But the ghost of the Scotsman who previously inhabited your apartment didn't seem keen to follow these rules.
You ignore him— you try to ignore him. But he watches you. Constantly.
Soft footsteps pad around your apartment as you fix up your meals. Keen eyes warm up the air around with a tension you refuse to acknowledge.
Low, rumbling chuckles send shivers down your spine as you scroll through social media on your phone.
A presence next to you as you sleep— indentations on your covers in the shape of a much larger man than had ever graced your bed.
Your laptop left open to random tabs, with strings of seemingly random letters. "Makar." "Jhn Pric". "Garck." Occasionally, the tabs opened to pages that have you instantly slamming it shut— cheeks burning, that same rumbling chuckle roiling around the nape of your neck.
You steadfastly ignore it. The dead may walk the earth but this particular one was inhibiting the most affordable apartment within your budget.
But you mess up— you turn your head at a small noise and meet cerulean eyes.
You freeze, breathless, caught under a gaze that sparkles like seaglass in the sunlight. A slow triumph unfurling in them, at finally cornering you after all these months.
The slightest twitch of a stubbled cheek, a scratch at a head wound that never seemed to close as the— the man edges closer.
"Alright, luv'?" His voice is smoky, curling with a wicked sort of amusement.
A therapist's waiting room wasn't exactly the place to have the most engrossing conversations. People were usually jittery, tense, or straight-up despondent. Somehow, you manage to strike a strange sort of connection with the retired military couple that had the Thursday slot just after you anyway.
Trigger Warnings: Angsty. Mentions of medical conditions. Chronic pain discussion. Post couple argument. My characterisations may not be your cup of tea, they can be problematic, but hopefully in a realistic way.
A/N: Not gonna lie somebody sent me an Ask about Tremors and I had this written out the same day I read it lmao my brain is so monke
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His hands were shaking again. Callouses stretching and wrinkling together as he rested his hand on the doorknob. The metal was biting in the winter chill, but the physical sensation helped drag him back down to reality.
To his home— his actual home. Surreal still, after more than a decade of thin barrack mattresses and rocky dirt beneath thin sleeping bags. The one-story house was quaint in a way he never would've dreamt of living in when he was younger. His home, with its barely managed lawn. Creaking doors. Brick and dark woods— juxtaposed against the hard plastic wheelchair ramp next to the steps.
His home, where Johnny was waiting.
Rough fingers fall away from the doorknob. His head dipped as he exhaled sharply— burning shame, a semi-permanent grimace on his lips.
It had been a bad day for Johnny's chronic pain. A string of them, really. Simon could feel the exhaustion carved into his bones, the weight of caring for Johnny entrenched into his marrow.
Johnny was waiting —barely able to sit up and have breakfast today after waking up wracked with neuropathic pain— and Simon couldn't even bring himself to open the damn door.
Bitter miasma clawed at his gums, self-disgust brewing at his inability to be more human, more empathethic. At his desire to be away. At the way he wanted press pause. Johnny couldn't press pause— he could only wait.
A notification pops up on his phone. He doesn't check, knowing it'd be the therapy appointment app. Life was now just a cycle of doctor's appointments, tests, physical rehabilitation, bills, and therapy. He had gone from the steady drumbeat of barracks life to— this.
With a huff, he forced himself to open the door, as gently as he can manage so as no to wake Johnny in case he had fallen asleep.
They had never argued before the incident at the Channel Tunnel. But now, on bad days, when Johnny was in too much pain and Simon too frayed, tension would spark and light into flame. Ultimately they were former soldiers and fierce words, aggravated outbursts came naturally.
Sometimes the heated words would morph into the heated press of skin on skin, slick bodies and open mouthed kisses as they fought for control. Captured moans as their bodies sought purchase and rutted into each other.
Other times, like today, it would end in the gentle but firm closing of a door. Silent retreat as they distanced themselves. In the quiet of the after, where harsh words were mentally rehashed and their tempers reigned in— Johnny's a storm clearing, Simon's receding tides— the unspoken apologies as they met each other's eyes again, a silent covenant to try and do better.
Johnny was waiting.
The blond eased next to his sleeping form. Even asleep in their bed large enough to fit two well built men, his face was scrunched up in pain. Gently, Simon reaches out and smooths the furrow of his brow, powder- blue eyes opening hazily and meeting his. Then Johnny cracked a smile, leaning into Simon's touch.
"Ello' there. Been waitin'." He murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
Simon's answering chuckle reverberates through both of them "Hi." His chilled, calloused hands card through Johnny's hair. "Feelin' better?"
The hum he receives in response fills him with a quiet sort of relief. Johnny looked more serene now, with that light smile on his face. The last time he looked this peaceful was almost two weeks ago— talking to the pretty little thing at his counsellor's. Johnny had seemed to brighten in their presence, had even mentioned the interaction to the shrink jovially. It was the first time he'd had a proper conversation with a stranger since his brain injury. Simon nursed his pang of regret at cutting off the conversation so abruptly, but he had seen the reticence in Johnny's eyes and had felt his hackles rise, the need to protect so desperate—
The smaller man shifted next to him, voice muffled against the pillow "S'good of ye to run away everytime we have a row. Big of ye." His eyes sparkled with teasing.
Simon huffed, hands roaming against Johnny's skin as he pulls him to his chest, tucking his chin into the crook of Johnny's neck. Simon casually gestures at the shorter man's leg—it had to be augmented with metal bolts after the incident. Johnny could walk, but excess running would trigger his sensitive nerve endings. Simon's breath was warm against Johnny's ears as he spoke.
"Not like you could be the one running, ey, luv'?"
And then his head was being shoved into the pillow, Johnny laughing breathlessly. His arms were full of exasperated Scot as they both guffawed madly, the tension from that morning dissipating.
Later, when Johnny had drifted off again, Simon turned to tap at his phone and confirm their Thursday therapy slot. Unbidden, his thoughts drift to you. To how, inexplicably, you had managed to get Johnny to smile. He selects the same slot they got two weeks ago, hoping maybe it might mean running into you again. Seeing Johnny smile more. Then, his attention turns back to the sleeping Scot beside him.
Johnny was waiting, but he was never truly alone. He would always carry a piece of Simon with him.
Summary: A therapist's waiting room wasn't exactly the place to have the most engrossing conversations. People were usually jittery, tense, or straight-up despondent. Somehow, you manage to strike a strange sort of connection with the retired military couple that had the Thursday slot just after you anyway.
Trigger Warning: Angsty. Discussions of Soap's injuries, the reader has mental health struggles and everyone has communication difficulties to some degree.
A/N: Comments, questions, requests and constructive criticisms are welcome. Hate is boring and will go unacknowledged.
_
Maybe therapy wasn't for you.
Baring your soul to a total stranger and unearthing your life to be scrutinised by somebody. Then having that somebody turn around and drop you as a client because you were 'beyond their scope' and recommending you to someone else. It left an acrid sort of burn at the back of your throat as you settled into the sofa in the cheery waiting room of your hastily found counsellor.
Tick.
The leather underneath your fingers was squeaky. Static-y. The kind of leather where the grooves of the well-worn parts of the couch were buttery smooth and a slightly darker shade of black until it reached the bits that weren't quite as worn.
Tock.
The sound of papers shuffling and a low voice calling out a name drew your attention. It wasn't yours. Wordlessly, you watched a woman to your left stand up. The rubber of her cane cracked across the linoleum as she she signed her name on to the clip board at the desk, murmured her greetings to the therapist and made her way inside, the door shutting with a soft click.
Tick.
St. Jude-Thaddeus Hospital's Rehabilitation and Pain Management Clinic had the honour of being the only facility of any sort in your area that offered psycotherapy services. Affordable ones, anyway. Something to do with being integrated into the Ministry of Defense Hospital Units for disabled veterans- but you didn't need to know, so you didn't ask.
You'd take what you could get.
Tock.
You glance up at the clock once more, seeing that you were now close to 10 minutes to your first ever appointment with this therapist. A part of you wanted to fast forward the next 40 minutes of your day. Maybe the next few hours. Get to the point where your obligations were done and the first meeting was over and done with.
Tick.
When the door opens next, you don't look up this time. You try to contain the shake of your hands and focus on that squeaky leather underneath you. The thumps of footsteps don't register before the slight sink of the couch does. When you glance up, it is to the bluest eyes you could imagine.
He was handsome, a part of your brain helpfully informed you. Dark eyelashes framing a sort of azure blue, shards of indigo flecked about like sleet in the rain. His tanned skin had that slight leatheriness that could only come from working under the sun, the hand jutted out towards you littered with callouses-
"-hnny MacTavish, haven't seen you round here before."
Your hand moves mechanically to accept his handshake, mouth producing syllables you knew was supposed to be your name.
Realising the beat of conversation had stretched on longer than it should and it was now your turn to fulfill your part of the social contract that the stranger had looped you into, you broke eye contact and glanced back down at the worn linoleum.
"It's my first time."
There was a snort to the other side of you, from a bulky man sat diagonally from the line of chairs you and Johnny were sat in.
You quickly ammend your statement "-with this therapist. Just moved in."
His bulk seemed to carve away the space of the room, hulking shoulders leading to a thickly corded neck, lower face covered in a black face mask and his eyes a thin ring of deep ocean blue. What little skin you could see of his face looked sallow. Drained.
"Ignore tha' git. Insists on tagging along with me like I'm a wee wain and wreaks havoc of all sorts." The voice from your left supplied as you quickly began reassessing the relationship between the two strangers you found yourself in the middle of.
"You two know each other?"
There was a rumble to your left, a deep bass-y sound you realised was laughter. "Could say that, ma'am. "
"My partner," Johnny supplied, eyeroll evident in his voice as you turned to look at him once more. It was a little overwhelming having to keep turning your head to and fro because of the way the chairs were positioned, and your fingers dug into the leather once more.
Slippery, smooth. Pebbled with some long indentations.
"That's Simon. We've been at this shrink for give or take four months now-"
"Fifteen weeks."
"*-would'a noticed a bonnie lass like you on our weekly, enlightening visits." His quip was cheery, but there was an element of sarcasm you couldn't quite place.
This conversation felt like navigating a field full of landmines. Couldn't ask about his condition, why the weekly visits rather than the gold standard (That is, the national healthcare coverage) of every two weeks, why fifteen weeks- so you asked the only thing you felt you could.
"She any good? The counselor, I mean."
Johnny blinked, head tilting and making eye contact with his partner - Simon - there was a flash of something twisting across his face as the wordless conversation happened in a split second.
It was fascinating. The sort of communication that only happened when two people had an intimate well of knowledge of the other person.
Then dawn broke across Johnny's face and he turned back to you with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Aye, lass. Not afraid to crack into your brain and really dig around. Well good laugh too, great to interact with given I've really only spoken to four people or so since I retired an' all."
You tried not to read between the lines. Tried not to stare at the way he leaned back to rub at the jagged line across his scalp, the puckered edges evident under the peach fuzz of dark hair. He was giving you what he could without dragging a stranger into his own vortex of struggles. You could relate.
"Retired? From military service?"
Regret looked different on people's faces. For some, there was a grimace. Maybe a slight widening of the eyes in realisation, or a hitch in their breath. Self-reproach for bringing it up in the first place. For Johnny, it appeared to be a slight furrowing of his brows and a darkening of his sky blue eyes as he edged backwards.
A cough and the scraping of the chair behind you drew your attention, looking to your right to meet the cold stare of the blond. Briefly, you felt like a cornered animal. Your hands grew still. His gaze was assessing, stony face giving nothing away except the overwhelming vibe of back the fuck off. His eyes flicked over your shoulder and then back to yours.
"Sounds like they're finishing up in there. You should sign in."
It appeared you had clambered out of the field of land mines only to immediately fall into a sinkhole.
Stuttering your goodbyes, you make to stand up, making the same trek the young lady had towards the desk. You fought to control the tremors of your hands. One stayed tucked deeply in a pocket as the other wrote your name down through sheer muscle memory. Sure enough, the door opened and the woman walked out with her mobility aid, a cheery voice calling out your name from inside.
As your shaky palm took hold of the doorknob to twist it so you could enter the room, you caught snippets of the conversation happening behind you.
"Bothering you-"
"-Ost, It would have been fine-"
"Your hands were shaking again-"
"Ach- I had it under control!"
"You don't owe strangers anything. Not after everything you've-"
"Please- I just- I need to have a feckin' conversation about it without breaking down-"
The door shut with a click.
As you sat down in front of your new therapist, you resolved to try and move your appointments to a different day.
Uncommon Simon Ghost Riley (mostly for OG than Reboot) Headcanons that I find realistic.
1. Social Anxiety and Communication Issues. Simon finds it difficult to communicate with people outside his field of work, especially women. He doesn't have much experience with them and he is afraid to be perceived as a freak. However, women are usually afraid of him, sometimes curious, but keep away, feeling this sense of uneasiness, awkwardness around him. It is simply because he doesn't know how to be a so called normal person. Nothing about him is quite normal. Military has always been a significant part of his life, of him entirely. He doesn't know what to talk about or even finds civilian life boring. Every time he is on a shore leave he feels like an outsider among the locals. He keeps to himself to save himself from a conflict or an embarrassment. But if he gets comfortable enough around someone, he can be perceived as a very interesting and intelligent person. Simon usually gets rid of this anxiety by drinking. A little bit of alcohol percentage really makes him a normal person.
2. Soldier intuition and reflexes. It helps him a lot and sometimes... It causes trouble. Intuition sure saves his life in tricky situations and also this same intuition makes him read the signs wrong and cause a misunderstanding, a fight or a conflict, especially around civilians. Let's say, he casually activates his fight or flight response. Not always, of course, but there are some instances that make his life a lot harder than it has to be.
3. Adrenaline addiction. He is very paranoid. Always ready for a fight. Maybe even looking for it, looking for trouble. Civilian life indeed is boring for him for this lack of adrenaline release, so sometimes he intentionally escalates situation to let out some steam, despite being a very calm person by nature. (IDK maybe that's why he still lives in Manchester, there's always trouble).
4. PTSD. Yes, he suffers from it. Especially after Brazil and Rojas. He's been tortured psychologically, physically. Beaten up, raped, buried alive with a corpse. And he fucking survived. It didn't make him stronger, it broke him. It killed something that doesn't let him step away now. This very mission has branded him, cursed him to go on and never lay down his weapon. There's no way back from battlefield for him. He has nightmares, but tries to cope with them. Most of the time he is to tired to have a very emotional reaction to such dreams. And he wears himself down to have a dreamless sleep.
5. He knows a bit of Spanish and Portuguese. And he understands when locals speak these languages, he can read and easily communicate, but he prefers to not show off this skill too much, this is a tactical decision. The less enemy knows about you, the less they're expecting.
6. Detachment from him face. He almost forgot how he looks like in the mirror, he barely looks in it. When he thinks about his face, he mostly thinks about his mask. It's a part of him now, like an another layer of skin. The skull pattern on it is an echo from the masquerade paint he had on his face during Los Muertos. He metaphorically died back there in Brazil, died in the hands of his torturers. He is shell of a man he used to be. He is Ghost now. Phantasma.
When he has to take it off, especially in civilian environment, he feels naked, unsafe. Like if he is stripped of something that makes him who he is. It's almost an equivalent for a regular person to put on a mask and hide their face. The mask IS Simon's face.
7. Emotional spectre and control of them. He has a hard time processing and understanding his emotions sometimes. He reads anger well. Despair, too. They're common. But others, more complex states are a mystery to him. Cause-and-effect relationships of his own mind are troubling time to time. He well knows what can trigger him. And when Simon understands what's bothering him, he can develop means to control it.
The struggle to read himself, however, does not affect his ability to read others, especially the enemies. He can predict what they're about to do, how they're going to react.
In the outside, he tries not to show much, but his voice reveals his emotions in critical moments: the screams, the stutter, the growl.
8. Need for affection. Like any other human being he needs attention, care, words of affirmation. He lacks it in his life. Yeah, he is on a good terms with his team, he is stoic and self-contained, but deep inside he is needy. Physical touch, emotional connection, romantic love.. he aches for it. But his logical side clearly understands that he is impossible to love. He is a troubled man. Wrecked. No ine would ever want him in their life. A burden. Loving someone like him is a death sentence. So, there's this emptiness within him.
His perfect match would be someone "normal", mature and understanding. By saying "understanding" I don't mean just being able to accept him as he is, but someone having a similar experience in life, someone, who knows how to cope with trauma. And this significant other shouldn't be a "crutch" for Simon, because in my opinion such relationship wouldn't last long. It's not about fixing him, but about showing him that things can be different if he finds other means to cope with his demons than just restlessly fighting. He has to make a choice: to keep himself in that vicious bloody cycle or finally step up and take another challenge. I don't think he can actually change, but he definitely can make it work if someone believes in him.
Yes, he can hire a prostitute and let out some tension, but he will feel terrible afterwards. If, of course, he will actually be able to get intimate at all, by setting aside all the anxiety, fear and hate he has for himself . It's easier to take care of himself on his own.
Talking about sexuality. As I mentioned, he is not very experienced and he gets intimate rarely, so at first he doesn't last long at all. He can be a bit awkward, but he is never rough, since he has enough violence in his life and for him the act of making love is about tenderness. He would never want to harm or hurt his partner in any way. He is usually quiet in bed, but can be very audible from time to time when he simply cannot control himself.
Somebody stop me from writing this Fae!COD AU that's been nomming at my mind like bodybuilders chug protein shakes because that one fae tumblr blurb has been pinballing around in there.
It would go like this:
Ghost: Human- lovely creature that you are, dry these tears that mar your pretty face. Our pact we have made, the moonlight will carry your wish and mote it be - just remember you must give your firstborn to me.
(Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader Slowburn/Sort of Enemies to Friends to Lovers)
°°°°°
Summary: Task Force 141 is assigned a new member to deal with Makarov for good. Highly-skilled, brutally efficient and devastatingly competent, Ghost has met his match - and finds himself at odds with the SAS Fraternization Regulations as getting to know you makes him re-evaluate a life he never thought to allow himself.
"We've not gotten much out of the drive m' afraid. We've got cyber forensics and analysts going over the files - far as Makarov's movements, we've got nothin' of note."
The briefing room's atmosphere was a degree short of despair. Papers strewn about, stale cups of coffee and tea haphazardly pushed to the side as Laswell's Toughbook blinked to life, showing the results of the hard won drive the 141 had retrieved a couple of days prior.
Ghost had opted to stand during the meeting, taking up his usual spot with a full view of the room. Most of the team had elected to sit around the metal tables, the briefing now on its third hour - not quite as brief as one would hope, he thought.
He watched Gaz lean back into a stretch, arms opening wide and settling at the back of your chair. You glanced up at the sergeant briefly before turning back to the neatly stacked piles of documents in front of you, poring over the mind-numbing reports and occasionally making notes.
Your integration into the group - Johnny and Gaz, anyway - had not been seamless from his observations, but the sergeants had been as open as could reasonably be expected from their personalities, and you seemed to be reciprocating - or trying to, anyway.
"Ach - not even in the emails? Employee profiles?"
Johnny piped up, unable to hide the annoyance that darkened his features. Ghost had noticed the Scot had been mellower in recent months. Maybe even years - ever since Zakhaev, at least - the burden of their profession was a continuous wear and tear on the mind and soul for those who hadn't locked away parts of themselves like he had. Like his boots, gloves, tactical vests, the work pushed and pulled at soldiers, clawing and scratching till it had to be replaced, patched up, or discarded.
Conveniently, Ghost mused, replaced, patched up, or discarded were the same three fates most soldiers stumbled into.
Johnny knew what this job meant, had experienced it firsthand, and still continued to shoulder the responsibilities. Ghost was intimately familiar with the drive to push through and respected that need - even if it meant watching a part of his comrade wither away.
Laswell sighed, rubbing her temples as she looked up from her computer to meet Johnny's eyes.
"All legitimate, tracing back to businesses or third party contractors."
"All fer nothin' then, was it?"
Price, who had opted to stand as well with his arms crossed, chose this moment to speak up.
"It's hard to imagine the ultranationalists just went and gave up after Zakhaev's death."
At this, Soap leaned back a bit, shifting his whole attention on to price. Ghost remembered reading the reports, how shattered Soap had been over Zakhaev when he got back from S.A.S. recon in Mexico.
"We know Makarov is well trained in counterinsurgency from his time in Airborne and the Spetznaz, but there must be a link somewhere - you don't move weapons and people on the scale he does without having some kind of paper trail."
You chose this moment to speak up, hand still carefully taking down notes as you pored over the files in front of you.
"You mentioned contractors. May we have a list?"
Laswell glanced up at surprise at you before switching to a different tab. It was true that you hadn't been particularly vocal in your time at the base, keeping your distance from most of the upper brass.
"Gutter cleaners, vehicle upkeep, insurance inspections, air conditioning installation, occupational health and safety reviews, catering-"
He watched you smile, that was that same wry smirk, the same twist of the lips that pulled at your face and made your eyes quirk in such a way that-
He jerked his head to the side, keeping his eyes trained on Laswell's computer.
"Couldn't imagine air conditioning would be on my list of priorities, in a winter desert."
Wordlessly, Laswell pulled her laptop closer to her, instantly beginning to pore over the emails sent by the air conditioning company. Price and Johnny shared a look when Laswell made a hum of approval.
"Seems this company uses a really simple order form template, copy and pasted- not really something you'd expect of a company taking orders at this volume."
Gaz reached over, leaning over the table to point at the screen.
"Subject: Notice of equipment upgrade. In our ongoing efforts to enhance the performance of our air-conditioning units, Our technicians will be overseeing the delivery and installation of a package containing the latest components aimed at optimizing energy efficiency. Your cooperation during this upgrade process is greatly appreciated."
He whistled, leaning back in his chair. "They've 'upgraded' their air-conditioning 11 times in the past 4 months.'
You didn't even acknowledge the discovery, still buried in the files. It strangely grated at him, this nonchalance of yours- but surely it was better than the callous sort of arrogance many soldiers at your level possessed? He respected good soldiers, especially those fighting alongside him. But you... there was something different about you.
He was aware of the glaring hypocrisy, to question someone's integrity because of the walls they put up when he himself wore a mask to distance himself from who he was outside of the battlefield.
But you wore a different kind of mask.
He had noticed, during brief moments where your professionalism didn't so much crack as it distended- like a rubber band warping after being pulled apart too strong. There was a smouldering fire beneath the glacial shell of duty you wore. It flickered sometimes, a molten glint in your eyes or a wry quirk of your lips, hinting at a real live breathing person within.
That ferocity had sparked your first clash in the mountains, tangled limbs and shared breaths in thin air, his gaze tracing the map of your face as he tried to determine your motives, whether or not he could trust you. Then there was the hangar, your quiet confidence grating against his need for control. An unlikely pair, yet you'd executed the mission flawlessly. Rolled with the punches and gotten through it all.
Though his face betrayed nothing, his mind buzzed with thoughts as he went over your latest interactions - outrage at your audacity, annoyance at your nonchalance, and a strange reluctance to let go of the distruption you caused, one he wouldn't- couldn't, try to understand the root of.
Beyond it all, he had to admit, was a begrudging sort of respect.
"8 payments have been made this quarter alone to the HVAC company - all worth tens of thousands."
"Drip feedin' Makarov's extra curriculars I take it- any ID on the company behind it Laswell?"
"Northwest of the Caucausus mountains. I'll clear it through Shepherd."
He saw your lips quirk down into a frown at Laswell's words, clearly unhappy about something. He tore his eyes away, accidentally locking gazes with Price, who tossed a raised his eyebrow his way. He maintained eye contact, unwilling to look away first and crossing his arms when Price shook his head and muttered something under his breath.
"We should-" it was the first time he'd ever heard you sound even the tiniest bit hesitant. "We should look into Makarov's known contacts. See who's benefitting from his actions that may be flying under the radar. All of them, even known hostile connections."
There was an implication to your words that Ghost didn't like, and he voiced it.
"Looks like we're already drownin' in information and more questions than answers. Want to send us on a wild goose chase when we don't even know if there's a goose to chase, do ya?"
He could see your jaw tense the tiniest bit as you turned to him, eyes hard.
"All I'm saying is that - paramilitary operations do not function in a vacuum, sir. Terrorist attacks require weapons, and those weapons require logistics to distribute, processing, manufacturing - everything does. The fact that we've run into nothing might suggest we're being walled off from information by design."
There was it- that spark, like flint and steel crashing together. He approached the table, placing both hands on it as he lowered himself to look at you directly in the eyes. When he spoke, his voice was rough, taking on a gravelly quality.
"We've been working on this for years and you've been here a month- if you could focus on your job instead of speculating on facts that aren't there maybe you could actually get the job you were assigned to do done, sergeant."
"Yes, sir." You gritted out, lips thinning. He could see in the tenseness of your shoulders that had he not been your superior this discussion would have been more drawn out.
But your words were beyond inflammatory - they were dangerous and put into question the very foundation of the chain of command that the operation was centered on. You would have to learn that these were thoughts best kept to yourself - it was clear to him that you lacked experience and maybe even the humility that came from working with teammates.
Relaxing his shoulders, he turned to regard the group, realizing that several pairs of eyes were now glancing between you and him with varying levels of confusion and surprise. Laswell, closing her laptop with a neat click, spoke first.
"I think we got it. This corporation has two locations- we'll do some recon and get a plan going, try and positively ID any key people. Great catch, Azrael. I sense this is something big."
You shifted the tiniest bit, simply nodding in response. He hadn't seen you handle direct compliments very well - the military did acknowledgements at most.
You remained quiet for the rest if the briefing and the dismissal after, studiously going over old files, not meeting his eyes again.
"LT! I think we need ourselves a little celebration to welcome our little Sherlock here, aye?"
You mumbled a bit, shuffling as the Scotsman draped an arm over you and patted your arm.
"Just identified an anomaly in the information- is all-"
"None of that now, gawn yerself! We got an ol' teammate comin' with us, Roach, I reckon you'll like 'im."
"I think it would really help your case if you could speak English, McTavish." Ghost remarked, dryly. He had been ready to leave and stretch his legs after leaning up against cold concrete for closing in on 4 hours.
"Alright- not sure about drinking, with the mission coming up soon, but I'll go."
"Ach pure brilliant, so it is. Gaz! You're drivin'! No fun juice for you m'fraid."
There was a groan from inside the communal area, then a smattering of mutters of which if Ghost were a betting man, he'd say could give any sailor a run for their money.
"What d'ya say LT?" He turned back to two sets of eyes, yours a strained sort of amusement, before he leaned back and rested his hands on the straps of his vest.
"Fuckin' hell. You're buyin', Johnny."
There was outraged sputtering, so Scottish it was indecipherable, before he turned to leave. His eyes locked with yours for a split second, assessing. Then he broke connection and made his way back to his barracks, his mind lingering.
He wondered what you were like away from it all.
Away from Azrael.
You seemed like more of a person than he allowed himself to be - but that remained to be seen.
Tonight, the echoes of questions would be drowned at the bottom of a bottle.
°°°°°
Translation for the Soapese:
Gawn yerself: Go on yourself (You're doing really good)
Simon is not a lazy man, not in any sense of the word. He works by a strict schedule, a perfected routine. Everything is clean, neat, and where it should be, no empty coffee mugs left by the couch, no plates on the dining table. His one and only alarm set for 6 AM every morning where it rings out into a pristine and empty bedroom. He never saw the point in decorating and when asked by Johnny, he would reply that " 'm not even here half the time, there's nobody to see it".
That was until he met you. Slowly, small colourful things made their way into his home. It started with a light yellow coffee mug that sat in the cabinet, a contrast to his plain white one. Next came your toothbrush that stood with his, one of your jackets on the hook by his door, your keys on the kitchen table and your shoes discarded by his. He tried not to pay any mind to it as you slowly made his home yours, wordlessly cleaning out one of his drawers for you.
Over the years, you managed to bring colour back to his life, not realising how bleak it was until you came along. His 6 AM alarm is discarded now, instead opting to wake up with you wrapped in his arms, bodies pressed together and breathing slow as the sun creeps into the room through the window. He sacrifices the routine and order that once ruled his life, preferring to wordlessly begin his days with you, hand holding yours as you sit together and drink your tea on your couch. He watches you, studies you as you flit around when you have to get ready or go somewhere, the way you sing to yourself as you cook, the way you stretch out and lay on the rug by the window on sunny days, reminding him of a cat. It's safe to say that he didn't realise what he was missing before you. You have slowly coaxed him out of the prison of a life he used to live, opening him up and making him realise he is worthy of all the love that he is given. You helped him feel needed. You helped him feel wanted. You gave him a purpose. You helped him be someone.
You and your kindness, your empathy. Your ever-forgiving heart, overflowing with love. Love for him, love for the two of you, love for your friends, for your family, for strangers on the street. Love for the world.
Thats why he knows you will be okay when his captain turns up at your door, holding his uniform and his mask, dog tags placed neatly on top. When you are handed a bouquet of white tulips by Johnny per his request, the flowers he brought you on your first date. When he's no longer around to hold your hand in the morning or brush your hair before bed, he knows you will be okay.
As he lays there, cold and still on the concrete, bleeding out, he's not worried. He knows you will be okay without him, the wedding bands that adorn the both of your ring fingers a constant reminder that you will never be alone. He knows that you will look for him in the sunrise, just as he told you to. He knows you will pull the pieces of yourself back together and he knows you will live for him.
As he takes his last breath, he finds comfort in the fact that he knows he will always be a part of you, your souls intertwined forever.
(Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader/ Slowburn/Sort of Enemies to Friends to Lovers)
°°°°°
Summary/Notes: Task Force 141 is assigned a new member to deal with Makarov for good. Highly-skilled, brutally efficient and devastatingly competent, Ghost has met his match - and finds himself at odds with the SAS Fraternization Regulations as getting to know you makes him re-evaluate a life he never thought to allow himself.
°°°°°
Chapter One
Introduction 1
@beansproutmafia @chinuneko @agustdpeach
Click.
Ghost watched you methodically assemble your rifle, noting how deliberate each movement was. You worked smoothly - barrel into receiver, scope in place, alignment done perfectly. He met your eyes as you surveyed the area, sliding in casings into the magazine with focused intensity.
Not sparing him another glance, you turned to look into your scope, securing the perimeter. Out on the craggy cliff face of the unforgivingly frigid Ural mountains, escape would not be easy. The only thing keeping you from being spotted was the taiga camouflage you wore and the relative cover of the copse of rocks you had climbed on to next to the lieutenant, chest pressed flat on to the rough ground as you settled yourself into a prone position.
"Alpha Two, in position and operational."
Your voice was clear through the coms, unhampered by the face coverings you wore even as your warm breath created soft puffs of vapour, swirling lazily into the air.
Next to you, Riley shifted, your sides touching as he took a final look over the perimeter and inconspicuously - attempting to, anyway - looked over your rifle to see your handiwork.
"Alpha Actual, in position and operational."
His voice reverberated through the rock you had both deemed fit to survey the target location - A laboratory nestled in a valley in the Ural mountains that served as a logistics facility for Makarov, protected by the mercenaries he hired.
Twin voices rang out, and then there was a silence, a chasm between you and the lieutenant.
You did nothing to break it, comfortable in the stillness of the break of dawn, even as the lieutenant continued to sneak assessing looks at you.
Though your file spoke for itself, experience and skills clearly laid out for the entire team to peruse in black - admittedly mostly redacted - ink, it was another thing entirely to trust a new teammate to watch your back.
Station Chief Laswell had attempted to soothe the situation, utilizing lots of what you recognized to be CIA mediation training to make the mission seem like less of what it was.
But the message was clear to you immediately upon receiving team assignments.
Ghost was babysitting you.
It didn't matter, you decided. You were the unknown variable in a well-oiled machine that had been training together for months. A factor that could put the team at risk so long as they didn't know - or trust - you.
Acceptance would come. Or it wouldn't - you rarely found the kind of stability needed to forge lasting relationships in this lifestyle.
Hunching your shoulders as the wind picked up, you meticulously cleared each area of your assigned quadrant, catching sight of Sergeant McTavish as he came into the view of your scope on the southernmost side of the compound.
Sergeant McTavish - Soap, as he had insisted you called him - had given you the warmest reception by far. He had taken one look at you during introductions and had been not just welcoming but outright friendly, giving you a wide smile and offering to take you on a tour of the team's home base.
You watched as Soap glanced behind him, jerking his head in the direction of the building closest to him as another hooded figure sidled up by his side - Sergeant Garrick.
Sergeant Garrick did not have quite the same warmness as Soap, but his wary smile had seemed genuine, facial muscles pulling up in such a way that your deeply ingrained intelligence training had told you was free of deception. He had offered to spar, and said that he'd give you a lay of the land outside the base upon return from this mission.
That's about where any sense of welcome started and ended with the team, Laswell and Captain Price had kept you at arms length, a clipped sort of professionalism. Lieutenant Riley was an apathetic sort of distance, and you had the sense that he was on the look out for any of your weaknesses and would no doubt be more than glad to pull out the Personnel Transfer Forms in his desk that had barely ever seen the light of day if you failed to live up to expectations.
You kept your breathing low and steady, the high elevations making the air feel thin. Next to you, you felt the lieutenant shift.
"Our directive mandates recon and reaction only, no active engagement."
His eyes on you felt like an itching in the back of your throat, easy enough to ignore but always at the back of your mind.
"Yes, sir." You affirmed, laser focused on clearing the western perimeter of the compound. "I was there when the instructions were given."
There was a pregnant pause where you continued constant surveillance, not even looking up as in your peripheral vision the blazing nothingness of freshly fallen snow was obscured by the bone white of your lieutenant's skull mask.
"I could do without your attitude, sergean-"
He had leaned in close enough to you that you were able to reach behind him to his nape and pull him in your direction, sandwiching yourself between his bulky body and the rough stone below. Before he could pull away, you tightened your grip on his coat, indicating with your free hand to remain low on the ground.
It had been subtle, well hidden, but the glint of a sniper scope aimed in your general direction had you reacting immediately.
Slightly winded from the lieutenant's weight on you, you reached up and clicked on your coms link.
"Captain, Alpha Two reporting. Hostile sniper positively ID'ed in area of operations. Westernmost building, clear line of sight of Bravo Team. Requesting green light for engagement."
You began to relax your arm but were quickly pinned to place by a hefty elbow as Ghost grabbed you by the collar of your coat, growling into your ear.
"Alpha Two heard. Confirm, Alpha Actual?"
Price's voice rang out of the coms, to no response.
Ghost snarled at you, placing his other hand next to your head, effectively locking you into place.
"Fuckin' hell sergeant, never heard of an anti reflect? Nine times out of ten a sniper has a sunshade o-"
"East facing window on furthest building, two windows down from the top floor. Sunshades work by blocking out light reflections but only with direct sunlight. The snow is freshly fallen and we're south- they hadn't accounted for the reflection of the sun onto the snowbank behind us. Nobody would expect hostiles on a blank cliff face-"
He grunted, keeping his eyes trained on you even as he reached over to look into your scope, bodies still pressed tightly together.
"Alpha Actual, positive ID'ed hostile? Over"
The captain's message once again went unanswered.
You shifted your legs a little, freezing when his thighs squeezed your sides in warning as he surveyed the westernmost building, the brutalist architecture starker in the snow.
You spoke in low tones, trying to get him to see your point. The low oxygen environment forced you to conserve your time spent talking.
"They're deeper into the building and have partial cover because of the drainage. They'd have direct line of fire on Sergeant Garrick and Sergeant McTavish. It'd be like shooting fish in a barrel."
"Alpha Actual, do you copy? Ghos-"
He huffed, the movement reverberating through you as he eased away from his position on top of you, falling into a low crouch behind the rock.
"Captain, hostile sniper ID'ed. West building, two windows from top. Clear line of sight on Bravo. Over."
There was another tense pause as the coms line grew silent, you taking the opportunity to roll over on to your stomach and keep watch on Soap and Garrick's position.
"Copy, Alpha Actual. Alpha Two, request to engage approved- Alpha Actual and Bravo Squad, maintain position."
"Copy, Alpha Two moving to position."
You wasted no time, disassembling your rifle in seconds, taking care not to let the snow into any openings as you turned to face your lieutenant and gave him a perfunctory nod, not waiting for his response as you left the relative safety of the rock formation.
The trek to the Southeast of the valley was arduous, the oxygen thin and the paths non-existent in the freshly fallen snow. Your lungs took in searingly cold air and your vision started to blur as the whiteness of the snow began to bleed into each other, the visor you wore being the only thing that kept you from snow blindness. Sometimes it became necessary to crawl on your hands and knees in the areas that were particularly visible to the valley down below. You did your best to keep your deep breaths from drowning out the coms, hearing Garrick and Mctavish's confirmation of identifying the sniper and entering an obscured alcove.
As you reached a copse of rocks that had the Western building in sight, you took off the gloves which the jagged rocks you had crawled on had embedded into and immediately began assembling your rifle, the familiarity of the metal body a comfort even in the frigid air.
You breathed in, then exhaled, before focusing on identifying the hostile sniper in front of you.
As your eyes began to adjust to the darkness of the empty room, a figure began to form, carved out of the inky blackness, partially hidden behind a mounted rifle.
The outside world stuttered to a stop. There was your breathing, low and calm. There was the enemy, looking up from their scope. There was your finger on the trigger, and then there was the the enemy's body jerking back, a bullet between his eyes as he slumped against the wall.
You waited.
You kept the corpse in sight of the crosshair, making sure the enemy's radio was within sight of you at all times.
Because if there was a sniper, then there would be a spotter, and it would just be a matter of who was more patient.
There was a flurry of movement as another person emerged out of the darkness and ran to their previous partners radio, stopping abruptly and collapsing as the insides of their skull became acquainted with the wall behind them.
You kept your eyes trained on Soap and Garrick. You ensured they avoided engaging with the enemy, removing obstacles from their path before it could become a problem. Through the coms, you led them to the intelligence building and then back out, until they had successfully left the compound with Makarov's data in hand.
It was a perfect mission, and you could see by the pleased set of Garrick's shoulders, the twitch of Price' lips and the glint of Soap's eyes that the team really, really needed this win.
Evidently, not everyone was pleased with your performance.
Being the last one out of the chopper before debrief, you felt a hand on your shoulder, tugging you back until that familiar skull mask was in your vision once more.
"Liuetenant." You inclined your head, unsure of what he wanted.
"I don't like your attitude, sergeant."
"I don't need you to like me, sir. "
He remained silent, eyes boring into your own.
You regarded him, standing under the bright lights of the air hangar, mask and snow clothing so bright it almost made it hard to look at him. So you continued on.
"All I need is for you to know that on the field, I have your back."
Your lips quirked up as you managed a relaxed salute, muttering a 'sir' as you went to enter the debriefing room and began giving your report when everyone had gathered.
There was not a shred of doubt in your mind that the skull mask was trained on you the entire time.
Summary/Notes: Task Force 141 is assigned a new member to deal with Makarov for good. Highly-skilled, brutally efficient and devastatingly competent, Ghost has met his match - and finds himself at odds with the SAS Fraternization Regulations as getting to know you makes him re-evaluate a life he never thought to allow himself.
°°°°°
They called you Azrael.
It was unusual for a callsign - monickers usually earned through affectionate mockery and hard earned camaraderie between brothers and sisters in the force, jeered at parties celebrating hard fought battles.
Yours was different - earned through gritted teeth and steady hands, tenacious hours spent hidden under the cover of night and through glacial apathy as you worked your way through the bodies of your enemies. Hacking, slashing, an army manifested in human form as brutal efficiency carried you further and further up the ranks.
You were the shadow of death, and you went where you were directed.
You wasted no time between getting to the base and through to the location in your instructions. As your thick soled combat boots came to a stop in front of heavy blast resistant metal doors, the low muttering inside came into sharper focus, garbled words sharpening into sentences and names of people and places you had vague awareness of.
"It'll be a cold day in hell before 141 takes your charity hand-outs, Laswell."
"All due respect, John, Makarov's so far ahead of us, you- we, need all the help we can get. Back up is already en route-"
A huff, then a humourless chuckle-
"CIA sanctioned back up, this Azrael of yours-"
"CIA cleared back up, more like- they're on.. loan, so to speak, from MI6."
"On 'loan?' You're asking me to trust the lives of my men on-"
You inclined your head, just in time to see a large figure coming to a stop at the end of the long hallway, mask a stark white against the dim lighting. His footsteps were silent, you noted, maintaining only a split second of eye contact with the inky darkness of the holes in his mask - a skull, you realised- before breaking eye contact and knocking thrice on the door, the loud raps hushing the voices inside.
"Enter!"
You swiftly entered and announced your rank and surname, steadfastly ignoring the soldier at the end of the corridor, who hadn't moved an inch.
"Reporting for duty, ma'am, sir!" You saluted, back ramrod straight and tone unreadable as you regarded the two people in front of you, knowing you were being visually picked apart and assessed by your two superiors.
The blonde spoke first, tone light and professional even as her lips smiled tightly at you, the bearded man behind her crossing his arms.
"Ah- sergeant. I'm glad you could come on such short notice.Welcome to Task Force 141."
