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Cowboy price would get up in the mornings, somewhat sluggishly, and pour himself a cup of coffee before going out to work. Probably would take care of/breed horses, and do little projects on the side.

Most DEFINITELY would build his dog a lil wood doghouse outside, stained n everything.

Makes some mean steaks too.

His S/O(significant other) would rouse and come and join him in his work, but he would insist on doing most things, stubborn about it being done in 'his way'.

SOO cuddly, comes in all tired and sweaty and will simply drape himself over his S/O.

The two of you were draped head to toe in ghillie suits in order to aid in camouflage. Not your favorite outfit, but not the worst. They were made with shady, damp forests in mind, leading to a darker color palette along the mixed leaves and mesh.

When Price had announced the mission, your mouth had run dry. You'd worked with Konig before on a few previous missions, but /not/ this close.

A sigh slipped from your lips. While you were confident you could flow well with him, it didn't ease your nerves, and the mysterious coil slithering in your stomach.

When the Jeep finally lurched to a stop, you were almost grateful. You quickly undid the strap binding you to the seat and waited for the orders to crack through your earpiece. It was only meant to be a 'drop-off', but intel had stated there were some stray /dogs/.

Soon, Price's whiskey lathered voice dripped through the speaker in your ear. "Area's clear. Disperse, and get to that safehouse," he grumbled. Immediately, as though a gun had fired a blank to announce the start of a race, you were out of the Jeep, scanning your surroundings.

Your boots firmly planted down onto the powdery dirt, the slight crunch of contact with a few loose pebbles adding to the bit of noise. Your gun was raised, aim steady, as your poured over the immediate landscape.

You wouldn't doubt that your guests hadn't heard you approaching, the Jeep wasn't exactly /stealthy/. Regardless, you stepped off the narrow dirty path, winding between the thick trunks of trees and brush.

"Good luck," the driver murmurs with a slight salute out of the corner of your eye, and as quickly as you had arrived, he was gone, turning around and going back to whence you'd came.

König, who'd gotten out opposite of you, flicked his head to you, the fabric of his long sniper hood jerking with the movement. He carefully studied your body language.

A shiver crawled down your spine as you felt the heat of his gaze on you. But you did your best to ignore it.

Your eyes carefully scanned, nitpicking the various dark greens and arrays of shadowy logs. Few rays of sunshine battered down through the treetops, hidden by the bulk of leaves above creating a blanketed atmosphere.

The two of you had been informed of a crucial safehouse being on the radar of a dangerous criminal group. Some documents had apparently been left behind, as well as several weapon stashes scattered in and around the forest, including the town surrounding it.

You and König were briefed to take a 'lookout' approach, and only engage in combat if spotted. To avoid such confrontation early in the mission, you were sent out later in the day.

Not that it mattered to you, your back was already beginning to complain about the 40 pounds of gear currently piled onto your figure. It wasn't anything you couldn't handle, you were trained for it after all, but you wouldn't mind shucking the majority of it onto the ground of the safehouse.

"Ready?" You whispered to König, you heard the rustle of fabric before you turned and caught the movement. He'd nodded, choosing to stay quiet for now. The two of you hadn't had time to really have a /conversation/, just a few polite phrases. Didn't stop him from watching you like a hawk every time you entered a room, though.

Quickly, the two of you immersed yourselves into the brush, mindful of your steps while moving fluidly through the sticks, stepping over logs, as your back slightly hunched, your silenced assault rifle aimed in front of you, scanning continuously. It was a rhythm, something you easily fell into every time you were put into this setting. Though, it was slightly different with the behemoth next to you.

Surprisingly, he was as quiet as you. Probably quieter. In that aspect, he was similar to Ghost, who glided about the compound, scaring Privates out of their minds. It was fun to watch, you will admit that.

But König? He only used his build on missions, not engaging much in larger crowds. Everything about him was a mystery. Well, except to Horangi, another operator who'd been pinned onto 141 with him. The only thing you knew about Horangi was how awful he was at poker. Again, not having much chance for conversation due to back-to-back missions, and your general avoidance of the newcomers.

Not that you minded it, you quite preferred the constant missions, kept your mind off of things, and more in your work. You supposed you were quite isolated as well, not engaging whenever Soap would attempt to drag you out for drinks.

Though, this mission seemed more like an opportunity to relax more than anything. Price would occasionally tend to send his soldiers onto missions like this. A brief reprieve from the onslaught of typical work.

/Ah./ It was probably so you could get to know König more. Price had already been discussing the possibility of future duo missions between you and the other man.

As you stepped, you could feel how the man next to you was practically brimming with adrenaline. In the corner of your eye, you saw, what you could of his eyes. All you knew was that they were /wide/, intaking any visual information he could.

You didn't blame him. By now, the two of you were deep into the forest, the powdery dirt road nowhere in sight anymore.

Suddenly, he was no longer at your side, a stride or two in front of you, which, considering the length of his legs, was hefty. He motioned for you to get down with his hand, his own slightly crouched position deepening.

Immediately understanding his intent, you did as instructed, eyes flicking about your surroundings, trying to find a form of cover. Next to you, an overturned hollow log was draped across the ground.

/Convenient/.

You ducked down, crouch-walking your way over to the log. Konig was right next to it. You peeked in. It was big enough to hold about three people. Perfect.

Resting the barrel of your gun onto the top of the log, you peered through the scope. A quick scan showed you nothing. With a quirked brow, you glanced over to Konig. You doubt he'd heard wrong, he was much more experienced than you.

Before you understood what was happening, Konig dragged you to the ground, rolling over on top of you as a shot thundered through the forest.

"/Verdammt-/," he muttered, the first word he'd spoken since you'd first met him. Besides on comms. His voice was deeper in person than you'd thought it'd be.

You stared, wide eyed, at him on top of you. His head was shifted, looking over his shoulder, before ducking down and facing you as another shot rang out, closer to your position now. His eyes met yours. The cold pupils /glinted/ with murderous intent. Not directed t you, of course. Didn't lessen the chill down your spine, regardless.

A rustle came from the brushes to your right, and both of your heads snapped to it. From his utility belt, Konig snatched a knife, and raised it. The two of you were already decently camouflaged, the ghillie suit sufficiently covering you both. Especially you, as Konig's also draped over you.

As soon as a head peeked above the brush, Konig pounced. You watched for a split second before quickly redirecting yourself. /This was a life or death situation./

Your gun, which hadn't clattered too far away from you in the commotion, was still primed and ready. You snatched it, propping yourself back up, trusting the cover of your ghillie suit gave you, and aimed as you scoured the surroundings. The slight outcropping of a face immediately tipped you off.

You exhaled, bracing your body for recoil, and steadied the reticle. A shot rang out, and the body jerked back, out of sight.

To the left of you, you heard grunting, before a sickening /SNAP/. Konig had finished off the other guy within a minute or so.

It was still a wonder to you, how the man managed to disable someone within a matter of moments. Another shiver went down your spine.

"Status?" He growled out to you, accent thick. You hadn't noticed him approaching.

"Fine," you took another look through your scope. "Two tangos approaching," you whispered. They were /just/ out of range for your rifle.

He stayed silent for a moment.

"Direct me over comms," he instructed.

You give him a quick sharp nod, readjusting your stance so you're better easily able to move your gun about. A deep breath fills your lungs, you hold it for a moment, hearing the slightly quickened thumping of your heart, before letting it out. You lean down, immediately spotting moving brush.

"Straight forward from my position, at least 70 meters," I mutter.

Konig begins creeping forward, and you flick over to get him in your sights.

He makes short work of the trek, his long stride benefitting him, as in no time, you hear the take down over comms, blood spurting out of, what you presume is a neck. "Tango down," Konig reports.

You begin to move forward as well, as soon as you lock onto the other man. "Far right, 2 o'clock, prone position." You inform, spying the other man hunkered down. It was a good spot; you'll give them that.

Several minutes pass, and Konig's disappears out of sight. Frantically, your reticle searches the area.

"(shit but in german.)" Konig suddenly growls over comms.

Grunting and tousling are heard over Konig's mic. At once, you're picking up your pace. "Konig?" You call, just above a whisper. Your rifle is resumed to it's usual spot in your grip as you book it to his location.

"Konig!" You press, as more struggling is heard. Not too far from you, you hear a shot, and wince as it's also transmitted into your ear.

It goes deathly quiet.

Your muscles begin to burn, as you dodge and duck, moving around bushes, stray rocks, and logs. You hurl yourself away from the trunk of a tree, using it to gain momentum as you hop over a lifeless body.

He speaks your name over comms, it's rough, gravely. You come to a stop, as you spot him in front of you, standing, huffing and heaving, much like you.

Konig turns to you, blood splattered across his front, several specks dripping from his ghillie suit. His eyes, piercing in that cold unmoving gaze. A knife, harshly gripped in his right hand, as several combatants lay on the floor. He'd been ambushed while going for the man who was prone, as they'd been able to hide out of sight.

"Sitrep?" You ask between breaths, your chest rising and falling.

He didn't speak, only stepped towards you as he dropped the knife. It clattered to the ground at his feet. His pupils were solely focused on you.

Another step.

You resisted the urge to retreat back.

Again. His boots quiet against the forest floor.

Finally, he was right in front of you, as you strained your neck to meet his eyes.

Your name dripped from his lips and you froze. Like prey, cornered by a predator. /Yet he was your teammate./

His hand rose, coming up to cup your cheek, staining it with the blood of the men he'd just disarmed. It was still warm, and you swallowed, your neck slightly bobbing at the motion.

"/Mein./" He spoke.

Your brows furrowed slightly. 'Mein'? You had limited vocabulary on German, but regardless, you knew that meant 'mine'. You opened your mouth to question, and he pounced.

His other hand flew up, pushing his hood under the seam of his balaclava and pulling the other up to his nose, revealing his scarred mouth. He pressed his lips to yours as he bent forward, keeping one hand on your face, the other wrapping around you like a snake in his vice grip.

Any noise you were going to make was clamped down, practically sucked out of you, similar to the breath in your lungs. He stole it, all of it, as his rough lips encased yours.

His eyes, focused on your reaction and body language, studied you, as if a flame had been lit in them.

He broke away after several moments, and you inhaled, inflating your lungs once more.

"/Konig/, not here-", You try to reason with him. The two of you were still right in the middle of enemy occupied territory.

The man bent back down, and right before stealing your lips once more murmured, "Nein, jetzt."

You closed your eyes, melting into it, as his tongue licked into your mouth. Your hands came up to grasp him, sinking into the fabric on his arms of the ghillie suit, like you were trying to scratch him out of it.

He began to push you backwards, causing you to falter, right up against a tree. Without hesitation, he begins to pull the straps of the heavy bag down, helping you slip your arms through them before tossing it aside in the bushes. Again, he broke the kiss, as his hands began to wander, making quick work of your belt and the buttons of your pants.

Anticipation and sudden arousal shot through your body, hitting you straight in the gut. Your heartbeat quickened, as you caught sight of his eyes. Pupils dilated and solely focused on you. His mouth, pressed into a thin line, slightly upticked due to an old wound slicing his lips.

König leaned in, pressing his body right up against yours, those same lips peppering promises onto your neck.

It almost felt like the calm before the storm.

His hands continued, rough pads of his fingertips dancing along your flesh, rippling goosebumps up your torso. They journeyed downwards, past the band of your underwear, before freezing.

"/Wet/," he muttered, and you felt the grin on your neck.

A small noise came out of your mouth at that, realizing just what he'd done to you despite the situation, and in a /forest/ of all things.

The man gave you no time to ponder, diving straight into your cunt.

..

.

Ghost was infatuated, in every sense of the word. His eyes would linger on the man's back, as the fabric draped over his muscles, before pooling at his waist, badly tucked into his jeans with a coffee brown belt holding them up. His arms jutted out of the shirt, revealing the well-built muscle, not even attempting to hide them, as, at this point, there was no point. Unless he slapped on a hoodie. Soap profusely denying and turning down every opportunity to do so even when he needed to, complaining that he 'ran too hot'.

His gaze shifted to his own arm, his right, specifically. His own had a tattoo sleeve, whereas Soap only had a simple symbol of the 141 on his forearm. Perhaps it was time for Ghost to expand his sleeve, as it stopped, just above his elbow. Perhaps revisit a few areas.

And so, he did. Within the week, as Soap had been sent on a solo mission, he had a date set within the local tattoo shop in town.

---- Soap's POV, sometime later.

It'd been a while since he'd returned from his solo op, piled in paperwork, and practically drowning at his Mohagany desk, he needed a break. Badly.

Soap was currently vertically laid across the couch in the common area. The base had winded down, and it was silent. Which was fortunate for Soap, as a migraine wracked through his head. He'd slapped a wet rag onto his face in order to combat it, at least a bit.

"Johnny," A voice boomed from behind him.

Soap didn't even have the energy to jump, letting out a groan.

"You look like death."

Soap did chuckle at that, and he teased back, "Ironic comin' from the likes 'a you."

"Takes one to know one," He could hear the shrug in the other man's gravelly voice. Soon, the cushion next to him dipped, and a chill went down Soap's spine. Not in a bad way, no. Ghost was like a walking air conditioner. During hot days, Soap always found himself gravitating towards Ghost more than usual. If that was possible. "What's botherin' ya, Johnny?"

Soap weakly flicked his hand to the coffee table sat in front of the couch. On it, Soap had splayed several documents onto it, some clipped to a clipboard. The pen he'd tossed elsewhere, most likely on the table, if not on the floor.

The man grunted in response, before Soap heard the shift of the cushion, and then the sound of the clipboard being picked up. After a few seconds, there was a click of a pen.

He raised a corner of the soggy rag, an eyebrow raised. His eyes immediately flick to Ghost's lap. His legs were manspread, almost touching Soap's, and he was leaned back, head tilted as he read the documents. A smile curled at Soap's lips. "Go raibh maith agat." He mumbles in thanks.

Ghost doesn't bother to tell him to speak proper English. Soap figures it's because he more or less understands.

Soap lets the wet rag slap back onto his face, his arm coming back down to lay itself over his stomach as he closes his eyes once more. The scritch of the pen against paper, and Ghost's soft breaths are easily able to lure Soap into a state between conscious and unconscious. He fades in and out, at one point swearing he heard Ghost briefly conversing with a curious Gaz before being shooed away.

Eventually, Soap commits to being conscious, his head lessening the painful thrum as he tugs off the small towel. He peered over at Ghost, still busy writing away. His eyes wandered, from the paper, to Ghost, then focused in on the swirls of ink planted into the other's skin. He scoots a bit closer, wanting a better look.

His eyes roam, over the different line weights, dashing from each and every new image before pausing, staying at one spot.

In the middle of Ghost's tattoo sleeve, amidst all of the typical military symbolism, was a small soap bar. Soap's mouth parted slightly in surprise, his face going lax except for the widening of his eyes.

Ghost had gotten something for him tattooed.

He wanted, so desperately to reach out and trace it. Trace the small soap bubbles sprouting off from the bar, the shine, the shading. Soap wanted it all.

He especially wanted Ghost.

But Ghost hadn't said a word. Not since Chicago, not since that delirious time he had in Las Almas due to blood loss.

But then, why get a tattoo of, essentially, Soap?

Then, his more rational and doubtful mind stepped into the fray, quickly calming his still relatively feverish mind. He'd probably gotten in as a show of comradery. His other tattoos could just be representations of past missions, and specific things he'd seen.

That had to be it.

"Feelin' better, Johnny?"

Soap's eyes flicked to Ghost's. The other wasn't looking to him, still focused on the expanse of paper, and the droning on of words, that by now, Soap figured must just melt all-together. Least, it did for him after a while.

"Aye, much." He paused, a grin lifting once side of his face, in a half-smirk sort of way. "Drinks on me tonight?"

Ghost paused, the pen stopping it's flow, his arm overturning, showing the rest of the tattoo on his forearm. Soap's eyes quickly darted to it.

He swore his heart stopped for the second time that evening.

"Sure," Ghost graveled.

Often men in his field would have eyes, still lit with /something/, Price, his eyes were mellow, dark pine tones, but a harshness that would spring up in them whenever things got serious. Like the bright sun setting behind cold jagged mountains, leaving something frighteningly empty.

Gaz, was more like honey.

A neverending buzzing of bees, flitting about, occasionally interrupted by splashes of chocolate, and a golden glow, like sunflowers bordering an aok forest.

But Ghosts?

It was hard to tell due to his mask, usually. The lighting obscuring his gaze, but not the feeling that came along with it, like a dozen knives being simulatenously pierced into your flesh whenever it would flick to your figure. Soap was used to it, and in fact came to be comforted by the feeling.

It'd happened, only once, Soap got to peer through /his/ window.

They were sitting on a bench, outside, enjoying the fresh air. Soap doesn't even remember what they had been talking about, it'd been forgotten quite quickly. He'd glanced over, Ghosts attention being caught by something. And his head tilted just so, the late evening rays had touched his pupils.

Soap couldn't help but stare.

It was a cold, shivery blue. Dark, and swirling like ocean waves, repeatedly crashing upon a beach, with a current so strong it could pull you under.

And pull you under it did. Soap was transfixed, drowning in the sight before him.

The glass panes and shutters were cracked and broken, but still /there/. They stood strong, battling against the onslaught of waves.

Soap found himself wanting to see a stream spill off from that ocean, as if attempting to empty a bit of itself, despite it's vastness.

Ghost turned back again, and all of a sudden Soap could breath again, those icy blues freezing over the ocean currents once more, the water now stagnant.

He felt a shiver go down his spine.

"Ser..ant-"

The mask moved but Soap could barely hear a sound, a persistent ringing in his ears, as his eyes were a bit wide, just staring at his Lieutenant.

"S..p"

The man in front of him moved closer, brows furrowing and cutting off the bit of light that was left. Soap was staring at an empty room.

"Soa.."

The ringing grew louder, his breath hitched as his heart thudded. He'd never felt anything like this before. Was this what cardiac arrest was like? His body felt, not his, but a shell, something he was viewing. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, entirely transfixed on that window, as the glass rattled as it slammed shut.

"Johnny."

He blinked, one, two, maybe three times, before he regained control over himself.

"Ah."

"You alright there?"

"Aye. Daydreamin'.."

The other man only huffed in amusement, shutting his eyes for a second, and only now had Soap realized just how close the other was. His face only a foot and a half from his.

When those windows opened again, he saw it cracked open, just a tad, as if the curtains had been moved aside, /just for him/.