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🩸 How does he react, when his SO's pediod comes earlier?
I think Simon would handle it far better than people expect. Not because he's particularly knowledgeable about periods, but he's practical.
Someone he loves has a problem, so his brain immediately switches into: "Assess. Solve. Support." mode.
🚨 The Initial Discovery
Let's say you're at his flat, maybe you're watching a movie, you're making tea. Maybe you're just getting comfortable for the evening. And then a quiet: "Oh no."
Simon's head immediately turns. Because "oh no" is rarely a phrase that leads to anything good. "What?"
You awkwardly explain. The period wasn't supposed to start for another few days. You didn't bring anything. Simon just blinks once, twice, then: "Right."
No embarrassment, no awkwardness, no panic. Just immediate problem-solving.
🛒 The Emergency Supply Run
The funny part? Simon absolutely does not know which products you use, so he'll ask directly.
"What brand?" "What size?" "Anything else?"
The man has planned military operations, he can survive a trip to the pharmacy. And if you're too embarrassed to answer? He's taking photos of the cabinet at your place next time and creating an actual mental inventory. Because Simon learns from mistakes.
🖤 If You're Having Cramps
This is where his protective side comes out, not in an overbearing way. More in a "Sit down and stop trying to do things." kind of way.
You mention cramps. An hour later: painkillers, hot water bottle, tea and a blanket have somehow materialized around you. Like a very grumpy care package.
☁️ Comfort Style
Simon isn't the type to say: "Aw, poor thing." That's not him. Instead: "Need anything?" "You eaten?" "Pain bad?" short of questions, practical questions. But every single one is his way of saying: I care.
🏡 The Relationship Milestone
After you've been together for a while? He starts keeping supplies at his place. Not because you asked, because one day he realizes: You're here all the time anyway.So suddenly there's: pads, tampons, painkillers, spare toiletries in one of the bathroom cabinets.
Standing in a brightly lit pharmacy comparing fourteen different menstrual product packages? Absolute suffering.
Not because he's embarrassed, because there are apparently seventeen thousand options and all of them have names that sound like classified military equipment.
Ultra. Ultra Plus. Super. Super Plus. Night. Ultra Night. What does "with wings" even mean? The man is fighting for his life.
❤️ The Softest Version
The softest version of Simon isn't dramatic, it's quiet.
You're curled up on the couch, heating pad against your stomach, half asleep. Simon is reading something nearby.
You shift slightly because the cramps hurt. Without even looking up, he puts a hand on your leg. A gentle squeeze.
Just enough to say: I'm here.
And honestly? That's Simon in a relationship. Not grand gestures, not speeches, not romance movie moments. Just unwavering, dependable presence. The kind that makes bad days a little easier simply because he's there.
I have some f*cked up crossover and AU ideas, and this is one of them.
[Makarov] [OG!Modern Warfare (2007-2011) x The Peripheral AU]
🪖 Modern Warfare (2007-2011) | 👁️ Espionage | 💀 Psychological Tension | 🐝 Hive mind | 🖤 Slow Burn | 🤝 Found Family | 🔥 Competence Kink
The Network
The woman did not look frightened. That was the first thing Vladimir Makarov noticed, not the restraints, not the bruising around her wrists, not the dried blood on the sleeve of her jacket. Not even the fact that she had spent nearly twelve hours being questioned by men who were very good at extracting information.
No. What stood out was that she looked bored, and Imran Zakhaev noticed it too. The older man sat across from her at the steel table, fingers folded neatly together. Patient, observant, dangerous. The sort of man who could spend six hours discussing geopolitics and have someone executed before dinner without changing his tone. And even he seemed mildly irritated by her composure.
"You understand your situation?"
Silence. The woman leaned back slightly in her chair, the restraints rattled softly.
"I understand it perfectly." Her voice was calm, professional, slmost polite.
"You've been remarkably uncooperative."
A small smile. "You've been remarkably repetitive." One of the guards shifted uncomfortably, another looked away. Makarov remained silent, standing near the far wall, watching. Listening. Evaluating. That was his role in most rooms: observe first, speak later.
The file on her had been interesting, extremely interesting. Former intelligence asset, field operative, communications specialist. No confirmed combat experience, no formal military service, no command position, no notable record of violence.
And yet every intelligence agency that had encountered her group described them using the same words. Impossible.
The Network. A name nobody officially used. A name that nevertheless appeared everywhere. Seven individuals. Never separated, never compromised, never captured. Operating across borders with efficiency that bordered on the supernatural.
And according to several increasingly concerned intelligence reports, all linked through experimental haptic technology that was completely banned after the testing phase ended.
Makarov had dismissed half the reports as exaggeration, propaganda, misinterpretation. Then one of his own men had watched six members clear a fortified position in under ten minutes. No radios, no visible communication, no hesitation, just perfect synchronization: that had gotten his attention.
Now their leader sat in front of him, and she looked entirely too calm.
"Your team won't find you." One of the guards spoke before he should have, trying to sound confident and intimidating.
The woman looked at him then smiled. The expression immediately made the guard regret speaking. "You think so?"
The room grew quiet. Something about her certainty felt wrong. Not arrogance,n ot bravado, certainty. As though the outcome had already been decided. As though everyone else was simply waiting to catch up.
Imran noticed it too. "What exactly is so amusing?"
For the first time she looked away from the guardy toward the ceiling, listening. No, not listening, feeling. Something. Then she smiled. A genuine one this time. Warm, almost affectionate. "Ah."
The room stilled. "Ah?" Imran repeated.
The woman's eyes returned to him. "They're here."
The first gunshot echoed through the facility before anyone could respond. Distant, muffled, far away. The second came almost immediately, then a third. Then six more.
The guards exchanged looks, one reached for his radio. Static. Nothing.
The smile on the woman's face widened. "East corridor."
Everyone looked at her. "What?"
She tilted her head slightly, listening to something nobody else could hear, eatching something nobody else could see.
"Three guards down." A pause. "Four now." Another burst of gunfire. Closer this time. Much closer.
The radio operator tried again. Still nothing. The facility alarms suddenly activated. Red lights flooded the corridor outside. Someone shouted, someone else screamed.
The woman simply sat there, still restrained, still surrounded, still calm. For the first time all evening, Vladimir Makarov felt something dangerously close to fascination, because she wasn't guessing, that much was obvious.
She knew. Every movement, every casualty, every position. Not predictions, not estimates. Knowledge.
"Impossible." One of the guards whispered. The woman looked at him.
"No." A distant explosion rattled the walls. "It's actually quite simple."
The gunfire was moving rapidly now, systematically. Not a chaotic assault, asurgical one. Entire sections of the facility simply ceased to exist. Every defensive position neutralized, every response intercepted, every reinforcement cut off before arrival. No wasted movement, no hesitation, no confusion. As if a single mind were controlling multiple bodies.
Makarov's attention never left her, because suddenly he understood. Not the technology, not completely, but enough. The reports had been wrong. The haptics weren't the weapon, not the main part. She was the nexus.
The final firefight lasted less than twenty seconds, then complete silence. The kind that only comes after overwhelming victory.
The woman looked toward the door, smiling now. Almost proud, and then the footsteps arrived, steady and confident, approaching without urgency, because they already knew they had won.
The door exploded inward. Three operators entered immediately, weapons raised, covering angles. A fourth appeared behind them, blood on his sleeve, dust on his boots, not a scratch otherwise. Another two stood outside the door.
None of them spoke, none of them needed to. The room's remaining guards looked terrified. Makarov understood why. The operators moved like extensions of each other, like limbs connected to the same nervous system.
One glanced toward the woman, she nodded once. That was all. Immediately two members moved to free her restraints. The others maintained security. Not a single verbal command exchanged.
The woman stood slowly, rolling her sore wrists, then looked at Imran, then at Makarov.
"Was this what you wanted to know?" Silence. She gestured vaguely toward the ruined facility beyond the walls. "How effective the system is?" Nobody answered, because the answer was already obvious.
Twenty-eight dead, one compromised base, less than fourteen minutes. And not a single member of her team injured.
The woman smiled. Not cruelly or arrogantly, simply confidently. "How quickly we can remove half a military installation without speaking a single word?" For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then, unexpectedly, Vladimir Makarov laughed. A quiet laugh, brief, surprisingly genuine. Because for the first time in a very long time. he had just witnessed something that surprised him. And Vladimir Makarov had a feeling this would not be the last time.
I think Simon falls in love with a feeling. Specifically: Safety. Not physical safety. Emotional safety.
🖤 What Simon Actually Needs
The biggest misconception about Ghost is that he'd want someone exciting. Someone dangerous, someone who can match his intensity, someone who lives the same life he does. I honestly think the opposite.
Simon spends his entire career surrounded by danger, violence, stress, uncertainty, loss. The last thing he wants when he comes home is more of the same.
He wants peace. Not boredom, not passivity. Peace. Someone whose presence lowers his guard instead of forcing it higher.
❤️ The Kind of Person He Falls For
Someone patient. Not because Simon is difficult, but because he takes a long time to trust.
Someone who doesn't demand every piece of him immediately, someone comfortable with silence.
Someone who doesn't panic when he needs space. A person who understands "I need time." doesn't mean "I don't care."
That's incredibly important for Simon.
☁️ Someone Warm
Not necessarily bubbly, not necessarily outgoing, just emotionally warm. The sort of person who makes a room feel safer simply by being in it.
Someone who remembers how he takes his coffee, who notices when he's tired, who quietly hands him a blanket without making a big deal about it.
The kind of care Simon rarely receives but desperately needs.
🏡 Independent But Not Distant
This is a big one. Simon wouldn't want someone who depends on him for everything.
Partly because his work makes that impossible, partly because he genuinely admires capable people.
He likes strength, competence, reliability, but not emotional distance. He wants a partner, not a dependent, not a roommate.
🪖 What About Another Soldier?
Could Simon be attracted to another soldier? Absolutely.
Could he date one? Sure.
Would he choose that life forever if given the option? I don't think so...
Because every deployment would be torture. Imagine both of them leaving for missions. Both of them disappearing into dangerous situations, both of them pretending not to think about worst-case scenarios.
Simon already struggles with losing people. Loving someone who faces the same risks he does? That would keep him awake at night. And Simon already doesn't sleep enough.
I think he'd constantly find himself wondering: "What if this is the last time I see them?" Eventually that fear would become exhausting.
🚩 Who He Definitely Wouldn't Work With
🚩 Someone reckless
This is probably the fastest way to drive Simon insane. Not adventurous, not spontaneous. Reckless.
Someone who constantly creates problems, ignores danger, makes stupid decisions, needs rescuing. Absolutely not.
Simon spends enough time keeping people alive at work. He doesn't want to do it at home too.
🚩 Someone Who Plays Games
Hard no. Manipulation. Mind games. Jealousy games. Hot-and-cold behavior. Testing him.
Simon would disappear so fast he'd leave a cartoon dust cloud behind. His trust is difficult to earn. Once broken, it rarely recovers completely.
❤️ My Personal Ghost Headcanon
The person Simon ends up loving is often surprisingly ordinary. Not because they're boring, because they're real.
A teacher. A nurse. An artist. A librarian. A mechanic. A writer. A veterinarian. A baker.
Someone with an entirely different life from his. Someone who reminds him every day that the world contains things other than war.
Because I think that's what Simon secretly craves. Not excitement, not adrenaline, not danger. Normal. The privilege of a normal life.
💚 The Ultimate Green Flag For Ghost
The moment Simon realizes: "I can come home exhausted, angry, hurt, or quiet... and this person never makes me feel like I have to earn their love." That's it. That's the point of no return.
Because Simon Riley has spent most of his life surviving. The person he builds a future with is the one who finally makes him feel like he can stop surviving for a little while and simply live.
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Not when he falls in love, that happens long before. Painfully, stubbornly, and entirely against his will.
The realization comes later, when he catches himself planning a future that automatically includes you.
Price asks him one day: "What are you doing after deployment?"
And Simon answers without thinking: "We're thinking about going to Scotland for a week."
We. Not I. We. The word leaves his mouth before he can stop it, and suddenly he's staring into his coffee like it personally betrayed him.
Because at some point, without realizing it, he stopped thinking of his future as something he faced alone.
Or maybe it's when he's offered a long-term assignment overseas. The younger version of Simon would've accepted immediately, no hesitation, no second thoughts.
Now his first instinct is: "I'd be away from them for six months."
Not the mission, not the money, not the promotion. You. And that realization terrifies him more than the deployment itself.
🏡 The Domestic Realization
The truly dangerous moments aren't romantic. They aren't kisses, they aren't dates, they aren't anniversaries. They're ordinary.
The kind of moments nobody writes songs about. You leave a mug in the sink. Your favourite blanket lives permanently on the couch. Your shampoo is in the shower. Your shoes are by the door.
One day Simon walks through the house and notices all of it. And suddenly realizes: This isn't my place anymore. It's ours.
For a man who spent years feeling like he belonged nowhere... that's huge.
❤️ How He Makes Things More Serious
The funny thing is that Simon doesn't announce it. He doesn't sit you down and give a speech. Instead, he quietly starts making room for you. Literally.
A drawer gets emptied. A shelf appears in the bathroom. A spare key finds its way into your hand. The alarm code becomes yours too. His emergency contact information changes.
And none of these things are accompanied by some grand declaration. To anyone else they seem insignificant. To Simon, they're enormous.
Because every one of those gestures says: Stay. Even if he never actually speaks the word aloud.
💍 Proposal Headcanon
Simon would hate public proposals. Absolutely hate them. No restaurants, no crowds, no giant displays, no strangers watching. The thought alone makes him want to disappear into the woods.
If Simon proposes, it happens somewhere safe, private, comfortable. Most likely at home. Probably in the kitchen.
Because for some reason every important moment happens in a kitchen 💀
There won't be a rehearsed speech, there won't be poetry. There won't be some elaborate setup. Instead, it'll start with l: "Been thinking." Which immediately puts everyone on edge. Because Simon Riley thinking usually means trouble. Then: "Can't really picture my future without you in it anymore."
That's it. In Simon's mind, this is a perfectly normal thing to say. A reasonable statement, nothing dramatic. Meanwhile you're fighting for your life emotionally.
👶 Thoughts on Family
This is where Simon becomes vulnerable. Because it isn't that he doesn't want a family. It's that he's terrified of failing one.
He knows exactly what a broken family looks like. He grew up with it. He knows what violence does. What fear does. What absence does.
So if the conversation about children ever happens, Simon is quiet for a long time. Long enough that you start wondering if he wants them at all. Then eventually he says: "I'd be terrified of getting it wrong."
Not: "I don't want them." Not: "I'd be a bad father." Just fear. Because if Simon ever becomes a father, he'd care so much it would scare him.
🖤 The Moment He Truly Knows
Not the proposal. Not moving in together. Not saying "I love you."
It's something smaller. Something almost invisible. Maybe it's raining outside. Maybe you're both exhausted. Maybe you're asleep against his shoulder while a movie plays in the background. Nothing extraordinary.
And Simon finds himself looking down at you. Listening to your breathing. Feeling your weight against him. And a thought appears so naturally that it catches him off guard.
If someone asked him right now what mattered most in his life... The answer wouldn't be the military. It wouldn't be the Task Force. It wouldn't be his career. It would be you.
And for the first time, Simon understands something he never thought he'd have. Not just love. Not just a relationship. A home.
☁️ Bonus Headcanon: How Everyone Else Knows First
The funniest part? Everyone figures it out before Simon does. Price knows. Gaz knows. The dog knows. The neighbour knows. The cashier at the grocery store probably knows 💀
Simon is the last person to realize he's practically planning a life with you. Price eventually gets tired of waiting and asks: "You planning on marrying them or what?" And Simon nearly chokes on his tea, because apparently everyone else has been aware of it for months.
The biggest misconception about Simon is that he'd be cold in a relationship. He's not. He's guarded. There's a difference.
Once you're past the walls, Simon is probably one of the most loyal, dependable partners imaginable.
The hard part is getting there.
❤️ How He Falls in Love
Painfully slowly. The kind of slow where everyone around him notices before he does.
Including you. Including Price. Including the cashier at the local grocery store.
Everyone except Simon Riley.
He'll convince himself for months that he simply enjoys your company.
That he worries because you're important. That he likes seeing you smile because you're friends.
Until one day someone flirts with you and he nearly breaks a coffee mug. Then things start making sense.
🏡 Living Together
Simon is surprisingly domestic. Not in an obvious way. Not in a Pinterest-perfect way, but in a practical way.
The kind of man who quietly takes care of things before they become problems. The leaking tap gets fixed. The lightbulb gets replaced. The car gets serviced. The smoke detector batteries mysteriously change themselves.
You never actually see him doing any of it. It just gets done.
☕ Morning Simon
Morning Simon is not a talker. At all.
The first hour of the day consists primarily of: Coffee, grunting, existing.
Any attempt at a meaningful conversation before caffeine is considered an act of war.
❤️ Love Language
Acts of Service. This is his strongest one without question.
Simon shows love by making your life easier. Not because he thinks you can't do things yourself. Because he wants to carry some of the weight.
If you've had a difficult week, you'll find your favourite snacks in the cupboard. If you're stressed, the laundry will somehow already be done. If you're sick, he'll quietly take over everything without making a big deal about it.
Physical Touch. Only with people he trusts. But once he trusts you? He's far more affectionate than people would expect.
Not dramatic affection. Comforting affection. A hand on your lower back. A hand resting on your knee during a long drive. Pulling you closer in bed while still half asleep. The sort of affection that feels safe rather than flashy.
💀 The Mask
The first time he removes the mask in front of someone he loves is a huge moment. Not because he's insecure. Not because he's hiding something.
Because the mask became part of his armour. Part of his identity. Taking it off means lowering a defense he spent years building.
It's one of the biggest displays of trust he can offer.
💤 Sleeping Habits
Simon sleeps lightly. Years of military service made sure of that.
He wakes at unusual sounds. Checks locks before bed. Knows exactly where every exit is. Even at home. Especially at home.
Because if something happens to the people he loves, he wants to be ready.
🩹 When He's Hurt
Terrible patient. Absolutely terrible.
Doctor says rest. Simon hears "continue working."
Doctor says avoid lifting heavy objects. Simon is moving furniture the next day. Someone eventually has to physically stop him.
👶 Simon and Children
Children adore him, and it drives him insane. Because they're completely immune to intimidation.
Adults see a giant masked soldier. Children see big guy with a cool skull mask. And immediately decide they're friends.
Simon never understands how this happens. It happens every time.
❤️ Jealous Simon
Rare. Dangerous. Mostly because he pretends he isn't jealous.
He'll stand in the corner silently glaring at some poor bloke who's talking to you. Then insist he's perfectly fine. He's not.
Everyone knows he's not. Especially Price.
☁️ Comforting Someone
Simon isn't great with words. He knows it. You know it. So when you're hurting, he doesn't try to give speeches.
He sits beside you. Makes tea. Lets you talk. Lets you cry. Lets you be angry. And stays. That's his version of comfort: presence.
🖤 Simon isn't afraid of loving someone. He's afraid of surviving them. He's lost too many people.
Too many friends. Too many pieces of himself. So every time he starts caring about someone, a small part of him immediately wonders: "How much is this going to hurt when they're gone?"
And that's why commitment takes so long. Not because he doesn't want it.
Because once Simon Riley loves someone... he loves them completely. And the thought of losing them never really stops scaring him.
The funeral is cold. Of course it is. The kind of cold that settles deep into your bones and stays there.
The sky is grey. The rain falls in a steady drizzle. The sort of weather that makes the entire world feel muted. Appropriate.
No one in the Task Force has spoken much since the tunnel. Since Makarov. Since the gunshot. Since Soap's blood slipped through their fingers.
John stands rigid. Hands clasped behind his back. Expression carved from stone. Kyle stares at the ground. Simon stares at the empty coffin. There was an urn somewhere with Soap's ashes, but Johnny's mother wanted a formal burial.
Simon kept staring at the coffin, because looking anywhere else would mean accepting that Johnny MacTavish is actually dead. And Simon isn't ready for that. Maybe he never will be.
The ceremony drags on. Words. Prayers. Condolences. All of it meaningless. Johnny should be standing beside them right now. Making some inappropriate joke. Annoying Price. Trying to get Gaz to laugh. Instead there's only silence.
Then Simon notices you. A woman dressed in black near Soap's parents. Standing closer to the coffin than anyone else. He assumes you're close family too. A cousin. Maybe a sister. Maybe a childhood friend.
Johnny had mentioned someone once. "Got someone back home." That was all he'd said. Every time they asked for details, he'd laughed it off. Changed the subject. Moved on. And nobody pushed.
Everyone in the Task Force had things they kept private. Especially Simon. So he never questioned it. Now he wishes he had.
The service ends. People begin to move. Umbrellas open. Voices lower. And that's when Simon notices the child.
At first, nothing about it seems unusual. A little boy. Maybe three years old. Curled sleepily against your shoulder. Tiny hands clutching the fabric of your coat. Rain taps softly against the umbrella above him.
Simon only glances once. Then again. Then a third time, and suddenly he can't breathe. Because the boy lifts his head. And Simon sees Johnny.
Not exactly. Not completely. But enough. God. Enough. The same hair. Messy despite every attempt to tame it. The same eyes. Bright. Curious. Warm. The same stubborn little crease between his brows. The same smile. The same bloody smile.
Like someone had taken Johnny MacTavish and shrunk him into a child-sized version.
Ghost freezes. The world around him disappears. Rain. Voices. Footsteps. All gone.
Just that child. Just the impossible realization forming in his chest. No. No, that can't— Then he hears Price beside him. Very quietly. Almost a whisper.
"Jesus..." Simon turns. Price looks just as shocked. Which means— Price didn't know either. None of them knew.
Johnny MacTavish. Their brother. Their teammate. Their family. Had a wife. Had a son. And never told them.
Not because he didn't trust them. Simon understands that immediately.
Because of Graves. Because of Las Almas. Because of betrayal. Because of Makarov. Because of everything they'd seen. Johnny knew exactly what happened to the people connected to men like them.
He knew names could become targets. Families could become leverage. Children could become vulnerabilities. So he protected them the only way he knew how. By keeping them hidden. By keeping them safe. And now he'll never tell them himself.
The little boy squirms in your arms. Looking around at the uniforms. The flags. The soldiers. Confused. Too young to understand. Then he asks:
"When's Daddy coming home?"
Everything stops. Everything. A sharp, broken sound escapes someone nearby. Gaz turns away immediately. Price lowers his head. The priest suddenly looks unable to continue speaking. And Simon—
Simon feels something inside him crack. Because Johnny never got to explain. Never got to tell his son goodbye. Never got one last hug. Never got one last bedtime story. Never got one more chance.
And none of them even knew the boy existed.
They missed everything. His first birthday. His first words. His first steps. Every story. Every milestone. All because Johnny had been trying to protect him. And now the first time Ghost ever meets Soap's son... Is at Soap's funeral.
Later that night, Simon sits alone. A hotel room. Maybe. Barracks. Doesn't matter. The room is dark. Silent. In his hand is an old photograph.
Johnny. Grinning like an idiot. Arm slung around Gaz's shoulders. Alive. For the first time since the tunnel Simon is angry.
Not at Makarov. Not at the world. Not even at himself. At Johnny. His grip tightens around the photo.
"You stupid bastard." His voice breaks, just slightly. "You should've told us." Because now Simon understands something horrible. Johnny didn't just leave behind a name on a memorial wall. He didn't just leave behind a fallen soldier. He left behind a widow. A son. An entire life none of them knew existed. And Simon Riley has no idea how to mourn a future he only discovered after it was already gone.
The worst part? A week later, he finds himself staring at a photograph Price managed to get from the funeral.
You and the boy. Johnny's family. And for the first time since the tunnel, since the gunshot, since Soap died in Price's arms...bSimon whispers:
"I'll keep an eye on them."
Not because anyone asked him to. Not because Johnny made him promise. But because that little boy has Johnny's smile. And Simon realizes he would rather tear himself apart piece by piece than let the last part of Soap left in this world face it alone.
[JOHN PRICE] 🖤 Angst | 💔 Lost Love | ⏳ Right Person, Wrong Time | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort
The Voicemail
Two years. Two bloody years.
Price never counted time in days. His life moved between deployments, mission reports, coordinates, and extraction windows. And yet he knew.
He knew exactly how long it had been since he'd last seen you. Since he'd last heard your voice. Since you'd sat across from him in that little café and asked the one question he'd never properly answered.
"I know your work matters, John. I'm not asking you to quit. I'm asking if there's room for me in your life, too."
You hadn't sounded angry. That was the problem. You'd sounded tired. And Price, convinced there would always be more time, had let the conversation drift away. Like he always did. Because there was another mission. Another briefing. Another crisis waiting somewhere on the other side of the world.
You'd understand. You always did. At first, nothing changed. A few missed calls. A delayed reply. A cancelled dinner. Then another. And another. Until eventually the silence settled between you like dust. Slowly. Permanently.
Two years later, John Price sat alone in a temporary military safehouse. Rain tapped softly against the window. A half-finished cup of tea had long since gone cold beside him.
His phone rested heavily in his hand. On the screen was a voice message. Version twenty-three. The previous twenty-two had been deleted.
Too formal. Too awkward. Too emotional. Not emotional enough. Too late.
He stared at the recording button for nearly five minutes before pressing it. Silence. Then a sigh. A tired one. The kind that came from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Hi, sweetheart." The nickname felt strange. Not because it wasn't true. Because he hadn't earned the right to use it in a very long time.
"I don't really know how to do this." A dry laugh. "Turns out negotiating with terrorists is easier." Nothing but the sound of rain.
"I've been trying to record this bloody thing for weeks. Kept telling myself I'd call when I had more time. After the mission. After the next one. After the next."
His jaw tightened. "Truth is..." A pause. Long enough to hurt. "I think I spent two years assuming you'd still be there when I finally got around to it." The words hung in the air. Ugly. Embarrassing. Honest.
Price closed his eyes. For the first time, hearing it spoken aloud, he realized how arrogant it sounded. How selfish. As if your life had been placed on hold, patiently waiting for him to decide you were finally a priority.
"I miss you."
The admission escaped before he could stop it. Quiet. Immediate. Real.
"Should've said that sooner. Should've said a lot of things sooner." His voice lowered. "If there's still a chance..." Another pause.
"If you haven't completely given up on me..." He swallowed. "I'd like to see you. Properly this time."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Painful. Bittersweet. "No promises about becoming less stubborn. But I'd like to try."
The recording ended. Price listened to it twice. Then a third time. Finger hovering over the send button. Every instinct told him not to. Every instinct told him he'd waited too long. He pressed send anyway.
Delivered.
Ten minutes later, his phone vibrated. Price grabbed it immediately. Far too quickly for a man who liked to pretend he wasn't hoping.
A message. No text. Just a photograph. At first, he frowned. Then his stomach dropped.
It was you. You were asleep on a couch. Curled up beneath a blanket. Peaceful. Completely unaware that a photo was being taken. Your head rested comfortably in someone's lap.
Not awkwardly. Not accidentally. The kind of closeness built over hundreds of quiet evenings. The kind that came from belonging somewhere. To someone.
Price stared. Motionless. A man's hand was visible near the bottom of the frame. Whoever had taken the photo hadn't bothered hiding himself. Why would he?
And there, wrapped around your finger— A ring. Not decorative. Not casual. Not a promise. A wedding band.
For several long seconds, Price simply looked at the image. As though his mind refused to process what his eyes already understood. Then another message appeared. One line.
"A little late for that, mate."
No insults. No threats. No cruelty. There didn't need to be. The photograph had already done the damage.
Price opened the image again. Zoomed in. Not on the man's hand. Not on the ring. On you. Searching for something. Anything. A sign you weren't happy. A sign you'd settled. A sign you'd made a mistake.
But there wasn't one. You looked comfortable. Safe. Loved. And that was the worst part. Not because someone else had what he'd wanted. But because they had given you what he'd failed to.
Time. Presence. Commitment. Everything you'd asked him for. Everything he'd assumed could wait. Price had buried friends. Brothers-in-arms. Good soldiers. Good people.
He knew grief. He knew loss. But this felt different. Because nobody had taken you from him. You hadn't died. You hadn't disappeared. You hadn't betrayed him.
You had simply stopped waiting. And God... How could he blame you?
The phone screen eventually dimmed in his hand. The room fell silent again. Only rain against glass. For a long time, John Price sat there alone, staring at his own reflection in the darkened screen.
The cruelest part wasn't losing you. The cruelest part was realizing exactly when it had happened. Not today. Not when he saw the ring. Not when he received the photograph. It had happened a hundred different times. Every call he never made. Every message he never answered. Every promise postponed. Every time he chose "later." Until one day, later belonged to someone else.
[Zakhaev Family] 🖤 Angst | 👨👩👧 Family | 💔 Lost Love | 👻 Ghosts of the Past | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort
The Grave - Part 3 of The Birthday
The conversation starts over breakfast. A quiet morning. No arguments. No politics. No operations. Just coffee and the rare illusion that the Zakhaev household is capable of behaving like a normal family.
You set your cup down. "I'd like to visit my mother tomorrow." The words are simple. Like you wanted permissiom to go. Harmless. To you, the words meant exactly what they've meant for the last six months. To everyone else, they mean something very different.
Imran is the first to look up. Then Viktor. Across the room, Makarov doesn't react at all. Which usually means he's listening most closely.
"I'll come with you." You blink. The answer arrives so quickly you almost laugh. Of course he would. Twenty-nine years. Twenty-nine years since he'd last seen the woman who left. The woman he'd spent decades searching for. The woman he never found.
Before you can answer, Viktor cuts in. "I'm coming too." You raise an eyebrow.
"Why?"
Viktor stares at you as if you've asked the stupidest question imaginable.
"Because she's my mother too."
Fair enough. The matter is settled. Makarov gets volunteered as the driver. Much to his visible disappointment.
---
The drive is awful. Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just painfully awkward. Imran spends most of it staring out the window. Viktor spends most of it pretending not to care. You spend most of it wondering if either of them realizes how strange this entire situation is. Makarov spends most of it wishing he were somewhere else.
Anyone watching would assume they were heading toward a reunion. An old wound finally being healed. Nobody notices that you never actually said your mother was alive.
---
The house surprises them. A small family home at the end of a quiet street. Well maintained. Fresh paint. Trimmed hedges. Flowers blooming beneath the windows. The curtains are drawn. The shutters closed. But otherwise it looks loved. Safe.
Imran stares at it for several moments.
"So this is where she lived."
You nod.
"For a while."
Nothing about your answer seems unusual. Not yet. Everyone climbs out of the vehicle. Imran starts toward the front door. You don't.
Instead, you walk past the house entirely. Toward the backyard. Viktor frowns.
"Wrong way."
"No."
You keep walking. The others follow. Confused. Curious. And then they step through the garden gate.
---
The world stops. At least for a moment. The garden is beautiful. Flowers. Stone paths. A wooden bench beneath an old tree. Everything carefully maintained. Everything loved. At the center stands a small stone statue of a woman holding flowers.
And beneath it an urn.
You walk straight toward it. Without hesitation. Without explanation. As naturally as someone returning home.
Then you kneel beside it. Resting a hand against the cool stone. Smiling softly. The smile of a daughter visiting her mother.
Silence crashes over the garden. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Nobody understands.nNot immediately. Then understanding arrives all at once. Brutal. Merciless. Final.
"...What is this?" Viktor's voice sounds distant. Almost unrecognizable. You glance back. Confused. Because the answer seems obvious.
"My mother."
The words hit harder than any bullet ever could. Viktor goes pale. Imran simply stares. His gaze locked on the urn. Unable to look away. As though if he keeps staring long enough, reality might change. It doesn't.
The next question comes from him. Barely above a whisper. "When?"
You know exactly what he means. "Six months ago."
Nothing. No anger. No shouting. No dramatic reaction. Just silence. Because six months isn't a long time. Six months ago she was alive. Six months ago she could still speak. Still laugh. Still breathe. Six months ago there was still time. Maybe not much. Maybe not enough. But time.
Imran lowers himself onto the bench as though his legs have suddenly stopped working.
For the first time since you've known him —merely four months, maybe five— he looks old. Not powerful. Not dangerous. Not feared. Just old. His eyes never leave the urn.
"Six months..." The words barely exist. As if he's doing the math. Trying to place her into memories. Into dates. Into missed opportunities.
You look away. Giving him that much privacy, at least. After several minutes he speaks again.
"Why didn't she tell me?" The question hangs heavily in the air. Not angry. Not accusatory. Broken.
You stare at the flowers surrounding the statue. At the garden the two of you spent years caring for together. At the house she loved. Then answer honestly.
"Because she didn't want you to come out of obligation." The silence afterward feels endless. Imran closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Because somehow that hurts even more. Not wanting pity. Not wanting guilt. Not wanting an apology.
Wanting him to come because he wanted to. And never knowing if he would have.
Eventually his voice returns. Smaller than before.
"Was she afraid?" You glance toward the urn. Toward the woman who raised you. Protected you. Loved you. The woman who spent years refusing to speak his name. And yet never truly stopped thinking about him.
You shake your head. "No." Another long silence. The wind stirs the flowers. Leaves rustle overhead. The garden remains peaceful. Then you quietly add: "She was waiting."
Nobody speaks after that. Not Viktor. Not Imran.nNot even Makarov.
Because suddenly everyone understands the terrible weight hidden inside those words. Waiting. Not hoping. Not searching. Not running. Waiting.
And somewhere inside himself, Imran Zakhaev realizes that for the rest of his life, one question will haunt him more than any enemy ever could.
How long did she wait... before she finally gave up?
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Because I know myself and I would be (and will be) lost too :>
GUIDE: ❤️ Romance | 💔 Lost Love | 🔥 Mutual Pining | 💞 Soulmates | 🌱 Slow Burn | 🤦 Idiots in Love | ⏳ Right Person, Wrong Time | 🖤 Angst | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort | 🩹 Hurt/Comfort | ☁️ Comfort | 🌸 Fluff | 🏡 Domestic | 👨👩👧 Family | 🎄 Holidays | 🩸 Betrayal ...and what not
Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare (2007, 2009, 2011) - The original series
Vladimir Makarov
The Child | 🖤 Angst | 💔 Lost Love | ⏳ Right Person, Wrong Time | 👻 Ghosts of the Past | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort | 👶 Pregnancy/Children | 🌧️ What Could Have Been
Viktor's Bride | 🖤 Angst | ⏳ Right Person, Wrong Time | 🔥 Mutual Pining | 👑 Political Marriage | 🌱 Slow Burn
The Hospital Call | 🖤 Angst | 👶 Pregnancy/Children | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort | 💔 Lost Love
The Mole | 🩸 Betrayal | 🖤 Angst | 💔 Lost Love | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort
Zakhaev Family
Assassin: part 1. The Birthday | part 2. The Cell Door | part 3. The Grave | 🖤 Angst | 👨👩👧 Family | 👻 Ghosts of the Past | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort | 🌱 Slow Burn
John Price
~
Soap
~
Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (2019, 2022, 2023) - The reboot series
John Price
The Voicemail 🖤 Angst | 💔 Lost Love | ⏳ Right Person, Wrong Time | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Headcanons: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 |
What remains 👶 Family AU | 🖤 Angst | 🕯️ Grief | 💔 Emotional Devastation | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort
[Makarov&Zakhaev Family] 🌱 Slow Burn | 👨👩👧 Family | 🔥 Mutual Pining (early stages) | 💀 Dark Romance-ish?
The Cell Door | Part 2 of [The Birthday]
The assassin surrendered. That was what bothered Vladimir Makarov the most. Not the twenty-three bodies. Not the security breach. Not even the fact that she had managed to reach the heart of one of the most secure facilities the Ultranationalists possessed.
Those things made sense. People made mistakes. Security failed. Men died. It happened.
What didn't make sense was the moment she lowered the gun. Because she could have fired. Makarov knew it. Everyone in that room knew it. Imran had been dead the second she walked through that door. Yet she hadn't pulled the trigger.
And then, somehow, that became even stranger. Because when the guards finally moved in, she didn't resist. Didn't fight. Didn't run. Didn't even argue. She simply handed over the pistol and allowed herself to be taken away.
As though the mission had ended. As though she had already gotten what she came for. That was the part Makarov couldn't stop thinking about.
---
Three days later she was still there. Officially she was a prisoner. Unofficially nobody knew what she was.
Imran refused to execute her. Viktor demanded it daily. The generals wanted answers. The security teams wanted revenge. And Makarov...
Makarov wanted to understand. Which was why he found himself standing outside her room again.
The guards nodded as he approached. The heavy door opened. The woman sat by the window. Reading. Not pacing. Not planning. Not looking for escape routes. Reading.
It should have been absurd. Instead, it somehow suited her. She glanced up when he entered.
"You know," she said, closing the book, "most interrogations involve more threats."
Makarov pulled out a chair. "Most prisoners try to escape."
A faint smile appeared. "Fair."
The door closed behind him. Silence settled comfortably between them. A strange thing. Comfort. There should have been none. Not between an assassin and her captors. Not between two people who should have been enemies. Yet somehow it kept happening.
---
"You could leave." The words came unexpectedly. She raised an eyebrow.
"Could I?"
"Probably."
That earned a genuine laugh. The first one he'd heard from her. Brief. Unexpected. Dangerously pleasant.
"You should fire whoever is in charge of security."
"I probably should."
More silence. Then she looked out the window.
"I won't."
"Why?"
The answer came immediately. Because she'd clearly asked herself the same question. Many times.
"I spent twenty-nine years looking for answers." Her fingers tightened slightly around the book. "And for the first time in my life..." A pause. "...I actually have them."
Makarov studied her. The profile. The resemblance. It was obvious now. He couldn't understand how nobody had seen it sooner.
The eyes. The jaw. The stubbornness. God, especially the stubbornness.
Imran Zakhaev had somehow managed to produce a daughter who was almost as difficult as he was. Almost.
---
Viktor hated her. That wasn't entirely fair. Hate implied effort. Viktor hated the situation. The attention. The disruption. The fact that suddenly there was someone else in the room whenever Imran entered. Someone else his father watched. Listened to. Thought about.
The resentment practically radiated off him. And she gave it right back. Every single time, which only made things worse for everyone. Except Makarov. He found it entertaining.
---
The visits continued. Days became weeks. Weeks became routines. Questions slowly turned into conversations. Conversations turned into arguments. Arguments turned into something else. Something neither of them could quite define.
---
One evening she looked up from her coffee.
"Can I ask you something?" Makarov nodded. "You were watching me in that room." Not a question. An observation.
"Yes."
"You figured it out before Viktor."
"Yes."
A pause. Then: "Before Imran."
Makarov considered lying. Decided against it.
"Yes."
The realization didn't seem to surprise her. Only confirm something.
"You knew."
"I suspected."
"And yet you said nothing."
For the first time that evening, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Neither did you."
That earned him a glare. And for some reason he found himself looking forward to those. Far more than he should have.
---
The strange thing wasn't that she stayed. The strange thing was that eventually nobody expected her to leave anymore.
Not the guards. Not the staff. Not even Imran. Her room became her room. Her books accumulated. Her belongings appeared one by one. As though she'd always lived there. As though she belonged. Which was ridiculous.
Yet one evening, as Makarov stood outside her door holding two cups of coffee, he found himself hesitating. Because a thought had occurred to him. A dangerous one. The sort that changed things. The sort that should have been ignored. And yet it remained.
Persistent, annoying, impossible to dismiss. Because somewhere between the assassination attempt, the arguments, the books, and the endless conversations... she had stopped being a prisoner. And become the first person in a very long time that Vladimir Makarov genuinely looked forward to seeing.
That realization was unfortunate. Because he already knew exactly how this story would end: badly.
[Zakhaev Family] ⚔️ Family Conflict | 👻 Ghosts of the Past | 🌍 Alternate Universe | 🖤 Angst
The Birthday
Twenty-three men died before she reached the conference room. The first guards never saw her. The second group barely had time to raise their weapons. By the time alarms began sounding through the compound, it was already too late.
Cameras went dark. Radios fell silent. Bodies piled up in hallways. And one lone assassin continued moving forward.
Relentless. Purposeful. Untouchable.
Inside the conference room, nobody knew the full extent of the damage yet. Imran Zakhaev sat at the head of the table. Viktor occupied the seat to his right. Several officers, politicians, and commanders filled the remaining chairs. Makarov stood near the far wall, listening more than speaking. Then the gunfire stopped.
The silence that followed felt wrong. Heavy. Unnatural. Everyone noticed. Nobody had time to comment.
The doors burst open. Weapons were drawn instantly. Chairs scraped across the floor. Several men stood.
The woman who stepped through the doorway looked younger than anyone expected. Not much older than thirty. Dark clothing. Blood splattered across one sleeve. None of it hers.
A pistol rested steadily in her hand. Her breathing wasn't even elevated. As though twenty-three deaths were nothing more than an inconvenience.
For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The woman ignored every weapon pointed at her. Ignored Viktor. Ignored the generals. Ignored everyone. Her gaze settled on one person.
Imran Zakhaev.
The pistol rose. Directly toward his chest. The room froze. Everyone waited for the shot. It never came.
Seconds passed. Then Viktor finally snapped. "Who the hell are you?"
The woman didn't even look at him. Her eyes remained locked on Imran. Cold. Focused. Unwavering.
"Do you know what day it is?" The question hit the room like a misplaced bullet. Several people exchanged confused glances. Viktor frowned. One of the officers cursed under his breath.
Nobody understood. Imran's expression darkened.
"What?"
A faint smile touched her lips. Not warm. Not kind. The sort of smile built from years of bitterness.
"My birthday." Silence. The pistol never moved. "Twenty-nine years." Something shifted in the room. Something nobody could quite identify yet. The woman took a slow step forward. "My mother spent twenty-nine years hating your name."
Nobody spoke. Not a single person. Even Viktor had gone quiet. Because suddenly this didn't feel like an assassination anymore. It felt personal. Dangerously personal.
The woman continued walking. One slow step at a time. "She told me you were a monster." Another step. "She told me you never cared." Another. "She told me you weren't worth finding." The pistol remained steady. Her voice remained calm. Only her eyes betrayed the storm beneath. "I spent twenty-nine years believing her." For the first time, something changed in Imran's face. Not fear. Recognition. Incomplete. Uncertain. But there.
The shape of her jaw. The eyes. The expression. Ghosts of someone he'd known a very long time ago. Someone who had disappeared. Someone he had searched for. Someone he had never found.
Makarov noticed immediately the resemblance. The realization slowly taking shape behind Imran's eyes. And suddenly the entire situation became far more interesting. Viktor looked between them.
"What the fuck is she talking about?" Neither answered. The woman stopped only a few feet from the table. Still aiming at Imran. Still not firing. The room held its breath. Then she tilted her head slightly, studying him, judging himy as though trying to decide something. Finally, she spoke againy quietly, almost thoughtfully.
"So tell me." The words barely rose above a whisper, yet somehow everyone heard them. "Was she right?" The question lingered in the silence. No threats. No demands. No declaration. Just one simple question.
And for the first time in decades, Imran Zakhaev found himself facing an enemy he didn't know how to fight.
[Makarov] 🖤 Angst | 💔 Lost Love | ⏳ Right Person, Wrong Time | 👻 Ghosts of the Past | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort | 👶 Pregnancy/Children | 🌧️ What Could Have Been
The Child
It happens by accident. Most painful things do. Vladimir isn't looking for memories that day. He isn't dwelling on the past. He isn't thinking about you. At least that's what he tells himself.
The park is crowded. Families everywhere. Children running between benches. Parents calling after them. Normal life. The kind he rarely sees. The kind he was never supposed to have.
Then he notices you. Not immediately. Just a familiar face in the distance. A familiar laugh. A familiar smile. And suddenly the years between now and then don't feel quite so long.
You haven't seen him yet. You're talking to someone. A friend, maybe. A relative. It doesn't matter.
What matters is the small boy currently running across the grass. Blond hair. Bright eyes. Tiny shoes slapping against the pavement. No older than four. Maybe five.
The child trips. Stumbles. And immediately looks around for you. Not crying. Not panicking. Just searching. Because children always know where safety is.
You kneel before he even reaches you. Checking scraped knees.nBrushing dirt away. Murmuring something soft and reassuring.
The little boy immediately wraps his arms around your neck. And Vladimir's chest tightens. Not because the child is his. He isn't. Not because he wants to take anyone's place. He doesn't.
But for one brief, cruel second, his mind betrays him. He imagines. A different park. A different life. A different future.
One where the child running toward you had his eyes. One where he'd been allowed to stand beside you. One where he was just a father. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The fantasy lasts less than a second, then it's gone, leaving behind only silence. And grief for something he never actually had.
[Makarov] 🖤 Angst | ⏳ Right Person, Wrong Time | 🔥 Mutual Pining | 👑 Political Marriage | 🌱 Slow Burn
Viktor's Bride
You were ten years old when your future was decided. Not by you, not by your family, not even by Viktor Zakhaev.
The agreement was made by men sitting around a table discussing power, influence, and alliances. You simply happened to be part of the negotiation.
You were the sole heir of the powerful crime family of your nation. Imran Zakhaev's future daughter-in-law.
The arrangement made perfect sense on paper. The fact that Viktor was fifteen years older than you hardly mattered. The marriage would happen later. Years later, once you were old enough. Until then, you would be brought to Moscow and raised among the people you would someday call family.
So that was exactly what happened. You learned Russian. You learned politics. You learned etiquette. You learned diplomacy. You learned how to smile during meetings you hated and how to remain silent when powerful men spoke. Most importantly, you learned how to become the wife everyone expected you to be.
The only problem was Viktor.
Viktor was never cruel with you. Never unkind. Never abusive. He simply didn't care, not really. Not in the way a future husband should.
As the years passed, it became impossible not to notice. At sixteen, he treated you exactly the same as he had at ten. At eighteen, nothing changed. At twenty, still nothing.
The engagement existed. The relationship did not. Viktor spent his evenings elsewhere. With other women, other companions. Other distractions, never the same person twice. And never you.
You stopped expecting anything eventually. It hurt less that way. At least, that was what you told yourself. The irony was that someone else noticed. Someone always noticed.
Vladimir Makarov had been part of the Zakhaev inner circle almost as long as you could remember. When you first arrived in Moscow, he was already there. A young, ambitious soldier.
Yet when you struggled with the language, he helped. When politics became overwhelming, he explained. When homesickness hit harder than expected, he quietly sat beside you until it passed.
Years went by. And somehow Vladimir remained a constant. The one person who always seemed to have time for you. The one person who listened. The one person who remembered. You never allowed yourself to think too deeply about it, there was no point. Your future had already been decided.
Besides, Vladimir never said anything. Neither did you, so life continued. Until it didn't.
Viktor Zakhaev died, then Imran followed. The world shifted overnight. And suddenly every agreement built around the Zakhaev family shattered.
The engagement. The alliance. The future planned for you since childhood. Gone, just like that.
For several weeks you existed in a strange limbo. Nobody seemed to know what to do with you. Least of all yourself. Which was how you ended up sitting in Vladimir's office one rainy evening.
The Zakhaev estate felt emptier than ever. The silence pressed against the walls. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. Inside, only paperwork disturbed the stillness.
Makarov occupied Imran's old chair now. The position looked disturbingly natural on him. Neither of you spoke for several minutes. Finally, you broke first.
"What happens to me now?" The question sounded pathetic the moment it left your mouth. Vladimir glanced up from the report he was reading.
"What do you mean?"
You looked away. "The agreement."
His expression didn't change. "There is no agreement."
You laughed softly. A bitter sound. "There has been an agreement my entire life."
"No." The answer came immediately. "There was."
Something about the correction made your chest ache. You stared at the floor. At your hands. Anywhere except him. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
For several moments, only the rain answered. Then Vladimir spoke. Quietly. Calmly. As though discussing the weather. "Whatever you want."
The words hit harder than expected. You looked up. "What?"
"Whatever you want."
You simply stared. Nobody had ever asked what you wanted before. Not your parents. Not Imran. Not Viktor. Nobody. Your entire life had been a sequence of instructions handed down by people more powerful than you. And now, suddenly, someone was offering a choice. You didn't know what to do with it.
The silence stretched. Then you laughed again. This time it sounded sad. "I don't even know what I want anymore."
Something softened in Vladimir's expression. Only briefly. Then he opened one of the desk drawers. Your attention followed automatically. He reached inside. Removed a small velvet box, and placed it on the desk. The sight made your stomach drop instantly.
No. Absolutely not. Not possible. Not after all these years.
Slowly, he pushed it toward you. You stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the box. "When did you buy that?"
A pause. "8 years ago." The world stopped.
"8 years?"
"Approximately."
You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time.
"8 years ago I was 18."
"I am aware."
Your heart began pounding. A dozen questions collided inside your head. Only one escaped. "Why?"
For the first time that evening, Vladimir looked away. Toward the rain. Toward the window. Toward 8 lost years, probably.
"Viktor was incapable. I asked Imran for permission."
You forgot how to breathe. The room became silent again. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was far too much. You stared at him. At the man who had spent over a decade standing beside you. The man who always showed up. The man who remembered everything. The man who never said a word. And suddenly every small moment felt different.
Every conversation. Every glance. Every visit. Every year.
"You asked him?" The question came out barely above a whisper.
"Yes."
"And he said no."
A faint smile appeared. Humorless. Tired. "Obviously. You we're Viktor's bride, even if he was not interested, the agreement existed."
Of course. The realization hurt more than expected. Not because Imran rejected him. Because nobody had ever told you there had been another candidate.
For years, you believed Viktor was inevitable. That the future had always been fixed. But it wasn't. Once, long ago, someone had chosen you. And apparently never stopped.
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[Makarov] 🖤 Angst | 👶 Pregnancy/Children | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort | 💔 Lost Love
[TW child loss mentioned - please don't read it if you're sensitive to this topic]
The Hospital Call
Price heard the call by accident. Years later, he would tell himself that part didn't matter, that none of it mattered. But he remembered every word. Every single one.
The operation had been a success. Or as close to a success as anything involving Vladimir Makarov could ever be. Intelligence had been recovered. Targets eliminated. Months of work were finally paying off.
Price had been reviewing reports when the secure line rang. Not his. Makarov's.
The surveillance team had managed to piggyback onto a communication channel they normally never would've touched. Pure luck.
Price almost ignored it. Then he heard the voice on the other end. Urgent. Panicked. Russian. Hospital. Pregnancy. Complications.
The words came quickly, too quickly. Price only understood pieces, but he understood enough, and then something happened that he never forgot.
The room on the other end went silent. Completely silent for nearly three seconds, then Makarov spoke. Not like a commander, not like a leader, not like the most wanted terrorist on the planet. Just a man. A terrified one.
"Which hospital?"
The answer came immediately. Price listened to coordinates being exchanged. Room numbers. Doctors. Details. Every second sounded more desperate than the last. Then the final sentence. The one that stuck.
"I'm on my way."
The line disconnected. According to every report they had afterward, Makarov abandoned the site less than ten minutes later. A strategic position. Months of preparation. Resources. Personnel. All left behind, for a hospital. For a woman. For a child.
Price had stared at the report for a long time afterward, because it didn't fit. Nothing about it fit. Monsters weren't supposed to have weak points, not real ones. Not human ones.
That day Price learned something important. Vladimir Makarov loved something more than his cause. And that made him dangerous in an entirely different way.
---
Years later they stood face to face again. The building around them burned. Smoke filled the air. The war was ending, one way or another.
Price's body ached, blood ran down one side of his face. Across from him, Makarov looked no better. Bruised. Exhausted. Older than the man Price had spent years chasing. For a moment neither moved. Neither spoke.
Just two men standing among the ruins of everything they had built their lives around. Price should have hated him. He did, probably. But standing there, he found himself remembering that phone call.
Remembering the panic. The fear. The urgency. The humanity. Before he could stop himself, he asked.
"Did you make it in time?"
The question hung in the air. Makarov froze. Not physically. Something behind his eyes. Something old, something buried.
For the first time since Price had known him, Makarov looked genuinely caught off guard. Not by a weapon. Not by a threat. By a question.
Neither man spoke. The fire crackled somewhere behind them. Eventually Makarov laughed. A short, bitter sound.
"No."
Price didn't know what answer he expected. But it wasn't that. Makarov looked away first, toward the flames, toward the broken windows. Toward anything except him.
"There was traffic."
The words sounded absurd, almost laughable. Traffic. As if they were discussing an ordinary day. An ordinary life. Not tragedy. Not loss. Traffic.
"I was nineteen minutes late."
Price stayed silent. Somehow he knew there was more. Makarov's jaw tightened. For a moment Price thought the conversation was over. It wasn't.
"She called me. I didn't pick up. She stopped after the sixth attempt."
The confession came quietly. Almost thoughtfully. Like something he had repeated to himself so many times it had lost all meaning. Except it hadn't. Price could hear that too.
"She called an ambulance." Another pause. "I found out from the hospital." The smoke stung Price's eyes. Or maybe it was something else. Because suddenly he understood. The hospital wasn't the wound. Being late wasn't the wound. The wound was that she'd needed him, and he hadn't answered. Not once.
Makarov finally looked back at him. The fire reflected in his eyes. Older now. Tired. Haunted.
"I thought she would forgive me."
Price said nothing. What could he possibly say?
Makarov smiled. A terrible smile. The kind people wore when speaking about things they regretted more than death.
"I think losing the child would've hurt less."
Price's breath caught. "Than what?"
For several seconds, Makarov simply stared into the flames, the he answered. "Than the way she looked at me afterward."
Silence. Absolute silence. Because Price understood immediately. He had seen that look before. Not from lovers, not from enemies. From soldiers. The moment trust died. The moment someone realized they were alone, and no amount of apologies could bring it back.
Eventually Makarov laughed again, almost to himself.
"You know the worst part, Captain?" Price wished he didn't. He really did. But he asked anyway. Makarov's eyes drifted somewhere far away. To a hospital room. To a ringing phone. To a life that no longer existed. And when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"She still loved me."
Price didn't answer. Because somehow that was worse than if she hadn't. Much worse. The fire continued to burn around them. And for one brief moment, standing in the ruins of a war, John Price finally understood something.
Vladimir Makarov would survive losing countries. He would survive losing armies. He would survive losing wars. But he had never survived that hospital room. And he never would.
[Makarov] 🩸 Betrayal | 🖤 Angst | 💔 Lost Love | 😭 Emotional Hurt/No Comfort
The Mole
The report arrived at 3:14 AM. Under normal circumstances, Vladimir Makarov would've ignored it until morning.
This wasn't a normal report. It carried a priority designation that very few people had the authority to use, so he opened it, alone, in his office.
Halfway through a cup of coffee that would eventually grow cold beside him. At first, nothing seemed unusual. Names. Operations. Locations. Communications. The usual.
Then he reached page seven, and stopped reading. The room suddenly felt very quiet, his eyes returned to the same line. Again. And again.
Certain he had misunderstood. Certain there had to be some mistake. There wasn't.
A photograph sat clipped to the page. A familiar photograph. One he had seen hundreds of times. Because it was you.
Beneath it: Embedded Asset. Confirmed.
For several seconds, Vladimir simply stared. Not moving. Not breathing. Not thinking.
The human mind had a remarkable ability to reject information it didn't want to accept. This was one of those moments. Eventually he continued reading, each sentence made things worse.
Years ago, before you'd ever met him, another organization had placed you inside his network. A long-term intelligence asset. Your purpose had been simple. Gain trust, gather information, report back. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The file detailed everything. Your recruitment, your handlers, your assignments. The information you had passed along. Every secret, every operation, every lie.
By the end, Vladimir realized he had stopped feeling angry. Anger would have been easier. This felt closer to grief.
The report included timelines. Dates, communications, encrypted messages. Proof. Far too much proof. Enough that even he couldn't deny it. Then he reached the final section and froze. Because something didn't make sense.
The reports stopped.
Abruptly, three years ago. No communications, no updates, no intelligence transfers. Nothing. The handler's notes became increasingly frustrated. Repeated attempts to establish contact. Repeated failures. Repeated orders ignored.
At first, Vladimir didn't understand. Then he reached the final entry. The last message ever recovered. One sentence. One line. One decision.
I will not continue.
The timestamp was dated almost three years earlier. Three years. His gaze slowly drifted toward the photograph again. Three years. That was the same year everything had changed.
The same year you had started staying longer after meetings. The same year conversations became dinners. The same year professional distance disappeared. The same year he had allowed himself to trust you.
For the first time since opening the file, Vladimir closed his eyes. Not because it helped. Vecause it didn't. The realization only made things worse.
You had betrayed him. That part was true. Every page proved it. But somewhere along the way you had stopped. Not because you'd been caught. Not because you'd been forced. Because you'd chosen to. And somehow that hurt more. Because now there was no simple answer. No clean hatred. No convenient villain. Only questions. Too many questions.
He spent the rest of the night sitting in silence. The report remained open on the desk. The coffee untouched. The sky slowly brightened beyond the window.nBy morning, he still hadn't moved. You found him there several hours later.
The moment you stepped into the office, you knew. You didn't need to see the file. Didn't need to read the expression on his face.nYou knew. Years of training made certain of that.
The door closed quietly behind you. Neither of you spoke. For a long time. Finally, your eyes found the report. The photograph. The open page. The truth.
You looked away first. Not out of guilt. Out of exhaustion. Because you'd known this day would come eventually. You had just hoped it wouldn't.
"How long?" His voice was calm. Too calm. You hated that. Because it meant he was hurting.
"Since the beginning." The answer landed like a gunshot. Neither of you flinched.
"You were sent to spy on me."
"Yes."
Silence. Another question. "Were any of it real?"
There it was. Not the operations. Not the intelligence. Not the lies. That. The only thing that actually mattered. For the first time, your composure cracked. Because you had known that question was coming too. And there was no answer that could fix this.
"No." The word almost made him look away. Then you continued. "No, it wasn't real." His jaw tightened. You forced yourself to keep speaking. Because if you stopped now, you never would.
"It wasn't real when I arrived." The silence that followed was devastating.
"I was sent here with orders." Your voice shook. Slightly. Enough. "I was supposed to leave." A breath. "I was supposed to report back." Another. "I was supposed to keep lying." Tears burned behind your eyes. "But then I met you."
Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away. The office felt smaller than it ever had before.
"You should've kept going." The words came from him. Quiet. Broken. You laughed softly. The sound carried no humor.
"I know."
And that was the tragedy of it. Because both of you knew exactly how much easier this would've been if you had. If you'd remained the spy. If you'd remained the liar. If you'd never fallen in love. Instead, you had become something far more dangerous.
Someone who belonged to neither side. Someone who had betrayed everyone. Including yourself. And as Vladimir stared at the person he'd trusted more than anyone else, he realized something horrible.
The report had told him who you were. It had explained every lie. Every secret. Every betrayal. But it hadn't changed one simple fact. He still loved you. And somehow that was the worst part.
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