John "Soap" MacTavish X Sister Reader
Don't kill me for the sad feels but it had to be done!
To have your brother in the military was—well, it was what it was. A double-edged sword wrapped in camouflage and laced with the metallic scent of worry. Your mother, ever the heart-on-her-sleeve type, cared the most. Her tears could fill a kettle each time he shipped out, and she’d still have enough left over to water the roses. Your older sisters tried to stay stoic, stiff-upper-lip and all that, but even they sniffled into tissues when he came home in one piece. You cried too, though not always in front of them. You clapped the hardest at the airport, practically leaping from your shoes when he walked off the plane in his dusty boots and worn-out smile.
You all loved him—deeply, fiercely, without condition—and more importantly, you understood him. Understood the way he needed that life, even if he sometimes spat curses at it like it had wronged him personally. And oh, those curses! As a child, you had adored them. Swear words were like forbidden magic, and your brother was a spell-caster. Every time he muttered something rude under his breath, you lit up like a match struck too close to dry leaves. Of course, the minute your mother or your sisters overheard, they'd smack the back of his head like it was a church bell and threaten him with a mouthful of soap—ironic, considering his callsign nowadays. You’d laugh until your cheeks ached, and he’d do it again just to see you giggle.
You were the baby of the MacTavish clan. The afterthought, the unexpected encore after the final curtain call. Your sisters were the oldest, born barely a year apart—Irish twins, as people liked to call them, which always made you snort because, well, weren’t you all bloody Scottish? That didn't stop them from confusing the delivery man one morning, spinning some wild tale about being adopted from Cork just to see how long it would take before he caught on. (He didn’t. Not for a full month.)
Both of them had settled now—rings on their fingers, diapers in their handbags. One carried a child beneath her ribs, the other chased after a ginger-headed wee boy with jam on his chin. Funny thing, really—your sisters took after your mother with their fiery red hair, while you and John had inherited your father's warm brown locks. There had always been a certain symmetry to that: two and two, neat and balanced like a well-poured pint.
John, of course, was older than you by two years. Just enough time to make him the leader in every misadventure and you the eager shadow at his heels. He was a troublemaker from the get-go—cheeky, wild, and filled to the brim with ideas that usually ended with scraped knees and the words "Don’t tell Mum." He was also, beneath all that, hopelessly attached to the family. If he got in over his head (and he often did), he’d run home, tail between his legs, to your mother’s apron strings or your sister’s no-nonsense glare. You? You just wanted to be wherever he was. You followed him and his friends like a duckling in worn trainers, tagging along whether you were wanted or not. One time, you’d joined them on a foolish escapade involving Farmer Croney’s Highland sheep. The mission? Chase them from the pasture for reasons never made entirely clear. You hadn’t gotten far—the dogs had turned the tables and sent your little brigade sprinting like mad through the heather, legs flailing, laughter echoing into the dusk.
When John enlisted, the world seemed to tilt ever so slightly. You felt hollow in your chest, like some vital organ had packed up and left with him. There was a silence in the house where his boots used to stomp and his laugh used to boom. But he came back—when he could. Always with that same crooked grin, always smelling faintly of gun oil and whatever foreign place he’d just been stationed. He once told you he was the youngest to pass selection for... something. Some elite thing with a name like a math equation. You hadn’t the faintest idea what it meant, but you celebrated like he'd just been knighted. That was the rule in your family, unspoken but firm: you celebrate your kin even if you don’t understand half of what they’re saying. You’d die for each other, kill for each other, and help bury the bodies with matching shovels if it came to that.
By the time you turned twenty, you’d saved enough to move into your own flat. It was a creaky little place with peeling wallpaper and a temperamental radiator, but it was yours. You’d planned to move in over the weekend with your sisters' help, but when you came home from a concert, high on music and cheap cider, you found all your things already inside. Furniture arranged. Kitchen stocked. Curtains hung. And there, sprawled on your new couch like he’d always been there, was John. Twenty-two and proud of himself, he’d lifted a bottle of whiskey like it was the Olympic torch.
"Welcome home, lass," he’d said with a wink, gesturing to the two glasses on the coffee table.
You didn’t even question it. You sat down, poured a generous amount into both glasses, and the two of you drank until the room spun like a carnival ride. You laughed so hard your ribs ached, swapped stories you shouldn’t have remembered, and at some point, John phoned your mother—bless her heart—to come make breakfast the next morning. She arrived to find the two of you pale as ghosts, dry-mouthed and groaning, unable to keep down even the toast you had tried (and failed) to make.
Those were the moments you treasured most. Not the big holidays or family gatherings, but the quiet little pockets of time where it was just you and your brother, your real-life war hero, and you could forget the weight he carried behind his eyes. You could still see the boy who used to dare you to climb trees, who’d once tied a kite string to your bike and told you it could fly.
You knew the job changed him. You weren’t naive. Sometimes when he visited, he wouldn’t talk much. He’d stare out windows, tense at loud noises, drink a little more than usual. But he was still your Johnny. Still the one who smuggled chocolate bars into your backpack before exams and threatened your first boyfriend with “a creative rearranging of limbs.”
He wasn’t perfect. But he was yours. And that was enough.
It should have come as no surprise, really, that his phone rang the very moment he mentioned you.
He was at a bar, of all places. A dim, rugged little watering hole near base, the kind that smelled faintly of beer-soaked wood and victory. It buzzed with the low thunder of off-duty soldiers and the sharp clink of glass on glass. He had just downed a celebratory shot—vodka, sharp as a blade—and smacked the table triumphantly, flushed with laughter and a warmth that wasn’t entirely from the alcohol. Earlier that day, he’d cleared a building full of hostiles faster than anyone else on his team. A record, they said. Not that he’d brag to you about it. Well, not right away.
He had just elbowed a mate beside him, nudging him toward the untouched shot in front of him.
“Go on,” he’d said with a grin that could melt snow. “Me little sister could’ve knocked back three in the time you’ve stared at one.”
The lad rolled his eyes. “Aye, sure she could.”
“Swear on me life.”
His phone buzzed to life on the scratched surface of the bar table. He squinted at the screen, already smiling. Speak of the devil, and she shall ring.
“Speak of the angel, more like,” he muttered under his breath, standing and excusing himself from the group with a half-empty glass still in hand.
He stepped outside into the chill night air, the neon glow of the pub sign casting long shadows across the pavement. The wind tousled his short mohawk, and somewhere in the distance, a car honked as if to remind the world it was still turning.
He answered with that familiar lilt of warmth. “Hey there, lassie. What’s this then? Gettin’ into trouble without me already?”
But your voice wasn’t how he remembered it. It wasn’t bright or cheeky or filled with your usual firecracker energy. No, it was soft—softer than a whisper in church—and hoarse, like it had been pulled through thorns just to reach him.
“John…” you said, and it sounded like a prayer.
He didn’t catch it at first. The alcohol softened his edges, dulled his instincts. He grinned anyway, swaying slightly on the heels of his boots. “You alright? That sounded suspicious. What’ve you done now?”
You gave a laugh—quiet, a delicate little thing that cracked at the edges. The kind of laugh that tasted like salt and effort. “Yeah, maybe.”
His smile faltered, just a hair. “What’s gotcha callin’ me this late at night, then?”
Inside your boyfriend’s house, the silence was not peaceful—it was tense. Too quiet, in the way a place becomes after tragedy. Your eyes were glued to the hardwood floor, to the vivid crimson that still pooled there, thick and glossy beneath the flickering light overhead. Blood—warm and wet, the color of lost things. A part of you still hadn’t moved, still hadn’t registered that time was crawling forward without permission.
“Nothin’,” you said too quickly. “Just checkin’ in.”
It had all happened so fast. You and your boyfriend had been mid-match in a video game—laughing, teasing, a normal night—when his brother came crashing in. Drunk. Raging. Gun in hand. The memories were fractured, sharp glass in your mind. The sound of the shot. The scream that wasn’t yours but felt like it. The weight of your boyfriend’s body going limp beside you.
You had called the police, shaking so badly you couldn’t hit the numbers right the first time. When they arrived, they asked if you had anyone to call. “A family member?” And your fingers, trembling and stained, had moved on their own. They called him.
John chuckled faintly on the other end of the line, still oblivious to the storm waiting in your voice. “Well, I’m out celebratin’ with the lads, as it happens. You at a party too? Naughty Y/N…”
That laugh—God, that laugh. It hadn’t changed a bit. It was sunlight in a bottle, the same sound that had tugged you through every scrape and nightmare since you were small. Even now, it made your heart twist.
“Not a party,” you said, voice tight. “I’m at my boyfriend’s house.”
You didn’t know if you should say it. You knew your brother. He’d drop everything. He’d come flying across the country if it meant checking that you still had all your pieces intact. But he was celebrating. He was smiling. You didn’t want to steal that from him.
But John MacTavish was no fool—not when it came to you.
“You sure?” he asked, softer now. The grin in his voice gave way to something more alert. “You’re not soundin’ so loud.”
He was always teasing you like that—poking holes in your lies with a needle so gentle you didn’t realize you were bleeding truth until it spilled.
You tried to laugh. It came out brittle. “You caught me.”
There was a long pause. One that swallowed a thousand unsaid things. Then, in a voice so quiet it nearly broke under its own weight, you said:
“My boyfriend’s dead.”
The silence that followed was vast. Cosmic.
John stood there in the cold, phone to his ear, every noise in the world fading away until all he could hear was your breath on the other end. His stomach dropped, the alcohol draining from his blood like someone had flipped a switch inside him.
“I’m coming,” he said, instantly. No hesitation. No questions. The decision already made in his bones.
“No,” you said quickly, panic bubbling up. “John, no. The police are here. I’m okay. I called them. They’re—They’re taking care of it.”
He turned on his heel, already marching back toward the bar’s entrance to grab his wallet. “Doesn’t matter. I’m coming anyway.”
“John,” your voice cracked, “I’m serious. Mum’s here too, I’m safe. You have work. You can’t just—”
“I can,” he said simply, and with that unshakable certainty he wore like a second skin. “And I will. Nothing’s more important than me sister, alright?”
You didn’t argue again. You knew when he used that voice—firm and protective, with just a touch of steel—there was no point. He was already on his way. Already booking a flight or borrowing a car or doing whatever it took to get to you.
Because John MacTavish didn’t leave his family to bleed alone.
And you? You had never needed him more.
You were sitting on your couch, knees curled to your chest, when the door opened with a soft metallic click—the kind of sound that shouldn’t have startled you, but did. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t rushed. It was simply there, like the quiet announcement of something inevitable. You froze for a heartbeat, breath catching in your throat, until a figure stepped into the warm lamp-lit space of your flat.
He was the only person other than your mum who had a key. Not because you’d offered one willingly—heaven knew he’d all but blackmailed you into handing it over. “Either you give me a key, or I break in through the bloody kitchen window every time I’m on leave,” he’d declared with the arrogant charm only a big brother could pull off. And you, not wanting to deal with both broken glass and broken boundaries, had relented.
He didn’t say a word at first. Just stood there, tall and solid, like the world hadn’t cracked apart beneath your feet. He looked the same as always—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, dressed in the muted blacks and greys that clung to him like shadows. But there was something quieter in his eyes now, something heavy and knowing. He didn’t need to ask. Not really. Word travelled fast in your small town, especially when Gaelic women were involved—and your mother, bless her talkative heart, had likely phoned half the county by now.
Still, when he saw you, he moved. Without hesitation, without words. Just motion. He stepped forward and you stood up as if drawn by instinct, as if the gravity in the room had shifted. Then you collided, your arms slipping tightly around his torso, your fingers fisting the fabric of his jacket like a child clinging to a raft in a storm. And he, in turn, wrapped you in the kind of embrace that made the world outside vanish. One arm looped firmly around your waist, the other cupped the back of your head with a gentleness that felt achingly rare. He bent his head toward you, breath warm near your ear.
“I’m here, lass,” he murmured, low and steady. “Tell me what happened.”
You didn’t answer. Not yet. Not with words. Only with the tremble in your breath and the way your chin dug into his shoulder as if trying to hide from the memory still blooming like blood behind your eyes.
But he already knew the shape of it. He’d heard enough. The town, like an old tin kettle left boiling too long, had already whistled the whole story through its gossiping steam.
Your boyfriend had owed his brother money. Not much, just enough to be inconvenient. A loan made weeks ago for something as mundane as car repairs—a broken alternator, maybe, or a cracked windshield. His brother, recently let out of jail for some incident at a bus stop, had come looking to collect.
No one knew where he got the gun. Or if they did, they weren’t saying. What mattered was that he’d come drunk, slurring rage and spitting bitterness, his anger not really about money at all. It was about everything. The unfairness of life. The injustice of your boyfriend having a good woman—you—while he had no one. It was about envy, and pain, and rot.
And he brought that rot through the door with him.
You remembered the shouting. The screaming. The stench of cheap whisky and rage. Your boyfriend had tried to protect you, had held you behind him like a human shield made of love and desperation. He'd sent the money instantly—an e-transfer, barely a few taps on his phone—but it hadn’t been enough. Nothing would have been. Not for a man so far gone he thought violence could fill the holes in his soul.
You locked yourself in the bathroom, hand trembling as you called the police, whispering into the receiver as his brother’s boots thundered down the hall. The doorknob rattled. Then came the sound—crack! crack!—that would echo through your skull for the rest of your life. Gunfire. Then silence. Then your own breath, shaking like leaves in a gale.
The police arrived. They pulled him away in cuffs. Your mother wrapped you in a coat and drove you home. No one asked what else they should do.
Now, here you were. Now, John was here.
You were crying before you realized it. Tears slipped down your cheeks like rain down a windowpane—quiet, steady, endless. He rubbed your back in slow, soothing circles, like he’d done when you were a little girl afraid of thunder.
He said nothing of war, nothing of violence, but you knew he understood. Knew he had seen the same final stillness in others. He knew what it was to look at someone who had once been full of laughter and breath and see them lying in a red pool that spread and spread until it touched parts of you it had no business touching.
He guided you gently back to the couch, your knees barely cooperating. Sat you down and gathered you up in his arms again, your head tucked beneath his chin, your whole frame dwarfed by the strength of his. You clung to his dog tags, fingers wrapping around them like they were talismans.
And then your mind—traitorous thing—wandered.
What would the world feel like when he died?
He was a soldier, after all. A man who danced with danger more often than he called home. Women tended to outlive men. Civilians outlived soldiers. Brothers didn’t always come home.
Would the day of his death be grey and cold, your lungs weighed down by a sky that wouldn’t stop raining? Would they send you these dog tags in an envelope, neat and meaningless without the warmth of the man they’d once touched? Would you hold them like this—like you were holding him—but find them cold, lifeless, metal and memory instead of comfort?
Would you lose him, like you’d lost your boyfriend? Like the world kept asking you to lose?
The sob came up from somewhere deep in your chest, raw and choking, and this time you couldn’t hold it back. You broke. Completely. A collapsing star of grief and fear and love all tangled together, collapsing into your brother’s arms.
And John—he held you tighter. Rocked you slightly, like he might sway the pain away. He murmured soft reassurances in that rumbling Scottish accent of his, his words worn and gentle like sea-smooth stones.
“Shh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, lass. You’re alright. You’re safe.”
You whispered through your sobs, the dark spirals of your fear unspooling at last.
“I don’t want to lose you too…”
And he—stoic, stubborn, solid John—kissed the top of your head and held you like an anchor.
“You won’t,” he said, firm as bedrock. “Not while I’ve got breath in me.”
And in that moment, no matter what war might come, what darkness might crawl out from under the bed of your life again, you believed him.
You were washing dishes, sleeves rolled to your elbows and fingers pruned from warm, soapy water. The sink hummed with the quiet rhythm of home—the clinking of ceramic, the soft gurgle of draining suds, the chirping evening birds beyond the window. The world was calm. Gentle. Safe.
You paused, fingers dripping, brow furrowing slightly. You weren’t expecting anyone. No packages, no appointments, not even a nosy neighbor needing to borrow sugar. You dried your hands on the faded tea towel that hung from the oven door and padded barefoot to the front entrance, your curiosity mild but growing.
When you opened the door, your breath caught.
“John?” you whispered, disbelieving.
There he stood—John “Soap” MacTavish, tall and grinning, his silhouette haloed by the fading light of dusk like some soldier-shaped mirage. He was clad in civilian clothes, jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled like a boy who had just come home from school.
With a laugh that cracked at the edges, you launched yourself at him—arms around his neck, legs wrapping instinctively around his torso. He caught you with ease, strong arms locking around your back, one hand pressing gently to your head like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold tight enough.
You cried as you laughed, tears spilling into his shoulder, the relief pouring out of you in joyful rivulets. It had been five months. Five long, aching months of silence. No calls. No letters. No green dots online. The military’s excuse was always the same: “Classified operation. No contact allowed.” But silence still hurt, even when it came with rules and regulations.
“You’re home,” you breathed, hardly believing it.
“Aye, I’m home, lassie.” His voice rumbled through your chest like a lullaby. He spun you once in his arms and then gently set you back down, your feet finding the hardwood floor like roots searching for earth again.
You didn’t see the way his eyes shimmered. Didn’t feel the tears that had slipped silently down his cheek and soaked into your hoodie. He kept his smile steady, like glass balanced on a windowsill, ready to shatter the moment you looked too closely.
“Get your arse inside,” you said, tugging his wrist. “I’ve got so much to update you on!”
You dragged him to the kitchen, your voice bright as birdsong, cheeks pink with excitement. He followed you quietly, his hand still in yours, like he was anchoring himself to the moment—one more breath, one more step, one more second with you.
You rummaged in the cupboard, emerged victorious with two glasses and a dusty bottle of whiskey. A tradition between the two of you now—one that didn’t need to be explained.
You poured, handed him a glass, and clinked it against your own.
You didn’t notice his fingers tremble as he lifted the glass.
“What’s this grand news you’ve got for me, then?” he teased, waggling his eyebrows with that boyish grin that made everything feel like it was going to be okay.
You smacked his arm, laughing. “You know Farmer Horret, yeah? Turns out he didn’t want the runt of the litter—so I bought it! Just waiting for the pup to be weaned and then he’s mine. I’ve already picked out a name and everything—”
You were glowing, eyes wide and voice animated as you told story after story. You talked about your sisters’ trip to Norway and your nephew’s broken arm and the way he had cried more about not being allowed to ski than the actual pain. You said he reminded you of John as a boy—reckless, stubborn, bright.
John said nothing. Just watched.
Watched the way your face moved when you laughed. Watched the way your hands gestured, your joy spilling into the room like sunlight through a curtain crack.
Tears slid down his cheeks, unchecked, silent. He didn’t wipe them away. He didn’t want to break the spell. He just watched you live—live the way he’d always hoped you would. Safe. Happy. Whole.
You perked up instantly, glass in hand, and skipped toward the door, a walking portrait of warmth. “Back in a sec!” you called over your shoulder with a smile so radiant it could’ve melted frost from steel.
John stood there in the kitchen, heart cracking.
He downed the rest of his whiskey in one go, set the glass down carefully on the counter, and followed you with slow, dragging steps. He already knew.
The moment you opened the door, everything changed.
There they stood. Men in uniform. Faces you had heard stories about. One tall and stoic with a mask—Ghost. One kind-eyed with a familiar British softness—Gaz. (Gaz was often invited over for holiday by John) And in the middle, steady as a mountain and just as sorrowful—Price. Their hands were full. A flag folded like a secret. Medals glinting. Dog tags strung on a chain. And a letter sealed with the weight of the world.
You blinked, confused. Turned to glance back toward the kitchen—toward where John should have been.
But all you saw was an empty glass on the counter.
The universe held its breath.
Price stepped forward, removed his hat. “Miss MacTavish… I’m so sorry. We’re here to inform you that your brother, Sergeant John MacTavish, was killed in action—”
The letter slipped into your hand like a stone dropped into water.
John watched. He stood there, unseen, unheard, and more heartbroken than he'd ever been in life. He saw your lips part, eyes widen, your fingers tremble around the paper. Saw you look behind you again, desperate for this to be a joke, for him to be standing there laughing with another drink.
The wooden floor rose to meet you with a cruel thud, and your cry—that cry—ripped through the air like fabric tearing. It was the kind of sound that only came from the deepest place, where love and pain meet and wage war.
John collapsed too—spirit folding into itself—as he watched you break.
Watched Kyle kneel beside you, arms around your shoulders, rocking you like he had watched John do so many times before. Watched Ghost look away, unable to bear it, mist gathering in his usually unreadable eyes. Watched Price step forward and gently set the folded flag on your kitchen table—the same table where moments ago you’d poured two glasses of whiskey and laughed about puppies.
And still, John couldn’t touch you. Couldn’t hold you. Couldn’t whisper that it was going to be okay.
He had made it official—signed his name to the orders: that you were to be the last to know, but the first to be honored. Because you were his home. Because he didn’t have a wife. Because his real family was you. Because his bedroom was across the hall from yours, and neither of you had ever liked the quiet. Because you were the one person in the world he’d trusted to carry his memory.
He had saved his Captain. And lost himself.
And now, all he could do was watch the light drain from your world, and hope—pray—that one day, you’d forgive him for dying.
Sorry for the sad feels! I'll pay for your therapy!
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