Archive of Our Own

Dragons were an insular, reclusive species.  Hunts of old drove them to the brink of extinction, leaving the few remaining clans with a well earned wariness, if not outright fear, of the world at large.  They stayed hidden, either far from prying in the wildest regions of the world or in plain sight.  Most of the rest of the world knew very little about them, aside from the sparse rumors and folklore that remain from days of old, and the clans were happy to keep it that way.  The less the outside world meddled in their affairs, the happier they were.

That said, one thing was well known and documented about dragons: possessiveness was written in their blood.

Soap knew this all to well, having been on both the giving and receiving end of such possessive instincts throughout his childhood.  He’d been trapped in a nest by overbearing parents for well into his teenage years.  Bloody scraps over silly things - toys and space and attention - in childhood left a younger him patches of missing scales and more than a few missing teeth.  Jagged scars, faded silvery-white with age and time, lingered along his skin as a road map of a bumpy, awkward, hormonal adolescence filled with fangs and claws and jealous rage.  One cut from his forehead through his eye, a gift from his oldest sister’s horn after a brutal fight over something he can’t even recall anymore.  Another circled the ball of his right shoulder, a reminder of his youngest cousin’s fangs needle sharp and vicious when he’d dared go for seconds at a family dinner.  The reminder of deep gash, still fresh looking even after all these years, tore through his stomach, a harsh and unforgiving blow from his mother after one too many times on the receiving end of his razor sharp tongue.  Dragons were not the kindest of families, not if you wanted your hatchlings to survive to adulthood.

Survive he had.  Thrived, on the other hand, not as much.

He’d left the wide open skies and rolling green hills of his clan long ago, desperate to sate the itch under his skin to find a place only his.  One that didn’t reek of age old resentments and lingering anger.  One that he didn’t need to walk on eggshells at all times, fearful of triggering a roaring, screaming fight that echoed across the Scottish wilds and shook the very earth.  One that he didn’t need to share with sisters and brothers and cousins, without an inch of room to stretch his wings.  He knew he wouldn’t be able to leave quietly if they’d known, if he’d given even the slightest inkling of the burning desire to run that ran rampant through his veins.  Dragons did not love quietly and did not let go easily, even if that love was a broken, tangled mess of rotted affections.  So he said nothing, packed a bag in the dead of night and disappeared into the unknown.

Sixteen, alone, and entirely unprepared, John had never felt as alive as he had standing at a dingy bus station that night, staring into the vast abyss of stars overhead.  He was free.  He was free.

He wondered sometimes if they thought of him.  If there was any fondness left in his parents’ eyes, any good memories remaining in his siblings’ minds.  Or perhaps he’d been scrubbed clean, deemed a traitorous blight on their tightly-knit clan tree and pruned with vicious efficiency.  But what was done was done, and John MacTavish had made his choice.  And he did not regret.

Joining the military, like most things in his life, had been an impulsive, spur of the moment thing.  It wasn’t the smartest thing he’d done, not by a long shot, especially given what he was.  The military made it no secret that not all of their ranks were entirely human.  Anything to give them that edge, that sliver of ground to overcome unbeatable odds, was an asset they could use.  The risks of non-human soldiers were vastly outweighed by the rewards.  That said, it wasn’t as though all non-humans were as preferable as others.  And dragons, John knew all too well, were an unpredictable, compulsive, risky sort.  That same possessive streak that ran deep in all of them, the very thing he was running from, could tear a soldier apart.  

You don’t join the armed forces with the thought that you get to keep anything.  It was war.  War took and took and took, uncaring of the carnage it left behind.  Everything was temporary, everything was fleeting.  John took one look at that, the weightless uncertainty, the danger, the thrill, and dove headfirst off the cliff.

It wasn’t hard.  Dragons had been hiding for so long, concealing himself had been second nature.  Pulling back claws and fangs and scales and wings to hide beneath skin was almost easier than leaving them in the open.  If his eyes shone with something a little wrong, a little wild and fiery, no one ever paid enough attention to notice.  He knew how to talk without saying anything at all, how to attract attention without letting it linger, how to walk the line between memorable and obscurity.  He dug his claws deep into basic, wrangling with those draconic compulsions and instinctive urges the whole while.  He was friendly, but not too friendly.  He was skilled without being unnaturally skilled.  He flew just enough under the radar to shake off suspicion and made a name for himself, from the ground up, all through hard work and dedication.  John MacTavish became Sergeant Soap MacTavish, demolitions expert and elite operator.  Deadly, skilled, human Soap.

He made friends easily, but never let them get too close.  Acquaintances, colleagues, companions: words that made his insides shrivel with the wrongness of them but the only ones he could allow himself to use.  Anything else was too risky.  

Catching the attention of one Captain John Price was not something he’d ever expected, nor anticipated.  He’d heard rumors of Task Force 141, an elusive, an exclusive squad that did what no man or monster could, that bent and broke the law to do what was necessary, that the devil himself feared.  All of them exceedingly skilled, all of them wickedly dangerous. And all of them entirely human.  Soap had been captivated by them from day one.  (Those old, dormant desires stirred in his chest, like the first kindling sparks of a wildfire he desperately tried to stamp out.)  

When he’d received an offer to transfer, to join them and fight along side them, he accepted with only the slightest of hesitation. Because a task force like the 141 was different from the squads he was used to.  It was small, close knit, and personal.  Living together, working together, existing together in a way that far exceeded what he had grown used to.  A recipe for disaster.  A rope to tie his own noose to hang himself with.

It was a bad idea.  A stupid, dangerous, terrible idea.  The worst he’d had since signing on the dotted line all those years ago.  He should have run as far and as fast as he could in the opposite direction, put Price’s stern but kind eyes and deep, warm voice far behind him.  Told himself it was a good try, and left before he was in too deep.  Before he couldn’t pull himself out of a hell of his own making.  But never let it be said that John MacTavish was a wise man.  He was who he was, and he craved danger and thrill and freedom like a high. His choice was a forgone conclusion. He accepted Price’s offer with a cocksure grin and a firm handshake, and sealed his fate forever.

These days, helicopters were the closest thing to flying that Soap experienced.  His wings, locked away behind the iron chains of his glamor for so long, twinged with bone-deep strain when he felt himself lift off the solid ground and into the sky above.  Military bases were sardine cans at the best of times, and there was little relief to be found in the crowded barracks and cramped quarters for even human soldiers.  Privacy was a luxury few could afford, so Soap had gotten used to the aching tension between his shoulder blades and the itching along his gums long ago.  

Sitting in the belly of this helo, though, surrounded by the low chatter of the other soldiers and the hum of the rotors, the gnawing, restless feeling flooding his limbs was unrelated to the strain of keeping himself hidden.  Fingers drumming on his bouncing thigh, thoughts moving at a million miles a second, he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around everything.  That this was real.  That he was actually doing this.  That he was stupid enough to even go through with it.  

It wasn’t that hard to hide himself in the SAS, but it was made much easier by having other non-humans around him.  If he did something odd or strange for a human, it could be waved off as a byproduct of living in such close quarters with “monsters”.  A stray snarl or growl was a quirk picked up from the werewolves.  A strong tendency to keep his things close might be a result of a fae’s penchant for “borrowing” anything they liked.  An aversion to strong, cloying chemical smells could be explained away as a habit picked up from living so close with vampires.  

But in a team of only humans… there were bound to be slip-ups.  Humans might not have the strong senses that other non-humans had, but they were pattern seekers by nature.  They made connections.  And if he wasn’t careful, they’d see right through him.  Mistakes would be made, guards would be let down, and he would find himself on the wrong end of the might of the military bureaucracy.  A discharge would look like a slap on the wrist to what he knew would await him should his little ruse come crumbling down.

He had no questions that there were tapestries of strings Price had pulled to get him onboard, to even offer him this chance in the first place.  It was no easy feat to get him in this quickly, even for a soldier as decorated and proven as Soap.  He knew he owed it to the Captain to keep himself in check.  To wind those chains tighter, to make sure the locks held and his raging, roiling instincts never left the darkness of his own head.  He could do this.  He had to do this.

As the helo descended, he took a long, deep breath in, held in for a count of five, and slowly let it out through his nostrils.  The wheels touched the tarmac, and Soap locked the last little bit of niggling fear down.  He couldn’t afford to show anything but that surety, that tenacity that Price had seen and seemingly admired in him.

He stood in a smooth movement once the pilots gave the all clear, and slung his heavy duffel over he shoulder.  Waving them a thankful goodbye, he dodged the stumbling, airsick soldiers around him and ducked out of the door into the crisp, cool air of the English countryside.  The sky above was a typical bright shade of gray, with the tang of a coming rainstorm on his tongue.  Gunpowder and smoke filled his lungs, heavy and thick in the air.  He still remembered his first time stepping onto a base, head spinning and lungs seizing from the sheer amount of smells and tastes assaulting him from all sides.  Now, he was used to it, striding casually away from the idling helo.  The airfield before him was like every other.  An intricate grid of asphalt and gray concrete, covered by helicopters, planes, and other personnel transports.  Soldiers darted to and fro, uncaring or unconcerned about his arrival.  All except one.

Captain John Price looked the same as he had weeks prior, when he’d accepted Soap’s decision with a warm smile and a firm grip on his hand.  Even the damn hat was still there, the edge fluttering slightly in the wind.  Hands clasped behind his back, he watched the others exit the helo with passive, professional disinterest.  Once his heavy gaze landed on Soap, though, that carefully blank look brightened with something Soap couldn’t quite name.  He didn’t let his steps visibly falter at the change, merely used the slight hitch in his stride to pull his bag higher on his shoulder and offered a grin and an outstretched hand to the Captain.  His Captain.

“Sergeant MacTavish.  Good to see you in one piece.”  Price’s mustache twitched slightly in what Soap could only guess was happiness.  He grasped Soap’s hand with the same firm hold as the last time.  Like nothing short of a nuclear blast could move him if he didn’t want to be moved.

“Not for lack of trying, Captain.  I don’t know where they found some of these kids, but its like they’re trying to do the enemy a favor.”  Soap’s grin had a sardonic edge to it, grimacing at the memory.  He wished it was a lie, but the echoes of a blinding headache from the last attempts at demolition training still haunted him.  The twitch on Price’s face edged into a real smile, wrinkling the corners of his eyes just slightly.

“Well, lets hope they don’t miss you too much back there.”  He released Soap’s hand and took a step to the side, motioning towards the base behind him with his head.  “How’s about we get you settled in before we bring you up to speed, yeah?”

“I won’t say no to that, sir.”  Soap rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen some of the ever-present tension laced along his spine.  Even without the strain of keeping himself contained and in control, military transport never prioritized comfort over utility.  The few hours he’d been in the air had been more than a little rough on his aching body.  He settled in step just behind Price, trying his best to put the layout of the base to memory.  There was only so much his travel-fatigued mind could keep stored, but he wanted to at least make an effort.  

It didn’t help that the maze of identical corridors, hallways, and rooms blended together.  The wash of gray, beige, and white blurred in Soap’s eyes, nearly making him dizzy.  The throb in the back of his skull, usually a low, pulsing ache, intensified with every step.  He tried his best to latch on to Price’s voice, who was speaking at a low, steady pace as he guided him through the complex.  The rough timbre washed over him like a balm, and he let the actual words slide right off his mind.

He was so lost in the even cadence that he almost didn’t notice Price had stopped walking, staring at him with a confused, concerned look.  The warm, gentle fuzz in Soap’s head drained away, replaced by a buzzing anxiety.  Not even an hour on base, and he was already fucking up.  He needed to pull himself together.

“Sorry, sir, didn’t quite catch that.”  He grimaced at the gritty tone of his voice, the words nearly lodging himself in his sandpaper throat.  

“It’s no problem, Sergeant.  I figured you’re probably wiped from the trip, so you have the rest of the day to get yourself rested and ready.  The rest of the team is meeting at my office tomorrow at 0800, and I expect to see you there bright and early.  This here is your bunk.”  He idly gestured to the plain white door before them, SGT MACTAVISH printed in stark black letters on the nameplate affixed to the wall just next to it.  

“Ah, right.  I appreciate that, sir.  Better get everything in order before any roommates come calling.”  He barely choked down a wince behind a wry smile.  It was bad enough trying to get himself ready to meet the rest of the team, he didn’t want to think about whichever poor sods he was stuck bunking with for the foreseeable future. 

Price gave him a considering look, eyebrows raised in what Soap could only call amusement.  “No need to worry about that.  It’s all yours.”  The smile hidden behind the mustache returned.  “Special perk of the 141.”

Soap blinked owlishly at Price, unsure if he’d heard correctly.  Price shook his head with a snort, laughter shining in his dark eyes.  A heavy hand landed on Soap’s shoulder, squeezing the muscle just slightly.  Even through the layers of clothing, Soap felt the touch like a brand.  His skin tingled and itched, not unlike his desire to shift but entirely different.  It was more.  Deeper.  All encompassing.  A breath caught in his throat, his awareness tunneling until all he could see, feel, or think about was that hand.  

After a long moment, Price let go and Soap forced himself not to chase after the touch.  A quick movement from Price’s other hand nearly had Soap cross-eyed before he managed to fumble and catch whatever it was that was thrown at him.  The cool touch of metal against his fingertips and the blunted bite of teeth in his skin shocked him out of his daze just enough to watch Price turn on his heel and stroll back into the sprawling base.

“Get some sleep, Sergeant.  I need you at your best in the morning,”  He called over his shoulder, leaving Soap standing alone in the hallway.  Adrift and unmoored.

The keys in his hand were the lightest and heaviest thing he’d ever held in his grasp.   Something to be treasured and something to be wary of.  They were the answer to every question still lodged in his brain, a puzzle he wasn’t sure he’d ever solve, a tantalizing gift dangling over an endless abyss.

“Yes sir.”  He spoke into an empty hallway, his voice raw and barely a whisper.  The iron lock around his chest stayed shut tight, but the chains it held closed were chipping.  Cracking.  Straining under the weight of a steady, confident hand and scrutinizing gaze.  He let out a long, stuttering breath, desperately willing his racing heart back under control.

He was absolutely fucked.

Hoards were a tricky subject for a dragon.  There’s no rhyme or reason as to what exactly one might end up hoarding.  The urge snuck up on them without warning, sending their lives careening into some new, unknown direction.  Sometimes, it was the classics.  Precious metals and jewelry, things that sparkle and shine, the typical picture of a dragon’s most valued objects.  Sometimes, it was something more unusual.  He’d heard stories of dragons hoarding spoons, or parrots, or even pebbles.  Soap’s aunt had gathered hundreds of maps in her tiny cottage he’d visited once as a child, some old and valuable, some cheap and flimsy, all with that something that called her name and urged her to keep them close.  

One constant in every dragon’s hoard, however, that no one on the outside knew about, were the people.  Hoardfolk.  A secret that the entire species would take to their graves, a dragon’s people were beyond a regular hoard object.  They were the cornerstone, the lynch pin, the heart, the thing that the rest of the hoard was meant for.  Without the people, the objects were meaningless.  The objects were meant for the hoardfolk, meant to show the dedication of the dragon to them.  Dragons were covetous creatures, jealous and greedy by nature, and it was all too easy to latch on to people and hold.  

Soap knew what that was like.  Knew how stifling, how restrictive it was to be that person.  He had never been any of his clanmates’ cornerstone, let alone their hoard-heart. He had always been on the peripherals of even his parents’ hoard, but he had seen the way such a relationship could so easily turn from bliss to sepsis.  Possession bled to resentment, poisoning the whole from the inside out.  A rotting heart, beating away with no cure and no way of going back.  He refused to be the one trapping, let alone trapped, so he kept himself apart.  Kept those sticky, sickly sweet strands of affection (or obsession) from tangling around anyone.  Not only to protect them, but to protect himself too.

Standing in the sparse room, smaller than any he’d been assigned before but somehow all the more spacious, Soap felt a seam in his rib cage fracture.  A hairline crack along the bone where that oozing, tar-thick feeling dribbled out in slow, sticky lines.  A room of his own.  He’d never had that before.  Not even back before the army, in a house tucked away in the wilderness.  A place that was his.  Only ever his.  With his name on the wall and a lock on the door.

He tried to slap a bandage over the crack as he unpacked his meager belongings.  A pathetic attempt at a field dressing as he worked.  Sooner than he would have liked, it was done.  All of his life that had been packed in a standard issue duffel bag was scattered across his den his room the room.  The only thing that could have possibly made this room stand out from all the countless others across base was the small, battered, leather bound book sitting on top of the plain wood desk tucked into the corner.  

A journal.  His journal.  An impulse purchase in his younger years, it had traveled with him from continent to continent, gathering scratches and stories alike. The only thing Soap had ever let himself keep as his hoard.   Not only the book itself, but the scattering of colors and smudged graphite across the pages inside.  A collection of memories, his and his alone, made tangible on stained paper.  He ran careful fingers across the beaten cover, lips twitching up just slightly.  He knew it was a pathetic excuse for a hoard, at least by most dragons’ standards, but he had never claimed to be like most dragons anyway.  

Even though he’d gotten Price’s go ahead to relax, he couldn’t find it in himself to let his guard down just yet.  He had no reason to believe the Captain would pull the rug out from under him, but the crawling suspicion kept him wound tight.  There was no reason that this could be true.  That this could really be his.  His eyes danced between the dirty cracked window, the darkened doorway into what he thought was an en-suite bathroom, and the bare white face of the door to the base beyond.  Closed.  Not that it could ever be enough to keep anyone out if they were determined to force their way inside.  His ears strained for the sounds of pounding feet and jeering laughter outside.  But nothing ever came.  Aside from a rare creak of a distant doorway or the low rumble of far off conversation, it was quiet.  Calm.  Not quite peaceful, never on base, but a close approximation.  

With each ticking second of quiet, the tension pulled taut between Soap’s shoulder blades loosened a fraction.  His white knuckle grip on a hidden combat knife eased.  He heaved a heavy sigh as he let himself fall backwards onto the thin mattress, scrubbing a hand across his face.  As the tension and anticipation eased, the ache he’d been ignoring slammed into him full force.  His eyes drooped with leaden weights.  Fuck, he was exhausted.  More exhausted than he’d felt in a long time.  He was all too thankful that Price had given him the rest of the day to get his bearings now that he was alone.

He gave a quick glance to the still closed door, as if someone was lurking beyond just waiting for him to let himself grow careless.  Leave himself vulnerable.  But the more he waited, the harder it was to resist.  It had been so long since he’d had a moment to himself.  A palatable sense of not quite safety, but of security enough to let himself go.  The promise of it, of a closed, locked door between himself and the rest of the world, was too much to fight.  So he didn’t.

Before he could second guess himself, Soap flicked the lock on his door shut.  He braced for just a moment, waiting for the catch.  Nothing happened.  He was alone.

Alone.

A laugh, strained and breathless, bubbled out of his chest.  When was the last time he’d truly been alone?  He couldn’t remember.  After a thought, he took two long strides over to the window and threw shut the threadbare curtains, cutting off the watery sunlight streaming from outside and leaving him under the blanket of darkness.  

This room.  His room.  Something to call his own, just for now.  For as long as he stayed with the 141.  A sanctuary.  A den.  Joy fizzed through his blood, tingling and sparking along his limbs and through his chest.  A den of his very own.  

Before he could over think it, he let go of his tightly wound control.  Not fully.  There wasn’t enough room to completely give in to the desire to shift.  But there was enough to relax just a bit.  He tugged his shirt up over his head and rolled his shoulders.  It hurt, ached down to his bones as they shifted and popped beneath bruised muscle, but he let the iron chains bend enough to give two large wings the chance to slice clean and neat through the skin of his back.  

He couldn’t stretch them out fully, not in the tiny cement brick room he now called den, but it was enough to make him groan in relief.  A ten ton weight dropped from his shoulders, his head fuzzy from the lack of it.  His tail was next, dulling the throb of his lower back as it lashed and twitched in newfound freedom.  Spines flexed along the back of it, trailing down from his back to the barbed tip.  Horns broke through the skin of his forehead, cracked keratin and bone perfectly framing his mohawk.  Fangs hung heavy in his mouth, still wickedly sharp after all this time.  He knew if he chanced a glance in the mirror, midnight blue scales would trail across his cheekbones like they patterned across his bare forearms.  

He tipped his head back, eyes shut and reveling in the feeling of freedom, as minuscule and fleeting as it was.  Soon enough, he’d be back outside surrounded by prying eyes.  Soon enough, he’d be forced to shut himself back behind chains and padlocks.  Soon enough, he’d have to lock down everything that made him other, made him the wrong kind of dangerous, that made him a monster.

But for now, he could breathe.  He could relax.  He could be.

He collapsed face first on the bed, too exhausted to even remove his dusty boots.  A horn knocked against the frame, rattling his skull slightly.  His wings draped over the sides, scraping against the harsh linoleum floor, but he couldn’t care.  He was unconscious before the feeling even registered.  

Soap slept soundly for the first time in what felt like years.  

The sharp rap of knuckles against wood shattered the little bit of peace Soap had cobbled together.  His eyes flew open with a strangled gasp, arms and wings flailing wildly as he struggled to place himself.  The room looked familiar, but strange enough to be off-putting.  Black spots danced in the corners of his eye as he tried and failed to place himself.  Everything was a hazy, disorienting swirl of color and sound.  Shouting outside the window, the pounding of feet against dirt, distant gunshots.  It all blended together until he couldn’t tell up from down.  Past from present.

Knocking again, a little firmer than before.  His eyes snapped to the closed door, a snarl on his lips and a deep, instinctive growl burning in his throat.  Whoever it was beyond the door cleared their throat.

“MacTavish, you up?  You better get your ass in gear or Price will have your head.”  An unknown voice called out from the other side.  Clarity washed over Soap, shocking him into full awareness and he bit back the inhuman noise.

Right.  New base.  New room.  New… new team.  Meeting the new team.  That was a thing he had to do.  Fuck.

“M up, ‘m comin’”  Speaking properly through a mouth of fangs was hard enough without being unceremoniously dragged out of the deepest sleep Soap has had in a while.  He wasn’t quite sure if what he said was even intelligible to the stranger outside, perhaps drowned out by his thickening accent, but they barked a laugh at whatever they heard.

“Hurry up, then.  We got places to be.”

Soap rolled his eyes but levered himself up regardless, groaning as the joints in his wings popped and crackled.  A glance at the clock beside his bed had him choking on his spit before he threw himself into his bathroom.  07:47.

FUCK.

He hissed as the edge of his wing clipped the bathroom door in his haste, tail thrashing in agitation behind him.  Forgoing his usual routine in favor of speed, he splashed some ice cold water on his face to fully wake himself up.  

Fuck.  Okay.  He needed to pull himself together.  Get himself fully human before he had to face the scrutiny of the full 141.  

Gripping the chipped porcelain sink, he dared a glance at himself in the mirror and couldn’t fight a grimace.  He looked like shit.  Slitted pupils glared back at him.  Deep purple bags hung dark and angry below unnaturally blue eyes.  The dark blue of his curling horns were stark against the pallid hue of his skin.  The left one was cracked off a few inches from the base, a parting gift from his father just a few days before he’d disappeared into the night all those years prior.  A smattering of scales, some flaking and dull from lack of care, covered the bare skin of his cheeks and shoulders.  His wings loomed large behind him, tail flicking just in the corner of his vision.  He was a right mess.

With a deep breath, he shut his eyes and pulled his focus in.  It had gotten harder and harder to pull his shift back in after he’d resisted for so long, and now it felt like clawing his way upstream after a torrential downpour.  He grit his teeth, fangs cutting into the side of his cheek as he grappled with himself.  Wrestled with the monster lurking under his skin.  After an agonizing fight, he forced the beast back behind the iron gate, bracing against the rabid strength battering his defenses before locking it back up.  

He panted heavily once he felt the shift subside, sagging against the sink.  A thin layer of sweat covered him completely, and he roughly wiped himself down as best he could with a well worn towel.  When he looked back in the mirror, a fully human Sergeant MacTavish stared back.  Pale and shaking, chest heaving from the effort, but entirely human.

The stranger knocked against the door again, harder and with urgency.  Soap barely had a thought to snag his discarded shirt from the ground and throw it over his head before he grabbing for the handle to open the door.

“Alright, alright, I hear you!”  He snapped, unable to keep the agitation from bleeding through in his voice.  He was only barely able to bite back a growl again.  Fucking Christ, not even a day in and he’s already lost most of his hard won control.  He needed to be better than this.

He nearly toppled over from the force of opening when warm, callused hands grabbed his biceps to steady him.  His chest seized at the touch and his eyes went wide, staring up at whoever it was with his mouth hanging open.

He was about Soap’s height, maybe an inch or two taller, with dark skin and broad shoulders.  A faded baseball cap sat atop short, dark curls, the flag patch nearly colorless from sun bleaching.  His stance was steady as he righted Soap, like not even an artillery shell could move him.  The guy’s grip was strong but not painful around his arms, and once he was sure Soap wouldn’t fall on his ass he carefully let him go with one final pat to his arm.  He looked entirely too smug as he gave Soap an obvious once-over before speaking.  

“Finally!  Thought I was gonna have to tell Price that the FNG keeled over and died on his first day.”  The voice was rich and honeyed, not like Price’s gruff, smoky tone.  But like with Price, something in Soap’s gut tugged at the sound of it, insistent and solid.  A sudden, inexplicable urge to keep him talking, to keep that voice winding around his head and burrowing into his brain had Soap openly staring.

After a moment, Soap shook off the daze and snorted, lip curling into a smile involuntarily.  “Nah, it’ll take more than that to take me out.”  He blinked before the rest of the sentence hit him.  He sputtered in outrage, bristling.  “And what the fuck do you mean FNG?!”

The guy shrugged, entirely too pleased with himself.  “I don’t make the rules.  You’re the last to join the team, you’re the FNG.  That’s the way of the world.”  Dark brown eyes glittered with mirth over a crooked smile and he punched Soap’s shoulder none too gently.  “Now c’mon, we’re gonna be fucking late and I don’t want to get chewed out by Price.  Again.”

He grabbed Soap by the shoulder and steered him out into the hallway, barely letting him close and lock his door before he dragged him off into the labyrinthine hallways of the base.  After a moment of scrabbling to right his footing, he fell into pace beside the guy, tilting his head to sneak a glance.  He walked with a sureness to his gait that came with the confidence of knowing you were where you were meant to be, doing what you were meant to do.  His head was held high and proud, shoulders loose and face relaxed.  Irrational longing to exist like that, to feel entirely at ease with yourself and the world around you, seized Soap’s throat, and he cleared it with a cough.  The guy gave him a curious side-long look, and Soap did his best to recover.

“So am I supposed to guess who the fuck you are or are you going to tell me?  I feel like I’m at a bit of a disadvantage here.”  He snarked, swallowing down the bitter taste of regret.  He never did learn when to keep his mouth shut.  He braced himself for a harsh cutting jab or a stony silence, and was surprised with a bark of laughter.  The guy shook his head, eyes crinkled with delight.

“Yeah, I guess that’s on me, innit?  It’s Garrick.  Sergeant Kyle Garrick.  But most call me Gaz.”  Gaz grinned at him as they walked, hand outstretched for Soap to take.  Soap’s own mouth twisted into a mirror grin as he grabbed Gaz’s hand and squeezed, grinning wider when he squeezed back.  “You gonna tell me why they call you Soap?”

Soap couldn’t help the cackle that punched out of him, nerves and bitter unease washing away at the effortless banter between them.  “And ruin the mystery on my very first day?  You fuckin’ wish.”  

Gaz’s eyes twinkled in delight.  “So you admit you’re the FNG!”

Soap spluttered.  “I never said that!”

“But you implied it.”  A firm, but not unkind, shove to the shoulder had Soap stumbling sideways with another laugh.  The jealousy and longing faded away with the touch, leaving him jelly limbed and happy.  Just one night in a den of his own had him this loose and relaxed.  Bantering with another soldier like they’d known each other for years, not minutes.  Like he belonged.  It felt strange and unnatural, this easy camaraderie.  Uncomfortable, but not in a bad way.  Like stretching a sore muscle or warming up freezing cold hands.  

The walk to Price’s office felt like an hour and a millisecond.  The chatter between the two sergeants never stopped, flinging back and forth from one topic to the next with no clear beginning or endpoint.  Turning round and round in circles, never repetitive and always engaging.  The edge of the bandage wrapped around Soap’s ribs felt tacky and soaked as it struggled to stem the flow of affection that threatened to drown him on dry land.  He never was all that practiced in field medicine.

The two of them were giggling at some stupid quip or another like two schoolboys on the playground as they shoved their way into Price’s office, entirely too engrossed to notice the almost soft expression on the Captain’s face from his seat behind the desk.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”  The brusque, rough words quickly shocked Soap out of his fuzzy, comfortable headspace.  He felt the blood rush from his face as he snapped to attention, jaw clacking shut with an audible crack.  Steadfastly ignoring the concerned looks he was getting from Gaz, he waited for the inevitable.  The realization that he was too much, too risky to keep around for long.  Price pinched the bridge of his nose with a sharp exhale and Soap fought the urge to cringe.  Something had to give, he knew that.  He just hadn’t expected it to be this.  

A huff of bemused laughter nearly sent him reeling.  Price lifted his face from his hand with a small, knowing smile.  “Knew the two of you would get on too well.  First day and you’re already up to trouble.  This is going to be a disaster.”

Gaz threw himself carelessly down in one of the surprisingly plush armchairs sat in front of the large wood desk, long legs sprawled out in front of him.  “You love the chaos, don’t lie,” He drawled.

“Your words, not mine, Garrick,”  Price groused, piles of paperwork abandoned as he shifted his attention to the sergeants.  Leaning back in his desk chair, he crossed his arms over his chest and deflated just a bit.  Relaxed fully into the leather.  His eyes flashed to Soap, still standing speechless in the threshold.  The mustache couldn’t hide the twist to his lips, a complicated mix of emotions flashing over his face so quickly Soap couldn’t even begin to decipher them.  He tried his best not to fidget under the combined weight of both Price and Gaz’s gazes.  

“No need to stand there.  Close the door and have a seat, MacTavish.”  Price inclined his head towards the empty chair next to Gaz with a quirked eyebrow.

Soap did as he was asked, gingerly lowering himself down onto the seat.  He wasn’t a skittish man by any stretch of the word, but something about the energy in the room had him on edge.  Like one wrong move, one misplaced word or gesture would have everything crumble to pieces around him.  He couldn’t afford it, not here.  Not now, after all he’d worked for.

A nudge to his boot dragged his thoughts out of the spiraling abyss in his head, and a surreptitious look to his right saw Gaz throw a tiny smile and a hidden thumbs up his way.  He gave a shaky one in return, nerves still crawling but slightly more settled.

“So,”  Price sighed, regarding the two of them with a carefully blank look before settling on Soap.  He straightened in his chair, meeting Price’s eyes unflinchingly.  A spark of something warmed his face as continued.  “It looks like you’ll have to wait a bit longer to meet the rest of the team.  There was a lead on a cell we were tracking in Moldova and it couldn’t wait.”

Gaz made a questioning noise.  “Laswell sent Ghost in alone?”

“Of course she did.  The mad bastard prefers it that way.”  A drawer on the other side of the desk rattled as it opened, Price rummaging around for a second before pulling out a small wooden box and settling it on the desk.  The rich, earthy scent of tobacco wafted from it when he flipped open the lid, pulling out a cigar to chew on the end as he thought.  “He’ll be gone for a few months at least, so you’ll be in charge of showing MacTavish the ropes until he’s back.”

Gaz groaned dramatically, but Soap tuned him out.  He cocked his head just slightly, considering.  He was curious about this Ghost, about the entire team really.  He’d read the files, the sparse few that were unclassified, on the 141 before getting shipped over and the information he’d gleaned from them had been bare bones.  Technical.  Dry lists of achievements, deployments, and advancements.  Nothing about the team themselves.  Nothing about what made them tick.  What made them work.  He wondered…

After a moment’s deliberation, he inhaled deeply, letting the scents of the office filter over the sensitive Jacobson’s organ on the roof of his mouth.  While dragons weren’t known for their keen sense of smell, and Soap’s own had been dulled from years of abuse in active war zones, he could still decipher much more than an average human.  And while scents never told the full story, it could at least paint a part of the picture.  And with what little he had to go on, a few brush strokes could help him understand them just a bit better.  He sifted through the mess of them, trying to parse through the confusing jumble of it all.  

Under the thick layer of gunpowder and iron that permeated all of military life, Price’s mix of tobacco, pine, and damp earth hung the heaviest around them.  Sure and stalwart, shoring up the fractured edges of his thoughts.  It seeped into every corner of the office, deep into fibers of the rug and the grain of the wood, searing into Soap’s mind that this was his territory.  His den that Soap was welcomed in to.  A sanctuary surrounded by the hurricane of life beyond these walls.  

He dug up Gaz’s citrus and cinnamon underneath it, bright and vivid in contrast to Price.  Fizzing against his tongue, it sent a bolt of warmth through numb limbs.  It lingered in corners and crannies, like he belonged there as much as the Captain did.  Like despite it being Price’s territory, Gaz had just as much right to the space.  Like he was a vital piece of the whole.

The third was harder to decipher, but one he found it it was impossible to ignore.  It filled his awareness, sticking to his teeth and the roof of his mouth.  The sharp tang of winter air.  Rain heavy on the horizon.  Bergamot, just a hint to temper the sharper edges.  His head spun with the feeling of it on his tongue.  His eyes nearly watered at the intensity, mouth dry as the taste lingered.

There was a fourth scent, far less embedded in the space compared to the other three but no less vital to the whole.  Vanilla and ozone.  The threat of of a lightning strike.  A quiet, unobtrusive power.  Soft, but purposeful.  

He wondered how his own scent, dulled to his own senses, felt in combination with the  others.  If someday, something uniquely him would be as deeply embedded as the tobacco and cinnamon and winter and vanilla.  Permanent.  The thought soothed a jagged edge in his chest, one that he hadn’t realized caught and snagged and tore his skin.

“John?”  

The sound of his name didn’t quite make him jump, but it did startle a strangled gasp out of Soap.  His heart pounded in his chest and his thoughts swirled.  Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.  He needed to focus.  His eyes trained back in on Price, who watched him with dark, unknowable eyes.  

“Am I boring you already, Sergeant?”  The words lacked the bite that most CO’s would have laid on thick, instead buoyed by a layer of dry sarcasm.  Gaz snickered into the palm of his hand at Soap’s right, undoubtedly enjoying the show.

“Sorry, sir.”  He hazarded a guilty grin that sat crooked on his face, heat creeping up the back of his neck.  “Thought I was back home listenin’ to my ma lecturing my sisters.  What did you say?”

Price’s eyebrows shot to his hairline as Gaz choked and sputtered next to him.  His cheeks burned, but not with embarrassment.  Delight surely painted him a bright shade of pink when the Captain rolled his eyes.

“God help me now that there are two of you…”  He muttered with a huff.  “Kyle will give you a quick tour of the place and show you how things work around here.  The two of you will share duties going forward.”

“Understood.”  He nodded, shoulders squared and chin raised.  This, he could handle.  Routine.  Patterns.  Military discipline.

“Good.  Brass has got me locked down in meetings for the rest of the day, so you’re free after that.  Now get the fuck out of my sight before I change my mind.”

“Yes sir.”  Their voices sounded off in unison as they rose to leave, Price waving them off with a dismissive hand.  Gaz led the way back outside, Soap following not far behind.  Soap shut the door after them, cutting off the hiss of a lighter, a flare of tobacco, and a long, bone-deep sigh.

“Well,” Soap said, breaking the tentative silence of the hallway.  “That wasn’t all that bad, all things considered.”

The two of them stared at one another for a long moment before doubling over with howling laughter, the cause of which neither of them could really say for certain.  Soap’s cheeks hurt from the width of his smile, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.  With Gaz’s hand solid and strong against his shoulder, Price’s huffed amusement still ringing in his ears, and the curiosity about their elusive missing Ghost bubbling in his brain, he felt lighter than he had in ages.  Lighter than even his momentary shift back in his room.  Like he was flying under his own power, rather than trapped in metal.

This might not have been such a bad idea after all.

This was a very bad idea after all.

It started out fine.  More than fine, really.  And that should have been Soap’s first warning.  

Life on base was virtually the same, no matter where you went.  After Gaz had showed him around, pointing out the important things (the mess, the gym, the range) and the vital things (the hiding spots for the good coffee in the rec room, the quietest spots to smoke, the  least disgusting shower in the locker room), he found himself falling into a somewhat comfortable routine.  A cycle of duties, responsibilities, and recreation.  Reliable, predictable routine.  Despite the precipice they all hung over, waiting for that one errant breeze to send them tumbling over the edge, things were good.

Having Gaz to bounce off of was an unexpected, but not unwelcome, perk.  The two of them were practically attached at the hip, one never far from the other no matter where they were.  There was almost no effort in building up their friendship with the way they clicked practically instantly.  The jokes and banter flowed freely between them, an ease that Soap had never had before despite his penchant for making friends anywhere.  Whether it was spotting each other’s reps at the gym or torturing recruits with brutal drills, they matched the other’s energy perfectly.

If Price was at all regretful about introducing them, he never said anything.  Lecture them about the sheer amount of paperwork on his desk, sure, but never express any sort of remorse aside from that sole comment on that first day.  He almost seemed to revel in their mischief as much as they did, if the secret smile he’d send them as he assigned them to another month’s worth of bathroom cleanup meant anything.  

Soap had never had a CO quite like Price.  There were some that tried to hard to be his friend, who let the line between superior and subordinate blur until it was meaningless.  He knew they meant well, but no amount of training could completely do away with that wild, untamed streak of willful defiance.  If he was given an inch, he could and would (and had) take a thousand miles.  

A weak, ineffective leader could be worked around.  A bullish, overbearing leader was a different beast.  The kind that thought that the only way to gain respect was to take it by force.  Who would spit and snarl and scream themselves hoarse, demanding a deference and obedience that Soap would never give.  He would sooner put himself in the cold, hard ground than let himself bend to a tyrant.

Price was neither.  He was friendly, his door open whenever needed, while still maintaining those necessary boundaries between them.  Whenever he let the mask slip, letting the man behind the title take point, it was to the benefit of the team.  He didn’t force respect, he earned it.   He knew when to pull the reigns tight, and when to let them slack.  His team was a well oiled machine, and he had it in perfect control.  Soap trusted him almost immediately, where other CO’s had taken weeks to months to earn his esteem.

Kate Laswell had been a surprise, but not an unwelcome one.  He met her during a video briefing, the connection gritty and flickering on the screen.  Soap knew the moment he heard her steady, calm voice filtering over the tinny speakers of the conference room that she had been that fourth scent in Price’s office.  That quiet but unmistakable threat, the charged air of an incoming lightning strike humming around her.  She held herself with a confidence that was impossible to fake, her expression hard but not cruel.  A leader, like Price, but one who did her best work when faded in the background.  He liked her at the first dry, deadpan quip over the call.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help himself around the three of them.  He caught his thoughts wandering more than once, considering the Captain, the Chief, and his fellow sergeant as his. His hoardfolk.  His people to protect.  To keep close and safe.  He knew those sentiments were dangerous.  Could be the things that brought his precious world down in rubble and flames, leaving him in the epicenter.  But he let himself relax.  Let some of those old dormant instincts to flare to life.  Only in small ways, too fearful to allow more than the smallest concessions.

A cup of coffee left steaming on the corner of a desk, with cream and sugar just to Price’s liking.  A stolen tin of biscuits in the dead of night, pilfered from some corporal’s stash and shared alongside stories of Gaz’s time before Soap.  A snarky comment over comms that earned him a light reprimand from Laswell, the smile all too audible in her voice.  A winding, meandering, meaningless tangent when the weight on Price’s shoulders got too heavy.  A grounding, comforting, reminding touch to Gaz’s back when the look in his eye went dim and distant.  A thoughtless, brainless quip cutting through static when Laswell when silent and stressed, interrupting the spiral of her mind spinning up a thousand and one plans and countermeasures in every breath.

It was fine.  Those sticky, possessive threads of affection were thin, not enough to make things difficult.  He could control himself.  He was controlling himself.  Soap was fine.

He was fine, until that mission happened.

It was supposed to be a simple intel gathering operation.  In and out of a enemy outpost tucked deep in the forests of Germany, nothing out of the ordinary.  Easy enough for the sergeants to handle on their own.  The mysterious specter of Ghost still had yet to return from his solo op, but Price had assured him that it was perfectly typical.  They might go months on end without a word from him until he came wandering back, bloody but intact.  They still had work to do, with or without the reclusive Lieutenant.  

Which found Soap following behind Gaz through the dingy, dimly lit corridors of some terrorist base far into the forest, eyes and ears straining in the darkness.  Laswell was muted in their ears, no doubt monitoring for any chatter from the other side.  The debrief had been adamant that security was low, that there were minimal potential hostiles patrolling the damp, mildewy halls, but they all had been on the wrong end of bad intel one too many times to believe it on its face.  

His gums and fingers itched at the echoing silence, hackles raised.  It was too quiet, even for a supposedly abandoned outpost.  They hadn’t seen a single sign of life, not even a boot print in the dust or cigarette butts by the door.  He didn’t like it.  Gaz seemed to agree with him, if the sour, nervous edge to the scent that hit the roof of Soap’s mouth meant anything.  They moved in sync, footfalls silent against the dirty floor.  Rifles trained on the looming darkness, fingers hovering over triggers and waiting for their chance to squeeze.

They reached the objective without much fanfare, ancient hardware stacked in haphazard piles around a cobweb covered storage room.  Gaz took up watch at the door while Soap booted up the computers, wiping away the thick layer of dust covering the old CRT monitor with a scowl.

“Fucking Christ, where the hell did they find this shit?  My gran’s basement?”  He growled as the boot sequence limped along.  Gaz snorted softly somewhere over his shoulder.  

“Quit your bitching and get on with it.”

“It’s not my fault this thing is slower than a fuckin’ one legged dog on tranqs,”  Soap grumbled, typing a little harder in irritation.  The burn of it eased when Gaz snickered behind him and Laswell’s exasperated huff echoed through the static in his ear.

He made a soft noise of triumph when he found what they had been sent to find, clicking through to make sure it was all there.  Shipping manifests, personnel transports, transaction reports, the works.  Every ugly sin and dark little secret that kept an operation like this afloat.

“Found it, Watcher.”  

“Good.”  The echo of keys over his ear piece as she typed something.  “Get it copied, wipe it, and get the hell out of there.  I don’t like this quiet.”

“Copy.”  He muted his comms unit to jam the thumb drive into the open port none too gently, watching the progress of the file transfer with bated breath.  His spine prickled as each pixel filled with agonizing lethargy.  He could practically feel his teeth crack as he ground them against each other.  The skin around his nails burned with the urge to claw out the monitor screen.  Come on, come on, come on.

“Fuck, So—” The startled sound of Gaz’s voice had him tensing up even further, hand wrapped around the grip of his sidearm in an instant.

The progress bar filled at the same moment that a sharp gasp punched out of Gaz, cutting off whatever he was saying.  Soap snapped his head around just in time to see him go down hard, head hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

In the shadows just beyond the doorway, three figures with weapons drawn inched closer.  The awkward angle of the room meant that they hadn’t seen Soap yet, barrels trained solely on Gaz.  The leader barked something that Soap didn’t understand at the two behind him, standing over Gaz’s crumpled form with a derisive smile on his thin lips.  A small puddle of red pooled around Gaz.

Soap’s head filled with buzzing static.  His heart pounded in his ears.  He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the red red red RED -

Gaz was his.  Gaz was his.  They hurt his hoard.  They shot his hoard.  They dared lay a hand on his things, his people.  They still had their guns out.  They were going to hurt him again.  He wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead, but they were going to make him dead.

They were going to take him away.

Fangs sunk into the leader’s throat before he could move, effortlessly cutting through muscle and crunching through bone.  With a sharp jerk and a pop, Soap tore out his windpipe, barely registering the warmth of arterial spray across his face.  His claws shredded his chest and abdomen, armor flimsy and thin like paper beneath the weight of them.  There was no sound from him as he died, torn to pieces in a matter of moments.  The wet sounds of limbs tearing from body were drowned out by the rumbling, bone deep snarl that erupted from Soap’s chest.  The man was little more than chunks of meat and gore by the time Soap turned to the remaining two.  

They stood unmoving in the hallway, paralyzed by the sight of him.  The edges of his wings dragged across the damp concrete walls, filling what little space there was with the bulk of his fury.  The acrid smell of urine wound through the iron tang of blood as they fired wildly at his looming, shadowed figure, but he barely felt the sting of the shots.  He advanced on them with purpose, steps even and unhurried even as the howling rage pulsed in his ears.  

He distantly wondered what he looked like to the two fools trembling before him.  A horror pulled straight from the pits of hell, a fanged, clawed, winged nightmare descending on them.  Unfortunately for them, he was all too real.  He reached the shorter of the two first, grabbing at his throat with sticky hands and dragged him close to his face.  He relished in the fear clouding his gaze, pupils shrunk to tiny pinpricks as the terror wiped his mind clean.  Tacky blood pulled his scruff as he bared his knife-sharp teeth, a giddy thrill zinging through him as the captured man in his hand started to struggle.  His grip was like iron, unshakable and immovable, and his snarl softened to almost a purr as the his spine crackled and fractured under his crushing grip. The man went limp and heavy, but he was light as a feather as Soap tossed him aside without a thought.

The last remaining man tried to run, begging in a language Soap couldn’t care to comprehend.  No doubt pleading for his sorry excuse for a life.  The words fell on deaf ears.  He had forfeited his right to live the moment he opened fire on one of Soap’s people.  His effort to flee was pointless in the end, and Soap ruthlessly tore the other’s lungs out from his back through his shattered rib cage.  

Steady drips and harsh panting were the only sounds that echoed through the empty, lifeless halls.  Soap could feel the sheets of blood drying tacky and thick on his skin, cooling uncomfortably.  A wheeze, thready and pained, dragged the last little bit of his consciousness back from the edge and he felt himself snap back into the present.  

He stumbled back to Gaz’s side on weak legs, cold fear dousing the last embers of burning rage in his chest.  With barely enough awareness to change his bloody, gore-soaked claws back into blunt human nails, Soap pressed shaking fingers into Gaz’s neck.  Searching desperately for a heart beat under clammy skin.  He didn’t breathe, time stretching thin, until it snapped back into motion when he could feel the thrum of his pulse under his fingers.  He choked back a sob.  It was fast, but it was there.  Gaz was alive.

After a quick inspection, Soap was beyond relieved to see the bloody entry and exit wounds in the space just under his vest, far enough from most vital organs to increase his chances at survival.  He did not want to go searching for a bullet with gory fingers, or watch as he drowned in his own blood without being able to do a damn thing.  He put his limited field medic training to the test as he stuffed the meager amount of gauze he had on hand into the hole, grimacing as they quickly soaked through with blood.  Hopefully, exfil wasn’t too far and Laswell-

Fuck.  His blood ran colder.  Laswell.  With the static and heartbeat gone, he could finally hear her strained, tight voice in his ear desperately trying to get either of them to respond.  He reached a shaky hand up to his mic and flipped off the mute.

“-geant!  Sergeant!  MacTavish, do you copy?”  This was closest to panicking that he’d ever heard her.  He spoke through a gritty, torn throat.

“This is Bravo 7-1, copy.”

“Sergeant MacTavish.”  The tattered exhale of his name had him sagging a bit in sympathy.  “What happened?  Are you alright?”

He let out a slow, controlled exhale.  The dried blood on his face pulled tight against his skin as he grimaced again.  He focused himself back on the task of patching Gaz up the best he could.  His words were clipped and short as he worked.  “Three of the bastards got the jump on us.  Gaz is down.”

“How bad?”

He pressed his hand harder against the bloody wound, gritting his teeth at the low, pained groan it pulled from Gaz.  “Fucking bad.”

A shuddering breath over the speaker.  “Shit.  Okay.  And you?”

He blinked at the fierce concern in her voice.  In the back of his mind, he could feel the stinging ache of healing wounds, slugs pushing out of his skin as the flesh and muscle knit itself back together.  Maybe more of the blood covering him was his own, now that he thought about it.  “I’ll live.”

“Exfil is headed to the emergency LZ, about two klicks to the north of your position.”  Steel slid back into Laswell’s voice as she settled back into her role, taking charge of the shitshow this easy intel job had become.  Soap bit back a rumble of appreciation at the authoritative tone in her words.  “Fifteen minutes.”

“Roger.”  The buzzing energy of a partial shift still flooded his veins as he hauled Gaz’s limp body to his chest.  His head settled into the space between Soap’s shoulder and neck, staccato puffs of air tickling the skin.  He settled a bit more with the warm weight of him in his arms, wings twitching with the urge to wrap them both up in darkness.  He desperately wanted to drag him bodily into his den, wrap him up in his nest and not let him leave until he was healed.  Instead, he stalked out of the compound, eyes searching for more threats.  “Be there in ten.  Out.”

The thumb drive burned a hole in his pocket.  Behind him, a mess of meat, blood, and sparking computer parts began to rot away in the darkness.

Soap didn’t remember the trek through the darkening forests to the LZ, or the helo flight back, or the rush to medical when they landed.  He didn’t know how he got himself back under control, how he stuffed the wings and horns and scales back in and welded the broken, warped chains and locks shut.  He came back to himself standing under the pounding spray of the shower, fully clothed, ice cold water sparking across his overheated skin.  He should be somewhere else.  He knew it.  But his limbs were trapped in concrete, holding him fast to the off-white tile beneath the thundering water.  

Distantly, he ran his tongue over the backs of his teeth, the lingering feeling of blood sticking to his mouth.  Thick, viscous, clinging to the nooks and crannies.  The drip of it off his chin echoed in the water pouring over him.  He felt the give of flesh under his fangs on repeat, the squelching, meaty sound of muscle rending apart a looping track in his ears.  He dug claws into the wet fabric of his pants, the tips tearing into the oversensitive skin beneath.  He shivered at the scent of fresh blood.

He didn’t regret the killing.  As callous as it might sound, he was almost numb to it.  It was part of the job description, he knew that when he’d started.  But the way he’d done it, the utter loss of control and detached cruelty of it, shocked him.  

Dragons don’t feel quietly.  They were a tempest trapped in skin, raging against the seams of flimsy flesh and bone.  Everything they felt, every wild, fearsome emotion, was felt to an extreme.  Taken to the edge and pushed beyond.  He weathered that storm every fucking day.  But he had never loved to this extreme.  Had never let himself love to this extreme.  Had never wanted to burn the world to ash and dust at the sight of his brother on the ground, lifeblood seeping back to the earth.  It was raw and tender and terrifying.

Bile rose to the back of his throat.  He should never have done this.  He should never have let it get this far.  He needed to leave, before it got worse.  Before something happened that couldn’t be undone.  He was lucky this time.  Laswell hadn’t questioned whatever she’d heard from her end of the comms.  Gaz had been unconscious or delirious through it all.  But what about the next time?  (Because there would be a next time.  He knew it in his bones, like he knew Gaz and Price and Laswell were his.)

He needed to leave.

He didn’t leave.

After far too long in the shower, spent scrubbing at the blood caked all over himself, he dragged himself out of the safety and quiet of his den to report to Price.  He kept his eyes down on the floor of Price’s office, answering his Captain’s questions in harsh, ragged sentences.  The heavy weight of Price’s eyes on Soap’s tight face burned worse than the bullet’s path in the outpost.  He couldn’t look to see the disappointment, the disgust, the regret on Price’s face.

Once he finished his report, handing over the thumb drive with surprisingly steady hands, he tried not to squirm in the resulting silence.  Apologies caught and snagged in his throat, torn to shreds by steel barbs as he picked at a loose thread in his pants.  An unfortunately common consequence of fidgeting fingers and claws.  He felt more than heard Price sigh heavily, leather creaking as he leaned back into his chair.

“Docs said Kyle will be out of commission for a month, maybe more.”  Guilt panged in Soap’s chest at that.  “But there was no sign of infection and he should be on the mend in no time.  Not that he’ll do himself any favors and actually rest.”  A dry, hoarse huff.  Price cleared his throat, and the stress around Soap shot to the roof.  Bracing himself for the inevitable, he let his eyes fall shut and tucked his head down into his chest.

“How are you holding up, son?”

That’s… not the question he’d expected.  His head snapped up to stare wide-eyed at Price, mouth working around syllables that didn’t get past the barbed wire blockade.

Price looked tired.  His eyes, shadowed by fatigue and ringed in purple-black, were flat and lifeless.  His mouth was pressed thin, eyebrows pinched, shoulders tight and rigid.  He looked ready to keel over.  The bitter, regretful taste of his smoke and earth scent stung Soap’s nose.  His stomach churned at the thought of him causing even a part of that bitterness.  

“I…,” He didn’t know how to answer.  Words slipped like sand from his slack grip, grains coarse and gritty as they fell through his fingers.  His mind spun with everything: the echo of Gaz falling to the floor, the cruel grin on the patrol leader’s face, the feeling of blood under his hands.  The floor pitched and shifted under his feet.

Price continued, a small, drawn smile narrowing his eyes.  “You were a right picture coming off that helo.  Helluva lot of blood.  Did you get seen by medical yet?” 

“No, sir.  Didn’t need to.  None of it was mine.”  It was partially true.  He hadn’t needed to go to medical, but he also hadn’t wanted to go to medical.  The thought of Gaz only a few doors away, unconscious and vulnerable under the hawk-like watch of the medical team, had nearly sent him to his knees.  It warred with the riling, inky feeling that he needed to be there.  That he had to keep watch, post himself at the door and stay vigilant.  He didn’t know if he could handle actually being there in the flesh, struggling to keep those urges in check.  It was best to stay as far away as he could.

“None?”  The incredulity and doubt painted across his face sent another pang through Soap’s chest. 

“None.  Didn’t get a shot on me.”  A lie.  They’d gotten several.  More than he’d like to admit.  But Price didn’t know that.  He didn’t need to know that.  None of the bullets had been enough to scar, not like the wounds of his childhood.  His skin was neat and smooth, only the barest twinge of pain left to remind him of what had happened.

Price hummed, skepticism almost tangible.  They stayed locked in a standoff, eyes never leaving each other.  Daring the other to break first.  Silence descended over the room again, heavy and uncomfortable.  Soap knew this was his moment.  He should request a transfer.  He should get away, make sure his hoard team was safe from him.

He let the moment pass.  He blinked.  Sagged into his chair with a defeated hum.

Price seemed to sense his victory, and furrowed his brows meaningfully.  “Get yourself checked out.  I can’t be down another man, not now.”

“I know,”  Soap whispered, his voice barely holding on.  “I will, sir.”

That seemed to startle the Captain, face slackening with shock.  Soap scowled, weak glare smothered by the bone-deep exhaustion weighing him down.  Price coughed, before turning away slightly, giving Soap the way out of the conversation he was so desperate for.  

“Go see the docs, and take tomorrow to rest up.  I’m sure I can handle things for a day.  If you need anything, my door is always open.  Except when it isn’t.”  Price looked at Soap like he was waiting for something, but he deflated just slightly when all Soap could muster was a slow, tired nod.

“Yes sir.”

His face softened at something in Soap’s words.  He couldn’t parse what he’d found through the fog filling his head.  “Go get some sleep, Sergeant.  You look like shit.”

“Might want to take your own advice there, Captain.”  Soap managed to muster up a halfhearted attempt at his usual bite, knowing he probably failed miserably.  The fond look on Price’s face had to be a product of his tired, overwhelmed mind.  He accepted the out he was given, and dragged his aching, hollow body up out of the chair towards the office door.

The door shut behind him with a quiet thud, closing off more than the office as he did.

Soap did end up going to medical, not wanting to deal with the fallout of disobeying an order, direct or indirect.  The medicinal stink of antiseptic and cleaning alcohol nearly sent him to his knees at first, and he did his best to breath through his nose rather than his mouth during the whole ordeal.  The doctors and nurses kept a professional distance the whole time, knowing that he wanted out of there as much as they wanted him out.  

He studiously kept his eyes away from the hallway beyond the exam room, ignoring the trail of faint cinnamon that lead to a room a little ways down.

Just like he’d expected, the doctors gave him a clean bill of health, save a few bruises and scrapes from the frenzied hike through the forest.  They offered him a few painkillers and anti-inflammatories to deal with the resulting ache, but he refused.  It’s not like they’d do him any good anyway.  Like most non-humans, typical painkillers didn’t do much more than dull his senses and leave him groggy and muddled.  The best he could do was hole up in his den, curl up in his nest, and sleep for at least twelve hours.

He intended to do just that, and dragged himself the long, slow way through the base towards his den.  With his fraying control and overstimulated senses, he grudgingly bore the added minutes it took to avoid crowded areas.  There was nothing left in the tank to deal with any more social interaction.  What little he’d had left after his debrief with Price had drained away steadily under the critical eye of the medical team.

The sight of his door, the simple, mundane white of it, almost brought him to tears.  Those last few steps were agony, every inch of him finally sagging at the thought of finally getting to rest.  He fumbled with his keys, nearly dropping them a few times as he struggled to get his fingers to work with him.  Finally, the lock turned and the familiar sights and smells soothed those torn and ragged parts of him still weeping blood.

He settled heavily on the edge of the bed, debating whether or not it was worth it to even take off his boots.  In the end, his desire to sleep comfortably won out over his exhaustion.  His cotton-filled mind could barely muster enough thought to pick at the laces, dragging them off and throwing them blindly across the room.  He wrangled with his shirt and pants next, growling when he struggled with the button of his jeans.  For a moment, he even considered just shredding them, but the thought of buying a whole new pair forced him to push through and get them undone.

Finally, he was stripped down enough to feel comfortable and let the iron grip on his shift ease enough to release the lingering tension in his muscles.  He groaned and fell limp on the bed at the feeling, stretching his wings out as far as he could and lightly curling his tail around his ankle.  A self soothing method he hadn’t used since he was a child, the soft squeeze of it around his skin grounded him.  His intact horn knocked faintly against the wall as he flopped down on the mattress, razor sharp tip cutting a small scratch into the cheap wood.

He laid there for a long while, eyes shut and mind empty, but despite the fatigue clawing at his mind and body, he couldn’t drop off into unconscious.  The rough material of the standard issue blanket scratched and irritated his oversensitive skin.  The buzzing hum of the fluorescent in the hallway dug its claws into his overtaxed mind.  Even his own breathing irritated him, the sound and feeling of each inhale and exhale too much to bear.

He sat up with a growl, scrubbing hands across his face.  All he fucking wanted was to sleep.  To escape the constant, unending pressure of everything for a short while.  But even that wasn’t possible right now.  Because of course it wasn’t.  Anger roiled and bubbled in his stomach, lengthening his fangs and sharpening his claws.  The urge to shift fully, to release all of the control he’d wrested from the beast, was overwhelming.  A burning hot weight pressed down on his lungs, and he heaved under it.  He wanted to rage.  He wanted to destroy.  He wanted to kill.

He wanted to sleep.

He grabbed his journal.  

He flipped through it, half-lidded eyes glazed and barely functioning.  The shape of it was familiar in his hands, settling into the grooves and wrinkles of his palms with ease.  He felt a little of the simmering boil under his ribs ebb as he turned each page.  The paper was stained and torn from deployment after deployment, leather cover around them battered and scratched.  He did his best to keep it from harm, but there was only so much he could do while being shot at and blown up over and over.  

He couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his lip as he looked through it, through the journey he’d taken to get where he was.  Little sketches of various people he’d served with, some lost and some just moved on.  Notes in the margins, things that didn’t mean much but he wanted to record anyway.  Landscapes from recon missions, half-remembered doodles of Scotland, even a partial map of a base or two.  

He didn’t remember who’d suggested it at first, journaling and drawing.  It hadn’t been something he thought he’d latch on to, but it became a comfort.  Something to keep his mind and hands busy when the world was too much and he felt too small and too large at the same time.  

It had started as a hobby, maybe a coping mechanism like those shrinks he’d been forced to see suggested.  He didn’t think much of it at first, too happy for the distraction to give it much weight.  But as time passed, he felt those familiar tendrils of attachment wind tight around the little book, becoming something he valued far more than he should.  But loving an object with the ferocity of a dragon was far less dangerous than loving a person.  So the journal stayed, and the journal grew.  A hoard of his own, sandwiched between the fragile pages.

His smile grew a little rueful, a little grim as he neared the more recent pages.  Where there were a couple of scattered, unfinished portraits littering the pages before, these were filled with the same few faces over and over.  Some sketched lightly, smudged and blurry with graphite, others in full color and detail.  Notes covered the margins, pointing out little mistakes and errors he’d made.  The desire to capture his subjects perfectly drove his obsession to new, mortifying heights.  

On one page, Gaz slept against a crumbling wall, arms crossed over his vest and face lax and peaceful in his sleep.  The next, Gaz looked somewhere off to the left with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  Under it, a rough sketch of Gaz’s hands, little scars and nicks across the knuckles and palms carefully recreated.  Several smoking Prices filled the next page, each at a different angle with cigars at varying lengths.  His signature hat was given loving treatment under them, each wrinkle and tear detailed.  Laswell’s cool, collected countenance appeared sparsely throughout, but she was given the same faithful, careful attention in the few appearances she had.  

His hoard held his hoard.  It was impossible to deny now.  Not after he’d torn three men apart for them.  Not since he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.  They were his.  His to protect, his to care for.  He was treading dangerous ground, he knew that, but there was no changing the facts.  John MacTavish was a dragon.  The 141 was his hoard.  Even with one missing, a blank space left for him in those precious pages, he was devoted to them entirely.

The journal slipped from his fingers as sleep tangled and pulled his thoughts away.  The 141 was his hoard, and he was their dragon.  A sleepy, tentative purr rumbled through his chest as he drifted off.

Their dragon.  He quite liked the sound of that.

Not much changed after their disaster of a mission.  Life on base went on as normal.  Well, as normal as things went with a task force like theirs.  

There were always things to do.  Recruits to terrorize train, intel to go through, skills to keep sharp.  A thousand and one distractions to keep himself busy while his usual partner in crime was laid up in the medical wing.

Despite coming to terms with his own attachment to the team, Soap avoided medical as much as he could.  The guilt of missing obvious hostiles, of letting Gaz get shot when he should have been watching his six, had him skittish and standoffish.  He wasn’t subtle about his avoidance either, taking long detours to dodge even going near the place.  Price saw clear through his flimsy excuses, if the unimpressed eyebrows and flat frown were anything to go by.  Even Laswell, as distant as she was across an ocean, clocked his unease without effort.  Neither of them said anything out loud, but he could feel their concern hanging over him.

It took less than a week for Price to crack and all but order him to go visit Gaz.  Soap did his best to object, but his resolve was wavering and the Captain knew it too.

“For the love of god, Soap, you’re being ridiculous!”  Price sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.  The hallway outside his room where he’d been cornered was almost deserted, anyone smart enough to avoid the potential explosion from the two had already fled.  A few lingering privates scurried away at the tension in the words, eyes wide and wary.  “You know you want to see him.  I know you want to see him.  Gaz knows you want to see him.  So go.”

“I can’t.”  He tried to keep the waver out of his voice, to keep the stubborn anger parked squarely at the forefront.

“Why the fuck not?!”  Price threw up his hands, annoyed beyond belief.

“I just can’t.  I—”  He cut himself off with a snarl, teeth gritted.  

A flash of understanding across Price’s face had Soap tensing up again.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.  He unconsciously shifted his stance, the urge to fight or flee impossible to ignore.  

The anger Price had been feeling melted away, leaving something soft and understanding left in its wake.  He looked at Soap with a sadness lacing his features.  “It wasn’t your fault.”

Those words set off the charge primed in his chest cavity, shrapnel sent flying in every direction.  He didn’t care who got caught in the blast, too busy keeping the claws and fangs hidden behind a snarl.  

“OF COURSE IT WAS!” He roared.  He’s surprised the glass in every windowpane hadn’t shattered.  Price didn’t even blink at the fury facing him down.  That same sad, understanding look on his face.  It poured gasoline on the raging inferno in his veins.  “I might not have pulled the trigger, but it was my fault he was in the line of fire.  I should have had his six and I didn’t.”

“And here I thought I’d only have to worry about one of you…  You lot are gonna be the death of me,”  Price muttered under his breath.  He set his shoulders and his next words were solid steel.  He fixed Soap with a firm, unyielding stare.  “There was nothing you could have done to stop it.”

“I—”

“No.”  Soap’s jaw shut with a click at the harsh edge to Price’s voice.  “I’m talking now.  It was bad luck, nothing more.  A patrol spotted both of you and hid in a blind spot.  They got the drop on you.  You couldn’t have known, and Gaz couldn’t have seen.  It was nobody’s fault but the enemy, and as far as I’m aware they’ve been dealt with.”

The phantom taste of blood filled his mouth and Soap swallowed harshly.  He struggled to find the words to explain why it had to be his fault.  It had to be.  He found the urge to shrink under the brunt of Price’s quiet anger.  

The sharp edge to Price’s voice bled away into something warmer, a familiar knowing smile playing on his lips.  “So, how about instead of moping around and wallowing in self pity, you get your ass to medical and see Kyle?  He’s been absolutely insufferable, you might be able to keep each other entertained for a bit.  Like a play date.”

The wry words startle a laugh out of Soap, dousing the flames instantly.  “Oh fuck off. Sir.”  He tacks on the title with a sarcastic jab that has a familiar eye roll and snort aimed at him immediately.

“Now go.  That’s an order.”  A hand wrapped around Soap’s bicep and tugged him forward, pushing him not so gently down the hallway towards the medical wing.  The skin underneath tingled at the mindless touch, even more so when Price released him to shove at his shoulder blade.  He stumbled a little with a bark of weak laughter, giving the Captain a lazy salute over his shoulder.

“Sir yes sir.”

Despite all of his bravado, Soap very nearly turned tail and ran back the way he came.  Only the lingering thought of Price’s disappointed frown kept him moving forward.  Without even realizing it, he was standing in front of a plain white door, the smell of citrus soured by anger and distress filling his dry mouth.  He didn’t know how to open the door.

In the end, it’s the sound of footsteps coming down the hall that spurred him into action, the fear of opening the door overruled by the fear of explaining himself.  He ducked into the room quickly, shutting the door behind him with a sigh.

“Soap?”  

He froze, eyes flickering over to the bed at the center of the room instinctively.

Gaz looked a million times better than the last time Soap had seen him.  He was still a little haggard, face wan and thin with pain, but his eyes were open and aware.  His skin was clean and clear, not a speck of blood anywhere to be seen.  He sat up in the bed, wincing when the movement pulled at his still healing abdomen.  That got Soap moving, rushing over to help him get upright.  Under Soap’s hands, Gaz was solid.  Warm.  Real and breathing.  Not cool and gasping for air.

“Fuckin’ hell, mate, where’ve you been?”  Soap tried not to wither under Gaz’s intense look.  Guilt gnawed at his inside when concern bloomed in Gaz’s expression.  “You injured at all?”

“No.  No, I’m fine.  Didn’t get a scratch.”  The words felt like dust in his mouth.

Gaz huffed something between a laugh and a sigh.  “You always were a lucky bastard.”

“Hey, you’re pretty damn lucky yourself.  They left your pretty face alone.”  Soap tried to inject a little levity into his tone.  “Don’t know if you would’ve recovered from that.”

That got him a laugh, a real one.  “Pretty sure scars are a big turn-on for a lot of people.”

“Don’t I know it.”  Soap ran an absent hand over the scar over his chin, shooting Gaz a lopsided grin.  “Maybe I shoulda let them get another shot in, give you some help.”

“Hey!”  Gaz punched him in the shoulder.  “I do plenty fine!  I’d probably do better without your ugly mug hovering over me and scaring everyone off.”

“Sure,”  He drawled, hooking an ankle around a nearby chair and dragging it towards the side of the bed.  Settling down on it with a huff, he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.  Gaz sat back against the bed, eying Soap with a searching look.

“You sure you’re alright?”  He probed, catching Soap off guard.

Soap sighed.  “Pretty sure I should be asking you that.  I’m not the one who got shot.”

“I dunno, man.  You sure look like you did.”  Uncertainty and worry colored Gaz’s words.  “What’s going on with you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  He couldn’t help the bite in the words, the residual anger in his chest sparking back into a blaze.  He knew he shouldn’t direct it towards Gaz, that he didn’t deserve the blow back, but he was a raw, exposed nerve.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you!”  Gaz shot back, expression darkening with anger.  “You’ve been a fucking ghost the whole week!  Price said you’ve been running yourself ragged trying to avoid me and I don’t fucking know what I did wrong!”

Soap reared back like he’d been slapped.  What did that mean? The fight seemed to drain out of Gaz as well, who slumped back into the shitty mattress with a groan.  His mouth was set in a grim line, eyes tired and confused.

Gaz sighed, picking at the threadbare blanket draped over him.  His voice was much more brittle as he spoke, like a misplaced word would shatter him to pieces.  “I get it if you’re pissed.  I’d be pissed too.  I fucked up big time.  But can you at least talk to me?  Tell me what I did and I can fix it?”  

“You didn’t do anything.”  Soap couldn’t get himself to speak louder than a hoarse whisper, off kilter and unsure as to where the conversation was going.  He was expecting Gaz to start blaming him, venom spewing from every syllable that fell from his lips.  He would have been ready for it.  He deserved it.  But to hear Gaz blame himself for getting shot?  That threw him for a loop.

Gaz scoffed derisively.  “Yeah, I know.  And—”

“No,”  Soap interrupted, much like Price had done not even twenty minutes earlier.  “You didn’t do anything.  I’m not mad.  I mean, I’m mad but not at you.”

Gaz blinked.  “What?”

“I’m pissed at myself for not noticing sooner.  For being too distracted or being distracting or whatever the fuck happened.  I’m mad at me, not you.”  A disbelieving laugh bubbled up, and Soap had to cover his eyes with his hand.  “I thought you were mad at me, too.”

Gaz squawked in outrage.  “Why the fuck would I be?!”

“I let you get shot.”

“No, I let myself get shot.  I thought you were pissed that you had to save my ass.”

“Dude, that’s part of the whole ‘being on the same team’ deal.  I save your ass, you save mine.  I would never be mad at you for that.”  Soap paused, letting Gaz’s earlier words finally register.  “And you didn’t let yourself get shot.  They got the drop on you.  The same thing could happen to literally anyone.  It’s happened to me plenty.”

Soap could see that Gaz didn’t believe him, and for once he found himself sympathizing with Price.  This shit was exhausting.

“How’s about this?”  He started, eyes twinkling with mischief.  “Instead of figuring out which of us is more to blame, we forget about this and figure out where the fuck Price hides his stash of good booze?”

A wicked grin cut across Gaz’s face, melancholy all but forgotten.  “I might have a bit of an in for that, now that you mention it.”

Soap cocked his head to the side, curious.  “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Gaz sat back with a smug look, brown eyes practically glowing.  The sour edge to his scent was gone, leaving the fizzing, bright mirth behind.  “It means I’m the favorite, and you’re not.”

“You bastard!”  He snarled playfully, no heat behind it whatsoever.  Gaz’s cackles filled Soap’s chest with sticky, honey-thick affection, drowning out the last lingering bits of guilt and anger.  The two of them plotted their heist well into the next morning, much to the nurses’ chagrin.  

He ignored Price’s knowing smile when he visited at 1000 sharp and saw the two of them chatting away, content to luxuriate in the feeling of his hoard safe and together.

Mostly.  

The empty space in the room stood bleak and heavy.  He almost wondered if it would ever be filled.

Three months.  He finally met him three months to the day from joining the 141.

It was surprisingly anticlimactic, all things considered.  Gaz had finally been allowed to return to light duty after an additional week in medical on top of his month in recovery, the hole in his gut healed to a point where Price felt comfortable to tolerate him being out and about.  Soap had been all too happy to welcome him back with a shit eating grin and a snarky “His highness returns!”  The fist-sized bruise on his bicep was well worth it.

Two months later found the two sergeants in the yard, watching over the newest batch of recruits and their… less than promising drill work.  He had leaned over to Gaz to whisper a snide comment about one of the more upstart recruits when he noticed it.

Looming rain.  Winter chill.  Bergamot.  All layered over a thick blanket of iron, gunpowder, and knife oil.  He swung his head around wildly, searching for the source of the smell.  Gaz ignored his admittedly strange behavior, clearly used to Soap’s quirks even after their surprisingly short time working together.  

There.  Left side of the administrative building, tucked away in a shadowy corner.  Invisible to anyone not looking for him.  

Soap couldn’t help but gawk.  Whatever he’d been imagining this mysterious Ghost to be like, this wasn’t it.  For one, the man was massive.  Soap was far from a small man, years of strict military discipline and a not so insignificant pride in his appearance helping him to stay trim and fit, but he was practically dainty compared to the mysterious Lieutenant.  Ghost was built like a brick shithouse to boot.  Even under thick layers of all black clothing and heavy gear, Soap could see the corded muscle of his arms and chest.

Then, there was the mask.  The ghoulish white skull stark against black fabric, it was impossible to ignore.  He couldn’t see Ghost’s eyes through the darkened sockets, shadowed by the distance and angle.  Still, there was a predatory air about him, the unseen gaze of a hunter observing the yard from afar.  For all intents and purposes, Soap should have been afraid.  It was clear that everyone else was, given the wide, wandering berth any passersby gave Ghost if they noticed him there.  

But Soap was a curious creature at heart.  He was a thrill seeker to the core, addicted to danger and uncaring of the consequences that came later.  The shadowed, ink black figure of Ghost screamed danger.  And the only thing Soap felt when looking at him was intrigue.  

As he stared openly at Ghost from over Gaz’s shoulder, he felt a familiar tingle crawl up his spine.  The feeling of being watched.  Of being observed.  Even if he couldn’t see it, he knew whose eyes were on him.  Ghost was staring him down, too.

Soap couldn’t help the small smile that curled up the corner of his lip, a feral thing with just a few too many teeth.  Oh, things were going to get so much more fun.

Gaz finally seemed to notice that Soap’s attention had drifted, and followed his line of sight with a questioning noise.  He knew when he caught glimpse of Ghost when a strangled snort escaped him.  “Fucking hell.  He must’ve just got in.”

“That our wayward Lieutenant, right?”  Soap asked, already knowing the answer.

“What gave it away?”  Gaz’s deadpan delivery earned him a bark of laughter.  “Was it the skull mask or the all black?”

“Neither.”  Soap’s feral grin grew crooked.  “It was the sunny disposition.”

Gaz snickered into his hand.  Soap turned back to look at Ghost again, but found the shadowed corner empty.  He blinked, confused.

“Glad to know you’re both hard at work.”  A deep, rumbling growl right behind him nearly had Soap leaping out of his skin.  He barely suppressed the urge to swipe outstretched claws at the intruder, flexing his hand at his side.  

He had to crane his head back to see him, a good head’s difference in height between them.  Ghost looked at him placidly, body language relaxed and unworried.  Now that their distance had reduced, Soap could see into the sockets of the skull.  He was almost surprised that they were a dark, honeyed whiskey brown, surrounding skin covered by a thick layer of smudged black greasepaint.  They were so human, those eyes.  

Gaz choked on his giggles, coughing awkwardly to clear his airways.  “Good to see you made it back in one piece, Lt.”

Ghost hummed, blinking languidly.  Now that he was out of the shadows, Soap could see the wet spots covering his gear, almost blending in to the black of his clothes.  He squinted.  Blood.  He was covered in blood.  Some weeks old, others fresh.  Almost none of it Ghost’s, from the smell of it.  A thick smudge colored the bone white of the mask crimson, dried shiny in the weak sun.

Well damn.  That’s one way of piquing Soap’s interest for sure.  

“You show up to every first date lookin’ like you’re straight out of some B-grade slasher, Lt.?”  The words were out before he could think about stopping them.  “Or is this something special for lil ol’ me?”

The tension in the air rocketed up.  He could see Ghost stiffen just slightly, eyes carefully blank and emotionless.  Gaz gaped, gaze bouncing between the two of them.  Soap stood his ground, stubborn as always.  If this was his CO now, he’d have to get used to everything Soap eventually.  He gave Ghost a lazy, feline grin, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans.

The silence stretched thin until Soap was sure it would shatter, but he refused to be the one to break it.  He forced himself to give off a careless, easy calm, shoving down the crawling discomfort that threatened to suffocate him.  Gaz shifted from foot to foot beside him, no doubt itching under the stifling pressure.  

Ghost eventually broke the silence, much to Soap’s delight.  His voice was even, giving away nothing in response to Soap’s teasing.  “Price wants you both in his office in ten.”

Soap perked up a bit at that, as did Gaz.  Summons for a mission of some sort, no doubt.  “Understood.”

Without another word, Ghost turned on his heel to stalk back towards the base, footsteps silent on the gravel.  How in the world a man of his size and stature managed that, Soap had no clue.  Another curious little detail to file away for later.  Once he’d disappeared into the building, Gaz punched him in the gut none too gently.

“What the fuck’s that for?”  Soap whined, rubbing his ribs.

“Are you fucking insane?!”  Gaz sputtered.  He looked at Soap with a wild, disbelieving stare before glancing back to where Ghost had disappeared to.

“What?”  Soap raised his hands in mock surrender.  He couldn’t help a cheeky grin.

Gaz shook his head, raising his face to the sky as if to beg a higher power for mercy.  “It’s like you’re asking to get shot, poking the bear like that.”

Soap rolled his eyes.  “Whatever.  You’re no fucking fun.”

“I’d like to keep my head attached to my shoulders, thank you very much.”  He quickly dismissed the recruits from drills, watching them scramble to leave, before he shoved Soap towards the building.  “Let’s get to Price before he ends up killing us first.”

“Killjoy,”  Soap muttered, following mulishly behind.

“Wanker,”  Gaz shot back.

“Kiss up.”

“Prat.”

“Got anything original, or are you going to reuse the same material all day?”

“Like you’d know original if it walked up and bit you, smart ass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Are you two done?”  Price’s voice shocked the two of them out of their banter, looking decidedly unimpressed with his choice in subordinates from behind his desk.  A stack of paperwork near the edge wobbled dangerously as the door slammed shut behind them.  They didn’t even have the forethought to look cowed by Price’s glare, muttering a halfhearted “sorry sir” and shoving one another as they plopped down into “their” seats in front of the desk.  

It was all familiar, save the prickle down Soap’s spine.  He turned his head slightly to find the source of his unease.  Leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and left ankle hooked around his right, looking entirely bored and unconcerned, Ghost wordlessly stared him down.  In the few minutes between their meeting in the yard and now, he’d exchanged the bloody mask and clothes for clean ones, still all dark edges and sharp angles.  His dark eyes were empty, sitting shadowed in the sockets of the skull.  

Soap smiled at him, all teeth and wild energy, but a root of anxiety planted itself in his lungs under his inscrutable gaze.  

Things had been good these last few months.  He worked well with the team, gelling with them effortlessly like none he’d worked with before.  It felt like he was meant to be here, like he belonged.  But it hit him now that this entire time had been a trial run.  A test of sorts.  And this, here, now, was the real deal.  He may have had Price’s approval, and Gaz’s friendship, but Ghost… he didn’t have a good read on Ghost yet.  He was a wild card.  An unknown variable in the equation, liable to tip him either into stability or detonation. 

It excited him as much as it terrified him.

“So,” Price started with a sigh.  Soap watched Ghost’s eyes slide off of him towards their Captain before he did the same, settling further down into his seat.  “We’ve got a lead on our cell.  According to Kate’s team, they’ve got a base in Siberia where they’re hunkered down.  And it seems like they’ve got something stashed up there with them.”

“Something?”  Gaz leaned forwards, elbows rested on his knees.  “That’s pretty vague, sir.”

“They haven’t been able to get a clear picture as to what exactly they’ve got up there, but whatever it seems important.”

“And if it’s important to them, it’s important to us,”  Soap finished the thought for him.  

Price hummed in assent.  “We need to get in, find what they’ve got hidden away, and get rid of it.”

“What sort of manpower are we looking at here?”  Ghost’s voice surprised Soap, who did his best not to turn and gawk at him more.  

Price dug through a few files on his desk before holding one out to Ghost to inspect.  “Couple dozen humans or human-like.  Three wolves at least, based on aerial imaging.  There’s suspicion they might even have a naga or two hidden away.”

Soap whistled lowly.  Like most reptilian species, dragons weren’t terribly fond of the cold.  He himself was no exception.  He was a hardier sort, though, born in the wild windswept north.  He could handle it just fine, though not without a fair bit of bitching and moaning.  Nagas, on the other hand, were a tropical species and dealt with ice and snow even worse than most.  Whatever they’ve got must be incredibly valuable for them to risk exposure to the elements in the isolated expanses of northern Russia.

Price fixed them all with a steady look.  “We’re leaving tomorrow morning.  Wheels up at 0500.  Dismissed.”

The sergeants clambered to their feet with various affirmatives, wandering out the door intent to head back to their rooms.  Soap absently noticed Ghost staying behind, still leaning lazily against the wall.  Unmoved.

He shoved the thoughts of the Lieutenant from his mind, focusing instead on the task at hand.  That focus shattered when Gaz knocked his shoulders against his, a shit eating grin on his face.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?”  Soap griped, hands shoved in his pockets and eyes steadfastly forward.

“Nothing.”  A strange undercurrent lingered in his tone, something just faint enough that Soap couldn’t decipher it.  “Just enjoying the show.”

“I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t!”  Gaz sang, ducking into his room with a laugh as Soap flipped him off.

“Fuckin’ prick.”  He muttered, fondness undercutting any potential heat.  He shoved his own door open with his hip, grunting as he fell flat into his bed.  The desire to shift tugged at his senses, the ache in his shoulder blades pitching up now that he was horizontal.  He groaned, pushing the urge down and pushing himself up on his hands.

The shift could wait.  The job came first.  The job always came first.

He had a hoard to protect now, after all.  And he wouldn’t be making the same mistake twice.  

Soap had never been a morning person on base.  On missions, he had a hair pin trigger, the smallest sounds pulling him from even the deepest sleeps.  But in the relative safety of the base, things changed.  Not even the army could train it out of him.  It usually took him a little while to get his brain kick started once he was up, usually assisted by a cup of coffee or three, but until then he was a little dazed and disoriented.  His filter (what little he actually had of one) ran fast and loose, letting every little thought and impulse pass.  And after a sleepless night of tossing and turning, a thousand and one scenarios running through his head, he was a little more muddled than usual.  

He stumbled onto the tarmac blearily, stuffed pack over tossed over one shoulder and rubbing at his eyes with his free hand.  Sweat dripped down his back under the thick thermal gear, vest packed to the gills with everything he’d need and more for a trip into the Siberian wastes.  The early morning was crisp and chill around him, but he was still sweltering under all of his layers.  It was a small price to pay compared to heading out under prepared.  

A thick, impenetrable darkness covered the world beyond the base, the lights on the runway barely eating away at the void.  Their helo sat warming up just ahead of him, a few technicians and engineers scouring the whole of it for any potential problems.  Price and Ghost stood side by side at the door, deep in discussion over the details of the op.  He could just make out the silhouettes of Gaz and a few other ragtag soldiers inside the belly chatting to one another, the low drone of blades drowning any other sound.

He approached the helo with a grimace, nodding blearily to his COs.

The Captain gave him a quick once over, eyebrow quirked up at the sight of him.  “Nice to see you up and about, Sleeping Beauty.  Took you long enough.”

He deigned to answer with a grunt, wrestling with his slippery, sleep-drunk thoughts.  His jaw cracked at the size of his yawn, a breathy little noise escaping him.  He felt more than saw Ghost’s eyes lock on to him, but he was too out of it to do much about it.  

“Go sit down before you break something, Sergeant.”  Ghost bit out.  Soap blinked up at him, before nodding absently.

“Mhmmm.  Save you a seat, Lt.”  He haphazardly patted Ghost on the shoulder as he passed, barely registering the way that shoulder tensed under his fleeting touch as Soap scrubbed at his leaden eyes and scrambled into the helo.  

He threw himself in the first open seat he saw with a groan, dropping his pack into the seat next to him and adjusting his vest to get somewhat comfortable.  Something warm was pressed into his hand and he blinked at it unseeingly for a moment.  As his vision focused, the steaming paper cup sharpened.  Thick curls of steam floated from the lid, the slightly bitter smell of shitty coffee winding through his syrupy thoughts.  He raised his gaze up to see Gaz seated across from him, who nodded wordlessly with a soft smile on his face.  Soap gave him a grateful smile in return, clumsily raising the cup slightly in wordless thanks.  

The soft sounds of conversation floated around him, but he felt no desire to join in for once.  Rather, he was content to sit in relative silence and sip at the god awful base coffee.  Tilting his head back to rest against the metal of the helo, he held the coffee loosely in his hands, luxuriating in the quiet, pre-mission calm.  His eyes slipped shut without his knowledge, comfortable in his quiet drowse.  The feeling of boots on the metal flooring had him opening them slowly, lazily glancing at the hulking mass of Lieutenant climbing inside.  

The corner of Soap’s mouth twitched up slightly as he wordlessly moved his pack from the seat next to him down onto the floor.  It raised that much further when Ghost stopped in his tracks, watching the movement with focused interest.  He stared back in challenge, before breaking his eye line to settle back against his seat.  A hush fell over the helo as Ghost stalked inside, no doubt every soldier watching in rapt fascination to see what he did.  Soap felt his fingers twitch, gums itching as the steady, even footsteps grew closer and closer.  

He didn’t look up when a shadow passed over his face, holding himself in that same relaxed doze.  He did chance a glance at the creaking sound of leather, nearly inaudible if not for his heightened senses.  A solid weight landed next to him, an inch or so between their arms and thighs.  Even with the meager space between them, Soap could feel the heat coming off of Ghost like a furnace.

Before any further conversation could be had, Price climbed aboard and signaled to the pilots for takeoff.  The humming drone of the rotors drowned everything else out as they grew in intensity, the helicopter smoothly lifting from the tarmac into the air.  Soap relaxed even more with a contented sigh, the feeling of being airborne suffocating any remaining worries.  

Despite how much he would have loved to drop off and sleep, the grating sound of machinery and the crushing weight of so many clashing smells kept him conscious the entire flight.  Instead, he found his attention pulled towards the warm, dense weight to his side.  

Ghost didn’t look at Soap the entire flight over, his own attention seemingly focused solely on Price where he was seated across from them.  They were deep in discussion, most likely about the mission specifics and contingency measures, but Soap couldn’t make out anything over the din of the rotor blades and the whistle of wind just outside the hull.  However, he could feel the vibrations of Ghost’s voice through the metal plating behind them, the sensation of it dulled but constant.  It soothed the raw, frazzled edge of Soap’s consciousness, pulled taut by lingering grip of sleep and the headache quickly building behind his eye sockets from the sensory overload.  

The feeling set him adrift, able to disconnect from his body enough to rest for a moment.  It might not have been a true sleep, but it was enough to get his mind fully online and his head on straight.  By the time Price announced their landing, frenetic energy buzzed through Soap’s whole body.  He pulled himself up and onto his feet before the wheels even touched down, eager to get moving.

The bite of the cold hit him as soon as the doors to the helo opened, revealing the sprawling white nothingness of the Siberian wilderness.  He followed dutifully behind Ghost, almost bouncing on his heels with anticipation.  Gaz rolled his eyes playfully at Soap’s antics, already used to them.  Price scoffed and gave an indulgent shake of his head before returning to directing the rest of their squad.  Ghost, though, had been gone for months.

“Pull yourself together, Sergeant MacTavish,”  He growled, the tone and pitch of it enough to throw Soap back to before.  Back to a house thick with concentrated anger and pressure plate tension.  Back to a place where every move was calculated, every word planned six steps ahead.  Back to a place he’d never wanted to return to.

He shrunk into himself slightly, pasting on an apologetic smile.  “Right.  Sorry, sir.”  Ghost turned with a huff and stalked off into the snow, the white of his gear blurring the edges of his form.  Soap tried not to take it to heart.  They were in the field for the first time together, and he knew it took a while for things to mesh.  But the harsh, clipped words had the edges of his control frayed enough that the very tip of his intact horn pressed uncomfortably against his helmet.

Gaz strolled up beside him, clucking his tongue.  His face pinched in annoyance and anger, the sharp nip of it blunt against the crisp taste of the air.  “Don’t know what crawled up his ass and died.”

“I thought that was his usual sparkling personality?”  Soap quipped, though the words tasted like dirt in his mouth.  He shifted the pack on his back, trying to get some of the anxious energy out.

“Don’t worry about him, son.”  Price appeared at his other elbow, his disappointed frown directed towards the treeline that Ghost had disappeared through.  He patted Soap’s shoulder shoulder blade firmly.  “He’ll get over himself.  Eventually.  Let’s get moving.”

“Yes sir.”  Soap ground out, trying not to let the bitter embarrassment overtake his focus.  He had a job to do.  He’d dealt with plenty of pissy officers in his time.  This should be no different.

They trekked to the base in stony silence.  Usually, Soap would chatter about anything and everything that crossed his mind during the walk.  Something, anything, to take their minds off the blinding, monotonous snow and the biting, frigid wind.  But the crushing weight of Ghost’s looming anger killed any thoughts of mindless, meandering chitchat.

He tried at first, spinning up some wild story to entertain them all through the grueling walk.  A barked command and a harsh glare sent his way had his mouth snapping shut quickly.  After that, Ghost refused to even acknowledge his presence, even with Price throwing him disapproving looks the entire time.

Soap fell in line, jaw clenched and eyes dutifully scanning their surroundings for potential hostiles.  He could feel Gaz’s displeasure and worry to his left, Price’s concern from his position on point, but the solid line of animosity that was Ghost kept him silent. 

It wasn’t embarrassment that had him quiet.  It wasn’t contrition either.  Each freezing cold step forward set another branch on the blazing anger in his chest, stoking the flames into a whirlwind of heat and fury.  He ground his teeth together, fangs pressing against his shut lips.

He hadn’t even fucking done anything.  If he’d said something stupid or done something reckless, then maybe he would understand.  Hell, he might even get it if he’d crossed some boundary without thinking.  He was a lot to handle sometimes, even under the best of circumstances.  But as far as he knew, he hadn’t done a single fucking thing to warrant this kind of reaction.  

Rationally, he understood that it might not be him that was the whole problem.  Ghost had spent months on a no doubt grueling mission, completely solo, only to immediately be thrown back into an op with the addition of an entirely unfamiliar team member.  That’s a lot for even the best operators to deal with.  That didn’t excuse the frankly juvenile treatment he’d been subject to thus far, though.

Ghost wanted to throw a tantrum?  Fine.  All the more power to him.  But Soap, despite his instincts screaming otherwise, wouldn’t stoop to his level.  And what better way was there to get back at a petulant, irritable Lieutenant than some malicious compliance?

He fell back into the good little soldier mindset, speaking only when spoken to and in short, terse, one word answers.  Gaz and Price’s worry didn’t ease, but a knowing shine to their eyes when he dared to glance at them let him know they saw his little plan and silently approved.  Ghost carried on as he was, prickly and gruff and wound tighter than a tourniquet.  During the remainder of their hike, Soap made it his personal mission to be as cold and impersonal as he could be just to imagine the vein throbbing in Ghost’s forehead.  

He reeled his attitude back as they crested their overwatch point, looking down on the sprawling base below.  Despite his own anger sparking in his veins, he knew better than to let it affect his ability to complete a mission.  Hunkering down in the snow, Soap tried not to hiss at the cold seeping through his layers.  A syrupy fatigue lurked in the corners of his mind and weighed down his head, the urge to curl up and hibernate insistent and forceful.  He swallowed the feeling and wrestled with himself to focus on Price and Ghost at the front, binoculars trained on the movement below.

After a long moment, the two of them seemed to come to some sort of wordless agreement, before turning to the rest of the squad with hardened features.  

“Listen up.”  Price’s voice was quiet and careful, but carried the full weight of his command.  Everyone sat up a little straighter, shoulders squared and jaws set.  “Alpha team, head with Ghost to the south side of the building.  Bravo, you’re with me to the north.  On my mark, we breach.  Take it slow and careful.  We’re going in blind.  No heroics.  Understood?”

A chorus of “Affirmative” filled the air, and Price gave them all a solemn smile. “Good.  Let’s give ‘em hell, boys.”

They split off into their respective teams, Gaz with Ghost and Soap with Price.  Before Soap left, Gaz stopped him with a tight grip to his forearm.  He squeezed tightly, nodding once.  “Don’t you fucking die on me.”

Soap’s answering grin was crooked as he turned his arm to grasp Gaz’s forearm back.  “Same goes to you.  Won’t have me to patch you up if things go tits up this time around.”

“Thank god for that.”  Another firm squeeze.  “See you on the other side, brother.”

“You know it.”

They released each other and turned to follow their teams, snow softly crunching under their boots.

The stillness of winter never felt natural.  The thick snow muffled everything for miles, the whistle of the wind the only sound to be heard.  Even Soap’s breath, seeping through the thermal balaclava in gray, wisping clouds, sounded quieter than it should.  All of his senses were stretched thin, searching for any sign of something wrong in the frozen expanse around them.  

The team crept around the northern side of the squat concrete building, staying tucked tight to the sparse tree line to try and minimize enemy sight lines.  Price stopped them with a raised hand, and he crouched with his rifle raised.

“Two guarding the entrance.  Soap, you take left.  I’ll handle right.  On your go.”

The rifle was a reassuring weight in his hands.  He inhaled slowly, training the scope on his target.  Holding for a three count, he steadied his aim.  Exhale.  Squeeze the trigger.  The target fell in a dark spray of blood, his comrade falling with him.  

“Tango down,”  He breathed, a thrill going through his core at the quiet pride emanating from Price. 

“Excellent shot, Sergeant.  Let’s move.”

Bravo team advanced carefully through the field towards the base door, 

“Locked.  Soap, you’re up.”

“My fuckin’ pleasure, Cap.”  He couldn’t tell if his dropped fangs slurred his words noticeably, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care.  After sticking the mix of C4 and wires to the door, he motioned towards the corner with his head.  They huddled against the wall as he primed the detonator, looking to Price for the go-ahead.  

The Captain reached up to his radio and spoke gruffly into the speaker.  “Alpha 0-7, this is Bravo 0-6 how copy?”

A crackle of static filled the air before Ghost’s rasp answered.  “Solid, Bravo 0-6.  We’ve reached the door and are ready to breach.”

“Copy.  On my mark.”  Another nod to Soap, before he repositioned his rifle towards the door.

“Three…” Soap settled the detonator firmly in his grasp.

“Two…”  He shifted his feet, planting them more firmly.

“One!”  Soap detonated the charge, the echoed sound of twin explosions filling him with a heady satisfaction.

“Move!”  The team breached the building with practiced efficiency, following behind Price as they cleared room after room.  

From the outside, the building had looked plain and sparse, a simple, purpose-built structure with a clear, predictable layout.  The inside was an entirely different story.  A sprawl of twisting corridors and darkened hallways branched out around them.  Restless unease soured Soap’s mouth, the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably.  The unnatural silence was oppressive, clinging, and pervasive.

“Fuck me…”  He muttered, agitation growing with each sweep of identical empty room after identical empty room.  “This place is a bloody ghost town.  What the fuck are they doing here?”

“Cut the chatter and clear comms, Sergeant.”  His eyes almost rolled out of his head at Ghost’s blunt, clipped reprimand.  He didn’t even deign to reply, knowing it would only earn him another cold response.  He slid the mute button on his throat mic with a sub-audible growl and continued his sweep behind Price.

When they exited the hallway, they found themselves at a crossroads.  A staircase, to be more specific.  Price peered down the winding metal cloaked in darkness, shaking his head with a huff.  “We’re never gonna find the target like this.  Soap, with me.  The rest of you, head downstairs and see what you can find.  RV outside in ten minutes if you don’t find anything worthwhile.”

A smattering of copies followed and the rest of the team split off in the opposite direction.  The Captain motioned him to fall in behind, and they proceeded up the stairs on silent feet.

Room after room after room was the same.  Nothing but dust, frost, and the lingering feeling that something was very, very wrong.  Following close at Price’s heels, Soap tasted the air in search of something, anything, to explain the yawning pit in his stomach.  Stagnant air and stale, dusty fibers hit the back of his throat and he nearly gagged.  Fuck, that was vile.

It hit him too late, too busy trying to stave off a coughing fit and nearly overpowered by the dank miasma surrounding him.  Rot, wet and mildewy.  Not entirely out of place in an old, isolated building like this, but the biting smell of damp fur was.  

He blinked.  Oh shit.  He knew that smell.  Had been subject to it countless times on bases.  Wet dog.  A growl rose up from the darkness in front of Price, two sets of lamp-yellow eyes peering over them.  

Werewolves.

A massive, furred hand slammed into Price’s side before Soap could even think to warn him, sending him flying into the wall with a dull thud.  He sprawled across the ground limp, head lolling forward.  Blood, thick with iron, overpowered the rich tobacco and earth he’d come to lean on.  

A breath caught in his throat when the shadows moved towards him, the scent of blood - Price’s blood - paralyzing him much like Gaz’s had.  He could only watch in distant horror, rifle trained on the floor, as the two towering wolves slinked out of the darkness, movements far too graceful for their massive frames.  

They were entirely unlike the werewolves he’d served with before.  Those had been more like mundane wolves if not bigger, young and excitable and almost grown into their overlarge paws and ears.  These were not those wolves.  Their sickly yellow eyes, animalistic and empty of any lingering traces of higher thought, stayed locked on Soap’s rigid form as they lazily circled him.  A thick layer of gray fur, matted and tangled with blood and viscera, covered their bulk.  They crawled on almost humanoid limbs, with claws the size of cleavers and proportions entirely off.  Growls shook the ground, their lips pulled back to show off yellowed, knife-sharp teeth filling dripping, bloodstained mouths.  

One of the wolves, slightly larger and fur a darker gray, raised its bloody muzzle slightly as it scented the air.  Its eyes narrowed as Price shifted and groaned, empty animal desire drained away and replaced with a deep, dark hunger.  It turned its head away from Soap, leaving the smaller to continue circling, and crawled inch by agonizing inch towards the battered, bruised body of his barely conscious Captain.

Something in Soap snapped.  The air crackled with energy.  Both wolves froze, one looming over Price with dripping maw opened wide.

“No.”

The world narrowed and pitched as chains snapped under the pressure, shift crawling over him in waves.  He dropped his rifle from scaled hands, now too large to hold it.  The buckles of his tac vest shattered as he grew, the seams of the rest of his gear popping and tearing.  Holding on to the very last edges of his frayed consciousness, he kept himself from shifting fully.  It was too tight, too close, too dangerous with Price there.

“MINE!”  He roared through a fanged maw, wings beating the stagnant air into a frenzy.  He lunged with a howl for the larger wolf, still standing over the prone body of his Captain.  Red filled his vision and he tore through muscle and fur and bone, the shrieking scream of his prey bouncing off the concrete walls of the compound.  Gore sprayed thick and meaty over every surface, though he angled himself to spare his Captain the worst of it.  His hoard would not be tarnished by this trash.

He reduced the larger wolf to nothing but a pile of unrecognizable mush, stomping on the remains for good measure.  A sharp, fiery pain in his side pulled him out of his single-minded rampage.  Looking down, he found trembling claws buried into the softer scales at his belly, blood weeping down his shredded shirt and vest.  He heard a shaky, stuttering snarl just behind him, and the claws dragged down his rib cage towards his hip.  With the last vestiges of his control, he turned to find the smaller wolf at his back, twitching and growling pitifully.  It had not been spared from the deluge of what’s left of its pack mate, the gray of its fur damp and flat with wolf blood.  

A thrill of desire lit Soap’s blood as he watched fear fill the wolf’s features, claws twitching in his flesh before tearing away.  It was far too late to run, its fate decided the moment its pack mate laid a hand on his captain, but the poor little thing didn’t know that.  It still held onto that fragile scrap of hope that it could escape him.  Escape the wrath pouring off Soap in waves.  

It scrabbled against the slick floor with bare feet, digging deep tracks into the wood in its desperation.  Soap lumbered forward, unhurried.  His tail swayed as he walked, brushing gently against Price’s side.  The warmth of him seeped into the cool of his scales, and he rumbled a pleased purr beside the persistent growl tumbling from his chest.  Something rough and callused trailed along the side of it, but he barely registered the feeling through the haze of mine mine mine.

A thin, high pitched whine pierced the air as the wolf stumbled and tripped and fell to the ground in a tangled heap.  The laugh that tore from Soap’s throat was a dark, twisted, wicked thing.  It sounded wrong, gnarled, broken, pasted back together incomplete.  Straining at his vocal cords in almost painful ways.  A laugh of pure malice, vengeful and dripping with murderous intent.  The wolf curled into the fetal position at the sound of it, whimpering pathetically in the back of its throat.  Soap ignored it, stepping forward on thundering, heavy feet.  

This thing thought it could put a hand on Soap.  On Soap’s people.  Thought it could dare harm those under his protection and get away with it.  Thought it could spit and snarl and tear and claw without consequence.  No.  Soap wouldn’t allow it.  His people, his hoard, were to be protected.  They welcomed him.  They accepted him.  They might not love him with the same ferocity that he loved them, but he didn’t care.  He could love enough for the lot of them.  

If he had time, didn’t have Price crumpled to the floor behind him to worry about, he’d make it slow.  He’d drag out the torture, flaying the pathetic excuse for a wolf alive, relishing in the sweet sounds of agony that he could tear from it.  He’d bathe himself in its blood, let it soak deep under his skin and turn midnight blue to black with it, as a reminder.  But time was short, and his fury coursed hot and fast in his veins.

The whine cut off with a scream and a gargle as he rent furred head from furred torso, what remained of the wolf falling limp and lifeless under Soap’s burning rage.  Loose vertebrae clattered against the ground as he dropped the head to the side carelessly.  Blood pooled under his feet, seeping into the floorboards.  He heaved, steam curling from his mouth and nostrils.  His claws flexed, his wings shook, and his tail lashed as the adrenaline worked its way through his system.  He wanted to level the whole building, reduce it to a smudge against the snow, tear about the foundation until there was no hope of ever repairing it.  He wanted to curl up somewhere dark and warm, away from the howling wind outside and the dank concrete walls, with his people safe and close and protected.  He wanted to scream until his voice died, fly to the end of the earth never to return—

The shifting clatter of rubble and a pained groan snapped him out of his daze, and he whirled around to see Price shifting against the wall stiffly.  He pressed a hand to his forehead, wincing at the pain of his touch.  There was so much blood, his and the wolves’ despite Soap’s best efforts to spare him, a brilliant red painting his fatigues and skin.

Soap whined low in his throat, a stark contrast to his booming growls, and darted over to his Captain.  Words were far beyond his reach, the lines between his human and dragon consciousnesses too blurred to separate them.  He crawled forward, pressing himself as far into the floor as he could to show he wasn’t a threat.  He could never be a threat.  Not to him.  He reached out for Price with gentle hands, careful not to graze any part of him with bloody claws.  Almost without thought, Price leaned into the touch with a soft hum and stared unsteadily up at his Sergeant.

Peering at him, Soap could see the different sizes of his pupils, the glazed look in his eyes, the confused furrow in his brow.  A concussion, no doubt.  It would have been a surprise if he hadn’t gotten one, with the amount of force he’d collided into the wall with.  He whined again, worry and fear fogging his rational mind, and nudged Price softly with his snout.  

Price dragged his heavy, sluggish stare around Soap’s face, squinting at him.

“S’p?  ‘S tha’ y’?”  His slurred speech didn’t bode well, but a fuzzy, tacky feeling stuck to the inside of his ribs when his Captain recognized him, even in this form.  He purred, shoving his giant scaled head into Price’s chest.  Uncoordinated arms wrapped around his neck, gripping with as much strength as the addled Captain had.  “Y’r so f’ck’n bi’ now.”

A wheeze had him flinching back, whining and sniffing at Price’s ribs.  He drew back with a hiss when he smelled more blood, ears pinning back in alarm.  Four long slashes dug into Price’s hip and down his thigh, ending just below his knee.  Soap couldn’t tell how bad the damage was, not through the sheer amount of blood everywhere, but on a cursory glance it didn’t look like an artery had been nicked or anything.

“’S f’ne.  ‘M f’ne.”  Price soothed, petting a clumsy hand up and down Soap’s forehead.  His fingers caught the cracked edge of his broken horn and dismay flooded Price’s expression.  “Wha’ happ’n’d t’ y’r horn?!”

Soap shook his hand off carefully, huffing in anxious amusement, before he swung his head towards where they’d come from.  They needed to move.  There was no way of knowing who else was down here with them, and he’s not sure how much time had passed during his little moment.  There was a not-insignificant risk of one of their team stumbling across them like this.  And as much as he wanted to gather his Captain into his massive arms and spirit him away to his den, Soap knew Price needed urgent medical attention.  He drew back from Price, fighting the instinct to cuddle close when a distressed mumble escaped him, and shut his eyes.

It was much harder to weld the chains back shut, especially with the smell of Price’s blood so thick and close in the air, but his overwhelming desire to protect forced the shift back down.  It took longer than it should, the change warring within him, but eventually bloodied skin replaced bloodied scales.  

He groaned as the aches and pains of such an abrupt change slammed into him, his head spinning and eyes blurred.  The tattered remnants of his gear hung off of him, though not enough to leave him completely exposed to the elements (or to any unlucky witnesses that might catch a glimpse).  His boots were unsalvageable, though, now just scraps of leather littered across the bloody floor.  He took a moment to get his head on right, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, before he grabbed at Price’s arm.

The Captain’s head lolled forward, eyes slipping shut.  Alarm burned away the last of the exhaustion in Soap’s mind and he surged forward to catch him.

“Hey!”  He shook at Price’s shoulder roughly, biting his cheek at the low, muffled groan he got in response.  “C’mon, Cap, no sleepin’ on the job.  Up and attem!”

After a few agonizing seconds, Price’s eyes fluttered open.  Barely a crack, but that thin sliver of brown had Soap nearly floating on air.  

“There we go!  Eyes on me, Cap, that’s it!”  He craned his neck to try and catch Price’s wavering gaze, scanning over his face.  A nasty looking laceration trailed across his hairline, bleeding steadily into his right eye.  Soap curled a hand behind Price’s head and steadied it as it wobbled on his neck.  

After a few long moments, Price seemed to come back to himself a little and squinted at Soap, confused recognition in his eyes.  “S’p?  Y’r lil ‘gan.  Wh’ are y’ lil?”  Price mumbled, more to himself than Soap.  

“Not important right now.  C’mon, up we go.” Bracing his legs under himself, Soap hauled Price’s limp body onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.  The weight of the Captain and his gear burned Soap’s already overtaxed muscles, but he gritted his teeth and settled him more solidly on his shoulders.  “Lets get the fuck out of this hellhole, yeah?”

Price mumbled something else into his collar, voice fading into pained groans and hisses.  Steeling himself, Soap started to walk.

The burn intensified with each step, joints creaking painfully as he picked his way down the stairs.  All he could do was take the next step, and the next, carrying his precious burden without complaint.  As he went, he searched darkened corners for movement with hackles raised, ready for another attack.  His senses were frazzled, nearly at their breaking point, but he couldn’t relax.  Wouldn’t relax.  Not until they were both safely on their way back to base, hopefully with the rest of their team.  

After what felt like ages, Soap spotted the blown-wide door they’d breached and almost cried with relief.  They were almost there.  They were almost there.

Snow bit at his bare feet, numbing them instantly.  He was almost thankful when he couldn’t feel them anymore, stabbing pain dulled to a sting.  It even washed some of the wolf blood off his soles and ankles as he trudge through, which was a nice bonus.  

Price was entirely dead weight on his shoulders, head pressed uncomfortably to his bicep even through his tattered layers.  Soap flexed his hand against his wrist, adjusting his grip slightly to feel the pulse beating under frozen skin.  Fast under his fingertips, but still pumping away.  Still fighting.

“Almost there, Captain.  Hang on.”  He whispered, his words torn from his lips instantly by the wind.  “You’ll be okay.”

He could hear the helicopter blades well before he could see them as he climbed up the snowy hills towards their exfil point.  Heart in his throat, he climbed faster, lungs burning from the icy air around them.  

The team was gathered around the helicopter in a loose circle.  He could see a few injured soldiers being tended to by medics, though it looked as if they were all walking and talking.  A knot of tension loosened in Soap’s gut at the thought, grimly thankful that it was only he and Price in dire straits.  Ghost stood separate from the group, back turned to Soap as he growled into his comms.  Gaz paced behind him, a deep track worn in the snow from it as he snarled something into his as well.

Gaz noticed them first after turning sharply on his heel as he reached the end of his track and peering through the sparse trees with clear agitation.  When he caught sight of Soap’s bloody and battered form trudging through the snow, his jaw dropped and his fingers fell slack from the comms unit.  He stood frozen for a long moment, just staring, until he snapped out of it and scrambled through the thick snow towards them.

“SOAP!”  Relief colored his shout as he went to hug his friend, only to pull up short at the bloody, gory sight of them.  His eyes flitted across the two of them, taking in Soap’s destroyed gear and chattering teeth and Price’s limp body across his shoulders.  He turned to bark at the shell-shocked team still standing around the idling helo.  “WE NEED SOME HELP OVER HERE!”

The harsh, biting growl of his voice spurred everyone into action, a flurry of movement surrounding them.  Soap had to stop himself from snapping at the hands reaching for his vulnerable Captain, knowing they were only trying to help but unwilling to let outsiders touch his hoard.  In the end, his exhaustion won out over his stubbornness and he couldn’t keep his tight grip.  They carefully slid Price from his shoulders as a field medic looked him over, inspecting the wounds with her mouth set in a grim line.

Without the weight of his body, the heat radiating off of him, and the pulse under his fingers, the last little bits of Soap’s energy sapped away and left him crumbling like a cut marionette.  Gaz cursed as he lunged for him, holding him up and out of the snow as his chin hit his chest.  The warmth of Gaz’s hands, rough with years of calluses but still gentle, had him sagging even further into his arms, completely spent.

One of Gaz’s hands rubbed his upper arm slowly, readjusting him to sit more firmly in his hold.  “Holy fucking shit, Soap, what the fuck happened to you?!”

Words were difficult, thoughts sticky in his skull and tongue leaden in his mouth.  He worked his jaw for a few moments before wheezing out a clipped, “Wolf attack.”

He could picture the way Gaz’s eyes bugged out of his skull, fingers digging deep into the flesh of his upper arms.  “You fought off a wolf?!  On your own?!  Why didn’t you call for help?”

Soap shook his head, trying to force the words out.  “Two.”  He swallowed past the rising nausea, desperately clinging to consciousness.  His side throbbed, his feet burned, and his whole body felt like one big bruise.  The cold sapped at his already drained reserves, leaving him barely conscious and struggling to stay present.  A large white smudge against the gray sky loomed over Gaz’s shoulder, dark, empty circles tearing into his very being.  He coughed, feeling a searing hot droplet of blood drip down his chin.  “Price was hit.  Couldn’t call. Radio got fucked.”  The shattered remains of his comms dangled by a frayed, sparking wire.

He groaned when Gaz hauled him more upright, gaping at him in horror.  “TWO?  Two wolves? How fucking stupid are you?!”

His heartbeat throbbed behind his eyes, black spots climbing up from the edges of his vision.  “Not a big deal.”

Gaz snarled, lip curling in rage.  “Not a— Are you serious right now?!,”

Soap’s head spun.  “Wha’?”

“Enough.”  A gravelly bass cut through the mounting panic with precision, and the blur over Gaz’s shoulder finally solidified into Ghost’s hulking frame.  Distantly, and a little hysterically, Soap noticed the pristine white of his snow gear.  He frowned, jealousy licking at the edges of his thoughts.  How did he manage that, when Soap always got drenched in nasty shit?

“Get your asses moving.  We’re leaving.  That’s a fucking order.”  The sharp edge of Ghost’s words stung, and Soap was too tired and wrung out to think of fighting the hot, embarrassed tears welling in his eyes.  He was still angry.  Why was he still angry?  What did Soap even do?  He desperately wanted to know what he’d done, just so he could fix it.  He was still a little annoyed at the cold shoulder he’d been given earlier, but as his knees buckled under him again all he could think of was that mix of smells in Price’s office.  How despite the subtlety of Ghost’s presence, it was still there.  It was important.  Ghost was important.  And if he was important to Price and important to Gaz and important to Laswell, he was important to Soap too.

His thoughts shifted and whirled in his skull as Gaz ducked under his arm and took some of the his weight, all but dragging him to the waiting helo.  He let a soft, surprised noise escape when Ghost grabbed his other arm and threw it over his shoulders, wrapping a thick, solid arm around his waist.  Soap let his head drop forward, eyes fluttering closed.  

“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me.”  Gaz prodded his back with an insistent finger, and Soap reluctantly dragged his heavy eyes to meet rich brown.  That spark of anger still lit them, but it had been blunted by the relief and worry shining in his irises.  He huffed, squeezing gently at Soap’s wrist.  “This isn’t over, am I clear?  We’re not done talking about this.”

Soap wheezed a breathless laugh.  “Crystal.”

The two of them hauled him into the belly of the helo, settling him into an open seat with surprising care.  After fiddling with the belts and buckles for a bit until he was satisfied, Gaz threw himself down into the open seat next to Soap and rested a hand on his knee.  He leaned his leg into the point of contact, touch grounding him and grinding down those sharper edges still left over from the whole ordeal.  He jolted in surprise, hissing when the movement pulled at the still open wounds in his side, when another body lowered into the seat on his other side.  

Ghost resolutely did not look at him, eyes forward and fists clenched in his lap.  Soap noticed a smudge of blood on the palms of his white gloves.  The corner of his mouth twitched when he realized how similar this picture was.  

With the rest of his team around him, the last fragments of awareness slipped through bloody fingers.  Noise and feeling washed over him, melting together into an incomprehensible mush as his eyes slipped shut.  A medic shouted something from somewhere, words garbled through the static in Soap’s head, and he felt Ghost say something back before the rotors overhead roared to life.  

His stomach swooped as the helo took off, shuddering with the growing wind around them.  A particularly harsh jerk knocked his head off of his unsteady neck and it slid down the cool, smooth metal siding until it hit something firm.  Warm.  He grumbled at the feeling of something hard poking into the sensitive skin of his cheek.  Whatever it was moved under him, and something gripped the back of his neck and gently guided him to rest on his other side.  He sighed, sinking into the much softer feeling as his conscious thoughts floated away.

He woke up with a gasp, heart pounding in his ears and eyes wide and searching.  Metal screeched against metal.  Rubber scuffed and squeaked.  A low droning chatter picked up.  Bodies moved all around him, the crush of noise incomprehensible and overwhelming.  He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, dizzy and nauseous.  

“Easy, brother,”  The familiar voice, the smell of cinnamon in his nose, had his heart rate lowering.  A hand pressed between his shoulder blades, rubbing back and forth in a slow, even pace.  Gaz.  “You’re fine.  How about we head to medical and get you checked out, hm?”

Medical.  He was hurt.  Why was he hurt?  They… they were on a mission, right?  Cold.  Snowy.  Somewhere lonely.  He wasn’t lonely, though.  There was someone with him.  Someone hoard.  Price.  Price was with him.  Price… wasn’t here.  Where was Price?

Ice filled his veins.

Price was hurt.

He surged up, a strangled growl trapped in his throat. His knees hit the metal flooring of the helicopter when his legs couldn’t hold his weight.  An arm locked around his torso, pulling him back into a solid chest and trapping him there.  A snarl curled his lips as he fought against the hold.  The arm didn’t relent, holding him firm despite his desperate attempts to get free.  

His second wind abandoned him as quickly as it had come, leaving him even more tired than before.  He collapsed forward, only upright because of that arm.  He reached up and circled loose fingers around a wide wrist.  Gaz’s worried face ducked into view, mouth moving but no sound reached Soap’s ears.  His hand gripped Soap’s shoulder, shaking it roughly enough to pull him back to his body.

“Soap?  Soap, you’re okay.  Price is okay.  They took him to medical, he’ll be fine.”

The panic receded when Gaz’s words broke through the cloud of panicked anger, and large, gasping breaths rattled Soap’s frame as he shook from the adrenaline crash.  He pulled himself upright, staring blearily down at the thick, strong arm still wound tight around his chest.  

The arm released him slowly, tentatively, hovering in the corner of his sight like its owner was worried he’d collapse again.  It didn’t feel that unwarranted of a worry, with how sluggish and winded he felt.  He didn’t collapse, though, shoring up enough of his reserves to stay stubbornly upright.  

“Medical.”  His mouth didn’t feel right around the word, too tight and gritty.  

“Yeah.  He’s in medical.”  Gaz soothed.

“No.  Medical,”  Soap growled, brow furrowing.  “Price.  Now.”

Gaz froze, blinking rapidly.  Soap squashed the threatening growl rising in his chest.  No.  He was hoard.  Hoard was safe.  Hoard was his.

“Okay.  We’ll go see him in medical.  C’mon.”  With a grunt, Gaz hoisted him upright and dragged Soap’s arm back over his shoulder’s.  They had begun the slow, painful walk towards the medical wing when a voice had Soap rooted to the spot.

“Sergeant MacTavish.”  It was familiar, but not hoard.  At least, not yet.  He was almost hoard.  Close to hoard.  Soap wanted him to be hoard, at least he thought he did.  It was hard to think.  A name floated to the front of his brain, along with the memory of a bleached-white skull and cold whiskey eyes.

Ghost.  His voice sounded distant, like he was standing behind them somewhere on the tarmac.  Soap’s eyes shut with a heavy sigh, face pinched.

“Sir.”  He bit out, shoulders tightening in preparation for a blow.  Gaz’s arm around his back tightened as well, trying to be comforting.  Was Ghost still angry?  He hoped not.  How could he become hoard if he was still angry with Soap?

The silence stretched on for a beat too long, only the sound of shifting clothes to be heard over the distant din of the base.  Ghost cleared his throat, almost sounding… awkward.  Soap tilted his head towards him, but only caught the sight of his back as he walked towards the barracks building.  

Before he was out of earshot, Ghost turned his head just slightly.  It might have only been Soap’s imagination, but he thought the corner of the Lieutenant’s eye creased a bit behind the greasepaint.  A smile?  It was too far to really tell.  Soap hoped it was a smile.  Or at least an approximation of one.  

Spring rain, full of life and promise, filled his nose.  

“Good work.”

Ghost disappeared into the barracks, leaving petrichor in his wake.

The trip to the med wing rushed past Soap in a blur.  Between one moment and the next, he was laid out on a stiff, scratchy cot, a thick layer of bandages wrapped around his abdomen and an IV stuck into his arm.  He was in a private room, thankfully, tucked away and out of sight from the rest of the ward.  Another unexpected perk of being part of a task force like the 141.  Though, it might have to do with their frequent flier status more than anything.

He stared at the stained tile on the ceiling of the drab room, staunchly ignoring the empty silence filling the air.  Gaz had disappeared for a while after dumping him at the feet of the nurses, no doubt to check up on Price.  It stung just a bit to be abandoned like that, but Soap knew if he could, he’d be right there with him.  He didn’t fault Gaz in the slightest.  

He soldiered through the stitches, gritting his teeth at the pull of the thread through his overstimulated skin.  They’d dosed him with as many painkillers as they could, thinking he was entirely human, but it was barely enough to take the edge off.

If it had been guns or knives, he could have shrugged the whole thing off, let himself lick his wounds in peace while they healed rapidly.  But it was just his luck that they’d run into wolves, feral wolves at that.  Injuries from other non humans and supernaturals never healed quite as fast.  He somehow appreciated it as much as he fucking despised it.  It was the closest to human he would ever feel.  

The door clicked open and Soap’s head shot up, eager to have someone, anyone, to break the silence.  He’d even take the doctor’s lectures on taking care of his body again over this suffocating nothingness.  A familiar figure stepped through the door, closing it quietly behind him.  A bright grin split Soap’s face in two.

“Gaz!”  He shuffled up the bed, wincing at the pull of his stitches.  His heart stuttered in his chest at the dark look over Gaz’s face as he threw himself into the shitty plastic chair next to Soap’s bed.  The heart monitor screeched as his pulse picked up.  Fingers gripped the thin sheets covering his legs, and he tried not to let his voice tremble as he asked,  “What happened?  Is Price—”

Gaz cut him off with a flippant wave of his hand.  “Price is fine.  No permanent damage so far.  He’s pissed as hell and cranky from the concussion protocol, but he’ll be good to go in a few weeks.”

Soap collapsed back into the bed, hand pressed over his racing heart.  He mumbled more to himself than Gaz, “Oh thank fuck.”

Silence stretched thin over the room.  Soap’s skin prickled with nerves, and he slowly, cautiously lifted his head to look at Gaz.  

His face was carefully blank, almost waiting for something.  Soap wasn’t sure what he wanted, so he kept his mouth shut.  After more silence, Gaz’s mouth twisted into an angry frown.  His question was tight with barely contained rage.  “That’s it?”

“What?”  Soap didn’t know what he meant, brow furrowing with cautious confusion.  “What’s it?”

“That’s all you have to say?  Ask if Price is okay?”

Soap’s stomach fell to the floor, a yawning pit of horror opening where it once sat.  He had been so focused on Price and his status, he hadn’t even considered the others they’d been with.  He vaguely remembered the medics running around the helo, tending to the dozen or so others on the mission with them.  His tongue tripped over his words as they rushed past his lips, frantic.  “What do you mean?  Is the team okay?  Did someone else get hit?”

Gaz looked somehow even angrier at Soap’s open concern.  “Yes.  Someone did.”

His heart seized, blood draining from his face to pool under the bed.  “Who?  What happened, are they—”

Soap’s voice died at Gaz’s snarl.  A tremor ran through his body from where he sat, hands clenched into fists.  Venom dripped from every word when he spat, “I don’t fucking know, why don’t you tell me?”

The world froze.  Soap couldn’t breathe.  Had he done something in his bloody, rage-filled haze?  Hurt someone?  The only thing he could see was the inferno burning in Gaz’s eyes.  He could barely whisper a hoarse, “Me?”

Gaz exploded, surging forward to point an accusing finger in Soap’s face.  Soap flinched back at the incandescent rage on his face.  “Yes, you!  You fucking prick, do you know how much you scared me?  Scared all of us?”

Horror filled Soap’s chest, choking him.  “I didn’t-”

“No.  You shut the fuck up.  It’s my turn to talk.”  Soap’s mouth shut with a click, and he watched, sheepish and cowed, as Gaz sat back in the chair, face buried in his hands.  When he spoke next, his voice lacked the anger, the heat.  It was brittle, cracked and fragile on the edges.  

“You scared the shit out of me, John.”  Soap flinched at the use of his first name.  “We thought you were fucking dead.  Both of you.  When you didn’t answer, I thought I was gonna go back there and find your tags.  And when I saw you come over that ridge, alive, I couldn’t believe it.  Sure, you were hurt, but you were alive.  And then you started talking about taking on wolves by yourself, and I-”  Gaz shuddered and he lifted his head to look somewhere over Soap’s shoulder, eyes dark and distant and somewhere else entirely.

Gingerly, slowly, Soap reached out and brushed his fingertips against the back of Gaz’s hand that was resting on the sheets.  He flinched at the touch, eyes wrenched back to the present, before turning his hand to hold Soap’s in a tight, crushing grip.  Soap bore the pain of his finger bones grinding together, seeing how watery Gaz’s eyes were.

His voice was just as watery.  “I thought we were gonna lose both of you.  You can’t do this shit, man.  We’re a fucking team.”

Soap’s nose burned as he blinked away the wetness in his own eyes.  “Shit, Gaz - Kyle, I didn’t mean to.  You know that.  But that's the job, right?”

Gaz slumped forward, death grip loosening to fiddle with Soap’s fingers idly.  “I know.  I know you didn’t.  And that’s what pisses me off even more.  Because it’s wasn’t your fault, but fate or God or whatever’s out there seems to want you dead.  I can’t fucking lose you.  You’re the closest thing to a brother, a real brother, that I’ve ever had.”

The word brother dug deep into Soap’s core, past the chained iron door to his beating, bleeding heart.  He tugged weakly at Gaz’s arm, dragging him up out of the chair and into his arms.  He went with only token resistance and fell boneless against Soap’s chest, pressing his forehead into the warm skin over his collarbone.  Soap leaned his cheek against his temple, squeezing him tight.  “I’m sorry.”  

Gaz hummed, squeezing back just has hard while still carefully avoiding his stitches.  “I know you are.  I’m sorry too.”

Soap pulled back, quirking a confused eyebrow down at him.  “The fuck are you sorry for?”

“For not coming to get you as soon as we couldn’t reach you on comms.  Nearly took Ghost’s head off when he ordered me to stay put.”  He shoved his face back into Soap’s sternum, no doubt hiding an embarrassed flush across his face.  Soap laughed, uncaring about the twinge of pain that followed.

“Not such an officer’s pet are you?”  He snarked, absently rubbing a hand between Gaz’s shoulder blades.  The feeling of stress draining away under his hand softened his teasing grin into a fond smile.  

Gaz groaned, pinching Soap’s uninjured side.  “Oh shut the fuck up, asshole.  I’m trying to have a moment here.”

“I’m allergic to moments, I thought you knew that.  Break out in hives at the first sign of them.”

That startled a real laugh out of Gaz, who pulled out of Soap’s arms to punch at his shoulder.  “You’re such a prick.”

“I know,” Soap preened.  “But you said you wanted me around.  You’re stuck with me now, pretty boy.”

“Why did I even want you back?”  Gaz groaned, falling back onto Soap’s legs with a dramatic huff.

“Rookie mistake.”

The door to the room opened, and Gaz scrambled upright to glare at the intruder.  The doctor, a stern, older woman with gray streaking from her temples and a no-nonsense frown on her lips tutted at the sight of them.  Soap waved cheerily at her, shameless, while Gaz stared her down.

She crossed her arms, unhindered by the fierce look she was getting.  “There are other patients here trying to rest and recover.  If you can’t control yourselves, I will be forced to rescind visitation rights.  Am I clear?”

“Yes ma’am.  Sorry ma’am.”  They chorused.  She glared them down before closing the door with a huff.

Silence.  The two of them looked at each other, lips twitching, before snickering into their hands.  

Gaz ended up getting thrown out only an hour later, laughing the whole way.

Soap’s recovery took no time at all.  Despite the hamper werewolf claws put on his healing, he was still a dragon.  Dragons were notoriously resilient.  It would take much more than a pair of mangy mutts to put him in the ground.  Not even a week later, he was discharged under strict orders to not strain himself until his stitches were out.  Gaz readily volunteered himself to keep him in check, much to Soap’s chagrin.  

Gaz had been all but glued to his side when he could be, only dragged away by his various duties on base.  Each time he returned, he brought back stories of whatever bullshit the newest batch of recruits had gotten up to or the various rumors that circulated through the ranks.  Such was a fact of life when you lived in a sardine can: word traveled fast.  

The day Soap was allowed to walk around freely, he forced Gaz lead him to Price’s room.  The nurses and Gaz had been keeping him updated on his condition, thankfully, but he wanted to see with his own eyes.  He needed to see that his Captain was alright.  That he was recovering despite everything.  

His hat was gone.  That was the first thing Soap noticed when he burst through the door.  Price looked different without it.  Smaller.  More human.  Not the solid, unyielding, practically inhuman force of a Captain that Soap had always seen him as.  

But he looked so much better than the last time Soap had seen him, too.  His skin didn’t have the off-gray hue to it, though the shitty medical lighting did his complexion no wonders.  There was only the barest trace of pain lingering on his features, dulled by the drugs in his system and the slow healing process.  Antiseptic and bleach nearly killed the warm, woodsy tobacco and earth of him, but it was still there.  Still strong and fighting and wonderfully Price.  Wonderfully human.

It was rare, but not impossible, that a deep enough wound from a wolf claw could turn a human.  The entire time he’d spent trapped in that god awful hospital bed, Soap feared that he hadn’t been fast enough.  That Price would pay even more for his mistakes by having his humanity stolen from him.  A bit of that restless anxiety settled at the unchanged smell of him, finally free from the thick iron haze.

Price visibly brightened at the sight of him lurking in the doorway, the corner of his lip quirking up.  

“Soap.”  The rough, warm timbre had Soap sagging just as much.

“Captain.”  He pulled himself to attention, back ramrod straight and shoulders squared.  Price waved the formality away with a scoff.

“Come on now, kid.  None of that.”  

Soap dropped into the plastic chair at his bedside with a groan, shifting to keep his weight off the still tender scars in his side.  Gaz settled into the chair opposite him, heel crossed over his knee as he folded his hands behind his head.  Relief bled from every pore as Soap stared, awestruck, at Price.  “It’s fucking good to see you, sir.  In mostly one piece.”

Price huffed, eying him with a dry look.  “I believe I have you to thank for that.”

“Nah, it was nothing.”  Soap scratched at the back of his neck, smile turning a little self conscious.  “Did what anyone would do in that situation.”

A thick eyebrow raised in disbelief.  “Fighting off two wolves and a naga isn’t nothing, John.  And not everyone would be brave - or stupid - enough to try.”

All the tension flooded back into Gaz’s frame as he snapped his head towards Soap, who sank down in his chair.  Horrified, he all but bellowed, “Wait, a naga?!  You only mentioned the wolves!”

Soap opened his mouth to rebut, but shut it again with a click.  He hadn’t known how to explain the whole… dragon thing to Price now that he’d seen his half-shifted form.  He never thought he’d be happy his CO had a concussion before now.  

Price nodded to Gaz, continuing, “Big blue fucker.  Last thing I remember is it attacked the wolves.  Tore the poor bastards to shreds.”

Gaz’s lip curled up in a snarl.  “More than they fucking deserved.”

Soap cut in, trying to convey a calm curiosity that he did not feel.  “You sure it was a naga?”

“Had to have been.  Doesn’t make sense otherwise.”  Price paused, looking at Soap questioningly.  “You saw it too, right?”

Soap grimaced.  “Right.  Yeah.  Just… didn’t know what it was, is all.  I’ve never actually seen a naga in the flesh before, you know?”  The lie slid easily from his mouth, but his chest wrenched with guilt. 

That seemed to satisfy Price, whose face smoothed out in understanding.  “Figures.  They’re pretty damn rare to come across these days.  Not quite as rare as dragons, but still hard to find.”

“You ever seen one?  A dragon, that is.”  Soap cringed at Gaz’s innocent question, picking at the skin around his fingernails.  He swallowed the sarcastic you see one every day, trying to hide just how interested he was to hear Price’s response.  There weren’t many of his kind running around, even fewer that came into close contact with military personnel.

“Yeah, I did.  A while ago.”  He sighed, a little wistful, staring off into the middle distance.  “He was damn good man.”

No one spoke for a while, content to sit in the quiet calm.  The crushing fear of the last few weeks finally eased, letting them breathe freely for the first time in what felt like ages.  It wasn’t nearly as soothing as it would have been in Soap’s den, or Price’s office, or literally anywhere but a stark medical room, but it was more than they’d had for so fucking long.  Soap drank it in, soaking in the knowledge that his people were finally safe, even if only for a little while.

Gaz ended up breaking the silence, asking, “So when are they letting you loose, Cap?”

Price groaned a little dramatically, rubbing absently at his hip.  “Next week, I hope.  Ghost’s been breathing down their necks for updates, but the doc’s worried about potential nerve damage.”

The mention of potential long term effects flew right over Soap’s head at the mention of the ever elusive Lieutenant.  He aimed for nonchalance, knowing he probably missed by miles.  “Ghost?”

Price narrowed his eyes, brow creased.  “He’s been lurking around.  Told me he went to visit you a few times.  You haven’t seen him?”

“No, no I haven’t.”  Soap wrinkled his nose, a flare of irritation sparking in his gut.  He figured Ghost was still pissed at him for something and was avoiding him altogether.  There had been scraps of that winter-chill, looming-rain smell in the corners of his room, but he’d thought it was just remnants clinging to Gaz.

“Hey, if anyone can wriggle his way under that armor, it’s you.”  Gaz said, cheekily.  “Like a parasite.”

“Oh fuck you.”  Soap flipped him off.

“That’s enough, children.”  Price looked even more displeased than Soap had ever seen him, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed his delight.  “Play nice or you’re both doubling up on babysitting duty.”

“Yes, dad.”  They drawled, rolling their eyes in tandem.

“Okay.  Triple.”  The sergeants crowed in outrage, clambering to speak over one another in a rush.  Price sat back into his bed, smug smile plastered on his face.  “Insubordinate little shits.”

Price was not one to make idle threats.  As soon as he was cleared for light duty a week later, he had them running drills with the newest batches of recruits day in and day out.  Sometimes together, but more often than not separated.  Cruel and unusual punishment if you asked Soap, not befitting the crime in the slightest.  But he had to admit, taking his frustration out on the poor innocent souls, fresh faced and unsullied by the realities of war, did help just a little bit.

And a lot of frustration there was to work out.  Despite Price and Gaz’s reassurances, Ghost had remained infuriatingly absent.  No matter where he looked, the mess, the yard, even the bare bones, dusty office with his name plate plastered on it, he continued to be… well, a ghost.  

“You’re making it a bigger deal than it is, Suds.”  Gaz reassured him through a mouthful of sandwich.  “He disappears all the time.”

Soap groaned, dropping his head on the table with a dull thud.  The mess buzzed with activity, the roar of chatter swelling around them.  Soldiers of all kinds, familiar and unfamiliar, packed into every table until there was almost no space to spare.  It was only the reputation of the 141 that kept the rest of the seats around the two of them clear, though the surreptitious looks they were getting from the privates around them let Soap know that it was a matter of time before someone gathered enough courage to approach.

“I know, but- It feels personal, y’know?”  He complained, not even trying to hide the whine lacing the words.  

“It’s really not.”  The flat, unimpressed tone had Soap bristling.  “He’s like this with everyone.”

“I know!”  He seethed, flexing his aching hands against the cold tabletop.  His food had long gone cold, an unappealing lump of bland brown and gray on the plastic tray.  He shoved it away with a huff.  “It still stings.  Its like he’s already decided I’m not worth the effort.  Maybe I am…”  The last part came out as barely more than a whisper, nearly lost in the cacophony around them.  

Gaz softened, patting Soap’s shoulder firmly.  “Now that’s a fucking lie.  You’re one of the best soldiers I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with.  If he can’t see that, or won’t make the effort to, then he’s a bigger idiot than I thought.”

“Who is?”  Soap’s knees slammed into the underside of the table, a gasp strangled in his throat as the sudden gravelly voice came out of nowhere.  He jerked upright, dumbstruck, as he clocked the figure standing on the opposite side of the table.  Ghost loomed large and impressive, hands loose around his own tray.  He stared impassively through the mask down at the two of them, stance casual despite the silence that had swiftly descended over the room. 

“Steamin’ fucking Jesus, sir, ever thought about getting a bell?”  He blurted, feeling his face and neck heat.  Gaz jammed his fingers into his side, and he swatted at the hand with a hissed, “Fuck off!”

“No, I don’t believe I have.  It seems counterproductive.”  A glimmer of something sparked in those deep, dark eyes of his, drawing that instinctual, covetous beast of want lurking behind Soap’s rib cage to the surface.  He inclined his head slightly towards one of the open seats.  “Mind if I?”

“Not at all, Lt.  Take whatever you like.”  He said without thought, cringing at himself.  What the fuck is wrong with him?  

“Are you always this friendly with your superiors, or is that something special you saved just for me?”  Ghost asked, a hint of something teasing coloring his words.

Soap blinked, mind reeling.  His mind flashed to that first day in the yard, careless words flying out of his own mouth, and he smirked.  Well.  That was something for sure.  

“Why do you ask?  Jealous, are we?”  He rested his chin on his hand, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.  Gaz made a sort of gagging sound beside him, but Soap ignored him.  He could deal.

“Not at all,”  Ghost replied smoothly, idly stirring the steaming cup of tea on his tray.  “Curious.”

“Ah, well, I’m not one to kiss and tell.”  Soap replied, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed in front of his chest.  He shot Ghost a wink.  “I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.”  He didn’t react, merely raised the mug to his face.  Fingers tugged the hem of the mask up slowly.   Teasingly.  Soap perked up just slightly in his chair, eyes roving over every inch of his masked face, only to fall back with a frown when Ghost maneuvered the mug just enough to hide his lips and chin as he took a long, slow sip before pulling it back down again.

“Problem?”  He prodded knowingly.  Soap couldn’t see it, but he could feel the smirk on his lips, the eyebrow raised in challenge. 

“No, sir.  Not a one.”  His smile had too many teeth, Soap knew it, but he didn’t back down.  He wouldn’t back down.  Whatever switch had flipped in Ghost’s head, he didn’t know the cause but he wouldn’t argue the aftermath.  He’d take the challenge, the poking and pushing, over the bitter cold shoulder any day.

“Good.  I’ll see you around, Sergeant.”  With a grace that seemed entirely unnatural for a man of his size and width, Ghost stood and wandered away from the table, tray in hand, leaving a deafening silence in his wake.  Soap, as well as a fair few privates and corporals, openly stared at his back as he disappeared down the hall towards who knew where.

After a long few moments, Soap turned back to Gaz with a stunned, bewildered expression.  Gaz’s was a mirror image, eyes flicking between Soap and where Ghost had disappeared to.

“What the fuck was that?”  Gaz hissed.

Soap sputtered, entirely lost.  “I don’t know!  You tell me!  You’re the one who’s worked with him before!”

A questioning look crossed Gaz’s face after a moment as he pondered.  Soap’s mouth went dry, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the table.  Gaz shot him a sheepish smile.  “Well… I don’t think you have to worry about him ignoring you anymore?”

Soap sighed heavily through his nose, dropping his face into his hands.  He mumbled into his palms, “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

“I… honestly couldn’t tell you.”

He threw up his hands.  “Well fuck me I guess.”

Gaz scowled.  “Absolutely not.”

Soap scowled back, offended.  “Why the fuck not?!  I’m a goddamn catch!”

“Sure you are.”  Gaz placated, exaggeratedly rolling his eyes.  He pushed himself out of his chair, taking his tray with him.  Soap faltered, twisting in his seat to call out to his supposed friend’s back.

“Hey!  What’s that supposed to mean!?”

A derisive laugh and a dismissive hand were his only response.  He frowned at the betrayal, turning back in his seat to sink down, decidedly not pouting.

Whatever.  The absolute disrespect he had to endure in this place was unbelievable.

Soap took the tiniest opening in Ghost’s walls and ran with it as far as he could.  Whenever, wherever he could, he plastered himself to the Lieutenant with a desperation that was almost pitiful.  He trailed after the man like a puppy, chattering away at nothing while Ghost listened in almost complete silence, interjecting with a few acknowledging hums and one word answers.  To anyone else, the quiet would be maddening.  But for Soap, it only spurred him on more.

At first, he almost expected to be rebuffed immediately.  That his sudden clinginess would have the Lieutenant disappearing again, this time for good.  A ghost in both name and form.  Every story that went on a touch too long, every little impulsive comment, every little crooked smile felt like the one that would push him over the edge and have him dangling back over that empty, lonely abyss.  He wanted - no he needed Ghost as part of his hoard.  It didn’t feel right without him.  So he danced that delicate dance, wobbling over certain doom in the hopes that Ghost wouldn’t tear the ground out from under him and sentence him to free fall.

One night after a particularly rough mission, with blood still caked under his nails and shadows smudged under his eyes, Soap found himself wandering the barren hallways of the barracks.  The clinging remnants of a nightmare, finer details lost to the waking world but fear still fresh and real, pushed his exhausted body forward towards the sparse rec room.  He didn’t particularly know why, but the feeling of movement helped fight off the choking, frigid terror still caught in his lungs.  He was suffocating, drowning on dry land.  The dim fluorescents buzzed in his ears, tearing at his unraveling sanity without remorse.  

He more fell than walked through the rec room door, balance abandoning him in his frenzied flight.  Wheezing, cold sweat pouring down his back, he smacked blindly at the wall for the light switch.  The assault of bright lights on his hazy eyes yanked a breathless hiss out of his chest, and he pawed at his face with a careless hand.  Pulling a shuddering breath in once, twice, three times, he let his shoulders drop and looked over the room, searching for the dirty coffee pot in the corner.  A little caffeine at… whatever the fuck time it was could hardly do more damage than he was already suffering.  

A bulky shadow blocked his view of it, and his overtaxed brain chugged to a stop.  The shadow shifted, slowly, carefully, and Soap stared into the inky void.  Wondering what could possibly be staring back.  The shadow turned, and a flash of pale against the drowning dark dragged Soap’s eyes upward.

Curious, cautious brown, flecked with honey and amber, peered into choppy storm-tossed sea blue.  Ghost stood stoic in front of the counter, less bulky but no less intimidating in a set of comfortable looking black sweats and a worn-thin black long sleeve shirt.  The sleeves were pulled up to his elbows, showing off the spiraling ink that covered the entirety of his forearm.  The skull plate was gone, replaced by a soft knit balaclava, the ever present scull print faded with time and use.  The bottom of the balaclava was pulled up under his nose, just enough for Soap to see the light dusting of blond on his sharp jawline and the thin, silvery white scars crosshatching his cheeks.  A rope of scar tissue dug from his chin through his lips, disappearing under black fabric.  One broad hand curled around a chipped white mug, thin curls of steam disappearing into the still night air.

“Soap.”  He nodded, a small acknowledgment of his presence.  His voice was still deep, shaking Soap’s bones, but rougher than normal.  Quieter.  With a softer edge that only the cover of night could bring out.  There was no judgment in his tone, no questioning of how or why Soap ended up here, soaked with sweat and panting.  He leaned his hip against the side of the counter, watching Soap with that intensity he’d grown used to these last few months.  Like Ghost was tearing through bone and muscle to see how he ticked, to see what flimsy little fragments made up John MacTavish and how those fragments could be torn apart.

“Lt.”  The rough grit of his voice hurt, and he grimaced at the taste of iron on his tongue.  He must have bitten something, screaming himself hoarse not even fifteen minutes earlier.  “Sorry I- I didn’t think anyone else would be awake.  I can go if you-”

“It’s fine.”  Ghost shrugged with one shoulder, taking a sip from his mug.  The aroma of delicate herbs hit the back of Soap’s throat, cutting through the harsh taste of blood and stale sweat.  Tea.  Something floral, not as sharp or spicy as Ghost’s usual fare.  Without thinking, he wandered away from the door.  He settled near the battered table near the kitchenette, pulling himself up to sit on the top.  He was more prepared for Ghost to speak again, but not for the words that actually came out.  “You okay?”

Those searching brown eyes cut through Soap’s flimsy, haphazard defenses.  He threw up the walls, plastering a smile that felt as fake as his skin on his face.  His fingers absently traced the nicks and grooves dug into the solid wood underneath him.  “Solid.  No need to worry about me, sir.”

Ghost snorted.  “Right.  Of course.”

Silence descended over the room, tense but not uncomfortable.  The air hummed between them, sending an anxious chill down Soap’s spine.  He couldn’t find the words to break the silence, even if he wanted to.  Uncomfortable staring at Ghost any longer, he turned his gaze to the floor, idly tracing the interlocking tiles.  His socked toes danced to an uneven rhythm in the air as his fingers drummed against his outer thigh.  He worked his jaw, trying to think of something to say, when a bone deep sigh startled him out of his thoughts.

His shoulders stiffened, not quite jumping to his ears but it’s a near thing.  Fabric hissed against tile as Ghost moved.  The noise was entirely for Soap’s benefit, he knew that.  Ghost lived up to his namesake, moving effortlessly in silence.  The sound of taps squealing in protest before the slow trickle of water started nearly had Soap looking up but he kept his gaze locked on the floor.  Cabinets opened and shut, the soft clink of porcelain hit the counter top, and the stove clicked on with a low rush of air.  

As Ghost did… something, Soap let his mind drift.  Wandered away from his body for a bit, letting the stab of pain behind his eyes and the burn between his shoulders and the throb under his forehead fade into an echo.  Still present, but dulled.  Manageable.  The last vestiges of his nightmare roiled under the surface, the collected anxieties of a thousand and one little mistakes and fears and worries.  Not enough, not worthy, not worthwhile.  A mistake, a failure, a flaw.  The thoughts churned in his skull, waiting for a chance to drag him under the surface and let him drown.  The night air was chilly, even in the little bubble of quiet he and Ghost had here.  He shivered slightly, just enough to pull him from his daze and more to the present.

Something smooth and warm was pushed into his hands, fingers flexing on instinct to wrap around and hold.  His eyes focused on a chipped white mug now in front of him, a mirror of the one Ghost had been holding.  That floral smell was stronger, winding through his muddled, tangled mind.  It was tea.  Ghost’s tea.  From the stash that he kept hidden from everyone, even Price.  He blinked, sluggish and not quite connected to his body, before raising his gaze up.

Ghost never approached him.  That was the unspoken rule between them.  Soap would push, Ghost would stand firm.  Soap would touch and talk and initiate, and Ghost would endure.  So to have him standing there, with not even a foot of space between them, had Soap’s heartbeat pounding in his throat.  Ghost said nothing, merely raised his mug slightly towards Soap before taking a slow sip.

Soap looked from Ghost to the mug and back.  He readjusted his fingers around the warm ceramic, letting the heat leech into his shaking hands.  God, how long had he been shaking?  He raised the mug, inhaling slow and deep.  He had never really cared for tea, preferring the bite and acidity of coffee to the herbs and spices of it, but he couldn’t deny that this was far better at soothing his nerves than a thick sludge of black bitterness.  He took a sip, letting the warmth of it bloom on his tongue with an appreciative hum.

Ghost gave him a ghost of a smile, the corner of his mouth twitching.  He shot him back one of his own, weaker but far more sincere.  They finished their cups in silence, the peace of their solitude calm and almost healing.

Once both mugs had been drained, the ceramic cooling in Soap’s now steady hands, Ghost reached out to pluck it from his loose grip.  Soap raised his eyes to thank him when the words caught in his throat.  

From here, with the harsh kitchen lighting behind him, surrounded by the darkness both literal and not, Ghost’s eyes weren’t brown.  They were gold.

They’d separated without a word, disappearing back into their respective barracks with one last nod and an almost shy wave.  That night, Soap dropped into a gentle sleep with the thoughts of gold eyes and pale skin, an unfamiliar but welcome warmth spreading through his lax limbs.

Something about the two of them changed after that night.  Despite Soap’s worst fears, Ghost stayed.  Ghost let Soap in, even if it was only an inch or two.  He was quiet, sure, but he didn’t ice Soap out like those first few days.  He was reserved, but allowed Soap to pull him just a bit further out of the shadows and into the sun.  Soap slowly learned how to read him, seeing those little twitches and movements under the mask and translating them.  He was almost fluent in Ghost these days, and more often than not had Price and Gaz turning to him for translation.

It wasn’t long until Ghost and Soap became Ghost-and-Soap.  One wouldn’t be seen without the other.  Where Gaz had been an easy camaraderie, a fast brotherhood that bound them together quicker than anything, and Price had always been a steadfast leader, a pillar of strength that Soap could use to right himself, and Laswell was a distant but constant reassuring presence, Ghost felt different.  It took effort, effort that Soap was more than happy to put in to breach those walls.  Each little piece, each little hidden smile and soft indulgent huff, felt like a hard won victory.  He hoarded those little pieces with a ferocity that not even his journal was subject to, kept nestled next to his heart where no one would find them.

That said, there was a gaping pit of worry deep in his stomach.  It was obvious that Soap was deeply, irrevocably attached to all of the 141, he couldn’t be sure they were attached to him in the same way.  He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more he should be doing, something better, something to earn that love he so desperately craved.  

“How many apples grow on a tree?”  Static hissed in his ear as Soap crept through the darkness of the courtyard, the looming silhouette of the enemy structure barely visible against the stormy night sky.  He grit his teeth as he hauled himself up over a low concrete wall, dropping down onto the ground with a grumble.  Ghost sounded far too happy over the hum of their comms, souring Soap’s already poor mood even further.  

Rain plastered his mohawk to his head, loose strands sticking uncomfortably to his forehead.  The storm had spun up out of nowhere, unleashing a torrential downpour over the entire area.  As if dodging patrols and hauling ass through hostile territory wasn’t bad enough, trudging through the thick mud and unyielding rain made it nearly impossible.  Without the aid of thermals, he wouldn’t even be able to see his hand through the pounding rain.  

He’d been eager to postpone their little smash and grab, but Ghost had gotten word from somewhere up the food chain that their target was planning to leave that night and taking everything with him.  If they didn’t move now, they’d lose their only real chance to nab their precious intel.

So here Soap was, gear completely soaked and a near unnoticeable tremor in his hands, darting through the storm-sieged courtyard like a madman.  And there Ghost was, tucked warm and dry on overwatch, no doubt enjoying Soap’s misery given his uncanny cheer in his ear.  

Soap had half a mind to ignore Ghost’s question, focusing on the knife held tight in his fist and the splash of footsteps in the thick, clinging mud ahead of him.  But he could never deny his Lieutenant anything, not even this.  He didn’t hide his displeasure though, all but gnashing his teeth down the line.  “I don’t fucking know.  How many?”

“All of them.”  The smug, unflappable words were followed by the meaty thud of a bullet tearing through skull and brain matter in the distance.  A body toppled into the mud with a squelch, and Soap cringed at both the sight and the sound in his ears.  

“Awful.  Just fucking awful.”  He muttered, sinking his blade into the small of another guard’s back, severing his spinal column with a twist before yanking the knife out to slit his throat.  He tugged the body towards a shadowed corner, away from any unaccounted for patrols, and dumped it to the floor with a sneer.  

“Nicely done, Sergeant.”  Ghost drawled, accent thick.  A shiver, not entirely due to the cold, crawled down Soap’s spine.  

He clenched his jaw, hard won discipline washed away with the rain and leaving only the hairpin trigger.  “With all due respect, sir.  Shut your fucking trap.”

Usually he was the one initiating the banter (it wasn’t flirting, no matter what Gaz said), little teasing jabs and syrupy sweet comments pouring out of his mouth with ease.  Ghost humored him most of the time, giving back as hard as he took.  But jokes and barely hidden innuendos were the last thing on Soap’s mind right now.  He was holding on to his control by a thread, even without the gravel-rough voice purring in his ears.  The cold had him aching to the bone, deeper than snow and ice.  His saturated clothing did him no favors, drawing any little bit of heat he could create away.  Rain poured into his eyes, and he snarled as he swiped at it with a too-clawed hand.  

A soft exhale, the closest thing to a chuckle he’d ever heard from the Lieutenant, cut through the static.  “Easy, Soap.  No need to get your panties in a twist.”  Condescension, mild and playful, dripped from the words.

A bit of the cold retreated from Soap’s leaden limbs as the irritation in his chest flared to real anger.  He crouched at the door he knew was closest to the server room, lock picks grasped in his numb fingers.  “I’ll twist your fucking panties, you little-”

Ghost cut him off with a smooth purr.  “Ain’t nothin’ little about me, I assure you.  Tango coming on your left.”

“Rog.”  The knife flew in a smooth arch through the air, landing in flesh with a solid thwack and a gurgling breath.  He took a moment, barely daring to breathe, until he was sure he was alone.  Satisfied, he turned back to the door and got to work on the lock.  As he fiddled with the pick, he finally processed what Ghost had insinuated.  He couldn’t help the coy edge to his voice, annoyance all but forgotten when he asked, “Nothing?”

The smile was audible through the static.  “Not a one.”

Soap snorted softly, then made a quiet noise of triumph when the lock came loose and the door creaked inward.  He grabbed another knife strapped on his thigh and crept forward.  “I see your ego fits perfectly with the rest of you, then.”

“You know it.”

Out of the rain and into the dry darkness of the compound, Soap slunk his way through the hallways until he found the right room.  It was easy enough to pick that lock as well, and soon he had several hard drives stacked neatly in a waterproof pouch in his bag.  Just as he turned to head back the way he came, the sounds of footsteps and alarmed voices echoed through the halls.  He froze.

“Fuck me.”  He hissed, searching desperately for any way out.  It was pointless, he knew that.  The server room was tucked far into the bowels of the complex, down a dead end hallway with no easy to access windows or doors to the outside.  Exactly why he was creeping around in the first place.

Ghost’s voice over the comms was deadly serious, all dry humor stripped away.  “Soap?  How copy?”

Soap tucked himself against the wall nearest to the door, taking status of his situation.  From the sounds of the footsteps, there had to be at least five hostiles.  Maybe more.  He might be able to take that many on by himself, but the limited space in the room would make that even more difficult.  Ghost was on the other side of the compound, sitting snug behind the scope of his sniper rifle.  There was no way for him to get to Soap in time, not before whoever was coming towards him would make contact.

Fuck. 

“Sergeant.”  Ghost snapped down the comms, anxiety and fury warring in his tone.

“Lt.”  Soap breathed, gripping the knife in his hand until the leather grip squeaked.  “Not looking too hot here.”

A shaky breath.  Then, Ghost’s familiar growl, no less intimidating after months of knowing him.  “Sitrep.”

Soap gulped.  “Dead end.  At least five tangos coming my way.  No way of getting out.  You need to go.”

Soap knew it was undeniable.  Ghost had to leave.  Had to leave him behind.  He couldn’t - wouldn’t - let the Lieutenant risk his own life just for him.  Soap could make it out, he knew that.  A few bullets weren’t enough to put him down.  But Ghost didn’t know.  Couldn’t know.

The derisive laugh over comms had Soap’s stomach churning.  “Not happening.  Stay put.  I’m coming to you.”

Soap snarled.  “No the fuck you’re not.  Not in time.  Just go.  Get to the RV.”

Ghost - no, not Ghost.  The Lieutenant (there was no easy familiarity left, only the solid steel of his commanding officer) barked, “You don’t get to give the orders, Sergeant.  I do.  I’m on my way.  Don’t do anything stupid.”

In his frantic search of the room, his eyes snagged on something in the corner near the server cabinets.  A dull gray-green metal box, bolted to the wall with something illegible scrawled in thick black marker on electrical tape.  A breaker box.  A plan trickled together in his head, the last piece of the puzzle slotting into place, and he grinned.

“Too late, Lt.  See you on the other side,”  He whispered, before clicking the mute button and pulling the earpiece off, cutting the angry tirade in his ear off completely.  The footsteps outside continued their slow, cautious path down the hall.  Time to be quick.  

Creeping forward, his own boots silent against the dirty concrete, he shoved the knife into the seem between the box and the door.  With a grunt and a hiss, the knife cracked the door clean off its hinges, leaving the breakers inside ripe for the picking.  Soap couldn’t read the hastily written labels on them, but he didn’t need to.  What he needed was a distraction.  And a little bit of plausible deniability.  He hit each breaker one after the other, the solid thunk of the switches like a gunshot in the choking quiet of the room.  

With the flip of the last switch, the room went pitch black.  Not even the LED indicators on the server racks blinked.  The voices of the hostiles outside the door pitched up, panic and fear garbling their already incomprehensible speech.  Soap’s grin turned sharp, a wicked thing dripping with the promise of blood.

The darkness cloaked him perfectly, letting him sneak out from the room on near silent feet.  Guns would only give away his precarious position, taking his element of surprise, so he twirled his knife between deft fingers.  He wasn’t nearly as skilled with them as Ghost, who used his blades like an extension of himself, but he wasn’t a slouch either.  

Peeking his head out of the door, he found the hallway almost abandoned, save for one hapless soul stationed at the end.  The mercs outside must have panicked in the sudden darkness, scattering in little groups to search the complex for the source of the blackout.  Not ideal, but Soap had dealt with worse odds before.  He just needed to clean up this mess, get back to the RV, and hope to god Ghost didn’t skin him alive when he showed up.

The foolish merc at the end of the hallway went down with a gurgle and a wheezing choke, airway split in two under the razor sharp edge of Soap’s knife.  From the way his face contorted with abject terror as he took his last breaths, Soap could only imagine the picture he made.  A shapeless mass in the shadows, only the glowing neon of blue eyes with slitted pupils lighting the dark.  Soap dropped him carelessly to the floor, blood warm on his gloves.

He cleared room after room, silently picking off mercs from the shadowy corners and dark hallways.  After the edge of one knife dulled due to his surgical precision, he nicked one off a cooling corpse and continued his bloodbath.  It was different from the massacre in Germany, or the carnage in Siberia.  His blood had run hot and fast with fury and terror then, the unstoppable urge to avenge his fallen, injured hoard bright and overwhelming.  This was cold, calculated, and controlled.  He was hyper-aware of every movement he made, every slit artery and gurgling death rattle burned into his mind in sharp relief.  

This wasn’t personal. This was strictly business.  And Soap was nothing if not a professional.

When he finally left the complex through the same door he entered, the rain had stopped.  Mud, thick and viscous, stuck to his boots and pants as he darted through the empty, dark courtyard.  He panted, body coiled tight in case a missed hostile got the jump on him during his flight.  Forgoing trying to find the cut part of the chain link fence he’d entered from, he opted to climb up, cringing at the rattle of links against the poles.

Once he was far enough away, he slowed to a walk, brushing the back of his forearm against his warm forehead.  He recoiled slightly at the tug of half-dry blood in his hair, dreading the hours he’d have to spend in the shower washing the feeling away.  His heart beat slow and steady in his chest, coming down from the elevated rush that a brush with danger always brought.

Taking a moment to collect himself, he let himself just exist.  Away from the blood stained complex in the distance, away from the looming threat of Ghost’s anger, away from the trappings and burdens of his career.  In the absence of the storm, the night around him felt less oppressive.  The fresh, vibrant smell of wet dirt and grass permeated the air, and the slight chill around him was crisp and revitalizing.  He took a slow, deep breath, washing away iron and dirt from his lungs to replace with the clean scent of untarnished nature.  He tilted his head back, and stared in muted awe at the smattering of stars and coiling lights against the black sky.  

It had been so long since he’d seen the stars like this.  Probably not since he was a wee thing back in his parents’ nest, still wide eyed and wondering about the world.  Unblemished by the smoke and ash that now covered him head to toe.  A blank slate, an empty canvas.  A thousand and one possibilities, stretching into infinity.

“Johnny?”

The crunch of twigs under heavy boots yanked him back to the present, and he barely had time to react before he was grabbed by the scruff of his neck and thrown bodily into a nearby tree.  His lungs contracted painfully as the air was knocked clean from them, and he sputtered against the bruising hold on his neck.  The broad forearm shoved into his windpipe with just enough pressure to keep him pinned and breathless without the threat of unconsciousness.  His eyes bugged out from his head, teeth bared and sharp, hands ready to tear and rend, before the stark white plate of a skull came into focus.

He sagged into the hold, eyelids half lidded and snarl sliding clean off his lips.  He mouthed more than said, “Lt.”

He’d never seen Ghost this angry.  All hard lines and buzzing tension, his eyes were completely obscured by the inky dark of the mask.  Only a scant few inches separated the wet plate from Soap’s sweat and blood soaked forehead, barely controlled exhales ghosting against Soap’s lips.  His forearm crushed even harder against his windpipe, earning him a sputtering choke from Soap.  “What.  The fuck.  Was that.”

Soap sneered, eyes narrow and chest hot and tight from the venom in Ghost’s tone.  He pulled himself fully upright, pressing back into the arm harshly.  He hissed, low and deadly,  “I had it handled.”

It wasn’t smart to play with fire, but Soap wasn’t one to easily burn.  Blue eyes flashed in rebellion, causing barely-visible brown to darken even further.  Another harsh shove had him choking again, wheezing through his bruising trachea.  “Don’t you fucking lie to me.  You disobeyed a direct order.  I told you to stay put.”

A sharp retort cut his tongue to ribbons, barbed wire and razor blades in his mouth, but Soap stopped short.  Reining in his own sparking temper and took stock.  Looked closer at Ghost.  

The Lieutenant was a live wire, humming with energy and ready to explode.  But under the roiling tempest of anger, Soap saw fear.  The tremor in his hands, the press against Soap’s pulse, the searching eyes roving over his skin for injuries.  He had no doubt his brow was pinched and tight under the mask.  Ghost was scared.  Ghost was scared for him.  He cared, in his own gruff, confusing way.  Something cracked in Soap’s chest, and the fire snuffed out leaving behind a soft, almost tender feeling.  

Some of it must have shown on his face through the dim moonlight, because Ghost pulled away from him like he was the one who’d been burned.  Soap coughed harshly into his elbow once he could breath again, and watched through teary eyes as Ghost turned his back on him.  His shoulders shuddered as he took slow, measured breathes.  His fingers flexed, leather creaking as he balled his fists only to release them and shake them out.

Had Soap not been entirely focused on Ghost, he might not have heard the coarse, gravelly whisper over the gentle whistling breeze.  “I thought you were dead.”

The admission hit Soap like a brick to the skull, leaving him more breathless without Ghost’s entire weight pressed to his throat.  His ears rung a little, the whine of an explosion gone off at close range.  His breathe caught, staring dumbfounded at the curl of Ghost’s shoulders in the moonlight.  The tension swelled, suffocating and thick, and he did the only thing he could think of.

He stepped forward, purposefully snapping a twig under his foot to warn Ghost of his approach.  Edging forward, close enough to touch but not enough to break that fragile barrier, he peeked around Ghost’s side with a small, fond smile.  “So you do like me?”

Ghost stared at the forest floor for a long while, breathing slowly.  In and out.  In and out.  After what felt like years, he lifted his gaze to Soap’s waiting face, honey-warm whiskey shimmering a familiar gold in the silver light.  His words were tired, thin and weary but with a careful, gentle undercurrent.  “I like you alive.”

Soap felt his entire body soften at the words.  He let the quiet linger, afraid to let the moment break.  But they were still deep in enemy territory, too far from friendly faces to stay put for much longer.  The bloody mess at their backs loomed large as a reminder of their precarious position.

Soap finally pulled himself away from the heat of Ghost’s side, stretching with a groan.  “We should get going, yeah?  Should be a safehouse somewhere around here.”  He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the straps of his vest digging into his sore muscles.  Before he could move, a large, warm hand wrapped around his bicep and held him fast.  He looked to Ghost, eyebrow quirked in question but mouth shut.  Ghost’s mouth worked under the black fabric of the mask, opening and shutting soundlessly.

“Don’t-”  He cut himself off with a grumble, releasing Soap’s arm to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Soap tilted his head, waiting.  When he didn’t continue, he whispered, “Ghost?”

“Don’t turn your comms off again.”  The words came out in a rush, like Ghost couldn’t hold them back even if he tried.  “I… need to hear you.”

Oh.  Oh.  If he wasn’t already a puddle at Ghost’s feet, he’d melt even further.  This stupidly endearing oaf of a man.  He’d never been happier to consider him hoard.  He punched his shoulder lightly, voice teasing but still sincere.  “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try my best.”

The walk to the safehouse was comfortably quiet.  The rain left the whole forest pleasantly cool, keeping the two of them from sweating uncomfortably from the weight of all their gear.  Soap let his mind wander, following dutifully a step or two behind Ghost, when something he’d said came rushing back.  

Glee filled his chest, fizzing in little pops when he asked, “What did you call me?”

“Hm?”  Ghost didn’t turn around, gait steady and sure through the unfamiliar terrain.

“Earlier.  You said something.  Called me something.  Want to run that by me again?”

He bit back a laugh when the toe of Ghost’s boot caught on a stray root, sending him stumbling a bit before he rights himself.  He huffed, grip tightening on his rifle with an audible squeak.  “Shut up, Sergeant.”

Soap hummed, putting on an air of resigned acceptance.  “That’s a shame.  I kinda liked it.”

He couldn’t help the smirk when Ghost tensed, imaging the embarrassed flush across his cheekbones.  “… Shut up, Johnny.”

His cheeks ached by the time they got to the safehouse, smiling the whole way.

Soap remembered his mother’s hoard-heart, a woman a few years her junior that she’d met at work.  He didn’t remember the details of their meeting, barely remembered her face or her voice or much else about her.  But he remembered the way she’d withered away in that house in the Highlands, trapped by promises made by starry-eyed idealists.  He remembered the anger, the screaming when his mother brought back trinkets and little gifts, the way it reverberated through the wood and into his very bones.  He remembered the venom, dripping from every acidic word thrown in his mother’s face, the hatred that sat over the whole house like a poison.  He never forgot the way a dragon’s love rotted away at the good things, leaving behind only burned bones and ugly, rancid memories.

In his deepest thoughts, he feared becoming that.  He feared the day his team, his hoard would look at him with nothing but revulsion and resentment.  He feared the strength of his feelings, of his attachments, would be too great and would tear the foundations out from under it all.  He feared that he would be the cage rather than the caged, trapping the only things that had ever mattered, golden bars tarnished and mocking.  It kept him up at night, staring into the white painted ceiling until weak, watery sunlight streamed through the curtains.  

Sometimes, when the possessive urge to hide them away, to snap and snarl at anyone who came to close to his people, became too much, he removed himself.  Hid in the darkness of his room, curled up in the sad excuse for a nest with his journal tucked tight to his chest.  Shaky fingers traced the graphite faces sketched inside, claws barely skimming the page for fear of tearing it.  More and more of the pages had filled, the images of his most important people forever frozen in careful swipes of pencil and ink.  Gaz, Laswell, Price, Ghost.  So, so many of Ghost.  

It tore him to pieces, pulling away from the best things in his life, but he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he destroyed them.  His selfishness would rip everything he cared about to pieces.  He couldn’t do that to them.  He couldn’t let himself be the cause of their ruin.

What he hadn’t accounted for, though, was that no matter how far he ran, his hoard wouldn’t let him go.  

Price would find him sitting quietly in the rec room, feet curled under him on the couch as he scribbled away in his journal.  The weight of another body on the cushions and the smell of tobacco in his nose had his heart leap to his throat and his brain turn to mush at the same time.  They would sit in silence for a while, content to bask in one another’s presence until something broke that fragile peace and reality would come flooding back in.  

Gaz would find him out behind the barracks, hidden in a protected corner away from the wind with his cigarette a soft red smudge in the dying light.  He would ask for a light, easy-going smile curled on his lips and hand outstretched.  Soap could never deny him anything, offering his lighter without hesitation.  They’d talk about nothing for a while, forgetting the chaos that surrounded them at all times and the weight of the world on their shoulders.  They could pretend for just a little bit that each day wasn’t potentially their last, that the darkness wasn’t so dark and the world wasn’t so cruel.  Just until the cold got to be too much and they retreated back into the solid walls of the base.

Laswell would message him out of the blue, links to articles about any little thing she found interesting and ask for his opinion.  Even through such impersonal communications as text, she seemed genuinely interested in his thoughts, readily offering her own perspectives and commentary in response.  She was still intimidating, still a powerful presence that he couldn’t shake that instinctive need to make her proud, but he knew she cared in her own way.

Ghost sought him out the most.  Trailed after him like his living shadow, seeking him out at all hours of the day for any reason.  He coaxed him to eat in the mess, his own discomfort palpable until Soap slid into the seat next to him.  He joined him for training duties, offering dry quips and little observations the entire time.  He egged Soap to spar when the purple smudges under his eyes got too bleak, too deep from countless sleepless nights.  He stayed, held fast onto Soap when he tried to flee and refused to let him wallow in his misery.

And despite Soap’s best efforts, it all worked.  He couldn’t keep himself away from them, couldn’t do what was best for them all and cut the cancerous part out.  He let them draw him back out, all sunny smiles and jeering banter like he’d never left in the first place.

Drinks were the Captain’s idea.  Laswell had flown over to join a briefing that needed to be done in person, and for the first time in a long while, all five of them were on the same soil.  He’d wanted to celebrate, knowing the next few weeks would be fraught with intensity and danger.  So they piled into his old, rusted pick up and set off.  

Soap’s chest hurt from laughing, pressed tight against Ghost’s bulk and Gaz’s muscle in the backseat.  Gaz yelped in outrage when an elbow jabbed into his ribs, earning him a fond eye roll from Ghost.  Laswell’s sharp eyes glittered in the rear view mirror from where she sat in the passenger seat, quietly amused with her team’s bullshit.  Price grumbled as he pulled into the parking lot, cursing the lot of them as they tumbled out into the pleasantly cool evening.

The bar wasn’t anything fancy, a typical haunt of the many soldiers off-duty.  Grimy, dingy, with sticky patches on the counters that the bartenders could never quite get rid of and grooves dug into the floorboards from ever-shifting stools and chairs.  The lights were low, music thrumming in the background as the 141 claimed a corner booth for themselves.  It was a tight squeeze to fit all five together, but pressed shoulder to hip against the closest thing to family he had in the world, Soap couldn’t find it in himself to care.  

This was the first time he had his entire hoard in the same space, and he was going to cherish every minute of it.  Even if he had to put up with the nauseating mishmash of smells surrounding him, from the stale sweat and cheap cologne of privates trying to get lucky to the thick, cloying haze of the rainbow of alcohol sitting behind the bar.  He focused on the cinnamon and tobacco and ozone and rain surrounding him, and let all of that tension melt away.  

Since it was Price’s idea to come out in the first place, they all cajoled him into buying the first round.  And the second.  And the third.  Soon, they all had a slight buzz, laughter coming much more easily.  Conversation drifted lazily around them, sheltered in their little bubble of proximity.  Soap fiddled with his glass of scotch, smiling softly as he listened to the chatter.  He basked in the presence of the 141, content to sit in silence for a little and just be.  Across the table, surrounded by empty pint glasses and a few empty shots, Laswell and Price were telling stories of years long passed, throwing heatless barbs back and forth while Gaz listened intently, his eyes wide and admiring.  Ghost pressed his shoulder to Soap’s, a solid line of heat as he sipped his bourbon and offered rumbling quips and jabs on occasion.  

Soap tilted his glass back, intent on taking another sip, when a recognizable snickering laugh caught his ears and he froze.  

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a trio of somewhat familiar faces.  Through the light haze of alcohol, it took a bit of time to place them.  He knew he knew them, but he couldn’t quite place where from.  He kept his shoulders loose and relaxed, taking a sip and placing his glass down carefully.  He turned his head just a bit, enough to get a clearer picture of whoever they were.  His eyes narrowed, roving over the three figures leaning against the wall near the door.  

Recent additions to base, if he had to guess.  Green and wet behind the ears.  They were young, faces bare of hair and scars alike, carrying themselves with that sense of invincibility that gets beaten out of ever soldier eventually.  Loud, too, barking and hollering and shoving at one another without a care in the world.  A few corporals in a nearby booth shot the trio frosty glares, shuffling away in silent distaste.  The corner of his mouth tugged down as he finally recognized them.  

The privates had only just arrived a week prior, and had been troublemakers from the start.  Insubordinate little shitheads with overinflated egos and nothing between their ears.  They’d been menaces the entire time they’d been stationed here, questioning every little thing Soap or Gaz had said and turning their noses up at anything deemed beneath them.  Soap wondered how they’d managed to even make it through selection, until he learned they all had some high ranked relatives somewhere up the chain of command.  He and Price had shared a grimace at the news, bracing themselves for the worst that nepotism could bring.  He couldn’t be bothered to remember their names, content in the fact that they’d wash out soon enough and be gone from his life forever, and dubbed them Idiot, Asshole, and Dipshit in his head.

A chill ran down Soap’s spine as he watched the privates.  They had huddled together at some point, pressing their heads together and whispering to themselves.  It was hard for even Soap’s hearing to make it out over the rolling swell of voices and music, but it was clear from the smarmy grins on all of their faces that they weren’t up to anything good.  Idiot, a skinny little twig of a human with a mop of stringy brown hair drooping into his face, nodded his chin towards the 141’s booth.  Next to him, Asshole, a tall, broad shouldered, red haired vampire with a splatter of freckles across her nose, said something to Dipshit, a timid, nervous werecat who ran shaking fingers across his buzzed scalp as his eyes flicked between the other two and the booth.  It took some more convincing and a harsh shove against Dipshit’s chest before he stumbled away from the wall.

Soap tracked him from the corner of his eye, trying to project that relaxed, easygoing calm he’d been drifting in before.  He had to hand it to the kid, he was light on his feet.  Maybe if he found himself in better company, he’d be a decent addition to the ranks.  But right now, he was only a potential threat in Soap’s mind.  Weaving through the drunken crowd with ease, Dipshit slowly approached them.  If he hadn’t witnessed the little moment himself, Soap might not have even clocked him through the noise and bustle of the busy bar.  Cloaked in shadows as he was, Soap was sure his eyes were slits, narrowed dangerously as the blue of his irises burned.  

An elbow nudged his ribs, ripping his concentration away from Dipshit, and he snapped his attention to his other side.  Ghost peered down at him, brows furrowed in concern.

He leaned down, breath tracing the shell of Soap’s ear when he asked, “You alright, Johnny?”  

Soap fought to contain the shiver, thoughts blown to the four corners of the earth.  Sharp winter wind filled his nose, sending him spinning off into oblivion.  After a few moments wrangling his brain back into submission, he managed a quiet, questioning, “Hm?”

“You’re usually the one chattering my ear off, not sulking.  What’s got you all worked up?”  The rough timbre of his voice vibrated through Soap’s bones, and he was sure the ground would split open beneath his feet and swallow him whole from the force of it.  

He glowered once the words registered, muttering, “I’m not sulking.”

A quiet puff of air, the closest thing to a laugh he’d get from Ghost.  “Brooding, then.”

Soap couldn’t help but rise to the bait with a cheeky smile, running a hand through his wild mohawk.  “What, you can’t handle someone showing you up?”

“Not possible.  You couldn’t pull it off anyway.”  Soap rolled his eyes at the self satisfaction rolling off Ghost in waves.  His eyes sharpened under the balaclava after a moment, concern filling gold-brown eyes.  “I’m serious, what’s-”

Soap’s hand shot forward, trapping the hand reaching for the back of Ghost’s mask in an iron grip.  The bar was deadly silent around them.  Cutting blue eyes, narrowed and slitted in frigid fury, bore into the sweating, blanched face of Dipshit.  His lip curled into a vicious snarl, the pointed edge of a fang flashing white and deadly in the dim light.  Every eye was trained on him, but he only had eyes for the moron behind them.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Private?”  Soap asked, all humor and levity absent from his flat, hard tone.  Dipshit shrunk down, tugging weakly at Soap’s hold.  He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, his own pupils barely more than a razor-thin line under the Sergeant’s attention.  A whimper escaped his clenched jaw as Soap’s hand ground the fragile bones of his wrist together.  It would be so easy to snap them, toothpicks under the weight of Soap’s ire.  

“I-”  Dipshit gasped, a thin whine escaping him.  He cowered as best he could, trapped as he was between Soap and the solid wall of the bar.  Soap’s throat rumbled with a growl, claws brushing against the thin skin of his inner wrist.  His other hand clutched the fabric of his jeans, shaking from the stress.  

“Soap.”  Price, low and deadly, sounded distant.  Like he was speaking through the crackle of a radio.  “That’s enough.  Let him go.”

Soap didn’t let go.  He could feel the blood vessels bursting under his palms, a ring of deep purple and black blooming across the pale skin.  He panted, fangs full and heavy in his mouth.  Heat burned at his ribs, red heavy and thick across his vision.  

“John!”  Price snapped, anger and concern warring in his voice.  Tears cut across Dipshit’s wan cheeks, nose running and lip trembling.  

Warmth on his shoulder.  A hand, with long, thick fingers curling around his clavicle.  The rough, suspiciously thick gravel of a familiar voice.  “Johnny.”  

Ghost’s voice.  Soap took a slow, deep breath, his chest shuddering.  Slowly, with a lot of effort, he pried his fingers from around Dipshit’s wrist, who fell back into a heap on the floor with a yelp.  He cradled his swelling wrist to his chest, staring wide eyed and fearful.  His gaze bounced between Soap, Ghost, and the rest of the 141 looming behind them.

“Leave.”  Soap barked, darkly pleased by the haste in which Dipshit scrambled to his feet and darted out into the night.  His eyes slid over to Idiot and Asshole, trying their best to blend in to the dirty brick of the wall.  “You too.  Out.  Now.”

They tripped over themselves in a desperate attempt to escape, Soap’s flinty gaze tracking them the entire way.  Once the door slammed shut behind them, he hissed out a long, slow breath.  The glowing rage boiling his blood snuffed out once the threat was gone, leaving him exhausted and wrung out.  He felt countless eyes watching, the weights of them sending spikes of cold anxiety through him.  The silence of the bar grew oppressive, stuffy and hot.  His head spun.  He needed to get out.  

“I’ll meet you back at the car.”  He threw a few bills down on the table, probably more than he owed, and slid gracelessly off the worn leather seat.  Ignoring the garbled sound of his team behind him and open stares of the rest of the patrons around him, he strode out of the bar on surprisingly steady feet and into the cool night air.  

The chill biting at his cheeks sobered him up a little more, and Soap didn’t know if he wanted to throw himself off the nearest tall structure or lay down in a ditch and hope he disappeared.  He collapsed against the outside wall, burning face buried into his palms.  A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his chest.  God, he was pathetic.  Getting all worked up over some bullshit hazing ritual.  Because now that his head was clear and his thoughts weren’t nearly as loud, it was obvious.  He’d gone through the same gauntlet of embarrassing, asinine trials when he was a private.  

This, though.  This was different.  This wasn’t just some stupid dare.  This was Ghost.  This was Ghost’s mask.  The thought of some idiot private violating Ghost like that, tearing away that precious barrier between him and the world, had the dimming embers behind his ribs flaring back to life again.  

He knew he was a possessive bastard, and that all the 141 were his, but the there was something different about the broody, distant Lieutenant.  Something that drew Soap in time and time again, that he held separate and away from the rest.  The same thing that urged him to surprise him with tea made just how he liked, just to see the fond crinkle of his eyes under the mask.  That made him chatter and nag and flirt over comms just to hear the fond outrage of his voice.  That made him want to drape himself over Ghost and scream for all the world to see that he was his, that he was protected, that he was wanted and worthy and— 

Oh.

Ghost was his hoard-heart.  

And he was in love with him.

He groaned, tipping his head back to rest against the rough brick to gaze at the sky.  There weren’t nearly as many stars here.  The lights of the base and the city off in the distance blotted them out, leaving only a vast expanse of nothingness.  Endless.  Soap felt tiny, insignificant in the face of it all.  Alone.  It was both a comfort and a misery, that lonesome longing.  A longing that was Soap’s stalwart companion these many years.  

The warmth of another body at his side surprised him, though he didn’t have the energy to startle.  Merely rolled his head to the side to come face to face with a black clad shoulder and the side of a fabric covered face.  Ghost kept his gaze trained in front of him, staring out into the darkness with that same placid indifference that he always had.  

Soap had to smother a wet laugh.  Of course.  He rolled his head back forwards, eyes raised towards the stars again.  He traced them idly, drawing patterns in his head as his finger tapped against the brick behind him.  God, he was well and truly fucked.  Just his luck that he would not only fall for his commanding officer, but said commanding officer was notoriously detached.  

Neither he nor Ghost dared to break the silence, content to sit in each others presence for a while.  The hushed sound of conversation filtered back through the ajar door, a distance hum that could easily be ignored.  A gentle breeze, crisp and fresh, brushed against Soap’s nose and cheeks.

“Thanks,”  Ghost whispered.  Had Soap not been hyper aware of everything about the man, he might not have even heard the word before it was snatched away by the breeze.  He blinked, slow, unsure if he should even respond.  Knowing that he could never help himself when it came to Ghost, he did anyway.

“It’s what anyone would have done.”  He shrugged with one shoulder, feigning a nonchalance that was far from his grasp.  

Ghost snorted, disbelief palpable.  He shifted a bit in Soap’s peripheral, and he turned his head to find those intense brown irises locked on his face.  “Not anyone.  And I think you know that.”

Soap hummed, unable to look away.  Trapped within the warm gold.  “Yeah, well, maybe I’m not just anyone.”

Something shifted in Ghost’s face, the angles and lines softening as he stared Soap down, unflinching.  Soap stared back.  The rough rumble of Ghost’s voice was even deeper that before, thick with a feeling Soap couldn’t decipher.  “Maybe you are.”

His shoulder suddenly pressed against Soap, the fabric of his jacket warm and solid.  A deliberate, grounding touch.  Soap’s lips twitched slightly, a movement clearly caught by Ghost if the way his body leaned even more intentionally into him.

“Anytime, Lt.”  Soap said, unable to restrain the desperate curl of longing, the sickly sweet coloring of desire dripping from every word.  

The quiet calm of the moment shattered when Gaz threw open the door and stumbled out, words slurring together as he threw himself into Soap’s arms with a cheer.  Price, much steadier on his feet and clear-eyed, followed him with Laswell’s soft smirk not far behind.  The two wordlessly broke apart, Soap shouldering Gaz’s bulk with a half-hearted complaint and Ghost falling into step beside Price.  They piled back into the truck, Soap and Ghost maneuvering Gaz into the center with difficulty, and set off back to base.

With Gaz mumbling on his shoulder, music playing soft and low from the speakers, Price and Laswell idly chatting from the front seats, and Ghost radiating a pleased calm, Soap felt the a bit of that easy peace lost in the aftermath of Dipshit’s little stunt wash over him.  It wasn’t perfect, but it was more than enough for him.

If Soap ever got a hold of the person who gave Laswell their intel, he was going to shoot them between the eyes, no questions asked.  

It had been a while since all four of them had gone on a mission together.  The importance of the op was not lost on Soap, given the serious set to Price’s jaw and the furrow of Laswell’s brow.  It was not dissimilar to the Siberian outpost raid all those months ago, with the remote base hidden deep in the snowy tundra.  However, the scope of the operation was much larger, and far more complicated.  Dozens of guards, layers upon layers of security systems, and a paranoid arms dealer with a love for destroying his own facilities.  A recipe for disaster, if you asked Soap.  

Ghost and Price had poured over their intel for days beforehand, planning contingency after contingency for whatever would inevitably go wrong. 

And go wrong it had.  Horribly wrong, in all of the worst ways.  

The team tore through the snowy forest, pine trees sparse and ragged from the strong gusts that tore down the mountains into the valleys, as a horde of enemy soldiers chased after them.  Bullets zipped through the air, driving into the snow and punching through trees with a sharp whistle and crack.  The shouts of their pursuers sounded close, far too close for any of their liking, followed by howling and inhuman shrieks.  

Price took point, guiding them through the chaos towards the nearest safehouse.  Gaz followed behind, cursing under his breath as he ran.  Soap’s lungs burned at the cold air as he followed them both, pushing himself forward with all the strength he could muster.  His thigh screamed in pain, the result of a lucky shot, but he grit his teeth and bore it.  Blood weeped down the side of his leg, dripping into his sock and boots.  Ghost took the rear, picking off as many of their hunters as he could.  

He could smell blood on all three of them, stark against the bland chill of the snow and ice.  It churned his stomach, the thought of all of them hurt and his failure to stop it.

Price slowed to a stop in a small copse of trees, searching the horizon for something.  The rest followed suit, watching for any movement beyond the treeline.  The forest was quiet and still around them.  Too quiet.  Soap’s hands flexed on his rifle, heart pounding in his throat.

The air was charged, buzzing with something Soap couldn’t name.  Anticipation and dread crawled up his spine and he searched desperately through the trees around them, trying to pick out just what it was that had spooked him.  

A roar shook the trees, ending a flock of ravens into the air with a hoarse cry.  Soap froze, panicked recognition turning his expression to horror.  Oh god.  He couldn’t breathe.  This was it.  His worst nightmare come to life.  Footsteps, massive and heavy, thundered through the air.  The crackle and snap of trees bending and shattering under the might of something large, something powerful, filled his ears.  His team looked around in confusion and mild alarm.

“What the fuck was that?”  Gaz hissed, eyes wide.

Ghost, face pinched under the skull plate, looked around slowly before he noticed Soap’s distress.  “Johnny?”

“Dragon.”  Soap wheezed.  His heartbeat was loud, overwhelming in his ears.  Another dragon.  He hadn’t faced another dragon in over a decade.  He wanted to run.  He wanted to take wing and fly, escape.  He couldn’t do either, not with his team, his hoard, right here.

“What?”  Price sounded worried, and more than a little incredulous.  He was tired.  They were all tired.  They were tired, cold, injured, and woefully under prepared.  There was no way they could take on another dragon, not in the state they were in.  But Soap…  Soap could.  Soap would.

He was their only chance, and to save them he would have to lose them.  It was the easiest decision he’d made in his life.  They were his hoard, and he’d be damned if he let another fucking beast touch them again.  

The horror morphed to a resigned acceptance.  He faced his team with shoulders set and eyes hard.  Matching expressions of confusion surrounded him.  “It’s a dragon.  You need to run.”

Price shook his head immediately.  “We need to run.”

“No.  No, you need to go.  Now.”  He dropped his gun, unbuckling his vest and plate carrier with surprisingly steady fingers.  Ghost made a strangled sound of worry, moving to stop him, but Soap ignored it, pressed on.  “You need to get out of here.”

Gaz gaped at him.  “We’re not fucking leaving you here, are you mad?!”

“Maybe.”  He laughed without humor, dropping the last of his gear just as the trees behind them swayed and shifted in the still afternoon air.  His team turned silently to watch as the beast emerged.

It truly was his nightmare come to life, but exponentially worse.  Worse because this was real.  The other dragon was huge, far larger than any Soap had seen before.  Nearly thirty feet from claw to shoulder, with thick muscle covering every inch of it.  Dark scales, practically black in the light of the cold sun, were dull and dim.  Thick scars covered the huge body, painting a canvas of battles won and pain endured.  Powerful wings, membrane stretched taut between long spindly fingers, beat at the air sending snow flying in all directions.  Razor sharp horns, keratin nicked and gouged away, curved from above deep, burning red, bloodshot eyes.  A thick line of scar tissue cut through the left, turning the pupil a milky white.  

There was no keen intelligence, no sentience to be seen in the angry crimson boring down on them.  All that was left was a wild, untamed animal rage.  A desire to kill, to hunt and destroy until there was nothing left but dust and ash.

Aimed directly at Soap’s hoard.

A hand grabbed Soap’s wrist, grip desperate and frantic.  He turned to see Ghost, a hazy sort of fear clouding those beautiful brown eyes.  He shook his head slightly, silently pleading with Soap.  Begging him to stay.  

Soap smiled, a brittle, watery thing with fragile edges.  “I’m sorry.”

He tore his wrist from Ghost’s grasp and strode forward, letting the shift ripple through him, forcing the change to the surface.

He’d almost forgotten how it felt, forcing the change to his fully bestial self.  It fucking hurt.  Agony shredded his senses, pain lighting his nerves and clouding his vision.  Bones snapped and popped as they rearranged under twitching, rolling skin.  A scream tore from his chest, crackling into an ear-piercing roar as he transformed.  Midnight blue scales burst from all over, covering every inch of his rapidly growing form.  His horns, broken and full, pierced through his forehead and curled up and over his skull.  Fangs filled his mouth and claws dropped from his hands.  He dropped to his feet with a crash, the earth splitting below him and snow spraying everywhere, and faced the black dragon head on.  

He stood guard before his team, all twenty feet of him bristling with wings spread wide and spiny tail lashing.  His growl shook the air as he pinned his ears back and flared the frills on his cheeks, the sound of it hitting the other dragon with a force that had it stepping back cautiously.  A flash of fear filled the black dragon’s eyes for a moment as Soap lowered his head in challenge, almost reconsidering the effort.  

But the hesitation didn’t last, and it pulled its lips back into a savage snarl, saliva dripping from massive fangs as it snapped its jaw at Soap.  The dragon reared back on its hind legs and slammed its forelimbs onto the ground, sending the 141 staggering from the shock behind Soap.  It roared again, tearing the sky apart with the force of it.  Soap roared back, throwing every ounce of unrestrained fury into it.  A raging dragon was one thing, but a dragon protecting its hoard was another.  

He was not a beast pushed into a rampage by pain and instinct, mindless in his search for blood and hunt.  He was a beast fueled by passion, by hard won respect and easy camaraderie, by a desire to protect etched into the very marrow of his bones.  By a love that burned hotter and brighter than a star, that cut deeper than any blade, that withstood the seething tempests and howling winds.

When the black dragon lunged, fangs bared and vicious, Soap met it with all the same brutality.

The fight was a wild frenzy of violence and chaos.  Body slammed against body, a flurry of movement and twisting strikes.  Claws tore into the soft scales of Soap’s belly, raking white hot pain across them.  He screamed in agonized hatred, throwing his head into the side of the dragon’s throat.  The serrated edge of his broken horn caught on the scales and ripped, a warm rush of blood pouring over his forehead.  Teeth latched onto the scruff of his neck and bit down, piercing and dragging a pained shriek from him.  He lashed in the hold, trying desperately to tear himself free, but the black dragon’s weight and size overwhelmed him.  It pinned him to the snowy dirt with a snarl, grinding his nose down as it shook him harshly.  He scrabbled for purchase, claws digging deep grooves into the dirt to no avail.  

Another harsh shake to his scruff had him breathless, whining high and pained.  The dragon raised itself back onto its hind legs again, dragging Soap up before slamming him to the ground.  The teeth in his neck pierced deeper, warm blood dripping down his back as claws shredded his sides.  He panted, wheezing as the air was forced from his lungs by another ruthless hit to his side.  And another.  And another.  His ribs cracked and fractured under relentless attack after relentless attack, and his eyes slipped shut with a weak, thready whimper.

“JOHNNY!”  

Soap wrenched his eyes open at the sound of his name, vision blurred from the blood dripping into his face.  

Ghost fought against the hands holding him back, straining with all of his might towards Soap.  He clawed at Price’s and Gaz’s wrists, forced down on his knees in a desperate bid to keep him from running between the warring dragons.  His eyes were wild, the whites of them stark against the smudged greasepaint on his skin.  The gravel of his voice was shredded by anguish, an intense, overwhelming fear Soap had never heard from him before.

“NO!  GET OFF ME!  JOHNNY!”

Next to him, Gaz looked near tears, watching the scene unfold with horror.  He trembled under the force of the brawling beasts’ rage, but held Ghost back with firm, unshaking hands.  

“Soap,” He choked out.  Pleading.

On the other side, Price’s face was stony and blank, but the shine in his eyes betrayed his dread.  His stance was firm, feet planted in the snow, bracing against wild hit after wild hit from his frantic Lieutenant.  

“Come on, son.  Get up.  Get up.”  The tremulous whisper reached his ears through the fearsome growl of the other dragon, lighting Soap’s blood aflame.

He would not die here.  He would not let them die here.

He shifted his feet under him, planting them firmly in the soft earth before throwing all of his weight against the dragon’s sternum.  The force of it and the suddenness caught the dragon off guard.  He tore the teeth from his neck, a fresh cascade of blood drenching his spine as he twisted himself with a screech, latching his own teeth onto the soft scales below the black dragon’s jaw.  He threw himself on top of the dragon, pressing all of his weight down as it writhed and squirmed below him.  He could feel the claws mangling the scales on his sides and belly further, but he tightened his grip on the dragon’s throat with a snarl.  

Mine.  He thought, those syrupy tendrils of affection crystallizing into a glittering web of love, filling his head with howling, victorious pride.  Mine.  

He ripped the throat of the dragon out with a sickening squelch and pop, feeling the body go limp beneath him.  Standing on trembling legs, he let his wings droop and his tail drop to the ground, spitting the hunk of flesh from his mouth with a sneer.  Every inch of him was alight with pain, covered in a mix of the dead dragon’s and his own blood.  Panting, standing over the steaming, still twitching corpse of his fallen foe, he lifted his head to the sky and roared.

The sound petered off into a whining growl, and he hung his head as black spots danced in the corner of his eyes.  Hurt crashed into him like a tidal wave, causing him to sway dangerously on his feet.  His sides seared with each gasping breath, open wounds dripping blood onto the pockmarked snow.  The bones of his hind leg ground together as he shifted, and his ribs crackled with each hesitant move he made.  

“Johnny?”

Ice filled his veins at the sound of Ghost’s voice, softer than he’d ever heard it before.  His ears pinned back, head tucking down between his shoulder blades.  Snow crunched beneath boots, footsteps measured and careful.  Like he was a wild animal.  Like they had something to fear.

He kept his head turned away, shaking slightly as the cold nipped at his body.  He couldn’t bear to see the look on any of their faces, but especially on Ghost’s.  He couldn’t stand the rejection, the fear and horror at the sight of him.  At the sight of all of his lies.  Everything he’d had, he’d thrown away in an instant.  But he didn’t regret a moment of it.

He just wished he didn’t have to say goodbye. 

Price must have seen something shift in his stance, change in his footing, because the sudden sound of his startled shout pierced the still air.  “Soap, no, wait!”

With a sudden surge of energy, Soap shot forward, sending blood and snow spraying behind him.  Wings, the membrane and fingers surprisingly untouched after the bout, beat frantically in the air as Soap took flight.  Shouts of panic echoed behind him, garbled and incomprehensible over the rush of air in his ears.  The ground fell away beneath him, trees blurring together as he flew blindly in any direction.

He wished he could cry as he ran from the only family he had ever really known.

Soap didn’t know how long he had flown, or how far he had gone.  All he had cared about was getting away.  As far as he could until he physically couldn’t anymore.  He’d nearly fallen from the sky, pushed himself far past his limits and then some in his desperate flight.  Now, he wandered the frozen wasteland around him, scales tight and itching with old and new blood, wounds pulling as he walked aimlessly.  

His body was slowing down in the cold, tugging him towards the oblivion of unconsciousness, but he had just enough awareness to know that he had to get out of the open.  He had to find somewhere to hide, somewhere he could lick his wounds and mourn what he’d lost.  What he’d given up.

He had known this wouldn’t last forever.  That the uneasy peace and belonging would come crumbling down on top of him like a castle built on sand and salt.  He had hoped, somewhat naively, that he would have at least gotten a chance to say goodbye.  That he could have left on his own terms, left his team - his hoard - with at least that.  But it was never meant for someone like him.  

The cave he stumbled into was deep, dark, winding back into the mountain without an end in sight.  It was just large enough that he could squeeze himself inside, though the walls scraped against his sides and pulled at sensitive scales.  With no one around to see him, he didn’t stop the pitiful whimpers and whines from spilling out of his throat.  Calling for people that would never answer.  

He didn’t curl up on the cold dirt floor of the cavern so much as collapse, strings cut and out of energy and time.  The impact jarred his countless broken ribs and his broken leg, drawing a pained hiss and yelp from him.  It was so cold.  So, so cold.  The light from the cave entrance dimmed, turning a blue-gray as the sun set.  His mind was sluggish from the pain, the blood loss, and the steadily dropping temperature.  

He should get up, should try to shift, should attempt to patch his wounds.  But he couldn’t see a point to any of that.  What difference did it make if he was human or dragon any more?  There was no going back.  Why not lay here and wait for the end, wait for the darkness to creep in fully, for the cold to grip his heart and lungs until they stopped?  He had nothing left, not anymore.  The acrid smell of fear lingered in his nose and he whined again.  He’d scared them.  The most fearless people he’d ever met, who ran headfirst into no win scenarios time after time without a second thought.  He scared them.  

He could have handled hatred.  Open hostility, even.  It’s not like he’d never dealt with it before.  He was ready for that sort of thing, he could adapt.  Hatred meant that he could still be near them, still keep himself close and keep them safe.  Anger, too, he could understand anger.  He’d lied to them for months, years even.  They had trusted him with so much, and he’d gone and dashed it all to dust in a single moment.  They had every right to be furious with him.  He’d love them anyway, angry or resentful or hostile.  

But fear… their fear had torn his fragile heart to shreds.  The smell had been more agonizing than the claws and teeth in his skin.  He couldn’t, wouldn’t be able to withstand a world where they were afraid of him.  Where the sight of him had the air thick with bitter, pungent terror.

He loved them, more than anything he’d ever loved in his life, and because of that love he had to run.

The days ran together as he laid in the cave, watching blearily as day turned to night turned to day again.  His heart slowed with the cold, numbing him until he couldn’t feel the radiating burn of the seeping wounds on his back or side.  His breath was shallow and short, barely enough to disturb the crackling ribs still unhealed under his skin.  His thoughts ebbed and flowed idly, drifting in and out of the warm darkness lurking on the edge of his mind.  It would be so easy to drop off and away, to surrender himself to the nothingness beyond his thoughts.  A release, an escape.

He held on.  Thoughts of his team, how they were faring without him, nagged his sparse lucidity.  Guilt bubbled low and slow in his gut when he imagined the stacks of paperwork left to Price in his absence.  His Captain, the one who had seen something no one else had, who had stood firm and solid when the rest of the world was thrown into chaos, who had treated him like he was worth something.  Who he had lied to from the moment he’d met him, who he’d thrown that trust back into his face.

He ached for Gaz, the thought of him alone in the gym and the mess.  It wouldn’t take long for him to find someone else, to find someone better to have at his side, but perhaps he would mourn.  His brother in everything but blood, his first true friend, his closest comrade on the battlefield and off.  He distantly wondered if Gaz would miss him at all, if he would forgive him for everything and remember the better parts of him.  If he would be less monster and more man in his memories.

He was almost relieved that Laswell hadn’t been witness to the disaster, even though he knew she’d likely heard everything from Price already.  She was an intimidating figure, one that he strove to please as best he could.  He hated that he’d disappointed her with this, shown her that he wasn’t reliable, that he wasn’t enough.  He hoped whoever she found next truly earned her respect and trust.  God knows he hadn’t.

Pain lanced through his decimated heart when his lethargic thoughts turned to Ghost.  Like they always did.  Ghost, his hoard-heart, his most treasured.  He had never said anything, too fearful of destroying the fragile thing between them.  It had taken him months, months of careful planning and a thousand and one missteps to get the man to even consider them friends, all to destroy it in a single second.  He hoped Ghost wouldn’t hate him forever, but he would understand if he did.  He wasn’t worthy of his Lieutenant’s affections, wasn’t worthy of the attention he so craved.

He could still hear that terrified call of his name, the way the word cracked down the middle as Ghost fought against the steel hands around his chest.

“Johnny?”

How he wished he had tear ducts in this form, the way the cavern of his chest collapsed at the ghost of his Ghost.  Maybe this was it, maybe it was finally his time.  Maybe this facsimile of Ghost was here to take him to rest, a figment of his fracturing mind as he succumbed to the cold at last.  Hurried footsteps echoed across the dirt floor and stone walls, painfully loud against the deafening silence.  

“Johnny,” the apparition gasped out, the sound of something heavy crashing to the ground in front of him.  The hesitant warmth of a gloved hand pressed against his nose, brushing ever so gently across the freezing scales.  “Fuck, Johnny, you’re freezing.”

A whisper of a whine curled out of his throat in response, barely audible.  The hand on his nose froze, a stuttering breath like a gunshot, before pressing back down with a determined intensity.  The scales underneath burned, curling and flaking away from the heat of it.  The voice returned, soothing and smooth despite the audible shake in each word.  “Can you hear me?  It’s- it’s Ghost.  It’s Simon.  I’m here, I found you.  Can you open your eyes for me?  Please?”

He wouldn’t dare disobey Ghost, even if he was fake.  No matter the form he took or the trueness of him, he was hardwired to listen to his Lieutenant.  He mustered the last flickering ember of energy, dragging leaden eyes upwards just enough to peer at the hallucination.  

Backlit by the bright wintry sun, Ghost looked near holy.  Knelt in the dirt and draped in the pristine white of his winter gear, he was the picture of an avenging angel, staring down through the sockets of the ghoulish skull with reverent eyes.  The image of him swam as Soap considered him, fighting to keep his eyes open.  The warmth of the hand retreated, leaving Soap unmoored and drifting back into the darkness.  His eyes started to slip shut, unable to hold them up without that tether.  Then, the hand returned, warmer somehow.  Smooth leather was gone, replaced by rough, callused, scarred skin.  Bare fingers pet oh so gently across his nose, trembling just slightly.

His voice shook dangerously, paper thin and fragile.  “There you are.  That’s it.  I’ve got you.  You’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

Soap didn’t know how, but somehow he sagged even more into the dirt, a long, slow exhale punched from his bruised lungs.  He gazed longingly at his fake Ghost, who took in his beaten, battered body curled up in the cave with a wondrous look.  “Look at you.  Fucking gorgeous, you are.  I can’t believe you hid this from us - from me for so long.”

He flinched at the reminder of his failures and lies, whining as the movement jarred every open wound and broken bone he had.  Not-Ghost hushed him, pressing more firmly against him.  Soap leaned into the contact as much as he could, basking in the facsimile of body heat.  

“Hey, hey, no.  You’re alright.  I’m here.  Don’t move,”  Ghost soothed, before drawing back just a bit.  Something heavy swirled in his eyes, looking at Soap with nothing short of awe.  

After a long moment of silence and stillness, Ghost reached up to grasp at the hem of the mask tucked under his jacket.  Soap stared, frozen, heart still in his chest, as Ghost tugged the mask up and over his head, leaving his face bare to the elements.  Bare to Soap.

Gorgeous, Ghost had called him, drinking in the sight of his mangled, broken body.  Soap couldn’t find a word to describe the face that looked down at him, knowing there wasn’t one to adequately describe him.  Brown eyes shone and thin lips twisted in a shaky smile.  There was little skin untouched by ropes of scars, lines cutting across cheeks and nose and forehead.  Blond curls laid limp and matted by sweat and dirt, pressed flat from the mask and helmet.  Sharp cheekbones and a squared jaw were smudged with ash and the remains of greasepaint.  

This wasn’t something he could have ever dreamed, ever imagined even in the throes of death.

He was Ghost.  He was Simon.  He was real.

Soap lifted his head, groaning behind his teeth at the stretch and pull of scabbing wounds.  He shoved his snout into Ghost’s ribs, nearly bowling him over with the force of it.  Ghost grunted at the impact, wrapping his arms around Soap’s massive head and shifting backwards into a seated position.  

He was warm.  He was so warm and real and here.  A low, weak rumble of a purr vibrated the floor as Soap’s eyes fell shut, dropping his chin down into Ghost’s lap.  He could feel Ghost’s smile as his arms tightened, clutched close as to tuck him into his rib cage.  Those gentle fingers were back, skating across his face to trace the long healed scars and prodding gently at new cuts.

“I’m gonna get you home.  Alright?” Ghost asked, voice tender as he dabbed away some of the blood coating Soap.  He shifted under Soap’s chin, speaking low and urgent.  Crackling static hissed from somewhere above him, a familiar sound grating against Soap’s ears.  A radio.  Ghost was contacting someone, probably the rest of the team.  

Soap didn’t care about the words, all too happy to float in the space between true waking and real sleep.  Ghost addressed him again, his words still warm and careful.  He hadn’t felt that kind of care in so long.  “We’re bringing you home.  Price is on his way with Gaz.  We’ll get you out of here, patch you back up.”

Soap answered with a rumbling huff, purr pitching louder when Ghost scratched at the spot between his jaw and neck.  A soft laugh, suspiciously wet, followed.

“Should have guessed you’d pull something like this.  Always so dramatic.  If you wanted attention, you should have just asked.  You didn’t need to do all of this.”  Ghost said, fingers trailing up Soap’s forehead towards the cracked remains of his horn.  It had long healed, but Soap couldn’t help the instinctive flinch at the first brush of callused fingertips against the base of it.  When Ghost moved to draw back, to remove his hands, Soap pressed his chin more firmly into his legs with a barely-there growl.  A warning and a plea.  Ghost sighed, indulgent and fond, and smoothed his palm between Soap’s eyes.  

“Demanding,” He teased.  Soap snorted and pressed down even harder, ignoring the twinge in the back of his neck at the movement.  Something pulled, and a rivulet of fresh blood trailed down his scruff to patter onto the dirt.  Ghost’s fingers flexed, gripping Soap’s jaw tight for a moment before releasing.  He took a long, slow inhale, held it for a few seconds, then released a controlled exhale.  Repeated the motion a few times.  

The rhythm of it nearly eased Soap back to sleep until a broken sound dragged him back to the surface.  He shifted his head in Ghost’s lap to peer blearily up at him, surprised and distressed to see Ghost’s face twisted and pinched, his eyes pained and his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.  He was staring somewhere beyond Soap, his look distant and unfocused.  Soap nudged him gently with his snout, rubbing his cheek on Ghost’s thigh when he focused back on him.  Another broken, bitten off noise tore out of Ghost’s chest as he leaned forward to press his forehead to Soap’s, squeezing tight around his neck where he could reach.

“Fuck.  Fucking hell.  I thought you were dead.  I thought we lost - thought I lost you.  That I was gonna find your corpse out here, and I was going to be left all alone.  I can’t- I didn’t want to - I-” He cut himself off with a growl.  Soap whined, gently pressing his forehead into Ghost’s.

“You’re the one with the words, not me.  I’m- I’ve never been good at this.  But- but watching you take that other dragon on by yourself and knowing there wasn’t anything I could do to help, seeing you go down like that, it nearly fucking broke me.  I thought I was going to have to watch you die and all I could do was stand there and do nothing.  And then you didn’t, and you won, and it was like I could breathe again.  

“You were alive, you were standing there and then you weren’t.  I thought you dying would be the worst thing to watch, but you running?  The fear on your face?”  He laughed, dry and without humor.  “Never thought I’d live to see a day where I hated seeing someone afraid of me.”

Soap shook his head, not enough to dislodge Ghost pressed against him but enough to be felt.  Ghost continued, undeterred.  It was like a damn had broken, an unending waterfall of words spilling forth with nothing to stop them.

“I can’t lose you.  I can’t, you stubborn Scottish bastard.  Years of turning it all off, and you had to go and make me love you.”

Soap wheezed a strangled gasp, jerking his head up and out of Ghost’s arms to stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.  Ghost fell backwards with a curse, landing sprawled on his back across the dirt.  Tension zinged through the air as Ghost stared up at the dragon looming over him, and a hard, cold look passed over his bare face.  He opened his mouth to speak, likely to deflect in the face of supposed rejection, only to have his words die in his throat when Soap shut his eyes and curled his head inward.

Standing was taxing his already depleted reserves, but he reached out for the shift regardless, grasping at the wavering edges of his human form with white-knuckled determination.  He wrestled against the change, staggering as the pain of creaking bones and tearing skin hit him full force.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”  Ghost yelled, scrambling to get his feet back under him as Soap howled and contorted above him.  A broken, ragged scream, beautifully human in its raw feeling, ripped from his lungs as his form folded and shrunk.  Dulled blue scales gave way to scarred skin.  Tail and wings faded away.  Horns disappeared, claws shrank, fangs retreated, leaving only a trembling, bloodied human in its wake.  

Soap dropped heavily onto his hands and knees, coughing and near hyperventilating.  Rocks dug into the skin of his palms, fingers curling into the dirt.  He shook violently, sweat and blood and dirt dripping down his heaving flanks.  The shift of his broken ribs in his chest with each cough and hack wrung a pitiful groan out of him, and each shudder sent lances of fire across his shredded skin.  

“Johnny?!”  A broad hand ghosted across his shoulder blade, skimming featherlight over the deep gashes torn through flesh and muscle.  Soap leaned into the body beside him, his own unable to stay upright.  Steadfast arms surrounded him, heedless of the blood covering every inch of bare skin, unconcerned of Soap’s stark nakedness, pulling him tight against a wide chest.  He didn’t even care about the vest biting into his raw skin, only concerned with the way Simon held him close.  Clutching at him like he would disappear in an instant should he let go.  Like he could keep him there through sheer force of will.  

“Gh’s.”  He couldn’t get his jaw to work, barely able to slur the word through a lead tongue and clenched teeth. His head lolled back, neck unable to keep the weight of it straight, dropping heavily onto a sturdy, fabric-covered shoulder.  Blond and gold swirled in his blurry eyes.  “S’m’n”

“Jesus fucking Christ, what were you thinking?!”  Simon seethed, holding him tighter with one arm as the other reached around to fuss with something behind them.  The chest behind him shifted as he dug around, before heavy fabric draped across Soap’s front.  Tucking it gently around Soap’s body, Simon readjusted his grip, arranging his limp form into his lap more firmly, and pushed his head to rest under his chin.  He pressed nose into Soap’s hair with a hissed sigh.  “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“L’h y’ ‘oo,”  Soap mumbled, reaching a hand out from the confines of the fabric and pawing blindly at Simon’s hand wrapped tight around his chest.  He fumbled for purchase with numb, useless fingers, clawing for something - anything - to hold on to.  Darkness danced on the edges of his vision.  He coughed, a spatter of blood spraying across the white of Simon’s sleeve.  “H’d t’ t’ll y’…”

Heat enveloped his hand, gripping at his ice-cold skin with feverish intensity.  He sank back into the warmth with a small, shaking breath, darkness bleeding into his vision with relentless purpose.  The rumble against his back felt like a purr as Ghost spoke, words rushed and frantic as he shook Soap’s body against him. Pleading.  “Hey, no, don’t fall asleep.  Keep those pretty blues open for me.  Price is almost here, we’re gonna get you home.  You just need to stay awake for me.”

Soap sighed, barely a brush of air falling from his lips, and he mumbled a hoarse whisper.  “M s’rry…”

For everything.  For lying, for leaving, for not listening.  He hoped Simon understood, could see between the scales to his bleeding heart.  

Ghost pressed bare, scarred lips to the crown of his head, rubbing soothing circles into the unharmed skin of his bicep.  “Don’t be sorry.  Don’t.  Just stay awake.”

Soap wrestled with his tongue, forcing the words past his lips as loudly as he could.  Repeating himself, hoping beyond hope that Simon could hear him.  “Love you, Simon,” he murmured, “Love you.”

If Simon responded, Johnny couldn’t hear.  He lost his battle to the weighty pull of unconsciousness, dropping into the void with the phantom touch of chapped lips on his forehead following behind him.

John had woken up in unknown, impersonal hospital beds more times than he could count, given his career choice and general attitude towards it.  It wasn’t a new feeling, waking to the scratch of the flimsy gown covering him, the thin sheets over his inert body, the cacophony of alarms and beeping from the various monitors hooked to him.  The taste of grit in his mouth, the lingering affects of a long, involuntary slumber, pulling him closer and closer to true awareness.  As he dragged himself up and out of the pit of unconsciousness towards the surface, he took stock of his situation, slow cataloging of injuries that he’d suffered more routine than he’d like to admit.

His fingers and toes twitched, releasing a bit of pressure behind his aching rib cage at the knowledge that he wasn’t paralyzed.  A slight shift of his leg made him more aware of something keeping it stiff and immobile.  A cast, from upper thigh down to his toes.  Bandages itched all over, covering almost all of him that wasn’t trapped beneath plaster.  Stitches tugged against bruised skin as he groaned, blinking his eyes open only to slam them back shut immediately.  His head throbbed at the bright fluorescents, and he tried to raise a hand to rub at his eyes only to feel something warm and solid wrapped around his wrist, holding it fast against the mattress.

“Easy.”  The rough, familiar timbre had him fall boneless back against the bed, a feeling of all encompassing safety immediately washing over him.  Ghost.  

“Shit, hold on,” another voice said hurriedly.  Rubber squeaked against tile as someone stood hastily and walked away from the bed.  Gaz.  The brightness beyond Soap’s eyelids dimmed, and he sighed as the throb behind them ebbed.

“Can you open your eyes for us?”  The gruff voice asked, thinly veiled concern lacing every word.  Price.

He pried his eyes open, struggling against the lingering grip of sleep.  Fluttering them slightly, he peered up at the blurry, unfocused gray speckling of the ceiling.  The world swooped and danced around him, and he grit his teeth against the dizziness.  He forced himself to take slow, even breaths, counting them out in his head.  When it didn’t feel like he would blow chunks, he lowered his eyes towards the rest of the room and slumped back into the bed.

All three of his teammates looked ready to keel over.  Dark circles ringed their eyes, slouched carelessly into the hard plastic chairs gathered around Soap’s bed.  Price’s hat was gone, hair mussed and tangled from running his fingers through it constantly.  The smell of smoke wafting from him nearly had Soap choking on a cough, burning his nose and filling his mouth with the acrid taste.  He stared at Soap with hesitant hope, mouth pressed into a thin line beneath his mustache.  

At his side, Gaz leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, clothes rumpled and wrinkled.  He fiddled with something in his fingers, knee bouncing an uneven rhythm into the tile.  His face was haggard, lined with worry and bone deep exhaustion, but a spark of relief lit his dark eyes.  

Slowly, Soap dragged his eyes towards his wrist, trailing the blanket and IV line until long, thick fingers came into view.  A large, pale hand covered the span of his wrist, fingertips pressed firmly into the radial artery hidden just under the skin.  Feeling his pulse.  Soap’s eyes followed the hand up a forearm hidden in black fabric, to broad shoulders and the threadbare fabric of the balaclava until they met shadowed, honeyed brown.  The hand around his wrist squeezed as their eyes connected.

“Simon,”  Soap croaked, wincing at the burn of his sandpaper throat.

“Johnny,” Ghost murmured, relief and something unknown, something large and warm and overwhelming, filled his gaze.

Soap opened his mouth to say something else, but the words died at the burn lancing down his throat.  He coughed, doubling over with both the force of them and the pain of his healing ribs.  Price leaned forward, placing his hand on Soap’s back and rubbed, waiting for him to catch his breath.  After a long moment, he was able to lean back with watering eyes and shuddering lungs.  Someone, probably Gaz, pushed a small plastic cup into his free hand, and he lifted it shakily to his mouth.

The feeling of cool water on his tongue hand him groaning again, this time with relief.  He nearly chugged the entire cup in one go, eager to chase that feeling, but was stopped by a warning squeeze from Ghost.  

“Small sips.”  He rumbled, thumb brushing back and forth along his pulse point.  Soap listened reluctantly, knowing the feeling of choking would be far worse with his throat in such a state, and slowly sipped at the water.

Gaz cracked a half-smile, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed behind his head.  “Can’t have you dying on us after all we did to get you back.”

The reminder of everything, of the reason he was trapped in this hospital bed with his team looking at him with unguarded cheer, had the water hit his stomach like a rock.  He winced, crushing the cup in his hand from the force of his grip.  “I-”

“If the next words out of your mouth are an apology, I’ll have you on latrine duty for a year,” Price cut him off, stern with no room for argument.

Soap tried anyway.  “But-”

“No,”  Price said, insistent.  The hard look on his face eased into a warm, guilty expression.  “You’re not the one who needs to apologize.”

“We are.”  Gaz added, a hint of pain offsetting the spark of happiness in his gaze.  Ghost tightened his hold on Soap’s wrist in agreement.

Soap reared back at that, appalled, eyes bouncing between the three of them in confused dismay.  “You?! Why would you be sorry for me lying to you for years?”

Price sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face.  “If you didn’t trust us and thought you had to hide this part of yourself from us, you deserve an apology.”

“More than an apology,”  Gaz muttered.  Ghost said nothing.

Soap shook his head.  “I do trust you!  I didn’t trust myself!  I should have had more control, and I didn’t want you to suffer for my mistakes.”

Gaz and Price shared a confused look, before Gaz asked, “What does that even mean?”

Soap sighed through his nose, picking absently at a loose thread in the thin, scratchy blanket over his knees.  He didn’t know how to explain it, but knew they needed to know.  They deserved that much.  “You’re… my hoard.  My-”

“Your most important people.”  Another voice interrupted as the door to his room swung open and shut with a hiss.  Laswell strode across the room with a quiet confidence, a cardboard cup carrier in her hands.  She paused to hand cups to each of the rooms occupants, save Soap, before settling down into the empty chair beside Price.  “The people that you hold closest, that would destroy you to lose.”

“Chief?”  Soap couldn’t help but gape at her, head spinning. 

She smiled at him, placing a soft hand to his knee not trapped in a cast.  “It’s good to see you, Sergeant.”

“How did you…”  He couldn’t find the words.  She gave him a wry smile, leaning back in her chair and crossing an ankle over her knee.

“I’ve got more than enough experience with your lot.  Being married to one tends to give a vast amount of insider knowledge.”  Her eye twinkled with knowing, and she pulled a thin gold chain from under the collar of her shirt.  Dangling from the necklace, a small, oblong pendant, dusty pink fading into a deep red-orange, shone in the harsh lighting.  A scale.  A dragon scale.

“So, you knew? About me, that is.”  He cringed, thinking of how many times he’d almost outed himself, all the little things he could have let slip.  Laswell was a brilliant woman, so there’s no question in his mind that she would have pieced it all together well before now.

To his surprise, she shook her head, tucking the scale necklace back under her shirt.  “No.  But I suspected.”  A smirk curled the corner of her lip.  “There’s only so many beings who are that possessive over people and can take a bullet like you can. It wasn’t that hard to put the pieces together.”

At that, something in Gaz seemed to snap, and he smacked a hand on the bed forcefully before jabbing an angry finger in Soap’s direction.  “Speaking of, you fucking shithead!”

Soap blinked, stunned at the sudden mood shift.  Price and Laswell seemed just as surprised at Gaz’s outburst.  Ghost remained silent and still at his side, watching the scene with dark, carefully blank eyes.  

Sputtering, Soap gawked at Gaz.  “What?”

Gaz threw up his hands.  “Don’t you what me!  How many goddamn times did you get yourself shot protecting us?  Or worse?  Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the werewolf incident.”

Soap cringed a bit, knowing that no matter what he said, none of them would like the outcome.

“Um… do you want the list chronologically or alphabetically?”  He offered a guilty smile, which wilted under the combined weight of his team’s harsh glares.

“Are you serious right now?!”  Gaz shot to his feet, scrubbing his hands through his hair as he paced back and forth in front of the door.  “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Anger flared in his chest, a snarl pulling at his lip.  The split down the middle pulled, a bead of blood welling to the surface.  “I wasn’t going to sit around and let you fuckers die on me!  Seemed like an easy enough choice to me!  You’re human, I’m not!  I can take a bullet or two for you!”

Gaz rounded on him, fury bright on his face.  “But you shouldn’t have to!”

“Cap,”  He implored, begging him to explain.  Price had to know what he was talking about.  He made the hard choices every day.  He should be able to see the easy answer Soap had come to already.  He was surprised, and a little dumbstruck, when he saw the sad pull of Price’s lips, the crease between his eyebrows, the slump in his shoulders instead.

“We’re a team,”  Price emphasized, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees.  Soap couldn’t look away from the intensity of his stare, breath caught in his chest.  “We look out for each other.  All of us.  You included.  Just because you can take a few more hits than us doesn’t mean we want you to.”  

Soap finally tore his eyes away from Price’s, staring down at the blanket silently.  Price heaved a fond, exasperated sigh, clasping a warm, firm hand around his shoulder.

“Do you know what it felt like to watch you go down like that? And being able to do nothing about it?”

Soap chanced a glance at Ghost to his other side, remembering the choked words in the cave.  Ghost stared back, unblinking.  Soap averted his eyes again, fiddling with the edge of the sheets.  He mumbled, “I have a bit of an idea…”

“How would you have felt, if it was one of us in your place?”  Soap didn’t have an answer for that, shame welling up and threatening to drown him.  “Kate said we’re your hoard, right?  Have you ever thought that maybe we want you here just as much as you want us here?”

He hadn’t let himself think about it.  He’d always assumed that he was the one who had gotten too attached, that he was the only one who felt as strongly about the rest of the team.  But looking at the tender looks around him, he had never been more wrong.

Sensing the understanding dawning in Soap, Price blew a short breath from his nose, patting his shoulder once before leaning back with his arms firmly crossed over his front.  “From now on, no more secrets.  No more hiding.  We take care of our own.”

Soap offered him a small, wry smile, drawling, “Does this mean Gaz has to share where he hides his good coffee now?”

Gaz squawked in outrage, yelping, “What the fuck!”

“I knew you had some stashed away somewhere, you little shit,”  Price leveled the other sergeant a flat look, earning chuckles from both Laswell and Soap and another garbled noise of protest from Gaz.  That sharp, knowing look drifted back to Soap’s other side, taking in the silent specter still holding on to his wrist with a death grip.  The corner of Price’s mouth twitched just a bit, growing in response to the icy glare Ghost gave him in return.

He clapped his hands on his knees, standing up with an exaggerated groan.  “I’m going to go check in with the doctors, let them know you’re awake and see if they have any updates for us going forward.”  He waved a hand between Soap and Ghost meaningfully.  “I have a feeling the two of you have some things to discuss. Kate, Kyle.”

Laswell stood gracefully, walking out the door with a gentle “Good luck, Lieutenant” offered in Ghost’s direction.  Soap watched, amused, as Ghost stared stonily forward.  He didn’t outwardly react, save for the minute tightening of his shoulders.  

Gaz’s eyes ping-ponged between the expectant Captain, the bemused and abased look on Soap’s face, and the overwhelming aura of awkward unease emanating from Ghost.  “Wait, Cap-”

“With.  Me.  Sergeant.”  Price grabbed hold of Gaz’s shoulder and steered him out the door, leveling one more pointed look to Ghost before nodding to Soap and disappearing.

The silence that descended over the room was uncomfortable, but not in a bad way.  It felt like the moment before a freefall, a pit opening in the stomach as you dangle over the edge.  The tension in between Soap and his Lieutenant was thick, cloying, but not overwhelming.  It was almost thrilling.  Anticipatory.  Ready for something, anything, to fall.

Soap sat back more firmly in the bed, observing the slight hunch in Ghost’s shoulders, the way his eyes looked anywhere but at Soap, the white knuckle grip of the bed sheets in the hand not clutching Soap’s wrist with crushing force.  The quiet stretched on, pulling taut and near the breaking point, and just when Soap thought he would have to be the one to bite the bullet and shatter it, Ghost opened his mouth.

His voice was quieter than he had expected, forcing him to strain his ears to hear it under the beep of the machines and the muted bustle of the medical wing beyond the door.  “Johnny, I-”

“I have one question for you.”  Ghost’s jaw audibly snapped shut when Soap interrupted him.  He kept his tone neutral, level, not betraying a single emotion storming inside him.  The rain-winter-bergamot taste in his mouth turned a little bitter with trepidation.  He waited, patient and quiet, for Ghost to look at him.  Slowly, agonizingly, those lovely brown eyes dragged from the far wall to rest on Soap’s face.

He looked so tired.  Trying to keep it hidden under that mask of his, the paint on the armor peeled and faded with time and use, but Soap saw right through him.  He saw the fear, the nerves, the barely there hope lurking under the flimsy surface.  He shot him a soft, indulgent smile, something he hoped was as vulnerable as the look in those golden brown irises.

“There you are.”  He carefully but firmly tugged his hand out of Ghost’s grip, who tried to snatch his hand back like he’d been burned.  Soap didn’t let him get far, tangling his bruised fingers between Ghost’s scarred ones.  Ghost’s eyes widened ever so slightly, darting down to look at their entwined hands with a disbelieving wonder, before returning to Soap’s face.

“Anything.  Ask me anything.”  He breathed, unwavering, like he would lay himself bare for Soap to be judge, jury, and executioner.  Like he would bear the weight of whatever humiliation could exist on the other side without question.  Like there wasn’t a single thing in the entire universe that he would keep from him.

“Did you mean it?”  Soap asked, the words barely a breath.  They hung in the air, dangling between them on a gossamer thread.

Ghost blinked, stunned, like had expected something else.  Expected something more, something that cut to bone and carved out a piece of him for Soap to keep.  He narrowed his eyes in question, confused at the meaning of what Soap was seeking.  “Mean what?”

“All of it.  In the cave.  Did you mean what you said?”

Understanding bloomed in Ghost’s eyes, lighting the gold drinking Soap in with reverence, with awe, before it melted into something molten that spilled between them.  He shifted his hand in Soap’s to hold more firmly, pressing their palms together with a surety that had Soap reeling.  His eyes creased under the mask when he spoke, saying everything that couldn’t be voiced.  “Every word.”

Johnny shot his free hand out, a mimicry to the moment in the bar that felt like decades ago, grasping the lapel of Simon’s jacked with rough fingers.  He yanked him forward, dragging Simon up out of his chair and onto the bed with a choked breath, and lunged forwards to plant a messy, graceless kiss over the painted teeth of the balaclava.  The angle was wrong, pressing more into the space between lips and nose, and the scratch of worn fabric against his scabbed lips tugged and pulled painfully, but the little gasp breathed into the skin of his chin had honey pooling into his chest.

Simon planted one hand beside Johnny’s hip, raising the other to fumble frantically for the edge of the mask.  With a rough, desperate motion, he pulled it off and crashed back into Johnny, who groaned in pleasure when their lips finally met properly.  

It was rough and wild and frenzied, biting and clawing at one another with a desperation.  All of the fear and pain spilled over into a whirlwind of desire and hunger.  The burning passion slowly bled to tenderness, though, as Simon cradled Johnny’s cheek in one broad palm and leaned back ever so slightly.  Hot breath ghosted across one another’s lips, tangling together as they stared at one another ardently.

“Are you sure about this?”  Johnny whispered, the barest hint of worry trailing through his tone.  He raised his hand to press against Simon’s cheek, who leaned into the warmth of his skin.  “About me?  Dragons don’t love quietly.  Or softly.  Or gently.  It’s all or nothing.  If you can’t, I won’t blame you.”

A bright, euphoric smile lit Simon’s face, who laughed low and deep.  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Whatever you’re willing to give me, I’ll take.  Happily.  There’s nothing else for me.  No one else.  You’re it.”

Johnny tilted his head forward to press his forehead into Simon’s, letting his eyes fall closed as he breathed the feeling of him in.  

They still needed to talk about… all of this.  About the pasts that haunted them both, about the futures they would likely never see, about the cracked and broken pieces that made up their fucked up selves.  Johnny needed to explain what being a hoard-heart really meant, needed to make sure Simon truly understood what he was walking into, needed him to know what this meant.  But for now, this little bubble of peace was enough to crumble the last vestiges of Johnny’s fragile resistance.

The chains fell from the gate in his chest, shattering into tiny pieces scattering across his ribcage.  The whole of him, all those dark, inky thoughts and impulses rushed out to grab and hold and take.  He knew there was darkness in Simon too, parts of him just as twisted and selfish and wanting as the beast lurking in his heart.  They were messy, tangled pieces of shattered people, but maybe, just maybe, those pieces could fit back together into something new.  Something not just whole, but something more than whole.

Something better.

Soap’s breath fogged in front of him as he walked, ducking under wet pine branches and skirting the edges of mossy boulders.  The air was crisp and clean, nipping at the bare skin of his cheeks and nose.  The cloudy sky was bright, gray illuminated by the weak sunlight far above.  Mud squelched under his boots, the path before him nearly washed away by the torrential downpours so common in this area.  

His calves burned, shoulders aching from the pack slung across both shoulders but his steps were light.  Despite the fact that there was no weapon on his person save the service pistol strapped to his thigh and the knife tucked in his boot, he never felt more secure.

Ghost’s silent, steady presence kept pace with him, footsteps somehow still as silent as ever in the mud and muck.  Carrying his own overloaded pack effortlessly, he stalked through the woods like the predator he was.  He stuck close to Soap’s side, carefully hidden glances shot his way from under the balaclava.  Every so often, the backs of their hands would brush, sending zings of heat up through Soap’s arm towards his core.  

Behind them, Gaz and Price bickered to one another about something or other, Soap hadn’t been listening for the last hour of the hike.  They were somewhere in the wooded parts of Europe, he wasn’t too sure about where and he didn’t really care, hiking through the last remaining wilds.  Some sort of team building exercise, Price had explained as he herded them into his truck and spirited them off base.  Soap honestly hadn’t been paying much attention, too excited to be back in the field to care about the specifics. 

It had taken weeks of healing and difficult conversations to even consider fieldwork again.  Fighting a dragon, even as a dragon, was far from easy on the best of days.  The gashes from the black dragon’s claws had dug deep, nearly scraping bone, and the time spent delirious in a freezing cold cavern deep in the mountains did Soap’s recovery no favors either.  The phantom flare of pain from his reset thigh reminds him of that particularly poor decision every time it rained.  But, tenacious bastard that he was, he dug his own claws in deep and dragged himself back towards full duty like he had every time before.

This time, though, he didn’t hide away in his den to lick his wounds in private.  He couldn’t hide, not with the incessant hovering and worrying of his team.  Nowhere was safe from their hovering, not even his room.  He wasn’t too proud to admit that the attention, while sometimes grating and chafing on his nerves, was a more than welcome change of pace.  Whether tangled on the rec room couch and chattering away with Gaz, sitting quietly in Price’s office working on mind-numbing paperwork, or curled around Ghost in the comfortable privacy of either of their rooms, the connection to his people, his hoard, had him purring like an overgrown house cat at every opportunity.

(“I can’t believe you managed to keep this shit secret for so long,” Gaz had muttered, something dark and knowing shadowing his face.  They’d been laying on the rec room couch, legs tangled together and staring off into space.  “What would you have done if that other dragon hadn’t shown up?”

“Dunno,” he’d answered, honest and blunt.  “Didn’t think that far ahead.”

“I hope you know this doesn’t change anything.  It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“I know.  I just got used to it, I guess.  And I didn’t want to lose you all.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not gonna happen.  I meant what I said.  You’re my brother, even if you’re also some giant lizard thing sometimes.”

“And you’re mine, even if you’re just a squishy human all the time.”

He’d paused for a long moment, considering, before he smirked, wicked and sharp.  “So, Ghost huh?”

Soap had groaned, letting his head fall to the arm of the couch and covering his burning face with his hands.  “Shut your fucking mouth, I swear to all that is holy.”)

For those first weeks, though, he’d driven himself nearly mad with nerves, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  It felt easy, too easy.  There had to be a catch, there was always a catch.  This didn’t happen to people like Soap, not without a cost.  The damn broke one late night when he burst into Price’s office, cold sweat covering his skin and panting like he’d just run a marathon.  Seated at his desk with a glass of amber liquor in hand and a curious look on his face, Price had squashed those last persistent little doubts to dust.

(“When have we ever let regulation stop us?”  Price had answered with a smug grin, leaning back into his leather chair with a huff.  “You’re one of my best men, Sergeant.  I’m not giving you up easily.  Especially not for a stupid reason like bureaucratic red tape.  You’re staying, end of story.”

He tried his hardest to keep his misty eyes unseen.  He failed spectacularly.)

He spotted their destination in the distance, letting out a whoop and breaking into a sprint.  He could feel Ghost’s eye roll from the distance, Price’s fond shake of his head and Gaz’s snorting laughter.  

He stumbled into the clearing, staring wide-eyed and wondering at the rolling grass, green and lush under his feet.  Dew and lingering raindrops clung to the fabric of his pants, wetting the fabric a dark earthy brown.  Tipping his head back, he took in a mouthful of air, letting the windswept taste of life coat his gums.  His eyes shut with a sigh and a groan, letting his head drop fully.

“Looks like a good place to set up camp.”  Price sauntered up behind Soap, clapping him roughly on the shoulder.  “What do you think, son?”

“It’s fucking perfect, sir.” He tipped his face towards him and grinned, wild and toothy, letting a hint of that curling other simmering under his skin leak through.

“Bit small, in my opinion,”  Ghost groused from his other side, arms crossed over his wide chest.

Soap snorted, shoving at his shoulder ineffectually.  “What, not good enough for you princess?  Didn’t realize you needed so much room.”

“Neither did I, until I realized I would be sleeping next to a foghorn.”  Ghost gave him a sidelong look, quirking a challenging eyebrow beneath the mask.  “Won’t get a lick of sleep like this.”

Soap’s grin grew a little sharper, a little hungrier.  “There’s plenty of other ways to keep you awake, Lt.”

“God, can you two not? For five minutes?”  Gaz groaned, dropping his pack to the ground with a dull thud.

“And that is why Garrick’s my favorite.”  Price mused, pulling the tent bag from his own pack and throwing it gently to the ground.  “Come on, get your asses in gear.  We’re wasting daylight and I don’t feel like having bedmates tonight.”

“Scared of some creepy crawlies, Cap?”  Soap swung his bag around to the front to grab for his gear, already getting their little campsite set up under a sheltered grove of pines.

“Shut your trap and get to work, MacTavish.”  Ghost ordered, no heat behind the words.  

It took no time at all to get their campsite set up, tents pitched and sleeping bags unfurled within.  Once they were sure everything was settled and properly done, three pairs of bright, eager eyes landed on Soap.  Waiting.  He tried not to shrink from the intensity, tapping the toe of his boot lightly into the muddy earth.

Reading his anticipation as nerves, Ghost was quick to offer an out, saying, “You don’t need to if you don’t want to.”

Soap barked a laugh, shaking his head fondly.  “Nah, it’s not that.  I just… I wanna make sure you know what you’re getting in to.  There’s no backing out once we do this.”

“We’re sure.”  Price gave him a small nod.

“You’re stuck with us too, Johnny.”  Ghost rolled his eyes, quietly affectionate.

“Get on with it then!”  Gaz bounced on his heels.

Without further delay, Soap stripped, piling his clothes in a heap beside the tents and letting the cool, clean air of the woods caress his warm skin.  Throwing a finger over his shoulder when someone (probably Gaz) wolf-whistled, he let some of the tension drain from his spine into the dirt.  He rolled his shoulders, shooting Ghost a little wink as he turned and walked into the center of the clearing.

The buzz in the back of his skull, that constant itch under his skin, had gotten more manageable in recent months.  Partial shifts were common, wings wrapped around shoulders and tail curling around ankles and wrists.  The ease at which his team accepted and adapted to this new side of Soap made his thoughts syrupy and sweet, unable to contain the love he had for them all.  It made the ripple of scales blooming across his shoulders and back less a searing pain and more a pleasant tickle.  Bones shifted and stretched but didn’t crack and splinter, his form growing and morphing and changing.  

As he settled himself into the full shift, shaking his head to clear some of the lingering dizziness and loopy thoughts, he overheard the awed sounds from over his shoulder and preened under the attention.  

There were patches of scales missing from his scruff and along his belly, flesh tender and pink under the fresh scar tissue.  They would grow back in time, but the flash of pale skin between glittering scales was stark and jarring.  New scars and old lined the curves and angles of him, telling a story he hadn’t quite found the courage to put to words, the jagged, broken stump of a horn included.  But he stood tall and proud, letting the last of the shift fall into place with a tingling itch.  Midnight blue scales, nearly cerulean in the gleam of the sun, shone with flecks of silver and gold.  He stretched his neck, rumbling at the feeling, before shaking his wings out.  A pleased rumble trilled from his chest.

“Incredible,” Price murmured, and Soap craned his head to look at them.

They stood awestruck in the clearing, gazing up at Soap with undisguised amazement.  Silence, not uncomfortable but simple and familiar, filled the air as they took their fill of him.  His ear twitched idly, notched from one of countless scraps throughout the years, as he let them get used to this side of him.  Then, he slowly lowered himself down to the ground, tucking his legs under him and carefully folding his wings.  Gaz was the first to shake out of his stupor, bounding over to Soap with enthusiasm.

“You’re fucking massive, mate, look at you!” He cheered, circling around Soap’s back.  Even laying down, Soap towered over him, his top of Gaz’s head barely coming to his haunch.  A warm hand, callused in different places than the one he was most familiar with, trailed along the spines running down his back.  “I can’t believe it!”

Soap snaked his neck around, gently bumping Gaz in the back with his snout.  He nearly tumbled into the dirt from it, arms flailing as he tried to right himself.  With a snort, Soap bumped him again, with a little more force, and Gaz toppled over with a yelp.

“What the fuck?!” He laughed, grunting when Soap’s massive, scaly chin settled on top of his body, pressing him down firmly and trapping him there.  “Get the fuck off me, you lizard shithead!”

Soap purred, nuzzling against Gaz and pressed just a bit harder, not enough to hurt but enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

“A little help here?”  Gaz called, breathless and wheezing as he shoved at Soap’s face.

“No can do,”  Ghost deadpanned, leaning back against a nearby tree.  Next to him, Price chuckled.

“You’re on your own, kid.”

“Traitors, the lot of you!”  Gaz yelled, laughing as well.

After a moment, and a few well placed kicks to Soap’s jaw, he relented and released Gaz, who moaned and groaned about the mud caking his legs and back.  Soap leaned down and carefully pressed his forehead to Gaz’s front, purr restarting even louder when his arms wrapped around as far as he could and squeezed.

“Alright, you big bastard, I forgive you.”  Gaz patted between his eyes, condescension dripping like mud from his crooked smile.

Soap snorted, shaking him off with a bit more force than was necessary, just to make him fall on his ass again.  Gaz just sighed heavily, accepting his fate and laying limp in the mud.

“You deserved it that time,” Price stated, stepping over Gaz’s prone body to get a better look at Soap up close.

Soap straightened under his Captain’s appraising eye, a near mimic of standing at attention, scales prickling with the feeling of being so closely observed.  The weight of his assessment, the careful observation of every inch of him, crawled across his ribs in an unwelcome but familiar way.  There was no judgment on his face, though, no open contempt or disappointment Soap had almost been expected.  Instead, he saw naked wonder and curiosity shining in his gaze, alongside something like pride.

“Haven’t seen one of you in years,”  He murmured, sweeping over the ridges and angles of Soap’s face.  “You’re even more impressive up close.”

“Don’t go and give him an ego boost, Cap, his head's already almost too big for his helmet,”  Ghost wandered up to them, by all appearances aloof and unworried.  But Soap could see the way his eyes lingered on the scars covering him, the ones he’d been witness too and all the ones he hadn’t.  A painting of long years and a lot of painful memories, a complimentary image to the ones that made up the body of Simon Riley.

(“I’ll kill them,”  Simon had hissed in the darkness of Johnny’s room, curled tight around him like he was trying to climb into his skin.  His fingers traced the bite marks along his shoulder, the claw marks down his calf, the last gifts of a family he’d long since abandoned.  “You give me their names, I’ll kill them all.”

“You know I won’t.”  Johnny had smiled, leaning into the touch and tugging Simon’s head close to his chest.  The scratch of his days-old scruff against his heart had him nearly boneless.  “They’re not worth it.”

“They hurt you.  That’s enough reason.”

“They did,”  Johnny had agreed easily.  “But what’s done is done.  And without them, I wouldn’t be here.”

The arms wrapped tight around his waist had tightened further, punching the breath from his lungs.  Johnny had pet a careful, steady hand through the blond curls on top of Simon’s head, the other skimming along faded scars down his spine.  

He’d learn them all, one day.  Memorize them, know them by heart.  The stories written in spilled blood and etched in flesh.  Just like Simon would carry his.)

“Wasn’t there something you had planned, Johnny?”  Ghost called, and Soap perked up at the reminder.  

He popped to his feet, nearly bowling Price over as he vibrated with excitement, before herding the three of them out into the clearing.  Gaz and Price shared a confused look as Soap shoved them forward, while Ghost just shook his head and allowed it.

Soap looked up to the sky, tasting the woods around them.  A herd of deer tromped through the dewy grass, footfalls muted and distant.  A wolf pack played in a small glen, pups snapping and snarling as they wrestled.  A stream wound through the trees, crystal clear and fresh.  His lungs filled with wilderness, with life untouched by the horrors of the human world beyond its borders.  Not a single other soul existed for miles upon miles.

It was perfect.

He lowered himself back down to the ground, stretching out a wing towards them and staring expectantly.  No one moved, Gaz and Price too confounded to understand and Ghost entirely too pleased to do more than simply watch.  Soap pulled his lip up just slightly in an annoyed snarl, eyes narrowed.  He shot Ghost a petulant look, almost pouting, but Ghost stared blandly back at him, unbothered.  

Soap grumbled, shaking his head, before shoving his head into Price’s side to push him towards his flank.  He went reluctantly, placing his hands carefully on Soap’s side with a quizzical look.  Soap nudged him again, nearly pushing him up onto his back.

Understanding dawned on Price’s face, and he looked between Soap and Ghost with a bit of shock.  “You sure?”

Soap rolled his eyes and nodded, shoving him again.  Price climbed up his side gingerly, careful not to step on the ropes of long healed scars until he was on top of Soap’s spine.  Soap flattened the spikes lining his back as much as he could, allowing Price to get settled, before landing his sharp gaze on Gaz.

“Wait, seriously?!”  He gaped, looking to Ghost for confirmation.  He shrugged, mirth only betrayed by the slight wrinkle of his mask.  Gaz grinned wildly.  “You’re shitting me!”

He shot forward, clambering up Soap’s side with far less caution and grace than the Captain.  Soap winced and fought back a flinch when his boot caught the raw edge of a scale and pulled in the wrong direction, ears flattening back.  

“Fuck, sorry about that.” Gaz had the decency to look ashamed when he sat down beside Price, petting down Soap’s back in apology.  Soap tossed his head, hurt already forgotten, and finally turning to Ghost.  

He stood alone in the clearing, stark in all black against the deep greens of the forest around him.  There was a tension in his stance, body language rigid and uncomfortable.  Soap knew they were dancing on the razor thin edge of too much and not enough, an indelible show of trust.  To lead yourself willingly into the arms of a predator, even if that predator would sooner tear out his own heart and present it on a silver platter than harm you, was a terrifying thought.  It went against everything Ghost had build for himself, Soap knew that.  But he stood firm.  Waiting.  Watching.

Neon blue latched onto golden brown.  Neither moved, neither blinked, neither even breathed.  The moment stretched taut, pulled spider-silk thin between them as the world turned on and on.  Something in Ghost’s face shifted as Soap stared him down, finding whatever it was he had been searching for, and the cold, stony look in his eye melted away to reveal the molten, smoldering core of him.  

His palms burned through thick scales when he touched Soap’s side, deep enough that he was sure they’d leave scars.  Scars that he would treasure for the rest of his life, scars that he would trace with devotion rather than disgust.  The weight of him on his back grounded Soap, settling himself in the spot between his shoulder blades in front of Price and Gaz.  His knees hooked over the joints of his wings, carefully keeping them from obstructing the motion.  Those warm hands pressed down firmly against him again. 

He felt Ghost turn around to give the others some kind of look, his thighs bracing around the base of Soap’s neck in anticipation.  A toothy, feral grin warmed Soap’s face, and he steeled himself.

The last time he’d taken flight, he’d run from the 141.  This time, he took them with him.

A terse hold on was the only warning Ghost could give before Soap beat his wings into the air, pushing off the ground with all the strength he could muster.  The wind caught him, pulling him higher and higher into the gray sky above.  He could barely hear the shouts and hollers from his team perched behind him over the rush of air in his ears as they climbed.

It had been so long since he’d truly flown, not in the belly of a helicopter or strapped into a tiny airplane seat or a desperate flight in fear.  Just the open expanse of sky above, the sprawling ground below, and him sandwiched between.   It was freeing, skating along the edge of a cloud and letting his wing dip into the chill, allowing the currents to direct his path.  When he was younger, still trapped in a cold, empty farce of a home, he’d take off and disappear into the night sky, imagining a world of just him.  Him and the sky, flying as far as his wings could take him until he couldn’t go another inch.  

But now, the grounding weight of his team perched on his back, with him rather than behind him, holding tight to his back as he wheeled through the air, he felt more free than he had in so long.  

He pushed through the thick layer of clouds, earning shouts of confusion from the team, until they emerged on the other side to find the closest thing to heaven they’d probably ever see.  A rolling sea of white under an endless cerulean sky, clouds tinged fiery orange and dusty pink from the sun above.  He spread his wings as wide as he could, stretching the fingers out and letting the wind carry them.  Trusting himself that no matter what, he wouldn’t let them fall.

A warm hand pressed into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.  His rib cage cracked with the force of his ever growing love for these crazy, foolish men.  Men who could love a dragon as much as a dragon could love them, who stared a toothy maw in the face and didn’t flinch.  The pressure built and built and built until he had no choice but to let it all go.

He roared into the open sky, the sound of it echoed by human lungs.  A promise, and a reminder.

This, this was home.

They’d flown for hours until the nipping chill of the air got to be too much.  Finding his way back to their camp was surprisingly easy.  Soap landed with as much care as he could, trying not to jar his passengers on the way down.  They slid down off of him, breathless with laughter and windswept.

“That was AMAZING!”  Gaz stumbled away from him, feet unsteady with lingering adrenaline.  He looked up at Soap with a slightly delirious glint in his eyes.  “We have to do that again some time.”

“Never thought I’d be riding on the back of a dragon of all things,” Price mused, looking far more collected than his sergeant, though his mustache was noticeably more tousled than normal.  Taking in the almost drunken wobble of Gaz’s steps, he wound a hand around his back and tugged him towards their campsite.  “Come on, Garrick, let’s get you settled.”

Soap watched over them as they retreated to their tent, mumbling to one another.  The sudden press of a body against his chest had him looking down sharply, softening at the sight of Ghost leaning his weight against him.  The touch of his jacket was cool against his scales, slowly warming with body heat.

“Thank you.”

Soap blinked at the words, head cocked to the side as he took Ghost in.  He was looking up at him with nothing short of adoration.

“For trusting us.  For trusting me.”  He tipped his head back to rest his body fully into Soap, trusting a dragon to keep him upright.  To keep him safe.

Soap leaned down and curled his neck around Ghost, pulling his wings up to shield them from prying eyes.  Ghost gave him a fond, knowing look as he knocked his head gently against him, careful of his horn.  He purred, chest and throat vibrating with the force of it, pushing Ghost into his ribs as if to tuck him inside.  

He didn’t have words.  He didn’t need them, not for this.  Not for them.  Not for him.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

A dragon’s love is a possessive, clinging, dangerous thing.  Not many could stand the strength of it.  But the 141 had never run from danger before.  

They stayed, and loved him back just as fiercely.