You’d heard it enough times to stop reacting.
Robot. Cold. Does he even have a pulse?
You didn’t smile much. You corrected Soap mid-joke if his timing was off. You enforced protocol harder than Price himself. You stared people down when they slacked. You didn’t linger in the common room. Didn’t joke. Didn’t touch.
So they decided that meant you didn’t care.
The truth was simpler, and worse.
You were never taught how.
No family photos. No birthdays. No one waiting at the door. You were raised on schedules and objectives, trained to obey before you learned how to speak comfortably. Affection wasn’t currency where you came from—usefulness was. If you performed well, you stayed. If you failed, you disappeared.
So when TF141 took you in, when they became constant, something in you froze.
Because soldiers you understood. Family… you didn’t.
Soap liked to push buttons. You knew that. He’d leaned too close during gear checks, nudged your shoulder with exaggerated grins.
“C’mon, lighten up,” he’d say. You’d glare, sharp and warning. “Focus.”
He’d laugh it off, but the laughter had thinned lately.
Gaz stopped asking if you wanted tea. Price stopped assigning you as his second unless necessary. Ghost still worked beside you—but quieter now, like he was measuring distance.
You noticed. You always noticed.
You just didn’t know what to do with it.
You were late to the briefing by maybe thirty seconds. Bathroom break ran long. You reached for the door handle—
—and stopped.
Voices. Inside.
Price first. Tired. Low. “I’m startin’ to wonder if we’re mistakin’ discipline for distance.”
Soap huffed. “Mate, he looks at me like I’ve insulted his ancestors when I joke.”
“That’s just his face,” Gaz muttered, then hesitated. “But… yeah. Sometimes I don’t know if he even likes us.”
Silence.
Then Ghost. Quiet. Careful. Worse than anger.
“Do you think,” he said slowly, “that we’re just… coworkers to him?”
Your hand dropped from the handle.
Price exhaled. “He’s stricter than me. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t relax. Never opens up. Makes you wonder if he actually considers us friends—or just… assignments.”
Soap muttered, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. Not once.”
Gaz added, softer, “Do you think he even cares?”
The word hit harder than any bullet.
Cares.
Your chest felt tight. Not angry. Not defensive.
Just… exposed.
They weren’t mocking you. They weren’t cruel.
They were uncertain.
And that—that was on you.
You turned away from the door.
That night, you lay awake longer than usual.
You replayed every interaction. Every clipped response. Every time you chose efficiency over warmth because warmth felt… unprofessional. Dangerous. Undefined.
You realized something then, staring at the ceiling.
You’d treated TF141 the same way you treated the military.
Serve well. Don’t need. Don’t attach.
But they weren’t asking for perfection.
They were asking if you were with them.
You swallowed.
“…Alright,” you whispered into the dark. “I’ll try.”
The words felt clumsy. Foreign.
But trying was something you did know how to do.
The next morning, Soap cracked a joke during breakfast. Loud. Dumb.
You opened your mouth to correct him—
—and stopped.
“…That was,” you said carefully, “statistically inaccurate.”
Soap blinked. “Yeah?”
You hesitated. Then, stiffly, “…But funny.”
Dead silence.
Soap stared like he’d just witnessed a solar eclipse. “—Did you just—?”
You cleared your throat. “Eat your food.”
Gaz choked on his tea.
Price glanced at you over his mug, eyebrows raised. Ghost didn’t look at you at all—but the corner of his mouth twitched.
It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t warm.
But it was something.
Later, you lingered in the common room instead of leaving immediately. You didn’t say much. You just stayed. When Gaz handed you a cup without asking, you accepted it.
Your fingers brushed.
You didn’t pull away.
You still didn’t know how to say I care.
But you were learning how to show up.
And for now—
That was enough.