Codename: Reaper

34, she/her, DMs & asks open

[codenamereaper]

About me

Hi! You can call me Faye. Or Reaper, if you want. I'm 34 years old, she/her. Asks and DMs always open. Please be respectful.

There will be NSFW content on this blog. If you're a minor, please leave now, this is not for you.

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The Ghost & The Reaper (Ghost x OFC)

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[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

The barracks were quiet—well, as quiet as it got on base. You were seated on your bunk, legs spread casually, gear peeled halfway off, and a massive combat knife in your lap. You weren’t just cleaning it. You were meticulous, dragging a cloth down the blade like it had wronged you personally.

Soap hovered by the door, pretending he wasn’t staring.

He cleared his throat. Twice. You didn’t look up.

Finally, he stepped forward, trying to seem casual. Confident. Normal. Which he definitely wasn’t, because you were still covered in dried blood and humming what sounded like a lullaby.

"Hey," he offered. "That the blade you used on the op today?"

You glanced up—slowly—eyes sharp, assessing.

"Yeah," you said simply. "Took a piece of someone’s skull with it. Clogged the hinge."

Soap blinked. “Right. Classic... hinge problem.”

He shuffled forward, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, I just wanted to say—I, uh—appreciate the compliment earlier. You know, about me bein’ cute and all.”

You didn’t stop cleaning. Just stared at him with that unreadable look again.

He continued, because of course he did. “And if, uh, you’re still callin’ dibs, I wouldn’t mind bein’ your problem.”

You finally smirked. A dangerous, lazy curl of your lip.

"Careful," you said, tilting your head. "You flirt like that and I might keep you.”

Soap swallowed. Hard. “Not the worst fate.”

Without warning, you flicked the knife shut with a satisfying snap, stood up, and walked past him, slow and close enough that your shoulder brushed his. Your breath was warm on his neck as you said:

“Sweet talk me again when I’m not covered in blood. Might let you hold the knife next time.”

And then you were gone.

He stared after you for a solid thirty seconds before whispering to himself, “...I think I’m in love.”

Soap was still reeling from the encounter when Ghost cornered him outside the barracks, arms folded and mask low over his eyes.

“You alright?” Ghost asked, voice even.

“Yeah. Just… talkin’ to her,” Soap said, like it was no big deal.

Ghost tilted his head. “Right. Listen to me, MacTavish.”

Soap blinked. “What?”

“Don’t. Fucking. Die.”

There was a pause.

“Because she will kill you,” Ghost added flatly. “Not out of anger. Out of boredom. Curiosity. Or to see if she can bring you back. And I’m not explaining that to Price again.”

Soap blinked. “Jesus. You make it sound like she’s—”

“She once superglued a guy’s hands to his weapon because he didn’t listen to her orders.”

Soap blinked harder. “Did it work?”

“Yeah. He shot six enemies before he passed out from blood loss. She carried him back herself. Called him her favorite little experiment.”

Soap paused. Then grinned.

“...Kinda hot, though.”

Ghost exhaled. “You’re already fucked.”

“Yeah,” Soap agreed, smiling like a man who just met his end and welcomed it. “But what a way to go.”

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

The op was over, but the smell of it still clung to you.

Your gear was soaked—your sleeves caked in dried blood that wasn’t yours, your hands still trembling faintly from the comedown. You sat on the edge of a metal arms case near the edge of the helipad, smoking like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

Eyes glassy. Distant. A battlefield still raging in your head.

Price spotted you first. He sighed quietly to himself, nudged Gaz, and said, “Come on. Introductions.”

Trailing behind them were two new faces: Soap and Ghost. Fresh blood for 141. And when they spotted you—smeared in gore, eyes hollowed by adrenaline, completely silent—they both hesitated.

Ghost muttered under his breath, “You sure she’s alive?” “I’m not sure she wants to be,” Gaz said, looking back at him.

Price just kept walking. “Don’t mind her. Sometimes she comes back like this after a brutal op. Give her a few hours and a bottle of whisky, she’ll be fine.”

Soap blinked. He wasn’t sure if he should salute you or back away slowly.

“She always like that?” he asked, still watching as you exhaled smoke without looking at any of them.

“Only when it’s been ugly,” Gaz said, crossing his arms. “Which, clearly, it was.”

Price gestured toward you, sighing like he already regretted what was about to happen. “You lot, meet our finest. Most efficient. Least emotionally stable member of the team.”

They chuckled, but you didn’t move. Just sat there, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed like you were calculating how long it would take for them to leave.

Ghost offered a nod. Soap gave a cautious, “Alright there, lass?”

Nothing. Just a long, eerie stare.

And then—just as they turned to go—you lifted one hand, lazily flicked the cigarette, and pointed directly at Johnny.

“This one’s cute,” you said, voice gravelly, completely deadpan. “I call him.”

They all stopped.

Gaz choked. Ghost blinked. Price groaned.

“Oh hell,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t do this. Not again. Not after what you did to the last guy.”

Soap turned to Price, wide-eyed. “What happened to the last guy?” You just took another drag of your cigarette, gaze never leaving Soap.

Price exhaled. “They got cocky. She ate him alive.”

Soap, without missing a beat: “...Like, literally?”

You finally smirked. Just the tiniest twitch of your mouth.

Soap felt something spark deep in his soul—and his pants. Fear. Intrigue. Horny confusion.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, trying (and failing) to sound unfazed. “I’ve been through worse.”

Gaz leaned in. “Mate. Don’t say that. She’ll take it as a challenge.”

And from your perch on the arms case, blood-streaked and quiet and terrifyingly calm, you whispered just loud enough for Soap to hear:

“I hope so.”

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

They’d heard stories.

They’d seen the aftermath. The blood. The silence. The cigarette smoke. But until now, none of the team—not even Soap—had seen you in action.

And it was hell.

You moved like something designed for war. No hesitation, no nerves, just precision. Eyes empty. Expression unreadable. Blood sprayed, bodies dropped, and you didn’t even blink.

Ghost watched you slit a man’s throat with your bare hands. Gaz saw you shoot a moving target between the eyes without so much as adjusting your stance. Soap? He watched you corner an enemy, whisper something too low to hear, and then pull the trigger with a smile that sent a chill down his spine.

Price muttered into comms, “She’s gone full blackout. Let her run it out.”

The op wrapped and the adrenaline was still ripping through you. Everyone regrouped outside the extraction point—breathing heavy, gear weighed down by blood and sweat.

You didn’t say a word.

You just turned, eyes locked directly on Soap.

He barely had time to react before you grabbed him by the vest and dragged him behind the nearest armored vehicle, slamming him against the side hard enough to make him grunt.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes wide, pupils blown. “You good—?”

Your mouth was already on his. All teeth and fury. You bit his lip so hard he hissed, then kissed him harder. He barely had time to moan before you had your thigh pressed between his legs, your hand gripping the back of his neck.

You kissed him like you needed to burn off the war—and he let you.

Breathless, you pulled back just enough to whisper against his ear, voice sharp and low:

“If you tell anyone what you saw today—” Your hand slid down his vest, fingers brushing over his belt. “—the last thing you’ll ever see is my face.”

His breath hitched. A wild grin twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“Y’know,” he rasped, “there are worse ways to go.”

You shoved him again, smirked, then turned and walked away like nothing happened—like you hadn’t just branded him with your mouth, your fury, and your warning.

Johnny was left standing there, flushed, panting, painfully hard in full tactical gear, and absolutely whipped.

He rejoined the team five minutes later looking like he’d been hit by a truck.

Ghost glanced at him. “She threaten you yet?”

Soap ran a hand through his hair. “Aye.”

“And?”

Soap swallowed. “I think I liked it.”

[baty2004]

Man im trying to find a consistent way to draw Johnny but it’s so difficult smh.

I love this guy so muchhh ahhh

[codenamereaper]

The Ghost & The Reaper

Summary: She’s the blade in the dark. He’s the shadow that never misses. Working side by side, they move like one—but keeping their distance is harder than staying alive.

Warnings & tags: Ghost x OFC, slow burn, friends (colleagues?) to lovers, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, childhood trauma (& trauma bonding), multiple POV

Previous Chapter | Read on AO3

Chapter Two

Reaper

The flight back was quiet—debriefing handled mid-air, the weight of the mission already settling behind us. 

At some point, Price radioed ahead and I caught one line:

"Have Soap on standby."

That made me glance between him and Ghost. Not because I cared much, but because I’ve learned to pay attention when men in charge start moving pieces around.

Ghost didn’t react. Just adjusted the strap on his gear absently and kept staring out the window like the clouds held secrets. But there was something under the surface that I couldn’t quite place.

There was a lot about him I couldn’t place, if we’re being honest. He sat still for most of the flight, arms crossed over his chest, eyes behind the mask completely impassive. If he had thoughts about me or the mission, he kept them to himself. 

I wasn’t about to break the silence to ask.

When the transport finally touches down, the sky is already that slate-grey kind of miserable, typical for the Scottish Highlands. It’s just past 7am but it might as well be midnight for how exhausted I feel.

The second the doors open, the chill bites through my tac gear when a sharp, damp wind cuts across the landing pad. It’s the kind of cold that slips under your collar like it’s got a grudge.

I swing my rucksack over one shoulder as we descend the ramp of the helo. Price walks beside me. “Welcome to RAF Scáthach*. Looks can be deceiving.”

When my boots hit the ground, I take a look around. It appears to be an abandoned facility at first glance, but I see a watchtower on the other side that could be a perfect nest for a sniper. I bet if I looked harder I'd spot some cameras around the perimeter fencing and other security measures.

“Above ground, it's just crumbling hangars and old watchtowers. Officially, this place doesn’t exist,” Price explains. “The good stuff's buried underground, where no one can see.”

We make our way across the cracked tarmac and I clock a guy watching us in silence. Tall, mohawk, smaller than Ghost but still looks like he can rip someone’s head off with a well-placed roundhouse.

He stands off to the side, leaning against the outer wall of an old building, arms crossed, clearly waiting for us. He looks well-rested, casual, like he hasn’t just been pulled into something unexpected. Soap, then, I assume.

He straightens when Ghost and Price approach. Then, the moment his gaze lands on me, I see it—a flicker of surprise. His brows lift just slightly, then he blinks, masking it almost as fast. But not fast enough. I can practically hear whatever assumption he had about me shattering in real-time.

His eyes dart between Ghost and Price, questioning, like this is some kind of prank they’re trying to pull on him. I resist the urge to smirk.

He probably expected someone twice my size. A guy, maybe, built like a brick wall. Probably someone like Ghost. Anything but a girl barely brushing five-foot-four, blood under her fingernails and half a tired smile.

Price stops in front of him, and they clasp hands. “You’ll be sharing quarters with MacTavish,” he tells me over the shoulder. “Only spare bunk we’ve got at the moment. That okay?”

I don’t particularly care who I’m bunking with as long as they keep to themselves. So I shrug. “Fine by me, Captain.”

The last few days have been a series of missions, movements, and barely-there downtime, and the thought of finally having a place to drop my gear—even if just temporarily—is more appealing than it should be.

Soap coughs once, then turns to me properly. “Right then. You must be Reaper.”

“Last I checked,” I reply, adjusting my pack over my shoulder.

“Johnny MacTavish,” Soap says, offering a hand. “Everyone calls me Soap. You don’t have to, but you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t.”

“Reaper,” I say, gripping his hand briefly. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

That earns me a grin. “Oh, I like you already.”

Then his gaze flicks to Ghost and lingers, likely a silent check-in, an unspoken question. 

Ghost tilts his head ever so slightly, voice low and dry. “She’ll do.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “High praise, really. I’ll put that on my résumé.”

Soap blinks like he’s just been slapped and his brows twitch up. That pause says everything—it’s clearly not the answer he expected. Then he gives me a silent once-over, less judgment and more genuine curiosity this time.

“Soap will show you around.” Price claps a hand on my shoulder, effectively pulling my attention. “Get some rest, kid.”

I nod before he peels away without another word. Ghost follows, grunting low as he walks past us.

“Charming fella,” I mutter, as soon as he’s out of ear shot.

“Absolutely,” Soap chuckles, and gives me a quick head nod. “Didn’t picture you like this,” he admits. “Figured you’d be… scarier.”

“Most people do,” I say. “That’s usually their first mistake.”

He grins wider. Then jerks his thumb toward the underground entrance where the others disappeared into. “C’mon. I’ll show you where we’re holed up. Try not to judge our little underground bunker too hard. We’re very sensitive.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

I follow him inside, boots echoing off the concrete. He talks a mile a minute, tossing out nicknames, half-finished stories, and warnings about the quirks of the base as if he’s afraid silence might swallow us whole.

“Mind the third step down this hall—creaks loud enough to wake Price from a coma,” he says, pointing as we descend. “Training area’s on this floor, armory’s just past that. Medical bay’s next to it—don’t ask why, you’ll figure it out eventually.”

He takes a sharp left and slaps a big red button on the wall. A door groans open, revealing another underground stretch of the base—concrete walls, dim lights, and a chill that seeps into your bones. The air smells like metal, coffee and faint gun oil.

“Mess is closer to the barracks. You’ll probably get lost a few times, but if you smell burnt toast and shitty coffee, you’re close,” he continues. “And if the lights flicker twice in there, that’s not Morse code—it just means Gaz tried to microwave something he shouldn’t.”

I arch a brow. “Define ‘something he shouldn’t.’”

“Let’s just say the inside of the microwave still has some charred bits of melted plastic we never managed to get rid of.”

“Lovely.”

Soap grins. “You’ll get used to the chaos. Just keep your boots off Price’s table and don’t touch Ghost’s tea stash.”

That catches me off guard more than it should. “Ghost drinks tea?”

“Religiously. The man’s an enigma, but God forbid you mess with his Earl Grey. Had a bloke once who drank the last packet—swear Ghost’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for his handgun right there.”

“Sounds about right.”

We move deeper into the base. It’s a mix of sterile corridors and old reinforced concrete, the kind of place that still hums with Cold War memories. The smell of disinfectant coming from the hallway leading to the medbay overpowers everything else before we go down another flight of stairs. 

“Quarters are down this way,” he says, motioning me forward. Soap moves like he’s used to being in control of his space, comfortable but still easygoing. “You know, I’m pretty sure Price stuck you with me ‘cause I’m the most socially adjusted one around.” 

“Uh, is that code for ‘loud enough to break the tension when Ghost’s being extra murdery’?” 

Soap snorts. “You catch on quick.” He pushes open the door leading to a long hallway lined with evenly spaced doors. “So why’d you sign up? What made you wanna do this job?”

I exhale, reading the names on the doors as we walk by. “Didn’t sign up.”

Soap frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

I glance at him, debating how much to say. “Price invited me.”

His expression shifts, curiosity deepening. “That so?”

I nod. “Maybe he thought you lot needed someone to keep your asses out of trouble.”

Soap lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, that’s rich. Price must’ve thought you were some miracle worker, then.”

“Something like that,” I say with a half smile.

“Think you’re up to the task?”

I shrug. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Soap watches me for a beat, then nods. “Fair enough.”

We pause in front of a reinforced door with two nameplates already slapped on it—Soap and now, underneath, Reaper.

“How official,” I mutter.

“Price likes to label things,” Soap says, pushing the door open and stepping aside with a mock bow. “After you.”

The room is basic—two bunks, two lockers, a small desk shoved against the far wall. The covers on the bed furthest from the door are slightly wrinkled, like someone was lying there not long ago. There’s a black notebook on the desk and a half-empty bottle of water on the same side. 

I step inside and drop my bag beside the bed that doesn’t look lived-in. This is not much different from every other barracks I’ve ever stayed in. At least it’s not just an old mattress on the floor, so that’s something to be grateful for. 

The adrenaline from the mission's long gone, and exhaustion is settling in like a weighted blanket. I need to sleep, I need food and a shower. Perhaps not in that order.

Soap watches me for a second, then nudges the door shut with his boot and leans against the wall. “So… what’s your deal?”

I glance at him. “That’s subtle.”

He grins, unrepentant. “C’mon. You’ve got the whole ‘mysterious loner’ thing going on. Ghost’s got it too, but you’ve got a different flavor. Less murdery, more… haunted.”

“Charming.”

“I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I unzip my rucksack and start unpacking—just the essentials. Extra ammo mags and spare knives go on my locker. A beat-up copy of Bravo Two Zero that’s survived five deployments and two IEDs on my side of the desk. My zippo lighter resting on top of it.

Soap sits on his bed, watching me like he’s trying to piece me together. His eyes follow me as I move around the room, tracking my every motion like I’m some cryptid he’s studying.

I can feel the weight of it—his curiosity. He’s waiting for me to drop some kind of hint, a clue that might tell him who the hell I am and where I came from.

Tough luck. I’m not going to make that an easy task.

Instead of giving him what he wants, I ask, “You always this chatty?”

“Nah,” he says with a mischievous smile. “Only when I’m bored. Or nervous.”

The scent of gunpowder and sweat clings to everything I’m wearing. I peel off my tac vest and toss it on the floor. Then tug my overshirt over my head, sleeves still stained with dried blood, and drop it onto the growing pile.

“Which one is it now, bored or nervous?”

Soap shifts on his bed and lies on his back, sprawled out like he’s got nowhere to be. One arm flung behind his head, the other resting on his chest. 

He grins at me, unabashed. “You’re kinda scary so I’m a bit nervous, not gonna lie.”

I snort under my breath and tug off one of my boots, tossing it with a heavy thud onto the floor. “You have no idea” I mutter.

Soap just hums, amused. His gaze never wavers, even as I sit on the edge of the bed and start unlacing the other boot with slow movements

“So,” he says after a beat, “the op went well?”

I remove my hidden combat knife from inside my other boot before kicking it off as well, and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I didn’t die. That’s usually my bar.”

Soap snorts. “C’mon lass, give me something.”

I roll my eyes, grab a towel from my duffel, and wipe some of the grime and dried blood off my hands before responding. “Well… Ghost didn’t slow me down.” 

Soap barks out a laugh, shaking his head like I just told the world’s best joke. “Oh, he’s gonna love that.”

I glance at him, and without meaning to, the memory flickers—Ghost’s voice in the helo, low and dry as he muttered, “Soap’s gonna love this one.” Like he already knew how this conversation would play out.

“Funny,” I say, tossing the towel aside. “He said the same thing about you.”

Soap perks up instantly, sitting up straighter like I just activated some hidden command word. “He did?”

“Yeah.” I smirk as I unzip a side pocket and pull out a crumpled ration bar. “Said you were gonna love me.”

Soap blinks. “Ghost said that?”

I nod, tearing open the wrapper with my teeth. “Well, not in those exact words. More like… ‘Soap’s gonna love this one.’ Real heartfelt.”

He lets out a low whistle and leans back against the wall, eyes wide with mock awe. “Bloody hell. That’s practically poetry coming from him.”

I take a bite of the bar, chewing slowly, pretending not to enjoy how off-balance he looks. He’s still trying to figure me out—and now he knows Ghost might already have.

The room’s gone quiet, except for the hum of the ventilation and the occasional groan of pipes hidden somewhere deep in the walls.

Soap’s voice cuts through it, softer this time—thoughtful. “He doesn’t say things like that lightly, y’know.”

I pause halfway through a bite. “I figured.”

He’s sitting up now, legs crossed on his bunk, elbows resting on his knees as he watches me. There’s no teasing in his expression this time—just curiosity and something else. Caution, maybe.

“You get under his skin or something?”

I don’t say anything right away. Not because I don’t know how to answer—but because the question is too close to something I haven’t put into words yet.

“Not on purpose,” I say finally. “We didn’t exactly spend a lot of time talking.”

“Still…” 

Soap squints at me, like he’s trying to see through fog. “You’ve got him clocked already, don’t you?”

I shrug one shoulder, turning back to my pack. “Enough to keep up. Tonight was just… easy.”

I drop into a seated position on the edge of the bed and stretch my arms behind me, rolling my shoulders until they pop. The tension still lingers in my spine, a phantom from the mission that hasn’t quite let go yet. I wince as one knot tightens, then breathe out slow.

Soap tilts his head. “Easy?”

“Yeah.”

“Never thought I’d hear someone say that about working with Ghost.” His brow furrows, like he’s been giving a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. “He doesn’t always tolerate new people, let alone say anything close to a compliment.”

“He didn’t.”

“Oh, trust me—‘she’ll do’ is practically a love letter, coming from him. Means he’s already counting you as one of us.” He glances at me over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “And that’s honestly kinda freaky, not gonna lie.”

I let out a quiet huff, more amused than annoyed, and start undoing the velcro on one of my kneepads. “Why?”

“Ghost is picky about who he works with, and it takes him a while to get used to new people. Makes me wonder what the hell you did tonight.”

He says it like he expects a full report, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting for a confession. I debate brushing him off. But instead, I give him just enough.

“We didn’t even have to talk out there,” I say, tugging off the other kneepad. “We just did our job. No drama, no fuss.” I glance at him. “I mean, I thought I was the quiet one until I met him. We exchanged maybe… ten words.”

Soap straightens a little. “During the op?”

“Total. Since Price introduced us before the briefing.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.” I lean back on my hands, staring up at the ceiling, voice quieter now. “You ever work with someone and it just clicks? No uncertainty. No stumbling over each other. You move, they move. Go in, do what you gotta do, and get out.”

Soap goes still for a second. “Ghost’s not exactly the click-with-anyone type.”

“Guess we’re both weird, then.”

Soap just hums, his tone light but observant. “You’ve already cracked his surface, I can tell.”

I glance over at him, one eyebrow raised as I pull my legs up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged. “Yeah?”

He nods, stretching like a cat before slouching back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head. “Mm-hmm. He didn’t glare once on the landing pad. Coming from Ghost, that's the same as a hug.”

I snort, resting my forearms on my knees. “Maybe he was just too tired to be annoyed.”

“Doubt it,” Soap says, chuckling. “Man could be bleeding out and still judge you with a single look.”

That earns a quiet laugh from me, soft and unexpected. He's not wrong. Ghost has a stare that could strip paint off a wall—and I’m not sure whether I passed through it unscathed or he just didn’t bother trying.

He watches me, that same little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s filing this entire conversation away somewhere in his brain for future reference. “You’re not what I expected.”

I smirk as I pull my hair loose from its braid, fingers running through the tangled strands. “Most people say that right before they start running in the opposite direction screaming.”

He laughs, bright and genuine, like he didn’t expect me to have a sense of humor. “You’d have to do a lot worse than ‘efficient in combat and surprisingly sarcastic’ to scare me off.”

“Give it time,” I mutter, pulling my hair into a loose ponytail and flicking the tie around it.

Soap raises an eyebrow, grinning. “That a promise or a threat?”

I shoot him a look. “Depends on how loud you snore.”

“You’ve got attitude, I’ll give you that.”

I let out a soft snort, surprised I’m even still talking. I usually shut down after missions. Go silent. Vanish into my own head. But Soap makes it hard to stay closed off—he talks like the world hasn’t broken him yet.

That’s refreshing. 

It’s strange—this ease. I’m not used to it. Not with strangers.

I shift on the bed, propping one knee up and leaning back on my hands. The mattress isn’t exactly comfortable—standard issue, stiff as hell—but it’ll do.

“Really, though. You snore?” I ask, tilting my head toward him.

He lifts an eyebrow, mock offense written all over his face. “You planning to smother me in my sleep if I do?”

I grin. “Just gathering intel.”

Soap huffs a laugh, ruffling a hand through his mohawk like he’s considering whether this is a trap. “Nah, not usually. Unless I’m sick. Or really, really drunk.” He pauses, then gestures vaguely in my direction. “You? Any weird sleeping habits I need to know about?”

I hum, pretending to think, dragging it out as I reach into my bag for a spare shirt to change into after a shower. “Well, I do this thing where I levitate six inches off the bed and speak in tongues around 3am.”

Soap snorts, loud and abrupt. “Ah, brilliant. Can’t wait. Should I keep holy water on standby?”

“You can try.”

I settle back against the wall, tucking one leg under the other. My body’s starting to calm, with that dull soreness that always creeps in after the action stops finally setting in. There’s a moment of quiet between us—not awkward, not tense. Just… still.

Then I speak, my voice low and even.

“I sleep light.”

Soap doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches me, expression unreadable now. Waiting. Listening.

I exhale through my nose, slowly, eyes fixed on the far wall.

“If you ever notice me slipping out for a stroll in the middle of the night,” I murmur, quieter this time, “just turn around and go back to sleep, yeah?”

The weight of the words hangs in the air like smoke. I don’t look at him. Don’t need to.

A beat passes. Then another.

Soap’s voice comes soft and steady, no hesitation.

“Aye.”

That’s it. No questions. No judgment. Just that simple word, like an unspoken agreement. Like he’s already accepting my quirks.

I nod once, just enough to feel it. Then I lie back and close my eyes, giving myself a moment to rest before crawling out again to take a shower.

It’s not trust. Not yet.

But it’s something.

--

*Scáthach is pronounced "Ska-ha" (IPA: /ˈskaːhax/).

The "Scá" sounds like "ska" (as in Skate or Scar). The "thach" is a softer "ha" sound with a slight guttural "ch" at the end (similar to the "ch" in the Scottish "loch" or German "Bach").

--

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[anartistwhowrites]

( This post is starting to get some attention, so I'd appreciate it if you'd follow my art blog @katlyntheartist )

[codenamereaper]

The Ghost & The Reaper

Summary: She’s the blade in the dark. He’s the shadow that never misses. Working side by side, they move like one—but keeping their distance is harder than staying alive.

Warnings & tags: Ghost x OFC, slow burn, friends (colleagues?) to lovers, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, childhood trauma (& trauma bonding), multiple POV

Previous Chapter | Read on AO3

Chapter Two

Reaper

The flight back was quiet—debriefing handled mid-air, the weight of the mission already settling behind us. 

At some point, Price radioed ahead and I caught one line:

"Have Soap on standby."

That made me glance between him and Ghost. Not because I cared much, but because I’ve learned to pay attention when men in charge start moving pieces around.

Ghost didn’t react. Just adjusted the strap on his gear absently and kept staring out the window like the clouds held secrets. But there was something under the surface that I couldn’t quite place.

There was a lot about him I couldn’t place, if we’re being honest. He sat still for most of the flight, arms crossed over his chest, eyes behind the mask completely impassive. If he had thoughts about me or the mission, he kept them to himself. 

I wasn’t about to break the silence to ask.

When the transport finally touches down, the sky is already that slate-grey kind of miserable, typical for the Scottish Highlands. It’s just past 7am but it might as well be midnight for how exhausted I feel.

The second the doors open, the chill bites through my tac gear when a sharp, damp wind cuts across the landing pad. It’s the kind of cold that slips under your collar like it’s got a grudge.

I swing my rucksack over one shoulder as we descend the ramp of the helo. Price walks beside me. “Welcome to RAF Scáthach*. Looks can be deceiving.”

When my boots hit the ground, I take a look around. It appears to be an abandoned facility at first glance, but I see a watchtower on the other side that could be a perfect nest for a sniper. I bet if I looked harder I'd spot some cameras around the perimeter fencing and other security measures.

“Above ground, it's just crumbling hangars and old watchtowers. Officially, this place doesn’t exist,” Price explains. “The good stuff's buried underground, where no one can see.”

We make our way across the cracked tarmac and I clock a guy watching us in silence. Tall, mohawk, smaller than Ghost but still looks like he can rip someone’s head off with a well-placed roundhouse.

He stands off to the side, leaning against the outer wall of an old building, arms crossed, clearly waiting for us. He looks well-rested, casual, like he hasn’t just been pulled into something unexpected. Soap, then, I assume.

He straightens when Ghost and Price approach. Then, the moment his gaze lands on me, I see it—a flicker of surprise. His brows lift just slightly, then he blinks, masking it almost as fast. But not fast enough. I can practically hear whatever assumption he had about me shattering in real-time.

His eyes dart between Ghost and Price, questioning, like this is some kind of prank they’re trying to pull on him. I resist the urge to smirk.

He probably expected someone twice my size. A guy, maybe, built like a brick wall. Probably someone like Ghost. Anything but a girl barely brushing five-foot-four, blood under her fingernails and half a tired smile.

Price stops in front of him, and they clasp hands. “You’ll be sharing quarters with MacTavish,” he tells me over the shoulder. “Only spare bunk we’ve got at the moment. That okay?”

I don’t particularly care who I’m bunking with as long as they keep to themselves. So I shrug. “Fine by me, Captain.”

The last few days have been a series of missions, movements, and barely-there downtime, and the thought of finally having a place to drop my gear—even if just temporarily—is more appealing than it should be.

Soap coughs once, then turns to me properly. “Right then. You must be Reaper.”

“Last I checked,” I reply, adjusting my pack over my shoulder.

“Johnny MacTavish,” Soap says, offering a hand. “Everyone calls me Soap. You don’t have to, but you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t.”

“Reaper,” I say, gripping his hand briefly. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

That earns me a grin. “Oh, I like you already.”

Then his gaze flicks to Ghost and lingers, likely a silent check-in, an unspoken question. 

Ghost tilts his head ever so slightly, voice low and dry. “She’ll do.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “High praise, really. I’ll put that on my résumé.”

Soap blinks like he’s just been slapped and his brows twitch up. That pause says everything—it’s clearly not the answer he expected. Then he gives me a silent once-over, less judgment and more genuine curiosity this time.

“Soap will show you around.” Price claps a hand on my shoulder, effectively pulling my attention. “Get some rest, kid.”

I nod before he peels away without another word. Ghost follows, grunting low as he walks past us.

“Charming fella,” I mutter, as soon as he’s out of ear shot.

“Absolutely,” Soap chuckles, and gives me a quick head nod. “Didn’t picture you like this,” he admits. “Figured you’d be… scarier.”

“Most people do,” I say. “That’s usually their first mistake.”

He grins wider. Then jerks his thumb toward the underground entrance where the others disappeared into. “C’mon. I’ll show you where we’re holed up. Try not to judge our little underground bunker too hard. We’re very sensitive.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

I follow him inside, boots echoing off the concrete. He talks a mile a minute, tossing out nicknames, half-finished stories, and warnings about the quirks of the base as if he’s afraid silence might swallow us whole.

“Mind the third step down this hall—creaks loud enough to wake Price from a coma,” he says, pointing as we descend. “Training area’s on this floor, armory’s just past that. Medical bay’s next to it—don’t ask why, you’ll figure it out eventually.”

He takes a sharp left and slaps a big red button on the wall. A door groans open, revealing another underground stretch of the base—concrete walls, dim lights, and a chill that seeps into your bones. The air smells like metal, coffee and faint gun oil.

“Mess is closer to the barracks. You’ll probably get lost a few times, but if you smell burnt toast and shitty coffee, you’re close,” he continues. “And if the lights flicker twice in there, that’s not Morse code—it just means Gaz tried to microwave something he shouldn’t.”

I arch a brow. “Define ‘something he shouldn’t.’”

“Let’s just say the inside of the microwave still has some charred bits of melted plastic we never managed to get rid of.”

“Lovely.”

Soap grins. “You’ll get used to the chaos. Just keep your boots off Price’s table and don’t touch Ghost’s tea stash.”

That catches me off guard more than it should. “Ghost drinks tea?”

“Religiously. The man’s an enigma, but God forbid you mess with his Earl Grey. Had a bloke once who drank the last packet—swear Ghost’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for his handgun right there.”

“Sounds about right.”

We move deeper into the base. It’s a mix of sterile corridors and old reinforced concrete, the kind of place that still hums with Cold War memories. The smell of disinfectant coming from the hallway leading to the medbay overpowers everything else before we go down another flight of stairs. 

“Quarters are down this way,” he says, motioning me forward. Soap moves like he’s used to being in control of his space, comfortable but still easygoing. “You know, I’m pretty sure Price stuck you with me ‘cause I’m the most socially adjusted one around.” 

“Uh, is that code for ‘loud enough to break the tension when Ghost’s being extra murdery’?” 

Soap snorts. “You catch on quick.” He pushes open the door leading to a long hallway lined with evenly spaced doors. “So why’d you sign up? What made you wanna do this job?”

I exhale, reading the names on the doors as we walk by. “Didn’t sign up.”

Soap frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

I glance at him, debating how much to say. “Price invited me.”

His expression shifts, curiosity deepening. “That so?”

I nod. “Maybe he thought you lot needed someone to keep your asses out of trouble.”

Soap lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, that’s rich. Price must’ve thought you were some miracle worker, then.”

“Something like that,” I say with a half smile.

“Think you’re up to the task?”

I shrug. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Soap watches me for a beat, then nods. “Fair enough.”

We pause in front of a reinforced door with two nameplates already slapped on it—Soap and now, underneath, Reaper.

“How official,” I mutter.

“Price likes to label things,” Soap says, pushing the door open and stepping aside with a mock bow. “After you.”

The room is basic—two bunks, two lockers, a small desk shoved against the far wall. The covers on the bed furthest from the door are slightly wrinkled, like someone was lying there not long ago. There’s a black notebook on the desk and a half-empty bottle of water on the same side. 

I step inside and drop my bag beside the bed that doesn’t look lived-in. This is not much different from every other barracks I’ve ever stayed in. At least it’s not just an old mattress on the floor, so that’s something to be grateful for. 

The adrenaline from the mission's long gone, and exhaustion is settling in like a weighted blanket. I need to sleep, I need food and a shower. Perhaps not in that order.

Soap watches me for a second, then nudges the door shut with his boot and leans against the wall. “So… what’s your deal?”

I glance at him. “That’s subtle.”

He grins, unrepentant. “C’mon. You’ve got the whole ‘mysterious loner’ thing going on. Ghost’s got it too, but you’ve got a different flavor. Less murdery, more… haunted.”

“Charming.”

“I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I unzip my rucksack and start unpacking—just the essentials. Extra ammo mags and spare knives go on my locker. A beat-up copy of Bravo Two Zero that’s survived five deployments and two IEDs on my side of the desk. My zippo lighter resting on top of it.

Soap sits on his bed, watching me like he’s trying to piece me together. His eyes follow me as I move around the room, tracking my every motion like I’m some cryptid he’s studying.

I can feel the weight of it—his curiosity. He’s waiting for me to drop some kind of hint, a clue that might tell him who the hell I am and where I came from.

Tough luck. I’m not going to make that an easy task.

Instead of giving him what he wants, I ask, “You always this chatty?”

“Nah,” he says with a mischievous smile. “Only when I’m bored. Or nervous.”

The scent of gunpowder and sweat clings to everything I’m wearing. I peel off my tac vest and toss it on the floor. Then tug my overshirt over my head, sleeves still stained with dried blood, and drop it onto the growing pile.

“Which one is it now, bored or nervous?”

Soap shifts on his bed and lies on his back, sprawled out like he’s got nowhere to be. One arm flung behind his head, the other resting on his chest. 

He grins at me, unabashed. “You’re kinda scary so I’m a bit nervous, not gonna lie.”

I snort under my breath and tug off one of my boots, tossing it with a heavy thud onto the floor. “You have no idea” I mutter.

Soap just hums, amused. His gaze never wavers, even as I sit on the edge of the bed and start unlacing the other boot with slow movements

“So,” he says after a beat, “the op went well?”

I remove my hidden combat knife from inside my other boot before kicking it off as well, and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I didn’t die. That’s usually my bar.”

Soap snorts. “C’mon lass, give me something.”

I roll my eyes, grab a towel from my duffel, and wipe some of the grime and dried blood off my hands before responding. “Well… Ghost didn’t slow me down.” 

Soap barks out a laugh, shaking his head like I just told the world’s best joke. “Oh, he’s gonna love that.”

I glance at him, and without meaning to, the memory flickers—Ghost’s voice in the helo, low and dry as he muttered, “Soap’s gonna love this one.” Like he already knew how this conversation would play out.

“Funny,” I say, tossing the towel aside. “He said the same thing about you.”

Soap perks up instantly, sitting up straighter like I just activated some hidden command word. “He did?”

“Yeah.” I smirk as I unzip a side pocket and pull out a crumpled ration bar. “Said you were gonna love me.”

Soap blinks. “Ghost said that?”

I nod, tearing open the wrapper with my teeth. “Well, not in those exact words. More like… ‘Soap’s gonna love this one.’ Real heartfelt.”

He lets out a low whistle and leans back against the wall, eyes wide with mock awe. “Bloody hell. That’s practically poetry coming from him.”

I take a bite of the bar, chewing slowly, pretending not to enjoy how off-balance he looks. He’s still trying to figure me out—and now he knows Ghost might already have.

The room’s gone quiet, except for the hum of the ventilation and the occasional groan of pipes hidden somewhere deep in the walls.

Soap’s voice cuts through it, softer this time—thoughtful. “He doesn’t say things like that lightly, y’know.”

I pause halfway through a bite. “I figured.”

He’s sitting up now, legs crossed on his bunk, elbows resting on his knees as he watches me. There’s no teasing in his expression this time—just curiosity and something else. Caution, maybe.

“You get under his skin or something?”

I don’t say anything right away. Not because I don’t know how to answer—but because the question is too close to something I haven’t put into words yet.

“Not on purpose,” I say finally. “We didn’t exactly spend a lot of time talking.”

“Still…” 

Soap squints at me, like he’s trying to see through fog. “You’ve got him clocked already, don’t you?”

I shrug one shoulder, turning back to my pack. “Enough to keep up. Tonight was just… easy.”

I drop into a seated position on the edge of the bed and stretch my arms behind me, rolling my shoulders until they pop. The tension still lingers in my spine, a phantom from the mission that hasn’t quite let go yet. I wince as one knot tightens, then breathe out slow.

Soap tilts his head. “Easy?”

“Yeah.”

“Never thought I’d hear someone say that about working with Ghost.” His brow furrows, like he’s been giving a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. “He doesn’t always tolerate new people, let alone say anything close to a compliment.”

“He didn’t.”

“Oh, trust me—‘she’ll do’ is practically a love letter, coming from him. Means he’s already counting you as one of us.” He glances at me over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “And that’s honestly kinda freaky, not gonna lie.”

I let out a quiet huff, more amused than annoyed, and start undoing the velcro on one of my kneepads. “Why?”

“Ghost is picky about who he works with, and it takes him a while to get used to new people. Makes me wonder what the hell you did tonight.”

He says it like he expects a full report, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting for a confession. I debate brushing him off. But instead, I give him just enough.

“We didn’t even have to talk out there,” I say, tugging off the other kneepad. “We just did our job. No drama, no fuss.” I glance at him. “I mean, I thought I was the quiet one until I met him. We exchanged maybe… ten words.”

Soap straightens a little. “During the op?”

“Total. Since Price introduced us before the briefing.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.” I lean back on my hands, staring up at the ceiling, voice quieter now. “You ever work with someone and it just clicks? No uncertainty. No stumbling over each other. You move, they move. Go in, do what you gotta do, and get out.”

Soap goes still for a second. “Ghost’s not exactly the click-with-anyone type.”

“Guess we’re both weird, then.”

Soap just hums, his tone light but observant. “You’ve already cracked his surface, I can tell.”

I glance over at him, one eyebrow raised as I pull my legs up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged. “Yeah?”

He nods, stretching like a cat before slouching back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head. “Mm-hmm. He didn’t glare once on the landing pad. Coming from Ghost, that's the same as a hug.”

I snort, resting my forearms on my knees. “Maybe he was just too tired to be annoyed.”

“Doubt it,” Soap says, chuckling. “Man could be bleeding out and still judge you with a single look.”

That earns a quiet laugh from me, soft and unexpected. He's not wrong. Ghost has a stare that could strip paint off a wall—and I’m not sure whether I passed through it unscathed or he just didn’t bother trying.

He watches me, that same little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s filing this entire conversation away somewhere in his brain for future reference. “You’re not what I expected.”

I smirk as I pull my hair loose from its braid, fingers running through the tangled strands. “Most people say that right before they start running in the opposite direction screaming.”

He laughs, bright and genuine, like he didn’t expect me to have a sense of humor. “You’d have to do a lot worse than ‘efficient in combat and surprisingly sarcastic’ to scare me off.”

“Give it time,” I mutter, pulling my hair into a loose ponytail and flicking the tie around it.

Soap raises an eyebrow, grinning. “That a promise or a threat?”

I shoot him a look. “Depends on how loud you snore.”

“You’ve got attitude, I’ll give you that.”

I let out a soft snort, surprised I’m even still talking. I usually shut down after missions. Go silent. Vanish into my own head. But Soap makes it hard to stay closed off—he talks like the world hasn’t broken him yet.

That’s refreshing. 

It’s strange—this ease. I’m not used to it. Not with strangers.

I shift on the bed, propping one knee up and leaning back on my hands. The mattress isn’t exactly comfortable—standard issue, stiff as hell—but it’ll do.

“Really, though. You snore?” I ask, tilting my head toward him.

He lifts an eyebrow, mock offense written all over his face. “You planning to smother me in my sleep if I do?”

I grin. “Just gathering intel.”

Soap huffs a laugh, ruffling a hand through his mohawk like he’s considering whether this is a trap. “Nah, not usually. Unless I’m sick. Or really, really drunk.” He pauses, then gestures vaguely in my direction. “You? Any weird sleeping habits I need to know about?”

I hum, pretending to think, dragging it out as I reach into my bag for a spare shirt to change into after a shower. “Well, I do this thing where I levitate six inches off the bed and speak in tongues around 3am.”

Soap snorts, loud and abrupt. “Ah, brilliant. Can’t wait. Should I keep holy water on standby?”

“You can try.”

I settle back against the wall, tucking one leg under the other. My body’s starting to calm, with that dull soreness that always creeps in after the action stops finally setting in. There’s a moment of quiet between us—not awkward, not tense. Just… still.

Then I speak, my voice low and even.

“I sleep light.”

Soap doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches me, expression unreadable now. Waiting. Listening.

I exhale through my nose, slowly, eyes fixed on the far wall.

“If you ever notice me slipping out for a stroll in the middle of the night,” I murmur, quieter this time, “just turn around and go back to sleep, yeah?”

The weight of the words hangs in the air like smoke. I don’t look at him. Don’t need to.

A beat passes. Then another.

Soap’s voice comes soft and steady, no hesitation.

“Aye.”

That’s it. No questions. No judgment. Just that simple word, like an unspoken agreement. Like he’s already accepting my quirks.

I nod once, just enough to feel it. Then I lie back and close my eyes, giving myself a moment to rest before crawling out again to take a shower.

It’s not trust. Not yet.

But it’s something.

--

*Scáthach is pronounced "Ska-ha" (IPA: /ˈskaːhax/).

The "Scá" sounds like "ska" (as in Skate or Scar). The "thach" is a softer "ha" sound with a slight guttural "ch" at the end (similar to the "ch" in the Scottish "loch" or German "Bach").

--

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[stinglesswasp]

Overseas 🇺🇸

[codenamereaper]

The Ghost & The Reaper

Summary: She’s the blade in the dark. He’s the shadow that never misses. Working side by side, they move like one—but keeping their distance is harder than staying alive.

Warnings & tags: Ghost x OFC, slow burn, friends (colleagues?) to lovers, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, childhood trauma (& trauma bonding), multiple POV

Previous Chapter | Read on AO3

Chapter Two

Reaper

The flight back was quiet—debriefing handled mid-air, the weight of the mission already settling behind us. 

At some point, Price radioed ahead and I caught one line:

"Have Soap on standby."

That made me glance between him and Ghost. Not because I cared much, but because I’ve learned to pay attention when men in charge start moving pieces around.

Ghost didn’t react. Just adjusted the strap on his gear absently and kept staring out the window like the clouds held secrets. But there was something under the surface that I couldn’t quite place.

There was a lot about him I couldn’t place, if we’re being honest. He sat still for most of the flight, arms crossed over his chest, eyes behind the mask completely impassive. If he had thoughts about me or the mission, he kept them to himself. 

I wasn’t about to break the silence to ask.

When the transport finally touches down, the sky is already that slate-grey kind of miserable, typical for the Scottish Highlands. It’s just past 7am but it might as well be midnight for how exhausted I feel.

The second the doors open, the chill bites through my tac gear when a sharp, damp wind cuts across the landing pad. It’s the kind of cold that slips under your collar like it’s got a grudge.

I swing my rucksack over one shoulder as we descend the ramp of the helo. Price walks beside me. “Welcome to RAF Scáthach*. Looks can be deceiving.”

When my boots hit the ground, I take a look around. It appears to be an abandoned facility at first glance, but I see a watchtower on the other side that could be a perfect nest for a sniper. I bet if I looked harder I'd spot some cameras around the perimeter fencing and other security measures.

“Above ground, it's just crumbling hangars and old watchtowers. Officially, this place doesn’t exist,” Price explains. “The good stuff's buried underground, where no one can see.”

We make our way across the cracked tarmac and I clock a guy watching us in silence. Tall, mohawk, smaller than Ghost but still looks like he can rip someone’s head off with a well-placed roundhouse.

He stands off to the side, leaning against the outer wall of an old building, arms crossed, clearly waiting for us. He looks well-rested, casual, like he hasn’t just been pulled into something unexpected. Soap, then, I assume.

He straightens when Ghost and Price approach. Then, the moment his gaze lands on me, I see it—a flicker of surprise. His brows lift just slightly, then he blinks, masking it almost as fast. But not fast enough. I can practically hear whatever assumption he had about me shattering in real-time.

His eyes dart between Ghost and Price, questioning, like this is some kind of prank they’re trying to pull on him. I resist the urge to smirk.

He probably expected someone twice my size. A guy, maybe, built like a brick wall. Probably someone like Ghost. Anything but a girl barely brushing five-foot-four, blood under her fingernails and half a tired smile.

Price stops in front of him, and they clasp hands. “You’ll be sharing quarters with MacTavish,” he tells me over the shoulder. “Only spare bunk we’ve got at the moment. That okay?”

I don’t particularly care who I’m bunking with as long as they keep to themselves. So I shrug. “Fine by me, Captain.”

The last few days have been a series of missions, movements, and barely-there downtime, and the thought of finally having a place to drop my gear—even if just temporarily—is more appealing than it should be.

Soap coughs once, then turns to me properly. “Right then. You must be Reaper.”

“Last I checked,” I reply, adjusting my pack over my shoulder.

“Johnny MacTavish,” Soap says, offering a hand. “Everyone calls me Soap. You don’t have to, but you’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t.”

“Reaper,” I say, gripping his hand briefly. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

That earns me a grin. “Oh, I like you already.”

Then his gaze flicks to Ghost and lingers, likely a silent check-in, an unspoken question. 

Ghost tilts his head ever so slightly, voice low and dry. “She’ll do.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “High praise, really. I’ll put that on my résumé.”

Soap blinks like he’s just been slapped and his brows twitch up. That pause says everything—it’s clearly not the answer he expected. Then he gives me a silent once-over, less judgment and more genuine curiosity this time.

“Soap will show you around.” Price claps a hand on my shoulder, effectively pulling my attention. “Get some rest, kid.”

I nod before he peels away without another word. Ghost follows, grunting low as he walks past us.

“Charming fella,” I mutter, as soon as he’s out of ear shot.

“Absolutely,” Soap chuckles, and gives me a quick head nod. “Didn’t picture you like this,” he admits. “Figured you’d be… scarier.”

“Most people do,” I say. “That’s usually their first mistake.”

He grins wider. Then jerks his thumb toward the underground entrance where the others disappeared into. “C’mon. I’ll show you where we’re holed up. Try not to judge our little underground bunker too hard. We’re very sensitive.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

I follow him inside, boots echoing off the concrete. He talks a mile a minute, tossing out nicknames, half-finished stories, and warnings about the quirks of the base as if he’s afraid silence might swallow us whole.

“Mind the third step down this hall—creaks loud enough to wake Price from a coma,” he says, pointing as we descend. “Training area’s on this floor, armory’s just past that. Medical bay’s next to it—don’t ask why, you’ll figure it out eventually.”

He takes a sharp left and slaps a big red button on the wall. A door groans open, revealing another underground stretch of the base—concrete walls, dim lights, and a chill that seeps into your bones. The air smells like metal, coffee and faint gun oil.

“Mess is closer to the barracks. You’ll probably get lost a few times, but if you smell burnt toast and shitty coffee, you’re close,” he continues. “And if the lights flicker twice in there, that’s not Morse code—it just means Gaz tried to microwave something he shouldn’t.”

I arch a brow. “Define ‘something he shouldn’t.’”

“Let’s just say the inside of the microwave still has some charred bits of melted plastic we never managed to get rid of.”

“Lovely.”

Soap grins. “You’ll get used to the chaos. Just keep your boots off Price’s table and don’t touch Ghost’s tea stash.”

That catches me off guard more than it should. “Ghost drinks tea?”

“Religiously. The man’s an enigma, but God forbid you mess with his Earl Grey. Had a bloke once who drank the last packet—swear Ghost’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for his handgun right there.”

“Sounds about right.”

We move deeper into the base. It’s a mix of sterile corridors and old reinforced concrete, the kind of place that still hums with Cold War memories. The smell of disinfectant coming from the hallway leading to the medbay overpowers everything else before we go down another flight of stairs. 

“Quarters are down this way,” he says, motioning me forward. Soap moves like he’s used to being in control of his space, comfortable but still easygoing. “You know, I’m pretty sure Price stuck you with me ‘cause I’m the most socially adjusted one around.” 

“Uh, is that code for ‘loud enough to break the tension when Ghost’s being extra murdery’?” 

Soap snorts. “You catch on quick.” He pushes open the door leading to a long hallway lined with evenly spaced doors. “So why’d you sign up? What made you wanna do this job?”

I exhale, reading the names on the doors as we walk by. “Didn’t sign up.”

Soap frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

I glance at him, debating how much to say. “Price invited me.”

His expression shifts, curiosity deepening. “That so?”

I nod. “Maybe he thought you lot needed someone to keep your asses out of trouble.”

Soap lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, that’s rich. Price must’ve thought you were some miracle worker, then.”

“Something like that,” I say with a half smile.

“Think you’re up to the task?”

I shrug. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Soap watches me for a beat, then nods. “Fair enough.”

We pause in front of a reinforced door with two nameplates already slapped on it—Soap and now, underneath, Reaper.

“How official,” I mutter.

“Price likes to label things,” Soap says, pushing the door open and stepping aside with a mock bow. “After you.”

The room is basic—two bunks, two lockers, a small desk shoved against the far wall. The covers on the bed furthest from the door are slightly wrinkled, like someone was lying there not long ago. There’s a black notebook on the desk and a half-empty bottle of water on the same side. 

I step inside and drop my bag beside the bed that doesn’t look lived-in. This is not much different from every other barracks I’ve ever stayed in. At least it’s not just an old mattress on the floor, so that’s something to be grateful for. 

The adrenaline from the mission's long gone, and exhaustion is settling in like a weighted blanket. I need to sleep, I need food and a shower. Perhaps not in that order.

Soap watches me for a second, then nudges the door shut with his boot and leans against the wall. “So… what’s your deal?”

I glance at him. “That’s subtle.”

He grins, unrepentant. “C’mon. You’ve got the whole ‘mysterious loner’ thing going on. Ghost’s got it too, but you’ve got a different flavor. Less murdery, more… haunted.”

“Charming.”

“I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I unzip my rucksack and start unpacking—just the essentials. Extra ammo mags and spare knives go on my locker. A beat-up copy of Bravo Two Zero that’s survived five deployments and two IEDs on my side of the desk. My zippo lighter resting on top of it.

Soap sits on his bed, watching me like he’s trying to piece me together. His eyes follow me as I move around the room, tracking my every motion like I’m some cryptid he’s studying.

I can feel the weight of it—his curiosity. He’s waiting for me to drop some kind of hint, a clue that might tell him who the hell I am and where I came from.

Tough luck. I’m not going to make that an easy task.

Instead of giving him what he wants, I ask, “You always this chatty?”

“Nah,” he says with a mischievous smile. “Only when I’m bored. Or nervous.”

The scent of gunpowder and sweat clings to everything I’m wearing. I peel off my tac vest and toss it on the floor. Then tug my overshirt over my head, sleeves still stained with dried blood, and drop it onto the growing pile.

“Which one is it now, bored or nervous?”

Soap shifts on his bed and lies on his back, sprawled out like he’s got nowhere to be. One arm flung behind his head, the other resting on his chest. 

He grins at me, unabashed. “You’re kinda scary so I’m a bit nervous, not gonna lie.”

I snort under my breath and tug off one of my boots, tossing it with a heavy thud onto the floor. “You have no idea” I mutter.

Soap just hums, amused. His gaze never wavers, even as I sit on the edge of the bed and start unlacing the other boot with slow movements

“So,” he says after a beat, “the op went well?”

I remove my hidden combat knife from inside my other boot before kicking it off as well, and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I didn’t die. That’s usually my bar.”

Soap snorts. “C’mon lass, give me something.”

I roll my eyes, grab a towel from my duffel, and wipe some of the grime and dried blood off my hands before responding. “Well… Ghost didn’t slow me down.” 

Soap barks out a laugh, shaking his head like I just told the world’s best joke. “Oh, he’s gonna love that.”

I glance at him, and without meaning to, the memory flickers—Ghost’s voice in the helo, low and dry as he muttered, “Soap’s gonna love this one.” Like he already knew how this conversation would play out.

“Funny,” I say, tossing the towel aside. “He said the same thing about you.”

Soap perks up instantly, sitting up straighter like I just activated some hidden command word. “He did?”

“Yeah.” I smirk as I unzip a side pocket and pull out a crumpled ration bar. “Said you were gonna love me.”

Soap blinks. “Ghost said that?”

I nod, tearing open the wrapper with my teeth. “Well, not in those exact words. More like… ‘Soap’s gonna love this one.’ Real heartfelt.”

He lets out a low whistle and leans back against the wall, eyes wide with mock awe. “Bloody hell. That’s practically poetry coming from him.”

I take a bite of the bar, chewing slowly, pretending not to enjoy how off-balance he looks. He’s still trying to figure me out—and now he knows Ghost might already have.

The room’s gone quiet, except for the hum of the ventilation and the occasional groan of pipes hidden somewhere deep in the walls.

Soap’s voice cuts through it, softer this time—thoughtful. “He doesn’t say things like that lightly, y’know.”

I pause halfway through a bite. “I figured.”

He’s sitting up now, legs crossed on his bunk, elbows resting on his knees as he watches me. There’s no teasing in his expression this time—just curiosity and something else. Caution, maybe.

“You get under his skin or something?”

I don’t say anything right away. Not because I don’t know how to answer—but because the question is too close to something I haven’t put into words yet.

“Not on purpose,” I say finally. “We didn’t exactly spend a lot of time talking.”

“Still…” 

Soap squints at me, like he’s trying to see through fog. “You’ve got him clocked already, don’t you?”

I shrug one shoulder, turning back to my pack. “Enough to keep up. Tonight was just… easy.”

I drop into a seated position on the edge of the bed and stretch my arms behind me, rolling my shoulders until they pop. The tension still lingers in my spine, a phantom from the mission that hasn’t quite let go yet. I wince as one knot tightens, then breathe out slow.

Soap tilts his head. “Easy?”

“Yeah.”

“Never thought I’d hear someone say that about working with Ghost.” His brow furrows, like he’s been giving a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. “He doesn’t always tolerate new people, let alone say anything close to a compliment.”

“He didn’t.”

“Oh, trust me—‘she’ll do’ is practically a love letter, coming from him. Means he’s already counting you as one of us.” He glances at me over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “And that’s honestly kinda freaky, not gonna lie.”

I let out a quiet huff, more amused than annoyed, and start undoing the velcro on one of my kneepads. “Why?”

“Ghost is picky about who he works with, and it takes him a while to get used to new people. Makes me wonder what the hell you did tonight.”

He says it like he expects a full report, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting for a confession. I debate brushing him off. But instead, I give him just enough.

“We didn’t even have to talk out there,” I say, tugging off the other kneepad. “We just did our job. No drama, no fuss.” I glance at him. “I mean, I thought I was the quiet one until I met him. We exchanged maybe… ten words.”

Soap straightens a little. “During the op?”

“Total. Since Price introduced us before the briefing.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.” I lean back on my hands, staring up at the ceiling, voice quieter now. “You ever work with someone and it just clicks? No uncertainty. No stumbling over each other. You move, they move. Go in, do what you gotta do, and get out.”

Soap goes still for a second. “Ghost’s not exactly the click-with-anyone type.”

“Guess we’re both weird, then.”

Soap just hums, his tone light but observant. “You’ve already cracked his surface, I can tell.”

I glance over at him, one eyebrow raised as I pull my legs up onto the bed, sitting cross-legged. “Yeah?”

He nods, stretching like a cat before slouching back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head. “Mm-hmm. He didn’t glare once on the landing pad. Coming from Ghost, that's the same as a hug.”

I snort, resting my forearms on my knees. “Maybe he was just too tired to be annoyed.”

“Doubt it,” Soap says, chuckling. “Man could be bleeding out and still judge you with a single look.”

That earns a quiet laugh from me, soft and unexpected. He's not wrong. Ghost has a stare that could strip paint off a wall—and I’m not sure whether I passed through it unscathed or he just didn’t bother trying.

He watches me, that same little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s filing this entire conversation away somewhere in his brain for future reference. “You’re not what I expected.”

I smirk as I pull my hair loose from its braid, fingers running through the tangled strands. “Most people say that right before they start running in the opposite direction screaming.”

He laughs, bright and genuine, like he didn’t expect me to have a sense of humor. “You’d have to do a lot worse than ‘efficient in combat and surprisingly sarcastic’ to scare me off.”

“Give it time,” I mutter, pulling my hair into a loose ponytail and flicking the tie around it.

Soap raises an eyebrow, grinning. “That a promise or a threat?”

I shoot him a look. “Depends on how loud you snore.”

“You’ve got attitude, I’ll give you that.”

I let out a soft snort, surprised I’m even still talking. I usually shut down after missions. Go silent. Vanish into my own head. But Soap makes it hard to stay closed off—he talks like the world hasn’t broken him yet.

That’s refreshing. 

It’s strange—this ease. I’m not used to it. Not with strangers.

I shift on the bed, propping one knee up and leaning back on my hands. The mattress isn’t exactly comfortable—standard issue, stiff as hell—but it’ll do.

“Really, though. You snore?” I ask, tilting my head toward him.

He lifts an eyebrow, mock offense written all over his face. “You planning to smother me in my sleep if I do?”

I grin. “Just gathering intel.”

Soap huffs a laugh, ruffling a hand through his mohawk like he’s considering whether this is a trap. “Nah, not usually. Unless I’m sick. Or really, really drunk.” He pauses, then gestures vaguely in my direction. “You? Any weird sleeping habits I need to know about?”

I hum, pretending to think, dragging it out as I reach into my bag for a spare shirt to change into after a shower. “Well, I do this thing where I levitate six inches off the bed and speak in tongues around 3am.”

Soap snorts, loud and abrupt. “Ah, brilliant. Can’t wait. Should I keep holy water on standby?”

“You can try.”

I settle back against the wall, tucking one leg under the other. My body’s starting to calm, with that dull soreness that always creeps in after the action stops finally setting in. There’s a moment of quiet between us—not awkward, not tense. Just… still.

Then I speak, my voice low and even.

“I sleep light.”

Soap doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches me, expression unreadable now. Waiting. Listening.

I exhale through my nose, slowly, eyes fixed on the far wall.

“If you ever notice me slipping out for a stroll in the middle of the night,” I murmur, quieter this time, “just turn around and go back to sleep, yeah?”

The weight of the words hangs in the air like smoke. I don’t look at him. Don’t need to.

A beat passes. Then another.

Soap’s voice comes soft and steady, no hesitation.

“Aye.”

That’s it. No questions. No judgment. Just that simple word, like an unspoken agreement. Like he’s already accepting my quirks.

I nod once, just enough to feel it. Then I lie back and close my eyes, giving myself a moment to rest before crawling out again to take a shower.

It’s not trust. Not yet.

But it’s something.

--

*Scáthach is pronounced "Ska-ha" (IPA: /ˈskaːhax/).

The "Scá" sounds like "ska" (as in Skate or Scar). The "thach" is a softer "ha" sound with a slight guttural "ch" at the end (similar to the "ch" in the Scottish "loch" or German "Bach").

--

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rest & relaxation

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The Ghost & The Reaper - Masterlist

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ciggy break