SeventhSister

A few hours before, on Los Vaqueros base

You’re getting ready to crash in your cot after a day of training. Your hair is still damp from your shower, and you can’t wait to shed your clothes and boots for something more comfy.

The training had been rough, but as a young CIA agent, it was a rare opportunity to be able to train here with Los Vaqueros. Actually, you wouldn’t even have heard of this opportunity, if not for your aunt Kate Laswell. Your presence here was a favor to your aunt and everyday you try your best to not disappoint her or Alejandro and his men. Even if the pressure doesn’t make it easy.

You’re just about to get in your pj, when you hear clear gunshots outside. Nothing like the dulled and regular sound from the shooting range, no, it was way too loud and chaotic. There are shouts, alarms - something is wrong. When you open your door to peak into the corridor, you understand the base is under attack. You’re used to gunshots, to police swipes of drug or weapon labs, but the chaos in front of you - it immediately sends you into a state of high alert, senses overwhelmed by the bright neon lights, the overlapping sound of fighting and siren, the distant smell of smoke and tear gas, the acidic taste of stress on your tongue. 

You have to think quick, because the sound of heavy boots and gunfire is coming at you real fast. You don’t want to hide under your bed risking getting caught in the dead end of your room, and for a lack of a better option, you decide to flee. You’re glad you still have your combat boots on, pushing your already-exhausted body through the long corridor. You run for your life, until you take a hard turn and just end up face to face with a bunch of soldiers, all clad in black, clearly not Vaqueros - but rather your assailants.

You’re stunned for a few seconds, stuck in place, just as they are. One of them doesn't have a mask on - white male, dark blond hair, and an insufferable air - Philipp Graves himself. You’ve seen him already in briefing video calls, you know his reputation, and it takes you a couple seconds to understand that he’s betraying what are supposed to be his allies. His eyes grow big with the surprise of recognizing you as well. 

“Grab the girl, I want her alive!” he barks at his soldiers.

You don’t linger, start running back from where you came. Bullets are coming from everywhere and windows on your right are breaking into myriads of glass shards as you dash through the corridor. You try to focus, to conjure up the map of the building in your mind to plan an escape, but the stress of the situation is sinking its fangs into your nape, an icy feeling turning your thoughts into useless panic.

You’re a fast runner, but it’s not enough. One shadow crashes into you from behind and topples you to the floor. The shock steals the air from your lungs, and it’s a small miracle you don’t bash open your skull on the hard floor. But you’re not gonna yield just now. You squirm in his grasp, try to fight him off, aiming for the tender parts of his face, just like you learned in your self-defense classes. You manage to draw blood with a mean scratch of your nails near his eyes, but his fellow soldiers are on you before you can do more damage. Two more Shadows seize your limbs, lean their weight on you, glass shards slashing your bare skin in dozens of cuts when they force your arm and the side of your face flat against the floor. You scream - more so in anger than in pain - and the inhumane cry coming out of your mouth scares you. You didn’t know you could sound like this. 

The acrid smell of tobacco is what wakes you up. You’re fully awake in an instant, adrenaline spiking in your system the second you open your eyes and remember your situation. You must have dozed off after your capture, but now you’re faced with one of the guards blowing off the smoke of his cigarette right into your face. You cough and it’s like all your nerves have a misfire, your whole body hurts like hell. From sleeping on the hard floor with your hands bound behind your back and from the cuts all over your arms and the left side of your face. Cigarette in mouth, his colleague laughs at your pained reaction, cruel bastard . 

“Fuck you” you manage to utter out between two coughing fits. The first guard is unimpressed, he just laughs, but his colleague makes a crude joke about teaching you a lesson or two while he grabs his crotch in an unambiguous threat, punctuating his sentence by a few kicks in your legs. It’s far from the first time a man has made this type of comment, and in a rageful reaction, you retaliate by trying to kick him back. You know you made a mistake when he easily grabs your ankle, pushes your pants back up your leg, removes the cigarette from his lips and brings the glowing head right to the fragile skin of your shin. The burn fucking hurts. You scream, and trash against his hold. It’s no use and he has the time to inflict a second burn, before the whole commotion attracts the attention of the rest of the room - including Graves himself.

He’s visibly not very happy to stop the fight and to remind his guards that he needs you untouched for now. He also orders them to allow you a trip to the bathroom and to give you some water. What a gentleman - you want to taunt him and be all cynical, but you’re also scared he will withdraw his little crumb of a peace offering. 

You’d be so easy to break, you realize bluntly. If Graves decided he wanted to ask a few questions about your aunt, you’d be fucked. A dash of torture, the promise of a glass of water, and you would spill the beans. You don’t know much about Laswell’s missions, but you know where she lives, the name of her wife, you know one alias or two. You could probably guess a few of her passwords. Fuck , you think you’re all tough and shit, promising CIA agent sent to train with some badass men, ready to take on the bad guys all over the world - that’s bullshit . Nothing can prepare you for the real deal.

You could keep wallowing about how bad you’d be at resisting interrogation, but you settle for trying to understand whatever the fuck Graves thinks he’s doing here.

“Why are you doing this Graves?” you ask, voice raw and on edge. “That’s none of your business darling” he answers, insufferable swaggers on, no matter that it's probably 5am by now. “Then release me. You must know who I am, otherwise I’d be dead by now, so you also know it can’t end well for you to keep me here like this.” you plead. “I’ll take my chances” he concludes with a smirk, leaving you to the surveillance of the two cruel Shadows.

After this, you can’t fall asleep again. No matter how exhausted you still feel, your anxiety is through the roof, and your whole body is vibrating with it - the pain not helping. It’s still dark outside, even though dawn is just minutes away.That’s when you start hearing gunshots all over again. Everything is turning into chaos, but it seems this chaos is the result of someone coming to take the base back.

Graves is yelling orders to his shadows, the sound of grenades coming off is getting closer and closer, and you try to think of a plan. The sudden shot of adrenaline at the prospect of a rescue mission on the way makes you bold. Maybe you can turn this diversion into the opportunity to flee? Your train of thoughts is cut short when one of the Shadows grabs you by the arm, massive gloved hand yanking you up, leaving mean bruises in its wake. You scream to let you go, but the giant is deaf to your protests and he drags you across the room, following Graves and a couple more soldiers into the stairs.

You quickly understand their plan is to reach the roof so they can fly away from this clusterfuck safely tucked into their helicopter. And apparently you’re supposed to come with them. As a literal human shield and as a guarantee the assailants won’t shoot their heli down and risk your life. And who knows what they’ll do to you once they successfully leave this place. No matter what you can think of, one thing is for sure: it’s not gonna be pretty and whatever it takes, you can’t board this helicopter.

Floor after floor, your little group is closing on their exfil point way too quickly. You keep screaming, trashing with all your strength against the grip of the Shadow holding you. With one vicious kick, you almost got free, but the Shadow has enough of your fighting. With nothing more than an exasperated grunt, he hauls you up on his large shoulder like you were a naughty child, tightly securing your legs against him, holding you with so much pressure, you’re afraid he’s gonna break a bone. You see black spots for a few seconds, head dizzy with the sudden move and all your blood rushing to your skull.

All your screams and squirming are not stopping your captor in its track, and you reach the final floor. You remember its layout: a few desks and shelves are scattered through the open plan. And on the other side of it: a flight of narrow stairs going to the roof. Graves yells to the group to hurry up and starts sprinting through the floor. The man carrying you follows, his shoulder digging painfully into your stomach with each of his heavy steps. It’s only a matter of minutes before you all will finally board this helicopter. If you can’t escape right now, it’s gonna be too late. But you won’t go down without a fight. It’s frantic and probably a little pathetic the way you fight back against the grip of steel on your legs. You throw everything you got into it. The last scraps of your energy burning in your desperate attempt to break free - to no avail. 

You’re halfway through the floor when the terrifying whizz of bullets come from behind you. Shadows drop dead around you.You raise your head up at the best of your ability, and spot a few soldiers coming after you. Their gear looks familiar. American-issued helmets. Boots you recognize. Allies. Allies are here, but for now, they are also shooting at enemies dangerously close to you.

The guard holding you doesn’t falter, heading even more rapidly towards the stairs to the roof. More bullets are grazing you both and some Shadows are returning fire. You feel more helpless than ever, not a single inch of protective gear on your body, just your thin skin, already slashed and bloody. Gunshots and screams fill the air. The soldier holding you turns to face the opponents. You momentarily lose sight of your saviors, your hearing now the only way of knowing what is happening behind you. That’s when the sound of a shot is perfectly timed with the recoil of your captor, who falls to his knees with a grunt of pain. 

Hit . He’s been hit . 

His grasp on you grows weak, his balance undermined by your dead weight. And now that you’re closer to the ground, you don’t hesitate, roll yourself violently on the side, and fall hard on the floor. Free, at last . Not for long though, because after a moment of pause, another round echoes in the air and the giant Shadow falls down for good, his limp body crushing you under him, pushing the air out of your lungs. Everything goes fuzzy around you for a moment as statics fill your ears.

Are you dead? That’s what you think until you hear the noise of the room again, the screams of Graves and his men as they flee to the roof and leave you there. You can hear the low rumble from the heli starting up, and then the hurried steps of the men who shot your captor growing louder as they got closer to you.

Panic grows when you realize you’re now trapped under the heavy dead body of the guard, your wrists still tied, his warm blood drenching your clothes, in a disgusting tepid embrace. You gasp for air, breathing made difficult by the weight pressing you down. Until someone carefully lifts the body of the dead guard from you. That’s when you finally see your savior. Striking blue eyes, straight nose, and a thick beard covering a square jaw. You… know him somehow?  

“John?!” you whisper, too stunned to address him by his rank or family name like you’re supposed to - you’re not even sure it’s him and you’re not just being delirious.  “Careful, dear.” he crouches next to you, promptly cutting the zip ties with his knife. You can’t believe it, but in front of you is John Price. You spent a couple months with him a few years ago when you shared a training facility. He taught you a few tricks back then, became your sparring partner and a friendly face you were always happy to see. Well, now even more than ever. “Are you hurt? Can you stand?” he asks as he helps you sit up, eyes scanning your body, methodical, efficient, just like he used to be. You don’t understand why he’s losing time helping you, the traitor is fleeing just a few stairs away, you’re definitely not a priority.

“Graves, he’s gonna to escape, you need to go after him…” you wheeze between two coughs. Your protest is cut short by his answer. “I’m not here for Graves.” “Then, what are you…” the question dies on your lips when the realization sinks in. There are 3 other men with him you notice, taking defensive positions around you. Price is already getting body armor out of his backpack, and starts securing it on your chest. Orders are being given to his men, his voice soft but assured, confident. You understand now. He’s not here for Graves. He’s here for you .

You let him work the straps without any fuss, still light-headed from it all: the bullets that grazed at you, the pain from your numerous cuts and bruises, the tiredness, the lack of food, the sticky blood from the dead guard coating your clothes. The rest of it is a bit of a blur. You’re slowly feeling yourself getting into some sort of shock. You only register the sound of Graves’ heli flying away, and then being escorted out of the building, Price holding you upright while the rest of his squad opens the way for you. You’re finally hauled into a jeep, and you’re on the road just as the sun rises, sky bathed in oranges and pinks, peaceful and oblivious to the massacre you just escaped.

You can’t say how long the ride was before you parked in front of a random farm - a safehouse John provides. The place looks old but clean enough, the kitchen you’re ushered into definitely more inviting than the room you spent the night in.

You want to ask a million questions to John, but you settle for a very simple what is the plan now? His familiar low voice is a blessing after all the noise of the battlefield, but you can sense the worry in his tone.

“We have an exfil plan for you, but right now we need to focus on keeping you alive, yeah? Can’t have you die from septic shock or Laswell will have my head.” 

You wince when he removes the body armor from your chest, revealing your blood-drenched tank top. Price orders you to sit on a wooden chair, as he carefully cleans his hands in the kitchen sink. He drags a stool to sit next to you, and gives a glance to the rest of his team that conveys in a silent request that they leave you both alone. You’re oddly grateful for that, because you could sense your growing unease at being under the watchful gazes of the 3 other unknown soldiers. Especially the black-clad giant with a literal skull mask who looks a little bit too much like a Death allegory for your peace of mind.

“Let me see” Price finally asks and he takes hold of your wrist to turn your arm a little bit, trying his best to assess the damage under the grime and the caked blood - yours and the one from your captor. His touch is firm but gentle, his fingers dry and warm against your sticky skin. You’re mesmerized for a second by the sheer size of his hands, closing so easily around your whole wrists, dwarfing your own, holding your whole head when he checks you for concussion  - you had forgotten how much space his body is taking. 

He takes some time prodding at your skull before he hums, satisfied by your encouraging answers, and turns his attention to your injured arm. He pours the contents of his water bottle on your upper arm, and the feeling of the cold water is soothing until it awakens the numerous cuts from the broken glass, making some of the tiny wounds bleed again. Bright red streaks mixing with the dark crimson in a gory painting. Price tries his best to clean them with a pad of cotton dipped in antiseptic, the sting of it making you hiss between gritted teeth.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, but I can see a couple of glass shards still in your arm.” the captain states clinically “I’m sorry, darling, it’s gonna hurt a bit.” he adds more softly, apologetic.  You flinch when he brings the thin tweezers he fished out of his medkit near one of the most painful cuts. “Easy, girl, stay still.” He commands although there is no anger in his words. “I’ll be gentle.”

You’re pretty sure you’ve already known worse pain - but it was different. Minor medical issues or training injuries that had nothing to do with being thrown on the ground in a sea of broken glass by real enemies before being tied down for a whole night and thrown over a shoulder like a vulgar sack. It’s… a lot. And now that you’re somewhat safe, with the release of the pressure comes the release of all the fear and pain that were dulled by the adrenaline and the stress. 

You’re shaking by the time Price has disinfected every wound and removed all the shards from your arm - almost a dozen of them, tiny cristales leaving red drops on the white porcelain of the plate he drops them on.

“Good, you’re doing good, breathe for me love.” he encourages, his voice low and soothing. “I just need to bandage your arm now”. 

He wraps gauze around your arm in small sections, careful not to tighten it too much, before taping it in place. He presses the final bit of tape on the top of your hand, and gives your palm the gentlest squeeze. You respond to it immediately, and your uninjured hand settles on top of his, silently asking him to keep it on your bandaged skin. His warmth seeps through the gauze, helping less with the pain and more with the bubbling cocktail of awful emotions clawing its way through your initial defense mechanism. It reminds you of the time you spent together a couple years ago - the firm hand that brings you up from the training mattress, your fingers touching when he hands you a bottle of water, the light touches against your elbow or your hips to correct your fighting stance, never lingering more than necessary, professional and respectful, that made you crave him even more.

It reminds you of the drinks you shared on a few occasions in that lively pub next to the base. How you were dancing on the line between regular camaraderie and coy flirting when tucked against his side on those too small benches. But nothing ever happened. It’s not like he openly turned you down, more so you both did not know how to take the final step, too afraid to break something that would be impossible to mend. So you had to settle for late night reveries, your fingers between your feverish legs under your thin sheets, pretending it were his. You knew your attempt would feel nothing like his capable hands, but you still came the hardest when thinking about him.

Pain brings you back to the here and now, and your eyes find his, the light of the morning sun catching in the baby blue of his gaze. He looks older than the last time you saw him. He used to shave clean but now a thick beard styled in mutton chops covers the lower half of his face. When he smiles gently at you, the corners of his eyes wrinkle. The grizzled look talks of experience and wisdom, and he’s even more handsome than before , you think to your own surprise - the crush you hardboarded for him had been long locked away in your memory as an unrequited and hopeless thing, frivolous and naive. But here, in the shambles of your life, covered in dry blood and antiseptic, shell-shocked in this unknown kitchen, his kind hand laying on top of yours is enough to reignite the amber of your dormant love.

“Let me look at your face, dove”.

The captain is thorough, cleaning the superficial wounds there, shushing you with gentle mouth sounds when you whimper because it bloody stings, he even promises morphine once he’s done examining you. He puts a strand of hair back from your face to have a better view of your bloodied brow bone and he smooths his palm absent-mindedly over your hair, just once or twice. A reflexive attempt at comforting you like you were a frightened kitten and the intimacy of the gesture makes your heart flutter.

You thank him once he’s done with your face. He keeps busy, cleaning and putting his tools away, feigning detachment when he asks you with careful words if you’re wounded anywhere else. When you answer a weak no, he can’t help himself to finally look at you, concern written all over his face. 

“I’m good” you whisper. He wants to believe you, really, so he doesn’t push for now. Instead he stands up and calls for one of the boys - callsign Gaz - to bring some fresh clothes and some warm water for you, grumbles something about how it’s not possible to let you in those blood-drenched pants. The younger soldier sets a plastic bucket filled with steaming water, a towel and a pile of black clothing on the table next to you, and quickly leaves the room when Price gives him a glance and a nod that clearly says you can leave the lady alone now . 

John takes a few steps himself, ready to leave you to clean and change yourself, but you stop him. The fabric of your top is way too tight, stiff from the dried blood, and you’re pretty sure you’re gonna rip off half your bandages if you try to remove it on your own. Plus, the pain from your ribs and legs is starting to seriously hinder your move range.

“Okay this is embarrassing but… I think you’ll need to cut off my top” you confess, feeling the warmth of shame heat your cheeks.

The metal of the trauma shears is cold against your skin, making your breath catch in your throat - how close Price is from your body as he’s cutting open the front of your tank top is definitely not helping. He’s going slowly, concentrating on not hurting you in the process. The fabric finally parts, and reveals large bruises that extend across your ribs. More bruises appear when you shyly remove your pants to expose the skin for his examination. His eyes zero in on your shin. Amongst scratches and smaller bruises that Price recognizes for “grab mark” contusions, there are two circular wounds from the cigarette burns, their clearly defined shape unmistakable. His gaze flicks to your gray panty, also stained with blood, and suddenly he’s not so sure it’s not your own.

“What have they done to you?” his voice stays calm but you can hear the tinge of anger behind it. “I need you to tell me exactly what” he continues, the commanding tone of Captain Price replacing the soft voice of John - it’s enough to spook you. You must have flinched too visibly, because he immediately adjusts his request “It’s not an order. I- I just need to understand so I can help you, dove.” 

The word of endearment is what breaks your resistance, and you tell him what happened. How Graves’ guards found it fun to torture you for a minute - not even asking questions, just for their cruel amusement. You don’t shed a tear, you just feel a bit sick and tired - so fucking tired - and you’re shaking and everything hurt. He listens, cerulean eyes focused on your face, not straying for a single moment until you’re done. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” his voice is low, wants to be reassuring, but you can hear the underlying guilt, the part he leaves out, that he’s sorry for coming in too late, sorry for not being more aware of Graves’ allegiance .

You swallow gratefully the mix of painkillers and anxiety meds he places into your hand, before he kneels in front of you to carefully tend to the burn wounds. The meds kick in almost immediately, sticky heat dropping heavy and soothing on your limbs. You’re grateful for it, because you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t have let him touch your ankle otherwise. 

“Torture. Can’t say I’m surprised.” Ghost comments dryly, while inspecting his gun, getting ready to leave the safehouse for exfil.  “Bastard” Soap provides, his accent thick on the word, betraying his anger. “What did they ask her?” Gaz inquires, serious and focused. “Nothing. Was for the sake of it.” Price answers, and his boys are quick to pick the unusual sadness in his tone. 

They finish gearing up in silence, until they are ready to escort you to the car, where Price takes the wheel. The exfil point is a short ride away, and the moment you hear the familiar sound of a Black Hawk filling the sky, something lifts from your chest.