Chapter Text
0800. You weren’t up especially early today since you didn’t have anything important to do. Check on your dogs, do gym, maybe take a break, and then do some shooting range practice. That was it. You weren’t supposed to meet your new team until tomorrow, after Laswell had all the paperwork filled out. Scary woman, that one. She had handed you 4 files yesterday, each that had to do with your new units team members.
You had immediately looked at them and assigned them animals based off of their appearances and what you assumed of their personalities. It was just a habit of yours. Hell, you even did that for your old team when you had first joined. When you were young, bright eyed, and ready for action.
Now look at you.
The first file you had looked at was your captains, John Price. Close with Laswell, apparently. Had a thing for war crimes. He was a Great Dane, like Ezra. He had droopy eyes, and his beard reminded you of the dark patch on a Great Dane’s face. Patient, alert, and territorial. And then you looked at Gaz’s, he reminded you of Beckham, your well trained Doberman who was most likely sitting patiently in your room right now. Diamond shaped head, and short hair. Tall, with long limbs. Obedient and intelligent. Then Soap; Pitbull Terrier, definitely. Boxy face, strong brows, and a muscular build. He had a boyish grin plastered on his face. Loyal and made for fighting. And lastly, Ghost. Alstation; scruffy and wary of strangers. No photo, but it wasn’t needed. Everybody has heard of him, rookie or not. Walls up all the time. Trainable and large.
Nonetheless, you weren’t going to busy yourself with making friends. That wasn’t what you were here for.
You roamed the halls, fidgeting with your dog tags as you approached your room. The mess hall was too loud, and you really didn’t want to talk to Francis today. It wasn’t even talking to him, it was more like you just sat there and he talked at you. Plus, the food there was disgusting anyways. The eggs had managed to look like playdoh and slime at the same time. A two in one deal, Francis would say.
You opened the door, sounding out a huff of relief once you saw your dogs. Arlo, your tall Belgian Mallinios, barked out of happiness once he saw you. He had been laying comfortably in his grey dog bed, but now he was excitedly circling your legs, tongue sticking out as he panted.
“Hey, boy.” You say, crouching down and scratching the sweet spot you knew he loved between his ears. He proudly stands there, taking your undivided attention. Beckham was sat at the edge of your bed but had begun to trot over. He leaned his head down to get rubs as-well. You rewarded him with his well-deserved scratches. Kit and Ezra, who were laying next to each other, made no attempt to move. You knew they were just acting unbothered. You stood, giving them each the equal amounts of rubs; or at least as equal as it could get.
Spoiling your dogs with affection was never a problem for you, since they had always been good boys. They made you proud, as proud as a K-9 Handler could be.
Once you got up, though, you felt your bones ache. Damn, you were getting old, weren’t you? You looked through the small window that was only added as a pity accessory, because you felt lonely in this dark room, gazing at the two crows making odd noises at each other on the electrical wire outside. You knew what that meant, understood the message that it sent. One crow was bad luck. Two crows, though, meant a change for the better. It didn’t really feel like that, but one could argue that your brain is stupid and you just need to just suck it up.
You really needed something to take you away from your thoughts, and what’s better than that than the gym? Nothing cheered you up more than breaking records and getting sweaty while also, at the same time getting stronger. Francis would call you crazy, but frankly, you didn’t care.
You parted with your dogs, giving them air kisses as you closed the door and started walking to the gym. Your mind began to wander, and you started to think about your new team. You had known Ghost and Price before this, but you had never heard of Soap or Gaz before. You wondered what they were like. You had a feeling Soap was a little outgoing and pushy, seeing as he was somehow allowed to smile in his picture. And for a bit, you had wondered what they heard of you before this. You were very well known in the K-9 Handler business, but who’s to say they had ever heard of you before?
When you make it to the gym, you note that it’s quiet, nobody was there. This is why you preferred going in the morning. Peace and quiet, with nobody there to bother you. Your squadmates thought you were crazy for always going to the gym before eating, but that was alright. They had to eat their gruesome slime-playdoh, meanwhile you got to do reps all alone, without an annoying rookie there to awkwardly try to make small talk with you like they knew you personally.
You automatically moved to the treadmills, as if it was calling to you and putting you in a trance. Sure, you were being a bit dramatic, but who cared? You just loved treadmills. One could even say, if they were more of a poet than you were, that it showed how you had a tendency to run from your problems. Just like this. You punched a few buttons on the pad wired into the treadmill, feeling the adrenaline of moving your legs before you slid off.
You walked on the sliding platform, already feeling your body get heated and adapt to the speed. You liked the feeling of exercising, it gave you something to do, calmed you down from your thoughts and made you feel safe, in your own little world.
You closed your eyes, letting yourself relax. Well, not literally. You couldn’t actually stop moving, actually relax, because if you did then you’d most likely fall and bust your head open, and you knew better than that. Even though you were rather sweaty, you felt a chill down your spine. Before you could turn up the speed even higher, to ignore your anxiety, you felt this unnerving sensation. Like someone was staring at you. Watching you. You tried to ignore it, but deciding better for yourself you opened your eyes, about to turn around before—
“I knew you’d be here.” A familiar voice echoed from the doorway. Damn it. So much for ‘your own little world’. That little world was for you only. Francis was not supposed to be in that world.
You clicked a button, letting the treadmill deposit you safely onto the carpet. “Hey, Fran,” You replied, a hint of annoyance in your voice, crossing your arms and turning to the man in question. “Shouldn’t you be in mess?”
Francis was a tall guy, talkative, and oddly optimistic for someone in the military, in a job like this. He shrugged in his hoodie, grinning as he made his way across the room to you. “Shouldn’t you?” He asked. Touché.
“Yeah, I’m not eating that shit.” You said matter-of-factly, moving to sit down on the nearest bench. It was cold, and you appreciated the chilling feeling after getting all sweaty. You put your hands under your thighs.
“The food isn’t even that bad!” Francis protested. He held out one of those styrofoam containers, y’know, the ones that you’d take as a to go box from a local food place. He popped open the lid to reveal what the line cook would try to pawn off as fried chicken, but the thick ranch that was on the side and drizzled on top of the chicken was what made you want to gag.
You grimaced, shaking your head. “You’re just proving my point.”
“Wha- how!?” He asked, moving to sit next to you. You scooted away. Jesus, even the smell of the food was enough to make you want to find the nearest toilet. “It’s not even that bad! If you just close your eyes an’ try it, it tastes fine!”
You gave him a look. In response, you got a raised eyebrow and a gesture to try one of the ‘chicken’ drumsticks. He pushed it slightly in your direction, just close enough to the fact that you could see just how bad it was when it was all up in your face.
“Dude, it looks like the chef put his cum in there.”
He looked down, making a face at the container in his hands. “Now why would you say that?”
You shrugged. Anything to prove your point, Plus, you weren’t even wrong. The ranch was slimy and sticky. The line cook might as well have ejaculated in the damn food and called it a day.
Francis made a whole show of shutting his eyes, grabbing a drumstick slathered in ranch (not before struggling a bit to grab one), and taking a bite out of it. His whole body tensed, and you could tell he was trying not to throw it up. His brows knitted together, and he turned the container so the lid was facing you, hiding the monstrosity the chef called ‘breakfast’. He spit out the chicken, coughing as he went. He placed down the container next to him, wiping his mouth.
You snorted at the sight. “I hate to say it, well, not really, but I told you so.”
“Fuck you, man.” Francis bit.
“Hey, well at-least I’m not eating food that the chef jerked off in.”
“What is wrong with you?” He was giggling in-between words so you could tell that it was all in good faith. In all honesty, though you would never tell him this, he was actually okay to be around when he wasn’t being annoying.
“A lot,” You said, taking your warmed up hands from under your thighs and putting them in your lap. You fidgeted with your shorts a bit as you two fell into a comfortable silence. “You should know this by now.” He didn’t reply, and you looked at him only to find him already staring.
“I should, shouldn’t I? I should’ve figured it out when I learned that you went to the gym before breakfast,” He remarked lazily, closing the lid to the container sitting next to him. “Only crazy people do that.” Called it. You knew him well enough to know he’d say something like that. He pissed you off just that much.
“I’m not crazy, just productive.” You said with a shrug.
“Sure you are, Dolittle.” He replied sarcastically. He had a deadpan look on his face, the one that he always had whenever he thought someone was bullshiting. The comfortable silence returned again. You sat there, fiddling with your dog tag as Francis continued to wipe his mouth and pout like some child. Grown ass man. You had warned him. Wasn’t your fault he had a hard-ass head.
He cleared his throat. “So, you’re getting transferred, yeah?”
“Yeah.” You replied. Weird change of topic, but alright. “Why? You gonna miss me?”
Francis made a face, like he had a bad taste in his mouth. Probably the chicken. “Just askin’. Meet your new unit yet?”
You squinted. Why did he care so much? You were getting suspicious now. “What is this, twenty questions? But no, I meet them tomorrow.”
“Ghosts on that team, right?” You nodded. “Proper creep, that one.”
You held back a laugh. Ghost was kind of creepy. It didn’t really matter though. As long as you could work with each other, that was all you needed. Other than that, you really didn’t care. You just wanted to do your job in peace. No distractions. You hadn’t even wanted to be on this godforsaken team in the first place.
You had floated around bases for a while, never actually sticking to one unit, until Laswell, damn her. She had seen you training with the others and talked to the General of the base, which apparently meant roping you into an international team, the 141.
Without warning, Francis stood up. He brushed the imaginary dirt off of his pants. “Listen, man. You’re a good guy. Just quiet. I’m just saying that maybe this a good thing for you—” You were suddenly reminded of those crows, “— and maybe you should take advantage of it. Don’t be all nonchalant as usual.”
You blinked. “Whatever you say,” But before you could fully say goodbye, he had already walked out. He had also left his disgusting breakfast with the chefs jizz in it, “alright, then.”
Wait, was he calling you lonely?