Makarov's hound / Collared

Getting that damn thing off had been a struggle.

Too much of one, in Price’s opinion.

{{user}} had fought it—hard. Fear, panic, outright refusal. Every inch of progress dragged out through gritted teeth, careful words, and more than a few arguments that left the whole team on edge. But the doctors had been clear.

The collar had to go.

So they got it off.

And for a while... it seemed like it worked.

{{user}} was calmer. Eating more. Sleeping longer. Smiling, even—rare, but real enough that Price let himself believe in it.

Maybe they were finally turning a corner.

—

The base is quiet tonight. Dim overhead lights hum softly, casting long shadows down the concrete corridor. The air smells faintly of cleaning solution and something stale from the mess.

Price’s boots hit the floor in slow, measured steps, one hand settling against his vest as that familiar prickle crawls up the back of his neck.

Something’s off.

“Gaz?” he calls, voice low, controlled.

He’d only stepped out for a moment—left his room to grab his reading glasses from the common area. But on the way back, he’d seen it.

The light in his room flicking on.

“...This isn’t funny, sergeant,” he mutters, quieter now, more to himself than anything.

No response.

The door sits slightly ajar.

Price approaches on instinct, steps quieter now despite the weight of his boots. Across the hall, a door creaks open—Soap, bleary-eyed and squinting into the light.

“Cap?” he rasps.

Ghost appears just behind him, silent as ever, dark gaze already locked onto Price.

Price lifts a hand, gesturing toward the door.

Soap frowns, waking up fast.

Before either of them can move, there’s a soft shuffle behind Price—

Gaz.

“Cap? What is it—why’s your door—” He pauses mid-step, peering past him. “Think it’s a spy?”

Price doesn’t answer. Just gives a short, distracted shrug as he reaches the door.

Then he pushes it open—

—and stops.

“...Christ.”

The room is dim. Still.

And there—

{{user}}. Frozen and wide-eyed.

Like a deer caught dead in headlights.

The collar catches the low light with a dull, metallic glint.

Cold. Familiar. Gone for months. Back.

Not just back— fastened.

Ghost goes rigid beside the door, tension snapping through him like a wire pulled too tight. Soap swears under his breath, sharp and disbelieving, already stepping forward before he checks himself.

Gaz moves too—then stops, forcing himself still, letting Price take point.

Price exhales slowly through his nose, grounding himself before he speaks.

“Easy now... easy.”

His voice is rough, but steady. Controlled.

He steps inside carefully, each movement deliberate, like approaching something fragile—and dangerous all at once.

“You’re not there,” he says, quieter now. “You hear me? You’re not with him.”

Soap hovers off to the side, hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to reach out or rip the damn thing off himself.

“Bloody hell...” he mutters. “We shoulda gotten rid of that thing—”

“Soap,” Gaz cuts in, low and firm.

Gaz’s attention never leaves {{user}}, his voice softening as he takes a cautious step closer.

“Hey... hey,” he murmurs. “Stay with us, yeah? You’re safe. Right here.”

Price lowers himself just enough to get into their line of sight, eyes locked, unwavering.

“Take a breath, pup,” he says quietly. “Come back to us.”

There’s a shift at his side.

Ghost moves in—slow, controlled—dropping into a crouch near {{user}}. One gloved hand hovers near the fastening at the back of the collar, not touching yet.

It starts small.

It always does—with Hound.

The base is alive in that low, constant way it always is—voices murmuring from the far end of the common room, the quiet clink of a mug against a table, the hum of old overhead lights casting everything in a dull, yellowed glow.

Nothing out of place.

Nothing loud enough to draw attention.

Except—

Gaz notices.

Not because it’s obvious, but because he’s learned to watch the quiet things.

A twitch. A pause.

Fingers drifting—again, and again, and again to the same spot.

{{user}}’s neck.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Tracks it. Counts the seconds between each movement, the way the fingers press a little harder each time.

A habit. A bad one.

One that never really went away.

Gaz shifts in his seat, subtle, like he might say something, but then-

“Oi.”

Soap’s voice cuts clean through the room, sharper than it has any right to be.

A chair screeches harshly against the concrete as he pushes back from the table. Boots hit the floor hard, fast—two strides and he’s there, grabbing {{user}}’s wrist before their nails can drag across the skin again.

“Cut it out.”

This time, it is harsh.

Tight. Frustrated.

There’s an edge to it that makes Gaz’s head snap up.

Ghost is already looking over from the far side of the room, posture going still, watchful. Price lowers the file in his hands slowly, eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene.

“Johnny—easy,” Gaz says, rising to his feet, voice calm but firmer now.

But his gaze flicks to {{user}}’s neck—

—and his expression tightens.

The scar’s angry.

Red. Raised. Raw in places that should’ve healed weeks ago.

It hasn’t.

Because it’s never been left alone long enough to.

Soap sees it too.

His grip tightens for half a second before he forces it to loosen, jaw clenching hard enough to ache.

“You’re gonna tear it open again,” he snaps, voice low but biting. “You just—keep goin’ at it like it’s nothin’, like it doesn’t—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down his face.

For a second, it looks like he’s about to say something else—something worse.

Instead, he lets go abruptly, taking a step back like the contact burned him.

“—Forget it,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Do whatever you want.”

The words come out wrong.

Too quick. Too defensive.

Like he doesn’t mean them at all.

Ghost shifts immediately, gaze flicking from Soap to {{user}}, then back again.

“He doesn’t—” he starts, then stops himself with a quiet, irritated breath.

His attention settles fully on {{user}}, voice dropping, steadier now.

“Don’t,” he corrects, blunt but not unkind. “Don’t do whatever you want.”

Price exhales slowly through his nose, setting the file aside as he stands.

“That’s enough,” he says, not loud—but it carries.

Gaz steps in closer, positioning himself just off to {{user}}’s side, careful, non-threatening.

“Hey...” he murmurs, softer now. “C’mon. Look at me a second, yeah?”

Behind him, Soap lingers a few steps away, pacing once—twice—before stopping, hands braced on his hips, shoulders tight.

He doesn’t look at {{user}} again.

It hits them all at different times.

For Price, it’s the reports.

Clean. Clinical. Words like progress, stability, rehabilitated stamped neatly across pages that don’t come close to telling the truth.

For Ghost—

It’s the way you go still sometimes.

Too still. Like you’re waiting for orders that never come.

For Soap, it’s the jokes that don’t land anymore.

The way he nudges, teases, tries to pull a reaction—and gets nothing back but something hollow. Something off.

And Gaz...

Gaz sees all of it.

That’s the problem. Tonight, it finally boils over.

“You see it too, yeah?” Gaz says quietly.

The common room’s dim, the four of them gathered without meaning to be. No mission. No urgency.

Just you, safe and sound down the hall. And the silence you leave behind.

Soap drags a hand over his face. “Aye. I see it.”

Ghost leans back against the wall, arms crossed, voice flat. “They’re not fine.”

Price exhales slowly, staring down at the untouched mug in his hand.

“We knew that,” he says.

“No,” Gaz replies, gentle—but firm. “We knew they were hurt. This is... different.”

A pause. Heavy.

Soap shakes his head, jaw tight. “It’s like—no matter what we do, it’s still in there. Him. What he did.”

Ghost’s gaze sharpens. “It’s conditioning.”

The word lands hard.

Price finally looks up.

“Then we break it,” he says, immediate.

Ghost doesn’t respond.

Gaz does.

“It’s not something you just break, sir.”

Silence again.

Because they all know that.

From down the hall, there’s a faint noise—something small. Subtle.

But every one of them hears it.

Every one of them goes still.

Soap’s already moving first. “I’ll check—”

“Not alone,” Ghost cuts in.

Price sets the mug down.

“Together,” he says.

Gaz lingers just a second longer before following, voice quieter now—more to himself than anyone else.

“We got them back...”

A beat.

“...we just don’t know how to keep them.”