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socially-awkward-skeleton · 5 months ago

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Chapter 9: The Ghost in You

[Also Available on AO3]

Shadow Dance Masterlist

Summary: The 141 and Los Vaqueros prepare for their attack against Graves and Shadow Co.

Warnings/Tags: Minors DNI, swearing, character with trauma, established relationship, military inaccuracies, smoking, includes some in-game dialogue, dubious people being dubious, fuckboi!Soap, and a flashback to the first time Rory met Ghost

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC - 3rd person POV (Rory Sinclair)

Word count: 6.7 K

A/N: the further continuation of Rory's story, this follows and expands upon the COD: MW2 reboot canon. Told from Rory's POV

This is very much a self-indulgent aside chapter for the author

November 3, 2022 07:30 - Las Almas, Mexico

The morning sun bathed the wooden walls of the old hanger – the makeshift base for Los Vaqueros and the 141 as they readied themselves to strike back against Graves and Shadow. Light seeped in through the seams between the slats and from under the doors, the honey-ooze of warmth streaking across the floor in bright striations as motes of dust sparkled through them after the bodies of soldiers milling about stirred the particles to life.

Rory leaned against the exterior of the building, shoulder blades pressed to the worn wood, the rough grain brushing against the bare skin of her arms. Taking a brief respite, cigarette in hand, she let the coiling smoke permeate her lungs, filling her up and swirling around the stress that gurgled in her gut, only to extricate it from her with a heavy breath up towards the blue skies and gleam of the equator’s sun. In the quiet stillness, surrounded by birdsong and the soft breeze through the trees, the sun warming her face and kissing her cheeks, she couldn’t help but be reminded of the end of the fateful mission five years prior that got her here. Desert sand, the rising sun, and a blossoming romance that had now bloomed and sprouted like one of those creeping plants that spread out undeterred. Ivy, mint, and morning glories. Wrapping around everything in its reach, intertwined, firm and withstanding against the rain and the sleet and the snow. Coiling and twisting up fences and walls, always reaching for the sun. No matter the circumstances, it’s will to survive, to persist, was absolute – that’s what she had with John.

Lord knew they had faced their share of trials, arguments of two strong willed people in opposition. Disagreements over the house, bills, purchases, how to spend a weekend together (as few and far between as they were with work). Little things in the grand scheme. But there were also the wars of attrition, the ongoing battles that would likely continue until death did they part. Or – as far as her father was concerned – as soon as she smartened up.

It was the defining part of their relationship, the push and pull of trying to save each other even as it stood in conflict with the other’s viewpoint. How she fought for the better parts of John’s nature that still resided there beneath all the conditioning and walls he built up to survive a life tainted by violence and indifference to what was considered “moral”. Drawing out the smiles and laughs like nobody else, the ones that crinkled every line in his face and left the mimetic muscles sore and aching as the hardened facade of the Captain cracked. Bringing him back to that Lieutenant who had swept her off her feet, to the boy he once was before shipping off to the military and leaving the life he had known behind – embarrassing teenage rebellion eyebrow ring included. And for John, it was the conviction to always keep her protected, both from herself and the rest of the world. A promise he aimed to keep after making it half a decade ago. The guiding hand that kept her from falling over the edge into the nightmares that sometimes felt like they might swallow her whole, giving her a place of safety where she could finally stop hiding the burdens that wore on her shoulders, to face them fully and no longer retreat from the pain. A bodyguard to beat back the demons when they became too much. The shoulder to cry on without any judgement. The steady bulwark of reliability.

The sword. The shield. Their love.

Things weren’t always perfect, but there were moments that came so impossibly close. Moments of peace, gentle stillness shared by two people who spent more time around death than could ever be good for one’s soul. Quiet evenings on the couch with a cuppa and a movie, camping in the pouring rain and listening to it pelt against the cabin roof, getting food from the local chippy when they were both too damn tired for much else after a long mission, sitting on the cool kitchen tiles and passing the bottle of whiskey back and forth late at night while telling each other childhood stories. Those were the memories she clung to, the ones that brought a smile to her face and made her heart sing and leap in her chest. Those were the things that reminded her this was real, that theirs was a love that couldn’t be broken. There may not have been a ring, but she was his and he was hers. No one could deny that.

Freed from her reverie, Rory huffed out a laugh and shifted her feet in the dirt as the doors opened and Ghost and Gaz exited, headed towards her position for their own cigarette break while Soap followed behind, jabbering away – he didn’t partake himself, but that didn’t mean he didn’t soak up the secondhand smoke for a little socialization.

“‘Ey, Lamb,” Gaz called out to her while pulling out his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. “Boss is lookin’ for ya,” he said, leaning against the wall beside her.

Speak of the devil, she thought, gazing up into the sun through squinted eyes. Rory hummed and dragged the cigarette from her lips, exhaling a stream of smoke. “No rest for the weary, eh?”

Soap took a spot beside Gaz, and lastly Ghost found a spot positioned just around the corner – always remaining slightly distant, needing his space.

“Did I ever tell you lads about the time I'd gone on a pub crawl and wound up absolutely houndin’ fer–”

“Soap, mate,” Gaz said with a chuckle, slapping his hand to the Scot's chest. “We're in respectable company ‘ere.” Tipping his head in Rory's direction, his boyish grin spread and his eyes softened. “Maybe tone it down a bit, yeah?”

“Oh please,” Rory snickered, tapping the ash off the end of her cigarette. “It's not like I haven't experienced Soap's many tales of pickup artistry before.”

“I'm no’ a bleedin’ pickup artist,” his head turned instantly to face her, ocean eyes glimmering with mirth. “It's all natural charm, lasses love me.”

Rolling her eyes, she took another drag of her cigarette. “This better not be the story about how you brought medals with you from home and told her you'd just been awarded them for bravery.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Ghost groaned around the cigarette that dangled from his lips marked by a large scar. His mask rolled up just under his nose, the material bunched together, exposing the blonde stubble of his chin and the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Soap's head spun from Ghost to Rory, surprised they didn't see the brilliance of his strategy. “Bonnie wee thing had a night with her own personal hero,” he said proudly, waggling his brows.

“Personal hero?” Gaz snarked. “Bloody hell, Soap.”

“Such a fuckboi,” Rory muttered, laughing as she shook her head. “You know you'd think you'd be using those smarts for something other than racking up numbers on a second bodycount.”

Soap leaned out past Gaz and gave her a cheeky grin. “You can't tell me that if you weren't a few years younger, an’ you didn't ‘ave the Cap'n about, that you wouldn't have fallen for it, Lt.”

She laughed and butted out her cigarette on the heel of her boot. “Not my type, Soap. But I appreciate the thought.”

He grimaced a little and shrugged. “Never been much fer toffs myself, anyhow.”

“Prat,” Rory shot back from over her shoulder, flipping him the bird as she turned to head inside.

Moving through the hanger, taking in the weathered surroundings, Rory noticed the stacked boxes and crates around them, loud music blaring from the stereo set up near the vehicles where some of the soldiers were acting as mechanics. It wasn’t the usual setting to ready oneself for war, it was hardly some elite military base or bunker. Real fucking cowboy shit, she thought. Glancing over at the far side of the sprawling bay where Alejandro and Rudy busily went through inventory, checking their stock of weapons and ammo, their rather dour expressions made her quickly assume that things didn’t look so promising, and with a heavy sigh, marched past them and headed to the room where John had been trying to connect with Shepherd since they had arrived.

Sliding the heavy barn-style doors open, the toned muscles of her arms strained beneath the glisten of sweat stained skin, and the once quiet workspace Price had secluded himself inside was disturbed by voices and song. Only giving a terse glance towards her as she entered the room, he maintained his focus on the laptop he stood hunched over, typing in code to try and break through to the General – wherever the hell he was.

“He’s gone dark, remember?” Arms folded across her chest, she leaned her shoulder against the door sitting ajar. “You think he sees it's you on call display and is just refusing to answer?” she asked, her tone sardonic.

“Rory…” he snarled, eyes fierce as he stared her down and the smirk on her face instantly retreated, busying herself with shutting the doors behind her.

Holding her hands up in surrender once the room had fallen into silence, she opted to bat her eyelashes a little, hoping to soften the prickly beast. “Sorry. Sorry. Didn’t mean to poke the bear. Wrong time, wrong place for being a smartass. Stress reaction. Forgive me.”

Intense eyes flicked back towards the screen glowing in the dim light of the room, the low whistle of the breeze blowing through the breaks in the wood filling the room with a haunting hum of breath over a glass bottle top. “Kate’s got an encryption running,” he muttered, still trying to get in contact, wanting to hear it all from the horse’s mouth. The rough pads of his fingers brushed against the wood, scuffing against the surface, as he shifted his shoulders in a wave from left to right. His movements were tense – sharp, cutting – as his frustration emanated from him like raging rapids.

Footsteps bounced off the walls and ceiling in the stark room furnished with only a long wooden table as she drew closer, the sound hollow as boots glided through the sand blown in across the floorboards in golden granules. “Gaz said you wanted to see me, sir?” Her brow lifted as she sat against the table, gripping the rough edge for support. Legs outstretched in front of her, ankles crossed, she tilted her head to meet his gaze from under the knotted lines of his furrowed brow tugging at the scar that split the dark hair.

He looked older, the stress settling into the crevices in his face, making the bags under his eyes more pronounced. His boonie hat sat crumpled beside his hand curled into a tight fist, his fingers slowly stretching out and loosening their grip as he sighed and closed the laptop.

“I did, yeah.” Rounding the table, he took a seat down beside her, the table creaking slightly under his weight. Hands gripping the shoulder straps of his vest, he tucked his chin to his chest and cleared his throat, keeping his eyes forward. “Been thinking ‘bout the trouble we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

She nodded her head, tipping it to the side. “Hmm, yeah,” she mused quietly. “But it's nothing we haven’t faced before, eh?”

“I’m not just talking the trouble with PMCs and terrorists, love.” He glanced sideways at her before returning his gaze to the doors as if he were expecting them to burst open at any moment.

“Something a little more personal, I suppose?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like tha’.”

She bit her lip, chewing it with just enough pressure to turn the pink flesh pale under the edge of her teeth. “Care to clarify?” Her eyes pulled away from the wall across from them and she forced their eyes to meet.

No more beating around the bush.

“Us, Ror,” he said, lowering his voice. The secret everyone they worked with seemed to know without ever being told, the two of them thick as thieves at all times. “Shepherd knows about us.”

“And you're worried that since he’s gone rogue, turned enemy, that he’ll do something to endanger that.”

“You’re goddamn right I am,” he huffed out, scoffing harshly at the situation they faced.

She clasped her hands in her lap, fidgeting with her fingers absent-mindedly. “Are you more worried about our careers, or –” she paused, glancing up at him and the way he glared out at nothing in particular, chewing on rage and the grit of his teeth. “The latter then,” the words muttered in a low whisper.

“He was willin’ to throw Soap and Ghost under the bus. Who says he doesn’t use us as a weapon against each other?”

“No one,” she said with a shrug. “But that's always been a threat over our heads, hasn’t it? An enemy finding out, exploiting a weakness, taking one of us hostage, using us as bait.” Her head wobbled back and forth as she listed their troubles. “It was always a possibility, my darling.”

He cracked his neck and sighed heavily, a low growl in his throat. “Don't like it one fuckin’ bit.”

“What, and you think I do? This is part of what I warned you about when you first brought up the idea of getting together.” She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder, the rough material of his tac vest rubbing harshly against her cheek.

His arms fell loosely to his sides and his hand found its way to hers, holding it with intertwined fingers. Their gloves, a barrier between the warmth of their skin meeting, were the physical manifestation of the divide of duty and their personal lives that they should have been keeping apart. The distance slim, but a clear separation. Something they had been letting slide the longer they worked together.

“The course of love never did run smooth,” she quoted. “Especially when we’re two soldiers who have gotten in deep with some of the more questionable forces at play in the world.” Her lips pursed in thought, and she sucked her teeth as she pulled her cheek away and turned her head to rest her chin on his shoulder instead, murmuring into the crook of his neck, “Might have been easier to leave me off your task force. But you just had to have me at your side, didn’t you?”

He huffed and gruffed, rubbing a hand through his hair, mussing up the thick, dark strands peppered with gray. “Told you I'd handle all the problems that came up. That we'd face ‘em together. Haven't changed my mind ‘bout tha’. Havin’ you with me is exactly how I wanted things.” Underlining the point he had given with a sharp turn of his head.

“And Captain knows best, eh?” She whispered, her warm breath fanning against his skin, watching as his pulse fluttered against the muscled column of his throat with her proximity. “Always gets what he wants.”

“You bet your arse,” he murmured, voice a low rumble. A smug, lopsided smirk appeared from under the bristles of his facial hair, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at her, lowering his head to rest his forehead against hers.

Cradling his jaw, feeling the rasp of his whiskers on her fingertips, she smiled. The earthy scent of cigar smoke and the hint of his briny sweat hit her olfactory senses, the scent of home, and it made her sigh softly. “We’ll get through this. If there’s one thing you needn’t worry about right now it's you and me.” She giggled quietly as she brushed her thumb over his plush lower lip, holding him captive with her doe-eyed stare. “Getting soft in your old age, Captain.”

“Oi, cheeky minx.” His eyes widened and he pulled back enough to meet her gaze head on, powder blues burning into her. “If anythin’ that's your bloody doin’,” he said, brows descending to knit together.

“Me?” Acting shocked at the insinuation, Rory placed her hand on her chest in an over-the-top display of her innocence. “Never.”

“Got me wrapped around your li’l finger, don’t you?” His mustache tickled her forehead as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to it. “Startin’ to think y’ like me like tha’. Might’ve been your plan all along, eh?” he crooned. Giving her hip a gentle pat, his eyes narrowed. “Off with ya. Get the rest of the lads in ‘ere. Close to gettin’ a hit on Shepherd.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” she said, gesturing with a playful two-finger salute from her brow as she made her way back to the doors, playing messenger.

Rubbing at her furrowed brow, pinching the bridge of her nose, exasperation settling in, Rory watched as two grown men postured in front of their computer cameras like territorial dogs with only a flimsy garden fence between them. Barking at one another for supremacy through knots in the wood. One big bloody pissing contest – alpha male bullshit she had never had the time for.

She kept her eyes trained on Price, his gloved hand slamming down on the lid of the laptop, shutting off all communication with Shepherd. The tension in the room thick enough to be chopped through with the force of an axe after Ghost and Soap had stood sentry, witnesses to the confirmation that the General had burned them, set out to tie off loose ends by whatever means necessary.

With a quiet clearing of her throat, chewing on her bottom lip, she turned her head just barely to acknowledge the rest of the 141 and Alejandro. “Lads, can you give us the room for a mo’?”

“Ror–” Price held his hand out towards her in that condescending “calm down, I know better than you” motion that drove her up the fucking wall. The movement hardwired into every man in a position of power that left her wanting to bite his bloody fingers off.

Met by her sharp look, eyes that burned like flames licking at trees in a forest blaze, he stopped and nodded his head to direct his team out. “Go on.” Standing there, arms crossed over her chest, she waited to hear the heavy wooden door shut behind them, the hollow bang of timber like the starter’s gun going off, signaling that they were finally alone. With prudent steps, she moved closer to the table and pressed her fingertips to the wood grain beside the computer, tracing the grooves before leaning her weight against it. “What do you think you're doing, love?” she asked quietly, continuing to worry her lip. “Posturing in front of the camera like that? That's not how you handle a man like Shepherd.” Pausing to take a deep centering breath, her glance darted down to the laptop and then back up at him. “Are you sure that was even a threat worth making?”

Questioning his moves was a careful dance at a time like this. It was obvious to anyone that in the heat of the moment, John had lost his cool, let his protective instincts take over and all the stress he wore on his shoulders suddenly burst forth in a swell of anger that threatened to take everything he had built along with it. There had been several occasions when she had observed him losing sight of himself, barking back at those who thought they knew better, those with a higher rank who had made a terrible call and he was all too ready to go to bat for whoever their decision might have harmed. Good intentions muddied by the more enigmatic thoughts that whirred through his head, the dangerous parts that clouded his judgement at times. But, well-schooled in the art of proper foot placement when it came to Price and avoiding the hidden tripwires, Rory maneuvered her way through the conversation, gently edging forward.

“Shepherd’s been getting his hands dirty –” he growled.

“Like we haven’t? John, he’s a four star general in the US army.” Her face contorted into a pained grimace at her own earlier belief Shepherd might have been better than this. Her nose scrunching, lip curled, she continued, “Are we really so surprised? You don’t get there by being an especially good person. It's not like it’s above him to do that sort of thing. In fact, it’s exactly what he’s capable of – we just didn’t want to see it.”

Her hand posted itself on her hip and, like a seasoned animal whisperer, she stared him straight in the eye without an ounce of intimidation. “With a man like Shepherd, you should’ve played your cards very close to your chest. Instead, you've just told him you're coming for him. You've given him a reason to scatter like a cockroach in the light – not to mention putting a target on your back.” Pressing her index finger to his chest, she pushed firmly enough to make her point. “You are one man and he is a very big fish. He may have gone into hiding, but that doesn’t mean he’s down and out.” Her tongue dragged across her lips, forcing time to release the tension building between them. “You are punching above your weight class, my darling.”

“I can’t just sit idly by,” he rasped, blue eyes flaring savagely while the rest of him remained alarmingly still.

“I’m not saying that. Take care of Graves. But with Shepherd, you should have played along. Been the obedient, good little toy soldier and then – and only then – when he’s not expecting it, when the moment’s right and his back is to the wall, then you bugger him in the arse.”

John chuckled darkly, a cold curl to his sly smile that made his dimple almost menacing. “You're a vicious little thing, aren't you, my girl?” His forehead wrinkled as the intense set of his stare focused on her.

“I’m Special Forces, what did you expect?” Her chin lifted haughtily and she flicked her finger against the underside of his chin, his stubble scraping against her digit. “Not to mention I've had you to learn from for the last five years. It’s not exactly like your tactics are all sweetness and light, are they?”

He grunted. “Too bloody smart for your own good.”

“That I am.” Her cheeky smirk slowly curled at her lips and she continued, “All I’m saying is, be logical about this. I get that he went for the heart, and that’s a shitty move to make…” She moved closer still, her backside resting against the edge of the table, hands gripping around the shoulder straps of his vest. “But you, love, are the exact type of person who plans everything in advance. Always seven steps ahead, knowing every piece on the board, controlling the flow of movement. Don’t let Shepherd get in your head and play you for a fool. You’ll be helping no one like that.” “Beauty, brains, not to mention a fuckin’ pain in my arse,” he growled, pressing his hands on either side of her on the table, the tip of his nose pressing to hers. “You’re the whole bloody package aren’t you, darlin’.”

“That and more, love,” she said smugly. “That and more.”

Her eyes flickered to the door, noticing the shadow of feet moving underneath it, the steady pacing of boots ready for action stretching across the floor in the late morning sun. A pack of beasts pacing in their cages, waiting for their moment to attack. “Now, shall we go deal with a Shadow?”

He gave her a peck on the forehead, his hand cupping the back of her neck, squeezing possessively, protectively. “Come on.”

Following in step, Rory stood behind Price as he pushed the doors open, his team and Alejandro turning to face him as if they hadn’t all been straining to listen in to the conversation held between the couple.

“Lead the way, Colonel,” he said, before purposeful strides had him and the 141 falling into formation behind Vargas as he led them to a table set up in the middle of the hangar. The stereo that had been blasting music was rapidly turned off, the base falling into a twitchy silence as everyone circled around.

“Alright, listen – We are taking back your HQ. We are getting our prisoner. And we are killing Commander Graves.”

Rodolfo Parra, Vargas’ second-in-command, stood opposite the Captain, his face a severe mask. “When?”

“Now,” Ghost replied.

“This is a fight against our own… We are not 141 and Los Vaqueros on this,” Price said, punctuating each syllable with a press of his fingers. “We’re a team…”

Ghost pulled out a bag and dumped it out onto the tabletop. Black balaclavas printed with skull designs spilled out across the wood and Rory’s brow lifted at the sight. Biting her tongue as a part of her desperately begged the question where and how did he come across all the masks, and why was he just carrying it with him for this special occasion? She thought better of it then to ask. Sometimes, when it came to Ghost, it was easier just to accept that he enjoyed being off putting, like it was a bit, though the furrow of her brow made her confusion visible for all to see.

“...Ghost team.”

Pulling off his mask, the real face of Lieutenant Simon Riley was suddenly visible for all to see. A surprise to everyone in the room…

Nearly everyone.

It had been some time since she had seen Lt. Riley without his mask, his accumulation of scars having increased since the previous occasion. It was common for him to sport his balaclava or even the N95 on and off duty, a way to hide his identity, or – as she had always suspected – taking notice away from the scars that marred his features. The bisected brow, the hairline split down both of his lips, the deep lacerations on his cheek, chin, and forehead. His nose had been broken several times over and set crooked, while multiple of his teeth were missing like the hockey players back in Canada. He looked every bit the role of the tank that he had morphed himself into. The harsh lines of pale, puckered flesh carved into his face like fractures in stone stood out against the eyeblack streaked down his cheeks and smeared around his eyes so brown they were nearly onyx.

April 24, 2018 02:10 - Fulham, London, UK

She wakes to the twilight blue darkness of her room, the moonlight swallowed up in the storm clouds that cluster together over the city skyline. Rain patters outside on the balcony, hard and heavy, as thick drops of it drown the flowers she had potted a few days ago. A fog clings low to the city of London, like something out of a gothic novel, the first omen of some looming presence creeping closer.

The sound of voices carries from downstairs – muffled, gruff, the timbre low. She recognizes only one, and as the haze of sleep recedes she realizes the bed beside her is empty, the sheets are cold, wrinkled with movement. John had been there beside her when her eyes had closed, his chest pressed to her back, the familiar weight of him behind her keeping the chill of night away. Now, she could feel it bite into the bare skin of her shoulders where the covers had slipped down her chest, the thin straps of her camisole doing little to fight back against the cold. Brow gently furrowing, delicate lines slice between the two arches, she pushes the covers aside and the rush of cool air from the open window washes over her, settling a frigidity over her skin and in her bones.

A shiver courses down her spine, goosebumps traveling in its wake, spreading over her skin as she grabs her robe hanging on the chair in the corner, slipping it on and cinching the belt tight around her. Bare feet pad quietly over the hardwood floors as she proceeds to climb down the stairs, each step carefully placed to outmaneuver the spots that creak. Traversing her home with a cat-like quality, silent in enemy territory and moving one step closer to possible danger. Sure-footed. Confident that she will go unheard, unseen. Running recon in her own home.

Pausing in the doorway of the living room, the French doors left ajar, she feels like a kid on Christmas trying to spy on Santa, peering inside as if she doesn't actually own the townhouse she's creeping through. Taking a moment to regard Price sitting on the couch – a whiskey in hand, his other arm stretched out over the back – entirely relaxed, she notices the strange man in the armchair placed kitty corner away.

He's somehow wider and taller than Price, an absolute juggernaut of a man with close cropped blonde hair, a stubbly beard, and countless cicatrix crisscrossing his features. One of the hand towels from the downstairs bathroom is draped around his neck, his clothes damp and clinging to him, looking like a drowned rat. The kind that find their way up from the sewers – feral, mean…

She knows better than to judge a book by its cover, but she can’t help the way her brows lift with concern at his appearance, gripping the material of her robe in her fist, holding it shut as if to preserve herself. She’s not sure why that’s her natural inclination, the sudden urge to hide crawling up her nerves like someone’s just passed over her grave.

He glances up first and catches her eye, noticing the silent figure she maintains in the corner, seemingly unbothered by the way she watches him. He doesn't move, doesn't smile, doesn't greet her. He just sits there. Solid, stoic, unmoving. A monolith. An ancient piece of architecture that has begun to crumble under the passage of time, but still holds resolute.

Price follows the eyeline of the stranger in their midst and glances over his shoulder at her, the hard edges of his steely gaze softening at the sight of her. “Rory, love, come ‘ere,” he says with a little tip of his head, inviting her into her own living room as if he owns the place.

“Who's this?” she asks quietly, voice thick with sleep, as she points her chin in the direction of the stranger. Unable to relax until given the all clear about the guard dog who has found himself a place to curl up on her furniture.

She eyes him warily, assessing the multitude of injuries to his face that have left deep ravines in the flesh, and the peekaboo of tattoos she can spot on his arm where the sleeve of his hoodie has rolled up. He's seen some shit, there's no doubt about it – and if he's friends with Price, well… there’s no telling just how bad it might have been.

He makes eye contact, holds it steady, taking her in the same way she does towards him. Sizing her up. Intimidation tactics. It wafts off of him. A man who’s used to using his bulk and build to give people pause. He's made himself into a weapon, likely sees himself as little more.

John can see the way she's studying the other man, ever perceptive in the way she tries to read everyone she meets – a trait that acts as a hindrance and a help. He drags her attention away with a hard stare before taking her hand in his and pulling her into his lap, letting her take a seat on his thigh. He holds her close, the smell of cigar smoke and whiskey strong on his breath as if he'd only just partaken of them. He's been up for a while already, and it's the middle of the night. “This ‘ere's Simon Riley. An old friend, and a Lieutenant in the SAS.”

A cold smirk pulls at the giant's thin lips. “And this must be the bird you're willin’ t’ risk your entire career for. Blimey Price, haven't done ‘alf bad f’ y'self, ‘ave you?”

“He knows?” Rory asks incredulously, her brow lifted as she turns to look at Price like he's on trial.

John nods. It's curt, lacking in remorse. He won't be apologizing.

She rolls her eyes and sighs, crossing her arms over her chest, still remaining rigid as if she’s in some sort of hostage situation.

“Couldn't ‘elp it. Price ‘ere has a standin’ invitation with me. Had to explain why he wasn't at ‘is flat and why I had to come all the way out to London to see ‘im.” Dark eyes flicker over her, the lamp light glowing behind his head setting his features in shadow. “Saw the snaps ‘e keeps o’ you there… Never thought ‘e'd end up with some posh bird, but ‘e seems rather smitten with ya, I'll give you tha’.”

“Standing invitation?” She's curious, having never really met any of John's mates before — besides Nikolai, of course. It's been five months, she knew they existed, but being in a relationship with a superior officer meant she wasn't afforded some of the usual privileges that came with being a partner.

“Simon and I go way back. Trust one another. We're close. Sometimes he needs an ear.”

“Or a fist –” Simon says with a rattling laugh before gulping down what liquid remained in his glass.

“Right,” she murmurs, feeling a sudden dryness in the back of her throat. Reaching down she grabs the glass in Price’s hand and brings it to her lips to take a sip, the scotch warming her belly during the bitter dead of night. “Well, so glad you feel comfortable enough to take it upon yourself to share my good liquor with the guest, John. This is the Glenfiddich, isn’t it?” A little Dutch courage later and a smirk curls her lips as she starts to loosen up. “Make yourself right at home, why don't you,” the sarcasm rolling off her tongue.

John chuckles and wraps his arm tighter around her waist, pulling her against him until her body is nestled right against his. “We're practically living together as is. Aren't we, darlin’?”

The skeptical scoff sputters forth and she shakes her head at his insistence. “You keep some toiletries and a few changes of clothes here, love. We haven't yet talked about you moving in.”

“Things sound serious,” Simon says with the finality of the glass tumbler thudding on the coffee table in front of him.

“They are,” John states adamantly, and the fact he does so makes her heart flutter. He'd been serious in that tent about not wanting this to be some fling, this was the real deal.

“Must be one ‘ell of a soldier to keep you comin’ back.”

Price glances up at Rory, unfathomable eyes lingering on hers, fingers tucking her hair behind her ear, reverent in the way he touches her. “She is.” His voice is a soft purr like a contented cat. “Bloody incredible.” His gaze strays over to the other man in the room, pride puffing up his barrel chest as he reminds himself of her many competencies. The look of a man who might as well have been holding the FA cup. “Should see her with a scope.”

Simon sits forward in his seat, his hollow, haunted stare locking with Rory’s. “Is that a challenge?”

“Sniper, I assume?” Her interest is momentarily piqued as she is once more pulled into the conversation.

“Among other things.” His half grin reveals several missing teeth, the rest crooked and yellowed with nicotine.

She snickers quietly to herself, unsurprised by the use of subtlety and half-truths that were all too common amongst soldiers in the Special Forces. Most were never exactly open about anything, it was all long corridors with walls at the end of them, and judging by Lt. Riley’s appearance, she could only imagine it would take more than a bloody sledgehammer to get through his.

“So SAS, a friend of John’s, a fellow sniper…” Rory turns and looks at Price. “How come you never told me about him? Might have been easier than having him just randomly appear in my house in the middle of the night like he’s fucking Batman.”

“That would be on me,” Simon rasped.

“Would it now?” Her head tips to the side and she takes the whiskey glass from John once more, sloshing the drink around in concentric circles.

“Not a big fan o’ people knowin’ ‘bout me.”

“Usually wears a mask,” John adds, as if that’s perfectly normal.

“A mask?” She pauses and her jaw clenches as she debates the reason. “You know what, I’m not even going to ask.”

“Good. Wouldn’t ‘ave told you anyhow.”

She laughs and it breaks the barriers of antagonism instantly. “Fair enough.” Taking another sip, she glances between the two men. “Right, well, I only hope you’re here tonight for the ear and not the fist. I’d rather my house wasn’t used as a sparring ring, just had it renovated.” She hands the glass back to John and pats his chest, leaning over to kiss the top of his head. “I’m getting some sleep. Was good meeting you Simon.”

He nods, pulling the towel off his neck. “‘Pologies ‘bout the towel.”

“Couldn’t be tossed.” Hand waving the soaked towel away, it was no skin off her nose. “Hardly ever have company over. And John knows where the washing is.” She stands up and heads back to the french doors, fingers curling around the wood and glass as she lingers in the doorway. “Just keep it down, yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am,” John says with a smirk, winking at her.

“Piss off, you pillock.” With a laugh she heads upstairs once more, leaving them to their clandestine meeting.

“Good to see you again, Simon.”

Price’s little nod and the grin on his face were like that of a proud father as the others gazed on with furrowed brows, Soap’s eyes widening slightly at the visage of the man who had taught him how to stay alive with whatever he could find on hand, every mark a testament to the Lieutenant’s experience.

Pulling the boonie hat from his head, placing the weather-worn and sweat stained accessory down on the table in front of Rory, he continued, “If you’re in, take a mask… if you’re not… Don’t.”

Hands reached into the center, all grabbing a mask without a second thought, Los Vaqueros and 141 alike. Graves had just made some very powerful enemies. To be a traitor wasn’t something taken lightly.

Leaning forward, Rory stretched her hand out and was met by Price’s gloved fist already holding one of the balaclavas for her. Taking it from his grasp with a little smirk and a quiet “Ta”, she stretched out the material of the hood and gave it a once over. It felt a bit like being a kid again, having her parents pick out her Halloween costume for her.

Raking her fingers through her hair, she brushed the strands out of her face and pulled the mask down. The material sitting snugly against her features, only her hazel doe eyes peering out, meeting the piercing blue ones of John.

“We were late getting to celebrate Halloween this year, suppose I get to do so now,” she mumbled, the mask muffling her voice. Her brow cocked, hidden beneath, but the crinkle around her eyes gave away her cheeky grin. “Don’t think I would have chosen a skeleton myself. Not really on brand for me, is it?”

Leaning towards her, he huffed out a dry chuckle. “Suits you, my girl.”

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare 2 #captain john price #john price #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #oc: rory sinclair #skelly writes #fic: shadow dance #chapter 9

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