\\18+ please\\ Calwyn or Cal\\ I love Star Wars\\This is my side writing blog, mainly for fanfiction Im not brave enough to put on my main account\\ If you like my fanfiction, please reblog \\
Here is the ongoing list of all the stories and oneshots that I have written so far. All of these are cross-posted to AO3 under the same Username. This list will be updated as I go along and publish more stuff
The Bad Batch
Just Stay a Little Bit Longer - Tech x Pregnant!Female Reader - Link
Nightmare - Hunter x Gender Neutral Reader - Link
I Have To Go - Imperial!Crosshair x Gender Neutral Reader - Link
This is a reminder for those who handmake Christmas presents that now is not too early to start. It may in fact be a good time to start if you have a lot to make/your craft takes a long time. You should maybe start it now, whether that's brainstorming or actually doing the crafts!
There is a wound that won't heal at the center of the galaxy. There is a darkness reaching like rust into everything around us. We let it grow, and now it's here. It's here and it's not visiting anymore. It wants to stay. The Empire is a disease that thrives in darkness, it is never more alive than when we asleep. It's easy for the dead to tell you to fight, and maybe it's true, maybe fighting is useless.
Thinking about Ghost as a children's swim instructor- Mr Riley, or just Mr Simon to the littles.
Big, scarred hands gently cradling their little fat bellies, lifting the babies up to splash and wriggle, bouncing them as they squeal. The older ones get the same careful handling, showing them how to float, how to grasp the side wall of the pool- "very good," he tells them in the deep, serious voice children love, as firm as if he was speaking to an adult.
The older children are in a separate class, and crowd Simon at every lesson, bursting all over to tell him about something new they learned, as he sections them out and starts moving down the line, prompting backstrokers and doggy paddlers alike.
The first time he yelled- used his dad voice, one boy whispered delightedly- it was not to the kids but a parent, more occupied with fluttering her lashes at him than keeping an eye on her kid, too far into the deep end and spluttering.
It's why you bring your kids to his classes specifically- he doesn't mess around, doesn't play favorites or let the kids break rules, sets them up for success instead of failure, and if the soaked, long-sleeve black shirt and matching swim pants cling deliciously when he finishes and climbs out, well, what's the harm in looking?
(only once the lesson is done and your kids are safely in your arms, of course. You don't want to get yelled at either- even if that dad voice had haunted a few of your dreams)
the AI bros are always trying to install in us this fear of falling behind and being abandoned by society if we won't start using AI, and let me just say - men have been telling me I'll "end up alone with seven cats if I don't give them a chance" for AGES. I can smell the barely hidden desperation underneath that axe body spray like a shark, and boy am I about to make you cry from frustration
Retired!ghost saying ah, fuck it and buying a boat to live on so people stop fucking bothering him.
It's nice, honestly. Out on the ocean he has to keep a tight routine. It's like he's back in the military. Wake up, secure everything, check his readings, adjust his sail. Routine keeps him moving, keeps the nightmares at bay, and that's really all ghost needs.
He eats fish, mostly. Some dried fruits and vitamins to ensure he doesn't suffer malnutrition, but the majority of his diet is caught during the hours between waking and sleeping. He fishes, and occasionally sees a pod of dolphins or an odd white blob that's either flotsam or a fish.
When a horrible storm takes him by surprise, ghost is caught on the deck trying to survive. A wave crashes into him, throws him over the railing, and he comes to terms with the fact he will soon be dead.
Except....Except that doesn't happen.
Instead, ghost wakes up below deck in his bed. He's nude under the bedding and a furry blanket he doesn't recognize. Wet clothes are in a heap in the corner, most likely stripped off of him.
There's movement above deck, and ghost tosses on some boxers for the bare minimum amount of modesty required for social interaction...only to get an eye full of bare ass cheeks when he emerges above deck.
"Wot. Who t' fuck are you?" Ghost asks, completely dumbfounded.
You perk up from your position next to the mast, dropping the ropes you had been studying. Ghost looks at you, really looks at you. You're...probably human. But your eyes are wide and dark, and you move with a sort of clumsiness that belies not youth but a newness to your body. As if you are refamiliarizing yourself with it.
It's only when you step closer to him and start...growling? Huffing? At him that the dots start to connect.
Ghost thinks back to the unfamiliar blanket on his bed, and the faded memory of naval force soldiers sharing stories comes to him. Ghost had thought they were making a fool of him back then, but now...
Now it's starting to sound more believable. Because what stands in front of him is undeniably a selkie.
Detonation tore through the compound with brutal force, the ground buckling as the structure convulsed and threw a wall of pressure outward that ripped breath from Kyle’s chest and shoved dust skyward until the air itself turned hostile.
Concrete screamed as it split, the east wing collapsing inward while heat and grit blasted across his face, iron tang coating his tongue as smoke surged through the corridors in choking waves that burned his eyes and clawed at his throat.
Staggering forward, Kyle barely caught himself as fractured tile skidded under his boots and cracks raced outward beneath his weight, the building no longer steady enough to pretend it could hold.
Somewhere behind him, Soap’s charge echoed in his head, placed too close and detonated too eagerly, and the thought scraped raw but found no space to settle because panic had already claimed his lungs.
Dragging air in short, painful pulls, he vaulted a fallen beam and felt glass spin beneath his soles while he shoved through a doorway that sagged on broken hinges, rifle tight to his chest and arm raised against debris still raining down.
Voices collided inside the hollowed shell of the compound, enemy shouts bouncing off ruined walls, metal groaning under its own weight, commands tearing through the chaos with sharp urgency that vibrated straight into his skull.
Running harder, Kyle felt rubble slide underfoot as his thigh slammed into splintered wood and pain flared bright and fast, yet he barely registered it because the building had stopped being a structure and become a living trap.
Then his momentum died the instant his eyes found you.
Frozen mid-stride, he felt sand swallow the force of his stop while disbelief punched a hollow through his chest and left him staring.
There you were, twisted beside a mound of shattered concrete, lower body pinned beneath a slab that might once have been a wall, your legs trapped at an angle that made his stomach fold in on itself.
That left boot, unmistakably yours no matter how his mind rejected it, pointed wrong in a way that turned his blood cold as red soaked into your thigh and mixed with dust until it formed a dark, sticky paste.
Curled forward under the weight, your shoulders hunched and your spine bowed as your hands clawed uselessly at the ground, fingers scraping and digging in frantic, mindless effort to escape pressure that refused to give.
Each movement came small and weak, driven by instinct rather than strength, your body trying to flee without the ability to obey itself.
At the sound of his boots, your head snapped up with sudden violence.
Baring your teeth, you dragged a low, feral growl from your throat that cut through the noise and hit Kyle square in the chest.
Locked in place, he felt his breath jam painfully behind his ribs as his mind scrambled to reconcile what he was seeing.
This wasn’t you, not the snarling fear or the raw animal edge, and the sight of your pupils blown wide and glassy while sweat carved tracks through dust on your face rattled something deep and fragile inside him.
Trembling fingers left jittering marks in the sand as you stared at him, fear and pain burning bright enough to eclipse everything else.
“GO,” you screamed, your voice tearing apart as it forced its way out, “GARRICK, RUN,” the words ripping free as though they shredded your throat on the way.
Every muscle in Kyle’s body locked at once, shock rooting him to the spot because you never yelled and you never sounded this desperate.
Heaving for breath, you shoved one hand against the ground as if you might launch yourself at him or anyone foolish enough to come closer, while the other scrabbled at your trapped thigh and recoiled with a broken sound when pain spiked.
Finally dragging air into his lungs, Kyle felt it burn all the way down as he took a step closer despite the dread curling tight in his gut.
Closer still, the angle of your leg assaulted him again, wrong enough to make his vision blur around the edges as blood pooled and fabric tore away to reveal skin already turning mottled beneath dust.
Training slides flashed unbidden through his head, sterile images labeled catastrophic injury, and he hated that his mind went there because this wasn’t a lesson and you weren’t an example.
“Oh fuck,” he broke, voice cracking as horror spilled through it, “oh fucking hell, shit, shit,” the words useless and helpless as they fell.
Answering him, you made a sound caught between a groan and a gasp that spurred him forward before he stopped himself inches from you, hands hovering because he didn’t know where touch would help instead of destroy.
Heavy boots thundered somewhere beyond the walls, multiple sets moving fast enough that his gut twisted as enemy voices carried closer on the wind.
Slamming his hand against his comm as if force alone might wake it, Kyle was met with screaming static that offered nothing but noise.
“Fucking Soap,” he hissed through clenched teeth, chest tight enough to ache, “he’s buying the first fifty rounds after this, swear to God,” the promise empty and bitter.
Barely louder than breath, you rasped, “Go,” dragging the word out as your strength bled away, “Garrick, go, you gotta go.”
Snapping back, he shot, “Not happening,” fury and fear tangling in his voice.
Lunging weakly, your hand scooped sand and flung it at him, grains pattering uselessly against his thigh before you grabbed a broken brick with shaking fingers and hurled it, the dull crack against his vest echoing desperation.
Unmoved by the threat wearing panic’s face, Kyle didn’t retreat an inch.
Driving his shoulder into the slab pinning you, he felt concrete groan beneath the effort, shifting just enough to promise disaster.
Ripping out of you, your scream punched into his ribs and lodged there as your body jerked hard and something inside your leg gave way with a wet, sickening sound.
Pouring free, blood surged down your thigh in dark, glossy sheets that soaked fabric and sand alike, spreading faster than his mind could keep up with.
Reaching on instinct, he grabbed for you and hissed as red immediately smeared his glove and sleeve, the stain blooming and spreading as though eager.
Pulling back too late, Kyle stared at his hand slick with you before bracing again and feeling his forearm press into your thigh, the tan fabric turning black-red in seconds.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he choked, shifting desperately for leverage while terror clawed his throat, “I’m sorry,” the words failing to bridge the damage.
Slamming weak but frantic, your hands struck his chest and dragged bloody lines down his vest, palms slipping as your breath shattered into broken pulls.
“Stop it,” you cried, voice splintering, “Kyle, stop,” each word fraying further as panic consumed you.
Marked head to toe, his plates and straps soaked through with your blood as every movement painted him deeper in it, a claim he would never forget.
Trying again despite knowing better, Kyle planted his boots and bent his knees, shoving upward with everything he had while rage tore from his throat in hoarse shouts.
Shifting another inch, perhaps two, the slab moved just enough to steal hope before crushing it.
Cut short, your scream collapsed into a strangled sob that broke him.
Dropping instantly, his hands flew up as though he could take the pain back by sheer will.
Violently shaking now, your whole body tremored as your jaw chattered and your eyes rolled unfocused, whites flashing between sluggish blinks.
“Kyle,” you croaked, blood bubbling at your lips as you swallowed wrong, “I can’t, I can’t feel-”
“Don’t,” he snapped, panic sharpening his tone as he ripped his scarf free with his teeth and jammed it hard against your thigh, red blooming through the fabric instantly.
Shaking hands betrayed him as blood slicked his grip and soaked through everything, yet he pressed harder and leaned into it, teeth clenched while your scream carved into him again.
“Stay with me,” Kyle begged through ragged breaths, forcing his gaze into yours, “look at me, don’t you dare close your eyes.”
Lolling briefly, your head jerked back up and your glassy stare locked onto his, terror naked and unfiltered.
Closer now, boots thundered and voices rose, the sound of rifles being read echoing through the wreckage.
Sliding forward, Kyle dragged himself nearer as his knee cut through a spreading pool of red that soaked into his trousers.
“Go,” you pleaded again, voice ruined, “please, I’m bleeding, I’m-”
“I know,” he answered hoarsely, the truth tearing at him, “I can see it.”
He could feel it. Seeping warmth soaked into him through fabric and skin, staining him in a way he knew would never wash away.
“I’m not leaving you,” Kyle said, voice shaking yet unyielding, “that’s not happening.”
Fumbling at your hip, your fingers slapped uselessly against the holster before closing around your sidearm, the muzzle wavering as you dragged it up with an arm that trembled violently.
“Kyle,” you whispered, breath rattling, “you have to go.”
“Not going,” he replied, quieter than before, the words heavy with everything he refused to surrender.
Correcting when your elbow buckled, you clenched your jaw so hard the muscle jumped, determination burning in your eyes as a plea shaped itself into a threat.
“Please,” you rasped, “please, Kyle, go.”
Closing around his throat, emotion strangled him as the building groaned again overhead and dust drifted down to settle across your face.
Crouching low, he closed the remaining distance until your breaths brushed his neck, forehead pressing briefly to yours as he anchored himself to the heat still radiating from you.
“Stay awake,” he whispered, voice breaking despite himself, “I’ll come back, I swear.”
Fluttering, your eyes held fear and trust and unbearable pain all at once before softening.
“Go,” you murmured, barely more than breath, surrender threaded through the word.
Swallowing hard enough to ache, Kyle clenched his jaw and finally moved.
(...)
Rotor wash tore at the desert floor as Price watched Kyle stagger in from the haze, the younger man’s kit hanging wrong on his frame and his hands shaking hard enough that the blood smeared across his sleeves looked freshly spilled even as it dried.
Through the ringing in his ears, Price caught the sound Kyle was trying to swallow, the tight hitching breaths and the wet silence of someone crying without letting themselves make noise, and it set his jaw because this was the sound that came back when a man had crossed a line he could not uncross.
“Is that yours,” Price asked evenly, voice pitched low to keep it from carrying, his eyes already cataloging injuries, already measuring what could still be fixed and what could not.
“No,” Kyle said after a beat that stretched too long, his mouth opening and closing once before the word finally came out rough and broken, “no, sir, it’s not mine.”
Slowly, Price followed the line of Kyle’s stare past the helicopter, past the men pretending not to look, and into the empty stretch of desert where the compound’s smoke still smeared the horizon.
“Where are they,” he asked then, softer now, because the answer had weight and he could feel it pressing down before it ever arrived.
Blank-eyed, Kyle stared straight through him and said, “Their legs are gone, sir,” with a numb precision that hurt worse than shouting, “slab of stone came down, pinned them, they were bleeding bad and I couldn’t get it off and I left them there.”
For a moment Price saw you younger, sunburned and stubborn and grinning after surviving something you should not have, heard your voice arguing tactics too loudly in a briefing room years ago, felt again the jolt in his knuckles from the day he’d punched you for costing them a mission and then stood there afterward knowing full well that same reckless call of yours had saved all their lives.
Carefully, he turned away before the memories could root him in place and keyed his comm to Laswell, forcing steadiness into his tone as he said, “Mission’s done, Kate, east wing collapse turned it into a meat grinder and we’re pulling out before QRF eats us alive.”
Quietly, Laswell answered with clipped questions about survivability and recovery windows, and Price gave her numbers he didn’t believe in anymore while his eyes kept drifting back to the empty space where you should have been walking out.
Behind him, Kyle broke then, shoulders folding inward as he whispered, “I shouldn’t have left them,” over and over, as if repetition might change the physics of stone and blood and time.
Firmly, Price grabbed Kyle by the vest and made him look up, saying, “You followed orders and you’re still breathing, which means you did your job,” even as another part of him calculated distances, enemy movement, fuel, daylight, and the cost in lives it would take to go back for you.
Out loud, he added, “We’ll come back for them,” because Captains said things like that and men needed to hear them, because hope sometimes kept people functional a little longer.
Silently, Price knew they both understood the truth sitting between those words, heavy and unmoving as the slab Kyle had described, because you were going to die out there and every decision he made now was only about how many others he was willing to bury with you. His hands flexed at his sides, knuckles pale beneath the thin gloves, and every instinct screamed at him that going back right now would be suicide. Yet the words he was about to speak would carry the weight of that truth for everyone else.
John had to draw the line somewhere.
He keyed his comm again, voice steady though every word carried the weight of a dozen regrets he had no right to feel, “Ghost, Soap… evac now. Grid Delta-One, coordinates locked. We’re pulling out. Repeat, pull out.”
Static hissed, then Ghost’s voice came through first, low, calm, but tense, asking for location updates and status. Within minutes, or maybe hours, time had lost its shape, a shadowy figure arrived, sliding down onto the desert floor with practiced ease, boots kicking up sand that clung to his armor.
Ghost’s eyes swept over the soldiers present before they finally settled on Price, a question in his eyes.
“Nothing we can do now,” Price said quietly, voice rough even to his own ears, “they’re pinned under debris. We go now, or we don’t go at all.”
Ghost didn’t answer immediately, only let his eyes drift back to the ruins, taking in the ash, the dust, the void where life had been moments ago. His hands rested on his weapon, fingers flexing tight as he exhaled.
Tightening his jaw until it ached, Price forced the words out slowly, explaining, “The compound’s a ruin and the east wing’s gone, extraction’s ugly and there are patrols moving in, and aside from…” before his voice failed him briefly, “…aside from them, we’re clear to move and we’re pulling out.”
Ghost’s eyes bore into him and Price felt the subtle acknowledgment of shared guilt, a soldier-level grief for someone they both couldn’t save.
There were no words big enough to fix it.
He only allowed the weight to settle briefly before the sound of approaching boots broke the moment.
The moment fractured when approaching footsteps cut through the stillness, Soap’s arrival carrying a discordant energy as he strode in too loud and too loose, his voice ringing across the sand with the same careless humor that had helped tip the mission into disaster.
Grinning faintly, Soap called out, “Oi, where are they then, not exactly their style to drop out early for a kip,” the words hanging wrong in the air the instant they left his mouth.
Price’s head turned slowly, jaw tightening as he felt all the rage, disbelief, and frustration coil inside him at once, and before he could think, Kyle’s fist collided with Soap’s jaw with enough force to stagger the man backward onto the shifting sand.
Pain flashed across Soap’s face, more from shock than the impact, his smile faltering as he coughed and staggered upright, looking from Kyle to Price, then finally catching the grim expression on Price’s face.
“Oi- what the hell?!” Soap barked, hand pressed to his chest, confusion and indignation mixing with the dull ache, “It’s not like them to be-”
“Don’t. Fucking. Joke,” Kyle spat, voice raw, shaking with a mixture of panic, guilt, and a grief that had nowhere else to go. “You- your damn bomb- look what you did, mate! Take a good fucking look!”
Price felt a brief flicker of satisfaction at the justice of it, and then, immediately, the weight of necessity pressed down on him. Soap’s grin had vanished, replaced by confusion and surprise, and Price’s hand landed on Kyle’s shoulder.
“We don’t have time for this,” Price said, voice low but carrying the sharp edge of command. “We’re leaving. You caused this, but right now your job is to keep breathing until we can clean this up.”
For a heartbeat, Soap just stared, blinking as if the world had slipped out of alignment, and Price saw the exact second denial gave way to comprehension as Johnny’s shoulders sagged and his mouth opened on a sound that never quite formed into a word.
“No,” Johnny said eventually, shaking his head as if that alone might rewind the last hour, “no, that’s not right, the timing was clean, I checked it twice, I checked it three times,” and then, quieter and more frantic, “they were clear, they were supposed to be clear.”
Keeping his voice steady took effort Price resented as he answered, “Plans don’t survive contact, Johnny, and neither do buildings when you pack them that tight,” because facts were safer than feelings and he needed Johnny anchored in something solid.
Suddenly, Soap looked up, eyes blazing with a mix of guilt and defiance as he stepped closer and said, “Then we go back,” the words spilling fast now, “we get a jack, explosives, something, because we don’t just leave them there, sir, not after what they did last time.”
Memory flashed uninvited through Price’s mind, the image of you dragging Johnny out of a kill zone by his vest while rounds snapped overhead, how Price had rewarded that with a punch that cut your lip.
“They saved us,” Johnny insisted, voice cracking despite the force behind it, “they took fire meant for me and Kyle both, and if they hadn’t made that call we’d be chalk outlines, so don’t tell me this is just another bad number to cross off a board.”
Holding his ground, Price snapped back, “I’m telling you I don’t get to spend the lives I’ve still got chasing the one I can’t reach,” and he hated how rehearsed it sounded even to his own ears.
Anger flared hot and wild across Soap’s face as he shot back, “You’re writing them off already, and you know damn well they’re still alive out there!”
Grinding his teeth, Price answered, “Alive doesn’t mean reachable,” and then harsher, “and it doesn’t mean savable under that kind of collapse with QRF closing in.”
Breaking then, Johnny took a step past him toward the smoke and shouted, “I’m not leaving them!” the words torn straight from his chest as he shoved at Price’s shoulder and added, “you can court-martial me later, but I’m not doing this.”
Moving faster than Price could react, Ghost crossed the space and hooked an arm around Johnny’s chest, hauling him back hard as Soap fought like a man possessed, fists slamming uselessly against armor while he roared, “Let me go, Simon! They’d come back if it was, you bloody know they would! Let me fucking go!”
Strain roughened Ghost’s voice as he dragged Soap toward the helicopter, every step a battle, while he growled, “They wouldn’t want you dead on top of them, Johnny, and you know it.”
Over the rising rotors, Soap screamed Price’s name, desperation shredding whatever control he had left as he yelled, “You promised we don’t leave our own, you promised!”
Turning away so Johnny wouldn’t see the fracture in his resolve, Price barked orders to the crew and forced his legs to carry him forward, because if he stopped now he might break with them.
(...)
The rotors kicked up a haze of sand and heat as the helicopter rose, the desert falling away beneath them in a blur of orange and gray. Inside, silence had settled like a weight over the cabin, broken only by the faint hiss of machinery and Kyle slumping sideways against the bulkhead, eyes empty, staring at nothing that existed except the memory of what they had left behind.
Ghost sat beside him, rigid and unreadable, one hand resting lightly on Kyle’s shoulder, grounding him without words, letting the younger man sink into the exhaustion and horror he couldn’t yet process. Every so often, Ghost’s gaze flicked toward the horizon, where the compound still smoldered, as if he could somehow hold the world together with sight alone.
Soap, on the other hand, could not sit still. He paced in a tight loop, fists clenched, teeth gritted so hard the edges of his mask rattled, voice hissing through the cabin like a snake ready to strike. “No- no, we can’t just leave them! Not them! We can’t! They- Price, we can’t-”
Price’s own hands gripped the straps across his chest, knuckles white as he spoke slowly, firmly, knowing he had to thread the truth with a lie to keep them from descending entirely into chaos. “Johnny… I know what you’re feeling. I know what you want to do. We’ll come back, if we can but not now. Not now. Right now, we have to survive, or there won’t be anyone left to come back for them.”
“Not now?” Soap snapped, voice breaking as he leaned forward, eyes wild, chest heaving with the weight of every second he had imagined trying to reach you. “Not now?! How the hell do you know they’ll even-”
BANG!
His words died in his throat in an instant as the horizon bloomed into a furnace of orange and red, the compound behind them erupting in a roaring wall of fire and black smoke. Heat hit the cabin even through the armored fuselage.
Kyle’s body shifted slightly in its slump, almost imperceptibly, as his voice came, quiet and mournful: “They… they were lying on some bombs.”
The words barely rose above a whisper, staring toward that distant hell, where every hope of survival had ended in flames.
Soap couldn’t look away, face frozen as though his body had betrayed him into witnessing a nightmare he had no hope of stopping. His mouth opened and closed once, twice, but no sound came.
Price’s gaze fell from the horizon, ashamed, mouth tight, hands unclenching only to curl back into fists, because the image burned in his mind, burned through all rationality, and he hated that he had been powerless to prevent it, hated that the calculus of survival had demanded leaving someone behind.
Ghost pressed the heels of his gloved hands to his eyes, tilting his head forward just enough to hide the tightness in his shoulders.
Kyle remained slumped, whispering fragments that made Price’s stomach churn, staring at that distant hell like the world had ended there, and Price knew they all carried it now.
A shared wound.
(...)
The chapel smelled of wet stone and candle smoke, a thin, bitter scent that clung to the walls and made Johnny’s throat tighten the moment he crossed the threshold, rainwater tracing chaotic lines down the leather of his boots and into grooves worn into the flagstones over centuries.
He paused briefly as the door swung closed behind him with a hollow thud that seemed far too loud in the quiet nave, and the sound carried too far, echoing across the empty pews in a way that made him feel like he had barged into something private, something that didn’t want him there.
Varnished oak gleamed under the dim, trembling glow of votive candles, each tiny flame flaring in the draft of the open door, yet the rows of pews still felt hollow, each empty space between mourners punching a gap through the chest that wasn’t supposed to exist.
A handful of people clustered near the front, coats dark and dripping, umbrellas collapsed at their feet, but their numbers were too few, the turnout small enough to remind him that this was someone who had lived quietly, quietly enough that the world had barely noticed when they were gone.
The chapel itself was pure England in stone and shadow: pale ribbed pillars ran along the walls, lancet windows leaked grey daylight that carried no warmth, and a timbered ceiling blackened with age and candle smoke loomed overhead like a cage no one could lift.
Somewhere behind the altar, a radiator ticked and sighed, mechanical comfort against the otherwise frozen quiet.
There was no casket, only a low wooden stand with a flag folded neatly atop it, the absence of the body beneath making Johnny’s stomach lurch as if he had walked into an unfinished sentence.
He swallowed once, twice, and muttered under his breath, a breath that felt too shallow, too small, and for a moment he almost regretted being here at all.
He hadn’t known you well, not properly, never shared a mission or a moment that mattered in the operational sense; your orbit had always been closer to Price and Garrick, loyal satellites in their gravitational pull, and Johnny had been on the edge, peripheral but not unwelcome, and certainly not unknowing of the respect you commanded quietly.
Simon had called you “amicable enough,” a faint smile in the chaos of life, a person who didn’t provoke yet didn’t cling, who left impressions like footprints in dust: fleeting, visible only if someone was paying attention.
Sliding into a pew near the back, Johnny felt the wood creak under his weight and rested his forearms on his thighs, letting his eyes wander ahead until they locked on Kyle, who sat in the front row and looked like he’d been hollowed out by grief, life drained from him in slow, uneven pulses.
His uniform jacket hung on his frame as if it had grown too large overnight, shoulders rounded forward, spine bowed under some invisible weight, hands clasped tight enough that knuckles gleamed white, and dark crescents under his eyes marked him as a man who had forgotten how to sleep.
Johnny’s jaw tightened, memory striking like an electric current: Kyle had been there when the east wing collapsed, had shouted your name through dust and heat, had dragged himself through ruins with nothing in his arms to soften the devastation.
And Johnny… Johnny had pressed the button.
The image came unbidden anyway, bright and cruel: the blastwave, the roar, the building folding in on itself like wet cardboard, heat licking his face, pressure pressing in from all sides, and your position lighting up the comm for half a heartbeat before going dead.
For someone who had spoken so little, you had left an echo loud enough to rattle every bone in the room, every nerve inside him.
“Still can’t believe it,” someone murmured behind him, soft and uncertain, and Johnny recognized the voice immediately, one of the lads from logistics, thin and hesitant, carrying grief the way some men carried tools: quietly, with effort.
“Whole wing,” the man continued, voice low, almost swallowed by the chapel’s shadows, “just… gone.”
Johnny didn’t respond, didn’t even turn, letting the words hang in the air like smoke, each syllable an accusation, a memory, a reminder that this wasn’t something you survived.
The priest didn’t linger, didn’t preach. There was no sermon, no parable, no promise of heaven to the men and women who had lived too long in hell-adjacent places. He spoke only of service, of giving more than was owed, of mercy even when men failed each other, and that was enough and also not nearly enough.
Kyle rose after the final ‘amen,’ boots scraping against stone in a sound that made Johnny grit his teeth instinctively, a raw noise that felt like it belonged in a warzone rather than a chapel.
He didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge anyone, moving forward as though compelled by some unfeeling hand, and Johnny leaned slightly, drawn in despite himself.
Kyle reached the flag, a corner slipping loose beneath his fingers, and he folded it again, pressing down hard, as if the weight of the fabric might press something else out of the room, something untouchable and horrible.
Johnny watched his shoulders tighten, jaw lock, hands tremble once before stilling, and somewhere in that stillness, grief and guilt combined in a form he almost couldn’t bear to witness.
The woman waiting, family, smaller than Johnny expected, was swallowed in a black wool coat, shoulders too broad, hands twisting a lace handkerchief into submission, eyes locked on the flag as though it could speak for him, for her, for you.
Kyle offered it, hesitated, swallowed, and finally said, voice rough, not ceremonial, not measured, “I’m sorry. I should’ve brought them home.”
She flinched, then drew the flag into herself, folding her arms around it like a shield, whispering, “That’s alright,” though Johnny could hear how much it wasn’t, how little comfort could be wrung from a piece of fabric and folded cloth.
He stayed seated, staring at the seam between two stone tiles, counting breaths until the chapel stopped tilting under him, and watched as everyone else shuffled out afterward, murmuring soft condolences, brushing shoulders, boots whispering across stone, fragments leaving in fragments.
Outside, rain washed over a cemetery under a grey sky, headstones crooked and lichen-flecked, grass sodden, a low wall humming with distant traffic, engines and tyres feeding the hum of a world that refused to pause.
He found Kyle by the fencing.
Johnny’s boots sank into the soft, sodden earth, but he didn’t move yet, letting Kyle occupy the space near the gravesite while he assessed whether approaching was even possible.
Kyle’s lighter clicked again, sparks snapping, smoke curling around his fingers, and the glow revealed a face hollowed out by grief, exhaustion, and something darker that Johnny had seen before but never so concentrated: guilt and rage, tangled together so tightly he could almost see the edges of it cutting into him.
“You holding together?” Johnny asked finally, keeping his voice low, almost casual, a habit of the military, a shield against emotion he hadn’t yet managed to dismantle.
Kyle laughed, a sharp, empty sound that scraped against Johnny’s ears. “Do I look like it?” he spat sideways, the smoke curling lazily into the drizzle. “What about you, then? You feel like a saint because you survived?”
Johnny rubbed the side of his face where Kyle had clocked him during a training mishap weeks ago, memory fresh and tender. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, almost too calmly, as if calm could stave off the tide.
Kyle’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing under the brim of his hood. “Yeah, you’re here. But I was there too. I was right there when it all went to hell, and I had to watch… I had to watch-” His voice broke for a second, and he swallowed hard, but the anger didn’t leave. “You pressed the button, Johnny. You set up the blast, and-”
“I know,” Johnny interrupted quietly, holding up a hand, but Kyle cut him off before he could continue.
“No, don’t. Don’t you dare try to soften it. Don’t you dare tell me it wasn’t your fault. You were there, you-” He slammed the lighter down, sparks flying into a puddle, and the sound of it hitting gravel was loud in the quiet cemetery. “I was right next to them when the east wing came down, and you-” He jabbed a finger at Johnny now, trembling but precise, “you sent them to their death!”
Johnny stayed still, letting the rain soak through his coat, letting Kyle’s words strike him like fists, because in a way, that was exactly what he deserved. He felt the guilt coil in his chest, tight and sharp, every heartbeat a reminder that he had done this. He had pressed that button. He had survived. And you hadn’t.
“You don’t get it!” Kyle finally shouted, taking a step forward, voice raw, wet from the rain and the tears he hadn’t allowed himself to shed yet. “You don’t fucking get it! I had to pull them out, and there was nothing, fucking nothing, I could do. And you… you were behind the safety. You were-”
Kyle’s fist hit Johnny square in the chest, hard enough that he staggered back slightly, boots sliding in the mud, and Johnny felt it, took it, because he didn’t have the right to push back, didn’t have the right to defend himself. The punch landed, but he didn’t fight it, letting the pain bleed into him, mingling with the guilt, letting it all anchor him to reality.
“You don’t get to survive and stand there! You don’t get to walk away with your conscience clean!” Kyle’s voice cracked, high-pitched now, almost inhuman with rage, the cigarette long forgotten on the ground.
Johnny exhaled slowly, letting the air hiss out between clenched teeth. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he rasped, voice barely audible above the rain. “I thought it was stable…”
Kyle swung again, faster this time, but Johnny caught his arm, not resisting, just holding it, feeling the trembling rage, the shaking guilt, the disbelief in Kyle’s chest. “Stop,” he said softly, almost a plea. “I know. I know it’s my fault.”
“You know?” Kyle spat, pulling his arm free, eyes glistening with tears that ran down into the mud, hands trembling. “You think knowing does anything? You think that makes it right that they-” His voice cracked, and he pressed his forehead into his fists. “You think it’s fair that I had to- I watched them-”
“I know,” Johnny admitted, voice breaking, wet from the rain, soaked through in guilt and shame. “I know. I saw it. I can still hear it, Kyle. Every time I close my eyes, I hear-” His hands trembled as he lifted them, helpless. “I can’t… I can’t change it.”
Kyle stumbled back, chest heaving, jaw tight, fists clenched, and his voice dropped lower, shaking now with exhaustion and grief. “We’re supposed to protect people. That’s what we do. That’s the job! And you didn’t- you didn’t protect them, Johnny. You left us there, with that noise, that fire, that… chaos! And-”
Johnny’s own chest ached, stomach twisting, heart hammering. “I know,” he said again, quieter, humbling himself, letting the words soak into the rain. “I know. I can’t take it back. I can’t fix it. I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Kyle’s eyes burned with unshed tears, rain streaking over his cheeks, mouth quivering as he struggled for breath. “Sorry doesn’t bring them back!” he shouted, fists swinging uselessly, shaking with rage, and Johnny didn’t move this time, didn’t block, didn’t argue, just took the blows like a confession, each strike digging into his guilt deeper.
“I know,” Johnny repeated again, hoarse, ragged, almost a prayer. “I know. I’ll carry it. Every day. I’ll carry it until-”
“Until what?” Kyle screamed, the rain plastering his hair to his skull. “Until you can sleep at night and pretend it never happened? You think that makes it better?”
“I won't pretend,” Johnny said quietly, almost too quietly, shivering from rain, adrenaline, and grief all tangled together. “I never have. I never will. I carry it because it’s mine. It’s all mine. I survived, and I know why. And it haunts me every second, Kyle. I see it every second, hear it every second. I-”
Kyle’s shoulders sagged slightly, trembling with exhaustion and the slow, relentless flood of grief, and he kicked at a puddle, sending muddy water over Johnny’s boots. “I don’t even know what I want from you,” he admitted, voice breaking, finally letting a small shred of the despair through. “I don’t know if I want you to die here next to me or if I just want someone to tell me it wasn’t my fault that I… that I couldn’t-”
“You couldn’t save them,” Johnny whispered, stepping closer, hands open, empty, offering nothing but himself. “And you shouldn’t have had to. But you tried. You tried. And you’re alive, Kyle. And that… that means something too, even if it doesn’t feel like it now.”
Kyle’s hands dropped to his sides, fists unclenching, rain soaking sleeves clinging to his forearms. His lips parted, but no words came, only the shaky intake of breath as grief finally overwhelmed his rage.
Johnny didn’t move, didn’t push. He let Kyle be, let him stand in the storm, let him rage and grieve and hate and hurt, all of it a testament to a life lost too soon and a weight that neither of them could ever fully share.
“I… I can’t forgive myself,” Kyle muttered finally, voice low, almost a whisper, the words carried more to himself than to Johnny.
“I know,” Johnny said again, soft and steady. “I know. Me neither.”
(...)
He lingered long after Kyle had disappeared down the gravel path, boots sinking slightly into the rain-softened earth, letting the drizzle run along his collar and soak through his coat as if the weather itself wanted to wash him clean of memory.
At the far edge of the plot, he found yours, standing apart in quiet defiance among older stones. The newest headstone in a field of weathered limestone and slate, its edges sharp, unforgiving, cold beneath his fingertips, and simple to the point of cruelty, too simple for someone who had lived, breathed, and moved through the world with a presence that had left traces, however faint, on every life you touched.
Your name was etched into the stone in flowing script, elegant but impersonal, destined to be traced by countless hands over decades, by eyes that would never have known you, never understood you, never grieved the way he was about to.
Beneath it, two dates stared up at him, stark in their finality, and Johnny knelt, rain soaking through hair, coat, gloves, grounding him in the chill as if punishment and absolution had been rolled into one.
Fingers dug into his thighs for leverage as he pressed a hand to the stone, felt its icy solidity cut through gloves and skin, a weight of permanence that both anchored him and mocked him in equal measure, accusing him for all the things he could not undo.
It was the same day, a cruel symmetry he could not escape.
Swallowing, jaw tight, he felt blood rush behind his ears, the pulse a hammering echo of memory. The blast, the roar, the way concrete had screamed and the building had collapsed in on itself, smoke curling and heat searing, the dust choking and choking again.
He could almost hear your voice, cut short in a scream that would never finish, could almost feel the heat of the fire licking at his arms, the sting of sweat and ash on his skin.
“Course it was,” he muttered, voice low, raspy, swallowed by mist and drizzle, words failing to carry nearly enough grief. “Happy fuckin’ birthday.”
The bell of the nearby church tolled the hour, dull and distant, reverberating through the drizzle and the wet grass, carrying the hollow weight of time over the cemetery, each strike pressing the moment tighter against him.
God heard everything, they said. Johnny let himself hope that maybe, somehow, He had heard you, had felt the pulse of your life and the echo of your death, had noticed that the world had lost someone who had deserved more than this simplicity in stone.
Rain ran into his eyes, stinging, and Johnny pressed both hands to the cold surface again, leaning forward, head lowered, letting the wet and the grief mix together until the world outside the small square of your plot disappeared, leaving only him and the impossibility of what had happened.
(...)
It had been five hundred days since Taskforce 141 had been reduced to four people, since the faces around him had narrowed, the jokes thinned, and the weight of every mission had doubled with fewer shoulders to carry it
Simon Riley crouched on a rooftop, rifle braced against his shoulder, scope leveled toward the abandoned industrial district while Price fed him ranges and wind corrections through the comm, his thoughts wandering to how absence had a sound when you listened long enough.
Through the scope, a lone figure crossed the courtyard with a gait that did not belong to desperate or ignorant men, and Simon murmured, “Hold a second,” cutting Price off as his pulse slowed instead of spiking.
Something about the cadence pulled at a memory he kept buried.
Another step brought the eyes into focus beneath a wrapped face, and Simon felt the certainty land without reason or proof.
It settled deep and refused argument.
Simon dropped from the rooftop, boots scraping rubble, rifle lowering slightly, hands flexing on the weapon as he moved forward.
Price’s voice shouted, urgent: “Ghost! Stand down! Do not-”
Every syllable fell away under the weight of recognition, meaningless against the force of what he was seeing, because he could not, would not, stop.
He ignored Price, ignored the rules, ignored caution, because the world had shrunk to the shape of a single presence, a single set of eyes beneath the scarf that had haunted his thoughts for months and years alike.
Simon knew it in his bones, in the marrow of his fingers curling around the rifle, that those eyes belonged to you.
He spoke your name first as if it were a lifeline thrown into the wind, low, careful, testing the air, letting it hang there between the ruined walls and the dust that swirled through the courtyard.
Come back. Hear me. Recognize me.
He didn’t expect an answer, he wasn’t even certain it was reasonable to expect one, but he needed it said, needed to feel the vibration of your name in his mouth again.
“Oi… look at me,” he said again, waiting for the familiar flicker, the fraction of recognition he could hold onto.
The shot from your raised gun hit stone behind him, a sharp crack, a spray of grit that stung his cheek. Simon rolled forward, pressed the rifle low, his hands tightening on the grip, feet scrabbling over rubble as he closed the distance, irritation curling in his chest because each measured movement of yours defied confusion.
Panic did not shoot straight. Panic did not aim with intent.
Closer now, he lowered the rifle another fraction and said, “It’s Ghost,” choosing the name you had always used, convinced the sound alone would cut through whatever fog had settled over you.
Your answer came in motion instead of words.
You pivoted and drove a kick into his ribs with brutal efficiency, force landing where he hadn’t expected it, knocking the air from his lungs and slamming him into the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Simon was already pushing back up, mind racing through possibilities he didn’t want to name, and when he lunged to restrain you his hand closed around your leg and found something wrong.
There was no give.
Cold resistance met him beneath fabric and dust, weight carrying straight through his grip and into his bones, and his breath caught as the truth sharpened into focus with sickening clarity.
“What did they do to you,” he demanded, voice rough, not a question meant for permission but a problem stated aloud.
Memory flooded him all at once, of you laughing, swearing, arguing, bleeding human blood on desert stone.
Your rifle came up again, smooth and practiced, and when you spoke your voice carried nothing of that past. “You are not cleared to interfere.”
The words landed cleanly, devoid of fear or hesitation, and the last excuse Simon had clung to collapsed under their weight.
“You don’t know me,” he said slowly, hearing the truth in it even as it hurt, feeling it settle deep in his chest as something solid and terrible.
Simon recalculated. Trauma did not erase recognition with such precision. Instinct did not produce movements that clean. Whatever stood in front of him had not only been broken but bent out of shape.
The fight closed fast after that, bodies colliding among rubble and dust, Simon using training over emotion until momentum tipped in his favor and he drove you down, knee braced, grip locked tight around your weapon arm.
With his free hand, he tore the mask from his face and leaned down until there was nowhere for you to look but at him.
“It’s me,” he shouted, voice cracking. “Simon Riley. Look at me! It’s Simon!”
For a heartbeat, you went still.
The world narrowed to that single pause, and hope flared sharp and dangerous in his chest, because your eyes flickered, because something unreadable crossed your face, because for the first time you weren’t moving to kill him.
Then your free hand came up and smashed the butt of your gun into the side of his skull.
Darkness took him mid-breath.
(...)
When Simon woke, the air was cool and smelled of antiseptic and metal, his head throbbing as he stared up at the inside of a transport cot.
Price sat beside him, elbows on his knees, expression drawn tight with things he wasn’t saying.
“Easy,” Price murmured quietly. “You took a hit.”
Simon swallowed, memory crashing back in fragments, and turned his head enough to meet Price’s eyes. “It was them,” he said hoarsely.
simon's a mean bastard in this one. tw: mentions of violence, swearing, blood, injury
someone looked at simon the wrong way in the mess hall. he felt the stare from across the room. a snarky recruit.
so, he'd taken over the drill for the day. he had them doing burpees in full gear, barking like a rabid dog whenever one of them dared to slow down.
boots thudded. uniforms rustled. the whole platoon gasped for air.
and even then, a couple of soldiers found enough of it to speak. "what's his problem?"
a wheeze. "bet he just likes watching us suffer."
"yeah, he's getting off on it."
someone at the front quickly shushed them, but it was too late.
simon walked over without a word.
they fell silent. nobody dared to even breathe.
then something heavy hit the ground.
your phone buzzed. feeling lonely and sad, you checked the screen with a bated breath, secretly wishing it was simon.
johnny: Please come pick up your man.
confused, you dialed simon's number. no response.
he was on base. wasn't supposed to be home until the next day.
what the fuck had he done?
you hesitated before grabbing your keys. you'd never visited him on base, having only a rough idea of its location because simon once pointed it out while you were driving past. the problem was that your navigation showed nothing but a vast forest in its general area, unable to give you detailed instructions.
you'd just have to pray.
you hoped to god he didn't do anything stupid.
it had been a rough couple of days for you two. a nasty fight that had turned you into strangers. eating dinner in separate rooms, sleeping with an arm's length between you, never once touching during the night. not a single word had fallen from your lips since yesterday morning.
he knew he was in the wrong. but he was too stubborn to make it right.
but now, your bitter feelings had to be put on pause.
with a bit of luck, you managed to locate the base on your own. heart hammering in your chest, you drove up to the gate. the guards exchanged a look and handed you a stamped piece of paper right away, checking the inside of your car only through the window.
getting through security was also surprisingly brief. somehow, they already recognized you. when you handed them your id, you noticed their gazes were averted and their hands didn't linger, only touching when absolutely necessary.
with a visitor card on a lanyard hanging around your neck, you were escorted inside.
johnny was already waiting for you behind the doors. his arms were crossed over his chest, his foot tapping the floor in shortening intervals. he looked furious.
"what happened?" you asked.
"see for yourself," he said, leading you down the hall.
you held your breath as you watched him enter the infirmary, thinking something terrible had happened to simon. only to step in and find your man sitting on a gurney with his mask pulled above his nose, a young medic patting his face with a gauze drenched in antiseptic. price stood over him, watching him like an eagle.
"this bastard picked a fight with half the bloody base," johnny said, approaching him. the medic immediately pulled away and scurried to another injured soldier across the room.
simon's eyes locked on yours, flashing you a cold grin.
his mouth was full of blood.
"oh, piss off," johnny smacked his head. "nothing to smile about."
price turned around, greeting you with a brief nod. "your lad's been busy."
a beat.
"laid out three men. all his own."
you looked at the state of simon. he didn't seem to be in pain, but he never does. body full of adrenaline, his chest rose and fell quickly. his knuckles were violet, glistening with blood. all the while he stared at you with an unreadable look, his eyes void.
all you could manage was a single word. "why?"
he didn't respond.
johnny did. "because he's a moron, that's why."
simon shot him a glare.
"he's being pulled off active duty," price said. "ordered leave until next week."
he turned to look at simon, pausing for a short moment. "needs to get his head right."
"talk some sense through that thick skull of his, aye?" johnny looked at you.
you gave him a hesitant nod.
simon pulled his mask back down and stood up. he approached you with a limp. your eyes flashed with worry for the briefest second until he got close enough for you to wrap your arm around his lower back, supporting him. his muscles tensed, clearly uncomfortable with your touch.
your stomach twisted.
after saying goodbye, you held onto the forms they'd given him and led him to the car. once you were both seated, you spoke.
"so, what happened?"
"oh wow. she talks," he muttered, flat and cold.
"you're unbelievable," you glanced at him. "look at yourself."
he bit the inside of his cheek.
"tell me what happened," you tried again.
"you wouldn't understand."
"try me."
"figures," he said. "you always want to fix things you can't."
his words stabbed your chest. "i ask because i care, simon."
"i don't need your help."
"clearly."
the car fell silent, the buzz of the engine underlining the tension. you were hurt, replaying his words over and over in your head. tears stung your eyes and you desperately tried to blink them away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
the fight that had started all of this resurfaced in your mind. everything revolved around a stupid baking recipe you wanted to try with him. he screwed up the order of the ingredients. without a word, he dumped it all in the bin and turned his back to you, leaving the kitchen. like a child. you begged him to try again, but he was over it. telling you he wasn't built for this stuff. that he was not the man to bake cute shit with you. not the man to dance in the living room with you. not the man to braid your hair. 'maybe you should just find someone else.'
it was getting to your head. his tendency to sabotage himself. it was working.
he made you feel like you were incompatible.
but you weren't giving up just yet.
"i don't need to know why you lashed out today," you said. "just don't push me away."
he tensed for a moment.
but stayed silent.
the rest of the ride was miserable. neither of you said a word, not even when you got back home. he locked himself in the bathroom for an hour, during which you hastily packed the some of your stuff and disappeared.
three days had gone by.
you were staying at your friend’s studio. she offered to stay at her girlfriend's for the time being, giving you the space you needed. you hadn't heard from simon, and you felt pathetic for crying about it. he obviously couldn't care less that you left. so why was it so hard for you to do the same?
one evening, as you were picking out a movie to watch, your phone buzzed.
it was simon.
a picture of a full grocery bag in his hand, with the stupid recipe pinched between his fingers.
Big bad not scared of anything Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley who spends months, upon months wanting, waiting to propose to you, yet each and every time his fingers skim that tiny box in his pocket, he freezes
For the first time in a long time, he’s scared shitless
Not because he thinks you’ll say no, in fact he’s more certain that you’ll say yes than he is about anything else in this world, it’s as simple of a fact as the sky is blue and water is wet
As evident as the fact that he loves you and you love him
He knows this
But he still can’t bring himself to do it
He carries the ring with him everywhere, hoping that one day he’ll just say fuck and it and do it, drop down on one knee and ask the fucking question he already knows the answer to
He fiddles with the box in his jacket pocket as you two stroll around a park after a dinner date, his fingers hesitating the entire night as his other hand holds yours
He tucks the box between the couch cushions one night as you watch a movie together, thinking he could slip the box into your hands and ask you then, but the TV might as well have been turned off seeing as he doesn’t register a single word, the nervous pounding of his heart the only sound he can focus on until he notices you’ve fallen asleep on him
He thinks of hiding the ring on your plate one morning at breakfast, sliding it across the table to you to discover the shiny anomaly hidden amongst your eggs and toast, but he can’t bring himself to do it
In the end, Simon knows he isn’t going to be able to ask you, something about it puts the Lieutenant in flight, fight or freeze mode in a way he’s never experienced in combat, the idea of your extremely unlikely rejection an idea far too painful for him to fathom
And so, that’s how you find yourself waking up in bed one morning, legs tangled with Simon’s under the sheets as you bring a hand up to run the slumber out of your eyes, only hesitating when you feel something out of place
Simon’s eyes are wide open, having been awake for a while, and now they follow your expression as you glance towards the band that got slipped onto your ring finger as you slept last night
“Simon.” You say simply, the hoarse sounds of sleep still caught in your throat
“Love.” He replies just as calmly, focused entirely on your face as you bring your hand closer to your eyes
“What’s this?”
“It’s yours.” He shrugs a single shoulder, feigning the nonchalance he wishes he truly had in this moment
“Mine?”
“Mhmm. For my wife.”
Each second you allow to pass in silence feels to Simon like a year of his life he’s losing, the expression on your face not giving anything away
“S’that alrigh’?” He asks, clearing his throat and shifting to hold the very same hand you’re staring at, running his fingers over yours until they bump into the ring, bring it up to his lips to plant a gentle kiss. The smile that spreads across your own lips tells Simon everything he needs to know, but it still warms his heart to hear you confirm what he’s known all along
“That’s more than alright with me. If I get to call you my husband too, that is.”
That's such a sick baby picture to have. The rest of us are all like "oh this is me tripping in the backyard when I was 2" and that baby's gonna have "yeah that's me in my mom's arms as she wins a mortal Kombat tournament". Iconic.
In the first year of dating Simon, you learn pretty quickly that you can’t take him to haunted houses
With the promise of shiny candy apples and caramel popcorn waiting at the end, you drag him to a local Halloween fest, fully intending on hiding behind him throughout the entirety of the less than impressive haunted house, fingernails digging into his muscular bicep as he bravely leads you through
Of course, that isn’t how it plays out though
It only takes about thirty seconds or so for the first jump scare to become the last, as a man in a cheap zombie costume steps out from around the corner intent on scaring you both
Turns out, you can take the soldier off the battlefield, but his instincts will always stay the same, seeing as you hardly have time to blink before Simon’s fist has connected with this poor zombie’s nose and the man is out cold, falling to the ground
The employees are more understanding than you’d expect, an ice pack held against the man’s face as they reassure you both that these things happen, the actors know there’s always a risk people will react badly, no real harm done seeing as the guys awake and breathing now, though Simon’s cheeks are as red as his candy apple as you walk back to the car park afterwards
The following year, you plan on skipping the haunted house altogether, seeing as it went so poorly last time, but Simon is determined to give you the experience you wanted to have last year
He says he’s got it figured out now, that he’ll keep his hands stuffed in his jackets pockets which will hopefully give his brain the second it needs to catch up and realize there is no danger to knock out cold
It almost works too… sort of
You’re about halfway through, heart racing and adrenaline coursing through your veins at the cheap scares, when the guy with the fake chainsaw pops up and gets a little close to you for Simon’s liking
He claims that this time it wasn’t his soldier instincts kicking in, but rather just his you-better-not-be-about-to-touch-my-girl instincts that had him pinning the man against the wall, plastic chainsaw still making noises as it tumbled to the ground
The third year you’re together, you both decide you’re better off avoiding any sort of haunted house altogether, especially considering you’re now unofficially banned from the local fest
But when the sweet little neighbour girl catches you both getting the mail one afternoon and oh so eagerly puts a flyer for her primary school haunted house in Simon’s giant hands, you’re not sure you have it in you to turn her down
It’s not exactly the vision you’d once had years ago, of clinging to Simon’s arm as he walks ahead of you to keep you safe from plastic spiders and paper ghosts alike
This time you’re walking through by yourself, gaggles of shrieking and laughing children running by your legs in costumes of all sorts, some yelling about the ghost at the exit of the haunted house
But you, you can’t help but smile, knowing that that very same ghost has finally found his role in a haunted house, all too eagerly yelling boo to children barely as tall as his waist, and telling pathetic dad jokes to the tiny ones who cling to their older siblings legs
Any member of TF141 and a weapons designer that just wants to make cool things (silly little guy energy) purely platonic
apologies for the wait although i think i did fairly well making it faster than i’ve done with most requests
Also if you’re gonna ask so nicely i shall give you all of the tf141 because why the hell not dawg (remembered i have free will)
—-
Gaz was actually the first to approach you, having been told to collect some gear from the mechanics and tech department. It was your first time on base too, as they had recently built the labs and facilities for you to work there rather than constantly driving hours to deliver.
He knocks on the door, knuckles rapping gently on the metal, as he peers in. “Excuse me? Anyone here?” It looked deserted, not a sound nor sign of anything human other than the soft whir of machines.
“One moment!”
He’s genuinely surprised when he hears a voice, followed by a loud clatter of equipment and then you, who stumbles into view, beckoning him in. “Can I help you with anything.. S-sir?” He watches as you push up the welding guard, finally revealing your face to him, and he can't tell you’re slightly panicked that he’s some sort of higher up come to scold you.
“Actually, Capt. Price sent me to pick up some gear for the next mission?”
“Gear?” You look at him like your brain is empty, which it may as well be with the way you stand there frozen for a few moments before finally tapping your chin. Fumbling with your pockets in your protective gear, you pluck out a small notebook, flicking through the pages until you finally stop on one. “Gear… Oh! Right! Gear!”
You move quickly to the large cardboard boxes placed in the corner, easily scaling the tower of them until you find the one you’re looking for. Then you dig your hand in, rummaging until you find a slightly smaller box, and carefully bring that down with you before plopping it on the table with a soft thud.
“Silencers..” You hold the notebook open in one hand, going through the items listed in the captain's email one by one. “Size optimised flash bangs, pepper spray, tasers..”
Gaz raises a brow as you go through each item, with the next becoming even weirder than the last. When you’re checking them off with the pen in your chest pocket, he peers into the box, wondering why the hell there’s a Nintendo DSi inside. “What the hell is this for?”
You blink, and then cough harshly, trying not to get too excited at the prospect of explaining the latest invention. “Oh- um.. Well the Captain mentioned it was undercover, and you would be trying to blend in as a college student or something.”
“Pretty sure technology is a bit more modern than this now? I could’ve just used a phone.”
“No! It’s not that simple.” You take the device from his hands, and pull out the bag of cartridges from the box. Inside there’s one with a little blue icon, designed to look like nothing more than a troubleshooter if anything. “This sets off an emergency GPS to your location when clicked in and out twice.” You explain, grabbing another one with a red icon, similar to Mario party. “And this will make it so that it self-destruct in a minute.”
His eyes widen as you explain, shocked that anyone could engineer such a device let alone for missions like these. It’s oddly akin to the gadgets in the spy movies he’d watch as a kid. Naturally, he brags all about it on the way to the next operation, voice smug as Soap easily grows intrigued by the mention of explosives. That’s why he’s the second one to visit you.
“Anyone ‘ere?”
“Probably in the back, Soap. I would know.” Gaz smirks, leading him through the now furnished labs, looking in a much better state than he had seen it just last week. As expected, you’re there again, carefully putting the parts together to another gadget, even if it is technically your lunch break.
“Oh— can I do anything for you two?”
Gaz shakes his head, Soap already stepping forward in intrigue at chemicals he already knows well, mechanisms that he reads into on the daily. “Heard ye made Kyle a bomb— I want one too.”
Your eyes widen, flickering to Gaz as if confirming that he had actually found your gadget useful before going on a long tangent explaining each and every detail to Soap. It ends with him getting your next weapon in his hands, more specifically an ear-stud that contains the explosive he was dying to learn more about. Ghost looks at him in horror when he casually takes it off his ear and holds it against a tough bolt, the explosion small but enough to break it and send it clattering to the ground. Then he stares again when he pulls out his personalised gun for said mission, one that blends in all too well in his belt, like a hammer on a tools man.
All your work has gone towards making their missions even more successful than before, allowing Price to gain intel faster and deal with these issues as soon as possible. The effects are clear as day, and he doesn't intend to waste your shining potential, inviting you to the next briefing to decide on what gear and weapons they should bring for it. The opportunity is one of the other mechanics dream of, usually hidden in the back and not heard of until something’s broken, but clearly your accidental charm had done wonders.
Only problem now was that.. you couldn't seem to make it in. Anxious, you stood outside the briefing room, or well, a corridor down just in case someone saw you pacing. Talking to the sergeants was a breeze, explaining all the curves and twists in the thought trains in your head all while they’d nod along whilst watching your hands demonstrate in awe. Though this was different, far different; you’d be presenting it in front of other lieutenants, only one captain yes, but too many soldiers it made you dizzy.
Only when you finally forced yourself to step inside and take in the sight of them waiting for the meeting to begin did you shove your flashcards into your pocket. There was no way you could do this. Absolutely no way.
—
Price grows more confused by the second, brows narrowing as you adamantly avoid his gaze the entire meeting and then just robotically mumble about the most basic weapon loadout ever with a mediocre reason. The other soldiers, having never witnessed your gadgets, don't see it as anything different, nodding along at your basic observations and don't even bat an eye when you sit down way too early. Maybe that’s what Price really wanted though, you convince yourself, a finger looped into the side of your trousers as your breath stays hitched for the remainder of the evening.
“You’re all dismissed.” The soldiers begin to stand, but Price directs his gaze to you, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re staying.”
Once they’re all cleared out, he walks towards the crappy coffee machine in the corner, dispensing two cups and passing one to you. It’s bland, but you take it anyway, sipping it down to try to wash away the nerves still there.
“Why didn't you say what you wanted to?”
“What?”
“You expect me to believe you think we should use the most basic weaponry? After everything you’ve given my sergeants?”
Embarrassment washes over you instantly, more so at being called out than anything, and you just fiddle with the styrofoam cup, the squeaky noises filling the tension. “I’ve never showed it to anyone else before. Sergeant Garrick wasn’t meant to take it, but he insisted..”
—
Price gave special orders that you’d make your weapons specifically for his taskforce first before you ever prioritised another group's artillery, and you’ve held that rule high ever since. It’s been two months of creating all sorts of things, the prospects only getting wilder with their specialised missions. You adore all the new materials he’s got in stock for you too, the endless bounds of your creativity finally getting filled, and you end up in your office practically all day.
It’s only when it comes to one evening, well it’s almost two am, when there’s a short rap at the labs doors. You slide your headphones off; the sudden noise at the quiet hour had startled you, especially since you were in a less populated part of base— noise complaints came plenty often anyway though.
As you walk over to the door, you realise just how tired you actually are, the time getting by without you realising and leaving you yawning into your palm. “Can I..?” You pause as you open the door to a man in a mask, well it’s only a surgical one, but you consider that you’re being robbed until you remember this is a military base and not your dodgy apartment you used to live in. Luton had its rough sides.
“It’s been a week of non-stop noise in here, do ya even bloody sleep?” He blurts out, arms crossed over his chest as he narrows his eyes at you. Despite your usual behaviour at clear superiors— given how you immediately shut up whenever Price talks— you just squint your eyes and blink wearily at him.
“Sometimes? I usually just fall asleep whenever..” Now that he's stepped into the light and your eyes have adjusted from the sparks of your tools, you recognise that he also works with the Captain.. and Soap.. and Gaz?
“Lieutenant Riley?”
“Yes.” He says firmly, arms stiff in place as he narrows his eyes over you form. “Why aren’t you sleeping? It’s two am. The noise doesn't even stop until two thirty every night.”
“Well, you know the three am rule. Can't break it.” He raises a brow at your words, not understanding what you mean. “Don't be awake at three am? I don't know, I remember it from when I was a kid.”
“Don't be stupid.” He scoffs at your exhausted rambling, clearly the adrenaline wearing off and he pulls the welding torch out of your hand, stopping you right there. “Go to bed. Now.”
“It’s too late to drive to my apartment though..”
It’s not often he finds someone who doesn't stay on base, but he supposes it makes sense given you’re not getting deployed or anything like that. Still, he can't work with that. “Well I’m sick of the noise.”
Within seconds, you’re getting dragged down the corridor by the scuff of your shirt, towards what seems to be the taskforce’s common room. He clicks the recliners on the side, making it sit up properly and then nods his head towards it.
“Sleep. Now.”
You hesitantly sit down on the couch, and he moves to leave the room, only to come back again with a thick duvet, placing it on the side of the couch.
“I don't want to hear one noise from your labs. Y’ hear me?”
With that he’s gone again, disappeared back to his barracks, and you flop back onto the couch. What was his problem anyway? Your labs were nowhere near the barracks and the Captain or the sergeants never had a concern over it before. Sure, you didn't sleep as much as you should, but power naps worked perfectly well and there was only that one time you fell asleep and only woke from the warm coffee you had dunked your head in. Okay, maybe there was the time you nodded off in the mess hall waiting to have lunch with the sergeants, and when you tripped over your own feet in the middle of the corridor.
Point was, you’ve been fumbling all week, hell all month– how has no one caught you up on it?
Oh.
Oh.
You turn your head into the soft couch cushion, cheek smushing against the fabric. Soap had mentioned once that Ghost had questioned how you managed to churn out so many prototypes so fast, and clearly he finally took matters into his own hands. With a small sigh, you let your eyes close, already daydreaming about the custom weapon you can make him tomorrow.
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a/n: can u guys tell i grew up reading alex rider? anyway thanks for the ask anon, i hope i did it justice!
