#cod men x reader

awwww tysm! I really appreciate that! They were originally just supposed to be nameless fill ins for the smut shot but yeah…they’re my babies now…gonna sneak them in with some more Phil fics in the future. I intended to do one w Clayton and Phil and the lovely reader, but if there is a boy that you favor LEMME KNOW!! I’d love to write another fic with any of them, smut or not!

university!au with a bunch of popular COD characters.

mainly KorTac x reader

tw:university, moving, etc. This one’s pretty tame(won’t be for long…heh…)

Fall air blew across Campus, heralding the beginning of a new year and semester.

Fresh start for your sophmore year.

Moving up in the hearchy of students has its advantages. For example, better pickings for dorm assignments! The suite you hed picked was an improvement from last years quarters. Only sharing with one other girl and a bathroom in the room, not like the communal ones from last year. Your parents lived across the country and couldn’t help you on move-in day, so there you were with your car stuffed to the brim with all your belongings brought from home. Your first trip would decidedly be your rolled up matress topper, a suitcase with clothes , and a large backpack with most of your stationary and electronics.

hi im a ao3 author but after noticing a couple fanfics blowing up on here, i thought i might as well share some of my work (im mainly on ao3 most of the time so go follow me there @ mellowmei).

The next few days passed in a blur of training, briefings, and restless nights. My fever eased into a faint simmer — still there, but tolerable. Enough that no one questioned whether I could join the next mission.

We were deployed to a region near the Georgian border, a half-collapsed industrial compound rumored to be housing stolen weapons tech. I was assigned as both tactical analyst and secondary field support — meaning I’d stay behind the laptop until things got messy, and then get dragged into the mud like everyone else.

We flew out before dawn. The airfield was shrouded in mist, the sound of the plane engines drowning out any thoughts I didn’t want to face. Soap sat across from me, helmet balanced in his lap, glancing my way every now and then. Ghost and Gaz checked their gear in silence. Price briefed us again before takeoff, his voice cutting through the static of the comms.

When we landed, the cold hit like a harsh slap.

Even through my gear, it cut to the bone — sharp, relentless. The air was thick with frost, the horizon swallowed in fog. Snow crunched underfoot as we moved, each step sinking just enough to slow us down.

“Remind me again why we couldn’t do this somewhere warm,” Soap muttered through his comm.

“Because the intel’s here,” Gaz replied, voice crackling in my ear. “Stop complaining.”

Ghost grunted. “Focus.”

I stayed close behind them, laptop strapped to my chest, gloved fingers typing commands as my modified drone fed live visuals to our HUDs. “Thermal’s clear,” I reported, voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. “Two tangos on the east dock, one patrolling near the containers. Cameras looped.”

“Copy that,” said Price. “Move.”

“Movement ahead,” I reported again, updating them as per usual. “Three hostiles near the west wing. Their patrol route loops every ninety seconds.”

“Good eyes,” Soap’s voice came through, warm even through static. “Keep talkin’ me through it, yeah?”

I smiled faintly. “I always do.”

From my vantage point behind a snow-dusted shipping crate, I watched their silhouettes slip through the shadows, efficient and quiet. For a moment, I felt the usual rush — the satisfaction of precision, of everything falling into rhythm. For a while, it went perfectly fine. The team moved like ghosts through the compound, clearing rooms, neutralizing threats. My hands shook from the chill and exhaustion, but I forced them steady each time I typed.

Focus, Leila. One more minute. One more command. The server breach took longer than expected. By the time I’d pulled the final line of encrypted data, the alarms had already begun blaring across the port. The extraction point was compromised, the helicopter rerouted. Bullets tore through the silence, ricocheting off metal containers. We scattered for cover. I ducked behind a stack of barrels, pulling my laptop against my chest. The drone feed flickered with static.

“Ambush!” Gaz shouted.

Price’s voice came over the radio, tight and clipped. “Chopper can’t make it through. Too much AA fire near the perimeter. We’re grounded until we find another way out.”

Soap swore under his breath. “Bloody hell.”

I scanned the feeds, brain firing through options. “There are enemy vehicles on the south side,” I said quickly. “Four by fours. If we can hot-wire one, we can drive to the fallback point for pickup.”

“You’re suggesting we steal one?” Gaz asked.

“Unless you prefer walking through two miles of hostiles, yes.”

Soap hesitated. I could almost hear his skepticism through the comms.

“Leila,” he said, voice lower, “you sure about this?”

“No,” I admitted, “but at least we can say we tried.”

Silence. Then Ghost’s voice. “She’s right. Move out.”

By the time I reached the lot, the night air was alive with gunfire. Bullets sparked against metal as I ducked behind a crate, lungs burning. I spotted the rest of the squad — Soap, Ghost, Gaz, and Price — pinned down behind an overturned truck. My body moved before I could think. I sprinted across the open gap, firing twice, covering their flank as they regrouped.

“Vehicle’s over there!” I yelled, pointing toward the far corner where an armored SUV sat half-buried in debris.

Soap looked doubtful even as he followed. “You sure it’ll start?”

I smirked, adrenaline cutting through the fever’s haze. “I’ve stolen worse.”

Ghost muttered something under his breath about reckless analysts, but climbed in the back anyway with Gaz. Soap took shotgun, and Price covered us as I hotwired the ignition. Sparks flew. Then, miraculously, the engine roared to life.

Soap gave a low whistle. “Remind me never to leave my car unattended near ye.”

“Noted,” I said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Now buckle up.”

He blinked. “You’re driving?”

“Yes, I’m driving.”

He swore under his breath.

I slammed my foot on the gas. The truck lurched forward, tires spinning before catching traction. The gates ahead loomed — and behind us, more gunfire, shouting. I heard Ghost yelling for cover, Gaz returning fire. The engine roared as I swerved around debris, snow kicking up behind us.

I didn’t look back until I had to.

The rearview mirror caught the glint of headlights closing in—a black vehicle, fast and armed. Two men in the front aimed rifles in our direction. My hands tightened around the wheel.

“Hold tight,” I muttered, swerving hard right. Bullets pinged off the side mirror, glass shattering.

Soap shouted something, but the rush drowned it out. My hands were steady. Too steady. I’d done this before — Baghdad, Mosul, all the way back when my life was a series of car chases and narrow escapes. For a fleeting moment, I wasn’t a soldier. I was the vigilante again, burning down the night.

The memory almost made me smile — until I caught sight of the truck pulling closer.

“Leila!” Soap barked.

“I see them!”

I veered sharply, tires screeching on the icy road. The truck followed — too close, too reckless — before sliding out of control. It crashed into a ditch, the explosion lighting up the dark.

“Nice work!” Gaz yelled.

I smirked. “Told you to trust my driving.”

“Remind me never to,” Ghost muttered.

But I barely had time to breathe before the vehicle hit a patch of black ice. The truck spun, the horizon flipping end over end — metal screeching, glass shattering — before everything went weightless, silent, and then—

Impact.

The air punched out of my lungs. The dashboard slammed into my ribs, the seatbelt cutting against my shoulder. For a second, I thought I’d gone blind — everything white and ringing and still.

At first there was shouting. The distant whir of a helicopter. I heard Soap calling my name, distant, muffled. Hands trying to shake me awake.

I tried to answer, but the darkness was already pulling me under, warm and heavy. All I could think was not again. Not another crash. Not another reminder that everything I touched seemed to end like this — twisted metal, smoke, silence.

The last thing I felt was the trickle of blood running down my forehead, hot against the cold. Everything was slipping away. The cold seeped in deep, numbing the pain. My last thought before darkness took me was how strange it was—how something so violent could feel almost peaceful.

Then — nothing.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

At first, there was nothing but sound.

A high-pitched ringing, hollow and constant, like it came from inside my skull. Then came fragments — a man shouting my name, the crunch of metal twisting, the sharp slap of wind cutting through broken glass. Somewhere in the distance, rotor blades churned the air, heavy and rhythmic.

And then… nothing again.

The darkness was softer this time, less violent. It pressed against me in slow waves. My body didn’t feel like my own. When I tried to move, something deep inside my chest burned — not sharp pain, but a thick, dragging ache that made me sink back down.

I thought, So this is what it’s like to die.

But death didn’t have the sound of heart monitors.

The beeping reached me first — faint and regular. Then the hum of fluorescent lights. Someone typing. I realized I could hear my own breathing too, low and rasping, but steady.

I wasn’t dead.

My eyelids felt glued shut, like they weighed more than the rest of me combined. I forced them open anyway. The light stabbed through, blinding at first. My vision swam — white ceiling, sterile walls, the metallic edge of an IV stand. Everything tilted, then settled into focus just enough to reveal the outline of a woman sitting nearby, typing on a tablet.

A nurse.

My left arm felt heavy. I glanced down — or tried to — and saw the cast, thick and white from wrist to elbow. My other arm lay against the sheet, dotted with IV lines. And my neck — God, my neck — it felt stiff, bound in something rough. I tried to lift my head and immediately regretted it when pain shot down my shoulders.

A groan escaped before I could stop it. The nurse’s head snapped up.

“Leila?” she said quickly, her chair scraping against the floor as she stood. “Hey, hey, don’t move — you’re awake, that’s good, but don’t move just yet.”

Her voice was familiar. Soft but firm. When my eyes adjusted, I finally placed her. Evelyn. The same nurse from before — the one who’d scolded me after the escape attempt.

“Welcome back, troublemaker,” she muttered, but her tone carried more relief than irritation. She hurried to my bedside, checking the monitors and the IVs. “You scared the hell out of everyone.”

“What…” My voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. I swallowed, my throat dry as sandpaper. “What happened?”

Evelyn pressed a straw to my lips. “Small sips. You had a concussion, fractured ribs, and a mild cervical injury. You’ve been out for a while. Don’t strain yourself.”

The water hit my tongue, cool and unreal. I took two small gulps before pushing it away. My mind was a fog — patches of memory coming and going. I remembered the headlights in the mirror, the sound of Soap shouting, the crunch of metal. Then cold air, hands dragging me out, a voice shouting my name again — before the world blinked off.

“How long?” I rasped.

“Almost three days.” Evelyn adjusted the IV line. “You’re lucky you made it back in one piece.”

I let my gaze drift to my torso. Bandages wrapped tight around my ribs and chest, layered beneath a medical binder to keep everything from shifting. Every breath tugged against the compression. A dull ache throbbed somewhere near my sternum — surgery stitches, probably. I flexed my fingers once, testing movement. My right hand was fine, but my left was useless, locked up in plaster.

Evelyn caught me glancing down. “You broke that arm clean when the car flipped,” she said quietly. “And the neck brace stays until the doctor clears you. No arguments.”

I huffed out something that was almost a laugh, if it hadn’t hurt so much. “Noted.”

For a minute, we just listened to the steady rhythm of the monitors. I could hear faint footsteps in the corridor outside, the distant hum of conversation from the other end of the infirmary. Evelyn eventually perched on the edge of the bed, her expression softening.

“You remember your name?” she asked.

“Leila.”

“Good. What about where you are?”

I blinked, glancing around the sterile room again. “Medbay… Task Force compound.”

“Do you remember why?”

Bits of memory flickered again — the snow, the road, Soap’s voice shouting for me to brake. I closed my eyes for a second. “The mission. The car…”

“That’s right.” Evelyn nodded. “You’re safe now. You did good — all things considered.”

I wanted to ask what that meant, but my chest ached too much to talk. She stood again, tucking the blanket around me gently. “I’ll go call the team. They’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

When she turned toward the wall phone, my pulse quickened. The team.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to see them.

Still, I watched in silence as Evelyn made the call. After a few clipped exchanges, she hung up, giving me a small smile. “They’ll be here in a minute. Try not to overthink it.”

“Easier said than done,” I muttered.

She chuckled softly, brushing stray curls of hair off my forehead before walking out to fetch them.

The room went quiet again, except for the steady beep… beep… beep beside me. I tried to shift slightly, wincing at the tightness along my ribs. I couldn’t even sit up properly without the world tilting. Every breath scraped like someone had sanded down my lungs.

Then the door opened.

Laswell entered first — sharp as always, expression unreadable — followed by Ghost, Gaz, Soap, and finally Price. For a moment, the sight almost made me laugh. The entire task force crammed into one sterile little room like a jury about to deliberate my fate.

Evelyn stayed outside near the doorway, just in case.

“Leila,” Laswell said, stopping by the foot of my bed. Her tone was neutral, but her eyes softened, if only for a second. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” I said weakly. “Oh wait… close enough.”

A few awkward smiles flickered around the room, mostly from Soap, but they faded just as quickly.

Laswell folded her arms. “You were lucky. The others made it out with minor injuries — bruises, a few cuts. You, on the other hand…” She gestured faintly toward my cast, my brace, the bandages. “You took the worst of it.”

I swallowed hard. “Guess I should be flattered.”

“You should be more careful,” she corrected evenly. Then, after a pause: “Do you remember what happened?”

The question hit harder than expected. I hesitated, eyes drifting toward the blank wall. “Some of it. I was driving. The roads were iced over. We were being chased. I—”

“You crashed,” Laswell finished, not unkindly but firm. “The reports say you were the one behind the wheel when the vehicle overturned. You’re aware of that, yes?”

I nodded slightly — or tried to. The brace limited the movement, so it came out more like a slow blink. “I know. But it wasn’t recklessness. The road gave out under us. There wasn’t anything else I could’ve done.”

Silence stretched for a moment.

Laswell exhaled through her nose. “The mission was technically a success. The data was retrieved, and the team was extracted safely. But your decision put everyone at risk, Leila. You could have been killed. So could they.”

Her words hit harder than the crash.

I looked toward my team — toward them. Soap leaned against the wall, gaze low, jaw tight. Ghost stood near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, unreadable as always. Gaz and Price both avoided eye contact.

“You think I didn’t know that?” I said quietly. “You think I wanted any of this to happen?”

Laswell’s voice softened. “No one’s saying that. But command will have to review your status once you recover. Until then, you’ll remain here in the infirmary. Full recovery protocol. No missions, no exceptions.”

My chest tightened in a different way — not from pain this time, but from something sinking deeper. “You mean I’m off the team.” I said flatly.

“For your safety,” she said.

“No,” I hissed. “For your convenience.”

The monitor beside me started beeping faster. I could hear my own breathing, ragged and uneven.

I glanced again toward the others, waiting for someone — anyone — to speak. To back me up. To at least say something. But no one did.

Soap looked like he wanted to, his mouth twitching once before pressing shut again. Ghost’s stare burned into the floor. Gaz kept adjusting his sleeve, refusing to meet my eyes. Even Price, who’d always carried himself like a father figure to the squad, only offered me a slow nod — sympathetic, but silent.

That silence was worse than any accusation.

“So that’s it then,” I murmured. “I nearly break every bone in my body trying to keep us alive, and now I’m the liability.”

“Leila—” Soap started, but I cut him off, anger surging through the fog of pain.

“No, don’t. Don’t act like you care now. You all stood there and said nothing while she talked about me like I was some sort of ticking bomb. I risked my life for you. I saved you. And this is what I get?”

“Enough,” Price said quietly, the command in his voice enough to silence the room.

I met his gaze — that cold, steady look that didn’t need words — and something inside me just… cracked.

I looked away, shaking my head as much as the brace would allow. “Maybe I should’ve stayed dead in that wreck. Would’ve saved everyone the trouble.”

Soap flinched. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” I snapped. “It’s what you’re all thinking, isn’t it?”

Evelyn must’ve heard the rising tone because the door opened again. She stepped in quickly, eyes wide. “Leila, please—”

But I wasn’t listening anymore. My right hand shot toward the tray beside my bed, the one cluttered with medical tools — gauze, a small metal bowl, a pair of scissors. Before anyone could react, I grabbed what I could and threw it.

The metal clattered across the floor, one instrument narrowly missing Laswell’s leg.

“Get out!” I shouted, voice raw. “All of you! You don’t care, you never did!”

“Leila—” Soap tried again, but the nurse moved first, fumbling for the mask hanging near the IV line.

I kept shouting, half words, half sobs, thrashing against the sheets as the pain roared through every broken bone. “Leave me alone! You think I wanted this? You think I meant to—”

The hiss of the anesthesia drowned me out.

Evelyn pressed the mask over my mouth despite my struggling, murmuring something I couldn’t hear over the pounding in my head. My vision blurred again — lights fracturing, the edges of the room melting into white.

The last thing I saw was Soap’s face — pale, stricken — before everything folded into darkness once more.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

When I finally woke again, it wasn’t to the sound of shouting, or the pounding ache of my heart threatening to split my ribs apart.

It was silence.

Not the kind of quiet that means peace — no, this was the hollow kind. The kind that hangs in the air after a storm, when the debris has settled and all that’s left is the echo of what was destroyed.

For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming. My head was heavy. My tongue felt dry. The ceiling above me blurred into a pale haze before finally coming into focus — the same sterile white I’d been staring at for days now. Only this time, the light was different. Dimmer. Softer. A small lamp on the nightstand beside my bed glowed faintly, painting the room in amber against the blue-black wash of the night outside.

I shifted my eyes, sluggishly, toward the window. The darkness beyond it looked endless. I couldn’t tell if it was late or early; only that the world outside didn’t care either way.

And then I saw him.

Soap was sitting in the chair beside my bed — slouched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, and the reality of it sank in. He looked… wrecked. Hair a little unkempt, stubble rough along his jaw, eyes shadowed with the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from guilt gnawing at the edges of your mind. But in his hands, resting limply, was a small bouquet of flowers.

White lilies. The kind the infirmary sometimes kept for patients who’d survived the worst. I almost pitied him. Almost.

My heart gave a faint, confused jolt. He looked so different like this — not loud, not grinning, not filling the room with his bright, reckless warmth. Just quiet. Small. Human.

I thought, foolishly, that if I stayed still long enough, he wouldn’t notice I was awake.

But nothing ever worked in my favor.

His head lifted almost instantly — like he’d been waiting for the faintest sound, the smallest shift. His eyes met mine, sharp blue catching the lamp’s light. For a long second, neither of us moved. Then he stood, slowly, the chair creaking behind him.

He set the bouquet on the table beside the lamp and approached the bed, boots echoing too loud in the quiet.

“Leila,” he breathed, voice low, almost disbelieving.

I blinked, slow and tired. “Lucky guess.”

He gave a small huff — a half-laugh, half-sigh — before his gaze fell to the floor again.

“Brought you these,” he said after a moment, nodding toward the flowers. “They had a machine near the nurse’s station. Thought it’d make the place look less like… well, less like what it is.”

I stared at the flowers, not knowing what to say. The gesture was kind, too kind — the sort that dug beneath all the armor I’d built up. And I didn’t want him seeing that. Not after what happened.

The silence stretched again, taut and uncomfortable.

He finally broke it. “You gave everyone quite the scare, y’know.”

“Did I?” I said flatly.

His jaw tightened. “Leila—”

I cut him off. “If you came here to lecture me again, you can save it.”

He exhaled, slow, frustrated. “I didn’t. I came to check on you. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” I echoed, staring at the ceiling. “Right.”

He didn’t laugh. He just watched me, and I could feel it—the weight of his guilt hanging between us.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For what happened earlier. For not saying something when you needed me to.”

His words cut through the haze faster than any medicine could. I turned to face him fully, my expression hardening despite the dull ache spreading down my ribs.

“If you’re really sorry,” I said quietly, “then answer me one thing.”

He tilted his head slightly, waiting.

“Why didn’t you?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Defend me,” I said. “When Laswell was standing there saying I endangered the team—when she looked at me like I was some kind of disaster waiting to happen—you just stood there. All of you did. But you—” My voice cracked before I could stop it. “You were right there, and you didn’t say a word.”

He flinched like I’d struck him.

“Leila, it wasn’t—”

“It was exactly that,” I interrupted. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t.”

He opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself, jaw working silently before he looked down at his hands. The bandages around my wrist itched under the tension, and I clenched them into the sheets.

Instead, he just rubbed a hand across his face and sighed — the kind of sigh that sounded like defeat. “I wanted t’ speak up,” he continued, voice low. “God knows I did. But Laswell—she’s not someone you argue with lightly, and I…” He exhaled, frustrated. “I froze. Thought I was protectin’ the team by stayin’ quiet. Didn’t realize what that’d do to you.”

I cut him off before he could say more. “If you knew how it felt, then why couldn’t you defend me when I needed you the most?”

He flinched, and I hated how it made my chest ache. I wanted to stay angry. I needed to stay angry.

“Leila…” he started again, voice tight. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just—”

I cut him off once more, my tone sharp enough to slice through the air. “You don’t get to say that. Not after standing there, watching me break apart and saying nothing. You think I didn’t notice? You think I couldn’t see you looking away?”

The room went still. The monitor beeped faster again — traitorous little rhythm exposing everything I didn’t want him to know.

Soap’s eyes glimmered faintly in the light, pain buried deep behind them. For once, he didn’t look like the man who cracked jokes during firefights, who always found something light to say when the world burned. He looked like someone haunted.

“I wanted to,” he whispered. “But I didn’t know how without making it worse.”

“Worse than what? Than me sitting here thinking I’m just some replaceable piece of gear to you all?”

“That’s not true.”

“It feels true,” I snapped, louder than I meant to. The words echoed off the walls before fading into the dark. “You all left me to take the blame. You let them say I put everyone at risk like I didn’t just save your lives out there.”

He stared at me — and for once, he didn’t look like he had a single smart thing to say. Just silence again. The kind that hurt.

I looked away first. “Just go, Soap. Please.”

But he didn’t move. Not even an inch.

Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the faint warmth radiating off him through the chill air. His voice trembled when he finally spoke again. “If I leave now, you’ll hate me forever.”

“Maybe I already do.”

He smiled sadly at that. “Aye, maybe. But I’d rather you hate me while I’m here than hate me while I’m gone.”

Something inside me cracked again — the same crack that had started in the crash, widened when Laswell spoke, and shattered entirely when they all stood in silence.

The tears came before I could stop them — quiet, hot, stupid tears slipping past the edges of my eyes. I turned my face away, trying to wipe them with my free hand, but it trembled too much.

His eyes searched mine, full of guilt and something else I couldn’t name. Then, before I could process what was happening, his lips brushed mine. Soft. Hesitant. Almost reverent.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that demanded anything—it just… existed. Like an apology made flesh.

I froze. My first instinct was to push him away, to remind him of all the reasons this was wrong, forbidden, messy. But something inside me cracked instead—the exhaustion, the loneliness, the quiet ache of being seen only when I was breaking.

My hand moved on its own, weakly clutching his sleeve. The kiss deepened, still gentle but desperate, as if he were trying to make me understand something words couldn’t. I tasted the salt of tears that weren’t mine, felt the tremor of his breath against my cheek when he finally pulled away.

“Please,” he murmured, voice trembling. “Just… don’t hate me, aye?”

I blinked up at him, dazed. “I don’t hate you,” I whispered. “I just don’t know if I can trust you again.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Then I’ll earn it back. However long it takes.”

I forced the lump in my throat down before replying. “You don’t get to show up with flowers and pretend this never happened.”

His breath hitched — faint, but audible. “You think I don’t know that?”

I felt my chest tighten again, this time softer. My voice came out hoarse. “You really are terrible at timing, you know that?”

He gave a faint, shaky smile. “Aye. Story of my life.”

A fragile quiet fell between us — different from the earlier silence. This one felt almost… human. Shared.

“Soap…” I started, but the words tangled.

He pressed another kiss to my lips — softer this time, pleading. Between each breath, between the breaks of silence, he spoke again.

“I thought I lost you.” “I couldn’t stand seein’ you like that.”

“I’m so bloody sorry, Leila.”

Each confession fell like glass shattering, quiet but cutting deep.

“You’re an idiot,” I whispered, voice trembling.

He gave a soft, broken laugh. “Aye. That I am.”

“I shouldn’t forgive you.”

“I know.”

“But I will anyway.”

The relief that crossed his face was painful to look at. He kissed my hand, lingering there for a heartbeat before his shoulders trembled once, twice, and then he went still.

I watched him — the way exhaustion hung on him like a second skin, the way his breath hitched with quiet emotion he didn’t try to hide. And for the first time since the crash, something inside me eased.

Maybe forgiveness wasn’t a single moment. Maybe it was a slow, quiet surrender — the realization that anger only burned you alive from the inside out.

We stayed like that for a long time. No more apologies. No more words. Just the hum of the machines and the faint rustle of the lilies beside the lamp.

yay! you’ve made it to the end, might as well follow me for more fics lol ;)

soldier!Soap gets lost in the middle of the desert, stumbling into a barn at the dead of night and frightening farmer!oc.

what you need to know: olderman/youngerwoman, mentions of religion, slow burn (sort of), bittersweet ending, infertility, angst, smut, fluff, broken English, +10k words, SLIGHT somnophilia (these are themes you’ll read in the upcoming chapters but a reader of mine on TikTok really wanted me to post this so here you go). i don't wanna spoil too much so just read it! This was written on my iPad so the formatting might look a bit weird if you’re using a phone or computer lol

I was born between two rivers — the Tigris and the Euphrates — where the air smelled of dust and palm sap, and where the horizon always looked like it was burning. Leila Al-Abadi, a daughter of a farmer and his wife, sister to a girl who never learned to grow old.

When I close my eyes, I can still see my father’s hands, calloused and cracked from years of pulling dates off the palms, still smell the smoke of my mother’s bread as she pressed it against the hot stone. Those memories come to me not as pictures anymore but as sounds — the thud of the water bucket, the bleating of sheep, the faint laughter of my sister as she ran barefoot through the dust. Then there was the thunder. The kind that came not from the clouds, but from men.

I lost them all to that thunder.

I was eight when the sky opened above Baghdad and swallowed everything I knew. One moment I was clutching my sister’s hand, the next, I was running through a refugee camp, my feet cutting on broken glass, the air alive with screams. I had thought my family was only separated from me, that I would find them again if I kept breathing long enough. But war has a way of teaching you what “lost” truly means.

It was in that camp that I found the can — the small, rusted one that looked like food. I remember shaking it, hoping to hear rice or beans. I remember the click. And then, nothing but light and heat.

When I woke, the right side of my face was gone. Burned away. What was left of it looked like melted clay, pulled down by gravity and shame. My lips on that side had vanished into fire, exposing my teeth like the grin of a skull. For years, I hid behind scarves and shadows, convinced that if God hadn’t taken me then, it was only because He wanted me to live as a reminder of His wrath.

But He gave me something else, too — land.

My father, it turned out, had written my name into his will before the world ended. A small farmhouse by the Euphrates river, surrounded by palms and barley, was left in my care. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.

For the last ten years, that farm has been my kingdom.

Every morning I wake before the call to prayer, my hands reaching for the rough cotton scarf I wear over my face before stepping out into the dawn. The goats bleat first, impatient things, followed by the sheep. Fahad, my Kurdish mastiff, is always waiting by the door — big, golden, eyes like worn amber. He’s my guard, my friend, my only witness to the life I’ve made from the ashes of another.

The land has grown kind to me again. The date palms I tend stretch tall and patient, their fruit heavy and sweet when the season comes. I climb them barefoot, feeling the fibers scrape my skin, feeling alive again each time I reach the crown. I trade what I harvest — milk, cheese, wool, eggs — at the nearby village. They know me as Leila al-mukhtalifa, Leila the different one. They do not stare anymore.

At night, the world quiets in a way that both comforts and hurts. The cicadas hum in the reeds, and the river whispers against its banks. I eat simply — lentils, rice, a bit of goat cheese — and watch the stars until sleep takes me.

That night, however, was not meant for sleep.

Fahad barked.

It wasn’t the lazy, deep-throated bark he used when testing his strength. This was sharp, frantic — the kind of sound that made my stomach twist. He barked again, louder, and I could hear the scrape of his claws against the wooden floor of the barn.

“Shu fi, Fahad?” I whispered, rising from my mat. “What is it?”

The night outside was a sheet of black silk, scattered with thin clouds. The wind carried the smell of sand and hay. I grabbed the dagger I kept by the door — an old thing, its hilt worn smooth by my thumb — and threw my scarf over my head.

When I stepped into the yard, the moon was pale and swollen above the date palms. Fahad stood near the barn, hackles raised, teeth bared, barking into the darkness.

“Fahad!” I called softly. “Khalas! Enough!”

He didn’t stop. His growl deepened, and I followed his gaze — to the shadow standing near the edge of the barn.

A man.

He was tall, dressed in dark tactical gear that looked heavy with sand and dust. His shoulders were broad, his stance tense, one hand raised as if trying to calm the dog. His accent when he spoke was sharp, Scottish maybe, though the words came out quick and desperate.

“Easy, lad. I’m no enemy, aye? Shhh, quiet now.”

Fahad lunged a step forward, barking so hard it made the air tremble.

I froze, the dagger slick in my grip. “Who are you?” I managed, my voice low but steady.

The man turned, startled, his eyes flickering toward me beneath the shadow of his helmet. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to scare you, lass.”

He took a cautious step back, hands lifted now. “Name’s Johnny. Johnny MacTavish. Soap. I— I got separated from my team. Didn’t mean to trespass.”

His English hit my ears like cold water — too fast, too clean. I could understand half of it. My gaze swept over him: the torn fabric, the mud-stained boots, the faint trace of blood on his sleeve. He was no villager.

“You… soldier?” I asked.

He nodded once. “Aye. Task Force 141.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew enough of soldiers to know they brought danger with them. Still, there was something in his eyes — exhaustion, maybe. Desperation.

Fahad barked again, stepping closer. I clicked my tongue sharply. “Run, Fahad! Go!”

Reluctantly, the mastiff obeyed, circling once before retreating deeper into the barn.

Now it was just us — the stranger and I, under the pale watch of the moon.

“What you want?” I asked again.

He hesitated. “Just a place to rest. Till sunrise. I’ll be gone after that, swear it.”

I tightened my grip on the dagger, weighing his words. His face was smeared with dust and sweat, eyes rimmed red from the wind. He looked like he’d been walking for days.

“Ya Allah…” I breathed under my scarf. “You cannot sleep in barn. Animals will be…” I struggled for the word, gesturing. “Scared.”

He blinked, confused, then nodded slowly. “Right. I understand.”

There was silence then, save for the rustle of palms and the quiet breath between us. I could feel the old instincts rising — fear, suspicion, the same feelings that had kept me alive when the world was fire. But I also saw the tremor in his hands, the slump of his shoulders. He was not here to fight.

“Come,” I said finally, gesturing toward the farmhouse. “You… come inside.”

He looked surprised. “You sure?”

I nodded once. “Yes. But you walk front.” I pointed the dagger ahead of me. “I do not trust you yet.”

A faint, tired grin tugged at his mouth. “Fair enough.”

We walked together across the yard, his boots crunching softly over the sand. The farmhouse’s door creaked open, and the smell of olive oil and ash drifted out. Inside, the light was dim — a single lantern casting amber shadows against the cracked plaster walls. The floor was cool underfoot, covered by woven rugs faded from years of wear.

He stepped in first, careful not to touch anything. I followed, closing the door behind us with a soft click.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air felt heavy with the sound of his breathing, the slow tick of the old wall clock.

“You… sit,” I said, pointing toward the low Arab jalsa couch near the wall. Its cushions were old but clean, patterned with deep red and gold.

He removed his gloves before sitting, resting his rifle carefully against the side. “You’ve got a nice place here,” he said quietly.

I gave a short shrug, moving toward the small kitchen area. “Is small. But safe.”

He nodded, eyes following me as I lit another lamp. The flame illuminated the right side of my face, and I saw his gaze falter. Not in disgust — more in shock, like he hadn’t expected the scars to be so real. I pretended not to notice. I was used to that kind of silence.

“You… hungry?” I asked, my voice softer now.

He hesitated. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble,” I said, pulling a small clay pot from the stove. “I make timman and lentils tonight. Is enough for two.”

His lips curved faintly. “Thank you.”

I ladled the steaming rice and lentils into two small bowls, setting one before him. He murmured something that sounded like cheers before eating. His eyes closed briefly as he tasted the food, and for the first time, I saw the soldier’s mask slip away. He looked human. Just a man, hungry and tired, like so many I’d seen before.

I sat across from him, silent, watching. The lantern’s light shimmered in his eyes — blue like the sky after rain.

“You are far from home,” I said.

“Aye,” he replied quietly, spoon pausing mid-air. “A long way.”

We fell into silence again, the kind that fills a room without choking it. Fahad barked once outside, more softly this time, as if sensing the storm had passed.

When he finished eating, I gestured toward the couch. “You sleep there tonight. Is comfortable enough.”

He nodded, standing to remove his vest and jacket, folding them neatly. He didn’t reply. Instead, his eyes lingered on me just long enough to say what words could not. I turned away, adjusting the lantern. The light dimmed, casting us both in the hush of amber and shadow. The wind outside shifted, rustling the palms. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone.

                                                                                        ・・・・・

I woke to the sound of movement.

For a long moment, I didn’t know where I was. The light that spilled through the shutters was soft and gold, the kind that usually came right after dawn. The air smelled faintly of dust and milk. My head felt heavy, my dreams tangled and half-remembered — something about the river, and a man’s voice echoing in the dark.

Then I heard it again. A clatter. The scrape of something metallic.

My eyes flew open.

Someone was in my kitchen.

I sat up sharply, my dishdasha falling in loose folds around me. It was a long, cotton thing — the kind I slept in every night, soft from years of washing. My hair had come undone while I slept, and now it hung in wild curls around my face. I pushed a few strands away and listened again.

There it was — a low hum, a cupboard opening, the unmistakable sound of glass tapping against wood.

Ya Allah…

And then it all rushed back.

The night. The barking. The man — Johnny, he called himself — standing in my barn like a shadow pulled from war. How I had let him in, fed him, watched him eat as if he had never seen a warm meal before. I remembered his blue eyes, the soft “thank you” that didn’t sound like pity, when we shared our names, and the silence that followed.

So he was still here. And now, apparently, he was ransacking my kitchen.

I threw on my scarf loosely, though it hung uneven across my hair, and padded toward the stairs, my bare feet silent against the floor. The dagger from last night still lay on the small table near the door, but I didn’t take it this time. I didn’t need to — not yet.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw him.

Johnny stood in the middle of my small kitchen, his back turned to me. He was still in that same dusty gear, though he had taken off his vest and gloves, leaving them in a pile near the counter. His boots — those same filthy, mud-caked boots — were still on his feet.

The fridge door was open, light spilling over his figure as he leaned in, rummaging through my food like a starving man on a mission. I watched, incredulous, as he muttered under his breath, pulling out a jar of pickled turnips, then setting it down with a clank.

Of all things to wake up to — this was by far the worst.

My patience snapped.

“Ya ibn al-kalb!” I hissed under my breath, grabbing the nearest thing I could find — a spatula.

With a quick stride, I swatted the back of his head.

He jumped like I’d fired a gun. “Bloody—!”

I swung again, the wooden spatula clinking off his shoulder. “You make mess in my kitchen? You think you are in your own home?”

He turned, eyes wide, looking somewhere between alarmed and guilty. “Leila— I was just—”

“Just what?” I snapped, pointing the spatula at him like a sword. “You wake me up from sleep, you make noise like crazy man, and you wear shoes in my house?!”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Ah— the shoes, right. I didn’t think—”

“You not think at all!” I interrupted, waving the spatula again. “I clean this floor yesterday! Yesterday! Now you put all mud again, ya Allah!”

It was comical, really — him standing there, a six foot soldier trying to look harmless while I scolded him like a mother catching her son stealing sweets before dinner.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said quickly, raising his hands. “Didn’t mean to— I was just lookin’ for somethin’ to eat. Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You already bother me,” I said flatly.

His mouth twitched, maybe fighting a smile. “Aye, seems so.”

“Go,” I said, pointing toward the living room with the spatula. “Sit there. I make breakfast. You no touch anything.”

He hesitated, then nodded sheepishly. “Right, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“And boots!” I barked. “Off! Leave by door. You stay in my house, you respect it.”

He looked down at his boots, then back at me. “Aye, right. Boots off. Got it.”

When he bent down to untie them, I gave him one last warning swat on the back of his head for good measure. “Faster!”

He flinched and laughed under his breath, stumbling toward the door like a schoolboy escaping punishment.

Once he was gone, I turned my attention to the chaos he’d left behind. The countertop looked like a battlefield — jars half open, lids missing, crumbs everywhere. My loaf of bread hung halfway out of the fridge, the poor thing drying under the cool air.

“La ilaha illa Allah…” I muttered, rubbing my temples. 

It took me a few minutes to restore order, putting everything back in its place. Then I began preparing breakfast properly.

The routine steadied me, as it always did. I washed my hands, set the pan on the small gas stove, and poured oil until it shimmered gold. The smell filled the kitchen quickly — warm, nutty, home. I reached for the dates I had harvested last week, their skins wrinkled and dark, sweet as memory. I pitted them carefully, setting them aside.

Then came the kahi — thin sheets of pastry fried until crisp and flaky, layered with cream and syrup. I worked quietly, the movements familiar as prayer. The geymer I had made the night before still rested in the fridge, thick and cool. I brewed chai the way my mother once did — with cardamom pods that hissed when dropped into boiling water.

As the smells deepened — butter, sugar, tea — I let my mind wander. It had been a long time since anyone else’s voice filled this house. Years, maybe. The silence had become so much a part of me that even now, with him only a few rooms away, I didn’t know how to feel.

When the food was ready, I arranged everything neatly on a round tray: kahi and geymer, dates, and two small glasses of chai. The tray felt heavier than it should have, maybe because of the quiet weight in my chest.

In the living room, he sat exactly where I told him to — cross-legged on the jalsa, elbows on his knees, eyes down. Without his boots, he looked strangely human, less like a soldier and more like some lost traveler who had wandered too far.

He glanced up as I entered, guilt flashing across his face. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said softly.

I set the tray down between us. “You already did.”

He huffed a small laugh, accepting defeat. “You’re a tough one, Leila.”

I ignored that, tearing a piece of kahi with my hand and dipping it into the soft geymer. The pastry flaked apart, the cream melting against my tongue. He watched for a moment, then frowned slightly, glancing between the food and me.

“You… eat with your hands?” he asked carefully.

I raised a brow. “Yes. Problem?”

“No, no,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “Just— wasn’t expectin’ it.”

I leaned back, eyeing him. “In my country, we eat with hands. Is normal. Is how family eat together. You have problem, you can eat alone.”

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “No problem at all. Just… new to me.”

“Good,” I said simply, pushing the tray toward him. “Eat. You hungry enough to steal my fridge, you hungry enough to eat my food.”

That made him grin — a real grin this time, crooked and tired but warm. “Fair enough.”

He reached for a piece of kahi, but his movements were awkward, clumsy. He tried to scoop the geymer with the edge of the pastry and failed miserably, the cream sliding off and plopping back onto the plate.

I sighed. “No, no. Like this.”

Leaning forward, I showed him — folding the pastry slightly, using the curve of my fingers to guide the geymer into it. “See? Easy.”

He mimicked me carefully, tongue poking out in concentration, and this time managed to get it right.

“Hey,” he said proudly. “Not bad, eh?”

I hid a smile behind a neutral expression. “You learn fast.”

We ate in silence after that. The quiet wasn’t awkward this time — it was… gentle. The kind that sits between two people like a truce. Outside, the wind moved softly through the palms, and the distant bleating of goats drifted in through the window.

After breakfast, I gathered the plates, stacking them neatly. He moved to help, but I waved him off. “No. You make mess before, you sit now.”

He laughed softly, settling back on the couch. “Aye aye, boss.”

I pretended not to understand, though the tone made me suspect he was teasing.

As I washed the dishes, I could feel his gaze from the other room — not intrusive, just curious. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. A woman with half a face. A farmer. A ghost. Maybe all three.

When the last dish was clean, I turned to him. “You need shower.”

He blinked. “Come again?”

“You smell like barn,” I said bluntly. “And you have dust everywhere. I not let you sit on couch again like this.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, fair point. Been a few days since I had a proper wash.”

“Wait here,” I said, heading toward my late father’s old wardrobe. After rummaging for a moment, I found what I was looking for — a simple white thobe, loose and long, with a few faint stains but still clean. I brought it back and held it out to him. “Here. You wear this.”

He looked at it, then at me, an amused smirk tugging at his mouth. “Don’t think I’ve ever worn somethin’ like that before.”

“Then first time for everything,” I said, placing it into his hands.

He chuckled, taking it carefully. “Aye. Thanks, Leila.”

I led him toward the small bathroom in the far corner of the house. “Water heater works. You use small knob, not big. If you use all hot water, I make you sleep outside with goats.”

His laughter echoed lightly against the hallway. “Understood.”

I pointed toward the small cabinet. “Shampoo, soap, towel — all inside. You clean everything, yes?”

He grinned. “Aye aye.”

When he stepped inside, I lingered a moment, hearing the door click softly behind him. The sound of running water followed soon after.

I stood there in the hallway, staring at the closed door, feeling something strange twist in my chest — part amusement, part uncertainty. It had been years since another person’s presence filled this home. Years since laughter had echoed off these walls.

Maybe it was foolish. Maybe dangerous. But for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel the silence pressing in on me like a curse.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

When I heard the door creak open, I expected to see the same disheveled soldier from last night — all mud, dust, and exhaustion. Instead, what stepped out of the bathroom nearly made me forget my own composure.

He looked… different. The thobe I’d handed him hung loosely around his frame, crisp white against his tanned skin and the faint red marks of a hot shower still clinging to his cheeks. His damp hair was pushed back, curling a little at the ends, and for a moment he just stood there — barefoot, blinking under the strip of morning light that filtered through the window.

“Fits, aye?” he said with that easy grin, tugging at the hem as though the robe itself might answer.

I blinked once, then twice. “Too long,” I muttered. “You look—” I waved a hand, searching for the word, “—like my uncle.”

That seemed to amuse him. “Well, cannae say I was goin’ for fashion week, lass,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’m clean, at least. Smellin’ less like a barn.”

“You still look like a foreigner,” I said, trying — and failing — to hide the ghost of a smile tugging at my mouth.

He caught it anyway. His grin widened. “Ach, progress, then.”

I turned away before he could see more than that flicker of amusement, pretending to busy myself by folding a few cloths near the sink. The house smelled faintly of chai and the earthy sweetness of dates — remnants of breakfast. Outside, the wind hummed against the shutters, stirring the curtains softly.

“You plan to leave now?” I asked finally, keeping my tone neutral.

He hesitated. “About that…”

I looked up, and his expression told me before his words did — that he wasn’t going anywhere, not yet.

“My team,” he began slowly, “we got separated last night. Radio’s gone — lost it somewhere in the sand. Been tryin’ to reach ‘em since I got here, but… no luck.”

I frowned. “So you stay here because you are lost?”

He nodded, sheepish. “Just for a bit. Till I can get word out, or they come lookin’. Promise I won’t be a bother.”

I sighed, rubbing my temple. “You already bother. You eat, you make mess, you wear shoes in house—”

“Alright, alright,” he said quickly, raising both hands in mock surrender, that grin still intact. “I’ll behave, I swear on it.

His tone was too warm to stay angry at for long. Against my better judgment, I felt the edges of my irritation soften.

I was halfway through gathering my tools when he appeared in the doorway.

“I’ll come with ye,” he said suddenly.

I turned, one eyebrow raised. “Come where?”

“T’help. Whatever needs doin’. You shouldn’t be workin’ alone out there.”

I blinked at him. “You?” I asked, tone incredulous. “You mess up my kitchen, and now you want to help with farm?”

He scratched at the back of his neck. “Aye. I owe ye that much, don’t I?”

I opened my mouth to argue — then saw the flicker of something in his expression. Not arrogance. Not pity. Just a quiet sincerity.

“You want to help? Then fine. You help on farm.” I met his eyes then, serious. “But you respect my land. You not break anything. You not scare my animals. Understand?”

He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Scout’s honor, lass.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but his tone was earnest enough.

Outside, the world was bathed in gold — the kind of morning light that made the wheat shimmer like coins. I tied my scarf around my hair, tucking away the loose strands as I stepped into my sandals. Soap followed behind me, his bare feet slapping the floor until I pointed firmly toward the doorway. There was a pair of sandals my late father never got to wear that I had managed to find.

“Shoes, by the door,” I reminded him.

“Aye, aye,” he said, grinning as he slipped on the shoes.

Fahad, my Kurdish Mastiff, came bounding up the path, his tail wagging before his nose caught the stranger’s scent. The wag turned to a low growl.

“Fahad,” I said calmly, resting a hand on the dog’s back. “Hada dayf, understand? Guest.”

The dog huffed but obeyed, tail twitching. Soap stiffened slightly.

“He does not like strangers,” I said, smirking. “You stay still. He sniff you first.”

Fahad approached, snorted once, then huffed and trotted off to round up the sheep.

Soap exhaled in relief. “Aye, didn’t fancy losin’ a leg today.”

I laughed quietly, shaking my head. “He not bite… much.”

“Friendly one, is he?”

“He like me,” I said simply. “Not you. Yet.”

He chuckled under his breath, still wary. “Aye, story of my life, that.”

We began walking toward the stables, where the morning air was thick with the scent of hay and sun-warmed dust. The sheep bleated softly from their pen, and I could hear the distant cluck of hens. I grabbed a bucket, handed another to him.

“You carry this,” I instructed. “We feed animals first, then we go market.”

He blinked. “Market?”

“Yes. I sell eggs, cheese, wool. You help.”

“Help?” he repeated, eyebrows raised. “Thought I was just passin’ through.”

“You want to eat dinner again, yes?”

He laughed — loud, genuine. “Fair point, lass. Fair point.”

He wasn’t terrible at helping, though his clumsiness showed every few minutes. When I went to scatter feed for the chickens, he startled at the sudden flutter of wings. When I showed him how to collect eggs, he cracked two before managing one whole.

“Ya Allah,” I muttered under my breath, snatching the last unbroken egg from his hand. “You have hands like child.”

“Oi, careful now,” he said, mock offense in his tone. “These hands’ve saved lives, y’know.”

“Not chicken lives,” I replied, earning a burst of laughter from him.

It was strange — the sound of it. Warm. It filled the empty corners of the air where silence usually lingered. For a heartbeat, I forgot to be guarded.

“I’ve never been to an Iraqi market before,” he said eagerly. “Could be fun.”

“Fun?” I repeated, arching a brow. “We go to work, not fun.”

He chuckled. “Work can be fun, aye?”

I rolled my eyes but said nothing, secretly amused.

When the morning chores were done, I went to prepare Amal, my camel, for the journey to the village. Her long lashes fluttered as I fastened the saddle and packed the woven bags full of eggs, wool, and jars of milk. Soap stood beside her, gawking like a child.

“She’s massive,” he said. “Didnae think they were this tall up close.”

“Her name is Amal,” I said, patting the camel’s neck. “Means ‘hope.’”

He softened a little at that. “Hope, eh? Suits her.”

When I gestured for him to climb up, he hesitated. “I’ve never ridden one o’ these before.”

I smirked. “Then today, you learn.”

He took the saddle awkwardly, nearly slipping once before finding his balance. When I climbed up in front, Amal rose to her full height with a deep groan, pitching him backward.

“Bloody hell!” he yelped, gripping my shoulders as if his life depended on it.

I couldn’t help it — I laughed. Not just a smile, not a polite chuckle — a full, surprised laugh that felt almost foreign after so long.

“Hold tight,” I said through the laughter. “Or Amal throw you off next.”

He tightened his grip slightly but leaned back once he steadied. “Aye, aye. Not plannin’ on dyin’ in a camel accident, thanks.”

The ride to the village was peaceful. The desert stretched endlessly around us — dunes melting into the horizon, the wind whispering like a song. Occasionally, he’d point out something — a bird, a passing herd, or some shape in the distance — and ask questions, his curiosity genuine.

“What’s that wee town called?”

“Al-Khadr,” I said. “Small, but busy. Everyone know everyone.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Bet they’ll notice me straight away.”

I smirked. “You wear thobe. You blend in.”

He gave a mock glare. “Oh aye, lass, nobody’ll notice the pale Scotsman ridin’ a camel through town. I’m invisible.”

That earned another small laugh from me.

By the time we reached the village, the sun was high and the air was thick with the smell of cumin, fresh bread, and diesel from the few old trucks that still rattled down the streets. The market was already alive — merchants calling out prices, children darting between stalls, the clatter of metal trays echoing in the heat.

I set up my stand the way I always did — careful, organized, neat. Soap hovered nearby, trying to help without knocking anything over. He held the crate steady as I arranged the eggs, then stacked the cheese jars on the table. For once, he didn’t fumble.

“Not bad,” I said quietly.

He beamed. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

The first few customers came quickly — neighbors and familiar faces. An old woman bought two jars of milk, blessing me with a smile. Then came the children — always bold, always curious.

One of them pointed at Soap, whispering something in Arabic that made another giggle.

“What are they sayin’?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“Nothing,” I said, turning away too quickly.

“Doesnae sound like nothin’.”

“They say you look funny,” I admitted finally, stifling a laugh.

He blinked, pretending to be wounded. The children giggled harder, and even I couldn’t hold back my laughter this time. He took it well — ruffling one of the boys’ hair before turning to me.

“Y’know,” he said, “you laugh more than you think you do.”

I froze for a heartbeat, meeting his gaze — and there it was again, that disarming ease of his. He wasn’t mocking, not really. Just noticing.

“Don’t get used to it,” I said finally, turning back to the table. But the warmth in my chest lingered.

When the last of the jars were sold and the sun began to dip, we packed up the stand together. He carried the heavier bags this time without me asking, whistling softly under his breath as Amal chewed lazily on some straw.

As we rode back toward the farm, the light changed — everything turning softer, the dunes painted in gold and rose. For the first time since the war reached these lands, I found the quiet not suffocating, but peaceful.

As the farm came into view, Fahad’s bark carried on the wind, welcoming us home. I felt the faintest tug of a smile again, unseen beneath the veil of dusk.

Maybe, I thought, the stranger in white wasn’t such a bad omen after all.

yay! you’ve made it to the end, might as well follow me for more fics lol ;)

hi im a ao3 author but after noticing a couple fanfics blowing up on here, i thought i might as well share some of my work (im mainly on ao3 most of the time so go follow me there @ mellowmei).

Christmas came a few weeks later.

The whole base changed overnight — lights strung across the hallways, wreaths hung unevenly over doors, carols echoing faintly from the mess hall. Soap had been especially excited, decorating the common room with what looked like every bit of tinsel he could get his hands on. The base was decked out in half-hearted decorations — a fake pine tree near the mess hall, a couple people wearing Santa hats with that iconic white cotton ball dangling, and a playlist of holiday songs looping endlessly.

Everyone else was already in a holiday mood. The corridors buzzed with music, laughter, and the clinking of bottles. Even Price seemed less grim than usual, though he still pretended otherwise.

Everyone except me.

I passed through it all, smiling faintly at the sight, before retreating to my quarters.

Christmas didn’t mean much to me.

We’d never celebrated it back home. My family’s holidays were quieter—Eid dinners, Ramadan nights filled with the smell of cardamom tea and the hum of prayer. Those days were long behind me now. I wasn’t sad about it, not exactly. Just… untethered.

Maybe that’s why it didn’t bother me as much as it should have.

I’d caught a fever that morning, though. The kind that leaves your body heavy and your head full of static. My throat ached, nose stuffed, eyes half-lidded. The nurse insisted it was nothing serious — a reaction to the cold, my immune system still adjusting.

So I stayed in my dorm, buried under layers of blankets. Outside, laughter echoed down the hall — distant, muffled, almost unreal.

When the knock came, I almost ignored it.

“Come in,” I called weakly, voice half-muffled by the pillow.

The door opened, and there he was.

Soap stepped in, his hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed from the cold — and, judging by the faint scent of alcohol, maybe more than just the cold. He was holding a paper cup, the kind used for coffee, though I doubted that’s what was in it.

“Well, look who’s hiding away like a wee hermit,” he said, voice laced with a grin. “Heard ye’ve been sneakin’ away from the festivities. Thought I’d come check on ye myself.”

I pushed myself up slowly, blanket falling from my shoulders. “Wasn’t hiding. Just don’t like crowds.”

He raised a brow, walking closer until the faint smell of whiskey and winter air filled the space between us. “And here I thought you just didn’t fancy our wee Christmas bash.”

I gave a faint smile. “I don’t celebrate it.”

He blinked, surprised. “You don’t?”

“Never did. My family wasn’t big on it.”

Soap moved closer, sitting beside me on the edge of the bed — too close, though I didn’t mind as much as I thought I would. His warmth was a small mercy against the chill.

“That explains why I didn’t see ye at the party,” he said. “Thought maybe Ghost scared ye off.”

“He scares everyone off,” I muttered.

He laughed, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So, what did you celebrate then?”

“Eid. Ramadan. Family things.” My voice softened without meaning to. “But that was a long time ago.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — just quiet. A kind of peace I didn’t realize I’d been craving.

His tone softened then, the grin faltering just slightly as his gaze swept over me. “You look a bit pale.”

“Fever,” I admitted, rubbing at my forehead. “Nothing serious. I already got medicine from the nurse.”

Soap’s brow furrowed. “And ye didn’t tell anyone? Christ, Leila. Ye can’t just hole up in here burnin’ up like this.”

“I’m fine,” I said, and meant it. Or maybe I didn’t — my body ached, but I was too tired to argue. “I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s fun.”

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Fun’s overrated. Besides…” He leaned forward slightly, the grin returning. “I’m more worried about ye than any bloody party.”

I tried to smile, though my throat felt tight. “You’ve had a few drinks.”

“Aye,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But not enough to forget me manners.”

The warmth in his tone eased something in me I hadn’t realized was tense. I watched him — the faint red flush across his cheeks from the cold, the softness in his eyes that didn’t quite match his reputation.

He lifted a hand without asking, pressing his palm to my forehead. The touch was cool against my fevered skin. I startled slightly at the contact.

“Bloody hell, you’re burnin’ up,” he muttered, pulling his hand back as if it’d scalded him. “Ye should’ve told me sooner.”

“I told the nurse,” I said, a weak laugh escaping me.

“That’s not what I meant.” He looked at me again, expression unreadable now. “You should’ve told me.”

Something about the way he said it — low, careful, sincere — made my chest tighten.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It does.”

The silence that followed was thick, humming with something unspoken. I could feel the fever radiating off my skin, the air between us warmer than it should’ve been. Soap’s eyes flickered to my lips for just a second before he glanced away, almost sheepish.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt yer rest,” he murmured. “Just… didn’t feel right celebratin’ without checkin’ on ye.”

“You didn’t interrupt anything,” I said quietly. “I wasn’t sleeping anyway.”

Soap sighed, leaning back a little but not enough to move away. “Still. You shouldn’t be alone, y’know? Especially on Christmas.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The faint hum of the heater filled the silence.

Then, softly, “You miss it? Y’know, Iraq and all?”

I thought about that — really thought about it. “Sometimes. But missing something doesn’t bring it back.”

He nodded slowly, the faintest crease between his brows. Then he smiled again — small, sincere. “Still, you deserve a bit of warmth tonight, eh? Even if it’s not your kind of holiday.”

Without thinking, I whispered, “You smell like whiskey.”

He chuckled. “Just a bit. Helps me speak me mind.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye.”

I could feel the warmth radiating off him — the steadiness in it. For all his loudness, his jokes, there was something deeply human about Soap when the noise faded. Something careful.

“You’re part of somethin’ now,” he said finally. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Supposed to make you remember you’re not alone.”

I let out a quiet breath, unsure if I wanted to believe him. For weeks I’d kept my distance — a habit I couldn’t shake. But in that moment, with the soft light casting shadows across the room and the smell of cold air clinging to his jacket, something in me began to ease.

Then his voice dropped to almost a whisper. “You ever get tired of fightin’ all the time? Pretendin’ you don’t need anyone?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“Just seems like you carry the whole world on your shoulders. Never let anyone close. Doesn’t that get heavy?”

I swallowed, unsure how to answer. “You don’t know me.”

He smiled faintly. “Aye. But I’d like tae.”

Another pause. The storm outside pressed against the window, faint wind whistling through the cracks. I caught myself studying him again — the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, the faint scar that cut through his eyebrow, the small tremor in his hands he probably didn’t think I’d notice.

Then he leaned in.

Slow, deliberate. Like he was giving me every chance to pull away.

I didn’t.

The world seemed to narrow until there was nothing but his breath against mine, the smell of whiskey, the taste of mint, and something familiar. My heart kicked against my ribs as his forehead brushed mine, tentative, searching.

“Ye sure ye don’t want me to go?” he whispered.

My voice caught in my throat. “No.”

It came out barely audible — a breath, a surrender. And that was enough.

Soap’s lips found mine with hesitant warmth, the kiss soft and unsure at first, almost reverent. My breath hitched at the contact, the faint sting of old burn scars making me tense — but he didn’t recoil. If anything, he deepened the touch, gentle as though afraid I’d break.

I melted into it despite myself. The fever blurred the edges of everything — heat, breath, heartbeat — all mixing until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. My hands moved almost on instinct, cupping his face, fingers brushing the rough line of his jaw. He made a quiet sound — half sigh, half laugh — before his arms slid around my waist, pulling me closer.

The blanket slipped away, pooling at my hips as he guided me down slowly, careful not to startle me. The weight of him above me wasn’t oppressive — it was grounding. The kind of closeness I hadn’t allowed in years.

He pulled back slightly, lips barely an inch from mine. “Leila…”

My name on his tongue sounded softer than I’d ever heard it.

“Tell me if I’m crossin’ a line,” he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur.

“You’re not,” I breathed, my voice trembling with honesty. “Not yet.”

A faint smile ghosted his lips — half relief, half disbelief — before he kissed me again.

This time there was no hesitation. The warmth deepened, the press of his lips firmer, needier but still tender — like he was trying to memorize the shape of me, drawing me closer until the feverish heat of our bodies blurred into one. Just there — steady, real. His forehead rested against mine, breaths mingling as we caught what little air we could between kisses.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured, voice rough.

“Maybe that’s your fault,” I whispered back, smiling despite the ache in my throat.

He laughed quietly, a low, breathless sound that sent another flutter through me. Then his tone softened again. “Never thought I’d find someone like you in a place like this.”

“Someone like what?”

“Someone who makes it feel less like a war.”

I exhaled, the corner of my mouth twitching into something that might’ve been a smile. “Don’t get sentimental on me, MacTavish.”

He chuckled, standing slowly. “Too late for that.”

The words sank deep. I didn’t know what to say — so I didn’t. I just brushed my fingers along the side of his face, tracing the faint scar near his temple, and pulled him close again.

The dimly lit room blurred around the edges. There was only him — the warmth of his body against mine, the steady rhythm of his heart under my palms.

“Soap…” I whispered, unsure if I was warning him or calling him closer.

He drew back just enough to look at me — his expression open, unguarded. “It’s Johnny,” he corrected softly, smiling faintly, lips brushing over my cheek. “Least… when it’s just us.”

Something in my chest cracked open at that.

“Johnny,” I repeated, the name tasting unfamiliar on my tongue, yet somehow right.

His smile was small but aching with sincerity. “There’s my lass.”

He paused then — hovering, forehead resting gently against mine, breath mingling with mine as if he needed to be certain this wasn’t some fleeting mistake.

“You sure about this?” he whispered.

My fingers brushed against the side of his neck, tracing the pulse beneath his skin. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

Something softened in his eyes, a quiet relief breaking through the tension. And when he kissed me again, it wasn’t cautious this time. It was full, unguarded — the kind of kiss that asked nothing but gave everything. His hand slid up, fingers threading through my curly hair as he deepened it, his other arm still firm around my waist as if anchoring me to him.

The rhythm between us slowed and quickened all at once, breathless and gentle, each kiss lingering longer than the last. Between them came murmured words, half-whispered confessions that barely reached my ears.

“You’ve got no idea how pretty you are…”

“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you since the day we first met…”

“You deserve better than the life you’ve been fightin’ for.”

Each sentence landed somewhere deep, tugging at the walls I’d built.

I could only whisper back, “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.

He smiled faintly against my mouth. “Aye, I do. For once, I bloody well do. Even after a couple drinks of booze.”

“I’m not used to…” I paused, unsure how to finish. “Letting people in.”

“I know,” he said. “But maybe you should start.”

I hesitated, startled by the tenderness — then let myself return it, slow and uncertain. The burn scars along the right side of my mouth tugged faintly, a reminder of pain that refused to fade, but he didn’t flinch. He just held the moment steady, as if nothing about me was broken.

When he finally pulled back, I could still feel the ghost of his breath against my skin.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. We stayed there, caught between exhaustion and something that felt suspiciously like comfort, the quiet stretching into something safe. His fingers traced lazy patterns across my side, a grounding touch that spoke louder than words.

Then Soap exhaled softly, a lopsided smile creeping in. “Reckon that was a bit unprofessional, eh?”

“Just a bit,” I murmured.

“Guess that’s my cue tae leave before I make a fool of myself.”

I didn’t stop him when he stood, didn’t know how to. My heart was still racing in my chest, uneven and unfamiliar.

“Get some rest, Leila,” he murmured. “That’s an order.”

I smiled faintly. “Since when do you give orders?”

“Since now.”

When the door clicked softly behind him, I sank back into my bed, my heart still stumbling somewhere between disbelief and longing. The room felt too quiet, too full of everything we hadn’t said.

I lay awake for a long time after that, staring at the ceiling, the faint taste of whiskey and warmth still lingering on my lips. I didn’t know what it meant — not yet. But for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t thinking about missions, or orders, or the past that clung to me like smoke.

Just him. And the way, for a moment, I’d almost felt whole again.

                                                                                       ・・・・・

The morning came in muted gray light, bleeding through the blinds like it had forgotten what warmth meant. My throat felt like sandpaper, my head burning from the fever that had worsened overnight. For a moment, I just sat there in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny fissures running through the white plaster. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the heater and the dull rhythm of my pulse in my ears.

I pushed the blanket off and immediately regretted it—the chill hit me like a slap. My body protested with a violent shiver as I reached for my wool sweater, dragging it over my head before slipping into my slippers. I didn’t bother taming my hair. It was a tangled mess, curls sticking out at every angle, the price of a sleepless night. I didn’t care. I was too tired to care.

The hallway outside was already busy. Footsteps echoed down the long stretch of steel and concrete, voices low and brisk. I followed the faint scent of coffee and something sweet—probably the powdered donuts they’d been serving lately—toward the cafeteria. The fluorescent lights stung my eyes, the kind of sterile brightness that only made my fatigue sharper.

I joined the breakfast line, arms folded loosely across my chest to hide the slight tremor in my hands. My head swam, my skin clammy beneath the sweater. All I wanted was something warm to drink before collapsing back in bed.

Then came that familiar tap on my shoulder—light, deliberate.

“Morning, sunshine,” Soap said, his tone far too cheerful for the hour.

I turned, blinking up at him. He was grinning, of course—messy hair, sleeves rolled, that usual spark in his eyes like the world could never touch him.

“Morning,” I muttered, voice hoarse. “You sound way too happy for this time of day.”

He chuckled. “Aye, can’t have both of us lookin’ miserable now, can we?”

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitched anyway. It was too early for banter, but his energy had this strange way of softening the heaviness I carried. By the time we reached the trays, I had only picked a donut and a cup of hot cocoa. Soap raised an eyebrow at my pitiful selection.

“That all you’re havin’? You’re gonna keel over halfway through trainin’.”

“I’m not that hungry,” I said, taking a seat at one of the small tables by the window. “Besides, this is all my stomach can handle right now.”

He sat across from me, tray loaded with enough food for two people; scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and something that vaguely resembled hash browns. His fork clinked against the plate, but his gaze kept flicking toward me, like he was watching something he couldn’t quite name.

“Still feelin’ sick, huh?” he asked finally.

I nodded, wrapping both hands around my mug. The cocoa’s warmth seeped into my palms, a small mercy. “Yeah. Feels worse than last night. I’ll live, though.”

Soap leaned back, frowning a bit. “You shouldn’t push yourself, lass. Not with a fever.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He smiled faintly at that. “You always say that.”

We fell quiet for a moment. The cafeteria’s noise filled the space between us—laughter, the scrape of chairs, the hiss of the coffee machine. My head throbbed faintly, but I found myself studying Soap’s expression, the faint tension hiding behind his grin. It wasn’t his usual easy look. It was thoughtful. Careful.

“So, about last night,” Soap said softly, setting his fork down.

I froze. “What about it?”

His voice gentled, losing its playful edge. “Just… wanted to clear the air, aye? I didn’t mean for anythin’ to get—well—confusin’.”

I didn’t look at him. My fingers traced the rim of my mug instead. “It wasn’t.”

“Aye, maybe not to you,” he said with a quiet laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “But I should still say it. We’re teammates now. There’re… rules. Contracts. You know the sort.”

My stomach turned, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the fever or from his words. I nodded, though the sound it made in my head was hollow. The donut on my tray had gone untouched. I set it down, staring at the sugar crystals catching the light like frost. “I know,” I said softly.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I just don’t want you thinkin’ I’m leadin’ ye on. That’s not who I am. But if we cross that line—if anyone finds out—it’s over. They’d separate us faster than you could blink.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My throat was too tight.

His voice gentled on the last part, and for a second, I hated how honest he sounded—how steady. He reached across the table then, his calloused hand closing around mine. The gesture was small, but it startled me more than anything else could have. His grip was warm and careful, a silent apology pulsing between us.

Finally, I managed to speak. “You don’t have to explain, Soap. I get it. You’re right.”

But even as I said it, my chest ached with something I didn’t want to name.

Soap squeezed my hand once before letting go. “I won’t tell anyone. Not a word to Laswell, Ghost, Gaz, or Price. What happened last night stays between us.”

I nodded, grateful and miserable all at once. He smiled again, that soft, almost guilty smile, before returning to his breakfast like nothing had happened. I forced myself to sip the cocoa, letting its warmth mask the cold spreading through my chest.

For a moment, I wanted to tell him not to worry. That I understood. That I wasn’t that foolish girl who mistook kindness for something else. But the words stuck in my throat. Because maybe I was. Maybe part of me wanted to believe there was something human enough left in all of this — in him, in me — to make the weight of our jobs easier to bear.

yay! you’ve made it to the end, might as well follow me for more fics lol ;)

hi im a ao3 author but after noticing a couple fanfics blowing up on here, i thought i might as well share some of my work (im mainly on ao3 most of the time so go follow me there @ mellowmei).

For the first week, they’d finally moved me out of the medbay and into something resembling normalcy — if concrete walls and humming vents counted as normal. My new dormitory was small, but mine. A single bed pressed against the corner, white sheets tucked too tight to feel human, a bedside table, a closet, and a narrow bathroom connected through a metal door.

That was all they’d given me.

Still, after weeks of sterile halls and interrogation rooms, it almost felt like a step up. Almost.

A few days later, Laswell had the rest of my belongings brought in — the things they’d confiscated from my old apartment in Baghdad. I hadn’t expected to see any of it again, and the sight hit harder than I wanted it to. My tools, carefully wrapped and labeled in Arabic and English. My handmade drones. The prototype motion sensors I’d pieced together from scrap tech. Even my worn leather gloves, still stained faintly with oil.

For a long moment, I just stared at them, hands frozen midair. Every item was a piece of who I’d been before this. The vigilante who didn’t answer to anyone. The woman who fought for something real, not politics or paychecks.

Now those same tools sat under military supervision, tagged and cleared like evidence. I could almost hear the unspoken rule behind it all — we own your past now too.

Training days blurred together in a cycle of sweat, grit, and restraint.

Price oversaw most of it, running drills that stripped you down to instinct. Gaz was steady and professional, someone who made teamwork look effortless. Soap was—well, Soap. Too bright for the room, somehow managing to joke even while reloading under pressure.

And then there was Ghost.

We didn’t get along. At all.

It started with small things — his curt corrections, the way he’d glance over his shoulder whenever I was nearby, as if expecting me to pull a knife. I wasn’t sure if it was distrust or pure habit, but it grated at me.

One morning, we were running a weapons-handling drill. My hands worked automatically, sliding a magazine into place, chambering the round, safety check. I’d done this thousands of times before, but Ghost’s voice cut through the noise like a blade.

“You’re overcompensating on your grip.”

I looked up, brow furrowed. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

He was standing to my right, mask impassive, tone sharp.

Soap stepped in with that easy, practiced calm of his. “Alright, you two, maybe try not to bite each other’s heads off before breakfast, aye?”

Ghost said nothing, just turned away, the fabric of his balaclava shifting faintly as he exhaled

I muttered under my breath, “Maybe tell your ghost to haunt someone else.”

Soap snorted. “Aye, he does that to everyone. Don’t take it personal.”

But it was personal. Everything about this was.

                                                      ・・・・・

By the end of the week, we had our first mission scheduled — something light, according to Price. “Simple overwatch,” he’d said, which usually meant not simple at all.

We were to provide surveillance support for an intelligence extraction in the outskirts of Al Qatif. Some informant with sensitive data, surrounded by local militia who didn’t appreciate Western visitors. The main squad — Price, Gaz, and Soap — would move on ground. Ghost and I were assigned to overwatch from a rooftop and coordinate their entry route through secured channels.

“Al-Abadi,” Price said during briefing, sliding a tablet toward me. “You’re on tactical analysis. You’ll have your own laptop, linked directly to our comms. You spot a pattern, you call it. You see movement, you flag it. No improvising.”

That last part earned a raised eyebrow from me. “No improvising? You do realize that’s half the job in my line of work.”

Price met my stare, unflinching. “In your line of work, maybe. In mine, improvisation gets people killed.”

I didn’t argue — not because I agreed, but because it wasn’t worth it.

The flight out was quiet.

We sat in the hum of the C-130, the sound of the propellers masking most conversation. Soap tried to crack jokes about the sandstorms, Gaz chuckled occasionally, and Ghost stayed in his usual silence, cleaning his rifle with mechanical precision.

I sat near the back, laptop open, headset around my neck. Every key felt heavier under my fingers. My role might’ve been behind the screen this time, but I could already feel the itch in my muscles — the one that came when I was made to sit still while others fought.

When we landed, night had swallowed the desert whole.

The city shimmered faintly in the distance, a blur of yellow light and dust. We split into two teams: Price, Soap, and Gaz moving out toward the target building, while Ghost and I took position on a rooftop overlooking the street.

The wind bit through the fabric of my sleeves. I crouched beside my laptop, connecting the thermal cam feed. Lines of data flickered across the screen — body heat signatures, movement patterns, all color-coded and numbered.

“They’re in position,” I said quietly over comms. “Three tangos by the east alley, two more patrolling near the door. Civilian activity minimal.”

“Copy that,” Price’s voice came through, calm and clipped.

Ghost stood beside me, scanning through his rifle scope. His posture was perfect — steady, unyielding.

Then I caught something on my feed. A flicker. Two moving blips closing in faster than expected.

“Hold on,” I said, zooming in. “Two more approaching from the north. Unmarked vehicle, no headlights.”

Price’s response came instantly. “Acknowledged. Ghost?”

“Got it,” Ghost murmured, shifting his rifle.

He took aim, exhaled, and fired twice. Clean. Silent. Both targets dropped before their boots hit the sand.

“Clear,” I confirmed after checking the thermal feed. “You’re good to move.”

Price and the others pushed in. I kept eyes on them through every corridor, every room sweep, calling out positions, updating threat markers.

It went smoothly until one of the cameras shorted out. Static burst across my screen.

“Feed just dropped,” I said. “Give me a sec.”

Ghost glanced my way, voice low. “You said you had it covered.”

I shot him a look. “I do have it covered. It’s a power surge, not operator error.”

“You sure?”

I bit back a sharper reply, fingers flying over the keyboard. Within seconds, the feed came back online.

“See? Handled.”

He didn’t say anything, just went back to his scope. But I caught the slight tilt of his head — that unspoken challenge.

Later, during extraction, another glitch hit — comm interference this time. Ghost snapped over the channel, “Tactical, we’re blind. What the hell’s happening?”

I hissed into my mic, “Signal jam. I’m rerouting frequencies, but I need thirty seconds.”

“That’s thirty seconds too long,” he growled.

“Then maybe you should handle the tech next time.”

Silence. Then Price’s voice cut through, sharp and commanding. “Both of you, focus. Soap’s got the package. We’re exfil in sixty.”

When the signal stabilized again, the others made it out clean. Mission success — technically. But the tension between me and Ghost was as thick as cordite smoke.

By the time we got back to base, exhaustion hit like a hammer. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by that hollow ache behind the ribs that only came after long nights in the field.

I waved off Soap’s offer to grab a drink, muttering something about needing rest, and started down the hallway toward my dorm. The hum of the ventilation system filled the silence, my boots echoing softly against the floor.

Then — a shadow moved behind me.

I turned sharply, hand instinctively brushing the handle of the dagger sheathed under my sleeve.

Ghost.

He stood there, hands relaxed at his sides, mask glinting faintly under the corridor lights.

“Goodness,” I exhaled, lowering my guard. “At least give me a heads up before sneaking up on me.”

His tone was quieter than usual. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then — “About earlier,” he began. “The mission. The comms. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

I raised a brow, surprised. “Did Soap put you up to this?”

“No,” he said simply. “He doesn’t tell me what to do.”

I studied him, searching for the usual hint of sarcasm or edge in his tone, but it wasn’t there. Just sincerity.

“You did good out there,” he continued. “Fast thinking with that signal reroute. Most rookies would’ve panicked.”

“I’m not a rookie.”

“I know.”

Silence settled between us again, softer this time.

I crossed my arms, glancing away. “You just don’t trust me.”

He hesitated. “I didn’t. Not at first.”

I looked back at him. “And now?”

A small shrug. “Now… I think I understand why you do what you do.”

That caught me off guard more than anything he’d said tonight.

For a brief second, the air between us wasn’t charged with friction, just mutual recognition — the quiet acknowledgment of two people who’d seen too much and learned to wear silence as armor.

“Get some rest,” he said finally, stepping back. “Tomorrow’ll be rough.”

“Always is.”

He gave a small nod, then turned to leave.

And for the first time since this whole ordeal began, I didn’t feel like I was being watched by an enemy — just another soldier trying to make sense of me.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the faint crack running along the ceiling. My mind replayed the day — the precision of the mission, the tension, the fleeting hint of respect in Ghost’s voice.

Maybe this was what trust looked like, in a place like this — not grand gestures or apologies, but small moments of recognition carved out between hostility and duty.

Maybe it was a start.

                                                   ・・・・・

By December, the cold had found its way into everything. Even the air inside base quarters carried a thin edge of frost, sharp enough to sting my lungs when I breathed too deep.

Winter wasn’t something I’d ever learned to live with. And though I’d spent years under the punishing heat of Baghdad, I found myself wishing for that dry, unbearable sun again. At least warmth was honest. This—this was another kind of punishment. The kind that seeped through fabric and skin and bone until it made you ache from the inside out.

I’d adjusted as best I could. Thick tactical coats, heavier gloves, thermal layers under my vest. But the cold still found the cracks. Always did.

By now, it had been two months since I’d joined the team. Enough time for the routine to harden into muscle memory: training at dawn, briefings by noon, missions scattered between sleepless nights.

Ghost still barked orders in that clipped, uncompromising tone. Price ran things with a steady hand. Gaz was sharp as ever. And Soap—well, Soap was the one who somehow managed to drag the human out of the soldier in everyone.

Even me.

I’d stopped flinching when he clapped me on the shoulder. Started expecting his grin when he caught me muttering over a malfunctioning drone. Somewhere along the way, I’d stopped seeing him as “the noisy one” and started seeing him as… something else.

I wasn’t ready to name it yet.

The first snow had fallen three days ago when the orders came in. We were moving out on a joint ground mission—my first one since joining the 141.

The call came in at dawn.

Intel placed an arms deal happening somewhere along the Turkish-Syrian border — a splinter group moving high-grade explosives to a buyer we hadn’t identified yet. The mission was to intercept before the transaction went through, gather data, and eliminate hostiles if necessary.

It was the kind of mission that went loud without meaning to.

“Al-Abadi, you’re with Ghost and Soap,” Price said during briefing. “Ground infiltration. You’ll handle tech and overwatch in the field — drones, sensors, that sort of thing. We need your eyes where we can’t have ours.”

“Understood.”

Price’s gaze held mine for a moment, weighing something unspoken. “You’ve been doing good work. Keep it that way.”

Coming from him, that was almost a compliment.

We deployed under a sky the color of steel. Snow crunched under our boots, the world wrapped in silence broken only by the steady rhythm of our movement. Ghost walked point as usual, his massive frame almost blending into the storm. Soap was to my left, keeping the mood alive with small talk over the pouring snow just above us.

“Ye look like you’re freezin’ your arse off, Al-Abadi,” he teased, his breath fogging the air. “You’re sure you’re built for this weather?”

“Born in Baghdad,” I muttered. “Take a wild guess.”

He laughed softly, adjusting his rifle strap. “Aye, fair point.”

“Keep your mouth shut and your head low,” Ghost muttered.

“Always the charmer,” Soap shot back, grin audible in his voice.

I sat between Soap and Ghost in the back of the transport, the rumble of the engine shaking through the cabin. We rode in silence most of the way. Soap hummed something under his breath — an old tune I couldn’t place — while Ghost checked and rechecked his rifle like it might change on him if he looked away.

I stared out the small slit of a window beside me. Snow clouds flurried across the barren landscape. It wasn’t like Baghdad winters — those were dry, brittle, quiet. This was heavier, meaner.

                                                   ・・・・・

When we reached the drop point, the cold hit like a slap. The wind cut straight through my mask. My fingers ached even inside my gloves.

“Christ alive,” Soap muttered, stepping out beside me. “How do folk live in this?”

“They don’t,” Ghost said flatly. “They just survive it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

We advanced in formation toward the compound — a decayed industrial site surrounded by steel fences and the echoes of wind. The snow covered the ground in uneven sheets, muffling our steps.

“Thermal’s showing five contacts outside,” I murmured, eyes on my tablet. “Three on patrol, two at the gate. They’re carrying M4s.”

“Copy that,” Ghost replied. “You take the one on the right. Soap, you’re with me.”

I nodded, tightening my grip around the dagger sheathed along my thigh. It felt cold even through the leather.

The patrol passed close — too close. I moved before I thought. My hand shot up, clamping around the man’s mouth as I dragged him behind the crate. The blade went in smooth, low and fast, just beneath the ribs. The familiar resistance, the sharp exhale, the weight dropping limp — all of it came back in flashes.

For a split second, I wasn’t in Turkey. I was back in Iraq, in an alleyway at night, my heart hammering in time with sirens and gunfire.

Then the moment passed.

I lowered him quietly into the snow and exhaled, blood blooming around the frostbitten floor.

“Target down,” I whispered into the mic.

“Nicely done,” Soap’s voice crackled back, faintly amused. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

I exhaled slowly, sheathing the blade. “I don’t take well to being spotted.”

Ghost’s voice followed, calm and measured. “Focus, both of you. Still three more inside.”

I followed close behind, eyes scanning the skeletal trees and empty road stretching before us. My breaths came out in white clouds. Every sound felt amplified—the click of my safety, the faint rustle of Ghost’s gear, the steady pulse of blood in my ears.

We breached through a side entrance — a rusted metal door that groaned under pressure. Inside, the air was stale with oil and dust.

The gunfire came without warning.

Two hostiles opened fire from the mezzanine above. Ghost ducked behind a crate, Soap rolled to cover, and I instinctively dropped low, pulling my sidearm free.

The rest of the mission unfolded in that same blur of coordination — methodical, efficient, almost mechanical. But there was one moment I wouldn’t forget: when a grenade clattered too close to our cover. Soap shouted, grabbed me by the vest, and yanked me back just as the blast lit up the floor in a burst of orange. My ears rang, the smell of cordite thick in the air.

“You alright?” he shouted over the ringing.

I nodded, half-deaf, dazed but alive. He smiled — a quick flash of teeth — before turning back toward Ghost, who was already calling for exfil.

By the time we got back to base, my muscles burned with fatigue. My uniform was stiff with dried snow, and my fingers ached from the cold. But there was something else lingering in my chest — that pulse of adrenaline and recognition. I hadn’t felt it in years. The rhythm of combat. The reminder that I still knew how to survive.

During debrief, Price spoke first. “Good work. All of you. Minimal casualties, intel secured, and the cargo’s ash.”

Ghost gave a quiet nod. Soap grinned and nudged my shoulder. “Not bad for your first proper run, eh? Told you you’d fit in fine.”

I didn’t respond, but I didn’t have to. The faint twitch of my lips said enough.

yay! you’ve made it to the end, might as well follow me for more fics lol ;)

Pt.2 to In The Dark…..In The Dark Masterlist

adoptedbrother!Simon Riley x adoptedsister!reader

tw:fauxcest, adopted sibling stuff, fluff, sweeter things, pining after each other, complicated feelings, simons trauma, etc, etc, mentions of depression, etc etc. male and female madtrubation at the end, dead dove, you’ve been warned guys!

Simons nose itched but he didn’t dare bring a hand up to ease it. his head was tipped on the edge of the sink as he lay on top of the counter. when he’d agreed to let you cut his hair, you’d asked him if he wanted to wash it. Simon nodded, jumping at the chance to feel your soft hands on him longer than just to cut it. but then there was the issue of actually washing his hair. he shook his head when you asked if he wanted to do it in the shower. Simon couldn’t get in there on some normal days. he didn’t want to associate you with those by bringing you there. so the kitchen sink it was. you played your part as hairdresser wonderfully, bringing all the products to detangle and help clean Simons hair. he dutifully laid on the counter when you told him to, posing his head above the now clean sink. the faucet was warming up, the extendable nozzle spewing water. his nose twitched as he gazed at the ceiling. “okay Simon. waters warm. you ready?” he’d never heard a voice so gentle. he nodded, leaning his head back while his hands remained folded over his chest. with his hair away from his face, he could seeing you standing tall, brining the nozzle down to run the water over his hair. Simon twitched, flinching slightly as it made contact. your hand rested on the left side of his head, keeping it still as it was soaked. the tangled strands wet, you finally pulled away to reach for the shampoo. “shampoo first. probably more than once.” you say, squirting a healthy amount on your palm. beneath your gaze, his eyes soften and trace your hands as they rub the liquid together before dipping into his hair. Simon almost let’s out a moan when your fingernails gently dig into his scalp, massaging in the shampoo. he opts instead to press his lips together, eyes closing as a large exhale leaves his nose. a shudder runs through his body. “feeling okay?” you whisper, and Simon nods. he feels more than okay now. emotions was over him, wave after wave. why the hell are you so attentive about this. why do you seem to care. why would you put in the effort. why would you even speak to him.