The room still smelled like him. Soap’s cologne mixed with gun oil — a scent Y/N had once teased him about, saying it clung to everything he touched. Now it was the only thing keeping them together.
They sat on the floor beside his bunk, surrounded by the pieces he left behind. His vest, all dirty. His gloves. His dog tag. Each item was a fragment of him — of the life he swore they’d get back to when this one last mission was over.
Y/N’s fingers trembled as they picked up a small black box from the table. Soap had left it there, hidden under a folded note. He never told them what it was, but they’d seen the way he looked at it before he left — soft, nervous, hopeful.
They already knew.
When Price showed up at the door that morning, his face said everything. No words, no explanations — just the silence that follows when their world stops moving.
Now Y/N held it like it might break. Their thumb traced the worn edge before they opened it — the ring inside was simple, nothing fancy. Just his style. Just perfect.
A sob slipped out before they could stop it. “You idiot…” The words came out broken. “You were supposed to come back.”
They closed their eyes, pressing the ring into their palm so tightly it hurt. The tears wouldn’t stop — quiet, shaking ones that left them gasping in a room too full of memories.
A knock at the door made them flinch. Gaz’s voice — soft. “You all right in there?”
Y/N didn’t answer. They couldn’t.
Gaz didn’t push. The door clicked shut again, leaving only the silence. Y/N looked back at the ring, whispering through cracked lips, “I would’ve said yes, Johnny.”
The words broke into the air like a promise too late to keep.
They set the ring on his dog tags, fingers brushing the cold metal. The tears slowed, replaced by something quieter — a numb kind of love that refused to fade.
“Guess I’ll just… pick up what’s left,” Y/N whispered. “Like you’d wanted me to.”
| When He Comes Home - Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader
Masterlist ❤︎
Inspired by this art is by Chimamonbun on X
When he arrived, he didn’t say a word. His eyes remained wide and unfocused. His chest slowly gave rise and fell to disjointed breaths. He was still covered in dirt and blood, and he smelt like gunpowder and sweat.
“Simon,” you murmured, careful not to startle him. He was still standing in the boot room, his pack slung over one shoulder. His eyes slid over to you but he remained deathly still. He was looking at you but you weren’t entirely sure he was seeing you. You reached out a hand but stopped yourself before you could touch him, “Do you want me to run you a bath?”
His nod was nearly imperceptible. He followed you into the bathroom and watched your every move, his mind and body still stuck in fight mode. When you ducked under the sink to look for a towel and realized there wasn’t one you turned to him, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get you a towel.”
You hesitated before leaving him.
And when you returned your heart sank.
He’d already climbed into the tub, still in his clothes and gear. Aside from his still-masked face, he was fully submerged in the hot water.
The water was still running and steam wafted up.
Blood was already staining the water in tendrils around him. You couldn’t see any major injuries and he wasn’t acting wounded so you knew none of it was his.
Red rimmed his eyes and they were glossy. His pupils were blown as he stared up at the ceiling.
“Simon…are you okay?” you padded over to him and sat on the edge of the bed.
He didn’t react.
You reached for his mask, scared that the fabric would soak and he was going to accidentally waterboard himself.
His hand snapped to yours, squeezing your wrist until you whimpered.
“Let me help you,” you pleaded, your chest aching at the sight of him like this.
After a minute of silence, his grip on your wrist loosed.
A/N - This takes place after the end of the MW3(2023) campaign.
but who would dress up as another of the characters, and is it accurate/stolen from their wardrobe or is it super exaggerated jokes
like each other? easiest soap w price ever. he just breaks into his home, calms the terrified missus (not a wife just a sweet thing he spends time with) cuz he didn't know price was even taken and after groveling for 15 min he takes what he needs and she gives him a cigar cuz how can he forget the pièce de résistance
Character: GN!Reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish and Captain John Price
Tone: Angst
Word count: 1024
Prompt: Cold hands
TW/CW⚠️: grief, trauma, dissociation, major character death, PTSD themes
Cod Advent Calendar masterlist ● Main Masterlist
It has been a month since the mission, and your hands still do not feel like they belong to you.
You are sitting at the small kitchen table in your flat, fingers wrapped around a mug that has long since gone cold. There is no real reason for you to feel cold, yet you keep your hands cupped as if guarding them from something. You stare at nothingness trying to remember when you made the tea the first place. The memory slips away the moment you reach for it.
They told you that being pulled from the field was temporary, that it was standard procedure after witnessing something traumatic, especially when the person is close to the one that was lost. Everyone used careful words, chosen to avoid pressing too hard. You nodded and agreed because it was easier than explaining that the world had started to feel unreal the moment Johnny’s hands went cold in yours. You have not trusted yourself since.
There is a knock at the door that startles you, sharp and insistent in the quiet flat. For a moment, you do not move, convinced that if you stay still long enough, the sound will fade and take the expectation with it. When the knock comes again, you finally stand, to check up who is behind the door insisting on seeing you.
Price is on the other side of the door when you open it. He looks older than you remember, the lines around his eyes deeper, his expression caught somewhere between concern and restraint. He takes you in with a quick glance, noting the shadows under your eyes and the way your shoulders seem permanently drawn inward.
“Mind if I come in?” he asks gently.
You step aside without speaking, and he enters your flat, closing the door behind him. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until he clears his throat.
“How’re you holding up?” Price asks, though the question sounds like an obligation rather than an expectation of a real answer.
You shrug, the movement small. “I’m fine.”
The lie feels hollow even as it leaves your mouth, but Price does not call you on it. He moves toward the table and gestures to the chair across from you.
“Been a month,” he says quietly. “Thought it might be time we talked.”
You sit because he asks you to, because following instructions is still easier than making decisions of your own. Your gaze drifts to your hands as they settle in your lap. They look normal enough, steady and warm. You press your thumb into your palm, just hard enough to feel it, grounding yourself in the sensation.
Price notices. Of course he does.
“They’re worried about you,” he says. “Medical. Command. Hell, all of us.”
“I know,” you reply, though it sounds distant, as if someone else is speaking through you.
“You’ve been cleared physically,” Price continues, carefully. “But they don’t want you back in the field yet. Not after what you saw.”
What you saw. The words echo unpleasantly in your mind.
You were there when Johnny died. You were more than a witness. You were holding him, begging him to stay, feeling the life drain out of him one second at a time. Reducing that to observation feels wrong in a way that makes your chest ache.
You swallow and nod, eyes still fixed on your hands. “I get it.”
Price sighs softly. “Do you?”
The question hangs between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Price watches you for a long moment before speaking again, as if weighing every word.
“I know it’s harder for you,” he says at last, his voice low and careful. “Because of your shared history with Johnny.” He pauses, then continues, “That’s why psych didn’t clear you. Not yet, at least. This isn’t a punishment. It’s to keep you safe.”
You nod, though you are not entirely sure you understand what safe is supposed to feel like anymore.
He reaches across the table then, slow enough that you notice the movement before it happens. His hand closes gently around yours, steady and deliberate. The contact pulls your attention back to your body in a way that feels abrupt, almost uncomfortable.
Your hands are cold. Cold in a way that does not match the warmth of the room or the warmth of his handas. For a split second, his thumb tightens instinctively, and you see the flicker of recognition cross his face before he smooths it away.
“They’re freezing,” he says quietly.
The words hit you harder than you expect. Your mind slips, unanchored, and suddenly you are not in your kitchen anymore. You are standing over a casket, the polished wood reflecting too much light, the room too quiet. You remember how Johnny looked laid out like that, how unreal it felt to see him still. You remember touching his hands one last time, expecting warmth that never came.
You pull in a slow breath, grounding yourself in the pressure of Price’s hand around yours.
“Go take a warm bath,” Price says gently. “I’ll stay. We’ll get some heat back into you.” His voice softens further. “And you need to eat something warm too. You’ve probably been running on empty stomach”
You look down at your hands where they rest between the two of you. They look the same as they always have. Nothing about them suggests how wrong they feel.
“I don’t notice when it happens,” you admit quietly. “The cold. I just… drift.”
Price nods once. “That’s part of it,” he says.
He does not let go of your hands right away. He keeps holding them, firmly but gentle, as if anchoring you in place. The warmth slowly begins to seep back in, a slight tingling feeling showing in your fingers.
For the first time since he arrived, you feel something loosen in your chest. It’s not relief nor healing, but the smallest sense of being held in the present instead of the past. You let him guide you to your feet. And when you move toward the bathroom, you do not feel quite as alone as you did before.
⚠️ TW: grief, revenge motives, loss of loved one⚠️
Have fun and take care of yourself.
╰› Masterlist
The days after Soap’s death passed in a blur. The team moved like ghosts through the base, but none more than Y/N. They didn’t talk much, didn’t eat much either. Just the same routine—gear maintenance, weapon checks, range time. Over and over again.
At first, Price tried to talk to them. Told them to take some time off, to let it settle. But Y/N wasn’t listening. All they could see, all they could feel, was the empty space where Soap should’ve been. The sound of his laugh that wasn’t there anymore. The blood on the floor that never really washed off.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be forgiven.
They started planning quietly, piece by piece. Intel pulled from reports they weren’t supposed to have. Names. Locations. Rumors. Every thread led to the same man—Makarov. The one responsible. The one who took everything.
That’s what it became: tunnel vision. Nothing else mattered anymore. Not missions, not orders, not the team. Just the goal.
Every time Price looked at them, he could see it—the same emptiness in their eyes that he’d seen in soldiers who didn’t make it back right in the head.
“You’re losing yourself,” he said one night, catching them poring over stolen files. “Soap wouldn’t have wanted this.”
Y/N didn’t even look up. “Soap isn’t here to want anything.”
Price’s jaw tightened. “And if you go down this road, neither will you.”
But Y/N couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Not until they saw Makarov bleed for what he’d done.
Later, when the others slept, Y/N stood outside, staring into the dark horizon. It was quiet—too quiet. They whispered it to the night like a promise only they could hear.
“I’m coming for you.”
It wasn’t grief anymore. It wasn’t even rage. It was purpose.
