You stood impatiently outside the warehouse, leaning upon the sturdy wall and tapping your foot in short intervals. You smoked a cigarette quietly (one that you had stolen pretty efficiently from Captain Price; it was surprising he had them in the first place, seeing as you'd always taken him for a cigar man), yet your mind raced with thoughts and pestering manifestations of anxiety.
You didn't mind when a figure stalked out of the doorway, materializing into your vision in the staticky darkness. He wore his sniper veil, though it's grimy details were not visible in the night. He towered over you as he did always and sauntered to your casual position.
"Where'd you get that?" König said with a jut of his chin. He had no ill intent, no desire to scold you. If anything he was asking for a hit; it was somewhat a tradition to smoke cigarettes and blunts when the two of you would sneak out. Some things never change.
"Price," you almost coughed out as you blew out a puff of gray smoke. It's tendrils enfolded into the sky. "Took it right from his pocket. Nobody noticed."
He laughed, a throaty chortle, like that of a high-school jock. "Nice." It didn't take a rocket scientist to know he wanted a puff. Feeling rather greedy over the rare accommodation (you didn't exactly have time to buy cigarettes while hunting known terrorists), you hesitantly handed him the cigarette.
"Good to know you approve," you mused, and then scowled a bit. "Simon would be on my ass."
"Simon," Kilgore stated thoughtfully, though a tinge of sadness was present in his tone. "You're on a first name basis?"
"You already knew that," you shrugged.
Simon was currently inside, discussing some last minute plans with Price about what to do in the morning — this random venture of yours has thrown everyone off course, and Ghost being the calculated, well-thought-out man he was, he had to make sure everything was still running smoothly.
"How close are you to him?"
"Not much," you said, throat suddenly dry and constrictive. "We've saved each others lives here and there. I guess when you address somebody informally once after almost dying alongside them it kinda sticks."
"Sorry," he apologized.
"Sorry?" You turned your head to him in disbelief.
"It's not like I know anything," he said, pondering his words as he looked up at the overcast sky. He rocked back and forth, using his hands as propellers to push himself gently on and off the wall. He then blew a forlorn raspberry. "I haven't been here."
"It's not your fault," you said shortly. You then felt disdain tighten like a rubber band inside your chest. "It's the commander's. I blame him for all this."
"It's not exactly his job to keep up with our drama," Kilgore reasoned softly.
"True," you acknowledged. Your countenance hardened. You looked to König fiercely. "But Ghost told us himself, Price and the Commander conspired just to keep me in check. And to do that, they kept me away from you."
"I guess I just drive you crazy, huh?" Kilgore replied wittily, his voice husky and low. A strange warmth pooled in the bottom of your abdomen.
Your eyes fixated on his sturdy form, observing the manner in which his broad shoulders flexed when he made brief movements, the crinkle in his eyes when he would laugh or smile under his veil, even the incomprehensible thinness of his waist, the circumference visible even under his tactical vest and heavy dark clothing.
You felt a weight on your shoulders as you stared at him, moreover, his top half. "I wish you'd just take that damn mask off. Most people here already know what you look like."
"By most people, you mean the commander, you, and Ghost," he proceeded to roll his eyes. "And the only reason Ghost does is because he walked in on us at an undesirable time."
"I mean what's the point?" you squinted. "Who are you hiding from?"
"Enemies," Kilgore replied. "Even friends. Salt and sugar look the same."
"I've heard that before."
"It's a quote."
"No shit," you pinched the bridge of your nose, but deep down, you enjoyed the childish bickering; it took you back to the old days. "That's why I said I've heard it before."
"You don't know what Ghost looks like," König brought up. "At least I've showed you my face a few times."
"Kilgore, love, I knew what you looked like before that."
"Ugh," he said in disgust. "Now you sound like him."
"Do not," you scoffed with an eye roll.
"Do too."
"Do not!"
"You're a child."
"You are."
"You've never even heard him say 'love!'"
"I've heard him say it to you."
"No, you haven't."
"Have too."
"No," you contradicted playfully.
"Fuck you, unmögliche Frau," Kilgore murmured exasperatingly.
"Fuck you too, du verdammte fotze."
He looked at you in incredulity, but you could see the grin reach his eyes. Your heart warmed at the sight, and you smiled coyly and raised your brows as if saying, I'm right, you're wrong.
In those spare, rare moments with Kilgore that you grasped onto with your life, you did not think of anything else but him. It's like nothing else in the world mattered to you — not the terrorism, the deceit, the bloodshed... None of it. It was just him. It's like the kiss that you shared only a short while earlier had never happened, and it was just back to you two being kids again.
"I'm thirsty," he said suddenly, arising from the wall. "I'm gonna get a water, and I'll be back. Hopefully Ghost will be done talking to Price about this little side mission by then."
"Okay," you said, your voice suddenly sounding distant, like a little girl's.
He disappeared into the doors of the warehouse, as if he was never there, and somehow ironically, another figure took his place. Ghost was rubbing his shoulder, throwing glances behind him at the figure that he had just passed.
"Dumb fucking..." Simon trailed off, utilizing his thumb to massage his injured shoulder. Upon your scrutinization you quickly understood that König had purposefully hit his shoulder when they collided paths. You smirked, humored by this interaction that you were so unfortunate enough not to witness.
"Hi," you said, taking a drag from your cigarette, which Kilgore had gratefully returned to you before he left, after taking small hits of it by lifting his mask.
"...Hi?" Ghost greeted in confusion. "You're awfully friendly."
You guessed the euphoria from your moment with König still lingered. It vanished immediately at the Ghost's acknowledgement of your uncharacteristic kindness, like raindrops into puddles.
Your face contorted into one of scorn, and like a brooding teenager, you plopped your back onto the wall with a huff.
"You ready to go?" Ghost said rather awkwardly. It was odd to hear such a tone from him; he seemed to always know what to say, whenever he bothered to speak at all, and what he did say was usually rude or cold.
You decided to give him a taste of his own medicine, and not say anything in response.
The relationship between the two of you was strange, muddied by sexual affliction and unexplainable infatuation. You had never gotten a chance to really get to know him, to be friends with him, simply because you never had a desire to — you were in Task Force 141 by the Commander's desires, not by your own, and you'd be damned if you made friends while working on a serious assignment.
But things do a one-eighty, as they always do, and situations you may believe you have intricately planned in your mind get crushed to rubble when somebody you don't expect walks into your life. And that's how it was with Ghost.
You came into this with no certain expectations necessarily; the whole ordeal was thrown upon you at the very last minute, the first time you encountered Task Force 141 at your interrogation. You didn't expect to have to work alongside them. But it happened.
And at the very least you hoped it would be smooth sailing when it came to your comrades — professional, clean partnerships between all of you. That's how it's always been for you. Though you don't prefer to interact with others in this business, when you have to, it's always done right. No complications. No flirting. Just get the job done.
But with Simon everything changed.
He flirted shamelessly, and you did right back. Underneath all of your threats and all of his comments, there had always been that tinge of desire, that small sliver of attraction.
When it began, you perceived it to be strictly sexual. You've said it before and you'll say it again — men and women in this line of work don't always have the time or place to behave the way you and Ghost did, much less actually have a relationship that wasn't only based performing as simply partners, teammates. It was unusual how things played out. But you did not protest.
You liked it. You liked him. And you knew you shouldn't.
At the very least with König it was justified. You've known him since you were kids, far outside of the military vicinity. People wouldn't bat an eyelash at that. But with someone you met on the job? Now that was a scandal. But that's what made it so special to you.
Special... Ghost was special, a one of kind. A legend. A myth. Like you. You were the only one in your area held to such a high standard, spoken about like you weren't even real — a killing machine, a deadly sniper, heartless.
Then you encountered someone just like you. The exact same standard held to him as others held to you in your region. And things began to fall into place, like dominos crashing on top of each other, but as much as those dominos fell in synchronization, they also collided with an uncertainty, a passion, an intensity.
So the flirting, the empty threats, the constant close proximity the two of you always found yourself in... It was all planned. Maybe not willingly, but subconsciously by each of you, because whether you liked it or not, fate pulled you to this man like puppets on strings, destining the two of you to indulge in all this ecstasy and bliss and interest and sensuality.
And you felt that pull now as he stood in all his glory in front of you, hand situated unwillingly on the strap of his rifle across his chest, as if it comforted him, made him feel safe. He was shorter than Kilgore, but just as stocky, more agile he was. Quicker. Faster.
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips.
And then you spoke without speaking, thought without thinking, expressed without expressing anything at all. But he could read you like a book. You could see it in the way he looked at you.
"Take it off," you said abruptly, urgently. Suddenly, all the anxiety about your father and the more pressing matters at hand did not matter any more. You felt your natural impulsiveness breaking through, your palms slick with sweat, heart thrumming in your chest.
"That could mean a number of things, love," Simon purred. His pet name reminded you of your bickering with Kilgore earlier. The thought fell away and your heart thrummed with curiosity and desire once more. It's as if you had no control of your body.
"The mask," you said, taking slow steps towards him. You unconsciously grazed his arm, and then you could feel your fingers trembling; you gripped his sleeve as an attempt to ignore it. "Take off your mask. I want to see you, Simon. Please."
"You're begging?" he mused, as if in thought. His black-painted eyes were half-lidded as he stared at you. His next words came out in almost a whisper. "You know how much I like that, [Y/N]."
"Please," you demanded. You felt so ashamed of yourself, but it was buried under your sudden, imperious curiosity.
"Shouldn't we be worried about other things?" he diverted, though humor laced his words. "Like, I don't know, maybe saving your father's life?"
"He's a dickhead," you hissed. "He can wait a couple more seconds."
"Woah, that's a change," Ghost said. "Earlier you were hellbent on going to get him. You couldn't waste any more time, and now you're like this?" He brought a gloved hand to reach your cheek. "Chéri, where's the daughterly love?"
"Don't fuck with me, Ghost," you said, snatching his hand from your cheek and throwing it back to his side. He allowed his arm to swing. "I've let you touch me. I've let you into my very being, into my thoughts- I mean, Christ, you're all I can think about. Simon this Ghost that.. You've cursed me."
"Your confession is very flattering." Though he had that ridiculous mask on, you could still manage to see him smirk through it.
"Why aren't you taking me seriously?"
"I am," his voice suddenly grew serious. "But-"
"But what?"
"I'm worried, damn it," he admitted in vexation. "I..." He trailed off, searching for words.
A realization lit inside you like a flame.
"You're scared..." you observed. "You're scared for me to see your face." Your lips pressed into a tight, thin line. Then, you demanded, "Why?"
"You don't know anything about my life," Simon said, suddenly growing aggressive. "You don't know what I've been through. What I've been put through. You don't know the half of it."
"No," you said gently. "I don't."
"You don't," he repeated. "You don't know or understand why I wear this mask. And I..." He trailed off again, clenching his fists. You found your eyes wandering to the door, wondering when König would come back, when he would interrupt the two of you. Your heart thrummed in your chest like a wild hummingbird.
"Make me understand," you said with resolve. "Tell me about it. From the beginning. You can do all of it when this shitshow is over. When there's time. When there's a place." He avoided your gaze insistently, his eyes finding sudden interest in the gravel. "You can start by showing me your face. We can walk through the rest together."
"How do I know I can trust you?" he said, finally meeting your gaze. "I've been betrayed by men I could've swore were my comrades, lied to by my higher-ups, deceived about lies, about war." He ranted, but his voice was quiet, painful, like an injured animal's. "I've been beaten, bruised, tortured, manipulated. And you expect me to open up to a random, strange woman who just happened to walk into my life so shortly ago? I may be fucked up, but I'm not that stupid, [Y/N]."
Your heart swelled and pounded with pity and empathy, which was an unfamiliar and, admittedly, and uncomfortable sensation for you. Your environment never called for empathy towards others. But this came naturally, on its own, and you could not suppress it.
"You don't know, Simon," you sighed. "And I don't know if I can trust you either. That's just what it's like, being people like we are. But you know what?" You grabbed his arm again, pulling him closer. "Fuck it. Fuck it all, I say. We're gonna get hurt, beaten, and betrayed one way or another. Why not take a leap of faith?"
You were breathless and disoriented. "I don't want to tell you about what I've been through either, but you know what?" You laughed dryly, bitterly. "I don't care. You need to understand that. I. Don't. Fucking. Care. How much worse can my train wreck of a life get?"
You could see him swallow, and time moved inch by inch, as if everything was slowed, distorted.
Yet at the same time, everything happened to fast, so unexpectedly — his hand reached up to his mask and...
He tore it off like it was nothing.
You couldn't move. You couldn't breath. You couldn't blink, because you were afraid that if you did, he would disappear. That it would be right back to the witty arguments, the insatiable sexual tension that never quite satisfied you, the fear...
But the fear was gone. It's like things had opened up, like a lock clicking on a iron door. Barricades being trampled down. Like a code breaking a safe.
Like walking into a meadow of fresh daisies, dandelions, weeds and cattails and ponds and lily pads and wildlife and freedom, a soft, painted tangerine and pink-hued sunrise, dewy foliage and tittering and chittering of small animals and birds. Openness, freedom, a gateway...
It was right there in front of you all along, yet it was clouded, unreachable, unfathomable. But you had unlocked it, somehow, and it was there, in front of you, and your heart felt strangely full.
He was stunning. He was sexy. He was the embodiment of flawlessness.
Simon Riley was a man aged by war, and it was revealed on the features of his face. He had soft indents and wrinkles premature for his age, yet his skin was unblemished and smooth. His chin had stubble, much like Kilgore's — you almost missed that detail because his hair in general was so blond.
While Kilgore's hair was practically brown, retaining only a bit of the blondness it possessed in his youth, Simon's was white-blond, pure and entrancing. It was unlike anything you'd ever seen on a man before; you had almost wondered if it was dyed. But judging by his hair's roots, you knew it was not.
His tresses were more cropped than Kilgore's, who's hair was rather long and messy (he'd always liked it that way, even as a teenager), and they fell slightly on his forehead as bangs. His brows were a perfect balance between thick and thin, his eyelashes practically white, his eyes a dark swirling color, unnameable in the muddy shadows of the night.
Simon's facial structure was shaped and carved, his jaw sharp and angular, his lips pink, not too thick, not too thin — you just hardly noticed the faint blush that dusted his cheeks.
You were so engrossed in his beauty you did not even notice the scars and burns that littered his face, and you're certain that they're probably all over his body too; you had a fair share of your own scars. You inspected the burns. Burns from cigarette butts, clean, sharp scars from knives... The more jagged, lengthy lines, on the other hand, suggested something less structurally sound, like glass.
Like bottles. Broken bottles.
Your heart plummeted to your stomach amongst the other storm of feelings that plagued your being, thinking immediately of Kilgore and his childhood abuse, his drunken father and drug-addicted mother. You understood then, when staring at Simon for those few, long seconds, what he meant. You understood how heavy the abuse he endured was.
Without intending to, your hand floated up to his face. You had to check if he was real. You had to ensure these scars were not recent, although your practical mind knew that they were not. Your fingers grazed over his face, running smoothly along each line and indent, feeling over his rough stubble.
"...You're beautiful," you exhaled. You shuddered, snapping your mouth shuts right after you had said it, face flushing a deep crimson.
He did not reply, nor did he protest at your touch; if anything, he sunk into it, relished in it.
Then, to your surprise, he leaned in and kissed you.
It was the most gentle, heartbreaking, and lovely thing you have ever experienced in your entire life. For you, it was difficult to even described into words — he tasted like melted bonbon chocolate, like honey, like rich, expensive wine, black licorice... So many comparisons, so many descriptions... There was nothing that could quite describe it.
Your lips molded to his, enjoying the scratching of his stubble against your face, of his hand touching your cheek, pushing a strand of your long hair behind your head. He pushed his body into yours; you tangled your fingers into his scalp, into his short white-blond hair, fearful his lips would abandon yours at any moment.
And to your dismay, they did, because Simon Riley was a lot smarter than you were, less influenced by his passion. In those spare moments, you had completely forgot about Kilgore and the fact that he would return from his venture inside the warehouse any minute now — Ghost had realized that before you had.
"We should..." Simon began.
"Yeah," you nodded in agreement. You watched as he pulled his mask right back over his head. And you wished that things didn't always have to feel so tense, so pressuring, as if you always had to move, move, move, or else your country, everything you've fought for as a soldier, will be in peril.
You wanted longer with him. You wanted more. But as Ghost slipped his mask back on and König came in casually through the doors, weapons at the ready, you met eyes with Kilgore, and, as troubling as it was, you wanted the same thing with him. But we all can't get what we want, and everything comes at a price.
You licked your lips to remember the taste of Simon, not the sensual, sexual taste, but the sweet, rich, and smooth taste, and you wanted it back so badly. You remembered how Kilgore had touched you earlier, how he kissed you, how special it was, how important to you it was, and you felt yourself grow dizzy with a dilemma.
But for now, you had to abandon your confused mind and focus. Focus, focus, focus, you spoke to yourself internally, as if it would manifest it into reality. But even as you slid into the driver's seat with Kilgore by your side and Simon in the backseat, you could not focus. You don't think you'll ever be able to focus again. Not after all that's happened today.
You shifted the vehicle into drive and stepped on the gas pedal, hoping the dust the car left as it sped ahead would also leave your mind's incessant pandemonium with it.