#fangs drabbles

--

Price is the one inclined to bargaining. Maybe he could've done something - what if he'd taken a bit more time off work, what if he spent more time with you, what if he'd agreed to retire early with you, what if he was there? Ironically enough - he just ends up drowning himself in more work, probably turns to smoking or alcohol in an attempt to drown everything out.

141, Gaz and Soap especially, will definitely be the only thing he holds on for. As capable as they all are, he couldn't just up and leave his boys without a captain - he couldn't make the same mistake over again, they gave him something to care for, to nurture and to look after.

I don't think he'll ever marry again - just making half-hearted attempts to peek into the dating scene whenever leave got especially lonely. He'd never be able to find anyone quite like you, so he eventually stopped bothering with it, finding warmth and comfort in himself and the other people he loved.

He keeps a photo of you, one of your handwritten notes, and any little trinket you'd given him at all times. Saved every single snippet of you talking he could - even still paying off your phone bill occasionally ringing your phone to hear your voicemail message, maybe sending you texts when things got especially hard. Definitely does chores the exact way you always did - from the time you went out to shop in the morning to how you stacked dishes. Loves hot showers but still takes a lukewarm one each morning because your habit of taking cold showers meant the water was never hot enough for him. I think he probably adopts something after the rough edges of the hole you'd left in his heart smoothed over.

It wasn't intentional in the slightest - maybe a stray cat had clung to his pant leg while he was on a hike or the task force managed to pick up an orphaned little kid on one of their excursions. He's very hesitant with them, still not quite trusting himself with caring for another being. But he warms up to them eventually. No matter human or animal, they've definitely been brought to your gravesite once or twice.

Maybe it would be alright, eventually. He'd at least have something interesting to entertain you with the next life he found you.

--

Soap is definitely in denial. Convinces himself it's a mistake - that when deployment's finally over, he'll trudge home, kick off his boots, and be met by his sweet love, bouncing at his heels like an overeager puppy and lathering his face in flittering little kisses. He still avoids coming home like the plague - resorts to anything from taking on way too many missions, to picking up another job on the side, even to staying in hotels as if he was in some sort of covert op.

He'd be forced to go back to your house eventually, though. Not home, it wasn't home without you there. Just the same four walls and roof he camped out in on deployment. Nothing warm or special about it.

He still pretended, though. Made your bed every morning the way you liked it and prepared meals for two every day.

While Price and Ghost undoubtedly pulled him out of his slump, Gaz was the person who really started him on the road to acceptance. Having the boys over near constantly was soothing, giving him something to occupy his mind with and overshadowing the cold emptiness of the house. The occasional cuddle piles and game nights reminded him of the warmth of their bond - like the nights they spent on stakeouts, letting their own sweet joy shield them from the brutal realities of their situation.

Gaz was the first person he cried to. Soap couldn't bear the way his buzzed sides were starting to fluff out, but he'd slowly gotten used to letting your gentle hands preen him and tidy him up. Of course, Gaz had noticed, and of course, he'd insisted that Soap just had to let him have a go at doing up someone else's hair. Soap didn't know when he'd devolved into tears - somewhere between the first gentle touch he'd felt in weeks and the crippling realisation that you'd never be there to do it again.

Either way, he'd managed to cry himself to sleep in Gaz's arms that night. He continued to sob himself away for weeks, filling each day with tears.

Until each day turned into each few.

And each few turned into once a week.

And slowly, his tears dried up.

It was an arduous process, grieving. But he stubbornly forced through it, just as he'd forced his way into your heart.

And he did his very best not to change. He determinedly kept the mohawk - even used the same shampoo because it made his hair feel perfectly fluffy under your touch. He did his best to continue being his perky, bubbly self, because he knew how you practically basked in his energy.

However, he still let himself grow, let his hawk grow out so he could braid it the way he'd always considered, and he let himself have his bad days, didn't force himself to keep up his energy when he didn't really have enough.

Admittedly, though, he never married again. He found temporary enjoyment in little flings, though he let them pass when the time was right. No matter what, he always came back to your house.

Sure, it wasn't quite home without you there. But you'd been there - no matter how little the time you'd had together felt in hindsight - so maybe he could learn to make it home again. For you.

--

Gaz is angry - furious to the point of enraged tears. If it was him? He'd understand. He'd hurt people, torn apart lives and taken his fair share of them. He deserved it. But you? It wasn't fair. In his eyes, you couldn't possibly hurt a fly, so delicate and tender and so, so soft. It just wasn't fair.

His attempt at coping is to delve headfirst into a tedious slew of missions - one after another after another. It gives him something to dump all his blind rage and hurt and desperation into. His morals were a writhing, flailing, unrecognisable mess for a long time, and the best comfort he could find was in the chaotic monotony of work.

So what if he burned everything in his path to ash? At least the threat was dealt with.

Price and Ghost are the most essential to his recovery. He needs guidance, needs some sort of structure, and needs to relinquish the tight hold on his need to be good, to fix things, to help, to finally restore what he was so reliant on, even if that meant tearing himself to shreds in the process. What he needs is time to grieve, time to come to terms with the unforgiving reality - that it just happened. No-one did anything wrong, there was no violence or intent, it just happened.

He'll absolutely come to deeply regret everything he did in his grief-induced warpath, but eventually accept that he was hurt and lost and just needed the help - the intervention.

Like Price, I think he might attempt to put himself out there and find someone new every once in a while, maybe even builds up to a couple dates, but he never really finds interest in anyone. He definitely remains friends with many of the people he meets, but he just can't quite find a spark - mainly because they're not you.

He never throws out anything of yours, his wardrobe is still mostly full of random articles of your clothing, and the third drawer on the nightstand is still yours.

He always wears something of yours when he goes out, from shirts and shorts to hoodies, even some of your jewelry.

Despite it being admittedly pretty late, he finally watches all of the shows you liked and reads all the books you did. It makes him feel closer to you - cuddling up under your favourite blanket in your favourite spot and picturing you being there with him, imagining each and every one of your reactions, practically seeing your lovely face curl with smiles as you commentated over the whole thing.

Sure, you weren't really there with him anymore, but the sweet, warm mark you'd left on his heart was enough to carry him over until he inevitably returned to you.

--

Ghost is mostly depressed. He's so agonisingly hurt and lost, but you were his sun - what gave him life and love, and without you? He just couldn't muster up the energy to do anything beyond simply existing. Even he'd expected himself to crash and burn - follow in his brother's footsteps and drown in a spiral of addiction. But he just... Didn't. The affirmation that he didn't blow up and take everyone he loved down with him would be reassuring, comforting, but it wasn't. Not without you whispering praise in his ear, assuring him of his goodness and softness.

I think he'd also be reliant on Soap and Gaz, but Price would be a surprisingly big factor as well. No-one could ever really replicate the effect you had on him, the way your encouragement kept him going, but having some amount of structure, of motivation? It helped. Despite that, he absolutely tried to push them out at first, convinced that the acrid shadow of death looming over his shoulder would eventually take them as well. What are task force 141 if not determined and unfathomably stubborn, though, especially when it came to caring for their own.

Soap undoubtedly led the charge - seeing as his ceaseless energy and affection were mildly more normal (god knows Simon needed a little bit of comforting normalcy). Gaz came second, still snarky and headstrong as ever, but with softened edges and an air of gentle care. Price was last. He'd been there before Simon was Ghost, he was aware enough to piece bits of his past together - and he'd be damned if he managed to scare Simon, if he was the reason he regressed further. So he was tender. Delicate, even. Ghost would despise being handled like fragile porcelain in Price's kid gloves, but it soothed a part of Simon that hadn't peeked out since you left.

It'll take a bit longer than the others - more therapy, reassurance and care, but he'll recover eventually, let the wound you left in his porous heart scar over and go on as best he could.

I don't think he'll look for romance again either - his interest in it just died out alongside you. He wants to preserve the sanctity and tenderness of what you had, and is more than content with holding that love in his heart, and keeping it safe for you until he meets you again.

After you're gone, he attempts to follow your advice more, occasionally dragging himself out of his comfort zone, picking up new hobbies and trying to emulate your passion for life in himself, keeping a little bit of you alive with him. He absolutely douses the house in your favourite fragrance, refuses to use any hygiene products other than yours and carries something of yours everywhere, whether it be your ring or even your purse, just something to remind him he had to look after things (including himself) for you.

Even if you were cremated or buried in some other way, he'd ensure there was a gravestone for you placed alongside his mother, Tommy, Beth and little Joseph. You'd always be part of his family - his heart, and when his time came? He'd be buried alongside you, trailing along with you into whatever came next. By your side forever.

<3

Yippee. This was. A journey. /lh

Sorry if this isn't formatted the best, it was more of a massive brain dump that I forcibly shoved into something just about understandable lol

Tonight? Tonight, the thunder rolling through the air practically sent shockwaves through your room, sending your mind reeling into that fogged, not-quite-here, am-i-there haze, making your chest ache and stomach knot painfully. You wished your mind would surrender you to sleep, even if it was just trading one hell for another.

It wasn’t long before you ended up at Farah’s door like a little lost puppy. It seemed pointless - your hand was heavy with the fear of being a burden and you couldn’t even remember how you’d gotten there. The throbbing weight in your chest seemed to ebb into the air, the thickness slipping from your lungs before you could really get a full breath in.

Farah opening the door almost into your face was actually blessed coincidence, the empty glass in her hand somehow assured your oblivious little mind of just how much of a problem you were to her.

She didn’t even need to see the tears verging on spilling over your cheeks to know.

“Oh, hon, come on, lovely. I can’t have you out here by yourself, can I?”

You only just brought yourself to nod, lower lip wobbling involuntarily. Hands slipped across your back before you could burst into tears, softly guiding your listless form into her room, what little awareness you had left trailing behind. The gentle click of the door shutting only just stood out from the blood rushing through your ears, trying to shield from the growling of the thunder outside.

“Are you.. Are you warm enough, قلبي?” Her words were so motherly it hurt.

“How about I get you something warm to drink, alright? I’ll make your favourite, promise. Then we can snuggle up here and have a movie marathon, or something. How does that sound, love?”

A cosy, toasty drink and snuggles with your favourite girl? It did sound nice.

Farah’s smile widened. You must’ve nodded, or something. You didn’t quite know.

“There. I’m glad you like that idea. Just hold up one second, right?”

And then she plodded off again. Her absence made you hurt primally, fear creeping across your chest and up your throat, latching onto you with an iron grip. No, no, she couldn’t leave, it wasn’t safe, how did you let her go all alone what if-

“Hey, حبيبي, hey, it’s okay. Come here, shh.”

She was back. It felt like some kind of emotional whiplash, your feelings being pulled apart and moulded back together again, moving too quickly for you to really react.

Gentle, familiar hands guided you to sit back down - when had you stood up? - and cradled your cheek in their careful hold. Something slipped up over your ears, and the world went quiet again. Almost disturbingly so, the lack of input, of reassurance to your senses, it was scary.

It was like Farah read your mind as she leaned back in to whisper right next to your ear, just loud enough for you to hear, “It’s alright, sweetheart. Come on, you’re alright. We’re safe right now, we just have to let this storm pass. Literally, for once.”

The relaxed humour brought a weak smile to your face. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, but that was alright. You needed time and reassurance, only one of those had you received a decent amount of.

Her bed creaked as she joined next to you, worn, homely springs groaning with effort. Your hands were enveloped in her touch once again, substantial warmth coating the back of your hand, branching out over your palm and peeking up your wrist.

Farah didn’t hesitate to ease you down against the headboard, tucking a hand down against the small of your back as she fumbled for something she’d placed on the bedside table.

“Do you want that drink, love? I made your favourite. Same way as usual, don’t worry.” The mug was held by your hand, supporting it as you took it in your shaking ones. Her lips puckered softly as she puffed over the hot liquid, a little plume of steam flowing up to your face, the warm flash dragging your mind back somewhat. You idly noticed the seeds of a headache taking root against your temple.

“Careful, غالي, it’s hot.” It took a few moments to drag your eyes up and take her in, but you got there in the end. “Oh, hello, sweetheart. Popped back in, have we?” The light bags tugging at her under eye were engulfed by the soft plush of her cheeks as she smiled. To say she looked relieved was a bit of an understatement. One of her hands slipped from the mug, ensuring it was stable before coming up to give your cheek a little squeeze, thumbing gently at your cheekbone.

At your slow nod, her smile widened even further, gratitude pouring into her gaze. The mug was, once again, eased from your grasp at your seeming disinterest. It was probably going cold, but she didn’t particularly care.

“How do you feel about taking a nap, lovely? Just you and me. We can put on a movie too, like a little cosy movie night - does that sound nice?”

“Yeah..” Your words were almost too shaky to be intelligible, but seeing Farah’s warm glow at the attempt made it worth it.

Hands roamed gently under your thighs, easing you down into her shockingly comfy covers - ‘commander’s privileges’ - and proceeding to tuck you in, fussing over you all the while. It was a win/win, really, she got to look after and fuss over you, and you got a little bit of well-deserved spoiling.

After you were sufficiently smothered, Farah pulled herself up off the bed, calling out a soft ‘one sec’ before jogging out of the room. It was quiet. That wasn’t that bad anymore, though. She’d be back, soon.

Your mind barely wandered in the time it took for her to swipe the laptop off of the coffee table and speed back. She knew better than to leave you alone with your thoughts right now, though your semi-calmness when she got back was reassuring.

“Here we are..” Farah murmured idly, clambering up next to you, placing the laptop on the bedside table by your head. You were softly eased onto your side and pulled to a firm, pillowy chest. One arm was laid out under your shoulder, simultaneously supporting you and reaching out to the laptop, opening up her downloads and mindlessly scrolling through her library of movies. Her other arm was laid over your side, kneading at your tummy before moving slowly up to your chest.

The next few minutes were spent with Farah idly chatting into your ear, bouncing movie ideas off of you as she internally preened at each and every response you gave. Together, you decided on a movie, and cuddled into each other’s safe warmth as the opening credits rolled.

By the halfway mark, you were fast asleep. By the end, Farah was too.

—

Sorry for the kinda rushed ending, I wanted to maybe take this a little further sometime, but it’s been ages and I wanted to give yous a little sumet to munch on /j

Pinky promise I’ll try to drag myself out of my sorta-hiatus 😚🫂

None of the fighters had taken offence when the two of you retreated to Farah’s office after a swift welcome. They weren’t surprised. Sure, relationships between members of the ULF were strongly discouraged, but the bond between all of you was too strong for any real punishment or resentment over them. It was understood, even.

“غاليتي؟”

Her voice derailed your train of thought again.

“C’mere, love.”

You were guided down onto.. something? Something cold, and not quite wide enough to be a chair. You didn’t really mind. It had been weeks of forcing your mind to drone on and on, always on your feet, always alert, it couldn’t all be for nothing.

Now? It was a relief to just let go, let your commander, the love of your life, take over everything.

“Mind if I take these off?”

You didn’t even need to think before nodding. Despite the unspoken, ever-present trust between you, Farah was still so delicate with you, her calloused hands easing off layer after layer, hands cosily cool against your skin. The idle gush of water poured against acrylic behind you. The steam seeped into the sore muscles across your back. Farah’s hands were on your thighs. Gentle kisses pressed to each of your knees. It soothed the pain, patched up worn joints. Felt like it, at least.

“Come on, عزيزي” The words were honey on your ears, “Let’s get you comfy, yeah? You deserve it, poor thing. My poor, sweet thing.”

She didn’t struggle to lift you, her hands falling easily into place under your knees and against your back. The pour of the water had stopped, replaced with the liquid pooling against your bare skin, your body slotting perfectly into the mellowness.

Farah’s hands didn’t pull away, simply wandered up your back, tracing the contours of the muscle under your skin. Her thumbs kneaded against tense strength, the comforting, almost hypnotic touch leaving you in a state similar to that of the water you were almost melting into.

One of her hands eased off carefully, followed the soft rustle of fabric dropping to the floor and mindful shuffling. Strong calves tucked themselves under your underarms, promptly easing over your abdomen. Her plush thighs were perfect pillows, soft and comfy yet staunch enough to stretch out your neck just perfectly. Your contentment must’ve been apparent - given it was met by honeyed, strong chuckles. They only caused you to melt into her thighs even more, you’d do damn near anything to hear that again.

You’d never need to hire a masseuse anytime in the near future, not when Farah’s hands across your shoulders could make your skin go so fuzzy and have your mind almost floating away.

It didn’t take long for your eyes to fall closed, the warmth being all too much for your lethargic, exhausted mind to resist. It didn’t matter if the bath would be over by the time you woke up, nor did it matter how long it’d be until you did wake up. Because she’d be there. No matter what, no matter how long you were gone or how hurt and angry and plain tired you were? She’d always be there to give you a warm bath and let you nap in her arms.

—

Translations:

(Note: I’m not a native arabic speaker & all words/nicknames came from google, so please correct me if I’m wrong 💟)

غاليتي (ghalayati) - My precious

عزيزي (azizi) - My dear

She’s also absolutely attached to you at the hip. It’s like she’s given herself the job of your personal nurse, or something. Of course, she’s doing what’s best for you, but she folds just a little at the sight of your soft, weepy eyes.

Admittedly, she’s not the best cook on the planet. She has more important responsibilities than learning to cook. However, for you? She digs up every family recipe she could find, probably digging up an old scrapbook or two of her grandparent’s meanwhile. She’s determined to shower you in gourmet-level food as much as humanly possible, even if that means constantly ducking out of the kitchen to check on you, cuddled up on the couch.

Speaking of cuddles, she’s an absolute cuddle monster. The second you’ll let her, she’s buried alongside you, her gentle warmth dissolving into tour achy muscles, your pounding head showered in soft little kisses - even a couple on the lips, if she can sneak them, because, no, love, she doesn’t care about getting sick, she’ll live.

And, of course, she’ll insist on a nice bath with you, seeing as she just wants to see you better, sweetheart. Her getting to snuggle up with you in the tub is definitely just a happy coincidence.

Bathing with Farah is absolutely heavenly. She fills up the tub herself, happily murmuring pleasant little anecdotes and warm comforts into your ears as lukewarm water splashes around behind you. Gently helping you out of your pyjamas (well, her pyjamas, that were practically yours at this point), she dips her foot into the water, feeling the coolish liquid cover her feet. She slowly eases you in, a slight guilt pooling in her heart as you whine about just how cold the water felt. She keeps you buried in her arms throughout, kissing your cheeks and praising you sweetly, even letting you tuck your face against her shoulder.

Once you’re actually in, the bath is a near-perfect affair. Farah keeps you against her chest the entire time, happily kneading at your pained muscles, letting the water wash away the sweat staining your skin. She guides you down softly, supporting your neck with a gentle, rough hand as she dips your hair into the water, letting it wash away the tightness behind your eyes as best it could, easily tasking herself with washing your hair. It’s like she turns into your personal masseuse, looping a leg around your hips to keep you safely tucked against her, stroking delicately through the soft strands of your hair, loving hands brushing against their perfect spot on your scalp, leaving your muscles at a similar consistency to the water you were surrounded by.

She takes to washing your hair easily, lathering each product in her hands and warmly rubbing them in, pressing kisses to your cheeks and forehead between each one (her face occasionally scrunches as the misplaced product stains her mouth, but it’s worth it to see the little contented smile against your lips).

Thankfully, she doesn’t shy away from care elsewhere, either. She easily lathers each skincare product against your prone form, adjusting you gently against her arms to completely cover every inch of your sweet, delicate skin. Of course, each touch is punctuated with a little massage, hoping to soothe each and every inch of your sickly form, along with her fair share of kisses.

Unsurprisingly, getting out of the tub felt like hell. Sure, the water was mildly cold, but you’d adjusted to it, at this point, lazing easily against Farah’s warmth like a cat in the sun. You definitely felt like a wet cat as she eased you up, shivers immediately picking up the second your skin was exposed to the icy-seeming air. A snug, fluffy towel was wrapped around you almost immediately, with Farah swiftly reaching out to crank the heating up - just enough to keep the temperature difference from making your sickness worse.

Farah was quick to herd you into the bedroom, sitting you down on the bed and exchanging the, now damp, towel for a cosy robe she’d bought a while ago, surprisingly still unused.

And, before you could even consider protesting, she was crouched between your legs, gently towelling down the damp skin. She slowly made her way up, from your feet all the way up to your hair, occasionally popping to and from the bathroom, finishing off your skin and hair care.

By the time she’d finished, you were cuddled up in another - notably lighter - pair of her pyjamas, buried safely on her side of the bed, her honeyed scent filling your senses. Your head was pillowed against her chest, eyes trained vaguely before you as she flicked through her movie catalogue, looking for something peaceful yet entertaining.

Eventually, after her careful deliberation, she decides on some lighthearted romcom. It doesn’t particularly matter at this point, though, seeing as you’d conked out before the opening credits had even begun, your soft, purring snores filling the room and bringing a loving smile to her face. Looking after you so delicately had been amazing, but she was absolutely relieved you were finally getting the sleep your body so desperately needed.

It really, really wasn’t your fault.

Was it the recruit’s fault for provoking you? Absolutely. Was it the higher-up’s fault for letting the most bird-brained, impulsive little shits join as shadows? Probably a little bit.

But it absolutely was not your fault, you insisted. They’d provoked you - whispered nasty little degradations into your ears and promptly stuttered away like filthy little rats, like prey. He really couldn’t blame you for your rightful retaliation, could he?

Nope - you quickly learned - Graves absolutely could. And did.

“C’mon, pet. It’s really not that bad.” Rough hands squeezed and pinched teasingly at your cheeks, Graves’ drafty office making the metal cool and icy, “It’s modern fashion. You could strut a catwalk like that, sweet thing.”

His compliments did little to impress you, and even less to stop you from glaring daggers into his head.

Those stupid little condescending chuckles kissed at your ears again, “You’re a damn brat, you know that?” His finger slipped around the thick cage of the muzzle, barely out of mauling distance yet enough to let him yank your head towards him, dislodging it from its mildly more comfortable spot wedged under his thigh, “Ya’ can’t going around yapping at my boys, ‘aight? Well, I’ll forgive the noise, but keep your teeth to yourself. All bark, no bite, got it, little shit?”

You’d be pissed that he found your growling so amusing if it didn’t mean he flashed you that stupid, sexy grin. He was so infuriating and painfully hot while doing it.

That finger was still peeking through the metal - so tantalisingly close. “Is my pretty little puppy angry?” You nipped at his finger, though he wasn’t alarmed in the slightest by the near miss, simply using it as an excuse to further manhandle you. You weren’t quite sure if you wanted to shove that fat bulge in his pants down your throat or violently bash the hard metal right into his balls. Not that he’d let you do either, if that slutty little smirk on his face told you anything, “We should put that big mouth to use, huh? Get it working on something productive.”

It was honestly for the best that you had no clue what effect you had on him. Seeing your nasty little pout staring up at him, head hovering mouth-wateringly close to his core with that thick cage just reminding him of how meek and submissive you were under him. He could shove your face between his thighs and tease you to no end and you’d just whimper and moan, writhing into his touch like you’d been starved of it. Sure, maybe you’d be a little grouchy for a day or so after - nothing a little bit of make-up work couldn’t fix.

God, it put him on such a power trip, having such an untouchable, brutal predator weak under his touch like this. He’d seen you tear relentlessly through charges of men, leaving a fleshy bloodbath in your wake, yet he could have you whining and weeping under his skilled fingers.

He’d definitely be pounding you over his desk right now if he wasn’t at work. If he didn’t have a job to do. But, alas, duty called.

With a rumbling sigh, he unlooped his finger from your muzzle and slapped at his thighs, heaving himself up. He dragged you up in turn, wrenching you to stand by your collar.

“C’mon, pet. The big boss wants a word with you. She’s pretty bent out of shape over this - can’t have an office worker terrorising her poor, innocent baby mercs, can she?” He drawled snarkily, carelessly dragging you to the door. The sidelong glance he took told you that you absolutely hadn’t gotten away with that shit-eating grin you’d shot him. “Don’t think that means you’re off the hook with me, naughty little thing. I’ll deal with you later.”

His last words were reduced to an alluring whisper as he eased his office door open, “Enjoy walking to the prez’s office, ‘cause that’s not gonna be an option when I’m done with you.”

-

He’d offered to pick up some shopping for Beth, seeing as Tommy was busy at work and their usual stroller had finally given up the ghost. She’d insisted for Simon to get a specific brand of baby food - the formula type didn’t matter, but she’d been ‘trying to wean him off for weeks’ and if it was any other type he’d ‘just bash it off the spoon like some wild bloody animal’. Simon had teased the tot for ‘giving his mum gyp’ and being ‘a picky little thing’ (Tommy had explicitly banned him from swearing in front of the kid, lest the kid would pick up Simon’s own foul language). It was alright though, Simon could never really hold anything against that doe-eyed, chubby-faced little baby, that silly little thing had already snatched up his heart in those pudgy fingers.

His shocking, immeasurable love for the boy had probably been the reason that, when he first glanced at that stupid teddy in the window of the baby shop he’d been forced to visit at Beth’s request (demand), he instantly knew he needed it.

It wasn’t really anything too fancy. A plush little thing with fake, sewn-on patches. It wasn’t even particularly fuzzy or stimulating, it was just… It just felt right.

He’d tucked the scruffy thing in his pocket after paying. His first thought had been to bolt to Tommy’s house and instantly deposit the little thing into Joseph’s uncoordinated arms.

But, it had just been his birthday, and he’d been absolutely spoiled rotten by the three of them. Simon didn’t doubt that his little bed was already smothered in toys and teddies. Maybe it would be better to wait a little while. Just until everything had calmed down a bit.

After dropping the supplies off with Beth, he’d made a decision. The plush would be a gift for after he came back from deployment - a memoir in the case that he didn’t. His decision to rejoin the military wasn’t one he’d made on the spot, of course. This little life he’d watched - and helped - Tommy build was something he adored to bits. However, there was something missing. The wage was pretty penny as well. That sense of purpose and brotherhood, sticking with one another through everything - exactly what the remains of the little boy in him yearned for. It was obvious to him that he couldn’t leave it behind, that little bear was just more of an incentive. One to come back, to remind him to trudge through no matter what and return home. He couldn’t just up and leave everything he’d helped build.

Little did he know at the time, he’d have it all ripped away anyways. Yanked out of his too-delicate grip, torn away from right under his nose like he was sure everything else would be.

To this day, he really doesn’t know why he kept that stupid little plushie. He didn’t even remember grabbing it, must’ve just bagged it like the rest of his shit after he left. He couldn’t stay there anymore - there wasn’t a thing about that place, those - now tainted - memories that didn’t wrap his stomach in knots.

Grief was a weird thing, really. It made him do weird things that he still didn’t really understand, and, he supposed this was one of them.

That little thing had accompanied him for god knows how long after. He’d only realised it was there when Roba was finally gone, and he’d been swooped up by Price into 141. Still in the same clothes as he had been in when he’d left, he figured it was a wise idea to get rid of them. Shed the last remnant of what he’d left behind.

Habit was the only reason he’d found the thing. His mum had practically hammered it into him that you ‘always check the pockets before the wash, Si, you’ll never imagine the goodies you find in ‘um.’ - hearing his mumma’s voice hurt, even in his own head, so he determinedly pushed it down, still clearing out the pockets in spite of it.

And, much to his surprise, his hand met that patchy little surface. (Maybe mum was right.)

It eventually found a home on his bed, tucked safely under the blanket his mother had gifted him, alongside Tommy’s hoodie - the one he’d mistaken for his own in the rush.

And then, there was a second plushie - this one was unexpected too.

He’d been on a mission in the Baltics - a bloody brutal one at that. Had to stakeout in an evacuated town with Price and Gaz for a painfully long while. Just like the first (Joseph’s), he’d caught an idle glimpse of it when the three were stalking around the town for a decent place to camp out in for the night. To his - very well masked - delight, the little house itself had been perfect as well. Overall untouched by the days of shelling and structurally well-off. The insulation was even somewhat intact.

As they made their way in, he noticed Price accidentally kick at the ragged thing as they entered. It had taken every ounce of strength he had not to either blow up at Price or immediately dart to cradle the worn plush in his arms. He’d internally attribute it to his raging grief at the time - the wound of his loss still jagged and gushing.

Like the good little soldier he was, though, he stuffed away all his burning feelings into his box, shoving it to the deep recesses of his mind alongside the memory of that night.

Originally, he’d decided to leave the thing alone. Keep the hurt shoved away and let anything that tugged at it be shoved down alongside it.

But some part of him- no. Simon ached and throbbed and clawed at his impenetrable, uncaring persona (what if that was Joseph’s? it wailed. he didn’t want to listen.). Was it weak? Absolutely. Selfish? Probably. Pretty weird? Yeah.

It didn’t stop him from snatching the toy up as they left, though.

The new addition to his - unbeknownst to him - growing collection found a home next to his other bear.

He’d insisted that it would be the last. It wasn’t.

The third was from Laswell.

It was before she was married - before she was even dating the lovely woman she now called her wife. Her house had been one of the many subjected to the disastrous british rain, with the whole bottom floor of her house being practically completely flooded. The task force had scrambled to help, of course, offering everything from money to offering up their services as glorified handymen. Laswell had declined, of course. She already had a well paying job and more than enough to get some repairs, all she needed was a place to stay.

Each and every one of the boys would have taken her in in a heartbeat, if not for them being in service. They weren’t exactly meant to leave base, let alone offer their apartments as temporary hotels to someone non-military.

So, naturally, they’d offered up the base instead. It wasn’t exactly pretty, and there wasn’t a guest room, but it was floodwater-free and the couch was decently cosy. It was better, and more convenient, than an impromptu hotel stay right in the middle of tourist season, so Laswell had begrudgingly accepted.

Ghost hadn’t even known about the arrangement until he had finally returned from a dull day of training up stupid, whiny little recruits and was fully planning on stripping and dropping into bed without a second thought.

And he was immediately greeted by Laswell, holed up on the couch with the telly on and wearing a pair of pjs.

Simon wasn’t gonna have that. He couldn’t give less of a shit if it was one of the recruits, the annoying little bastards, but Laswell? The woman who had guided them constantly, always tucked away in their ears when things got bad?

Simon wasn’t having this at all.

The stubbornness of the two made it a long, gruelling task, which basically ended with Ghost - as respectfully as one possibly could - manhandling Laswell into his room. He hadn’t paid the teddies a single thought, much more concerned with getting Laswell - Kate - comfy and situated, even giving her dibs over his laptop full of pirated films for the night.

Clearly, though, Laswell had paid those tiny little plushies some thoughts, seeing as, after she’d finally returned home and been given time to recoup, a box addressed to Simon - not Ghost, never Ghost to her - landed on his doorstep. Well, bedroom door, but what really was the difference on base?

He’d opened the little present to find a hand-knitted bear. A stark white one, with beady little eyes and a neatly tied ribbon along its neck. It was accompanied by a handwritten note, thanking him for letting her sleep in his room, yet with a very passive aggressive - heavy on the aggressive part - warning to ‘never try that goddamn shit again, Simon, don’t fucking test me.’

That bear, too, found a home in his collection. This one was really a turning point for him.

The other two, while painfully dear to him, were shrouded in agonising memories, letting the bloody, nasty bits of his past creep up on him again.

This one, though? This was Laswell’s - it was Kate’s. She’d taken the time to make it by hand, each loop of string infused with a kind of warmth. This one was gentle, was kind.

That was when his collection really ballooned. Suddenly, the stupid toys weren’t violent, leeching memories from before. They were something new, something sweet and delicate and so, so painfully kind. Embarrassingly enough, it became a bit of a comfort, letting the soft trio against his headboard turn into his little quartet. Then a group. And, before he knew it, he practically had an army taking over his bed. He was more than content with it, of course. It was comfortable, at the very least.