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hyperfixiation-station · 2 days

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The Filler Fics Pt.1

Beach Day Pt.1- Travel

Part 2

TW: Canon divergence, military inaccuracies, mentions of injuries/hospitals Inspired by @shyravenns art Summary: This is the first of many sitcom-style filler fics. Yk, the ones where they go to the beach, or go to the store, etc, etc. I am open to suggestions, as I don't really watch sitcoms, so please comment or request or DM me ideas!! This one is, of course, a beach-day fic that I have spilt into 2 parts. this is the getting there portions, pt.2 will be the beach :) WC:1080

It had been a long few months. The threat of global annihilation, the hunt for Makarov, Soap getting shot, it was just a lot, and they all needed a break.

Price had watched Gaz and Ghost spend night after sleepless night at Soap’s bedside, refusing to do anything until the Scotsman woke up. And he had been right there with them, although Ghost wouldn’t talk to him, the Lt. still pissed that Price’s actions, or rather inactions, may have gotten Soap killed. Price couldn't blame him. It’s not like he hadn’t been fixated on that one moment, mentally berating himself for stopping Soap from killing Makarov in the first place. He would have gotten in a shit-load of trouble for it, but anything would have been better than…well, he didn’t even want to think it.

The team couldn’t take another loss so soon after Roach’s death. Price knew that. Knew that if Soap didn’t make it his team would fall apart. And it would be his fault.

Thankfully, Soap was alright. He’d woken up a little disoriented, with no recollection of the week leading up to his…head wound. Other than some faint ringing in his ear and occasionally bouts of dizziness, he was alright, much to the relief of his squad members. However tensions were still running high. Just because the Scotsman was awake and talking didn’t mean the very real fear that his friends had felt over the past few weeks had vanished.

There were nights Price found himself studying Soap, watching the rise and fall of his chest proving he was alive. He’d seen Ghost reach up from his bunk and grab the Scot’s wrist, checking for a pulse after waking from what Price assumed was a nightmare. Things got a little better once Soap didn’t have to wear gauze over the wound anymore, but the scar was still an ugly reminder of what had almost happened.

Soap was constantly mother-henned now, not allowed to do training, having meals brought to him, never going anywhere by himself. It was starting to piss him off, and Price could see it. Tensions were running high, and it was only a matter of time before someone snapped.

“Give the boys some time off, time away from the battlefield. Time to recuperate and settle back in. They’ll be okay.” Laswell told him at their bi-weekly meeting they hadn’t had in 3 months. Price booked 4 flights and a week-long stay at a beach-house off the Coast of California that same night.

However, the flight left in 5 hours and he still hadn’t told his men. He moves through the base, heading towards the rec room that he knew they hang out at, hoping they are all in one spot.

Aaaaand bingo!

Ghost is sprawled out on the couch, Soap sitting on the floor, leaning against his thigh, with Gaz in the armchair opposite, watching some stupid show on the little TV they have. Price can’t help but stare at the long, inch wide streak where Soap’s hair hadn’t quite grown back, a grim reminder of how close he came to losing one of his men. His eyes are drawn from Soap's skull by Gaz’s laughter, the man's head tilted back, shoulders shaking at something that was said on the T.V.

The show cuts to commercial, and Price figures it’s as good a time as any to cut in.

“Alright boys, pack your bags. We’re going stateside.” All three of them look up at Price in varying degrees of confusion, “Laswell decided after Soap's near-death experience we all needed a little R&R, so we’re heading to the beach.”

“Ah’ll finally get tae see that ‘impeccable bronze’, eh Lt?” Soap nudges Ghost, a grin splitting his face.

“We’ll see Johnny.”

“The beach, captain?”

“Yes Gaz, the beach. You got complaints, go talk to Laswell.”

“Hey, no complaints here sir! Just makin’ sure.”

“Good. Because we leave in an hour so you don’t have time to complain anyway.”

“An hour??”

“No time f’r y’r beauty regime, Gaz.”

“Ah shaddup, just cause you’re jel-”

“Boys! Get to going!”

“Aye sir!” Price shakes his head as he watches them file out, Gaz and Ghost subconsciously sandwiching Soap in between them. The Scot shoves Gaz, his shoulders shaking as the shorter man lets out an angry squawk. Things have been tense, sure, but he can’t help his smile as his boys walk off, alive and well.

Ghost hates flying. Well, sort of. Military transport ain’t bad in his opinion, but when he has to fly commercial? With civilians? And screaming babies? He hates it. Hates it hates it hates it.

He's dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, a black surgical mask adorning his face. HE may have gotten comfortable with his team seeing his face, but the rest of the pubic had not lived through numerous near death experiences alongside him, and thus did not get that honor. Covid had at least helped with the stares, nowadays no one really batted an eyes at him, which did, surprisingly, ease his discomfort.

He shifts in line, sandwiched between Gaz and Soap as they wait to board. Soap is turned slightly, placing the scar on the side of his head directly in Ghost's line of sight. Gods he wishes he could look anywhere else. But its to no avail. No matter how many time Johnny had reassured him he was 'okay', Ghost couldn't get the image of his teammate, his brother-in-arms, his friend unconscious in his own blood, out of his head. He just couldn't.

Yeah, sure, he should have told the court-mandated therapist about that, but the she wouldn't have signed off on him going back to service and then where would he be? That right, no-

"Ghost!" He's snapped out of his reverie by Price, who is giving him the look. Whatever. Price should know by now that he wasn't gonna spill his guts to anyone, much less someone with the power to kick him off the team.

He hands his ticket to the attendant, mumbling a 'thank yo' before following along after Johnny, hands shoved in his pockets. Johnny takes the window seat, so he takes the aisle, condemning Gaz to the middle. Besides, he was the only one that would fit there anyways.

The plane takes off and, as if on cue, a baby starts screaming in the front. Ghost sighs and slouches in his seat. This was going to be a looooong flight.

Let me know what you think:))

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questforgalas · 5 months

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Tags/Warnings: none

Masterlist

WC: 2.2K

Flower symbolism: Ghost's bouquet: Orange lily (hatred), thyme (courage), dark crimson rose (mourning) Soap's Bouquet: Heliotrope (devotion), marjoram (joy), sunflower (adoration)

This fic is rated Mature

For those who prefer Ao3

Back in a town referred to as “the town ya pass just before ya exit to Manchester”, it was common amongst the townsfolk to spot a scrawny lad with a mop of blonde hair running down the lane, sprinting on legs that could snap in half at the crack of a twig, willing them to carry him as far as they could. Run, run, run past old Ms. Withers sweeping her step, calling after the lad to slow down. Past Mr. Hiddles putting fresh produce in his shop’s baskets. Past the children playing on the playground, trying to slay a dragon barricaded at the top of the slide. The dragon rising to make its last stand, roaring down at the tiny soldiers clambering up to meet it. The lad scoffed, not missing a step. A real dragon doesn’t roar, he thought. A real dragon yells until it's blue in the face, spit flying from its mouth.

Further he’d run, past the crumbling town wall from a time long remembered in a history book never opened, into the fields buffering the tiny town from smog-covered Manchester in the distance. A sturdy oak stood tall atop a lone hill, blanketing it in shadow no matter where the sun lay, and there, nestled in the gnarly roots, the boy’s legs would collapse. With his back to the place he was told to call home, he’d gaze at the horizon until well past when the sun said goodnight and dream of a little boy slaying a dragon.

17 years ago, Simon traded his dragon for terrorist cells.

Right now, he’d rather face either instead of the mohawk looking up at him.

That’s right. A goddam mohawk.

The ramp of the cargo plane touched down in Lithuania at exactly 2200, revealing a small base and tarmac that wasn’t much to look at - covert and all that - which made it easy to spot the idling armored Jeep and the lone soldier leaning against it.

While Simon marched across the tarmac, he noticed two things.

First, the soldier stood a whole head shorter than him, even as they straightened themselves to full height standing at attention.

Second, a mohawk sat atop their head like some punk teenager trying to give their parents a migraine.

Strike #1, non-regulation haircut.

“Relax,” Simon commanded when he stood in front of the soldier and offered his hand. “Lieutenant Riley. Call sign ‘Ghost’.”

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” the man answered, taking Simon’s hand with an impressive grip. “But ye can call me ‘Soap’.”

“Soap, huh? Must be a story there.”

“Aye, but I usually save tha’ for the second mission, sir,” Soap winked. “Besides,” he continued, “I’m sure it’s nothin’ compared tae yers.”

“Sorry, Sergeant.” Simon kept his tone dry. “That’s a tenth mission story.”

“Guess we’ll just have tae make sure we get there, huh, sir?”

The lieutenant offered a noncommittal hum and abruptly made his way to the driver's side door, aware of the gauche end to their conversation, but Simon couldn’t find it in him to care.

He couldn’t care.

“Get in, Sergeant,” he instructed. “Got a long drive ahead of us. We’ll brief on the way.”

“Aye.” Soap remained planted for another moment then shook out of his stupor. “Aye. Aye, sir.”

They situated themselves in the car and were out of the base before the lock on Soap’s belt clicked. Country roads threaded through flat farmland, the last crops hanging onto the temperate summer before the Baltic frosts settled in, blurring the lines between Autumn and Winter. The drive out to the eastern highlands takes near 2 hours, but the late hour ensured the traffic would be light, and Simon’s lead foot ensured time shed off of that estimate.

“Give me that brief,” the lieutenant prompted when they turned onto a small highway.

“Ghorbrani. Commander of the Quds. Been not so quiet about his support of the Russians,” Soap rattled off. “Been even less quiet about his dislike fer Western ideologies.” He paused, continuing when Simon gave him a nod. “Intel picked up some chatter about meetings along the Baltic-Russian borders. Might be our ticket to linking Ghorbrani with Russian arms dealings.” Soap flashed a smirk. “How’m I doin’, sir?”

Cheeky bastard Simon thought. “Congratulations, Sergeant. Ya’ve proven ya can read,” he said instead.

“Mission is tae stakeout a warehouse located on the Latvian border and rumored to be where Quds are storing arms. Gather intel and make a positive ID if possible,” Soap flashed a smile and a wink. “Oh, and how could I forget the most important part. Bond with ma new favorite lieutenant.”

That earned an eye roll. “Don’t remember that part in the mission brief.”

Farmlands flashed by, the full moon casting the sleepy countryside in a silver shimmer, and the winding highway eventually smoothed out to a straight strip disappearing into the small, rolling hills far, far in the distance. Soap shifted in his seat, leaning his shoulder blade into the gap between the car door and the seatback, angling his torso and knees towards the driver. Simon prayed to whatever force was out there that he wasn’t about to …

“So, Lieutenant, where are ye from?”

Strike #2, nosy. “That’s classified,” Simon answered.

“Ok,” Soap drew out. “How old are ye?”

“Classified.”

“How long ye been in the military?”

“Classified.”

“Something easy. Favorite color?”

“Classfied.”

“Oi! Is yer whole heid classified?”

Simon kept his eyes deadpan as he met the sergeant’s gaze. “That’s classified.”

Soap thumped his head against the headrest, groaning. “Not gonna make this easy, are ye?”

“Not sure what you’re on about, Sergeant.”

“About tae spend a week holed up in a safehouse together,” Soap said as if that explained everything.

“And?”

“Might sleep easier knowin’ ma superior officer is actually human.”

“Hmm,” Simon hummed. “Guess you'll just have to wait and find out.”

“Fine, have it yer way.” Soap slumped further. “Wake me when we get there. Or do ye want tae test ma literacy some more?”

A right cheeky little shite. “Get some rest, Soap.”

Giving a casual salute, Soap burrowed as far as he could, crossing his arms against his chest, settling his head against the car door and his shoulder, and in near seconds, soft snores drifted over to Simon’s ears.

And if Simon noticed how the smile hid under his balaclava since Soap’s wink on the tarmac didn’t budge, well…

That was classified.

Located approximately 3 kliks from the Lithuanian-Latvian border, nestled in the sparse forests dusting the hills characteristic of the Lithuanian eastern highlands, sat an abandoned hunting shack sporting a “For Sale” sign that hasn’t moved in 20 years. The front boasted a porch that offered high splinter rates and stairs that Simon was fairly sure they should never step in the middle of, and the inside of the house only seemed intact more than likely thanks to the US and British forces needing their operatives to not get injured on the job via their lodgings instead of the enemy, but it offered a decent living room, a working kitchen, and a comfortable, albeit dusty-looking, queen-sized bed.

Simon’s favorite feature, though, was the direct line of sight to the warehouse over the hills. No laying in grass for hours. No ants crawling all over him. No peeing in a bottle and handling waste. A roof over his head and working plumbing.

Pure paradise this safe house.

“Mornin’, Lieutenant,” Soap muttered through a yawn, stretching his arms above his head, dusting of dark hair along his waistband peeping out from beneath the hem.

“Mornin’,” the lieutenant muttered back from the slab of wood called a kitchen table, eyes trained on the laptop in front of him.

“Coffee?” Soap asked.

“Kettle on.”

“Tha’s not coffee.”

“Make yarself a cuppa.”

“Tha’s still not coffee.”

“Better for ya.”

“Says who?”

“The experts.”

“Och, I’ll be talkin’ to these experts directly then.” The sergeant took to rummaging through the cupboards, digging high and low until a “whoop!” bounced off the creaking wood and he waved his prize in hand like he’d just found the buried treasure. A triumphant smile flashed in Simon’s direction before the sergeant went about creating his liquid gold. “Probably know tha answer tae this already, but what’ve we got tae eat?”

“Been awhile since anyone else’s been here from the looks of it. Bare to the bones,” Simon supplied. “Canned beans and jam in the cupboard next to the sink.”

“Canned beans and jam. Breakfast of champions. Heard Rinaldo eats it e’ry mornin’.” Soap rambled while he peered into the cupboard.

The lieutenant huffed. “Whoever’s not on first watch will pop into the town for supplies.”

“How far’s that?”

“‘Bout 10 kliks.”

“Not bad,” Soap mused around a spoonful of jam.

“The jam or the distance?”

“Both.”

That earned a chuckle from behind the balaclava.

“Aha, so there are human reactions behind there.”

That earned a blank glare.

“I’m assuming the whole,” The spoon acted as a pointer towards Simon and made a circle in the direction of the lieutenant’s face, “is classified as well?”

“Levels ya can’t even imagine,” Simon muttered.

“Alright, fine. Lieutenant Riley is off limits.” Soap plopped down in the chair across the table, coffee and jam now in hand. “What’dya want tae know about me?”

“Absolutely nothin’,” was the instant, and honest, answer.

“Don’t know if I should take offense or not.”

“Take it however ya want.”

A heavy, tense silence settled over the two of them. Simon pretending that what was on the laptop required his undivided attention, and Soap sipping on the precious caffeinated bean water. Predictably, one of them couldn’t stay quiet for long.

“Speaking freely, sir…”

“Not exactly how that wor…”

“I know what Captain Price is up to.”

Does he now? Simon lifted his gaze and decided to take pity on his lower back, unfurling himself with a groan as his spine popped back into place. Brown eyes met crystal blue over a lip of chipped porcelain. “Do ya now?”

“I know he’s been recruitin’ for that task force of yers, and I know no one's been tapped to do a mission with any of ye before.” Soap kept Simon’s gaze. “Given yer tenure, I’m assumin’ yer the final test, aye?”

Simon remained silent.

“And, given ye 141 types aren’t known for wastin’ time, I’m also assumin’ a certain lieutenant has a partner slot open.”

Well, shit. “Got all that from one flimsy brief, huh?”

“Not exactly,” the sergeant shrugged. “Did some pokin’ of ma own. Not tha’ hard to put two-and-two together.” A smirk peaked over the cup. “Besides, tha’ Sergeant Garrick is a talker after some pints.”

“Fuckin’ Kyle,” Simon groaned at the ceiling. “Alright, what’s your point?”

“Ma point is,” Soap gently placed the cup down, “I’m good, sir. Really fuckin’ good. Unless ye have a prejudice against Scots - though given the northern accent I doubt tha’s the case - there’s no reason for ye to go back tae the captain and say no, which means, ye and I will be spendin’ some more time together.”

“Cocky little shite, aren’t ya?”

Soap grinned. “Just honest, sir. I dinnae work as hard as I have tae not be the best. So, figurin’ we’ll be partners and all, might want tae get tae know each other.”

“Who says I want a partner?”

The sergeant tilted his head. “Don’t ‘ave much say in the matter, do ye?” Simon gave nothing, so Soap continued. “From the rumors I heard about what ye all do, havin’ a partner ain’t so bad. Why’re ye so against it?”

“That’s clas…”

“Oi!” The spoon jabbed at Simon. “If ye so much as think the word ‘classified’ one more time, I’m throwin’ the kettle out the windoo!”

“Ya wouldn’t dare.”

Blue eyes steeled. “Try me.”

And damn him if an annoying thrum didn’t appear in Simon’s pulse.

“Fine,” he said. “Where are ya from?”

“Glasgow,” the Scot answered, smile fully unleashed.

“Age?”

The smile faltered. “28.”

“Skills?”

“Demolitions and sniper, but ye already knew that, along with…” Brows crinkled. “From ma file…” Blue eyes snapped to Simon’s. “Noo jist haud on! That’s cheatin’!”

“And that wasn’t English.”

“Askin’ me questions ye already know from ma file doesnna count, sir.”

It was Simon’s turn to shrug. “Seems fair to me. Askin’ questions, aren't I?”

The Scot rolled his eyes. “Not fair when I’m the only one with a file worth readin’.”

“Been doin’ more diggin’, Sergeant?”

“Not much tae dig. Though I’m guessin’ the whole ‘deceased’ is…?”

“Classified.”

The thunk of Soap’s forehead on the table bounced off the creaking walls. Precious cup of coffee still grasped in his hands, a groan left his lips. “Yer fuckin’ impossible, aren’t ye?”

“Nah, Sergeant.” Simon’s smirk carried his tone. “I’m just really fuckin’ good.”

The Scot stared, stunned, until a rough laugh barked out of his mouth. “Holy shit,” he leaned back, wrapping an arm around his stomach. “Alright. Ye got me there, sir. I surrender this round,” Soap gave a mock bow.

“Ya ready to hear some intel, or still need my ID tag too?” Simon asked.

“Hmm, that’s a twelfth mission move, sir,” Soap muttered into his coffee. And Simon really needed his pulse to stop thrumming.

#edited with new design #tay writes #call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #soapghost #soap x ghost #ghost x soap #goap

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