#sergeant reader

A corner of Ghost’s mouth twitches under the mask. “Never bored when I’ve got such a pretty sight,” he replies dryly, tracking you as you slip through the doorway. “Try not to miss me too much.”

A soft huff of laughter through the comm. “Dream on, Riley.”

The breach is clean. Bodies drop one by one as the team clears the building. He calls targets as he sees them, adjusts angles, marks exits. Minutes stretch.

Then, finally: “Objective secure,” Soap says, only slightly out of breath. “Package confirmed.”

Relief loosens something tight in Ghost’s chest. He doesn’t move the rifle. He never does until extraction is underway, but the worst is over.

“Good work,” Ghost murmurs. His scope finds you again as you step back out onto the street, helmet tilted as you scan your sector. “Told you I had it covered.”

You snort softly. “Yeah, yeah. Buy you a pint when we’re back, sniper.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Ghost lets out a breath and loosens his shoulders as the tension leaves him. But then… Movement. His breath stops.

From the edge of the scope, a shape breaks from shadow. It’s too fast, too close. Not one of theirs, and not one you caught.

“Contact—!” Ghost barks, but it’s already happening.

The attacker slams into you from behind. You go down hard, rifle clattering, the man on top of you before you can roll. Ghost’s heart slams against his ribs as he tracks you, fingers tightening on the trigger.

“Sergeant, get up—!” he snaps, voice sharp with something dangerously close to panic.

The attacker’s hands go for your throat.

Ghost swears viciously.

He adjusts, micro-corrections automatic even as adrenaline floods his veins. Wind negligible. Distance fixed. But you’re moving, thrashing and fighting, and the attacker is on top of you.

“Ghost—!” Soap shouts in comms as he notices the commotion and starts running to try and get to the street in time.

“I see it,” Ghost growls. His voice is ice now. “Hold your positions.”

Your helmet is knocked aside and Ghost sees your face. Your eyes are eyes wide, jaw clenched, hands clawing at the man’s wrists as they squeeze around your neck.

Air leaves your lungs in a harsh, choking sound that Ghost hears through the comms, like it’s happening right next to him.

Red creeps into the edges of his vision.

He lines up. The attacker shifts, weight pressing down on you, face inches from yours.

Ghost exhales.

The crosshair settles at the base of the attacker’s skull, just behind the ear. A shot like this leaves no margin for error. Miss by an inch and—

He doesn’t finish the thought. He squeezes.

The rifle kicks once, controlled, suppressed crack swallowed by the city. Through the scope, the attacker’s head snaps to the side. The body goes slack instantly, dead weight collapsing onto you.

Ghost keeps the scope trained, finger ready, in case there’s another. In case he needs to fire again.

Seconds stretch.

Under the body, you gasp in ragged, desperate breaths, dragging air back into your lungs. Your hands shove weakly at first, then harder, panic giving way to muscle memory.

You roll the corpse off you with a grunt and sit up, coughing, one hand braced on the pavement.

Ghost’s chest feels like it’s going to split open.

“Sergeant,” he snaps into the mic. “Status report.”

For half a heartbeat, there’s nothing. Then you look up.

Not at him, you can’t see him, but Ghost knows the exact moment you register what happened. Your shoulders hitch once as you take another breath. Then you lift your hand and give a shaky thumbs up.

Ghost lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, tension bleeding from his body in a dizzying rush.

“Bloody hell,” Soap mutters over comms, only now arriving at the street and helping you stand. “That was close.”

Ghost doesn’t answer right away. He keeps the scope on you, watching as you get to your feet, swaying only slightly before squaring your shoulders like nothing just happened.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough.

“Next time,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving you, “you’re buying two pints.”

Your laugh crackles through the comms rough and croaking, but alive. “Deal. You can tell me how heroic you were.”

The hospital room smells of antiseptic and old metal. You’re propped up against thin pillows, an IV needle taped into your arm, a mild headache threading its way behind your eyes. 

Memory loss. The past couple years, just… gone. You remember little more than little flashes. Fragments of a life you can't recall living.

You can remember your childhood. Training, boot camp, a few blurry missions, comrades. And then… nothing. Just flickers. Flashes of light and roaring noises. A hand gripping yours in a helicopter. A voice behind a mask. Nothing clear, nothing giving you any information on who you are.

A knock cuts through your spiraling. “Hey, sweetheart? You awake?”

You look up. The man standing in the doorway is striking. Clean-cut, tall, dressed in tactical black that feels out of place in the sterile room. His smile is soft, almost tender, but it makes something in you deeply uneasy.

He steps in without waiting for permission. Phillip Graves. You've heard of him, vaguely, maybe worked the same opp as him but not with him. Are you now working with him directly? Maybe he is your Commander, since he is here.

“Hey, sunshine,” he says quietly as he approaches your bed. “Heard you finally opened those pretty eyes.”

You blink at him. “Do… I know you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, honey, you do.” He drags a chair across the tiles and sits beside your bed, leaning forward on his elbows. “We’re… close.”

Oh. Oooh… That…

Your eyes flicker over him again. You don't know him, at least not as far as you remember, but he seems not your usual type. He talks like an accountant.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I don’t remember.”

“I know.” He reaches out and lays a hand over yours. His skin is warm, his grip gentle, and his palms scarred. “They told me what happened. Told me you woke up scared and confused.” His voice dips, softening. “I’m here now. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Really?

Are you the type to be into that kinda stuff? The ‘lay back and let me handle it’ type? Maybe that's a newer development…? His hand looks odd on yours. Feels odd. Something is off, you don't usually do this with him, do you? 

The image of a gloved hand flashes before your eyes. Yes, that must be it. You're probably usually in the field with him, so seeing him a tad more casual must be odd. Seing his face is odd. He usually wears a mask, doesn't he?

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” he continues. “I know you probably feel lost. But I promise, once you’re back with me, with my people, things’ll make sense again.” He lifts your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles like you’re something fragile and presses a kiss on the back of your hand. “We take care of our own.”

“Back with… your people?”

He nods. “Shadow Company. You’ve been with us for years.”

That… doesn’t sound right. Last you remember you were… You were… The memories are too slippery, but you don't… You don't remember PMC compounds and black uniforms, you remember camouflage, british flags, and… an emblem? It's too blurry.

You squint, trying to will clarity into existence. “I… was? With you?”

“With me,” he repeats warmly. “My partner. My right-hand. My love.” 

Your heartbeat picks up. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I don’t feel—”

“Hey, hey.” He leans closer, enough that his cologne fills your lungs. “Don’t push it. Don’t try to force memories that aren’t ready to come back.” His smile is tender, but the look in his eyes is so unfamiliar. Is it just the memory loss? Could memory loss truly turn someone into a stranger? “Just trust me. Let me take you home when you’re cleared. Everything’ll fall into place.”

Home. That word rattles something loose— A flash. The ghost of a memory. Nothing more, just… a feeling. Safety, comfort, security. The scent of gun oil and the feeling of warm fabric on your skin. Support.

Your pulse spikes and you blink rapidly. Your head is killing you, your body already fatigued enough and wanting nothing more than to just rest.

Graves notices. “Easy.” His thumb draws a slow circle on your hand. You're not used to someone holding your hand, want to yank it away, but resist the urge. “You’re safe.”

He is handsome, composed, that all-American confidence combined with enough southern drawl that once upon a time you maybe would have considered a night with him. But something about him feels off. Have you truly forgotten so much that you would be turned off by your own boyfriend?

He squeezes your hand once more before letting go. “I’ll get the docs to speed things up. The second they say you’re cleared, I’m taking you out of here. We’ll get you settled back with the Company, back by my side. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

You blink at him and he stops in the door. He looks every bit like the Commander you vaguely remember from his file… not like a lover. 

You and him are here as part of a sting. As soon as the signal is given you two are responsible for detaining a weapon’s dealer. Many of them are here, so many operatives are undercover in pairs, each with a specific target in mind. So, now you and Gaz have to pretend to be a couple on a wonderful date.

With a deep breath, you force your face into a smooth smile. “Apologies, darling,” you force out. “I was just thinking.”

He leans in and lowers his voice, like a man speaking to his lover in an intimate tone. “You do realize we're supposed to look like a couple, not like you're plotting my murder?”

“You saying this doesn't look romantic?” You gesture at the both of you, in color matched outfits and hands tangled together.

“Well, most couples don't glare like they're about to draw weapons,” he points out.

“Speak for yourself. I am very passionate, romance always includes weapons.” To make a point, you kick his ankle under the table. Hard enough to sting, not hard enough to draw attention.

“Ow,” he winces and gives you a look.

“See?” you grin smugly. “Physical affection. Nailed it.”

Gaz blows out a breath and leans back, taking a sip of his (nonalcoholic) drink while casually checking the room. He leans back in then, lowering his voice agaim, eyes flicking briefly to the target. “He just checked his watch.”

You don’t turn, it would be too obvious. You’ll judt have to take his word for it. “Means he's nervous. Maybe waiting for someone?”

“Or bored.” Gaz glances over again. “If he leaves befire we get the signal, we’ll have to stall or follow him.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” you sigh. “Not in the mood to flirt with some old guy.”

“Yeah, you’d rather flirt with me, wouldn’t you?”

“Heh. You wish, Garrick.”

“Really?” He arches an eyebrow. “Earlier you touched my chest while laughing and leaning in. That’s not flirting?”

“That’s acting,” you insist. “Besides, I flirt with everyone. I’m just charming.”

“That’s funny,” he comments and means forward. His fingers glide from your hand, up to the inside of your wrist. It’s a light, intimate touch, as his fingers brush your soft skin. He leans in an inch further. “Because you’re blushing.”

Your eyes linger on his hand before jerking back and covering your expression by taking a long drink. Man, if only you were allowed to drink. “I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m sunburned.”

“We’ve been locked in debriefs for a week straight.”

“Fuck you,” you shoot back instead of continuing to argue. Your face is burning.

Gaz barks out a laugh before he can stop himself, then catches himself quickly again. Both of you instinctively look up, to subtly check if the target noticed. Only he is no longer where he was. It seems in your banter, both missed that he switched locations. He is now behind Gaz, and has glanced up at the sound.

Quickly, you lean in. “Showtime,” you murmur. “Don’t let anything give us away.”

Gaz nods and looks back at you. “He’s watching?”

“Mhm.”

He hums back and scoots around the table, as though wanting to simoly sit next to you, but in reality putting the target back into his line of sight. His arm slides around your chair, thumb brushing the small of your back. “There,” he says quietly. “How’s that?”

Your breath stutters, barely. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Maybe,” he admits with unusual seriousness. “You?”

You meet his eyes, close enough now that you could count the lashes on his unfairly pretty eyes. “…Undecided.”

His eyes flicker to your lips. “Want to find out?” he breathes.

You swallow hard. You do. That’s the truth. You’re not the type of person to live ein denial, and the truth is: you want to find out.

“Move in!”

Both of you snap into action before thinking, pushing out of the chairs as the room erupts into chaos. You arrive first and tackle the arms dealer into the ground as Gaz points his weapon at him.

“Handcuffs,” you snap, and Gaz tosses them to you, allowing you to restrain the target. You stay sitting on his back as you look around, where at least 8 other men are being arrested hy undercover operatives. No one needs backup; the mission went off flawlessly.

Your eyes flicker up to Gaz then. He holsters his weapon again and meets your eyes. He swallows hard.