Wait For Me || John "Soap" MacTavish x OC (Call Of Duty)

13. Strong heart

December 2022

When Johnny received Captain Price's approval for the leave he had requested days earlier, he felt stranger than he had anticipated.

He had waited for that sheet like a tiger in a cage, pacing the drab gray corridor outside the Captain's office with heavy steps, his brain in turmoil.

"For God's sake, MacTavish, stand still," Ghost had snapped at him, his imposing figure pinned to the bare wall as if he were holding it up. His dark eyes rolled in annoyance through the layers of soot under the balaclava.

Soap responded with a vague groan, spitting out a muttered Scottish curse.

During that last month they had been tossed around the world like rats in a sack, looking for a lead to work on, a bone to gnaw on some good intel about Konni's activities. With no apparent success.

Even the lieutenant's granite stoicism was shortening the fuse after yet another failed deployment. That's why the Captain had granted the entire Task Force, himself included, a long leave of absence.

"Go home, sunshines. You've done a great job. Get some fresh air, drink up and fuck enough to come back fresh as daisies. Got it? I'll stay in touch."

That was it.

John looked at the sheet, bewildered. Three weeks. He swallowed hard and wondered why the prospect was so unsettling to him.

His thoughts lingered dangerously on Yael, a split second too long for the realization of having to go home to overlap with that instinctive need. The idea formed confusedly somewhere in his head, but it didn't dare surface.

The edges of the form were starting to curl under the pressure of his calloused fingers when Ghost's voice cut through his thoughts.

"What are you goin' to do, Johnny? Lockin' yourself in the room with the corporal?" he croaked from the corner of his field of vision, his voice heavy and sly through the balaclava fabric.

"Three weeks. Ma mam would kill me if I dinnae come back," Soap snapped back, a crooked grin on his full lips. He was bluffing, a certainty he didn't possess.

"Are you already at that point, Sergeant? Don't tell me."

He was provoking him, a deep laugh that seemed to come from an unspecified point in that immense body. Soap distinctly felt the tips of his ears tingle.

"Haud yer wheesht," he snarled at him, his cerulean eyes darting back to the sheet, only to fold it awkwardly and tuck it into the back of his jeans.

"In English, MacTavish," Ghost chided softly, he was prodding him and, as always, Johnny was letting him do it.

"Sorry, I'll rephrase. Shut the fuck up, L.T."

This time the lieutenant couldn't hold back a raspy laugh that ricocheted through the bare walls of the corridor with the persistence of a smoke bomb.

"And what about ye, Ghost? Three weeks are enough to find yerself a bonnie lass," the chatty sergeant pressed, shifting his massive weight from one foot to the other. They could both have left, but they were still there, talking about bloody nothing.

Despite everything, the world outside the door still scared them.

"Don't worry about me, Johnny. I'll manage." Simon said, his broad shoulders detaching from the wall to face him.

He placed a pat on Soap's bicep with a thud.

"Don't call me, MacTavish, I'll have my hands full." he chuckled in a tone that didn't suit the bestial features of the painted balaclava at all and walked slowly down the corridor, leaving him alone.