Work Text:
By the time you push open the bar door, the rain has worked its way into everything.
Not enough to soak through, just enough to leave the cuffs of your jeans damp and your jacket carrying that cold, wet smell of Scotland in late autumn—rain on pavement, wind off the road, something sharp and green underneath it all.
Warmth hits you first.
Then noise.
The music is too loud through old speakers, glasses knocking together behind the bar, chairs scraping, people talking over each other because apparently no one in Scotland has ever believed in using an indoor voice. Some aggressively terrible top charts song from five years ago is fighting for its life through blown speakers overhead.
Someone near the dartboard lets out a yell like they’ve just won the lottery. Someone else tells them to shut the hell up. A woman by the fruit machine is laughing hard enough to nearly spill her drink.
It’s busy without being glamorous. A proper bar. Sticky floors. Worn wooden tables scarred with years of bad decisions. Low lighting that forgives everyone a little. The kind of place where no one asks too many questions and everyone pretends not to notice if you come in looking like you’ve had a day.
Which, tonight, you have.
Honestly, it could be any bar in the UK. Any city. Any Friday night where people are trying very hard not to think about Monday.
That’s probably why you like it.
Nothing polished. Nothing trying too hard. Just noise and alcohol and the comforting anonymity of being another body in the room.
You shrug out of your jacket as you walk, draping it over your arm, weaving through the crowd toward the bar. A man sidesteps without apologizing. You shoulder past him without apologizing either.
The bartender catches your eye from halfway down the counter and lifts a hand in that universal wait-your-turn gesture. You nod once and claim a stretch of wood near the end of the bar, leaning one forearm against the scratched surface.
You should probably be at your hotel. A long list of reasons you should probably be there instead of here, but if you start thinking too hard about that, you’ll end up back in your hotel room answering the increasingly passive-aggressive emails sitting unread in your inbox.
Absolutely not.
Tonight, you’re having one drink. Maybe two if the music gets worse.
You should probably be doing several things that are smarter than standing alone in a bar in Scotland ordering whiskey like you’re in the opening scene of a bad spy film.
Instead—
“What can I get you?”
The bartender appears as if he’s been summoned by bad decisions and regret.
“Just a beer,” you say, smiling. “For now.”
He gives you a brief once-over—either approving your drink choices or deciding not to get involved in them—and nods before disappearing again.
You exhale slowly.
One drink.
That’s the deal.
One drink, maybe two if the music gets significantly worse, and then back to the hotel. Back to work. Back to pretending your life is made up of sensible choices and manageable responsibilities.
Tonight is just a pause.
A small rebellion.
A few quiet hours where nobody needs anything from you.
You roll your shoulders once, letting some of the week loosen from your spine, and let your gaze drift over the room.
It’s habit as much as curiosity. You’ve always been a watcher first.
Couple near the bathrooms definitely in the middle of a fight they’ve had before. Three men at a high table trying and failing to flirt with the bartender. Two women sharing fries and judging everyone in the room with the kind of terrifying accuracy only best friends possess. A dartboard at the back currently being abused by men who should absolutely not be trusted with sharp objects.
And then—
Oh.
Well.
That’s…
different?
Across the room, half-leaning against a table like the place was built around him, is a man who looks like someone made a list of terrible ideas and somehow ended up with something unfairly attractive.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Built like he picks up heavy things recreationally. Navy t-shirt stretched across muscle like the shirt itself is under emotional strain. Sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms all ink and veins and the kind of strength that looks casual until you think about it too long.
And the hair.
You nearly laugh into your drink.
A mohawk.
An actual mohawk.
Not subtle or accidental. Not the aftermath of a drunken dare gone wrong. Intentional. Maintained. Almost aggressively committed to.
It should look stupid.
It absolutely should.
Instead, somehow, it works.
Which feels personally offensive.
He’s in the middle of telling some story to the two men around him, all easy movement and broad gestures, one hand wrapped around a beer, grin wide and sharp enough to be dangerous. His laugh cuts across the room even over the music—warm and impossible not to notice.
His friends are laughing too, but he’s clearly the center of it. The kind of person people naturally orbit.
You’ve met men like that before. Usually they’re exhausting.
This one—
This one is strange.
Not bad strange.
Interesting strange.
Like he belongs in motion and stillness would itch under his skin. Like if trouble learned how to be charming and got very good at it.
You’ve never seen someone so weirdly compelling to look at.
It is as if a fight and a flirtation had a baby.
And then, as if dragged by instinct alone, he looks up.
Straight at you.
There’s no dramatic movie moment. No slow-motion nonsense. Just a flick of his eyes across the room, a brief pause in whatever story he was telling, and the smallest shift in his expression.
Caught.
His smile shifts and there is this utterly torturous look in his eyes. One of the men at his table says something. He waves them off without even looking.
You lift your beer first, taking a slow sip like none of this matters, and turn slightly toward the bar instead of away from it. Not hiding and definitely not inviting. Just claiming your own space at the edge of the counter like you belong there.
Because you do.
You’ve never been particularly interested in shrinking yourself to make strangers comfortable. You sit like someone who chooses where they belongs and expects the room to adjust accordingly.
Not mysterious and trying to be noticed.
Just certain.
There’s a difference.
You count to ten as a joke in your head.
But by six, he’s actually moving.
Of course he is.
You hear him before you properly look at him—the shift of boots against the floor, the easy confidence of someone who has apparently never once in his life considered the possibility of rejection.
He stops beside you, close enough for warmth, not close enough to presume.
Up close, he’s worse.
Blue eyes. Very blue. Sharp jaw softened only slightly by the kind of grin that belongs to men who know exactly how often they get away with things. A scar near his chin. Another faint one near his brow. Hands that look like they’ve actually done things, which is annoyingly attractive.
His mouth tips like he already knows exactly how this is going to go.
“You’ve been watchin’ me for ten minutes, lass,” he says, voice rough-edged and warm, a thick Scottish accent curling around every word like it knows exactly what it’s doing. “Startin’ to think I should be flattered.”
You stare at him for exactly one beat before entertaining him. “I was actually trying to figure out if that haircut was a cry for help.”
he laughs—full and bright and entirely too pleased with himself. “Oh, cruel already.”
“You approached me.”
“Aye, and I’m startin’ to think I deserve a medal for bravery.”
You take another sip, deliberately unimpressed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
He leans one elbow against the bar beside you like he’s been invited there.
“You always look this unimpressed, or am I gettin’ special treatment?”
“You’re getting charity, actually.”
He presses a hand dramatically to his chest and mock gasps. “That’s devastating.”
“And yet, here you are still.”
“Aye,” he says easily, eyes flicking down to your mouth for half a second before returning. “I like a challenge.”
You let your gaze drift up, slow and thoughtful, stopping pointedly at the mohawk. “That’s not what your haircut says.”
Silence.
His expression freezes and he actually chokes on a laugh.
Behind him, one of his friends—who has absolutely been watching this unfold—makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a man witnessing a murder.
The mohawk man grins at you like you’ve just personally made his week.
“Oh, I’m definitely sittin’ here now.”
You sigh into your drink. “Tragic.”
He slides onto the stool beside yours like he’s been invited there, turning just enough that one knee brushes yours for half a second before he settles.
Not enough to call him on it but just enough to catch how warm he is.
You take another sip of your beer and deliberately don’t move.
“Johnny,” he says, offering a hand. “Since I’d like the chance to be insulted on a first-name basis.”
You glance at his hand, then take it.
His grip is warm. Skin calloused in a way that suggests he does something more interesting than office work.
You let go first.
“That depends. Is Johnny the name your barber used before or after the crime?”
He grins as he rests his elbows on the bar, closer now, his body angled toward yours with the lazy confidence of a man who assumes proximity is permission.
Usually, that would irritate you.
On him, somehow, it reads less entitled and more inevitable. Like he’d have ended up here beside you eventually no matter what either of you did.
“I’m startin’ to think I deserve hazard pay for being next to you.” He says, tilting his head, studying you.
You laugh—small and real and a traitor to your body.
And there it is.
That shift.
Tiny.
But real. Because his expression changes the second he hears it.
Still playful but less performance now.
Less bar game and more interest. Like making you laugh mattered more than getting you into bed.
Which is, frankly, dangerous.
“See, now I’m thinkin’ you like me.”
“I think the drink likes you. I’m undecided.”
“Dangerous answer.”
“Dangerous haircut.”
“Obsessed with my hair.”
“It’s hard not to be when it is so butchered.”
That one earns another grin, slower this time.
He likes this.
Maybe worse—so do you.
The bartender drops his next drink in front of him without asking. Familiar.
Of course.
Johnny—who is very obviously not just Johnny, but you’re willing to let him pretend for now—takes a sip and watches you over the glass. “You from around here?”
“Maybe.”
“Work?”
“Sometimes.”
He smirks. “That so?”
“Mm.”
“Very informative. I feel we’re really connectin’.”
You smile into your drink. “You military boys always this subtle?”
He leans in then—not dramatically, just enough that his voice drops lower, rougher, meant only for you despite the noise around you. “Oh, you noticed?”
The warmth of him is distracting. Clean soap under whisky and cologne and the crowded heat of the bar.
Annoying.
“I noticed,” you say, setting your glass down carefully, “you’ve tried three pickup lines and all of them were crimes.”
He grins, slow and wicked. “Only three? I’m losin’ my touch.”
“Devastating news for the nation.”
“I’ve got at least six more.”
“God help us.”
“Aye,” he says, eyes dropping to your mouth for the briefest second before returning, “but He’s been avoidin’ my calls.”
You laugh despite yourself, and there it is again. That stupid boyish grin filled with hope.
He turns his glass once against the wood, quieter now. “So what is it?”
You tilt your head, confused at the softer change. “What?”
“What you do.”
The question lands softer than the flirting did. You narrow your eyes and study him for a second. “Why?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “You’ve got that look.”
“That sounds vaguely insulting.” You turn on your stool a little more, crossing one leg over the other.
“Like you know how to leave quickly,” he says. “And make it look polite.”
That makes you pause.
Because it is annoyingly perceptive.
You look at him for a moment too long, and he notices that too. So instead of answering, you poke—
“Sounds like projection.”
He huffs a laugh. “Maybe.”
“Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“What exactly do you do, Johnny?”
He scratches lightly at his jaw, considering. Guarded. “Bit of this. Bit of that.”
“Mm. Criminal, then.”
“Only recreationally.”
“Government?”
That one earns a laugh into his glass, but there’s something underneath it again.
That dodge.
You lean closer, resting your elbow against the bar now, matching his posture without meaning to.
“The posture gave it away,” you murmur. “Also the haircut screams poor institutional decisions.”
His smile goes slow.
Warm.
Interested.
“Careful, lass.”
“Why?”
He laughs into his drink. “You’re enjoyin’ yourself far too much.”
“I really am.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The music shifts—something louder now, older, everyone in the place suddenly convinced they know the words.
At the table behind you, someone cheers because someone else has definitely made a terrible romantic decision. The whole bar feels warmer than it did an hour ago.
Closer.
Johnny glances toward the dance floor, such as it is—a loose disaster of people near the jukebox pretending rhythm is optional.
Then back to you.
“Dance with me.”
You look at him and laugh stupidly. “No.”
“Quick answer.”
“Confident men make me suspicious.”
“Cruel women make me curious.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
He slides off the stool anyway and offers a hand. “You’ve been rejectin’ me and I think it's almost a kink. At this point, I think I deserve one song.”
You look at his hand. At him. At the hand again.
“This isn’t romance, Johnny. This is persistence.”
“Aye,” he says, grin crooked and impossible, “and it’s workin’.”
You should say no.
Instead—
“Fine. One song.”
“Dangerous choice.”
“You keep saying that like I’m supposed to be worried.”
“Oh, lass,” he says, taking your hand and tugging you gently to your feet, “I’m startin’ to think you should be.”
The dance floor is exactly as bad as expected. Sticky. Crowded. Someone already too drunk to safely coordinate limbs. Johnny, unfortunately, fits into it like he was built for noise and bad decisions.
His hand settles at your waist—not presumptuous, but not shy either. Yours lands on his shoulder. Too close to call this innocent. Too late to pretend either of you want that.
“You dance like you flirt,” you tell him.
“Exceptionally well?”
“Like you think the rules are optional.”
He leans in, voice low near your ear so you can hear it over the music. “Only the boring ones.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling now, and he catches it like a victory.
The song blurs into another. Then another. At some point, you stop keeping track.
Conversation becomes easier in pieces—half-finished things spoken close, laughter shared in the space between songs, his hand finding the small of your back like it belongs there.
Later, back at the edge of the bar, breathing a little harder, he nods toward a man across the room trying and failing to get your attention.
“So,” he says casually, “you plannin’ on leavin’ with that poor excuse for a date over there?”
You follow his gaze.
Snort.
“I think you know I came alone.”
His grin is immediate. “Just testing.”
You turn toward him fully then, close enough to see the exact shade of blue in his eyes swim just that bit darker. “Careful, Soldier.”
For the first time all night, he looks surprised.
“Confidence like that gets people killed.”
Then he smiles—slower this time. Sharper. “Good thing,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like a hand sliding down your spine, “I make a career of it.”
Last call arrives like an insult.
The lights in the bar shift—brighter, harsher, suddenly determined to expose every bad decision made under softer lighting. A collective groan rolls through the room like grief. Someone near the dartboard boos dramatically. Someone else yells for one more round like volume might change policy.
It doesn’t.
Chairs scrape. People start gathering coats. Glasses clink their final goodbyes. The whole place takes on that strange end-of-night energy—everyone slower, looser, reluctant to let the evening end because outside means taxis and cold air and real life waiting with its arms crossed.
You’re leaning against the bar with the last of your whiskey, your jacket folded over your arm, and Johnny is still beside you like he’s decided persistence is a personality trait.
Which, to be fair, it probably is.
He’s close enough now that it feels natural. Shoulder brushing yours when someone squeezes past behind him, one forearm braced against the bar near your glass, body turned toward yours like the rest of the room is background noise.
Like this—whatever this is—has become the important part of his night..
You take the last sip of your drink just to give yourself something to do with your hands.
He watches you do it.
There’s a look on his face that’s changed from when he first walked over. Less smug now. Or maybe not less smug—just less automatic. The easy charm is still there, the grin, the confidence, but underneath it is something more irritating.
Actual interest.
Somewhere between the haircut insults and the dancing and the way you kept saying no without really leaving, he stopped trying to win and started trying to stay.
He turns his empty glass once against the wood.
“So,” he says, like this thought has only just occurred to him and not been circling his head for the last hour, “you givin’ me your number, then?”
You smile into your glass.
There it is.
You set it down carefully. “The fourth crime.”
He exhales a laugh through his nose, tipping his head back for a second like he’s asking God for strength. “Cruel woman.”
“You recovered from the haircut comment. I have faith in you.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Honesty. Refreshin’.”
You turn toward him a little, leaning one elbow against the bar now, close enough to smell the clean soap under the whisky and beer and crowded heat of the place.
It is deeply unfair that he smells that good.
“Let me guess,” you say. “You do this often.”
His hand presses to his chest again, mock wounded.
“Flirt with beautiful women in bars? Never. This is my first time. I’m nervous.”
“You’re handling it badly.”
“Aye, I noticed.”
He shifts closer—not enough to crowd, just enough that it feels deliberate. Like he knows exactly how much space exists between your bodies and has decided none of it should be wasted.
“Maybe,” he says, voice dropping lower, rougher around the edges now, “I’m serious.”
You hold his gaze.
Maybe he is.
That’s the problem.
You smile anyway. “Maybe that’s your first mistake.”
His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up.
“Only the first?”
“Johnny, let’s not ruin the mystery.”
That grin again. Slow this time. Warm. Dangerous.
“Fine,” he says. “Number, then. Or your email. Carrier pigeon. I’m flexible.”
You laugh softly, reaching for your coat.
“Here is my number,” you say, patting the back of his hand like you’re delivering genuinely tragic news. “Call me when you get home.”
His eyes narrow immediately.
“That number’s no good to me, is it?”
You pull your jacket on, all innocence. Smiling sweetly. “I don’t own a phone.”
“Absolute lies.”
“Can you prove it?”
He shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “I feel like I shouldn’t have to.”
“Yet here we are.”
He shakes his head, smiling despite himself.
“Right, then. Your address. I’ll write to you.”
You pause halfway through fixing your sleeve, considering him with exaggerated seriousness.
“I never finished school.”
He blinks. “What?”
“My writing just isn’t very good.”
There’s a beat before he breaks in full laughter, hand on the bar, shoulders shaking hard enough that two people near the door look over.
“You’ve been waiting to use that, haven’t you?”
“Since your second pickup line.”
“Premeditated.”
“Efficiently so.”
“Terrifyin’.”
“Frequently.”
The bartender passes, wiping down the counter with the look of a man who would like both of you to continue this elsewhere.
Message received.
People are spilling toward the door now in loud, swaying clusters, dragging coats on, arguing over taxis, promising to text people they absolutely will not text.
The night is ending whether either of you like it or not. Johnny looks at you for a long second. No grin this time. No performance.
Just him.
“Or,” he says, quieter now, stepping in close enough that the world narrows a little around the two of you, “you could just leave with me.”
There it is.
Simple.
No game.
No line.
His fingers brush your elbow—not pulling, not insisting, just there. Asking.
For a second, all you can hear is the bass from the speakers, muffled under the crowd noise and your own pulse doing something stupid.
Because the truth is—
you want to.
God, you do.
You want the hotel hallway. The shared grin. His mouth on yours before the door even closes. His hands. The inevitable disaster of it.
You want exactly the kind of mistake he looks like.
Which is precisely why you can’t.
You look up at him. At the blue eyes. The scar near his brow. That ridiculous mohawk. The mouth that has spent all night making you laugh and making this harder than it should be.
And because you are, unfortunately, a grown woman capable of pattern recognition—
you step back.
“No.”
He goes still.
Not angry. Not quite offended.
Just… surprised.
You think maybe no one says that to him, especially when both people know the answer could have been yes.
“Just no?”
You shrug, sliding your bag onto your shoulder. “I like my bad decisions with a little more planning.”
His mouth twitches. “Thought I was doin’ pretty well.”
“Oh, you were.”
That lands. You watch it land. Because now he knows it wasn’t lack of interest.
Which somehow makes it worse.
He follows you to the door because of course he does.
Rain taps soft against the windows. Outside, the street glows wet under yellow lights, pavement slick and shining. Cold air rushes in every time someone leaves, carrying damp night and taxi fumes and the sound of distant traffic.
You stop under the awning, pulling your jacket tighter.
He stands beside you, hands shoved into his pockets now, looking less like the man who swaggered up to you two hours ago and more like someone reluctantly realizing he’s losing a fight.
“So that’s it?” he asks.
You glance up at him.
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Easy for you to say.”
You smile.
And because maybe you’re not entirely heartless—
because maybe you’d like to see what he does with hope—
you say, lightly,
“I’m at this bar every damn weekend.”
He blinks and you can see the cogs turning, Processing slowly.
Then lets out this disbelieving little laugh, shaking his head.
“You are an absolute menace.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Aye,” he says, stepping closer one last time, voice low and warm enough to make your life significantly harder, “but I’ll be thinkin’ of better things to call you.”
You smile.
You let that sit there before you step away first.
Into the cold.
Into the rain.
And you can feel it—without even turning—the weight of him still standing there, watching you leave.
Hooked completely.
Poor bastard.
Johnny still looks at you like a man personally offended by the concept of boundaries.
You’d almost feel bad.
Almost.
He’s still stuck on the no.
Not sulking—he wears disappointment too well for that—but there’s a very visible disbelief sitting under the grin, like he’s trying to work out if persistence is still charming after rejection number six.
Probably not.
Definitely still trying.
“You’re really leavin’ me like this?” he asks, following a step behind as you move away. “Wounded. Devastated. Changed forever.”
You glance over your shoulder. “You’ll recover.”
“I won’t. I’ll write songs.”
“Jesus, please don’t.”
“They’ll be tragic.”
“They’ll be badly rhymed.”
He puts a hand to his chest like you’ve physically struck him. “Cruel.”
“Consistent.”
Before he can answer, one of the men from his table appears at his shoulder like he’s been waiting for exactly this moment all night.
Tall, mask covering half his face but enough showing that he is clearly amused in that deeply irritating best-friend sort of way.
Another follows behind him, already grinning with the unmistakable expression of a man who has seen something hilarious and intends to enjoy it forever.
Ah.
The audience arrives.
“Well, well,” the first one says, slinging an arm around Johnny’s shoulders with all the sincerity of a funeral attendee trying not to laugh. “She said no.”
The masked one lets out a low whistle. “Didn’t even hesitate, mate. Brutal.”
Traitors. All of them.
Johnny shoves uselessly at the arm around his shoulders.
“Can all of you kindly piss off?”
“No,” says the first immediately.
“Absolutely not,” says the second.
You laugh and God, the look Johnny gives you for that could power a small city.
His friends tighten around him in exaggerated solidarity, one patting his shoulder like he’s just survived a national tragedy.
“There’ll be others,” one says solemnly. “We’ll get you through this.”
“Take some time. Heal.”
Johnny looks like he’s considering murder.
“I’m starting to think,” you say, “I might be the first woman to ever tell you no.”
Johnny turns slowly, staring at you in pure betrayal. “That is a vicious accusation.”
“Is it inaccurate?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His friends get louder.
“Oh my God, it’s true.”
“Never been humbled like this in his life.”
“We need to mark the date.”
“Get a plaque made.”
He drags both hands down his face. “This is why I work with professionals.”
“No,” one of them says, still laughing, “this is why you flirt with civilians.”
You’re trying not to grin now and failing spectacularly.
Johnny straightens, shakes off his friends, and steps toward you one last time like a man making his final stand.
Then—dramatically, shamelessly—he puts his hands together in front of his chest.
Prayer hands.
Actual prayer hands.
“Please,” he says, looking skyward like he’s appealing to a higher power. “Just a little mercy. A number. A surname. A postcode. Somethin’.”
His friends behind him are making wounded noises.
“Look at him. Begging.”
“She’s broken him.”
You stare at him. At the ridiculous sincerity. At the stupid mohawk. At the blue eyes and the grin he’s trying and failing to suppress because unfortunately for both of you, he’s enjoying this too.
And really—
how are you supposed to take that seriously?
You smile softly and lift two fingers to your lips and blow him a kiss.
Just like that.
Light and easy. Devastating.
His entire face changes. His friends behind him make noises like they’ve just witnessed a sporting event.
You’re already stepping backward into the cold night air.
Rain-damp wind catches at your hair, your coat, the warmth still clinging to your skin from inside.
Johnny stands there under the yellow bar lights, looking like a man who has just been handed both victory and psychological warfare at the same time.
You point at him once. “Stay in your lane, Soldier.”
His grin comes back slow. “See, now that just sounds like an invitation.”
You shake your head, laughing. And behind you, over the noise of the street and the laughter of his awful friends, you hear him call—
“I’ll be here next weekend, hen!”
Without turning, you lift a hand over your shoulder.
So will you.
-/-/-
Morning comes with all the grace of a head injury.
Cold hotel coffee. A headache sitting politely behind your eyes. Rain still tapping against the windows like Scotland has personally committed to the bit.
You stand outside a closed room door on the third floor of a building that smells like industrial carpet, stale air conditioning, and government funding, staring at your phone like it has personally betrayed you.
Third floor. Conference room B.
Which would be helpful if Conference Room B was labeled by anyone with a functioning sense of logic.
Your file is tucked under one arm, laptop bag digging into your shoulder, coffee balanced precariously in your other hand as you check the email for the fourth time.
Late.
Not disastrously late, but enough to be annoying.
Enough that whoever’s inside already knows it.
Perfect.
You sigh, lock your phone, and glance once at your reflection in the narrow glass panel beside the door.
Professional. Like you did not spend last night in a bar verbally assaulting a Scottish man with a mohawk and spending far too long last night awake in a hotel bed, irritated with yourself, imagining his hand where your own had failed to be remotely convincing.
Excellent.
You push the door open.
The room is all sharp corners and government-issued misery—long conference table, too-bright overhead lights, a wall screen already glowing with briefing material.
At the far end, Kate Laswell is on-screen from a video call, glasses low on her nose, looking like a woman who has never once in her life tolerated incompetence. The grace of your boss.
At the head of the table stands Captain Price, arms folded, expression carved somewhere between patience and disappointment.
You know him by reputation before introduction. Everyone does.
And then—
you look to the side of the room.
And stop dead.
No.
No, absolutely not.
First: Ghost, unmistakable even sitting down, all broad shoulders and silent intimidation like someone taught a thunderstorm how to hold a rifle. The friend in the mask at the bar. Fuck.
Then Gaz, who you recognize instantly as one of last night’s gleeful witnesses to Johnny’s public humiliation. Double fuck.
And then—
Triple fuck.
Johnny.
Soldier— Sergeant You’ve-Been-Watching-Me-For-Ten-Minutes, lass.
Sitting at the table with a coffee in one hand and the exact moment of realization hitting him like a live grenade.
You watch it happen.
The blink.
The stillness.
The slow lowering of the coffee.
The complete spiritual evacuation of his soul.
For one beautiful second, no one says anything.
Then your hand flies over your mouth and you laugh helpless and absolutely impossible to stop because his face—
his face—
He looks like he’s watching his own funeral.
Soap—Johnny to you—drops back in his chair, both hands dragging down his face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Gaz makes a noise somewhere between a cough and a dying man trying not to laugh.
Ghost, somehow, gets even more still, which is significantly worse because you can feel the amusement radiating off him like a tactical weapon.
Price looks between all of you with the slow suspicion of a man realizing he has missed something he is absolutely going to regret learning.
Laswell, on screen, says nothing. Which is how you know she absolutely already knows.
You set your coffee down with what dignity remains available to you and walk further into the room, still smiling despite yourself.
Price gestures once.
“You must be our new liaison.”
“Yes, sir,” you say, still fighting laughter. “Sorry I’m late.”
Then, because you are only human, you look directly at Soap. “We’ve actually met.”
Gaz loses the fight entirely, laughing into his hand.
Soap points at you without looking up. “Don’t.”
Too late.
Ghost leans back in his chair, arms folded. Dry as bone, he says, “Captain, this is why he came in lookin’ like he’d been rejected by the United Nations.”
Gaz fully folds over.
Price turns slowly toward Soap. “What.”
Soap groans into his hands. “Sir, respectfully, I’d rather be shot.”
Ghost tilts his head. “Again?”
That gets even Laswell to hide a smile.
Price stares at the room like he’s considering early retirement.
Finally, Ghost—because apparently mercy is not one of his hobbies—speaks.
“Sergeant MacTavish attempted to pick up our new contractor in a bar last night.”
A beat.
Price blinks once.
Then looks at Soap.
Then at you.
Then back to Soap.
Long silence.
“…Did it work?”
You fold your arms. “Depends. If public humiliation was the objective? Spectacularly.”
Gaz makes another noise like he’s choking.
Soap sits up at last, pointing between you and the rest of the room like he’s trying to defend himself in court. “In my defense, she was bein’ very flirtatious!”
You raise an eyebrow. “In your defense, your pickup lines were criminal.”
Ghost nods once. “Can confirm.”
“Traitor,” Soap mutters, eyes narrowing in jest.
Price rubs a hand over his beard, looking deeply tired.
Laswell finally speaks from the screen, calm as ever. “Well. I’m glad everyone’s already bonding.”
You and Gaz laugh at the same time.
Soap drops his head back toward the ceiling like he’s appealing directly to God.
Ghost, beside him, murmurs—
“Stay in your lane, Sergeant.”
The room erupts.
And across the table, Soap looks at you through all of it—mortified, annoyed, and, somehow, still grinning.
Because of course he is.
And because your life is apparently committed to irony—
you grin back.