You were not a soldier. Not a typical one, at least.

Gaz noticed it when you were first introduced to the task force. You were respectful and quiet, but he could still catch the glint of sharp teeth as you spoke. In a way, you reminded him of a loyal dog with pointed canines that would pounce at anything if it was told to.

You were not a soldier. Not a typical one, at least.

It showed on the field when the compliant and soft-spoken you he had grown used to would turn into something feral and dangerous— like a wild dog let off its leash. It was no fluke that you had made it on the team, he then realized, because if you were an inadequate soldier, he wasn't quite sure what he'd be. Useless, maybe.

You were not a soldier. Not a typical one, at least.

You don't celebrate with your teammates. You would be there with them with an untouched glass of Cognac, but you'd sit to the side and silently observe. Like a dog on Christmas Eve as it watches its family enjoy a feast that it will never be a part of. Watching you made him pity you, so he looked away and shared another drink with Soap. To spare you the trouble.

At some point, you left the table. He never realized you had finished your drink.

You are not a soldier.

He realizes it when he finds you outside, drenched in the cold rain of a British winter. Your knuckles are split open, blood seeping.

There is an unconscious man by your feet. Gaz hopes it wasn't you who knocked him out, though he knows it was. What happened in the alley? He's not sure, but he knows he would rather not know. You glance at him with the eyes of a feral dog, a wild animal that sees being cornered as a challenge. For a moment, he's scared you might lunge at him and bite him with your sharp fucking teeth. But you don't.

You stare at him— like a dog.

"...Hey," Gaz says, almost cautiously. He glances at the man at your feet, pressing his lips together. "You... You okay?"