𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗪𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥 / call of duty x reader

6. pull a trigger, climb a mountain

Graves watches you, a sleazy smirk on his face as he sits in the helicopter, blood dripping from his forehead and empty rifle in hand.

With a wink, he chimes in through your channel, "See you when you're useful again, baby."

*

Three hours earlier.

*

"Change."

Looking up, you give the hulking man the most annoyed expression you can muster, cocking your hip and folding your arms over your chest. He, in response, only raises a brow and folds his own arms, a clear mocking of your own stance.

Everyone else is already in the other room, checking over weaponry and making plans. They're loud enough to be heard here, jovial laughter and quickly-spoken Spanish filtering in. A song plays, too, a nice kind of melody that you find yourself enjoying.

"I usually need a shot or two first," you snark, making no move to take the folded clothes from the balaclava-clad man. "You buying?"

As he shoves the uniform into your chest, you shoot Ghost a nasty glare.

"We have stuff we need to do without you," he quips, pushing against your shoulder hard enough to have you taking a step back. "That uniform's too recognisable."

"What, the American flag's too much for you?" You lean in once more, shoving your own hand against his chest. He doesn't budge. "I deserve to be involved, when I'm giving you intel. This whole exclusion bullshit reminds me of kindergarten."

"Then change, and stop acting like you belong in one," Ghost snaps, and with one final look your way, storms out of the main room, slamming the wooden sliding doors shut behind him as he does.

You're alone, now.

The room is vast, and at the small table still sits the laptop.

You'd... just. Done that. Threatened the very man who had taught you everything you know, the very man who had practically adopted you after your mother's death. The very man of whom you'd just sentenced to death by your own hand. Your own lit match.

"Fuck," you hiss, burying your face in your free hand.

This was the first time you'd had true solitude since. Well. It might've only been a day, but everything that's happened has made it feel like years. Your throat itches from the knife wound, and you can feel your ribs' bruising when you inhale.

"Fuck," you curse once more, looking to the sliding doors.

After the call with Shepherd, the four men had been... well, they'd all had a very individualised response.

Soap had brought you in with an arm around your neck, ranting about how 'badass' you had been. Gaz had joined in, ruffling up your hair, placing a hand on your shoulder and asking if you were okay.

You'd said yes.

It had been a lie.

Ghost, without a word, had left to check over his magazines. Price had given you a firm nod and a pat on your back before, he too, left to the other room to sort things out.

"Lucky yer on our side, hen," Soap had joked goodnaturedly. Gaz had rolled his eyes, saying, "You're just happy your little Sweetheart can take you in a fight."

Soap had immediately tackled him to the ground, and that was that.

Now, you stood, lone in the vast space of the room. It was still very early morning, the quiet sound of birds outside mixing with the rambunctiousness of the Los Vaqueros on the other side of the doors. Soft light filters in through the boarded up windows, casting over you in an odd haze.