Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Choices had consequences.

Ghost knew that intimately. He knew it so well that he got good at predicting what the consequences might be. It was a game he played. And won. Years of practice. A habit he’d ironed into the fabric of his instincts.

That’s why he wasn’t surprised when Price went out cold. Being knocked out was a natural consequence for getting himself locked up in a chemical reactor. They'd watched from above as he scrambled for the lonely, dangling rope. Gas rising to meet him. Green and fucking sickly. It was a proper miracle they’d even gotten the old geezer out in time. Then again, Price was a dogged workaholic. Nothing could snuff out that bastard’s lights until the job was done. And now, their job was Makarov and his fucking Konni contractor pups. They needed to be muzzled, and Ghost would happily be the one to do it. Bloody terrorists and mercenaries. Dodgy, the lot of them.

The door was barely shut before the plane cut them away. He could hear the engine flare with rapid purpose. Near the window, Ghost could see the chemical reactor shrink behind clouds. Easily, they set down a motionless Price. He slumped, neck lolling. All the lights in him were gone. Ghost expected Garrick was the bloke to do the fussing and he didn’t disappoint. Calmly, Garrick checked over the captain for any sign of injury. Gentle and slow. There should’ve been burns, at the least - evidence of being kissed by corrosives. Evidence of the consequences.

Watching, Ghost retreated to a chair at the back. Sitting, he rested a hand lazily on the heel of his rifle, letting it lounge on his inner thigh. A golden bulb blinked behind him, illuminating shapes across his uniform. He used the moment to regain his breath. It was ragged against his mask. His headset suppressed most of the plane’s rattling. Though, there was a whirring in his ears from their comms line. It reminded him of the way a flashbang sung through his skull.

Johnny took the spot across from him, holding onto the hood of the plane to keep himself steady. They kept silent while they waited for confirmation. After a moment, Garrick stood and sat down in a chair across from the captain.

Price came to. His head lulled weakly on the leather. His eyes prized open with some resistance. Awake, he looked rough as fuck. Rougher than Ghost had ever seen him, maybe. Face pallid and tainted by grogginess. Didn't matter though. It was better than the alternative. Price shouldn’t even be alive – not in the slightest. He'd escaped the order of things, for now. Lucky fucking bastard.

“Mornin’, Sir,” Johnny greeted.

“Take it easy, Cap,” warned Garrick, fishing for a spare headset. He handed it to Price. “You beat the gas, but you still need some time to recover.”

Price tugged the headset over his ears with effort. His voice was coarse, “I’m fine.”

Gaz leaned in a touch, “Got a headache? Nausea?”

“Always.”

“He’s good,” Gaz decided, settling deeper in the crook of his chair.

MacTavish took a relieved breath. “Was worried your face was gonna melt off like those other poor bastards,” Johnny admitted, arm tensing.

Ghost tilted his head, “If you ask me, it’d be an improvement.”

Price managed a wry smile. As he met Ghost’s stare, he seemed to remember something. “Konni got away with the chemicals?”

“Affirmative," he replied darkly. 

“Makarov’s been out of prison for six hours,” scowled Price, more to himself than the group. “And he’s already ahead of us.”

They chewed on these words, and Ghost paid attention to the frustration in the captain's tone. In his peripherals, he could see the others shift in discomfort. Anger often bled from Price, but this felt different. Price was thinking five moves ahead and wasn’t pleased about his options. Christ, they were practically dancing through a minefield in the dark.

“The fuck is in that gas, anyway?” asked Johnny.

Gaz turned to reply, “Remnants of Barkov’s program.”

Johnny looked confused at this explanation, dropping his elbows on his knees. “Sarin or somethin’?”

“Highly concentrated,” corrected Ghost calmly. “Far more lethal.”

Garrick sounded resigned, “One pod contaminated the whole area.”

Johnny’s brows fixed, “They made off with enough to kill a whole country.”

The team lingered on this, acknowledging the new danger. Dealing with Makarov and Konni Group was like snubbing out a cigarette that refused to sizzle out. They should’ve dropped Makarov when they had the chance. Price chose not to. This was the fucking consequence.

---

The plane was hollow with silence. Tiredness loomed.

Ghost was at the back of the bird, where it was darkest. There, he rotated his gloved hand and traced the little TV stitched to the fabric on his wrist. He’d done this a thousand times before, so much that the seams were splitting. Like clockwork, Ghost allowed his thoughts to roll over to you.

It’d been months since he’d seen you, in London. And of all his choices, leaving you was the worst. You’d wanted a break after the shit with Shadow Company, and he couldn’t blame you for that. You were tired. So was he. Nearing death on several occasions did that to a person. He could’ve stayed with you a little longer. Maybe even forever, if he was being honest. But Price had a feeling that Konni Group were planning something – and he’d been right. Ghost had to be okay with the consequence of his choice. Even if it meant absolute fucking agony.

At the start, he felt like he was going mental. More than usual, anyway. Thinking of you hurt – worse than getting tagged. Only complete pillocks acted like that. He tried to bury the longing by concentrating on work. He tried to cut off his emotions like dead, crumpling leaves. Usually, he excelled at this. Memories and feelings - they were all fucking useless anyway. Distracting. If he wasn’t diligent, he’d lose his bloody grit. But no matter what he tried; you were always there. Hounding him like a fucking infected wound. It only got better when he started resigning himself to it. Surrendered to the inevitability of you. And when he did, it made things better somehow. Cleared his mind. Kept him at ease. So, it was his new routine. To touch the place on his glove you’d once sewed - the place that kept you tethered to him. And to think of you. Fully.

---

The plane’s wheels touched down with a jostle. It landed in a nest of mountains that provided sufficient cover. The team offloaded and set up camp with familiar efficiency. Slowly, the sun swam beneath the horizon. The heat plummeted. When the work was done, they retired. Price laid down wearily in his tent. Garrick fucked off for a walk. Johnny listened to music. Above, stars burnt across the black abyss. Bugs whirred loudly around them. Wind whipped through their tents, making the air biting cold.

Ghost sat outside his tent, perched on a crate. Dirt gnawed under his boots. He was slipping a wet rag across the teeth of his can-opener. His gloves were piled on the ground. Though he tried to concentrate on his task, his thoughts drifted back to you. Admittedly, Ghost let you fill his head. Revelled in the momentary bliss. In the memory of your smile, which he’d imprinted on the back of his brain. In your laugh. In the way you crinkled your nose and your absurd hand signs. In your voice.

Your voice.

A sharp idea penetrated his mind. Instantly, he rose. Dropping the muddy rag, he threaded his knife into its holster. Ghost tucked his thumbs into the edges of his vest absently. His boots traced across the camp, slow enough to silence his movement. At the opening of Johnny’s tent, he paused. He needed to slant his head to look inside. Johnny was sprawled across his bedroll, one leg hooked over his other knee. When he saw Ghost, he ripped off his headphones so that they dangled round his neck.

“Sup, Lt?”

“Seen the phone, Johnny?” Ghost ventured.

“Uh-,” Johnny glanced around his belongings.

An urge to scold his junior for keeping his gear so fucking untidy surfaced. Before he could say anything, Johnny was holding out the bulky satellite phone in his outstretched hand. Ghost went to take it. Johnny pulled away at the last second. The fix in his eyebrows didn’t bode well. Fuck’s sakes.

“What d’ya need it for, Sir?”

Ghost’s eyes thinned. A warning. “Careful, Sergeant.”

Johnny’s brow rose. “Gonna watch some telly, eh Lt?”

Slowly, Ghost adjusted his mask, thoughtful. Then, he darted into the tent. He dodged Johnny’s surprised hook. Then he pried the phone free with relative ease. Easy day. Johnny laughed but didn’t dare to challenge him further. Satisfied, Ghost coolly strode out into the dark. Accompanied only by twigs crunching under his heavy boots - like bones breaking. In his grip, he strangled the phone. 

After walking awhile, he took refuge under a murky tree. He dropped to the ground. Leant against the bark so that it dug into his back. Alone, he stared down at the numbers printed over the buttons. A beat passed. Strangely, he hesitated. His guardedness firing up like an alarm. Because he was only just considering the possibility that you didn’t want him to call. Or that you’d forgotten about him. Maybe you’d moved on. Ghost wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you’d moved on. You’d worked your way into his chest the way his blade found flesh. A trace of you shadowed his heart, now. It was yours, after all. And fucking hell, his head really had gone soft. It was right fucking mashed at this point.

His fingers itched. This was a consequence he was willing to bare if it meant even just a moment with you. Conflict turned to resolve, as he found his composure. Gathering a breath, Ghost punched in your number with precision. It dialled.

Chapter Text

He was the ghost of your apartment.

There was no sound of him. No trace. No footsteps. He glided harmlessly across your thoughts. Flickered in and out of the veil of your awareness. Always haunting you. He was in all the empty spaces of your room. The quiet echo when you spoke to yourself. The shivers prickling over your arms. The cold, blank space in your bed.

You heard the faint rattling of your neighbour’s breakfast plates downstairs. Blinking tiredly, you reached out for the space beside you. He wasn’t there. He never was. You flattened your palm over the thin, wrinkled sheets. A yawn swelled from your throat as you rolled onto your back. Perhaps it was the plainness of the ceiling that had you imagining his dark, lazy eyes. The bones printed over his mouth. Those lean fingers running across your skin.

Stretching, you pulled your arms above your head, spine cracking like a wet rag being wrung out. Thumps shot across your ceiling. You froze to listen, staring out your bedroom window. Part of you was almost expecting to hear explosions or shots. None came. It was probably just kids going berserk in the apartment above. With a long breath, you glimpsed at your phone to check the time. It was morning. Clicking your phone off, your fingers found the curled necklet on your bedside table. As you plucked it up, the ID plates slipped to the bottom of the chord. Your thumb ran across the grooves of the letters.

Simon “Ghost” Riley.

A name that whispered through your chest. Months had passed since you’d seen him. In London, you’d met with 141 and Kate Laswell to discuss Viktor Makarov. A Russian terrorist that they all seemed wary of. Price, especially. After a few pints, the team scattered in their own directions. But not him. Ghost hovered all the way back to your hotel room, carrying your bag like it was weightless. That night had been your first dinner together. The first time you’d tried to analyse his expression to see if he hated your spaghetti. The first time he'd dried the dishes, which looked peculiar in his deadly hands. The first time he’d let you lean against his bulky form while Casper played on the television. The first time he’d gently stirred you awake and guided you to bed.

The next morning, he made your bed - tucking the sheets into the frame with meticulous efficiency. You brewed tea and watched him pretend not to enjoy it. Then together, you wandered the streets till ungodly hours, trading memories. And at night, you played Snakes and Ladders (he always won). Sat on the balcony, knees touching. Gazed out at rooftops marked with antennas and cooing pigeons. Laughed (you did, anyway).

Three days were spent like that. Full of contentedness, but flecked with moments of panic. Because Christ – maybe he’d get sick of you. Or notice sickening habits you’d overlooked. Maybe you were touching him too much. Or too little. Or awkwardly. Or maybe he could see the way you blushed every time he touched your cheek. Every time he threaded his fingers in yours. Every time he used your elbow to ensure you didn’t bump into a bench or be struck by a cyclist.

Still, you wanted it to last. Christ – forever, probably.

Of course, it didn’t. Price called. Ghost deployed. You chose to stay behind. And just like that, he was gone.

You thrust the chain with his ID plate over your head, feeling the cool metal pressed to the tip of your sternum. Since he’d gone, your days were a rotating ferry wheel of the same routine. Taking your time to get up, you slid to the edge of the bed. Once you started the morning, things set into motion. You got dressed. Chewed through toast. Packed a bag. Filed into your car. Drove down bending roads until buildings turned to blocks. Blocks turned into sparse houses. Houses turned into thin, unmarked streets paved by dirt.

After an hour of driving, you pulled into a parking lot shaded by arches of trees. Shafts of sunlight rippled through leafy branches. The ground was spotty and damp – evidence of a brief shower of rain. With your car door open, you nibbled down some muesli and fruit.

You locked up the car and headed for the track.

Unfortunately, the picnic area at the entrance was flooded with people. Many of them lounging on rugs spread over the slick, overgrown grass. A beat of disappointment tugged at your stomach. Having to overtake crowds of children or people ambling as slowly as possible was not ideal. Nonetheless, you sidled by them to start the hike.

The track was unassuming. You might’ve missed it entirely if it weren’t for the little wooden arrow, partially hidden behind brambles. Stepping into the sea of trees, you followed the well-trodden path with your thumbs tucked cosily under your backpack’s straps. Since it was such a cold morning, a brisk pace helped prevent your skin becoming too frosty. Birds chattered overhead, seemingly oblivious to your presence.

It was a long trail, snaking in an upwards spiral. Surprisingly, there was hardly anyone on it. It quickly became clear why. You walked for bloody hours. Step after step. Your boots squeaking from having splashed in so many shallow puddles. Every so often, you stopped to admire wings fluttering between boughs. Took photos of toppled logs, covered in a sheet of overgrown plants. Smiled at wildflowers peeking out between leaves.

At the top of the track was a clearing, lit by the uninhibited sun - as if a golden halo crowned the mountain. Reaching it, you stopped and panted with some exertion. Took a few breaths and a generous gulp of water. Then, you decided to venture to the overlook. You paced the length of it a few times, peering down into the valley below. Standing by the edge was somewhat dizzying, so you paced back a few steps and plopped down on a log blanketed by furry moss. You didn’t mind if it printed a muted green on your pants - the cushioning was worth it.

Nearby, a couple surfaced. They admired the view. Shared a kiss. Snapped a few photos. Then decided to make the journey back down. You listened to their footsteps shrink away down the track. Until, eventually, you were alone.

You weren’t sure how long you spent, staring out at the crevasse of tangled trees and inhaling the occasional breeze. Nose and fingers tipped in pink. Lips shivering. At some point, you pulled out your skeleton gloves and slipped them on.

Staring down at them, you felt strangely hollow. Normally, you loved reaching the top of a hike. You loved the escape you found in the silence. The peace you found – so stark in contrast to the deafening clamour of war. But the longer you sat up there, the longer you felt lost. Because it was nothing without him. Nothing compared to being with him. And that train of thought quickly made you regret having ever taken a break from contracting. Stupid decision. It had turned you into a pathetic, lovesick idiot. Ghost was probably hardly even bothered, the way you were.

As time strained on, the sun began to bleed out. Its golden blood streaked across the sky. You stood and readied yourself for the laborious walk downhill. Before you did, you dug out your phone to check the time. A notification flashed on the screen and your eyes scanned it quickly. One missed call. Unknown number. Toggling it to sleep, you pocketed your phone. Fucking telemarketers.

Chapter Text

Kate Laswell was sitting in your usual café.

Thin and willowy, with her spine tall. You caught a glimpse of her while you were outside, frozen on the glittering cobblestones. It took a moment for you to believe she was more than a trick of the light. Your heart had already started drumming. She was observing you through the front window, behind a glistening curtain of water and soap suds. The man cleaning the pane of glass wiped across her face, making her blurry again. Flecks of water sprinkled your nose.

Wiping it away absently, you stared at her. Slightly transfixed and unsure of whether she recognised you. It wasn’t until someone bumped your back that you realised you were blocking the entrance to the café. A man weaved around you and thrust open the door, irritated. Distractedly, you mumbled an apology and shimmied in after him. The door eased shut behind you. Bells tinkled overhead. Inside, you took a pause to rub your skeletal gloves together for warmth. Spoons were clicking against cups and people were chatting. The scent of dry – perhaps burning – coffee filled the air.

Kate was by the window, no longer looking at you. Her lip curled over a mug of steaming coffee. In her other hand was an open book that she was pretending to read. She was wearing a button up shirt that might’ve been iron pressed, with a puffer vest layered over the top. Her hair was knotted so tightly in a bun that it almost looked cropped short.

One cursory glance around the café told you she’d cornered you here on purpose. You frequented the place for good reason. It was the type of café that people might stumble to when they were recovering from a hangover. There were only a few tables, spaced apart, and the staff were generally too lazy to bother you. This allowed for private conversations. Near the entrance was a small counter, with a noisy little register that could only accept cash. Nobody sensible went to places like this. Though, you didn’t mind. You found charm in the old, rickety chairs. The shoeprints painted on the creaky, weathered wood panels. The hazy windows, scarred by scratches. Somehow, it reminded you of the safehouse in Las Almas. Of the loft. Of Ghost.

To a CIA handler, it probably seemed like the perfect opportunity to ambush you.

You paused to consider your next move. It seemed bizarre that Kate would abandon the Makarov chase to meet you, here. Whatever she wanted was obviously urgent. Rubbing your gloves together again, you thought hard. A horrifying possibility danced over your thoughts. Perhaps this was the reason an unknown number was dialling you up every other day.

Something might’ve happened to him.

No. You shook that off quickly, like rain tossed from an umbrella. This was Ghost. Ghost was a survivor. Warfare came easier to him than sleeping. Or eating. Or breathing. And even if he’d been compromised, would anyone come out to tell you? It wasn’t as if you were his emergency contact. It wasn’t like you were anything to Simon Riley, technically. Perhaps Soap would deliver the news. But not Kate Laswell.

Suddenly, you were wrecked with trepidation.

You strode down the aisle. Each step of your boots squeaky. In front of Kate, you drew a shaky breath. Every one of your muscles hesitated. You weren’t sure you wanted to sit down. Maybe it would be better to stand, in case you wanted to jump out the bloody window.

“Watcher,” you greeted.

As you expected, she was waiting for this cue. Placing her mug on the table, Kate glanced up. “TV.”

“Is he alive?” you blurted out.

Kate calmly set down her book, spread open, at the foot of her mug. She nodded at the chair across from her – an invitation to sit. Reluctantly, you took off your jacket and draped it over the back of your chair. Your chest sinking with each breath. After sniffling into your thumb, you slumped down. She didn’t look solemn. That was a good sign.

“This isn’t about Ghost,” she assured, a soft voice. “Not directly, anyway.”

Fuck. Your chest rose and fell with relief.

Kate’s cat-like eyes glinted under the light, as she filed this information away.

“You wanna move?” you offered, waving your fingers in front of your eyes in demonstration. “So the sun’s not in your eyes?”

“Patience is a virtue,” Kate replied evenly, nodding at the man with her head. In that moment, the cleaner on the other side of the window shifted. The light was blocked, promptly bathing her in shadow. She smiled, “Case example.”

“Bet you paid him off for that,” you laughed. “Take it you’ve been patiently waiting for me?” A statement, not a question.

“Exactly,” she confirmed, perhaps pleased she didn’t need to explain further. Sitting back in her chair, Kate jostled her bangs. “You’re a little late, by the way. Five minutes, to be exact.”

The nonchalance in her tone was disturbing. Clearly, she knew things about you. Maybe even things you didn’t know yourself. In fact, she held the air of someone who intuitively knew what you’d be doing in about ten years-time.

You mustered up a smile, “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended that you keep tabs on me.”

For a few sharp moments, Kate said nothing. Then as if deciding to let you in on a secret, she leant in and quietly quipped, “Both, TV. Always both.”

She was in a good mood. The kind of mood that meant she was here on a business matter. Recruitment, probably. Fixing contracts for operators was her bread and butter.

“Can’t imagine I’m the only one with the privilege of being followed,” you supposed. “Lemme guess, Soap has a cleaning business on the side?” 

Kate’s smile returned, “Actually, spends most of his time at the gym.”

“Not surprised,” you snorted, propping your elbow on the table to balance your jaw in the circle of your palm. “I thought we agreed I’d reach out to you when I was ready to contract again?”

“We did,” supplied Kate, crinkles appearing at the corner of her mouth. “But I figured your search history was a good as indication as any that you were ready to come back.”

You blinked, horrified.

“You’ve been tracking my search history?”

“Friendly reminder to cover your tracks,” Kate scratched her chin casually. “At least use a private browser. He’s not traceable by the way, no matter how many times you search his name.”

You squirmed in your chair, boots screeching. “Who?”

There was a confident, knowing purse to her wiry lips. You know who, it implied. 

Leaning back, you stressed a palm over your head. No point denying it. It was somewhat of a routine to type Simon Riley into the internet. It wasn’t that you thought you’d find anything on him. You would’ve been surprised if you did. It was just that you couldn’t erase him from your mind. So sometimes, at night, your fingers would whisper across your keyboard. You’d scroll through results. Read articles about the special forces. Watch British documentaries. Smile at pictures of skeletons.

You’d only done it a million times. Nothing major.

“S’pose I’ve had a lot of free time on my hands,” you admitted. “I know how it sounds but typing his name out’s kinda therapeutic.”

Kate laughed – a teasing timbre. Raising her brows, you watched her forehead crinkle. “TV, I wouldn’t go through your search history even if I had the time to.” 

A few agonising beats passed before it clicked.

“Did you just-,” you spluttered.

Kate was smiling. A terrible, tactful smile. Now she knew the very secrets of your search history, with alarmingly little prying. Excellent. Naked under her gaze, you laughed nervously.

A metal clang snapped you both to attention, your uncomfortable laughter evaporating. In the corner, a woman was bent under her table, fishing for the spoon she’d dropped. Thankfully, the distraction was enough to help you recover your wits.

“Good to have a laugh while we can, but let’s keep it tight,” Kate announced. With that, she snaked her fingers around her ceramic mug and lifted it to her lips. She sipped long, steam veiling her face. The cup returned to the table, though her fingers remained coiled around it. “I’m here to pitch.”

You folded your skeletal gloves under each arm, interested. “Pitch away.”

“Arklov Peak,” Kate named, her voice smooth and low. “You heard of it?”

“The base?” you asked, trying to understand her. “In Kastovia, if my geography’s not way off.”

She didn’t bother to acknowledge this, which you took to mean you’d been correct.

“I’m meeting a contact there in two days,” explained Kate calmly. “Totally off the books. In and out.”

“Sounds risky,” you returned, cocking your head. “Couldn’t meet down the road or something?” 

“Listen, I’ve been collecting intel for a long time,” she told you, bouncing slightly to cross one leg over the other. “Sometimes, I find it’s better to meet where your target feels comfortable.”

You took a steadying breath through your nose, “Like their local cafe?”

Kate wriggled her nose affectionately. “Like their local café,” she copied.

You nodded a few times, shuffling and placing your hands back on the table. You drummed bony fingers on the surface of it. Laswell had Captain Price. She had Ghost. Soap. Gaz. A TV wasn’t worth much when the rest of 141 was piled up in her arsenal.

As if anticipating your thoughts, Kate gulped and released her mug. “John has the boys in Urzikstan.”

“Urzikstan,” you repeated, louder than intended. Clearing your throat, you tried a gentle tone, “The hell are they doing there?”

Kate’s eyes were darting about the room, perhaps checking your volume hadn’t attracted any unwanted attention. When she seemed satisfied that all was clear, she leant in to whisper. “Konni Group.”

“Konni?” you tasted.

The name burnt bitter on your tongue. Contractors, like you. Only worse. Much worse. Those fucks delighted in dirty warfare with ruthless proficiency, in a way that Shadow Company never did. That was, until Commander Graves had set the dogs on Las Almas.

Your brows knitted, “Are they working for Makarov?”

Kate patted her hand on the table in confirmation. “Makarov’s got missiles with chemical warheads. Word is, Konni’s keeping some of them in a bunker in Urkizstan.” She steepled her fingers over her mouth to limit the carry of her voice. “Price is taking the boys to recover the bunker’s payload,” she muttered. “We deal with the gossip. Find out if there’s a way to neutralize those chemicals.”

“Divide and conquer,” you noted, sitting back with some realisation. Then, confusion prickled in your brain. “You don’t need me for that.”

“No, but I could use you,” Kate countered. “I’ve got a ride, but I could use a set of eyes watching over me. Besides, we might need air support tackling these missiles and-”

Kate stopped herself, as if reluctant to continue.

“And what?”

Her eyes hardened as she steeled herself to say, “And we might need some help negotiating with Shadow Company, from someone with experience.”

You stilled. Goosebumps prickled over your arms. Somewhere behind you, the bells of the front door tinkled again. Surely, you hadn’t heard that correctly. Surely.

“Shadow Company’s dead,” you stated, tightly.

A deep frown swept over her features. “They’re still under operation, TV.”

Fucking hell. Jaw tensing, you shook your head in disbelief, threading your fingers together on the table. “Who’s commanding them?”  

“We don’t know yet,” Kate returned grimly. “They’ve been getting into tussels with Konni Group, so they might be an ally. Whoever’s at the head of the table, my guess is that you’ll have familiarity with them. That’ll be a real asset for us.”

You looked down at your fingers to collect your thoughts. If Shadow Company were still operating, it was your fucking responsibility to know in what capacity. And if it were someone like Nav at the reigns –

Fists tightening, you asked, “When do we leave?”

Duty fulfilled, Kate slapped a note on the table and stood. The legs of her chair screeched hideously, while you tried to thread your arms through the holes of your jacket. Grabbing her coffee, Kate threw her head back and finished the rest of it. The bare expanse of her throat bobbed with each gulp. When she was done, she banged the empty cup on the table. Determined.

“How’s now?”

Chapter Text

Everything about Nik seemed rough and dirty.

His weathered boot was pressed to the helicopter’s pedals like he was stomping down on pavement. A large hand, wrapped in a fingerless glove, choked the cyclic control. Hair slicked back; his headset was bulky around his ears. As though noticing you studying him, he dragged his eyes away from the landscape and glanced over at you. You stared at his dark, tinted shades. When he spoke, it was through the microphone curling around the arch of his shadowed jaw.

“Nice gloves,” he offered, voice rich from his accent.

Instinctively, you curled your fingers in your lap – the printed bones buckling with the movement. Searching for something to fire back, you gave him a once over. He fit in his chair tightly, big arms spilling out the sides. Behind him, you could see ochre hills in the distance, dotted with trees and crooked rivers.

Nik was wearing a thick, earthy leather jacket that looked like it was about a hundred years old. On the crinkly arm was a bullseye patch, bordered by the words ‘top shot’. Instead of zipping it up, he elected to leave the jacket drawn like curtains. Dangling over his broad chest was a silver dog tag.

“Nice jacket,” you commented, genuinely. “Thrift shop?”

“Lifted it from a dead man,” replied Nik, his thin lips curving. It was impossible to tell whether he was joking, so you chose to nod in quiet appreciation. “What about those?” he asked, nodding at your gloves.

You lifted your fingers to wriggle them in spooky demonstration, “Lifted them from a ghost.”

Nik’s reply was a rumbling laugh that eventually softened into silence. He tipped his wrist on the controls, manoeuvring the armoured bird with familiar, careless ease. As it turned, you watched the view from the cockpit slant. Through the dirty, speckled glass, a brook caught the sunlight and glinted. You blinked to protect your eyes, then chose to observe the dashboard instead. Your vision levelled when Nikolai finished the manoeuvre.

An hour earlier, he’d dropped Kate a mile out of Arklov base. There was a shared understanding that when she was ready to extract, she’d radio for the two of you to pick her up. He spent the time circling a safe, careful distance around Arklov base. Close enough to engage, if necessary, but far and low to stay under the radar.

Nik wasn’t bad company in the slightest. Sure, you had to get used to the garage band sizzling through his portable speaker. And the way he stifled a laugh whenever his sharp turn made you bump your head. But he let you experiment with the blinking sensors and weapon controls splayed out before you. Most pilots were sensitive about this sort of business, though not Nik. You appreciated that about him. Even if his helicopter was a little clunky and squeaky and might’ve had a few feathers plucked.

You couldn’t help but be curious about Nik. Legend had it that he was the one piloting when Gaz fell out of the helicopter. Suspended, upside down. Firing at hostiles. A Saturday morning for Gaz, really. But for you – the very idea was untoward. You’d be a blood piñata on a string.

As Nikolai completed one corner of his lap, he dove the bird elegantly in a turn. Like a boat sailing with the current. It was smooth – some of the smoothest flying you’d ever been passenger to. Perhaps he wasn’t as rough and dirty as you’d initially thought.

“How long’ve you been flying?” you wondered aloud.

“Long as I can remember,” Nikolai responded, shrugging. “It’s in my blood.”

“Mine too,” you smiled, putting an elbow on your knee. “Sometimes I think I’m better in the air than on the ground. Up here you can see everything, you know?”

That seemed to make Nik contemplate something, because the sliver of his brows peeking out from his sunglasses bunched together. “Laswell says you do special air ops,” he supplied, scratching his stubbled neck with his free hand. “Who do you contract with?”

Cracking your knuckles, you shifted in your seat. The old leather screeched under your weight. It wasn’t a question you liked to answer. Grimacing, you forced yourself to say, “I worked with Commander Graves and Shadow Company, before I left.” You paused, allowing this information to sink in. Partly waiting for him to recoil in disapproval. When he didn’t, you added, “S’pose I’m free as a kite now.”

“Free as a bird,” corrected Nik, amused. Seeming entirely uncaring about your admission, he reminded, “Kites have strings.”

“Right,” you laughed, sheepish. “You got the point, eh?”  

Rather than nodding, Nik shook his head – the way one might when an elderly person said something endearing and exasperating.

“So how’d you meet Kate?” you followed up, tone conversational. “And Price?”

“Was in the army,” Nikolai answered easily. “Laswell recruited me as an informant.”

Your forehead swept up in surprise, “For the CIA?”

“MI6.”

You whistled, slightly impressed. “Not a patriot, then?”

Lazily, Nikolai reared the cyclic again, reaching the end of his lap. The main rotor adjusted, whipping loudly somewhere above you. Perhaps remembering you were waiting for an answer, he licked his lips to say, “I love my Mother Country. But like all of her children, I can be disobedient.”

That he’d likened himself to a disobedient child brought you some amusement. He was a strange person, admittedly. Rough. Very large. And strange – just like all the other ragtag circus animals of 141. Somehow that made you a little fond of him.

“Who’s your boss now, then?” you enquired gently.

“Boss,” scoffed Nik, incredulous. Gathering his thoughts, he explained, “I’m a fixer – you need anything, anywhere, you call me.” He said this as if he were dutifully reciting one of the ten commandments.

“A contractor,” you realised, chewing on this information with interest. “Do you work for a PMC?”

“I lead one,” he stated firmly, venturing a glance at you through his sunglasses. “Chimera. Not opposed to doing favours for old comrades, though. Like Laswell, and Price.”

Nodding, you brushed your hair back and gazed out the window. It seemed odd to be thrown in a helicopter with someone who seemed the mirror of you. Sitting on either ends of the cockpit. Waiting for Kate. Dressed in borrowed jackets and gloves.

---

It was half an hour later when you heard it.

A whistle. Sudden and piercing. So deafening that it made your skull ache. Nik stabbed a thick, gloved finger to the glass enveloping the cockpit. Your gaze followed to where he pointed.  Whizzing across the sky was a thin shape. In its wake burst a trail of white, swelling smoke.

“Shit,” you spluttered, “We could shoot flares-”

“No time,” Nik interjected roughly, an air of resignation. He gestured with his forehead.

Ears damp, you adjusted your headphones, staring out the window. He was right. Too fucking late. As the missile plummeted into the breast of Arklov base, your breath hitched in your throat. Its nozzle sunk into a building, silencing its shriek. Immediately, a cloud of debris and flame ballooned from the building it contacted.  

You anticipated what was next. Dust swept outward from the base, like a rippling pulse. You waited. Stiffened. As expected, the helicopter’s rotor blades faltered under the pressure. Everything shook. Nikolai did his best to steady the controls, tugging at its reigns like he was cooing a wild horse. He regained control quickly. Gulping, you clutched your harness until your seat stopped bobbing.

“Fucking hell,” you cursed breathily when it was done. Ahead, the base was quickly being swallowed by a haze of smoke. “Kate-”

Nik instantly rasped into the microphone jutting against his lips, “Yankee to Watcher,” he tried, “Laswell, come in!”

A beat passed. Nothing. You didn’t have the heart to look over at Nik.

“Kate,” you urged, concerned. “You alive?”

Another beat. Then, your headset hummed.

“For now,” reassured Kate, crackling through the comms. There was a breathy quality to her voice that you took to mean she was running. “Missile attack – chemical warheads-”

“Get to high ground,” Nik instructed quickly, fingers tightening round the controls. With his other hand, he ripped off his sunglasses and tossed them into the space between your seats. “Look for a way up for extraction.”

Without warning, Nikolai lurched the lever forward. The helicopter swooped forward, making you buck in your chair. You propped a hand to the roof to steady yourself. He zipped the bird down the valley like a race car humming down a track. You could hear the rigid rotor blades pulsing desperately to keep up with his reckless pace. The crates in the back were jiggling noisily – vibrating with the engine. Through the glass, the base sharpened into focus.

“Need an ETA Nik!” panted Kate, panicked.

“Circling now,” Nik shuffled in his tight chair, as if it helped him maintain his focus. From your peripheral, you could see that he was wiping his sleeve across his forehead. “Is Yuri with you?”

“We went our separate ways,” advised Kate brusquely. Her contact, you assumed.

“He’s a survivor,” acknowledged Nik. “Like you.”

On the radio line, you could hear her boots pattering rapidly upstairs. Nikolai hovered above the concrete jungle. Pressing your boots into the floor, you leant forward to scan your visual. The ground was cloaked in gas. Tidal waves of sickly, green tendrils wafted around the buildings. Spewed out of shattered windows and open doors. There were soldiers down there too. They darted around like ants scrambling to avoid insect spray. Thirsty for air. Some of them keeled, reaching for their throats. Rumpling into motionless lumps in the dirt.

“People are dying down there,” you murmured quietly, trying to communicate the gravity of what you were seeing. There was a clamminess in your throat that you swallowed down. “Hurry, Kate.”

Under his breath, Nikolai cursed harshly.

Crackling on the radio was a metallic groan – a heavy door hinging open. Kate managed to say, “I’m almost to you – standby.”

Following your instincts, your eyes darted to an unopened entrance nestled in the corner of a bare rooftop. There. Kate’s small figure was slipping into the sunlight.

“I see you!” you belted, nudging Nikolai with your elbow to show him where to go.

On cue, he tipped the lever forward a touch. The bosom of the helicopter drew towards the edge of the roof Kate had surfaced on, scarcely skimming against the tiles. Swiftly, you climbed out of the cockpit and made for the door. Your fingers found the handle, tucking in to grip it hard. It glided along its tracks with ease.

“Laswell!” barked Nikolai over his shoulder.

Spotting you, Kate broke into a dogged sprint. She was making for the gaping hole in the bird. Holding loosely onto the metal door, you hung forward. Hand outstretched. Her eyes locked to it, as if it were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Jump!” you encouraged, as she skipped the last paces toward you.

Kate obeyed, leaping nimbly over the lip between the rooftop and the helicopter. Her hand reached forward. Your bony fingers latched around her wrist, dragging her in. With her weight collapsing over you, the two of you stumbled.

You shouted, “Clear!”

With that, Nikolai made a sharp, urgent ascent that rocked you back against the floor. From the open door, you watched the base become a mere wrinkle.

“Holy fuck,” you shook your head, disbelieving, running a hand over your sweaty forehead.

Finding some composure, you stood up with concerted effort. With the helicopter speeding so bumpily, it was difficult trudging to the door on steady legs. You made your way to it, focusing. Tucked your fingers into the doorhandle. Your shirt quivered with the wind as you wrenched the door shut. Cheeks hot, you whirled to see Kate panting on the ground. Her hand pressed to her chest, as if trying to slow her heart.

In and out, she’d claimed – with total confidence. Yet she’d been inches from either being blown to bits or melting into a puddle. In all your airtime with Shadow Company, never had you witnessed anything like that. Either she was fucking unlucky, or mad. Maybe they were all mad. Jumping out of and into helicopters. All of 141.

“The lot of you are mental,” you decided. “You survive the craziest shit-”

Kate laughed, climbing to her feet and setting a hand on the back of Nik’s chair. “Bit more collateral damage than expected,” she admitted. Then, more pointedly, “Didn’t you survive being hit by an RPG?”

Fair.

---

The helicopter retreated to a small base, nestled in the necks of mountains. It was quiet there, sheltered by a line of trees. The wind crooned through the metal structure of the hangar - the main building. It felt more like a warehouse than anything, with tins filled with old tools and weaponry. A large meeting table was positioned at the other end of the building, with screens decorating its nearest wall.

After securing some rations and water, Kate strode off to make a few calls. She exchanged a few explanations with Nik - something about Makarov pinning the missile attack on an innocent resistance militia group based in Urzikstan. Like most things, the details flew over your head. Big dogs had a way of talking about these things like they were passing sauce at the dinner table.

While she was gone, you and Nik found a hallway of bedrooms that you assumed was the barracks. Slugging your bag over your shoulder, you picked one of the rooms on the end. It was small. That didn’t bother you, necessarily. On private bases like this one, everything was smaller. Christ – you were glad to even have a room. The last contract you’d worked on had mostly involved sleeping in an ancient, creaking hangar – wrapped up in a sleeping bag.

As the afternoon crawled on, you settled in.

Tidied up your desk. Transported the neatly pressed piles of your clothes to its surface. Swept the floor. Fixed the knot on one of your boot’s laces. All to the thumping of Nik’s music from the room over. When you were satisfied that it was homely enough, you turned your task to the bed. The sheets raggedly clinging to your regulation mattress needed to be cleaned. Days of marinating in old, musky sheets was not ideal. Stripping the sheets, you wandered out into the hall.

It took some time to find the laundry room, despite how simple the base was. The narrow hall was hidden away behind a stairwell – terrible place for it really. As you passed from concrete to linoleum, the heaviness of your boots grew louder. Machines whirred and rattled, stacked up against the wall. You had to creep in sideways just to fit. The smell of dust and powered detergent tainted the air. Cradling your dirty blankets in the crib of your arms, you opened one of the wobbly doors.

A pair of footsteps startled you to attention.

You found Kate leaning against the doorframe, her hip projected out and arms folded. “John’s on his way.”

Oh.

You cleared your throat, palms feeling instantly clammy. “Is Ghost-”

“Affirmative,” Kate confirmed. “Boys are gonna hole up here with us until we decide our next plan of attack.”

She jostled the front of her bangs, as if expecting you might have something to say to that. Turning back to the open washing machine, you tossed in the blanket and clicked the door shut. A flurry of thoughts were whirling through your mind. Hands lingering on the washing machine, you eyed your skeletal gloves nervously.

Simon.

It’d been so long since you’d seen him. And just like that, he’d be here. Towering over you, as usual. Those dark, lidded eyes watching you. The mere thought of it had your heart kicking a bass against your chest. That was - embarrassing. It was likely that Ghost was completely unbothered by the fact that you’d gone months without contact. He’d probably buried you somewhere, with all the other parts of himself that he didn’t need. Things that weren’t important on a mission. As easy as donning a mask. You couldn't blame him for that. He cared about his work and you found that bizarrely endearing. But after so much time apart - you knew you felt nervous.

Kate tilted her head so that her temple was resting against the door, “You good?”

Remembering how to speak, you croaked, “Yeah. I’m good. Just been awhile since I’ve seen him.”

She smiled affectionately, “I’m sure he’s as on edge. But it’s no different than being on the phone. And John says you’ve been calling a lot. Said Ghost has been hogging the satellite phone.” She propelled off the door and straightened. “But soon as you see him, it’ll be like muscle memory. Always is with my wife, anyway.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard her correctly.

“Hogging the satellite phone?” you repeated, utterly confused.

Kate was looking at you like she thought you should be locked away. “Yeah,” she told you, a tone of concern. “To call you.”

It dawned on you. Your eyes widened. Heart thundered in your ears. The missed calls. The unknown number. Shit.

Chapter Text

You waited.

Sitting on your stripped mattress, your eyes were fixed to the horizon outside your window. Hours trickled by and dreary, rumbling clouds had rolled over. The glass tremored with the wind. It was going to rain. You could feel it. A fitting mood, you grimly supposed. Though it was cold, your neck was coated in sweat.

Nik and Kate were somewhere in the hangar: fixing away at the helicopter and scribbling through paperwork. You were glad for the momentary privacy. In your room, you could at least summon a slight amount of dignity. Thinking, you smoothed your hands over your knees.

Ghost was going to be angry or cold. Though, you hadn’t yet decided which. Either way, you had resigned to rehearsing an explanation to him in the solitude of your room. Unfortunately, the only one you could really come up with was that you were a helpless idiot. It would be easier if you could say you’d been deathly ill. Bed-ridden for weeks. In a coma, even. And maybe you could put yourself in a coma now, to spare yourself the possibility that Ghost hated you.

As these ideas swirled in your mind, a tiny black dot pierced through the clouds. Eyes carefully peeled; you leant forward to see what it was. Your breath misted against the glass, mirroring the fuzziness you felt in your chest. It was the chopping sound that gave it away. A helicopter, hurtling to the base, its blades spinning with purpose. Somehow, it felt like a death sentence. Like the grim reaper was coming to collect you from your confinement.

In a matter of seconds, the helicopter whirred loudly over the base and disappeared from your view. Frozen on your bed, you could imagine them lowering down to the tarmac outside the hangar just as Nik had done some hours ago. Then the door gliding open. Several boots finding the concrete. Price greeting Laswell, the others in tow.

You took a breath to gather some composure, pressing your fingers to the ID plate kept secret under your shirt. Sliding to the edge of your bed, your naked feet landed on the floor. You tugged on your boots. Chanted a musical ‘get a grip’ at least ten times. Pulled on a jacket. Then, stole a quick glimpse in the mirror. Your reflection stared back, looking just as mortified as you felt. Sighing, you tried your best to flatten your hair to decency. Despite your vigorous brushing, a few pieces of hair were stubbornly sticking up. They reminded you of insects pretending to be dead on their backs, their legs jerking erratically in the air. Never had you so deeply sympathised with the desire to do the same, until now.

It was as you locked your door that you heard the first droplets tapping on the tin roof. You found some comfort walking alongside the whispering rain. Something about it was relieving too. Almost as if the rain signalled Ghost’s arrival. That he was there. Solid. No longer just a memory that shadowed you.

Somewhere while you were wandering down to the hangar, a fire flickered to life in your chest. The idea of seeing him fluttered through your thoughts. And in turn, trepidation burnt in you. Or excitement. Or longing. Or all those things neatly bundled into one package.

The rain thickened as you reached the steel platform overlooking the hangar. At its peak, you paused to survey the lofty, groaning building.

Beside Nik’s helicopter was another armoured bird that you presumed carried Price’s team in. They were parked close together, the way two birds might cling to each other for warmth. A group of voices caught your attention, near the meeting table that Kate had set up shop. They were cloaked in darkness, though the screens on the walls emitted a sharp, bright light that felt a little blinding.

Hand sliding over the handrail, you started skipping down the steps. Under your weight, the metal clanged softly. Captain Price was the first you noticed, pacing at the head of the table to inspect the mess of papers laid out before him. He was kitted out in a bulky, army green vest that fit the shade of his floppy hat.

“We don’t get this under control an’ we’re fucked,” rasped Price, planting his open hands on the table. His shoulders hunched forward slightly as he thought.

“Fucking ultranationalists can’t be controlled,” replied Nik, leaning back in a chair that was tucked into the table. He set his elbows down, “Shit spreads like wildfire.”

“Then I say we smother it,” suggested Gaz smoothly. He was standing near the corner of the table, his old, weathered cap hiding his expression from you. Gaz turned to the captain, “Sir, let’s take a few days before we put our heads together.”

“Makarov could be regrouping as we speak,” disagreed Kate.

A gravelly voice replied, “They’ll be on the back foot.”

Seeing him made you pause, momentarily stunned. He had been so still and imperceptible that you hadn’t even noticed him. But there he was. Ghost was sitting at the darkest corner of the table, shrouded in shadow. His knees were wide. Bone-patterned fingers knotted between them. Wearing a black tactical vest and the pearly skeletal mask that shelled his face into obscurity. Thin white stripes slipped down his chin and disappeared into his jacket.

“We hit Konni hard today,” Price elaborated roughly, distracting you from your staring. Taking a step towards Kate, the captain clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Let ‘em lick their wounds, while you get some rest.”

Soap, balancing on the two back legs of his chair, laughed. “Didn’ have that attitude when ya got hit by the chemicals yaself, Sir-”

His voice trailed off, replaced by a startled silence. On the final step of the stairwell, your forehead creased as you tried to understand what was happening. It took a moment for it to click. Soap had spotted you from across the hangar. Like dominos, the others turned their heads.

Ghost’s chin tilted up. From the dark hollow holes of his mask, his eyes lifted to meet yours. To your surprise, he shot to a sudden stand. His chair screeched back. The abruptness of the movement earnt a few head turns, though he ignored them.

“Steamin’ Jesus, if it aint our resident Telly,” interjected Soap’s harsh accent. He shot you a playful smile, getting to his feet. He was bigger than you remembered – bloody huge. Wearing, as usual, the too-tight navy shirt that tactfully exhibited the circumference of his arms. Rounding the table, he cracked his knuckles. “What are the fuckin’ chances?”

Lingering in the back, you could see that Ghost had managed to regain his composure. He was unmoving, fingers curled over the table. Head bowed to stare at them. Cold, cautious exterior returned. Silhouette framed by the sheer, ethereal glow emanating from one of the screens.

You dragged yourself away to beam at Soap. Striding across the hangar, he met you halfway. Hooking an arm over your shoulders, he easily pulled you into a headlock. A moment of tussling ensued, as you tried to wrangle yourself out of his grasp to no avail.

“Quit strangling me, would you?” you complained breathily, trapped. “I’m here to work, Soap, not be accosted.”

In reply, Soap dug his knuckles into your hair and ruffled it hard. “How?”

“What d’you mean how?” you asked. When he loosened his grip, you took the opportunity to bat him away. Self-consciously, you flattened at your dishevelled hair.

“He means why, Telly,” Gaz supplied, waltzing up. Plucking off his cap respectfully, Gaz reached his arms out to accept you. You snaked your arms around him for a warm, friendly embrace. His pale blue shirt was soft and bafflingly unwrinkled. “Bloke doesn’t speak English, remember?”

“Garrick’s head’s full o’ mince,” dismissed Soap, looking to rephrase his question. "What're you doin' here, lass?" 

"Here to help. God knows you need it," you punched Soap softly in the arm. “How’ve you been?” you asked to the lot of them, feeling a little awkward under the attention. You didn't quite have the heart to check if Ghost had decided he was going to come over too. “Take it you didn’t know I was here?”

“Laswell’s good at keeping secrets,” returned Gaz, throwing a look over at her. He screwed the cap back on his head. “And yeah – good at the minute. Can’t complain.”

“I can,” mumbled Price, reaching forward to clutch your elbow in greeting. You copied his gesture – forearms touching briefly. Price slapped his other hand on your shoulder for good measure. “Vacation finally over, eh?”

“S’pose so,” you crinkled your nose, arms dropping back down to your side. “Kinda look like you need one now, though.”

The curtain of Price’s moustache danced as he scoffed in amusement. There was a glimmer in his small, triangular eyes.  “Always got those eyes on, TV,” he noted, using two fingers to point to his own eyes. Clutching each side of his vest, he added, “Not sure I like that or not.”

“No doubt you do, Sir,” you quipped.

The team returned to circle around the table. Soap nudged you fondly with his elbow on the way. Following, you used the momentary rupture in the group's attention to steal a glimpse at Ghost. He seemed relatively paralysed - like he knew there was a threat nearby and was hanging back to diligently assess it. Analysing his options. Carefully, you moved in the direction Ghost remained standing. And though you were avoiding his gaze, you could practically feel him tracking you.

Kate crossed a leg over her knee, “I asked TV and Nik to help us on this. Thought we could use some extra firepower."

“Good,” rumbled Price, taking off his hat and tossing it tiredly onto the table. “Only gettin' bloodier from here. This business with Makarov’s not goin’ anywhere.”

Trying to be as subtle as possible, you gravitated over to Ghost. Every step feeling like a missile finding its target. You wondered if the idea of you approaching made him just as unfocused. Eventually, you found your way into the darkness beside him. From your peripherals, you could see he was focusing on the conversation. You copied, pretending to listen to Kate and Price. But all you could really focus on was the alarming proximity of his elbow to yours. Of the sound of his breath against his mask. The swell in your throat. The way his fingers flexed by his thigh.

Feeling a little daring, you let your wrist arch. Pinkie finger twitching out. A scary beat passed as the tip of your finger gingerly grazed his. The touch sent shivers prickling up your arm, and you waited one torturously long breath for any hint of his response. Until Ghost’s fingers curled too. Seeking. Gently, scarcely tracing over yours.

---

When the meeting was finished, the team stood to disperse. Kate mentioned showing them the barracks so that they could unpack their things and bunker down for the night. They trailed after her up the stairwell, bags slung around their shoulders.

Ghost, however, tipped his chin to you in request. As usual, he swept from the hangar fast. Faster than any man his size should ever have been able to move. You followed him outside, keeping close to the hangar's frame. Overhead, the sky was thick with cottony, grey clouds. Dollops from the roof sprinkled the top of your hair, braiding down the sides of your face. On the ground, there was an assortment of muddled puddles being stirred by spitting rainfall. You were careful to leap over them, getting slightly left behind.

Turning to the backside of the hangar, you found Ghost. He was leaning against the wall, taking shelter under the small lip of the overhanging roof. Somehow, he looked like he’d been there all along. Staring out at the uninterrupted view of foggy mountain slopes. You watched them for a moment, clutching your elbows with a shiver. The two of you stood silently. Elbow to elbow. Listening to a fan humming in a nearby vent, and the hushed sigh of wind cutting through the rain.

Searching for something to say, you landed on, “Been hoping I’d see you.”

Ghost’s jaw pivoted slightly toward you, his eyes dull. “Found me.”  

Fuck, his voice alone had the power to turn you to butter. You glanced away to collect yourself, trying to fight the warmth spreading up your cheeks. If he kept on looking at you so intensely, you were certain you were going to have a heart attack.

Thankfully, Ghost didn’t seem to notice your inner panic. Absently, he dug into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve a half-crumpled cigarette. With it jutted out between his bony fingers, he urged it slightly towards you. Offering to share. A peace offering, you hoped.

Reaching out, you accepted the thin, frayed stick. Ghost’s fingers fleetingly grazed yours, just as they’d done during the meeting. Only this time, it wasn't in the safety of the dark. Part of you wanted to linger there. To thread your hands together and tell him how much it bothered you when you weren’t touching. But the moment stuttered by quickly, and Ghost’s arm withdrew.

Helplessly, you tucked the cigarette between your lips. It tasted dry on your tongue. Ghost fished for a lighter. Finding one, he swung his arm to indicate he was going to throw it. You caught it in your palms.

Ghost watched you slip your thumb over the spark wheel. Part of you hoped he’d notice that it was his old skeletal gloves peeking out from your jacket sleeves. You wanted him to know you hardly took them off, even when it was sweltering hot. You’d never shed the need for them. For him. As the lighter clicked, a thin, amber flame erupted. It buckled with the wind as you held it to the end of the cigarette. The two collided, glowing in a deep red.

“Thought we quit,” you commented, drawing your first breath.

“Stress dummy.”

“What’re you stressed about?” you asked, turning to blow a mouthful of smoke.

“Couldn’ find a carpark,” he deadpanned.

This earnt a small snort from you. There was something bizarrely endearing in his odd, sarcastic sense of humour.

While you tapped ash away, Ghost brought a hand up to his mask. In a swift motion, he dragged it off. The skeleton face went first. The balaclava followed. It peeled off, inch by inch, to uncover his pale skin. Something about the image reminded you of the way a magician would rip off a black cloth to unveil some trump card.

Bare faced, Ghost broke eye contact to shove his mask and balaclava in his pocket. His crop of blond hair was slightly messy. Ghost ran fingers through it, calmly. Shaking it out. You watched, slightly mesmerised. Your cheeks were so fucking hot you probably looked like a bloody roast chicken. And was he trying to make you nervous? Was this his trump card? Surely, not. Ghost wouldn’t resort to such a cruel strategy. Would he?

When he turned back to you, you realised the cigarette was hanging dangerously from your slightly parted mouth. Clearing your throat, you took it out and offered it to him, praying he hadn't noticed your gawking. Ghost’s eyes ran down your arm as he took it.

Ghost held your gaze and inhaled long. The tip sizzled with his breath. Gold flecked in his dark eyes.

“I’m an idiot,” you blurted out.

His brows crinkled, curious. Taking the cigarette out, he sighed, enveloping you in smoke. “That so?”

You scratched your nose, trying to think of how to explain your meaning. “I mean, I’ve been an idiot.”

After taking another drag, Ghost returned the cigarette to you. You took it, shifting your weight onto your other foot. His lidded gaze followed your fingers as you wedged the stick between your lips and sucked. Smoke trailed from the end, spiralling up between you. Red specs spat onto the cement, as you flicked away ash.

Finally, Ghost muttered, “Why’re you an idiot?”

Your chest rose and fell deliberately. “Well, have you been calling me?”

It was his turn to look away in contemplation. Gaze distant, he instinctively went to adjust his mask higher – forgetting he wasn’t wearing it. Simon’s hand fell when he realised, like he might’ve been unsure of what to do with himself. When his eyes found yours again, there was conflict in them. And - reluctance, maybe. 

“It’s just-,” you started, tapping the cigarette again in habit. You were afraid if you let the silence lengthen that he might withdraw entirely. “If you have been,” you tried again, “I’ve been getting the missed calls.”

His reply was hoarse, “Avoidin’ me, then?”

That was enough of an admission on his end. He had called. Multiple times.

“Not trying to.”

Simon threaded a hand through his hair again, “I’m listenin’.”

With the cigarette nearly finished, you decided to just bob down and dab it out in a puddle. It hissed. Your eyelashes dotted with raindrops at the change in position. Straightening again, you popped the butt into your jacket pocket. You wiped the fabric of your gloves across your eyes to soak up some of the dampness.

“I’ll be honest,” you continued, feeling ridiculous. “I thought you were a telemarketer.”

It sounded just as stupid to say aloud, as it did in your mind. 

Simon copied dryly, “Telemarketer.”

“Yeah,” you insisted. “They’re a real problem, lately. Scammers, too. My email got hacked and someone replaced all my music playlists with Indian rave music.”

A moment passed as Simon absorbed this information. He turned a little so that the two of you were facing - his chest at the height of your nose. A fold in his brows told you that he was thinking - hard - trying to solve some kind of complex problem that was turning in his brain. The silence was excruciating. You were halfway through imagining yourself tumbling down the cliff in shame, when he exhaled sharply. It was a strange noise - a subdued breath of amusement that had the tension in his shoulders easing. Nearly – like a laugh. Nearly.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon cursed. “Thought you were pullin’ a bit o’ psychological warfare on me.”

You raised your brows, laughing uncertainly. “Would it have worked?”

“No point,” Simon replied flatly. “Already out o’ my mind.”

A joke. This was good news. Fucking great. You smiled, hopeful. Your neck craned to look up at him. Nose bunching sheepishly. Simon’s eyes swept over your features, taking them in.

“That why you didn’t leave a message like a normal human being?” you teased.

Something softened in his brows, “Hit an’ run tactics, love.”

Love.

Simon tipped his chin at you, trying to communicate something. His hand lingered out a touch, almost invitingly. A moment ticked by before you grasped his intention. Come here, he seemed to say. Tentatively, you took the last step closer to him. Stopping only when you were chest to chest.

“Now who’s the one having a go at psychological warfare, eh?” you pitched nervously, nose wrinkling.

Simon’s eyes drifted down to your lips, tone hoarse, “Guilty.”

Laughing, you hooked your hands around the straps of his vest, holding him in place. You took a careful breath, staring at your knuckles, “Did you miss me?”

A pause while he considered his response.

“Wouldn’ fuckin' believe.”

“I don’t know,” you challenged, rattling him gently. “I’m pretty open minded. Reckon I’ll believe anything you tell me.”

Suddenly, the rain picked up, angling into the sliver of shelter you were both huddled under. Your shoulder was wetted instantly. The wind growled above. You nestled in close to the warmth that emanated from him, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. Shivers rocketing through you.

“Did you?” he asked, so quietly you weren’t sure you heard him correctly.

You found the nerve to settle back into his gaze. “More than I’d like to admit.”

Simon’s tone was affectionate, “You are admittin’ it.”

“Guilty,” you laughed, embarrassed. You nodded at the rain. “Should we go back in?”

“Negative.”

Chapter Text

It was morning.

The sun spilt through your window, stretching over your furniture in rippling, golden waves. You could feel it coaxing you awake. Its fingers mingled with your fine, shut lashes as if wishing to lift the curtains for you. Yawning, you instinctively slid your palm towards the space beside you on the bed. Feeling that empty, hollow space was your usual routine when you first work up.

Only this time, your fingers contacted something firm. A jolt tremored from the tips of your fingers all the way to your chest. Startled, you tore your eyes open to find a large shoulder. Ghost was stretched along your mattress, his back to you. You’d gotten so familiar with the biting disappointment of his absence, that you’d completely forgotten he was there.

Yet there he was. His hood pooled at the base of his neck, showing his messy, short blond hair moulded into his pillow. His shoulder rose and fell. His breath so quiet and steady, the way a tide lapped at the shore again and again.

You breathed in deep, smelling a mix of freshly washed sheets and the unmistakable hint of Ghost. Afraid you could be dreaming; you experimentally kissed your fingers over his triceps. A bead of fear slipped down your temple – that your touch could be the thing that disturbed this mirage. What if he disintegrated into nothingness? Shattered into a million pieces?

No. Your logic was just blunted when you were tired. Because the more you let your palm fall fully on his arm, the more you realised it was solid and tough. He was real. Warm. Not a figment of your imagination. Not a dream or a pathetic wish whispered into the middle of the night. This bit of warmth stoked the fire already brewing in your chest, overbrimming with utter happiness at this moment.

Reassured, you allowed your hand to glide down the valleys of his muscle, smoothing over the wrinkles of his shirt. The textured, bumpy fabric soon turned into smooth, ink-blotted skin. You skimmed down his forearm, marked with veins and faint, blond hairs. Goosebumps prickled on his arm, the only evidence of where your fingers trailed. Eventually, you reached his wrist, which was curled around his stomach and out of your sight.

As if called on by your thoughts, Ghost stirred. You froze. The bedframe groaned at the shift in weight. He rolled slightly, so that his spine was now flat against the mattress. Though, his face was tilted away from you. You waited for more, but no further movement came. Feeling a little daring, you propped yourself up with an elbow to get a better look at him.

Ghost was wearing his plain skull balaclava, concealing everything from his jaw to the bridge of his nose. His eyes were shut, framed by his long, pale lashes which were tipped in sunlight. The exposed skin around his eyes was two-toned. Black smudges and skin so pale it looked completely milked of colour. Twitching slightly, the subtle movement in the swells of his lids told you he might’ve been scanning something alertly in his dream. Your eyes travelled down his neck. The lump in his throat. His chest, expanding and falling as he drew deeper, fuller breaths. Then you found your way to his forearm again. The tattoos peeking out in the space between his sleeve and his glove.

His glove. You couldn’t help but notice his glove looked so dirty and old. It was a wonder he hadn’t dumped these. He usually had a few pairs. Even yours were in better shape than these. As you stared at it, a stray thought drifted over your mind. Curiously, you tentatively lifted his wrist and turned it over. You stared at his closed lids while you did, trying your best not to wake him. Satisfied that he was still deep asleep, you turned back to inspect his hand in yours.

In the cradle of your palm, Ghost’s hand fell open. Gently, you uncurled his fingers with your free hand, exposing his wrist fully. There it was. Stitched over the fabric was the little wonky TV. Frayed and unsightly. But there all the same. It nearly made you snort; how ridiculous it was that he was still wearing them. An urge to take them off and tease him for it sidled over you. But as you were contemplating tugging the glove off his hand, Ghost’s lashes began to quiver open.

You had no time to lay back down and pretend to be asleep. All you could do was hover above him, helpless, waiting for him to catch you staring at him. He did. Lids widening slightly, you watched his tired eyes blink. Then, they sharpened into scrutiny.

“Alrigh’?” Ghost asked groggily.

“Alright,” your voice stained as you tried, unsuccessfully, to sound casual. “Sleep okay?”

He took a deep breath, like he might’ve been yawning. “Better than I’ve slept in a while.”

“Good,” you breathed. A lump of embarrassment was quickly welling in your throat. “Sorry if I woke you,” you wriggled two fingers behind your head to simulate antennas. “I’m like a TV you can’t turn off.”

Amusement flickered briefly behind his gaze before he hooked a hand around your arm to bring your ridiculous action to a halt.

“Off,” Ghost proved flatly. He let go of your arm. “Think I sleep better with the TV on, anyway.”

That sounded like he preferred to sleep with you beside him. You hoped that was what he meant. You certainly felt the same. It was so different – so good – to wake up with him there. To be able to reach over and feel him. You wanted to tell him as much. The words were sizzling on your tongue, waiting to be spoken. But it felt a little early to be confessing things to him when you’d only just found your way back to each other again. And so, you pressed your lips together and quietly touched the place on your elbow where his hand had been. Your skin still prickled from his warmth.

Ghost’s eyes crinkled, “Why’re you smilin’ like that?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t realised you’d been smiling. But he was right, as usual. One glance in the mirror and you could see that your lips were curled into a mortifyingly dreamy, dazed beam. You immediately jostled your head, like it might help shudder off the humiliating expression. It didn’t.

“Am I smiling?” you laughed nervously. Without anywhere else to go, you threw a palm over your face to try to cover it up.

“No retreatin’,” Ghost warned. Something tugged gently at your wrist. Gingerly at first, then more insistent. No longer having the strength to fight it, you let Ghost draw away your shield. He scanned your face, like he was trying to decode it. “What’re you so happy about?”

“You,” you laughed, trying to bat him away. It had been so long since you’d laughed in civ life, and now you couldn’t seem to stop. You were sure your cheeks were flushed hot. “You just – you make me happy. I’m happy you’re here.”

Simon paused, as if trying to take in every word. Taking them in and putting them away somewhere safe and private, in the most isolated corners of his mind.

“That so?” he murmured, affectionate.

“Yeah,” you croaked, voice slightly weak. You inhaled, as quietly as you possibly could, trying to find a way to explain. “It just – it wasn’t the same when you weren’t there. Don’t get me wrong. I needed a bit of breathing room, and civ life was good for that. But it’s just not the same. Not when you’re away.”

It was Simon’s turn to inhale. Behind his balaclava, he sucked in his breath like he was trying to muster up the ability to say something. Instead, he threaded his fingers into the gaps of yours. You looked down to examine your linked hands. They fit securely and neatly. As if they were two sets that were always meant to come together. The metal teeth of a zipper fusing at every groove. Or perfect pearls of rain coalescing into one stream.

“Been a fuckin’ nightmare out here,” he eventually muttered, drawing you back into his impossibly darkening gaze. “Wanted to call you more but Price’s had us all over the map.”

You hummed in understanding, squeezing his hand lightly. “Cap seems tired. Or off.”

“Both,” he supplied dryly. “Old man doesn’t like to lose.”

“Are you?” you probed, forehead furrowing. “Losing?”

Simon levelled you with a blank, potent stare. Which, by his standards of communication, usually meant he thought you’d said something perfectly stupid.

You leant back a little on the bed and scrunched your nose, “I forgot you’re just as violently competitive.”

“Dog eat dog world,” Simon replied hoarsely. Then, he pulled his mask a little higher with his free hand, seeming to be thinking about something. “Been hittin’ Konni back hard but-,” his eyes swept between yours. “Not the same without you either, love.”

You nodded a few times. “So, I make you happy too, eh?”  

“More than-,” Simon swallowed, head lifting and dropping faintly against the pillow. When you touched his gaze again, you saw that he looked – relieved. “More than anythin’.”

Delicately, you reached forward with your free hand and prodded his masked cheek. “Hard to tell sometimes, since you never smile.”

“I am smilin’.”

Your gaze flitted over his characteristically vacant expression. You might’ve laughed at the absurdity of it, if he weren’t so exceptionally endearing.

“This is you smiling?” you checked incredulously, crinkling your nose. “Because you have this look in your eye like you’re ready to get out a knife and gut me at any second without so much as a twitch on your face.”

“That’s bollocks,” he deadpanned. “Would be smilin’ while I did it.”

You snorted, bringing your knees up to your chest. “As concerning as that is, I think I am getting better at reading you. Even with the mask on.”

Simon hesitated a moment, and you expected that he might disagree. But after a beat, he seemed to resign himself to something.

“Sentences, maybe. With luck.”

Tucking hair behind your ear, you smiled, “Paragraphs one day?”

“Negative.”

You slanted your head to the left to playfully complain, “Simon.”

Simon tilted his head to the right and copied, “TV.”

This rocked a laugh from your throat, which turned into a content hum. “Well,” you shrugged, “ready or not, one day you won’t be able to hide from me, Simon Riley. I’ll know what you’re feeling before you do.” You wriggled your fingers at him like you were telling a ghost story, “You won’t even know what hit you.”

He held onto your stare, “That a wager?”

“Don’t start,” you mused, slipping your legs off the side of the bed. “I know better than to enter any wagers with you.”

“No courage,” pointed out Simon, a touch smug.

You tapped your temple and tried to mimic his voice, “Just not a bellend.”

With that, he watched you idle toward your desk. You started rummaging around it, searching for his ID plate, which you remembered planting there last night for safe keeping. Your task was made more difficult by the fact that Simon had placed a few piles of his clothes beside yours. Draped his bulky tactical vest over your chair. And, for some inexplicable reason, lined up at least seven knives on the desk’s wooden face. Bewildered, you surveyed them. All had black handles with grip marks, where you imagined his fingers found familiarity. Some had jagged grooves along the length of the blade. Others smooth and shining, like he might’ve polished them the day before.

Raising a brow, you picked up one of the knives and wiggled it in the air at him, “Why do you need so many can openers?”

“For openin’ cans,” he explained darkly, words roughed up by his accent.

That was a fair a point as any, so you put the knife back down and continued your search. Opening one of the desk drawers, you caught the glimmer of a metal chain underneath a few documents. It must have slipped to the bottom. Lifting the folders, you dug it out from the bottom of the cluttered drawer and turned.

Simon was busy adjusting his hoodie so that it fell loosely around his figure. He didn’t bother to comb the mess of his hair. As you paced back to the bed, his eyes travelled from the necklet in your clammy palm to your face. His expression turned thoughtful.  

Casually, he nodded at your hand, “Still wear that?”

Slipping it over your neck was your only reply. Of course, you would. Fuck, you’d probably never stop wearing them. Just like he might never completely get rid of those battered gloves with the little TV on them. They were anchors. Magnets drawing you back together. Even when all the time and distance that the world could muster separated you.

Perhaps Simon was thinking the same thing because he quietly unpeeled one of his gloves and tossed it on his lap. Then, with his bare hand, he reached out and brushed your knee. Gently. Softly, with the tips of his fingers. So faintly that you could scarcely feel it. It felt like a strange mirror to the way you'd felt his arm while he was asleep. But he couldn't have known that, could he?

You froze under the weight of his hand, terrified that if you moved even an inch he might pull away. Your attention fixed to his down-turned face. But Simon’s concentration was on the place that his hand contacted your knee. Where you were connected, skin to skin. Staring at it the way one did when they were putting every ounce of their effort into one single fine motor task. And he didn’t stop. His fingers traced up your knee. It made your breath falter. Then, he moved higher, neared your hip. His fingers spread to cover more space, to coil almost completely around your thigh. And your throat tightened. 

At that moment, the sunlight pouring into the room shifted. The sun sailed gradually behind a thick tide of clouds. Shadows wavered across the walls. Simon’s pale, long lashes seemed to glint with the fluctuating reflection. And a heaviness hung in the air between you, but you weren’t quite sure what to name it. What to call this unspoken thing dwelling there now. Or, how to read the strange little quirk he was holding in his eyebrows. How his hand seemed to say so much more than either of you could. He paused there, perhaps conflicted about whether to continue. Like he wasn't quite sure if you'd unfold for him as easily as you'd surrendered earlier. Like he wanted to test it out, but couldn't. 

It lasted for so long. Torturous seconds of silence that nobody wanted to fill. Until Simon finally moved his hand away and you caught your breath. You looked up to him, sinking back in those half-lidded eyes, wondering what he was thinking. And the corners of his eyes wrinkled the way they sometimes did – the way they only did – for you.

Chapter Text

It was hard not to look at him.

He was running; hood back, blond hair slightly mussed by the wind, dull eyes fixated on the hiking trail. You could hear his breath too, panting softly. Muffled by his mask. It was enough to make your cheeks feel hot.

Since the previous morning, things seemed different with Ghost. Sure, he’d always been able to turn your brain to pulp. But now, you were starting to think you wanted – more. So, you stared at him, wondering if he wanted more too. He must have, the way he’d touched your knee. Though admittedly, it was difficult to assess what he was thinking while the two of you were running. If only you could read his mind. Christ, that’d make things exceptionally easier.

You wearily slowed down. Because fuck, his pace was inhuman. You staggered to catch your breath, no longer bothering to keep up with him. Ghost’s jaw angled towards his shoulder, like he was checking on you. Rather than stop, he continued jogging down the dirt trail effortlessly. You watched him shrink into the distance; his silhouette slowly being swallowed by the shadows of branches bowing over the track. Until eventually, he rounded a corner and disappeared.

Wandering down the track, you sucked in the cool, crisp morning air. You felt your nose go pink in the cold. Listened to the way your steps munched on withered leaves. Tracked Ghost’s journey by the boot prints he’d pressed into the dirt. Honestly, you were glad he went on without you. It seemed much easier to try to make sense of your feelings when he wasn’t around. And how strange it was, that for months you’d wanted nothing more than to have him near you. Now, it was almost a relief to be alone.

About half an hour passed, while you walked in thought. You were thinking about how Ghost hardly touched you. In fact, his guardedness sometimes made you feel like you shouldn’t initiate contact with him. How much he wanted from you was unclear. The line was unclear. Blurry. Maybe for you too. Yours was probably non-existent, if you were being honest.

Banishing your thoughts, you tried to refocus on the forest around you. It was a haunting place. A stream bubbled somewhere in the distance, hidden by thick branches. Leaves trembled. Tree spines swayed, creaking like floorboards. As you followed the trail around a corner, you were startled to find him waiting for you.

Ghost was lounging on a wooden chair, leaning back casually like he’d been there for some time. His legs stretched across the dirt as if to guard the way. You couldn’t see his face. It was covered by his drawn hood. Though, you could tell he was aware of your approach from the twitch in his curled fingers, resting over his thighs.

Slumping down on the chair next to him, you huffed, “Do you even break a sweat?”

Ghost picked up something beside his boot and urged it into your space. A drink bottle. It took a second for you to realise he was requesting you to drink from it. You accepted the bottle, popping off the lid so that it hissed. Tossing your head back, you squeezed it into your mouth. The water was cold and biting. Ghost's eyes were trained to the bare expanse of your throat.

Gulping, you clicked the lid back on and set it on the ground. You fought a shiver by rubbing your elbows, “We love our secluded places, eh?”

“Cold?”

Ghost’s hood shifted while he examined your hands on your elbows. He seemed to be contemplating what to do about your trembling.

“I’m fine,” you promised. “You know, you don’t have to be so concerned about my temperature all the time,” you smiled, prodding him purposefully with your elbow.

Probably, a bad move. Maybe he didn’t want you to touch him. After a beat, Ghost returned the nudge. Sheepish, you cradled the place he’d poked you.

“Gentle,” you noted softly, pitching him a teasing brow. “Losing muscle mass?”

“Ha,” Ghost deadpanned, eyes drifting back over to you. Lazily, he nodded down the slope that marched away from the track, “Reckon if I used all my strength you’d be rollin’ down there to your grave.”

You leant forward to dramatically inspect the drop off. “A grave fate,” you granted, reclining back to cross your legs at the ankles. “If I happen to topple to my death, can I make a formal request?”

Ghost tilted his head, which you took as his way of prompting you to go on. The idea that you could read his body language made you feel exceptionally smug. You propped an elbow on the frame of the chair, trying for your most serious tone.

“Put a little Casper on my tombstone?”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he cursed, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. Ghost thought for a beat. The longer he looked at you, affection started to simmer in his gaze. It pulled a smile from you. “Guess I’ll bite the bullet,” he conceded flatly, adjusting his mask. “Long as you put a TV on mine.”

“Deal,” your lips crawled into a contented beam. “You know, out of anyone - I’d want you to be the one-”

You blinked, distracted by a heavy droplet rupturing on your temple. Water trailed down your cheek. Ghost reached forward to catch it. His thumb swiped across your jaw. Though the wetness soaked into the fabric of his glove, he didn’t take it away. A subtle knot fixed in his brow, like he was just realising he’d stepped into an AO infested by landmines. You watched him consider his options, your heart thudding. You waited, wondering what he might do. Hoping to hell he wouldn't pull away.

He didn’t.

After a long, painful beat, Ghost’s thumb smoothed over your chin. Then, to the corner of your mouth, pressing lightly. Fabric met your bottom lip, making it tingle. He traced your mouth, deliberately. Carefully outlining the shape of your lip, like he was dismantling a fucking explosive. Perhaps holding himself back. And maybe you would explode if he kept going.

Ghost started to lean in. His knees widened, tapping lightly against yours. You shuddered, remembering the morning before. Your reaction shattered something in him. Ghost’s leg instantly jerked away from yours, as if it were searing hot. Cautiously, he withdrew his hand. Conflict burnt in his dark eyes. As if - maybe - he was unsure what you wanted.

You swallowed. Your stomach writhed with instant regret. Ghost recovered quickly. Too quickly. His eyes slipped away, finding interest in something in the distance; expression dull once more.

---

The walk back to base was in silence.

It divided you. A new void of unsaid things that you wanted from him. Was it fair to want so many things from him now? Touch was only one tiny piece of the jigsaw. Sure, you wanted to know what it felt like to touch him, uninhibited. But there was more you wanted, too. Him, mostly.

To kiss you. To take pictures with you. To get a bloody dog with you. To share a home with you. To be the one who ordered your fucking tombstone, if it came to that. You wanted to say it all. But you were too tired to try to fill the silence. Too nervous that you’d push the tension over the brink. Time apart had obviously turned up your idiocy a few notches. So, you unceremoniously buried those things away. Somewhere deep and hidden.

You tried to reorient yourself to the mission. In the afternoon, Price called a brief to discuss ambush tactics. The team grouped around the meeting table, scattered in chairs. According to Kate’s intel, Konni group were running a prisoner convoy through Siberia. Though they hadn’t disclosed who the prisoner was, the suspicion was that they were important. Captain Price had an inkling Makarov would be there to supervise the transport.

During Price’s brief, a dull ache had started thumping against your skull. You figured you probably hadn’t drunk enough water after your morning run. A consequence of too much thinking about Ghost. Tea would do the trick. Rubbing your temples, you stood to excuse yourself.

Soap asked for a hot drink too. It was alarming how well he knew you. Your nod unfortunately started a chain reaction of the team reciting their drink orders. Helplessly, you chanted their orders on the way to the kitchen. It was empty. You flicked on the kettle, prompting it to whistle. You hinged open the cupboard doors to retrieve cups. The first two, you plucked out by hooking your fingers into the handles. Lining them on the bench, you reached for the next pair.

Out of nowhere, skeletal hands brushed against yours. You hadn’t even heard him follow you to the kitchen. You flailed, shocked. Something tall pressed into your back to keep you steady. He was alarmingly close. Ambushing you, just like Price was urging. Ghost’s jaw was hovering near your temple. The hint of his breath fanned against your ear. Goosebumps tickled instantly up your neck.

He had come up behind you, seeking closeness. Perhaps your shudder in the forest hadn’t been as bad as you’d thought. You were about to turn around, to nestle into his chest, when he reached up and grabbed two mugs. Ghost vacantly dragged them down and set them on the counter. Then, he backed off, unhurriedly. His gaze held yours as he leant against the opposite bench, folding his arms.

You could only smile at him. A small, shy smile that he didn’t return.

The silence between you resumed. And you stared, mirrors of each other. Both of you were unwilling to disturb the moment. Until the kettle spluttered out, and Ghost helped you finish the teas.

---

After the meeting, Kate cornered you to fill out identification forms. History. Medications. Skills. Bank details. Kept confidential, if Kate was to be believed. You didn’t mind, either way. This was all part of contracting.

You took them to the rec room, sprinkling them over the table. Sitting a chair away from you was Gaz, his face deep in a book. Somewhere behind you, Soap was rummaging through the cupboards in search of something to entertain himself with.

As you scribbled through the paperwork, you heard a presence sidle up to your side. You glanced up absently. Ghost was towering above you. His half-lidded eyes moved across the papers to determine what you were doing. Offering him a contented smile, you started to collect the forms together.

“Hey,” you crinkled your nose, pretending to hide them from him. “You can’t know all my secrets.”

Ghost slanted his head, amused. “Can’t I?”

“Maybe you can,” you laughed, sheepish. “I mean, you have committed to organising my tombstone. S’pose that entitles you to more than most.”

“Better add me in there then, yeah?” he replied hoarsely, gesturing with his forehead to the pile you were clutching.

It was your turn to tilt your head. “Add you to what?”

Before you could understand what he meant, Soap’s loud cheer filled the room. You broke away from Ghost to find Soap. He was victoriously rattling a dartboard above his head, the way one did when they showcased a bloody trophy.

“Let’s have it lads,” he demanded, setting the board up on a blank wall. “Telly scores.”

“Wise,” you returned, turning over one of your forms to sketch down a scoring sheet on the back. “Take out the toughest competition first, huh?”

“Be glad for it Telly,” Gaz quipped, putting his book down to stand. “We’ll be here for bloody hours til Soap wins a game.”

Soap was wriggling the shaft of a dart playfully between his fingers. “Garrick’s eggs are double yolked,” he explained, punching Gaz in the shoulder.

Joining them, Ghost sounded tired, “English, Sergeant.”

Soap raised a dart and aimed, almost carelessly. It looked miniscule in his thick, calloused hands. “I said,” he enunciated, “Garrick’s a fuckin’ liar.”

Shutting an eye, Soap zipped the dart forward. Quivering through the air, it landed with a thud in the double. He sunk the other two shortly after.

Next, was Gaz. He angled to the side as he threw, looking proper in his stance. His arm was parallel to the ground and his spine needle straight. After a meditative breath, he lunged the dart forward. Realigned his posture. Threw again, rinse and repeat.

“Ouch,” Soap teased, flinching when Gaz pretended to punch him.

Jotting down the score, you put on a serious tone, “Order in the court, thanks.”

“Don’t be soft,” groused Soap, dismissing you with a hand. “Nobody ever died from a bit o’ friendly competition.”

“Lately,” Ghost deadpanned.

Collecting three darts, Soap dropped them into the lieutenant’s glove and clapped him on the shoulder. Ghost drifted up to the line brusquely. He set his excess darts down on a table, an air of disinterest. One he kept between his fingers, rolling it like he was finding familiarity. His other hand flexed absently near his hip.

Before he threw, he turned, sliding his gaze onto you. At first, you’d assumed he was looking at you to make sure you were ready to note his score. But then another thought darted over your mind. Was he – trying to impress you? No. Ridiculous. He didn’t need to do that. God, you were undone by his presence alone. Your throat suddenly felt dry as you gripped your pencil hard, fingers milked of colour. 

His eyes flickered up leisurely to the board. Without even practicing his aim, he shot his arm forward. Swiftly picked up another and threw that too. Each of them whipped to their mark, effortlessly sinking into the fibre. Bullseye, every time.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” laughed Soap, awestruck.

“Let’s go again,” decided Gaz, dutifully collecting the darts. “Best o’ three?”

Ignoring him, Soap quirked a knowing brow, “Lt put those hands to use, Telly?”

The room stilled.

“MacTavish,” warned Ghost, suddenly cold.

Cheeks hot, you shrugged. And it was hard not to look at Ghost. But fucking hell, you did your absolute best.

Chapter Text

“Roll up lads!” barked Price.

From the helicopter, you ducked your head out to see the captain crossing the hangar with purpose. His stride was underlined by a scowl, hands balled into fists. Behind him trailed Ghost, ever his calm, steady right hand.

You thumped a palm on the metal bird as a signal. Nik took a second before he rolled out from under the heli, lying flat on the creeper. Brows furrowed in question; he handed you a wrench.

“Cap’s called a meeting,” you advised evenly, using a rag to take the greasy tool.

Nik didn’t need further convincing. With one hand, you threw the wrench into the maroon, weathered toolbox with a clunk. With the other, you tossed Nik the cloth. Catching it, he climbed to his feet, wiping his soiled hands. Together, you trudged over to the meeting table.

One by one, the team dropped into chairs, ready to listen. You cast a cursory look about the room, thinking about where to sit. Gaz and Nik were on the far end of the table, by the wall. Opposite them sat Soap and Ghost. Price and Kate stood near the monitors, switching them on. An abrupt screech snapped you to attention. With his boot, Ghost had kicked out a chair that had been tucked into the table. An invitation. One he didn’t bother to verbalise. You hardly needed an excuse to be close to him. Focusing on Price, you crept over and sunk into the open chair.

“New intel,” muttered Price, seeming irritated. “Just heard from Farah.”

It took you a moment to place the name. You were pretty sure she was the leader of a resistance group in Urzikstan. Interested, you studied the deep, annoyed rumple in Price’s forehead. He was watching Kate boot up the monitor, fingers on either end of his moustache like the texture helped quell him.

“Kate,” prompted Price, a touch impatient.

She sent him an impressed, stern look. The screen finally woke up, emitting blue-tinged light. A few clicks later and she was pulling rectangles up, enlarging them. Images crowded the screen, different angles of the same sight. A plane had crashed in an open field. It was a hollow shell, gutted of its passengers. Scraps of burnt, buckled metal and ash showed where the fires had burnt for hours.

Your tongue tasted bitter, “Is that a-”

“Commercial flight?” interrupted Price, a little sarcastically. You hazarded it wasn’t his intention either because he drew a deliberate, long breath. “A Russian Airliner. Missile attack. Hit the ground near the Urzikstan Border.”

“Civilians?” you realised, a hint of disbelief.

The idea was disturbing. You knew too well what it was like being shot from the sky, rocketing to the ground with unstoppable force. Aircrew knew the risks of going wheels up. Prepared for it. And still, it had fucking terrified you. For civilians-

Kate clicked a button on the remote, holding it sluggishly in the direction of the main screen. The images shuttered over to show monochrome shots of a blurry-faced cloaked man. A thin white box appeared around his head.

“Security feed from the airport,” Kate explained, a tone of professionalism, “Passenger had a boarding pass for Flight 761.”

“Fake passport,” suggested Soap, leaning back in his chair.

“Or inside job,” pitched Gaz.

“More likely,” Ghost murmured.

Price curled his thumbs around the straps of his vest, jaw pivoting expectantly to Kate. He was somewhere between bitterness and resolve. She clicked again. The screen jumped, zooming into the box of the man’s fuzzy face. Several seconds passed. Each grain sharpened. The haziness melted away. It was a face you recognised, from photos.

“That’s Makarov,” discerned Soap.

He was noticeably absorbed by the screen, face marred by distaste. Soap’s hostility seemed to calm something in the captain. Price waved a hand at Soap in a half-assed effort to calm him down. A military habit to control any discontent in a group. It seemed to work. Obediently, Soap sat back in his chair.

Kate used the moment to step forward. “The first missile was on Arklov, a Russian base. The second, a Russian airliner.”

“He’s got more,” warned Price.

“Sick bastard’s topping missiles with chemical weapons and usin’ ‘em to kill his own people,” Soap breathed, heavy with disbelief. “He’s killin’ civilians.”

“It makes no sense,” Nik accused, seeming confused. “He sets the dogs of Mother Russia on himself.”

“Not if they don’t know it’s him, eh?” replied Price, rubbing a hand over his prickled jaw.

Gaz’s head swept to Kate, “Then who do they think it is, Chief?”

Kate’s reluctance to reveal more had you thinking of Commander Graves. Hell, if you shut your eyes, you could imagine how he’d perch his hands on his hips, click his tongue, and taste his words with his thick drawl. Always with the air of someone spreading the gospel.

He used to say that truth was the first casualty of war. Need to know, and all that. To him, information was a weapon that needed to be muzzled. When you were in Shadow Company, the Commander never allowed Operators to be armed with more firepower than necessary. Routinely, mission details were redacted. Objectives concealed. Even names became veiled in shadow. You had been no exception. A TV - not a person. One match in an identical box of twenty.

You couldn’t blame Kate for having a similar mindset. She was CIA, through and through. But it surprised you when Captain Price leant forward and planted both hands on the table.

“They’re Farah’s missiles,” Cap admitted firmly. “Or were her missiles before they got nicked by Makarov. Bird won’t say who sold ‘em to her.”

“Shadow Company,” realised Kate, and you noticed her eyes dart fleetingly to you. “I’ve had reports they’ve been engaging with Konni. They're involved.” Then, she seemed to say to herself, “We’ll need to get in contact with them sooner or later.”

You shook your head. “Trusting them’s a quick way to get a knife in the back. Besides, if their hands are bloody,” you wriggled your fingers for emphasis, “They won’t tell you shit.”

Price punched an enthusiastic digit at you to communicate he agreed.

“Who gives a fuck who sold them?” challenged Nik thickly, patting his hand on the table before gesturing at the images on the screens. “That ultranationalist is our fucking target.”

“Makarov wants a war,” said Price, straightening. The twitch in his moustache told you he was gritting his teeth. “False flag operations. He’s trying to incite Russia to move against Urzikstan. Farah’s his bloody match.”

“A title fight,” Ghost murmured dryly. His attention was loyally on his captain. “What’s the call?”

Price’s frown deepened, brimming with frustration. He tapped a dense finger on the table so that a lone thud filled the room. His narrowed eyes surveyed the faces around the table.

“We take the heli to Siberia. Run the ambush as planned,” Price ordered, finally. “If our old mate’s not there, let’s just hope whoever is has information we can use.”

---

It was some hours later, that you were in the gym.

On the other side of the room, Soap’s shoulders dropped in wait. He bumped his boxing gloves together twice, making sure his thick knuckles met loudly. He seemed to think the slap would inspire you to keep fighting.

Exasperated, you ripped down your balaclava. You began tearing off the Velcro of your gloves. Soap’s dark eyes darted down to your hands, like he was starting to realise what you were doing and was making a split decision about whether he should intervene. Thankfully, he didn’t. An encouraging speech was the last thing you needed right now. With some relief, you slipped off your sweaty gloves and tossed them to the mat. They bounced off in odd directions. You were the next to drop, gradually falling flat onto your back. A tired huff emanated from the back of your throat as you let your muscles sink into the floor.

It took a moment of tired blinking before you could bare the brightness of the lights above. The fan blades chopped across the light, the way a helicopter might in the sun. The gym was empty, save for the two of you. Above the sound of the fan whirring in the corner, you could hear the rip of Soap’s gloves coming off. In your peripherals, you caught a glimpse of him reclining onto the mat beside you. 

“I can’t think straight,” you admitted, panting. To emphasise your words, you tore your eyes away from the ceiling and levelled him with a dramatic frown. “My mind’s all over the place.”

“What’re ya thinkin’ of?” asked Soap, mildly interested.

“Nothing,” you muttered quickly, swinging your arm over your face to hide from him. “It’s just-”

Soap tutted knowingly and guessed, “Shadows?”

Christ, you wished he wasn’t so bloody good at reading you. “You ever,” you sighed, thinking of how to articulate yourself. “You ever feel like everything you do’s just, trying to make up for past shit you regret?”

Soap smoothed a thoughtful hand over his mohawk. “Aye, pretty fuckin’ often,” he shrugged one of his unnecessarily thick shoulders. “Few years back, we had Makarov right in our fuckin’ hands.”

“Had the chance to kill him, and you didn’t?” you guessed, more of a statement than a question. Soap didn’t need to answer. “You couldn’t’ve known.”

“Should listen to yer own advice, lass.”

There was a shuffle, and you swivelled your head to see him climbing to his feet. Absently, Soap gravitated closer to a punching bag that was lolling gently with the rock of the fan. Somehow it still looked tiny, compared to his hulking frame. If you weren’t trying to brood, you might’ve laughed. At the least, it tugged a chord of fondness in you. With his bandaged fingers, Soap halted the bag’s sway to force it to still.

“Thanks for doing a bit of knuckle work with me,” you smiled, gently affectionate.

“Don’t mention it Telly,” he dismissed. He reached out one of his arms in a lazy punch, exposing a patch of sweat that had soaked through his shirt. The punching bag jumped back. “Gotta be smart. Lt or me won’t always be around.”

“Unlucky for me,” you mused, rolling your head away tiredly. “I’d live to a ripe old age if you were. It’s fucking impossible to land anything on you.”

Truthfully, you had asked Soap to train because it’d been a while since you’d needed to use hand-to-hand tactical. It was certainly not an effort to impress Ghost. Not at all.

You had wholly forgotten how pale Gunner had gone when Soap had sent him cheek-first into the mat. Unfortunately, you could now intimately relate to that experience. Soap’s proficiency at close combat was downright alarming. He was strong. Much stronger than you had anticipated. Foolish of you, really. For the past hour, you’d failed to move him even one inch. It was as though his worn, black socks were unable to be coaxed off the mat, no matter how many times you single-mindedly tried. Fucking super glued, probably.

“Nothin’s impossible if ya’ve got the grit,” he recited.

Something told you this was a familiar chant to him.

“I don’t have any grit,” you laughed.

“Yer fuckin’ mean when yer in the sky,” he granted, lightly bumping his fists against the punching bag. It screeched as he stepped around it, dodging and hitting with lazy efficiency. “Reckon tha’s all the grit ya need, lass.”

“Well, I’m not cut out for ground operation, that’s for sure,” you pointed out honestly. “There’s a reason I didn’t join the military, you know. Jumped through plenty of hoops contracting.”

“Groundwork’s no different than jumpin’ through hoops,” stated Soap. “Lt’s a fuckin’ belter when it comes to free-runnin’.”

“Not what I meant,” you scoffed, placing a hand on your chest to feel its rapid rise and fall. Against your palm, your heartbeat struck viciously. “Contracting’s easy if you have a niche speciality. Don’t understand why you went the army route.” You added quickly, “Not to say I don’t respect it.”

“Bloody hell.” He posed you a knowing brow, “Say what ya really think, Telly.”

“What I really think?” you pondered quietly. You wiped the back of your palm to your forehead, feeling it dampen down your wrist. “To be honest, the fact that you put yourself through this amount of physical torture willingly is concerning to me. Seriously, does anyone sane join the SAS?”

Soap laughed, a loud racket. His voice was rough as he swiped his nose, “Ask Lt that yet?”

“He’d probably murder me.”

“Nah,” Soap’s beam returned. He manoeuvred out of the punching bag’s path. “Bloke’s pure soft for ya. Should see ‘im when yer not around. Fuckin’ nightmare on two legs.”

You feigned a frown, “Don’t nightmares have eight legs for you?”

He upped you by dramatically throwing his bulky arms around the punching bag and screaming. His voice reached a shrillness you hadn’t thought possible. It ripped an embarrassing snort from you that Soap had no choice but to mimic.

“Shut up,” you defended.

Soap decided to listen. You laid there, motionless, listening to the fan’s groaning and Soap alternating his fists on the punching bag. With each beat, your heart was returning to a reasonable pace. Your breath eased as your thoughts drifted.

In the silence, you pondered Soap’s words about Ghost being different around you. With this train of thought, you were quickly thinking about what he’d said in the rec room. And then, the way Ghost had wanted you to sit near him in the meeting.

“Soap,” you started to say, before you could stop yourself. Regret was flooding you, but it was too late now. He was looking at you expectantly. “What you said in the rec room,” you muttered, feeling like your words were fumbling. “About Ghost’s hands-”

He seemed extremely interested now, even more so than the way he’d stared at Makarov on the screen.

Your voice cracked, “I wouldn’t know if he, you know-”

“Serious?”

“Yeah,” you replied, a little embarrassed. You threaded your hair back, trying to brush away the strands sticking stubbornly to your forehead. “We’ve never-”

He intercepted you with a low whistle, abandoning the punching bag. It creaked behind him as he found his next question.

“Why not?”

Why not? Out of all the questions, this was one you hadn’t anticipated. You didn’t want to be overt about the skeletons in your closet. Or Ghost’s for that matter. You knew he’d hate it if you shared that. So, the only substitute excuse you could find was:

“Because I’m out of my mind?”

Your voice trailed off pathetically. Scooping up your gloves, you took turns thrusting them back on your hands. Recognising you were doing this to dodge him, Soap crossed the mat to close the space between you.

“Not arguin’ with that,” he teased. “Jus’ gotta get after it, Telly. Rip it off, eh?”

Glove straps fixed on, you hauled yourself to a stand. “Like a band-aid?”

“Aye,” he said matter of fact. “Give it laldy. Smash the cheeky bastar-”

You tried to laugh sarcastically, though it sounded rather miserable more than anything. “I’m not sure if you’re telling me to kill the guy or make a move.”

Soap seemed equally exasperated with your stupidity. “Listen, Telly. Even if ya fucked it up, I doubt Lt’s goin’ anywhere. Reckon he’s bloody ready to marry ya, to be fair."

You choked, startled. A figure of speech. An exaggeration. Surely.

“I doubt that,” you managed to get out, beating your chest to murder the hope that had flickered there. Soap’s eyes drifted, finding something behind you. You continued, “I’m not sure if he’s-”

Behind you, a dry voice cut you off.

“Boss wants to see you, Johnny.”

Your horrified jerk was instant. Blood cold. Heart threatening to arrest. Reluctantly, you swung around. Your fear had been right. Ghost. On your six. Shoulders unyielding. Hands coiled around his vest. Looking at Soap with military authority. An imposing presence that should have intimidated you.

“Move, Sergeant.”

“Copy, Sir,” replied Soap, getting his things together to leave. You could hear the entertained smirk that had likely melted his mouth.

Soap brushed passed the two of you, saluting lazily to Ghost on the way out. When he was gone, and the two of you were alone, Ghost’s attention finally dropped down to you.

Perhaps reading something in your expression, he tilted his head.

“Alrigh’?”

You willed your legs forward, hastily taking off your gloves and discarding them. You halted, barely a step away. Craning your neck to look up at him, you swallowed. He searched between your eyes, his pale lashes poking out from the black smudges around his lids. You let your focus wander down to the bones stamped over his lips, working yourself up to ripping off the bloody band-aid.

"Alright," you whispered, throat sore.

With that, your hands moved on their own, no longer belonging to you. Studying the fabric, you shakily found the edge of his mask, dipping in. Fingertips faintly brushing his cheeks. You shot him a quick glance, almost to ask for permission. Ghost didn’t so much as flinch. His hands remained on his vest, tightening.

Carefully, you slipped the mask down. All the way, until his breath was no longer behind it. His eyebrows twitched subtly, wondering where you would stop. If you would stop. Pressing onto your toes, you curved up into him, lips finding quick purpose in his. You pulled away an inch to see him concentrating, in some kind of daze. He didn’t let you go far. Ghost’s head ducked down to kiss you again. Properly fucking desperate. Hands cradling either side of your head so forcefully that you had to clutch his vest to stay balanced.

You weren’t sure how long it lasted. How long you stayed there, pressed into his warmth. Matching each of his urgent, unbridled kisses. Enough time that you were devoid of any composure. Stripped of anything but need for him. And it was only when footsteps grew louder down the hall that Ghost hesitantly withdrew. His forehead lingered against yours as he panted, finding his breath. Then, he backed off. Quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. And you let him pull his mask up. Let him become Ghost again. Let him leave the room.

Chapter Text

It was early enough that the sun had barely started peeking its golden eyes over the horizon. Arm on the roof of the helicopter, you were standing behind the cockpit, hovering over Nik’s leather chair. You were observing his hands, zipping over the switches with such efficiency it could only be muscle memory. The dashboard in front of him answered with clicks and soft, mechanical humming.

You drummed your gloved fingers on his chair, bristling with anticipation. A new habit of yours, thanks to the way the jostling of take-off sometimes reminded you of the helicopter crash in Las Almas. Each rotor blade started their choppy routine, their beating amplifying as the pace picked up.

Nik’s grip found the pitch-lever. He threw you a thumbs up to confirm he was ready.

Into your radio, you advised, “TV to Six, we’re green to load in.”

A beat, before the captain replied, “Loud an’ clear. C4 squared away?”

“Affirm,” you told him, mentally going over the explosives you’d loaded into the storage compartment. Certain you’d done everything you needed to, you confirmed, “Ready to whisk you away on that vacation, sir.”

Price’s scoff was slightly muffled on the radio line, “Copy. Lemme round up the kids.”

Weaving your way to the door, you gripped the handle hard and split the bird’s breast ajar. Wind instantly whipped against your face. The resulting chill in your bones made it difficult to work the door fully open, but you found it in yourself to persist.

The team were crossing the hangar in a scattered line, kitted up in full winter gear and carrying rifles over their shoulders. Every one of them wore faded, white and grey camo jackets. Helmets with the same pattern. Black tactical vests, with their chosen sidearms pocketed at their chests. They weren’t rushing over, so you used the moment to your advantage by taking a few meditative breaths. It took three for your confidence to rigidify. And when you hung out the side of the aircraft, holding securely onto the door, it was with calm familiarity.

You marked their arrival with a sweeping motion, inviting them up. Helping passengers on was a social politeness common amongst aircrew. You could remember a few pretentious arguments between crew members that blatantly ignored this custom. Of course, none of the boys from 141 bothered with any of that shit.

Price used the doors and a bit of his strength to propel himself up. He nodded at you on the way in before shouting the reminder, “Drop us at the rally point. Farah’ll join us there.”

“Why Farah, Sir?” prodded Soap with genuine interest, behind him. “Shouldn’ we keep her outta this in case shit goes South?”

He jumped up, the way a fighter might ascend the ring ropes to pull a finishing move. You didn’t appreciate the harder-than-necessary brotherly thump he gave your shoulder.

“Next to Ghost, she’s the best sniper I know,” Price answered authoritatively, taking off his helmet and setting it on a chair. “Try to keep ya mouth shut eh, Sergeant? You'll need every bit of your breath for the dive.”

“Could get him a muzzle, Cap,” suggested Gaz, earning a laugh from Soap. Boarding, Gaz elegantly removed his cap. Passing you, he acknowledged you with a smile.

Ghost entered last, using the hanging strap to climb in. He looked more built with the new gear. Something about the winter camo emphasising how large he really was. You noticed the cool grey colours added to the skeletal theme, too. His black, bulky vest shelled the thick, puffy jacket that ran up to his neck. Freshly painted eyes grim behind the pallid, bone-white mask. The glossy black sniper rifle extended from his shoulder to his thigh.

As he boarded, he scanned the helicopter, watching the others unpacking and getting settled. There was a cold alertness to him that you hadn’t seen since Las Almas – the kind that could send a shiver tracing down your spine.

You stared at him perhaps longer than you should’ve. It had been some time since you’d seen this mask on him. It was just as you remembered. White stripes painted from the top of his helmet, down to the hollows of his cheeks. Black thread stitched the sturdy bone to the balaclava underneath. Hairline cracks marred the edges of the eye sockets.

He lingered by the door to give the others space, putting down his weapon. Free of it, he absently massaged his thumb into to the palm of his other hand. Instantly, you remembered how those hands had pulled you into his kisses. Your cheeks burnt. Neither of you had spoken much since the kiss in the gym. You’d hit the rack early on account of the stupid o’clock morning start. If it hadn’t been tattooed on your brain, you might’ve believed it was just a dream. A really good one, at that.

Shrugging off your thoughts, you offered a farewell wave to Kate, who was standing under the shade of the hangar. Once she’d waved back, you slid the door shut. You adjusted one of your skeletal gloves higher, turning to head back to the cockpit without bothering Ghost. It was best to leave him to it. You knew he wouldn’t be your Simon today. That was his way, on missions. He needed to lose himself. Become distant and wary. You could honour that, for him.

So, it surprised you. It surprised you that when you stepped passed him, something firm stopped you at the elbow. The hand swivelled you around easily, like your weight was trifling at best. Ghost was facing you, somewhat vacant, taking gear out of his vest and transporting them to the pockets of yours. A knife. A spare pocket radio. A GPS device.

“What’re you doing?” you spluttered, wobbling as he forcibly stuffed things in. “Don’t you need all this?”

Ghost’s reply was throaty and low, like he didn’t want to be heard by the others.

“Nicked extra.”

Scrunching up your nose, you asked, “Nicked it for me or for you?”  

You didn’t really need him to reply to that. Something told you he was doing this for him, to assuage some strange little thought festering in his skull. Maybe so that he could focus with full attention on the mission. The helicopter crash hadn’t just shaken you, you supposed.

Still, Ghost’s firm answer was, “For you.”

He pushed a wad of bandages into the mouth of your med kit, having to rattle you so that it could fit in. You had no choice but to let him, arms dropping helplessly to your sides. Watching him. You couldn’t help the shy, gentle smile that wriggled up your cheeks. The way his lashes fanned down, concentrating vigilantly on his task, was so strangely endearing.

“You realise I’ll be outside the action, right?”

He zipped up your kit bag, dull eyes behind his mask moving sluggishly between yours. “That why you were trainin’ with Johnny?”

That snapped you awake. It almost sounded like he knew you were trying to impress him. That he was - teasing - you for it. And bloody hell, you weren't sure what to do about that. A little flustered, you countered, "Maybe I'm training to be a ghostbuster."

Hearing the words leave your mouth was like walking off the plank to your imminent death. The potential double meaning of what you'd said hung awkwardly in the air between you. Fucking regrettable. Busting Ghost was certainly not what you had been thinking about. Not in that moment, anyway. Hoping he hadn’t noticed, you tried to play it off by glancing casually at the others chatting between themselves.

When you fixed your attention back on Ghost, he was tilting his head. Knowingly. You pressed your lips together, mortified.

“I meant-,” you laughed, fumbling, a hand brushing back your hair. You decided to try again, “I mean-”

“Keep your hat on, yeah?” he interrupted flatly, tapping his finger on your forehead.

There was a nearly imperceptible trace of fondness in his eyes that you were sure he didn’t intend for you to see. Ghost gave your face one last once over before he brusquely turned. You watched him take the seat next to Soap, knees apart, tangling his white gloves together between them.

“Good to go?” yelled Nik over his shoulder.

Though you were sure you were one blush away from melting into a puddle of embarrassment, you managed to croak back, “Solid!”

---

Siberia was rudely chilly.

Snowflakes, brittle as ash, fluttered onto frosted trees. Piles of snow caked the ground. The air tasted fresh. And though it was beautiful, you couldn’t feel your fucking nose. Outside, you rubbed your hands together to try to gather some warmth.

Winter warfare was certainly not a strength or speciality of yours. Not in the least. If it weren’t for the helicopter behind you, still emanating heat from the engine, you probably wouldn’t have lasted more than minutes in the frozen tundra. A pace away from you, Nik was puffing on a cigarette, making sure to blow smoke in the opposite direction to you. He was offensively wearing only his leather jacket.

You extracted the drone controller from your jacket pocket to check on the visual. The road looked empty. So did the glassy ice that it cut along. Though the sensor was picking the approaching convoy a few clicks away. Kate’s estimation had been right. If there were any complications, she would’ve notified you from her position on base.

“All stations, this is 6-2,” sizzled your radio line. Gaz’s voice was smooth, but there was a bubbly echo to it. “Making our dive.”

You were grateful you weren’t asked to suit up for the swim. Diving under a frozen lake wasn’t on your bucket list, and Price, Gaz and Soap had happily volunteered for the job. Bunch of madmen, honestly.

Clicking on your radio, you replied calmly, “Copy that 6-2. I’m tracking the target in bound North, three clicks out. No drone visual.”

“Rog,” buzzed Gaz. “Ghost?”

“In position,” murmured Ghost through the comms, his tone dry. “Got eyes on the road. RV’d with Kilo en-route.”

“Good copy, standby to engage,” Price ordered fuzzily.

There was a nervous little tug in your stomach at that. You’d known the plan. Hell, you could recite it backwards. But now it was underway. And well, the idea of Ghost being alone in the snow with a woman you hadn’t met – it was poking tiny holes in your concentration. An unwelcome feeling that didn’t make much sense. There was nobody you trusted more than Ghost. But you didn’t know Farah. Best sniper Price had ever seen, apparently. That had to be a force to be reckoned with. And you had no doubt that, if she had any sense, she’d find Ghost just as endearing and handsome as you did.

Christ, you needed to get a fucking grip. You exhaled a frosty breath to disrupt your rumination. Those thoughts had no place out here, not on a mission.

After another minute, movement on the screen of the drone controller caught your attention. You scanned it to see three trucks hurtling down the road, towards the lake. Their foggy, red blinkers glowed. Noticing, Nik flicked his cigarette and jutted his neck out to examine the convoy. You tilted the screen so he could see better, trying not to look unimpressed at the discarded butt.

“All stations, target is one click out,” you notified the team, a shiver tickling up your spine.  Shifting, your boots scrunched in the snow. “Eyes on, through the drone. Confirm visual?”

There was a pause.

“I see it,” Ghost said sturdily. “On ice.”

“Solid,” came Gaz. “Here they come.”

Expectant seconds ticked by, before Price’s roughed up voice announced, “Fire in the hole.”

You flinched. A deafening crack split the calm air. As the explosion rippled to its surroundings, you felt the ground tremor. Nearby, trees shuddered their snow like old coats. You checked the screen. The frozen lake was now a gaping hole, bits of snow sprinkling down like rain. Cracked chunks of ice swayed on top of a black void. The trucks were gone, sinking to airless depths.

“All stations, good effect on target,” Soap stated, as if it were just another day at the office.

---

It wasn’t long before they surfaced, bobbing along the water. Three figures climbed up the edge and onto the unbroken plane of ice, dragging a prisoner whose head had been bagged. The prisoner dropped quickly to their knees, exerted.

You and Nik watched from the drone, your breath misting out before you. He swatted it like it was an irritating insect in front of the television.

Price crooked his chin to speak into his mic, “All stations. No Makarov. Target was not in the convoy. Prisoner has been intercepted and secured. Standby for ID.”

He looked to Soap, who ripped off the rag covering the prisoner’s head. It was an old, bald man, looking up at his new captors through thin, hostile eyes. You couldn’t hear, and the radios weren’t switched on, but he seemed to be saying something to Soap. Whoever it was, they clearly had beef with Soap. Price too.

“Un-fuckin’ believable,” groused Soap into his comms, backing off in frustration. “Ghost, you seein’ this?”

Ghost tasted coldly, “In my sights.”

“Let’s smoke ‘im and call it a day,” suggested Soap, darker than you'd ever heard him.

Turning to Nik, you furrowed your brows to ask who the prisoner was. Nik offered a lazy, one-shouldered shrug.

“Puppet master to your Shadows, yes?”

Ah. You examined the screen with understanding. It was a cold comfort, knowing that the prisoner they'd nabbed was on his knees in the snow. Alive and breathing. Your fingers tightened. Teeth clamped together. Tongue suddenly bitter. The man that’d orchestrated everything. Who’d loosened Graves’ leash and set the dogs on Las Almas. Encouraged the Shadows to try and kill Ghost. And Soap. And you, in a way.

General Shepherd.

Chapter Text

Gunshots.

The radio was thumping. The noise had you alert in the co-pilot’s chair. Nik tore the helicopter over a field of snow; you could hear wind and snow whipping on the windows. Every pulse of the rotor blades seemed to rock through your chair, harder and faster than your heartbeat. You listened to the pops on the comms line.

Konni Group had been more organised than anticipated, to plus-up the convoy with reinforcements. A fucking problem, to say the least. Now they were scurrying down the snowy slope, like rats wriggling out of damp gutters in search of food. Luckily, Price was prepared for it – a ratcatcher hunting them with his bare hands. He was shouting orders on the radio, voice chopped up by their firing rifles. There was composure in his gruff tone, as if he wasn’t at all skirting the edge of death but was doing his bloody grocery shopping.

“One click out,” you advised Nik, moving your mic to say this directly to him.

He nodded, shades slipping a little down his nose. “You wanna man the gun?”  

You turned to him, unbuckling your seatbelt, “Yeah. Gimme a sec, I’ll let you know.”

Nik punched a thumbs up that you returned. Adjusting your headset to quieten some of the gunshots clamouring in your ears, you clambered over the chairs. Through the windows, white-tipped mountains were stretched across the horizon. You noticed them bobbing while the helicopter began to make its descent.

In the birdcage, you found the mini machine gun. It was tucked in the corner; thick, round steely arms folded into each other. A chain of ammunition was draped over its bosom. You pulled on the cool metal, dragging the turret along the tracks to the gunner’s position. Yanking hard, you thrust open the door.

What you unveiled was temporarily blinding. The bright, glistening film of white snow burnt into the back of your eyes. You rubbed a knuckle into your lids, wincing. It took a few blinks for your vision to correct. All the while, Nik was dropping fast. He sunk lower the ground, sending tugs through your stomach. The mountains seemed lofty now as they whooshed by. Clouds sailed above the helicopter, leaving only their shadows painted on the snow like black, ink blots on parchment.

You swivelled the gun experimentally to test its field of motion. Then, shouted over your shoulder, “Green to go Nik!”

Nik responded, “Gun’s on.”

Pointing the nose of the gun out the door, you watched the ground sharpen in clarity. Blurs of white turned to lumps of snow. Glassiness turned to textured ice. And the six little figures flitting towards the helicopter, you recognised as 141. As wheels touched down, the bird trembled. You drummed a finger on the minigun, in time to the slowing rotor blades. The team neared, headed by Price. They were alone; must’ve taken out the rest of the Konni stragglers. Regardless, you covered their retreat to the heli.

When he was a few feet away from the bird, Price stamped a boot on the ground. Soap waited until General Shepherd was on top of the marked position before he bumped a hand on the man’s shoulder to force him on his knees.

The General fell to the ground; petulant expression, thin coveralls, a shining hairless scalp that was slightly tinged blue. He was pitiful. His knees were sinking deep into the snow, wrists zip-tied behind his back. Dark patches had soaked up his thighs. He must’ve been fucking freezing, but nobody seemed to care. Boots crunched in snow. The team made a circle around him, using the helicopter’s body to block off one side.

Price muttered, “I’ve been lookin’ for you.”

Shepherd had to lean slightly to fit the captain in his line of sight. “Best of the best, all in one place,” noted Shepherd, a touch sarcastic. His neck rotated so that he could get a look at the hostiles surrounding him. There were deep creases marring his forehead, and you got the sense he wasn’t familiar with being so powerless.

“With one glaring exception,” corrected Gaz, coming up on his six. His smooth face was twisted in a serious frown. It wasn’t often that you saw him so disdainful.

Shepherd turned back to Price. “What is the agenda of this little pow wow John?”

“The crossroads,” bit the captain. “Why are you here?”

“They’re hunting us,” huffed Shepherd, his breath billowing in mist. “They found me first-”

“Those missiles were mine.”

A tight voice you weren’t familiar with. Farah, you guessed. She was standing near the helicopter, dressed in olive. Hair covered by a striped, silk scarf. Concentration moulding her brows. She was holding a sniper rifle, across her chest, one of her lean fingers hovering near the trigger.

Farah spoke through gritted teeth, “We never got what we paid for.”

At this accusation, Shepherd’s eyes thinned. “No one else had the balls to do what I did for you.”

“You traded them to Makarov,” presumed Price.

Shepherd scoffed in disgust, “You think I’d put weapons in the hands of a Russian ultranationalist?”

You fought the urge to point out the bastard probably did whatever he fucking pleased. The others must’ve been fighting similar sentiments because nobody challenged him. Price was pacing in place, angry. His fingers combed the edges of his moustache, the way one might if they were making an important decision.

You used the moment to glance at Ghost. He was opposite Price, lazily holding his sniper rifle. The black nose of the barrel pressed against his thigh, tipping at his knee. He wasn’t looking at you. Instead, his eyes ran along the distant perimeter, scanning warily.

Soap snapped your attention back, “If ya didn’t give Farah’s missiles to Makarov, why the fuck would they have kept ya alive?”

“Because I know things,” Shepherd retorted, an air of condescension. His knees wriggled. Perhaps they were getting sore. But if the cold bothered him, he scarcely showed it. “But they don’t know how much. I’m assuming they want to.”

Gaz’s tone was sharp, “Where are you getting’ intel? Without an army, you got nothin’.”

“Shadow Company.”

 “How?”

It took a moment for you to realise that you were the one who had spoken. The general’s beady eyes flickered over to you. First, with confusion. Then, growing understanding. You could feel a wave of other gazes finding you. It sent a shiver tingling up your neck.

“Graves told me about a defector,” his face twisted like he was tasting poison. “Wouldn’t be happy to know you survived.”

Your teeth ground together.

“My Shadows tousled with Konni,” Shepherd went on, directing this at Gaz. “We picked up good intel. Files. Drives.”

“Bollocks,” spat Price, spinning on his heel to pace again.

“Let’s toss this fucker back in the lake,” Soap suggested cheerily, clapping his hands together the way a schoolteacher did with their students.

Shepherd looked sorry about this possibility. You watched his face move through different expressions, battling out a decision in his mind. He seemed to know something but was unwilling to share it.

“You’d regret that,” warned Shepherd, though you could tell concern was lacing his words. “I know Makarov’s next target,” he paused to let that be absorbed fully, “And I know what happened to Farah’s missiles. Listen, we’re on the same side, boys. I want Vladimir Makarov, same as you.”

“Same side,” laughed Soap, colder than you’d ever heard him speak. “How about you take a little ‘me time.’ And freeze to death.”

“That’s the idea I’m partial to,” Ghost murmured darkly.

“Give it to us,” demanded Farah, shifting her rifle to her back like she might forcibly try to strongarm it from him. “The intel.”

“Get me out of here and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

You flinched. General Shepherd was bad news. It was more than the fact that he couldn’t be trusted. He’d done things. Things that needed to be punished. Things he couldn’t get away with like some slippery fucking rodent. Yet, there was little choice. Little wiggle room when Makarov was so tactfully on the move. Every single chess move counted.

But it struck you in the face when Shepherd mouthed, “Graves’ll tell you the rest.”

“Graves?” Price copied, incredulous.

You shot to attention.

You had imagined his name. Or Shepherd had misspoken. Or he’d meant something you couldn’t grasp yet without further context. Maybe there was old footage of him, or he’d left files. Or he was lying. Anything made more sense than the idea that the dog hadn’t been put down.

Instantly, your eyes darted to Soap. He’d done it himself. He could prove Shepherd wrong with his testimony. But your chest thudded when you found Soap’s brows tense in disbelief. Just as bewildered as you were. Second-guessing himself, just as you were. His hands had tightened around his rifle. And it was that hesitance that made you believe it was a possibility. That Soap was sorting through a conceivable scenario where Graves might’ve lived.

This couldn’t be real. Lips falling apart, you smoothed your fingers over the minigun. Your thoughts were scattered in a hundred different directions. The dull ache it caused in your skull was horrible. And if your heart kept this pace, you were sure you were going to fucking pass out. In the chaos of your mind, your eyes found Ghost. He was staring at you. Intently. Steadily. He was trying to communicate something to you. Easy, love.

It helped you find your voice. You croaked, “Graves is dead.”

A low, mocking laugh emanated from Shepherd’s throat, “Nice to see your soldiers are as slow as you, John.”

---

There was a rattle on your chair.

“TV, right?”

You didn’t need to turn to see who was hovering over the cockpit. Farah. Cautiously, your jaw turned slightly to indicate to her that you were listening.

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “Farah?”

She must’ve been nodding because she gave no immediate reply. “Would you mind showing me where the spare med kits are?” Farah placed a familiar, affectionate hand on the shoulder of Nik’s leather jacket. She made a point to say, “Nik won’t mind.”

He seemed to agree, giving you a curt nod. Part of you had hoped he would protest. You weren’t really in the mood to make nice with Farah. Not when your mind was still reeling. But her hand slid from Nik’s to the back of your chair, almost expectant. And without any good excuse, you ripped off your headphones, climbed over the seat, and lead her to one of the supply crates.

As your steps clunked along the length of the helicopter, you caught a glimpse of Ghost. He was talking to Soap. Or listening, rather. Ghost was extending his arm, then contracting it. It might have been sore. Too much kickback from firing, maybe. A desire to check on him danced over your thoughts. You buried it down.

“How long have you been with 141?” asked Farah, as you started opening up crate to dig around for med supplies.

“Uh,” you thought, “I’m not really with them. Just doing a bit of contracting.”

“It’s not often someone earns Captain Price’s trust.”

You didn’t appreciate the implication in her tone. “Not sure I have yet,” you shrugged uncertainly, finding some spare kits at the bottom of the crate.

“Yet you’re here,” pointed out Farah, curious now.

Extracting a medical kit from the crate, you pressed it into her space. “Like I said, just doing some contracting.”

Farah took it into her hands, staying where she was. She wanted to say more. You waited, studying her face. Up close, it was easier to see that she was attractive. Large, deep, intense eyes. Heavy, arched brows that contrasted the smooth quality of her nose. Tanned cheeks that smoothed into a sharp, unassuming jaw. Her lips were motionless, contemplative. Unable to stand the awkwardness, you pretended to busy yourself with closing the crate.

Farah at last gathered her purpose, “You were a Shadow once, yes?”

There it was. Your past. Your mistakes, coming back to haunt you. Colouring others' perceptions. 

As if you might deny it, she clarified, “Price told me you were there with them in South America.”

“Yeah,” you closed the lid of the crate. “So?”

Farah gazed down at the med kit. She seemed distant, as if an image was settling over her thoughts.

“So, it’s not easy leaving behind your people for a cause you believe in.”

You dared to meet her gaze, surprised to find it was soft. Warm. Glittering with humanity.

“One of my closest,” she continued, hesitating to search for a word. “My closest friend did the same. I respect it greatly. The will to follow your own conviction.”

You tried for a smile. It crept up your cheeks, easier than you’d expected. You’d been wrong. Delightfully wrong. Farah accepted it with a firm smile back.

“I appreciate that,” you admitted. “I don’t wanna place blame, but I have a feeling if the Shadows are involved in this, they’ve done something dirty. Made a deal with Makarov.” You frowned, “I guess I am placing blame.”

Farah whispered, “Do you believe Graves to be alive?”

Truthfully, you didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t even want to imagine what it meant if he was still commanding the Shadows.

“I’d need to see it to believe it,” you sighed. “Was out cold when it happened.” Trying to change the subject, you nodded at the med kit with some concern, “You okay?”

“Oh,” Farah seemed to remember the kit, then pointed absently over her shoulder. Her professionalism returned, “It’s for Ghost. Bullet tagged his arm.”

“Oh,” you said. “Is he okay?”

“Surface scratch,” replied Farah. You took the ease in her tone to mean he wasn’t really injured. She held up the medical supplies. “This is just in case.”

“Oh,” you said, a bit weaker.

Tensely, you watched her pace over to Ghost and offer him the kit. Ghost took it lazily from her. You half expected she might try and touch him too. You chanted in your mind that you dared her to do it. Do it. Wondering, dreading, that he might let her.

A fleeting idea crossed your mind. Of going over there and tossing it out of his hands like it was a live wire. Of offering him the gear he’d tucked into your medical bag. Of telling him that you were the one who’d do anything for him. It disturbed you, thinking that way. You couldn’t do any of that. Not if you had a touch of dignity and respect. So, you didn’t move. You watched.

He didn’t open the medical kit up - simply gripped it in his hand and resumed listening to Soap. And for the first time, you noticed fully that his gloves were not the black, skeletal ones with the TV stitched on the wrist. Rather, he was wearing a white, winter camo pair that matched the rest of his uniform. It was logical. It made perfect sense. It shouldn’t have bothered you. It shouldn't have pierced you. Sharp and raw, like a gunshot blown through your chest.

It did.

Chapter Text

Fuck. You needed to be alone.

A haunted barrack would be nice. A cigarette, even better. Neither were available. In Farah’s underground safe house, you could hardly even go for a stroll. Unless, of course, you were happy to run into people. You weren’t. It was a metal maze draped in silver webs and dust. The kind that was used by defectors and squads when crossing the Russia-Urzikstan border.

You settled for a cold shower. The spray on your back was bitingly cold. Hundreds of tiny needles of water prickled over your skin. Suds bubbled down your legs, puddling on the cream tiled floor. As steam fogged up around you, you watched a single bead slipping down the tiles. It looked lonely, somehow. Doomed to coalesce with the pool on the ground. There, it would lose itself. Never to be found again. Just one more drop in the ocean.

Stretching out your toe, you pressed it against the droplet. It flattened, instantly. Cool on your skin. You switched the shower off, hearing the drain slurping up the remnants of water. You dried. Dressed. Left the bathroom. On one of the benches, you slumped down and rumpled your hair in a towel.

It was as you twisted the towel over your head that you heard someone enter the locker room. You perked up, watching an unfamiliar man carry a duffel bag in. He was handsome. Thick shadows on his jaw. A large moustache that swept over his upper lip. Messy, wet hair that said he was revelling in the fact he didn’t have to keep it neat or tidy.

He sat on a bench a few paces from you and started fiddling with his metal prosthetic leg. Though he wasn’t looking at you, he said, “Alex.”

You assumed he meant his name.

“TV,” you returned evenly.

“Don’t think I’ve seen any in here,” he swiped a finger across his nose, “Not that I watch much TV.”

You laughed, “Meant my name.”

“Ah shit,” Alex’s voice rose so suddenly that it startled you. He looked up, his thin eyes finding yours. They were gentle. Amused, at himself. “You’re the one Farah mentioned?”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you shrugged, “Don’t know. Am I?”

“Reckon so,” confirmed Alex, arching a brow. Finished with whatever he was tinkering, he ran a towel over the metal prosthetic. “Said we’ve got a bit of a similar story.”

Not only did Farah somehow know your story, but she was actively sharing it with others. You chewed on that, studying him a little more carefully. He must have been the person that Farah was talking about on the helicopter. Closest friend, she’d called him.

You threaded your hair behind your ears, curious. Trying for your softest tone, you asked, “You left to join Farah’s group?”

Eyes glinting with memory, Alex tossed his damp towel into his duffel bag on the floor.

It was his turn to shrug. “Couldn’t help it,” he admitted, scratching his stubble like he might’ve been hiding coloured cheeks. “I mean, have you seen her?”

Oh. You knew that look. That tone. The crack in his voice.

He loved her. You put an elbow on your knee and smiled at the irony. How bizarre that you’d drawn the mirror between Farah and Ghost. And here you were, across from her closest friend. Helplessly enamoured with your snipers in the snow. Mirrors.

“Think I know what you mean,” you reassured him, collecting your dirty clothes into the crooks of your elbows. You began to cross the locker room, passing him on the way out.

“It’d be good to share stories sometime,” Alex mused after you, conversationally. “Chat it out over a coffee one of these days?” Then he seemed to remember something that made him suddenly uncomfortable. “Or not. Don’t want Ghost to get the wrong idea or anything.”

You halted at the door, head snapping back to stare at him. “What’d you say?”

“Well,” his moustache danced as his lips curved into a smirk. “I just mean, I don’t want Ghost on my case cause he thinks I’m tryna hit on his girl.”

Your heart hiccupped. “His-,” you tasted slowly, “-girl?” It felt strange to say that aloud. A foreign language. You were sure your cheeks were practically looking sunburnt by now. “Who told you that?”

Alex cranked the zipper on his duffel shut. His tone was easy, “Ghost.”  

“Ghost,” you repeated faintly, elbows faltering. You had to actively stop yourself from dropping the clothes piled in your arms. To check you’d heard him correctly, you stated, “Ghost told you that.”

“Me and Farah,” nodded Alex, working his way to a stand. He slung the duffel over his shoulder and began making his way out. “Maybe a month ago,” he had to correct himself, “Two? When we first met up over all this missile shit. Said he’d met someone who’d gone and done something like me.”

“What else did he say?” you prodded, spellbound.

“Mentioned she was his girl,” he answered simply. Alex broke into a short laugh as he replayed the memory in his mind. “I just remember it was a funny name,” he shook his head and made a show of saying, “Later, TV.”

With that, Alex swept from the room.

You were alone. And suddenly, it was the last thing you wanted. You stared at the empty space he’d been, repeating that conversation in your mind. Ghost had been telling people about you – people he trusted. Shutting your eyes, you tried to imagine how his voice might’ve sounded as he found the words. How his eyes must’ve looked when he recollected you and all your moments together.

Frozen, you soaked in those thoughts. Smiling. Then, laughing. Brushing back your hair in disbelief. That was it. You were done holding back. Done being that frail little droplet unhurriedly slipping to its demise.

Ripping off your towel, you shook your hair loose and hung the soaking material up on a hook. You let go of its weight, pretending it was the last of your inhibition. Dripping water was all you left behind.

---

By the time you finished your search, it was late at night.

There were an unnecessary number of rooms, for a safehouse. An open-plan barracks. A stocked armoury. A kitchen. Dining room. Shared bathrooms and lockers. An assortment of storage closets and offices overbrimming with supply boxes. Packeted rations. Bottled water. Blankets. Gear. Ammo. Radio equipment, with a tangle of cords spilt all around the ground.

Ghost wasn’t in any of them.

At this time of night, most of the operators had retired to their squeaky beds in the barracks. You chose one in the corner of the room, plopping your things on your new lumpy mattress and watching it bounce in reply. Above, the lights flickered weakly. You couldn’t help the disappointment jerking through your stomach. You’d have to talk to him in the morning, you supposed.

It was as you were picking a sleeping bag, that a hulking, silhouette silently entered your periphery. The figure closed in on your six, coaxing your heart to quicken. Turning, you found Ghost towering over you, fiddling absentmindedly with something on his sleeve. He was wearing the skull-patterned balaclava mask, cloaked by his black hoodie.

“Been looking everywhere for you,” you breathed. “Where’ve you been?”

Ghost’s dark, half-lidded eyes glided down to you coolly. Then, to the pile of sleeping bags. “Bring one o’ those,” he instructed calmly, the way he did when he was commanding his sergeants.

Picking one up, you raised a brow, “Where to?”

His chin tilted up subtly, “I’ll show you.”

With that, Ghost gestured down the hall with his head. A request for you to follow him – one that warranted only one response.

To surrender.

You were good at doing that. You always would. After all, you were his. Hopelessly his. Clutching the thick, soft bundle of your sleeping bag, you followed. No ounce of hesitation.

~~~

Ghost weaved through the halls.

He took a few turns. Entered a stairwell. Trailed down several flights, all the way to the bottom. Together, you passed whirring generators and stepped over rusted, silver ducts. Then, he opened the door to a forgotten office.

The metal screeched as it opened to a dim, dark room. Amber lights glowed on the ceiling. A metallic taste wafted in the air. This must have been where he had been hiding. Ghost shut the door with a prompt click, then leant against it.

“This where you finally murder me?” you laughed, crinkling your nose.

In reply, he tipped his chin. His way of saying go on. Uncertainly, your legs took you to the middle of the room. There were shelves lining most of the walls, lined with book spines tucked in at odd angles. A desk was in the centre, covered in a sheet of silvery dust. Two metal chairs were tucked into its gut. Ventilation grids lined some parts of the ceiling, which murmured a gentle, automated whir.

Then you saw it. In the corner of the room were two mattresses. They were pushed up together, laid on the floor. A sleeping bag adorned one. The other, naked.

Fighting your smile, you stomped over to the desk, dropped your sleeping bag, and took out two chairs. You pointed at one expectantly.

“Sit.”

Ghost’s dark gaze flickered to it. Then, back to you. His tone was gravelly, “Why?”

You toed the chair with your boot, as if to urge him to take it. “Because-,” you explained, “You’re showing me where you got tagged today.”

His lids thinned, perhaps annoyed you were even aware of it. “It’s nothin’.”

You repeated, “Sit.”

There was a subtle pinch in his brows, as conflict burnt in him. You expected he might refuse and remind you that he could handle himself. He didn’t need anyone to fuss over him, he’d told you that.

But Simon surrendered. Just as you had, a moment ago. Calmly, he paced over to you, eyes never leaving yours. On the way, he worked his hoodie over his head. Arms raised, his black undershirt lifted too, baring the briefest slip of his stomach. You felt yourself go red. Pulse quickening. Simon dropped the hoodie to the floor in a heap. Then he sat down, like an obedient soldier following the orders of his CO.

Collecting yourself, you dragged your chair closer to him. His knees jerked apart as the metal legs screamed across the floor. You dropped onto the cool chair, knee grazing his.

Simon peeled his shirt back at his shoulder, showing you a bullet graze. It was threadlike and lined in red. His jacket had probably taken the worst of it. Clearing your throat, you reached out to tentatively poke the area around it. The pads of your fingers brushed his warm, flushed skin. Tender and careful. He didn’t so much as flinch. In fact, you were likely feeling shakier than him.

“No harm,” he said flatly.

Reluctantly, you put his shirt back in place and drew away. “No foul.”

Simon leant back in his chair, gloved hand flexing over his lap. “Graves-”

“I know,” you sighed, crossing your legs. You stressed a palm over your forehead. “He can’t be, right? Soap and Rudy said-”

“If it’s true,” he interrupted coldly, adjusting the nose of his mask. “If that fuckin’ bellend’s alive, we’ll sort it.”

“We,” you copied back distantly, more to yourself than to him. “Speaking of we, have you told anyone about-,” you croaked on the word, “-us?”

Picking up something in your tone, Simon’s lidded eyes flitted over your face. “Why’re you askin’?”

“I just – want to know. If this-,” you pointed from his chest to yours, “Is it a secret or-”

He sounded a hint cautious, “You want it to be?”

You took a long breath. “No. Do you?”

A heavy, full silence began. Simon’s gaze faltered as he weighed this over in his mind. His chest rose and fell with deliberate breaths. When the corners of his black-smudged eyes crinkled, you knew he’d landed on an answer.

“No point hidin’ it,” he rasped, softly. “Won’t be anyone else after you, love.”

Your sheepish, affectionate smile was instant. “Neither,” you confessed. It felt good to verbalise it. You wanted to tell him more. “I thought about you a lot today.”

Simon took a beat to say, “Thought about you too.” He jerked his head slightly like he was pointing to the snow. “’Specially out there.”

You bumped his knee with yours, playfully. “That sounds dangerous,” you breathed a laugh, heartbeat drumming. “What were you thinking then?”

“Was thinkin’ you’d be bloody freezin’,” he deadpanned.

Your laugh was louder this time, and you reached forward to take his white-gloved hand into yours.

“I was,” you confessed. You tapped a finger on his glove, “Where’re your other ones, by the way?”

Simon’s eyes wandered from your face, down to your tangled fingers. His delicate lashes fanned over his cheeks. “Proper gutted,” he mused dryly. “Tore a hole through one of ‘em. Broke too many bones.”

You filed that information away, making a mental note to stitch another pair for him. Simon hunched forward slightly, allowing you to pull his hand into your lap.

“Do you remember the first?” you pried, a hint of curiosity. “First bone you broke, I mean.”

He became mildly thoughtful, head dipping down so that you couldn’t see his face. “When I was a lad,” he remembered. “This bloke – didn’t know when to shut his bloody mouth. Jabbed him in the nose. Lot o’ blood.”

Quiet, boyish Simon Riley simmered to the front of your mind. Short, blond hair. Lazy, vacant expression. Tall, but maybe smaller. He’d said that he’d hidden a lot, back then. Found little places to hide away from the world and be alone.

“Must’ve really worked you up,” you acknowledged, raising your brows. “What’d the guy say?”

He was scrutinising some vague memory. Eventually, saying, “Hadn’t done my work.”

Wait. Your nose crinkled in realisation.

“Did you-,” your mouth was halfway between a laugh and a gasp. “You didn’t punch a teacher?”

Simon seemed faintly amused at your expression. “Made no difference to me.”

The military must’ve ironed him out. You couldn’t see him doing that to Price. Then again, it didn’t seem implausible for him to sink his knuckles into the face of someone he didn’t respect. No matter the badge pinned to their uniform.

“Not bad,” you granted.

His voice was calm, “You remember yours?”

There wasn’t a lot to consider. “I haven’t really broken that many bones,” you shrugged. “Bit vicious for me, no offense.”

“None taken,” Simon countered. After a thought, he added, “Reckon you have, love. Indirectly.”

“Don’t say that,” you laughed, feigning shock. Shaking your head fondly, you inched your fingers further up his forearm. “Prefer my head in the clouds, if you know what I mean.”

“Copy,” he said flatly, taking a long breath. He was concentrating on your journey up his arm. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?”

His head skewed to the right. Stupid question, the gesture told you.

You thought about something to share with him, offering the first thing that fluttered into your head.

“I like your hands,” you told him. “Not because they’re bone-breakers. But I like how they,” you swallowed, thick. “Feel.”

He said nothing.

He soaked up the words, as if he was going to shatter them open to figure out how they worked. After a moment of your heart pulsing in your ears, he released you to take off his gloves. He tugged them off, exposing his pallid, lean fingers. The white lumps joined his hoodie on the floor, but you had no idea where they landed.

Your attention was fixed firmly to Simon. His, to you. Shivers prickled up to the tips of your ears. The vents whirred in the back. And you waited and waited. Unsure what you were waiting for. Certain if you waited for another minute, you would keel over. Die, even.

Finally, Simon slipped his hand back into yours, holding it. His skin was warm – almost melting. Hot. And that word seemed to stay in your mind, like a sticky grenade you couldn’t escape. Then you were feeling that way too. Alarmingly flushed. Probably from the room temperature. Probably.

“Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” your voice cracked.

“Easy to please, then.”

You nodded, considering how it’d be much more pleasing if he kept going. Kept peeling off all his layers, until there was nothing left. He was already halfway there, after all. And fuck – you wanted him to. Keep going. Until there was only him left. And you. Nobody else.

These thoughts weren’t helping. You were actively sweating now. A single, lonely drop trickling down the length of your neck. Down your spine.

“What if I want,” you squeezed his hand like it helped you squeeze out the final part of your sentence. “What if I want more?”

Simon’s interest was gauged, “More?”

To prove it, you stretched to your feet. There was not nearly enough space between his chair and yours. He sat back a little, knees opening wider to let you in. You crept forward, thighs contacting the base of his chair.

“Lots more,” you encouraged.

Simon craned his neck, throat becoming long. The balaclava there bobbed as he swallowed. You could hear his breath, tight against the fabric.

Carefully, one of his hands reached forward. He hesitated at your waist, before resting there. The other started at your collarbone, spreading up your neck. His thumb smoothed over the shell of your ear, as he tugged you down to his level. You didn’t have to lean down very far, thanks to his height.

Your lips ghosted the shape of his mouth, hovering a breath away, arms furling around him.

And somehow, he worked you into his lap. You couldn’t remember how he’d gotten you there. All you could make sense of was that you were straddling him. And Simon’s hand was moving up your leg.

Abruptly, you put a hand on his wrist to bring him to a halt.

“Are you sure?”

Simon’s head dropped back a little so that he could meet your gaze, “You want me to stop?”

You shrugged your shoulders, as if to say I don’t mind. Do whatever. But honestly, you could glue his bloody hands to you if it meant he’d never stop. You didn’t realise he was expecting an answer until Simon’s hands went up in mock surrender.

“What’re you doing?” you asked, a little desperate.

Simon’s tone was cool. “Stoppin’.”

Was he – teasing you? Bating you to ask him to keep going, as if this was another bout of psychological warfare. If it was, he was winning. He knew it. You did too.

Because you conceded weakly, “Don’t stop.”

His hand went back to your hip, wordlessly praising you by digging his thumb in. But then, Simon pushed you a touch back. You were halfway through a protest when he gestured to your pants.

“Take those off.”

You wondered, for a second, if he was going to undress too. But he sat back comfortably, perhaps content enough with watching.

Gulping, you awkwardly shuffled off and climbed to your feet. It was unbearable, kicking off each boot. Unbuckling your pants. Shedding them. One leg. Then the next. Simon tracking each movement. His fingers curling on his thigh the way they sometimes did on his rifle. Waiting. Anticipating. Examining every part of you torturously slowly, like he was trying his best to memorise the image of you. Imprinting you in his fucking brain.

His legs shifted, like he was trying to readjust. Gingerly, you allowed yourself to steal a look into his lap. Your face burnt red when you saw how his pants were strained, a new tightness that wasn’t there before. You didn’t have time to appreciate the view.

Simon practically urged you back onto him, suddenly impatient. Hell, you didn’t need much convincing. Your thighs fell over his knees. The hardness in his pants nestled into your underwear. His hands found you again, sliding across the plane of your bare skin. This touch collected goosebumps. Sharp inhales. Shivers. Then finally – finally, he met the edges of your underwear. This was the mask that hid the most vulnerable shards of you.

You froze. Simon traced along the stitching. Your throat grew instantly tight. Not from want. But from a slight fear that you might not be ready. That your body would be taking too long to keep up with him or maybe not even work. Then things could be over before they’d even begun. It was fleeting, though - gone the moment he ventured past the fabric and kissed his knuckle smoothly against you.

Your gasp was coarse. You were definitely wet. No fucking worry there. And Simon seemed to like that because he let out a long exhale, wriggling his knuckle a little for good measure. You squirmed. He used the movement to slip his entire wrist into the opening of your underwear. The wet material clung to the back of his hand, as his palm hovered over you.

He stopped there. You bucked in frustration. Did he think he was holding his hand to a fucking fire? Maybe he did, because he was watching you writhe, motionless.

“Simon,” you complained, head dropping weakly to the side. “That’s mean.”

“TV,” he returned, slanting his head the other way.

Fucking hell. He was so calm. So focused and patient.

“Please,” you tried.

That seemed to be right. Or perhaps, Simon was feeling generous. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the tip of his finger along the length of the lips between your legs. You grabbed him, staggered by the feeling. Your hips jolted awake like a match chasing friction.

Simon asked, “More?”

“More.”

He answered by hooking his finger into you. One. Two. Instinctively, you squeezed your thighs, your body speaking to him. Hands grounding yourself on his chest. Fuck, your mind was filled with nothing but him. And the tiny leaps in the pit of your stomach, like little waves lapping tirelessly at a bank.

It was then that he did it. He adjusted the heel of his palm, putting pressure on your clit.

And you quivered. And melted against him, head plunging back for a second. Simon seemed fascinated by this new information, observing these little details of you with curiosity. He did it again, eyes fixed to your mouth as if he were trying to coax out something he knew was just a touch away. And he got what he wanted. A noise from you. Like a whimper. Like a plea.

A deep, lost groan emanated from the back of his throat.

Christ - what the fuck did you do to deserve this?

Wanting to feel him, your nails scraped along the rough texture of his pants. Your fingers found his hip, tangling into one of his belt loops. And as he rolled his hand against your clit, you pulled his hips. And pushed. And pulled. Wanting him to be closer but needing him to be further, else you’d lose yourself before you could even find what you were looking for.

Simon’s hips responded a tick, making his hand still for a torturous moment, as if his concentration was momentarily shattered. You could feel the throb in his pants. You wanted more of him. You wanted him to unfold the way he had you wrapped around his fingers.

You didn’t stop, rocking back and forth into his fingers. Into his lap. Feeling him against your wet, slippery underwear. He stuttered a quiet groan, fighting his own impulses. Suddenly unarmed.

“Fuck,” he cursed hoarsely, trying to regain his composure. Your gaze met his. Raw fucking need burnt there in his black lidded eyes. He moaned, “Fuckin’ killin’ me-”

“Simon-”

Realising himself, Simon suddenly grasped your hip to force you to stop. Then with his hands still in your underwear, his fingers slipped out of you. One by one. And he moved his thumb to your clit, with purpose. His arm tightened with control. You grabbed his shoulder tighter, if only to hold on to something. Anything. Your stomach was tight. Heartbeat ready to lurch out of your fucking chest. A feeling you thought you might never recover from. And his pace hastened.

The veins on his forearm swelled and pulsed, saying come here. Come undone. And whether he knew it or not, there was little you could do but surrender to him. To how fucking good it felt. Your hips moved again. This time, he let you pursue that terrible, delightful edge.

Fuck.

It ended with a long shudder; lips pressed against the fabric on his jaw.

Wearily, your face collapsed into his neck. Simon panted by your ear; the sound slightly filtered. Hair and sweat stuck to your skin.

“I can do the same for you,” you started, grazing the edge of his pants. “If you want me to-”

Ghost’s hands stopped you. His throat sounded dry. “Rest, love.”

Your head lifted to meet his heavy gaze. The black paint was smudged, showing his pink lids. His pale lashes swerved as he searched your face. The longer he did, the more something rare flared across Simon’s eyes. Something deep. And soft. And - adoring. Like Alex’s face, in the locker room. Like yours, every single time you saw him. And you knew. God, how did you ever not know? He was yours.

Chapter Text

Simon was familiar with the cold.

Growing up was fucking hypothermic. When he was a lad, there was no escaping the dreary, wet weather. Every one of his jackets had holes in them, where the wind would whip right through to the bone. In winter, he’d pocket his gloveless hands. Bite down the shiver. Track the cool, gravel concrete all the way home. Home. It was cold there too. Empty. Angry. At night, there were bleak thoughts. There was seclusion. Shuddering, at nightmares.

Back then, his life was a collection of chilling, bitter memories. None of them were his choice. He was careful to section them at the back of his mind – skeletons in the closet. Same shit, different day. And he became stronger. Became what he knew. Cold and aloof.

He felt heat for the first time, in Selection. There, he adapted fast. He became familiar with the stress and sweat of training beyond his limits. Of being layered in gear and masks. Raw, burning wounds. Grenades searing through flesh. The unforgivable pressure of having lives under his command. He made sure he was strong enough for it. He sharpened his instincts. His skills. His resolve. Until those cold, boyish memories were dead in the water. Until he was sure he could grapple anything on his own.

He wasn’t alone that morning.

The room was dark and silent, buried away from any daylight. A wrinkled blanket covered his legs. The air vents sang their mechanical hum. Weary, he stressed a hand down his face. Dragged his mask up to stop it slipping. Then, he looked at you.

You were asleep. Your head was dropped to the side, nose on his pillow. During the night, you had inched yourself over to his mattress. He didn’t mind. For the longest time, Ghost watched your chest spring. Your breath, gentle and quiet. The rise and fall of each beat. When his neck longed for new movement, he let his eyes lift to the roof. A fan was above him, whirling slow. When it completed a round, it filled the room with a click. Sounding eerily similar to when he stripped the safety clip from a frag.

Lazily, Ghost tracked his eyes along the ceiling. Panels. Vents. Exposed wires. Sinuous cracks in the roof, like veins in the off-white paint. He wasn’t searching for anything. It was an old habit, to stay alert. Scanning for danger.

His attention shot to you. You were rolling, eyes firmly shut. Ghost waited for you to settle before he hovered a hand over your hip. He let it drop. Placed his hand there, faintly.

You were warm.

And Ghost could admit he hadn’t known real warmth until you. Warmth in your smile. The ash of your cigarette. Your eyes, on his. Your laugh. Warmth like looking at the sun too long. Painful, almost. But Simon was good at pain. Fuck, he could tolerate anything for you. Acclimatise to anything.

His eyes fixed lazily to your lips and how the air sidled between them. He tried to draw his own breath, but it was shallow. Lungs not quite filling up as much as he wanted them too. Just like the night before. When it had been hard to breathe. Hard because your lips were pressed to his mask. Hard because you were making so many noises. Hard because he never wanted to stop.

Ghost didn’t care much for sex. He knew there were benefits to it. Low blood pressure. Heart health. Immune health. Lower rates of depression. Decreased anxiety. Pain relief. Better sleep. Sometimes, when he was back to the lone wolf, he relied on his hand for these things. It helped sustain his performance. Kept his head on firm. But he scarcely had the urge to do it with another person.

Yet, it had been easy with you. Too easy. Ghost mulled on this, though he couldn’t make proper sense of it. He had been so close to losing all control. Another of his lapses in sound thinking. He considered it might’ve been down to his hardwiring. Some baser human instinct. But he knew that wasn’t right. That was just the chirp of his cold, distant self. The self that didn’t believe in the utility of things like emotions. Love. Warmth.

If he was honest, he wanted to fuck you.

No, more than that. He needed to see you unravel. Needed to be the one to do it. The idea made him weak at the knees. He’d fucking murder for the chance. Not for any benefit. Or to follow meaningless fucking social conventions. Or to satisfy some biological function. It was because it was only fair. Because he was fucked too. Emotionally. Mentally. That was far worse. Deadly. He had poured out his heart to you, like you’d opened his ribcage with a combat knife. And you had taken it. Accepted the useless, beating thing as though it genuinely mattered to you.

Clearing his head, Ghost shifted on the lumpy, thin mattresses. Price would be awake. The old man would be trying to contact Shadow Company by now. That meant it was only a matter of time before confirming whether Graves was alive. Dodgy bastard.

Ghost speculated he was dead. He’d seen what was left of the tank. How it’d detonated, courtesy of C4. Ghost had seen men killed for less. Far fucking less. A soft lad like Graves couldn’t survive that. Bloody far-fetched.

Regardless, he preferred to know your old commander’s fate before you. To take the grenade, so to speak. He guessed that was the thing about love. It was fucking mental. It made him want to give you everything. Made him want to make your bed. Mow your lawn. Fix your car if you broke down. Change your lightbulbs. Pick up bloody carrots on the way home. Every little pleasure and happiness that was in him to give. Shield you from all the cold of the world. It’d be the death of him. Bring him to his knees like some boyish pillock. It’d already made him soft in the head. Piss weak.

With great care, he sat up. Slipped away from you. Soundless. He tactfully retreated to the edge of the bed. He should’ve known his effort would be futile. In your sleep, you had somehow sensed his absence.

Your complaint was tired. Blurry-eyed. Your hand shot out. Curled around his forearm. Tugging. Ghost stilled, staring at the place your hand contacted his arm. Then your face. An expression that caught his eye. Like you’d been inconvenienced. Being away from him was an inconvenience. Thoughtful, he threaded his fingers with yours. Yours felt fragile in his calloused, war-stained hands. Something shifted in your eyes, taking the place of the frustration that’d blistered there a moment ago. A half-smile. A request, to stay. A promise of warmth. 

Bloody fucking hell. Simon didn’t have it in himself to say no.

He laid back down.

---

Ghost’s arm hovered between your chest and his.

His plain black gloved fingers curled around the handle of a mug. Steam spiralled weightlessly into the empty hall’s air. He was towering about you, clad in his black hoodie and his printed balaclava. The bones hiding his mouth quivered slightly as he breathed, patiently. He hadn’t expected to find you in the hall. The intention had been to have his tea, to wake himself up proper. Then to bring you one, in bed.

You were staring at the mug, like you’d been struck by a flashbang. You did that sometimes. Thoughts strangling you. Wondering what it was, probably.

“Still alive?” he asked, making you blink. “We could stand here all mornin’, but my arm’s gettin’ tired.” 

It wasn’t.

“Can I shoot from the hip?” you asked, taking your tea from him.

“Depends,” Ghost cracked his wrist. “What’s your mark?”

With your free hand, you pointed a finger gun at him, “You.”

Ghost’s curiosity was piqued. “Let’s hear it then.”

You looked nervous, palming the back of your neck. “I owe you.”

“Do you?”

“For last night,” you explained.

Ghost watched your lips purse. Your eyelashes fluttered shut. Heat enveloped your nose as you took a careful sip. Your tongue found the tea.

It must’ve been hotter than Ghost realised, because you jolted upright and spat a mouthful of tea to your left. Pearly beads of liquid were in a spray on the wall. It reminded Ghost of blood scattering from a gunshot. Frantically, you fanned your open mouth. Cheeks red.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost cursed roughly, confiscating your mug. “You alrigh’?”

You threw him a sheepish thumbs up. “Just didn’t think it’d be so hot,” you laughed nervously, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Probably should’ve blown on it. Here,” you gestured for him to hand over the mug.

Ghost cautiously lifted it out of reach, “Wait a bit, yeah?”

You sent him a warning frown, “Give it to me.”

“Negative,” he said flatly.

“Trust me,” you laughed, “I won’t drink it straight away. Lesson learnt.”

Ghost looked down at you, fondly. Fuck, you were so full of beans. It was going to fucking kill him. “Let’s hear what you owe us first.”

“Right,” you said, remembering yourself. Forgetting the tea, to Ghost’s relief. “I owe you for last night. Don’t try to deny it. This is a cut an’ dry thing. You’ve done me a very kind favour. Now we’re uneven.”

“Kind,” repeated Ghost, interested. He let his arm drop, the mug warm in his fingertips. “That what it felt like?”

“There are a few other words I could use,” you confessed. “It was a-,” you softly landed on, “pleasure.”

He liked the way you said that. Like it was a secret. One only he was allowed to know. Absolute muppet, he was.

“Trust me,” he pushed, “Pleasure was mine.”

Whatever those words did to you, you tried to hide it from him. Your hand immediately went to your face, pretending to scratch your nose. Ghost reached out and drew your hand away, wanting to pry the emotion loose.

“Actually,” the word melted into your laugh. “You were weirdly good at it. Had me thinking that’s what you spend all your time on leave doing. It’s not, is it?”

Something about the disquiet you were trying to veil behind humour, mildly amused him. You needed reassurance. Ghost could give it. Christ - there was a lot he could give.

“Call it gut instinct.”

“Well,” you pondered, “I’d like to offer a fair trade. Give you what you gave me, if you know what I mean.”

Oh, he knew. Ghost slanted his hand to the side. He could feel his black hoodie crinkling. He could feel the ache wrenching in his chest.

His throat hurt when he said, “Tonight, then.”

---

“Should try it Lt,” Johnny told him, seriously.

Across the table, Ghost heard Johnny fiddling with his sidearm. Gloves squelching. He didn’t need to look to know his junior was disassembling the weapon to put it back together again.

“No doubt, best fuckin’ food in London,” continued Johnny, enthusiastic. Dismembered pieces of the handgun clamoured on the table. “Could take Telly with ya.”

Ghost was uninterested. “Not big on Indian.”

“Or ya just don’t wanna take off yer mask, eh?” Johnny breathed a laugh, “Am I right, Lt?” 

“Profoundly.”

Leaning back in his chair, Ghost widened his knees further apart. He turned to look at Johnny calmly. Johnny was smiling, the scar etched on his chin curving.

They returned to silence. Waited. Shadow Company had made contact an hour before, offering to meet over video call. It wasn’t long before they’d know the dirty truth.  Makarov’s next move. The potential list of targets. Whether Graves was alive. The taskforce’s options.

Ghost’s contemplation was severed by the barrel of Johnny’s gun snapping back into place.

“Can’t stop thinkin’, Lt,” Soap muttered. “Better not be the Shadow himself sellin’ Makarov missiles. That fucker better be dead.”

It wasn’t something he expected from Johnny. Soap was the kind of soldier that was ready to challenge everything, knuckles alone.  But he supposed guilt was one of war’s burdens. Johnny had a lot to learn about that.

“Might not be,” Ghost deadpanned. “Might be vacationin’ in Hawaii. Scott-free.”

Johnny’s brows scrunched together, trying to hold in a laugh.

“See yer humour’s still shite, Sir. Was that meant to help?”

“Nothin’ helps,” Ghost levelled. “We all have regrets, Johnny. Even me. An' you’ve gotta be better than me, remember?”

There was a short pause as Johnny weighed Ghost’s words. “Maybe I’ll never be,” he offered, quiet and solemn. “Hand over heart, you would’ve confirmed that kill if ya’d been the one with Rudy.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Aye,” said Johnny.

It took a beat for Soap to realise he was treading on dangerous ground.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” was his clarification, raising a hand as a white flag. “When Graves shot the helo down, ya did what ya needed to do.” He paused, trying to sort out his words. “Just hate the idea of Graves bein’ alive after what he did to Price an’ Telly.”

Ghost felt something akin to understanding. “If he is, then we stop him,” he suggested. Although, it sounded more like an order. “You with me?”

They shared a brief look of comprehension. A nod of agreement.

"You know it, Lt."

Suddenly, the office door burst open. Price shouldered it the rest of the way, a laptop in his hands. Garrick was sharply at his heel, smart enough to throw a book on the floor to act as a stopper on the door. Farah passed him, pushing Shepherd by the shoulder blade.

“Nik and Alex?” Price asked, over his shoulder. He paced to the table.

“Picking up Kate now,” Farah answered, forcing Shepherd into a chair. He sat, unwilling. Hands behind his back. Farah sat beside him. “She should have our line by now.”

Price hummed, appreciative. It sounded unnatural. Old dog was rarely appreciative.

The captain dropped the laptop down with a thud. It skidded as he twisted it around, keyboard facing the team. The screen was black, glossy. An abyss that promised bad news. Price ran a finger over the mousepad to boot it up.

In his peripheral, Ghost saw another enter the room. His alertness ignited. He searched, immediately. Found you. You were crossing the room, a hand brushing back your hair. The other you used to punch Johnny’s bicep, who was finishing assembling his gun.

Though you were hiding it, Ghost could see that your face was marred by anticipation. Without looking at him, you weaved around the table. Orbited Ghost. Pulled out the seat closest to him. Slumped down. Drummed your fingers on your knees. Offered him a small, shy smile. Ghost didn’t return it. But his pulse picked up. And he did feel that ache again. Like a wound. An infection, in every muscle. Every bone. And if it were up to him, he’d never have the antidote. Never call for medical, if that meant your absence.

“Lads,” Price declared. Ghost lost your gaze to look at his captain. The old dog was holding a radio to his lips, “You copy, Watcher?”

“Loud and clear Bravo,” Kate advised. “Shadow representative should be patching through now.”

All eyes were trained to the laptop screen, where a body jerked into frame. There were jeans. A vest. Until the bloke leant down. Peered into the camera. He heard your fingers come to an abrupt halt. Tension bled into the room. Realisation strained in Ghost. His hatred stirred.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Johnny cursed.

Ghost was cursing too. His mind felt vaguely like a bullet had zipped through his brain. The Shadow. All flesh and blood. Beaming through the screen.

“Soap!” Graves announced, tone sarcastic. “You miss me?” He paused to laugh, mockingly. “Well technically, you did, didn’t you?”

Price’s face was taken by a grimace. “Guess the rumours are true. Shepherd told us you were-,” he tasted, “alive. Like a cockroach without a fuckin’ head, eh?” 

Graves clicked his tongue. “You’d know all about that captain,” he straightened, adjusting the laptop in sync. His tone became tighter. “Aint that right, TV? Damn was nice watching that bird go up in flames. Shame it wasn’t your cremation.”

Under the table, Ghost’s fingers flexed. Itching for his knife. Tilting his head, he said, “Laswell, if you’re trackin’ this, let’s call an airstrike.”

The Shadow’s eyes flickered to Ghost, unnerved. Bravado gone, consumed by new caution. This didn't come as a surprise. Dog eat dog world. And Ghost was the bigger dog. He tended to be.

“Ghost,” greeted Graves, a pressed expression. “That is not nice.”

“The fuck you up to?” you bit.

“I’m up to doin’ my fucking job kid,” Graves countered, suddenly vexed. “You should try it some time.”

Your fingers were clutching tightly to your knees. Easy, he thought. The word scalded his tongue. He didn’t say it.

“Our fuckin’ job’s to kill the enemy,” challenged Johnny, throat thick with venom. “Guess what you are.”

“Okay,” interjected Shepherd, forehead lined. “Let’s not play niceties. This is about intel. Captain, let me paint you the bigger picture.” His eyes were fixed to Price. “We traded missiles to Farah. Shadows were to transport them to the ULF.”

“And they sold them instead,” you finished.

“No,” Shepherd corrected, glaring. “Konni ambushed them on the drop.”

Farah put her elbows on the table. “How?”

An uncomfortable second ticked by. Clearly, Graves didn’t want to answer the question. But he was a fly caught in a web. Wriggling. Writhing. If only Ghost could stop the movement with his boot. Crush it. Slowly. Into the cement.

“One of my ex-Shadows leaked information to Makarov,” Graves admitted. “Betrayed us.”

“Like you betrayed us,” Price’s smile was dark.

A sigh came out of Shepherd. “Let’s keep this professional, boys. We want to help fix this.” He pointed at the laptop screen with a thick finger. “Graves will help Farah get back the missiles.”

“So that my people can be blamed for the attacks?” Farah shook her head. “No. You help me get them back. Then you tell the world what I am. What you gave me and why.”

Shepherd hardly hesitated.

“Deal. Graves?”

Graves took a moment, rubbing a knuckle on his temple. Whether he was genuinely weighing over the terms, Ghost couldn’t tell.

Eventually, he provided, “My men say Makarov has most of the missiles in a bunker in Urzikstan. But we heard he’s plannin’ on takin’ a pocket-full to London. My guess is, he’s not lookin’ to be a tourist.””

“London?” piped up Gaz.

“To organise another strike,” explained Graves simply. His hand went to his hip. “I say we divide and conquer. Shadow goes with Farah to Urzikstan. With the gunship. You boys fly back to your neck of the woods an’ deal with Makarov. Sound fair?”

Price laughed coldly. “You really think we’re gonna let you off your leash again?”

“After what you did?” Johnny spat, in agreement.

“You’re welcome to come aboard, captain,” offered the Shadow. “What do you boys say again? He who dares, wins?”

Graves smiled, sly. Absolute fucking bellend.

It was a challenge. A decoy, maybe. Still, a risk worth taking. Makarov was the first they needed to bury. And when they were done with Konni, they’d burn through the rest. Shadow. Shepherd. Fuck, Ghost would bloody dig the holes himself if he had to.  

“We’ll finish this tomorrow,” Price muttered, eyes dark. He slammed the laptop shut. “Lock him back up,” commanded Price, nodding at Shepherd.

Farah dragged the general to his feet, ripping him from the room.

“Wouldn’t hurt if we split up John,” Kate spoke calmly through the radio. "I'm not a fan of breakups as much as the next person but sometimes-"

“I’m not sending my men out there with-,” Price bit.

Kate interrupted, “I know we can't trust them. That's why I'd feel a lot better knowing you had eyes on things in Urzikstan.” 

“No way,” Price replied, pitch lower. “He is a fucking liar, Kate.”

“I’m CIA John, I know all about lies.” There was a pause on the radio. Kate added, “So do you. Listen, we can’t leave Farah to deal with Shepherd and Graves alone. They’re partners in crime.”

“Literally,” Ghost murmured, tugging his mask higher.

“Captain,” weighed in Gaz. “We do deals with contractors all the time. This is no different.”

“He’s right,” growled Johnny. “Road to hell or not, Garrick’s right.”

“Boss,” Ghost’s focus wandered to Price. He sat forward, fingers knotted between his knees. “Give us the green light. We got this.”

He meant it. They'd gut that fucking geezer at the first red flag. This was his job. Ghost was rightly good at his job. Fucking perfect at it. And he’d watch out for Johnny, just like he trusted Johnny would watch out for him. Just like they'd agreed. Seconds passed. Price played the strategy over in his mind. The old man took a pace in his spot, face contorting with a frown.

“Not you two,” he decided, pointing a digit from Ghost to Johnny. “Not again. Me an’ Gaz will take Urzikstan. We’ll RV in London when it’s done.”

“Roger that Cap,” Gaz nodded.

“Bring me too, Sir.”

Ghost must have heard that wrong. He looked to you, a little taken back. Flinched. Like a blade had twisted in his spine. You were fixed to the captain, eyes full of appeal. Quickly, Ghost recovered his composure. He said nothing. He only exhaled, long and slow. Bunched his sleeves up at the elbow. Ran a hand over his tattooed arm. Watched you, trying to analyse your motive.

He could sense Price was considering it, “Where’s your head at, TV?”

“You and Gaz stay on ground with Farah,” you elaborated, sounding certain. “Make a deal with Graves that I operate the TV. We’d have control of the guns.” You sat back, shooting a thumbs up at Price for effect. “There’s your leash on the gunship.”

“Unless they try to fuckin’ kill ya,” Johnny interjected, and Ghost found he agreed. “Which they will.”

You were shaking your head. You looked too calm, for Ghost’s liking. Too certain. Maybe he shouldn’t have relieved your stress so fucking properly the night before. Now your instincts were off. Blunted. He’d been bloody selfish to do that to you. 

Now all that was microwaving in his head was that he wouldn’t know what to do if he lost your warmth. If he lost you. He was sure he’d never acclimatise. Never be able to tolerate a fucking minute of it. His blood might run cold again. Or he’d burn alive.

“They’d need to touch down first,” you were saying, like you were utterly convinced of this. “They’d never risk being in the air without a TV operator.”

As if you could feel his distance, your attention swivelled to Ghost. Searching his face for any hint of reaction. Seeking his support. His backing. Your eyes touched his, full of resolve. Warmth. 

Bloody fucking hell. Simon didn’t have it in himself to say no.

He nodded.

Chapter Text

Ghost’s eyes landed on you.

Curiously holding you in his attention like a target in his scope. He seemed to be weighing your idea over in his mind. Checking it with the gears of his war-weathered brain. You waited for his verdict, hopeful. His nod was short.

Something about that felt like fireworks bursting in your stomach. Little sparks of happiness raining inside you. It was more than the fact that he respected you. Ghost’s purpose was to see a mission through. But he was trusting you to do it.

Christ - that was all that mattered.

Captain Price was still thinking about it, though. His concentration latched onto you, as if determining your calibre in one shot. You froze under the inspection, afraid to move an inch in case he saw something he didn’t like.

He turned to his radio, clearing his throat like he needed to cough. Tone rough, he murmured, “Kate?”

A crackle replied. “TV’s the one with the expertise here, John.”

Price made a face like he’d heard that before – with other operators on other missions.

“And?” his eyes didn’t move from yours.

Another crunch trickled through the speaker. “And she’s the best chance we’ve got at keeping Graves in check. Brought her in for a reason, didn’t I?”

Price lowered the radio, “You’ll be on your own up there.”

You tried your best to sound steady, “Yeah. Figured.”

“Graves’ll probably bite, you know that?”

All you could do was shrug, “Better than anyone.”

Price smiled, but it was shallow.

“Lemme be a TV again,” you insisted, pressing your lips together. Purpose pulsed through your veins. “For the team, this time.”

Observing the exchange, Ghost leant back in his chair. In your periphery, you could see his legs stretch out under the table.

“You’re with me then,” agreed Price gruffly. Then he raised a finger and stabbed it roughly to the roof, “But you watch your bloody back up there. Alright?”

That was it, apparently. He didn’t wait for you to reply before he waved a blunt, dismissive hand. You were too startled to speak, your heartbeat pattering in your ears.

“When do we head out, boss?” asked Gaz, hunching forward. You were sure he’d be ready to pack up and deploy now if he was told.

“Get prepped,” Price ordered the room lazily. “Kate arrives tonight. We split tomorrow.”

Chairs skidded. Gaz straightened to a stand. Soap rose, scoffing. They began to filter out. You copied, expecting Ghost to be trailing behind you. Price rapped his knuckle on the table to attract attention. You hovered a tick, suddenly stranded in the middle of the room.

“Hang around lieutenant,” he stated. “Better sort out strategy, eh?”

Awkwardly, you glanced back at Ghost.

But he was staring at Price, a guarded expression that you couldn’t place. They seemed to come to some kind of private understanding.

“TV,” prompted Price. The captain’s moustache snuck up in a smirk. “Rest up, eh? Need you at your best.”

“Cap,” you smiled back, giving him a lazy salute.

Reluctantly, you swept out and tugged the door behind you. You probably shouldn’t have peaked into the narrowing room, but you did. The last thing you saw was Ghost, leaning forward, looking intent. Then the door hugged shut.

---

You didn’t like their glances.

They might’ve thought they were being subtle about it, tossing their eyes to you. Quick and cautious. Often, while loading a rifle or zipping up a bag. You decided you were tired of it.

Huffing, you dropped your vest on the armoury bench.

“What?” you probed.

Gaz’s head lifted, with feigned innocence. “What?” he copied, continuing to massage a rag over his sidearm.

Your eyes narrowed, “What d’you mean what? You both keep looking at me.”

Either Soap was less skilled at hiding it or couldn’t find it in himself to care that he’d been caught. “Checkin’ for vital signs,” he stated coolly. “Delirium, that kind o’ thing.”

There was a hint of accusation in his words. For a moment, you expected he might’ve been joking. Carefree, easy-going Soap would jump out of the woodwork and laugh it up. But he only straightened, leaving the rifle he was cleaning abandoned on the metal bench.

“I’m not following,” you said, wary.

“What he means is it’s brilliant you’re taking the gloves off Tel,” offered Gaz diplomatically. “Knew you had the nerve.”

“Please,” Soap cut off brusquely, folding his thick arms “Don’ tell me yer that stupid. Minute you board that plane lass, Graves wins.”

“There’s no winners in this,” you defended. “It’ll be shit whichever way it goes.”

“Christ,” Soap exhaled hard, shaking his head.

Discomfort wriggled through your gut. Your throat felt tight. He was mad at you. Soap was actually mad at you. A bizarre notion, really. You must’ve looked completely baffled.

“What’s all this?” you asked, gesturing loosely to his anger.

He was suddenly intent on denying it, “All what?”

“You know what.”

Shaking his head, Soap skimmed a hand over his mohawk. “Nothing,” he muttered, the way a child might when they didn’t feel like sharing.

You sighed, “It’s not nothing. You think I’m an idiot to go back to Shadow, yeah? You don’t trust me, is that it?” You shook your head too, every bit just as juvenile. Your tone bordered on frustration. “What, everyone’s allowed to sign up for dangerous shit, but me?”

“It’s not that,” argued Soap, gently thudding his fist on the metal table. “Ya know ya’d be my first pick for close air, long as it’s not with him.”

“This is about Graves,” you said slowly, understanding.

Soap lowered his voice like he didn’t want to be heard outside the armoury. “Course it is,” he let that sink in, jaw tensing. “That fucker’ll know ya went dirty on ‘em for a reason, Telly.”

“Don’t be a fucking mug, Soap-,” Gaz sighed.

“It’s the bloody truth,” said Soap, raising his palms as if he was coming clean. “Graves’d know that Telly’s the ticket to me or Ghost. So what’s to stop him from gettin’ back at us?”

Immediately, you searched for something to counter with, finding a dry mouth instead. Sure, there was some truth to it. In Las Almas, Nav had correctly guessed about Ghost. Taunted you for it. Right before he’d gotten a knife buried in his fucking knee. Shadow Company hardly needed a reason to doubt why you’d left. Yet Soap didn’t know Commander Graves like you did. He was proud. Arrogant. He wasn’t the type to play with friends he didn’t like if he didn’t need them. No. For whatever reason, Graves needed cooperation on this.

Collecting a firm tone, you said, “He won’t.”

“He might,” replied Soap quickly. “Then yer blood’ll be on my hands an’ Ghost-”

He stopped, realising that he didn’t want to continue. His eyes fell to his rifle in frustrated thought.

Your lips fell apart. Oh. The silence widened.

Soap wasn’t angry. He felt – guilty. Ashamed, maybe. Somehow, he seemed to think this was all his fault. That Graves was alive because of him. That you were in this situation because of him. That Ghost might lose you because of him.

It was then that you remembered Soap was the youngest. Compared to the others, he was fresh to war. Talented enough that he did his job very fucking well. But still revved up. Still racing ahead, ready to fight the world bare-handed. Still holding onto guilt and regret. Things the others knew well to discard. 

Gaz seemed to decide something too, because he closed the space between them to punch Soap on the arm. “Can’t think like that mate,” he reminded, softly. An affectionate tone – devoid of any of the usual snark he shot at his brother. “We’re in this together. We make mistakes together. We take wins together. Yeah?”

Soap checked those words over, considering them. Detecting, perhaps, a hint of truth. Your eyes rallied between the two men, fond. They were your team. Your - brothers. The strange little family you’d never known you needed, threaded together by unhappy circumstances.

The thought made you happy. Then sad. Then comforted. And these newly awoken things pacified your anger. Diffused it, somehow. Soap was the best at demolitions, though. He gathered a breath. Reigned himself in. Gave you an apologetic look. Then snorted with amusement.

“Jus’ remember yer knuckle-work,” he told you, a wry smile tugging up his lips.

“Bruises won’t let me forget,” you smiled, playful. “Keep an eye on Simon for me, an’ I’ll make sure to box Phil ‘round the ear for you.”  

Soap’s expression was one of yearning.

Gaz snorted, “Just kick the bastard out the damn plane. Be cleaner.”

“Too risky,” Soap laughed, sniffling. “Lad might end up danglin’ from the bloody rope.”

“Nah,” you laughed too. “Pretty sure that’s just a Gaz thing.”

 ---

It was late by the time you laid in bed.

You settled against the lumpy mattresses, staring at the panels on the ceiling. Your legs were wrapped up in blankets. Above, the fans pulsed, sending cool air over your face in ragged breaths. The blades smelt dusty. They were coated in the stuff probably. For a long time, you imagined tiny, fluffy particles drifting about the room like snow.

Staying awake was difficult. Your eyes stung. Your yawns were frequent. And there was no sign of Ghost.

Whatever he’d been doing with Price must’ve been important. More important than making things even with you, like he’d promised. It had to be something dire. Maybe he was dead. Death would be a tolerable excuse, you decided. That’d be firmly out of his control.

While you waited for him, the night churned by. Slow and ceaseless. Your eyes stayed fixed to the ceiling, gliding along the edge of sleep. The fans crooned, coaxing your lids to shut. You pried your eyes open each time, determined to stay awake.

You didn’t.

~~~

Images flickered over your mind.

Of Shadow Company. Of Graves. Of knives in the dark. Puddles shattering under boots. Candles burning in the church of Las Almas, vivid and haunting. Windowpanes glittering as bullets skimmed by stone. Thunder. Gunshots. Shrieking across the night.

You jolted upright.

Sucking in, you placed a hand over your chest. Your breath rose and fell. Your heart struggled rapidly. You could feel strands of your hair falling limp and damp around your face.  It took a moment to remember where you were. Farah’s safehouse. The forgotten office. Bed. It was surely beyond midnight.

Fingers touched your knee.

It made you jump, like a shotgun emptying its guts.

“Just me, love.”

With weary blinks, your eyes trailed up to see Ghost’s silhouette. He was sitting at the edge of the mattress, arm connected to you.

“Simon,” you croaked throatily, burrowing your knuckles into your lids to wake yourself up. You hoped you didn’t look as terrible as you felt. Knowing your luck, you probably looked like a creature wading out of its cave. “Time is it?"

“Nearly zero hour,” he replied, voice gravelly and low. “Bad dream?”

“S’pose so,” you yawned, then tasted, “Las Almas.”

“I get ‘em too.”

Blurry eyed, you dropped your hands into your lap and met his stare.

Though it was dark, his shape was coming into focus. Ghost was wearing his balaclava and had stripped down to his hoodie and pants. His short hair was messy, wet in places that made you wonder if he’d been walking around out in the snow. Tired, heavy-lidded eyes lazily studied you. He hadn’t bothered to remove the black smudges around his lids.

“You dream about Las Almas?” you asked gently.

Contemplative, he turned to face the dark. His voice was rough, “The RPG.”

You hummed a brisk, monotone note of understanding. Ghost’s hand slipped off your knee, becoming distant. It was a tendency in him that you recognised. Withdrawal was his knee-jerk reaction when he came up against a problem he didn’t know how to fix. Problems that loomed in the past. In dreams. In the shadowed, soundless places of his mind.

Wanting to coax him out again, you whispered, “You can be mad at me if you want.”

“Mad?” he copied, an even tone.

You explained, “Soap was, today.”

Ghost seemed mildly interested in that, eyes sweeping back to you. “Johnny?”

“Gaz talked him down,” you clarified promptly, struck with a need to make sure he wouldn’t rouse on Soap. “I’m just saying it’d be understandable – if you were mad, I mean.”

Ghost rubbed at his temples, the way one might if they had a headache. He seemed to be grasping an inevitability. Like he knew he wouldn’t change your mind and didn’t dare try.

“No point bein’ angry,” he replied steadily, though it sounded almost – broken. As if he’d said this collection of words before. To himself, maybe. Ghost set his elbows on his knees, covering up any hesitation by donning his military tone. “Stay sharp, yeah? Relay your status to Price. Keep him updated, often.”

That must’ve been what he’d been talking about with Price.

“I will-”

Ghost wasn’t done. “Don’t stay up there too long. Bring a sidearm. A knife, if you can.” His gloved fingers flexed between his knees, as if they were longing for a weapon. He shifted slightly to peer in your direction, checking you were listening to him.

“Roger that,” you snorted, crinkling your nose.

“They pull a weapon on you, sit tight first. Old man’ll know what to do. Said he’d force his way to you if he has to.” He turned away again. “Clear?”

“Simon-”

“How copy?”

You let out a small breath. “Copy that.”

This seemed to satisfy him for a moment. But then he sounded curious, “Why’d you put your hand up for it? That really what you want?”

“I don’t want to go,” you answered, pushing the blankets down to your knees. “It’ll be miserable, no doubt. It’s just – it’s something I have to do, you know?”

“Cause o’ Graves?”

“Cause close air’s what I do. I wanna help the team.” You shut your eyes, thinking of how to explain. Perhaps it was your tiredness, but words always felt so slippery in these moments with him. Taking your legs out of the blankets, you laid them on top. “I realise it doesn’t make a lot of sense, given my history with ‘em.”

“I’m trackin’ the logic,” he murmured.

There was a pause. A tense, thoughtful moment. A sudden urge to ease it ran through you. Reaching out, you searched his jaw in the dark. The tips of your fingers prickled along the fabric of his mask.

He stilled, unsure of what you were doing.

Slowly, gingerly, you turned his cheek. Carefully – as if afraid of scaring off a wild animal. He let it happen, not an inch of resistance. Your heart picked up its pace.

“You get me,” you said, flexing your thumb along the ridge of his jaw. “Don’t you?”

His tired eyes sunk into yours, moving lazily between them. It wasn’t a question. Ghost knew it too.

“I get you.”

“Then you'll be careful for me too?” you requested. 

His brows twitched, as if unimpressed. As if he wanted to curse. But he only said, “Copy that.”

“Good,” you smiled, shuffling up. Walking on your knees, you crept over to him. Ghost turned as you did, preparing for your closeness. Chest to chest, you stopped. Your other hand came to his face too, holding him there before you. “Break a leg tomorrow.”

“I’ll break several.”

“That sounds like you,” you laughed, breath fanning against his masked lips.

Ghost’s eyes darted down to your mouth, like he wanted to see the way the sound came out of you. “That so?”

“I could practically shoot a Ghost documentary at this point,” you quipped, raising a sheepish brow.

“Could you?” he cocked his head - his way of teasing. “Think I know what sounds like you, too.”

Your brows knotted, “Oh?”

“Hard not to.” His reply was fast, pitched low. “You make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?

It started to click, what he was referring to. Fucking hell. You swallowed thickly, scrambling for words, fingers suddenly numb on either side of his face. He seemed to expect a reply from you.

“Do I?” you managed to croak. “Do you like it?”

He exhaled long, “Would fuckin’ murder to hear you again.”

“Not until we settle the score,” you promised, voice coloured with embarrassment.

You tried to take a normal breath, though it was shakier than intended. Longer than intended. Torturously slow compared to the thundering of your heart. And when it was over, when your lips had finally reached their last waver, something shattered between you.

Ghost moved fast. You did too.

He was immediately taller than you. On his knees, peering down at you from new height. Your fingers looped through his empty belt straps, seeking closeness. One of his hands brushed the pool of hair from your collarbone. His glove rested against your exposed skin, thumb smoothing over the bone.

You searched his expression, fumbling to unclasp his pants. You could see how hard he was. See what was straining, a fingertip away from your nose. It took everything in you to concentrate. But your hands were fucking sweaty. So sweaty that it took an embarrassingly long time to wriggle the button free. All the while, Ghost watched.

“TV,” he reprimanded, impatient.

“I know, I know,” you laughed. “I’ll be quick.”

Finally, his pants came loose. And as if to reward you, he ducked down and pressed his masked lips to your hair. Lazily kissing you. A little distracted and desperate. He stopped himself halfway, like he needed to keep himself steady.

Edging his pants down, you squeezed your thighs tight together. You heard him inhale through his nose, muffled by the balaclava. Heat burnt through your cheeks as you glanced up to check his expression. Ghost’s gaze was heavy, practically pressing you into the fucking mattress. You felt weak underneath it.

Ghost’s length came free, tapping against your cheek. It made your hips tense, just at the thought of touching it. Tentatively, you took him in your palm. Skin kissing skin. Ghost let out a breath. Instinctively, you went to take his pants down more. A thumb digging into your collarbone stopped you. Its sharpness jerked your head back, which seemed to be his intention. Ghost’s head slanted to the side, as if to communicate something to you. A request, maybe, not to undress him any further.

You didn’t mind. This was enough for you already. It was enough that your fingers were curled around his cock. You wanted to tell him that. To tell him how much it meant to you. So, you brought him closer to your wetted lips, your breath piercing his skin. Your eyes touched his. He was mesmerised. Waiting.

The first was tentative. Curious. A taste. A mere, almost shy jerk of your wrist. Then, it was needier. Your tongue sliding over veins. Hand chasing warmth. Cradling him with your mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost said, ragged.

He shivered. One of his hands tangled through your hair, needing you to stay where you were. To keep going. To never stop. And you didn’t. Sweat gathered on your neck. Your thighs rocked, wet. Heart raced like the frantic ticking of a bomb about to set off.

It was when you started to suck that he groaned.

Faint and hoarse. Fuck, you couldn’t explain what that did to you. You answered by sighing around his cock. Ghost’s head dropped back. His breath hissed in and out of his parted mouth. His mask was damp and sticking to his lips. You breathed deeply, too. Wanting him deeply. Enveloping him deeply. Stopping only to see what you were doing to him. Or when his hips jerked involuntarily. Or when he gently dragged you off him so that he could collect some composure.

But it was too late for that now. You wanted him undone. You wanted him in pieces. You sucked; gentle and careful. Give in, you hummed. Let go. He seemed to listen, pulsing in your mouth. Desperately pressing his hands around your head. You followed these cues. Mind full of nothing but the idea of hearing his moan again. Blinded by the need for it. And you got what you wanted. Again and again. Ghost’s willpower splintering by the second.

“TV,” he rasped, throat fucking wrecked.

You looked up at him. An innocent smile tugged up your flushed lips. You came off him to take a breath, “Simon.”

“That’ll make me come,” he warned, cautious.

“Isn’t that the point?” you asked, a breathy laugh.

“I want to fuck you,” he muttered, strained. Dazed. Begging for more and less all at once. "Please."

You trailed him across your bottom lip, teasing. “That doesn’t sound like being even.”

“Fuck.” He smoothed a hand over his face in an effort to restrain himself. A drop of him trailed down his length, like wax dripping from a candle. “Fuckin’ hell, can’t even look at you," admitted Ghost.

You thumbed at the wetness, spreading it. “You want me to stop?”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost struggled, voice raw and bare.

You licked after your thumb.

“Oh fuck-”

Ghost’s patience was gone now. His hips were moving, fucking your mouth as gently as he seemed able. Cursing. Fingers knotted through your hair. Held together by you. Then, unravelled by you too. He couldn’t seem to help it. It came from him, with a shattered moan. His knees faltering. Your name, muffled by his mask. Your tongue bitter. And you took it, like it was yours to take. And it was.

He relaxed against you, forehead finding yours. You panted, letting him wipe away the wetness streaking across your chin. Eyes shut; his chest began to steady. Soften.

“What’ve you turned me into?” he asked tiredly, more to himself than to you.

You smiled, sheepish. “Could make a lot of dirty jokes right about now.” You laughed, flushed. “Think that’d ruin the moment?”

“Immensely,” he deadpanned, a hint of amusement.

“How’m I meant to say bye to you tomorrow?” you wondered, clutching the collar of his hoodie. Unwilling to let go.

He contemplated that, like he didn't know himself. The problem he'd been playing over in his mind - the one he couldn't solve. A beat of silence passed. 

“Just come back to me, yeah?” Simon murmured, so quiet you nearly didn't hear him. “Come back to me.”  

Something about that made fireworks burst in your stomach. Little sparks of happiness raining inside you. Love and fondness and trust. All unfettered, in the warmth between you. And Christ – in that moment, that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

It might’ve been the early start.

0400 hours to be exact, lost somewhere between night and day. There was something chilling about it. Price outlined mission orders in a calculated, instructional manner. The team listened, drifting between varying states of tiredness. Stone faced and yawning.

Rifles clicked. Zippers shut. The team’s alertness expanded as jackets and boots and balaclavas were donned. You cradled your helmet in your arm, skin cool against the glass, leaving the safehouse behind.

It might’ve been the snow. A chill ran deep in your bones. You trudged through it, crunching and sinking with each step. Around you, the team were scattered, breaths white. The teeth of your boots were wet, and your arms were folded. Ghost walked beside you, quieter than someone his size should’ve been.

It might’ve been the wind from the rotor blades. Two helicopters waited, their rotors whipping out of time with each other. A chill whipped through your hair, against your pink cheeks. Behind the birds was a milky sky; where pale blue melted into orange.

It might’ve been the way the team knew how this went. The boys started to clap each other on the backs. Shake hands. Give lazy, cool salutes. Their own personal little farewells, which they’d gotten so used to. You were supposed to be used to it too. You weren’t supposed to be wondering what was so chilling about this.

Suddenly, it was your turn. Soap stood in front of you, his nose tipped in pink. Your arms snaked around his back. Your face pressed into his shoulder. He said something to you, something harsh and encouraging. Parting words that hardly made any sense to you, thanks to his roughed up accent. As you pulled away, Soap circled one of his large arms around your head and pressed a sluggish, half-assed kiss to your hair.

It might’ve been because Ghost was there.

Not Simon. Ghost. You had expected it was going to be Ghost. He buried away any trace of Simon to be what he needed to be on missions. Soap moved away to talk to Gaz, leaving the two of you in a moment of privacy. You turned toward Ghost, craning your neck to account for the fact that he towered over you. Chin tipped up; his black-stained eyes fell to you.

“Alrigh’?”

His tone was one of indifference. A chilling, aloof expression.

You swallowed and lied, “Alright.”

Ghost allowed himself a moment to take in all the lines and wrinkles and specks of your face. You let him, careful not to move. Your throat tight. Your chest tender and tired.

Of all the things you didn’t mind, this was the part you hated. This was the thing that sent chills tingling up your spine.

You wanted to close your eyes. You wanted to avoid his half-lidded stare. You wanted to pretend this wasn’t happening. But you held his attention, trying to ignore the dull aching in your chest. And for a long, painful time you thought about what to say. Realising that there was nothing to say at all. Knowing that this delicate, brief moment would end sooner than you could bare.

Seeming to catch something in your expression, Ghost tilted his head. Yours slanted the other way in reply. His eyes crinkled, amused. But you couldn’t find it in yourself to return the gesture. The semblance of your control might snap if you did.

Ghost lifted a bony thumb and pressed it into the soft hollow of your cheek. Fabric brushed your skin. He held it there. With knotted brows. Smile, he seemed to say, in his own subdued way.

You did.

But it was blurry eyed. It was with weak, terse lips. It was with a shaky breath. And it was gone the second he stepped back and moved effortlessly into the whirring helicopter. You gathered yourself, widening the distance by walking to yours. You jumped up into the vibrating bird, hanging out the door a tick. You slid your helmet in first. The team were meandering about in there, setting down their weapons. Price and Gaz gravitated toward the back, where Shepherd was. Alex and Farah were discussing flight plan with her Pilot.

You climbed in, grateful to be out of the cold. Clutching the handle, you went to slide it shut behind you. Before you did, you glanced at the other helicopter. Through the front window, you could see Nik in the Pilot’s chair, with Kate nestled in beside him. Soap leant over them, making conversation. But Ghost was standing in the gap of the door, ready to close it.

As if he could sense your attention, he lifted his head. Your eyes touched. Ghost stared blankly. You felt the helicopter shake as the Pilot rattled with the pitch lever. Either your heartbeat was thundering, or it was the rotor blades pulsing in your ears. You weren’t sure anymore. The moment was shrinking.

Ghost lifted his skeletal hand and placed it over his vest. Above his heart, as if to tell you something. Then with his free hand, he ripped the door shut.

---

The flight was easy.

Every ripple in your chair felt familiar. You were built for the air. The stuttering rhythm of the engine. A metal smell. Wrinkled, leather chairs. You were relaxed in one of the jump seats, taking a quick break from co-piloting. Foggy mountains zipped by the windows. Sunlit shapes cast your skin in gold. Gaz, Price and Alex were chatting from distant seats.

Your eyes traced down a crossword puzzle. You weren’t great at them, but it was good to pass the time. The vacant boxes seemed to stare back at you keenly. Seven letters. A piece of furniture.

Farah was near your arm, studying your method of deduction. Her legs were crossed, matching her folded arms. Framing her face was a silken scarf. It covered most of her hair, save for a few strands at her forehead.

“This’ll send me insane,” you admitted, tapping your pencil on your lip. “You getting anything yet?”

She repeated the clue aloud, like it helped her to think. Abruptly remembering something, Farah turned to Alex beside her, pulling him out of his conversation without warning. She bumped him with her knee, not seeming to notice the way his eyes lingered at the place they’d touched.

“Do you remember that bookshelf, the one in my room?”

His forehead lined with confusion, “Ah-”

“The wooden one,” she insisted impatiently, “Yes? With the doors-”

Alex raised a brow, “You mean the armoire?”

Snapping her fingers triumphantly, Farah turned back to you and pointed urgently at the boxes. Fingers taut on your pencil, you scribbled down the word with a laugh. You handed the magazine over to her next.

Farah seemed to disagree with this. “But I answered that-”

“Technically Alex did,” you countered, smiling at her. “Your turn.”

Reluctantly, she ceded, setting the magazine on her knee. She started to read the clues, familiarising herself with it again. She didn’t seem to sense Alex’s eyes on her. He was peering down his shoulder at her, a little stunned. His cheeks were slightly pink.

You looked away, wanting to give him some privacy. Sitting back in your chair, you instinctively brought your hand to your uniform. It was your well-engrained habit to prod the tips of your fingers against Ghost’s ID tag - the trace of him that you carried around.

That was when you heard it. Something crumpled under your touch.

Weird, you thought. You hadn’t put anything in there. Confused, you unbuttoned your pocket and stretched the fabric apart. As you expected, there was a tangled chain pooled at your pocket’s base. But sitting above it was a folded-up note.

Baffled, you extracted it. Pried it open. Scanned the roughly written words.

---

“Love, I had no chance.

You knew that, yeah? I think you did. I didn’t, though. Stupid fucking sod I am. Guess I didn’t see it coming. You came out of nowhere. Always do. Sometimes I don’t even know if you’re real. You don’t feel real. You feel like a bunch of shit I don’t deserve. You think different though. You must. Must’ve been coming back to that barrack for a reason. Smiling, talking, trying to be around me.

Fuck, I had no chance, did I? Never seen anyone so perfect. I couldn’t help but wanna be near you too. Couldn’t help but love you, either. Was only a matter of time.

Not much time in our line of work. Our life expectancy’s measured in days. I used to think it was better that way. Choices have consequences – and that was one I could live with. But now I’m not so sure. Maybe that was just the bollocks I fed myself to get through.

Probably gonna regret never saying any of this to you, but fuck it. Just hope I’ve made you happy. Just a bit. Lemme believe I did. Lemme believe I could’ve made you happy for longer than a bit. Lemme believe I might get the chance to try. Come back. Then this git'd do more than try. I’d be a proper man for you. Make a home for you. Be a bit selfish and marry you.

I should’ve told you all this last night. Guess that makes me a right fucking coward. Can you still love a coward?

Fuck. Probably shouldn’t have sworn so much. Sorry.”

Chapter Text

Your tinned fruit looked like a shirt Nav used to wear.

A mix of blotchy yellows and pinks swimming around the can. You could still remember how his sleeves quivered in the wind. Nav had gone on about how expensive it was. How money was the motivator in your line of work, and Graves paid well.

You stabbed your fork through the liquid and put the tin on the ground. Farah watched you do this with interest, halfway through scooping a bit of mango onto her tongue. If she could sense your unease, she said nothing about it.

The team were waiting near the rally point. In a matter of hours, Shadow Company and Farah’s reinforcements were to touch down. Everything would happen like clockwork after that. The gunship would be pre-checked. Then, the teams would split up. You’d load up into the battle station. Three gunners would give the okay. Wheels would rise. Nav would confirm flight plan. Then, Pilot would fire up the engines.

You knew these steps like they were a recipe carved into your skull. But waiting for it to happen, while the sun began to sink, was torturous.

Standing, you picked up your rifle and shouldered it.

“Going for a walk,” you murmured to the group.

You received a few non-verbal acknowledgements between mouthfuls of fruit.

Clutching the body of your weapon, you walked out through the outcrop. The ground was bumpy and uneven. Rocks were freckled everywhere you stepped, crumbling beneath your boots. As you walked, the wind started to pick up, blowing against your cheeks. Sometimes the strength of it was cutting, and it made you wonder if that’s why the Urzikstan landscape ran so flat, for so long. That was something to be aware of, in the air. Reading the weather was just as important as reading the TV monitors.

After bearing it for another five minutes, you decided to take shelter behind a boulder. It looked like unblemished limestone under the sunlight. Your rifle was the first thing you put down. Then it was your jacket, which you stripped off and fanned onto the ground. You nestled up to the rock. It was peaceful out here, at least. You leant back, drinking in the cool air. Above, clouds decorated the yawning, blue sky. Crickets chirped a crisp, loudening tune. Wind cooed.

It wasn’t long before your thoughts ebbed to Ghost, like a boat drawn to a lighthouse.

Selfishly, you wished he was there with you. Next to you. Speaking to you in that low, gravelly voice. Looking at you with those half-lidded, lazy eyes. Telling you to keep your hat on. But he wasn’t.

Shutting your eyes, you took a breath and fingered for the letter in your pocket. It was probably pathetic to read it again. No, it was pathetic. Or selfish. You were meant to be worrying about other things – like the Shadows. Makarov.  

But fuck it. They were hours away. And in this private, quiet moment, maybe you could be a bit selfish.

You unfolded the paper gingerly, smearing sweat with your thumbs. Your lips clamped tightly together as your eyes scanned the sentences. Absorbing each word, again and again. As if they might disintegrate if you dared look away.

And it was hard to believe.

Because the words were all backwards, like a little limerick that didn’t even rhyme. Loving Ghost was simple math. The neat, tidy corners of a square. It just made sense. You didn’t deserve someone as impossibly endearing as him – especially not with your shadowy past. But somehow, he thought he didn’t deserve you. That it was selfish to build a home with you. To wander through life with you. Marry you.

There were the words bleeding into the paper. And he’d spelt it out with such resolve and sincerity. Every entangled stroke of his pen consistent, as if he were only repeating what was written into his soul.

“Cold feet?”

The interruption made you blink, and it was then that you realised there was a film of water over your eyes. A pair of heavy boots crunched around you, each step a slow, pulsing beat. Captain Price.

Mustering up a casual expression, you hastily folded up the paper and shoved it away. “Just cold, sir,” you sniffled, grabbing your elbows for emphasis. “Didn’t think it’d be so cold in Urzikstan.”

Captain Price peered down at you from his height, his expression shadowed beneath his hat. Wedged between his lips was a thick cigar, its tail charred and glowing red. Though you couldn’t properly see his face, you could feel that knowing gaze burning down at you. If Price had a fucking superpower, it was reading thoughts. You were sure of it.

He didn’t take out his cigar to say, “Would help to put your jacket on, eh?”

“Cap, if you’re here to try an’ settle my nerves-”

“Settle your nerves?” copied Price, a touch sardonic. His voice melted into a rough laugh, like he needed to cough. “Doubt there’s a need for that, big bird.”

You snorted, “Think I’m more a Telly Monster than a Big Bird.”

Price slumped down beside you, rubbing his fingerless gloves together. “That right?”

“A bit neurotic, but well-meaning,” you waved a hand in the air like it helped you list out the point. “Always bothering Oscar the Grouch.”

“Dead on,” Price scoffed, palming the bristle on his jaw.

“Sir, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” you started slowly. “I’m not sure whether to feel confident that you’re trusting me with this Shadow shit, or a bit suspicious.”

He quirked a brow, “Few years with Shadow. Longer on smaller aerial assets, where you specialised in rapid airstrikes. High mission success rate. Ninety six percent, was it?” He plucked the cigar from his lips to finally blow a mouthful of smoke. “Be confident or bloody bugger off.”

Ah – so he’d read your file.

You shook your head, laughing a little. “Bit of light reading huh?”

“Kate had more,” he said, brusquely. “Civilian stuff. Told her to bin it.”

Your stomach pinched at that. God, you hoped that didn’t mean your search history. Surely, she’d been honest about not delving into it. Right?

“Remind me never to trust Kate,” you replied numbly, more to yourself. “Bloody CIA.”

“Lines are blurred there,” he told you.

“CIA,” you sighed, tilting your chin to look up at the clouds trailing across the sky. “SAS. Shadow Company. Makarov’s got one hell of an enemy list.”

Price’s voice was bitter, “We’ll have one less enemy on ours, in a minute.”

A frown tugged at your lips, “That sounds like a vow.”

In reply, Price returned the cigar to his lips for a generous inhale. The foot of it sizzled bloodily. He’d been tense for weeks. Off. You expected his mood had something to do with what Soap had mentioned in the gym – about the team letting Makarov live.

“Is it personal, Cap? Your beef with Makarov?”

Price’s thin eyes travelled over to you, as if he had been thinking of something entirely else. As he breathed, his chest wheezed. Smoke swept from his mouth all at once. It made you want to clear your throat.

“Say again?”

“Makarov,” you explained quietly, searching his expression. “Team’s been fighting hard on this. Kinda seems like you hate him.”

“What d’you think?” he countered dryly. “Course I hate the bloke.”

When he didn’t appear to be tracking, you tried to regather your thoughts by drumming your fingers on your knees.

“What I mean is,” you tried again, “Is that why you’re fighting so hard? Because you hate him?” 

The captain puffed his cigar, as if to give himself a moment to respond. His moustache curled over it. “Tell me this,” he decided, seeming to figure out a way to explain something to you. “What had you so eager to put a leash on Graves?”

“Someone has to.”

“But why you, eh?”

He was leading you somewhere, but you weren’t sure of the destination. Price was good at manoeuvres like that. Too many steps ahead of you. All you could do was go along with it.

“Because-,” you combed through your thoughts and came back blank. “I just – have to.”

Price countered, “Because you hate the mug?”

Your forehead crinkled as you faltered. Sure, there were things you hated about Graves and Company. Their uniformity. Mistrust. That stupid, pink and yellow shirt billowing in the wind. The shirt that all but said, it’s for the money. Pay check after pay check. Nothing else.

But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t why you felt so responsible for them.

“We don’t fight because we hate our enemy,” Price told you throatily. Conviction was laden in his dark eyes. “We fight because we love what we defend.”

The honesty in his tone made your heart thud. Quickly, you looked away from Price. Your eyes found the horizon, following its endless line. A contemplative silence stretched between you.

Price was protecting something. Family or country or freedom. Defending something he loved. His team, maybe. And he’d fight to the death.

As was Gaz. And Alex and Farah. And Soap. And even Kate and Nik. And Ghost.

His letter hadn’t been to tell you he didn’t deserve happiness. It had been his declaration of the things he’d wanted to protect. A future. A life, together. All the things you’d never expected him to give you, but which you wanted too. All the things you’d longed for in those months on leave.

All the things you’d fight for, too.

---

You felt ready.

Really fucking ready. To see Graves. Or Nav. To take down Makarov. Gone was any trace of anxiety or anticipation. This must’ve been how Soap felt before a mission. Raring to go. Like an arrow nocking, eager to be let loose like a fucking missile.

Farah’s Pilot landed on the edge of the airstrip, where Shepherd would stay on comms. From the door of the helicopter, your eyes moved across the commotion.

There were Shadows everywhere. A familiar sight. They were crossing the cement, chatting over crates and through the doorways to aircrafts. Some were loading up gear and checking engines. In the centre of the work was the gunship. She looked just like you remembered. Her steely body was stretched over the tarmac. Long, sharp wings spread out with impressive strength. Her motionless wheels glittered in the golden, dawning light.

Gaz was beside you, fixing his cap on, “You miss it?”

Your eyes darted from the gunship to him. “Why d’you ask?”

He shouldered his rifle and sent you pointed look, “Looks like you’re in love, Tel.”

Picking up your helmet, you levelled him with a defensive look. “Not many gunships in active operation,” you rationalised, “So yeah, guess I do kinda miss it.”

“You ever think about turning back?” asked Gaz, dropping down from the helicopter with a clack. He adjusted his rifle to hang loosely behind his hip. “To work on one again?”

Your boots landed on the cement too. “Never. Can’t get rid of me that easy, Gaz.”

Gaz whistled as if to accept the challenge, though it was far more melodical than necessary. Over-achiever.

You cast your attention back across the tarmac. Waltzing ahead was Price, speaking lowly with Alex and Farah. There was a purposeful sway in his step that he only adopted when he was ready to punch someone in the face. You stared at the back of their heads, watching Farah knot her headband at the base of her skull. Out of nowhere, their heads turned in unison. You followed their line of sight to see what’d caught their attention. 

Commander Graves

He was trailing out of the gunship’s bosom. All clad in his black, thick Shadow uniform. He was in a good mood. He usually was, at zero hour. The commander was waving off directions to operators as he passed them, a distant air that seemed so sharply different to the way Price regarded his men. 

Farah nodded at something Price said. Suddenly, the captain slowed his pace so that they went on without him.

“Listen up,” Price instructed, as you and Gaz flanked each of his sides. He raised an authoritative finger in emphasis, “Watch your fucking backs, eh? Get dirty if you need to Sergeant.”

“Boss,” acknowledged Gaz easily. He slipped his sunglasses up his nose, so that his eyes were tinted amber. “Let’s get to work, yeah?”

The three of you nodded in solidarity, before Gaz jogged the few paces it took to catch up with the others. You could make out Graves rounding the gunship, attempting to intercept them. He was clapping in greeting, a bright beam curling up his cheeks.

Your staring was cut short by Price. “You remember what you’re fighting for, Telly Monster?” He asked, offering you his knuckles in a fist.

“Not sure you’d let me forget,” you smiled, balancing your helmet under one arm to bump his knuckles with yours. The breath you took was slow and cool. “Won’t let them scratch the paint, sir.”

“We ready to rumble?” announced Graves, halting in front of Farah.

“This is a joint operation,” Farah said formally, shaking the Commander’s hand. “ULF, 141 and Shadow. Together as one.”

The Commander offered his hand to Alex, who gave it a half-assed wobble. Then, uncertainly, he extended it to Gaz.

Beats passed.

The black glove hovered in the air between them. An offer of truce that Gaz refused to take. All that Gaz had it in him to give was the stern expression welded onto his face. It was so fucking unlike Kyle Garrick. Fantastically bizarre. An awkward laugh welled in your throat. Gaz was diplomatic and friendly and wise. He was the type who took his cap off to show respect. The type to let others through the door first. And, you supposed, he must've been the type that held grudges against people who hurt what he wanted to protect.

“Gaz,” prompted Price, abruptly clapping his junior on the back.

“Good luck Tel,” Gaz offered to you, joining Price’s stride.

There was no time to return the sentiment. The pair of them turned, oblivious to the way Graves awkwardly withdrew his hand.

Graves’ eyes snapped to you, with the air of someone who was remembering something mildly unpleasant. Thin and inspecting. The two of you stared at each other, separated by your helmet. Your skeleton gloves were clammy. Your throat felt a little tight. 

His nose scrunched up. He looked older than you’d remembered, having collected a few new wrinkles and cuts. His hair was shorter, too. Beads of sweat were pooling on his forehead. And you wondered what he fought for - thinking for a brief second that maybe he fought for himself. And that must've been lonely. 

“TV,” Graves acknowledged tightly, clicking his tongue.

“Phillip.”

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Commander Graves hated, it was paperwork.

Briefs. Files. Contracts. Clearances. All these jobs required a whole lotta time, effort, and cognitive firepower. Resources he didn’t want to get into the dirty habit of wasting. Naturally, that meant he was up to his goddamn ears in – paperwork.

The backlog on his office desk wasn’t wholly his fault. Working for General Shepherd had been way more trouble than he was fucking worth. Because of Shepherd, Graves needed to pour through every brief to make sure Shadow’s involvement with the missile crisis was redacted. Because of Shepherd, Graves had been forced to turn over at least twenty contracts of good men that were now skeletons in the desert. And because of Shepherd, he was stuck sorting through all the personal documents of the Shadows he’d recruited to replace them.

Graves had replaced you too.

One month ago, a new TV operator had signed on with Shadow Company. Yeah, there was still a lot for the kid to learn. He was slow on the draw and his aim was a bit slippery. These things were problematic, to say the least. One weak link and the whole crew suffered. So, he had uh - mixed feelings - about you taking up the TV mantle again.

You were standing there on the tarmac, looking up at him with the same doe-eyes that’d always made Graves wonder how many lights were on up there. You were holding a helmet, with a radio attached to your shoulder in the typical Shadow way. But you weren’t wearing a uniform – just some mismatched assortment of black military clothes and a standard tac vest.

As soon as Farah and Alex were out of earshot, Graves frowned, “You look like a fucking orphan.”

You matched his expression, “Is that meant to be offensive?”

“What d’you think sport?”

He expected you to keep your mouth shut. That was your standard protocol back in his team. He’d give the orders and you’d bite your lip and do the fucking job. But clearly, time with 141 had flushed the sense out of you, because you shrugged.

“Well-,” you considered, watching the retreating backs of the others from 141. “There’re a lot of cool orphans.” You listed them off with your fingers, “Batman. Annie. Harry Potter-” 

“Get your ass on the gunship, TV,” Graves ordered, exasperated. He would’ve used your name for dramatic impact, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was.

Your reply was to give him a strange, clearly improvised finger-gun.

Goddamn this was going to be a headache.

Thumbing his vest, he turned and started walking back to the gunship. Stray Shadows were wishing him Happy Birthday – and he patted them on the shoulder to dismiss them. He couldn’t remember who’d started that tradition, but he did think it was a thing a beauty. Soldiers needed tradition. Routine. Rules made things uncomplicated.

Reaching the platform, his boots carried him up into the body of the aircraft. The clicking of his steps was like the countdown of a bomb. He could hear you following him, walking a tad slower. Warily – and hell, for good reason. You were walking into the belly of the beast. There was no telling what waited for you in there.

Commander Graves knew what waited for you, though. A steaming shit pile of – nothing. You had your newfound boyfriends to thank for that, whether you knew it or not. Truth was, Graves initially refused to onboard you when the suggestion was pitched to him. He would’ve sooner thrown you from thirty thousand feet. Boy, wouldn’t that be sweet justice?

In reality, he didn’t have much of a choice but to let you in. Precious Price insisted on forcing you down the Commander’s throat. Even had the balls to say that Shadow was – untrustworthy. That without a bit of reassurance, Shadow couldn’t be trusted not to shoot first. Graves could’ve made some smartass point about how Ghost and Soap were the ones who burnt through his men in Las Almas. That if anyone was to blame for getting aggressive, it was them.

Ironically, that was when Ghost started with the threats. Creepy fucker was talking about how if Graves so much as touched you, he would find the Shadow. Peel him inside out. Grind him into a fine dust. Use him like seasoning. Fucking seasoning. What’d that even mean? Graves didn’t know. And he wasn’t fixing to find out. Bunch of warhead psychos.

It took walking halfway into the gunship for the crew to notice who was at the Commander’s six. Heads turned. Shadows nudged each other to point out the intruder. Graves braced himself for impact. The team stared with a healthy dose of suspicion. Guarded and protective, in a way that made him proud.

Of all of them, Nav’s expression was the hardest to read. Sumbitch changed his mind every other day about whether he hated you or not. You were friends. Then you’d turned coat like a fucking coward. Got him stabbed in the knee. But also spared him from Ghost. The Commander knew there was some weird blood there, but he didn’t have the time to care beyond writing up the reports. Well – procrastinating the reports.

Graves put a hand on his hip, waving his other arm lazily, “Take it ya’ll remember our girl, TV?”

“Our girl?” one of the Gunners copied.

You held up a corrective finger, “Not really anyone’s girl-”

Nav’s tone was cool, “Trouble in paradise with the big boy already-?”

Your lips shut as you stared at Nav a moment, thinking.

Graves decided this was a good place to interrupt. “Listen up Shadows,” he announced calmly. “Now, I imagine this isn’t anyone’s first preference. Me last of all.”

There were a few disgruntled sounds of agreement.

But-,” he paced down the length of the gunship. “If we wanna take out Makarov, we knock off that petty shit pronto.”

“I’m not being petty,” you pitched in, pettily.

He held up his hand – a habit of his when silencing his Shadows. You held your hand up back, as if to silence Graves. This earnt a few confused looks from the crew.

“TV-,” Graves started to reprimand.

“I’m willing to put shit aside to get this done,” you declared, your eyes skiing between the faces. “I’m here to do a job.”

Thank God for that.

Shadow Company needed this win. Too many months of chasing their tails, trying to recapture the missiles they’d lost enroute to Urzikstan. Too much tension over having lost one traitorous Shadow to 141. Another damn traitor to Makarov. His men needed something to celebrate. And seeing Makarov’s face in the dirt was like a prized fucking pig.

“So get to work,” Graves raised his brows, pointing with his forehead to your seat. “We’re burnin’ daylight here.”

Suddenly, you looked like a new kid who didn’t know where to put their things. The Shadows observed you as you took your seat, tugging on your helmet. Nav moved slightly away from you, like he thought he might get infected with something. You flicked on your radio, moving it closer to your lips. Then, as if you could be any slower, you scooted in closer to the TV monitors and started switching things on.

When you finally gave a thumbs up, Graves shook his head impatiently and turned to talk into his mic. “Control, how copy?”

“Cleared for taxi, Shadow.”

“Roger that,” nodded Graves to Pilot. “Let’s fly.”

---

The gunship was the apex predator of the sky.

Its engines were hot, firing for its coordinates with pure drive. Vibrations ran through their chairs, just like the blood pulsing in Graves’ veins. After a few minutes, Pilot set the plane to hover. Nav and TV reported their readings. The Gunners readied rounds in the can. And Graves paced the battle station, watching the ochre landscapes flashing across the screens.

Makarov had a sizeable facility. A neat, structured group of buildings with an airstrip that ran down the middle. Graves appreciated sizable facilities, but this one was gonna take a bit of focus to go head-to-head with. Prior tussles with Konni Group had made it clear that they were mean competitors in the playground. That would’ve been no problem for Shadow Company before Las Almas. But things had become, well – fractured since then.

Graves set the heel of his palm on the pistol pocketed in his vest. It was in easy reach if he needed it. He knew he couldn’t shoot you, but it’d been a long time since you’d been on a gunship. If you were going to slow the team down or disobey orders, he was ready to hold you at gunpoint to make things easy as pie.

“Shadow-1,” buzzed Farah through the radio line, her voice muffled. “Ground Team is holding at RP Boneyard to the west. We’re marked with IR strobes. Call visual.”

“Copy, stand by,” Graves put a hand on your chair to steady himself. “TV, confirm visual on the ground team.”

You were already flicking between camera angles.

“Copy, visual,” you returned easily.

He could see that you’d already found a thermal view of the boneyard; a gravesite of old, abandoned aircraft parts resting in the sand. Tiny white bodies were crouched behind the scrap metal, one waving an IR laser in the air.

Graves wet his lips, tugging his radio closer to his mouth. “Ground team, we have visual on you.”

“Copy,” Farah’s voice crackled back. “Our target is the large hangar. That’s where intel says they’re keeping the missiles. We move on your signal.”

“Marking threats in the boneyard,” advised Nav.

“Ground, hold position. We’ll clear the area.” Graves clicked his tongue, anticipation bristling in his fingertips. He drummed them on the back of your chair, eyes glued to the screen. “TV, lay down cover fire. Take out those threats.”

He was surprised to see how quickly you adjusted the sensitivity on your camera, to get a better visual of the red dots darting over the AO. How you knew to move your optic just enough to adjust for wind. How you were sitting in the chair like you’d been there all along. Your hand clasped the joystick, toggling between cannons. Lining up your crosshairs. Getting ready.

This was it. This was Shadow’s chance of getting the drop on Konni. Of turning the tide on this pile of shit with the missiles. This was their chance to revel in some fucking morale.

You said calmly, “On the trigger.”

Graves clapped his palms together, “Time to get to work, Shadows.”

“Going hot,” you breathed.

No ounce of hesitation followed.

Your fingers squeezed. Spectral dots streaked across the screen to the targets, followed by distant thuds. Graves braced for the recoil he knew rocketed through the gunship, adjusting his footing so that he didn’t wobble. The shots impacted, erupting into small explosions on the screen. Sand and shrapnel and yeah – you knew what you were doing. He heard the clinking of new rounds being loaded.

“Shadow-1,” shouted Farah, gunfire in the background. “Ground team is moving.”

“Copy that,” he acknowledged, feeling a little kick in his step from the smooth start. “Shadow’s watching over you.”

It was a few minutes later, when the ground team were clearing the first hangar, that Nav picked up new, unexpected movement. Reinforcements who were rallying up together to strike back. Nav was scanning the signals diligently.

“They’ll target us,” Graves determined.

Nav sounded deep in concentration, “Konni’s manoeuvring near the comms tower.”

“Get your eyes on that tower, TV,” reminded the Commander.

You were widening your shot, finding your visual of the radio tower. Graves leant in to inspect your screen, seeing a small, isolated SAM site near the tower. Surface to air missiles. Ha. Not on his fucking watch.

Graves said easily, “Hit that SAM site with a missile.”

Focusing, you armed a missile and fired. It illuminated in the thermal screen, swimming for its mark. Another direct impact. Fucking angelic. The missile sunk into the tower and shattered, ballooning into a sand cloud.

The radio sizzled as Price barked, “Shadow, troops in contact! Call for fire, now!”

“Shadow copies, we’re on it- danger close-”

"Rounds away."

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. He didn’t even need to tell you what to do. You were already tracking Price and Garrick, tapping the trigger. Raining hell at the threats advancing on them. There was a determination in the way you did this. One he’d never quite seen in you before. A calculated efficiency that reminded him of - Ghost. It was like a work of goddamn art. Graves surveyed your brushstrokes across the boneyard, admiring how you painted it with white splashes of fire.

“They thought they were taking cover,” he couldn’t help but laugh, slapping a palm on your chair. “Ice in your damn veins, TV. Good shooting.”

You didn’t respond.

Hardly any time passed before he was able to confirm, “Ground team, you’re clear to move.”

“Roger that,” answered Farah breathily, evidently running. “Shadow-1, Konni is launching a plane. West end of the tarmac.”

At her direction, you were sweeping your view over to the airstrip. There were parked planes on the hard, rock ground. Buildings surrounded them. Satellite towers cast long, stretching shadows. Smaller hangers were set at the end of the tarmac. A jet emerged from one of them, gliding slowly down its lane.

After a beat, it kicked into gear, zipping for take-off. If that fucking thing made it in the air, they had a tangible problem on their hands.

“Hit that jet before it’s airborne,” snapped Graves urgently.

With an air of composure, you tracked its pathway. It was fast, picking up speed. You were faster. You had muscle memory and shit; Graves knew he had recruited you for a reason. Predicting its trajectory, you fired a missile. The gunship rumbled as it spiralled toward the jet. Graves stared, swallowing the lump in his throat. The two inevitably collided. The jet combusted into sparks and smoke.

Hell fucking yeah.

“Enemy jet destroyed,” assured Nav.  

Graves loved that shit. Music to his fucking ears.

“Air superiority, Shadows,” hailed Graves proudly, rocking your chair with enthusiasm.

You threw him a thumbs up, though stayed fixed to your work. Graves laughed.

He did hate you. He hated anyone that disrespected his home team. You were also just a real genuine pain in the ass – betrayal or not. Though goddamn, Graves knew he’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel good. To execute missions well. To see Shadow Company run smoothly again. To see the team enjoying the familiarity, even if it was for just the second.

No doubt, he hated you. But if he wanted to make an omelette, he had to break a few eggs. And hell, even Nav was smiling.

----

As a Commander, Graves was professional.

Not perfect. He’d forsaken the idea of being perfect when he left the military. Yikes, he’d left that attitude even further back when he left the South. No, he wasn’t perfect, but he was professional.

That was why he returned you to the ground. Safely, against all his instincts. At his command, Pilot manoeuvred the gunship back to Shadow’s airstrip. Wheels contacted the tarmac. Chairs quivered at the force. The engine’s voices softened. And Graves paced down the battle station.

You were chatting to Gunner-3. The young Shadow had taken his helmet off and was ruffling his ginger hair, sitting on the edge of your control table. The two of you were having an amicable discussion, strained by a bit of hesitation but trying.

As Graves helped Nav open the doors, he heard you asking about Gunner-3’s girlfriend. A nurse, or something. Graves didn’t even know he had a girlfriend. Then again, he didn’t know a lot of things about his men. He didn’t know why you’d left Shadow Company until Nav spelt it out for him. And that dog didn’t hunt.

Don’t ask, don’t tell. That was Shadow policy – a promise of anonymity and the chance to be absolved of all the dirty bits of war. Win-win, and Graves was a self-professed sore loser. It also meant he didn’t need to mourn the loss of every one of them. That was easier if he didn’t know things about them. There’d been a time once when he got to know his men, through and through. Grieved them too. But that was when he was younger. When he was more – naïve. When he wasn’t as professional.

He was glad to be dropping you off, even if you were miles ahead of the new TV Operator. He had to give it to you though. The win was secured today because of your help. Your efficiency. Your experience. Even on the back of being cold turkey from Shadow Company.

You had done everything professionally. Taken down a jet. A tank (he hated those fucking things). Several trucks. The hangar hosting the missiles. Hell, probably half of Konni Group. And best yet, the helicopter that Makarov was in. Not even that fucker could hide from the eye in the sky.

The doors opened, letting sunlight filter into the bird’s belly. Graves let the team file out, prying off their damp helmets and dropping onto the cement. He signalled for you to stay. Gunner-3, by association. As well as Nav. When the gunship was emptied, Graves folded his arms across his chest.

“Nice work today, Shadows,” he approved, his eyes moving between the three faces. “Clean and tidy, just how I like it.”

“I’m not a Shadow,” was your instant interruption.

 “Aware o’ that, TV,” Graves let out a breath, if only to keep his head level. “Doesn’t matter which way you look at it, you did good.”

That seemed to shut you up, because you said nothing more.

Smug, Graves swiped a thumb under his nose. “Three of you have some makin’ up to do.”

Immediately, he was met with vexed expressions.

“Now hold your horses,” Graves waved an authoritative hand. “I know this aint exactly the elephant in the room. We’ve got some bad blood between us.”

“Trying to kill each other multiple times is a bit more than bad blood,” you pointed out, making a face like there was something tart on your tongue.

Graves had to physically stop himself from rolling his eyes. If you weren’t so – protected – he would’ve had no issue with boxing you up and digging you a nice new bed in the desert. But becoming Ghost’s condiments or spices or whatever, wasn’t on his bucket list.  

The commander tried for his diplomatic, leader-tone. “Look, I’ll be the first to say I’m one to hold grudges. An’ what you did was unforgivable to Shadow-,” he directed that at you. “But you also let one of my men live, and you proved yourself today.”

Your forehead creased in accusation, “You’re jus’ trying to get back in Price’s good books, aren’t you?”

Ah TV. Observant, as usual.

“That too,” admitted Graves. “Never know when we’re gonna need to white flag it with ‘em. That means we gotta play nice in the pen.”

“Hopefully we never fucking see ‘em again,” muttered Nav.

“That means,” Graves said louder, as a warning against the snark. He pointed a digit at Nav, “I expect you to squash this beef. I don’t care if it’s phony. We leave this shit here in Urzkistan. Bury it right here. No gravestone. No grudges. Capeesh?”

Nav’s eyes darted to you, though Graves could tell he was trying to be sneaky about it. “She betrayed us, Sir.”

“I don’t fucking care about that right now,” bit Graves. He leant back, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. If they didn’t sort this little breakup right now, Graves was sure he’d have a shit tonne more paperwork to do. “I’ve got bigger fucking problems to worry about.” With a sterner tone, he demanded, “Bury this. Now.”

Silence. Gunner’s head swivelled back and forth, like he was watching a hockey puck bounce between two sticks.

“How?” you tasted slowly. “If you think I’m apologising to him-”

“Not saying you have to,” Graves raised his hands in negotiation, his resolve sharpening with each word. “Ya’ll are both too shitfaced and stubborn to apologise. So, how’s about this? Tell the other what you’re willing to accept as an apology.”

Another round of silence. This time, contemplative.

“Oh yeah?” scoffed Nav, slightly unsure. “What, like I get to slap her in the face?”

You were quick to defend, “Slap? I can take a punch.”

Graves wasn’t sure that was something to be offended about, but he was willing to run with it. He pointed at you, raising his brows at Nav as if this were a compelling offer to take up.

“Not my style,” countered Nav, wilfully.

“Always the maternal type, eh?” you snorted.

Nav threw you an irritated look, “Always the blockhead.”

One final silence. Three strikes and he was out. Maybe this was a bad idea. He’d thought it might’ve been possible to offer an alternative, less harmful revenge tactic. But maybe that wouldn’t be enough to soften 141’s attitude to Shadow Company. To Graves.

Gunner cleared his throat, looking like he wished he wasn’t there.

The sound seemed to push Nav into some kind of decision, because he suddenly laughed coldly, “You know what? Yeah, actually. I’ll take the bait. One punch to the face, is it?”

Graves’ attention slid back to you, analysing your expression.

You seemed to be weighing up your options.

“Anything?” you checked.

“No maiming,” clarified Graves, a chastising air. “No death.”

“No, no, of course not,” you dismissed with a hand, a sick smile pinching at the corners of your lips. You offered Nav a quirked brow, “You’re not gonna like it.”

It was a matter of pride when Nav replied, “Try me.”

Chapter Text

Getting clocked in the face wasn’t pleasant.

Your skin was on fire. Swollen and plump. Red pinpricks decorated your lids and purple bloomed at your cheekbone. There was a dull ache pounding in your skull, like the incessant thump of a cannon firing off someplace in the distance.

The rumbling of the truck wasn’t helping. Commander Graves had instructed Nav and Gunner to drive you out to the ground team, who were lingering around Konni’s base in the hope of identifying Makarov’s body. Your elbow was propped up on the windowsill, as you held a damp lump of cloth to your face. Fuzzy music crackled on the radio. With the one eye you had left, you followed the endless length of the horizon. The sun was swimming its lonely descent, ready to be consumed by the sand.

Out of nowhere, the truck’s tyres hiccupped over potholes on the road. Nav’s boot stayed firmly pressed to the accelerator, unwilling to slow down or try and manoeuvre around them. You hissed at the pain, jerking, like a train stuttering into motion. The noise attracted his attention, drawing his eyes from the road to you.

“You look like you’ve just been mugged,” he commented blandly.

Quirking a brow, you countered, “Well, you look like a naked baby.”

You meant that. He really did look naked, courtesy to you. Gunner clearly agreed because there was an unmistakable snort in the back.

Nav shook his head like he didn’t want to talk about it. He hooked an arm out of his open window, patting his hand on the metal body of the truck.

“You know,” murmured Nav calmly, “I get it.”

You turned your head to him, wondering if he was going to elaborate. Clearly, he didn’t intend to without further prompting. You didn’t appreciate when he did that. He was trying to bait you into conversation through curiosity. Manipulation tactics. Heavy with tiredness, you sighed.

“Get what?”

“What your problem is.”

“I’ve got only one?” you asked, not bothering to add the sarcastic edge to your tone.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he amended, a slight bead of frustration.

He didn’t say anything more, so you let your focus drift away. You slid your good eye over to your window, watching the cloud of your breath pulse against its surface. After staring awhile, you noticed a small, curved crack in the glass. Shrapnel, you guessed. It reminded you of the peak of a mountain. It reminded you of Ghost.

“I meant,” Nav tried again, more thoughtfully. He bumped his hand on the truck again. “I get what your problem is with Shadow. Think it started before Las Almas, right?”

The truck bounced; tyres trembling over another bump in the road. You winced at having accidentally pressed the cloth to your head a touch too hard.

“It was my last contract for a reason,” you finally replied, finding a sincere tone. You pulled your leg onto your chair, hugging your knee to your chest. “Wanted to leave a long time ago. Guess I stopped appreciating what it meant to be a Shadow.”

“Were you ever one?” he asked. An accusation. But a curious, gentle one.

You took a moment to think about it, considering how to reply. All of the words that bubbled on your tongue were heavy with unspoken, unacknowledged feelings. Persistent and haunting, like the shadows cast over the dashboard of the truck.

“I was once,” you answered gently, sure about that much. “But after a while I just felt – out of place.”

“And then you met that guy,” suggested Gunner, from the back. “From 141.”

You glanced in your sideview mirror to see his pink complexion. Confusion and curiosity and understanding mingling together in his pinched brows. He was right. Ghost had trickled into your life unexpectedly and changed – well, everything. With him, you felt calm. At peace. At home. Like you could say anything. Do anything, and he wouldn’t judge you. He wouldn’t be annoyed or bothered or put off by your awkwardness or sheepishness. It was refreshing. Relieving. And for the first time, you felt like you might be able to whittle out a bit of happiness in your life. Not a big chunk. Just an unimposing little place of contentment, for you. For him.

Shadow Company could never give that to you.

“Yeah,” you clutched tighter to the cloth, fingers wrinkled from the wetness. “I met Ghost.”

Neither of them could understand that. You didn’t expect them to. One moment they feared Ghost and the next, they admired him. They didn’t know Simon Riley.

Simon Riley, who was good at Hide and Seek and always won Snakes and Ladders. Who gave you gloves and ponchos and teas. Who made people chop their eyelashes off and punched teachers in the face when they asked him to do his homework. Who slipped extra supplies and ammo and love letters into your vest. They didn’t know that Simon Riley didn’t smile or laugh, but held his emotion within his eyes. And that if you could withstand his stare for long enough, you might learn how to read them.  You might learn to love them. Like you had.

“I knew it was Ghost,” Nav admitted sternly.

You weren’t sure where he was going with this, so you opted to stay silent and let him rattle on.

“I saw you looking at him that first time on the gunship,” he remembered. “Thought maybe you were just scared. Or that it was some kind of fascination thing – talented dude like that. But then I saw the way you were looking at each other in the firing range.”

You narrowed your eye. “What d’you mean?”

“After the training simulation for the oil rig op,” Nav clarified pointedly, shuffling in his chair. “He sat near us on the bleachers, and I saw you look at him. And he was looking at you.” He pointed toward the windscreen, as if he was replaying the memory right in front of him.

“And?”

“And I could just tell there was something there – like you knew each other somehow.” Nav leant back, elbow straightening as he locked his hand tighter around the steering wheel. “Was like none of us were even in the room.”

You remembered that day. You remembered every day with Ghost. Every second, even.

“Why did you care?” you asked, trying not to furrow your brows too hard. Your eye was already stinging enough. “Was like you had some kind of vendetta against him. And this is before he stabbed you in the knee, so don’t give me that shit.”

He exhaled – a frustrated sound. Frustration with himself, maybe.

“I just-,” he started, cracking. “It’s stupid, but I thought - it was us three.”

There was a weighty silence that tailed his words.

Trying to understand, you repeated, “Us three?”

“Yeah,” he snapped, then swallowed to find a calmer tone. “Gun was going on dates, and I could tell you were checking out of Shadow and lying about it and-.” Nav’s thumb tapped his irritation out on the wheel. “I thought Shadow Company was meant to be about loyalty.”

“It was.” Gunner clapped a hand to the back of Nav’s chair, as if in reassurance. “It is. We’ve been through a lot of shit together. That’s just fact.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Loyalty clearly meant something different to them than it did to you. And you realised that might’ve been what separated you now. This simple difference in opinion was enough to splinter the cohesiveness that’d grown between you over the years. A little crack embedded in the glass.

“For what it’s worth,” Nav said, a hint of resignation. “I know things’ve changed, but I’ll always have good memories of our first few years with Shadow.”

“Me too,” you agreed, honestly.

Satisfied with that, he turned back to the road and nodded to himself.

Gunner cleared his throat. “You know, I knew too, TV. About-,” he said with shuddery reluctance, “Ghost.”

“You didn’t know shit,” challenged Nav, scoffing in amusement. “Always had your head in the sand. You thought it was Pilot.”

“You’re just abnormally perceptive,” you defended.

“No,” Nav insisted sharply. “Fucker practically had a fit when I told him it was that big guy with the mask. He didn’t know shit.”

“S’pose it was a shock,” Gunner relented, pausing to laugh in disbelief. “Never thought it was gonna be Sweeney fuckin’ Todd.” 

“Sweeney Todd,” you spluttered, half wanting to turn around and toss the rag at him. “Coming from the one that’s star-eyed for Nurse Hannibal Lector?”

“I resent that name,” pointed out Gunner.

Nav threw a sideways glance at you, “Pilot said he saw her stealing blood from the storage unit, last week.”

You hummed, “Thirsty?”

“Probably bathes in it,” Nav laughed, tilting his head up to raise his brows at Gunner through the rear-view mirror. “You’ll be next, Gun.”

There was a displeased sound in the back of the truck, “Pilot’s a fucking liar.”

“And a useless gossip,” you agreed, throwing him a smile over your shoulder.

For a moment, it felt like old times. A fleeting moment.

When you turned back to the front, you could see the base sharpening into view. Buildings were smoking. Debris littered the landscape. The air filtering through the vents smelt metallic. On the edge of Konni’s airstrip, sat the ground team. Farah’s soldiers were scattered out, working over rifles and chatting with mouthfuls of rations. If they were having a break, it meant they’d completed their search for Makarov’s body. Or at least, whatever was left of it.

Nav slipped his boot on the break. He beckoned the truck to slow. The tyres squealed. Crunched slowly over rocks and gravel. Two figures stood to approach the vehicle, waiting expectantly for it to halt. The headlights caught their faces, illuminating them in gold. Captain Price was thumbing his vest. Gaz was taking off his cap and shoving it in the back pocket of his jeans. Seeing them sent a strange tug through your stomach, but you weren’t exactly sure why.

Nav didn’t shut the engine off completely. He let it grumble, perhaps wanting to turn it around and zip off as quick as he could. Eager to get out, you thrust open the door. You climbed out, boots touching the dirt. The cloth still pressed carefully to your face.

A sudden thought flickered across your mind. Halfway in the door, you paused. Ducked your head back into the truck. Studied the faces that stayed in there, in the dark. They stared back. One pale faced, with messy ginger hair. The other marred by the evidence of your vengeance. Your old teammates. Turned friends. Turned enemies. Turned strangers. Remnants of your shadowy past.

You said gently, “Happy Commander’s birthday.”

This was your way of shaking their hand. Of letting them know that you were ready to be done with it. Of acknowledging what things had been, and what they were now. They returned the sentiment, one after the other. A farewell, for good. You shut the door and backed up so that Nav could swing the wheel. The truck completed a turn. Then drove off.

“Good to see you in one piece,” acknowledged Price, a gruff tone coming up on your six. “Bloody good keeping up, Telly Monster.”

Gaz touched your shoulder, “Nicely done up there, Tel. Tossers hardly had time to react. Made our day a lot fucking easier.”

“Glad I could help,” you laughed, feeling some sense of relief to be with them again. You turned to offer them a sheepish smile.

“Oi.” Price’s expression was suddenly murderous, “Fuck happened to you?”

It took a moment for you to remember.

“Oh,” you lifted the cloth to show them your puffy eye. “I got punched.”

Instantly regrettable. Gaz’s inhale was staggered. He took the cloth from your grasp and whipped it over his shoulder. Then he leant in to get a better look. Standing close behind him was Price, now locking his gaze to the truck shrinking in the distance. He seemed to be contemplating propelling something at it. Or that if he tried hard enough, it might set aflame from his glare alone. You wouldn’t be surprised if it did. The captain of 141 had a mean fucking stare.

“Graves do this?” Gaz asked, the way a parent might when they were coddling their child after a rough day at school. He prodded the edge of your cheekbone so that it throbbed. “They hold you down or something?”

You winced, stilling. “No, no. Nothing like that. This was consensual.”

“Consensual?” copied the Captain, shooting you with bewilderment. “Make that make sense to me, eh?”

“Think of it as a bit of score settling,” you offered, a little embarrassed at all the fuss. “We agreed to get our own personal bit of revenge.”

Price didn’t seem to like that answer. “Fuckin’ hell. Simon’ll rip us a bloody new one,” he groused, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck like he was uncomfortable with the thought. “He’s meeting us at the airstrip on base, back home.”

Your heart kicked into gear. “We’re going to London?” you asked, a touch hopeful.

“Failed to pull an ID on Makarov,” Price replied matter of fact.

You whistled in disappointment at that. Too fucking easy. Since when did blowing up tanks and helicopters actually work anymore? Maybe Konni had no base, but they still had their leader. They had missiles. They had London.

Price’s anger was evident in the knots on his forehead. “Bet the bastard’s in London,” he stated firmly, as if reading your thoughts. “Ghost an’ Soap have gotten intel on the missiles.”

Gaz sounded like he was concentrating, inspecting your eye. “This needs to be iced.”

“Get a med kit,” Price ordered to nobody in particular.

There was some shuffling behind him as soldiers began ruffling urgently through their things. It was Farah who steadily signalled to him that she had a spare one. She was prepared like that - like it was some personal duty of hers to make sure everyone in her vicinity was taken care of. Unzipping her medical pouch, Farah extracted an instant cold pack and began shaking it. It wasn’t hard to see why Alex was in love with her. Not one bit. Gaz began to pull you over to her, gently, with a hand at your elbow.

Your captain waved a lazy hand in the direction of your eye. “Let’s patch this up onboard.”

“Should we warn him?” suggested Gaz to his superior. “Could use the satellite phone. Might help settle the dust a bit before we land.”

“Fuck,” cursed Price grimly. “We could.” He privately weighed his options over in his head, hands on his hips. Each stride toward the helicopter purposeful. “No fuckin’ way around it though, aye?”

“Think it’ll be fine,” you coughed awkwardly, wanting to reassure them. “The swelling’ll go down in a few hours, thanks to this.”

You motioned to the cold pack in Farah’s hand. She brought it up to your eye, batting your hand away when you tried to take it from her. A tiny smile of thanks was all you could return.

“We deal with it when we touch down,” Price decided. “Bad fucking timing, is all. Shouldn’t’ve agreed he meet us on the drop.”

“This is Simon,” you laughed, “He’s not gonna be angry - he’s harmless-”

Baffled, dark eyes searched your face. “Check for concussion, Gaz,” Price instructed, hopping up into the helicopter with ease.

Gaz held his open palm out, gesturing for you to step on it so he could hoist you up.

“Should’ve seen the other guy up close,” you told him, tossing your thumb over your shoulder. “You know, the one driving the truck.”

“You roughed him up?” asked Gaz, a touch impressed.

You shook your head sincerely and snipped your fingers like scissors. “Nah, I chopped off his eyelashes.”

Chapter Text

It was raining in London.

Specks of it pattered on the roof of the plane. You could hear the gentle robotic hum of the engine, mingled with rumbling thunder. The plane landed, shuddering.

You pressed your nose to the cool window, peering outside. Droplets raced down the thick, foggy glass. Beyond them, you could see someone waving red traffic lights, walking across the glossy tarmac. You trailed the unknown man with bored curiosity, trying to guess what he was going to do next. He swept his hands to the right. The plane followed his direction. Then he disappeared somewhere under the wing.

There was a whirring as the Pilot lurched the plane to move. It crawled leisurely over the cement, heading for an open hangar that was brightly lit. With the man gone, you noticed your blurry face reflected in the window. A mildly horrified pair of eyes stared back at you. Your eye was - bad. Sure, the swelling had gone down. And at least your lids weren’t clamped tightly shut anymore. You’d ensured that by waking up every thirty minutes to apply the cold pack.

The bruises were striking, though. You turned your face, inspecting the inky splotches from different angles. Deep purple stained your skin. Fuck, this wasn’t how you wanted Ghost to see you. You’d have to cover it up with something. At least for a while.

Unbuckling your seatbelt, you stretched to your feet and yawned. Your arms were long, reaching above your head. Your fingertips grazed the plastic shell of the ceiling.  Yawn dying out, you sluggishly pulled yourself through the chairs. It was dark inside the plane. The lights had dimmed out hours ago, to let the team fit in some rest. You hadn’t realised how much you needed to sleep until boarding. Perhaps all the emotional and physical labour had caught up with you. Price and Gaz must’ve needed a bit of shut eye as much as you, because every time you woke you could hear the captain’s gruff snoring.

Reaching the pair of them, you slumped in the empty chair across from Gaz. He looked groggy, like he’d only just stirred awake. His eyes were latched on the window closest to him, watching silhouettes of buildings creep by. There was an uncharacteristic feel to him, but you couldn’t exactly put your finger on it. It could’ve been the bent bits of his ruffled hair. Or the crumples in the collar of his uniform. Or it might’ve been his posture; curved into the chair rather than needle straight.

Price was on the other side of the aisle, checking his watch. Tired, deep grooves shadowed his eyes. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a plain, black beanie and tugged it on. His hair was gone in an instant, leaving only the tufts that peeked out of the wool.

There was some comfort in it only being the three of you. No more Shepherd. Parting with Farah and Alex had felt sadder than you’d expected though. Strangely, she’d grown on you. It was hard not to, when you’d so quickly seen the similarities between her and Ghost. But now you knew the differences too. Her openness. Willingness to give. The formal, philosophical tone she used. As if she were always ready, at the drop of a hat, to inspire the masses into battle. Alex had snuck into your affection, too. You liked the way he always seemed so at ease with himself. Confident and assured in a way you could never be. Except, of course, when it came to Farah. No, he was different around her. Farah could distract him mid-sentence, simply by walking into the room. She could unknowingly make him squirm by simply touching his back a second longer than necessary.

You would miss them, for sure. But you were happy too. Because London meant a proper bed. A full meal – not just rations. Maybe even a drink; a toast to everything the team had accomplished. Maybe a bit of normalcy. Or challenging Soap to a proper game of something like pool, rather than just ‘I spy’ or ‘would you rather’.

And fuck. London meant - Ghost.

Christ, you were nervous to see him. You weren’t sure what to say. Or even, if you knew the words, how you’d say them. There was a lot you could tell him – about Graves or the Shadows or Konni’s base. None of them felt adequate, though. Ghost had already left you with the most perfect string of sentences. Timelessly, endlessly living in your chest pocket. He’d written a letter that was practically now weaved into your soul. Perhaps you wouldn’t tell him anything, then. Perhaps you’d ask a question instead. And only one question burnt sharply on your tongue.

Did he mean it?

Looking for something to distract yourself, you swivelled to look at Price. His head was drooped back on his chair, eyes gently shut.

“Tired?” you asked softly.

He didn’t bother to open his eyes, “Always.”

“Me too,” you agreed, letting a soft sigh through your lips. “Airtime went quick, though.”

“We’re lucky these lads picked us up at the refuel station,” noted the captain, crossing his arms over his chest. “Would’ve been twice as long on the helo.”

“Multiple stops too,” you hummed, gazing through the rectangular black abyss that seemed to wait on the outside of the aircraft. “It’s nice to be on friendly ground.”

“Who says this country’s friendly?” Gaz quipped playfully, throwing you a brow. He leant forward, entangling his fingers together. “Bunch o’ bloody maniacs out there, Tel.” He nodded to the base, then to your face. “Your eye’s gone down a bit.”

Instinctively, you glanced to your reflection in the window again. “Was it worse than this? Cause I feel like this looks pretty shit.”

“You do look like shit,” Price agreed, eyes still shut.

“How can you tell?” you countered, feigning an offended tone.

No hesitation. “You always look like shit, Telly Monster.”

You laughed, feeling it bubble in your throat, “I’ll take that to HR, sir.”

“Good,” grunted Price. “Might finally get a fuckin’ break.”

The plane creaked as it slowed to a halt. Its nose prodded at the entrance of the hangar; body still doused in the rain. You took a full breath. There was a nervous wriggle in your fingers that you drummed out on your thighs.

“These chairs’ve been about as comfortable as a bloody rock,” complained Gaz, eyes rich with a clear desire to get onto the ground. “Can’t wait to get home.”

You offered him a lopsided smile that morphed into a yawn. “What time’s it?”

“Just after 2100 hours,” replied Price, catching your yawn. His was considerably throatier. “Ghost’ll be here by now. Would’ve expected us to land twenty minutes ago.” 

Your heart thumped at the mention of him. As if in answer, the rain thrashed harder on the roof. Swallowing, you returned your attention back out the window. There were men in uniform streaming in and out of the hangar. Most of them looked like aircrew, unloading carts from the plane. They picked up their pace to take shelter from the thickening storm.

Suddenly, the cockpit door shot open. One of the pilots climbed through the narrow space, heading for the door. He gave Price a nod of respect that looked exceptionally genuine despite the time of night. His hands began working the levers of the door open. Metal hissed apart. Cool air flooded into the aircraft. The three of you stood.

“Gaz,” you blurted out, touching his elbow. His skin was surprisingly smooth and buttery. “Do you mind if I borrow your hat?”

His brows furrowed, “What for?”

“To hide my-,” you gestured to your black eye shyly. “You know, just ‘til tomorrow. Kind of don’t want it to be the first thing Simon sees. If you know what I mean.”

“You don’t look like shit,” Gaz reassured knowingly. “Cap’s just takin’ the piss.”

“I know,” you smiled, embarrassed. “Don’t make me explain it. Just-,” you poked the flag stitched on his hat. “Lemme borrow this for the night. Bring it back tomorrow, promise.”

That seemed to do the trick because he flipped off his cap and plopped it on your head. You adored that about Gaz. Always so ready to help. He had a warm heart and a warmer temperament. You smiled in thanks, palming down his hair absently to make it neat again. He let you do this, the way a soldier might at a line-up for inspection.

When you were done, you turned to trudge for the door. There, Price was slinging on a duffel bag that held the rifles. He held out an arm for you to exit first. You gestured for him to do the same. You both took a step. Froze. Offered for the other to walk through again. A little dance of unbearable politeness. You laughed. He rubbed a knuckle into his eyelid in exasperation. Sheepishly, you walked out into the rain and started skipping down the slippery, metal stairs.

Instantly, water struck your hat. It was fucking viciously cold. Your nose was going numb. Shuddering, you tucked your hands underneath your arms to maintain some semblance of warmth. When your boots landed on the tarmac, you glanced up to judge how far the hangar’s shelter was.

That was when you saw him.

Ghost was there. Tall and broad. Standing under the overhanging lip of the hangar’s roof. He was dressed in casual winter clothes. Hood up. Hands hidden in the pockets of a thick, navy windbreaker. His sweatpants were black. A white stripe trailed down the side of his legs, like the bones he often wore on his gear. He was wearing his balaclava - the one with a skeleton’s smile printed over his mouth. It veiled his vacant expression.

You stopped. Stared. Part of you was surprised at the abruptness of his appearance. Part of you wondered if he was looking at you too. Ghost seemed to be staring back. Dark, purposeful eyes. Taking in the image of you. You inhaled nervously. Then, he stepped out into the rain. Something pushed you forward too, as if a comet in your body was propelling you to go. Urging you to close the space separating you.

Seconds passed. The two of you drew ever closer. Water soaked into Gaz’s cap. Puddles splashed beneath you, drenching your boots. Tears simmered in the crevasses of your eyes. Moving closer and closer and closer. Your pace quickened. You were running. Nothing could get you there faster. Ghost took his hands out of his pockets, maybe realising your intention. Bracing for your inevitability.

You collided.

Your arms swept around his neck, and he caught you. Lifted you into him. Stumbling back a step to keep himself steady. His mask buried into the hollow place at your collarbone. Your nose pressed into his damp neck, so hard that your bruised cheekbone ached. So fast that the cap nearly knocked clean off. But you didn’t care. You were weightless; feet dangling momentarily from the floor.

“Alright?” you croaked.

“Alrigh’,” Simon stuttered into your hair. A rough and gravelly tone. “Alrigh’, love.”

Hearing his voice melted all the tension in you. All the knots and twists in your stomach. All the nervousness brimming out of your throat. He was there. Solid and real. Just as you remembered. And these days without him somehow seemed more gaping than the months you’d spent apart.

“Casper,” you mumbled against his skin, cheeks brightly pink. You couldn’t help but breathe a laugh. “My big Casper.”

“Here,” he murmured, soft enough that you’d scarcely caught what he’d said. “You’re here,” he repeated. Heavy, drenched with relief. “Fuck, you’re here.”

His arms seemed to tighten around the small of your back. His body so big. So close. You were practically drowning in it. Simon set you down. Tenderly. Gently. Although not willing to let you go yet. Not willing to break the subtle, private poetry of your pulsing hearts.

But then there was the thudding of wet boots approaching. You felt Simon’s head, pressed to yours, shifting slightly. As if he were looking up at something behind you. He adjusted his hood. This moment was running its course, you could tell. Ghost’s shell was rebuilding. He was already burying the emotion that had unintentionally surfaced. His calm, distant self returning.

“Boss,” he acknowledged, with more composure than you even felt capable of. “Garrick.”

They returned the greeting, their voices moving like ships sailing around your six. A hand squeezed your elbow, and it took a moment of dazed thought to realise it was Simon prompting you to move to the hangar. Reluctantly, you let him, breaking away. Somehow, you managed to walk the rest of the way to the shelter, ducking your head like it might help you avoid some of the rain. It didn’t. You were fucking soaked. Water dripped from the cap, some of it skidding down your face. Ghost caught up, lingering to your right.

Price gave him a nod, “Held the fort, aye?”

“As ordered,” returned Ghost flatly.  

Price made a noise of rare approval, “And Laswell?”

“Said she’d brief you,” Ghost told him hoarsely. “T’morrow.”

There was a nod as Price thought through what he wanted to relay. “Let’s catch some Z’s lads,” he decided, clapping an abrupt hand on Ghost’s bicep. “Sergeant, you’re on me at 0600 hours. Simon, you an’ TV take a few off.”

Ghost sounded mildly confused, “What?”

Price had the look of someone that was standing in front of a floor covered in jagged eggshells. With no shoes. Contemplating how to cross. His next move was tentative.

“I’ll say again - you both take a few off,” Price repeated carefully, his dark angular eyes flickering to you. “We’ll give you a buzz when we’ve got enough of a plan to gear up.” His brows raised expectantly, “Alright?”

Ghost was quiet for a moment, analysing this new instruction. You could practically feel the gears turning in his head. Either Price didn’t often so willingly dish out these types of orders, or Ghost was picking up on the slightest catch in his captain’s tone. Slowly, his jaw turned to you. Head tilted, suspicious. You kept your chin down, allowing your face to be hidden by the cap. As if testing out some hypothesis, Ghost’s lean, gloved fingers stretched forward. They found the edge of the cap, drawing it up.

You met his lazy, lidded gaze for the first time. They held yours. Intense and unmoving, while the rain pummelled the hangar’s roof. Then he drifted to the bruises painted over your cheek. His hand stilled. Until he carefully took the cap off, brushing a piece of your hair back to see the damage completely. Your heart thundered wildly in your ears. The others watched. Waited.

Ghost’s blackened eyes swept up again, to Price. And something flickered within them. Something that he probably never meant to show you. Something harsh and distant, and so cold that it made your chest ache.

Something violent.

Chapter Text

He remembered how it felt.

Swelling. Blood. His pale skin; raw and brittle. Simon couldn’t be fucked nursing that black eye. There was little point. He just sat by his window, staring blankly out into the rain. Water belted the glass. Fog rolled in from the graveyard down the street. Streams ran down the gutters. Out of all the things in the world, he was the only still, lifeless thing. Back then, he wished he could be something else. He wished he could be taken away – escape - like the water plummeting down the drain.

Nothing could take him away like your eyes. Like your voice. Like your smile. Or your arms wrapped around his neck, as if you never wanted to let go. Nothing had made him want the semblance of a normal life. Not when his had been so fucking abnormal. Until you. Until suddenly he had an unquestionable need to give you all the things that he never had. A home. Love. And all the shit that came with it, if he was honest. Those thoughts polluted his mind. Made him soft. Proper microwaved in the head. But Simon didn’t care. If there was anything he cared about, it was seeing you happy.

And you weren’t.

Your lips were dry, slightly open. Your hair was tussled. The purple bruises on your cheekbone were dark and angry. Yet your brows dipped up in concern, almost like you were worried about him. As if you hadn’t even noticed that someone had dared to lay their pathetic fucking hands on you. As if the only thing swirling around in your mind, was Simon. Fucking hell, that made his gut wrench.

It was enough. Whatever composure he had left, shattered like a spine in his grasp. Ghost’s eyes moved to Price. Ghost’s anger was a disfigured, vile thing. Price knew it. The captain raised his hands to show he wasn’t a threat. That weak gesture wouldn’t calm Ghost down. Nothing would. He was built for this. Violence and war.

“Fuck happened?” he spat.

“It was my fault,” you said quickly, sounding flustered. “I let it happen-”

“Not trackin’,” Ghost said, keeping his eyes fixed to Price.

“Let’s talk about it later,” you suggested warily, placing a tentative hand to his shoulder. “Not here.”

Ghost felt himself tense. It took concerted effort not to draw away from you. Pushing you away could mean danger. His guard was up. Alarms blaring in his brain. Ghost wasn’t bloody letting you out of his sight. No fucking chance.

“Where the fuck were you, eh?” Ghost gestured lazily to Price with his forehead. He tossed the hat at him sharply, watching the old man catch it without effort.

“Ask her, mate.”

Ghost tilted his head. His tone was dark, “I’m askin’ you.”

Price nodded patiently, “Think the bird wants to explain it herself.”

There was a familiarity in the way Price said this that bothered Ghost. That fucking geezer had lost his mind if he thought he could speak for you.

“Said you wouldn’t let anythin’ happen,” murmured Ghost. “Never expected you’d be this thick.”

“I know, lieutenant,” returned Price evenly. “Should’ve kept that promise to you.”

“He still upright then?”

Price’s frown was regretful. Fucking bollocks. Obviously, they’d let the knob go. Ghost cared about that difference. Deeply. Instinctively, he flexed his fingers. They were yearning for release. He wanted to feel them gripping his knife. To feel his blade puncturing deep. To collect silence from a strangled throat.

Ghost took a step closer to the captain, to speak in a low tone.

Before he could, Garrick stepped forward the way he might intercept a hostile.

“Calm down mate,” he supplied.

Ghost elbowed the sergeant’s arm away. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”

It wasn’t hard to make Garrick stumble. Bloody plonker weighed next to nothing.

“All good,” Garrick assured. “Keepin’ my distance, see?”

Price remained sturdy and observant, unbothered by his men having it out. Ghost matched his stare, measuring up his options. If it came to blows, Ghost had no doubt he’d win. Bloody walk in the park. He knew their deficits. The flinch in Price’s left shoulder. The hesitation in Garrick’s hook. Close combat was stitched into Ghost’s fucking bones.

“Let’s go, Simon,” you pitched urgently.

You were touching him again, your fingertips faintly grazing his elbow. Distracted, Ghost’s attention drifted back to you. To your hand. Back to your face. Your delicate lashes pivoted as you searched for something in his eyes.

“Simon-,” you repeated, a bit more gentle. “Please. Let’s go.”

His eyebrows twitched, slightly. He took a shallow breath, lips covered by the fabric of his mask. A shiver crept up his neck. Because you sounded – sad. And that was like fucking salt in his wound.

Ghost stressed a hand down his face. He dug a knuckle into one of his lids, trying to calm himself. His pulse was loud in his ears. He needed air. He’d fucking suffocate if he didn’t get it. He’d bloody strangle it out of someone else if he weren’t careful.

“Clear your head,” ordered Price, noticing the anger dissipating. “Give you a buzz later an’ we’ll finish this then, eh?"

“Yeah.” Raising his head, Ghost’s gaze seized the old man’s. “You better.”

---

Rain beat on the roof of the car.

It collapsed against the windshield, before being swept away by the wipers. Ghost’s attention was trained to the red, glowing headlights in front of him. His lean, bony hands were looped lazily around the wheel. The heater was on, whizzing against his forearms.

You were huddled against the window, on your side of the car. You seemed to be watching the streaks of lightning firing up in the sky. He didn’t mind that you were silent. He was lost in thought too. Lost in images. Ghost was busy imagining what it would be like if he went to Shadow’s base himself. If he found Graves. Pressed his boot against the bellend’s throat. Listened to him cry.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Broken from his thoughts, he ventured a look at you. “Nothin’.”

“It’s not nothing,” you told him knowingly. You pointed with your eyes to his hands on the wheel. “Can hear your gloves from how tightly you’re gripping that thing.”

Ghost stared down at his hands, curious. You were right. They were latched tight. Intentionally, he slackened his grasp and sat back.

He cleared his throat. “Tell us what happened.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothin’,” he copied dryly, eyeing the road. “Tell me.”

You exhaled loudly through your nose. Turning away, you shuffled in your chair. An uncomfortable tick. Evidently, there was some reluctance to explain it to him. He spun the wheel, boot on the break, as he pulled down his street.

Finally, you admitted. “It was a fair trade. We agreed to get one up on each other to settle our differences. He asked to punch me in the face.”

“Graves?”

“No,” you breathed. “Not Graves.”

“Who then?”

You sniffled, cautious. “Why d’you need to know who?”

“Not obvious?” He took a hand from the wheel to adjust his mask a little higher. “Got a bone to pick.”

“The bone’s already been picked,” you supplied, a touch frustrated. You thumbed in the direction of your eye. “See? It’s settled.”

That wasn’t true. Not nearly. It was far from settled. But Ghost would make sure it would be. Hell, he’d make it his bloody purpose. Things wouldn’t feel right until he’d picked every fucking bone from the Shadow’s carcass.

Flicking on the indicator, his eyes darted lazily to his rear-view mirrors. The street was black and lonely, as usual. Hardly any cars were parked on the curb. He appreciated the privacy of that. The knowledge that he wouldn’t run into any nosy fucking mugs on their evening jog. Not that he was home often, anyway.

You were studying the street too, surveying the large, bricked buildings with interest. After getting a look down the road, you watched him pull into a vacant park outside his flat.

“Where are we?” you probed, curious.

The engine gave one stifled murmur before he shut it off. “Safe house,” he replied.

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. It was the safest place you’d ever be. No doubt.

Unbuckling your seatbelt, you thrust open the door. “Weird place for a safe house.”

Ghost didn’t bother to answer, climbing out his side. His boots splashed in a puddle. He thumped the car shut behind him, waiting for you to do the same. As you paced a few inquisitive steps down the street, he locked the car and walked to the door.

“Is Price letting us bunk here?” you asked, following him up the steps.

Ghost sorted for his key, “So to speak.”

“That’s nice of him,” you mumbled, and Ghost got the sense you were looking for things to say. You grabbed your elbows, “I should go back- my bag’s still in the car.”

“Get inside,” Ghost suggested dully, wrestling open the door. “I’ll go back for it later.”

You sidled inside, wiping your boots on the well-vacuumed mat. He watched you climb up the narrow stairs that stretched out in front of you.

“Which one?” you tiredly called over your shoulder.

“Second.”

He clicked the door shut behind him and trailed after you. Waiting dutifully by the second door, you offered him a small smile. Ghost didn’t return it, but he plucked a different key from his pocket and slipped it in. It was strange. He had imagined this so many times, on those lonely nights when you were on leave. Now it was actually happening and his stomach felt blended.

Ghost nudged the door open. He circled his wrist around the wall, fingers searching for the familiar clack. The light burst to life.

Instantly, you bent down and pried off your boots. Mirroring you, he kicked his sneakers off and then neatened them up. It made his skin itch to see you wander inside. Without knowing it, you were surveying his tidy, bare-bones flat. He felt exposed - stripped back like a skinned rabbit. Ghost knew that made little sense. It was just his head chirping shit in his ear again. That morning, he’d binned most of the old paperwork and books that usually sat on his coffee table. Apart from that, he had few possessions. Only the essential furniture. Nothing decorative. Locking the door, he pocketed his keys and tried to read your verdict from the expression on your face.

You let out a contented sigh. “Wish I had a place like this,” you commented absently, taking off your jacket. You laid it across the arm of the couch. “So much space. Mine is tiny, compared.”

He let out an imperceptible breath, feeling something akin to relief.

Slipping off his gloves, he tossed them on the couch near your jacket. “C’mere,” Ghost gestured, closing the short distance that was left. “Lemme see.”

You let him lift your chin, your eyes rising to meet his. He held it up to the light, studying the damage.

“It looks worse than it is,” you told him. “Promise.”

He liked that. Making promises for him. Some secret only the two of you knew.  

“That so?” he murmured. “Better make sure, yeah?”

Ghost took his time, swiping his bare thumb across your cheek. It was warm. And he knew it wasn’t your swollen skin, but the blush that was making your cheeks red. Carefully, he trailed the edge of your bruise. His touch was so scarce he could hear you sucking in your breath. Your lips pressed together, as if to hide your nervousness.

Gone was his anger. It’d been so searing in him, not long ago. Mere minutes with you, and you’d already taken him away. You could so easily bring him somewhere far from cluster bombs and gunfire pounding in his ears. Somewhere he felt at ease. Himself. Somewhere Simon never wanted to come back from, if he was honest.  

Staring at your lips, he thought about leaning in. Kissing you. But he needed to exercise some restraint. You were on the mend. You needed rest. So, Simon withdrew his hand.

“Tea?”

“I can make ‘em,” you offered, sheepish. “Assuming they keep tea here.”

Just like that, you were hopping away to find the kitchen. Simon moved to the couch and sat down. From where he was, he could see your concentrated expression as you searched through the cupboards. The kettle clicked on and started its hiss. Making a sound of triumph, you extracted two mugs and set them on the counter.

Simon sunk further into the chair, letting his head drop back. You were safe. You were here. Christ, he could finally fucking sleep easy.

“What’re these?”

When you didn’t elaborate, he looked up. You were in front of the fridge, one hand on the handle. Frozen. You prodded the bit of paper magnetised to the fridge. It took him a tick to realise what your eyes were glued to.

“There’s coordinates here,” you relayed.

Fuck.

He was an absolute bellend. He’d forgotten to toss that. A dumb fucking oversight.

“These are-,” you sounded confused. “These are Shadow base coordinates. Why would they have Shadow’s coordinates in-”

Pausing, your lips parted. You glanced around in surprise, the way one would if their blindfold had just been taken off.

“This isn’t a safehouse,” you realised, waving the square of paper between your fingers.

He swallowed, “Negative.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you frowned, socks slipping over to him. “Why didn’t you tell me this is your place?”

Simon’s knees widened in anticipation of you. “Wasn’t sure you’d like it.”

“Why would I need to like it?”

He tilted his head to let you know that was a stupid question. You stopped in front of him, nose crinkling.

“You know I’d live in a box, as long as it was with you,” you confessed, your words turning into an embarrassed laugh. “Even a casket.”

“Ha,” he deadpanned, leaning back. “Startin’ to sound like me.”

"S’pose you’re rubbing off on me," you laughed, crawling onto the couch beside him.

The tip of one of your knees pressed to his. You didn’t seem to mind the contact. Neither did he. You cleared your throat and fluttered the bit of paper between two fingers. He remembered scrambling the digits on there, months ago. Thrusting them up on the fridge like some poor sod.

“Is it the haunted barrack?” you guessed.

He shrugged, “Yeah.”

“Maybe I’ve rubbed off on you too.”

“Yeah.”

A beat ticked by. You nodded, a little numb. Simon wished he could pry your thoughts loose. Read them. Decipher their meaning.

“Why’d you write me that letter?” you croaked.

Simon saw himself reflected in your eyes, like a fly caught in a trap. He had to look away. He couldn’t think of what to say when his heart was beating so fucking hard. When his chest felt so heavy, he might collapse.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t do that,” you sighed.

“What?”

“Nobody’s ever written me anything like that,” you whispered, pressing the heel of your palm into your unblemished eye. Your lids clamped shut as you wrangled out the words. “Don’t go an’ tell me you’ve got no idea why you did.”

“I’m-,” he swallowed again. His throat felt scorched. “Too much of a coward to say it to your face.”

“I hate that.”

He couldn’t blame you. “Yeah?”

“No,” you corrected, as though realising it came out wrong. “I mean – when you talk about something I love, like that. When you say that kind of shit, I hate it.”

“It’s jus’ – it’s easier.”

“Than what?” you probed, bringing your arm down. “Me thinking that about you? Do you really think I’d ever think you’re a coward?”

“I’m not good at this,” he explained.

“At what?”

“Feelin’ this way,” he breathed, conflicted.

He spread his thumb and fingers over his temples. He wished he was wearing his full mask. The one that covered most of his face. Maybe he’d be able to articulate himself better with it on. Your fingers moved up his forearm, encouragingly.

“It’s fuckin’ relentless,” Simon continued. “I can’t – I don’t bloody know what the fuck to do about it. Bein’ away from you – seein’ you hurt. I miss you an’ I get angry. S’like I’m goin’ fuckin’ mental.”

“You’re angry at me for going on the Shadow mission,” you tried to understand. “For letting them do this.”

His eyes anchored to where you were holding his arm. Though he didn’t look up, he knew you meant your bruised eye.

“I’m not angry-,” he inhaled deep, searching for his composure. “I’m in love with you. You think I want you chasin’ a death wish?”

“You should’ve said something-”

“Couldn’t do that to you,” he interjected, shaking his head subtly. “You wanted to have it out with ‘em, yeah?”

You said nothing, and he knew he was right.

Rain rushed over the roof. Dogs barked a few flats down. The kettle screamed in the kitchen. Simon stared at the floor with weary eyes. His thoughts were in disarray, like some disassembled gun. Because the truth was, he was so fucking fond of you. So fucking pathetic for you. Fucking knees-deep in it that he could barely bury it away anymore.

You ruptured the heavy silence. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Simon said flatly.

“Why not?”

“I-,” he pushed out. “Have this need to make you happy. An’ when you’re not-, when you say things like that, makes me fuckin’ sick.”

You were silent again. Torturously silent. He couldn't stand it.

Simon found it in himself to lift his chin. To look at you. As raw and unmasked as he could ever be. And he found you - crying. Trying not to. Tears slipping down your cheeks. One eye marred. The other untouched. Like the lad that used to sit by his window and stare out into the rain.

Looking at you was like being gutted by a bloody carving knife. Without thinking, Simon reached out with his bare hands. Pulled you into him. Wrapped his arms tightly around your head. Pressed his mask into your hair. Not even caring that you could probably hear how ridiculously fast his heart was punching against his chest. And he held you, as the kettle spluttered into silence. Unwilling to let go. Unwilling to ever let you go.

“I wanna make you happy too,” you hiccupped, nose buried in his hoodie.

“You do, love,” Simon promised. “You do.”

Chapter Text

When you woke, it was alone.

The bed felt large and empty. Yawning, you peeled the blankets off your body. Streaks of sunlight danced across your legs. You glanced at the whited window, wondering what time of day it was. Midday, you guessed.

You placed a hand to your chest, feeling your heartbeat striking your palm. Waking up so late made something writhe in your stomach, as if the feeling alone was trying to make you remember something you forgot. You knew this was just a residual symptom of being in the field. Out there, operators often woke at stupid o’clock. Call it a mix of heightened instincts and being bound by the rules of superiors. That might’ve been why Ghost had woken early, despite probably having had little sleep. A military habit. His body clock was much more ironed into him than yours was.

Slipping your legs out of the bed, you stretched to your feet and tiredly hobbled to the bathroom. The wooden door glided noisily on the tracks. Half-heartedly, you started to strip. Guiding your shirt off your head was no easy task. Fuck, your muscles ached. You supposed motoring for days on end did that to a person. Kicking off your pants, you opened the shower door and twitched on the lever. An instant hiss came from above. You hurried in, melting with a sigh.

For a few minutes, you watched the tiles get foggy. Instantly, your breath felt deeper. Your muscles were no longer taut. Water shimmied down the glass panels on the shower door. Standing in the heat seemed to defrost your senses, coaxing your focus to sharpen. The more your wits returned to you, the more you realised how alarmingly clean the shower was. No grime or rust. Even the bottles he kept on the shelf were shiny and clear. It was like you were the lone speck of dirt being rinsed off.

Still, you liked being in Ghost’s shower.

In there, you tried to imagine how it would look to put your own shampoo bottle on the shelf. Amongst his things. Just casually sitting there, for weeks or months or years. Eventually – maybe – belonging.

Christ, your stomach tugged at the thought. Tossing back your head, you brushed your fingers through your hair. Water streamed down your elbow. You could hear it colliding with one of the bottles, pounding against the plastic like a drum. Minutes passed and you snapped the water off.

Hopping out of the shower was quick business. You unwound one of the black towels hanging on the rack, winding it around your body to stop your shivering. Toeing into the bedroom, you extracted a few clothes from your bag and set to layering them on. It was while you were rubbing the towel through your hair, that you noticed his closet doors were slightly ajar.

You crept over to them, sending a wary glance at the door in the off chance that he burst in to catch you. Indulging your curiosity, you creaked the doors open a little wider. Inside were a row of jackets and hoodies, packed in tight and dangling from hangars. Most of them were grey or black, but you could see a few navy sets and his tactical vests poking out at the end. Curiously, you reached out and touched one. The hangar shrieked in reply. It felt like something he’d own. Rough and textured, just like he was. You swept your hand along the others, feeling crinkled leather and spongy, worn fabric.

You plucked out one of them to inspect it more closely. A windbreaker that wasn’t as heavy as the others. Without thinking, you started to slip your arms in through the bloody mountains of fabric. Though it drooped past your hips, you liked how it hugged you. Almost like it was Ghost holding you. Almost. After a moment, you realised that you’d been pressing the collar to your nose and breathing it in. Fucking embarrassing. Lucky, he hadn’t been there to see. You zipped up the jacket, scolding yourself.

Searching for Ghost in the house came up empty. He wasn’t in the living room. Or the kitchen. Or the balcony. And after pausing carefully by the bathroom, you were certain he wasn’t in there either. That left only one place. You thrust on your boots. Wriggled your toes inside them. Tested the lock on the front door a few times, to make sure you didn’t leave yourself stranded. Then messily combed your hair on the way down to the building entrance. Elbowing the door open, you secured your hair back and slipped outside.

A swell of chilly air nipped at your nose. It was raining. Thousands of droplets pulsed on the road, making the bitumen look like it was shuddering. Leaves sailed down the gutters and a shawl of mist hung over the lonely street. You could smell it in the air.

For some insane reason, Ghost was sitting in the rain. At least, you could only guess that the hulking dark figure on the short, brick fence was him. His back was to you. Hood drawn. Wetness collecting between the creases of his waterproof jacket. You clicked the door shut behind you and skimmed down the stairs. They were slippery, and your boots were squelching. Hopping over the last step, you landed with a splat on the ground. Ghost’s jaw turned slightly. Listening, perhaps, to your approach. A black hat poked out from his hood, dripping a curtain of rain around his face.

He was lazy enough to wait for you to pace into his line of sight. You did, whipping up the hood of your windbreaker to stop rain freckling your hair. Ghost’s hands were buried in his pockets. From this angle, you could see that his hat was providing some kind of shelter for the cigarette dangling between his lips.

Your eyes met.

“Alrigh’?” he asked blankly, cigarette bobbing.

“Alright,” you returned, plopping down beside him. The brick was wet and gravelly, but you didn’t mind. A cold shudder rippled up your spine, “It’s a fucking freezer out here.”

Ghost pinched his cigarette a breath away from his mouth. Smoke billowed - mingling with the mist.

“Go back inside then,” he suggested plainly.

“Negative,” you lifted your nose up at him, squinting. “Quit tryna get rid of me.”

“Trust me,” he murmured roughly. “Have never wanted that.”

Knowing that Ghost wanted to be around you made your neck feel hot. Since you’d met him, you had basically forfeited to the fact that you wanted to be near him. Even if it was just a bit. Preferably, a lot. Willing your heart to still, you wondered if Ghost ever thought something similar. You turned back to him, wanting to pry out a little more. Ash crumpled from the end of his cigarette.

“Weren’t you put off by me those first few times we met?” you asked, smiling nervously. “I mean, I made a bit of a fool of myself back then.” You imitated a wobbly fall to remind him of how you’d come clean off the crate.

Ghost tucked the cigarette between his lips and reached out instinctively, as if to make sure you didn’t actually fall this time.

“Put off?” he said easily. “Negative.”

“Not even a little?”

His dark, lidded eyes moved over your sheepish smile. He repeated, “Negative.”

“Well,” you laughed, putting on your best impression of his voice. “The feelin’s mutual.”

Eyes narrowing, his hand suddenly dived for your jaw. It was cold and wet. You froze in his touch, throat feeling thick. Ghost studied your eye, checking the blotchy skin in routine inspection. In that moment, he felt like a lieutenant. A superior about to tell you whether you had the green light to go back into the field.

“Simon,” you complained, unimpressed. “I don’t need daily damage assessments.”

Ghost seemed uninterested in your comment, turning your chin with his fingers. His gaze travelled to yours, “How’s it feel?”

“About as good as it did last night,” you admitted.

“Swellin’s gone down,” he noted. “Good.”

Ghost withdrew his hand, returning it his lips to steady the cigarette while he inhaled long. There was an itch of frustration in the way he did this. Like he didn’t appreciate being helpless to your healing process. Absently, you wiped the trail of water he had left on your jaw.

“It’s just a black eye, you know. Don’t eat your heart out over it.”

“Pot callin’ the kettle black, yeah?” Ghost countered, mildly amused. “Seem to remember you feelin’ the same about a bloody scratch.”

It’d been more than that, you silently defended. Truthfully, you’d wanted to fuss over him. You’d wanted to be the person that was – allowed – to do that. Not Farah or anyone else. But you were too embarrassed to say that aloud.

“True,” you sighed. “Fuck - don’t think I’d cope if you ever got seriously injured. S’pose I’m lucky you’re more ethereal than human.”

Ghost contemplated this a moment, parting his lips so that smoke filtered out. “You’ve seen me injured,” he considered, “Probably the worst I’ve ever been.”

“Really?” you asked, trying to scan your memories. Nothing was coming to mind. Sure, there’d been a few near misses. Rocket fire or rounds hitting his plate. But no real contact. “When’ve I seen you injured?”

Ghost said flatly, “Emotionally.”

“Emotionally?” you repeated, a little disbelieving, “Your greatest injury has been – emotional? Haven’t you been tagged by a bloody grenade?”

“When that helo crashed,” he breathed calmly. “An’ when you left for the Shadows. Far more lethal than a frag, if you ask me.”

He lifted a subtle brow at you. A hint of teasing mixed with truth. And you rubbed your nose, feeling strangely endeared to this large, complex creature sitting beside you.

“You’ll have to forgive me for inflicting such mortal emotional wounds,” you told him, trying to sound dramatic. “Even worse, now you’re stuck with me for three days. The absolute fucking turmoil you’re in for.”

Ghost huffed a little, sounding like he disagreed.

“You know,” you continued, “I’ve been tryna get at this thing for a long time now.” You poked a tentative finger against his heart and tilted your head. “Safe to say I hit my mark?”

“Direct,” he agreed.

With that, Ghost gestured his cigarette towards you. An invitation of sorts, to share. You reached forward to take it, but he immediately dipped his hand out of your reach.

“It’ll get wet,” he warned, tapping the brim of his hat.

“I’ll use my hood,” you explained enthusiastically. You gave the fabric an emphatic tug. “Or technically your hood. But either way, it’s nice an’ dry, see?”

Ghost cocked his head, “Or you could jus’ c’mere.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Wearing a shy smile, you skated along the bricks. Your rain-soaked knee pressed to his. Ghost watched you draw in closer to him. Watched you stretch tall to make up for his height. Slowly. Gingerly.

Until your nose crept in beneath the shade of his hat. Until your breaths were the only thing between you. Until Ghost glided the cigarette between your lips and held it while you puffed. Until his eyes, dark and warm, searched between yours. Over the curves of your cheekbones and the grooves in your nose. Over your mouth as you breathed smoke against his. He seemed to want to commit every detail to his memory. Over and over again. As if he hadn’t already, a thousand times before.

And you did the same. Affectionately. Cheeks hot. As always, reading the emotions that lived between the lines of Ghost’s blank expressions.

---

That first night, you made curry.

Ghost politely denied that he hated it, his hands deep in dishwater. You didn’t believe him for a second but didn’t have time to argue with how rapidly he was handing you dishes. You dried them diligently, thinking about how talented he seemed to be with his hands. Just as Soap had shamefully pointed out.

Truthfully, Ghost was good at a long of things. Especially war. Throwing knives. Changing mags efficiently. Using his hands in close combat. Lining up his reticle with haunting precision. Squeezing his finger on the trigger of his sniper. He was particularly good at pretending there was no humanity in him, too. A soldier, through and through.

Though, it wasn’t the soldier that joined you on the couch. No. In moments like those, Simon Riley came back to you. And it was Simon that propped his legs up to let you lounge yours beneath his knees. Simon who flicked on the remote in search of a movie. Simon who pandered to your desire to talk about entirely unimportant things.

Like how you weren’t confident riding a bicycle. How you defaulted to radio protocol when ordering takeout. How you sometimes put on aircraft sounds to help you fall asleep. Or how when he was going through Selection, his fellow candidates were too scared to sleep in the same bunk as him. That he had a mild allergy to pollen. That when he was a lad and he’d dress as a ghost for Halloween, he’d wear a white sheet and sunglasses.

Neither of you watched the movie. In fact, you couldn’t even remember what it was.

----

Again, you woke alone.

Sleeping in wasn’t very pleasant, you decided. It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable. Beds were a luxury in your line of work, and Ghost’s bed happened to be comfortably large. No, it was that sleeping in meant waking without Ghost. He was good at making you feel safe. Making you forget to tense at the sound of cutlery clinking from the flat upstairs. Or cars honking in the distance. Or dogs barking on the street.

Adjusting to civilian life was difficult, in that way. Months of heightened instincts made most operators jittery, nocturnal things. You sat up with a yawn. Rubbed a knuckle into your unblemished eye. Dragged yourself out of bed. Checked that you looked somewhat respectable in the mirror. Then ventured out to the hall.

You found him in the laundry, towering over the washing machine. The first thing you noticed was that he wasn’t wearing a mask. In fact, you’d never seen him so – casual. He was wearing black sweatpants tugged up to his shins, overlayed by long black socks. A baggy shirt replaced his usual hoodie. Uncovered, his. blond hair was cropped and messy.

You liked watching Ghost do the laundry.

He hadn’t noticed you. He was too busy feeding lumps of clothes into the washing machine’s gaping mouth. His bare hand stretched for a box sitting on a high shelf. He brought it down, tilting it into the washing machine. His lean finger tapped out a generous amount of powder before he returned the box to its place. It was as he clamped the lid shut, that his attention finally swept to you.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Just enjoying this bizarre sight,” you laughed, resting your temple on the doorframe. “What’re you doing?”

Ghost’s brows twitched up, “Laundry.”

“I can see that.” Your socked toe distractedly slipped along the lip between the two rooms. “I mean why are you doing laundry right now? You’ve slept a total of what, five hours?”

“Can do a lot o’ things on that amount o’ sleep,” he pointed out dryly, turning it on. “You’ve been wearin’ my clothes. Figured yours needed a wash.”

Oh. Your eyes darted to the washing machine in some realisation, watching it thrum to life. He was washing your clothes. Guiltily, you frowned. In his too-big hoodie, you felt suddenly naked. Maybe he didn’t want you to wear his clothes.

“You don’t have to do that,” you reassured, trying unsuccessfully to sound casual.

Ghost’s interest was piqued.

“You prefer ‘em dirty?”

“They’re not dirty.”

He tilted his head, as if to challenge you. “You got jabbed in the face. Would stand to reason you got a bit o’ blood on your clothes, yeah?”

“It didn’t really bleed,” you shrugged, a little awkwardly. You weren’t sure where this line of questioning was going, but you had a feeling it was nowhere good. “Soap’s probably hit me harder in training.”  

Ghost’s eyes drifted back to the washing machine, though they were now distant. His tone was cool, “It was that fuckin’ bellend wasn’t it? One I left my knife in.”

There was nowhere to hide. You scrunched up your face and mumbled, “Yeah. Him.”

Ghost brought a hand to his face in frustration, like he wanted to adjust a mask that he expected to be there. When he found his bare face, he threaded his lean, pale fingers through his hair instead. Clearly, he’d been going over it in his mind. Playing over the scenario and why he should’ve been able to prevent it.

“Should’ve let him bleed out,” he murmured darkly, perhaps more to himself than to you. “Fuckin’ hell.”

You felt a piercing urge to comfort him. To let him know that the score was well and truly settled. But you weren’t sure how. Words felt weird and awkward on your tongue, like they always did around Ghost.

So, you coughed up, “It’s okay because I chopped his eyelashes off.”

Immediately, he dragged his attention back to your face. His pause told you that he wasn't sure he'd heard you correctly. Brows fixed, he asked, “You what?”

“I chopped his eyelashes off,” you repeated dumbly, snipping the air with your fingers. “Right to the eyelid.”

Seconds ticked by, thick and awkward. A rhythm pattered in your chest, to the sound of a zipper clattering in the washing machine. Ghost was looking at you like you were a fucking alien, in his own subtle way. 

“Fuck,” was all he said. "You serious?" 

"Completely. Is that weird?" you started to laugh, probably looking like a madwoman. “It felt good. In a sick kind of way. Think I was drunk on the power."

His shoulders dropped like he was awestruck, “Naturally.”

Your cheeks pinched up in a nervous smile.

Without another beat, Ghost paced toward you. He stopped only when your nose was level with his chest. You had to bend your head back to make up for his height. Goosebumps tickled up your neck at the new closeness. He set his elbows on the wall, arms grazing your ears. A small breath escaped his throat, as if he was trying to hold in a laugh. It made your heart swell.

“You learn well, love.”

“From the best,” you beamed.

“I lied,” he advised.

Your brows knitted, “You lied?”

“Affirmative.” His gaze dropped down to your lips. “Knew your clothes weren’t dirty. Jus’ wanted you to keep wearin’ mine.”

---

That second night, you made tacos.

They were fucking awful, but Ghost didn’t complain. You were starting to realise he wasn’t particularly picky with food. Or maybe he was just burying his disgust like he did with his other emotions. While you washed the dishes, you made a mental note to try more pepper and seasoning next time. Adding more flavour was always a good thing, right? Ghost seemed lost in his own thoughts, drying the dishes while your fingers went wrinkled in the soapy water. After, you wound the towel around the oven handle and followed him to the balcony.

An instant chill greeted you, forcing you to go back inside to rug up properly before trying again. You layered another one of his jackets over the windbreaker, before slumping down beside Ghost on the balcony. You pressed your back into the wall, the material cushioning the hardness of the brick. Your legs hung over the edge of the railing, looped through the steel bars.

Ghost’s hand was lazy on your knee, while you pointed out planes blinking in the distance. Listened to cars whooshing a few streets away. Watched black clouds roll across the glowing moon. And while he told you dry jokes that made your ribs ache with laughter.

---

It was Simon that woke you.

He did it gently. Hesitantly. Conflicted.

When he explained he was going out to the shop, you shot up wildly. If he was startled by your outburst, he didn’t show it. Through half-lidded eyes, he watched you fuss around the room. You shrugged on one of his jackets and the skeletal gloves for good measure. Skewered your feet into socks. Tugged on a beanie. Shoved on your boots and charged out the door.

There was an unspoken understanding, that morning. The time that you’d spent together would be over soon. You could feel it in your bones. Price was due to call tomorrow or the next day. So, you wanted to make the most of it.

Little shops lived round the corner, but you asked him to take you somewhere you could wander and look about a little. It took some time to get into town, but it was a pretty journey. The rain had simmered down enough that the tree trunks looked soaked with colour. Streets were glossy and shining. Fences looked hosed down. Paths were decorated by branches that’d been stolen by the wind.

The afternoon crawled by slowly. You spent most of the time wandering aimlessly through town together. There was something you liked about seeing him pretend to be a civilian. He let you marvel at things and stop to take photos of flowers. He braced your elbow when someone passed you on the street. On occasion, he had to duck his head when he entered a store.

On the subway home, he gestured for you to sit by the window. You side-stepped in, gazing out of the flecked glass to watch the neighbourhood blur by. Jagged sunlit shapes crossed over your face as you settled into your chair. Ten minutes passed in rocky silence. The paper bag sitting on your lap rattled. Beneath it, Simon pressed his knee to yours. His other leg cocked out into the aisle.

You liked collecting this information about him. The cleanliness of his shower. How he did his laundry. How he barely fit on the subway chair. And all the minuscule, fleeting details in-between. The pieces of the jigsaw that made the whole thing complete. The pieces you didn’t really want to put away to go back into the field.

It was as the train whistled into a station that you looked up at him with a frown.

“D’you think you’ll get in trouble with Price?”

Simon's eyes darted from the window, down to you. He looked bored, “Why’re you askin’ that?”

“I mean, you kind of threatened him,” you offered, chewing on your lip. “He’s gotta be sore about that, right?”

“Price’s the good sort,” Simon said dryly. “Would rather carry the can than discipline his men.”

You scoffed at that, “Something tells me he doesn’t go as easy on Soap or Gaz.”

“Maybe,” he returned hoarsely, fingers flexing on his thigh. He didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered about the consequences of his actions. “Maybe it’s because I’m so kind an’ friendly.”

“That does sound like you,” you beamed, coiling your hand around his.

“You ever fuckin’ warm up?” he cursed, lifting your hand to inspect it the way one might if they were holding an alien’s limb.

You shot him a wrinkle-nosed smile, “Not everyone can be reptilian.”

“Proper soft, aren’t you love?” Simon gestured to your collar, “Pull up.”

Holding his stare, you did as he said and fluffed the collar of your windbreaker up around your neck. It was surprisingly warmer, but he wasn’t going to get the satisfaction of knowing that.

“Better?”

You pointed a finger gun at him, “We look like a coupla robbers.”

“Bloody hell,” he exhaled, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Do I look scary?” you insisted, tugging the collar up a bit higher so that it covered your nose. “Scary as you?”

“Terrifyin', love,” Simon deadpanned.

You laughed. His eyes softened, affection smouldering in them. Your heart burnt too.

Goosebumps kissed up your forearms. Faltering away from his gaze, you shook the paper bag on your lap. “I got a frame,” you said conversationally, reaching in to show him the little wooden package. “For the coordinates on the fridge. And for the letter you wrote me.”

Simon’s eyebrows twitched. “Your plan’s to immortalise me bein’ a pathetic sod?”

“Oi,” you bumped him in the rib with your elbow. He let you do this, ignoring his reflexes. “Told you not to talk about things I love like that. Besides, it makes me happy to see where we met in your tiny little writing. I’m gonna put it next to the TV.”

He sat back in surrender, leaning against the chair, totally conceding to his inability to refuse you.

“Fuck it,” he cursed. “Go on then.”

---

That third night, you made a stir fry.

He didn’t leave a single noodle in his bowl. You cheered over his shoulder, triumphant. After the dishes were done, you played a few rounds of Snakes and Ladders. It endeared you that he’d kept an old box of it nestled in the back of some cupboard. As expected, Simon won every round. Gathering some of your dignity, you dragged him to bed. There, you laid beside each other, staring at the ceiling. Rain and thunder fell around the flat.

You told him stories about your childhood. Of your Mum and where she was now. Of the times your heart had grown and the times it’d hurt. Of your mistakes and the things you ruminated over in the dead of the night. He listened. Patiently. The light glittering in the black of his eyes. Then with some gentle prompting, he shared the same. Raw and a bit awkward, like he’d never verbalised these things before. Like he might not ever do so again. And he told you that all those years didn’t matter once he’d lived just seconds with you. Seconds. And you listened. Patiently. Tears prickling in the corners of your eyes, as the crease in Simon’s brows got lighter and easier.

Eventually, you turned off the light and crawled back into him. The two of you laid tangled in the sheets. Both wrapped in his clothes. Face to face. Sharing affection. And Love.  And something so much more in the negligible space between you. He looked at you a long time, lashes pale and fragile. But you felt like the weak one. He was right, you were proper soft. Honestly, you were totally helpless to him. Suspended, like a fly in a trap. Smitten. 

But you knew it was worth it. God, it was worth it. Because with Simon Riley, you really felt like you belonged.

Chapter Text

Soap was a bawbag.

At least, that was what his Ma insisted to the neighbours. Granted, she wasn’t far off. It was the most comprehensive way to explain why Soap was always thirty minutes late to school. Why he always forgot his jacket, despite strutting through the hills in winter. Why he came home black and blue after starting fights in the schoolyard.

If a surgeon peeled open his handsomely styled scalp, Soap was sure they’d find marbles in place of cauliflower-shaped lobes. He wasn’t daft, by any means. He hardly tried in school and he always aced his tests. Ach, that made his mates livid with him. Soap couldn’t help it, of course. He was good at most things. Apparently that made him a loveable bawbag. If anyone rung his Ma up now and asked, she’d curse them out before doubling down on the same.

His boots were the first to land on the bitumen. Soap rolled his shoulders back, walking through the beaming blue headlights of a police car. He smoothed a hand over his mohawk, his other steadying the rifle that hung loosely from his shoulder. It was only a moment before the other SAS lads were offloading after him. Rookies, compared to the rest of 141. They spread out into the station tunnel, checking over their kits.

Soap was used to being the pacesetter. Back at school, he’d always been the first out for lunch break. The first to don his footy gear and slosh out into the wet grass. The first to win over a hen. Get his license. Get a part-time job. Leave school. Steaming Jesus, he was barely out of his diapers when he tried his hand at selection. At eighteen, he passed. Somehow, he’d clocked up one of the fastest scores on the selection course of all time. They said he was just a few seconds shy of the record, held by some arse named Kyle Garrick. Naturally, when he first met Garrick, they had no choice but to engage in a week-long gladiator style tournament to see who was faster. Soap was not at liberty to discuss the results.

A hand whacked him on the shoulder, and Soap’s eyes darted up to find Gaz giving him an encouraging nod. Rather than copy, Soap returned a wink and turned his rifle over in his hands. There was something he loved about skating his calloused fingers down the muzzle. The cool metal was a mate of his. A fucking beautiful one.

Out of habit, he checked his mag and absently began following Price into the belly of the beast. Garrick kept close to Soap’s side, but they said nothing to each other. It was an old, abandoned subway line. Rusted tracks lined the floors and a foul fucking smell filled his nose. Soap dragged his balaclava up to soften the blow. Ahead, the captain shone a flashlight into the tunnel’s throat. Under its light, the graffiti on the walls seemed to glow. Sprayed across a few smashed bricks was a skeleton wearing a colourful, oversized sombrero. Soap saluted at it with a smile.

LT wasn’t one to get blootered, but Soap sure as hell hoped the Ghost was living it up on leave. Fun was fun, and the old boy deserved a bit of it. You both did. But Soap also had a dreadful feeling that yours and LT’s idea of fun was to withdraw inside some lonely shell. Hide away from the world like fucking turtles.

Maybe that was what it meant to be in love. Retreating into each other. Soap didn’t fucking know. His Ma’d have something to say about that, to be sure. She always wanted him to slow down. Find a hen. Settle into some nice cottage in the hills. Make it home for dinner by 7, lest it go to the dug. And John, where’s your jacket? Where’s your fucking kneepads? Why didn’t you see the doc about that nasty cough? Quit worrying ya Da. Quit flying round the world, braving all its problems. Only a bawbag like Soap had the cheek to refuse her. Still - steaming fucking hell, he missed his Ma.

On Price’s signal, the team wordlessly split. They moved like clockwork. Seamless and easy, pushing up around a bolted metal door that Laswell said lead to one of the old station platforms. If any of the intel he and LT had gathered was worth anything, Konni were in there. A cold, dank place fit for scum like them.

Soap took position, knees bracing. Ready as ever to get after it. His rifle gave a gentle murmur as he tightened his grip. The lads prepared to breach. Their shadows mingled with the colourful words painted on the walls. Soap could feel his heart rate ticking up.

“Breach on your signal, captain,” murmured Garrick.

One of the blokes clamped bolt cutters around the lock, keeping its metallic teeth on standby.

“Let’s get this done,” ordered Price.

Soap sucked in his breath. Sure, he could be a bit of a bawbag, but he prided himself on being a fucking belter when it came to cleaning house.

“Breach in 3 – 2 – 1. Execute.”

The door thrust open. They slipped into the dark. He felt Garrick trailing at his six. Soap’s radio crackled as the lads advised their movements. He swept right, spreading into the room and selecting a wall to lean against. His eyes fell down the staircase that Price crept towards.

There was a moment of pause - recognition that all were where they were meant to be. Then Price continued down the stairs.

“On me,” the captain instructed.

Dutifully, Soap followed. Another breath sailed through his nostrils. His eyes flitted to the corners of the room as he angled his boots down each step. He was careful not to make a sound. The metal stairs barely hummed under his weight. A soldier filed behind him, kitted to the teeth with gear that clinked noisily. Soap fought the urge to turn around and throw the lad a sarcastic brow. Steaming Jesus, a short time with 141 and he was becoming about as jaded as L-fucking-T.

Thuds echoed through the building, like smoke swirling up the chamber of a chimney. It would’ve fucked his ears had the noise not been muffled by the earpieces stuffed in there. Impatient, Soap leapt down the rest of the way. His boots thumped hard when they met the cement.

“Contact!” barked Price, zipping fire at a hostile that was covering behind a wall. Cap’s shots sunk into his mark; body slumping on the tiles. “Clear,” advised Price. “They know we’re here now lads. Push in, right side. Watch your fire.”

“Copy that,” stated Soap, lips a little wet from the sweat gathering beneath his balaclava.

Instinctively, Soap flanked Price’s left as Garrick took his right. They burrowed through the dark, mouths of their rifles pursed in anticipation. As they rounded a corner into the main area, rounds shrieked in their direction.

Price backed up and signed for them to do the same. They did, waiting patiently. The gap in the assault came, briefly, with Konni’s inevitable reload. The room was thick with silence as they spilt in. Soap moved behind a wall, pressing his shoulder to it. He glanced out to get a view of the interior. It was a large two-storied station, lined with old shops and ticket gates. Konni operators were slipping in and out of hidey holes, like meerkats darting up to check on their threat.

“Shooters in the shops,” announced Soap, raising his weapon.

Scrambled shouting broke out from the other side of the station, as if Konni were trying to organise themselves. Scared and flustered, just as they should be. Soap could gladly be their predator - a wind-up toy soldier whose muscles clicked into familiar, mechanical gear. His blood felt alive and searing beneath his skin.

Soap aimed down his sight and fired. Reloaded. Tilted his crosshair. Fired again. Precise and steady. Finger tapping the trigger like he was coaxing the bullets from it. His ammo pelleted brick and armour. Konni were withdrawing, fast. He charged forward, stashing spare gear into his pockets when he had a free tick.

A shot skimmed by his ear, and Soap immediately slid into a shop for cover. His pants slipped on the tiles, collecting dirt and bits of glass in the fabric.

“Enemy turret,” shouted Garrick, huddling into the shop after him. Ducked beneath a window, Gaz adjusted his cap. “Back of the room! You see it?” 

Aye, he saw it. Irritation prickled up Soap’s skin. He was about ready to burst some poor bastard’s baws. He gathered his breath, busying himself with changing mags.

Garrick glanced over, sound and focused. “You good?”

“Solid,” winked Soap. “Just takin’ a bit o’ me-time.”

Just as the words left his lips, something whizzed through the window and clinked by his foot. The lump of black rolled toward him. Cheeky present, the bunch of soda-heads.

Lunging for it, Soap bellowed, “Frag!”

Its shape slipped between Soap’s fingers, coated by his sweat. He darted up and tossed the frag through the window. It sailed to the back of the station, where he estimated the turret was. A second passed. The ground rippled. Dust and rock blew across the station.

Price’s voice was harsh through the radio, “Good effect. Turret’s down.”

They moved out of cover to finish the rest. Soap dotted his I’s and crossed his T’s. Rifles clamoured to the ground as the gunshots died in the dark.

When the room was clear, Soap wiped the back of his forearm across his forehead. Garrick inched over to him, reloading. They shared a breathy smile.  

“Squeaky fucking clean, Soap,” approved Price.

---

It was late by the time the team got back to base.

Stripping out of his gear, Soap drenched himself in the steam of the shower. The little knots in his muscles melted under the heat. As he stepped out, he dried himself off and wrapped the half-damp towel around his waist. Privately, he indulged his ego with a few cheeky flexes in the mirror. This prompted him to start examining his face up-close to the glass. Next he was trimming his beard. Then his moustache. Before long, he spent a decent amount of time spritzing up his mohawk. His routine was bookended by rolling deodorant in the wells under his arms and getting dressed.

On the way to his room, he decided to swing by Price’s office. At this hour, Cap would probably be napping. It wasn’t abnormal for Soap to find his captain that way. Boots, coated in mud, would be crossed over his desk. Thick arms would be folded over his chest. Price’s head would be tilted back, facing the ceiling. His floppy hat would be sprawled over his face; its pale, green edges fluttering with every snore.

Recently, Soap had discovered that a rather amusing pastime was to toss things at Price’s face while he slept. Soap’d have it on record that this was for experimental purposes only, just to see if the old dog would wake up. Nothing ever seemed to work. Not a pen. Or the shavings of a sharpened pencil. Or a lumpy teabag. Or a dirty sock. Aye, maybe he was playing with fire. But tonight, Soap decided he’d have a go with a packet of crinkle-cut crisps. It was midway through slotting coins into the vending machine that he noticed something moving in his peripheral.

Thinking it was Price, Soap’s hand shot away from the buttons, as if he’d just been nipped by a cobra. It wasn’t Cap, to his relief. Standing a few paces away was LT, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie. Sneaky bastard always got the jump on him. Ghost’s eyes were pinned to Soap; half his face obscured behind the grinning bones stained to his balaclava.

“Johnny.”

“Sir,” grinned Soap easily, sending him a faux one-fingered salute. “Back already, eh?”

Ghost’s eyebrows knotted, “Hell you doin’?”

“Midnight snack,” Soap explained, digging his hand behind the machine’s flap to collect his packet of crisps. He lifted the crinkled packet up in childish offering, “Care to partake?”

LT swung his head slightly to the door, “Let’s get air instead.”

Soap gave a short nod before they paced down the hall, the sound of crisps crunching between them.

“Where’s yer better half?” asked Soap, a conversational tone.

“Gettin’ briefed by Laswell,” murmured LT roughly. He shrugged a careless shoulder. “Watcher’s acquired her for the team up top, when we hit the subway again.”

“You takin’ point on the next hit?” Soap asked, mouth half full. There was no reply, but Soap knew well enough what that translated to. Affirmative. He whistled in approval, “Sweet.”

“Price said you cleaned up good today.”

Soap tried to hold in a smile because it was probably childish wanting LT’s approval. When he’d first joined, everyone thought Soap would be a sprinter. Sprinters belted through selection, thanks to raw talent and athleticism. They rose quick, but dived to failure quicker. In those days, it wasn’t hard to want to quit. Sludging through mud for days on end, caked in sweat and bites (fucking spiders). Baring the snow in kit that weighed more than he did. Sometimes, the pressure was bone deep.

There were one or two times that Soap nearly caved to it. Once when he got shivved in a scuffle. Another when he’d been made, while he was overwatching on sniper. LT never intervened, and Soap wondered if that meant he trusted his junior to sort himself out. But afterwards, he showed Soap how to properly wield a can opener. Showed him the weak spots in close combat. Demonstrated how to hip fire while sniping if he was surrounded and in a tight spot. Soap took it all in like a sponge. He soaked up the wisdom and skill like any good soldier.

“Tomorrow, we do a run o’ the plan,” said LT flatly.

Shaking his wrist, Soap made a show of looking at his watch. “Today’s tomorrow.”

LT lifted his mask a little higher, “Better get your beauty sleep, then.”

“You really think I’m beautiful?” quipped Soap.

Soap received a cutting, deadly glare. Any man would’ve buckled to his knees in fear. But Soap was a bawbag, after all. More laughter came up Soap’s throat.

“Lighten up, LT,” he brushed off, deciding it was safest to pivot. There was a time to take the piss out of LT, but this probably wasn’t one of them. Distracting him with mission details was the best tactic. “Cap tell ya what we found at the station today?”

As expected, LT took the bait.

“Intel we gathered was green.”

“Damn fuckin’ right. They’ve been down there stockpilin’ shite,” frowned Soap, throwing a crisp between his lips. He sucked it on his tongue, “Playin’ happy fuckin’ family.”

There was a dark, sharp edge to LT’s tone. “I’d wager there’s a few unhappy families after you burnt through ‘em today.”

“Yeah, note to self,” chewed Soap, “Don’t become a terrorist.”

“No need, MacTavish,” LT countered blankly. “You’re already a fuckin’ menace.” 

Soap’s eyes slid over to LT, widening in pretend surprise. “An’ here I thought ya were starting to warm up to me.” He shook his head in mild disapproval. “Always gonna be a cold fucker to me, huh LT?”

“I’m a man o’ my word, Johnny.”

As they trailed down the hall, Soap started up his usual blethering. LT didn’t say much, but something told Soap that he appreciated the banter. When they reached an exit, Soap fished through his pocket for his key card. Finding it, he swiped them out. Outside, a recruit was pacing. Lad must’ve forgotten his ID. He mumbled a thanks, froze and saluted awkwardly to Ghost, then disappeared into the hall. Soap figured it amusing, but the dead expression on the lieutenant’s face meant he was entirely disinterested.

Huffing a laugh, Soap bounced on his heels to acclimatise to the cold. They wandered along the perimeter of the building until Soap hopped up on an airvent to sit on it. Shivers tickled up Soap’s forearms. He should’ve remembered to bring his bloody jacket.

“Price said their team made a mess in Konni’s backyard,” Soap noted, opening his crisp packet wider. He licked crumbs from his thumb, “Heard Telly might’ve gotten the drop on Makarov.”

“Negative.” Leaning against the wall, Ghost levelled him with a vacant expression. “Kill wasn’t confirmed.”

“Slippery fucker’s probably still out there then,” Soap scoffed like he’d tasted something tart. He plucked up his last crisp and shoved it in his mouth, as if to replenish his palate. Soap stuffed the empty crisp packet in his back jeans pocket. Then he brushed his palms together, rolling salt between the pads of his fingers. “Seems like any old dog can commit a few war crimes an’ get away with it these days.”

LT must’ve realised Soap’s meaning.

“Garrick told you?”

His nod was short. “How bad was she?”

“Bad,” replied Ghost, tense. He withdrew a hand from his pocket to gesture to his eye, “Bruise covered most o' her face.”

Soap gritted his teeth. Anyone could get punched in the field and Soap wouldn’t bat a fucking eyelid. But not you.

Not Telly, with the goofy smiles. Dafty jokes. Looking so embarrassed all the time, like you regretted existing. Telly, who ogled at Ghost in a way that reminded Soap of those googly plastic eyes from the craft shop. You were off your head, to be sure. But you were also pure dead brilliant. And the idea of you being disrespected like that- it made Soap feel like he could rip his head off and boil it in a bloody stew. Christ, he was spending too much time with LT.

After a second, Soap cracked his knuckles. “So we goin’ after the guy or what?”

“Price’s got an ID,” Ghost told him in a low voice. “James Barrett. Contracted by Shadow Company. Works in navigation. Stabbed him in the knee, back in Las Almas.”

“Poor wee scone,” sang Soap, sarcastic. “Bloke has no idea wha’s comin’.”

“Nothin’s comin’ for him, Johnny.”

“Eh?”

“Like I said,” LT repeated sternly. “Nothin’s comin’ for him.”

Soap wasn’t sure he heard that right. He played the words over in his mind, unsure of how to translate them. When he couldn’t figure it out, he made a face like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle.

“Yer head’s full o’ mince, LT,” laughed Soap, uncertain. “I say we send the arse back to the dirt.”

Several pulses of silence passed and Soap felt his bewilderment strangling his throat.

Finally, LT explained, “She asked me not to retaliate.”

Piss poor excuse. Soap kicked his boot against the metal vent. It clanged in complaint.

“Yer fuckin’ jokin’, right?”

“For now,” LT murmured. “But a bloke can’t outrun justice, can he Johnny?”

Ghost’s eyes shot over to him; gaze lacquered with meaning. In his fucking bones, Soap knew that LT wasn’t the type of man to forget about that kind of shite. Prick was too stubborn. He settled his debts his own way, in his own time. Soap leant back, nodding, finding himself anchored again.

He smiled, “You know LT, I’d like to see the bastard try.”

Neither of them felt the need to say more. Soap’s eyes ran along the outlines of the trees that bordered the base’s fence. He could see the shape of thickets. The slopes of hills. Hear wind sighing between them. It reminded him of another time, in Las Almas. Graves had just betrayed him and Ghost. You’d just betrayed Shadow Company. LT had been driving for hours while you lay asleep, curled up on the back seat. Soap had been cupping his wound, trying to hold off the bleeding. Above, the dawn sky melted like butter on a grill.

In that quiet hour, Soap had apologised to Ghost.

For being a burden to him, bloody and hobbling. For making LT wait in the church when he could’ve just split and reported back to Price. For risking your life, too. Soap wasn’t entirely sure of what he wanted LT to say back to him. Technically, a superior was meant to munch him up and spit him out. Soap almost wanted Ghost to confirm that the Scot wasn’t cut out for the field. That the perpetual new guy couldn’t possibly manage anything but compromising the bloody mission. That steaming hell – a pure bawbag like him should fuck off where he came from. Back to long walks through the hills and forgetting his jackets in winter. Soap acknowledged that he'd never be better than LT, like he'd promised. He'd never come close. How the hell could he?

The last thing he expected was for LT to look over at him, hands lazy on the wheel, tired eyes steady.

You’ve got grit, Johnny, LT had said. Nothin’s impossible if you’ve got grit.

Maybe his head really was full of marbles, but Soap decided then that Ghost was the best mate he ever had. Even if he knew LT would probably never see him the same way. Maybe he’d never think of Soap as a mate to begin with. He always did want to keep things tactical.

Yawning, Soap slid to his feet, “Ach, think I’ll hit the rack, LT.”

“Johnny-,” LT murmured quickly.

Soap paused, noticing the way Ghost was intentionally avoiding his eyes. There was a tightness in the air. Ghost paused to clear his throat, and Soap wondered if he’d been working himself up to something. This made Soap itch awkwardly.

“Spit it out, LT.”

“Gonna ask TV to marry me.”

Soap laughed.

Loud and obtrusive and clearly a noise that Ghost didn’t appreciate. He couldn’t help it, to be fair. Soap was a bawbag. Christ, Soap’s Ma would be spewing her guts if she got wind that a bastard in a skull mask was getting settled down before her own kid.

Soap fought the impulse to slap LT on the shoulder encouragingly. He might’ve done it to Garrick or Price, but he knew he was more likely to get jabbed in the nose if he touched Ghost.

When he’d found his breath again, he managed to say, “Are ya really?”

“What do you reckon?” bit LT sarcastically. “Bloody hell, Soap.”

“Reckon it’s abou’ time,” Soap supplied, leaning against the vent and folding his arms. “Telly’s antennae’s only focused on one thing.” Soap’s lips curled up in a beam, “Besides, yer a long time deid.”

“English.”  

Bloody miserable Brits always making him repeat himself.

“Means ya need to seize the day,” clarified Soap easily.

Ghost seemed to think hard about that, adjusting his mask at the chin. His dark eyes found Soap’s.

“You’re a good man, Johnny. An' a fuckin' bellend.”

“Aye,” laughed Soap, “I try.”

Chapter Text

Of all the TV channels, your favourite was the base’s training block.

Sure, the other channels had things you were both paid to and wanted to keep an eye on. Monochrome shots of the subway, through the CCTV. Empty tunnels. Station blueprints. Train timetables. Intelligence pouring in through MI6’s network. Though, none of them were as captivating as the training block. Because on the small tab that displayed the live training feed, you could see Ghost.

They were creeping across a simulated recreation of the underground subway, doing some kind of VR run of their planned assault. Price and Ghost seemed to stop every now and again to trade their thoughts. Usually, they went with Ghost’s plan, which didn’t surprise you. Ghost’s mind was like a calculator. His plans were a series of numbers and figures. A game of subtraction and division. Of advantages and disadvantages. Sums of operators and hostiles. Range and ammunition. Tactics and timing. War was an algorithm, and he was the engineer.

From Soap’s perspective, you could see Ghost crouching by a grey, lifeless concrete wall. He turned to lazily signal which way he wanted the men to sweep, bone-white mask glinting under a flickering light. Suddenly, a tin smoke canister rolled into view. It popped, spewing out a cloud over the tracks. Hostiles flowed out from behind it.

Instantly, the team split away. But Ghost – Ghost melted into the smoke. Welcomed it, as if he were a shape made of shadow and fog. You sucked in your breath, searching for him. Ghost re-emerged out the other side of the smoke, coolly stepping out of the way of a crooning train. He lifted his rifle, then emptied it with unforgiving precision. You let out a short breath of awe, eyes sparkling at the screen. Cheeks itching up in a taut smile. It was like watching an action star on the fucking TV.

“Are Konni dancing out there, or are you just in a good mood?”

You jerked in your chair, yelping. Christ - Kate Laswell took great pleasure in catching people off guard just to see their reaction, you were willing to bet money on it.

“Sorry, chief?” you panted, tilting your head to see her properly.

Kate raised her brows at you, above her clipboard. “You’ve been smiling at your screen for about,” she checked her watch, “the past hour.”

“Uh - sorry.” Awkwardly, you skated in closer to your desk, trying not to seem as scattered as you felt. Fiddling with your computer mouse, you admitted, “Full disclosure, I might’ve been daydreaming for a split second.”

She put her clipboard on the desk, capping her pen and laying it on top of the paper.

“I’m gonna go ahead and assume that means there’s been no movement.”

“Crickets,” you confirmed, shaking your pointer over the CCTV footage. “Been practically dead for hours. Whatever they’re doing, they’re being careful not to let me see.”

“That’s good for now,” approved Kate offhandedly, shifting her weight between her feet.

Suddenly, you could see her reflected in your monitor. The blueprints of the subway line were stamped across her face. You couldn’t help but think she looked like a fly on the wall, with thousands of glossy lenses that were trying to capture every microscopic movement.

Kate planted her hand beside her clipboard, hunching over it. “Until MI6 can sort through that flash drive John pulled from the subway, we’re sitting pretty up here.”

“You do look pretty today, chief,” you smiled softly. “Nice jacket.”

Her spine went needle straight. “Tell that to my wife, TV,” she scoffed, tone dipped in exasperation. Absently, her fingers went to the gold band snaked around her finger. “She begged me not to buy it. Hates fur collars.”

Your lips curved, “She vegan or something?”

“Or something.”

“Think I know what you mean.”

“Can’t help who you love,” laughed Kate. “Though to be honest, I wonder what that woman sees in me. Think I lucked out with that one.”

You hummed, understanding fully. Kate was methodical and meticulous. Becoming a chief at her age, equipped with her experience and the number of contacts in her phone, didn’t come easy to anyone. At the same time, maybe her wife interpreted that as thoughtfulness. Care. Commitment. Love was strange like that, you were realising. It tangled up reality in its web, trapping it in a spindly, silvery cocoon.

Everyone seemed to think Simon was cold and ruthless. Sure, he could be. But he was also dry humoured. Hilariously bleak. Calming. Patient. And there it was again. That pinching in your cheeks. That fluttery, breathless feeling in your chest. Fuck, he was going to get you in trouble one of these days.

Gathering yourself, you began instinctively flitting between the CCTV visuals to check all was green. Kate had backed up to the chair beside you, half sitting on its arm. She was watching the other agents, lost in thought.

“So,” you cleared your throat for good measure. “What d’you think’s on the drive?”

“My guess’s as good as yours,” leant in Kate. Though you couldn’t see it, you could hear that she was ruffling her choppy fringe hard with her fingers. “Hopefully, it’s evidence that we can use to clear Farah’s group. Right now, the ULF don’t have an alibi other than Shepherd’s word. Not sure if you caught it, but Shepherd and Graves have started turning coat on each other in court.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed, the sound tainted with a bit more distaste than you’d intended. “Not surprised.”

“So, you have any plans when this is done, TV?”

The question was such a pivot that it felt like she’d spritzed water in your ears. You sat back in your chair with a fierce creak, elbows nestled at the base of its arms.

“Plans, chief?”

She made an expression like she didn’t have time for your insufferable half-wittedness, “Unless you wanted to get paid and disappear?”

Oh. You worried a finger over your mug of coffee, which was undoubtedly cold by now, trying to think of how to reply. Truthfully, it was more than a job. You wanted to keep your sights on 141. Wanted to keep their pulses thumping if it was the last thing you’d do. Wanted to see their work through to completion; to help them do it.

You raised your cup to your lips and sipped, “I mean, I don’t have anything written in my calendar.”

There was a sudden buzzing that made the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. Kate dug her radio out of her pocket and inspected it for a moment. Another sip of your coffee.

“I’ll talk to John,” Kate finally said, appeased. She made it halfway to the door before remembering, “Keep that head on a swivel, TV.” With the radio in her hand, she pointed from you to the CCTV cameras. Then she added, “And quit watching Ghost on the TV. The fangirl smiles are scaring the other agents.”

Stomach dropping, you spat out the coffee in your mouth, spraying it over your keyboard.

With pink cheeks, you squawked, “Copy, chief.”

--

“You busy at the minute, Tel?”

Gaz’s smooth voice extracted you from your thoughts. Tearing your eyes away from the CCTV footage, you found him standing a few paces away, at the end of your desk. Those round, soft eyes were trained on you, framed by slightly raised brows. Though his hands were pocketed, his stance felt formal and tall. Like he couldn’t quite iron out his training.

“Need something, Gaz?”

“Cap could use you for a tick in the training block, if you’re game.”

You didn’t need any further convincing. Staring at screens all day was beginning to make your skull feel like a hammer was dully beating against it. Getting out of the chair would be a welcome relief. Holding up your finger to imply you wanted a moment, you asked one of the agents to relieve you and took the last gulp of your coffee. It left a dry aftertaste on your tongue.

Standing, you started to thrust your arms into your jacket holes. “If you want me to dress up as a hostile, I’m not gonna be much of a threat.”

Gaz folded his arms across his chest, “Don’t believe that for one second. Think my eyelashes would be in great peril.”

“No doubt,” you laughed, coiling your scarf around your neck. Its fluffiness tickled your nose. “You think they ever use it as an interrogation tactic?” you wondered, joining his pace out the door. “I mean, I imagine it could be painful ripping them out one by one.”

Laughing, Gaz tapped a gloved finger against his temple. “Ah, pain’s an illusion, innit?”

The two of you crossed the base, exchanging comfortable conversation about his favourite gear and your favourite military vessel. You were in the middle of explaining avionic support 101, when he held the door to the training block open for you.

You sidled inside, taking in the layout. It was a large, tall building. The windows were dressed in thick, black tarp, casting everything in shadow. Scattered around the training block were operators working at electrical desk boards, probably manning the virtual subway. In the centre of the building was a smaller, black-walled room, which you assumed must have been where they trained.

Crossing the block, Gaz joined an SAS operator wearing a black, rubber respirator. It stretched over his face, stitched to the dark hood of his thick, padded jacket. The metal cylinders on the mask shifted in your direction. All you could see in the glass of his eyes was yourself, swimming in the reflection.

Before you could summon a greeting, Price wandered out of the building, ripping off his vest to set it down on a desk. He was flanked by Soap, who didn’t bother to remove his gear. When he saw you, Soap’s lips peeled back to show his teeth.

“Oi lass, how ‘bout ya join us for a round?” he suggested, his mohawk wet with sweat. “Show us yer mettle, eh Lt?”

It took a shamefully long time to realise that he was directing this at the man in the gas mask. At Ghost.

Ghost’s head cocked to the side, voice mechanical. “Your funeral, Johnny.”

“We need a new trainin’ dummy,” Soap continued, palming his hair. “Other one went missing. My bet’s that Garrick’s taken it back to his roo-”

“Only see one dummy here, sergeant,” cut Price, brows pinched in tiredness.

Soap feigned shock, “Sir!”

“Thanks for coming, Telly Monster,” Price appreciated, not indulging Soap’s histrionics. The captain started fishing distractedly for something in his jacket. “Boys’re granted a smoke break.” Finding a small tin, he pointed to the door with his head. “Join us, eh?”

Agreeing, you followed them outside the building, blinking sunlight out of your eyes. The door clamped shut with a clack. You kicked the toe of your boot against the curb and pocketed your hands. Price was lighting up a clipped-up cigar, mouth puffing around it. When its tip bubbled in red, he sucked slow. Exhaled. Then nodded at you.

“Sitrep?”

“It’s radio silence out there." You bobbed a shoulder. "Respirators, eh?”

Orbiting you, Ghost stopped a foot away to turn his jaw in your direction, “Tactical advantage.”

His voice sent a shiver of ice up your spine. Was it the respirator or was it always so hoarse? Christ – you were an absolute disaster.

“Reckon Konni’s probably got chemical weapons waiting for us down there,” elaborated Gaz, a thin cigarette bouncing between his lips. He was offering his packet to Soap. “Better to be safe than coughing up blood.”

“Nothing like a bit of nerve agent to warm up the lungs,” quipped Soap, firing up Gaz’s cigarette before turning the lighter’s flame on his own.

You laughed gently, “You realise how ironic that is, right?”

Breathing out a mouthful of smoke, Soap’s lips quirked up again. “Aye,” he said, swinging the hand with the cigarette by his hip. “Intimately.”

“Anyway,” you considered, trying to return to the point. You waved a dismissive hand at Gaz, who was offering you a smoke. “If your faces are all covered up, it’ll probably make things a bit tough for me when you’re kicking their doors down. Won’t be able to tell you apart.”

“Here-”

Price reached into his pocket like he’d thought about this already and curled his hand open to you. Resting atop the leather of his glove was a rectangular block no bigger than a radio. At the top was a small, bulging camera lens.

“We pin these on us,” suggested Price. “You an’ Kate’ll have a direct line.”

“All of you?” you realised, shaking your head in disagreement. “That’s way too much traffic. Won’t be able to follow every one of you, and not sure it’d help much anyway.”

Cap pondered this over, wrapping his fingers around the body camera. He used the same hand to brush a thumb over his beard.

“Just me an’ Ghost then?”

“That could work.”

“Done,” he announced. “If one of us is down, another man picks it up. That clear?”

A collective round of copies ensued. They continued with their cigarettes, taking turns wafting smoke into the air. Soap did most of the talking. You listened, trying hard not to ruminate on the idea that Ghost could ever be - downed.

“Think I know why it’s taken us half a minute longer than we need,” Soap eventually piped up, looking determined. “Sir, permission to have another go?”

“That’s the way,” said Price, satisfied. He took a moment to stamp out his cigar carelessly and roughly on his elbow patch. Threading the naked butt in one of his vest pockets, he focused his scrutiny on you. “Before you piss off, Telly Monster, run the body cams by Kate. Will never hear the end of it otherwise. An’ you tell us if any of those Konni scum start moving, yeah? I don’t want any of ‘em getting out.”

“Wilco, cap,” you assured, throwing him a thumbs up. “Like bugs in my windshield.”

“Alright lads,” decided Price gruffly, an air of finality. He cocked out his elbow to the door in silent command. “Days not over. Back at it. Simon, you’re on point, mate.”

The two sergeants leant down and dotting their cigarettes on the pavement, with more civility than Price had done. Gaz went after Price first, farewelling you with a nod.

Soap, on the other hand, stayed to twiddle his useless smoke between his fingers. You chanced a brow at him, wondering if he was going to make some Soap-like smart-ass quip. Though, Soap seemed decidedly more fixated with Ghost. After a second of waiting, Soap made a jerky movement with his hand in a miserable attempt to subtly communicate with his lieutenant. Moments passed. Neither spoke nor looked away. Soap gestured again, slightly toward you, this time with a frustrated groan. Clearly, they were conducting a private conversation in a language understood only by cavemen. You swept your eyes between them, confused.

Finally, Soap sighed, the way one did when they’d just lost an argument. “Why not?”

Ghost’s gloves tensed with sharp irritation.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” groused Soap, raising his hands in supplication. “Just throwin’ it out there. Don’t get ya bones all tied in a knot.”

An amused smile was itching at the corners of Soap’s lips, but there was a hesitance to it. As if he knew he shouldn’t fire it up all the way, unless he wanted to ruin something exceptionally precious. Winning his battle over it, Soap saluted almost apologetically, then went back inside.

Ghost’s breath was heavy through the filter. He reached out a hand and wrapped it around one of the metal cylinders to adjust it. “Alrigh’?”

“Alright,” you smiled, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest. Your heart felt like a peach being squeezed of all its juice. “What on earth was he acting like that for?”

“It's nothin', love,” dismissed Ghost, firm.

Though you couldn’t see his eyes, you couldn’t help but notice he was trying not to directly face you. As if – maybe - he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Everything okay?”

“Always,” he said, a touch stiff. “Better go.”

You reached out and grabbed his jacket at the shoulder, grazing a finger along the SAS patch stitched there. Ghost’s face slanted to presumably look at your hand.

“I might go back to the flat,” you told him. “Gonna ask Kate to give me a lift and get dropped down the road, if that’s okay.”

“Got a spare key in my bag,” he agreed blankly. “Locker room.”

His respirator hissed as he breathed. With a touch of reluctance, Ghost reached forward and plucked at your fluffy scarf, pulling it a bit higher up your neck. You hoped he couldn’t see how red he was making it.

“See you there, love.”

You let go of his jacket, hand falling by your side. “Yeah, see you later.”

---

Soap and Ghost’s bizarre behaviour didn’t leave your mind.

As you swept the floor of the flat, avoiding the afternoon sunlight penetrating the windows, you tried to pinpoint the meaning of their antics. Scanning your memories wasn’t much help. Maybe Ghost had gotten a promotion. Or you’d forgotten a birthday. Or Soap wanted to go on a double date. Or they were planning on starting ballroom dancing. There were endless possibilities, all which moved through your mind like a revolving carousel. You’d have to interrogate him when he got home – you decided. That was the only option.

Hours thawed by. Night soaked into every inch of the flat. The temperature dropped. You clicked on a few of the warm, amber lights. You microwaved your dinner and forked it into your mouth, listening to the neighbours laugh at some comedy show on the television next door. On the couch, you drifted off, too tired to make it to bed.

~~~

A loud thump came from the hallway.

You shot up, blurry-eyed, trying to make sense of where you were. You’d made the mistake of leaving a window open, finding goosebumps breathing over your forearms. Something flickered in your peripheral.

Ghost’s charcoaled eyes met yours, “Just me, love.”

“Hey,” your voice sounded painfully groggy, but pathetically pleased to see him. You rubbed a damp palm down your face to help wake you up. “You finally done?”

“For the day."

“You must be tired,” you yawned, sliding down the couch to rest your head on the back of it. “I’m dead and I hardly moved from my chair all day.”

He took his headset off and left it on the table. His watch came off next. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Endurance makes perfect,” you corrected, snorting. “Are you gonna tell me why Soap was acting so weird, today?”

Ghost’s boots creaked softly along the floor. Tucked in his vest, his fingers tightened.

“Was he?”

“You know he was,” you challenged, putting on a frown. “You were acting weird too.”

Ghost passed beneath the light; eyes flecked with yellow. He cocked his head. “That so?”

“Think I’m starting to finally understand why they say you’re not human.” You mused, getting up to shut the window. “You’ve been training for nearly twelve hours and you’re no more tired or more pliable to my interrogation tactics.”

“Men need rest,” he agreed, slumping down onto the couch. The cushions buckled under his weight. “Not ghosts.”

“Not you?” you asked, toeing your way back over to him.

“Could go all night,” he murmured low. “If that’s what it took.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” you admitted. “So, guess I’ll take your word for it.”

Plopping down beside him, your knee brushed his thigh. He stilled at your closeness, eyes tracing from your knee to your face.

“Just my word?” he checked patiently. “That’s a shame.”

You flushed. Trying desperately to seem unaffected by him, you took his hand in your lap and pinched one of his fingertips.

Ghost watched you peel the fabric away, exposing his skin. “Could take a lot more. If you had it in you.”

“Yeah well, I’m only human,” you said, crinkling your nose.

“Ha,” Ghost returned, the slightest colour in his tone giving away his amusement. He flexed his bare hands now that they were free. “Proper cheeky, love.”

Flopping his gloves, you tossed them onto the coffee table and then shrunk back into the couch. Part of you wished to be absorbed by the upholstery, troublesome, thumping heart and all.

You licked your lips, “I’m starting to think you like it when I’m cheeky.”

Ghost’s stare slid down to your mouth. “It’s more than that.”

He seemed to be about to tell you exactly what it was that he liked. You waited, eyes uncertainly latched onto him, unwilling to disturb his train of thought by speaking.

“Go to sleep, yeah?” he decided instead, retreating into himself. “You need it.”

You frowned. “What do ghosts need?”

“Ghosts?” he copied slowly.

“You seem so sure about what I need,” you inhaled, chest stuttering. “So go on, tell me what ghosts need. I’m dying to know.”

“Need to get out o’ this gear,” he shrugged, shifting forward like he was about to stand. “Should take a shower.”

If he thought he was going to back away that easily, he was fucking wrong. You pressed the advantage, getting up onto your knees and trapping him with your proximity. Ghost leant back, alert, trying to anticipate what you were about to do. Heart throbbing in your ears, you reached forward. Your hands dropped onto his vest and wrapped around it to keep him in place.

Convinced that he wasn’t going to move, you fingered at the straps of his vest, ripping them free. They crackled. Loosened.

His brows knotted, “What’re you doin’?”

“Helping you get what you need,” you answered, matter of fact.

You jostled the vest over his head. It dropped to the floor with a loud thump. Ghost remained silent, focusing on the finger that you were running along the zipper of his jacket.

“You wanted to get out of your gear, didn’t you?”  

The pad of your finger smoothed over its metal teeth. Clutching the tab, you dragged it down the chain to coax the grooves free. His jacket opened. After a few quiet seconds, he leant forward. You took it off, holding the puffy lump in your arms before you abandoned it on the floor. Ghost’s dark, thin eyes went to it. His Adam’s apple slipped down his balaclava.

“Better?” you asked.

It took a moment for him to tilt his head. “That all?”

Admittedly, this had already been further than you’d expected.

Tentatively, your eyes wandered down his throat, to the collar of the thinner shirt he’d been wearing underneath. All the way down to the haunting curve of his collarbone. You’d never seen him bare-chested. The thought alone was making heat creep up your neck.

You cleared your throat nervously, “We don’t have to.”

“Don’t we?” Ghost challenged, the lieutenant in him bleeding through. “But I want to.”

Your mouth was so dry, it hurt. You swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

Fuck. You weren’t sure what you wanted him to say. Yes. No. Cornering yourself into this mess had been so mortifyingly easy.

“It's what I need,” he reminded, calm and composed. “Remember?”

Christ – there was no other choice now. You’d have to rip it off like a band-aid, just like Soap had said in the gym. Mustering up what little strength you had, you leant forward. The couch creaked. Ghost stayed still, intent on not looking away. Shakily, you tugged at the bottom of his shirt.

Before you could hesitate, you grabbed a fistful of the material and lifted. He let you unveil him, breath becoming shallow. Like it meant something, to be this exposed in front of another person. Like it hadn’t happened for a long time. Maybe never. A few seconds passed that were torturously, yawningly silent, until his shirt lay draped over your lap.

Your head dropped down to his pale chest. To the planes of his muscles. The veins pulsing down his forearms. Carefully, curiously, your hand ventured toward him. The tips of you met his naked shoulder. He was rough to touch. Almost burning. Speckled with little spots and scars – like his skin was a record of everything he’d ever been through. You swallowed it all beneath your fingertips, dragging your hand up to his neck. His jaw. His cheek, drawing him closer. The tips of your noses brushed.

“There,” you whispered.  

Ghost seemed to find some amusement in this. Or, maybe, relief. The patterns of his balaclava warped with his lips. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” you spluttered, untethering yourself from him.

“Fair trade, yeah?”

Oh, fucking hell he was going to be sorely disappointed in comparison. You chewed your lip, thinking through your options. Fuck it. If there was ever a time to show him everything – your stripped, raw soul – it was now.

Gathering your breath, you hesitantly slipped your shirt off. Then, fumbling a bit, you unclipped your bra. Ghost’s eyes slipped down. You stared at your hands, wondering how you looked in the dim light. Frail and nervous, probably. You waited and waited, each slope of your body blanketed by the gold of the ceiling light. After the longest time, Ghost let out a careful breath. It was warm, fanning against your collarbone, making you shudder.

“Fuck,” he choked out.

The word was long and drowsy. Every letter digging deep. There was no way he could have known what that did to you – how it felt for him to sound like he had so very little control.

“C’mere, love.”

You reached for each other at the same time. Knees moving around his hips. Chests melting together, lost in the feeling of your skin sighing against his. Fingers entangling. And fuck, your lips wet and open against the fabric of his mask.

“Take this off,” you mumbled, finger tracing where his cheek met the balaclava. “I wanna see you. Please.”

Ghost did as you asked, no longer seeming to care for anything other than appeasing you. The mask glided along the shape of his face, crawling off inch by inch. When he was free, he sucked in an unmuffled breath. Blond hair dishevelled. Lips slightly pink like they might’ve caught his teeth.

He pushed out, “Happy?”

“Simon-,” You let out a breathy laugh, “You honestly have no idea.”

As if wanting to test that, Ghost’s slender hand moved between you, fingers dragging across the stitches of your jeans. And Jesus - even through your pants, you could tell you were wet. How was that possible when he’d hardly touched you? Your hips jolted at his attention, which only helped his palm to arch.

“How ‘bout now?”

You sucked in your breath, trying to mimic what he’d said earlier. “Is that all?”

With his free hand, Ghost squeezed your thigh in brief admonishment. You thought he might leave it there, but his long, pale fingers moved to the button of your pants. He unclasped it quickly, and it reminded you of the way he so familiarly gripped his rifle. The way they wrapped around the cylinder of his respirator.

“Up,” he ordered, yanking at the hips of your jeans.  

You straightened off him, jostling your pants down. One leg came after the other. You kicked them away, more familiar with this dance. Returning to him, rushed and suddenly deprived. It was as your courage started to softly skitter away that he grabbed your hips, finding the place between your legs with agonising clarity. Drawing, slowly along the outline of your lips. Deliberately circling the soaked part of your underwear with a rhythm that brought a soft, strangled gasp from your throat.

“You’re the worst,” you complained. “The absolute worst.”  

Ghost’s head slanted, curiously, to the side. Impatiently, his thumb hooked into your underwear, searching for your clit. The rawness of his touch sent sparks up your back, like he was unbuttoning the bones from your spine.

“That so?” he breathed, a gravelly tone. His thumb dawdled in perfect, patient circles. “You’re the one ready to come before I even fuck you.”

How did he always know what to say? How to so thoroughly weave in and out of you, like the terse pierce of a needle.

“Don’t do that-,” you jerked against him, lips falling against his neck. “If you do that-”

He seemed to like hearing that because his head lolled back against the couch. Ghost groaned, hips rising to grind against yours. Fast and careless and needy. Madly, you pushed his hand away from you and started pushing your underwear down. Ghost simply watched you, black-painted lids falling to take in your new nakedness.

“Simon-,” You pressed him back against the couch, regaining his attention. “Are you gonna fuck me, or just look?”

He snapped from his reverie. Ghost’s hands slipped between you, fumbling urgently at his belt. He lifted his hips, forcing you up with him, and unthreaded the leather with a neat, sharp zip. His pants were loose. He shoved them down messily, all semblance of his control completely lost. He wrapped a strained hand around his cock.  

There was a moment. Where your tongue moved along your lower lip. Where there was nothing but soft, sleek skin. Heartbeats thudding. Warmth. Heavy, splintered breaths. Sweat beading across your forehead. Eyes touching in the dark. Then, finally, fullness. You fell into him, jerky and hasty. Nails digging into his bare shoulder. An ebb and flow pulsing dangerously in your stomach. He found his way back to your clit, the rest of his fingers curled tight around your hip. Ghost pressed his lips to the nape of your neck, trying his best to concentrate - unhinging by the second. Fingers steadying you, yet thumb picking you apart. Piece by piece; again and again. Your body answered, asking, pleading. Like you couldn't stand one more minute. Like you never wanted it to end.

“You’re gonna make me come, love,” he muttered, dazed. “Gonna come so hard, fuckin’ hell-”

It was there that you unravelled.

Together. Taking in the tide of each other’s urgent, broken breaths. Lashes fluttering shut. Until you collapsed against his chest, content. Until all faded under the dull light. Simon tiredly sunk into the couch, bringing you with him. And his arms wrapped around the small of your back. His name coarse in your throat. Yours in his, in honour of a fair trade. 

Chapter Text

“Do us a favour, Telly Monster.”

A manilla folder snapped over your keyboard.

“Need you to read that.”

Price appeared beside your desk, dressed in a rain jacket and a beanie that encased most of his hair in black wool. There was an expression knitted to his face that meant business. It had you coiling back slightly in your chair.

“Read it, sir?”

“Top to bottom,” he answered brusquely, thudding a digit against the cardboard.

His eyes went elsewhere, scanning the other agents to indulge some instinctual habit. Price’s alertness was an old, rusted knife that he kept alarmingly sharp. He surveyed the room, taking in the soundless CCTV cameras spread about your screen. The water fountain gurgling quietly by the door. The windows shuddering with the wind. When he returned to you, his stare was so intense it felt like acid stinging your skin.

The captain arched a brow, “You can read, eh?”

“I can read,” you confirmed, robotic and a touch embarrassed. “New intel, sir?”

“Your new contract.”

“Contract?” Your brows tightened. “I’m already contracted on a short-term basis. Kate-”

“-Has asked if I need you round longer,” cut Price.

Kate had mentioned talking to Price about your future work. You just never thought she’d do it in the span of twenty-four fucking hours. You reached for the folder and tested its weight in your thin fingers. It was heavier than you expected, the cream-coloured wallet holding a bundle of paperwork in its grasp like a warm coat.

“She doesn’t fuck around,” you commented.

Price dropped his voice, low and careful. “Yeah well, thing about Kate is, she likes to go by the book. Needs every detail inked on paper, that sort o’ thing.”

You blinked at him, itching to laugh but knowing better. Only Price had the balls to chat about Kate tongue-in-cheek. Only Price would get away with it. Of that, you were certain.

“And you don’t go by the book, sir?” 

“I’ve got my own rules of engagement, Telly Monster,” answered Price, raising his lips in an abrupt, curt smile that made the creases on his cheeks pronounced.

Straightening, he forced himself to draw a serious expression. Like he was shoving his true self back into the box of a military man, arms and legs and all.

“Might only be a few days until we finish these bloody muppets underground,” he was suddenly strained. “After this shite’s over, we go where we’re needed next. Kate wanted to know if that includes you.”

You nodded, slow. “Does it?”

Price only gestured lazily at the folder, like it contained all the answers.

Sinking back in your chair, your thumb thoughtfully shuttered through the corners of the paperwork. It seemed like a ridiculous proposition. Work was Price’s chessboard - his own personal game of strategy and diligence. Every piece he selected was sturdy and capable. Every piece would grin and bear bullets and shrapnel. They would trudge oceans of sand, sweaty and deprived of sleep. They would bunker down for hours in the snow, until their limbs turned blue and lifeless.

But you – you were just a pawn.

A pearlescent little thing that could hop only one or two squares. Up and down, like a dog that knew few tricks. Up and down, like the gunship mechanically touching on and off the tarmac. Price didn’t need you. He didn’t need to tuck you away in his back pocket, like he seemed so intent on doing. You couldn’t, for the life of you, fathom why.

“Just so we’re clear-,” you started, fighting down the hope kindling in you. “You’re saying you want me to contract with 141. For more than a few months?”

“That depends,” Price scratched the shadow prickling at his jawline. “You got a spare four years?”

A small breath slipped from your lips. 

“Four?”

“Four.”

You glanced away to collect your thoughts, not wanting to give away too much in case he decided to rescind the offer. Brushing your fingers through your hair, you broke into a nervous laugh.

“Sure you want me around that long? I mean, four years is a fucking long time, sir.”

“You questionin’ my judgement?”

You threw up your hands in apology, “Forget I asked.”

“My preference is you stick around,” Price stated simply, jaw in hand. He steadied his elbow in the cradle of his other palm. Something about this felt premeditated. Like he might have run through strategy on his stride across base. “Overwatch, comms, transport. Take your pick.”

“Air support?”

“If we ever need it,” he shrugged. “Touch wood.”

Years. Years of sitting and waiting and watching. Years of making sure the iron in their veins stayed warm. Years of comfortably keeping an eye on Ghost, in every way he didn’t need. In every way that you did. 

“Four years,” you repeated, as though saying it aloud might make it more real. Your throat was thick with emotion. “You’re really sure?”

“Think on it,” ordered Price. He looked like he wanted to leave it there, but decided to add, “Wouldn’t blame you if you preferred to join an aircrew. Nik’s floated you signin’ up to Chimera too-”

“No, no, I’m good- I wanna stay with the team,” you insisted.

It came out urgent and eager, attracting side glances from the other agents in the room. There was an ache in your cheeks, and you realised you’d been beaming stupidly. Honestly, you hardly cared.

“With your team,” you said again. “That’s my preference, if-.” 

The corners of Price’s moustache twitched in mild amusement. “You’re already one of us, Telly Monster. Don’t you bloody know that by now?”

“I had my doubts,” you admitted, scrunching up your nose. “Didn’t wanna assume.”

“No room for doubts,” he replied, softer around the edges. “Think on it.” 

Beaming, you took a spin. Price brought your chair to a sudden halt with his boot.

“If you say yes, I expect you to be all in,” he warned, stabbing an authoritative finger in your direction. “Means when push comes to shove, you fuckin’ push. Copy?”

Something about him giving direct orders made you nod enthusiastically. You shot him a thumbs up.

“Copy, sir. Won’t disappoint. Swear to God.”

“God,” groused Price. “Hell’s he gonna do?”

---

That evening, it started to rain.

Blurry pixels dotted the subway cameras. Clouds dyed the sky black. Thunder hummed, guttural and raw. Yawning, you toggled through the images of the stations, vaguely listening to the light chatter of Kate and the agents at the back of the room. Each screen you filtered through was motionless. If the clock wasn’t ticking over, you might have thought time had stopped altogether.

“Access t’ the train network?”

You turned over your shoulder in interest.

A male agent was regarding Kate with concern, wrapped up in a turtleneck. His accent was strong, but you couldn’t place it. From memory, his ID badge said his agent number was Twelve.

Kate was standing, hands on her hips. Her agents were circled around her in their computer chairs, almost like she was a kindergarten teacher addressing her class.

“Right now, we have no evidence,” said Kate, purposefully tight and neutral. “There’s been traffic that this code’s been on the market for weeks, but tech team haven’t confirmed that’s what’s on the drive.”

“What would they want access to the train network for?” asked another woman – Fourteen, you thought. She looked between her colleagues, the bun at the top of her head whipping left and right. “Those gits wouldn’t hijack a train-”

Kate ran a hand down her face, flattening it out like she was ironing away her tiredness. “They’re terrorists,” her lips were pulled taut. “I think it’s safe to say we should expect anything.”

Your chest felt tight. Absently, you reached for Ghost’s ID plate beneath your shirt. You touched your fingers to the crinkled material, pressing the metal into your skin.

Fourteen shook her head in disbelief, “That’d be mad.”

“Can they even board?” asked Twelve.

“Facial recognition would pick him up,” you piped up, heads simultaneously shooting over to you. The impact of their newfound stares made your voice catch. “The whole country’s looking for him.”

“Yeah, sure. Face recognition’d clock Makarov,” countered Twelve, “but we don’t have the IDs of all his bloody lackeys. And Makarov’s dead in the dirt anyway, isn’t he?”

You didn’t appreciate the reminder - the chink in 141’s armour. Makarov was supposed to be rotting in the desert, half-baked and leathered by the sun. He was supposed to be gunned down years ago, by Soap. He was supposed to be on that transport in Siberia, dragged down through shards of ice.

But he wasn’t. You knew it, marrow deep. But you didn’t say it. Kate’s screws were already wound tight. She didn’t need the reminder any more than you did.

“Let’s deal with the evidence we have,” Kate decided, no-nonsense. “If he’s alive, lets hope his ego’s swollen enough to show his face.”

---

An hour later, Kate ordered you to go home.

It wasn’t a surprise.

Though she hadn’t announced it, you could tell she had worked out some kind of rotating shift system in her mind. Somehow, she was acutely aware of how many hours each of the agents were racking up. Who needed breaks, or food, or sleep and when.

Leaving was a difficult prospect. Now was the time to be tracking the stations. The roaring tunnels. The crowds on the platforms thinning out. The passageways where travellers braved the cold to scramble home, like rats in a maze. Their mud-spattered feet so eager to reach the safety of their flats and their houses.

There was no arguing with Kate, though.

No logic or reason that could sway her, once she’d made up her mind. It irritated you, but you did as she said. Fourteen was to be your hand-over, so you spent ample time completing a sitrep with her. You showed her your routine, a recipe of meticulous checking that you’d aligned to the train timetable. She copied the instructions back to you, just the way you taught her. No less, no more. It took a few rounds for you to be satisfied, and by then Fourteen seemed convinced you were an utter control freak. Maybe you were. You didn’t mind. It was a label you were willing to be branded with if it meant the difference between life or death. And hell - perhaps you were more like 141 than you gave yourself credit for.

Saluting to Kate, you pulled on your coat. Snatched up your contract. Then, dipped out of the communications block.

Outside, the wind was wet and biting. You paused to wedge the folder under your arm, then shoved your shivery fingers into your pockets. Jogging to the training block was fucking dismal, to say the least. Soaked gravel caked your boots. Your nose was frozen pink. Your lips were starting to tremble. Taking an uncovered shortcut had been a shitty idea.

When you reached the training block, you were relieved to see it was lit golden from the inside. Thank fuck they were still in there. Peeking through one of the uncurtained windows, you ran your gaze along a circuit of the room.

Near the corner, you found them. Price was the only one standing, pacing back and forth. He was running a palm over his head, like he was grilling them over something. You could almost hear the dissatisfied noise at the back of his throat. The others were sitting. Listening. Gaz fiddled with his hat, concentrated on the captain’s lecture. Soap interjected, only to be shot down with a dismissive hand.

It took another, more careful, study of the room before you saw him. Your eyes telescoped on his form; half bathed in the dark. Ghost kept at a comfortable distance from the others, sharpening a knife. His clever, lean hands made slick work of the blade’s edge. You couldn’t quite pull his expression into focus. His head was down, disinterested. You knew he was listening, though. You could tell by the way his hands paused with alert stillness, like he was processing something that the captain said. Working it over in his mind to make sure it tracked.

You stepped away from the window, debating your options. On the one hand, it was fucking cold and you wanted to huddle into the warmth of the building. On the other, disturbing them in the middle of a brief was probably impolite. Plus, Price had done you a solid in offering you a long-term contract and you weren’t looking to piss him off.

Sighing, you whirled around to find a seat outside. A few steps away was a staircase, spiralling up to the block’s rooftop. It was caged by a metal shelter, clinking lightly in the rain. That’d have to do. It’d be damp and relatively uncomfortable, but it was largely out of the rain. You tested your foot on the bottom step, the teeth of your boot gripping metal. It wasn’t as slippery as you’d anticipated. Hand gliding up the rail, you climbed up a few steps until you could see the team through the window of the training block. You plopped down.

Excellent. Someone must’ve trailed wet footprints up the staircase, because your pants felt immediately damp. Fucking hell, it was too late now. No point assessing the damage or moving. Reclining into your fate, you felt the metal rungs dig into your back. Your fingers lay useless on the manilla folder on your lap. And you stared, transfixed by the rain. It was slow and rhythmic, like the pattering of a beating drum. Puddles formed on the pavement. Specs of water spit up. The earth quivered as new droplets joined the ground.

A yawn swelled through you.

You looked down to examine the folder on your knees. Picking the cardboard wallet open, you untucked the pen clipped to the first page and started rifling through the documents. There was paperwork – a lot of it. Banking information. Security information. A detailed medical history, including psychiatric. Work history and experience. Blank boxes for fingerprint stamps and face shots. Some of these were documents you had already completed for Kate. You tapped your pen against your lip in thought. Better to ask Price what he needed than to fill out things twice.  

You sorted the brief personnel form to the top of the pile. At minimum, you figured that probably needed to be filled out. Mindlessly, you scribbled in your date of birth. Height. Weight. Specialties. Citizenship. Each bit of information you added made your cheeks pinch up higher in shameless happiness. It was an odd feeling. Signing Shadow’s contracts had been a monotonous chore, like grinding the letters of your own tombstone with a needle. But this – this was easy.

Until, suddenly, it wasn’t.

You halted. Fingers tingling. Pen hovering. Mouth suddenly dry despite the moisture hanging in the air. The words stared at you in expectation.

Next of Kin.

In defiance, you completed the rest of the form and clicked off your pen. Then, your eyes drifted back to the lonely, forgotten box. You had never filled it in before. In Shadow, you’d never really thought it important. But you weren’t a Shadow anymore.

With the blunt nub, you traced Ghost’s name in the box, taking your time. Each curve and line like some childish secret. Still, it didn’t feel enough. Next of Kin didn’t capture what he meant to you. Not really. If only you could somehow find a way to describe what all those fleeting, stolen moments had done to you.

The moments between briefings and training and missions. Between radios and cannon fire bursting in your ears. Between leaning out of the shadow of your making and stepping into his. If only you could articulate what it meant when his eyes caught yours in a crowd. When his knee reached for yours under the table. When his fingers brushed yours on the exchange of a cigarette. If only you could explain those delicate, fragile fractions in time where he stripped of his mask. Like he wanted to let you in. Like he needed to. Like nothing else mattered, because it didn’t.

You shoved your pen in your mouth to chew on the end.

Suddenly, the door shrieked open.

You shot to a stand. The file cluttered down the steps. You skipped down a few stairs to desperately retrieve it, taking the pen from your lips. Ghost’s skeletal fingers found the bundle of papers first. He bent down. Picked it up. Turned it over to inspect the cover. Brushed the wetness off for good measure.

“Alrigh’?”

“Alright,” you panted, dropping another step so that you were eye-level. “Apart from you nearly scaring me half to death, that is.”

Ghost’s hand stretched between you to offer the folder. He tilted his head, “Easy to scare.”

“Bit of fear’s functional in this job, isn’t it?”

He prodded your stomach with the file, as if to remind you of it. “Is it?”

Snorting, you took the folder and slumped down on the nearest step. "Fear keeps you alive." There was a playful wrinkle on your nose. “Or so they say.”

“You should be afraid, love.” Ghost eased off the staircase and drew up his hood. “Not easy for you to avoid cups an’ mugs, yeah?”

You laughed. “Ceramic warfare?”

“For you, that’s deadly.”

Another laugh. He didn’t return it, as usual.

Your happiness dampened into a sheepish smile. The pause seemed to help him decide something, because Ghost came over. Budged you with his knee. Sat beside you on the step. Your elbow cocked out, seeking his. The briefest, barest touch compared to the way you’d melted into him the night before.

“How’d you know I was out here anyway?”

“Price saw you in the window,” he nudged back, controlled and careful. “Old man’s been on edge all night. Wants to move in on Konni tomorrow.”

That made sense. The idea that Konni could have access to the train network made you grit your teeth hard. You glanced through the whited window, foggier now that the rain was picking up. The team were still there, exactly where you’d left them.   

“Sounds risky.”

Ghost looked out into the rain, thoughtful. All his dry humour was gone. “Leavin’ it any longer could be riskier.”

You hummed in gentle agreement.

“That from Price?”

It took a few seconds for you to realise he was talking about the folder you were clutching hard to your chest. Uncurling your arms around it, you dabbed the pads of your fingers at the now-soggy corners.

“Did Price tell you?” you checked.

Ghost took a measured breath, “Old man wouldn’t have the bollocks to ask you without tellin’ me.”  A hand went to his mask, tugging it higher so that the bony grin spread neatly over the lumps of his lips. “You give him your answer?”

“He wants me to think about it,” you chose to say. You opened it to show him. “Was starting to fill out the forms-”

That pitched at his curiosity. He didn’t seem to care about the file, only your words.

“You’re sayin’ yes?”

You glanced at him, nervous. “If that’s okay with you. But, I mean- I know it’s your thing. So if you wanted me to, I’d say no. I wouldn’t mind, honest.”

His brows crinkled, like he wanted to take apart your brain. Dig through the membrane, just to understand how you functioned.

After a moment, he murmured, “Didn’t think you’d say yes.” He must have caught some confusion on your face, because he continued, “Thought you’d go on leave again, when this was done.”

Leave. How fucking dumb leave sounded now. Something terrible welled in your chest at the thought.

A leaking fat droplet clanged on the staircase between you. Ghost’s attention went to it, as if he were looking for an excuse to distance himself from the conversation. You found yourself staring at it too – the lone bead of water rippling on the metal, as if it had a heartbeat of its own.

When he spoke, it was in that dark, gravelly tone. “This job’s a death wish,” he exhaled. “That really what you want?” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting out your own breath. There it was again. The impossibility of explaining what he meant to you. What he was to you.

“I don’t wanna go months without you again,” you admitted, lids creaking open. “I don’t think I have it in me. I know it’s selfish but-.” Your voice cracked. Shoulders cresting and falling.

In your peripherals, you could see his jaw turning and steadying on you. It was embarrassing, how much you felt for him. Torturously embarrassing. 

You gathered the strength it took to meet what you expected was his cold, cautious gaze. Your eyes touched. And you were startled to find his were actually – gentle. A touch puzzled perhaps, like you were speaking some foreign language. But gentle and warm. And your cheeks were warm too. So warm you wondered if you might catch fire. Burn here alive, in fact.

Heart hammering, you extracted the pen from your pocket and clicked it. He chased the sound with his eyes. Pinpricks of rain soaked into the paper. Into the ink. They’d make you fill out the details again, probably. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he understood what you meant. What you wanted.

You wrote his name on the form.

“I’d take any job,” you set the pen down with finality. “Stressful or dangerous or risky or whatever. I’d take that a hundred times over, if it’s with you.”

Ghost said nothing.

His eyes bore into the paper. Still and quiet. His breath was long. The seconds were, too.

Simon reached for the pen. 

Effortlessly, he slipped it between the grooves of his gloved finger and thumb. And you wondered if he was going to cross his name out, say it was too dangerous to be connected on paper, warn you that’s how people got compromised. You could practically hear the words pounding in your head.

Instead, he said, “Think I’ve always wanted you around.” He collected a breath, the pen loose between his skeletal fingers. “Bloody hell, think I’ve wanted that since I met you in that fuckin’ barrack.”

Simon’s gaze lifted, framed by his pale, rain-dotted lashes. Your pulse was thumping in your ears. There was a glint in his stare; a simple reflection of the light. It looked like someone was drowning there, in his affection. Maybe it was you.

“Think I’ve always counted every day an’ minute an’ second ‘til I see you again.”

He drew a line. It punctured through letters. Ink bleeding through ink. But it wasn’t crossed through his name. No. Simon corrected your last name with a new one, messy but sure.

Riley.

You felt yourself redden. You couldn’t remember how to speak. Or think. Or breathe. Simon dug a hand into his pocket, searching lazily for something.

As if in reply, his jacket buzzed. A sharp, staticky noise that startled your nerves awake. His fucking radio. He looked conflicted, like he wanted to ignore it. But you knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. As expected, Ghost shifted away from you, touching the radio with his thumb to let the receiver free.

“Lieutenant, you still out there?”

Price. Always fucking Price.

“Affirmative.” Ghost cleared his throat, chin angling down to speak into the radio. “Give us a minute, yeah?”

“We don’t have a bloody minute mate,” Price barked, so roughly you could hear the echo of him in the training block. “Makarov’s been fuckin’ sighted.”

Chapter Text

Marriage wasn’t something you’d considered much.

Of course, people had conversations about it. Wonderings about dresses. Speeches and dances and too-sweet cakes. All the socially constructed rituals that made most people keen over in anticipation. But those topics sizzled out the moment you’d started contracting. And after that, talking about marriage held little merit between missions. Between heavy thoughts. And bone-deep stress. And the guilt of borrowing time from the men unlucky enough to be caught in the gunship’s crosshairs.

So, it was difficult to explain why, bumping around in the shotgun seat of Twelve’s truck, the thought of being married made so much fucking sense. In fact, being married to Ghost – to Simon – was the most sensical thing in the world. Because, you decided, that’d make it all worth it. All the sore muscles. The exhaustion. Sleepless nights. Bruised, purple eyes. Worry and fear taking hold in your chest. These things seemed so insignificant compared to the thought of building a life together, just to see how the jigsaw puzzles fit. Making dinner in the flat. Playing boardgames late at night. Going for hikes on the weekend. And maybe having a dog. Or a baby. Or a fucking goldfish if that’s all he wanted.

Cheeks feeling warm, you tried to refocus on the wet, rippling road. Twelve kicked up the windscreen wipers, his thumb tapping an unnerved beat on the wheel. He seemed stressed, which was reasonable. Kate hadn’t awarded either of you much time and he, just like the other agents, seemed determined not to disappoint her.

It was probably selfish that you’d spent the past few minutes jostling in your chair, thinking about Ghost. Indulging in dumb, childish fantasies. Though, you had a strange sense that it was the thought of him that kept you level-headed. Maybe Price had been right about protecting the things you loved. Fighting for the things you loved. And hell – maybe Ghost was the only thing you’d ever loved.

Twelve took a rough corner, extracting you forcefully from your thoughts. Your shoulder bumped viciously against the window.

“Watcher said five mikes max,” reminded Twelve, pulling up onto the curb. As the gears shifted, the tyres let out a wet screech. He didn’t bother to kill the engine, instead glancing at you with a laboured expression. “Will beep in a few minutes, as a warning.”

“Promise I’ll be quick,” you assured, zipping off your seatbelt. You dug for the small carrier bag that was pooled at your feet, slinging it messily over your shoulder.

“Repeat my last.”

You shoved open the truck door and stepped out, “You’ll beep in a few, as a warning.”

“No little detours.” Twelve looked pointedly at his watch, “Five max, got that?”

“Got it,” you assured, giving him a regrettable thumbs up. You tried to wave down his exasperated frown, “Just wait here a tick.”

You thrust the door shut, boots sloshing in the rain. With long strides, you rounded the truck and made your way to the armoury’s doors. Bordering the building were a line of armoured vehicles, each humming patiently for their expected passengers. You crossed between two of them, cutting through exhaust fumes and bright beams of light. Each hasty step had the bag thumping against your thigh.

It was warm inside the armoury, probably because it was filled with bodies kitted to the nines in armour and tactical gear. SAS soldiers were shuffling around the metal benches with purpose. Zipping up jackets. Selecting rifles from the weapons cage. Tossing packs to each other. Each wore the same tactical gear - bulky jackets cocooned by vests. Shivering, you huddled inside and shut the doors behind you. They clanked as they closed, teeth munching together. A few of the soldiers glanced up, vaguely distracted, before returning to their business.

Urgently, you scanned the room for Price.

The throaty timbre of his voice made your ears prickle. He was near the back of the room, directing some of his men to port crates and duffel bags out the armoury’s back doors. Even from a distance, you could tell there was an edge to him that wasn’t there before you’d made the trip back to the comms block. Perhaps it was his clipped hand movements or the slight pinch in his brow. Either anger or eagerness. You couldn’t be sure which.

Your boots carried you forward, weaving around men who seemed to hardly notice you. As if sensing your approach, Price scratched at his prickly jaw and turned to look straight at you.

His brows raised, “Delivery?”

You slung the bag down to your forearm to show him your prize. “As you ordered,” you smiled, dropping the bag on the nearest bench. “Already checked the feed on the way in. Connection’s good.”

“Hook me up then, Telly Monster.”

Price watched you peel the bag’s lips open. Your fingers disappeared into its mouth, retrieving two body cameras.

“What’s the traffic, Tel?” came Gaz’s smooth, inquisitive tone.

Your eyes swung up to him. Gaz was fiddling with one of his sleeves, folding the blue material up to give his forearms a bit of breathing room. At his six was Soap, arched over a bench and dismembering a rifle. He seemed to be replacing its limbs with his own custom specs, discarding the pieces he didn’t want like he was goring a rabbit.

You turned back to Price, motioning him over awkwardly. As the space narrowed between you, Price cocked his elbows out a little, the way one did when they were avoiding unnecessary touch. You appreciated that this was a mutual discomfort. Tentatively, you plucked at his vest to pin the camera on.

“Train he was sighted on is heading off course,” you advised, finding a matter of fact tone. “One of the agents reckons the drive was a Trojan. Bet that’s how they got control of the train.”

Price took a breath through his nose, “Can Kate regain access?”

“She’s got a team on it, but I doubt they’ll have time before Makarov gets where he wants to go,” you answered, frowning. “Their hacker was good, apparently. Train’s moving towards the abandoned end of the station.”

“Old mate’s collecting his dogs,” assumed Price.

“More the merrier,” considered Gaz. He folded his arms, a diplomatic tone, “Cap, if we flank either end of the old station, we’d have a good shot at trapping ‘em between us, no matter where they stop.”

Your hands swayed as Price shifted his footing. “Ghost’ll take the East side,” the captain murmured, perhaps to himself. “We’ll swing round West.”

“Like flies in a trap,” Soap tasted bitterly. He palmed his mohawk, exposing a patch of sweat that was pooling under his arm. “Bastard’s not gonna go down easy, sir.”

A dark smile itched at Price’s moustache. “Yeah well, neither will we, aye sunshine?”

“All set,” you hummed, camera fixed to your captain’s person.

The yawn of a faded truck horn stretched over the room. You guessed that was Twelve.

Price didn’t hide his pleasure at being free of your grasp, immediately busying himself with helping one of the soldiers carry a box of ammunition to the truck. You didn’t have time to feel offended by that. Gaz followed his captain dutifully, cradling a few respirator masks in his arms.

Absently, you fiddled with the second body camera. Wrapped around it was a charging cord, tangled up like barbed wire. You began uncoiling it, casting your eyes around the room to search for Ghost.

“Knew tha’ dafty fuckin’ bastard’d show his face,” Soap muttered, attaching a new scope to his rifle. “Ready to rip his fuckin’ head off.”

You offered him a smile, “Just make sure you come back in one piece, yeah? Believe it or not, I sorta appreciate you.”

Soap clicked his rifle together, throwing you a mock look of delight. “Aye, I believe it, Telly.” He rounded the bench to stand closer to you, turning the rifle over in his hands. “An’ I’ll come back in one piece if ya drop that perpetual fuckin’ worried face.”

“I’ve got a perpetual worried face?” you laughed, tossing the body camera’s cord on the bench. You feigned a frown, “Don’t give me a complex.”

“Watch it, sergeant.”

Ghost’s gravelly voice made your attention whip up. He was sidling forward, calmly working a rag over his knife. There was a lazy kind of carefulness to the way he did this; his bone-patterned fingers earning a squeal from the fabric. Your heart skittered in your chest.

“Sir,” Soap beamed, before arching a brow at you. “Lucky ya’ve got a bark to ya bite, lass-”

“Reign it in, Johnny,” cut Ghost, unimpressed.

Soap saluted in supplication.

Satisfied, Ghost tilted his knife towards his chest. The sharp tip sought its holster. Without looking, without trying, he threaded it back in its place.

Smiling, you waited for the inevitable moment that his eyes strayed to you. They did, dull and dark. Reaching through the black holes of his mask. Your lips fell loose as you sucked in a breath. And Christ- either your eyes had popped out of your skull, or you were sure you looked like a bug-eyed fucking alien. How the fuck did this man want to marry you?

A jerky hand waved in front of your face.

“Eh, the TV’s broken,” marvelled Soap. “Malfunction?”

Batting his hand away, you tried for your most hoarse tone, “Reign it in, Johnny.”

Soap laughed, trying to cover it up with his hand.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed, “Ha.”

Crinkling your nose, you took a careful step towards Ghost, showing him the body camera to communicate your intention. In a public place like this, you figured it was safest to be formal. Ghost was a private person. Touching him was usually reserved for the moments far away from the eyes of others, in the bookmarks between missions. In haunted barracks. And balconies. And attics. And mattresses pushed together in dusty, old offices. And flats tucked away in a lonely street of London. Only in those distant, secret places, you could melt into him. Easily. Willingly. Two complimentary colours blending in synchrony. Two people that might share a last name.

Ghost seemed to understand what you wanted to do, because his shoulders dropped in anticipation. He allowed your hands to connect with his jacket.

“So,” you started, fiddling with the plastic of the camera. You tried to fish for something to say, to distract yourself from thoughts of bloody marriage. “The plan’s to eliminate on sight?”

“Capture or kill.” Ghost tilted his head, a steeled expression. “Mostly kill.”

“I know what I’m gunnin’ for,” declared Soap, darkly. Over you, they exchanged a look. “Anyway, I’ll see ya on the other side, Telly.” Soap nudged your elbow with the heel of his rifle, before shouldering it. “Wish us luck?”

“Doubt you need it,” you returned, an anxious itch tickling at the back of your throat. “But if it’s worth anything, then good luck. And keep an eye on you-know-who for me.”

Soap’s smile was loose and easy, with the barest glint of his teeth. His eyes flickered to Ghost’s face as he turned for the door.

The camera was on tight. You wiggled it a few times to check it wouldn’t come off.
Assuming that you were done, Ghost reached around you and plucked up his own rifle to loop it over his shoulder. Grasping the strap, he straightened. Perhaps he expected this movement would naturally prompt you to back off and let him pass. But you didn’t. Because for the life of you, you couldn’t seem to unwind your fingers from the ridges of his jacket.

Around you, the men were loading up the last bits of the gear. Their boots drummed into the rain. Car doors thumped one after the other. Ghost shifted, exhaling.

“You gonna let go?”

You swallowed, words feeling hot on your tongue. “Let go?” you repeated, hesitant. “You mean, of you?”

“Yeah,” he replied dryly. “Of me.”

You let your fingers unravel, like threads plucking loose.

“Wish I didn’t have to,” you admitted, a little embarrassed. “Never want to, Casper.”

His brows knotted, like he thought this was a stupid thing to say. Or perhaps – maybe – like he was trying to maintain his own composure. Trying to stop you from burying under his skin.

“We’ve got tomorrow,” he said. A bit softer. Still a bit guarded. “Finish talkin’ then, yeah?”

Another jagged honk called from outside. Harsh and impatient, this time. You jumped. Twelve was going to chew your fucking ears out for this. Distracted, you glanced at the door.

Ghost’s hand touched your shoulder. Gently. A request, almost, to come back into his orbit. A gesture that seemed to say, alrigh’, just a second more. Because he wasn’t quite finished. And honestly, neither were you. So, you stared up at him for as long as you could. Focusing on him so that you didn’t need to think about anything else. Except the hand steadying your shoulder. The curves of his mask, glowing warm beneath the light. His eyes, dark and unmoving. And the pale lashes that framed them.

Until it was time to go.

---

The drive back to the communications block was spent in tense silence.

Twelve had mercilessly droned on for at least two minutes about how you’d blatantly disrespected his instructions. There weren’t many excuses you were able to offer, so you mumbled a half-hearted apology and busied yourself with readying the body cam feeds. By the time Twelve parked the truck, the rain had thickened to an abrupt pour. Together, you sprinted for the door. Huddled inside. Shook excess water from your boots. Then separated, storming to your respective desks.

Kate was hovering near your bay, hands on her hips. She was directing a blank stare out the window. She must’ve been listening to someone on the radio. As expected, when her eyes landed on you, she gestured to her earmuffs. Touching your mouse, you woke up your computer screens and sorted through the windows. You slumped in your chair. Rolled in tight. Then tugged on your headset.

“5 mikes out-,” Price was saying over the line, a jostle to his voice that you guessed meant he was bulleting at high speed. Though his camera was mostly dark, you could see the impression of his thumb suffocating his radio. “Driver’s comin’ up on the intersection now.”

“Copy. John, the train stopped at a crossover point a few mikes back. Makarov got off,” Kate purposefully palmed the top of your chair. “TV’ll guide you there.”

You were already toggling between your visuals, bouncing your attention between each window. CCTVs of the tunnels. Blueprints. The body cameras, shaky and dim. One window made you halt, leaning forward.

There it was. The hijacked train - shipwrecked at the crossover station. A long, metal structure glowing in the dark. Patrolling its empty carcass were armed men. Pacing leisurely, rifles clinging to their chests. As you completed a circuit of the screen, you noticed that some men had their muzzles angled down. In a shadowy corner, you caught the hint of movement. A hostage, kneeling on the tiles. Your eyes squinted.

“They’ve got civilians,” you advised, matter of fact. You counted the blurry figures lined up in the dark. “Eyes on about twenty, at least.”

“Hostages,” Ghost murmured, crackly. His voice in your ears made you inhale.

“Victims,” corrected the captain. “Telly Monster, you got any visual of Makarov?”

“Standby.” For a few moments, you searched carefully through the feeds. The mouse clicked between your fingers. “Negative,” you relayed, apologetic. “Must be somewhere in my blind spots.”

“Yeah, that’s no fuckin’ coincidence.” Price sounded tired already, pulling on his respirator. “Show me an X Kate, an’ I’ll show you a Y.”

---

“Six to Watcher. We are on the X. Going for Makarov.”

“Solid copy.” Kate peered in over your shoulder, lips pressed together hard. “Go get him, John.”

In reply, Price’s body camera bobbed gently. Metal shrieks filled the tunnel. A yellow door heaved open. Then the camera was quivering violently. He was running, probably. And suddenly, his surroundings were transmitting mere snapshots. Colourful graffiti streaked over walls. Wet gravel sparkling like fish scales. Rusted, decaying tracks disappearing into a blackened abyss.

You leant back in your chair with a squeak, switching to the CCTV footage of the cameras that patrolled the way forward. On one of the shots, you spotted a barricade made of crates and storage boxes. It looked suspiciously unmanned, but a good enough spot to rig with explosives. Calmly, you glanced over to the station blueprints pinned to your desktop. There weren’t many routes forward. Most of the tracks required turning around or taking long detours. But then your eyes latched to one of the airshafts; a circular passageway that was big enough for servicemen to enter.

“Six,” you said calmly. “Advise you use the ventilation passage ahead to get to the crossover station. It’s a clear shot.”

“Rog.”

Price’s team marched forward like hounds hunting a scent. Their boots clicked dryly on the track bed. Muzzles flitted in different directions, checking every corner and shadow with routine efficiency. Eventually, Price reached the entryway to the airshaft. They waited a moment, biding their time till he gave the green light, before flooding in.

“Ghost, Soap,” checked Price, “What’s your position?”

“Pushin’ up to the platform,” answered Ghost flatly, sounding mechanical behind his respirator.

“Copy,” approved Price, gruff. “We’re moving ahead.”

Curiously, you toggled to Ghost’s camera.

His team were creeping down a long, tiled hall glazed with dust and spiderwebs. Clearly, it’d been abandoned awhile. Vending machines were empty and toppled over. Glass splintered to bits. Bins scattered trash over the glossy, beige floor. The thin screens that usually displayed train times were dead black too. You watched Ghost a moment longer, observing the way his camera would slink in and out of the shadows with ease. It reminded you of the way he’d moved through Las Almas, all those months ago. Stealthy. Effortless. Only this time, there were no threats in his way. No men he needed to bury his knife into. No opposition.

Thunder beckoned. Lightening flickered in your peripheral, filtering through the window. Shivers rippled up your spine.

Something was unsettling you.

Things seemed – quiet. Eerily fucking quiet. Konni had to know that they’d been spotted on facial recognition. They had to know Price would act. So, where the fuck were they? They were barely trying to keep out any intruders, it seemed. It was like they wanted the foxes to slip into their coop, unchallenged. Something was off, you could feel it in your fucking bones.

Worried, you checked in on the crossover feed. Sure enough, movement flickered over the screen. It took you a moment to realise what the dark, orderly shapes were.

“Watcher,” you called, “They’re moving the hostages.”

Hearing something in your voice, Kate moved from one of the other agent’s computers and over to yours. She tapped her lip, gaze tracking between the camera footage and the blueprints.

“Send the traffic to Ghost and Soap,” she commanded, stern. “They’re planning something.”

You stayed composed as you patched through to Ghost. “0-7, be advised,” you announced. “Hostages are being moved out of my sight. Looks like they’re headed your way. Watch your fire.”

Seconds passed. Crackles. “Copy.”

“Six to Watcher.” Your eyes swept back to the captain’s screen. You found him in front of a sliding door, crinkled with deep grooves. He gestured for his men to open it. “Advancing to crossover now.”

“That’s Makarov’s last known position, Six,” replied Kate, an air of concern. You could hear the raw anticipation simmering in her breath. “Stay sharp.”

---

Price was kneeling, thick hands curled around his rifle. He’d just emptied a magazine around a corner, muzzle still hot and smoking. The camera angle was slightly wonky now, like he might’ve messed up his vest. He didn’t seem to care. Too focused on the rounds he was feeding into his rifle. Bullets tinkled around him. With his ammunition fresh, the old man raised his rifle. He tilted it around the pillar he was covering behind. Shot once. Lazy and all muscle-memory. Bordering on uninterested. A faint cry echoed down the crossover platform. A man slumped to the ground.

His team didn’t hesitate. Gaz led the rush forward, only recognisable from his blue, folded-up sleeves. His respirator mask breathed deep. Gaz toed the lifeless body with his boot before stepping over it.

“In the train tunnel,” declared Ghost. Through his visual, you could see that he was watching his men cut zip ties from the wrists of civilians. “Got wounded civilians.”

“No shortages of hostiles, either.” Soap bowed forward to look at the camera on Ghost’s chest. From the naked slip at his neck, beneath the mask, he looked layered in sweat. Or maybe the sheen glimmering on his skin was blood. It was difficult to make out, in the dim light. “Reckon there’s more ahead.”

“Any visual on Makarov?” Price groused.

Something dry was working its way up your throat. “They’re keeping out of my range,” you admitted, stressing a hand over your hair. Your fingers itched. You moved between your visuals again. “He’s somewhere in the tunnels, sandwiched between the teams. But that’s about all I can tell.”

“I’ve got agents coming on standby,” Kate’s boots were pacing behind your chair. There was an inhale over your shoulder, as she combed through her words. “Can you move forward, John?” she asked, matching your irritation. “Flush him out?”

“See what we can do,” Price answered, turning to his team. “Half o’ you secure the perimeter an’ block the exit.” He made a splitting gesture to indicate who he wanted on what team. “Rest of us’ll move up the tracks. Ghost, have your lads press hard and push ‘em our way.”

Soap was quick to say, “Copy that, Bravo. Sendin’ the hostages down one o’ the tunnels with half our team. Leads to an exit.”

“I’ll send someone to pick ‘em up,” agreed Kate, springing off to one of the agents.

That was helpful, at least. Having the hostages out of the way meant less potential collateral damage. If only you could get a sight on fucking Makarov. Jaw tense, you completed another round of the camera footage. Each just as empty and useless as the last. Dead end after dead end.

But then–

Him.

At first, he was just a blur. A trick of the flickering, amber light. But then, he was clearer. The retinas of the camera sharpening and twisting as his silhouette emerged in the light. Suddenly, he was wrenched into focus. Makarov. A dirty reflection glittering in his eye. Handgun dangling by his hip, in the strangling grip of his hand. He was talking. Giving orders, maybe. More men hobbled into view, ferrying something onto the tracks. A crate. No-

Thunder grumbled. Another flash of lightning. Sharp and intrusive, like a light piercing your skull. You cursed.

“Shit.” Kate drew in closer to inspect the black lump, “Is that a-.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. Makarov slipped out of view, leaving his men to man the package. Fuck – your palms were sweating.

She was already trying Price, “John circle back near the crossover. We just sighted Makarov, but he’s on the move. Got a group planting a bomb near the old tunnel.”

A pause on the other end of the line.

“On our way.”

“All stations,” growled Soap, cutting through abruptly. Shots thudded in the background. “Got one up our rear end too. Cheeky fuckin’ bastards.”

“Watcher,” added Ghost. “You seein’ this?”

You snapped to his visual immediately, bringing the body cam feeds side by side to offer twinned views of the tunnels. Ghost’s rifle was up, but he was hunched near the second bomb, inspecting it. Strapped to the sides were cannisters, silver and shining. Labels were pasted on the skin of the metal tubes. Ghost’s gloved, skeletal hand swept across one of them, experimentally.

“Looks like gas,” Ghost guessed.

This was bad fucking news. Bile was burning at the pit of your stomach. They were trapped down there with bombs ticking to completion. This wasn’t good. This felt wrong. This was all wrong.

Price’s rifle was zipping from left to right. “Another chemical attack.”

“Some o’ these subway lines go under apartment blocks,” remembered Soap, sliding into cover beside Ghost. He began fingering at a panel on the side of the bomb. It came undone. He tossed it away, letting it clatter to the ground, “That could mean thousands o’ casualties, Bravo.”

“They’ll just pin it on Farah,” you supplied.

Kate maintained an air of professionalism. “We have no proof of that.”

“Not yet,” murmured Price, a touch urgent. “Gaz’s on the second bomb now. Where the fuck is Makarov?”

“Can we disarm them?” interrupted Kate.

“Johnny’s workin’ this box,” stated Ghost, evenly.

Goosebumps prickled up your neck. You tried to slow your breath, looking back at your other screens with renewed energy. In one of the shots, the civilians were venturing closer to the exit.

When you concentrated back on Ghost’s body cam, you found him reloading. His rifle clacked in his hands. He darted out of cover. Fired out into the dark. Aim ruthlessly precise. His bullets chewed through their mark. Then he withdrew again, leaning back next to Soap to analyse his options.

He watched Soap dismantling some of the wires for a tick before saying, “Bomb’s a two-man job. We need suppressive fire, Price. Now.”

Gaz was shouting above the clamour of gunfire, “We’re pinned, 0-7!”

Kate defected to one of the agents with a ragged nod. You could feel her eyes burning into your screen.

“Hang tight Bravo, I’ve got a backup team punching through to you now.”

“Ghost,” you urged, trying to keep your voice steady. “Rest of your team’s comin’ back your way. Hostages’re cleared out of the tunnel.”

Ghost took a moment to say, “I hear you, love.”

There were flashes on Ghost’s screen – brief ripples of gunfire illuminating the tunnel. It mirrored the lightening illuminating the window. The frame of the window shuddered, like the storm itself was begging to come in.

“Steamin’ fuck!”

Your stomach felt hollow - a carcass hollowed out by bullets.

“Johnny’s been tagged in the arm,” said Ghost, sounding pressed. His camera was moving violently as he rummaged over Soap’s uniform. “Non-fatal-”

“Ghost,” Price commanded, “If Soap’s down, you take him and get the fuck out o’ there now, alright?!”

“There’s still time,” Soap argued, defiant.

Something was thumping. Not the window. But you weren’t sure what. Maybe the pulsing of your heartbeat in your ears. Or the rain beating on the roof. Or the gunshots plummeting down the tunnel, skimming metal and flesh and brick. Or maybe it was Price’s authoritative bark, thrashing his men with commands. Or maybe it was the numbers shrinking on the bomb in Ghost’s camera. Every second thudding at the back of your brain like a bird tearing its sharp, bony beak through your scalp.

They were getting close. Dangerously fucking close. They needed to move. Why weren’t they moving?

You sucked in your breath, “Soap! Move!”

Ghost’s fingers coiled around Soap’s collar. He pulled, rough as fuck, almost taking Soap clean off his feet.

“Gaz’s sorted this one,” Price was shouting. “Get as far away - we’ve got Makarov on the run – jus’ fuckin’ get as far as you fuckin’ can an’ hold the fuck on-!”

Weight landed on your shoulder. Steadying. Just like Ghost’s had been. Only it wasn’t warm. It didn’t soothe the pulse that was firing in your neck. It was only Kate.

“You don’t need to see this, TV,” she told you.

Softly. Sadly, you thought. Resigned. You weren’t sure why, but it made your eyes painfully blurry. It made them sting harder than they’d ever felt before. And you couldn’t fucking fathom why. This was Ghost. Nothing got to Ghost. Ghost was a survivor, hardened by years of experience and war. He lived and breathed war. He lived and breathed. You dug the heels of your palms into your lids, trying to ease the pressure. You needed your eyes. You needed to see. To keep watch. To keep them safe.

Finding your nerve, you peeled your eyes open, nose pressing close to Ghost’s screen. Your breath clouded the glass, fingertips leaving impressions in the white. Ghost’s camera was moving about. Shaky and distorted, and angled down at his boots. Soap’s were crunching along the gravel beside him.

The radio was all messy, a jumbled heap of orders. Instructions. Shouts. But then, somehow, there was only one that seemed to matter to you. All the others drowned away, unable to puncture the veil.

“You there, love?”

“I’m here,” you croaked, voice so numb it didn’t feel like yours. “Simon, I’m here-”

“Surprised you bloody picked up this time,” he panted, mildly amused.

You choked on your breath, “Haven’t – haven’t had any telemarketers bother me for a while.” You laughed. Or sobbed. Both, maybe.

Ghost’s steps slowed to a halt. So did Soap’s. One of them was tired, you realised. Needing a break. And maybe the other was staying behind. Waiting for them to catch their breath. Refusing to go on alone. Your chest ached, tightening so hard you could scarcely breathe. Any composure you’d been holding onto was crumbling fast. The room itself was shrinking. The clock striking hard. Making you sink further and further in your seat. The hand on your shoulder becoming heavier and heavier. Eroding away at you like a tide to rock. He wasn't running. Why wasn't he running? He had to come back, just like he'd asked you to. Because if he didn't, you weren't sure how any of the jigsaw pieces would fit. You weren't sure you could ever go back to the flat. Play boardgames. Go for hikes. Have a dog. Or a baby. Or a goldfish, if that's all he wanted. Those thoughts were slipping away; like ash melting between your fingers. Like a star burning and glittering through the sky, already long dead. And you couldn’t hold on, no matter how hard you tried. No matter how hard, in the armoury, it’d felt to let go.  

“Simon – run-,” you said, throat tight. “Please run-”

His breath was deep. Heavy through the respirator. He knelt down, lifting Soap up from under the arm. Drawing him to his feet with effort.

He found it in himself to say, “Wish we could’ve had tomorrow, love-”

“We do,” you spluttered, panic wrapping its fingers around your thoughts. Opening some deep, sinking wound. “I- don’t- I can’t-”

“Feelin’s mutual,” Simon promised, sincere and raw. “Always been mutual, Teletubby.”

Dust spread across the camera. Specs spat against the lens. Blackness swallowed your sight. You sat back in your chair, feeling like an upturned insect scrambling to find its feet. But there was only blindness. Ringing. Then a clogged sound, like your ears were full of suds.

And finally, there was silence.

Chapter Text

“0-7, how copy?”

Seconds passed in silence.

The visual on your screen was crooked. Motionless, like it was sitting in a bed of rubble. You could hear the electric whir of its lens, twitching into focus. It sharpened on charred concrete. Tunnel walls blown to fucking bits. Glass sprinkled over black, fractured train tracks. Your eyes squinted, tears prickling their corners. Every turbulent breath felt dry – painful.

“Ghost,” you tried, trying to hold off the panic. “What’s your status?” 

Bricks fell loose from the roof, kicking up a burnt hue of dust. You could almost taste the dirt yourself. Almost feel it pooling at the back of your throat.

“TV-,” prompted Kate, expression unreadable. “Get-”

You flinched. Luckily, one of the agents waved her attention. Kate pulled herself away, fingers running through her fringe in stress. Her mouth was making shapes as she crossed the room. She was speaking, you realised. Probably giving orders or tearing up the confidence of one of the agents. Whatever she was saying, you could hardly hear it. 

The room was loud. Deafening, with the agents shouting into their radios. You imagined they were probably organising EMT. Or combat support. Any attempt to regain control. You found your attention wandering over their screens, most of them displaying helicopter shots or ripped up tar. Split sandbags on the edges of the subway. Police cars and ambulances glowing red and blue on the glossy street. Civilians with respirators staggering out of the tunnels. Soldiers behind them, coughing their lungs up into their palms. Price’s team, engaged in gunfire.

Price. You turned back to your screen. The tread of the captain’s boots munched on the track bed; his thick fingers stuffing ammunition into his rifle.

“TV to Bravo,” you spluttered, “Lost 0-7’s visual after detonation.”

“Repeat that-”

You forced yourself to speak clearly. “I repeat, lost 0-7’s visual after detonation. Currently no visual on Ghost or Soap.”

“Keep trying to make contact, Telly Monster,” Price groused, firm. “We’ve got Makarov on the run. Gaz’ll take a group to try an’ push through to Ghost-

“The bomb-”

“Was a bloody dud,” he dismissed carelessly. “Got lads here on the box to make sure it’s not a cook-off.” Thuds spewed from his rifle. He emptied the mag. “Focus on Simon for me, yeah?”

“Copy,” you acknowledged, using one hand to check if any of the CCTV cameras were still on. “Simon,” you tried again, “How copy?”

Nothing.

Black screen after black screen after black screen. Every fucking visual was bent. Fuck – you hated this. You hated being trapped in this fucking room. You hated feeling like a bird stripped of all its feathers; helpless to the bars closing in. There was a loud clunk and the table quivered. An ache crawled up your wrist. It took a moment to realise it was your fist that’d struck the wood.

“TV,” Kate intercepted, seeming to remember she wanted to speak to you. “Six’ll take your chair – go and get some air-”

You avoided Kate’s eyes, irritated by the suggestion. “I’m good, Chief. Ghost’ll wake up any second – need to be here when he does-”

“You need air, TV,” Kate said again, more slowly. Carefully, as if she wanted to make sure this conversation didn’t get away from her. “That camera’s not on a body.”

An impulse made you laugh, and you half expected her tight lips to do the same. To twin your smile of disbelief and all but say, only joking. Because the idea that you’d abandon the job now - or shut yourself off to let the camera’s battery slowly wink away – that was pure fucking comedy at best. Yet, she didn’t seem to find any amusement. Kate’s expression remained serious, verging on stern. And you started to wonder at her true meaning. At whatever unavoidable reality she was trying to hint at, but which you couldn’t bring yourself to fathom. The laugh tasted bitter on your tongue.

You sat back, chair creaking, examining her fully now. “You’re not serious, Kate.”

“I’m always serious,” she returned. “Do me a favour and take a walk.”

You didn’t like the way she was gesturing with her head, as if this were a nonchalant request. As if it was just an ordinary day, and you’d slipped up by not taking a lunch break. As if every word didn’t chisel away at the shell of composure holding you together.

Once, you might’ve listened. You might’ve chewed your lip and followed your orders, no matter whether you agreed with them or not. You might’ve dropped your name and identity and personal history. Squeezed in with the obedient cogs of a well-oiled machine. Longed for privacy every chance you got.

But that was then. That was the past. That was the shadow that sloped in your wake. You’d peeled all those masks away. Peeled and peeled like the plasticky skin of ripened fruit. And what was left was your core. A TV. A Telly Monster. The television that only played ghost movies.

You knotted your fingers together. “I’m not leaving this chair,” you retorted. “Try an’ drag me from it, if you want.”

“I’m not asking,” Kate bit, lips wrinkling together.

You shrugged. “Neither am I.”

Kate’s brows twitched. For a moment, her gaze flickered to your monitor, pensive. When she returned her attention to you, she sighed. 

Suddenly, there was a shrill crackle in your headphones. Hissing in a breath, your eyes darted instantly to the monitor. The camera visual was shaking, as if someone was picking it up. You were getting blurry flickers. Steel tracks hacked to pieces, splotches of blood, black uniformed lumps.

“0-7,” you tried, leaning forward eagerly. “Ghost, how copy?”

“Telly-” coughed a ragged voice.

“Soap-,” you blurted out, pressing your headset deeper into your ears.  You could feel Kate hovering in closer, bristling with anticipation. “Soap- how copy?”

“Hello?” Soap yelled, not seeming to hear you. He turned the camera around so that you could see his respirator. He flicked at the lens for good measure. “This thing fuckin’ work?”

His fingers were slipping around the camera, you could hear him pressing the buttons to search for the audio. A mechanical beep rang in your ears.

“Soap,” you tried again, wetting your lips. “You copy?”

“Telly-,” shouted Soap, full of recognition. He wiped his sleeve on the lens of the camera before holding it a hair away from his mask. “Shite- thought I’d gone dark-”

“I’m here, whether you like it or not,” you reassured, trying for an easy tone. You weren’t completely able to iron out the croak in your voice. “What’s your sitrep?”

“Few of Makarov’s boys down here. All dead.” Soap rotated slowly, like he was taking you on a tour of his surroundings. “Caved in on this end. How’s Price? Garrick?”

“Cleaner than you are,” you admitted, “Bomb was a dud.”

He patted ash from his pants for dramatic emphasis. “Bloody freeloaders never get their hands dirty.”

“What’d you see last?” you asked, booting up the blueprints of the tunnel he was in.

“While Lt was half draggin’ me down the tracks?” laughed Soap. “Wasn’t exactly payin’ attention, lass.”

“That makes it tough.” You glanced back at his view, hoping he could feel your mild disapproval. “Next time, learn to appreciate the scenery for me?”

Soap was grasping at his thoughts. “Think there was a station awhile back. Passed it ‘fore the roof came down. A wee one – with one o’ those things. Ah fuck – what’re they called? Not an elevator-”

“Escalator?”

“Brilliant.”

Instinctively, your finger tracked along the lines of the tunnel plans. It would be imprecise, but you could probably determine his general whereabouts and test your theory from there. This was your bread and butter, after all. You’d spent years judging distances. Estimating angles and any potential drift. Computing where you needed to aim on account of the wind and the speed of a target.

If he’d passed a smaller station, that meant he was vaguely between platforms 4 and 8. They’d run further than the bomb than you’d expected. Good.

“Let’s hope this isn’t the road to hell, eh Telly?” Soap lifted his arm, maybe to gesture to the empty tunnel ahead. Before he could finish the movement, his arm shot back like he’d stuck his hand in a trap.

You inhaled, giving him a moment to collect himself. “How badly’re you wounded?”

“Ach,” he spat, “My ego hurts more than the fuckin’ bullet in me.”

“Calling for medical,” you announced calmly. “Standby a tick.”

Your eyes met Kate’s hardened ones. You nodded. She nodded, in shared understanding. A mutual agreement. A mutual apology. Wordlessly, she summoned one of the agents over. Together, they huddled around your monitor.

“Reckon Soap’s roughly ended up around here,” you assessed, drawing an imaginary circle around the platforms. Your eyes lifted from the blueprint to make sure they were comprehending. “If I track him out this way,” you dragged your finger down to the nearest subway exit and tapped with finality. “Can you make this the RV point?”

“Get him there,” agreed Kate, her eyes thinned in purpose. “I’ll handle the rest.”

Grateful, you nodded and tucked back into your desk. Soap was holding the camera up with one hand and rummaging around his vest with the other. His uneven breath told you he was he in pain, probably trying to get his gear to sit right to minimise the damage.

You shifted in your chair. “Can you walk?”

At that, Soap’s head tilted – his way of signalling that was a fucking garbage thing to ask.

You laughed weakly, flicking back through the CCTV cameras to double check none of them were working. Since you’d last checked, a couple of them had come back online. But most of them were too pixelated or smashed to make sense of anything helpful. That meant the blueprints were your best bet. And Soap’s.

“Medical’s gonna meet you on the outside,” you told him, expanding the layouts of the subway so that they filled your screen. “Let’s get you there, huh?” 

“Fuck me,” whistled Soap, pinning the camera to his uniform. “All that fuss for me, eh lass?”

“All for you,” you promised. Tentatively, you asked, “What happened, anyway?”  

Soap’s fiddling paused, like he was anticipating this question and hadn’t prepared his response. He took a sharp breath. “Thought I’d figured out the wirin’ the last second. Must’ve only disarmed part o’ the damn thing.” The curse beneath his breath was reserved for himself. “Bomb that size should’ve cleared us out.”

“Think that’s a fair assessment-,” you supplied, trying to keep your thoughts busy. “Air doesn’t look contaminated. You must’ve disconnected the cannisters, at least.” 

“Fuckin’ lucky stars,” mused Soap. “Nearly got crushed too.”

With the camera latched to his uniform, Soap turned to face the opposite end of the tunnel. The ceiling had sunken in on itself, clogging the way completely with rock. Moonlight filtered in through gaps in the roof, illuminating the rain that beaded down the cheeks of the boulders.

You stared down at your hands, suddenly unable to look. “Did Simon-”

“Cheeky bastard pushed me. We got separated.” He huffed. “Would’ve been a pile o’ soap suds if he hadn’t." His voice sounded ragged. "You fuckin’ believe that, Telly?”

Sure, you could believe it.

In this line of work, operators worked together like creatures of habit. Soldiers relied on each other like a delicate house of cards. Teammates collected laughs and trauma like it was all the same. But friends – friends were rare. The kind of friends you invited to your flat. Or your birthday dinner. Or your wedding. Yeah, those friends were a fucking endless wonder. And you were pretty sure Soap was that friend for Ghost. And fuck, he was probably that friend for you too.

Soap lifted his mask to call out, “LT!”

Above you, a clatter of rain hit the roof. Sharp and heavy, with lightning at its heels. Soap shouted again. Your heart felt like it was on fucking fire.

“Tried to grab him with me,” Soap coughed, dragging his mask back down. “Prick was a bawhair away. All I got a fistful of was his fuckin’ camera.” He tapped an affectionate finger against the lens, letting your vision wobble. “No offense, lass.”

“None taken.”

There was a lurch in the pit of your gut. A horrible widening feeling of anguish. You couldn’t stand not knowing. You couldn’t fucking stomach the idea.

Tense, you muttered, “Soap, do you think he’s-”

“Nah-,” he cut in. And maybe he was anticipating that question too. “Lt always lands like a cat on his feet. He’s alive, Telly.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, a touch uncertain. “I’ll get Kate to send agents to plus him up-”

“What am I, eh?” he scoffed, offended. Soap pressed a hand to one of the boulders experimentally, perhaps contemplating if he could chisel through it with sheer force. “You see any way I can get after him?”

Immediately, you cast your eyes to the blueprints. A vein ran parallel to the tunnel he was in – a ventilation passage with multiple entrances. But it was a dangerous fucking idea. Soap was wounded and with the CCTV out, you were practically in the blind.

“You’re injured,” you reminded him, trying to keep your voice steady. “Going after him’s just putting you both at risk.” 

Apparently uninterested, Soap crouched down to pluck a handgun from the vest of a dead body. He turned it over in his hands, unclicking the chamber to check it was loaded. It was. Something told you that he’d already made up his mind. Soap wasn’t willing to leave Ghost any more than you were. You reached out and touched the monitor, wishing you could be there with him.

“Soap,” you repeated gently, lifting your hand. Fingerprints stained the glass. “I could never ask you to-”

“Yer not askin’, Telly,” Soap said, sounding decided. Snapping the chamber back in place, he stood. “Neither am I.”

---

“Left.”

“Dead-end, lass.”

Frustration burnt up your neck. “Okay,” you pivoted, scanning the area. “Try the storage room to your right?”

Perhaps hearing something, Soap halted. Bent low at the knees. Waited, anticipating. You pressed your lips together, careful not to speak in case the sound compromised him. After a moment, Soap stretched up and sidled over to the storage room.

“Heard somethin’,” he explained, “Think it was just bricks. Not mental.”

“Say it a bit louder. So no one doubts.”

“Don’t push it, lass.” Soap’s breathy laugh melted into a faint pained hiss.

You tried not to shiver. Soap had patched himself up well enough. You’d watched him flush it out. Pack the small crater in his skin with gauze. Coil tight bandages around his bicep. Clearly, he had some training in emergency medical and fortunately Ghost had been right - the wound wasn’t lethal. But Soap suspected there was a fragment of the bullet lodged somewhere beneath his skin, and that made you eager for him to get it looked at. Medical weren’t far behind him. Ten mikes, tops. It was a relief to know that gap was closing.

Of course, Kate wasn’t thrilled about Soap’s detour. The pinch of her forehead gave away her thoughts. Though sending in armed medical was clearly her way of trusting you, it was a risky call. Soap was running off a gasoline tank of adrenaline now. Every rivet of pain was a gullet of new fuel for him. Every instinct motoring him forward brought him closer and closer to Ghost.

Veering towards the right, Soap advanced on a rusted brown door, “This the one?”

“Bingo,” you confirmed, double-checking the blueprint. “Should be another door through there that’ll take you round the dead-end. Should bring you back to the ventilation passage.”

Lifting his leg, Soap planted his boot flat against the metal. There was a clang as he tested his weight against it, the way one would toe a rickety bridge.

You exhaled, “Reckon you can get in?”

Grasping each side of the door, Soap took a hasty step back. “Knock knock-”

He kicked. Hard. The door burst open. A hollow thump clamoured in your ears. Soap readied his sidearm, pointing it about the wreckage of the room. Busted pipes. Swinging, creaking, broken lights. Clear of hostiles.

“There another door to your left?” you prompted.

After investigating, Soap threw a thumbs up and sidled over to it. His hand rested over the handle. It twisted. He elbowed it open.

The next minute was spent in dark, rocky silence. The rain bubbled down to a gentle simmer. Behind you, you could hear the agents providing intel support to Price. You were scarcely paying attention, though. The needle of your mouse had barely moved an inch. Your focus was on Soap. He crept through the ventilation passage, keeping low and sticking to the edges. He was surprisingly good at staying hidden, for someone so used to loud remarks and full-throated laugher.

It wasn’t long before he exited the ventilation passage. He came out to one of the abandoned platforms, mangled to hell from the blast effect. The clinical floor tiles of the platform were shattered and splotched with blood. Advertisements were singed on the walls. A large block of concrete had smashed into the escalator. This must’ve been the same one they’d passed before the cave in.

Before you could advise Soap, you noticed him darting behind a slab of cement. His knees rested carefully on the tracks. He was sensing something. Ears pricked like a dog catching its hunt. Sure enough, you could hear a staggered approach. Step by step. It drew closer. Continued by, oblivious.

Soap moved fast, falling into the operator’s shadow. You saw crinkled clothes. Heard the whistle of a knife. A strangled yelp. Soap lifted the writhing body up, over his shoulder. Let him drop to his belly, like a lizard on the track. His handgun came out of the vest. It fired. The man’s nose sank into the wet, reddened gravel.

“How’d that look?” panted Soap, surveying his handiwork.

“Bit blurry,” you told him, trying not to sound winded by your mild panic. “Don’t move so much next time.”

“Eh, gimme some credit.” Soap leant down to clean his knife, painting red on the dead man’s jacket. He stepped over the body and threaded his knife into its sheath. “I’m no ghost.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” you breathed. “Need you alive. That noise would’ve attracted attention, by the way.”

“Doubt it,” Soap mumbled calmly, digging into his vest. He reloaded the handgun. “Hearin’ a lotta gunfire down here. Hard to tell where it’s comin’ from.”

“Price’s going after Makarov,” you explained.

“Fuck yeah.”

“Okay how about this-,” you pitched, conversationally. “Would you rather a needle in your big toe or your bottom lip?”

“Steamin’ bloody hell,” Soap scoffed in amusement. His camera zoomed through the darkness, bouncing with each of his steps. “Are ya actually tryin’ to spike up my stress or-?”

“Was gonna go with a needle in your arm, but figured that’d be a bit insensitive of me.”

“Aye, yer not wrong,” laughed Soap. A hand went to brush sweat from his neck. “Stick me in the big-toe, I s’pose.”

“Soap, that’s disgusting-”

“Alrigh’, I’ve got one lass,” he suddenly whispered, crouching into cover. More hostile movement, you assumed. “Knife or handgun?”

You didn’t need to think. “Gun. Be careful on that arm. Please.”

Soap waited for the operator to stride by. One step. Two. He ducked out, ripped the trigger. The chamber clicked. Misfire. Without hesitating, he released it from his hands. The weapon clattered on the rubble. They stared at each other, careful with their spacing. Breathing, fists bared. Soap darted first. He ducked to avoid an arm. All you could see was the man’s thigh. Then, Soap’s hand. His knife, puncturing the material that was wringing red by the second. The man fumbled, knees falling onto the rocks. Soap rose, no hesitation. Pulling. Twisting. Cracking bone.

“Fucking hell,” you complained, when it was done. “I said be careful on your arm, not break necks with it.”

Instead of responding, Soap waved a dismissive hand.

You frowned. “Tired?”

“’M solid,” replied Soap, though it sounded more like an attempt at reassurance than anything.

“Kate’s team'll be about 8 mikes to your six by now,” you offered. “Soap, if you need to-”

He rotated his wrist, “Lt can’t be far.”

The breath you sucked in was deep. But it didn’t help. Your heart was thundering now. Guilt was buzzing in your sternum. This wasn’t fair on Soap. You could feel the exhaustion starting to creep into his movements. You could feel the sickening shudder of his pain, pushing him on. This was the part where you were meant to tell him to stop. Wait. Regain his breath, at least.

But you couldn’t. Because Soap was trying to prove something. Maybe to you. Or to Ghost. But more than likely - to himself. He wasn’t his mistakes. He was more than them. And it was that notion you could understand fully. Because you’d done the same – tried to prove the same – the second your boots ticked up the Shadow’s gunship on the last mission.

So instead of telling him to stop, you checked, “Your wrist good?”

Maybe that made you a fucking shit friend. One that didn’t get invited to flats, or birthday dinners or weddings. Soap seemed to care little though.

“We’re splittin’ hairs, Telly.” He cracked his knuckles. “I’m good.”

---

“Lt?!”

Soap’s voice echoed down the tunnel. You both waited. Nothing.

“It’s a straight shot, Soap.” Your eyes flickered to a close-up of the blueprints. “Should be coming up to the other side of the cave-in now.” 

His respirator whistled. “Hard to fuckin’ see down here. Air’s gone to shite.”

Your fingers habitually went to the ID plates beneath your shirt, just to feel the grooves of the letters on your skin. Everything was distorted by a haze of dust and smoke. You were properly rattled now. Being totally blind was not something that suited you.

“They get Makarov yet?” asked Soap, waving a hand in front of him like it’d help him see better.

A glance to Price’s screen. When your eyes found Soap’s visual again, you could see him drawing out into a clearer part of the tunnel. The subway’s ceiling had been ribbed to the street above. The night sky stretched over its opening. Burnt bitumen curled down onto the rock. Rain tinkled on the melted tracks. Specs of dust drifted in the air, suspending by moonlight. There was something ethereal about it. Something haunting. And maybe Soap thought so too, because he silently reached out his gloved palm to let dots of water spit against the leather.

“Cap’s still working on it,” you told him gently, hoping to stir him out of his thoughts. “You just worry about staying on your toes, yeah-?”

“Lt?”

You froze.

A tentative crunching step. “That you, Sir?”

There was no reply.

You narrowed your lids, trying to see what he was seeing. Every pulse of your heart struck against your temple. Your throat felt tight. It might’ve been more bricks falling. Or it might’ve been hostiles. Maybe Soap could take another in close combat, but if they had a rifle – or if he was outnumbered -

But then - then you saw it. And you weren’t sure how you hadn’t seen it before. A hulking figure taking refuge in the dark. He was slumped forward, back pushed against the wall of the tunnel. Blonde hear dirty and mussed; gas mask abandoned at his thigh. Head dropped forward.

Ghost.

Soap rushed closer, urgently calling his name. There was no reply.

"Kate!" you shouted, raising one of your headphones up. "Kate - Soap's got him - where's medical?" 

"Two mikes-"

Two mikes. Only two mikes. 

Suddenly, Soap was on his knees, easing Ghost back. Pressing him to the wall so that his head rolled into view. There was blood. Blood patterned along his face, diluted by rain and sweat. Blood mixed with the black paint of his shut eyes. Blood trailing down his neck, where the white lines of his balaclava usually did. The camera was buckling, as if Soap was panting hard. Or was that you? You couldn’t tell anymore.

Soap turned Ghost’s hand over, thumb slipping over his dirty, tender skin to feel for a pulse. He had to push Ghost’s glove back to do it. As he did, you caught a flicker of something that made bile burn at the back of your throat. The mangled little TV that you’d stitched there long ago. Only, he must have cut it out and stitched it to a new one himself, like it was some lucky charm.

And why hadn’t you done it for him? You said you would. You said you’d make him a new pair. You said you’d go to Hawaii with him. You said you’d always be there with him, not separated by a screen. Why couldn’t you keep those promises? Why couldn’t you do anything? And why was there no reply? You wanted to ask Soap that. You could feel the words making incisions on your tongue.

"Two mikes," came a dry, fragmented voice. It sounded nothing like you. And yet it was your lips that formed the syllables. "Two mikes, Soap."

“Come on, Lt, fuck-”

“Soap-,” you breathed. “-Soap- is he?”

Soap said nothing. His hand was patting against Ghost's cheek, coaxing him from wherever he was. Your fingers sparked, remembering Simon's warmth. How it felt to huddle in close to him. How it felt to see his eyes soften when he looked at you. 

“Johnny-”

It was faint. Gravelly. Maybe a little annoyed. And you wondered if you imagined it.

Soap's shout was relieved, “He’s alive – fuckin' hell, lass, he’s alive-”

Alive. You rolled a touch away from the desk. Heart combusting in your chest. He was safe. Alive. The brittle thread that had been holding you together ruptured. You leant forward, holding out our sweaty, shaking hands. Your palms collected your face. Your wet cheeks. Then your dry, rough sobs. 

Chapter Text

When you woke, it was to a rickety fan.

It whipped around slowly. Cutting across the ceiling tiles like the blades of a helicopter. Drowsily, you shifted up. The movement sent an ache through your neck. You massaged it. Sleeping on the bench at the window had undoubtedly been a bad idea, but there weren’t any alternatives. Hospitals were like that. Painfully uncomfortable. Incessant beeping. Unpliable pillows. Doctors that seemed more mechanical that the machines they punched notes into.

It was nighttime.

You yawned; elbow barred by the window you were propped up against. Your feet landed on the speckled tile floor.

Ghost was where you left him, sleeping quietly. His stubbled jaw sank into the crinkles of his pillow. He barely fit in the hospital bed. Limbs almost too long and bulky. Creeping over to him, you dragged his blanket a little higher. Ghost’s head shifted slightly, like the sensation might’ve made an indent in the dream he was having. You watched him a moment, his pale eyelashes twitching. Eels writhed in your stomach.

You needed a fucking cigarette.

Your groggy eyes swept around the room. The furniture was mostly cast in shadow: a ceramic basin, a food tray, an armchair covered in your belongings and Ghost’s gear. You slipped your socks across the floor to the end of Ghost’s bed. There was a small table there, crowded with things the team had brought earlier that day. In the centre sat a nice vase, with a long neck that cascaded into a round bottom. Thin stems poked out of it; yellow petals perched over the glass edges. Gaz had said there was a meaning to them, but you couldn’t remember what it was.

A bottle of whiskey stood proudly beside it. Looped around the cap was a messily scribbled note from Price that read, ‘Get better or piss off.’

Last was a handwritten card, with a poorly drawn skull wearing a sombrero on the front. Soap, of course. You opened the cardboard to steal the pack of smokes tucked inside.

The balcony was narrow, caged by thick railing that screamed safety regulation. You stepped out onto the tiles, setting your elbows on the cool metal. The glass door slid behind you. It was cold out, but you didn’t mind. You just needed a minute or two, and the view was nice enough to distract you. You swept your gaze over the expanse of rooftops, crowned by fog. Thick, black clouds swallowed the sky. Powerlines draped from building to building. Cars blinked down the streets. Sirens whirred in the distance.

You tapped the edge of the cigarette box, hinging it open. As expected, it was stocked to the brim with rows of neatly packaged white sticks. A strange thought swirled to the front of your mind. Of how once, you’d stared into Gunner’s box of smokes and seen the same thing. Faceless, nameless clones. Christ – that’d hardly been long ago.

Back then, life had been nothing but a series of transactions. Smiles. Laughs. Jokes. Trading things like cigarettes and playing cards so you didn’t have to clean the gunship. Making trades with Graves, too. Do a job, get money. Sign a contract, lose autonomy. Checks and balances.

There were the rare moments of respite, though. Moments with Nav or Gunner, when you could pretend that it would get better. The unending, insatiable need for things to be better. Still, sneaking off whenever you had the chance. Though not much time had passed, you almost couldn’t remember what it felt like to be alone. Truly alone, like you were in Shadow Company. The feeling was an old, out-of-touch friend. Yet you’d come close to it in that subway. You’d come so close to being alone for good. So fucking close to losing Ghost.

Sighing, you brought the pack to your lips and withdrew a cigarette. It wriggled between your teeth, as eager as you to warm up. After rummaging for a lighter, you found one in your back pocket. You clicked it. Once. Twice. The tip lit.

Bitterness soaked your tongue. You drew in, eyes following a car stopping at a light. Your muscles melted in reprieve. The nerves in you dulled.

“Stress dummy?”  

Startled, you whipped around.

It took a moment for your heartbeat to soften again. Ghost filled the doorframe, wearing the black shit and sweatpants you’d brought from the flat. He looked exhausted. Blond hair askew. Eyes heavily lidded. Pink rimmed cuts littered around his face. There was no mask, either. His pale lips drawn into a blank line.

You probably looked just as dishevelled, though. It’d been a long time since you’d last slept in the flat. All those ceaseless hours on the mission were starting to catch up with you.

“You could say that,” you supposed, taking another purposeful suck.

On your exhale, a curl of smoke swelled between you. Ghost’s eyes went to your hand, watching your feeble attempt to wave it away.

“I know,” you said, before he could beat you to it. You tapped the end of your cigarette over the edge of the balcony, the ash whittling into the air. “Smoking in a hospital. Not exactly my finest moment. Just - thought I might sneak a quick one in private.” Another inhale. Another release. “Keep my secret for me?”

Ghost stretched up, one arm extending lazily above his head. His eyes followed his purpose, exposing the curve of a bruised collarbone. You weren’t sure what he was doing until you heard the squeaking of the plastic smoke alarm. He twisted it off.

“Our secret,” he murmured, setting the plastic cap on the railing.

You extended the pack of smokes to him. It felt nice to share things with him like this. Secrets and smokes. Ghost’s fingers dipped into the box, the way he dug for a spare round in his vest. He extracted one between two fingers, plucking it out slowly so he could purposefully skim his knuckle along your finger. It was an intimate gesture. Made more so by the way his dark, lazy eyes held yours. Perhaps it stirred him on, because Ghost decided he didn’t want the touch to end. Reading his intention, you let him slip into your space. He towered over you. His head dropped. Eyes shut. Forehead pressed to yours.

You took a long, relieved breath. And the rise and fall of Ghost’s shoulders told you he might’ve been collecting himself too. Relieved, too. And something felt right about it. Like two soundwaves that peaked and plummeted on their own. But together - finally – finally they could regain their balance.

It felt strangely hollow when he pulled away, but you took the chance to ash your cigarette. You tossed him the lighter. Ghost went about lighting his own, planting the tip between his lips, opening his mouth just enough to permit the intrusion.

“Look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he commented dryly, slanting his head to blow a mouthful of smoke. When his gaze returned to you, it was calm. “No offense.”

“None taken,” you dismissed, holding your cigarette up to direct the smoke. You propped your elbow into the cradle of your other palm. “Maybe I have. Was starting to think you’d never wake up.”

“Must’ve been strange,” he said flatly, perhaps misreading your tone. “You’re always raggin’ on me to sleep more.”

Your hum agreed. “That’d be saying it lightly.”

He took another drag, this time holding the cigarette there for a long time. His mouth opened slowly, smoke filtering out in one twisting, whited sigh.  “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” you asked, leaning against the railing.

“Parts,” admitted Ghost calmly.

That wasn’t helpful. But it wasn’t his fault.

You stressed your fingers through your hair. “There were two bombs,” you stated, matter-of-fact. “The one you and Soap were on, went off. Part of the subway collapsed. Few soldiers died. Not near as bad as it was meant to be, though.”

“How long was I out?”

“A day maybe,” you guessed, poking your toe on a puddle on the floor. It dampened. “Not that long, in the grand scheme of things. They thought you’d be out for at least a few days. You’ve got bed orders in here for a few weeks, I hope you know.”

“Bollocks,” he breathed, his exhale heavy with smoke. “That’ll be a bone o’ contention.”

That was probably an understatement. Already, the doctors and nurses were fed up with Soap. You figured Ghost would probably be a far more challenging patient, in his own way. Smoking while recovering, for one.

Ghost leant an elbow on the balcony, his fingers massaging his temples like he was trying to ease some pressure there. A splitting headache, no doubt. It’d been a few hours since they’d topped his medication. You thought about calling for a nurse.

“How’s your head?” you tested.

“Murderin’ me,” he said blankly. He must have noticed something in your expression because he warned, “’S nothin’ new, love. Johnny make it out?”

His attempt to pivot the conversation worked. Wind rippled around you, making the curtains around the door shiver. You rubbed a tired knuckle over your eye.

“Yeah, he’s okay,” you reassured. “Can’t use his arm for at least a month, though. He’s devastated, as you can imagine. Tried to fight the doctor.” You put on a dutiful impression, “Wha’doya mean I can’t bloody lift?”

Ghost huffed. “Bet he said it like that, too.”

You looked down at your hands with a smile. “He came back for you, you know.”

“Mm,” was his response. Not gratitude. Not guilt either. Disapproval, perhaps. Like the lieutenant in his bones disagreed with the call. He inhaled deep, a gold bead sizzling in his eyes. “Sounds like Johnny.”

“Then Gaz,” you paused to take your own drag. “D’you remember that?”

“I remember,” he replied, a gritty wariness to his tone. Outstretching his hand, he flicked the ash from his cigarette. You thought for a moment he was ready to leave it at that. But then his eyes narrowed, “Makarov?”

“Price chased him about as far as he could, but he slipped away. Reckon he’s already been smuggled out of the fucking country.” You frowned. “Cap was here earlier today actually. Brought you this nice double oaked bourbon.”

He seemed to appreciate that, glancing in through the gap of the door.

“Could use a bloody drink,” he said, though he didn’t go to get it. Instead, his fingers flexed along the railing. Perhaps remembering something, he turned his jaw toward you. “Thought I heard you down there, after the bomb went off.” He paused, tentative. “That - real?”

“Depends,” you replied, a touch playful. “What’d I say?”

Ghost’s hand went to his jaw, like he habitually wanted to yank his mask higher. His eyes were distant. There was an honesty to this gesture, as if he were finding some solace in the thought.

“Jus’ my name,” he told you quietly. “Over an’ over.”

You crinkled your nose. “Sounds annoying.”

“Ha. Quite the opposite.”

“I helped Soap find you,” you explained, averting your eyes. “Maybe that’s how you heard me. He picked up your camera when you dropped it.”

Ghost pondered on his cigarette. You could feel what was coming.

“Was it bad?”

Truthfully, you didn’t want to remember it. Remembering felt like sandpaper gritting against your skull. But avoiding it was no use. The snapshots were already firing through your mind. The subway. The explosion.

“I mean – I sat there for nearly twenty minutes not knowing if you were dead or not,” you recited. “Was completely in the dark.” You met his stare and shrugged. “It was bad, yeah.”

Conflict jerked in his brows. Like he would’ve done anything to take the strain out of your voice. Like it hurt him more than any bomb could.

You sighed through your nostrils. “You remember how I told you that – that story from when I was a kid? How I was crawling through that haunted maze-”

His head slanted in your direction. “The skeleton?”

Your nod was instant. There was something you liked about him remembering that. He paid attention. Even though you’d been fumbling over yourself. You took a careful draw of your cigarette, trying to gather your words into a comprehensible sentence.

“It was like that,” you continued softly. “Like – like I was a kid again. Crawling through a tunnel, just petrified to turn the fucking corner in case-”

“Thought you weren’t afraid of ‘em anymore.”

“I’m not.” You paused, words feeling oddly detached from your tongue. “I s’pose I’m trying to say I know how it feels now. When you can’t do anything, no matter how much you want to. No matter how much it hurts. You know that feeling, right?”

“By heart.”

Fuck - that made it worse, somehow.

“I just-,” you wiped the back of your neck, not fully sure of what you were trying to get across. “I know how fucking crazy this all sounds, but I want to see that skeleton mask every day of my stupid life. That’s what I was scared of, in that tunnel. That I’d never see it again, except maybe in a dream or a nightmare.”

He said nothing, then. Perhaps he did think you were mental. And honestly – maybe you were. Ghost seemed to have that effect on you. You inhaled one last time, listening to the awkward bleating of machines behind you.

Ghost stamped out his cigarette on the balcony railing. Taking yours, he stubbed it the same way. Then he popped the discarded butts back in the cigarette box.

“My dreams’ve all been about you,” he decided to say, tucking the pack into your chest pocket.

Your smile was shy. “Good ones, I hope.”

“Lately,” he admitted, glancing away. “Bloody hell, maybe this’s a dream too. Would make no difference, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Asleep. Awake.” Ghost shrugged. “S’all a dream with you, love.”

You mulled on that for a beat, turning his words over in your mind. Your heart was beating furiously. You were sure he could hear it.

“You never answered.”

It was an odd thing for him to say, spoken low and gentle. Your eyes swept over to him, searching for his meaning. It took an embarrassingly long moment before it fit. Oh. Heart hiccupping, you wondered if he meant what you’d talked about on the stairs. Joining the team. Taking his last name. Riley. The letters were still bolded in your mind.

He tipped his chin up – his way of showing you he wanted a reply.

You tasted the words carefully, “You never asked.”

“Then marry me,” he said plainly.

Your stunned silence faltered into a breathy, embarrassed laugh. “That doesn’t sound like a question.”

“Maybe it’s an order.”

“You’re not my CO,” you defended, affectionate.

He ran his fingers ragged through his hair, considering that. “Alrigh’, then it’s a plea.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that simmered up your throat. It was absurd. He wanted this as much as you did. He wanted every bit of it. It made no fucking sense.

“Simon Riley, making a plea?” You wiped a palm down your face, trying to tamper the bloody pink blooming in your cheeks. “You must be more out of it than I thought.”

He tilted his head, unimpressed.

“TV.”

“Simon.” You tilted yours in the opposite direction, smiling. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

“It is t’morrow.”

 “Ask me anyway,” you laughed, cheeks sore. “Ask me everyday, if you want. My answer’ll always be the same anyway.”

Ghost sort of looked like he wanted to throw himself down a mince drain.

“Put me out o’ my misery, love,” he complained, slouching over the balcony railing to press his face into his stacked arms.

There was something satisfying about the way he was folding in on himself. Like this was torture. Like the idea that you might not want the same was absolute fucking torture. Perhaps he hadn’t been paying attention after all.

“Alright.”

And Ghost managed to lift his head a little, as if curious. Hopeful. “Alrigh’?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, sending him a happy thumbs up. “Alright.”

---

It was warm by the fireplace.

You were kneeling in front of it, stoking the crackling logs with a poker. Golden light trickled over the stone. Hot air nipped at your nose, warning you away. You shut the door with a creak.

“It’s beautiful here,” noted Farah calmly. She was half-sunken in a tattered armchair, one leg crossed over the other. Her scarf loosely framed her hair. “Could spend weeks here, in peace.”

Sitting by Farah’s knee on the rug, Alex took a swig of his beer. “S’not that different from back home,” he shrugged. “Aside from the active warzone.”

You scooted away from the fireplace but kept your legs close. “I don’t understand why Soap doesn’t take leave every second week. Thanks for coming, by the way,” you smiled, eyes gliding from one to the other. “I know it’s not some big grand-”

Farah was quick to interrupt. “For the little time any of us get, it’s enough.”

“Lucky my boss let me take some leave,” scoffed Alex, fiddling with something on his prosthetic. “She can be a real hardass-”

That earnt him a kick in the shoulder.

“Captain said you were taking some time after this,” continued Farah, conversationally, ignoring the way Alex was elbowing her leg. “Where’re you two going?”

“Hawa-”

“Top ups?” barked Soap, striding into the room. He’d taken off his suit jacket. The tie you’d fixed carefully that morning dangled limp near his navel. Above his head, Soap waved an assortment of clinking glass bottles. Condensation slid down their glass necks, like sweat. “Best not go fuckin’ soft,” he warned, serious. “We’re gettin’ blootered whether ya bloody like it or not.”

He stared at you, expectant. You shook your head, to his chagrin. Farah shook hers too. That was more expected. But Alex – Alex was willing to indulge him.

“Absolute fuckin’ legend Keller,” Soap tossed him one of the bottles, winking. “Try an’ outlast Price,” he challenged, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. Soap intentionally eyed himself in the mirror above the mantle, checking his hair. “Should see how that fucker can put ‘em away.”

Stretching to your feet, you threw an arm around him and examined his reflection. He wobbled dramatically under your weight. There was a pink colour to his cheeks.

“Verdict?” you prodded.

“Pure barry,” whistled Soap, sounding impressed. With the bottom of one of the bottles, he brushed the tip of his mohawk like he was checking the right limb had been amputated. “Think it’s fair yer the new barber, lass.”

“Happy to oblige.” Your beam turned into a feigned frown, and you whispered to him. “Where’d Simon go?”

Soap made a show of looking around, like he expected Ghost might spring out of the fucking shadows. Deciding otherwise, he jerked his head like he wanted you to follow. You uncurled your arm from around his shoulders, skipping across the wooden floors to keep up. Soap thudded down the hall. He slowed down to jig a little to a song playing in the kitchen, picking up a stack of dirtied plates as he spun.

“Thanks love,” said his Ma, taking the dishes. They bumped hips to the beat.

“Can I help?” you squeaked.

Soap huffed in warning, “Ma’s a perfectionist.”

“None o’ that,” his Mum fussed, revving up her disapproval for dramatic effect. “John’ll stack ‘em in the dishwasher first thing, love. Needa keep that lad busy or he’ll run us in the ground.”

“Ach- no needa get up to high doh,” Soap tutted, taking your hand to give you a twirl. It made you a little dizzy, but you laughed all the same. He rounded on his Mum again, “Have a lay down, would ya ol’ bag?”

She batted at his arm, “John Mactavish, you wee shite.”

Soap ushered you out the kitchen, but you could hear her call down the hall.

“Away an’ bile yer thick heid!”

Humming to the music, Soap shoved his gumboots on at the door. He tossed you a rubbery pair. Plucked up a windbreaker that was hanging on the roof. Tossed that to you too. Waited for you to scramble the gear on, whilst leaning against the door. Then, when you were ready, he thumped out into the cool air.

The others were circled around the firepit, which was considerably more impressive than the one you’d been stirring in the house. Your sleeves dangled by your hips as you made your way over. Soap – being Soap – was already advertising the drinks on offer. Price was the first taker, holding his beanie in place to forcefully finish what was left in his bottle. Soap handed him a new one. Then without asking, he shoved one in Gaz’s hand too. Naturally, the three butted them together and tipped their heads back.

“He’s in his element, no?” Rudy snorted, shuffling over so you could fit in near the fire.

“I think he took the best man thing pretty seriously,” you agreed, grabbing at your elbows. “Can’t complain. None of this would’ve happened without him.”

Alejandro raised his glass in a lone cheers. “That’s what family do, hermana.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, pocketing your hands. Happy. “That’s what family do.”

The fire was glowing, bathing your face in heat. All red-tongued and hissing, spitting smoke and orange sparks in the air.

“So when do we hear the Ghost’s vows?” asked Rudy, a playful air to him. “We begged Soap to record them-”  

You made a zipping motion over your lips, then held out your hands to collect some warmth. Alejandro muttered something privately into the hollow of Rudy’s ear. They laughed.

A few steps away, you could hear Nik swallowing down amusement at whatever Soap’s Dad was narrating. Nik snorted roughly through his palm. Then let out a thunderous, booming laugh that sent shivers up your arms. Beside him, Kate jostled her bangs in mild exasperation. Her wife rubbed a reassuring hand on her back, the gold band snaked around her finger twinkling in the light.

Absently, you tugged your own ring higher up your finger. It had the tendency to slip when you sweated. You’d need to get it resized. Rudy raised a knowing brow. Flushing, you patted him on the shoulder and sidled over to Price.

Your Captain welcomed you with a curt nod, a fat cigar now dangling from his lips.

“Lookin’ for Ghost, Tel?” asked Gaz smoothly. His lips found the edge of his bottle, tilting it just enough so he could swallow a mouthful of amber liquid. It sloshed around when he righted it again.

“Yeah,” you shivered, bouncing on your toes. “You seen him?”

“Negative, Telly Monster,” Price answered instead, eyes reflecting amber flames.  “Mate’s talented at hide an’ seek, gotta give him that.”

Soap’s brows were raised when he suggested, “Try round the back, Telly?”

That was one possibility. Your eyes circuited the cottage. There weren’t many options. His preferred hiding spots were secluded. Usually high-up. Somewhere nobody would think to go. Either the attic or-

“I’ll report back,” you promised. “If I’ve gone dark in the next ten minutes, I’ve plummeted down a cliff.”

“You’d survive that, Tel,” Gaz reassured, confident. “Falling out of a helicopter’s worse innit?”

“Aye, fuck’s sake,” teased Soap, rolling his eyes. “Quit bein’ so fuckin’ dramatic-”

Price whacked him round the back of the skull. “Be nice to your sister on her wedding day, eh? You fuckin’ muppet.”

Laughing, you strayed away from the fire, immediately feeling the temperature. Zipping up your windbreaker, you began the hike up the hill. It was a tough climb. Steep and long. Worse than you expected, really. It only took a few steps before your boots were caked in mud. Every stride took effort. Each more pained than the last. After a minute, your lungs were properly angry. The bottom of your dress had started to dampen, warping around your shins with the breeze.

It was a relief when the ground started to plateau. Only a few more steps. One. Two. You heaved up to the top. Stopped. Leant over. Wheezed.

As you expected, Simon Riley was there.

He stood at the crest of the hill, dressed in the black suit and balaclava he’d worn to the courthouse. His back was to you. Gloved hands buried in his pockets. Contemplative, as if he were deep in thought. Beyond him, the sun had started to sink below the wild, rugged range. A shoreline curved in the distance. Grass lapped back and forth.

“Didn’ think you’d come up here,” he murmured, jaw moving slightly to the side. “Gettin’ colder by the minute. You got a death wish?”

“I don’t mind the cold,” you said, sauntering over. You poked his rib with your elbow. “Long as you’re nearby.

Simon turned his head slightly, a fond look simmering in his dark eyes. The bones of his mask buckled with his breath. He nudged back.

A comfortable, easy silence settled between you. Simon’s heavy eyes stayed fixed to the horizon, lost in some thought. You found interest in a cottage down the hill, bordered by heathers and brush. In the backyard, an old woman was coming out to collect her laundry. She set a basket on the wet ground and began unpegging clothes from the line. The fabric waved rhythms with the wind. Something about it reminded you of your Mum, and you glimpsed up instinctively, wondering if she was watching you now.

“Johnny said this place’s haunted,” Simon murmured, as if reading your thoughts.

Your eyes slid over to him. “Haunted?”

“Ghosts,” he explained, like he thought this might interest you. It did. “Witches. That sort o’ thing.”

“Why’d you pick here then?” you pitched a brow. “If it’s haunted.”

“S’pose I don’t mind haunted places,” he reasoned, voice becoming unfiltered as he dragged his balaclava down. The black material bunched around his neck.

“Never know what you might find in them,” you agreed, nodding. For emphasis, you circled your fingers round your eyes like they were goggles. “Can find all sorts of spooky things.”

His lidded stare fell to your lips. Soft and affectionate. “That’s for sure.”

“Oh, that’s for sure,” you echoed, teasing.

Resting your head against his shoulder, you said nothing more. Ghost lifted his arm around you to drag you in closer. Your ear pressed instantly to his chest; his heartbeat louder than the wind sighing through the hills. And for a long while, you watched the stars being coaxed out for the night. Hundreds of freckles glittering in the enormous, ever darkening sky.

“Let’s piss off, yeah?”

You lifted your head off him, laughing. “We’re what everyone’s here for, Simon. Think they’d notice if we left.”

He didn’t argue. Only tangled your fingers with his gloved ones. His hand was so familiar now. Long, lean fingers. Wrist freckled with scars. Green veins, lumpy like valleys rising from the planes of pale skin. And – a dark bit of ink peeking out from beneath his glove. Curiously, you held his wrist up close and lifted the lip of the leather higher. New ink – contrasted with the weathered work penned to the rest of his arm.

And it was right where you’d stitched his glove. Fucking hell. A crooked little TV.

Your voice was a croak, “Is that a-”

“TV,” he confirmed, pointing with his eyes. “Those’re the antennas.”  

“Think they look more like insect feelers,” you lamented, cheeks hot. For dramatic effect, you wiggled two fingers in front of your forehead.

Maybe he didn’t intend to, but Simon let out a few subtle breaths. Warm and staggered. Almost as if he were – no. It couldn’t be. Laughing. He was actually, genuinely laughing at your stupid fucking joke. Like he couldn’t quite contain himself, today of all days.

It was completely unexpected. Disarming, even. So much so that all you could do was manage to blink at him, partly wondering if there was a catch. If this were some bizarre dream that you would wake from any second. But after a moment, you found yourself laughing too. Cheeks pink and hopelessly bright.

And your laugh softened. And you smiled, sheepishly, up at him.

And for the first time, Simon returned it.