Archive of Our Own

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“Alright, Simon. Remember: always keep your head in the game.”

Ghost gritted his teeth, getting out of the way just before Price got to him, getting back on his feet just to narrowly avoid a punch. Close call, he should be more careful next time.

“Good, you’re doing great.” Price smiled briefly, his fangs shining under the artificial light, before he got back into a fighting position. “Don’t stay down. If a man drops you, the fight’s over. If a vampire drops you, however, forget about getting back up. It’s the end. Do you understand?” He nodded, making his Captain proud. “That’s the spirit. Let’s go again.”

The memory of his last sparring session was still fresh in Ghost’s mind as he faced off against a real threat. As he tried to stop the bleeding on his left arm, he silently cursed himself for having underestimated Phillip Graves. He barely even had time to think with how fast the mercenary was coming at him. Every scratch could be fatal. Each blow could be the last one he ever took. The garage gave him at least some advantage. He’d hide behind cars, vans, avoid his opponent for as long as he could before he tried, and failed, to throw a knife at him or shoot him in the face.

“You’re not very good at disappearing now that I know where you are.” Graves taunted, showing up from behind him and grabbing Ghost by the neck, throwing him to the other side of the room. He let out a pained grunt as his back hit the stone floor hard. He had gotten some cracked ribs out of this. He knew. He could feel it.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Ghost’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, trying to stay conscious as that voice, the infuriating mocking tone, taunted him. He rolled over, hands curling into fists as he tried to stand up.

He could not stay down. The first rule of vampire-fighting was this. He should always remain on top. Price had taught him that. He had the scars to prove it. The situation did not bother him. He could still win this.

But the footsteps were getting closer.

‘Fuck, Simon…’

“Really! After all that talk, thought you’d be something else.” He coughed up blood, trying to crawl away when he felt iron fingers digging into his scalp, pulling him up. Ghost clenched his teeth, eyes fluttering closed as his enemy continued on with his small talk, breath way too close to his ear. “Guess I expected a lot from a man who calls himself ‘The Ghost’. But he’s just another human, hiding behind a mask.”

His laugh was cold, delighted… infuriating.

“Go… fuck… yourself, Graves.” Was all Ghost managed to say. Graves clicked his tongue in response, not at all offended by his enemy’s snark. Rather, he sounded amused. Too amused for the other’s liking.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley… How arrogant of him, to think he could face off against a vampire like Graves, who was well over a hundred years old already. Young for the average vampire, but at the height of their youth, they were the most dangerous. Especially if they knew what to do with the powers that they were given.

Graves did not even bother with strategy. He could hear Ghost’s breath, his heartbeats… knew exactly where Ghost was just by the smell of his blood. It was intoxicating, maddening… but he had a fairly good sense of self-control. He used the shadows in his favor, appearing and disappearing out of Ghost’s field of vision just to mess with his head. Where would he attack next? It was so much fun to tease the Lieutenant like that, after a humiliating defeat to a Scottish mutt in Las Almas. He had been needing this, to let out some steam. And if Ghost was so willing to play the game with him, how could he refuse?

Without uttering a word, Graves released his hold on the human’s hair, satisfied with the heavy sound of Ghost’s body hitting the floor again.

“You were always a little impulsive, weren’t you?" Graves taunted, his eyes narrowing into crimson slits. "Did you really think it would be that easy?”

Ghost laughed at the question, coughing as soon as he started. “You never worried me.” He croaked, wincing as Graves turned him over, fighting against the pain he felt. Fuck’s sake, it hurt… but that damn traitor’s smile hurt even more. “I’m not afraid of cowards.”

“Cowards…” Graves repeated, pinning the taller man to the ground, his fangs dangerously close to Ghost’s exposed neck. The Brit swallowed hard, unable to move even if he wanted to. His body betrayed his mind as it prepared for the worst. They said vampire bites hurt depending on the predator… and he had a feeling that bastard’s poison might sting more than his teeth. “You are a huge disappointment, Lieutenant.” Graves hissed, his breath hot against Ghost’s skin.

Graves was most definitely having fun with this, teasing Ghost the way he was. After all, that human had always looked serious and intimidating… someone he could trust, no doubt. But right now? The famous wraith of Task Force 141 was completely at his mercy. The vision alone was enough to make him smile — a menacing, beautiful little smile. He was close… way too close… Ghost was about to try a desperate measure, ready to find out if the undead still felt that howling pang of pain if kneeled to the balls…

But Graves pulled away.

“I won’t end you just yet.” He stated, giving Ghost a light tap on his cheek. “I have something far more interesting in mind.”

Those words made Ghost feel uneasy. Graves seemingly had a plan, something that would be much more entertaining than a quick death. He dared not ask what it was, wincing in pain as the American grabbed him by his scarf, lifting him high off the ground as if he wasn’t much larger than him and heavier by consequence. Graves then threw him over his shoulders like it was nothing, ignoring Ghost’s grunt of protest.

“Let’s get going, shall we?” He sounded perhaps a little too happy about that. Whatever his plan was, Ghost already hated it. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, you and me.”

And so, Graves began walking. He could very well have told somebody to come and take his prisoner for him. He had people for that. But there was some sense of untold satisfaction in carrying Ghost around like a personal trophy, and said trophy felt a growing sense of annoyance at that.

He watched the rooms change as Graves carried him deeper into his safe house, one of the Shadows’ largest covert facilities, thrown in somewhere on the outskirts of Cleveland, Ohio, where they knew nobody would fucking bother to try and find them.

Of course, they did not count on Ghost and his tracking skills. There was payback to be had here, or at least that was his first intention, when he accepted Price’s mission to burst down this one specific location, which they knew their target would be at the time, and put an end to both Graves and Shepherd, if that bastard could even be located at all. The General was good, but the 141 was better. They would find him eventually.

“Very well.” Graves said all of a sudden, snatching Ghost out of his thoughts. “It’s time for you to meet your cellmate, Ghost.” He said in a singing voice. “He’s been causing a lot more trouble for me than your little group of wannabe heroes.”

With a slight scoff, Ghost ignored Graves’ taunt, clenching his teeth in a silent display of defiance. Graves didn’t seem to mind that his prisoner had chosen to stay quiet, and by deciding not to spark a conversation himself, he made his way through the dark corridors, his footsteps echoing around the mostly empty space.

Empty, and cold too. Ghost could feel the chill instilling deep in his bones through the gashes in his clothing, freezing the blood. In his not-so-much advantageous position, he could see the occasional flicker of the fluorescent lights overhead, making his shadow look even more intimidating than usual. And the place was so quiet. Apart from the occasional noises from the environment, it felt to Ghost like the place hadn’t had any occupants in a very long time. The paint on the walls, no doubt some combination of navy blue and white in the past, was chipping off, which also had holes in them. Some even looked like bullet marks. The humid air stuck to his throat, and the scent of mold and dust made his nose itch.

Lovely place, courtesy of Shadow Company.

His heart pounded hard in his chest, unsure about what he was going to find at the end of the corridor. Graves did mention a cellmate, but who could that be? Arguably someone dangerous. Not that he was worried about this person, of course. The day Ghost ever truly feared a man would be the day he died. And he was not so sure about dying just yet.

“Alright… there you go.” Graves, still carrying Ghost, looked at him with a smirk. “Welcome to your new home.” He said, not toning down his amusement. He adjusted the weight over his shoulder before handing the prisoner to someone else, most likely a Shadow. Ghost could only see their back. They passed him around like a damned sack of potatoes, and he wasn’t very happy about that. “Take him to B7. I’m sure our guest will be very excited with the new addition to his cell.”

“Rog, sir.” The soldier did not even question. Expected, of course. Shadow Company was made up of vampires mostly, but one could find a little bit of everything within their ranks. Graves, as ruthless and cutthroat as he was as an opponent, could be a rather inclusive contractor, which was the very reason that made his firm a favorite in worldwide crisis management.

‘Shadows.’ Ghost scoffed in his thoughts. ‘Ever the loyal bastards.’

Ghost’s new charge had barely started walking when he suddenly stopped, like he was being grabbed by the arm or something similar.

“Do not bite him, you understand?” Graves’ tone was dead serious. “Ghost here is in for a little surprise.”

As soon as it was clear to Graves that his Shadow got the message, he messed with the human’s hair before walking away. Now that was humiliating.

‘Fuck you.’ Ghost thought, again choosing to say nothing. He had plenty of different curses he thought of using on the way to his cell, but decided that neither Graves nor his soldiers deserved his attention.

He heard the faint sound of a door being opened before he was thrown inside, his body making yet another loud thud as it slammed against the wall of the cold, dimly lit cell. He slid down the concrete, not moving after that. Were it someone else, they would be worried that they had accidentally killed their prisoner. But it was a Shadow. He was lucky that Graves had been so kind as to explicitly say that he was off limits. If that Shadow didn’t know better, Ghost would have died way before being locked up in their basement.

He groaned loudly, eyes shut tight as a way to try and filter the pain, make it bearable. His broken ribs stung, the pain nearly bringing tears to his eyes. His hips, too, felt like they were on fire, a result of being thrown against that stupid van, maybe. And, to add salt to the literal pain he was currently in, the bruises littering his body ached too, not letting him forget how bad his condition was.

He would kill Graves for that.

After a moment or two of taking deep breaths, he began to fumble with his pockets, looking for that one flask of nectar Price had given him seconds before he got on the helo. The Captain never told anyone about how he managed to get his hands on such a rare healing potion like that. Nectar and ambrosia especially were hard to come by, and only the gods knew where to find them. Price had some on his person, which was suspicious, but none of his men were much of the questioning kind. Ghost knew for a fact that he was not.

Of course, too much of either was dangerous, and people could catch literal fire if they decided to overdo their usual dosage. Ghost had seen some cases in the past. Ambrosia in question was harder to quantify, making its safety debatable. Whatever amount they had was safely locked behind closed doors. Other than that, there were no other known side effects, so that made those two specific healing potions their go-to in dangerous situations.

As soon as he managed to find the tiny bottle, its texture cool against his trembling fingers, he drank it all in one go, sighing at the familiar taste of his favorite tea brand lingering in his mouth. It reminded him of better times, bringing comfort to his tired body and battered soul. Nectar really was something else, and he never got tired of how good it tasted and how fast it worked.

Ghost closed his eyes, thinking about his current situation, wondering how exactly he would get out of it this time. He would have to recover first, of course, and he knew that the nectar had him filled with its subtle, magical energy that was hard to perceive, and yet somehow he knew it was there, mending his wounds. If he was lucky, he’d heal from them in just a couple of hours. It depended on the severity of his injuries, however, which could put him out of commission for days. He clearly did not have days. He needed to leave that safe house… needed to kill Graves… before things got too complicated for him to solve.

‘I just… fucking need some rest…’ Ghost sighed, eyelids heavy. He was completely exhausted from the fight he just had, but there was also some sort of magic beverage in his system which only made him feel even more tired. He hadn't considered the possibility of working himself out today, at least not against some lowly snake like Graves… But now, the idea of a nap sounded oddly attractive…

“Fucking… hell…”

Somewhere further inside the cell, someone clicked their tongue. The noise immediately drew Ghost’s attention. He opened his eyes, shifting his head just enough so he could stare at the darkness of the room.

“I hope you are not supposed to be the rescue party.” The stranger said. It was a male voice. Heavy accent. Slavic? Something close to that, at least. He sounded almost… contemptuous. “Because if you are, whoever made the decision of sending you is not gonna make it when I get my hands on them.”

“Who are you threatening, exactly? Me or them?” Ghost replied with irony, watching the stranger as he stepped out of his little corner. The bite marks and scratches that Ghost could see told him all he needed to know about the other’s time here. He narrowed his eyes, meeting the stranger’s gaze. There was… something about him. The way he set his jaw, the familiar hardened expression, almost like a challenge. His voice, too… Ghost knew that voice. It was used to being fierce, commanding. Except that there wasn’t much fire burning in that stranger now. His clothes were weathered, stained in what could be dirt or blood… his hair and beard were longer than Ghost recalled. It was clear that the man was locked up at least for a few weeks or more. The Lieutenant’s tone dropped from mocking to suspicious. “I think I know you.”

The man scoffed, rolling his eyes. Despite looking like he went through hell, he hadn’t lost his posture yet. He still looked very dangerous, like he could crack a man’s neck without too much effort.

“You remember me, then.” His smile was cynical as he continued. “I hope your Scottish dog managed to grow some proper fangs since last time.”

Ghost’s jaw snapped shut as he finally recognized the dangerous glint in the other man’s eyes, the softness in his tone which hid a tempest of rage… Vladimir Makarov. A member of the Ultranationalists, and leader of the Konni Group. He and his people were as dangerous as they came.

The first time the man pinged their radar, he had tried to hijack a plane, an event that was prevented by him and Price, but had their superior officers chewing on their ears for hours. They had seen him briefly, before he managed to slip away like a phantom.

Another happy incident was the storming of their warehouse, in which they finally went toe to toe in a fight that earned Ghost some scars on his arms. He had never faced someone as strong as Makarov, his skill being nothing compared with the wounds he inflicted. The Russian had gotten his hands on some good intel that day, cementing his status as an HVT for the 141. Since then, his appearances were occasional, as he was careful in picking his battles, but the last time their paths did cross, it nearly cost Soap his life.

“Go to hell.” He said curtly, not in the mood for this. “The hell are you doing in a cage anyway? Graves got the better of you this time around?”

Makarov didn’t answer immediately, but the tension in the air made it clear that neither of them was here for a friendly chat. His eyes bore into Ghost’s, filled with a mix of both anger and curiosity, but instead of reciprocating the feeling, there was a strange sense of calmness in the Brit’s gaze that intrigued his enemy.

“Well, it seems we’re both guests of honor in this lovely establishment.” Makarov’s frustration was noticeable in his words. “But I didn’t come here for a reunion, that’s for sure. I have business with Graves. You?”

He had redirected the question rather than answering it outright, Ghost noticed. It made him smile a little.

“I can see your business went well.” He provoked, choosing to play Makarov’s game rather than pressing for an answer. He narrowed his eyes, spotting two very familiar wounds on Makarov’s neck. Did… did Graves try to turn him into one? “Is that a bite mark on your neck?”

His tone was accusatory and not at all friendly. Makarov sneered, fingers brushing briefly against the markings near his jaw. Ghost’s words struck a nerve, having the exact effect he would expect on a battered soldier who had lost a fight against someone he clearly did not consider a challenge. He walked up to Ghost, his demeanor showing murderous intent. It was cute, the way he grabbed Ghost’s throat, pinning down the already exhausted man on the floor.

Not enough to scare him. It was amusing to get a reaction like that out of just a word or two.

“You think this is funny?” Makarov’s words were raspy, sounded like wounded pride. “You don’t look much better yourself.”

Ghost’s smile widened, the expression showing through the cracks on his mask. “Looks like the both of us are in trouble then, doesn’t it?” He teased, though there was no humor in his words. “Sounds about right.”

Makarov growled, letting go of Ghost and standing up, pacing around the cell, his footsteps echoed in the empty space. He didn’t have much patience to begin with, but what he did have he was losing with that damn Brit. Seemed like Graves’ sick joke was finally working, and his enemy’s impatience amused Ghost to no end. With the nectar healing through his wounds, it was much easier for him to get in a playful mood.

He watched as the shorter man huffed in response, unable to tolerate the conversation any longer. Makarov’s own injuries frustrated him, and the whole situation was rage-inducing.

“Listen here—” He began, but the words got caught in his throat. He let out a pained choke instead, which quickly got Ghost on high alert.

“What is it?” Ghost asked, raising an eyebrow at his cellmate’s pained noise, immediately getting up when Makarov folded, leaning against the nearest wall for support and nearly falling to the floor. Ghost couldn’t believe his own eyes. He was witnessing Vladimir Makarov have a fucking stroke in the middle of a dirty cell in Ohio, owned by Shadow Company. He called the other man out, surprised to see that, despite the obvious pain Makarov was currently in, he took a couple of steps back.

“D-don’t.” He croaked, looking up. It seemed like he was in agonizing pain, body language suggesting that he could barely see straight. His fingers dug into his own hair as he slid down the wall, curling in a tight ball. Ghost narrowed his eyes at him, widening them as soon as he realized what exactly was going on. He had seen his Sergeant transform before, but it was never this… aggressive. It never seemed like Soap was at all in pain. For the Scot, it was natural… So why did it seem to hurt Makarov so much?

He felt stupid, just now realizing the cracked obsidian collar loosely fastened around Makarov’s neck. The stone was meant to keep negative energy in check, which usually extended to curses such as lycanthropy or the vrykolakas’ gift, and their wearers kept their jewelry mostly around their necks or wrists, visible or not. Soap used to have a collar just like that one when Ghost first met him, a standard in the military for wolves who had not transformed yet and could not be considered reliable until they did. It was mostly a means of protection… and it looked like something had furiously clawed at Makarov’s piece.

“Fuck me…” Ghost muttered to himself, the discovery weighing more than the danger.

Vladimir Makarov wasn’t human. He hid his condition. And, as he began to transform, the actual human in the room took several steps back, knowing well how situations like those ended. He watched wide-eyed as his cellmate, his enemy, turned into a monster nearly twice Soap’s size. His fur was longer, black, running down his back and over his eyes, covering the faint red of his pupils that glowed in the dark. He was a much more menacing presence than Soap, wild like a rabid dog, not an ounce of humanity in his behavior. His claws were porcelain white, seemingly sharper than the dozen knives Ghost had on him before his capture, and the low, guttural growl emanating from Makarov’s throat did not make him feel any better.

They made him feel like a dead man already.

He had to think fast. He couldn’t afford a confrontation with a creature that size, especially not in his current vulnerable position, inside such a tight space, no weapons to defend himself. He did remember one thing, however. Werewolves were sensitive to movement. They attacked at the slightest sight of inconvenience.

But, as the man looked the beast in the eyes, he couldn’t help but see a reflection of his own emotions. Frustration, fear… mixed in with a bit of defiance and even a shred of humanity he knew he had abandoned a long time ago. Slowly, Ghost raised his hands, his voice lowering down to a surprisingly soothing tone, a stark contrast to the tension in the room, or to how his gruff voice usually sounded to others.

“Alright, love…” He spoke the first words that came to his mind, hands in the air as he took one slow step forward. Makarov snarled, and he froze. His whole body was screaming to react, to run, to maybe throw one of the knives the Shadows hadn’t found. Slay the monster.

His heart was practically thumping at his ribcage, the louder growl Makarov let out making him sweat. Cold, chilling… he most definitely smelled like fear. But Ghost took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second before focusing on the werewolf again.

“Easy,” He continued, a tense smile half showing behind his mask. “Easy there, Makarov…” He locked eyes with the beast, who tilted his enormous head to the side just slightly. A question. Ghost took it as a good sign. “We’re both stuck in this mess and fighting each other won’t get us anywhere. I’ve dealt with some tough situations before, and I don’t want to deal with you right now.”

Makarov’s posture shifted, which was a good sign in Ghost’s book, allowing him to take another slow step forward. It seemed his enemy was now regarding him as less of a threat, and more of a… curiosity. His confusion was made apparent when he furrowed what Ghost assumed to be his eyebrows, the snarling lowering to a halt.

Now, there was only silence.

“There you go.” Ghost grinned, a little more genuinely now, as he attempted to establish a connection with the beast that stood right in front of him. His tone was still soothing, but there was a hint of the usual playfulness there. Maybe it was the familiarity of the situation but, right now, Makarov reminded him a lot of Johnny… of his Sergeant Soap. He was a werewolf too, from a pack. Well-raised, no issues. But Makarov had a different thing about him. He was nothing like Johnny, there was… something else. Maybe it was the danger. The instinct of a wild beast. Try as he might, Makarov could never keep himself under control.

And that was the why of the collar, he realized. Because Makarov could not manage that part of himself. He could not trust himself with this power. It wasn’t unheard of for werewolves who did not embrace their heritage to hide it, choosing instead to lock them away with the help of mythical artifacts such as obsidian, sometimes ivory, or holy objects. Ghost could tell this wasn’t his enemy’s first time wearing the fur coat, as they called it. And yet, Vladimir Makarov had a much stronger will than the average cursed child. Rogue werewolves would usually lash at others even before they were fully transformed, let alone in their full wolf forms like he was at the moment. Ghost had seen Soap when he got into a frenzy. It was not pretty, but he was still in charge.

And so was Makarov at that moment, despite him not realizing it completely. His inner turmoil was noticeable through his actions as he desperately fought for the clarity of his conscience over the viciousness of his instincts.

“So, are we good?” Ghost asked, his eyes never leaving Makarov’s. If push came to shove, he could still stick a knife on his neck and make a break for it. With the cold inside that cell block, he could use the fur coat, anyway.

The werewolf growled again but, in a very unexpected turn of events, he slowly walked up to Ghost, lowering himself to the ground with an almost defeated air. He nuzzled his head against the human’s chest, startling Ghost enough for him to welp but not to jump in distress.

“Bloody… bloody fucking hell.” He couldn’t believe this. Did the monster… just stand down for him? Makarov closed his eyes, his breathing hot and even against his cellmate’s ragged clothing. Ghost was still stunned by the action. Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around Makarov’s head, gently scratching the surprisingly soft fur as he tried to wrap his mind around what just happened. It was as though his words had managed to get through the wild fury that had initially consumed the other man. He looked over at the beast, narrowing his eyes a little. “You good?”

The response he got was a low huff, the wolf’s big head pushing him down onto the floor without any hostile intent as the creature laid down, a sign of submission… a silent agreement settling between them. Whoever that was, Makarov or his wild consciousness… he was willing to cooperate.

It was just like the first time Soap transformed, but couldn’t retain control. Price was there, and Gaz too, but it was Ghost of all people who managed to make Johnny see reason. There was nothing out of the ordinary about Ghost that day. Except for the mild migraine of course. But this, again? It was odd for sure, but a talent like that? Hell, he was most definitely not complaining.

As the night wore on, Ghost made some light adjustments to his awful sleeping position. If nectar actually managed to heal him from his fight against Graves, he was certain that Makarov’s quite literally thick skull would crush his bones all over again. But a happy beast meant he would not be picking his guts off the floor at least, so that was a win in his book.

His urge to kill Graves had gone up tenfold.

Eventually, he managed to fall asleep himself, waking up at some point to state that he was surrounded by a tight, black ball of fur, almost as if he was being protected. It made him chuckle. Would Makarov, Price’s most hated enemy, remember any of this when he woke up on the next day? And who would he be? Human, contractor… or werewolf, a wild animal?

Ghost was betting on the latter. At least as a werewolf, Makarov was much more approachable and an amiable company, easier to talk to. He didn’t care how fucking insensitive that sounded. It was the truth.

As the morning light filtered through the thick bars of the windows, Ghost’s eyes flickered open.

The last memory he had was of that huge, menacing wolf monster who could be lurking anywhere around the cell. He jolted awake immediately, eyes widening as he glanced at the far end of the room, just now noticing some rags and what appeared to be pieces of clothing and tac gear around the room. Makarov, now human again, was crouching against the wall, disoriented and visibly embarrassed by what had happened the night before. He had wrapped himself in the thin blanket of the only bed the Shadows had provided him, hiding his body and shielding him from the early morning’s frigid weather. Ghost narrowed his eyes, noticing the lack of proper clothing on the man’s body, an obvious setback of turning into a werewolf without further preparation. The rags on the floor made a lot of sense now. Soap always had spare clothes for situations like that.

Makarov’s annoyance with his situation was evident in the furrowed lines of his eyebrows and the scowl he exhibited. Quite the morning person he was, it seemed.

He had always hated his curse. His inability to control his transformation, the lack of actual consciousness when he turned into a vicious werewolf… those things made him feel lesser than he was. Not so much as a leader when others had to pull him by a leash, or perhaps muzzle him in order to prevent yet another incident in which an unfortunate recruit ended up split in half by his bloodthirst.

As it turned out, being a werewolf was Makarov's greatest vulnerability, and the fact that an enemy like Ghost, someone he both admired and despised for his tenacity and strength, not only knew about this weakness, but also managed to pull him out of the frenzy… well, even Ghost could tell it was cause for him to be angry come morning light.

Having someone control him like that had never happened before in years of dealing with his curse, and it frustrated him to no end, not knowing why or if it would happen again. There was still, however, a lingering sense of respect in his eyes as he stared the other down almost challengingly. They had shared a bizarre, unexpected connection the night before. He couldn’t explain it, but he most certainly was not willing to try. After all, there was still the animosity, and he was feeling bitter and violent about the fact that he bowed down to a human of all things, and a human like Ghost no less. Makarov only responded to strength. He hated that he had been the weaker one, even if he wasn’t fully in control of his actions.

“What the hell are you staring at?” He growled, glaring at Ghost, who couldn’t help the smile that came to his face. He chuckled. While Makarov was clearly distressed by his current predicament, he was slightly amused by the whole situation. Thanks to his Sergeant, he had acquired some good experience on how to deal with werewolves in general.

Whatever Makarov was, however, it was nothing like the cute, furry little ball of violence that was Soap. The Ultranationalist was definitely… something else, much more dangerous. Ghost couldn’t help his curiosity, but he decided to leave it aside for now. He doubted Makarov would be willing to answer any questions, and it was best not to poke a cornered animal. Especially if said animal was cold and naked.

“You don’t have to look so grumpy.” He joked, the amusement showing in his voice. “I’m not gonna take any pictures.”

Makarov shot him a venomous glare, clearly unamused by the situation.

“I don’t need any of your useless commentary, idiot.” He barked, the pronunciation of the word ‘idiot’ a cute little quirk of his accent. “I’m starting to wonder if the idea of throwing you in here wasn’t to piss me the hell off.”

“I’m not so sure about that myself.” Ghost leaned against the wall with a smirk, shuddering despite his best attempt at hiding how much the cold stone bothered him. “I’m guessing they were expecting… something to happen.” He indicated the broken collar with his chin. “Something to do with this, maybe.”

And he made a chomping motion with one hand. Makarov let out a disgusted noise a the idea.

“So Graves’ plan was to give me food poisoning?” He snickered, the thought making his stomach churn. “Pathetic.”

Ghost scoffed in response to Makarov’s words, not at all offended by the wolf’s attempt at dark humor.

“Oi, I can assure you I taste better than I look.”

Makarov was not impressed.

“Hm.” He replied, his tone casual but condescending. “Somnevayus’.”

Ghost had no idea of what that meant, but he was certain that it was not a compliment, and it was enough. But at least he had gotten Makarov to smile a little. It was better than when they were at each other’s throats.

“Well,” He pushed himself off the wall, walking up to the werewolf in a slow, non-threatening manner. He noticed how Makarov pulled the blanket closer to his body as he approached. “Things definitely took a different turn for us both, so why don’t you tell me what exactly went wrong? I could use the entertainment.”

“What exactly do you think went wrong?” Makarov showed off his teeth in a mocking expression. “Graves baited us. We were supposed to steal a supply shipment from them. Except that the suchiy potrokh set us up. He leaked that info on purpose to get to me.” His laughter was cynical as he shook his head, remembering the disaster that the whole operation was. “His men tore my squad to pieces before any of us could react. Then he threw me in here, same as you.”

Makarov looked down at his hands, going silent. He clenched his teeth, seemingly reminiscing about the memories before he was locked up. They didn’t seem particularly enticing. Ghost deduced that maybe his cellmate hated losing. But, if he was the other, he would be annoyed too about losing to a second-rate vampire despite being taller, stronger, and arguably much more lethal than his opponent. It was a little humiliating, he wouldn’t deny it. But he hadn’t much to say on the matter either. After all, he too had underestimated his opponent like hell, and found himself in the exact same place Makarov was in. Therefore, he chose to keep his mouth shut, not making any comments that could add to the werewolf’s misery. But, as he was about to speak up, Makarov continued:

“I will kill him for that.”

There was an honest fire in his delivery. His expression was somber, but contained, the thin line his lips made highlighted his frustration, and that made his words feel like a promise rather than an idle threat. The Brit would not talk him out of it, that was for sure.

“Well, you’re not the only one who wants to give him a little payback.” Ghost tried to lighten up the mood, sitting next to Makarov at a respectful distance. The Russian gave him a side-eyed glance but said nothing. Instead, he leaned against the wall with a sigh, closing his eyes and losing himself in his own thoughts. Not waiting for another cue, Ghost followed Makarov’s example, needing some time to absorb the whole situation himself.

The tension in their shared cell had shifted, if only slightly, from hostility to a more cautious curiosity from both sides.

Truly, of all the things the Ghost had expected from this messy assignment, being locked up with a Russian werewolf was not on his list. At least he had survived this, which gave him another chance to go against the Shadows, hopefully putting a bullet in their boss’ head for good.

‘I wonder what Soap would think of this.’ He scoffed, fingers running down his cracked mask for a second, thinking about taking it off before he reminded himself that he was not alone, despite the other man’s silence. ‘Damn you, Graves. Broke my mask.’

Jade, they said, was good material for monster hunting. Many believed that the mysterious gemstone would protect its wearer from ill spirits and bad omens. That was the main reason why they made his mask out of it rather than iron or wood. It was a strong material in its own right, but broken jade was a bad sign all on its own. It meant he would have died without the artifact to protect him. Not that Ghost believed in any of it, anyway.

“Say, Prizrak… What exactly happened last night?” Makarov’s voice snapped the Brit out of his thoughts, who turned his head in his direction. Prizrak, huh? Didn’t sound too bad. He opted for honesty rather than teasing, hoping that maybe he could win the other over. They weren’t enemies, at least for the moment.

“Wish I could tell you, mate.” He grunted, adjusting himself against the cold stone wall. “You were just… staring. Ready to rip my face off kind of staring. I think… I talked you down.”

Makarov scoffed.

“That’s ridiculous. Why the hell would I listen to you?”

“I don’t know.” The comeback wasn’t just amused. There was a hint of cockiness in there as well. “Maybe you’re a very good boy deep down.” The Russian growled, not thrilled by Ghost’s comment at all, which earned him a chuckle from his cellmate. “What’s wrong with that? I think we made a very interesting team last night.”

“Yeah, right.” Makarov’s face contorted with annoyance again. He regretted asking that idiot anything, and would keep to himself from here on out. He grumbled out some unintelligible insults, pulling the blanket closer to his body once again, his expression still hardened as he shifted on the floor, no longer facing Ghost. As much as Makarov hated that sense of vulnerability, a part of him thought that maybe having someone around who could keep his instincts in check was a good thing.

Good, and utterly terrifying.

Ghost tried his best to ignore the cold. He had lived through worse, and this was quite honestly the least of his problems. Of course, the temperature did not feel less uncomfortable despite his tough act. He sighed, diving back into his head, trying to make sense of his newfound ability, Makarov closed his eyes, sleep getting to him once again.

“Wake me up when one of those stupid Shadows shows up with new clothes for me.” He was casual about it, and Ghost found it very amusing. It wasn’t at all a bad idea. Even if the nectar he drank the night before managed to heal most of his wounds, he was still tired. Some proper sleep was in order, and maybe later he could try and get Makarov to talk about something they could use against him, or Graves... or maybe just another funny story about being captured by a D-Listed enemy. That was, if he was willing to share, of course.

He and Makarov, sharing a cell without trying to kill each other. It was, indeed, one hell of an unlikely truce. Ghost knew he should hate the other man for all the trouble he had caused 141, and should hate him even more for nearly managing to kill Soap once. But after witnessing Makarov nuzzle against him in his werewolf form, eyes closed, seemingly trying to understand the world he lived in so very desperately... he felt a surprisingly soft spot for the bastard. The rebellion, the violent act, all that trouble... a knee-jerk reaction to being rejected time and again, not unlike he had been. Not unlike Soap would have been if his unit wasn’t tailored for the supernatural. Werewolves were intelligent creatures who oftentimes needed guidance in order to explore their potential.

As it stood, Ghost couldn’t help but see Vladimir Makarov as a lost puppy of sorts. Cute, but filled with murderous intent. Price could disagree if he wanted, but it would not change Ghost’s opinion. After all, he seemed to empathize with Lycaon’s malediction and its affected more than anyone. Was it a good thing? A bad thing? So far, it had proven to be useful.

He finally closed his eyes, putting his most troublesome thoughts to rest. Maybe he should try to stop adopting wolves like that.

♖

♚

The day was just nearing its end when Makarov finally woke up. The hours of rest did nothing for his tired body, and he knew the reason was because the Shadows had been drugging him to manage his… condition. At first, he had refused the food, but realizing he would not last long without it and that they were most unwilling to give him anything that did not have the slightest bit of poison or suppressants, he gave up. He had been considerably more miserable to his jailors ever since.

He opened his eyes, the familiar scent of fresh blood, leather and gunpowder pulling him away from his slumber. Just as he had predicted, one of Graves’ Shadows was standing right outside of the cell, his presence as ominous as any of his kind would be. Bundled up in his hands was what could be the fourth or fifth change of clothes they had given their prisoner. There was no reason for them to be this kind to him, but Makarov figured that Graves wanted something out of him, and giving him fresh changes of clothes and warm adulterated food was what the Shadows considered a peace offering of sorts.

It would never work, not on him. Makarov was not stupid or naive enough to fall for that staged display of generosity. Especially because he knew who put him there, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the bastard’s throat.

The Shadow kept staring at him, the helmet hid his expression, but it annoyed Makarov all the same.

“What’s the matter? Got a staring problem too?” He sneered, hoping the vampire would either say something or leave. When addressed, the Shadow cleared his throat.

“Brought your clothes, wolf.” He said, at last, dismissively throwing the package through the bars of the cell. “You better behave. The boss will be… very interested in this outcome.”

Makarov opened his mouth to reply, but decided not to waste his breath with that idiot. He rolled his eyes instead, the sigh was a sign his patience was already cut short. He couldn’t care less about what Graves thought of his situation which, might he add, was pretty humiliating.

‘Never mind that.’ He thought bitterly, shifting so he could get up and grab his clothes. When he moved, however, Makarov noticed an unexpected weight over his shoulder, and he turned his head quickly, eyes widening a little in surprise.

The realization struck him when he saw Ghost leaning against him, sleeping soundly without a single care in the world. Now that was something else. There was an almost fragile vulnerability to him, like Makarov had never seen this up close before, and that he had never expected to see in Ghost of all people.

Right up until that moment, he had completely forgotten about his cellmate, now finding himself unable to look away from the details of the white, skull-shaped mask strapped to his head. Jade, wasn’t it? To fight off evil, if he remembered correctly. Humans were smarter than they let on, he’d give them that.

Ghost’s mask was a rather beautiful piece. Handcrafted, but damaged in his most recent fight. The cracks on it revealed some of his features, showing off the vulnerability that lay beneath his persona. He was just human, after all. The dirt-blonde strands of hair falling over his closed eyes added to the picture of someone who had endured their fair share of hardships, not very unlike Makarov himself. And yet, they would both hide behind a façade of strength and sarcasm, unsure if they could trust or be trusted by anyone ever again.

At that moment, Makarov’s perception of his enemy had shifted a little, and the thought angered him. To actually empathize with a man like Ghost was not in his book. It would never be, especially because he had always drawn pretty clear lines between his world and whatever it was other people viewed as a reality.

They weren’t equals.

They were not the same.

So why was he so very fascinated by that wraith, that phantom of a man? Only in hell would he ever find out the truth.

He blinked, pulled away from his inner struggles as Ghost shifted awake, eyes opening slowly. He was a little disoriented, eyebrows knitting together before his eyes focused on Makarov. He smiled beneath the mask, perhaps a bit too mocking for his liking, his voice tinged with curiosity as it broke the silence, hoarse from having just woken up:

“What’s wrong, Makarov? Didn’t get a good night’s sleep?”

“Not like yours, it seems.” Makarov’s comeback was instantaneous, but not at all hostile. “Get off of me.”

“Good morning to you too.” Ghost did as he was told, pulling away from the shorter man, yawning as he arched his back very much like a cat, raising his arms above his head. The joints in his shoulders and spine popped satisfyingly as he did so, earning a groan from him. Makarov watched as Ghost ran his fingers through his hair, getting the disheveled strands away from his face. He looked around, taking some time to remind himself where he was, exactly. “What did I miss?”

“A special delivery.” His cellmate replied, looking away from Ghost as the man stretched again, standing up to do the same. He did not mind his lack of clothing, exposing the many scars and tattoos that covered his body, each and every one of them telling a different story he was, for the most part, unwilling to share, as he walked over to where the Shadow had dropped his clothes, the meanings behind the art on his skin left to speculation. As he began to dress himself, he continued, nonchalantly: “So, Prizrak… tell me more about your… Task Force.”

The comment caught Ghost off guard. He, who had been trying to be somewhat respectful, looked up at Makarov, who raised an eyebrow at him as if he meant nothing by it.

“Why do you want to know?” The Brit’s tone was cautious, making his cellmate smirk.

“I’m not trying to find out your weaknesses.” Makarov replied, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes told Ghost everything he needed to know. “I wouldn’t need to exploit them if I wanted you dead.”

It was more of a statement than a warning, but Ghost scoffed in amusement nonetheless. His bravery was inspiring. Makarov thought that maybe the Ghost was stupid. He was obviously not afraid of the Russian despite seeing him in his wolf form, which couldn’t be said of the hundreds of other people he had fought over the course of his life. It was… a strange turn of events. They had been locked up together for just one night, not even a full day yet, and they had already settled into an uneasy truce. It still felt like they had years of resentment of course, but they were not just as bitter anymore.

Something had changed after he went full wolf last night, and there was nothing Makarov could do to help it. It was an embarrassing situation he got himself into and somehow the other walked out of it alive. That was an impressive feat, but truth be told, he wasn’t too fond of Ghost yet. The man was annoying, arrogant, and had the worst sense of humor possible. He particularly found the dog jokes to be in very bad taste. Still, Ghost felt comfortable enough to tell them, even if the best reactions he ever got were a sigh or a pained groan.

“Curious, are you?” Ghost’s thick accent broke the silence in the room. Makarov huffed, his eyes fixated on him.

“Don’t get used to it.” It was a warning, but not as mean as he had initially wanted it to sound. “I just want to pass the time.”

He wasn’t expecting Ghost to answer him. Not really, since they had somewhat agreed not to ask about anything personal, but Makarov had nothing better to do, and after being locked up for so long without a soul to talk to, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask Ghost a question or two, that he could still choose to refuse.

The human was silent, considering his options. Talking about his people to one of their most dangerous enemies wasn’t smart, and Ghost knew that. But what would Makarov do, exactly? They were both as good as dead, and his interest in the 141 wasn't at all pressing, since he did not consider them to be a threat. He had seen worse, fought worse on his way to the top. His curiosity was mostly on what Ghost had to say.

“We’re trying to make the world a less dangerous place to live in.” He said, sighing at his own words. “We’re bad people after even worse folk.”

“Oh, really?” Makarov did not sound condescending. Or, at least, he hoped that he didn’t, because he was genuinely surprised by Ghost’s answer. He had honestly expected some moral high ground, but it was a nice change of pace to see a man recognize his own flaws. “You’re still led by Price, I presume?” He strung another question to the conversation, really invested in whatever it was that his cellmate would be saying next. “Those fangs don’t die easily.”

Ghost eyed him rather coldly, not sharing in the werewolf’s opinion. Normally, he wouldn’t care, but it was the dismissive tone with which Makarov worded his phrase that bothered him.

“Glad they don’t.” His tone was inflexible. “There are plenty of situations I would not have walked out of if it wasn’t for him.”

Makarov could respect that. Faith in one’s pack leader was more important to him and his Konni than anything else. Even if the pack leader in question was John Price. Makarov did not have a good experience with the man, and it only added to the pile of problems he had with this world, the main reason he had decided to rain down fire on those who had wronged him and his people.

But he did not need to tell Ghost that. Instead, he chuckled.

“I did not mean to sound disrespectful. Price and I have some history.”

“I’m aware.”

The wolf raised an eyebrow.

“Do you know what it is about?”

Ghost scoffed, turning his head to face the corridor rather than Makarov.

“I don’t care what it is about. Whatever this is, it is between you and Price.”

Wise man. Ghost did not seem like the type who would meddle in the affairs of others unless it involved him directly. He was just human, after all, and Makarov understood his position. Intruding in underworld affairs was oftentimes a dangerous gambit very few people walked out of intact. And Ghost, for a fact, looked and acted like an experienced survivalist. He understood those creatures better than anyone, it seemed, and he would most definitely think twice before crossing paths with a wounded werewolf and the vampire who tried to kill him.

Curious… and quite unheard of. Ghost was very different from the people Makarov was used to dealing with, and during their most recent encounter, when Ghost had swung a silver knife at him in an attempt to secure Soap’s life, Makarov grew to feel a little courteous respect for his opponent. He blinked, realizing that he was staring, and looked the other way immediately. Maybe he should have his head checked, because he had never felt so at ease with another human being before. Ghost, arrogant and annoying though he was, had a rather… calming presence. Like a soothing balm. It irradiated off of him, and it was very difficult to ignore. It bothered Makarov more than he’d like to admit, especially because Ghost, as perceptive as he was irritating, picked up early on that even in his human form the Russian was more amiable with him than he was likely to be with their jailors. Makarov himself could not even begin to understand why. He had always respected strength and power above anything, but the otherworldly sense of security he got from his cellmate was not bad, and yet he had a feeling that it should be.

“So.” The sound of Ghost’s voice cut through his thoughts. Makarov looked over at where his cellmate was, following the man’s movements with his eyes as Ghost folded his arms. “I take it you have already thought of some means of escape by now.”

Makarov resisted the urge to sigh but failed.

“Of course.” He replied dryly, wondering what the hell kind of question that was. “Nothing that would work so far.” Say the words aloud stung his pride a little. He was being held prisoner by Shadow Company for about three weeks, give or take, or something very close to that. He had tried taking down the Shadows who brought him food and clothing a couple of times, but the results always ended the same. Bruised, broken bones, vampire bites, and that condescending laughter of Phillip Graves if he happened to be present during one of his attempted prison breaks.

God, there was no measuring how much he hated that fang. It had very little to do with their species and more about how much Graves seemed to make a point of getting in his way. Of course, Graves was a contractor, and he worked mostly for profit rather than personal beliefs, but his clients were always the worst kind, the kind that wanted Makarov dead… and the feeling was mutual.

The werewolf clenched his teeth, still feeling the sting of the American’s fangs on his neck, the phantom pain hurting well after their last encounter. He had never dealt with a vampire he couldn’t kill, and his inability to defend himself even though he possessed such a powerful curse had gotten to him. Despite the tough fight he put in, Graves was much more ruthless an opponent than he had first thought. And would almost have killed him if it wasn’t for the obsidian collar secured around his neck. The vampire found it amusing that he was dealing with a werewolf unwilling to embrace his nature, deciding it would be better to keep him as a prisoner rather than waste such an ‘interesting’ asset. And Makarov was very willing to prove to his opponent that this would be the last mistake he ever made.

“I don’t think we need an escape plan.” Ghost said, his mask not betraying any emotions behind his statement. “My team must be on their way to get us out of here by now.”

Makarov’s glance was cold and bitter. He had heard gossip about how his men had been trying to break him out for the entire duration of his captivity, just to be maimed by the Shadows and their seemingly infinite arsenal of iron and silver. Konni’s human soldiers? They would probably never be heard from again. There was no chance Task Force 141 could get through, but at the same time, Makarov begrudgingly accepted that, if anyone could get him out of that situation, it was Price and his Task Force.

“Whatever makes you sleep at night.” He sounded indifferent, walking towards one of the windows, back turned to the other. The sky outside was tinted orange, which meant the night was getting nearer… he did not like that at all.

“Trust me, my men will come through.” Ghost insisted. His voice held confidence and a certain tenderness Makarov both envied and despised. Being close to his troops was never in his book, and he didn’t understand how people like Ghost or even Graves could ever get attached to their underlings. He did acknowledge the other’s words, however, letting their conversation come to an end.

As he turned his gaze away, Makarov’s thoughts were now dwelling on the impending rescue and the uncertainty of their future. Of course, he did not doubt Ghost’s words in the slightest. He had seen how the Task Force operated, how much they seemed to care for one another. It was only a matter of time until they came up with a plan good enough to save their precious ally, and make him a prisoner yet again.

He was not particularly thrilled by the idea.

The silence had just settled around them when Makarov heard a faint sound way before his cellmate did. He turned around, and the sound of footsteps was now more noticeable, echoing through the corridor outside of the cell. Ghost seemed to notice them too, lifting his head when the door opened, though they already knew exactly who it was, seeing him through the bars that kept them separated from the world outside.

Graves walked inside the dimly lit space, an air of calm and collected amusement was about him as he observed his prisoners. He remained silent for a moment, adding to the tension in the air that both Ghost and Makarov had managed to dissolve, even if just a little. It almost felt like it was on purpose, pulling both men out of their peaceful dynamic and into something far more dangerous, keeping them on edge.

“Well.” He spoke, red eyes moving from one prisoner to another slowly as he did so. The superiority that exhaled out of him was enough to make Ghost puke and Makarov snarl. Their subtle reactions seemed to keep him entertained. “Now you’re both gonna tell me why the hell you are not dead.”

His eyes were fixed on Ghost for this question. His tone was inquisitive, sarcastic, but still so very amused. Makarov was starting to believe nothing was capable of breaking through the vampire’s stellar mood.

Ghost, the object of Graves’ inquiry, did not flinch from the other’s question. He maintained his casual posture, back resting against the cold stone wall as he watched the Shadow, an air of defiance about him.

“Sorry to disappoint.” He grinned beneath his broken mask, the urge to confront Graves made him reply almost instantly, not bothering with hiding his disdain. “But it looks like Makarov and I became quite acquainted, ain’t that right?”

“Shut up.” Makarov snapped at him from across the cell, shooting Ghost a scowl that could have frozen hell over.

The exchange made Graves laugh, though there was no real humor in it. The vampire kept his composure, but he couldn’t hide his bewilderment. Makarov could practically see the gears turning in Graves’ head as he tried to make sense of it all. But if he had not found an answer to this, he doubted someone like that entitled little brat could.

“It seems I may have underestimated you, tovarish.” Graves’ eyes moved towards Makarov, who scoffed at the friendly word thrown at him. “You were supposed to rip him to shreds.”

From his spot on the ground, Ghost shrugged.

“Seems like your plan didn’t quite pan out, did it?” His cocky tone, which Makarov found so very annoying at times, was quite satisfying to see being used against someone else. It nearly made him smile, though he managed to hold back well.

“You can’t control me, fang.” There was a hint of satisfaction in his tone as he looked his opponent in the eyes. “But you are very welcome to try.”

The statement left Graves speechless. He shook his head, laughing quietly in disbelief. “Whatever you say.” He placed his hands on his hips, not breaking his calm persona even though his patience was wearing thinner. He seemed confident enough that Makarov would break eventually, and he could still extract some valuable information to use against the 141 while he was at it.

With this in mind, he nodded in Ghost’s direction, ordering one of his men to retrieve the prisoner. When the Shadow stepped forward, however, so did Makarov, who positioned himself between the soldier and his cellmate, his eyes locked on the intruder with murderous intent. He smirked when the Shadow, caught off guard by the sudden interruption, stumbled back. His fear was evident in his body language, only adding to Makarov’s amusement. Graves, on the other hand, was not impressed. He watched the whole scene unfold with a faint smile, the amusement visible in his expression.

“You are not touching him.” Makarov stood his ground, voice full of defiance as he glared at both the Shadow and his contractor. “I will not warn you again.”

“Well, well… feeling protective, are we?” Graves, amused by the audacity of his prisoners, couldn’t help but savor the tension in the air. “I did not take you for the guard dog type, Makarov. But a collar does suit you.”

The response he got to that little provocation was a disdainful scoff. Provoking Makarov wouldn’t be as easy now as it had been when they fought. The werewolf recognized that his temper was a hindrance rather than an advantage, especially considering that he was the prisoner, and not the one dictating the orders here.

Meanwhile, Ghost, still seated against the wall, watched the situation unfold with a sense of detached curiosity. The power dynamic in the room had shifted just a little as his captors began to realize that maybe controlling Makarov would be as straightforward as they had first thought. It was the typical ignorance Graves was always so quick to display, which did not surprise anyone. His arrogance would most definitely kill him one day, and there were plenty of people looking forward to that.

“So, are you leaving or are you planning to test your luck?” Makarov spoke up. The light coming from the windows was beginning to disappear. The night was nearly upon them, and Graves was well aware of that. He pouted, considering his options before smacking his hands together in a loud clap.

“You win this time, wolf.” He did not sound too happy with the idea of leaving without Ghost. He spared the man in question a glance, his tone begrudging. "You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Ghost, and it seems our boy here’s grown fond of you. I admire that. You seem to have… a way with strays, if you don’t mind me saying.”

It was Ghost’s turn to scoff this time. It seemed like Graves loved the sound of his own voice, which only made him easier to punch. When the vampire shifted his attention back to Makarov, the irritation in his voice was more noticeable. “You boys look really cute, relying on each other like that. But don’t think for a moment that this changes anything between us. Our business remains unfinished.”

His eyes met Makarov’s unwavering stare, jaw snapping shut. He seemed like he wanted to say something more before turning around, his soldiers following. The cell door creaked shut behind him. As soon as they could no longer be heard, Makarov sighed heavily, beginning to pace around the room under Ghost’s watchful eyes. It would be dark soon, and with the night, came all of Makarov’s troubles.

“Well.” Ghost broke the silence, his voice calm and unbothered. “That was one hell of a show.”

“Good to know you liked it, Prizrak, because it will be a one-night stand.”

He couldn’t quite understand why he felt the instinctive need to protect Ghost just a moment ago. They were irremediable enemies who had chosen completely different sides in their story. While Ghost was allowed to do the most horrific things a human could ever be able to conceive in the name of a so-called “greater good”, he would always end up with the shorter stick, the darker side of history which would paint him as nothing more than a cruel, violent cursed wolf.

But he would not deny the connection he felt with that human of all people. It was, after all, hard to dismiss. Because every time he spared Ghost a glance, Makarov’s mind went back to the night before, when his transformation had nearly consumed him. Usually, turning into a wolf was an experience he wanted very badly to forget as soon as he woke up from it. Such maddening rage, threatening to devour his mind… not being in control of it scared him more than he would be willing to admit, even to himself.

But this time he remembered things. He remembered as he could while not being in perfect control of himself. He thought about how Ghost had intervened, calmed him down… how that man whom he had seen briefly, fought a couple of times with, had somehow managed to pierce through the haze of his animalistic instincts. It was Ghost’s presence, his voice… and perhaps even his stubbornness that provided a lifeline strong enough to pull Makarov back to the edge of sanity.

How was this even possible?

The whole situation left him with a sense of confusion, a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach that something wasn’t quite right, and yet… Makarov sensed that he was becoming attached to Ghost, not in a way he had his soldiers or his family, but in a way he couldn’t define, not yet. Of course, part of the reason he felt that way was because of the peace he had been brought. Not only did he feel grounded in a world he never truly belonged to, but he also felt understood. The feeling was hard to come by, since his life had always been chaos even before he joined the Konni Group. To have a sense of self, even if he could not quite put a finger on what caused it... he did not want any of this to go away. And if Ghost was the source, then maybe it was natural for him to wish he could keep the man around.

Fate would have them meet as foes, but that one little trick Ghost had made Makarov realize that the things between them were far from simple. He had read about people like that, back when he was still trying to use his curse in his favor. People who could, without apparent rhyme or reason, control a variety of wild beasts and monsters alike. People who would own packs of hellhounds, basilisk, or even a phoenix, a creature most considered to be nothing but a story.

People like Ghost… they could tame even a so-called monster like himself. It was… unsettling.

“You worried?” He heard Ghost’s voice and turned around. The man didn’t seem phased at all. Shouldn’t he be worried that this was all a stroke of good luck? That the moment Makarov lost control again he’d be sliced up to pieces like Graves would have wanted? He tilted his head to the side just a little, and continued: “I’m not.”

“I can still kill you.” Makarov warned him, eyes never leaving Ghost as the man got on his feet, walking up to him. The same annoying shadow of a smile could be seen through the cracks of his mask.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Makarov scoffed, deciding not to comment further on the situation. 141’s Ghost was crazy if he trusted his life to a man he barely knew, who tried to kill him and his team more than just once. But then again, if they couldn’t put their lives in the hands of complete strangers, they would be in a different line of work. The army was about circumstance, and their alliances weren’t always ideal, but they were necessary to ensure survival and success.

Ultimately, trusting Makarov was Ghost’s choice, and he wouldn’t bother with trying to convince him otherwise. Especially because… what else were they supposed to do? If he lost control this time, nothing would save Ghost from his claws or his teeth.

He decided not to comment further on the situation, absent-mindedly pacing around the cell as he waited for what would be his last transformation that month. The fact brought about some much-needed comfort, but he realized that, at least for now, there wasn’t the same sense of panic and urgency to his demeanor, no fear lingering in the air. He felt safer, knowing that someone else would be watching him throughout the night. And for once, being a prisoner had its advantages, as Makarov could take comfort in the fact that he would not wake up butt naked in a completely random location, tasting the coppery flavor of the blood which covered his mouth and chest. Blood that could have been animal… or human. When morning came, he could never remember.

Would he remember the night, this time?

Minutes turned to hours as he waited for the curse to take hold, an odd sense of calmness washed over him as he felt it getting closer. It was… different than what he had felt the other times, because when he closed his eyes, he felt no fear. No anger. He was accepting of his wolf form, no longer fighting it. Rather, Makarov welcomed the pain that wasn’t too violent this time, jaw snapping shut as his body got larger, heavier…

He drew a deep breath, mind focusing on Ghost’s scent. Inhuman scent.

Where?

Makarov finally turned around, his ears nearly brushing against the ceiling as he sought the source of the smell. His red eyes zeroed in on Ghost much quicker than they had last time. The human was… familiar. Yes, he knew him. He was safe with him.

Taking one heavy step after the other, he quickly found himself stuffing his big head into Ghost’s chest, the chuckle that escaped the man was both enticing and irritating, but he did not mind it. When Ghost reached out his hand to pet Makarov between the ears, he allowed it. Strange, because the last person who tried to pet showed up with their arm missing the next day, and he had to promote someone else to Lieutenant.

The crazy situations people would put themselves in by working with monsters...

“Am I allowed to pet you again, then?” The sarcasm in Ghost’s voice was mixed in with some genuine affection, which Makarov picked up right away. It made him growl in protest, but he did not turn away, nuzzling on Ghost’s chest further instead. This was not protocol... it wasn't right. This had nothing to do with what he knew, what he learned. Maybe he should feel ashamed. But the truth was, he seemed to enjoy the affection, deep down. Ghost seemed to enjoy his little reactions too, his tone turning amused as he continued to pet him. “Guess you do like these, huh? Soap does, too. You’re not so different.”

‘What do you mean?’ Makarov’s human side wanted to disagree with the statement. MacTavish was a clan wolf. They were nothing alike. But even then, his animalistic side would never deny a good scratch behind his ears. He closed his eyes, wondering if maybe he wasn’t going insane already. It was just a matter of time for his kind, after all. He opened his eyes at the thought, lifting his head up suddenly.

“Oi, what’s wrong?” Ghost questioned, quickly trying to calm Makarov down. But he wasn’t stressed or ready to rampage, no. He noticed… something else. He was thinking. As a wolf, Makarov was in full control of his actions. He was no longer acting as a mindless beast, but a full-fledged werewolf.

“Makarov.” Ghost’s voice snapped him out of it. He looked down, tilting his head to the side just slightly. The look in the human’s eyes was both of worry and cautiousness. Again, not fear. Never fear.

A wicked thought crossed the Russian’s mind. He could kill Ghost, then and there. With his newfound sanity, he could break out of that cell and kill every single Shadow who dared get in his way. It was a simple plan that could work. He would get rid of all the dangerous pawns in his gameboard, make his way up to Price, maybe even destroy him as well.

It was just for a moment, however. He blinked, and his head was already pushing Ghost down onto the floor. He liked the warmth of that one human’s embrace. His scent… so different than what he was used to. It smelled very much like the past, a spicy tinge of fire. And ash.

♚

♖

“Fucking get him, god damnit! I want this situation contained!”

Ghost’s eyes snapped open, and he jolted awake. The moon still hung high in the sky when all chaos had broken loose a few levels above the cell block. The distant sounds of yelling and gunfire had both him and Makarov up and about in a second, ready to fight or flee. Well, fight or kill in Makarov’s case. The sound of glass breaking somewhere right above them made him let out a low growl, claws pulling Ghost a little closer to him.

The action did not at all go unnoticed by Ghost.

He listened in on the violence, trying to pinpoint a reason for the chaos.

“Think someone just invited themselves in.” Ghost thought aloud, looking up at the massive werewolf who stared down at him in a very characteristic ‘oh, really?’ only Makarov would manage to conjure up. Ghost was not phased by the tough crowd, his train of thought resuming. “We’re gonna find out who that is in a moment.”

Makarov seemed to agree. Ghost thought it to be… strange. His cellmate was acting a lot more human tonight, less… mindless. Almost as if he could understand Ghost’s every word. He was happy to test that theory.

Before he could open his mouth to ask, however, something that sounded very much like a wall being torn down fell to the ground in the upper levels. The Shadows were now engaged in active combat. And they were losing.

“Shoot him straight in the eyes! Not so close! Get back!” The voice shouting commands a tone above the sounds of battle undeniably belonged to Graves, and he sounded pissed. “Don’t let him escape! Shoot him, you idiot! No, not the—”

The entire cell block shook with the loud sound of an explosion. Ghost took a quick glance at Makarov, who looked just as startled as he was, his grip around Ghost’s waist tightened a little.

“The hell’s going on out there?!” There was some serious concern in Ghost’s voice as he noticed the dust falling from the ceiling with wide eyes, briefly wondering if rubble falling on top of them wasn’t a more pressing concern than the intruders. Of course, he hoped not.

The fighting seemed to intensify upstairs as more people let out terrified screams. One of them was cut mid-way, and it did not sound like a pretty death to his ears. Aware that Makarov’s senses would be able to paint a better picture of the battlefield than his, he lifted his head to look up at the werewolf, noticing how Makarov himself was tensing up a bit. “Not your guys, I take it.”

Makarov sneered as much as he could, sniffing the air. He couldn’t look more disgusted if he tried. Given his reaction, he knew who was behind this assault. He just couldn’t tell Ghost anything about it.

Perfect. He just had to assume it was something good. His team, maybe, and in the worst case scenario… a random mafia boss or client Graves and his Shadow Company had wronged. God knew he probably had many of those.

“Hey, easy.” Ghost looked up, feeling Makarov’s restlessness as his growl got louder. More screams could be heard, closer to them as well, before the cell block’s doors were blown out of their hinges at the far end of the corridor. There was even more screaming before Ghost could finally make out the sound of claws rasping against the stone floor.

A huge wolf-like monster stepped into his view, eyeing the bars of the cell with an air of mischief. Its white fur was stained in blood, and there were multiple bullet wounds all over its body, some of them were letting out smoke, an obvious side-effect of silver projectiles. Still, the majestic beast acted like it was nothing, brushing away the pain as he, not it, would on any normal working day. Injured? What was the difference? Wolves were known for having an impressive healing factor, but nothing came anywhere close to that wolf in particular.

He could have been any other werewolf, yes. They were easily the most militarized class of supernatural beasts. But as soon as those mischievous blue eyes locked on to Ghost’s, he knew exactly who that was.

The line of brown fur going all the way from his head to his tail was a distinguishing enough feature, but it was the fire in his eyes the one thing characteristic enough about his identity in Ghost’s opinion.

“Oi, Johnny! What took you so long?!” He couldn’t help the happiness in his voice. He was not at all surprised by the daring rescue. He had been held by Shadow Company for at least three days, which wasn’t anywhere near his “captured by X group” record, but it could very well break the “shortest time imprisoned” one. Soap was probably waiting for him to screw up, the bastard… and boy, wasn’t Ghost glad his Sergeant did keep his head on a swivel for him. “Johnny… what’s wrong?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Ghost heard shuffling to his side. Makarov’s growling had become louder. His red eyes were fixated on Soap, who watched his every movement just the same. With a quick look at Ghost, the Scot’s question was clear: “Who is this?”

“We’ll talk about this later.” Was what he tried to convey with his own eyes. Soap scoffed, and did not seem happy with the choice his CO made, but it would do for now.

He stepped closer to the cell, and Makarov did not budge, but of course he didn’t. He was taller, stronger, much more dangerous than the other wolf in the room. Ghost knew Soap was in danger, he shouldn’t let them fight. Vampires were one thing, but the werewolves? They were instinctive killers. If they locked into a fight with another of kin it would only end when the other was dead.

“Listen, you two.” Ghost’s voice was soft in the beginning before it shifted, growing louder. “There’s no need to fight. Soap, just… open the damn door.”

The Sergeant did not hesitate in obeying. It took him some effort, but he managed to cut down the bars holding Ghost and Makarov hostage.

“Good.” The Brit smirked. The fact that he could control those two so easily was a bit eerie, kind of trippy, but it felt good. “Now, here’s what we are gonna do. Makarov, you—” The black werewolf acted before Ghost could finish his suggestion, letting go of his waist and pushing him away with his snout, in Soap’s direction. He blinked, the confusion in him less visible than the obvious head tilt Soap gave. Ghost knitted his eyebrows together. “What’s this about?”

Red eyes staring at him from the dark, judgemental, serious… the message was pretty easy to understand: “I am not going with you.”

“Looks like you don’t have a choice, though.” Ghost’s tone was less smug now, playing into the gravity of the situation just right. “It was a nice stay, but we can’t let you go free. Price’s gonna make sure of it.”

The Russian’s eyes turned cold at the mention of Captain Price. Wounds were stirred there, and Ghost silently cursed himself for that. Soap pulled his Lieutenant closer, his eyes not leaving Makarov’s for a second. His stance? Protective. Ghost fucking loved that about Johnny. But Johnny wasn’t the focus, or at least not right now. He could tell that both werewolves were trying to avoid a confrontation here, but their teeth and claws were ready.

“Makarov.” Ghost tried again.

“No.”

The decision was final. Soap took a step in the Russian’s direction, but Makarov did not move a muscle. He was mocking his opponent with the lack of worry, and Ghost knew by experience that being disregarded like that would annoy his Sergeant very quickly.

“Soap, with me.” He spoke up, the white wolf taking a quick look in his direction before resuming laser-focus attention on his opponent.

There was a decision to be made.

“What are you going to do, Prizrak?” He could almost hear Makarov’s question in his mind with the way he was being stared at. His imagination only made the follow-ups worse. “Pick a choice, I don’t have all day. Are you letting me go? Or will I have to kill your Scottish hound first?”

Maybe he was imagining Makarov’s words a bit too violently. He doubted it. If he let them fight, it would get bloody. Especially because Makarov did not even need his curse to fight Soap before.

In the end, this wasn’t about choice, not yet. Not when they were at such a disadvantage. Maybe Johnny couldn’t see it, but Ghost? He’d consider himself insane if he didn’t. Makarov huffed, urging him to speak. His clock was ticking, the black wolf tried to tell him. Soap growled in response, just waiting for the slightest confirmation that could maybe pass up as permission to engage.

“Bloody hell… right, fuck it.” Ghost groaned louder than he had intended. Those two idiots were starting to piss him off, pressuring him like that. He would regret the decision, of course, but at the moment? There was nothing better. So he looked up at Soap, expecting the white wolf to glare at him as he continued. “Leave him for now, Johnny. We’ll catch up.”

As expected, the Sergeant shifted so he could stare at Ghost fully, having him under his scrutinizing blue eyes.

”You can’t be fucking serious.” He seemed to ask. Oh, Ghost understood. He understood it just fine. And MacTavish was right.

“I’ll discuss this on our way back to base.” There was authority in his voice, one he wasn’t quite used to resorting to when it came to Soap, but that he would not hesitate in using whenever it was necessary. “I know you didn’t have much time to look in the mirror, Johnny, but you went through hell.”

It was a good excuse. He would never be caught saying to Soap’s face that he could not beat an enemy no matter what the circumstances were. A young hotshot like him always looked for an opening to prove himself and do the right thing. He was nothing like Makarov or Ghost himself, the experienced war machines who weren’t that willing to risk everything for something that might work their way. Commendable, he also fucking loved that about Johnny.

And, because he was used to listening to his Lieutenant, the Scot finally stood down with an annoyed growl, and Ghost could see Makarov’s posture relax just a little.

“Good boy, Johnny.” Ghost lifted his hand, running it along Soap’s chest. His fur felt extremely fluffy despite the blood sticking to it, and its texture felt familiar. Homely. Safe. “Now, let’s get the fuck out of this place before I change my mi—”

With that same air of mischief he always displayed, Soap picked Ghost up, throwing him over his shoulder like it was nothing. Oh, not the sack of potatoes treatment again. Being manhandled by the supernatural was starting to get tiresome, but Ghost did not feel the need to complain… not right away. His tiredness was finally catching up to him, now that Johnny had his back again. He was beaten, no matter that the nectar he drank managed to keep him up and running on absolutely no fuel at all. Every little thing in his body hurt, and the lack of proper sleep for two nights straight made his brain itch. He was safe now, but he would feel safer and happier if Soap actually told him they managed to kill Graves in this fucking raid. He knew Makarov would agree.

And, speaking of the devil, the jet-black werewolf remained in the same position, almost like a statue, blending in with the darkness. His eyes, dangerous and demanding, seemed to shine brighter, redder… and Ghost couldn’t tell if it was his exhaustion playing tricks on him or if it really was something to be afraid of. Those eyes did have something to tell him, however, boring into his soul as MacTavish walked away.

“We will meet again… Prizrak.”

On their way out of the cell block and back to the surface, Ghost couldn’t help but notice the absolute destruction Soap and his tac team had brought upon the place. The whole safe house was in shambles as far as Ghost could see. Wherever he looked, there was blood or fire or both. Bodies of Shadows littered the floor, some human and some… different. He swore there was an ifrit or two among the mix. Truly, that was a horrifying picture. A taste of the violence a clan wolf like John MacTavish could inflict if angered. And Ghost knew that separating him from Soap was a very good reason for him to be angry.

“Thanks for coming through, Johnny. I knew you would.” He smirked, his tone soft as the Sergeant carried him on his back. “Didn’t think I would make it?” The soft ruff coming from Soap told him all he needed to know, and he laughed. “Shut up, you slag. Not another fucking word.”

The lowkey one-sided banter continued all the way up to extraction, where the medics on site were ready to examine Ghost, take a look at the damage, see if he had been infected. When they finally cleared him for flying, Soap was leaning against the helo, a bright, mischievous grin on his face despite the ungodly amount of bandages wrapped around his human form.

“So, how was your stay at Shadow Hotel?” He teased, watching as Ghost got in the helo without so much as sparing him a second glance. He chuckled, tailing his Lieutenant. “Did they have moldy bread, just bread or no bread?”

“No bread.” Ghost’s tone was amused. He crossed his arms, wincing a little at the pain as he sat down. “And the worst room service possible. 1 out of 5 on TripAdvisor at least.”

“Hm…” Soap sat across from him, seemingly thoughtful. “But at least the roommates were interesting. How is it like sleeping with a wolf, LT? I hear they take the whole bed.”

Ghost couldn’t help the smile on his face. It wasn’t mocking or condescending, but it came from genuine affection. Only Johnny could make him feel that way. “Shut up, Soap.” He folded his arms. “Rumors going around say you’re the only wolf taking over people’s beds.”

Soap snorted, pretending to get all defensive about the accusation.

“They’re all baseless claims.” He retorted, accent showing clearly in those words. “You’re always free to try and find out for yourself.”

“Tempting, but hard pass.” Ghost’s smile widened a little. He did not do relationships. Not in that line of work, not outside of it. And especially not with someone like Sergeant MacTavish, whom he swore deserved something much better than him. He sighed, burying the thoughts before they ended up souring his mood.

He found himself replacing the loathsome thoughts with Makarov instead.

‘Oh, hell no.’ He shook those off too. There was absolutely no way in hell—

“What are we going to tell Price?” The question pulled Ghost away from his thoughts, thankfully.

“We tell him the truth.” He did not miss a beat. “That we found Makarov.”

“We did not hold him.” Soap retorted. “Or put him down.”

“You and I both know you were in no condition to pull that off.” Ghost’s tone hardened, and so did his eyes. Soap pouted immediately.

“I could have handled it if you’d let me.” They would start again, wouldn’t they? “Makarov—”

“Was not something you could have dealt with injured the way you were. Do not fight me on this, MacTavish.”

Soap opened his mouth to argue, but chose to stay quiet. He leaned back against the wall of the helo instead, sulking. Good boy.

They remained quiet for most of the flight, lost in thoughts that did not belong to either, as both had the same person in mind.

“Anyway,” Soap said after a while. “What was it like sharing a cell with a vukodlak?”

Ghost blinked.

“A what?”

“A vukodlak.” The Scot repeated. “He’s not a real werewolf, you know. Makarov. His curse is not generational. Someone did that to him.” He scoffed. “Or, he did that to himself. Either way, I am surprised he did not chew your head off. They are known to be unstable, and those who do keep their insanity intact will lock their transformation for good before it consumes them completely.”

Ghost was staring. Simply, absolutely, in its purest form… just staring.

“…Well. I did not fucking know that.” Was his answer. “But that explains a lot.”

“Yeah?” Soap smirked. “It does not explain you, LT. How did you manage to tame the bastard?”

Ghost cringed slightly at the word tamed. He had expected a werewolf of all people to be less nonchalant about its use, but it was clear to him that clan wolves, as both Soap and Makarov referred to his pack, did not quite like the other’s kind.

After thinking things over, the Brit finally had an answer.

“No fucking clue, Johnny.” He leaned back against the wall as well, his tone distant. “But I’m gonna find out.”

♖