artemis @artm-is87 - Tumblr Blog

Jun 12

my ghost (where did you go?)

thomas a. merrick x f!reader.

tw: hurt/comfort; porn with way too much plot; arguing, minor rorke/reader; kissing, vaginal fingering, misogyny, propaganda, military inaccuracies, mutual pining, miscommunication, elias sucks; smoking, grief, angst, mental health issues (they all have 'em), touch-starvation, PTSD, hopeful ending

work count: 11k (dear god)

thank u, ghoths chat, for requesting this abomination. this one goes out to you. this work took a form of its own, at one point. i dont know what happened, and dont ask me. i hope its readable. if you enjoy this, please let me know! remember to stay hydrated, take care of yourselves, and thank u for cheking this out<333 bye bah!

You might have bitten off more than you can chew.

It's not a new thought, not by a long shot. Your semi-regular trips into foreign territory don't usually involve this much dodging on your part; it probably has something to do with the fact that usually, you're not seen.

Which translates to you being essentially doomed, at almost every level possible. The battle raging in your mind forces you to analyze the situation, doing more mental gymnastics than you can handle. At the end of the day, it could be a number of things — ratted out, betrayed, a mistake done on your part; none of it matters if you don't make it out of here alive, and the odds are not looking too good. Hoping to lose them in the chaos, you take sharp turns, barely looking where you're going; first mistake. Or the seventh, you've lost count. Ducking as more bullets whizz past you, there's an urge to send thanks to whoever is listening that they seem to be coming from farther and farther away. Their fault for setting up a compound designed like a damn maze. You jump over a railing, once the opportunity presents itself, and land with a dull thud in a storage room, two levels below. Groaning, you quickly gather yourself up, crouching behind a shelf. That fall is going to leave a nasty bruise, one already s but you brush it off, jaw clenched so tight you're worried your teeth will crack. Faux tough guys that act like this shit doesn't hurt are so full of it; you can't block pain away. Listening for footsteps, you hold your breath, muscles locked and ready to spring into movement again.

There are about a dozen of them, and if you were smarter than this, you'd maybe run towards a place that isn't a dead end. Things used to be so much simpler, and that's hardly a comfort. Pretending to be patriotic was easier when you knew there was someone there to at least prevent you from being shot dead in the middle of some random forest.

"We're not getting into this, now." Elias's gruff voice did nothing to dissuade your irritation.

The argument has been going on for a while, but he's just not listening. None of them are, even if you saw the hesitant looks thrown your way. Doubt has been sown, and you come to collect.

"This is going to end badly. How many times do I have to stress that? He's not worth it, Walker. The intel is not wrong, and you're walking all of us into a death trap." Taking a deep breath, you try reasoning with him, again.

You should've known better. Elias Walker is the most stubborn, short-minded and deluded man you've ever met. And you've met a few of them. Maybe besides the one always sitting by his side, he's the only person in the room who thinks that your doubts are unfounded — hence why Rorke is suspiciously silent. Normally, he would have been the most vocal, either asserting his position, or rebuking anyone else's. He should have even backed Walker, by now. Either to argue on his behalf, dismantling you in the process, or to shut down the conversation entirely. Then again, Rorke is the one with a mad-on for Almagro.

"She ain't wrong." Merrick's muted voice rang out, but at the sharp glare Elias sent him, he quieted down.

Pussy.

"Let's make one thing clear, here, agent. That's our job, to protect and serve, even if our lives are always at risk. You knew that when you signed up. I'm not hearing anything else about this. Pack, and get going." He gets way too close to your face for comfort, and your eyes narrow.

"Or what, Scarecrow? You'll bench me? My lord, anything but this." The sarcasm is not the smartest of moves, but your mouth has always gotten you in trouble. Walked out of it alive, though.

And it's for the very reason he's disregarding right now, hellbent on standing on his bullshit ideas and patriotic nonsense. It makes you want to barf. Unlike him, you didn't sign up to kill people, and then die for a cause that doesn't even matter, in the end. You didn't even get to decide. Thrown into a war you never wanted to be a part of, just because men made it their prerogative. He has the gall to preach to you about heroism, when all he means is to become a martyr. Rolling your eyes, you go to turn around, more than done attempting to get through his thick skull. He wants to die? Fine.

You don't get far. An arm yanks you back, and you react on instinct — punch, throw their weight off; soon there's screaming, Rorke pulling Elias away and jamming a finger into his face, while Merrick pulls you to him with a firm hold. It doesn't spark panic, not the same way, but you can't even look at him. All you see is Walker, seething and on the edge, and you make the choice for him.

"I wonder, Scarecrow. Do your sons know what kind of man raises them? I bet they don't. I doubt they'll figure it out before you can brainwash them, too. They don't have a fuckin' choice. But I do. You want your medal? Go, fetch." With that, you walk out, ignoring his squawking and enraged yelling.

Someone called your name on the way out. Probably Thomas, maybe Rorke. Doesn't matter. You don't look back.

You blink back into the presence, trying to shake the memories out of your head. They can't help you, anymore. With the way you've been living the past few years, no one can. Not even Ghosts.

A lot happened during your time away, and most of it was not pleasant. It would be enough to have to deal with Federation, survival and the general sense of dread slowly overtaking you, but considering your past ties, it became clear very soon that you cannot escape the tight grip the military has on you. At least you got to experience freedom for a little bit, however dreadful it turned out to be. The nightmares started soon after, and that brief peace you felt crumbled like a house of cards. Sometimes, in your darkest moments, you wish you had stayed. If not for the possibility of showing Elias that he was wrong, costing him a friend, then for the fact that you know you could have changed the outcome. The rest of the time, the conscious way you force yourself to evaluate, you couldn't care less.

Unfortunately, your credentials were exactly what became a desperate need once the Federation was formed. As much as you wanted to just lock yourself up in a cave and live off whatever you could find, that wasn't what happened. It pisses you off to no end that instead of doing something useful, they decided to waste their precious resources on tracking you down like a rabid dog. You got offered a deal, and isn't that a funny way to say coerced — continue working from the shadows, on your own terms, but do not stray away in terms of taking sides. They were doing damage control at that point. Having someone with your skill set on their side is a pretty good bonus to you becoming another nameless body bag they can throw at their enemies, but were you to go over to Feds (who'd welcome you with open arms), now that would be a risk they weren't willing to take. Not seeing any other options, you took the deal. Not out of self-preservation, not because of the benefits — not starving, for example. It's because you saw first hand how much damage this war was doing to people who didn't have a weapon on them at all times, or the ability to even use it, protect themselves, and their homes. You saw loss, and as frightening as the prospect has become, you're of better use doing what you're told. It's funny, almost, to think you'd spent your days on this earth spying on people, killing them, and then taking their supplies with the intention of giving them out. It's so laughable, you could cry.

It all brought you here. You're bleeding already, a stray bullet skimming your shoulder, behind enemy lines and with no hope for a rescue. It doesn't take a genius to figure out who's leading this specific branch of the Federation's army. That knowledge was the sole reason the US military reached out and pleaded with you, asking for surveillance and possible intel; it was the only thing that convinced you to go. He's changed, is what you keep hearing, but the reality is much more complex, almost too much. You didn't exactly leave the Ghosts as his friend, barely a coworker at that point, really, seeing as the man has a hard time hearing the word no; but Rorke has always been like this. The Federation's torture brought him the freedom to act on everything he's whispered to you in moments of faux vulnerability. They were few, and far between, which is exactly why you made sure to remember them — perhaps using the fact that he was all too willing to share with you as a sick occupational habit. To gather as much information as possible, in case it becomes useful. You hate that it actually is, in this case.

You liked Rorke. Perhaps not as much as he wanted you to, but he was one of the few people to understand your position. Well, he and Merrick, but that thought gets thrown away quickly. No point dwelling on the past. Especially since it seems to have caught up to you — you've heard his voice on the radios, meaning he's either here, or close enough to catch a bullet. It's improbable that he knows it's you, but it doesn't really matter; the man is hellbent on killing all of the Ghosts, and as much as it pains you, once upon a time that's exactly what you were. He already got Ajax, Elias, and took his kid. You've heard all about it, but stayed far enough out of their radar that they didn't get any ideas. Until now, at least.

You have no interest in getting back to being institutionalized again, even if it's not technically a psych ward. It sure felt like it, sometimes. Besides, your business with Ghosts was finished the second you walked out on them. Or it would have been, if not for Rorke. Reality gives you a blank stare — you're here, getting shot at by his men, sent on an assignment by the same people who command and fund Ghosts. It's like some cruel joke; a karmic event you should've foreseen. Sighing, you wipe the sweat from your forehead and rummage around for something to wrap the arm; you don't have a lot of options. This mission has already drained your resources, both physically and mentally. Hiding isn't going to save you, though, so you bear the pain following applying pressure on the wound, and forming a plan that doesn't involve you just laying down and accepting defeat. Another hard lesson learned through a firm fist and a beating. God bless America.

They're in disarray, that's clear. The military's last effort paid off, and the Feds seem to be working less efficiently than before. You stole a radio off a guard, before they were alerted of your presence, and it looks like they're canvassing the area; far enough to buy you some time. Hissing through your teeth and biting down till your lips bleed, you tighten the makeshift bandage around your arm and look around. The compound you infiltrated seemed standard, but they've had a lot more shipments routed through here lately for it to be a coincidence. The brass hoped it meant a prisoner, and of course, they thought it must be Walker. Their obsession may seem like concern at first, but it would be naive to think they actually give a shit about what happens to their soldiers. You told them it was hopeless, this blind jumping to conclusions they like to do — Rorke was unable to be found on purpose, and you'd know, because you were there. If there's any chance of finding the kid, it's not going to be done by sending in one woman to do a job a whole unit couldn't. It would be too much to ask for them to listen, as usual, but that's hardly a surprise. They're all deaf to reason.

You should count your blessings, though. This facility gave you more than you expected to find, and it should give them some leeway in planning more assaults, but it also includes Rorke, which you didn't account for — stupid mistake. You should've figured he'd be overseeing this, considering the amount of movement this place has been seeing, and the Feds' general anxiety following the last battle they lost. Now, you have to improvise, and figure out a way outside. Losing them in the woods is your safest bet, but it's going to be close. You hate that.

There's a vent above your head, big enough for you to fit in it, but the soldiers are patrolling around the room, circling you like vultures. They haven't come into the room yet, which is a shocker, one you won't take for granted.

"Maybe if you weren't so afraid of everything, you'd actually prove yourself useful. As it stands, agent, you're here because the Ghosts need an intelligence specialist, and for some reason I still don't understand, you're the only one for the job." The officer looked almost disgusted, like the mere sight of a woman standing tall over him was causing indigestion.

You'd roll your eyes, but something told you that could end in a backhand. Wouldn't be the first time.

"Let me put it plainly: you fuck up, you're out of a job. Barely one, anyway, but you can't exactly complain, can you?" he asked, smug as all hell, and so condescending you wondered if his brain was actually rotting, in that thick, ugly skull.

Thrown to the wolves, they expected you to fail. You didn't. And it had nothing to do with the man's threat; you put minimum effort into your work, and then got to see him seethe, when the full transfer documents came through. How fitting — your fear seemed to work out just fine, in the end. His did not.

Timing is not on your side, but you make do. They're getting antsy, stopping in front of the door too often, which means it's time to hustle and get moving. Hefting yourself up on a shelf, wobbly as it is, and hop on to grab the ledge of the vent, not wasting a moment and crawling in. The sound of a door breaking down quickly follows, but you ignore it. If you remember the schematics correctly, there's a short path to the outer hallway, from which point on you'll just have to run and hope another bullet doesn't lodge itself in your brain. Optimism has never been used to describe you, and you think it shows. Then again, you highly doubt that happy-go-lucky feelings would ever lead you down the same path in life; forced to make the choices you have, all in the name of survival. Like shimmying through a metal tube, trapped behind enemy lines and left alone in a world that only wanted to fuck you over.

Thank god for the general noise level in this place, otherwise the dull thuds of your body moving around in the ceiling would've alerted them of your current position in a matter of seconds. You want to stop, like an instinct, just to make sure it's safe — listen for their movement, think carefully. You know it won't matter anyway, though. It wouldn't make a difference in the long run, but it does have the extra risk sprinkled in; the setback could potentially make your body very hard to identify.

"I want that intruder found. Nobody, and I mean, nobody should've known this place even existed, for cryin' out loud! Move your assess and do your damn jobs!" Rorke's voice screams out in your ear, and you wince.

He sure doesn't sound happy, but you hardly blame him. Granted, it is amusing to watch him squirm, but his reaction is understandable. There's no plausible way someone should have obtained knowledge of this facility, let alone get their hands on the shipment manifest. However, contrary to popular opinion, you didn't get this job by accident. You're good at this, as horrific and gut-wrenching as it is. Following breadcrumbs, connecting dots no one thinks to even look twice at — it's what you do best, and it's what landed you a place in an elite task force, instead of being relegated to desk duty.

If you're being honest, you're kind of waiting for the shoe to drop. Rorke knows all of this; he has been one of the few to actually notice your skill, rather than focusing on the fact that you have a pair of tits. Of course, that was the thinking he hoped to achieve, because reality was different, more skewed. Armed with an ulterior motive, and the means provided oh so kindly by the US military to attempt an execution, he saw that you were, just as much as any of them — dangerous, and that was something he could have used. Logan isn't the only one he set his sights on and decided he wants them for himself. Which brings you to now, and to a point where you know he'll figure it out eventually. The fact that he hasn't is just the slightest bit interesting; for all you know, he could have completely lost it, this far down the line. It'd be a nice development, all things considered.

You were never that lucky.

"Oh, I can't believe I hadn't thought of this. There's a little mouse in our midst, isn't there?" That smug drawl makes you shiver, and not in a good way.

Here comes the aha moment.

"It's you, isn't it? Only one woman I know is insane enough to pull this off. They finally dusted you off, eh? And to think you'd agree. I thought you were better than this, darlin'. Always believed you and me would be on the right side of history, but they're still stringin' you along. Like a puppet." It's like a switch flipped; the anger disappeared like a puff of smoke.

That condescending tone, the egotism and the false sureness he exudes through simple words make you grind your teeth, close to seething. And you then stop, when it dawns on you that the last thing you want is to give him that satisfaction. He may be in a superior position, what with the looming threat he poses, and the fact that you're literally trying to run away from his bald ass, but it doesn't mean that he's holding all the cards. Your paranoia serves a purpose, and it's to always have a backup plan. It doesn't involve a rescue, but that's probably for the best — as much as you gripe about the Ghosts, you don't want their blood on your hands, figuratively speaking. Rorke would be the one pulling the trigger, no doubt, but you'd be the first domino. Well, the more you think about it, and purposefully ignore his continuous taunts on the comms (does he ever shut up?) — that are starting to be way too personal for your taste; the clearer it becomes that you're just another piece of the puzzle. Elias is the catalyst.

You only had one thought in your head when you learned of Walker's death.

Did he know?

That through his actions — that delusional, self-aggrandizing way he conducted himself, the way he cultivated and created a perfectly obedient, ass-kissing environment where he was to be king, and anyone opposing his rule — the enemy, was the cause for every misery brought upon the Ghosts. By extension, it now applies to his sons. Did he think, for just a moment, as he lay there awaiting his end, that maybe he was wrong? That he wasn't an omnipotent being with unlimited power, but merely a man, whose ambitions never really exceeded past anything that wasn't already expected of him. Rorke calls you a puppet, something with ready to pull strings; an object, in the hands of someone else. You're not the one who conformed to it all, gave up his agency and became a tool that was falsely led to believe they're actually in charge of their own life. He became what the system wanted him to be — an extension, a continuation of a bloody legacy.

You have awareness on your side. It's not absolving, but it's a start. Besides, you were labelled as a thing long before you were thrusted into war. Your birth marks the moment you became something others could play with. Neither Rorke, nor Elias, were ever able to comprehend that.

Sadness was not a foreign feeling. Neither was grief. Lord knows you shed enough tears when the news about Ajax reached you, but for Elias? No. You weren't going to mourn the man who proved himself to be a pathetic excuse of a leader, and not much else. Does that mean you were about to shake hands with Rorke, join his insane crusade, with a bonus membership card to a system that's fundamentally the same as the one you're currently in?

You thought about it. Once or twice. War is war, though — the colors, sides or flags don't matter. Their only dogma is that the means justify the end, but it's never going to get to that point, isn't it? It'd be like changing a pair of shoes. The only thing that matters when you pick them is what the path ahead of you looks like. Which is why you were so hesitant to agree to come even near the main portion of the operations against the Federation. Rorke, Ghosts, neither is going to stop until the other is destroyed; they will fight to the death, and until now, you were fine staying the hell away from it. There was no feverish need to aid either side, or to provide more assistance. You learned to swallow that down — way after you were brutally assaulted with the fact that it's unlikely to ever be reciprocated. One man treated you with kindness. He's also the one who stood by while you left, watched with his head bowed like he was asking for absolution.

Is the: a) emotional distance, and b) general apathy — a sign that you might not be coping well? Probably. Not your biggest problem right now. Rorke still talking — is.

The self-reflection is really not doing you any favors. It's hard to stop it, though, when the same thoughts have been circulating for a long time, merely buried. You wanted to help; itched for a chance to get back at Rorke, to join their efforts and do something useful, because as long as you stayed far from the main battle, you were forced to watch helplessly as they tore each other apart. Admitting to a fault is one thing, but to do so with your own thoughts, feelings — is enough to have you squeeze your eyes tight like a child trying to stop tears from falling.

Rorke's stalling you, but you tune him out. You know this man, know how he operates; Rorke's hoping to create panic, instill fear strong enough to force your hand, make you sloppy. It's not like he needs to do much; you're already rattled by the mere prospect of having to get out of here, but the asshole wants to see it. Gritting your teeth, you focus on the pain radiating from your shoulder, and vow to never let that happen, no matter what. You're fine with dying, it's just the how and by whose hand of it that bothers you. Besides, it would be kind of a waste if all this intel you've accumulated just made it right back into the Federation's hands. It's not exactly perseveration that fuels you right now, but something more angry, vindictive. Hearing Rorke speak, the same way men like him always do — like you're just his entertainment, worth about as much as the dirt under his shoe, activated something you've squashed before, resisting the urge to bite back. That, or you're doing exactly what he hopes you to do.

Prove them wrong.

The movement around you speeds up, boots thudding against concrete rapidly telling you that your time has just run out. Well, then. Time for plan B.

You were never really planning on utilizing this, considering the covert aspect of your mission, but it's fitting that it happens when a literal ghost finally catches up to you. You squeeze your hand under your breast pocket, fishing out a small detonator. The amount of explosives you managed to plant in the sub-level — not so small. You press the button, and feel your lips twitch.

It shakes the whole building, but not enough to rupture the foundation. Rorke curses over the radio. Your lips twitch, but you prioritize the advantage you just gave yourself. It may be the only one you get.

Finally, you reach the end of the vent, and promptly hop out in the right place. As predicted, the soldiers are scrambling, with some of them trying to contain the panic and reroute everyone to their stations; flushed out rats will do everything for survival, after all. One bomb usually equals another, and it's not like you gave them a lot to work with — from their perspective, following you could be a literal army. You want to laugh. It doesn't really matter that you only had the one charge, by the time they realize you are in fact alone, and not planning to fully erase this building from existence, you'll be long gone. Hopefully.

You check the perimeter as efficiently as you can, jogging up to a corner and begging for a clear path. Considering the insanity happening on the radio, you deem it safe enough, but something nags at you, your stomach turning and brain blaring. Rorke has been suspiciously quiet during your daring escape, which could mean nothing. There hasn't been a peep from him since the explosion, and while barely any time has passed, at least in normal people's standards — it's been long enough for someone to run through the whole facility, and back. For you, living in a constant state of constant dread, paranoia, and vigilance, it's like you barely blinked. Which is why it shouldn't surprise you at all that the second you smell fresh air, a familiar arm yanks, throwing you against the wall. Nothing cracks, aside from your pride.

It does take the wind out of you, though. Luckily, you recover fast, only to look up to a gun pointed directly at your face.

Rude.

You knock it back before a word can be uttered out of his big, dumb mouth; throwing a kick at his knees that makes him stagger. It's enough, but you're not satisfied. When you hear a familiar crack upon the impact your fist makes with his face, now that — could actually signify the end of your life, and you wouldn't complain. His nose is bleeding, and a second passes when your gazes meet, freezing you in place. So many repressed memories, so much heartache and grief, locked in a single moment. He looks haggard, the years don't seem to have been kind to him, and yet there's still so much familiarity in his stare, making it impossible for you to smother the resentment arising. He sees it, that moment where you make your final decision, and you almost think you hallucinate him looking solemn, defeated. Unlikely, and knowing him, it's another manipulation tactic ready to deploy and trap you, only serving to piss you off further, and your eyes narrow. It's unspoken, an agreement to remain enemies till the faithful day death claims its toll, and you both draw at the same time.

While he may be stronger, you have speed on your side. Not only is your uniform much lighter than his, not fond of something weighing you down, he's also gotten slow. It's easy, then, to side-step the bullet, and fire one that hits him in the shoulder. Now, you're matching. He snarls, charging at you and pushing you back, forcing you to wrestle for some semblance of control. This part is a bit more challenging, but you remember how he fights, and his style hasn't changed much. He manages to put you in a front lock, and you grin up at him, rejoicing in the slight alarm flashing in his eyes — your head connects with his, a sick crunch following, and it's your nose this time. It doesn't matter, not when adrenaline pumps, the pain subsiding as soon as it appears; he loosens his grip, then groans when you kick him in the chest, his body flying back. The gun got knocked away too far, and you have a split second to decide whether to go for it, or to strangle him with your bare hands. The choice is made for you when the sound of choppers hits your ears.

"Fuck." You curse, looking away towards the open skies.

When you turn your head back in Rorke's direction, the idiot is already running away.

Being a coward is better than being a dead coward, you suppose. As much as you want to chase, tackle him to the ground and beat him till your knuckles bleed, he might have the right idea. This mission was not meant to be a confrontation between you and Rorke; the main purpose has been achieved — you got the intel, and more of it than you initially estimated. Now, it'd be good to get out of here and deliver it, alive. Retracing your own steps, the place now barren of soldiers, thank god, is not much of a challenge. The trick is doing it without drawing the attention of the helicopters, whose sight of is enough to make you pick up the pace a little. They clearly picked up Rorke, but if the other sheep followed suit, abandoning this place, it only means one thing.

You hear it first. The sound of a missile dropping will never not turn your blood into ice. It's a shock to the system, something nobody should have ever built, let alone utilized. The blast knocks you back into a building already starting to crack, and if you had any mental capacity left, you would have been annoyed at being constantly thrown around like a rag doll. As it stands, all you can do is breathe, cough up smoke and dirt, before allowing your fight-or-flight to take over. You run, tunnel vision making it difficult to see which direction you actually picked, but some part of your brain not yet overtaken by pure instinct rationally supplies that it's the one your escape plan covers. So many variables you can't account for, ever; so many things left to fate, and other bullshit that makes no sense in a world plagued with war and despair. You're getting tired of it.

It didn't start out of nowhere. It progressed slowly, like a festering disease, gradually overtaking your mind and rendering you useless. You wanted the fighting to stop, and yet you couldn't. There was always more, nagging at you to move, to work and to act; otherwise, something terrible will happen, and you would be the one responsible for it. Fear became a steady companion, one that morphed into resignation, and in the final stages, exhaustion. Bone weary, you saw the relentless reality you got stuck in. He did too, for better, or worse.

"Hey. You been up here long? It's getting cold." He sounds gruff, even if he's trying for gentle. You don't mind.

Merrick's steps are measured, controlled, but you know it's not because he sees you as some spooked animal. It's because he chooses to make it known that, despite his facade, he actually gives a shit. It's strange, almost. You wanted to hate him when you first came here, gravitating towards Rorke like a masochist; oh, how the tables turn. Thomas didn't try too hard to seem likeable. In fact, he was an asshole. Yet again, that shouldn't be as appealing as it is, and yet you feel more at ease when he's around. It might have started when you realized Rorke was using you, just as Walker was, just as everyone ever did. Same old story, with an anomaly emerging — you asked him for something, he gave it, rarely doing the same in return; he had your back, didn't scrutinize, doubt or invalidate your mere existence. It might be the bare minimum a human being should get, and yet life taught you otherwise. Still, that's not why you stuck to him like a glue trap, slowly unraveling the man who would rather check up on you, than get some well-deserved rest.

"Just thinkin'." It's a loaded gun, the sentence. Your voice reeks of fatigue, weary and broken down into a shell.

He hums, and you know he won't press. Might ask, if he's worried enough, but he'd rather wait it out. It's nice, not being pressured, for once; but sometimes you wish that he would just stick his hand down your throat and rip the words out. It'd be easier, that's for sure.

Instead, he drapes a jacket—his jacket, over your shoulders, sitting down on the rooftop. Close enough for his body heat to make its way to your chilled skin, but far enough to seem professional. You're way beyond that, but the gesture is appreciated. He looks tense, but then — he always does. Something to this job, the stress and worry piling up into a mess of trauma, fear and exhaustion; it never goes away, either. You want to smooth the lines on his face with your fingers, press yourself into him until it bleeds through, taking away the shared pain and loss. It'd be more bearable, that way. Shared sorrows, and all that. He keeps glancing over, like looking away from you is the conscious choice, and you sway into his side after you get tired of catching his stare from the side. He makes a noise, something caught between a grunt and a groan, before his arm envelops your whole form, shifting closer and closer, until there's barely any space between you left. You melt into him, his grip tightening. It's not oppressive, not how Rorke's touch always felt — something strangling, a trap ready to be sprung. No, Thomas's protective, but if you tensed for a single second, he'd get away so fast, you wouldn't even be aware time passed. It's still unspoken, this thing. You feel it, the way he lingers, gaze always finding yours, body navigating closer in a way that's almost instinctive.

You are, however, a coward. One that cannot overcome the fear of actually letting him in, bearing a part of yourself to the only person in your entire life that wouldn't take it for themselves, and destroy it until there's nothing left. He knows, you suppose. It's not that difficult to figure out. It's also clear that there's much more at stake right now than some repressed feelings. Tensions have been rising; you've been making less and less appearances with the whole team, because when you do, it takes every ounce of restraint not to tear Elias's throat out. Walker isn't the only problem, but he is the catalyst for every argument, and while Merrick hasn't said it, there's very little chance he'd actually oppose his Captain. You're at your wits' end, and you're burning out faster than you can handle. One more push could do it, for all you know.

It started slow, but it didn't end that way. You got your push, and they — got their ruin.

You pass out, somewhere between hours 2 and 3 of escaping the compound. Luckily it happened far enough away to not make you an obvious target, but there's a gaping hole where your memory is supposed to be. Waking up slumped on the wheel of the car you stole isn't exactly the most comfortable situation to be in, but it's better than being dead. That remains to be seem though, because what jolts you out of a slumber is the sound of armed vehicles, and your muscle memory kicks in, forcing your hand to reach for a gun and duck. There's no shooting, no yelling at you to get out of the vehicle; after an awkwardly long amount of time you decide to peek. Bleary eyed, you end up groaning out loud at what you see. Sometimes you wonder why they made the American flag so obnoxious-looking. It's glaring at you like a bad omen, and the dread worsens when you see a familiar figure get out of the car. You feel your finger twitch against the trigger.

It takes a second for his eyes to make sense of who's sitting in the car, the dirty windshield making him squint, and you hold your breath as you wait for him to recognize you. Half-expecting a visceral reaction, you hop out, boots scraping against the road, putting on a brave face — even if your insides feel like they're about to implode. Merrick stops dead in his tracks, expression doing a somersault you're too tired to dissect. Sighing and holstering your weapon, you start walking in their direction. Time to face the past. You want to barf.

Keegan explains it to you, because Thomas has seemingly gone into a stupor. They received the information about an operative sent out to recover intel and once the explosion registered on the satellite, they got their orders to ship out, find them and bring them home. What an adorable sentiment. You listen to it with a blank expression, pointedly not looking at the new Captain, occasionally answering the other men with half-words and noncommittal hums. Russ doesn't mind; he never did, but his eyes betray him — the way he keeps jumping back and forth between you and Merrick speak louder than a good, old-fashioned interrogation. It all makes for one awkward-as-hell atmosphere, only occasionally broken up by Walker's kid, who looks like he's seen better days. You can relate.

It's not exactly surprising — his current, pathetic state, but it's also a sort of mystical experience for you. The child whose existence you used to throw back in his dad's face is suddenly a man, one with somehow the same and drastically different, hypocritical ideologies as his papa. You don't know him well enough yet, but it's clear he's not completely hopeless.

David's not wary of you right out the bat, for one; a positive improvement, if you've ever seen one. Hesh is grateful for you, even, and that solidifies him as at least partially free of his late father's biases. Most of all, though, he's grieving. Despite the obvious disappointment he feels when you inform him that you did not manage to find his brother, he remains cordial. You feel bad for him, but the only thing you can offer right now is a fighting chance, an edge; you've distanced yourself from life for so long, fighting so hard to protect the last remnants of your sanity by hiding everything away, that it's difficult to offer any comfort. It doesn't matter that you understand what he's feeling all too well.

You're not exactly pleased that you have to go back with them, even if the possibility was always there. The altercation with Rorke merely sped the process up, and it's that unpredictability that irks you. Keegan asks directly, so you recount it to him in the most boring, clinical way possible, including what the man said to you. Try as he might, Merrick cannot refrain from reacting — it's like watching a dog fight against a bell. His hands clench over the steering wheel so hard you hear the leather creak, and his entire face spasms when you mention offhandedly that Rorke offered you a spot by his side. You try to stop it, the cracks from forming in your carefully constructed walls, but the mere sight of him after all these years is enough to make you feel soft. He looks tired, and you bet you do too, but it doesn't mean he looks bad, which is a bit annoying. It hasn't been the easiest of years, and so much has happened that by all accounts, you should just forgive and forget, the hatchet buried, accept things of the past. Easier said than done. You can't fully let go of the resentment, of the fear and sorrow. Merrick casts you a nervous glance through the rear-view mirror, like he knows. That there's yet expunged rage simmering just beneath your skin, and a simple reunion after years apart is not going to fix this.

Unbeknownst to you, the only thought permeating through his mind is that it doesn't matter. He'll damn well try, anyway.

The base looks, and smells, like shit. You've been here for a week now, and your brain has yet to habituate to the stench of testosterone-fueled men with anger issues, and a general distaste for personal hygiene. Tough times, and all that, you get it, but this is a bit of an exaggeration.

Once debriefed, you were asked to stay with the Ghosts and continue your assignment from there. Politely, you informed them that technically, your job was finished the second you got away from the compound, but as they see it — there's more, and you, alongside the team, have better odds at getting an actual advantage over the Federation. You had to roll your eyes at that one; they've been saying this since the war started (longer than that), and there has been an ungodly amount of times where they gained an upper hand, only for it to circle back to the beginning when Feds strike back. It's like a swing, but someone needs to cut the kids off at some point. Problem is, the children in this case are grown people with highly advanced weaponry, and a pathological thirst for power. It's always the same bullshit, only spun a different way. You're getting really sick of it.

The only reason you decided to stay is because of Hesh (and that's the only reason, for sure). The kid is barely hanging on, and that's putting it lightly. Getting to know him a bit better only confirmed your earlier assumption — sure, he has a lot of the Walker gene running through him, but it seems to be overshadowed by the sheer grief at losing his brother, a distaste for the perpetuating cycle his father started. The war matters only as long as he can get Logan back, and kill Rorke with his bare hands. That last one, you can relate to. It doesn't help that the team is in a general state of disarray, their organization abysmal, and the pressure put on them is not exactly making it easy to deliver results, either.

He's nice, though — David. Seems kind, listens attentively, isn't arrogant and self-righteous. It's a dissonance, one proving harder to cope with than you thought. Something in you is still worried he'll turn around, and fix you with the same glare as his father. One that spoke of nothing but disdain and, on the worst days, disgust. It hasn't happened yet, and you have to remind yourself of the probability — it's highly unlikely Hesh is just like Elias. Doesn't stop you from being wary and tense around him, so maybe agreeing to help look for Logan is your way of making up for it. Who knows, you're not a psychologist.

Keegan's coping in his usual way, and the fact that at least some things don't change made you almost hysterical. He's hiding away, constantly in the shadows, only showing up when he's needed with an almost eager disposition. Russ isn't someone who openly leaps in excitement at the prospect of more work, but he's always there when someone needs him; like a silent shadow. You know it haunts him — that he didn't make it in time to save Elias. You'd console him, but you don't think you can fake giving a shit enough to make it convincing.

Also, there's just nothing to do anymore. Not since it's really starting to look like you might be their last hope.

They had nothing prior to you coming back. Kick described it as an impasse, that after their last defeat, the Federation retreated back into their jungle. If not to hide Logan, then to lick their wounds in peace. You had to stare at him for a few minutes after that slab of information, before you broke and grabbed him by the shoulders, near tears. You made it very clear to him hat the Feds were doing anything but that. In terms of Rorke, sure; you stole enough documents to buy into him holing somewhere away, his injuries severe enough to warrant a longer rest, but you bet he spent that time practicing his manipulation tactics on Logan. As for bigger plans, they remained fluid — if they weren't gathering supplies, replenishing their weaponry, they were doing the same thing you were. Learning.

Maybe you shouldn't have phrased it in a way that made it seem like there's a possibility of something disastrous happening, because Kick absolutely lost it. You had to physically hold him down to stop him from running to Merrick in a blind panic. It made you hold your tongue a bit, toning down the casual way you've been dropping bombshells on the men. To you, the information has been filed as a fact, something processed. They didn't have that luxury. Keeping soldiers in the dark is prime military practice, after all.

Which brings you to the last issue, and the biggest one — Merrick. You've avoided him like you're paid on the hour for it, and there's no shame in saying that, seeing as it was a fully conscious decision. He's tried approaching you a few times, but either you found an easy out, or he was called away to deal with some other crisis that had suddenly emerged — which has happened often enough that you don't run anymore. All you need to do is just wait for the moment someone yells out: Captain! And you're safe. It's, of course, not a fully mature thing to do, but you don't really care. You see why Elias did it; deluding yourself is a fun brain exercise.

You can't do it forever, so you try to enjoy it while it lasts. He's been more agitated, annoyed each time his attempt at talking to you backfires, so some part of you wants to watch how much he can take before he snaps. The other fears that Elias Walker will sooner rise from the grave than the two of you will get to have a heart-to-heart.

You've been slaving away on decoding the last encryptions made to the communication between several Federation compounds when you start to sweat. They're good at their job, but so are you, which is a good thing, because you were actually able to go through this mess, but also a bad thing, because it means that you're now aware of their plans, and it's not great. It's also how you break it to the team, but they seemed to have learned to anticipate horrible news, seeing as they barely react, sans of looking grim. Merrick stares at you in silence for a long moment, and you're worried he's trying to explode you with his mind, but it seems he's finally accepted (temporary) defeat. He focuses on a mission plan, and rises up to the job like he was born for it, which shouldn't surprise you as much. You always knew he was capable of getting this high up, climb up the ladder and become a leader. You just didn't think he would take it. Always grimaced when you teased him for his lack of ambition, content to stay where he is, when he had the skills necessary to grow stronger, greater. And in a way, you were right; he took this position simply because he was forced to. It seems like you two are finally in the same boat — trekking on a path not meant for you, but through events unforeseen, the only one possible.

"You gearin' up?" he asks, and it takes you a second to realize he's talking to you.

Staring, you glance between the men, hoping to find a good enough of a reason to decline, only to see faces marred with barely concealed hope. You sigh, rubbing a hand down your face aggressively, almost like you're trying to erase your own existence.

"Fine."

It is in fact, not fine.

You're stranded, for a lack of a better word. The team got separated somewhere in the middle of getting absolutely swarmed, and comms were shot about 20 minutes ago. You're also really pissed off.

"We need to hit them with everything we've got." Merrick said, a variation of the same dismissal as the ones before.

You've been glaring at him the entire ride over. The decoded intel said one very clear thing — the Federation was starting to shake, bit by bit, and considering your last assault, they have taken countermeasures to protect their assets. Rorke was shipped off, somewhere far and wide, to perform a clever ruse and draw you all out. — it would've put you in the opposite direction of their highly classified package. From the parameters, the number of men spared to guard it and make sure it gets there in one piece, you've all come to the same conclusion. If it isn't Logan, it's still something the Feds want, which means you want it even more. Hesh gained some life, as if the tiniest sliver of hope brought his spark back; Keegan and Kick seem more determined, too, which leaves you as the realist. Rorke has a history of pulling off insane plots to save his own ass, and you don't trust this, not fully. Obviously, there's merit to it, and it should be investigated, but maybe covertly, in a way that leads to the lowest amount of risk for everyone involved.

Merrick disagrees.

It doesn't matter, in the end, what you think. It never did.

"You really gonna make the same old mistakes, won't you? A full-frontal assault could get us all killed, and Logan, if he's really there! We have no way to verify this. You're seriously willing to risk everything for what could turn out to be a disappointment?" You don't raise your voice, but there's enough venom in it to feel like a gut-wrenching scream.

He doesn't respond, avoiding eye contact and clenching his fists. It's obvious that he's at least trying not to insult you, but is doing a shit job of it.

You laugh, but it lacks humour, "I can't believe you. This is why I left, Thomas. It's the same fuckin' argument, and the outcome doesn't change, either. You stayed quiet, then. Watched me leave, didn't move to stop any of it. Then again, you barely had a backbone under Elias's thumb. I shouldn't be surprised he didn't leave one for you in the will."

Swallowing heavily, you try to stay composed. Tears spring to your eyes, but you blink them away as fast as you can; you haven't cried since you were little, you're not about to start now.

"We have to try." His voice is gutted, like it hurts him more.

You're past caring.

Of course, you had to get stuck with him. In the middle of a forest, with no backup in sight, nothing gained, everything possibly lost. The boys went out more on the south side, closer to the Feds' base, and you can only pray they heard the alarm before it all went sideways. You were on edge the whole time, hyper-vigilance kicking in, making it easy to clock the exact moment the convoy transporting your package veered off into the wrong path. Merrick argued that you were paranoid, that the cause could be something menial, and as much as you knew he could have been right, there was no way you were going to take your chances. Now, if it wasn't for you intervening, he'd be lying in a pool of his own blood. If he continues being stubborn, you're considering still making that come true.

They got the drop on you, but admittedly, it was an accident on their part. Someone spotted an unfamiliar-looking uniform and came over to check it out — alone. Considering you were busy shoving Merrick out of his line of sight, you didn't take care of the problem fast enough for it not to spread. The soldier alerted the others on the radio, and the entire convoy stopped dead in its tracks. It fell like dominoes, after, and you let Merrick drag you away, instead of toward the rest of the team. In his delusional mind, he was probably playing a knight in shining armour, but to you, it reeks of desperation and idiocy. They dared call you prone to panic when he's the one who leaps towards you like a frog at the first sign of danger. It would've been charming, sure, if you didn't know what was at stake.

He grunts, jumping over a small hill and extending a hand to help you up. You roll your eyes, ignoring it and repeat his motions. Thomas doesn't comment, merely sighing and looking at you for longer than is considered polite, before starting to move. He looks like he knows where he's going, which you highly doubt, but you've also given up on trying to talk him into doing anything other than what he wants. Something has finally unclenched in your chest, like this single event finally proved your already skewed notions about trust. There's no relief, though. Only silent resignation and complete apathy. You hope he trips.

Suddenly stopping, you almost barrel into his back, only skidding to a halt at the last moment, and staring up at his bald head. You never asked if it was a conscious choice. You hope it wasn't.

"Look, I know of a safe house not far from here. It hasn't been exactly used in a while, but it should be enough for us to fix the comms and get in touch with the rest of the team." It's a matter-of-fact, so you don't bother responding.

It doesn't seem to be what he's hoping for, because he turns up and ends up way closer to you than he thought. His eyes widen, that stupid half-mask of his doing nothing to hide his expression. Like a deer in headlights, you can see him glance at every part of your face, almost like this is the first time he's managed to do so since you came back. Your brow lifts, daring him to say something, and that seems to amuse him, a crinkle around his eyes appearing. You hate that this is still somewhat charming to you. There should be an urge to knock his teeth out, not want to smooth those lines back with your thumb. Hand twitching, you huff, waving a hand in the air and shooing him off. He stands there, unmoving, for a full minute, and you can feel your face heating up the more he stares. Damn him.

"I have a tracker on their location." Finally, he murmurs, something low and gentle, just for you.

It takes you a second to regain your senses enough to register what he said.

"What?"

"We made an agreement, after Rorke took Logan. I checked as soon as we got away, and they're on the move, too. Probably gonna hole up, and that's why I said we should do the same. I handled it, because, well…" He scratches at his cheek, a nervous glint in his gaze, "I didn't want to bother you with having to worry about more. You've already done more than you were asked to; now we're just dragging you around. Considering that you're the most valuable person on the team, I had to get you out."

Your mouth hangs open, even as he starts walking away, throwing one last forlorn look your way. Snapping out of it, you jog after him and match his speed. Confused doesn't even begin to cover how his words made you feel. It should be annoying that he manages to find the most inconvenient moments to clear the air and speak his mind, but then again, you didn't give him much of a chance to do so beforehand, did you? No way of knowing if he would have actually said the same thing or not, so there's also no point in dwelling and unpacking it piece by piece, but. If he's telling the truth, and Merrick has never lied to you (withheld information, yes, but never deceived you), it means that maybe your own sense of worth got damaged a bit more than you've had the courage to face. You received silence, so you started reading into it, playing out scenarios and fabricating facts, just to fill the void.

It's silent all the way to the safe house. That's putting it loosely, because it's nothing more than a slab of rock, at this point. Still, it's better than nothing, and you both clamber in, checking the perimeter in sync, perfectly coordinated. That might have been the first thing you noticed about him, when you first met — his thoroughness; the meticulous way he goes about any task, an attention to detail that put every other Ghost to shame. He waits a few seconds longer, checking every corner and planting traps, all the while looking your way, like it hurts him to not have you in his sights. There's something desperate in him now, a trip wire you're feeling insane enough to cross.

Once it's secure, you two sit together, slumped against a wall. Sharing a cigarette and a granola bar you managed to find in your pocket, you enjoy the quiet comfort he always brought with his mere presence. You mull his previous words over and over again, spinning them around like your head has now become a microwave. Something in you still wants to resist, to turn your back on him again and walk out, return the favor; not willing to expose yourself again only to get burned. You might not survive it, this time. But.

You're tired. It's been relentless — this self-imposed exile. Working has been good enough to keep your mind of off everything for a while, but if you're truly being honest with yourself, it wasn't even long enough to consider useful. If not for Elias, for Rorke, you would've been content to stay with them. The rest of the boys were always respectful, accepting, friendly. You can't remember the last time you called someone a friend and meant it. It seemed like an impossibility then, but something in you yearns to just stop running. Abused, beaten and alone, this random building in the middle of nowhere has no right feeling this nice. The warmth at your side is a sweet bonus, too. That's the thing with Merrick; if you told him, even then, that you didn't want those feelings out in the open, that you drew a line in the sand between comrades and more, he would have taken it in stride. Nothing would be amiss — there would be no palpable difference, no sudden change of opinion or animosity. He cared, and managed to stay selfless through all the bloodshed, smart enough to know better. That sometimes in life, we don't get the things we want; that some things are out of your hands, the control slipping from your fingers, and you have to watch helplessly as it happens, before finding your footing again and continuing to move.

"I'm sorry."

His voice drags you out of your musings, and you tilt your head sideways, getting a glimpse at his profile. He looks tired, weary and like a shell of the man you used to know, but it's still him. The words don't come as a surprise, not anymore, not after his last confession. It's the way he says it that makes you arch your brow, shift so you can look him in the eyes with an obvious question in yours. He sighs, dragging the mask completely off his face. Merrick holds it up, staring at it with grief, anger, and so much love you feel your breath catch. It's then you realize it. You don't know how you didn't see it before, but you've avoided looking at him so much over this short period of time that it's not really a wonder.

The sewing, the markings of a skull — they're different. Resembling the one you used to wear.

You've left it at base before you walked out. Laid it flat on your barracks bed and never thought of it twice. It would be a cruel reminder, another shitty experience to haunt you. He clearly kept it; hell, it looks like he modified it enough to wear it himself. With your eyes wide open, mouth slightly agape, you miss the way he turns his gaze towards your face, committing it to memory like he'll never have the chance again. Once you wipe the drool of off your mouth, your eyes lock. It's tense, a moment filled with so much repression and despair, it feels like it lasts a lifetime. If someone asked, you wouldn't be able to tell who moved first. All you know is that his mouth tastes like cigarettes and menthol gum, and after having you bite into it — blood.

It's a rough tumble to the floor, his body colliding with yours and pinning you to the musty ground of the safe house. There's probably a safety regulation about shit like this, and you'd give a damn, reprimand him and lecture about all the ways this is a bad idea, but he's not the only desperate one. You cling to his neck, yanking at his uniform and sticking yourself to him until his weight completely envelops you. His tongue licks into your mouth, the filthy drag tearing a groan out of your mouth. It's been so long since you've tasted some actual, genuine human contact, but with the way he's fumbling with your uniform already, you'd hazard a guess that he hasn't, either. You break apart for air, lips swollen, and you reach down to help him, going for the zip on your vest.

"No, wait." Rasping out, he stills your hands, and you look at him, confused.

"We'll take our time later, yeah? Not safe, here, darlin', come on. I'll make you feel good, promise, just lemme—" Merrick's rambling, mouth going to your neck and biting into it, echoing the noise you make right into your ear.

You nod, frantic, and quickly unbutton your pants. He helps, strong hands guiding yours to cling to his back once he gets enough room. His mouth crushes into yours again, and you shudder when you feel his fingers glide down the front of your pants.

"Gotta keep you quiet, honey, safe. Shh, I got you." Breaking away from you, he only manages to mumble out a few words, before it feels like an unfathomable force is pushing him to mesh his tongue with yours.

Breathing heavy, you do as he says, choking down the moan threatening to escape when his fingers glide between your folds. He groans, deep from his chest and guttural, and you swallow it down, biting him again when he makes more noise than you. In response, he starts circling your swollen clit, fast and ruthless, efficient. You want to be so mad at the thought that he has a fucking strategy for making you come, but it's not really a situation to complain about, is it? You have to break apart from him when he finds the right speed, applying just enough force to have you clenching around nothing.

"That what you need, honey? Or more? Want more, you just gotta say it, come on, I need to know how to make you feel good, baby."

He keeps talking, the filth making your cunt ache, and you wonder if he knows that he's making it very difficult to form a coherent thought, let alone speak.

"Gimme two." You rasp out, and a surprising moan leaves your mouth when he immediately complies.

It seems he's forgotten about his desire to keep you quiet, because now he hovers above you, face so adoring it's painful, and you close your eyes, shutting them tight and suddenly feeling overwhelmed. He notices, of course he does, and he slows down, leaning back down and gently laying his forehead over yours.

"Status?" Mumbling out, he keeps his touch featherlight, waiting for the go-ahead.

You take a moment, breathing deeply. He looks concerned, but not alarmed. More like he knows this is a lot, bordering on too much, and the initial desperation, while still simmering underneath your skin, was something akin to a ticking bomb. It's your turn to watch him — the reddening of his cheeks, mouth still glistening, gaze as steadfast as its ever been. This is the sign you were looking for, all this time. That this isn't temporary, that he means what he says; that he's got you.

You nod, shaky but sure, and he kisses the corner of your lips, gentle, before starting up on the same rhythm. His fingers slide in, meeting no resistance, and you sigh. He still drinks you in, but he's also closer, now, more intimate. It's terrifying, but he doesn't seem afraid; he never was. Maybe that's what gets you to completely relax, letting him play your body like he knows it from inside out, and the orgasm catches you off guard. It spreads, but not like a wildfire. It's a wave, gently washing over you and making you shake, all the while this man — this helplessly devoted soldier, crumbles right along with you, clutching you to his chest until he feels you melt into the floor. A clumsy hand fumbles for his pants, but he stops you.

"No need, baby. Told you. We've got time. Just rest up, yeah? Got you." Merrick whisper into your hair, kissing the spot over and over again, until he feels you nod.

He buttons your pants back, takes out a cot out of his backpack, and lays it on the floor, maneuvering with your body still clinging onto his. Once he's deemed it good enough, he puts you back down, getting behind you and pressing close. His gun is put right next to your hip, but he doesn't hold it, merely gets it in his sights. You slowly let yourself drift away, comforted by the thought that he's actually here — tangible and real, not a figment of your imagination. That throughout all of it, some things never change.

"Yeah, you do."

Later, when you rendezvous with the rest of the boys, a glimmer of hope starts burning in your chest. Hesh has a body slung over his shoulders, a firm and desperate hold over someone you recognize from the files.

Logan.

You smile, inching closer to Merrick as the team packs up. Time to go home.