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socially-awkward-skeleton · 3 months ago

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Chapter 17 - Dangerous

[Also Available on AO3]

Shadow Dance Masterlist

Summary: The final chapter. In a Chicago bar, after a job well done, the 141 take a moment to relax with drinks and darts, and Rory and Soap make amends

Warnings/Tags: Minors DNI, swearing, drinking, character with trauma, established relationship, author's stupid humor, and John Price being the manipulative bastard he is

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

Word count: 4.3 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.

A minor cliffhanger at the end of this fic only because it leads directly into the next one I'm writing. Rory will return in "The Proposal"

tagging: @taciturntraveller

November 4, 2022 23:03 - Chicago, USA

For a Friday night the bar they had stationed themselves at seemed relatively quiet, the tables filled but without any of the ruckus she had come to expect from the pubs back home. It wasn't packed shoulder to shoulder like a can of sardines, no coagulation of sweat, perfume, and smoke. There was space to move, to breathe. And when the door did open and another punter entered the building, a rush of chilly air blew in along with them, carrying the last few fallen leaves with it. The crisp whisper of the coming winter biting at any bared skin muted by the warmth of each drop of liquor consumed.

The news report on the screen above the bar where Rory sat at the counter was a dull hum, the words hardly registering while fingers brushed through the ring of condensation left behind on the wood, the grain slightly tacky with a night's worth of rounds having been served and spilled. Folding her arms and leaning forward, the weight of the upcoming mission sat heavy on her shoulders, crushing down along with the unease of knowing Shepherd was still out there, somewhere, underground. The hem of her shirt rode up as she made herself comfortable, revealing the smooth, pale skin of her lower back and the bruises that had bloomed into shades of marbled green and blue — fresh Stilton exposed, and pungent with Icy/Hot. Beside her, John remained rooted to his stool. The hint of old cigarette smoke clinging to their clothes melded in the medial space contained by shoulders. A respectable distance kept between them, but the looks they exchanged as Little Walter's "My Babe" played told a different story altogether.

"Home just in time for Guy Fox Day, eh?"

"Not sure I want to be celebratin' blowin' up government buildin's after this."

She hummed and lifted her empty glass for the bartender to see, a silent motion to order another round. "Fair point." Glancing sideways, her gaze roamed over the man in her life as he shifted with yet another twinge from the ache in his shoulder and leg. "How go the war wounds?"

Price took a sip of his whiskey, elbows firmly planted on the bar. His heavy, utilitarian windbreaker rustled as he shifted his shoulders. "With the whiskey on top, meds should hold out another few hours still."

Even though she had absolutely no right to judge, taking part in the exact same form of relief, she still lifted a condemning brow. "Not doing your liver any favors though. Are you, love?"

"Worried 'bout me, sweetheart?"

Spinning his glass on the coaster, the ice clinked against the sides with each rotation. The warm lighting of the pendants above, the same amber color as the liquor they were drinking, glinted in his eyes draped in shadow beneath dark, heavy brows and the shades of the lamps. John's gaze drifted towards her and held her own in a subtle challenge, keeping her trapped. An insect fossilized in sap to be inspected, studied, even the slightest reactions documented and retained for later use at his discretion.

With a roll of her eyes, she cleared her throat and reached back to tuck her shirt into the gaped waistband of her skinny jeans. "And should I not be?" Shooting him a sharp look, Rory angled her head just so to see him out of the corner of her eyes.

"Don't wanna be a source of your anxiety, darlin'.

"Too bloody late for that," she muttered, and with a quick forward thrust of her arms, she pushed back from the bar. "Five years… you're baked into my life now. Can't help but be a nervous wreck over you. I just do a very good job of not showing it most of the time." Turning in her seat, leaning back against the bar, elbows propping up her weight, she rested at a slight angle and surveyed the surroundings. "Must've caught me on a bad week this time around, that's all."

A pregnant pause manifested between them as she regarded the rest of the team in one of the back booths. Tucked away, hidden out of sight until useful — such was the life of a special forces soldier in an off-the-books task force. Heroes of the free world, and here they were in some dingy little bar without any of the fanfare. All their hard work kept a secret, filed away in some redacted report never to be uncovered. A thankless job through and through, but at least it came with a few perks knowing the right people.

Rory actively hoped to sway the topic of conversation as it began to edge towards something a little too personal. Something she didn't have the energy to convince herself, and everyone else, was just a joke, and took the comfortable route of relying on wearing the mantle of professionalism while out in the public eye instead. "So, Shepherd, Makarov…" She turned to look at him, his profile of rugged features tucked under his beanie aglow with neon. "Where are we off to now?"

John's shoulders shifted, realigning his spine and popping his lower back with a stretch as his mouth mashed up into a curled expression of frustration. "Shepherd'll have to wait," he exhaled with a grunt. "Far as Kate's concerned, Makarov's the priority — even if he is behind bars. Konni's the reason this whole thing started, they're still out there followin' the pied piper. Up to us to put a stop to it." "I know Makarov was a proper thorn in your side the last time…" she murmured, cinching up closer to him.

"Last time I didn't have you on my team though, did I?" He exchanged a look with her, a proud gleam in his eyes. "Least not yet, anyway."

"Ah, so you think I can turn the tide of war, eh?" Rory scoffed and shook her head, not having quite so much faith in herself as he did. "With my luck, I'm more of a Helen of Troy, but thank you for the vote of confidence, my darling."

"Think men would sail ships out f' you, huh? Didn't know y' were so bloody arrogant, love." His tone was nothing but teasing as he took the last sip of his drink and the glass landed back on the bar with a thud, his pointer finger lifting to order himself another as well.

"Must be you rubbing off on me."

Hazel depths flashed towards him from beneath a swoop of dark bang. Brows flicking upwards, a slow crawling smirk curled her mouth, a wry grin acting as the most fervent proof of the cunning wit behind the beguiling charms she was known for. Meeting him punch for punch, just as she always had. His equal in all the ways that made them such a formidable team.

"Right little piece o' work, aren't ya?" He returned her smug grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned on one elbow against the bar.

"Oh, I don't know about that," she said with a velvet purr. Reaching out, collecting the material of the placket of his jacket in her fingers, she dragged them down the length of it and curled around the waterproof weave in a tight hold. "I think you rather like it."

"An' if I do?" Moving towards her, invading her space, he pulled back and lowered his chin to his chest as he spoke in an all too intimate growl. Searing eyes, frosty like arctic ice, caught her dead in her tracks and held her captive as his hand wrapped around hers, swallowing her fist whole.

A flush warmed her from the back of her neck, right up her cheeks, and to the very tips of her ears, turning them all rosy. Her heart rate sped up like she was on a run and all the composed demeanor she usually wore so well quickly melted away.

"I hate how easy it is for you to do this to me still," she muttered with playfully narrowed eyes.

"Sure you do."

Scrunching up her nose, she let out a petulant little growl in response. Lifting to her toes, Rory pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, the bristles of his mustache tickling her upper lip. "Order me another for Soap while you're at it, yeah?" she mumbled against his heated flesh and the prickle of his facial hair. "Still need to try and make amends with him."

"Nothin' like a bit o' the hair o' the dog to do that f' you, eh?" John's eyes, once fierce and inscrutable, had now resurfaced as placid and calm with the half grin he gave her. The laugh lines on his face settling deeper, crinkling into the skin.

"First rule of interrogations: find a way to make the subject pliant."

As the bartender slid them two more whiskeys, John put in an order for a pint for Soap, and once the tap beer was served, she scooped it up along with her whiskey and took a deep breath. "Wish me luck, yeah?"

"Break a leg, sweetheart," he drawled.

Carefully making her way over to the booth where Soap, Gaz, and Ghost sat, Rory made sure not to spill a drop of either drink along the route that felt near endless as the clench in her gut knit tighter. Her boots thumped against the wood panels of the flooring, patches creaking as she drew nearer. Upon reaching the table, she placed the pint glass down in front of Soap and brushed a hand through her hair — anything to give her some sort of physical outlet for the nervous tension in her joints. Glancing over at Gaz and Ghost, a rueful half-smile that bordered on a grimace twisted her lips. "Sorry to interrupt lads, think I might have a mo' with Soap here? Promise it'll be just a tick."

Without argument the two soldiers got up and as Gaz passed her, he gave a gentle squeeze to her shoulder. A little show of support before she took their spot and slid into the booth across from Soap, the seat still warm beneath her. His smile dropped and the bright blue eyes that had glared daggers at her only a day ago put her on edge once more. The pendant lamp that hung above the table suddenly burned too brightly. The light blared, searing her retinas, singeing the sensitive skin around her tired eyes. Perhaps comparing this to an interrogation had been a mistake on her part. Taking a hearty swig of her whiskey, the burn of it traveling down her throat and warming her belly, she wet her lips and put on a brave face as she placed her drink on the table before her. Something to cling to, a small shield to protect her from the blow back of her own decisions.

Wrapping her hands around the glass, body heat speeding up the process of melting ice, the skin of condensation dampened her palms while she tapped anxious, disharmonious symphonies with her nails against it. "I know I'm not your favorite person after what happened in Las Almas and on the plane." She sighed heavily, searching for answers at the bottom of the whiskey and coming up empty. "Price would likely say I was making the wrong move here apologizing for a decision made as leader, that I should stand firm, but I'm also not a big fan of bad blood within the team."

"'S fine," Soap muttered, taking a sip of his pint and wiping away the remainders of the foamy head trapped in the stubble above his lip with the back of his hand.

"It's not," she stated firmly, putting her foot down. "I want you to know I respect that you disagree with my methods, Soap. I get it — I blindsided you, it was shady. So sue me for spending most of my career working with the intelligence community, I picked up a few of their nasty habits along the way." She adjusted herself in the seat, sitting a little straighter when supported by the padded, vinyl backrest. A little more confident, sure of herself as she settled in for a conversation that was both necessary and could turn nasty if handled incorrectly. "But that doesn't change the fact that we need to work together. We have to be able to trust one another, trust that we still have each other's sixes when push comes to shove. There might be things that I'm willing to do for this job that edge over a line that you're not at yet, and that's perfectly fair. Hell, I hope you don't wind up navigating missions the way I do. This job does enough to steal the humanity away from a person, the fact that you got as pissed off as you did about it shows you still have heart. And that's commendable, especially after what you went through surviving on your own out there."

Soap's thick gulp of a mouthful of beer was audible over the thoughts in her head — swallowing down the memories he was already learning to repress. She could recognize the sight of the birth of a coping method.

"It's not easy doing that. Surviving, alone. You should be proud." He rubbed a hand over the tattoo of the SAS insignia on his forearm, ruffling up the dusting of dark hair. "Ye said on the plane that you weren't a stranger to it… what'd ye mean?"

That was a question she never enjoyed answering. A nightmare she tried to put to bed whenever she could. One wrapped in locks and chains and heaved into the waiting abyss, hitting the blackened bottom never to be cracked open again. Until, of course, someone caught wind of it, trawling it up to breach the surface. A rotting carcass, whalefall dredged up from the deep, picked clean of its worth until it was all just hollow bone.

Rory rested her elbow on the table and brought her fingers to her forehead, the pads grazing gingerly over the scar at her hairline in an absentminded gesture. Dropping her other hand to her lap, hiding it below the table in case of any sudden tremors, she struggled to find a way to start. "Um, well… " Worrying her lip, she glanced over at Price still sat at the bar — his broad shoulders, able to carry the heaviest burdens, acting as her linchpin. "There was a mission. Moscow." Her stare went blank, falling to a patch of polished wood grain on the table that reflected the haloed lights of the bar back at her, and the pulsing flare of the neon hotel sign outside the safe room window radiated behind her irises. Stifled by memory, unable to meet Soap's face, her voice dropped to a hush. "Almost didn't make it. Fought tooth and nail. Literally."

Glancing up momentarily, she noticed the way his eyes creased, taking in her words — as limited as they were. His brows knit together as he raked his hand through his mohawk and down the buzzed sides at the back of his head.

"Fuck…"

She cleared her throat and took another sip of her whiskey, hiding the taste of copper that crept up on her tongue. "I'm just happy to see you still have that fight in you afterwards, not everyone does."

"Ghost kept me alive out there," he said with a quiet chuckle. "Just like 'e did against Hassan." "Don't let him make it too much of a habit, eh? Otherwise he'll never let you live it down." She smiled softly and carded her fingers through the underside of her hair, rubbing at her nape. "So, does this mean you and I can come to some sort of accord? Water under the bridge, and all that?"

"Aye. We're good, Lamb."

"Fucking fab," she said with a sigh of relief and a pleased grin, patting a tune on the tabletop with her hands. "I'm absolutely shit with conflict."

"Did a braw job of standin' up to me earlier," he said with a shrug, his smile making his bright eyes glimmer.

"A proper argument is one thing — verbal sparring is practically a hobby of mine. It's another when I'm trying to apologize."

"Suppose tha's why ye ended up with a bloke who never does."

Rory laughed, the tension leaving her altogether now as she was able to once more joke with the sergeant. "Could be, yeah."

Reaching out, Soap patted her upper arm. "You're not so bad for a bonnie wee toff."

"Appreciate it."

As the night progressed, the time nearing midnight and with Rory's inhibitions lowered, she prepared to make good on the bet with Ghost she had announced on the helo ride the night before. Sat crowded around one of the tables near the dart boards, shrouded in the shadow of the dimly lit, upper corner of the bar, Rory, Ghost, and Soap waited for Gaz and Price to return with their drinks before starting the showdown, allowing them a few precious moments of shooting the shit and stirring up trouble among one another.

It was no secret among the team that as the two lieutenants of the 141 — both of them prime examples of highly-skilled snipers, and two of Price's most trusted — invariably, there would be a competitive streak between Rory and Ghost. A fact that John, in his infinite manipulative wisdom, wasn't above using to get a job done, pitting them against one another and a timetable often to great success. And in this moment, without John to hold the reins, Soap took the role upon himself as he leaned back in his seat, boots crossed at the ankles on the table, arms tucked behind his head while teetering precariously on the back two legs of the chair. A wide, triumphant grin split his lips as he looked between his two superiors and then affixed his gaze on Rory. “Ye have seen LT throw a knife before, aye?”

“Yes, Soap," she agreed, rolling her eyes. No stranger to sharing the training mats or the range with Lt. Riley at this point in her time with the task force, she had witnessed the strength that came built-in with a man of his size. "Indeed I have. However, Ghost here is not the only dead-eye around." Crossing her arms over her chest, her chin lifted with a haughty tilt. "Our man Price can vouch for that. As can Gaz.”

“Put your minted arse where your mouth is then, Sinclair,” Ghost rasped, dark eyes blinking out at her from behind his balaclava.

Angling forward in her seat, the neon glamour of pink and blue points of light shimmered in her own as they narrowed, sparking with challenge. "Fine. Double or nothing."

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Ghost groaned, pulling out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. Rifling through the assortment of wrinkled bills, he slammed another tenner on the table. “'Ope you like losin' dosh, missus.”

“Got as much money as sense, me, “ she said with a smirk brimming with superiority.

The wooden stairs that led up to the platform where the dartboard and billiards table were creaked as Price and Gaz joined them, fresh drinks in hand.

“Ye want in on this, Cap'n?” Soap asked, tilting his head upwards to meet Price's piercing stare.

“On what?” Hobbling over with a slight limp, John stopped at the tableside and rested against the railing to take some weight off. A meaty paw gripping at the wooden banister, the pale skin of his scarred knuckles seemed to glow in the diffused light.

“A friendly wager between Lieutenants,” Rory replied.

“Darts,” Ghost added. “First t' five 'undred.”

The inscrutable gaze of the Captain drifted between his two top soldiers. His expression deadpan despite the million and one calculations likely going on behind the cold blue stare. “Put me down for ten quid on Riley.”

“Oi!" Her reaction near instant, Rory's hands flew to her hips and a scowl marred her face with Price's act of betrayal. "Bloody hell! Thanks for the support, love.” Rory complained, shooting daggers in his direction as her fingers tapped out minor scales on the dark, painted-on denim of her jeans.

His mustache curled at the corner, the barest shift of movement on his face the only giveaway that this was another of his bullshit tactics to get the best out of her. The less than gentle push to get her to prove him wrong. Using her own will to win against her, despite knowing she absolutely hated when he pulled stunts like that.

“I'm goin' in on Rory. Spent enough time with her to know bettin' on her's always a good thing." Gaz offered her a little nod as he fished out a ten pound note and placed it on the table with the other cash.

“Thank you, Gaz. At least someone believes in me.” Giving Price the side-eye, she took the glass from his hand and shot back a glug of his whiskey. “You're in the doghouse now too, by the way,” she muttered under her breath, placing the glass back in his hand.

Grabbing her elbow, Price tugged her closer, whispering in her ear. "Make me proud, sweetheart."

Looking up at him with fire in her eyes, Rory's lips pursed as if sucking on a lemon. Annoyance bubbled inside her, a scalding heat that she struggled to ignore. Pride. The undeniable, eager urge to show him up, to rub his fucking nose in it, gnawed away at her. And what was worse was he knew it too. Playing with her head, toying with what drove her. Knowing what buttons to press when it came to her psyche to get her to aim to earn his praise, to prove once more she had the skills that kept him on edge.

"I swear to God —" she started, ready to tear a strip into him, only to be cut off by his hand coming to rest on her shoulder, giving it a quick, heavy-handed pat. "Need to have a chat with Kate," he said, lowering his forehead near enough to press against hers. Lingering for only a moment before pulling back, John looked at his hand-picked crew of soldiers. "You lot earned the break. No rest for the wicked though, eh?"

Her eye twitched as he walked away, heading towards the booth Laswell was currently sat in. She certainly wasn't going to let herself lose against Ghost, but now there was a flicker of doubt attached to any victory she might claim because it would undoubtedly have to be shared with John.

“Right. Let's get this show on the road, yeah?” Ghost stepped up to the mark, his three darts in hand looking more like toothpicks compared to the size of his fist.

Focused on the board, his eyes narrowed to slits and with the same quick flick of the wrist he had learned to use with a tactical knife, he threw the first dart and landed on a bull's eye instantly, drawing a quiet hum and a golf clap from Rory while Soap grinned from ear to ear. Following up the ace in the hole, Ghost threw a triple ten and a triple four, equaling a total of ninety-two points.

Stepping up to the mark beside him, Rory assessed the damage with an approving nod. "Not too shabby, Si. But perhaps you'd like to see a real masterclass in darts, eh?"

Walking over to the board, she pulled each one from the cork and smiled as she swaggered towards the line on the floor a parallel distance from the board, the toes of her boots just kissing it. “See, the thing about darts isn't about hitting the bullseye every time,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder, making sure the class was paying attention. “Anyone with enough practice can hit the center of the board. It's all about the clustering. And if there's one thing I know how to handle — it's a cluster fuck,” she purred, adding a cheeky little wink for good measure.

With three rapid, successive lobs, she hit three triple twenties all clustered together in a tight grouping — 180 points in one fell swoop. “Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap blurted out, nearly tipping over his pint glass as he steadied himself after falling forward in his chair. A smirk pulled at her lips. “Anyone want to readjust their bets, or forever hold your peace?”

"Never mind a wolf, Sinclair. You're a fuckin' shark," Ghost grumbled as he moved to collect the darts from the board.

Her laugh carried across the bar, having to stifle it with a press of her glass to her lips and taking a swig of her drink. "All in good fun, eh, Si?"

His only response a low tsk of his tongue as he took his place at the mark once more.

Waiting for her turn, she found herself glancing backward and settling on Price and Laswell looking all too clandestine together, huddled in the booth, away from prying eyes and out of earshot. There was something in the rigidity of John's shoulders that caught her eyes, the way he held himself like for once he wasn't entirely sure he had the answers. She worried her lip, the sound of Soap's cheer in the background fading away to a figment. And then his eyes met hers, and she smiled at him. A small thing. One that tugged at her lips to put him at ease. But she couldn't ignore the little voice in the back of her head, the instinct that told her whatever he and Kate were discussing wasn't work related. Which left her with only one question:

Just what was he up to?

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