Chapter Text
Loathe as he was to leave Los Vaqueros’ base while they were still patching everything up, Rodolfo was leaving for his first proper break in a while.
'¿Alguna vez duermes? ¡Tómate un descanso, joder!’
Por orden del Coronel, he kept telling himself to keep from snapping back to his usual routine. Him leaving didn’t come without a fight or two either, but he really didn’t want to find out what would happen if he tried it a third time with the way Alejandro had practically roared at him in his office.
And it was a fair assessment, he begrudgingly admitted to himself. He hadn’t slept more than 3 or 4 hours each night for months trying to get everything back and running again.
The PMC betrayal, their old friend’s betrayal, the exfiltration at the old prison, the retaking of their base… His neck and temples and wrists were straining just remembering the sheer amount of paperwork and all the meetings with top brass to keep SEDENA on top of what had transpired. Once they redirected their attention to coordination with someone (relatively) their own size at the CIA, he felt he could finally heave a sigh of relief and finally focus on the next migraine-edging-an-aneurysm that was the wreckage esos hijos de puta de Sombras que dejaron un gran desbarajuste, mierda—
Alejandro had given him a dressing down, sure, but he could also see the intense worry and desperation in his eyes just trying to get his Sgt. Maj. to fucking relax for once. He was nodding off standing up. Sooner or later, he’d shoot clear through a new recruit in the field. He was working compromised. He needed a break. End of discussion.
Colonel Vargas practically strongarmed him into the two-week vacation; his subordinates begged him to take more, knowing el Coronel would bend it if he’d just asked.
Despite the hell that was that rogue operation, the incident had become an interesting lesson and reminder on the bonds of brotherhood. They were on good terms with all their newfound brothers-in-arms, TF 141, but he and Alejandro had made fast friends with their youngest member—even going so far as to keep consistent personal correspondence over Signal. It was hard enough finding friends who deeply understood their day-to-day, much less a foreign one in the same boat, so as unexpected a development as it was, it was also immediately welcomed.
El Jabón was more like La Esponja with the way he seemed all too eager to absorb whatever he could take in while with them, explosions and getting shot at and risk of death be damned.
Soap had offered to show them around his hometown because why not? It was a different place, and he swore up and down their drinks were second-to-none. That was some time ago.
When Rodolfo told Soap he had the perfect opportunity to now he was given a (temporary) out, albeit without his commander, Soap had surprisingly replied lightning-fast and told him it was the perfect time as there were two birthdays in the family and it would be a more exciting time to come than if he was only going to show him around town. He even volunteered a room in their family home that they could share to spare him — well, both of them — the expense. It’s not as if either were particularly made of money.
Rodolfo mused whether it was his youth or some form of insanity or lack of preservation (or both, perhaps) that kept his spirits up even in the direst of straits. Or perhaps it was the almost (but not really) supernatural hold his partner — El Fantasma — had on him, like a talisman in the flesh.
He supposed he would find out soon enough. Sgt. Maj. Parra, on strict orders, was headed to Glasgow to take a break.
••••
‘Now, ye’re sure ye got your leave paperwork all sorted?’
‘Maw—‘
‘I know, hen… It’s just—If anything changes, it'd be a waste. Ye’ve been away so long. They all miss you here, we all do.'
‘Even Morven?’
‘Especially Morvy.’
‘Pure pish, that is. She’d sooner tear my heid aff than admit she does.’
‘Johnno,’ his mother chided.
Soap rolled his eyes as he finished the last of his shave, cursorily rinsing away the shaving gel with a few splashes of water and wiping it off with a towel. ‘Have tae go, Ma, need to catch that train so I can pick up my friend on time.’
‘That one from Mexico? Ooh, they’ll love him here.’
‘Away,’ Soap scoffed amusedly. ‘Warn the lassies away from him, he’s happily taken.’
‘Wouldn’t hurt to look.’
Soap jokingly feigned offence and put his hand on his chest. ‘Mother Dearest,’ he mock gasped, ‘Da’s still kicking.’
His mother’s laugh seemed to fill his smallish quarters at the barracks until it petered out into a soft sigh. ‘Your lad not coming?’
Soap slung his backpack over his shoulders and extended his luggage handle up. ‘He’s not “my lad,” Ma. You ken the… interest doesnae even mean it’s returned.’ He went silent for a moment, as if to check whether anyone was listening in, and took a soft exhale when he was absolutely sure there wasn’t anyone.
‘Ah, there’s a sniffle,’ his mother said, pointing at the camera. ‘He bleeding well has tae be at some point, breaking my wee yin’s heart. Look at you, already sobbing.’
‘Away,’ Soap half-choked through laughter, shaking his head. ‘I’ll see you. Love you.’
‘Room’s all set up for you and your friend.’
‘Ta.’
‘Love to your lad.’
‘Not tae me?!’
‘Ye’ll get yours when ye get here,’ she grinned before the call ended.
‘Mad auld carlin,’ he chuckled.
••••
The first moment of respite they got in Las Almas, Soap had already managed to win the hearts and minds of a good number of Vaqueros despite the language barrier. He didn’t like to think about how this was beneficial to their cause because he did genuinely enjoy their company.
But he had to be practical. The longer he stewed on it, the greater the pit of guilt built up in his stomach, and that did no one any good.
Price had gone over his file. He had done his due diligence. He knew his skillset extended beyond his recommendation to their CIA handler, Laswell, for his sniper and demolition expertise. Informally, the Captain knew his reputation at base -- or even in his training days -- for setting people at ease. For keeping his spirits up in the heat of battle.
Friendliness, too, could be sharpened into a tool and make mainstreaming a matter of survival.
It fostered trust. In a place as fraught as Las Almas, it would lower the chance of friction as foreign intervention ran the risk of complicating the situation on the ground, and the Task Force weren’t exactly there to save the day on the cartel front, as it were.
Another unwitting social engineer primed for a proxy war.
Within an hour, he was laughing with Perez, Valdez, Contreras, Muñoz, and Ortega in the mess hall, learning the quotidian, the local colloquialisms. A huevo. The appropriate ways to use órale. No mames. Que onda and its evil twin, que pedo. Myriad swear words and permutations of swear words. What he could use to draw in the ladies.
Once he managed to rope in Alejandro and Rodolfo, they taught him the more formal things, including essential military terminology to help them keep up.
‘El Sargento.’ 'El francotirador.’ ‘Experto del demoliciones.’ 'Estrategia.' 'Copiado.' 'Cambio.' 'Contacto.' ‘Infiltración.’, 'Retirada.' ‘Extracción,’ 'Las bajas.' 'El punto del encuentro...'