A Living Shield (John Price x OC/Reader slowburn)

33) The Consuming Flame 🔞

Years and years of intensive training. Years and years of battles fought with little to no room for error. Countless amounts of people felled gruesomely by your own hands, hunted through shadows, as if chased by death itself. The smell of their fear and anxiety ripe in the air, seconds before it all got extinguished. Instincts and talents sharper than the blades you carried, everything you stood for made to overcome anything and everything in combat. By whatever means necessary.

Your body and mind honed for one single purpose; compelled by a simple demand.

Survival.

And yet here you were. The one and only killing machine, lingering- no, hiding, in the safety of the shared living room's sofa. Postponing whatever confrontation lay in Price's room. Like a little bitch.

I am a joke. This is just absolutely ridiculous. I can't even fucking talk to MacTavish about it because if he finds out, I will never live this down.

Ghost and Soap to your right were talking about some drama they put on, complaining yet completely enthralled by it. Somehow your best friend was sitting on the ground against the sofa, Ghost's legs repurposed as a leaning rest for Soap's shoulder. They'd never admit they were invested, but you knew how routinely they kept up with this show. You'd tried watching with them but you couldn't keep your attention on the tv, your foot tapping restlessly as you checked your phone's lockscreen. Aware only three minutes had passed since the last time you looked.

You'd told yourself that by the time the clock struck eight, you'd get up and face your demon. And naturally that meant you were left checking your phone almost every minute, simultaneously hoping time would stop but also move faster. The slower it went, the more insane you became from waiting. Aware of the person who was mere rooms away, calling on every sense in your body. Yet the quicker it all seemed to get by, the more nervous and antsy you got, your fingers cracking as you tried popping some joints. Every sane part of you was fighting the side that wanted to throw caution to the wind, that wanted to run into his room, lock the door and pull whatever he was wearing straight off. And so far it was unclear what side was winning.

It had you utterly and entirely on edge.

The sound of Soap belting out a loud bellowing laugh out of nowhere, jolted you to your feet as you sprung out the sofa in a frenzy, staring wide eyed at the source with your hair half in your face. PTSD may be a common occurrence in soldiers, but that definitely hadn't been the reason for your freak reaction, even if your state would inquire the other. You looked like a dishevelled animal that was debating on fight or flight. Your rapid motion had caused the other two to jerk away from you in spooked surprise, staring up in concern as Ghost clutched his tea in his hand and Soap rubbed his back. Ghost had kicked him straight in between his shoulder blades in the shock.

"Bloody 'ell, you lost it, sergeant? Nearly gave me a heart attack", Ghost grumbled as he positioned himself back, checking for any spills on his shirt. He was eyeing you suspiciously, almost as if he was unsure whether you'd do it again.

"S-sorry, Lt, long day..", you brought out with a wry smile, forcefully moving your body into what you hoped looked like a relaxed, normal stance. Combing your hair with stiff fingers to try and force it back into a neutral state. Not that you were willing to bet money on it looking any better.

"Get some rest, Greenie. Ya look like ye've seen a ghost and we 'ave our hands full on one already so sleep if ya can", Soap brought out with a light chuckle, clearly trying to laugh his leftover nerves away. Wincing when he felt Ghost's mug hit the top of his head with a light tap.

"Hilarious, MacTavish", Ghost sighed heavily under his breath as he laid his head back against the headrest. Clearly done with his companion's shenanigans.