#cod laswell

“You… call Ghost during breaks?” you asked, trying to keep your voice level.

“Yeah, ‘course. What are friends for?” Soap shrugged, as if the topic wasn’t gutting you. As if it was ordinary. As if Ghost picking up his calls was the most expected thing in the world.

Your throat tightened. Soap kept talking.

“He gets grumpy sometimes but he picks up. Usually. Unless he’s caught up with something. Happens, aye?”

You nodded, but it felt mechanical. Automatic.

You tried not to think about how Ghost sent your calls to voicemail. How your messages went unread until he felt like answering, if he answered. How the only time you managed to get him out for a beer had taken months of trying and even then he sat stiffly, barely engaging, as if you were a task he had to tolerate.

But Soap? Soap had access. Effortless access.

Of course he did.

You coughed, trying to force down the lump that blocked your air.

Soap took it the wrong way. He reached out and patted your back, gentle and concerned. “Y’alright there?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, waving him off. “Drink went down the wrong pipe. That’s all.”

Soap nodded in sympathy. “Rough.”

You looked at him, expression flat. “Thanks.”

He accepted that without question. Then, with another sip of his drink:

“So anyway, I called him up earlier. Asked if he wanted to eat with the McTavish lot for Christmas evening.”

Your pulse stilled.

Soap kept going, unaware of the shift inside you. “Told him he doesn’t have to come if he’s busy or tired. But he said he’d think about it. So that’s something, yeah?”

You didn’t answer.

You only hummed when you needed to, nodded when it looked expected.

Ghost. At a Christmas gathering. Ghost, choosing to be anywhere near a family. Ghost, considering a night with people he actually cared about.

Not you, of course. Never you.

You stared down at your drink. The ice was melting, small cracks running through the cubes, tiny drops sliding down your fingers as you held the glass. You kept your eyes on that and not on Soap’s excited grin.

Why would Ghost bother with someone like you when John McTavish was right there, loud, bright, magnetic, impossible to dislike?

Why would he choose the person who struggled to get even a full sentence out of him when he had someone who could pull a laugh from him without even trying?

Why had you thought, even for a moment, that you could matter?

“-Guess the eggnog and me weren’t meant to be,” Soap finished with an easy laugh, bringing you back into the conversation.

You forced a small chuckle, head dipping. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “Guess it wasn’t.”

Your voice held steady. Your hands didn’t. The glass trembled in your grip.

Soap didn’t notice. No one ever noticed.

And across the bar, laughter from another table cut through the room, Ghost’s subtle voice among them. A short, low sound. One you’d spent months trying to hear.

Not meant for you. Never meant for you.

You stared down at your drink again, letting the ice numb your fingers. It wasn’t enough.

—

Luckily, you weren’t stupid enough to request a suicide mission from the captain just to knock the sinking feeling out of your chest. Not tonight. Not after a day that had already felt like a slow, deliberate hammering.

You were a hopeless mess, yes. But at least you were alive.

Still, the thought had crossed your mind when you were shoved between Soap and Ghost in the back of the truck. Price, mercifully, was taking his role as designated driver seriously, despite the three drinks that had clearly loosened his usual iron grip on professionalism.

“Can't I shotgun?” you muttered, glancing at Gaz, who was passed out across the front seat, snoring softly.

The captain caught your gaze in the rearview mirror. “You stop Ghost from murdering Soap.”

Right. Of course. That was your job. To keep the peace. To sit quietly and take up as little space as possible while everyone else fit in perfectly.

You sank further into your jacket, hoping to disappear. If you could disassociate enough, maybe you could escape the tightness of the space pressing against your sides, the brush of Soap’s arm, the subtle heat of Ghost shifting on the other side.

Soap flopped against your shoulder with that irritating ease that made your skin crawl. He slurred softly, “What’re your plans for the holidays?”

Of course you were the last person he asked. Last. The afterthought in a chain of voices, a voice that would not have mattered if you weren’t there at all. You told yourself it didn’t sting, but it did.

“.. Probably-” you almost said ‘drink myself to death’ under your breath, swallowing it instead, “-catch up on sleep.”

The captain’s eyes in the rearview mirror burned into you, a reminder that your sarcasm and bitterness were being meticulously logged somewhere in your psyche for a future psychology session. Thin ice. Always thin ice.

Soap shouted over the engine’s rumble, “What? That’s so boring!”

The spit from his words landed on your neck, and you winced, brushing it away quickly, trying not to make a scene. “You’re even worse than Simon!” he added, and your stomach lurched.

Simon. Of course they were on a first-name basis. Of course.

You ignored Ghost shifting next to you, tried to block him out, make your brain stop recording the warmth radiating from the man beside you.

“Leave them alone, Johnny,” Ghost said quietly, and the contrast of his calm to Soap’s chaos only reminded you of your own invisibility.

“Oh, c’mon! You gotta admit, sleeping in for the entire break?” Soap bellowed.

“Sounds like a solid plan to me,” Ghost replied, voice smooth, almost fond.

Fond. Gods, he even sounded fond.

You wished you’d taken up Kyle on that drinking game earlier. Anything to blur the edges of your awareness, anything to stop the feeling that every laugh, every shared glance, every casual touch of John and Simon’s hands was a personal indictment of your own failures.

You thought of nothing and everything at once: the months of trying to get Simon’s attention, the laugh you’d almost coaxed out of him once, the small victories that now felt meaningless.

And the worst part? You knew it wasn’t fair. It had never been fair. You had tried. You had waited. You had carved out space in Simon’s life with patience and effort, only to be sidelined, again and again, by the effortless gravity of McTavish’s presence.

You bit your lip until it bled a little, not caring if anyone noticed, not even Ghost. You could feel Soap muttering something beside you, Ghost’s chair creaking as he shifted closer, their voices overlapping into some private universe you weren’t allowed to enter.

—

Kyle’s favourite was Price.

Price’s favourite was Ghost.

Ghost’s favourite was Soap.

Soap’s favourite was Ghost.

And you… well, you were part of the task force.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. No one had done anything cruel. No one had explicitly pushed you away. But the pattern was there, threaded through every conversation, every private joke you weren’t present for, every look exchanged over your head.

It felt wrong to even feel it. Childish. Pathetic, even.

You were a grown adult, a soldier, highly trained, highly capable, and intimately familiar with the ugliest parts of warfare. You’d put bullets in men twice your size without flinching. You’d watched things that would haunt civilians forever.

And yet…

It felt exactly like being a lonely teenager again, sitting at the lunch table wondering if your friends had another chat you weren’t included in. The one they didn’t talk about around you. The one you would never see.

You told yourself that 141 wasn't built for friendship. That you weren’t owed their affection. That you weren’t owed anything.

But the sting still found a way in, sinking into your ribs in the quiet moments between missions.

—

The mission was a mess.

Comms cut out. Intel outdated. More hostiles pouring into the facility than anyone expected.

You didn’t have time to think.

You made a call. A risky one.

A wrong one, by Price’s standards.

You knew the shouting was coming long before it started.

“What the bloody hell was that?!” Price roared, and the sound cracked through the room like a hammer.

He didn’t wait for your answer. His fist slammed across your cheek, brutal enough to send stars scattering across your vision. You staggered but stayed upright, jaw throbbing.

“Did you listen to me during the briefing at all?!” he barked, stepping into your space, towering over you. “What were the mission orders?”

You opened your mouth, but he grabbed your collar and yanked you closer. His breath hit your skin, hot and furious.

“What were the mission orders?!”

You forced the words out, even as your throat tightened. “Establish surveillance… wait for reinforcements… hold perimeter.”

“Then if you knew,” he snapped, “what the fuck was that?”

Your voice shook. You hated that it shook.

“Captain, I- I needed to-”

“No,” he said sharply, cutting you off with a finger pointed at your face. “Don’t you ‘Captain’ me like that. You disobeyed direct orders. You just cost us-”

He shoved you back, and you hit the wall hard, shoulder screaming. Soap shifted where he stood, as if instinctively wanting to step in, but Ghost’s hand landed on his arm, a silent warning.

Stay out of it.

You didn’t look at them.

You couldn’t.

—

Laswell’s report took thirty minutes. Your explanation took two.

Her verdict was simple: Your deviation was made in an attempt to extract the team after the facility filled with unexpected hostiles.

You had acted to protect their lives. You should have followed orders. Both were true.

Outside the briefing room, the hallway felt colder. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. You couldn’t look at Price. You didn’t think you could handle whatever expression he had now. Anger, disappointment, pity. Either one made your stomach roil.

For long seconds, neither of you spoke. You stared at the floor. He stared at the wall. Ghost and Soap lingered farther down the corridor, unusually quiet.

Finally, Price approached. He stopped beside you. “Look at me.”

You did. Because you had to.

For the first time tonight, he wasn’t furious. He looked older instead. Tired. His jaw worked as if he was chewing on words he didn’t want to say. Then: “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

He continued. “I was angry. We were blindsided. I took it out on you. That was out of line.”

His hand rested on your shoulder. Gentle, almost, and steady. The same hand that had thrown the punch. “You made a call under pressure. A bad one, but you were trying to get us all out. That’s clear.”

You tried to swallow past the tightness in your throat. “I didn’t want anyone hurt.”

“I know.”

You nodded. Not because you forgave him, you doubted he'd care if you didn't. Not because you wanted to talk, neither of you seemed to be in the mood.

But because it was the only response your body seemed capable of and the one that Price seemed to want.

He gave a small exhale, something between relief and regret, and stepped back. “Get some rest.”

He walked away, boots echoing down the hall. Soap followed after a hesitant moment. Ghost lingered the longest, enough that you felt his gaze on your cheek, your jaw, the bruise forming.

You didn’t look at him.

—

Garrick was a good kid.

More than capable. Quick on his feet. Sharp in ways recruits twice his age weren’t.

You actually enjoyed sparring with him. He listened. He adjusted. He didn’t get frustrated when you swept him onto the mat for the third, fourth, fifth time. He laughed through the bruises. And you caught yourself liking the role, someone older, more experienced, someone who could teach him something worthwhile.

You’d tap his shoulder in warning before shifting your stance. “Guard up.”

“Already up,” he’d grin.

And he meant it. He was trying.

But every time, every damn time, his eyes drifted.

Not at the floor. Not even at the clock. But to Price.

Captain walked by once, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, and Gaz’s entire focus slid toward him like metal pulled by a magnet. A small tilt of his head. A spark in his eyes. A silent pull. You could almost see his body shift to face him fully, even if he stayed planted in front of you.

Hero worship? No. Not quite.

Price wasn’t a hero. And Garrick certainly wasn’t fourteen.

Didn’t stop it from feeling like that sometimes.

It never hurt enough to complain. Never hurt enough to resent Gaz for it. You just noticed it the way you noticed the cold before snow.

So you huffed in laughter when his attention slipped mid-spar.

You’d clap him on the shoulder, pull his weight over your hip, and slam him onto the mat one last time.

He’d wheeze, blinking up at the ceiling before laughing. “Alright, switch?”

You offered him your hand. He took it instantly, grinning wide and bright, hauling himself to his feet with a bounce you rarely saw when he was sparring with you.

“For sure! Thanks for the spar, mate!”

“Yeah, no-” you watched him jog toward Price, practically vibrating with energy, “-worries.”

You dusted off your hands, quiet settling into your bones. The mat felt colder under your knees than it had before.

Price clapped Gaz on the back. Gaz lit up.

Of course he did.

Of course that’s who he gravitated toward. Of course you weren’t the one he looked up to.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself you were fine, you weren’t supposed to want that kind of connection anyway. You weren't even in your 30s yet!

And yet…Something inside you faded a little each time it happened.

—

Later that week, the base was quiet, the halls half-lit. You stood in the kitchen alone, the hum of the fridge the only sound. The light overhead was dim, casting long, lazy shadows across the counters. Laswell had surprised you with the cupcake. A ridiculous little thing, almost childish, bright and colorful, the frosting swirled in a gradient of colors that didn’t match anything you would’ve picked.

“I didn’t know which color you liked best,” she’d said, almost sheepish.

You didn’t know what your face had looked like in that moment. Grateful, maybe. Soft. Probably pathetic, if she’d gotten a good look at the way your hands had wrapped around the cupcake like it was a lifeline.

She placed the candle gently in the center, lit it, and stepped back.

For the first time in years, maybe since your fifteenth birthday or the one after it that didn’t happen at all, you felt warm. Like someone had nudged the world back into focus just for a moment.

Then the hallway cracked open with Price’s voice. “Alright, debrief for the mission in five!”

Duty first. Always duty first. The echo carried through the halls, bouncing off the walls. And just like that, the small bubble of stillness shattered.

You held the cupcake a little longer, thumb brushing the frosting and smearing the gradient slightly. It felt right, somehow. Messy, small, and yours.

You blew out the candle. Quietly. No wish coming to mind.

Carefully, you set the cupcake on top of the fridge. Balanced it just so. A small, absurd monument.

You turned to grab a mug from the cabinet, rinsing it absentmindedly under the tap. Water ran over your fingers, dripped down the counter. You didn’t bother drying them properly, just left the small puddle there.

The base creaked around you, the usual mix of distant chatter, footsteps, and the low hum of machinery. You leaned against the counter after you filled your mug with coffee, shoulders slack, watching the cupcake from the corner of your eye.

Soap’s voice floated from behind you. “Oi. What’s that up there?”

You didn’t look at him. Just tilted your head toward the fridge.

“It’s… nothing,” you said softly.

“Cupcake?” His grin was sheepish. “Laswell’s handiwork?”

You gave the faintest shrug, not moving.

He straightened, hands on his hips, frowning like a parent scolding a child. Or trying to. Then, without another word, he hopped and grabbed the cupcake.

You froze.

He tilted it toward his mouth, frosting smeared across his fingers, and took a big bite. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. Licked his fingers.

You blinked.

“Oi,” you said finally. “That-”

He raised an eyebrow, smiling like you were sharing a joke. “It’s just a cupcake.”

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. What could you say? Complain? Yell? It wasn’t worth it. He was right. It was childish. Silly. And you… you didn’t have the energy to be angry. Not really.

Soap took another bite, humming softly, satisfied. “Not bad. Laswell’s got skills, eh?”

He was right. It was good. And it had been meant for you. And now it was gone. And that was… fine.

You leaned back against the counter, watching him polish off the last crumbs.

Soap clapped the empty cupcake wrapper in his hand and tossed it in the bin, grinning like nothing had happened. “Cheers, mate. That was worth it.”

You nodded, tiredly, letting the warmth linger in your chest, even if it had come at the expense of your birthday treat.

—

You couldn't quite hear the team against your ear com. They were a mess of static and blood loss, a slurry of vowels and panic that you couldn’t separate. Everything was too loud and too quiet at once.

You tasted the grit of the sand against your tongue, a terrible mix with the iron of your blood trying to choke you out. The ground was warm under your back, too warm, and something sharp nudged between your ribs every time you breathed. You tried not to think about what it was. Or what it was attached to.

Price was screaming something. His voice came warped, distorted, the kind of strained tone you never associated with him. Could’ve been him. Could’ve been your brain filling in the blanks.

“-copy? Do you copy?!”

“-think he’s- God, Soap, you bloody-”

“-we’re circling back! Hold on!”

Static drowned them out again.

You wanted to turn your com off. You wanted peace. Just a moment where the ringing in your head and the drone of the rotor blades didn’t mix into a single, nauseating hum.

The helicopter was a tiny dot overhead now, growing farther and farther away. You blinked slowly. It wasn’t their fault, you knew. Even if you always half‑believed everyone must hate you, they didn’t mean to leave you behind.

(Your psychologist had said once that believing everyone actively disliked you was a sign of an ego far too big for its position. You didn’t like that session very much.)

It wasn’t their fault your legs had been crushed by debris from one of Soap’s explosives.

Wrong angle, wrong timing, wrong day.

You hadn’t even heard the collapse before you were already on the ground staring at a sky that didn’t care.

Still felt like shit though.

You shifted a little, just a fraction, and felt a clink beneath you. Metal brushing metal. Something taped. Something with edges too neat. You ignored it. You’d been ignoring it for a while now.

Someone was saying something through the com again. No… not saying.

Singing.

A soft voice, ragged at the edges.

Laswell.

“Happy birthday… to you…”

You froze. Or maybe your body was already still and your brain just noticed. Your vision blurred, tears slipping down your cheeks and into the sand. How long had it been since someone sang that to you?

“Happy birthday… to you…”

“-Don’t you dare close your eyes, stay with us!”

“-pilot says we’re losing fuel, we can’t-”

Your fingertips brushed the wires tucked under you, the faint warmth of something that shouldn’t be warm. One of the packets pressed awkwardly into your spine when you inhaled. You tried not to laugh.

“Happy birthday… happy birthday…” Laswell’s voice faltered.

You swallowed, lips splitting. “Laswell,” you rasped, but you didn’t know if the com transmitted anything at all.

“-kid’s still alive, I know they are, I know-”

“-we’ll come back, we’ll come back for you, just hold on-”

You tugged lightly at a wire. Just to feel it. Just to know it was still there.

“...happy birthday… to…”

You smiled, salt and blood catching on your tongue.

She was checking up on you while you were sleeping, movements unnaturally clumsy for a woman like her all because she saw an online order for a new toy that would have arrived while she was tying up some loose ends from her last op.

It’s bigger than whatever you’ve ordered before and she had been curious what sparked this sudden upsize, finding the chance to check your browsing history around the same time she was wiring you your monthly funds she had fabricated some distantly-related lawsuit beneficiary story for.

Turns out nothing in your late night stress-relief browsing had changed. Maybe you were just curious? Well, she could entertain curiosity too.

It would have been easy to get lost and just sit on the edge of your bed for the entirety of her allotted ‘wife-time’, carding diligent work-worn fingers from your temple to your crown as soft breaths puffed out of your parted lips. You were perhaps the most beautiful person she had ever seen.

It could be argued you were even more beautiful as she fucked you on your shiny new toy—grateful as always for your heavy sleeping habits. She was hunched over you where she sat on your bed, one leg on her lap and the other drawn up and to your side, sleep shorts hooked around the ankle, laying you bare.

Her hawk-like eyes watched your every sound, movement, and spasm, well aware of the looming threshold that might wake you were she to get carried away. It wasn’t like she had gone in raw, her hasty prep pavloving you into a syrupy mess she would have happily savoured any other night—but this thing was new and big, easier to be described as a little battering ram rather than a ‘toy’. She had to be careful.

She could feel her eyes dilate and glaze over as your folds struggled to spread around the intrusion, parting around it pathetically. With the brutal stretch, her attention had been drawn over to your clit where it sat at the apex, begging to be touched.

Her analytical mind gave in a little and with it, the leeway she would allow herself to give some much needed attention to your touch-starved clit. It was risky, the only close call she had to you waking up being the night she found out just how sensitive it was.

Her lust-clouded mind reassured her as her thrusts slowed and deepened, if you woke up, she always had the uncanny ability to recall pressure points—coupled with the honed reaction time of a viper? Surely just a little attention to detail would be fine.

There had been a shamefully short time between making contact with the nerves and you clenching and whining in your sleep. It almost felt like a triumph over the toy and there was a smug lilt to her voice as she popped it out of your stretched pussy.

“That’s my girl.” She cooed cockily, cleaning you up and tucking you back in. “Even your body knows who’s in charge here.”

She busied herself re-sanitizing the toy before taking a walk around your place, floor layout burned into the back of her eyelids while she checked for hazards and safety.

As per routine, she had grabbed a few souvenirs to keep her sane during the next few weeks on her way to put the toy back where it sat before her intrusion.