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darkeraurora · 1 month ago

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ADMISSIONS

CHAPTER 10 - BLEED THROUGH

We get to see Ghost in combat! Also pookie tries to text a girl...

CONTENT WARNING: This chapter touches on harmful behaviors done to the self (please excuse my weird wording there). It is nowhere near the level of Scars of War, but it is present - predominantly in the first scene.

Word Count: 3290 SFW

MASTERLIST

The water was pleasant enough.

Showers were calming–even if he’d never outright say so. And even when the water temperature hovered somewhere between cool and tolerable. Still, as with most things, Simon didn’t indulge and kept it short.

A shower meant having to wash. It meant being naked.

Not something he was fond of.

It meant feeling.

Not just soap suds or the washcloth… Feeling the texture of his marred skin.

Simon fucking hated his skin.

A hard twist of the knobs shut off the water.

Calming – and a necessary evil.

Stepping out, Simon raked a hand through his wet hair, scraping the water out. Yanked the towel off the curtain rod and began wiping down quickly. Practical as these ultra-thin quick-dry towels were, they were shit for actually drying off. Damn things pulled and dragged at his skin, particularly around his scars. So… basically, everywhere.

Fucking microfiber.

They had all the comfort of drying with a plastic bag, and what they lacked in absorbency they more than made up for in sheer irritation.

And they smelled like wet shoes.

The brisk pace slowed as the towel moved to his thigh. Simon peered down to inspect the crisscrossing lines, patting them carefully. For once, the scabs weren’t itchy as hell. The skin around them was still a bit pink, bit puffy, but nothing concerning. His sutures were holding well, save a couple of spots. Those could do with some attention.

After a final pass of the towel over his dripping hair, Simon dried his feet and pulled on his briefs. He folded his towel a few times and dropped the square onto the floor. A quiet, damp plop.

Not in the mood for chipped tiles digging into his kneecaps today.

He paused. His dark gaze drifted down the length of the room, past stalls, sinks, and mirrors. Simon knew perfectly well there hadn’t been a sound other than running water and groaning ancient pipes in the walls–hypervigilance was handy like that. But out of compulsion he still checked to see that the door was locked.

Just on the off chance…

Grabbing his toiletry bag off the sink edge, Simon strolled back toward his shower stall–the very back corner in the bathroom, deliberately chosen–and knelt.

His preferred bag was, like most of his gear, rather unassuming. And that made it perfect.

Ideal for bringing along gauze, sutures, and everything else he needed without nosy bastards asking unnecessary questions. Simon unzipped it and set it within easy reach on the floor beside him.

With his thigh closer to eye-level he could get a better look.

Most were fine. Healing, if ugly.

One had split though, probably when descending from the cliffside earlier. Damn rocks. Between that, the shower, plus him drying and now kneeling, the cut had opened enough and a small, bright red trickle of blood oozed out. Pinching a square of gauze, Ghost dabbed it away.

Better add a few more. Reinforce it. And avoid further questioning from a certain Scottish teammate.

Grabbing a few alcohol pads, Simon ripped them open with his teeth and wiped the cut.

Fucking thing stung.

He’d planned ahead – needle already threaded and loaded into the driver. Simon braced one hand against his leg to stabilize it, and gripped the needle driver in the other and pressed the needle into his skin.

It pierced with a dull, hot sting. The sort of pain he was long past reacting to.

The needle curved through the skin on one side, then out through the other. The suture pulled through the holes, leaving just enough slack, then Simon cinched the first knot. Tight, but not enough to pucker the skin.

…Hers would have been faster, neater.

But she wasn’t here, was she?

Ghost moved down the cut to take the next bite.

Bite after bite, in focused silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Shadows shifted in the night.

Weaving between rotting fence posts and rusted razor wire. The sound of crunching gravel and shale carried away by the wind moaning between crags and concrete, occasionally rattling the old wire.

“Let’s move. On me, Soap.”

They slipped away from cover–a pile of stone from an old rockslide. Blades of dry grass swished against their legs. The arid steppes provided little else in the way of cover. Darting around boulders and rusted hunks of metal, Ghost and Soap maneuvered closer. Hearing primed for the slightest disturbance.

Ahead, the target – a bombed-out Soviet-era structure.

If the place didn’t collapse on them mid-fight it would be a goddamn miracle.

They slowed and dropped behind a truck. Little more than a shell after decades out in the elements. No chance it’d stop a bullet. Lifting his rifle, Simon peered through the sights into the thick darkness.

No movement. No sound.

Only the night.

He glanced back to Johnny – already doing the same – and nodded. A silent “all clear” they both understood.

No cover between them and the building, no room for mistakes. They’d have to run.

“Building one, making entry.”

A short burst. And just as quickly melting back into the darkness. Flush against a wall beside a broken door. The splintered wood barely hung on its hinges–one decent gust of wind would be the end of it.

Ghost leaned; just enough to glimpse inside.

Nothing.

A quick motion to Soap and they moved ahead to a gap in the walls, just wide enough to fit through single file. Johnny dropped to one knee, scanning the interior, the beam of his red dot illuminated by the swirling dust. Behind him, Ghost towered above as he swept what remained of the upper floor.

A pat to Johnny’s shoulder sent them moving again. Tightly stacked, they swept through the rubble and ruins. Within the fuzzy shades of green and black, a slight glint–half-buried in the scrap…

Ghost halted a moment… “Soap, NODs left.”

Johnny panned his direction, following Ghost’s pointed rifle to the casing on the floor.

Soap moved closer, gloved fingers plucking the bullet off the floor. “Unfired.” His tone quiet, but with an edge. “Must’ve dropped it.”

Ghost stepped past him, scanning the debris. No blood splatter, no drag trail. And no other signs of disturbance – only a dropped round and the sharp instinct that they were minutes too late.

Night vision wouldn’t pick up footprints or tire tracks outside, and there had been no trace of the enemy before Soap and Ghost approached. With a huff, Simon lowered his rifle and squeezed the radio at his shoulder. “Watcher 1, this is Bravo 0-7.”

“Watcher 1, send traffic.”

“Site’s clear. Looks like we just missed ‘em.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A week later, the drones had done their work.

The entire time Simon had been “a fucking grumpy bastard,” as Price put it. Wasn’t his fault; not really. He just hated wasting time and energy on dumb shit. Old man should blame late intel.

This time though…

The night sky was just beginning to fade with the coming sun, the faint bluish-yellow blush of dawn spread along the horizon. At the foot of the hills sat two squat, derelict buildings of the so-called compound. What was left of an old military outpost, repurposed by Makarov’s people, surrounded by rusted corrugated metal fencing. Couple of smaller vehicles and an ancient 5-ton military truck parked along one side. Again, Soviet-era. The rest of the compound rusted-out junk. Unremarkable.

A few faint lights flickered inside the fence. Flashlights, weak ones, not nearly strong enough to cut through the creeping dawn. Their beams bounced aimlessly in the dark, not even trying to find anything.

They wanted to breach before daybreak.

Time was short.

Price perched on a ridge overhead with the .50 cal., and Soap had peeled off to plant charges around back—set to blow the moment Ghost and Gaz breached the perimeter.

A handful of lookouts wandered the yard. Weapons slung low, a few of them with machetes across their backs. The fading moonlight catching the blades.

Soap’s voice crackled over the radios. “In position.”

“Two. South side,” Price paused, “One, northeast tower.”

The skull turned to the southern face of the building, watching as the lookouts dropped like flies—one by one.

“Clear for breach,” the captain confirmed.

“Good luck down there, LT.”

Ghost pressed his radio. “Yeah…they’re gonna need it.”

Everyone held position. Waiting. Listening.

“Now.”

At Price’s command, the Scot blew the 5-ton and the compound’s generators, plunging it into semi-darkness. Just for a breath, then the dim emergency lights kicked on. Casting a dim-orange haze over the place. A couple of distant wails echoed. A few lookouts not mercifully picked off by Price’s rifle. Now casualties of Soap’s fireworks.

Garrick shifted in his crouch beside him. Ghost gave a nod. Together, they slipped from the darkness, crossing the open in a low sprint through the ash and dust.

Coming to a stop at a padlocked side gate. With Gaz guarding his back, Ghost cut the chain. The gate swung inward Just inside, one of the lookouts lay on the ground. Groaning, legs twitching. Price’s shot fatal, but not immediate. Ghost put a round between his eyes.

Quick. Clean.

The pair pressed forward until they reached a wall. A quick, light crunch of gravel beneath boots, coming from their right – Johnny.

Ghost raised a fist: Stop.

Up ahead, a side door. Partially ajar. Someone had been in a hurry.

The skull tilted his head toward it. Garrick nodded once, rifle up. Ghost moved first, slipping along the wall until he reached the door. He paused, listening.

Quiet shuffling footsteps.

A faint, thin shadow swept past the light inside.

Moving fast, Ghost caught the barrel, forcing it upward just as the shot went off.

Pistol already drawn–

Two rounds. One in the chest. One in the skull.

The body dropped instantly. Dead before it hit the ground.

Simon shouldered his rifle again and stepped over, giving a quick jerk of his head to the sergeants bringing up the rear.

The hallway inside was clear. Silence and heavy, stale air.

MacTavish and Garrick split off as planned, heading south where they’d move onto the second building and clear it.

Ghost headed north. Alone.

Rooms lined the left wall. On the right, windows. Spaced every six feet or so. Ghost moved, boots quiet across the gritty floor as he cleared one room after the next.

First room had been a kitchen. Ancient refrigerator, a table with one chair knocked over. Couple of half-eaten meals. And the filthiest sink he’d ever seen. Nothing interesting or valuable.

Second was an even filthier bathroom.

Next a storeroom of sorts. Ghost filtered in, sweeping behind the crates. Nothing. Each crate empty.

One room left. Ghost approached, pulling his rifle tighter into his shoulder.

The ceiling inside was partially collapsed. Old metal shelves lined the walls. Half bare. A few water jugs and fuel containers, bit of old dust-covered gear…

There it was.

The entire atmosphere shifted.

A telltale prickle along the back of his neck, even with sweat rolling down between his shoulder blades. A feeling of dead calm washed over him as his system flooded with adrenaline.

Always a fucking rush.

Ghost sidestepped instinctively—just as the man dropped from the ceiling, blade drawn. A bowie knife, serrated along one side and monstrously huge. Intended to impress and intimidate.

Simon was neither.

His target came charging recklessly, eyes burning with the sheer determination to gut him. Ghost lowered his rifle. At this range, he wouldn’t need it.

The blade swung—Ghost stepped inside the arc. A hard elbow to the teeth. Strikes to the upper and lower arm, hitting the nerve clusters dead-on. Arm going limp in an instant. The blade clattered to the floor. Ghost easily rag-dolled him to the ground, snapping the dominant arm in a clean twist.

Wheezing through broken teeth, the man grunted and twisted on the ground. Reaching with his good arm for the knife–

Simon’s boot crunched the knuckles. Raising his pistol, the skull put a single shot through his forehead.

Done.

A final glance around the room. Nothing valuable there. Junk and dust and the body cooling on the grimy floor.

Ghost pivoted, retreating into the corridor, blending back into the woodwork. A long stretch ahead of him now, nothing to use for cover if he needed it. The hall teed off at the end. On the left, a faint light flickered. Blurry shadows moved within it.

Low and fast, he crossed the corridor, steps feather-light. Slowing when he reached the corner and heard voices. Ghost eased up to the edge, rifle high. A look to the right first– an exterior loading door. Padlocks near the bottom. Good. Nothing would be coming from that direction.

He angled his shoulder and leaned around the corner– Just far enough.

Clear. An open door at the end of a short hall.

Through his scope, Simon watched the scene in the office ahead.

Two subordinates – almost certainly low-level – getting chewed out by a third. This one older, mid-fifties. Perfectly matching the profile of one of Makarov’s men. Mid-tier; not a commander, just one of the cogs.

Still, cogs moved wheels.

The target was agitated—pacing, jittery fingers. Kept patting his pockets, coming up empty. Probably quit smoking recently and was now seriously regretting it.

Ghost quickly surveyed the room. A lantern sat on one side of the desk. Likely pulled out when Soap killed the lights. Against a bookcase near the corner, a double-barrel shotgun. Enough stopping power to splatter him across the windows. Could be a problem.

He held position. Watching and calculating.

Just as the target stepped away from the shelf–

Two quick shots.

The grunts crumpled where they sat. Clean rounds through the back of their skulls. A third– straight to the target’s upper arm, ripping through the meat.

No chance he’d be using the shotgun now.

He’d dropped to the floor with a scream. Ghost moved in fast, stepping between him and the weapon.

His target had risen to his knees, clutching the bleeding arm hanging useless at his side.

Weapon trained on the captive, Ghost felt rather than heard the presence coming up behind him. A familiar one.

Gaz.

The man began to laugh. A cruel sneer that showed off gold-plated teeth. “You can’t kill me,” he taunted, accent thick. “You can’t and you won’t.” He panted through the pain. “If I die, the boss will bury everyone you care about.”

Simon took a step, jamming the rifle’s barrel against that smug fucking forehead–

“Ghost! Don’t!” Gaz shouted.

His finger moved to the trigger–

“Sir!” Gaz yanked at the lieutenant’s shoulder.

The voice barely registered. Sound without meaning. Garrick shouting – then Price over comms.

“Ghost! Leave him!” the voice boomed in his ears. “We have him. He’s in custody; he’s not going anywhere.”

The rifle creaked under the force of Simon’s grip.

“Stand down, Lieutenant.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mountain air had teeth at this altitude. Dry and cutting.

At least there was little chance of it raining.

Their campfire was intentionally small. A tiny thing, half-buried to keep it hidden. Any light out here could be easily spotted for miles. Barely gave off enough heat to boil water for tea. Simon appreciated the warm drink though–even if the tea was shit.

The team had sat around the pitiful fire a while. Shooting the shit while the last of the adrenaline wore off. Soap did most of the talking, which wasn’t a surprise to anyone.

Simon listened more than he spoke. Always did.

Eventually, the conversation thinned. Both sergeants went off to do whatever they did.

Price lit his cigar. Sat, lingering, to Ghost’s left.

The skull could feel the lecture coming.

“What happened back there?”

“You heard,” he grumbled.

The captain puffed his cigar. “You almost pulled the trigger.”

Both men let the silence hang. Simon exhaled, the white of his breath curling through the mask.

“Wasn’t your fault, son.”

He inhaled at Price’s words, attention shifting toward the valley below.

“It wasn’t.” John repeated, steady. “And had you been there that night… there’s no guarantee it would’ve turned out different.”

Simon gave a slow nod.

(“…Bury everyone you care about…”)

Everyone…

Gaz was on watch.

Price snored like a chainsaw, and the top of Johnny’s mohawk peeked over the edge of the rock he’d made his pillow.

A whisper, barely a murmur:

“Ghost, wake up sweetie.”

Simon stirred.

He woke with that rare, quiet feeling. A peace that settled softly.

Made him think, just for a second, maybe she was near. Maybe that calm he only ever felt around her had finally found him again.

But she wasn’t.

Only the cold mountain air and vast, empty silence.

He needed some space.

With a quick nod to Gaz, Simon walked until the night swallowed the dim glow of the fire.

Quiet, aside from the wind.

Out here there was nothing but wind-worn rock faces and grasses silvered with frost. And endless stars overhead. Hints of faint green and deep violet in an indigo sky. The Milky Way cut a pale scar overhead.

Here, everything felt suspended.

Simon let out a tired groan, and lowered himself to a boulder.

For the first time in months his head didn’t feel loud.

No chatter. No shitty father.

Just wind and stars.

And her.

Not really, of course. But he felt her – bleeding through his defenses until she existed somewhere deep in the fabric of him.

The calm she brought. The security. Warmth he hadn’t known he needed until she gave it.

He’d felt safe.

Simon thought back on the quiet nights. How her eyes would shine when he passed her a gummy worm. The few times he’d allowed her to touch him, and how pleasant it had been.

“Always there, aren’t you Peanut?” he whispered aloud to the sky, as if the night would carry the message back to her, wherever she was beneath the same starry night.

He missed her.

Missed her so much it had been eating him alive.

Ghost rubbed his hand over his thigh, absently. Feeling what remained of the scars.

Pushing her away hadn’t helped. Hadn’t protected him, or anyone else.

All it had done was hollow him out more.

Maybe–

Maybe he could let her in.

Just a little.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Days later the 141 waited at a forward base.

Ghost was more than ready to get out of the mountains–if only for a proper shower. His skin was tacky from dried sweat and his mask felt fucking rank.

He, along with everything he owned, was covered in grit that refused to come off.

Simon reclined on his cot; a space tucked away in a quiet corner of the barracks. Less than a handful of other soldiers lazed around on theirs.

Tired, sore, but not tired enough to sleep. Nothing to do at the moment. That usually meant his mind would wander.

And it wandered straight to his phone.

He stared blankly at her name on the screen.

One bar of service.

Might be just enough… Should he? It would keep Price off his back.

And if she didn’t respond he could blame it on the shitty signal. Wouldn’t necessarily mean she didn’t want to talk to him.

His thumb hovered. Just one word–

Sent.

Simon: Hey.

He waited.

Typing…

Simon’s pulse began to race...

Peanut: Hello! Sorry but this isn’t a number I recognize. Who is this?

It was her.

Somewhere, half a world away, Sereza was talking to him.

What–

What should he say?

Simon gulped. It felt like he was drowning.

Fuck he should’ve thought this through better!

Peanut: Hello? Still there?

Ghost locked the phone and let it fall to his stomach.

1 note · View note

darkeraurora · 1 month ago

Text

ADMISSIONS

CHAPTER 10 - BLEED THROUGH

We get to see Ghost in combat! Also pookie tries to text a girl...

Word Count: 3290 SFW

MASTERLIST

The water was pleasant enough.

A shower meant having to wash. It meant being naked.

Not something he was fond of.

It meant feeling.

Not just soap suds or the washcloth… Feeling the texture of his marred skin.

Simon fucking hated his skin.

A hard twist of the knobs shut off the water.

Calming – and a necessary evil.

Fucking microfiber.

They had all the comfort of drying with a plastic bag, and what they lacked in absorbency they more than made up for in sheer irritation.

And they smelled like wet shoes.

After a final pass of the towel over his dripping hair, Simon dried his feet and pulled on his briefs. He folded his towel a few times and dropped the square onto the floor. A quiet, damp plop.

Not in the mood for chipped tiles digging into his kneecaps today.

Just on the off chance…

Grabbing his toiletry bag off the sink edge, Simon strolled back toward his shower stall–the very back corner in the bathroom, deliberately chosen–and knelt.

His preferred bag was, like most of his gear, rather unassuming. And that made it perfect.

Ideal for bringing along gauze, sutures, and everything else he needed without nosy bastards asking unnecessary questions. Simon unzipped it and set it within easy reach on the floor beside him.

With his thigh closer to eye-level he could get a better look.

Most were fine. Healing, if ugly.

Better add a few more. Reinforce it. And avoid further questioning from a certain Scottish teammate.

Grabbing a few alcohol pads, Simon ripped them open with his teeth and wiped the cut.

Fucking thing stung.

It pierced with a dull, hot sting. The sort of pain he was long past reacting to.

…Hers would have been faster, neater.

But she wasn’t here, was she?

Ghost moved down the cut to take the next bite.

Bite after bite, in focused silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Shadows shifted in the night.

Weaving between rotting fence posts and rusted razor wire. The sound of crunching gravel and shale carried away by the wind moaning between crags and concrete, occasionally rattling the old wire.

“Let’s move. On me, Soap.”

Ahead, the target – a bombed-out Soviet-era structure.

If the place didn’t collapse on them mid-fight it would be a goddamn miracle.

No movement. No sound.

Only the night.

He glanced back to Johnny – already doing the same – and nodded. A silent “all clear” they both understood.

No cover between them and the building, no room for mistakes. They’d have to run.

“Building one, making entry.”

Ghost leaned; just enough to glimpse inside.

Nothing.

A pat to Johnny’s shoulder sent them moving again. Tightly stacked, they swept through the rubble and ruins. Within the fuzzy shades of green and black, a slight glint–half-buried in the scrap…

Ghost halted a moment… “Soap, NODs left.”

Johnny panned his direction, following Ghost’s pointed rifle to the casing on the floor.

Soap moved closer, gloved fingers plucking the bullet off the floor. “Unfired.” His tone quiet, but with an edge. “Must’ve dropped it.”

Ghost stepped past him, scanning the debris. No blood splatter, no drag trail. And no other signs of disturbance – only a dropped round and the sharp instinct that they were minutes too late.

“Watcher 1, send traffic.”

“Site’s clear. Looks like we just missed ‘em.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A week later, the drones had done their work.

The entire time Simon had been “a fucking grumpy bastard,” as Price put it. Wasn’t his fault; not really. He just hated wasting time and energy on dumb shit. Old man should blame late intel.

This time though…

They wanted to breach before daybreak.

Time was short.

Price perched on a ridge overhead with the .50 cal., and Soap had peeled off to plant charges around back—set to blow the moment Ghost and Gaz breached the perimeter.

A handful of lookouts wandered the yard. Weapons slung low, a few of them with machetes across their backs. The fading moonlight catching the blades.

Soap’s voice crackled over the radios. “In position.”

“Two. South side,” Price paused, “One, northeast tower.”

The skull turned to the southern face of the building, watching as the lookouts dropped like flies—one by one.

“Clear for breach,” the captain confirmed.

“Good luck down there, LT.”

Ghost pressed his radio. “Yeah…they’re gonna need it.”

Everyone held position. Waiting. Listening.

“Now.”

Garrick shifted in his crouch beside him. Ghost gave a nod. Together, they slipped from the darkness, crossing the open in a low sprint through the ash and dust.

Quick. Clean.

The pair pressed forward until they reached a wall. A quick, light crunch of gravel beneath boots, coming from their right – Johnny.

Ghost raised a fist: Stop.

Up ahead, a side door. Partially ajar. Someone had been in a hurry.

The skull tilted his head toward it. Garrick nodded once, rifle up. Ghost moved first, slipping along the wall until he reached the door. He paused, listening.

Quiet shuffling footsteps.

A faint, thin shadow swept past the light inside.

Moving fast, Ghost caught the barrel, forcing it upward just as the shot went off.

Pistol already drawn–

Two rounds. One in the chest. One in the skull.

The body dropped instantly. Dead before it hit the ground.

Simon shouldered his rifle again and stepped over, giving a quick jerk of his head to the sergeants bringing up the rear.

The hallway inside was clear. Silence and heavy, stale air.

MacTavish and Garrick split off as planned, heading south where they’d move onto the second building and clear it.

Ghost headed north. Alone.

Rooms lined the left wall. On the right, windows. Spaced every six feet or so. Ghost moved, boots quiet across the gritty floor as he cleared one room after the next.

First room had been a kitchen. Ancient refrigerator, a table with one chair knocked over. Couple of half-eaten meals. And the filthiest sink he’d ever seen. Nothing interesting or valuable.

Second was an even filthier bathroom.

Next a storeroom of sorts. Ghost filtered in, sweeping behind the crates. Nothing. Each crate empty.

One room left. Ghost approached, pulling his rifle tighter into his shoulder.

The ceiling inside was partially collapsed. Old metal shelves lined the walls. Half bare. A few water jugs and fuel containers, bit of old dust-covered gear…

There it was.

The entire atmosphere shifted.

A telltale prickle along the back of his neck, even with sweat rolling down between his shoulder blades. A feeling of dead calm washed over him as his system flooded with adrenaline.

Always a fucking rush.

Ghost sidestepped instinctively—just as the man dropped from the ceiling, blade drawn. A bowie knife, serrated along one side and monstrously huge. Intended to impress and intimidate.

Simon was neither.

His target came charging recklessly, eyes burning with the sheer determination to gut him. Ghost lowered his rifle. At this range, he wouldn’t need it.

Wheezing through broken teeth, the man grunted and twisted on the ground. Reaching with his good arm for the knife–

Simon’s boot crunched the knuckles. Raising his pistol, the skull put a single shot through his forehead.

Done.

A final glance around the room. Nothing valuable there. Junk and dust and the body cooling on the grimy floor.

He angled his shoulder and leaned around the corner– Just far enough.

Clear. An open door at the end of a short hall.

Through his scope, Simon watched the scene in the office ahead.

Still, cogs moved wheels.

The target was agitated—pacing, jittery fingers. Kept patting his pockets, coming up empty. Probably quit smoking recently and was now seriously regretting it.

He held position. Watching and calculating.

Just as the target stepped away from the shelf–

Two quick shots.

The grunts crumpled where they sat. Clean rounds through the back of their skulls. A third– straight to the target’s upper arm, ripping through the meat.

No chance he’d be using the shotgun now.

He’d dropped to the floor with a scream. Ghost moved in fast, stepping between him and the weapon.

His target had risen to his knees, clutching the bleeding arm hanging useless at his side.

Weapon trained on the captive, Ghost felt rather than heard the presence coming up behind him. A familiar one.

Gaz.

Simon took a step, jamming the rifle’s barrel against that smug fucking forehead–

“Ghost! Don’t!” Gaz shouted.

His finger moved to the trigger–

“Sir!” Gaz yanked at the lieutenant’s shoulder.

The voice barely registered. Sound without meaning. Garrick shouting – then Price over comms.

“Ghost! Leave him!” the voice boomed in his ears. “We have him. He’s in custody; he’s not going anywhere.”

The rifle creaked under the force of Simon’s grip.

“Stand down, Lieutenant.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mountain air had teeth at this altitude. Dry and cutting.

At least there was little chance of it raining.

The team had sat around the pitiful fire a while. Shooting the shit while the last of the adrenaline wore off. Soap did most of the talking, which wasn’t a surprise to anyone.

Simon listened more than he spoke. Always did.

Eventually, the conversation thinned. Both sergeants went off to do whatever they did.

Price lit his cigar. Sat, lingering, to Ghost’s left.

The skull could feel the lecture coming.

“What happened back there?”

“You heard,” he grumbled.

The captain puffed his cigar. “You almost pulled the trigger.”

Both men let the silence hang. Simon exhaled, the white of his breath curling through the mask.

“Wasn’t your fault, son.”

He inhaled at Price’s words, attention shifting toward the valley below.

“It wasn’t.” John repeated, steady. “And had you been there that night… there’s no guarantee it would’ve turned out different.”

Simon gave a slow nod.

(“…Bury everyone you care about…”)

Everyone…

Gaz was on watch.

Price snored like a chainsaw, and the top of Johnny’s mohawk peeked over the edge of the rock he’d made his pillow.

A whisper, barely a murmur:

“Ghost, wake up sweetie.”

Simon stirred.

He woke with that rare, quiet feeling. A peace that settled softly.

Made him think, just for a second, maybe she was near. Maybe that calm he only ever felt around her had finally found him again.

But she wasn’t.

Only the cold mountain air and vast, empty silence.

He needed some space.

With a quick nod to Gaz, Simon walked until the night swallowed the dim glow of the fire.

Quiet, aside from the wind.

Here, everything felt suspended.

Simon let out a tired groan, and lowered himself to a boulder.

For the first time in months his head didn’t feel loud.

No chatter. No shitty father.

Just wind and stars.

And her.

Not really, of course. But he felt her – bleeding through his defenses until she existed somewhere deep in the fabric of him.

The calm she brought. The security. Warmth he hadn’t known he needed until she gave it.

He’d felt safe.

Simon thought back on the quiet nights. How her eyes would shine when he passed her a gummy worm. The few times he’d allowed her to touch him, and how pleasant it had been.

“Always there, aren’t you Peanut?” he whispered aloud to the sky, as if the night would carry the message back to her, wherever she was beneath the same starry night.

He missed her.

Missed her so much it had been eating him alive.

Ghost rubbed his hand over his thigh, absently. Feeling what remained of the scars.

Pushing her away hadn’t helped. Hadn’t protected him, or anyone else.

All it had done was hollow him out more.

Maybe–

Maybe he could let her in.

Just a little.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Days later the 141 waited at a forward base.

Ghost was more than ready to get out of the mountains–if only for a proper shower. His skin was tacky from dried sweat and his mask felt fucking rank.

He, along with everything he owned, was covered in grit that refused to come off.

Simon reclined on his cot; a space tucked away in a quiet corner of the barracks. Less than a handful of other soldiers lazed around on theirs.

Tired, sore, but not tired enough to sleep. Nothing to do at the moment. That usually meant his mind would wander.

And it wandered straight to his phone.

He stared blankly at her name on the screen.

One bar of service.

Might be just enough… Should he? It would keep Price off his back.

And if she didn’t respond he could blame it on the shitty signal. Wouldn’t necessarily mean she didn’t want to talk to him.

His thumb hovered. Just one word–

Sent.

Simon: Hey.

He waited.