Prompt: Dismissive
Characters: Soap, Gaz, Price [mentioned]
Timeline: Post-F.N.G, Pre-Crew Expendable
Words: 1569
Rating: T

#1

'…That was an improvement, but it's not hard to improve on garbage. Try it again.'

Soap gritted his teeth against the familiar feeling of pricked ire, his hands brutally wringing out the rumpled, polyester t-shirt currently serving as an impromptu outlet for his frustration. He'd known that it wasn't going to be all peaches and cream when he was finally placed in an operational unit – had known that there would be no small amount of ribbing, tests and demanded respect for the very people he in turn was trying to earn it from. What he hadn't expected, however, was the irritated, and blatantly dismissive, OC that had practically laughed him back out the door.

Fabric twisted in his fingers, savage enough that his skin was beginning to burn from the too-tight grip. Soap ignored it, face dark with scowl. It stood to reason that he wasn't going to match up to the rest of the boys just yet. They'd been at this longer – already baptized by fire, their minds and bodies honed by years of punishment. And here he was, having just barely finished the intensive, but short, weekend summer camp. Six months in Wales probably seemed like a cake walk to them.

'You know, I'm not a fan of the synthetic stuff myself – gives me a great big bloody rash, it does,' a voice said, interrupting his thoughts. 'Fucking horrible when you're out slogging through some bog in the middle of arse-fuck nowhere, but sometimes you have to take what you can get. Not many chances to pop across to Tesco's around here, after all.'

Soap stared at his new lieutenant, who was leaning casually against the wall, with a look of complete bewilderment. 'Sir?'

'That shirt,' Gaz nodded to it. 'Not your colour, mate?'

Having spent the better part of an hour brooding over his performance on the obstacle course, the abrupt, and rather mundane, change of topic was a little jarring. 'I… was thinking about something else, Sir.'

Gaz made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, obviously aware that an offensive garment was quite low on Soap's list of problems, despite the F.N.G's best attempts to murder it. He watched, gaze sharp, as Soap loosened his hold and shook any lasting creases from the shirt's material. Removing the evidence of his internal conflict seemed to restore some of Soap's composure – the man straightening to address Gaz with a stiffness that was almost formal.

'Is there something you wanted, Sir?'

Gaz was met with bright, blue eyes that held an intelligence he found oddly contradictory when paired with Soap's unruly Mohawk – how the F.N.G had managed to get that passed regulation, he didn't know. 'Just thought I'd check in,' he said, offering a grin. 'It's not every day we're forced to suffer through a rookie joining the ranks.'

A muscle twitched in Soap's jaw. 'That's nice of you, Sir.'

'It's Gaz,' the lieutenant saw fit to remind him. 'Just Gaz. I don't much care for that politicking bullshit. The rest of us aren't that fond of it, either, unless it's one of the brass. You can try your luck with them, of course, but it's your funeral.'

'Understood,' Soap said curtly, letting some of the tension ease from his stance. He appreciated the subtle olive branch, but informality seemed an awful lot like jumping the gun at this point. He smoothed the front of his fatigues – his version of fidgeting, without giving too much away – and waited for Gaz to take his leave. He didn't. 'Was there… anything else, Sir?'

'Gaz,' the man reiterated firmly, letting just the right amount of authority creep into his tone to turn the suggestion into an order. The fact that Soap was clearly unsettled by the conversation wasn't lost on him, but, like all new things, he also knew that you had to wear them in before they'd fit comfortably. To be honest, he found it almost amusing, his mouth twitching upwards at how deeply Soap still had his nose buried in the etiquette handbook. 'How are you holding up?'

Soap blinked once, twice, but quickly adapted to the offhand question with another, similarly abrupt, answer: 'Fine.'

Gaz accepted the cursory reply without comment, idly rubbing his five o' clock shadow, nails scratching against stubble. He eyed Soap, sizing him up; debating with himself over some finer point only he was privy too. Eventually, he seemed to come to a conclusion. In for a penny, in for a pound. 'Some of the lads said Price hauled you over the coals during your run of the CQB test.'

For somebody who'd made a considerable effort to dance around the elephant in the room, his lieutenant certainly wasn't afraid of switching tactics and driving the stake home to get results. Soap couldn't help his involuntary flinch – this little chat was leaning far from the 'suck it up' attitude he'd adopted back in the early days of basic. 'It was nothing I couldn't handle, Si–' a sharply raised eyebrow cut him off mid-word, '… Gaz.'

'Good,' Gaz said. Approval flashed across his face, despite it being the only response Soap could have reasonably given. The lieutenant's hand feinted towards the back of his neck – an almost-gesture of unease, until he stuffed both hands into his pockets. Somehow, the movement, while aborted, seemed to put them both on middle ground. 'Just… try not to take it to heart, alright? His bark is generally worse than his bite. Most of the time, at least.'

Encouraged by the fact that his lieutenant was going out of his way to be approachable, Soap, hesitantly, bit the bullet and gave in to the burning question poised on the tip of his tongue. 'He's like that with everyone, then?'

'No,' Gaz dashed that hope brutally. 'But he has his reasons.'

Now a little miffed that the OC's problem seemed to be personal, Soap let the scowl he'd all but washed off his face return. There was an underlying edge in his voice that erred on the side of insubordinate when he bit out; 'Which are?'

'The last time Command saw fit to drop an F.N.G on us… well, let's just say it was bad timing,' Gaz shrugged, easy grin tightening slightly at the corners. 'We have a certain way of working, you see. Everybody knows what everybody is going to do – how they're going to do it, and where they're going to be. There's a level of trust in that. This bloke, though… We didn't know anything about him. Didn't have time to find out, either, before Command threw us in the shit. Things happened, mistakes were made. Long story short… our last F.N.G ended up coming home in a body bag.'

There was silence – Soap looking decidedly taken aback. He clearly hadn't expected that particular sob story to be the underlying cause of all the open hostility. If Price had his way, Soap never would have heard it. But Gaz seemed to always find himself building up the people Price's unique brand of bastardry was intent on tearing down. Sowing seeds of dissent so early in a relationship was never going to end well – for anybody.

With a chuckle – dark, for his personality, Gaz finished his history lesson on a rather depressing note. 'It was our fault – we should have known better. Price still blames himself, I expect. I still do.'

It was Soap's turn to level a frown at his superior – disapproving of the blame game. 'Bit harsh, isn't it?'

'First rule of leadership, mate,' Gaz told him. 'The buck stops with you. Doesn't matter if you weren't involved, or if you were simply a victim of circumstance. If you run the ship, you're responsible for everything that happens on it. No exceptions.'

For a long moment, Soap chewed on that. Whether or not he agreed with Gaz was something he didn't make clear, instead choosing to move on from the subject, which even he could tell was sore. Not bothering with half-arsed condolences that he knew wouldn't be appreciated; he let the last vestiges of formality slip away. He didn't feel quite so willing to please, now, with this new understanding. Their issue was their own – not his.

'So, I'm the second child after the first one died too young, eh?' He snorted. 'Lovely.'

'We're an unpracticed hand at this, is all I'm trying to say,' Gaz said diplomatically. 'Price is a right prick – it's part of his charm.' An amused smile, followed by a despairing shake of his head, and Gaz amended his statement. 'Or lack thereof. Just remember that he's been burned before. Playing nice isn't on his agenda – making sure you make it back is.'

With the black cloud still brewing noticeably above Soap's head, Gaz tacked on a conciliatory; 'But you wouldn't be here if we didn't think you could keep up. We know that well enough. Give it time – he'll come around.'

'Right,' Soap didn't appear to believe that for a second, but he wasn't about to call bullshit. Eventually, he sighed, slumping slightly in defeat, and raked a hand through his hair. 'Got any pointers that might help while we wait for the magic to happen?'

'Stay out of his way and try not to get your bollocks shot off,' Gaz clapped him on the shoulder. 'Do that and the two of you will get along just fine.'

A/N: Call Of Duty: Snapshots is a place for me to post any drabbles/one-shots I write that I feel don't fit anywhere, and can't stand on their own. Mostly I'll be writing in the Modern Warfare universe. It won't exactly be linear - I'll write what comes to mind. Updates may also be irregular, as it depends on my muse behaving itself.

If anyone has any prompts or ideas that they'd like to see written and feel like I won't butcher it terribly, I am open to requests. My muse has been lacking of late, so I'm trying to jump-start it by writing little things. x)