Welcome To Hell

You were the latest addition to the Task Force, a new effort to "inject culture" as you so lovingly had teased. And true enough, you brought color to the task force. Soap had practically dropped to one knee in front of you the first time you made feijoada in a crock pot in the rec room, the smell permeated the room in the most homely way possible. There was a warmth in your chest at having cared for your teammates the best way you knew how, especially at how readily they ate up their portions, Soap and Gaz elbowing each other to get seconds.

You proudly brought your team into frame anytime you got a FaceTime call from your family back home, joyfully introducing them in beautiful Portuguese, laughing when your cousins teased Soap for his hair, playfully admonishing your nephews for making comments about Ghost's mask, telling your mom to back off when she started asking which one of them you were going to bring home for the holidays.

Task Force 141 was being assigned a joint operation with some members of Los Vaqueros to help dismantle the remnants of some narcos operation. Soap had been talking your ear off about Alejandro and Rudy, their previous collaboration with the men was before your transfer into the task force. Needless to say, you were curious to meet the men.

The five of you were sat in the briefing room reviewing plans and schematics when Alejandro and Rudy walked with competence and confidence. With an ease that spoke to how well they knew the men in the room,

"¿Qué onda?" Alejandro firmly shook the team's hands and pulled them into firm embraces, until it was your turn. You gave him your name with a grin that matched his, an enthusiasm whose origin he caught onto quickly,

"¿Hablas español?"

"Portuguese, hermano." You beamed, "But I can understand you for the most part."

"Brazil?" Rudy offered as he shook your hand warmly,

"Where else?" You beamed,

"Here comes trouble." Soap teased, earning a playful elbow in the ribs from you. Alejandro laughed, bright and deep,

"Qué chingón. This is going to be better than I thought."

The remainder of the op would pass in a surprisingly joyful blur. Alejandro and Rudy would speak to you in Spanish, and you'd either answer in Portuguese on instinct or you'd ask Alejandro to repeat himself, bastard speaks Spanish faster than you can keep up with at times. And he'd always, happily repeat himself. Rudy would ask you to teach him a few phrases in Portuguese and he'd tell you a few in Spanish, always careful to let you know when slang was involved.

You'd compare your breakfast dishes, while arguing that Brazil had the best. In your proud opinion, nothing beats pão de queijo with some scrambled eggs and coffee. To which Alejandro would protest that huevos rancheros were better, earning him a swift, playful, smack on the arm. Rudy gently interjected with his preference of huevos divorciados, resulting in both you and Alejandro looking at him like he'd sprung a second head.

The nights would end around a crackling fire, something warm cradled between palms, laughter and teasing nonstop. You loved going toe to toe with Alejandro, you loved hearing the easy Spanish he shared with Rudy and the rest of his men. It made you feel right at home.

And 141? They loved seeing this side of you, proud, joyful, and sharing in the beauty of your home.

It’s true that Evelyn hated being right. But she also hated being wrong. And her mental math was way off on how long it’d take until safe extraction. When she’d managed to get a hold of Price, it was near impossible to understand what he was saying. But from what she gathered, he’d managed to meet up with Soap and Gaz, and that the plan was to come for them in the morning. 

She’d estimated at least three hours.

It’s looking more like eight.

She didn’t need to tell Simon, he’d heard all of it himself. 

So, Evelyn got busy. She moved whatever was left– desks, tables, bookcases– in front of the windows, not enough to cover them completely but at least to barricade themselves. She kicked apart tables and chairs and tossed the broken pieces into a pile on the floor.

He collected the smaller pieces and created a space in front of him, pulling the firestarter kit out of her already opened bag. 

The fire was small, and the broken pieces of wall and ceiling allowed for satisfactory ventilation. 

She took up her post at the far wall across from Simon, door to her right, rifle on the ground to her left, her sidearm always within reach. 

He was right there, and she couldn’t do it. 

Still can’t bring herself to ask him why he stopped writing. 

Did she really want to know? What if something horrible had happened? Or worse yet, what if he’d actually gotten tired of her? What if all that devotion was one sided and she’d held a candle to the idea of him all these years?

But he’d said it himself.

She has a son.

Simon apparently found out about Peter and decided the next best course of action was to throw himself at work, like the exhaustion would keep him from focusing on it. 

Evelyn looked over at him, intently watched the rise and fall of his chest as he rested his head back against his wall, dark brown eyes closed but she knew he was far from asleep.

Did he react like that because he somehow knows he’s Peter’s father, and he can’t cope with the idea of being a father?

Or did he react like that because he thinks Peter is another man’s son, and maybe there’s a chance he’s mourning a missed life with her, as much as she has?

Her heart skipped a beat at the thought.

Why did he always have to be so difficult? And why did it always fall on her to take the first step?

After all, she was the one who asked him out. 

She kissed him first.

It’d be nice if he’d be brave enough to initiate, for once. 

A fitting juxtaposition for a man hiding his face behind a skull mask and a callsign like “Ghost”.

“You’ll freeze to death over there, Evelyn, at least stay close.” Simon’s voice cut through her thoughts and the white noise of the wind raging outside.

“I’m f-fine.” A shiver picking the perfect time to diminish her point, 

“Don’t make me get up. Hate to undo your fine work.”

“Bandage should hold up just fine.” She muttered, bringing her knees closer to her chest. Simon sighed and started moving to get up, “Fine! Fine, Christ.”

He was, on occasion, more stubborn than she was. 

Evelyn stood up on stiff legs, wincing when she put weight on her right foot. Of course he was watching her.

“What's wrong?”

“I pulled something. You’re not exactly light.” She did her best to walk over to him with her back straight, evenly distributing her weight between her left and right foot, even though her ankle was screaming. But even she knew she wasn’t selling the act well enough. 

He’d moved over just enough to give her space to sit, eyes never leaving her as she crossed the room. He didn’t settle until she’d sat down beside him, not close enough to touch, but enough to feel the heat coming off of him. God, he’d always been a furnace. And as someone who always ran cold, she appreciated it to no end.

“I won’t bite.” Simon’s voice was low, threaded with an attempt at humor,

He was trying. It was a little awkward and the tension sat on his shoulders, but he was trying.

“I will.”

And Evelyn was trying really hard to stay mad at him. 

“You always were a spitfire.”

But he always made it impossible. And she didn’t know what to do with all this.

“I waited for you, Simon.” 

Whatever comes next is out of my control and I have to accept that.

He let out a breath like she’d struck him and he knew he deserved it, “I know, bug.”

“Do you?” She turned her head to look at him, hazel eyes searching for any trace of the boy she lost. A wild anger flaring in her chest at the sight of his mask, she clenched her fists against the desire to rip it off and throw it into the fire.

“There were so many letters, Si, I kept writing and writing and taking them to the fucking post office.” Her throat threatened to close, but she pushed through, like she always did,

“Until finally, one comes back with a fucking stamp that says ‘return to sender’.” She looked back at the fire in front of them, forced herself to look anywhere but his eyes.

They had always been deceptively expressive. 

And right now, he was looking at her like he had been hurting just as much as she was. 

“Why did you stop writing back?” Her voice was smaller than it had ever been, like she was right back to being that eighteen year old with a newborn at home, holding that letter in clenched fists, standing at the post office as the staff looked at her with sympathy.

“I–” Simon’s throat clicked as he tried to find the words. Even though she was right next to him, she was still hundreds of miles away. Or however far it is from Manchester to Seattle.

“Sorry, this really isn’t the time or the place to be doing this.” Evelyn turned her head away from him, legs to her chest, she rested her chin on her knees as she looked elsewhere. 

The only sound filling the space was the soft crackle of their small fire.

“Things were alright, for a time. Dad was… dad. You know how he was.”

She still wouldn’t look at him, but he didn’t miss the way her shoulders tensed.

“Mum got sick, took care of her, she didn’t make it.” Simon looked at the fire, just as she was a moment ago, “Dad got worse, Tommy got in with the wrong crowd. Everything just went to complete shit, Evie.”

“Dad died. Tommy followed soon after. And I couldn’t be that boy anymore, Ev. I didn’t know how to keep you.” In his periphery, he saw that she turned to face him again,

“You could’ve told me, Si.” Her voice was gentler than it had any right to be, “I would’ve been there.”

“How?”

“I don’t know but I would’ve moved mountains for you, Simon, you know that.”

He sighed, “I know, I just… wanted to keep you away.”

“But why?”

“What if it was me, Ev? I was the only constant in any of their lives and I just–”

He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. Not after thinking it for the last fifteen years on a vicious loop.

“You wanted to protect me?”

His voice was a fractured whisper, “It was all I wanted.”

“That wasn’t your call to make, Simon, it never was.” Her hand reached across the space and rested on his forearm, and it felt like lightning on his skin, “Not when we were kids, not when you stopped writing, and definitely not now.”

“I’m sorry, Evelyn. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Evelyn reached into her plate carrier and pulled a folded paper out from between the fabric. She held it in trembling hands, fingers tracing the frayed edges. It was weathered and yellowed from age, the ink had bled through with time but it was still legible.

“I held onto this thinking I’d find you again one day.” She spoke so quietly, if it wasn’t for how close she was, he would’ve missed it.

“Imagined myself shoving it into your hands and making a scene.” She huffed a watery laugh, “You know how dramatic I could be.”

She took a deep breath and held it out to him, the paper shaking between her fingers. He took it from her reverently, eyes taking in every wrinkle, every fold, every dried blotch.

“Just, don’t read it now, god, that’d be too much for both of us, I think. But, it was meant for your hands, and into your hands it goes.”

A moment passed of just the fire softly popping, wind slowing down outside their shelter.

“Will you tell me about him? Your son?” Simon had no right to ask, but god he wanted to know. To know about the boy who carried part of her.

“Not tonight, Simon. Get some rest, I’ll take first watch.” Evelyn shook her head, hand back on his forearm and giving him a gentle squeeze.

“Ev.”

She laughed softly, “Don’t argue with me, Si. I have a teenage boy at home. You won’t win.”

“Gets his stubborn streak from you, then?”

“Something like that. Rest. I mean it.”

She’d tell him soon. When he’s rested and when they’re not stranded in a snow storm.

She’d tell him what that letter meant, what it was supposed to be a precursor to. That in her confrontational fantasy, Peter would be sitting far enough to be out of ear shot, but close enough that Simon couldn’t refute resemblance. 

Evelyn shouldered most of his weight as she dragged the both of them towards the ruined shelter, gritting her teeth against the cold and the burn in her thighs. It’s not like he made it easier, kept dragging his feet, acting like he was going to pull away anytime they made significant progress.

He did the same thing when they were kids.

Stubborn fucker.

Lucky for both of them that she’d outlive God just to have the last word.

It was a struggle to get the door to budge, but after three solid, awkward kicks and a string of curses it gave in and they could walk through. As gently as she could, she set him down before turning back to shove the door back into place. 

The wind wasn’t as loud in here, less of a howl and more of a whistle as it seeped in through cracks and broken windows. Within seconds she was at his side again, pack slung off her shoulders, and already rummaging to get her med kit.

“Let me see it.” The words left her mouth with a cloud of condensation. Her world narrowed down to the task in front of her– find the trauma shears, get the gauze and saline flush ready, assess the wound, do not think about Simon Riley outside of operational capacity.

“‘M fine, Ev– Echo.” He was lying through his teeth, quite literally. He pushed her hand away with a shrug of his shoulder, a movement that sounded like it cost him.

Evelyn pushed back against his hands, “Just– fuck– Simon, let me do my fucking job, you stubborn asshole.” She didn’t wait for his permission again, just roughly moved his arms out of her way so she could cut the fabric and assess the wound. 

The material stuck to his skin like a second layer as she peeled it away. The skin was red and angry in a deep line along the side of his ribs, the edges looked ragged, slightly burned, blood flowing freely– like the round had skimmed instead of punched through.

“Told you, ‘m fine.” He groaned as he shifted against the cracked wall,

“Doesn’t mean you should leave it unattended.” Her voice was quiet as she reached for the gauze from her pack, pressing her hands firmly against his side, mentally counting down from a hundred-twenty.

“Doesn’t mean you should’ve left your post, either.”

She shook her head with a scoff, “Not that it matters, but Price gave me the ok.”

A pause.

“Besides, none of this would’ve happened if you’d listened to me in the first place.” Evelyn muttered under her breath,

Simon turned his head to look at her, brows furrowed under the mask, “You sayin’ this is my fault?” 

“What, you can critique my breathing, but I can’t call you out for being reckless?”

“Wasn’t reckless.”

Evelyn may have pressed the gauze in a little harder than she should’ve.

“What do you call the shit that’s stuck to my gloves right this second?”

Eighty seconds left.

“Part of the job.”

She scoffed, “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

He stayed there for a moment. Looked at her, truly looked at her now that she was close enough. Even in the low light of the broken down shelter he could see her. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she peeled the gauze back to irrigate the wound. He watched her hands, watched the way they moved, certain but with the slightest revelatory tremble.

“What, nothing to say to that?” 

She was still heartbreakingly beautiful. Sweating, covered in grime and debris, angry and focused. It split his chest in two.

He closed his eyes for a moment, tipped his head back against the concrete wall. He imagined for a minute those same hands flushing his wound holding a much smaller hand, no bigger than the size of her palm. 

He recalled the day he walked past her quarters, the one time he was fully intent on talking to her, finally laying himself at her feet. 

And then he heard talking through the door, 

“When are you coming home?” The voice was young, male, almost sad when he’d asked his question.

Too young to be a boyfriend or a husband. She didn’t have any younger brothers. A cousin maybe? No. She wasn’t close to her mom’s side of the family, even less so her father’s. 

“Soon, hopefully. Give it another month or so.”

A nephew maybe. Her sisters weren’t that much younger than her. He wouldn’t be surprised if Viv had gotten married and Evely became the aunt that doted on her kids.

“Ok. Be safe, mom. Love you.”

What?

“Love you too, bug. You be safe too.”

That’s what Simon used to call her. 

And now she’s saying it to a boy that’s calling her “mom”.

He turned on his heel and got the fuck away from her. Did everything he could in the following week to stay as far from her as possible. Threw himself into whatever was in front of him like a man possessed. 

Threw himself into this op like a man with nothing left to lose.

Because Evelyn had a son. Her life had gone on without him. She really did meet someone else. Really did settle down and have a family. And the universe in its twisted humor, brought her back to him just to rub his face in it.

Look what you could’ve had if you were anyone but who you are now.

“– Simon?!” Evelyn shook him roughly, eyes wide with panic until his found hers through the haze, “Jesus, Si, you scared me.” Her shoulders eased as she got back to work on dressing his wound.

The silence settled between them like snow.

“What were you thinking, Simon?” Her voice was quiet, carrying a deep ache, like it was pulled from a place that had once scabbed over. 

She tore off the final piece of tape and gently smoothed it against his skin, sitting back on her haunches to inspect her work, “That feel ok?”

He took a few deep breaths, clenching his teeth when it stung, and nodded.

“Good.” Evelyn stood up on stiff legs and walked towards the door they came from, he couldn’t stop watching her. Dark brown eyes tracking her as she cased the area, assessed the damage from the weather, checked comms only for them to be dead, did the mental math for how long it would be until extraction. 

“Well?” She turned towards him, hazel eyes locked onto him like heat seeking missiles. She wanted his blood and god, he’d let her have all of him if she wanted.

“You wanna do this right now?” He muttered through grit teeth.

But life carved him into something stubborn, something mean, and something that never gave in easily, no matter how badly he wanted to.

“Absolutely not. What I want is to understand why you decided to throw all of us under the bus with your lone wolf bullshit.” Her fingers were starting to tremble at her sides, it was either the cold or the persistent adrenaline, or a combination of both.

“I didn’t ask you to come after me.”

Evelyn huffed incredulously, “That’s not the fucking point, Simon, you put all of us at risk. And for what?”

“I told you we’d lose the window.”

“And I told you, better to lose the window than our lives. Don’t lie to me, Simon, enough, please.”

“What, you think you still know me?”

“Apparently fucking not.” Her breath hitched at the end, chest tight, heart thundering away against her ribs and putting the storm outside to shame. Her arms came to wrap around herself as she sat down across from him, back towards the wall, door to her right.

The thick silence came back for just a moment.

Simon’s throat felt like gravel as he spoke, “You have a son.”

It took her a moment to process what he’d said.

“I– How did you–” Evelyn’s mouth opened then closed, “Wait…” The realization hit her like a slap, her eyes narrowed into slits,

“You’re throwing yourself off a proverbial bridge because you found out I have a son.”

Ok. When she said it like that, it made a lick of shame crawl up his spine.

“Oh, good fucking God, Simon.” She ran her hands over her face, she always did that when she was at her wit’s end. 

He remembers the amount of times she’d vent to him about her sisters and the way she’d hide her cheeks in her palms, dragging them down with a groan.

“You’re such a mess, Si.” Evelyn shook her head before resting it back against the wall, she brought her knees close to her chest. A dull throbbing ache shooting up from her right ankle, she knows she twisted it or sprained it or something on her way to get to Simon. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She laughed bitterly, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that. Especially because you know why.”

The follow up question escaped his throat before he could stop it.

“Would you have?”

Evelyn closed her eyes like she was bracing herself.

“I tried. But you never wrote back.” She’d said it so matter of factly, but he saw the way her fists clutched her sleeves. When she opened her eyes, she stopped looking at him, instead turned her head to focus on something beyond the walls.

Can’t be part of someone’s life if you don’t stick around.

And he’d failed miserably.

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It was routine on paper.

Deteriorating weather conditions had all been accounted for. Estimated. Filed away. Planned for.

Echo was on overwatch, as usual. Prone. Skeleton one with the frozen earth beneath her. Eye socket pressed to the glass as she watched her team move.

Somewhere down there, Simon moved with them. The father of her son.

The thought still kicked her heart up a gear.

‘You can’t afford that right now. Stop it.’

Peter’s dad.

‘Enough.’

“Echo, report.” Price’s voice cut through the dangerous spiral. Thank god for men like Price.

“Quiet so far, Cap. Visibility’s holding, but weather’s rolling in fast from the east. Wind’s picking up– gusting.”

“Copy.”

“Feels like shite already,” Soap muttered over comms, his voice edged with static. “You seein’ this cloud line?”

“I see it,” Evelyn said, adjusting slightly, recalculating. “Recommend we call it. Conditions are about to turn.”

A beat.

“Negative, Echo. We proceed.” Simon’s voice came through low, distorted by distance and interference. 

Her jaw tightened. This fucking guy.

“By the time it turns, we’re already in it,” she shot back. “We lose visibility, we lose overwatch. You’ll be blind down there.”

“We leave now, we lose the window,” Simon replied. “Target won’t hold position forever.”

“Better to lose the window than the team,” she snapped, irritation threading through despite her effort to keep it level.

Silence stretched just long enough to feel it.

He’d been on some workaholic kick lately. Always moving, always doing something, fixing something that didn’t need fixing, throwing himself at ops like a man with nothing left to lose. He was burning himself down to the wick.

But this? 

This wasn’t discipline.

It was Russian roulette, only– he knew where the bullet was chambered.

“Enough, you two.” Price’s irritation was on full display, “Ghost’s right, we proceed as planned for now.”

“Understood.” Evelyn spoke the word through grit teeth. Not just because it was starting to get dangerously cold and she was losing sensation in her fingertips. But because she hated playing chicken with something as unpredictable as weather.

She adjusted her scope again, tracking the horizon as the storm crept closer, slow and inevitable. The wind shifted– subtle, but wrong.

God, please let her intuition be wrong.

It wouldn’t.

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The first shift is subtle.

The wind doesn’t howl right away. It doesn’t announce itself like a warning siren or a looming disaster. It creeps. Slips between buildings and over rooftops, curling low along the ground like something alive. 

Evelyn feels it before she sees it.

A change in the way her scope trembles against her shoulder. A barely-there drag on the bullet path she’s already compensating for without thinking. The air thickening. Pressure shifting.

Her fingers flex slightly against the stock, already stiffening.

“Cap,” she murmurs, quieter this time, less argument and more insistence, “wind’s picking up faster than forecasted.”

There’s a pause on comms. Not long. Just long enough.

“We’re still within parameters,” Price answers.

Below her, the team continues moving.

Evelyn exhales slowly through her nose, trying to settle the unease crawling up her spine. She adjusts her position slightly, dragging her elbow an inch deeper into the frozen ground, ignoring the way the cold has started to burn through her sleeve.

“Visibility’s starting to drop,” she adds, more firmly now. “We’re going to lose sightlines.”

“Copy,” Price says. “We’re close. Stand by.”

Stand by. Her jaw tightens.

The first real gust hits a second later.

Not strong enough to knock anything over, but enough to blur the edges of her scope. Snow lifts from the ground in thin, spiraling sheets, skimming across her line of sight like static.

And just like that– the world starts to disappear.

“Cap,” Evelyn says, sharper now. “We need to pull them.”

No answer.

Because at the same time–

“Contact.”

Simon’s voice cuts in, low and immediate.

And everything changes.

It happens fast after that.

Too fast. Movement below– shadows breaking formation, hostiles appearing where there shouldn’t be any. The storm rolls in harder, visibility dropping from clear to compromised in seconds, turning clean sightlines into fractured glimpses.

Just like she fucking said it would.

Evelyn adjusts, tracks, fires.

One down.

Repositions.

Another.

Her breathing stays steady even as her heart starts to climb, even as the wind fights her for every inch of control.

“Echo, I’ve lost visual on the west side,” Gaz’s voice cuts through.

“Same,” Soap adds. “This is gettin’ messy.”

“No shit.” She muttered under her breath. Evelyn shifted again, trying to reacquire sightlines, visual, fucking anything– and then she sees him.

Simon.

Out of position. Not by much, not enough for anyone else to call it yet. But enough for her to catch him.

He’s pushing forward instead of falling back. Chasing a line that’s already collapsing under the storm. Visibility’s shot, angles are wrong, the environment’s turning more hostile by the second and he’s still moving like he can outpace it.

Like he can outrun something she can’t see.

“Ghost, fall back,” she snaps.

No response.

“Simon–”

The name slips out raw, instinctive, before she can swallow it down.

“Ghost, you need to fall back. Now.”

“Almost clear,” he replies instead, voice tight, focused, completely ignoring her.

Of course he is.

Of course he fucking is.

The wind howls louder, sharp enough now that it cuts through comms in bursts of static. Snow whips across her scope, turning everything into fragments—movement, shadows, shapes that don’t hold long enough to trust.

Then–

A crack.

Not hers. Not clean.

“Ghost?” Price’s voice cuts in.

No answer.

Evelyn’s stomach dropped. She started moving before the decision finished forming, rifle slung, body pushing up from her prone position, boots slipping slightly against the frozen surface as she scrambled down from overwatch.

“Echo, hold your position,” Price orders, sharp now.

She doesn’t. Her lungs start to burn from the effort of dragging herself through the snow. She can’t slow down now. Won’t.

“Echo–”

“Ghost is down.” The words came out with more of a tremble than she’d wanted.

There’s a beat of silence on comms, then–

“Move.”

That’s all Price gives her. 

She would’ve continued her path even if he’d decided to threaten her against it.

Especially then.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late when they finished their school work. 

They both managed to get detention together. Some prick in their class flipped Evelyn’s skirt, she tripped him as he ran away, Simon pinned him and broke his nose. He’d stayed close to her for the rest of the day. Even when teachers threatened him with suspension for being insubordinate. 

The sun had gone down and Evelyn had insisted on walking Simon home for once.

It’s not like she lived that far anyway. That and her father was home. She wasn’t ready to deal with him just yet. 

Tommy had stayed behind with Simon. He’d always orbited the Miller girls, loved each of them for different reasons. 

Simon was nervous as hell about her walking them home. Not only about her safety walking back on her own. But because his father was home too. And he didn’t want anyone to deal with him.

And, fuck, did the old man deliver. 

As soon as they turned onto the sidewalk leading into their home, Simon and Tommy’s father slammed the door open to the house. Flew down the pavement, screaming obscenities at the both of them, barely forming a coherent sentence through his drunken haze.

Evelyn didn’t even hesitate. Put herself between them immediately, arm stretched out and keeping Simon and Tommy at bay behind her.

Meeting his obscenities word for word. 

It was the only time he’d seen his father stop yelling.

He’d loved her so hard at that moment, he didn’t even notice when she started dragging both of them back down the road to her house.

Simon leaned his head back against the collapsed wall.

What an interesting memory.

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The storm hits full force halfway there.

A complete whiteout.

The world narrows to ten feet in front of her, if that. Wind screaming loud enough to drown thought, whipping loose strands of hair into her eyes, snow cutting across her face like glass. Her footing turns unstable, uneven ground hidden beneath a growing layer of ice and powder.

She nearly missed him.

A shape half-buried against a concrete barrier, dark against the white, too still.

“Simon–”

She dropped beside him hard, hands already moving, checking, assessing. Teeth chattering with cold and purpose.

He’s barely conscious.

“‘M fine,” he muttered, voice rough, his own hand instinctively coming up to push her way.

Her gloves came away dark from somewhere around the left side of his torso.

“Yeah,” she breathed, something wild and sharp breaking loose in her chest, “we’re not doing this.”

Another gust tears through them, stronger than the last, and this time even she feels it, balance shifting, visibility dropping to complete shit. She braced her knee against the frozen ground, used the pressure she had against his side to help keep her upright against the wind.

They’re not making it back, not like this.

Evelyn looked up, scanning through the storm, forcing her brain to work past the panic, past the noise.

There. Half-collapsed structure, barely visible through the white.

Shelter. Patchy and dilapidated, but it’ll have to be enough.

She hooked his arm over her shoulders without asking, bracing her weight against his. He barely managed to choke the grunt of effort when she helped get him upright.

“Come on,” she muttered, voice low, fierce, leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to die before I yell at you.”

He lets out something that might be a laugh. Or a groan.

Hard to tell.

Together, they disappear into the storm.

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Evelyn had barely left her room. God, she hadn’t cried that hard since she was seventeen and pregnant. Even with a scalding hot shower and a cold towel pressed to her eyes, she still felt puffy and thoroughly spent. She’d snuck to the mess, grabbed some food and coffee and lots of water, tried some semblance of feeling like herself. She finished some reports that had managed to pile up, did some light PT in her room, reorganized her desk and the books on her shelves. She was restless and exhausted with little to nothing to do about it.

She was lying on her bed now, phone loosely cradled in one hand, heart finally slowing down, TV static in her head starting to sharpen and clear.

Simon Riley was alive and well. Or, not so well, exactly. But certainly alive.

The father of her son had been sitting next to her for two months now, and she only just realized it. 

There’d be plenty of time to beat herself up about that later.

But, God, what now? Does she tell him? Does she even owe him that, considering he’d disappeared? Especially after he’d been lying to her face for the last two months. 

Her phone buzzed in her hand. She didn’t even have to look at it to know who it was, already she felt like she could breathe again.

“Hi baby.” Her throat felt like sandpaper. When was the last time she spoke?

“Wow, mom, you sound awful.” Peter’s voice filled the silence in her room, and god it was music to her ears.

“I sound worse than I actually am.”

A disbelieving silence filled the room.

She couldn’t help but smile. “I promise.”

“If you say so.”

“Tell me something good.” Evelyn sighed, feeling her years as she closed her eyes and imagined herself at home with her son.

“My teachers are wanting me to do AP classes next school year. Oh! And I made this cool vase in ceramics class, I’ll send you a picture.”

The rustle of movement and then a soft buzz from her phone. She couldn’t wait to see it.

“Your turn.”

She hummed thoughtfully, “Hmm. That couple from the food truck gave me free food last night.”

“Wow. Low bar, huh?”

Tell me about it, kid.

“Everything alright, mom?” Peter’s voice was soft when he asked, and even though she thought she was dry, more tears sprung to her eyes.

Evelyn took a deep breath, willing the emotion to stay out of her voice, “Honestly, bug, no. But, I’ll be better soon.”

“I’m guessing you can’t talk about it.” 

“Not in that sense, but no, not really. I promise I’ll be fine, baby.” She did her best to be reassuring, but she didn’t want to pass that trait of hers onto her son– to swallow your pain for the sake of others. It has gotten, and continues to get her nowhere. 

“Do you want me to beat someone up for you?” God, her sweet, beautiful, boy,

“What did I say about using violence as an answer?”

“Not to tell you about it beforehand?” She could hear the smile in his voice and it made her lower lip tremble just a bit,

“Exactly. Plausible deniability, honey, don’t forget it.”

“Right, sorry,” He’d chuckled, “but seriously though, I’ll fight someone for you.”

‘Just like your father would.’ 

“I’m sure you would. But no, keep being your incredible self, and that’s more than enough for me.” 

“You sure? I can make a quick getaway, I’m a hell of a runner you know.” She could picture him wiggling his eyebrows at her in that goofy way of his. Anything to make her laugh.

She adored her son. He’d always been sensitive, always attentive, and she wasn’t sure if she should be proud of him for being so good, or if it was her fault and he was making up for her shortcomings.

Evelyn laughed, “I know you are, Pete, and I’m so proud of you.” 

“Alright mom, well, I’ve gotta hit the hay. There’s an early meet tomorrow.”

“Ok, sweetheart. Stay hydrated, be sure to stretch afterwards, don’t push too hard, I’m proud of you regardless.”

“I know, mom, jeez.” He always got so bashful when she mom-ed him a little more than usual, it’s why she tried to do it often.

A charged silence filled the room for just a moment.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Peter, so much.”

Footsteps started to fill the halls outside her room, other officers passing through, maybe Soap walking past to grab a quick blink before continuing to procrastinate his reports. 

“When are you coming home?” His voice was small as the question slipped through the speaker,

Evelyn didn’t pay any mind to the shadows that moved past her door under the crack.

“Soon, hopefully. Give it another month or so.”

She didn’t notice that one had stopped.

“Ok. Be safe, mom. Love you.”

“Love you too, bug. You be safe too.”

She barely caught the shadow that lingered, then disappeared to the direction it came from. Evelyn felt the absence of her son’s voice like a cold front. Not dissimilar to the absence of someone else from another life.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the days that followed, Ghost Simon had mercifully backed off. 

No more snide corrections.

But now, there was just… no more of anything. If Evelyn walked into a room, he found a way to walk out. When she finally came into the common room to get ribbed by Soap and Gaz for faking her illness, he found a way to slip away unnoticed. 

Only, he was never unnoticed. Not by her. Not anymore.

God, this was laughably high school, wasn’t it?

Except there was an entire life between them and unanswered questions that filled that space. So, not entirely high school. A touch higher stakes than that.

It wasn’t until one day they were all called in for a briefing that she decided enough was enough. 

She walked in and sat at her usual spot and Simon had managed to move himself further away. Never loudly, never obviously. Except it was to her. 

And it’s not like the rest of the team was blind. They were just wise enough to let them, hopefully, handle it on their own.

Soap and Gaz lingered after Ghost and Evelyn had left, “Cap, everythin’ alright with those two?” 

“Not our place, Johnny.” Price didn’t even look up from the grueling task of organizing the papers on the table,

“Will they be alright?” Gaz’s voice was quieter, more thoughtful,

“They won’t have a choice.”

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By the time her back was pressed against her door, sweat had started beading on Evelyn’s brow. The building’s air conditioning did nothing to help.

She knows that scar. She put it there herself. 

They were fifteen. Simon was trying to push her away again. She was fighting him about letting her in. God, she couldn’t even remember what he said, but it set her off so badly that she threw her notebook at the wall behind him. The only thing is that she had a terrible aim, and the metal rings caught on the edge of the right side of his jaw. He started bleeding immediately and Evelyn could barely stop crying long enough to patch him up. 

She’d never forgiven herself for it. And even though he did, he still lorded it over her in the years that followed. 

‘Just to keep you humble, love.’

That wasn’t him. Couldn’t be.

Please, God, don’t fucking tell me that’s him.

What was she supposed to do with this? How long would this have continued? He obviously recognized her, what, did he think if he stayed quiet, nothing would happen? That she’d just keep going through the motions of base life and be none the wiser? 

Is that really what he wanted?

Her heart was pounding in her chest, her eyes burned, and she couldn’t breathe.

God, she was so fucking stupid– how did she not notice sooner? How did she not get his name at any point before now? When did she get so complacent that she stopped examining threats, no matter how close?

Evelyn’s mind stopped at that thought, breath hiccuping as she pressed her palm against her sternum. He’s a…threat, right? 

What is a threat? A person or thing likely to cause damage or danger. That’s Ghost– Simon– now, right? Because everything she’s built without him is now in danger, right?

She didn’t realize when the tears started streaking her cheeks. Only that she’d slid down with her back to the door and that her hand had covered her mouth.

What the fuck is she supposed to do with this?

How could she possibly show up tomorrow like her world hadn’t just shattered down the middle? Knowing that boy she loved, was now fully grown, had lived a life without her, and didn’t have the fucking decency to tell her. 

She should be angry, right? So, why can’t she stop fucking crying?

Because maybe, for right now, it isn’t Evelyn, the sniper, that’s sat on the floor. It isn’t Evelyn, the single mother, wrapping her arms around herself. 

It’s Evelyn, the seventeen year old who lost the boy she loved.

For once, she let herself feel it. Let herself mourn the boy and the future that could’ve been. And although she did it quietly, she cried into her palm, heart hammering against her chest as she struggled to breathe. She’d loved him more than anything. She’d tried to hold onto him and he slipped through her fingers.

Until the universe had brought him back to her, wearing a skull mask and an exterior that cut anything that approached. 

Evelyn didn’t know what hurt more– that he was alive and stopped writing back on purpose, or that he was alive and the world bruised him enough to turn him into something that hurt her.

She’d figure that out tomorrow. Or the day after. 

She’ll take a personal day. Give Price some bullshit excuse.

Anything to buy time before she had to face Simon again.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“A sick day?” Soap echoed. In the months that they’ve come to know her, Evelyn never struck them as the type to take a day. “This the same woman that trucked herself on and off overwatch with a sprained ankle?”

“Said she wasn’t feeling well.” Price shrugged, “Let her be.”

Wrong.

Simon knows her better than that, knows the specific shape of her stubbornness, just because she wasn’t feeling well, doesn’t mean she’d take the day. 

Christ, he can still vividly remember the day she came into class with the god damn flu. Had to drag her to the nurse’s office before she fainted in the cafeteria. All because she didn’t want to miss her sister’s speech in the debate club. At the end of the fucking day.

The conversation continued without him. 

He saw her last night and she seemed fine. 

She was sitting on the low curb by the food truck, even tucked herself further away just to avoid interacting with him. 

He knows he’s been a bastard lately, knows he should talk to her but where the fuck was he supposed to start?

That was besides the point. 

What changed between last night and now?

Couldn’t be food poisoning. He’d always teased her about having an iron gut— plus neither he nor anyone else who ate from the truck felt any different. 

The only possible variable was that he’d rolled up his mask to eat—

She was there. She’s always been annoyingly perceptive. She’d have seen his face.

His fingers brushed the right side of his jaw. 

Oh.

Fuck.

It was at that moment that Price had locked eyes with him from across the room. 

Fix it or I will.

She knows.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Simon found himself wearing a groove into the pavement behind the hangar, the farthest point from private quarters. Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, jaw muscles tensing as he ground his teeth together. 

What the fuck is he supposed to say?

‘Hey, sorry I stopped writing, my life fell apart and I didn’t want to drag you into the filth’?

‘Sorry I was too much of a chickenshit to say it to your face then, and now, by the way, how are your sisters?’

What would she have done?

Well, for starters, she wouldn’t have been such a fucking coward in the first place. God, he’d loved that about her. The way she always found her spine when she had every reason and opportunity to keep her head low. 

‘The privilege of being the eldest.’ She’d told him once. With red-rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks. Her hands still shook from the screaming match she’d had with her father, something about giving her sisters a bigger allowance to help cover their after school activities. Her sisters were terrified of bringing it up to their father, and so was she, but for them she’d walk through fire.

She did it for her sisters.

She did it for Simon and Tommy.

He swore he’d do it for her. And just like with Tommy, he’d let her down. 

Even now as he paces far away from her, heart frantic in his chest, he’s still letting her down.

Simon stopped moving and looked towards her direction. 

He wanted to scream. Wanted to rage, and bite, and cry, and bleed, and– god, he was a fucking mess.

What would she do?

She’d grit her teeth, square her shoulders, and rip off the bandaid. Even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.

That’s what she did when she told him she was going back to the States.

Even if she was crying so hard she could barely breathe.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evelyn sat in the common area again, the only place she could breathe without feeling like the walls were suffocating her, where she could feel the world moving around her, and without her. She was sitting at her new spot under the window, weathered paperback in her hand, some fucked up, gothic Southern novel, key characters horrible enough to distract her from how terrible of a time she’s had recently. 

Her phone had been buzzing intermittently on the table, Peter had been texting her about his recent exam scores, Viv had sent her links on how to manage fractious interpersonal relationships, and Zoey had been sending pictures from her latest trip to Australia. Thank God she had her family. 

Ghost and Soap had walked in, and Evelyn tried consciously breathing through her nose and focusing on her book.

It doesn’t help that Ghost is the size of a fucking building in every room he walked into.

Soap was talking his ear off about… something. Evelyn couldn’t pay attention, if she did, she was sure she’d wind up in another argument with Ghost somehow. She’s had to reread her current paragraph at least four times now.

“There she is!” Soap’s enthusiasm honed in on her with all the efficiency of a laser, “Watcha’ readin’ there, bonnie?”

She halfheartedly held up the book cover to face him, not trusting her voice at the moment.

In the corner of her eye, she caught Ghost making himself tea. Structured, methodical, the same way he’d clean and strip his rifle. It was like a thread catching on a nail, irritating, and disarming. There was something about the way he moved though. 

Soap started going off about something he’d read recently and, god bless him, she wished she could pay attention to what he was saying. 

Instead she was watching Ghost. Water in the kettle brought to a rolling boil. Pour it in the cup and let it steep for four minutes. 

‘Don’t get distracted, or else it’ll be too strong, and you’re better off drinkin’ coffee at that point.’

‘But what if I prefer coffee?’ She had smiled, chin resting in her hand while she watched him move through her kitchen.

His boyish grin made the scar on his jaw catch the light, ‘Bloody American.’

A tablespoon of sugar. A splash of milk, ‘Just enough to add some color’, and mix with the spoon used for the sugar.

If it wasn’t for her phone buzzing on the table, the room would’ve started spinning. Evelyn calmly picked it up and excused herself, or at least, she hoped that she did. 

Things started piling up after that.

A mental tally of habits and quirks she had no business noticing.

Evelyn started watching him more closely. The first thing she noticed was the way he held his pen when he was taking notes or writing up reports– held in the tips of his thumb, index, middle, and ring finger, resting in the webspace. 

‘Doesn’t holding it like that hurt your fingers?’ She’d asked in a whisper, the school librarian was like a bloodhound when it came to anyone making noise in her library.

‘Mind yourself before you come at me about it.’ He’d scoffed, nodding at the “posh” way she held her pen. She didn’t care about the legibility of his notes, only that his fingertips would get sore because of how hard he’d pressed down on occasion.

When she’d read Ghost’s notes, she had the far away thought that his handwriting had improved.

Only Simon isn’t the one in front of her. Certainly not the one snapping at her over every little thing she did.

But then again, he’d done exactly that at the beginning of their friendship.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The final straw came on another night alone.

Peter was sleeping in. He’d tried out for track and field the day before and was completely wiped. She had teared up when she saw the video Viv sent her. It was honestly impressive he had his mom’s knack for athleticism, because Evelyn hated running. And there he was, smiling wide, eyes gleaming as he cleared the track.

She was back at the food truck. Having befriended the owners with her easy Spanish and effortless warmth, she looked forward to every time they rolled around. She also looked forward to the free Horchata. 

Evelyn sat down on the low curb again, nibbling on her quesadilla as she scrolled her phone. She noticed Ghost, Soap, and Gaz heading towards the truck. Soap was leading the charge, of course. God, how she envied and admired his energy. 

She kept to herself, not really feeling up to socializing at the moment. Gaz, in all his infinite wisdom, had caught on with a small nod, and quietly positioned himself between her and Soap’s line of sight. She’d buy him whatever coffee he wanted for that.

Ghost had received his order from the staff with a polite nod of his head. The juxtaposition pulled a soft smile from her, whether she wanted it or not.

Until he rolled up the bottom of his balaclava and turned to grab a bottle of salsa verde.

Until the scar at the edge of his jaw caught silver under the streetlamp.

The food in Evelyn’s mouth turned rancid and she had to leave. 

Quietly, she closed the styrofoam box and took the long way back to her quarters, fingernails digging into the material in her hands with soft pops. The box had become messy, and somewhere between the food truck and her quarters, it had gone in the trash.

Along with any hopes of sleep.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It started small.

Small enough that Evelyn could’ve ignored it. Should’ve ignored it.

The first time was during a sweep– routine, low-risk, the kind of op that barely registered once it was over. She’d taken point on overwatch, called movements cleanly, adjusted for wind without needing to think about it. Everything had gone exactly the way it was supposed to.

“Your angle was off by two degrees.”

It came through comms as she approached exfil, quiet, almost absent.

Evelyn blinked. “Excuse me?”

Ghost didn’t look at her as he checked his rifle. “You compensated late. Could’ve cost you the shot.”

She stared at him for a beat, waiting for something, a hint of sarcasm. A tell that he was winding her up.

But there was nothing.

“I took the shot,” she said evenly. “Target dropped.”

“That doesn’t make it clean.”

Soap made a noise somewhere behind them, something caught between a laugh and a jesus christ, but Evelyn didn’t look away from Ghost.

“Noted,” she said finally, tone clipped, and walked past him before she could say something she’d regret, muttering something about nitpicking, self-righteous, bastards

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The second time, it wasn’t so easy to brush off.

Training exercise. Close quarters. Paired movement.

Price had assigned them together without a flicker of hesitation, like she hadn’t just dropped an unsuspecting emotional bomb on him two weeks prior.

Evelyn moved through the structure with practiced precision, clearing corners, checking blind spots, her breathing was steady, controlled. She didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate. Behind her, Ghost’s presence was a constant– measured steps, silent, tracking. It would’ve been a comfort–

“Too slow.”

Instead it was irritating. Her jaw tightened.

“I’m thorough.”

“You’re predictable.”

Evelyn turned on her heel, just enough to look at him over her shoulder. “Would you prefer sloppy?”

“I’d prefer efficient.”

The word snapped between them, sharp as a trigger pull.

She held his gaze for half a second longer than necessary, something hot and unspoken flickering behind her eyes, before she turned back and finished the run without another word.

They posted the best time.

It didn’t mean a fucking thing.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the third time, it was starting to get under her skin.

Not because he was wrong, that was the problem, he wasn’t. Every correction, every comment, it was technically sound. Precise in a way that made it hard to argue without sounding defensive.

But it was constant, relentless, exhausting and wearing down on her gradually fraying nerves.

Like he was taking everything she did and holding it up to a standard just out of reach, then pointing out exactly where she fell short.

“You overcorrected for wind.”

“You telegraphed that shift.”

“You hesitate on your second shot.”

Each one delivered in that same low, even tone. No edge, thinly veiled irritation, like it was an inconvenience.

Like she was inconvenient.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Finally, she snapped.

It was another overwatch position, different op, same outcome, clean execution, targets down, team moving in.

“Your breathing was off.”

Evelyn lowered her rifle slowly, deliberately, before turning her head just enough to look at him.

“Are you fucking– my breathing?” she repeated incredulously, heart starting to pick up pace in her chest,

“Cost you half a second.”

“Half a s– motherf– well, I’m so sorry,” she bit out, the sarcasm sharp enough to cut. “Next time I’ll tell my lungs to keep your secret stopwatch in mind.”

Ghost didn’t react. Didn’t rise to it.

“That half second matters.”

“And yet,” she gestured vaguely toward the now very neutralized target area, “everyone’s still breathing except them.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, taut and brittle.

Then—

“If you’re satisfied with ‘good enough,’ that’s your call.”

Her brain hit a wall. And she hoped, so would he, eventually. Repeatedly. And with excessive force. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Evelyn pushed up from her position in one smooth motion, slinging her rifle over her shoulder with more force than necessary. Biting down so hard on the inside of her cheek, she tasted copper.

“I’m not settling for good enough,” she snapped. “I’m settling for done, which is whatever the fuck this is.”

Ghost’s head tilted slightly. “It’s called feedback.”

“It’s called being an unnecessary pain in my ass.”

Somewhere over comms, Soap made a very pointed choking sound that he absolutely tried to disguise as static.

Ghost stood, unhurried, unaffected. “If that’s how you take it.”

Evelyn let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Un-fucking-believable.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t want one.

By the time she made it back to the rendezvous point, her pulse was still running hot under her skin, irritation curling tight in her chest like something with teeth.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Price noticed. Of course he did.

He’d watched it build over the course of the last few weeks, watched the way Evelyn’s patience wore thinner each time, the way Ghost seemed to dig in rather than ease off. It wasn’t insubordination. It wasn’t even unprofessional.

It was something else. Something quieter, meaner, and tired of lying dormant.

By the time they returned from their latest op– another success, another clean extraction– Price didn’t bother waiting.

“Ghost. Walk with me.”

Simon fell into step beside him without question, rifle slung over his shoulder, posture as composed as ever. Eyes still tracking Evelyn as she trudged to the armory, no doubt still furious with him for his latest suggestion.

They put a bit of distance between themselves and the others before Price spoke again.

“I’m giving you five seconds to collect your thoughts and tell me what the hell’s going on between you and Miller.” 

“Sir?”

“Don’t you dare play smart with me, Simon.”

Price stopped walking, Simon took one more step before he realized, then turned to face him. For the first time since he’d seen Evelyn walk back into his life, his heart hammered against his ribs. His stomach twisted with the words he refused to say.

“You’ve been ridin’ her like she’s fresh out of training,” Price said finally. “She’s not.”

A pause.

“So either there’s something you’re not tellin’ me, or I need to take matters into my own hands.” Price let out a slow breath through his nose, cigar unlit between his fingers as he rolled it absently, “And you won’t like my way.”

Simon’s gaze snapped towards the Captain, something quiet and angry and ancient in his gaze. 

“Talk.”

“She shouldn’t be here.” He finally spoke, gaze fixed on the middle distance, like he was telling her himself.

“Why?”

“Because she shouldn’t. She should be– fuck– I don’t know– anywhere but here.”

“But she is, Simon, and no amount of ridin’ her is going to change that.”

“I know–”

“You keep at it like this, she’ll push back even harder, get herself transferred somewhere else, or worse, get hurt tryin’ to prove you wrong. Is that what you want?”

Simon’s jaw clenched under the mask, gloved hands curling into tight fists at his sides, the fabric creaking under the pressure. He didn’t answer, just stood there, steady and unmoving, like if he held still long enough, the conversation might pass over him entirely.

“Didn’t think so. Whatever this is,” He motioned vaguely to the base and all it encompassed, “you sort it, or I will. And I promise you Simon, you won’t like how I do it.”

Simon held his gaze for a second longer before giving a single, sharp nod.

“Yes, sir.”

Price watched him for a moment after, something unreadable in his expression, before turning and heading back toward the others.

Simon stayed rooted where he was.

And for the first time since she’d walked back into his life, there was something dangerously close to hesitation in the way he breathed.

It doesn’t change the fact that she still shouldn’t be here.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Following her conversation with Price, Evelyn would push Manchester out of her mind. Or try to, at least. Until it was a game day for Manchester United, and then it became her problem. 141 was apparently very divided over match outcomes, and frankly, she couldn’t care less. Soccer was never her thing. She was always more of an Olympics kind of girl anyway. Much to her childhood friend’s chagrin. 

The common room had been claimed long before kickoff, the television tuned to the match with a kind of reverence Evelyn hadn’t seen outside of briefings. Soap had taken up residence on the couch like he owned it, one leg thrown over the armrest, while Gaz hovered nearby, arms crossed and already shaking his head like he expected disappointment.

She was in the common area absorbing the team’s commotion, sitting under the window with her tablet in front of her, pen scratching away at her notebook. As indifferent as she claimed to be to the team’s excitement, she couldn’t help the fond smile anytime Soap and Gaz would start getting into it with each other about defense, or whatever it was.

How does one tell their 30-something year old teammate that they remind one of their teenage son, without it being rude?

She’d have to sit on that one a little longer.

Evelyn stayed tucked beneath the window, half-removed from the chaos, tablet propped against her knee as her pen scratched steadily across the page. She wasn’t paying attention. Not really.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

A groan rippled through the room as something went wrong on screen, she didn’t bother looking up, but she could feel the shift in energy, the collective frustration that followed.

“Where was the coverage there?” Gaz muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

Soap scoffed. “You’re actin’ like that wasn’t a setup from the midfield. Defense didn’t stand a chance.”

“That’s because no one tracked back,” Gaz shot back.

Evelyn shook her head. These terms were all lost on her, she’d heard it all a lifetime ago but they fell on deaf ears then as much as they did now.

“You don’t give him that much space in the box,” came a voice from behind them, low and even, cutting cleanly through the back-and-forth. “He’s always going to take that shot.”

Soap turned slightly, brows lifting. “Oh, he speaks.”

Ghost didn’t rise to it. His attention stayed fixed on the screen, posture loose but unmoving.

“It’s basic,” he continued, almost absent. “You mark tight or you close the angle. Can’t do neither and expect it to hold.”

Gaz huffed a quiet laugh. “Tell that to them.”

“Talkative about soccer, are we?” Evelyn muttered under her breath, even as her pulse jumped to her throat. Something about the way he said it, not just the words, but the cadence, the quiet certainty threaded through it, caught somewhere in the back of her mind and held.

“Football tends to be more interesting than baseless complaining.”

Motherfucker.

She scoffed and shook her head, still focused on her notes, not at all paying any mind to the tension in her jaw or the sudden urge to give him a piece of her mind. Definitely not paying any mind to the two sergeants watching their lieutenants like they might be more interesting than Manchester United’s blunders.

Still… she’d heard that before. Somewhere smaller, warmer. A different kind of noise in the background. 

A memory that hadn’t meant anything at the time, but one she’d cling to until its edges became fuzzy and all she had left of it was the impression it left. 

Until now.

You don’t give him that much space, Evie. He’ll take it every time.

Her grip tightened slightly around the pen, heart thundering painfully behind her ribs.

She exhaled slowly and forced her attention back to her notes, the scratch of ink against paper grounding in a way the room suddenly wasn’t.

Across the room, Ghost shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, his dark brown eyes flicking just once toward the window.

She felt his gaze and refused to look up.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Peter was staying with a friend for a sleepover. It was fine, she knew his friends’ parents, trusted her sister’s judgement when she allowed it. But now that meant Evelyn was alone that night. And alone was the last thing she wanted to be.

She walked over to the edge of the base, to the entrance where the fabled Mexican food truck stood parked. She approached the window and ordered in perfect Spanish, unable to help the smile at the warmth of connection. She thanked the older woman profusely, who thanked her in return with an extra carne asada taco and a complimentary horchata. 

Evelyn sat on the low curb and picked at her food. She wasn’t even hungry. 

The memories came unbidden as they often did.

It was raining and the TV signal was shoddy at best. Her cheap bastard father refused to pay a little extra for a better satellite, so any time it started raining, the TV would lose signal with every breeze. It was something she got used to over time, she never expected it to work right. Despite her many warnings, it didn’t stop her guests from throwing a fit every time the signal went.

Evelyn was sitting at the coffee table, already finished with her homework, while she looked over her two sisters, making sure they finished theirs too. Simon and Tommy were lost causes, unfortunately. Their team was playing, so all responsibility flew out the window.

Along with any hope of quiet. But she never complained, she preferred when their noise filled her house.

Tommy kept shouting at the TV, as if the team could hear him, as if he hoped they would. Simon would always correct his callouts, always with a steady voice and a shake of his head. As if Tommy should know better by now. Evelyn always loved watching them, the way they interacted with each other, the way Tommy looked up to him. She only hoped her sisters did the same for her, but it was always hard to believe.

She doesn’t even remember what she said, to be honest. Probably something that sounded close enough to being accurate just so she could feel like she was part of the conversation.

Simon had turned to her then and said, “You don’t give him that much space, Evie. He’ll take it every time.”

Evelyn didn’t understand a word of what that meant. But she loved the way he said it, the certainty of it. It made sense in a more profound way than she thinks he realized. It resonated with her for reasons unrelated to soccer, sorry, football.

God, the arguments that her and Simon would get into about football vs. soccer. She only did it because she loved his voice, admired the passion he argued it with. Even if it was something so simple as cultural nomenclature for sports.

She lost track of how long she’d sat there, numbly chewing on the food in the paper boat, chasing it down with a sip of horchata. 

Maybe it’d be worth taking the trip out to Manchester.

But she’d be damned if she invited Ghost along.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The weeks would pass with little incident. Save for Ghost becoming more withdrawn, though Evelyn had the sense that he was always like this. Or so she told herself. 

Soap and Gaz were welcoming enough to cover for his lack thereof. Soap had shown her around once things had quieted down, Gaz had told her about the food trucks that rolled up once a week at the witching hour and were apparently the base’s best kept secret. Price had occasionally checked in on her to see how she was settling in, she appreciated his steadiness more than he probably realized. 

Ghost, on the other hand, was a cold front. 

She didn’t think it was intentional, but even if it was it wouldn’t have made a difference. She’s long since learned that most of the time, it isn’t personal, and even if it was, it’s not really her problem. But for whatever reason, she couldn’t get past the sensation, like a rock in her shoe, steadily whittling away at her. And, for whatever reason, she decided she wanted to do something about it. So she waited until they were both at the range, neutral common ground. She approached him at his lane with an unopened water bottle in her hands, a proverbial olive branch.

“Hey, Ghost, right?”

She knew his name. He hummed like he saw right through her. Kept his focus on the target ahead of him.

Evelyn took a breath, “Listen, I don’t know what I did to upset you, but I’d like us to at least pretend like we’re a team.”

“What makes you think we’re not?” His low timbre cut through the silence between reloads,

“Well, I don’t know how you guys do it here, but typically icing out your newest add-on isn’t exactly reassuring.” She tried to keep her tone level, but she had to admit, his indifference was starting to make her bristle,

“Didn’t think you needed reassurance.” He shrugged one shoulder with infuriating nonchalance, her fingers tightened around the water bottle, plastic creaking under her grip,

“Well, no, I don’t but–”

Ghost breathed through his nose, “Anything actionable, lieutenant?” 

Evelyn scoffed and rolled her weight from one hip to the other, arms crossed over her chest, “Yeah, actually, your attitude.”

“Noted.”

And with that, he packed up and left.

What a prick.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evelyn found herself on the outskirts of the base again, odd hours once more, phone cradled in her hand as she hung up her call with her son. Peter was always a breath of fresh air. She wasn’t as alone as she initially thought,

“How’s your boy?” Price’s voice cut through the night’s quiet, and nearly made her jump out of her skin, cigar balanced between his lips as he lit the end, 

“I’m sorry, sir, I thought it was just me out here.” For the second time that day, she made the effort to keep her voice even,

He raised a hand dismissively, “At ease, Echo, you’re not the only one who can’t sleep.”

“That’s a fair point.”

“So? How is he?”

“Holding up. He misses me, of course, but I know my sisters spoil him enough to make up for it.” Her voice softened the way it always did when it came to the topic of her son,

“He’s, what, sixteen?”

“Fifteen, just turned actually. I can’t believe he’s grown so much, I still remember carrying him on my hip.” Price watched the fond smile on her lips, the way she looked towards the open field like she was watching the memories in real time,

“I’m sure you still could.”

“Yeah, probably.” She chuckled,

“Does his father help while you’re gone?”

Evelyn took a deep breath, weighing how much she wanted to share, “Unfortunately his father hasn’t been with us. Besides, I’m sure I love him enough for the both of us. Or, so I tell myself.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“It’s been a very… deliberate tight rope for the last fourteen or so years.” She looked down where her fingers picked at a frayed thread on the sleeve of her sweater,

“You always hope that you’re enough to cover the absence of the other, but I know he wonders about his father, even if he won’t say so.” This was the most honest he’s ever seen her, a specific exhaustion settling onto her shoulders.

A silence settled before Evelyn interrupted it, hesitantly, uncharacteristic of the steady operative he’s come to know over the last few weeks.

“You wouldn’t happen to know how far Manchester is from here, would you?”

Price hummed, “About a two hour drive. You know someone there?”

“Yes, or, maybe. I don’t know if he’s still there. Besides, I’m not sure we’re exactly on talking terms.” 

“Had a fight?” He kept his voice nonchalant, though he knew where this was headed,

Evelyn shook her head, “Nothing like that. He sort of just… disappeared one day. Fell off the map and I never knew why. Just had to hope he was ok.” She shrugged, still focused on the frayed thread on her sleeve, not quite looking at him, not quite looking away either.

“What was his name, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Simon.” The way she said his name, like it was a gentle thing, a fragile shard of glass still sharp enough to cut when handled. It was a punch to the seasoned Captain’s chest.

“There a last name?” He took another pull from his cigar, the one he had almost forgotten about that was burning down between his fingers,

“Yeah, uh, Riley.” 

Fuck.

“I see. Well, if you change your mind and want to make the drive, let me know. Take Ghost with you, he’s familiar with the area.” He let out a cloud of smoke,

“Funnily enough, we’re not on talking terms either.” Evelyn muttered, the tone of her voice sounded an awful lot like ‘motherfucker’,

Price couldn’t help the wry smile, “Give him time, Evelyn, I’m sure he’ll come around.” 

“If you say so.” She shrugged with a resigned sigh, before stifling a yawn in her shoulder,

“I do. Get some sleep, early start tomorrow.”

Evelyn bowed her head at him before departing, “Thank you, sir, good night.”

“Good night.”

Price waited until she was far out of ear shot before he let out a deep sigh.

“What the fuck did you do, Simon?”

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The transport hummed low beneath them, a steady vibration that settled into bone and teeth the longer it went on. Red light washed the interior in dim, indistinct shadows, turning faces into silhouettes and gear into something harder to read. Across from her, Ghost sat with his rifle braced between his knees, running through checks with the same quiet efficiency she recognized in herself. Not mirrored, not quite, but close enough that it sat somewhere in the back of her mind without a name.

Evelyn kept her focus on her own weapon, fingers moving with practiced familiarity over scope and mount, checking tension, alignment, stability. Nothing rushed. Nothing wasted. Just certainty.

Price’s voice cut through the low drone in their comms. “Echo, Ghost—you’ll take overwatch. Two vantage points, east and south rooftops. Overlapping sightlines. Keep comms tight.”

“Copy,” Evelyn answered, steady and even.

“Solid copy,” Ghost followed, his voice low, filtered, and carefully measured.

Soap leaned forward from his seat, grin easy despite the mission ahead. “Try not to show each other up, aye?”

Evelyn huffed a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “No promises.”

Ghost didn’t respond, and something about that absence lingered longer than it should have.

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The night air hit cool and sharp as they disembarked, carrying with it the distant hum of the city– traffic bleeding into voices, something metallic clanging somewhere far off. They moved quickly once boots hit pavement, splitting at the base of the structure without needing to discuss it. 

Evelyn reached her position first, settling prone behind a low concrete lip that offered just enough cover without obstructing her view. The city stretched out in fractured lines of light and shadow, her target zone carved into the middle of it all. She exhaled slowly, grounding herself, and brought the scope up. The world narrowed to angles and movement, to timing and distance, to everything that mattered and nothing that didn’t.

“Echo set.”

There was a brief pause before Ghost’s voice came through. “Ghost set.”

She adjusted her angle slightly, tracking the outer perimeter as movement resolved into patterns.

“Two tangos, northeast entry,” she murmured into comms. “Staggered patrol, five-second interval.”

“Seen.”

The response came immediately, clipped and efficient, and the operation settled into motion around them. Below, Soap and Gaz slipped through shadows with practiced ease while Price directed from a distance, his voice a steady anchor in their ears. Everything moved the way it was supposed to, clean and coordinated, 

‘They’ve been doing this a while.’ She thought to herself, that implicit trust and subsequent execution that came from years of working together.

Evelyn tracked movement along the southern edge, eyes flicking between entry points, adjusting for shifting light and uneven wind that curled between the buildings. 

“Tango spotted.” She murmured into comms as she tracked his movement,

The target appeared through partial obstruction—metal grating, limited visibility, a narrow window that would close as quickly as it opened. She adjusted once, compensating for drift, then again, smaller this time, refining the angle rather than correcting it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Across the way, Ghost watched through his scope, taking in the same variables. The obstruction, the wind, the timing. It wasn’t an impossible shot, but it wasn’t a clean one either. 

“The window's too narrow, Echo.” Even for him. He would’ve waited, a better window would come, a clearer line, something that didn’t rely on precision this tight.

“You sure you’ve got it?” Price’s voice crackled through comms,

“Not for much longer if we keep deliberating.” She continued tracking the target, breath held, blood running smooth under her skin.

“Take it.”

The words barely finished leaving Price’s mouth before she pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the night, sharp and decisive, and the target dropped before the echo had fully carried across the rooftops. It was clean in a way that left no room for doubt, no hesitation before or after. Just execution.

Ghost held position a fraction longer than necessary before confirming, “Target down.”

There was nothing in his tone to suggest anything beyond routine, but the moment lingered anyway, settling somewhere deeper than it should have. Evelyn had already shifted, reacquiring the field with the same steady focus, like the shot had been nothing more than another line item completed.

“Secondary moving west,” she said. “You’ve got him.”

“Copy.”

Ghost adjusted for the wind, once, and fired. The second target dropped cleanly, and the word passed between them as expected, routine and unremarkable on the surface.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

Below them, movement shifted as the team advanced. Soap’s voice came through with a note of satisfaction. “Area’s clean. Moving to extraction.”

“Stay sharp until we’re out,” Price added.

Evelyn didn’t relax. Her scope swept the area one more time, methodical and thorough, checking corners and blind spots, making sure nothing had been missed. Across the gap, Ghost mirrored the motion without thinking about it, their lines of sight overlapping and separating in quiet, unspoken coordination.

For a brief moment, they moved in the same rhythm, just instinct carried forward from somewhere neither of them had acknowledged yet.

Evelyn adjusted her grip on the rifle, settling it more comfortably against her shoulder as she shifted position, trained eyes sweeping over her teammate across the way. Ghost made the same adjustment, the motion near identical in its execution.

She stilled, just for a second.

It wasn’t enough to form a thought, not enough to question, but it registered all the same, something small and out of place that brushed against her awareness before slipping away again.

“Echo,” Ghost’s voice came through, low and controlled. “Exfil.”

“Copy.”

She lowered her rifle, breaking line of sight as the world widened again, sound and distance bleeding back into something more recognizable. The mission was done, clean, efficient, exactly as intended. 

Across from her, the mission had settled like lead in Ghost’s chest as he watched her pack up.

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By the time they regrouped, the tension of the operation had settled into something quieter, contained beneath the surface. Soap was already talking, animated in that easy way of his, something about clean shots and drinks later, with Gaz adding his own commentary while Price listened with half an ear. Evelyn fell into formation with a small, easy smile on her lips, clearly amused by Soap’s seemingly endless energy.

She slung her rifle over her shoulder, posture relaxed without losing its edge, her attention moving between the team as she took stock of everything. Across from her, Ghost stood apart by a few feet, close enough to be included, far enough to remain separate.

Her gaze flicked toward him, brief and assessing, the kind of look she would’ve given any new teammate, nothing more and nothing less.

Ghost’s helmet turned just slightly in her direction, acknowledging without engaging, and after a beat that stretched just long enough to be noticed, he looked away first.

Would this still be who you became if I never stopped writing?

The shot she took was pure competence. Instinct etched into her bones, carved from months, maybe years of doing the same thing over and over again. How long has she been doing this? Has she been on her own this whole time? Who’s been there for her when she comes home? She wasn’t supposed to become this, wasn’t supposed to be a markswoman who took near-impossible shots that he would’ve waited out. 

What happened to the girl I loved?

And how can I still hold onto her from a distance?

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Ghost found himself outside, tucked far from the main building, far from the briefing room, far from her. And he still couldn’t fucking breathe. 

How long has it been now?

14 years, 11 months, and 29 days. Give or take.

Almost fifteen years now since he’s seen Evelyn Miller. 

She was the new girl at school, she didn’t care that she was the odd one out, joining in the middle of the year, the only American in their grade. She stood in the front of the class, shoulders back, politely smiling at her new classmates, while the teacher introduced her– it was Mrs. Wilson, if he remembers correctly.

Evelyn walked towards the back of the class, to the only available seat, the one next to his. She smiled and introduced herself to him, which he responded with a huff before going back to whatever mindless doodles he was scribbling in his notebook. 

She was a stubborn one, he remembers that incredibly well. For some fucking reason, she was so adamant on befriending him. Kept whittling away at his patience, prattling on about some weird American thing back in her home town. Until one day, he’d decided to throw her a bone and participate in the otherwise one-sided conversation. It shouldn’t have gotten under his skin the way she lit up, but it did. 

That was when she’d told him about her dad being in the military, how he’s mostly never home and how she has to be the grown up with two younger sisters in the house. 

So, she was as lonely as he was. That was his takeaway at least. Maybe it was projection or wishful thinking, but it was a comforting thought. And evidently, part of what led to the two of them growing close over the years.

Ghost stood at the edge of the clearing, hands braced on the low concrete wall, head hung low between his shoulders. He could still hear her voice the day she told him she had to move back to the States, the way her lower lip quivered as she fought to keep her voice even, the way she made him promise to write to her every day. He still remembers the way he held her, arms wrapped firmly around her, lips to her temple, promising everything and anything. He still remembers the way she clung to him, her fingers digging into his jacket, her sobs muffled in his shoulder like she knew the promises would fizzle out eventually. It didn’t stop him from trying. Anything to get her to stop crying.

How he hated to see her cry.

Simon tried. He really, truly, desperately tried to keep true to his word. He remembers waiting for her letters by the mailbox while his mum and dad were having it out in the house. He remembers showing them to Tommy anytime Zoey wrote something for him specifically– God, the crush that boy had on Evelyn’s youngest sister. He remembers his dad getting worse and his responses slowing down. He remembers his mum getting sick and his replies piling up on his desk, addressed but unsent. Then things reached a point of no return, and Simon couldn’t be the boy Evelyn remembered anymore.

Eventually, he left home and never looked back. Nothing to look back to, as it turned out. And Evelyn became a memory, a question on nights he was feeling particularly self-loathing. What had become of her? Did she keep writing even after he left? Did she move on, become a veterinarian like she’d wanted? No doubt her sisters would support her. That father of hers on the other hand? An ugly mirror of his own. He’d hoped she’d gotten away from him when she was old enough.

Evidently, she did. Just not in the way Simon would’ve liked.

His gloved hands curled into fists on the stone wall, the material creaking in protest. She shouldn’t be here. She should be anywhere but here. She should be a fucking doctor somewhere in Seattle the way she’d always wanted, she should be married with two kids– a boy and a girl– like they’d fantasized for themselves when they pretended the future was just for them.  

Evelyn Miller shouldn’t fucking be here.

It had been 14 years, 11 months, and 28 days since the universe had let him have something worthwhile.

Give or take.

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Evelyn was settling into her quarters with the tired efficiency of someone who had done this too many times. Unpacking her duffle with practiced motion, clothes went into drawers, notebooks started stacking on her desk, paperbacks piling on her nightstand. She kicked the empty back under the bed before settling down on it– stiff from disuse no doubt, but it was better than most places she’s been. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked at the time, it was 2330 which means it was 6:30am back home, as if summoned, a text pinged on her home screen:

Pete: Morning, mom! Settling in ok?

She couldn’t help the smile on her face, of course her boy would check in on her. 

She plugged her headphones in and stepped out of her quarters for a moment. Not one to get turned around easily, she ventured further than she probably should’ve at this hour. There was still the occasional officer running checks on something, muffled laughter from some corner of base, but she was far enough that this would be hers and hers alone. She pressed the FaceTime button and within a few seconds, Peter’s face was on her screen.

“Mornin’ sweetheart.” She smiled softly,

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, mom?” His voice was still thick with sleep, dark brown eyes bleary,

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?” 

“How do you know I’m not?”

“Because I’m pretty sure that’s one of your sleep shirts, unless aunt Viv is letting you wear it to school.” It never ceased to amuse her the way he’d try to push boundaries, always thinking he’d be a step ahead of his mom,

Peter looked down at his rumpled shirt, “Shit.”

“Language, honey.” She laughed,

“How’s everything over there?”

Evelyn shrugged, “Fine, so far. My new team is interesting.”

“Interesting, how?”

“Don’t know yet, but I’ll keep you posted.”

“Haha I bet, hey, question– so Sam’s mom let him buy that new ‘Souls’ game, can I get it?” Ah so there it is. She couldn’t help but smile– she’d seen this coming and had arranged something with her sister,

“You mean Elden Ring?” She quirked an eyebrow with an amused tilt of her lips,

“How do you know what it’s called?” Peter’s brows furrowed in confusion, clearly shocked his mom could keep up with the times despite the distance.

“Don’t worry about it.” She shook her head with a small smile, “Just be patient, sweetheart. Let me know how your test goes, geometry, right?”

“Oh, it’ll be a breeze. But yeah, I’ll let you know.” She didn’t know where he got his knack for math but god he was smarter than she was at his age, or so it feels. That’s always the hope, right? That your children become better than what you were at their age?

Evelyn glanced at the clock on her phone, “Alright, baby, I’ve gotta get going.” 

“Be safe, mom, miss you.” She didn’t miss the way his shoulders sagged, and she’d be lying if she said it didn’t tug on her heart a little each time.

“Miss you more, bug. Text me, even if I don’t answer, ok?”

“Ok, love you.”

“Love you too.”

She stood there for a moment longer after they hung up, the autumn breeze tugging a few strands free from her loose ponytail. She looked down at her phone one more time, a picture of her and Peter as her lock screen– a recent picture of the two of them at a park in Seattle, the sun behind them and catching on his sandy blonde hair, his crooked smile pulled a small dimple from his left cheek, just like his father.

Evelyn couldn’t help the huff of laughter, it was like her genetics didn’t even try.

Like the universe wanted to remind her of what came from the thing she loved most. The thing that started slipping through her fingers 14 years, 11 months, and 29 days ago. Give or take.

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The briefing room smelled like stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of anticipation that always hung in the air before a new op dropped. Dim overhead lights buzzed faintly. 

Price stood at the head of the scarred metal table, file balanced in his hands as he flipped through its contents. Soap slouched in a chair to his left, fiddling with a pen like he was bored out of his skull. Gaz leaned against the wall near the maps, scrolling through a tablet. And Ghost sat in the far corner, back to the shadows, eyes fixed on nothing and everything at once.

Price cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, I’ve gotten word from Laswell we’re to get a transfer.”

“So soon after Graves?” Gaz looked up at him,

Soap scoffed, “Forgive me, Cap, but I’m not exactly keen on rollin’ out the welcome mats.” 

“Laswell says there’s history, says they can help dismantle the remnants of Shadow Company.”

Gaz crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, “History how?” 

“Had a run in with Graves and his lot a few years back, apparently tried to tell command, went nowhere.”

Soap rolled his eyes, “Shocking.” 

“Who is it?” Ghost’s timbre cut through the chatter,

Price looked down at the file in his hands, “US Army Special Forces, one of their best snipers— impeccable record, multilingual, sharp as a blade on tactics. Goes by ‘Echo’.”

“Sniper, eh? Don’t let him put you out of a job, LT.” Soap elbowed the larger man in the ribs, earning a pointed look that was equal parts warning and invitation to try again,

“She will be folding into 141 for the foreseeable future. Treat her like one of our own.”

"Transfer's a bird? Fuck me.” 

“Can it, MacTavish.”

A knock at the door cut through the Scot’s groan.

“Come in.” Price stepped aside as the door opened,

“Good evening, sir, sorry for the delay.” Echo poked her head through before crossing the threshold entirely.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes, the weather had opinions and I got turned around.” Her smile was polite not performative, she felt the room exhale and her shoulders softened a touch,

“Weather’ll do that.” Soap teased with a grin,

“So I’ve gathered.” She huffed with a wry smile, 

Ghost couldn’t breathe. 

Price spoke again, “Gentlemen, this Lieutenant Evelyn Miller, goes by Echo.”

One by one they introduced themselves to her, but he didn’t catch a word of it. His hearing went cotton, his mind went elsewhere, to rainy rooftops and quiet corners tucked behind metal bleachers. To stifled laughter in libraries and notes passed back and forth when Mrs. Clarke’s back was turned. To a cold driveway and tearful goodbyes, and an empty house that was purchased a few months later. 

He became vaguely aware that the room had directed its attention to him, that she stood there waiting for him to speak. 

“Ghost.”

It was all he could muster, and even then, something so easy for him to say, came out like it was dragged over broken glass. 

“Ghost.” She repeated, warm hazel eyes never leaving his, studying him, or the skull, he couldn’t tell.

“You’ll have to forgive him, bastard’s practically a mute.” Soap chimed in, his snark was helpful for once. 

Evelyn turned to him with a soft smile before turning back to Ghost, “I don’t mind, it’s an honor, Ghost.”

Ghost nodded once and watched as she directed her attention back to the rest of the room.

Truly, he couldn’t breathe. 

Her hair was longer, he could tell as much despite it being tied back. It was still that same multicolored brown, he remembered the way it would catch gold and caramel and fire under the sun, only difference is it was wavier now. 

Her posture was straight but still open, always open and receptive, friendly whether she was trying or not. He caught the faint silver of a scar at the edge of her jaw, caught the way she read the room as soon as she came in, caught the way she stayed close to the door in case she had to bolt. 

Evelyn Miller. 

His Evelyn. Evie, as he’d called her. 

The last good thing in his life before it turned to shit. 

He’d told himself she’d moved on, that she deserved better than him, that she was better off. And he’d believed it. It landed like battery acid in his stomach but he’d believed it. 

But here she is. Scarred, shoulders back, and reading the room with a sharpness he never thought he’d see on her. Introduced as a decorated sniper with an “impeccable record”.

And the only thing on his mind—

What did this world do to you, love?

What did I let this world do to you, love?

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It wasn’t completely untrue. The weather had turned her around a bit. But she was delayed because her phone call had gone on longer than she’d intended. It was 2100 in Menwith Hill, which meant it was 4am back home. An unreasonable time, to be sure, but Evelyn’s son was an insomniac and an early bird just as much as she was, an unfortunate combination. She blamed herself every morning he dragged himself out of bed for breakfast.

Normally, her head would be half present and half at home with her fifteen year old, Peter, just as any parent could attest to. Still, she maintained the appearance of listening to schedules and base layouts, but her mind was elsewhere. Because the moment Evelyn walked into that room and her eyes landed on the skull balaclava in the back, her thoughts blanked. 

Price launched into the briefing, target packages, exfil routes, contingencies. She listened, head tilted just enough to show engagement, pen scratching efficient notes in the margins of her notebook. But part of her stayed tuned to the corner. To the man who had barely spoken. 

Sure, the mask was an unusual sight but at the same time, there are all sorts of characters in the military— Soap would prove to be testament to that. 

It wasn’t the mask. It was his eyes. 

Brown so dark you couldn’t tell what was iris and what was pupil.

But she could tell. She didn’t know how but she could, as readily as breathing.

Those eyes followed her. 

Her pulse ticked up, not fear, not quite. Something older. Something that tasted like rain-soaked Manchester parks and promises whispered against collarbones at sixteen. Something she’d buried under layers of deployments, single motherhood, and the quiet decision to let ghosts lie when they stopped writing back.

She risked one glance. Just one.

Then she looked away. Forced her focus back to the map on the wall.

Evelyn was struck with the memory of a face she hasn’t seen in a long time, but also a face she’s looked into for the last fifteen years. Suddenly, she wanted to go home to her son. To look at his kind, curious eyes, and kiss the mess of wavy sand colored hair on his head. 

What a specific compulsion.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pendejo—

I don’t know why you stopped writing back, if it was something I said or did, or didn’t do, I’m so sorry. 

But I really need to talk to you right now.

There’s so much uncertainty, and you were my constant and I could really use that right now.

I really hope you’re doing ok, I mean, as ok as you can be all things considered. 

Just please, please write back and tell me you’re ok, or tell me to fuck off and I will. It’s been so long since I heard from you, and I miss you. 

Give Tommy my best. 

I love you, Simon.

P.s. I’ve moved, I don’t really have a place set up yet, but I’ll let you know when I do.

— Evie

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[RETURN TO SENDER]

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