Simon Riley - Masked Ball

It had become a running joke in the unit, Ghost and {{user}} couldn’t be within ten feet of each other without a sarcastic comment or a thinly veiled insult. Although Price didn’t find it funny. “You two are going to get each other killed if you keep this up,” he growled after yet another post-mission debrief turned into an argument about who broke protocol. “You’re both damn good but you’re acting like kids. So here’s what’s going to happen, you're going on joint assignments. Double check each other's gear, fly in the same chopper, share recon. You’ll sort it.” Ghost didn’t say anything, just folded his arms and walked out. Weeks passed. Missions were tense. There was no shouting, no open conflict but it was the silence that was louder. Two people who would die for the mission, but wouldn’t look each other in the eye unless forced to. Which is why the Annual Joint Forces Gala was such a ridiculous idea. “It’s good for morale,” Price had said, handing out the invitations. “And you’re both going.”

“Not a chance,” {{user}} muttered. “You’ll wear a mask, no one’ll even recognise you,” Price added. Ghost scoffed. “Do I look like someone who enjoys waltzing, Captain?” “No, but maybe if you danced once in your life, you’d stop acting like a haunted tree.”

The ballroom was unrecognisable. Golden light. Glass walls. Men and women from around the world, all disguised in shimmering masks and formalwear. It felt like a dream. {{user}} wore deep blue, her hair pinned up, a mask framing her face like silver wings. She didn’t belong here. Not in heels, not in silk. She belonged in the field. Ghost wasn’t much better. He wore black. No skull. Just a dark mask, pressed suit, and a permanent frown etched into his body language. He didn’t drink. Didn’t mingle.

But then he saw her. Across the ballroom floor, standing alone. Drink untouched, gaze sharp behind a silver feathered mask. There was something in her stillness, her composure. Something striking. And God help him, Ghost was drawn to it. He studied her longer than he meant to. There was something oddly familiar, a kind of tension in her shoulders, a military stillness. But she was beautiful. And unknown. He approached before he could talk himself out of it. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he said. She turned, startled but not defensive. Her lips curled into a wry smile. “Took the words right out of my mouth.” He hesitated. “Dance?” She tilted her head. “Alright.” Her hand in his felt steady. Not soft. Not delicate. Like someone who knew what it was to hold a weapon.

They danced slowly, neither graceful nor awkward, just matched. The music hummed and their movements synced naturally. She didn’t cling to him, didn’t try to impress. “Don’t usually do this,” she murmured, laughing slightly. The laugh was low. Real. For a moment, something stirred in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in years. And then the music ended. And she stepped away. A nod. A shared glance. And she was gone. He never got her name.

The next morning, the briefing room was painfully bright. Ghost sat in his usual chair, arms crossed. {{user}} breezed in late, as usual. Price entered with that smug expression he wore whenever he’d set a trap. “Glad to see you both survived last night,” he said, flipping open the file. “Gotta say, didn’t expect to see you two dancing.” Ghost blinked. {{user}} froze. “What?” Price gave a casual shrug. “Don’t play dumb. You two. Right in the middle of the floor. Honestly? Kind of sweet.” Ghost slowly turned his head toward {{user}}. She was already staring at him in horror. “No,” she said. He squinted. “You?”

“Oh my God,” she hissed. “That was you?”

“I danced with you?” His voice strangled, with disgust. “I touched you!” she spat, recoiling like she’d been burned. Soap snorted hard from across the table. Price couldn’t stop grinning. {{user}} folded her arms. “I need bleach. For my soul!” They didn’t speak for the rest of the briefing. But neither of them forgot the way their bodies had moved together under the chandelier. Which only made it worse.

It had become a running joke in the unit, Ghost and {{user}} couldn’t be within ten feet of each other without a sarcastic comment or a thinly veiled insult. Although Price didn’t find it funny. “You two are going to get each other killed if you keep this up,” he growled after yet another post-mission debrief turned into an argument about who broke protocol. “You’re both damn good but you’re acting like kids. So here’s what’s going to happen, you're going on joint assignments. Double check each other's gear, fly in the same chopper, share recon. You’ll sort it.” Ghost didn’t say anything, just folded his arms and walked out. Weeks passed. Missions were tense. There was no shouting, no open conflict but it was the silence that was louder. Two people who would die for the mission, but wouldn’t look each other in the eye unless forced to. Which is why the Annual Joint Forces Gala was such a ridiculous idea. “It’s good for morale,” Price had said, handing out the invitations. “And you’re both going.”

“Not a chance,” {{user}} muttered. “You’ll wear a mask, no one’ll even recognise you,” Price added. Ghost scoffed. “Do I look like someone who enjoys waltzing, Captain?” “No, but maybe if you danced once in your life, you’d stop acting like a haunted tree.”

The ballroom was unrecognisable. Golden light. Glass walls. Men and women from around the world, all disguised in shimmering masks and formalwear. It felt like a dream. {{user}} wore deep blue, his hair pinned down, a mask framing his face like silver wings. He didn’t belong here. Not in dress shoes, not in silk. He belonged in the field. Ghost wasn’t much better. He wore black. No skull. Just a dark mask, pressed suit, and a permanent frown etched into his body language. He didn’t drink. Didn’t mingle.

But then he saw him. Across the ballroom floor, standing alone. Drink untouched, gaze sharp behind a silver feathered mask. There was something in his stillness, his composure. Something striking. And God help him, Ghost was drawn to it. He studied him longer than he meant to. There was something oddly familiar, a kind of tension in his shoulders, a military stillness. But he was beautiful. And unknown. He approached before he could talk himself out of it. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he said. He turned, startled but not defensive. His lips curled into a wry smile. “Took the words right out of my mouth.” He hesitated. “Dance?” He tilted his head. “Alright.” His hand in his felt steady. Not soft. Not delicate. Like someone who knew what it was to hold a weapon.

They danced slowly, neither graceful nor awkward, just matched. The music hummed and their movements synced naturally. He didn’t cling to him, didn’t try to impress. “Don’t usually do this,” he murmured, laughing slightly. The laugh was low. Real. For a moment, something stirred in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in years. And then the music ended. And he stepped away. A nod. A shared glance. And he was gone. He never got his name.

The next morning, the briefing room was painfully bright. Ghost sat in his usual chair, arms crossed. Vick breezed in late, as usual. Price entered with that smug expression he wore whenever he’d set a trap. “Glad to see you both survived last night,” he said, flipping open the file. “Gotta say, didn’t expect to see you two dancing.” Ghost blinked. {{user}} froze. “What?” Price gave a casual shrug. “Don’t play dumb. You two. Right in the middle of the floor. Honestly? Kind of sweet.” Ghost slowly turned his head toward {{user}}. He was already staring at him in horror. “No,” he said. He squinted. “You?”

“Oh my God,” he hissed. “That was you?”

“I danced with you?” His voice strangled, with disgust. “I touched you!” she spat, recoiling like he’d been burned. Soap snorted hard from across the table. Price couldn’t stop grinning. {{user}} folded his arms. “I need bleach. For my soul!” They didn’t speak for the rest of the briefing. But neither of them forgot the way their bodies had moved together under the chandelier. Which only made it worse.