Another COD Blog

other soldiers will see you with ghost and the rest of the 141 and think that you’re embarrassed, hiding behind ghost’s big figure, thick arms crossed over his chest as he stands incredibly tense

what others don’t see is that you’re groping ghost

deft hands grabbing and squeezing at his body, fat and muscle spilling between your fingers as you crawl your hands under his oversized shirt to grab at his thick tits, pinching and pulling at his nipples

Ohhh nonny I don't think price is surviving to the next morning if he hits you.

If he comes home well and truly drunk, pissed enough to be yelling at you over something, so far gone that he hits you? There will he a split second of clarity the moment after the hit, realizing the boundary he's crossed, before he doubles down and refuses to apologize.

He yells more, gets in your face and tears you down like he would a soldier after a fight. Until you're physically shaking and flinching away from him, making price feel like a real man. Like someone in control before he stomps off to sleep.

Which leaves you, terrified tucked behind the sofa you bought with john when you first moved in. You do the only thing you can think of, face already bruising, and call the number john gave you "only for emergencies. Doesn't matter what, he'll help you."

"...ello?" The voice that picks up is rough, grainy.

"I...I didn't know who to call...." you choke on a sob. Terrified. "I don't know what to do."

Which is how, two hours later you're drinking a milk-shake in some diner parking lot, legs dangling over the bed of ghosts truck while he makes phonecalls far away enough you can't hear anything. You don't know what to feel. You love john, of course you do he's the man of your dreams but...but you've never feared for your life like that before.

It's fine. You decide not to think about it. Simon will handle it, he assured you. He even promised not to kill john when you had panicked and begged him to be nice, explaining that john was just drunk and he's usually never like that—

Yeah. Simon said he'll just talk to price, set things straight.

On the job, sure. It's necessary, and even when it's not, Johnny yaps enough to coax some responses from him. But when he's on his own, back at home, he'll go days, weeks without hearing the sound of his own voice. And that's fine by him -- he's never thought he had all that much to say anyway.

You, though, seem to disagree.

His captain's pretty wife, you make a point to greet him on days you stop by the base. Then, when you insist John invite his men over to dinner, you hone in on him, gazing up at him with wide, curious eyes like he's something worthy of your attention.

He hates it, because it makes him want. And wanting has never got him anywhere.

It's worse the days that Simon comes around on his own. John's always taken a special interest in him, he knows that, so on some days -- Christmas, Easter and the like -- John will give him a not-so-thinly veiled order that he needs to drop by, the missus is expecting him. Johnny, Gaz, Kate, anyone else who might flit in and out are occupied with their own families, and Simon feels like the orphan boy with the pity invitation. But he comes anyway, because over the years, he's become wired that way.

Price says jump, he does. He says to come ... of course he always will.

"Simon!"

Your voice is so bright and happy when you answer the door, it almost burns. Still, he leans into it, breathes it in for a moment before he hears John's footsteps and his spine snaps straight.

The older man shoots him a small smile that he sees more in the crinkle of his eyes than the curve of his lips, and if he's upset at the way Simon was was just looking at his wife, he gives no indication.

If you are the sun to Simon, all warmth and light, then John is the root, solid and strong. And, tree of a man that he is, it seems more and more like he needs both to thrive.

Today is just a regular Saturday -- no holiday, no special occasion that he's aware of, but something about it feels important all the same. It could be the nicer plates that he sees John pull from the cabinet in the dining room, or the way it feels like you've taken extra care to make some of his favorite dishes, ones he knows he couldn't help but heap praise on during other dinners.

It could be the sweet dress you're wearing, or the way you keep smoothing it over your belly.

Whatever it is, there's something unspoken swirling around as the three of you sit around the table, and it's not until John calls him into the kitchen to help him clean up that he starts to get a clearer look at it.

"Ever thought about a baby, son?"

The question comes out as the two men stand in front of the sink, washing and drying dishes, and at first, Simon truly goesn't get it.

"The fuck I'd be thinking about a baby for?"

But John just chuckles, looking back at the sink as he runs the sponge over another plate.

"Having a baby. Being a father. Ever considered it?"

It's a laughable question to Simon, and John knows exactly why, but while there's a smile to his voice as he asks, he's not laughing.

He swallows, feeling a bit sick all of a sudden as it all clicks into place. The way you kept touching your stomach, all that kindness he saw in your eyes since he's been here, this line of questioning now ...

You're pregnant. You're pregnant, you're starting a family, John will have a real son to put his energy into instead of the lost cause that he is. You're having a baby, and Simon will be forgotten. Again. Always.

A moment goes by, he doesn't answer, but John's never been put off by his silence, so he continues.

"She wants a baby.”

His voice comes out quiet, like a confession, and Simon gets this is the part where he should speak, but the thing is that he has no idea what to say. Because if you’re not having a baby, if that’s not the unspoken fog that’s been hovering over the whole evening, then what is it?

John tells him in clipped, muttered statements that he can tell cost him something that you can’t get pregnant. That you’ve tried, you’ve been trying for so long, but it hasn’t happened. He hears about negative tests, doctor’s visits, how sad you’ve been that nothing’s worked, and Simon takes it all in quietly, drying the dishes and stacking them up and just listening, still unsure why he’s hearing any of this.

He hears the distant sounds of you flitting around the rest of the house, the clinking of the silverware in the sink, his jaw clenched as he tries to focus on that and not the hot, heavy feeling that bubbles in the pit of his stomach when John turns the conversation onto the topic of his semen.

“It’s me, Simon,” he says, his voice so quiet now that he has to turn his head a little to hear. “Fucking blow to the ego like you couldn’t believe.”

This whole time that John has been spilling out the most intimate details of his marriage, his health, all these little secrets and dreams, Simon hasn’t said a word. But hearing the subtle tinge of shame in his voice is enough to push him to finally engage.

“Other ways to make a family, yeah?”

He’s not even sure what he means - there’s adoption, sure, or a sperm donor, more tests, there’s got to me some way to have a baby beyond what you’ve already tried.

It’s then that John turns to face him fully, turning off the sink, one of those little smiles gracing his face again.

The only problem? You have no clue what is and isn't socially acceptable for a werewolf to do.

The guys aren't exactly sure how to tell you that obsessively sniffing everyone's clothes is...weird. creepy. Because you being creepy is better than remembering the way you screamed during the transformation, right?

So they let you curl up in gazs hoodie, taking a sniff to mutter "woah, I like this. You smell so good, gaz."

It's worse when you decide to do it in public, still getting used to your new heightened senses. You don't hesitate to cuddle up to soap, astonished by how warm he feels, nose tucking into his neck. Cedar, cinnamon, gunpowder and his distinct musk all filling your nostrils.

Your instincts, too, are completely out of your control. You bark and whine and huff whenever they tell you to, even when it's considered...taboo to indulge in certain instincts publicly.

Like play-biting on ghosts arms whenever they are vaguely within range of your teeth, similar to how gaz sometimes acts, but you don't mind doing it in the middle of a meeting. Though you're wiggling happily with a phantom-tail common in most recent transformations, so ghost does nothing to stop you.

Truthfully, the team is glad you're so preoccupied in your new identity. Too distracted to notice the way they've been acting odd, sneaking off more often either alone or in pairs, coming back smelling odd which only makes you want to sniff them more. They've all agreed it's best to let you figure yourself out first, what with how disorienting a transformation can be, especially one as traumatic as yours.

Because really, who was going to be the one to tell you that by werewolf standards you've been violently flirting with the entire team?

You’ve found some footing outside your room.

It had been about a week since the nightmare incident. Despite that, Ghost was no more likely to speak to you in the light of day. It was fine, though, the others were friendly enough. Luckily you’d been able to confirm your suspicion that they were military—something called SAS at one point, then converted to a special task force called the 141.

You wanted to get them to expand on what they did, seeing as the SAS wasn’t a thing in the U.S., but it seemed it was just a whole lot of ‘CLASSIFIED.’ You’d assumed that maybe that would’ve ended—given the whole apocalypse thing—but they were still pretty tight-lipped. Some more than others.

Despite the midnight bonding, you’d barely been able to get a full conversation out of Ghost. When he did talk to you, it was mostly pragmatic. Open that door, flank over here, grab this. He wasn’t…unfriendly. Once you overheard him spewing some stupid joke to Soap, you knew he probably just didn’t trust you. Which, all things considered, is fair. You don’t really trust them either. But…you think you’d like to. The peek you got that night into who Ghost might actually be under that mask only motivated you further.

From what you’ve seen, from how they’ve treated you, you’d like to think they’re good people. But you’ve been wrong before. And that wasn’t a mistake you could make again. Even if they had been decent pre-apocalypse, something about all the rules going out the window turned people nasty. Most people revealed this quickly, only a few had the foresight to be deceptive, and you’d gotten close and personal with one of those. You weren’t interested in doing it again.

So…arms length for now. At least that’s what you told yourself you’d do, but the sergeants were actively putting holes in that plan. Either way, it was nice to not be alone anymore. You got to sleep more now that there were more ways to split watch (big bonus), and the conversation (with those who would humor you) wasn’t half bad. Soap was a funny guy and Kyle was warm. You trusted the captain’s judgement. So far he hadn’t made any decisions that led to terrible outcomes, and it seemed his team trusted him implicitly. Like you said, Ghost was a harder nut to crack, but even he wasn’t treating you poorly.

Like that one day you had needed to do a longer trek to not get stuck in bad weather and you’d barely been able to rest or drink or eat. He must’ve seen you swaying, and honestly he probably just hadn’t wanted to deal with you passing out, but he threw you a granola bar from his stash before you could ever complain of hunger. He didn’t acknowledge it and neither did you…you’re not sure he’d like being thanked. It reminded you of the way he was after taking your watch. He seems more like the ‘silent caretaker’ type. You hope in the future you could prove your usefulness and come to some sort of agreement with him. Only time would tell.

You’d made good progress. Almost out of the mountains. They’d told you that they were trying to get east, but not where exactly. Spewing the same ‘classified’ B.S., but you weren’t exactly in a position to press, so you just guided them to the best of your abilities.

You’d just hit the last town before the final stretch of highway out of the mountains, so you were stocking up before it was only wilderness.

The captain had commanded you split up to cover more ground, but close enough that you could all bail together if need be. You were starting to gather that he was a paranoid man, but given the state of the world, who wasn’t?

You and Soap were going around the back of an old grocery store to the docking stations. Price’s theory was maybe some of the trucks still had product. The rest of them were scattered checking the store itself.

You turn the corner to the back of the building to see a couple of semi-trucks, sides colored with food advertisements.

“Hm, guess he was right.” You say more to yourself than anything.

“He often is,” Soap smiles at you, taking the first steps to approach the trucks.

After the first week, you’d apparently proven you weren’t trying to kill them in their sleep, and they had graciously given you one of their handguns. You pulled it out now…just in case.

You both stopped in front of the first truck, angled and parked with the driver’s door open, like the driver had been attempting a deliver right when shit hit the fan and immediately got the hell out of dodge.

You jerk your head in the general direction of the tail end of the truck, “I’ll check the back. Check the glove compartment?”

“Aye.” He agrees, climbing into the front.

You make your way to the back, giving a quick glance under the truck just in case. You take in the big expanse of the cargo door, dirty from many trips with some smudges in the shape of hands, presumably from the driver closing the door. You put your ear to the metal…you hear nothing.

So, you grab the lever and turn the lock on the large door, grabbing the cloth strap to jerk it up and open. As soon as you do, you know it was a mistake.

The tell-tale grumble of the undead fills your ears as the door slams into its open position, revealing the trunk filled to the brim with hibernating undead—hibernating no more. Now they’re awake.

“Shit!” You can’t help the exclamation. Perhaps you’d gotten soft in the many months that had gone by without seeing one, but this sight was gnarly even by normal standards.

There were so many of them. You don’t even want to fathom how they all got in there, and how they stayed so quiet. Did someone figure out how to trap them all in here…or were they alive when they were shut in?

The mangled limbs overlap each other, getting tangled. You can’t help but think of a Rat King, some disturbing phenomenon you’d learned about pre-outbreak. The group certainly looked irreversibly entangled, and yet they were each snarling and grasping out, trying to reach you. And the smell…

One somehow breaks free from the mass of bodies, lunging out of the truck and for you.

It hasn’t even been a second since you made the mistake of opening the door, but Soap must’ve heard the snarls was in action with no hesitation. From seemingly nowhere, he appears and grabs you, pulling you away from the straggler, jamming his knife into its skull, and starts to run with his hand in yours. You know you shouldn’t, but you glance back. More are falling out of the truck, snarling and climbing over each other at the prospect of food. There’s way too many.

That gets you into gear. You start running with more fervor on your own, but Soap doesn’t drop your hand.

“Shit!” You think the fear has reduced your vocabulary.

“Keep running!” Soap offers.

“No shit!”

Soap reaches for his vest where his radio sits, a good find from a previous town. You only had two, but it worked for splitting up like this.

“Cap! Contact, we gotta go!” He doesn’t try to hide the urgency in his tone.

“How many?” Price’s voice crackles back over the radio.

“Too many—too fuckin’ many, cap. Haul ass, now!”

“Copy.”

You manage to scoff despite your desperate panting. You’re never not shocked at how he manages himself in crisis. He doesn’t even sound concerned…but that may just be because he hasn’t seen what you’re dealing with yet.

You and Soap are still sprinting wildly next to each other, the squelching foot falls of rotting flesh gaining close behind. In your peaceful winter you had maybe forced yourself to forget both how fast these fuckers are, and how the feeling of fear and adrenaline clouds your judgement. Because the moment a cop car comes into view, a very, very stupid thought fills your head.

You shake your head just a little, telling yourself the impulsive thought is resoundingly not the best solution to the problem. But then you and Soap round the corner to the front of the store, finding the others anxiously waiting, and their faces drop as they realize how utterly fucked you all are.

You’ve been moving on foot until now, and there’s so many behind you, and the undead don’t get tired.

You take a stuttered breath, glancing one last time behind you and back to the men who had helped you when they didn’t even know you…and you break off, ripping your hand from Soap’s and sprinting toward the stupid cop car.

You can’t even pinpoint who yells what because they are all yelling, various shouts and stops and declarations of idiocy. One stands out, definitely Ghost’s voice, “told ya at the first sign of danger—“

You’re going to choose to ignore that. Hopefully when everything goes according to plan, he’ll be proven wrong.

From the corner of your eye, you see Soap try to run after you, only to be pulled back by Ghost. They start to run in the correct direction, but there’s no way they’re outrunning the hoard.

This is so stupid. So stupid. What if the car doesn’t start? What if it’s out of gas? Your brain is going a million miles per hour thinking of all the things that could go wrong, but your legs are still moving. One thought prevailing: making sure everyone gets out of this alive.

Similarly to the truck, the driver’s door was left open, presumably mid-outbreak the cop left the car in a hurry and wasn’t lucky enough to return. You slide into the seat, stragglers who broke off from the main hoard hot on your heels. You have to stick a leg out and slam it into the chest of one to stop it from catching a ride, roughly closing the door behind you.

If there’s one thing Graves taught you, it’s that they’re attracted to sound. He’d performed something incredibly reckless like this before, and as much as you loathe to admit it, you’re trying to channel him right now.

If there was another thing Graves taught you, it was how to hot-wire a car.

You pull out your knife from the holster on your thigh, prying the steering column off. You spare a quick glance up to check on the others, who are successfully outpacing the hoard. For now.

You look back down, you need to do this fast. Identifying the right wires, you use the knife to strip them, twisting them together. You jump as the radio abruptly crackles to life, loud white noise filling the cab. You refocus, grabbing another wire and touching it to the twisted ones. The rumble of the engine trying to start fills the air for just a second before it stops.

Fuck, please.

You try again, sliding the wires against each other and hoping it’ll spark the engine to life. You spare a glance through the windshield, they’re getting further away, but they’re only barely managing to outpace the hoard.

The engine roars to life.

“Yes!” You can’t help the exclamation.

Your foot finds the break, hand ripping the gear into drive, and then you’re off like a bat out of hell, running over the stragglers that decided clawing at the hood of the car was their best bet for a meal.

You take off toward the main body of the herd, wanting to get close before you continue your stupidity.

When you make it to around the middle, you flick the sirens to life.

They drone weirdly at first, like the battery has gotten used to not powering anything, before the familiar whine of the cop siren is blaring fully.

You can see the shock on the team’s faces as they register your thought, but just as quickly they realize you’re doing this for them, and they’re back to sprinting full speed.

The hoard registers the noise and starts to stumble toward the car, arms outstretched like they can stop it. You push the pedal further, rolling down the window as much as you can without letting anything in, and yell out to them.

God you hope they can hear over the sounds. “Mile 14!”

It’s not a lot for them to go off of, but you had been looking at the map that morning and had noted that around mile marker 14 would be a good stopping point for the night. You just had to hope that they understood your meaning—and god—that they’d actually wait for you.

What if they don’t wait for you?

The thought suddenly slams into your mind as you send the car careening away, taking most of the hoard off onto a wild goose chase.

You look out the rear view and see that some had stuck with the guys, but it was few enough that they could deal with it. It had to be.

What if they never show up? What if they don’t make it to Mile 14 and you end up all alone again. You have the map, what if they can’t find their way? What if you just killed them?

You can’t think like that right now. Right now, you have a hoard of undead on your ass, a quarter tank of gas, and no plan. Right now you needed to worry about yourself and think of your next steps.

You’re face down in the dirt.

The smell of damp grass invades your senses. The rain had finally let up after almost 3 days of straight downpour.

It wasn’t something you should be focusing on right now. Not with a knee digging into your back and the barrel of a gun pointed at your head.

But you knew that if you refocused your gaze off the blades of grass and looked up you’d see—

Bang!

You jolt awake, trying to keep the scream inside.

It had been a while since you dreamt of that night. But it had also been a while since you had seen Graves. Of course it brought up memories.

You suck in a deep breath, hand coming up to cover your eyes briefly before pushing your stray hairs off your slick forehead. The last of the fire’s embers are dying, leaving only the coals glowing in the otherwise unpenetrated darkness.

The reflective flicker in his eyes is the only way you know he’s watching you. The mask obscures the rest of his face so heavily in the dark it’s like he isn’t there at all. You try to keep yourself from jumping. That guy is scary when he wants to be…which is basically always.

You stare at each other in the dark as you catch your breath. You think you can make out through the dark that his knees are up, forearms resting casually against them, gun close by as he watches for danger.

“Bad dreams?” He breaks the silence first.

You want to pretend he sounds patronizing but there’s really no inflection at all.

“Yes.” You elect to look at the stars instead of him, but you can still feel his stare on your cheek.

You think he’ll drop it there but he doesn’t. “Graves?”

You do flinch at that. Something about hearing his name spoken in the vulnerability of the night, wounds reopened from the nightmare—the memory. You don’t respond.

“What did he do?” He grunts out.

He must be bored because he never talks to you this much during the day. A sudden flare of irritation hits you.

“It’s none of your business.” You snap. You’ve been trying to get him to talk for days, but when it’s your suffering he’s suddenly Chatty Cathy? No thank you.

The silence is heavier than his prodding. You regret the outburst immediately. Your lungs empty all at once, a bone-deep tiredness replacing your indignation. This could be the olive branch you’ve been searching for.

“Lots of…” your eyes flicker back to what little of him you can see. You still can’t decide how much you want to say. “Lots of…bad shit.” It’s not a good answer but you don’t want to say what he did out loud, don’t want to have to talk about her.

You gulp, “I was praying I’d be thrown back to the undead rather than have to be with him for another second.” You’ll leave it at that and hope his imagination is sufficient for his curiosity.

He doesn’t speak for a while, you don’t think he will again, so you just take the time to calm down and try to make shapes in the stars. You were never very good with constellations.

He surprises you, as he seems to keep doing, by speaking again. “You’re with us now. Doesn’t matter how I feel about it, once Johnny’s attached there’s not much the rest of us can do.”

He’s comforting you. Or trying to, playing it off as a joke. You feel a little warmer at the acknowledgement of your growing friendship with the sergeants. It’s good to know you aren’t imagining it.

“If we ever run into him again, he’ll have to get through us.” He finishes.

Yeah…that’s exactly what you’re worried about.

Still, knowing that even if he barely tolerates you, he’d still try to protect you makes you feel better. You wouldn’t want to be on the other side of Ghost’s wrath. You can only hope if that day ever comes, he’s a match for Graves.

“Thank you.” It’s a whisper, one that’s too real.

“Anyway, it’s my shift,” you push yourself to sit, wanting to forget this train of thought. You reach for the gun he’s using for watch, “get some rest.”

“No.” He drags the gun back toward him, “you’ve still got a hour. I’ll wake you up.”

He stares, daring you to argue. Even though you’re fairly certain it’s your turn, you don’t have it in you to fight tonight.

“Okay.” You acquiesce, retracting your hold on the gun. You lay back down with his stare still burning your back.

You don’t wake up again until the sunlight streams into your eyes. Ghost doesn’t mention it.

At least, as safe as you could get in a zombie apocalypse. The undead didn’t do well in the cold, limbs with no blood froze, fell off, slowed them to an essentially inert state.

But when you didn’t need to worry about horrifying, rotting, infectious dead people, you had to worry about starving.

When the news broke that the cold slowed them down, just about everyone migrated north. What that meant, though, was basically all of the stores were totally raided.

So here you were, in your fingerless gloves (that used to have fingers) digging through the wreckage of a 7-11 you’d been to before trying to find anything edible enough. You’d take something even technically edible at this point. The gloves catch on a broken shelf, sending your frustrations over the edge. You rip them off and throw them on the ground.

It was the fifth store you had tried today. You were getting desperate enough to start trying the same places again. In the summer, you could forage in the forest, maybe even catch something in a snare if you were lucky. But right now? The forest was deader than the zombies. You’d have to rely on something canned pre-apocalypse. Or you could die. That was looking pretty appealing right now.

Your doom-and-gloom thoughts were interrupted by a loud rattle by the door. On instinct, you ducked and pulled your knife from your belt, making yourself small behind a shelf. Sure, winter slowed them down, but that didn’t mean a persistent straggler wasn’t possible. You couldn’t let your guard down.

You were tense, ready for any scenario…until you heard voices. Accented voices—at least to you in mountain-town USA.

“Bloody hell, this place is a ghost town…”

They were human, but you still didn’t dare poke out. The apocalypse did nasty things to people. Made them compromise their morals for survival. Some people leaned into that more than others and there was no way to know.

“Just see if there’s anything salvageable, sergeant. Map says this is the last town for a while.”

Sergeant? Military? Last you heard, they were all wiped out in the initial push-back. Not to mention they were passersby, which was incredibly rare. People in general were getting rarer by the day, but most people clung to the safety of the cold, and towns they knew. Unknowns were dangerous. Trained ones, even more so.

As far as you knew, this place didn’t have a back door. But, if you could get to the front undetected, you could get the hell out of dodge, belly no less empty, but still very much alive. You’d take that trade-off.

As they rounded the shelves, you paralleled their movements, snaking around them to stay out of sight. Curiosity was a beast of its own, though, so you risked a peek.

There were three of them, all large men. One was older with mutton chops and a bucket hat, holding a gun—a large one—and looking around while the others dug through the mess. The other two were younger. One shorter, but no less built, with a Mohawk of all things. The other, very pretty with a Union Jack on his cap.

They all had guns (another rarity these days) and tac vests, clearly military and clearly not American. Definitely wanted to avoid them.

They seemed occupied with their search, which benefited you. They didn’t seem overtly concerned with their noise levels either, so it was easier to sneak away. By the time you made it to the front door, you almost felt like it was too easy. Still looking back to make sure they hadn’t seen you, you didn’t notice the hulking figure in front of you. But boy did he see you.

He grabbed you by the straps of your backpack before slamming you against the brick wall of the building. Oh…they left a scout. You realized a little too late. He was the scariest of them all, face fully covered by a skull mask. He had to have been well over 6 feet, and struck an intimidatingly muscular figure. You were so so so incredibly fucked.

“Captain!” His low voice cut through the silence of the outdoors, making you flinch. You can’t remember the last time someone had yelled in your presence. Frankly, it’s been a while since you’d seen anyone at all.

His comrades responded rapidly, flying outside with their guns up ready to defend him. They deflated at the sight of you, which…was sort of offensive. Sure, you probably didn’t look as intimidating as them, what with no gun, and you were clearly outnumbered, but still. They didn’t know what you could do.

“Well, what do we have ‘ere, Ghost?” Mutton chops—the captain?—asks.

Your brows furrow, “ghost…?” You can’t help but whispering inquisitively.

His gaze turns back on you, “got a problem?”

“No!” You speak louder, head shaking, “no problem…just…ghost?”

The one with a Mohawk snorts before Pretty Boy stomps on his foot.

You’re confused at the dynamic here. Are you in danger? You can’t tell. Ghost still has you pinned, but they all seem very relaxed and Mohawk even seems to find humor in the situation.

“Are…you gonna kill me?” You were always told that speaking your mind is best.

The captain lowers his weapon fully, hands coming to wrap around the front straps of his vest before rocking on his heels and smirking a little. You try to ignore the way it crinkles his eyes and how that makes you feel. “No, sweet’eart, we’re not that type of folk. Just needed to make certain you weren’t a threat.”

There’s silence for a moment. Your gaze sweeps from the captain to Ghosts hands, still wrapped around your backpack straps and pinning you to the wall, before back to the captain in a silent plea.

“Alrigh’, Ghost, release.” He lets you go, dropping you the inch he had you raised back to the ground, before backing up.

You fix your jacket and bag and clear your throat, wiping your hands down the front of your shirt. “Well…gentlemen…if that’s all…” you move to leave before the captain jerks you back by the hook on the back of your bag.

“Not so fast.”

This is getting old quick.

“What!” You flip to face him, exasperated and no longer caring, “what could I possibly do—“ you stop at the sight of a granola bar in his outstretched hand. You look down at it and then back at him. Was he really offering this to you? Food was so scarce and kind people even scarcer. What did he want in return?

Before you could ask or just grab it and run, the sound of a motorcycle revving in the distance interrupted your thoughts.

You flinch hard, looking the direction it came before backtracking rapidly. “Shit. Shit, shit—“

They’re confused but you’d be damned if you had another run in with him. You’re about to take off when you think about them. Clearly unfamiliar with the territory and kind enough to offer you food (…and not kill you). The least you could do is save them from this fate.

So, you grab Pretty Boy’s bicep and tug him along with a “come with me!”

“Hey, wait a second—“ Ghost is gripping his gun and taking a defensive step forward, but you don’t have time for his suspicion.

You’re still holding Pretty’s bicep when you swoop past Mohawk and grab him too, “if you want to die that’s fine by me!” The two in your hold are sharing a glance over your head but seem inclined to listen. You don’t spare a look to see if the other two are following, if not, it’s their funeral.

You’re pretty sure the gas station has a secondary building around back for overstock and snow supplies. Last you checked all the food was gone, but hopefully the door was still in tact. You had to be out of sight before they got here.

The sounds of motorcycles were getting closer, and your window was closing. Luckily, you could see the shed still standing with a door. You abandon the hold on the boys in favor of tugging the latch and opening the door to the shed. Looking behind you, the other two ended up following, both seeming more suspicious of you than they had when you were pressed to a wall. There wasn’t time to explain, though, so you just ushered them in before following and closing the door.

It was about a quarter of the size of the actual station, with some closets and nooks and crannies, but they stayed huddled by the entryway, reluctant to venture further into the dark unknown.

You turn to face them, feeling claustrophobic at the way they are towering around you. You take off your backpack, shoving it into the chest in front of you. “Hold this.”

You start to rummage through before Ghost interrupts, “are you going to explain anything?”

Your head whips up in the dark, “shh!” You pull out a flashlight and flick it on, zipping your bag up and flinging it onto your back.

You break out of the circle, giving the room a glance over to make sure no zombies had made this their hibernation home. When you’re certain it’s clear, you turn back around to answer.

“Listen, there’s only one group in town that have motorcycles and you don’t want to cross their path.”

They share a dubious look with one another before shouldering their guns higher. “I think we’d be set, love.”

You scoff, “you’re not the only ones with guns. And from the looks of it, you’re a lot nicer than they are.”

“We’re only nice to people who look on the verge of starving. It’s not like you pose much of a threat.” Ghost again.

They’re not getting it. “Just!—trust me. You’re passing through, right? Not from around here?” You’re looking at each of them in the eye, trying to impress upon them how serious you are. “These guys rolled up at the very start. People were making a community here. With walls and laws, trying to make something of this mess. They tore it all to shreds. Pretended to join the community and then opened the gates to a bunch of undead. The things that they did—“ you take a breath and look away before continuing, “they’re not good, okay? If they saw the gear y’all’re sporting, they’d never let you walk away.”

You can only hope you got through to them because the motorcycles are here. You turn off the flashlight and punch through their group again to peek out a gap in the door. Please don’t stop here, please don’t stop here, please—

They park the bikes in front of the 7-11.

“Alright! Split up, see if this fine establishment has what we’re lookin’ for!” His southern drawl makes you shudder, thinking back to how callous he was in the wake of the destruction he caused.

“His name is Graves.” You whisper, not taking your eyes off of him. “Was U.S. military before all of this…deserted when the shit hit the fan.”

They don’t ask how you know so much about him.

Suddenly you jerk back with a hissed “shit!”

Suddenly you’re turning around and pushing on their chests to get them to move. “Go, go, go! Someone is coming.”

You had seen plenty of hiding places when you were checking for undead, you just had to hope they wouldn’t check too thoroughly.

You all scrambled for a place to hide, silently directing them to places you had spotted. Everyone squeezed into gaps or took closets, and then it was just you, standing in the middle of the room, spinning helplessly. Footsteps approached from outside, about to reach the door, when someone stuck their hand out and jerked you into their spot.

Ghost squeezed you into the cabinet he was in, chest pressing to yours, before shutting the door and plunging you into darkness.

“I—“ you try to whisper, but he just brings his hand up to cover your mouth as the door to the shed creaks open.

Your breathing picks up as someone enters to room, sweeping a flashlight back and forth, momentarily illuminating the crack in the cabinet. You can hear his boots scrape the floor and the click of a gun as he leisurely makes his way deeper into the room.

Eventually he stops in front of your cabinet. Your eye flickers from the crack to Ghost’s eyes. His gun is nuzzled between the two of you. He brings his finger up to his lips before reaching down to your thigh holster for your knife, not yet pulling it out, just hovering with his hand pressed against your thigh and waiting for the door to open.

“Walkowski!” You hear Graves yell from the main building. The man retracts his hand from the handle of the cabinet and runs back to his master.

Ghost drops both of his hands from you and you finally feel like you can breathe again.

You all give it a moment before emerging from your hiding spots. You approach the door that is still ajar, looking out to find no one in sight.

You look over your shoulder and gesture for them to follow before shooting out and jogging for the back of the gas station.

As you all take refuge behind the back wall, Graves finally re-emerges with his crew.

“Any clues on our little deflector?” He asks his goons as they flood back to him.

“Not sure, sir, but we did find this.” One of them holds up two gloves—your gloves.

Graves chuckles and takes them from his hands. “Well I’ll be!” He holds them up and waves them at his other comrades, “looks like we’re on the right track, boys!”

Your head drops, eyes squeezing shut at your stupidity. A barely audible fuck leaves you. The boys share a look, starting to put some dots together.

You all stay silent as they all get back on their bikes and start up the road. The tension only minimally leaves your shoulders, you honestly look on the verge of tears as you stand.

“Well…it was nice meeting you. Thanks for the granola bar. If you’re trying to get out of town you’re going to want to follow the highway so you don’t get stuck in a snowed-out overpass.” You point in the direction of a large road, not turning around to face them before staring the opposite direction Graves went.

“Come with us.” Ghost stops you before even fully considering what he’s saying. He spares a look at John, forgetting chain of command for a moment. All he’s thinking about is that he knows what it’s like to be running from something. To be scared. But John doesn’t protest, in fact they all look to be in agreement.

That does get you to turn back. “What?” You say incredulously.

“We could use a guide.” He offers.

“I’m—“ you look around like you’d find someone to protest, “I’m not just dropping everything I have here for…for some strangers I met 30 minutes ago…” despite your arguments, you look contemplative.

“Everything you have here? Like what? The lack of food and a sociopath on your ass?” Tough love it is.

You scoff and shake your head. Of course they caught that. Your brain tells you that there’s no argument, that obviously you can’t go with them. But…but…

To tell the truth, you had nothing here. Just the memory of what was before Graves took everything. He was right. You were starving and terrified Graves would find you everyday. You were sick of watching your own back, sick of having no one to talk to, and sick of Graves looming over you.

You open and close your mouth a couple of times. “…okay.”

You’re not sure how, but you felt like you had just irreparably changed something.

Not that he directly says it, but even an SAS operative is hard-pressed to hide the subtle flinch of touch from his fellow teammates at all times. Skin always covered, always positioned away from people, it's an unspoken rule that no one touches ghost unless mandatory.

So why the hell does he let you, the new secretary, get away with it?

"Oh, sir! Hey, I needed an updated copy of that file–" you'll catch him in the hallway, hand on his bicep to get his attention before you lose him in the crowd. The strangest thing? Ghost actually stops and listens carefully. No tensing up or glaring at all.

Or when you happen to be next to him in line for dinner, you have no qualms bumping your shoulder into his side in lieu of greeting with full hands, already saying "hi, sir! Yknow, I was looking over those reports, and I really appreciate how you—"

It's an absolute mystery to the team. How you ghost is more than happy to be practically manhandled by you in crowded spaces or simply casually touched in conversation. There's only one logical explenation.

Ghost has a crush.

After that, it just becomes more obvious. How he angles himself closest to you in a group. How he subtly leans into your touch on certain days.

Curiously, gaz asks you about it one day. A casual water cooler ambush, designed to look purely coincidental when he interrogates "oh, you and ghost talk often, don't you?"

"Hm? Oh, ghost? Yeah! He's a great friend!" You smile, all wide and unassuming. of course you have no fucking clue, because ghost is damn difficult to read even to trained soldiers. You go on to smile to yourself, fidgeting with the manila folder held against your clipboard. "I'm honestly shocked he tolerates me so much, what with being just some secretary. But he's nice to talk to, yknow?"

...and it seems you are just as horribly enamoured by him. How the hell neither of you has figured it out is beyond the team.