Chapter Text
Captain Moore’s office at Fort Sam Houston hasn’t changed much in the six months you’ve spent floating between doctor's appointments, therapy waiting rooms and the stale air of your own shitty apartment.
Same dull green walls. Same sparse decorations. Same piles of paperwork on the hardwood desk.
Feels like you never left.
You drum the fingers of one hand against your knee as you wait for the greying man sitting opposite you to speak. Try not to let the internal whispers of what if, what if, what if drown out the present.
So close. You’re so close to getting back to… well, your version of normal.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
You’re fine.
You’ve been waiting for this.
Moore clears his throat. “So, Sergeant Blythe…”
You hold his gaze, stare into deep-set eyes the same colour as the office walls, and wait for him to continue.
“You read over the letter addressing the conditions for your return?”
“Yes, sir.” It arrived a week ago. Blathering on about mandatory check-ins with a psychologist between missions, and continued use of medication. You’d skimmed over it. Highlighted the actually important bits. Sarcastically annotated some of the less important ones.
“Good, good.” Moore nods, marks something down in a notebook. “I assume all your evaluations were up to standard?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another nod on the Captain’s end. The sounds of a pen nib scratching on paper. A sigh. He looks up again.
“Excellent. Well, Sergeant, regarding your new posting—”
“I’m not working under Lieutenant Cooper anymore?” you ask in surprise, then instantly regret the interruption. “I— uh. Sorry, sir.”
Moore brushes past the interruption. “Regarding your new posting, there’s been a few changes made. Your old position under Lieutenant Cooper has been filled in your absence.” Of course it has been. “However, I’ve got a new assignment for you. There’s a task force in need of a combat medic. You’ll be shipping out tomorrow.” A pause. Something disturbingly like sympathy crosses Moore’s face. “I’ve seen you in action, Blythe. I know the last year has been more than a little tough, since… everything that happened, but I wouldn’t have recommended you for this posting if I didn’t think you could handle it.” Then, he’s back to his usual matter-of-fact tone. “Accommodation will be provided for you. Pack for a long trip. A plane will pick you up from base at oh-seven-hundred.”
A new posting.
A task force.
Your brain races to organise the information as you respond with a slightly surprised “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Moore slides a manilla folder to you across the desk. “This has all the details you’ll need about the current mission.”
You nod. Pick up the folder. Run your fingertips over the words printed neatly on the label:
The Transfer of Sgt. Dahlia Blythe to TF-141 .
A moment’s pause.
“Is that all, sir?”
Moore nods. You stand.
“This is a fresh start for you, Blythe. Make the most out of it.”
“Yes, sir.” You nod, step towards the door.
“Oh, and Sergeant?”
You pause, turn back to face the old captain. Wait once more for him to continue.
He smiles, a rare occurrence.
“Welcome back.”
At oh-seven-hundred the next day, standing on tarmac slick with February rain — your hastily packed bag slung over one shoulder and the world around you all washed-out greys and dark skies — your body silently laments the lost hours of sleep. While your apartment is located relatively close to Fort Sam Houston, the drive, plus a few administrative things regarding the transfer, meant you had to wake up at four-in-the-fucking-morning, and, despite being used to holding a strict schedule, a small part of you is still mad about the early hour.
You’d spent yesterday evening pouring over the contents of the folder, partly because it’s your job, but also because, hell, it’s your first mission with these guys, and that on its own is jitter-inducing enough — not even taking into consideration the fact that you haven’t been out in the field in half a year.
The last thing you want is for your new teammates to think you’re not up to the job.
And, speaking of the job…
A steadily growing roar pulls you from your thoughts, growing louder and louder until the plane — a Gulfstream G550, you recognise — touches down on the runway, the red lights on its underbelly blinking as it crawls to a stop some hundred-or-so feet from where you stand.
The door opens, and a woman who looks to be in her early fifties, her sandy-blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, steps down from the aircraft to greet you as you walk over, muscles aching under the weight of your pack.
“Sergeant Blythe?”
A tired nod, a polite smile. “Yes ma’am.”
“Station Chief Laswell. I’ll be accompanying you and the other task force members for this mission.” She extends a hand, and there’s an awkward moment where you have to shift your bag onto your left shoulder before shaking it. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Sergeant.”
You pause, unsure how to respond. Was that a compliment? An ‘I’m watching you’ type of comment? You can’t tell.
A light mist of rain has begun to fall once more, clinging to your skin, your clothes.
“Captain Moore seems to think you’re one of the best.”
“And… do you agree with that assessment, ma’am?”
“I trust Moore, but I base my judgments on my own observations.”
You nod again. You can respect that.
“I suppose I’ll just have to do my best to impress you, then,” you say, with the hint of a grin.
“Oh, it’s not me you need to worry about impressing, Sergeant.” Laswell gestures to the open plane door. “It’s them.”
You swallow. Shift your bag on your shoulders once more. Follow Laswell as she ascends the stairs, wait at the top as she steps into the plane and exchanges a few words with the pilot that you can’t hear over the roar of the engine.
Then, you draw a steadying breath, and step in after her.
A small cabin, surprisingly comfortable looking — although, for such a long flight, you suppose you should have expected it. Seven seats facing inwards, five of which are already filled.
Keeping your expression neutral, you quickly scan the faces of the men — of course they’re all men — that look up at you and Laswell as you enter.
Closest to the cockpit, his back to the wall opposite the plane door, a bearded man in a bucket hat, who you assume to be the Captain Price mentioned on your transfer papers. Opposite him, an empty seat which Laswell takes, sitting down to the left of a guy in a blue cap with the Union Jack on the front. Next to him, a soldier with a mohawk that you highly doubt is within regulation, who sits facing a guy with blond hair and soft looking face. Then, right at the very end, a man in a black hoodie and honest-to-god skull balaclava, arms folded across his chest.
“Bag goes in the overhead lockers,” Laswell tells you, noticing the uncertainty on your face. “Then strap in for the long-haul.” A nod to the only free seat left, opposite Union Jack. “You’ve got quite the flight ahead of you.”
You follow her instructions regarding the bag, and then sit down in the free spot between Captain Price and Blond Guy, buckling your seatbelt as the plane door closes.
The man opposite you leans forward in his seat, grinning, and offers a hand to shake, which you accept, grateful that someone’s breaking the silence before you had to do it yourself.
“Sergeant Kyle Garrick. Gaz.” He gestures to the man with the mohawk. “Sergeant John MacTavish, otherwise known as Soap.” Soap grins, also shaking your hand. Gaz points to the guy on your left. “Gary Sanderson, or Roach. Also a sergeant.” Roach waves, blue eyes crinkling in a smile. “Scary bloke up the back is our Lieutenant, Simon Riley, AKA Ghost.” No reaction from the mentioned party. You can’t tell if he’s irritated, or just bored. Whatever emotion it is that haunts his gaze, it hardly comes across as welcoming. “And, you are…?”
“Sergeant Dahlia Blythe. Angel, if we’re talking callsigns.”
Soap snorts.
Gaz, in turn, whacks him on the shoulder with the back of a hand.
“Play nice, Soap.”
“Aye, ah am, but what kind o’ callsign is—”
“Soap.”
A sigh.
"Look, ah didnae mean any offence, it's just a wee bit…” he trails off at a warning look from Gaz.
You shake your head, smiling a little at the easy camaraderie between the group.
“No, it’s fine, honestly. I get it. It’s… a long story.”
Soap nods, not pushing the issue.
“So, ye’re th’ medic, aye?” he asks, in way of a topic change.
“Combat medic,” you correct automatically, “but, yeah.”
“And she’s here to keep you muppets from getting yourselves killed every five minutes, so you’re to keep on her good side, alright?” Price cuts in.
A couple of mumbled “Yessir”s. Roach gives him the thumbs up.
As the aircraft begins moving, Price stands, one hand braced against his setback for balance.
“Aright, team. You know the brief. It’s about a four hour flight to Bangor for a refuel, then another four to Keflavik, where we spend the night, before flying to an airport in Finland to meet Nikolai with the helo, and heading on to the safe house, which is about a hundred klicks from Murmansk,” he tells the group. “It’s a remote area, and we aren’t sure exactly which route the Ultranationalists are taking with the shipment. Or what they’re transporting the weaponry in. Or when precisely they’ll show up.”
A groan from Soap. Gaz jabs him in the ribs with an elbow to keep him quiet.
“So,” Price continues, “this could take anywhere from a few days, to a few weeks. And I’d rather not spend that time babysitting you all, so, MacTavish, Garrick?”
“Aye, sir?”
“Quit messing around, and for god’s sake, put your seatbelts on.”
“Yessir.”
“Sorry, Captain.”
With that, Price sits down, buckling himself in before the G550 begins moving — the roar of the plane engine picking up — and you can see the runway becoming a blur through the window beside Gaz’ head, faster, faster, faster, until that infinitesimal moment where breath hitches and wheels leave tarmac, and you’re up, up, up, the lights of San Antonio fading behind you as you soar skyward, above it all once more.
As the craft accelerates — cabin shaking a little as you push through the thick grey of clouds, and cold, somewhat stale air brushing your face from a hidden vent in the ceiling — Gaz taps your knee, pulling your attention from the window, and holding out a blue packet of Mentos.
“Not allowed gum on missions anymore—”
“There was an incident,” Soap adds, the hint of a smirk on his face.
“But, it’s better than nothing,” Gaz finishes.
You nod, taking one, before passing the roll to Soap’s waiting hand.
“Thanks.”
Soap takes a mint, offers the packet to Roach, who shakes his head, and signs something to Soap.
“Ye still on that, eh?”
Roach nods emphatically.
“Picky bastard.”
An amused huff from the soldier next to you. Gaz chuckles, pocketing Mentos before addressing Roach.
“I’ll get the fruit ones next time.”
Another brief sign from Roach. You make a mental note to ask someone — Price, maybe — if you ought to put some time towards learning what you assume is BSL.
The plane hits another spot of turbulence, and you force yourself to lean back against the headrest of your seat to keep yourself from crashing into someone’s side. Across the cabin, you see Soap pulling out a pair of earbuds from a pocket, and silently curse yourself for not thinking to pack your own. With the conversation dying down, and nothing much to occupy yourself with, you resort to staring out the window once more.
It’s going to be a long flight.
About a half hour in, you feel yourself growing drowsy, the late night, early morning, no coffee combo catching up to you at last. You’re not one to fall asleep around unfamiliar people — that was a luxury quickly trained you out of it during basic— but you find yourself slipping into spots of half-consciousness, eyelids growing leaden as time drags on.
When you find your thoughts beginning to spiral for lack of distraction — idle musings turning to the weight gunmetal in your hands — you decide enough is enough.
You know for a fact you packed a book somewhere in that god-forsaken bag. Now, you don’t exactly remember which book, or whether it’s at all good — you’d grabbed it off the kitchen table last night in your flurry of packing and repacking, not even bothering to check the title — but you’re not going to spend four fucking hours staring out that damned window.
Nope.
Not happening.
You undo your seatbelt, open the overhead locker, and, after some wrangling of zippers and separate pockets, locate the slightly water-warped paperback, sticking it under your arm as you re-zip everything and shut the locker once more.
You’re about to sit down again when the plane hits another spot of turbulence, the book dropping to the floor as you stumble for a moment before someone puts a steading hand on your upper arm.
“Careful, Sergeant,” warns a voice by your right ear, and you turn to find it’s the lieutenant. Ghost. He releases your arm as soon as the cabin stops shaking.
“Sorry, fuck, I… sorry,” you mumble, not meeting his gaze. “Lost, um… lost my footing.”
He doesn’t respond for a moment, and you step back, moving to your seat.
“Wait—”
You freeze.
Is he mad?
He’s probably mad.
“Your book,” he says, voice tense, and you realise he’s holding the dog-eared thing out to you.
“Oh!” You take it. “Um. Thanks.”
You attempt a smile, but he’s already looked away.
The rest of the flight is easier. The book — which turns out to be the one an old friend of yours, Pepper, brought for you sometime in August last year, and had since sat unread on — is an entirely overdramatic affair, though entertaining nonetheless.
By the time the plane begins its descent, you’re almost half-way through, and there have already been three declarations of love, and one faked death. It’s absolutely ridiculous, and exactly what you need right now.
Below, you can see a river growing closer and closer, shining like spilt ichor in the midday sun.
“You’ll have about an hour in the airport,” Price announces as the ground grows ever closer. “Simon, I’m counting on you to make sure nobody ends up on the local news somehow.”
A mock-offended gasp from Gaz.
“So little faith!”
“Ye dinnae trust us? After all our missions together?”
You cough to hide a laugh. Gaz catches your eye from across the cabin and grins.
“I’ll keep ‘em in check, don’t worry Captain.”
“Good man.”
Conversation pauses as the plane touches down, hurtling along the landing strip before gradually slowing to a standstill.
Once the pilot opens the plane door, everyone disembarks, some stretching stiff limbs and yawning, others mumbling complaints about the cold, which doesn’t exactly bode well for when you actually reach Murmansk.
You all depart for the terminal, save for Laswell and Price, who stay back to organise the refuel. The heating inside the building is a relief, and, after locating the one restaurant that you could get to without going through security — a small café near Gate 5 — everyone huddles around the register to place orders. The selection of food isn’t exactly… thrilling , but you haven’t eaten since four-thirty in the morning.
At this point, anything will do.
Once it’s all been paid for, everyone wanders over to the seating area, bringing their various take-away cups and plastic sandwich containers with them.
“Roach, ye ken ye’re no’ supposed tae have those energy drinks on missions— wait— fuckin’ hell— tha’ didnae mean ‘drink it faster’, ye maniac. ”
“I mean, we are technically just flying today. He’s allowed.”
“Oh, fer fucks sake, Gaz, ye dinnae need tae encourage him.”
“He’s got a point, though, you have to admit.”
“See, even Angel agrees.”
“Glad tae see ye’ve got my back, new girl.”
“Any time,” you reply, smiling sweetly, before taking a sip of your coffee, and wrinkling your nose. “Oh, god, that’s foul.”
“…and yet ye’re still drinking it.”
“Need the caffeine.”
“No amount o' energy is worth th’ suffering ye’re putting yerself through right now,” Soap says, taking a bite of his sandwich.
You laugh. Take a bite of your own.
“Damn, these suck too. What is it with airport food?”
“I mean, hey, if you don’t want yours, I’m more than happy to take it.”
“Over my dead body, Garrick. I haven’t eaten in like…” there’s a pause while you try to do the mental maths, because fuck time differences. “In way too long, okay? I need this bad airport sandwich.”
Roach grins, fiddling with the tab of his empty drink.
You finish eating, and stand up.
“You going somewhere, Sergeant?”
“Oh yeah, I just wanted to— um, to grab a pair of earbuds from the general store, I’ll be back quick.”
“Take someone with you.” An order. Not a suggestion.
“Uh, really, that’s okay, I’m sure I’ll be able to find the store on my own,” you respond, a little annoyed at… whatever he’s trying to imply.
Ghost shakes his head.
“It’s not about your ability to find the place, Sergeant, it’s about not having soldiers wandering around by themselves. You’ll stay with the group, or you’ll take a buddy.”
“Oh.” Fuck, he’s definitely annoyed, isn’t he? “Okay, then.”
Another awkward-as-fuck pause.
“Look, I’m done,” Gaz cuts in, breaking the silence, “I can go with Angel.” He stands up. “Besides, apparently I need to acquire some fruit mentos.”
“Why the fuck would anybody want to buy a bloody chess board at the airport?”
“Last minute Christmas gift?” you suggest, scanning the small electronics section of the store, which happens to be situated by the games section. “Emergency entertainment for the flight?”
Gaz chuckles. Grabs a deck of cards from a stack.
You pull down a small box from the tech shelf, checking the sticker for the price. “Okay, yeah, these look good.” You both head to the counter to pay. As you’re leaving the store, you pause. “Hey, what time did Lieutenant Riley say we’re supposed to get back?”
“Like, twelve-forty.”
“And what time is it now?”
“Twelve forty-five.”
“Oh, fuck, he’s gonna kill me.” You speed up, cutting past a few civilians
Gaz shakes his head, grinning, and matching your pace. “Nah, he won’t.”
“He already acts like I’m… I don’t know, some kind of inconvenience he has to put up with.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s just Ghost being Ghost. He’s like that with everyone most of the time. You get used to it.” Gaz sidesteps an elderly man who’s heading in the other direction. “Besides, if he does decide to kill you, he’s hardly going to do it in broad daylight, while you’re surrounded by several other soldiers who don’t want you dead.”
“Comforting.”
Gaz smiles brightly and shoots finger guns at you, before the two of you make a left turn, coming into sight of the group.
“Oi, Roach, heads!” Gaz tosses over the newly acquired fruit mentos just as Roach’s head snaps up. There’s a flash of movement as his hand shoots out to catch the roll midair. A quick grin of thanks.
“You’re both late.”
You wince, turning your head to meet Ghost’s steely gaze, apology on your lips, before Gaz cuts in.
“My fault, LT, sorry!” His tone is bright, casual. “Mentos?” A disapproving look from the lieutenant. Gaz shrugs. “Your loss.”
There’s a long moment where you’re half-convinced that Ghost is going to reprimand the soldier standing by your shoulder, but he just sighs, shakes his head, gestures to the exit doors.
“Right. Let’s go.”
Once you’re in the air again, you remain seated while the general administrative reminders from Price are handled.
No, Soap can’t ride in the cockpit ‘because it’s cool’.
Yes, Laswell is allowed to ride in the cockpit if she wants, but that’s because she’s a Station Chief.
No, Price can’t just give Soap ‘a quick promotion’, that’s not how promotions work, and besides, he doesn’t want the sergeant in anywhere near vital technology if he can help it, now sit the fuck down MacTavish and please stop trying to get on his nerves.
While Soap mutters a string of what you can only assume are Scottish curses under his breath, you stand and retrieve your phone.
Unwrap the new earbuds as the plane levels about the clouds.
Plug them in.
Hit play.
Disappear.
The following four hours pass disturbingly quickly, you find, as the Captain shakes your shoulder, dragging you from the little novel to alert you to the fact you’re landing soon. You pull out the earbuds, looping the cable a few times and pocketing them and the phone. It’s dark outside the plane window, but you can still catch the town lights, a little constellation of humanity, glimmering as the aircraft descends. Once again, the cabin shakes as you touch down on the tarmac, speeding across the tarmac before slowing, rolling inch by inch into whichever spot the pilot has deemed appropriate for parking.
There’s a commotion as everyone unbuckles, scrambles to get their bags, complaining passionately of stiff necks and sore joints. Gaz passes you your pack while slinging his own over his shoulder.
Soon, you’re all walking across the damp concrete, legs protesting, cold gusts nipping at your exposed skin, as Laswell follows her phone for directions to the on-site accommodation — it’s a thankfully short walk before the red-brick building is in view, a green sign reading Airport Hotel hung above the glass door. The group trails into the lobby, and Laswell exchanges a few quick words with the blonde-haired woman at the front desk before returning with seven key-cards in hand.
“Garrick, MacTavish, Riley, you’ve got the triple…” she says, handing out the cards as she goes, “Captain Price, Sanderson, you’ve got a split double.” Another two cards. “And Blythe, you and I both have singles.” Thank god. She passes you the card, which you pocket. “Right, well, unless there’s anything else, Captain…”
Price shakes his head.
“Well then, I guess you’re free to go.”
Once you find it, you don’t spend long looking around your little room. As soon as you’ve dumped your bag on the floor, and kicked off your shoes, you collapse onto the bed, relishing the feeling of simple comfort. The place is far from luxurious, but you’re too fatigued to care. It takes all your remaining energy just to drag yourself back up from the soft pillows and to the bathroom, grabbing your toiletries bag on the way.
Once teeth have been brushed and a shower has been had — using that array of tiny bottles hotels always seem to provide — you hastily change before burrowing under the covers to escape the cold.
You’ve never been one to sleep well in unfamiliar places, but sheer exhaustion wins out in the end, and you finally fall into a much needed slumber.
Even if you do wake up at three in the morning, shaking under the weight of the dead.
“Ah’m so fuckin’ sick o’ this plane.”
You check your phone. “It’s only three more hours to Ivalo Airport.”
“And then another hour in the helo.”
“Not. Helping. Gaz.”
“Look, I’m just saying, try to enjoy having leg room while you can.”
“Well, maybe ah’ll just shove ye oot o’ it, that ought tae free up some space—”
“You can’t just threaten to push me out of a helicopter because you’re annoyed, MacTavish.”
“Aye ah can!”
You stifle a yawn as the other two continue their bickering, watching the colourful roofs of Keflavik shrink to a child’s model town below you. Opposite you, Roach tilts his head, brows furrowing in concern. You give a tired thumbs up, and he nods.
Outside the window, the sun rises, setting the winter sky ablaze.
Tensions are high by the time you land in Ivalo. Ice crunches under your feed as you de-board, pack heavy on your shoulders. You can see the helicopter on the far end of the landing strip, a strange, metallic insect, blades spinning in the grey light.
Laswell exchanges a few final words with Price before a brief nod of farewell.
“She’s not coming with us?” you ask Soap, shivering in the harsh cold.
“Nah, no’ this time. Staying wi’ the plane. Got better things tae do than freeze half tae death in some Russian safe house. We, on the other hand…”
You grimace, but don’t have long to dwell on the less-than-thrilling prospect before Price is heading the group over to the helo. The pilot — Nikolai, Price called him — waves hello as everyone loads into the craft, hastily stowing packs under seats and in corners before sitting down and fastening seat-belts. In the confusion, you find yourself jostled back, ending up almost falling back against Soap, already sitting down, who grabs your hips to stop you from falling.
“Ye alright there, Angel?” Soap asks, a hint of laughter still in his words.
“Yeah, yeah, fine.” You rub your shoulder where Roach’s bag had knocked into you. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of Ghost staring in your and Soap’s direction, his expression, or what you can see of it, anyway, annoyed.
Great. That’s the second time you’ve almost fallen over in front of him. At this rate it’ll be a wonder if he doesn’t think you’re some kind of walking, talking disaster.
Not that that’d be an unfair assessment, in all honesty.
Soap lets go of you, and you stow your kit before strapping into the free seat, feeling the lieutenant’s gaze burning into the back of your head.
“Right, listen up, men. Woman. We’ve got about an hour and a half before we reach the drop point. It’ll be dark by the time we get there, so make sure to stick together. I don’t want to have to explain to the higher-ups that we failed to intercept the weapons shipment just because one of you muppets got lost and froze to death in a snowbank. Got it?”
Everyone nods, nerves setting in as the helicopter roars to life, climbing steadily higher in the frozen air. You drum your fingers against your knee, and try to focus as Price continues rattling off instructions.
Gaz is looking almost as you feel, seeming focused on not looking out the window next to him.
“You okay?”
“Ach, he’s fine. Just no’ a fan o’ helicopters, are ye, Gaz?”
Gaz shoots Soap a dirty look. “You wouldn’t be either if you’d fallen out of one.”
“Sorry, what?”
Soap grins. “Was pure brilliant.”
“Well, next time, you can be the one to do it.”
You just shake your head in concern. “Well, I can see why Captain Price wanted a medic around, then.”
Soap snickers. Gaz offers a begrudging grin. Below, the dark skeletons of pine-trees dot the harsh landscape, rolling expanses of pristine white stretching out as far as you can see, interrupted only by patches of icy forests and frozen-over streams.
Beautiful, you think.
Cruel, unforgiving, but… beautiful.
An hour later, standing ankle-deep in snow, your bag straining on aching shoulders as your gloved hands fumble to turn on a particularly stubborn flashlight while the others continue to unload, you decide you’ve changed your mind.
The snow, it turns out, is fucking stupid.
Fed up, you whack the torch with your palm a few times, and it flickers to light, illuminating the others in a sickly glow. Once everyone is on the ground, the helo takes off, disappearing into the starless night.
As you begin the short hike to the safe house, legs burning with the effort, laboured breath visible in the frigid air, you turn to Soap.
“This is going to be awful, isn’t it?”
“Aye, probably.” He pats your shoulder with a gloved hand in encouragement, and you groan, forcing yourself to keep moving.
As the two of you reach the crest of the first hill, Gaz comes up on your other side.
“No turnin' back now, Angel.” Soap sweeps one arm out in a grand motion before the bleak landscape.
“Welcome,” Gaz adds dryly, “to the 141.”