this started: everyone had grown quieter and more attentive to others. “Something to cheer us up” was like rattling a food dish for a dog.

You stood up and walked over to Beth, who had been filling the time by writing in her journal. You pointed to it, silently asking permission. She handed it over without protest, too curious about your idea to question it. The room was silent as you scribbled on the page, lowering the pen when you finished and tearing the paper out. Everyone watched as you carefully ripped it to pieces, placing each fragment in an upturned can on the floor.

Grabbing it, you faced the others. Even Daryl was watching now, the anticipation spreading as you held up the can.

“Everyone’s going to draw a name from here. Whoever’s name you get, you’re going to go into the closet upstairs and pick out something ridiculous for them to wear all day. It can be anything, just make sure it’s silly.”

Faces were lighting up now, backs straightening as you explained the game. The human mind needed fun challenges such as this and it had been far too long since you’d had one. You only hoped it would serve to amuse.

“Wait, so we have to wear it all day?” Carl asked. You nodded, eyes narrowing at the mischievous smile on his face.

“Are we keepin’ it a secret until everyone’s got something? Or do we get our item and give it to the person immediately?” Maggie inquired.

You nodded once again. “Yeah, keep it a secret until everyone’s got something. Then we can hand them over all at once like Secret Santa.”

The energy in the room has increased significantly, you were happy to note, despite the game not having started yet. You held the can up to a skeptical Rick, who was leaned against the doorframe. Shaking it at him, he finally got the message and stuck his hand in, drawing out a slip of paper.

“Oh, wait, and don’t tell anyone who you got! It’s part of the surprise,” you added quickly. He nodded, discreetly reading the name and smiling to himself. A swell of pride hit you when you saw his lighten.

Next, you approached Daryl. He was staring at you in amused disbelief, a tiny smile on his face as he reached for a paper. Snorting when he read it, you once again felt a glow inside you at the joy this was bringing.

Once everyone had their papers, the game was set. Each person would have 5 minutes to choose something and stash it before their time was up. Then, when everyone had their items, you would all gather them and go around the circle presenting them.

That’s where you were now: in a circle on the floor. Everyone had giddily chosen their items, even trash talking to each other about how theirs was the most embarrassing of the bunch, no competition. You laughed uncontrollably when Hershel of all people came bounding down the stairs exclaiming how his choice was the best.

Seeing it all now, you had to admit his was a good one. He’d gotten Carl, he revealed, and had chosen a comically large Mickey Mouse style bow tie for him to wear. It was a treat watching him fasten it to the young boy, the weight of causing him to topple forward.

You’d gotten Glenn and picked out a cartoonish propeller hat from the rack, saying, “It reminded me of you!” He grinned and put it on confidently, flicking the propeller wings to make it spin. From that point on, not a minute went by where someone wasn’t spinning it from behind him.

In return, you were wearing giant sunglasses in the shape of alien heads from Carl. They made it nearly impossible to see, but you still caught a glimpse of Daryl’s smile.

He’d gotten Beth a heavy gold chain, which matched perfectly with Hershel’s gift from T-Dog, arguably the best one of all: a t-shirt that read “Certified Gangsta” in bold lettering. It was unanimously voted the “most fitting” choice.

Carol wore a color-blocked cat jacket from Glenn, which Daryl teased was blinding him. She’d gotten her revenge right after by presenting him with a western fringe vest, probably someone’s costume piece once upon a time. Instead of shedding his leather vest like you’d expected, he layered the new one on top of it, which was a hilarious sight. You’d insisted he let you feel the fringe, as it looked very texturally pleasing, but really you’d just wanted an excuse to stand closer to him. He didn’t seem to mind, taking the spot next to you without a word.

Rick and Carl sat beside each other, both sporting sheriff’s hats. Carl’s was a real one, Rick’s old one, and Rick’s was a brand-new one from Beth, incredibly over-decorated and fake-looking compared to the real one. He’d laughed when he saw it, which took many of you by surprise. You saw Lori’s eyes widen from under her devil-horn headband (from Maggie, whom you had a sneaking suspicion chose it based on her personal feelings for the woman). Lori had gotten her ironically, but had opted for a neutral ugly Christmas sweater. Maggie kept fidgeting with the itchy sleeves, though, so you guessed they were even.

Last but not least, T-Dog was entertaining you all with his terrible pirate impression, sporting an eye patch gifted by Rick. He’d gone back upstairs to search for a hook hand when he got it, but that was apparently the only thing the closet didn’t have.

You felt warm, despite the freezing weather outside. The snow had died down, giving you a beautiful view of white covering the ground and the trees. It was a winter wonderland in the middle of an apocalypse. Surrounded by people you’d grown to love, their laughter ringing in your ears, things didn’t feel so bad after all.

#twd x reader #found family #self insert #advent calendar #the walking dead #winter fic #daryl dixon x reader #rick grimes x reader #maggie rhee x reader

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zvlda · 2 years ago

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commissions open !

3/5 COMMISSION SLOTS AVAILABLE

FOLLOW @searph

tentatively opening up gif pack commissions again and temporarily closing up my suggestions. please check out my gif usage rules linked under the cut, also feel free to message me with any questions !

for more support, maybe you can buy me a ko-fi or buy a premium pack 💕

COMMISSIONS LIST

( SEMI-PRIV ) jacob elordi in various interviews !

( SEMI-PRIV ) antonia gentry in ginny and georgia, season 2 !

WAITLIST

( PRIV ) ewan mcgregor in phantom menace ! — waiting for downpayment

emma corrin in various interviews ! — waiting for downpayment

SUGGESTIONS LIST (v casually)

anya chalotra in the witcher

nhung hong in druck season 6 & 7

midori francis in the sex lives of college girls season 1

reign edwards in snowfall season 3

ON HOLD

björn mosten in love & anarchy season 2

elle fanning in the great season 2 & 3

usage rules / gifs tag / gif pack navigation / my ko-fi / payhip

#pinned !

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adelaidedrubman · 2 years ago

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i'd like to hear more about the johnjessie hallmark au :)c or even jenna and faith in the hallmark au whichever you feel more like doing (--direwombat)

THANK YOU BELOVED! sorry this took so long it got buried in my asks, but digging it back out in the spirit of the season. also apologies i got really carried away and did both and they’re both super long (partially bc i realize i’m running out of time to actually get anything written before christmas and still want the ideas Out There). DO NOT feel obligated to actually read any of this shit. also warning for sex and drug references on both. you know hallmark

so the johnjess hallmark au actually does in fact exist in full story form for anyone who would like to read it. the concept behind it was basically to be a fun little experiment in parodying and playing with genre conventions the characters don’t fit with, both general and fandom specific. but the basic outline of the story is:

takes place pre brothers reunion, whilst john is still john duncan and in midst of gentrifying his hometown. (play on the hallmark returning to your hometown thing).

in this universe jestiny’s family never moved from kentucky to north dakota when she was 17. and with the appalachian trail still in reach, she decides to blow the small college fund she’d built for herself on living her dream of hiking it instead.

she ends her journey in december in rome, georgia (this is technically ~70 miles away from where the appalachian trail ends irl, but it was close enough i decided to fudge it), wandering into a hotel that had previously (at the time jessie had started her hike) been a motel 6, but had since been torn down and replaced with a luxury hotel. and she doesn’t realize it’s christmas eve!

she knows she can’t afford the hotel, but asks to use the phone because she just wants to call her mom to wish her a merry christmas<3 she’s america’s sweetheart<3

the hotel owner (john, naturally) Takes An Interest, and offers her a free room and invite to an extravagant dinner in the spirit of christmas.

uh-oh! genre subversion time! jestiny is real life aware of how extremely predatory and disingenuous this all is and goes on a long winded diatribe dragging john for it and telling him he’s a selfish creep and no one will actually be thankful for anything he does ever and will only resent him and everyone like him.

he’s like “so true!” and gets a boner about that.

jessie explains to the reader she hasn’t gotten laid in 6 months due to the appalachian trail thing and will be meeting john for dinner.

they spend an hour or so verbally berating each other and being divorced. john pries into jessie’s actual reasons for avoiding her family and calls the dutiful daughter act out for the fraud that it is, possibly ambiguously admits to murder; jessie calls john out for gentrification while not actually knowing the word for gentrification (this was legitimately so annoying to write it honestly could have saved me 3k if she knew the word), calls him cringepathetic for needing to trick someone into having christmas dinner with him in the first place. somewhere in the middle jessie mentions she likes when it snows on christmas, john tells her he’s never seen that happen in georgia. they go back to fighting. it is not very hallmark.

they resolve to hatefuck.

on the way to do that they cut through the courtyard.

re-engage hallmark mode: just in time, it’s snowing! they pause the hatefuck to experience childlike wonder and share a hallmark moment kiss and sit out and watch the snow instead. (another fun fact i found out while researching is that rome, georgia did receive snowfall on christmas eve for the first time in over a century in 2010 — which is another slightly off for their timeline but close enough i could fudge it thing.)

to share new johnjess content with anyone who has read the original: i’ve also kicked around writing a morning after Christmas Day sequel to the hallmark fic proper but still just in the brainstorming stages because there’s a few different plots i’m considering. but here’s the possibility that’s been on the mind most. (and now that i’ve basically outlined it i feel obliged to go with this version…)

they wake up the next day sick as shit because they sat out in the snow (what did you think was going to happen idiots this isn’t a hallmark movie) and have to spend all christmas day in painsuffering because they wanted their romantic snow watching time. (and also realistically probably fucked raw in the freezing cold five minutes after the camera cutaway because they can’t engage gratification delay long enough to make it to a bedroom in any universe ever).

they still spend it together and attempt to take care of each other while bickering and dying.

jessie screams at john for suggesting they order soup via room service because she’s taking a definitely principled and not just contrarian stance that he’s satan for having anyone staffed on christmas day at all. she berates him and storms out of the bedroom and starts rifling around his cabinets.

he tantrums and yells and pouts by doing a line and chugging some scotch and storming out of the suite altogether to go for an angrywalk. it ends at the front desk and he (while visibly intoxicated) tells the kid at reception to go home, it’s christmas to Prove A Very Important Point to jessie. kid says it’s fine he doesn’t even celebrate christmas and john yells and tells him to shut up and start celebrating it because he’s spreading the christmas spirit.

scene of john trying to high and drunk and fever delirious work a minimum wage job for the first time in his life.

he (probably while ignoring guests) makes a series of angry phone calls to his own room to brag to jessie he’s working the front desk himself on christmas, while sick, he hopes that proves to he’s not the spoiled, helpless elitist she thinks he is.

she doesn’t answer, in his room or hers, which causes him to have a second freakout that she’s left entirely.

probably right as he’s in the middle of max panic tantrum and getting ready to throw the lobby christmas tree into the fireplace because this is his worst christmas ever and he no longer believes in the holiday season, jessie arrives and asks what the fuck he’s doing.

and she has soup! It Was All A Misunderstanding, jessie explains she was making homemade soup and didn’t answer the phone because she was trying to find where the fuck he was to give it to him.

john changes his mind again and decides this means the woman he’s known for twenty-four hours and spent most of those twenty-four hours fighting with is the love of his life and his personal Christmas Miracle after all.

they eat soup in front of the fireplace and cuddle.

cut to new years. jessie in fact never left the hotel and they’re still “happily” (you know. by their standards) together, dressed up at a party and just finishing up a regularly scheduled fight to share a midnight kiss!

the front desk kid from the scene before walks in and interrupts them to serve john with a religious discrimination lawsuit for demanding he celebrate christmas. fin.

AAAAAND i’m doing faithjen too because i do want to write them a hallmark fic too even though i probably won’t in time. same idea as johnjess, this is mostly parody and the absurdity of fitting the characters into the setting because they are Not A Hallmark Couple.

their hallmark au would start basically the same as their canon story though — jenna is a hardworking grad student who travels to the offbeat but picturesque rural paradise of hope county for an important project for her thesis, and finds herself increasingly charmed by its residents and smalltown values. (read: researching a cult and wants to stay there and continue studying them like bugs and starts helping them with unethical drug experiments too.)

also since it’s hallmark, rather than jenna and her previous girlfriend from california having broken up over six months before she ever left for hope county when her gf moved to nyc for art school, they’re still together and she’s the Evil Current Partner from the Big City.

cue opening scene phone call between jenna and Big City Gf (i’m sorry i never named her), gf is complaining jenna is still stuck in that Stupid Town and Nothing There is worth studying because it’s a Dumb Hick Town, she should just hurry up phone in her thesis and fly to new york in time for the Swanky Nondenominational Holiday Party. on the nose shot of jenna watching from the window of the chemistry lab as faith dance around barefoot in the snow outside and saying “i think there’s lots of interesting things to study here.”

end call. jenna continues to stare wistfully out the window as she injects someone with terribly painful experimental research chemicals.

she turns her attention back to the station where she’s producing the evil experimental research chemicals and does more science stuff, faith walks in and says she shouldn’t be working this late on christmas eve. jenna says she has to, chemistry has no holidays and matter changes at its own schedule she can’t just rush, the whole bliss batch would go to waste if she left now. faith says let it, there are more important things, playfully chastises jenna for not having christmas spirit and asks her to please come to the christmas eve gathering she and her brothers are having at john’s ranch. jenna considers it, gets a text notification from Big City Gf, then declines.

faith leaves disappointed and jenna gets back to work, but shortly after she does there’s an explosion at her lab station and she’s knocked out.

while she’s passed out, she has a vision in which she’s visited by Three Ghosts.

the first, the ghost of christmas past, who is a woman named lana she’s never actually met before, shows jenna the last few christmases she spent — writing journal articles alone in her apartment while Big City Gf parties. a woman named selena she’s also never met takes over to show her the last christmas she was happy, making christmas cookies with her sister.

the second ghost, the faith seed who jenna knows, shows her a vision of christmas present — the seed family at the ranch. they’ve gathered in the kitchen to see dinner was burned save for one dish. joseph gives a speech about how it’s alright, what really matters is that they’re together for christmas. they all dine on nothing but watery mac and cheese, but they’re happy. a christmas lesson.

the third ghost is one of the angels, who brings jenna to a church cemetery to see joseph officiating a funeral for an out of town scientist who died alone in her lab. a tearful faith sings a dirge, then places a bliss flower on a grave, which is — gasp, jenna’s! (and Big City Gf was too busy to come to the funeral…)

jenna is woken by faith shaking her to consciousness, asks what day it is you know the drill. faith says it’s christmas eve and explains she heard an explosion and came back in.

jenna tells her about the dream she had while she was passed out.

faith says it must have been a special christmas vision, given to her from a divine source to show her she needs to have faith in christmas. (actually that’s probably the fic title. have faith in christmas. ha.)

jenna says logically speaking she’s pretty sure it was the high volume sudden burst of gasses from the hallucinogenic drugs she was producing being released into the air. but it did give her an idea.

cut to montage of them going around town replacing all the regular mistletoe with bliss mistletoe to secretly dose people. ends with them reaching for the same doorway to hang blisstletoe in and ending up beneath it. hallmark kiss under the mistletoe fadeout. fin.

#SORRY FOR REAL THESE ARE SO LONG. if only i wrote my real fics.#otp: stop bothering these nice folks #otp: a neurochemical con job

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vampireninjabunnies-blog · 2 years ago

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🧣 for Esther?

You got it. It's mountain man time.

Esther could see her breath as she trudged through the snow behind Jacob. She wasn't used to the heavy snowfalls of Montana yet and hadn't thought to buy better clothes for it. All her winter clothes suited Georgia winters and we're frankly a bit threadbare. She was freezing but hated spending John's money and still hadn't wrapped her head around the idea that marrying him meant she wasn't poor anymore. So she followed behind Jacob the snow coming nearly to her waist on the trail of some stupid moose.

John was in Missoula handling something for the project. Keeping Joseph out of trouble no doubt or maybe Jacob. As much as she adored Jolene she was pretty sure none of the Judge wolves existed legally.

"You okay there kitten? Need a hand?" Jacob teased, grinning at her. A youthful playfulness lighting up his face that made him resemble John more than usual. Handsome in his own way despite his many scars.

She grumbled at him in response picking up the pace as best as she could. Resenting ever so slightly the ease in which his long legs allowed him to traverse through the snow. One of the few moments in her life she lamented being so damned short. She normally enjoyed it, especially when John would go out of his way to reach things for her or the way she could curl up with him and be completely wrapped up in his warmth. Not today though.

It had been her idea to join Jacob and his hunters. She was bored, a little lonely and she liked Jacob. His quiet, rugged demeanor reminded her of her brother Micheal. So when Jim had offhandedly mentioned that they'd be out hunting today she jumped at the chance to go. And if she was with Jacob she usually didn't have to worry about Joseph hovering about and getting on her nerves.

Hunting was generally something Jacob did with John not Joseph. She wanted to bond with her new siblings, hunting seemed a good opportunity to do so with Jacob and while John demanded she stay far away from Faith's activities, especially the flowers, they'd still managed to find common ground. In fact she was quite fond of her new sister. But she just wasn't sure how to connect with Joseph.

Jim signaled them up ahead pulling her from her thoughts. He pointed toward the large animal about seventy yards away. Jim began to ready his arrow when Jacob stopped him. Motioning to Esther.

"Let kitten give it a go. After all she wanted to come so badly." He was teasing again. She smirked at him, stepping just ahead of them and readying her bow. She waited patiently for the animal to raise its head and then loosed her arrow.

She grinned smugly at Jacob as he watched the animal go down, the arrow planted deeply in its left eye.

"Damn I didn't know you had that in you. We should drag her up here, make her a hunter." Jim called out as he made his way over to the moose.

Jacob looked at her, admittedly impressed. "John's shit with a bow, so where'd you learn that?"

"My daddy used to take me and my brother hunting. And I was on my college archery team. Champion three years in a row."

He laughed at the way she held her head when she spoke. Pride radiating off of her. Thinking that maybe John might have bit more than he could chew with this one. Jim stopped her when she went to retrieve her arrow, pulling out his phone.

"John's gonna want to see this. Let's get a picture before we call the other hunters to drag this big fucker up to the veterans center."

Jacob helped her hold it up by its antlers so Jim could get a good shot. Grinning just as broadly as she was.

When they finally got back to Jacob's truck Esther was shivering nonstop, her clothes nearly soaked through from all the snow. He made a mental note to tell John to get her some new winter clothes figuring she hadn't bothered to mention it. He waved Jim off to go make his rounds, pulling a big fluffy blanket out of a bag he kept in the back. As much as John seemed to enjoy hunting with him, he really was such a damn baby about actually roughing it. So Jacob always made sure he had as many creature comforts on hand as he could.

She'd already sat herself in the passenger seat, engine on and heater going full blast. Trying to warm her small hands. He wrapped the blanket around her, smiling as she almost disappeared in it, nothing but her grinning face visible.

"John will kill me if you get sick out here kitten. Let's get you home and in some dry clothes."

She nodded snuggling deeper into the soft warmth of the blanket, leaning over to rest on his broad shoulder. He hadn't been on the road back to Holland Valley for more than ten minutes before he heard her snoring softly, glancing down to see she'd fallen asleep. She was a lively one and she was sure to give them all a whole lot of trouble. But he liked her and was glad she'd found her way into their lives.

#oc:esther seed #jacob seed #oc:jim richards #fluff #our favourite mountain man #far cry 5 oc #oc asks

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fatal-iistic · 1 year ago

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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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