Archive of Our Own

"Birdie, your aim's bloody abysmal today!"

You flinch. Of course you do.

At least it's only a little—just a twitch of your shoulder, easy to pass off as your rifle kicking back. It's incredibly unlikely that anyone even notices—but you do, and it torches your focus all over again.

The shot's gone wide. Not by much—you've still hit your mark—but enough to count. You lower your weapon with a frustrated sigh, studying the cluster of holes across your target. All centre mass, well within acceptable ranges, but each one a few centimetres off. Each one proof that your head's just… not in it today, and that your hands are shaking harder than you truly care to admit.

That's the part that stings, really. You shouldn't care, like, at all. Were that a real mark, they'd be dead a half-dozen times over regardless. And besides, this was just supposed to be a friendly round on the range, blowing off steam and having a good time. You were supposed to be getting used to the rhythm of training alongside your team—your team, god, they're… they're your team now. The same four men that you fight alongside and bleed for that hold you when you go quiet and call you pet names like you belong—

That's the problem, isn't it? That this doesn't feel as temporary as it did. That you're letting your guard down and it feels like too much, too fast, because you're comfortable.

You're trying. God, you're trying—letting yourself settle into their closeness and warmth and softness is so much fucking harder than you could've ever imagined.

"C'mon, sweetheart—watch the master at work, aye?"

But then Soap calls you sweetheart, and the whole world tilts.

You're… you're supposed to laugh, right? Tease him back, roll your eyes, maybe toss a cheeky comment his way—that's what people do when they're part of a team, when someone like Johnny grins all cheeky and bright-eyed and entirely himself. And you try—you fucking try—but the laugh that comes out is too loud. Too sharp. You shove your rifle aside and try for a casual saunter, crossing toward him like you're not reeling from his words.

Naturally, your thoughts spiral about fifteen steps ahead.

Did he mean it like that? Is he taking the piss? Was it a joke, or—

Your brain scrambles and crashes as you come to a stop beside him and pretend to watch. His next burst is flawless, naturally—dead centre, clean as anything—and he does it with that infuriating, loose-limbed grace of someone who simply doesn't need to try.

You're not jealous.

You're not.

He's been doing this longer. He's older. The youngest to ever pass selection, not that you're too far behind him in that. And he's got more muscle mass, more bulk, it probably doesn't hurt anywhere near as much when the gun kicks back—

"That's how it's done, birdie!" he crows, cocky but not unkind.

You smile. Nod. Mutter something that you hope sounds like "show-off," in return, because that's the right thing to do, isn't it? That's what a normal teammate would say, and you're trying so hard to be normal and good and fun.

Except normal people don't feel like they're about to throw up in situations like these.

And it's not just the shot, or the name, it's… it's fucking everything. It's the fact that for one fragile, flickering moment, it sounded real. That for a brief glimmer of a moment, you believed he really meant it—and that's dangerous. You're nothing special, just a no-name Sergeant who managed to luck her way into a space she had no right to belong to. And the moment you really, truly believe that you're wanted…

Well. Someone always comes along to take it away at the end.

Which is why, when he looks your way again, you give him another smile. Another snarky comment. And a hasty retreat, making up some pathetic excuse about needing water, to cool off, to be anywhere else so you can breathe.

He says something, but you're already a few dozen steps away by the time you hear his voice. Not that you know what he's said, at any rate. You're too busy trying not to fall apart.

By some miracle, you manage to make it all the way to the 141's barracks before your legs start to buckle. It's nothing dramatic—chances are, no one would even notice if they looked your way—but even so, you duck into the building as quick as you can, beelining for the locker room. Your fingers shake as they fumble with the door, slamming it behind you too fast and too loud—

—then silence.

Your back finds the metal lockers a little rougher than intended, but it works. It's cold. Steady. Strong enough to lean on as you suck in a deep breath—

Sweetheart.

It's not even bad. That's the thing. It just… it feels strange on your tongue as you mouth the word—its letters soft and sharp all at once, almost astringent like the first kiss of tart cranberry jam when you least expect it.

It's not a bad name, and that only makes it more confusing, somehow—you've been called so much worse. Every foul thing under the sun, really: bitch, cunt, whore, worthless, slur after slur spat at your feet from people who only claimed to be toughening you up and ready you for the real world—

So why is this the one that hurts? Why is this the word that feels kind even as it slices you clean open?

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you screw them shut, an all too familiar sting creeping up behind your ribs to settle there, pressing outward as a lump forms in your throat.

He didn't mean it to wound. You know he didn't. It was teasing, banter, something warm and easy just like how he talks to everyone—

—except that everyone has started to include you, and you don't… you don't know how to deal with knowing how it feels to be wanted, and you're so fucking terrified of the moment when it all fades away.

The next time it happens, it's Kyle.

And this time? It's not on the range. Or in the middle of an op. Or during sparring drills where your adrenaline's pumping and gives everything that warped, too-bright edge.

Of course not.

No, this one happens on a sleepy morning. On a quiet, utterly normal fucking day. You've slept like shit again, because even though your room is nice in comparison to literally everywhere else you've ever been… it's still cold, and too big, and too quiet. When you finally roll out of bed, it's with a sigh and a crick in your neck and the kind of throb behind your eyes that promises a headache by mid-morning.

At least Price was kind enough to give you all the day off. It's raining and snowing and sleeting and cold and downright awful outside, and none of you have had a break in weeks. The rec room couch is calling your name, and you might actually fistfight anyone who tries to take the remote from you.

You shuffle into the rec room in your standard-issue and horrifyingly threadbare socks and your thick, warm hoodie, sleeves already draped over your hands. You're half expecting to be alone—it's still early, it's cold, and it's quiet. But you want tea—something hot and sweet that'll chase away the ache in your chest—

—and instead, you find Kyle.

Of course he's up. He's a morning person for some ungodly reason, already bright-eyed and fresh-faced and halfway through a steaming mug. He leans against the counter, casual and perfect and warm in ways you're not entirely sure you'll ever be able to emulate. His curls are still a bit flattened on one side, and his hoodie's inside out, but he looks good. Comfortable and real in a way that makes your throat go a little tight.

When you pad in, he glances over and smiles, all soft and familiar and welcoming.

"Hey, sweetie—tea or coffee?"

You freeze.

Because of course you freeze. It's not even a thing—why are you making it one again? He doesn't blink, doesn't flinch, just lifts his mug in greeting like all of this is the most normal thing in the world.

It probably is, to most normal people.

Sweetie.

It's not as startling as the first time, but unnerving all the same. Softer than Johnny, the edges rounded down and less jagged, less threatening—more like… more like being wrapped in the most plush blanket you could ever imagine. But even that feels wrong, undeserved… what do you do with it?

His smile fades a bit, and you panic, realizing you haven't answered. You're just standing there, gawking instead of replying to a simple question: tea or coffee? You've answered harder ones under fire, with shrapnel in your leg and blood in your mouth, but this time your jaw won't move and your stomach keeps flipping over itself. It's like your body simply doesn't know what to do with itself, with the word or the casual softness or the normalcy of being addressed like someone precious.

You mumble what you hope sounds like tea, but it comes out rough and unsteady enough to make you cringe all over again, not that he seems to notice.

Or maybe he does, and is just too kind to point it out…

You watch as Kyle moves to grab a mug and fill it from the kettle, all the while asking if you want sugar or honey, whether milk is a solid addition or makes you gag, and you let yourself move through the motions. You end up perched on the edge of the sofa, arms wrapped around your chest as you try not to think about the implications of his offer.

It shouldn't mean anything. He calls everyone pet names—you've heard him say love and pet and bruv and darling all with the same rhythm and warmth and fondness in his voice. Hell, he calls Johnny dickface and pet in the same breath most of the time! He even calls Simon love on occasion—more often than anyone dares to even think the word in the lieutenant's direction—and slipped and called Price that once during a briefing before flushing so bright you could see the tips of his ears turn red while Price huffed a laugh.

So maybe it's just Kyle. Maybe he's just… like that. Maybe you're reading into it just because your head's been fucked sideways for years and you don't have a single clue about how to trust any kind word.

But…

He didn't call you anything generic or neutral—not mate, not pal, not bruv… he called you sweetie.

Like you've earned that kind of softness. Like he actually likes seeing you show up and wants you here just for the sake of it, not for what you can give or prove or endure.

He offers that same gentle smile again when he hands off your mug. You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes, though—but you do manage to murmur a quick thanks before tucking yourself back into the corner of the sofa.

And with every sip, you keep coming back to the same question: did he say it because he's kind to everyone—or did he actually, genuinely mean it?

You tell yourself not to hope.

And do it anyway.

The third time, it's Simon—and this one nearly breaks you.

You don't remember the nightmare, not really. Just the aftermath. The panic that shot through you as you jerked away with your heart pounding out of your chest, body tangled and twisted in sheets that feel more like bindings than blankets. Your skin is soaked with sweat, your mouth tastes like ash, and something screams in the darkness loud enough to rouse the dead.

For a gut-wrenching second, you're convinced it's not a dream, or that it's somehow followed you into the waking world—until you fumble for your badge and phone only to realize that it's just a text message, an alert for a stupid drill that has nothing to do with you. With an exhausted grunt, you smack the screen until it quiets, fumbling with the side button until the ringer is all the way off.

The silence that follows is almost worse, though. It's just… it's too quiet, and for a moment you panic all over again. What if something actually happened? What if you misread it and it's not a drill, what if someone's coming for you or one of the boys—

For a moment you consider running into one of the other bedrooms, praying that someone is there to talk you through it—

Get a grip!

There's nothing. Just you and the thud of your pulse behind your ribs and the wheezing gasps of your own breathing as you claw yourself the rest of the way upright. It takes everything you have to shove the blankets away, to ground yourself in the feeling of soft fabric under your palms and not hands wrapping around your arms to drag you into some sharp unknown…

God, you hope that the alarm didn't wake anyone else up. You don't think you made any noise, either—surely someone would already be in here if you had, if they had any reason to think you were in proper danger or distress… right? It's happened before, you know it has—there's still a bootprint on Kyle's door from where Price shoved his way in one night to console the sobbing man. There's no doubt in your mind he'd do the same for you.

Eventually—and with that thought in mind—you manage to drag yourself upright, even though every inch of your body aches with stiffness and tension coiled tight in your shoulders and all the way down your spine. You need something to anchor you. Water, maybe. Something real that you can touch and hold and feel.

So you slip out of bed.

The barracks are cold tonight. Your feet pad quietly across the frigid linoleum, bare and careful, and every step stings a little more than the last. Each step feels like a lifetime, but you know them by heart at this point—a half-dozen to the mouth of the hallway, then another three past the corner, a left turn and five more to the sink. The routine calms you.

At least, until you reach the sink and hesitate.

The air smells faintly of last night's curry, still. Moonlight glints off the rim of the glass you'd left out earlier, and you reach for it with trembling fingers. It slips from your grasp, clinking hard against the basin, and your heart stutters and stops—

—you scream as they pulled you through the window, the shards tearing your palms to ribbons as you fight to wrench away, sobbing for your team, for someone on patrol, for anyone to come find you—

—but it doesn't break.

Your next attempt to fill it is mildly more successful, the tap sputtering to life and pattering against the sink when you finally move to take a sip. The water itself is ice cold, biting at your lips and tongue as you drink in slow, shaky sips, and you have to force yourself to swallow rather than gulp it down like you're drowning, even though you feel like you are.

But even after you're done and the glass is rinsed and set aside… you can't bring yourself to move. You linger, arms braced against the counter, shoulders tight and head down like you're responsible for holding the entire building up with your body alone.

And, thanks to the echo of your shaky breaths, you don't hear the incoming footsteps until they're nearly on top of you. Heavy, deliberate, absolutely not sneaky or trying to surprise you, but you jump anyway and twist halfway around, adrenaline surging all over again—

It's only Ghost.

If this were any other moment, you'd laugh at that. Only Ghost. Like he's not the most dangerous man you've ever met. Like he couldn't snap your spine in two with the flick of his wrist.

Except… when he stops—only a couple steps away from where you're desperately trying to contain your trembling—you're almost convinced he's a figment of your imagination, too. Too still. Too quiet. You blink, and instead of him whole and alive in front of you, all you see is dead eyes and blood streaming down his head—

But then the world swims back into focus as you fixate on the slow rise of his chest as he sucks a deep breath in. He's close enough to touch, but you don't dare move—even dressed down in a hoodie and rumpled sweats, hair mussed and mask obscuring the bottom half of his face, he's still an imposing figure. Not a monster so much as a spectre with the way he hovers, with how it only ever takes him a single look before he's clocked the situation and seen through every wall you try to keep up.

And still he doesn't move. Not yet.

Instead, he speaks—soft, low, gentle in a way you weren't expecting—

"You're alright, sweet'eart."

It's not a question—it's a promise. A lifeline thrown into deep water, but instead of reaching for it, you freeze.

He steps closer, and his hand—warm, solid, steady—comes to rest between your shoulder blades. It almost sucks you back in, back to the hands curling around your ribs to wrench you open, to dip into the very core of your being and pull you apart from the inside out, but… it's Ghost. Not the men who came for you in your dreams, who dragged you from your barracks and forced you to watch as they executed your team before your very eyes, leaving you to crumble to your knees in the aftermath as you cradled their broken bodies and sobbed for a god you weren't sure existed—

He'd never hurt me, you remind yourself. At least… not intentionally.

You still can't decide whether to shrink back or lean into it, though.

"Go on," he murmurs. "Breathe."

It should help.

It almost does.

But it's that damn word again that undoes you.

Sweet'eart. It feels like armor, almost. A shield.

It's not cruel, or mocking, or teasing… it's real. You know it is, because it's coming from him—the man who rarely speaks without purpose, whos words are guarded almost as much as his face. He lets the others tease and coddle, but rarely joins in himself, preferring to watch from the corners like a wraith.

But he saw you, braced and shaking and seconds from falling apart, and called you that.

What's worse is for a breath—a fragile, awful, aching moment—you almost give in. Your weight shifts ever so slightly, like you're ready to lean back into the warmth of his palm. Except the moment is so full, so gentle, it snaps something deep in your chest instead.

You flinch. It's not violent, but enough that he lifts his hand, and that makes you want to weep because how could the absence of that be so much worse than the comfort? He doesn't press you, either, and that…

You think he murmurs something—something soft, something reassuring—but you're already moving. Back to your room. Back to the dark. Back to safety or distance or whatever it is that you cling to in order to not fall apart in front of them.

And when morning comes proper… you don't speak to him. You don't say a word—not at breakfast, not on the range, not during drills—because if Simon Riley looks at you when you're raw and half-shattered and calls you sweetheart like he means it?

You don't know what to do with that. If he's holding space for you to be soft, even with him… what if the others mean it, too?

The fourth time? It's Price.

You're already in the transport. Helmet snug against your head, rifle slung across your back, and plate carrier cinched so tight you can feel your ribs shoving against it with each breath. The floor vibrates beneath your boots as the hum of the engine grows louder with each passing second. Everyone's quiet, but that's how it always is right before the plane takes off. Final gear checks, last-minute comms syncs, adrenaline crackling through the air like a lightning storm reaching its peak.

It's not your first op with them. Not even your first major one—but it's your first since things started shifting. Since the big bed. Since your voice cracked in the dark and someone—all of them—came running.

That's what makes it different.

But even so, you're still focused. Dialed in. You double-check the straps on your thigh holster, mentally going over everything in your kit—knife, med pack, extra mags. The rhythm helps. It keeps your focus in check, your thoughts on the mission—

—until a gloved hand brushes your elbow. You startle briefly as Price draws close before you even realize he's beside you. It's not his usual rounds, not yet, and that only serves to throw you off—what is he doing?

He slips something small and folded behind one of your mags—a folded note of some kind. You glance up, the question already forming on your lips, but he speaks before you can. "Not 'till we're wheels up again," he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear. "That's an order, Sergeant."

You nod automatically, though your fingers twitch at your sides. Price gives a single, approving dip of his chin. And then steps away like nothing happened. Like he didn't just throw off the little ritual he performs before each op, picking up his usual circuit without sparing you a second glance.

One by one, he circles the team, expression partially shaded by his own helmet as his long strides eat the space between him and his intended target.

He starts with Ghost. Always with Ghost.

They speak low and soft, eyes locked for a few heartbeats too long to be considered casual. It ends with a helmet-to-helmet knock, barely a whisper of a touch, but one so charged you can feel it vibrate through the cabin like an earthquake.

Gaz is next. Their exchange is warmer, lighter—you watch as Kyle leans in a bit, grinning like he always does even under tension. You can't hear the words, but you don't need to—the rhythm is there. You've watched it from afar enough to memorize it like a dance: a touch to the arm, a quiet few words, and that helmet tap that means come back whole.

Soap's ritual is a little louder—Price murmurs something, Johnny fires back just as quick, they both smirk, and Price thunks their helmets together a little harder like he's trying to prove a point.

It's… sweet. All of it. Everyone gets a moment, and that's one of the many things that sets the 141 apart from any other unit—honestly, you'd have to be completely oblivious to not see the unyielding devotion these four hold for each other.

And then he turns toward you.

Your heart lurches into your throat.

And really, it's not new—but you're not sure when you started expecting that you'd be included in this little ritual. Something in you aches for it every time, only satiated when it happens, even though you have no clue what to do with it in the moment.

Your pulse stutters when he steps into your space and the toes of his boots kiss yours. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't stall like he's considering passing you by—just carries that same surety he always has.

When he stops in front of you, you almost have to crane your neck to meet his eyes even though every instinct screams at you to do the opposite, to fold in and make yourself small. But you don't. You square your shoulders and let his shadow fall over you.

Price leans in, and your helmets meet in a quiet thunk, leaving the two of you close enough to share breaths—

"Be careful, sweetheart."

—and even though his voice is steady as bedrock, you can't help but feel like the world's fallen out from under your feet.

Sweetheart. It warms you all over, leaves your head spinning as you hold his gaze—

Your breath catches in your throat, and even though you open your mouth, nothing comes out. You're frozen stiff—can't manage a nod, a reply, not even a nervous giggle like you're prone to do when Soap and Gaz have gotten you wound up like a top. Not even the sudden rush of heat climbing your chest—pressing behind your ribs, flaring over your cheeks—thaws you.

What if he meant it?

What if he didn't?

It's too much—either way, it's too much.

Meanwhile, Price doesn't blink. Or smirk. Or tease. Which could mean one of two things: either he doesn't realize that he's just unmade you completely… or he does, and he's waiting to see if you'll pick yourself back up after or get yourself killed out there so he doesn't have to deal with it anymore.

Quite honestly, you're not sure which one's worse.

He lifts a hand instead, steady and warm, patting twice at your shoulder and once at your chest—right over your sternum, over your plate carrier the same way you've seen him do to Soap when he gets too wound up, or Gaz when he starts to overthink, or Ghost when he gets broodier than usual.

Steady now, the touch says.

By the time you find your voice, he's already moving—turned away and onto the next step, leaving you there with the echo of that fucking word ringing in your ears louder than any gunfire ever has.

The moment the ramp drops, you're moving—the five of you streaming out in perfect sync, boots thudding against foreign soil, lungs stinging with dust and diesel and nerves. It's all muscle memory now—there's no room to flinch or hesitate when your body knows what needs to be done.

But your head's still not clear. Not when your Captain's voice keeps echoing in your thoughts, over and over like the words are on parade:

Be careful, sweetheart.

You don't stumble, even though your ribs feel like someone's cinched a belt around them and keeps tugging—tight and unyielding as the strap of your plate carrier beneath Price's steady palm. You don't shake, even though you haven't made peace with the way he said it—all soft and warm and maddeningly casual, like it wasn't meant to crack you wide open.

You've been trained well. You execute clean. And you thank god that no one can see how you tremble inside.

It's instinct, at first—your angles are tight, your footwork is clean, and your rifle barely wavers with each controlled breath. The stock presses firm against your shoulder, as grounding and solid as Ghost at your back. You're careful. Efficient. Good.

God, you try so hard to be good, because such a huge part of you still feels like she needs to earn this, to prove that the praise they've so freely given you is deserved—

—and they notice.

"Sniper, two o'clock, rooftop—"

Bang. One shot. Clean through the head. "Confirmed," you mutter into your comms, watching the body crumple and fold.

"Nice one, love," Gaz replies, warm and easy. His voice slides through your headset like he's right at your shoulder instead of a few dozen meters out, like it's normal, like it costs him nothing.

And maybe it doesn't, but for you? It's not pain, or shame, or something sharp waiting to cut— it's warmth. Sudden, unfamiliar warmth.

You go still for the briefest moment. You don't falter, but your grip on your rifle tightens as you blink once—hard—trying to ground yourself in the texture of the forestock in your gloves and the weight against your palm.

Love.

It's Soap's voice that cuts through next, a few minutes later as you clear a room—two tangos downed by your gun before they even know you're coming, corners clean—and as you sweep your gaze across the threshold, your comms crackle once again.

"Atta bonnie lass! Oi, Price—maybe we should call 'er 'Suds' instead, she might give me a run for it!"

The words burst from him like a flare, bright and reckless as they crackle through your headset until it feels like he's right in your ear, grinning like the menace you know him to be. It hits fast with a rush of warmth that spreads under your skin like sunshine on a cloudy day before bathing over you in beaming, bright rays. It loosens something tight in your chest before you can stop it, and your lips twitch into something that's almost a smile. Your pulse kicks—not from the gunfire, but from him, from feeling like you've done something worth gold stars and fireworks.

Bonnie lass. Scots, this time. You remember Soap teaching you a bit one late night—bonnie means beautiful. Beautiful girl. You mangled the pronunciation, sure, but he'd smiled at you so, so wide anyway.

Your last target is close. You feel it in your bones, still buzzing in the aftermath of two compliments, two pet names in as many minutes—but instead of unnerving you, it only serves to make you sharper. You stack behind Ghost at the final threshold, eyes locked on the broad line of his shoulders and the steady rise and fall beneath his kit.

All it takes is a brief nod. A flash of gloved fingers—three, two, one.

Execute.

His boot splinters the lock, and the door flies wide. You're already moving, already sighted—one clean shot and the target slumps over the intel, dead before surprise can reach his face.

A quick beepbeep comes through your comms—the signal that someone's trying to grab your private channel. You switch on instinct—

"That's it, sweet'eart. Just like that."

—and Ghost's voice washes over you with the kind of certainty you never thought you'd earn from him. It isn't loud or bright—nothing like Soap or Gaz—as it settles in your chest like he knew you'd get there, like he expected this outcome, like… like he trusts you.

Sweet'eart.

The channel switches back before you can even think to reply, and his voice is back again, to all of you— "Target neutralized."

"Solid copy, Ghost," Price's gravelly tone comes through a heartbeat later, and for a moment you think he almost sounds… pleased, from wherever he sits on overwatch. Which makes sense, you suppose—all that's left is to get the intel you came for and get the hell outta dodge, but—

"We'll RV outside the northwest building. Good girl, love. That was a clean kill."

Good girl.

It lands right between your ribs, heavy and warm and real. And this time… this time it doesn't knock you clean off course. It doesn't echo with old cruelty, or half-forgotten memories left to turn jagged and sharp. It doesn't make you want to curl in on yourself to disappear—

You have to swallow the urge to preen, to let that instinctive warmth bloom too fast. So instead, you freeze—only for a heartbeat, just long enough to let it settle—before you move again, to admire the fact that it exists.

This time, your shoulders are looser. Your jaw unclenches. The tight, panicked coil in your chest melts into something warmer as you fall into step behind Ghost and your thoughts curl around those five words like eggs in a nest.

Love. Lass. Sweet'eart. Good girl.

And for the first time… you don't find yourself bracing for the drop. Not as you trek back towards the helo, not as the rotor wash hums through the hull, not as the bird lifts again and signals that the mission's done and you've made it through.

It's only after the dust has settled far below that you remember the note Price slipped into your kit. Your hand twitches for it again, just like it had earlier, and this time you let it. Your fingers brush against the folded paper, warmed from your body where it'd waited for you.

Not 'till we're wheels up again.

You huff a quiet breath at that, almost a laugh. You'd forgotten about the entire thing the second your boots hit the ground, instinctively following orders and casting… whatever this may be from your thoughts. You spare a quick glance up at the men around you before carefully unfolding it.

And there, scrawled in Price's neat hand—

You don't have to earn this. You already belong.

The words sit heavy in your hands. Steady. Certain. And this time… you think you can let yourself believe it, too.