Chapter Text
This is a bad idea.
The thought is unsettling, given it’s come from a superior, but you can’t shake the sinking stone in your gut, the dry twist of shame in your intestines.
It started off innocently enough. A post-op meeting. But as is the manner of military practicality, even the most interesting details of the mission—how they had triangulated an enemy base, teeming with the remnants of a decommissioned warhead—were drowned in vacuity. Every excruciating element drawn of the mission out like sinew stolen from a dilapidated corpse, harvesting every point down to the pale, mildew-rot marrow.
Raphael was knee deep in a languid description of nearly getting consumed by a half-frozen bog, whilst Commander Paul’s—attending through a laptop’s screen—eyes grew narrower and narrower throughout the entire go. To Raph’s credit, can’t say you’ve ever seen the man even half-pleased, but even with a (mostly) successful report the man seems silently incensed.
Then, the windowless conference room’s only door opened loudly, and Commander Paul goes from a displeased squint to a full-blown ‘what the fuck is this shit in my eye’.
“Captain Price,” Commander deadpanned. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“Paul,” the Captain greeted warmly, his mustache twitching while Venice’s lips fall into a frown and the Commander all but scoffs.
The faces of your companions were set between bemusement and confusion; a couple, like Perry, are twisted into a frown worthy of comparison to the Commander’s. You didn’t know what to make of it. Commander Paul was never one for interruptions.
“What brings you here?” Venice tried diplomatically, standing from the table like a distinguished hostess. Her hands were behind her back, neutral, at ease military stance.
“We had a briefing scheduled for 1600.” Some glances were exchanged among the squadron. “That was half an hour ago.”
Sweet Jesus. This had been going on for three hours. Tania’s eyes slowly fall closed, and Callen’s head gently leaned back over the edge of his chair. If you were allowed to feel exhaustion, you would be slouching down to the floor.
“Unfortunate,” Commander Paul says, indifferent at best.
“Perhaps a break would be advisable. Mess opens in ten, my soldiers are still waiting on the joint briefing.” Price suggested, whiskey smooth and yet firm.
Tension lined the room, the question of ‘Is this insubordination?’ frustratingly uncertain. Captain lower than Commander, but Commander of whom? Certainly not Price, certainly not whoever the Captain answers to. Commander Paul’s lips twisted like he just bit into a lemon-drop, his voice rang out tinny and staticky from the laptop speakers. “I would advise—”
“Affirmative,” Venice nodded sharply. “We’ll stop here, for now.”
“Major—”
“I recall you mentioning an officer’s meeting awaiting you this afternoon, is that correct, Commander?” Price asked.
The Commander’s eyes flipped up towards his eyebrows for a moment, you were waiting for the bite back, but all he does is relent with a tightening of his jaw. “Enjoy your dinner, Captain.”
“Commander.”
And then the video call went black.
But instead of being dismissed, instead of letting you fall bone weary into the mess hall or your strange barracks, Venice ushered your squadron into one of hangers. There, the 141 waited, but they aren’t alone.
This is where the bad feeling starts.
There’s a cooler—several, actually—and the cook has laid before the tables a sumptuous feast, grill-food and a good summer’s crop of vegetables. Cups lie in wait next to the plates. Blood red, plastic. What?
“This,” the Captain states pointedly, Venice coming to stand at his side with arms crossed. “Is a conference.”
“You’ve earned a reward,” Venice explains, stern. “You’ve done well.”
Then why does your gut turn so, your gaze flashing between the Captain and Venice, quite certain you’re missing something key. Is this a joke? Does the military even do this kind of thing?
The answer doesn’t reveal itself, but Venice tips one cooler lid open, and the shiny display catches everyone’s eye. There, sitting on pristine ice, sits glass bottles. Not the cheap stuff you’d steal from your parents, or else got after you turned twenty-one, for sitting alone in your apartment on leave, but the hard stuff, the things you wanted but always cringed at the price tag. There’s beer, American beer—the good stuff—vodka, tequila, and whiskey haphazardly thrown among its ranks as well as some brands you don’t recognize, likely more local.
“You’re going to have fun,” your CO says, a smile cracking the hard mask of her station. “And, you’re going to enjoy it.”
“Government mandated fun, who would have thought?” Jasper whispers to your right.
You’re too busy staring at your squadron members to think of a reply, starving to understand how they will respond to this curve ball. None catch your gaze, some too busy eyeing-up the goods, a few of the boys look over at Venice skeptically. Tania shakes her head like an unsettled horse, but her eyes never leave the cooler. Bruno’s sucking on his lip, his crossed arms squeezing each other.
It’s been a long time since leave.
Venice nods.
Your squadmates’ cheeks stretch with wolfish grins. They descend on food and drink like vultures, the 141 among them but for the Lieutenant and the Captain.
When you finally coax yourself to grab some grub, you find yourself standing at the edge of communication, the low-pleased tones of your teammates.
It’s hard to go to your team. Natural habit makes you want to drift to their side, but your feet stay stubbornly rooted to the ground. Before this, things were mildly awkward at best, seemingly healed by reuniting, but the entire brief had reopened the wound with all the effect of a dull scalpel. Why were you even there?
For a normal brief, you were usually quiet until you had to detail your action, glad to let your squadmates take over. Let yourself settle, review and compile. This time, however, the novelty of every interaction felt clinical and yet offensive. It etched, stitched into you, over and over. You. Weren’t. There. Didn’t belong. No one met your eye, and why would they? You had nothing to add.
But standing, forlorn, at the edge of the party would be a demonstrably bad look. Venice had expectations. You are by all means a member of the squadron. Then again, you have not the slightest inclination about what you should even say to any of them. What you should ask about that hadn’t been hashed and rehashed by a brief that was anything but.
That leaves the 141, intermingling almost seamlessly.
It’s been a week since MacTavish fucked off; not that you were counting, or anything. Had barely said more than a ‘hi’ to him in passing in just about as much time.
It wasn’t personal. You knew that. Hardly so ill-disciplined as to get attached, but since you last lay together, there was something moldy taking root in your ribcage. It can be felt, tickling, growing and spreading up your spinal cord and leaving a sour taste in your mouth at every flickering memory of careful, rough fingertips tracing your skin.
Perhaps there was nothing personal about that either. But, it does contribute to a hesitancy to strike up conversation with him in particular.
Fortunately, his better half is also in attendance, and currently approaching with two beers in hand. And better half indeed he is; finally, a man of military standard. Garrick’s maple-hue curls are close cropped, clearly meticulously maintained, with causal clothes clean edged as if he just ironed them this morning. He looks fresh out of a magazine, not less than a week from a major deployment.
“Garrick,” you greet warmly.
“For the pretty lady, Gaz will do,” he offers with a wink of those beautiful brown eyes.
You surprise yourself with a genuine laugh. Were half of the task force heedless flirts, or was it just something about you? Probably just some weird European courtesy thing. You accept the offered drink with a shake of your head.
“Gaz, then,” you relent. “Russia treat you well?”
Gaz rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Ugh, don’t make me think of it. Half a year to true winter and it still felt like I was gonna freeze my ass off. Your fireteam is…”
“Eccentric?” You suggest with a little grin.
He gives you a matching one. “Lovely to work with, really, but different.”
“Callen get to ya?”
He catches on quickly, giving you an exaggerated, wide-eyed look of terror. “Vomit-bonding, is he bloody serious?”
Oh hell, what did your dear fire team put this poor man through?
“Totally.”
Gaz shudders, but washes it away with a sip of his beer. “Ghost and Soap treat you well?”
You tilt your head back and forth, weighing the answer on your tongue. “They were…” you hesitate, not wishing to offend.
“Wild?” He supplies, a knowing glint to his eye.
“You could say that,” you huff. “Free-handed, in a word or two.”
Gaz laughs, the sound light and sweet. “Shame you weren’t with us in Russia, think we’d get along well.”
A little seed of disappointment curdles in your gut. Yeah, you think, real shame. Nevertheless, Garrick’s easy attitude is beyond refreshing, can’t be in a sour mood around the one friendly face you’ve got.
“Likewise,” you agree, leaning towards him to let the glass of your drink click against his.
His eyes follow the movement carefully, full of liquid warmth and long-suffering empathy. The things he must have seen, known. He’s not a day younger than you, but behind the undemanding smiles hides a wealth of something. For all that bullshit MacTavish fed you about Gaz, you be a fool to believe he’s less than the best. What you wouldn’t give to pick his brain for an afternoon. Talk shop.
You’ll have to settle for a few moments at the weirdest ‘conference’ in your life.
“So, how’d you get here?”
“Handpicked. Waltzing along and he picked me off the streets.”
Your eyes widen. “No shit?”
Gaz gives a little wry smile. “Well, regrettably the grander details are classified, but in short: right time, right place. Bit of an unfortunate story, really.”
“So unfortunate as to land you in one of the most prestigious, if unknown of task forces?”
“Hmm, what but unfortunate circumstances would make us shine brightly enough to get here, if anywhere?”
You blink, and sober for a second. “Good point,” you relent, and take a long gulp of your beer.
Gaz winces a little. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be a downer.”
“Not at all! And not wrong. Besides, can’t hold it against the guy that got me a drink, can I?”
“Your generosity astounds.” He tilts his head, almost in a mock bow.
You scoff, but can’t curb a smile. Your eyes flick over Gaz’s shoulder, where Soap is chatting with Sabrina and Venice. “So, he’s the demolitionist, Ghost’s the sniper, Price is… well, Captain, covert-ops, maybe, but where does that leave you?”
“Rookie.”
You narrow your eyes, turning your head at him. “So you’re a jack of all trades?”
“Of sorts. Covert-ops, PTE, if it can be done, I’ll get it done.”
“Intense.”
He chuckles, maybe more to himself than for your benefit. “Isn’t that the point?”
“Well,” you shrug, “suppose I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate a challenge.”
He nods, pleased. “As long as we’re saving lives, it’s well worth the hardship.”
“A-firm,” you murmur into your bottle. Gaz, being the most approachable so far of the 141, perhaps makes you comfortable enough to ask the question that had your stomach reeling—though it’s delightfully settled down once you had a few swigs of beer. “Is this… normal? I didn’t figure the 141 as partiers.”
To be honest, you don’t figure the 141 as anything. The lack of the dossiers and their relative secrecy made it hard to get a read on what rules of engagement they played on. Use of a hanger for something so causal made you feel off, standing on the back foot and unsure why. But Gaz didn’t need to know that.
Maybe he picks up on it a bit anyway, cause he nods his head with some consideration, gaze flicking around the hanger even as yours is set upon watching his expression.
“It’s not unusual for us to get drinks after a good op.”
This isn’t exactly a bar though, is it? No separation from the job when you’re living within it. Maybe, you muse, that’s the point.
“But between you and me?” He says, giving you a conspiratorial side-glance. “I think Cap’s tryin’ to make you and yours comfortable here.”
Now that... sounds somewhat believable. If he’s a liar, at least he’s better at it than MacTavish. “Mi casa es su casa,” you mutter, mostly to yourself, but Gaz grins in agreement. And if you look around the hanger, the effort does not seem to be wasted on your squadron.
Though the 141 is outnumbered, Soap and the Captain are well mixed into your ranks, giving some light chatter in their separate corners, food being passed about, hot sauce poured in amounts that you think makes the Captain wince a little before Bruno and Perry gobble the smothered food down. If you weren’t still so uneasy, you’d love to partake.
But perhaps, it unsettles a few. Or, at least one. After another swig, you roll your shoulder in the direction of one of the exits. “Ghost always so standoff-ish?”
Gaz’s eyes skim over the party, landing on his Lieutenant. Ghost is leaning, almost camouflaged against the black and grey interior walls by the hanger door with the ease of a bored cat. If it weren’t for the hard skull mask, he’d blend in perfectly. A beer waits open but abandoned to his right, like an offering to some old forest god.
“Takes him awhile to warm up. Fact he’s even got a drink’s a good sign.”
“Soap probably left it for him.”
Gaz gives you a sharp look for maybe a half second, so quick you almost not sure that’s what he did at all, or what it’s for. “Think so?”
“They seem close?” You offer, resisting the urge to shift your weight, unsure once again.
“Hmm. Yeah, maybe.” Gaz shrugs again, any trace of intensity or confusion gone and thoroughly replaced by amusement. “Ghost get you yet?”
“Get me?” You parrot, an eyebrow raised.
Gaz smirks. “Definitely did, didn’t he? Never turn your back on Ghost, stealthier than a wolf.”
You sigh. “Look, he snuck up on me one time, I was looking down a scope! Hardly counts!”
“Sureee. That’s what they all say,” Gaz’s grin doesn’t fade, though not unkindly. You can’t help but shake your head and blow air out of your nose, trying to hide your matching one.
“Which means he’s totally gotten you before,” you quip back.
“We aren’t—"
It’s in this moment you realize the herd of your packmates has inched ever closer, yet about four feet from you and Gaz, and Raph, the cheeky man, is staring at you and him with a lopsided grin that can’t mean anything good.
“Hey Gaz!” He calls, “don’t suppose you’d be interested in helping with a demo?”
Gaz gives you a querying look, and at your equally unawares grimace, then glances back to your squadmates. “Depends.”
“Well… Somebody over here just had to brag about his square-dancing skills back in the day, and—"
“Dancing?” One side of Gaz’s mouth quirks up.
“Oh,” you rib, suddenly all too knowledgeable of where exactly this goes, something like pre-humerous pity tinging through your system, “can’t handle it, Gaz?”
But he’s not a creature of pride, overeager to prove himself, so he rolls his eyes like this is just another bad joke one of the rookies’ came up with. “Not hardly! But if you want to see moves, you aught to have a spin with MacTavish.”
Bruno nods, as if this was all to be expected and the outcome still in his favor. “Soap!” Bruno shouts, his hand splayed out in MacTavish’s direction. The sergeant’s head pops up from his discussion with your Major. He gives you a glance not unlike Gaz’s but perhaps lasting half as long. “You’ve been volunteered!”
“Correction.” Gaz doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk. “Volun-told, get your ass in there.”
One eye-brow raised, something simmers under MacTavish’s biding stare. He struts over, the bastard barely holding back a swagger while Sabrina and Venice follow behind with poorly concealed amusement. You have a giddy feeling they know exactly how this is going to play out.
“So many pretty lasses about,” MacTavish gestures to the women behind him, maybe tilts his head toward Tania, maybe Arther—certainly pretty—“and you’re looking to dance with me?”
Raph tsks in rebuke. “He wouldn’t dare offer Sabrina his hand, she’d probably bite off a couple fingers.” Sabrina feigns chomping and Venice elbows her in the side with a knowing grin. Soap doesn’t rise to the bait, his eyes looking back and forth between everyone, perhaps trying to determine how serious the situation. Looking for exits, perhaps. Unfortunately for him, his Captain is poorly concealing a grin under that beard and Ghost appears to be examining one of the walls for it’s structural integrity. Boxed in, you think with a smile. No hope.
Bruno rolls his wrist, splays his palm upwards at him. “Come on, MacTavish. Scared you can’t keep up?”
For one tense moment, it seems as though MacTavish will tell Bruno off, maybe make a bit of a scene. But then, the strangest thing happens: he looks you right in the eye with deadly accuracy—just a few seconds too long, a spark alights in those blue eyes, his back straightening—and then, like a true rascal he gives a jester’s grin, turns his attentions back to his dance partner as he slides his palm into Bruno’s. “Ha! Do your worst.”
Bruno grins like a victorious gladiator, and looking over MacTavish’s shoulder, coos, “Raph, if you would.”
And then, like he had planned this all along, Raph hits a button on his phone, and everyone’s heads turn upwards as a country song pours from ancient speakers in the hanger ceiling. You bite back an embarrassed groan, but barely.
Bruno points to you, MacTavish spares you another narrowed eyed look of ‘what the bloody fuck’, and without missing a beat, you dutifully start up a handclap to the rhythm, swallowing laughter in the process.
Soap shakes his head as if bewildered about what he’s signed up for, and far too late for him, Bruno sweeps him across the pavement like he would any handsome young maiden.
The squadron takes up the handclap immediately, the southern-most members almost dancing in place with foot stomps and tempo-appropriate jeers and yeehaw’s.
As their bulky bodies twirl back and forth, moving in a rhythm familiar but unknown, Bruno’s lips move, at first you think in time with the lyrics, but quickly you realize, as MacTavish’s eyes follow Bruno’s hands, or his lips, that he’s chatting him up, perhaps most unwelcomely. He grins, though, after your teammate spins him, flitting him to the left. Some conversation passes between them, in the small bursts where the song calls for footwork, but it’s broken up thoroughly and terribly difficult to discern between every spin, spike in the music and the look of surprise on MacTavish—and his team’s faces, as his body is seemingly made to go along near as effortlessly as Bruno, if not far more uncertain.
A rolling of ‘Oooos’ when Bruno goes for a dip, “Don’t drop the Soap!” Perry shouts, and Bruno gives a mighty eyeroll. But when he goes for a dip, form exaggerated and hurried, Soap’s feet nearly completely slip out from under him, and you swear the muscles in the back of Bruno’s neck tighten, appearing to nigh losing his captive. But in glorious drama, he gives an evil grin, then hauls himself and MacTavish up like it was entirely planned. Your hands stutter and nearly miss the beat at the prospect of Bruno unceremoniously dropping him.
And finally, just as the song crests and nears its end, Bruno twirls MacTavish at arm’s length, before letting go and flourishing the echoing end of the music with a modest bow.
MacTavish, hair wind-swept and looking entirely somewhere in between annoyed and floor-high—slightly drunk off of adrenaline, no doubt—casts uncertain, if smiling glances at the attendees. But before he can be too embarrassed for himself, Bruno goes and sweeps up Arther as another song picks up—Arther being a man four inches taller than Bruno himself, mind—into a dance with more or less the same amount of effort a waiter swings around an over-large platter. The assembled’s attention all follow their forms around the concrete.
But not MacTavish’s. He’s watching you, a little smile on his face, and it makes you antsy. It makes you swish the liquid in your bottle back and forth till you realize how light it is, it makes you turn on your heel just as his lips twitch and find your way over to one of the coolers for something a little harder, a little dumber than whatever you already have your hand in.
And the bastard, he lets you. When you glance over your shoulder while digging through a cooler, trying to find something terrible for you that isn’t so terrible tasting, he’s back to watching Bruno twirl Arther, clearly trying to make the poor ginger puke. Then, maybe to switch things up on the man, he takes three waltz steps, very nearly making Arther trip to his knees before manhandling him upright. And what a sight all this is.
Gaz laughs next to Jasper, wearing a wavering but present smile. Raph somehow cornered his other shoulder, with the Captain standing behind the three of them with your own Commander and Sabrina. It’s all a little much; the Captain’s bid a little too well-working for your taste. All your lovely teammates, fitting in together like a prized woven rug, you, some loose thread destined to be cut off. Hell, even the 141 seem to be getting more enjoyment out of the mandated fun than you are. Ghost’s head is tilted towards the revelry, the whites of his eyes burning even from this distance, but his body loose and unbothered.
And while your stomach twists a little, not so much with distaste as something a little uglier that you don’t wish to examine, you still have to smile. It’s so good, to see Tania elbow Raph in the gut mid-beer chug, too busy laughing at Arther’s near-trip to register making Raph choke. To see Jasper’s chubby cheeks rise in a grin thanks to something Gaz said and not look forced.
Loner you may be, but how can you not be happy for their happiness?
Before you can debate it further, a plate shoves itself against your chest, nearly toppling an absolutely stacked, steaming taco against your shirt.
“Eat, Doe, you’ve been drooling all afternoon,” Callen sighs at you, coming to stand at your side.
Instantly, anger flares. “Have not!”
“Have too,” he shoots back righteously.
“Have not, asshole!”
Magnet takes up your right-side, sticking a fork right in the middle of your meal. “Have too. Food’s good. Better than mess, anyhow.”
Unbidden, a smile rises to your lips. “Ugh, anythings better.
Callen pshaws. “Hey! You’re gonna hurt Venice’s feelings! I heard she made it herself.”
You gape at him, and Magnet rolls his eyes and mumbles: “Not a chance, Sabrina cooks for Venice every chance she gets.”
Your eyes whip to Magnet to ask how the fuck he knows that, but then Callen steals a bite of your food, barely skirting away when you go to punch him for it.
“I’m gonna grab some drinks!” He shouts with a mouthful of grub, winking before shimmying through the crowd to the beverage coolers.
You huff, but start shoveling food into your mouth in resignation. It’s good. Spicy in a way you haven’t had in months, still steaming warm and just greasy enough to have a tint of American home in it.
As Callen walks away, Magnet nudges your arm with his, eyes watching your teammate but the movement clearly intentional. His hands look tense around his mostly-drunk beer, but his shoulders are radiating casual.
“Having a good time?” He queries, mouth half-quirked into a smile.
“Yeah,” you mutter through a mouthful of food, not entirely lying.
“But?”
You swallow, fully wishing Magnet wasn’t so aware of your moods. “Everyone’s so… chummy.” Callen mock-shoves Gaz and Jasper away from the open mouth of one of the coolers, trying to claim some resources. Meanwhile, Gaz has a hand almost covering his smile as Perry sneaks up beyond Callen with a fistful of ice.
Magnet sideyes you a bit, giving a wry smile. “Not making fast friends?”
“No.”
“Good skill to have,” he sighs like a mildly disappointed dad. “Never too late to learn.”
You scoff. “Just seems like too much. They’re our coworkers at best. Plus, I still don’t even get why we’re celebrating.”
Magnet bobs his head a bit, like he’s giving you some credit there. “You heard the Major, or were you spacing out again?”
“No! You believe that shit?”
Magnet rolls his eyes at you. “Doe, we have to celebrate while we still can.”
The next chunk of taco meat goes down dry and hard. Sours the food in your mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean? You wanna share something?”
Magnet shakes his head, smiling again before stealing a chip from your plate. “We’re fine. The 141 wants this to work out as much as we do. I’d think with how much time you’ve been spending with them you would be getting along well.”
“It’s not bad… It’s just—“
I’m fucking the sergeant, and Ghost freaks me the hell out.
But before you can find the words, cold blazes its way down your spine, making you jump and nearly losing your dinner with a pitiful howl.
Behind you, Callen laughs victoriously. You shove your food in Magnet’s amused direction, fists at the ready to make him pay, while he jumps back with three glass bottles in hand, ice dripping out between his fingers.
******
The revelry continues far into the night, long past appropriate. At some point, Perry mentions the need to finish up the alcohol before the superiors pour it down the drain to maintain base sobriety, and that gets everyone guzzling it down faster than you can blink. Just as you think Sabrina will nudge Venice to putting a stop to it, the woman herself is three drinks deep into something warm brown and rolling her eyes at something Tania says.
And sense be damned, the 141 join in.
Ghost had long vanished, the clever man, while Gaz and Soap started pulling swigs from bottles with alarming speed and tenacity, their Captain looking like he was holding in a hiccup over a glass of something deep brown.
It would be unfair to present company to say you were completely sobeir, having gone at least two beers and two shots of something deep, but the minute Perry's wicked little grin started growing you had replaced glass with a bottle of water and had kept to it, passing off or ignoring any attempt since of someone trying to ply you into a shot.
By the time the last bottle had been emptied, at least half the squadron has disappeared, and the other half (plus one Scot) was forehead down on a long table, sometimes mumbling incoherently, or else laughing at something you really couldn't make out.
If you weren't still nursing some sort of buzz, you might've thought on how inappropriate this was, but instead you were stuck barely holding in a laugh of your own.
Okay... maybe you're more than lightly buzzed. 'Cause somehow you go to laughing at Perry slipping off a chair and pulling Raphael down with him to a massive, thickly muscled arm over your shoulder as you sway in some direction you think is probably the barracks.
The owner of said arm, is also trying desperately to be dropped. Pulling away suddenly, leaning harder on you, or else whispering words you absolutely could not be forced to make out, gun to your temple or otherwise.
You wave at two passing bodies, their eyes like white moths just escaped light.
But the Captain takes one sidelong look at the two of you, pats the ball-capped Gaz on the shoulder and strikes up conversation with him like it was nothing that his soldier was currently sloshed and leaning a majority of his body weight on your also inebriated frame.
Gods fucking damnitall,
you think, watching their absolutely-devoid-of-pity, sad-sack-forms turn a corner, a corner you should probably also be turning when this stupid sack of meat remembers how to use his legs properly.
Said Scottish sack of meat takes this moment to start humming something under his breath, and for some stupid reason it sounds familiar. Instantly, your heart goes from annoyed to absolutely distraught, remembering yourself how little you want to associate with him for some reason your drunken forebrain cannot quite comprehend at the moment. Was it something Tania said?
Unfortunately for you, the feelings are devastatingly clear even if the reason is not.
You lied to me, your forebrain says, will you continue to do so? And sickeningly: will we both be happy, when this is over?
But Soap is stumbling like a fool, about ready to fall face first into the concrete and give himself a grade A concussion alongside a hangover.
With a sigh, you push aside all your misgivings to wrap his arm tighter around your neck, trying to shoulder some of his weight with a mild grunt.
“I’m loused…” MacTavish slurs in your ear, his head tilting like he can barely keep the weight of his stupid thick skull up. His stubble brushes the sensitive skin below your jawline and you nearly drop him while your drunken companion utters a surprised, jolly ‘Oof’.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you murmur, adjusting his arm over your shoulders for the nth time. “How much did you have?!”
He mumbles something under his breath, his face turned away, but you can still smell the alcohol like someone set a glass of 90 proof under your nose, the fervent breath of Dionysus. Sheesus.
He picks up a new hum, something light and airy but entirely without words or consistent rhythm. With every step he sways to his music and into your side, almost nuzzling into you, almost pulling away.
It’s a small base, but dragging MacTavish’s barely conscious body is a feat you hope never to need repeat. Makes you appreciate how much muscle one big boy can be packing. If only his shadow was around to take him off your hands, but no dice.
Eventually, you manage to pull him to his door, where he produces a key, tries to jab it into the keyhole thrice before you manage to wrestle it from his hand. Dropping him onto his (thankfully clean, impressively neat) mattress feels like a victory.
And while he mutters something along the lines of "be gentle with me, sweet lass," or some equivalent drunken nonesense, you can't help but take in this rare look into what MacTavish's inner world looks like.
His rooms are more consolidated than yours. Bathroom attached, or at least the midnight porcelain shine of a toilet peeks out behind one dark door is, which thank god. Who knows how well MacTavish holds his liquor overnight. Briefly, you wonder if you should stay to make sure he doesn't vomit and die but quickly dismiss it out of hand. Unexplainable in the morning, and Soap's a grown man. But the rest of the room is without separation. A desk jammed against one wall, some cabinets and a little microwave against another. Laundry neatly piled here, wardrobe there. More college-dorm, less apartment. Are all the building’s rooms like this? MacTavish ranks higher than you, doesn’t he? How strange.
The personal effects are limited. A couple of papers on his desk, a picture frame next to them but placed frame down on the surface; you don't dare flip it, but your fingers itch with the thought. A thick, black sweatshirt rests atop the desk chair, any art on it faded to seemingly random white flecks of paint here and there. A duffle bag by the bed, mostly sunken in but lumpish in a couple places where something hides. By the microwave, a mug embossed with the blue Sottish flag overlayed by a red, rearing lion, for some reason.
It hits you then, by god. This is some sort of sick trust, isn’t it? Not the honed kind you’ve been shaped to accept: assured your teammate to have your back when there’s nothing but hostiles in front of you. But vulnerability. The hope that you were worthy enough to see him home safe and sound. The thought makes your throat close a little, your tongue dry. Shit. Have you earned it? Why did his teammates seem to think you had?
Soap issues a grunt (bordering on a whine) of protest, stealing back your attention. You had seriously hoped he would just fall asleep so you could make as quick as exit as you could, minus some harmless I Spy in between those two goals. He rolls over face-down, almost hugging the mattress for one sleep-addled moment before he tilts his head to the side to give you half a cheeky, villainous smile.
“Up for a coorie?” He husks, somehow minus all his earlier slurring.
“The fuck is a coorie?” You ask, resisting the urge to move about his space. Curious though you are, especially about the shadowed material lying about his desk, the invasion of privacy by simply standing here makes you feel on edge. A line you weren’t supposed to cross.
He chuckles heartily, seemingly unaware of your anxiety. Your attention snaps back to him just in time to see him rise a little, his back still to you but watching you without blinking. Soap’s eyes are shadowed with something… dangerous, his cheeks thoroughly flushed. His hands flash at his flanks, caressing the edge of his t-shirt but not committing to taking it off yet. Heat rises unbidden to your cheeks, scandalized like you haven't seem him completely naked before.
“Ah, you have no idea, do ya? ‘S a lil cuddle.”
Jesus Christ on the hood of a Mercedes Benz…
You toss the black sweatshirt at Soap before hands can dare to do anything more stupid and nail him square in the head. You release a little sigh, more than pleased you don’t have to keep staring at the expression on his face. “Absolutely not, you drunk fuck. Go to hell to bed.”
He tsks, grumbling something unintelligible under the fabric before violently throwing it across the room. He sniffs, very regally, and eyes you with a single open lid.
“I’ll have me a nice kip, then, jackass.”
Biting into your cheek just barely keeps in an uproar of laughter. This motherfucker, the first time he swears at you, it’s ‘cause you won’t cuddle with him? What a weirdo. But, much to your relief, he seems to settle into the bed, putting himself on his side and throwing an arm over his eyes.
You take a moment to grab the little trash can next to his desk and move it by his bed side, noting how full of crumbled papers it is. He doesn't stir. Carefully, you ease your way to the door and softly click it closed behind you.
Mission: success.
You should head off to bed, the stars slow blinking in the sky like heavy eyelids, but the next cool inhale vanishes the thought. Instead, you find yourself walking, almost on auto-pilot, the path back to the tallest rooftop on base, until your back rests set against some HVAC unit on uncomfortable, cracking concrete.
The voices of your squadmates ring out from below as shouted and slurred ‘good nights’ are exchanged and traded.
Your eyes drift closed, but you do not find sleep.
Instead, you float, relishing in bum-bump of your heartbeat, the cold nipping at your fingers and the lingering uncertainty of this random-ass day. The strangeness of how you can't help but laugh at, with MacTavish, but want nothing to do with him... Really, you feel too drunk to think, but too stupid to bothering going back to bed to sleep it off.
It could be hours or minutes later, when the soft steps of boots traces a path behind your HVAC and stops at your knees.
You sigh, and without opening your eyes, grumble: “Have a nice ‘kip’?”
A matching great sigh rings out next to you, a rush of air as his body falls to the ground at your side. “Nah,” his accent rings out, still a little bit fuzzy on the edges, a little slurred. “Too cold.”
You scoff, and open your eyes. Soap's sitting next to you, one of his knees pulled up and almost swaying back and forth.
“Bull-shit,” you mumble, a little less than happy to be with MacTavish now that he’s closer to sober than before. “What are you doing out here?”
He shrugs, smirking a little. “You looked lonely.”
Liar! You definitely can’t be seen from here, and how the fuck he tracked you down in his inebriated state is another matter. You can only hope he didn’t go knocking on your door first like an idiot.
You huff to yourself, feeling once again greatly put upon. You weren’t made for babysitting. So you scooch closer, fitting your arm under his once again, trying to lift him up. He gives you a look, still smiling like the jerk he is, but standing accommodatingly. However, you get one step in before his weight drops, all but sending you both back onto the hard ground.
“Jesus MacTavish! Come on now, lets get you back in bed.”
“Not my name. 'Sides, I’m good here. It’s nice.” He murmurs, smiling at the sky like a fool.
“No, we’re going in,” you hiss through gritted teeth, trying to heft up his weight without success. He says nothing, full force laying on the concrete and going as boneless as fresh-shot carcass.
After three more heaving efforts, succeeding only in dragging him several feet and working yourself into a sweat, you let his arms drop and spit out: “You’d be a greattt fit for the stage, MacTavish. Never seen so much dramatics before.”
“Why thank you, lass!” He calls out from the ground. “Mam always said I had some handsomeness about me.”
Gods above, help me, you think. You rub your temples in your hand, debating the merits of letting this stupid grown ass man die unsupervised out in the cold and finding some other place to haunt, or if that would just get you in more hot-water with Venice when they find his body up here, beyond what should be a locked door when you were the last person seen with him.
Exhaustion wins. Fool you are, you have no other hiding places, and some equally stupid, tender part of your heart wants to make sure he’s okay. So you take up your old spot, throwing your head back against the thin metal of the unit and pretending to sleep while Soap stares up at the sky from the concrete next to you.
You almost miss his words, caught in a cross-breeze when he murmurs them out:
“I don’t agree, you know.”
It’s funny, he suddenly sounds serious, near sober, though it can’t have been more than ten minutes since he got out here. Maybe the cold concrete leeched away some of the alcohol or at least eased its effects. “About what?” You reply stiffly.
“Workin’ in the entertainment industry. Hate that.”
You almost wince. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know. Just sayin’. I couldn’t do it.”
“Where would you be then? If not here?”
“Don’ know.”
“Liar.”
He turns his head to you, clearly annoyed. “Then where would you be, lass?”
In an apartment. Stuck somewhere, broke. Alone. “… I don’t have a degree,” you admit, defeated. No chance of a decent job, no chance of commissioned officer work. You breathe in deep, stiffen that upper lip. “Bet you could go anywhere.”
“No,” he protests firmly. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
He doesn’t answer.
One of your hands clenches into a fist. “Do you have a death wish, Soap?”
He looks you straight in the eye, dead serious. “Don’t we all? Would we be here otherwise?”
You hate it, but he’s right. For you at least, this was a dead-end position. One doesn’t get promoted out of the Delta Force. You lived, you worked, then you retired into obscurity, or you died. You weren’t up to speed on the inner machinations of the UK’s military, especially that of special operation task forces, but it seemed likely Soap was in a similar position. The thought makes your mood wither on the vine. Entirely too sober a conversation.
Enough of this, you think. “Alright MacTavish, back to beddie-bye, come on soldier.”
“Na,” he pulls away, skittering with the grace of a drunken crab away from your grip and dancing towards the edge of the building.
“You fuckin’ sack of potatoes, get back here!”
“Nope, I’m taking a sit right here, lass.”
You manage to get a grip on his arm, try to yank him up but he falls like felled animal, complete dead-weight once again. The complete asshole he is.
“Have it your way,” you grit. “You’ll freeze out here alone.”
He snorts, eyes you harshly. “Don’t think so, you’re not done yet.”
You freeze, ready to bare your teeth at him and walk away just to prove him wrong. But hell, you don’t want to go back to your bed either. You don’t want to sit, listen to the clock tik tik tik in the room’s stale air. You don’t want to sit at your desk, chin in your hand as you stare down at some book or document you’re not reading at all.
So, you say “Fuck you,” wearily, and drop yourself into a sit about an arms-length away.
It’s quiet for a long time. You almost break into a hum just to harmonize with the insects. Just to remember some chords of a favorite song that likens to the night, to awkwardness, to unbreakable quiet. But you don’t.
“I always feared dying in a safe house.” MacTavish breaks through the imposed silence like a fish breaching water.
“What? Why?” You find yourself almost barking back.
“Feels like bad luck, I guess,” he answers, but that’s not what you meant.
Moodily, you chuckle to yourself. “Bad luck for who? You? The guys holding your guts in?”
He shrugs like it's obvious. “For the next ones in that safehouse, I suppose. Nothing safe about a place where a man died, not really. Defeats the whole name.”
You sigh, more to yourself than anything else. “I guess not.”
“I’d prefer to be out in the field when I go, it makes more sense there. Probably a better view than my gut-holders stuggy faces anyway.” He laughs softly, and it makes you frown, your heart drop a little.
“When? You’re so sure you’re gonna die out here?”
“Seen it in the stars, lassie.”
You glare at the offending space fireballs, like they’ve been plotting against you this whole time, but who's so self-centered to believe their fate is written down somewhere like that? You glare like they’ve been keeping secrets, but inside you know better. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna be a careerman about this?”
Soap doesn’t quite nod, but you’re watching him for it and he practically reeks of affirmation. “I joined up when I was 18, tried to join up long before that, but the cheeky bastards kept catching me.”
You barely contain a sneer. “Soap, you can’t be serious.”
“It’s true!” He smiles wickedly, holds his hand up to toddler height. “Wee ‘lil pipsqueak Soap, at 16 trying to get enlisted, just ask Price.”
You scooch closer, and with a little more force than necessary, punch his arm. “Come on! You can’t stay in the SAS forever.”
Soap shrugs like he’s bored. “It’s all I’ve known, Doe. Can’t picture myself without a gun in my hands, at least, not anymore.”
When you don’t respond, he offers this: “Can’t leave this behind.”
You cannot know what makes his eyes dull so, you cannot, should not ask why Soap is so sure that life begins and ends with some stupid contract he foolishly signed at 16, 17, 18, until whenever he finally got ushered in to the black widow’s arms. But you swallow and nod like you understand perfectly. Because maybe you do. Maybe somewhere deep inside of you, you never planned to go home either. Maybe you thought you could come out here, get shot, and that would be the end of it. Everything since the beginning has simply been a move to increase the odds. Maybe.
Warring in you are two feelings. One, set on some high ground above a bluff, is the thought of “dear god, what kin have I found, and why are we made this way?” and the other, set lower but armed to the teeth with machine guns and mines laid is “this is the end, I aught to quit this while I still can.” After all, this would be the best moment to take Tania’s advice. Quit this abominable pass-time. The sooner the better to return your full attention and loyalties to your squadron alone, the more time to get over it.
And it doesn’t matter who wins, or why, but your mouth opens to wave one white flag or another, but before you can utter the victor, his hand, warm at the palm and surprisingly cold at the fingertips, touches yours, gingerly, almost like a mistake.
You almost pull away, but he's looking down at your barely intertwined fingers like it's some important mission dossier, and it gives you pause.
He takes your palm carefully in his. It takes you back to a little safehouse, briefly, but instead of massaging out your worries, he traces shapes into your open palm. First a circle, then a stick, two more: to the left, to the right, then two more, angled down. A stick figure. A person.
“There’s wee folk in the hills, my nan used to say,” he murmurs as he draws the story into your skin.
You give him a narrow-eyed look. It’s not the first time he’s spoken of them, but to what end does he bring them up again? “Oh?”
“Fairies, the fair folk.” He draws loops, over and over, in a circle. A flower. Nature? “The kind tha’ played little tricks on the poor village people.”
Ah. Well. Can’t say you’re terribly familiar, but they existed within the cracked spines and peeked through the cramped typesets of a couple novels you’ve perused at Magnet’s insistence. Beyond the veil of too much alcohol, the idea rings a bell. “Magical creatures, then?”
“Of a sort. Mischievous, but often for ill, ever heard of a changeling?”
“Switched at birth? Sounds familiar.”
“Not quite the same, though, this new babe. Looks similar, acts like a bairn most of the time. But occasionally, they would know things or do things a wee one should not, or terrorize their would-be parents to madness.” Sharp, upward connecting lines with a bowl where your palm meets your wrist. A fire.
“But why?” You scoff. “Aren’t babies enough to drive anyone insane?”
He huffs a breath. Wiggly lines. River, maybe. “Ransom, sometimes, sometimes just for the fun of distressing the clueless parents.”
“Ghastly.”
“They would say if you gave them your true name, they’d be able to bid you to do whatever they wished.” Long loop followed by many short, then long, pause, long, some short. He does it again, glances up at you with agaze sparkling with puckishness you’d bet rivals the fae. A name. No, a signature.
“True name? I must be fae-proof, don’t have one of those.” Your tongue says this completely absent of your brain, which is too busy trying to comprehend the shade of blue of Soap’s eyes, the meaning of every furrow and frill. If MacTavish hides secrets, it’s not in his eyes, no, they’re too perfect, too captivating. He’s too happy to hold your gaze like he’ll never let it go.
“No, you do.” An oval with a sharp tip. Water? He does it again. Ah, deer track. You huff a laugh, but he continues earnestly. “Buried deep within ya, maybe, but you do. You know it.”
You almost draw your hand away, but he does another sharp oval but wider, pulls a line straight through it towards your wrist. Leaf. It tickles and only serves to close your fingers around his. “I don’t. It’s just Doe, now.”
He smiles like he knows a secret, not looking at you at all. “I can see it. Shining with in you, hiding, but there. Even all of this can’t destroy it.” Then, after a long pause where you don’t say anything back, “You’re still a person, lass.”
This... is entirely too much. Some feeling rises and falls in your chest, changing like an aurora borealis, but you don't dare look into it. “If you say so.”
“Know so. ‘Sides, I can always help give you a name if you need one.” He teases.
Your eyes go wide, and Soap pulls away for a moment, realizing the other possible meanings to his words. He bites his lip a little, gives you a sidelong look that all but says ‘Sorry, you know what I meant.’ So you nod and look away like you’re supposed to, pretend that doesn’t mean anything at all with a lazy roll of your shoulders and eventually he leans back towards you.
“Thanks, Soap.”
“Mistake number two.” He gently calls, closer than you remember, you tilt your head toward his voice and nearly collide noses. His palm slides in along your own, no longer drawing so much as trying to impress the shape of his veins and arteries against yours with the barest of touches. “Never thank a fairy, they’ll take it as permission to have ya owe them something.”
A dangerous concept indeed, you think, enjoying the slow shuttering of his beautiful eyes ruled by the sea, the plush line of his mouth.
“Really?” You breathe. “I suppose I might be able to offer something of value—”
And you lean in and capture his lips in your own, gentling your mouth against his carefully. He responds beautifully, his eyes slipping closed in time with yours, tilting his head to give back soft kisses. He tastes like a tough edge of hard booze and cold night air, but you’re too lost in the undertones of how soft his lips are to mind.
When you pull away, drinking in frigid air, he shuffles closer so that your shoulders share warmth and lean a little bit of weight on each other.
And although he is warm against you, and your body is tempted towards the sweet beckoning of sleep, your mind is a million miles away, for you cannot give in.
No longer can you fall asleep next to him; there will be no sneaking back to barracks hand in hand. Your hands will remain blameless from here on out, your lips traitorous only for an instant and no more. All because, in your mind, the sun is already rising over the horizon, and with it you fly to a new base, where no Scottish men with non-regulation haircuts exist, where no strange, masked Lieutenants see too much. Yes, there, where nothing waits, but everything must go and be done, with Magnet and Callen on your three and nine.
Neither of you say it, but in every slow trace of his fingers against the back of your hand, in every exhale pressing you closer to him, a string grows taunt and the two of you wait for the first micro-thread to release itself and fray.
******
“New orders from on high,” she declares, before Magnet even has a seat in the shitty office chair she no doubt stole from some other room.
“And what do their highnesses declare?” He sets on the desk a bagel, plain, no cream cheese. Venice looks at it appreciatively, but it turns over like a rolling leaf in the wind within her mind for all its worth, her sour countenance regained after a moment.
“Not only do they want this stupid shit found,” she breaks it in half in her hand, passes it back to Magnet, which he accepts without comment, but leaves on the desk. “They want the motherboards, the WMD equivalent of the VINs for it, whatever.”
“Data,” he mutters only after she takes a bite. “Always numbers. Trying to learn from Shepherd’s mistakes.” Magnet nods to himself, not the worst call he’s heard in his career if not inconvenient. “See if there’s any correlation between who made ‘em and who had them last.”
“You give them too much credit.” Venice utters wearily, dryly swallowing the hunk of bread. “Or, I think, trying to add them back into inventory.”
Magnet raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“Do you know how to get into a weapon’s core and steal its hardware?”
The question is perhaps a bit rhetorical, Magnet doesn’t see the need to keep much of his more clandestine skills close to his chest after working with her for so long. But he shakes his head anyway, heart falling.
“I don’t either. The 141 do but Price refuses to separate his team out completely. Always wants two together.” Venice breaks the bagel into eighths in her hands, leaving each chunk to its own island of crumbs on her desk and files. “Just in case,” she adds with air quotes.
“Well. Shit.” His eyes examine the piles, the hunks of food touched reverently but not consumed. “Who knows?”
Venice flicks her finger from him to herself. Magnet’s jaw clenches momentarily, but then he lets it go with a shake of his head. He nibbles at his bagel halfheartedly.
“Failure is not going to be tolerated. Commander Paul was fucked up about it.”
“We should take back Doe.”
Venice’s brows come down and she tilts her head, surprised about the conversation’s turn. “No.”
“No?”
Venice's arms cross; she regards Magnet with a scrutinizing up and down for a moment. “She’s fine where she’s at, I promise you.”
Magnet’s nose scrunches as if his chunk of bagel had mold in it, and he just now noticed. “If this goes south…”
“It won’t. She’s thriving, don’t you see?”
If there’s doubt shining in Magnet’s eyes, she’s not looking at him to see it, too busy staring at a file on her desk when his only reply is: “She belongs with us.”
“So you can coddle her?” She responds without looking up.
He glowers at his CO. “Venice—”
“Sorry, sorry. But it’s good for her. She doesn’t need to—”
A phone death-rattles on the table, skittering about like a decapitated bug and making the crumbs shiver. Magnet’s mouth twists, he doesn’t have to see the caller ID to know who it is.
“What now, Paul?” Venice sighs and rubs her forehead.
What aren’t you telling me, Magnet thinks, glaring at the crumbs on the desk.
They’d been equals, once. He felt up until these most recent days that they still had been. But as he glared at what his CO found as insignificant crumbs and she glared at the rattling, venomous phone, he couldn’t help but feel all the miles between their ranks, all the years of friendship battered and bruised by the difference.
What devil’s deal had she most surely struck to set loose their newest member? Venice seemingly still had her wits about her, he didn’t dare think her rattled by the loss of whom once stood where Doe did… But why did she care so little?
Magnet shakes his head, but he knows the conversation is over. Venice gives him a brief empathetic look before its smoothed over with her firm, CO face once more.
“She's in good hands. Price values loyalty and competence, his soldiers much the same. She’ll be fine.”
Magnet rises, hesitates for a moment while Venice picks up her phone, staring at it balefully. When she glances back at him, he says: “I trust you, Major.”
And Venice gives a weak smile, as near to tears as a woman long tired of them could be and says: “Thank you, Dan.”
It isn’t until he’s shut the door firmly behind him that Venice answers her phone.
When he opens the door, he finds Callen leaning against the wall. He’s fiddling with something in his hands, rolling it back and forth between his palms, his fingers. He looks up as the door clicks shut, eyebrow quirked up. Magnet shakes he head and Callen’s jaw clenches into a straight line.