Chapter Text
After seven years in the Army and a dozen tours, not much gets under your skin. Operators of the Delta Force were expected to shrug off distractions and focus on the mission and the mission only. You, however, have one weakness.
His name is John MacTavish.
You’ve been with the 141 as their medic since Verdansk, nearly three years ago, and you still cannot shake the Scotsman from your thoughts. That stupid dashing smirk of his and those stupid blue eyes plagued you on a daily occurrence. Even the mohawk was growing on you.
It didn’t help that he was now your best friend. You trained together, ate together, gossiped together….you did practically everything together.
Being paired on several missions together brought the two of you closer, just not in the way you wanted. Soap only saw you as a friend, nothing more. Any advances you may have made on him were either blissfully ignored or outright mocked the last three years. Eventually, you gave up. You accepted that all you would have with MacTavish was a good partner on the field and someone to laugh with. Just good company after a bad mission or comfort after losing a patient. Nothing more.
It hurts more and more each day.
You thought about this as you finished your morning run. Years of military service had made it a habit to get that deliciously painful cardio in every single day without fail. Normally, Johnny joined you for the self-inflicted punishment, but today he had decided to go to the gym instead. You had to fight off any nagging remnant of disappointment.
After a quick shower in the women’s lockers, the barracks was your next stop. You pinned your wet, waist-length hair up into a bun to keep it from dripping everywhere. There would be time to dry it once you got to your quarters and cooked breakfast.
The one nice thing about being a sergeant was getting a decent-sized room all to yourself. It even had a small kitchen so you didn’t have to wait in the horridly long lines in the cafeteria.
Not every soldier had such luxury and many were jealous of you.
Including the shirtless man waiting outside your door.
Did he really have to walk around showing off those muscles?
“Hey, you,” the Scotsman greeted with a smirk. “What are ye cookin’ me today, lass?”
Ah, right. More often than not, Soap joined you for breakfast…in your room. The tradition had started somewhere in the last year whenever Johnny went on a run with you. Usually, if he went to the gym, he would go to the mess hall. This was different.
“Shut up, MacTavish,” you groaned and rolled your eyes playfully. The door was left slightly ajar for him to follow. He chuckled heartily and closed the door behind him. The sergeant sat down on your bed and watched as you searched through your cabinets for ingredients and pans.
“Someone’s full of sass today.”
You scoffed at the man’s teasing and continued with your task. “Someone ditched me for the gym today,” you countered. Eggs and bacon it was. Really, that’s all you ever kept in your fridge except for the pancake mix in the pantry. Making a mess with batter didn’t seem worth the hassle today, even though it was your fellow sergeant’s favorite.
“Ah, I thought ye got my text?”
“I did.”
MacTavish tilted his head to the side whilst observing you cracking eggs into the pan. You seemed distant. Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, you’ve been like this for a while.
“Are ye upset with me, Kitten?” Soap asked.
That damned callsign he gave you. Everyone - read everyone - called you by your official callsign except the fucking sergeant. He just had to give you a pet name. It dug into the wound of not being able to have him even more because it sounded like a name for a cat or a child, not a potential romantic interest.
“If you keep calling me that.”
“Aw, c’mon, lass,” Soap laughed, “Tis a term of endearment.”
Instead of retorting, you shot him a side-eye. The sight of him sitting there shirtless on your bed sent a rush of heat that surely tinged your ears pink. As a medic, you’ve seen people - Soap included - near or absolutely naked. You can’t recall how many times you’ve asked him to remove his shirt to pull out a piece of shrapnel or stitch up knife wounds. It shouldn’t affect you, but it does. Immensely .
“What time is roll-out?” you asked, turning around to conceal your embarrassment.
Focusing on the upcoming mission should make you feel better, right? There were a lot of details to pick apart and occupy your mind. Yes, you should focus on that, not the handsome hunk sitting on your bed .
“1800,” Johnny said. His tone was hesitant, as if it were odd that you would ask such a question. Roll-out has been established for a week for this op.
Soap was watching you carefully while you scrambled the eggs in the pan and kept an eye on the sizzling bacon. Though you couldn’t see him, the heat of his gaze burned a hole in the back of your head and made the hair on your neck stand up. He always had a funny way of doing things to you.
“What’s on your mind, lass?”
You froze. Soap knew how to read you too well. Lately, you hadn’t been as bubbly around him. It’s been going on for weeks, if not a month or two. Something had happened and you had started to pull away. He had been too afraid to ask, too afraid that you would clam up in that shell of yours and not come back out.
“Huh?” you lifted a brow while staring at the nearly done bacon.
Soap exhaled behind you. “Yer actin’ weird, Fox.”
Fox. He only says that when he’s being serious.
But before you could turn around and make up some excuse, Johnny stood up from your bed and took the two strides to stand beside you. He patiently waited for you to acknowledge him, but you were too stubborn and started plating up the food.
“I’m always weird,” was your stupid excuse.
And Soap wasn’t buying it.
You could just feel his curiosity as the warmth from his body radiated to you. There was no way, however, that you were going to explain to him why you were acting so weird as of late. It would ruin everything. Just act normal.
The blood in your ears drummed harder the longer you were both standing there. You hurriedly set a fork on Johnny’s plate and thrust it into his hands without a word.
Soap glanced down at the divine-smelling food for a brief moment. His lips parted and closed a couple times as if he wanted to say something. “Thanks, Kit,” he managed before going back to his seat. You hummed in reply before digging into your own serving.
The rest of your less-than-friendly hangout was awkwardly silent.
Hours later, you both were kitting up in the gear room for the mission. It was procedure to ensure everything was in order hours before an op.
Routine.
Normal.
Except for the fact that the unspoken change of energy between you and MacTavish was still there. Both of you would steal small glances at the other when they weren’t looking. A longing gaze from Soap wanting to say something. A stare of admiration for the Scot from you.
You checked every pouch and buckle to make sure your kit was right. You searched through your IFAK ensuring no one stole anything since your last mission. Nothing was out of the ordinary…
Save for the fact that you did this routine ten times. And Johnny noticed. By now, you should have come skipping over to him talking about something random or sharing some juicy gossip on post. But you didn’t. You were woefully ignoring him.
The strain was pulling and pulling. Bubbling beneath the surface. Soap couldn’t take it anymore.
You watched with contained fear as Johnny set down his gear and made a beeline for you. He had to pass several other soldiers gearing up to get to you.
Just one more step and-
“Fox!”
Both of you startle at Captain Price’s sudden outburst. The older man was at the doorway to the gear room, a cigar hanging from his lips. His next words are out of his mouth before you can respond.
“My office, now.”
You gleefully took the opportunity to get away from Soap and rushed out the door behind Price. In your haste, you failed to see the dejected expression on your partner’s face.
“Am I in trouble, sir?”
Price huffed an amused chuckle as he opened the door to his office and ushered you in. “You’re always in trouble, kid,” he said, “Sit.”
The office was backlit by the folded shades and foggy from cigar smoke. Papers were piled everywhere and empty whiskey glasses left strewn about. The captain didn’t take as much pride in keeping an organized ship as he did in an organized team.
That was the reason you were called in.
“Now what’s been going on with you, Fox?”
“Sir?” You stared at the man with a furrowed brow. First Johnny and now….
Oh.
“MacTavish is worried,” Price answered plainly. His eyes analyzed you as he puffed the cigar.
“I’m sure he is,” your sarcastic reply came. You crossed your arms and leaned back into the chair with a groan.
“I’m worried, too. You’ve been aloof and defensive. What’s the deal?”
You were silent. There wasn’t much you could say without completely undoing yourself. Price would admonish you for thinking about a fellow soldier the way you thought about Johnny.
“I need an answer if you think you’re going on this op.”
“It’s just a phase, sir.” You’d think you’d be a better liar as a CIA operative.
“Well, get out of it, sunshine,” Price said. His tone was not mocking or dismissive, but rather encouraging. You were always able to go to the captain when you needed something, even if it was personal or a bit out of regulation.
You should be able to tell him the truth here, but you wanted to keep your demons at bay. Loving Soap was a secret you were going to take to your grave.
“Yes, sir,” you nodded. You were avoiding his eyes but you could still feel them narrowing at you.
“Alright, get out and get ready. We leave in two hours.”
Without further conversation, you waltzed back to the gear room with your head held high. The mission was your primary focus now. Thinking about anything else might get you or your teammates killed out there.
A certain Scotsman was going to make that nigh impossible in the next twenty four hours.