Bullets Hath No Fury

Disclaimer: I don't own anything of the Call of Duty series. Plus, Gaz and Ghost are still cousins along with implied slash.

Gaz was never one to take things lying down. He wasn't one to frown about them either. He stood on the dark pavement of the parking lot. Long tomahawk in hand and two throwing knives (one strapped to each thigh), he didn't know what to think. The loss of Simon's family was too great to bear...

Years ago, these were his signature melee weapons. In many battles save for a few, he was always quick to jump at the enemies. He swung hard and fast; he threw his knives accurately. Speed was a top priority. As an FNG, he set the record for the cargo ship mock-up. It was one of many reasons that Captain Price took a liking to him.

His upbeat personality and cheeky jokes were other reasons. Price wasn't a man of humor but he always appreciated a piece of sunshine in his life. But as always, there are times when the sun burned. Gaz had a penchant for pranks and mean-spirited comebacks.

"So that's how to do it, old man? I see that's easier than Amy Winehouse picking up drugs."

The captain, in response, either ignored him or said a blank comeback.

"She made good music beyond the main genre, it matters not on her personal life."

War had both hardened them. Price, given his age, sounded morose or bored most of the time. Gaz was younger, but yet he still cherished the rush of a good hit or an explosion. They were opposites. So was him and Simon...

The idea of Simon was now so distant. It was distant, the feeling of taking care of the younger man. His knives and tomahawk now felt distant to him. Both were so heavy to him, so dull.

The moon gently bathed him in white light. Never had he done the same thing, or felt like he did. Price's depression after Captain MacMillan's death was moonlighted by Simon's leave. Both tried to do without each other.

Price simply retreated to his office and held still onto his desk, moving none a paper or pen. Gaz tried to maneuver himself deeper into the social circle of his own subordinates. When people even asked him why it looked like he was begging for more popularity than he already had, either a punch, jarring insult or the one-fingered salute came in their direction. The captain lifelessly lectured anyone when the case came. Otherwise, his boonie hat peeked out of a leather-bound book, for the time that didn't involve training, briefing or announcements.

It was all so distant. Gaz shook in worry of Simon, having no contact in all his time in Mexico. He felt the instant need of taking the bullet for him. He knew what his younger cousin went through in the past. He didn't want him to suffer anymore pain than he already had. Since then, it became painful for him to smile, knowing that Simon can't do the same.

Price tried to bury himself in what he often loved to do... Or used to. Books, work, classical music... It could never mask the genius of Captain Mark MacMillan. He was cold, but not demeaning. It was more of a satisfying cool to those who walked past him. Respected as a talented sniper, he knew the clock works of the practice in and out. He was a man who could draw the Coriolis Effect and make it loom like art. He was one to make sniper rifles look like trees. Price looked to him because he made it okay to be a soldier and still enjoy art. And art was a concept he still held close to his heart even to today.

Until a haze of grief made him twist his own boundaries. Gaz was simply cleaning the weapons in the warehouse where FNG's where shoved into. Price walked in with a least a hope that they can still talk like normal soldiers of rank.

"If MacMillan were alive, he could paint you as the caring saint you are. You look beautiful even cleaning those weapons of destruction."

Gaz turned to look at him, face screwed with utter offense and spat, "Look, because of you I have NOTHING to care for anymore. Riley is gone! I'm no saint... I live for these 'instruments'. And don't mention karma because God took away MacMillan first!" He turned his back away and started scrubbing with his nails on one of the pistols, "Do you like the sound of that? I'm sure that's what I sound like right now." A sadistic smile spread across his lips as his eyes bore into the pistol he scrubbed at.

And years later, there Gaz stands with his special melee weapons attached to him. It was poisoning to him, these instruments. They were addictive, and he remembered the first time using all three:

"I feel so light! So alive!" He chuckled after a dull thud of the tomahawk. He spun around, leapt light and quick to each and every enemy in his way. All of them felt the cold wrath of the tomahawk.

It was a good day because the team found what they were looking for. He side stepped left and right, throwing a knife in some godforsaken direction. Blood erupted from every target they hit. Good. Bright. Satisfying.

The sensation of dancing with nothing but melee weapons was exhilarating. The rush of the wind, his weight impacting on an enemy's weight, it made fighting, in a morbid sense... Fun.

Simon loved seeing Gaz jump and saunter to his own rhythm in battle. Price loved the amount of kills he got on those weapons alone. The topic made life just a little more enjoyable for the cousins...

Now it just brought him pain. He never wanted to dance the dance of brute force again. Only the darkness of the night made the weapons shine brighter before him. He slowly crept up to the field in front of concrete 'house' made for throwing grenades.

And in front he found a shovel. With his free hand, he held it.

"Gaz... You know this might come as a shock to you and the fact it might be totally wrong for me to say this, but I love you. I loved you since you came here. I don't know why I haven't killed myself when MacMillan died, but I think you're the answer. I know Riley and the family are gone, but..." The captain held his hand over the lieutenant. His smile was heavily strained over his pale face.

Tears started welling up from his eyes. His baseball cap fell as he hung his head low. He promised to Simon that he won't fall in love until he was fully healthy and non-suicidal. He couldn't face him anymore. He reciprocated his own feelings to his own Captain, and that scared him immensely.

He cherished sitting next to him, hearing his voice and talking with him. He loved to fool around with him not because it was fun to perturb older people off... But because...

"Oh my God, I do love him! I love my best friend!" His tomahawk and the shovel dropped to the ground as he covered his mouth and cried. He really had no reason to carry a tomahawk these days anymore. "I can't say this to Simon. I'm a horrible cousin... No... Human being. I know you'll hate me."

He picked up the shovel and drove it into the dirt. He pounded it in further with his booted foot. A good scoop of dirt flew to the 'house'. He repeated this several times, no matter the clang of shovel or his running tears. His heaving accompanied them. The hole needed to be deep and wide, he told himself.

He failed also to prevent himself from crying. He bit in his tongue, but when he tasted blood, he gasped, spit and kept on sobbing. He felt like a failure... To Price, himself and most of all his family. He felt so stupid, to take petty love over a cousin in need. Once the hole was to his liking, he tossed in the tomahawk.

"Why do I even feel this way? Just why?"

He ripped the commando knives from both his thigh straps and chucked them in. He knew it wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough for his own crime. He dashed straight into his room and ripped open his closet door, seeing the bandolier of his own commando knives and snatching them away to the outside.

He pushed them in. Seeing he had no melee weapons in possession, he grabbed the shovel and scooped the uplifted dirt back into the hole. He didn't care that his back hurt or he was heaving more than he usually ever did. Instead of digging, it looked more like flaying upwards as he tried to make it fast.

With enough dirt covering his weapons, he began to slam the shovel on the buried area. He put his whole weight into it: his back, his legs, his arms, everything. He needed the dirt to be packed and hidden, but he still slammed like if it was a famous terrorist in place.

It felt like a tomahawk. Once he began to realize that, he gently set down the shovel and walked away. He knew he felt bad to have his head up high with tears streaking his face, but he knew he had some little light of release as the moonlight shone behind him.

Two-thousand eleven and now he was watching a Scottish FNG train in the warehouse. A watermelon lay front of him as he took out his knife and slashed it. He muttered to himself, and hoped to whatever that this newbie knew that...

"A bullet hath no fury like a bladed metal scorned..."

A/N: This was a little drabble incorporating a little of my headcanon of Gaz: that he was an expert in melee weapons like knives and tomahawks before (see CoD4's FNG). This little drabble is just a look into why he doesn't use any of these weapons anymore, because it reminds him of Ghost. I also did almost all of this on my iTouch, so I just ran my mind through writing this and listening to Madoka music and playing Fallout New Vegas. R & R!