Chapter Text
Rain drums against the aircraft hangar's tin roof, rhythmic and steady. You're seated on a crate, back straight, eyes locked on the empty tarmac stretching beyond the open hangar doors. The storm shrouds everything in a low haze, muting the world like cotton stuffed into your ears. You welcome the silence.
You had been back from the last op for two days, but sleep hasn't caught up. Your fingers twitch around the metal clasp of your medic bag. You cleaned it three times since you landed—old habits of trying to scrub blood out of fabric even if there isn't any.
"Sergeant."
His voice cuts through the sound of the rain like a gunshot. Calm. Rough-edged. Too familiar by now.
You don't turn immediately. Just breathe in, deep, steady. "Captain."
Boots crunch behind you. Then silence. You don't need to look to know he's standing close—arms probably crossed, eyes scanning you like he always does. Like he's trying to see if you're whole. You wish he wouldn't.
"You planning to sit out the rest of your leave right here?"
"I like the quiet."
"Mm." A pause. "Ghost and Soap are trying to beat each other's times on the range. It's gettin' loud."
You finally glance over your shoulder. There he is—Captain John Price. Hat pulled low, rain soaking the sleeves of his jacket. Stern as always. Handsome in a way that hurts if you look too long.
You swallow it down. Always do.
"I figured someone should keep the peace," you murmur, trying for humor. It's dry, but he huffs—almost a laugh. A flicker of something warm. It burns in your chest for a second before you stamp it out.
You're not supposed to look at him like that. Not supposed to feel this way.
"You've earned more than that, Phoenix."
Phoenix. The name had been given to you by Price himself two years ago, after you'd dragged yourself and two injured squadmates out of a blown-up safehouse. You'd been half-dead and still cursing out the enemy on the radio when Price found you, bloodied and upright.
"You burn and rise, yeah?" he'd said after you recovered. "Like a bloody phoenix."
The name stuck. You didn't mind it. It reminded you that you'd survived. But lately, it feels like ashes are piling higher than the flames.
"I don't sleep much these days," you admit quietly, staring out at the rain again. "Feels worse when I try."
There's a beat. Then, softer, "Nightmares?"
You nod. You don't need to say more.
He moves, boots heavy, and sits beside you on the crate, elbows resting on his knees.
There's barely space between you, and it sends something tight curling through your chest.
Close. Too close.
"You're not alone, you know," he says.
You hate that it makes your throat tighten. Hate that his voice can do that to you.
"I know."
But it's a lie.
Because every time you look at him—every time he tosses a word your way with that measured calm, every time his hand brushes your back in a firefight, every time his voice pulls you out of the dark—you remember exactly why this is dangerous.
He's your captain. This is war. And you can't afford to let your heart become another wound.
So you sit there in silence, two soldiers in the rain, neither saying what they're thinking.
Neither ready to admit they're burning.