cw: fluff, cowgirl afab reader x ghost, grumpy x sunshine, clumsy reader
HEADCANON: the team meets Ghostās little bird
PAIRING: Simon Riley x reader
It all started when Soap, half-joking -- not really -- asked over a pint of that terrible guinness that one of the recruits mentioned that he voiced out a lingering thought out loud,
"So, Ghost. Ye ever gonna introduce us to yer missus? Or is she just some hallucination ye made up tae wind us up aye?"
Ghost, who had never confirmed nor denied anything about his personal life, simply shrugged.
"Pub. Friday. Seven."
Soap thought he was joking.
At exactly Friday, seven-fucking-pm though. Soap. Soap realized he was wrong.
They met at a grimy pub near base. Price was wary. Gaz looked openly curious.
Soap just looked excited, because how normal could Ghostās wife possibly be? Some goth lady with a death glare? A sniper with a scar over her eye? A shadow in human form?
What actually walked in wasā
A tiny woman in a beat-up leather jacket, dusty denim jeans, a battered cowboy hat tilted low over her messy braid. Coupled with a pair of cracked leather boots that clomped across the floor like she owned the place.
She looked like she could ride a bull, shoot a rifle, and kiss you breathless ā not necessarily in that order.
She waved frantically the moment she spotted them though ā knocking over a chair and nearly tripping over her own boots as she did.
"HEY, SI" she yelled across the entire bar.
Ghost ā stoic, terrifying, 6'4" Ghost ā immediately straightened in his seat like a teenager seeing his crush.
He actually moved. Stood up.
Went to meet her halfway like she was the only thing that existed.
Soapās jaw was physically on the table.
This tiny woman. Small. Wiry. Sun-kissed and with the greatest pair of tits Soap has ever seen immediately launched herself into Ghostās arms like a missile. He caught her easily -- of course -- one hand on her lower back, the other ruffling her tousled brown hair with ridiculous tenderness.
Leaning down to let her smack a kiss right onto the cloth of his mask like she couldnāt give a single shit about what people thought.
She yanked the brim of his hat down over his eyes ā wait! when had he gotten a hat?? ā and laughed that big, reckless, wild West laugh that turned every head in the pub.
The team stared in horror and awe.
"This canāt be real," Gaz muttered. "Iām dreaming. I died in Syria."
"She's so small," Soap whispered back, scandalized. "And sheāsāsheāsāhot??"
They made it back to the table, Ghostās hand resting casually on her hip like a leash.
When they made it back to the table, she shoved Ghost into a chair, plopped herself onto his lap without ceremony, and grinned at the rest of them.
"Howdy, boys," she said, tipping her hat.
She was absolute chaos.
Stole the darts right out of the wall and challenged Soap to a game ("loser buys shots, city boy" "'m from Scotland, lass" "Cattle country ain't like sheep country, sugar" "we have cows. They moo too").
Gaz: "You're so fucking stupid mate"
Flirted shamelessly with Ghost across the table ā calling him "sugar," "cowboy," and "my big strong man" with zero shame in her Southern-twanged voice.
Told Price he looked like a "sheriff with a broken heart."
Somehow wrangled Ghost into a pool match where she used him as her pool cue guide ā pressed up against him, his huge hands guiding hers, while she winked at the others over her shoulder.
Ghost never smiled. Never joked. Never talked much.
But with her?
He was... different.
Softer.
More human.
Maybe even a little helpless, the poor bastard.
Price, to his credit, kept a straight face. Barely.
Soap, meanwhile -- after losing to her on those stupid darts and took on the challenge of guzzling down the said shots -- was vibrating with suppressed laughter.
She was chaos. Pure, distilled chaos ā loud, funny, mean, fun, but also wildly affectionate. She stole a chip off Gaz and a stranger's plate without asking. Shooed off two creeps with a death glare who wouldnāt stop pestering the girls at the counter. Challenged the bouncer -- a hulking and massive bloke -- to arm wrestle and actually fucking won! Spent half an hour helping to take pictures of an old couple on a vacation to send to their grandkids. And started a chant for Price to shotgun a beer (he declined, though grimly but... endeared).
And through all of it, Ghost just... watched her.
Silent. Steady.
The same way heād scan a perimeter ā except more devoted. Soap swearing that he could even see him smile behind the mask.
At one point, she tugged on his sleeve and whispered something in his ear that made him let out a genuine, low chuckle.
An actual laugh.
Gaz's drink came out of his nose at that and Soap almost passed out from the shock.
By the end of the night, they were all completely obsessed with her.
(And slightly terrified. She challenged another guy twice her size to a pull-up contest and won.)
As they stumbled out of the pub, she looped an arm around Ghostās waist and shouted, "THIS IS MY HUSBAND! HEāS BIGGER THAN YOUR HUSBAND!"
at absolutely no one.
Ghost didnāt even blink. Just tugged her closer and murmured, "Alright, birdie. Inside voice yeah?."
"YOU LOVE ME BABY," she hollered back.
"Yeah," he said simply, not caring who heard. "I do."
And if anyone at the pub dared to stare ā well,
nobody wanted to make eye contact with a man wearing a skull mask who looked like he could bench-press a car and the woman who looked like she could drive said car through you and still smile while doing it.
Soap later: "Lass is unhinged aye?."
Gaz: "Youāre just mad she drank you under the table, mate."
Price: "I like her. Sheās good for him."
Soap: "Naw, like... sheās pure mental. Heās just as daft. Itās a match made in hell, Iām tellin' ye.
Ghost, hearing them gossip:
(Just shrugs.)
"I like her loud. Makes it easier to find her."
