pariov

[pariov]

[pariov]

The dusty closet was smaller than he’d expected, maybe three feet by four, barely enough room for the two people crammed inside of it. You were facing each other, his six-foot-two frame towering over yours, your face pressed to his unarmored chest. His arms were braced against the filthy wall behind you, boxing you in. He could feel your breath against his chest; his body armor had been removed when Makarov’s men first captured him. Dressed now only in black fatigues and a long-sleeve black shirt, he felt almost nude. It didn’t help that he could feel your quick, frightened breaths through the thin material of his shirt. 

Footsteps pounded in the distance, echoing down the dark concrete corridors. Makarov’s men were getting closer. Damn it. Ghost’s eyes flickered toward the seam of the door. The thin line of dim light wavered as shadows passed by quietly. Another team of Makarov’s men, so silent Ghost hadn’t even heard them until they passed by their hidden spot. 

You couldn’t help the quiet whimper that escaped your throat. It was barely a sound, but in the tight silence of the closet, it echoed far too loudly. You pressed your face into Ghost’s sweat-soaked chest, trying to muffle yourself, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt. 

Ghost froze for half a second. His arms moved, stiff at first, unsure. Then he let instinct take over and wrapped them around you, a steady barrier between you and the violence outside promised. “Sssh dove,” he risked murmuring almost silently. One hand brushed your back carefully, slow and deliberate. The heat he felt was near unbearable now. Your scent caught in his nose, soft and sweet. Every muscle was tensed tightly, half with restraint, half with something darker. 

The footsteps grew louder, boots striking the hard cement loudly. A muffled voice barked command. "Oni dolzhny byt' zdes' vnizu!”

“Ya proveryu!” another voice responded. 

Ghost held his breath, calculating the distance by sound.  Leaning in, his mouth close to your ear, he murmured, “If they open that door, don’t hesitate. You go right, I’ll take left.”

You nodded, your body pushing against his as you did. “I do hope you plan to survive this,” you said half jokingly. 

His lips twitched beneath the mask. “I’m planning on killin’ every bastard that gets between us and the exit.” He breathed in deeply; he could smell the shampoo you used that morning.

This could be the moment he kissed you. Pulled you against him, buried a hand in that beautiful hair, tasted that perfume on your skin and let go of all the reasons he couldn’t and shouldn’t. 

Your eyes were on him, half lidded and unreadable. You could hear his heartbeat, no doubt. He could feel it pounding hard and fast. He dipped his head slightly, just enough to let his breath touch your upturned face. “This is a bad idea,” he murmured, voice rough and low. 

You knew exactly what he meant. Heat bloomed low in your belly, dark and undeniable. Your skin felt flushed despite the cool air as your body pressed into his a fraction more. You could feel the shift in him immediately. The breath he dragged in was shaky. You wanted to undo the buckle of his belt, feel his hips tense beneath your searching palms. You wanted to hear his breath hitch when your hands slipped into his boxers and found him… 

He could have. You could have. But neither of you moved any further.

It was just as well. Ghost didn’t get to want things, but right now, in this goddamn closet, he wanted just one night alone with you.

[pariov]

Ghost stepped inside the gym and let the heavy door swing closed behind him. The hydraulic hinge stopped it from slamming last second, letting it close slowly. The soft click echoed throughout the quiet room. It  was dimly lit, just the way he liked it. No migraine-inducing fluorescent lights, no blaring music. Just the low hum of the constantly running A/C unit, the occasional clank of iron, and the faint thud of fists hitting pads from the far end of the large room.

Offering a single curt nod to the two soldiers who glanced over when he entered, he strolled casually to the corner with broken emergency lights. The extra layer of darkness enveloped him, making the two soldiers silently nervous. 

Dropping to the hard cement floor, he started with push-ups - quick, sharp, punishing. The pain gave him something to focus on. Something besides her. Next came sit-ups, burpees, air squats, and mountain climbers. When the tightness in his chest eased just a little, he rolled to his feet and headed for the punching bag and with no hesitation hit the bag hard. The soldier with the curly red braid gasped quietly, clearly startled, before quickly returning her green eyes to her own work out space.

Ghost hit the bag hard. Jab. Cross. Hook. Again and again. The rhythm didn’t soothe him, but it did full the edge. At least until he remembered the last time they had spoken was in this very gym. It was barely 1am. She had stood in the doorway, quiet and barefoot, watching him as he warmed up for a mission. That pastel nightgown she always wore always looked wildly out of place there. The neckline had hung wide, slipping free down one slim shoulder, the hem barely brushing mid thigh. He remembered wanting to walk over and pull the other side free. Would it have slipped all the way down to her feet? Or would it have caught on her hips?

Jab, cross, hook, repeat.

He remembered the way she looked at him, unreadable. He remembered looking right back, trying to figure out what she had come to say, and why she hadn’t said it. 

Jab, hook, cross, repeat.

They had been circling each other for months, all sideways glances and subtle tension. Neither one of them dared to close the distance. They flirted casually, quietly. No promises, no plans. Because what future could they possible have? He was a soldier - a member of Taskforce 141. A ghost in name and practice. 

She was something else entirely. A myth made flesh. They called her an alien. Her people hailed from another planet, in another galaxy, reachable by travel through a highly classified program called Stargate. Ghost did not know much about it, other than that she was here because of it. Officially classified, technically not a prisoner. But no one would call it freedom either. 

The bag slammed to the ground with a loud thud as the old chain gave out beneath his ruthless assault. Guess he’d gone too hard. Across the gym, the soldier with the wild red braid was watching him now. “You good?” she asked cautiously. American, young. Probably her first tour. Ghost gave a curt nod, then picked up the bag and set it against the wall, out of the way. A cold shower would clear his head. Heading for the door, he took pity on the young soldier and muttered as he passed by, “Thanks.”

[pariov]

As soon as he opened his blue eyes, Ghost knew: he was going to have a very short fuse today. He could already feel the tension coiled in his chest like a tripwire. Anger began to feed off the tension.

Fuck.

Reaching over blindly, he swatted at the nightstand beside him until his blind hand found what it was searching for: his government issue cell phone. Flipping the old thing open, he squinted as his eyes adjusted to the harsh light of the screen. 

12:34am taunted him.

It was barely midnight, and he was already ready to snap. Was it the silence? The waiting? Or was it the way the air felt far too still, somehow off? Days like this were hell - no mission, no orders, nothing to lose himself into. For a man like him,  downtime wasn’t a break, it was a prison. Simon “Ghost” Riley did not do ‘idle’ well. Too much thinking, it always led him to places he didn’t want to go. 

Like her screams…

Sitting up abruptly, he swung his pale legs over the side of the cot. The base was too quiet. Even the usual background chatter, distant engines, footsteps. It all felt muffled, like the world was holding its breath. But holding its breath for what?

He rolled his shoulders, already irritated by the feel of the sheets against his bare legs, the stale air, the fact that the day hadn’t even properly started and he was already sick of it. He reached down, grabbed his discarded black sweatpants, and pulled them on, one leg at a time. Standing, he tugged them up to his hips, pausing to adjust himself in his boxers before yanking them the rest of the way up. A black hoodie followed—same routine, different day. Coffee wouldn’t fix this. He knew that. Only the tension of a mission, the adrenaline, the sharp clarity that came from skirting the edge of death.

Ghost reached for the black mask resting on the nightstand and pulled it over his face, the familiar weight settling him in a way nothing else could. Without another thought, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, heading for the gym.

If there wasn’t a fight waiting for him, he’d make one.