Hot Artists Don't Gatekeep

Hey so uhhh. These are some messages I received in my inbox yesterday back to back before I even had a chance to see the message, let alone respond to it. I’m going to post it because I’m pretty sure this is somebody trying to guilt me into participating in a scam. The account only has one post which is nearly identical to the first message I was sent. Please vet the people you are sending money to.

Coming into a fandom late

this 'culture' of getting emotionally attached to famous people often makes me uncomfortable, i'm not gonna lie. i'm not judging anyone but myself when i say that. when at the end of a day watching a movie/tv show with my favorite actor or actress (or simply seeing a photo of them) is the only thing that makes me smile.. i find it sad. but then i remind myself that this is a weird world we live in and we all cope in different ways and storytelling (movies, books, tv shows, writing etc) as always been mine. i started watching the mandalorian several months ago and i'm going to be honest i watched it because i was bored. i've seen all the star wars movies and i liked them but i wasn't really invested until i met din djarin. this show really opened a door for me. not only did it allow me to find a universe made for me. but it also reintroduced me to pedro pascal. an actor that my younger self unfairly overlooked. but now i'm all grown up (kinda) and i'm able to see how talented he is. he brings so much authenticity to his characters and never shy away from a challenge. between oberyn, javier and din you can't deny his impact on pop culture. but what truly makes him someone special for me is his heart. in this business people are usually saying shit you want to hear to sell their movies and they move on. they feel like unreachable entities and it left us with a cold feeling. which is not the case with pedro. not only does he interacts with us (as best as he can) but he also make sure to make his voice heard. and also the voices of people who aren't heard. he is someone who feels like you could grab a coffee and have a chat with i deeply love this about him. today is his birthday and i guess this was my way of wishing him the best fucking birthday possible. i hope he'll spend it surrounded by his loved one and cakes. i'll probably drink a cocktail in his honor (look at me finding excuses).

happy birthday pedro thank you for being my lifeline when i needed it the most. you opened my eyes to so many things. and i'm grateful.

You like hurt/comfort because you like the idea that someone will comfort you when you are in pain.

they’re beautiful 🥹🙏

lol Soap’s the only one not in his gear, oops 😂 Bro just hopped the call 🤣🤣

honestly, graves and soaps could be swapped for each other 😭

Ahhhhh I love this 🥹😭

141 + Nikolai Reactions to Soap Coming Back/Being Alive

Words: 2.8k Warnings: Mentions of depression, alcoholism/self destructive behaviour Ships: Ghost/Soap, (implied) NikPrice A/N: i swear this was only supposed to be around 600 words but my brain wouldn't stop until i wrote all of this. up next: los vaqueros reaction.

- Price / words: 683

Soap’s death had been sudden. Unexpected. He was so young– the youngest, but he was one of the best. Only a Sergeant, but he could have gone as far as becoming something of a Captain in a few years time if he kept his head screwed on. All that promise and potential, taken away by one single bullet– no. Not the bullet– the man wielding the gun. Price doesn’t remember the last time he had slept more than 4 hours in the night since they spread Soap’s ashes. There was too much to do. There were other lives to save– other lives that were yet to be lost. Mourning for the man would have to come later. Later. Later. Later. There was only so many times that Price could push his needs to the back of his mind before it boiled over. So he took to cigars– cigarettes, if he was in desperate need. Alcohol became a common nightcap for him. Not enough to affect his performance as a Captain, but enough to garner worried looks from Ghost, Gaz, Nikolai and Kate. He couldn’t have them worrying about him– not now, not when they themselves were all reaching breaking points of their own. Ghost had withdrawn on himself to the point he was even worse off than when Price had first met him. He grunted and mumbled his words or avoided conversations entirely. He was still a beast on the battlefield and during missions, almost scarily so. His kills became more brutal, more messy. Dirty, Nikolai had called it once as he watched overhead as Ghost snuck up on a man and stabbed him 27 times. He had counted. 

And Gaz. Who had blamed himself. Price didn’t need to be a therapist to know that. What broke his heart the most was when he was escorting an exhausted Gaz back to his room when the sergeant muttered something under his breath. 

“Wazzat, Garrick?”

“... should’ve been me, sir.” Price didn’t have the words to respond to the statement. It shouldn’t have been Soap. Or Gaz. Or Ghost. It shouldn’t have been any of them. If anything, it should have been Price himself. If Soap hadn’t rushed in head first to save him, then Soap would still be here–

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” Price would deny to his dying breath that he choked around his cigar when a familiar face entered his office. He had been run ragged and thin these past few weeks– chasing leads on Makarov and also juggling the emotions that hung in the air since Soap’s untimely demise. Or ‘apparent’ demise, considering said man had just walked into the room as if nothing had happened and Price hadn’t watched his head successfully catch a bullet while trying to save his life. 

“... surprise…?” Soap said awkwardly as he shut the door quietly behind him, scratching the side of his head as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. Like still being alive. Price could have snorted at the absurdity of it. Instead, he rose to his feet and ignored the screeching of the chair behind him. He stared at Soap as he rounded his desk, striding towards the not-so-dead-Sergeant.

“Fuck my old boots, I’m going crazy.” he breathed. Jogging the last few steps, he envelops the scot in a hug. One arm wraps around Soap’s back, the other cradling the back of his head. The body beneath the palms of his hands is warm, thrumming with a steady and strong heartbeat. 

“John.” he whispered and arms wrapped around him in return, squeezing some of his jagged pieces back into place. The time to explain how or why would come later. For now, he was comforted by the fact that Soap was still living and breathing. He was still here. He had unknowingly given Price a second chance– one that the dear Captain would not squander.

“Preferred it when ye called me sunshine, sir.”

“Don’t push your fucking luck, Sergeant.” If Price’s grip on the other man tightened, neither said a word.

- Gaz / words: 565

Gaz has been running laps every single day since Soap died. He had been training, pushing himself as hard and as far as he could go. He wasn’t quick enough. He wasn’t quick enough to help when his team needed him most. He wasn’t quick enough to help Soap when he stared at Death in the face and watched as he pulled the trigger. He should have been faster– he convinced himself that he had to be faster. For Ghost. For Price. He wouldn’t fail them like he had failed Soap. He still thinks about the day they lost the scotsman. Remembers the blood pooling around his head like a sickening halo. He uses it as an incentive. As a reminder for what he lost that day– for what he still has left to lose.

Another lap came to an end in the form of him wheezing and almost stumbling to the finish line. He was bent over, hands on his knees as he tried to even out his breathing. He had pushed himself again today and he felt the telltale signs of nausea curl in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t beaten last week’s record yet. He makes a move for one more lap, but a voice stops him. Usually it was Price who stopped him before he pushed himself too far and ended up in medical. The Captain would appear seemingly out of nowhere, cigar in one hand and Gaz’s shoulder in the other.

‘That’s enough for today, Sergeant.’ He would say, and silence any words of complaint or refusal from Gaz before they were even spoken, ‘That’s an order, Kyle.’

“Whoa there, not the best idea to push yerself so hard. You’ll make yerself sick ya daft tit.” 

Either Price had adopted a Scottish accent in some deranged form of honouring their lost Sergeant, or Gaz had begun hallucinating from overexerting himself. It was likely the latter. He didn’t want to think of Price hiding a mohawk underneath his hat. A hand meets his shoulder and his own slaps over the top of it on instinct. Looking up, he squints as his eyes adjust to the sunlight– begin to focus on familiar features in front of him. Grinning familiar features. 

“Oh, you’re a bloody bastard.” He said, still regaining his breath from his laps. He knows that he hasn’t gone crazy– not yet, anyhow. He knows that the hand on his shoulder is real– that the man in front of him isn’t a figment of his imagination. His other hand claps Soap’s shoulder, gripping hard as he struggles to keep himself together. “You’re a bloody bastard, you know that?”

If Soap heard the crack in his voice, he’s kind enough not to mention it.

“I’ve been told. I only came back ‘cause you owed me twenty quid.”

“Last time I checked it was only fifteen.” Gaz raised an eyebrow, tears in his eyes but a smile on his face as they both fell into a similar routine as if Soap had never left. 

“Interest fee.” Soap quipped back, clapping Gaz on the back and bringing him into a tight hug. 

“Welcome back, Soap.” They fell into silence, the embrace lasting a little longer than usual.

“... I’m not giving you your twenty quid, by the way. If anything, you owe me twenty quid for the emotional damage.”

“Awa’ an bile yer heid!”

- Ghost / words: 1215

Ghost had withdrawn in himself after Soap’s death– or, more specifically, after the funeral and spreading of his ashes. He hated it. Hated watching as the breeze carried Soap away, spreading him across the Scottish countryside. It… it had been too final, for him. An end. The end of Johnny. That’s what it had felt like. The end. And he couldn’t fucking take it. 

Price had given Johnny’s dog tags to Ghost a week or so after everything. It was likely an excuse to talk to the Mancunian– to try and coax him out of his room. It had worked, albeit slightly, as it was an effective reminder to Ghost of who he still had left. Cutting Price and Gaz off wasn’t the way to go– and most definitely what Soap wouldn’t have wanted for him. 

It had been around 2 months, 11 days, 13 hours, and 42 minutes since Soap had died. The days had somehow blurred together but dragged in such a way that Ghost was still aware of the time passing in the back of his mind in some tortuous slew. It was a rare day that he had not only left his room, but the base entirely. His therapy sessions had gone from monthly to weekly to even bi-weekly sometimes. Price had forced them on him after the funeral. Ghost only went to get the old man off of his back. The sessions were generally an hour long, maybe a little over if he accidentally overshared. Most of the time he only sat and listened to the psychiatrist talk about different ways to deal with thoughts of depression and other ways to deal with bereavement. It was all a load of shite. Don’t get him wrong, his psychiatrist was a wonderful person– very passionate about their job but Ghost had been so overwhelmed by his grief some days that going to his appointments was just a waste of time, resources and money. Today’s session ended like the rest, a curt and professional goodbye and the arrangement of another session at the same time the following week. Ghost wondered just how many more sessions he could attend before Price stopped forcing him to go. The last time he didn’t, Price had wrangled him into Nikolai’s helicopter and had the Russian personally escort him to and from his appointment. How Soap would have howled with laughter if he had ever bore witness to it.

Price and Gaz were talking. That was the first thing that Ghost noticed when he walked past the common room. Whilst that wasn’t uncommon in the slightest, what was suspicious was that there was a third voice amongst them– one that Ghost was yet to forget. Likely it was his mind playing tricks on him again, filling the void that Soap had left in an attempt to save himself from the pain but still managing to gouge more wounds into his heart. Despite the apprehension, he was already opening the door before his brain could even comprehend it. 

“Hey, Lt.” Soap said, turning around to face Ghost when he entered and smiling like he wasn’t supposed to be dead and his body spread across some cliff in some backend of scotland. From the way Price and Gaz were looking directly at the sergeant, it was clear that he was no figment of anyone’s imagination.

“Ghost? Ghost!” For the second time in the space of around 12.5 seconds, Ghost’s body was already walking before his brain caught up. He was walking back to his quarters, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. A few seconds later, desperate knocking filled the room. 

“Ghost, lemme explain!” How dare he? How dare Soap come back like this and treat it like none of the 141 had mourned his loss. 

“Simon… Si, please.” 

The mancunian leant against the closed door, struggling to even out his breathing. Silence fell, only broken by the occasional shaky exhale from Simon’s lips. It stretched on for several minutes, maybe even longer– 

“... Did’ja hear about the cheese factory that exploded in France?” What the fuck was Johnny talking abou– “Da-brie was everywhere.”

Simon almost snorted at the absurdity of the situation and the stupidity of the joke. Looks like the time Johnny had spent being dead gave him time to brush up on his jokes. 

“As I get older, I remember all the people I lost along the way. Maybe me budding career as a tour guide wasn’t the right choice.” Damn him. Damn Johnny for coming back like nothing happened and standing outside Simon’s door telling him goddamn puns. Simon still remained silent, not wanting to give Johnny the satisfaction of making him laugh. 

“Even people who are good for nothing have the capacity to bring a smile to your face, like when you push them down the stairs.” Alright, Ghost would admit that had wormed a soft snort of amusement. Johnny grew silent for a few seconds and it didn’t take too much brain power to imagine the shit eating grin forming on the sergeant’s face, undoubtedly hearing Simon’s mirth. 

“I was digging in our garden and found a chest full of gold coins. I wanted to run straight home to tell my wife about it. Then I remembered why I was digging in our garden…” Awful. Absolutely awful– Simon had taught him well.

“Do you know the phrase ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure’? Wonderful saying, horrible way to find out that you were adopted. I can do this all day, Lt.”

That’s what he was afraid of.

Simon sighed to himself as he stood up and opened the door that currently separated the two soldiers. There was a loud curse and a thump as Johnny fell backwards and into the now open doorway. He must have been leaning on the door and didn’t expect the sudden opening. Serves him right. 

“Hi, Simon.” the scot breathed, staring up at Ghost like he had hung the moon. 

“Where did Joe go after getting lost on a minefield?” Simon found himself saying as he stared down at the man who was supposed to be dead. “Everywhere.”

Johnny’s face scrunched up in disdain and he groaned, throwing an arm over his face and still making no move to get up from his place on the floor. 

“Terrible.”

“And yours were any better?” Simon knelt by the fallen sergeant, head tilted to the side as he regarded him, drinking in the visible parts of his face. The shorter man moved to sit up, hands hesitating just before they touched Simon as if afraid of his reaction.

“They got you t’open the door, didn’t they?” Damnit. Simon held out his hand, palm facing up. Johnny took it as it was and placed his own over the top, intertwining their fingers. 

“Gonna take a lot more than jokes to fix this, Johnny.” 

“I know, Lt. Got a lot to make up for but lemme make a start. Permission to kiss you, sir?” The fact he asked where before he would simply act was enough to melt Simon’s heart– just a little bit. 

“Permission granted, Sergeant.” Forgiveness would be a low thing– but feeling Johnny’s warm and soft lips on his own was definitely a step in the right direction.

- Nikolai / words: 332

The first thing Nikolai does when he finds out Soap is alive is punch him. Not hard enough to break anything or bruise too severely, but hard enough that Soap will be reminded of it for a few days afterwards. 

“That is for making everyone think that you were dead.” It’s still fresh in his mind. Watching as Price fell apart at the seams after they spread Soap’s ‘ashes’, as the guilt ate him up from the inside out. As the ‘what if’s plagued his mind, ruined what little sleep he already didn’t get in the night– and stole his happiness, for a time. Nikolai can remember the week where Price smoked so many cigars that the Captain woke up with a tight chest, wheezing like a man starved of oxygen and clutching onto Nikolai’s shoulder as he gasped and spluttered– only to repeat the process the following day. 

‘I can stop when I need to.’ Price had said to Nikolai, brushing off any concern that the russian had voiced about the almost permanent smoke cloud that formed in Price’s office. 

Nikolai was not stupid– soldiers were lost all of the time in war. But not all soldiers left lasting impressions like Soap had to his Captain and teammates. He had touched the hearts of many with his shining personality and enthusiasm, Nikolai himself included. He had been fond of the Scotsman, even a partner in crime once during a prank that involved several bags of glitter and the helicopter fan blades. 

The scowl on his face morphs into something softer as he watched Soap try and massage the pain away with his hands. He brings Soap into a hug, pressing his forehead against Soap’s newly scarred temple.

“And this is for coming back to us. We all missed you, солнышко (Sunshine).” Despite the gentle words, his grip tightens until it is almost bruising. “Don’t do that again or I will kill you myself.” Soap doesn’t doubt that even for a second. 

CW- military type stuff, some blood, alluded sexual content

Tears have always been expensive.

For all the time you had known him as a fellow captain, he possessed so many wonderful qualities that made him a wise leader, a valued companion, and an even sweeter lover. He held so much of your heart in his broken body. But what you admired the most was his innate strength that you trusted as you would your own heart.

“Please, please, don’t leave me here,” you begged into his hand. “Don’t leave me all alone.”

His grip tightened on you, as if to steady himself in the steady waves of pain that flowed from his side. “Hold on. Keep holding on.”

You could hear Captain Price barking out commands for a medic to rush to the table, but you didn’t care.

Your hand was pressed to the pulse point against his wrist while Yuri watched from afar. It stuttered, but held true. Between groans, you heard Soap speak once more to you.

“Sing to me, lass.”

You lifted your head from where his hand held it. “What?”

“Sing for me. I’m going to die anyway. Before I go, I want to hear you sing to me.”

You paused to look at him. His eyes shone with the welled truth of his unspoken love.

You nodded softly before asking him, “What song would you want for me to sing for you?”

His soft eyes crinkled like he was smiling. “You know the one.”

Your heart hurts then. You knew exactly what he wanted you to sing but, you knew if you sang it, it would mean that this would be truly over.

“Not that one. Please, anything but that one.”

He squeezed your hand in his clammy grip before replying, “It is my wish. Please grant it.”

“Okay.”

You straightened your spine and readied yourself for the pain that was to come. Despite the bustle of the room, there was never a more tender silence in your life than this.

One last time, you looked for him to tell you he was ready. He blinked and quietly, you began to hum the tune.

“How unfair, how unfair they’ll sing as they dance across the darling rooftop wreck

He’ll trip and she’ll pretend not to have seen,

Burying her head into his chest and clinging to the moment, ‘where have you been?’

She’ll whisper ‘I’ve waited oh so long for you to come’

And as the stars above them hum and hear them he’ll turn to her and say ‘that’s what she said..”

You paused to move his hand from your cheek to rest at the side of your neck. In death, you prayed he would not remember the words of the song itself, but the way the vibrations of your love rose and fell for him.

“It’s not fair, it's not fair how much I love you

It’s not fair cos you make me ache you bastard

And she’ll say

'Oh how, oh how unreasonable

How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do

I’ll spend my days so close to you cos if I’m stood here

Then I’m stood here

And I’ll stand here

I’ll stand here with you.”

Your eyes dropped to where a tiny diamond softly shone atop John’s glove. It rolled down the fabric, losing liquid as it fell, til it slipped onto his skin.

The little droplet spread through the invisible crevices of his scarred forearms, laying on him like a tiny hug.

Every part of me wants him to stay.

John’s hand drew you out of your thoughts as he moved to brush away the droplets on your cheek. Silently, he looked at the space on the side of your face.

A bittersweet smile spread across his face. “I’ve never had someone cry for me like this, A ghràidh,” he said. A cough rattled through his broken body and when the captain held John’s head up, underneath was a rapidly spreading puddle of blood.

Yuri stood back for a few seconds, watching the table like a silent sentry.

Price quickly laid his friend back down and screamed for a medic again.

The glass of the windows was blown to pieces and bullets whistled around you.

You could care less.

What mattered right now laid on a diplomat’s repurposed hickory table, bleeding from a wound that would never heal.

“Oh God, please…I can’t lose you too,” you softly cried to him.

John’s normally glass blue eyes glittered a soft cornflower through the tears.

He spoke in a whisper, hoping you could hear him over the roar of the firefight.

“I had a dream once that you wore the white dress that we saw in Paris… and it was me waiting for you. We would live together… and I hoped that one day, we would have a family to care for.”

He paused for a moment to cough.

“I want…to live that life. But, even more so…I want you to live.”

An ugly sob that encapsulated your misery escaped your throat and the burning in your eyes mixed into the blood on the table.

John turned to the captain that was still actively begging for his friend to stay alive.

He spoke, “Price…Makarov knows…Yuri.”

You don’t know what was the first mark that John had finally passed. It was either the wail that the captain let out or the limp grip of a hand that was still tucked in yours.

The memory of what happened next doesn’t come easy, but Price would tell you later on that he had never heard a scream that scared him quite like yours.

A soldier approached you about leaving right away. Their grip guided you towards the stairs and to the evac point, but your heart was a hundred miles away right then. With every step, you cried for them to let you go back to him, to be by his side, to let you die of a bullet wound. So you would not be alone.

Underneath your sternum, a searing pain started to spread like wildfire through a dry forest. It burned through your organs, submerging your core into the terrible inferno and you groaned at the torturous pain growing within. The soldier guiding you down the stairs glanced over, concerned at the hunch in your spine growing more prominent.

He sped up, but held you closer.

The captain stood over a collapsed Yuri who was explaining what Makarov had said, and quite frankly, you did not care.

The man you loved was dead by the hands of a slimy bastard and you would make sure that he felt the chasm that he opened in your heart.

Not even a week later, you were sent back out with what remained of the 141.

The plan was simple, but clearing the building was hard.

With every bullet you shot, bloodlust and a thirst for revenge coursed in your veins, rushing with power. You rushed the hotel with a furious vengeance, men loyal to Makarov collapsing under the weight of your intent. They were thrown against walls and beaten with the fire that swallowed your grieving heart whole.

But the anger you felt was no match for a helicopter.

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was a chance, but you were thrown against the wall, knocked unconscious.

Yuri did his best to wake you with what little time was left and the two of you stumbled to the roof, a four legged beast made of determination for revenge.

And when you made it to the top, Yuri raised his gun with the intention to kill.

In the end, it was Yuri that died from two gunshots. Makarov had almost hit you before Price pulled him down and slammed him into the cracking glass. The noose that was wrapped around his neck caused Makarov to thrash.

Before the dark curtain that was starting to layer your eyesight could settle again, you picked up the handgun that lay nearby and did your best to aim at the glass.

For John.

The glass spider webbed under your bullets.

A fuzzy darkness enveloped your vision.

A slow thudding pulsed within your head, audible if you concentrated hard enough. For a second, you thought you were dead. But, the sensation of thin cotton trapping you and the cool temperature of the room made you realize you were still very much alive. Comfortable, even, but that was really a stretch. You didn’t really want to open your eyes to see where you were, and you made no move to do so until situational awareness demanded that you try. When you did, bolts of pain scratched at the insides of your skull and you closed your eyes to stop it.

Warm tears helped to wash away the grittiness that persisted under your eyelids and you decided to try again. Slower this time, you patiently waited for your eyes to adjust to being used again before looking about the scene before you.

You laid in a hospital room, connected to many beeping machines that cluttered your bedsides. A curtain was pulled between you and your new roommate. They made no move, but the steady white noise of the heart monitor assured you that you were both alive. Clearly they were asleep, and you had no intention of waking them.

Everything around you smelled of a sterile cleanliness, even your own body. A quick look over to take inventory of what had been done to yourself came back with no results.

You wiggled your toes and stretched out your legs. The hands that had carried you through battle were opened and closed, and through it all, no new marks were born upon your skin.

A miracle.

Finishing observing yourself, you scanned your memory for where you were and how you got there. You don’t remember anything after the time you took your shot. No matter. If you were here, that meant Makarov had perished. Swearing to the heavens, you hoped that whoever killed him made it hurt. The little burst of hatred was gratifying, but taxing.

All of the energy you had after first waking up had sapped nearly instantly, giving way to a massive headache and a terrible dizziness. Settling back down, you accepted that this would be your first bit of rest in a long time. Ever since the war started, you rarely got a full night of sleep.

Gazing out the window, the light of the moon shone through to the right edge of your bed, luminous and full.

It was so beautiful, so lonely up there with no one but the stars as companions. The light that it shed toyed with your tired eyes.

Dim shadows danced in the corner of your room like a ghost of holy night. They came to your bedside and laid themselves beside you.

Their eyes shuttered closed and you followed them.

The second time you woke up, someone was holding your hand. The Captain. He sat reading a newspaper with a publication date from before the war started. Most of Price was fully intact, a badly bruised face and what looked to be a broken nose, but he was alive.

You squeezed his hand.

He looked at you and you swore that the man that sat next to you carried a burden so heavy that his soul could not hold it. He looked nothing like the teacher that had been a trusted companion to you.

His smile was still his though. Quietly he told you, “Don’t move too much just yet. You’ve been out of it for about a day now. You somehow only got a concussion out of that whole ordeal.”

You sighed before speaking. Your voice cracked and broke when you spoke. “Hurts like hell right now. My whole body aches for more rest.”

Price put the newspaper on the bedside table then brought his hand to cover his eyes.

“I know, I know. But we’ll be alright, love. It’s just you and me now.” He hunkered down in his chair again, taking a brief hiatus from his reading to relish in doing nothing.

Neither of you had had a chance to do that in a long time.

Left alone with your thoughts, you wondered when they would inevitably send you back out to gather the dead. They needed volunteers and nobody enjoyed handling corpses, so the government would hastily acknowledge the accomplishments of the 141 and would reassign the remaining two. They’d have to wait until you and the captain were released from the hospital. Till then, you would lay in your bed and take time to rest.

The lull of the captain’s quiet presence combined with the warmth of the sun shining onto your bed dropped you into a state of near limbo.

Before you could slip away though, you heard Price murmur to you one final thing.

“I think he saved you, girl. That boy must have done something to protect you one last time.”

Price’s calloused hand came to rest on your head. He stroked it in an uncharacteristic display of gentleness, but you were so tired that you did not mind.

“I’m glad he did.”

Sleep came easy then. You knew you were safe with Price and whoever else watching over.

About a week later, you were released from the hospital under the understanding that you would report to Price should any extra pain or injuries emerge.

When returning to the base, central command alerted you that your next job would be without Price.

They were sending you out to aid in the search and rescue teams, but unknowingly, they sent you straight back into the heart of Prague.

Price would be sent to retrieve the bodies of Ghost and Roach and when he had completed that task, would rendezvous with you in Paris.

It did bother you that you wouldn’t be with him, but he assured you that you would see each other again very soon.

Before you boarded the helicopter, Price grabbed your arm.

“Let me know if anything comes up. My comm lines are always open for you,” he said. The last few days had been anything but kind, and you gently patted his shoulder before replying, “Don’t worry about me, captain. Take care of yourself too.”

The ride over was nothing special, but it put you back into hopeful headspace that the ground wouldn’t be covered with the nameless bodies of dead civilians and soldiers.

You were wrong. The pavement was littered with bullet shells, military grade weapons, and dead bodies, all of them cold. Vehicles of all kinds lay about, some of them were covered in the rubble of collapsed buildings.

It became evidently clear that drifters had been wandering through the silent streets with the amount of ransacked stores you found. How sad it was to find some civilians stagger out of concrete buildings, asking for water and food because all of it was gone.

At one point you found a whole group of women and their children hiding in an abandoned mall. Each shop had a family packed inside, cramped. They watched you with fear in their eyes, trying to gauge whether or not you were a threat to their safety.

A translator medic explained that the war was over and that they could come out to the field hospital for food and water. Most of them sprang into action, gathering what they had left onto their backs, babies wrapped in cloth scarves around their chests. Others that were more cautious stayed back, but followed when they could judge that there was no threat.

Some of the women made eye contact with you, but they didn’t hold it for long. They were more concerned with making it to a safe place than with whatever you were doing.

Once the building was cleared out, you searched it for any stragglers. There was one.

A bundle of dirty blankets wriggled beside a curled up body in a sleeping bag. A lady and a tiny child.

You rushed over to check the vitals of the woman. Her pulse was close to nothing and her eyes barely showed any recognition of your presence. The baby was still very much alive and looked to be healthier than its half dead mother.

Another woman must have been taking care of the babe for her, but left the child in the mass Exodus.

The lady grabbed your hand. “My husband is a soldier. Is he alive?” she asked, teeth chattering. You held her hand tighter. “I don’t know him, miss. Let’s just try to get you out of here, okay?”

You called for backup and two other medics ran around the corner. With your help, they pulled her onto a stretcher and you picked up the baby.

When you arrived outside, nobody came to put the infant with its mother. You, an agent of war, stood unsure of what to do with the little one.

That was until a tiny hand tapped your chin. The baby did not cry at your tired face or wail when you shifted your arms. It didn’t even care that you jerked your head away when it tried to grab your tied back hair.

You swore that you had never met a more quiet, curious child than this one. Then the baby’s probing hands pulled on the loosened glove on your right hand.

The glove slid off and you struggled to hold the baby and pick up the fallen glove. The child babbled and you felt two little hands reach for your middle finger.

A silver anxiety ring with woven hearts jingled. The baby was fascinated by the sound it made when the rings rotated and for a moment you paused.

That ring had been a gift from your team as a group Christmas gift. They were gone now, but the moment was bittersweet when the child in your arms shrieked in joy at finding the big heart again.

Tears dropped onto the child’s head and it looked up at you, confusion in its eyes. You smiled sadly and for a moment, the little one stared like it was really seeing you.

Then, another medic walked to you and explained that she would take it from here. You handed the child over to her, and wiped away the wetness on your cheeks. The glove remained in your left hand and the ring stayed wrapped in the baby’s hands.

Countless more hours were spent clearing buildings and ushering in volunteers willing to help with moving the rubble.

Before you knew it, two days had passed. Your body withered under the exhaustion of the tough work, but the base you were staying at was well equipped for that.

Every night, you powered through your fatigue and washed away the dust that settled on your face. When you looked in the mirror though, the woman staring back was almost foreign.

The shape of your face was a bit more shallow. And the thin scratches from being thrown at the side of your neck had seen better days. But what scared you the most was the look in your eyes.

A grief so disconsolate reflected back to you. There had been no time to let yourself mourn, and frankly, you did not want to.

To accept that he was gone was to give into the heartbreak that every lost lover knew.

You couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t have wanted you to cry.

But you wanted to do it anyway.

There was so much pain welling up in your body, coming close to drowning you in it. Some days, misery clogged your throat and made it hard to focus on anything at all.

Those days made for the worst nights of all.

But you lived through it. You prayed for good dreams.

Other squads of medics had worked their way through the city with the intention of meeting you in the center. The capitol building was waiting there, and strangely enough, it was deemed as safe enough to not need as many guards as what was necessary.

You dreaded going back there.

So, you begged the head medic to let you sit this one sweep out. He explained that he couldn’t allow it. There just weren't enough people that could clear out buildings and he needed you on the ground.

That night, you lay on your cot inside the gym of the base, listening to the soft hum of other women and their children sleeping. By no means did you think it would change anything but, you hoped that wherever Soap was now, he would remember the song you gave to him.

That sentiment stayed with you till sleep found you.

When you awoke, the sky was still dark. Quietly, you slipped out of your makeshift bed and gathered your clothes to rush down to the empty locker rooms.

Once you had fully prepared for the day, you walked into the empty halls. Nobody was quite awake yet, so you wandered.

Each floor of the base was filled to the brim with civilians, soldiers, volunteers, and medics. Not one room was underutilized.

With no destination in mind, you went to the roof of the building. There wasn’t much up there, except an old office chair and what looked to be a pot for cigarette stubs.

The sky was starting to lighten, though, and with it a heavenly array of colors painted themselves.

Black faded into blue, which soon became pink, then red and orange, and finally, a shade of yellow before the sun emerged.

A warmth bloomed inside you despite the cold of the morning air and before you knew it, you heard doors and voices down below.

Down the stairs you went into the halls. Quiet murmurs echoed in the building and throughout the courtyard. You wouldn’t load into a vehicle for about another half hour, but you couldn’t help the way that beauty brought some hope.

Though the head medic could not allow you to stay on the base for this mission, he did advise you on breathing techniques to calm the mind and body.

You practiced those on the way to the drop off.

The drivers hurried on the road and they reached their destination all too soon.

You hopped out and hefted your weapon.

You would be sent to look through the buildings and streets of the quiet city. This would be your last day on this job before moving on to meet with Price.

Before they sent you off to look around the buildings, you looked up into the blue sky and watched a little bird fly overhead. If that bird could make it through the war, surely you could live through the day.

Perhaps this was a silent reassurance from the cosmos that the world would recover. That you would recover.

You went with your group and followed their directions to split without hesitation. As if the squad leader wanted to punish you, she ordered you to take your nurse to the area closest to the capitol building.

Your nurse was a newbie, a volunteer who hadn’t seen the full extent of the damage done to the city. Their eyes widened at the grotesque smattering of bodies, but it seemed they were more curious than cautious.

Without much proper training, they tried to wander away instead of staying with you. Under constant reminder, they reluctantly glued themselves to your side as you worked your way through the hotels and business buildings.

Inevitably, you found some civilians that the nurse promptly took care of. There were never any attackers, but there were the remains of Makarov’s forces.

A few of them seemed to recognize you and tried to avoid your dead stare as much as possible. They seemed to recognize that if you could kill them, you would and used the nurse to put some distance between you and them.

They cautiously watched the brand new gun in your hands swing back and forth, but they never tried anything.

Your merry travel buddy finished their job then motioned for you to lead the way. You kept going, but quickly recognized the way both of you were walking.

The resistance had set up headquarters in a lonely square, and it sent fear pulsing through your veins from the last time you were there.

Resistance fighters were strewn on the stairs and their bodies stunk. No doubt it would stink even more on the inside.

The nurse peeled off on the excuse to go check the rubble for somebody and you couldn’t care less.

Stepping over the bodies, you push on the door gently. Nothing exposed itself, so you stepped in. Bullet casings for one 1911 were scattered about the floor, like golden petals before a bride.

Not yet.

The rooms upstairs were mostly empty, except for four soldiers preparing to shoot you. Once you told them not to shoot as best you could, the men recognized you and allowed you to explain.

All of them were happy to hear that you and the captain had survived, but when you inquired about the rest of their teammates, their faces fell. They lost most of their squad, and wanted to know about Yuri and Nikolai.

Your hesitance told them much. “Nikolai is alive. He’s with Price right now. Yuri…did not make it,” you said. “I’m sorry.”

The oldest of the men spoke. “Don’t be. The good in this world is worth dying for.”

With nothing left to say, the fighters gathered their things and clunked down the stairs. The youngest patted your shoulder. He looked to be about eighteen, but spoke like a man. “Yuri was my brother. He would be happy to know that you are okay.” He proceeded for the door, but paused to look back with an expression that you had seen too many times.

Defeated. Unfocused. Sad.

It didn’t belong on one as young as he. “Your husband is cleaned up. I did it.” Your heart leaps in your chest at the boy’s admission. This young man had done something for you not knowing if you would come back. All you had done was taking his family member from him. In that moment, you wished that it was Yuri reuniting with his brother, not you. Softly, you approached the young man.

He did not flinch or back away when the glove on your hand came off, nor did he do so when your hand came to rest on the side of his face.

His eyes welled with tears and his throat bobbed at the tender touch. A moment passed before he burrowed himself into your palm.

You nearly wept at how young he looked and was. This child had gone through so much pain and loss in a war that was not his to fight. Most likely, he had not been touched like this since he was with his mother, wherever she was.

Silently, you thanked her for raising such a gentle, good natured boy. When his skinny arms trembled, you held them still.

“We each have lost someone we loved. Just…don’t let it consume you, okay? I promise that your brother loves you so much. He will always be there when you need him.”

The young man’s crystalline tears fell between you before he wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. You rubbed the boy’s shoulder.

Down the hall, a shadow in the shape of a man stood. “I think you should go, kid. Be happy,” you said, ushering the boy towards his older friend.

The larger man slung his arm over the boy’s shoulder and tucked his head low as they walked down the stairs.

With a deep breath in and one out, you followed their pathway down. There was a hypocritical desire to run from what was coming, but avoiding him would never bring closure. You had seen so much suffering both mentally and physically and experienced it as much as anybody else, but this was possibly the most terrifying feeling of trepidation ever. What would happen? Will something change? Were you afraid of that change?

As you stood at the bottom of the stairwell, the doorway gaped open, the shining sun blazing in. Unconsciously, you shivered under the warmth.

You prayed for a modicum of strength before setting your sights on the room ahead.

You were ready to meet your groom.

Slow and steady steps lead you through the walkway and there he was.

John’s body wore most of his military gear except for the vest. The 1911 rested in his hand on his chest and there was no blood on the table. There was none anywhere, not even on his boots.

The young man had cleaned him up very well. But it was clear that this man was dead.

His face had sunken in and his pallor was an unhealthy gray. The stiffness in the joints also were giveaways that he had been here for a while now. You sat on the floor at his side as he lay on the table. It hurt to see him like this.

The soldier you had met when you were both young is nowhere to be seen.

When you first arrived to meet your squad, Soap had been the first man that you truly noticed at the base. He was smiley, had beautiful eyes, and a wonderful physique. You were only human, a woman no less (even if you were desensitized). How could you refuse to look?

Price introduced you to each other as sergeants and the grin he gave you practically made you swoon(if you told her, your mother would have been over the moon that you found one you liked).

Then you actually met him.

He had been headstrong and cocky beyond belief, but he had the skills to back up all the silly claims that he made. That cockiness had been what originally drove you away from him, but it also drew your interest.

You didn’t want to be killed by his recklessness, nor did you want to be involved in whatever silly mistake he chose to do this time. However, you found him to be considerate and kind to anyone he met. Then, you both were given a higher rank and sent out on different missions with new people.

What little you did know of him faded to oblivion in the three years of assignments that you did as a lieutenant. However, you were both thrown for a moment when work brought you back together.

Like mixing together red and blue, somehow you both managed to clash perfectly. The reckless boy you remembered had grown into a responsible man (even more attractive now). But he still had the spark that had drawn you to him in the first place.

It had all started on the field. As teammates, you had to learn to get along with one another. As leaders, you tussled for power. As friends? You had a barely there budding relationship.

But all good things start small and as time went on, your bond grew deeper.

You learned more about one another through talking, joking or working together, and observing the other’s mannerisms. You fought together and fought each other. Whatever you chose to share with him he would share with you in turn.

In the end, both of you emerged with a better understanding of one another.

Conversations became longer and longer, texting each other when you had breaks between missions, meetups were far more frequent, and down times were spent around each other.

You remembered the first time he had invited you into his home. He lived about an hour away, so you went to the store before taking the train towards the nearby station. John had always mentioned wanting to try his hand at cooking, so you suggested that you cook dinner together. That was the first time you had placed your boots next to his.

You brought the groceries and John would provide his home and tools. Together you worked, one unit on the field and one in the kitchen too.

In the end, you successfully made some pasta and a mess of his kitchen, but it was absolutely worth it. After cleaning the dishes and kitchen together, you made him promise that the next time would be at your house.

Those happy meetings kept happening for years to come. It was during one of those when you finally decided to stop beating around the bush and address what had grown inside of you unknowingly.

What was a friendship was no longer strictly platonic, new feelings being poured into a fathomless bond. Your own emotions grew in strength whenever he was involved.

You would be sent to different places and would miss his quips about your L115A3 in the first fifteen minutes on the flight. Other times, he would be deployed and suddenly the whole idea of him being hurt would hinder your work ethic. And when you returned or he came back, he was the first one that you wanted to see.

It became common to see you two around each other, so much so that it allowed rumors to grow exponentially. Most of them were ridiculous and some were just not plausible. At one point, you even found a note balled up on the floor of the briefing room that two soldiers had been passing back and forth about whether or not the tension between their two captains was real.

There were whispers whenever you walked past the other female soldiers in the locker rooms. None of their intentions were ever malicious, just incredibly curious. It didn’t bother you that the others talked, in fact it was quite amusing. What bothered you was that neither of you were allowed any privacy at all.

The murkiness had made it hard to determine where the line between attraction and friendship began. You did know that you wanted more of him though. In whatever way that was.

Sadly, you also knew that there was a possibility that whatever you felt was not reciprocated and he wanted to keep you as a friend. You had never felt something like this for anyone before, and if you managed to screw this up, you would never forgive yourself.

But fortune favors the bold, so you decided to make a risky move and tell him what you felt. Good communication is key, after all.

It was after a meal with him that you jokingly touched on how lonely your home felt when it was just you there. John caught onto the poorly disguised emotion in a matter of seconds.

“Are… do you enjoy having me around?” he asked. You smiled a bit.

“You know I do. I have something to look forward to whenever you’re here.” He inhaled shallowly as you both strolled down the driveway to his car.

You waited a moment to hear what he had to say. “I can’t say that I don’t feel the same, lassie. I’d be lying to you.”

“Then don’t lie. Tell me your truth and I’ll tell you mine.”

He kissed you then, and you swore that the deities in the heavens above must have crafted this man from the most hallowed materials found on earth.

Moments of touch followed. There was no lust in the connection you shared, only a steady, sweet desire to pick up on all the lost time that had taken so long. His forehead rested against yours, cheek flushed a soft rosy shade, loving arms wrapped around you, and you finally understood why love was the muse of artists.

For the past four and a half years, the two of you spent even more time together, attentively nurturing the blooming tree that was your relationship. There were many firsts together and many hopes for the future. The largest one was marriage.

In your line of work, marriage wasn’t rare, but it most certainly was dangerous. If the enemies you fought found that their adversary had a partner, it could potentially put both of you in the crosshairs.

The discussion happened on a variety of occasions. Sometimes, it occurred in the middle of the night in the mess hall when neither of you could sleep, sometimes it was in the warm sleepiness of a winter afternoon.

John wanted to get married as much as you did, but both of you knew that it would change the carefully planned dynamic in the warzones. Work would always get in the way, but the future was never promised.

So, when he unwrapped himself from your bed to wake you up one night on break, you didn’t hesitate to follow him. He wove through the quiet rooms of the house, leading you to the kitchen. John had pulled a chair out for you to laze in as you waited for him to speak. He sat down as well.

His leg hopped up and down and he tapped his finger against the table in an erratic pattern. John looked everywhere but you. Instinctually, his activity signaled an anxious man that needed to be calmed, but about what, you weren’t sure. You lightly nudged the side of his leg with your foot to get his attention.

John paused to glance at you and his blue eyes caught a small ray of moonlight through the blinds. They burned and frothed with unknown intent threatening to spill out this night.

You did not break his stare. You feared that if you did, something inside of you would scream for doing so. He looked so inhuman in this lighting, like he was old in spirit but still retained all the wondrous strengths of youth. Then you registered a movement at his right shoulder.

He reached out to hold your left hand. You watched as he lifted it, running a calloused fingertip over the delicate bones under the tougher skin. John did not rush his exploration of your hand, rubbing the joints down to the nails in a non methodical manner. He reverently stroked your ring finger, only pausing when the skin filled with blood as he pressed down.

Both of you had been working together for a long time, so you could read the other’s body language like a book. Being around somebody for that long will do that to a person. But this time, he did something that you couldn’t predict.

Flipping your hand up, he compressed it against his own, as if comparing the lengths of your hand to his. Glancing at him, you find he is already watching for your reaction.

Unsure of what his desired outcome is, you press back against his hand to test the waters. He pushes back till your fingers spread and lock together.

You decide to break the silence at your kitchen table. “Is something wrong?”

John does not release your hand, but pulls it down to let it dangle between your chairs.

“No.”

That isn’t the truth, though. You can tell when you start to lose him again because there’s a furrow coming between his brows.

So you do the only thing you can and sit in a palpable silence til you can’t handle it anymore.

“Tell me.”

He stops staring into the shadows of your kitchen to reply to you. “Alright.” He paused like he was unsure of how to start next.

“ I…I feel that we’ve become something more than what I expected,” he said.

Your eyes narrowed, preparing for the sucker punch to the gut that he was about to deliver.

“We’ve been together for so long that this is just normal. You being in my house, in my office, in my kitchen, I mean. Everytime I look at you, I realize that you’ve just integrated yourself into this place naturally.” You recoil inside, feeling like a younger self being critiqued by a nasty partner that had nothing good to say.

“And now I can’t imagine a time when it didn’t have you in it. I’ve seen so much pain and suffering in the world and I understand the impermanence of life. So…what I’m trying to say is that this is the life that I want. Permanently.”

Oh. Oh.

He wanted something you could give. You chewed on his words a bit as John watched with bated breath.

“I think that can be arranged,” you started. “You’re certain you’re ready? I don’t want you to make an impulsive decision for my sake. I would stay with you even if you didn’t want that.”

He gripped your hand tighter as if that could prove what he was saying was true.

“More than anything.”

Soap watched as the wheels in your head turned, and then a smile he wanted to see forever spread across your lips.

“When? Because the kids will be pissed if we don’t tell them we’re getting hitched,” you say.

John’s eyes crinkle in a smirk.

“I was thinking right now. And don’t worry about them. They’ll forgive us eventually.”

Your eyebrows draw upwards. “Right now? Honey, it’s the middle of the night. And if you want to get married in a church, that would take, lets see… at least two to three months to arrange.”

He laughs. “Not right at this moment. But in the morning, we can go to the legal offices.”

You reply, “Well, I know one thing for certain.”

John curiously beamed at you. “And, what is that exactly?”

Calmly setting your expression in a facade that hides your intentions, you only tell him what you feel deep down.

“That I’m beyond excited to be Mrs. MacTavish.”

He can tell that there’s more. “That all?”

Your lips curve up into a clever smirk.

“And that you ought to take me to bed, Johnny.”

His eyes close and a soft groan stems in his throat before he stands and grabs your arm to lead you up the stairs.

“Bloody hell, woman. You’re a real piece of work.”

Your laughter drifted down the hall and that next morning, both of you were married.

But the sweetness of marriage soured quickly.

Tensions in all corners of the world began to increase. World War Ⅲ started and everything that wasn’t necessary was sidelined. Both of you were thrown into your work and deployed to aid in the fight. You were sent to defend the United Kingdom while Soap was assigned to gather intelligence in Russia.

The battle was long and bloody and every hour felt like another day in hell, but the promise that you would be free when it was over brought you the strength to survive. Every night, you hoped that a life with Soap waited for you after all was done.

Inevitably, you met again when the order to rescue Prisoner 627, an invaluable enemy of Makarov in the gulag, was to be carried out. When Soap stepped out of the helo, he gave a polite nod to all of your other men. Ghost and Roach stood behind him, quietly saying hello to you as well.

Soap showed no major response to you, only saying, “Good to see you, lass. Let’s get to work.” It didn’t irk you, mainly because he caught you later when you were alone.

After getting done with the briefing for the retrieval, you had walked down the hall to the filing room to finish some extra work. While looking over the papers, you forgot to check the intersecting walkways. A huge weight suddenly slammed into your side, dragging your body back into the shadows.

Your mouth was covered to stop you from calling for help and you considered beating this man to a pulp for underestimating your strength until an raspy accented voice tickled the side of your neck.

“Did you really not see me? My god, you look so tired,” he says, relaxing his hands. Leaning back into him, you reply, “I was busy, Captain MacTavish. And for the record, you have the same eyebags that I do.”

Twisting your head to look over your shoulder, you feel a scruffy sensation scratch the side of your face. “And what is this? Something I missed?” you say to him.

Soap’s soft chuckle rumbled in his chest and through your body, so normal to anyone else but heavenly to your joyful ears. He mutters, “I didn’t have time to clean up.”

You flip your body around to embrace him then. It was wonderful to feel so safe and warm after not being able to be with him for his last mission.

Gently rocking, you murmured into him, “Did you get any new injuries?” He smiled into your hair. “You worry about me too much, woman. I’m fine.”

“I’m your wife. I think I should be a bit concerned about your health,” you said. Soap leaned back against the wall before saying, “That you are. Are you alright as well?”

His eyes dragged around your body and you spoke. “I’m okay, just tired. Been running back and forth, trying to keep Shephard happy.”

His visage visibly darkened at the general’s name. “Is he overworking you?” You slid your hand up and down his arm. “I think he’s doing that to all of us. There’s just too much to do and not enough people.”

He stays peering into your eyes before burying his head into your neck. “I’m tired of this. Do you have any more work to finish?” You gently tuck your hands into the thick mess of his mohawk and rub through it.

“Just a little bit more, but you’re always free to sit with me while I finish up.”

Soap smiles. “Okay.”

Less than ten minutes later, John’s head lays in your lap, completely relaxed. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a man that could fall asleep as quickly as he could. That or he was really tired. His position on the floor was hardly comfortable, but clearly he didn’t seem to care.

Having finished working five minutes earlier, you lightly play with the skin around the back of his neck and watch as little goosebumps pop up in their wake. The heart trapped in your ribcage flutters.

For some wonderful reason, John trusted you with his life and that made these moments all the more precious. Gently, you ran your finger over the scar on his eye.

When he got this, he didn’t want to have you see it. What he did not expect was for the nurses to tell him that a certain female lieutenant was asking about him. That was the beginning of a much larger realization that came little over a year later.

He startles upwards when your finger stills for just a second too long, years of learned instinct triggering his fight response. The top half of his body flies up and off of the floor into a scanning position.

You draw your hand back and wait for him to thoroughly search the area for danger before turning back to you. When he realizes that everything is alright, he sighs back into your legs.

“I thought you were going to wake me,” he says gruffly. You rub the tight muscle in his shoulder before saying, “I just did. Let’s go to bed.”

Later that night, he came to you. Though most men were not allowed near the section of the base dedicated to female soldiers, you had your own room and not one person cared what you did during a time like this. In the silence of the sterile barrack, you heard the soft knock at the door.

Opening it gently to not wake anybody else in the hall, John stood backlit by an emergency light. There was no need for any kind of request; you let him in and shut the door behind you. The war waged on outside, but you had tonight and that was good enough.

The bed was small but to two touch-starved individuals, this was plenty. John all but buried his face into your chest, half asleep already and you rubbed the side of his head that was exposed to you.

He had groaned in delight at being cuddled and you laughed softly. This huge, commanding man was more than happy to curl up next to you and soak in the warmth of your embrace.

You would happily do this everyday of your lives if you could, just the two of you in a home you made together. In your mind’s eye, you could see it. One bed would sit in a room you shared, a kitchen large enough to survive any of John’s wild ideas, pictures on every wall, and two pairs of boots would sit by the doorway.

His snoring pulled you out of your mind. He looked so serene laying there, so lovely in the moonlight peeking through the blinds on the window. A pulse of true want caused you to curl up around him even more, cradling his head even more than you already were. You always did sleep better when he was there.

When you woke, one heavy arm was thrown over the small of your waist, a familiar face tucked under your chin. You dozed, only watching as the first light stretched across the grounds. There was smoke creeping over various places in the city, a reminder that the war had not ended and would most likely not be ending until the Russian president had been restored and Makarov had been extinguished.

Shepherd wasn’t making it any easier either. With every passing day, he pressured you to find the remaining survivors of other squadrons and lead them back into the fight with you. The unfortunate thing was that most of these survivors were either badly injured or suffered from extreme cases of PTSD. The few that were healthy enough to fight did rally beneath you, but often didn’t make it back alive. Those that did were your most trusted.

You were so lost in thought that you didn’t notice the hand behind you slipping down your side to rest just under your rib cage. When you did, it was too late. A loud yelp of laughter erupted from you when the fingers started tickling your stomach. “Stop, stop, stop. Oh god, stop.” Another chuckle filled the room and you covered your mouth to prevent from waking everyone else in the hall up.

You pushed yourself up and shoved the invading grip away from your sides. John sat up on his elbows and you lightly slapped his shoulder. “Oh love, you wound me,” he laughed. You straddle his waist and smile down at him. “I can’t believe you just did that,” you exclaimed. He grins. “Believe it lass, cause I might do it again.”

He tugged you forward as you tried to escape, his calloused fingertips digging into the tender flesh of your middle. You writhed around to escape but ended up rolling off the bed. The cold ground was hard and when you look up, a sheepish Soap is peeking over the side. “Sorry about that. Here.”

You playfully slap his extended hand away and clamber back onto the bed. He allows you to curl into his side for a reprieve from the bitter frost of the early morning.

They are absolutely SICK for this

This truly is the last thing I want to say on this blog and then I'm done, but given how the fucking catastrophe started it's only appropriate this is how I end it—

You have racist bias whether you like it or not. Particularly if you are US American, racism was baked into your worldview no matter what kind of household, liberal or conservative, you grew up in. Racism is quite often far more covert than it is overt. It is not just a voluntary behavior; it is more often the subconscious ways you organize and hierarchize other cultures and people.

In the case of Gaz—sure, you might actively believe that he deserves to be more included. You think he's a good character and people really should think about him more! But you personally headcanon him a certain way, and really it's not a headcanon you're actually all that into, so that's why you don't talk about him as much. It's not because he's black, it's because he doesn't fit the thing you like talking about the most. The fact that he's black is really just a coincidence, you're not excluding him because of that. In fact, you're sure other people like him for exactly the reason you're not all that into him, and you'll just leave it to them to pick up the slack. Or you'll get to him later! In fact, you have some ideas for him. You just haven't gotten around to them yet.

Take that and multiply it by thousands of white women in fandom—not just this fandom, not just Gaz's character, but every fandom and every character of color. It doesn't matter that there's no active malice behind not personally liking black characters and other characters of color. Non-white characters still take a backseat to their white counterparts, because white women in fandom cannot wrap their heads around black, brown, indigenous, and Asian characters as complex, complicated characters worthy of their interest or frankly, their desire.

They cannot wrap their heads around this because they were conditioned not to by decades of racist culture.

Case in point; plenty of white women in this fandom have fallen head over heels for Makarov and Graves. The sins of these out-and-out villains are totally forgiven by virtue of their sex appeal, and because they are portrayed by attractive, charismatic men who put a lot of passion behind their performances.

But can we say the same for Hadir? Can we say the same for Hassan?

The sins of these two Middle Eastern characters do not outweigh those of their villainous white counterparts, yet how many angsty fix-it fics have been written exploring Hadir's complicated relationship with violence and imperialism? How many enemies-to-lovers or even lovers-to-enemies fics have been written about Hassan, the face of whose homeland has been irrevocably marred by US interference?

No one who points out the racism of this trend is accusing these white women of active, militant white supremacy. I'm not saying any of you even have to like Gaz, Hadir, or Hassan. But your preferences have been tuned for you by a culture shaped by slavery, imperialism, and white supremacy. That is not something you can escape merely because you support the BLM movement or reblog vetted Palestinian gofundmes.

The only way you can truly fight your own racism is to be actively anti-racist. It is about far more than who you give money to or what graphics you pin on your instagram. It is an everyday practice of learning how racism has shaped your worldview for you.

This is not work that is done in a week, a month, or a year. Becoming anti-racist takes as much time as it took to make you racist in the first place. For some of you, the work may turn out to be easy. For others, it may be hard. You must do it either way.

Some good places to start:

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe

Ain't I a Woman? by bell hooks

We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity by bell hooks

A Burst of Light by Audre Lorde

The Body Is Not An Apology by Sonya Renee Taylor

Fearing the Black Body by Sabrina Strings

Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi

Being Palestinian edited by Yasir Suleiman