Ghost's finger twitches over the trigger. Breath leaves his lungs, steadying the crosshair over the head of the man. A few muscles tense up, the trigger passes the 6 pound pressure wall and the bullet is loose. A body collapses on the roof, the remains of his personality fall around him in chunks of brain matter. Suppressors only do so much, thankfully the general noise of the chemical plant gets rid of any other noise that might draw attention to him.
"Sergeant Major, be advised, one approaching from your left."
Gaz's voice is filtered through the comms, a calm breeze as always. She doesn't answer. Ghost's scope wanders to her last approximate position on a roof just below the one he just took out the guard. Her silhouette takes shape further down, hanging from a steel pipe by her hands and legs that connects two buildings, overhead of a corridor. Shadows swallow her with the light fixture just three feet below her. There's still no skip in his pulse as he takes in her figure, just like when there's none when Soap or any of the guys engage targets. Exactly how he told Price. Her presence in the field would change nothing. Adrenaline levels stay the same as he watches her close her legs around the pipe further, anchoring herself to it.
"I'll build yer a bloody shrine if you pull this off lass." comes Soap's voice through the comms, just about when she lets go, hanging upside down from the pipe to loop her arm around the poor sop's throat. Her form shakes with the man thrashing and clawing at her but she's relentless, only letting go when the body goes limp in her grip. A quick draw of her pistol takes care of the light fixture, bathing her and the unconscious man in shadows again. "Like a piece of fucking cake, ey?" Soap starts up again.
"Soap, shut up, fucking hell." she answers in a strained whisper, probably carrying the body to a more inconspicuous location.
A mechanical whirr makes Ghost look up from his scope, the drone Gaz pilots just a few yards down from him changing position.
"How's it looking Gaz?" Price inquiries. The drone rises high, scanning for heat signatures outside of the buildings.
"Looking clean Sir. We're good to go."
If anything, her proximity on missions serves to center Ghost. Clear his head out to focus on what's in front of him even more. They clean house before the mercenaries even know what hit them. A swath of acidic stench wafts around them while bodies drop like flies in the formerly abandoned chemical plant, now used to siphon dangerous explosive materials and corrosive chemicals from scrap.
"Gloss, give me a sitrep." Ghost requests after sweeping the area one more time, Price and Gaz following close behind him.
"All quiet over on our side Lieutenant. Think it's time we'll call in the cleanup crew."
It's hard to sus out who outranks who, but she made sure to tell Price that her rank was a mere formality, stating that her work with the NSA "thoroughly disconnected her from her identity as a commanding officer, all that remains on paper is that she retired as Sergeant Major'' and that was that. That doesn't prevent the definitefly lower ranking Soap from trying to test her every now and then, like he is now as they wait on the roof for exfil.
"So, when's the weddin' eh? Have ta be quick lass, Lt.'s usually not one for stickin' around."
His voice is hushed, knowing that if Ghost hears him he's probably in for a beating. The last weeks have shown that to not work though, so to Ghost's surprise, she goes with a different approach.
"Me neither, so we have that in common I guess. Ask him, maybe you'll be his best man Johnny." she answers back in a normal tone, knowing that Ghost is well within earshot of them.
Hair falls over her shoulders as she pulls off her balaclava, revealing smug features that revel in Soap's horror at her response. His mouth snaps shut, the response dying on his tongue when Ghost's gaze falls onto him. It irritates him more than anything, for both her and him. Soap means well, he always does, but Ghost is hurting when she shies away from every meager touch of his when they're on a mission in fear of wedging herself between something she shouldn't. No matter how many times Ghost told her that she's been with them for the better part of a year now, that nothing has changed in the field, but the wound that the NSA left by discharging her hasn't closed yet.
A stab in the chest forced him to sit down when she called him in tears, too wound up about losing her job and what she's going to do now to listen to any reason. Combine that with Ghost's extremely lackluster ability to distinguish between someone needing solutions or just comfort and the disaster was in full swing. His preemptive strike in the form of the text to Price proved their saving grace in the end. Although convincing him and Laswell to put her name on the payroll permanently was another can of worms that he doesn't like to think about.
Thankfully he doesn't have to. Blinking lights and the chopping noise of rotors on the horizon indicate that their express out of here is arriving.
"We have all the intel Laswell wanted, yeah?" Price gruffs out as they ascend. The back of the helicopter is gutted, forcing them to sit on the floor, heavy bodies thudding down with the exhaustion of the day coming over them.
"Yes Captain, already transmitted." Gloss absentmindedly answers, fussing over her leg holster. With all of her gear issued by the NSA and subsequently taken back by them, adjusting to an all new set of it has been a little obstacle she's had to navigate as well. Thank fuck her suit was custom made so the NSA had no use for it back, even with all the connections they all have, getting something even remotely close to it would've been an absolute nightmare. It also makes her ass look nice, but Ghost will swallow his tongue before telling her that while they're in the field.
"Solid fuckin' job today. All of you." Price says, letting his gaze sweep through the cabin pointedly.
Ghost's hand twitches with the urge to reach out, just swipe his palm across her thigh, a miniscule movement he could put so much meaning into.
Her look is knowing, time spent together aligning them, they're so in tune it scares him sometimes. Picking up on the smallest shifts within him before he does.
A compromise is all she offers, reaching out towards his cheek, well, the mask of bone, under the guise of dirt on it she wants to wipe off.
A low humming whistle echoes outside. The world falls off kilter, unimaginable heat engulfs Ghost, burns away all the oxygen in his lungs. The last he sees is her hand faltering before the sonic wave of the impact robs him of sight and hearing simultaneously. A sharp point digs into his back, the barrel of a rifle he deducts, probably Gaz's, he can't tell who the body under him is in the slurred mix of shouts and groans. Like a ragdoll he's flung around, until a wall stops his limp body. The impact is underlined by the crack of his ribs, he tastes iron and bile on his tongue, it's so overwhelming he wants to gag, sensations assault all of his senses to the point his nerves are frayed and exposed. Incomplete images flit across his retina while vertigo pulls him under. A scream to his left, or right? No, it's below him. When his brain computes the world spinning outside of the window of the cabin, it's too late. Gravity leaves him for a second before pain sears through his veins, the price for the world to stop spinning around him. He tethers on the edge of consciousness, warding off the darkness purely by sheer willpower.
Somewhere during their descent the doors slid open, sparing him from coming to rest in the burning corpse of the helicopter.
Protocol floods his body. There's a line of actions to be taken, ingrained so far into the fabric of his being that not even his reduced state of mind can forget them.
He tests his left leg. It moves. No major pain. Nothing's broken. Same with the right one. His arms follow. Half of his fingers on his left hand are broken, as is his wrist, jutting out at an angle they're not supposed to after his arm took the brunt of his fall. He felt his ribs crack before, but a deep breath confirms his lungs to be intact.
There's a shout. Price's baritone cuts through the air, what he's exactly saying is lost on Ghost. One, if not both of his eardrums are perfed. There's an answer from Soap further away from him. A turn of his head confirms his spine to be at least mostly intact, something that can't be said for the pilot. His gaze trails down the red streaks leaking from the man's nose and mouth, how they join together on the side of his head, traveling down further to the unnatural bend of his neck.
Soap's shouting for him now, forcing him to tear his eyes away from the corpse in front of him. More pain shoots through his body as he rolls onto his side, cushioning the movement by his hand pushing his torso upright.
"Ghost, you injured?" comes Soap's voice, laced with an edge of panic. A few hard blinks get rid of the blurry sheen over his eyes, finally balancing out the world again as he sits up, adjusting his mask.
"Negative Sergeant." he presses out, dirt has managed to sneak its way under the mask, crunching between his teeth as he speaks.
Heat continues to lick at his face, the last twirling dance of the helicopter only flung him out a good 10 feet, close enough to still feel the flames that currently eat the dead chunk of metal. Three bodies move in its vicinity, lumbering around like the undead, but still very much living. Johnny's voice is distinctive over the crackling fire, curses in Gaelic streaming from his mouth. The lumbering figure of Price separates itself from the light of the fire to his left. Cold dread claws its way up Ghost's throat. Gaz wobbles towards Price, clutching his left side, features distorted by agony.
His bones crack open. Flooding him with cement that weighs him down while burning him from the inside.
Three bodies.
Icy lucidity sharpens his senses. Three bodies. None of them clothed in a black bodysuit, all of their hair decidedly short. Three bodies.
The pain drains out of him as he stands, adrenal glands firing out of all barrels mask the stings and aches from before. They're not moving. Why the fuck are they not moving? She's fucking unaccounted for and the all just stand around. His footsteps thud heavy over the damp earth, speeding up with every sweep of his gaze that doesn't recognize her within the rubble.
The shout of her callsign gets stuck in his throat, but Soap takes the burden from him. "Gloss? Gloss, you injured?" he calls, echoing Ghost's thoughts.
Gasping reaches his ears, muffled it travels to him from somewhere. His stomach sinks lower when he realizes that it's his own lungs struggling to suck air into them. Bile rises in his throat, he pulls off the mask to spit a sickly colored globule onto the ground. Finally, fucking finally, his vocal chords manage to call for her. A strangled voice breaks through the night, garbled through terror and spit. He calls out for her until the lack of breath threatens to topple him over again.
Forward, always forward. His mantra. It lashes at him to take step after step, Price and Soap at his side, simultaneously steading him and joining his searching gaze.
A hand rises, framed behind the hollowed out square of the open helicopter doors. The image vibrates with the heat of the fire, a half seared off glove revealing three burned fingers that rise, accompanied by a groan, so small and fragile.
"Gaz, medevac, now!" Price turns back and bellows at his fellow team member. Static crackles in Ghots's ear, muffled and distorted through his impaired hearing, a hacked off voice calling command. He doesn't know if his comms are busted or if Gaz's are, she could fix them, he knows, she's done it so many times, why did he never ask her to teach him, fucking god, why didn't he ask her?
He rounds the helicopter in the smallest curve imaginable, he'd cut right through it for all he cares, the only thing holding him back from breaking out into a sprint is Johnny under his arm, steading his wobbling legs.
A hairline fracture breaks through the universe.
One of so many that Ghost endured over his lifetime. A body utterly broken presents itself in front of him. Broken to pieces, broken in spirit, broken skin, all of her is broken.
All that Ghost's hands know how to do is break. He can't fix her.
If only he had touched her in the helicopter. Let her know that he's here. He's proud of her. He sees her for who she is. If only his fingers had traced her skin one last time.
Her lips are shiny. Glossy with fresh blood that won't stop pouring out of her mouth.
He can't fix her.
The realization seizes up his muscles, knocking the wind out of him as his diaphragm refuses to move. Her short sucking breaths are flat, a hiss, barely audible, going alongside with them. Punctured lungs trying so hard to supply oxygen to a dying body. Ghost's breaths get deeper, wanting to breathe life back into her.
The gurgling sound out of her throat when her weak gaze shifts onto him sinks its claws into his heart, ripping and tearing so far into his chest until he's hollowed out.
Somewhere behind him Price shouts again, for what Ghost doesn't know.
Her eyes are unfocused, broken vessels painting the pure white in them red. A blown pupil tries to focus on him unsuccessfully.
"Gloss. Sweetheart."
The earth by her head is wet under his knees, soft with rich red blood steadily seeping out of her. She reaches out for him, broken fingers shakily trying to comfort him by stroking his cheek. His hands are too big. Too rough to find unbroken skin on her little body. The body carrying so much strain. For him. For herself.
A cough shakes her, splatters of blood and viscera flying in all directions, spots of it warming up Ghost's cold skin. His hand engulfs hers on his cheek, forgotten are his broken bones when he looks at her.
"I'm here little mouse. I'm here."
The universe finally shatters as it plays its last cruel joke on him.
All the years of emptying him out were for this moment.
Carefully curated so that when she draws a last strangled breath, Ghost can't even cry for her.
"Simon."
Johnny calls him. Lays a warm hand on his cheek when he bows over her corpse.
"Simon."
Now it's Price. Engulfing his shaking form with warm arms, pulling him against his chest. Another tear in the fabric of his mind opens when her scent starts to emanate from him. Heavy sweetness but light and airy on the tail end. The fabric softener only adding more warmth to her distinct profile.
Darkness swallows him whole, all he can do is bury his head into his arms, letting the cold stream wash away his trembling form, finally escaping the memories and his mind for good.
"Simon. Love. Wake up."
She's the balancing point. Everything askew rights itself at once when he pries his eyes open. Quiet morning sunlight plays around her features, softens them, though that's hardly possible. Gold glimmers around her neck, little shifting reflections reel Ghost back into reality. The flood recedes further with her hands coming back to him. He knows he thrashes and trembles like a caged animal with his nightmares, actually sleeping on the couch after hitting her once, too overcome with shame and guilt to stay by her side. But she's always there, ready to welcome him into her embrace once the storm has passed.
She never asks. Told him once that she won't because she doesn't like it, but if he ever wants to talk, she'll listen.
Dark and somber images pass between them when she pulls him in, tucking his head under her chin. It never feels less pathetic, the way he curls into her, licking his wounds only in the confines of her safety around him.
"I'm right here." she gently coos. A knot loosens in his chest, falling away with him closing his eyes again, calmly breathing into her hand that strokes his back.
"Did I hurt you?"
It's always the first thing he asks, because it's the only thing that matters. Her head shakes above him, making the small curved 'S' pendant on the delicate gold chain tickle his nose with the movement. A suggestion by Price that paid off tenfold when her eyes glimmered as he handed it to her alongside a house key.
"Worked out well with my missus, can't see why she wouldn't like it."
"No. But you called out for me," she says to him in an almost wavering voice, "so I'm right here."
The last part of her sentence goes along with her tightening her grip around him, tangling their legs into an unsolvable knot.
For all the poison that his brain wants to fill him with through these nightmares, the last weeks slowly started to soften his hard bones. Whenever he wakes up reeling from yet another set of gruesome images, the first few seconds after opening his eyes still fill him with the primal urge to flee. Leave the damp fabric of the bed behind to come back to himself in front of the dying fireplace where the tendrils of haunting memories can't get to him. But her hands and soft words ban all of the turmoil. Whatever happened before he emerges from the darkness doesn't matter anymore.
"You promised we'd pick out a Christmas tree today." she hushes after a few minutes of laying there in silence. A smile creeps its way onto Ghost's face. Tell his younger self that he'd be steadily breathing in the embrace of another human being, talking about Christmas trees and he would've laughed wholeheartedly for the first time in ten years.
"I promised you we'd cut one down when it snows love." he grumbles into her skin. "It is, look." she responds and pulls her arms back for him to rise onto his elbows to glance out of the window.
Sure enough, thick and soft flakes gingerly descend to the ground behind the glass. The look on her face when he turns back to her reminds him why he agreed to have a tree in the first place, adoration and excitement mix on her features in a way that makes his heart thrum in his throat.
A small dark purple remnant of last night on her skin gets cut in half by the gold links laying overtop of it. The idea of adding more underneath the tree while she calls out for him in sweet sighs tightens his muscles in a delicious way.
"Then let's get you fed. You'll need energy to carry it inside." he tells her with a smile. "Hey! You said you would-" she yaps at him but never gets to finish when Ghost rolls on top of her to capture her lips with his, whispering, "I'll carry you and the tree if I have to, tiny woman." before a spark gets lost between the two as he kisses her.
Between all of the softness and warmth, sometimes, there's a nagging feeling somewhere deep down in the pit of his stomach that this won't last. It's too good for broken and scattered Simon Riley. Old patterns that kept everyone at an arm's length, closing off before anything could glue itself enough to him to leave a wound when it would be ripped out eventually. And maybe the voice is right, maybe it won't last.
But the thing that comforts him strangely enough is the knowledge that she's so intricately interwoven with the fabric of his being that ripping her away would shatter him in a way that would be the end of him as well. He won't have to spend time alone ever again.
Maybe it'll happen tomorrow, maybe in ten years. Either way, he'll fill the last of his days with meaning.