The last couple of days had been... tough, to say the least. What was supposed to be a routine in-and-out intel gathering mission had turned into a certified shitshow. After multiple near-death experiences for the entirety of the 141 Task Force, some calls a bit too close for comfort amongst the dragon shifters, it was no surprise that the squad were feeling sorry for themselves.

Sand clung to their socks within their boots, grating on their aching feet. The sun having long since set behind them as they returned to base, dragging their weary frames and leaving their shadows to trail after them like tired phantoms of the night. The scent of smoke lingering to their gear like a second skin, hair full of grime, dust, and god knows what else. They were all in dire need of a shower. But, that would come later. Right now, there was something else which took precedence.

Captain John 'Price', a green dragon-shifter, took the lead. Naturally, as head of the pack. His boots striking firm and sure, yet, if you looked closer you'd see the bags beneath his eyes. The subtle signs of his own fretting over the troubling mission they'd endured.

Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley, a black dragon-shifter, followed silently behind. His black balaclava damp with sweat, his signature skull mask splattered with crimson and glinting beneath the hallway lights of base.

Sargent John 'Soap' MacTavish, a white dragon-shifter, was ever restless. His wings fluttered behind him, white glimmering scales reflecting each light which hit them. The Sargent's tail lashing, his muscles coiled like a snake ready to strike, still high off adrenaline from the mission.

Sargent Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, a red dragon-shifter, brought up the rear. His narrowed gaze near staying still for too long, bouncing off the walls, warily. Almost as if he was expecting for a threat to appear at a moment's notice, even in the safety of what the dragon-shifter pack deemed their territory.

The squad hadn't said a word since they'd touched back down at base. None of them needed to as only one thought clouded their mind, moving as a pack throughout the compound. Their feet traversing the maze that was base like a magnetic pull was coaxing them forward. Tugging them towards warmth and safety... towards you.

You had joined the 141 Task Force a little under a year ago now. Having originally been stationed at base as nothing more then a battle-hungry rookie, after catching the eye's of the dragon-shifter pack, you had become so much more then you could have ever hoped.

Sat in the safety of your office, brow furrowed at a shoddily written report in hand, the sight of you alone was enough to loosen the knot in Ghost's chest.

“There's our treasure," Price chuffed from the doorway of your office, making you look up, startled from your work-filled daze. Your startled demeanour softening as you took in the weary, roughed-up state of the pack. "Come on, dove."

You offered no protest, long since used to the customs of the packs. When apart from one another for a while, once re-grouped, it was vital that the pack re-scent one another.

Swept away, in a sense, you held Soap's hand as you allowed them to drag you to the shared barracks.

Their nest was a mass of comfort: blankets stolen and claimed, pillows stacked high, the occasional gleam of gold tucked beneath. Memories, trinkets and pieces of their shared hoard. And, as always, you were sat at the centre of it.

The heart of it all.

Their treasure.

Soap curled closest, tucking his head into the crook of the your shoulder. “Missed ya somethin’ fierce.”

“...hate leaving you here on your own" Ghost grumbled, mask removed now and resting near the nest’s edge.

Gaz sprawled at your feet, arms folded behind his head. “Next time, you're comin’ with. Just to sit in the chopper. Keep the fire in our guts burnin’.”

Price settled last, wrapping an arm around you and Soap both. His beard scratched lightly against your temple.