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"U.S. General Hershel Shepard, Slain in Brazen Pentagon Attack!", is what was plastered all over your feed. It was not yet twelve when you stirred, tangled up in strewn blankets and Kyle's outstretched limbs. You had gone home with him after the funeral, both tired and mourning your friend, your teammate and brother in arms. You slipped under the covers with him as you both held each other, grounding yourselves in each others heartbeats and warmth.

The sun streaming through a crack in the blinds had woken you, and you lay in bed blankly before fumbling for your phone on the nightstand and settling back against Kyle's chest, preparing to lose yourself in something that kept your mind of Soap.

But fate had dictated otherwise. You sat up quickly, heart pounding as you read the first article, then the second, and you had shook Kyle awake by the third.

"Kyle," You said, not taking your eyes off your screen, "Kyle get up."

"Mhm, what is it love." He grumbled turning his head to the sound of your voice, but not opening his eyes. "It's too early."

"Shepard's dead, Kyle. He got fucking killed."

Being with the 141 was all you ever wanted.

You had fought tooth and nail to get to where you stood now, drowning in the blood and bodies of enemies and comrades alike. Sacrificed being away from your family and your mental health, for this chance.

It had been good, you thought wistfully. The team was welcoming, Price with his guiding hand, Soap with his energetic charisma, Gaz's kind eyes and soothing smile, Ghost's ever looming presence.

So, you burned with shame and something a little more warmer when Price bends you over his desk, surrounded by your team as they watched you hungrily.

PRICE AND GHOST FIGHTING!?!?!

So of course you looked up to him, like a sheep to a Shepard. When Laswell told you the news, and brought you to Captian Price, tall, broad, and so much more than the pictures could ever capture, you were determined to impress him.

Your new team was already full of capable men, and you didn't want to be a burden to them, something that they had to worry about. You spent double the time they did in the gym, and when your lunch break came around, ran for the entirety of it.

It was grueling, and you always fell into your bed at the end of the workday exhausted and at your limit, but when Price puts his warm hand on your shoulder, leaning down to give you a commending "Good job.", it made everything worth it.

You spent hours in his office, sitting across from him at his desk as you poured over files. It was usually you, Price, and Ghost. But sometimes, it would just be the two of you.

And the air would shift

Price would be a little more free with his complements, something innocent, a "Nice work on the last mission, love. Always such a good solider.", or a "That was a good spar with Kyle earlier. You've been working hard."

But sometimes it was something... more.

"You look good today love, new blouse?" He would ask, and it was hard to hide your flush as you stammered out a thank you, as Price gave you one of those smiles, knowing and calculating.

It had been a successful mission, and Price had to watch all week, the transition from Colonal Vargas to Alejandro, the "friendship" growing right before his eyes and the rest of the milling soliders, under the orange Mexican sun. Others danced around you, traditional music ringing across the hangar bay, that had been quickly fixed into a gathering place for the celebrating soliders from both armies, and the rich smell of food and sweat permitted the air, the cases of alcohol quickly growing emptier by the hour.

"Ah think the Colonal's got yer bonnie, Cap." Soap commented, watching the festivities as he sits sandwiched between Rudy and Ghost.

"Shut it." Price growled, taking a swig of his drink.

His jealousy lessens when the music changes, and Gaz gracefully butts in to take your hand as his dancing partner. You wave at Vargas with a grin, and the man flashes you and equally happy smile as he weaves out of the crowd to take a break and mingle.

Rudy shakes his head. "Alejandro has always gotten what he wants, Captian. But, I'm sure he'll share with you, if you ask nicely."

Price feels as if he has gotten shot, and Soap, who barks out laughing, doubling over in tears doesn't help his irritation.

"Good looking man," Simon comments, standing up with a grunt. He reaches over and claps Price on the shoulder, "I'd take the offer if I were you."

Decorated war hero Captian John Price sits, and has to come with the dawning realization that the comrade he has harbored feelings for, is falling for another man, who he will have to grovel to in order to receive your affection.

You had been with the 141 for some time, and they were yours and you were their's in every sense. Your brother's in arms. Fighting and bleeding together, showering under waterfalls deep in south american jungles and sleeping huddled together in the cold Russian forests.

Your brothers, who were oh so protective of you. You had never been without at least one of them, always Soap walking with you to the galley or cuddled up with Kyle, tv illuminating you both on nights the guilt and trauma of your jobs left you restless. Spending time in Prices office while he worked, or in the gym with Ghost, working out side by side.

The five of you were a family, and they never let you forget that. Trinkets from far off countries when they came back from separate missions, extravagant birthday presents and candlelight dinners on the rare occasion there was no work to be done, no critical mission and no evil leader looking to take over the world.

So, when you had been pushed to the wall, head smacking the stone behind you, arms grappling against your assailant, as that solider (the very same one that Kyle had frowned at when he saw his gaze linger on you) held you down, screamed at you, for earning your spot on your knees, for being the base whore and the 141's personal slut when you had rejected him, you had been utterly confused and enraged.