Chapter Text
Spending months away from base, by all means, is not an uncommon experience for you. However, it’s not often that you’re deployed in endless waves of golden sand, inhabiting eerie, desolate towns and trekking through the lonely, searing desert, where even bugs and lizards are scarce. Blisters ravaged your feet despite the socks that you sweat through, and your heavy gear sunk each footstep further into the ground. Burnt isn't the right word for how you feel, but cooked alive sounds pretty close; the rare shadow of a bird’s wing was the only brief interruption from the sun. Dehydrated, aching and exhausted describes every soldier coming back from the mission, and even Price himself is stretched to the edge of his wits.
Though you’re currently thousands of meters in the sky, your mind still screams scorpion! at each prickle against your skin, and it feels like sand will fall from everything you own for the next few months. The success of the mission soothed tempers as everyone evacuates back to base, finding solidarity in triumph and championship. But it could only settle over the soldiers for so long before the weary, tender muscles, the need for real food - not goddamn ration packs - and a long, hot shower dampened the celebration. Most took to sleeping in whatever position they could, scattered across the floor and seats of the aircraft. You quickly dozed off stretched out on the long bench, head in Johnny’s lap and Ghost’s big jacket as a makeshift blanket as the aircraft jostles around in the wind. If you concentrate, you can hear the faintest hint of Gaz and Price deep in conversation down the front, but the terrible jokes Ghost and Soap are sharing occupy most of your attention. Though no one has assigned seatings in transport, anyone could guarantee that whatever spot Soap chose, Ghost’s was next to it.
When the crafts land and people clamber out, the base quickly becomes lively. It’s early in the morning; some of those who stayed at base wake at the clamour to greet their friends, spilling into the quarters with joy, praise and questions. The kitchens are scavenged, arguments over who grabbed what first and who’s turn it is to use the microwave, hushed by those more considerate of the early hours. The energy in the halls garners angry thumps on the wall from others trying to sleep, unlucky privates assigned the worst rooms because of their proximity to the common rooms.
While most shower first and sleep after upon return, you play a different game – you sleep first, making sure your heavy gear is off, sometimes (barely) getting past your shoes and socks. When you wake, everyone has showered, resting in their rooms or splayed out on the couches, and you snatch the showers for yourself. A couple others prefer showering after, keeping their distance in the steamy room, and you do the same.
The water streams off you in brown rivulets for what feels like a ridiculous amount of time, until your skin is scrubbed raw. Sand is caked through your hair, pores and just about every crevise of your body – at a certain point, you stop questioning how on earth it just keeps coming. These glimpses of peace are your favourite de-stressor from any mission. It’s a therapeutic way to unwind from the ordeal; special, more expensive toiletries you keep for these occurrences scrubbed through your hair and against your skin, smeared in your favourite scents. Working out the tenderness in your body takes some time, kneading each muscle with strong knuckles until you feel more limber, and the pain has retreated to an ache you’ll feel during the next training session. You take a little longer than normal in your open-doored stall, and eventually, the room is emptied down to just your presence. The realisation that you’re finally alone sends a cascade of relief rushing through you that almost brings you to your knees. The water is still warm, trickling down your body as you finally start scrubbing products from your skin. It stings as you brush over the lingering sun burns, but as you work your way down, another kind of burning builds in you.
As your hands glide further south, there’s nothing inherently sexual behind the movement, but you can’t help realising how sensual the touches are. It’s been a while since you’ve touched yourself, and the last time you felt the touch of someone else is far distant in comparison. It’s hard to indulge yourself on deployment, especially in the company of mainly men. There’s never a moment you can be that off guard, and if there is, then there’s never a moment you’re alone during it. The closest you get is during rests, curled up underneath a sleeping bag and staring at the tent roof. The company of another 141 member is never far away; Soap snoring, Gaz’s twitching as he sleeps, Simon’s steady breathing, and the Captain - your Captain.
An involuntary gasp slips from you, skin tingling under your fingertips as they glide across your thighs. Being pent up is one struggle, but being pent up and unintentionally, perpetually teased by the most attractive man you have ever seen is a kind of hell. The deployment was a testament to your patience and control – it’s so easy to lay there at night, listen to his steady inhale and exhale, imagine the heat washing over the back of your neck as his strong arms keep you warm and grounded during the freezing desert nights. It’s even easier to slide your hands between your legs, ‘keeping them warm’ until the desire to grind against them is too strong, and they return to a safer, less perilous position. If the temptation is hell, then acting on it and masturbating in the same room as not only other people, but the same person you’re thinking of, would certainly send you to hell.
And, you guess, the same thing is currently true. Anyone could come in and catch you like this; needy, rutting against your hand with thoughts of your superior officer. Now isn’t the right moment either, so you push down the frustration with the reassurance that you will get something tonight.
--- ︻デ═一 ---
Within the afternoon, when everyone is feeling more like a human, spirits are rejuvenated again. Walking down the hallway, you can hear whoops and cheers from the common room, newer soldiers sharing stories on their return as more wake from their slumber. The soft material of the sweatpants resting on your hips feels like velvet compared to your field uniform, a slightly wet shirt sticking to you as a towel dries your damp hair. Sleeping and showering through when everyone else ate means losing the privilege of being picky with food, and the best you found was fruit, some toast and biscuits. Nevertheless, anything was considered a significant improvement from the ration packs that had sustained you for the last few months. Weariness still drags at your muscles, sore and heavy, but you can’t deny the energy radiating through the barracks puts a pep back into your step. You swing past Soap’s room, pressing your ear against the door before you open it, teeth sinking into the ripe fruit in your palm. Light filters through the doorway, illuminating the room as you peer in, squinting until your eyes adjust to a sight that hits your heart with a pang.
Johnny is sprawled over Simon like a blanket, pressed against every inch of him that he can cover. Simon has curled a protective arm around his waist, and from the way his hand clenches Johnny’s shirt, you can tell the intrusion stirred Simon from his sleep. Each has an arm slung over the side of the bed, their fingers loosely tangled together, even in the depths of their dreams. Simon is smart enough to assume who the interruption is; no one else but you and Gaz would be brave (or stupid?) enough to enter without knocking – even Price knocks out of caution after learning his lesson. You utter a meek ‘sorry’, guilt tinging you for imposing on such a precious moment. The Brit doesn’t audibly respond, disentangling his digits from Johnny’s hand and holding up four of them, before pulling down three to flip you off. The action makes you snort, but you get the message and leave to let them rest for another four hours. Pulling the door closed, the last thing you can see is the way Simon’s hand slips back into Johnny’s.
--- ︻デ═一 ---
Coming home - let alone coming home successful - was an occurrence to celebrate, and it was a unanimous decision to go drinking the first night they got back. Even the Captain couldn’t deny his joy at a well-done mission, accompanying the team on their alcoholic excursion after some persuasion from Gaz.
Your mission report and other paperwork only occupied you for a couple hours, lazily scrawling through it until gripping the pen hurts. The last two are spent getting ready for the evening’s outing and formulating a plan for your night – a ploy to satisfy the ever-present burning in your stomach. In this large of a town, it wouldn’t be hard to find some decent looking stranger and disappear for the night, rocking back up just before waking hours to avoid any questions. A simple plan, nice and easy, a happy thought decides, stretching your limbs stiffened from the time at your desk. Although it wouldn’t hurt your chances of finding someone to go home with, wearing something dressy to the bar makes your already suffering feet hurt at the thought. Not to mention, you weren’t going to wear something short or revealing in the presence of the whole company and have them leer at you, soaking in all they can of the only female 141 operator. Tonight, you choose cosiness over anything else, taking your time to decide on a pretty shirt and comfortable pants. By the time you’ve made sense of your hair and rest of your outfit, there’s an impatient rapping on your door. Johnny, the ever-supportive best friend, still floods you with a wave of compliments, twirling you around and whooping to your delight as the door to your room swings shut.
“Stunner lass, y’could wear nothin’ but a sack an’ they’d be at yer feet!”
You curtsey for him, eliciting a snort from the taller man resting against the wall behind Soap, arms crossed as he observes the interaction. As usual, Ghost looks ready for combat in his tattered jeans and hoodie. A black, fabric facemask and a grey cap replaces his typically intimidating skull-patterned mask – undoubtedly Soap’s influence, who at least looks more civvy than his taller counterpart. Ghost’s sunglasses rest on the cusp of Soap’s shirt neck until Ghost takes them back, straightening himself up from against the wall. “Pre’iest princess. Let’s go now, ay?”
--- ︻デ═一 ---
These barracks are stationed within a large town; something you know puts Ghost on edge, but you can’t help but appreciate, especially compared to some place in the middle of nowhere. It means that the outside world feels (and certainly is) less far away, and it’s barely a twenty-minute walk before the bar is in sight, pockets of stragglers scattered across the blocks behind you.
Waves of warmth hit you as you step through the door that Soap holds open for you. The place is just getting lively as the sun creeps down into the horizon, casting a mellow, pleasant glow through the windows. There’s a bar lined with a handful of locals, their backs to the empty floor as some show plays on the wide screen TV, flickering behind a bored looking bartender. The other available seating is the booths lining the walls, large enough to occupy your group. Ghost makes it a point to be amongst the first to arrive, securing a table away from the crowds and letting Soap slide into the booth first. Everything is basked in a warm shine from the dingy light hanging above, comfy and secluded from the noise of the room.
The moment Soap sits down he’s fiddling with the salt packets, shaking them between his fingers as he watches his masked man linger. “Thought Cap’in was comin’ with, love?”
The flush that creeps onto Simon’s face peeks through his mask, and you hope your conveniently placed hand hides the smile on your face as you get comfortable against the long, leather booth. He stands at the end of the table, rigid and flustered as he formulates a reply. “Said he ‘ad shit to do first, he’ll get here later with Gaz.”
With that, Ghost gruffly excuses himself to get drinks, and you can’t help the giggles that escape you when he’s finally out of earshot. Soap gives you a friendly kick under the table, but the same redness tinges his own cheeks as he grins at you.
“Ach, the wee man is doin’ his best, stop yer gigglin’!”
His broad shoulders shake as you try to keep eye contact with him, a mocking stern glare on his face, and your composure only lasts for a few seconds before you both dissolve into chuckles. The big man’s uncharacteristic shyness is endearing; an unstoppable force in the face of any weapon, person, or thing, felled by an affectionate term from his lover. No one would dare say it (at least to Ghost), but it’s a synchronous understanding amongst 141; Simon is wrapped around Johnny’s finger, and he’s a happier man for that.
“Should ‘ear the filthy things he says in bed, lass. He ain’t blushin’ then.”
It’s your turn to kick Soap under the table, making a repulsed face as you giggle along with his terrible joke. A light, amiable conversation flows between you, and Ghost’s return with an armful of drinks only boosts the mood. Your attention is divided between the conversation and the door, scoping out the faces that come through. To your disappointment, more and more soldiers dribble through the door as the minutes pass by. Within half an hour, it seems as if the whole company floods the bar, quickly becoming a wave of all too familiar faces. You feel dismayed as regulars begin leaving, intimidated and irritated by the sudden surge of unknown figures.
My goddamn plan! My normal, civilian men!
Pushing the frustration to the back of your mind, you hope your luck changes later in the evening. After a few rounds and some atrocious joke competitions, you look up to see your favourite face last amongst the stragglers, the familiar beard and hat unleashing a flurry of butterflies in your stomach. Gaz trails in behind him, already in conversation with one of the newer officers that ends with a respectful nod as they leave to find their own company. Ghost gestures the pair over with a big arm, and Price gives a wave of acknowledgement before motioning his head to the bar. He sends Gaz on his way over, and as he approaches you thoughtfully – strategically – jump up from the bench, letting him slide in before sitting down next to him. “Cheers, didn’t have to get up mate.”
You shake it off with a wave of your hand, smiling brightly at him. A pleasant cloud of his aftershave enveloped you, and he looks cleaner, shaven, and trimmed in some well-fitting jeans and a shirt. Although he doesn’t make your heart flitter in the same way, there’s no denying Gaz cleans up well. As he settles into the seat next to you, a content self-satisfaction creeps into your smile in response to your plan. There’s no way Price was going to sit next to Ghost and Soap - he knows they value these rare nights together – leaving just one spot for him. Smoothing your pants out, you kick your bag in-between your feet in preparation. “You know me – I’ll be on the floor with Soap in no time, saves you getting up.” Gaz lets out a warm laugh, bumping shoulders with you. “I wouldn’t dare get in the way of those moves, love.”
The captain comes back with a tray of drinks, sliding it down onto the table as Soap pushes the empty glasses to make room. His warm, strong thigh presses up against yours as he takes the seat next to you, just like you thought, and you have to regulate your breathing as you’re caught between the two men.
A long groan tears from him as he extends his legs, and in a smooth move his arm stretches out, resting on the ledge of the booth behind you. It takes everything in you to avoid leaning into him, and the intensity of Soap’s eyes on your darkening cheeks was only adding to your nerves in the moment. It didn’t take Soap long to notice your affliction, collecting each embarrassing clue like it was a fucking mystery detective game. The way you would never intentionally volunteer to spar with Price, and each match with him left you looking flushed and sweatier than reasonable. Your unhesitating desire to follow each and every command, and the delight each time you earn your praise. As your best friend, he’d never do anything to intentionally compromise your little crush, but you know that he loves teasing you with the fact that he knows in these moments. Price seems blissfully unaware of the eye contact his members are sharing, moving the platter of drinks further into the table’s centre.
“Ahh, I see we’re late to the party Gaz. Drink up lads, one for all of you.” The glass cup he reaches for looks small in his hands, an amber fluid swishing against a ball of ice. There’s an Irish Coffee for Soap, and he takes it with an appreciative exclamation as he passes Ghost his own drink. It looks similar to the one Price holds, amber but with something like petals floating on the surface as fruit bobs in the liquid. Soap doesn’t wait to dive into his drink, finishing it without a breath, at the disappointment of his Captain. “Those Irish fucks can make good drinks sometimes, I’ll give ‘em that.”
Ghost shakes his head, tugging his facemask down to take a mouthful of his own glass, and Gaz lets out an affectionate scoff. “Mate, I honestly don’t think they had anythin’ to do with it. Just some name they gave the drink.”
Soap chuckles, holding the drink up for Ghost to sip as Gaz leans past you to Price. “Give us a try, cap?” You watch his expression as Price eyes the sergeant dubiously, but slides over his cup. “I can tell you now son, I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
Gaz doesn’t respond, drawing the cup to his lips, and Soap roars at the expression that contorts his face when the flavour hits. He splutters, pushing the alcohol back to its spot in front of Price. “Fuckin’ hell, that is mingin’ sir. What is that?”
“Son, you would get socked if you said that to the wrong snob.”
A laugh rumbles out of Ghost as he takes another sip, slinging an arm around Soap’s shoulders and running a hand through his mohawk.
“Old Fashioned with a little somethin’ special.” John answers, taking a swig himself. Gaz looks unimpressed, his tongue running along his teeth, trying to swipe away the lingering taste. “It’s certainly something special, boss.”
Price snorts, sliding his arm further across the bench above you to give Gaz a playful shove. The motion presses you against his chest for just a moment, and you breathe in his smoky scent. “You just keep your rum ‘n’ cola to yourself son, and we’ll be happy.”
You giggle at the remark, and Gaz playfully shoves you into Price as the captain is straightening up, forcing a huff of air from your lungs. The impact doesn’t even budge his strong frame, and he just smiles down at you as you’re tucked into his side. A quick punch to Gaz’s thigh has him hissing as you apologise with a smile to the captain, and you’d kick Soap for the giggle he lets out if you weren’t worried about getting Ghost’s leg instead. The captain doesn’t seem to notice, grabbing his drink and raising it to toast. “Well, here’s to survivin’ another day in this bloody mess, lads.”
The team mimics his action, rumbling an echo of the sentiment as the first round of drinks are downed. Gaz pays for the next round and it’s your shout the round after; Soap takes both cards up to the bar, offering to get both orders at once. The way Gaz’s jaw hangs when Soap returns to the table has you cackling, but when you see the platters precariously balanced in Soap’s hands, your own jaw drops in a similar manner. Ghost takes a tray before any of the shots slide off, but even he can’t hold back a remark as Soap puts down the platter of standard glasses. “Fuckin’ ‘ell Johnny, shocked they even gave you that much.”
The Scot gives the table a proud, boyish grin, hands on his hips. “Five mixed shots for all of us, and your favourite to wash ‘er down!” He starts dividing the glasses between everyone, a groove in his move to something he’s humming under his breath. Gaz is stuck in shock, mouth wide until two shots clink in front of him and he manages a sentence. “There’s no fuckin’ way you just used my card for all that, mate.”
Your laugh is contagious and even Gaz is smiling through his outrage, Soap giving a cheeky grin of his own in return. “Ah calm yourself, I went halves with the two of ya. Didn’t want ‘er to decline, doubt y’even got enough.”
He pulls a card from some pocket, tossing it in front of the glasses barricaded in front of Gaz as he retakes his position next to Ghost. He makes a noise of remembrance, reaching into his pocket again to slide your card back to you. When he’s satisfied, he claps his hands together in preparation, looking around the table. “C’mon! Fuckin’ get ‘er in ye lads, time’s a-wastin!”
You turn to Gaz, who seems to be on the same wave, as he turns to you. A shrug of his shoulders is all he gives before he picks up the first shot, holding it out in front of you expectantly. The astringent solution sloshes over the rim as you pick up your own, clinking it clumsily with Gaz’s shot glass and throwing it back in a delightfully synchronized move. It’s instinctive to gag as you barely swallow, flailing your hand in distress as the aftertaste burns down your throat. There’s a dull thunk as Gaz’s fist hits the table, the other hand gripping his thigh as he chokes back a cough with shaking shoulders.
“Soap, you bloody liar, not even a fuckin’ mixer!”
The rest of the drinks jump dangerously as Soap slaps the table, pleased by his mischief. Ghost takes his shot silently, not even a gasp after he swallows as his partner guffaws in chaotic delight. Only Price refrains from taking a shot, the line before him sitting untouched. His arms are crossed, and your eyes linger on the way his muscles bulge, tightly pressed against his chest. Soap follows your gaze, looking disappointed at his superior’s lack of engagement. “What’s wrong Cap’n, lost yer game?”
Price gives a good-natured laugh, staring at Soap from underneath the brim of his hat. “Level with me, kid. One, and split the rest between ya.” Soap groans in disappointment but takes the compromise, redistributing the small glasses. “We’re long overdue for getting’ sloshed sir, this is the last time yer sayin’ no to drinks!”
Price nods in agreement, grabbing the shot and raising it in anticipation. The group follows motion, clinking the glasses together with a cheers before downing the drinks. Price is admirably as expressionless as Ghost, just letting the glass fall from his tips a short distance onto the table. Soap and Gaz pull a similar face to yours, and the Scot lets out a bellow of air as he falls back against the booth. “Ahhh, that’ll put some fuckin’ hairs on ye, lasses! Another!”
The rapid shotting of alcohol has you seeing stars, and when Gaz nudges you for the fourth one, you sway too far into Price. A giggle bubbles in your chest as you peer up at him, and a soft smile is just visible over the neck of his sweater as he gently nudges you back into Gaz. Three more go down back-to-back, and Soap’s face looks blurry through the tears welling up. Your fingers flex for something to grasp – your pant legs, the seat, Gaz’s jumper over your lap, anything – and they find purchase, curling into a tight fist as you fight down the acrid taste. When a big hand cups over yours and pries gently at the death grip, it takes a moment to realise it’s Price removing your grip from the fabric, and another moment to realise it’s the fabric of his pants. You expand your fingers so quickly you can feel the joints pop and try to smooth out the crinkles in his pants apologetically by stroking it flat, but he quickly cups your hand again and holds it firmly against his leg, interrupting the movement. Confusion stuns you, freezing you in place. He picks up your hand, kindly guiding it back to your own thigh and dropping it there, hesitating before giving it an affectionate pat and returning to his drink. It takes a moment and a nudge from Soap under the table before you start working again. You grab your other drink of the platter, squishing it around in your mouth to coat the lingering, cooling burn and soothe the stinging of your cheeks. Soap slams his cup down with a tipsy fervour that has you wince, but the alcohol is buzzing through you and it’s hard not to catch his enthusiasm as he beams at the table.
“Right! C’mon lass, that floor’s been callin’ my name!”
The absence of warmth at your side is disappointing as Price moves to let you out, and an inebriated part of you wishes he stayed there so you could climb over his lap. But you’re grateful that Soap pulls you away from the table before your strategic seating plan backfires; being in such close proximity to the Captain is frying your brain, making it hard to think as the intoxication slowly inhibits you. Looking back, the last glimpse you get of him is leant up against the booth, eyes fixed and watching you trail into the crowd.
--- ︻デ═一 ---
Despite being the last to arrive, Price always leaves first, his two cups of whiskey neatly drained and coupled on the table compared to the scattered glasses of everyone else. The man is too sensible to party late into the night, retreating to base for rest, recuperation, and paperwork. Thinking about it, in the years you’ve worked with 141, you could count on both hands the number of times the Captain had even gotten drunk. No one was sitting with you anymore, each on their own adventures around the bar. Gaz is out of sight, any one of the bodies filling the floor, and it’s possible he wouldn’t even come home with the group – something that fills you with incredibly envy. If you squinted hard enough, you could see Ghost and Soap concealed in the corner. They play the same game every time, a compromise – Ghost watches, leaned up against the wall lazily as Johnny dances for him, swaying to the beat tantalisingly. The little corner is their own world, away from the war, the responsibilities and duty, and looking for too long feels like an act of voyeurism.
Glancing away from the sight, a sparkle catches your gaze; the dingy bar lights glinting off the Price’s glasses sitting in front of you. Water puddles at the base of the freshest drink, rolling down the cooling cup. Remnants of ice are left melting in the bottom, swirling in the dregs of whiskey. Hand under your chin, you sit and watch them twirl in an entrancing circle. Drops of whiskey are still caught on the rim, you imagine from the last sip the captain took. Maybe it’s the alcohol that still taints your tongue, or the lack of sleep, but the thoughts invading your mind are dragging down your inhibitions. A finger mindlessly traces around the cup’s rim, wet drips collecting on the tip. It’s a silly idea, but before you can stop yourself, you run the finger against your tongue, tasting the watered-down whiskey.
Price celebrated tonight in his own way, it seems. Even the diluted drops taste expensive, spicy and smoky, warming your mouth. Your palette isn’t refined enough to pick out the tastes like John does, but you can taste the something sweet and nutty. You see why he said something special; this wasn’t his usual Old Fashioned. In a manner entirely indecent for such a public space, you lick your fingers clean, head swimming with the idea that they’re his. His thick, calloused fingers rubbing against your tongue, filling your mouth with his presence, and coating it with his flavour. The taste of whiskey, the smoke and ash of cigar, his musk, and that special shampoo he uses for that goddamn beard.
It's the sound of glasses clinking from another table that jolts you to reality, pulling your fingers away and wiping them off quickly. This was too much; you’re so horny you couldn’t think straight, and so tipsy you couldn’t see straight. Someone needs to fall into your lap and pull you into a bedroom as soon as possible, and that wasn’t happening in this bar. You weren’t staying any longer, and if that meant walking out by yourself, you could work with that. But when your feet touch the floor, you notice how suspiciously cold it is, and the realisation you’re not wearing shoes becomes quickly apparent. It’s ridiculously easy to drop to your knees – the floor hasn’t stopped calling your name – as you search for them. Finding your boots under the table, put together just like the cups on top of it, sends an irrational flutter through your stomach. Did he do that, just for you? You honestly don’t even know where they were – you remember kicking them off during a break before Soap pulled you back onto the dance floor– but someone did, and put them back just for you.
Trying to stand feels a little too challenging, and you compromise with five minutes and the last of your drink that you grapple off the table. There’s only a mouthful left before there’s a Soap grabbing you by the wrist, trying to drag you up off the floor and outside. Shotting the last liquid makes you retch, and you barely remember your shoes before you’re stumbling to the door with an equally unsteady Soap. There’s an urgency in his slurred Scottish yelling, and your intoxicated brain manages to work out that you’re being evacuated from the premises before the cops rock up.
The first night ends with Gaz pulling Ghost away from someone brave enough to feel up Johnny, despite the presence of the looming, hunk of a man that trailed him like a shadow. Gaz and Ghost are waiting across the street, and the younger man immediately shoots down your suggestion to split up and go off alone, scowling something about Price wanting everyone back ASAP.
No thanks to the invasion of your comrades, and now the disturbance that has you kicked out the bar, your night is over unsuccessful and on a rather sour note. Soap apologises to you in a thick, drunk accent as you’re following an angry Gaz and disgruntled Ghost, but you leave empty-handed and frustrated.
“Look ‘m sorry, but ye cannae tell me that protectin’ me wasn’t pure fuckin’ sexy, I’m gonnae fuck t’life outta that man.”
You laugh scornfully, glaring at the puppy-eyed man. Ghost’s shoulders tighten as the words carry, looking back at his unaware partner with narrowed eyes, and the suggestive act has you gritting your teeth together. The audacity to deny you, and then top it off with rubbing it in, had you boiling.
“Well then, I’m soooo fuckin’ glad that one of us is going to get fucked!”
You tune out of the next apologies that Soap stumbles over. Normally his puppy eyes were enough, and rationally, it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t control the guy getting handsy, and you weren’t going to blame Ghost for protecting his partner. But rationality was far from your drunken capabilities at the moment, cold in the late-night air, trudging angrily along with a pair of shoes that should be on your feet, your bag and the glass you forgot to put back down on the table. Long, wobbly steps distance you from Soap, further into proximity of Gaz’s scolding.
“- mate you can’t just punch civilians, you’re bloody lucky you’ve had a couple because if I didn’t convince him you were fuckin’ pissed, they were gonna ban us!”
Ghost barks humourlessly, shaking his head. He’s swaying, his big legs managing to keep him upright. “I would’ve done that sober, mate. I don’t care, it was fuckin’ worth it. We ain’t goin’ back.”
Gaz just exhales forcefully, shaking his head as he drags Ghost down the street by the arm. The guidance wasn’t needed, a show of frustration on Gaz’s behalf, but Ghost just flexes his bleeding knuckles under the rippling moonlight. “Price is gonna lay into you man, just wait ‘til we get back.”
You shove past both of them, faintly recognising the way your feet scream at the rocks crunching underneath them as you cross a quiet backstreet. Something catches and you stumble, throwing your arms out to catch you, but the ground doesn’t hit. Your arm jerks in its socket as Gaz grabs your forearm, bringing you to your knees and helping you get up. He looks confused at the miscellaneous glass and shoes in your arms, but you ignore it, still driven by your resentment as you glare at Ghost. “Y’both fuckin’ deserve it, don’t even TALK to me tomorrow.”
Gaz’s hold on your arm is strong but you shrug it away, continuing your march back to base. Soap’s echo of your name fades the more distance you make, and you’re the first to get back by a while. The recruit at the security checkpoint tries to greet you with a friendly smile, but all you can do is throw your clearance at him and snatch it back with a growl. The halls are clear, a majority of their occupants still at the bar, and it feels like a blessing you don’t run into anyone else as you drag yourself against the wall. Fumbling with the handle of your door is just another frustration, slamming it open and closed as you tear off each item suffocating your body. When the shirt gets tangled, you want to do nothing more than cry as you find your way through, managing to find anchorage on the bed. You don’t even remember falling asleep in a nauseating ocean of rocking waves, covers barely pulled up and the smell of alcohol suffocating your pillow.