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Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, a great man, and a foolish dog.
Johnny had no idea why he, unlike his siblings, was born with big, silly puppy ears and a tail, but he managed. After all, he was still the middle child; he didn’t know what his job was if it wasn’t putting up with things he didn’t like.
He knew he was different, though people didn’t shun him. He was pushed to work harder at school, at home, and with friends, constantly having to prove himself more than his peers, but never directly isolated. He learned to live on the boundaries of sociability.
This only fuelled his desire to join the military once he had heard about it from his uncle. Johnny knew from an early age that he could change glares into grins, even though his uncle had mentioned the military to get rid of him, and that the force used commands and training on both humans and hybrids.
Johnny had learned, early on, that his instincts were more of a burden than a blessing.
He was a Munsterlander hybrid—half human, half hunting dog—and the bloodline made itself known in the details: floppy brown ears that brushed his temples when he turned too fast. A fluffy, expressive tail that betrayed every emotion, no matter how much training he underwent. Fangs sharper than a human. A sense of smell sharp enough that he could track a sergeant’s lunch from two fields away.
The instincts came with the biology, and the biology came with rules. Rules he had never fully learned to ignore.
On base, he did well enough to avoid a forced discharge. He excelled in marksmanship, excelled in strategy, excelled in the actual work. But commands? Orders?
Human methods of discipline?
Those were… harder.
Johnny was not disobedient by intention. He simply reacted. He heard a sharp order barked in the wrong tone and his hackles rose. He smelled adrenaline spike in a room and assumed a threat. He caught the faintest whiff of fear or anger and was ready to square up to defend his team, teeth bared before his consciousness caught up to his body.
He was not dominant. Nor was he submissive.
He was simply responsive.
Unfortunately, responsive got him in trouble often.
He was known across base as the best man on the team during deployment—and the biggest pain in the arse during training weeks. He listened on missions. He listened when lives were on the line. But command wanted more than that. They wanted control.
And control was something Johnny had never given anyone.
Not his family. Not his drill sergeant. Not the men who wrote his evaluations with heavy sighs and comments like “excellent soldier, but instinct driven. Approach with caution.”
So, when the day came that he was told he would be working with a new operator, he understood the tone before he understood the words.
“MacTavish,” his CO said. “You’ll be paired with Riley for this one.”
“Riley?” Johnny’s ears perked, tail flicking once behind him. “Like.. ‘Ghost’ Riley?”
“The one and only. Behave.”
Johnny grinned. “No promises.”
Their meeting, as it turned out, was exactly like the rumours said it would be.
Ghost walked into the briefing room like a shadow wearing a uniform—imposing, silent, the skull mask carved from something colder than bone. He sat with the weight of someone who preferred to stand. He glanced once at Johnny and then dismissed him entirely.
Johnny, meanwhile, nearly vibrated out of his chair.
He had heard the stories. He had heard all the stories. Ghost was a legend. Ghost was a phantom. Ghost was.. well, a ghost. He didn’t like people, didn’t like noise, didn’t like partners.
Which made the fact that he was being paired with Johnny “Soap” MacTavish one hell of an amusing contradiction.
Johnny leaned forward, tail thumping once against the chair before he forced it still.
“Been wantin’ tae meet you, Lt,” he said, accent softening around the edges of his excitement.
Ghost didn’t turn his head.
“Mm.”
“Big fan,” Johnny added.
Ghost’s eyes flicked toward him once. A single glance.
Already, Johnny felt triumphant.
“Hope you’re better in the field than you are in briefings,” Ghost muttered.
“Och aye,” Johnny said brightly. “I shine under pressure.”
“Brilliant,” Ghost deadpanned. “Just what I need.”
Johnny grinned. “You’ll warm up tae me.”
Ghost didn’t answer. He didn’t even breathe differently.
But Johnny’s tail flicked anyway, pleased.
The operation was simple—at least on paper.
Infiltration, extraction, and controlled demolition of a weapons cache. Nothing too complex, nothing needing a full strike team. Two men were enough, command claimed.
Johnny disagreed.
He smelled danger before the helicopter even landed, tail stiff behind him, ears angled toward the tree line.
Ghost noticed.
“You’re picking something up.”
“Somethin’s off,” Johnny said, nostrils flaring. “Not sure what.”
“Stick to the plan,” Ghost replied, checking his rifle.
Johnny tried.
He genuinely tried.
But instincts were instincts.
He darted ahead when he shouldn’t have. He ignored the command to hold position. He responded to noises that weren’t threats and failed to respond to noises that were. Each time Ghost barked a correction into the comms, Johnny’s tail bristled in irritation. Each time Ghost told him to fall back, his hackles rose.
It wasn’t rebellion.
It was wiring.
But wiring didn’t matter when bullets were real.
And then came the moment Ghost finally snapped.
Johnny surged forward toward a sound in the distance—wrong sound, wrong direction, wrong timing. Ghost grabbed his vest and yanked him back so violently Johnny stumbled.
“For fuck’s sake—MacTavish!”
Johnny whirled around, breath heaving, fangs catching the moonlight. “Lt, I heard—”
“Sit down,” Ghost growled. “And shut the fuck up.”
It was not a request. Not a human order.
It was a command.
A primal one.
Johnny froze.
His ears pinned flat to his skull. His tail dropped heavy to the ground. His mouth snapped shut so fast his teeth clicked.
He sat.
Immediately.
Ghost stopped breathing for a second.
Johnny looked just as stunned.
“…Right,” Ghost muttered after a beat. “That’s… new.”
Johnny swallowed hard, eyes wide. “Aye, sir.”
Ghost cleared his throat. “Get up. We’re moving.”
Johnny stood quickly, too quickly, ears still pinned, tail tucked, body language screaming embarrassment. He followed close behind Ghost the rest of the night, never more than two paces away.
And he listened.
Every order.
Every instruction.
Every word.
He listened to Ghost as if Ghost’s voice were magnetic, pulling at every instinct Johnny possessed.
The others noticed.
During exfil, the teasing began.
“MacTavish, you suddenly know how to follow orders?”
“Look at the tail on him—never seen it tucked so tight!”
“What’d Ghost do? Show him a rolled-up newspaper?”
Johnny sat rigid, jaw tight, eyes locked on the ground, ears pinned so flat they were practically plastered to his skull.
Ghost had tolerated a lot that day.
He did not tolerate that.
“That’s enough,” Ghost snapped through comms.
Silence. Immediate.
Even the rotor wash felt quieter.
Johnny risked a glance at Ghost—just a flicker, just enough to acknowledge what had been done for him. His cheeks were flushed, his tail trembled against the restraint of stillness, caught between gratitude and humiliation.
He said nothing.
He didn’t speak again until the helicopter touched down.
The conference room felt colder than the field had.
Johnny stood to the side, arms crossed, tail stiff in a way that signalled agitation to anyone who understood hybrids. His ears angled back, betraying every emotion he tried to hide.
“Your performance was erratic,” command began. “But Riley seems to keep a leash on you.”
Johnny’s lip curled. “I’m no’ a dog.”
Ghost didn’t look at him, but his jaw tensed beneath the mask.
“Semantics,” one of the officers said. “Point is, you listen to him. So, from now on, he’s responsible for you in the field.”
Johnny growled. Actual growled.
“We are not making hybrids pack animals,” Ghost snapped. “He’s a soldier.”
“He’s a liability,” command corrected. “Unless he’s controlled.”
Johnny moved before Ghost could stop him.
He slammed his hands onto the table. “My instincts aren’t faults! I know threats before you even read them on your fancy wee tablets—!”
“Enough,” an officer barked. “Either you follow Riley’s orders, or you’re dismissed from the program.”
Silence.
Cold, suffocating silence.
Johnny’s ears pressed flat to his skull in raw, furious humiliation. His tail bristled so hard the fur stood on end. His breath came out in sharp exhales through clenched teeth.
He left.
He didn’t slam the door.
He didn’t shout.
He simply walked out with a low, warning growl rumbling through him—a sound no one in that room forgot.
Ghost stayed.
He defended Johnny for ten straight minutes.
It didn’t matter.
The decision was final.
“Riley, he is your responsibility,” command concluded. “On missions, and, if necessary, on base.”
Ghost’s chair scraped the floor when he stood. Hard.
He didn’t salute when he left.
He didn’t acknowledge anyone.
He just walked.
Straight to the common room.
Johnny was on the sofa.
Elbows on his knees.
Head in hands.
Ears pinned.
Tail limp.
He wasn’t angry anymore.
He was something far worse:
Defeated.
Ghost watched him for several seconds. Watched the rise and fall of tense shoulders. Watched the twitch of an ear that suggested he had sensed Ghost before hearing him. Watched a proud man sit like a kicked dog.
Ghost sighed.
He stepped forward until he stood in front of Johnny.
Johnny immediately straightened, dropping his hands to his thighs, chin tipping up just enough to establish eye contact. His ears twitched forward—barely—as if bracing for reprimand.
He looked… resigned.
Ghost hated it.
He cupped Johnny’s jaw with one gloved hand, lifting his face.
Johnny froze.
Ghost turned his head left, then right, inspecting him the way one inspects bruises. His thumb brushed over Johnny’s lower lip, tugging gently until fangs peeked through.
Then Ghost murmured, voice quiet and thoughtful:
“You’re a great man, Johnny,” he said. “But a foolish dog.”
Johnny’s breath caught.
His eyes dropped; his chin dipped out of Ghost’s hand in a shy little movement Ghost hadn’t anticipated. His tail pulled closer to his thighs, trying to hide his reaction.
Ghost sat beside him. Shoulders brushing. Knees knocking. Johnny didn’t move away.
Ghost placed a hand on his shoulder. Johnny hunched reflexively, half turning as if to make himself smaller. Ghost leaned in, lowering his voice.
“I’m not going to leash you,” he said. “No matter what they said.”
Johnny’s ears twitched. Carefully.
“If you work with me—if you cooperate—then we’ll handle it our way. Not theirs.”
Johnny swallowed. Hard.
“My instincts…” he murmured.
“I won’t ignore them,” Ghost said. “If something’s off, I want to know. But you choose the life you want, MacTavish. And if you choose this one, you choose when to listen to instinct and when to listen to me. It’s lethal out there.”
A long pause.
Johnny’s jaw clenched. His eyes remained fixed forward.
Then—slowly—he nodded.
Ghost watched the motion, his gaze trailing from the set of Johnny’s shoulders to the droop of his tail. He let his hand drift from Johnny’s shoulder down to his waist, fingers curling briefly in the fabric of Johnny’s shirt.
Johnny’s whole body went rigid.
Then—
Thump.
Ghost blinked.
Johnny’s tail had hit the sofa once.
Hard.
Then again.
He turned scarlet.
Ghost pretended not to notice. “Right, then.”
Johnny scrubbed a hand over his face. His ears perked—just slightly—as he finally turned toward Ghost.
“I’ll listen tae you,” he said softly. “Just don’t treat me like they do.”
Ghost snorted. “We all get treated like dogs in this place. You just have the disadvantage of looking like one.”
Johnny huffed a faint laugh.
Ghost continued, tone levelling out.
“But dogs are loyal. And if you stay loyal to my orders, we’ll be fine.”
Johnny looked at him—really looked at him—with something earnest beneath the embarrassment.
“Aye, sir,” he murmured.
And between them—on that old sofa, in the dim common room where the overhead lights hummed and the world outside kept turning—a bond was formed.
Two men treated like dogs.
One who technically was.
Both loyal, in their own way, to each other.
In this dog-eat-dog world, they had found something rare:
Mutual recognition.
And, though neither said it aloud—
Mutual belonging.