Chapter Text
There’s something funny about watching grown men argue about what toys-guns they want to use. You don’t know any of their names but you know their call signs well enough, especially task force 141. Soap, Gaz, Ghost, Price, the whole damn lot. They bicker and banter like school boys who are still figuring themselves out in the world. It’s oddly charming. Although the more you think about the task forces’ dynamic it’s more like watching police dogs play with a worn out chew toy. They bitch at each other and shove their way to the best thing you’ve got in stock, even if the gun they want has just been cleaned or refurbished. That part is annoying. But you’re willing to look past that simply for the sake of your already graying hair.
Your hands are tacky when Soap, with his goofy ass mohawk sticking to his scalp, comes up to you. He’s all smiles and sunshine. He looks at you with a flirty eye and pink cheeks.
“Hey bonnie.”
You already have a skeptical eyebrow raised before he can lean into the room you’re standing in, “What’s up chuck?” You ask easily, wiping your hands on your pants.
“How’s the fixin’ coming along?”
You make a noncommittal noise in your throat, “Going alright,” you bring another gun from the refub case onto the workbench in front of you. The poor thing is beat to hell, nicks and scratches cover the body with dark stains to boot.
“So what do you need? Antsy to get your hands on the latest and greatest?” You ask in a joking tone as you begin disassembling the gun.
Soap doesn’t answer. He watches your deft fingers take apart the weapon with the precision of a killer and the sensuality of a lover. It’s mesmerizing to say the least. The silence washes over the two of you as you work. Your process is simple, working your way through the disassembly you organize the parts as you go, nuts are dropped into a plastic container with a magnet at the bottom to keep the nuts from bouncing out, the ammunition put away, the sight placed at the corner of the table to be looked at later on. You have a system and haven’t deviated since day one. As much as Soap doesn’t know you or really the minutiae of what you do in the armory all day, he wants to hold your hands and give thanks to you all night. You’re the reason that his weapons work and are ready to go when he is. Your diligent cataloging and data collection has kept the base and all operations, as a whole, supported from behind the curtain. It’s noble in a way that Soap doesn’t know how to acknowledge without taking the time to get to know your fingertips and feel the way you treat the machines against his skin.
“Hello? Earth to Soap.” You say, snapping one hand in front of you as you keep working. The sound is crisp and echoes back down the hall. The gun is no better inside and it makes you frown. Hardly anyone treats the damn things with any respect. The SA80 is open to you and you can’t help but admire it. It’s a beautiful piece of war, everything is tightly compacted into the least amount of space all the while keeping the lethality at an all time high. It’s gas operated, using the gas as both a fuel to send the bullet flying and to eject the spent casing. You’d love to sigh dreamily at the design but you’ve got your hands dirty and a gawking soldier standing in front of you.
Soap blinks at you in surprise. “You know my call sign?”
“‘Course I do. That’s all I usually know about people.” It’s true, at least most of the time. The only people you know by name are your direct supervisors and colleagues. It makes interacting with other people a little awkward but it’s easy enough to ignore. You continue working, sliding the gas in-take under a magnifying lamp. The components are covered in grease and dust and everything the field has to offer. Such a lack of care.
“So, what do you need?” You ask again. You flick on the light and begin cleaning the compressor with a nearby rag. With only a few swipes the rag is dirty and you drop it to pick up another one.
“I’m looking for something to do,” Soap says a little too quickly for your liking. “I’m itchin’ to do something useful.” He sounds nervous and that makes you look up. He’s grabbing at his pants, fisting the material tightly then letting go again. His pants are creased when he grabs and it’s clearly a habit. His eyebrows are knotted right above his nose and he generally looks uncomfortable. It’s an abnormal sight to be sure. He’s usually so chipper or at least hides his anxieties better.
You hum and look back to the gun in front of you. “Why ask me and not any of your other buddies?” Your tone is a little too casual and if Soap were someone who cared just a little more then you might be standing in front of your own superior. But you know that Soap doesn’t care much for extreme formalities at the base. You’ve heard that from his own mouth while he talked with his fellows.
“I can’t. I know they’ll tell me I should be training or doing bookkeeping. I’m sick of doing that and I figured you’d be the next best thing.”
You bark out a quick laugh, “Okay, I’ll bite.” You say, looking up from between your lashes. Soap’s face is a little pink and his eyebrows are lifted in surprise for the second time in this conversation.
“I can clear you to come back into the workspace as long as you don’t make a mess and are actually helpful.” You tell him, wiping your hands on your pants. You fish into one of your pockets and reveal a keycard, quickly tapping it onto the interior reader to let Soap into the room. Once the door’s lock clicks open he pushes his way in and guides the door to close quietly. It’s a sweet gesture, most people simply let the door slam closed and it just adds to the noise of the base.
You watch as Soap looks around the room. He takes in the space with the precision that only those in the field can, eyes darting to and fro, gathering information as quickly and accurately as possible. He takes a few steps into the room and you let him keep looking around, opting to return your focus to the gun under your palms.
The SA80 is now clean after wiping away the grim from the internal components. You inspect further, gently turning the piece over in your hands and making mental notes of any damage or strain. The process of striping weapons down to their harmless parts alone is soothing to you and everything after that was a bonus.
“Which one’s this one?” Soap suddenly asks from over your shoulder. You don’t jump. Just because you work in the armory doesn’t mean you’ve lost any of your edge from training and old deployments.
You tut at Soap but don’t turn to look at him, still inspecting the parts. “You should know this, Soap.”
“Call me Johnny.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t try distracting me. You should know what gun this is.”
“And if I don’t?”
You finally look over at Soap, who hovers right where your peripheral vision begins. Ah, natural instinct. Keeping yourself out of sight but close enough to get your hands on the enemy. You know this tactic well. Memories flash behind your eyelids, the sound of breathing that’s not your own, muttered prayers from enemies who knew they wouldn’t meet God, the feeling of warm liquid heat seeping onto your palms.
“If you don’t, then I’ll kick your ass out.” You tell him simply.
Soap leans away and laughs. It’s a true gut laugh. You roll your eyes, again. The internal components look good so all that needs doing is cleaning the exterior parts and reassembly.
“I like you. Why haven’t we talked before?”
“Too busy. So, tell me Soap, what’s the gun.”
“Easy, SA80. SUSAT sight, non-modified.”
“Good.”
You turn to face Soap fully. “Now are you going to help me or stand there bothering me?”
As if he’s been hit with a taser, Soap shapes up and listens to your every command. Moving with confidence in the workspace like he’s been here for a lifetime. He fetches cleaning materials, organizes ammo, brings you paper and pencils. Hell, he’s not afraid to ask questions when he’s lost or doesn’t know where something goes. It’s nice to have someone else around other than your colleagues. As much as you like them, working with Soap is not the same and for whatever reason it's easy. The two of you chat. He tells you about his team, their relationship to each other, and to him. He’s kind and perceptive. It’s not shocking that he’s part of the elite task force. He talks about his childhood and homeland and his military accomplishments. He doesn’t get into the nitty-gritty and you don’t want to know. You’re happy to know what you do from reports and inventory lists. It’s your own way of connecting to the soldiers who rely on you. It keeps your heart from getting broken and grief from caging you behind its claws.
You listen to Soap. Input when asked. You don’t tell him much about yourself and it seems he’s content enough to get the smallest snippets of your life. You talk about your childhood home, your time spent in high school. You mention that you have a degree but interestingly, he doesn’t push. The chatter is nice.
“There you are John.”
You instinctually snap to attention and muster, “Captain Price.” You say evenly.
Captain Price looks at you for a moment. He seems to assess you briefly, checking the symbols on your arm and your appearance.
“At ease,” Captain Price says, and you relax. You look at Soap and he has a grin that says ‘took you long enough’. He saunters up to the window where Captain Price stands and leans out. You move to sit away from the duo, opting to give them space to talk and for you to begin your usual data logging. You sit at the small desk that’s tucked to the side of the room and boot up the computer. You log onto your profile and begin writing the data you took on paper and pencil.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding out.” Captain Price says to Soap. It’s not accusatory at least so hopefully they won’t bust your balls over it.
“Sure ‘hing. It’s been well fun working with the armorer.”
“Glad you had your fun,” Captain Price says. “You.”
You whip your head to Captain Price. He gives a slight nod and you feel your eyes and shoulders relax.
“John didn’t bother you too much?”
“No, sir. He was quite helpful.” You supply.
Captain Price hums, “Good. I do have to steal him now though.”
“Of course, sir.”
You stand and use your keycard to open the door for Soap to leave. Before he steps through the door frame he stops and claps you on the shoulder.
“Thanks for lettin’ be bother ya, let’s do it again some time.” Soap smiles and leaves, falling right in line with Captain Price.
—
“You like ‘em.” Price says as the two of you walk away from the armory. His foot falls are heavy and he jingles slightly from all of the shit that clogs up his pockets. He’s walking at a steady pace and Soap keeps up easily.
“What makes ya’ say that?”
“I’ve got eyes, John.”
“I don’t like ‘em like that. Didn’t even git their name.” Soap says, trying not to sound defensive. He liked working with you. You gave good and clear directions. Answered his questions with respect and didn’t make a fuss if he got into your space. You would make a good addition outside of the armory. He briefly imagines you in the barracks with the rest of 141, laughing and telling stories, out on deployment using your skills in the field. Fuck, he likes a competent soldier.
“Shame, could use someone like them. Especially if you get along.”
“I’ll be sure to get away from ya more often then.”
Price chuckles and nods, “I just might let you.”