Ghost would rather suffer through his childhood again and again til the day he died before he would admit the deep hole you left in his heart.
He broke up with you for an obvious reason, he couldn't be what you deserved, besides, it was terrifying to feel how you consumed his every thought. Every single of his waking moments from early morning to late night, you sat in his mind.
You and your soft voice, gentle touches, sweet laughs. And what made it worse was that ye could handle stress, he could handle anything, but love?
He can't handle love,
can't handle the thought of being away, can't handle the thought of losing you.
He hated being so out of control, of you being in control without even knowing it. He knew you would never hurt him, would never manipulate him, but what if.
And the worse thought was about what you would feel when a mission went wrong, when he wouldn't be able to stay next to you anymore.
So he finally decided to leave you, and definitely make it absolutely seem like his fault, he told you he was cheating, and as soon as a "we can work this out" came out of your mouth in that sad little voice, he knew he had to dig a deeper hole for himself.
Told you how he no longer loved you. How he didn't even care about you actually. Didn't even find you attractive.
Made himself seem like such an asshole, just so you would finally realise that this was for the better.
And you sure did, or so he atleast thought when you finally slapped him across his face and started to scream at him.
But he never got over you. He carried you in his heart wherever he went.
Not that he'd ever admit it.
Because a monster like him doesn't feel love, he can't love. And nothing will change his opinion, not even how sweetly you waited him home at the end of every mission.
"Sorry to bother, Si, but can you grab me some Ibuprofen on your way home?" You asked, phone pressed to your ear as you toughed it though your typical pre-period(?) cramps.
A sigh came through the other end, "Sorry, love, it'll be late before I get home. I'll pick some up after I'm done here, though. There should be some Tylenol under the sink in the first aid kit," he said, his words unusually tense. You sat up on your elbows, brows furrowed.
"You, okay?"
"'Course, just these pricks at work getting on my last nerve," he grunted, making you chuckle.
"Well good luck, love you."
"Love you too."
Ghost hung up the phone and stuffed it away into his locker--right alongside his wedding ring. He let out a long sigh as he pressed his temple against the back of his hand, just trying to ease the guilt rearing up in the form of an ugly headache.
"Mate, you good?" Gaz asked, walking into the base's break room with Soap, still dressed in their gear from their most recent completed mission.
"I keep tellin' 'im to break it off sooner rather than later," Soap sighed dramatically.
Gaz's head snapped over. "You're still with her? We got all the information we needed from her three months ago."
"It's not that simple," Ghost grunted.
"You're the one who married her," Soap tacked on. "You made it complicated."
"Does she know yet?" Gaz asked before Ghost could snap at his Scottish friend. Ghost pushed himself off the break room wall, moving towards the observation room, where--thought a one-way mirror--he could see the woman at the table, your best friend, the bridesmaid at his and your wedding, and just sighed.
"No, she'll probably learn soon enough."
"Will she know you were involved?" Gax asked, hesitant to pry further into Ghost's less than ideal married life.
> no NSFW, just a small scrap i wrote after a headcanon i read :)
He’s read it about a hundred times.
Gloved fingertips tremble against the crumpled paper, withdrawing a breath sharply. You’re waiting for him downstairs, he knows he only has a few minutes to spare, but he reads it anyway. Drinks the words in, flipping and twisting the scribbled letters in his head.
At first, he’s a little suspicious. You didn’t show him the letter, and made no effort to mention it. Simon wasn’t one to meddle in your private business, after all, he was familiar with secrecy. But a letter? From your Mum? When he had brought it up gruffly, you paled a little and mumbled about it being some sort of phone bill.
For one, he paid for the damn thing.
He found it on the bed. Well, sort of. Simon had eyed the paper poking out of your leather handbag, pausing with furrowed brows. He wasn’t even sure why he stopped to take it out, but next thing he knew he’s locked the bedroom door and unfolded the paper carefully, eye-black slipping over the words. For a moment, Simon rests his neck against the headboard and allows himself to drown into the comforting words.
I really hope all is well. Farley misses you lots! The living room doesn’t feel the same without you.
A fumble, a crinkling of paper - his heart is in his throat as he skims over the sheet.
Hope Simon’s taking care of you. He’s a good man, I know he is. A gentleman, that’s what your uncle had said. You seem happier.
Simon almost wants to scoff - so many moments of sitting beside your mum, innocent conversations exchanged between the two, his hands shaking hers. Same bloody hands that kill for a living. Strangle, hurt. Mark. Defile. He wonders, what your mother would think of the sins carved into his legs, his arms. The staining of red on almost every piece of clothing he owns. He wonders what his own mother would think.
The realisation dawns on him slightly, back straightening so his shoulders broadened. He pauses, glancing towards the door.
Either way, I love you lots. And Dad does too. You’re going to have to write back quick, he’s quite worried for you. Thinks you’re gonna ‘lose yourself’ in the US. Told him he was a nutcase.
He reads the first few words again. I love you lots.
“I love you, Si.”
A guttural groan, bone flicking in his jaw. He reads it again, and again, and once fucking more till the words echoe a little more like his own mother’s.
Simon imagines it’s his own mother writing back.
“I love you lots, Si. Write back quickly, they’re waiting for your stories in Mazrah. Joseph is absolutely smitten over the Lego Set you got him.”
“Dad’s worried about you. Thinks you’re gonna lose yourself in the US.”
“I love you, Si. We miss you.”
The door opens. Simon isn’t one to nervously putter about, but he jerks his shoulder back, head lifting to meet your gaze. You frown a little, the white around his whiskey irises contrasting starkly against his balaclava.
“Got the reservation, at last,” You chime, walking into your room to peer at the closest mirror. Simon’s fucking sweating it, the letter still trapped between his fist. He hopes to God you take an extra few minutes to fuss over your hair or something -
“What’s that?” Voice sharp and soft, like a flowery sting, Simon’s head snaps up to you again, a little jolted. You narrow your brows, arms crossing over your chest. The letter in his hand, slightly stricken expression, tense shoulders - it all clicks.
“You’re reading it?”
“Wha’s it look like?”
You laugh a little evenly. “No need to be so defensive, just asking.” You pause and Simon swears he wants the ground to swallow him.
“She misses you, y’know.”
He says nothing.
You take that as a cue to purse your lips and speak anyway, turning to run a hand through your tousled hair. “Won’t stop calling too. Asking me how I am, how you are.”
His grip tightens on the letter but he wordlessly lets go of it, the crinkled white flat against the bed. ‘Course she was asking, always bickering and fussing. He thinks maybe there’s where you get it from, the thought causing him to pause for a second.
“Do you wanna write back?”
“Not my letter, love.” He remarks, reaching for the boots by the side of his bed. A pang hits your chest, brows sloping again. Sometimes you worry for your boyfriend. This was partly why you don’t want to show him.
It was more a way to protect him. You weren’t completely blind, you saw the way he shifted in his seat when your Dad had clapped his shoulder with a comment of appraisal, nothing but admiration in his eyes. You saw how his expression narrowed a little cautiously, eyeing the uncles and relatives beside the BBQ who were chatting happily to the kids on their ankles. You took note of how softer he looked, those same unreadable eyes glazing when your Mum fussed and crooned over the scars on his hands.
“No, ‘m being serious. You should write back. I’d know for a fact she’d pin it up and everything.” You say softly with a half eye roll, watching him through the reflection of the mirror as you pinned up your hair. Simon tied his boots slowly, movements a little lagged.”
Silence again. “Well, just letting you know you can write. I get her WhatsApp messages can be a lot, but, I’m sure she’d love it.”
Your words settle into the air. Simon is tensing his jaw over and over, a little frustrated at his lack of initiation. But it was different. It was all foreign to him. How could he tell you he had memorised the damn letter word for word? That he wished it was his own mother speaking back to him?
“Mum used to write.” Simon grumbled a little. You eyebrows raise into your hairline.
“‘Bout my nephew. An’ home. Kept them all. Till they burned at base, obviously.” He adds, his tone quiet but coated in familiar sorrow. When you look at him, you knew. Simon’s eyes held waters of pain, a depth of understanding for it.
Fingers curl around the laces lazily. You don’t say a word, neither of you do.
“She’d be proud of you, Si. I know damn well she would be.”
He thinks you’re lying for shit. That you’re sugar coating the truth in a layer of false hope, and he’s not sure what’s worse, the fact you’re lying or the fact he believes it. Simon allows himself, just for once, to be misguided. He didn’t know his threshold for pain, but the searing hot shame pouring over his heart right now is punishing.
You’re smiling. Soft, demure, inviting. You’re smiling at him, looking almost blessed with damaged goods, wide eyes deep and knowing. His fingers twitch, itching to hold you in his palms.
Imagine Captain John Price, the seasoned and battle-hardened leader, caught in the throes of a mission gone awry. The weight of his decisions presses heavily on his shoulders, each choice a potential tipping point between life and death for his team. The mission is critical, the stakes higher than ever, and the shadows of past failures loom large.
As the team infiltrates a hostile compound, Price’s mind is a storm of conflicting emotions. The memory of fallen comrades haunts him, their faces flashing before his eyes with every step he takes. The guilt of survival gnaws at him, a constant reminder of the lives lost under his command. His heart races, not from fear, but from the relentless drive to ensure no more blood is spilled on his watch.
The mission takes a dark turn when they encounter unexpected resistance. Bullets fly, and the air is thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder. Price’s voice, usually steady and commanding, cracks with the strain of holding his team together. He barks orders, his tone a mix of desperation and determination, as he fights to keep his men alive.
In the chaos, Price is separated from his team. Alone in the dimly lit corridors of the enemy stronghold, he grapples with his inner demons. The silence is deafening, broken only by the distant echoes of gunfire and the pounding of his own heart. Every shadow seems to mock him, a reminder of the lives he couldn’t save.
As he navigates the labyrinthine passages, Price’s thoughts drift to his family, the loved ones he left behind. The promise he made to return home safe feels like a cruel joke in the face of the current peril. His resolve hardens, fueled by the need to protect those who depend on him, both on the battlefield and at home.
Finally, Price reunites with his team, battered but alive. The relief is palpable, but the mission is far from over. With renewed determination, he leads his men towards their objective, each step a testament to his unyielding spirit. The mission may be fraught with danger, but Price’s resolve is unbreakable, forged in the fires of countless battles and tempered by the weight of his past.
In the end, it’s not just the mission that defines Captain John Price, but the relentless struggle against his own fears and regrets. His journey is one of constant turmoil, a battle not just against external enemies, but against the darkness within.
For some reason that no one could figure out, you and Ghost hated each other. It was like cats and dogs between you two the way you all found new ways to bicker over the most mundane of things. Soap swore that one day he walked in to find you two nearly disemboweling each other with butter knives over who made the butter a bread-crumbed mess (it was Price, everyone knew that, but that didn't stop the both of you going at it for nearly an hour).
At first, everyone assumed it was because you were a transfer from a different international unit, and everyone knew of Ghost's bad history with similar transfers. But after another sergeant transferred in temporarily (under similar conditions) and he and Ghost got along great, that theory was laid to rest.
Others thought that maybe, just maybe, Ghost was...sexist? Not unheard of in the military by any means. Of course, Price, Soap, Gaz, and even Laswell (who hated getting dragged into issues between the soldiers) had their doubts. Sure, in his younger years he made the out-of-place comments that made Price sentence him to armory inventory many a night. But after his brother got married (and, well, died alongside the rest of his family a few short year later) he said not a lick of disrespect.
Whatever the reason, though, the fact remained that you and Ghost hated each other's guts.
"Get your musty self out of chair, Ghost," you said, glaring at him as soon as you entered the conference room for the post-mission debrief. Ghost locked eyes with you and leaned back, manspreading all over your chair and making absolutely no attempt at moving.
But you weren't in the mood. So instead of picking another fight, you sat your aching bones down in a chair a few spaces down. Gaz glanced up at your absence of fight and shared a look with Soap--but neither of them said a word.
You were uncharacteristically quiet during the briefing, and while everyone would've chalked it up to exhaustion given no one had gotten a good night's sleep in nearly a week, you had gone without sleep at all for days and still been more talkative (albeit most of it was yelling) than this. But they all knew you didn't respond well to the type of questions like "you good?"--deeming them a gesture of weakness and instantly getting snappy.
After the briefing, you didn't waste a single second bickering with Ghost and almost fled to your car to go home. That was definitely a first.
"Somethin' up with 'er? Never seen the lass hurry out wi'out a quip or two," Soap said, leaning against the table as he talked to Gaz and Ghost.
"Nice change of pace," Ghost grunted.
"You two bicker more than my six-year-old nieces," Gaz sighed, adjusting the cap perched on his head.
"I expect nothin' less," Price tacked on, gathering his things to go home to the missus.
The next morning, Ghost spotted you for the first time in your car in the lot outside, face pressed against the wheel. He diverged from his path inside and made a beeline to your car, knocking on the window harshly. You didn't look up.
You reached over and blindly rolled down the window enough to let your voice slip out. "Leave me alone," you grunted. You didn't know who it was, all you knew was that you needed time to be alone.
"You're late." Of course it was Ghost--the universe hated you.
You rolled up your window and rose you head just enough to glare at him.
"Just cause your pissy don't mean you can be late," Ghost said, tappihng your window again. You sighed, grabbing your keys and bag.
"Do you know how to leave people alone or are you always this insufferable?" you sighed, trudging out of your car. That's when Ghost spotted the brutal black eye blooming up on your face, already darker than a plum.
"The 'ell happened to you?"
"Got into a fight," you said simply.
"With who?" You met his question with a noncommittal shrug. "Hey," he said gruffly, grabbing your arm and tugging you back from the front door of the building. "With who?" He repeated. "Your boyfriend?"
"Get off my case!"
"Is he hitting you?"
"No--now let go of me!" You said, trying to wrench you arm away. It was humiliating--you were naturally a bit smaller than him and by proxy weaker. You prided yourself on your strength for years, and now you had to ask for him to let go of you. Ashamed wasn't even the start of it.
He let go of you and you stormed inside, impatient for the day to end already.
Ghost kept his eye on you throughout the day, documenting your every move in the back of his mind as you worked on paperwork, assisted in training, and even as you took your smoke breaks. He'd see bruises like that on his mom and even his own reflection growing up, and it wasn't no fight bruise.
When the end of the day came rolling around and you started to leave, Ghost got up to follow you. He would try to get the information out of you one more time. But just as he opened the double doors to leave, he saw you frozen in place, a man leaning against your car. You glanced around and spotted Ghost--immediately scurrying over to the man with your voice low. You seemed just as pissed to see him there as he was to see you...and Ghost by proxy.
"You cheating on me?" the man asked, grabbing your arm--to which you quickly rung off. At home was a different story, but here, at the place of work where you were expected to be a leader in your own right, you could just try and apease him.
"You don't get to come to my work and make accusations," You whispered, trying to contain the scene.
"Then we'll go home if you don't want to do this in front of your fuc--" he grabbed your arm and before you even got a change to tug yourself away again, Ghost stepped in.
"Aye, mate, back up," Ghost said, shoving the man back—to where he nearly stumbled over his own feet.
The man, who was just brave and entitled enough to start pressing you, now was cowering back to his car and driving off. As his beat up civic disappeared down the road, Ghost glanced at you to make sure you were okay and you were pissed.
“What the hell was that?” You shouted.
“What?”
“I don’t need your help,” you snapped.
“Not my fault you have shit taste,” Ghost said before he could think. You were seething—red clouding your vision as you glared at him. He was insufferable incarnate—the exact type of person you had wished you’d never crossed paths with.
“You sonavu—“ you shouted, lunging at him, grabbing him by his collar and wrestling him to the ground. “Damn you!”
“Quit,” he said, trying to grab your arms as you started punching at him.
“What right do you have to say shit? That I’m weK?” You demanded. You found so hard to get to where you were only for you to get humiliated. You weren’t weak—you proved that through your years of standing just as tall as all your teammates—you made a mistake—you let your boyfriend get one over you as a fluke—
“I never said shit about you being weak, don’t put words in my mouth,” Ghost grunted, grabbing your arms to stop you from continuing your mirad of hits. You didn’t even realize you were crying until you spotted the damp splotches under you on Ghost’s shirt. “Being stuck in a place like that”—familiarity played behind Ghost’s eyes—“don’t mean your weak at all.”
You stared at him for a long moment before just crying.
