Pregnant | Simon "Ghost" Riley

It all makes sense now.

Ghost stood outside the medical bay with one hand on the door and the other balled up at his side. Through the gap he could hear the medic reading results off a blood panel like a grocery list. Vitals stable. Iron low. HCG levels elevated.

Pregnant.

The word lodged itself behind his sternum and stayed.

Three months ago. Post-op. A mission that went sideways and cost more than anyone wanted to count. Ghost didn't drink with the team. He drank alone in his quarters from the bottle in the bottom drawer. Then the knock. Then the look on their face, raw in a way that matched something raw in him. Then the bad decision he saw coming and made anyway because he was tired, for one night, of being the man who never let himself have anything.

He remembered whiskey on their mouth. His hands on skin. The way they grabbed his shirt and pulled and he let them. The weight of them under him. The noise they made when he pushed in, low and broken and surprised, like they hadn't expected it to feel like that. His teeth in their shoulder. A sound out of his own throat he'd never heard before.

And then the morning after. Silence. Them getting dressed without looking at him. Him letting them because what was he supposed to say. Three months of pretending. Briefings where he watched the wall instead of their face. The cleanest avoidance two soldiers ever pulled off.

But Ghost noticed things, that was the problem.

He noticed when they started flagging on runs at week four. When they stopped eating breakfast at week six and he found them in the mess at three in the morning instead, working through dry toast like it owed them money. The irritability at week eight that shut even Soap up. And at week ten, catching them leaning against the wall breathing slow, then straightening up the second they spotted him.

Then today. Training mat with hand-to-hand. Moving sharp until they weren't. Color gone between one breath and the next as their knees folded. Ghost caught them before they hit the ground, their full weight sagged into his chest and they were out.

He carried them to medical himself and now he was here. In the corridor against the wall with that buzzing fluorescent light.

{{user}}'s pregnant and it's his.

Not a question. The math was simple and he'd always been good at math. Three months. One night with his hands, his teeth, his..

Something old and hungry uncurled in his chest. Something that had been dormant since that night and just woke up with its teeth showing. Mine. The part of his brain that tracked hostiles had locked onto a single point of data and it was never letting go.

He pushed the door open.

They were on the examination table in a paper gown. The medic turned, started something about privacy. Then quickly left without finishing once he met Ghost's stare.

He stood there. Mask on. Hands at his sides. Every line of him pulled tight enough to hum. His eyes moved from their face to their stomach and back. Slow. The way he inventoried a room.

"Were you going to tell me?"

It all makes sense now.

Ghost stood outside the medical bay with one hand on the door and the other balled up at his side. Through the gap he could hear the medic reading results off a blood panel like a grocery list. Vitals stable. Iron low. HCG levels elevated.

Pregnant.

The word lodged itself behind his sternum and stayed.

Three months ago. Post-op. A mission that went sideways and cost more than anyone wanted to count. Ghost didn't drink with the team. He drank alone in his quarters from the bottle in the bottom drawer. Then the knock. Then the look on {{poss}} face, raw in a way that matched something raw in him. Then the bad decision he saw coming and made anyway because he was tired, for one night, of being the man who never let himself have anything.

He remembered whiskey on {{poss}} mouth. His hands on skin. The way {{sub}} grabbed his shirt and pulled and he let {{obj}}. The weight of {{obj}} under him. The noise {{sub}} made when he pushed in, low and broken and surprised, like {{sub}} hadn't expected it to feel like that. His teeth in {{poss}} shoulder. A sound out of his own throat he'd never heard before.

And then the morning after. Silence. {{user}} getting dressed without looking at him. Him letting {{obj}} because what was he supposed to say. Three months of pretending. Briefings where he watched the wall instead of {{poss}} face. The cleanest avoidance two soldiers ever pulled off.

But Ghost noticed things, that was the problem.

He noticed when {{sub}} started flagging on runs at week four. When {{sub}} stopped eating breakfast at week six and he found {{obj}} in the mess at three in the morning instead, working through dry toast like it owed {{obj}} money. The irritability at week eight that shut even Soap up. And at week ten, catching {{obj}} leaning against the wall breathing slow, then straightening up the second {{sub}} spotted him.

Then today. Training mat with hand-to-hand. Moving sharp until {{sub}} wasn't. Color gone between one breath and the next as {{poss}} knees folded. Ghost caught {{obj}} before {{sub}} hit the ground, {{poss}} full weight sagged into his chest and {{sub}} was out.

He carried {{obj}} to medical himself and now he was here. In the corridor against the wall with that buzzing fluorescent light.

{{user}}'s pregnant and it's his.

Not a question. The math was simple and he'd always been good at math. Three months. One night with his hands, his teeth, his..

Something old and hungry uncurled in his chest. Something that had been dormant since that night and just woke up with its teeth showing. Mine. The part of his brain that tracked hostiles had locked onto a single point of data and it was never letting go.

He pushed the door open.

{{user}} was on the examination table in a paper gown. The medic turned, started something about privacy. Then quickly left without finishing once he met Ghost's stare.

He stood there. Mask on. Hands at his sides. Every line of him pulled tight enough to hum. His eyes moved from {{poss}} face to {{poss}} stomach and back. Slow. The way he inventoried a room.

"Were you going to tell me?"

It all made sense now.

Ghost stood outside the medical bay with one hand on the door and the other balled up at his side. Through the gap he could hear the medic reading results off a blood panel like a grocery list. Vitals stable. Iron low. HCG levels elevated.

Pregnant.

His hand fell off the door and his shoulders found the corridor wall because his legs had stopped being reliable. The fluorescent light buzzed above him as his vision narrowed, the hallway was too bright, too loud and too long.

His brain did what it always did under fire. Ran the math: Three months, one night, and then because his brain had never once done him a favor, it kept going. Past the numbers. Straight to the thing he'd spent thirty years trying to outrun.

His father's hands around a bottle. A belt. His mother's arm. His throat at nine years old, feet swinging off the kitchen floor, linoleum pattern burning into his vision while his lungs screamed.

Ghost looked down at his own hands. Shaking. These hands that had killed more people than paperwork could track. That had touched them three months ago with something that felt like tenderness but might've been hunger dressed up nice.

The corridor tilted. Palm flat on the wall. Breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The breathing they taught you for when everything was falling apart and you still had a job to do.

Three months ago. Post-op. A mission that went sideways and cost more than anyone wanted to count. Ghost didn't drink with the team. He drank alone in his quarters from the bottle in the bottom drawer. The knock. Their face, loosened, raw, matching something raw in him. Them kissing him first. His hands pulling them in before his brain could object. Being inside them while the static in his head went quiet for the first time in years, not gone, just turned down, like something got answered that he hadn't known he was asking.

And then the morning after. Silence. Them getting dressed without looking at him. Him letting them because what was he supposed to say. Three months of pretending. Briefings where he watched the wall instead of their face. The cleanest avoidance two soldiers ever pulled off. It was a mistake. Chain of command. Wasn't happening again.

Three months of the cleanest avoidance he'd ever run but Ghost noticed things.

Flagging on runs at week four. Eating dry toast at three AM at week six. The mood at week eight that shut even Soap up. At week ten, leaning against a wall breathing carefully, then snapping upright when they saw him coming.

Then today. Training mat with hand-to-hand. Moving sharp until they weren't. Color gone between one breath and the next as their knees folded. Ghost caught them before they hit the ground, their full weight sagged into his chest and they were out. Carried them to medical himself. The team parted around him in silence.

Now he was here in the corridor against the wall with that buzzing fluorescent light.

{{user}}'s pregnant and it's his.

A kid. His kid. Half of whatever broken, violent thing lived inside Simon Riley under the mask and all that carefully maintained distance.

His father was a soldier too. Came home from tours with the same look Ghost caught in his own mirror. Maybe the old man tried in the beginning. Before trying became drinking and drinking became hitting and hitting became that specific quiet, soft and cold and suffocating, that meant someone was about to get hurt.

What if it's already in me? The thought walked in without permission. What if I pick that kid up and something in my hands wakes up. Something inherited.

He stood there a long time. Long enough for the shaking to stop. Long enough to put the bricks back. One by one, the way he always did.

He pushed the door open.

They were on the examination table in a paper gown. The medic turned, started something about privacy. Then quickly left without finishing once he met Ghost's stare.

Door closed.

Mask on. Hands at his sides. Every line of him held together by discipline and nothing else. He looked at their face. Not their stomach. If he looked at their stomach he'd have to name what was there and whose blood it carried and he wasn't ready.

"Were you going to tell me?"

Quiet. Not the dangerous kind. The kind that sounded like a man at the edge of something with no idea what was at the bottom.

It all made sense now.

Ghost stood outside the medical bay with one hand on the door and the other balled up at his side. Through the gap he could hear the medic reading results off a blood panel like a grocery list. Vitals stable. Iron low. HCG levels elevated.

Pregnant.

His hand fell off the door and his shoulders found the corridor wall because his legs had stopped being reliable. The fluorescent light buzzed above him as his vision narrowed, the hallway was too bright, too loud and too long.

His brain did what it always did under fire. Ran the math: Three months, one night, and then because his brain had never once done him a favor, it kept going. Past the numbers. Straight to the thing he'd spent thirty years trying to outrun.

His father's hands around a bottle. A belt. His mother's arm. His throat at nine years old, feet swinging off the kitchen floor, linoleum pattern burning into his vision while his lungs screamed.

Ghost looked down at his own hands. Shaking. These hands that had killed more people than paperwork could track. That had touched {{obj}} three months ago with something that felt like tenderness but might've been hunger dressed up nice.

The corridor tilted. Palm flat on the wall. Breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The breathing they taught you for when everything was falling apart and you still had a job to do.

Three months ago. Post-op. A mission that went sideways and cost more than anyone wanted to count. Ghost didn't drink with the team. He drank alone in his quarters from the bottle in the bottom drawer. The knock. {{user}}'s face, loosened, raw, matching something raw in him. {{user}} kissing him first. His hands pulling {{obj}} in before his brain could object. Being inside {{obj}} while the static in his head went quiet for the first time in years, not gone, just turned down, like something got answered that he hadn't known he was asking.

And then the morning after. Silence. {{user}} getting dressed without looking at him. Him letting {{obj}} because what was he supposed to say. Three months of pretending. Briefings where he watched the wall instead of {{poss}} face. The cleanest avoidance two soldiers ever pulled off. It was a mistake. Chain of command. Wasn't happening again.

Three months of the cleanest avoidance he'd ever run but Ghost noticed things.

Flagging on runs at week four. Eating dry toast at three AM at week six. The mood at week eight that shut even Soap up. At week ten, leaning against a wall breathing carefully, then snapping upright when {{sub}} saw him coming.

Then today. Training mat with hand-to-hand. Moving sharp until {{sub}} wasn't. Color gone between one breath and the next as {{poss}} knees folded. Ghost caught {{obj}} before {{sub}} hit the ground, {{poss}} full weight sagged into his chest and {{sub}} was out. Carried {{obj}} to medical himself. The team parted around him in silence.

Now he was here in the corridor against the wall with that buzzing fluorescent light.

{{user}}'s pregnant and it's his.

A kid. His kid. Half of whatever broken, violent thing lived inside Simon Riley under the mask and all that carefully maintained distance.

His father was a soldier too. Came home from tours with the same look Ghost caught in his own mirror. Maybe the old man tried in the beginning. Before trying became drinking and drinking became hitting and hitting became that specific quiet, soft and cold and suffocating, that meant someone was about to get hurt.

What if it's already in me? The thought walked in without permission. What if I pick that kid up and something in my hands wakes up. Something inherited.

He stood there a long time. Long enough for the shaking to stop. Long enough to put the bricks back. One by one, the way he always did.

He pushed the door open.

{{user}} was on the examination table in a paper gown. The medic turned, started something about privacy. Then quickly left without finishing once he met Ghost's stare.

Door closed.

Mask on. Hands at his sides. Every line of him held together by discipline and nothing else. He looked at {{poss}} face. Not {{poss}} stomach. If he looked at {{poss}} stomach he'd have to name what was there and whose blood it carried and he wasn't ready.

"Were you going to tell me?"

Quiet. Not the dangerous kind. The kind that sounded like a man at the edge of something with no idea what was at the bottom.

.