x

You’ve got Ghost pinned in place with nothing but your voice. No hands on him, no weapons, just fury and sharp words.

Kyle slows. Stares. Immediately regrets having eyes.

And yet he can’t look away.

He drifts over to Soap, who’s posted up nearby like this is a cinema and he paid for premium seating. “Uh,” Gaz says quietly, because volume feels disrespectful in the presence of whatever that is. “What’s all that about?”

Soap doesn’t even glance over. “That’s his missus,” he says, like he’s explaining the weather. “And he must have done some thin’ truly bad this time, ‘cause she’s been going at him for twenty minutes.”

Gaz’s brows shoot up. “Should we… help? Get him out of it?”

Soap makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort. “Help? Mate, look at him.”

Gaz looks.

Really looks.

Ghost’s shoulders are relaxed. Not braced. Not defensive. His weight’s pitched forward, like he’s drawn to you by gravity. Half lidded eyes, head tilted, body language screaming more, please while your words get sharper.

Gaz swallows. “He’s… enjoying this?”

Soap’s grin turns positively feral. “Turns him on. Si’s exactly where he wants to be right now.”

Gaz stares at Ghost like the man just sprouted another head.

Ghost: Ha, old

Price, continuing unfazed: -Ghost and I-

Ghost: *stares before he covers his face*

The irritation usually fades when he comes home to you with a tender kiss and a murmured missed my girl.

But sometimes the anger carries over and as much as you wish it did, your pretty face doesn’t always immediately solve his problems. He’s never mean to you, but the creases in his face don’t go away, lips tight, and chest tense. Still in the mindset of Captain Price and not your John.

That’s when you kneel between his spread legs on the couch, nuzzling into his thigh, and fluttering your lashes up at him.

“Rough day?”

He tucks your hair behind your ear, cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing under your eye, his eyes already gone a little softer.

“Let me help.”

texting simon is a nightmare.

for him, mostly.

he doesn't remember the last time he used his phone for more than a call. he just doesn't understand the appeal of staring into a small box for hours on end. instead, he stares into a much larger box and watches grown men run around a grass patch, like a big boy.

but that's where you come in.

it started off simple enough. a text confirming the time of your date. okay, simon said to himself as he typed up a response. no matter how annoying it was trying to fit his thumbs on the tiny keyboard, it was overshadowed by how giddy he was to see you again.

and those were the last words john uttered before slamming the palm of his hand down against his desk and leaving. spoken the way most things he says are - gruff and final, with no room for argument - stunning the room into silence until the door shut hard behind him.

everyone just looked at each other, dumbstruck.

“should we wait for him to come back?”

“what the hell does that mean—”

“is that code for something?”

“wait, he’s married?”

price didn’t hear a word of it - by that point he was already halfway down the hall, boots pounding concrete with purpose, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything else dissolving into white-hot static behind his eyes.

he can take a lot of bullshit. does it daily. but fuckin’ hell - they wouldn’t stop. wouldn’t stop talking, hovering, circling him like crows. clipping questions at him in endless fucking rotations.

what now, captain? what’s next? what do we do about makarov? do we move now or wait for shepherd’s greenlight? have you seen the updated file? should we pull soap and gaz back? do we burn the safe house? double-tap the asset? what’s the protocol—

jesus fuckin’ christ.

it’d been too long. john’s mentally checked out and he knows it. doesn’t care. he didn’t want to be in that room. didn’t want to sit at that table. didn’t want to give another goddamn order with five pairs of bloodshot eyes looking at him like he’s meant to have all the answers and none of the doubt.

he needs a break. not a debrief. not another satellite feed. not another fucking decision.

he needs to go home and fuck his wife.

needs to put his hands on something solid, something that he doesn’t have to second guess. something that’d let him burn off all the static and pressure and noise building between his temples without asking anything much in return. his sanctuary where he can fall apart and come back clearer. reset his head before it spun off his shoulders.

so he peeled out of the parking lot before he’d even properly put the car in drive, and sent you one text:

so when he starts dating you, he observes your every move like he's watching a documentary on an endangered species. he's in awe of everything you do. the simple routines that are ingrained into your life. things that most, if not all, women are accustomed to. he's especially mesmerised when he's watching you braid your hair. you must be some kind of sorceress, he thinks. it's some sacred art to him. begs you to teach him so that when- when, not if- you have a daughter he can take care of her hair the same way you can.