Co-written with Sassy Satsuma.

Warning: Slight sexual content and in Sassy's words "there will be a fair bit of swearing."

Roach stood at ease in front of his captain's desk. His stance, while informal, was a considerable change from his usual position of lounging on the chair, his legs propped up on the desk, crossed at the ankle. "So what am I here for?" He paused for a moment adding 'Sir' at the end as an afterthought.

"I talked with General Shepherd. You should be discharged for what you did."

Gary could only smile, knowing he was too valuable an asset for Shepherd's greedy ass to knowingly get rid of. "But I'm not going to be discharged, am I?" In all truthfulness it wasn't even a question at this point. "Too attached to me, right, Captain?"

"No."

Roach wasn't sure which question his superior answered, but it didn't really matter. He'd been in this same position a million times before though it wasn't always for the same thing.

"You're being transferred."

It took a moment for the words to register. "What?" Roach berated himself for letting the surprise enter his voice and hated the smug look on the captain's face.

"You heard me, Sanderson." He pushed the manila folder on his desk toward the sergeant. "I'm tired of dealing with your bullshit."

Once again in control of his emotions, Roach laughed softly. "So you're giving me to some other officer?" The folder was more than an inch thick, the most important document sat atop his paperwork, the official transfer papers signed off by both his captain and the general. The signature of the captain to whom he was being assigned was messy; all Roach could read clearly was a first name of 'John' and the letters 'M' and 'T'. Given the secrecy of the task force, Roach wasn't familiar with many of the other officers, maybe by face or even call-sign, but never a given name.

"As of 1100 hours, you will no longer be under my direct command. You're expected to report to your new captain at 1700 hours."

Roach raised an eyebrow at the wording on the transfer papers. "You're reassigning me for a 'breach of protocol'?"

"Officially, yes."

"You're more of an ass than I thought."

The captain brushed the comment off. "You're a good soldier Roach. You're just a fucking bastard too."

Hearing his captain finally say the words out loud was more amusing than it should've been. "Where am I being transferred to?" Roach asked lazily as he flipped a page in his file revealing a one way ticket to California. "You're fucking kidding me!"

That damn smirk once again on his captain's face. "Think of it as a parting gift. Coach. Dismissed."

"I'll miss you too,Captain," he muttered, his words not entirely sarcastic as he left the office. He supposed he deserved a crappy coach class flight, but that didn't mean he had to like it. A beep sounded from his watch and a quick glance at it confirmed it was 1100; he was officially his own man. At least until he got to California. There was travel time to take into account, but since he was being reassigned to the other side of the country that meant a different time zone. Which coast did 1700 apply to? If Virginia it meant even with the travel time he should be able to meet John 'whatever his name was' on time. If California then that meant he had a few hours to kill before he was expected. In that case, finding the next woman begging to suck his cock because he was Special Forces was well within his grasp. But fuck it. His new CO could wait another hour or two if he was late. Already fucking around with John even before he got to meet the man.

Roach made his way to his room and pulled his rucksack from underneath his bed. Lately, he'd been stuck with stealth missions, which meant he traveled lightly, usually carrying nothing but the clothes on his back, a rifle, sidearm, and knife. There was nothing inside the rucksack aside from an empty carton of cigarettes, a string of condom wrappers, and a dull tactical knife. Smoke, fuck, and kill. Story of his life.

He emptied the contents, leaving the carton and wrappers on his bed for whoever had the fortune of bunking after him. Roach carefully folded his clothes and set them inside his pack, not doing so because he cared what regulations demanded, but for his own personal desire to keep up the appearance. It didn't take much longer to pack everything else since he didn't own much aside from the bare necessities and his smaller weapons. And even then he decided not to bring along his SIG; it was too much of a hassle. His knives were another story since the rucksack was too big to bring as carry-on anyway. He had a book or two packed, but rarely did he ever have time to read them. If he wasn't out doing some shit for the damn general then he was knocked out in his bed or fucking someone into it.

All packed, Roach lounged on his bed, the manila folder opened and resting on his stomach so he could look through it. Most of the files inside were copies of his mission reports, but a colored flyer peeked out from behind the endless papers and he pulled it out. Fucking Captain. The flyer had a list of numbers and websites from numerous companies in the service of public transportation. Guess he was taking a taxi.

He saved the sealed envelope for last, using one gloved finger to open it. Inside it were the coordinates to his soon to be new home away from home, though he wasn't sure he still had the latter. Roach memorized the information then pulled out his lighter, watching as the flame consumed the small piece of paper. He may have been an ass, but he wasn't going to compromise the location of one of the secret 141 bases. His current location wasn't classified but the unit he was being assigned to seemed to be comprised of Shepherd's personal bitches. Or go to men. To Roach, they seemed like the same thing. On the other hand, destroying a base himself wasn't out of the question as he dropped the flaming paper on the floor and stomped it out with his boot.

The pack of menthols on the desk called his attention and Roach put the folder in his rucksack before picking up the pack and lighting up. They weren't his, but after rooming with the same guy for half a year, he decided he was entitled to a little parting gift from his roommate. His custom SIG was more than a good enough trade for an already opened pack of cigarettes.

Despite not having shown any reaction in front of his captain, his first inhale of smoke did wonders to calm the nerves he didn't know were still shaken. He let the once clear image in his head flow out with each exhale of smoke.

This transfer was either going to be a constant distraction from what he'd done or a constant reminder that there was a reason he had to be moved in the first place.

Roach pulled on his rucksack, the fact that it was still mostly empty making the endeavor easier than usual. One stop at the phones for a shuttle service and he'd be on a one way flight to a new sort of hell.

John Mactavish hadn't been particularly aware of when it happened exactly, but somewhere amongst the mess that now was his life his command had become everything. Or maybe it had always been like that and only now was it truly beginning to get to him.

Either way, one thing was certain. For a life lived on a knife edge, being a captain had suddenly begun to feel ridiculously tedious.

Mactavish trudged into his quarters wearily, flicking the straps of his bergen off his back so that it fell unceremoniously to the floor with a solid thump. He kicked the door shut behind him with his heel, not caring to lock it as he unfastened his body armour, letting that too slide to the floor. The rest of his dust caked gear was soon to follow suit, forming a trail to the bathroom as he moved steadily through the room.

Two weeks. As he slipped underneath the steady shower stream, Mactavish automatically closed his eyes, a small smile creeping across his face. Shepherd in all his wisdom had seen fit to assign him and a couple of his men to a high risk operation in Afghanistan, one that had soon become as botched as the intel it so desperately depended on. In the end they'd seen more waiting than actual fighting, confined to a sand ridden base somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. The result? He'd been hot, sticky and bored shitless. Even for all of their tactical advantages, FOBs were not known for their amenities.

Determined to enjoy his shower as if it was his last, Mactavish lingered underneath the hot water for as long as possible, enjoying the cascade of water as if flowed across his neck and shoulders, distributing a pleasant heat that released the muscle it found there. It might have been far from ideal, but on the base it was about as close to relaxed as Mactavish was ever likely to get.

His skin patted dry and a fresh pair of black boxer shorts hanging low off his hips Mactavish padded out into his room, any remaining droplets of water left to dry off his skin naturally. Knowing, practiced hands found their way to his basic bedside cabinet, pulling out an old, half full bottle of whisky. The label was well worn and he automatically unscrewed the lid, tipping back his head and drinking just enough to cause a soft burn on his tongue and at the back of his throat. It was by no means enough to get him drunk but in a similar way to the cigarettes that he kept on smoking it was a habit that felt as though it preserved a little of his humanity.

Arranging himself on his bed, Mactavish leant back against the wall, swapping the whisky bottle for the cigarette packet and lighter that he kept by his bed. Relying wholly on muscle memory he slipped a delicate cigarette from the box and into his mouth, leaning down and lighting it with a quick flick of his thumb. One long in breath later and his head was happily swimming in a cloud of nicotine.

Downtime. The one thing that he craved above everything else on operations and yet didn't know what to do with when he actually did have it. It was more like a concept than anything else, an ideal that he was constantly striving for but could never quite reach. Well, aside from occasional attempt at it with either a smoke, drink or half arsed wank.

He was almost on auto pilot as his hand drifted down his chest and beneath his boxers, lying almost languidly on his crotch. He took hold of himself roughly, pumping his hand slowly, although to be fair his hand was nothing new to him and the action sent little more than a couple of shudders up his spine. This time he tried again, the movements of his hand quickened. But in reality, it was little use as even though his cock began to harden in his hand the feeling he got from it was barely worth recognising. He'd been two weeks without any kind of release and a lot longer than that without anything that wasn't himself and even then his body still felt more exhausted than aroused.

"Mactavish?" There was a knock at his door, a familiar cockney accent causing Soap's hand to jump back up his body. He sat forwards on the edge of his bed, taking a deep, extended drag from his cigarette as the door opened, Ghost stepping into the room with the same purpose that he did everything. "Sorry, mate, but Shepherd's playing hell out 'ere."

"I should have known." Mactavish groaned, reluctantly stubbing out what little remained of his cigarette. He nodded to the door as a sign for the lieutenant to close it. "Did he say what he wanted?"

"To see you."

"I've been back, what? Half an hour?" Standing reluctantly he moved over to where a pile of clothes lay draped across a nearby chair and picked up the nearest pair of black combat trousers.

"It's Shepherd… patience doesn't register."

"Even so, is it really so important that it can't bloody wait?" Soap rolled his eyes, looping his belt through the trousers and pulling it tight around his waist.

"It's this transfer, isn't it? The kid lands in about an hour."

"An hour? Shit." Mactavish was hit by a vague recollection of a message he'd received out in Afghanistan, the impending transfer feeling a world away back then. Sighing, he pulled his t shirt over his head. "Do you get the feeling that we've been reduced to the military equivalent of a scrap heap with this?"

"Too fucking right. It's bad enough with the regular FNGs."

"What do you know so far?"

"About as much as you do." Riley shrugged blankly. "Some kid being transferred up from one of the other units. Sounds more like a fucking promotion if you ask me." The lieutenant shook his head. "Long as he knows his place and doesn't come in here all high and mighty, I don't give a shit."

"You and me both, mate." Soap rolled his eyes wearily. "But to be fair to Shepherd, he hasn't been wrong about anyone yet."

Roach stepped off the helicopter, the only other people with him the pilot and co-pilot who had picked him up at the airport. At least these people had the decency to provide him with a means of travel. Of course the other option was him getting a cabby to drive him and thus revealing the base's location. Despite his gratitude, the courtesy was unwelcomed since he wanted to have a little fun before meeting up with his new captain.

After taking in his surroundings, Roach entered one of the bigger buildings, from the looks of it, the mess hall. Some of the people looked up from their meals as he walked in, surprise evident on their faces. Apparently no one had told them of his arrival. Great, he was once again the FNG despite having served with the One-Four-One for three years now.

"And you are?"

Roach turned to the speaker disappointed when he didn't get to match a face to the voice. All he got was a skull mask and colored sunglasses. His previous unit had primarily consisted of Canadians and other Americans. The Brit standing in front of him was a nice change of pace. "I'm looking for John."

The man huffed. "First name basis with the captain, eh?"

"Would you like to be on a first name basis?" Roach asked instead. The man's voice intrigued him and he'd love nothing more than to pull that balaclava off.

"Ghost."

He was thrown off by the simple word. "Huh?"

"You call me Ghost. Or sir. That's it." The man sounded tired… or irritated. It was difficult to read a man's face when all you had were eyes to look at especially when they were hidden behind colored lenses. "MacTavish is talking with the general right now. Probably about you."

MacTavish. Now that he had the name, the messy signature in his head formed into an actual word. Was it Irish? Scottish? The thought immediately made him think of alcohol. Maybe they had something decent to drink around here. If he ever got his hands on alcohol before it was always shitty ass American beer. He was in desperate need of something at least eighty-proof. "Shall I keep you company in the meantime?"

"You can stay here. I have drills to run."

That particular suggestion didn't sound very exciting, but Roach was given no other choice as Ghost left, leaving no room for argument. Roach could've followed, but he didn't find tailing an officer looking like a pack mule a very appealing use of his time. Instead he tossed his things onto a tabletop, leaned back against his rucksack and propped his boots up on the table, challenging anyone to order him to do otherwise.

"With respect sir, my team doesn't need this."

"This?"

"We're spread thin as it is. A transfer will only- "

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear." Shepherd gave him an angered, serious look. "The deal's done, Mactavish. Sanderson causes trouble? Then you damn well bring him to heel. I'm not in the habit of throwing away men that show true potential."

If Soap hadn't been in a foul mood before he met with Shepherd, he certainly was afterwards.

He should have known that arguing was a bad strategy. The general was notoriously stubborn, a quality that in a commanding officer was both a blessing and a curse in equal measure. Either way, petitioning against his new FNG had done little to further Mactavish's cause. Now, alongside a likely problematic soldier who had been palmed off to him by another unit, Soap was expected to somehow reform the man as well. As he strode dutifully, albeit slowly towards the mess hall, Mactavish silently cursed his luck. Command was hard enough without the added stress of somehow disciplining a man who seemed to have little appreciation for rank or authority. On top of everything else, to say that he was irritated by this fact was one hell of an understatement.

When Soap actually cleared the corner and stepped into the mess hall that irritation instantly increased tenfold.

He slowed his pace, stopping in his tracks. The FNG had his back to him, his feet propped up on one of the tabletops in a display of arrogance that Mactavish despised. The captain wavered, clenching his teeth and attempting to bite back the anger that was suddenly bubbling so prominently at the back of his throat. As a captain Soap was well versed at maintaining his professionalism, but that by no means was to say that even he didn't have his limits. He had buttons that could be pushed just like any other man and right now, for whatever reason, Gary Sanderson was somehow managing to hit them all.

Keeping his fists clenched as he stepped forwards, Soap stood behind the other man purposefully. He allowed him a brief moment to notice his presence naturally and turn around, but the FNG appeared to remain completely oblivious to his surroundings. Mactavish rolled his eyes. The men of the 141 were trained to have eyes in the back of their heads, making the likelihood of Sanderson being ignorant to his presence behind him more of a blatant display of disrespect than anything else. In a deliberately loud gesture, Mactavish cleared his throat, raising a scarred eyebrow in silent satisfaction as the FNG finally swung round in his seat to face him. Soap eyed him carefully, blatantly sizing him up before speaking out, his voice low and surprisingly controlled.

"Sgt. Sanderson?" It was a redundant question but at least it had his attention. "Captain Mactavish, your new CO." He waited for a flicker of recognition in the FNG's features and yet found none, something which served to rile him even further. "The next time you use that table as a foot rest you lick it clean. Understood?"

Sergeant Sanderson? Roach wasn't sure when he'd last been addressed so formally and the man in front of him was anything but what he'd expected the head of Shepherd's prized team to look like. First off, MacTavish didn't look anywhere near the age of his old captain, so in Gary's head either someone had died and he'd been promoted or the captain had been using other methods to get into a position of power. And with the slight flush present on the pale skin, Roach wouldn't have been surprised if it was the later.

Roach smirked as he looked his new CO over, wondering how best to rile up the man further. "Would you like me to lick your boots clean while I'm at it?" He didn't need to glance around the room to feel the sudden tension in the air, though the apparent hostility was more amusing than threatening and Roach felt his smirk widen. "But it seems like the men on your team are just as eager to put their tongues to your boots."

"Is that so?" Mactavish rolled his eyes, his arms folding across his chest in an attempt to stop his hands from instantly gravitating to the FNG's neck. "Then maybe you should follow their example and kick things off by calling me sir." He watched as Sanderson's features twitched again, although the smirk remained as the sergeant seemed to acknowledge the challenge that he had laid down for him. "Or is basic authority a little too much for you to handle?"

Roach felt his smirk falter slightly, the captain's words hitting a little too close to home. "Sorry, sir." The response came off as anything but sincere as he stood to face MacTavish on the pretense of respectfully acknowledging a superior; in reality he hated the literal accompaniment of the captain looking down on him. "It comes with being the FNG. I wasn't aware that you had to keep your men on such short leashes."

"And I wasn't aware that my team was Shepherd's new dumping ground for the 141, so it looks like we're both learning something new." He was losing it and fast, Soap taking a measured step forward so that he could square up to Sanderson fully. "But it's your choice. You can either start biting your tongue now or I can make you."

"People are rather fond of what I can do with my tongue." Keeping his stance casual, Roach made a show of looking MacTavish up and down before slowly running his tongue over his top lip. "So you're just going to have to make me."

Mactavish wasn't sure what upset him more. The fact that the sergeant actually had the balls to say what he had or that deep down something within him had enjoyed it. In the end he decided to combine both of his frustrations into one deeply satisfying if unprofessional gesture, his right hand shooting out and grabbing hold of the front of Sanderson's shirt. He curled his lip as he spoke, lowering the tone of his voice. "You have a smart mouth, I'll give you that. But we'll see how smart you feel when you've done twice the training the rest of my men have." He snarled, letting go of his shirt with disgust. "You should report to Riley for your drills."

Having expected to be decked for what he'd said, Roach took the captain's actions in his stride. "And you should ask Shepherd why he didn't just can me after what I really did." He pulled on his rucksack from on top of the table as if the two of them were having some casual conversation. "I'm good at what I do," he trailed off, practiced hands quickly finding a cigarette and placing it between his lips. He was sure the gesture was unwelcome as he lit up. "And who knows? Maybe your second in command will be perfect for blowing off some steam."

"You're a little fish in a big pond, if you're going to try and justify yourself Sanderson, I suggest you try harder than that." Mactavish rolled his eyes, his fists clenching at his sides. He took a step backwards, careful to make sure that the action couldn't be interpreted as a loss of ground when he nodded towards the mess hall doors. "In these barracks, we smoke outside. While you're out there you can go see Riley about blowing off all that steam. With any luck he'll beat you senseless before I even have to."

Roach let his rucksack fall to the floor and took one step forward as the captain took a step back, suddenly no longer amused with the situation. "You can say what you want, but I was transferred to your team for a reason." He ignored MacTavish's gesture to the exit, breathing in almost angrily, the lungful of smoke not nearly enough to calm his nerves. "Unless you and your team really are Shepherd's bitches. Doing whatever the fuck you're ordered to do."

"Hit a nerve there, Sanderson?" Now it was Mactavish's term to smirk, as he pushed the FNG's chest further away from him. "Last time I checked, doing whatever the fuck we're ordered to was lesson one in the military." He rolled his eyes. "But I'm not going to sit back and take Shepherd's every word for gospel. You say you were sent here for a reason? Then you can fucking prove it to me. Just like everyone else."

It was that fucking smirk that set him off, the same one he'd seen on his old captain when he'd been notified of the transfer. Ignoring the consequences and the fact that there were still others in the mess hall who'd come to rescue their fucking captain, Roach threw a punch, catching MacTavish off guard.

Soap genuinely hadn't seen the punch coming, a hard right hook that caught him in the jaw, his teeth sent chattering within the confines of his mouth. He staggered, his legs unbalanced by the sudden action, a hand instantly coming up and cradling his jaw. His eyes locked with the defiant FNG and he swallowed, a bitter metallic tang flooding his tongue as he sucked the blood from his lip into his mouth. From then on he was lost, Mactavish stalking forwards and slamming both of his palms into Sanderson's torso, shoving him backwards as hard as physically possible.

The cigarette fell from between Roach's lips as he stumbled backward, the fact that MacTavish wasn't fighting back only pissing him off further. "You want me to fucking prove it?" He tackled the captain, throwing his full weight forward so they both fell to the floor, Roach using what leverage he had to pin MacTavish's arms to his sides. The others in the room were fully captivated by now, but lingered back either out of respect for a one on one fistfight or the belief that the lowly FNG was going to get his ass kicked by their captain. However, with the lack of response he received from the man trapped beneath him, Roach did the first thing that came to mind that would fuck with the captain's head. Blood had welled up again at the cut lip, so Roach leaned over, licking it clean.

He might have had one of the best poker faces in the task force, but as he felt a tongue lap against his skin, Mactavish was unable to stop his face morphing into one filled with both shock and anger.

The time for professionalism was long since over and Mactavish used whatever leverage his legs still had to kick up his knees, powering one of them into Sanderson's groin. The FNG instantly faltered and Mactavish aimed a hard left hook at his jaw as soon as his arms were freed. Sanderson's head snapped back from the action and his body rolled sideways, allowing Mactavish the time to stand, aiming a firm kick towards the FNG's ribs as he did so. Breathless, the captain straightened up, his voice an angered hiss when he finally spoke. "You better learn some fucking respect... and fast." His hand subconsciously moved up to swipe at his cut lip. "Otherwise even Shepherd isn't going to give a shit about you. I can guarantee that."

The only thing that mattered was curling up into a fetal position, the agony of being kneed squarely in the groin overriding everything else once it moved into an explosive stabbing in his stomach. "Fucking cheap shot," he managed, finally getting onto one knee, his body still in pain. Despite the loss of pride, Roach smiled, knowing he'd forced the other to resort to violence, when the man had so obviously wanted to stay his hand.

Gradually getting to his feet, Roach spit the blood in his mouth at the boots of one of MacTavish's men, who turned his face up in a sneer. The dull pain that coursed through his body was welcomed as Roach suddenly realized that he craved something familiar in his new surroundings. Holding his tongue, he conceded, "Fine, I'll do your stupid little drills… sir." He also might've left out that he was hoping for a confrontation with the so-called 'Riley'.

"You'll do far more than that. But at least it's a fucking start." Mactavish spat, ignoring the smirk that still seemed to be plastered across Sanderson's features. He looked past him to one of the other men who was busy looking on, his arms folded purposefully across his chest. "Ozone, show Sanderson to where he'll be sleeping. After that get him outside and talking to Ghost, understood?"

"Yes sir."

Still hating MacTavish for his low blow, Roach picked his rucksack off the floor and followed his new 'caretaker' out the mess hall doors. It didn't matter that he "lost" the fight since the men watching would automatically have sided with their captain. If later they decided they wanted to pick on their newest FNG, Roach was going to fuck them up.

The barracks looked empty, most of the men had probably reported for drill or whatever else they did here. Roach massaged his jaw, feeling his lip swell slightly, and he knew that if he lifted his shirt he'd see the beginnings of a bruise. He smiled at the thought of messing with his escort.

"Your room," Ozone deadpanned, nodding to the empty room to his left.

"You always get stuck with FNG?" Tossing his things onto the unoccupied bed, Roach pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor. He frowned when the man said nothing and left. "Fucking boring."

"I'm still here, idiot."

Roach pulled on a clean shirt and stepped back into the hallway where Ozone was leaning against the wall. "Uncomfortable around me?" He leaned in close, satisfied when the man didn't back down from the challenge. "Or are you jealous of John?"

"If you're done, I'm taking you to the lieutenant."

"Like I said, fucking boring." It was always easier to mess with someone in a position of power but touching his jaw again, Roach was more than willing to continue fucking with MacTavish.