Bravo Fics, Going Dark

"Look at me. That's it, beautiful—shit."

And now it's Kyle's turn to be a fuckin' mess.

growing up in an aggressive and abusive household has made simon avoid anything that can resemble even a disagreement. it's frustrating at times. you'll try to talk to him about serious topics and he'll immediately shut you down or go quiet because he fears it'll draw out a screaming match because that's what usually happened between his parents.

he knows you better than himself, so when your mood is the slightest bit sour he immediately notices. except, he doesn't ask you what's wrong.

instead, this behemoth of a man literally begins to cower. he goes dead quiet. not even his usual softspokeness, not a single word. simon becomes clumsy and tries to take up less space around you. he even fumbles with his fingers and watches you with those whale eyes a dog gives you when it's uncomfortable. he does all of this, while refusing to leave your side.

he doesn't prod, doesn't ask. he think's it'll agitate you more if he bothers you and hopes that by showing his devotion by staying at your side through whatever is going through your mind and is affecting you that it'll persuade you to have mercy on him and forgive him—even if he did nothing at all and you're not mad at him.

it's almost insane. he's more scared of the possibility of you being mad at him than an actual bullet. sometimes it makes things worse because you wouldn't even be mad at him and he'll refuse to engage with you from sheer nervousness.

[cw: suggestive]

Ghost is not what the captain would call a gentle man. Everything about him carries weight. His presence, his stare, his skills, his callsign, his reputation. But most of all, his voice. Price has heard Ghost in all sorts of situations, from enemy interrogations to dropping some of the most driest sarcasm to ever grace his comms.

Ghost's voice, like the rest of him, is rough. Like the sound comes from mortar-blasted boulders grinding against each other in his chest and not vocal chords. When Ghost speaks, everything sounds like an ultimatum.

But that's what happens in the military. Show him a man surrounded by other soldiers that doesn't develop some obnoxiously loud, deep vocal affect and Price will eat his hat.

Which is why, when you, the new medic transfer on base, are tasked with administering this year's flu jabs he notices it almost immediately.

"Sleeve up, please, Lieutenant," you tell him. Ghost is sat in the little plastic chair in front of you with his arm fully exposed before you finish.

"Busy day, yeah?" Price nearly chokes when Ghost asks you that.

It wasn't just the fact that he was making conversation, but it was the sound of him. If Price wasn't looking directly at him when he said it, he would have thought there was someone hidden behind his Lt.

But no. It was him, speaking without prompt to you in a tone of voice that Price didn't even think the man was physically capable of.

The boulders in his chest are silent. His voice having moved from them up to some higher register. Like the years of chain smoking and yelling over weapons fire is an inconvenience for once. Ghost even clears his throat when you turn away from him for a moment. Subdued. Soft.

Ghost. Soft. Hell has frozen over.

"It always is," you reply oblivious to the anomaly in front of you, a little smile on your face as you swipe Ghost's bicep with a little disinfectant wipe.

Price watches how Ghost never takes his eyes off of you as you do your work with the same fascination as watching a dog wearing pants walk on its hind legs.

It quickly becomes apparent that this is not an isolated case.

One morning some time later has Ghost walking with him to his office going over upcoming itineraries. Both of them have their minds on the looming, still unconfirmed, deployment. When you turn the corner into the hallway with a stack of files in your hand, Price swears he sees the lights brighten a little bit just from how Ghost perks up.

"Mornin', ma'am." And all of the sudden his hardened veteran, skull mask wearing, second in command is gone and replaced by two meters of tender puppy-dog eyes and velvety voice. He's pretty sure if Ghost had a tail it'd be wagging.

"Good morning, Lieutenant. How many times do I have to tell you you don't have to call me that?"

"At least one more," Ghost all but purrs.

Price feels like he's witnessing something that should be behind an age verification.

You roll your eyes and pat his shoulder as you pass, disappearing down the hallway without a glance behind you. If you did, you would've seen how Ghost's head turned to watch you go.

The other time occurred when you weren't even around to hear it.

It was classified as a training incident only because of its proximity to the grounds. Very little surprises Price anymore, so he didn't bat an eye when he saw a soldier drive up in a humvee, get out, and then just dumbly watch the vehicle creep backwards, gaining speed until it crashed into a nearby prefab.

The car was fine, of course, but those inside the prefab when it made contact weren't so lucky, especially anyone in the falling radius of the shelves and full crates held inside. It was nothing short of a miracle that no one got flattened.

The soldier responsible was getting torn a new one while someone else called for medical support, just to make sure no one was dying or anything. The worst Price could see from here was some bumps and bruises, someone holding a hand to their bleeding head.

"What is it now?" Price asked as he stepped up beside Ghost who lingered from a distance.

"Bloody idiot kept it in neutral, not park," Ghost tells him, arms crossed. "Didn't use the—" The moment you pop into view, medic bag in tow, Ghost's voice shifts like a switch had been flipped and all of the sudden that rolling thunder tone is gone like it was never there to begin with, "—parking brake. Hopefully it won't be a mistake made twice."

Price registers the words in his subconscious, but most of his attention is still on the fact that you had Ghost switching up mid sentence. And you weren't even within earshot. Just the fact that you were in his eyesight had Ghost lowering his voice, lightening his pitch.

He watches you flit around, grabbing the bleeding person and setting them down to start cleaning them up. All of his attention on you. Price is pretty sure that an ant wouldn't be able to crawl within 50 feet of you without Ghost knowing.

Part of Price wants to nip this in the bud, take Ghost aside and tell him to drop it. All of them know what being in this task force means. Having a distraction like this has a higher chance of being a hindrance than a benefit. If there ever comes a time where any of the 141 are in a situation where his sacrifice is non-negotiable, there cannot be hesitation. All of them know this.

But when the captain looks over at Ghost, he doesn't think about sacrifice. He doesn't see a muzzled war dog whose leash is held in Price's firm grip.

For the first time in a long time, Price recalls a young man with dark brown eyes that had seen too much too young, hair so blond it’s almost white, and the strongest sense of loyalty he's ever seen in a fellow soldier.

Soap with dogs!

Gaz with dogs!

Price with dogs!

Price keeps getting up for some reason. First, it was to use the bathroom. Then he wanted to go smoke a cigar. And then he had to get something to drink. It got to the point where you had to turn and stare him down, asking him to please stop getting up. He apologizes and seems to listen... Until he gets up to check something just as you're finally falling asleep.

Gaz loses all sense of personal space when he's asleep. You start the night with a respectful amount of space between each other, backs to each other. When you wake up hours later to use the bathroom, you can't get up. Why? Because the sergeant who swore he'd stay on his side of the bed unconsciously decided you're his cuddle buddy. Arms coiled around you, legs tangled with yours, his front flush against your back... And he's sleeping like the dead.

Soap is the most restless sleeper ever. He kicked you a few times, his arm smacked you in the face, he stole the blankets AND your pillow... All in his sleep. Constantly tossing and turning. He doesn't snore, but he does talk a little bit. Mostly nonsense, or things related to the latest mission, or accusing you or someone of stealing something of his.

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The house is quiet in a way that hums.

Not silence—never that. London doesn’t do silence. There’s always something; the distant rush of late-night traffic, a siren slipping past, the low murmur of voices from the street. But inside, in the soft amber glow of your lamp, it feels like the world has… softened around the edges.

You stand in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, shoes still on, coat half-slipped from your shoulders, just… breathing.

It’s been one of those days. The kind that leaves you feeling scraped thin, like something’s been tugging at you for hours and hasn’t quite let go.

You don’t even notice him at first.