#cod series

HOW DO YOU OUTSMART MEN WHO HAVE NO SET ROUTINE?

Instinctively, they already seemed well accustomed to the vulnerability of manipulation. They functioned true to their own roles yet still had a pattern you could not quite identify. You wondered if it had always been like this, and it just seemed normal. Or had they specifically decided to change trajectory because of your flight from the nest?

Your life had unraveled, busted at the seams of what you once thought was safety. Were you safe? Had you ever been? Or had your men been playing with their dinner, feasting off of what you provided before ultimately you'd be another casualty? It wasn't fair that they did this to you. This confusion in your bones was aching, making your poor head hurt.

The bile hadn't left your throat.

And the worst part was that you weren't entirely sure you wanted to fly the coop.

You loved your life with them. Had. Or you still did. There went your scattered thoughts. Both sides were tugging at your useless body, making you humiliated to even entertain the thought of staying. Why would you? You were a ticket to their cruelty. Their hungry malice.

You were going to die prematurely due to the stress they had caused you.

It was dark. Your lovers had left you to stew. To linger in your doubt. You had so much time to process, to make sense of what wasn't supposed to be understood, and yet you made no progress at all.

Torn.

All you had to do was put one foot in front of the other. If you couldn’t speak the truth of your lovers' lack of humanity, perhaps you could write it. You would surely be killed for it, but it would hit the shelves before they could do anything. Before they knew…

So why did you feel like you weren't supposed to?

Had the manipulation rooted so deeply that you could no longer rationalize with yourself? Maybe it was the unknown of what waited for you if you became the messenger. But why did you care so much if you lived? People had already died. You knew the truth. You had a duty to avenge them. Right?

You tossed in the bed. The blankets were as they had always been. Soft. Fluffy. Full of warmth. You had your own space, and yet you usually ended up with one of the guys by the time sleep weighed your eyelids down. There was a security there.

They banked on your pliant body.

The door creaked, wrestling you out of your mind. You turned your head to the blackened doorway, breath catching in your throat as if claws were going to sink into your feet and drag you free of your cocoon. You barely moved as you listened to the footsteps as they approached your bedside.

"Doe?"

Johnny's voice sounded much louder in the stillness of your quiet fear. You blinked, unsure of what to say. Tell him to fuck off surely would've been an appropriate response. Staying silent? Less effective, but still valid.

Words always got you in trouble.

Johnny answered for your lack. He peeled back the blankets and found the warmth of your body. He shuffled into your space like every other night. Nothing changed for him, and yet your world was imploding as his hands cupped around your belly. He let out a pleased little sigh as he settled.

"Ye feelin' better?" He asked, stroking over your stomach like the sickness in your body was merely a viral infection and not a conflict of your very heart.

You didn't answer. You just closed your eyes and wished for his touch to be gone. It just made your deterioration worse because any sliver of contact made your heart yearn for more. You wanted it to be easy to shatter any good light you had perceived them in.

"Cap feels bad fer what he did," Johnny continued. "Kyle said he took care of ye, though."

The bath you took with Kyle still sweetened your skin with whatever scent the bath bomb had been. You had taken that bath and skipped dinner, acting like you locked yourself in purgatory when really you knew you were still under their bend. The lock turning outside your door showed as much.

How long had they been planning on imprisoning you behind the walls where you used to bloom?

There were things you never thought of but were revealed to you at slow, agonizing speed. Taunting. Driving the hammer further down on your heart. The queasiness in your stomach never left. It became an uninvited guest prowling in your guts.

"Please dinnae be mad at us," he whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder. "We want the best fer ye."

A warm hand cupped your face and turned your head. You could barely see him, but you felt his breath as he analyzed the situation. You used to crave the way his eyes alone would pry you apart because it made you feel seen. Like you finally found someone who completed you. They all had their strengths of making you feel desired and understood.

Now the analyzing just put you on edge.

Johnny hummed as he placed a quick, almost chaste kiss to your lips. But you knew better. He was a dog. A man always hiding his true intentions for just a moment before he got impatient. He could never sit still for long.

His lips sought yours again, this time more demanding. More taking. He rolled your body until it was beneath him, his legs bracketing you. His whole brawny form enveloped you, a powerhouse of desperation and malice. You sunk beneath the waves for him, instinct coiling tight in your belly as your hands rose and traced the lean muscle of his stomach.

God, what were you?

Johnny smiled against your lips, "There ye go, doe. Ah'm right here fer ya."

You let his body drape over yours, molding into the bed like some paperweight. Your brain was buzzing, but your body was one foot in the complete direction of damnation. You were accustomed to the smell of him, the way he pried into your rib cage like it was his own. You didn't want to let that go, but deep down, you knew you might have to. You could not call yourself a good person if you let the victims evaporate in their premature tombs.

Johnny's kiss was insistent, pressure against your lips in a way of claiming. He sighed into the kiss, sloppy and hungry for your submission. For your acceptance of what was and would be. You could taste metallic seeping into your mouth, and you faltered slightly. He pressed his hips into yours, rolling softly just to hear the slight catch in your breath. You just let him. Selfishly, you wanted one moment of not thinking about reality before you dove headfirst into the rocky bank.

Johnny's fingers trailed down your torso, seeking and admiring as they dipped below the waistband of your pants. Just as he delved into the heat between your legs, clarity slammed into you. What the fuck were you doing? You made a noise of protest, pushing at his shoulders. You ignored the hiss of pain he made when you pressed too hard on his right shoulder. You could care less.

"No. Stop," You demanded. Your breath was heavy, and you could feel the warmth of his against your face. "You don't get to do that. Not like nothing is wrong."

Johnny was silent for a moment. You couldn't completely see him in the darkness of the room. You couldn't see what look he held or what he was scheming. You knew he would try. Johnny was stubborn. And he would be loyal to John first before he would ever try to sympathize with you.

You squirmed from underneath him, reaching for the beside lamp. You'd have more control in the light. The knob was turned, and suddenly, all the details you were deprived of came into the forefront.

Johnny was still hunched in the same position, head tilting in your direction to look at you. He was already shirtless, bruising along his shoulder where it looked like he was roughly grabbed. It matched a new, deep bruising along the right side of his torso—you noticed a wince when he moved, suddenly favoring the other side. There was a cut on his lip as well, explaining the metallic you had tasted before.

"Yer leavin' me, doe?" He asked pitifully.

"All of you," you corrected, trying to keep your footing. As long as you kept your head, they couldn't hurt you anymore. Right? "What you do… it's wrong, Johnny. You…"

Johnny's hand enclosed around your ankle, blue eyes boring into yours. You kept his gaze for a moment before your jaw tightened, and you broke it. You despised the way he did that, like it was your fault you found their extracurricular activities distasteful. Like you were the one who wasn't supposed to have morals.

"Ye dinnae understand," he said firmly. "That's all it is."

A scoff left your lips, "Right. Because I'm supposed to understand murder."

Johnny's face twisted. You tensed like you were waiting for a blow. You didn't know who you were facing in situations like these. Because clearly, all your assumptions had been misguided by pretty little lies the whole time. It made you sick, your stomach rolling as you thought about it.

"Ye willnae be safe out there," Johnny insisted. "Not alone."

Your head was spinning. Before you realized you were doing it, your foot planted itself against his chest and pushed. He moved, didn't say anything as you tried to create distance. You needed more time to think, and he was not helping. It was making you uneasy.

"Get out!" you snapped. "Get out!"

"Doe…" he tried to reach for you again but you picked up the water glass Kyle had left earlier, and held it up. "Feck. Jesus. Ah'm goin'!"

You didn't feel any less weighed down when the door closed behind him. And you listened to the lock click from the outside with your heart dropping into your stomach. You ended up chucking the cup anyway, listening to it shatter against the far wall in frustration. You couldn't think properly while being trapped right in the hornet's nest. You needed to get out, but you didn't know how.

You curled up into the bed again, body active and alert as you stared at the far wall. You analyzed the window, wondering how easy it would be to drop two stories onto the ground. You couldn't do it unless you were adequately prepared. You needed to think about that, something that would have to wait until tomorrow.

A tomorrow that would come slowly.

But no one else bothered you after your moment with Johnny. At least sparing you some silence.

♡◇♡

Simon nudged you awake the next morning, no pleasantries offered for your weary soul. You blinked open your eyes, head pounding from the restless sleep and the lack of food. You lifted your head, watchful and suspicious. Simon was one of the hardest to read. Or maybe the easiest. Because you at least knew he was far harder to please. Johnny and Kyle hid behind boyish grins and sweetness. It was almost less surprising for Simon or John to betray you than it was Johnny and Kyle.

All at once? Yeah, you didn't quite like the feeling of hurt that bubbled in your body. It made you feel pathetic and childish. Made it harder to grasp stable ground.

"You need to eat," he said simply.

His arm was already tugging you off the bed, giving you no room to protest as he dragged you towards the door. You let him. You knew that no matter what your plan was, you were going to need your mind operating to its full extent. You wouldn't get far with half a mind and stomach empty.

The others were already downstairs when you both entered. There was an open spot between John and Kyle, Simon forced you into the seat without a word. He plopped down right across from you, Johnny slightly tensing as he did so. You narrowed your eyes at the display.

"Sleep well, darling?" John asked. His meaty hand enclosed around your upper thigh, squeezing softly. A gesture that could easily be mistaken for affection, but it just made your stomach burn like you ate something rotten. Every action now was glossed over with new meaning, disrupting the sanctity of your life.

You didn't answer the question, gripping your fork in a tight grip. Play indifferent until you had a full plan.

"You'll learn," John was so sure in his words. Like he knew the script that was always bound to happen. "Eat up. The lads all pitched in. We still want to take care of you, even if you're a little misguided right now."

"Misguided?" You couldn't stop yourself from saying. "Do not talk about me like I am some child throwing a fit. You are all monsters!"

John chuckled dryly. "Never claimed to be good. You only saw what you wanted to. Never questioned what you already knew deep down."

You didn't have a rebuttal to that. Because maybe he was right about that. You never chose to look into their curiosities about your writing. Never questioned why there were rules in place that limited your freedoms to being alone and going to certain areas of the property. You never questioned why they came home with a certain air about them.

You believed the lies because all along maybe you were surviving.

You stabbed your eggs like they were laced with poison. You wished they were. The moment you started to eat, so did the others. You hated the way they orbited around you. It was confusing you, making you feel more guilty about what you were waiting for the right mind to decide. Did you ever have freedom?

John leaned in close to your ear, "If you ever step out of line again, I'm cuffing you to the bed again. Your choice on how you wish to play out, darlin'."

Your spine stiffened at that threat. He knew you exactly what you were planning. Knew you'd try to find some way to trick them. He had to. He knew games because he was the master at them. Which is why you had to be extra careful about what you did. Or you'd get nowhere at all and your restrictions would be even more brutal.

Then John was smiling disarmingly, squeezing your thigh again and finally biting into his own food.

"You'll see what we're doing for you. All in due time."

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Volunteer might not have been the right word. Pounced was closer.

Soap had actually shouted “UNCLE DUTY!” before you’d even finished the sentence, nearly dropping his pint in the process. Gaz leaned back in his chair with a grin and promised, “Don’t worry, I’ll be the responsible one.” And Ghost, without looking up from cleaning his weapon, muttered, “Keeping them alive is part of my job description anyway.”

So on a frosty Saturday morning, you and John bundled your daughter into her puffy coat and handed her over to three of the most dangerous men in the country, armed with a bag of snacks, a list of emergency contacts, and strict instructions about bedtime.

Soap clapped his hands together, eyes sparkling like he’d just been promoted. “Piece o’ cake. We’ve handled bombs, ambushes, and bureaucrats. How hard can one toddler be?”

You gave him a flat look. “That’s what worries me.”

“Oi!” Soap gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I’m brilliant wi’ kids. She loves me, don’t ya, lass?”

Your daughter giggled, immediately raising her arms to him. “Uncle Johnny!”

Soap scooped her up under one arm like she weighed nothing, spinning her around until her curls went flying. She squealed with delight, tiny boots kicking against his chest.

“See? Natural,” Soap declared, grinning at John. “She’s safer wi’ me than with Father Christmas himself.”

John raised a brow, unimpressed. “If she comes back wired on sugar and feral, you’ll be explaining it to her mum.”

Gaz, already juggling the juice pouch you’d packed like it was a live grenade, gave a solemn nod. “Don’t worry, Cap. I’ll keep him in line.” He crouched to your daughter’s level and offered her the pouch like a treaty. “We’ve got a deal, right? No chaos, no mutiny?”

She took it gravely, nodded once, then whispered, “But only if you give me two biscuits.”

Soap hooted. “Aye, that’s our girl!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Bribery already? It’s been thirty seconds.”

Ghost, standing a little apart with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, finally spoke up—voice dry as winter air. “I give them an hour before they’re outnumbered.”

Soap shot him a look. “Have some faith, mate.”

“I do.” Ghost tilted his head toward your daughter. “In her.”

That pulled another giggle from her, and she clapped her mittened hands together. “Uncle Ghost is funny.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Gaz muttered, but he was smiling all the same.

John crouched then, his big hands steady as he zipped her coat the rest of the way. He pressed a kiss to her curls, his voice a low rumble. “Be good, peach. I’ll know if you’re not.”

She leaned back in Soap’s hold and grinned up at him, eyes mischievous. “I’ll tell Santa if you’re not.”

Soap nearly dropped her he was laughing so hard. Gaz choked on his own breath, wheezing. Even Ghost let out a sharp huff of amusement, the kind of sound that counted as a belly laugh for him.

John straightened, looking skyward like he was asking for strength. “Bloody brilliant.”

You tried—and failed—not to laugh. “You’ll be fine. It’s only a few hours.”

Soap threw you a mock salute. “Go on then, off with ye. We’ve got this.”

Gaz gave you a thumbs up. “Text if you get worried. Or if Soap breaks something.”

“Oi,” Soap protested, still bouncing your daughter like a sack of potatoes. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Ghost’s low voice cut through the cold air, deadpan as ever. “Everything.”

The city center glowed like something out of a postcard—fairy lights strung across streets, wreaths swaying gently from lampposts, shop windows frosted with painted snowflakes and cardboard reindeer. Carols drifted faintly from a speaker somewhere overhead, tangled with the sound of footsteps on wet pavement.

You and John strolled side by side, gloved hands twined together, the folded shopping list tucked neatly in his coat pocket. Every so often, you tugged it free to tick another item off in careful pen strokes: a dollhouse, a new set of art supplies, stacks of books, the bright red scooter she’d been eyeing for weeks.

John carried the bags without a word, arms laden but steady, the weight never seeming to touch him. Every now and then, though, he’d glance at you from beneath the brim of his cap—eyes warm, beard twitching like he was holding back a smile.

“You’ve gone overboard, love,” he rumbled once, adjusting the handles in his grip.

You shot him a look over your scarf. “She’s only little once.”

“Aye,” he said, soft as snow. And he kept walking, the bags swinging at his side, not a single complaint on his lips.

At one shop window, you paused—gold light spilling over rows of stuffed animals dressed in Santa hats. John stopped too, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. He looked at your reflection in the glass more than the toys, his voice low. “She’s gonna lose her mind when she sees all this under the tree.”

You smiled, tucking the list back into his pocket. “That’s the point.”

He kissed your temple right there on the crowded street, bags and all, and you thought maybe—just maybe—you were the luckiest person in the world.

It happened so quickly you might’ve missed it, if you didn’t know him as well as you did.

As the two of you walked past a small jewelry store, John’s stride faltered. Just a fraction. His eyes flicked toward the window display—rows of velvet cases lined in gold trim, diamonds and bands glinting beneath the soft amber light.

He didn’t linger. Not really. But you caught it anyway—the way his gaze snagged there, how his jaw tightened the second he realized what he was looking at.

When you turned to him, his cheeks were touched with color, subtle under the edge of his beard. He cleared his throat like he’d been caught out doing something he shouldn’t.

Your heart gave a sudden, traitorous kick.

So you glanced deliberately away, pointing instead at the shop next door, where a cascade of glass baubles dangled from the ceiling—tiny stars painted silver, catching the light. “Those are cute,” you said lightly.

“Mhm,” John muttered, low, rough—except he wasn’t looking at the baubles. His gaze still hovered a beat too long on the velvet trays behind the other pane of glass.

You bit the inside of your cheek, warmth flooding through you.

Neither of you pressed. Neither of you spoke.

But as you walked on, the space between your hands felt warmer. Charged. Humming with something you both knew, even if you hadn’t said it yet.

The café was tucked on the corner of a narrow street, the windows fogged with steam, golden light spilling onto the snow-dusted pavement outside. Inside, it smelled of espresso and cinnamon, the kind of cozy warmth that made you both linger longer than you meant to.

You sat across from John in a corner booth, a mug of hot chocolate between your hands. Whipped cream was already melting into froth, tiny marshmallows bobbing like lifeboats. He’d insisted on ordering you one, muttering something about “tea’s no good after a long day in the cold.”

John had his own mug—black coffee, of course—but it was sitting mostly untouched. His attention was on you. Or rather, on your hand, which he had reached across the table to cover with his own. His palm was broad and warm, thumb brushing absent circles against your skin.

“Good day,” he said simply, his voice low in the bustle of clinking cups and chatter.

You smiled, sipping your hot chocolate. “Think we bought enough to last her until next Christmas.”

His mouth curved, that faint smirk you loved. “Spoil her rotten, you mean.”

“She’s only little once,” you said, mock-defensive.

“Aye,” he agreed after a pause, eyes softening. “She’ll remember this Christmas.”

Something in the way he said it made your chest tighten. Like he wasn’t just talking about the scooter or the dolls or the books. Like he was talking about all of it—this life, this home you’d built together, these little moments that stitched into something bigger.

The silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but weighted. His thumb was still stroking your knuckles, steady, grounding.

You cleared your throat softly. “You’ve gone quiet.”

“Just thinkin’,” he said.

“About?”

He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his beard brushing against his scarf as he gave you that look—the one that saw too much. “About how bloody lucky I am.”

Your stomach flipped. You ducked your gaze to the swirl of marshmallow in your mug. “You say that like it’s surprising.”

“Feels it, sometimes,” he murmured. His hand tightened just a fraction around yours.

Neither of you mentioned the jewelry shop. Neither of you needed to. The thought of it lingered anyway, quiet and unspoken, humming beneath the warmth of cinnamon and cocoa and his thumb against your skin.

The night air was crisp, the streets strung with lights that winked against the frost. John kept you close the whole way back, his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders, the shopping bags swinging lazily from his other hand. His warmth bled into you, the steady weight of him grounding you in the quiet bustle of the city winding down.

“She’s going to lose her mind on Christmas morning,” he said, voice low, threaded with a fondness that curled deep in your chest.

You laughed, breath puffing in little clouds. “She’s already suspicious. If Soap has anything to do with it, she’ll end up demanding a rocket launcher instead of a scooter.”

That earned a chuckle, rough and warm. “Aye. She’ll be in one piece when we get home. Can’t say the same for my living room.”

By the time you reached the house, the windows glowed soft against the dark, like the place itself had been waiting for you. Inside, the scene nearly stopped you in your tracks.

Your daughter was curled up fast asleep on the sofa, cheeks flushed from play, Buzz Lightyear clutched tight against her chest. Someone had tucked a blanket over her small frame, and her curls peeked out from beneath the edge.

Around her, the most dangerous men you knew looked anything but. Soap was out cold on the rug, a streak of glitter smeared across his cheek like war paint gone wrong. Gaz had nodded off in the armchair, a Disney storybook still open in his lap, thumb marking the page mid-sentence. And Ghost—mask still in place—sat silent in the corner, his posture deceptively loose, but his eyes lifted as you entered. A single nod. Told you I’d manage.

Your throat tightened. You moved quietly, laying another blanket across your daughter’s small body, brushing a curl back from her forehead. For a long second, you just stood there, heart so full it ached.

Across the room, John was watching you. That look again—steady, certain, as though this right here was all the proof he’d ever need. Like he was already imagining a lifetime of nights just like this.

And you knew, without a word spoken, that so were you.

(Extra) Operation: Babysit the Captain’s Kid

The second the front door shut behind you and John, Soap crouched down at eye level with your daughter, grin wide and dangerous.

“Alright, Little Peach,” he said in a mock-serious tone. “Yer in charge now. What’s the mission?”

She squinted at him, finger on her chin. Then she pointed at the kitchen. “Snacks.”

Soap’s grin widened. “That’s my kinda commander.”

Gaz sighed, already rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She’s two, mate. Snacks means juice boxes and animal crackers.”

“Snacks!” she repeated, stomping one fuzzy-socked foot.

Ghost, who had been silent up to this point, reached into his cargo pocket and produced—of all things—a sealed packet of biscuits. He set it on the counter. Your daughter blinked at him, then lit up like he’d hung the moon.

“Uncle Ghost is my favorite,” she declared.

Soap clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “Et tu, Peach?”

Gaz smirked. “Can’t argue with biscuits.”

It only went downhill from there.

8:03 PM – She convinced Soap to wear a tiara from her toy box. He didn’t just wear it—he strutted through the living room like it was a crown jewel, blowing kisses to Gaz until Gaz threatened to lock him outside.

8:15 PM – Gaz tried to start a bedtime story. She interrupted every page with questions. (“Why is he in the woods?” “Where’s her mom?” “What’s a porridge?”) By page three, Gaz gave up and said, “You tell me the story.” She did. It involved a dragon, Buzz Lightyear, and Soap tripping over his own sword.

8:40 PM – Ghost thought she was finally winding down. She climbed onto his lap with her coloring book. Ten minutes later, he was still holding her pink crayon while she “directed” him like a foreman. “Stay in the lines, Uncle Ghost!” she ordered. His jaw ticked when Soap whispered, “You’re doin’ brilliant, princess.”

9:10 PM – Soap taught her how to salute. She spent the next fifteen minutes storming the hallway, smacking her hand to her forehead and shouting, “YES SIR!” at every command, no matter how ridiculous. (“Go brush Buzz’s teeth.” “YES SIR!”)

9:30 PM – Juice box exploded. No one’s admitting how. Soap swore Gaz did it. Gaz swore Soap leaned on it. Your daughter just shrugged and said, “Oopsie.” Ghost muttered something about containment protocols while mopping the floor.

9:50 PM – Bedtime attempt number one. Gaz read Goodnight Moon. She laughed so hard at the word “cow” that Soap had to leave the room.

10:05 PM – Soap tried a lullaby in his terrible singing voice. She joined in, louder, making it a duet. Ghost walked out and closed the door behind him.

10:30 PM – Bedtime attempt number two. Gaz finally got her to close her eyes. Soap whispered too loudly, “She’s out!” She popped up like a jack-in-the-box: “NOT OUT!”

11:00 PM – Ghost finally took over. He didn’t say a word. Just tucked Buzz under her arm, adjusted the blanket, and sat in the chair until she drifted off. She muttered, half-asleep: “Uncle Ghost is best.”

Soap whispered, wounded: “I danced with her for twenty minutes straight.”

Gaz patted his shoulder. “Hierarchy’s clear, mate.”

Ghost didn’t gloat. Didn’t move. Just sat there, one big hand resting gently on the back of the chair until she snored softly.

🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪

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“There will be a new member of our task force-for a few months. They’ll be working with us for operation Beta.”

John stood in front of his boys in the debrief room with his arms crossed and eyes sharp, Laswell stood by his side holding a tablet.

Kyle leaned forward, “Who? Does he work on the base?”

“Not to stick ma nose into this but- we don’t really need anyone with us for this. Adding someone else might make it more complicated than it has te be, Cap.” Johnny spoke up, running a hand thru his mohawke.

Price sighed, “You don’t know them, but you may have heard of them, they serve in the SBS- have been for a few years. And this was Laswell’s suggestion, we need an extra pair of capable hands for this op, Johnny.”

“The temporary addition to your team is Y/N ‘Tigress’ L/N. She has been-”

Simon, sitting in silence behind his mask finally spoke up, “Tigress?”

Laswell nods, “Yes. You may have heard of her, has quite the legacy for such a young age- 27. She is more than capable, specialising in close contact force, something you will need during this op.”

Johnny sits up, like an eager dog, “Tigress as in the woman who supposedly beat up a shark? That one?”

“-What?!” Kyle sits up, staring bewilderedly between Laswell and Johnny.

Laswell sighs closing her eyes, “Supposedly yes, but let’s not digress from the main point. She’ll be here for a few months, close quarters, training, eating- everything you guys do, she’ll be there. This won’t be a problem?”

The boys shake their head.

John claps his hands together, “Good. Well, she’ll be here tomorrow. I want you boys on your best behaviour, especially you Johnny.”

Soap grins cheekily, “When am i not, Cap?”

They file out the room, kyle whispering to Johnny,

“Did she really fight a shark?”

“Where d’ya think she got ‘er callsign from?”

They make their way to the cantine, nods of respect greeting them round every corner; Ghost trailing behind like a shadow.

“Yeah but- i mean c’mon. A shark?”

Johnny continues sauntering through the cantine doors, straight towards the half arsed excuses of food.

“Well, she’s in the SBS, ship got a hole in the bottom. She had to swim down there to pull the emergency lever- apparently she can hold her breath for twenty minutes- and then a shark came in and started swimming towards her, ‘er bleeding attracted it. Anyway-“ He begins grabbing the food on his plate, piling mashed potatoes over the sausages, drowning them in gravy, “It swam right towards ‘er, she ripped its gills of, killed it, and cut one of its teeth out before swimming back up.”

Kyle crossed his brows, “like a souvenir?”

“Yeah, or proof she did it.”

Ghost stays silent, like usual, doubting any of this story to be true. He trails behind the two boys, piling his plate more than Johnny as usual.

“Oi, Lt. What d’you think?”

He looks to Johnny, his face immersed in that annoying grin Ghost can’t seem to ever dull, no matter how many times he tries.

“I think it’s a load of bollocks.”

Kyle slaps his shoulder, snickering under his breath as they make their way to their table.

“How ‘bout we make a bet?” Johnny mumbles between mouthfuls of potato’s.

Kyle nods, “Go on then”

“If it’s true, you both owe me drinks- all of ‘em when we go to the pub. If it’s not, i’ll pay for yours. Deal?”

Kyle shakes his hand smirking, “Looks like we’re gonna have a treat, innit Lt?”

“Looks like it Gaz.”

————

"Simon." She whined as I started to kiss down her neck, nipping and sucking on her skin.

My name falling from her mouth always sounds like music to my ears, but with her little whines and gasps, it sounded like heaven.

I grasped her hands in mine, running my hand along the jelly bracelets, wondering which one to snap.

Already wanting to add each colour to my small collection of the ones I have already snapped from her.

"Seriously Si? Go on, pick one." She said as she started to grind down on me, but I needed her to slow down, so I snapped one.

Glittery Pink - willing to "flash" a body part.

"What part?" She asked once she saw the colour.

I have always wanted to see her tits.

"Tits." I simply said, leaning back slightly so she can do what she needs to do to show me them.

I have dreamed of this moment alot more than I care to admit.

"Help me Si." She didn't have to ask me twice.

I slowly pulled down the zipper of her dress.

Kissing the skin I have never kissed before.

Once the top of her dress was down enough, I slid the dress down her shoulders, watching it pool at her waist.

My mouth kissed the skin of her tits that were popping out of her bra, my hand groping the one I was not kissing.

I went back and forth, groaning into her chest as she continued to grind in my lap.

She suddenly reached behind her, and took off her bra.

I have seen alot of tits in my time, but hers, hers I have been waiting for.

I gently wrapped my lips around her nipple, and started to suck.

My hand once again gropping her now, bare chest.

Her hands were in my hair, holding my face against her chest.

"Oh Simon." She sighed, her back arching into me.

I stood up with her in my lap, turning to place her on my bed.

I starred down at her, palming myself through my pants, as I watched her tits bounce slightly.

Just as I was about to crawl on top of her and have her scream my name so loud, that I will get noise complaints.

I heard a knock on my front door.

Then I heard Johnny's big fuckin' mouth.

"Come on Simon. The match is about to start."

I groaned as I placed my head against her naked chest.

The mood killed by a Scottish man who I would 'accidentally' hurt during our next training exercise.

"I'm sorry love. I forgot about the lads coming over to watch some rugby." I grumpily said as I pulled away from her body.

"It's okay Si." It wasn't okay, but it would have to be for now.

I helped to get her back to looking proper. I threw on a t-shirt as I walked toward the front door.

"I'll go out the side door. I called a friend to come and get me." She said.

I must have made a face.

"It is Ginny. She doesn't live far, and I invited her over for movies and food. The guy cancelled on me when I didn't show up."

As I kissed her cheek goodbye, I couldn't help the smirk that came over my face.

I even opened the door, not as grumpy as I could have been.

In came Gaz and Johnny, with pizza and drinks in hand.

As we watched the game, mh mind kept drifting to earlier.

Her in my lap in the car as I fingered her.

Her breasts in my hands.

The noises she made as I sucked on her gorgeous tits.

Shit, I needed more of her.

Glittery Clear (18+) ♥︎ Clear (18+) - coming soon

Tag list: @skeletonsucker @oviliish @krisbang47

The Copperline looks less like a bar and more like a relic. The front porch sags at the entrance beneath a tin awning. Its sign is crooked, half-lit, casting a glow over a parking lot of pickup trucks and rusted tailpipes. Some kind of distillation of American memory he recognizes. Stubborn and rotting at the lake’s edge, refusing to fall even when everything around it already had.

Cold Kentucky air clings to the truck, seeping into his collar and numbing his fingers through the gloves he hasn’t taken off since exfil. Too numb to light another smoke. Too early to open the glovebox.

It was time to move.

The Lieutenant didn't have to be cold. He was choosing to be. 

He checks the mirror and adjusts the black balaclava, tucking away anything too soft or too human. He disappears behind layers, black-on-black-on-black, until he looks more like an absence than a man. A jacket and jeans are just a different kind of uniform. Something that lets him slip through this place like he belongs. Somewhere normal. Somewhere with jukeboxes and beer specials scribbled in chalk. Somewhere people paid to forget.

Hell of a thing, he figures - turning people’s pain into a product. Douse a little grief in neon and liquor and you can upcharge the illusion of peace.

He sighs. Keys go in the pocket. Boots go on the ground. Body goes to the bar.

The Lieutenant skips the steps of the porch, planks creaking under his weight. He hesitates at the front door, just long enough to feel the warmth through the frame. It hums like the threshold of another life. Not his, of course. Just one he might have had.

When he steps inside, it's like a memory that’s not his own. A hand-me-down collection made of whiskey and barstool confessions. It's warm in a way that feels earned. Wood in a way that feels earnest: the floors, the walls, the thick plank of the bar itself. A large mirror hangs behind the bar, framed in gold paint that’s mostly chipped away, reflecting the room in dull amber tones. The lighting is dim, casting everything in a permanent half-shadow that makes the corners feel deeper than they are.

Too many faces, laughing, leering, lingering like smoke that won't clear around the pool tables and booths. Each one a variable. He scans them: posture, height, how fast they could reach a weapon or a door. The exits aren’t secure. The lighting’s too low. There’s a bottle near every hand. His fingers twitch. His job carved instincts into him that never got debriefed. 

"Look who finally decided to crawl out of the dark."

Bravo 2-6 is already here, been here, waiving him over, as if Sergeant Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick sees the Lieutenant as a friend.

As if the Lieutenant isn't a Ghost.

He's laughing with a couple of other grunts in fatigues. Locals from a backwater base. Eyes shining. The bastard is even cleaned up. No scratches or bruises, just a clean jaw and that same grin.

The Ghost hates him a little for that. For adapting. For being as comfortable in a blue jumper as he was his tactical vest. Gaz can still become a version of himself that the Lieutenant can no longer reach.

Well fuckin’ good for him.

"Was starting to think Price shipped you here in a body bag," Gaz says, smiling as Ghost approaches. 

"Still breathing," Ghost mutters. He finds himself a seat and drops onto it like it’s part of the mission - back straight, shoulders forward, elbows in. Makes himself narrow and unreadable. A marvel of a maneuver, given his stature. 

"And drinking, yeah? First rounds on me."

Ghost nods once.

"Atta boy." Gaz claps him on the shoulder, depositing an empty beer bottle on the bar. "You'll fit in with the locals just fine."

Ghost doesn’t respond. 'Fitting in' felt like dressing up a corpse.

"S’practically a holiday," Gaz continues, leaning back on his stool, exhaling like he’s trying to breathe warmth into the space between them.  "Could be worse, yeah? Could be stuck on post eating MREs with a view of fuck-all.."

"Sure,” Ghost nods. "Could be betta. Could be six feet under."

"Aye. But that’s brill, right? Buried means someone cared enough to dig for us bastards. I mean--" He turns, mid thought, eyes scanning the bar. Looking for something, then finding it, the site of it lighting up his face. He raises his hand to flag a drink. His voice is different as he continues. 

"Place ain’t bad. Been coming through here since 2019 on exchange attachments at Camp Lejeune. Only a few clicks east in NC. I try to stop on my way in. You see the same faces most nights.” His eyes are fixed on the blonde woman behind the bar. She’s laughing at something said from a shadow behind her, and for a moment, Gaz just watches, the corner of his mouth softening. "Nothin’ happens in these little lake towns. Safe."

"S’that so?" Ghost asks, glancing at the blonde. She’s pretty in a way that's not easy to miss; delicate, like lace caught in a draft. The kind who could bruise from a look. "Didn’t take you for a tourist, Gaz. Keep staring and she’ll charge admission."

Gaz laughs, unoffended. "Fit though, aye? She’s might as well be a national landmark.  But we’ve never talked. Just ordered a few times. Smiled. You know."

"No," Ghost deadpans. "I don’t."

"Don't know or don't smile?" Gaz asks, glancing sideways at Ghost with a sharp grin when he doesn’t receive a response. "Guessin’ you don’t have to know. Mask’s got its own charm."

Ghost grunts. "Tried charm. Harder to clean up than blood.” 

Gaz shakes his head, eyes drifting again. "Still. Don’t need a conversation. Just... It's good seein’ something soft. You forget how much you miss that until it’s in front of you."

"Soft,” Ghost mimics, fully aware that the word didn’t belong near him. Soft things don’t survive his hands. “Write her a poem."

"Y’know I did take creative writing in uni," Gaz says, grinning. He leans over the bar again, tracking the blonde bartender's progress. She’s still laughing, still talking to the thing behind her. "Could write it on the back of the tab or somethin’."

"Make it rhyme with 'restraining order’,” Ghost says.

“Border. Recorder. Warder? S’that a word?” Gaz pushes his empty bottle closer to the edge of the bar top, speaking like he’s looking for a pen. Instead he’s counting the line of patrons the blonde will have to get through before taking their order. Four, if she started at the center. If she came this way. Not the other creature. 

“Mortar,” Ghost continues, eyes drifting back to the mirror. His hands tap morse code into the bar as he speaks. His mask hides the smile. “Torture. Mental disorder.”

He knows he earned the pause that follows those words. Sees it in Sergeant Kyle Garrick’s face that he’s writing that down. That Gaz’s checking a box or confirming the diagnosis that landed him here. 

The Lieutenant reminds himself: can’t joke about it. Not out loud.

Gaz turns to look at him in the mirror. Allows his kind eyes to sit on the Ghost. Observes him in the glass, then turns to observe him in the flesh. 

Was there a difference?

“You’re always at war, L.T.,” Gaz says. Cautious. Eyeing the Ghost’s gloved hands. “Ain’t worth making it out alive if you’re always carryin’ it ‘round. We earned the right to put it down. Deserve it. Y’gotta know that.”

By the time he’s done speaking, his voice has dropped like a spent mag. Went he Ghost doesn’t respond, he holds the Lieutenant in his sights, waiting him out.  

Like Price, Ghost thinks. Silent pressure, steady as a chokehold. So he nods because he knows Gaz is right. He had the right to be put down. 

Gaz smiles, then hunts for the right words to continue. “Not saying the weight goes away. Just…doesn't have to be always. Could be temporary. If you let it.”

He lets the sentence hang, then closes it off like a lid:. “You could do that here, Ghost. Put it down. Enjoy the temporary.”

“That’s ignoring forever,” the Ghost says, staring at the Lieutenant in the mirror.

Gaz leans back on the bar, half-grinning, as if testing an idea on his tongue “Or maybe the best bits are both, L.T. A forever thing that feels temporary, or a temporary thing that keeps showing up forever.”  

The bartender turns, catching Gaz’s gaze. There's a twitch of recognition – intention, maybe. She fixes her appearance as if she isn’t some Aphrodite in amber. Her hands fiddle with the pastel clips along her collar. They both smile. Like some duet.

She peels away from creature in the shadow. Free from it. Laughing. Smiling. Casting a thread for only Gaz to catch. She steps forward and – snap.

A shout pulls her attention to the other end of the bar. She skips towards it. Closing the curtain. Leaving the stage.

Gaz shrugs, honest and ridiculous, still smiling like a daft bastard when he says, “Could be enough to live for, yeah?”

The Ghost is silent. He decides, for his own sake, not to understand the question.

“What’ll it be?”

The silence breaks.

Words happen.

You happen.

Your voice cuts across the bar, but you don’t arrive. You emerge. The thing that peels itself from the corner, sporting a human body. If the blonde was lace, you were the tear in it.

You eclipse her as you take the orders at the bar. 

Had you been there the whole time?

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley sees you. Hears you, louder than the constant of the crowd. Watches you move. Voice changing. Posture shifting. Working the bar like a battlefield. Assessing, adapting, disarming. Every patron you pass is a new role you slide into like a second skin. And with every new skin, you develop a new grin to match. As if each patron changed the shape of you. 

You and your expendable smile.

When someone raises a glass and offers a shot with you, you take it. No hesitation. No forced excuse. 

“Don’t give me shit, Jake–” you jab your finger in the man’s face, speaking with wild eyes. Feeding him direct attention, gaining momentum. “--ain’t goin’ home with you again until you learn how to tip.” 

You knock the glass back with a practiced ease and a flash of teeth, like the fire’s part of your bloodstream now. You laugh loud. Move fast. And every time you exit one exchange, you rewire into the next. 

“Red wine and all alone, hm?” You’re purring, caressing the stem of a wine glass when you slide it to the next patron. The eye contact you’re making scours the inside of her skull. 

No name tag. No branding. Just a ripped t-shirt and jeans. Shifting on a body that manufactures new angles with each new person you became. Manner too fluid, confidence too controlled. An asset gone to seed, burned and feral.

The Ghost hates it.      Hates it enough to lose his attention on Bravo 2–6.      Hates it enough to put Bravo 4–6 down.

“I’m just sayin’ give it a try,” Gaz says with a smile that settles him back into his seat, his fingers returning to fiddle with the empty beer bottle. He’s unaware of the thing that lurks behind him. He’s next. And you’re already eyeing him, sampling what you can extract from his words. Gathering intel. Sharpening your intent. Preparing his type of smile.

You’re gentle as you strike. 

“And what are you trying tonight, Pretty Boy?” Your voice gets Gaz’s attention as you move in. Easy, since your accent doesn’t fit the rest of the crowd. You’ve transformed into something welcoming, smiling at him with a grin that almost reaches the tops of your cheeks. “Blonde ale? Just got a new keg on tap. Can’t imagine anyone would need a strong drink with a face like that.”

You both laugh, discarding grins like disposable cartridges. The tops of his ears are pink as he orders. Polite, gesturing, nodding. Lifted under your praise, like a sweet boy. He’s grateful as you retrieve him a beer like you’ve done him a favor. Forgetting that this is work for you because you’d prefer him to think you enjoy it. 

You smile again; self congratulatory, like you nailed the part. 

And the Lieutenant knows the exact moment he should stop watching. 

But he doesn’t. 

Because from this close, he can see it. The thing that lives inside of you, just beneath the soft parts you shape to charm patrons. It’s grinning too. With jagged teeth.

"Cheers, yeah - keep it open," Gaz says, then glances over his shoulder at Ghost like he's letting him in on something. He doesn’t realize he’s cued your next transformation. The one where you turn into the black mirror that shows the Ghost exactly what he doesn't want to want.

When you find him, his eyes are already waiting for you. Cold, dark and deliberate, like a scope locking on center mass. He decides to speak first - voice low, steady, “Whisk—”

“I.D.?”

You look him directly in the eye when you cut him off. Locking eyes like it costs you nothing.

His jaw tightens. Not because of the demand - but because of how cleanly you made it. It’s the kind of voice that comes from someone who’s used to having power. Or taking it.

He would know.

“You takin’ the piss–”

“Are you?” You cut him off again. Your hand appears between the two of you, signing your words in ASL like a secondary voice that shouts without sound. “You’re wearing a mask at a bar. I said I.D.” 

There’s a challenge in the silence that follows, both of you waiting for the other. As if looking at him could make him breakable. As if looking at you could reveal your soft parts.

He wonders what it would be like if you ever chose to become something just for him. But you don’t. And won’t. You are a wall. And so is he. And somehow, that was more than nothing. Two people holding their shape in a world that wants them to bend.

Good, the dark parts of him say. They smile beneath his mask, don’t change for me.

Gaz makes a noise straight out of year five when the Ghost’s hand reaches inside his jacket. He’s cheesin’ along with the other uniforms who have thawed and are laughing. They were too intimidated to interact until now. As if the Ghost was human now that you were here; affirming he wasn’t by default. 

Good, the parts say again, make me mortal.

The Lieutenant holds your eyes as he flattens the military ID across the bar top. The motion is smooth and intentional. Hides aspects that could identify him from afar. He actively ignores the grin that splits your features when he concedes. He knows that it isn’t for him, just because of him, and the crowd you’ve drawn. Winning the game you created at his expense.

Good. Use me.  

You don’t even look at it when you take it. Just flick it open, like it’s nothing - like he’s nothing - and snap it shut. When he reaches for it, you let it tumble from your fingers, just outside of his reach, clattering on the bartop. Discarded. 

Fuck you.

“Lieutenant,” you say, the ‘t’ sound snapping between your jagged teeth. There’s a new tone in your voice he can’t identify. Some color he can’t see. It coils around your words, like a det cord. “Got it. Lou for short.”

“Not my name,” he snaps, like it’s something that matters.

“Not my problem.”

“--y’want a fuckin’ problem?”

He spits it. Lethal. Like a single spark that makes the whole fucking moment go loud. And there you are. Eyes alive from the outburst. You lean across the bar top with your grin and your tits. Lip tucked under your teeth like you’re dying to spill a secret. 

“Nope,” you say, voice smooth and deliberate. “Just a reaction.”

There’s a beat before you move away, casual as breath when you break eye contact to reach for a bottle a few feet away. You pour without asking. And while he doesn’t recognize the label, he knows the shade by heart. The assumption feels like a threat. And so does the correctness of it. 

“Fwah,” Gaz breathes deep enough for the both of you. It’s more reflex than relief. He’s juggling the attention of the other uniforms before he turns to just the Lieutenant. “She’s got spirit, eh?”

“Good for her,” Ghost mutters, sneering more than speaking, his eyes still locked on you. He slaps his card on the edge of the bar when your back is turned. “She’s a fucking cunt.”  

He hopes you hear him as you set the glass on the bar like punctuation. Wants to find your eyes and see that he can pull a reaction from you too. But you’re already gone. Already turning away to help the next guest. Becoming something new.

His fingers ache for a thread he never meant to touch.

“Sure know how to make friends,” Gaz whistles. His beer perches between his fingers, mid swig. There’s a pause, then he adds, “Got right under your skin, eh?”

“So does shrapnel,” Ghost mutters. 

“Isn’t that your type?” Gaz asks. He swigs his beer, appearing happy to have some new material to load his social clip with. 

Ghost doesn’t answer. Not with words. Just pulls his hood up to obscure his face. Pushes the bottom of his mask over his nose. Plucks the glass and downs it in one. It’s sweeter than he expects. Burning brightly on the fresh cuts across his lips. But he savors the bite, hoping it might cauterize the part of him that noticed your lips, or your tits, or how you walked away without looking back. 

Because it wasn’t that you didn’t see him. It was that you did and dismissed him anyway.

He sets the glass down a little too hard. 

“Easy now,” Gaz says with a grin. He’s reassuring, even as his eyes linger on the visible parts of Ghost’s face. Normally, he’d have had the decency to look away or pretend not to notice but the beers had made him brave, “Bars already got dents in it. Might need it for a wedding venue. Don’t know if you saw, but my girl and I locked eyes tonight. Practically getting married.”

“I did,” Ghost says, offering a half smile before pulling his mask back over his face. He liked Gaz enough to play along. “Bird looked to ya like she knows y’get a pension.”

“And it’s hers, once I know her name,” Gaz says. 

Gaz is joking, but his voice tapers off as he looks for her again. She’s idling a thousand miles away on the other end of the bar talking to another patron. He pinches his brow in a way that’s all too familiar to their kind. The kind that develops a plan in 30 seconds that yields 30-year outcomes. Abruptly, he says, “Order another round from your friend so I can–”

“--not my friend,” Ghost corrects.

“Alright, alright,” Gaz grins at the reaction and continues, “--order from your not-friend so I can--”

“Can’t.”

“Sure you can. It’s just intel, mate,” Gaz says, needling now. Gesturing. Pushing. Grinning like he does when he and Soap scheme into their pints at the pub. “Two-point operation. Knock a glass over the side; neutralizes one for clean-up, free up the other to—”

“Fuck yourself, Garrick.”

“Alright, ok, ok. No harm, now,” Gaz says. He holds his hands up with a harmless laugh before tapping the bar top. “Just jealous I didn’t make such an—” he pauses for precision with his words, “—impact. Honestly. I think I’m just jealous they’re sponsoring your leave here. Expect a few visits from me. Always wanted to try horseback riding. And they’ve got these houseboats that…”

The night bleeds on. The laughter sharpens with liquor.

The Ghost finds himself grateful for Bravo 2-6, who operates as both white-noise and wall between the dull roar. He hasn’t had to speak out loud in nearly thirty minutes. Not since Gaz made another joke about the town. Then football or football or the blonde or whatever he’d half noticed between retrieving new pints from another recruit. They hovered around now like animals at a watering hole, drinking in Gaz’s stories from the field. Like his bravery might fill the drought every soldier felt without combat.

“Still with me?” Gaz nudges the new beer bottle before Ghost with his own. The empty glasses had multiplied across the bar. Four dark pints. Three shots of something clear. One whatever it was you poured for him.

The Ghost grunts as a response. Noncommittal. He hasn’t been tracking the words like he should. Can barely hear over the thump thump thump of the bass that sounds like a blast pattern. It vibrates the air in his lungs until he’s managing short, shallow breaths beneath his mask.

Because it’s beginning, the dark parts warn. Again.

He grips the bar and tries to focus on his breath. Just breathes in and breathes out. Tries his best. With his lungs full of dead smoke and the grinding of his cracked ribs.

“—so then I tell him, I’ve seen better aim from a pissed-up tosser with one eye and—” Gaz’s voice is there. Normal, comfortable, unphased, unaware, unintelligible, under fire…

Unwilling to leave Roach.

Unable to stop the bleeding.

Unfit for combat.

Fuck.

The Lieutenant's eyes tick to the mirror, desperate to find himself in the reflection. Yet all he sees is some ghost of a soldier wearing his clothes. His eyes linger, then his muscles contract like he’s cinching a bowline. A containment measure. Then he begins protocol. 

“Subject: Male, adult, combat veteran,” the Lieutenant recites, his words slow and procedural in his Mancunian accent. They’re inaudible and stick to the inside of his mask. “Observation shows musculoskeletal contraction consistent with pre-collapse stabilization reflex.”

The grain of the bar rasps against his gloves with the same ridged bite as the safehouse table. The one slick with cooling blood. That makes his hands shake. He presses his fingers into his temples to find his own pulse.      The room flows then flattens and the colors bleach toward a white-hot glare. The crowd becomes a heat simmer with no actionable data to collect. Making target acquisition impossible. Incapable? No impossible. Because these were not targets. These were survivors. No. Civilians. No people. No targets. No civ…

The language of the bar warps and compresses into a pulse. It punches the air like the blades of a helo overhead. Over. And over. And over. “It’s auditory distortion,” he thinks he says, but the words don’t word and the sounds don’t sound. So he loses himself in the power of the rotor wash. And he cowers from the sound that doesn’t stop. From the sound that doesn’t stop. From the sound that doesn’t stop. 

“Fuck.” 

His body screams for an action it doesn’t have orders for. 

Breathes in like it’ll help. Breathes out as if it’s a waste of time. 

A sharp clink lands in front of him, causing him to flinch. 

He breathes in harder, unsure if he’s even doing it right and – 

The fuck is tha’? 

Vanilla? 

The scent rolls in. Warm, rounded and sweet. It doesn’t belong to the desert glare or the blast dust. It’s not attached to his memories. It’s alien to the noise in his head. And it pulls him up before he knows he’s even moving.

When he opens his eyes, there is a full glass before him. You stand before him. No announcement or smile. Just a glass filled with amber, throwing light into the space between you. He’s back at the bar, away from the blasts and the blades. One bastard in front of another. 

“Am fine,” he says. It’s important you believe that. His empty, black eyes watch you as he grabs the tangible glass. Did you know where he had been? You give him silence in response. Something that he needs to fill. So he repeats himself. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he’s speaking to a dumb animal. “Ahmm phuuckin’ fiine.”

You hold his gaze. For a beat, the room’s sound stretches and fades away. Almost silent and nearly safe.

“Din’t phuuckin’ ahhsskk,” you say, imitating the shape of his words. You flick the glass in his palm with another sharp clink. The moment snaps in half; the roar of the room rushes back as you turn and walk away. 

“Fine.” The word comes out of him like an order. He lifts his mask just enough to throw back the gifted glass. The liquor hits hard, barreling through him like a humvee. He coughs, fist thudding once against his chest to chase down the burn. He’s already past his limit, but it doesn’t matter; his breath still tries to run after you as you disappear behind the bar.

Gaz’s voice rises from the depths. Nervous. Encouraging. Compassionate in the wrong way. The Lieutenant can’t hear his words, but he recognizes the tone so he responds anyway. 

“Said ‘m fine, Sergeant.” He keeps hold of the glass as he speaks, rim pressed to the split in his lip. With the mask dragged over his nose, he isn’t trapped by the stale bite of his own breath. Instead, each exhale drops into the glass and returns changed, rolling up his face, soft, vanilla, sweet. 

“You sure?” Gaz’s features have changed. He’s diagnosing. Posturing forward with his voice low enough for only the Ghost. “Ya don’t ‘ave to b–”

“Appreciate your permission, Sargent,” he cuts off Gaz as he sets the empty glass on the bar with a muted thunk. Rolling his shoulders, he adjusts his mask back over his lips and lifts himself off of the barstool. “Am ‘avin a fag then poppin’ to the safehouse-”

“Cabin,” Gaz corrects. 

“-the cabin. Yeah.”

A beat passes as Lieutenant Simon Riley stands beside Sergeant Kyle Garrick. He shifts forward, weight rolling onto his boots. He’s counting instead of thinking; aware of the things he wants to say, yet unable to retrieve them as the seconds keep passing. His hand hesitates in the space between them - carrying half a thought to rest on Gaz’s shoulder and say thank you or sorry - but it never lands. Instead he taps the bar twice, then turns towards the door. 

The Ghost doesn’t respond when Gaz Shouts through the crowd wishing him luck. Nor when Gaz reminds him that he’s just a phone call away. The Ghost won’t use either. Cause the Ghost doesn’t need either. 

Outside, the air cuts cold, sharp enough to sting his teeth. His own breath is back in his mouth and he tastes the liquor and sweat and knows he’s drunk. He tracks the stairs like cinder blocks; heavier on his feet than he should be. And the thought of the front lot, of the trucks, of the people, and of the noise and the lights, tightens his chest. 

So he does what he always does: he goes where he shouldn’t. 

He cuts along the side of the building, palm dragging once across the warped siding. His boots scuff over the cracked ground, uneven and soft with rot, until the building peels away into shadow. 

The back lot opens up – narrow, cut between the cabin’s spine and the treeline. A single amber bulb flickers above the steel employee door, caged in wire, buzzing in the night air. Its glow spills just enough to paint the steps below, leaving the edges drowned in darkness. To its side, a short brick wall juts out from the cabin, built to screen dumpsters and recycling caches. The dark alcove has a few milk crates sat overturned as makeshift stools, surrounded by a waterline of crushed cigarette butts and bottle caps. Graffiti creeps along the brick, carved by idle hands on smoke breaks. Compressors hum against the wall, mechanical and constant, swallowing the sound of the bar until all that’s left is the thrum and his own breathing. From here, he can see the angle to the front lot, track headlights, track doors. 

Perfect. 

He stops just inside of the circle of light, rolling his shoulders back. He peels his mask over his nose to escape himself, then grins as his first exhale ghosts out white, carried off into the night. It feels clean. Calm. Clear. 

Cold. 

The cigarette flares to life with a soft tchk, sharp against the silence. He inhales hard, dragging the acrid smoke into the deepest parts of his lungs. Holds it in his chest like a penance hoping it’ll scald the raw parts that won’t heal. Then he exhales slowly through a clenched jaw, satisfied when the smoke leaves him empty.

Empty and alone. 

The familiar sound of gravel cracking under tires interrupts him. Headlights cut across the lot, bleaching the cracks in the brick wall. Four local police cruisers, nosing in slow, light bars dark. Doors slam, boots crunch down, and a handful of local uniforms spill out, rowdy and careless, their laughter too-loud. Too arrogant with too much authority. 

The Lieutenant sneers, smoke curling past his teeth like an idle engine. He moves into the dark alcove and waits until the uniforms disappear into the front. Their voices bleed off into the bar, swallowed by the jukebox and crowd. 

The quiet folds back in, picking up where they left off. He takes another drag and tries not to listen. This wasn’t his usual kind of silence. His kind of quiet was switchable and fed through NRR 23dB noise reduction headphones. This quiet is too unsupervised.

Bang.

The door slams open. 

The rusted frame rattles, shaking the caged bulb from the impact. 

You stumble out fast, anger throwing you through the threshold before your feet catch. A bottle dangles from one hand, a crumpled cigarette pack in the other. You’re shouting, each word knifing the night. 

“-and I don’t give a fuck if she’s fine dealing with them she shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t fucking come here-” 

You don’t make it down the first step before you turn back. He thinks someone answers from inside, but you don’t let them finish.

“--and yet they keep fucking coming back, Patrice, don’t they? And I’m supposed to–what?” You fling both hands up, bottle and smokes lifted like props in a fury you’re trying to unwrap. “Take five every fuckin’ time? Does it say that in the court order? Take five? I can’t just leave–”

Patrice cuts in. The woman’s hand gestures from the doorframe like she’s petting the air between you. She’s older. Probably kinder. He suspects you have a fondness for her because you make space for each of her sentences. 

He stays in the dark just off the wall, cigarette cooling between his fingers, watching the rage curl off of you like steam on hot asphalt. Pacing a half step forward, then a half step back, caught in the pull of whatever this argument was. 

“Look, just…I’m not doing that. It doesn’t matter if I’ve done it before, I just don’t want to leave with Jake. I need the money and—,” your voice is pleading before another pause. Then, venom. “Because I don’t want to suck Jake’s dick tonight, Pat, that’s why. Fuck. What, you really think he’s a friend? I just want to finish my fucking double and not deal with–” 

“Well that explains that!” Patrice’s voice bursts through the door. Her voice reminds him of a hen, clucking and concerned, but you must not hear that part. You instantly still, as if suspended in your anger. She barrels through the silence. “What is he thinking making you work these kinda shifts?”

You don’t answer. 

“-an’ ya haven’t eaten yet, have you, sweet pea?”

You don’t move.

”Lemme fix you somethin’ alright? Just…” Her hand hovers over your shoulder as if to touch you, then thinks better of it, recoiling back inside. “…stay. Just stay here for a minute, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, softly. “I’ll stay.”

How many times have you said that in order to be easier to handle?

Patrice leaves you. The door closes with the kiss of metal on metal. 

And the dam breaks. 

You move at once, an animal let loose. Breath sawing out of your chest in white bursts, curses spilling from your lips, short and serrated. You pivot and drive both fists into the steel door. Once. Twice. Again. Savage, breathless curses punctuate the slaps that ricochets down the concrete: bastard, smack, asshole, smack, cocksucker. Firing off rounds of ammo with no body to put them in.

Feral woman. Alive in a way that most people forget how to be. Cracked open and not bothering to hide the ugly parts because no one ever sees. 

No one but the Ghost. 

Pressure bleeds off you. He assumes it’s pain that helps you come down when you trudge down the steps, knuckles pressed to your lips. You drop to the ground, folding against the wall with a chain of words he can’t really hear. The bottle in your hand taps at your boot.

He watches as you fish a bent cigarette from the mangled pack to place between your lips. You thumb the lighter. Tchk. Nothing. Tchk. Nothing. The wheel bites skin, but the flint stays dead. Harder. Harder again.

“Fuck!” You throw the lighter into the trees with an arc so angry, you catch your palm on the pavement. You lift your head to watch it vanish—

—and you see him. 

And he’s seen you.

There's one count that makes him hungry. Where your pupils flare and your breath stalls. Then your jaw sets like a work order, instantly rebuilding. He logs the steps:

1. Your shoulders lock, squaring your ribs like armor. 2. You rub your eyes with your palms, shuttering windows from inside. 3. You swipe your mouth, switching the safety back on.  

“Did’ja see how far that thing went? Might not believe it, Lou…” you say, standing slowly, your voice lacquered. “But I was a pitcher in the minor leagues.”

You smile, waiting for his reaction, eyes locked on him in the night. He assumes you want him to chuckle. To move on. And when he doesn’t immediately respond, you tip your chin towards him as if challenging him to name what he saw. It washes your exposed neck in streetlight and he has to remind himself that your face isn’t this soft. You’re just shaping it that way. 

He steps out just enough for the halo of light to catch his shoulders. Tugs his mask back over his lips and doesn’t speak. Takes a stride towards you, slowly at first, to let you get a good look at him. Ditches his cigarette on the pavement before closing the gap. From here, he can inspect you. 

Up close, the act reads finer than it did at the bar. Thread work, instead of theater. The dark circles under your eyes are small and honest. Goosebumps cover your skin instead of the coat you must have abandoned in anger. Chipped nail polish with written orders on the back of your hands. The scent of the speed rack and something sweet. Something stupid. Something soft.

Hates that.

Hates how you could probably get anything you asked for when you look at someone with your full attention like this. And hates that he sees himself giving you anything you asked for too. 

If you ever asked. 

Tchk.

A flame springs to life as the Lieutenant presents his lighter. He holds it in the space between you, just long enough for your pupils to clip down and expand again, letting it paint you both in a new light. 

He lowers it, letting his thumb off the wheel with a click, before offering it to you with a nod. You squint. Skeptical. Then smile. It spreads across your face but it doesn’t say ‘thank you’.  

When your hand blooms open to accept it, he drops it. Let’s it kiss the concrete before kicking it with his boot, just out of your reach. Discarded. 

Silence. 

The reaction builds in you like a heat behind glass. He watches you try to starve it. Then watches it win. 

“What the fuck?!” you bite, middle finger flying up from your side like a firearm. Polish chipped. Knuckle bloodied. 

There you are.

The Lieutenant smiles where you can’t see it. Your attention, the thread he had missed, now burning like a live wire in the palm of his hand. Feeding the dark parts of him he preferred to keep starved. 

He bet’s he can get you on your knees for a cigarette. All slack jaw with spit down your chin. But he snuffs the thought. Laughs and turns away. Ignores the noises you make when he leaves. Severs the knot he hadn’t meant to tie, leaving you and your jagged smile to the night. 

When he gets to his truck, the lot is warmer than he remembers. He’s buzzin’ on victory and whiskey when he climbs into the driver’s seat. High and alive from the petulance. Too drunk to function and too satisfied to focus. So he does what all soldiers do best: he waits.

Hands on the wheel. Eyes on nothing. The keys sit idle in the ignition. He settles into the silence, motionless and patient, asking for it to do its worst. And it does, as it eats the seconds, the minutes, and then the hours. 

He doesn’t actively think until the clock says 11:45PM; when the word medical leave stretches itself across his mind. Long and empty. He thinks of the cabin that will consume him. Of the days that will stack like spent shells. Of the nights that he’ll try to survive. Of the mornings he wished he wouldn’t be given.

He flips the glove box open.

A Springfield Armory Hellcat Pro handgun waits for him where he left it. The steel feels as cold as when Roach placed it in his palm after their mission in Rio.  She’s a snappy little bitch, he had said, laughing as if relieved to be free of it. Not a fan when my compact bites back. Fun as shit to shoot though.  He insisted it wasn’t even a gift, really.  S’only got the trigger blade. Fucked the thumb safety during a field strip, because I’m an idiot.

Correction. The Lieutenant had said, laughing while resting his hand on Roach’s cheek. A bloody fucking idiot.

He checks the chamber by reflex, then racks the slide. A round spits free and pops onto the leather seat. He does it again. Again. Again. Again. 9mm brass tumbles across the passenger seat, pinging to the floor, and rolling under the mat. He keeps cycling until the heft goes light and the cab smells like cold air and old oil. 

He sets the gun down on the seat, empty and obedient. Deciding tonight won’t get any louder. 

Tired of idling and ready to face the first night. Boot on the brake. Keys in the ignition. Engine turns over. 

But he isn’t ready when the rearview mirror shows its teeth.

Because you’re there instead of just the night. Two fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the tailgate, like you’re counting down. Grinning from ear to ear only showing fangs.