Well Someones Gotta Break It If You Wont

But despite your grumble, you still nuzzle yourself into him, leaning your weight against his body as you 'rest your eyes.' Simon's arms automatically come up to hold you steady, huffing his breathy laugh that comes out in gentle puffs. He never actually laughs how other people do, but it's his laugh, and you've never judged him for it. He holds you a little tighter and lets you fall half-asleep for a little while longer. And if he's being honest, it's more for him than for you. He doesn't know how long he's going to be gone--if he'll even come back alive--so he tries to burn your warmth into his memory while he still can.

"Be safe, Simon," you mumble, and it sounds sleepy, but he can feel the tremor in your body as you tense up and hide it under the pretense of burrowing yourself closer to his body.

He doesn't say anything of comfort. He won't give you false words and promises that he'll inevitably break. He won't do that to you, and you wouldn't want him to. Instead, he just sighs and presses his mask-covered lips to your head, eyes looking down to the fisted hand he has wrapped around you. The object in it pinches his skin through the fabric of his skeleton gloves, and a memory flashes through him.

"I get why you wear the mask--I do--but those gloves? Are you for real, Riley?"

"You talking shit again, Puppy?"

"Why do you call me that? And no, I'm not, just innocently wondering about your fashion choices."

"Because you're just like one--cute, harmless, and exciteable all the time--and that smile says otherwise. Maybe I should spank you with these on, and then we'll see what you have to say about them."

"Cute?! How dare you, Simon Riley! And they'd just cushion the blow."

"That's it, come here, you little troublemaker--"

"Simon--Simon, wait, Simon! I'm sorry! Simon!"

The memory tapers off with the sound of your delighted laughter echoing in his ears, and Simon clenches his fist tighter around the object, gloves warming the cool metal as it clinks in his grip.

"Do you wish I didn't have to leave?"

It's a stupid question. He already knows the answer, but he has to hear it. He wants to hear you say it. Wants you to voice your selfish desires for him to stay instead of giving him that fake smile that always leaves him feeling dull and empty. Even if you break down and plead with him to stay, he would rather you give him that raw, honest part of yourself than become a stranger with that smile. He pulls away and rests his hands on your hips, staring into your eyes. Give him an honest answer--break him with it, tear him apart--because he can't stand the thought of you breaking alone once he leaves again.

You tilt your head and furrow your eyebrows as you purse your lips in a questioning frown. He can see the drowsy fog in your eyes slowly clear up as you become more alert and process what he asked. The cogs are turning, and he knows from how you're analyzing him, you're trying to figure out what to say to spare him your pain and keep him at arms length.

"Simon . . ." You exhale his name on your deepest breath, and his ears tingle from how it rolls off your tongue--smooth and without a hint of hostility. Your hands come up to rest on his chest, fingers playing with the drawstring of his hood. You look at him with an openness that gives away the yearning in your eyes, and for a spilt-second, he thinks you're going to confess what he wants to hear. But then--but then, he watches the mask slip into place, like it's happening in slow motion, and he can feel the disappointment and emptiness before the mask fully settles into that smile you only give to strangers. Cordial. Polite. Fake.

"You always have to leave. You know I understand that."

No.

"I'm okay with how things are."

That's not what he wants to hear.

"I'll always wait for you--"

"That's not what I'm asking."

Cold. His voice is so cold. Simon drops his hands from your hips and turns around to face the door, your hands slipping off his chest. His back is stiff, and his hands are clenched tight. The metal still held in his hand is sure to leave an imprint on his skin. He clenches his hand tighter.

The air is tense. Suffocating. You're quiet, but he can hear the hurt you feel from his abrupt statement and the distance he put between you two. He shouldn’t have asked. He should have just accepted that disingenuous smile as the last thing he saw of you before he left. He looks down at his hand, metal digging into his palm. Maybe--maybe he shouldn't--

"I don't want you to leave."

His head snaps up straight at the soft confession, and he looks over his shoulder right as you grip his wrist in a vice with both hands, your head ducked down so he can't see your face, body visibly shaking.

"Of course I don't want you to leave, Simon--I never do. All I want is for you to stay home with me, but I can't ask that of you, and that hurts! So I have to be okay with how things are even though I'm not. I have to tell you I understand even when I don't want to. I have to keep reassuring myself you're still alive, even if I go months without hearing from you. Because it's so hard, Simon, and I never want to you go, but all I can do is wish that you don't leave even as I say goodbye."

You break off with a hard sniffle, barely able to keep your breathing even, and grip his wrist so tight, it feels like you're cutting off some of his circulation.

"Please don't go, Simon."

You whisper that last part, almost as if you didn't mean for it to slip out, and he doesn't hesitant to turn around, carefully taking his wrist back, and pulling you into his chest. His arms circle your neck in a swift movement, adjusting the object in his hand to do the same.

"I'll be back, Puppy, I always am."

It's the most he can give you, you both know that, but it will have to suffice. He holds you as you get your emotions under control. Rarely do you need this from him, but he'd never deny you this comfort. And he'd never admit it, but he needs it right now, too. When he eventually pulls away, he looks down at what he gifted you and tugs on it so it grabs your attention.

"Keep that safe for me, yeah? I'm leaving it with you."

Your eyes look down to your chest, hands coming up to cup the pieces of metal that rest on it. You inhale sharply and look back up with a loose jaw and wide eyes.

"Your dog tags? But--"

"I can't stay," Simon interrupts, a skeleton-gloved hand coming up to cradle your cheek. "But I can leave that here with you. Have something to come back to besides an overly excited puppy."

You snort, a laugh spilling from your lips, and you bring your hand up to hold his palm against your cheek. "Thought you liked that I was 'cute' and 'exciteable.'"

"Who said I was talking about you?"

"Simon!"

He smirks beneath his mask and bends to press his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

"I'll be back."

"You better. Or I'll have to get an actual puppy and give it your dog tags."

He huffs his little breathy laugh and pulls back, slipping his hand out from underneath yours to tug his tags again, admiring how it looks on you.

"Hm. Maybe I should take them back then--?"

He wouldn't. They're yours to wear now.

"Ah-ah, no take backs! I'm not taking it off!"

You grin at him, playfully slapping his hand away, and Simon shakes his head fondly.

"Possessive thing you are, Puppy. Come here."

Without waiting for a response, Simon grabs you by the shoulders and practically manhandles you closer. Pushing his mask up so it's above his lips, he tilts his head and kisses you, swallowing your gasp.

"I'm coming back, love, just wear those for me while I'm gone." He mumbles against your lips before he pulls away and puts his mask back into place.

You nod and clutch the tags in your hand tightly. "I will."

And then, right as he moves to turn around, you stop him, grabbing his hand with your free one and give him a smile that sends an ache through his chest.

It's not that stranger's smile he despises so much. It's not that smile that acts as a front to hide yourself from him. It's his smile. The one you share only with him. The warm one that he fell for and keeps all for himself.

It's soft and blinding and his, but most importantly, genuine. Except this time, it's tinged with sadness. It doesn't hide what you're feeling. He can see how you don't want to let him go. And it hurts him too, but it's better than that fake smile you gave him before.

"I wish you didn't have to leave, Simon." You squeeze his hand. "But thank you for giving me this."

His eyes look down to where you're still holding the tags and squeezes your hand back. "Don't take them off."

You give a small laugh, spirits lightening just a bit, before nodding your head firmly and standing up a little straighter. "Affirmative. I'll be waiting on you, love."

He rolls his eyes at your mock impersonation of him but wraps you up in his arms one last time before he leaves you to go back to sleep with his tags near your heart.

You don’t have a calendar. Instead, you begin making mental markers of events in your head. 29 days since you left your old camp. 22 days since Ghost nearly killed you. 10 days since your face became the potential meal for another human. 

10 days since Blue disobeyed her skull-faced father. 

He hasn’t sent you away yet. You figure the two of you are in the clear. Still, you have found yourself avoiding his dark stare even more than before. 

“Don’t worry,” Blue had told you the second night she came to gently anoint your arm. “I was careful about it. I memorized the way the tube was in the kit, and I’m putting it back exaaaactly the same. I used to sneak some extra Nutella from our storage and Ghost only caught me in the beginning. I’ve gotten better at sneaking past him, okay?”

All you could do was cling to the little piece of trust you shared with her. Ten days later, the memory of it has now congealed into a thick, baby-pink scar, just like the one beneath your ribs. The pain has softened to tenderness. You used your knife to clip off the stitches. 

This morning, the usual soft-tailed alarm wakes you up. A bright grin hovers above your head. 

“Special day today,” Blue announces. Lazily, you rub your eyes. Yesterday was the first day you managed to kill a deer. You hung the meat up over a fire to smoke it for preservation. For once, the feeling of a stuffed stomach sang you into a deep sleep.

“What?” you ask, blinking away your slumber as you touch a hand over your abdomen. You can still feel where last night’s dinner is nestled.  

“It’s my birthday,” she says. Grim flutters over your arm as she sits down beside you. Naturally, your legs move over to allow just the right amount of space for her. You’ve grown used to this guest in your shed. 

“Your birthday?” You sit up. “What day is it today?” 

“February 19th,” she recites. Of course. Ghost probably keeps track. 

Then, her hand slips something into your palm. Something small, hard, and wrapped in plastic. You flicker your gaze to the smuggled good— a little sweet. When you look back at her, she sheepishly reveals to you the other three she has in her pocket. 

“I’m only allowed to have four on my birthday,” she explains. “Thought you would want one to celebrate.” 

“Thanks.” Your lips etch up at the corner. “Happy birthday.” 

Even tiny offerings like this can make you nervous. They aren’t nearly as lucrative or important as antiseptic. In the hall where their bedroom doors and the bathroom are, you’ve spotted a fourth door at the end where they dip in and out for stored food. They have nonperishables. Their rabbits will always breed. Ghost can always hunt. But pharmacies won’t restock their shelves. 

Still, you instinctively crane your head forward to peek out the door of your shed, searching for her father’s shadow.

Blue notices. 

“He’s making breakfast. Don’t worry.” Then, under her breath, she adds: “Besides... it is mine to give if I want to."

You pop it in your mouth. 

“Fuck— wow,” you sputter, and Blue giggles. The sugary taste is even stranger than the fullness in your gut. You can’t remember the last time you ate anything that wasn’t stale, foraged, or killed. 

Here in the small shed, the two of you suck on your candies for a quiet moment before breakfast. The pretty snow outside has melted, but the Northern air remains cold and bleak. Bare soil and scattered twigs lay under your boots when you finally head to the cabin. 

Despite your fat dinner from the night before, you indulge in an equally heavy breakfast of smoked venison. Your body still has some catching up to do. Ghost and Blue’s breakfast consists of Grim’s sister, apparently. She gives at least three apologies to him for it.

You’re not sure what Ghost manages for Blue’s birthday. You can’t recall how you celebrated that last birthday of yours - the one before the world ended. You never bothered celebrating anymore of them after that even though Paul used to keep his own calendar going. It seemed pointless. When your nephew was still alive, you tried putting effort into his. You’d find a twig for each of his years and stick them in the ground for him to blow the flames off of. You would make a little crown for him out of flowers. It was enough to make his eyes light up, even if only for a day.

But he died at age seven. Then, there were no more birthdays celebrated. 

To your surprise, Ghost fishes something out of his pocket after breakfast. Metal that clanks and sings. Car keys.

So it really is a vehicle back there?

“C’mon, kid. Get your coat.” 

“She’s coming, too, right?” Blue’s eyes flicker to you as she stands from the table. 

Come where? 

The masked joints of Ghost’s jaw clench with a spark of irritation. Avoiding him has been easy. He usually doesn’t talk to you, anyway. Your interactions have been kept to asking him for rags and soap to bathe with and him watching you braid Blue’s hair.

But now he gives you a brief stare and mumbles plainly, “Thought we might just put her in the trench while we’re gone.”

An audible, sharp breath floods your ribs.

“He doesn’t mean that,” Blue is quick to assure you with an uneasy smile before she gives him a pointed look. “It is my birthday and I am inviting her, okay?”

This is one where Ghost doesn’t put up a fight. 

So it is today that you see what resides under the tarp behind their cabin. Ghost lifts it back to reveal a faded-black pickup truck. Your irritation from the sight only swells when you see that there is a kayak in the truck bed. Another part of his emergency plan, maybe? What doesn't he have?

Ghost opens the door, lowers the front seat, and sends you to the back. Blue gets the passenger side. 

As her father wraps around the hood to get in, Blue looks over the seat and chimes, “Cool, huh?” You nod. “It’s only for emergencies, you know. But we go for little drives sometimes so it doesn’t stop working. Right, Ghost?” 

He hums a low response as he sits in front of the wheel. 

You touch your hands over the cracked leather seat beneath you. The inside smells like faded bourbon and ash. You notice an old cigarette tray in the front. This feels like a snapshot of Ghost’s old life, perhaps the one outside of the military. Maybe whatever version of him used to drive this car actually used his real name and wore an exposed face. Maybe he used to put an infant-version of Blue in a carseat in the back. For the first time, a small wonder of who else could have sat in here with the two of them - the parent that is missing - touches your brain, but you are quick to swallow it. That history isn’t worth the risk that could come from asking about it.

What you are finally willing to pry about forms as a question under your breath as the engine awakens with a few coughs and you notice that the reader on the dash indicates that the fuel is just below full.

“How did you get all this?”

Dark eyes flick to meet your gaze in the rear-view mirror. Swallowing, you hold his stare for only a moment before Blue is the one to answer you. 

“Ghost knew about everything before the rest of the world,” she explains, furrowing her brows. “I thought I told you that already.” 

“What?”

“You know,” she waves a hand around, “Military? Special Air Service? He knew.”

You didn’t even think of that. The rest of you knew nothing and suffered. Ghost knew ahead of time and could prepare. 

He stops her from continuing by giving a gentle nudge to her shoulder. “Gonna pick out the music or am I doing it?” 

You shake away the thoughts. Your ears perk up. Music?

“No.” Blue instantly flies her hands to the glove compartment where a small stash of CDs slips out. “I’m picking! It’s my birthday.” 

It is almost dizzying, how unfamiliar this is to you. Adrenaline, hunger, grief— you understand these well. Listening to the CD that Blue pops in the tray as Ghost starts driving? This is weird. You don’t know what it is you feel. Loud drums and sharp guitars fill your ears along with the hum of the truck. The tires slowly snap over twigs on the ground. Blue merrily sings - screams, even - along to the song. Can you remember it? You search through the crevices of your brain. Of course. Nirvana.

It is a short drive. 

Ghost’s gloved hand lazily steers the wheel through a routine path in the trees. He must follow the same one every time they do this. Blue rolls down the window and sticks her head out so the light wind can dance with her hair.

She feels safer to look at. She always does. She is the one who wants you here; he probably brought you only because he doesn’t trust you alone at their camp. So your eyes settle on Blue. Your fingers thoughtlessly slip under the sleeve of your shirt and pick at the healed scar on your arm. You watch her beam and act like the child she is. You listen to the music. You don’t know when you will ever get the chance to again.

The drive only lasts two songs. Ghost may have to get the car going a bit, but he is not willing to waste precious fuel. He goes in a few circles before driving to the pond. He helps Blue out. He almost forgets to lower the seat for you. Blue has to remind him with a hissed "Dad" and a tug on his hand. 

The pond is quiet and all liquid now. There hasn’t been another growling visitor here since the one Ghost killed. You’re not sure what he did with the corpse of the man, but it was gone shortly after that day. 

Ghost lifts Blue up into the truck bed, right next to the kayak. You find a tree stump to sit on a few paces away. He slips out two cans from his pockets— you squint and make out tuna and peaches. They must be favorites of hers saved for her birthday because she eats them all by herself. 

“Eleven, huh?” Ghost leans against the side of the truck as she snacks. He pretends you aren’t there. He ruffles her hair. “Big year, kid. Feel different?”

“Not yet,” she says with her mouth full. Her porcelain cheeks flush as she looks at him. “Did you feel different at eleven?”

“Can’t remember,” Ghost mutters lowly, but you can hear him. You try not to look. “Long time ago.”

"Soooo long ago, huh?" she smirks. "Old man."

"Come off it," he says, but amusement hides under the gravel of his voice. "Don't call me that."

"Why?" she pokes further. There is room for it here. He is not scolding. Her voice turns hushed. "Do I have to respect my elders?"

"Bloody fuckin' hell," he groans through the balaclava’s fabric.

He makes a move to take away her canned peaches. Blue holds it up and scoots away. Ghost could still get it if he wanted. He's not really trying.

You decide to look at the dirt before either of them catches your staring, but when their bickering ceases, Blue points a question in your direction.

“Hey... Do you remember being eleven?”

You lift your head up, suddenly thrown off. You feel two sets of eyes on you now as your brain searches for some answer, knowing well that it is one Ghost will hear.

You can barely remember what Nirvana sounds like. Age eleven? The memories are stored in fragments under all the mud. Your old school. Your sister. Your friends. That house in Norbury. The yard where you stopped playing in the dirt because you suddenly grew interested in boys, instead. You try to fit all the pieces together, but it doesn't feel like you who lived through it all.

“I remember…” you rub one hand over the dry knuckles of the other and fight the brief moisture that threatens your eyes. You are not willing for Ghost to see a tear slip.

“I do remember feeling different.”

That is all you say.

After some more of their banter and the quick drive back to camp, Blue stands up against the tree she likes to play in. You never noticed until now, but there are little knife marks in the bark— five of them. Ghost adds another. It is quite a bit higher than the previous year’s. 

Along with her dinner that night, she sucks on the last two of her candies. You try to be present as she talks about the memories from her past five birthdays— all basically the same as today. She doesn’t mention any of the ones from her previous life.

But your mind drifts as you listen.

You keep thinking about Ghost’s truck. You think of all he has— their medicine, changes of clothes, guns and ammo. You don’t have these things. At your old camp, you had the bare necessities. Paul managed to get the most commonly-used antibiotics and some alcohol to clean wounds. But you didn’t have time to grab any of it during your escape.

You don’t know how long you will be here and you don’t know what the future looks like for you, but you know you can’t risk Blue sneaking you more medicine. Ghost might not notice a little ointment missing from a tube, but too much and he will. God forbid you ever need antibiotics. Taking pills from a bottle? He definitely has the exact numbers memorized. 

It is not until his cockney accent rumbles low that you are grounded back in the present.  

“Want your gift now?”

When Blue eagerly nods, he stands from the table and leaves, only to return with something in his hand covered in a scrap of cloth. Another bout of curiosity finds you.  What could he possibly gift her? You watch Blue lift up the cloth to reveal a handmade, wooden figurine.

She exhales a smile. She doesn’t seem too surprised by it but is still elated, taking the gift in her hands and smoothing her finger over the whittled shape.

It’s a squirrel. You can see it better as she looks over it. A squirrel with two circles carved around the eyes. A pair of glasses?

“He’s perfect,” she tells her behemoth of a father, who bends down to her level and strokes her hair. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Just how I imagined him.”

This is the final tradition you learn about today. The wooden squirrel is part of a collection, she explains. You’ve never been inside Blue’s bedroom. You are not allowed, of course. But she shyly admits that she has her own village going on in there and that more wooden residents are added on each birthday and holiday. She seems hesitant to tell you too much about them in the same way she was hesitant for you to hear Ghost call her Baby Blue.

The eleven-year-old brave enough to rebel nibbles her lip as she speaks, clutching her gift.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you find yourself quietly saying, looking between her and Ghost. “We all have things we like to keep to ourselves. You don't have to tell me, you know."

You feel his thick presence, the way he seems to stifle the room even in the lull of these moments where the reality of your stay here can be ignored. You give a small smile, just for her, anyway.

“It sounds cool, though," you add.

She blushes and slips away to put the squirrel in her room.

And then the last piece of Blue’s birthday is not a tradition. Instead, it is all you have to offer to this girl who has your back. 

You do her hair.

You try for something a little different this time. 

Half-up with two smaller braids that join together.

As usual, dark eyes watch from the couch.

That whole deer feeds you for more than just a week.

Despite this, you decide to go out into the forest and practice your aim. You recall how your failed shot at that man’s head resulted in snarling teeth snapping at your flesh - you want to get better. Each day, a new tree stands victim to your practicing arrows. You have to carve some more of them with the knife Ghost gave you to replace the ones that break from penetrating the tough bark. 

You feel like you own more strength now.

A pillow to sleep on, bountiful protein, and properly healed wounds have offered some back to you. You don’t feel so fatigued. Your thoughts seem easier to find. You have a new marker to make the days feel less blurred together— Blue's birthday.

It must be March 1st today, then.

When you decide your practice is done for the afternoon, you make it back to camp. You ask Ghost for a wash rag to clear your skin of the cold sweat that has collected. He is preoccupied with a game of Monopoly with Blue but begrudgingly retrieves one for you. Though, it is thoughtlessly tossed to your face. Blue apologizes on his behalf. 

You don’t have it in you to care.

Because today is the first day your gaze doesn't pry away when it finds your reflection in the mirror. The face that stares back at you - the one he threw the rag at - is one you think you can recognize. The cheekbones do not stand as angular and lean. Your lips have some color and fat to them. Not as much as Blue’s rosy pink ones, but some. 

It is also the first day that an old friend returns to you. When you glide the damp rag between your thighs, blood is collected. Except for this time, it is not incited by a caltrop or knife. You don’t panic with the thought of how it will be patched up and stitched and kept clean. Rather, you almost groan with the realization of what you need to ask of Ghost. 

The hunger and stress of fleeing led you to almost forgot about it. Your period is definitely weeks late, but now it is here again. Perhaps, another piece of health your body has been given back. 

With wet hair and your dirty clothes shucked back on, you find the two of them still on the rug. They have moved on to Battleship. 

“Ghost.”

Both of them look at you. Shifting your weight from foot to foot, you dig your nails into your palms. 

“I need another rag.”

“What for?” His voice arrives in an edged drawl. “Just bathed, didn’t you?”

“Are you okay?” chimes Blue, frowning. She sits up. 

“I’m fine,” you say slowly. “I just need another one.” You meet the clouded eyes you prefer to renounce, set behind the more frightening skull this time. “A dry one.”

Although Blue’s nose remains scrunched in confusion, he seems to understand.

Wordlessly, Ghost finds you another. This rag is not offered to your face. Instead, he murmurs a “here” under his breath and gives it to your hands. In this brief exchange, you detect the familiar heat that is emitted from his brawny form. It is a stark contrast compared to the bucket of cold water you just bathed with.

Despite the enigma and tension, there is some of Ghost you understand. He is willing to give you small things. A rag for your period. A little bit of thread for your stitches. An outdoor shed to sleep in. A pillow and blanket they don’t even use.

What he is not willing to give is anything that he deems too valuable, and anything he decides poses a risk. His trust included. 

This is why you go to his daughter - your young confidant - for help with your next need. It is a bigger one. One that has been itching your brain for some time. But it is today, with your body showing you signs of its regained health, that you decide you finally need to make a proper plan for the journey to get supplies of your own.

You already have an idea of where to go.

But now you can rest. Even if just for a moment, even if sleep comes seldom or you have to beckon it until closer to sunrise- even if tomorrow, when you return to the battle and the chaos and the ever-changing future, you won’t make it out alive.

There’s some quiet chatter in the safehouse, unconsciousness to you is like nirvana and nirvana is rare, near unobtainable, but you can vaguely make out the low rumble of Ghost’s voice, and more clearly- the lighthearted quips of Soap- and it oddly puts you at ease. Nudges you along to that inviting darkness, bones so pleasantly weak and ready for that nothingness, even if the hay is uncomfortable and you’re sure at least a spiderweb or two is lurking somewhere above in the rafters (because it’s just too dim to see, and the wooden beams block most of the moonlight from here).

You’ve never trusted Graves. (What’re you thinking? Go to sleep.) …Not entirely, at least, and the Shadows are up to no good lately- you don’t know this for sure, to be honest you’ve said no peep of your niggling qualms- but you feel it from deep within that something’s… wrong.

Or maybe it’s paranoia, maybe, most-certainly, it’s just that warrior disease settling in. It’s dark out, and you’re exhausted, and your heart always feels so laden when you’re all alone and the gunfire ceases. That’s why these awful thoughts creep in on you, you convince yourself, lashes fluttering as you approach a hopefully pleasant dream. That’s why your mind sabotages you like this.

Your comrades aren’t enemies- don’t shut them out. No one fights alone. (And now, the last thought you have before drifting off completely, is oddly of Ghost, and how his voice would rasp as he said those familiar words, and the way the foreboding skull of his mask shifts when he speaks. And that damned glow of his eyes, haunting… strangely-beautiful, whenever they flicker over to you. So cold yet distant too, like an iceberg peeking above a frozen tide, silent but fatal if you’re not careful enough to steer clear of it. They don’t call him Ghost for no reason, though you think Simon Riley is a rather befitting name too- because if he had to have one, if he had to be real, then that’d be it.)

And you’re almost there, a warm fuzziness within- so vague and shapeless as you fade from reality- almost to that quiet bliss. One of the things you learned over the taxing span of your military years- sleep is by no means a small luxury.

There’s a shuffling beside you. Faint, ever so slight. Shouldn’t be enough to wake you. But it is. It’s enough to have your eyelids flying open, all exhaustion crumbling away as you—

“Shh, sergeant,” a gruff voice hushes, and recognition clicks. “It’s me,” he’s stood at the edge of the bale, which is frankly closer than you anticipated, propping his gun against a beam before sitting himself down. You swear you feel his body heat as the backside of his thick fatigues brush against your thigh, instinctively drawing your legs closer to give him more room.

Partially confused, very caught off guard, and admittedly a bit flustered, you blink away from him, his silhouette brimmed with the pale, conniving moon as you muster up a coherent response.

“Ghost,” is all you manage to breathe. But he seems to be fine with that, those dark, untelling eyes regarding you cooly as your knuckles sheepishly brush away exhaustion from your lashes.

“Sorry, did-… are we off already?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head softly, and even his gravelly voice has dipped into something gentler, not as harsh around the edges. To see Ghost like this- so unguarded (not entirely, never, but it’s still surprising)- comrade or not, is… different, to say the least. Not in a bad way, quite the opposite. Still.

“Get some rest …Didn’t mean to wake ya.” His whisper is calming; you trust him fully, wholly, you think if he asked for your life right now you’d give it to him. Easily. Without falter. Because despite it all, his rough exterior, his sometimes-lethal temper and his unforthcoming behavior towards others, you know he’d do the same.

(He’s killed for you. Save you too many times to count.)

The crickets and cicadas thrum, but despite it all- the soothing wildlife outside and the soft rustling of hay as across the stable, Soap situates himself for the night- you’re focused on the man sat beside you, not even a foot away as he regards you almost absently. (But you’ve learned that nothing about Ghost is absent.)

And you want to listen to him, belatedly settling your head down on the bale, you really do, but there’s just something off in the air as those deep-chestnut eyes sweep over you; relaxed, too relaxed, almost as if nobody was behind them (but you know that to be false, too), a peculiar, unfamiliar drawl to them as he appraises you.

You’re dusted pale, feathered with the moon like the stars stepped down to personally kiss you, and Ghost watches you for a second more, your fluttering lashes- making no move to close- your lips, the slope of your cheek and the curls of hair framing your face- and his black skull balaclava shifts.

“Sleep, sergeant.”

“I don’t think I can,” you murmur, so quiet and faint, yet your voice manages to resonate with him regardless. It earns a halfhearted snort from him.

“Haven’t even tried, have ya?”

Maybe there’s a sliver of jest there.

You take the opportunity to make a harmless tease at him, a sweet little smile carving into your cheeks, “Well, I almost succeeded until you came along.”

His silence isn’t rewarding, but you both know you’re right, and a heavy question weasels its way into your mind. And you know he can sense it, that unspoken thickness as your lids battle exhaustion, and you also understand that Ghost doesn’t appreciate dishonesty- or a lack of divulgence where it’s due.

So you ask him.

“There was… something you wanted? If you want me to do something-“ maybe you should be embarrassed, how quick you are to jump the gun if it meant helping your Lieutenant, “I-I’ll do it. I will.”

(How are you still so sweet? After all you’ve seen? Why aren’t you hardened? Why are you the bunny in all the places wherein he’s the wolf? How is it that you still manage to glow, even when you very well might be teetering on the precipice of an untimely, surely-brutal death? Simon doesn’t know. He doesn’t. He’s good at reading the room, digging into people’s minds- even the most fucked up ones, especially so- and finding out everything dark they’ve ever felt. With you it’s different. He often struggles to piece together a conclusion from just a smile you send him, wondering if there’s another layer to it. Stilling in his tracks whenever you laugh- so soft like you always do, pleasant like euphony- feeling something unbidden in his chest start to weigh.)

His chest puffs out a little at that, and he huffs low. And Ghost looks away from you, those umber eyes trailing out towards the window up above and somewhere behind you, and for a moment he just goes impossibly still, like a dog waiting for a sound, purposely searching for something there in the wilderness that doesn’t belong.

And you can’t help but feel like the two of you are somewhat out of place also, yet then again, if you were to think someone in the world had to share your loneliness with you, it’d be Ghost. Always. (Because you feel that you know him. He doesn’t have to say a word, his eyes say nothing, but simultaneously they scream everything too. All at once. All in one long wail.)

“No,” is all he says. All gruff and rasping. But soft too, somehow. A disinclined slump to his broad shoulders he only allows you and the team to be privy to (speaking of, Soap’s kneeing a few haybales together now, squishing them in so he’s got space to roll when he inevitably ends up stirring tonight)- but even then, it’s rare.

His eyes meets yours again, all shadows with a small, conniving highlight, brimmed with his balaclava.

“Scoot ova’.” he says it so simply, but your brain goes utterly blank for a fleeting moment.

His accent is quite thick- maybe you’ve lost yourself in it again, or fell too hard in the caramel pool of his eyes, or perhaps you’re just too tired to comprehend him right now- but once it clicks, you’re obedient to his wish. Right away.

The sound of clothes rustling fills the otherwise quiet atmosphere as you shimmy yourself all the way against the wall of hay to your side, letting Ghost- all big and tall- settle in beside you as you curl up to yourself. You’d burrow inside yourself if you could, face flushing warm as your Lieutenant’s body knocks and brushes against yours, and before you know it, the gentleness of shared breathing descends over you both as your noses point to the rafters. Dark, and silent. Comfortable, but at the same time not. A wordless dance of being convinced of your composure to having it singlehandedly ripped away whenever he made the faintest move beside you.

Ghost feels just slightly similar to drowning; just that cold world beneath the waves, hurtled into a murky tide, spun beneath turbulent waters. Uneasy, unsure of where the hell you are- only that you don’t know how you got in and you don’t know how to get out. Lungs aching, chest pouring…

But he feels like the merciful gasp of air when you finally resurface, too. That glimmer of hope, that split second thought of thank God I made it out alive as your chin thrashes over the ripples.

He’s the violent ocean and the life-ring thrown to you all at once. He is the silent chaos and he is the overwhelming relief- and he isn’t a kind man but the good side of him always seems to somehow win out.

“Ghost?” You breathe again. Not sure of even why, and your body quivers with sweat and nerves because Lieutenant’s so strong and he’s laying beside you (this isn’t even odd, this has happened before- sleeping with the team in cramped, awkward places that leave literally no room for complaints, but this time it felt different, like he was somehow closer).

His breaths even out in the pleasant air. And his silence could perhaps be welcoming on its own, but he deigns you with a reply anyway.

“What?” All gruff and low, thick yet- for you, now in the fall of night- gentle too. All Ghost.

(…But maybe partially Simon Riley, too, but you have trouble distinguishing two things when you’re hardly certain one even exists.)

“…” You chew on the words you want to say- or maybe you need to say them- but you don’t know what it is that sticks to your tongue like glue, and you’re rendered stupid, jaw-gaping, for a solid moment.

So you settle for simple. You settle for something good that will suffice, something pleasant and sweet but nothing that tiptoes too close to Ghost (you’re already close enough, and he did choose this bale with you, but still, you never know with him, and he’s not the sort of man you want to question).

“Goodnight.”

You’re sure he makes a soundless scoff at that. And for a splitsecond, you decide to take a peek over, because your stupid curiosity wins out and you just have to see him one last time before a permanent stillness ensues- sheepish hues darting over to his in the dimness—

“Night,” (you think you hear a scintilla of wry humor there) “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

—Only to find they’re already on you.

︻┳═一

The next time you and your Lieutenant are ‘forced’ to bunk together is closer to three weeks later, in a ratty shed by the river.

You turn away from Ghost just in time to miss him dragging out a body (finished him with a silencer, but it doesn’t matter anyway. his buddies wouldn’t have heard. his buddies are dead) as you awkwardly look around the decrepit place.

“Fix us up a place to call it a night, soldier.”

You’re quick to obey, chirping off an obedient yes sir as you take a few steps into the old storage shed.

It’s hard to see, and this time there’s not much moonlight to work with (when the door’s closed, it’ll go utterly dark), but with your scope’s flash you spot a disarray of pallets off to the corner, and you waste no time in hauling them together. You find a few cloths- puffy vests and discarded life-jackets, toss ‘em on the wood, and call it a cot.

“There we are,” you say with a smile when he inevitably walks in, door swinging shut as he does one last quick once-over before approaching.

“Good work,” (you hate the way your chest blooms at his simple praise; you’re a soldier, aren’t you? not some stupid schoolgirl) “Now let’s huddle up and kip down. Soap and the others cleared out the second field.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod curtly, fingers hesitating for a split second before you switch off the flash, the old shed blanketed in darkness as you set your rifle down and maneuver onto the makeshift bed (you weren’t complaining, though, you’ve both slept on far worse). Ghost follows in suit, his barely-clear silhouette lowering down onto the pallets with you, minding his muscle as he settles beside you.

…And for a while, it’s nice.

It doesn’t feel as awkward as it used to months- even just weeks, ago, yet still, sometimes you swear there’s an odd thickness to the air, an unprecedented drawl of tension that, like smoke, wisps by before dissipating. Like it was never there. (Yet the smell lingers, traces of something potent and simmering in your nostrils, caught in your clothes like gunpowder. Your hair smells of war and running, and Ghost smells so similar that it almost hurts, yet he’s more charred than you, you can feel it, and if you are a solider of team 141 than he is the bombs and shelter and war and relief.)

(No, perhaps he is the battlefield.)

That strange whiff of something close to vulnerability drifts in the space between you- wanting to say something, but having no words to offer, or maybe it’s a different feeling- like when you want to add something funny to the conversation, but it suddenly inches by and you’re left in your uncertainty, holding onto the joke with a tenuous grip. (Tenuous, yes, but you still want to say it, don’t you? You’re still looking for a window to speak your mind?)

And you’re sure Ghost can sense it too, because from beside you where he lies, he shifts just a bit more than usual, antsy and unable to find a comfortable position, his gear brushing against yours as you gnaw on the insides of your cheeks, feeling the same way.

“Lieutenant-“ “Sergeant-“

He turns over to you, and you see something in those dark eyes that glints as you glance over to him. His hues widen slightly, but whatever startle you thought you might’ve gleaned there flickers out and you’re once more left in the silence- this time, somewhat awkward, waiting for the other to break it.

You called him, and he called you. But now, neither of you return it.

Surprising perhaps the both of you, after what seems like forever passes and Ghost is the one to clear his throat, rasping out a quick, dismissive goodnight when your lips finally snap open to speak-

“G-Ghost—“

“Sleep, soldier. Tomorrow’ll be hell, and m’not carryin’ ya if y’legs give out.”

(He would. Of course he fucking would.)

︻┳═一

Soap and Ghost murmur for a bit with each other, tying off the threads of the last mission as you hesitantly approach. You don’t exactly remember Soap ever making it last night, but hours before sunrise you stirred in your slumber, and are now eighty-percent convinced you heard him settling in the otherwise quiet shed, exchanging a tired grunt or two with Ghost.

And it shouldn’t bother you. The men, you mean, because you’ve known them for months now, fought and bled and killed together, stuck to each other like glue as you endured all the shitty times and awful memories. But your fingers tighten around your rifle just that much more when you near, because Ghost is just so big and strong and the two mingle together for an unseemly yet fatal duo. (They’d never hurt you, never, and you know this damn well, but you’ve always had a shy nature and their respective sets of eyes never get any easier to stare at- you think sometimes you prefer the barrel of a gun over those sage, umber voids.)

Soap’s the first to spot you, those oceanic blues drifting over Ghost’s shoulder, rippling with what you suspect to be genuine mirth as you stop a foot short of the two.

“G’mornin’, sleepyhead,” he greets with a vaguely-boyish grin that sort of twinkles, eyes running over your dewy lashes, slightly-mussed hair and the crooked bend of your straps and gear bands. You smile sheepishly in lieu of a reply, giving him a tipsy little nod that his smile deepens at before your lips part open.

(And you’re afraid your voice will quiver or give out entirely when Ghost’s eyes, sunken beneath his skull mask- but just as haunting and intricate- snake over to you. But, thank God, it doesn’t.)

“Y-You got a spare ‘clava?”

Soap’s chest puffs and swells briefly when he scoffs halfheartedly, those gorgeous hues never slipping from yours for too long as he rests a hand along the butt of his pistol in his pocket, the other dipping back into the bag slung over his shoulders. (Big and broad, his build is similar to Lieutenant’s, but Ghost is taller and holds more mass. Both are purely muscle, though, all death and chaos- Soap’s just always been more friendly with his destruction, delivers it with a laugh or a pat on the back.)

“Y’embarrassed? Don’t think I’ve ever seen a bed head quite like y’rs, lass.” He says it with a playful chuckle, stepping forward (and his legs are long, he reaches you in an instant) and proffering the black mask out to you. You accept it with soft thanks, cheeks warm from embarrassment and perhaps some odd sort of pride as he ruffles your hair and smiles. Like, really smiles, the skin around his eyes wrinkling just slightly as he nods, “there y’are, lass,” he says, “we’ll all meet up back at base, yeah?”

“You’re leaving already?” You chirp highly, traces of dejection caught in your voice (aw, you sad he’s leaving? makes two of you), eyes all starry and confused as he toys with the straps of his vest and quirks his head to the side some. “‘Fraid so, got some loose ends to tie- won’t be long, promise.”

You accept his words with a small, silent nod, offering him a gentle, if not somewhat sleepy smile as he reaches a fist forward, knuckles you lightly on your collar, and belatedly brushes past you. The heels of his boots clip dully against the floor when he reaches the janky door of the shed, daylight weaseling in through the splits and cracks of the wooden walls. Bathing the three of you in a golden porridge of early morning and twittering birds and that odd emptiness of your stomach that always churns at around six o’clock.

With one last pleasant glance to Soap (his cerulean gaze seems to linger and corrode into you, somehow) you allow him to trade a simple goodbye with Ghost, wasting no more time in slipping the mask over your head as Johnny did the same. (Even in your head, it feels forbidden to call him that- only Ghost is allowed to- you don’t know why, but were never brave enough to beg the question.)

And he departs. And the once-comfortable silence betrays you and Ghost yet again.

Still, he turns over to you, letting the door shut, watching as you lower yourself onto the pallets and fix your shoelaces. (But your thumbs tremble, wrists twitching, nervous, like the task is foreign, like it’s not one of the simplest things you’ve ever done in this business of war.)

And those brown, all-seeing eyes sweep over you (you can feel it), those thick boots of his brushing over the dusty floor as he makes his way over.

Your hues collide with his, something off in the air- a calling, or a warning maybe, but it’s heavy and the look he meets you with just before he approaches plants a pit in your belly- frightful and needy- feeling so small and perfectly useless as it builds and builds and-

“Sergeant.”

“Yes?” Breathless without any good reason.

You wonder if he feels it, too. That weight in his tummy that buckles his knees, makes them knock together, dizzies his head. Makes his heart skip faster. But the thought is dismissed too quickly, because you’re certain it’s fear you feel, strong and overwhelming- too great a respect to label. And Ghost isn’t afraid, clammy palms have never been a part of his brand. He doesn’t hesitate.

Yet, now, that all seems like rubbish. Every preconceived idea of him you held withering away as Ghost does just what you knew he never would. His hand, all big and capable (stained with blood, too) hesitates.

But this time- unlike all those sleepless nights where you felt skin brush against yours unbidden, his eyes burning against your quiet profile as his fingers contemplated over your face- it reaches you. Fulfills what it wanted to for a long time coming.

And now you’re breathless for an entirely different reason. “Ghost,” you whisper, so thin it might break- and your voice does shake, like a leaf in the wind. There’s something in his eyes, you notice, as they trail along you, his large palm swallowing up your cheek, gloved fingertips eroding the thin fabric over your skin in the best way possible.

Every lick of pain comes with a spark of pleasure, a needy, gentle ache masquerading as limitless fear.

(But those deep-brown eyes know no limits.)

“You afraid of me?” Ghost is a lot of things. But now you have a niggling, loud feeling that who you’re gaping back at now isn’t he or his mask, but rather what’s beneath it.

You shakily stand, maybe to grasp the illusion of having some control over yourself, or perhaps just to get closer to the door if you wanted to make some stupid excuse to leave. “Simon- I-“

He cuts you off with a low huff, but it sounds more like a groan than anything else- all displeased yet thrilled all at once. It shuts you up. It paralyzes you. (Barely keeping your gaze on his simmering one, you want to lie on your fucking back, and for the life of you, you don’t know why.)

When he says nothing, just continues regarding you with that weird fucking look (it’s not bad- it’s good, you think, but terrifying too) and lets his hand finally slip off your cheek, you try again.

“Simon,” (Simon hears you swallow, watches your throat bob, all tender where he’s cold, soft where he’s covered in jagged heaps of ice) “I- W-We should go.”

Ghost takes a pensive moment to respond.

“We don’t even got our mission yet, do we?”

Your confusion must be palpable, brows pinching together in a cute little knot that has his belly doing backflips as your eyes sparkle up at him. There’s an odd twinkle to his own, broad chest swelling out for a bit longer than a breath should as your lips part open.

“We-…” (f-fuck, just speak, soldier!) “We’re meeting everyone at base, yes?”

Earning no response from him, and the silence quickly killing you- you add:

“I- I thought we… Were meeting up, all of us.”

He grunts at that, low and quiet. And you look up at him like he owns the world, like there’s nobody else in it but him, and your eyes are starry and so unapologetically warm that it burns him from the inside out. His chest aches, he’s wanted you for too long a time to not act on it, to not do something about it, but for once in a very long time, Simon’s… afraid.

Or maybe uneasy is the better word, because he doesn’t want to hurt you, he’s so big and you’re so small and sometimes he worries that if he were to touch you without gloves on, you’d wither completely.

He’s used to that game. His kisses are gunpowder. His love is death, he believes it because he’s seen it. Everywhere. All the time.

But he can’t help it, not now. Not when he’s got you all alone and it’s like the birds chirping outside are telling him to fucking do something already- and Simon knows if he doesn’t make a move, someone else will. They’ll swoop in and steal you away, scoop you off your feet and treat you like a princess- the only way you ever should be- and you’ll be happy and smiling and so fucking far from him.

Safe.

…But maybe he’s selfish. He knows he’s not all that good, he wasn’t made to love or be loved- he is a product of war and brokenness and an endless cycle of pain- but maybe you can be his good thing.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters beneath his breath, “take it off.”

“What-“

“Show me your face.”

(Hah. How ironic; when every soul in the military who’s ever crossed him has wanted to say the same damn thing, but always balked before they could because his eyes alone are killer enough.)

His voice is a little rougher now, your brain registers it as an order, so with a shaky, uncertain hand, you peel off your balaclava and hold it awkwardly in your lap. And your hair’s quite messy from a wakeful night, and your skin glows ever so slightly from sweat and sleep and smeared gunpowder and your pulse is so rapid you fear it may explode.

You want to hide from him.

But, catching both of you by surprise, Simon leans in, one hand raking up his mask- stealing a blurry glimpse of his mouth- and captures your lips in his. And he doesn’t let you hide.

Run, either; he slots his hulking body up against yours, kneeling down on the wooden pallets as he lowers you atop them, making it physically impossible to wrest yourself away if he really wanted you to stay.

(And he really wants you to stay. Fuck.)

You gasp into the kiss, eyes instinctively screwing shut because you’re so fucking embarrassed and your legs feel heavy and your bones’ve gone to jelly because Simon is so big and strong and perfect and his lips are on yours.

“Simon,” you were going for a half-rebuttal, a plea for a moment to grasp just what the hell was happening. But you make a pathetic sound closer to a moan instead, all frail and cute as you whine his given name, and it makes his pants feel that much tighter, exchanging a groan into your mouth as he holds you beneath him.

And his grip is sort of awkward, you think, like he’s made the split-second decision to go all in but now he’s worried he fucked things up and you’ll end up hating him. So his tongue prods against your soft lips, hesitant, and his long lashes occasionally brush against your cheekbone, but he ultimately pulls away.

Like the recoil of a gun; sharp, sudden. There’s a blip of panic there, of what the hell did I just do. But there’s no regret. Because in Simon’s head, it had to be done- else he would’ve crumbled, else your smile would steadily become torture and someone else would’ve done it.

Your eyes are still shut when silence falls over the rundown shed and you feel the tip of his nose carve almost awkwardly in the juncture of your neck. Because you’re afraid. Because your tummy is burning and so is your face, your heart, too. Because there’s still a little unreasonable part of you that, despite feeling his lips brush against your collar, is scared that when you open them, he’ll be staring back at you- mask rucked up and all- genuinely Simon- and you don’t want to see his face if he doesn’t want you to.

“I should stop,” he murmurs into your neck. “I should stay away.” And it almost feels like it’s all over now, the fucked-up calm after the storm. The residual smoke and death on the battlefield- the smell of gunfire and metal. Water under the bridge—

“But that’d be hell.”

And he pulls the trigger again. Those lips, cold as bullet shells, colliding with yours once more. Nipping, and all tongue with the occasional clash of teeth, but it feels so fucking good and you realize with a spark of dismay that you don’t want it to stop.

Never.

“Simon,” and you’re chanting it now, all teary-eyed, lashes thick with pleasure as his mouth descends upon you, his deft fingers already working at tearing off your clothes- straps unbuckling, gear clinking softly as it rolls off the pallets and onto the floor.

Fear- respect- or whatever the hell you’ve always felt for Ghost- bleeds into something closer to… love, you think, and your chest is swelling by the time his gloved fingertips reach there, gliding over your bare skin. And you glow in the golden streaks of young sun, flesh soft and too fucking inviting to pass up on.

(He doesn’t.)

Simon leans away, then, and you dare open your eyes at the lost contact, the lower half of his face bathed in a dim-yellow, his balaclava clinging midway up the bridge of his nose. And within the cage of the printed skull (iconic and terrifying, sort of like batman- an omen of evil’s bane on the way), his brown hues glint, all hazy- far from sober as they sweep over you.

Flickering; giving out; flickering. Burning, and then lessening, sparking like a broken fuse before it becomes so hot you feel you may wither beneath him-

“Gorgeous,” he breathes.

And he’s on you again, tongue laving at your neck and chest, one hand kneading a tender breast while he takes a nipple in his mouth and sucks. You whimper; his cock throbs; he made the impromptu decision just as Soap left that he’d bring you to ruin, and his plans haven’t changed at all.

“I need you, Simon,” you confess, because you do. You need him, you’re sure of it. On the battlefield, on base, on any fucking mission you’re given. You need him above you and on you and inside you.

(Fuck, you want him inside, you want him everywhere. In the mushy, warm crevice between your ribcages and now, between the river of your thighs. Now now now—)

There’s a screech of a zipper. It jams, but he’s impatient and dislodges it quickly, flimsy metal snapping as he shrugs off some of the weight and tugs down his pants.

And, goodness, it’s big.

Flushed red at the tip, angry and twitching as he drags you in by your hips, appraising you with this simmering, foggy look that has your legs quietly splitting. But Simon’s big all over, and you’ve always known him to be stronger (so much stronger), so when he slots himself up with your core, murmurs out a string of reassurances and fuckin’ beautiful’s, you lie back and let him take you.

You, that pretty, sopping cunt, and your virginity.

And as he deflowers you (there’s a dull, hot pain, he’s so big and thick- it hurts- but he folds himself over you and hushes you and tells you it’s okay), you think he takes your heart, too. (If he didn’t already have it.)

When the sting subsides and he realizes you’re not sniffling into his shoulder anymore, he bumps up the speed, entering a controlled, careful pace, the wood jostling beneath you as he fucks and breaks and loves you.

“Please,” you beg, “give it to me.”

“Am, darlin’,” he rasps at your ear, an echo of a high-pitched sigh there. “Giving ya everything I’ve got… And you’ll fuckin’ take it, yeah?”

When you nod and tighten up around him, those velvet walls sucking him in like a perfect vice, and pair it with a mewling yes, Simon, something in his lower abdomen clutches. A pit forming there already, all hot and pleasant as your pussy overwhelms him, beckons him further in until he’s hitting deep deep deep and a pale-pink is oozing between your legs, traces of your blood caught on his pelvis as he gives it to you. Everything. All of it.

Every piece of him, every bad memory and gentle kiss on his forehead, every grey cloud and good grade and bout of death- he stuffs it all inside you. Buries his hate and love there, cock grazing your womb as he thinks about the one he came from, and all the shouting and cracked beer bottles and spatters of smoke and red on the field.

And you suddenly tighten up around him completely, eyes going wide as your mouth gapes with some unwarranted, foreign wave of pleasure.

“There y’are,” he grunts, half breathless and half utterly feral, brown voids enamored with the sight of you crumbling beneath him as his jaw falls open and his eyes roll back. All the way back, ‘til his lashes- pale in the morning sunshine- kiss the points of his cheekbones and he can’t hide the desperate groan he tries to stifle in the dip of your neck.

Gloved hands grasping at the soft fat of your hips, digging and unintentionally hurting, leaving purplish semi-circles behind as his hips stutter one last time.

And he paints you on the inside. Roots himself there. Cums with a murky moan of your name that claws itself into every vital part of your soul and refuses to let go. (You don’t want it to.)

And the longer you two lie there, bathing in the gold of early morning, the less inclined he feels to leave.

Your fingertips, delicate as snow, graze over his back, swollen lips tickling his jawbone and the side of his face as he pants into the arch of your neck.

Is there anything Ghost doesn’t know how to do? And you thought Paul had skillful hands.

You’re not sure exactly where Ghost and Blue have gone, because after leading you out the gate of their camp, Blue showing you the exact maze of steps needed to avoid their booby traps, they went their own way. Again, they disappeared among the white trees. You were left to pick a direction and stick with it. So you ended up here, the opposite way of the pond, with your eyes finally catching sight of a small deer. A fawn.

It’s young but perfect.

The blood that courses through its limbs switches on the predator part of your brain. It will be enough to keep you fed for at least a week, perhaps more, and promote the healing of the wound that aches with each shift of your waist. You inhale, exhale. The arrow is ready to release.

A single gunshot rings out.

Straight through the fawn’s eye.

It doesn’t even have time to cry out as it falls over, a small thud filling the quiet air. Your heart skips a beat and your eyes flicker in the direction of the gunshot, but you already know who has stolen this kill from you. In the distance, you see his bulky form, the lowering of his rifle, and then you see the girl bounce down from a tree and whirl towards the dead animal.

Are you kidding me?

You want to snarl and sneer. Instead, you flare your nostrils while lowering your bow. Meters away, Blue kneels down by the deer and you see her gently mouth words to its corpse. Perhaps, a childish parting that helps her feel better about its death. Ghost arrives and bends down to Blue’s level, and you can’t see his mouth with the mask on, but you know he is speaking to her by how he gestures his gloved hand around.

You’ll have to find another animal.

Squirrels aren’t your favorite meal. They’re not much compared to the taste of venison. But if you char squirrel meat just enough, it can get a nutty flavor that, with your eyes closed, you can pretend is a juicy slab of chicken home-roasted by your mother.

There is no room to be picky.

There is no room for wants anymore, only needs, and from behind the tree, you move your gaze to spot a grey squirrel that will be enough for the day’s needs. You take aim again. You’d put your washed hair in two French braids to keep the strands from interfering, but without ties, they are starting to come undone at the ends. There was a time when you cared about the fashion of your hair. Now, styling is a tactical choice.

Squirrels are trickier. They are small and require greater marksmanship than you are confident you have. Archery was never something you did until the world bled grey and demanded it of you.

The animal flicks its bushy tail, prancing about over thick tree roots. You wait for the moment it stills.

“How’s it going?” someone says, and you jump back in a step, fingers nearly slipping and releasing the arrow off at the ground.

Blue. You whirl around to see that she’s snuck up in a tree behind you, nimble and light on her feet, with curiosity filling her eyes as she sits perched on a branch, one that would be too high for you to ever climb. Her brown hair is hidden under her hood, the tip of her nose flushed pink from the air, and she rubs her hands together to brush off the crumbs of tree bark. Her movements remind you of the squirrel.

It takes a moment for your muscles to soften. You glance back at the squirrel and it’s already scampered off.

“Going great,” you tell her flatly, sighing through your nose. You can be patient with her. She’s nice, young. She’d snuck you extra food. “Shouldn’t you be with Ghost?”

“I’m just stopping by to tell you that we’re leaving. And—“ she squints her eyes in the distance for a moment, “That there’s a couple of those fucks due south.”

Those fucks.

Lovely. You glance around at the unfamiliar trees. From down here, you don’t see anything, but from her vantage point, her scope of sight is better for scouting threats.

“They’re pretty far off. Just be careful, okay?”

“Thanks. I will,” you nod.

Her bright stare then flickers to your braids. “You did your hair... What are those called again?”

She frowns, searching for the word somewhere in a corner of her young brain. You’re surprised that a ten-year-old girl doesn’t know what French braids are; they’d been all you wore as a kid. But then you realize her normal life came to an end at age five. Perhaps many of the memories have faded, replaced with more useful knowledge that her father has had to stuff in there.

You swallow. “Braids?”

“Braids,” she repeats, tasting the foreign word with a click of her tongue. “Right. They look really cool on you.”

“These ones are pretty shitty because I don’t have anything to keep them in.”

Blue starts to say, "Maybe you could—"

But a gruff call cuts through the trees, beckoning her head to turn.

"Blue. Let's go."

Your own eyes follow the voice and land on Ghost some odd paces away. He is already staring at you through lidded eyes, a palpable energy rolling off his body in waves that you can feel even from this distance. Over his shoulders, he carries the fawn with ease. Large palms clasping the knobby ankles. A steady drip of its blood creates a red stain in the snow beside his boot.

He looks horrific. A smear of crimson on the skull. Dressed in all black, carrying a dead animal as if it is nothing. You recall how he'd pushed you to the ground like you were nothing, too. You swallow the thought.

Before you can even look back at Blue, she's already gone. Whirling down from the branch and running over, following in his footsteps as they head back.

It takes another agonizing hour but you manage to kill a squirrel. The Greys don’t find you, luckily. You stuff your coat pockets with some pine needles and decide to call it a meal, knowing that you will have to hunt again tomorrow.

This area of the forest is still new. In your brain, you’ve already etched some markers to find your way back: the pond where they found you, a circle of pine trees to the right of their camp with a big stump in the center, a small creek past the hill. But the way you return back today leads to you approaching the camp from the backside, and you notice something.

Behind the cabin is something covered in a big black tarp. The tarp is peppered with fallen twigs and snow, but still, you think you make out the shape of a vehicle underneath.

They have a car—?

Irritation finds you. How did Ghost manage such things? A goddamn cabin, a deep trench that you assume he dug all by himself. And now a car. Did he also have petrol stored somewhere? By the looks of it, the tarp hasn’t been moved in a while. What is the car for? Is this what he uses to get medicine from the cities?

You almost scoff as your boots crunch the snow.

You won’t have any of our medicine.

There hasn’t even been a chance to consider how you might fend for some yourself. 

For now, you will just focus on food.

Ghost has tied the deer upside down on a branch by the time you are back. You carefully recall the way through their traps. Blue has to unlock the bolted gate for you, but then she runs back to Ghost, who hands a thick blade to her.

“Go on, then, kid.”

“I hate this part,” she mumbles, but he lifts her up so she can reach the knife to the animal’s hind legs, beginning to skin the hide top-down. She wears a concentrated expression as she does so, nose scrunched, and you can tell that skinning deer is a skill her small hands have practiced before. 

Ghost is the one to butcher it.

You skin your squirrel. 

They use the fireplace for cooking, and of course, their dinner is prepared first. While you wait, you undo your braids and snack on the pine needles. Blue is surprisingly quiet, helping her dad cook a little and playing with Grim on the floor, but also flickering her gaze to you every minute or so. 

“Your hair is curly now,” she comments softly during dinner. “From the braids?”

“That happens when you take them out,” you say after swallowing a piece of meat. There’s nothing to wipe your hands on, so you use your trousers as a napkin. Your mother would’ve had a fit. 

“Do you…” you clear your throat, glancing at Ghost and then back to the girl. “Do you want me to braid your hair after dinner?”

She nods sheepishly, but Ghost huffs out a low breath. “I could do that for you, Blue.”

“Ghost,” she sighs. “You don’t know how.”

“How hard can it be?”

But Blue licks her lips and shakes her head, mumbling, “I want her to do it. She’s good at it.”

The way Ghost looks at you is rarely anything but uncomfortable. However, when you sit down on the rug with Blue, your hands finding purchase in her hair, his eyes seem to burn holes through your body deeper than any time before. It is as if letting someone touch his daughter physically sickens him, and causes his breathing to turn weighted and deep. He begrudgingly allows it but supervises, sitting on the couch as you begin braiding her hair. 

Grim sits in her lap. She strokes his fur.

“You have pretty hair,” you tell her.

Blue softly wonders, “How can hair be pretty?”

“I… I don’t know,” you say. “The color, the length. It’s just pretty, I think.”

“Ghost cuts it for me,” she says, turning to look at him.

“Wait, don’t move. It’ll mess me up.”

“Oh, sorry,” she turns back but continues. “He gets it wet and has me lay my head on the tree stump so it’s all flat. Then, he chops it off with his knife. Right, Ghost?”

His response is a low hum. It’s stiff, pushing through a tense jaw.

You finish the two French braids, running your fingers over them.

"I don't have anything to tie them, but they look really nice on you."

It is then that Ghost stands up and disappears for a minute. When he returns, he has a roll of black thread that you believe he used for your stitches.

With the knife from his belt, he cuts two pieces, bends down, and silently offers them to your palm. Blue lights up. You tie off the braids and she stands, toying with them happily, and asking her dad what he thinks. Finally, you notice his shoulders soften.

"Beautiful," he murmurs quietly, just for her. He strokes the braided hair and then gives a gentle brush of his thumb over her cheek. "Always look beautiful, Baby Blue."

"Don't—" her cheeks flush and she briefly flashes her eyes to you, "Don't call me that."

"Used to call you it all the time,” he grumbles. “Gettin' too old for it, are you?"

What you learn Blue isn't too old for is curling up with him on the couch. This is the first night you stay in the cabin after dinner rather than retreating to your shed, simply because they've left some embers in the fireplace for warmth. You sit on the floor beside it. Blue sits with Ghost and he pulls out a book to read quietly to her.

You try not to look.

It touches you in a way you didn't think it would. It seems so normal. For a moment, you imagine a world where things could be different. A world where Blue wore braids to school every day. A world where Ghost could pick a new book out, rather than read the same ones over and over. A world where, maybe, you could have a family of your own, rather than be an uncomfortable witness to theirs.

But your family is nothing now. You never even knew what happened to your parents. The end arrived when you were away from them. No wifi. No service. Whether they died or turned Grey, you could never be certain. A pit in your gut told you their end happened years ago.

You’re brought out of your daze when Ghost stands from the couch. Blue has fallen asleep. He carries the girl to her room, and you take it as a sign to leave for your place outside. 

But before you can open the door, his voice stops you, dropping down to an even lower octave.

“Hold on.”

You turn. “What?”

“We need to talk.”

Despite the warmth from the fireplace, your blood goes icy rigid. You stand there and press your lips. “If this is about the braids, then I won’t do it again. I was just trying to be nice.”

“No. Not that,” and he holds your stare, unwavering, “It’s about your old camp. The other day, you said there were… hoards of ‘em.” 

The words roll off his tongue thoughtfully as if this is something that has been mulling over in that brain of his for a while. Thoughts belonging to a skull. A ghost. A father. 

Ghost continues gruffly, “Where were you?”

“West of here,” you say. “Jesus, I think, at least. I couldn’t really tell where I was going.”

“How far?”

“Far, but not that far.” Your eyes drift to the floor. “By the forest’s edge.”

“We don’t see that many of them here,” Ghost mutters. This might be the most he’s spoken to you in five days. “Only ever a few at a time. Ten at the most.”

“That’s how it was for us. But more came, and then,” you exhale, “And then there were too many.”

Your eyes close, recalling the frantic manner in which you escaped. The last glimpse of your old life had been the mangled arm of your sister, thick bites cutting down to white bone. In a way, you were glad there were enough of them to kill her.

Your eyes reopen. “We should’ve had an escape plan, something for emergencies. We got too complacent after making it for so long.”

All Ghost says is, “Yeah. You should have.”

And then he is dismissing you with a lazy wave of his hand, turning to give you his back. You scowl, roll your eyes as he is not looking, and leave the cabin. Your spine already aches before you even lay down on the floorboards for the night.

You wonder if Ghost has his own emergency plans; what would have to happen for him to abandon this perfect setup? How would he do it? The memory of the car out back finds you as you drift off. But your sleep that night is haunted by terrible, grey dreams.

It usually is.

Hunting on your own is different than hunting with Paul. There's some learning to do. You have to study the tracks on your own and observe the marks of antlers against the trees. For the first week, you don't get a single deer. Only squirrels. One skinny hare. Ghost and Blue don't go with you; the fawn, rabbits, and stored cans and jars hold them over.

Most evenings are spent braiding Blue's hair. I like the way it feels, she claims. Ghost gets used to it. He still watches from the couch but rather than stiffly staring, he lays down and relaxes, placing a hand over his chest.

The next time they go hunting, Blue's hair is still woven in the French braids when you catch an interesting sight through the cabin's window. She stands on the dining chair to reach Ghost's mask, peeling it off. You can only see the back of his head: brown hair, chopped short.

So there is a human under that thing?

She sets the mask on the table and picks up a clean one. A different one.

When they come out, Ghost with his guns and Blue with her knives, he appears more like a father than a character from a horror film. There is no plastic skull. Instead, a cutout in the fabric reveals the tops of his temples and the strong bridge of his nose. You would never say it, but you prefer this one.

Blue must catch your staring because she tells you, "The other one was starting to smell. I made him change."

"Good call," you quip under your breath.

Again, you go your separate ways. You head for the pond. You think you can hear them somewhere nearby, but ignore it, focusing on the deer prints in the snow. It's hard to tell if they're fresh. It hasn't snowed in two days.

Your footsteps quiet to a halt when you hear a light crunching sound. Another living thing is close by. You take position behind a thick pine, eyes scanning the wooded area and the pond to the right of you. But you know the sound of deer, and you're starting to learn the sound of Blue.

She's scampering towards the pond, just her. You can't see Ghost. As protective as he can be, he allows the girl some length to her leash. Offers bite-sized moments of independence. She's allowed to play in the tree just outside their camp before sundown, but only if he is watching. So you imagine he has let her run off ahead only because he is somewhere nearby.

From the distance, you watch her lurch for a squirrel.

She is quick about it.

Grabs the neck, and holds it up. A quick slice to the jugular. Blood seeps. She frowns, closing her eyes and murmuring something that, in the quietness, you think is along the lines of: I'm sorry. Tried to make it quick for you.

And then she begins to skin it, right then and there.

Young, nimble hands taught to survive.

As she does so, you decide you've seen enough. You have your own food to find.

But as you move from the tree, your eyes drift to find another watcher. A form takes shape behind a distant oak, near the pond. Your heart spikes; a Grey? But no— a Grey would already be running towards her scent. This shape belongs to a human, a withered man with hair that juts out in grey clumps, and crazed eyes pointed right at her.

More so, a revolver pointed.

(gif not mine)

Out of curiosity, Simon checked out a book at the library. It was about the 5 different love languages. He was expecting it to be a bore but was pleasantly surprised when he didn't want to claw his eyes out.

He was trying his best with you, he really was, but he wanted to show you how much he cared, and this book was going to help him show how much he cared about you.

i. acts of service - "Do chores together or make them breakfast in bed. Go out of your way to help alleviate their daily workload."

Saturdays were dedicated to laundry. Somehow it piled up, and you were often confused as to how. You let out a sigh as you started yet another load of laundry.

"I think we need to clean out our closet again."

"You say that every week." Simon pointed out, a hint of a smile on his face.

"And every week I mean it. I mean, how do we have so many clothes. I feel like I'm drowning in clothes and laundry detergent." You flopped back onto the bed, the same one Simon had just made.

"I'll do the next load." He volunteered.

"Will you really?" You peeked an eye open at him.

"Yeah." He nodded. He hated laundry almost as much as you did, if not more.

"You are a saint, Simon Riley." You leaned over and placed a dramatic kiss on his cheek.

"I wouldn't say a saint." He muttered but you didn't hear.

-

You watched him from the chair in the corner of your room as he folded clothes, "So, what do you want for dinner? We can have leftovers or there's some frozen chicken nuggets, I know you like those."

You spotted something of a smile on his face, "I'll take care of it."

You looked up from your book, then looked down at Stanley, your dog, who was laying at your feet and looked just as surprised as you, "You're going to cook tonight?"

"Don't sound so surprised." He grumbled.

"All right, you take care of dinner then. One less thing for me to do." You shrugged happily.

-

After laundry, you watched from your spot at the kitchen island as Simon moved around the kitchen. He was grabbing different things from different cabinets and from the fridge.

It was almost foreign for him to be in the kitchen, not that he had ever not cooked, it was just you were cooking (or ordering) for him because he was tired from a long mission.

"You know what you're doing, right?" You joked. He hardly heard you as he meticulously measured out his spices. You decided to wait it out in the living room, and you grabbed your glass and made your way over to the couch.

He finished his dish and carried the plates over to you. He sat down and handed you your utensils before handing you your plate. He watched your face the entire time for your reaction as you chewed on his dish.

"So?" You looked up to see the nervous, almost panicked look, on his face, "What do you think?"

"Simon, it's delicious." You complimented without hesitation, "Really." You set the plate down and reached over and hugged him.

You felt his body deflate as he relaxed, "I'm glad."

"Well now that we know you can cook, looks like you'll be in the kitchen." You nudged him jokingly. Stanley propped his front legs onto the couch, his tail wagging and his tongue hanging out, "I think Stanley wants to try some too." You smiled.

ii. physical touch - "Hug, kiss, hold hands, show physical affection often. Make intimacy a thoughtful priority."

Simon had only been away for a week and a couple days, but you couldn't help but feel nervous. This was, by far, not the longest mission but any mission was still too long in your eyes.

You had just talked to him the night before, and he had vehemently reassured you that everything was okay and he was on track to get home sometime in the afternoon.

You were riffling through your closet trying to find something to wear. You knew he didn't care what you wore, but that didn't mean you didn't want to look good.

"What do you think Stanley?" You were trying on different outfits in front of the mirror and had no one to show these outfits to except the dog.

You turned away from the mirror to look back at Stanley who was laying in his bed, his head resting on his legs, "Too colorful?" He tilted his head to the side.

You sighed turning back to the mirror, "You're right. I'm overthinking it. Just go with something simple." You nodded, "You've done it again, Stan."

You piled yourself and Simon into the car and drove to the base where everyone was landing. You waited in the designated area where you and Simon agreed you would always wait for him when you could.

You sat on the floor with Stanley, giving him all the love because you knew the moment he saw Simon, he would abandon you and charge straight for his other parent.

And you were right to think that. The moment the door opened and Stanley spotted Simon, he was jumping up and ran over to greet him, "It's good to see you, too, Stanley." Simon greeted the dog, bending down to give his head a pet and a scratch.

He set his bags down before his eyes finally landed on you. He carefully moved past Stanley before making his way over to you. You stood up and wrapped your arms around him, savoring the feeling of having him home and in your arms.

"Did you miss me, too?" You asked.

"Of course, love." He muttered into your hair, pressing a kiss to it, "Soap doesn't hold a candle to you when it comes to hugs." He joked, cracking a smile when you laughed.

With him in your arms, it was almost liked time stopped. You didn't know how long you stayed in that position but you honestly didn't care, "You ready to go?" Simon broke the silence.

"Not yet." You murmured.

"All right, we'll stay here, like this." He hummed.

And so you did.

iii. gift giving - "Give thoughtful gifts and gestures. Small things matter in a big way. Express gratitude when receiving a gift."

You were ready to give up on work. Everything was starting to blur together and the caffeine you were drinking could only help for so long.

You glanced up at the clock and groaned when you realize you had a couple more hours to go, "She's right over here." Your co-worker stopped next to your desk.

Your brows furrowed together but your questions were quickly answered when Simon stepped out from behind her, "What're you doing here?" You asked, getting out of your chair and wrapping him in a quick hug.

"You forgot your lunch at home, so figured I would drop it off." He held up a bag, which you assumed your lunch was in.

"You didn't have to bring it. I would've just ordered something."

"Wanted to see you, too." He responded, producing a bouquet of flowers from behind his back, which you had somehow missed.

"They're beautiful." You gushed, taking the bouquet in your arms, "Thank you."

"And I thought I could have lunch with you." He suggested, almost nervous.

"I don't have lunch for another 20 minutes."

"I can wait." He stated.

"All right, you can sit there." You pointed to a chair somewhere in the office. He sat there for 20 minutes and once those 20 minutes were up, he got up from the chair and walked over to your desk.

"Lunch time." He announced, pulling up a chair next to you and sitting down, giving you no choice but to stop working and give him all your attention.

He began unpacking the bag, and it was then you realized he was pulling out stuff you hadn't prepared the night before to bring. He had prepared food for you and brought it.

"Si, did you make this?"

He shrugged, "Figured if I was gonna bring you lunch, might as well be good." You made a face, "Not to say your sandwich isn't tasty, love." He quickly corrected himself, "Just sayin' you eat that sandwich every day. Why not try something new?"

You smiled so big your cheeks started to hurt, "Thank you, Si." You reached over and squeezed his hand, knowing he wasn't big on PDA.

He squeezed your hand back, "Eat, please." He scooped up some pasta and held it in front of your face.

"All right, all right." You grabbed the fork.

iv. quality time - "Create special moments together, take walks and do small things with your partner. Weekend getaways are huge."

Out of the blue, Simon surprised you with a mini getaway to a cabin in the woods, away from the rest of the world, something you mentioned to Simon a couple of times.

You spent your days doing whatever you wanted. Whenever you went on trips, you usually had a plan or at least an idea of what you wanted to do, but since Simon had planned this trip and had sprung it on you, he didn't really have anything planned, which was his plan.

He knew you were organized and always liked to plan ahead, so instead, he planned, for your trip, to do absolutely nothing.

After lunch that you and Simon had cooked together, something new that you were doing now that you knew he knew what he was doing in the kitchen, you decided to go for an afternoon walk.

When Stanley heard his leash being picked up, he was sprinting down the hall and jumped up on Simon, who just so happened to pick it up.

"Whoa." Simon stumbled back but quickly caught his footing. He bent down and clipped the leash to Simon's collar. Once you were both suited up, you finally stepped outside.

Stanley happily trotted in front of you and Simon, taking in everything. He was sniffing everything and even tried to eat a mini pinecone.

"Aye, no." Simon gently yanked Stanley back, who looked up at Simon like a scolded child.

You smiled, walking ahead of the two of them, completely oblivious to the picture Simon snapped of you. He caught up with you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, "Thank you for this trip." You hummed happily, looking up at him.

"You seemed like you needed it." He shrugged.

"Still, this was so out of left field, I didn't even see it coming."

"That was sort of the point, love." He pointed out.

You rolled your eyes, "Thank you, Si."

"You're welcome, love."

v. words of affirmation - "Send an unexpected note, text, or card. Genuinely encourage, and often."

When you woke up, Simon was already gone, off to work out. You selfishly lay in bed for a few more seconds, debating if you should cancel your plans for the day and just stay there.

You eventually pulled yourself out of bed and made your way into the bathroom. As you reached for your toothbrush, you found a post-it sitting on the front of the cup holding your toothbrush.

You smiled to yourself when you saw Simon's chicken scratch messily written on the note.

"Hope you have the best day. Give Stanley an extra kiss from me." - S

You looked down at your dog Stanley who stood guard at your side. The funny part was when you first adopted him, Simon wasn't too excited about it, but he often found it hard to say "no" to you.

Even so, it took Simon a while to finally accept Stanley. But they quickly became best friends and you would often have to fight for your spot in bed.

You gave Stanley a few extra kisses before moving on with your morning routine. By the time you got to the kitchen, you were hungry, so when you saw the donut box sitting on the counter, you dug right into it.

You spotted the note when you were halfway through your donut. You reached for it and it brought another smile to your face.

"Something sweet for my sweet." - S

That one made you laugh.

-

Throughout the day, Simon would send you texts. They were nothing big, but they were from Simon, and they were new. It was a nice surprise.

"Hope lunch is good. Don't forget to drink water." - S

"Me and Stanley miss you" - S

"Get home safe." - S

As you drove home, you couldn't help but smile. You don't know what caused Simon to start writing you sweet notes and texts, but you weren't complaining.

When you got home, you were happy to finally spend time with your little family. Just you, Simon, and Stanley. You spent the night catching up on episodes of Hell's Kitchen, and no matter how much he denied it, Simon did like the show.

You turned the bathroom light off and were very much ready to crawl into bed and crash. But right as you were about to climb in, you saw another post-it sitting on your pillow.

Your heart fluttered as you read it, then reread, then reread it again.

"I love you." - S

-

The next morning, Simon woke up alone. You had mentioned the night before that you had to leave earlier than normal the next day to finish up some work.

Stanley laid next to him, taking advantage of you not being in the bed. He smiled, carefully petting Stanley's head and then climbing out of bed.

He flicked on the bathroom light and got ready to burhs his teeth. He stopped when he saw a post-it sticking to the front of the glass. He picked it up and read it, then reread it, then reread it again.

"I love you, too." - Y/I

-

tagging @2manytabsopen cause you're slay <3

“…Get up!”

“…Fucking get up!”

The voice seemed familiar. It was rough, low and resonated in your head. Furious but hidden beneath it was a desperate plea.

Searing hot pain resonated from the back of your head and though your eyes were open you couldn't see a thing through the bright light that burned into your eyes. Something hot rolled down your face and the back of your neck as you stared into the blurry light trying to discern what was going on.

You couldn’t move a muscle, not even your fingers as an intense coppery taste fell into your mouth. It hurt to breathe against the cold floor, your chest and sides collapsing into you causing you to wheeze.

You blinked almost in slow motion. Unable to let your eyes shut despite the pulling weight you felt as if you were going to sink into the floor and fall asleep. You were tired and so cold yet you couldn’t even shiver without feeling pain electrocute you.

“You hear him?” A gruff voice, almost muffled but cold and condescending, called out to you as you felt a nudge on your side. You winced but that’s all you could do as you stared up at the shadow in front of you. “He wants you to get up."

Another voice just as cold said something in a different language you couldn't comprehend in your state. They argued back and forth while you tried to find the familiar person.

You squinted through the light to try to discern who was in front of you. Your vision was too blurry from pain and tears but no matter how many times you blinked them away you couldn't see. It made your heart race but the heavy beating hurt against your chest more than it should.

A swift kick to your gut knocked the wind out of you before you could cry out in pain. You gasped for air as tears ran down your face and more blood filled your mouth. The kick left sharp pains inside your abdomen and every moment you couldn't take in a breath, the more it hurt.

Hands grabbed onto your arms and yanked you off the ground, ignoring the cries you let out as they dragged you across the floor. You were thrown onto a chair and winced when you felt your restraints dig into your sore wrists and ankles as they tightened them around you again.

A hand grabbed you jaw and squeezed, causing you to wince again as you were forced to look ahead of you.

“She’s up now.” The man snickered and your attention moved in front of you. “This is what you wanted, yes?”

Your captor was talking to a man who was tied to a chair in front of you. Now that the light was partially out of your eyes and gravity allowed your tears to be blinked away, you could see.

The man across from you looked unfamiliar. His blond hair was stained with red and his face was bruised with blood as well. Despite that he seemed to have much more strength than you did since he was able to sit up straight when you couldn’t even hold your own head up.

Your eyes widened when you realized that was your lieutenant. That was Ghost.

You were seeing Ghost without his mask.

“Just tell us what we want and you can stop this.” Your captor gestured to your face.

Ghost glared at the man who held your face but said nothing. You couldn’t see how angry he was, how much hatred there was in his eyes and if looks could kill then both of you would’ve been free by now.

Blood dripped from your mouth and your captor let go of you by shoving your head away. He growled something under his breath as he walked away from you. You wanted to see what he was going to do but you didn’t have enough strength to lift your head up. You were glad for that however because almost immediately you could hear the man beating Ghost.

You wished you could tune out the sounds but you couldn’t. Every grunt and labored breath hit your ears, threatening you with an experience you had just been through.

You gathered all the strength you could muster and tried to struggle against your restraints but it wasn’t even enough to make them dig into your skin. You wheezed again and when those few seconds of fighting left you, you were hit with intense exhaustion.

Your eyes fluttered shut and you passed out.

~

Ghost’s chest heaved up and down as fresh blood ran down his face. He wasn’t sure how long his face had been used as a punching bag but he preferred it over being used as a cutting board instead. He would prefer to be anywhere else but in a concrete room, in a building that Price was struggling to find, however that was the risk that came with the job.

A simple recon mission had turned into getting captured by Russian weapons dealers. They weren’t exactly the hospitable type considering his nose was broken and he was missing a few fingernails.

He wasn’t new to torture but this had to be the worst torture method he had been through.

Ghost looked up at you and felt his entire world shatter.

If he hadn’t seen your eyes searching for him, he would’ve thought you were dead. You were covered in blood and bruises of all colors. Your clothes were tattered from having knives carved into your skin and he could see a few burn marks that would surely leave nasty scars. You had lost so much blood he was surprised you were still alive but so grateful you were holding on.

You weren’t supposed to be in here with him and there was no denying that it was his fault you were.

You both had been captured at the same time, a mistake from you both but he took the sole blame for it as your lieutenant. You were separated and Ghost assumed that they were at least keeping you locked up without touching you while they tried their hardest to get information out of him.

He assumed they were just going to keep trying, they were going to continue to beat the living hell out of him and he was going to say nothing to them. But he was proved wrong when they quickly realized they were getting nowhere with him so they brought you in to try to beat it out of you too. And then Ghost made the stupid mistake by opening his mouth and telling them to stop.

It took one word from him to seal your fate. One word and you became their favorite toy to beat, cut and harm in every possible way just to get Ghost to talk.

You were being used against him and as much as he wanted to deny it, to say he was an operative who knew how to handle these situations and was disciplined beyond the nines, it was working.

Every scream, every cry you let out broke down his defenses and it became harder for Ghost to keep his mouth shut. He wanted to tell them everything and that was scary for more than one reason which made him feel sick.

Scary because if they got the right info out of him, he could jeopardize the lives of many and become even more of a failure than he already was in this moment. Scary because if he was willing to break to end your suffering for the sake of both of you, he had to come to terms with how he truly felt about you.

And right now he couldn’t.

Ghost stopped himself by telling himself that once he gave them the info they needed, both of you were going to die. It was enough to keep his mouth shut until the next round of torture came.

All of the torture and pain for you was going to end soon. There was a spot on his restraints that was hidden from the weapons dealers that he had been working on since he had been strapped down. He could feel it start to become loose enough he could break his hand free, he just had to wait for the right moment.

“Sergeant.” He called out to your limp form with a raspy voice before he spit blood onto the floor.

You didn’t respond. You were out cold and his chest hurt more if it was even possible.

This past round of torture had been especially cruel and long. The weapons dealers had been relentless in their beatings, going so far as to toss you on the ground to kick you as hard as they could until you were coughing up blood.

“You better not fucking die on me.” He tugged on his restraint and never looked away from you. “That’s an order.”

It was a feeble attempt to make himself feel better. He worked against his restraint, staring at the bruises on your skin and the blood dripping from your face onto your clothes.

He thought about how you were going to be so much more damaged after this. Your smile was going to be absent from your beautiful face, your laughter would no longer grace his soul, you probably wouldn’t even give him those little touches he thought he hated. They had hurt you so much more than he ever wanted to think about and that made him pissed.

Ghost broke through it with ease. Adrenaline and rage coursed through his veins as he wasted no time ripping the rest of his restraints off. When he was finally free he shot up from his chair and nearly collapsed on the floor.

He was in worse shape than he wanted to believe.

Black spots dotted his vision and his aching muscles weighed him down enough that he had to hold onto the chair to keep himself from falling. His head pounded furiously which made it difficult to even blink as he found himself short of breath even though he had only stood up from the chair.

Everything hurt but he couldn’t let that stop him. He needed to be strong for you. He could rest when you were safe.

He pushed off the chair and kneeled in front of you. His eyes jumped all over you, trying to make sure you weren’t actively bleeding out before he gently cupped your face with shaky hands.

“Sergeant.” His voice was softer than usual as he held your face. “Come on, wake up.”

When Ghost moved your head ever so slightly you woke up with a slight jump. You immediately began to breathe quicker, thinking that a new round of torture was going to start before he spoke.

“It’s me.” He assured you and watched your eyes finally open. He always thought he was blessed by the universe when you looked at him but now he truly felt like the luckiest man to see them after all you both had been through. “It’s Ghost.”

“Ghost…” You rasped out, wincing from the pain as you relaxed now that he was in front of you.

“I’m here.”

He kept a hand on your cheek as he began to undo your restraints, one of his fingers pressed against your weak pulse. You weren’t bleeding out but a few more beatings like the one you had just endured and you’d be gone from him. He had to be quick and extremely careful when breaking out of here.

“I’m getting us out of here.” He explained in a low tone as your wrists became free but you didn’t move to get up. “We’ll have to move quick. I can’t fight and carry you at the same time, think you can walk for me?”

Ghost was prepared to have to carry you if you said you couldn’t. He’d come up with another plan instead of fighting his way out of there.The idea of moving sounded horrible to you, he could see it in your eyes, but you nodded as you gripped the chair tightly to prepare yourself to stand up.

He grabbed your arms as gently as he could and was going to help you up when he heard movement outside of the room.

“Fuck.” He gently set you back down in the chair and held your face so you were looking at him. “Stay.”

He moved away from you, and took position beside the door and listened to the approaching footsteps with bated breath. The silence in his ears was only broken by the loud beating of his heart as he braced himself for a fight he was determined to win.

When the door opened, his eyes narrowed. All of the torture he endured turned into anger but all of the torture you endured turned into blinding hot rage. He barely had enough self control to wait for the man to even enter the room before he began swinging.

The man let out a shocked yelp as Ghost’s fist connected with his face. He had no time to react when he grabbed the man by the shirt and flung him in the wall, pinning him against it as he rammed his fist into his face relentlessly.

Ghost was seeing red. He kneed the man in the stomach and caught his arm when he tried to fight back, ignoring the loud crack that came from it when twisted it as hard as he could. He didn’t care when the man screamed in pain, in fact he almost relished in it before he managed to wrap his arms around the man's neck and started to choke him.

He easily could’ve snapped it. The fight would’ve been over but he didn’t want it to end that quick. He wanted this man to suffer for putting his hands on you, almost wishing he could return the damage but there was no time for that.

The man went limp and Ghost threw him on the ground. He was breathing heavily as he snatched the knife he had from his back pocket.

The man deserved worse.

“Still with me, sergeant?” He rushed back over to you and when you nodded he carefully wrapped his arms around you. “We gotta go.”

You tried not to scream, but a groan left your throat as pain flushed over you when he pulled you up. Your chest heaved up and down as your vision went black, and you fell against Ghost. You felt his protective arms hold you up and close to him as you waited for your vision to come back. You could hardly stand on your own but you gripped his forearms for dear life while you forced yourself to stay strong.

“I’m okay.” You didn’t sound convincing as you tried to push away from him but he wouldn’t let go.

“No.” He bent down and wrapped his arm under your knees before you picked up with ease despite the screaming pain in his muscles. “I’ve got you.”

You were unnaturally cold in his arms. He held you close to his chest to try to warm you up. His heart skipped a beat when you wrapped your arms around him and hid your face in the crook of his neck. He adjusted his hold on you, trying his best not to hurt you as he did, and made his way towards the door.

He hoped that no one had heard the struggle and when he glanced at the body on the ground, it took a lot of self control not to kick it.

“Your mask…” Your weak voice was close to his ear and sent a shiver down his spine.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine.”

He hadn’t even thought about his face being exposed. He didn’t care if anyone saw his face at this moment, the only thing on his mind was getting you out of there.

Ghost peered out of the door down the dimly lit hall. He wasn’t sure how big the building was but luckily for the both of you no one seemed to be around. That didn’t make him feel any less on edge, in fact he was more on edge since he didn’t know the layout of the building or the routine any of its inhabitants had. For all he knew, someone could be coming around the corner and you’d both be screwed.

He stepped out in the hallway, keeping his attention on both sides as he stayed close to the wall. He moved close to the ground, trying to keep his footsteps quiet.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered as he turned around a corner.

“Stop.” He interrupted and felt more anger rise in him “I don’t want to hear any of that. Not now or when we get out of here.”

“Sorry…”

Noise from down the hall made him stop. His heart started to race and he quickly raced back to the corner, hiding behind it as he listened to the approaching chatter of two guards.

His eyes frantically searched for a room to hide in before he noticed what looked to be like a supply closet. He swung the door open and stepped inside, struggling to shut the door before they rounded the corner. He got it to close to a crack before he heard their voices closer than ever.

He stilled and held you closer to him. He felt your arms wrap just a little bit tighter around his shoulders as you both tried to breathe quieter. In the silence of the supply closet he could hear just how bad your wheezing was and it only gave him more motivation to get out of there as fast as he could.

He hoped neither one of your lungs were going to collapse before you made it out.

The chatter from the guards slowly began to disappear but he waited. He didn’t move a muscle even after the guards were long gone from the hallway. He wanted to be sure that no one else was going to show but for the first time since he had been subjected to torture he was able to catch his breath.

The pitch black closet and the silence within gave him a sense of security. He was fine with listening to your breathing in his ear as he shut his eyes for just a moment, just to find some peace.

You must’ve felt the same since your hold around him loosened and your breathing had gone steady. He held you closer to him, making sure you were still secure in his arms.

“They hurt you.” You whispered, causing him to open his eyes.

You were pointing out the obvious but he could hear the worry in your voice especially when your thumb caressed a cut on his neck.

“I’ve been through worse, don’t worry about me.” Ghost assured you as he pushed the closet door open with his foot. “You should see yourself.”

You grunted maybe out of pain or exhaustion when you were reminded of the serious state you were in. Your eyes were barely able to stay open as he maneuvered through the halls again.

“Thought you were dead.”

“Hurts too much for that.”

Ghost clenched his jaw tightly, making a mental note that when you both got out here to find the fuckers. He would request a solo mission when he got off leave just for the purpose of finding the other weapons dealer. They may have been able to capture him this one time but they made the mistake of not killing him before he got out.

He quickened his pace down the hall, hoping to find some sort of indication of where he was going. There were no signs, the walls were so empty that he wondered if maybe he was going in circles. He huffed and hoped that wasn’t the case.

A yell echoed off the walls, not too far from where he stood, and he instinctively tightened his grip on you. You winced and he wanted to apologize but he was now on high alert as he listened to the angry voices that were impossible to tell where they were coming from.

He was an expert at this. It was his job to sweep the halls and be prepared for everything, to know when someone could be next or when he was approaching an enemy. His hyper awareness of his surroundings was second nature and yet he had gotten into this situation and he was struggling to put those skills back into use.

He was distracted by his aching muscles and screaming wounds that stained his dirty clothes. His mind raced with trying to keep track of where he was and keeping you safe.

You were taking up most of his mind too. He was trying to not hurt you, to jostle you around and make your wounds worse while trying to hightail it out of there so you could get the help that you needed. He was being too kind to your wounds in a situation like this, his military training of just getting the person out and dealing with the aftermath completely gone from his mind.

There were too many things on his mind and he wasn’t able to control it like he usually did.

It was going to get you both killed, but he couldn’t do it and that’s how he knew he needed to get out there quick. He wasn’t in any shape to be doing this yet if he had waited any longer then you both could’ve died as well. Overall, the situation you both were in was the worst case scenario that no one wanted to be in while working this job.

“Need you to hold onto me and not let go.” Ghost told you and though you had been doing that already, he wanted to make sure you were going to do it when he would need to run away.

“Okay.” You said through gritted teeth as his fingers dug into a particularly sore spot on your side.

Once you tightened your hold around him, enough to where it made him flinch from the pain, he began to jog down the hallway. Despite his quick movements and being as massive as he was, his footsteps were still light enough that it would be difficult to hear him.

He hoped that at some point he would come across a window or a room he could stop in to look for information. He couldn’t keep going around the base full of enemies who would most likely kill on sight blind. Every moment he spent wandering through the halls he was taking a gamble with death.

His ears heard it before he could register it.

Footsteps from around the corner, fast ones that came up onto him far too quickly for him to turn and run the other direction. He barely had time to react when three men rounded the corner.

One of the men didn’t hesitate to slam his fist into Ghost's jaw even after they were startled by seeing him. Ghost stumbled back and tried to hold onto you but the man practically ripped you out of his arms to throw you on the ground.

He was pushed back into the wall, becoming disoriented by the barrage of punches to his sore head, unable to throw any punches back himself.

You were trying your best to fight one of the other guards who had trapped you on the floor underneath as he laid waste to you but your injuries made it extremely difficult to do anything, all the while the other man carefully watched.

Ghost managed to get one good punch to the man jugular before he pulled the knife out of his pocket. He stabbed it through the man’s neck, jamming in it as far as he could while he choked on his blood, before he threw him on the ground.

He didn’t hesitate to throw the knife at the man on top of you, hitting him right in the neck.

With the last of your strength you pushed the guard off you and sliced the knife across his throat.

“Y/n!” Ghost called out to you when he watched you go limp before he turned his attention on the other man.

He saw red again when he realized it was the other weapons dealer. He clenched his fists and charged towards the weapons dealer. He noticed the gun that was pointed at him but he was too focused on the hidden look of fear in the man's eyes as he sprinted towards him.

The weapons dealer pulled the trigger and hit Ghost in the thigh, but that didn’t stop him. Nothing but a bullet to the head was going to stop him from his determination to kill the man in front of him.

Ghost grabbed the man by the wrist to twist it and the gun went off in his ear. He wasted no time to punch him as hard as he could, the ringing in his ears spurring him on. He slammed his fist into his face as hard as he could, feeling his knuckles crack from the force.

He lifted his good leg and kicked the man’s knee cap in, causing them both to fall to the floor. The weapons dealer tried to roll out from under him but Ghost grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the concrete repeatedly to stop him.

He was feral, blinded by rage, harming the man in front of him not out of survival but out of passionate revenge. Memories of your screams made him go crazy as he wrapped his hands around the weapons dealer neck. Every cry replayed in his mind along with the image of your damaged body causing him to squeeze hard while the man struggled underneath him.

If Ghost could see himself he would be unrecognizable. Your pain had resurfaced an old evil within him that hadn’t seen the light of day since he adopted his new name. It brought the monster that was obsessed with violence and the death of anyone who dared to lay a harmful hand on him or the one he loved.

There was a reason why this side of him had been put out of commission. He hated the scalding hotness that raced through his veins, the tightness in his throat, and the way he felt out of control. It was dangerous.

He was dangerous.

The weapons dealer’s body went limp. It took a moment for Ghost to realize he was dead but when he saw that he was no longer writhing underneath him, he released his hands.

Ghost was breathing heavily as he stared down at the dead body underneath him. His vision blackened and whitened, hot liquid running down his leg and staining his dirty pants with fresh blood. He felt dizzy from the blows to his head and the rapid blood loss which made it hard for him to get up from the floor.

He clenched his teeth, almost breaking them as he crawled his way to you. He bit back any groans as he came up to you, placing his fingers on your pulse.

It was weak, almost non-existent, but still there. That was enough to keep him going.

He cradled your head with hands that had just committed atrocities so gently. He stared down at the blood pouring out of your nose and the new bruises that were already forming. He hoped for your sake that your face wasn’t broken.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He assured you even though you were unconscious. He carefully pulled you into his arms again and held onto you securely. “Gonna get you out of here. Gonna patch you up, make you okay.”

His words were slurred and he was blabbering. The blood loss was getting to him and he knew if he didn’t try to move now, both of you were going to die.

Ghost braced himself, taking a deep breath and stood up on shaky legs. He couldn’t hold back the groan of pain that ripped through his throat. He took shallow breaths, his skin getting sweaty and cold before he resumed down the hall as if nothing had happened.

He limped down the cold, ugly hallways and left a trail of blood in his wake. Every step felt like the bullet wound grew bigger, ripping his skin apart until there was nothing left.

He didn’t care. The only thing on his mind was you.

You. Just you.

Your poor state. Your conscious body as it hung limp in his arms, covered in dirt, blood, grime. Hours, days worth of pain that would never go away that would forever soil your mind and body with scars. You could be dead in his arms, having bled out internally and he wouldn’t know until he got out of there.

“You’re okay.” He mumbled to push those thoughts away. “You’re okay…”

Ghost kept repeating it to himself like a mantra. It helped him keep the little amount of strength he had to keep you in his arms when he heard rapid footsteps echo off the halls again.

He was prepared to run or try to at least. He was prepared to fight until he was shot through if it meant you would somehow survive.

“Simon!”

He knew that voice. The rough, commanding voice belonged to Price and he had never been happier to hear him bark out his name. He felt like he could breathe again as he stopped in his tracks.

He was lucky that Price had finally found them and he wondered if maybe that’s what spurred on the sudden yelling from the base. Honestly he didn’t care at the moment. You were getting out of that hell hole and neither of you had to ever step foot back in it. He nearly collapsed as he heard his team’s footsteps get closer but he held on as he swallowed thickly.

He blinked the blurriness from his eyes and looked ahead of him seeing the rest of the task force armed to the teeth rushing towards him.

“Take her.” That was the first thing he said to them as they approached him and he held you out.

Gaz quickly took you from his arm, holding you close to him before he raced down the hall following behind Price who was already commanding a plan to get out of there.

Ghost watched after them, missing the comforting weight of you in his arms and finding himself much lighter without you. He wished he had the strength to carry you himself but he could hardly walk forward without stumbling which prompted Soap to wrap his arm around his shoulder.

Soap took most of his weight as they both walked down the hall.

“Johnny.” He weakly said as his vision began to spin, his fingers digging into his shirt.

“I got you L.t.” Soap assured him as he pushed forward.

Ghost suddenly felt too heavy to walk anymore. All of his strength was gone now that he didn’t have to worry about you. You were safe and now he could finally go to sleep. His vision went spotted with black dots before his knees buckled underneath him.

“Ghost!”

~

Ghost woke up with a start. The first thing he noticed was the dull ache he felt all over his body, the brunt of it taken away by what he could only assume were heavy pain meds.

“Morning.” He looked to his right to see Soap sitting on a chair next to his bed with a small smile. “How you feelin’ L.t?”

“Ask me later.” His voice was hoarse and his throat was scratchy, causing Soap to hand him a glass of water with a chuckle.

He drank the water, finding that as soon as it touched his mouth he was incredibly thirsty. He chugged it, finding that even though it wasn’t cold it was the most refreshing thing he had in months.

When he was finished Soap took the glass from him and refilled it from a pitcher that sat on a table next to his bed. He handed the glass back to him and watched with slight worry as he began to chug it again. While he did he looked at the room around them..

He was lying in a hospital bed. The usual hard mattress and uncomfortable blankets were anything but that as he felt himself sink deep into them, finding a safe warmth in them. He was connected to various machines that beeped in tandem with his heart while his body was covered in stitches and sterile white bandages.

His hand was already in a cast and his leg was propped up on a fluffy pillow.

He was in the infirmary back on base. He was safe from harm.

“You're a beast, you know that?” Soap said as he took the glass back when he was finished. “Breakin’ out and running through the base with a bullet in your leg.”

“Had to. If I didn’t, we might’ve died-”

His heart stopped. His eyes searched around the infirmary frantically as he attempted to get out of bed to go look for you but Soap put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Easy. She’s okay.” He assured him before he jutted his chin across from him.

Ghost looked over and his gaze softened immediately.

You were sleeping in the bed next to him. You were hooked up to the same machines as him but you were bandaged up a lot more. He watched your chest rise from your steady breathing, finding himself mimicking it as his shoulders relaxed. You looked peaceful and deep in sleep, most likely from copious amounts of pain meds the doctor gave you.

He laid back on the bed, his eyes never leaving you.

“She was in worse condition than you.” Soap began as he eyed you both. “Broken ribs, other bones, major concussion, internal bleeding. Been sleeping ever since we picked you both up.”

Ghost swallowed thickly. He couldn’t even begin to describe the pit that formed in his stomach as he watched you. As much as he wanted to rationalize that the guilt he felt wasn’t warranted, his mind wouldn’t let him get rid of it.

He had almost indirectly killed you. He wouldn’t forgive himself if that had happened.

“How long?” He mumbled and heard Soap let out a deep sigh.

“About a week.” Soap said and he shook his head.

“Fucking hell…”

It had certainly felt longer than a week. Those long hours of torture and the short periods of recuperation between them had felt like an eternity. He remembered how every hour that passed by had been a month. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Soap had told him that, but knowing that so much damage had been inflicted on you both in a matter of a week made the pit in his stomach worse.

He couldn’t imagine how long it felt for you.

The physical toll this was going to take on you would hopefully clear up and not become long term but he knew your mental would most likely take the biggest hit.

“Price is puttin’ both you on leave for a while.” Soap caught his attention and he looked back at him. “He won’t admit it out loud, but he’s worried.”

“Guess that’s expected.” Ghost huffed and shut his eyes for a moment. Even though he knew it was the right call, considering the extent of the injuries you both had suffered, he absolutely hated the idea of having to stay on base, or worse, go back home. He would be forced to take it easy, to not do anything strenuous which meant he would be stuck doing absolutely nothing. It was the perfect opportunity for him to think too much.

He couldn’t hide himself in his work like he normally did. Hell, he probably wouldn’t be able to hide himself in any of the hobbies he had that he rarely participated in.

A heavy sigh left his chest and he rubbed his eyes. He would have to deal with the hell he was going to put himself through, he was used to it, but that didn’t mean it was going to be easy.

“Here.” Soap tossed one of Ghost’s spare masks on his lap. “Figured you might want it.”

Ghost picked up the mask and looked at the black material. It was just one of his simple balaclavas and in any other moment he would’ve put it on so at least he felt some sense of security in the midst of all of this. However when he glanced at you, something in him told him to wait.

“Thanks, Johnny.” He watched as his friend gave him a small smile and patted him on the shoulder.

“Get some rest, L.t.” Soap stood up and pushed the chair out of the way.

Ghost watched him leave before he turned his attention back to you. You were the only thing he really wanted to look at in the infirmary, finding that you distracted him from the annoying beeps of the machines and the sterile walls that surrounded you both.

This wasn’t the first time that Ghost had found himself watching you as you slept.

Most of the time his attention was elsewhere when you both were on missions. He always took first watch on missions that spanned more than one day since he struggled to fall asleep as quickly as you. His eyes would wander to you when nothing in particular was happening and he was immensely intrigued by your ability to seemingly sleep peacefully no matter the situation.

He almost envied you. It took a while for him to take control of his thoughts when he laid down to sleep and yet the moment you shut your eyes you were gone.

Even now you seemed to be the most comfortable he had seen you in a week or even a month.

It was most likely the meds, but that didn’t stop the sense of comfort he felt as your chest rose and fell slowly.

Ghost toyed with the mask in his hand. His eyes bounced around your relaxed face and he let out a soft sigh that made him sink further into the mattress. He wanted to be awake when you woke up, but his eyelids started to get too heavy for him to keep open.

You had that effect on him and you didn’t even know.

In his sick, twisted mind he hoped he had the same effect on you. He hoped that he gave you a similar comfort and safety that you gave him despite the fact that he was a ruthless killer. Even after all he’d done in the enemy’s base, the cold blood murders he committed, he hoped that somehow you were happy to have him around you.

He was sure the moment you woke up he would too. And when he did he would make sure that you knew you were safe.

He always would.

He suspects the cold is kissing her legs as he runs his tongue across his teeth. Half-wanting to run his palms over them, leave goosebumps before he tends to other areas of her. 

She stares into his eyes. Likely counting in her pretty little head until he makes his move.

It’s intentional that all she can see is his eyes, lips and chin. The rest shrouded with his mask. Her whispers of, leave it on, still, dancing in the air. 

Then she speaks, filling the space between them with new words, ones which she spits with the aim of spurning.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Casper.”

Fuckin’ hell.

He smirks. The same one which he knows makes her throb. “Wouldn’t think of it, Helen”. 

The air vibrates with want and tension, so much so, he snaps first. Something which rarely happens. 

His lips crashing against hers, silencing any more quips and smothering her sarcasm. The two of them find a rhythm—their rhythm. 

Her hand flat against his back, fingers grasping, nails digging; his on her waist, sliding down, before they’re passed her belt, her back pockets—

She yelps as he lifts her by the back of her thighs. A noise he quiets with his tongue sliding behind her teeth. 

Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him as close as he wants to be—as he needs to be. Wishing the clothes on her body would burn off just by looking at them. 

The thought twisted inside of him, spurning him on as he flattened her spine to the door, pressing her against it with his hips. And fuck if he doesn’t want to make this last, fucking ruin her in slow strokes that make her eyes wild with lust and his name fall in soft, repetitive chants. 

But he’s on borrowed time as it is. 

Slow, purposeful fucking is for when the sights outside the window are clouded in British weather and the mattress under them is memory foam than army-regimented.

He props her, frees one hand, sliding it between the two of them as he feels her—runs a finger through the soaked seam of her cunt. She whimpers, soft and desperate, and he knows what that means: Don’t fuck around, Simon. 

And he won’t. 

Couldn’t. 

Fucking doesn’t. 

Too desperate to slide his fingers into her, feel how much she wants him, how hot she is. He’s missed the way she clenches around him, how she has to pull her lips from him—landing her forehead against his shoulder as he fucks his fingers inside of her. 

“Fuck, baby.” 

He doesn’t pause, continuing his torment—even if the naming is new. She’s called him babe on occasion, baby even less so. But, he doesn’t hate it—somewhat even likes it. 

Then her hand stops him, wrapping around his wrist—barely able to get her fingers all the way around. 

“No more. Need your cock.”

If he was maskless, she’d see his brows in his hairline. His throat suddenly dries, fingers sliding free from her slick walls. 

“If I’m going to be without you for a while, wanna feel you for as long as possible.” 

Ghost understands with ease, and Simon understands but hates it. Nodding, brief and curt. Time ticking on, the timer running out on what they could both have. 

So, it’s precise—military. 

Her legs on the floor, hands at his belt. She removes clothing from him with the same directness she treats wounds. One after the other. 

And he lets her. Her needing this as much as he needed her. It’s why he doesn’t argue when she turns her back to him, palm flat against the door, the other against his thigh, leveraging herself for him. 

“Break me, Simon.” 

He won’t. But, fuck—the way she said it made him throb and twitch. His need pulsing in his stomach and his stomach, bending her slightly, admiring the curve of her back. 

Then the air is punctured with half-gasps blended with half-moans as he takes her, sliding his cock through her walls in one stroke. 

He laps at her neck, before kissing it—the scent of her shampoo, salty sweat and that one spritz of perfume she allows herself, all coating his nostrils. 

It’s not rough, but it’s not gentle. He fucks into her as though marking himself—stretching her, hearing the evidence of it as he slams his hips against her. 

He bites that same part of her shoulder, the one he claims, sucking it until its shades change. 

“Baby, I’m close, so close…”

There it is again. 

His hand clamped around her waist, holding her in place as he hurried the pace. 

“Touch yourself f’ me. Can you do that?” 

She nods. To happily, too. And he hears it before he feels the evidence of her doing as she’s told—clamping down, wrapping around him so delectably he wants to fuck the mission off. He wants to stay here, between her legs, her hand on his thigh; he wants to spend time fucking her on her back, have her sat on top of him—letting him see how blown her eyes can get. 

All of it is made worse by the noise she makes—the way she erupts, blooming, tensing and relaxing all at once as his name pelts the air like a firework. 

Simon. 

It’s breathy, wrapped in a moan and sin. And it’s everything. It’s more than that, even. It’s his. All his. 

That thought—that one singular thought making his thrusts quicken, rushing reluctantly to his own pleasure. 

And it hits the air. Her name. Her real name. 

The one he uses sparingly, if at all. The one he lets roll around the back of his tongue, but never let fall past his lips. 

It takes a moment or two, slipping out of her, feeling her turn to face him—lifting up on her tiptoes as she presses a kiss to his lips. 

Both a thank you and a goodbye; a be safe and a come back to me—before her fingers tug down his mask, letting Ghost take full ownership as Simon filters back. 

She dresses in silence, as does he. The two practised at this, and yet still so poor at goodbyes. The time is unknown from now until he can touch her again, wishing he could leave her with more than a fuck against the door and a handful of taps. 

“I know,” she says.