Archive of Our Own

— ❤️ —

Sparrow didn't understand Ghost at first. After all…

Simon didn't speak much. Didn't reach out. Didn't smile. He just… watched. Always.

Waited.

He noticed when she flinched. When her hands trembled, when she couldn't find her voice, when the world felt too big and loud and chaotic—

And yet he never looked away. For a minute, she thought the rumors were true. Maybe not all of them, like how some recruits thought he was a robot, or a zombie. But before she knew better, she privately agreed—whoever he was before becoming The Ghost was dead. Figured his silence meant there was nothing left inside.

But then she watched as he handed her Snuggles—promising the stuffed bear to her forever. How he'd cut her apple when the skin bothered her and she couldn't grip the knife herself. Every time he'd pull her into his arms while she sobbed and fought and panicked and never once told her to stop.

Sure, he took lives. They all did. It was their job, after all. But Simon—her Simon—didn't speak of life. He lived, in his own quiet, relentless way. Cheated death and came back not to shout it from the rooftops, but to just… live. Not just for his family—

—but for himself, too.

— ❤️ —

Soap was a soldier. A warrior. A storm. Sunshine incarnate, ready to scorch the earth the moment anyone dared harm what belonged to him.

And Ghost was the part that survived the aftermath. Stubbornly clung to life like a damn cockroach, waiting for the world to bloody catch up around him.

Johnny used to think Simon was cold. Distant. Aloof. But then he got close—close enough to touch, literally, and punched him in the shoulder just to feel hard muscle and a beating heart. Watched the tall bastard roll his eyes and pretend he didn't give a fuck who lived or died, only to stay behind as Johnny fought through the streets of Las Almas to reach him again.

After that?

He saw Simon laugh. How he'd protect them all, not like a weapon would, but as a wall. And sure, he might not've spoken much, but that didn't mean he wasn't just as alive as the rest of them.

Simon's life wasn't loud. It was a heart still beating even after it thought it'd bled out. The breath someone might not've realized wasn't their last, that there was still fight to be had and victory to be won. He wasn't just alive, not anymore.

Simon finally got to live. And Johnny was more than happy to be part of that life.

— ❤️ —

Gaz found the contradiction funny, honestly. A Ghost in everything—including name—having crammed more life into just under thirty-six years than most people ever got.

Kyle knew Simon loved like a man who remembered what it was like to have nothing. Knew he'd lived through more heartbreak than anyone should've ever needed to endure. And yet he still never did anything halfway. Not on a mission. Not in caring for someone he loved. Simon committed to everything with his entire heart.

Because when Sparrow was afraid, Simon would shield her.

Because when Johnny spiraled, Simon would ground him.

Because when Kyle doubted himself, Simon would remind him his worth.

Because when John felt the weight of leadership, Simon would shoulder it alongside him.

He built a life with his own two hands, clinging onto it even through rot and dirt and muck and terror. And for Kyle, Simon reminded him of what it meant to keep fighting, to never give up—even after the war ended.

— ❤️ —

Price wouldn't ever forget the first time he'd truly seen Ghost. Covered in desert sand and blood and the remnants of his own torture.

It was that moment that John decided he wouldn't let Simon go. The lad deserved a good life, in his opinion, and even if John was only a lieutenant, he still held plenty of sway with his own captain and the higher brass.

He liked to think it was, in part, thanks to him, that Simon remembered how to live. John watched with pride as Simon refused to give into the grief and trauma of all he endured. After all, he'd seen soldiers who died long before their hearts stopped. But Simon?

Even on his worst days, he showed up. Stubborn. Tenacious. Never once wasting time, or energy, because he knew just how precious it was. So when Simon touched his shoulder, or waited up for Sparrow, or brought Kyle a tea, or listened to Johnny's ramblings—

It meant something.

He could've faded away. John wouldn't've blamed him. But every single day, he stayed. Every single day, he loved them. And every time he curled around their little nest like a sentinel at peace—

Simon chose life. Again, and again, and again.

— ❤️ —

Ghost didn't remember the exact day he decided to stay alive. Just that it wasn't about himself anymore.

Simon wasn't a stranger to loss, but the intrinsic urge to protect his people, his pack? He didn't just live for himself anymore. He lived for them, for Sparrow's soft giggles, Johnny's warm hands, Kyle's steady gaze, Price's unwavering loyalty.

Even when he didn't think he deserved it.

Simon wasn't gentle, not really. More… brutal, honestly, because he did relish in putting an enemy in the ground, watching their crimson lifeblood spill across the ground by his own hands.

But somewhere along the way, his life became about more than just being a weapon.

He lived so he could open jars for Sparrow and to hold her through her tears. To adjust Johnny's kit and knock their helmets together before every op. To help Kyle make dinner and clean the house when he got restless. To let Price hold him like something worthy of love.

Somewhere along the way, he realized there was more to life than just surviving. So he chose, every bloody day, to stay. For them.

And for himself.

— 🧡 —

Ghost saw Sparrow's tremors before anyone else did. The quiet little stutters in her breath, how she'd linger just beyond the doorframe, and the silence. Not because she couldn't speak, but because she was afraid to.

He didn't push, though. Or pry. Because he got it. Healing… it wasn't linear, and Simon knew that better than almost anyone else. And sure, he might not always know how to fix it… but he remembered what their boys (and their bird) did for him on the rough days.

So Simon would make sure the kettle was on. Locked the office door when Sparrow curled into the corner, and tell her a million different ways that she was safe without ever uttering those two words. Would move slower, louder so she could hear. Watch the windows so nothing could sneak up on them. Sit between her and the world when it got too loud, too confusing, too much.

"Do you think I'm broken?" Her voice was barely a whisper when she asked, quietly aching like she'd already decided his answer for him. And never once did he lie to her.

"No," he murmured, offering her a hand. "I think you survived."

He knew how survival scarred. And their little bird wore more than most. Someday, she'd understand just how strong she was.

— 🧡 —

Gaz wouldn't ever forget the first time Sparrow flinched from him.

They weren't even touching, either. He'd stepped through the door a little too fast, a little too quiet—and really, he didn't mean to startle her. Didn't even think, but it didn't matter. Not when she jerked—eyes wide, breath hitching, arms jerking up like she expected a blow.

And he stopped.

"Hey," Kyle murmured, crouching down where he stood. "You okay, love?"

She nodded, but it was all wrong. Too fast. Too tight. But she didn't run.

He stayed near—not moving until she bridged the distance. Sat on the floor instead, far out of arms' reach, and talked about nothing. The weather. A dumb TikTok he saw. Which recruits were sneaking around base for some 'stress relief.'

Sparrow laughed. Soft, shy, like she wasn't sure she was allowed. Like he surprised her, and at that moment he knew he needed to give her more of that.

So he did. Sticky notes with little doodles and loving words. Walks out in the garden when their boys got a little to loud. A hand held out with no expectation.

And one day, Sparrow finally took it. Trusted him, and that was it. Healing didn't always look like sunshine. It looked like safety, built brick by brick. Like Kyle holding her tight when she finally sobbed in his arms, never asking her to be more than wat she was and loving her all the same.

— 🧡 —

Soap used to think healing was big. Like… dramatic monologue, tears in the rain, music swelling kind of big. But then he watched Sparrow one morning, sitting in the window with Thumper in her lap and the sun on her face, just breathing. Existing in her own skin with the softest wee smile he'd ever seen.

That's what made Johnny realize that that was the scene. The small stuff.

Like how she'd reach for someone when she was scared, even though there were so many years that she hadn't known a kind hand. How she'd lean into his silly forehead kisses and smile when he called her 'wee hen' and 'lovie' even on the days where she felt like static.

She wasn't soft because she was unscarred—she was soft because of them. Because she knew what it was like to hurt, to ache, and showed up every day regardless.

Johnny didn't think he'd ever see anything braver.

— 🧡 —

Price watched Sparrow sometimes when she didn't know he was looking.

Watching how she'd rub at her wrist, overtop scars that should've never existed. Or how she'd tuck Snuggles close like the little bear was a shield. How she'd started to reach for comfort instead of shying away, like she wasn't as convinced that love was conditional.

When she first came to them, Sparrow didn't ask. Didn't dare hope for softness. And now?

Now she slept with her head on Ghost's shoulder. Legs tangled with Soap's. Fingers laced with Gaz's. And John's own arms around the whole damn nest of them. Would call them names he never thought they'd earn from anyone—Daddy, Papa, Aba, Da. Call for them when she was scared, when the world felt too big for such a little bird.

She finally let them love her the way she deserved. There wasn't a damn thing more sacred. Healing didn't mean the pain was gone, or that it wouldn't come back in the dead of night. It just meant she knew she wasn't alone anymore.

— 🧡 —

Sometimes, Sparrow still woke up afraid, reliving the memories of being small and forgotten.

She hated herself for not being 'over it.' For needing to hide in Price's office, for panicking over too-loud noises or textures that felt bad or accidentally saying the wrong words—

But—

Johnny—Da—would bring her tea exactly how she liked it, despite hating it himself. Teased her for wanting milk and sugar until it tasted like a 'liquid bakery.'

Kyle—Aba—would press his forehead hers and call her princess between kisses. Smile at her when she laughed and blushed, even through her shy protests.

Simon—Papa—would let her hide behind him and shield her from the world. Never flinching when she was spiraling and didn't know how to make it stop.

And John—Daddy—would wrap her up in a hug that felt like coming home, enveloping her in the weight of a man who would kill for her without blinking.

Maybe it's okay that I don't always feel fine. Maybe it would always take one breath, a soft hand reaching out, and trusting that they'd catch her if she stumbled. Maybe this was what healing was always meant to look like.

— 💛 —

The sun didn't ask for permission to rise. It didn't apologize for its brightness, or dim itself to make the world comfortable. No, it flooded every crack and corner, drove back the darkness and claimed space for itself. Radiant. Blinding. Warming those it loved—

—and scorching those who dared challenge its might.

Ghost knew the sun was dangerous. That standing in its light too long could leave one burned. And after years spent in the shadows, surviving by vanishing in plain sight, the sun? It came as more than just exposure. Vulnerability in a way he didn't know how to prepare for. It was Johnny MacTavish kicking his door in with a shite-eating grin and a laugh too loud and bright for someone who'd seen so much death—and doled it out in equal measures.

Simon wanted to flinch from it—and at first, he did. Until he felt the warmth under the fireball.

Johnny didn't just shine. He didn't fill the room for the fuck of it. He chose to spread light, to allow those he loved to bask in his radiance without question.

He didn't ask permission, either. Didn't need thanks. Lit Simon from the inside out, until even the coldest corners of Simon's soul started to thaw.

After all… if Johnny was the sun, then Simon was the moon. And the moon needed the sun—just as much as the sun needed the moon.

— 💛 —

To Gaz, Soap was the best parts of summer. Golden and loud, the kind of light and warmth that made one feel invincible—like they were bigger, braver, stronger just because he was there. His laughter felt like the sun cresting the hill at dawn. His arms wrapping around Kyle's shoulders warmed like a campfire at midnight. Safe, loud, and unashamedly alive.

And perhaps better than anyone, Kyle knew sunlight meant movement. It didn't stand still, and neither did Johnny.

Johnny, always burning bright. Talking fast. Feeling everything all at once—energy flickering from one thing to the next, a fever pitch near impossible to follow. Chasing him was a fool's errand. So he waited instead. Opened up to it—let the light shine through him instead. Built his steadiness around the flames of Johnny's entire brilliant, radiant being.

In return, Johnny slowed. Came back to him, warming his bones like the afternoon sun spilling through the windows of the farmhouse kitchen. Finding a place to rest amidst his own chaos.

"You bring the warmth, sunshine," Kyle murmured once, stroking his hands over and down Johnny's fluffy brown mohawk. "I'll bring the quiet."

And Johnny smiled so wide it lit the whole damn day.

— 💛 —

To a man like John Price, Soap was everything he used to believe would burn him. Too… bright. Wild. Untamable. The military taught him discipline. Containment. Control. To respect fire, sure—but warning in the same breath to never approach the flames.

And Johnny? Johnny was chaos in human form. Barely reined in temper. ADHD-fueled momentum. His heart burning bright on his sleeve, emotions burning like an open flame. The first time Johnny punched a wall during a debrief, Price merely sighed. How'd a muppet like him ever pass selection? Fully expecting the poor sod to crash and burn and find himself a one-way ticket back to the highlands.

But he didn't.

He rose like a phoenix from the ashes. Over. And over again.

It was then Price understood.

He'd been taught by people who learned to fear the unknown. To despise the things that didn't come in neat little boxes. Johnny didn't burn everything. He only scorched what threatened the things he'd claimed—a dragon protecting his hoard.

Price found something sacred in that kind of fire. And sometimes, when Johnny was fast asleep on the couch—mouth open, snoring, arms splayed—Price watched the light catch on his cheeks and eyelashes.

This is what it means to live beside a sun. He had no hope of controlling it. Nor did he want to. Instead, he planted his roots deep, and let Johnny's warmth do the rest.

— 💛 —

To Sparrow, Soap embodied the sun itself.

Anytime she felt small, when the world got too much—too loud, too sharp, too mean—Johnny was there, radiant and close. He didn't quiet down—never did. But somehow, his spark made the world less cruel. And for Erin?

He made her feel like a garden in full bloom.

It wasn't just the warmth of his body, or the grin breaking open the dark—it was how he saw her. How the nickname 'wee birdie' rolled off his tongue in that thick Scottish brogue, how he'd throw her over his shoulder and spin her until she couldn't help but laugh.

Near him? Erin felt alive.

He never hesitated with her. Never second-guessed loving her as loud and explosively as possible.

And even when she hid—when she curled in the dark all small, silent, and scared—he didn't try to drag her into the scorching rays. Instead, he ducked down low, embers on a fire, and warmed her to her very core.

In return, she reached for him like flowers turned to the sun.

— 💛 —

Soap didn't always know what to do with the fire in his soul. Sometimes it felt like too much—too many thoughts, emotions, movements he couldn't quiet down. And he knew he burned too hot at times—said the wrong thing, snapped too fast, forgot to slow down when someone needed a softer hand.

But when Johnny looked at them—Ghost, Gaz, Price, Sparrow—and saw how they still reached for him? Still soaked up everything he had to give? Came back each and every time?

They never asked him to change.

They just let him shine.

And that? It meant more than the world to him. Because if he was the sun—

They were his moon. His stars. His sky. His earth. His everything and more. And he would stop at nothing to make sure they always knew.

— 💚 —

Sparrow hadn't really thought of Gaz as the strongest. Not at first. Not compared to Ghost's tenacity, to Soap's ferocity, to Price's command.

But Kyle was his own force of nature. Able to withstand the strongest storms like a mighty oak—never once bowing to the wind, the hail, the thunder or lightning.

It was Kyle who brought her tea at the exact right moment. Who remembered her comfort shows. Who slipped bubblegum into her kit before ops, just to make her smile.

And whenever she felt like she was drowning—adrift, lost, confused and scared—he didn't try to just… drag her out. He waded in with her. Sat in the surf beside her, got himself wet just so she didn't need to be alone.

It took some time, some understanding, but when she got scared? Oftentimes, it was his hand she reached for first.

Kyle's strength wasn't loud, or flashy, or cocky, or any of that.

It was steady.

Resilient.

And no matter how dark the nights got, she knew spring would always return.

— 💚 —

There were a handful of constants in Soap's life. Like how he loved Gaz so bloody much. Really. Truly.

But sometimes—god, sometimes—he forgot just how deep Kyle's roots went. Because if Johnny was the wildfire, the flash as the world ignited—

Kyle was the earth.

Patient. Grounded. The kind of man who'd listen to you rage and never once interrupt, then offer a snack or a drink like that was all you ever needed.

At first, Johnny wanted to hate him. Thought he was just… Price's golden boy. One who could do no wrong, who the Captain would mold into his image and push higher and higher while he got left in the dust—

No.

He was the one who kept Johnny from spiraling into his own thoughts too fast. Who dragged him out of bed on the hard days—never to scold, but instead with "C'mon, I found a frog outside. You've got five minutes to name it and help me sneak it into Price's office."

And he'd go every bloody time. Nature wasn't just about peace, it was about rebirth. Returning to one's roots, literally, and finding the things worth fighting for.

Kyle made him want to grow. To evolve. To bloom and flourish. And in return, he'd do everything he could to make sure Kyle never spent a day in the dark.

— 💚 —

Gaz had a way of making things grow. That was the first thing Ghost ever noticed.

It wasn't about plants, though. Not completely—sure, Kyle had a way with those, too, obsessed with the garden he and Sparrow and Johnny built from scrap in the farmhouse basement—but in the way he looked at people.

Not like they were broken. Unsalvageable. A lost cause, like he so often felt.

But like they were blossoming.

Simon didn't talk to the bloke much, at first. Didn't open up. Didn't try, not when he still felt like nothing but a walking corpse.

Kyle never once asked him to, though. Didn't flinch at the rot, either. Just passed him tea, sat beside him, and started quietly reading like Simon hadn't just spent several hours pretending he didn't exist.

Yet Simon stayed.

Listened.

Healed, in his own slow way, because Kyle made him realize he wasn't just the rot clinging to his bones. They helped each other, really. Simon became the fertilizer, the stubborn weed clinging to life and taking root in the soil below.

Kyle didn't rush things. Didn't try to uproot Simon's entire thought process. He just… let Simon grow comfortable at his own pace.

And somehow, Kyle made Simon want to try.

— 💚 —

Price watched Gaz the same way a proud father might watch his grown son—shoulders squared, eyes crinkled at the corners, and mouth pulled into something that almost resembled a smile.

God, how far Kyle had come. From that moment in Piccadilly Circus to now, Kyle was night and day from the lad John met. He'd never forget how young Kyle looked, absolutely desperate to prove his worth. Frustrated with just how little he could do on his own, yet determined to make it by his own merit.

And now?

Now, Kyle was the man others went to when they didn't know what they needed.

John saw it—the tenderness in Kyle's strength as he held space for every person in the room.

For every person grieving, Kyle would tell them "Let it hurt."

For every moment of anger, Kyle would promise "I'm still here."

And for every time someone felt lost, Kyle would smile and say "We'll figure it out."

Not because he had all the answers, either, but because he believed that together, they'd find a way. Nature didn't demand, it endured. And for the 141? For this family he'd built from five souls who may have never crossed otherwise?

Kyle was a forest. A sanctuary. A place they could all go to breathe.

— 💚 —

It was easy to forget, sometimes, just how far he'd come. Gaz started to forget about the times he'd second-guessed every order. When his voice shook and the earth felt like it would crumble beneath him. When he looked at Price and never, ever thought he'd be strong like his Captain.

Now?

Sparrow reached for his hand in the dark.

Soap would text him memes in the middle of the night, even when they were both sleeping beside each other.

Ghost sat beside him because he felt safe.

Price nodded along with his words during debriefs like they were equals.

He didn't need fanfare. Didn't really want it, either.

He just wanted them safe, and whole, and loved.

For Kyle, love just needed to be consistent—bold yet soft. Ferocious yet patient.

Sometimes love was a warm jumper, an extra cup of tea, a frog drawn on a napkin.

And sometimes, love was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder to weather the storm, because he knew the world would continue to bloom in the aftermath.

— 💙 —

John Price never once told Sparrow to stop crying. Never said "oh calm down, you're fine" or "get over it" or the dozens of other dismissals she'd always been used to. All he did was wait. Let her sit with it—in it—and settled right there beside her. The trembling hands, the hiccuping sobs, the ache behind her eyes… he saw it all. And stayed. Every time.

"C'mere, little love."

Price's voice was like a siren call. One Sparrow knew she would never, ever be able to ignore. Because for all the storm in his eyes, the righteous anger and indignation at the hypocrisy of the world… his gaze held nothing but calm, blue serenity for her.

She went. Always. Tucked herself beneath his arm like a fledgling taking shelter under a wing, leaned against his chest, and rested her ear right over his steady heart. He gathered her closer, tucking her into his lap with a kiss to her temple and the gentle scrape of his beard on her skin, and let her sob it out until she could breathe again.

It didn't matter when. Didn't matter where. He never asked for thanks, either, just smiled with eyes that crinkled at the corners, like there wasn't a single other place he'd rather be.

— 💙 —

Soap would never admit it to anyone else—but sometimes? The world just… got too big. Too much

The anger, the rush, the heat in his blood that made him reckless and loud and alive, but dangerous, too. Unpredictable. Scorching. He wasn't a stranger to the way people would sometimes flinch, or the silence echoing in the wake of his excited shouts.

And yet Price never made him feel less.

If anything, he'd just… look at Johnny. A tilt of the head. A slow, measured exhale. Not a judgment, just observation. Space. The ability and willingness to take everything Johnny could conjure up and handle it.

"Better?" Price asked each time, voice low as the remaining tension bled out and Johnny stood before him, trembling and ashamed.

He'd nod. Because really… he was. "Aye, sir."

"Right. Let's get back to it."

And that was it. No scolding. No shame. Just grace and serenity in a way Johnny never knew he could have. More than a captain, more than a friend, more than a lover—an anchor when he didn't even realize he was drowning. A man who knew that the sun wouldn't simply disappear after a scolding—it just needed a big enough, blue enough sky.

— 💙 —

Ghost used to hate stillness.

He always associated it with coffins. Silence. Claustrophobia. The moment after someone took their last breath before the world caught up—if it ever did.

But Price's stillness wasn't like that. Not passive in the least—watchful. Intentional. Solid. Like the man himself could face down a hurricane and never falter. The metaphorical immovable object against the worlds' unstoppable forces. Nothing would move him until he chose to yield.

Simon couldn't help himself—not at the beginning at least. And as much as he hated to admit it, he'd test John instead. Push at his edges, show up bleeding and snarling and half-feral with guilt and misplaced rage. Throw things. Yell. Punch. Sob. Scream. Shatter.

And John would catch him.

"Got you," he murmured, already laying out gauze and alcohol wipes. Never asked "What happened?" or "what were you thinking?" Just… "Let me see, Simon."

Sure, John could be a force of nature when needed. But as angry as the ocean could get, Simon knew just as well it could be calm and quiet. Steady in a way he'd never had growing up. And for a man like him? That serenity was the most precious thing in the world.

— 💙 —

For Gaz, it was Price's voice, more than anything. That low, rumbling "Garrick," when shite was about to hit the bloody fan. Over comms, in smoke, in blood, it didn't matter.

Kyle would listen every time.

He'd seen leaders who panicked. Who froze. Who barked orders like the world personally owed them its ear and never once worked to earn the respect they so heavily demanded. And John never once did that.

Sure, he could yell with the best of them in the heat of the moment. Take control and make the best out of the worst. But he'd speak calmly, even when time seemed short. Stood tall even in the face of overwhelming odds.

Maybe that was why Kyle followed him all those years ago—shouting "blue! blue!" with his hands up as John strode forward in the wake of Piccadilly Circus. Because no matter how bad it got, he never once stopped believing in the man leading them out.

John wasn't just calm—he was rock bloody solid in the face of the world ready to collapse around them. And that, to Kyle, was a goddamn miracle.

— 💙 —

John knew what his loves saw.

Their Captain. A commander. A rock. They leaned on him, those four—eyes bright or broken. Jokes sharp or silent. Hearts in their hands.

They came to him messy, loud, bleeding, scared—and he welcomed them with open arms. Didn't mind in the least. He loved them, and that was all that mattered. They were his own form of serenity amidst the chaos.

John wasn't calm because he was unshaken—he was calm because they needed him to be. Someone to stand still when the earth split. Someone who still remembered what it felt like to be young and terrified and leaderless—and he'd be damned before he ever let them feel that way under his command.

No matter the chaos in his own head, he'd focus on them. On his serenity.

And whenever they needed him—be it Johnny, Kyle, Simon, or Erin—he'd invite them close. Lock the door to his office, open his arms, and give one soft request.

"Come home, love."

Because he was their home, forever and a day. And they were his home, too.

— 💜 —

Sparrow never thought she'd be loved like this. More than wanted, more than tolerated—chosen.

Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days, when the world felt like it was crashing down around her and she thought she'd fall apart, when her cries echoed through her chest and slammed against hollow bones. Through every tear, every argument, every time she stuck her foot in her mouth—

They stayed.

But now?

Now, there was a couch in Price's office where she could curl up with every comfort item she owned. A bed in the farmhouse that smelled like all five of them. Tables and chairs and couches where five voices overlapped in both calm and chaos.

Somehow, Sparrow found herself in the center of it all. Not as a burden, or a project, or something to fix—

—but needed.

Wanted exactly as she was.

— 💜 —

Soap was a lot. Too much, for some—too loud, too sharp, too bright. Too many ideas, too fast with his mouth, too ready to crack a joke in the hopes of endearing people to him. The class clown—except no one seemed to ever care that there was so much more just below the surface.

At least, until them.

Until Sparrow, with her fluttering wings and trembling courage, who listened along to his nonsense and managed to follow his fragmented trains of thought with her own brand of chaos.

Until Gaz, who caught his wild edges with his bare hands and never once seemed to fear being cut, never failing to ground him with little more than a calm look and a goofy grin.

Until Price, who listened—truly listened—to him for the first time in his life, who called him sunshine like his fiery temperament warmed and soothed instead of scorched.

Until Ghost, who rarely tolerated anyone getting as close as Soap managed to, who stayed behind during the worst night of his life just to be his guardian angel and guide him through the dark.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't just a wildfire that scorched everything he touched—instead, he became the warmth they came home to.

— 💜 —

Gaz didn't need grand gestures. Just consistency, really. People who said what they meant and meant what they said. A shoulder to lean on, a joke at the right time, a hand steadying him in the dark.

He'd gotten used to always being the one holding the line.

Now? He didn't have to fight alone.

Not when he had Sparrow clinging to his hoodie like a baby koala, pouting because "Johnny's mean!" and he wouldn't stop teasing her. Not when Soap would be right on her heels, insisting that frogs were a lie the Mongolian government made up. Not when Ghost would just cross his arms and sigh while Gaz stared at him near helplessly. Not when Price would pull him into random side hugs he pretended were just little one-off moments.

It wasn't even that he'd had a bad life—he had a mum and sisters who he bloody adored. But love like this? He never imagined anything so—

beautiful

incredible

amazing

—could exist.

And it grew here.

— 💜 —

Ghost never thought he was built for love. He wasn't supposed to have this… softness. Nor the safety. The kindness, the four sets of eyes staring at him like he hung the bloody moon just for them—

He never expected the way Sparrow would burrow into him like he was more than just blood and steel. Or the way Soap would grin at him, completely unafraid even when Ghost snarled. Or how Gaz would just sit beside him in the dark, meeting him where he was at. And especially not how Price would kiss him soft and slow say "I'm proud of you, son."

But he had it.

And sometimes it bloody terrified him.

Love meant risk. Loss. Heartbreak. Things he'd had far too much of for far too long. But for them? For the 141?

He'd walk through hell just to see them smile. Slept better when they were all close—let Sparrow play with his hair and Soap shove socks on his cold feet. Let Gaz tuck a flower behind his ear and Price call him theirs.

He wasn't a stray dog anymore. A mutt still, sure, but one with a warm bed and a loving home.

— 💜 —

Price was the one meant to keep them alive. It was his duty, after all—the leader, the Captain, the spine. But somewhere along the way, the lines shifted and blurred until duty became devotion and the ragtag group of muppets he'd managed to pick up gave him a place to belong.

More than, really. Somehow, he'd found the family he never knew he'd get to have.

Sparrow curling into his lap when the world got too big and too loud for her to handle. Soap leaning against his shoulder, calm and content instead of letting his thoughts run wild. Gaz never hesitating to speak his mind, even when he struggled. Ghost looking at him like he was safe, not just in charge.

And in the hush of evening, when they were all curled up in a pile of tangled limbs and steady hearts, he'd look at them with a fond smile. This was what he fought for, now. Not the mission. Not the war. Just them.

— 💜 —

The five of them fit. Not perfectly, not easily, but so entangled that they worked as one body, one mind, one spirit.

It didn't save them from petty squabbles or silly misunderstandings. Just meant they chose to show up for each other every bloody day.

Five hearts.

Five different sets of scars.

Five kinds of wild love.

The calm before the storm and the gale itself. The laughter in the dark and silent, restful moments. War-torn weapons with hands so gentle they became each others' salvation.

Bound not by blood, but by every unspoken "I've got you."

And none of them would ever let go.

— ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 —