localcringekitty

The jet’s wheels slam onto the tarmac with a violence Ghost appreciates.

Real. Physical. Grounded.

New York smells wrong when the ramp drops, burned circuitry, ozone, smoke that doesn’t belong to anything earthly. Stark Tower cuts into the skyline like a blade, too clean, too untouched compared to the scorched edges of the city around it.

S.H.I.E.L.D. agents swarm before the engines fully die.

Efficient. Quiet. Armed.

That, at least, feels familiar.

They’re escorted through secured hangars, badge checks, retinal scans. Ghost catalogues exits, sniper angles, choke points without thinking. The building is all glass and polished steel, but the security layers are military-grade and then some.

Good.

It means someone here understands the world isn’t made of press conferences.

———————————————————————————

Maria Hill is waiting in a briefing room that’s too white, too bright.

Tablet in hand. Expression carved from stone.

“Task Force 141,” she says, like she’s reading off a checklist. “Glad you made it.”

Price gives a short nod. “Director Hill.”

She taps the wall screen. It lights up with rotating 3D schematics, alien tech fragments, impact zones, heat signatures mapped across boroughs.

“This isn’t a battlefield,” Hill says. “Not yet. We want to keep it that way.”

Soap leans back in his chair. “And we’re here for…?”

“Recon. Recovery. Identification.” Hill swipes again. Photos appear, makeshift labs, burned apartments, something that used to be a warehouse now coated in strange metallic growth. “Black market groups are already moving pieces of Chitauri tech. We need to know who, how, and where it’s going next.”

Gaz whistles low. “Three days. That fast.”

“They don’t care what it is,” Hill says. “Only what it can do.”

Ghost’s eyes lock on one photo.

Ash shapes on pavement.

He looks away first.

Hill continues like she didn’t notice. “You’ll be embedded with S.H.I.E.L.D. field teams, but operational autonomy stays with you.”

Price nods once. “Understood.”

Hill hesitates, then adds, “There’s… one more thing.”

Ghost already hates it.

“You’ll be staying at the Avengers Compound while in theater.”

Soap snorts. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Price’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.

Ghost says nothing.

But the mask hides the way his teeth grind.

———————————————————————————

The Avengers Compound is worse than he expected.

Too open. Too clean. Too… hopeful.

Security is airtight, but it’s hidden behind glass walls, art installations, landscaping. Like danger is something decorative here.

They’re led inside by automated clearance systems and one very human voice calling down a hallway.

“Hi, you must be 141?”

You step into view with a tablet tucked to your chest, badge clipped to a slightly oversized shirt that belongs in a thrift store, not a superhuman war hub.

You look tired.

Not fragile. Not scared.

Just—

Tired in a way Ghost recognizes.

“I’m, technically, the assistant,” you say. “Reception, scheduling, damage control paperwork, occasionally Stark’s assistant when he forgets how calendars work.”

Soap blinks. “That sounds like six jobs.”

You shrug.

Ghost watches you like you’re a puzzle piece that doesn’t belong here.

You don’t stare at his mask.

You don’t flinch.

Good.

“The Avengers are out,” you continue, already turning and gesturing for them to follow. “Press conference. Damage control statements. The usual.”

Gaz mutters, “Course they are.”

You pretend not to hear.

“Your rooms are this way. Kitchen’s open access. Don’t touch anything labeled ‘prototype’ unless you want Stark yelling at you or Banner apologizing while something explodes.”

Soap grins. “Noted.”

You stop outside a hall of guest quarters and hand over keycards.

“If you need anything, I’m a call away.”

Then you leave before anyone can answer.

———————————————————————————

The door to Ghost’s room shuts with a soft hydraulic hiss.

He checks corners. Vent. Bathroom. Under bed.

Habit.

Then he removes his gloves slowly, flexing fingers that still remember recoil and bone.

———————————————————————————

Ten minutes later, they’re all in Price’s room.

Door locked.

White noise jammer active.

Price stands near the window, arms folded. “Thoughts.”

Soap drops onto the couch. “Hate it.”

Gaz leans against the wall. “Too clean. Makes me nervous.”

Ghost stays standing.

“Alien tech in civilian circulation,” he says flatly. “Means someone’s already weaponized it.”

Price nods once. “Agreed.”

Soap rubs his face. “And we’re living with celebrities.”

“Assets,” Price corrects.

Ghost’s voice is quieter.

“Symbols.”

The room goes still.

Because they all know what he means.

Symbols don’t bleed on operating tables at 0300.

Symbols don’t hold friends together while waiting for evac that’s five minutes too late.

Price finally exhales. “Doesn’t matter what they are. We have a job.”

Ghost nods.

Because he always will.

——————————————————————————

@jupitersmoon167 this is for you bc you get it 🙏 doing this for you bbg

He hates the idea of them. The sight of them. The mythology people have built around them.

He watched the Battle of New York from the cramped communications room, half the base shoved into the space, eyes glued to the flickering screens. The skyline was alive with alien tech, crawling and burning. Explosions ripple across the city in patterns too chaotic to follow.

Ghost doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t cheer. He doesn’t hope.

Because in his world, in the one that smells of cordite and blood and gun oil, people don’t get neutralized—

They get killed.

Bullets don’t knock out, they rip open, and first aid isn’t flashy, it’s desperate and often useless.

He especially resents Tony Stark.

Sure, the man has experience with terrorist organizations. He’s seen the threats first-hand.

But what does he do with it?

He builds a flying metal suit. He fights aliens. He gives speeches.

He leaves the real wounds—

Real people, real conflicts—

Untouched.

A bandaid over a gunshot wound.

——————————————————————————

Ghost’s eyes drift to the headlines again, the paper crumpled from constant handling: American Government Sends U.S. Army to Aid S.H.I.E.L.D Operations.

Every word makes his stomach knot.

Three days later there’s a classified report sent by Laswell.

Someone got their hands on alien tech.

Ghost scrolls through the photos, eyes scanning. Limbs incinerated into ash. Bodies melted beyond recognition.

He doesn’t flinch.

Not outwardly.

But inside, he feels the familiar pull, the rage, the disgust, the helplessness.

This is the world he lives in. And no superhero is coming to fix it.

And then the orders come down without fanfare.

———————————————————————————

New York City. Alien tech is spreading faster than anyone anticipated. Contain it. Recover anything that could be weaponized. Prevent civilian casualties. Work with S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel already on site.

Ghost hates every second of it.

He sits in the jet, mask tight, arms crossed, eyes on the clouds outside.

Price reads the mission brief aloud, each word a reminder that they’re being sent into the heart of a war they didn’t ask for.

Soap smirks, bitterly. “Looks like we’re babysitting superheroes this time.”

———————————————————————————

>:)

…continued?

Loud. Daft. Charming in the way a lit match is charming—

Bright, warm, and a little too chaotic for anyone’s long-term safety.

He flirted, he joked, he ran headfirst into danger with the grin of a man who’d never truly been afraid.

And Price, Ghost, Gaz, they all figured they knew him better than anyone.

But even legends keep small, human secrets.

Soap’s secret lived in a cottage tucked against the Scottish coastline, where the hills rolled like sleeping beasts and the sea wind carried the smell of salt and heather.

The cottage was small, weathered by storms, with lavender lining the stone path and a stubborn chimney that always seemed to sigh white smoke into the air.

Inside lived the person he’d married in quiet.

You were everything Soap wasn’t—

Soft where he was sharp, plush and warm skin and eyes that could gentle a storm.

You had a laugh that filled a room and hands that could coax beauty from anything they touched.

And you loved him. Madly. Fiercely.

And without question.

Which was exactly why almost no one on earth knew you existed.

———————————————————————————

The team never questioned why Soap always volunteered for Scotland-based leave.

Why he never brought dates, or never committed to the women who were more than willing to try and tame him.

Ghost teased him once, “What’re you hiding, Johnny?”

Soap only smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Ghost rolled his eyes and walked away, assuming the sergeant was just being a menace.

Price assumed it was restlessness.

Gaz assumed it was family.

None of them assumed it was a marriage license tucked inside a drawer beneath a pile of your sweaters that smelled like vanilla and the faintest hint of the soaps you made yourself.

———————————————————————————

When Soap reached the cottage door, the entire world always seemed to fall away.

He’d enter and you’d be there, apron dusted with flour, figure wrapped in soft cotton, smile splitting your face like sunrise.

“Johnny!” You’d exclaim, dropping whatever you were holding to rush toward him.

And his arms would fold around you effortlessly, as though built for your shape alone.

God, he adored you.

Adored the softness of you, the way your body fit to his broad frame like you were meant for him.

Adored the warmth you brought into his cold world.

Adored the way you kissed him like you weren’t afraid of anything—

Even though he knew full well you were terrified every time he stepped out on a mission.

“Missed you,” he’d whisper into your hair.

“You always do,” you’d tease, but your voice trembled with relief.

Here, he was not Sergeant MacTavish. Not demolition expert. Not 141.

Here, he was simply your husband.

The one who fixed the roof. The one who cooked breakfast terribly. The one who kept you warm at night, his calloused hand splayed over your hip like he couldn’t bear to let go even while asleep.

———————————————————————————

Price could have protected you. Ghost could have. Gaz, too.

But Soap knew too well what happened when enemies learned what a soldier treasured.

He’d seen it. He’d lived it. He’d sworn it would never be her.

So he kept the secret not out of shame, never shame, but out of devotion sharp enough to bleed.

He told you once, lying together beneath thick handmade quilts while rain drummed the windows—

“If anyone ever hurt you because of me…I wouldnae survive it.”

You cupped his face, thumbs tracing the scars the world had carved into him. “You don’t have to protect me from your life, Johnny.”

But he did.

And you let him.

Because loving a man shaped by war sometimes meant letting him keep his armor, even when he was home.

———————————————————————————

It happened during a particularly brutal stretch of missions.

Weeks with little sleep. Soap pushed too hard, too fast.

Ghost dragged him into the barracks one night after a firefight gone sideways.

“Sit down. You’re losing focus,” Ghost snapped, pressing a medkit into Soap’s hands. “This isn’t like you.”

Soap’s hands shook, not from injury, but from fear.

He hadn’t been able to call you. Not once.

Not in eighteen days.

Ghost caught the tremor. His gaze sharpened.

“Johnny,” he said slowly. “Wot are you worried about?”

Soap opened his mouth, then shut it. His chest tightened. His breathing hitched.

Ghost stilled.

“…It’s someone, isn’t it?”

Soap didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny.

Ghost waited. For once, he didn’t push. Just nodded.

“Whoever this person is,” Ghost murmured, adjusting the bandage on Soap’s arm, “you’ll get back to them.”

Soap swallowed hard.

And that was the first moment someone in the 141 realized he was a man with someone to lose.

———————————————————————————

When the mission finally ended, Soap made the trip home half-dead from exhaustion and full of desperation.

He opened the cottage door quietly, as though afraid you might vanish like a dream—

And he held you like the world had been trying to take you away.

Your hands explored his face, his arms, his chest, checking for wounds, checking he was whole.

When you kissed him, it was trembling and grateful and full of every fear you hadn’t spoken into the empty nights.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” you whispered.

“I’ll try,” he whispered back, because he could never promise more than that.

You forgave him with a softness he didn’t deserve, curling into him on the sofa, his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat like a man who needed it more than air.

———————————————————————————

The 141 still didn’t know your name.

They didn’t know your laugh, or the warmth of your embrace, or the way you could quiet Soap’s fury with a single look.

They didn’t know the way he breathed easier when he saw you, or the way he held you as though you were the only thing in the world that made him human.

They only knew that sometimes Soap returned from leave with a peace around him that no amount of war could break.

And Soap?

He knew that as long as you stayed safe, tucked away in their quiet cottage, wrapped in softness and safety, he could face anything.

Because the world could take scars from him. Could take sleep, blood, pain.

But it would never take you.

Not while he still drew breath.

Secret spouse reader but make it soap instead of price/ghost >:)

Does this count as angst because this is how I felt writing this:

Price went MIA after General Shepherd was found dead in his office.

Ghost transferred to another unit and was supposedly in Russia now.

Gaz sent him letters, but didn't have time to visit due to tracking down Makarov with Laswell.

And Soap, well John on paper and on hospital forms and on discharge documents, was left behind.

Soap didn't feel like a miracle. He felt left.

He replayed it constantly, the shot, the heat, his own stupid surprised thought of well, that's not ideal before everything went black.

Then there was the waking up.

Hospital bed. Tubes. Silence. His own heartbeat sounding foreign in his ears.

No one was there to greet him. Just machines.

He got one shaky video call with Laswell instead. Efficient. Polite. Regretful. Telling him the team was preoccupied. Telling him they hadn't forgotten him.

He almost laughed.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Gaz wrote, at least.

Letters. Neat handwriting. Too measured. Too careful. Like Gaz was trying not to lean on grief as he wrote: Wish I could be there and working leads not done and hold tight, Johnny.

Soap stared at them on the bedside table like they might explode.

Cheers for the letters, mate. Shame paper doesn't help me walk straight.

 -------------------------------------------------------------

Price was confusing.

Not a call. Not a letter. Nothing.

Just vanished off the grid, swallowed by shadows and guilt and whatever hole men like Price crawl into when they fail to save the word and their people.

Come kick down my door, Cap. Tell me you need me. Anything's better than disappearing like smoke.

 -------------------------------------------------------------

Ghost was the one that cut the deepest.

He didn't vanish. He replaced Soap, replaced the team.

Transferred. Redeployed. Wheels up. Gone. Russia, of all bloody places. Probably standing in the snow somewhere solving problems with guns and monosyllabic grunts, same as always.

I got shot in the noggin', you poxy bastard. The least you could is haunt the hospital corridor like usual.

 -------------------------------------------------------------

Soap realized the only later that anger was easier than grief.

Because grief sounded like don't leave me.

And John Soap McTavish never begged for anything in his life.

Then you started knocking on his door.

-------------------------------------------------------------

It was raining the first time you showed up at his flat. A quiet, apologetic kind of rain. The kind that barely tapped, like it was scared too knock to hard.

Soap swung the door open a touch too fast, half-expecting pity, paperwork, or press.

Instead, you just blinked at him.

You held a tote bag against yourself like a shield. Your scrubs a muted color.

You said something short, soft, unremarkable--

Name, role, schedule--

And stepped in when Soap grunted something that could have meant fine or piss off. He didn't know either.

You watered the one suffering houseplant. You re-organized his medication into a weekly tray with colour-coded stickers. You did laundry and folded blankets into neat squares even though he unfolded them just to spite organization.

You also made tea that tasted like warmth and quiet rain.

But the thing was: you didn't act like he was fragile.

You carried groceries up two flights without asking if he needed help. You unscrewed stuck jars without handling them to him.

You stepped around his sharper moods like you'd spent a lifetime dofigin emotional barbed wire without getting snagged.

It pissed him off at first.

Then it unsettled him.

Then, quietly, it steadied something in him he didn't know was still shaking.

He kept excepting you to pry. To poke the scar, metaphorically or literally. To ask if it hurt, if he remembered, if he killed the man who shot him, if he was scared, if he was okay--

You never asked a single thing.

And it made him want to tell you everything.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Soap caught himself glancing at you more often than he’d admit.

Watching you move around the flat.

Watching how your eyes softened when you looked at the smallest details he’d never noticed before.

And the thought that maybe he didn’t have to be sharp, witty, or indestructible to earn your presence settled somewhere deep in his chest.

Some nights, he stayed awake longer than you, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the past—

And then he’d hear the soft sound of your breathing from the other room, and it grounded him.

He couldn’t explain it—

He didn’t have to.

Just knowing you were there, quietly keeping vigil in your own small way, was enough.

It didn’t fix him. It didn’t erase the anger, the grief, the scars, mental or physical.

But it made them manageable.

One evening, months in, you handed him a cup of tea.

He caught your hand for just a moment, an instinctive hold, almost accidental—

Your gaze met his, calm and unflinching—

And he realized that maybe he didn’t have to fight alone anymore.

In the moment he only exhaled, a slow, steady sound that had nothing of mission orders or battlefield tension.

Just relief.

And for now, that was enough.

The world outside could wait. The past could wait. The future, whatever shape it took, could wait.

Because in that quiet, ordinary apartment with the rain tapping at the windows and a cup of tea warming his hands—

John Soap McTavish had discovered something he hadn’t thought possible after all the chaos—

He could trust someone to stay.

And that, for him, was everything.

Angst

Why do we live in a capitalist society bro these eight hour shifts four days in a row are killing me

Comments/feedback I love

Pls request something I want ideas

The kind that left sand under his nails and sleep clinging to the corners of his eyes no matter how many showers he took or how many nights of sleep he got in a proper bed.

All he wanted was a pint, really.

Something strong, a quiet corner, and the illusion of something normal.

The open-mic said otherwise, with a crowd of battle jackets and Mohawks packed shoulder to shoulder.

But there wasn't another pub for another fifteen minute walk so—

How bad could it be?

Then you were on stage.

You looked like trouble—

The kind that didn't apologize for it.

The lights caught your wild hair, tangled and untamed, a storm haloed by stage glow—

You were something that didn't belong in any uniform or under anyone's thumb.

Then you started, and the crowd roared.

And God help him, but you were good.

Not the polished kind of good, no. You were the kind of good that bleeds through your fingers and snarls from your throat.

The crowd, though small, was alive. Boots tapping, headings nodding, and some shouting along the words like battle cries.

The lyrics were angry and startling in truth-

It made even Price, in all his exhausted stubbornness, listen.

A few songs passed. People got rowdy.

Some bloke in the front of the crowd had started mouthing off something crude, some drunk with too much pint and not enough manners-

Some red faced numpty who thought that "punk show" meant "free pass to act like a twat."

You told him to sod off.

The bloke didn't like that—

There was a fight—

Price's body moved before his brain decided.

By the time he pushed through the crowd, the bloke had reached the edge of the stage. You'd already hopped down, guitar forgotten, jaw tight and eyes like a storm.

A friend of yours grabbed your arm, hissing something in your ear trying to calm you.

But you weren't listening. The bloke reached out again, grabbing your sleeve.

Price placed a hand on the bloke's shoulder deescalating his anger immediately—

But you were still keyed up—

Even as your friend looped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you back-

You resisted, twisting in her grip as Price stepped a bit too close—

And your elbow came flying back.

It wasn't even intentional. It was a reflex, a flinch, a twist to get free.

But it landed hard-

The sharp edge of your elbow caught him square in the cheekbone.

"Christ—!" Price staggered back, hand flying to his face.

By the time his head stopped pounding and his vision cleared—

You were gone.

———————————————————————————

"Cap'n wot the hell happened ta yer face?"

Gaz leaned over, "Looks like somebody took a swing at you, sir."

Price didn't look up from his report, "Punk show."

Soap's eyebrows raised with an almost manic smile, "Ye went t' a punk show?"

"Wonder wot clocked him, yeah? Or who?" Gaz added, too calm.

"Bet it was a right proper punk." Soap teased, but at Price's grunt had him giddily elbowing Gaz and continuing, "Aye, so it was! What's the name? When's the wedding?"

Price sighed. "Keep it up, Sergeant, and Ill show you what a proper right hook looks like."

Ghost spoke. "You least deserve it?"

Price huffed, "Didn't even see it coming."

And worse? He didn't even catch your name.

Someone had botched a movement drill earlier that day—

Left cover too soon, exposed their entire fire team. Could’ve gotten everyone killed in a live op.

A mistimed signal, an exposed flank, it didn’t matter who did it.

In the SAS, mistakes like that don’t happen.

Gaz didn’t raise his voice when it happened; he just made a note.

Now the whole platoon was paying for it.

“Right then,” Garrick said, voice carrying easily over the wind. “Since one of you decided to forget the difference between cover and bloody daylight, you all get to make it right. Fifty laps. Full kit. Move.”

The afternoon sky hung low and pale over the Hereford training grounds, the air heavy with that stillness that comes before the rain.

Boots pounded against the dirt, packs heavy, rifles bouncing against shoulders.

Dust rose behind the platoon, clinging to sweat-damp skin.

The first laps were bearable. Gaz jogged alongside, barking time and corrections.

The heat of effort built in everyone’s muscles. Sweat rolled down faces. Lungs ached.

By lap twenty, the burn had settled deep in legs and shoulders. Someone started to lag. A trooper stumbled, cursed under his breath.

The rhythm began to falter.

You didn’t.

By lap thirty, the first drops of rain started to fall.

A fine mist at first, the kind that tricked you into thinking it might pass.

But then the wind shifted, and the drizzle turned into a downpour, hammering against helmets, soaking through fatigues in seconds.

The dirt underfoot turned to slush, and soon the entire platoon was trudging through a sucking, brown mire.

Gaz didn’t stop them.

He didn’t even raise his voice. He just called out, steady as ever, the rain punctuating each order like the tick of a metronome.

Mud splashed up to their knees, slicking faces, soaking through uniforms. One by one, the platoon began to falter.

All except one.

You.

Even through the sheets of rain, Garrick noticed you, steady stride, back straight, water dripping from your chin as you powered on.

When he shouted commands, you answered simply, clear over the storm.

Always the same tone, always with the same smile.

You didn’t stumble. Didn’t complain. Just ran.

The rain came down harder, the ground turned to sludge, and more troopers faltered out of formation.

Garrick’s jaw tightened.

You wouldn’t break.

And it was infuriating.

Your movements remained constant, and your face stayed the same mud-smeared, calm, that faint grin never faltering as you called back to every command.

By now, muscles were past burning. The ache had turned dull, then distant,that strange edge of exhaustion where the body starts to move on instinct alone.

The world narrowed to rhythm: step, breathe, blink.

Pain faded into something else. Just sound, boots squelching, the patter of rain on gear—

Gaz’s commands in the storm.

And your replies came steady when called.

Across the field, under the awning of a hangar, Soap and Ghost watched in silence.

Soap leaned forward, squinting through the downpour. “Gaz is puttin’ ‘em through it.”

Ghost’s eyes tracked you, unblinking. “One’s not cracking.”

Soap shook his head. “No one lasts this long in Gaz’s drills. No one.”

After fifty laps, Gaz called a halt.

Everyone looked wrecked.

Everyone except you—

Mud-smeared, soaked to the bone, still standing at attention like it was inspection day.

It was only when the medic ran out again that Gaz looked away from you.

“It’s done, sergeant!” the medic shouted over the wind. “You lot will catch hypothermia if you stay out here any longer!”

Gaz turned, he had been too focused on you to notice the cold seeping in.

You were still in position, eyes fixed on him through the rain.

With a begrudging nod and a tight-lipped look, Gaz called dismissal.

———————————————————————————

He found one of the corporals in the mess. “That recruit,” he said. “From today. Any background?”

The corporal blinked, frowning. “Sir? Don’t really know, to be honest. Joined on transfer from… somewhere. Doesn’t talk much.”

Another trooper overheard and shrugged. “Loner type. Don’t drink, don’t gossip. Just trains.”

Garrick frowned. “No one’s held a conversation?”

“Not really, sergeant. Shows up. Works harder than anyone. Smiles a lot.”

That didn’t sit right with him. SAS units were small.

They didn’t get mystery soldiers, not here.

But that’s what you were.

He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—

Your endurance, or the fact that no one really knew who you were.

Another one, thank you.

Need more Gaz rep I love the lad he’s right deadly

(Pt 2) to because uh @shamelessfrog and uh pt1 got notes 😬👍

Not in God, not in fate, and certainly not in luck.

He’d seen too much death to believe in mercy.

He’d learned that survival was just that. Survival. Things you did or didn’t do.

Men like him didn’t get miracles—

They just got scars.

Then he met you.

Your presence bent the world in his favor—

And for the first time in his life Simon Riley became lucky.

Shots missed him by inches. Bombs malfunctioned. The task force walked away from missions that should have ended badly.

Every time you kissed his cheek before deployment, he came back without a scratch.

Dogs avoid you.

Horses roll their eyes white when you approach. Even the sheep near your English cottage keep their distance—

Ghost notices the exception—

Cats appear from bushes and barns, brushing against your legs, purring like prayer. Crows gather in silent flocks on telephone wires, staring reverently.

Your relationship was quiet, warm, and strange.

You laughed at his teasing, and brushed dirt off his jacket like you were brushing away bad luck itself.

He brings you little things, wrapped in his calloused silence and slipped into your hands with a rough, mumbled, “For you.”

You always smiled, kissed him, and tucked them away in glass jars and wooden bowls around your little cottage.

He pretended they were just gifts. You pretended not to notice the worship in his eyes.

Feedback/comments is appreciated 🙏

I’ll do a pt2 if anyone wants it