Friends Don't Look At Friends That Way

Part Nine.

No amount of preparation could ever have you ready for this moment. You and the team had gone over the plan extensively, with no detail being left out as to what would happen and what needed to be done. You know exactly the role you are meant to play every step of the way.

A traitor to your friends, to your job. A seductress seeking asylum from retaliation of a Goverment whose secrets you are ready to give away. You are to be seen as a defector, a disgrace to your profession, who learned sensitive information that swayed you to escape a tyranny you no longer wished to be chained to. That was the tightly spun lie you would lure your way into the cartel compound with, hoping to catch more than a few flies in your web as you infiltrate an otherwise impenetrable front.

They'd given you, quite possibly, the most beautiful dress you had ever laid your eyes on for the occasion. Price had mentioned the party being formal in passing, but it did not dawn on you exactly how formal he'd meant till you saw the dress. It is dark ruby, and strapless, with a flowing skirt that brushes the ground when you walk. The midsection is form-fitting to your curves, leaving little to the imagination but in a tasteful way. A slit carves up the middle to about your mid-thigh, exposing a decent amount of skin. To honestly sell the illusion, crystal accessories dawn your ears and throat with black velvet high heels on your feet. Your hair is swept up with a matching crystal beret, but softly curled tendrils are left down to frame your face.

You are the picture of perfection. That is precisely what you need to be to snag the attention of Carlos "El Águila" Guzman, the leader of a particular cartel sector that made special ops radar recently. Guzman has a taste for fine parties and delicate women, and you certainly look the part.

Though there isn't a morsel of you that is out of place externally, a storm of nerves is brewing within that you find it hard to quell. You are expected to go into this party tonight unarmed and alone, which terrifies you. There was an extensive argument about that particular stipulation, especially from your teammates. Still, the fact was that all guests would be checked at the door, and getting caught trying to sneak a weapon in would be a fatal mistake. You would have to go armed with your wits...and some very sharp fingernails should anyone dare to fuck with you.

Smoothing out your dress, you head for the hotel lobby, where the rest of your team awaits you. As you approach, you take in the sight of the four of them, all dressed in dark clothing, in the corner of the room. They give off such an intimidating presence when all together like this.

The click of your heels on the tile flooring has their heads turning in your direction, their faces going slack when they lay eyes on you.

"Holy sh-" Gaz starts to say before he catches an elbow in the stomach from Soap, whose gaze is greedily dragging the length of your body with zero shame.

In his typical mask and balaclava, Ghost shifts uncomfortably between his feet like he isn't sure what to do with himself suddenly. His brown eyes shift to glance at the ceiling as if the sight of you is overwhelming.

"You clean up well, love." Price says with an appreciative nod. "As much as I'm sure we'd all love to stand here and stare at you all night, though, we have a job to do. Come on, boys. You can ogle through your sniper sights later." He snaps his fingers at the group, and your teammates seem to pull out of their distracted hazes to shuffle after him to the door -- except for Soap, who remains before you with a pained expression.

"We will be there in a min', Cap." He hollers over his shoulder, eyes never leaving your face. "Can we talk? For jus' a minute."

You give him a slight nod, and immediately, his hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you toward a small bathroom on the first floor. It is a lavish space, a small waiting room just off the restroom, where Soap stops you and locks the door behind him.

"I don' want ye to do this." He breathes, his tone laden with anguish. "We can find another way. I will find another way. One that doesna' involve sendin' ye into a lion's den where we -" He stops himself, eyes squeezing shut momentarily. "Where I cannot protect ye."

"I am a big girl. I can handle it." The words slide out with a trace of bitterness that he notices, his face screwing up in frustration. His hands fly up to gently grip either side of your face, forcing you to look directly into his fear-filled eyes.

"I don' think ye understand me, lass." Even when he is upset, nothing about his touch or tone towards you is harsh. "I cannot lose ye, okay? It would ruin me. You are -"

"I am what?" You interrupt in a forceful whisper, your heart thumping wildly.

He hesitates with his answer, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to gain control over his anxious breathing. The seconds of silence stretch between you for what feels like an eternity, the anticipation nearly painful.

"You are my...best friend."

The second those words hit you, your entire body runs cold. Of all the things he could have said, that was the last thing you needed to hear. It would be best to be grateful that he still cares enough to consider you his best friend, but you can't find it in yourself to be thankful for that. With all of his recent behavior, it truly seemed as if there was more going on than a friend simply being worried about another friend.

You pull his hands away from your face, bowing your head to inhale a slow breath as you search for strength. The last thing you want to do is cry, especially not in front of Soap, but also because it would ruin the make-up so seamlessly applied to your face.

"Right. Thanks for your concern, friend." You bite out, putting a nasty emphasis on the last word like it burns your tongue. "I can take care of myself. I don't want or need your help."

You try to shoulder past him for the door, but he snags your arm again to stop you.

"Lass, I didn't-" You cut him off with a sharp slap to the face. The anger surging through you is palpable enough that there is no remorse in your hardened glare as you watch him stumble backward. His eyebrows gather inward in surprise, a mournful frown forming on his mouth. You inwardly brace yourself for the reprimand you expect to follow, but all he concedes to you is a resigned nod - as if he acknowledges that he deserves it.

"You make me feel like such a fool." Your emotion-choked voice is hardly above a whisper, tears barely contained. The size of the room suddenly feels suffocating, like his presence, and the burden of your repressed emotions rising to the surface will crush you. No amount of even breathing is going to fix it, not when you're standing this close to him. Without another glance in his direction, you turn and unlock the door to free yourself.

"[Y/N]..." Soap starts after you, but you don't allow him the opportunity, letting the door slam shut between you. There isn't anything else you want or need to hear from him, not anymore.

You've let him tear that wound back open far too many times, happily stitching it back together till the mess that remains doesn't even resemble something whole anymore. Loving him is one of the easiest and most painful things you've ever done in your life, but until now, you wouldn't have traded it for anything in the world.

A person can only give up so many pieces of themselves before they begin to crumble under the weight of what they've lost, and you have absolutely nothing left to give.