Since Its Bunny Day, Imagine If Sweetheart Announces The Day Before, She Is Going To Wear A Bunny Suit

since it’s Bunny day, imagine if Sweetheart announces the day before, she is going to wear a bunny suit for bunny day to pass out eggs to everyone. Everyone is imagining her in a sexy bunny suit (playboy bunny style) and are excited.

Sweetheart rolls up in a full bunny mascot suit with a bunny head, ready to throw eggs filled with glitter at everyone 😂💀

IM LAUGHLIN SO HARD WTFFF

THE EXPECTATION AND THEN THE REALITY IS KILLING ME OMG

She comes in with a suit and head you'd see at the freaking mall, and it is DEAD SILENT

NOT ONE PEEP OUT OF ANY OF EM FOR THE LONGEST

Gaz: Uhm. Sweetheart? What is... what is this.

Sweetheart, twirling: It's my bunny suit! I told yall this last week!

Soap: This is nooottt the bunny suit we thought of.

Sweetheart, confused: Huh? What other suit are--

Sweetheart:

(She throws an egg that was in her basket and it explodes on Soap's face)

Soap, screaming: WHAT TAE FUCK IS THIS?!?!

Sweetheart: YOU ARE NASTY!! ALL YALL ARE NASTY AS SHIT

(She starts throwing glitter eggs at all of them. Yelling and dodging starts happening)

Sweetheart: THIS IS EASTER SUNDAY NOT WHORE SUNDAY YOU- W H O R E S

Soap: IT GOT IN MY FUCKING EYE SWEET STEAMING JESUS

HORANGI: SWEETHEART STOP THROWING THE EGGS WE'RE SORRY

Sweetheart: FEEL MY EASTER BUNNY WRATH

It was alot of chaos in an hour 💀 after that happened Soap and the others apologized and so did she (she didn't mean it tho) she was truly sorry for getting glitter in Soap's eye tho- that shit hurted 😭😭

Alejandro and Rudy visited, and they were NOT expecting this. Alejandro fell over laughing and Rudy was crying, holding in his laughter. They love the suit that she's wearing tho, they thought it was cute

Graves was straight up laughing and saying what she was wearing was stupid, and Krueger punched him on the shoulder. He was confused on why she was wearing this but supported her anyway.

The day passes and they haven't seen Sweetheart like- anywhere (the other soldiers and rookies were happy that they got chocolates and eggs from a big bunny but they haven't seen her anywhere-- THE GHOST OF EASTER CONFIRMED???11?1?)

The boys walk into the living area and they freeze. Sweetheart is sitting on the couch, legs crossed and arms spread across the top, wearing a tight pink playboy bunny suit.

She's wearing an extremely thin, long sleeve turtleneck under it, yet they can't breathe. The pink lace garter belts strain against her thick, black stocking covered thighs and her pink heeled foot bounces up and down lazily. Roach and Rudy feel like passing out, and they all feel a tingling in their stomachs. Sweetheart smiles. "I still feel bad about what happened earlier, so take this," she points at her costume, "As an apology." She says lowly. The boys get excited, smiling ear to ear and moving towards her, but Ghost and Price know that she's hiding something. "But," She states. Oh fuck, they were right. She pulls out a long belt with small dull spikes on it from under a pillow, the jingling of the buckle makes them all shiver (and a bit turned on)

"I'm still quite pissed about it." She says, snapping the belt loudly to see them all flinch and hitch their breaths. She smiles sinisterly, her canines baring. "So take your punishment and let's play some Easter Games, yeah?"

Happy Easter/Bunny Day yall 💓

iii. no proof except my silver tongue

Pairing: Mob Boss!Price x F!Reader Word Count: 8.3k Warnings: blood, alcohol, brief nudity, guns Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. A/N: i ended up rewriting this part because i thought it was too long, but it ended up being longer than before so enjoy the hefty chapter! prev | next

“You know, it’s just dawned on me that you’ve never actually been to the club.”

You look up from the vase you’re polishing, tilting your head at Kyle, who sits across the table from you. He had been working on some kind of financial report when he joined you, but now he’s leaned back in the plush chair, arms folded across his chest as he stares at you. You blink back at him, trying not to let your eyes dip down to where he’s left the top two buttons of his crisp, deep purple shirt undone.

“I'm…literally in the club right now?”

Kyle rolls his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Not what I meant,” he scoffs. “You’ve never been here while we’re open.”

“You’ve just noticed that?” you ask, raising a brow at him. He gives a half-shrug, glancing back down at the pile of papers in front of him.

“You’ve been here for nearly three months…” he says, quickly glancing back up at you. It’s your turn to shrug, using that as your answer before you return to polishing the vase.

“There’s no cover charge for employees if that’s what you're worried about.” His voice is quiet, but you easily catch his words in the club's silence.

You stop mid-polish, setting the vase aside to clasp your hands together on the table. You meet Kyle’s eyes with a steady gaze.

“You think I can’t afford to get into your club?” You keep your voice light, but the accusation is there, and Kyle picks up on it instantly—you’d be surprised if he didn’t.

“I’ve seen that hunk of junk you call a car,” he laughs, all tease and no malice. You scoff, grabbing the closest serviette and tossing it at him. He catches it easily—one-handed and without flinching—neatly folding it and setting it aside. He turns back to you, still waiting for an answer.

“I’m not big on clubs,” you sigh, sliding your hands off the table to settle them in your lap.

“If I remember correctly, you came here to sing in a club?”

Your fingers loosen, allowing your thumb to pick at the edges of your nails.

“That’s work, not recreation.”

“Semantics.”

Your thumb catches on your pinky nail, digging in and tearing painfully into the bed of your finger. You roll your eyes, ignoring the sharp sting on your finger and Kyle’s quiet chuckles.

“There a reason you want me here so bad?” you ask, pulling your jacket sleeves down over your hands and folding them atop the table. You press your pinkie into the denim, letting the coarse fabric soak up the few droplets of blood.

“You missed out on the New Years party—”

“Not a fan of fireworks.”

“—And you’ve been here long enough. Most people would jump at the opportunity to get in for free.”

You have a feeling this is something Kyle’s stubbornly set on, and you’re going to have a hard time talking your way out.

“Isn’t there some kind of fancy dress code?” you try, looking down at your simple outfit; it's the same t-shirt and jean jacket combination you've worn almost every day—you hadn’t thought to pack your whole wardrobe when you started this little adventure. “If you’ve seen my hunk of junk car, you should know I don’t really have anything that nice.”

Not anymore.

Kyle scoffs, an easy and surprisingly sympathetic smile on his face. “Don’t worry about it. You can hang out at the bar with Alex, and if anyone gives you shit about it, just let me know.”

“I don’t—”

“And if it really bothers you, you can take one of Farah’s outfits from backstage. There’s a ton of them, dresses and suits; I’m sure you’ll be able to find something that fits.”

A moment of silence as you stare each other down. Kyle’s convincingly charming smile against your blank stare. You know he won’t accept no for an answer as you try to mentally sort through excuses to find one that might work.

All you can come up with is, “Who’s Farah?”

“Guess you’ll have to show up tonight and find out,” he smirks.

Walked right into that one.

You sigh, long and dramatic, putting your hands up in surrender. “Fine, I’ll come see what all the fuss is about.”

“Great!” You can't find it in you to regret the decision when you see how Kyle beams at you, clapping his hands together. He hurriedly gathers his spread of papers, standing from the table. “Club opens at eight. You can come in through the back; I’ll let Rudy know.”

He takes off, heading straight for the back office.

“Wha- hey! Is that why you came and sat with me?” you call out, turning in the chair to yell at his back.

“See you tonight, Canary!” he laughs, disappearing behind the doors.

-

You don’t borrow one of Farah’s outfits, instead switching out your denim jacket for the only other piece of outerwear you’d packed: a long, black sweater that still carries the faint scent of your mother’s favorite perfume. You switch boots, choosing your cleaner and less worn pair—still solid black and probably not formal enough for where you’re going—and try to put a little more effort into styling your hair than your typical ten-minute morning routine.

The bathroom mirror in your motel room is permanently foggy; your reflection is still visible, but just blurry enough to be frustrating. You do your best, using the always-too-cold sink water to wash your face and smooth down any stray strands of hair. It takes some time, and you’re finally presentable enough to leave the room thirty-four minutes after eight.

You’ve never been to this side of town at night.

The road to the club is packed, cars filling spaces on both sides of the street, some parked and some dropping people off. It’s almost an hour after opening, yet there are people everywhere. A long line spills out of the club into the crowds walking by. Blurs of silk, sparkle and too-much money pass by you, the masses already belligerently drunk and ready to party.

It takes some effort to get to the back lot in your car, avoiding cars and pedestrians alike. You can see a few stragglers in the alleyway: a bald man smoking by the dumpsters, two men talking quietly near the entrance, and a couple doing something they probably shouldn’t in the back corner.

You keep your eyes forward, parking your car and tucking your duffel bag as far under the backseat as possible before you get out. You lock your car, double and triple-checking that it worked, before hurrying to the back entrance.

You pull on the door, only to find it…locked?

When the hell did they start locking doors?

You knock, knuckles wrapping against the metal in a quick rhythm. You give it a minute, then two, then five, before you knock again.

Still nothing.

You groan, clenching your hand into a fist to bang on the door. You step back to wait for an answer, glancing around at your surroundings. The two at the entrance have joined the smoking man, all watching you as they exchange laughs. They’re dressed in all black covered by long coats covered in impeccable hand-stitched designs that you recognize; you’ve had a few of those bespoke coats yourself. Their smug grins verge on leering, setting you on high alert as you spin back around to the door.

You shuffle the keys in your hand to grip them like a small knife and pound on the door one more time, debating if you should try the front or just get back in your car and head home.

You hear the men laugh again, louder this time. Chancing a glance over your shoulder, you see the bald man toss his cigarette, stomping it out with a polished shoe. His eyes never leave you, even as he leans slightly to speak to the men beside him.

He takes a step forward.

Your hand tightens around your keys.

The door swings open behind you, a blast of hot air and a cacophony of delicious smells following suit.

“You’re late,” Rudy sighs as you turn to him. Tiny beads of sweat gather on his brow, threatening to slip down his handsome face onto his crisp, white uniform.

“Traffic was a nightmare,” you mutter, peeking back to the alley to find all three men gone and walking away. You let out a small breath of relief, your grip loosening on your makeshift shiv, turning back to Rudy with a smile. “So, you gonna let me in?”

He steps aside, and you hurry past him into the busy kitchen. You can barely hear the music over all the sizzling, clanking, and yelling in Spanish. A solid hand sets itself on your upper back as Rudy guides you through the kitchen's chaos and to the doors of the main room.

“Gaz is taking care of something, but Alex left a seat open for you.” Is all he says before someone yells, and he rushes off.

You’re immediately hit with the thrum of the music’s bass as you open the doors to the main room. It rattles through your chest, settling somewhere at the base of your spine. The curtains to the booths are all open, small groups of patrons laughing and talking over buckets of ice and wine bottles. You offer a polite smile to those who look your way as you head to the bar.

You don’t bother looking for a seat; your attention is immediately pulled to the scene before you.

You suddenly understand the longing and envy in your father’s voice when he told you tales of the infamous 141.

The room is covered in a soft haze of smoke, the normally blinding house lights dimmed to a sultry glow. The place is completely packed. The tables are full, older patrons decorated in subtle wealth enjoying rich food and richer wine. Groups of suits hang around the game tables, sharing drinks and letting their hands wander along the scantily clad women hanging on their arms. The dance floor is full, a colorful hurricane of expensive fabrics and laughter. A few smaller groups, mostly giggly couples, make their way up the steps to the second floor.

And at the center of it all, standing on the stage beneath a bright spotlight and singing into a microphone, is a woman with long, black hair dressed in form-fitting red satin. Her voice is lovely—soft and deep but upbeat—matching the fast-paced music perfectly.

There’s a slight pang in your chest—images of overpriced champagne bottles, hours spent in hair and makeup, throngs of black suits and blacker hearts staring up at you as you croon into your own microphone flashing through your head.

Stop it.

You shake the images from your mind, pulling your attention away from the siren on stage and ignoring the ache in your shoulder. Your eyes wander the crowd, spotting Soap serving a table with a dazzling smile and a few too many of his shirt buttons undone. Valeria sits at a poker table, cards in hand and a pile of chips bigger than any of her opponents. A few feet away, Ghost’s figure towers above the crowd as he stands unnervingly still with his hands clasped tightly in front of him. Next to him, speaking to a small group of men and women huddled around a pool table, is Mr. Price.

A deep blue shirt stretched tight over his chest with the sleeves rolled up and the top buttons left open, you can see the rise and fall of his chest as he laughs at something said at the table. Black, form-fitting slacks cover the expanse of his legs, held up by a belt with a silver buckle that matches his silver Rolex. He leans against the table at the hip, lit cigar in one hand and a half-full glass of whiskey in the other.

It should be illegal to look so good, you think, heat slowly flooding your face as you let your eyes rove over your boss.

“Enjoying the show?” You try not to jump, shrugging away from the sudden hand that shoves at your shoulder. You whip around to meet Alex’s beaming face and pray he can’t see the red in your cheeks.

“She’s amazing. Who is she?” you ask as Alex leads you further down the bar to an empty barstool.

“That’s Farah, Gaz’s sister,” he answers as you sit down. His voice catches on Farah’s name, and you think you see a flash of pride in that wide smile of his. “What’re you having?”

“Water,” you smile. The pride is quickly replaced with disappointment as Alex stares down at you. You hold his gaze long enough for a few other patrons to start getting impatient before you relent with a defeated sigh. “Fine, I’ll spice it up.”

“Ha, I knew—”

“A water with lemon, please.”

Alex turns away with a huff, tending to the other people at the bar. You turn around on the stool, content to people-watch from your spot. Alex slides you your water, a small lemon wedge on the rim, followed by a shot glass filled with what smells like flavored vodka. He sends you a wink, leaving before you can send the drink back.

After three more of Farah’s songs, you spot Kyle coming down the steps and weaving his way toward the bar. He glances over the guests until he spots you. You wave at him, and he smiles wide. As he approaches, the person next to you stands, shaking hands with Kyle before heading to the dance floor. Kyle takes the now empty seat, excitement plain on his face.

“I was wondering if you’d actually show up!” he laughs.

“I did! And now you can do me a favor!” you laugh back. Kyle raises a curious brow as you glance over to make sure Alex’s attention is elsewhere. You turn back, handing the shot to Kyle. “Drink this for me.”

“What is it?”

“Vodka, probably? Just drink it before he comes over here!”

He downs it with ease, setting the glass back on the bar. There’s a small pause before the alcohol hits him, and Kyle sputters.

“Not vodka,” he coughs.

“Glad I didn’t drink it, then,” you mutter, sliding your glass of water in front of him. He chugs the rest of your water, taking a bite out of the lemon for good measure.

Once his throat is soothed, his eyes flick to the club before he looks at you with a smirk made of nothing but pure mischief.

“I think you owe me for that one.”

“Fair enough. Name your price.”

Kyle stands from the barstool, stepping in front of you and holding out his hand. You look up at him, confused.

“How would you like a dance?”

You glance over to the dancefloor, then back to Kyle. You hadn’t come here intending to do much aside from hanging out with Alex, but the place doesn’t seem that bad. The gang appears to have a tight handle on things, not a single person upset or out of place. You don’t see the harm in having a little fun.

And you’d never gotten to enjoy your time at—

Fuck it, why not?

“Just don’t get mad if I step on your toes,” you laugh, giving Kyle a quick wink as you set your hand in his and follow him down to the dancefloor. He doesn’t wait, using his grasp on your hand to spin you into the crowd. You bump into a few people, but no one seems to mind; a woman in an almost too-short purple dress with a draping diamond necklace smiles at you as you collide with her, pulling you into another spin that sends you back to Kyle.

You don’t know how long you dance for, but it’s long enough for your feet to ache. Still, you keep dancing. You don’t remember how long it’s been since you’ve had real fun—how long it’s been since you were allowed to.

It helps that Kyle’s a good dancer, though his attention is split between you and Purple Dress, who seems determined to get him to herself. You can tell he’s as interested in her as she is him; his eyes wander back to her every time he rejoins you for another dance.

You’re ready to come up with an excuse to bow out and let them spend the rest of the night together when Kyle catches sight of something over your shoulder. He smiles down at you, grabbing your hand to spin you. You follow along, letting Kyle guide you until you collide with a solid chest and a set of hands clasp around your waist to steady you.

You look up to apologize, but the words freeze in your throat as you’re met with the smell of mahogany and expensive whiskey. Your eyes travel up the body in front of you to meet the sharp blue gaze of your boss. He looks down at you with amusement, hands squeezing your hips before he looks up at Kyle.

“Mind if I cut in?”

“Not at all,” Kyle laughs, immediately turning his attention to Purple Dress.

“Oh no, I don’t mind either. Thanks for asking.” The sass isn’t intentional, but you can feel the heat radiating from his hands into your hips, traveling up your sides and straight to your face. You feel the overwhelming urge to run, to return to the bar and drown yourself in lemon water and maybe a few of Alex’s mystery shots.

“We don’t have to dance—” Mr. Price assures you, beginning to step away, hands slowly starting to slide from your hips.

“No!” You step forward on instinct, chasing after his warmth. He raises a brow, mouth widening into a smirk that has your blush crawling down to your neck. “I mean—it’s fine. I’m fine. You’re fine—but not like that. Well, yes, like that, but that’s not what I meant. I—”

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip to fight back his smirk, but you can see the way his shoulders shake with laughter.

Get yourself together.

“You’re my boss, and I don’t know what to do in this situation,” you say, trying not to let the embarrassment get to you. All you want is for a giant hole to open in the ground and swallow you, but that’s not likely to happen anytime soon.

“Relax, dove. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

It is sinful, the way he speaks with that deep accent.

“I…I think I want a drink.” Preferably enough hard liquor to make you forget this moment.

“Then we’ll go get you a drink.” Mr. Price turns over his shoulder to where Ghost stands, completely still among the flowing crowd of dancers. Had he been there the whole time? You hadn’t seen him, and he’s a hard man to miss.

“Go make sure everything’s ready in my office,” Mr. Price says, quieter than he had been with you. Ghost nods, giving the dancefloor a once over before melting into the crowd with an ease that’s surprising for someone of his height. One of Mr. Price’s hands leaves your waist, the other sliding around to settle on the small of your back as he guides you toward the bar.

He leads you to the bar, keeping anyone from bumping into you. It’s almost gentlemanly, and if you weren’t so nervous, you might’ve read a little more into that.

There’s only one empty stool, and Mr. Price steps aside to let you take it. You sit down with a soft thanks, his hand lingering on your back until you’ve gotten comfortable.

“Alex!” Alex whirls around at the other end of the bar, making his way over with a wide grin.

“Hey, boss!”

“Whatever the lady wants. On the house.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Alex gives a two-finger salute, shooting you a wink before returning to work. You stare at his retreating back, a new, minor wave of anxiety crashing into you.

If this is on the house, does that mean you were supposed to pay for your water earlier?

Mr. Price glances down at his watch, shifting his gaze toward his office, then back to you. He sets a large hand on your shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze—nothing like the bone-crushing handshake from when you first met. “I have to check on some things, but you should have a few drinks. Enjoy yourself, Plover; you’re not on the clock.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod. You let the name slide, not trusting yourself to correct him properly until you can collect yourself and get a grip.

“And stop calling me sir,” he laughs. “Price is fine.”

He sure is.

“Sure thing,” you smile. His hand slides from your shoulder. Had his fingers lingered, or was that your imagination? He looks down the bar to catch Alex’s eyes and gives a single, sharp nod.

“If you need anything, Alex will take care of it,” Mr. Price—no, just Price—smiles down at you. Another nod, this time at you, and you nod back before he takes his leave, heading toward his office.

You wait until he’s out of sight to turn to the bar, dropping your head into your hands.

What the hell’s wrong with me?

You don’t know what it is about that man that drives you crazy, but you’ll have to learn to reel that in real quick.

“Rough night?”

You peek through your fingers to see someone taking the seat to your left, their gaze focused entirely on you. You sit up, letting your hands fall into your lap as you turn to face the stranger.

You’d expected another patron, maybe another co-worker you hadn’t met yet.

You weren’t expecting the bald man from the alley.

He’s sort of handsome now that you see him close up. Dark brows, darker eyes framed by thick lashes, and a beard freckled with gray. You can see the appeal, but he isn’t your type.

Your type is currently checking on some things in his office.

“Not rough, just…new,” you explain with a friendly smile. He returns your smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Something about him seems familiar, and the sense of déjà vu that creeps up your spine sets you on edge.

“First time here?”

“You could say that.”

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself. Most people spend the first night trying to get as wildly drunk as possible.“ There’s a thin veil of disgust over that second sentence, the mild irritation sparkling behind his eyes as he gestures toward the crowd.

He smiles at you, but his eyes keep flicking behind you. You don’t know what, or who, is behind you, but it’s something he doesn’t seem to like.

“A bit presumptuous for someone you’ve only just met, don’t you think?” you ask, with a slight tilt of your head. The man chuckles, eyes traveling up and down your form.

He extends his hand, a collection of gold bands decorating his fingers, “Hassan Zyani.”

In an instant, you’re back to being stuffed in a tight dress, pouring drinks for your father and the fearsome man he’s attempting to negotiate with.

No wonder he seemed familiar.

“Canary.” You force out a smile, shaking his hand.

“Canary,” he draws out your name, your skin crawling at the way it grates over his tongue. “If you’d like, I would be happy to show you around. The rooms upstairs are particularly—”

Someone steps up to Hassan’s side—one of the other men from the alley—leaning in to whisper in his ear. The man faces away from you so you can’t read his lips. Not that you’d try with Hassan’s eyes fixed on your face. He nods at whatever the man says, standing from the barstool.

“I’m needed elsewhere, but perhaps later we can continue this conversation somewhere more…private?” Hassan doesn’t let you answer, kissing the back of your hand and walking off with the other man.

You let out a deep exhale the moment he leaves, rubbing the back of your hand on your jeans.

What the fuck was Ghorbrani’s right hand doing here? You knew from experience the Iranians kept their business within the family, but Hassan spoke as if he’d been here before. Was the 141 working with Ghorbrani? Your father tried for years to get in Ghorbrani’s good graces, throwing everything he could—including his only daughter—at the man’s feet. How the hell had the 141 managed what he couldn’t?

“You okay?” Alex’s voice breaks you out of your internal crisis, and you find him standing in front of you with a glass of water set between you.

“I’m a little overwhelmed, to be honest.”

And you are. You’ve had fun, but you’re tired and left with more questions than answers.

“You can sneak out the back if you want; we’re closing up soon anyway. Besides, I think you danced long enough to satisfy Gaz,” Alex chuckles. You look around the club and notice that there are indeed fewer guests, and those who are left seem to be winding down for the night. You check your watch, the hands reading a few minutes after three in the morning.

“Maybe. I wanted to say goodbye, at least,” you shrug, looking around to see if you can spot Kyle among the shrinking sea of people.

“He probably won’t be back out until after we close.”

You spin around in your seat to face Alex. “I can make it, just need something to do…You need any help cleaning up?”

“Hell, if you’re offering.”

Alex lets you behind the bar, handing you a rag to start wiping down the bar top. You busy yourself with cleaning, trying to keep your mind from wandering. The club winds down until only a few stragglers remain.

The music eventually comes to a stop, Farah heading backstage as the stage lights dim and reappearing in the hallway next to the stage. She’s changed into a black hoodie, dark jeans, and boots with her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

Farah makes her way to the bar, Alex meeting her at the top of the steps, leaning against the bar with a proud smile and pure adoration in his eyes.

You leave them to their conversation and take up the rest of the cleaning duties as König’s massive form heads down the steps to guide the remaining guests outside. The only people left inside are you, your co-workers, and Hassan’s two men standing guard outside Price’s office.

A few minutes pass by in relative peace: Alex showering Farah in praise, Soap bringing you empty glasses, Valeria counting her comically large pile of winnings, Kyle descending the staircase with Purple Dress giggling behind him, Alejandro joining the rest of you after locking the front doors.

A peace quickly broken by the sounds of shouting from the back office. All attention snaps to the doors and Hassan’s two men standing guard. Tension floods the room to a suffocating degree: Soap setting down his tray of dishes to face the door, Kyle guiding Purple Dress to stand behind him, Valeria’s hand crawling down the slit in her dress while Alejandro’s begins to slide into his jacket. You follow their lead, setting your rag on the bar top and preparing for the worst.

The seconds crawl by at an almost agonizing pace before the office doors burst open. Hassan storms out, followed quickly by Ghost, with Price walking up to stand in the doorway. Hassan turns back, shouting something in Arabic that you’re sure is an insult.

“Ghost, escort Mr. Zyani and his men out,” Price says, low and eerily calm. Ghost reaches for Hassan, but the man slaps his hand away.

“Get your hands off of me!” Hassan shouts. His men move forward, shoving Ghost out of the way to get between him and their boss. Alejandro stands abruptly, and Soap steps forward, but Price raises a hand, and the two stop where they are.

Hassan looks around, noticing the number of people he and his men are surrounded by before his eyes land directly on you.

He moves quickly, but you’re on high alert and catch the flash of silver he pulls from his coat. You drop to your knees, a bottle on the shelf behind you bursting into a spray of shards and alcohol.

You tuck yourself behind the bar, and all hell breaks loose.

Your heart slams inside your chest, the hurried thrum reverberating in your ears over the chorus of screams and gunshots. You crawl your way to the end of the bar, not stopping even as more bottles pop and shatter above you.

You barely feel the glass digging into your hands, peering around the end of the bar to look for a way out. You duck as several people run past you, all from the kitchen. A thunderous boom echoes from the front of the club, and the gunshots increase tenfold.

You take your chance, darting out from the bar and toward the kitchen as fast as your legs can take you.

You make it halfway to the backdoor when a hand snags the back of your jacket and yanks you into a rigid body. Two arms wrap tightly around your waist, lifting you up to slam you down onto the counter, dishes and cutlery shaking at the force. Pain vibrates across your body, your assailant gripping the back of your head to shove your face into the cold steel.

You reach out blindly as your attacker wrestles to get you subdued, feeling for whatever you can to help get away.

The blade that slices through your bleeding palm burns, but you tighten your grip around it and swing it backward. It lodges into the person behind you; you don’t know what part of them, but it’s enough to get them to step back from you.

You don’t hesitate, pushing yourself off of the counter and using the momentum to sprint towards the door. Footsteps thunder behind you, whoever it is recovering from their stab wound. You don’t think, yanking down every rack you pass in hopes of creating more obstacles to trip up your attacker.

You make it to the door, yanking it open just in time for it to shield you from an incoming bullet. You don’t bother looking, instead running straight for your car. Adrenaline courses through your veins, giving you the extra strength to not have to fight with the car door and pull it open on the first try.

You don’t even shut it all the way, only focusing on getting your key in the ignition. A higher power must be watching over you in this moment as your car starts up on the first try. You waste no time, not bothering with a seatbelt as you peel out of the backlot.

You head straight to your motel, body jittery with pain and adrenaline. Tension winds through your muscles, worsening into a painful tightness as blurs of police lights and sirens zoom past you. Blood leaks from your hands, sliding down your steering wheel to drip onto your jeans. You’ll deal with it later, you decide.

It’s not like you don’t know how to get blood out of your clothes.

You reach the motel, stumbling out of your car and kicking the door shut with little grace. You lock it behind you, trying not to run directly to your room but rushing all the same.

You move on autopilot, locking the door behind you, shutting the flimsy curtains, and immediately stripping yourself of your clothes. Your feet carry you to the bathroom, stepping into the shower before turning the water on.

The hard pressure of the frigid water is an instant shock, your body flinching at the sudden coldness. You stay under the spray, unable to will your feet to move, and stare down at the rusted drain to watch it sputter and swallow the water. Your hand rises on its own, holding your palm directly under the water. The hard beads sting as they beat into your wound, but the cold of the water seeps into your skin and numbs your hand just enough.

It takes almost two hours to collect yourself with a combination of deep breaths and soft assurances to yourself. By the time you turn the water off and step out, the sun is already starting to come up.

There’s a considerable effort for you to get dressed, the rush wearing off, leaving you full of aches and pains as your muscles untense. You wrap your hand in the gauze from your measly first aid kit, changing into your pajamas—a t-shirt and your only pair of sweatpants—before collapsing face down onto the lumpy bed.

You stare at your door, unblinking and vacant until the sun’s fully risen and sleep finally decides to take you.

-

A knock on your door startles you awake.

You lift yourself, groaning at the stiffness in your limbs and the ache that has invaded your entire being. There’s no light shining through your window, the whole room shrouded in darkness.

How long were you out?

The knock comes again, rougher and hurried.

“Hold on, hold on,” you grumble, shuffling to the door. You unlock it, pulling the door open just enough to look outside.

“Ma’am?”

It takes two seconds too long for you to process the blue uniforms and gold badges. The haze of sleep evaporates in an instant, and you straighten up. Their badges shine against the fluorescent light above your door: Dipaolo & Erikson.

“Is there something you need, officers?”

“We have reason to believe you might’ve been witness to a shooting last night. We were hoping you could come down to the station and answer some questions,” the cop in front of you, Erikson, speaks. You know that tone—the command hidden under the guise of friendly suggestion.

He’s asking, but he isn’t.

And if they’ve found you here, there’s little chance you can lie your way out of this one.

“Uh, yeah,” you say. “Yeah, no problem. You mind if I grab a jacket and some shoes first?” You open the door a little wider to show them your attire. Officer Erikson nods, and you leave the door open as you hurriedly grab your jacket and slide into your boots. You fasten your watch, catching your reflection in the glass.

To say you look rough is an understatement, but you don’t have the time to get dolled up now.

You head outside, and the officers let you lock your door before escorting you to their squad car. Officer Dipaolo opens the back door, holding it open for you. You can’t help but give your car a quick glance as you slide into the backseat. Officer Dipaolo shuts the door and joins his partner in the front.

The drive to the police station is quiet, the two in the front speaking to each other in hushed voices. Occasional chatter comes across their radio, but nothing they seem concerned about. Every once in a while, you catch Erikson glancing back at you through the rearview mirror, but when you meet his eyes, he immediately looks away.

Dipaolo holds the door for you again after you arrive, and you're escorted through the station. You get a few looks from the other officers, but all attention is suddenly stolen by the sudden shout from lockup—

“Hey, Pigeon!”

You turn abruptly, spotting Soap leaning against the bars with a broad smile and bruised jaw. He’s not alone, either. The entire gang seems to be stuck inside, all sporting their own cuts and bruises and all staring at you.

“Quiet!” An older cop, bald and angry and dressed in a nicer uniform than the rest, slams against the bars and startles Soap. You see Ghost shoot to his feet behind him, fierce glare aimed at the cop as he grabs Soap by the back of the shirt and pulls him away from the bars. The cop huffs, turning to look at you with a curious glare. You set your gaze on the floor, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“This way,” Erikson says, setting a hand between your shoulder blades and gently guiding you further into the station.

The room you’re left in is all gray, with a single metal table, a few chairs, and a large window of one-way glass.

You may have never been in a police station before, but you know what an interrogation room looks like.

Erikson brings you a cup of water, pulling your chair out before he takes his seat across from you. Dipaolo joins a few minutes later, walking in with a friendly smile. You smile back, but you peer out the door as it shuts behind him to catch a glimpse of the same angry cop watching you with an uncomfortable intensity.

“You’re not under arrest or anything,” Dipaolo starts—an attempt to be reassuring. “We just have a couple of questions for you, Ms….”

“Canary.”

“Of course. It’s nothing to worry about, Ms. Canary.”

“How did you find me?” you ask. “I—I mean, I didn’t give anyone my address, so….”

“Security cameras caught your car leaving the club,” Erikson explains. “We tracked your plates.”

Well, shit.

They must see the discomfort on your face because they both switch to good cop mode. Dipaolo leans forward, “Listen, the people who run that club are involved in some very bad business, and I think you know that. We just want to make sure they don't get anyone else hurt.”

They must think you're an unwilling participant, some damsel in distress. That's fine; you can work with that.

You shuffle in your seat, hands fidgeting in your lap. You keep your gaze focused on the table, glancing up at one of the officers every so often.

“What kind of help?” you ask softly. They share a quick glance, poorly hidden triumph in their smiles.

“We just need you to tell us what happened last night, as much as you can remember.”

You take a few deep breaths, exaggerating the shake in your exhale before nodding.

“Well, I got there—”

“Questioning someone without their lawyer present? I thought you two knew better than that.” You jump at the sudden slam of the door as a woman marches into the room, all respect and authority.

She’s older, blonde hair pulled up into a neat bun, and wearing a similar suit to the one your old family lawyer used to wear. She takes the seat next to you, staring hard at the now-agitated officers on the other side of the table.

“Didn’t realize she was one of yours, Kate,” Dipaolo spits, his glare briefly traveling to you.

“Because I’m not,” you speak up, taking everyone in the room by surprise. Dipaolo and Erikson ease up, but the woman—Kate?—fixes you with a stern stare. She turns to the officers, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I represent the club and all of its employees. As long as she works there, she’s a client.” She’s explaining to them, but telling you.

“I don’t need a lawyer,” you counter.

Kate’s hands clench around her arms before she says, “I need a moment with my client.”

“Doesn’t sound like she wants to be your client,” Erikson smirks.

“Doesn’t matter what she wants; I’m still here to represent her. Now, give us five minutes.”

You don’t need to be alone with her; you need to get the hell out of here and back to your motel room.

“I can tell you what happened,” you call out before the officers get two steps from the table. “If she wants to be here or not, that’s her choice.”

They sit back down, smug and taunting, ready to listen. You can feel the frustration oozing from Kate, but she stays put and stays silent.

“Kyle invited me to come see the club when it was open—”

“Kyle Garrick?” Dipaolo asks, and you nod.

"It was supposed to be a fun night out—a break from work—and it was. Things were fine until….” You give Kate a nervous glance, quickly looking away from the look of warning she gives you. “I was at the bar when this man came up to me. He said his name was…Hassan, I think? He started…flirting with me, and when I tried to keep things friendly, he got pushy. He said he noticed me outside and that he could show me the upstairs rooms. I tried to leave, but he grabbed my hand and—”

You take a moment, letting out a long, quivering exhale and squeezing your throat. It only takes seconds for the wetness to build in your eyes.

“One of his friends pulled him away, but he promised to come find me later so we could talk in private. I didn’t know what he was going to do, so I told the bartender, and he let me stay near him until closing. After everyone left, I was grabbing my jacket when Hassan showed back up with his friends. I tried to walk away, but one of them grabbed me and threw me onto the bar. I—”

You let the tears roll down your cheeks, waiting a few seconds before wiping them away. “I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, I swear, but I was so scared. I just grabbed a glass and hit him with it. I think someone must’ve heard the commotion because Ghost and Kyle came in and tried to kick the guys out, but then Hassan pulled a gun—”

“Wait—wait, you’re saying Hassan pulled a gun?”

“I don’t know who shot first, but only him and his friends had weapons. I don’t know what happened; Ghost told me to hide behind the bar and run as soon as I could, so that’s what I did. The last thing I saw before I got out of there was him trying to wrestle the gun out of Hassan’s hands….”

Silence looms over the room, so you add, “If Ghost hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what those men would’ve done to me. He saved me.” You throw in a sniffle as Dipaolo sighs. He leans over to whisper something to Erikson, glancing back at the one-way glass.

“Is there anyone else who can corroborate your story?” Erikson asks through clenched teeth.

“There was another woman; she was in a glittery purple dress. I didn’t catch her name, but you could probably find her on the cameras. There weren’t a lot of people in purple.”

“And she saw everything that happened?”

And then some, you almost laugh to yourself.

“Yeah, she was there the whole time.”

“Alright,” Dipaolo sighs. “Thank you, Ms. Canary. We appreciate your honesty.” He doesn’t sound very appreciative, but you don’t really care.

“We’ll have one of the boys escort you out,” Erikson says, standing from the table. He holds the door open for you, and Kate follows you out into the long hallway. Dipaolo disappears into another room as Erikson whistles over another officer to show you out. You follow behind him but are stopped when a door opens behind you.

“A minute, Kate?” You and Kate look back to see Erikson and Dipaolo standing with the same bald cop from earlier.

“You go ahead,” Kate says to you, turning to the three with a polite and professional smile. She walks away before you can stop her, the officer in front of you nudging your arm and grumbling a quiet let’s go.

He leaves you on the front steps, standing by yourself in the cold, commenting that a cab has been called for you. You mutter a thank you, pulling your jacket tighter to fight the chill.

You take back that thank you forty-five minutes later when you’re still standing outside with no cab in sight.

Of all the times to not have a phone.

Another fifteen minutes later, you post up against the wall next to the doors, staring up at the clear night sky. It’s not as clear in the city as it was from your old view, but you find a small sense of comfort in the twinkling stars.

A few cars pull up, sleek and black, led by a vintage silver car with dark windows. You don’t have time to question it, the station doors opening abruptly as a cluster of footsteps pouring outside. You turn your head, watching the 141 leave the station, too busy speaking to each other to notice you.

Valeria leads Alejandro and Rudy into one car, Alex and Farah getting into another. Ghost and Soap get into the same car while Roach, König, and Kyle head across the street and start walking down the sidewalk, leaving one more car behind the silver car.

Price and Kate stay behind, waiting until everyone’s left.

“You sure we’ll be alright, Kate?” Price asks, watching the cars pull onto the street.

“Should be,” Kate sighs. “All they have is the exterior cameras and the bullets from Hassan’s guns. No one got killed, so all they have is eyewitness testimony.” Kate looks over Price’s shoulder, catching sight of you.

“Thanks for the help, Kate.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, nodding toward you. “It was all her.”

Price turns around, surprised to find you standing there. You give a little wave of your fingers, trying not to wince at the pain in your hand.

“Here, you can take my car home,” Kate says once Price turns back to her. She hands him her keys before making her way down the steps. “Just make sure to return it in one piece,” she calls over her shoulder as she gets into the back of the last black car.

Price huffs out a laugh, shaking his head before turning his attention to you.

“Enjoying the fresh air?” he asks, leaning on the wall next to you.

“Waiting for a cab that probably isn’t coming,” you sigh, moving your gaze back up to the sky. “I think I pissed off the officers, and this is their way of getting back at me.”

“You definitely made a few enemies in there,” Price chuckles.

“Well, I couldn’t let my boss rot in a cell, could I? Who’s gonna sign my paychecks?” you joke. His chuckles turn to a full laugh, staring at the side of your face while you pretend not to notice.

“Come on,” he speaks up, pushing himself off the wall.

“What?”

“I’m taking you home,” he smiles. You want to argue, assure him that you can find your own way home, but your mind goes blank, and all you can do is nod. You follow him to Kate’s silver car, trying—and failing—not to blush as he holds the door open for you. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, sliding into the driver’s seat.

The first few minutes of the drive are spent in comfortable silence, with you giving him quiet directions. You lean back in your seat, savoring the warmth of the car.

“Does it hurt?” Price asks, breaking you out of your contentment.

“Does what hurt?”

He takes his eyes off the road for a second, nodding towards your hand where it rests in your lap.

“A little,” you shrug. “I was too tired to do anything other than wrap it.”

“Have Rudy look at it tomorrow. Make sure it’s nothing too serious.” He’s using that Boss tone that tells you there’s no room for debate, but you swear you hear a small current of worry beneath the surface.

The rest of the drive is quiet but not uncomfortable. Price follows your directions easily and even lets you turn the heat up a few notches.

It isn’t until you get close to the motel that you tell him to stop.

“You can just pull over here,” you say, gesturing to the sidewalk. It’s close enough that you can see, and walk to, the motel but far enough that no one else staying there will see the car.

“Here?”

“Yeah, people might get the wrong idea if they see me getting out of a car this fancy,” you laugh as he pulls over. He doesn’t laugh along, and when you turn to him, he’s frowning back at you.

“Something wrong?”

“I know we’re not paying you a lot, but I’m sure you can afford more than…this.” He looks to the motel, then back to you, unsure and concerned. It’s almost endearing.

You unclip your seatbelt so you can turn to fully face him. “You’re paying me quite generously, actually.”

“Am I?” He raises a brow, leaning forward ever-so-slightly. It takes everything in your power not to let your eyes fall to his lips.

“Mhmm,” you hum, a sly smile stretching across your face. You lean closer, blinking up at him innocently, catching the way his throat bobs as he swallows. “In fact, you’ve decided I earned a raise after tonight, and I’ll be sure to celebrate and treat myself to two bags of pretzels from the vending machine.”

With that, you swing the car door open and slip out into the crisp winter air. You start down the sidewalk, the telltale sound of a car window rolling down behind you as the car creeps alongside you.

“There’re other places around you can stay, y’know? Safer places,” he calls, leaning over into the passenger seat to look at you.

“Thanks for the ride, sir,” you laugh, turning to wink at him before heading into the motel parking lot. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

taglist: @sleepyendymion, @blazedprince, @blueoorchid, @ohgodthebogisback, @melancholyy-hill, @wasteland-babe, @meepetteoneonly, @anitaebee, @honeyr4ven, @curasimp, @jxvipike, @frazie99, @reiya-djarin, @urfavsunkissedleo, @hauntingtherosebush, @aerangi, @ofmenanduhhhwellmen, @warners-wife, @xx4rcticxx

Miguel calling MCU Peter a "little nerd" is ironic as if he and all the other Spider-Men aren't also nerds.

OH LORD MAMA TAKE THE WHEEL THISNIS MY LAST ONE.

imagine the boys just got back from a mission and when they enter the base, they found sweetheart cooking their country food for them. The taste is giving ✨SEASONED✨, its giving ✨you want me to marry you✨, its giving ✨that type of food that added 10 years to your life span✨, ITS GIVING ✨YOU DID A VERY GOOD JOB AND IM PROUD OF YOU✨

NOOOO NEVER STOP THESE I SWEAR YOU'RE JUST FINE 😍😍🫂🫂 these give me life you have no idea miss roro💕

(@missroro ROROOO GURL IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER😭😭 PLS FORGIVE ME I WAS SHADOWBANNED AND THEN OTHER ASKS KEPT POURING IN🧎‍♀️this is quite long, so hopefully you will take that as a sacrifice for my tardiness 🙏I hope you're doing well! I miss you LOTS 💓)

BUT UGHHH GOD

And the FACT that I already have a scenario that's kinda like this blows my mind 🤯🤯

When Sweetheart wasn't needed for this certain mission, she said "aight bet. I know yall are gonna be so damn tired and hungry so watch this WORK."

(Idk if you wanted Sweetheart to cook her home food, or cook their country meals, so imma do both 💀)

Her home-cooked food:

When Task Force 141 came back to the base they smelt that SEASONING IMMEDIATELY LIKE--

Gaz: Something just happened.

I know he's the FIRST to book it to the living room, and then he sees the PLETHORA

GRITS, SWEET YAMS, MAC AND CHEESE, CHICKEN, HAM, GREENS AND OX TAILS, CORNBREAD-- ALL THE GOOD SHIT YOU CAN THINK OOOFFF

Gaz squeals (LITERALLY SQUEALS) cause he's been wanting to taste her cooking.

(He's always asked about African-American cooking since he grew up with British cooking. Sweetheart told him the goodness and he's been hooked on it ever since)

Everyone else comes in and sees the table and they're just in shock

Like what the hell- how long did it take you to make all this?? I love you???

It felt so domestic, like coming home to a home cooked meal after getting off work and seeing your wife smile at you saying "welcome home, dear!"

Sweetheart is just beaming at them, saying "I know yall have been through hell, so have a lil' piece of heaven!" (She's so CHEESY) the mother in her comes thru, telling them to take showers and get situated first then come eat.

WHEN I TELL YOU THAT THEY B O O K E D IT TO THE MENS SHOWERS TO GET CLEAN-- GHOST PUSHED ALEX AND SOAP INTO A WALL SO HE CAN GET THERE FIRST (König and Price were already in there LOL they're witches I swear)

They were done so quickly Sweetheart had to check if some of them were actually clean

Sweetheart: Suds?

Soap, flushed: uhm, yeah?

Sweetheart, eyes squinting: Did you wash yo' ass?

Soap:

Soap: Yes...?

Sweetheart: GO GET CLEANED

Soap: BUT FOOD--

Sweetheart: G O

(Alex and Gaz low key laughing at him and Price is disgusted that Soap sometimes doesn't wash his ass)

They all finally sit down and they just enjoy the warm feeling in their chests while looking at the food. Sweetheart turns on some r&b music (is this a black 80s BET movie? MAYBE) and she walks to the edge of the table, eyes are filled with love and pride for her team. "Aight, I'm gonna keep this short and simple cause I know all yall are hungry and tired," she starts. The team sit on every word she says, as they always do. She smiles. "I'm glad you all made it back safely. Successful mission or not, I will always be proud of all of you. I love yall."

She's too good for them, man. Wtf

They all just fell in love with her more AHA

So she sits down and the chatter and clatter begins. They all moaned so much when they ate the food 💀💀

(They all went into a food coma and had the BEST SLEEP EVER)

--

(If she made everyone's food from their culture) (I put my whole ass into this wow)

When SAS and Los Vaqueros trudged through the hallway, they heard a clang and a yelping "Ow! Son of a-"

Price and Ghost look at each other before picking up the pace towards the kitchen. "Sweetheart? Are you -" Price freezes when he sees the kitchen filled with different types of food. " - Okay..."

"Oh fuck-- Hey! Yall are back already! That's wonderful." Sweetheart nervously laughs as she wipes her hands on her messy apron. The others start to come in, not expecting the different dishes on the counters. She squeals, "Nah uh! Don't come in here! Go and get cleaned now, all of you!" They stare at her for a bit until sprinting to the Men's Showers. Shouts and loud bangs from falling tact gear are heard, making Sweetheart chuckle and shake her head. Once the men came back to the kitchen, she was gone and so was the food. "In here!" She yelled. Soap made it first to the dining room and let out a big gasp. On the long, make-shift table sat a multitude of different foods and drinks each man recognized from their home country.

"Oh, mo leannan, this looks barry!" Soap exclaims.

"In English, Mactavish." Ghost mumbles, making Soap kiss his teeth. "This looks wonderful, St.! I'm- how did you--" Sweetheart shushes him, Soap still smiling ear to ear. "Don't ask questions! Just come sit down and get your plate."

They all grab a plate and utensils with rushed steps and big smiles.

- 𓆩♡𓆪 -

Price, Ghost, and Gaz sat at the end, where they all recognize the things to make Bangers and Mash. Shepherd's Pie and Fish and Chips could be found on all their plates with a side of Barm cakes. Their dishes melt in their mouths, dragon breathing at every bite since it was still hot. Ghost had a feeling in his chest that he felt extremely warm and overwhelming. He didn't think she would make something like this for him. "How're yall enjoying it?" She asks behind Price. "Umberweivable!" Gaz spouted out, a disbelief and amazed look on his face. Sweetheart laughs at him, "Hopefully, that meant unbelievable!" Gaz nods quickly with big food-filled cheeks. "Absolutely amazing, Princess." Price says after taking a swig of homemade Ginger Beer. "Haven't had Shepherd's Pie and Ginger Beer in so long. Good run down memory lane." Price smiles with soft and grateful eyes. Sweetheart snorts out a laugh and taps her cheek. Price raises an eyebrow until the embarrassment creeps in. He grabs his napkin and wipes the food that was stuck to his cheek. "I'm glad you like it, Cap! It was so hard finding an easy recipe for that damn beer." Sweetheart grumbles, looking at the kitchen with furrowed eyes and hand on Price's shoulder. He leans into her touch and sighs. "All in all, thank you." He murmurs, lifting her hand and placing a kiss on it. Sweetheart giggles, ignoring the heat coming from her hand. "You're very welcome!" She moves to Ghost, who has been quietly shoveling food in his mouth. "Hey Ghost! Are you--" Sweetheart stopped when he looked up at her. Eyes big with tears running down his flushed, stuffed cheeks. His eyes tick away from her changed face. "What...?" Simon whispers. She gives him a soft smile as one of her hands wipes off his tears. He didn't even notice the tears falling... "You enjoying the food?" She asks softly. Oh, that tone. That tone she uses only for Simon. He shivers, nodding his head slowly and then laying on her hip. She coos, wrapping her hand around his head while giving him head scratches to calm him down. You're alright, Simon. She's saying through her touch. Enjoy yourself.

Soap was practically vibrating in his chair when he saw a pitcher of Scottish Ale next to a big pot of Cullen Skink and an array of Scotch Pies with small Bacon Butties on the side. He did a double take when he saw a dish filled with Stovies and fried cut potatoes. Just how he ate it when he was younger. He lets out a disbelieved laugh as he reaches for it. "St.!" He calls out to her. She comes over with a worried look. "Wassup Suds? Everything okay?" He looks up at her with glassy eyes and a smile, nudging the Stovies. Sweetheart snickers, "I told you I would make it! I remember you tellin' me that your...màthair? Or-- mudder- damn I forgot how to say it-- but ya mom use to make this for you! So I looked up a recipe and may have added some of my extra spice to it." She explains as she whispers and laughs that last part. He can't believe that she remembers that. He told her that when he met her; telling her all the different Scottish cuisines. "I hope it tastes good..." She mumbles to herself. She cares. Soap grabs his spoon and collects some of the dish. She cares so much. Memories going through his mind when he chews it. She cares too much. "It's delicious." Soap whimpers out. Sweetheart smiles as she bends down to hug him. "I'm glad you like it."

Alejandro exclaims loudly when he takes a bite of his abundantly covered Elote. Rudy chuckles at him, taking another big ladel of Pancita and putting it in his bowl. "Hey guys, are you- WOW," Sweetheart yells. "You guys really ate almost everything! The Tamales and Flautas are gone..." Alejandro hums as he swallows. "So is the Ceviche and the Pipián." They both laugh at Sweetheart's surprised face. "Yall were hungry!!"And we still are, mama!" Alejandro snickers, taking more bites of his corn. "Mi flor, how did you make some of these dishes? And by yourself?" Rudy asks. He's so proud of her. He feels like he's back at home. "Oh, I had some help! Kinda-- some of the rookies helped me make the dishes! But then I kicked them out cause they were getting on my nerves." Sweetheart said, making the men laugh. "I knew you were a good cook. You would make a good wife someday, Sweetheart!" Alejandro shouted out as he smiled. Her shy laugh made him feel warm, but he wants his statement to come true.

König wanted to cry. He hasn't seen such a big pan of Tiroler Gröstl in a while. A basket of Kaiser Rolls is next to some Kasnocken and a pot full of Potato Gulasch. He scratches the brown hood he has on. Sweetheart made it for him so he could wear it when he's on base, since his other one was stinking up the joint. He watches Krueger take a big bite of his food and gulp down his drink that tastes like Almdudler. He's also wearing a hood that Sweetheart made for him; light blue fabric and handmade yellow stars scattered around it. It's scrunched up to his nose, his scarred lips still munching on his roll. He seems to be enjoying himself. König hasn't eaten with Krueger ever since they were kids. The impact on Krueger's actions in the past really changed everything for König and the family. But at least they're bonding in silence. "Hey, you two! Enjoying the food?" Sweetheart asks. Sweetheart. "Yes, meine kleine Göttin. It's very tasty." Krueger compliments her. She giggles, but it's cut short when Krueger grabs her arm and kisses her cheek. "Thank you for this wonderful feast, my love." He whispers in her ear with a smirk. Her mind goes blank for a moment, the heat of the kiss still searing on her brown skin. König grips his fork hard, turning his knuckles white. She sputters and then loudly laughs. "Yeah! No- no problem! I uh, König? How you uh, you enjoying the food?" He looks down at his plate, still quite full of food, yet not feeling like eating any of it anymore. König smiles with his eyes. "I am, Schatz. Thank you."

Horangi was enjoying himself to the fullest. Slurping down some Jajangmyeon with korean fried chicken and Kimchi fried rice with an egg. It reminds him so much of his mother's cooking, and when he didn't receive any Valentine's Day gifts so he would eat the noodles on Black Day. He blows on the noodles, the steam fogging up his black sunglasses. He wishes his past choices didn't bring him to this point. To be reminded of what he had, and now it's gone. He drank some of his soda, causing a big burp outta him. "You seem to be enjoying it, Horangi!" But without all his choices, he wouldn't have met her. He chuckles, covering his heavily scarred smile with his hand. Her warm hand snakes around his, gently pulling it down. She wants to see his smile. Her eyes sparkle at seeing his half-uncovered face. He's so pretty... "You like the noodles? M'sorry if I got the sauce wrong, I think I forgot some ingredients--" Horangi shakes his hand up. "No, no! It's perfect. The black bean sauce is amazing. I almost finished the whole pot." He's extremely impressed by her, but the cold feeling in his spine is wanting him to put the mask back on. Sweetheart squeals and claps, "Oh wonderful! I'm so glad you like it! By the way.." She leans down to hug his frozen form. "I hope to see your smile again. It's very pretty." She says. He is not grateful for his past choices, but he is grateful for her.

Alex and Roach enjoy their food in comfortable, happy silence. Alex hasn't had a decent cheeseburger since his leave. He dips a crinkle cut fry in ketchup, while Roach enjoys a big Maine Crab Roll. He's never tasted one before, but he always has, ever since Sweetheart gave him a postcard with the Roll on it, it's been his dream to taste one. "Yo, Alex! How's the burger?" Sweetheart asks, walking up to the both of them. Alex hums with a smile on his face. "You can't go wrong with a cheeseburger unless it's from a dirty bar." Sweetheart laughs, "Amen to that! And you're you doing, Gare Bear? Ya like the roll?" She asks sweetly. Roach can feel his face heat up from the nickname. He puts it down, finally taking breaths from horking it down non-stop, and putting two thumbs up. Her bright smile made both of them feel warm inside.

Graves sighs. His bones and joints hurt so damn bad. That mission with everyone was successful but it always costed some type of labor pain. He went to his dorm, already clean and changed into casual clothes. He could've sworn he heard laughing on the other side of the base... It didn't matter to him. All he wanted to do was to sleep off this pain. He notices a big plate covered in tin foil and a small note plus a coke-a-cola on his door mat. His eyes scan down the hall way with confused brows. Is he being pranked by one of his shadows? He better not be, he doesn't have the patience for it- Oh it's from Sweetheart. Wait- "What?" Graves mumbles, eyeing the messy note. The note reads:

Hey Graves. Congrats on the successful mission

Made you some dinner cause I'm pro proo pri PROU FUCK proud of you. That is the only time I'm gonna say that to you and it's not even in person. Doesn't matter, enjoy the food

Sweetheart ♡ (p.s. you still an asshole and NO I did NOT put laxatives in your food this time)

He huffs out a chuckle with a wobbly smile. So she does care for him. In a-- weird, hateful way. He walks in his dorm with food and drink in hand and opens the tin foil, the smell of barbecue baby back ribs, steamed carrots, buttered rolls and mashed potatoes fill his nostrils. His mouth waters immediately as he sits in his desk chair. He digs in with the utensils that Sweetheart gave him, his mind immediately going to his repeated fantasy about having a family with Sweetheart. Her, serving him a big plate of food with their baby boy on her hip. She kisses Graves's forehead and situates their son in the high chair before she starts to eat as well. A happy smile works on his face, not feeling the tears streaming down his cheeks. A happy family. "It's delicious..."

- 𓆩♡𓆪 -

After Dinner Bonus!

"Hey, no one go ANYWHERE! Yall are helping me clean all this shit up!" Sweetheart points out with a frown. Soap laughs, "Of course, hen! Why wouldn't we?"

"You did a lot for us, Princess. We'll take care of everything now. Go and take a load off." Price says close to her. Very close to her. "Nah, I can help!" Sweetheart pushed. "Your shoulder has been bothering you, hasn't it?" Ghost said, making Sweetheart flinch. "Why you gotta call me out like that, man?" Sweetheart whined. He was right, though. She's been rotating her left shoulder from time to time, playing it off every time one of the boys asked about it.

Alejandro laughs, placing his hand on her hip. His thumb doing small circles on her thin clothing. Rudy and Krueger strolled towards Sweetheart. Rudy wore a soft smile, yet his eyes told a different story. A more mischievous story. Alejandro's voice dropped an octave, making a hot jolt spike through Sweetheart's spine. "Come now, mama. I know just what to do to help you relax."

°.Reblogs are highly appreciated.! Thank you for your support everyone!!

📸| Photoshoot for Esquire magazine - Norman Jean Roy

I wasn't ready for this….

ii. a collection of strangers (a series of secrets)

Pairing: Mob Boss!Price x F!Reader Word Count: 7k Warnings: inaccurate translations (i don't speak russian or german lol), alcohol Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. prev | next

You return to the club the next day, determined to actually work this time.

The doors open easily—unlocked again—and you beeline for your cleaning cart, not giving yourself the chance to look at anything else around you.

You make it five steps towards the stage when—

“There you are!”

You look around in search of the sudden voice and spot Kyle—or does he prefer Gaz—sitting on one of the barstools, facing the stage. Mohawk stands next to him, leaning with his elbows on the bar top and drumming his fingers against the polished quartz. Bartender busies himself, wiping down glasses with his back to the other two.

Kyle waves you over, saying something to the other two with a laugh. You glance back at your cart, then down at your watch.

You’ve got a few minutes to spare.

You make your way up the small set of stairs and lean back against the railing with your arms loosely folded across your chest. They’re dressed similarly again—varying versions of an all-black, form-fitting uniform—though this time, you have a better, up-close view of Mohawk and Bartender.

You’ve yet to see an unattractive employee.

Maybe that’s a qualifier to work here?

What does that say about you?

“Have you met Soap and Alex yet?” Kyle nods to Mohawk and Bartender, respectively. They give small nods, smiling politely, eyes quickly darting over your form. You smile back, returning their nods to seem polite, but your mind swirls with a single thought—

What the hell kind of name is Soap?

You look them over, cataloging them as much as they are you.

If you had to guess, you’d have thought Alex was Mr. Price’s son before Kyle. They look so similar—same blue eyes, same nose, and frighteningly similar facial hair. His hair is a few shades lighter than Mr. Price’s, and his mouth is thinner, but the resemblance is uncanny.

Whereas Alex has a suave confidence, Soap carries himself with a boyish charm. His mohawk is shaggy, a deep brown that’s too long to stand up, so it curls and falls back onto his head. His blue eyes are wide and friendly, watching you with equal amounts of curiosity and suspicion. There’s not much of a beard on his face—more like long stubble that stretches down his neck to where a black choker sits tight around his skin.

“I couldn’t find you yesterday,” Kyle says, settling back against the bar top.

“Yeah, I…I got sent home,” you admit, trying to laugh it off. Alex and Soap share a look, smirking at each other while Kyle raises a brow.

“When?” Kyle asks. “I was here first thing.” He looks over his shoulder to Alex, the man setting down a glass of what you assume is water and sliding it to Kyle.

“I thought I’d give myself a tour of the building, and...your dad caught me in his office.” Their attention snaps to you, concerned and curious.

“Doing what?” Soap asks, the Scottish brogue taking you by surprise. He turns to face you with his mouth pulled into a devilish half-smirk.

“Reading a book,” you answer. Kyle chuckles to himself as he sips from his glass, but Alex leans his elbows against the bar to get closer to Soap.

“Is that a euphemism for something?” Alex mumbles.

“Why would I know that?” Soap counters softly.

“Causing trouble on your first day? You’re gonna fit right in here.” Kyle smirks, setting his glass down and standing from the barstool. He steps toward you, gesturing to the open space of the club.

“I’ll show you around and help you get started,” he smiles, offering you his arm before leading you down the few steps into the main room. You turn to give a quick wave to Soap and Alex before giving your full attention to Kyle as he goes over the various rooms in the clubs.

It’s not an elaborate building, thankfully, and already kept surprisingly clean. You can’t imagine spending more than five minutes on a single room, but Kyle insists you take your time to carefully examine the space.

You know what he’s doing—humoring you and stretching your time to keep you working longer. They clearly don’t need a cleaner here, and judging by the fully stocked cleaning cart, you suspect they may already have one; it’s that, or one of them is a clean freak.

So, why? Why hire you for a job they don’t need? Had your sob story been convincing enough to actually get you hired here? Maybe Kyle’s humoring you?

You won't worry about it too much if it means you get a stack of cash at the end of the week.

Kyle leaves you to yourself in the kitchen, heading back into the main room to check on Alex and Soap. You take your time at his insistence, examining the beautifully expansive kitchen more than looking for something to clean. The place is spotless anyway, polished so well you can see your reflection in the stainless steel. There’s a door to the walk-in freezer—with no secret morgue hidden behind it—and another door at the back of the room that leads into the back parking lot next to the dumpsters.

Besides that, the only other exit from the room is the double doors separating the kitchen from the main room. It’s not ideal, but there are enough racks to knock over and hinder someone should you need to make a quick exit.

You pick through the ingredients, admiring the flawless organization—everything is labeled with proper names and expiration dates in neat handwriting. Occasionally you find a little sticky note hanging either from a rack or laying on a random pot, with varying types of chicken scratch written across them—all in Spanish.

Your Spanish is frustratingly basic—only able to carry on simple conversations and read short sentences. You had tried to convince your father to let you learn, but he had a strict curriculum for you, and Spanish wasn’t included in it.

You spend half an hour checking the ins and outs of the room before you decide you’ve spent enough time in the kitchen. You head out, letting the doors softly close behind you. You can hear voices coming from the bar, slowly approaching to stretch your time even more.

“So, how long do you think she’ll last?”

You pause at Alex’s voice, tucking yourself against the wall just before you can come into view of the bar.

“Who? The bird?” Soap asks. You peer around the wall, trying to catch a glimpse of the two. Kyle is nowhere to be seen, Soap sitting at the bar with a half-full beer, and Alex stood on the other side of the counter leaning on his elbows.

Alex scoffs, “Who else?”

“Seems like a tough lass,” Soap shrugs, taking a generous sip. “I give her a month.”

“That’s generous.”

“How long d'you have her pegged for, then?”

“Two weeks, max,” Alex answers instantly.

Soap lets out a low whistle, chuckling into his beer bottle

“Ye of little faith.”

Little faith, indeed.

And if you weren’t sure of this job before, you’ve suddenly found enough spite to fuel you for months to come.

-

You make it three weeks before you meet anyone else at The 141.

The days pass in relative monotony, everyone leaving you to your own devices. Kyle shadows you sometimes, offering small talk that’s more him asking you questions and you giving vague, barely enough answers to soothe his interest. You occasionally catch Ghost lurking around the darker areas of the club, meeting his distrustful gaze with your own bright smile and a teasing wink. Mostly, you see Soap and Alex, who are content to say nothing more than a few polite hello’s and goodbyes. They gossip like fishwives, though, whispering and murmuring to each other when they think you’re out of earshot.

Sometimes it’s about you—how long you’ll last, where you’re from, whether or not you’re single.

Other times you catch stories of people you aren’t familiar with. Two weeks ago, it was something about a couple fighting for the fifth time in three days, Alex and Soap wondering if they’d finally break things off. Last week, it was a three-day saga about a giant bug—you think it was a roach—in Soap’s flat. This week, you overhear what must be an old story about Kyle’s traumatic first time in a helicopter and his subsequent fear of heights.

You walk in, the early morning light following behind you, ready to spend your time kinda-sorta cleaning and eavesdropping on the continuation of Kyle’s third time almost falling out of a helicopter.

You look to the bar first when you enter, searching for Alex and Soap to give them the same polite smile and small wave you’ve given them every morning. Instead, you find the bar vacant and the two men absent.

But the club isn’t empty.

A man and a woman stand at one of the pool tables, cue sticks in hand, staring down at the balls scattered across the red baize. Well, the man is staring. The woman leans against her cue stick, head tilted mockingly at her partner.

The man’s dressed in a uniform similar to Ghost’s—all black and covering every inch of skin, only without the face cover—his black hair messily slicked back and thick brows furrowed in a mix of confusion and frustration at the game before him. His opponent stands across the table from him, her short, jet-black hair perfectly framing her tilted head. Dressed a bit more colorfully in a form-fitting black turtleneck with no sleeves tucked into deep red pants, she lifts a heeled boot to impatiently tap her toe against the floor and gives you a perfect view of her red bottoms. Both are adorned with various pieces of gold jewelry: a thin chain necklace and belt for her, and a watch and assortment of rings for him.

You can only describe them the same way you can the rest of the club’s workers—stunning.

She catches sight of you first, no movement except for the way her eyes sharply turn to meet yours. Her smile pulls to the side, tongue running over her teeth as her gaze slides back to her partner. You see her mouth moving, the man breaking his attention away from the table to look at her. She nods her head towards you, and he follows her direction.

You default to a smile, unsure of what to do in the lingering silence as they stare at you, and you stare back at them.

“You must be the new girl, yeah?” the woman asks.

“Yeah, I-”

The man speaks up, cutting you off, “The bird, right? Kestrel? Wren?”

“Canary.”

“I told you it wasn’t Wren,” the woman smirks, much to the man’s apparent annoyance.

“And you have to be right about everything, of course,” he scoffs. She gasps in mock offense, setting a manicured hand to her chest.

“And you two are?” you ask before they can continue.

“Alejandro,” the man smiles before he looks to his partner, and it instantly drops. She waves her sharp nails at him, and Alejandro rolls his eyes. “This is Valeria,” he says flatly.

“Nice to meet you both, but if you don’t mind I have to-”

“No, no, no, come join us for a round. You play, right, avecita?” Valeria returns your smile—all teeth and with a look that sets you on edge—holding her cue stick out towards you.

“Not well,” you laugh.

“Ah, that’s fine.” She waves you off, pulling the cue stick away to circle the table. She reminds you of a vulture, circling high above the clouds, waiting for its prey to die. “You can’t be any worse than Alejandro.”

She laughs, all tease and silk, trailing a hand along Alejandro’s shoulders as she walks past him. He huffs, harshly shrugging her off.

“You’d be surprised,” you mutter. Valeria turns to you, and you get a distinct feeling that this isn’t a woman who likes to be told no. “I can show you after my shift if you’re still up for it?” you offer.

She lights up at that, Alejandro scoffing behind her and mumbling something to himself.

“I’ll hold you to that.” She turns away from you and back to the game, and you hurriedly make your way to your cart.

They spend the entire morning at the table, playing round after round after round. Their banter echoes through the empty club, following you through every room. You don’t mind it too much; they’re more entertaining than Soap and Alex’s quiet gossip.

Valeria wins every game but one—the last round going to Alejandro in a win you’re convinced he was allowed to have. He celebrates the final round with some minor gloating and a kiss with Valeria that takes you by surprise.

They end just as your lunch break begins, and you stack your supplies back onto your cart. As you finish putting your things away, you hear a set of doors open, the mouth-watering scent of spiced meat flooding the room.

A third man walks out from the kitchen, wheeling a serving cart with a large, polished cloche sitting atop it. He pulls it over to Alejandro and Valeria, the latter immediately removing the covering to peek at what’s beneath while the former greets the man with a quick kiss. Valeria sets the cloche aside, revealing three bowls of what you assume is making that inviting smell. Alejandro praises the man, sliding an arm around his waist while Valeria picks up a spoon to taste whatever’s in the bowls.

It must be good, judging by the way she tilts her head back and moans. The man smirks triumphantly, Alejandro going beat red and turning away. He spots you, and you give him a small smile, looking back down at your cart in hopes he doesn’t realize you’ve been staring.

“New girl! Canary!”

Well, shit.

“Come meet Rudy,” Alejandro calls. You dust your hands off on your jeans, walking over with a sheepish smile. The man—the chef?—Rudy, leans in to whisper to Alejandro before giving you a courteous smile. His dark hair’s kind of messy, sticking to his damp forehead. His eyes are big and brown and just as quick as they are soft, with a jawline sharp enough to cut yourself on. He’s handsome—as everyone at this club seems to be—if a little standoffish.

“Nice to meet you,” you smile, holding your hand out to him. He shakes it, leaning forward to reach but not leaving Alejandro’s side.

“Likewise,” he smiles back. Valeria groans from the side, and the three of you turn to her, your eyes falling to the food. It’s some kind of broth filled with rice, potatoes, and various vegetables, with meatballs set in a small circle.

It looks as appetizing as it smells, and you try to ignore the painful way your stomach clenches at the sight.

“Did you make this?” you ask Rudy.

“I was just experimenting. We’re working on a new menu,” he explains, pink blossoming on his cheeks.

“Just experimenting, he says,” Valeria scoffs. “You have to add this. I’d kill a man for this.”

“You want to try some, Canary?” Alejandro asks, picking up one of the spoons to hand it to you.

“It’s a club recipe,” Rudy says, giving Alejandro a pointed look. “Meant to be shared with family.”

“Avecita hasn’t earned her wings yet,” Valeria laughs, warning laced through her voice. It’s a command. An order. Alejandro gives you an apologetic smile, setting the spoon back down on the table.

It’s fine. You get it.

You’d be afraid to go against Valeria too.

But you know that delicious smell will seep into the fabric of your clothes to follow you back to your motel. And maybe, just maybe, you can inhale that delectable smell and pretend that your peanut butter sandwich on slightly stale bread is the same unique recipe and that you might have a family to share it with one day.

-

Towards the end of the next week, you arrive at the club nearly an hour early.

The heat in your motel room had shut off in the middle of the night, leaving you stuck in the freezing cold of winter’s relentless bite and unable to fall back asleep. Bundled up in the only long-sleeved shirt you had and your denim jacket, you tried to huddle beneath your sheets, but the too-thin fabric did little to help.

Winter’s barely begun, and already she’s fixing to screw you over.

Note to self: Get the hell out of here before the cold months start.

You tried calling your landlord, even knocking on his door, but both attempts resulted in silence.

In the end, you left to your car—deciding to burn some cash for gas to drive around the empty streets and warm yourself with the heater. It smelled like burning dust and blew in varying levels of hotness, but it was better than the unwelcoming iciness of your motel room.

You drove until it was nearly time for your shift, pulling into the back parking lot of the club in the pale blue hours of the morning. With the seats unable to lean back, you sat up straight, head bobbed to the side, getting in a rough thirty-minute nap before your watch beeped at you.

Which leaves you here, crabby and sore as you fight to get your car door shut. It takes a few tries—and a frustrated kick or two—to get it closed and locked.

You wrap your arms around your middle, trying to seal the heat from the car inside your clothes. The walk to the front of the club seems too long a trek in the frigid air. You glance around, spotting the back door to the kitchen.

Why would they put a door there if it wasn’t meant to be used?

It’s open—the lights on—but all you can think about is the sudden rush of hot air that blasts into your face. You shut the door behind you, taking a moment to lean against the wall and revel in the warmth, careful not to let your eyes fall shut.

You give yourself a few minutes to let the warmth seep into your skin before pushing yourself off the wall and heading toward the main room.

You look to the bar first, searching for Soap and Alex out of habit. Neither are there, but there is a man sitting on one of the stools.

He’s dressed in a worn leather jacket, dark aviators covering his eyes, and slicked-back hair that you can tell from the shine is probably stiff and plastered to his head. He has a half-empty bottle of vodka—one of the expensive ones from the top shelf—sitting in front of him next to a half-empty glass and smokes a cigarette that he ashes on the bar top.

You’ve never seen this man before, and if you had actually gotten some sleep, you might have thought more about who he was. But today, you’re off your game and irritated at the pile of ash you’ll have to clean up, so instead, you call out—

“We’re closed right now.”

You don’t bother looking at him, making your way up the steps and grabbing an ashtray from the end of the bar top. You set it down in front of him—a little harsher than necessary—with a wholly unimpressed look. You know you must look a sight, wind-whipped with bags under your eyes.

“And we have these, y’know. In case you missed them.”

The man’s brows raise as he leans back, the lines of his forehead sinking deeper with the movement. You can’t see his eyes, but the way his head moves down, then up, then down again tells you everything you need to know about where he’s looking.

“He’s fine, Canary!” someone calls out behind you before you get to say something. You turn to the game tables, where you're met with a gaggle of your co-workers watching you in various stages of amusement.

Alex and Soap lean against one of the pool tables, snickering to each other while Kyle stands across from them, leaning back with a cue stick in hand and a poorly hidden smile on his face. Ghost and Alejandro stand on either side of the table, Alejandro looking down to hide his laughter and Ghost as unmoving and stoic as ever.

You look back to the man at the bar, then to the group, then the man, then the group again before you finally shut your eyes and take a long breath.

In, out. In, out.

Your father’s voice rings in the back of your head, blaring and disappointed: What have I told you? Always be aware of your surroundings!

Your left shoulder aches straight down to the bone.

In, out. In, out.

You’re not yourself today. You’re okay. You’re safe here.

“Did we scare you?” Alejandro laughs, the snickering behind him increasing.

“You all need matching uniforms, or hats, or something,” you speak up, your voice even and composure restored. “Hell, matching nail polish would work.”

“Nik doesn’t work here; he drives for my father,” Kyle explains, handing his stick to Ghost and heading toward the bar. You can’t help but let your eyes wander to the half-empty vodka bottle, turning back to Kyle with a raised brow. He puts his hands up, making a face that says it’s not his business, so you let it go. He smiles as he passes you—tight-lipped and apologetic like the one managers give to customers they can’t help.

The man, Nik, laughs behind you, deep and rough as if he’s just woken up, clapping Kyle on the back as the young man joins him at the bar.

“Your dad finally found you a girl, huh?! Good for you! She’s a little plain, but not bad for проститутка. Ни рыба ни мясо, you know?”

If it were any other day, you’d have let it go, but your stress is bubbling up, roiling and mixing with your lack of sleep and irritation at the entire day until it boils over.

You round on him before you can stop yourself, “Я тебе покажу, где раки зимуют. Заруби ceбe на носу.”

Nik and Kyle look entirely taken aback—Nik more impressed than offended—and the snickering behind you comes to an immediate halt. You scold yourself for slipping as the room lapses into stunned silence.

Ghost is the first to break it.

“You speak Russian?”

It's an accusation, not a question; if he wasn't suspicious of you before, he certainly is now. You don’t blame him. You know what it means to hear Russian spoken nearby.

You feign ignorance, turning back to him with a slight tilt of your head.

“Yeah?”

His eyes narrow, staring you down as his hand clenches around the cue stick. “Didn’t mention that when you started,” he all but growls at you.

“No one asked,” you shrug, doing your best to downplay the situation. You glance over your shoulder at Kyle—ignoring the way Nik is now beaming at you.

“Can I get to work?” you ask, ready to find a small corner to hide in so you can nap somewhere that isn’t below freezing.

“Yeah, go ahead.” Kyle nods, and you nod back, heading for your cleaning cart. You can hear Alex and Soap whispering to each other, Alejandro’s voice joining in. Ghost’s eyes never leave you, his sharp glare following you the entire way, and then continuing to watch as you pack your arms full of supplies and head upstairs.

You peer down at him when you reach the top few steps, just as he looks away and off to the side. You follow his line of sight to the office doors, one swung open with your boss leaning against the frame and looking directly at you.

You look away, rushing the rest of the way up the steps.

-

You’re surprisingly busy during your seventh week; the club is in preparation for a big business party that’s supposed to be good for networking or something.

You’re kept in the dark about the goings on within the club. In truth, you prefer it this way—less chance to get attached. Not that you’re given much chance for attachment; everyone, save for Kyle, seems determined to keep you at arm’s length.

Soap sits at the bar, chatting quietly to Ghost as the masked man stands beside him. Soap faces forward, but Ghost leans back on his elbows against the bar top. They watch the stage, where a man you haven’t met works to lay out and adjust the sound equipment. They ignore you, for the most part, Soap giving you an occasional smile while Ghost fixes you with an annoyed glare every time you pass by. The man working on the stage hasn’t even looked in your direction.

It’s unexpectedly peaceful, and you work with impressive efficiency.

Kyle wasn’t strict about breaks—and his father hadn’t spoken to you since the day you met him—so you decide to take them as you see fit.

Halfway through your second break of the day, you pass by the stage, carefully navigating around the piles of cables and sound equipment. So focused on watching your steps, you don’t see the man drop down from the stage and directly into your path until you collide into his side.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” you say, staggering to keep yourself from falling over. The man is unmoved, not even sparing you a glance. His hair is a sandy brown—maybe dirty blonde—and sticks to his slightly damp forehead. His eyes are covered by a pair of dark sunglasses, but you think you catch a glimpse of brown from the side. He’s dressed in all black—what a surprise—but significantly more casual than anyone else you’ve seen. A fitted shirt turtleneck with rolled sleeves, gloves, and jeans; the only nonblack item of clothing on him is the large set of dark blue headphones covering his ears. You can faintly hear the echoes of a rock song coming from them.

He winds a long cable in his hands, nodding his head along to whatever’s blasting in his eardrums. You stand for a moment, waiting to see if he’ll say something or acknowledge you, but he doesn’t; the only thing he pays attention to is the cable in his hand.

When he gets to the end, the cable a perfect continuous loop, it’s been made clear you’re not needed—and probably not wanted—here. You take a step forward, fully prepared to move around the man, when he suddenly reaches out, holding the wound-up cable out to you.

You’re not sure what you’re supposed to do with it, but he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t even look at you. He just holds it out, focusing on the various amps and cables in front of him on the stage.

Am I supposed to…take this?

You cautiously wrap a hand around the cable, waiting to make sure this is what he wants. The man moves into action, shoving the cable further up your arm, so it hangs at your elbow before picking up another one from the stage. He sets it in your hands, grabbing the end and beginning his winding once more.

“Um, excuse me?” you call out, watching the cable slide across your hand and into his coil. He doesn’t respond, working diligently and ignoring your existence entirely.

He finishes in record time, this time tossing the wound-up cable at you the moment he’s done. You stumble but catch it, barely being given enough time to hang it on your arm before he’s setting another cable in your hand.

This continues two more times before you give up, leaving him to his work and surrendering to your new life as his cable stand.

You’ve got both arms covered in cables, with two hanging from your neck, when you notice Soap and Ghost still at the bar. Ghost is sitting down now, facing away from the stage, but Soap—

Soap is leaning on his elbow against the bar top, smiling and laughing and definitely looking right at you.

He glances back to Ghost occasionally, carrying on whatever—what you’re sure is one-sided—conversation they’re having. You wait until he looks back at you, meeting his eyes and mouthing help me. His grin grows wider, if possible, shoulders shaking as he clearly laughs at you.

He looks back to Ghost, hitting the masked man on the arm a few times. Ghost barely turns his head in Soap’s direction, and Soap says something, nodding in your direction. Ghost looks over his shoulder, catching sight of you as Soap bursts with laughter.

“Lookin’ good, hen!” Soap yells out. You lift your left arm as high as you can with four cables wrapped around it to flip him off. All you get is a cackle in response.

Ghost, however, seems to take pity on you. He stands from the bar, making his way toward you with Soap traipsing behind. You let out a small sigh of relief, hoping he’ll take some of the cables, but he stops just next to you. He fixes you with that shadowy glare, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Your break ended ten minutes ago.”

You don’t know why you expected any different.

“Tell him that,” you scoff, nodding toward your unintentional captor. Soap chuckles, taking up the role of your savior and grabbing the cables from your left arm. Ghost moves to the man, pulling the headphones down around his neck. The man jumps, dropping his cable and turning to Ghost.

“Don’t mind Roach,” Soap says, nodding back at the man who’s nodding along to whatever Ghost is murmuring to him. “Lad’s got a bit of a one-track mind. You set him to a task, and he won’t stop ‘til he’s done.”

Soap takes the cables from your arms—the immediate relief bringing tears to your eyes—stacking them on the stage.

“His name is Roach?” you ask, peeling the large cables from around your neck.

“Sure is.”

You don’t know why you’re surprised. You’re talking to a man named Soap, of all things.

“Are these like codenames or something?”

Soap barks out a laugh, “Comin’ from the woman named Canary!”

“I—yeah, fair enough.” Soap gives you a wide, toothy grin, leaning back against the stage. You turn to watch Ghost and Roach, Ghost speaking quietly to him. Occasionally, Ghost looks up over Roach’s head and directly at you, glaring at you before returning his attention to Roach. You’d be nervous if you cared, but your attention is elsewhere as you watch Roach remove his gloves and gesture to Ghost. It doesn’t take long for you to realize.

He’s signing.

Your eyes are fixated on Roach’s hands, watching their fluid movement in awe. You try to catch what few signs you know, but they don’t seem to be discussing military tactics, so you’re at a bit of a loss.

Ghost must catch you because he clears his throat and startles you out of your gaze.

“You can go back to work now,” he states, harsh and non-negotiating. “We aren’t paying you to stand around.”

You kind of are.

Roach turns to you, facing you for the first time. He gives you a broad smile and signs something to you that makes Ghost roll his eyes.

“He says it’s nice to meet you,” Soap translates, watching as Roach continues. “And he’s sorry for not noticing you.”

“It’s fine. No harm done.”

Roach nods at you, turning back to Ghost, the conversation seemingly shifting to whatever he was working on.

“I’m gonna get back to it,” you tell Soap. “Don’t wanna get in trouble.” You send Ghost a not-so-subtle look that makes Soap chuckle.

“He just needs some time to warm up t’ya. Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he winks.

You really doubt that, but you’ll take what you can get. You head back to your cart, glancing back to watch Soap join the two, clapping Roach on the back before sliding an arm around his shoulders. It’s sweet, the way they interact; Soap’s endless well of charisma and charm gives him the ability to make anyone feel at ease.

Roach signs something that makes Soap laugh, and you feel the smile growing on your face.

Until you look two inches to the left and meet Ghost’s bone-chilling glare aimed directly at you.

You roll your eyes, turning your attention back to your cart.

Needs time to warm up to me, my ass.

-

Kyle has the brilliant idea to rearrange the rooms on the second floor, recruiting you the moment you walk into the club. The entire morning is spent helping him move couches and game tables, and chairs with few breaks in between.

You’re trying to move one of the absurdly heavy tables down into the main room when Kyle gets a call. The two of you balance the table well enough on the steps before he pulls his phone from his back pocket to check the number.

“You mind if I take this?”

He doesn’t give you much choice, answering the call immediately after asking. It doesn’t sound like a particularly interesting conversation, and you tune it out in favor of using these few precious minutes to lean against the stair railing for a well-earned breather. You keep your side against the table while Kyle keeps a tight hand on the other end to keep it from sliding down the steps.

“No, no, that’s not—“ You’ve never heard Kyle raise his voice—he's always scarily calm, just like his father—but it goes up a few decibels now. You can’t help looking at him with mild surprise, raising a brow in question and concern. He smiles back at you—too quick to be genuine—before turning entirely away from you and speaking into the phone in hushed tones.

It takes another minute of heated whispering before he hangs up, turning back to you with another smile—apologetic this time.

“Everything alright?” you ask.

“Oh, yeah. Everything’s fine. Great. Um, would you mind if I just—“ He maneuvers his way around the game table, moving down the steps toward you. “I’ll be right back, I promise. I just have to have to go handle something.”

“What? We’re still moving this thing,” you try to reason, but he continues past you and down the steps in an unusually nervous hurry.

“It’s fine where it’s at! I’ll be back in ten minutes!” he calls back as he rushes towards the door.

“Kyle!”

“You’ve got this!” The end of his sentence is punctuated by the slamming of the front doors, and, just like that, you’re left in the club by yourself.

It takes far longer than ten minutes, and by the thirty-minute mark, you’re tired of waiting.

The table isn’t that heavy, right?

You could probably lift it yourself.

All you have to do is move one step at a time.

You make it two-and-a-half steps before you try to call it quits. You’ve taken Kyle’s spot further up the stairs, holding the table under its top with both hands to keep it from sliding down the half-step it’s stuck on and barreling down the rest of the staircase. It definitely is that heavy, and the worry that you won’t be able to hold it until Kyle—or anyone—gets back has seeped into your brain.

You don’t know how long you hold it—you can’t look at your watch without letting go of the table; a chance you won’t take—but the burn in your arms tells you you’ll be sore for the coming days.

You try counting backward, distracting yourself with a one-sided game of i-spy, thinking of all your favorite childhood movies. Anything to distract from the way sweat begins to collect on your palms.

You settle on deep breaths, looking up to the ceiling with a long inhale and exhaling with your eyes shut.

It works well enough, keeping your mind busy.

Too busy, it would seem, as you don’t hear the footsteps coming down the stairs behind you.

Your eyes shoot open as the weight is suddenly—blessedly—lifted from your hands. Stretching the soreness to a manageable degree with a soft groan, you turn to thank your savior.

The tallest man you have ever seen stands behind you, holding the end of the table in one hand. It hurt your neck to look Ghost in the eye for too long, but you have to crane your neck to even get a glimpse of this man’s chin.

He bends to get his hands under the tabletop and gives you a better view of his face.

Not that there’s much face to be seen.

All black from head to toe, just like Ghost. And just like Ghost, this man wears a mask covering the lower half of his face. His isn’t painted and is pulled up high over his hooked nose, almost reaching his bottom lashes. His hair is a rusty red, long enough to tuck behind his ears, with a few strands falling into his face as he lifts the game table and pulls it toward him.

He pauses, glancing over at you in surprise like he’s just noticed you’re there. His eyes are hazel, pale green mixing with a thick outline of soft brown. You don’t know if it’s the lack of black, smoky eye and permanent glare that Ghost carries, but something about this man seems far friendlier—puts you at ease with an uncomfortably new sense of safety.

He stares at you for a brief moment, taking in your figure, every-so-often flitting back up to your face. Without a word, he pulls the table back into a secure spot before standing up to his total—massive—height. He slides past you with a quiet “‘Tschuldigung.” until he stands next to the table.

Your jaw drops as he bends, sliding his hands under the table to lift it entirely off the ground. He carries it the rest of the rest down the steps without a word or so much as breaking a sweat. All you can do is follow behind, staring in disbelief at this helpful giant.

What the hell are they feeding these guys?

He sets the game table down at the bottom of the steps, nudging it out of the way with his leg like it’s nothing. He turns his head, catching you coming down the steps, and his deep-set eyes narrow, not in the cold, suspiciously dangerous way that Ghost’s do, but instead paired with the way his mask rises with his cheeks as if he’s smiling.

“Thank you,” is all you can say.

He nods, attention drifting from you to the rest of the club. You don’t know what—or who—he’s looking for, but it’s just the two of you here.

“I’m Canary,” you say with a small smile, moving down a few steps so you can be at eye level with him. He turns back to you, and you hold your hand out to him.

He grasps your hand gently, muttering something under his breath that you can’t quite catch before looking you straight in the eye.

“König,” he says with a small nod.

That explains the German, you laugh to yourself. König lets go of your hand, looking back around the club, and you can’t help but wonder—

When the hell did the 141 starting working with the Germans?

“Excuse me, but—” he says, looking back down at you, “—I’m looking for—“

“I’m back!” You both jump at the sudden shouting, turning just in time to see Kyle rushing in from the front doors, eyes still fixated on his phone. “I had to handle something. You can yell at me for it later, but I’m here now, so we can—“

He’s only a few steps away when he finally looks up and notices the two of you. His eyes travel from you to König, to the game table behind him.

“Guess you didn’t need my help, after all,” Kyle laughs.

“No, I definitely did,” you counter, folding your arms across your chest. Usually, you’d try to hide any wincing or evidence of pain, but you’re feeling petty. And if you exaggerate how much your arms hurt—just a little—Kyle will never know. “Damn near lost an arm.”

“It won’t happen again, I promise.” Kyle makes a small x over his chest, just above his heart, fixing you with that bright, customer-service smile.

“Have you seen your father?” König asks. His voice isn’t soft but quiet, speaking lowly but just enough for you and Kyle to hear.

“Not today,” Kyle sighs. “Anything I can do for you?”

König gives you a quick glance, looking back at Kyle, who seems to take the hint.

“We can talk in the office,” Kyle says, gesturing toward the back office. König nods, following Kyle as the young man heads across the room.

“You can head home, Canary! I appreciate the help today!” Kyle calls over his shoulder. König turns on his heel, walking backward without breaking his stride.

“Es hat mich gefreut Sie kennenzulernen. Um, nice meeting you!” he calls, giving you a quick nod. You return it, adding a small wave as he turns back around and disappears into the office with Kyle.

You let out a long breath, leaning against the railing.

British, American, Mexican, German...Russian. If your father were alive, seeing the extensive reach of The 141 would surely kill him.

Either that or he’d be offering you on a silver platter for the chance to sink his claws in; you knew how powerful of a bargaining chip you were. Had it happened, you’d have hated it, you’re sure. Fighting tooth and nail, scraping against the floorboards to keep from being dragged out of your home and sent into some stranger's arms.

Looking back on it now, though…

That might’ve been the better option. Better a silver platter than a silver cage, and no stranger could’ve been crueler than—

Your left shoulder burns, the muscles in your arm tightening into an unbearable vice.

Choices were given. Decisions were made.

The past is the past.

All you have left is the future.

-

Translations:

проститутка - a prostitute Ни рыба ни мясо - neither fish nor meat; an idiom used to describe someone who is average or not memorable Я тебе покажу, где раки зимуют - i will show you where lobsters (crawfish) spend the winter; "i’ll teach you a lesson; I’ll give you something to remember me by" Заруби ceбe на носу - make a notch on your nose; "mark my words" - ‘Tschuldigung - sorry; excuse me Es hat mich gefreut Sie kennenzulernen - it was a pleasure meeting you; nice to meet you

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