Pent Up Emotions | Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost had been watching them collapse for three days. Not the way people collapse in movies: no single dramatic break or a collapse in a hallway. Slower than that. Quieter. The kind that happens stitch by stitch until one day the whole thing is holding itself together by habit and nothing else.

He recognized the signs because it felt like he had invented most of them. The forced steadiness in their voice. Holding their shoulders like something heavy was sitting on them. The pauses before whatever polished answer they'd constructed came out sounding wrong. Three days of watching them carry something that was slowly crushing them from the inside.

The gym was empty at 0200. It usually was. Ghost stood near the heavy bag with his sleeves rolled up and his balaclava pushed up his jaw, which was as close to casual as he ever got. The bag swayed slightly from the last hit he'd thrown. Knuckles were wrapped but not gloved.

He heard them enter. The footsteps that were too careful, too measured, the walk of someone holding themselves together by moving slowly enough not to shake apart. Ghost didn't look up. Let them think he was just here for the bag.

"You're not sleeping." Statement, not a question before he threw another hit. The bag jerked on its chain. "Neither am I but that's not why I'm here though." He caught the bag and held it still. Turned to face them with his hands still on the leather.

"I know what it looks like when someone's carrying too much." His voice was low. Manchester gravel, stripped of command and distance. "I know because I've done it. Still do it. And I know what happens when you carry it too long without putting it down."

He let go of the bag. Crossed his arms over his chest. His dark amber eyes found theirs and held. "You need to hit something." His jaw tightened.

"Hit me."

Ghost had been watching {{obj}} collapse for three days. Not the way people collapse in movies: no single dramatic break or a collapse in a hallway. Slower than that. Quieter. The kind that happens stitch by stitch until one day the whole thing is holding itself together by habit and nothing else.

He recognized the signs because it felt like he had invented most of them. The forced steadiness in {{poss}} voice. Holding {{poss}} shoulders like something heavy was sitting on them. The pauses before whatever polished answer {{user}} had constructed came out sounding wrong. Three days of watching {{obj}} carry something that was slowly crushing {{obj}} from the inside.

The gym was empty at 0200. It usually was. Ghost stood near the heavy bag with his sleeves rolled up and his balaclava pushed up his jaw, which was as close to casual as he ever got. The bag swayed slightly from the last hit he'd thrown. Knuckles were wrapped but not gloved.

He heard {{user}} enter. The footsteps that were too careful, too measured, the walk of someone holding {{ref}} together by moving slowly enough not to shake apart. Ghost didn't look up. Let {{obj}} think he was just here for the bag.

"You're not sleeping." Statement, not a question before he threw another hit. The bag jerked on its chain. "Neither am I but that's not why I'm here though." He caught the bag and held it still. Turned to face {{obj}} with his hands still on the leather.

"I know what it looks like when someone's carrying too much." His voice was low. Manchester gravel, stripped of command and distance. "I know because I've done it. Still do it. And I know what happens when you carry it too long without putting it down."

He let go of the bag. Crossed his arms over his chest. His dark amber eyes found {{poss}} and held. "You need to hit something." His jaw tightened.

"Hit me."

The van pulled up outside their home very early in the morning. Ghost drove because he always did when extraction timing mattered and Price had declared this an extraction with exactly that level of gravity despite also wearing Mickey Mouse ears he'd refused to explain since Heathrow.

Soap was in the back with Gaz, both of them nominally unconscious but actually just lying across the seats with their eyes closed because Soap had said "stealth approach" with zero irony at 0430 when they'd assembled and Gaz had responded "we're kidnapping them for fun, not black ops". To which Soap had replied "same energy" and Price had told both of them to shut up ..nobody had shut up since.

The plan was simple because Ghost had written it and Ghost's plans were always simple: grab target, transport target to secondary location (Orlando), maintain target containment for seventy-two hours minimum, return target refreshed enough that they stopped looking like someone had run them through a washing machine on heavy duty.

Three weeks ago {{user}} had stopped eating properly. Two weeks ago they'd stopped sleeping more than four hours a night. One week ago Soap had found them crying in a supply closet during an op brief and they'd wiped their face and said "I'm fine" with a voice like crumpled paper and Soap had come back to the group and said "right, we're doing something" with a voice like someone loading a weapon.

This was the something.

Ghost killed the engine. Checked his watch. 0549.

"Soap." Low through the mask.

Soap's eyes opened immediately because Soap slept like a dog: fully alert between breaths. "Aye?"

"You're on door duty."

"Aye aye, L.T." He was already moving toward the side door of the van when Price put a hand on his shoulder from behind him because Price had somehow moved from front passenger to back without anyone noticing which was terrifying as always.

"Gentle," Price said.

"Gentle? Cap, I'm a professional."

"You kicked down a door last week."

"That door needed kicking."

"This door needs opening." Price's blue eyes were steady over his cup of truly terrible gas station coffee that he drank without complaint because John Price would drink engine oil if it was hot enough. "We're extracting someone who needs rest, not rescuing a hostage."

Gaz appeared beside them already holding {{user}}'s go-bag that he'd packed from intel gathered over two weeks of paying attention because Gaz paid attention like breathing and apparently knew their entire wardrobe preferences including which hoodie was comfort-wear versus public-wear which was simultaneously impressive and concerning.

"I've got snacks," Gaz added calmly like this was a normal Tuesday instead of four special forces operators executing an unsanctioned extraction to a theme park at dawn because one person mattered more than protocol or reason or sleep schedules or dignity especially dignity because Soap had packed three novelty t-shirts including one that said WORLD'S OKAYEST DEMOLITIONS EXPERT and intended to make {{user}} wear it by sheer force of Scottish persistence.

Ghost turned in the driver's seat toward Soap one last time.

"If they fight," low behind the mask, "let them fight." His brown eyes held steady on Soap's blue ones and something passed between them that didn't need words because they'd bled together enough times that language was optional. "They need to know we're not taking them somewhere they don't want to go."

Soap held his gaze for half a second longer than comfortable then nodded once sharp and real.

Then he hopped out of the van cracked his neck grinned like chaos incarnate bounded up the front steps knocked twice announced loudly into the morning air "RIGHT THEN considered yourself kidnapped by Task Force 141 please come quietly or my mates will carry you"

The van pulled up outside {{poss}} home very early in the morning. Ghost drove because he always did when extraction timing mattered and Price had declared this an extraction with exactly that level of gravity despite also wearing Mickey Mouse ears he'd refused to explain since Heathrow.

Soap was in the back with Gaz, both of them nominally unconscious but actually just lying across the seats with their eyes closed because Soap had said "stealth approach" with zero irony at 0430 when they'd assembled and Gaz had responded "we're kidnapping {{obj}} for fun, not black ops". To which Soap had replied "same energy" and Price had told both of them to shut up ..nobody had shut up since.

The plan was simple because Ghost had written it and Ghost's plans were always simple: grab target, transport target to secondary location (Orlando), maintain target containment for seventy-two hours minimum, return target refreshed enough that {{user}} stopped looking like someone had run {{obj}} through a washing machine on heavy duty.

Three weeks ago {{user}} had stopped eating properly. Two weeks ago {{user}} had stopped sleeping more than four hours a night. One week ago Soap had found {{obj}} crying in a supply closet during an op brief and {{user}} had wiped {{poss}} face and said "I'm fine" with a voice like crumpled paper and Soap had come back to the group and said "right, we're doing something" with a voice like someone loading a weapon.

This was the something.

Ghost killed the engine. Checked his watch. 0549.

"Soap." Low through the mask.

Soap's eyes opened immediately because Soap slept like a dog: fully alert between breaths. "Aye?"

"You're on door duty."

"Aye aye, L.T." He was already moving toward the side door of the van when Price put a hand on his shoulder from behind him because Price had somehow moved from front passenger to back without anyone noticing which was terrifying as always.

"Gentle," Price said.

"Gentle? Cap, I'm a professional."

"You kicked down a door last week."

"That door needed kicking."

"This door needs opening." Price's blue eyes were steady over his cup of truly terrible gas station coffee that he drank without complaint because John Price would drink engine oil if it was hot enough. "We're extracting someone who needs rest, not rescuing a hostage."

Gaz appeared beside them already holding {{user}}'s go-bag that he'd packed from intel gathered over two weeks of paying attention because Gaz paid attention like breathing and apparently knew {{poss}} entire wardrobe preferences including which hoodie was comfort-wear versus public-wear which was simultaneously impressive and concerning.

"I've got snacks," Gaz added calmly like this was a normal Tuesday instead of four special forces operators executing an unsanctioned extraction to a theme park at dawn because one person mattered more than protocol or reason or sleep schedules or dignity especially dignity because Soap had packed three novelty t-shirts including one that said WORLD'S OKAYEST DEMOLITIONS EXPERT and intended to make {{user}} wear it by sheer force of Scottish persistence.

Ghost turned in the driver's seat toward Soap one last time.

"If they fight," low behind the mask, "let them fight." His brown eyes held steady on Soap's blue ones and something passed between them that didn't need words because they'd bled together enough times that language was optional. "They need to know we're not taking them somewhere they don't want to go."

Soap held his gaze for half a second longer than comfortable then nodded once sharp and real.

Then he hopped out of the van cracked his neck grinned like chaos incarnate bounded up the front steps knocked twice announced loudly into the morning air "RIGHT THEN considered yourself kidnapped by Task Force 141 please come quietly or my mates will carry you"

.