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Chapter Text

“You’re to escort her to the objective, and then upon retrieval, escort her back to the extraction site,” Price explains, passing Ghost the mission file. “Easy breezy, you both’ll be home in time for supper.” 

“So, I’m babysittin.” Ghost drops the file on the table, scanning over the documents as he flips through them. 

“She’s no damsel. Former special ops.” Price adjusts his hat, watching Ghost pause his perusing. 

“Former?” Ghost looks up, but the Captain just shrugs. 

“Some kind of injury. You’ll have to ask her about it if you really wanna’ know.” Price gives him a wry smile. “Somethin’ to talk about on your little field trip.” 

“Fuck that.” Ghost closes the mission file, tucking it under his arm. “I’ll keep her in one piece, Captain.” 

“Counting on it.” 

—

“Ghost, this is Fox. Fox, this is Ghost, he’ll be your escort,” Price introduces, gesturing to each of you respectively. 

“It’s a pleasure, Lieutenant,” you offer politely, sparing each of you the discomfort of a handshake by keeping your arms by your side. 

You look young, most likely mid-twenties, maybe late twenties if he was pushing it. Regardless, you’re far younger than he is. 

“Fox?” He questions, glancing between you and Price. 

“Not really sure where the nickname came from. I was a medic,” you explain with a small shrug, having to tilt your head back a bit to meet his eyes. 

You give him a quick up and down look, rather boldly eying over his mask before settling on his gloves. Your features just barely twitching into something that might be amusement. 

“Better keep those hands to yourself then Doc.” Ghost clears his throat, adjusting the strap of his pack on his shoulder. “I’m afraid a’ needles.” 

“I do hope you’re up to date on all your vaccines.” The smallest smile pulls at your lips as your eyes flicker back up to his and he scoffs. 

“Not a chance.” 

“Alright kiddos, your ride is here,” Price interjects,  gesturing for you to follow after. “The heli’s droppin’ you off about 10 klicks south of the retrieval site. Intel says it’s not an active combat zone, but they’re expecting a lot of security so I'd like to remind you we’re encouraging stealth. The extraction point is the safe house 13 klicks west of the retrieval site, the heli will be there at 0500 sharp to pick you lot back up.” 

Ghost watches you squint against the sun as you step outside the compound, raising a hand to shield your eyes as you approach the helicopter. 

“Fox will have her M17 and knives but Ghost you’ll be packing the muscle.” Price stops, pointing a finger firmly at Ghost’s chest. “You’re not to let her out of your line of sight, Riley. Fox grabs her intel, you watch her six, and then you get the hell out. Keep it short and sweet. Clear?” 

“Crystal,” Ghost confirms.

Price’s eyes flicker between Ghost’s before he nods, patting him on the shoulder before stepping back. 

“See ya’ in 15 hours.” 

You and Ghost climb into the helicopter, both of you tucking on your headsets as you settle into your seats. He fills out his seat significantly more than you do, long legs stretched out in front of him, forearms resting against his slightly spread thighs. You watch him shift and settle, head leaning back against the wall. 

“We got ears?” The voice through the headset makes you jump, quickly turning away as Ghost’s eyes slide back open. 

You both give a vocal affirmative, feeling your face go warm when you glance towards Ghost and realize his eyes are on you. 

“Everybody settled in back there?” The pilot asks as the rotors kick on. 

“Nice and comfy.” Ghost adjusts his mic as he speaks. 

It’s a wonder he doesn’t sound more muffled through all the fabric of his mask. 

“Copy that. We’re lifting off.” 

As you climb in altitude even your tactical winter jacket isn’t enough to completely block out the cold, shivering at the malignant chill that settles within the fuselage. You flex your fingers within your gloves before reaching up to pull your balaclava over your face. 

“They didn’t give you a skull one?” Ghost asks and you glance over at him, the man the visual definition of lounging as he watches you. 

“Guess I wasn’t cool enough for a party invite.” You readjust the fabric over your nose as you speak, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact with the man for more than a few seconds at a time. 

“Well-” he tilts his head slightly, fingers drumming idly against his inner thigh “- we’ll have to fix that.” 

The helicopter jostles a bit with a strong gust and you jolt, heart lurching up into your throat as your hand flies out as if to steady yourself. 

“Easy there, kid.” 

“Sorry.” You quickly settle back into your seat, trying to make yourself small as you mutter, “not a big fan of turbulence.” 

“Nervous flier?” You swear you can hear a hint of amusement in his voice and it has heat crawling up into your face. 

“Something like that,” you offer, fixing your eyes on the toe of your boot. 

The rest of the flight is shared relatively in silence. Ghost very much seeming the type to not have a whole lot to say, and you’re not particularly in the mood to run your mouth and make yourself look like an idiot in front of him. Not that the silence is uncomfortable. It’s just not exactly preferred. You’re not used to working one on one, you’ve always had a crew and even if you’re silent there was still always someone chattering in the background. This is different, almost peaceful, but also solemn. 

The two of you quickly exit as the heli lands, trading out your headsets for radios and earpieces. 

Ghost is carrying almost everything, not that it seems to phase him, but your measly little rucksack feels like nothing in comparison. 

“We got a long walk, let’s move,” Ghost says and you give a sharp nod. 

The snow isn’t thick at least but it’s definitely still harder to move through than solid ground. Any type of slope immediately becomes treacherous as you try not to slip down it, looking for rocks and footholds underneath the snow as you navigate down. You also have to half jog the entire time to keep up with Ghost’s longer stride, the cool air burning your throat even through the fabric of your balaclava. 

“How’s a medic end up in intel?” Ghost asks after what feels like eons of just crunching snow and heavy breathing. 

“I was injured, and it was either change career paths or leave,” you explain, your calves beginning to ache but this stretch of flat land seems to go on for a while at least. 

“How long since you were last in the field?” He glances over at you and you realize he’s slightly slowed his stride so you’re actually walking next to him and not about five feet behind. 

“Three years,” you tell him before adding, “don’t worry though, intel’s made sure to keep me whipped into shape.” 

“Sure they have.” You’re pretty sure he’s raising a brow the next time he looks at you. “They make you do push-ups at your desk?” 

“Dick,” you huff, but he can see you fighting back a smile. “They actually don’t let us have chairs, make us squat the whole time.” 

He lets out a quick puff of air that you’re going to choose to take as a laugh as he gives a short shake of his head. 

“Good on ‘em. Can’t let you kids go soft.” 

You pass through an area that looks like it was once a village. Most of the structures are still entirely intact, but roofs are mounded in snow, some doors almost fully buried from what’s sloped off onto the roads. Like everyone at once had simply just decided to pack up and leave. 

A part of you is grateful for the cover at least, but it also makes you nervous. Far too many nooks and crannies for people to be hidden in. Suddenly hyper aware of how loudly your boots crunch in the snow with every step forward. Even Ghost seems more on edge, his M4 raised as he does tight sweeps around corners and alleyways. You pull your own gun from your holster, keeping it low at your side just in case, eyes shifting restlessly over the terrain. 

“We’re approaching the retrieval site, stay low,” Ghost whispers, the low gravel of his voice doing something strange to your heightened nervous system, every hair on the back of your neck standing straight on end. 

“Yes sir,” you exhale, waiting until he’s no longer looking at you to pull more air back into your lungs. 

You follow close behind, lowering to a crouch as he leads you behind a slope just small enough to offer some cover. 

The building is an old warehouse from the looks of it, a large metal bay door and loading ramp are slightly off to the right, two armed men on either side of it. Around the corner are two more men, one posted at each corner of the walkway, standing almost up against the railing. 

“I’ll sneak around, see how many are on the other side,” you whisper, waiting for Ghost’s nod as permission before you carefully begin to circle around. 

Ghost watches you until you leave his line of sight, slightly restless until he hears you whisper over the radio. 

“There’s four more on the other side, all armed. I think I see an opening. I can sneak past.” 

“If you’re sure,” Ghost settles into his spot, using the top of the slope as a place to steady his rifle. 

“Going in.” 

The next five minutes feels like forever, Ghost waiting for some kind of alarm to go off or for everyone to suddenly start sprinting towards you. Instead he just hears you in his ear, slightly winded. 

“I’m in. Heading for the package.” 

“Copy.” 

Ghost watches one of the men at the bay doors shift, rolling his shoulders and muttering something to the man beside him. His partner just shrugs. 

“I’m at the terminal, but Ghost-” the uncertainty, verging on fear in your voice immediately sets him on edge, heart kicking into overdrive “- there’s no one in here.”

“What?” He scowls, eyes flickering to the other two men in his line of sight. 

“I haven’t seen anyone, it’s almost fully wiped out in here. It doesn’t feel right.” 

“Get the hell out of there,” he breathes, quickly scanning the area to see if there’s more people hidden somewhere. 

“But I don’t have-”

“Get. Out. Now.” 

“I’m not leaving with-” your transmission is ended with a clipped shout, static ringing in his ear. 

“Kid, you copy?” 

Nothing. 

“Fox, can you hear me?” 

The men posted outside suddenly shift to alert, turning and gathering themselves. 

“Shit,” Ghost spits, quickly adjusting the aim of his rifle. 

He takes out the two men by the bay door, the sudden sound enough to get the other two men in view to pause. They go down next, one of them tumbling over the railing as he goes limp. 

Ghost pushes himself upright, sliding down the slope and moving back to his feet at a full sprint. He vaults the railing, turning sharp around the corner but the other four men are already inside, the door they’d entered through still swinging on its hinges. 

He sweeps the area as he steps inside, the main area of the warehouse is empty. In fact it looks like it was abandoned a long time ago. Had they known you were coming somehow? Was this some kind of set up? You’re intel, you have valuable information, it would make sense to view you as a high value target if they could manage to get you in the field. 

A ringing, almost animalistic sound rips through the left side of the building and his feet are moving before he fully has time to process it. He hears three gunshots, then a fourth. 

The man in the doorway had just turned to face into the room as Ghost rounds the corner, raising his rifle and shooting him once in the back, and again in the head as he goes down. 

He steps over him into the room and freezes. 

You’re backed into the far corner, shoulders rising and falling fast as you pant. Three men are scattered across the room, each of them with a bullet now buried somewhere in their brains. Your pistol is clutched in your right hand, your left arm hangs limp at your side. There’s blood dripping from your fingers, just enough light in the room for Ghost to see it steaming. Your eyes are wide, face pale as you stare up at him.

“What happened?” Ghost crosses the distance between you, giving you a quick look over to spot any more possible injuries. 

“Guy came out of nowhere, tackled me. Dislocated my left shoulder,” you slump back against the wall and grimace as you try to move your fingers. “Need you to help me put it back.” 

“Not here, too dangerous.” Ghost pulls you off the wall, rifling through your rucksack before shoving a wad of gauze into your hand. “Get that bleeding under control or you’ll lead them straight to us.” 

You quickly wrap the gauze around your hand, reaching down to wipe the blood off your hand and onto your pants. 

“Let’s get out of here.” 

“Wait.” You step around him, exiting the room and entering another a few doors down. 

He follows, watching your skirt another body, this one’s in a pool of blood, a knife sticking out of his right eye socket. You grab the drive from the terminal and walk straight back towards Ghost, unzipping one of his rucksack compartments to stick it inside. 

“Alright, now we can go.” 

Not that you can see it, but you’re pretty sure he’s scowling at you under that mask. His eyes boring straight into you as he stares down at you. 

“We came here for that intel, I’m not leaving without it.” You frown back at him but he just turns away, starting back out towards the entrance. 

“You realize your intel was bad,” he talks at you over his shoulder, gun raised as he sweeps through the area before peeking around outside. 

“Not my issue. I’m completing my objective regardless.” 

“Careful, starting to sound like a soldier there, kid.” 

You feel some of the tension unfurl in your chest at the realization that he’s not really mad at you. Though you’re sure he’s still probably not particularly thrilled with you at the moment. 

“Was that a compliment, L.T.?” 

“Take it however you want.” He shrugs, motioning for you to follow. 

You settle back behind that little hill, thankfully all is quiet and no one new makes any appearances. 

“We need to get to that safe house.” You talk as you rummage through your pack for more gauze, realizing you’ve almost fully bled through what Ghost had given you. 

“You won’t make it, not like this.” Ghost drops down beside you, back propped against the hill as he scans the tree line. 

“I’m fine-”

“You’ll maybe make it two, three klicks before that blood loss catches up to you,” Ghost cuts you off, voice and eyes firm as he shakes his head. “We need somewhere to hunker down for the night. I need to make contact with Price, let him know what’s going on.” 

You scowl, tying the gauze as tight around your own hand as you can make it, wincing at the way it pulls at your shoulder. 

“We’ll head back to that village. Camp out there and wait for instructions.” Ghost decides, pushing himself to his feet before holding a hand out to you. 

You bite your tongue, fighting back the urge to tell him you don’t like the idea of it. Reaching up instead to take his hand and let him pull you back to your feet. 

“We’ll get your shoulder squared away once we’re somewhere secure,” he tells you before turning and starting forward. 

It doesn’t take any significant amount of walking for you to acknowledge he’s right. By the time you break through the first line of buildings you’re starting to feel a little woozy, feet slightly dragging as the throbbing in your shoulder worms its way up your neck and into your head. You’ve lost complete feeling in your left hand, no longer able to even get your fingers to twitch in response to you pleading with them to move. You just keep your eyes trained on his back, forcing one foot in front of the other despite your body's desire to simply collapse. 

Ghost searches through a few buildings before settling on one he deens satisfactory. No snow has to be disturbed for you to get in, the door looks fairly sturdy, there’s only one window that’ll be easy enough to cover from the inside, and there’s no chimney. 

The sun is starting to set by the time you file inside. With the door closed and the window covered it’s pitch black inside, you can barely even see your own hand in front of your face. And fuck is it cold, clenching your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering as you wait for Ghost to finish setting up. You pull your balaclava over your head, taking a full deep breath, the cool air burning all the way into your chest. 

He sets out a flashlight, which on its own is enough to illuminate almost the entirety of the space. There’s a very old looking couch tucked into the back far corner, a table with about three still usable chairs, and a tiny kitchenette off to the right. The walls are grey, and so are the floors, a crucifix hanging above the couch the only semblance of decoration. 

Ghost makes a fire just big enough to warm the space without smoking you both out before he shrugs off his packs and turns to you. 

“Alright, let’s see.” He closes the space between you and you feel your pulse jump. 

You’re surprised by how careful he is as he helps you shrug off your rucksack and jacket so that he can properly feel around at your shoulder. 

“Tell me what to do.” His eyes snap up to yours, your arm just resting in his hands as he waits. 

“Right.” You adjust yourself so your shoulder blade is firm against the wall, giving enough support that he won’t just push it right out of place in the other direction. “Bend my elbow about 90 degrees, then brace your other hand just below my shoulder.” 

You help guide the placement of his hands, a strange heat flushing through you as they settle against you, large enough to nearly fully wrap around your arm. 

You’re sure it’s just the blood loss. 

“Now, push up and in. And you don’t need to push too hard, it’ll want to slide back into place,” you instruct and he nods, his eyes shifting restlessly between yours. 

His hand on your elbow shifts, fingers uncurling before pressing back into you. 

“Whenever you’re ready.” 

You take a deep breath, pressing your head back against the wall and closing your eyes as you brace yourself. 

“Do it,” you command and he makes a small sound of acknowledgement. 

It’s fast, a shove, a pop, blinding pain ripping all the way through your chest as the joint is forced back into place. You groan, head falling forward as you hiss air in through your teeth, Ghost’s hands falling away from you as you give the shoulder an experimental roll. 

“Not bad,” you wheeze as you force your eyes back open, blinking up at him as your eyes adjust to the dim light. “But I can pretty confidently say this arm is out of commission, I most likely tore a ligament or two.” 

He nods before gesturing to your hand, “and the bleeding?” 

You unravel the gauze from your hand before raising it for him to look at. Moving your arm makes your fingers tingle uncomfortably, and you grimace as you try to hold your hand steady. 

Ghost decides to do it for you, his hand closing around your wrist as he looks over the gash across your palm and fingers. 

“You grab the knife by the blade?” He asks, and you feel like he means it as a joke when his eyes move back up to yours. 

So it only makes the heat washing through you worse as you’re forced to confess, “yes.” 

“Rookie mistake,” he clicks his tongue before letting you go. 

You miss his closeness almost as soon as he’s gone, not realizing how much body heat he was creating tucked up close to you. 

You settle on the floor close to the fire, using your first aid kit to properly clean and bandage your hand while Ghost sets up coms. 

You’ll probably need stitches, but your butterfly bandages will make due for now. Once your hand is taken care of you shift to your shoulder, using your elastic bandages to make yourself a kind of makeshift sling before you shrug your jacket back on. You also fish a few NSAID’s and down them, not that they’ll really help a whole lot but maybe they’ll at least get rid of your headache. 

“We won’t be makin’ it to the safe house tonight,” Ghost tells Price once he’s got the coms up, his gaze turning accusingly towards you. 

“What happened?” You can hear the frown in Price’s voice, curling further in on yourself to fend off the chill. 

Ghost gives a very short, succinct run down of the events, his arms crossed over his chest as he waits for Price to respond. 

“Well shit,” Price sighs. “Alright, try to make it back to the drop off point by 0500, I’ll send them there to pick you up. If you don’t think Fox’ll make it I need to know ASAP. Understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Bloody hell, alright, try to get some rest. See you two bright and early.” 

The coms cut out and leave an overwhelming quiet, just the gentle crackle of the fire and the wind howling as it blows against the walls. 

Ghost drops down onto the couch, foot tapping idly as he stares down at you. You try your best to pretend you don’t notice but eventually you start to feel an itch crawling under your skin, making you restless as you try to swallow around how dry your mouth has gone. 

“Your injury-” You nearly jump when Ghost speaks, head snapping so fast in his direction it irritates the throbbing behind your right eye “- did it interfere today?” 

“No, it’s not- it’s not that kind of injury.” You chew at your lip, glancing up at the crucifix over his head. 

“The fuck does that mean?” He crosses his arms over his chest, shifting slightly further into the couch and you feel your stomach twist. 

What’s with this guy and sitting with his legs so wide . 

“It was a head injury, a bad one,” you tell him, reaching up reflexively to rub at the scar hidden under your hair. “They didn’t think I’d even be able to talk again but, obviously, it didn’t work out that way. It took me a while to get the hang of fine motor skills again but I made a miraculous full recovery, spent the last year focusing on trying to get strong again.” 

“And this? Think you’ll make a full recovery?” He asks. 

“I’ll probably have some shoulder pain for the rest of my life but I'll be fine,” you force your eyes back down to his and immediately regret it. “It’ll probably be the last time they let me in the field though.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong back there.” It takes you a moment to weed out the assurance through the gruffness of the delivery. 

“I should have listened to you. I knew something wasn’t right, and I should have listened.” You shake your head, voice quiet and small as you hold his gaze. 

Maybe it’s the black paint around his eyes that makes his stare so severe, but you doubt it. You have a feeling his eyes would be just as piercing with or without the mask. 

“Yeah, you should have.” He shrugs, reaching up to scratch at his jaw under the fabric of his mask. “But you handled it. Maybe not well. But you handled it.” 

“That another compliment, Riley?” A ghost of a smile pulls at your features and you swear he rolls his eyes. 

“If it helps you sleep better.” He reaches for his pistol, pulling it from its holster and placing it next to him on the couch. “And you should sleep.”

You concede to that, settling on the ground by the fire, accepting one of the throw pillows Ghost tosses your way. 

“Wake me up if you start dozing,” you offer as you settle in, zipping your jacket up before tucking both of your arms into the torso, keeping them close to your chest in an attempt to trap in warmth. 

“Sure thing, kid,” he says, most likely just to appease you, before his eyes shift towards the door. 

It doesn’t take long for you to drift off, exhaustion and blood loss quickly getting the best of you. 

— 

You’re woken by a hand around your ankle, dragging you across the cold concrete floor. Panic flashes through you when you try to claw at the ground and realize your arms are trapped in your jacket. You thrash, pain shooting from your shoulder all the way down into your fingertips but a hand clamps over your mouth before you can make a sound. 

Weight settles over you, someone straddling your hips, the hand over your mouth almost entirely covering the lower half of your face. The fabric of their glove rubs at your dry and burning lips rather unpleasantly, your pulse pounding in your ears. 

They roll you over, your eyes going wide, a weak sound of panic crawling up your throat as they lean over you. But then your eyes adjust to the dark, and you can see the way the faint light sneaking in from the window catches on his eyes, on the white plains of his mask. 

Your exhale of his name is lost into his palm but he still seems to understand anyway. 

He nods, his face so close to yours his nose nearly brushes yours with the movement. His other hand comes up, a single finger pressing over his mouth in an instruction to be quiet and you quickly nod your understanding. 

But he doesn’t move, just stays hovering over you, his hand still covering your mouth. You can hear him breathing deep and even, his eyes closed like he’s trying to listen for something. 

“Don’t move,” he whispers so low you barely hear it before he pulls away from you. 

You take a slow deep breath, body trembling with the sharp jump in adrenaline and the cold. The fire had gone out at some point. Doing a quick look around the room you realize you’re caged in. Ghost had pushed the couch just far enough from the wall to hide you behind it. 

You try to move slow, pushing your right arm through the sleeve of your jacket before reaching for the pistol at your thigh. You raise it until it’s resting against your chest, desperately trying to pick out any sounds over the low hum of the wind. 

Then you hear it, muffled, but not very distant, two voices going back and forth speaking indistinguishable Russian. 

You silently curse yourself, chest going tight at the thought that this is your fault. You should have just listened . Then neither one of you would be here and you would be nice and cozy at the safe house waiting for extraction. 

Instead you’ve rendered yourself useless and put him in harm's way in order to protect you. 

The voices sound right outside the door and you freeze, everything in you coming to a screeching halt as the two go back and forth. You flip the safety on your pistol, holding your breath as you wait. 

The door opens, creaking on its hinges, there are footsteps on the concrete and then, the door closes. One of them goes to speak but the sound is quickly cut off, replaced by two quick gunshots, and the sound of bodies hitting the ground at dead weight. 

The next minute feels like eternity, a heavy silence blanketing the space as you wait for anything to happen. You hear shuffling, fabric sliding across wood, brushing against something. 

Then Ghost rounds the edge of the couch, holding a hand out to you as he whispers, “we gotta go.” 

You flip the safety back on before reholstering your gun and reaching out for his hand. He pulls you easily to your feet, using the momentum to pull you snuggly into his side as he guides you through the room. 

Carefully stepping over the bodies on the ground so you don’t get any blood on your boots. 

“They’re looking for you.” You can feel him speak almost as much as you hear him, his chest rumbling against your shoulder with the sound as he cracks open the door to peer outside. 

“What?” You blink up at him as he pulls the door fully open, sticking his head out just enough to sweep the street. 

“Heard ‘em talking. They want you, know you’re intel,” he explains glancing down at you before he lets you go. “Let me know if you can’t keep up.” 

You follow him out the front door, the two of you half crouching, half running before you can take cover around a corner. 

Your ears are ringing, head spinning, and you swear you can taste something metallic and bitter on the back of your tongue. Nearly collapsing against the wall as you try to lean against it for support. 

You’d been set up. Had someone sold you out? How else could they know what you know? How else could they know who you are? 

“Kid!” You jolt as he gives you a firm shake, staring up at him with wide eyes as he looks down at you. “Now is not the time to shut down on me.” 

“Yes, sir.” The response is automatic, just a reflex at this point as you struggle through the fog in your brain and the tension threatening to cave your chest in. 

“Stay with me, alright?” He pulls something out of his pocket before he’s pulling it over your head. 

He adjusts the balaclava over your face before he gives your cheek a firm pat, his eyes the closest to gentle you’ve seen them so far. 

“Move your feet, soldier.” 

You nod, swallowing down the dread crawling up your throat before you follow after him. You reach down for your gun, flipping the safety as you track behind him. 

The moon is full, offering at least enough light for you to be able to fairly easily navigate. But it also means you’re more visible. 

An unfortunate trade off. 

There’s just a flicker, enough to catch your eye around the corner to your right. You raise your arm, shooting as soon as you catch another glimpse of movement. Blood sprays across the wall behind him as his body goes limp into the snow. 

“Nice shot,” Ghost remarks, barely even slowing as he continues forward. 

“There’s smoke to the right.” You point out as you take cover around a corner, following the line as it snakes up towards the sky. 

“Yeah, must be where they’re camping out. We’ll steer clear.” 

You glance down at your watch, 0100. You have four hours to get back to the drop off point. And not get caught in the process. 

“We’ll keep heading west, then circle back south towards the extraction site.” Ghost glances over your shoulder as he talks before his eyes meet yours, waiting for confirmation.

It’s quiet as you continue forward, most of the noise fading out to the back right side where their camp seems to be. 

It’s enough to have that pit forming in your stomach again, unable to shake your paranoia. Overwhelmed by the feeling that something just isn’t right. 

He said they were looking for you, so why would they all be huddle back at camp and not out searching? 

There’s the slightest sound, like something popping out of place. Ghost freezes, body going rigid before he’s wheeling back towards you. 

Then the world is spinning, everything white and hazy, all sound fading to a quiet buzz as your back hits the ground hard enough to knock the wind from you. You know it’s snow but it looks like ash as it falls around you, ears ringing so loud you can barely make out the distant sound of shouting. Just a gentle roar beginning to grow closer. 

“Ghost-” it leaves you as a wheeze as you attempt to push yourself upright, coughing as you roll yourself onto your front, vision blurring as your arm jostles at the movement. 

You feel like you’re going to be sick, vision overlapping and spotting with after images as you drag yourself across the snow. 

Ghost is sprawled out on his stomach in front of you, arms spread wide and head turned to the side, far closer to the source of the blast than you had been. 

“Ghost.” 

The shouting is growing closer but it still sounds like it’s underwater, a sort of rhythmic pounding in your ears. You grab the pistol from his thigh and flip the safety, rolling onto your back, head propped against his calf. Your first round misses, the next three don’t, the three men rushing you dropping limp into the snow. 

“Shit.” You roll back onto your side, wincing as your weight settles on your left shoulder before you can push yourself up onto your knees. 

You try to push him over but he’s too heavy with one arm. You swear under your breath, forcing your left arm through your jacket sleeve. The effort of using the arm to turn him over doesn’t even really hurt, it just sends nausea ripping through you, bile burning at the back of your mouth as you finally get him onto his back. 

“Damnit, Ghost, wake up.” You take his face in your hands, and realize the snow is red where the right side of his face had been. 

It probably blew out his eardrum, hands fumbling as you reach for the bottom of his balaclava to assess the damage. 

An arm hooks under your jaw, yanking you roughly to your feet and your vision spirals. You shout, scrambling for the knife on your calf, blindly stabbing backwards with it. Your captor gurgles before releasing you and you wheel around, gasping for air as you make eye contact with the man rushing at you. You quickly side step, shoving your knife into the side of his neck and slicing through the front of his throat. Blood splatters across the snow and the front of Ghosts mask as you stagger. 

Your hearing is starting to come back to you, but your Russian isn’t flawless. Brokenly able to make out, ‘girl alive, kill the man’. 

“ Fuck !” 

You grab the pistol, shoving it into your holster, your own gun long gone. 

You’ve done this before but not with someone Ghost’s size, and not injured. 

But you don’t have a whole lot of choice. 

You kneel down beside him, gritting your teeth and groaning as you pull him over your shoulders. Your knee nearly buckles as you force yourself to your feet, fighting back another wave of nausea as you start forward. 

Your chest aches, unable to fully take a breath, hopelessness and panic quickly overtaking you. You can barely get one foot in front of the other, your own labored breathing drowning out Ghost’s wheezing. You don’t even know where you’re going, you’re just moving, trying to get anywhere else. 

There’s a shot to your right sending up a spray of snow and you stumble, nearly losing your grip on Ghost. 

You hear someone shout ‘don’t shoot’ in Russian and know you need to make a decision very quickly. 

You take as deep of a breath as you can manage, adjusting your grip on Ghost, and you run. You can hear them shouting and chasing, every inch of your body screaming in protest as the world blurs around you. There’s a tree line in front of you and somehow you’ve convinced yourself if you can just break through it you’ll be fine. 

You just have to make it. 

So you just keep going, feet moving one in front of the other, going blind to everything around you as your sole focus becomes not stopping. 

Until suddenly there’s no longer ground under your feet. You yelp, losing your grip on Ghost as you both go tumbling forward. 

It feels like you’re only falling for a second, your head knocking against something on the way down, and then there’s nothing.

Chapter Text

You try to blink your vision clear, but all you can see out of your left eye is red. 

You roll onto your side, pulling the fabric of your balaclava down under your chin before throwing up into the snow. You groan, coughing as you try to orient yourself and spot Ghost a few feet away. 

You drag yourself over to him, half draping yourself across his chest as you tug at his mask. 

“Fucksake Ghost, wake up!” Your voice crackles as you try to push yourself upright, a now continuous throbbing running from your shoulder, down into your fingers and back up. 

“Damnit. Damnit ! Riley!” You pound at his chest, eyes burning and throat squeezing as your breathing comes in ragged, uneven hiccups. 

You’re drowning, being swallowed whole by the dread of it. Lying frozen in the sand, blinded by the blood in your eyes, watching your team mate gasp and sputter as he clutches at his chest, drowning in his own blood as it runs over his chin.

Helpless, useless, alone. 

“Wake the fuck up, Simon!” You don’t realize you’re crying until a tear drops onto his mask, diluting some of the blood to a watery pink as it drips off his forehead. 

His hand shoots out, catching your wrist before it can come down against his chest again, his eyes cracking open before they flicker towards you. 

“Bloody fuckin’ loud,” he grumbles and it’s one of the most wonderful sounds you’ve ever heard. 

You crumple into him, your forehead falling against his chest as you sob, your entire frame quaking with the force of your next inhale. 

“Have to move, they’re still following,” you manage to get out, forcing yourself back upright with an effort that feels equivalent to moving a mountain. 

He sits up with a groan, reaching up to touch his right ear. 

“Where are we?” He quickly looks around, taking in what looks like a dried up ravine that you’ve fallen into, the sides high and steep. 

“Don’t know,” you confess, reaching up to try and wipe the blood from your eye. 

“How’d we get here?” He scowls at you, you think he’s scowling at you at least. 

“Carried you.” You can feel your brain starting to shut down, processing his questions and answering too slowly. 

“Carried me?” There’s genuine surprise in his voice and if you were of sound mind you’d find some pride in that. “Fuckin’ hell kid. Can you move?” 

“Don’t think so.” You answer honestly and he grunts. 

His head snaps to the side at the sudden sound of voices, both of you freezing as you hear them growing closer. 

He lunges towards you, arms wrapping around you before he’s rolling across the ground. You finally come to a stop under an overhanging rock, his arms still wrapped firmly around you as you rest on top of his chest. 

You both hold your breath but you can hear his heart even through all the layers of his clothes and gear, the sound oddly soothing. The voices at the top of the slope, however, are anything but. 

They shout back and forth, circling the area but none of them actually wander down into the ravine by some miracle. But they keep circling, and shouting and talking, your brain no longer able to even pick out any words that are familiar in their exchanges. 

Your eyes are so heavy, your body so sore, and you just want to sleep. All you need is a second, just to rest your eyes for a bit. 

“Kid.” You groan, turning your head to nuzzle further into what you’re laying on, getting a faint hint of cologne and tobacco and sweat. 

“Smell good,” you mumble, still half asleep and you hear an exasperated chuckle. 

“Hit your head that hard did ya’? C’mon kid, rise and shine.” Ghost gives the back of your head a few firm pats and you huff. 

You push yourself upright, wincing as you put weight on your left arm. You blink your eyes a few times before your vision clears, heat flooding your cheeks when you realize you’re still sprawled out over Ghost’s chest. 

He arches a brow at you from under his mask and you roll your eyes, pushing away from him so you can crawl out of your hiding spot. 

There are no more soldiers circling from what you can tell, the sunlight glistening off the snow making your left eye twitch, your head pounding in protest. 

Sunlight. 

You quickly glance at your watch, 0800. 

“Shit.” You turn to Ghost as he steps beside you, nodding in agreement. 

“Need to figure out where we are, then I need to contact Price.” 

Scaling the slope is difficult, especially being able to only use one arm. But Ghost helps, occasionally turning to offer you a hand when he finds himself stable footing. 

You had been hoping this dislocation was one you’d be able to recover from without surgery. That seems a little far-fetched after last night. 

You let Ghost scout as you rest against a tree, every single fiber of your body aching. The thought of an ice bath actually sounding close to appealing as even just shifting your weight has muscles straining in protest. 

“You moved us pretty far west,” Ghost reports, watching you squint against the light as you attempt to meet his eyes. “Think the safe house is our best bet. We can hunker down and assess the damage while we wait.” 

“Sounds great.” You begrudgingly push yourself off the tree, your head throbbing at the minuscule effort. “The sooner I get to sit down the better.” 

The walk is long, and you have to stop a few times to get sick, the throbbing behind your eye growing more and more persistent. By the time you reach the safe house you barely even have your eyes open, just using the sound of Ghost’s footsteps as a guide to try and block out some stimulation. 

As soon as you’re inside you rifle through your pack until you find your painkillers, popping a couple before letting Ghost guide you to the couch. 

“Sit,” he commands and you wouldn’t dare disobey, sinking into the cushions with a sigh of relief. 

“Where the hell are you?” You hear Price’s voice from across the room, realizing Ghost must have set coms up already. 

“Safe house. Shit went south last night,” Ghost explains the situation as best he can before admitting, “I was unconscious for a chunk of it, Fox took care of it.” 

“You injured?” Price asks, his frustration ebbing into worry. 

“A blown eardrum, I’ll live. Fox is in a pretty bad way, she’s lost almost full mobility in her left arm and she’s concussed. She’ll need a medic.” 

“Copy. We’ll pick you up at 2200. Sit tight this time.” 

“Copy.” 

The painkillers are starting to work by the time Ghost ends the transmission. You risk cracking your eyes open, trying to at least get a grasp on your surroundings. 

It’s a small house but compared to the little shack from last night it looks like a palace. Tile floors and painted walls, a full kitchen and living room, there’s even a hall with what looks like a bed and bathroom. The couch you’re sitting on seems aged but comfortable, and it smells clean at least. 

Ghost disappears into the bathroom and you hear running water. The thought of a hot shower enough to nearly make you cry. 

Ghost digs the med kit out of your bag once he re-enters the room before moving to sit down beside you. He pulls your balaclava off, dropping it back down in your lap. 

“I’m fine-”

He gives you a look sharp enough to have the words dying in your throat, biting down on your tongue as you shrink before him. 

He’d wiped off his mask, and you’re guessing washed his hands. He’d taken his jacket off and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing the tattoo stretched across his forearm. 

You know he’s strong but all the muscle has been hidden under his gear, so actually seeing how muscular his forearms are now, the veins running under his skin and into his hands… 

His hand settles under your chin, forefinger and thumb guiding your face towards his. His fingers are rough, calloused and weathered against your skin and you hope he dismisses the small shudder it sends down your spine as a chill. 

He’s a bit clumsy but still efficient as he cleans and bandages your forehead, helping you wipe the blood and grime from your face. 

“Show us your arm.” 

“Ghost-”

“Don’t make me ask again.” 

You feel yourself flush, quickly downcasting your eyes as the sternness of it has your heart doing a funny little rhythm in your chest. 

You unzip your jacket but he has to help you peel it off, draping it over the back of the couch. The wound on your hand is reopened and bleeding, and it doesn’t take a whole lot of prodding to feel the swelling in your shoulder. 

“How’s your ear?” You ask as you watch him clean and rebandage your hand, leaning in close so he doesn’t move your arm too far from your body. 

“Can’t hear much, but it’s fine.” He assures you, eyes flickering up to meet yours before returning to his task. 

You fiddle with the balaclava in your lap, realizing it has a skull printed on the front after turning it over. You bite at the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling, smoothing your fingers over the fabric. 

“That should do for now.” He lets go of your hand and you let it fall into your lap, giving your fingers a few experimental curls. 

“Thanks.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence as he readjusts your arm, trying to copy your makeshift sling. 

“You should have left me back there.” Is what breaks it, his eyes focused on his task. 

“What- why would I leave you?” 

“They didn’t give a shit about me, it was you they were after. You should have prioritized yourself.” You can hear the tightness in his jaw, his earlier sternness making a bit more sense now. 

“I wouldn’t leave you,” you exhale, fingers twisting into the fabric curled in your fist. “I couldn’t.”

“You could,” he snaps, his hands falling into his lap as his eyes shift back to meet yours. “You should’ve. You have valuable information, and if they got their hands on you-”

“I know!” You shout, clenching your jaw at the sting behind your nose, vision blurring over as your eyes water. “They would have tortured me and it would have been hell, I know-” 

“Obviously not well enough.” 

You flinch at the sharpness of the delivery, dropping your chin to your chest as you fight back the tears threatening to fall. 

“Go take a shower. Get some sleep.” He pushes himself off the couch as he speaks, his footsteps retreating towards the kitchen. 

You drop the balaclava onto the coffee table before reaching for your bag. You pull out your change of clothes before standing and heading for the bathroom. 

You did what you thought was best. You followed your judgment and it worked out. You’re both here. Both alive for him to even be able to be upset with you. 

You sniff, reaching up to wipe at your face before reaching down to unlace your boots. 

It’s only after you’ve got your boots and pants kicked off you realize you’re never going to be able to get your shirt or bra off by yourself. 

Embarrassment burns through you, sighing and gritting your teeth as you reach for the door. 

You step out into the living room and he’s sitting on the couch with his back to you. His head is tipped back, resting against the couch and his eyes are closed, his hands folded and resting over his stomach. 

“Ghost.” 

He sits up, turning towards you and you hate the way your stomach flips at the way his eyes linger on your exposed legs before finding your face. 

“I need help,” you begrudgingly confess, “with my shirt.” 

He stares at you for a moment before he nods, pushing himself back off the couch. 

“Right.” 

Your pulse jumps as he walks towards you, something about the way he’s looking at you triggering every single primal instinct in your body to tell you to run. But you hold your ground, all but holding your breath until he’s standing right in front of you. 

He eyes you over for a second before saying, “turn around.” 

Goosebumps spread over your arms, mouth going sand dry as you turn so your back is towards him. 

His fingers brush your hip as he reaches for the hem of your shirt and you can’t help the shudder that crawls up your spine, inhaling slowly through your nose. 

“Lift your arm.” It’s almost a whisper, heart kicking into double time as he lifts the fabric up your torso. 

You help him get the fabric over your arm and head, letting him carefully slide the shirt over and off your injured arm. 

His hands come back up and then hover by your sides as if unsure before they hook under the fabric of your sports bra. 

He repeats the same motion but you almost swear his touch lingers just a little longer. Knuckles ‘accidentally’ brushing the skin of your back and shoulders far more often. 

He holds your clothes out to you over your shoulder and you quickly reach out to take them, clutching them to your now bare chest. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, heart thrumming in your ears, “Everything went to shit because I didn’t listen.” 

“Don’t apologize.” His voice isn’t exactly soft but there’s a gentleness there in the low rasp of it.

“I wasn’t thinking. When you wouldn’t wake up I thought… I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t woken up,” you admit. 

“You would have kept going,” he says, like it’s the most obvious choice in the world. 

“I don’t know that I would have,” you whisper, swallowing back against the tightness closing in your throat. “I think- I think that might have shut me down, I was already so close and you waking up was the only thing that pulled me out of it.” 

“That why you didn’t leave me?”

The question catches you so off guard you turn to face him, his dark eyes burning into you as he waits for you to answer. 

“I told you I couldn’t,” you exhale, fingers twisting into the fabric in your hands. “I couldn’t.” 

“Would have saved you a lot of trouble-”

“I wouldn’t leave you,” you say more firmly, not having it in you to feel embarrassed as your eyes water. 

He watches you for a moment, eyes following the tear that traces down your cheek. 

Another moment of hesitance, a flash of uncertainty before his hand settles against your cheek. Sure he must be able to feel the way your pulse skips at the contact as he brushes the tear away with his thumb. 

“Go clean up.” He nods towards the bathroom as his hand drops back to his side. “Then sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

You nod, watching him turn back towards the couch before you step back into the safety of the bathroom. 

Everything seems to catch up with you under the flow of warm water. Every bruise and ache that had been overshadowed by your arm and your head. Not to mention the fatigue from your blood loss, all at once nearly knocking you flat on your ass as you breathe in the steamy air. Finally warm for the first time in 24 hours. 

Drying and dressing yourself isn’t easy but you’re able to do it on your own at least. Nearly dragging yourself into the bedroom. 

You don’t bother with the sheets, allowing yourself to drop on top of them. 

Pretty sure you’re asleep before your head even hits the pillow

Chapter Text

You hadn’t really gotten to say goodbye to Ghost, as soon as you’d landed back at base you were being rushed to the on-site hospital, the medic berating you with questions the whole way. 

You’d only gotten a glimpse of him over someone’s shoulder, eyes dark and haunting as he’d watched you disappear. 

That’s why you’re so nervous to see him now. At least that’s what you’ve convinced yourself. Heart racing and palms sweating as you fight to keep your breathing somewhat regular. Hyper aware of the sound your boots make each time they hit the floor. 

It’s been months since Russia, and you thought that would have helped dissipate some of the tension curling in your chest. It only seemed to make it worse, too much time to dwell over the last conversation the two of you had without any way of getting closure around it. The two of you hadn’t even been able to debrief together. Not to mention the too many nights alone during your recovery where you found yourself thinking of the way his hands had felt on your skin, of the way he’d looked at you, something conflicted and burning in those cold eyes. 

As if in confirmation, your heart does an uncomfortable little stutter when you enter the room and see him. Sitting with his feet propped up on the table, head low as he scrolls through his phone, headphones pulled up over his hood. His signature mask still very much in place. 

You don’t know if he hears you or just senses your presence, head turning towards you until his eyes find yours. There’s a beat, a weird echoing silence before he reaches up and pulls off his headphones so they rest around his neck, his feet hitting the ground with a thud that’s far too loud. 

“Fox.” 

That low gravel sends a shiver up your spine you do your best to suppress, glad your arms are covered so he can’t see the goosebumps that bloom there. 

“Ghost.” 

“How’s the shoulder?” He fiddles with his phone for a moment before laying it face down on the table. 

You wonder what he’s listening to. 

“A little stiff, but fully functional,” you report, forcing yourself to step close enough to lower yourself into the chair beside him. “The cold is gonna be a bitch on it though.” 

“That mean they're putting you back in the field?” He watches you reach up to touch your shoulder before his eyes find your face again. 

“I’m assuming that’s why I’m here.” 

He nods, his eyes never leaving yours and you can feel your pulse climbing. Anxiety creeping through your chest until you feel ready to burst out of your own skin as silence stretches back over you. 

“How’s your ear?” You ask, fighting the urge to double over with the way you feel suddenly winded. 

He’s giving you fucking tachycardia. 

“Good as new.” 

“Good.” You nod. 

Another lapse of quiet and he’s still staring at you like he’s trying to read your mind. 

Fuck.  

“There we are.” 

You nearly sigh with relief as Price enters the room, finally taking a full breath as Ghost turns to face him. 

“Good to see you both in fighting shape again.” Price nods to each of you before he leans forward to rest his palms against the table. “Unfortunately we have more to talk about today than your recoveries.” 

“Someone leaked intel on Fox, and what’s more, we learned you being sent with her was also orchestrated.” Price looks at Ghost and your head snaps towards the man, as if expecting to see some kind of reaction from him. “They wanted both of you.” 

“What for?” Ghost prompts but Price simply shrugs. 

“That’s why we’re sending you back out.” 

“We’re bait.” You supply and Price almost looks apologetic. 

“More or less, we want to draw whoever’s behind this out. It won’t be just you two though, we’re sending Gaz and Soap with you this time.” Price flips open the folder in front of him before spinning the pictures across the table towards you. “The mission is finding and apprehending this man.” 

The man in question is tall, broad, head and face shaved clean, a scar stretching from the right corner of his mouth almost all the way to his ear, his pale eyes unnerving and cold. 

“Captain Andrei Egorov, his forces are the ones that tracked you down, so we have reason to believe he’s involved in this plot or at least has information. So, we’d also prefer him alive.” Price gives Ghost a pointed look. “But you will all have execute authority.” 

“They’ve all been briefed based on your previous field reports, so they all know what they’re walking into,” Price says before turning to you. “They’re all looking forward to meeting you.”

“What’ll my position be on the team?” 

“You will be their medic.” Price raises a brow at you. “So let’s try not to get ourselves broken this time, shall we?” 

“Yes, sir.” You feel your face warm, shifting in your seat. 

“Let’s get to it then.” 

—

“Soap, Gaz, this Fox.” 

“Nice to meet you both,” you offer to each of them. 

Soap’s brows raise in recognition, looking between you and Ghost before he says, “You’re Fox? The Fox that dragged his fat ass halfway across Russia?” 

“Halfway seems like a bit of an overstatement.” You will yourself to keep your eyes on Soap despite the way your brain is screaming to at least glance in Ghost’s direction. “Glad to know you’ve heard of me.” 

“Heard of ya’? The most words I’ve heard this man speak in a row have been about-”

“That’s enough, MacTavish,” Ghost barks, the other man quickly falling silent. 

Soap’s lips press into a thin line before he turns to look at you, offering the slightest roll of his eyes as he shrugs. You bite down on your cheek to keep yourself from too visibly smiling, quickly shifting your gaze down to your boots. 

“Now that pleasantries have been had, you all will have constant coms with Laswell and myself. If at any point shit starts to go sideways, you tell us and we’ll get you out of there. Understood?” Price looks around at each of you, waiting for an affirmative before he continues. “You know what your objective is, get it done. Your ride is waiting for you, get the hell out of here.” 

With that you all head out, shrugging on packs and checking weapons before you file into the humvee. 

“It’ll be nice to have an actual medic on the team,” Gaz offers with a sort of crooked smile once you’ve set off. “These two have terrible bedside manner.” 

“Won’t argue that. Especially that one,” Soap gestures to Ghost and Gaz chuckles. 

Ghost stares at the other man, the only response he graces him with is a show of his middle finger. 

It’s nice. The banter and the noise, even if it’s overshadowed by an impending sense of dread. It’s at least not worrying spent in that god awful, oppressive silence. 

The drop off point this time is a cabin very securely nestled within forests and hills. It’s definitely not a space meant for four people. One bedroom with two twin beds, one bathroom, and a living/dining/kitchen area with one couch and an armchair. But there’s a fireplace and it’s certainly better than being dropped off in the middle of nowhere. 

“Christ it’s fuckin’ cold,” Soap huffs as you each settle in, trying your best to get close to comfortable. 

You’re not to move until nightfall, so unfortunately while the sun is up it’s just a waiting game. Holding your breath and twiddling your thumbs until it’s time to move. 

“You must be happy to be back,” Gaz remarks dryly and you grimace. 

“Thrilled.” 

“What about you, Ghost? Looking forward to another flash bang to the face?” Soap tosses towards him. 

“Piss off, Johnny,” Ghost grumbles but it’s almost lighthearted. “You lot get some rest, don’t want you yawning on me tonight. I’ll keep watch.” 

“Heard that L.T.” Soap concedes. 

It takes a few minutes of squabbling but eventually you convince Gaz and Soap to take the beds, and because you’re the smallest you’ll take the couch. Which also means you’re alone with Ghost in the living room. 

He’s lounging in the armchair that almost looks like it’s too small for him to properly fit in to, fiddling with his gloves as you try to shut your brain off enough to at least get some sleep. 

With some tossing and turning you maybe manage to get an hour in before you’re blinking back awake. The living room is darker now, and emptier. The chair Ghost had been occupying now vacant. 

You push yourself upright, shrugging on your jacket before wandering out to the front porch. 

Ghost turns just enough to see you from his periphery, which is also just enough to see he has his mask pulled up to expose his mouth, a cigarette burning between his lips. 

“Sorry-” you begin, quickly turning to head back inside, not wanting to intrude. 

“Sit down, Fox.” 

You freeze, stomach lurching and mouth going dry as you stand halfway in the door. You could pretend you didn’t hear, could walk right back inside, lay down on the couch and pretend to go back to sleep for however much time you have left. But for some reason you don’t. Pulling the door closed as you walk over to drop beside him on the step. 

“Smoke?” He offers, holding the burning cigarette out to you. 

“No, thanks.” You wave it away and he grunts before pulling it back to take another puff. 

“Good on ya’.” 

You try not to look directly at him but curiosity gets the better of you. Turning your head just enough to make out the shape of his lips and jaw in the dying light. You can just see the hint of a scar stretching across the left side of his jaw, almost reaching the corner of his mouth. 

Something very strange happening inside your torso when you watch him release a slow puff of smoke. 

Then he turns towards you and your eyes snap forward, suddenly very intent on taking in the colors of the sky, just visible above the tops of the trees. It is beautiful, rich oranges and pinks, even a bit of purple, all melting into a rich navy broken up by grey clouds, framed by the pointed tips of trees and mountain peaks in the distance. 

“You know-” he drawls suddenly, your pulse spiking, fingers knitting together until you feel like you might snap them into pieces “-it’s been botherin’ me.” 

You rack your brain for what he could be referring to, running through any possibility you can come up with but not finding anything you can confidently land on. You chew at the inside of your cheek, unlacing your hands to wipe your sweating palms over your thighs. 

“What has?” You finally cave, trying to swallow around how dry your mouth has gone, still not quite having it in you to face him yet. 

“That I made you feel like you’d done something wrong saving my life.” 

And just like that, you feel yourself deflate. All the tension and anxiety you’ve carried around with you for the past months fizzling out within seconds. Taking a deep breath as you wait for your heart to stabilize. 

“What you did was tough, and you did good.” He flicks his cigarette into the snow, reaching up to pull his mask back into place. “That one’s a compliment.” 

You huff, reaching up to run a hand over your face, “I should have left you with the Russians.” 

“Probably.” The almost breathless rasp of it has you feeling a little dizzy, finally forcing yourself to face him only to find him staring right at you. 

You wish you could pinpoint what it is about his eyes that make you feel so restless. Maybe then it’d be easier to deal with. 

“Then why’d you get upset?” You ask, your desire for a solid answer winning out over your better judgment. 

“You put your life on the line for mine, didn’t feel like an even exchange,” he says so simply that it takes you a long pause to fully absorb the meaning of it. 

“You don’t get to make that call.” You shake your head, frowning over at him. “You don’t get to decide how much my life is worth.” 

“And you do?” You can see the way his brows furrow under his mask as he speaks, his stare growing somehow even more severe. 

“You needed help, so I helped you.” 

“Simple as that?” 

“Yes,” you say, surprised by the firmness of your own voice. “I’m a medic, Ghost. Not a judge. If you don’t feel you're worth saving, that's between you and whatever you believe in, not me.” 

He hums as if in thought, his eyes lowering to his lap. 

“And what if I have a DNR taped to my chest?” 

“Then I’m still your problem until your heart stops beating,” you assure him. 

His eyes drag back up to yours and there’s that something again, like he’s being forced to make a choice he doesn’t want to as he stares down at you. 

“Counting on it, soldier.” 

The last bit of light has disappeared behind the horizon, leaving you struggling to differentiate between where face and mask end. But you know he’s still looking at you, you don’t even need to see him to know, you can feel it. Like a strange, intangible pressure gripping at the base of your skull. Oddly primal, deeply unnerving and very much unfamiliar. 

“It’s time to move.” 

You follow him inside as he rises, allowing him to wake the others as you holster your pistol and make sure your pack has everything you need in it. The other three quickly follow suit, tucking away their pistols before checking their rifles. 

“Let’s get to it,” Soap sighs. 

You each pull on your balaclava before settling your helmets and night vision gear in place, each confirming that you’re ready before heading out. 

You hate night vision, all the green throws your depth of field. Not to mention any source of light looks like a bonfire. But you’re not about to deny its usefulness. Especially now as you creep along the snow, no moon this time to light your path in pale light. 

As you move south the snow begins to dissipate but it’s still cold, your fingers and toes aching with it. Thankfully all your gear and the 10 klick walk helps to keep your center warm over the next hour and a half. 

“Was it this cold the last time you were here?” Soap whispers as you walk, changing stride so he’s walking in step with you. 

“Colder,” you confess. “There wasn’t an inch of the ground not covered in snow.” 

“Fuck that. I’d need thicker socks.” 

You make an amused sound, not wanting to confess you hadn’t even had enough time to think about the cold much the last time you were here. 

“Figured you Scots would be used to the cold.” 

“Used to it, doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he huffs. 

“Quiet, we’re getting close.” Ghost slows to a stop, turning so he’s facing the three of you. 

“Soap, Fox, you’ll go in and secure the target. Gaz and I will find a vantage point and do overwatch, and help guide you through coms. You’re not to move until you get our say so. Clear?” 

He waits for you both to confirm before he does a quick scope around. 

“We’ll head north, you hold tight. I’ll let you know once we’re in position.” 

“Ghost to HQ, we’re approaching the target.” You hear over the radio as Ghost and Gaz start off. 

“Copy. You’re clear for action,” it’s Laswell’s voice over the radio in response. 

“Copy. Moving into position.” 

You both pull off your night vision gear, setting them in a pile as you get ready. 

From where you and Soap are you can only see one side of the building. It’s surrounded by a chain link fence, which should be easy enough to scale but it’ll be loud. There are three stories, but the windows are barred, making it impossible to see inside from this distance. You can see a handful of men at the front and back of the building, and two posted on the side, walking back and forth. 

“This place is tightly wrapped. Getting in here isn’t gonna be easy,” you report over radio, no longer able to see Ghost or Gaz. 

“That’s why I’m leavin’ it to you and Soap, you’re both small enough to sneak right through.” 

“Awa’n’bile yer heed, L.T.,” Soap responds in a gruff whisper. 

“Fuck you too, Soap.” 

“Insufferable.” Soap mutters for only you to hear and you smile. 

“You and Ghost seem close,” you note, leaning against a tree as you glance over at Soap. 

“Don’t know if you can say anyone is close to Ghost,” Soap admits, crossing his hands over his chest as he leans across from you. “He’s taken a shine to you though. You impressed him.” 

“Did he say that?” You blink at him and he chuckles. 

“Well, in his way.” He grins. “Said you’re one of the toughest bastards he’s ever met.” 

“You’re gonna make me blush,” you mumble, glad your face is covered so he can’t tell you are in fact blushing. 

“We’re in position,” Gaz says over radio. “Get ready to move.” 

“About fuckin’ time,” Soap speaks into his ear piece as you both straighten, your earlier anxiety coming back to you full force now. 

“There’s two men on each side of the building, six out front, and just to be safe, just as many out back,” Gaz reports. 

“Fox, you’re pretty quick with that knife of yours.” 

Ghost is the next to speak, and it’s not a question but you still respond, “yes, sir.” 

“I want this done quiet. If it’s gonna get mucked, Gaz or I’ll pick ‘em off from here, but you’ll be on your own around the back.” 

“Copy that,” Soap rubs his hands together before adding. “This’ll be fun.” 

You feel like you’re going to be sick. 

“Start on the west side, take out those two pacing then head around the back, that way if any alarms go off we can take out the bodies out front. Alright you two, time to tango.” 

You and Soap both draw your knives, keeping low as you both rush forward. 

Fast, fast, all you can think is you need to be fast . You vault the fence in two jumps, not even giving your feet enough time to hit the ground. You grab the back of the man’s collar, driving your knife through the front of his throat as his body hits the ground. 

“Nice work, Fox,” Ghost’s voice is nearly a whisper through your ear piece but you still feel pride bloom in your chest. 

“Bloody beautiful,” Gaz adds a little more enthusiastically. 

You shoot Soap a thumbs up and he returns the gesture before you sneak towards the back corner. Soap gestures that he’ll take the two on left before motioning for you to take the two straight ahead. You give him an affirmative gesture before you both move forward. 

The man before you is half concealed behind a dumpster, making it more than simple to slit his throat, gritting your teeth as you shoulder his body into the dumpster. You wait for Soap to take out the two men closer to the building before you rush forward. You slice the back of the man’s knee, clapping your hand over his mouth as he falls, driving your knife into the point right above his collarbone. 

There’s only two men left, huddled together as they try to light their cigarettes. You motion towards them and Soap nods, counting down before you both rush forward. 

“Back is clear,” you report, slightly winded as Soap drags the bodies close enough to the building to not be seen from the windows. 

“Copy. Keep it moving,” Ghost says. 

Soap waits until the man gets close enough to grab him, dragging him around the corner and slamming him into the wall before he sinks his knife into his chest. You run around the corner while the other man still has his back to you, forcing your knife into the side of his neck before slicing forward. The man gurgles slightly before he falls and you grab his ankles, dragging him over to the wall. 

“Let’s finish this out,” Soap whispers as he passes. 

Surprisingly, everything goes off without issue, both you and Soap huffing and puffing by the end of it. There’s blood soaked into your gloves, starting to dry and making them stiff so you tug them off, dropping them on the ground before you tuck your knife back into its place at your calf. 

“Made it look easy,” Ghost says. “You two hold tight, I’m sending Gaz down to help you clear out the building.” 

“Didn’t know medics got special assassin training.” Soap leans over to you as you wait and you huff. 

“I’m a woman Soap, I can’t afford to not be good.”

“Well… copy, that,” he breathes.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Gaz pants as he approaches. 

“That’s what I was saying,” Soap adds and you roll your eyes. 

“On your ready,” Ghost says. 

“Shall we?” Gaz gestures. 

You pull your pistol from its holster, flipping the safety as you nod. 

“You two head up, I’ll clear the first floor,” Gaz points to the stairwell. 

“Careful,” you whisper before heading up the stairs with Soap. 

You each check around the corner before moving down the hall flanking each wall. A man steps out of one of the rooms and you grab his vest, pulling him forward so the barrel of your pistol is nearly flush to his forehead before you fire. You lower him to the ground as slow as you’re able before stepping over him to continue forward. 

“First level cleared, target not spotted,” Gaz reports. 

“Second level cleared, no sign of target. Soap and I are moving up to level three,” you quickly follow. 

You follow Soap up the stairs, repeating your maneuver from the second floor. Except all of these rooms are empty. There’s still lights on and computers running like there had been people here not long ago. 

“Don’t like this,” you whisper and Soap quickly voices his agreement. 

You push the last door open and then immediately reel back as the men behind it open fire. Soap groans, clutching at his chest and you watch the blood seep through his fingers. 

“Shit.”

You grab at him, getting his arm over your shoulder as you rush for one of the empty rooms. You close and lock the door, knowing it’ll only buy you seconds. 

“Soap is hit!” You shout into your ear piece, fumbling to try and see exactly where he’d been shot. 

“I’m fine-” You follow his stare to your thigh. “Your leg.” 

Your stomach turns, suddenly aware of the strange pressure twisting through your thigh, blood warm as it soaks into your pants. 

“Fuck,” you breathe before reporting, “I’m hit too, nothing vital but we need back up.” 

“Copy, we’re coming to get you.” It’s Price this time over the radio. 

“I’m heading your way-”

“Gaz you stay put, I don’t need you in the middle of that!” Ghost snaps just as the door bursts open. 

You lunge forward, grabbing your knife and burying it in the chest of the man who makes it through the door first before jamming it into his eye. You tear the blade free as you throw yourself at the man behind him, your shoulder connecting with his chest and you force the blade up under his chin, blood spilling over your hand. 

One more swing and your wrist is caught, looking up to meet cold, pale eyes staring back at you, his scarred face twisted into a scowl. 

You make one more struggle but he easily twists the blade from your grasp, another man kicking the back of your legs and forcing you to your knees. The impact of hitting the ground rattling all the way up into your chest. 

“So you’re the one causing all the trouble, a little girl,” Andrei spits, glancing down at the bodies you’d left in your wake. “нелепый.” 

He gestures and two men grab you, dragging you back into the room. 

They drop you in a chair before binding your hands and feet to it, tugging your balaclava off your head.

“Fox, copy.” You hear Ghost in your ear piece and grimace. 

“Fox, how copy?” 

Andrei plucks the piece from your ear before dropping it on the floor and crushing it under his heel. Another soldier following suite with Soap’s.

“связать его,” he barks at the men and one steps forward to bind Soap’s hands. 

“He’s injured,” you object and Andrei arches a brow at you. 

“As are you, and still you killed two men.” He shakes his head. “I’ll take no chances.” 

He pulls a flask from his pocket, taking a sip and sighing before he asks, “You are the one they call Fox, no?” 

You set your jaw, shifting your eyes from his face to his chest. Your leg is starting to throb, you can feel blood running down your calf. Soap doesn’t look much better for wear. 

His hand connects with the side of your face and you gasp, groaning as your body finally registers the pain of the blow. 

“You are Fox, I know this. That was a test, you failed,” Andrei explains, crouching so he’s eye level with you. “We can do this easily, just answer questions.” 

The next time he hits you your vision nearly goes, sputtering as blood drips from your lips onto the tile floor. 

“Where is your masked friend?” He glances around as if expecting to spot him and you frown. 

“Not here.”

“Pity. How many spies do you have here in Russia?” Andre asks.

“Don’t know,” you cough, trying desperately to blink your vision back into focus. 

He hums, nodding before his next blow connects with your stomach. 

You double over as much as your binds will allow, vomiting over the leather of your boot as your lungs refuse to take in air. 

“How many?” 

“Don’t know,” you wheeze, eyes watering as your chest burns. 

He clicks his tongue before glancing at your thigh. You feel your throat try to squeeze shut as he pulls a knife from his waist and cuts the fabric away so the wound is visible. Blood now soaking into your boot. 

“This is good wound, we should make sure the bullet exited.” 

You grit your teeth, trying frantically to prepare yourself before his finger is digging into your thigh. 

You shout, thrashing and trembling as he presses into your freshly ripped apart nerve endings, feeling around at the inside of your thigh like one might a hunk of steak. Bile burns at your throat, snarling through your teeth as your heart thunders in your chest, the tears stinging at your eyes spilling over. 

Andrei pulls away from you and you gasp, shuddering as your head falls to your chest, sweat beading along your forehead and the back of your neck as you try to even your breathing. 

“No bullet,” Andrei assures you dryly. “What are the spies' names?” 

“Fuck yourself,” you rasp out around a ragged breath, thigh now aching too persistently to ignore. 

“ты маленькая сучка,” Andre chuckles before reaching for his flask again. 

He takes another sip before he holds it out, spilling the contents over your thigh. 

It feels like acid, burning through your open flesh. You cry out through your teeth, holding your breath as your leg shakes, waiting for the pain to pass. 

“Vodka,” Andrei explains before taking another swig. “Names.”

“Don’t know,” you hate how much the words sound like a sob, more tears spilling over as sweat drips down your temple. 

Another blow to the face and your vision does go, your ears ringing as your head spins. 

“Don’t you think that’s fucking enough?” Soap spits from his place on the floor, watching you fight to stay conscious with gritted teeth. 

Andrei turns to him as if he’d forgotten he was there, flashing him a grin before rewarding him with a swift kick to the chest. 

“Women in the field, terrible idea,” Andrei tuts as Soap coughs and wheezes, watching the Russian pace around behind you. 

He grabs a handful of your hair before yanking your head back and you groan, eyes still slightly unfocused as you pant. 

“They make us weak, distracted,” Andrei glances back over at Soap who’s features have all set in a firm line. 

Andrei lets go of your hair, his hand sliding down to your shoulder before moving towards your chest. 

“Don’t,” Soap barks, struggling against his bonds and the two men beside him quickly shove him back to the ground, landing a blow square across his jaw. 

Andrei pauses, taking a moment as if to feel you shivering under his hands before he pulls away. 

“I thought I’d reward you, let you watch me and my men take turns with her,” Andrei cuts your binds loose before shoving you to the floor. 

You scramble, panic gripping at your chest as you try to get your feet under you. Andrei grabs at you, wrestling you onto your back and you growl, kicking and bucking wilding beneath him as he settles between your thighs. 

“Fucking sick bastard!” You hear Soap struggling too but you’re having trouble focusing on anything other than the dread threatening to overtake you. “Don’t do this!” 

You can’t stop shivering, teeth chattering weakly as he eyes you over. 

“A shame your Ghost friend is not also here to see,” Andrei grins. 

Soap shouts as Andrei reaches for the zipper of your jacket, and you move. You force your body up as fast as you can, hands shooting out until your thumbs are fully embedded in Andrei’s eye sockets. 

He roars as he falls away from you, his hands clutching at his bloody face as he writhes. 

There’s shouting, feet thundering against the ground, and then there’s gunfire. You curl up on yourself, covering your head in a knee jerk reaction. Soap is curled up on the ground not far from you, still bound and you drag yourself towards him. 

You grab the knife from his leg before cutting his binds and his arms wrap around you, pulling you into him, using his body to guard you as the shooting continues. 

Only once the firing stops does Soap push away from you, taking your face in his hands as he eyes you over. 

“You’re going into shock.” You can hear the fear in his voice, see it in his eyes as he stares at you. 

You simply nod in agreement, not really sure what you could say to that. 

“What’s going on?” You know that raspy voice, something about it sending an odd wave of calm over you as Ghost kneels on your other side. 

“She’s going into shock, gotta get her out of here,” Soap reports. 

“Fox, can you hear me?” Ghost leans over you, dark eyes flickering between yours before settling on your chattering teeth. 

“Sss-sorry,” you manage to stammer out, shuddering as you feel yourself slipping, losing your grip on your mind. 

“Shit,” Ghost’s arms slide under you, lifting you far more easily than you had him. “I need emergency evac, I have two wounded soldiers!” 

You let your head rest against his shoulder as he carries you, once more getting a whiff of that so distinctly him smell. It’s soothing in a way, something about it warm and familiar. 

“Come on, stay with me, soldier.”

You’re distantly aware of Ghost’s plea but the warmth and the dark win, too tired to fight them now as they pull you under.

Chapter Text

There’s a persistent, rhythmic beeping to your left that’s becoming increasingly harder to ignore. A dull ache in the crook of your left elbow as you stir. 

You force your eyes open, and see Ghost sitting so he’s half facing you and half facing the door, slumped in the chair that once again looks comically small with him in it. His mask pulled up under his nose, a cigarette hanging from his lips, the hint of stubble darkening his jaw. 

“Pretty sure smoking is not prohibited in most hospital rooms.” Your voice is grainy, hoarse from disuse and sleep. 

His eyes flicker over to you, reaching up to pull the cigarette from his mouth as he shifts. 

“You gonna snitch on me?” He asks around an exhale of smoke.

“Nah,” you shake your head as you sigh, “don’t know where the call button is.” 

He huffs at that and you swear you catch the faintest twitch of his lips before he leans forward. He sets the button on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees as he takes another drag. 

“You hogging it?” You arch a brow over at him and he shrugs. 

“Makin’ sure the nurses are doing their job.” 

“I’m sure they appreciate that, L.T.” 

He hums at that, letting his head drop forward slightly, breaking his line of sight to you. He’s out of his gear, just a long sleeved shirt and jeans and god is he large . 

You know he’s a big guy, he’s more or less a full foot taller than you. But the shirt is fitted enough for you to see the bulk of him, the curves of muscle in his shoulders and chest usually hidden under his uniform now visible. You watch him lower his cigarette, tapping the ash off into a cup by his feet, watching the veins and tendons shift under his skin and again you’re thinking of the way his hands felt. Calloused and rough but touches slow. 

Heat crawls into your face the same moment your heart rate spikes. Quickly shifting your gaze elsewhere as the monitor beeps just a little bit faster, as if eager to sell you out. 

“How long has it been?” You ask, fighting the urge to scratch at where the IV tube is stuck in your arm. “Where’s Soap?”

“A few hours, Soap and Gaz are giving their reports now.” He drops his cigarette in the cup and you hear the weak fizzle of it hitting water. 

“Egorov?” 

“Secured. They’re not too thrilled that you gouged his eyes out, but it sounds like he deserved it.” 

“What did Soap tell you?” You turn back to him as he pulls his mask into place. 

“Enough.” 

It’s all the answer you need really, especially with the way he’s looking at you now, something dangerous thinly veiled behind the stoicism. 

You weren’t fully there mentally at that point, but you remember the panic, the overwhelming feeling that you needed to do anything as he’d pinned you to the floor. You shiver, quickly trying to shake the thought away as your stomach turns. 

“Fox?” 

“I’m fine,” you exhale, forcing yourself back into your body as you stare up at the ceiling. “Just cold.” 

There’s a stretch of nothing but the sound of the hospital AC and your heart rate and oxygen level monitor. All things that, for better or worse, have all become familiar to you at this point. 

“You say names in your sleep.” You turn towards him, the gentleness of the delivery catching you off guard, his brows pulled low over his eyes. 

“Yeah, I’m prone to nightmares,” you confess. 

He nods, and for a moment his eyes are the softest you’ve ever seen them as he looks at you, the ice cracking just enough to show something so deep beneath you feel like you could drown in it. 

“A common ailment in our line of work.”

“It never gets easier, does it.” 

“No.” 

“Thanks for the pep talk, L.T.” You shift so you’re laying on your side, more fully facing him as you tuck your arm under your pillow. 

The movement very swiftly reminds you of the hole in your leg, grimacing not so much at the pain but the uncomfortable feeling of skin pulling.

“Did they say how long they think this’ll have me out of commission?”

“They gave you and Soap a month to heal. Thankfully none of the damage was beyond muscular so you should both be right as rain in a few weeks.” 

“How many times have you been shot before?” You ask. 

“I’ve lost count, probably upwards of 20,” he sighs, watching your eyes widen. 

“20?” You echo in disbelief and he nods. “Most all at once?” 

“Eight,” he points to eight spots over his left arm, chest and side through the fabric of his shirt. “Punctured one of my lungs. Thought that one was gonna do me in. You?” 

“This is only the third time I’ve ever been hit. I was usually the one patching people up,” you confess, feeling a little bit like a kid at a sleepover comparing scars. 

“All superficial?” 

“The first one, yes, it was barely more than a graze. The second one just missed my lower intestine, fastest I’ve ever seen a doctor approve a hysterectomy.”

He actually laughs at that, not a full laugh, but just a kind of low, amused chuckle. It still makes you feel oddly weightless, trying to commit the sound to memory just in case you never hear it again. 

“Let’s try to keep our tallies where they’re at, shall we?” He suggests. 

“Fine by me.” 

You both turn at the sound of the door opening, watching Soap peak his head inside. 

“Ah, it’s fucking good to see you awake.” He flashes you a grin as he steps into the room and you find yourself smiling right back. 

“Nice sling.” You nod to his left arm, tucked against his chest in a baby blue sling. 

“Thought it complimented my eyes.” He bats his lashes at you and you scoff, rolling your eyes towards Ghost and feeling your heart stall. 

The only label you can give to the way he’s looking at you is longing, the kind that makes your chest hurt and your stomach go sour. Not a burning kind of longing but an empty one, like missing the way things used to be. Like homesickness. Like hopelessness. 

“My turn?” He pushes himself to his feet before you can get a solid grasp on it, slipping like mist through your fingers.

“Yes, sir. Captain’s waiting for you downstairs,” Soap confirms. 

“Good man.” Ghost claps him on the back as he passes, and just like that he’s gone. 

There’s a second, Soap staring at the floor as if waiting for something before he says, “he hasn’t left this room since they put you in it, you know.” 

“What?” You blink up at him, not having it in you to care as your heart monitor beeps a little faster. 

“He barely even let med check him, thought he was gonna rip one guys head off when he suggested getting some sleep.” Soap walks over to the foot of your bed, his expression thinly veiled amusement. 

“How long has it been since they flew us out, like number of hours,” you request. 

“Exactly?” He glances down at his watch, taking a second to do the mental math. “Eight and three quarters.” 

You lean back into your pillow, mind rapid fire trying to process the new information and make some kind of sense of it. 

“L.T.’s a tough’en, but way I see it,” Soap sighs, arching his brows as he looks down at you. “You’ve got him wrapped all the way around those deadly little fingers.” 

“I’m sure he was just worried.” The words are slightly hollow as they leave you, brain working far too slowly. 

“Don’t think he would have sat and watched me sleep for eight hours.” He shrugs. 

There’s a small knock on the door before it opens, a nurse stepping inside with a blanket folded over her arm. 

“The man in the skull mask, he said you were cold?”

Your face is burning, warm all the way into your chest and you refuse to look at Soap. 

“Right, thank you.” 

She helps you cover yourself with the blanket before leaving the room. Only then do you finally look at Soap. 

He’s nodding his head, lips slightly pursed as if he’s trying to suppress laughter. 

“Like I said,” he clears his throat, tossing over his shoulder as he heads for the door. “See you in PT.” 

—

It’s 3:47 in the morning and you haven’t slept in two full days. You’ve done everything you can think of, tea, alcohol, sleep aids. But you just keep waking up, gasping for air and drenched in sweat, having to remind yourself of where you are. 

That you’re safe. 

But you’re exhausted, to the point of nearly tears. It’s driving you mad, all you want is to sleep. Just a few hours, dreamless and deep. 

So it must be the desperation that does it, leads you right to Ghost’s door. Standing there with your fingers twitching and your heart racing as you lift your hand to knock. 

You wait maybe a minute before deciding this isn’t the right call and moving to step away. 

And then you hear the door open and your heart drops into your stomach, quickly turning back to face him. 

He’s traded out his mask for a balaclava and you wonder if he sleeps with it on, or if he just put it on after hearing you knock. He’s in a t-shirt and sweatpants, standing in his half open door staring at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re really there. 

“Sorry if I woke you-”

“You didn’t,” he assures you, stepping aside before gesturing you inside. 

“I’m starting to think you’re a vampire or something,” you muse as you step inside, heart rattling as the door closes behind you. “I’ve never actually seen you sleep.” 

“Don’t sleep much,” he confesses as he steps around you. “You wanna drink?” 

“Whatever you’re having.” You shrug. 

He hums in acknowledgment before pointing to the couch, “sit.” 

You lower yourself onto the black polyester cushions as he moves to the kitchen, taking the chance to glance around his dorm while he’s out of sight. 

It’s almost identical to your own, white walls with black accents, minimal, plain, but nice. Certainly nicer than the first apartment you’d had. He has the light off but the blinds open, the moon bright enough to almost fully illuminate the space. It’s nicer that way you suppose, less overwhelming than the overhead fluorescents. 

He walks back in holding two rocks glasses, ice clinking against the side and amber liquid swirling inside. 

“Of course you’re a whiskey man.” You reach out to take the glass he offers you before he drops down on the other end of the couch. 

“It never does me wrong.” He adjusts his balaclava, lifting it just enough to expose his mouth before he takes a sip. 

You watch his head tilt slightly, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. 

Heat curls in your chest and you quickly raise your own glass, taking far too big of a swallow. It burns all the way down into your stomach and you have to fight back a shudder as you set the glass down on the coffee table. 

“How’s your leg?” 

“Good. I can walk without crutches now, so things are looking up.” Your scar is covered by your sweatpants but you know it’s there, the freshly healed skin pale and slightly raised. 

He nods as he listens, taking another sip of his whiskey before he pulls the fabric back over his face, setting the drink down on the coffee table. 

He has one arm draped across the back of the couch, the other rests beside him, his hand against his thigh. He certainly fills the space much differently than you do, curled up with your knees to your chest, your back against the armrest so you’re fully facing him. 

“When was the last time you slept?” 

“Today.”

“For more than an hour.”

You start at the question before realizing you shouldn’t be surprised. It’s four in the fucking morning, and you’re sure you look exhausted. 

“Two days ago,” you admit, picking at a loose thread in the seam of your sweats. 

“Nightmares?”

You nod, taking another sip of the whiskey to try and help loosen the knot forming in your throat. 

“You just went through a lot, give yourself time.” 

“I’m fine,” you protest, maybe a little sharper than you need to. 

“You’re not,” he says, voice firm but not in a way that feels uncaring, “and that’s alright.” 

“I’m fine .” You try again but it’s weaker, that tightness in your throat getting just a little harder to talk around. 

“Fox,” it leaves him slow and soft, catching another glimpse of that buried sorrow in his dark eyes as you meet them, “you don’t need to be a soldier right now.” 

“I’m-” you grit your teeth as you choke, vision blurring as your eyes water. 

You try to swallow back against the tears and the stinging behind your nose, curling just a little bit further in on yourself. 

“The worlds not gonna end if you fall apart for a minute.”

You close your eyes, bowing your head as tears finally spill over, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the quiet sob that leaves you. There’s something rotten and ugly taken root in your chest, making you feel sick, making you feel like you’re going bad from the inside out. And somehow this is the only way to clear it all out. Unable to stop the flow of tears now that they’ve started. 

You’re not sure how long you cry, all you know is by the time you stop you’re exhausted. Eyes burning and puffy as you finally lift your head out of your arms. 

And Ghost is still sitting there, watching you like you’re some kind of flighty bird. 

“Sorry-”

“Don’t,” he whispers, shaking his head. 

When had he moved closer? 

His eyes search yours, unsure before he reaches out, fingers just brushing against your cheek as if afraid to fully settle there. Your pulse skips uncomfortably, chest tightening as you wait. 

You fight the urge to hold your breath, instead letting your exhale tremble out of you as he traces your features. You watch the way his eyes follow the movement, brushing over your forehead as he tucks your hair back, over the curve of your cheekbone, the line of your jaw. Touching you like you’re made of porcelain, afraid you’ll break if he’s too rough. 

His hand slides down, his palm against the side of your neck, his thumb at the base of your throat. 

You’re breathing just a little too fast as your lungs struggle to keep up with your heart, sure he must be able to feel your pulse racing. 

“Too much?” The question is just an exhale, low and gravely as his eyes drag back up to yours. 

“No,” you confess, fingers digging into your thighs as your eyes shift restlessly between his. 

He makes a small sound, his other hand coming up to rest against your jaw. Your heart rattles as his thumb brushes over the corner of your mouth, tracing over the curve of your upper lip before the pad of his thumb settles against your lower lip, pulling just enough to get them to part. No doubt he’s able to feel your shaky breath against his skin. 

He leans in close enough that your noses brush, the fabric of his balaclava rough against your skin. You can hear his own breathing, far more steady than your own, but quick enough to have heat flickering low in your belly. 

“So soft,” he whispers, it seems more to himself than anything, his thumb rubbing back and forth over your bottom lip. 

“I-” you trail off, not entirely sure how to vocalize what you want, a kind of persistent humming quickly replacing any of the thoughts your mind tries to conjure “-Ghost.”

He sighs, closing his eyes before he lets his forehead rest against yours, taking a deep breath in through his nose as his hand shifts up to rest against your cheek. 

“You need to rest.” He breathes, and the way he sounds almost disappointed has your mind absolutely racing. 

“I don’t…” You shift, tongue pushing out to wet your lips before you softly declare, “I don’t want to be alone.” 

“Then stay.” 

And underneath the gruffness of it you swear you hear it, almost pleading, a reluctant hopefulness. 

“Ok.” The word sounds like it was punched right out of your lungs, fingers trembling as you reach up to rest them over his. 

He makes that low humming noise to acknowledge he heard you before he pulls away. 

He holds his hand out to you as he stands and you take it. Savoring the feeling of his skin against yours, committing each callous to memory as his fingers close around your own. 

He guides you up and towards the bedroom and you feel your stomach twist, though you’re not sure if it’s with anxiety or excitement. 

“Lay down,” he commands, though it’s gentle, one you suspect he’d let you disobey. 

You settle onto the bed, shifting until you’re laying back against the pillows. He follows after, tugging at your sweatpants as he crawls up beside you. 

“Do you sleep in these?” 

“What?”

“Want you to be comfortable,” he says, eyes gone nearly black in the dim light of his room. 

“No, I don’t,” you answer honestly, face scalding as you watch him nod. 

He reaches for your hips, touches just as careful and slow as he hooks them under the waistband of your sweats. You lift your hips just enough to help him slide them off, glad for your choice of simple black boyshorts. Just catching the way his eyes skim your newly exposed legs, the same way he had at the safe house. 

His knuckles drag up along your shin, sliding over your knee and stopping just below the scar on your thigh. The size of his hand as it settles against your thigh has your heart fluttering, watching him slowly brush his thumb over the freshly marked skin. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” You quip, just looking for something to break the tension twisting in your chest. 

“Adds character,” he shoots right back, his eyes drifting back up to yours as he moves away. 

“By that logic you’ve got to be one of the most interesting men I’ve ever met.” You watch him tug down the blankets before pulling them over you. 

“Course I am,” he says, and you could swear you hear just a hint of smugness in it as he lays down beside you. “Now go to sleep.”

You huff, rolling on your side so your back is to him, shifting against the sheets and pillows as you try to get comfortable. 

“I might talk in my sleep.” You speak into the darkness, rubbing the blanket idly between your fingers. 

“That’s alright.” 

“I might also wake up sort of panicked so if I-”

He grunts, his arm looping around your waist before he’s pulling you into him. The pressure and warmth of him wrapping around you is nice, nice enough that for a moment your mind just goes completely blank. Staring blindly ahead as he shifts behind you. 

“Go to sleep, Fox.” 

“Right.” 

You force yourself to try and settle, closing your eyes and focusing on the soft sound of him breathing, of the weight of his arm draped over you, how solid his chest is against your back, his body heat seeping through the fabric of your clothes. 

Maybe it’s just because it’s been so long since someone has held you, since any hand that has touched your skin has been anything kinder than clinical. 

But there’s almost a dull ache that comes with the comfort, a sort of subconscious knowing that eventually it will end

Chapter Text

Ghost doesn’t sleep long. 

He can’t. 

When he closes his eyes he sees you, shivering and pale, lips tinged blue and eyes unfocused, face puffy and bruised. Stuttering incoherent and half slurred apologies, repeating them over and over like a broken record no matter how many times he tried to get you to quiet. You losing consciousness the only thing that finally got you to still. He sees Soap looking up at him with fear and guilt in his eyes, his hands shaky and covered in blood as he explains what happened. 

Why close his eyes to that when he has you here now. 

Not wanting to give up on a second of the way you feel in his arms, tucked against him. It’s been far longer than he’d care to admit since he’s held someone like this, and worse yet the closest instance is you. Passing out on his chest in the Russian wilderness, the way he’d struggled to keep his touches minimal as he’d helped clean your wounds, as he’d helped you undress. Unable to shake the thought of how soft you had felt with just those brief touches. 

But now he can fully take you in, can smell your shampoo, feel you breathing deep and slow, muscles occasionally twitching as you sleep, a few incoherent murmurs leaving you as you dream. 

But you don’t stir. 

You don’t wake screaming and clawing at your own chest, fighting with the sheets as they tangle around you, too close to the feeling of hands trying to hold you down. 

He’s sure the combination of a little whiskey and crying as hard as you had been enough to fully tire you out. The physical contact also likely doesn’t hurt. He’d actually found himself feeling a little more at ease, something about being able to feel your skin against his unexpectedly soothing. 

But eventually he has to get up, moving slow as he pulls his arm out from under you so he can step out of bed. You make a small sound, rolling over and curling into where he had just been, most likely seeking out the remnants of his body heat, but his stomach gives a weak twist. Thinking about you curled up on the edge of his couch, trying so desperately to keep yourself quiet and small even as you fell apart.

There’s a moment, a flash as he looks down at you sleeping, mouth slightly ajar, features relaxed, his sheets curled in your fingers and clutched against your chest, where he almost caves. Almost crawls back into bed with you to wait until you wake but he’s not sure if that’s what you would want. 

Whatever had transpired last night had been vulnerable and emotionally charged and confusing. He’s having a hard enough time getting his own brain around it, he wouldn’t blame you for wanting some time to sort it out for yourself. 

He hadn’t really been thinking clearly if he’s being honest with himself. He’d seen the tension in your jaw, the hollowness in your watery eyes as you’d just barely managed to hold yourself together, saw the mixture of anger and fear and despair in you, and saw himself reflected there. Had wanted so desperately to comfort you but once he got his hands on you all he could think of was how badly he wanted to hold you. How badly he’d needed to feel you alive and solid under his hands, how when you’d woken up in the hospital it had taken everything in him to not nearly collapse with relief. 

It terrifies him, the pit that had settled in his stomach when he knew things had gone south. The way he’d been gripped by a nearly paralyzing panic when he saw you laying there trembling. How attached he feels to you. The feelings that had started as admiration after seeing you in action turning into something far more intimate. 

It makes him want to run. Makes him want to push you away, keep you from getting in so he can’t lose you. So you can’t hurt him. 

But the thought of leaving you feeling stilted, alone, and abandoned is equally unpleasant. Especially now, with everything you’ve been through.

He knows all too well what it’s like to try and navigate these situations completely alone, and he hates the idea of being the one to do that to you. Of putting you in the exact same place he had been so many years ago without a soul to be able to lean on. 

He will be for you what he didn’t have. Even if you refuse it, you’ll have his shoulder to lean on. His feeling about you be damned, he’ll be whatever you need from him, and if that’s only a friend, he’ll be it gladly. 

Does him being your commanding officer complicate things? Yes, but they’re already complicated so who fucking cares. 

The sound of his kettle whistling pulls him from his head, pulling it off the heat and setting it back down on a cool burner. He pushes his mask up under his nose, grabbing a cigarette and balancing it between his lips before lighting it. He takes a long drag from it as he pours the heated water over his tea, watching the steam rise until it mingles with the smoke from his cigarette. 

“What a breakfast.” He turns at the sound of your voice, still raspy with sleep, surprised he hadn’t heard you coming. 

“Of champions,” he adds, reaching up to pull the cigarette from his mouth before gesturing to his cup, the question released as an exhale of smoke, “tea?” 

“How very English of you.” 

Your eyes are still puffy from your crying, your hair a bit disheveled, pillow lines still imprinted on the side of your face, in nothing but your oversized t-shirt and boy short underwear. But you’re smiling that kind of shyly sly smile up at him as you step into the kitchen and he's never seen anyone more lovely. 

“I’ve got coffee.” 

“I’ll take a tea.” You fold your arms over yourself as you step closer, eyeing his mug of tea like you’re trying to figure out exactly what it is. “When in Rome.” 

He rolls his eyes before he grabs another mug for you, repeating the steps he’d taken to make his own drink. 

You fidget while you wait, trying to tame your hair, drumming your fingers lightly against the counter top, looking almost everywhere but directly at him as he puffs on his cigarette. He catches a glance out of the corner of his eye when he raises a hand to pull the cigarette from his mouth, releasing the smoke through his nose. But the second he turns to more fully face you, your attention is once more very raptly on the counter top instead of him. 

“You slept alright?” He asks it only to fill the silence, knows perfectly well how you slept, but you look so lost. 

Like you have absolutely no clue how to navigate any of this and he reminds himself that you’re young, much younger than he is and you probably haven’t had many instances like this you’ve had to deal with. 

“Yeah, great,” you confess, reaching up to toy with your hair as you ask, “did you sleep?” 

“A bit.” 

He hands you your tea once it’s done steeping, grabbing his own before he snuffs out his cigarette on a dirty plate. 

“Thanks.” It’s such a small word when it leaves you, and he can see the uncertainty in your face, can tell you’re working through everything in your head the way he had been this morning. 

He gestures for you to follow him, walking back over to the couch and lowering himself onto it before he takes a sip of his tea. A moment after you do the same, only this time you sit on the cushion beside him instead of leaving a full couch between you. 

Your hair is hanging in your face and his fingers itch to reach out and tuck it back, to see you look at him wide eyed and flustered the way you had last night as he’d touched you. 

That little voice that had been begging him to kiss you last night coming back two-fold, whispering temptations of how soft your mouth would be against his, the way you would taste on his tongue, the sounds and faces you would make as he pulled you close and held you to him. To feel your hands on his chest, his shoulders as you melt into him. 

“Last night was- I’m sorry, if I overstepped at all.” The words pour from you in a quiet rush, like you’d just barely been managing to hold them all back. 

“If anyone overstepped last night, it wasn’t you.” He says, watching you stare into your tea like you’re waiting for it to respond.

You finally look fully at him then, your brows twitching and pulling together as your eyes search his. He just catches the way your gaze drops, lingering on his mouth and his scar as you take a deep breath. 

He can sense your hesitation, a flicker of tension before you reach out, far more slowly than you’d really need to in order for him to move away. Your fingers just barely brush over the line of his jaw, sure you must be able to feel the stubble there as you push up towards his scar. Your lips are parted ever so slightly, your eyes following the movement of your fingers as you trace the lines on his skin. A kind of ragged ‘x’ shape he knows by heart, one line horizontal to the corner of his mouth, the other vertical reaching up towards his eye. Your touches pause just below the fabric of his mask and his heart lurches in his chest as your eyes find his. But you don’t push beneath, don’t even try to lift it, just let your fingers linger there against his skin. 

“You didn’t overstep,” you whisper, a heaviness behind those words that has an unexpected flush of warmth going through him. 

He reaches up to curl his hand around yours and your fingers are so delicate feeling wrapped in his, skin soft in a way his has never been. He leans forward enough to place his cup of tea down before plucking yours from your hand and doing the same. Using his hold on your hand to guide you closer. 

You allow yourself to be pulled into his lap, straddling his thighs as he reaches for your face, hands as gentle as he’s able as they settle on your cheeks. Your skin is heated beneath his hands, eyes restless as you curl your fingers around his wrists. 

You’re breathing just a little faster than normal and he’s once more left unsure exactly what’s causing the reactivity. Excitement? Anxiety?

“Too much?” He asks again when your next exhale stutters, eyelids fluttering as his thumb just barely brushes under your bottom lip. 

“No.” It’s a small, and not very convincing confession, especially paired with your inability to meet his eyes. 

“Are you scared?” 

“No,” you say a bit more firmly, your eyes forcing themselves to meet his as you take a deep breath. “Not of you.”

A low sound leaves him, everything in him crying out to close that little bit of distance between you and kiss you. But he doesn’t want to push you, to make you feel rushed. He wants you to know you’re safe, to let this happen on your time. 

“Ghost,” his name leaves you as an exhale as you lean in closer to him, his heart pounding in his ears as your heavy eyes fall back to his mouth. 

“I’m right here.” He moves with you, hands following you towards him, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Whatever you need.”

Your next breath trembles, your fingers pressing just a little harder into his skin before you push forward. Your lips are just as soft as he imagined they’d be. Your kisses hesitant and experimental, like you’re just trying to feel him out. Pulling away long enough for him to feel an unsteady breath against his skin before you lean back in. His arms wrap around you to hold you against him and your hands settle on his shoulders as if to steady yourself. 

He sighs into you, like you're the first sip of a drink he’s been craving and he feels you melt. Your body more fully leaning into him and he’s pretty sure he could die like this. You solid and soft on top of him, against him, your hesitance waning with each new kiss.

It becomes more hungry, insistent, your hand curling around the back of his neck as if to try and pull him even closer. His grip shifts to your hips, almost massaging at the skin there, pulling you further onto his lap so your body is flush against his. 

You let out a soft gasp, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt and balaclava, thighs squeezing at his hips and he wants to devour you. 

There’s a fire burning under his skin. Everything in him pleading to hold you closer, to melt into you until you’re so intertwined no one can tell where one starts and the other ends. 

He almost gives in to it, tempted to press you into the couch beneath him and see what sounds you make with his head or his hand between your thighs. To watch you fully fall apart beneath him with his name pouring from you like a prayer. 

But the firm knock on his door quickly pulls him out of it. 

“Fuck.” The word leaves him as more of a breath than anything else, fingers squeezing at your hips as his head dips, dropping forward so his forehead rests against your shoulder. 

You're panting, clinging to him like you’ll drown if you let him go and his brain is working far too slowly. 

Another firm knock, this time accompanied by the muffled call of, “Ghost?” 

He lifts his head, eyes finding yours, and sees the same realization he feels reflected there. He knows that voice. You both do. 

“Fucking hell,” he groans, letting go of you so you can climb off his lap. 

He pushes himself to his feet and hopes you don’t notice the way he has to adjust his sweats as he heads for the door. He reaches up, pulling his balaclava back into place and taking a steadying breath before he opens the door just enough to peak outside it. 

“You do know how to use your phone, don’t you?” Is Soap’s greeting, the Scotsman crossing his arms as he stares accusingly up at Ghost. 

“Don’t have it on me,” Ghost explains, leaning against the door as he asks, “what do you need Johnny?” 

“Fox missed rehab this morning, and she’s not answering her phone either. I just went by her dorm and it doesn’t look like she’s there. You seen her?” 

“She’s here,” Ghost confesses, glancing over his shoulder at you and you’re still curled up on the couch, looking a little dazed, and definitely not in a state he wants Soap to see you in. “We were talking, didn’t have our phones on us.” 

“She’s been here with you since-” Soap pauses to glance down at his watch, which reads 11:33, before he continues, “- seven this morning?” 

“Yes.” 

Soap shifts, amusement mingling with the curiosity in his expression and Ghost doesn’t like it at all. 

“And she's just been here talking? For nearly five hours?” 

“Johnny-”

“You sly old dog,” Soap chuckles, wagging a finger at the other man. “I fucking knew it. You know how obnoxious you two are in a room together?” 

“You're getting it twisted,” Ghost sighs, immediately clear that Soap isn’t buying it. 

“Whatever you say, L.T.” Soap is still grinning and Ghost isn’t sure if the source of his frustration is from Soap being wrong, or how close he had almost been to being right. “Well, I'll leave you to all that conversation.” 

Ghost watches Soap walk away before he closes the door and turns back to you. You have a hand pressed over your mouth, eyes slightly wide as you look up at him. And he’s almost certain you’re mortified, afraid he’s going to have to do some serious damage control. 

But then you laugh, an almost startled, airy sound muffled behind your hand and he feels himself deflate. 

“Find it funny, do you?” It sounds stern but he feels oddly light as he stares down at you giggling, seeing you like this a weight off his shoulders after last night. 

“A bit,” you confess, lowering your hand as you smile up at him and it takes everything in him to just stay where he is and not throw himself at you. “He’s going to be a nightmare to deal with now.” 

Ghost scoffs, reaching up to rub at his forehead, “as if he wasn’t already.” 

You make a kind of amused humming sound before you stand, adjusting your shirt and pulling it down just a little further over your legs. 

“Well, I um,” you clear your throat, looking suddenly shy. “I guess I should go explain to my therapist why I wasn’t in rehab, before anyone else comes looking for me.”

“Right.” He agrees, trying not to sound disappointed with the realization that means you’re leaving. 

He drops back onto the couch as you walk into his bedroom. He pulls up his mask to take another sip of his tea, trying to think of anything other than how you had just felt against him. Your quiet little gasp echoing in his head and making his stomach twist. 

He stands when you leave his room, once more in your sweatpants and your cellphone in hand. He follows you to the door, pausing as you turn to look up at him. 

“We’ll talk later?” You ask, and once more you look so small and unsure, hesitancy in your voice and insecurity in your posture. 

He lets his hand come up to rest against your cheek and you ever so slightly lean into the touch, some of the tension in your face relaxing and he wants so terribly to tell you not to leave. To just spend the rest of the day holding you like this, to just pretend for a little while this is a life he can have. 

“Of course,” is what he says instead, tucking your hair behind your ear. 

“Ok, I’ll uh- well I don’t-”

He sighs before he leans down and kisses you, just a soft press of lips, just enough to stop you before you start rambling. 

You’re flushed when he pulls away, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as you stare up at him. 

“I’ll see later. Go handle business,” he assures you, giving your cheek one more caress before fully pulling away from you. 

“Ok, later,” you breathe, quickly turning and heading out his door as he opens it for you, and he just catches the way your fingers come up to rest against your lips as you leave

Chapter Text

You still haven’t entirely wrapped your head around it. 

It almost feels like a dream but one you can’t shake. The way he had held you, the way he’d kissed you like it had been killing him not to, the way he’d tasted. Like tea and toothpaste and cigarettes and things that in combination you really shouldn’t find pleasant but you had, because they were him. 

The way you’d gotten lost in it. The way you’d wanted him to consume you, to overtake you until there was very little of you even left. 

It’s been a long time, a very long time, since you’ve felt anything close to this kind of want. Since you’ve felt so drawn to another person, and it scares you. 

You know what attachments mean in this line of work. Know that it almost always will lead to your heart being ripped from your chest and buried six feet under. Know it’s not even a matter of ‘if’ but of ‘when’. Know that loss is an inevitability. 

And yet you feel it, small and weak, something like hope when you think of him. A stupid and rudimentary thought that maybe this time it will work out differently. That maybe with him everything will turn out ok in the end. 

It’s a dangerous game, a buildup that will only lead to a crushing downfall. 

But still, no matter how you rationalize it, you want him. 

Want to feel his arms around you and his body against you. Want him to never stop looking at you with those sad, gentle eyes as he reaches for you, as he lets himself be drawn in. Want to hear what’s actually going on in that head of his, what tremulous inner turmoil leaves him so haunted. 

It’s foolish, naive even and you’re not one to consider yourself either of those things. 

But still, you can’t shake this longing.

“Where’s your head at?” Soap calls over the music as he leans against the bar beside you, dropping his voice to ask. “Leave it in L.T.’s room?” 

“Shut up,” you huff light heartedly, rolling your eyes at his smug grin as you lift your drink. 

He’s taken every available opportunity to tease you, and Ghost apparently, about your little interrupted rendezvous since it happened. It’s been private and light hearted of course but he’s clearly not willing to let it go.

It had only been salt in the wound when you were late to meet him for sparring practice because you’ve recently learned the only time you can oversleep is when you’re in Ghost’s bed. 

“Seriously though, you alright?” His expression softens into something more genuine as one of his hands comes up to rest against your shoulder. 

The two of you had been cleared for exercise by your physical therapists, and he’d had the bright idea of meeting up to spar once a week. You usually get your ass kicked, Soap is strong, and as long as you can stay out of his reach you’re good. The second he gets his arms around you though, you’ve already lost. 

Spending time with him has been nice though. He's a good guy and a healthy distraction, even if he is kind of a smug prick sometimes. 

“I was just thinking about Egorov’s confession.” 

It’s a lie, you’ve been actively trying to think about anything but Egorov and his confession. 

Price had called you all into a meeting, explained that Egorov claimed his general had been given his information by someone called Spider. An American man who not only knew of you, but knew you had names and locations to American spies planted in Russia. You’d racked your brain trying to think of who it could be, but came up empty handed every time. It didn’t help that Egorov had never seen his face, only ever heard his voice. 

As for Ghost, Egorov claimed he hadn’t been told why Ghost was wanted, just that he was. 

It could all be a lie of course. A ruse so that whoever the actual informant is will hear the name Spider begin to be whispered around and know it’s time to run. 

But a large part of you is doubtful that’s the case. 

Especially with how serious Price had looked as he told you Laswell and her team would look for information, and in the meantime the rest of you are assigned to sitting tight and waiting it out. 

Soap gives a solemn kind of nod, arms crossing as he lowers his voice to ask, “you think he was telling the truth?” 

“Yes,” you admit, reaching up to smooth your hair back from your face as you sigh, “but it’s impossible to know at this point.”

He nods again, looking suddenly somber before his eyes shift down to his shoes. There’s a moment of silence, of you waiting for what he has to say and him probably trying to decide how to say it. 

“I uh, I never apologized to you for what happened.”

Is not what you had been expecting.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” You frown at him, stomach dropping when his eyes finally meet yours and you see the guilt in them. 

“You would have been able to keep moving if I hadn’t been with you,” he says, brows furrowing as he looks down at you. “You only got caught because you were trying to protect me.” 

“That’s not true, we were both injured.” You assure him, hoping he understands how sincere you’re being. “I was running on adrenaline and would have crashed soon anyway. What happened isn’t either of our faults.” 

“What about Egorov spewing his shit about women in the field? He only started on the shit when I let it slip it was bothering me to watch it happen.” 

You try not to grimace at the mention of it but must fail with the way Soap’s face falls, closing his eyes as he takes a deep breath. 

“You’re still not responsible for that. We were captured, plus I-” you try to swallow around how dry your mouth suddenly is, clearing your throat before you continue, “-I didn’t join the military with no clue what I was getting into. I came to terms with the fact that it’s an inevitability, I’m as likely to be assaulted upon capture as I am on our own base.” 

You watch his face shift and realize it’s probably not something he’s ever considered. And he’s a good guy so of course he hasn’t, it’s probably never even occurred to him to treat someone that way. That it might be an anxiety you face every day. 

“Besides, it’s an established form of torture. It could have been either of us in that position.”

He gives you a skeptical look, arms still crossed tight over his chest so you try a different approach. 

“Would you blame me if our places had been switched?” 

“Of course not,” he says it like the thought almost offends him, and then you see something click into place. 

“Then why would I put any of that blame on you?” You see him deflate slightly as you ask the question, nodding slowly as he thinks it over. 

“You know we’d have your back, right?” He says after a moment, possibly the most somber and sincere you’ve ever seen him be. “If anyone on our side ever hurt you.” 

“I know you would.” You feel your smile falter as you pat him on the arm, a weird pressure twisting in your chest. “You’re a good bunch.” 

He looks like still has something he wants to say but instead just takes a deep swallow of his drink before holding a hand out to you. You blink at his hand before giving him a questioning look. 

“Come on, we came out to have fun , dance with me while we wait for everyone else.” 

You purse your lips, giving it a brief think over before downing the rest of your own drink and then setting your hand in his. He gives a kind of crooked grin before he’s pulling you onto the crowded dance floor. 

One of his arms wraps around your waist, his other keeping your hand in his and even as he pulls you closer the touches never feel anything more than amiably familiar. There’s no tension or uncomfortability, just him doing a goofy little two step as he tries to get you to move to the music. 

You laugh before you let him lead, doing your best to just follow his movements. You can’t personally say you’re the best, or most comfortable dancer, but you’re also not here to impress anyone. Soap is surprisingly alright though. 

You had all decided to go out tonight as a sort of last ditch attempt at not falling into going stir crazy. Which unfortunately after a month was already too close to happening, between injuries and lack of information, you’ve been rendered sitting ducks. 

But it’s been a long time since you’ve done something that feels normal, and this feels very normal. Going out for drinks and dancing on a Saturday night feels so perfectly mundane and usual. 

It’s nice. 

“Look who finally showed up,” Soap bends down slightly to speak closer to your ear before he turns you deftly in his hold. 

It takes you a moment to orient yourself and find your target. Ghost and Gaz are just walking through the doorway, Gaz offering a high wave that you quickly return. 

Ghost is in jeans and a black leather jacket, a hood pulled up over his balaclava he’s chosen in substitution of his mask. You just catch the way his eyes linger on you, on Soap’s hand still resting against your waist before he turns to the bar to order a drink. 

You and Soap part from one another as you step off the dance floor to go greet your companions. 

“I want a shot, you guys wanna do shots?” Gaz asks as you approach. 

“No thank you, I’d like to walk home on my own two feet tonight,” you decline and he offers a playful pout. 

“Don’t tell me you’re a lightweight,” Soap’s voice drips with mock disappointment and you roll your eyes. 

“Regrettably,” you inform him and he and Gaz both frown. 

“What about you Ghost?” Gaz asks the larger man. 

He raises his glass of whiskey, giving it a little swirl as he says, “I’ll stick to sippin’.” 

“Tell you what, why don’t we take double to make up for these two losers?” Soap suggests, clapping a hand on Gaz’s shoulder. 

“I like the way you think,” Gaz grins before waving down the bartender. 

“What are you drinking?” Ghost steps over to lean against the bar beside you and you can smell tobacco still clinging to the leather of his jacket and you swear you even get a hint of cologne. 

“Vodka tonic,” it takes everything you have not to lean into him now that he’s close enough to touch, fighting the urge to press your face into his shoulder and just breathe him in, reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear instead, “with lime.” 

“You want another one?” He asks and you turn to meet his eyes. 

“I’m ok right now,” you can feel the warmth in your face from the two drinks you’ve already had in an attempt to calm your nerves. “Thanks though.” 

“Didn't think you were much of a drinker,” he remarks before he lifts his balaclava just enough to sip his own drink. 

“I’m not built for it,” you confess as you watch him pull the fabric back over his face. “I’m lucky if I can keep three drinks down at most.” 

“That’s not the worst thing,” he says before turning to more fully face you and you feel yourself flush. 

“A blessing in disguise most likely,” you agree and he hums gently, a sound you barely hear over the slowing music. 

His eyes flicker between yours, a sort of tension crackling around him and sending a chill down your spine as you wait for him to speak. Biting down on your own tongue as you wait for him to break. 

“You look nice,” is what he finally says, his eyes falling to your body as he looks over your outfit but your heart stutters at the way his eyes linger. 

“Thanks.” You’re not sure how you manage to get the word out, feeling oddly winded as he stares down at you, so tantalizingly close. 

“Would you dance with me?” He steps closer as he asks, leaving so little space between you and he’s definitely wearing cologne. 

“Wouldn’t have pegged you as much of a dancer, L.T.” You blink up at him as he offers his hand, trying to calm your heart. 

“I’m a great dancer,” he says dryly and you laugh, mostly because it hadn’t been the response you were expecting but the way his eyes soften at the sound makes your chest ache. 

“I’ll be the judge of that.” You smile up at him before you slip your hand into his and pull him towards the now less crowded dance floor. 

The music is slower than it had been when you and Soap were dancing which immediately feels more intimate. The floor full of couples holding each other close and whispering privately to one another. 

Your hands settle on Ghost’s shoulders as his settle on your waist, the sheer size of them against your torso leaving you rather uncomfortably warm. You let him pull you close, the front of your bodies nearly flush with one another as you begin to move. 

“Where did the infamous Ghost learn to dance?” You ask to break the silence, having a hard time keeping your eyes on his for more than a few moments at a time. 

“I’ve spent a significant amount of time in Mexico,” is his answer, one of his hands pushing up to rest higher on your back, encouraging you just a little closer. 

You only offer a lame ‘oh’ in response, too warm and too dizzy as your chest meets his, able to feel the heat of his hands even through the layers of your clothes. 

You haven’t kissed since that morning you’d shared together, but right now all you can think is that you wish he would.

You’ve spent the night with him since, held each other as you slept, had passing moments of physical intimacy as you exist in the same space. But it hasn’t progressed past that again, it seems neither one of you quite sure how to cross that line. 

You can feel yourself breaking with each brush of his fingers over your spine, with the way his fingers are curling into your waist, arm tightening around you as if trying to pull you closer. Can feel yourself falling apart when you look up and see how dark his eyes have gone as he stares down at you. 

“Can I stay with you tonight?” Your voice is far more unstable than you thought it would be, sure he must be able to feel the way your heart is trying to pound right through your chest. 

“Course,” he says simply, his hand leaving your back only long enough to tuck your hair behind your ear. 

You realize to anyone else you probably look like any other couple on the dance floor. To anyone else this would look like a familiar, comfortable exchange and not an experience that would have you feeling like your legs are on the verge of giving out beneath you. 

“You think it would hurt their feelings if we left so soon?” You ask with a nod to the bar, hoping to keep it light hearted so it doesn’t sound desperate. 

“Probably,” he muses, bringing your slow swaying to a stop. “You ready to go?” 

You nod, not trusting your voice enough to speak and he pulls away from you. 

You both approach the bar, him pulling out his wallet to throw some cash down for his barely touched drink while you close out your tab with the bartender. 

“You guys already leaving?” Gaz asks in disbelief before he arches one of his brows. “Together?” 

“Wanna make sure she gets back to her room alright,” Ghost says, but the excuse is almost entirely negated by the way his hand settles on your lower back. 

“Of course you do,” Gaz responds before his expression twists into a knowing grin, “what a gent.” 

“I’ll see you next week for sparring practice?” You ask Soap, choosing to ignore Gaz’s smug look. 

“Don’t know, will I?” Soap gives a pointed tease and you feel yourself flush. 

You flash him your middle finger as Ghost half pushes you towards the door, Soap just blows you a kiss in response. 

The chill of outside hits you like a wall, momentarily shocking your lungs and sending your eyes watering but for a moment it’s almost welcomed against your heated skin. 

“You shouldn’t let them bother you,” Ghost says as you walk back towards the on base dorms, his breath rising as a cloud of steam even through his mask. 

“They don’t really,” you let yourself lean into his side as you walk and his arm shifts to wrap more fully around you. “It’s just like having a bunch of annoying brothers.” 

Ghost makes an amused hum at that, his hand rubbing idly up and down your arm as if he’s trying to create heat through the friction. 

“You have siblings?” He asks, glancing down at you as you shiver. 

“No. I don’t have any family left,” you confess around teeth beginning to chatter. “It’s part of why I joined the military so young. Didn’t really know what else to do. Do you have siblings?” 

You feel a tension creep into his body and immediately regret asking. A long silence stretching between the two of you that’s only broken up by the snow crunching under your feet. 

“I don’t have any family left either,” he finally says, some of the tension bleeding from him as he gives you shoulder a gentle squeeze. 

“I’m sorry,” you offer meekly but he just shakes his head. 

“It was a long time ago.” 

The rest of the walk back is spent in silence, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. It lets you take in how beautiful the night is, the sky dark indigo with streaking grey clouds, dotted with stars, the moon full and yellow and looking unusually close. Like if you wanted you could just reach out and touch it. 

But you’re very much grateful for the warmth you’re met with as you step into your building. 

When you get up to Ghost’s room you kick off your boots before heading for his room. You reach for the hem of your sweater and tug it over your head, sure he must be able to see all the bruises blooming on the skin now exposed by your tank top. 

“Looks like the sparring is going well,” Ghost’s voice is low, quiet as he gets closer, his hands settling lightly on your shoulders. 

“Yeah, I’ve really been handing it to him.” You let yourself lean just enough into him for your shoulders to meet his chest, closing your eyes as his hands smooth down over your arms. 

“What are you doing to yourself?” He asks as his hands fold around yours, lifting them enough for him to inspect your bruised and slightly busted knuckles. 

“It’s fine, it’s just from training.” You quickly assure him, watching the way his thumb passes ever so lightly over the back of your sore hands. 

“Training won’t do you any good if you hurt yourself.” His hands slide back up to your shoulders, calluses rough against your skin, his thumb brushing over the side of your neck and you shiver. 

“I can’t get stronger without a little pain.” You counter, biting back a sound as his fingers dig into your upper trap muscle, the pressure both pleasant and painful. 

“There’s a fine line between building yourself up and wearing yourself down,” he whispers, no doubt able to feel the way the tension bleeds from you as he continues his idle touches. 

“I’ll be more careful,” you promise a bit breathlessly, letting your head drop slightly forward as his hands move across your shoulders. 

“Good.”

“I need to shower.” Your voice catches slightly as he rests his jaw against the top of your head, close enough for you to hear him breathing through the balaclava. 

“It can wait.” His own voice is gravely, the breathlessness of it making your head go fuzzy. 

“You could shower with me?” You try, and get a soft huff in response. 

“It can wait.” He traces the scar on your upper arm, fingers lingering against the raised skin. 

“So, you would shower with me?” Your heart bangs against the inside of your rib cage as his hand pushes around your shoulder to move across the top of your chest. 

“Mhm.” Is all you get in response, the sound gruff and raspy as it leaves him. 

“Would you leave the mask on?” His other arm loops around your waist, pulling you more fully into him and you can’t help the shaky exhale that leaves you as he idly feels at your skin. 

“Never shower without it.” He says dryly, your brain so frazzled you almost miss the humor in his voice. 

“Liar.” The word leaves you as an exhale, weak and a little strained. 

You feel like you’re going to snap, nerves buzzing under your skin with every idle pass of his fingers. Tension slowly creeping back into your muscles in a very different way, an uncomfortable pressure beginning to twist low in your belly that has you once more feeling unbearably warm. 

“Ghost-”

“I can stop.” His voice is raspy and low and your stomach twists violently on itself at the sound. 

“No,” you whisper, heart pounding as you cling a little tighter to him. “Don’t.” 

You swear you hear his breathing catch and you feel like you’re going to drown. 

You take a deep breath before guiding his hand on your waist lower, stopping just when you feel his fingers against the small sliver of skin between the waistband of your jeans and the bottom of your tank top. 

It’s hesitant, lingering, his knuckles passing over the skin before he pushes his hand just slightly under your shirt. Just enough to feel more of you, hand splaying out as it settles against your lower stomach. His other hand shifts, his forearm resting across your chest and holding your upper body against his as his fingers curl around your shoulder. 

You reach up to hold on to his forearm, now definitely breathing just a little too fast as he caresses you. Touches soft and exploring as they move over your stomach, fingers lingering against the scar next to your right hip. Muscles flexing and twitching under each new contact in a way that has your insides tightening, fighting the urge to squirm in his hold. 

His hand moves higher until it’s resting across your rib cage. His thumb idly stroking against the skin just under your bra. 

“Gotta tell me if you want me to stop,” he nearly whispers, voice oddly strained. 

Like he’s simultaneously hoping you will and won’t. 

“I don’t want you to.” Your confession is small, once more reaching down to guide his hand in hopes to encourage him. 

You feel his sharp intake of breath as you bring his hand to your chest, his touch slow and unsure as he gently cups the swell of your breast. You catch your bottom lip between your teeth as he massages at the tender skin, his head dipping to rest against your shoulder. His thumb brushes over the smooth fabric of your bra until he feels your nipple peak, unable to stop the small gasp that leaves you as you arch against his touch. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” The words are so airy and quiet when they leave him you barely even hear it over your own panting. 

“Ghost.” You finally give in, squirming in his hold, thighs tensing and pressing together in an attempt at gaining some kind of friction. “Please.”

He lets go of you just enough to turn you to face him before he’s guiding you back down onto the bed, his hand on your chest as you sink back into the mattress. You watch him settle beside you, eyes restless before he reaches for the hem of your tank top. 

“Can I?” He asks, eyes never leaving yours and you give a firm nod. 

He lifts it up and off you, his hand settling against your stomach, fingers brushing over the series of scars scattered over your lower abdomen. He takes the moment to just feel you, hand running up over your ribs before he’s pulling your bra off. 

You have to fight back the urge to reach up and cover yourself, fidgeting under his brazen stare as he watches your chest rise and fall. 

His hand finishes its path over your rib cage, curling under one of your breasts before he gently kneads at the soft skin. You bite down on your lip, arching up into his touch as he brushes his thumb back over your already sensitive nipple. 

He lets out a stuttering exhale before his eyes find yours, the air sticking in your lungs at the intensity burning in them. 

The next move is slow, giving you plenty of time to object as his fingers settle on the button of your jeans. You give another small nod and he pops them open before undoing the zipper and helping you push them down your hips, letting you kick them the rest of the way off. 

His hands push up your legs, stopping just as he reaches the innermost part of your thigh, watching as you slowly let your legs part to give him more room. 

You can hear his next inhale, his fingers pressing just a little too hard into your skin as he drinks you in. 

His palm settles against your hip, thumb rubbing idly back and forth over the silky material of your underwear. 

“Ghost,” you plead weakly, reaching out to once more attempt to guide his hand but this time he holds steady. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, an almost insistence in his eyes as he stares down at you. 

“Yes,” you breathe, and he gives, letting you guide his hand between your thighs. 

You gasp, a wavering sound leaving you as he rubs you slow and soft through the fabric of your underwear, no doubt able to feel how wet you already are. 

He groans, letting his forehead drop forward to rest against yours and you quickly reach up to cup his face as you pant, hips twitching under his touch in search of more. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anyone. Hell, it’s been a long time since you’ve even bothered to touch yourself. And you’re convinced that’s why everything feels dialed up to 11, why each brush of his fingers over your sex has your muscles twitching and nerve endings burning. Why his breath warm against the lower half of your face has goosebumps blooming over your skin. Why the smell of tobacco and whiskey on his breath has you feeling almost intoxicated. 

“Kiss me.” The plea is breathless and almost a whine as it leaves you, wanting to taste him, to hold him, to feel him solid against you. 

He barely gets the fabric over his mouth before he’s on you. 

The kiss isn’t hurried but it’s hungry, all consuming and almost desperate as you go back and forth trying to pull each other closer. He has one hand in your hair and yours are on his face, breathing into each other at the same time you’re stealing the air from each other’s lungs. 

It’s careful, giving you plenty of room to pull away when you feel his tongue pass over your bottom lip but your reciprocation is eager. 

He lets out a barely audible groan as your tongue passes over his, hands holding you just a bit tighter and you want him so badly it aches.

The taste of him on your tongue, the feeling of him wrapped around you. You want it to never end, want to keep pulling each other closer until you finally break upon each other. 

You gasp sharply into his mouth as his hand pushes under the fabric of your underwear, the sound tapering off into a moan as his middle finger brushes over your clit as he parts your slick sex. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice gravely and breathless and it brings you a little comfort to see this is also having an effect on him. “So fuckin’ wet.” 

You whimper, gripping at his shoulders as he teases at your entrance, rubbing gentle circles against it until you're shaking so violently beneath him you feel like you might just fall apart. 

“Easy,” he coos down at you as you tremble, pressing kisses over your cheek and jaw. “Relax, love.” 

“S-sorry,” you stutter, trying to force your body to release some of the tension threatening to rip you in half as his hand stills against you. 

“It’s alright, I can stop-”

“Don’t,” you cut him off raggedly, your eyes wide and slightly desperate as they find his, “please don’t. I-I want you to touch me. It’s just- it’s been a long time.” 

“Are you nervous?” He asks and the question is so startlingly gentle and genuine it disarms you. 

“A little,” you confess meekly and he nods, the hand in your hair gently massaging at your scalp. “But I still want you.” 

“Then we’ll go slow, yeah?” He assures you, waiting for your stilted nod before he leans down to place a kiss against the corner of your mouth. “There’s a good girl.” 

You let out an unsteady little ‘oh’ heat flushing so strong through you that you can’t help the way your thighs clamp together around his hand. 

He waits for you to let them fall back open before he curls his fingers under the elastic of your underwear. 

“I’m gonna take these off.” He waits for your nod before he pulls them down your thighs. 

He presses one more kiss to your lips before he shifts to settle between your thighs, guiding them further apart so you’re fully exposed to him. 

“So fuckin’ pretty.” The low rasp in his voice has you clenching, core twisting expectantly as his hands slide further up your thighs, spreading you open for him. 

You feel yourself flush as his hand settles against your hip, thumb brushing over the scar on your thigh before he presses his lips against it. You jolt at the contact, muscles involuntarily contracting at the feeling of his mouth so close to your center. 

He glances up at you before shifting his hand just enough to press his thumb between your legs, touch teasing as he brushes feather light up and down your sex just like he had earlier. 

You squirm, biting at your lip as he forces out a slow exhale, eyes now trained on your pussy as he pushes his thumb through your folds until he catches your clit. 

His other hand clamps down on your hip to hold you still as you jerk beneath him at the contact. 

You’re breathing far too fast, fingers twisting into the sheets as you watch him play with you. Pressing open mouthed kisses to your inner thigh as he rubs slow circles against you with his thumb. 

A low moan leaves you, dropping back onto your elbows as your thighs tense, a familiar pressure twisting low in your belly. 

He continues his kisses up your inner thigh until his head is between your legs, leaning forward to place a soft kiss against your clit before he's kitten licking at you. 

“Oh- fuck,” You choke, dropping fully onto your back, thighs twitching with every pass of his tongue. 

He makes that low humming sound, his eyes flickering up to yours and you catch your bottom lip between your teeth, hips twitching as the tension in your abdomen curls tighter. 

His arms loop under your thighs, the hold allowing him to control how much movement you have as he laps at you. His tongue shifting focus from your clit to push inside you. 

You gasp, fingers tugging at the sheets as your hips roll against his face. 

The sound he makes can only be described as a growl, easily keeping you pinned to the bed as his tongue curls inside you before pulling away only enough to drag his tongue back and forth over your entrance.  Leaving only enough space for a breath before he’s diving back into you. 

You choke out his name and you’re rewarded with a low groan, his grip on your thighs nearly bruising as he alternates between slow drags of his tongue and gentle suction. 

You’re not going to last long, you can already feel that fragile little knot in your belly threatening to break. The feeling of his balaclava rubbing against the inside of your thighs and the roughness of his hands against your skin isn’t helping. Everything piling on top of each other until you’re panting, thighs trembling as they try to close around his head. 

“Feels good- fuck ,” you gasp, reaching down to loosely curl your fingers in the fabric covering his head, desperately wanting to bury your fingers in his hair but having a feeling that would be crossing a line. 

He hums against you again before he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, eyes trained on you as his middle finger sinks into you. You arch beneath him, body trying to pull him in even deeper as you moan, your heel digging into his back between his shoulder blades in a silent plea for more. 

“S-So close- don’t stop,” you plead breathlessly, voice dipping into a whine. 

And he moans against you, hands shifting higher so his palms rest over your hips, fingers just reaching your tummy before pressing into your skin as if trying to sink into you. 

Then his lips suction around your clit, head shaking slowly back and forth as his finger crooks inside you and you snap. 

You claw at the sheets, thighs squeezing against the sides of his face as your hips try to buck up off the bed, a shaky exhale of his name leaving you as you come on his tongue. It takes little effort to keep you pinned to the mattress, eyes hazy as he watches you writhe in pleasure. 

He doesn’t let up even as you go fully limp against the mattress, muscles twitching through your aftershocks as you gasp for air. He just continues lapping almost mindlessly against you, his finger curling torturously slow against your insides. 

“G-Ghost,” you sputter, back arching slightly off the bed as your cunt clenches around his finger, each press against your insides weaving that knot back into your core. 

He makes a low sound, eyes almost unfocused as he looks up at you, the little bit you can see of his face flushed pink as he presses another finger inside you. 

“Simon!” You whimper, body fluttering and trembling around the new stretch and the way his tongue keeps randomly passing over your swollen and sensitive clit. 

He eases the fingers slowly in and out of you before adding a third and you whine, the stretch verging on painful. At some level he must be aware of this because his fingers sit still inside you, his attention shifting back to licking lazily at your clit. He lets you rock your hips against his mouth, subsequently pushing yourself further onto his fingers as you grind against his tongue and you feel like you’re burning. 

“God-” your eyes roll back as you writhe against the bed, your thighs squeezing against the sides of his head but he just moans, his free hand palming almost mindlessly at your hip. 

Your chest burns, unable to draw in enough air even as you frantically gasp. Your nerves are still alight, like embers ready to catch fire with the slightest breeze as that pressure coils so tight in you it becomes nearly unbearable. 

No sound leaves you as you come undone, his arm pressing down over your hips to hold you still as you shake beneath him. Your eyes are stuck somewhere in the back of your head, the air trapped in your chest finally releasing as a near sob as you pulse and flutter around him. 

“Simon, please.” You try again, gently trying to pull him back up to you and he almost looks reluctant before he lets you guide him up and onto the bed. 

He settles on his back, tongue pushing out lick your lingering arousal off his lips as he watches you straddle his hips. His hands push up your thighs, your hips, your sides, cupping your breasts to watch the way the flesh molds in his hands. 

You fumble with his belt for a moment before he seems to catch on, reaching down to catch your wrists and your eyes snap back up to his.

He’s sitting upright now, his eyes heavy and face red as he stares down at you. 

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want.” He half slurs the words, sounding almost drunk as his grip on your hands loosens. 

“I know,” you quickly assure him, slowly pulling your hands from his and urging him back down onto the mattress. “I want to.” 

This time he helps you with his clothes, undoing his belt and pushing his pants and underwear just far enough down for his cock to spring free. He sighs, eyes closing and head pressing back into the comforter at finally being free of the tight confines of his jeans. 

He’s large, and hard and flushed, giving an enthusiastic bob when your hands settle on his waist and it sends another wave of want scorching through you. You slowly reach out, curling your fingers around him and giving a slow stroke and a low, strained sound leaves him as his hips push up into your hand. 

You hold your bottom lip between your teeth as you shift over him, his hands settling on your hips to help steady you as you line him up with your sex. His eyes never leave you as you ever so slowly let yourself sink down onto him. 

The second he spreads you open you moan, the stretch already verging on mind numbing and he’s barely inside you. He swears under his breath, fingers tightening on your hips as he tries to slow your descent. You hold on to his wrists in an attempt to stay upright, head thrown back as strained breaths and sounds spill from you, thighs already trembling. 

You let out a sound that’s a mix of relief and helplessness as you finally sink fully down onto him. 

“Fuckin’ tight,” he grounds out and you whimper, unable to help the way your body clenches around him. “You alright?” 

You give an enthusiastic nod, still trying to catch your breath but you choke out, “feel good.” 

He grunts, gaze darkening as he stares up at you, hands palming at your ass as he waits for you to move. 

You start slow, just barely raising your hips before lowering yourself back down and you can already tell you aren’t going to last long. Reaching so deep inside you it nearly verges on painful, the sensation entirely overwhelming in the best way possible. 

You brace your hands against his chest as you start a slow pace, moaning as each drag of him against your insides has your body burning with need. Something unfamiliar and frantic overtaking you as you begin to move faster against him, chasing the high your body is very quickly working back up to. 

“Fuck- that’s it,” he groans, using his grip on your hips to help lift you off him, panting as he watches you begin to unravel. “Take what you need, love.” 

You’re breathing so quickly you feel like you’re just teetering on the edge of hyperventilating, twisting the fabric of his hoodie in your fingers as you ride him. 

“S-Simon, I’m- I-” you babble, wanting to plead, wanting to cry, wanting you scream as everything in you winds tight enough to break. 

He pushes himself upright, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you into him, peppering kisses across your lips, your jaw, your throat, one of his hands pushing up your back until he’s cradling the back of your head. You shift your hands to his shoulders, trying to maintain your rhythm as the new angle has him pushing deeper into you, mind melting when you feel the tip of his cock brush against your cervix. 

“Doing so well,” the words tear from him in a breathless rasp, his breath hot against your throat. “Taking me so good.” 

You nearly sob, letting your head fall forward to rest against his shoulder. You try to get something close to a warning but you’re too brain dead, nothing but garbled nonsense leaving you as your hips stutter, sinking fully onto him once more as you come around him. 

He makes a sound almost like he’d been punched in the gut, holding you tighter against him as he spills inside you, his voice cracking as he lets out a low moan. 

You let yourself melt fully into him, deadweight against him as you pant and hiccup for air, his hands still massaging soothingly at your scalp, the other holding you steady against him. 

“You ok?” He asks, growing tense when you don’t respond, forcing you upright as he takes your face in his hands. “Fox?” 

You give a weak little groan, desperately trying to force yourself back into your body. Your pulse is humming in your ears, thighs still twitching and spasming from your orgasms and the position you’re in. 

“Did I hurt you?” He asks, the tinge of fear that creeps into his voice leaving you feeling suddenly very sober. 

“No, no, I’m fine, just-” it takes an incredible amount of effort to form anything close to coherent, leaning heavily into his hands, “-brain feels like fuckin’ jello.” 

You see him relax slightly but he doesn’t look fully convinced, thumb reaching up to swipe away some of the mascara that had smudged under your eyes only to create a bigger mess, “you sure?” 

“Positive that was-” you let out a slow exhale, reaching up to rest your hand over one of his, “it was great.” 

He makes a sound of agreement, his arms circling back around you to pull you into him. This kiss is gentle, almost unsure, but you can taste yourself faintly in his lips and it sends a strange flush through you, core tensing weakly at the thought. 

Ghost groans, hands fumbling at your waist as if to try and stop you before realizing that won’t work. 

He helps lift you off him and you grimace, both at the feeling of him leaking out of you and the achy numbness in your legs. 

“Sorry, shouldn’t have done that.” He watches you squirm, curling your toes and rolling your ankles as you try to work feeling back into your legs. 

“It’s fine, don’t have reproductive organs, remember?” You assure him but he still looks grim. 

“Still shouldn’t have without asking,” he stresses, shifting to the edge of the bed to grab his jacket, fishing through the pockets until he finds his cigarettes and a lighter. 

“How about I let you make it up to me,” you offer, pressing yourself against his back and resting your chin against his shoulder as your arms wrap around him. 

“How’s that?” He asks, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice as he puffs on his cigarette, one of his hands coming up to rest over yours. 

“You come take a shower with me,” you say before stressing, “without the mask. And then we crawl back into bed and cuddle until we fall asleep.” 

He gives a thoughtful hum, but doesn’t say anything, releasing a cloud of smoke as he stares out the window. 

“We can take a shower in the dark, or I can close my eyes or something if you really don’t want me to see you, but-” 

“It’s fine. We can do that,” he cuts you off, not unkindly, the hand over yours curling gently around your fingers. 

“Really?” You blink at him, able to see just enough of his face to see him nod. 

“Just let me finish my smoke.” 

You give a small ‘ok’ ready to move away but his hand tightens around yours, stopping you before you get too far. 

“Feels nice,” he says simply, his grip on your hand softening enough to give you the option to pull away. 

You press yourself back into him, arms circling around his waist as you lean against him, resting your head against his shoulder blade as you wait for him to finish. 

Him moving and startling you awake is the only indicator you’ve started to doze, blinking blearily up at him as he rises from the edge of the bed. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He reaches for you, lifting you easily against his chest before he carries you to the bathroom. 

He sets you down on the toilet before he turns on the water, letting it run and giving it time to warm up. 

You watch him pull off his socks before pushing his boxers and still undone pants down and off his hips. His hoodie and undershirt soon follow. He’s covered in scars, his legs, his torso, his arms. A scattering of scars over his left side connecting to the story he’d told you about being shot. He also has a tattoo across his upper back as well as his forearm, done in a similar inky black style. And you of course know he’s strong but you’ve never really seen his body before, muscular and bulky but edges still softened slightly by a healthy layer of fat. 

He pauses, hesitant before he reaches up to pull his balaclava fully over his head. 

His hair is cut short, light brown and shaggy from being trapped under the balaclava. His cheekbones are strong and jaw sharp, a scar stretching over his right cheekbone and into his hairline. 

You’re also for the first time more able to discern his age by looking at him, maybe in his late 30’s even early 40’s if you’re pushing it. 

He watches you take him in, and he looks almost unsure, and so overwhelmingly tired. 

“Nice to finally meet you, Simon,” you offer playfully and his cheeks go a mild shade of pink even as he rolls his eyes. 

“Insufferable,” he grumbles before he’s pulling you into the shower. 

He lets you lean against him as he does his best to gently clean you up, even helping you get the last bit of makeup from your face, scowling at how stubbornly your mascara clings to your under eyes. 

You’re fighting off sleep again by the time you’re done and dried. Throwing on a clean pair of underwear and one of his t-shirts before crawling into his bed. He settles beside you, pulling you onto his chest and you’re more than happy to settle there as his arms wrap around you. His shirt is soft against your cheek, his hands firm and warm against your back, your body so pleasantly exhausted. 

You fall asleep quickly, his face tucked against the top of your head as he rubs soothing circles into your back.