snobbybastard

[snobbybastard]

Your username is awesome, btw.

thank youu

put a lot of effort into thinking of it🤭

[snobbybastard]

GHOST X READER FLUFF&ANGST

summary; ghost gets lost in his thoughts and realises how much he needs you

warnings; angst, suggested fwb situation, mentions of violence, hints of death at the end, that's it i think?

wordcount;2443

gender neutral reader!

No matter how much Ghost shifts and lugs around in his delightfully mosquito-free bed, he can't grasp that thread of exhaustion dancing around his head, tormenting him endlessly and settling under his sunken eyes.

It's nothing new, he always had trouble falling asleep since he first enrolled in the military— haunted by visions he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy; actually maybe he would, but that's beside the point. He might have even had trouble sleeping for a bit before that.

He had nightmares even without having to sleep.. They proved to be some of the worst ones.

Some went as far back as his very first mission, when he was young and brash and eager to prove his strength— in other words, reckless... before he got put in his place by being shoved headfirst into horrible experiences.

But what is new—, is his mind is running in complete turmoil even in his drained nature.

Not with the usual things he would fill his head with to keep himself from soul-shattering impatience, but with thoughts of you.

Like when he had found you a few months back, you had simply collapsed with your head hung low. Hands firmly pressed to your side while painful whines left your lips. He watched as you reluctantly drew your hand away, quickly replaced with his rough ones. Your palms dripping red. How your gear was stained dark crimson while you whimpered under him— who was holding you flush against his chest in an iron grip, frantically calling for evac.

Your usual confidence lingering in your eyes lost the usual spark they had, looking up at him hopelessly when he tried to stop the rapid bleeding himself.

And when you stopped grimacing in pain and your lashes had fluttered to a close, something carved a hole in his chest that day— it cut agonizingly deeper and more precise than any one of his edged blades.

He thought he had lost you.

He could have practically felt his heart come up his throat when they had to tear you away from his arms to get you medical attention.

And in the first few days when you were recovering, damn near unresponsive — he had refused to talk with anyone. Like a cat had got his tongue.

He didn't want to. But he'd always find himself visiting you in the dead of night, when everyone else was fast asleep. He needed the closure that you were still breathing, no matter how weak said breaths were.

He would stay there, stroking his thumb over your limp knuckles until the pale threads of morning slipping between the lousy curtains casted a warm hue over your feeble appearance.

Even if he cursed himself internally, he would get up and leave you before any nurses or soldiers decided to check in on your condition.

He didn't want anyone seeing him looking at you with such vunerable eyes. He thought it might have been weak, that you'd turn into another target to his enemies. The last thing he wanted is to be the cause of you being ripped from the earth.

So he ran.

No matter how many times you crossed his mind.

How many times he saw your face leaned up against his, tentative eyes looking into his sad ones, being sure to make his chest constrict in on itself.

Or how many times he remembered your feather-light touch tracing over the scars he had collected from the job. How your lips felt delicately kissing each and every one.

He felt loved in those moments.

But he kept running.

He denied your attention because he didn't even know it himself, but he cared about you.

Too much for his own liking.

But here he is, imagining sick scenarios that are keeping him wide awake, of the dangers you were, and could be put in because of him.

Inside, deep down in his gut, he has this feeling that something is wrong. That you're in danger.

And that thought alone is enough to make sure he isn't getting any shut eye.

He feels the sudden urge- need to go to your room and make sure your heart is still beating.

'Don't Do It.' His inner voice warns him, his conscience. You know, the thing that tells you what is right and wrong. Your rational thought.

'Don't Do It.' Conscience, it's your moral compass.

'Don't. Do . It.' The more he tells himself not to, the more his mind makes up pictures of your helpless eyes staring up at him, the more the worry grows.

'Do. Not. Fucking. Do. It.' It's not because he doesn't want to, god no, if it was up to him, he'd spend every waking moment at your side without any judgement, but it's not up to him, and it's because if it does end up with him showing up at your door.. if he visits you, he won't be able to stop vying for your attention and that'll be his downfall.

Probably yours too.

Then what will he do if he knows full on that the feelings mutual? What will he do when he visibly sees the disappointment on your face when he breaks the news to you, when he lets you down time and time again.

And what will he do if hes slaughtered out in the heat of battle? When he sees your sobbing figure begging him to come back, to not leave you alone in this sick world, when you cry out his name as tears stream out of your eyes. Well, in all honesty, he'll smile, not in a sadistic way, not because of the sight of seeing you grieving and mourning over the cold, lifeless corpse of his body, no, never. But he would smile because you had done something he always wanted, you done something his family couldn't do. You outlived him, you still have a full life ahead of you, to go, leave this life, find someone better (Not that you would need someone.) —and live out your days with someone who can fulfill your needs and support your desires.

Because for some reason, those opposing the great, 'immortal' , mysterious Ghost felt that slaughtering his loved ones would get to him, to bring him down. It did. Only on the inside, though. Locked away so nobody could see him spiral, to see his weaknesses. And so if he were gone first, it would remove you from enduring any excess danger you signed yourself up for.

Maybe you should just rid his infectious presence from your life.

Or worse yet, what will he do if you are the one who is struck down? What will he do when his body tenses and his face flushes at the sight of the blood pooling around your drunk with fatigue figure, your gear painted red. He really lost you this time. What will he do when he silently begs you to come back to him, holding your body close to him? Shielding your corpse from anymore potential injuries your body can obtain while he wishes it was his life draining from his body instead of yours. He would've taken that bullet for you.

Hell, he would've fought any army to protect you. Just was a bit late this time.

So how will he continue his life when the one thing he had found in his hellhole life, the one thing giving him the energy he so desperately needed from those sleepless nights, the one person who had cracked the shell of the behemoth of the monster 'Ghost', broken down the walls of a heartless killer? You had seen into his more docile, kinder emotions, you didn't see him as the feared Ghost, you saw Simon Riley. For once in all his years of unfortunately living, someone saw him as an actual person. As the little boy who would play happily without a care in the world, in the kitchen with his beloved Mother, laughing and giggling until the dreaded moment when his Father would come home and he'd retreat upstairs and lock himself in his room. He always was a Momma's boy. You saw the son of a woman who would praise him for being the most understanding boy in the world. You saw into his golden memories and embraced them. You ignored the talk and gossip of the emotionless Lietenaunts’ reputation. You made him do something he hadn't done in years, laugh. And dare he say it, it was nice.

He couldn't lose you.

The feeling of appreciation radiating off you whenever you shared glances during training or feeling your hands find eachother when you'd visit his room at night, desperate to be close with eachother and help with the night terrors. What were you appreciating? He doesn't know. For him just being there? It was a piss poor reason, but he couldn't find himself to question you about it, finding a small hint of colour settling on his face whenever you would accept whatever he had to say when he would sometimes open up to you, on his own terms of course. Or on the rare occasion, when you don't show up to his room, (like tonight) Simon worries. He'd take it to his grave before he admits it, but he worries for you, I mean, you do take up the majority of his headspace, so how could he not?

You're both the unlikely duo, having so little in common you would have to look for similarities with magnifying glass; you're everything he's not.

Well, you'd beg to differ. Sure, it might seem that way, but that's because not many people know the true personality of your cherished Simon Riley.

And so after he so selfishly tries to fight away the idea of you being put in harms way during the night, he gives up and slips out of bed, tugging his worn balaclava over his face, not because he doesn't want you to see, you've seen his face too many times to count, and you have complimented it many, many times— but he doesn't want to risk a run in with certain soldiers seeing his face he so desperately tries to hide.

He twists the cold doorknob, leaving the empty excuse of a room.

He couldn’t believe he was walking down to your room now, in the middle of the night with everyone else in their own rooms right down the hall. But he had to see you, wanting to spend more time with you before it turns into another one of his regrets. Irrational thoughts infected him now, too, thanks to his gut feeling that he was positive was wrong. What if something was wrong with you? What if you were hurt? What if something happened? Forget the fact that you were on a secure base or that he had seen you this evening, he wasn't convinced unless he had you wrapped in his bear arms, wrapping you tightly to his chest.

If anyone caught him - Your Lietenaunt - slipping into your room in the middle of the night, there would surely be hell to pay. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself. He wants to feel your heartbeat so vibrant and alive, he wants to see your steady breathing against him. He needs to know you're safe.

-But what will he do when he shuts you off? When he can see the appearant hurt on your face, over what he had caused you, he doesn't want to harm you anymore, so when he becomes a useless husk of the man he used to be, it's to protect not only him, but you.

He is dragged away from his plagued mind when his knuckles, subconsciously, colliding with the grain of your wooden door. His knock is quiet; low and firm. Trying his best to keep it down.

He doesn't hear movement or noises on your side of the door.

Maybe you're asleep.

While he's waiting for any sign of life inside, he now starts to feel guilty for waking you up with the unpleasant suprise of being at your door.

When he's turning to go with a bashful expression, feeling a bit stupid now, there's a quick shuffling of feet and the noise of an unlatching of a lock breaks through the deafening silence.

There you are.

Standing in the doorway, a tired but welcoming smile on your face; doting eyes casted his way making him suddenly feel small, comforted.

Just like clockwork, all the paranoia, the infested ideas in his mind, the doubt; it's gone, every bit of it, drained from his body just from the warmth of your presence inviting him in.

When you take his hand in yours and lead him in, theres a flutter in his chest; a spark of hope.

He doesnt say it, but he knows — you know that his actions always speak louder than words.

So when he suddenly stops and his arms snake around your figure pulling you closer to him and he presses the fabric around his mouth to your forehead.

You know he loves you.

He realises it too.

He had realised when he first laid eyes on you.

He just kept pushing the feelings down, trying to ignore them. But he couldn't stop them. It was inevitable.

He just delayed them.

Now he knows how much he needs you, how much you mean to him.

And how much time he wasted denying it.

You reach up to the end of the balaclava, looking in Ghosts Simons eyes for consent and when he lightly nods, you toss the mask that hides the face you absolutely adore and throw it over his head and finally do what the two of you have been waiting for.

You kissed him.

A real kiss.

Not seperated by some thin fabric, actual skin to skin contact.

Your lips are a handcrafted balm to Simons irritated and bruised flesh, it's sweet. He chases your tender touch— your lips. To his suprise, there was an odd feeling in his stomach, butterflies. Relentlessly tossing around, making his breath hitch and the same colour that you had somehow managed to dig your claws into making him feel everytime you dared look at him had returned, plastering a pretty pink on his cheeks and tips of his ears.

Though it was slightly embarrassing, he wouldn't trade this for the world. You'd have to pry it from his dead body.

Simon Riley had felt something he didn't feel since he was that little boy playing in that kitchen with his mother.

—Something he had sworn off years ago. Until he met you.

Love.

——

He can worry about everything else later.

For now, though, he's savouring the way your bodies fit perfectly together in the much too small mattress that is meant for one person— like you were made for one another.

How you nuzzle your head closer into his chest and the soft snores leaving your slightly ajar lips, sounding out noises that he can relish in, if he stays like this forever, he can die happy. A part of him wishes he could leave this god forsaken earth with you cuddling up to him.

Something he didn't know he'd be able to get. A peaceful death.

So he'll enjoy this.

For now at least.

Even with all the shit he's seen— what he's been through. He hardly deserves someone like you, somone who is able to take away the pain he's felt and bottled up over the years.

You know what he's done, what he can do. And yet, you're not repulsed, like any normal person would be, you dont fear him, you stand your ground- always.

He likes it.

Some selfish part of him wants to leave this hell of a life that he is bound to, to run away, with you. You'll be able to make him forget his past, to work on the future.

To be able to grow old with you by his side, away from the horrors, taking his last breath on some cliché wooden porch swing next to you watching the sun setting, withdrawing the beams of light it had once gifted.

What a sick fantasy.

There isn't anything that can pry the chains loose from his red raw wrists— keeping him from his desired resignation.

But he'll take what he can get.

So whenever the sun decides to come over the horizon on the promised date of tomorrow, and it hurts to breathe— Simon knows you'll be waiting for him with open arms; welcoming him home, time and time again.

[snobbybastard]

whenever price grabs something like a beer from the fridge he closes it with his hips

[snobbybastard]

I literally cannot stop thinking about how Price and Ghost are most likely only a few years apart.

Like the "Good to see you again, Simon." scene hurts me more because of it.

Imagine Private Simon and Price, they both don't really know what they're doing but they want to do what's right. They share the same barracks, and they encounter each other, but they don't really talk yet.

Then Price gets a promotion to Lance Corporal and has Simon in his lil section, they become friends at this point, cracking jokes and spending time together.

After a few promotions on either side, Price can say that Simon is definitely his closest friend in the Army.

And Price doesn't hear about Simon for a while. He gets a promotion to Officer Cadet and Simon isn't there for his promotion, which unsettles him. But Simon was always a bit introverted and quiet when it came to his private life, it's not like he expected anything.

Between his officer training, Price manages to corner Simon when he's back on base, and he tells him that he had to settle his family affairs. Don't worry, it's all solved.

Then Roba happens, and he mourns Simon. He meets Tommy, Beth, and Joseph at the 'funeral', offering them his condolences.

But a few months later he overhears the whispers from other officers about Simon not actually being dead, that he dug himself out of a grave with Vernon's jawbone. They're calling him Ghost now, they've given quite a few promotions for the whole ordeal, but he isn't on base yet, anger management issues they say. Price doesn't blame him.

Then he hears about his family.

He hears about his revenge.

He doesn't see Simon again. He does meet Ghost, and he thinks the nickname is apt. The man was a husk of who he once was. There's an occasional quip, he still talks as he does. But he's not happy, he doesn't have a smile that tore through his face anymore.

They get deployed for more missions together occasionally. Price does see his face once or twice, the same as before but marred with concerning scars. Price still considers the man one of his closest friends, but there's a wall he's trying to break down, but it's getting built up again as soon as he can take a brick out.

The harder he tries the higher the wall gets built. Ghost no longer takes missions with him, with anybody in fact.

Price's biggest concern is that he'll never know if anything happens to him, Simon is dead. He's going to die behind enemy lines and he'll never know.

So he throws himself into work too, helping with training new recruits. He meets John MacTavish; friendly, cocky, hot-tempered, quick-witted, with a deadly aim to boot. He doesn't want the military to crush yet another person as it did Simon, so he forces him to be better. Stronger.

Looking back he probably let his own emotions make him too strict on the kid, but he doesn't regret it.

He hears through the grapevine that his callsign is now Soap, dumb as shit, but then he hears the why. The boy's so quick and efficient at clearing house. Pride swells up in him.

He's a Captain now, he heard that Ghost got Promoted to Lieutenant not too long ago. He meets Kyle, another young hot-shot Sergeant, he reminds him of Soap, and he mentally reminds himself to check in on MacTavish.

The kid's good but lacks experience. Prefers to do what's good over what needs to be done. He didn't miss him heaving after tossing the hostage over the edge of the railing in Picadilly Circus or the color slip away from his face as they tortured information out of the Butcher.

There were things he could protect Kyle from, but as they were; Price always knew what he'd pick when looking at the trolley problem.

After the whole ordeal is done, he wants to make a task force, so he asks Laswell for files. He tacks on Simons, hoping that he wouldn't ignore a direct order. But if Simon worked for him, he'd know if something happened to him.

He's surprised when Simon accepts. He's not when both Soap and Gaz do.

He can't help the smile when he sees him for the first time in years. They chat, they joke, they go on a few missions, and Ghost reluctantly opens the door to Simon again.

When he and Ghost talk about the teamwork required to get Alejandro's base back, he can't help the pride that seeps through his pores. When he removes the mask and lets these people in as well, he knows that, for the first time in years, this is Simon. He's back.

It takes another few months to realize what had lit the fuze, so to speak.

Of course, it was the demolition expert.

[snobbybastard]

people portraying ghost as an abusive, cold-hearted and emotionless person is actually so sad... did we even play the same game? he obviously cares about soap and his other teammates

at this point just say y'all don't understand traumatized people. having trauma doesn't always make a person act horrible towards others, ghost is just very blunt and probably has issues with trusting people

but still, he's actually really nice to soap, throughout the campaign he's making lots of jokes and calling him "johnny". only he calls him that. also he literally put his military career on hold to help his brother quit drugs, even though he was bullied by him when they were kids

do you really think that same man would let himself treat others like shit when he spent his whole childhood being abused? he would hate himself if he did that, because then he would be just as horrible as his father

so for the love of god stop acting like he's some monster that hates everyone around him 💀 yeah, it might take him a while to warm up to people but that's expected considering what he went through

[snobbybastard]

Phillip Graves Angst

i got this idea for a one shot where daddy issues graves survives the tank and he's in the hospital and for days shepherd doesn't visit him and he's left to stew and realize everything he did was for nothing and shepherd never cared about him and he confronts shepherd when he finally visits and shepherd is just like welp you're not useful to me anymore, just another loose end to tie up and then graves starts feeling weird and shepherd is just like teehee I got the nurse to give you too much morphine and graves dies 😝 and um it's literally just angst which I usually don't do I like happy endings but I was feeling evil with the idea

!!not really proof read!!

Warnings: Mentions of violence, OD , Self-hate? , Phillip Redemption ❤️

Wordcount: 2k

Floating. That's the only way he could describe it. Weightless. Like zero Gs, drifting around so calm. Without care in the endless void he found himself in. Is he dead? He has to be.. Right? Phillip doesn't remember what got him here, so peaceful, and he's thankful for it. He doesn't have the strength to resist the promising luxury of rest. A long overdue break from the overworked aching in his veins, the unbearable muscle fatigue, the sleepless nights slowly but surely taking its toll. The images of his soldiers corpses piled up with bright crimson painted beneath them plaguing his mind, eyes sunken and bloodshot. He regretted he couldn't spare them the horror, they were under his orders and he failed them. Guilt had infected every inch of his being. He could've helped, but he didn't. He sent them out there. To die. Like lambs to a slaughter. And he might as well been the butcher.

It stings. His comfortable void had changed into a searing heat, like he was drowning in boiling water. He wanted to go back, to feel the previous serenity. He wasn't able to. He didn't deserve to.

When he finally woke up and opened his eyes the lights overheard blinded him, making him squeeze his eyes shut again. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be. Not with the smothering pain shocking though his system. His limbs were exhausted and he had a splitting headache. It felt like someone had put a bullet in his skull and it was rattling around, hitting against every nerve and causing as much damage as it went along.

Reluctantly Phillip opened his eyes, taking a minute to adjust to the vivid bulbs. His sight was still blurry, he wished he was in any condition to make sense of what transpired, but all he knew was he really fucked up. Things were staring to come into focus. A sterile room with a small window and bland curtain. He was dressed h in normal hospital clothing. It was silent, dead silent. Save for the light breeze outside and the steady beeping of a monitor. The room seemed untouched. Not that he was expecting any visitors. He didn't have any contact with his family nor anyone who would care if they received that unlucky letter in the mail. But what about Sheperd? He was certain the word about him being hospitalised would've gotten around to him by now. And by the looks of it, he didn't even blink an eye. Sure he was only his superior, a busy guy at that, but after all they've been through, everything he risked, he can't just be disposable, he's got to be worth more?

His head felt like a thousand pounds as he looked around, eyes already threatening to shut once again.

How long was he out for?

Phillips limbs were locked, desperate to function. He continued to scrutinize his surroundings. Searching for something he couldn't quite remember. An IV in his arm accompanied with bad bruising and severe burns peeling back on his skin. His fingers curl restlessly at his sides as Phillip tries to use his elbows to prop himself up. He sits up and the shifting of his weight irritates every injury he had obtained, His body yells for him to stop moving. He thinks of yelling himself, but the desire to cry out sits firmly in his thoughts, even if he wanted to his throat is cracked and dry.

He raised his hand instinctively to the scarring on his forearm. He gently traced the indent, wincing slightly at the feather-light touch. The skin was still sensitive after what had happened.

The mattress he was laying on was like a brick, it might've been comfortable at one point but Graves could feel the imprint he had made from laying down so long, being able to feel each and every sore on his back from being bedridden. Phillip is military, so he could sleep on a rusty bed of nails if he had to, but there's still a very noticeable difference between pitched tents in the middle of nowhere and some temporary apartment he rented out. And right now, he'd do anything to be back in the warm embrace of his home.

A few days blew by, only in the company of passing nurses who tried their best to make their visits as quick as possible. As much as Graves would hate to admit it, he was lonely. He missed the Shadows. His boys. His family. And given all that time alone, Phillip was left with his thoughts. The same ones he tries his best to get away from.

--

It mostly revolved around the Shadow Company. Usually if there was a mishap and some tragedy happened he'd always make sure his boys got the best treatment he could manage, and if they didn't make it, he'd inform their families as soon as possible and help them as much as possible while grieving. But recently, with all the deaths, all those lives.. nobody could have kept track. Now those families couldn't get the closure they needed, only able to go off some stupid information that they're MIA, giving them a sliver of hope, false hope. Or if they found a body- or what was left of one, KIA.

They deserved more than him.

He wasn't a leader-, he wasn't brave.

He was foolish.., gullible and reckless.

He put his trust blindly in someone who would send all of the Shadows in a building engulfed in flames without a second thought. Someone who would berate his men on the daily. Toss their lives around for fun. How could he have been so stupid?

He thought he could keep his guard down- if only for a moment, just because he felt as if Sheperd had good intentions.

Sheperd didn't care about him, not in the slightest. He treated Graves like shit, and he tolerated it. Pushed him away like a new pet desperate for attention.

But he would be lying if he said he didn't feel the need to make up for losing the missiles, especially since it was someone he was loyal to.

His mind would also wander to the things he had done.

He tried to make himself believe he was pressured into doing it- it's not 100% wrong, but he wanted to prove himself. Show people that he's not just some coward, though he feared it had done the opposite effect.

He deserved to die, in that tank.

No, it wouldn't make up for everything that was lost, but it would get rid of one more problem.

He knew he made a mistake.

Just like many, many times before.

He couldn't get rid of the feeling of pure guilt, that just slowly gnaws away at you, that follows you endlessly. Like a heavy strain on your shoulders that you can't seem to ever shake.

He didn't think he would end up like this when he took the job. He was a good man before this.

He just got mixed in with the wrong kind of people. An honest mistake, really.

He didn't want this.

Phillip Graves wanted to help people.

After the merciless massacre in Las Almas, he became an empty shell of a man, following orders without question. He was a husk of someone he used to be.

An empty pit in his stomach. Never-ending and condemned.

He had seen a lot, more than most. Full of enough pain and misery to destroy most. He held strong, well, tried to. He had one two many reasons for an emotional break.

But he didn't, not until Sheperd. Phillip had thought he saw everything, but the General had brought a new kind of brutality to his work.

--

For the first time today the door of the hospital room creaked open. Phillip, who was half asleep, snapped his eyes open, the sudden sound avoking newfound curiosity, he gave his full attention to the two figures in the doorway. It was a nurse- and Sheperd.

He looked fine, no ounce of regret, no softness in his features to show he messed up- the kohl on his eyes only highlighted the sharpness of his gaze. A tight coil in Graves chest tightened, just the sight of him- all high and mighty, no remorse for all the lives his so-called 'operations' cost, made every drop of his blood boil. Like molten lava, bubbling and waiting to burst.

Phillip clenches his jaw so much that he can feel his teeth squeak. Sheperd tips his head slightly, taking a few steps forward until he's at the foot of the bed. If Phillip hadn't been bedridden for days he would have jumped up on him right now and punched that fucker right in the face.

The men remain silent as the nurse goes to the beside, rumaging through a tray full of medical tools and equipment. Sheperd looks down at Phillip, a sorry sight. An eery, serene stare that send chills down Graves body. "You look like shit, Commander."

That's the first sentence he spoke to him in over weeks.

"I can't imagine why," He'd quip back, venom radiating from his tone. Sheperd gave him so much as a glare, crossing his arms.

The nurse approached Phillip with his daily needle of pain killers, and disinfected his arm with a cotton pad before injecting a needle into his arm, right into a vein, a light hiss escaping his lips.

"Where the hell have you been?" He asked Sheperd, narrowing his eyes. He thought he'd like some company or atleast someone to talk to after all that time alone but he's already irritated by his presence.

"I've had work to do, it seems to have piled up when someone fucked up the past few operations," Those words sliced into Graves heart sharper and more precise than any blade. He was only following orders. Orders from him.

His jaw couldn't have gotten any more tense and he balled his fists, his white-knuckle grip digging half moon crescents into his palms. 

"I gave everything I had, everything, and you blame me?!" His voice faltered, and he swore he saw something in Sheperds expression, his nostrils flared, a manic look in his dark eyes. Usually Sheperd was more of a private person. More shielded and not as easy to read. A poker face always plastered on. Now he had something more easily identifiable—more of a primal feeling, something hostile.

Theres silence, layers of thick tension.

"...I thank you, for that.." Sheperds voice is disturbingly passive, his tone is calm compared to his incensed body language. Two conflicting feelings are giving mixed signals to Phillip.

"—But you are no use to me anymore."

"What?" His voice was unfamilarly quiet, almost forgien to his ears.

"You served your purpose, quite poorly. But

that's beside the point. You're useless to me now."

His breath left his lungs as though he had been sucker-punched. Phillip feels like his gut had been ripped open, he was used.

He couldn't be serious.

Why would he do this? He proved himself practical multiple times, maybe having a few slip ups but he always tried his best to fix them. It painted his usual black and white world, red. There was a strain on his chest that persists even as he pushed it down, a cold shiver shocks through his body as he tries to defend himself to the best of his ability.

"I'm... I'm not.."

"And by the looks of it, you're just another loose end to tie up." Sheperd interupts sharply with a small shrug of his shoulders.

The anger Phillip felt was watered down, diluted into heartache. The person he thought he could trust the most, had betrayed him.

"I can still—"

"No. No you can't. You've had enough chances." He breathed out a sickening chuckle.

Phillips breath seemed to be caught, like he was choking. He didn't know what was happening, he went wide eyed with panic. His eyes went to the nurse for help, but she only stood back and watched.

"I told you, you're only another loose end to tie up."

It was horrible. He had no choice but to watch the two as his head was hung down low and his skin was as cold as ice. He didn't even know if he was still breathing. The room was quiet once again this time only for the sounds of a mix between gagging and coughing. He struggled, until his body goes limp, he lies flat on his back, and stares at the white ceiling. The ceiling seemed to spin in circles and a deafening buzz rung out in his ears.

"Pathetic."

Phillip Graves knew he would die, slow and painful, it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of wounds that had yet to scar over. It was always coming

He believed- knew that he would die alone. Just as he deserved— charred and broken by his past. Trust was a risk, and Phillip took it like a fool. And now here he was, alone again, burned and betrayed once more.