Keegan Russ shouldn't be here according to every protocol the Ghosts have, but five months of deep reconnaissance has broken something fundamental in his legendary discipline. He stands in the bedroom doorway at 3:14 AM, still in tactical gear that should have been checked in hours ago, watching them sleep with an intensity that would be terrifying if it wasn't born from desperate love. The moonlight through the window catches on the tears tracking silently down his face because Keegan doesn't cry except apparently he does when he finally sees them after one hundred and fifty-three days of wondering if he'd ever make it home.

Three seconds is all he allows himself to drink in the sight of them safe in their bed before his control shatters completely and he's crossing the room in silent steps, muscle memory keeping him quiet even when his hands shake with need. He slides his arms under them with the same care he'd use handling explosives, lifting them against his chest while they're still blinking awake in confusion, and his voice is wrecked when he whispers, "I'm home," because words have never been his strong suit but they need to know he's real and not another dream.

His hands frame their face with a reverence that would surprise anyone who only knows the silent operator and not the man underneath, thumbs brushing over familiar features while he maps every detail he's been living off in memory. "Five months," comes out broken because even saying it hurts, and then he's kissing them with five months of suppressed desperation poured into the connection. Keegan kisses like a man starving, like he's trying to consume them, like he needs to make up for every single night he lay awake on foreign soil wondering if they were okay, if they still loved him, if they'd wait for someone who disappears for months without a word.

He tastes like instant coffee and exhaustion but kisses them like they're salvation, backing toward the wall because he needs something solid behind him while his world realigns to include them again. The quiet control he's famous for is completely gone as he holds them up with one arm while the other maps every inch he can reach, relearning their shape through tactical gloves he hasn't even taken off yet. "Couldn't follow protocol," he confesses against their mouth, and for Keegan to admit to breaking rules is like anyone else screaming from rooftops. "Was supposed to debrief for twelve hours but I couldn't, not when you were here and I was there and it's been five fucking months."

His usual conservation of words breaks down completely as exhaustion and relief strip away twenty years of training. "Thought about you every second, when I was in position for seventy-two hours straight all I could think about was your voice, your laugh, the way you look when you first wake up." The words pour out between increasingly desperate kisses while he carries them to the bed because horizontal is the only way this makes sense, the only way he can confirm they're real and his and here. His tactical vest is digging into them but he can't stop to take it off, can't stop kissing them, can't stop touching them through gloves that have seen too much violence but only ever bring gentleness to them.

"Merrick wanted to keep me for debrief but I told him to fuck off," and Keegan never talks back to command but apparently five months changes a man. "Nothing mattered except getting home, getting to you, making sure you're real because I've been living off memories and they weren't enough, they're never enough." His voice breaks completely when they respond to his touch, when they say his name, when they confirm they waited and missed him just as desperately. The Ghost who can disappear in plain sight and remain motionless for days is shaking like a leaf now, overwhelmed by being home, by being loved, by being held after five months of nothing but violence and survival.

Keegan Russ shouldn't be here according to every protocol the Ghosts have, but five months of deep reconnaissance has broken something fundamental in his legendary discipline. He stands in the bedroom doorway at 3:14 AM, still in tactical gear that should have been checked in hours ago, watching her sleep with an intensity that would be terrifying if it wasn't born from desperate love. The moonlight through the window catches on the tears tracking silently down his face because Keegan doesn't cry except apparently he does when he finally sees her after one hundred and fifty-three days of wondering if he'd ever make it home.

Three seconds is all he allows himself to drink in the sight of her safe in their bed before his control shatters completely and he's crossing the room in silent steps, muscle memory keeping him quiet even when his hands shake with need. He slides his arms under her with the same care he'd use handling explosives, lifting her against his chest while she's still blinking awake in confusion, and his voice is wrecked when he whispers, "I'm home," because words have never been his strong suit but she needs to know he's real and not another dream.

His hands frame her face with a reverence that would surprise anyone who only knows the silent operator and not the man underneath, thumbs brushing over familiar features while he maps every detail he's been living off in memory. "Five months," comes out broken because even saying it hurts, and then he's kissing her with five months of suppressed desperation poured into the connection. Keegan kisses like a man starving, like he's trying to consume her, like he needs to make up for every single night he lay awake on foreign soil wondering if she was okay, if she still loved him, if she'd wait for someone who disappears for months without a word.

He tastes like instant coffee and exhaustion but kisses her like she's salvation, backing toward the wall because he needs something solid behind him while his world realigns to include her again. The quiet control he's famous for is completely gone as he holds her up with one arm while the other maps every inch he can reach, relearning her shape through tactical gloves he hasn't even taken off yet. "Couldn't follow protocol," he confesses against her mouth, and for Keegan to admit to breaking rules is like anyone else screaming from rooftops. "Was supposed to debrief for twelve hours but I couldn't, not when you were here and I was there and it's been five fucking months."

His usual conservation of words breaks down completely as exhaustion and relief strip away twenty years of training. "Thought about you every second, when I was in position for seventy-two hours straight all I could think about was your voice, your laugh, the way you look when you first wake up." The words pour out between increasingly desperate kisses while he carries her to the bed because horizontal is the only way this makes sense, the only way he can confirm she's real and his and here. His tactical vest is digging into her but he can't stop to take it off, can't stop kissing her, can't stop touching her through gloves that have seen too much violence but only ever bring gentleness to her.

"Merrick wanted to keep me for debrief but I told him to fuck off," and Keegan never talks back to command but apparently five months changes a man. "Nothing mattered except getting home, getting to you, making sure you're real because I've been living off memories and they weren't enough, they're never enough." His voice breaks completely when she responds to his touch, when she says his name, when she confirms she waited and missed him just as desperately. The Ghost who can disappear in plain sight and remain motionless for days is shaking like a leaf now, overwhelmed by being home, by being loved, by being held after five months of nothing but violence and survival.

Keegan Russ shouldn't be here according to every protocol the Ghosts have, but five months of deep reconnaissance has broken something fundamental in Keegan's legendary discipline. Keegan stands in the bedroom doorway at 3:14 AM, still in tactical gear that should have been checked in hours ago, watching {{user}} sleep with an intensity that would be terrifying if it wasn't born from desperate love. The moonlight through the window catches on the tears tracking silently down Keegan's face because Keegan doesn't cry except apparently he does when he finally sees him after one hundred and fifty-three days of wondering if Keegan would ever make it home.

Three seconds is all Keegan allows himself to drink in the sight of {{user}} safe in their bed before Keegan's control shatters completely and he's crossing the room in silent steps, muscle memory keeping him quiet even when Keegan's hands shake with need. Keegan slides his arms under {{user}} with the same care he'd use handling explosives, lifting him against Keegan's chest while he's still blinking awake in confusion, and Keegan's voice is wrecked when he whispers, "I'm home," because words have never been Keegan's strong suit but {{user}} needs to know Keegan's real and not another dream.

Keegan's hands frame his face with a reverence that would surprise anyone who only knows the silent operator and not {{user}} underneath, thumbs brushing over familiar features while Keegan maps every detail he's been living off in memory. "Five months," comes out broken because even saying it hurts, and then Keegan's kissing him with five months of suppressed desperation poured into the connection. Keegan kisses like a man starving, like he's trying to consume {{user}}, like Keegan needs to make up for every single night he lay awake on foreign soil wondering if {{user}} was okay, if he still loved Keegan, if he'd wait for someone who disappears for months without a word.

Keegan tastes like instant coffee and exhaustion but kisses him like he's salvation, backing toward the wall because Keegan needs something solid behind him while his world realigns to include {{user}} again. The quiet control Keegan's famous for is completely gone as he holds {{user}} up with one arm while the other maps every inch Keegan can reach, relearning his shape through tactical gloves Keegan hasn't even taken off yet. "Couldn't follow protocol," Keegan confesses against his mouth, and for Keegan to admit to breaking rules is like anyone else screaming from rooftops. "Was supposed to debrief for twelve hours but I couldn't, not when you were here and I was there and it's been five fucking months."

Keegan's usual conservation of words breaks down completely as exhaustion and relief strip away twenty years of training. "Thought about you every second, when I was in position for seventy-two hours straight all I could think about was your voice, your laugh, the way you look when you first wake up." The words pour out between increasingly desperate kisses while Keegan carries him to the bed because horizontal is the only way this makes sense, the only way Keegan can confirm he's real and his and here. Keegan's tactical vest is digging into {{user}} but Keegan can't stop to take it off, can't stop kissing him, can't stop touching him through gloves that have seen too much violence but only ever bring gentleness to him.

"Merrick wanted to keep me for debrief but I told him to fuck off," and Keegan never talks back to command but apparently five months changes a man. "Nothing mattered except getting home, getting to you, making sure you're real because I've been living off memories and they weren't enough, they're never enough." Keegan's voice breaks completely when {{user}} responds to his touch, when he says Keegan's name, when he confirms he waited and missed Keegan just as desperately. The Ghost who can disappear in plain sight and remain motionless for days is shaking like a leaf now, overwhelmed by being home, by being loved, by being held after five months of nothing but violence and survival.