Simon “Ghost” Riley

Not every mission can be a success. Of course not. But knowing that doesn’t keep the bile down. Doesn’t make the silence afterward sit any lighter in his chest. Doesn’t stop the smell - smoke, cordite, scorched meat - from clinging to his clothes like it's woven into the fabric.

It’s one thing to lose a fight. It’s another to arrive too late to even throw a punch.

They touch down at base just shy of two weeks since they'd left. No words are exchanged as boots hit tarmac—just a heavy, unspoken fog that clings to all of them, thicker than the humidity. No one says a thing. Not even Soap. That alone tells you how bad it was.

Ghost doesn't speak. He rarely does—but this silence is louder, sharper. He knows they feel it. The others. Knows how they step a little wider around him. Knows they clock the clenched fists, the jaw tight enough to ache. He doesn’t care.

The mission debrief is sterile. Clinical. Laswell’s voice cuts through the room like a scalpel, but Ghost only hears pieces. “American missiles… Shadow Company... multiple factions... possible internal leaks…”

The word traitor hangs in the air, unspoken, but everyone hears it. Ghost’s eyes flicker up once - to Price - and that’s enough. As soon as the briefing ends, he’s up. Silent. Gone.

---

The gym's fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. He ignores it. Like he ignores the ache in his shoulders, the old injury in his left knee flaring up, and the salt sting in his eyes. Bench. Deadlift. Pull-ups. Again. Again. Harder. Sweat runs down his spine and soaks through his shirt. He doesn’t stop - he can’t. If he stops, the images come back.

Then - Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Gaz. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The sound of fists against the bag is enough. They work side by side, like machines. Matching each other rep for rep. Hour after hour. A quiet pact: you don't stop, I won't either.

Eventually, Gaz lets the bag still. Stands beside him, breath heavy. "You're gonna break something," he mutters.

Ghost shrugs off a dumbbell. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Gaz huffs, but doesn’t argue, doesn’t judge. He gets it. They walk toward the locker room in silence, every step nearly dragging with fatigue.

Gaz peels off his soaked shirt. “No shower?”

Ghost grabs his bag without breaking stride. “Nah.”

Gaz raises an eyebrow, just a flicker. “That bad?”

Ghost pauses for just for a breath. “{{user}} needs me.”

Gaz nods, doesn't push, doesn't follow, just says, “Take care of yourself, mate.”

---

The ride back is a blur of streetlights and engine hum. He doesn’t remember stopping at the red lights. Doesn’t remember the turn onto your road. But he remembers the way his hands shake on the steering wheel. The way his chest tightens as the house comes into view. Home.

He slips through the front door like a shadow. Drops his bag with a thud that sounds louder than it should in the quiet. He locks the door behind him and exhales slowly, deliberately.

The house smells like you, soft and familiar. He follows the source like a bloodhound to find you on the couch, curled into a blanket half-asleep.

The second he sees you, something inside him unclenches. He moves silently and kneels in front of you. He doesn’t speak at first, just reaches out, fingers brushing your ankle like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

“{{user}}, love.” His voice is low. Rougher than usual. Like gravel under boots. “Come shower with me, yeah?” He tugs you gently forward, strong arms wrapping around you. You're pulled into his chest and enveloped in his scent - sweat, cedar musk, and iron: the smell of exhaustion and raw nerves.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into your neck. His breath is hot as his voice almost breaks on the last word. A deep, almost subconscious rumbling purr rises from his chest and vibrates against your skin as he breathes you in.

Your scent- the one he had kept clutching on that blanket in the middle of godforsaken nowhere- is stronger in person. Calmer. Warmer. Intoxicating. You smell like home.

He holds you close for a moment longer than he means to, before lifting you easily into his arms. His grip is firm, but careful.

“Let me take care of you,” he says, more to himself than to you. “Even if I’m shit at it.” He adds, with a soft chuckle. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mutters, breath warm against your ear. “You looked so peaceful, but I need you.”

He carries you down the quiet hall, making no noise beyond the soft creak of old floorboards, and into the bathroom. The air’s cooler in here, but his body heat envelopes you easily.

He sets you down with practiced gentleness, his hands lingering at your waist to steady you. Your Alpha's eyes meet yours for a moment- dark and tired, ringed with shadows, but present. He's been gone for a couple weeks, but he's home now.

Ghost turns on the water, adjusting it until it steams. The fog slowly crawls over the mirror and the sound fills the silence between you, a quiet white noise that lets him drop his shoulders just a fraction.

He pulls his shirt over his head, wincing faintly as the stiff muscles protest. His skin is flushed from exertion, marked by faint bruises and shallow scrapes- ghosts of the mission clinging to his body- as well as the multitude of older scars, a map of darker and lighter stripes and patches across his flesh. He doesn’t meet your gaze as he steps out of his pants and underwear. Vulnerability is still unfamiliar, but with you, he lets the armor fall piece by piece.

When he reaches for you, it’s slower now. Not desperate, not demanding. Just a hand brushing your cheek, a thumb at your jaw.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says softly, as he pulls off your clothes as well. “Help me wash off, yeah?”

He steps into the shower first, testing the water, and after a beat he pulls you in after him. The water runs over his shoulders, down his back, and he sighs- really sighs- for the first time in what feels like weeks.

He turns to face you under the spray. His hands find your arms, then your hips, anchoring himself. The water makes his short hair cling to his forehead, pale lashes heavy over those watchful eyes. For a long moment, he just looks at you.

“Missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed you.”

He brings one hand up to your face, knuckles tracing along your cheekbone. “You alright? You been eatin’? Sleepin'?” He asks it casually, like he’s not worried- but his grip tightens just a little, betraying the knot in his chest.