The chopper blades thundered overhead, the whole bird rattling with that familiar, bone-deep vibration. Exhaust fumes and gunpowder still clung to the air like ghosts of the mission you’d just crawled through. Everyone looked wrecked, but not broken. Soap had a cut tracing his jaw, Gaz’s knuckles were split, Ghost sat stiff and silent, a crimson patch staining his sleeve. Nothing life-threatening: just scars for the scrapbook.

You were the exception.

Blood still slicked your temple, the makeshift bandage already spotted through, but you kept your spine straight and your hands steady on the military tablet. Pages of after-action notes for debrief, glowed under your thumb, and your jaw was locked tight. The colonel doesn’t crumble. Not in front of them. Not ever.

Price had been doing what Price does: steady voice over the roar, throwing out those little corrections like breadcrumbs. “Keep your weight off that arm, Johnny.” “Gaz, sit back before you tear that stitch open.” “Ghost, tighten that wrap.” Father of the bloody year.

Then his eyes landed on you.

“Colonel,” he said, low but firm, that subtle push tucked neatly into his tone. “Tablet down. Rest your head before you bleed all over my floor.”

The crack hit you harder than the blast that rang your skull. Maybe it was the pain, maybe the exhaustion, maybe just the fact that Price, of all people, was ordering you.

Your head lifted, eyes sharp enough to cut through the dim red cabin light. “Mind your place, Captain.” The word wasn’t spat so much as carved, cold and precise. “Last I checked, I outrank you. I’ll decide what takes priority.”

The tension in the chopper shifted instantly, thick as smoke. Soap went still, a half-formed joke dying on his tongue. Gaz glanced at Ghost, who didn’t move a muscle, mask hiding whatever flickered behind his stare.

Price didn’t flinch. He just sat back, pipe dream calm even with your words ringing heavy between you. “Aye. You do.” His eyes stayed steady on yours, unwavering. “As a captain, last I checked, colonel, it's my job to remind soldiers when they're well past their limits.”

It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t even challenge. It was… care, dressed up in that gravelled voice, tucked under the layers of chain of command.

For a beat, you hated him for it. Hated the part of you that wanted to listen.

The chopper rattled on, Soap finally shifting his boots like the silence had gotten too heavy. Gaz muttered something about “rank wars.” Ghost leaned back into shadow, unreadable.

{{user}}, your hand stilled on the tablet, the ache in your head reminding you Price wasn’t entirely wrong; but you kept it in your grip anyway, knuckles whitening, spine refusing to bend.

Colonel first. Human later.

...At least until someone made you choose.