magic

Gaz is the 141’s resident pretty boy. Everyone knows it. Captain’s a bit older, Simon’s an intimating mystery, and Johnny’s a bit too boisterous sometimes.

But Kyle? Easily approachable. Warm eyes and a kind smile that have lured in all kinds of people over the years. He’s a romantic at heart, so the team doesn’t bat an eye when he turns down those at pubs who are clearly only looking for a hookup, but he never has any — as Johnny calls them — juicy sex stories to share over drinks. Some assume he’s just shy, others that he’s prudish. Then again, when was the last time Kyle mentioned even dating anyone?

Well, there was you.

You and Kyle have known each other since basic. Even after the 141 was well-structured with just the four men, Kyle would mention to Price in passing for you to be entered into the team. After enough convincing, you were.

As expected, you and Kyle continued to be close as ever. You were also the only one Kyle opened up with about his sexuality. He'd known he didn't experience sexual attraction to others the way "everyone else seemed to." You never judged him, why would you? He's still the same person. Being the only one trusted with that information, Kyle felt even closer to you -- emotionally of course, then physically.

He's always considered you good-looking from an objective standpoint. You're his best friend, of course he's going to hype you up and compliment you here and there. But the first time he saw you in dress blues for a gala event? Holy. Shit.

He didn't understand why. Everyone wears the same dress blues and while you're certainly pretty, he's never thought about you like that before. It starts small. Feeling warmer after hanging out, moving closer when not being entirely necessary, craving your touch more than usual.

And the kicker? A night the 141 was all gathered in front of the telly for a match, everyone having a good time. Kyle hits you with a sassy remark and as your usual retort, you squeeze his thigh. Suddenly all his blood rushes south for the first time he could remember.

It confusing. He'd never experienced attraction like this before, why is it happening now?! He didn't know who to talk to about it because you are the only one who knew he was ace in the first place! After a while of internally struggling, he finally seeks you out well past lights-out to talk. He lays it all out, barely able to look at you from embarassment.

You listen, you always do, and gently smile by the time he finishes. "Y'know asexuality is a spectrum, right? There's a ton of sub-labels."

The notion makes him pause, then dramatically sigh. "Yer tellin' me I have to re-figure out what I am?"

"No, you idiot," you laugh. "Identify as whatever's comfortable, just now you're not forced to stick to one."

"I... guess that makes sense."

Your hand meets his in a comforting gesture. Then...

"So... you like me, huh?"

"Mate--"

"Just asking! Happy to buy you dinner if you need any convincing."

"So, sweetheart, do you live around here?" he asked, trying to make conversation while she organized papers on her desk. She was leaning over the desk just enough for Price to have a perfect view of her cleavage. "I bet you live in that little apartment near the bus stop." She froze. She had no memory of telling John where she lived. "With flowers on the kitchen window, right?" She straightened up, a chill running down her spine. "Lovely place, very cozy. Far too easy to break into, though. Got in in five seconds, didn't even need to look at the lock. You need to be more careful, sweetheart."

"Y-Yes, sir," she replied, frightened. He had broken into her apartment? Why was he smiling while saying that!? Was it a threat? "I-I'll… I'll go check if the printer still has ink."

"Be careful going home today. There are a lot of dangers in this world."

The janitor found her crying in the supply closet, talking to her mother on the phone shortly after.

And Kyle? He seems cool, but...

"Sergeant Gaz?" her voice sounded behind him in the large hallway. His heavy boots stopped on the floor before he even processed her words. "The Captain asked that you turn in your reports from the last mission by three, instead of five. Is that okay?" Kyle said nothing.

His mouth went dry, his eyes opened wider than necessary, and his posture went rigid as stone. He looked like a statue staring at her.

Correction, a terrifying statue staring at her.

"Sergeant Gaz, are you feeling alright?" she asked, taking a micro-step back. He took a step forward. "You… You're angry about the Captain's request? Do you need more time? I can ask the Captain!" she took three more steps back, Kyle followed her. Still not speaking. Still not blinking. Still tense as a rock.

"Sergeant Gaz!" a voice from the other end of the hallway called out, and she used that as her cue to run as fast as she could.

Again, the janitor found her in the supply closet, not crying, but curled up and rocking like a frightened child.

Soap? With that restless mouth of his, surely he wouldn't have any problems with flirting, right? WRONG!

They were in the cafeteria, eating that gray sludge of a protein, carb, and fiber mix they served there, when she walked past their table. Not fast enough to seem like she was running away from them (and she was), but not slow enough to seem like she was eavesdropping.

"Bonnie! Finally you show up!" he said, standing up and blocking her path. "You know, you never told me if you liked the gift I left in your office." The "gift" was a stick of dynamite.

"The bomb?" she asked with a trembling voice.

"It wasn't a bomb! It's part of a bomb! A bomb is a casing containing explosive material and a detonation mechanism, I only gave you the explosive material!" he said with such naturalness that it made her shake. "Next time I can leave it in your apartment, what do you think, bonnie? Wouldn't it look lovely in your living room? We could even try to disarm it together!" He wanted to send a bomb to her house? He had to be insane! She looked at the rest of the table, hoping that maybe one of the other three lived in the same reality as her and realized this was madness. "What do you say? The two of us together disarming a bomb and BOOM!" he shouted, making her jump back. "What do you say?"

"I'll… I'll… I NEED to finish some things in the office," she said, trying not to sound terrified. She managed to get past them and again, the janitor had to kick her out of the supply closet.

This time, she was deciding whether or not to call the police.

And finally, Ghost.

It was late at night, she was working overtime in the office (not out of fear of finding a bomb at her front door), she thought she was alone until…

"Do you like horror movies?" she screamed, falling off her chair and seeing that behind her stood him. His skull mask illuminated by her desk lamp, the rest of his clothes black and blending perfectly with the night shadows.

"What?!" she trembled, crawling away from him.

"I know a place where sound doesn't escape. The soundproofing is excellent, made for… Interrogations." The last word came out more drawn out, almost a growl. "But it works for other things too. Screaming, for example." She was paralyzed. She was certain this was where she would die. Or in that interrogation room.

"I… I need to go to the bathroom!" she managed to say, her voice coming out thin as a thread.

Ghost took a step back, but didn't take his eyes off her.

"Don't take too long. Or I'll have to come looking for you."

She ran. She ran like the devil was after her, because he probably was. And when the janitor opened the supply closet door for the fourth time that week, he found her curled up in the corner, phone in hand, already decided to call the police.

"Miss, for God's sake," he sighed, sitting on the floor next to her. "What did they do this time?"

"I think they want to kill me," she sobbed. "Or worse."

The janitor scratched his head, tired.

"They really are terrible at this."

"At this? At what?" she asked, still with her phone in hand.

"At being normal," the janitor replied, grabbing some rolls of toilet paper. He handed one to her, to wipe away her panic tears. "I think it's the military training or… Or too much time on missions… I don't know, but they don't know how to be normal anymore."

"You don't understand! They're threatening me! When Laswell said it would be a tough job, I thought she meant bureaucracy, or too many hours! Not being threatened! Soap sent a bomb to my house! Ghost wanted to drag me to an interrogation room that, according to him, was impossible for anyone to hear me scream! Kyle looks like a robot! Doesn't speak, doesn't blink, just stares at me like he's trying to kill me with his mind! And I'm pretty sure Price broke into my house yesterday and made me tea!" The janitor laughed.

"They really are horrible at this, aren't they?" he pulled out some cleaning products. "If you want my advice, just say you're not interested. They're crazy, but they respect other people's decisions."

"What?" The janitor smiled, heading back out and putting the products on his cleaning cart.

Deer hybrid!reader who bawls with panic, chest thundering with hurried breathes and quick heart beats as you rush through blurring trees. Air sharp against your face and burning your throat. Hunter!Simon who snarls when he sees you, pulls his rifle off his back, ready to put a bullet through that pretty little head for making him run so much.

You trip like the pathetic thing that you are, scramble to your knees when Simon nears. Vapor shooting from his flaring nose, quick and sharp with furious exhales. Like a raging bull, makes you shudder.

The metal pressed to your forehead pulls a bleat from you. Tail flickering quickly when you gaze up at his demeaning figure. Euphoria washes over you, thrill of the chase and being caught. Has you keening when your eyes meet his over the gun that he has pressed to you.

Simon grunts at the glimmer lacing those precious cock hungry doe eyes that drive him crazy. “Caught you, silly doe.” He hisses through clenched teeth. Irritation a growing speck at the back of his mind from your little games. You mewl with a quiver, hips squirming in their spot. Caught by the predator, makes you gush with slick.

“Love that I control if you live or die, huh? Ain’t got no instincts, stupid deer.” He groans, catches your jaw, shoves thick fingers past your lips. Makes you gag around them as he fucks your throat. Smears the saliva across your face before smashing your check against his cock. So big and hard through his dirt stained jeans, that you feel him throb against your lips as you mouth over his print.

Simon pets your ears at the top of your head, tugs at one to hear you whine. “Dirty little doe, loves being good prey f’me to catch.”

You drool all over his front, tongue scraping against the harsh material that keeps you from his delicious musk. Slam your hips into his boot to stimulate your achy clit, eyes rolling and pathetic bleat muffled against his bulge, makes him seethe when you start humping frantically.

Simon yanks you off by your hair, makes you squeal and hands fumble at his wrist to give your scalp relief. He swings his rifle onto his back, gives you a sharp slap to your cheek. Face freezing with the cool air only making the sting of his palm to your cheek bring tears to your eyes.

Simon scoffs. “Good f’nothing deer. Too desperate, ain’t worth much.” He mocks, leans down to cup your blistering pussy, keen at the pleasure his palm brings. He hums a low grunt, pulls rope from his pants to fasten around your wrists. “Might be worth setting straight. Teach ya a lesson or two about making me run in circles. Use that hot cunt for what it’s made for.”

A soft hum vibrates from your chest, tail flickering and ears twitching at the mean look in his eyes. Can’t wait for him to lay his hands on you. Like always, Simon hauls you over his shoulder, walk home sure to make you whiny and needy as your pussy begs for more like always.

He slams a rough palm down on your ass, grins when you squeal, whine trailing softly after and normally he’d wait for his hands to tease you in bed, but his calloused fingers slip between your thigh to rub at your clit.

On week two, she was discharged but still on strict conditions. She was only to leave bed for bathroom trips and small increments of walking. She was also ordered to have someone with her frequently, checking in and assisting her.

And it was no surprise that Simon had hardly left her side during this time.

He had taken it upon himself to make her his responsibility. He brought her meals, helped her out of bed, put her back in bed and most importantly, made sure she didn't do anything to sabotage her recovery.

Today was no different. Ghost was right on time for lunch, 12:15 p.m. sharp. He did try to change up the meals (all within guidelines of what she could and couldn't have.) It was a lot of easy to digest meals, but he did try to vary them. He sets the tray down on her bedside table. She takes a peek at today's menu items. Sandwich, soup, crackers and an orange juice.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, voice gruff and deep as always.

"The same as the last time you asked me that question." She replied. She's not being irritable or showing annoyance, it was just that he asked her that question often.

She gave a smile, a weak one, but a smile nonetheless. Simon noticed she still looks so pale. It had been a week and a half and she still looked...terrible, frankly. The doctors all said it would take time for her body to bounce back. Even with two blood transfusions, she still felt woozy and her body was usually most of its energy to heal. All normal given the circumstances, but not any less hard to watch.

He noticed when he sat the tray down that her prescription bottle was untouched. Not even opened.

"And you still refuse to take the pain meds." He sighed.

He stands tall at her bedside, looking down at her frame that was sunken into the bed.

"I don't trust pain meds," She said. He knew this. He knew all about her hesitance to take prescription pain killers. "I've known too many people to get hooked on pills. The doctor said I technically only have to take them as needed, and I don't need them."

Ghost and Gecko had very different approaches to this entire ordeal. She was maintaining a positive outlook on her recovery, choosing not to focus on the fact that she literally almost bled out and died in his arms out in the field.

Ghost on the other hand, could not avoid thinking about it. The entire thing had scared him something awful. He would never say that. But it didn't make it any less true.

Simon on the other hand, had catered to her every need. The near-death ordeal has scared him terribly.

His expression hardened at her response. He knew she was hesitant to take any kind of prescription pain killers, but it worried him to see her in pain and refusing relief.

"You are in pain. There's no way you can't be," He said, his voice slightly exasperated. "You were stabbed, twice."

“Anyone who was stabbed twice would be in some pain,” She said, her eyes sunken into her face and her face colorless. “I don’t hurt that bad. Not bad enough to take any meds.”

He was so frustrated with her. She wasn't cooperating the way he wished she would. She was trying to do too much too soon. She wouldn't relax. And she wouldn't take her damn pain medication.

"You're bein' impossible." He hisses.

Simon knew she was downplaying her pain, and it irritated him. He hated seeing her like this, pale and exhausted, refusing to take the meds that had been prescribed for a reason.

“Simon,” She said in a tone just above a whisper. She wants him to listen and understand that she’s fine. He had been so tough on her these last few days. The soft side of Simon that only she knew was nowhere to be found. She knew he was just worried, but he was stressing her out. “Please don’t be like that. I’m okay, I’m stable. Don’t make me fight with you.”

Frustration and concern had been a constant for him since this happened. He knew her desire to stay strong and not risk dependency on the meds, but it was hard for him to simply back down.

"Don't give me that. You are not okay." He huffs.

“Yes, I am okay. I’m not in a morgue somewhere,” She pointed out, looking and noticing how tired he looked. He certainly hadn't gotten any significant sleep. “Please try and relax.”

Her even mentioning the morgue makes his head tilt in disbelief. How could she just say that so easily? DId she not realize how close that had been to being her reality?

"You are-" He cuts himself off, sitting on the edge of her bed suddenly to be closer to eye level with her. "I can't stand you being like this. And you have the nerve to think it's funny?"

Ghost was normally one for dark humor. Though, she could understand that this situation was an exception.

“You don’t like me looking like this?” She asked just to make it sting. "I thought I looked tough.”

"Yeah," He rumbled sarcastically. "You look real tough not being able to even lift your fuckin' head."

She can't argue there. Everything was taking her energy. She hadn't done anything other than sleep and eat. Even eating sometimes wasn't something she was up for. Speaking of, she glances at the lunch on her bedside table.

"Thanks for bringing me lunch. You didn't have to." She said.

He turned his attention to the food. He helped her sit up as comfortably as she could before he sat the tray in her lap. She looked at the spread in front of her. A decent lunch.

She was a little shaky as she went for the first spoonful of soup. He silently monitors how much she eats. He wanted her to eat as much as she could. Food was fuel and fuel meant energy. Energy was certainly what she needed to get over this.

"You gotta eat," He said for the thousandth time. Every single meal he said it, like she didn't know that. "You lost a lot of blood the other night."

The other night.

He said it like it was just some casual thing that happened. Not like a near-death experience that had left him a nervous wreck for her, tracking everything she did and her progress.

"Oh really?" She said, swallowing a spoonful of soup around a mouthful of sarcasm. "I hadn't realized."

"Fuckin' smartass..." He muttered. He watches her struggle with the spoon, her hands shakier by the minute. "Lemme do it."

He doesn't give her a choice. He takes the spoon, angling himself to help her take bites.

"This is so demeaning." She grumbled.

"Not demeaning. Necessary," He corrected her.

That earned him an eye roll from her. She didn't like this Simon. This Simon was tough on her and made her do things his way. The medications she was required to take like antibiotics and preventative drugs, he made sure she took at the same time every day, nearly down to the second. He wouldn't let her walk unassisted. He wouldn't even let her stand without him for more than a minute or two. He wasn't letting her get an infection or risk busting stitches on his watch. He was serious about her getting better.

She had to get better.

He continued to feed her spoonfuls of soup. He doesn't take his eyes off of her.

"Makin' sure you heal properly," He said after a little while. "You're actin' like I'm torturing you."

He paused the soup feeding and reached for the glass of water. He made sure she drank decent gulps before she responded.

"I haven't argued with you." She said. It was mostly true. She had been patient and understanding of why he was being so tough. Aside from an occasional grumble, she had been doing this the way he wanted.

"Yeah," He replied. "But you're actin' like I'm bein' unreasonable."

Gecko looked at him, her eyes droopy and dim. Those same eyes suddenly fill with tears. There's hardly any energy in her system to cry.

“Because I’m frustrated,” She said, her voice wobbly and laced with tears. “And you’re being so short with me.”

Shit.

He wouldn't apologize for being strict with her recovery rules. Those were doctor's orders and he was making sure she wouldn't end back up on an operating table. But he could admit that maybe his approach had been too rough. Her frustration was more than just being stuck in her bed.

He sat the tray aside, kneeling beside her bed. His hardened demeanor fades just enough for her to notice.

"Hey…" He said, his voice losing some of its sharpness. "C'mon, love. I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, but you gotta understand..." He trailed off when the tears slipped from her eyes. "I want you to get better."

She looked so exhausted. Her body was working overtime to recover and heal. The healing process was draining her. She was trying to wrap her head around all of this and now her boyfriend was treating her like a recruit. The tears were steady as he tried to make it better.

"I'm not meanin' to be hard on you," He sighs. "I don't want anything to happen to you...more than it already has." He nearly whispered the last part.

That only makes her cry harder. The small sniffles turn into real sobs. He knew she was emotional and worn out. This was more than just physically hard on her.

He threw caution to the wind. Time to break some rules within reason. He stood from the side of the bed, kicking his boots off and shedding some clothing to get more comfortable. The mask went too. His face bare and hair slightly tousled from it.

He maneuvered her to crawl in behind her, settling her between his thighs without jostling her. He rested her against his chest, his lips pressing a kiss to her head.

He wrapped his arms around her, avoiding the problem area on her gut. He could feel her trembling as she cried. He doesn't rush her.

"Love, 'm sorry..." He sighs, irritated with himself. "Didn't mean to be like that."

He held her while she cried. He spoke as gently to her as Simon Riley possibly could. He does it until her crying slows and her breathing gets calmer. Her body goes limp too, he knew she would fall asleep soon. He hated that she had to use precious energy being upset, but if her body needed to then so be it. After all, he had pushed her too hard.

"Get some sleep," He murmurs. "We'll talk more when you wake up. 'M not going anywhere."

She only nodded as the last of her crying sent her to sleep. He relaxed a fraction once she was asleep. Sleep was good for now.

And he meant it when he said they would talk. They would discuss this, figure out a way to make this easier on both of them. He knew that would end up with him promising to be softer on her. He would agree, but it would take some trial and error.

Kyle Garrick was a persistent bastard, he’d give him that. Never one to back down from a challenge or a fight, and boy did Simon put up a fight.

He had absolutely no interest in joining the Sargent on a walk. With the man’s nephews nonetheless. Gaz had thrown around the idea casually of visiting the park to watch screaming children play and their parents take every moment for granted as they sat on their phones. But Kyle wouldn’t take no for an answer, eventually settling on the agreement that the walk was for the dog, not Simon, and that he could sit under the veranda nearby rather than next to the playground itself.

So that’s where they were heading. Two little boys being pulled in a wagon, arguing over whose water bottle was whose and “why did Theo get to bring his figurine and I couldn’t bring my book?”, “because, James, your book is from the library and it can’t get lost or dirty”.

Simon hung back a bit behind, walking Tex at a leisurely pace, occasionally letting the pup stop to piss or smell a bush and then piss. Tex was a good dog, a shit listener sometimes but never showed aggression, hence why he’d been thrown out of the military training program and found his way to the Lieutenant.

The park was chaotic, about a dozen kids running around and a stack of bikes thrown haphazardly by the sidewalk, parents huddled together in conversation and an old woman sat on a bench knitting, foot rolling a buggy back and forth for the sleeping infant inside.

“Oh shit, mate,” Kyle sighed glancing over his shoulder to his shadow. “Looks like they’ve got a party or something going on at the veranda. But there’s an open bench closer to the playground you two can sit at.” He’d thrown a sympathetic smile to Simon, clearly feeling guilty over the change in plans.

They strode to the bench before it could be snatched up and the twins scrambled out of the wagon, eager to join in on the fun. Kyle dropped heavily onto the seat and gestured with his chin for Simon to take a load off as well.

“No matter how many times I haul my kit around the world on mission, it’ll never be as heavy as pullin’ those two boys in this thing.” He’d kicked the wagon with his shoe.

Simon hummed and made Tex lay near his feet, unclipping the portable water bowl from the leash and portioning some out for the pup.

The unspoken grief the two men were experiencing was weighing them down significantly. Johnny’s death was hard for all of them. He’d known Soap and Gaz were close, the younger members of their team got along well with shared interests and easy banter. And Ghost…he saw a lot of his own brother in Soap. And as painful as it was, the fullness in his heart never outweighed the sting of losing his brother. Though sometimes it came close, when he had his own banter with Johnny and when they saved one another’s lives.

Now he was gone, too. The one time Ghost wasn’t there to watch his back, Makarov slipped in and snuffed out the only spot of brightness he’d been able to find after all these years.

He’d become numb to it now, the ache of loss.

But Kyle hadn’t. And he thinks that maybe the two of them had more in common than he was lead to believe. That maybe Johnny was Kyle’s spot of sunshine, too.

The summer sun felt nothing like Soap’s easy grin or the warmth of his touch.

However, the universe works in strange ways, like a young girl skipping up to them, another trailing behind, followed by a flustered woman with an apologetic smile, the youngest of the bunch sat on her hip.

“Is she a service dog?” The tone the girl used was practiced, like the etiquette of asking to pet a dog was a learned behavior rather than impulsive entitlement driving her forwards without permission.

“I’m so sorry—“ The woman rushed to escort what was obviously her charge away but Simon found his voice steady and quick.

“No, he’s not, she can pet him if she wants.”

Tension in her shoulders seemed to ease, a shy smile spreading her pretty lips. It was then he’d noticed her top, sunflowers imprinted on its surface. She reminded him of one, bright and beautiful but understated.

“Go on, honey what do we say?” Her voice was gentle and warm in that perfect motherly way.

“Thank you, mister.”

“I wanna pet him too!”

“Girls,” her correction were firm but kind. “Be gentle and don’t overwhelm him.”

“Sorry, auntie.” Not their mother then, huh?

She moved to place the youngest down, the little girls feet taking confidently wobbly steps towards the others.

Rex for his part, was soaking up the attention, scratches to his belly and pets to the top of his head, cooing little girls calling him a good boy in goofy voices.

When their aunt kneeled down with the youngest, guiding her little hand to stroke the dogs back, he’d taken a moment to glance at Kyle, the man clearly enjoying the scene before him, head propped up on his fist, elbow on his knee. A soft smile decorated his face and the two men made eye contact. A shared sense of comfort was found in this woman’s presence. Her laugh loud and carefree when Rex lapped at her face while the little girls around her giggled, clutching their stomachs and falling over.

The baby clapped her hands and grinned up at Simon and for the first time in his entire life he thought about what it would be like to be a dad. To love someone unconditionally and teach and guide them to be good people with big hearts and kindness ingrained in their being. The antithesis of how he’d grown up. He’d always been afraid of becoming like his old man but he’d never considered that he could break the cycle. Just like Tommy tried to do. Maybe he could honor the brothers he lost that way.

And this woman with the sunflower shirt and the big smile and untamed laugh and clear overflowing love for children who were not even her own might have just unlocked a part of himself he’d hidden away all these years. A part that was soft and tender.

Authors note: I was on vacation and couldn’t upload a chapter this big. Anyway, my darling Gaz will appear more and more from now on!

Disclamer: (I do NOT allow anyone stealing, translating or imitating this work)

Don’t forget to reblog, like and comment!!

The truth was, that afternoon was colder than usual. The last warm days of September had long since passed, giving way to the crisp, chilly evenings that marked the beginning of autumn.

Two weeks had passed since the night Ghost stayed over, and ever since then, your entire routine had changed.

You had spent years teaching yourself not to get attached to places, routines, or people. Everything in your life had been carefully designed to be temporary, easy to erase, easy to leave behind if the moment ever came. Everything was temporary, and at any moment you could receive relocation orders and be forced to pack up all your belongings in a hurry. That was why it was easier—more efficient—to own as little as possible. The fewer things you had, the easier it was to gather them and leave.

Your apartment had always reflected that. It was clean, organized, and comfortable enough, but it had never truly felt lived in. Nothing was ever out of place. There were no pointless little trinkets or sentimental decorations. No cheap souvenir magnet bought during a beach holiday. No wedding photograph or picture of a niece or nephew. No small hand-carved wooden figurine picked up from a local market in some distant country. Not even a forgotten hair tie abandoned on a random shelf. Nothing stayed long enough to matter because you had learned a long time ago that the more pieces of yourself you left behind, the harder it was when you had to disappear again.

The problem was that Ghost and Soap were apparently very good at making themselves impossible to remove from your life.

It happened slowly enough that you didn’t notice it at first. There was never a conversation about it. No moment where anyone admitted that something between you and the two soldiers was shifting into something much more complicated than friendship. Everything happened quietly, hidden behind simple excuses that sounded reasonable enough if nobody questioned them too deeply.

Soap started walking you home after your shifts because, according to him, he was already heading that way. It was a terrible lie considering the packhouse was on the opposite side of the base, but he said it with such confidence and such a bright smile that you never had the heart to challenge him. Ghost did the same on the nights Johnny couldn’t, appearing outside the medical office after training and claiming that your building was on his route, even though both of you knew perfectly well that Simon Riley never took unnecessary routes anywhere.

Soap was the first one to make a move.

A jacket he forgot on your couch after staying too late gradually became something that simply never left, as if it had always been another decorative object in your living room. There was a pair of Soap’s shoes by your front door because he complained about walking around your apartment in military boots, a box of tea in your kitchen that definitely wasn’t yours, and an extra mug that you had bought without even thinking because you were tired of the two of them arguing over who got the bigger one.

Ghost’s presence appeared more slowly.

Ghost’s black hoodie, the one you had accidentally stolen that first morning, somehow found a permanent place folded neatly over the back of your chair. Neither of the two men had the heart to tell you the truth, that the hoodie belonged to Ghost, because they both knew that if you found out, you would never wear it again. There was a spare pair of gloves by the entrance. A book left on your coffee table because he was "still reading it," even though you had never once seen him pick it up. And two extra toothbrushes in the bathroom cabinet that had appeared one morning, neither of you ever acknowledging where they had come from.

Neither Ghost nor Soap wanted to admit it out loud, and they probably never would, but somewhere deep down, almost unconsciously, they had already begun preparing for the day your husband came back.

If someone had told you two weeks ago that two members of Task Force 141 would slowly invade your apartment, you would have laughed.

And yet, there you were.

Standing barefoot in your kitchen, wearing red-and-green tartan pajama bottoms, stirring a new recipe you were experimenting with in a saucepan while two mugs that didn't belong to you sat drying beside the sink.

It should have bothered you. It should have made that old survival instinct buried in the back of your mind scream that you were getting careless, that you were letting people leave traces behind, that you were making it harder for yourself when the day inevitably came when you had to disappear again.

But for once, the apartment didn't feel like somewhere you were hiding.

It just felt like home.

Ghost and Soap spent most afternoons and evenings with you now. They would pick you up after your shift ended and spend the rest of the day at your apartment. They never stayed the night. It had become a sort of unspoken agreement between the three of you, one that nobody had ever voiced aloud and that you had accepted without ever questioning it.

They always waited until you had fallen asleep before quietly leaving for home in the early hours of the morning. Going to bed late and waking up early, they spent only the bare minimum number of hours sleeping at the packhouse.

And that was exactly what they had done that night. Once the dinner dishes had been washed, the pajamas and blankets folded away, and you were fast asleep in your bed, they could finally leave.

The packhouse was quiet when they arrived.

Too quiet.

That should have been their first warning.

The second warning was the light still on in the kitchen.

Their captain was sitting at the table, one hand wrapped around a mug of steaming tea, looking far too awake for someone who should have been asleep hours ago. A frown creased his forehead as he rubbed at his brows and tired eyes with one hand. A half-smoked cigar rested in the glass ashtray on the table, right beside a half-finished glass of whisky.

Soap stopped in the doorway.

Ghost stopped behind him.

Because somehow, they both immediately felt like recruits who had just been caught doing something they shouldn't have.

Price didn't look angry. He looked tired instead, slouched back in his chair, wearing a T-shirt he should have changed out of hours ago, his hair thoroughly disheveled. A familiar look lingered in his eyes, glinting with quiet acknowledgement, as though he had already figured everything out before they had even walked through the door.

"Good night?"

Soap cleared his throat.

"Aye."

Price hummed, absentmindedly toying with the cigar still resting in the ashtray, his fingers gently brushing over it.

His eyes remained fixed on the alpha and the beta standing in front of him, moving slowly from one to the other again and again.

"How long are we going to pretend this isn't happening?" he murmured, almost smugly, in a single quiet breath.

That simple sentence, like a punch to the gut, seemed to knock the air from the other two members of the pack. Neither of them answered, because they knew exactly what he meant.

Soap tried to deflect anyway.

"What?"

Price gave him a look. His tired eyes traveled across Johnny's face, and a faint, almost sorrowful smile touched his lips.

"Don't."

One word. That was all it took.

Price ran a hand through his hair and straightened up in his chair.

"How many nights have you slept here this week?"

The room fell completely silent.

"Johnny?"

Silence.

"Simon?"

Ghost's jaw tightened.

"Thought so."

Ghost remained silent, which was answer enough.

Price sighed, scratching at his overgrown beard. He wasn't necessarily angry, nor disappointed. It was concern more than anything else.

Because he was their captain.

And because he was their alpha.

That meant noticing things before they became a problem and, usually, eliminating them.

Price took another sip of his tea. He had abandoned the whisky hours ago, its taste growing more bitter with every minute he spent waiting. The golden liquid burned his lips each time he looked toward the oppressive darkness embracing the hallway and the ominous closed door that had haunted him both in life and in his dreams.

It had been closed since eight in the evening, and its owner had refused to come out or even crack it open. What reason would he have to do either? Who was waiting for him on the other side? For the past couple of weeks, two empty bedrooms had haunted both the house and those who lived in it. Their occupants had left behind everything that wasn't essential, taking only what truly mattered with them to a better place, beginning a new life without ever letting go of the old one.

Price tried to remind himself that they still shared the mark that bound them together, a bite of eternity and loyalty decorating each of their bodies. More often than not, he found himself reaching up to touch it, trying to chase away the fears and doubts that tormented him in the middle of the night.

He knew Gaz did the same.

A couple of nights ago, Price had climbed into bed beside him. Gaz had spent days moping around like a sad pup. But his pup nonetheless. How long had it been since they had been together? Since they had shared a bed? God, he couldn't even remember. Soap had always been the one who gave Gaz the most attention. It wasn't unusual to stumble across the two of them in some compromising corner with their trousers halfway down.

Between kisses and gentle touches, Price had noticed just how red Gaz's mark had become. It had taken nothing more than the slightest brush of his fingertips for the young sergeant to break down, crying like a child. Between desperate sobs and broken breaths, Gaz confessed the grief of losing not only his alpha, but his soulmate, his other half.

"My Johnny," he had cried.

Price had held him for the entire night, Gaz's body completely flushed against his. He could still feel him trembling with quiet sobs he desperately tried to hide, even hours later when he thought Price had finally fallen asleep. He hadn't. He hadn't slept that night. Nor the next. Nor the one after that.

Instead, he had waited at the kitchen table like a loyal guard dog waiting for his owners to come home, even though they never did.

Price glanced once more toward Gaz's bedroom door. It remained closed, and who knew how much longer it would stay that way if he didn't put an end to this.

"You two even realize how obvious you're being?" Price clenched his fists beneath the table, trying to release some of the tension building inside him. When neither of them answered, he barked, "That's what I thought."

Soap shifted slightly, already looking like he wanted to defend himself, but Price pointed at him before he even had the chance to open his mouth.

"Don't start, MacTavish." Soap shut his mouth again. "I don't want to hear a single comment. Not one."

An oppressive silence settled over the kitchen.

"You walk her home after every shift. You spend more nights at her flat than here. Half your things are already there, for God's sake."

His furious eyes shifted to Ghost.

"And you're not any better," he said, his voice carrying a trace of contempt.

Ghost didn't react, at least not visibly. Price knew him well enough to understand that didn't mean anything. Out of all of them, Ghost had always been the hardest to read, trained to reveal nothing, even under the worst kinds of torture. Sometimes Ghost remained a mystery even to him, and, painful as it was to admit, there were moments when Price wondered if he truly knew him at all.

"You're leaving your scent all over her place."

That made Soap look away.

Not out of guilt because he knew Price was right, they were doing it on purpose.

"You're not pups. You know what that means."

The kitchen remained silent because they did.

In their world, scent mattered. Presence mattered. Leaving pieces of yourself behind in someone else's space wasn't something casual, especially not with an omega.

Price tapped his fingers once against the table.

"You know exactly what it means," he said, pausing just long enough for the silence to become suffocating, "and you're still doing it anyway."

That was the part neither of them could argue with. Price picked up what remained of the whisky and emptied the glass in one swallow. Maybe, by the end of this conversation, he really was going to need the courage it offered.

"You already have a pack."

Price's voice remained calm, but there was a firmness beneath it that reminded both of them exactly why he was their captain.

"Me. Gaz. You two." His gaze moved slowly between them. "We built this. We chose this." Price's eyes were as cold as ice, his expression so severe it would have unsettled the Devil himself.

Soap swallowed.

"We're not replacing anyone."

The answer came so quickly that it stole whatever argument had been forming in Price's throat.

Price sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his beard before leaning back in his chair once more. He looked exhausted in a way neither of them had seen in a very long time. Dark circles shadowed his tired blue eyes, his hair was still damp from the shower he had probably taken hours earlier, and the tea sitting on the table had long since gone cold.

The weary disappointment of a man who had spent years holding four people together and could suddenly feel the seams beginning to stretch settled like a crushing pressure beneath his ribs, almost making it difficult to breathe.

Price held Soap's gaze for a long moment before finally answering.

"The problem," Price muttered, clenching his jaw, "is that neither of you has stopped to think about what happens after." He tried to relax, but he had no doubt that, with the adrenaline coursing through him, his pheromones were already flooding the kitchen with the sharp, acrid scent of something burning.

"You're not two unattached soldiers courting a woman." He deliberately tried to project a calmer, steadier scent into the room, noticing that both Soap and Ghost had begun pushing out unpleasant, increasingly putrid pheromones of their own. "You're members of an established pack."

Another silence settled over the kitchen.

“A pack doesn't change because just two people decide it does.”

The words hung heavily between them.

Ghost finally spoke.

“What are you saying?”

Price didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked down the dark hallway. Both men followed his gaze instinctively. Only one bedroom door stood closed. Gaz's room. It hadn't opened all evening.

“How long has it been,” Price asked quietly, “since either of you actually spent an evening with Kyle?”

Neither of them answered.

Price nodded once. “Thought so.” He looked back at them, exhaustion replacing whatever frustration had briefly crossed his features. “He's struggling.”

Soap shifted uncomfortably, clenched his jaw, and crossed his arms, trying to look away. “He'll be fine.”

“No.”

Price's reply came immediately.

“He won't.” His fingers absentmindedly tapped against the table before he spoke again.

“The television's been on every night this week.”

“What?” Johnny frowned.

“He doesn't watch it.” Price's eyes drifted toward the hallway again, giving a small nod in the direction of the living room. “He just leaves it running.” Another pause. “He sits on that sofa until he hears the front door.”

Soap's stomach tightened.

“He hears the two of you come home,” Price said, swallowing hard. “He pretends he's already asleep until you close your bedroom doors. Then he goes back to bed.”

Neither Ghost nor Soap moved. The image settled over the room like lead.

Price continued quietly. “I know he wasn't asleep.” His voice had dropped so low they almost had to lean forward to hear him. “Because I've been sitting right here.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Price had watched it happen.

“Because I sit at this fucking table, night after night.”

He had watched Kyle glance at the clock every fifteen minutes. Watched him make another cup of tea that always went cold. Watched him curl up in the corner of the sofa, the television providing nothing more than meaningless background noise while he waited for footsteps that came later and later every evening.

“You think he doesn't notice?” Price looked directly at Soap. “He notices every time you walk past him because you're in a hurry to get to her.”

Then his eyes shifted to Ghost. “He notices every night you come home smelling like her fucking antiseptic-smelling flat instead of this one.”

Neither of them had anything to say.

Because every word was true.

“He's trying very hard not to resent her.” Price tried to sound reasonable. He tried not to let any more frustration show. He knew he needed them to understand, because getting angry at Soap and Ghost would accomplish nothing. “And every evening you spend somewhere else...” Price sighed wearily. “...you're making that harder.”

“What's that supposed tae mean?”

Price sighed.

“Johnny.”

“No, go on.”

Soap crossed his arms.

“What exactly do you mean?”

Ghost remained silent beside him, but his attention shifted carefully between the two of them.

“So what the fuck am I supposed tae do, huh? Just stop fuckin' seein' her?”

“You barely know her.”

Soap's jaw tightened. “That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“Johnny, it’s been weeks.”

“And?”

Price stared at him. “And you're acting like she's already part of your pack.” Price let the silence linger for several long seconds before speaking again.

“You've spent years in a pack made only of alphas,” he began slowly. “No omegas. No women. Nobody outside the four of us. Just deployments, missions... and each other.”

He wasn't accusing them. He was stating a fact.

“And now there's an omega who trusts you. One who lets you get close.” His eyes settled briefly on Ghost before moving back to Soap. “And now you have someone to take care of, someone with a status below yours.” He paused, carefully choosing his next words.

“Careful.” Soap's jaw clenched.

“I'm not insulting you, Johnny.”

“Sounds like ye are.”

“No.” Price shook his head slowly. “I'm saying I understand.” That made both of them look at him. “I understand you're men, after all.” His voice had softened when he spoke those words. “I understand you've spent years pushing parts of yourselves aside because the job and the pack always came first. I understand what it does to a wolf when, after years of nothing but muscle, someone suddenly opens the door to warmth and... softness.”

Only a brief moment passed before Price spoke again.

“And you don't even know what she smells like.”

The kitchen fell completely silent, even Ghost looked at him then.

But Price didn't back down.

“She’s on blockers constantly. Suppressants. You said it yourselves. You can't read her properly. It's impossible for you to feel a bond with her. You can't even tell what's instinct and what isn't.”

Soap looked genuinely offended.

“You think this is about wantin' tae sleep with her?”

“I think you're soldiers who have been isolated for years, and suddenly there's a woman in your life who makes things feel normal.” Price's expression hardened slightly.

Soap let out a short laugh, but there wasn't a trace of humor in it. “Unbelievable.”

“You were the one who brought Gaz in.” Price's expression remained firm.

That made Soap freeze.

Price's voice softened again. “You remember that?”

Of course he did.

Everyone did.

Soap had been the first one to accept Kyle completely. The first one to pull him into their routines. The first one to make room for him until Gaz stopped feeling like the new addition and started feeling like family.

“You fought harder than anyone to make sure he knew he belonged here.”

Soap looked away.

“And now?” Price pressed further. “Now you're barely here.”

Soap's expression tightened as he looked back at him.

“So that's the problem.”

“Johnny,” Ghost warned.

Soap let out another humorless laugh and nodded slowly, looking away as though he needed a second to stop himself from saying something he couldn't take back.

“Right.”

“Johnny,” Ghost tried again.

“No, I get it now.”

Price frowned immediately, noticing the shift.

“You don't.”

“Aye, I do.” Soap took a step back, shaking his head slightly as the frustration he usually buried beneath jokes and easy smiles finally cracked through. “So what? That's what ye want from me?”

Price's expression tightened. “What?”

Soap gestured between them, then around the walls of the packhouse, toward everything they had built together. “You want me tae just do what ye want.”

“That's not true.”

“Isn't it?”

“No.”

Soap laughed again, sharp and bitter. “Because it bloody feels like it.”

Price's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to stay quiet. He knew Johnny wasn't finished.

“Ye want me when ye need somebody who listens. Somebody who follows orders. Somebody who keeps everybody smilin' after a bad mission, 'cause God forbid anybody else has tae deal wi' the fuckin' silence.”

“Johnny—”

“No, let me finish.”

Price stopped himself completely, Soap rarely interrupted him. That alone was enough to tell him how serious this was.

“I'm good when I'm useful, aye? Good when I'm the one makin' jokes, keepin' morale up, followin' behind ye 'cause ye ken I'll always be there, followin' every order ye gie.” He laughed bitterly. “Like a good pup, aye? Like ye always say when good ol' Johnny's suckin' yer cock—”

“MacTavish.” Ghost's warning echoed through the walls, and he was certain that if Gaz hadn't already been awake, he certainly would be now.

However, Johnny was far too gone to care about warnings. He kept going, his fists clenched so tightly with rage that his knuckles had gone white. “But the second I choose somethin' fer myself, suddenly everybody needs tae remind me tae think. The moment I find my person, ye've aw got somethin' tae say. I never once said anythin' about whit you an' Simon have.”

“We are your people, Johnny.”

“Doesn't seem like it.” Soap shook his head. “Doesn't seem like it.” Soap shook his head. “Whit? Am I just supposed tae sit here like some well-trained dog?”

Price's expression changed immediately. “Don't.”

But Soap continued anyway. “Is that it? Keep me close, pat me on the head, throw me a bone every now and then so I stay happy?”

“Johnny, enough.”

“Why?”

“Because you know that's not true.”

“Do I?”

After a few long seconds, Johnny's expression changed completely. His eyelids narrowed, his brow furrowed, and his eyes became glassy. Ghost could have sworn he even saw his lower lip tremble ever so slightly. He looked genuinely hurt.

“Ye all trust me with your lives.” Soap pointed toward the door, toward the base outside. “Ye trust me with explosives. With missions. With decisions that decide whether people come home or not.” His hand slowly dropped to his side. “So why cannae ye trust me with this?”

“Johnny...”

But Soap was already moving toward the door.

“Good talk, Captain.”

Not Alpha, not Price, not even John. For Soap, the conversation was already over. And before Price could say another word, Soap reached the doorway, turned, and walked out.

Ghost stayed for only another second, just long enough to look directly at Price, long enough for Price to realize that Simon wasn't angry.

“I'll talk to Kyle tomorrow,” he said simply. “I'm still his Alpha, and I've failed in my responsibilities as his Alpha.”

Ghost gave a single nod before turning to head toward his room.

“Ghost.” Price spoke before Ghost could leave. “I'm just trying to protect the pack.”

Ghost remained quiet for a moment.

Then he answered.

“I know.”

And then Ghost followed Johnny into the dark hallway.

Price remained alone in the kitchen. For several minutes, he reflected on everything that had just happened. He believed what he had said. He truly did. He had to think about the pack. About Gaz. About the family they had already built long before you ever appeared. But the look on Johnny's face...

Eventually, Price turned off the kitchen light and walked down the hallway. He stopped outside Gaz's bedroom. For a moment, he considered going to his own room before deciding against it.

He quietly opened the door. Darkness filled the room. The half-unmade bed, its headboard pressed against the left wall, occupied the center of the room.

Kyle was asleep. Or at least, Price thought he was.

The atmosphere was peaceful, and Price moved carefully, quietly taking off his clothes until he was wearing nothing but his boxers.

Then he carefully climbed into bed behind him and wrapped an arm around Gaz's waist, pulling him close and allowing himself to breathe properly for the first time all night. Absentmindedly, he buried his face deeper into Gaz's neck, breathing in the scent of jasmine while his fingers idly played with the fine hair of Gaz's happy trail that decorated his abdomen.

He tried pushing out happy pheromones, trying to blend his own scent with Gaz's. This was his pack, his responsibility. And he was terrified of losing it.

A few minutes passed in silence before Gaz spoke softly, barely above a whisper.

“Talked to them?”

Price closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. Of course he was awake.

“You were supposed to be sleeping.”

Gaz hummed. “You're terrible at sneaking in when you're upset. You smell like burnt rubber.”

Price sighed again. Neither of them spoke for a while. Price simply continued stroking Gaz's happy trail and holding him a little tighter. He thought that maybe, if he stayed quiet, the subject would simply disappear. He didn't want to worry Gaz any more than he already had.

Suddenly, Gaz's hand came to rest over Price's arm before he turned around to look into Price's eyes.

“How bad was it?”

Price didn't answer immediately. “Johnny left.”

Gaz was quiet, too quiet. His gaze drifted somewhere beyond Price, fixed on a distant point in the darkness of the room.

“Kyle?”

Gaz took a slow breath, blinking as he gave a faint shake of his head, pulling himself out of whatever distant thought he'd fallen into. Then he said something Price wasn't prepared for.

“It's okay.”

Price tried to meet his eyes.

“What is, love?”

Gaz rolled onto his back, moving only a few inches away from Price, and stared into the darkness for several seconds in thoughtful silence before finally turning over and presenting his back to his Alpha.

“I already knew they'd choose her.”

The words settled heavily between them, hebay and painfully.

Price didn't know what to say, because he wanted to deny it. He wanted to tell Gaz he was wrong. That everything was still the same as before, that nothing was changing, that no one was being replaced.

But after everything he had just said in the kitchen, after everything he had watched unfold over the past few weeks...

For the first time in a very long time, John Price didn't have an answer.

So he simply held Gaz a little tighter and let the shadows of the night envelop them completely.

By the time you left the medical building, the last traces of daylight had already begun bleeding into a deep indigo autumn sky. The base felt different at that hour. Quieter. The morning rush of soldiers marching between briefings had long disappeared, replaced by the occasional patrol crossing the streets or the distant rumble of military vehicles returning to their garages. The cold evening air bit pleasantly against your cheeks as you tucked your hands into the pockets of your jacket and started the familiar walk back to your apartment.

It had been forty-eight hours since you'd last seen either Johnny or Ghost. For the first time in weeks, neither Ghost nor Soap had appeared outside the medical office waiting to walk you home. They had left before dawn with the rest of Task Force 141 for a training exercise several hours away, and although you kept telling yourself that you appreciated finally having your routine back, the silence beside you during the walk home felt unnaturally loud.

You caught yourself glancing over your shoulder more than once, almost expecting to find Johnny jogging to catch up with you, or Simon already waiting farther down the road with his arms crossed over his chest.

Neither of them appeared. The realization settled somewhere uncomfortable beneath your ribs. You didn't like how quickly you had grown accustomed to them. That thought annoyed you enough to force your attention elsewhere.

Instead, you mentally reviewed tomorrow's patient list, trying to remember whether Sergeant Mills needed his stitches removed or whether that appointment was scheduled for Friday. It was easier to think about paperwork than to admit that, after only two weeks, your apartment somehow felt emptier simply because two infuriating soldiers weren't waiting inside it.

By the time your building came into view, the evening had fully settled over the base. Warm yellow lights glowed behind curtained windows while televisions murmured faintly through the thin apartment walls. It looked peaceful, ordinary, safe.

Exactly the kind of normality you had spent years trying to build.

You unlocked your front door with practiced movements, balancing your work bag against your hip while fishing your keys from your pocket. The familiar click of the lock echoed softly through the small hallway before you nudged the door open with your shoulder.

Warmth greeted you first. The central heating must have been running for several hours already, and the air inside felt much heavier compared to the cold, windy evening outside.

You kicked the door shut behind you, dropped your keys into the ceramic bowl beside the entrance, left your work bag on the floor at the foot of the wooden dresser beside the door, and shrugged your jacket off your shoulders, hanging it on the coat rack mounted on the opposite wall.

For a brief moment, you simply stood there.

The silence was overwhelming.

It filled every space, every corner of your home.

After several weeks of pretending to be one happy little family with Johnny and Ghost, the desolate silence had settled between your walls once again, and there wasn't even a trace left of the cheerful chaos Johnny always brought with him.

For a moment, you thought about how much your life had changed over the past few weeks, and a feeling of dread settled deep in your stomach. You'd let your guard down.

And that always came with disastrous consequences.

Over the years, you had learned how to disappear into the background, how to avoid drawing attention to yourself. The quieter your life was and the fewer people who knew you, the safer you were. Keep your head down. Don't speak too loudly. Don't attract attention.

It seemed those three simple rules had been completely forgotten the moment a certain Scotsman smiled at you.

Once again, it was just you.

Exactly as it had always been meant to be.

Shaking your head, you pushed those thoughts aside and started walking toward the kitchen, your sock-covered feet padding softly across the warm wooden floor as you wondered what you could make for a quick dinner.

That was when you noticed it, as you walked past the living room on your way to the kitchen, a white envelope caught your eye.

It rested perfectly in the center of your dining table. Not tossed there carelessly, but placed exactly in the middle.

Deliberately.

Your footsteps stopped, and every muscle in your body tensed at once.

The apartment hadn't looked disturbed when you'd walked in. Nothing appeared broken. Nothing seemed to be missing. Even now, the room around you remained exactly as you had left it that morning.

Except for the envelope.

You stared at it for several long seconds without moving. A slow, familiar unease crept beneath your skin. Again. The same thing all over again. That same familiar pressure settled over your chest, your mouth suddenly dry as your hands and knees began trembling, threatening to give out beneath you.

That crippling anxiety slowly crept through your body every time it appeared: Fear.

You tried to reason with yourself. It wasn't the first time you'd thought you'd seen things that weren't there. Your constant nerves and paranoia often made you see shadows of the past where there were none.

It wasn't the first time you'd thought someone had entered your apartment, nor was it the first time you'd found something out of place. You had read somewhere that prolonged stress damaged memory. That had to be the explanation. That was why you couldn't remember moving things around yourself. Your memory was failing you. Surely that was it. Things didn't move unless someone moved them.

Maybe it was something Johnny or Soap had left on the table, you tried to convince yourself as you slowly approached the envelope.

Without consciously realizing it, your breathing slowed, and your eyes stopped focusing on the envelope itself. Instead, they swept methodically around the room, cataloguing exits, windows, reflections in the dark television screen—anything that looked even slightly out of place.

Nothing.

Calm down, no one's here. No one could have gotten inside. Slowly, you stepped closer. Think. Reason.

Breathe.

Your fingers carefully lifted the envelope, almost expecting something to happen the moment you touched it. Instead, it felt as though your apartment had sunk even deeper into the overwhelming silence of the very depths of Hades.

You held the envelope in your trembling hands and turned it over to look for a sender. Once again, you were met by that devastating white emptiness.

No address, no stamp, no name, only a blank white envelope sealed with meticulous precision. Whoever had left it there knew you lived here. They knew you would be the one to find it, whether or not it was a coincidence that the soldiers had been sent away on a training exercise.

You slipped a finger beneath the flap and opened it and a single photograph slid into your hand.

Your stomach dropped.

It was grainy, black and white, taken from a security camera. The date in the corner showed three days earlier.

There you were.

Walking alone through the eastern gate of the base, your medical bag hanging from one shoulder, completely unaware that someone had been watching you.

Your throat tightened as you slowly turned the photograph over. Only four words had been scrawled across the back in thick, uneven, familiar red handwriting.

We'll meet again.

Without wasting another second, you hurried toward your bedroom. You didn't care about bumping into the corner of the couch or knocking over the small table lamp resting on a side table near the stairs. You rushed upstairs and shoved your bedroom door open without caring whether it stayed open behind you or not. Only one thing mattered.

You dropped to your knees in front of your wardrobe and pulled open the third drawer. You reached behind the lowest shelf until your fingers found the concealed latch hidden inside the wood. A soft metallic click answered your pull before a narrow false panel slid sideways, revealing a compact electronic safe concealed within the wall.

You entered the code from memory with trembling fingers.

Breathe, remember to breathe.

Inside rested a small black storage case, its contents arranged with almost obsessive precision. Several passports lay stacked one atop another, each bearing a different name, a different nationality, a different face that had once belonged to you. Beside them sat bundles of neatly banded cash in four different currencies, old military identification cards, police badges from countries you hadn't set foot in for years, encrypted USB drives, folded maps covered in handwritten coordinates, burner phones with their batteries removed, and sealed envelopes marked only with dates that meant nothing to anyone but you.

Everything necessary to disappear.

Your eyes swept over the familiar contents, searching instinctively, until they stopped on the small square of black velvet nestled between the passports and the bundles of cash.

It was empty.

With shaking hands, you slipped the photograph and the white envelope into the case before snapping it shut harder than necessary. The safe disappeared behind the false panel once more, every secret sealed back into the wall as though none of it had ever existed.

It wasn't enough.

The feeling refused to leave.

Instead, it settled somewhere between your shoulder blades, prickling across your skin with the unmistakable certainty that someone had been inside your home again.

You lunged toward the drawer beside your bed, yanking open the top drawer and digging through several pairs of thick winter socks until your fingers wrapped around the familiar grip of the pistol hidden beneath a folded blanket.

Cold steel, solid. Real.

Your thumb checked the safety out of pure habit.

The apartment suddenly felt much smaller. It was as though the walls were drawing in and stretching back out again, like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe story. The floor seemed to rise and tilt beneath your feet in a slow, relentless sway that made your knees rock forward and back as if you were standing on the deck of a ship.

The colors around you blurred together, bleeding into the outlines of every piece of furniture in the living room, while hazy white clouds began to gather around you, wrapping everything in a pale fog.

A dull ringing filled your ears, and the silence that had consumed the apartment only moments before was drowned out by the thunder of war drums pounding from your heart all the way to your teeth.

A terrible feeling settled inside your increasingly disoriented mind. You were forgetting something.

Breathe, you need to breathe.

How did it go again? Right.

Three things you can see: The nightstand, The wardrobe, The closed safe.

Two things you can touch: The wooden floor beneath your bare feet, The gun.

One thing you can hear:

Footsteps coming down your hallway.

It's not that they don't want to. Of course they want to, love. They want to hold you, kiss you, snuggle their babies, and make promises that they know they can't keep. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but they can't worry about that now. They can't fathom the very thought of that right now. They can only peal off the skin they refuse you to see, lick their wounds and tend to their cuts and bruises and frail souls until they're strong enough to be the men that they know they can be. Finally, be what you need, so you and the children will have to wait for now.

They're a mess when they get back to their home base. Exhausted. Worn. Weary. Caked in blood, soot, grime and mud. They smell terrible. Like death. Like rot. Like hell. But none of them can stop thinking about you. About their babies. About what it all means. It's all so convoluted and a mess and not what they need, but they refuse to stop. Not now. Not when they're so close to having you back. Their very lives back—

Or what's left of them anyway.

Showers are taken by one as the other makes the bed, another makes a meal and the last person stares out of the window, hoping to see you three magically walking down the street, laughing and smiling and carrying on like nothing bad as ever happened.

But you don't, and that's fair. It's okay.

But it still kills Johnny. Just as it kills Kyle as he stands underneath the shower head, rinsing the road rash from his arms and his blunt fingers dig into the slice on his thigh. It's raw, heated, and angry. He can't blame it. He probably feels the same. Somewhere. Maybe. If he gives himself enough time, enough strength, enough willpower, he might remember what he truly feels. Maybe. He continues. Flushing out the bits of rocks and debris, watching as it tumbles down the drain and away from his eyesight.

Last few months—years—has almost been like he's tumbled down the rabbit hole himself. Gone is what he knows. Gone is what he's grown up with, what has always been right and wrong.

He was a good soldier before this. Always did as he was told, complied with malice if he thought the orders were fucked, but he did it. Someone had to do it. Someone had to get dirty to keep it all clean. And why shouldn't it be him? He worked harder than most. He fought for every step he made. He took every hit with grace. With a smile. Never show them how much it truly hurts, how much they really pushed on him. Its a trait that his own mum praised him for again and again. Resilient to his core. Dedicated. Humble. Loyal. A perfect solider through and through.

But it's all for nothing now. Kyle is unofficially, officially, an outlaw. He's wanted. He's stamped in blood and left to rot in the desert sun. He's put his family in harms way, forced them to move away. Drop his number. Don't ever breathe a word of where they're going, who they have to deal with now. He's sold his soul, and he knows he's living on borrowed time. There's a clock ticking, and he swears it's getting louder day by day.

Maybe if he could go back in time, back before he was offered a spot on Price's team, maybe he would tell himself not to accept it. Keep low. Keep hidden. Don't make an impact. Was it worth it? Is any of this worth it?

The thought leaves him before he can boot it out himself.

He loves his team. He loves John Price and Simon Riley and John MacTavish. When the world, his country, his reason for being, turned their backs on him and accosted him as a traitor, his team stood by his side.

They never left. And they never will.

And his family, his reason for staying alive, has only grown since seeing you. And how beautiful, amazing, wonderful as it is—

It still leaves him sick with guilt and shame and something hot that bubbles up during horrible times.

Maybe it could be easier if they didn't see you at the bar all those months ago, but he can't regret that either. He can't regret you. Not ever.

Kyle finds himself crying as he scrubs his skin clean of the filth.

There's rot under his skin that he can not reach.

By god, does he wish he could.

You were so kind. So sweet and innocent, and they—

They did what they had to, okay? Even if it stings now.

Even if it reminds him how far he's fallen.

He's swore using the child and mother was the last time but—

He's lost track of all the horrific things he's done since then.

But you? It's right on top of his list.

He makes a promise to himself as he turns off the water and stumbles for his towel. Kyle promises to give you a life that you and your children deserve. That Eleanor and Thomas would be proud of when they finally have a family of their own. That would make his own family proud.

He can't speak to them—can barely whisper their names anymore—he can't show them the beautiful babies he's help create, but he can try his best not to mess it all up. He can do better.

He has to.

Kyle limps out from the bathroom, steam rolling off his shoulders and curling around his body like a kings robe. It makes Simon's mouth dry. John's cough with distraction, and Johnny is still staring out the window.

It's quiet between them all. The weight on their shoulders has eclipsed them time and time again. They're lost to the madness, with only each other to watch for.

Their lighthouse, their beacon in the night, sound asleep a few blocks down. You'll be there for them in the morning and they can't wait.

"Let's stitch you up, yeah?" John coughs again, breaking the silence, but he pats the old couch twice to get Kyle to do as he says.

As if Kyle has ever known anything different since he met him.

Simon stays locked in as Kyle gently sits down, a faint hiss escapes him before he realizes.

He's sore. He's stiff. He aches. He burns.

But he fucking wants.

John ignores Kyle's half hard cock while he pours disinfect over the wound. He relaxes his muscles the best he can and John pierces his skin with a needle and thread and begins sowing a picture for show. A story remains, as they always do.

Simon waits for Kyle's cock to leak against his thigh before he makes way to the shower.

It's a quiet ordeal. Kyle only hums when the needle is threaded through him and exhales when John pulls the string tighter and tighter.

Johnny dishes everyone up.

He doesn't know what it is—it's not his cooking or yours—so he doesn't care to really take it in. He's grateful, but that's about all. He places a dish by Kyle and John and leaves his own by the windowsill as he continues to take in the view.

There's a noise coming from the bathroom.

Simon is crying.

There's nothing more to be said about it, so they don't. They stay with him in spirit and shoulder his pain the best they can. The best they always do.

When John is finished, and before Kyle can thank him for his help, John swipes up the pile of pre that has steadily leaked from his tip and brings it to his mouth. He savors Kyle. The headiness of it all. How desperate he must look. How desperate he truly feels.

They're alive. They're okay. They're alive. They're here. They're alive.

Kyle hisses as he watches his Captain take what he wants. Perhaps what he's even owed. He can only watch as John angles his cock and swallows him whole.

Everything pulses and aches but—fuck—he's so fucking good. John is burying his nose against the dark pile of curls at his base. He's swallowing continuously, forcing any bit of pre to head directly down his throat and to his stomach.

Kyle is so exhausted, so wiped clean that he can barely hold his eyes open, let alone fuck his captains face or stretch his legs out with pleasure.

Captain has thought about it and readjusts him quickly. He drapes his thick, beautiful thighs over his shoulders and soaks his middle finger, too. He surprises Kyle by lavishing his balls with his tongue before finding his puckered hole and lapping away at it like he's starved.

It goes by quick before John is easing Kyle back in his throat and his middle finger inside. Kyle can't stop moaning now. He's whimpering out praise. He can't stop telling his Captain how good he feels. How amazing he's doing. He's never felt so good. Only Captain can make him feel this good.

He almost yells when John applies pressure to his prostate.

It's a game now to John. Presses against his poor sergeants spot and hums at the same time. He forces his poor cock to leak all down Captains throat before slowing down and letting him recover.

Kyle can't stop whimpering, he can't stop begging for more-

For less-

For everything.

John has his fun. He traces his tongue against Kyle's pulsing veins. He pulls back enough to savor his taste.

He even swallows harshly repeatedly, throwing Kyle into overstimulation as his prostate is milked again and again.

John thinks about letting Kyle cum when he finally starts crying. He's blubbering away. He's saying sweet nothings and he's so, so, so very tired.

He's so cute like this.

After tonguing his slit, drinking up the last of the pre, he finds a steady pace against his prostate and slurps his cock once-

Twice-

Swallows him down and

Kyle is sobbing as he cums.

He feels his body being drained and pulled into a million directions. Lava is swarming his pelvic, and his brain is completely empty.

John feels the satisfaction rolling in his belly. Kyle is completely relaxed and looks like his angel.

John slowly eases off, but still can't help himself to a quick taste as he does. Kyle whimpers out when he feels John trace his tongue against the sensitive organ. His legs twitch as John latches on to his head and suckles for a minute.

There's nothing left to clean, but John doesn't do anything halfway.

Once his finger is out from Kyle, John has a taste before soothing his hole with his tongue. He gives him a few kisses before trying to push his way back in.

John is only satisfied when his tongue is encompassed by his heat, his taste, the warm walls that welcome him so. He thrusts in as gently as he can, savoring the way Kyle trembles in his grasp. The way his walls milk his tongue. His fist locked on Captains hair, and he can only wait for it to pass.

Kyle's whines mean nothing. This is for John.

He decides it's time to clean up his balls next. Drawing each one into his mouth, gently humming as he sucks. He can feel his cock give a valiant effort twitch, and he suddenly worries what happens if he gets hard again. He can't go again… can he?

When he finally laps at the base of Kyle's cock, Kyle knows he's done.

Kyle barely lays down before he's out cold.

John smiles.

He turns toward Johnny, watches him closely. He still hasn't moved, hasn't taken a bite, hasn't whispered a word—

And that wouldn't do, would it?

Johnny. Poor Johnny. Usually one of the first ones on his knees, begging to be used, to be wanted, to be loved. Always makes himself so eager for his team. Happy to do what he needs to put everyone back together.

But even sunshine needs a day, and that's why John is here, isn't he?

Johnny doesn't fight John as he pulls him up from his seat and drapes him over the table. Why would he?

It's never worked before.

John works to get his pants pulled down, boxers too. His clothes are stiff, and he should probably wait until Sunshine gets a quick shower, but they've done it in worse conditions, so John barely blinks.

He doesn't say a word when he pulls apart his cheeks, showing off his hole, winking as the cool air hit his sensitive flesh.

Johnny grunts as John uses his hands to get him to hold himself open for him. Keep him spread. Let him work in peace.

John is a man who knows what he wants, knows how to get it too. He knows what his men want, even if they act like they don't.

The first swipe of his tongue against Johnny's hole makes him whine. Its short but sweet and it fills John with a sense of pride that only his men can rise.

Well. Them and you.

John doesn't hold back his moans as he traces his tongue around the puckered flesh. As he dips inside quickly before going back to his invisible route. It keeps Johnny on his toes and keeps John smiling as he feels his sunshine slowly wind down.

It's not long until Johnny is relaxed enough to fully take John's tongue without any fight. It's joyous when he finally sinks in. When he can taste his boy and hear Johnny crying for his Captain for more, harder, faster, please.

And John tried to always be a good captain. Put his men first. Show them the way. Be a good example of a soldier, of a man, of a human being stuck with a purpose that far exceeds anything they've ever known.

But right now, Johnny needs his Captain and John is more than happy to help provide.

John is as quick as he can be as he removes his tongue from his boys pulsing hole. He can't stop staring at him, winking at him with such conviction that it really is a miracle that John doesn't say 'fuck it' and sink into him like he wants to.

But that's not the reason for this right now. That's not what Johnny needs.

He lubes up his fingers and presses them in slow but steady. He can't help but watch as Johnny's cock drools with want, throbbing in pleasure and begs for him to take it and show him mercy.

John easily finds his prostate and begins stroking him with vigor. The continuous pressure and stretch of his captains fingers are always too much for poor sunshine and he tries to breath through the pleasure spiking through him. He tries to hold on. He tries to keep going. He tries to—

Johnny cries as he cums. It unlocks what he's tried so hard to keep hidden. Everything he's put into boxes and filed away, only meant to deal with it all years and years down the line—

It's blubbering out like he's a small child again. When his parents fought and left him alone in the cold house, scared and broken before he even knew what it meant.

And John tries to be a good captain. He let's his sunshine have his rainy day. He pulls out gently, shushing away all of Johnny's apologies. He pets his back and pulls him up to his arms. He rocks him, kissing his forehead and whispers what a good job he did. How he was the best to do it. It's not all for nothing. There is a light at the end of his long, terrible tunnel.

Captain will make sure of it.

Eventually, he pulls them both to the shower. Simon is still under, letting the water pound against his back, wash away his own regrets and undoings. He stands at attention when the door is opened and almost collapses when he realizes it's just his Captain.

John doesn't say a word, not that he has to. Simon collects Johnny and smothers him against his chest, letting the warmth embrace them both before grabbing the soap for his Soap. John watches, briefly, eyes smiling as he watches his oldest take care of the youngest.

Simon will make a good captain one day. Better than John, he hopes. He wishes he'll be around to see it.

He wishes he could find another way.

He leaves them both to collect Kyle, still knocked out cold from earlier.

He isn't awake, but he does walk to their bed with John's hand firmly on his shoulder, guiding his way around.

Kyle will always follow his Captain and it's something John doesn't take likely. He can't.

Not again.

He burrows Kyle in the blankets. Wraps them around him until only his mouth is visible.

The other aren't far behind.

They stumble in and collapse, letting John cover their bodies in warmth, snuggling against each other and snoring a brief moment later.

He stares at them all. He can't help it.

His family. His home.

He's so proud of them.

He gives himself a minute before making his way to the bathroom. The weight of the world is heavy on his shoulders. An ache he found at an early age and it's only grown over the years.

He sheds his clothes. His skin. He makes the water burn and forces himself to stand under it. He recites the names of men lost. He thinks back to when it all became too much. What would be his tipping point? Did he already find it? Is it all too much?

He's silent as he scrubs. Ignores the tears as he washes. Tries to breathe as his chest locks in place.

He can't see the way anymore. He can't remember what he's fighting for.

John can only remember who he's lost. Who he sacrificed.

He prays it's all worth it.

He's done. He dries. He's ready for bed and to snuggle away and dream of nothing until he can finally come home to you. Beg for you to forgive them all. Talk and work on what to do next.

It's time.

He's—

There's noise coming from the kitchen.

Captain Price has a gun in his hand and he's quietly making his way towards the danger. How did they find them? Did they have you? Are you next? He needs to contact Kate. He needs to make sure that you're safe.

He almost thinks he's hallucinating when he sees a familiar back. When the babbles of two little ones fill the room. When the smell of you hits him like a sucker punch.

He knows its you when you turn and smile. Your arms are open, and your eyes are full.

"Welcome home, baby."

~