Archive of Our Own

Ghost was having a great day. A nightmare free sleep followed by lots of puppy cuddles first thing when he woke up, and when he got to the shelter, the morning rounds treated him to a glorious total of zero escapees. To add to the strong start, Roach brought him a free second breakfast, by virtue of his abrupt conversion to vegetarianism as an excuse to double back and flirt more with the barista he’d been trying to woo for a solid month now. Ghost would happily consume as many bacon and egg breakfast rolls in the name of wingmanning as Roach needed, so long as he didn’t have to start paying for them. Riley had gotten a little bit of the bacon as a treat, since he wanted the best for his girl but she also deserved to enjoy her retirement, same as he was enjoying his. All in all, it was one of the best possible starts to his day.

Then the bastard with the scar started watching the place. Posted up over the street, leaning back against a wall and glaring at their doors, just barely visible over the print that covered half the windows, declaring them Second Chance Animal Shelter. Dressed in all-black, with sturdy shoes and no identifying logos. Built like he was a fucking tank in his past life. Mohawk, scar bisecting one eye, mean looking face, for all he might be cute if he wasn’t allergic to fucking smiling. He looked like trouble. Fucking screamed it, and he was staring down an animal shelter with a blurb saying they took death-row animals and rehabbed them to be adoptable. There were only a handful of reasons someone who looked like that would be staking out a shelter that took dangerous and unwanted dogs in, and unfortunately, the most likely reason was the worst of them.

He’d had a friend come by a couple times, a guy who looked way nicer. Relaxed, at ease, all big smiles and charm as he sidled up to his mate, putting a hand on his shoulder, making Bastard’s lips twitch or shoulders roll or getting an elbow to his stomach for his smiley troubles. But it was Bastard, not Sleasebag, who ended up approaching the shelter, crossing the road in rapid strides. Ghost signed to Riley hold and guard, watching her rise and sit and lock in on the potentially approaching target. She wouldn’t know whether she was going in with teeth or kisses yet, but she would be ready either way. Ghost slid off his surgical mask, standing up and rolling his shoulders. Bastard was mean looking, but Ghost, with his own scars and his height and the breadth of his shoulders, was downright scary looking, even when he wasn’t trying to be. Maybe Bastard would think twice.

Bastard paused outside the door, lasting half a second, and Ghost desperately willed him to turn around and fuck off and not do what Ghost was fairly certain he was about to do. Since the universe had decided to punish Ghost for enjoying his morning too much, Bastard shoved his way inside, shoulders up, eyes scanning the room. Checking corners, mapping doors and other access points. Noting the camera placements. Great. Fantastic. Superb. Keeps fucking getting better, Ghost thought, biting his tongue from telling the guy to get the hell out right from the get go. He had painfully fucking blue eyes, like a fucking husky, and his pouty lips were twisted up in a snarl, scowling like he was walking into a fight, not a fucking animal rescue.

The guy marched up to the counter, looking even fucking meaner as he went. He almost matched Ghost in both height and brawn, and Ghost wondered if maybe Sleasebag had spotted Ghost on the counter and that was why he’d sent Bastard in his stead. The eye scar was the worst of the ones on his face, but he had countless other little nicks and patches of discoloration that spoke to a life of violence. Worse still was his right arm, pushed up hoodie sleeves making his forearm plain to see. It was riddled with scars that looked years old, but their age didn’t disguise what they were from. Bastard had been mauled by a dog at some point, arm torn up from wrist to elbow, pink and white scars a testament to the brutality of the attack. He was lucky to still have use of that arm, after bites like that.

His other hand was in the pocket of his hoodie. There was something else in there too - could be phone or wallet or keys or all three. Could also be a weapon. Ghost tried to give people the benefit of the doubt. Try being the operative, because Christ was the man making it hard to do so. He reached the counter, mouth open like he was about to speak, and then his gaze flicked down to Riley, standing to attention beside Ghost.

Bastard froze, every inch of him tensing up, hand in his pocket twitching. Any chance of trying to give the guy the benefit of the doubt was gone. Ghost had a knife on the back of his belt; he’d get the bastard before he could touch her, if he needed to. Riley, being his best girl, didn’t get set off by the apparent hostility, instead cocking her head at Bastard, glancing between him and Ghost, waiting for her orders.

“Is tha’ a fuckin’ war dog?” Bastard spat, glaring at her. Scottish - Ghost would add that to the list of details he’d be giving the police and other shelters once he got Bastard out. More important right now was why he called her a war dog - was it because she was a breed favoured by the military and he knew it, or had he pegged her as a veteran on sight? How much danger was his girl in by virtue of Bastard thinking she was combat-trained? If he was smart, he’d know he’d die before he got her away from Ghost. Then again, it was idiotic to approach a shelter so plainly when you were Bastard’s flavour of scum of the earth, so maybe he would be too stupid to realise that Riley, for all she was now a service dog, was still very much capable of - and trained to - take throats out.

“Yes,” Ghost replied, impassive for the time being. At least until there was something more concrete so that when Ghost snapped Bastard’s fucking neck he could have some kind of legal defense. Not that he’d need it, with Roach on with him today. They’d have any traces of the guy’s presence scrubbed before Sleasebag even realised he was missing, if it came to it.

“Is it gonna stay put?” Bastard demanded, still glaring at Riley.

“Until I tell her to, yeah,” Ghost said, watching the guy’s hackles go up even worse.

“Don’t fuckin’ tell her to, then.”

“You here for a reason other than complaining about there being a dog in an animal shelter?” Ghost asked, voice a lot harder than it had been so far, the very edges of a threat sneaking in despite Ghost’s best effort at remaining neutral. He had an unknown hostile glaring at his baby girl; he could hardly be blamed for it, given how much Bastard was begging to get his arse kicked. The guy’s glare finally left Riley, instead turning on Ghost for half a second before flicking back to her, like he expected her to start moving the second he wasn’t watching her. She didn’t, and she wouldn’t; not until Ghost told her to attack, assuming Bastard didn’t give Ghost a good enough reason for why he was making himself Ghost’s problem. He finally met Ghost’s eyes, jaw tight.

“Ah need a dog,” the man spat, lip curling.

Great. Fucking superb. His delicious breakfast roll was well and truly lead in his stomach. Sure, he hasn’t had to kill someone in almost six years, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten how. It’ll be messy, especially if he needs to call on Riley. He’d rather leave his best girl out of it, though - she was retired, and while they still trained some of her army skills, she seemingly much preferred making people happy over making them dead. And if Bastard had a weapon, Ghost would die before he’d let it anywhere near her.

He was getting ahead of himself. Asking for a dog wasn’t illegal; he needed more than that to so much as kick him out, let alone gut him. If nothing else he should do it the smart way - get something traceable about the guy, if possible. That way he could make a nice formal report, possibly get some leads on other agents, and then hunt Bastard for sport in his own time.

“Yeah?” Ghost replied, perfectly neutral, letting Bastard take the lead in digging his own grave.

“Somethin’ that listens well. Like one of them things, ah ken they’re smart,” Bastard said, nodding to Riley with another downward twitch of his lips, “But… Not one of them. Somethin’ not so mean lookin’. Smaller, maybe. Somethin’ that isnae gonna bite.”

Nope, no fucking more. Ghost had every inch of the man’s face memorised and that would be more than enough. He’d get Roach in on it, and between them and Alex and Farah, it wouldn’t take long for them to track him and Sleasebag and the rest of their fucking ring down. They’d clean house and kill every single one of the fucker’s who were involved in the dog fighting and save as many of the dogs as they could. The shelter wouldn’t have enough room, assuming the ring was well established and had more than a few victims bouncing around, but they’d make it work. And Ghost would make sure every shelter in the area was on high alert too. For now, Bastard needed to be out, and not fucking glaring at Ghost’s best friend like she was on his lineup as a potential new victim.

“You need to leave,” Ghost snapped, and Bastard had the audacity to look indignant, rearing back. Riley picked up on his tone, and her hackles started to rise, head dipping a bit. No teeth yet, no standing, no scary-face. But she knew he wasn’t happy, and that had her on guard.

Instead of squaring up, picking the fight Ghost was begging for, the guy… blanched. Shifted a half-step back, eyes locked onto Riley. He was breathing like he’d copped a gut punch, like he couldn’t quite get the air in. Bastard backed away, and Ghost spared Riley another glance to check on her. She looked… anxious. Not just riled up from Ghost’s displeasure, but watching Bastard with the same kind of desperation she had whenever she saw a crying child or panicking adult or someone else otherwise in need of her well-earned Psychiatric Service Animal qualification. She was whining low and constant, shifting on her feet, glancing between Ghost and Bastard like she wanted to go after the guy to make him feel better, not because she wanted to rip his throat out the same way Ghost did.

Riley’s shiftiness didn’t help in the slightest, Bastard’s breathing picking up again and his shoulders tucking in, fist clenching and arms pressing tight to his torso. Lessening the ease of her finding a bite point, if she came after him. It was another damning mark against him - most people didn’t instinctively lock their bodies down to make it harder to be bitten when they met an anxious dog. People who worked with dogs did that. People who were used to being bitten did it, and it only cemented Ghost’s certainty that Bastard was exactly the kind of piece of shit Ghost had pegged him as.

As a precaution, still all too aware that he might be hiding a weapon, Ghost signed hold to Riley again. Bastard had the audacity to flinch at the gesture. Must know that they’re commands, but not what commands - it’d be an advantage; he could instruct Riley to make some noise and scare the bastard while Ghost went for him, if Bastard was too fucking stupid to cut his losses and run while he still could.

Ghost’s dreams of killing the piece of shit rapidly dried up when Riley, for the first time since they had started working together, disobeyed a direct order. Instead of staying put in her guard position, she whined again, this time louder, before dropping to the ground. She flopped over onto her side and twisted over onto her back, curling up with a wagging tail and lolling tongue, looking up at Bastard in her cutesy position. Cutesy was one they had devised when she started ambassador work for the shelter; they needed something that showed she was harmless when people looked at her and saw her scars and her teeth and thought she was dangerous first and friendly last.

Ghost glanced back at Bastard in time to see his face soften, shoulders shifting down ever so slightly, something gentle and pained in his expression as he looked at her.

“Ah’m no’ gonna pat ye, ‘lil lady. Sorry, lassie,” Bastard sighed, and for a brief, beautiful moment, Ghost had it all wrong and everything was fine and the attractive, dangerous man was not, in fact, a career animal abuser, but then he had to open his fucking mouth again. “I dinnae pat dogs, girl.”

Wants a dog but won’t fucking pat one. Yeah, as fucking if Ghost was letting him live long enough to go near any other dog in this city.

“Leave,” Ghost snarled, signing mean to Riley to call her to arms. She snapped back up into position cleanly, but instead of her terrifying war face, her tail was between her legs as she glanced between Bastard and Ghost, hackles down and lip lifted but not snarling fully, ears down. She kept looking at Ghost like he was the one fucking up, like he’d given her a bad order, and Ghost really, really did not need his best girl going renegade when someone who wouldn’t even balk at her death was right there.

Riley’s limp-tailed display didn’t seem to matter much, as it still had the intended effect. Bastard was rapidly backing up, gaze flicking either side of the desk once it blocked his sightline of her. He didn’t turn his back, and he didn’t pull his hidden hand from his pocket. Just backed up to the door, opening it while still checking for Riley. The second the door closed behind him, he sprinted down the street, and Ghost gave himself three full cycles of deep breathing before he moved. Riley started booping him almost immediately, pressing her nose into his thigh and hip insistently.

He got the front door locked, flipped the sign to say they were closed, and then disappeared behind the counter to hit the deck. Riley climbed on top of him immediately, wriggling around and digging her elbows in as she got herself situated to weigh down his torso and lick at his temple simultaneously. Ghost wrapped his arms around her tight, squeezing her and scritching at her ears.

“You’re alright, yeah, baby girl?” he muttered to her, getting her tongue in his ear and then over his eyeball in rapid succession. “I’m okay, Riley-girl, I’m good. You’re good. We’re safe. And I’m gonna kill him, yeah? So you’re gonna be nice and safe, and so will all your friends here, sweet girl.”

The combination of her weight and the kisses, and her whining in his ear, kept Ghost grounded through the rage and anxiety. Under her careful tending, the horrible images of whatever the guy had in his pocket ending Riley’s life began to diminish. Soon, he’d get up, go check the CCTV and pull all the angles of the guy. Get a proper write up of what they were looking for that he could pass along to the others. Do the ring-around to all the other shelters and the pound so they’d know there were people looking for bait dogs out and about. For now, he kept reassuring Riley - and himself, more than anything - that they were both safe, that he would protect her, that things were gonna be okay.

Riley was completely unphased by Ghost’s promises, far more focused on completing her duty of making sure he doesn’t lose his fucking mind after being set off. She kept up her kisses and her fuzzy, boney weighted blanket routine the whole way through Ghost plotting what he was going to need to find Bastard and make him regret surviving infancy. She stayed close for a while after, even after he set aside his planning. Instead, he let himself breathe, enjoying the comfort and security of Riley lying on top of him, keeping him grounded and safe. But life was never easy, even for the best of men, and Ghost knew he wasn’t anything fucking close. The come-down from his loop of rage and panic was interrupted by someone knocking, loud and insistent, on the front door.

Didn’t people have fucking eyes anymore? It said closed for a reason. Roach should be in the middle of a rehab session with one of their newest shelter members; Ghost couldn’t summon him to take over yet. Maybe he could just keep lying there and they’d get the picture eventually. Or maybe they saw his legs sticking out from the end of the front desk and this was a welfare check, not someone enquiring about adopting. Or maybe it was someone there about the looking for volunteers signs; if that were the case, Ghost would end up having the shit kicked out of him for not trying to entice them into signing up. Ghost ignored it for a few seconds longer, enjoying the cuddles for as long as he could, before directing Riley off him and standing.

Immediately, he wished he’d killed Bastard when he had the chance. The non-stop knocking was Sleasebag, standing at the door and glaring - looking fucking pissed - down the street at something. Or maybe someone. Sleasebag was shorter and leaner and less fucked up looking, but still with a handful of notable scars. Nothing that looked like dog bites, but that didn’t mean shit. Sleasebag lit up when he looked inside and saw Ghost, smiling his million-watt smile and looking every bit the kind of smarmy, snake oil salesman type that would come in with a perfect story and pictures of a family that wasn’t his and great past experience with dogs before asking, in a deceptively roundabout way, about dogs who would make perfect bait.

On the one hand, Ghost could chase him off; find him through Bastard, when the time came. All he’d need to do is make it obvious that he knows who Sleasebag is with, and that neither of them are welcome. On the other, he could let the slimeball in, try to get a name, get more CCTV angles, see if he can get enough detail so his team could divide and conquer. If they killed Bastard first and Sleasebag got wind of it, then he and the rest of their ring could be in the dust before Ghost and his team even reconvened. At the very least, Sleasebag had both hands visible and nowhere he could hide anything big, wearing a t-shirt and jeans and runners, not steel-toe boots like Bastard had been.

Ghost signed hold to Riley, watching her assuming her waiting position again. When there were no signs of her earlier insubordination, he headed to the door wearing the closest thing to a smile he could muster. He checked his knife’s position as he popped the lock, watching Sleasebag glare down the street again right as Ghost started to open the door. There were no sounds of clacking nails or whining behind him; Riley was staying put. His good girl, he’d have to get her some of her favourite bickies once this was over.

“Sorry about that. Having a break.”

“No problem man, I don’t blame you. Hang on a sec, I gotta get my mate to stop being chickenshit,” Sleasebag grinned, stepping half a foot inside to prop the door open before leaning back to glare around the corner again. Ghost tensed, not liking how easily Sleasebag blocked off the first line of defence Ghost had. There’d be no slamming the door shut again without having to manhandle him out, first. Instead, Ghost retreated to the counter, staying in front of it and signing to Riley to circle the desk and sit beside him. Let Sleasebag get a good look at what, exactly, his friend had run from.

“Soap!” Sleasebag yelled down the street, smile gone and replaced by the kind of pissed off expression Ghost hadn’t seen since the last time a drill sergeant had been on his arse. Riley’s head dipped a little at the tone, and Ghost gestured for her to come sit between his legs, knees pressing into her shoulders to keep them both grounded.

Faintly, Ghost heard the response - a short, sharp, and distinctly Scottish No.

“Soap, mate, I swear to fuck. You tanked a fucking bomb, you can handle a fucking Maltese, you wanker,” Sleasebag spat, anger evident in every inch of him.

What? What. Okay, what?

Ghost took the delay in Bastard’s approach to claw back some semblance of grace, of understanding, and to try and reset the entire scene to read it as something other than the fucking obvious. Surely there wasn’t anything else going on - not with two of the most blatantly trouble looking men this fucking city had to offer. This was hardly absolving Bastard, but there was a tiny, obnoxious sliver of doubt starting to creep up Ghost’s spine. He didn’t let up on his big and scary routine, face still hard, arms still crossed, Riley still on guard. But if this panned out, he very well could end up having to apologise in the immediate future.

“Look where it left me, ya prick!” Bastard yelled back, tacking on, “And that’s a fuckin’ chocolate, isnae?”

“They’re the little old lady white rat dogs,” Sleasebag clarified.

“Fuck that.”

“Soap,” Sleasebag said again, this time pleading, all traces of hardass with the orders disappearing in favour of something a lot more genuine. Something a lot more desperate. Bastard’s shadow crept along the printed windows, slowing more and more until he stopped a couple meters shy of the door. Ghost had to strain to hear him now that he wasn’t yelling back, but he managed to catch the gist of what he said next.

“Is the fuckin’ war dog still there? Goofy lookin’ lass with the da like a brick shit house?”

Sleasebag looked over at Ghost, and then at Riley, stationed between his legs and watching Sleasebag as intently as Ghost was. He made direct eye contact with them both, face perfectly blank, before turning back towards Bastard.

“No,” Sleasebag lied. Bastard’s shadow crept a little bit closer, stopping just shy of being able to be seen - and see through - the doors.

“I cannae go back in there if there’s a fuckin’ shepherd in there, Gaz, I’ll piss masel and then I’ll end up hurtin’ someone. I dinnae want that to be her. Or her da.”

Oh. Ah, fuck. That was significantly more points in favour of Bastard being a way-out-of-his-depth, slightly inept, but completely genuine enquirer. And it was also an… unexpectedly sweet sentiment, that despite knowing she’s a war dog and seeing Ghost’s… everything, he was still worried about hurting them. Hurting her, first, and Ghost second, to boot. Ghost wasn’t going to get his hopes up; this could always be a one-two act. Something to make him let his guard down so they’d be able to scope out what dogs they had and how many they might want to take. But on the off chance Ghost had it completely wrong, and the guy was here for a legitimate reason and also legitimately terrified…

Sleasebag looked at Ghost and Riley again.

“Don’t think you could hurt them, mate. C’mon, Suds, I know you’re scared. But we gotta start at some point and the clock is fucking ticking. We find you a good match and it’s no more waking up scared because you can’t figure out a fucking lightswitch.”

“Aye, I’ll wake up scared ‘coz there’s a fuckin’ dog over me instead, nevermind if it can turn the fuckin’ light on for me.”

Well. Fuck. It wasn’t like they hadn’t helped people find dogs suitable for service animal jobs before; the rehab work they did often went beyond reducing fear and reactivity and all the way into training with complex commands. But this absolutely had to still be bullshit, right? Bastard was a walking red flag, and so was Sleasebag with his easy smile and perfect cover story. Ghost couldn’t have fucked it that badly, for all Bastard hadn’t helped. The man couldn’t just have some sort of special needs and some probably awful past trauma barring him from getting a pet to help. He had to be a piece of shit.

Ghost was more than okay playing the bad guy when he turned people away because they lacked the skills or lifestyle needed to take care of the dog they wanted. He’d also gladly tear new arseholes for anyone stupid enough to fuck around with animal welfare, be it thinking training and reinforcing training unnecessary, not caring for their pets diet, or, for especially fucking foolish people, thinking they could source fighting dogs from their shelter. He didn’t want to be the guy who made shit worse for someone in need, though.

Bastard finally caught up, stepping into the building behind Sleasebag with his head down and his shoulders up. Ghost’s stomach started to churn when he got a better look at the crown of Bastard’s head; a whole chunk of the top, snug up to his ‘hawk, was a mess of scar tissue. The flesh was indented slightly, like the bone underneath was malformed. Or missing, maybe, depending on just how bad the wound had been. It didn’t look pretty.

When Bastard finally looked up, seeing Ghost posted up with his arms still crossed and his resting I’ll kill you face on, Riley on guard between his legs, he tried to turn tail again. Ghost got another good look at his face before he could turn himself around again, and fucking hell, Ghost had fucked up. Bastard looked like he’d been crying, and Ghost’s justification that maybe, just maybe, this was a ploy was rapidly losing any validity. He needed to get the situation, and himself, under control, before he traumatised the poor bastard more than he already seemed to be.

Sleasebag stopped Bastard, snagging the arm with the hand that had stayed tucked in its pocket, wincing immediately and adjusting his hand to the guy’s shoulder. Bit late for it, though; the grab caused Bastard’s hidden hand to fall out of his pocket, and Ghost was once again left reeling by how bad this whole clusterfuck - but especially whatever the hell had happened to Bastard - was. The man had, probably recently, gone through something incredibly brutal, from what his friend said. And even if that wasn’t what caused his hand to be curled in on itself, only two of the fingers moving as he attempted, uncoordinated and laboriously, to get it back in his pocket, whatever it had been was still bad enough that Ghost could at least try to be empathetic. Only so many bad lots you could be handed before something had to give; better Ghost’s pride take a blow than this guy.

Ghost softened, just a bit, careful not to truly one-eighty when there was too much unknown and he’d only just discovered the man was fucked physically. The last thing he wanted was to give the man the impression that Ghost was the sort to equate disability with inferiority. Bastard was still built like he could give Ghost a run for his money; he wasn’t going to do him the disservice of assuming all that muscle and aura of danger wasn’t well and truly practical, not just pretty. Ghost did, however, sign at Riley to lie down, since she seemed to be a large part of the man’s problem.

Sleasebag marched them up to Ghost, keeping a heavy hand on Bastard’s shoulder. Much to Ghost’s surprise, Bastard shifted in front. As they stopped a whole metre and a half from Ghost and Riley, he supposed it wasn’t that much of a surprise, given it put him between them and his friend, Bastard’s eyes never once leaving Riley. Keeping his friend safe from what he perceived as the biggest threat in the room - not the man who matched his build with ten times the scars and two working arms to boot, but the fluffy little gem of a girl desperately wagging her tail at the prospect of new friends.

“Hi, I’m Kyle, and that’s John,” Sleasebag - Kyle - greeted, side stepping Bastard’s - John’s - protective cover only to have John move with him.

“Soap,” John said.

“Call him Soap,” Kyle corrected, “And you can call me Gaz.”

“I’m Ghost,” he replied, not introducing them to Riley as another layer of precaution.

“Nice to meet you, Ghost. Now, Soap here got himself mildly fucking dead last time we were deployed together, and now he needs an assistance dog so I can redeploy next year and not be stuck babying him because his brain doesn’t work right anymore.”

“Ye’re a fuckin’ bawbag, Gaz,” Soap muttered, turning his head to aim the displeasure back at Gaz. He kept Riley in his periphery the entire time, not looking properly away even as he addressed his mate. Christ.

“Shut the fuck up, Soap,” Gaz cheerily replied, stepping out from behind Soap once again with an amicable smile. This time he blocked Soap’s attempt at guarding him with the same almost threatening hand on the shoulder he’d marched him inside with. To Ghost, Gaz added, “He was my Captain, hasn’t shaken the overprotectiveness yet. Don’t mind him.”

Soap, for half a second, shot a vicious glare at Gaz before his gaze snapped back to Riley, tensing like in the fraction of a moment he’d looked away she would have managed to cross the distance and go for him or his friend. A lot of faith in her ability to move fast and kill faster. He didn’t need to know it was well founded, so Ghost kept any commentary to himself. Riley stayed steady between his legs, barring her tail that was still moving fast enough to hook her up to a generator and power the entire shelter.

“So, Ghost. We’re in the market for a smart dog, ideally on the younger side but not a puppy, who is big enough to reach light switches and carry water bottles and boxes of meds and that kind of thing. Also one who isn’t prone to trying to eat anything they come across, carrying the meds and his emotional support crisis snacks is pretty important. We’ve already looked into training programs and we’ve got the money, determination, and time to see them through, just need to find a dog with the right aptitude. That chucklefuck won’t shit himself on sight over.”

“Fuck. You.”

Gaz ignored Soap entirely, so Ghost followed his cue.

“You sound like you’ve said that before.”

“I have. This is the third place we’ve tried; the one on Main Road refused to work with someone afraid of dogs, and the one on Glennview doesn’t put much work into training their dogs to begin with, and Soap was… put off by that.”

“Ye can say I all but shat ma fuckin’ pants, wanker. It’s fuckin’ true. Half of ‘em as big as I am and none of them knowin’ what the fuck down means. Or ‘fuck off’ for that matter.”

Ghost couldn’t help his lips twitching up.

“Fuck off,” Soap said, still not looking away from Riley but clearly catching Ghost’s amusement all the same, the emphatic middle finger he was aiming at them both well and truly accenting his point.

“Suffice to say we only actually got one meet and greet with me running interference the whole time. The rest had to stay in their kennels, and none showed the kind of temperament we’re hoping for.”

“Well. You make a better case for him than he does for himself.”

“It was his turn to try and y’know, self-advocate and all that fun therapy shite. Unfortunately, he can run grinning into a fucking fire fight but a bichon-frese might as well be the Devil.”

“The fuck is that? No, fuck that, ah don’t care. Whatever the fuck it is, I want nothin’ to do with it.”

“Small, curly, white,” Ghost explained.

“Ain’t that the fuckin’ Maltese?”

“Those are small, long, straight fur, and white.”

Soap’s scowl got worse, impressively. Ghost wouldn’t be surprised to learn he had a headache from all the scowling and glaring and general despondency. Now that he knew the pissy behaviour wasn’t hostility, just fear, Ghost found the scowl kind of cute. Guy was pretty, what could he say.

“There’s also Bologneses.”

“That’s a fuckin’ food.”

“And a dog.”

“Y’know what? Fuck all of this. I’m done. We’re leaving, Gaz.”

“No the fuck we’re not,” Gaz snapped, killing any chances of them bowing out gracefully.

“Gettin’ fuckin’ mocked -”

“Whoa, hey. Not trying to mock you,” Ghost clarified, realising his fuck up, “And not trying to be an arse. Just teasing. There’s a lot of small white dogs, most people don’t know them.”

“But ye know them all, I guess?” Soap bit out, sounding positively vicious.

“Not even close. Just have a mate with a Bolognese and he’s a cunt about people getting the breed wrong, so I know about them that way. I tend to lump all the small white ones into Bichon Frese or Maltese depending on if they’re curly or not. That’s good enough for me.”

“How the fuck can ye have fuckin’ spagbol as a dog,” Soap muttered, some of the anger seemingly to leave him.

“No harm done if you want to go, though,” Ghost added, for all he didn’t really want to. Ghost was fairly certain that he was completely wrong to begin with and that Soap was not the monster he’d accused him of being, even if the accusations never left his head. He wanted to make up for that; wanted to talk to the man properly. But if anything was going to make amends, letting the poor bastard leave what amounted to some kind of hellscape for him seemed the best idea.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Gaz interceded, “We’re not leaving without at least trying.”

“For fuck’s sake, Gaz, I don’t want to -”

“Can it, Soap. We have nine months. Nine fucking months. I don’t give a flying fuck what you want, because I know what you want isn’t fucking possible. You’re done. And your options are getting a fucking dog, or living with your fucking sister and her kids, because your TBI isn’t gonna be magically fixed through hopes and fucking prayers, and I’m not leaving Price. I’ve already been gone for too fucking long, I start training for re-deployment in October, and then I’m gone again in less than a year. We’re getting you a fucking dog. I’m not letting you fucking kill yourself because you’re a fucking coward.”

The quiet was heavy, oppressive. Ghost kept his mouth shut, but signed relax as subtly as he could to his girl. Soap staring at her still didn’t really help much for keeping it subtle, but her tail had stopped when the yelling started, her gaze locking in the way she did on threats, and the last thing anyone needed right now was the added tension that came from a German shepherd ready to fucking attack. While she didn’t start wagging again, she lost the kinetic energy she’d built up, loosening up again instead of being ready to pounce.

“...Air all ma fuckin’ dirty laundry, why don’t ye?” Soap grumbled, tension leaking from his shoulders in one fell swoop as he let out a resigned sigh.

“I fucking will, if you’re not careful.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. You gonna at least fucking try this time?”

“Kind of hard to want to when there’s a fuckin’ demon dog right fuckin’ there.”

“She’s not a demon,” Ghost protested, unable to stop himself the second Soap had the audacity to talk blatant smack about his girl. “What’s your issue with her?”

“Don’t like whatever she is,” Soap muttered, scowling at her again.

“A dog? Never would have guessed,” Ghost replied, wry. Gaz snorted; Soap’s glare picked up a notch.

“What happened to no more teasin’?”

“Sorry.”

“Not just that she’s a dog, ya bastard. She’s a shepherd, aye?”

“She is. Got an issue in particular with them?”

“Yeah. The skinny ones in particular. The ones without the fluff, that the military has started to love.”

“...Malinois?”

Soap nodded, pausing for a second before he held his working arm up, waving it far too casually for what he was implying with what he interpreted as a hostile right there. When Riley didn’t make a lunge for his arm like she was starving and he was a leg of ham and not a grown ass man, Ghost was fairly certain she earned a slight lessening of the intensity of Soap’s frown.

“I was eight. Fuckers down the road decided one would be the perfect farm dog and did fuck all to train it. Came straight over the paddock fence and after my sister and I half a fuckin’ klick away, ignorin’ it’s name and it’s fuckin’ property line. Bad owners, ah ken. Try explaining that to ma fuckin’ hind brain, though. Can’t do shit with dogs since.”

“What the fuck,” Ghost said, the words bubbling out before he could stop them, “Tell me they didn’t try to use a malinois for livestock.”

“...That’s bad, ah take it?”

“Shepherds, yes, if you train them right. They’re better herders than guardians. My girl I would trust with livestock, but only because she’s been training every single fucking day since her eyes opened and she knows that if I call her back, it’s not just because I need her, it’s because it might not be safe for her. But malinois? They have high fucking prey drives, they love to chase, so for livestock with an inexperienced handler?”

Ghost was crashing out, just a little bit. But instead of his words scaring Soap worse, Soap grinned, and Ghost, bless his stupid dumb gay heart and it’s incredibly poor timing, found himself a little short of breath at the sight. The hapless little grin on his face as he looked at Ghost properly for the first time since he saw Riley was doing funny fucking things to his heart. And the way Riley’s tail started going even as she booped Ghost’s leg in response to his anxiety was making it worse, given his girl so clearly liked the bastard.

Ghost gave Riley the relax sign again, but she ignored him entirely, booping again. Was - oh, fucking hell, if she was reacting to Ghost being a little bit breathless over a cute boy who was trying to overcome his fear and smiled at Ghost in the process, then he was never going to live it down. Roach couldn’t know. Alex sure as fuck couldn’t. Farah would hold out to one-shot him by mocking him for it at the worst possible time, Christ.

“Uh… Is she…”

“I’m anxious. It’s her job to help me deal with that.”

“Ye alright?” Soap asked, shoulders squaring up, gaze going from sweet and smiley to locked in, the kind of expression Ghost recognised all too well from memories of his own superiors and the steadfast determination some of them had that no one suffer unduly. Pretty clear to see why Gaz was still loyal to his former Captain, was friends with the man, when he took something as simple as a stranger feeling anxious so seriously. Be still Ghost’s fucking heart. Seriously, Riley’s boops were getting more intense, Christ. Fucking embarassing.

“Fine. Just pissy about bad fucking owners,” Ghost replied, using the convenient excuse to distract from what was really going on in his head, “It’s owners like that which mean places like this have to exist. People who can’t handle the dog they wanted, or any dog at all, and won’t put the work into them, and then shit like that happens and the dog is blamed. Best case, somewhere like us has room for a dog that won’t behave. Worst case, it’s already too late and there’s a court ordered fucking execution.”

“...Ah did blame the dog, for many years. Thought he were just a mean bastard. Then I got old enough to find out what actually happens to dogs that bite, and that Ma was lyin’ when she said he got moved somewhere better for him. Didnae want that to be the end result.”

“Not your fault when you were just a kid. But exactly why we try not to adopt out to first time owners.”

“Ah.”

Riley stopped booping him at Soap’s small, tragic exhalation. She turned to look at him, locking onto her new target.

“Riley,” Ghost called, signing at her to sit down and stay, because God knew the tiny bit of progress they’d hard-won with Soap would be out the window in an instant if she tried to approach the guy. Too empathetic for her own good, his girl. Or maybe less empathetic and more aware that her job was now Help Anxious Humans and her day thus far had been spent with an abundance of being ordered to not help the anxious human in front of her. He owed her so many treats.

Too little, too late. Soap’s hackles had already gone up again when she turned to look at him, his gaze locking back onto her with the same angry-anxious scowl he’d worn earlier. Not helping Riley’s work drive in the slightest, mind, but Ghost didn’t think much could really be done to help either of them with that at this point.

“You don’t need to worry about her.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Ghost grinned, unable to help himself. Soap glanced up at him again, scowl deepening, before it eased up and the corner of his lips quirked up a tiny bit.

“She’s been my service dog for three years now. Put her through all the bells and whistles with training so she can help me with just about anything I need now. She’s the shelter’s mascot, too. Does a lot of outreach work for fundraising and the sort. Point is, unless I give her the release order or order her to greet you, she won’t go near you.”

“What language is she training in?”

“Mixture of non-English languages and her own custom signs.”

“Nothin’ she’s gonna hear in here by accident, then.”

“Only listens to them from me, either way. She knows what to do if we get separated, and the handful of commands she’ll answer to someone else for are the basics - sit, stay, away, so on.”

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” Gaz said, addressing her directly with a classic baby talk voice and heart eyes so big he looked like he was about to try to run away with her. And not in the way that Ghost had feared.

“With the best little murder face to boot,” Soap added dryly.

“Look at her, she wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“Not entirely true. She was a K9 in the SAS.”

Instead of making Soap tense worse, which Ghost would have gambled, he… softened.

“She was in the SAS?” Soap asked, quiet, a thread of something that ached in his voice.

“Served two years before being medically discharged after a bad op.”

“So she is a war dog?” Gaz said, not waiting for Ghost to answer before turning back to her, “You are a good little murder girl, then, aren’t you? Oh - wait, can I be gushing over her? As a service dog?”

“She’s technically off duty right now, her vest is off. Go for it.”

“Oh, sweet little murder baby! Bet you were the bestest girl at that job, too?”

“According to her record, she was a dream. Bar her affinity for stealing shoes and chewing on them, but nobody’s perfect.”

Ghost turned back to Soap, who was watching Riley again, his gaze far softer this time. Nervous still, undoubtedly, and she was very carefully not making eye contact with any part of Soap or Gaz, instead turning her head between the floor just in front of Soap and Ghost, all but begging for him to send her after her latest self-appointed patient. Instead, Ghost kept his eyes on Soap, watching something terribly pained and terribly soft steal across his face.

“Ye were SAS, little lassie?” Soap said to her, looking at her and not shying away when she realised she was being addressed and looked at him directly. Her tail started to furiously swing again, butt wiggling from the intensity of it, and Ghost owed her anything she liked from the treat cabinet for how she stayed perfectly between his legs.

“Can I say hello?” Gaz asked, and Ghost wanted to give her the release command but he was still very, very conscious of Soap.

“Of course. Her name is Riley. I’ll give her the up command, then the greet one.”

“Gaz, wait -” Soap said, the softness gone as he grabbed the man in sheer panic, one hand landing solidly on his arm to tug him back from his half-step forward and the other trailing significantly less effectively behind. Riley stilled, glancing between Ghost and the commotion. Ghost kept himself steady and at ease, letting both Riley and Soap feed off his calm. Making sure they both knew there was nothing to worry about, business as usual, no one had any need to worry here, least of all Ghost. Riley gave him some impressive side-eye, but he kept himself settled.

“Ease up, Suds,” Gaz said, the softest he’d been towards Soap yet, resting a hand on the one clutching him and squeezing. “She was one of us, Soap. That’s pretty cool, hey? She could’ve ended up working with us some day, and you know how good the SAS pups are. Now she helps her dad out, gets to lounge around all day and enjoy retirement. You know she’s a good girl. You wouldn’t have even let me in the building with her still around if you didn’t believe that.”

One of us, Gaz said. Christ, Ghost’s chest fucking hurt this time, and Riley’s boop to the inside of his knee did little to help. Soap had nodded the second he heard those words, like it made perfect sense, like her being SAS trumped the fear somehow. Ghost got it - he hadn’t really wanted a dog for himself, felt bad about making a dog responsible for his nonsense. But then he’d found out she was a veteran, and… it shifted things for him, too, for all fear wasn’t Ghost’s starting point. If serving was a bonding point that would help Soap warm up to her, Ghost would gladly take it.

Shit, he was thinking like Soap was going to be hanging around, like him warming up to Riley actually mattered, like Ghost would be seeing any more of him than maybe once for a proper sit down to discuss what kind of plan he’s got in mind for all of this and whether the shelter could help or not. Dumbass. Still… if Soap benefited from this, even the tiniest bit, then it will have been worth it.

“Aye - ye’re right, Gaz. Fuck’s sake. Would ye… give her a pat from me, aye?”

Ghost would have to ask Soap to kiss the brick before he pegged it at his head next time, because Christ. The man was terrified, had been for years, and now a dog to the left of the breed that inspired that fear was right there and he was trusting his best friend to her care and asking him to pat her. The ache in Ghost’s chest was obnoxious; Ghost wasn’t going to fucking cry over this. Not now at least, because then the goal of Soap warming up to Riley would be waylaid by his girl tackling him to lick his face and provide canine deep pressure therapy for an hour or three until Ghost’s everything stopped aching over the kind, scared bastard in front of him and the too many relatable things that had come out of him and his friend in the past ten minutes.

“Rog, Cap.”

“Not yer Captain anymore.”

“Captain of my heart, then.”

“Bastard.”

“Loon.”

“Pat the fuckin’ dog, Garrick.”

Ghost grinned again, the easy banter sweet to witness. Gaz gave Soap a sloppy salute, then sat himself on the floor, scooting forward a bit to be closer to Riley - and Ghost, by extension. Ghost pulled himself into the closest semblance of calm, cool, and collected he could manage at this point, and decided to warn Gaz, rather than have him learn the hard way.

“If you sit on the floor, her tongue and your face are going to get to know each other extremely well.”

“My body is ready.”

“Gaz,” Soap hissed, and he was summarily ignored by everyone present.

“Alright then. Riley,” Ghost called, signing greet and pointing her to Gaz.

Gaz held his hand out for her to sniff unprompted, but as promised, Riley went to do her usual shtick of bypassing hands and going straight for putting her tongue up her target’s nostril. She froze two steps in, catching the same sharp inhale from Soap that Ghost and Gaz had. She looked up at Soap, backing half a step away and then, glancing between him and Gaz, slowly and deliberately poked her nose at Gaz’s hand. It was more of a boop than a sniff, and she followed it with moving painfully sedately - for her, at least - to crowd into Gaz’s space. The full body wiggles settled in the second she got a good lick on Gaz’s face, and then Soap was breathing out and Gaz was scrubbing his hands through her fur and Ghost could relax his own fucking shoulders at last.

“If you want, I can grab her rope. She’s allowed tug inside, but don’t throw it or she’ll send herself through a window trying to catch it mid-air,” Ghost offered.

“Absolutely,” Gaz grinned, scooping her up to plonk her on her side in his lap and scrub at her tummy, Riley’s tongue lolling out and still aggressively wriggling from excitement.

“That’s a good girl, huh, Riley? Oh, aren’t you the sweetest, good little war machine you were, huh? Bet you had to be all fierce and mean, but not anymore. Look at that face, this is a much better career, huh, goofy girl,” Gaz mumbled, words interspersed by kissing her head and grabbing her paws to shake them and accepting dog-sog all over his face in return.

Ghost circled the counter to get to her goodies drawer, keeping an eye on Soap as he did. For all the man was watching his worst enemy plant kisses all over his best mate’s face, Soap was doing remarkably well. He was smiling, small and steady, wincing when one of Riley’s over-enthusiastic wiggles sent her foot into Gaz’s cheek, but not freaking out again. Watching like he was enjoying the show, enjoying his friend’s joy. Riley’s joy too, maybe.

Ghost would put money on Gaz having grown up with dogs, maybe even working with a K9 unit at some point himself. He had the kind of ease of comfort with dogs that meant he’d not had any debilitatingly bad experiences like Soap had, but he also offered his hand for Riley to sniff, and each time he went to touch a new part of her, like her paws or her tail or under her chin, he’d telegraph it, touch lightly, and check to see her response. Watching for her body language, understanding what her cues meant and backing off when she wasn’t distinctly enthused about a touch.

If Gaz helped to train both a potential companion dog and Soap himself, then Ghost could see it working out well, someday. Whether or not Soap would be able to overcome the fear and aversion in the limited window of time before Gaz returned to service, well. That was a separate issue. One that could, potentially, be alleviated by Ghost, assuming that Soap really did want to pursue this. The shelter as a whole could help, more specifically, but definitely with Ghost in the lead because with every second that ticked by with Soap worriedly frowning, the degree of how pathetic Ghost was over the man was climbing at a terrifying rate.

Ghost tossed the rope beside Gaz, and Riley went straight for it, pressing her nose against and looking back at Gaz on repeat, wiggles stilling as she locked onto her newest focus. Gaz lasted all of five seconds against her puppy dog eyes, finally picking the toy up and laughing as she started hopping from foot to foot while he braced himself, holding it out to her and glancing at Ghost when she didn’t take her end.

“Say her name and G-O, then she’ll start.”

“Riley, go,” Gaz said, proceeding to nearly have his arm pulled out of the socket as she bit down on her end and wrenched the toy back towards her.

“She can swing it side to side and up and down, but try not to let her thrash too hard while you’re resisting on it, and don’t tug her head around roughly yourself. Gotta protect her spine.”

“Copy that,” Gaz grinned, pulling back against her and then repeating his previous mistake of not bracing properly for her pulling.

Soap was handling it remarkably well, still smiling even if his shoulders were locked tight. Ghost came to stand beside him, putting himself on the man’s good side in case he decided to object forcefully to the fun Gaz and Riley were having. Ghost doubted it would happen - Soap really did seem genuine in that he didn’t have anything personally against her. But fear was a powerful motivator, and if Gaz got his fingers nipped by accident, or Riley went in too quick for more kisses… Ghost would rather be able to intervene. He trusted his girl with Gaz more than he trusted Soap to keep a lid on a fear response, for all he was sure he would have done it too many times to count in his career.

“I’m guessing the one really bad experience has meant you’ve avoided dogs as a rule since.”

“Aye.”

“You’re not a complete novice, Suds,” Gaz called, Riley doing her best to drag him to the ground with some very impressive yanks.

“Working with the K9 operatives and my Da having a herding dog when I was a kid is hardly quality fuckin’ experience, Gaz.”

“There’s Minnie.”

“Minnie is one of the few reasons I believe that the Devil is real.”

Ghost couldn’t help his laugh, trying and failing to choke it down and instead releasing a charming snorting sound. Truly attractive, some of his finest work, even. His amusement earned him a half-hearted glare and a tiny smile from Soap.

“She’s one of them little white fuckers. My aunt’s dog. Evil little shit for everyone except her ma.”

“Understandable.”

“There’s Ratita,” Gaz tried, almost going flying when Riley tried to ground him again but on the opposite side to where he’d been bracing.

“That’s nae his name, Gaz, don’t call him that.”

“You do.”

“Because I’m an arsehole. And his dads dinnae know.”

His dads don’t know. Well, if nothing else he’s not a homophobe, and Ghost really, really needs to stop looking for tiny clues to justify his own idiocy. Any further back and forth was waylaid by Riley succeeding in her mission, tugging hard enough from beside Gaz to tip him over. Gaz let out a little whoop, followed by a bright laugh, liberally praising Riley for her expert take-down. From his new position, he used one hand to start bapping her paws and cheeks and patting at her ears, trying to distract her from the battle for her prize. Good luck to him, that rope was more important to her than food half the time.

“You good?” Ghost checked, more for the courtesy than out of any actual belief that Gaz wasn’t enjoying himself now that he was prone.

“Living the dream,” Gaz replied, Riley expertly dodging the grabs and continuing her mission to liberate her rope from its captor.

Soap shook his head, smiling fondly at his friend. At Riley playing with his best friend. Be still Ghost’s fucking heart, or he’s going to end up short of breath with his chest hurting from how fucking sweet he was, putting up with something that terrified him for Gaz’s sake. If Ghost didn’t get a hold of himself Riley was going to alert again and the fun would be completely fucking over, all because of Ghost not being able to not lose his shit over a man. Christ.

“We had a farm dog growing up, but I don’t remember much of her. She was Da’s best mate, and slept in her own little palace in the shed. We agisted land, and occasionally cattle or what have ye would get out, so it was her job to herd them back in. She died when I was six, maybe? She was an old girl, Da had her before he and Ma even married. He’d finally let enough grief go to consider takin’ in another one right around the time of me gettin’ mauled. Couldnae follow through, ‘coz I was too shit-scared.”

“Fair call to make.”

“Felt right fuckin’ awful for it, but he never blamed me for it. He and Ma have got three little herders now. Helps Da keep agisting even though he should’ve been thinkin’ about retiring a decade ago.”

“Had much to do with them?”

“Naw. Haven’t stayed at home since they took them in.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Wasn’t much of an issue while servin’, since if I were paired with a K9 unit, the handler kept them set and I didnae have to go fuckin’ near them. Less so now. Fuckers are everywhere, seems like.”

Ghost had to fight his grin at Soap’s petulant tone, desperately trying to redirect before Soap accused him of mockery again.

“Any good experiences since the malinois? Anything at all?”

“...Are we counting Riley?” Soap said, turning to Ghost and smiling sweet and crooked and soft at him.

Fucking hell, Ghost could not seriously be doing this. Could not be feeling his heart pang in sympathy and fucking soar in appreciation for both his good girl doing what she does so well, breaking down fear and settling weary minds, but also for Soap. Soap, who was staring at a dog that was not entirely dissimilar to the one that started him down the fear-hate path and considering this to be a good experience despite being scared shitless. Not to mention Ghost nearly mauling him because he was a - well-meaning, to be fair - presumptuous idiot. Oh, Ghost was fucking doomed.

“We can count her,” Ghost said, smiling back. Soap’s cheeks went a little pink, and Ghost died a tiny bit inside as Soap turned back to look at Gaz and Riley, smile growing. Riley had Gaz fully prone now, and was beginning to slowly drag Gaz along the floor. Ghost’s own smile broke out into a proper grin at the sight.

“And Gaz is right about Ratita. I like him.”

“Tell me about him?”

“He’s the chihuahua of a couple of blokes I worked with overseas.”

“You’re shitting me,” Ghost gaped, staring at Soap. Soap looked back at him, looking defensive.

“What?”

“Chihuahuas fiercely bond to only their immediate family, sometimes only a single person, and they’re territorial, frequently high energy and drive, and almost always owned by people who keep them understimulated and undertrained, making them notorious as aggressive arseholes. And you found one you like?”

Soap blinked at him, processing Ghost’s passion-fuelled rant with a decisive nod.

“His dads did a damn good job with him, then. Don’t get me wrong, he doesnae like me. But he doesn’t like anyone other than his dads, and when he doesnae like someone he doesn’t maul them, he ignores them. Alé and Rudy have trained him really well, and they take him out and about all the time, so he’s definitely not understimulated.”

“Good parents, then. The ignoring bit is pretty normal for a lot of chihuahuas.”

“I won’t lie, being alright with him is definitely helped by the fact that I only see him when I’m visiting them. Otherwise he gets presented to me on video calls, waved around lookin’ like an unwrapped burrito whenever his dads want to tell me about his latest trick or how perfect he is or what have ye. He’s the exact colour of one, I swear it.”

Ghost cracked it again, he couldn’t help it, smothering his laughter to the point that it was a very elegant mix of snickering and giggling. Soap was grinning at him, not even noticing Gaz starting to scoot in small bursts along the ground as Riley started to put some real force behind her tugs. Ghost didn’t point it out, instead focussing on Soap properly as he got himself under control.

“Sorry, but the image in my head is a fuckin’ riot.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s exactly what ye’re imagining. Alé especially, waves him around and then tucks him against his neck to cuddle. All ye can see is blob shaped and coloured like a burrito that he’s clutching to his chest like it’s more precious than the Crown fuckin’ Jewels.”

“You’ll have to show me a picture of him held up like that some day,” Ghost grinned, before wanting to gut himself. Presumptuous as all hell that Soap would even want to -

“I’ll make sure to have one on me when I see ye next,” Soap smiled. Before Ghost could spontaneously combust at the - hopefully legitimate and not that bullshit people did where they said shit they didn’t fucking mean - indication that Soap would be interested in seeing him again, Gaz cursed, both of them snapping their attention back to him and Gaz. Riley had started to drag him along the floor, and had rather expertly dragged him so that his hip got wedged against the corner of the desk right as she tried to wrench him around the side of it.

“I’m good, I’m good, there’s just a desk there.”

“She knows, and she’ll keep trying to use it if you don’t reposition.”

“Do your worst, Riley,” Gaz grinned, now anchoring himself to the rope with both arms as she did her best to drag him around the obstacle.

Beside him, Soap was biting his lip, fighting back laughter as he watched the two of them fighting it out around the edge of the counter. The joy lasted for a few moments more, but Ghost could see the tension rising in Soap once more, frown growing and shoulders locking up once more. Ghost let his own smile fade, but tried to keep himself relaxed, neutral, calm. Soap needed calm more than he needed Ghost losing his shit over him.

“Alright?” Ghost murmured, low enough that Gaz wouldn’t hear over his laughter and the stream of goading and babytalk he was directing to Riley. Soap was quiet for a while longer, gaze starting to shift into a worryingly familiar blankness.

“There was a dog,” he replied, as quietly as Ghost had spoken, “A shepherd. On my last op.”

“Shit.”

“It’s... one of the last things I remember clearly from the op, before I got done in. Rest is patchy or gone entirely.”

“And it…”

“Wish it hadn’t been that way, but I did what I had to. Gaz… doesn’t know about it. He started looking into service dogs before I even woke up. Docs knew my brain wasn’t going to work right when I did. If I did. He knew he’d help however he could, but he also knew that wasn’t an indefinite promise. He’s got someone he’s not leaving behind in the SAS. So he’s going back, and he had this grand plan of getting me a dog, and I havenae had the heart to tell him that the fear might as well be brand-fuckin’-new after that miserable mutt on that fuckin’ op.”

Soap had started neutral, but rapidly descended into a hard edge of anger, of frustration, of grief. Not just that the fear was still so strong; no, this was a much deeper pain. No doubt Soap had intended to spend a lot more of his life in the SAS than he got to; probably dreamed of going ‘til his body couldn’t anymore and then getting a nice cushy desk job to spend the rest of his days riding the arses of his subordinates. That, or he was like Ghost, and he never intended on coming home at all. Now both of those futures were stripped from him, and he was left in limbo, with needs he couldn’t meet alone and no one to have his back. Christ. Ghost hadn’t expected it to hurt so much, having it spelt out. Too familiar in all the worst ways.

“You actually want to try to find a service dog?”

Soap’s next exhale was gusty, body loosening up again as he rubbed at his stubble, contemplating the question as Gaz disappeared around the edge of the counter under Riley’s insistent pulling.

“I don’t know. No seems like the easy answer, but not the right one. I cannae live with my sister, she’s got bairns too young to understand why Uncle Soap can’t touch or talk or remember his own name some days. My parents are well and truly not an option, for too many reasons to count. But I cannae live without some kind of assistance, I cannae afford a proper carer who I won’t even be able to predict the days I’ll need, and I’m not gonna ask Gaz to give up his career indefinitely, especially not when it would mean leaving the last member of our team alone and still serving.”

“Rock and a hard place.”

“Aye. Thing that makes a dog so appealing is that the harder I wake, the worse my day is, most of the time. If the lights come on and I get some water and there’s someone making sure I don’t doze off again, either through conversation or bullying me out of bed, then it’s better, normally. Gaz needs his morning runs to stay in shape, so that gives me something to drag my brain into gear to figure out what I am and what I’m doing and why. Routine that someone else holds me accountable too, so my brain makes the connections instead of staying drifting.”

“And you’re hoping taking a dog for a morning walk would do the same. With the added bonus of training the dog to handle getting the lights on, getting you water and any other odds and ends, and being able to harass you if you try to go back to bed when they need their walk or breakfast or to go pee.”

“Exactly. And…”

“And?”

“The thing your Riley does. Poking her nose at you. Ye said that was ‘cause she could tell you’re anxious?”

“Her training taught her to pick up on things like my breathing, heart rate, blood sugar. All the stuff that goes crazy during a panic attack. She boops me to draw my attention, and if it’s bad enough, I sit down and she gets on my chest like a fuzzy weighted blanket. Kisses to distract me. That helps me, along with a lot of other things I’ve taught her, but it’s not always one size fits all training wise. With the right dog, you can teach them just about anything you need.”

“She’s a damn good girl, havin’ yer back like that.”

“She is. And having my back is exactly right. I was SAS, too. I kept some of her training, so she knows how to sweep the house for me when I wake up bad, amongst other things,” Ghost continued, unsurprised by Soap’s non-reaction. Ghost had misread Soap, sure, but it was quite possible Soap had pegged him as military from the start, and Riley being SAS meant he most likely was too.

“That is a useful skill.”

“Yeah. She’s good company, too. Keeps me busy. Means I’m meeting new people a lot. Stops me from getting inside my head as much as I used to, when I first got out. She helps soothe all the shit that still lingers after serving as long as I have. I take care of her in turn, give her purpose and love and take care of her health. She’s my best friend, simple as that.”

“I… didnae think much about the comfort side of it, I suppose. I know a lot of people talk about the love of a dog, but I’ve never really thought about what that would mean if I get one for myself.”

“They aren’t just tools, or employees you pay with food and shelter.”

“She’s more than proof of that,” Soap snorted, as Gaz began to emerge from the far side of the counter, Riley having dragged him halfway around as he continued to encourage her antics.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Can tell from the way the two of you look at each other. She adores her da, and I’ve no doubt ye would kill me if I so much as made a move in her direction ye didn’t like. Don’t make a bond like that with a tool or an employee.”

Ghost’s lips twitched up again, pleased at the fact that Soap could recognise that much; yet another promising sign that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance of Ghost being able to help the man.

“I gotta ask, though. Forgive me for being a prick, but it’s been rottin’ my head since I saw ye.”

“Spit it out, then,” Ghost replied, probably less concerned than he should be.

“All of… that,” Soap said, gesturing at his own face while looking at Ghost’s. Ghost felt his shoulders lock up, but the scrutiny didn’t hurt as much as it normally did. He wore a medical mask dealing with the general public most of the time; a gaiter for the rest of the days that he struggled with being seen. It hadn’t been too bad, today, and for once, being called out on the state of his face wasn’t driving him up the wall. Probably had something to do with the way Soap sounded both genuinely remorseful for asking, but also like it was something he needed, not idle curiosity. Probably also helped that Ghost was a dumbass and had stars in his fucking eyes over the man.

“What about it?”

“None of it was a dog, right? Walking into the shelter that rehabs trouble dogs and the guy at the counter has a war dog - a fucking shepherd - and a fuck ton of scars all over? I know they’re probably not, but I damn near pissed myself thinkin’ if I didn’t get out fast enough I’d be fuckin’ next. So tell me isnae dogs that did it. Lie to me if ye have to,” Soap plead, equal parts humourous and desperate.

Ghost laughed; couldn’t help it. Soap seemed so genuinely aggrieved by the fact that he needed to ask, so apologetic as he requested the reassurance. It was fucking adorable, especially when Soap grumbled in response to Ghost’s laughter, flipping him off even though he was smiling too. His cheeks were going red, sweet bastard.

“None of my face was dogs, I can promise you that. Surely you know the difference between a knife scar and a dog mauling,” Ghost replied, pointing a line down his own eye and then waving his arm to echo Soap’s own casual look at yourself gesture. Soap scoffed, bumping shoulders with Ghost. And shit, he was warm, even through all the fabric on him. Ghost kind of wanted to shuffle over so that they’d keep touching, but he opted not to cross that boundary and sink himself even further into a record-breaking new level of down bad. Christ, was this how Roach felt about his barista? Surely Ghost wasn’t that pathetic yet. Surely.

“I’ve got a few scars from dogs, mainly on my hands and arms. All of them because they were scared and I pushed them. Keep away from a scared dog’s mouth, and you won’t have to worry about ending up looking like me, Soap,” Ghost snorted.

“Ye say that like ye aren’t bonnie,” Soap replied, cheeks getting a little pink before he redirected, “Besides, I’m naw afraid of scarring, just the being bitten bit.”

Ghost had literally zero idea what to say to that; Ghost was very accustomed to yearning and not even remotely accustomed to what the fuck he was meant to do when the source of his yearning flirted with him. Riley, the traitor, dropped the rope to look at Ghost, alerting on the fucking butterflies in his stomach like the insubordinate sellout she had apparently become today. He signed at ease to her, and she looked back at Gaz, who was holding the rope mid-air for her still, looking like he was about to beg her to keep playing. Riley looked back at Ghost one more time, and he did his level best to present himself as calm, cool, definitely not crushing, and collected until she finally resumed playtime with one last I’m watching you look.

Soap was smiling at her. Ghost was fucking smitten, God help him.

“So in theory… I could train my dog -” and God if Ghost didn’t have to beat down his grin at Soap’s hypothetical being my dog and not the dog or a dog, “- to do a whole ton of stuff, like she can?”

“Depends on the dog, both personality wise and breed wise. Riley is a good example of the extreme end of service animal capabilities. Shepherds have a high working drive, high energy, and high intelligence, so training them, while it can be difficult, is normally very successful when done and maintained properly. Take something like the sighthound family, and you might have a harder time, depending on the job.”

“Dinnae even know what a sighthound is, mate.”

“All the long, skinny, fast ones.”

“Like the ones used for racing?”

“If you’re an animal abuser then yeah, you can race sighthounds,” Ghost replied, voice hard, desperately hoping this was not about to cause a complete 180 on his opinion of Soap.

“Need ye to say that to my uncle, if ye dinnae mind. Won’t change much, but it’d be nice to see his face when you do. He wiped my arse as a baby and apparently that means I cannae ever know better than he, can you believe it?”

“I’ll gladly set him straight. Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”

“Don’t do that to yourself, man. I know the family branch he’s talking about, you’ll have better luck trying to convince a Tory they’re the bad guys,” Gaz called out, right as Riley thrashed on the rope, finally getting Gaz to drop it.

“Hey! Oi, come back here!” Gaz called, scrambling upright and starting to chase after Riley.

“Your uncle’s that bad?”

“Aye. Da’s tried to learn him many times, but the only progress anyone’s made was thanks to my sister. She got him to stop hosting parties for the races by slashing the tires of every single car that showed up one year.”

“Good on her. Towtrucks would have had a field day with that.”

“Aye, they would have. Except for the part where all the keys went missing while she was workin’, too. Ended up a very, very expensive party, and not one of them won their fuckin’ bets, either.”

Ghost snapped his gaze back to Soap, who was watching Riley, bailed up in the corner by Gaz, contemplating her best escape methods. Soap had the smallest little smirk on his face, no less smug for its subtlety, looking like the cat that got the canary, the cream, and the fucking mouse, too. Stole the fucking keys of people attending an animal abuse party, Christ. Riley as his witness, Ghost was going to marry the fucker, if Soap wasn’t careful.

Soap’s gaze slid over to him, and his smirk turned into a smile, small and genuine.

“Just ‘cause I don’t like dogs, doesnae mean I’m the sort who thinks they or anythin’ else should suffer. Least of all for fuckin’ entertainment, Jesus.”

Yup, Ghost was going to marry him. Somehow. Someday. He was gonna do it. Now he had to get Soap on board with that plan.

His musings were interrupted by Riley, like a lightning bolt, shooting straight between Ghost and Soap, Gaz almost crashing into them as he tried and failed to keep up. Soap tensed and jerked back so violently that Ghost thought he was going to fall from it, hand tucking up high and scowl back. For a minute, everything was quiet, air heavy, and Soap breathing harshly. Ghost waited to see all the hard work Soap had been doing for the past half hour shrivel up and die. His eyes stayed on Riley, who had picked up on the tension change and was trotting back towards them, rope still in her mouth.

“Riley, ici,” Ghost instructed, signing to her and pointing beside his feet.

For the first time in their years together, Riley disobeyed a direct order. Sure, she wasn’t in her vest, but she knew better - she knew better and she was approaching Soap. Ghost panicked, involuntary and fucking searing, because his baby girl was going near someone who might hurt her. Fucking ridiculous that he was thinking that about Soap with everything the man had just shown in regards to his desire to not do that, but fear could get the better of anyone, the same as it was Ghost right now.

“Riley, ici,” Ghost repeated, voice strained as he gave both her verbal command and re-did her handsign much sharper. He was fairly certain the panic was why she stopped moving, glancing between Soap and Ghost. Training warring with who she was supposed to help first - the twitching lump of panic that was her dad, or the marble block of anxiety that was Soap.

“She’s real well trained, eh?” Soap bit out, and there was something humorous there but it was overwhelmingly bitter - scared. Riley slinked over to Ghost, dropping her rope at his feet and beginning to insistently boop his knee. Before Ghost to tried to reassure or explain or get anything out of his mouth that wasn’t garbled variants of what the fuck why can’t I breathe Riley knows better she would have been fine he wouldn’t hurt her you wouldn’t hurt her Soap right right right, Gaz interrupted.

“It’s because you’re scared, Suds. She wants to help. It’s her job to help, remember? She wants to give you kisses!”

“Absolutely not.”

“At least tell her you’re okay, Tav, look at her! She’s taking care of her dad but can’t stop looking at you! Stop being meeaaannnn.”

“Shut the fuck up, Garrick.”

“What was that you were reminding me of earlier? Not my captain anymore? Means I don’t have to follow orders.”

“Ye’re a fuckin’ wanker.”

“And you’re the guy making a dog cry.”

“She’s naw fuckin’ - Jesus,” Soap squared his shoulders, turning back to Ghost’s best girl, looking at her with a degree of seriousness that toed the line of ridiculous, “Riley. Ye scared me. I’m calming down. Please take care of yer da. Happy, Garrick?”

“Mint, Captain.”

“Arsehole,” Soap grumbled, shoulders easing back into something more relaxed. Riley was still occasionally glancing at him, trying to be subtle about it while Ghost played with her ears to ground himself. Each glance was making Soap smile a little bit more, as was Ghost expertly avoiding her tongue as she occasionally leaned her head back to try and give his hand kisses.

“Good girl, Riley, thank you,” Ghost murmured to her, fishing a treat from his pocket for her as her booping started to slow down. She gobbled it - inhaled it, really - and then continued licking at him.

“You should try to say hi, Suds. Just saying, it would probably do her some good.”

Soap was frowning now, watching Riley still.

“Do you want to try saying hello?” Ghost asked, not sure if it was the right call or not, “Don’t have to pat her. She can come sniff your leg and then I’ll send her back again. Can keep your arms up.”

“I… Not today.”

Not today, not no, not never. Just not today.

“All good.”

“I don’t want to risk it, is all. Don’t want to panic. I don’t know how to get a dog to stop without hurting it. I don’t like that I’ve had to make that call before, and the last thing I want is to have to make it with her.”

Oh. Oh, Ghost’s stupid fucking heart needed to fucking stop. Soap needed to stop fucking making his fucking heart… do shit. Fuck’s sake. Trying to protect Riley, wanting to protect her, as much as he wanted to protect himself and Gaz. Ghost was a goner.

“You considered learning what to do? How to tell when they’re not happy to begin with, how to get one to let up if they do bite?” Ghost asked, booping Riley’s snoot in thanks and then directing her to sit between his legs again, his body an extra layer between Soap and her. This time for Soap’s sake, rather than Ghost or Riley’s.

“Aye, let me just jump on the tutoring app my sister’s kids are on and get me a tutor for all things dog. Easy as, eh?” Soap grumbled, pissy little scowl back. Ghost was coming to adore that expression, and the realisation was rather horrifying.

“Right, because even if that was an option, it would definitely be the better way to go when you have someone who works full time in a dog shelter, rehabilitating and training dogs, standing right in front of you. Someone who deals with dogs as a career. Who gets paid to know dogs and what they need, and is conveniently, right in front of you,” Ghost replied, begging himself to sound more sarcastic than overly enthusiastic and not entirely sure he managed it.

Was Ghost being too obvious? Soap was staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Even Riley had stopped licking, staring up at him with her little head cocked. Gaz looked like he was biting back a laugh, and Ghost desperately needed to find a way to salvage this or he was going to have to quit his entire life and disappear to the Bahamas or some shit. Maybe not, too warm for Riley. She loved winter too much for that.

“Come again?” Soap asked, tilting his head too, almost a perfect mirror to Riley that Ghost absolutely would not point out. Ghost rapidly formulated some semblance of a coherent response that wasn’t just I think you’re cute and sweet and I kind of want to spend more time with you soooo… and instead was something with some semblance of validity. God, what Ghost wouldn’t give for the ability to be effortlessly terminally cool again, as the Ghost had been before he fucking retired and became painfully himself again.

“I’ll trade you some volunteer hours here in return for lessons on everything you’re going to need to know if you’re seriously considering adopting, especially a dog you’re intending to train for service work. It’s a win-win, right? We get some more much needed help, and you get to get a bit more of a feel for what it will be like before you commit to anything.”

Smooth recovery, and a good fucking deal. Ghost hoped he didn’t look as hard pressed for Soap to say yes as he felt; hoped he was pulling off casual, relaxed, a neutral offer, and that anything else Soap read off him could be chalked up to residual anxiety from Riley’s shenanigans earlier. Instead of helping, Ghost’s elaboration seemed to discourage Soap further, based on his growing frown.

“Because me workin’ with shelter dogs when I’m shit scared of the fuckers is a grand fuckin’ idea.”

“As if I’d let you near them right off the bat,” Ghost snorted, clarifying, “Shelter work is fuck all playing with them and patting them. Medical care, training, socialising, and baths are provided by trained staff only. The rest? It’s mostly cleaning kennels, prepping food, washing bowls and blankets and toys, booking appointments, liaising with the public, and stock take. So much fucking stock take. It’s… not dissimilar to prepping for an op, if that makes sense.”

“Requisitions orders, prepping supplies, gearing up, crosschecking. Cleanin’ and checkin’ and returnin’ and reportin’ everything when ye’re back. Rinse and repeat. That sort of thing?”

“Exactly. Tedious shit, but as important as the playtime and training is. Give us a shift each week, can be anything from two to eight hours on whatever day, whatever works with you, and you’ll be able to start learning about them and what they need without even having to see one, if you want. Then we can start building towards you meeting some in their kennels. Patting one, some day. So on, so forth.”

“Simple as that?”

Ghost winced, thinking about the backlog of unsorted donations, the fact that he’d worked unpaid weekends alongside several other supposed-to-be-paid employees for about three months straight, the mess that was their cleaning supply closet because no one had a breather to organise it, and the fact that they were only open to the public three days a week right now because there was too fucking much to do and nowhere near enough manpower to do it.

“I won’t lie, we’re a bit desperate for volunteers now. We’ve been surviving on a crew of four paid employees and six volunteers taking care of almost forty dogs seven days a week. We can’t afford more paid positions, and volunteers aren’t always consistent. If you’re happy to give even a couple hours of work, we’ll take it. And if we can give something back, that will help you as much as us, I don’t see why anyone on the team would object.”

Soap looked at Riley, and then over to Gaz, who was admiring their corkboard covered in their success stories. Dozens of dogs with their new families; only a fraction of those they’d helped in Ghost’s time. The board might as well not have existed, given that Soap was locked onto Gaz, the love he had for his friend plain as day on his face. Soap’s reply was quiet, low enough for Ghost and Riley to be the only recipients.

“Whatever I can do, count me in. I cannae keep him tied to me forever. And maybe… maybe some good can come of this, aye? Even if I don’t walk away with an assistance dog, at least I can help some of them?”

Soap sounded unsure about the second half, voice tipping up at the end, looking at Ghost hopefully like he needed the assurance from him, too.

“Yeah, Soap. Even if you don’t end up wanting to have one yourself, you’ll still be helping a whole lot of them here."

Ghost was fairly certain this would end terribly for his fragile heart, but if Soap walked out of this less afraid, or better, comfortable, or best case, with a companion for himself, then Ghost would take whatever heartache came from the little bubble of infatuation in his chest. No matter how hard it was to not do something stupid with Soap now smiling at Riley like she was the sweetest thing in the room, Ghost would find a way to manage.

“I might be flaky, at times, mind. Probably not good to roster me when there’s no one on call if I don’t show. Comes with the territory of a brain injury. Cannae even figure out a fuckin’ phone, on the worst days, so I may not even call in. And things that need two hands, and cannae be modified for one, I willnae be able to help with. Not yet, at least. But otherwise, I’ll do my damndest.”

“Rog. We’ll make it work, Soap,” Ghost promised, dying a little inside as Soap beamed at him in reply.

“Sooooo,” Gaz started, sidling over to them, “How’s your anxiety, bossman?”

Ghost raised his eyebrow at the man, distinctly unimpressed by the complete lack of subtlety.

“Let me guess. You wanna know if she can play again or not.”

“Spot on.”

“Depends on her.”

“She’s a shepherd.”

“If she thinks she’s still working, then bad luck. Riley,” Ghost replied, then directed her towards Gaz and his impressive puppy dog eyes. Naturally, after one last little kiss to his hand, Riley went straight for the man and the rope held limply in his hand, pressing her nose against it and side eyeing Gaz like the point-three of a second it took for him to say go was offensively long. The two of them started again, Gaz on his feet this time even though it didn’t give him that much of an advantage. Ghost turned back to Soap, who had stepped back in line with him as Riley moved away.

“Mind me asking how long it’s been since you got out?”

“Bit over a year. Spent the first three months with a brain as well-equipped as a newborn’s, mind. But the following six saw me back to… mostly functional again. Gaz took leave towards the end of it, to help me with the civvy transition.”

“Weird, isn’t it? Living like a real person.”

“Aye. How long for you? Riley, too.”

“Six years for me. Two for Riley.”

“Do ye ever stop waiting for the day you’re supposed to go back?”

He knew exactly what Soap meant. Ghost had felt like he was on weekend leave for the first two fucking years, always waiting for his world to right itself again, always waiting to go back to base. Soap would have been the same as him, if he was as close in age as he looked - years and years of potential service, a set future, a safe one. Not safe because of the work, but safe because it was known, safe because everything was set for you. Safe because independence was a foreign concept, self-reliance unnecessary, a structure and routine and protocol and system and training for everything. None of that in civvy life.

Ghost knew the pain of your intended future, of your safety, being taken away. And he knew the grief of it being your own self that failed you; knew the pain of knowing part of you would never work the same. He was spared his body failing, for all he was beginning to feel the effects of old wounds more and more frequently these days. Ghost had been discharged because of his mind, because he couldn’t sleep, because he heard screaming that wasn’t there, because anger and hatred and grief and fear became too much for him to fight through. They’d discharged him, and he’d been left to fight through all the exact same shit but this time without his team at his side.

Ghost got out because his mind had become a hostile he couldn’t handle anymore. Even knowing it was through no personal failure, even knowing that continuing that life would have seen him dead, he still grieved it, some days. Soap… no doubt he had wounds in his head of his own, ones it would take a long time to heal. And on top of it, Soap would be dealing with the grief of his body failing him, of his body becoming a stranger to him, for a long, long time. Suffice to say neither of them would be going back, and Ghost wouldn’t bullshit him on the fact that the ache persisted even now.

“Depends on the day,” Ghost finally replied. Soap’s lips quirked up a little bit at that.

“Think that’s the first honest answer I’ve heard to that.”

“It’s not fun, learning to live on the other side. But some things make it worth it.”

“Riley.”

“Yeah. Other things, sure. But she’s the big one. Seemed like fate, truth be told. I’d been working in dog rescue for a while, and an old army friend let me know he had a K9 who had lost her previous handler and was being discharged after failing return to work testing. So I put my hand up, and then I found out her name is Riley.”

“It matters to you?”

“My name is Simon Riley.”

“Oh, that poor girl,” Soap laughed.

“Poor girl?” Ghost echoed, glaring, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Her name is Riley Riley,” Soap elaborated, sounding horribly disparaging, as if Ghost was somehow at fault for the coincidence. Ghost’s girl dropped her rope, causing Gaz to fall flat on his ass as she turned in reply to her name. Her head was low, and her tail dropped, not quite between her legs but clearly not a happy stance. Ghost sighed, but couldn’t help but smile, signing at ease to her and watching her straighten up a bit, still watching him.

“Ah, shite, is she -”

“I full name her in a similar tone when she’s in trouble.”

Soap tried his hardest to choke it down, going red in the face and even starting to shake, but eventually he caved, laughter bursting out of him. He damn near doubled over from it, and Ghost tried not to cave and start laughing too, lest Riley realise she was the source of their amusement. Ghost nodded Riley back to Gaz, who quickly had her engaged in their game of tug once again. Ghost would have to remember to thank him; she wasn’t going to need her afternoon run at this rate.

“Sorry - I - steamin’ Jesus, she pulled the exact face me ‘n my sister pull when our parents full name us. I should’ve realised, sweet girl.”

Before Ghost could reply, Soap’s joy was disrupted, their relative peace disturbed by virtue of a long, fawn snoot poking out from the doorway that led back into the shelter proper. Gaz and Riley didn’t notice, but Ghost spotted her immediately. He also noticed Soap tense, body locking up, eyes tracking the renegade dog as she stepped one long, spindly leg past the doorframe to continue scoping out the room.

“Ghost,” Soap hissed, stepping back and sliding ever so slightly behind Ghost. For Soap’s own sake out of the fear of the bane of Ghost’s existence, or for the sake of said bane lest she move in Soap’s direction, Ghost wasn’t entirely sure. But he’d take it; he knew she wouldn’t try anything with Soap, but better to play it safe than sorry when Soap didn’t know that. Maybe, if Ghost didn’t have a bigger issue at hand, he’d be able to summon the necessary brain power needed to coo at Soap being adorable, but instead, he was drowning under the weight of every single one of his years, his ops, and his decisions that lead him here. All because of one little brown brindled noggin.

“Rosemary,” Ghost greeted, sighing. It wasn’t nearly as stern as it should be; if she responded to unhappy tones, they would have seen it by now. Instead, she ignored Ghost entirely - and Soap too, thankfully - instead slinking out from the hall and trotting up towards the counter without deigning to acknowledge anyone present, her caretaker most of all.

“Ghost,” Soap hissed again, “What the fuck is that?”

“That’s a sighthound. A greyhound, specifically,” Ghost dryly said, because he was a shit and he was about to have to fight for his fucking life to see what gave out first: his legs, his lungs, or Rosemary’s desire to fuck with him.

“No fuckin’ shite it’s a fuckin’ greyhound, now tell me what the fuck it’s doing out here,” Soap snarled. Ghost reached back on instinct, Soap’s hand meeting his and squeezing tight. Half a second later, Ghost realised he’d just reached for the man the exact way he reached for Riley to soothe her when she was anxious; he’d been going to run his hand down Soap’s arm the same as he did to Riley’s back. He felt kind of like an arse and also completely clueless about what he was supposed to do about the fact that Soap was currently squeezing the life out of his hand.

Across from them, Rosemary reached the counter, turning back to catch Ghost’s eye, making direct eye contact before turning back to the counter.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Ghost ordered, knowing full well it was about as effective as telling a rain cloud to not fucking rain. Rosemary hopped up onto her hind legs, stretching her front foots up to the top edge of the counter, head going for the little tub of dried liver treats they kept there.

“Leave it,” Ghost tried, and Riley, angel girl that she was, dropped the rope toy and stood to attention. It made Gaz finally notice what was going on, looking first at Ghost, still watching Rosemary, and then at Soap, clutching his hand, and then finally at the criminal in their midst. Rosemary, for her part, continued to ignore him entirely, fully aware that he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do that would actually cow her. She picked the tub of treats up daintily between her teeth, then turned her head to the side, proceeding to drop the tub.

Ghost took a moment to close his eyes and briefly pray for strength, plea punctuated by the sound of the tub hitting the floor and treats scattering everywhere.

Opening them, he found Riley being desperately held back from the mess by a slightly panicked looking Gaz, while Rosemary was adding insult to injury. Instead of gorging herself on the treats, Rosemary was painstakingly snuffling her way through them. She selected a grand total of three treats - all this bullshit for exactly what she’d be getting when he came for rounds in -

Oh. Of-fucking-course. Ghost was about ten minutes late for morning tea rounds; Rosemary wouldn’t be the only one objecting to Ghost tarrying with Soap, but she was the only one who could actually do something about it, Houdini wannabe that she was. Once she’d had her tribute, she tiptoed out of the carnage, avoiding stepping on the treats with an almost disdainful expression at the mess that she caused. She continued to ignore him and everyone else, instead heading towards Riley’s bed in the corner. Bless Ghost’s girl for not being territorial; she was too busy eyeing the spilt treats to give a shit about the dog settling herself regally in Riley’s bed.

Ghost turned his head, checking on how Soap was coping with the new big dog in the room. Soap - Soap was laughing, the bastard, choking it down the best he could but still laughing at Ghost, at Rosemary, laughing with a big, blatantly disobedient dog in the room. He turned - he took his eyes off Rosemary, but his hand stayed in Ghost’s, squeezing briefly as he grinned at Ghost.

“Who’s that?” Soap asked, nodding to Rosemary where she was stretching and circling on Riley’s bed. Ghost knew it was a fucking front; she was going to act all relaxed and settled until he took a single step in her direction.

“That is divine punishment for my many fucking sins,” Ghost replied, deadly serious. It made Soap erupt in laughter again, squeezing Ghost’s hand even tighter. Might as well be squeezing his fucking heart, for how it made Ghost feel.

“Guessin’ this has happened before?”

“Yes. Too many fucking times. Her name is Rosemary, she’s three. She’s a racing rescue and holds our record for most escapes. She has more than half the shelter combined. She never tries to leave the building, just comes to harass us. She’s too smart for her own good and she channels that into making my life fucking miserable when she hasn’t been given enough attention. She knows what days I work and targets me specifically, Soap, I shit you not.”

Clearly displeased with the fact that Ghost hadn’t attempted to corral her yet, Rosemary got up again, leaving Riley’s bed to do a victory lap of the foyer. Soap squeezed him again, and Ghost squeezed back. They watched Rosemary’s path around the room, sniffing here and there, bypassing Riley and her wagging tail without so much as a glance, before taking a little drink from the water bowl before deciding communal water was tragically inferior to her preferred kennel quality, as if it didn’t come from the same fucking tap.

“Oh, she’s fuckin’ gold. She’s a damn good girl if she’s givin’ you hell,” Soap laughed.

“Rosemary is not good. She is the unholy offspring of a cat and a husky slammed into a body built to outrun God. You realise I have to try and get her back in her kennel, right?”

Gaz was cracking it laughing now, but Soap had steeled himself into some semblance of serious.

“I have complete faith in you, Ghost. I’m sure this is one of the hardest ops ye’ve ever had, but I know ye’ll succeed.”

“Fuck you.”

“Buy me dinner first,” Soap laughed. Ghost’s eyes widened, before he realised that it was a joke, Soap was making a joke, that was a common come back, it was humour. Soap squeezed his hand again, then winked at him. Did that - was that doubling down on the joke, or did Ghost just get blatantly flirted with? What in the fuck was he supposed to -

“A little help, please, someone. Anyone. When you two are done being obnoxious.”

“Riley, leave it,” Ghost said, signing the command to her as well to enforce that no, she was not allowed the treat pile just because Rosemary was. Rosemary did it to prove a point and had already proven no intent to gorge herself on them; Riley had absolutely zero restraint without a direct order. Riley stopped immediately, but her pout was soul-crushing. Rosemary’s entitlement was teaching her too many bad behaviours, Christ. Ghost squeezed Soap’s hand one last time, before reluctantly letting go. It took Soap a couple extra seconds to get with the program, and Ghost treasured them. Soap stepped away, head ducking.

“Right,” Ghost said, taking a minute to scrounge himself together. “Gonna have to cut this short. I have a dog to chase down and treats to clean up. I’ll grab you a volunteer form, Soap, you can take it with you or fill it here and now. Then you’ll hear from us within the week. Probably sooner. Sound good?”

“Braw, Ghost,” Soap replied, but he sounded a little subdued, even as he smiled at Riley trotting over to glue herself to Ghost’s side again. The switch up left Ghost feeling a little unsure of himself as well, hating that this had to be over - fucking Rosemary - but not really sure what else he could do to try and convince Soap to stay when the shelter was only technically open for another hour or so anyway. Wasn’t really a subtle way of saying hey, want to wait for my lunch break and come get something with me because I really like your everything? Not with Riley to consider, too.

“I got the treats while you guys do paperwork. If Riley won’t go for them, that is. Pretty sure she can eat them faster than I can pick them up.”

“Cheers,” Ghost nodded, signing her over to his side and heading for the paperwork. Gaz got to work, Riley shooting him desperate glances and Ghost letting the treat Gaz slung her way slide, even as Riley’s jaws chomping and the combined snickering of Gaz and Soap gave them away. Soap came up to the counter properly, stepping to the side of it to not scatter or trod on the treats.

“Sorry,” Soap said, apropos of literally nothing.

“...For?” Ghost asked, pausing as he was shuffling through the file drawer to find the appropriate paperwork. It had been so long since they’d had someone ask about volunteering that they didn’t keep a prepped clipboard with the expressions of interest paperwork on it anymore. Ghost clipped the few copies of the form he could find onto the clipboard in a half-arsed attempt to rectify it; he’d get some more printed and a second clipboard later.

“The flirting.”

Ghost froze, looking up at him.

“Please don’t be,” Ghost replied, mouth ahead of his brain. Soap looked at him, eyes a little wide, and Ghost figured he probably sounded about as desperate as he thought he did.

Before Ghost could continue to put his foot in his mouth, the intercom released a rather obnoxious series of beeps. Ghost looked around on instinct, checking the corners and finding Rosemary distinctly not in the room.

“Fuck.”

“Alarm for a missing dog?”

“Yup.”

“She slunk back down the hall she came from while ye were looking for the paperwork.”

“Fuck me,” Ghost groaned.

“If I can take ye to dinner first, sure.”

Soap was grinning at him again, a little bit dopey, sweet and sexy and fucking obnoxious. Ghost was going to marry him. Riley could be his flower girl. Roach would not be his best man, given he was pulling Ghost away to chase Rosemary instead of dealing with her his goddamn self. Last fucking time he helped wingman the bastard with his own love life, if the favour wasn’t being returned. Even if Roach had no idea what he was interrupting.

“I’ll have to chase you up on that when I’m done chasing her. Christ.”

“I look forward to hearing about yer victory, then.”

The bell went again, Roach doubtlessly spamming it given how fucking long Ghost was taking.

“I’ve gotta go, I’m sorry. In case today is the day she decides to escape the fucking building because I’m taking too long to make a fool of myself for her amusement.”

“Off ye get. I’ll finish the paperwork. Can the door be locked without a key? We can shut it when we go out.”

“Please. Should latch automatically if you flick it, but don’t stress if it doesn’t. We’ve got a bell alert on the door too, and Roach should be out front soon anyways.”

“Perfect. Good luck, Ghost.”

“Thanks, Soap. I’ll need it.”

“Nice meeting you, mate!” Gaz called, waving from the floor where he was almost through the treat pile. “And you, Riley-girl!”

“Nice meeting you two as well.”

“Aye. Really has been,” Soap replied, smiling sweet and soft and Christ, Ghost was practically fucking gaga.

“You as well, little lassie. Ye’re scary as, ye know that? But ye’re a sweetheart, goofy girl. Get yer da to give ye some treats from me, aye?”

“I will,” Ghost said, trying not to sound choked up. The escape buzzer went again, then again, and again. Ghost was going to kick Roach’s ass. At some point.

“Duty calls, Ghost.”

“I’ll be talking to you soon, Soap.”

“Countin’ on it.”

With no other reason to continue tarrying, Ghost left, Riley pressed tight against his leg as Soap turned to the paperwork. God, Ghost hoped he wasn’t just saying that for his sake. That he wouldn’t come back to the front to find an empty sheet, or maybe a note with little more on it than thanks but no thanks.

Rosemary was, predictably, a nightmare. Twenty minutes of teamwork between Ghost, Roach, and Riley finally lead to her escorting herself back to her kennel without them, energy well burnt out after giving them all the run around. Ghost headed back to the front, sweaty and grumpy and feeling like a fucking idiot twice over, once because of Rosemary and the other because he fucking missed Soap. After twenty minutes. Absolutely fucking tragic.

His pity party was immediately disrupted by the paperwork resting on the counter’s desk, covered in neat print, listing all of Soap MacTavish’s necessary details, including an availability roster that put him as being almost always available, with a preferred maximum of 20 hours a week to start with. Better than Ghost had hoped - way better. Distracting him from properly flicking through Soap’s forms was the additional comments section, filled with the same precise printing.

In case someone other than Ghost is seeing this, him as my witness, I’m shit scared of dogs. Dinnae give me a job working with any of them directly. Otherwise, I’m happy to do whatever. Start me slow if I do need to be around the dogs, otherwise I’ll end up running.

I like Rosemary though, she’s cute. Riley too, of course. And her da.

Ghost couldn’t stop smiling as he went to loosen the sheet from the clipboard, blinking in surprise to see the form underneath also filled, this time in a different hand listing Kyle Garrick as a volunteer, complete with almost the same availability as Soap and his notes section indicating Roster me with Tav until he gets the hang of it, then I’m happy to take other days as needed.

The relief that having not one but two new volunteers - and more to the point, of having Gaz and his love of dogs as an extra buffer for Soap, was palpable. So was the excitement that Soap was coming back at some point - that he was really committing to it, or going to try, at least. Riley licked his elbow; distracting him long enough for Ghost to catch a little scrap of paper that had flitted out from between the forms when he released the clip.

On the bit of paper was a note, labelled FOR GHOST. It read,

Wasnae kidding about taking you to dinner sometime if ye like. Riley included, of course. So ye have a copy that isn’t on official paperwork, here’s my number:

Followed by the same line of digits that was listed beside Mobile: on the form.

Riley started to boop him, and Ghost wondered if it was possible to train her to distinguish between actual anxiety and butterflies or if that chance was long behind them.