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

14. A kilt is a serious matter

Two days later Yael accompanied him to Piccadilly Station in the merciless cold.

Its metallic frame, almost evanescent in the fog that had settled thickly between the large windows, stood out cold and severe against the leaden morning sky.

The duffel bag on Soap's shoulder weighed like a boulder as he walked beside her, dragged by the escalator towards the tracks. The pale, diffused light hurt his eyes in the huge indoor environment, bouncing incessantly off the intricate network of steel beams in the ceiling.

He held her hand, filling the silence with a good dose of his loose tongue, watched her smile, but deep down he felt like a coward. He had let himself be convinced, he had believed her because he had wanted to. The alternative would have opened up uncomfortable possibilities for both of them.

No, he had to be honest. Asking her to follow him would have meant facing the depth of his devotion to her that was building inside him. He hated to admit it, but the idea scared him.

The train to Glasgow arrived on time in a soft puff of brakes, a sharp hiss in the dusty air of the wide platform.

"Here we are." the doctor smiled, her long dark hair dancing in the icy breeze stifled by the screeching of metal. Small, pale fingers slipped into the pockets of her green parka, close.

"Tell me ye'll miss me, bonnie." MacTavish croaked in a cheeky smile, but his big fingers nervously adjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder.

One word would have been enough for him to stay.

"Of course I'll miss you, you Scottish braggart." the girl giggled and her cheeks seemed to get warmer.

They both knew that routine, they had perfected it from the very day they met, yet suddenly, in such a trivial situation, it had become difficult to say goodbye.

Soap wondered if Yael was also feeling that same vague sense of helplessness, almost of betrayed expectation. After all they had said to each other, they still couldn't let go of their last defenses.

"Enjoy your family, I'll be here waiting for you. Always." she then murmured, hardly rising above the screech of the locomotive. Her voice barely broke in the cutting humidity.

His heart suddenly accelerated its beat with a fierceness that inflamed the tips of his ears. For once, MacTavish didn't know what to say. The space of a breath and he poured down on her, his rough hands pressed on her small, sharp face, his fingers sinking into her soft and cold hair.

"Fuck if I love ye, hen." he growled on her lips in a hot breath that turned into condensation. The vaguely floral scent of her skin that, in his lungs, replaced the thin and dusty scent of the platform.

Soap knew himself well, or at least he had always thought so in twenty-nine years. He knew his own impetuosity, his self-confidence, his instinct, the rebellious courage that exploded inside him to the pounding rhythm of his heart. He had used them to get where he was, to get to her.

Now, however, they suddenly fell short in the face of those treacherous tears that he had noticed languishing on the edge of her dark lashes. He knew Yael wouldn't cry, she wouldn't allow it herself.

He could have dried them, talked about feelings he didn't know, anything to wash away that loneliness of hers, instead he put his lips on them, kissing them away. He traced the outline of her jaw, her soft and cold cheek down to her mouth, slowly.

He grinned at the girl's small fingers clinging to the sleeves of his tactical jacket, a heartbeat stuck in his throat.

He swallowed the sob that had disrupted her breathing, again and again, until the doctor finally smiled at the stubbornness of his kisses. Soap pressed his hot forehead against hers in an intimacy so warm that it knotted his stomach.