Friends Don't Look At Friends That Way

Part Fifteen.

**There are depictions and details of murder/violence in this chapter. Just as a trigger warning ahead of time.**

We are going to play a little game...

Never has a sentence spoken by another person filled you with so much dread. At this point, Carlos' easy, breezy demeanor has hit its quota for the evening, and the true nature beneath the man is starting to crawl through the cracks. However, you knew your luck had run out a while ago when his interrogation techniques turned from vague threats to physical repercussions. The nasty gouge through the skin of your forehead, courtesy of being pistol-whipped by your new 'friend', still throbs horribly as you slowly look from the man who took hostage to your restrained teammates.

Seeing Simon unmasked, likely not of his own free will, fans the murderous flames already burning deep in your gut. You take advantage of this fleeting moment to survey the rest of their physical well-being. Both men are sporting matching black eyes. Soap's bottom lip is swollen with a tender-looking split, while Ghost's right cheekbone looks beyond bruised. They both seem pretty roughed up, but the part that puzzles you is that their injuries appear semi-healed, as if they'd been given long before this little rescue went wrong. The subtle, sheepish grin you catch Soap trying to hide when he notices your scrutinizing glare confirms your train of thought. The cartel didn't do this; they did it to each other. You silently promise to add a scrape or two to those handsome faces for being complete idiots.

The sharp clearing of a throat pulls you back from inner your thoughts as Carlos leisurely strolls to the middle of the room, very much reminiscent of a large cat stalking its helpless prey.

"Let's just get something out of the way right off the bat here..." He drawls out, raising his pistol to aim dead center at Soap's chest and pulling the trigger.

Time seems to slow then, a deafening roar drowning out your other senses as your head jerks to the side, eyes immediately slamming shut.

This isn't real. This isn't happening.

It feels like you stop breathing, a lump building so thickly in your throat that it won't allow air to escape. Your heart hammers so violently against your rib cage that you fear it will bust straight through.

This isn't fucking happening.

A shrewd laugh slices through the deathly silence that has fallen over the room, crudely kicking you back to reality from the warmth of your denial. Every instinct you have begs you not to look, not to torture yourself with an image that will haunt your every waking thought, but your attention somehow draws in that direction anyway.

Sprawled on the ground, blood pooling rapidly beneath his prone form, is the guard that had been behind Soap. A bullet hole now messily marks the middle of the man's forehead, his face now forever frozen in horror. Both relief and utter shame wash over. The idea that you're thankful someone else senselessly lost their life in Soap's stead disturbs you to no end, but you are far too relieved that he is still breathing to care. The tension in your shoulders dissipates the second you see the idiot you love kneeling there in one piece, a regretful expression blooming on his attractive face.

"Dominic was a good friend. He was like a brother to me," Carlos states so coldly that can't help but gawk up at him. He is watching the now deceased male with the blankest expression you've ever seen, "If I am willing to kill someone I deeply care about just to prove a point, what do you think that means for you?"

The theoretical question hangs solemnly in the air, the room's atmosphere now exceedingly more tense. No one moves, or even so much as breathes, except for Carlos who hums in disappointment before turning on you.