fatal-iistic

[fatal-iistic]

diversity win! im bisexual and im going to kill you!

[fatal-iistic]

the scarlet letter

Summary: Blair lies bleeding out in the snow. She'll be forced to pay for her sins in the afterlife.

Scarlet. 

Hester Prynne once walked the streets of Salem with the scarlet A emblazoned on her chest, little baby Pearl coddled in her arms.

The way the scarlet paints Blair's shoulder, spraying across the soft white of the virgin snow. Her own scarlet letter. But her sins can't be summarized into one singular letter. She'd have to bleed and bleed and bleed every hematocritic ounce of her blood to even come close to atoning for her sins. 

She is sinner in the hands of an Angry God.

Her father had been right.

A heathen would pay for the path of straying from the Lord Almighty.

Hadn't I paid enough? Her mind muses morosely.

Her shoulder burns, a white, searing pain that ripples under her collar bone and into the depths of her chest. She isn't sure what's damaged. A .50 caliber round is made to travel a distance and pack a punch – she'd lock and load the ammunition a hundred times over. She knew it. Trusted its power. She almost feels betrayed to have been felled by the weapon. 

Blair shutters. 

Life exhumes itself from her lungs. There's a pantheon of glistening stars in her vision, accompanied by the prickly vibrations rattling through her limbs. 

I'll see you in death, daughter, a savage Carl Moore spat, adorned in his king's robe of orange. Television cameras. Blinding flashes. How she'd wanted to tear him from limb to limb for every iniquity he'd committed in her lifetime (her childhood a homicide they'd never acquit him for). 

She revolts. Carl Moore won't greet her in death.

Fingers curl into fists. If she could beat her chest, shed any sentience of her damned father's existence from her own DNA, she'd unwind her helixes and strip Carl Moore from it. 

Scrubbed clean. She'd only wear the nucleotides of Emilia Stanton –  soft blue eyes, high cheekbones, and the affinity to peruse the book section at the grocery store. 

Be careful, Blair, Emilia's windchime voice echoes in the rear recesses of her cortices. I don't want you to die as you lived. I want to see you be something more than a soldier. 

By the sword. Or, more accurately, at the mercy of a sniper barrel.

She'd always been hardheaded. Bull headed, dirt smeared earthen across her cheeks as she'd army crawl through the woods behind their home. A soldier, engrained into her existence. The detriment of Carl's make up, God she'd love to be rid of his damnation. 

At least when she's dead, she won't stand at the scaffolds for the rest of them to speculate on all the horrible things she's done. 

Did Hester Prynne ever get a happy ending?

Blair's brain feels like a billow of fog. The Scarlet Letter had been a favorite of Emilia Stanton's. Her mother would be disappointed that Blair was forgetting the details. 

You're dying, Blair. This voice is her own.

Her gut churns at the notion. 

No, it can't be.

She's sprawled out in the snow, caught between bleeding out from her shoulder and potentially freezing in the blizzard. More worried about the details of a novel she hasn't perused since high school than the fact her vitals are tanking.

(The snow is melting underneath the metallic warmth of her blood. She's pouring from the subclavian artery.)

A guttural groan escapes her lips. Mourning.

She's dying. And there are more important things to be concerned over.

Johnny…she thinks she sighs his name. The word feels like dried honey and sweet wine against her lips. 

A thousand sins. She'd commit them again if they led straight to John MacTavish. 

Her dress is white (symbolic of innocence, something Blair never had). Locked behind a garment bag and zipper, lodged in the secret depths of her closet. The closest thing she'd ever allowed herself to be of a princess. Fulfillment of a childish fantasy, and she's going to die before she can walk down that aisle.

Eyesight fills with gold as she pictures the sunrise over the Chicago horizon that morning in November. They'd been chasing warheads across the globe, dodging enemies and gunfire, for the better part of five days. And finally they'd found peace, and that's when Johnny had, jokingly, proposed.

Except she'd taken his word on it. A promise to always return to one another. 

She sees his groggy smile. The way his cobalt blue eyes gleam in the morning light. She could wake up thousands of times more to that face. Whether it was their flat back home, a fancy hotel in Italy, or some grungy safe house lodged into the sands of the Sahara, it would always feel like home. Anywhere with Johnny is home. 

He's not here.

Blair is alone.

Hester Prynne died alone (still wearing her scarlet letter, even in death). Blair Moore will also die alone (will they remember her for all the bad things she's done? Did she ever really help protect the "greater good?")

Eyelashes flutter open as she draws in a rigid breath. Deep into the bleak of night, a figure trudges through the snow in her direction. 

A solemn ghostly face. 

Where was the pale horse?

She'd never believed death had a face (though she thinks she sees his black robe billow in the wind), but now he's peering through the crystalline deluge of the snowstorm. She's next on the list. He'll take her soul and walk her through purgatory to the echelon of hell she belongs.

(Maybe instead of paying for her sins, she'll learn to accept them.

They'd led her here. 

She just wishes she had more time.)

[fatal-iistic]

Iniquity

A/N: John Mactavish is a gentleman. With fists.

Now she knows why the higher-ups have secretaries hired for these tasks. She's signed and sealed another operation report, inspecting the official document with a sense of distaste. Overturning the paper, she tucks it neatly into a manilla folder and tapes it shut. 

Blair Moore leans back in the office chair, eyes sweeping to the next set of reports requiring her attention. She tilts her head back. An exasperated sigh leaves her lips. She's locked herself away in Captain Price's office, cranking out reports while playing some soft country music. 

The Captain is out of the country with Sergeant Garrick on some covert op in Turkey. Blair is one of the few trusted with a key to his office, ensuring to leave everything exactly where Price had left it, even though she's fairly certain he utilizes it sparingly and it does more in collecting mail he refuses to open. Fingernails drum on the sleek mahogany of the desk, faintly aware of the sound of boots drumming on the floor outside. 

The doorknob jiggles. Blair nearly jumps with surprise. Peering through the window on the door is Soap.

Is that a bloody nose?

Leaping to her feet, she hastily unlocks the door and drags Johnny into the office. 

"Jesus fucking Christ," she gasps, quickly reaching to assess the damage on his face. Each word accentuated, she snaps, "What the fuck happened?"

Johnny sinks into the chair adjacent from the desk. His hand plastered to his bleeding nose in a futile attempt to stop the blood. Blair grabs a box of tissue, shoving it in his direction.

"John," she states. Jaw clenched. 

Blue eyes scan to meet hers. Despite it all, he flashes Blair a lopsided smile under the wad of tissue he's applying to his nose.

"'M alright, bonnie," he waves off.

Her eyes narrow. Belly burns. "That wasn't my question," she growls, fists clenching. 

"Captain Schiller won't be a problem," Johnny states. His shoulders square as he mentions the superior officer, one of Captain Price's begrudgingly colleagues. 

The color drains from Blair's face as she pieces together the fragments of what Soap is referring to. Captain Schiller was a nuisance, at best, but had become fixated on Blair's presence on base the last few weeks. He'd made crude comments, some referring to some fantastical relationship Blair must have forged with Captain Price, to remarks on her appearance. 

It had reached a breaking point when Captain Schiller had slapped Blair across her ass while exiting a briefing that Blair had sat in for in lieu of Captain Price. In the moment, Blair had withheld from doing anything. She was the only woman among men in a foreign military force. She, in reality, hardly belonged anyway. 

But that hasn't stopped the rage from boiling over in Johnny. He'd stomped out of his flat over the ordeal. Blair had been worried he'd drive back to base to seek out Captain Schiller, but he'd returned an hour later, more level-headed but still upset.

That had been…over a week prior.

"Johnny," she exhales, reaching up to cradle her head in her hand. "Why did you do this?"

"He's a pig," Johnny swiftly defends. "N' everybody knows he got away with a warnin' for sexually harassin' Corporal Walsh four months 'go."

"I can take care of myself," Blair interjects. 

"That wasn't the only purpose," he rebuttals. "But ain't nobody puts a hand on my girl."

Blair pauses, the way he proclaim "my girl" sends a shiver through her spine. She gazes at Soap, hands still planted on her hips. 

"Johnny, what are you gonna say when they pull you in for disciplinary action?" Blair sighs. She reaches fingers wrapping around his free hand. 

He shrugs, nonchalant. "Yer still my squad mate. I'll lean into that alibi."

Squatting down, she scoops her fingers under his chin, pointing his face to study the purplish bruise forming across the bridge of his nose. "It's swollen. He got a good hit on ya," Blair observes, tilting his chin to better inspect the wound. "But you'll live."

A coarse chuckle rattles Soap's chest. He blinks up at Blair, appreciatively. "Truly a relief." 

"Yer an idiot, John Mactavish," she breathes.

He lowers the tissue, manic smile creasing his lips. "An idiot for you."

[fatal-iistic]

monsters much bigger

Sweat rolls along her temple, tickling her skin with the delicacy of a feather. Blair grits her teeth, resisting the urge to reach and swipe it away. There's not a moment for movement. Not now. Not while she watches intently through the scope of her sniper rifle at the seven men parked newly five hundred yards down across the arid terrain.

She's dressed like a desert shrub, wedged just underneath a canopy of prickly branches. Overhead, the electrical wires buzz at a constant drone that's starting to wear at her nerves after several hours. Or perhaps it's the exhausting heat, bleeding her dry was it not for her personal water supply. She hated the desert. She hated being out here for the majority of this blistering day.

But they were close.

So close. 

This was years of intel culminating into one moment. They'd sent Blair out five separate days in the last two weeks, watching, waiting. Finally, their HVT arrived. The target nearly served up fresh on a platter.

Blair gently shifts the barrel, crosshairs set on the man with a graying beard. He's older than the rest of his group. His harem of guard dogs. The group lingers back as the target slowly shuffles to a small clearing amongst the desert grass. There's an ensemble of stones arranged to denote something here.

A grave. 

“It's his first wife. She died during childbirth to his son, Khalid,” Kate Laswell had told Blair. They'd mulled over terabytes of intel in the days leading up to this mission. 

The conceptual idea of gunning a man down as he's paying respects to the dead causes a souring in Blair's stomach. A feeling she extinguishes swiftly when she's reminded of all the innocent lives, directly and indirectly, murdered by this man. Terrorism and the combat against has no place for sympathies. 

Blair draws a steady breath, that thought pushed from her mind. She lines the rifle up, shifting to account for the distance and wind. 

“Watcher, this is Rogue,” Blair murmurs into her headpiece. Even with the distance that exists between Blair and the men below, she keeps her voice low. A phantom of a whisper above the gentle roll of desert wind against her frame. 

There's a subtle static before Kate's voice breaks through the noise. “Go ahead, Rogue.”

“Saeed is here. Shot is lined up.”

There's another pregnant pause, a second that elapses into an eternity against the faint flutter of Blair's heart as she holds her lungs and steadies all movement in her body.

“Take the shot, lieutenant.”

[fatal-iistic]

Dawning

The first tendrils of golden sunlight slip past the eastern horizon. Soothing daylight kissing the pale pastels of lavender and pink teasing the sky. 

Blair sits on the floor of the hotel room, legs folded, hands curled in her lap. Spine rests against the side of the oversized recliner in the corner of the room. She's peeled the curtains back on the window, gazing through hungry frames of skyscrapers. Despite the magnificence of these buildings, she still has a clear sight of the sun peaking over the waters of Lake Michigan.

24 hours have passed since Task Force 141 had chased Hussan into American territory and eliminated the threat. 

The American government had lodged the soldiers up in one of the most expensive hotels in the city limits of Chicago before they'd disembark on a individual flights elsewhere. The majority of them were on their way back to the UK. Blair was due to report back to Langley, Virginia to debrief at CIA Headquarters before she could tempt the idea of returning to the UK to be with Johnny. 

It's a still morning, at least from their perch some twenty-stories in the sky. Below, Blair can see the trail of headlights of commuters and the life breathing into local businesses. All of these people blissfully unaware of the tumult that had unfolded in the late hours of morning the day previous.

Because of people like Blair. Like Johnny, and Captain Price, and Gaz, and Ghost. Sacrificing normalcy. For a greater good -- it was something Blair constantly reminded herself. Something she'd had coerced and beaten into her cortex by higher command over the years until she, too, believed it.

She knew sacrifice. Bled it.

Blair had sacrificed just about everything under the oath to serve and protect.

But in the last few days, Blair had realized there was one thing she could not relinquish. 

His name was John Mactavish. 

It's unfortunate. Neither one if them have the constitution to a happy ending. Blair had dismissed the futile hope that her epilogue involved an semblance of goodness. She'd made this. She'd chosen this profession. Become this person. She was certain she didn't deserve it anyway.

The universe, or maybe just John Mactavish and is elaborate stubbornness, disagreed with that notion 

And now, between chasing down terrorists and dodging bullet fire, Blair has a reason to make it home after each mission. Johnny falling under similar orders 

She can hear the subtle rumble of Johnny snore. He's buried under the bedsheets, mouth slightly ajar, and Blair is almost certain she caught sight of drool drying along the stubble of his chin. The thought elicits a content smile from the woman. He's a mess, but he's perfect. Everything is perfect -- despite everything, they're both alive, and safe, and here. 

A shadow passes across Blair's vision. Fluttering into the air from a nearby perch, a broad wingspan flaps to life. She squints, first astounded by the size of the city pigeon, only to recognize the speckled feathering of a red-tailed hawk. The hawk take flight, soaring above the tops of most of the buildings and towards the sunrise. 

Captivated by the raptor, Blair misses the silence to the snoring from behind her and the soft shift of the mattress. Johnny has rolled onto the side of the bed closest to the window, groggy eyes studying the woman occupying a small space on the floor.

"Yer allowed to sleep in," he rumbles. His voice makes Blair jump for a moment before she tilts her head in the Scot's direction, lips curving into a petite smile.

"You know that ain't in my nature," she refutes.

Johnny grins. Even wearing the residual exhaustion of the last week of darting across cartel-ridden lands of Mexico and taking several injuries along the way, he still brims with a fountain of repletion. 

He lays there, propped up lazily on a curled elbow. Blue eyes dance in the light of dawn, only adding to the illumination of his smile upon his face.

"Well, make it worthwhile," he teases, "come back to bed."

Blair's nose scrunches as she chuckles. Her heart soars, high like the hawk drifting towards the sunrise. Unfolding her legs, Blair ignores the ache in her bruised ribs as she closes the distance back to the sanctity of the bedsheets, wrapping Johnny in her arms.

She presses a kiss to his temple. "Only because you insisted.”

[fatal-iistic]

The Epithet of Pallas

The collective ooo-ing from the SAS soldiers spectating Blair Moore and John Mactavish throwing sparring punches echoes off the courtyard walls. There’s a fleeting moment where Blair doesn’t even realize she’s completely incapacitated Soap, her maneuver hadn’t intended to cut off the Scottish man’s balance and send him careening into the grass. Yet, Soap lays with his gaze directed up at the late April blue skies and the puffy white clouds traversing overhead.

The view from here is beautiful. The grass soft under his bones. Somewhere, a springtime songbird shares a gentle afternoon hymn.

Blair steps close to the fallen frame of her comrade, hands planted on her knees as she leans over. Her body blocks out the radiant gaze of the sunlight, casting a long shadow across Soap’s face.

There’s a heartbeat where Soap forgets the situation and the time. The world yields on its axis.

Even in the shade of her own shadow, Blair’s face glows with the blood rush that teases her cheekbones. Her straw blonde hair is twisted into a tight bun at the base of her skull, but a dozen tendrils had broken lose during their sparring and were clinging to the soft sheen of sweat along her forehead. Did John Mactavish forget the ruthlessness that settles in the sinew of her body and the lack of mercy hardwired in her neural synapses, he’d call her a goddess.

But Blair Moore was far from a virtue of beauty. No – she was more akin to Athena or Bellona. Figureheads of war. 

“Are you okay?” She inquires; a genuine expression of concern painting her features.

Soap breathes, sucking a chest-full of air before releasing a gruff chuckle. He hadn’t intended on being leveled in such few manuevers. The wound to his ego throbs behind his eyes, or it’s a formulating headache from the impact of his skull against the ground.

“‘M fine,” Soap grumbles.

A smile splits across Blair’s face. Her eyes dance mischievously. “You cross your feet too often. It makes your balance exceptionally weak,” she informs. Blair straightens her spine to toss a look at the other soldiers. “Square stances. Move one foot at a time, boys. Or you’ll eat dirt just like Mactavish here.” 

There’s a chorus of chuckles, and one of the soldiers tosses a good-natured jeer in Mactavish’s direction. Well deserved. Soap should’ve known better. Should’ve done better.  

Extending her hand, Blair beckons the defunct soldier to accept her assistance and pulls him to his feet. Soap dismisses his fellow soldiers, opting to salvage the remnants of his pride before Blair sends it careening to an early grave. By the time he’s collected his bearings and turns to address Blair, she’s also gathered her things and slings her backpack over her shoulder.

“Yer a cruel woman, Blair Moore,” Soap accuses, his voice a jesting tone.

She flashes him a smile. “And you opted to invite me to training.”

“A fatal mistake.”

“For most, yes. Just be glad we’re on the same side,” she replies nonchalantly. Blair rocks on her heels, planting her hands on her hips. “Grab yer stuff. I’m hungry and it’s weird when I go to the mess hall alone.” 

Soap tosses a half-hearted salute humorously in Blair’s direction. He stoops down to gather the contents of his duffel bag, haphazardly strewn across the ground, tossing them back into the safety of the bag. He’s nearly finished when he catches Blair’s gaze. She stands there, tapping her index finger against her hip while she patiently waits for Soap. 

The Scottish man straightens, a devilish grin plastering his face. “I dunno, Moore, I was under the impression you liked a man for his brains,” he teases, his smirk deepening. “But I think I caught you checkin’ out my ass.”

Blair’s expression suddenly flushes from complacency to a wash of embarrassment. Her jaw unhinged. “What? No! I wasn’t–”

Soap’s laughter rings out, bouncing off the brick walls of the surrounding building. His laughter only elicits more humiliation from the woman, quickly replaced by a whirlwind of rage. The notion isn’t new for the duo, but Blair seemingly remains to keep the entity of their relationship under lock and key until they’re secluded behind closed doors. Soap, on the other hand, constantly pushes the limits. They’re far out of earshot from any of Soap’s comrades, but Blair is seemingly blindsided by the remark.

She’s also the lesser of the two when it came to harmless flirting and teasing. There were times she struggled to deflect Soap’s flippant humor, and Blair herself isn’t sure if she loves or hates that part of John Mactavish. 

“Mactavish, go fuck yerself,” she spits indignantly. She yields no defense towards his shameless flirting. She suddenly extends with her foot, huffing as she pushes Soap in the thigh and nearly knocks the man off balance for the second time.

“Easy, bonnie, you’ll have to answer to Captain if ya break me!” Soap warns, catching his balance with a stumble step before righting himself again. 

She grits her teeth, eyes narrowing. “At this rate, Price will see my side and commend me for relinquishing everyone of your crass humor!” She defends. Her nose scrunches as she fights the laugh that lingers at the edge of her tongue. 

“That one cuts deep, Blair,” Soap feigns his agony, palm extending over his heart, “even more than ya dumpin’ my ass on the grass.” 

Blair suddenly pivots, throwing her hands up in surrender and storming off in the direction of the mess hall. “Better yet, I’m going to go eat alone. Have a wonderful day, Sergeant.” 

“Hold on up, bonnie,” Soap calls, striding after her with a manic smile still painted across his lips, “You can’t take back on our date.”

“Just watch me.”

[fatal-iistic]

To Honor And Serve

Summary: John Price is hiring, and Kate Laswell personally knows one of the best candidates. Too bad they're not on talking terms.

Word Count: 4.2k

Content Warnings: Explicit Language

Late November 2019

A Teahouse in the UK

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. John Price was damned good at what he did, though his methods proved unconventional. Assembling a team to tie up and cut off the loose ends in the incident with al-Qatala was not altogether a shocking announcement – the man always got the job done. But there was an amount of caution that still riled Kate Laswell. 

But if there was one thing Kate had for John, it was the complete invested amount of trust. He’d never failed her before, and she knew this 141 task force wouldn’t fail them moving forward. Throwing caution to the wind, Kate resigns herself and allows  John to have the things he wants. Give John the right men, and he’d overthrow a regime with a squad. 

Just as Kate Laswell begins to pack her things, ready to spend the next 24 hours mulling over the bitter remnants of caution until she’s convinced herself, once more, to trust John’s process, John Price straightens his spine. His face creases as he glances at the door to the teahouse and then back to Kate. 

"Kate," John starts, holding his hand out to motion her to wait. "There's one last thing."

The woman blinks, head tilting as she studies her long-time colleague. "Yes?" 

He slides a folder upside down across the table. Kate eyes the manilla folder before flashing a cautious look at her colleague. She gently overturns the folder to stare at the front. 

Joanna 'Blair' Moore

Rogue

Kate's heart nearly halts at the name and face staring back at her. Her eyes bolt up to meet John's.

"John, no." Her voice is firm, almost too concrete. 

"Give me a reason why."

"She was discharged from the CIA for insubordination and questionable ethics."

Questionable ethics. The statement could make any soldier worth their salt laugh. War, terrorism, safety, and peace were murky terms and conditions – John Price, of all people, had been the one to tread the fine lines between the rulebook and excusable offenses (“for the greater good” had become a justification). Questionable ethics were just another term to catalog someone who'd worked on their own rules in a circumstance where morality and immense consequence collided. 

"I’m not looking for people with squeaky clean records.”

Simon Riley is a testament to that.

Kate's eyes advert. Her shoulders slump. "I haven't talked to her since it all went south, John."

"She's one of the best in espionage and foreign intelligence,” John states, giving Kate a sympathetic look and a wiry smirk. “Second only to you. But she’s got the combat tactics and is as deadly as I need ‘em.”

"You're asking me to recruit her?" Kate breaks, wary.

"You were her handler. And one of her closest confidants,” John reasons.

"We haven't spoken in years," Kate reiterates, her jaw clenching.

"You're both adults. I'm sure you can find time to forge amends."

Deflating her chest, Kate can't stop the shaking in her limbs as she gazes at Blair’s picture. She knows how this conversation will conclude if she continues to rebuke John, just like he had minutes ago when Kate had pushed against the mere idea of him assembling a team (“I can fund assets, not outlaws” – oh, famous last words, Kate Laswell). 

“If I tell you no?” she quizzes.

John’s lips crease. “I’ll have to find a more creative way to contact her.”

She leans back in her chair, staring into the teahouse dining room. She contemplates for a long moment before returning to John, sighing with defeat.

“If it’s for the greater good…then I’ll help.”

John smiles. “Thank you, Kate.”

***

2013

Classified Military Location, US

"General Ignacio will be here shortly," the young captain announces as he directs Kate Laswell into the conference room.

Kate strides mindlessly to the tinted windows on the opposite wall. She's perched on the second story, gazing out at the military base's otherwise bland scenery. The grass lawn on the side of the administration building is dotted with two proud oak trees. She squints, catching sight of a pair of combat boots lodged in the upper branches of one of the trees. 

The station chief chuckles lightly. Military soldiers were a different breed. She could only imagine the scenarios behind the boots' story. 

There's a knock on the door. Kate shocks herself back into focus and pivots to face the door. Immerging through the threshold is Ignacio, a face Kate had socialized with prior. Behind him is another familiar face, though one Kate had only studied in pictures.

"General," Kate greets the higher command. She then rivets her attention on the younger soldier. "You must be Lieutenant Moore."

The woman behind Brigadier General Ignacio immediately snaps into attention and salutes Kate Laswell. There's a particular precipice that etches her features. Stone cold eyes. Feminine features that were as sharp as a knife. The words utilized in formal reports gave Joanna Moore little justice. 

"Ma'am," Joanna states. Her tone clipped, though the drawl of her tongue sings Texan in an instant. 

General Ignacio gestures between the two, introducing to his soldier, "Lieutenant, this is Station Chief Kate Laswell. She's CIA."

Joanna shifts her gaze to her superior, then back to Kate. "A pleasure, Station Chief."

"Call me Kate," Kate interjects.

There's a pregnant pause between the three personnel. Kate observes a rigidity that has blanketed Joanna from the moment she walked into the conference room. Icy eyes dart from BG Ignacio to Kate, eyebrows raised as she awaited the conversation to dive into a formal topic.

"You've been reassigned, Lieutenant," BG Ignacio makes no gesture to uphold pleasantries or dive into the details. He turns to his soldier, nodding.

Joanna's face falls, an amount of shock seizing her features. Perhaps there was a flutter of relief that also pales her face. It's subtle. Only someone such as Kate would be capable of detecting the fleeting emotion.

"Does that mean Operation Bad Omen is–"

"Terminated," Kate is the one who speaks up. "Direct orders from the Capitol."

"Oh." Joanna doesn't offer much more sentiment to the information.

The Station Chief studies the soldier. There are pages and pages included in the report about First Lieutenant Moore. Her history, her credentials starting from the nine weeks at Fort Sill, three deployments into the Middle East, and her incorporation into what the Army labeled Operation Bad Omen and Crow Team. She’d seen more action before 30 than generals twice her age had witnessed. Her official kill record shamed whole battalions. 

But Kate Laswell has seen agents like Joanna Moore. Any sentience of humanity was all but wholly stripped from her. She’d been indoctrinated, shaped into a savage machine, and harnessed by the US Army. Kate knew Joanna’s history – this began long before she signed her life away to the Army forces. It began in the rural fields of Texas, where her war-minded father had molded Joanna into a fighting machine in her primitive years.

"You're integrating into the CIA, Lieutenant Moore. Special Activities Division. Kate Laswell is here to brief and prepare you for transfer,"  Ignacio fills in the gaps.

Joanna blinks. Emotionless. Vacated. "Do I have any autonomy in this decision?" The question is proposed. 

Her gaze resolves itself unto Ignacio.

"Your contract has another year."

"Am I Army or CIA?" Blair prompts. Her tone has a trace of ridicule, or perhaps genuine perplexion.

Ignacio glances over toward Kate as he speaks, "Both?"

"We can unpack the details, Lieutenant," Kate intervenes. "Right now, I have a dozen different terrorist cells located in highly populated cities across parts of southeast Europe, the Middle East, and Northern Africa. I'm assembling a team with your skill set to be dispatched and lead the charge to uproot these threats."

"Highly populated," she echoes, head tilting. Her blue eyes are eerily cold as she gazes back at Kate Laswell. "Did they tell you about Afghanistan and Cheshm Shur?"

Kate nods. "I'd prefer to know you as who you really are, Joanna."

The other woman smiles faintly.  "Blair. I like to be called Blair."

***

December 21st, 2019

Annapolis, VA, US

It’s a dreary winter afternoon in Annapolis. Kate Laswell sits at her desk in her office at home, watching stray snowflakes cascade from an ashen sky and find their place on her frozen, desolate lawn. It’s a bland day, but, really, Kate should be thankful for these peaceful days. Quietness meant there wasn’t trouble brewing. It was Saturday, and if she wasn’t dragging herself to the Pentagon or down to DC, it was a good day. At least, that’s what her wife had said.

But there’s a festering deep within Kate’s stomach as she holds her coffee mug up to her lips, gently drawing a sip of the temperate liquid into her mouth. On her desk is a file, unopened in the last few days. It’s sat there since last week after John Price had given it to her. Across the top, a name is scrawled: Joanna “Blair” Moore.

Ghosts in the past. Skeletons in the closet. Whatever Blair surmounted to at this point, it left a gnawing sensation deep in her gut. She'd asked Blair to find a place in the world after she'd been discharged from the CIA ("And where do you think that place is, Kate?" Blair had asked, despondent, forlorn. Where else did Blair Moore belong than on a battlefield?). There was so much wrong with the woman, she'd been in the perfect place in the Army and the CIA, expressing the very traits engraved into her psyche as a child.

Blair's credentials, her success rates and kill confirms, broke the glass ceiling ("That Moore girl could beat you out at your own game, Kate," General Shepherd had once remarked. A statement Kate didn't know if she should pride or be wary about). But the most prominent thing about the young Texas-born soldier was the turmoil that followed her around like an insidious specter. Kate had tried to encourage Blair onto a better path, attempted to coax her into heeding rules and staying on the straight-and-narrow. Blair was a wild card, and no amount of heart-to-hearts and positive motivation could alter her circuitry. And ultimately, the very things that made Blair an ingenious specialist, burned her. 

The conclusion to Blair's CIA career had been marred with poor judgment and animosity. The reality is, Kate doesn't regret discharging the rogue agent – however difficult of a decision, muddled between personal reasons and Blair's irreplaceable competency. Blair, herself, couldn't rebuttal the consequences that matched her actions. But Kate wonders, these years later, if she could've prevented the inevitable.

Blair's CIA identification photo sits pinned to the top of the folder. The picture has to be nearly five or six years old, but the eyes that stare back feel as real as if Blair inhabited the Annapolis office room. 

Fingernails drumming against the ceramic of her mug, Kate rouses herself back to reality. A gust of wind rattles her windowpane. She sets her cup on the mahogany desk and relinquishes a sigh. Reaching for her phone, Kate holds the device idly in her palm. She isn’t entirely sure if, after two years, Blair has the same number. Then again, it would take only a few clicks and requests under her credentials to verify that information.

This shouldn't be hard, Kate, a voice chides from within. She's a veteran in field ops, in the landscapes of war, and the carnival of politics. There isn't a fucking thing this woman hasn't seen, yet the mere prospect of unearthing a dead relationship sends chills through her frame. Blair Moore wasn't the bogeyman, as much as enemy ops and the government liked to chime with such terms.

Maybe it's because Kate would have to stare her biggest failure in the eyes once more. Blair had lived through her CIA tenure, a badge of honor other agents didn't have the liberty to bear. But she hadn't been able to save Blair's soul. It had been a ridiculous task to burden herself with, but Kate was sometimes sentimental (her wife would laugh if she heard Kate entertain such thoughts – "There's a golden heart under all that stoicism, Kate."). 

Blair always had a fire in her veins. She followed the storm on its coattails and never backed down from danger. Those traits had propelled her through the Army and the Green Berets. It had given her accolades that men twice her age would covet. That’s why she’d been a shoo-in for the CIA. She was talented, decisive, and determined. But where these things had spurred her forward, eventually, that lack of discretion and fervor had been a source of chaos amongst higher-ups in the CIA. A constant source of Kate’s headache for trying to cover up or provide a medium for Blair’s actions and words. 

Kate hesitates longer. The more she ponders, the stronger her headache becomes. Suddenly the screen of her cell phone lights up, a familiar name with an incoming call.

John Price.

Kate slides her finger across the screen, answering the call.

“Hello, John,” Kate greets steadily.

“Kate,” Price returns. “Trust you are enjoying your day off.”

Kate chuckles, head tilting. “As much as this world lets me.”

There’s a lull of silence on the other end.

"Have you talked to her?" Price quizzes, his question ambiguous, but both parties are well aware of what he references.  

Kate's spine stiffens. "You know it's more complicated than that,” she combats. 

A frigid gale gusts through Kate's frame. She hates John for doing this. Then again, she knows he isn’t making choices to spite her. Blair was a top-notch, capable agent. Still is. She’d be an asset to John’s 141 Task Force. But the fact that Kate has to extend the olive branch to her former asset, ask for a truce and propose the idea makes her feel hopeless. Perhaps this was John’s attempt to forge some sort of reconciliation between the women. The thought does elicit amusement from Kate.

Three and a half years ago, a botched mission in Verdansk resulted in Blair losing her partner. Either agent knew the risks of their occupation, but Blair harbored a cumbersome burden of guilt following the mission. That guilt, somewhere, manifested into rage.

Several months later, Blair became involved in bringing in a head honcho to the same operation involved in Verdansk. With emotions and tensions high, Blair had acted irrationally with the prisoner. She’d violently interrogated the hostage, almost to the verge of death, before other agents had managed to intervene. Blair’s irrationality would result in her discharge. 

“Is it that complicated, Kate? Or are you letting your personal concerns cloud the objective?” John prompts, breaking through Kate’s concerned musing.

"John, she doesn't want anything to do with something I'm heading."

"You're not heading it,” John points out. “I am.”

“Then I need you to propose it. I can be your access to her audience, but that’s all the more I can do right now,” Kate deflates, her shoulders slumping as she resigns to John's persistence.

 "Call it a deal, Kate.” She can nearly hear his slight smile across the phone. “I can be persuasive."

"If she shuts you down, then I'll say I told you so."

"Have a lil' faith, Kate."

***

January 17th, 2020 

Boston, Massachusetts 

It’s an oddly warm day in January. The sun had been out the last week, melting away the eight inches of snow that had accumulated from the snowstorm two weeks prior. It was almost as if winter had been forgotten, kids springing out of their parents' vehicles in their sweaters or an adventurous few, much to their parent's chagrin, donning T-shirts. 

Blair Moore huffs as she watches the last kid from her class scurry into his mom's van. Eyes trail the van as it reverses and heads for the parking lot exit. It's still early in the evening, but the Massachusetts sky is already saturated dark with nighttime. As it would for several more months until winter relents into spring.

Studying the bland darkness outside, Blair eventually pulls away to start putting everything away. It's another day of instructing jiu-jitsu to a population of children, a strange dynamic from instructing in the Army with grown men and women. Definitely a different dynamic than chasing down terrorists and war criminals, conducting covert operations under the guise of American law. 

But what was Blair to do after the CIA discharged her two years ago?

Instructing children hadn't been at the top of her list, but there's a part of Blair that enjoys the simplicity. Enjoys being surrounded by innocent and ignorance. Besides, it wasn't her sole occupation. A war machine like Blair couldn't absolve her true form, though she treated her mercenary-on-call gig as just that, a side hustle with a nice paycheck. 

Tugging her jacket over her frame, Blair keeps the zipper open because of the temperate air outside. She slings her duffel bag over her shoulder before exiting the studio, locking the door behind her. 

Her car is parked in the back row. On a night like tonight, the other businesses in the strip are long closed, and their employees evacuated. Typically this fact wouldn't draw a rise from Blair, except that her car did not remain the only vehicle parked in this lot tonight. She immediately notices the black SUV parked several spaces from her own vehicle, the engine still running.

Instinctively,  Blair reaches to her hip, finding nothing. She was highly aware that she wasn't in the field, yet she still searched for her pistol. Her heart thrums in her chest as she rounds her car, making a beeline for her driver's door. As she slips around the corner, Blair sees a figure propped up against her door. 

Blair startles, immediately leaping into fight or flight. Her first intuition would be to rise up and hit hard, had she suddenly not catch the familiar features upon the face of her company under the parking lot lamps.

"Fuck. Kate. What the fuck," Blair utters. "You scared the Jesus out of me."

"I'm…I'm sorry. Meeting up in a dark parking lot, in hindsight, was a terrible idea."

"I'm not sure where it would've been a good idea," Blair remarks dryly, her blue eyes stonily studying Kate. Already deepened suspicions begin to ignite as the younger of the two tries to piece together why Kate is present at her place of employment. 

"Blair…do you have time to talk?" Kate prompts.

The question elicits a snort from Blair, followed by rolling eyes. "So you show up unannounced in a dark parking lot after hours asking to talk?" Blair harps in disbelief. "God, Kate, you really are like nobody else."

"Please, Blair. This is important."

The metaphorical olive branch had been extended. Blair wasn't the sort to easily forgive and forget, she learned that in her childhood that that was a treacherous game to play. But this was Kate Laswell. Her mentor. Her role model. Hell, the one person in DC that actually gave a shit about the military cult-raised Joanna "Blair" Moore. Despite how things ended at the CIA, she owed Kate the few odd years prior.

Shoulders drop, defenses caving. Unlocking her vehicle, Blair slings her things into the backseat before turning to face Kate.

"You want to talk, then let's talk," Blair relents.

Kate nods towards the running vehicle, motioning Blair along with her. She opens the backseat door, a motion that causes Blair to bristle silently. Kate was not alone, and she wasn't driving. Despite her cautions, Blair climbs into the roomy backseat.

"Good evening, Miss Moore," a distantly familiar voice greets Blair from the driver's seat.

"Captain Price. A pleasant surprise," Blair manages to feign her politeness. Captain Price wasn't the problem, but Blair's growing reservations about why she was being cornered like this mounted her alarm. She keeps her tone cool, nonchalant, mentioning with a bright grin, "I haven't seen you since, what, Bosnia?"

Price nods, chuckling. "Right when I plucked you outta the heat."

"I still owe you a beer or five for that one, cap."

Price smiles, the thought entertaining an amused gleam in his eyes. The SUV rolls out of the parking lot, disembarking onto the streets of suburban Boston. The trio sits in mutual silence. Blair wonders when the true intentions will come to light. 

"So you're teaching kids?" Kate prompts, breaking the quiet.

Blair scoffs, annoyed that the first option is small talk. "What, Kate? Nowhere in my dossier said that I loved kids?"

Kate frowns. "I practically wrote that dossier, Blair. So excuse me if I'm a bit skeptical of your new career."

"I can't fool you, huh?" Blairs snorts. "Gotta have something to keep me occupied between the PMC calls."

"Must be a fun topic to discuss with your colleagues and kids," Kate quips.

"My exotic vacations are always a wonderful talking point." Her tone drips with sarcasm. Her subtle disdain for Kate, though misplaced and not fully comprehended by Blair herself, is evident in her voice. In the back seat, Blair’s knuckles pale to white as she digs crescents into the skin of her palms.

"As much as I love the reunion," Price interjects, a waif of irritation in his voice, "We really have business to attend to, ladies."

Blair snorts. "I was wonderin' where this was going," the woman remarks icily. Leaning back in her seat, her ponytail knocks against the headrest. She huffs. "Wasn't sure if this was some good cop, bad cop routine. I haven't done an illegal thing in the States or to the States, so my hands are clean as far as the CIA and you are concerned, Kate. And I still can't piece together why Captain Price is here."

"Blair!" Kate snaps. 

"What do you want me to assume, Kate,” Blair ridicules, “that we're gettin’ the band back together?"

"I want you to act serious for a moment, there's a lot of things at stake!"

Jaw clenches. There’s a vein along Blair’s temple that pops as she combats to maintain her composure. "And how does that concern me?"

Kate slams her arm against the center console with a furious huff. "Goddammit, Blair!"

The silence that envelops the cab of the car hangs heavy like a shroud. Price flashes a glance over to Kate, and then up to the rearview mirror to analyze Blair. Neither woman speaks, both glowering out the vehicle windows with seething expressions. If it wasn't so inconvenient and partially annoying, Price would've been colored amused. 

There had been a picture on Kate's desk for a number of years. Taken in Egypt. Or maybe it had been Morocco? Price couldn't recall, just the fact that there was sand in the shot. Kate and Blair stood grinning.

The story behind the picture made all the more difference. It had been after a grueling rescue while chasing terrorists into the desert. Blair had been stranded alone in a destroyed Humvee for several hours before allies could extract her. During those hours, Blair was under high danger. It had been Kate who sat on the radio talking Blair through the ordeal. It had been Kate who ran and embraced Blair when she'd been returned to an ally base.

The fact is, the picture still remains on her desk in DC. However, a pencil cup obscures it from plain view in recent months. 

They'd been close. Countless lives had been saved under Kate's guide and Blair's discretion. And now, they were two feral animals clawing one another's eyes out.

Price breaks the silence by clearing his throat. "I'm recruiting."

"I didn't know I was searching for a job," Blair snidely remarks.

"I need someone skilled in espionage, tactical warfare, and can take orders."

The woman in the backseat snorts. "So I was a candidate." Her words come as a statement and not a question.

"Hand-picked," Price replies surly.

There's a silence as the vehicle slows at an intersection, the sound of the blinker clicking in rhythm the only thing filling the empty silence of the cab. Blair keeps her eyes glued to the exterior beyond the window, chewing tentatively on the inside of her cheek. She finally releases an edgy, annoyed sigh.

"So this probably means I have to quit my day job, huh?" Blair remarks coarsely.

"Most likely," Price responds with a singular laugh. 

Blair chuckles. "Thank God. I’m tired of kids."

The remainder of the car ride is formal. Price does most of the talking, though the details remain vague. Things that didn't concern Blair, or would be discussed at a later day. After about an hour, Captain Price returns to the parking lot of the studio.

Kate walks Blair to her car; hands jammed in her coat pockets – she hadn't said more than two dozen words since their blow-up in the car. Blair tries to ignore the gesture of Kate's escorting, her chest burning as she fumbles with her car keys. She unlocks the door, swinging it open. Blair hesitates, turning slightly to face Kate but not meeting her eyes, like an ashamed, prodigal child. 

"Kate, I–" Blair holds her breath. 

The sentence is never completed before Kate pulls her into a rigid hug. "I know, Blair. I know."

Blair rests her forehead against Kate's shoulder, releasing an edgy exhale. "I'm sorry."

"So am I… I'm just glad to have you back."

[fatal-iistic]

Caged

Summary: Blair Moore is in a hopeless situation. There's one way out of this black site prison, and it isn't alive.

Timeline: Sometime long before Blair Moore and John Mactavish believe they cross paths

Pairing: None, technically

Word Count: 2.9k

Content Warning: Violence, blood and gore, mentions of torture, suicide attempt, explicit language, it's war -- nothing good happens

A Blacksite Prison, Somewhere in Bosnia

She's hardly lucid. 

Days of futile sleep and a lack of food would be enough to knock any fool off their rocker. But coupled with hours-long tenures of torture, Blair isn't entirely sure where she lay in those terms and conditions. She isn't well. But some fragment of her being clings to a sentience of sanity despite herself. She'd been born and bred for these circumstances. And deep in her ribcage, a dying yet flickering ember of hope still persists.

The Bosnians seem interested in keeping her alive. However minimal that is. They ration dirty, metallic-tasting water and stale bread in her direction every few days. Her meals always follow with the most malicious sessions of torture. It makes Blair almost wary of the gesture. But she can't sustain on no fuel. 

Between sessions, Blair camps on the ragged, moldy mattress in the corner of her cell. It's been ten days since the ambush on the highway at the Croatian border. Blair isn't sure if Gonzalez or Fenley, who had been alive after the ensuing firefight, made it to the prison. She's learnt to hone selfish focus onto her own well-being. If the tides turned upwards, then she could divulge on rescuing her comrades (the odds were stacked impossibly against her). 

It's been two hours since her last session. The fingernails of her left hand have been torn off. The doctor on sight had cleaned and wrapped the wound, just about all the mafia soldiers had allotted. They'd tried to coax her with empty promises: food, medical attention, a chance to leave this blacksite prison alive. Blair knows it's all a masquerade – they won't fulfill on those promises.

The darkness that manifests beyond the barred window in the corridor makes it evidently clear of the lateness of the eve. Time harbors no solid concept. She's been yanked from this cell at obscene hours as well as the golden light of mid-morning. Her captors don't discriminate, if anything, they experiment on whether Blair's resilience wavers at a different time of day.

But nighttime means something else. When the Bosnians aren't purposely conducting a session with her, the guards patrolling the prison lack both numbers and fervor at this hour. Down the hall, in the little office designated for this floors personnel, the raucous hum of a television drowns out a vast majority of the noise here. While it provides guise for any conduction of business, it also keeps most of the prisoners awake (not that their captors shed a tear over the thought).

Cranium throbs. Blair knows the symptoms of a concussion when she has them. She'd effectively lost count of how many times her skull has been beaten into something solid– desks, walls, a refrigerator. It's a miracle she isn't leaking cerebrospinal fluid from her orifices or having a stroke. The subtle throb of her brain and the harrowing fog that she exists in makes her nauseous. Somewhere in her cognizance, she recognizes phantom shapes of memory and resolution. She seizes them, trying to connect action potentials and catalyze a thought 

Now? A voice prompts. It doesn't sound like her own thoughts. Foreign. Like a tourist to her consciousness. 

Blair turns her head, squinting into the dismal shade of her cell.

Now.

She heaves her weakened frame from the mattress to the chilly floor beneath. She lands with an unceremonious thud, laying there for what seems like an eternity. Nobody budges along the cell block. The laugh track on the television is the only thing that answers Blair's query of whether or not the night guard cares. 

Crawling across the grimy cell, Blair digs her fingernails into the solidity of the cement floor. She reaches the wall adjacent to her bed, shifting to prop herself against the wall. Next to her is a vent. The metal is bent and pieces improperly exposed. She grabs onto one of the rungs, fingers clamping as she pulls on the vent.

Her muscles burn as she invests every ounce of effort into the vent. The metal bends. Blair twists the rung. Little huffs of effort escape her lungs as she props one foot onto the way and uses the leverage of her entire body. The rung suddenly breaks loose, a metallic echo filling the cell.

Blair quickly scrambles back to her mattress, tucking the detached rung under her dilapidated tee shirt. The drum of her heart against her chest makes the ribs ache. She suspends a breath in her lungs, trying to listen over the roar of blood in her ears to the subtle sounds of the prison block. When her plight goes unanswered, perhaps drowned out by the comedy show blasting from the office, Blair lets her own guard slip.

Limbs quiver as she waits. The moment she perceives the coast is clear is the moment she prompts herself to wait longer. The minutes are excruciating and gnaw at her skin. When she couldn't force herself to wait a moment longer, Blair pushes herself into a seated position with her spine flat against the wall.

Unveiling the rung, Blair inspects the sharpened tip with the pad of her pointer finger. With even a few ounces of pressure, it draws blood from her flesh. Lungs tremble. Blair's diaphragm seizes. 

Now?

She tugs the hem of her pants, exposing the vacant territory along her upper thighs. Tracing the deep blue veins coursing along the inner flesh, she navigates her fingers to the patient thrum of her femoral pulse. In her mind, she invisions the force required and the courage needed to be deployed to slice through the soft tissue and reach the femoral artery. 

Dabbing her tongue against rough, cracked lips, Blair edges a relinquishing sigh. Eyelids flutter shut. She sends a feeble prayer to a God she doesn't believe in. 

Now.

There's only one way out.

And it wasn't alive. 

***

It burns.

Everything burns. 

Something tears Blair from the murky darkness of her consciousness. She awakens with agonized screams. 

White, searing hot. A cataclysmic supernova. It's the worst amount of pain Blair's ever been subjected through. She's been thrown from blasts, tortured until she's sore, and shot a dozen times over, but none of those wounds prepare her for the intensity of what shakes her to the very mantle of her existence. 

Voices break through the roaring of blood in her ears. Words Blair can't process through the auditory loudness of her own pain.

Blair writhes, only to find her body restrained. Her eyesight is blurred as she tries to blink into focus. She is still screaming. Was it because of pain or panic or sheer aggression?

A pair of hands clutches her face, a maneuver that only elicits further agitation from the wounded soldier.

"Let me go!" She howls.

She hears a singular word break through the insurmountable pain: "Sedate."

She doesn't feel a thing over the electrification that sears along her pelvis and leg. But the world starts to grow hazy – limbs plunging deep into a fog as if she's being absorbed into a dense cloud. She fights the sensation, the deep lull that drags her back to a plane of unconsciousness. It feels like being caught in a riptide. 

Helpless drowning. 

Blair fights for her life.

But it all dissipates and she fades.

***

How long did she sleep?

Her body feels like lead as she pulls her mind through the hazy battlefield of exhaustion. Fingers fold around the fabric of the mattress underneath her. She can hear the steady drip of water down the hall. She's in her prison cell.

There's still pain that aches her entire body. She utters a guttural groan as she shifts in her bed. 

She is still alive.

There's not much she can remember. A deep crimson flow that spilled from the puncture in her leg. She'd cried out, shifting and fiddling the broken rung through the tissue of her thigh. She'd prayed she had hit the femoral artery. She prayed even harder when it seems the prison block became aware of her plight.

Frantic shouting. Lungs ignite. Tears erupt from her eyes. The endless ocean of black as she fell unconscious. 

Then the pain and the awakening. 

She'd been stopped and treated for her mortally-intended wounds. Fingers fly along her leg, tracing over sloppy pasted bandages on her thigh. Someone had stopped the bleeding. She is alive.

In most circumstances, life would be a blessing. But a deepening smolder of doom continues to blossom within Blair's gut. There's a multitude of burdens to consider – her captors anger, the impending torture to come, the questionable medical attention she'd received and the likelihood of the wound developing an infection. Her issues now multiplying what had already been a dense pool of problems just several hours prior.

She lays there, catatonic, for several hours. Blair spends the majority of her time trying to tame her mind. The desire to die is nauseatingly high on her priorities. But the logic that she'll likely rot and decay in this prison cell diminishes those yearnings. 

Shivers settle in. 

Time is an elusive bastard in this state. It could've been hours or minutes that she lays there, either way it passes like an eternity. At some point, the voices down the hall grow and boots drum on the ground.

Her torturer has arrived.

She thinks his name is Edin.

Her body knows him as Fear.

Eardrums ring. She has fleeting moments to wrangle the tsunami of dismay that feeds off her mental depletion. Mouth feels dry. Limbs tingle. It's the surge of norepinephrine in her bloodstream. But there's no place to take flight, and Blair lacks any sentience of being able to fight.

A mane of dark hair, crowning his dark face. Brown eyes, sooty like the trunk of a sugar maple, glowering in a long, slightly sunken face. He strides in with a volatile expression, features soured by rage. Descending down upon Blaor, he clutches the fabric of her torn uniform shirt and uses it to leverage her to her feet. The mere pressure on her injured leg, the contraction of the brawny quadriceps underneath, causes Blair to buckle with a yelp, only for Edin to throw her back onto the bed.

She feels like a wounded animal, now being taunted by its hunter. 

He insults her in Bosnian, knocking her around. Blair curls her limbs against her frame, trying her best to block the blows and minimize the force applied to her bruised bones. At some point, Blair is in the fetal position with palms pressed against her temples, while Edin hovers over her.

"You filthy bitch. You will die when I say you can," he snarls. A kick separates Blair's hold on her limbs, exposing her vulnerability that Edin seizes. He stoops and pins her legs under a shin. A thumb dig into the inflamed, red skin on her injured thigh. Blair bites down hard on her tongue, a strangled scream leaving her mouth. Tears stream from her eyes. 

The facility shakes. 

A violent boom that rocks the foundations of the building. Several prisoners shout with shock. Blair's own gut churns.

He rises to his feet, eyes turned down towards the hall. Blair can catch the aura of fear that beseeches Edin. There's shouting in the distance. He flashes a glance at Blair, sneering.

"I'm not done with you," he snaps, before hastily exiting the cell to inspect what is unfolding. 

Chaos besets the blacksite. Blair, drawing in ragged breaths to soothe her panic, scoots across the cell floor to the vent. They'd done nothing to mend the broken metal, the missing rung now exposing an easier access to obtaining another sharp edge of metal. She musters fragments of energy, wedging her heels against the wall to leverage her weight in the matter. The new rung comes off cleanly with a metallic echo.

She crawls back to the vacant corner, hunkering down to make herself as diminutive as possible. She buries her face into her knees, peaking over her kneecaps. Voices have raised, between guards rushing down the cell block and prisoners joining into the raucous display. Somewhere an explosion shakes the foundation again, reprised with the undeniable crack of rapid gunfire.

Blair's pulse heightens. She tremors in her corner, one hand closed around the metal rung like a crux. 

There's shouting down the hall. Blair can see the nearby prisoners in surrounding cells rising, peaking cautiously down the row to identify the commotion. She flinches as two men congregate at the entrance to her cell.

One is a prison guard, his uniform recognizable. 

The figure behind the prison guard looms with his rifle trained on the center of his back. He barks something at the guard who fumbles with his keys to unlock Blair's cell. Once the lock clicks, he lodges a kick into the man, sending him cascading to the ground. The prison guard lands with a yelp. The man fires a shot from his rifle, landing a bullet square into the guard's chest. 

Blood splatters. Blair flinches. 

Frigid tremors vibrate her frame as the man enters into the cell. The lower half of his face is covered with a black gaiter, concealing a majority of his facial features. Fingers clutch the metal in her hands, body tensing as Blair prepares to fight for her life. But she locks eyes with the man, a sudden wave of relief flooding her system like bliss.

"Captain Price?" She utters. She'd recognize those eyes from anywhere.

He kneels, tugging the gaiter down from his face to expose himself.  Price reaches and grips her palm, nodding softly. "G'mornin', princess."

"My knight in shining armor," Blair croaks. She shutters, an exasperated groan leaving her lips. 

"Hang in there, soldier. We're exfil."

He calls something into his comm.

"I know what ports…" Blair pants, words slurring as she pauses to contemplate. Her head hurts prominently, she isn't sure if it's just the pain slowing her or the inhibition of her communication from the concussion damage. 

Price shushes her. "Save your strength. We're gonna get you the hell outta here."

She leans against the back of her head, shuttering. "Does Kate know I'm alive?"

"We'll send traffic when we take off," the Captain vows.

"That's good. Don't want ma to worry."

"Oh, she's worried. She'll meet us in Berlin."

Captain Price swoops and hoists Blair up into his arms like a bride. The woman jostles and digs her teeth into her lips, wincing in pain. She has a mighty attempt in masking her agony.

"Take me home, captain," she mutters gravelly. The statement is purposefully suggestive, soliciting a chuckle even from the stoic Captain. 

"We're goin' home."

*****

Soldiers don't ask questions. A unit of the SAS marines had been deployed to extract personnel from a blacksite prison located outside of Sarajevo. The prison was rumored to be managed by a faction of the Bosnian mafia, holding an American ally. Briefings remained obscure, only Captain Price and other high ranking officers in the operation knew who or what they were truly coming for. The rest remained gossip.

John Mactavish figures it's best to keep his mouth shut and his curiosities reined in. He's the FNG in the SAS, and while he'll gladly sport that title like it's an honor, he also knows to tread cautiously. Captain Price might favor the spirited Scotsman, but that favor didn't absolve all iniquities.

The three helicopters of Marines land at the prison site in the heart of the night. The mafia and its soldiers are caught completely off guard, allowing the Marines to begin to invade before any countermeasures could be taken. 

Soap stays near the choppers, clearing out the steady flood of gunmen from an area he assumes must be their barracks. The fight just seems to reach its peak when there's a rally across the radio. Target acquired, exfil initiated.

Through cover fire and smoke, Captain Price emerges from one of the prison buildings with a woman in his arms. Her clothes are dirty and blood stained. She's wearing the remnants of a battle uniform that's been shredded. Soap tries not to stare as Price cradles the half-lucid woman as the Marines file onto the helo and the bird takes off once more.

Soap can make out fragments of Captain Price's conversation with the woman. She speaks in a southern American accent. Intel. Locations. The Bosnian mafia were up to something of interest to Britain and the US, at the very least. He catches himself leaning forward in seat, craning to hear their exchange over the noise of the helicopter.

"Mactavish, hand me some water," Price demands.

The private flinches, quickly drawn from his thoughts. His face feels hot as he flippantly states "Sir, yes, sir" and wiggling a plastic water bottle from the case wedged underneath his seat. 

He can't help but keep studying her during their flight.

She looks absolutely beaten, yet she smiles and banters alongside Captain Price. At some point, her gaze wanders to the soldiers seated on the benches at the side of the helo. Ice cold eyes, but the creases of her lips twitch with a smile as she hugs Soap's eyes.

His chest flutters, eyes immediately averting. He doesn't look back at her for the rest of the flight, forcefully keeping his eyes and mind trained on something else.

He never sees that woman again. Never learned her name. Never learned what the American was doing trapped in Bosnia being tortured to death. He didn't think much of the incident until two years later when their paths crossed again under the foothills of the Georgian mountains. 

[fatal-iistic]

Volare

Part 3 of 3 of surge et ruina

Pre-Part 3 of Ties That Bind

Summary: She thinks she's bad news -- nothing worth investing time or energy into. It'll only turn out poorly. John Mactavish disagrees.

Pairing: F!OC x John "Soap" Mactavish

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Explicit language

A FOB in the Southwest Iraqi Desert

Late March 2021

A FOB in southwestern Iraq

There's something about the desert nightscape that has always enthralled Blair.

She remembers being a teenager, babyfaced and hardly legal to vote, gazing up at the night skies of Iraq. She recalls the spine-tingling wonder of the dark blue-black canvas, dappled with stars that were blurred out by light pollution back home. Were these the stars that the descendants of Jacob followed out of Egypt and into the wilderness? Had King David sat on his kingdom rooftop and counted these very stars as she did several hundred years later? (She hadn't opened a Bible in over six years, but the lessons and lectures her father had implemented still haunted her hippocampus)

Then she remembers the skies above Afghanistan. Still clear, but now she learned the unsettling nature of the night. They'd fought many battles under dark skies, with only the moon and stars present to mourn alongside Blair for her fallen comrades. 

There had been plenty more desert skies to marvel at. The Sahara. The Gobi. The Arabian. She'd logged thousands of miles on her ledger at this point. 

The sky above her now is peaceful. Not arrogant like the Arabian nights in Dubai. Not harsh like the Sahara evenings. And not as touristy as her stay in Mojave. Quiet (almost deceptively so). 

It's an hour before the base goes lights out, save the skeletal night crew. Blair finds herself outside tucked on top of a cargo crate, back propped against the metal wall of a vehicle garage. 

Eyes trace from each miniscule dot that paints the eastern sky, as if she could finish the task of numerically assigning these objects before bedtime. It’s serene, if not tedious. But after the previous afternoons under the blaring desert sun while rooting terrorist cells in Adal desert, dodging hostile fire and listening to explosions in the distance, Blair will take this moment of peace.

Down the way, someone steps out of one of the garage buildings. The noise of the door slamming shut precariously, rather than that of hostility, causes Blair to flinch. She scowls over at the disturbance, squinting to see John Mactavish giving a stretch to his body.

He catches sight of Blair at her perch. His shoulders straighten. Even from this distance she can perceive the warm smile that paints his face.

"'Lo Lieutenant," Soap calls in greeting. He adjusts his course to Blair's direction, propping his arms up on the top of the crate.

Her body grows rigid. She'd worked with Sgt. MacTavish a handful of times now, and she believed those terms immediately cemented a form of camaraderie at least in the sergeants eyes. Blair, herself, knew she could trust Soap when the area of operation got hot. He'd already proven himself multiple times out in Georgia, Kostovia and al Mazrah. 

But there's something that perplexes Blair, a something that incites a guard immediately amongst Soap's presence. She catches herself oddly fond of Soap, a feeling she stonewalls. She'd been in the business long enough. Friendship didn't come in the rules and regulations, and for good reason (Blair had personally discovered that brotherhood amongst soldiers did not equate friendship).

It was dangerous territory. She'd breached that code of conduct, allowing personalized emotions to get tangled in an environment strictly made for business. The agony burns like battery acid when things sour. But she'd be damned if she didn't entertain the yearning desire to dance with those temptations. The lust for companionship taints Blair's judgment.

Blair swallows as she tilts her attention in Soap's direction. 

"Good evening, Sergeant," Blair responds politely. She offers a warm smile before directing her eyes back to the sky. Fingers weave together, nails picking at her calluses nervously to fidget the nerves away.

"Whatcha doin'?" Soap prompts. He's genuine. Curious. She hates him for how bright-eyed and believable he is. Battle-hardened, but not contorted by this line of work. He was a pure individual, something Blair pales in comparison. Perhaps that's the inevitable draw she faces from Soap.

She defaults to the only thing she knows other than stoic cynicism, which would only come off as irrationally rude: humor.

"Looking for UFOs," Blair quips. 

Soap snorts. "Any luck?"

She kicks her feet a bit, shoulders slackening. "No, but the stars are really pretty." 

Soap shifts his weight. "Do you know any of 'em? The constellations or whatnot?"

Heart flutters. Of course she did. The consideration almost seemed ludicrous. Carl Moore wouldn't let Blair sleep without being able to study the stars above (you don't need technology to track and travel, he'd told his daughters). 

Blair points up at the sky. "That right there is Sirius," Blair informs. "That's the brightest star in the southern hemisphere," she pauses to draw her index finger to another brightly twinkling celestial body, "Second place is Canopus…and then…" she points to another, "Alpha Centauri."

Soap chuckles, head turned to follow Blair's grandiose tour of the sky. His blue eyes simmer, impressed by Blair's display. "Where'd ya learn that?"

Her face flares with heat. Teeth rattle against one another. 

"My dad…he taught me a lot of skills…" she mentions, tongue trailing off. Some had been harsh, volatile lessons. Others had come in handy as Blair's treacherous life persisted on. It was hard to thank a monster after all the horrible things he'd done. 

"You don't–" Soap starts.

He knows.

She'd told him before. Or at least, let the detail slip.

But she's certain he'd investigated that lead. Carl Moore had millions of hits on the world wide web. Blogs dedicated to unpacking the incident twenty-some years ago. There's video of Blair's testimony at Carl Moore's retrial eight years ago (rigid stance, sweaty palms, she got to stare down the monster with the virility of a woman rather than a terrified little girl). There was no avoiding the publicity of her upbringing – once people saw the little blonde girl cradling an assault rifle next to her smiling psychopath father, there was no going back. 

("It's only fitting she continued in her father's footsteps."

"Who could blame Joanna Moore for pursuing the thing her father had raised her to be?"

"They say Emilia Moore cut ties with her daughters for joining the military. She was too much like Carl, and refused to be transposed into a normal lifestyle."

They all had opinions. Acted like they knew anything that Blair had been through as a child.)

Blair's pulse races. She tells herself she isn't that little girl holding a rifle. She's Blair Moore. No longer "Little Jo" as Carl had fondly dubbed her. And Blair Moore was not a victim. Not a transposition of her bastard, psychotic father, but a completely different person with completely different motives.

Blair shakes her head, cutting in with audacity in her tone, "It's fine. I've long made amends with myself and let myself move on."

Her chest thunders. Was that believable enough?

Ironically, Soap seems convinced. His hardened concern seems to evaporate. Soap propels himself up onto the crate, taking a seat alongside Blair haphazardly. His arm brushes against hers. Blair's skin feels hot. Did he notice that subtle touch?

She fumbles at the closeness, riveting her eyes up to the sky in an attempt to keep the conversation fluidly going. 

"Look there." Blair points west. "Just above the guard tower."

"There's a lot of stars," Soap confesses, "I'm not sure which one you're talkin' about."

"No, really look," she feuds.

Blair grins, grabbing Soap's hand. She points his index finger, then folds her own palm around his. She indicates to a brighter star in the eastern sky.

"Ankaa," Blair states. She then traces Soap's hand along a path. "That's the body. And those," she moves his hand in two side-by-side triangular shapes, "are its wings. That's the Phoenix constellation." 

A broad smile breaks across Soap's face. 

"Now yer showin' off," Soap remarks.

Blair blinks, releasing his hand. "You did ask, sergeant," Blair rebuttals with a devilish smile. 

They're still close. Blair can almost feel the bile bubbling low in her gut. She isn't sure why she feels so tumultuous around Soap. He's a breath of fresh air, and that scares her.

Silence envelops them as they continue to admire the broadness of the sky above them. 

"That bright one right there. The red one," Soap points upward, "Which star is that?"

Blair chuckles, nose wrinkling. "Look at it harder," Blair prompts. "Stars twinkle. That is not a star, Soap…it's Mars."

"Oh," Soap states, laughing. "They didn't teach you that in basic wilderness training."

"Maybe you shouldn't be stargazing if you're on active duty in the wilderness?"

"Regulations always ruining things," Soap scoffs. 

Blair smiles, tight lipped. Regulations. The same things that told Blair to stay away from Soap. Yet here she was, shoulder to shoulder in the darkness of the desert night. Her father had once taught her about instinct, gut feelings. So often she'd prided herself for following the magnetic orbit of her gut, staying within proximity of safety. 

Maybe she is getting too old to be abiding by the laws. Maybe age has bred a sense of cynicism and contempt. Maybe the rule-breaking should only apply to the laws of combat and warfare, but Blair doesn't pay heed to where she ought to apply them. 

But she doesn't care. She's hardly been selfish in her life.

"Maybe if we're in the northern hemisphere, I'll show you the constellations," Blair mentions whimsically, smiling bashfully at Soap.

He gazes back. Blue eyes sparkling. Lips curved. 

"I look forward to it, Blair."

[fatal-iistic]

Labuntur

Part 2 of 3 of surge et ruina

Post-Part One of Ties That Bind

Summary: John Mactavish is a romantic. This job has no place for falling head over heels for your coworker, but Sgt. Mactavish is a fool.

Pairing: F!OC x John "Soap" Mactavish

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: explicit language

Stirling Lines, UK

April 14, 2020

Nothing good hardly ever comes from these pubs.

The locale of Stirling Lines lives under the iron fist of the military men and women. Weekends are tainted by crowds of military uniforms and raucous behavior as the soldiers depart their barracks and invade the local joints. Servers and kitchen staff alike are given a run for their money on these days, many trying to quell rowdy spirits and forcing vile conflicts to take their grievances to the parking lot before the police are summoned. 

Tonight, conflict eludes the establishment of the White Swan. UK’s finest soldiers, seemingly, are on their best behavior despite the football games playing. Decks of cards and the pool table seem to keep them occupied and tame, despite the influx of alcohol in their systems.

John Mactavish sits complacently in a corner booth, idly shuffling a deck of cards despite their rounds of blackjack coming to a cease. Lt. Delaney and Sgt. McDonald had departed after being swindled in the last round by Soap and his companion, Lt. Turing. Corporal Adams, despite his frequent losses, remained but leaves to grab a round of drinks for the trio. This leaves Soap exactly where he dreads being – alone to Turing’s constant prying. The notion exasperates the sergeant, even though Turing hasn’t breathed a word.

There’s a sense of warm mirth that saturates Turing’s dark eyes. He looks like a hyena with the smile that’s plastered his face since they’d loaded into Delaney’s Jeep and driven over to the White Swan. Maybe it’s his normal disposition, though Soap has witnessed the seriousness of the lieutenant back on base. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s waited since the last time he’s cornered Soap at a bar, alcohol flowing, and tried to drip information out of the Scottish man. 

It's happening every other weekend, Turing morphs into a shrink that is devout on dismantling the enigma that John Mactavish tends to be. Soap spurns his attempts, letting on to minimal details about his personal life, about the world outstretched beyond the uniform he dons. Turing is just curious, innocently so, but Soap can't help but become growingly wary.

Captain Price had always advised to keep everything under lock and key. It was a preemptive practice, not because they figured their comrades would compromise them, but because if, and when, they wound up in a snafu behind enemy lines, being bled and twisted for information, the practice of silence would merely be instinct. 

It isn't an explicit rule. No one bars the team from discussing their aunt’s sheep farm or their granddad’s gambling addiction on the Chelsea Football Club, but it’s a mere implication. A safety precaution best heeded. The glories of the SAS and Task Force 141 die beyond the title and the chest hardware. 

What puts Soap most on fumes is Turing’s fascination with intervening on Soap’s love life – or the lack thereof. Tonight is no such exception. 

Except Soap. He’s different, caught in the whimsical pining that is for Blair Moore. A sort of pining that makes his chest ache and his stomach sink at the mere thought of her. It’s been over a week since his return from Georgia where they’d led a raid in a local village in search, unsuccessfully, for al-Asad. They’d managed to unearth details one moment too late before Verdansk, Kastovia fell under siege to Victor Zakhaev and Khaled al-Asad. 

Soap is back in the UK, awaiting intel and orders. Blair is…somewhere. Off to the wind, onto the next covert operation. Wherever Kate Laswell and the CIA deem fit. 

And John Mactavish misses her.

He’s a fool.

Always has been. 

Turing would say, if he knew, “Soap, it’s been years. Live a little!”

Intellect refutes that notion.

It’s been years since he’d courted a woman. After Scarlett, his high school sweetheart, and he fell apart just before Soap entered into pre-selection for the SAS, Soap hadn’t held any interest in dating. His career – the Marines – meant the world to him. Love and a career hardly ever coexisted, especially when what Soap did put him off the grid. Incommunicado. Incognito. It wasn’t the way to nurture a relationship. Hell, he’d already seen how it strained relationships with his own family. 

And he was too much a fool for love to grasp the superficial. Thoughtless sex.  Swift, intense relationships doomed to fail. Those things weren’t for John Mactavish. Never would be. 

So why the hell was he plaguing himself with thoughts of Blair Moore?

Lt. Turing breaks through Soap’s thoughts with a nudge of his elbow, jutting the bone into the softness below Soap’s ribs. The sergeant grimaces, throwing Turing a dirty look before relaxing back to listen to what the man has to say.

“C’mon, Mactavish,” Turing beckons.

Soap gives an exasperated groan. “I know what that means,” Soap complains, tilting his head back against the wall behind him.

“Soap, my man,” Turing groans in rebuttal. “You’re so uppity, I’m worried about the stick up yer ass. Let loose for once, it might be good for your mental or spiritual health or whatever.” 

Soap chuckles, head shaking. “You ain’t right, Turing.”

“You know I ain’t wrong,” Turing defends with a crooked smile. That hyena grin. He gestures out to the crowd beyond the sanctity of their booth. “A guy like you could have a chance at any of the girls in this pub.”

“I ain’t got the time,” Soap debates.

Turing’s eyes roll. “I’m not here to debate moralities, Soap,” Turing presses, “but you don’t have one night to get yer dick wet?” He snorts. He drums his fingers along the tabletop before shaking his head once more. “Look, I’m just tryin’ to look out for a friend.”

“Look – I’m just –” 

“If you’re going to give me the same excuses, you’re wasting your breath,” Turing teases with a loud laugh, his chest rattling as he sweeps his gaze out across the crowd growing within the walls of the pub. “I don’t need the convincing, Soap. You do.”

“Turing,” Soap growls. He plants the deck of cards on the tabletop. “We ain’t doing this another weekend.”

“Look,” Turing states, pointing at a young woman, a civilian, standing near a pillar across the floor with her friends. She gazes over, smile broad until she realizes Turing and Soap both staring back at her. She ducks her head away, the red spreading across her cheeks evident from this distance.

Turing stands up. “I gotta piss,” he announces formally. “And it looks like ya have an admirer you should talk to.” 

Soap hardly registers Turing’s quick retreat. His eyes still stuck downcast on the table before him, too afraid to reach back out and catch the woman’s gaze.

She's pretty. Brown hair and bright blue eyes. Small waist. Teeth whitened to a shine.

A deep yearning reverts his mind to the same bright, blue flame eyes of Blair that gleamed when she watched the little Georgian girl run down the street after she’d braided the girl’s hair. The same vicious blue that stood her ground against the SAS soldiers’ jeering and crude comments because she was a foreigner commanding them. Here is a young woman, lips parted and gaze inviting Soap to introduce himself, and all he can consider is a woman leagues away.

Figuratively. Literally. 

Move along, Mactavish, he jeers to himself. He could never formulate a semblance of a connection with Blair Moore – it was poor practice and even poorer judgment. He has better luck chasing strange women in these cacophonous pubs. 

Soap swings his legs over the booth bench, teeth razing the insides of his cheeks as he bolsters his own confidence. From this distance, he contemplates the steps from his seat over to her. It’s a straight shot, if only he’d put boots on the ground and traverse the alcohol-sweetened floorboards and weave past the shoulders of men he doesn’t recognize. His heart hammers. Tongue feels swollen. Suddenly he’s the same fifteen-year-old boy that had almost thrown up when he’d asked Scarlett Baird to dance at their winter formal. 

Live a little – the voice in his head sounds oddly like Turing than his own consciousness. 

Soap rolls his shoulders. Rises to his feet. 

And then he points his toes to the door, fist closed, chest tight. It’s just under two miles back to base. It’s a cool early spring evening, not a cloud in the sky. 

He walks home, not a word to anyone else in the pub. 

If he couldn’t get what he wanted, he wouldn’t bother at all. 

[fatal-iistic]

Procidens

Part 1 of 3 of surge et ruina

Post-Part One of Ties That Bind

Summary: War is a bitch -- Blair Moore and John Mactavish are both acutely aware of this. Yet could war be why they forge an unlikely alliance?

Pairings: F!OC x John "Soap" Mactavish

Word Count: 1.5k

Content Warnings: violence, explicit language, war

Tsari, Georgia

March 3rd, 2020

"Sergeant Mactavish."

Her voice is oddly warm, like a summer breeze through the lowlands back home. A tentative vibrato as he steps into the makeshift command center in what was the living space of a bottom floor apartment.

Blair Moore cradles a ceramic cup of steaming coffee in her hands. Straw blonde hair twisted back into a braid behind her shoulders as she studies piles of paper retracted from their former holding place in banker boxes on the floor. They were fishing for all the intel and objects of interest in the apartment building, where just over fourteen hours ago they'd rooted out soldiers of what they believed were the terror organization, al-Qatala.

In a few hours they'd have everything loaded and the journey back to Kutaisi would commence. There is a palpable air of uncertainty that drifts between them. Thick, like sea fog.

"We've got boxes of quality reading material here," she remarks with a sly smirk. "Surprised you weren't up at dawn to peruse."

Soap strides towards the table at the center of the room, reaching to procure a set of pages in his fingers. He glances down, squinting at the chicken scratch. The handwriting is hardly legible, on top of being in a different language.

"Can't say I can translate much," Soap confesses with a shake of his head.

Blair sets her coffee cup down. "Yer not missin' much. Most of it is details regarding the camp set up here. Which…we've effectively seized control of," she gestures at the walls around them. "I managed to pinpoint their ammo reserves just outside of town. But otherwise, there's notta whole lot at face value."

"I'm sure people back at HQ will pickitt apart," Soap concludes, setting the documents back into their haphazardly neat pile on the table.

"Better them than me," she replies surly, blue eyes flashing with a waift of mischief. Shoulders straighten. "I'll probably be departing almost immediately from Kusaisi. Watcher didn't give me full details but it's onto the next thing."

His face falls a bit at the notion. "Where to?" He prompts.

Lips twist in a sad-featured smile. Shoulders shrug nonchalantly. "Yer guess is as good as mine," she responds. "It's typical for me to find out on the way. I don't ask many questions."

"Aye," he sighs. It's a similar response Captain Price has given him. They're chess pieces, not the player. They go where directed. 

There is something complex about Blair Moore. What exactly that means perplexes Soap to the core, an awaiting revelation he struggles to perceive through the static she bleeds. She exists on a different frequency than Soap and the others. 

He'd heard the other soldiers make remarks about Lieutenant Moore the previous night. They'd called her unhinged. Troublesome. The lack of rules and regulations made her nothing better than a mercenary – and that they were expected to perform beneath her command was an insult. The conversation turned more derogatory before Soap had barked at them to cease and desist. The soldiers skulking back to their beds with tails tucked between their legs.

He thinks she knows. She can see how the Marines look at her. Words don't need to be vocalized to potentiate their opinions. The way their hackles are raised and guards established could be sighted from a mile away.

Soap thinks Blair prefers it.

And yet he finds her magnetic.

Maybe it's because she's Task Force 141. And despite their minimal experience as comrades, despite the fact she wears 13 stripes and 50 stars, and he the Union Jack, he owes her enough of his loyalty. 

Because Captain Price does. 

"I could use a walk," she stifles a yawn. Arms arch above her head, shoulders flexing as she stretches. 

Soap blinks, nodding an agreement. 

She leads the way from their makeshift outpost, weaving into the golden sunlight of late morning. Soap follows, curiously inspecting Blair disembarking from their spot without her rifle. He carries his own strapped over his shoulder and along his back. Her weapon would be supervised, no doubt, but he felt a bubble of anxiety. What if more enemy soldiers were lying in wait?

Blair doesn't seem to consider that notion. 

She's either ignorant or crazy. 

There's a flash of cobalt as she catches his stare, her eyebrows shooting up as a wily smile teases her lips.

"I don't need a gun, sergeant," she hums, as if she'd telekinetically unraveled his mind. "Besides, you can protect me."

There's a wisp of coy that touches her tone. She winks in Soap's direction before turning her eyes to the road sprawling out before them.

It seems like another day. There might be a wind of caution that saturates the village, but they try to continue with their lives as before. Whether it was al-Qatala insurgents or NATO soldiers, they still had chores to do, jobs to attend and lives to live. 

"It almost seems….peaceful," Soap observes.

"It's both beautiful and off-setting, ain't it?" Blair affirms. He can see the way she studies the environment around them, her expression lax but her eyes icy with scrutiny. Despite her lightheartedness, there's a rigidity of alertness that beseeches her. A characteristic no soldier could extol from themselves 

"Aye,” Soap murmurs, his voice low. “I'll try to see it for what it's worth."

She blinks, nose scrunching as she nudges him with the bony part of her elbow, angling under his ribs. "Are you always so optimistic?" Blair teases.

Soap grins and gives a huff. "Jus' for the right company."

They pause at a street-side shop. Blair converses with the shopkeeper kindly, either trying to haggle prices or perhaps she's just joking aeound. Soap gazes down the street from the direction they came, scanning for danger. His shoulders feel taut with tension, a sensation he can't relinquish – he wishes he could be as calm and collected as Blair seems right now.

Out from behind the shop set up, a little figure dashes. It's a blur that nearly startles Soap from his boots. Instinctively his hands fold tighten against the metal of his rifle, eyes jarring to get a positive identification on the thing. Finally when his senses land, he realizes it's nothing more than a mere child.

A little girl, no more than six, stands defiantly at Blair's feet. She reaches, tugging at Blair's jacket until the woman ceases her conversation ans squats down to her level. Hands reach to clasp onto Blair's long braid of blonde hair, fingers tracing over the grooves of hair.

Blair speaks to the little girl in Georgian, suddenly a broad smile creasing along her lips. "You like my braid," she states in English, a waft of astonishment bleeding through her tone. "Let me braid your hair. Neba mometsit cholk’a sheni."

Rolling onto a seated position on a nearby stoop, the little girl sits down on the step below Blair. The woman reaches, grasping several strands of hair. She weaves them gently, with the same delicacy a curator would a fragile artifact.

Soap watches in awe, standing complacently while his comrade seems deftly absorbed with the Georgian girl. She, nor the little girl, pay heed to the suited and armed soldier just steps away. For a tender moment, the implications of war and terror were muted. Soap but an illusion in their periphery.  

"There," Blair proudly states. In a matter of a minute she had finished braiding the girl's hair, securing it with a black hair tie she has on reserve on her wrist. The little girl leaps to her feet, fingers running across the grooves of her braid with a delighted smile. She says something to Blair before bolting off.

Blair remains at her post, gazing down the road where the little girl eventually disappears. There's an ethereal glow of warmth that radiates from her frame.

"That was…sweet, Moore," Soap states.

A bit of pink washes along her cheekbones. She glances away momentarily, reaching up to scratch sheepishly at her neck. "I used to get harped at for bein' too friendly with the civilian kids when I was deployed out to Iraq and Afghanistan…but the way those kids look at ya, there wasn't a solid reason not to love on 'em," Blair explains. 

"Most of 'em are probably raised to fear strangers. It's natural to wanna change their minds."

There's a heartbeat in between statements. A sudden shift in the cheerfulness of her demeanor. "I just wish I coulda helped that little boy last night…" Blair wistfully admits.

"Blair…" Soap sighs. "That wasn't yer fault."

Her eyes cast to the dirt. "I know…but I'll carry the guilt all the same."

He reaches a hand, resting it upon her shoulder. He can see her eyebrows twitch, her façade remaining the same  despite his comforting gesture.

"Yer a good person, Lieutenant," Soap states. Lips maneuver into a smile.

Her blue eyes jump to his. A faltering smile spreads across her own mouth, eyes illuminating at his words. "Thank you, Soap."

There's a fleeting heartbeat where the woman believes it. And Soap sees that fantasy dissolve as she rises back to her feet. Stoicism's relentless resolve becoming on her again.

“We have work to return to.”

Soap never saw that woman again for the rest of their time in Georgia.

[fatal-iistic]

Part 3 of 3

Summary: Blair Moore has been in the business long enough. She's used to loss. But John MacTavish is one person she can't lose.

Pairing: F!OC x John "Soap" MacTavish

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Explicit language, violence, a horribly amount of fluff even though the world almost ended

The airplane is cold (do they even have heating settings on these things? Blair wonders). 

Despite the now public affair that is Blair and Soap’s relationship (or the subtle reveal, Blair knows the rest of the 141 are speculating, though), she doesn’t want to lean too far into that field. But she’s a step from breaking into shivers until she leans her side into Soap’s. The man is never cold. The immediate source of warmth and comfort is too good to pass up during their three hour commute to the Windy City. Blair nestles her head against his shoulder, Soap discretely wrapping one sturdy arm around her frame. 

By some grace of a miracle, Blair falls asleep for an hour in between their on-the-fly mission brief and preparation for touchdown. It’s late when they touchdown in Chicago. The moment wheels are on the ground, the 141 are mobilizing. Kate Laswell meets them on the air stripe, conducting the final measures before the whole team departs.

Blair remains at Kate’s side, designated to join the commander on the ground in effort to help secure the parameter and snuff out the missile. The risk factor on this objective is lesser than that of sweeping the tower where Hassan is holed up. If they do locate the missile, the likelihood there’s a whole battalion of guards is low. Whatever is dispatched to guard the container could be managed by her and a few Marines.

Despite some medication and food, Blair admittedly isn’t at full strength to join those efforts with the rest of the team. The admittance is a blow to her ego. Between her injuries and the grueling torture, Blair isn’t at top form. Plus, Blair wasn't going to leave just anybody to protect Kate. 

The 141 team all share quick remarks before departing in their respective directions.

Hugging her rifle to her chest, Blair flashes Soap a final glance with a resolute nod.  They're loading into helicopters, Blair preparing to load into a van with Kate. Blair turns to head for Kate when Soap reaches out, grabbing her by her upper arm and turning her back to face him. He presses a chaste kiss against her lips, not bothering to worry that their comrades were in sight. 

Blair pulls away, heat creeping along her skin. She smiles. A soft, school-girl-like giggle escaping her lips. Despite the cataclysmic nature of their mission, Blair can’t deny that she loves this burly, idiotic man. 

"Stay safe, ya hear me?" Soap states, his voice verging on the lines of imploration. "I'm gonna take you on a date after this. We both deserve a night out."

Passing him a toothy smile, Blair gives Soap’s gloved hand a final squeeze. "It sounds like a date, Mactavish,” she breathes. “Nemo me immune lacessit.”

Soap smirks before jogging to board the helicopter.

The city streets are a beehive with the local police and military personnel. Kate and Blair arrive at the base of the tower before Bravo team’s breach its exterior. Blue and red lights and cordoning stripes of yellow tape blockade the immediate parameter. There’s other police blockades set up in the surrounding streets to quarantine the population from the tower. 

Blair keeps her eyes trained on the sky as Kate talks with commanding personnel at the parameter, her mind glued to her comrades up above. Just as she thinks she hears the hum of the helicopters, Kate grabs her.  

"We have a hit on the missile," Kate announces. The two start jogging for Kate's SUV.

"Where?"

"Four blocks. In a construction area."

Genius, really. How many construction areas sport the same unidentifiable hunks of metal? Plaster a random company’s sticker on the side, and you could haul a whole arsenal of weapons into any port. It’s right in view of the tower, where Hassan could stand at the windows to watch his whole scheme unfolded. 

They arrive in minutes. Across Kate’s radio, the commencement of Bravo team infiltration into the tower can be heard. Blair’s senses heighten as she listens tentatively, also trying to divert her attention to her own object at hand.

A group of five Marines await orders to invade the construction site. One Marine reports about a dozen individuals guarding the container beyond the chain link fence. Blair takes the lead the moment they arrive, giving the cue and commencing fire against the cartel-hired guards. She dispatches the guards effortlessly. Despite the pinch of pain in her side as the rifle kicks back into her frame, Blair is swift in her maneuvers. She counts each guard down. Six…seven…eight. The Marines are all capable but their reflexes dulled compared to Blair’s decades of experience. 

When the gunshots cease, the immediate focus shifts to that of the containers on site. One is harmless, a storage space for equipment— maroon paint coated in dirt and dust from being on the site for an extended period of time. But the second one is cleaner and newer, looking like it hadn’t been on site through an entire work week. 

"That's it," Kate confirms. 

The sound of a mechanism prepping alerts both women.

"Kate this doesn't sound good," Blair cries, prying the container door open. The large interface on the base of the launching mechanism glares back at them, but there's no control board or anything indicating they can disarm the readying weapon. 

"It's not! It's preparing to launch."

"There's no controls here!"

Kate leans into her comm, "All stations – missile is hot. I say again, the missile is launching."

Blair frantically tries to search around the interface, as if a miracle may appear before her. Kate grabs Blair by the shoulders and drags her backward. The two woman make it several feet before tripping over one another and landing in the dust. The rockets of the missile ignite and the missile goes airborne.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Blair curses, jumping back up to her feet.

“Shit,” Kate, herself, curses.

There’s a harrowing moment of silence as they watch the missile take off over the city skyline, heading east towards the lakeshore.

"We had strong assumptions the controls weren't here," Kate resigns. “Hassan must have them.”

Blair slams her fist into the container wall. Frustration permeates her skin. "Where is the rest of 141 in locating Hassan?" She demands.

"They're moving in as we speak," Kate replies. 

Hopelessness spreads like an infection through Blair's bloodstream. She should be in that tower helping her comrades hunt Hassan and the missile controls. Now she only stands in a barren construction block watching the missile vanish over the horizon, bearing down on a target unknown. They can’t relinquish control of the site until one of the superiors from the police force or the FBI make it over. They’re pinned here, hopelessly, while the rest of 141 tries to narrow in on Hassan.

Blair’s pacing across the dirt when the call comes in that Soap has the controls. He's dodging AQ agents and Hassan, but he's wrangled the missile controls away. 

She feels nauseous. She won’t admit it. She tries to conceal the anxiety that takes her like a surf. But she can feel the color drain from her face.

"Soap, the missile is launched. You'll have to remote detonate it," Kate informs, her voice steadfast and mild despite the direness of the situation. "I will guide you but it will take time. Open the controls when you are ready."

The next few minutes feel like an eternity as Kate walks Soap through the task. Blair remains at Kate’s side, terse and silent. If there was a moment that Blair believed in God again, it was now. Praying to whatever entity out there existed to protect Johnny.  A selfish part of her didn’t even care if the missile was disabled, only if Johnny made it out of this alive. She chews the side of her cheek raw, the metallic taste of blood burning her tongue.

Fingers tap irritably against her rifle. She can’t focus on Kate walking Soap through the disarming of the missile, her ragged breaths too loud in her chest and blood roaring through her ears. Blair stares up at the sky at the tower, unsure what top levels her comrades are in, but imagining that, perhaps, she’ll catch a glimpse of the action ensuing.

There's a sudden relaxation that passes through Kate. Like a shutter. Her shoulders drop and she finally takes a deep breath.

"Copy that. Air Force will confirm…thank you, Sargeant."

"Did he do it?" Blair asks, snapping back to attention. 

Kate ignores Blair's question, directing back at Soap, "Where's Hassan?"

She's quiet, absorbed in her own list of harrowing tasks needed to be carried out. She doesn't hesitate to pull out her phone, dialing her contacts to discover the fate of the missile. After a brief exchange, Kate hangs up.

"The missile is confirmed down," Kate announces. She steadies herself on the side of the missile container with a hand, the older woman shaking despite herself. Remaining there for a moment, Kate finally gathers herself once more and looks up at Blair with the ghost of a smile.

Blair grabs Kate, pulling her into a hug. Her body still feels dense with dread, a frigid feeling that ices her bloodstream and threatens the strength of her heartbeat. Hugging Kate offers a semblance of comfort. But Blair knows she won't know true relief until Soap's fate is made clear. 

"We need to get back to the tower," Kate instructs, "Hassan is still at large."

"Soap-?"

"I'm not sure yet, Blair." 

Kate consigns the parameter to the arriving FBI. Both Kate and Blair make it back to the SUV, pulling out of the site as a final call crosses the radio frequency. 

"All stations," Ghost's voice calls across the radio. "Hassan's dead. Enemy KIA."

Blair feels her heart catch in her chest. She wants to beg the question, to have Kate ask Ghost about the status of Soap. But for a moment, she can’t even find the nerve to open her mouth.

There's a definite pause, static over the comm. Then Ghost’s voice breaks through the noise, "Laswell, you tell her that he's alright."

"Affirmative, lieutenant."

Kate passes Blair a knowing smile, the soldier nodding thankfully. Her head falls back against the headrest of her seat, a long exhale dragging from her lungs.

He’s alright. Johnny is alive.

It takes too long to get through the police barricades to the bottom of the tower— Blair is nearly itching with her anxiety as they navigate the city streets back to the base of the cartel tower. By the time Laswell and Blair arrive, Squad 141 had reconvened at the base, battered soldiers but brimming with success. Another job well done. Not without its traditional tumult of chaos and surprises, but a crisis adverted and a terrorist dead.

Stepping out of the SUV, Blair first catches sight of Price and Ghost exchanging words (it’s hard not to spot Ghost’s mask in a crowd). A few paces behind them, sitting docile in the back of an ambulance, Soap is kicking his feet. 

Shouldering past Marines and police and FBI, she aptly ignores someone asking for her credentials before drawing any nearer. Kate speaks up for Blair, who's already making a beeline towards Soap. Her pace hastens. At the midway point, Soap catches sight of her and leaps down from the ambulance. They meet in an immediate embrace, both partners shuttering with relief as they intertwine.

"Easy there," Soap murmurs, wincing. He'd taken shots from Hassan, and while they'd all hit the plates of his tactical vest, they'd definitely left bruises. Blair hardly alters her hold despite Soap's verbal protest, nuzzling her face into the sinew of his shoulder. 

"You're okay, " she breathes. 

Soap chuckles coarsely, running a hand through her blonde hair. "'Course I am. Ghost wouldn't miss a shot."

She pulls away, surveying the man with a bemused look. "Ya look like hell, Mactavish," she teases. 

"I feel like it."

Bouncing on her tiptoes, Blair presses a shameless kiss onto Johnny's mouth. His grip tightens as he deepens the kiss, two battle-torn soldiers finally renouncing into peace with one another. A sudden wolf whistle rips the two away from one another, scowling gazes turning to find Gaz standing with Laswell, Ghost, Price and a Marine commander, a manic smile plastered on his face.

"I'mma kick yer ass, Gerrick," Soap warns.

A chorus of laughter passes between the soldiers. The battle was over.

The Bravo team is transported to a local luxury hotel. While each soldier is given a separate key card to their own private room, Blair only has to lift her eyes to Soap, who gives a knowing nod. They've been separated for far too long, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that Blair would let Soap spend another minute detached from her.

The room is on the twelfth floor with a view of the final blocks before the Lake Michigan shoreline. Morning sun slants through the curtains. The sky is painted a soft hue of pink that fades into a pastel orange and then lavender. Dumping her bag off at the foot of the bed, Blair winds her way for the window and looks out. Her eyes trace the skyline, entranced by the subtle peace of dawn.

"Everythin' all right?" Soap asks from across the room, observing Blair’s quiet fascination of the cityscape. He paces up behind her, arms encircling her waist. He pulls Blair flush against his torso. His warmth is inviting.

Blair smiles plaintively, stifling a yawn. "I have a hell of a headache."

He presses a kiss to the side of her head. Her failure to respond to his affection causes him concern. He pivots Blair, rounding her to face him. 

Blair's eyes drop. "I'm tired, Johnny," she feigns before the question can arise. 

Tilting her chin, Johnny forces Blair’s eyes back to his. His brows furrow and there’s a tautness to his face. "No, no, there's something more to that." 

She slips out of his arms, sighing softly, and meanders for the bed. Taking a seat, she reaches to massage her temples.

"The last two or three days have been hell…and I…" Blair pauses and frowns. 

"Go on.” Soap follows her path, taking a seat beside Blair. He wraps an arm around her, refusing to let her flee from this conversation.

"I've been at war my entire life. I've been scared, sure, but you want to know the two times I've been truly terrified?" Blair begins, her voice catching. There's a lump swelling in her throat. "The night in Las Almas, when I wasn't sure either of us were going to make it out alive. And this morning, when I knew you weren't safe." 

"You gettin' soft on me?" Soap teases. He nuzzles her neck, warm breath teasing the skin along her collarbone. 

Blair’s nose wrinkles as she smiles faintly. "I haven't been allowed to be soft my entire life…" 

(Always a soldier. No time for emotions. No luxuries for love.)

Drawing her into another embrace, Blair floats there for what feels like a lifetime. There’s always security nestled into his hold. She always felt safe with John Mactavish. On the battlefield. In briefing rooms. But miles away from those things, too.

"In Las Almas, I gave myself one mission to survive. And the reason was to be able to tell you I love you,” Blair explains, pressing her forehead into the slope between his neck and shoulder. “I love you, John Mactavish.”

A broad smile crosses his lips. "I love you, too, Blair Moore. I’ll fight like hell every day to be able to come back and say that to you.”

Her fingers squeeze around his palm. “Always.”

[fatal-iistic]

Part 2 of 3

Summary: Stuck in Shadow Company's lion den, Blair could use a hero

Pairing: F!OC x John "Soap" MacTavish

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Blood, gore, war crimes, torture, violence, explicit language, a very angry woman, Phillip Grave is an asshole

Sleep shouldn’t be tough.

Blair has to sleep with white noise. She thinks it's probably because of the subtle tinnitus she acquired over the years of being around too many explosions and unprotected around gunshots (those things they told you about at boot camp, the same things every soldier seemingly ignores until half their hearing is depleted). In her bedroom at home, it’s an aging box fan that lulls Blair to sleep. Soft, rhythmic sounds — something so primitive, a tactic used on infants to soothe them to sleep.

(She doesn't want to admit that the white noise always helped her fall asleep because it drowned out the cacophony of her intrusive thoughts. Blair’s biggest flaw stemmed from the fact that she thought too damn much, could remember too damn much, had seen too damn much.)

Something seems off, though. This white noise is an unsteady rattle, a noise that causes more vexation in the woman’s brain than soothing. While constant, it lacks a rhythm, and the oddened senses of her battered cranium can’t bear the inconsistency. Blair hates how finicky her mind and body had become over the years — what she would do to be able to pass out on the ground with the distant rattle of explosions from across the town (that lifetime had shipped, sailed, and sunk now).

The wiring of her brain starts to commence neural connections, piecing together awareness from her sleep. Her head throbs. And she feels an excruciating sensation stabbing in her side as she draws in a deep, steady breath. Like a light switch, the events of the last few hours streamline through her brain, jolting the woman awake violently. 

Eyes fly open. The first thing Blair attempts is to shove herself into a sitting position, but she finds that task incapable with her hands restrained together. Instead she jams her skin against zip ties, the pinching sending a wave of pain through the woman’s forearms.

"Easy, there," a gentle voice murmurs. "You'll mess up my stitches."

She whips her head to her left, spotting a young man seated next to the place she's been laid. Her brain starts to analyze the dilemma. She’s on top of an office desk, utilized like some makeshift hospital bed. The man at her side wears a deconstructed Shadows uniform (identifiable mostly because the only souls wearing all-black in the last few days had been members of Shadow Company), juggling a first aid kit on his lap.

"Who the fuck," Blair hisses, "where the fuck?"

Both statements go unfinished. Blair remembers being held at gunpoint in Las Almas. She remembers hearing Graves' voice over his boys' radios. 

"You need to hold still," the man repeats. He tilts his chin to meet Blair’s wide-eyed and feral gaze. He has soft features — naïve and young like a kid fresh out of boot camp. JDark brown eyes hold a seemingly calm comfort in them, but Blair doesn’t take the bait. Every fiber of her being is in fight or flight mode.

"Again, who the fuck are you?" Blair hisses, her voice dropping in tone. 

"My name is Corporal Daniels. Right now, I'm your medic in shining armor, Miss Moore," the medic introduces himself, though his tone lacks any surplus of hospitality. It's formal. To the point. 

"Don't call me that," Blair warns.

"My apologies.”

She squints at the man, confused by his feeble demeanor and willingness to apologize. Maybe not all Shadow soldiers were scum of the earth. But Blair can't let her guard drop.

A guttural groan leaves Blair’s lips as Cpl Daniels dabs alcohol around the wound. Fingers curl with the stinging of the pain. Her face contorts and jaw clenches, the woman turning her head away from the medic. She fixes her eyes on the clock across the room, watching the harrowing seconds tick by as Daniels continues. It’s just before five o’ clock. She isn’t sure when the Shadows had plucked her out of Las Alma’s, but she assumes it must have been several hours of unconsciousness. 

"Where am I?" Blair croaks.

Daniels tapes a gauze pad over her wound. "The base…the Los Vaqueros base?"

"You mean Graves' new playhouse?" Blair snidely remarks.

"Yes."

"Why am I not dead?" Blair questions. 

Cpl Daniels doesn't answer her question, perhaps contemplating the actions of his commanding officer.

Blair chuckles grimly. "Don't know, either?" She asks. Cpl Daniels shrugs. The lack of conclusion in their conversation causes Blair to bristle. She's wounded, captured and this fucking headache hasn't gone away since she hit her head in the ravine hours ago. "With this fucking headache, I wish I was dead."

Daniels flinches slightly at her raised voice, though he does not feed into Blair's frustration. He sits there for a moment before nodding slightly, indicating his completion of sewing her back together. He assists Blair into a seated position, directing her to the office chair at the side of the desk.

She wants to fight, but she knows it's futile. Besides, Daniels didn't truly seem to be the enemy here. Just a bad byproduct of his employment choices. 

"Commander Graves will want to see you now that you're awake," Daniels reports, collecting his supplies.

"I'm not takin' visitors," Blair snaps. 

Daniels doesn't shift from her catty response. "I'm just giving you a forewarning."

Blair's lips turn downward. "Uh…thanks…I guess…"

He exits, leaving Blair in the quiet of the office. The hum of what Blair assumes is the central air is the only thing that keeps her company. 

She taps her boot listlessly against the floor. She feels overstimulated and overly annoyed. The zip ties at her wrist are far too tight, and she’s already evaluating the situation of snapping them and trying to go Rambo on the Shadows and this damn base (she isn’t incapable of breaking free, but the likelihood of her surviving beyond this office door at significantly dismal odds). 

Somewhere down the hall, she can hear the voices of more men approaching. Blair sets her shoulders back and straightens her spine. She’s too damn proud to let them believe they’ve found her down and out.

"The fuck we keeping her?" One of Graves' mercenary chides. "I thought we had orders to take them all out."

"And we haven’t,” Graves’ voice, sharp and short-tempered, is unmistakable. “General Sheperd has use for the American girl, and if the Brits are still out there, they’ll come flocking back to find her. It’s a lot less energy to let them come to us than to be hunting needles in a haystack. 

“This just screams bad idea, boss,” Another voice pipes up.

There’s a sudden halt in the sound of footsteps.

“I’m done taking commentary. You have your orders, now fucking follow them,” Graves snarls.

There’s a pregnant pause before a few mortified mumbles of “Sir, yes, sir.”

Graves nonchalantly shuffles into the room, arms held out at his sides as a menacing grin colors his face. He steps over the discarded papers on the floor, halting at the desk and propping himself with his hands planted on the desktop. Behind him, two other soldiers take a post on either side of the door.

"Ah, Blair. Good morning, sunshine," Graves greets too cheerily, for man who'd just snapped at his insubordination seconds ago. He pauses, head tilting. "Or should I call you Joanna? Do you prefer Joanna?"

Blair bites down hard on the inside of her lip, her blood reaching a boiling point. She knows Graves is trying to rile her up. It’s been an outdated tactic to poke the bear when it came to women hostages. Play into their emotions immediately. Taint the waters as soon as you can, because once you strike the match and ignite her emotions, the game is all but entirely over.

It’s a game Blair’s played a hundred times over.

A game she’s not about to lose to Phillip Graves.

"It's just Blair," she seethes, not allowing her anger to froth over. 

Graves shifts his weight, unsatisfied with Blair's lack of reaction. 

"Ya know, Blair, I really admire you. You're practical and skilled. Sheperd's records say you were born a war machine," Graves continues to prod. "I remember the news stories about Carl Moore. Guy was a fucking religious nutcase with too many guns. Then again, who am I to judge?"

Her skin feels hot as she listens. The last thing Blair needs to think about was her bastard of a father, yet Graves dives deep into the territory. Maybe this PMC pleb did know a thing or two about reading and exploiting his enemies. Blair catches her ire, reining it desperately back into its confines. 

"Is this some sort of demoralizing tactic?" Blair sighs, rolling her eyes. She couldn't let Graves see her aggravation. He already had her captive, he didn't deserve any other part of Blair. "I'm glad you can read, Phillip. Now is there something you wanted or can I go back to suffering here alone?"

"You're Kate Laswell's pet," Graves states.

"Hardly. She hasn’t been my handler in years. And even if I was her pet, what’s the relevance?”

"What do you know about Iran obtaining the missiles?"

A hearty laugh leaves her chest. She flashes Graves a dubious stare. "Yer askin' the wrong person. Besides, what interest do you have, Commander?"

"I'm paid to care," Graves remarks. "Just like Kate Laswell I'm sure keeps you well fed and tucked in at night to keep her secrets. You have no obligation to the CIA or the Army or NATO, the bidding she has you do is off the record. Black as night."

"You think I know a fucking thing? That Kate and I sit around late at night giggling about all the risky things she handles on a daily basis?” Blair sneers. Her jaw clenches, first furling from their constraints. She'd smash that pretty little face in if she had the liberty. "If Kate had a skeleton as enormous as this in her closet, she'd ensure it'd never see the light of day."

“Yet that CIA record of yours would disagree," Graves hums, his eyes glinting in the fluorescent light of the office. His shoulders shift as he leans closer to Blair, the man drunk on the sheer arrogance of unearthing Blair's old record.

Blair bristles. "Shepherd teach you to read with my dossier?"

He ignores her brash comment.

"Several complaints of suspected favoritism and nepotism. Am I recalling correctly?"

“Kate only ever made decisions based on logic, not emotion,” Blair rebukes. Her fists clench. It’s a statement that Blair only partially believes, an old argument and hidden secret that she and Kate had waged war on years ago. But there’s nothing in the classified files about their covert conflict, nothing that could be procured by General Sheperd and his mercenary dog. 

“You’re getting really riled up over this topic, huh?” Graves laughs.

“Kate Laswell is not a traitor. You can tell Sheperd to royally fuck off.” Blair tries to rein in her emotions after being blatantly called out for losing her cool. She couldn’t let Graves see the cards in her hands. She couldn’t lose this game. “If there’s any snakes in the grass, it’s General Sheperd and his own self preservation. I’ve slept around with these types long enough to know a venomous traitor from a mile away, and I knew from the moment either of you breathed within my vicinity that you couldn’t be trusted.”

Graves remains quiet, face taut. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me," he responds after a long minute of contemplation. He signals at his men. "Warner, Briggs, don't let her fool you. There's plenty she knows."

The two mercenaries that had taken quiet post at the door step forward.

"Make her talk, L.t.," Graves instructs. With a dark smirk, he chimes back at Blair, "Have fun, Blair."  

She glares back at the man, giving a little huff. She rolls her stiff shoulders and gives her neck a crack. "Didn't you read my file, Phillip?" She interjects coolly. "This is my favorite part."

****

It's been nearly twelve hours. Graves' men had spent two sessions trying to get Blair to reveal information about the missile crisis, Kate Laswell, and Blair's own espionage – making up stories, giving her false beliefs of hope, desperately trying to corner Blair to admitting something worthwhile. Unsuccessful ("I can't tell you what I don't know. You all are fucked for all I care.").

Their tactics are useless against a seasoned agent like Blair. She’s spent days under fire from previous captors. She’s been starved, deprived of sleep, beaten, drowned and left on the brink of death. There’s nothing the Shadow Company could offer in a few measly hours that would push Blair over the edge. She’s too tormented to give them a scrap of material to run with (besides, Kate Laswell’s as clean and honorable as they came in the Pentagon). 

She remembers laughing at Warner and Briggs, trying to cause a rise out of the Shadows. Calling them CIA wannabes. Taunting them when they should be psychologically breaking her into fragments. What started as tactical attempts to elicit information just turns into sheer bullying. But the knowledge that she’s cracking their indomitable interior gives Blair the confidence she needs to hold on. 

Her back aches and she's certain it's bruised. Cpl Daniels had been back to assess Blair after the second attempt, but he didn't say much (he looked like a sad puppy. Blair could nearly taste the doubt that radiatesnoff the corporal and saturates the air. She almost wants to reach out and ask Daniels if he was certain of his trajectory). Perhaps Graves had commanded him not to speak to Blair, to not even give her the sentience of humanity. Before Cpl Daniels finishes his assessment, he gives Blair a soft look, words burning on the edge of his tongue, before he hastily grabs his things and departs.

(Poor kid. He deserves more than this band of mercenaries.)

She knew something had happened earlier at the blacksite prison down the way, the walls in the office building are thin. A whole legion of mercenaries taken out by a squad. Blair knows it's Ghost and Soap. Probably Alejandro and Rudy too. The news sparks a semblance of hope in the exhausted woman, a thing nearly extinguished as she sat gagging on water when Lt. Warner and Pvt. Briggs return for the second time. 

Blair doesn't know how she's alive by the time the afternoon sun streams into the lonely office that's been made into her den (the Shadows were managing some form of discretion, Blair admits. She would sooner consider lodging a bullet in her head where the tables turned and she was being mocked by her hostage). She sits in the chair, hands still bound, head throbbing from…well, everything. She wonders what's the next move, when the next session will begin. She tries to mentally psych herself up for it, though her mentality is met by an empty well.

It's either spite or anger or willpower that keeps Blair muscling through each hour. Any soldier worth their salt would've caved at this point. But Blair wasn't any soldier. She hadn't been at war her entire life to allow some feral dog like Graves break her. She hadn't endured the underbellies of this forsaken planet to let someone as insignificant as the Shadow Company best her. 

And she sure as hell wasn't letting it end here. Not when Johnny is still out there (unconfirmed but the prison break was enough indirect confirmation). As long as her comrades were still out there, Blair wasn't letting the fire inside her extinguish. 

(She decided at some point that she was going to ask Johnny to spend Christmas with her this year in the States. New York. She always wanted to celebrate Christmas in the big city.)

The anticipation of Lt. Warner and Pvt. Briggs returning, or perhaps Graves himself, starts to wear on Blair. Perhaps the burden of expectation is all part of the ploy. She watches the clock tick by slowly, one hour churning into a second and then into a third. She's exhausted, and she can't combat that. She’s seasoned, yes, but she had walked into previous incidents with a bit more fuel in her tank. 

At some point, Blair’s mind wanders towards some half-hearted attempt at a cat nap. The constant clink of the ventilation still bothers her hours later, an arrhythmic sound that grates against her eardrums. In a distant state of consciousness, traversing the desire to fall asleep, Blair hears a droning hum. At first she thinks it's some ancient part of the building's plumbing or central air again (I'll make sure to tease Alejandro on how outdated this piece of shit is, she muses to herself.) But the commotion mounts. Something explodes, a sound that rips Blair back onto the plane of reality.

Blair blinks, rolling her head to try and peak out the singular window that views outside. It’s the back of the building, and all she can see is the Mexican mountains rolling behind the base. Her heartbeat swiftens. She’s not naïve, she knows an invasion when she hears one. Someone is here, and they aren’t giving the Shadow Company any mercy.

The people inside the central building start buzzing. She can see several mercenaries bolt past the office window, heading for the front lobby in haste. There's a spit of gunfire outside the building, relatively far off, and another explosion. 

"We're under attack!" A cry echoes down the hallways. 

The Shadows are scurrying. Blair watches with amusement until Graves storms into the room. 

"You're coming with me," he growls, grabbing Blair by the back of her collar. Graves is joined by several of his men. Lt Warner is one of the soldiers in tow, and Blair thinks she catches sight of Cpl Daniels at some point before the massive glass window on the second story of the foyer shatters.

They duck into the main office. Graves discards Blair into one of the office chairs, descending upon the front window to observe the chaos ensuing in the compound. One of the other men steps up to ensure Blair is fastened to the office chair. Despite the carnage happening around them, the Shadows know Blair is a threat. The woman hisses as the zip ties cross tightly across her wrists, digging into the bruises already marrying her arms. She squirms, glaring up as Graves begins to pace the office floor.

He’s completely lost his cool. It’s a feat that doesn’t take much, a massive error in his programming. But now he’s beyond the point of rallying his calm, cool confidence back into control. The seasoned mercenary may have experience under his belt, but he’s failed to gather full inventory of his emotions. Perhaps that’s why he never wore the suit. Perhaps that’s why he wound up sleeping with government officials hiring off-the-record groups to do their bidding. He would never make the material of something honorable. 

"First the prison, now the base," Blair rumbles, a mocking laugh leaving her lips. Her words halt Graves in his tracks, the man pivoting hard on his heel to meet Blair's eyes. "You have a whole company, Graves, and you can't hold a station down against a squad."

Graves draws the back of his hand across Blair's face. Her face stings, tears burning in her eyelids. "Shut up," he growls, his finger pointed close to her face. "Shuttup shuttup shuttup shuttup shuttup."

Blair heaves, her mind reeling. "Go fuck yourself."

He aims his pistol at her forehead. "I was thinking you'd be a good bartering trade," Graves vehemently snarls, "But maybe I can make you a parting gift. Your brains painted on that wall should do."

He motions with his gun to the wall behind her, the one with the Mexican flag draped over it.

"Do it," she snarls.

She scowls at Graves, an essence of herself taunting him to do the job – something he'd consistently left to his mercenaries when it came to getting hands dirty. He clicks the safety off. A heartbeat of hesitation. At that moment, the building rocks as an explosion eliminates the barricaded door. Graves tosses a frantic look to the office door before bolting towards the back. Blair's body wilts, chest deflating as the immediate danger passes.

The human drive to survive is one hell of a drug. When it is no longer in need to sustain, every operation on overdrive comes to a crashing halt. She’s completely sapped. The only thing worth being aware of is the pain and the exhaustion that engulfs her entire body. 

There's a fire fight outside the office. Blair can hardly find a morsel of strength to catch sight of the Shadows and 141 combating. She hears the office door slam open, the noise causing her to flinch. There's a few rounds shot off as they dispatch the Shadows in the back room of the main office, and then a moment of silence. 

Her eyesight is blurry. She tilts her head, watching men adorned in dark masks flooding into the office. 

"Blair," Soap's voice exclaims, sliding to her side. He's tugging the ghostly mask up over his eyes, showing his face. He cups her cheek, worry etched along every crease. "Are you okay?"

A weak smile crosses her lips. "About damn time, Mactavish," she croaks, "you really know how to keep a girl waiting, huh?"

His lips crease into a shy smile. He fumbles with his knife, cutting the zipties free. Pulling Blair to her feet, Soap’s body becomes a source of stabilization for the woman’s fading strength. 

"Soap, Graves is escaping," Rudy warns. 

Their reunion is quickly diminished by the impending situation. There was still a battle raging on, and Phillip Graves was still at large.

"Go," Blair urges, squeezing his palm. Soap presses a brief kiss to her forehead before taking off.

Hands gripping the nearby desk, Blair keeps herself standing as she watches the other soldiers flood after Rudy and Soap. Last in tow is Ghost. Ghost wedges Blair against his side, escorting her behind the group. She wraps an arm around his abdomen, hugging him close as they hobble across the dilapidated office.

"Great to see you," Blair remarks tersely.

Ghost’s amusement, though his face remains concealed by his mask, is nearly tangible. "Nine lives, Rogue?"

"I'm losin' count on how many I have left, Simon," Blair remarks with a crude laugh. 

"Well, keep holding on, this isn't over yet."

"Sir, yes, sir."

***

When the dust clears and settles, the base is mangled but back under the control of the Los Vaqueros. Blair sits outside one of the hangars while one of Alejandro’s medics comb over her wounds (the ones Cpl Daniels had mostly tended to). Soap doesn’t move an inch from Blair’s side, hovering like a mother hen, which both aggravates Blair on some level, and the medic on another. But they both keep quiet — they’d all had a hell of a day.

"I'm fine, Johnny," she keeps repeating, trying to offer some sort of relief to Soap’s indomitable anger. "You killed all the assholes who hurt me." But he doesn't relent, that statement offering no peace of mind to the fiery Scottsman. 

"I was so fuckin' worried about you," Soap informs.

"I'm alive." Her manic smile, however sly and energetic, does little to comb over the issue. Soap traces his fingertips along the bruises on Blair’s wrists and arms, brows furrowed. Those calloused hands had killed a number of men in the last twenty four hours, but now they were gentle. Each touch was premeditated and amiable. 

"What the hell was Graves trying to get out of you?" He questions, the muscles of his jaw clenching. The fact that he’d C4’d the hell out of Graves and his tank toy was all the more cathartic, knowing how he’d commandeered Blair’s misery. 

“Dirt on Kate. Some sort of confession or lead that would take the fire off of Sheperd and flip the script to make Kate out to be the enemy.”

Soap snorts, grimacing. "Do you have anything good on Kate?"

Blair gives a soft huff of consideration. She shakes her head dubiously. "Other than the times she’s lied to her wife about her smoking habits? Hell no."

The medic finally clears Blair — advising rest, food and water. What remains after that moment is Blair and Soap, alone for the first time in days. 

Blair gazes at Soap from her perch on a small cargo container, her affection muted by the sheer exhaustion in her bones. Her hand reaches to envelop his, drawing him close into her proximity. Soap willingly drifts closer, arms brushing against hers as he stoops in. Leaning his greasy, damp forehead against hers, Soap cups each side of her face in his hands. He smells like polymer and gunpowder, like a soldier that had just stormed an entire base. Yet however dusty and dirty Soap is, his rugged appearance is betrayed by the absolute softness residing in his eyes as he cradles her.

(He’s so soft. God, she loved how soft he was.)

"God, I was so fuckin' worried," Soap sighs. He looks tired — nay, exhausted. Words could not surmount how battered both soldiers were. 

"We've been in dangerous situations before," Blair tries to remind, but her words fall on deaf ears. 

"I knew I had to find ya."

"Well, here I am," she murmurs. Her heart flutters against her ribs. There’s a quiet voice in the back recesses of her mind that reminds her they’re on duty. That they’ve never made a public move to indicate their relationship for the sake of professionalism. Yet, in broad daylight, after an insane thirty-some hours, they both throw that caution to the wind.

"Aye."

Her eyelids flutter closed as she leans closer into Johnny. Her breaths level and she feels like she could melt into him at this moment.

When was the last time I told Johnny I love him? The thought returns to Blair's mind. The same thing she'd wondered a hundred times over.

"Johnny, I–" she starts a sentence that is disrupted by Captain Price and the others approaching. Both soldiers peel themselves away, not for the notion of embarrassment, but so they both could give full attention to their superior.

"Chicago. We need to get to Chicago," Price reports. 

Blair glances at Johnny, nodding. "Hold that thought," she whispers.

The rest of the men pause as they observe the duo, acutely aware of the affectionate demeanor of them both. Blair flits her gaze between Gaz then Price and finally Ghost, with a fleeting glance at Alejandro behind them. Ghost knows. Price doesn't seem too fazed by the two soldiers dancing within orbit of one another, and Alejandro just wears a shit-eating grin behind the men of 141. But Gaz seems a bit stunned, dark eyes wide and lips parting slightly with shock. 

Blair leaps off the crate she'd been perched on, nodding at her comrades.  "Let's go get that sonuvabitch," Blair suggests. 

She sashays towards their transport, Soap slowly meandering back towards his comrades with a sheepish smile on his lips.

"Am I…missing something?" Gaz asks, flashing a glance at Price and Ghost.

Price pats his shoulder, the older man smirking softly. "Yes."

[fatal-iistic]

Part 1 of 3

Summary: Las Almas is a dangerous place, and when both the cartel and Shadow Company want you dead, it's a even worse place to be treading alone.

Pairing: F!OC x John "Soap" MacTavish

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Blood, gore, war crimes, drug usage, explicit language, a very angry woman

Death has a certain scent about it. 

A foul, bitter aroma. A scent that can't be washed from the walls of the hippocampus. The first time Blair encountered it was as a small child, hardly a kindergartener, as her father carved a doe in their garage. She remembers the sheer horror, the nauseating stench of still-warm blood. How lifeless the fragile does eyes reflected in the garage light late on that November evening.

(She remembers Carl Moore taunting the ghost of her tears, sneering at her not to be a baby about it. She was no more than a child, forced to weigh and reckon death before she could read.)

Las Almas reeks. 

There's bodies littering the streets. Something not unusual and obscene in this lawless city, but Blair knows something is awry. Graves' and his Shadow Company had something to do with this carnage, Blair could feel it deep within her gut. The rage boils there, coupled with the waning fuse of her anger. That son of a bitch would pay for all he's done, Blair knows she can trust her own vindication. 

But she needs to gather her breath. She'd taken flight from the Los Vaqueros base when things went sour. Separated from her comrades, wounded, and alone. 

She limps through an alley, trudging along like a wounded dog. She's bleeding enough that her whole lower half of her shirt is saturated between the blood and the torrential downfall of rain water. The blood starts to stain along her tactical vest and seeps into her pants. She's kept the wound compressed, but Blair isn't sure how much she can keep going (she’s no medic, but it looks bad). 

Hopping a small fence, Blair seeks refuge in a small backyard. She props her back against the brick wall, sidling down into a seated position on the damp grass. She shutters, her body burning from head to toe. She knows she's shivering because of the rain, but every molecule within her frame feels ignited with agony. Her cranium feels like it’s pulsating — she’s had a dozen migraines in her life, and this one seals the deals. 

Trembling fingers grip the mic to her comm. She presses the button, the little light on the side turning green. 

"This is Alpha 5-2 in the blind…Ghost…Soap…are you out there….?"

Her comm only bleeds back static, a noise that increases the throbbing in her head. She scoots her knees up, propping her forehead against them while she rides out a series of tremors. Breaths raspy, frame shaking, Blair tries to evaluate her situation and her options. She's relatively safe here, she reckons, but that notion is not guaranteed. Traversing Las Almas, between the blood thirsty mercenaries and the narcos, isn't much more of a guarantee. 

Plus, it isn’t in her hardwiring to cower away until the danger passes. Her comrades are out there, and they’re in just as much peril (“One is none,” Captain Price’s voice rings in her mind). Sure, Blair is used to being a lone wolf in the field — but if she’s on the ledger with another, Blair isn’t leaving them high and dry.

(Especially not Soap.)

In the distance, there's a pop of gunshots. Blair can't tell if she can make out a shriek of terror, the sound muted by a sudden drum of thunder that shakes the earth. She’s seen the bodies of innocents strewn in the streets. She’d heard the mercenaries bantering back and forth about eliminating the narcos and everyone who harbored them. That meant innocents. That meant women. That meant children if the Shadows deemed them dangerous enough.

Blair trembles, resisting the acute urge to vomit. 

This is bad. This is real bad.

Blair traces her fingers along her left side, wincing at the mere pressure of her fingertips. The stab wound may be clotting but the severe pain that sheers through Blair's side and chest indicates trauma to her ribs, which may have been from being slammed into the ground by one of the Shadow mercenaries or tripping down the ravine side to flee into Las Almas. Regardless, she's weaponless, losing blood and depleting the remnants of her adrenaline at an astute rate.

Find Soap. Find Ghost. 

Don't die.

(Slaughter Phillip Graves and every Shadow that stands in the way was also a top priority on the list.)

Fear incites a modest second wind in the woman. She reaches to grasp the slick metal of the garden fence, heaving herself back to her feet. Shoulders groan under the pressure required of them. She digs into the mud with her heels, erecting her frame. The vertigo seizes her brain, Blair clutching white-knuckled to the fence until the sensation dissipates and her better cognizance is achieved. She blinks rapidly, catching a gag in her throat.

"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," Blair utters. She winces with a muted yelp as she strides back out into the alley. tears burning the bottom of her eyes.

She hears more gunshots.

 If she doesn't die out here on her own, the Shadows will gun her dead. 

Move. You need to move. 

She stumbles several steps before her failing motor control and the lack of seizure of her center of gravity fling her off balance. Blair skids against the rough pavement, a winded howl escaping her lips. She ungraciously lands with a deafening clatter, her tactical vest jamming into her chest and under her arms. Biting her lower lip, Blair does everything from screaming out and surrendering her location. She writhes for a moment before finding a stationary position, muscles twitching. 

Raindrops echo against the brick alleyway. They nearly resonate against her skull. Blair lays there, despondent, for several minutes as she tries to regain her composure. She finally musters the willpower to push herself to her hands and knees, crawling to a small nook to someone's backdoor.

Spite and anger do wonders to keep Blair fueled. She knew better than to trust Shadow Company. She especially never liked the essence of General Sheperd either, she had known a snake when she saw him years prior. The evidence is damning, and Blair only feels foolish for being on the receiving end of betrayal. The bitterness tastes metallic in her mouth and causes her gut to burn – or maybe that was just the fresh blood in her jaw.

Her lungs tear with the pain of exertion. A searing, white hot pain that cuts through each breath. Blair digs her fingernails into the wet grit and grime underneath her, fighting every panicked urge to collapse to the ground. She slides into the crook, reaching to grasp the doorknob. It twists under her grip, jutting ajar. 

The giving of the door throws Blair off balance. She's back against the ground, an exasperated sigh exiting her lips. She wants to cry. Or to tear her hair out. Or to curl up and die. Any of those options are preferable over the bleeding out in the murky, dirty rain puddles in a back alley of Las Almas. 

Rain flecks against her exposed skin, like a ceremony of humiliation. She's soaked to the bone. The lacking conditions and the deterioration of her physical health surmount to a massive problem. Blair isn't sure how long she lays there, trying to muster her strength before delving into the fumes of her tenacity to push onward. Her head throbs. Her chest aches. She's been down and out a couple dozen times, but, man, this sucks.

Where the fuck is Soap? Where is Ghost?

Her comrades are more than capable bodies. Ghost's mostly-classified file alluded to him surviving hell of a lot worse situations than Phillip Graves and his petty mercenary gang. And Soap? He was a tough son of a bitch. 

Worry simmers in Blair's gut, though. Mostly for Soap, because even when she's banking on sheer survival instincts, there's too much on the line for Soap. After a year of undefined companionship, they'd finally unearthed the true reality of their relationship and committed to it. Labeled it love. A luxury Blair never had given herself allowance for. 

They both knew the gamble they play with their line of work, but the panic of losing Soap seizes Blair like an infectious disease. 

Don't assume the worst. Work for the best possible solution.

That means surviving.

And Blair is going to make it out of this shithole if the only reason is to tell Johnny she loves him. 

Fingers crawl up the bricks of the doorframe, finding a permeance to clutch. She clenches her hand, grunting with effort as she unfurls her body of exhausted bones from the ground once more.

"Rogue. How copy?" A voice breaks across the radio.

Blair catches her breath. Her heart thunders in her chest. Ghost's voice breaks through like clarion, augmenting a primitive sense of hope in the woman's chest. She reaches to grab her comm, pressing the button on the side. The static in her ear doesn't change, a sign that would indicate her mic is on. She tugs at the comm, glancing down to see the little green light not illuminating. She clicks the button a few more times to no avail. It's then she notices the wires detached from the mic and dangling at her chest. The thing was useless.

"Goddammit," Blair wheezes. She futilely clicks the button a dozen more attempts, as if some blatant miracle would resurrect the battered comm link. 

"Rogue. How copy?" Ghost's voice repeats. There's a subtle shift in his tone. Is that worry in Simon's voice?

She yields no way to convey her status. She has no idea where Ghost or Soap are. She's completely alone. 

When only silence greets Ghost's calls, he has to give up. Blair leans her forehead against the wall with a muted sob, her emotions getting the better of her. Worst case scenario, worst case scenario, worst case scenario. 

You’re truly on your own, Moore. A snide voice taunts her from within. 

"Blair. If you're out there, stay low and stay safe," Ghost instructs. The words feel damning and comforting at the same time. "We'll find you."

A wave of tremors unsettles her. She's depleted to the mere vapors of her fight or flight. If she doesn't navigate this well enough, Blair wouldn't be surprised if the shock sets in. 

“Pull yourself together, soldier,” Blair utters to herself. Her voice is winded and hoarse, almost unrecognizable by her own ears.

Shouldering the door open quietly, Blair steps into the kitchen of the household. Her senses stand on end, listening above the drum of rain on the rooftop for any signs of movement. The home is dark, but that doesn't mean the inhabitants have vacated. 

Blair stumbles to the refrigerator, opening it. Her eyes scan the contents before she settles on a bottle of water. It's already opened, the first third consumed by its previous user. Blair doesn't second guess it, knowing shared water is better than what comes out of the taps in this country. She gulps down the water, the liquid icy against her sore throat. She tosses the empty bottle onto the nearby counter, opting to grab another, unopened bottle to satisfy her rampant thirst. 

Ounces of water in her system, Blair feels a bit of a kick in her system. She leans against the counter, scanning the kitchen. She is met with the luck that a rusting first aid kit rests, collecting some dust, in the corner of the kitchen. She drags it out, flipping the lid.

She unpacks every piece of gauze in the kit, tucking it into the crimson wound on her side (god, it stings, but she has to clot the wound). Next she procures the flexible pre wrap, spinning a tornado of circles around her stomach in an attempt to keep the gauze stable. The handiwork is juvenile at best, Blair noting almost humorously how awful of a medic she would make, but sufficient enough that Blair won't have to keep her hand pinned at her side. 

Covertly trekking across the floor, Blair eases into the front room cautiously. The floorboards groan under her boots, but the silence that sustains after she halts alerts her that no one is aware of her invading presence. 

The front door is slightly ajar as Blair rounds into the foyer. She can hear the splash of rain water through the crack onto the indoor hardwood. Beyond the door, Blair can make out a silhouette heaped on the ground – the most probable answer was that it was the owner of this household. Gunned down by the Shadows, Blair assumes grimly. 

She locates the bathroom. Shutting the door behind her, Blair flicks on the overhead light. The radiance stuns her for a moment before she can acclimate to the light. She focuses in on the form staring back at her in the mirror, wincing at the sore sight.

Her hair had been braided for their mission last night. Nearly half of it has been torn from the neat plant, clinging haphazardly to her neck and face. She looks half-alive, her gaunt face marred with dirt and blood. Scrapes litter her skin, results of being pitched through bushes during her flight from Graves' men. 

She turns the water on in the sink, letting the water run across her fingers. The water stains red and brown. Blair picks the dirt from underneath her fingernails. The gentle wash of lukewarm water is comforting. It’s not bone-chilling, like the rain out near the Gulf last night. It’s not as daunting as tonight’s rain in Las Almas, seeping through her clothes and soaking every measley fiber of her existence. It’s pleasant, a rare thing to find in such a royally fucked up situation. 

Dreary eyes fall on a set of items in the back corner of the sink counter. A small mirror, littered with bits of powder. A tiny baggie, half full with an unlabeled substance. Blair straightens her spine, squinting a bit to better observe the object.

Blair doesn't need to investigate the substance to know its true identity. It's cocaine — by sight and by common sense, she would find such an illicit substance in a random individual’s home. She dabs a small bit of saliva on her pointer finger, pokes into the baggie and procures a small amount of the substance. She places it against the tip of her tongue, wincing. The bitterness elicits a gag from the woman. Definitely cocaine.

Blair perches there against the sink, contemplating her next move. She shuffles the baggie of cocaine in her fingers. Thoughtfully, she chews on the inside of her cheek.

"Ah, fuck it," Blair growls. She shakes part of the contents into the snuff box of her hand, a small crevice formed near the wrist. She tilts forward, plugging a nostril with her free hand while she draws in a sharp inhalation.

She reels back, her nose burning. Pinching her nostrils, Blair prevents a sneeze from dispelling her efforts. She's dizzy for several seconds before the sensation settles and she relaxes. 

Returning to the darkness of the kitchen, Blair shuffles through drawers until she locates a kitchen knife. The broad blade isn't freshly sharpened, as Blair preferred her weapons, but it would suffice in a bind. Deciding she was overstaying her welcome in the deceased man's home, Blair exits back out onto the dark streets.

Between the refresh of water and stimulants now coursing through her system, Blair embarks down the streets with a new amount of fervor. Her body still aches and she can hardly keep a coherent thought process alive amidst the splitting headache, but at least her heart is thrumming.

She stays low, ducking from groups of mercenaries that patrol the street. She has no inkling of an idea of where to go, but she heads deeper into the city. If anything, she hopes she finds Graves and gets a chance to scalp him. Fucking trashy ass excuse of a soldier. 

The rage simmers in Blair's gut, thoughts distracted as she turns a corner and nearly collides with one of the darkly dressed mercenaries. Blair startles, cursing under her breath at her lack of caution.

Swinging her stolen knife, Blair is easily knocked off balance by the man. The blade clatters onto the ground. The Shadow grabs her arm, bending and twisting it until Blair is facing away. She cries out with shock, knees buckling as she sinks to the ground. 

In a swift movement, Blair grabs the knife with her free arm and twists (she’s spent too many years in combat training to let pain and exhaustion make her a loser). She lodges the blade squarely into the carotid sinus of her captor, blood pulsing from the wound, denoting that Blair had struck the artery with the first strike. He shrieks with surprise before collapsing onto the ground. She follows him there, unbedding the knife to bring it back down into his neck. She's delivered several blows, blinded by her own desperation.

The adrenaline ebbs. Her breaths steady. Underneath her bruised ribs, her heart still maintains an uncollected gallop. Blair pushes off the mangled body and stumbles away. Her head spins, a dizzying cyclone of epinephrine and bloodlust. She is once again the Rogue.

The construct of war, forged by Carl Moore, a bitter childhood and the rigidity of the US Army, Rogue was a piece of legend. Leader of the now-defunct Crow Squadron. Agent of nearly a hundred covert operations. Every last Shadow and narco on this street should fear her. 

Prowling like a lynx, Blair keeps close to the dark corners of the alleys and streets. She expertly pins and suffocates a lonely Shadow picking through belongings in a garage. Then she slits the throat of another in an alleyway. There's no realty for mercy anymore, the Shadows made that evidently clear on their tyrannical rampage. And Blair was not the soul to rise above the standard they'd emblazoned on the battlefield. 

The rage and stimulants in her system breathe new life into the soldier. She's coursed deeper into the heart of Las Almas when she finally falters. The Shadow she sought to down manages to fire off his gun, immediately alerting the vicinity of his struggle. Blair quickly draws the blade of her knife through his chest, but not before the drum of boots echo on the damp street. 

"Halt! You're surrounded," the man shouts. Blair can almost hear the tense preparedness of the Shadows focusing their sights on her. 

Her knife clatters to the ground. 

Blair holds her hands aloft, head drooped with defeat. She's thought of all the times she's stared down the barrel of a gun. Back then, she'd done so willingly. So heroic, like some character from a blockbuster action film. Death was inevitable, she'd come to terms with it.  But now regret burns in her belly.

"Shadow 1, this is Shadow 2-2. We found one of them. The girl."

It's funny. The first thing that crosses her mind, when she's so convinced her final moments are unfurling, is Johnny. How she ever spiraled this far and became so enamored with that damn Scot, Blair will never comprehend. She'll die wondering.

When was the last time she told Johnny that she loved him? The thought echoes in the prison cell of her mind. She can't remember. And now she probably doesn't have another chance. (I should be worried about the guns aimed at my head, Blair ruefully scoffs, but despite her own chastising, her mind crawls back to the immense guilt and her yearning to see Johnny)

"Do we dispose of her?" Shadow 2-2 asks. 

"Wait," Graves' voice crackles over the radio. "I want her alive."

Terror gnaws at Blair's insides. She levels her gaze to watch Shadow 2-2 tap his finger along his mic, contemplating. 

"Ten-four, Shadow 1."

From behind, Blair can hear another Shadow shuffling forward. The next thing she knows is something crashing into the side of her skull, throwing Blair to the ground. Her vision blurs and blacks out before she fully lands prone, the dark stone streets of Las Almas the last thing she registers before her mind blanks.

[fatal-iistic]

the lioness' den

Summary: From request, you're a reckless fool. No one would foresee that surrogate soldier to Urzikstan's Freedom Fighters would capture their Commander's affections.

Pairings: Farah Karim x Reader (written for female but could be perceived as GN)

Warnings: Blood, gore, war, Farah Karim is actually a soft woman, soft, fluff

Word Count: 1.7k

You’re alive.

But you might as well be dead.

There’s no way Farah is going to forgive me for this.

Strict orders. Commander Karim didn’t take insubordination lightly – she might not be a tyrant like Barkov or the al-Qatala regime, but she demanded order and respect. And you are notorious for pushing those limits. It’s a wonder that, after three years of fighting alongside Farah and her Freedom Fighters, you haven’t been amiably dismissed.

You are, after all, a surrogate to her cause.

Military-trained and already involved in the conflicts embedded deep within Urzikstan, you’d been injured in Sakhra when al-Qatala laid siege to the US Embassy, left for dead somewhere in the streets. US intel had labeled you KIA. The people of Urzikstan had taken you in and nursed your wounds for nearly two weeks before you were well enough to operate on your own. 

Things were murky with the Embassy fallen. Getting news back to the States of your proof of life became complicated. You were forced to remain living amongst the citizens of the Republic of Adel, but what had been an inconvenience became a change in your life. 

Al’umu, Mother, the matriarch of the family that fostered you, had told you about the struggles of Urzikstan, the things that didn’t make the media. You walked those streets after al-Qatala and the NATO armies had lain waste to them, seeing the devastation these people lived on a daily. Children playing ball amongst debris. Storekeepers still stayed afloat even after half of their front had been blown to shreds by bullet holes. 

Life went on – what else could they do? 

You'd met Commander Karim in Sakhra. She was the catalyst of the Freedom Fighters, their fearless leader. Al’umu introduced you fervently, even though you’d insisted there was no point in you wasting the commander's time. Yet despite that notion, Farah thanked you for being here to fight, even though it was her people you were indebted to at the set of the sun. You joined her Freedom Fighters – no questions asked. Sent messages to your family back home but remained in Adel.

It's a strange case – an 'outsider' shouldering the ranks of Urzikstan's rebels. You hadn't been the only one to do so – but you'd become the most remarkable considering the proximity you'd gained with the Commander. 

You’d become a military asset but somehow garnered favor with the commander. While soliciting eye rolls and scoffs from Farah, your dry humor and quick wit must’ve done measures to charm her. Your affections grew bolder, affections that Farah kept at arm's length but never entirely denied. You continued to spin that web, and even Urzikstan’s fearless commander couldn’t free herself from it.

Fingers wrap around your side, hugging blood-stained fabric over the wound on your side. You’d taken a bullet into the side, though it seemed superficial. You hadn’t spent much time assessing the damage thoroughly, just enough to declare that no metal was lodged into your abdomen. Hamza helps you out of the truck, assisting you towards the outpost.

Your eyes scan tentatively for Farah. A gut feeling that you were about to receive the reprimand of a lifetime – and you’d passed elite selection for the USMC.

“Where are they?” You can hear Farah’s voice sharply over the hustle of the outpost. Your eyes rivet upwards to see her pushing past her soldiers, eyes locked onto you like a honing system.

Lips curl into a failing smile. “Farah,” you murmur. 

Her fingers latch to the fabric of your shirt, near the collarbones, hoisting you upright and out of Hamza’s hold. You catch a gasp in your throat, growling slightly as the pain sends shockwaves through your frame.

“What the hell happened?” she demands. Dark amber eyes flash. She is a lioness. Teeth bared. Hackles raised.

You'd always feared her like one would a wild predator. Much of your existence was holding a lion by the tail with Farah. She could easily swoop and swipe, depleting your existence if she pleased. Yet most days, she serviced you with mercy (you joked about mercy, when others made indiscreet whispers about you two). 

Despite your willingness to push boundaries – both off and on the battlefield. 

“Farah, Farah,” you grimace. Your lungs hitch against the edges of your ribs as she procures you. Pain sizzles up your spine, igniting the receptors of your cranium as you wheeze. “I’m alive. But you’re pushing my luck.”

An expression of panicked horror flickers from her face before her palms release the vice grip on your shirt. You stumble, Hamza lunging swiftly to stabilize you. Farah also reaches, recognizing her plight only a second too late. She cradles her arms under your shoulders as you fall into her chest.

"Easy," you exhale. Composing your bearings, you rock back onto your heels and straighten your torso. Farah's arms remain circled close to you, while Hamza's hands hover near your shoulders. You shift a bit, tossing your companions a half-lucid, toothy grin. "See?"

Skepticism permeates the air. Farah grips your arm, directing you to a place to sit on a nearby crate. You take a seat, wincing as the wound along your side ripples while you maneuver. Teeth raze against the inner flesh of your cheek. You throw your head back with an agonized shutter.

She grabs the bloodied hem of your shirt, hiking the fabric up to expose the seeping wound at your side. It had been a superficial wound, taking more flesh and soft tissue than anything of importance. The mere issue that remained, though, was the enormity the 5.56 caliber rounds used by al-Qatala and how they shredded flesh. The measly bandage applied hours ago is nothing but a crimson-stained rag tied to your side.

Peeling the previous bandage away, you bite into your lip as the movement sends prickles of pain through your system. You dig fingernails into your palms until your knuckles are stark white and little bruises form under the crescents of your nails. Farah discards the rag, reaching for a clean towel and dousing it with a clear substance – some form of disinfecting alcohol, you presume (you weren't a medic).

“How did you get injured?" Farah demands with controlled sternness. She keeps her tone tame, both for your humility and hers. "You weren’t supposed to be near the combat."

“Things didn’t go as planned,” you defend. Jaw locks. You gaze up with a bolster of defiance seeping through your veins.

She curses in Arabic. Words you recognize, words you don't. Without forewarning, she holds the damp towel to your wound. You squirm, choking on your tongue to stifle your whimper. 

"Fucking Christ, Farah," you growl. You slam a fist into the crate. The ghost of tears burning the edges of your eyes. "Warn me."

She stares up with the smug playfulness of a lion cub. Damn proud of how savage she could be. You'd really asked for it, hadn't you? Playing too close to the enclosure of a deadly predator? Toying the faint lines of goodwill and whatever blossomed between you two. 

Like storing C4 next to a faulty electrical outlet. 

"If you had listened to me, to my orders, you wouldn't be injured," she remarks frigidly. The ice almost penetrates through your chest, humiliation melting into the jagged cracks of your ribs. 

You blink, chin dropping as you escape from her scrutiny. "Ask Hamza or Amir or anyone. Things went to shit," you reply surely, clearing your throat before looking back at her. "You know I can't stand by and let people die."

"My soldiers know the risks," Farah counters. "Your role was essential to–"

"I am your soldier too," you interject. 

A stunned silence wedges its way in between you two. Air thick with tension that could be serrated by a knife. 

"What?" Farah utters.

"Don't speak to me like I'm an external source," you argue, limbs taut. "You've said it yourself then why do you treat me like I'm just an add-on? Like I'm not truly in this cause."

"I-I…"

"Am I a Freedom Fighter, or just some ex-soldier you picked up out of sympathy? Tell me the truth on what you see in me, Farah."

"Don't be ridiculous," she rebukes. You can see her chew on the inside of her mouth thoughtfully, eyebrows furrowing as she declares, "You are a Freedom Fighter."

You wilt a bit. Reassured. She presses the clean gauze into your wound, while one arm reaches to caress your jaw for a moment gently. Your breath hinges in your chest as her fingers dance away, back to your side. She makes quick work of patching the wound back up, covering it with your bloody shirt.

"If I give you orders to stay away from combat, you better pay heed to them," she states haughtily, gazing back with fiery eyes, like a lioness. She lingers close to your orbit, fingers absent-mindedly playing with the bottom buttons of your shirt. In the stillness of the moment, you can feel the exhalation of her lungs brush against your cheeks.

You give her a wry smile, smirking. “You said it yourself,” you remark, “we don’t follow logic. We follow what works.”

She tilts her forehead against yours, nose brushing against your own. A coarse chuckle rattles in her chest as she caresses the side of your face.

“Satakun mwti, (You will be the death of me)” Farah breathes. 

You smile flippantly. “I don’t know what the hell that means,” you croak. 

Her eyes dance to yours. The specter of a smile teases the edges of her lips as she leans back an inch. Tilting her head, she takes the sight of you in before pressing a gentle kiss along your sweat-salted forehead.

“It’s nothing in particular,” she hums. “Just know that ‘uhibuk (I love you).”

You grin, teeth flashing as you edge closer to brush your own lips to hers. You danced a line fine with the queen of the jungle within your grasp, but you were unafraid. You’d never tame her wildness and valiance, but you could live alongside it without fearing for your life. That was all you’d ask for.

“I know that one,” you chuckle proudly. “I love you, too.”

[fatal-iistic]

can i request some hurt/comfort with farah and an f!reader? maybe reader gets injured badly on a mission or something and farah gets very concerned?

Sorry this request comes late, Tumblr failed to even give me a notification so I found this late in the week!

But here you go! LINK

[fatal-iistic]

Ties That Bind (Pt. 3)

Summary: Blair is captured behind enemy lines. The primitive relationship she shares with Soap may be dead before it truly has the chance to live.

Pairings: Johnny “Soap” Mactavish x F!Original Character

Words: 7.9k

Warnings: Swearing, injury/gore, references to torture, slight insinuation to SA if you squint

May 23rd, 2021

Stirling Lines, Herefordshire, UK

Focus is a forlorn concept.

This brief couldn't be any more boring.

Half of the issue is the details have been intensely scrutinized a dozen times over with Kate Laswell until the back of Blair's eyelids is painted with the blue light of the projector screen. Another part of the problem stems from the late morning hours when Blair's body is flying on a measly four hours of sleep after catching a red-eye flight into the UK. The caffeine dependency only brings Blair along a certain distance, the rest of Blair's consciousness relying solely on willpower.

Something else plagues her – this ordeal is a three-headed monster, and the third part of the beast has no policy inhabiting the spaces of her brain. Plaguing thoughts ram themselves deep into the cerebral cortex like a splinter wedged under her skin. She should know better and do better.  This has no place in her mind, not when duty is on the line.

Leg jostles as she swirls the endmost contents of coffee in its cup. She nearly jumps from her flesh as Colonel Lyons concludes the brief, and the room illuminates in full from the fluorescent lights overhead. Blinking, eyes glance at the eight other men, two Americans and six Brits, all rising from their seats. Lieutenant Spears, a SAS soldier, nods in Blair's direction and murmurs something about seeing her that afternoon for their flight to Germany.

They'd be subjected to another brief with German Special Forces in the evening. By 0200 hours tomorrow, a joint force of Americans, Brits, and Germans would be storming the estate of German gunrunner Hans Behrend.

Lofting her empty cup into the nearby trash bin, Blair departs the brief room with a stifled yawn. Her stomach, already clued in on the severe deprivation of food, gives a raucous protest as she weaves down the halls of the administration building and outside. 

She's starving. But she also needs to locate him. 

Him. John Mactavish.

The op in Al Mazrah had gone south in January. An entire squad, save herself and fellow 141-comrade John Mactavish, killed in action by the overpowering of the insurgents (the way the details were summarized in the reports still haunt her mind). These facts don't often bog Blair down, but the finer details still linger like a ghost. The intense desire to keep Soap alive. The hours wedged into an old garden shed, Blair sharing stories (see: her life trauma) to pass the hours. How she couldn't, nor wouldn't, leave his side until they'd made it safely back to base (even then, Soap had to be the one to dismiss her).

They sent her away before Johnny had been discharged from the hospital. Across the ocean to her American homeland, sent chasing after shadows before General Shepherd commandeered her back onto a flight to Europe. This op came in the variety of Bulgaria, partnered alongside Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley.

The duo seldom swapped much of a conversation, Blair relatively content keeping to her own realm while Ghost didn't seem to have a social bone in his body. At one point they'd brushed elbows over Al Mazrah, Ghost mentioning off-handedly that Mactavish had been sent back to the UK for R&R and reconditioning. The news cleaned out the guilt and worry that gnawed at Blair since she'd left the base in Cyprus, and while her mind desired to press Lieutenant Riley for more details, she knew better than to let her affections be compromised by Ghost's slick intuition.

Soap is safe. That much qualms her worries. 

She only wishes it doesn't take until the end of spring to be catching Soap once more. 

The mess hall is dwindling at this hour. There are roughly twenty minutes before operations shut down and soldiers return to their duties or back to their barracks. Tentative eyes scan the seating, bouncing on her heels as she goes through the motions of procuring a tray of what could be classified as mystery meat, a heap of undercooked green beans, and a blueberry muffin on the side. 

Hope dwindling, Blair almost resigns to locating a lonely seat at the end of a table to dine alone when her eyes fall upon an undeniably familiar form. It's the man's unmistakable mohawk that seizes her attention. The sight grabs the air locked in between her ribs, her heart thrumming against the hollow space. 

(She remembers the giddiness, akin to the same vibrations she'd get the mornings she'd turn in the old bedsheets of Sierra's childhood bed, finding herself nose-to-nose with the woman she'd swore she'd take to the ends of the earth with.)

Pulse ripples. Ushering her shoulders back and tilting her chin, Blair takes purposeful strides toward the table Soap occupies. 

He sits with several other unrecognizable soldiers – a collective of fanboys, for all Blair cares. She isn’t allowing the masses to prevent her from seeing Soap after over four months when the last time she’d seen him, he’d been occupying a hospital bed. She ignores the foreign faces, unbothered by the gang of wet-behind-the-ears operatives. Landing her tray on the tabletop, Blair sidles down into a space allocated between Soap and another soldier – a space, in reality, much too small for even the woman, but she shoulders without apology into her seat.

"Gentlemen," she greets with a nod at the blank faces staring at her. Leaning her head towards Soap, an impish smirk creasing her lips, she then greets, "Sergeant Mactavish."

"Lieutenant," Soap utters, stumbling over the word. 

"Don't look too surprised," Blair remarks coyly, blue eyes gleaming. 

"Well, my sincere apologies, hen, just didn't think to see our beloved American so soon." 

The other soldiers all exchange unsavory glances with one another. Something wanted to be mentioned, but each individual seems to withhold their comments. The dynamics, however unspoken, are extremely clear in this group. Soap may be friendly to a fault but commands respect amongst the crew. Whatever sat on the tongues of these soldier boys will die in their larynx before being summoned to existence.

"They shoot ya over here to embarrass another base of finest soldiers here in the UK?" Soap teases, head tilting towards the blonde soldier with dark brown eyes. "Reeves here might need some humblin'; bastard thinks he's the fastest thing in selection for the SAS."

The soldier, Reeves, squeaks in protest. A reddish blush dapples his cheeks and neck as he fumbles for an excuse, only for the scathing group around him to start heckling him.

Blair puffs her cheeks, chortling at Soap's comment. "If only that were what brought me 'cross the pond," Blair muses with a bit of deflation. "My talents might be goin' to waste. But I'm part of a joint op. Headin' to Germany here soon."

"Germany," Soap repeats with a quizzical look. 

She affirms with a nod.

There are no more questions. Both soldiers know that even if asked, Blair's best interest and her automatic reply would be to stonewall the queries. At this point, most attention is riveted to teasing Reeves and others being poked fun at, but Johnny's focus never wavers from Blair.

"Todesser?" Soap murmurs. His voice low and rough. 

Blair remains quiet, shuffling remnants of the green beans on her plate. She only nods softly, never verbalizing the confirmation.

"Is Captain–?"

"I can't answer anything else, Soap," Blair calmly states. Her tone edges with reproach, the woman perplexed by Soap's sudden rigidity over her mission. 

Soap grimaces. "You're going to get killed," he huffs.

Their blue eyes lock after his utterance. Soap realizes his remark falls out of line, and Blair quickly hides behind the walls of her typical stoicism. 

The two lapse into silence. Blair hastily downs the food before her, not wasting time determining whether it's tolerable or treacherous. The soldiers around them keep jesting, Blair interjecting with razor-sharp remarks to ground these hot-headed boys. There's an unspoken air of tension that counters Blair and Soap, a static thick enough the air could snap.

Hastily, Blair gathers her trey once she's finished her meal and bids the lively bunch of soldiers goodbye. Her cheeks burn as she disembarks from the mess hall, making it only to the outside door before Soap closes in.

"Blair, wait," Soap calls. He manages to catch up and fall into stride with the woman.

"I have a flight to catch, Mactavish," Blair reports stonily.

"I'm an arse. I didn't mean it like that," he apologizes fervently. "It's just…Todesser is dangerous."

Blair snorts, animosity settling in her veins. She's accustomed to unsolicited opinions and the oversight of a man – despite her credentials, her tact, and her kill record. She's a woman in a man's field, and she'll never belong. The emotion of feeling like Soap underestimates her feels like gravel and sand against an open wound.

"Dangerous," she echoes. "He's a fuckin' terrorist. They're all dangerous."

"It just…seems like an undertaking for an elite squadron. Not…"

"Three of the best covert operatives from the US? A squad of SAS soldiers and German Special Forces?" Blair questions vehemently. The moment the fire brims from her tongue, Blair regrets the immediate defensiveness. Her shoulders slump, an exasperated sigh exiting her lips. "Soap, I'll be okay."

"I-I know. It's just…" He chews on the inside of his cheek. "I worry 'bout ya. Al Mazrah and everythin' was a mess. We lost–"

"You and I have lost people before…" she interrupts. Seeing the flash of panic and concern that caresses his features, Blair relents. She reaches and folds her hands along the sinew of his forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'll be careful. I always am." There is a fleeting pause before Blair's lips curl faintly into a morose smile. "But doubly, seeing as you won't have my six this time."

Soap leans back onto his heels, smiling faintly. "Those boys better take care of ya."

"You SAS boys hardly ever fail."

Her comment does little to quell the inkling of worry that still festers in his gut. He forces a smile to play across his lips, unaware of the joking remark in her rebuttal. Blair bids farewell, mentioning the packing required before she hopped on a transport to Germany. She's several meters away when Soap finally snaps back to attention, heart pounding. 

"Moore," Soap calls.

She halts, pivoting to face him. Her straw-blonde hair shifts in the wind, a plaintive smile creasing her lips.

Ask her out, ask her out, his mind patronizes.

"I-uh…" his brain seizes. "Good luck. I-I'll see you when you get back." 

She pauses, nodding solemnly. "Sir, yes, sir," she quips with a lazy salute. "See ya soon, sergeant."

***

He hates running. 

For Soap, he'd do the bare minimum for his PT tests when it came to running. Luckily the scores weren't based solely on those averages because Soap typically cruised in at the lower end of that scale. But he'd started running more once his leg healed. Blair ran. She ran a lot. He figured it could be a decent common ground. 

Goddammit, Mactavish, yer a whipped sonuvabitch, aren't you? Each step chastises him as the treadmill belt rolls miles under his feet. He's a hair under 3 miles logged when Sergeant Garrick strides into the gym. Dark eyes scan the soldiers milling about, spotting Soap and making a beeline in his direction.

Soap tugs his headphones from his ears, pressing the Stop button. His stride declines, chest still panting.

"Mornin', Gaz," Soap greets with an exhausted smile. He reaches up with the back of his arm to wipe away the sweat that drips from his forehead.

"Brief Room C. Ten minutes," Gaz states. No formalities. No smiles.

Soap blinks, blindsided by the sudden command. Shock infiltrates his core. "What the hell is going on?"

"Dunno. Cap said it was urgent. Let's not keep him waiting, yeah?" 

Gaz waits for Soap to gather his things from the locker room, both soldiers falling in step with one another as they make haste for the administrative building. They find John Price setting up his computer in one of the smaller brief rooms, a line of worry tracing across his forehead. 

John Price has two emotions that ever reveal themselves. Sobering stoicism and bottled-up rage. Occasionally, he might fancy himself a smile when impressed. But the fatigue of disdain that paints his skin is enough to cause alarm for Soap and Gaz, seeing as they'd hardly ever witnessed such response from the Captain.

"What's goin' on, Cap?" Soap all but demands. His mind has revolved around every crisis requiring Gaz and Soap for an immediate brief. The world around them wasn't on fire, but that scenario isn't completely negated. 

"Call from Laswell," Captain Price informs. There are no other details to it. 

The soldiers all shift uneasily. For an emergency call directly to Price, it meant something dire. Kate Laswell has almost any American military and counterintelligence agent at her disposal. 

Advanced operatives only. An individual she could trust. Maybe the world truly is ending. 

The icon appears on the computer screen. Price hits the call button and the screen pops up.

Kate Laswell mirrors an expression similar to Price's. She's always tight-set, but the lines of worry betray her face. The screen lags for a second as it establishes a stable connection. 

"She's missing."

There's a pause as the three soldiers exchange glances 

"Who?" A chorus of voices came.

"Rogue."

The air in the room compresses. A pair of craft scissors could slice through its density as all three men share a mutual shift in dynamic. Soap feels the blood in his body chill, fingernails digging into his palms.

Not Blair.

The inevitable silence is only interrupted by Kate as she begins to rattle off details. "She went dark four hours ago around 0430 local time. Her squad returned to the surface within the hour, and could send traffic.”

"What the hell happened?" Gaz growls.

Kate's face, already somber and serious, draws tighter. "A firefight, which had been anticipated. But there was an explosion and a fire. Comms went down. Officials have immediately declared her MIA."

"Fuckin' hell," the Captain breathes. 

"Did they even look for her?" Soap demands, the outrage clipping in his tone.

"This was black ops, Soap," Kate responds. "Neither the US, Germany, or Britain can authorize reinforcements to locate her. Right now, they want their soldiers sent home, and objectives reevaluated."

"No one's goin' for her?" Soap bursts. His cheeks burn as his eyes flick to Captain Price, embarrassed for speaking out. 

"Neither country can allocate the individuals to rescue her at this time," Kate repeats differently, articulating her words. Same implications, a different tone.

"This is ridiculous," Soap breathes under his breath. Gaz flashes him a warning stare, painfully sympathetic but warding Soap to remain in line despite the circumstances.

"My hands are tied," Kate informs.

"Not mine," Price announces. Without any further contemplation, he states, "Send me coordinates and details, Kate." 

There's a soft sigh laced with relief from Kate. "Will do, John."

"We're gettin' our girl back home. She's alive, there ain't a doubt about that."

***

One is none.

Blair knows better, but her hubris got the better of her. Armed to the nines, assault rifle slung around her shoulder, a pistol holstered on either thigh and a combat knife packed close to her heart, Blair truly believes she's invincible. Without her weapons, she is just as dangerous. 

They needed a team to flank the compound. But Blair saw the back entrance and the guest house, and her gut said Niko Behrends would be found somewhere within. 

She wasn't wrong.

She'd just sorely underestimated the personnel employed to protect the information broker and gun runner. She eviscerated two of the men while accessing the home (severed arteries, mutilated body parts – Blair had not been kind or clean about the actions), only to be brutally beaten by Behrends personal bodyguard, Hugo.

The next hour is a lucid fever dream. Behrends snide remarks are lost in the fog of what is likely a concussion. They drag her to a maintenance garage at the edge of the property. She's drenched in blood, so they douse her in frigid water. They strip the mask she had pulled over her face and take her tactical vest off and discard it. Dragged back to one of the support beams, they tie her up and wring her out for information.

There are three men. Neither Behrends nor Hugo join them, but the head honcho is a massive brute with a jagged scar along his jawbone. Blair mentally labels him Vollstrecker. Enforcer.

"Do you speak German?" He asks in his native language. 

Blair glares and, through clenched teeth, replies back in German, "Go fuck yourself."

Something slams into the posterior of Blair's skull. The butt of a rifle. Her brain seems to rattle from the force, ears hissing like a chorus of cicadas. She sways, catching her breath in her throat.

"You get to determine the simplicity of this all," Vollstrecker remarks. He squats down on his heels, leveling himself to Blair's eyesight. "Stubbornness will only cause more pain."

Blair pants, drawing long breaths in an attempt to steady her racing senses. Pain isn't her biggest foe, it's the fear that typically walks hand-in-hand with the factor, and that's what her captors were banking on breaking her. The woman mentally psyches herself, trying to remind herself to hold steady. Hold the line, like she'd been taught in basic training years and years ago. 

(Carl Moore had ensured Blair feared very little in her young years. Military training had been the icing on the cake for an agent like Blair.)

"Let's start easy. What is your name, liebling," he quizzes. His voice is lowered, almost deceptively kind if Blair allows for that reality. 

"You're wasting your time. Kill me. I'm not going to say a fuckin' thing to you motherfuckers," she snarls. Her words were cut by another hand across the face. Blair spits, pausing momentarily as the heat dazzles across her face. "You'll have to try a lot harder than that."

Vollstrecker clicks his tongue, head shaking. "Can't say I'm disappointed."

He rises to his feet, motioning to his men. They flash one another a look before one steps forward, grasping Blair by the fabric of her shirt and hauling her to a standing position. The other aims a poised punch into her abdomen. It hits squarely in the solar plexus, triggering a chain reaction of muscular spasms in Blair's diaphragm. She seizes, biting down on her lip as she tremors for a breath of air. What is mere seconds feels like an excruciating eternity before oxygen floods back into her lungs.

Blair trembles, bracing her core as several more blows land against her body. She counts seven and eight, but nine never comes. There's a lull in the combat. Her head spins. Her insides quiver. 

"Are you convinced yet?" Vollstrecker questions, his tone tainted with arrogance. He hums a bit. "That's just the icing, liebling. We can go all night with this unless you just tell me what I want."

Blair scowls. Damp tendrils of her hair cling to her face. Sweat pours from her skin. The acidic taste of metal burns the back of her throat. 

"Who sent you?" Vollstrecker prompts.

She sucks in a deep breath. Articulating in German, slow and contemplative as if speaking to a child, she states: "I don't know a fucking thing."

There are handbooks about torture. Blair could've written novels by now on the subject. It's an inevitable part of warfare. An inevitable part of combating against the boogeyman. But it never fully prepares a soul, because every facet of torture is dictated by unpredictable variables. The only thing that can be controlled is the self. 

Adrift in the vertigo of pain and dismay, Blair retreats back to the protective recesses of her mind. It's a sacred territory she hasn't unlocked in years. Not since Bosnia, some three or four years ago (she tries not to keep a tally on the ordeal, the volatile nightmares that occasionally haunt her twilight were enough). Every operative trained in counterterrorism and behind-enemy-lines assignments has constructed this dwelling place for this specific reason. 

Blair's is a rocky outlook somewhere in Utah. It resembles Zion National Park. She lays on dew-sodden grass, staring at a vast, starry canvas above her. Her memory is futile in repainting the scene, but it's enough to transport her battered frame from the warehouse in Germany. Previously, Blair would lie next to Sierra or Conrad, both individuals she had to lay to rest, literally and figuratively. Now, she looks to her side, and she sees John MacTavish.

His presence in her subconscious is overwhelming. Her pulse heightens. Her chest flutters with a hummingbird beat. She doesn't know what to do with this situation. But the savagery she faces in the flesh pales when her mind is thousands upon thousands of miles away. 

She remembers his warmth in al Mazrah. The way he'd grabbed her hand when they'd been under fire. They'd held one another before extract. The way he felt, flesh and bone and sturdiness, still emblazoned on her skin. They'd nearly died, but Blair couldn't help but thirst for that insurmountable closeness they had shared. 

She may never be able to touch him again. 

That desire is dead in the water before it had truly been born.

Vollstrecker and his men must grow exhausted by the lack of response they solicit from Blair. The final round of infliction, where one man broke Blair's pinky, concludes their focused efforts for the time being. They let her drop back to the floor, Blair's body landing with a deafening thud.

She rolls, releasing the contents of her stomach onto the grimy cement floor. She hears one of the men utter as if the blood and gore are tolerable, but vomit is where he draws the line. Blair blinks back the tears and glares at her captors, teeth bared. She looks like a wounded animal, bound back from being feral but with rage blazing like a supernova under the surface. Vollstrecker seems less fazed, actually more amused than anything, by Blair's poor state. His lackeys shift uneasily, frightened by the radiation of anger that expels from Blair's frame. 

"Leave her. We'll let her simmer for a while." He kneels, propping Blair's jaw to gaze into her eyes. He uses his thumb to wipe the spit from her chin. "Perhaps you'll be more compliant in a few hours."

"Fat fuckin' chance," she growls. Her voice is hoarse.

He drops her. Her nose falls back into the puddle of bile on the ground. Blair cringes but doesn't move until all three men evacuate the room. 

Her senses feel like television static. An image beyond the fuzz trying to coagulate. She's nauseous from the pain sloshing through her system. The pain is so prominent that Blair is hardly bothered by laying in her own vomit and bile.  She remains limp on the floor, shoulders twisted in an uncomfortable mess, for an eternity. Mustering her strength, Blair shifts into a seated position. Sweat, blood, hair, and vomit cling to her face. She blinks back tears still residing in her eyelids away, gathering a long breath to compose herself. 

Everything throbs. 

The pain won't beat you first; the hopelessness and panic will, an instructor's voice (who, Blair can't classify the face or the name in her gyri) warns from the depths of her hippocampus. 

Neural circuits begin to reconnect. Blair inspects the dark building. There are cabinets against one wall, and a few tools propped precariously in a corner, obviously never making their way back into their homes. There's equipment covered by a tarp, something Blair assumes is a lawn mower. Immediately, Blair can pick apart a dozen useful items.

They should've never left me alone.

***

"Radio silence unless you have eyes on Rogue," Captain Price indicates. He's taken a spot on the hills above Behrend's estate. Sniper barrel trained on the sweeping terrain below. 

Songbirds chorus around Captain Price, a sweet, innocent praise to the tepid spring midday. In any other situation, John Price may find it ironic that he's stationed in this beautiful foliage surrounded by harmless songbirds and a nice view, arms cradling a weapon with bullets that could pierce a skull in milliseconds. Paint the ground with blood and brain matter.

(He intends to do so if he sees the men that took Blair hostage.)

It's been twenty-nine hours since Blair Moore has gone missing. Here, embedded in the dense foliage of the Black Forest in southwest Germany, the team of John Price, Kyle Garrick and John Mactavish, along with three individuals in their extract team, have come to retrieve Blair.

Behrend's estate is cobbled with chaos. Workers and individuals mull about the half-singed mansion, dragging things to the massive dumpster parked in the driveway. Price almost denotes the shame of the ruined architecture, the home seemed decades old and a piece of art. Whatever occurred now two nights ago had destroyed a majority of the home. 

Eyes sweep across the vantage point of the property. Behind the mansion is a garden, and beyond that, a small barn and pastures housing three broodmares. It's a little gem lodged in the forestry of the terrain. Looks were deceiving when it homed one of Europe's most dangerous gun runners.

Soap had entered the property from the northwest, while Gaz had from the east. They'd sweep the remote parts of the property, since the likelihood Blair had been located in the dilapidated mansion was minimal. 

In the northeast corner is a maintenance building. Tucked away from plain view from a majority of the property. Its private structure is still visible from Price's post. He squints, jaw tightening as he sees a billow of ashen smoke spit from the infrastructure. He trains his scope on the area.

There's a figure that trudges from the door of the building. While distant, John Price can't help but recognize the tattered figure and the mane of gold hair that undeniably belonged to Lieutenant Blair Moore.

John reaches up and presses the button on his mic. The fuzz in the comm shifts.

"There's smoke coming from the northeast. Maintenance building," Price informs. "I see our girl. Move in."

***

There isn't anything Blair is if not resourceful. The ropes are twisted and knotted in a nasty fashion, and she swears her fingertips are worn bloody by the time she slips them loose. But she liberates herself. One step in the right direction. 

While her vest remains in the building, her knife is nowhere to be seen. Her guns had never even made it to this building. They've removed anything remotely useful, leaving her med pack, a flare, few other miscellaneous items, and her stash of gummy bears. 

Humoring her sweet tooth, she wiggles a few gummies from the bag before hastily scanning over her options located within these four walls. Fingers trace over yard tools. Sheers. Shovels. She grips a screwdriver in one hand, limbs trembling as she hears the grind of tires on gravel. A vehicle has approached, and Blair doesn't have the liberty of time to plot her next movements. She skids across the floor to the support beam, wrapping her arms around and shuffling clumps of rope into her palms.

Vollstrecker comes alone. 

He strides into the building with an air of arrogance. Like a predator marching up to a sickly, immobile piece of prey. Blair glares at him through strands of unkempt hair. 

Fiddling with a box of cigarettes, he draws one up to his lips. In another hand he takes a match book, striking a match to ignite the end of his cigarette. Waving the match to kill the flame, he flicks the dead thing in Blair's direction. He stands there, massive body towering over Blair as he takes several long drags. He releases the smoke into the air.

"Anyone tell you not to smoke indoors," Blair rasps. Her words laced with venom. 

She glares up through deranged bits of her hair. Jaw hinged shut. Teeth nearly bared like a hungry wolf.

Vollstrecker flicks a glance in Blair direction, amused. He approaches and brings himself to a squat, leveling his eyes to Blair's. He takes one last draw from his cigarette before extinguishing it on Blair's arm. She catches a gasp in her throat, teeth razing into her tongue.

"Who sent you out after the wolves?" He asks, tenderly caressing her cheek. A broad smirk twisting along his lips. "A shame to waste such a face on this dirty line of work."

The calluses of his palms brush like sandpaper along the refined skin of her face. Blair's flesh itches as she tries to jerk away from his tainted touch, the back of her skull knocking against the support beam.

"Nothing but a lying, treacherous whore, aren't you?" He hisses.

Blair's heart gallops against her chest. She releases the rope from her hands, fingers curling tightly around the screwdriver in her right hand. Muscles ripple in her forearm as she shifts and relaxes her shoulder to prepare for her strike. 

There's a shuttering quiet that enters her brain. 

It's as if the waves of time suddenly ebb to a halt. Blair stares at Vollstrecker with an amount of unperceived rage. An anger more volatile than a dozen nuclear fissions set off in the body. 

Vollstrecker rises, fingers trailing to his waist to unbuckle his belt. She doesn't hesitate, springing into action and launching herself up to barreling into Vollstrecker's frame. It's a swift instant. Blair transforms the existing situation of helpless victim, projecting herself into the role of perpetrator. His balance compromised, Blair aims the tip of the screwdriver into his throat, sinking it past the shank and to the handle.

Hands cling to her arms, a dying attempt to cease her actions. He hadn't even the second to scream, a muffled, agonized gurgle spitting from his mouth. Blood pours from the wound, a liquid crimson spilling out onto his skin, Blair's hands and the floor. His thrashes to unmount Blair are futile. He's too far gone. 

He might be dead, or maybe the final gasps of light exiting his body, when Blair continues to dig the screwdriver into his throat and chest. Her breaths come in rasping pants of despair, vision blurred as she strikes bone and cartilage and soft tissue. When things finally simmer, the massacre that is Vollstrecker lays underneath her. 

Lungs depress. Hands slump. Blair gently rolls herself off of the man and scoots away from the carnage of his murdered body. There's tears stinging her eyelids – not from fear or shock, but from the tumultuous ire that had beset her. She can't mull over her treachery for too long, dragging her exhausted frame to a standing position. She needs to escape. And now.

The first thing she needs is to create a massive diversion. Bringing the foundations of this damned building down would suffice. An easy task when Vollstrecker inadvertently gifts her the matches, and the gasoline packed away for the lawn vehicles remain at her disposal.

Kicking over the gasoline can, the pungent liquid burns her nose hairs. She watches it dance across the cement, a deadly ballerina pirouetting to blanket a massive area in the center of the room. The afternoon sun glinting through the singular window on the door makes it gleam. Shuffling towards the door, she props it open before unpocketing Vollstrecker's matches. She strikes one, watching the flame dance at the end of the stick before flicking it into the garage. 

Flames eat the building. 

The searing heat pushes Blair away quickly. She turns on her heel and rushes to the vehicle that had brought Vollstrecker here. The buffoon had left the keys in the ignition and the door unlocked. Blair starts to scramble into the driver's seat only to see another vehicle barreling down the drive. 

The SUV spits as Blair twists the ignition. The engine has hardly chugged to life before Blair is throwing the vehicle into reverse. She doesn't hit the gas pedal before the second vehicle slams into the fender. The SUV bounces several feet, Blair's forehead smacking into the steering wheel. 

Ears ring. Mind bleeds. Blair isn't sure she's even conscious, but revives back to life as two men tear her from the driver's seat and drag her across the cement. There's harsh German words, something she fails to interpret in this grueling state.

She scrambles on her hands and knees, gravel digging into her palms. One man fists a handful of hair and yanks Blair's head back. Blair heaves, blinking up at the shadowy expression through foggy optics. Fear sinks deep into her cells. 

And then blood sprays. His body hits the earth with an unceremonious thud.

Before either Blair or the remaining man have time to react, the other man pitches to the ground with a shower of red. Another sure shot, straight into the cranium. 

Somewhere in the distance, John Price has once again played her knight in shining armor.

***

"East, Soap. About two hundred meters from your position."

Soap has been in about every type of operation. He's more used to having several of his brothers or sisters flanking him or on his six. Out here on Behrend's estate, the only cover Soap has is the camouflage of his uniform and the faint dependency that Captain Price offers overwatch. Even then, he knows Price's eyes aren't necessarily locked on him, but scanning for a sign of Blair.

Price's voice coming over the comm half-startles the seasoned soldier, shivers tracing along his arms.

Our girl.

Her. Rogue. Blair Moore.

My girl.

Soap pivots and sprints through the thicket. His heart thunders against his chest as he slides down a small ridge, shouldering past a thorny bush that clings to the fabric of his uniform. It snags through, catching his skin, but Soap has little allowance for his body to register the pain. Blair is here, and that is the singular thought that monopolizes his mind.

Every fiber of his being is refined and focused to reach Blair. The desperate need to protect her permeates his essence.

He trips, boots catching on turned up earth, into a clearing, eyes landing on two bloodied bodies and a shaking figure. He starts to sprint again, balance in full composure, closing the distance as Blair plucks a gun from one of the felled men. 

Soap slides to a stop ten feet from Blair, met with the barrel of a pistol pointed in his direction. He holds his hands aloft, rifle hanging from its strap against his chest. There's a moment of contemplation as Soap tries to muster the words to soothe the feral woman, all while Blair's brain itself connects the imagery to her memories.

Never before has Soap witnessed such unhinged rage devouring the woman. In combat prior, she'd always kept a composition of coolness no matter the circumstances. She'd been through just about every militarized situation in the handbooks and then some, the calmness ingrained on a molecular level. But here, reduced to a level of primal survival need, Blair emanates with the undiscriminated choler of a lioness. 

The relief, though, floods through her body like a possession. Fingers grow limp, the pistol hitting the ground.

"It's me, Blair," is all he states.

He reaches up, tugging the gaiter that clads the lower half of his face to reveal himself. 

Her torso slumps, palms stopping her from planting face-first into the ground. He's at her side in an instant, hands securing themselves around her battered frame. The adrenaline and sheer willpower saps from her like evaporation, disposed with the bile that she coughs onto the ground. 

"Hey, hey, hey," Soap murmurs, pulling Blair into a seated position into his lap once her heaving ceases. He holds her like a crux, her head cradled close to his chest. Close enough that she could probably hear the nervous hammer of his heart against his ribs. "I gotcha, yer gonna be alright Blair."

"Johnny…" the word leaves her lips like a prayer. Breathless. Coarse like gravel. Eyelashes flutter as she fights to keep her eyelids open. Throat burns. She can taste the intense metallic flood in the posterior of her throat. "You came."

Soap's eyes darken, a storm along the ocean's evening horizon. "Damn fuckin' right I did," he breathes. 

Her lips turn upward. Weakly. An incoherent smile. "Glad ya know how to help'a damsel in distress," she rumbles. 

"Price and Gaz are here too. We need to get ya to extract, Rogue," Soap informs. He repositions Blair, hoisting her up as he rises to a stand. Blair huffs slightly, biting back a cry as her wounds burn from the maneuver. "I'm sorry, hen, gotta get movin'."

"I'm okay," she pants. Her forehead burrows into the slope between Soap's shoulder and neck, faint breath dancing along his skin. 

"And yer gonna be okay. I'm getting you outta here, yeah?" 

"I wanted to see you." Her lips mumble, too weak to project her voice.

"See me?" Soap muses. His words are distant, distracted but still trying to humor Blair and keep her conscious. 

"Yeah," she chuckles. It's weak, like the laughter of a dying jester. "Today kinda reminded me of how shitty al Mazrah was."

"That one went cheekily well, hm?" Soap remarks.

"It was our first date."

Soap snorts. He grits his teeth as he repositions the woman in his arms. He isn't going to let her go. Adrenaline kicks are a hell of a stimulant. "That's a horrible first date. Lemme make it up to you."

She chuckles, distantly, as if a lightyear away. "I'd like that."

"I know, I gotta get ya outta here first, Princess. Then why don't we put those dinner plans on the radar, yeah?"

She shutters, body growing limp in his hold.

"Goddammit, stay with me, Blair," Soap implores, shaking the woman in his arms. There's little response from her. He curses once more. "Hold on, bonnie, I'm gettin' you outta here."

Up ahead Gaz slides into their path. His eyes scan behind Soap, rifle pointed in ready. "Half a click to the van. Is she okay?"

"She's holdin' on."

Blair blinks, raising her head a bit in response to the introduction to Gaz's voice. Her vision is fuzzy. It feels like she's listening through cotton. "I'm…here…" she grumbles. 

"Good to see ya, L.t.." Gaz rests a gloved hand on her shoulder. "We're bringing you home, yeah?"

Blair chuckles, warm breath dancing along the tender skin of Soap's neck. His fingers fasten tighter around her.

"Let's run," Soap states. Gaz confirms with a solemn nod.

They're off with their girl. 

***

The sound of a doorknob turning and the wooden structure swinging open stirs Blair from her slumber. 

Her pupils burn initially from the onslaught of light bleeding through the window. Blair blinks rapidly, trying to weather the sensory overload as she awakens in a place completely foreign. It's a bland room, save for the view of clarion blue skies and budding deciduous trees beyond the glass of the window. 

Once her initial senses charge, the discomfort and aching and pain come in a subtle wave. She's sure that she's flowing with pain medication, but they didn't entirely pump her full enough to numb the entire sensation. Her ribs constrict against her chest, and her diaphragm bullies the inner core muscles of her abdomen. In her peripheral vision, Blair catches sight of purplish contusions littering her arms and the single singe mark from Vollstrecker's cigarette. 

Out of her own curiosity, Blair wiggles all ten toes and then clutches her fingers. Everything is operational. By the graces, and by the tactful decisions of John Price and 141, Blair is safe and sound.

The nurse smiles faintly, acknowledging Blair's conscious state.

"Where am I?" Blair asks. Her voice sounds like sandpaper gritting against metal. She nearly winces at the sound.

"Landstuhl, Lieutenant Moore." The nurse speaks in English. Landstuhl is an American outpost. She truly is the next best thing to home. 

Blair releases a long exhale, head pressing further into the pillow of her bed. "My squad…are any of them…?"

The nurse blinks, shrugging gently. "I, personally, do not know. I can ask my supervisor to contact someone."

"That…that would be nice, thank you."

Her nurse continues to assess Blair, asking evaluating questions before departing the injured soldier. 

The room is bathed in a serene silence. From outside the door, Blair can hear the shuffle of shoes of a hurried nurse making their rounds with other patients. Somewhere far off, an office phone rings at the nurse's station. Eyelids flutter back shut, Blair shifting her focus to the soft rattle of her lungs. Broken ribs and a menagerie of wounds, but Blair Moore lives another day.

Thanks to 141.

She feels the slight slip of her consciousness. It feels like a slow ebb into warm ocean water, head floating at the surface while the sun sings down on her skin. Suspended in a state of grace. She might've fallen into a slumber did the doorknob not click once more startling Blair into full-fledge consciousness.

Concerned eyes, blue like the horizon opposite to the sunset, peer into the room. Soap quietly shuts the door behind him. 

"Hey…" His voice is a rumble above a whisper.

"Johnny." 

He grabs a chair and positions it at Blair's bedside, taking a seat.

"Ya worried us," Soap admits.

Blair grins. "I keep people on their toes."

Soap scoffs, head shaking as he reaches to collect one of Blair's bandaged hands in his own. "You're alive."

"That's given I survive any reaming from Kate. There's little doubt that debrief is going to wrap up favorably."

"Laswell was the one who contacted Price to send us in," Soap tries to console. "She of all people were concerned the most about yer wellbein'."

Blair pins her lips downward. "Hans Behrand got away. I also jeopardized two dozen men."

"Yer overthinkin' it," Soap gently presses.

There's an uncomfortable silence as Blair unravels the events of the previous two days in her mind. A violent supercut. The discomfort deep in her diaphragm threatens to plunder her breath. If she didn't forcefully inhale a chest full of oxygen, she would've grown dizzy from the thoughts. 

She flits her eyes to meet his. "Thank you."

He blinks, dumbfounded by her gratitude. 

"For what?"

"Seein' the silver linin'....and for savin' my ass."

"I owed you for al Mazrah," Soap interjects. 

Blair fastens her grip around his palm. "Now we're even, huh?" 

Soap shifts uneasily in his chair, eyes dropping for a fleeting second. He draws in a deep breath, shaking his head dubiously. "No. I'd save you a dozen times over, Blair. No strings attached."

Blair hesitates. While her expression remains impassive, the pregnant pause in their conversation speaks enough on the severity of Soap's words. A comrade doesn't just say that.

Her shoulders flex a bit as she tilts her head, smiling faintly. "You're a good soldier, Soap."

A good soldier.

The deflection in her response makes Soap's skin burn. 

"Yes but–" Soap pauses, gulping. He can feel the deep scrutiny coming from Blair's exhausted eyes. He bites into his cheek. "I can't explain it. Bloody fuckin' Jesus, Blair."

The edges of her lips turn upward in a devious grin. She squeezes his palm and laughs, wincing as the maneuver constricts against wounded ribs. 

"Johnny…I can't help but tease ya."

Soap scowls. "And here I was thinkin' you deserve a good night out. Now I'm reconsiderin'."

Blairs face falls and she glares back. "No, no, you promised! Ya can't fall back on a promise, Mactavish."

He grins, swatting away Blair as she attempts to pinch his forearm.

He leans closer, gently brushing bits of her hair away from her face. "Then it's a date."

The word makes Blair's head fill with static. 

A date.

God, she hasn't been on a date in years.

And the one's with foreign kingpins and political bigwigs, for the sake of counterintelligence, didn't count. This was genuine. Two individuals with a mutual attraction. 

Attraction.

She can't get over John Mactavish. He's filled her headspace every day since al Mazrah. He's become her safe space when everything around her goes sour. He has no amendment possessing every fragment of Blair's mind, but here he is. And here Blair is, sinisterly enamored by the Scotsman. 

He traces the lines of her palm. "Joanna," he breathes. The word plucks Blair back from her lull, sending electricity up her spine.

Pushing her weight onto her elbows, Blair shifts herself into a seated position despite Soap's protests. She heaves herself up, sides stinging but her willpower trumping that reluctance. Soap jumps to his feet, hands cradling her forearms to offer stability.

"Yer stubborn as hell, hen," Soap growls.

Blair chuckles, reaching out and folding her arms around Soap's sides. There's a moment of hesitancy before Soap reciprocates the embrace, grip tender to avoid squeezing her injuries. She kneads her head against his chest. A warm sigh leaves her lungs. 

There's never been a place Blair can call home. As a child, the notion of home had really been a prison, and so she lived with that same generalized philosophy throughout her life. People and emotions were a truer concept of home for the soldier. Sierra had once been a form of home. Andrew, however briefly and stormily, had also been a safety net as well. And the last, however poorly judged and mismanaged, had been Conrad. 

Her "homes" always seem to burn. Sierra and Conrad had both died in combat. Andrew and her had nursed something so volatile in nature it threatened to burn both of them down. Things just didn't work out for Blair Moore, and she constantly tries to swallow that pill.

But those fears and racing thoughts fall to rest when she cradles herself in Soap's embrace. She's always so apathetic, yet she always falls so hard. 

"Thank you, Johnny," she rasps. "For everything."

He smooths a palm along her hair. "Anytime," he responds, tenderly, quietly.

They linger in that embrace for what could surmount to an eternity. Blair eventually laxes her hold, leaning back onto the hospital bed. Soap peers down at her, completely smitten and unadulteratedly infatuated with Blair Moore. 

A thought passes through Soap, his face suddenly twisting and a guilty chuckle rattling his chest. "Gaz n' Price are waiting….by the way. The nurse said we ought to ask you if everyone at once would be overwhelming," Soap explains.

"You should've started with that!" Blair exclaims, swatting Soap's arms.

"And not be able to steal this time alone with you?" Soap refutes.

Blair scowls, shaking her head. "You're devious, ya know? Go get 'em, I ought to let Price and Gaz see for themselves that I'm still kickin'."

Soap grins and gives a half-salute. He turns to leave the room.

"Wait, before you go get them…" Blair pleads, reaching a hand out towards Soap. Stepping back into her vicinity, he collects her palm within his own, skin brushing against the fragile layers that hold the fire within that is Blair Moore. 

She jerks him forward, clutching a handful of shirt to pull Soap down to her level. Without hesitation, she crashes his lips against hers. Slow. Deep. Without an ounce of regret. They'd nearly died half a dozen times together, and second chances hardly came in abundance. There was no time to waste.