Work Text:
When you first joined Task Force 141, you expected non-stop action, running around the world with nothing but your kit and your team. Instead… you find yourself intruding on the little family they’ve carved for themselves. Once again left wishing that you could slot yourself in.
You know better than that, though. Every team has started the same, honeyed words hiding the barbs of their sharpened tongues. It’s only after you’ve gotten comfortable that their true intentions are known, when your hackles are down and you’ve begun to open up.
This time, history won’t repeat itself.
“Hey, Sparrow!” Soap calls, startling you out of your inner musings. “We’re hitting up the pub, you in?”
You manage to school your reaction, shaking your head with a regretful smile. “Not tonight, I’m pretty beat. Thanks, though.”
The disappointment that flashes across your fellow sergeant’s face isn’t missed, fleeting as it is. “Alright, well… if you change your mind, just text, aye?”
”Yeah, sounds good. Have fun!”
You’re not sure why he even bothers. Every single time you’ve been invited, you beg off, electing to stay in with your books instead. The 141 treats you well, always making an effort to include you… but you don’t want to intrude. The walls you’ve built are reinforced with steel and rebar and tons of concrete now, anyway. They have each other, have since before you came into the picture and will long after you’re gone.
It doesn’t deter the stares and whispers, though. How one of the 141 is never very close to her team, keeping them at arm’s length, only speaking when spoken to. You do your job, and you do it well—after all, you are SAS—but your wings have been clipped and burned so many times now you know better than to try.
That never stops you from wanting.
Because you do want—so fucking desperately—to earn that coveted title. More important than being part of the 141 in and of itself, you want that camaraderie too, the closeness the other four share. The love that blossoms between them.
Will it happen? Hell fucking no.
So you do what you do best: bury yourself in routines, follow your fellow operatives to the end of the Earth, and try not to get killed.
Still, you’re cognizant enough to know your social phobia is fucking with the team’s dynamic. How can they trust you with their lives if you won’t even go out and get drinks with them? How can you trust them with yours if you won’t even sit in the rec room for more than a few minutes before taking flight?
Maybe you’re a vampire, only able to enter when invited. Or a really shitty excuse for one, because you freeze whenever someone motions for you to sit with them. Flinch when an elbow brushes yours on the rare moments you’re close enough to be touched. Make lame excuses as to why you can’t join their poker games, pretending you don’t notice four sets of forlorn stares trailing after your retreating form.
— # —
Price sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the pad of one calloused finger. He won’t deny the need for an additional operative, someone who can hold their own, can make a split-second independent decision if it means saving their life.
And none of these files are doing it for him. At least… not until he stumbles upon one, thicker than the others, redacted almost as much as Simon’s had been.
It barely takes a cursory glance before he’s sold on it, uncaring of the—quite frankly bullshit—disciplinary records. He’s been in the game long enough to read between the lines, to pick out the parts that matter, and the pattern that these all follow screams canned responses and rehearsed interviews.
The thing that does make him seethe, however, is the information Kate digs up about what really happened to this newly minted sergeant. It’s… disgusting, at best. Power hungry COs are still too common, especially when dealing with a girl as talented on paper as this one is. And the fact that this one was so thoroughly abused at the hands of these other teams makes him see red.
The message he sends to Kate is very succinct. I want her. Make it happen. What’s another addition to the Island of Misfit Toys?
It’s not until he’s seen you fly through the training course that he understands where your callsign came from. Small, fast, with a head of curly brown hair and a dangerous glint in your sharp green eyes as you tackle each obstacle with ease. Just like a sparrow, your namesake. Agile, fast, but so painfully timid.
He sees so much of Simon in you—in the guarded expression you don like a mask—it hurts. But, he’s confident. He broke through Simon’s facade long ago, he’ll break through yours too.
It’s a process though. You reject their invites for the most part, only joining them in the rec room on rare occasions. They see you in the mess, since you all sit together at one of the smaller corner tables, but that’s it. It’s ended in more than a few tears and bruised feelings, each of Price’s boys wondering separately—and together—what they’re doing wrong.
Especially because it’s so bloody clear how starved for affection you are, too. Even the most miniscule praise—be it a quick smile, an approving nod, a clap on the back (though he’s noticed those make you flinch)—is enough for you to absolutely radiate happiness. Honestly, if Price didn’t know any better, he’d say you have one very intense praise kink.
One step at a time, John, he ruefully chuckles to himself, you need to get her comfortable first.
After all, you’re one of his charges, and Price may as well be a sheepdog protecting his flock.
Even though Kyle is the first to broach the subject, the entire team sits together one night, working out what feels like a hundred ways to make you feel included. Each of them intent to help you shed your mask, let your old feathers molt and be preened by your new team.
— # —
Really, this should have been easy. You’ve shot hundreds of guns, hundreds of bullets, probably been on a hundred ops by now, and the one time you fail to look over your shoulder, you get shot.
It’s bad enough that this op has been a spectacular failure. You’ve never seen anything go up in flames as quick as this, but here you are. Hundreds of hours of research, planning, travel… and it all ends with absolutely nothing to show for the team’s hard work.
At the very least, you’re all lucky enough to make it out alive. The trek back to your exfil site is cold and miserable, rain beating down and chilling you to the bone. It’s silent, the dour mood crackling in the air like the team’s own personal thunderstorm, and that’s where you begin to panic. Your entire body is tense, drawn like a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment.
It’s your fault, really. You thought the lone sentry in the tower was down, radioed in that it was safe to move up. You thought you’d hit him right in the head, or at least close enough that he would’ve cracked it on the way down. Something—you’re not sure what—gave you away, compromised your position and almost got your entire team killed.
With the intense weather, Nik has no way to land the chopper. It’s only a few hours, but with a bullet lodged firmly in your shoulder that shifts with every movement, you have to bite down hard on your lip to stifle your pained noises. It pierced the skin right next to your tac vest, tearing through muscle and sinew and leaving blood in its wake.
”Alright,” Price finally mutters, breaking the imposing silence. “Ghost, take a look at Sparrow’s shoulder. Gaz, radio Nik and give him our location. Soap and I will stay on guard.”
Ghost is silent when he pulls you aside, thankfully grabbing your non-injured shoulder. He’s not kind or gentle when he pushes you down though, kneeling in front of you with a stone-cold look. Meanwhile, you try—and fail—to suppress your pained whimpers as he digs around for the bullet, until he hits something soft and squishy and you yelp.
”Quit fuckin’ whining!” Ghost barks, his gravelly voice hard. His anger only adds insult to injury, and you worry your lip between your teeth. “I’ve almost got the fuckin’ thing.”
You keep your mouth shut after that, willing your tears away. This is exactly how it started last time too, and now you’ve made one of your COs upset with you. Coupled with the fact that the botched mission is your fault—
You don’t cry. You won’t allow yourself to, turning away silently. The warmth of the lieutenant’s body is overshadowed by how your stomach rolls. Ghost finishes stitching and wrapping your wound without a word of comfort or apology. Instead, he sinks down next to Soap with an easy affection you’ve only ever been able to dream of.
Price’s expression is unreadable as he stares at you. The weight of his gaze is heavy—too heavy—and you find yourself unconsciously shrinking away from its intensity. You know this is the beginning of the end, steeling yourself for what’s to come.
Don’t look them in the eyes. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t squirm. Don’t move until you’re dismissed.
You manage to keep a brave face for the duration of the journey back to Credenhill, not letting your mask crumble even during the debrief. Your voice is clinical as you describe your missteps, toneless and quiet. It’ll all be in the mission report anyway, how your botched shot unraveled everything. There’s no point in trying to save face, not when your failure nearly got your team killed and it’s all your fault.
Your movements are mechanical, rehearsed when you stand. Waiting for the others to file out before following, until Price’s hand lands on your uninjured shoulder. You freeze, not even daring to breathe as he crosses in front of you, blocking your exit.
”Sparrow?” Price’s voice is soft, gentle almost. More kind than you deserve, surely? “Are you okay, lass?”
”Fine, sir,” you mumble, blinking hard so he won’t see the tears gathering in your eyes. “Just tired, I’m sorry.”
Before he can reply, you’re doing what you do best: flying away from your problems just like your namesake. If your performance during the op didn’t seal your fate, the fact that you just ran away from your captain will. The door to your room slams behind you, but you can’t find it in you to care about the noise as you sink down against it, muffling a sob with your hand. This is it, it’s all over, you’ve fucked up and you’re going to be gone. Your place in the 141 was nothing more than a fluke, but where can you even go from here? Any other CO will look at your file and scoff before passing it along, the others had made sure of that.
You are, in a word, completely fucked.
The tears don’t stop as you slowly begin to pack up your room. You don’t have much at least: a few knick knacks from your travels, your fatigues, and a handful of family photos. It all fits in a single duffel bag, the same one you’ve traveled with since the beginning. Your shoulder screams with agony, overexerted in its fragile state, but all of that disappears the moment you hear a knock on your door.
”Sparrow?”
It’s Price.
”Sparrow, I know you’re in here. We need to talk.”
Rubbing the edge of your shirt over your face, you hesitantly open the door. Even if he won’t be your Captain much longer, you can’t deny him, he has more right than you do to be here.
The first thing you notice is the worried knit of his eyebrows, no longer obscured by his signature boonie hat. A weathered blue henley and sweats replace his own fatigues and kit, stocking-clad feet quiet on the floor. No wonder you didn’t hear him coming.
”Can I come in?”
That freezes you for a moment. No one has ever asked to come in before, just barged in. Why isn’t he? Price continues to linger, looking almost as awkward as you feel, before you silently sidestep. He smiles tightly as he enters, motioning for you to close the door as he perches on the edge of your bed and frowns at the duffel.
The weary sigh he releases is enough for your tears to start again.
”Come sit,” he pats the spot beside himself, your leaden legs following the order before your brain catches up. Your sniffles are near silent, but nothing escapes his watchful gaze. “I just want to talk, yeah? Nothing bad, you can relax.”
Somehow that makes you stiffen, even as his shoulder brushes yours. “What’s going on, ‘Ro? Your med eval came back fine. You’re not usually this distant, though. It’s makin’ me and the lads worry.”
When you flinch again, despite how subtle it is, John shakes his head slightly with another sigh. He presses just a bit closer, one hand coming to rest on your back. It’s clear he can feel your hiccups, the way your breath hitches on each inhale, because the circles he begins to draw grow in time with your barely contained sobs. “It’s gonna be okay, little bird. Tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen, yeah? Everything’s gonna be alright.”
And the dam breaks.
You sag against him with a pained noise, uncaring of how unprofessional it is, how if this were anyone else you’d be shoved away in a heartbeat. No, Price just wraps an arm around you to gather you closer, squeezing your bicep comfortingly.
”Please… please don’t make… make me transfer! I’m… I’m sorry, it’s all… my fault! I fucked it up… almost got us all killed—“
”Hey, hey, Sparrow,” Price says, trying to get your attention. It’s not working though, you’re lost to the swirling inferno of your spiraling thoughts and you don’t know which way is up. Your chest tightens, on the verge of hyperventilation as you continue babbling nonsensically.
”Don’t make me go… I’m sorry, I know everyone’s… everyone’s mad at me! And I made… you and Ghost angry, I… I didn’t mean to be bad, please… I promise, I promise, I promise,” you wail, breath hitching on every other noise as you force the words out. “Don’t make me… don’t make me leave… I don’t want to leave! I don’t… don’t want to go… ple—“
”Oh, love…” Price exhales, shifting to wrap both arms around you. You only sob harder as he pulls you into his lap, tucking your head under his bearded chin and encouraging you to curl up small into his chest. “No one’s making you leave, ‘Ro. You belong here, with us. Is that why your things are packed, little bird? Because you thought I was coming in to send you away?”
You manage a timid, miserable nod, hiding your face against his tear-stained shirt. Price tuts softly at you, beginning to rock back and forth with you secure in his arms. “Poor little darling, gettin’ all worked up. No one’s upset with you. Ops go bad, but we all made it home, yeah? All safe and sound and together?”
Another whimpered cry leaves your mouth at his words, his grip tightening. He hasn’t stopped rocking, hasn’t stopped speaking in that low, soothing tone that makes you feel so cherished even though you don’t deserve any of this affection.
“You’ve been feelin’ this for a while.” It’s not a question, but you nod anyway. “Feelin’ like you don’t belong, like you’re not part of this little family too. But Sparrow,” Price pulls you away for a moment, hands coming up to cup your cheeks and wipe your tears away. “That’s never been true. You belong with us, now and always. I’m not letting you go, so I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with us muppets.”
His cheeky smile is enough to encourage your own shy one in return, his sapphire eyes sparkling. “Atta girl, ‘Ro. I know exactly how we can make this all better. How about you go and get cleaned up. I’ll get you something to wear, and then we’re going to join the boys and relax.”
It’s a carefully worded order, but the relief flowing through your veins pushes away any other thoughts. Your Captain is here, he’s going to take care of you, all you need to do is follow him. So you do, taking a few minutes to properly clean yourself and brush your hair out, to wash your face and brush your teeth before you re-dress in your own sweats and a shirt that smells suspiciously like Soap.
Price takes your hand in his once you return, leading you to the door and down the hall to the room next to yours. You’ve never been in here before, though you’ve seen the boys disappear through the threshold often enough. Though… now that you think of it, it’s been a few weeks since anyone went in there…
”We’ve been waiting for you,” Price murmurs, practically reading your thoughts. “Didn’t want to push, wanted you to come in your own time. But this is as much your space as it is everyone else’s, yeah?”
You’re shaking when he nudges you through the door, grip on his hand tightening as you catch sight of Soap, Ghost, and Gaz—now sans plate carriers and tactical pants, trading them for pajamas—lounging on a massive bed in the center of the room, tangled up in each other. You feel… completely out of place, like you’re intruding on their intimate moment even as Price leads you to the bed. Granted… how long has something like this starred in your daydreams? This only confirms just how deep the relationship between the four goes, along with your desperate wish to be part of it… they can’t possibly know about your crush, right?
Oh god, what if this is some sick game, some newly devised torment designed to humiliate and break you? You want to run, but Price is blocking the door.
“Go on,” Price urges. “I’ll be right back.”
Left without any choice, you sit at the edge, stiff and uncomfortable. Ghost reaches for you, sitting up as he grazes a hand over your wound. Neither of you speak, not until a new round of tears begins, with Ghost’s expression softening. Your panic starts anew when he pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.
“I’m sorry for earlier. Shouldn’t ‘ave snapped like I did, jus’ scared me ‘s all. Panicked when I saw you stumble.” He murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “How’s it feelin’? Still hurts?”
You nod once, forcing yourself to relax against his bulky warmth. “It’s… better, thank you, sir.”
Ghost chuckles. “Don’t need t’ call me sir, sweet’eart, not here. Simon, yeah?”
When you shyly nod your acknowledgement, his cheeks lift under the thin mask. It’s nice, enough for you to go willingly as he tugs you backward, cuddling you up to his side. You’re too lost marveling at how gentle he’s being that you miss Price’s return until he presses against your other side and encourages Gaz to get closer too.
To any outsider, your little pile would be quite the odd assortment. Five special forces operators crammed into a single bed, giggling at one of the worst reality shows you’ve ever seen. It’s Gaz who speaks next, voice velvety smooth, rich like chocolate.
”Sparrow? You know we love you, right?” He asks, glancing at you.
”I… I don’t… why?” You ask dumbly. His words hold the hint of something more, something tugging just under the surface.
Soap scoffs. “Don’t be a numpty.”
”English, MacTavish.”
The Scot rolls his eyes, leaning over Simon to lace his fingers in with yours. “You’re part of our team, our family, aye? Loved you since the moment we met you, birdie. Just been waitin’ for you to pop your head outta your nest, feel safe enough to join us. We should’a pushed harder, made you know you’re wanted.”
Price nuzzles into your hair just a bit, enough for you to feel his smile against your scalp, followed by a chaste kiss. “We love you, darling. All of us. Doesn’t matter if we have to tell you a hundred more times, you belong here, with us.”
“Jus’ relax, ‘Ro. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout.” Simon hums.
”We’ve got you, luv,” Kyle adds. “Whatever happens, we face it together.”
This… it’s exactly what you needed, curling up here heals a little piece of your heart. Their words speak of a deeper meaning, an unspoken promise, and with that thought you allow yourself to drift with a sleepy little grin.