After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.
Parts:
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
The curtains in my living room window look different than I remember them last. Like someone moved them ever so slightly to see a better angle of my driveway. I sit here now, the car in park, but still humming with life because half of me believes if I turn it off now, I’ll foreshadow my own death.
The other half of me considers the advice from an online therapy forum I read a few weeks ago. Advice I doubt is from a real medical professional or has been proven to be true. Advice that should be prescribed in person and by a real therapist: The chances of a “once in a lifetime” event happening more than once in your life are so slim it isn’t worth worrying about it happening again.
Sometimes it’s enough to ease my mind, but not tonight.
However, with a deep breath and a certain heaviness settling on my shoulders, I twist the fob and observe the silence that falls over the car as the radio shuts off and the cool air vanishes.
By all means it’s a beautiful evening. The sun is setting and a sweet floral breeze brushes the hair off my shoulders. It’s an early start to the season with the crocuses done blooming and the lilacs having already started. The house I rent is in a small southern town occupied mostly by the elderly and a few young families who wanted to escape city life. Children are expected to be home right around now. It’s a safe community where most people are comfortable occasionally forgetting to lock their doors, or they simply don’t bother to begin with. I will never be one of those people. There’s a reason I had to change my name and move halfway across the country. Once you enter the protection program, there is no forgetting to lock your doors.
My hand clenches around the switchblade as I step through the side door. Inside, it’s quiet and the room takes on the golden hour’s warm glow. I walk through the house, sparing a quick glance inside each mostly empty room. Nothing stands out.
As I approach the kitchen, the tension in my back starts to ease. The bag drops off my shoulders and onto the table. I set the knife on the vinyl countertop and flick the kettle on. See? Nothing to worry about. It’s nice enough to take my drink out on the back porch and watch the rest of the sunset.
My attention switches once again to the vibrant sky out the window before I tear myself from the sight for a tea bag and a mug. The rumble of the water grows, yet when I hear the click indicating it should shut off, it doesn’t. It hasn’t even boiled yet. My breath catches in my chest as I freeze in my tracks, still facing the pantry. That wasn’t the kettle at all. It wasn’t the fan in the room over or some other appliance coming to life. That distinct sound, that click, belongs to one thing and one thing only. That was the safety taken off a handgun.
My knife is out of reach, still on the counter. I glance for anything I could use to defend myself in the pantry, but there’s nothing but boxes of cereal and cans of soup.
“I figured this would happen at some point,” I say to the figure in the corner of my eye, pointing the gun. “You people don’t tend to leave loose ends.”
“We don’t,” the dreadfully familiar voice confirms. I was hoping to never hear from him again. Especially not in these circumstances. His tone holds the same seriousness as the last time we spoke, after my father’s death. He told me then that I’d be lucky to never see him again.
I’m still not sure I understand what that means. Maybe I’m about to find out. For some reason, I don’t feel nervous. I’m ready to accept my fate.
Nothing’s felt real the last several months. My life has been stuck in limbo and despite my futile attempts, I’ve been unable to find any sort of meaning. Everything feels hopeless in the grander scheme of things. So if he’s come to take my life, I might even welcome it.
“Good thing you’re not a loose end,” Captain Price spares a small smile as he steps out further from the corner. Had I passed him on the street, I don’t know that I’d recognize him. From his worn jeans to his black windbreaker, the man completely blends in as a civilian.
“Put the gun away and I’ll try to believe you,” Price tilts his head to consider, then nods. The weapon slides easily back into its holster. It’s not like he’d need it anyway. I’m not exactly a formidable opponent.
“Fair enough,” his attention drifts to the box of Earl Grey in my hands. “Are you making tea?”
“Want a cup?” I offer, sliding the lid off the box.
“I would. It was a long trip to get here,” I know what he’s talking about. The few hundred people that live here, chose this place because its hours away from any of the neighbouring cities. People come here to get away from the city life. It has the bare necessities and that’s all they need.
“It’s a long trip to anywhere down here,” my voice feels empty. Void of the passion and desperation that once fueled every decision. Steaming water covers the teabags and fills the cups. “Milk or sugar?”
“Black is fine, thanks,” Price grunts as he settles into a chair at the kitchen table. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve used the table maybe twice. “Do you like it? The peace and quiet?” he muses.
“It’s different than New York,” I hesitantly offer as I set the cups down and take the seat across from him.
“Ah, but do you like it?” Our eyes meet and he knows the answer. “I didn’t think you would. You took well to the chaos of our world. Despite having no former training, you adapted in a way that most couldn’t,” I didn’t realize Price paid that much attention to me. I always assumed he was too preoccupied with the rats and the Russians.
The sweet tea dampens my dry mouth. I take a second sip to buy myself more time. What kind of answer is he looking for? Why is he here of all places? “I always like the business of New York. I guess that’s one thing I found similar between it and 141,” he ponders my response for a moment and a heavy silence blankets the room.
“Do you miss it?” his question feels redundant. Price has had the time and practice to become more patient than I will ever be.
“Yes – look as much fun as I’m having here, you know with you breaking into my house, pointing a gun at me, and drinking my tea. Why the hell are you here, Captain?”
“I’m here to offer you a job,” I blink. A job? There’s no way they want to hire me after what I did. How can they possibly look over the fact that I killed one of their highest-ranking prisoners before they could get any information from him?
“What kind of job?”
“Well I was thinking in our translations department,” Price says. “You’re fluent and have prior experience in this setting. And your history with the Ultranationalists gives you an edge. You also held your own incredibly well last time with no formal training. Give it a couple of months and you will become incredibly valuable to our team.”
Once the shock wears off, I’m almost flattered by his last comment. That’s high praise coming from Price. However, I’m also slightly amused. There’s no way he genuinely expects me to say yes. Does he really believe I’d just drop everything and work for 141? Surely not.
Yet, what is there to drop? My admin job at the town office and the zero friends I’ve made since moving to this place? The only people I talk to are those I work with and they aren’t allowed to know any real information about me or I risk exposing my true identity. Everyone I once knew back home is off-limits. If they knew I was alive, I would be in even more danger than I was before. Even my mother doesn’t know of my existence. I was dead to her as soon as I killed my father. She would never want to talk to me again. She might even give up my location to the Ultranationalists herself.
Then there’s how I left things with Ghost. The last time I saw him, I was in a pool of my father’s blood. I don’t want to think about how much trouble he got in from letting that happen.
“I don’t know that your head interrogator wants anything to do with me,” I say assuming he doesn’t know Ghost willingly gave me the knife I used to kill my father.
“Whys that?” he says with raised brows as though he’s clueless. Price plays the role well, however he’s anything but.
“I lied to him and used him to get to my father. I’m a thief and a murderer.”
“Those were extreme circumstances, y/n.”
“If I work for you there will always be extreme circumstances,” I respond. “What makes you think you can trust me anyway? I betrayed you all.”
Price shifts in his chair. He takes a moment and gets a real good look at me, like he’s making sure. The shadows around his face have changed slightly. The sun’s gone now, but a fading blue hue falls over the horizon.
The windows are closed, but even if they were cracked, you wouldn’t hear any outside noise. This town is uncomfortably quiet. The wood creaks as Price leans forward again. “Time after time, y/n, you had almost every opportunity to betray us. There were the interviews, the ambush, the rats, the exchange, and even the death of your father. His killing was not a betrayal. None of the information he had would have made a difference,” Price’s list stirs unsettling memories. He notices and adds, “The only betrayal was that of a father to a daughter. You deserved better: loyalty, trust, truth, to be wanted.”
That last word finally cracks something in me. My heart falters and I take a sip of tea in an attempt to hide the effect of his words.
“Yeah, well…” the words trail off. I’ve got nothing else to say.
Something scuffs along the floor in a room over. Had there been any other noise I wouldn’t have noticed it. The sound was unmistakably human. Like someone was leaning against the wall and could no longer wait. I thought I cleared the rooms, but I was already wrong once. Nothing else follows for almost a minute until the floorboards whisper at the edge of the room. My head turns just as the shadow emerges around the dim corner.
“We want you, y/n,” Simon Riley’s coarse voice fills the room. When our eyes meet, I forget how to breathe. My joints stiffen and my feet turn to lead. His demanding presence completely fills the room and even in civilian clothes, Ghost looks like he belongs on a battlefield.
For a moment it truly feels like I am looking at a ghost, at someone who was as good as dead to me. Someone who, an hour ago, I would have guaranteed I would never see or hear of again.
All the memories I’d been trying to forget over these past months begin to surface. I remember the heat of his rough hands on my skin and the pressure of his arms wrapped around me. The brush of his breath past my ears and down my neck. The stability he provided when my whole world was collapsing around me. The way he risked his life for mine countless times. The way he trusted me to make the ultimate decision when it came to my father and my future. He has always wanted me. He has always chosen me. Now, it's my turn to choose.
Nothing has been the same after learning about the Ultranationalists. It’s impossible to be happy when you know the truth. Part of me feels responsible for the horrible things my father has done. I also know I will never be content here. I can’t keep hiding, but I can help. I can work to remedy the evil that has corrupted my family.
“Do you want tea?”
The end, for now. Thank you for the kind words and support throughout this story. If you are a returning reader, thank you for your patience.
An: Not sure how to start this haha. Hi. It's been over a year but here we are. If you're an old reader, thank you for your patience and for deciding to come back.
Word count: 2410
As the shadow’s grip tightens around my wrist, it feels like a match is struck within me and lit alight with fear. It burns hot within my chest, searing the flesh attached to my bones, causing my entire body to tense. Yet the fear and the pain don’t cause me to shut down. Something has fundamentally changed in me throughout these last strange and inconceivable weeks.
When he leans over me, it’s like the match has lit up his mask, allowing me to see every movement and intention in complete darkness. My fear no longer shuts me down. I feel more awake than ever. More infuriated than ever.
But I’ll be damned if he finds out.
“Miss me?” his voice is just as vile as it was last time.
I bite my tongue. Speaking now would only give him more reason to do harm.
“Probably not as much as you miss Suds though,” His strong grip yanks me upward into a sitting position. The tightness of his fingers twisting around my wrist painfully pinches my skin. I don’t dare utter a single sound. “Hey? Cause you haven’t been with him all week. Which begs the question: What the hell have you gotten up to, Birdie?”
“Nothing,” I mutter through bared teeth. “When I’m not in Captain Price’s office, the Lieutenant locks me in here.
“So Ghost babysits when Suds is gone. Eh? What’s he like?”
Bennet’s question throws me off guard. What’s he like? Of all the things to talk about, this is what he wants to focus on? Not the trade-off or Price’s supposed secret plans or the Ultranationalists or their impending betrayal. Just Ghost.
There has to be more to his words.
“Quiet,” you can smell the uneasiness on my breath. It carries my words and hangs pungent in the damp air.
“Wanna know something about Ghost?” he asks. My stomach turns. Of course, I do. But he’s counting on that. He wants to know just how interested I am in the Lieutenant. I also know that whatever he’s about to tell me probably isn’t true. He wants to drive a bigger wedge between myself and 141 so my loyalty remains with my father. Except I’ll never be loyal to my father.
I shrug my shoulders in response. I don’t know if he sees or if he cares, but I do know he wants to scare me.
“He tried to kidnap your mother before settling for you,” Bennet’s words taste like the bile rising up the back of my throat. Sour and acidic. Like expired milk. “Do you really think they would stop with you? They’ll never stop. Not until your family – our family is torn to shreds.”
I should have known. I want to feel shocked, but there’s a mental block in my brain stopping me. I. Should. Have. Known.
“Our family?” my voice wavers.
“Yes,” he hisses. “Our family. What? Do you think Ultranationalism is just a movement? It is so much more than that. We are so much more.”
“How come they didn’t get her?” I dare to ask him the question buzzing around in my mind. The hidden bug slips my mind. Our ears are far from the only ones present. Ghost at the very least will be listening. Maybe Soap. Maybe Price. Maybe some higher-up that I’ve never heard of. Nothing in this room is a secret.
Who’s to say it’s true anyway?
Yet, who’s to say it’s not? Sure, the Ultranationalists are liars. So is 141. So is Ghost. Of all the people here, he has kept the most from me.
Truth out here has a different meaning. Every single one of their moral compasses has been skewed by war’s magnetism. Even the men who are objectively fighting for peace and democracy are not on the moral high ground they believe themselves to be. None of their hands are clean. Especially Ghost.
“Our team intercepted last minute. Captured their crew. By the time we discovered their plan to take you too, we were already too late. Little Bird, this was never about you. Your father wants you to know that,” his grip on my wrist releases as he leans back, off the bed.
“Does he forgive me?” my throat tightens as the question barely escapes as a whisper.
“He’s working on it, the shadow’s words are swallowed by the darkness. “But he needs your help. We need to know what angle Price will take,”
“I’m not allowed in the room when they discuss that stuff. They don’t trust me.”
“You must’ve picked up on something,” he urges.
I pause for a moment and think. Of all the different conversations I’ve witnessed, surely something must stand out. Something that is safe to share and won’t hurt 141.
“I mean I don’t think they actually intend on going through with the exchange,” I start. However, this isn’t new to him. Neither side plans on cooperating with the other. It’s a recipe for disaster. “They don’t want my father dead. They need him alive for intel on my uncles. But I also think they might be moving on. Price and Ghost discussed intercepting other families. I think the same way they did with me,” it’s better if he thinks I’m clueless. So much has changed since that conversation. They aren’t moving on any time soon. Not when they’re so close.
“Do you believe them?” his question isn’t inherently strange. It’s the fact that he’s asking my opinion that catches me off guard. Does he genuinely want my input? Does this mean I’ve gained his trust? Not likely.
“I don’t know,” my chest is tight. “Well,” I change my answer. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You shouldn’t,” he starts to slowly pace the room. His mind is racing. There’s so much that needs to be done in so little time. If only I had just an inch of the rope, they’re tying my noose with. Then at least I’d know what tree they planning on hanging me from. “You’re expendable to them,” Bennet turns toward the bed again.
“And not to you?”
“To me?” his tone quickly turns to something akin to amusement. “No, you’re quite expendable to me. But your father? He sees you as part of our cause.”
“He never brought it up before,” the curious part of me always wins. I have to know. Something. Anything. Even if it's completely fabricated.
“After everything, do you think he’d still lie to you?” the shadow stills and his eyes turn to slits.
“I- no,” we both know it’s a trick question.
“He said your wings will take you far and high, little bird,” for a moment, I almost hear the words in his voice. They sound like something he’d say when I was young. Like stories from lost times.
“But if it was up to you, I’d be dead already,” I shift back to our previous topic.
“Of course,” he says like it is obvious. “But if you stick with 141, they’ll do it for me. You’re useless to them after the exchange. Nothing more than collateral. Even you, are smart enough to know that,” am I though? Hasn’t some hopeful part of me genuinely believed I might actually survive this mess?
“It’s crossed my mind,” my sullen voice lags with a false sense of exhaustion. Yet, I feel more alert than ever.
“Well let it cross again. Into our territory. With your family,” a deep, raspy sigh escapes his chest as he takes a step back from the bed. In the silence of the night, I can hear his scarred lungs rattle like an old pickup on its last leg. But he’s got ‘miles to go and promises to keep’. This shadow isn’t the kind of man to go back on his word. There’s a reason he’s made it to where he is today. “Think about it,” he says as his hand silently wraps around the metal handle.
The door opens and shuts without a sound. When he slips into the darkness, I know this will be the last of our witching-hour meetings. His words haunt me like the last wishes of a lost soul. There’s more truth to them than I’m brave enough to admit.
I almost mistake the soft raps against the door as one of those spirits. Haunted? Maybe. Spirits? Only of the men who’ve died at his hands. Only in the sense that his name brushes across soldiers’ lips like a curse: If you see him, you’re dead.
The knock was just a courtesy. A warning. Ghost enters the room with a large hunting knife in hand. The matt carbon blade is almost impossible to spot in the night. It’s the way his sleeved arm is held at his chest – ready to strike – that gives him away.
Just as one shadow leaves, another appears. Dressed in all black and moving as silent as an unspoken thought. The intensity of his eyes burns as they bore into holes through the darkness.
He knows Bennet is gone. That doesn’t stop him from clearing the room anyway. He reaches under the desk, pulls out the bug, and twists it apart, rendering it dysfunctional. The tiny pieces are slipped into his pocket.
No one can know he’s here.
The words he’s about to speak should never meet the air.
I haven’t had any time to process what just happened and now he’s appeared within moments to remedy an undiagnosed illness.
It feels pre-emptive. Like he knew this was going to come up. Like he’s planned for it.
“Are you okay?” His thick English accent slowly fills the space.
I’m not interested in small talk. I need to know the legitimacy behind the shadow’s words.
“How much did you hear?” I ask. The adrenaline is running low in my veins. I feel the shakes approaching behind me like an unwanted guest at a house party. Creeping and on the verge of cutting into our conversation.
“All of it,” Ghost crosses the room to my bed. He hovers at the edge with his fists clenched at his sides. His trigger finger twitches, expecting confrontation. I stand from my seated position, but he still towers over me.
“Is it true? Did you try to take my mom?” this conversation feels borderline repetitive of everything that went down in the cabin. Every time I think all the details are out in the open and he’s finally being honest with me, I’m proven wrong.
And every time, the Ultranationalists pick at my healing scabs, causing streaks of blood to smear across my fragile skin. It’s an ugly look. One that lacks patience and self-control.
“Affirmative,” the resignation in his voice is concrete. Ghost doesn’t even try to hide it. What else is he leaving out?
“You’re a fucking asshole,” the bitter words fire in his direction. I feel stupid. I feel played. As though they’re all still treating me like a child.
“Y/N,” he quietly warns. His voice refuses to move above a whisper. Who knows what ears are listening outside that door.
“No. Fuck you,” I point at him with a quivering hand. “You’ve had days – no – weeks to tell me this. Why didn’t you say anything, Simon?”
“It was classified,” he automatically responds.
“You’re so full of it,” I cross my arms and fist my hands. I’d be smart to shut my mouth for the rest of my time here. I’d be smart to do a lot of things differently than I have. Yet that’s not an option. “What else are you keeping from me?”
A deep sigh pushes through the black ski mask. One that’s no longer worried, but hinting at frustration. The pause before he speaks is long and filled with words that’ll never see the light of day. “You know I can’t answer that.”
“You can,” I urge.
“I can’t. That’s the nature of my job – of my life, y/n,” I can feel the heat of his chest as he steps closer. “There will always be secrets. The things I know are worth killing over.”
“But if it’s about me, I deserve to know,” I push harder. Surely, he has to understand where I’m coming from.
“Just drop it,” the coldness to his voice is usually reserved for lower-ranking soldiers. I feel it nip at my skin and travel through my bones in an unnerving kind of way. Yet I can’t drop it. Not when it’s my life at stake.
“You can’t come here and expect me to ‘just drop it’ Simon. You came here. I didn’t ask for help,” the annoyance is audible in my voice. “I deserve to know. What is it? Do they really plan on killing me?”
“Of course not,” he scoffs. Ok. So that much is the truth. At least to him.
“What, then?” my brows furrow as my chest impatiently heaves. Why did he bother showing up if all he’s going to do is shut me out?
Simon reaches for a strand of hair, but I duck away from his grasp. The gloved hand falters, before falling back at his side. I know I’ve struck a nerve when his shoulders stiffen and the heel of his boot shifts half an inch back.
“I wanted to make sure you were safe,” the rejection turns his voice stoic. “Goodnight y/n.”
As Ghost turns and heads for the door, he tightly grasps the knife at his side. I consider biting my tongue, but that’s never something I’ve excelled at. “Leaving me in the dark is far from keeping me safe.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Simon looks back as he grasps the handle. There’s a glint so faint it’s almost hard to spot behind his eyes. For a moment he almost doesn’t look real. “You’re safer hidden in the shadows. There’s no going back once you’re exposed to the light.”
He doesn’t wait for my response. I don’t have one to give.
As Ghost leaves the room, I’m left with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
It fades for a while as the hours drag and I drift into a strange type of sleep. Yet, the feeling returns when my door opens in the morning. When I see his face I know today is the day. They can’t afford to wait any longer. The Ultranationalists are ready. 141 is ready.
It isn’t Soap or Ghost or some other foot soldier who’s come to retrieve me: it’s Captain Price.
Warnings: minors dni, angst, military setting, explicit language, use of weapons, mentions of injuries and death.
My feelings towards Price are continuously conflicted. On one hand, he’s been very generous throughout my stay with 141. He seems to trust my word at face value and has offered me protection with Soap and Ghost. He also seemed genuinely impressed with my work as a translator, and then again with my performance on the phone with my father.
On the other hand, he is the entire reason I’m here. Sure, Ghost arranged everything, but Price is the man behind every step 141 takes. Nothing is done without his permission. My existence is simply a form of currency to him. My value relies on how much my father is willing to sacrifice for me. Markets are rarely stable in times of war. One wrong move, and the stock will tank faster than in 1929. I feel the dip approaching like a rollercoaster at the top of a hill. Imminent.
As he stands in front of me, Price has a welcoming presence, despite all of the atrocities he’s committed. Despite everything he has put me through to gain the upper hand on my father. Despite everything he is going to put me through.
His voice is soft as he speaks. We’re alone in my quarters. He leans against the dresser as I sit in bed with my legs pulled to my chest.
“We identified another rat,” a double agent. Another one of their supposedly well-vetted men who turned out to be a terrorist in disguise. His shoulders remain rigid and his arms cross over his chest. “He was in our transportation unit,” Price continues.
I search my mind for some of the faces I’ve come to recognize. There are too many to remember. I don’t know if I’ve even talked to any of the task force members in that unit. Everyone I know is an extension of Soap’s circle.
“What happened to him?” I ask.
“Nothing yet,” he answers. “We can’t risk tipping off the ultranationalists or the exchange being called off,” his thick English accent reminds me of a misty, fall day spent at a café. It’s cold, but there’s also something comforting about it - about him.
It makes sense how the ultranationalists always knew where we were. The mole could’ve tapped the vehicle GPS or tipped them off about which bases we were at. All of those attacks couldn’t have succeeded without him.
“Are there more of them?”
“Rats don’t lie alone,” there’s an underlying tone of disgust in his otherwise reserved voice. His message is loud and clear and more unnerving than ever. The men in 141 are even less trustworthy than I originally thought. “But I didn’t stop to visit about pest control.”
The air feels colder as the words leave his lips. My breathing pauses and the false ease of our conversation drops away like a theatre curtain.
“It’s happening, isn’t it?”
“Affirmative,” he confirms.
“When?” my soft voice is urgent.
“In fifteen minutes someone will drop off your gear. In forty-five you’ll get on the van. And in one hour we depart,” My chest clenches and I feel a nervous ball form in my stomach. I can’t believe how fast this is all happening. I’m not ready. I don’t have a plan to save myself if this all goes south. He doesn’t care if I live. Neither does my father. He might say he does, but he doesn’t, not really. I’m just an excuse for them to meet head to head. Just an excuse for them to pick a fight with one another. They don’t care what happens to me. Only I do. Price watches my reaction closely. I can tell he half-heartedly expects a breakdown.
“Will Soap come get me?”
“Soap’s team left an hour ago,” they’re gone already? Why’d they leave so early? Why aren’t they all leaving together? I know the answer I’ll get if I ask these questions. I turn my attention back to the exchange.
“What’ll happen when we get there?” Price shifts his weight. He’s a busy man. He doesn’t have additional time to stand here and let me quiz him.
“We’re meeting at an old landing strip in the forest just past the Russian boarder. The exchange will happen in the clearing. Only a few of us will be there for the handoff: Ghost, myself, and a couple other sergeants. The rest will be waiting in the surrounding woods on our side. But they won’t be alone. The ultranationalists will have men waiting on their side of the woods. In the event that this all goes South, you’re going to retreat to the defilade,” he takes a decisive step away from the dresser with his feet pointed towards the door. I don’t have much time to get any other information from him.
“Wait what’s a defilade?” the word stumbles across my lips.
“The men in the trees,” Price pauses. Like always he has the army green hat on his head and is dressed in partial camoflauge. “y/n, I’m not saying it’ll turn into a dogfight, but your father doesn’t exactly have the best track record. Be prepared for that possibility.”
I heed his warning closer than anything else he’s said all morning. Why is Price going through with this if he thinks its going to go to shit?
“I’ll see you soon enough,” There’s a knowing look to his face. Maybe it’s the way his eyes slightly squint or the ghost of a smile that tugs at his lips. It ambiguous. Comforting yet concerning.
Sure enough, within fifteen minutes, a member of the task force drops off a bullet proof vest and new clothes to change into. She is tall and wears a uniform almost identical to the one passed onto me.
“Once you’re dressed, I’ll escort you to transportation,” her voice is low and confident. There’s something reassuring about her presense and I’m just glad it isn’t Bennet or one of his friends taking me there.
After hastily throwing on the tactical gear and bulletproof vest, there’s still a piece of fabric sitting on my bed. When I pick it up I recognize the familiar black, fabric bag from several weeks ago. They’re blindfolding me again. Its eerily soft between my clenched fingers. I can’t fucking believe they’re doing this to me again. After everything, why now?
If Ghost was here, would he make me wear it too? Or is this all Price’s doing?
Her firm hand rests on my upper arm as she leads me throughout the compound. Soon the smell of gas filters through the mask and I hear the rumble of multiple engines. People are talking. Orders are barked from one person to the next. Gear is being loaded onto vehicles. Metal clinks and clashes against each other. Everything is in motion.
And then I hear his voice.
Ghost’s distinct tone cuts clearly through the air. It’s powerful and travels with a force that is impossible to ignore. I can pinpoint the exact moment he notices me. The orders he’s giving briefly falter. Then he’s approaching the sergeant and informing her he’s got it from here.
His strong hand replaces her’s. I imagine the warmth of Ghost’s hand through his glove and my sleeve. Ghost’s chest brushes against my shoulder as he leans down to speak. I blindly await his words, only imagining what we look like to the rest of the soldiers. Will they even notice or are they too preoccupied right now?
“You’re riding with me. Don’t say anything. The blindfold will come off once we arrive,”
“Where is th-“
“Don’t. Speak.” Ghost lowly cuts me off.
The van reminds me of the one before. Similarily, I think we’re strapped in against the walls of the vehicle. But I can’t tell for sure.
Ghost quickly buckles me in. His fingers are fast, yet cautious. He takes care not to pinch my skin between the clasps. For a second it almost feels like he’s lingering just to touch me longer. My remaining anger towards him melts for a moment. In a strange environment where I’m stripped of my senses, he’s the only thing that’s familiar. He’s the only one I might just be able to trust.
There are low murmurs amongst the other task members, but not the cheerful kind like before. These are the types of conversations reserved for before high-risk missions. Conversations that hum just above a whisper. They know not everyone will return. You can hear it in their voices.
The van rocks back and forth as we drive. Ghost’s thigh presses against my own. I melt into his side. The firmness of his strength is a reassuring senestion. My hand rests between our legs as my thumb gently traces back and forth along his pantleg. I wonder if he can feel it? I wonder if he knows how this is going to end?
The terrain progressively deteriorates from pavement to gravel to dirt to something far more unpredictable. When the van suddenly stops there’s a split second of absolute stillness. It only lasts for a single breath. Then, it’s go time.
The clicking sounds of seatbelts fill the air. Orders are reaffirmed down the line. Shuffling bodies exit the van. Cold air wafts through the doors.
The blindfold is harshly yanked off my head. Ghost’s calm eyes latch onto mine. In the sea of chaos flowing around us, he remains anchored.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Ghost only nods once, his eyes telling me all I need to know.
Thick forest surrounds us as teams of armed men meticulously clear the surrounding area. It’s daylight, but the shadows of the trees make it feel like dusk. The snow crunches under my feet and bitter air bites at my skin as visible clouds form when I exhale. We’re back in Russia. Ultranationalist territory.
Price appears from another van followed by a formation of armed men who surround Ghost and myself.
“We’re clear. Their men have claimed their half and the rest are waiting on the flat.”
“How many?” Ghost asks, his hand is glued to the automatic riffle clipped to his vest. His eyes continuously scan the area for threats. Everyone is on high alert. Something is happening behind the scnenes that I don’t know about. I can just tell.
“Half a dozen,” Price responds.
“Beyond the zone of action?”
“TAC estimates about fifty,” Price’s attention is entirely on Ghost. He trusts his opinion more than anyone else on the task force.
“We’re outnumbered,” Ghost’s jaw clenches under the skull mask. His response is short and matter-of-fact. He doesn’t like this. “Update on demolitions?”
“They’re ready,” Price smirks knowingly. What the hell have they got planned? Where is Soap?
Ghost processes what Price has just said. Despite his hesitancy he seems to find some reassurance in Price’s words.
“Right. Y/n,” my eyes are already on Price. “When we go out there, you stay in the detail circle until instructed otherwise. Keep your act up. Sell it to your father. If something happens, retreat to the West side of the flat,” his instructions echo between my ears. This is real. This is happening.
“Affirmative,” I force my chin up.
Then like no time has passed at all, we march as a unit through the trees into a long opening. It’s an old landing strip once used for planes with an abandoned hangar at the far side of the field. The sun gleams through the opening in the trees and reflects off the snow. The brightness hurts my eyes at firt, but then as they adjust, I see several men gathered at a table in the center of the air strip. Its them. It’s him.
Fear pummels through my veins. It’s violent and demands my attention. Every sense feels heightened. Dread fills my body and weighs me down like iron restraints.
It takes everything I have to push myself forward. Every action feels forced. Snow sinks up to my shins as we walk, adding extra resistance. The space is large, spanning multiple football fields. I feel their eyes on us from a hundred meters away. I don’t think I can stomach seeing my father after everything.
The tension is killing me.
Four men surround me as Price and Ghost lead them towards the group. The Ultranationalists have more men at their station, but some of them must be the prisoners theyre supposed to exchange.
At least that’s what I think until Price clears his throat. “You’re missing three sergeants,” His voice sounds different than I’m used to: louder, demanding, dangerous.
“No one’s missing, Captain Price.” My father’s all too familiar voice reaches my ears. “I assume it’s Captain Price, you didn’t exactly leave room for introductions.” it’s warm and relaxed. “They’re resting just beyond the treeline. We only wanted to garuntee your honest intentions before bringing them out,” he sounds completely in control, with his attention completely on Price. It gives me a moment to really look at him.
I haven’t seen my father in weeks and while he looks exactly the same, I can barely recognize the man in front of us. His beard is longer, but still well groomed. He’s dressed in dark greens and greys, the same as the other Ultranationalists. A toque covers his head and a warm winter jacket is hugged by a bullet proof vest. A chest holster hides a gun while his hands remain open and falsely inviting. His eyes look darker than normal. He must be tired. Or maybe it’s hidden rage that gives them that look. I can’t tell anymore. He isn’t the person I once thought I knew, that much is certain.
Our eyes meet and my blood runs cold.
“Dad?” my voice croaks. Price’s reminder to play into the traumatized daughter act weighs on my shoulders. Suspicious eyes square me up from every angle. There isn’t a single person here who fully trusts me. One wrong word and we could all end up dead.
“Y/n?” his brows furrow as his head cranes in my direction. “Y/n, are you okay? Just be patient darling, you’ll be safe soon,” I note how he chooses his words to influence my emotions. How many times has he done this before without me noticing?
“Right, lets cut to the chase then, bring the rest of my men out and she’s all yours,” Price says. I watch as my father eyes him up for a second and then nods in agreement. He barks an order in Russian to one of the men behind him who repeats it into a transmitter.
Then Price steps to the side, opening up a hole in the baracade of men surrounding me. Ghost does the same as he turns and our eyes lock. Under the skull mask I see his lower lids tense with suspicion. He doesn’t trust the Ultranationalists. Every person here has conflicting goals and values. No one is safe.
I can’t look at him for long. Beyond them, someone else expects me.
I take off running into his arms and hot, genuine tears fall from my eyes and freeze to my cheeks. As his arms wrap around me, I can’t hide the shudder of terror that ripples down my spine. It’s becoming harder and harder to separate my father from his actions. When I close my eyes, I see the footage of him ordering the execution of hundreds of vulnerable people. “I’m scared, Dad,” the hushed truth leaves my lips and brushes against the fabric of his coat. He doesn’t react to my words.
“Those aren’t my men,” A type of hollow furry reverberates through Price’s chest. A realization. A confirmation. They let me go too soon. Now I’m in my father’s arms, while the men marching towards them are more Ultranationalists. Not the taken 141 soldiers.
“Oh, don’t worry about them,” he says with his arms still wrapped around me,” as I look over his soulder and past his soldiers, I see more men dressed in grey and green emerge past the treeline and stalk in our direction, guns in hand.
I hear Ghost whisper something into his com. I wonder how many guns are trained on us right now? How many snipers are hidden in the trees waiting for clearance?
“You don’t get to change the conditions of the exchange last minute.”
“I suppose you’re right. That’s not normally how we do things,” my father finally releases me from the hug. His leather glove wipes the tears from my face. The empty, almost irritated look in his eyes tells me he isn’t satisfied. “We don’t typically go through the effort of an exchange. However, Captain Price, these are unique circumstances. Yet, I can’t help the feeling that you are getting a better deal than we are. Look at all these men you’re getting. They’re incredibly valuable to us. They know a lot of information. Information that could hurt a lot of people. Not to mention your men who will be returned to you, once we adjust our terms, of course.”
“Is her life not valuable enough to you?” Ghost’s voice booms across the snow. It’s the first time he’s spoken since arriving. His official introduction to my father. In another life, I wonder if they’d like each other?
“Of course it is,” he brings a hand to his heart and holds onto my arm with the other. It isn’t. I feel his grip tighten. “But that doesn’t mean this is a fair trade,” My stomach drops. He just confirmed everything I’ve feared without directly saying it. My life doesn’t matter as much as having an advantage on 141. He wants more. That greedy fucking bastard.
“What is then?” Price demands.
“You,” he answers. “And several lieutenants. Then we’re getting somewhere.”
“Negative. Never going to fucking happen. Get that through your thick, Russian skull,” large clouds form in plumes as Price’s burning words meet the arctic air. I sense the tension rising as more Ultranationalists approach the group. We were already outnumbered. Now it’s at least two to one. Why haven’t they called backup yet?
“It will. Wilingly or not,” there it is. The underlying threat of violence that has simmered just under the surface of this entire meeting has finally emerged. The Ultranationalists are more than willing to fight. Maybe they’re even counting on it.
“I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into,” Price sneers. I spare a glance in Ghost’s direction to find his eyes already on me. They’re unreadable. He’s never felt so far away.
“Yeah? What’s that?” my father’s cocky voice bites back. This entire time I feel his hands tighten around my arm as though my winter jacket isn’t there. The heavy vest weighs me down. The cold air hurts my skin. Everything feels off. And just when my attention is focused on every uncomfortable detail, Price’s words cut through the air with such clarity they almost don’t sound real.
“If you don’t follow through with our original deal, your wife will die.”
I feel my father freeze. His molten iron grip solidifies. At the same time my heart drops and it feels like I’m falling. My mom? 141 has my mom? My eyes flicker to Ghost, but he won’t look at me. He lied to me. Again. He fucking lied. Ghost had every opportunity to tell me and he didn’t. My cheeks flush with betrayal. After all this time… How could I be so stupid to trust him?
“That’s impossible,” for the first time, my father looks genuinely rattled. The Ultranationalists were supposed to have a team in New York to protect her. She would be almost untouchable. Yet, Price reaches into a large pouch on his vest and pulls out a tablet. On the screen is a livestreamed video of my mom tied to a chair in our family livingroom. The surge of panick that courses through my veins is indescribable.
Somehow, they did it.
“Go get my men,” Price lowly orders and I don’t doubt for a second he’d kill me or my mom to get what he wants. It’s a terrifying realization. He is willing to do anything to protect his task force. All notions of morals and ethics fly out the door when it comes to his men. Bennet was right. I’m not safe with them.
More orders fly out of my father’s mouth in Russian which are then repeated through the transmitter. All eyes are on the treeline waiting for the captured task force members to emerge.
I can’t bring myself to look at Ghost again. Not after this. Not after such a devastating betrayal.
Just as they emerge from the trees, a popping noise behind us in the distance snags my attention. I turn my head just before the men do, seeing nothing. But that noise, that unmistakable noise can only be one damning thing.
Just like that, all bets are off the table.
I’m yanked behind the line of Untranationalists as each side raises their weapons at each other. The line hudles together and pushes back towards the trees as men from each side scream orders and threats at each other.
Over the shoulders of the Ultranationalists, I briefly see the six task members shift into formation, covering all angles. Price yells out something about their men and I realize they didn’t get ahold of the promised Ultranationalists or their captured soldiers. They are leaving completely empty handed, with the exception of my mom. If this doesn’t turn around, they’ll kill her. Nausea floods my stomach. I feel the blood leave my face. If I wasn’t being pushed back by my father, I would be sick right now.
The distinct sounds take me back to the night the Ultranationalists ambushed 141’s base. I’d never heard gunfire so close before, but that’s nothing compared to now. What once originated on the other side of the field, now sounds to be only meters away.
Price said if I get the chance, to escape to the West side, but right now, that’s impossible. And if I’m being honest, I don’t know that it’s any safer than being with my father. Nowhere is safe. The forest is crawling with armed men and even if I did escape, everyone would be looking for me and I don’t have anything to defend myself with.
“They’re moving forward!” I hear someone yell in Russian. We’re just entering the treeline as more men flood around us and then break into smaller groups. Everything is so completely chaotic and yet seemingly rehersed.
My lungs burn and for a moment I forget how cold it is outside. Adrenaline and panic fight with eachother as I try to distinguish what to focus on. So much is happening. I completely forget about my father’s grip on my arm.
“Y/n,” he braces my shoulders, encouraging me to look at him. His eyes are wide with excitement. I feel like I’m going to be sick looking at him. “Everything is going to be alright dear, we’ll escape to the trucks. Alright? Just follow me, okay?” I manage a small nod.
I’m yanked forward as we run through the trees. The group of men with us switched from those on the field and now there are only four additional Ultranationalists escorting us. I don’t know how long my father pulls me along for. It feels like miles and hours, but can’t be more than a few minutes.
A loud eruption shakes the ground as snow and dirt fly through the air and a tree crashes beside us. Holy fuck, that was close.
Smoke clouds the air as people shout and bullets fly. The scene can only be described as a deadly, gorilla clusterfuck with the goal of taking out as many people from the other side as possible. We are in an incredibly dangerous position.
Just as the thought crosses my mind, one of the escorts is shot in the leg and drops to the ground. Red stains the snow around him. My father yells in Russian to keep going.
We weave through the thick pines and any sense of direction I once had is gone. My heart thunders in my chest.
A loud shot rings through the air and another Ultranationalist drops to the ground. A second shot sends a bullet through his skull.
Someone is following us. Stalking us. Toying with us. My gut turns.
For a second, I wonder if it’s a sniper.
Then, a knife comes flying through the air, lodging itself into the back of the third of my father’s men.
It’s in this moment, I know exactly who is after us. After me.
The last soldier turns around and fires blindly into the trees behind us. As soon as his clip is empty and he pauses to reload, a single bullet pummels through the trees and it too, pierces his skull and stains the snow a brilliant red. His body slumps to the ground with a muffled thump.
My father pushes us behind the trunk of a large tree and grips his handgun in both hands. He doesn’t need to tell me to be quiet. I don’t think I could make a sound if I tried.
The sounds of gunfire and explosions echo in the distance, but there’s nothing close to us like there was before. The majority of the fighting is taking place closer to the air strip.
The only place Ghost ever struggled with stealth, is in the snow. There’s no technology in the world that’ll muffle the sound of his footsteps strategically approaching the tree we’re hiding behind. You can hear the frigidness in the air as the crunching snow gets louder. He’s close.
“Throw your weapons to the side of the tree and then slowly step out with your hands in the air,” Ghost’s demanding voice fills the air. A dissatisfied grumble ripples through my father’s chest. I shift to move from behind the tree and a large hand snags the back of my vest, pulling me back.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.
I bite my tongue. He doesn’t know Ghost like I do. There’s no escaping him. The best I can hope for is that he doesn’t want to kill either of us.
“I won’t repeat myself,” his voice sounds closer already. I can imagine him on the other side of the tree with his assault riffle pointed in our direction. Part of me wants to believe he wouldn’t fire on us. But I honestly don’t know anymore.
“Forgive me darling,” the hushed words come as my father wraps his arms around me from behind. He pulls me against his chest and presses the barrel of his gun to my temple before stepping out from behind the tree.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the panicked words bubble up my throat as I try and escape his deathly grasp. I twist and throw my weight around, but it’s no use. Even with one hand occupied, he’s simply too strong. “Let go!” The barrel of the gun bumps against my head as hysteria begins to cloud my better judgement.
Just feet away, Ghost stands with his weapon aimed directly at me. At some point he clipped the riffle to his vest and switched to his handgun. Behind the daunting skull mask, his narrowed eyes calculate our every move with extreme precision.
I’ve heard the rumors about Ghost. Caught wind of whispers detailing the horrors he’s capable of. I’ve even witnessed some of the brutality myself working as his translator. Yet none of that cruelty was ever directed toward me. Now, I find myself looking directly down the barrel of his gun. There is no escaping Ghost’s wrath. There’s no escaping my father’s wrath.
“Put the gun down,” he calmly instructs my father. There’s something different about his voice. Something tense. I notice a stiffness about his posture that isn’t usually there. I’m not the only one who picks up on his behaviour either.
“So that bastard was right,” spite laces my father’s voice. His hot words travel down the back of my neck as his arm wraps tighter around my chest. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”
I blink. My mouth dries up and I’m left speechless. How the hell does he know? How did Bennet know? Who else knows?
“No, dad-” the words start to tumble out of my mouth.
“Don’t lie to me, little bird,” his tone is venomous. I’m a traitor to him. Sleeping with his enemy. “You fucking whore.”
Tears prick my eyes. His words stun me and I can’t help the self loathing that weighs down my shoulders.
“Let her go or I’ll shoot,” fearful tremors shake my body. My vision starts to blur with emotion. I’ve never felt so scared in my life. I truly may not survive this.
“Then what?” he sneers “You’ll kill me anyways.”
“If you don’t, your wife will die,” the ultimatum is clear. “Is she really worth it?” Ghost’s words sting like never before. I wish one of them would make a decision, put me out of my misery.
Then, as if without thinking at all, my father releases me from his grip and takes a large step back. My weak knees barely hold my shaking body and when I turn around to face him, I truly don’t recognize the man in front of me anymore. Hundreds of burning questions ache for air, but the only one that escapes my lips begs for the devastating truth.
“Do you- do you even love me?” I force myself to make eye contact with him. From the very start of this horrifying journey, something has been missing. Like I was trying to read a misprinted book.
My father purses his lips and furrows his brows. I know the answer when our eyes meet. Not now. Certainly not after betraying him like he thinks I did. He inhales like he’s about to answer when three deafening gunshots pierce the air. I feel the bullets whiz through the air beside my head and watch as one tears through my father’s arm and two hit him in the shoulder. His gun falls to the ground and his eyes buldge as he realizes what just happened.
Ghost rushes past me and tackles my father to the ground. He forces his arms behind his back, despite the bleeding wounds, and zipties his hands together. He groans empty threats, but they’re so muffled I can’t make them out. None of this feels real. Every part of my body feels numb and full of static. Breathing becomes increasingly difficult.
Ghost stuffs my father’s mouth with a gag and then covers his head with a black bag. I try to tune out the harrowing sounds of his muffled moans and the distant gunfire and explosions. I feel a panick attack building under the surface of my skin. This is all too much. My knees finally give in.
“Y/n? Y/n,” Ghost’s voice softens as he abandons my father for me. His gloved hands are gentle as they embrace both sides of my head. I flinch away from his touch, causing him to falter. “You’re safe y/n, I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe,” he crouches to the ground beside me and pulls me against his bulky chest. I missed feeling his warmth so damn bad. I want to trust him. God do I want to, but all he does is lie to me. “We just have to get closer to the runway. Then the extraction team will get us out of here,” he strokes my hair as he speaks.
I’m not ready when he pulls us up from our position on the ground, but there’s no time to be ready. Every second we waste in the forest - in Ultranationalist territory - is another second we risk running into more of their soldiers.
Someone is going to notice my father’s absence, if they haven’t already. And they will come looking, if they haven’t already. In which case we are in even more danger.
Ghost lifts my father to his feet and forces him to walk, at times roughly pushing him ahead. Watching them makes my stomach twist into a knot. I can’t believe I haven’t thrown up yet.
He switches the handgun for his automatic riffle again and uses the sight to scope out the surrounding woods.
I have no idea where we are, yet Ghost seems to know the exact path to our destination.
Twice, he takes out multiple men in the distance before they can spot us, but our treck back is otherwise eerily silent.
I don’t remember waiting for the chopter or boarding or the ride back to Latvia. But I do remember the pained sounds escaping my father’s chest as he sits across from me, still blindfolded.
I completely forgot about Soap’s absence admidst clusterfuck of everything else going on. That’s until I hear another member of the task force briefing Ghost on a separate attack they planned to take place while the exchange was happening. The whirling of the helicopter makes it almost impossible make out their words, but Ghost’s eyes give away everything.
“He was injured sir. Badly. He lost a lot of blood on the way back to base and they didn’t have the equipment to operate in the air,” I feel my heart rate pick up and watch as Ghost completely freezes.
I don’t hear what Ghost asks him next. I do however, see the soldier shake his head with remorse.
Warnings: minors dni, angst, military setting, explicit language, depictions of violence.
I’m not supposed to be here. Quiet beeping fills the room. Soft sunlight drifts in through the windows and skylight. The atmosphere of the infirmary is surprisingly uplifting, almost like an escape from the rest of the compound. If Ghost or Price found out, they’d probably send me back to my quarters, lock the door, and throw away the key. But there are a few people who’ve taken sympathy on me recently. Konig being one of them.
He was only supposed to fill in for Soap by taking me to breakfast. Yet, he was suspiciously early. The cafeteria had barely opened and almost no one was around. I was cautiously silent the whole time, but after we finished filling our trays and before we sat down to eat, the towering man leaned down and asked if I wanted to eat with Soap instead.
A spark of hope flickered behind my eyes. I knew he could see it. Konig didn’t say anything else, but gestured with his head toward the door.
Now we sit in the infirmary together beside Soap’s bed. It’s a long, large room and the beds are only separated by curtains to provide a miniscule amount of privacy. But it's still more welcoming than all the other spaces on the compound.
Soap is in rough shape, but at least he’s alive. Bandages wrap around his chest and his arm is back in the sling. One of Soap’s eyes is completely bloodshot from an impact to the head. The eerie red is a harsh contrast against the stormy blue of his irises. He had internal bleeding at some point, but during the surgery, they were able to stop it. His skin is painfully painted in large black and purple bruises from head to toe.
However, the explosion didn’t touch his smile, which tugs at the corner of his mouth as I tell him how Konig snuck me in here. The skin around his eyes crinkles, but he winces as he laughs. The pain he’s in is still fresh. Soap will be in here for days. He’ll be off the field for even longer.
“I’m glad you’re still here lass,” the smile is evident in his voice, yet his words allude to something more. How much did he know about the plan? What was supposed to happen to me? I can’t ask him that. Not with Konig here and not with only curtains for privacy.
I need to know what 141’s real plans were. Who shot first? Who’s to blame for the people who died that day? What the hell really happened?
All I can do now is revel in the small moments of our friendship. Because even if he did know, I can’t hold it against him. I don’t think I could ever be angry at Soap.
“You should’ve seen their faces when they realized we destroyed their main base,” pride laces Soap’s voice as he speaks to Konig. “They didn’t know what hit them.”
“You blew it up?” I ask.
Soap’s eyes light up as they connect with mine. I can almost see the flames in their reflection. “to smithereens,” I can picture it in my head, feel the explosion ripple through the air with such an immense power it flattens the trees. There’d be nothing left of their base after Soap’s team was done with it. They definitely sent a message.
Konig begins asking him another question when I see a shadow move behind the cream curtains. Ghost steps into the room and the atmosphere immediately shifts. I haven’t seen him since the exchange. Now I can’t take my eyes off him. Every feeling I have for him is so incredibly conflicting.
“Who authorized this?” Ghost demands, already knowing the answer.
“I – uh,” Konig stumbles over his words. Guilt twists inside my chest. I don’t want him to get in trouble for being nice to me. “No one, sir,”
Sometimes I forget the power he has within the task force. Nothing happens without Ghost knowing and approving of it. Especially when it comes to me. My fear for Konig grows.
“It’s my fault,” I lie. Ghost’s eyes flicker to me. “I said you’d let me see Soap,” the urgency in my voice mixes with a false sense of confidence well enough that the average person might just believe what I’m saying. Ghost, however, is far from the average person.
The air is tense. He turns his attention back to Konig. “That true?”
“Negative, sir,” my fists clench in my lap when he responds. Damn him for being honest.
“Head back to your station, we’ll discuss this later,” his voice is cold. I wish I could see more of his face to gauge how angry he is.
“Come on Ghost, it isn’t that serious,” Soap interjects as Konig gets up to leave. I feel ashamed, like we were caught with our hands in the cookie jar at our grandparent’s place. Unease also weaves its way into my mind. I’m not sure where I stand with Ghost. He could’ve changed his entire attitude towards me altogether.
“Don’t start, Soap,” says Ghost. His narrowed eyes are back on me. “You. Follow me. No questions.”
My mouth is dry as I force myself to swallow. Ghost has already left the room when Soap grabs my hand and gives it a quick, reassuring squeeze. He smiles half-heartedly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Thanks for visiting,” he whispers.
I smile in response, but can’t find the words to tell him how much his friendship means to me.
My heart thrums in my chest as I catch up to Ghost. He leads me down a dark hallway I haven’t taken before. Something tells me we aren’t going back to his or my quarters. Maybe he doesn’t trust them anymore. Someone could be recording us.
Ghost walks faster than normal, as though his irritation fuels him. His broad frame stands out against the mute background. I feel small trailing behind him. I wonder how long it’d take him to notice if I stopped walking.
The corridor is smaller than the main hallways that take you to the cafeteria and sleeping quarters. The ceiling is shorter too, and the overhead lights are spaced out to the extent that the hall almost fades to complete darkness between them. There aren’t any rooms or offices and it doesn’t seem to intersect with any other passages. It truly feels like we’re walking in a liminal space with no beginning or end. Anxiety builds at the bottom of my lungs, slowly but surely pushing out the available air.
The anticipation of what’s about to happen tears me apart inside. What will he say? What will he do? After finding out 141 had my mom all along and was waiting to use her as a backup strategy, I feel even more betrayed than before. Ghost said he couldn’t tell me things, but how can he justify keeping information about my life hidden from me? He wasn’t protecting me, he was making sure I wouldn’t turn on them.
Now what? Maybe Bennet was right, that 141 doesn’t need an excuse to keep me around now that they have my father. Will Ghost take me out back and put a bullet in my head? Will they do the same to my parents? There’s no way they can possibly return me to my old life. Such a thing doesn’t exist anymore.
A glowing red exit sign hangs in the air above a door that is almost impossible to spot. The light menacingly reflects off the skull mask as he waits for me to come closer. Ghost shoves the door open and waits for me to enter the staircase first.
Everything is metal and cement and only lit up by emergency lights that are once again spaced too far apart. I feel his demanding presence behind me as the door latches and locks behind us. The sound echos off the walls. Not another soul is here. Nor do they know of our presence. We are truly, completely, alone.
“Simon,” I hesitate. He said no questions, but after everything, how does he expect me to blindly follow him? “What are we doing here?”
“I lied to you,” just like that, his words trigger something in me. Like a fuse that was just waiting for someone to stumble across the wire. Ghost’s foot just snagged that very wire. My demeanour completely changes.
“That’s a fucking understatement,” I whip around to face him. Ghost stands on the cement landing space with his back to the dark grey door. Staircases with metal railings connect to each end of the platform leading to the upper and lower floors. Every sound lightly echoes off the brick, windowless walls that look like someone forgot to paint them. His arms fold across his chest at my harsh accusation. He stiffens. The Lieutenant isn’t used to being addressed in this way. My tone is blatantly disrespectful. But I don’t care. “You’ve done so much more than just lie to me.”
“Y/n-” I cut him off.
“No. I’m talking,” I interrupt. “I won’t even bring up how you fucking drugged and kidnapped me to get me here. You have done so much shit to me, Simon, so much. I don’t even know where the hell to start, but since you mentioned it, the lying. The fucking lying. Every single time I think we’re finally on the same page, you turn around and fucking lie and hide information about me from me. You don’t get to do that! Not when it’s my life being affected. You don’t get to pretend to be God, Simon,” I step towards him with an accusatory finger pointed at his chest. “And it’s not like you’re lying just about anything. It’s about my mom, Simon, my fucking mom! Do you have any idea what that’s done to me? How scared I am for her? You and Price and whoever else have no right to do that to her. None. And don’t you dare tell me that she was safe that entire time and you wouldn’t have hurt her. I don’t believe for a second that Price wouldn’t have killed her.”
“You’re right,” Ghost states. I feel myself resisting his attempt. His arms fall from his chest and he dares to take a small step closer.
“I can’t trust you, Simon. Every time I think I can, there’s always more to the story you’re hiding from me. You’re always hiding. Always. Every time we talk. Every time we see each other. It’s always one-sided. I don’t even get to see you, Simon. You’ve touched every inch of me and yet I don’t even know what you look like. How can I ever genuinely trust you?” my feelings are constantly exacerbated after every interaction we have. Especially recently.
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Just close them,” his voice is low and stern, yet unmistakably tender. I listen to Ghost’s orders and reluctantly close my eyes.
The stair well is utterly silent except for our light breaths. Then, my ears pick up on something else. It’s the quiet rustle of fabric against skin. Then, the sound of uncertain footsteps coming closer. Ghost’s breath is shakey as he slowly exhales.
His large hands encase mine as he brings them up past his chest and gently places them on the sides of his defined jaw. The warmth of Simon’s skin immediately sinks into my hands. My heart skips a beat. He isn’t wearing his mask.
A fearful moment of hesitancy passes between us. Neither quite sure how to proceed. This is uncharted territory. He is taking a giant leap of faith right now. Even after everything, after I said I can’t trust him, he does this. I’m not sure I completely understand his train of thought, but I know this gesture is far from the faint of heart.
“I’ll tell you everything, no hiding, just promise me you’ll keep your eyes closed,” his voice is low and cautious. I trace my thumbs back and forth along his jaw. His skin is smooth under the pads of my fingers and I get a brief hint of his woodsy aftershave.
“You don’t have to do this,” the whisper brushes across my lips, yet I can’t hide the hope behind my words. I need to know. The harrowing lies have eaten away at me for weeks. My stomach twists and growls like a starved, feral animal. I struggle to stifle the growing hunger pains.
“I want to,” yet, I’m not sure he’s fully convinced himself. This is his last chance to catch me as I’m falling through his calloused fingers. Simon knows this.
My hands leave his jaw and lightly trace upwards, just barely brushing over Simon’s face. His skin is surprisingly soft. Heat pools in his cheeks and as I move upward, I notice a rough patch of skin along his one cheekbone. Something akin to a long, jagged scar. Simon’s breathing hitches as I pause. A painful memory passes.
“What was the original plan? What was going to happen to me?” I ask, hands still on his face. Simon shifts closer. I feel the heat radiating from his body. We can’t be more than a few inches apart.
“Do you know about the second attack?” he asks.
“Bits and pieces.”
“While the exchange was happening, the demolitions unit was rigging the Ultranationalist’s nearby base. The explosion was set to go off ten minutes after they had you. It didn’t, something went wrong and the base went down early. That’s how Soap was injured. That’s what tipped the Ultranationalists off and why they started fighting in the bushes,” my hands still as he speaks. “Ideally your father would’ve taken you and left, then their base would detonate on the way back. They’d have nowhere to go and we would take control of their vehicles and capture the targets,” he finishes.
“What about everyone else?” I ask.
“Anyone caught on sight would be killed,” he replies bluntly. The gravity of his words weighs heavily on me. There were a lot of men there. Imagining their bodies lying in the snow sends a shiver down my spine. I feel his eyes on me, reading every microexpression, understanding every judgement. “That’s how it is.”
“It’s cruel.”
“Not in comparison to what they do,” I remember his visible hatred for the Ultranationalists from our night at the cabin. Clips of the videos flash in my mind. The innocent people they killed, all in the name of political power. Everything Ghost feels for them is completely justified. Killing them means saving so many more. It’s for the greater good.
My hands skim across his face. They pass over Simon’s forehead then down past his thick brows. Long eyelashes flutter under my hands. Like his other features, his nose is strong. There’s a bump along the bridge that indicates it’s been broken at least once. No doubt from his service.
“Is my mother an Ultranationalist?” The seed was planted when I learned what my father is. She had to at least know. Although making assumptions like that is dangerous, I had no idea. And look at me now.
“She’s affiliated.”
“Is that your way of being polite?”
“No,” he says. “She knew who your father was when they immigrated to America, but she was never personally involved,” Simon’s cool breath fans against my face as he speaks.
“Until now,” because of them. Because of 141.
“Until now,” he confirms.
I resent how they’ve dragged us into this. I had a life before all of this. I was happy. Now I’ll never be able to go back. I’ll never be with my family again. I’ll never be loved by them again.
“Would Price have killed her?” the words are barely above a whisper. I feel my pulse pick up and realize I’m scared to hear his answer.
“Affirmative,” he confirms and I feel my heart clench under his fist. “But not on American soil. The guns that day were loaded with blanks.”
My hands still on top of his face and I fight the urge to open my eyes. My throat tightens and I know if I speak, my voice will crack. I can almost hear his next words: she knew what she signed up for. That doesn’t change how much his answer hurts.
I inch back and start to pull away when two large hands gently wrap around my wrists.
“Stay,” Simon murmurs. That one word has more influence on me than I care to admit. It’s not a request or an order. It’s almost a plea.
I wordlessly nod and feel as Simon places my hands back on top of his face. He steps forward, closing the remaining space between us with a silent promise. I move my right hand over his full lips and trace the outline of them. My mind flickers to all the places they’ve touched, the marks they’ve decorated my skin with. The smooth feeling of them as they glided between my own. The welcoming taste of them. The feeling of his flesh between my teeth. The lies they’ve told. The promises they hold.
“One more,” I hesitate. My mouth runs dry. This could be the defining moment of my life. Everything – every damn thing - relies on his answer. “Does Price consider me to be affiliated with the Ultranationalists?”
My eyes squint tight with anticipation. Beneath my fingers, Simon wets his lips. I feel his words form against my skin before they reach my ears. “Negative,” the word is a sigh of relief between us.
I visibly relax against his strong body. Simon takes this opportunity to grab a strand of my hair and twist it between his fingers. “I was going to kill your father when he held that gun to your head,” there’s nothing bitter about his confession. The low words are a matter of fact in his mind. I’m less surprised by his confession than I thought. My hands travel back down to his jaw and trace along the length of it. I wish he did. I would have.
“Why didn’t you?” I ask.
“It’s not my choice to make,” I think about his words for a moment. Is it that simple in his mind? Their orders are capture or kill. It was his choice to make.
Unless…
Unless that isn’t what he’s referring to. My breathing falters and my mind draws a blank. I don’t know what to say. Surely he isn’t alluding to what I think he is?
I want to open my eyes. To search his face. To try and read his facial expressions.
“Simon I-” I draw a blank. How do you respond to that?
“I don’t expect you to trust me,” but I do. I already do. Even if I shouldn’t. Even if it’ll only get me hurt in the end. “But I will always tell you the truth,” his hand wraps around the outside of my own. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the pads of my fingers.
He releases me only to cup the sides of my face. Simon gently pulls me in. My concentration on keeping my eyes closed, slips, as his lips lightly skim across mine.
I don’t hesitate when I press my full body weight against his. He’s warm and sturdy and safe. Nothing else matters as his strong hands wrap around my body and wind through my hair, pulling me even closer. I don’t want to lose him. Yet I know this can’t last. There’s nothing sustainable about Ghost and I.
“Will you do something for me?” I whisper against his lips. He pauses, just for a moment, just long enough to consider all of the different things I might ask.
“What?”
“I want to see him,” I say, resting my head against the nape of his neck. “Alone.”
“There’s nothing he’ll say that will make you feel any better, y/n,” Simon brushes a gentle hand along the top of my hair. “Trust me,” There’s an unsaid “believe me, I know” after his last words. My mind flickers back to the brief mentions of his father. Of how horribly he treated his family. I can’t help but reject that comparison. Our fathers are two completely different monsters.
“I need to try,” I say. I feel him stiffen. He can’t protect me the way he wants to if I’m there alone, but I need this. I won’t have another chance. Soon they’ll ship him off to a remote location that doesn’t officially exist, never to be seen again. My window is closing.
“Okay,” he sighs. It’s barely a confirmation. Yet, his words are enough. I wonder if Ghost will run this by Price? Or will I truly be alone with my father tomorrow?
That night, after Ghost drops me off, I think of all the things I’ve wanted to say to my father in the last few weeks. Of all the things I’ve wanted to do.
I visualize a list of everything on my mind as I lie in bed. I shift and slip my hand under my pillow. My fingertips brush against the sharp tip of the cold, compact switchblade Ghost gave me that night in the cabin. It fits against my palm like it was forged specifically for my hand.
Ghost gave it to me for protection against him. Trained me how to use it with the Ultranationalist rat in mind. Never would I have ever dreamed of doing what my mind conjures up now.
I fall asleep with my hand securely wrapped around the knife.
An: Hello again! Enjoy a sprinkle of fluff (always with some angst of course) Thanks for reading :)
Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.
Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.
Word count: 2700
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader
I try and mimic the silence of his footsteps. The smoothness of his movements is almost inhuman. Like he isn’t truly in front of me but is rather a figment of my subconscious. Part of me refuses to believe that he is real. But I feel how the air whirls behind his broad frame. How the metallic scent of gunpowder trails behind him no matter the setting. War follows him. I follow him.
Ghost stops in front of a door at the end of a long hallway. To the West, a red exit sign illuminates the otherwise dim corridor with a red glow. Not another soul is present.
The sound of the lock echoes off the cement walls as Ghost slides the key card back into his pocket, pulls the handle down, and holds the door open, waiting for me to walk ahead. After an almost sleepless night, too much caffeine, and the constant feeling of being watched, even my bones feel skittish.
As I step inside, I realize this room isn’t an office or conference area. It’s not a supply closet or interview space filled with intimidating tools. Like my own, this room is filled with a bed, dresser, and small washroom.
I asked him for somewhere safe to talk and he brought me to his room. Something in my heart clenches. This isn’t a part of him I’d ever expected to see.
I know it’s not really his. That it belongs to the task force and isn’t a true reflection of his character. But entering the space – his space – feels intimate. This isn’t something others get to see. Ghost doesn’t just invite people back to his room. Bringing me here is intentional. He wants, no, needs me to know that no one can get me here. No one will even know where I am.
“Is this your room?” I ask as the door locks behind him. Ghost crosses and then uncrosses his arms as he stands at the edge of the room, not sure about the best position to take. His goal isn’t to come off as intimidating, but even with innocent intentions, it somehow just happens.
“It is,” he sighs, considering his next words. “Y/n if I’m going to help, you have to stop hiding from me.”
“I’m trying,” although, I’m not sure that’s the truth. I see how closely Ghost’s eyes watch me. How his trigger finger twitches at his side when he’s stressed. How he clenches and unclenches his hand in a fist to try and get it to stop. I see how much he is holding himself back right now in an effort to make me feel safe.
“When did the Ultranationalist make contact?” Ghost asks quietly, maintaining the stillness of the room.
“Last night.”
“Was that the first time?” his dark eyes follow as I start to pace between the twin bed and dresser.
“Yeah,” I pause. “Since the prisoner.”
“It was just the one?”
“Yeah, but Ghost,” I feel that all too familiar strain in my throat. “There’s more than one.”
“He said that?”
“He said ‘we are plenty and we are strong’,” I hear his words ring between my ears. We are plenty and we are strong. How many is plenty? How many of them have infiltrated 141? I see those same questions and more floating around behind the skull mask.
“Did you recognize him?” urgency creeps its way back into his voice.
“He was wearing a mask,” I start.
“But did you recognize him?”
“I think so,” I know so, but telling him could do more harm than good. Not that I have much of a choice.
“Who?” he urges. Ghost’s feet shift closer and his shoulders lean forward. I see the reminder flash behind his eyes to pull back, to restrain the fury boiling under his skin. If I were brave enough to reach out and touch him I’d only scold the tender flesh of my palms.
“Do you remember that day on the van when we were being transported between bases? I sat between you and Soap?”
“Affirmative,” his response is immediate.
“There was a man, I couldn’t see his face, but he was making jokes about me and soap babysitting until you told him to stand down,” I recall the event in my head and how uncomfortable it was.
“I did.”
“Yesterday the same guy confronted Soap and me in the hall. He said that Friday shouldn’t have gone down like that. That’s why I ran off and Soap did whatever he did,” he intently holds my gaze, clinging to every word. “I don’t know his name. But I know it was him.”
“Bennett, that fucking bastard,” Ghost lowly hisses. He fists his hands as he starts to pace near the door. I watch a variety of horrific torture methods flash through his mind. “I’ll fucking kill him,” his voice is coated with a fatal venom. The kind that burns through its victims' veins. The kind that slowly paralyzes its prey, leaving them to watch themselves be devoured whole in absolute horror.
“Don’t,” the choked word barely escapes my mouth.
“He won’t live to see fucking daylight, y/n,”
“Ghost,” I try again, but see his thoughts running wild. His chest heaves and his pace quickens. If I don’t step in now, he’ll be out the door on a flaming path of vengeance. If I don’t stop him and the Ultranationalists find out that we know who one of their moles is, they will kill even more people.
I take a brave step forward, but it’s like he doesn’t even notice. His eyes are focused on a path beyond my sight. I try again, this time stepping directly in his way.
“Damnit, y/n,” he mutters.
“Simon, you need to listen to me,” my hand reaches for his arm, landing gently, but firmly on his bicep. Searing heat pours from his skin into my own. Finally, he falters, coming to a stop. “Please?” I feel the heat start to disperse as his eyes glance down at the contact. His sleeve is a rough canvas material and I can’t help but long for the smooth texture of his skin gliding against my own.
“He said that they have men tracking five people I care about back home in New York. That my father provided the information and that if anyone finds out their identity, they will kill them. You can’t hurt him. He can’t even know that you know,” the pleading is evident in my voice. I have no reason to hide my desperation from him, yet I hate how weak it makes me feel. How I’ve been stripped of any power I had. How the sanctity of my life and so many others lies in the hands of all these different men who can’t even begin to comprehend the value of such a thing.
My own emotions are so heightened it makes it difficult to tell what Ghost is feeling. His arms are tense with anger, but there’s so much more to him. Part of me wonders if he feels the same type of fear that I do, but his emotions don’t control him the same way mine control me. They don’t manifest in the same way. It’s hard to understand his desires and actions when his mind operates so differently than the average person’s. But Ghost also isn’t immune to the occasional slip-up. Ringing the alarm right now would be exactly that. Unless in his mind it wouldn’t be. Because Ghost doesn’t value the people in my life the same way I do. His job is to bring an end to the Ultranationalists, not keep my people safe.
And that thought is enough to set me even more on edge. Because ultimately, our goals are not the same.
“What do they want you to do?” his sharp eyes drag down my face and I feel myself squirm under the sensation.
“They already suspect a trap, they’re counting on it. And they want me to tell them all the details of how Price plans the exchange,” my voice is low and urgent as my heart thrums against my ribs.
“So they can plan another ambush,” Ghost fills in the blanks.
“He said he’ll stop by my room again,” I whisper. The confession almost feels shameful.
“When?” Ghost’s hands rest on top of my shoulders, his grip stays light but the weight isn’t reassuring.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But he has a key card.”
“That fucker,” he mumbles. I step away from Ghost and pace the room once before sitting on the edge of his perfectly made bed. Stormy eyes closely follow my every move. Part of me just wants to be alone. The other part wants to sink into his chest as his strong arms pull me in deeper until I disappear completely. All I want is to disappear.
Ghost crosses the room to the dresser before reaching in and pulling out a small tin that he slips into a pocket on his vest. Then he carefully approaches the bed. His steps are silent across the cement floor like he’s gliding across a sheet of ice. His shoulders have sunk a little and his hands are no longer in fists. His trigger finger doesn’t twitch at his side. He’s reeled in those dangerous emotions, contained them for now.
Ghost comes to a stop between my legs. An ungloved hand reaches out to grasp a strand of my hair. He gently rolls it between his fingers. I’ve come to notice how often his fingers wind themselves through my hair. It brings out the softer side of him. One more akin to Simon than Ghost.
My eyes lock onto his and follow them as Simon sinks to his knees in front of me. Here he kneels on the floor, his chest resting between my legs as I sit on the edge of his bed. Now, our eyes are finally even. My stomach flutters from our position. Both of his hands come to rest on the outside of my thighs. His thumbs rub in reassuring circles around the fabric of my pants.
“Did he do anything else?” his voice is barely audible. Simon won’t dare say it, but I know where his thoughts have wandered. His eyes are both hard and soft. There’s an everlasting ambiguity about him. He blames himself for letting this happen.
“No,” I match his hushed volume. I think back to the feeling of the knife tracing down my shirt and while the implication was there, ultimately nothing happened.
The comforting heat of his arms seeps into my thighs. Simon’s head tilts ever so slightly as he tries to see where my thoughts went to. But he doesn’t push it.
“Just this?” his hand reaches up to the cut at the base of my neck as the back of his index finger traces the thin line.
“Just this,” I confirm although my neck will hardly be the only scar I have if I walk away from this nightmare alive.
Simon reaches into one of many pockets and pulls out the tin from earlier. He pops the lid off. Inside looks to be half filled with a type of salve. “This’ll help it heal,” he scoops up a small amount with his middle finger.
One hand pulls my shirt down to expose more of the cut while the other rests against my collarbone and lightly applies the salve. My mind drifts to all the times he’s done the same with his own scars. How many times has he sat in this very spot, gently dabbing the tincture on his wounds? Or does he even care about himself enough to try?
I revel in our closeness. How the sides of his stomach and ribcage brush against my inner thighs. The pressure of his hand resting against my collarbone. How the hand once grasping my shirt now lightly holds my hip as he steadies himself. And how the thumb of that hand gently rubs back and forth along my pliable flesh. Simon’s eyes intently watch his middle finger as he dabs the salve on the cut. I want to pull him on top of me, feel his full weight press me further into the mattress.
Even after he’s finished applying the salve, Simon’s hand lingers. Like he isn’t ready to pull away. Like he’ll miss the heat of my skin almost as much as I’ll miss his. Maybe more.
When he finally looks up, I have trouble breathing. There’s something about his eyes that is just so beautiful. Beautiful and heartbreaking. They pull me into an unbreakable trance. All the white noise, all my troubling thoughts, just disappear. Neither of us dares to speak.
I reach up to grasp his hand and place it on my cheek. There it finds its natural place, cupping my soft skin against his rough callouses. Acting so gently, so tenderly, so against the merciless inclinations that have been beaten into him since birth.
Here is a man whose cruelty has defined his identity. Who has racked up a kill count too high to keep track of. Who the enemy tells ghost stories about to scare their recruits. Who is so notorious, yet so illusive, he is no more real to them than the legends that echo the halls. And here he rests in front of me, on his knees.
I lean into his touch. Warmth spreads throughout my body stemming from his hand. It feels like sunbathing on a Sunday morning. The kind of warmth that makes the bad things disappear for just a little while.
“Keep the salve. Apply some more before bed,” Simon whispers. And there he goes and ruins it. Because now I’m thinking about my bed and my room and the impending intruder who’s made a promise of returning.
“Don’t make me go back,” my throat tightens. I know it’s no use.
“You have to be there when he returns,” his soothing thumb brushes along my cheek.
“Let me stay,” I murmur.
A deep sigh is pushed from far within his lungs. It’s the kind of sigh that is paired with a fair bit of deliberation. The kind that says he’s going to act against his better instincts.
“Just until dinner,” Simon responds.
“Will you stay?” I ask.
“Negative,” and he’s already shifting away from me. The warmth slipping away with him. I reach forward and grab both his arms just hard enough to stop him from leaving. His eyes latch onto mine once more. They soften ever so slightly. He wants to stay. God does he want to stay. But he’s already been gone too long. People will start to notice.
“Thank you, Simon,” I mean it. So much so that I could say the words one hundred times over and they’d mean no less. But he’ll never understand that.
“Don’t,” his low voice warns. I second-guess how my hands wrap around his forearms for just a second. But I don’t move. Not now. Not after everything.
“No. I mean it,” I say. “Thank you.”
He stands and breaks away from my grasp, but doesn’t move away. Two large hands cup both sides of my face and urge me to stand.
“You can’t say that,” his voice is dead serious. “Not when this is my fault.”
“Well I’m going to,” he tenses when I wrap my arms around him. I’ve gathered he’s not used to affection. Not from friends. Not from family. And certainly not out here. But that doesn’t matter. I need to touch him. Feel him. Know that he’s real and he’s here.
Another deep sigh escapes his chest. And then something unexpected happens.
I feel Simon’s lips press a tender kiss to my forehead. I don’t know when he rolled up his mask and I don’t dare break away to look. Instead, I bask in the small, yet significant action. I breathe in his familiar scent and let the moment drag on as long as possible. I take note of how he’s shaved since returning from the cabin. How much smoother his skin feels.
His hands move to my hair. His fingers lace through the soft strands and linger there for quite some time. I don’t know how long. But even after he pulls away they’re still there.
“You still have that knife I gave you?” his breath brushes against my face.
“It’s under my pillow,”
“Good,” Simon says, although I feel him slipping away already. “You’re going to need it.”
An: Happy Valentines Day! Take some time to love yourself and cherish your beautiful soul :)
Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.
Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.
Word count: 4100
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader
The thud of his helmet against the empty wooden dresser echoes across the otherwise silent room. My eyes snap open. The muscles in my back tense. Who is in my room?
My head slowly turns to take in the shadowy figure just feet away. It’s too dark to see almost anything. The only source of light is what creeps under the door from the hall. But I know he’s here. I can sense his movements as he turns around to face me. I hold my breath as I feel my heart start to race.
The ominous soldier towers over my bed. His movements are almost inaudible. When I squint, I can just make out the outline of the bulletproof vest strapped to his chest. As he gazes down a deep sigh escapes his chest. The tension in my muscles eases. Not a stranger after all.
I was scared Ghost was going to keep giving me the silent treatment. For once, I’m happy to be wrong.
“What’re you doing here?” my voice is barely audible as I push myself into a sitting position. Somewhere in the haze, part of me wonders if he’s real. Or if this is all some wishful dream. If so, speaking too loud would be a mistake. Maybe even speaking at all.
A gloved hand brushes down the side of my face as his feet inch closer to the bedframe. I so badly want to lean into his touch, to be comforted by him, to pretend everything is going to be alright. But just as I feel myself give way, another sigh escapes his chest. My ears pick up on his ragged breathing. The atmosphere starts to shift. There’s something off about him.
Just as I shift away from his touch, the same hand shoots out and roughly grabs my hair, yanking me down so my neck is exposed. His other hand quickly presses against my mouth as a painful cry escapes through my lips. Strong arms pull me toward the edge of the bed.
“I don’t think you were listening to me earlier,” the mask brushes against my skin as his threatening voice hisses in my ear. My blood runs cold. Not Ghost. Not Ghost. This man is not a Ghost. Who the fuck is in my room?
My entire body freezes. Any fight or flight instinct becomes completely scrambled and my mind feels like a broken record. I am at every disadvantage.
The man tightly gripping my skin is one of the best soldiers in the world. Who is trained in hand-to-hand combat. Who outweighs me by over a hundred pounds. Who is stronger than me. Faster than me. And already has his hands woven into my hair, exposing the most vulnerable part of my body.
Even if I somehow managed a lucky knee to his groin, the only exit is locked and I don’t have a key card. Only authorized personnel have access to my room. Whoever this man is, shouldn’t even be able to get in. But here he is.
And here I am: completely at his mercy.
“I’m going to move my hand. If you scream, I’ll cut your throat,” he threatens. Two sets of wild eyes meet. His pupils are completely dilated and I find myself staring into terrifying black pits. Rage and excitement fight for dominance. “Understood?”
I attempt a small nod. What I do understand is that part of him wants me to try and get away. His fingers twitch against my scalp. He wants an excuse to hurt me. The hand around my mouth slips off as he reaches for something strapped to his chest. The silver hunting knife glints in the dark.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
“I just told you,” there’s a tightness to his voice, as though he’s restraining the rage that threatens to tear through the surface of his composed demeanour. “I won’t be repeating myself, so you better pay attention, little bird,” the name perks my ears. Little Bird. The other Ultranationalist, the prisoner, also called me by that name.
“I’m listening,” I feel the sharp blade of the knife shift around my throat as I force a dry swallow. The start of a panic attack pricks at the tips of my fingers.
“Good. Your father is hurt by your actions. He wants to know why you betrayed him-”
“I didn’t-” the urgency in my voice is quickly cut off.
“Don’t interrupt me you fucking snitch,” he snarls as the knife presses harder against my throat and his hand twists against my scalp, sending shooting tendrils of pain through my head. “You did. And now I have to risk being compromised to set everything right. So here’s what you’re going to do: You are going to help Price set a trap for your father. He expects it. When I stop by you will explain the details. All you have to do is tell the fucking truth,” the knife presses harder against my throat as he says this. “A lot is riding on this. Your father can only take so many chances trying to help you before the organization moves on.”
“Okay,” at this point I don’t know if the word even makes it past my lips.
“If you tell Soap – if you tell anyone, our contacts in America who are watching your friends and coworkers will take five of them. We’ve been tracking them with your father’s help. He wants you to know how serious this is. Their lives are at stake. Your life is at stake, little bird,” A sharp sensation tugs at the sensitive skin under the blade and I feel the first drop of hot blood roll down my neck and land between my collarbones. “If you think I’m the only one you have to worry about, you are even more stupid than I thought. We are everywhere and we are strong. And if you think you can keep hiding behind your father, you are wrong. The organization is the most important thing to him. Don’t be naive.”
Deep, visceral fear pulses through my veins. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as my breathing runs out of control. The air isn’t getting to my lungs. My chest burns as panic invades my lungs. I’m hyperventilating. Fuck. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?
“You had so much potential,” his tone changes as the tip of the knife traces down my throat, threatening to break more skin. It follows the path of the drop of blood, coasting past my collarbones, and starting down my sternum. A gross sensation creeps its way up the back of my neck where his hand is tangled in my hair. The knife lightly presses above my undershirt as he approaches my breasts, but just when I fear the gloved hand will go further, I’m released from his vengeful hands and shoved back onto the mattress.
His weight quickly shifts off the bed and then the thud of his boots retreats further into the room. I barely make out the shadow grabbing his helmet off the dresser. Then as a stream of light filters through a crack in the door upon his exit, I can just make out the white numbers sewn to the patch on his shoulder: 141.
I dream of the echo of his shoes against the cold cement floor. My ears ring as the sound grows louder and louder.
“Y/n…Y/n?” my head throbs as the thuds turn into knocks against the door. Burning light floods the room as Soap flicks on the light switch. I recoil from the terrible brightness. “You okay? Ya look like shite.”
“Thanks,” the bitterness in my voice is palatable. Sour and expired. Like a thundering hangover.
“You didn’t eat,” I hear the disappointment in his voice as he stares at the plate on the dresser.
“Wasn’t hungry,” Soap steps closer to the bed, concerned eyes raking across my form, completely hidden by the blankets. I tuck my chin into the softness, hiding from his gaze. Soap’ll think I’m just upset about my father, but he’s the least of my concerns. He can’t know about last night. “Can you leave so I can get dressed?”
“Five minutes,” he reluctantly agrees. “Price is expecting us.”
As soon as he’s gone, I rush to the sink mirror. Red is smeared across the base of my neck from the small cut. It was real. He is real. And out there, waiting for me to slip up.
Something tells me the slip of his knife wasn’t intentional. If he’s as smart as he claims to be, then he wouldn’t have left any marks. Yet here it is, Just above the neckline of where my shirt sits. I wipe away the dried blood with damp toilet paper then pull my shirt back over my shoulders so it sits ever so slightly higher on my neck. Then I tuck the bottom hem into the band of my pants to hold it there. If I brush my hair over my shoulders it won’t be as noticeable.
“Can we stop for coffee?” Soap nods, unusually quiet. The dining hall is busy as they finish up breakfast. He stops to talk to Konig as I head for the drink stand. I need something to clear my head. This is as close as I’ll get. I keep an eye on them as I fill the Styrofoam cup and then immediately down the first cup. The liquid burns my tongue and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I drink half the second cup before refilling it and joining Soap. I just need to get through this morning and then I’ll have time to think. Just get through this meeting.
“You’re gonna get the shakes,” he says eyeing the half-empty cup outside of Price’s office.
“I’ll be fine,” my trembling hands betray me though. But that’s not from the coffee. I’ve always handled my caffeine well and this stuff is far from strong.
Inside I claim the same plastic chair as Yesterday. Price is quiet as he types on the laptop and Ghost is nowhere to be found.
“Just a moment, sir,” Soap slips out of the room leaving just the two of us. My eyes flicker from the coffee to Captain Price seated behind the desk. His light eyes intently scan the screen as his distinct hat sits in the same place it always is. At first, I thought it was a fishing hat until I heard someone call it a boonie. Like Ghost and his mask, I’ve yet to see Price without it.
“You thought about our conversation?” he lifts his head to meet my eyes. The laptop lid is slowly closed and I feel my grip tighten around the warm cup.
“I did,” I fight to maintain a steady voice. He thoughtfully glances over my face. Price’s brows furrow as he presses his lips together. I know I look like a mess. My eyes are hollow and my bags stain the skin underneath. I haven’t seen proper sunlight in weeks and the life feels like it’s draining from my skin. Parts of my bottom lip have split from biting at the skin. I hardly look like myself. I also know he doesn’t really care. I’m hardly the first person here who can’t get a full night’s rest. All that matters is that I’m in good enough shape to help them out.
The door creaks open as Ghost quietly slips in followed by Soap. They nod to Price and find their respective positions. This feels too formal. And also completely unformal, to the extent that none of this is actually happening. It won’t be recorded, that’s for sure. It will cease to exist. I will cease to exist.
“And did you reach a conclusion?” he asks, full attention turning back to me. The coffee swirls in my stomach. Nerves eat away at what little confidence I had walking in here. I tug the neckline of my shirt up, making sure the cut remains invisible.
“I’ll help,” I state simply before pressing the cup to my lips and swallowing the last of the liquid. I feel Ghost intently leering at me. I force myself to look anywhere but toward him. Price nods once. He expected as much.
“Right then, I’ll have a script drafted up so you have time to review before tomorrow. Someone will drop it off at your room,” he shifts in his chair, about to turn away. I nervously pull at my hair, brushing it around my neck and shoulders.
“A script? What do you mean by a script?” my brows furrow together in confusion as he pauses to consider his answer. Price never mentioned how I’m supposed to help. Not that I expected them to tell me anyway. I’m not exactly the first person on their briefing list. Or the last.
“Same time tomorrow morning, you are going to give your father a call. Let him know you’re alright. That we want a peaceful resolution and are willing to work with him for a fair exchange,” I pull at my shirt again when I notice how closely his eyes analyze every expression. But it’s not just him. Soap and Ghost quietly guard the door with their total attention glued to my every action. There’s an air of doubt surrounding my intentions. Now is the time I should tell them about last night. If I leave it any longer their suspicion will only grow. But I run the real risk of hurting people from back home. My friends. People I’ve spent years of my life with. People that I love and don’t deserve a single bad thing to happen to them. Guilt twists in my stomach. I don’t doubt for a second the Ultranationalists will kill them.
“I’m going to talk to him?” My heart skips a beat and the styrofoam begins to crumple under my hands. How the hell am I supposed to talk to him? After all his betrayal, after knowing the horrifying acts of terrorism he’s committed, I don’t think I can even look him in the eyes.
“Over the phone,” Price elaborates. “But you’ll have a script and be briefed beforehand.”
“What will I be asking him to do?” I force an uncomfortable swallow. The urge to feel for the cut along my neck tugs at my fingertips as I grasp the cup tighter.
“You’ll be briefed tomorrow,” Price is curt as he stands from the chair. There are a thousand other things on his list more important than my never-ending spitfire of questions. “Soap, you and I are in the bay with the demolitions team.”
“Yes sir,”
“Can I just ask one more question?” their eyes latch onto me again. This one has been nagging in the back of my mind for weeks now and there hasn’t been a good time to bring it up yet. “Where’s my mom? Is she okay?”
Price exchanges a knowing glance with Ghost. He answers with a quick nod and a small sigh. “Your mother’s fine. She’s at your home in New York, guarded by a team of Ultranationalists at all times.”
“Oh,” his answer is almost too simple. “Thanks,” I say more to myself than him. Is it even true? This wouldn’t be the first time they lied to me and definitely not the last. Maybe he thinks I’ll be more cooperative if I think she’s okay. Or maybe she really is okay. Maybe my father cares more about protecting her than me. We never had guards when I was growing up. I always thought that was something out of our tax bracket, but that’s not the case. I tug at the back of my shirt again, making sure it doesn’t slip down my neck.
“Ghost, escort y/n back to her quarters. She’s not to leave for the rest of the day, meals included. I’ll call later,” as he steps out from behind the desk, Soap is already holding the door open. There’s an air of urgency surrounding their plans. Can the rest of the task force detect it? Or is it under wraps like everything else?
I start to follow them out the exit, but just as I’m inches away a strong arm reaches out, blocking the frame as the door clicks back into place, automatically locking. My chest brushes against the black fabric of Ghost’s sleeve. As my eyes slowly follow up the length of his arm, I notice his attention already on me. I sense a storm brewing behind his mask. The air surrounding us is completely still: a warning of approaching danger. On a summer day, the sky would turn green as the flies swarm and cattle huddle in the corner of the pasture. I fight the urge to follow their instincts and retreat into the corner of the room, but they have strength in numbers and right now I’m all alone.
“I thought I was supposed to go to my room?” already I feel myself walking on eggshells around him.
“Right. What’s up?” Ghost crosses his arms. “Soap says you’ve been acting weird all day.”
I shrug my shoulders, trying to play off the building tension in the air. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me,” his tone is cold as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. There’s a different type of tiredness attached to him today. From lack of sleep? Sure, maybe that’s part of it. But far from the whole reason.
“Nothing’s up,” I double down, taking a small step away from him. But I don’t get far. Ghost’s hand snakes out and latches onto my wrist. My fingers clench around the cracked coffee cup folded in my hands.
“Y/n, I’m not doing this today. Tell me why you’re acting like that,” Ghost is short with his words. Borderline impatient. I don’t focus on what he’s saying though. My mind drifts to his black balaclava and skull mask. What I would give to be able to hide like that right now. To stop him and Soap and Price from being able to psychoanalyze my every microexpression. To be able to retain my thoughts and emotions as my own. To disappear.
I tug at my collar with my other hand and as his eyes flicker to my hand I realize my mistake immediately. “See, you keep fixing your shirt,” he states.
“Let go,” I try pulling my wrist from his grasp to no avail. “Ghost,” I tug again and this time the crushed cup tumbles from my hand as his grip tightens. I know well by now just how strong he is, but I think Ghost underestimates his own strength sometimes. As his hand twists around my wrist, a throbbing pain shoots up my arm. “Fuck. Can you stop doing that?” he pauses for a moment, considering my request. “Just don’t… don’t grab me like that.”
“And you’re shaking,” the irritation behind his eyes switches to concern.
“Just had too much coffee,” it’s already too hard to hold eye contact with him. My gaze stays on the remains of the coffee cup, but as his hand tightens yet again I can’t help but react to the discomfort.
“No. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
“Do I?” I bite back. “Is it not enough that I’m about to get my father put in jail? Killed? Do I need to tell you every damn thought that crosses my mind too?” I overplay my emotions on the off chance he’ll decide it’s not worth arguing about. But then in one swift motion, he tugs me closer using my arm.
I brace myself against his chest with my hands, putting what little space I can manage between us. It’s hard to think properly so close to him. His scent starts to twirl around in my thoughts and makes me want to trust him. His sharp words pull me back into reality.
“Do you really think I don’t know when someone is trying to hide something?” Ghost’s hand brushes up the length of my arm, landing on the side of my neck, urging me to make eye contact. “Don’t make me resort to other options,” his low voice threatens.
“Like what?” I jerk my head away from his grasp. “You gonna torture me? Pull a couple teeth? Break a few fingers?” my empty words fly through the room and hit him with at least some impact. Enough to distract him.
“Do you still think that of me?” I note his change in posture as he leans away from me. A pang of guilt hits my chest. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. But it’s not like he’s respecting my boundaries either.
“You said so yourself, I don’t know how this ends,” I twist his words from the night at the cabin. Ghost’s dark eyes search for evidence against my claim.
“Y/n, I thought you trusted me?” his voice softens and mixes with confusion as his hands gently embrace my shoulders.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from taking my words back. I do. Fuck, I do. He’s seen me in my most vulnerable state, curled under his hands and gasping into his mouth. But I also trust the Ultranationalists to do everything in their power to hurt the people I love back home, if they haven’t already. I trust that we are in more danger here than anyone realizes. I trust that if I say something, people will die. I don’t miss the hurt in his eyes. But the urge to comfort him is overshadowed by the metastisizing fear growing taking over my entire being.
Fear courses through my veins and rattles my bones. It stains my every thought and desire. I’m terrified of more people getting hurt because of me. The weight of the possibility is crushing me.
But as Ghost’s intelligent eyes scan my frame once more and his arms pull me closer, his entire body freezes. I look up at him, his sudden silence, concerning. And then I see where his eyes have landed: just above the neckline of my shirt. Ghost’s hands tense around my arms. His back stiffens and when he speaks I hear the thick restraint in his heavy voice.
“Who did this?” one hand leaves my arm, his fingers wrap around the hem of the fabric to pull it lower. His warm, bare knuckles brush above the swollen cut, a thin scab starts to form in a short, straight line. The air is so tense it feels hard to breathe. If I were to try and run now, it would feel like navigating through quicksand.
“I did,” I whisper. “It was an accide-”
“Damnit y/n.” my name reverberates through Ghost’s heaving chest. A strange mixture of feelings flood my mind: hurt, anger, guilt, pain, fear, sorrow, fear, yearning, fear, fear, fear. “Stop hiding from me,” behind the mask his brows furrow and his bottom lids pull tight, just trying to understand why the hell I’m acting like this. He thought we were past this.
“I can’t,” my shaky voice is just above a whisper.
“Did they threaten you?” he pushes. The familiar edge to his voice is back, but I’m not the intended victim of this blade.
“Please stop,” I beg.
“Was it the Ultranationalists?”
I start to shake my head, but the swell of terror in my eyes is all Ghost needs to confirm his suspicions.
The charged space between us starts to shrink despite neither of us moving. No one dares to make the next move. I see the thoughts racing behind his mask. I feel the vengeance buzzing under the pads of his fingers. Ghost is ready to unleash all Hell on whoever did this. It’s exactly what I was afraid of. If he acts now innocent people will die. I will die.
“Is there somewhere safe we can talk?” his eyes snap up, my soft words bringing him back to Earth.
Ghost nods so subtly, I almost miss it. His knuckles linger on the cut a moment longer, trying to absorb the pain he’s brought onto me. I break our contact and start toward the door before I get too accustomed to his gentle touch.
“Y/n,” I feel the heat of Ghost’s chest press against my back. Strong fingers press into my hips, urging me to turn around. My heart clenches at his softness. I long to feel his flesh mold with mine. To hear his husky voice against my ear as our breaths synchronize and our bodies connect. As I look up, those dark pools mirror my own, but with a deeper sense of urgency. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
I wrap both my hands around one of his and raise it to my neck. I press his calloused fingers to the ridge torn across my skin and revel in the tenderness.
pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader
words: 2.8k
tags: death. blood. zombies of course. lowkey cannibalism implication. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn. enemies to lovers.
summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.
a/n: i'll try to get the next part quicker. my grandma wasn't doing well this past week but she is all good now~
Your fingers are decisive. You slot an arrow on the bowstring and release. It drives through the air with a silent whirl. Your aim is far from the best— it buries into the man’s shoulder rather than his skull.
The revolver falls from his grip and skitters across the ground. Your lips part to warn Blue, to tell her to pick it up before he can, but now his eyes point wildly in your direction.
An inhumane snarl rips through him. He is withered by hunger, aged beyond his true years. Matted hair and leathery skin. Still, he moves quick. He doesn't bother picking up the gun. Something animalistic drives him towards you. You find yourself unable to breathe. This isn’t what you expected. You fumble for another arrow, but as you try to get it on the string, it slips from your hand.
You are fucked.
The realization splinters your bones with adrenaline. It takes only a few blurred seconds for him to reach you. A weight greater than your own shoves you to the ground and your bow is knocked out of your grip. A human stench fills your nose as your arms flail around to keep a snapping mouth from reaching your cheek, your neck, your nose. Close combat is not a skill you’ve mastered. You have rarely needed it. Range weapons and retreating have been the tactics to shape your survival so far.
You can’t hear much besides his growling. You think you hear Blue shout. Blood pulses thick in your veins. You can’t think. A knife— you have that, but it’s in your coat pocket. His body is pressed against it and moving an arm to grab it could be enough for your fragile defense to crack.
It feels like you are being attacked by a dog, one with ribs that poke out and teeth that flash viciously.
Only when he pulls out his own knife does an idea occur to you. There is still the wooden arrow sticking out from his shoulder. It nearly pokes you in the face from all the movement. You wrap a hand around the base of it and snap the wood. You stab the splintered arrow into the first part of him you can reach - his torso. It doesn't stop him. Crazed eyes narrow. His blade goes for your neck but you block it. It cuts through the sleeve of your coat, earning you a gash to the plush of your forearm instead.
“Fuck,” you hiss, and tears prickle. Where is Blue? Maybe she could get—
The man is on top of you, and then he isn’t.
The weight is lifted, and the snarling ceased.
Through stinging eyes, you make out the shape of a dark shadow against the grey sky. There is an abrupt sound - the crack of bone. A snapped neck. The man’s head is bent haphazardly to the side before it rolls forward, limp and silenced. You breathe heavily through lungs that hurt.
A growl.
This is one you are familiar with.
But the arrival of it offers, for the first time, a sense of relief.
Your gaze slides over the form of broad shoulders and thick arms that toss the dead body to the side with ease. With the view from where you lay, Ghost looks even taller. Blue is dwarfed by him as she approaches his side, her eyes widened with concern more than fear.
She must have called for him. Or maybe he heard the snarling and rushed over.
Although you are the one laying on the ground, freshly attacked, she is the one he checks. Ghost touches a gloved hand to her cheek, moving his eyes to sweep over her.
“You alright?” he asks, firm yet gentle. “Did he hurt you?”
She gives a dismissive shake of her head. Then, it is she who bends down to help you up. It is a feeble attempt with only a child’s arm as your crutch. Your body feels like it’s been pillaged of energy. The wound on your arm is not nearly as bad as what their caltrops did to you, but it is enough to make you choke in pain.
“Fuckin’ hell," Ghost mumbles, before he gets the job done right by scooping you up. Only for a short moment are you in his strong arms, before he plants you on your feet.
"Did you know him?"
You press your palm over the gash, applying pressure over the oozing blood. Through tight teeth, you utter, “No.”
“Were there other camps in your area?”
You stand there bleeding, and he is interrogating you?
“I-I think so. Yes. One or two.”
He speaks under his breath, more to himself than to either of you. “Maybe he had to run, too, huh? Crazy fuck.” He roughly taps a boot to the side of the man’s body, inspecting it without care for its corpse. He glances around the trees for a short moment. Then, he looks back at you.
“Can you walk?”
It is less caring and more practical.
Can you?
“Yes,” you tell him, nodding lazily. Your eyes roll to the ground, having to watch each step of your boots to keep them moving steadily.
The walk back to camp is silent. Before you leave, Blue fetches the fallen revolver in the snow and gives it to him. Ghost discovers only one bullet in it. He carries the bow for you. You keep hold over the gash, hand soaked red.
At one point, a small hand brushes against your free one until her father grabs it and tugs her back to his side.
Everything feels like a blurred dream. Your brain decides to block out any thoughts of who that person was and where they came from. More importantly, what he could’ve done to you or Blue.
By the time you’ve made it to the cabin, you can’t recall what time of day it is. The boarded windows block out most light except a few stray strips. Ghost turns on a dim lamp.
To your surprise, he instructs you to sit on the couch and disappears for a moment before returning with his medical kit, which you have been a patient of once already.
This time, you are awake for it. Blue stands near the couch. He pulls a stool beside you. You shuck off your coat and roll up your soaked sleeve to reveal the gash that runs from the middle of your forearm to the knob of your elbow.
You know it could have been worse. If the blade had nicked bone, you’d be howling right now.
“Wet a cloth for me, Blue.”
She does so.
You twist your shoulder to offer the wound to him. Rough fingertips dab the damp cloth to the area and you roll your lips. You try to look at the wall to distract yourself, but find your gaze shifting to your nurse. He is a pragmatic one. All you can see are ashen lashes that line firm, shadow-cast eyes. Warmth rolls off his body in billows.
He puts the cloth down and rummages around for a needle and one of the rolls of black thread.
Before he can pierce the first stitch, his daughter’s soft voice stops him.
“Ghost,” she murmurs to break the silence. She walks over to the kit and grabs a small tube. Antiseptic, you believe. “You… You forgot this.”
His eyes lift from your arm and he looks back at her. There is a silent language they share. You’ve acted as a witness to it a few times now. You are not fluent in it, but with the way Blue’s brows furrow together, you have an idea of what he is trying to remind her of.
He is willing to offer the stitches.
You’ve spotted at least two rolls of the stuff.
But the antiseptic isn’t for you this time.
None of their medicine is for you.
“It might get infected,” she argues against his stare, her voice congealing into something firmer. She studies him.
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he tells her lowly.
“She saved my life, Dad.” She grips the tube in one hand. With the other hand, she rubs the heel over her eyes. “That guy went after her because she… she protected me.”
You stare at the shorn rug, finding a distraction in the worn threads of red and blue. This conversation thickens the air.
Blue continues, words pushed out in a ramble now, “I didn’t even see him there. I wasn’t,” and her eyes drift to the floor before she admits, “I wasn’t aware of my surroundings, okay? But she saw him and she helped me. That is why he—”
“And how many times have we helped her?” he interrupts harshly.
He is either unconvinced of your role as a savior or doesn’t particularly care, not when it means sharing vital resources. He hadn’t witnessed the whole thing. It all happened so fast.
“We can help her more,” his daughter insists. “We can make sure she doesn’t get an infection.”
Ghost’s voice travels a notch louder, “Then that is one less time we can make sure you don’t get an infection.”
You can remember this type of tone - your own father used it a few times on you as a kid, but never did it carry the weight of life or death. Your arguments usually involved doing your homework or eating an extra sweet after dinner. For Ghost and Blue, most of their disagreements are about survival and mercy.
He turns to face his daughter fully. “Do you understand?”
“I just think—"
“Look at me,” Ghost says. There is no room here for her to bicker with him. “Do you understand?”
She meets his gaze under lashes that flutter hesitantly, casting shadows across her pale temples. With a swallow, Blue quietly answers, “I do.”
She puts the ointment back.
He stitches you up.
You bite your palm to keep silent.
Sleep evades you.
You jolt up against the floorboards when you hear the shed’s door creak open.
“Just me.”
With the light of a small flashlight, her eyes glisten. You sit up, spine sore. You didn’t eat dinner tonight; you hadn’t managed anything during your short-lived hunt, and you didn’t dare to ask for food. You didn’t think it was a good idea to further test Ghost’s generosity.
“Hey,” you give her a small smile. “It’s late.”
“I know.” She carries something in her other hand - a lumpy pillow. She sits down on the floor of your shed and you scoot your legs over so she can have space. “Ghost said I could give you this. Something to sleep on.”
“Oh, thanks.” You can’t help it, the words leave dryly: “He’s so generous.”
A look passes over her illuminated face - something apologetic, something wary. She looks down at the pillow in her hands and runs a hand over the fabric.
“I asked if you could sleep inside now,” she says quietly, sighing. “He said it’s a bad idea. You could steal our stuff and whatnot.”
“That’s okay. The pillow will help a lot. And—” you wave a hand around, “Kind of like my own hotel room here.”
“Maybe we could decorate it.” Blue looks around. “At least, in the spring when the flowers come back. There are these really pretty white ones by the pond."
You want to tell her you’re not sure if you will be here that long. Instead, you tell her, “Maybe.”
“I wanted to say thank you,” she then says. Her hair is still in the braids, but a few wisps have slipped out. Blue toys with one of them thoughtfully. “You really did save my life today, huh?”
“You’ve saved mine before."
Probably more than once.
She nods. She seems deep in thought, and the color of her eyes appears less youthful than usual. You really didn’t need to think twice about protecting her. A child’s life - her future - means more than whatever awaits you, anyway.
“Ghost always says that the only person you can trust is yourself,” she mutters into the small space. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s right. I think that being careful with who you trust is smart.”
“Do you trust me?” whispers Blue.
“A little bit.”
You can’t trust her fully. She still has a higher power to answer to, despite her innocent intentions.
It is then that Blue flips the pillow over. Her hand slips under the faded, cotton case of it and reaches for something hidden inside— what you now realize to be the cause for the lump at the bottom. What she digs out and reveals to you in the palm of her hand has your breath catching in your throat. The tube of antiseptic.
“I can’t,” you choke after a beat of silence.
Moisture dallops the rims of your eyes. You don’t know why; this kind gesture feels foreign, inviting a strange weight to your chest.
“Blue... thank you, but I can’t.”
“You can,” she says and begins to untwist the top. “You had my back, and I have yours. I don’t want your arm to get infected.”
But your hand reaches to cover hers, halting the removal of the top and pushing the tube closer to her chest, away from you.
“Ghost will notice,” you explain. “And then you will get in trouble and he will make me leave, alright? Thank you, but I can’t.”
“Just a little,” she insists in a hushed voice. “He won’t notice if I put it right back.”
With great reluctance, you move your hand away and let her continue. Even just a little could be enough to save you from a nasty infection, and it’s not like you have antibiotics. If you did get an infection, you’d have to take the treacherous journey to a pharmacy and hope that there is still something left on the shelves. You’re not confident that you are in strong enough shape yet to survive a trip like that.
You shrug off your coat.
You’d rinsed out your shirt and dried it by the fireplace before retreating to your shed. Lifting up the cleaned sleeve, you reveal the gash sealed with sutures. The ridge of it is a swollen range of ugly mountains against the rest of your unblemished forearm.
With soft fingertips, she dabs some on. You swallow and offer another thank you.
When she is done, you lower the sleeve and rub at your damp eyes.
“I will put a liiiiittle more on tomorrow night, too. Just a little,” she tells you, and the youth sparkles back in her irises. She gives you the pillow. She puts the tube in her coat pocket this time. Not as great of a hiding place but you hope she knows what she is doing.
Before Blue leaves you to sleep, she tells you:
“I trust you a little bit, too, you know.”
a/n: more sweet papa ghost in the next one i promise :)
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