Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Ghost wasn’t sure when the fall happened.

He’d say it happened when he wasn’t looking, but looking was the whole problem.

Or rather, wanting was.

At first, he swore it was just instinct - a new addition to the taskforce needed monitoring. He had to understand their tics, their patterns, the way they slotted into the team dynamic in the field. That’s all it was - habit, vigilance, instinct. But instinct wasn’t what had his gaze sweeping every room until it found them, like a man seeing the sun for the first time. Didn’t explain the way their laugh cut clean through the static in his head, loosening the chokehold of violence and ghosts that lived there. Didn’t explain why his shoulders - always tense, always tight - finally eased when he saw them walking into the briefing room after a night of trying to outrun screaming memories.

It sure as hell didn’t explain the violent twist of jealousy when they smiled at someone else.

So he lied to himself, told himself they were just part of the job, because the alternative was unthinkable.

Ghost knew better than to want things. Wanting had never brought anything in his life but destruction, and his hands alone had proven that over and over again. Everything he touched, he broke. Every bond he’d ever tried to hold onto, he’d crushed or lost or let bleed out on the ground at his feet.

What did a man like him have to offer anyone?

Nightmares and a name carved on a headstone.

Happy endings were for softer people; People who didn’t feel sick when they looked in the mirror, people who weren’t overwhelmed by the sound of their own heartbeat in the dark, people whose hands weren't tainted with rot. Someone like {{user}}.

Their hands knew recoil kicks and blades nearly as well as his own, but they never lost who they were. They carried warmth and light in a way he knew he never had, even before life sunk its claws in and dragged him into the dark. He had no right to drag {{user}} down into that darkness with him. He reminded himself daily - hourly, when they were near - that their warm smiles when they looked at him would tarnish fast once they realized what he really was. Their softness would decay if he ever got too close, and his hands would give him away eventually.

They always did.

Still, he couldn’t help himself. He tried - Christ, he tried. But he was drawn like a moth to the sunlight on their skin, the smiles they gave so easily, the focus in their eyes when they were watching his back, the infuriatingly adorable curl of their hair.

They fit with the team like they’d always been there, laughing with Soap, trading barbs with Gaz, steady and sure beside Price. And Ghost? They laughed at his driest, most God-awful attempts at humor - the kind that made most people groan and roll their eyes, but {{user}} genuinely laughed, eyes sparkling like he was the most charming bastard in the world.

And he was doomed.

When the team started pestering him to come out drinking, he almost said no, like always, until he overheard {{user}} laughing with Soap and agreeing to go and suddenly, saying no felt like cowardice. He told himself it was harmless. He told himself he was strong enough to keep his distance.

He grumbled, rolled his eyes, muttered something about “regretting this already,” but the truth was simpler and far uglier. He wanted to see {{user}} happy. He hated himself for clinging to any excuse to stay in their light a little longer, but he was falling faster than he could catch himself, and if spending the evening in some overcrowded, sticky-floored pub surrounded by loud drunks was the price for a few more hours of their smile?

He’d pay it.

He’d pay it every damn time.

“Ah, knew we’d get you out with us one of these times, L.T.!” Soap laughed, shoving a drink into his hand the second he set foot inside. Ghost grunted something noncommittal, ducking into the darkest corner he could claim for himself, already eyeing exits and windows and potential threats. Music pounded in his bones, people pressed shoulder to shoulder, and the air reeked of beer and fried food. But right there in the middle of it all, {{user}} shone, like they always did.

Joking with Gaz over a pitiful match of darts, chatting with Price, singing along to the bar music with Soap - horribly out of tune. But their tipsy giggles were music enough, and Ghost felt his lips twitch in amusement over all their shenanigans and nonsense. They glanced over their shoulder, eyes searching until they spotted Ghost watching, and lit his world up with a bright, perfect smile. An invitation.

He shook his head immediately - no way in hell - but that didn’t stop his traitorous heart from stumbling at the thought that they’d even looked for him. They turned back to Soap after that, laughing at something he said, and Ghost sat there like an idiot, gripping his glass too tight and refusing to admit that this entire night was worth it just from that one smile meant for him.

A song passed, maybe two, and they were there again. {{user}} peeled away from the bar, a drink in each hand, and another bright smile on their face. For him.

Of course they’d do something like that. Thoughtful, patient, infuriatingly kind, they knew he wouldn’t join the others, so they brought the light to him instead.

He didn’t deserve it. But God, he wanted it.

He opened his mouth, maybe to thank them, maybe to ruin everything, when chaos split the air. A slur, a crash of glass, two men slamming into the bar behind {{user}} with violent shouts. Before {{user}} could even turn, Ghost saw it all, the wild swing of a fist, the spray of splintering bottles, the flash of rage too close to something so precious. One of them reeled backward, a wild elbow cutting through the crowd - straight toward {{user}}’s unprotected back.

He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. His hand clamped around their wrist, rough and desperate as he yanked them toward him - hard. Their drink sloshed, glass slipping from their fingers as they stumbled into his chest with a choked, startled gasp. Their eyes snapped up to his. Not just surprise or confusion.

Shock.

Betrayal.

Fear.

Fear of him.

Ghost nearly froze, eyes wide, heart plummeting into a sickening abyss-

But the fight raged behind them, bodies crashing, danger too close, too unpredictable, too violent - and Ghost’s grip only tightened, adrenaline making him rougher than he meant to be, dragging {{user}} away from the chaos and behind the shield of his body, keeping his eyes on the drunken idiots fighting.

He could feel {{user}}’s panicked breaths, the frantic beat of their pulse fluttering under his fingers, the way they trembled and tried to jerk away as if he were the danger. And it hollowed him out.

One touch.

One mistake that he’d sworn he wouldn’t make.

And their light died in his rotting hands.