#subliminalghoest

You weren’t sure what time it was when you woke up—just that the moonlight had shifted and the room was bathed in soft silver. You were too warm, wrapped in heat that had nothing to do with the thin blanket.

Soap’s arm was slung lazily over your waist, his hand resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, skin-to-skin and entirely unbothered. His breath tickled the curve of your neck, soft and steady. One of his legs had somehow worked its way between yours, your leg hitched over his.

Behind you, Ghost was molded to your back, chest pressed close, the slow rise and fall of his breath an anchor against your spine. One of his arms wrapped around your middle, the other tucked beneath the pillow you shared. Protective. Possessive. Present.

You shifted slightly, caught between warmth and awareness, and felt Soap's fingers twitch.Ghost’s hand tightened, just a fraction. Like they both felt it too.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t anything overt. Nothing crude. You were surrounded, caged in heat and strength and quiet tension.

And God, it felt good.

You could’ve pulled back. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You leaned in—drifting your fingers along Ghost’s forearm, letting your leg press deeper against Soap’s. Neither man spoke, but Soap’s breath caught, quiet and sharp.

Ghost... Ghost exhaled against the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, his face pressing in closer.

You fell asleep again like that—wrapped in the kind of tension that lulled you rather than startled. Wanting to stay wrapped in this dream a little longer before having to face reality.

—————————————————————————

The second time you woke, it was slower—every inch of your body aware before your mind caught up.

Warmth. Weight. Pressure. Breath against your throat.

Soap had shifted in the night, his head now tucked beneath your chin, resting lightly on your bicep. Your arm had curled around him, cradling him. His hand had drifted lower, fingers curved gently around the dip of your thigh. Your hips pressed snugly to his. Innocent, but barely.

Behind you, Ghost had only pulled you closer—his hand now splayed along your ribs, thumb rhythmically stroking the soft skin just under your breast.

You stayed still. Testing the moment.

Then you moved—just a little. A shift, nothing more.

Soap stirred against you, his body pressing closer.

Ghost’s hand stilled… then resumed its slow stroke.

Deliberate. Intentional.

“You’re awake,” came Ghost’s voice—low, gravelly. Dangerous.

You swallowed. “Didn’t mean to move.”

“Didn’t say stop.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Soap chuckled, his voice still thick with sleep and something else. “Think she likes waking up between us.” He arched his neck up and you felt his nose run up your neck, running back down to your collar bone where he nuzzled into you.

Your breath hitched.

“You’re imagining things,” you mumbled, but your voice betrayed you. Soft. Breathless.

“You sure about that?” Ghost leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear through the mask. “Because from where I’m lying, you haven’t moved away.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. You were burning now—trapped between them and completely unwilling to escape.

Soap shifted again, his hand trailing down your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your shorts. “We won’t do anything you don’t want, love,” he murmured.

“But if you want something…” Ghost said, voice dropping to a low, dark promise, “…just say it.”

The silence stretched.

And you wondered how you were going to convince yourself that this was a bad idea.

Price was at the end of the table, reading over a report, and Gaz was busy demolishing his second helping of whatever cake was on offer today. It was a rare moment of peace.

Until some new guy, a younger recruit, strolled in and spotted you.

He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Knitting?” He let out a short laugh. “Didn’t realize we had a fucking grandma on the team. Get a life, am I right?” The patronising tone dripping like honey.

You barely reacted, too used to comments like that. But what surprised you was the way the entire table shifted.

Soap leaned forward, forearms resting against the table, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. “You wanna say that again, mate?”

The recruit hesitated, glancing between them. “I mean—it’s just—” He chuckled nervously. “It’s an old person’s hobby, yeah? Didn’t think someone in this line of work would be into that kinda thing.”

Price exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the sheer stupidity unfolding before him.

“It was just a joke, dude.” Looking around for someone who would come back him up, he shifted uncomfortably on his feet again.

Gaz wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned back in his chair, gesturing toward you. “Tell me, mate—what kind of hobbies do you have? Anything as useful as hers?”

The recruit blinked. “Uh…”

“Didn’t think so,” Ghost muttered, setting his mug down with a dull thunk. His voice was even, but there was an edge to it, something dangerous.

The guy’s shoulders stiffened.

And then, as if to prove a point, Soap rolled up the sleeve of his combat shirt, revealing a thick, fingerless gloves with ‘soap’ lettered across the top of both knuckles. “Made this for me last winter,” he said proudly. “Bloody lifesaver in the cold.”

Gaz grinned and tugged at his beanie. “This too. Custom made.” It did have a small Union Jack you had painstakingly knitted into the hat.

Price, without looking up from his report, casually lifted his mug. It was wrapped in a snug, knitted cozy, complete with the Task Force’s emblem on it.

The recruit’s mouth opened, then closed.

And finally, Ghost—of all people—reached into his vest and pulled out a small, neatly folded black scarf. He didn’t say a word, just let the recruit see it before tucking it away again.

Silence.

The guy swallowed. “Right. Uh—sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to us,” Price drawled, finally glancing up. “Apologize to her.”

The recruit turned to you, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “Uh. Sorry.”

You simply looked up at him, gave him a once over and nodded once before picking up your needles again. “Apology accepted.”

The table remained silent as the recruit awkwardly shuffled away.

After a beat, Soap snickered. “Bloody idiot.”

Gaz smirked. “Think he’s gonna ask for a scarf next?”

You shook your head, amused. “Doubt it.”

Ghost, still quiet, reached over and picked up the ball of yarn beside you. He turned it in his hands, gaze unreadable beneath the mask. Then, voice low, he murmured,

“Why doesn’t mine have a personal touch?”

At your confused look, he gestured to Price’s mug cosy. Your cheeks heated, you had assumed he wouldn’t want anything like that and honestly it had felt too personal of a gift to give to Ghost, too telling of your feelings towards him.

He was more important than the others to you, you’d trust him with anything, everything.

“I have a pretty obvious motif you could’ve used y’know.” His shoulder knocked into yours, careful not to jolt you too much and make you drop a stitch. “Make me another one.”

You met his eyes, warmth curling in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “A balaclava this time maybe.”

His eyes lit up with something at the idea, “you wanna borrow one as reference?”

Your eyes snapped down to the balaclava he currently wore, hiding the man underneath just out of view. The hint of full lips and a strong nose. The idea of having something so integral to him, it stopped your breath in your chest.

“Ok.” You pushed the word out, nodding at him when he told you he’d get it to you later.

————————————————————————

The rec room was unusually quiet tonight, the usual rowdiness dialed down to a low murmur. A football match played on the mounted TV, a few soldiers half-watching as they lounged across mismatched chairs.

You were tucked into the corner of the couch, legs curled up beneath you, the crochet hook you were using consuming your little bubble of focus.

The balaclava was coming along well, the skull design starting to take shape. It was a labor of love, every stitch precise, carefully crafted to match the one Ghost always wore.

You were mid-row when a familiar shadow loomed over you.

“What’s this, then?”

You startled slightly, fingers tightening around the yarn as Ghost settled onto the couch beside you. He sat close—not unusual, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him even through your layers.

You shifted, subtly angling yourself away from his line of sight. “Nothing.”

Ghost hummed, clearly unimpressed. “Doesn’t look like nothin’.”

You didn’t dare look at him, keeping your eyes fixed on the crochet in your lap. “It’s a work in progress.”

A pause. Then, “That the balaclava?”

You bit your lip.

When you didn’t answer, Ghost shifted.

You barely had time to react before he dipped his head, trying to peer over your shoulder. You turned quickly, twisting the fabric away from his view.

“Ghost,” you warned.

He leaned in further, voice low with amusement. “Just wanna see.”

“You cant see,” you shot back, tucking the project behind you to shield it from view. “Not yet.”

Ghost exhaled a quiet chuckle. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You’re the one trying to peek.”

You expected him to back off, maybe let it go—but of course, he did the opposite.

With zero hesitation, he reached out, fingers brushing over yours as he gently—not snatching, thankfully—tried to pull the item away from your grasp.

You shot your arm out, keeping the yarn out of reach, and before you could react, you lost your balance.

One moment, you were dodging him. The next, you found yourself pressed against the arm of the couch, Ghost leaning over you, one hand braced beside your shoulder with the other reaching towards the yarn you held outstretched.

You both froze.

It wasn’t that different from combat training, really. Close quarters, tangled limbs, the familiar weight of his presence pressing into your space. But this wasn’t training.

You had touched each-other before, it was familiar.

What wasn’t familiar was how it felt.

Your breathing hitched as Ghost’s gaze met yours, dark eyes dominating your vision. His fingers were still grazing your hands, barely there, but enough to send heat curling through your spine.

Your heart pounded, your skin prickling with awareness. You swore his gaze dipped—just for a second—to your lips before snapping back up.

Then, just as slowly, he eased away. “Fine, have it your way, Love”

The moment passed, dissipating like smoke, ease replacing the tension.

You sat up, straightening the yarn in your lap, fingers slightly unsteady as you smoothed out the yarn now carefully hidden behind your raised knee.

Ghost exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “All that just to keep me from seein’ something I know you’re making f’me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “You started it.”

He hummed, gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary before he leaned back into the couch, settling beside you like nothing had happened.

You settled more comfortably, not bothering to hide the project any longer. If he inspected what lay in your lap, he hid it well.

Conversation passed easily between you both as you continued your rows. The warmth from him seeping into you through your legs that was pressed against his side.

The position was borderline intimate.

And neither of you minded one bit.

Later, when you’re stripped bare on his bed, legs trembling, his mouth on your pussy like he’s starving, you try to muffle the moans clawing their way out of your throat.

Simon lifts his head, lips glistening. “Mmm—what’s wrong? You struggling to keep quiet?”

You let out a broken noise—and he grabs the balaclava, the same one from earlier, and presses it into your hand.

You don’t hesitate.

You shove it between your teeth, biting down, back arching as he flattens his tongue and devours you.

“Much as I’d like to hear all those pretty little noises,”Simon smirks against you, clearly satisfied, and licks another stripe up your clit—slow, deliberate—before sucking it into his mouth. “I’m not willing to share. Especially not the sounds of me making you come.”

And the way you whimper around that fabric?

It’s better than anything he’d imagined.

Your back arches. He groans softly at the way your hips buck, hands gripping your thighs tighter to pin you in place.

“Yeah,” he breathes, lips brushing your slick skin. “Just like that.”

Your hands fly to his hair—short and messy from your earlier interruption—but you don’t pull him away. You anchor yourself, like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You’ve no idea,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down to join his mouth, “how long I’ve wanted to do this. You, like this—open and so needy and all mine.”

A low, desperate sound catches in your throat, muffled by fabric.

His fingers slide inside you—two at once—and your eyes roll back. He curls them just right, searching for that spongy area to make you shake. His tongue keeps working in tandem, relentless and steady, mouth slick and warm.

You’re close. It’s spiraling fast, too fast.

Simon knows it, too.

“C’mon, love,” he mutters, the words pressing against your skin. “Be good for me. Come on my tongue.”

That’s all it takes. You break apart with a cry smothered by his balaclava, thighs clamping around his head, body shaking with release.

He doesn’t stop.

Keeps going through it, coaxing every last aftershock out of you, until you’re squirming, twitching—pushing at his shoulder with your feet.

Finally, finally, he pulls back—licks his lips slowly like he’s savouring every second of you on his tongue. He leans up over you, arms caging you in, watching with dark, hungry eyes as you pant, flushed and wrecked beneath him.

Your hand shakily lowers the balaclava from your mouth, and your voice comes out hoarse. “You’re a menace.”

He smirks, dragging the fabric from your hand and tossing it aside. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

You scowl at him half-heartedly. “I didn’t.”

He leans down, nose brushing yours. “Good.”

Then he kisses you—deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue—and you moan, arms looping around his neck before you can think better of it.

When he finally pulls away, breathless, he smiles. A rare one. Soft, but no less intense.

“You’re not getting the last word tonight,” he says, voice thick with promise.

You lift your brows. “No?”

He shakes his head, trailing kisses along your jaw, your throat, the curve of your shoulder.

“I’m just getting started.”

Your breath hitches at the low, dangerous way he says it. I’m just getting started.

“Yeah?” you manage, voice barely above a whisper. “Planning to ruin me, Lieutenant?”

That smirk comes back—sharper now. Almost wicked.

“Oh, I’m not planning,” he murmurs, fingers trailing down your side, dragging goosebumps in their wake. “I’m going to.”

He slides lower, mouth returning to your skin—not frantic, not rushed, but with purpose. Reverent. His stubble grazes your sensitive flesh, and you flinch, still overstimulated and burning for more.

You can’t believe he’s going down again.

Your hands find his shoulders, nails pressing into muscle as he hooks your knees over his broad shoulders again, spreading you wide beneath him. You’re already slick, flushed, raw—too sensitive to take much more. You feel like the only thing that exists in the world when Simon Riley is between your legs.

“Need to get you prepped for me, doll. Gotta get this pretty little cunt,” he says softly, breath hot as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, “soaking wet for me.”

You moan, head tipping back against the pillows. You never thought his mouth would be this dirty—half expected the stoic, silent Lieutenant he is in public.

“And the way you fucking taste…” He groans, low and wrecked, like he’s the one falling apart.

You feel the press of his tongue again—slower this time, but no less consuming. He laps at you with long, deliberate strokes, occasionally dragging his teeth just barely where you’re most sensitive, making you gasp.

One of his hands slides up your belly, splaying against your chest. His thumb brushes over your nipple and you arch into him with a broken whimper.

“Sensitive,” he hums against your folds. “You gonna come again for me?”

You nod helplessly, words gone—wrecked by the overwhelming heat and sensation. He chuckles darkly and closes his mouth around your clit again, sucking gently.

You don’t stand a chance.

Your second orgasm crashes into you, your back bowing, thighs shaking around his head. It’s slower than the first, but deeper—like it’s being pulled from the base of your spine, curling through your entire body. You sob his name into your palm, clinging to his shoulders like you might fly apart without him.

And still, he doesn’t let up. He works you through it, tongue and fingers moving in tandem, until your legs twitch and you let out a half-laugh, half-whimper.

“Simon, fuck, I—please—”

You push his body away with your foot, he sits back on his knees, gliding his hand up and down your calf, lips slick with your release, eyes dark and feral as he takes you in. Perfectly dishevelled.

“Too much?” he teases, his voice rougher now, tinged with something almost smug. “Or just enough?”

You glare at him through your lashes. “I hate you.”

His grin widens as he pushes your leg out of the way and crawls back over you, nudges your jaw with his nose. “That’s not what your cunt says.”

He’s filthy. You groan, dragging him down by the back of his neck into a kiss—deep, messy, a little desperate.

“You gonna fuck me or just keep teasing me to death?” you breathe against his lips.

He laughs—low, throaty.

“Oh, I’m gonna fuck you,” he promises. “Nice and slow.”

He reaches down between you, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, just enough to make your breath catch again.

“But not until you beg for it.”

Your body jerks at the glide of his cock against your aching core—warm, heavy, teasing. A fresh wave of heat pools low in your stomach, and you tighten your grip on his shoulders, nails digging in with a whimper you barely catch behind clenched teeth.

“Beg?” you echo, breathless.

Simon hums, nose brushing your cheek, voice like gravel and smoke.

“You heard me.”

He presses the tip just barely into you—then he pulls back, slow and deliberate.

Your eyes flutter shut. He does it again.

“C’mon, love,” he says, mouth grazing your ear now. “You were so full of clever little comments before. Where’d all that mouth go?”

You glare up at him, flustered and trembling, every nerve ending alight. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins, unfazed. “And you’re soaked. Dripping, even.”

Another teasing thrust—shallow, maddening. Your body aches, clenches around nothing, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him.

You huff out a frustrated sound, forehead resting against his chest. “Simon—”

“Ah-ah.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “You want my cock, you ask for it.”

You decide to give in.

You lift your chin, lips brushing his as you whisper, “Please, Simon.”

He doesn’t move.

You swallow, cheeks burning. “Please fuck me. I need it.”

That dark heat in his eyes flares. “Say it again.”

You moan in frustration, squirming beneath him. “Simon, please. I need your cock. I need you to fuck me—now.”

That does it.

His control snaps like a wire under tension, and he surges forward, burying himself inside you in one long, delicious thrust. You cry out—the stretch making your back arch as he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he grits through clenched teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “Christ—you’re so tight. Fuck, I know I’m big, baby. You can take it. I know you can. Show me how good you can be f’me.”

Your hands claw at his back as he starts to move, slow at first, then harder, deeper. Each thrust steals breath from your lungs, pushes moans past your lips without thought.

He groans into your neck, biting down gently before pulling back to look at you—flushed, panting, completely undone.

“You like this?” he growls, fucking into you harder. “Me inside you, filling you up?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, eyes rolling back as he angles his hips just right and hits that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision go white.

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit. “One more,” he says roughly. “Give me one more. I want to feel you come on my cock.”

You’re close—so close—and his words tip you right over the edge.

You fall apart with a sob of his name, walls clenching around him as your climax hits like a tidal wave. He groans deep in his chest, slamming into you once, twice more before he spills inside you with a shuddering gasp.

The room goes quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing and his heartbeat pounding against your chest.

After a moment, he lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. His voice, when it comes, is quieter. Rough in a different way.

“You alright?”

You nod, a little dazed. “More than alright.”

He kisses you then—slow and soft, a stark contrast to everything that came before it.

"Fuckin' hell—" he growled, stumbling back. His knees buckled as the mild sedative took hold. Just enough to slow him, not knock him out completely.

You grabbed a length of reinforced paracord from your belt and, with practised efficiency, tied his arms and legs. You worked fast, using the task as a distraction from the hurt and betrayal now flooding his eyes.

"You little shit," Ghost growled, struggling against the bindings. His voice was rough with disbelief and fury. "You're drugging me now?"

"Not drugging," you corrected carefully, tightening the last knot. "Sedating. Slight difference."

He gave you a look that promised violence, “This isn’t you.”

You hurried around grabbing all the items you would need.

“Maybe you don’t know me anymore.”

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit.” He scoffed. His eyes followed each of your movements, thinning at you as your fingers brushed his skin whilst attaching the comms unit to his ear.

"You’re staying here," you said firmly. "Watching my six from a distance. If you come after me, you’ll compromise the mission and my safety."

“Like hell you are." he bit out.

You hesitated, then keeping your voice low. "It’s the better play. You’ll see."

His face hardened under your stare. The Ghost his enemies saw becoming real in front of you. You had pushed too far, you knew that for sure now, there was no coming back from this distrust you had built. Now wasn’t the time to think about it, you grabbed your pack and disappeared into the brisk air.

A coldness settled in your chest, leaving you untethered. This wasn’t you; you didn’t need Ghost to tell you that. You’d already made your choice, and now you’d have to live with it, no matter how loudly your heart screamed traitor, urging you to turn back and let Ghost in again.

Static buzzed softly in your earpiece as you moved through the desolate streets, every step careful, precise.

Ghost’s voice crackled through a couple minutes later, low and deadly.

"You’re a bloody idiot."

"Good to hear your voice, Ghost," you whispered, checking your corners.

"You think tying me up was clever? When I get out of this—"

"You'll do what exactly?" you asked under your breath. "If you tell Price, you know he’ll never let me on a mission again. Is that what you want?"

Silence, then darkly "You're takin’ advantage of the fact I care about you."

Your chest squeezed. But your tone stayed breezy. “Its called leverage.”

You hadn't spoken this freely with Ghost in weeks, a sharp tug in your chest growing the further away you got. You hope he would forgive you with time, but you supposed you had already become so distant that it wouldn't really matter either way.

A grunt filtered through your earpiece, “Soon as I’m out of these knots, I’m coming after you. This tantrum of yours ends now.”

"You’re not coming after me because I’m already in. You would only draw more attention and risk getting us caught if you came now," you murmured, slipping into a half-collapsed building being used as a temporary base. "And if you were honest, you'd admit you’re a little impressed."

Silence for a beat.

"Pissed," Ghost growled. "Not impressed."

You chuckled quietly as you continued weaving your way through rubble.

"I would've taken an eastern approach," Ghost muttered.

"Don't need the commentary, Ghost" you said.

"Should've thought about that before you left me behind." Ghost didn't quite pull off the light tone he was aiming for, coming out harsher than you think he intended.

The mission unfolded quickly, enemy patrols avoided with skill that would’ve made Price proud.

You fed updates through comms in a low murmur, Ghost giving occasional grunted responses. His anger simmered under the surface, but you could feel his focus, sharp as ever, adapting to the new role you had shoved him into.

Then you entered the main objective building and your comms went silent.

For nearly two minutes.

"Come in," Ghost said sharply. "Status."

Nothing.

“Fuck—” Ghost cursed, pulling out the long-range radio, pacing tight circles. He could hear faint movement, boots, rubble, but no voice. No breathing.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he said, dangerously quiet. “Where the hell are you?”

Still nothing.

Another fifteen seconds.

He was debating calling in backup, consequences be damned, when your voice finally crackled through, hushed and annoyed.

"Jesus, Ghost," you muttered. "Keep your panties on."

Ghost exhaled hard, sagging against the wall. Relief hit him like a truck.

"You were silent for almost three minutes," he snarled. "I thought you were dead."

"Couldn't talk," you said calmly, as if explaining it to a child. "You know... stealth mission? Talking in a hostile-controlled building isn’t exactly smart."

There was a pause.

"You could’ve given me a heads-up, smartass," he muttered.

You smirked to yourself, moving swiftly to your exit point. "Oh, also. Sweetheart?"

Ghost growled low in the comms, and even without seeing him, you could picture the furious expression under the mask.

A smile twitched on your lips, unbidden.

You were about to respond when the hair on the back of your neck prickled.

Movement.

Two shapes burst from the doorway directly beside you, shadows in black tactical gear.

They were definitely not supposed to be there.

You spun, barely dodging the first strike, your back slamming into the concrete wall behind you. One of them lunged. You blocked, twisting his arm and driving your elbow into his throat. He staggered, but the second was on you in an instant, catching your ribs with a brutal kick.

You gasped, doubling over, and dropped to a knee.

"Form's slippin'," Ghost murmured in your ear, cool and observant. "Don't let 'em box you in."

You gritted your teeth, parrying a punch and driving your knife into the first man’s thigh. He screamed. You cut it off at the source with a second slash. The other grabbed your hair, yanking your head back—

“Fuck off,” you snarled, slamming your elbow into his nose. He reeled, blood spurting, but he had grabbed your knife arm and pinned it.

"Breathe. I can't get a clear shot if you keep moving all over the place." He must've free'd himself from the binds and set up at the rifle, you were on the east side directly opposite him, you just needed to get him a clear shot.

You twisted, broke the grip, losing the knife in the process. But he surged back up, bloodied and furious. He got you on your back, straddling your waist, and smashed your head back into the concrete.

Your hands came up to knock him off but your movement felt sluggish. You stared into your attacker’s wild eyes, hands locked on his wrists, arms shaking from the strain.

You knocked his weight to the side, surging your hips up to knock off his balance. His arm was now pressing against your throat, cutting off your air supply.

Bucking your hips you finally unbalanced him, earning you a punch to your jaw. "I don't have a clear shot. You need to move, soldier!"

Ghost sounded angry in your ear.

But he had picked up the knife and began to circle you, lunging to try and find an opportunity to weaken you.

Then a single, sharp crack echoed across the river.

The man’s head snapped back. His body slumped.

You shoved him away, chest heaving, trying to process it. The first man had long bled out beside you.

Your comms crackled.

"Clean shot from 600 out," Ghost said casually. "I'll take my thanks now."

You coughed, wiping blood from your face with the back of your glove. “Bastard.”

"You're welcome, Soldier." A pause. "You gonna need any further assistance?"

You stood, body sore, heart pounding, and looked across the river toward the dark silhouette of the safehouse.

“Nope,” you muttered, popping the 'p', “Thanks for the cover.”

"Anytime. Now move.”

Shouts sounded from close by. You turned and ran toward the exit, bruised and bloody, but alive.

The debriefing room was thick with tension the moment you strode through the door.

Price stood stiff-backed by the table, arms folded, the look on his face halfway between relief and thunderous rage.

Soap was leaning against the wall, hands grasped behind him, staring at you like you'd grown a second head.

And Ghost…

Ghost was a storm barely contained, his arms crossed tight, boots planted like he was holding himself back from physically shaking you.

No one said anything at first.

You offered a weak, tired smile.

"Mission success," you said tightly, eyes shifting over the men you suddenly didn't recognise.

The reaction was immediate.

Price slammed his palm down on the table so hard it rattled. "What the fuck were you thinking?" he snapped, voice rough.

Soap whistled low under his breath, shaking his head. "You’ve got some fuckin' brass ones, I'll give ye that."

Ghost said nothing, just stared at you.

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

"Drugging a teammate?—“

“Sedating.” You cut in.

“—Ignoring direct orders? Going solo into a hot zone?" Price was listing every sin like he was reciting charges in a court-martial. "You think you did a good job didn't you."

"I completed the mission," you insisted, voice hoarse. You were sweating now. not from nerves, but something deeper.

"You compromised protocol," Price barked. "You put yourself and this whole unit at risk. You think we're gonna forgive you for this? You think you're special?"

“No, of course not. I realise I shouldn't have done it but-”

“You made that suggestion and I said no. That should have been final. You disobeyed a direct order from a superior.” Price got up in your face, “I’ve changed my mind. You’re off duty. I don’t care what missions we get, you’re not on them until I say so.”

You opened your mouth to answer.

Nothing came out.

The room tilted slightly, the edges of your vision blurring.

You staggered a step back, the three of them surrounding you, looming over you, blocking out the light in the room.

"You stupid," Soap muttered harshly, voice low and thick. "Stubborn. Reckless little—"

"You should've never come back. We're better off without you y'know-" Price's eyes are drilling into you as he pushes you back, your feet stumbling into a table.

"...Sorry," you croaked.

“Always wanting what Johnny and I have. Tried your best to ruin us, didn’ ya" Ghosts words intimately whispered into your ear sent you reeling backward. "You’ll always be alone."

A hand came out and grabbed your throat, your hands clawing at it as your vision began to fade at the edges. Their faces merging into one. The last thing you saw before you faded into darkness were their eyes looking down at you with indifference.

You choked awake on a shoulder, the gentle sway sending your head spinning.

“—fuck, she’s gone, I can’t see her anymore. Soap, what do I do!” You could hear Ghosts urgent voice in your ear. Your comms still connected to where he was trapped in the safe room, where you left him incapacitated.

You were still on the mission.

You must have made some sort of sound because the soldier next to you glanced over, seeing your eyes blearily looking around.

You could vaguely hear Ghost frantically shouting in your ear. He was being forced to watch you get captured, unable to help due to your earlier decision to leave him behind. You were sure he was furious.

The butt of a gun swiftly took consciousness away from you again, knocking the comms piece from your ear.