mister

Outside, you didn’t let yourself break. You paced, straying away from the safe house to find yourself resting at a checkpoint a few kilometers away. Your breath came in tight, shaky pulls. You didn’t cry despite the aching in your throat. Unlike the movies, you didn’t scream or punch walls either. You simply sat down hard against a rough wall, knees pressed against your chest, arms wrapped tightly around them to ground yourself.

Looking back down at your hands, they were still trembling. It felt like your badge was still in your grip; the swift pulling of Velcro left a bittersweet burning sensation on the tips of your fingers.

Price’s words echoed over and over in your head, getting louder the longer you sat in silence. You were never cut out for this. You should’ve never passed selection. You let them down.

Just like everything else… all you had left to do was to get over it. There were hours until the flight back home arrived. Only then could you fill out the long and dreaded official paperwork to step down from your position. Damn it.

Back inside, the tension was no different. The badge had remained on the table like a scar. Nobody dared to speak after witnessing the event in front of them.

Price sat down heavily at the edge of the old, dusty couch with his elbows on his knees. He refused to look at the lonely badge on the table. That badge was phony, a disgrace—the previous owner being a twat herself. You were never a part of them, that’s what kept repeating in his head.

Soap broke first, not being able to handle this prolonged and painful silence. “Tha’ was a bit much, Price…”

“No room for mistakes li’e that,” he grumbled back. His voice threatened to crack around the edges, like he was trying to convince himself more than the others.

Gaz tilted his head, hesitant to speak but deciding to add onto Soap’s point. “It could’ve been a mistake, Captain. We’ve all made ‘em—”

“She’s not us!” Price snapped, harsher than he meant to. “She was—she led us into a bloody suicide mission. You all saw what happened. If we were anyone else, we’d be killed. All of us.”

He rubbed his face, clenching his jaw tightly until it ached and pulsed. He didn’t want to hear anyone else’s opinion right at that moment. He didn’t want to admit that he had crossed a line.

It wasn’t until the next morning that he realized you had never come back to the safe house. Even though you had unofficially removed yourself from the team, he was still responsible for all soldiers and their whereabouts.

When going out for his morning smoke before the plane was scheduled to deliver them back on home soil, he spotted you walking back from wherever the hell you’d been all night and slipping back into the safe house to gather your equipment and duffle bag. Thank God for no MIA paperwork.

The tension remained high between the two of you, even when fastening into your seats on the plane and putting on the David Clark H10-76s. Conveniently enough, you ended up sitting across from Price, occasionally making eye contact. After sitting with only the ambiance of the plane’s engines, Price tuned into the headset’s microphone. His voice, gruff and almost grating in the headphones, spoke, “I crossed a line.”

Price’s admission caught you off guard.

“But you did too,” he added quickly. “You don’ jus’ leave your post from a bruised ego.” Well, wasn’t that annoying—he sounded like a scolding father. To prevent further buildup of tension, he continued, “Aside from that—”

“I did what you wanted, Captain. I stepped down. I made it easy for you,” you cut him off, clearly not interested in hearing what he was going to say.

Price paused for a moment before muttering, “It’s never tha’ damn easy.”

The rest of the flight fell to silence until they were able to step on home soil again. The injured soldiers were escorted to medical for proper evaluation, leaving just you and Price unloading your bags from the carrier.

Placing your duffle bag on the ground to reach for the bag that held all of your equipment, you were interrupted by a gloved hand appearing in front of you. It held your badge you swore you’d left behind.

“I need to know you’re still in this,” he started, his voice hoarse and soft-spoken now. Less a command and more of a challenge. “If you’re not, I’ll accept your resignation properly. But if you are… get your arse back to the barracks, square yourself away, and prove to me I was wrong about you.”

You stood there, staring down at the badge. Accepting it meant staying and having to earn your status back the hard way. Denying it meant possibly losing this forever.

Neither of you did anything for a while.

You were the one who sent them in.

All those years spent serving alongside them, behind screens. You were an asset, important and trusted, living in the shadows of their guns and boots.

None of it mattered now.

Not the late-night debriefs, not the hours spent piecing together intel that had kept them alive time and time again.

None of it mattered.

Because today, you made a mistake.

And you almost got them all killed.

The safehouse was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of pain or the scrape of metal. Ghost was cleaning out his rifle with his gaze down and jaw clenched underneath his balaclava. Soap hadn’t moved from his seat since he limped in, head bowed, fingers digging into his thighs to hide the trembling that hadn’t stopped since the ambush. Gaz looked miles away, staring at nothing, blood seeping into the gauze on his arm. And Price? Price hadn’t looked at you once since the retreat.

Until now.

He finally turned, arms crossed, face like stone. His glare pinned you in place. “You know how close we were to bein’ zipped up in bags today?” His voice was low. Controlled. And somehow, that made it worse.

Your mouth opened. You tried to explain. “I—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off sharp. “Don’t you bloody dare.” He uncrossed his arms, gesturing for your silence then he dragged a rough hand down his face. He paced the room, boots heavy on concrete, trying—and failing—to force the tension out of his shoulders.

“We walked straight into a set-up,” he bit out, turning on you again. “Every position, every code, every goddamn move—they were waitin’. You were meant to vet that intel. That’s your job. Your only fuckin’ job.” His tone rose on the last few words, harsh, clipped, military. No room for excuses.

“I did,” you said quietly, your eyes dropping to the floor.

“Did you?” His voice cracked like a whip. “’Cause from where I’m standin’, you didn’t do it well enough. This wasn’t a bad call, this was a bloody fuck up. A critical one”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of his anger. “I’ve trusted you with my team for years,” he said, voice like gravel. “I’ve trusted you to cover our backs.” He added, shaking his head like the words had soured him as they left his mouth. “You let ‘em down today.” He paused to gesture at his team then at himself. “You let me down.”

Your chest tightened. But he wasn’t finished.

“You were never supposed to be in the field with us,” he added, almost spitting the words now. “This whole thing’s been a mistake, it was a mistake on my end lettin’ a muppet like you anywhere near my squad.”

You swallowed hard. Maybe it was just the stress talking? He had just returned from a near-death experience. There was fear that lingered beneath his words, beneath his white hot fury. However, knowing this didn’t make it hurt any less.

You forced yourself to look past him, to the team. They were already staring back at you with empty eyes. Not one of them spoke up.

Not Ghost.

Not Soap.

Not Gaz.

You felt it in your bones. They wouldn’t choose you. They agreed with Price. You couldn’t exactly blame them. With your last bit of pride, you reached for the 141 badge on your shoulder. The rip of Velcro echoed through the suffocating quiet, louder than gunfire. The action itself felt heavier than the gun attached to your hip.

He didn’t stop you. That already told you everything you needed to know. Your hand was steady as you presented the badge out to him, but your voice wasn’t.

“Permission to step down, sir.”

He only stared at you with disgust, his hands remaining at his sides.

Simon Riley

God your hair was really annoying you tonight.

It was stupid, and maybe you were overreacting but you couldn’t stop picking at your hair tonight. Your friends had planned a picnic for the day after and you couldn’t get your hair to behave to pick an updo. Repeatedly running your fingers through the long strands, bunching it up into a ponytail, trying some trial braids, doing buns only for them to turn out lopsided because of the weight of your long hair or some random strands to pop out or get forgotten to be included into the hairstyle. Your arms began to burn and you glared at yourself in the mirror, eventually you dropped your hands to your sides and let out a frustrated sigh.

Simon was leaning in the doorway of the bathroom before you even noticed him. “Love.. Again?” His voice was quiet but sharp, almost like he was used to catching you in this painful loop. “I told you that the braid you had on before was fine.”

“It’s just— nothing’s working! I hate my hair.“ You began to rant, looking up and bringing your hands back up to try again.

“World’s endin’, is it?” Simon replied sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Shut up.” You hissed at his reflection.

Instead of walking away, Simon came closer. His steps were slow and deliberate until he was right behind you, making you pause in tugging at your hair. His hand came up to casually, almost carelessly, tangle into your hair, giving it a lazy tug.

“Yeah? Guess it’s terrible.” he muttered, and you huffed out a bitter laugh. But his hand stayed steady in your hair. “Y’know what I see?” That sarcastic tone had melted away, leaving something lower. More serious. “I see someone overthinkin’ about somethin’ that doesn’t matter.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes, and the tightening grip he still had on your hair, made you hesitate. His hold wasn’t painful, but it was rough enough to ground you.

“Looks good to me, love. Always has.” Simon was never the type to overdo it; he said it like it was fact. “Your hair is lovely.” He let that sit for a beat, then gave another small tug. “Say it back,” he commanded.

Your gaze flickered from his reflection and to your own, hesitating. “Simon…”

“Say it.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your cheeks warmed as you obeyed, quietly, “My hair looks… good.”

“Good enough.” Simon released his hold on your hair and caressed the side of your head. “You done, drama queen? Or d’you need me to hold your hand?”

You grumbled under your breath—but honestly, you felt lighter. That was the thing about Simon: he always knew how to drag you back down to earth, whether you liked it or not.

Keegan Russ

You were pretty sure there were at least 20 bobby pins scattered on the floor at this point, and still your hair was just not cooperating.

Keegan, who was staring at you from where he was lounging on the bed, spoke up. “Jesus, you’re worse than the rookies…” he muttered. “All this for a hangout?”

“Shut up, Keegan,” you replied, frowning at his reflection from your vanity.

“Touchy.” He snorted.

His grin made you pause mid-tug. You could tell by the look in his eyes he was already plotting how to make this even harder for you. He stretched like a damn cat before throwing his legs over the side of the bed, standing up and strolling over to loom behind you.

“So you’re going to a picnic thing, right?” He questioned, now brushing your hair off of your neck without asking, his calloused fingertips scratching at your delicate skin. “It’s just fuckin’ lunch.”

“Yeah, and I wanna look decent, Keegan.” You grumbled, letting your hands fall to your sides and allowing him to hold your hair. “God, I hate my hair…”

“You know I prefer it like this anyway.” Before you could respond, his hand tangled deeper into your hair, yanking it just hard enough to make you yelp. “All messy, n’ all mine.” He added smugly.

You opened your mouth to protest, but Keegan was already leaning over you, hand still tangled in your hair, the other bracing on the edge of the vanity right in front of you. His body boxed you in, chest pressed to your back, his weight pinning you to the chair. Nowhere to go unless you wanted to end up in his lap.

“All this fussin’… and you still end up like this.” You could see his smirk in the mirror, cocky and satisfied, while you sat stuck between the hard edge of the vanity and his body. From the way his hand stayed tangled into your hair, you knew he wasn’t going to let go anytime soon.

Lunging forward to cease Makarov, a gunshot cracked through the air. An intense, white-hot force slamming into John’s temple. The world around him tilted. His ears rang so loud it drowned out all the shouting—maybe it was Price.. or Ghost? His vision blurred, flickering between pure darkness and dim lighting.

There was a strange cold but burning sensation that spread rapidly throughout his skull. Thoughts slipped through his fingers like sand, jumbled up and incoherent. What? What did he need to do again? Breathe? Speak? Move? Where was he? What happened?

His own blood was warm against the side of his head and scalp, pooling underneath him. Since when did it start raining?

“Soap! Stay with me!”

A voice cut through the ringing, but it sounded.. wrong. It sounded distorted and distant like it was an echo from a tunnel. A pressure was placed onto the side of his head, causing a sharp pain lancing through his skull. John attempted to breathe but it felt more like trying to gulp down thick water, it just didn’t feel natural. His parted lips twitched ever so slightly but no words ever formed.

The static in his head only grew louder, muffling everything else. The weight of his own body dragged him down. There was nothing he could do.

Everything faded to black.