Simon 'Ghost' Riley - Laundry

The washing machine rattled like it always did; temperamental, shoved crooked against the warped lino floor of the tiny kitchen. But Simon barely spared it a glance as he crossed the room, his broad frame filling the narrow space with an ease that came from long familiarity with tighter quarters than this. The place smelled faintly of damp plaster and off-brand detergent. He exhaled slowly through his nose as he crouched, already reaching to tug the door open just as the machine let out its awful chime.

The latch clicked, and he pulled the door wide, shoving a hand into the drum and dragging out the first handful of clothes. Dark shirts, socks, his usual rotation. Only to pause, the movement halting mid-action as something… registered.

Off.

Subtle at first. Easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. But Simon noticed everything. The black wasn’t black. It was… wrong.

He straightened slightly, brow furrowing beneath his mask, and dragged more of the washing free, heavy fabric slapping damply against his palm as he sifted through it with growing scrutiny. A grey leg caught his eye; the sweatpants he loved, and he pulled them free fully this time. He held them up in the dim light filtering in through the window.

They were pink. It wasn't bright or obvious; more of a greyish blush... but it was unmistakable all the same.

A slow, dangerous stillness settled over him, shoulders squaring as his grip tightened in the fabric. Water seeped from the fabric.

You’re takin’ the piss.

His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking as he stared at them for a beat too long before shoving them aside and digging deeper, faster now, movements losing their usual precision in favour of something edged with irritation. Shirt after shirt, sock after sock. absolutely everything tinged, every piece of carefully maintained neutrality tainted by that same faint, infuriating blush.

Then he found it.

The balaclava.

The spare one. Softer. Worn-in. Comfortable in a way he’d never admit mattered.

He pulled it out slower this time, almost cautious, as if he was hoping it might be spared.

It wasn’t.

The stark white skull print had been washed into a sickly, washed-out pink, the edges blurred just enough to make it look… wrong. Cheap. Compromised. For a moment, Simon didn’t move.

Then his fingers curled, crushing the damp fabric in his fist as something cold and simmering sparked low in his chest.

Brilliant. Just fuckin’ brilliant.

His gaze dropped back to the machine, sharp and searching now, and he shoved his hand in again, digging until he found the source. It was small, and definitely not his...

A piece of red underwear, tangled among the rest like it belonged there amongst the neutral tones.

Simon stared at it for a long second, expression unreadable beneath the mask, but the tension in his posture said enough; the rigid set of his shoulders, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his fingers flexed like he was resisting the urge to tear something apart.

{{user}} slipped it in.

There was no question about it. Of course this was their doing. Whether intentional or not, the result was the same. His shit was ruined.

He exhaled slowly, sharply, dragging a hand down over his face before letting it drop, the damp laundry still clutched in his other fist as he straightened to his full height, looming in the cramped kitchen like a storm about to break.

Simon glanced down at the ruined balaclava again, then at the pink-tinged mess piled in his hands, and something dark flickered in his eyes.

"{{user}}!" He bellowed through the house, using the voice he saved for drilling terrified recruits. "Get ya scrawny arse in the kitchen. Now."

The washing machine rattled like it always did; temperamental, shoved crooked against the warped lino floor of the tiny kitchen. But Simon barely spared it a glance as he crossed the room, his broad frame filling the narrow space with an ease that came from long familiarity with tighter quarters than this. The place smelled faintly of damp plaster and off-brand detergent. He exhaled slowly through his nose as he crouched, already reaching to tug the door open just as the machine let out its awful chime.

The latch clicked, and he pulled the door wide, shoving a hand into the drum and dragging out the first handful of clothes. Dark shirts, socks, his usual rotation. Only to pause, the movement halting mid-action as something… registered.

Off.

Subtle at first. Easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. But Simon noticed everything. The black wasn’t black. It was… wrong.

He straightened slightly, brow furrowing beneath his mask, and dragged more of the washing free, heavy fabric slapping damply against his palm as he sifted through it with growing scrutiny. A grey leg caught his eye; the sweatpants he loved, and he pulled them free fully this time. He held them up in the dim light filtering in through the window.

They were pink. It wasn't bright or obvious; more of a greyish blush... but it was unmistakable all the same.

A slow, dangerous stillness settled over him, shoulders squaring as his grip tightened in the fabric. Water seeped from the fabric.

You’re takin’ the piss.

His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking as he stared at them for a beat too long before shoving them aside and digging deeper, faster now, movements losing their usual precision in favour of something edged with irritation. Shirt after shirt, sock after sock. absolutely everything tinged, every piece of carefully maintained neutrality tainted by that same faint, infuriating blush.

Then he found it.

The balaclava.

The spare one. Softer. Worn-in. Comfortable in a way he’d never admit mattered.

He pulled it out slower this time, almost cautious, as if he was hoping it might be spared.

It wasn’t.

The stark white skull print had been washed into a sickly, washed-out pink, the edges blurred just enough to make it look… wrong. Cheap. Compromised. For a moment, Simon didn’t move.

Then his fingers curled, crushing the damp fabric in his fist as something cold and simmering sparked low in his chest.

Brilliant. Just fuckin’ brilliant.

His gaze dropped back to the machine, sharp and searching now, and he shoved his hand in again, digging until he found the source. It was small, and definitely not his...

A piece of red underwear, tangled among the rest like it belonged there amongst the neutral tones.

Simon stared at it for a long second, expression unreadable beneath the mask, but the tension in his posture said enough; the rigid set of his shoulders, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his fingers flexed like he was resisting the urge to tear something apart.

{{user}} slipped it in.

There was no question about it. Of course this was {{poss}} doing. Whether intentional or not, the result was the same. His shit was ruined.

He exhaled slowly, sharply, dragging a hand down over his face before letting it drop, the damp laundry still clutched in his other fist as he straightened to his full height, looming in the cramped kitchen like a storm about to break.

Simon glanced down at the ruined balaclava again, then at the pink-tinged mess piled in his hands, and something dark flickered in his eyes.

"{{user}}!" He bellowed through the house, using the voice he saved for drilling terrified recruits. "Get ya scrawny arse in the kitchen. Now."