Work Text:
“Bravo 3-6, how copy?”
There was nothing but grain in response.
Your captain made another attempt for contact. “Would love to hear from you, Bravo 3-6.” It was unbelievably casual, something completely juxtaposing the morbid possibility of your death. The others tuned into the channel were a little surprised to hear that coming from the ever-serious Captain John Price. Maybe he was in denial, using light-hearted quips as a crutch. “Don’t tell me you died on me. Over.”
But it was all a warbled mess to you. Coming to, your lungs were smothered with dust and ash, desperately trying to grasp onto any oxygen they could get. The feeling in the back of your throat was a mix of ache and sting, worsened by each strangled cough. Your eyelids were too heavy to achieve anything more than a blurry peek, but it’s not like you could see anything anyway. There was darkness all around you, the only light being a little sun glinting between the rubble trapping you under.
After a struggle, you managed to lift your sore arm to your tactical vest. The button on your walkie felt harder to push than usual. “Could you r-repeat that, Captain?” you croaked. Your communication didn’t go unpunished, though. Your head pounded, the intensity mirroring a Category 5 thunderstorm.
You didn’t get it. Where did that explosion come from? You don’t remember any of the terrorists you were ordered to distract and snuff before they catastrophically launched one of the stolen missiles, destined for any one of your country’s booming metropolises, wearing any bomber vests. And it’s uncommon to have self-destruct buttons or booby traps in their hideouts, especially if it isn’t sheltering top-ranking members.
But there wasn’t time, nor energy, for you to think about that. What you needed was a medic, pronto , more precisely a hospital, but an examination and first-aid will have to do until you get there.
A smile parted the thick forest of a beard on Price’s face. He knew you’d make it. You were a tough soldier, always so resilient your entire career. You were no stranger to deadly risks, jumping head-first into at least one of those every mission you went on, much to the dismay of your captain. He’d warn you to ‘be careful’ and ‘use your head,’ as if he was a dad handing their giddy, newly-licensed teenager the car keys for a night out. It’s not like you were an adrenaline junkie; you just believed yourself to be a very capable person, and so did everyone else on your squad. However, this was the first time that lifestyle came back to bite you in the arse.
“Glad you’re still with us, Sergeant. Assuming you need a Band-Aid? Over.” Your captain flicked his fingers in the direction of your location approximately one kilometer away, commanding the rest of your squad to make haste through the arid landscape.
“Affirmative,” you rasp, wincing as you suddenly became aware of every scrape, bruise, and gash on your body. “A few of ‘em. Don’t kn-know ‘bout 4-6. O-Over.” ”
“‘S alright, we’re comin’ to get you. Sit tight, dove.”
It was so nice, having your boyfriend as your captain. Sure, it could get a little rough sometimes when you disagreed on something and had to follow his lead anyway, or when the little tiffs you were having at home followed you to base. But it was times like these where you were thankful he was here to comfort you and be leaned on like a hero. He was a superior you happily trusted with your life.
Your extraction went smoothly, as the explosion took care of the remaining enemy. Your comrades dug you out from the rubble and escorted you to the helicopter some yards away, which was far too loud for your sensitive, still-ringing ears. And sitting beside you was Price, firmly gripping your hand as his head hung low.
Back at the base you came from, you were transferred to a bed with a swiftness. Hooked up to a number of machines to monitor your vitals and administer drugs and fluids, the pain in your body outpacing the morphine, the only thing that kept your head up was Price. He didn’t let go of your hand, the entangling wire of the heart rate clip on your finger be damned. And seeing as your throat was still weak, he was quick to be your voice when you needed another blanket, pillow, or a cup of ice chips.
“Well done today,” he praised. You were stable now, no one else in the room but you two. At this point, you had regained your appetite, but not your strength just yet. So, your boyfriend gladly helped by spooning strawberry Jello into your mouth. “You’re just indestructible, aren’t cha?”
You smiled as you swallowed. The cool, slimy texture felt nice on your esophagus. “I guess so. Got pretty banged up, though.” Your eyes glanced up at the bandages wrapped around your head. You had some pretty bloody cuts but ultimately got lucky with a moderate concussion up there. “Gonna be out of commission for a while.”
“‘S fine. You needed a break anyway.” He scooped up more gelatin. “‘M thinkin’ we take a vacation once you’re all healed up.”
“Have anywhere in mind?” you asked, then opening up to receive the spoon.
“Not sure. Something tropical?” Price chuckled as he delivered the food. “Could fancy a cold cocktail on the beach right about now.”
As you chewed, you responded with a full mouth. “I’m down. I’ll go anywhere with you.”
Anywhere sounded better than this hospital bed in this stale base air. But even if you weren’t stuck here, you’d follow your life’s partner to the ends of the Earth. Well, you kinda do that already. Whatever base he’s moved to, you move there too. Whatever mission—foreign or domestic—he’s assigned to, you are too. You two are a package deal.
After a few days stuck resting in bed, you were checked out of the infirmary and shipped back to the U.S. There, back at your home base, you were allowed to roam as long as you took it easy. John still had some work to do, some documentation and paper-pushing. Neither of you wanted you to go home alone, for emotional and safety reasons. You had almost died ; of course, you wouldn’t want to be apart! And then, God forbid, what if your health went terribly awry, and he wasn’t there to help you?
So, until he was relinquished of his duties, you bounced between keeping him company in his office and hanging out with other members of Task Force 141—Soap, Ghost, and Gaz. They were plenty accommodating to you, helping you with your lunch tray when you didn’t need it, finding you a stool so you could join them as they trained. You had already been through a hard time, especially with the loss of your long-time partner Bravo 4-6 who was reduced to nothing but cinders, so they weren’t going to let you have another one.
As the days passed, you wondered about the accident again. It still didn’t make sense to you. There wasn’t even a warning from your enemy to your enemy to take cover. Perhaps they were just that dedicated to their cause? To sacrifice? Maybe they planned it, so they need not a warning. But still, according to your gut, something about it just didn’t seem right.
Thus, you decided to look into it. You didn’t want to bother Price about it, for he already had enough on his plate. Your health, the office work, planning your beach vacation. So, once he was snoring in your makeshift shared bed—two twin XLs pushed together—you tip-toed out of the room and snuck into his office. You’re sure he wouldn’t mind.
Oh, where to start? All along the walls were filing cabinets, each one with its own set of four densely-packed drawers. Besides sometimes leaving his dirty socks on the floor beside the couch, a product of getting comfortable right when he got home, you knew John to be a pretty organized man. So, you were right to assume there would be some sort of filing system. But still, it’d be a long night of sifting.
By the time you found the folder you were looking for, your fingertips stung a bit from the sheer number of papers you combed through, your fingers having walked along the top edges of the documents like a pair of legs. ‘2022-09-28’ it was labeled. The day of the mission.
Curiously, there was a big red stamp on the front of the folder that read ‘CLASSIFIED.’ That was common. Whenever you’d watch your boyfriend work, sitting in the armchair in the corner you’d worn in, you’d hear the thud of a stamp, glancing over to find those bloody letters stained into the paper. It was documentation of assignments and missions which were majority abroad or dealing with foreign threats, so of course, one would need clearance to view such sensitive information.
However, that didn’t really mean anything to you. You know that this was a bad thing you were doing, creeping into your captain’s office in the middle of the night and breaching the lax security of his filing cabinets. Hell, even holding the thin packet of papers in your hands was probably highly illegal. But you justified it by assuring yourself you had a right to read them; you were on that damn mission that nearly killed you. Plus, John wasn’t much of a stickler for rules, especially when it came to you. No , it wasn’t appropriate for you to be flirty or affectionate in front of others, and no , those two twin XLs weren’t supposed to be touching in the room meant for you and another comrade, which never got assigned. But you did those things anyway because nobody gave enough of a shit to report it, for you two had been together for years, long before Price became your captain. Your relationship technically wasn’t taboo. So, you got away with a lot of stuff.
This would be no exception. Well, maybe it was an exception, to the rules anyway. You simply shrugged and picked off that paperclip that bound and kept the documents from straying, breaking the seal you were never meant to even know about, let alone crack.
‘OPERATION LAMBS’ it was called. Hm, you didn’t know it had a name. But even larger than that text was the bold heading, ‘SECRET.’ That surprised you. Learning the information in this stack of parchment was a middle-tier security risk? Like, cause serious damage to national security type risk? What was significantly threatening about your run-of-the-mill terrorist faction elimination? Both sides are well-aware of the fighting between them. If anything, this should be classified as ‘CONFIDENTIAL,’ not ‘SECRET.’
But what do you know? You’re just a soldier that’s done what they’re told.
You shrugged again, a sigh accompanying it this time. God forbid, Price wakes up, notices you’re gone, and goes out looking for you, finding you on the floor of his office with a fucking prison sentence in your hands.
You didn’t really understand what you were reading at first; you don’t speak bureaucrat jargon. But there was an outline of the basics of the mission: who was a part of it, where it took place, why it was being executed. And one passage, in particular, did catch your eye. The one that detailed your and Bravo 4-6’s involvement.
The primary objective of this operation is to distract and annihilate the enemy by employing the element of surprise. Hostiles are in possession of a precious launch system linked to one of three stolen U.S. missiles captured by terrorist group Al-Qatala via Russian aid. Trusted intel claims that there will be a launch on September 28, 2022 before local sundown.
Soldiers Bravo 3-6 and Bravo 4-6 are to infiltrate the target building, draw attention away from the launch, and eliminate any suspected members of Al-Qatala on sight. To ensure the threat is terminated and thus prevent the launch of the missile on a civilian population, explosives will be placed, unnoticed, on the exterior corners. Detonation will be synchronized and succinct, crumbling the weak structure instantly and crushing those inside. The planned, noble sacrifice of unaware Bravo 3-6 and Bravo 4-6 is a critical element in achieving the mission’s overall success and demonstrates the lengths to which soldiers are willing to go to fulfill their duty of protecting our nation.
And at the bottom was the oh-so-familiar signature of your boyfriend, your soulmate, Captain John Price.
Baffled, you read it over and over again. It couldn’t be true. There’s no way Price actually approved of your death, signed it away like the back of a check. Maybe you missed a sentence where it said that this operation was scrapped. Maybe the date on it was wrong, and this was referring to a different Bravo 3-6 and 4-6. Maybe you were making all of this up, your brain foggy from the concussion and tired from it being past midnight. Fuck, maybe this was all a dream and, in just a moment, you’d wake up in that pair of twin XLs next to snoring Price.
But a pinch didn’t do a trick, and neither did a fourth thorough read of the document. Your captain, but more importantly your life’s partner, had signed off on a plan to sacrifice you in an implosion and didn’t even warn you before you got too deep into the building, as if you were an old dog getting put down at the vet thinking it was a routine check-up, unaware of why its owner was crying and why it was being approached with a needle. He was in that helicopter with you on the way to the target, fully expecting you to perish under boulders, your bones shattered, your head caved in, and your heart squashed. Or maybe it wouldn’t have been instant, and you’d lay there pinned under the cement in total agony as you’re plunged into your own lake of blood, slowly fading away amidst the lowering temperature of your body and the overwhelming burn of pins and needles as you’re drained dry. And even worse, he sat in that hospital with you, holding your hand and spoon-feeding you like he didn’t put you there. Then, he offered to spoil you with a vacation, the guilt so strong, yet you didn’t even realize it.
“‘ Noble ,’” you scoffed, folding up the paper to take with you. You’d seen enough here. “Lying ain’t so fuckin’ noble.”
You slammed the door shut to the office, the leftover papers lain strewn on the floor for Price to clean up. There was no reason to hide your crime now; you were going to take this evidence straight to your quarters and confront him about it. It didn’t matter if you got reported ‘cause all you could see was red. You couldn’t care less if you went to prison. You were done . Done with this base. Done with your service. Done with Price.
You didn’t even take a deep breath before you entered the room. Didn’t need one. You were going to give him everything you got. Every strong ounce of fury you were feeling, raw and gnawing at your stomach, until you used up all of your adrenaline. Evident by your service, your instincts were to fight , not freeze or flee in the face of danger and injustice. And you were trained to do it well.
The door flung open, the knob banging an indent into the wall. Your boyfriend startled awake, ripped from his slumber so deep he choked on his snore and his hair was messied by the pillow, only able to be seen with the light that poured in from the hallway.
“Fuck, Y/N!” he gruffed, sitting up straight. The blankets fell from his bare chest into his lap, and he shielded his eyes from the blinding light with his hand. “What’s going on?”
You, on the other hand, were blinded by rage and didn’t bother shutting the door. The whole base could hear for all you cared.
“You fuckin’ tell me!” you shouted as you stormed up to the foot of the beds. “‘Planned, noble sacrifice’?! Are you fucking kidding me?”
Price was so tired he didn’t connect the dots at first. All he heard was yelling. “What are you talking about?” he said in that husky voice you used to love waking up to each morning. Now, assuming he was using it to lie to you, you utterly despised it.
“Don’t give me that! You wanted me among the casualties! You tried to fuckin’ kill me, John!”
Casualty. You hated that damn word. Even though you were a soldier, someone very familiar with death and groomed to spread it in the name of fighting evil and doing ‘what’s best’ for your country, you still valued life. It felt immoral to call a result so destructive a word whose first six letters meant nonchalance; war was gruesome. You didn’t like seeing innocent bodies who were in the wrong place and at the wrong time and caught stray bullets, their loved ones sometimes kneeling over the massacre, so distraught that they didn’t care if they got struck too. You didn’t like neutralizing brainwashed kids with machine guns in their hands, believing what they were putting their lives on the line for was right. And you didn’t like having to choose between saving one and saving many, always favoring the latter. But something deep down inside you, as selfish as it is, wished that he would’ve chosen you over wherever that missile would’ve landed. That he was one of those guys who would see the world burn if it meant keeping you forever. But he didn’t, and he wasn’t, and that was a tough pill to swallow.
You hated that damn word, but it felt appropriate to use here because he was so unfazed by your death. Your disappearance from this base and from his life.
You continued, throwing the folded paper at his face as you said, “I didn’t sign up for this! You lead me to a damn slaughter!”
It hit his nose and dropped onto his thighs. Price picked it up and unfurled it, seeing the dreaded ‘SECRET’ and ‘OPERATION LAMBS.’ “But you did,” he countered, staring at the text. “You did sign up for it. You took an oath, and so did I.”
You stared at him wide-eyed, mouth agape. He really just said that. With the apologies you’ve received from him in mind—like that one time he argued with you about an outrageous credit card bill you racked up from a day at the mall (an act of self-care after a particularly rough mission), and then after a day of not talking to each other practically groveled with the way he hugged you and kissed your neck as he murmured a sorry—you were expecting him to give one. A good one, at that. But he didn’t. He was completely unsympathetic, and that infuriated you more than you thought was possible.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not, nor should you be with sensitive documents, Y/N,” he replied sharply as reached over your side of the joint bed and thumped the paper onto the nightstand. “You know you could go to jail for that, hun.”
You scoffed. “Fuck you. I give as little of a shit as you did when you signed the damn thing. Wasn’t it only just recently that we were talking about settling down? What a joke.”
“Look, you know just as well as me that I can’t make exceptions for you out in the field. At home, you are my first priority. But here ? When I’ve got my badges and my uniform on, I am your captain, and you are my sergeant. My duty is with the nation, not you. That’s what we signed up for, being on the same squad.”
He was right, and you hated him for it. You hated the whole fucking world for it—even yourself. You thought that this whole Price being promoted to captain thing wouldn’t be an issue. That you could continue this fun opportunity of traveling across borders together and being side by side in combat. You turned down the option of either of you being assigned to a different squad, and now you learn that was so stupidly naive. By your own admittance, war was gruesome, and it didn’t leave room for two lovers to enact some kind of partner-in-crime-like fantasy.
You didn’t know how to exactly respond to him without making yourself out to be a fool. Your heart was shattered, obliterated like it would’ve been in Urzikstan a handful of days ago. You had a right to be upset, though, didn’t you? Didn’t your love go beyond duty?
The fact is, you weren’t cut out for a relationship with him. Not going forward, and from not the moment he asked you to be exclusive. This situation was always a possibility, but you thought the rules didn’t apply to you, that tragedies happened to other people you didn’t know existed until they showed up in news headlines. You were dumb to be so optimistic, especially for someone in the military. You’re always supposed to expect and prepare for the worst.
“Wasn’t there another way?” you asked, tears of anger and sadness threatening to crown. “Couldn’t you have sent someone else, at least?”
Price sighed. “The operation needed those with bravery and good aim, someone who could distract for long enough and wouldn’t die before the bombs were placed.”
“Doesn’t Ghost have good aim? Or Soap? Or Gaz?” It pained you to offer your friends’ lives up like that, made you feel like absolute garbage , but you really wanted to know. Why were you chosen when there were far better soldiers out there? Soldiers that your boyfriend would be mournful of, sure, but soldiers who ultimately wouldn’t have an effect on your life together.
He swallowed, his mouth unrelentingly dry. “They do, but…”
“But what?” Your voice cracked as you tried holding yourself together. You knew what he was going to say, and it made you want to vomit all over the sheets. Your breath was quivery as you debated whether you wanted to hear the truth for a minute. You demanded, “Say it, Price.”
“They aren’t replaceable,” he confessed. His eyes averted yours. “They’re good men. Valuable to the team and–”
“And I’m not,” you stated plainly and harshly, finishing his sentence. “I’m expendable. Both in your personal life and work life.” It was silent, and you broke it up by exhaling, “ Wow. Just wow…”
“I’m sorry,” he attempted to soothe.
“ No ,” you interjected, your throat tight as your body prepared for a proper sob. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t even mean it.” As your eyes began to cloud, you turned your head to look at the wall to your right where your dresser stood, one of the drawers holding some of Price’s socks and boxers so he didn’t have to go to the end of the hallway as much. “God, I can’t even look at you.”
“Y/N–”
“I’d say you deserve to have gone with Bravo 4-6, but you probably would’ve liked that, you asshole. You have to be a hero, don’t you?”
“Don’t act like it didn’t hurt to sign off on,” John gritted. “You think I don’t love you? Like you said, I wanted to settle down with you.”
“I’m not so sure about that anymore.”
Your voice was breathy as a tear finally slid down your cheek. You felt that if you were any louder, your throat would close up and your words would come out as a bawling, gurgled mess. You had to keep yourself together, show him that although you would be quitting, you were still a strong soldier he lost in the incident.
“But,” you added as you backed away from the beds. Those stupid twin XLs. ‘ Can’t make exceptions for you’ my ass… “What I am sure about is that you’ll find someone new, someone better. Like you said, I’m replaceable. Maybe the next one won’t be.”
“C’mon, Y/N,” Price drawled. “Don’t be like that. Let’s talk about this.”
You wiped your wet face with the back of your hand. “There isn’t anything left to say. I’m done, John. Report me for snooping in your office. Report me for desertion. I don’t care. I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back. You can stay here until I pack all my shit and move out of the house. You’ve got paperwork to push anyway.”
There was no fighting you on this. There was no relationship left to salvage. You were set on leaving everything behind because you had a new lease on life. His dove wanted to fly away, and if he loves it enough, he’s gotta let it go and be free. Fuck, that’s why he enlisted, didn’t he? To protect freedom?
With one hand, the man pressed his temples with his fingertips, circling them a little from the stress and fatigue. “No, you can keep the house. I’ll move.”
But to you, dove, that house was your birdcage. You couldn’t be trapped there, stay there and be reminded of him no matter where you’d look. On the walls would be art that you two picked out together to liven up the gray paint. Upon the floors would sit heavy furniture he helped carry in, especially the couch where he’d leave his wretched socks to get cozy with you under the blanket. In the cabinets would be the plates you ate off of together breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The bed was tainted with his scent, and so would be his empty closet. The TV was one he hooked up, and the lightbulbs in your many lighting fixtures were his responsibility to change, and so was mowing the grass and pulling the weeds in your quaint front and back yards. You don’t know if the small home was worse than having a big one, because you had nowhere to run within its four cramped walls.
“No, I told you I’m done with you.” You turned around, a few steps away from entering the hallway. “Get some sleep, John—if you can,” you said, noting his temple massage and the raspy tired voice that still remained. “I wouldn’t be surprised. If you could handle approving the mission, I’m sure you can handle being dumped. If not, I suggest counting sheep—or lambs.”
Before he could say anything, even though it’s not like he could come up with a valuable response, you took off. You left the door open, forcing him to have to do a walk of shame if he wanted his precious sleep. Striding down that hallway, you didn’t look back, not to see if he closed it and not to see if he was chasing you. It didn’t matter. What did was living life for poor 4-6 who couldn’t and thanking God for helping you realize before it was too late that the people you couldn’t trust weren’t just behind enemy lines, they were on home turf, literally in your own backyard.