#fic: your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead

[riverbutghost]

Stop The Pain

Pairings: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Even though you weren’t supposed to be on the field, you were. And you weren’t alone. You got a rookie under your wing, and that was fine until you got shot.

Categories: Angst/ Fluff, happy ending

Warnings: Graphic language, blood, wound, military stuff, sexual themes. Also, Medic!Reader.

The reader’s call sign is Pearl. I don’t know why.

A/N: This is my second fic and i’m over the moon with my first one aaaaggggh!! Anyway, happy reading lol, don’t forget to rb to support me :) still waiting for the day when someone’s gonna request something-but no complaining-

“Keep your eyes open, kid!”

You yelled over the storm, one hand pressing on his wound and the other trying to pull him by his arm. He was trying so hard not to close his eyes, but you knew it. You knew he was dying soon.

“C’mon, kid. Just a little, ugh, longer,” You huffed as the storm got stronger.

The mission was the hardest mission you’ve ever been to. And it was the first mission you had to use a knife to kill someone. A fucking knife. You were a medical professional after all, why would you need or use a knife to kill someone?

“I swear to God or whatever is above there-“ Your breath hitched and you stopped talking as a bullet pierced through your thigh. You pulled the rookie with you to somewhere safe, then looked at your thigh. It was bleeding.

Thankfully it wasn’t something fatal, but it still hurt. You looked at the kid, you were still holding him with one hand. You quickly retreated your other hand to his wound.

“Deep breaths, kiddo. You got this, I know you do.”

You checked your comm, but it wasn’t there. You suddenly started to feel helpless, useless.

“Shit, okay- you’re okay. We’re okay-“

He coughed blood, making you feel a lot worse.

“C’mon kid, just a little more, stay with me.”

He nodded his head but his eyes were blurring. You wanted to stop the war. It wasn’t fair.

“Talk to me. How old are you?” You said while trying so hard to stop the bleeding. You ripped your shirt, which was under your vest, and started pressing on his wound with it.

“I’m twenty two- this my first…” You nearly cried. this was his first mission, and he was dying. No, you said to yourself. You weren’t going to let him die, he had to live.

“You’re not going anywhere, buddy.” You tried so hard to reassure him, to let him know that he wasn’t dying soon. But he was.

“What the fuck?! “ You yelled when another bullet landed on the tree behind you. You wanted them dead, all of them. Fuckin’ terorists, you mumbled. Killing and torturing people, that’s what they fuckin’ do.

“Stay here, yeah? I’ll find a comm.” You told the kid. He nodded his head, trying not to drift away. You took his gun.

You stood up carefully, walked around the secure area that you found surprisingly. The area before you was almost empty. The keyword is almost.

You placed the sound suppressor on your gun, the rookie’s gun, and shot the enemy who was kneeling before a dead body. He didn’t even have a chance to look at you.

You quickly scanned the area and carefully kneeled down next to a dead body, which was wearing a balaclava. You figured it was someone on your team. You took the little piece and put it on your ear.

“Hello, is anyone there? It’s Pearl, I need immediate help. Please is anyone there?”

You were shaking now. You gripped your thigh, the pain making you more stressed than ever.

“Is anyone fuckin’ there! God damn it!” You yelled and stood up, going back to the rookie.

“Hey rookie, you good?” You swallowed the shakiness.

“Not- not a rookie. Soldier-“ He flinched and gave a shaky breath.

“Of course, just stay with me a little more, hm? ”

You were on the verge of tears now. No one was there. No one could help the kid. No one. You pressed your com.

“Please, I need help-“

A static voice came suddenly from the other line. You held your breath.

“Pearl, where are you?”

You relaxed a bit after hearing your lieutenant’s voice. He spoke in a cold manner, but you knew him. He was worried.

“S- Ghost, I don’t know I- We- The kid is dying- I-“

Your hands started shaking, your breath was limited. You tried to think about different things, but it was hard to do that in your situation right now.

“Are you hurt?”

“My t-thigh-“

“We’re comin’ , stay where you are ‘kay?“

You nodded your head stupidly. You looked down, the rookie was barely breathing.

“Hey kid, c’mon they’re coming!” You yelled and started tapping his cheek to wake him up.

He groaned but still didn’t open his eyes.

You were fully crying now. You didn’t know why were you crying. You’ve lost many many people in your life, some young some old, but this has never happened. Yes, you’ve shed a few tears but you’ve never felt like this.

“What’s your name, kid?” You wiped your nose on your sleeve.

He didn’t answer. You closed your eyes for a moment and when you looked at him, you checked his pulse with trembling hands.

He was gone.

Your shoulders dropped. Your eyes started producing more tears, if that was possible.

You gripped his dog tags and pulled them out. You looked at his name.

Theodore Moreau

You wipes your eyes then got up. No, you tried to, because there was a sudden pain that made you whimper and fall down again.

You had forgotten about your thigh.

You held your thigh, but your head was pounding. You weren’t sure if that was because of the shot. It was because of your panic attack.

You needed your Simon.

You cried harder at that thought, feeling selfish. But you needed him. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about you like that, but after that night you were sure you would talk to him about your feelings. Because losing someone was so easy at this point.

You closed your eyes, gritting your teeth and holding your wound.

You tried thinking about something else, something that would take you away.

You drifted away.

-

Simon was nauseous.

He was panicking inside, but didn’t show a single emotion on the outside.

Were you shot? Were you wounded? Did you need him?

He was angry.

Angry at Price for making you fight with the enemy. Angry at Soap for leaving your side to fight someone.

Angry at himself because you probably needed him and he wasn’t there.

Gaz looked at Price.

“Where are they? What if they’re both dead-“

“What? No way, yer aff yer heid.”

Simon shuddered at the thought.

“She’s not dead, Kyle.” Simon’s cold voice was heard. He had an authority, making Gaz shut up.

“We’ll look this way, and you’ll look thay way, got it?” Price spoke suddenly. Everyone agreed and went down the paths.

Simon thought about the first time he felt a thing towards you. It was three months ago.

-

You were cleaning Simon’s wound.

He was super close, you were super close. He was looking at your eyes while you were looking at his bicep. It was a sight.

You were a sight.

“You’re staring, Simon.”

His heart skipped a beat at the mention of his name. It suited you.

How sweet would his name be if you moaned it. Just for him-

“Simon.”

He cleared his throat.

“Sorry, had a rough day.”

You smiled at him. That sweet innocent smile.

Fuck, he thought.

“It’s okay.” You continued working on him, your touch gentle.

“Am I hurting you?” You asked him with genuine concern.

He gulped.

“No, you’re not.”

You smiled again. He was feeling lightheaded all of a sudden.

“Well, that’s it. Come again if it starts to bleed, Simon.”

He sighed and nodded. You stood up from the medical bed, and washed your hands.

Simon wasn’t sure if he was okay.

“Simon are you sure you’re okay?” You asked him while removing your white uniform, which was something like an apron.

“I’m, yeah. I’m okay. I’ll just leave,” He stood up quickly.

Your face fall. Did you want him to stay?

“Okay, uhm…” You cleared your throat.

“Do you mind me coming to your room tonight?” You asked him innocently. His pants were tightening.

“What?” He found himself asking.

“Y’know, to- to look at your wound. If that’s okay for you?”

He was sweating now, wanting nothing more than taking off his mask.

“Yeah, yeah that would be okay.”

You licked your lips. He sighed. Don’t, he wanted to say. Don’t do that.

Your gaze fell to his pants, making him more uncomfortable. Your breath hitched and you gulped.

Your eyes met again.

“I’ll come tonight.” You said breathlessly. He nodded.

And he couldn’t wait for the night.

He was right to feel that way. Because he felt like he was born again that night.

-

“Ghost?”

He turned to Soap, shaking the images of you from his mind.

“Yes sergeant?”

Soap pressed his lips tighter than before.

“I know you care about her.” Simon felt claustrophobic all of a sudden.

“I-“

Soap held a hand for him to shut up.

“I know. And I know you’re my superior and I have to respect you, but you were super loud, Simon.”

Simon gave a slow breath. Soap cracked a smile.

“And I know she cares about you too. I saw how her breath hitched when she saw you on the treadmill.”

Simon smirked. But his smirk fell when he realized you weren’t with him. You were in God knows where, and he was talking about you and him and your relationship with Soap. He gulped.

“Focus, Soap. We have to find her.”

Soap nodded.

“We will.”

-

“Pearl!”

You immediately opened your eyes and looked around frantically.

“Oh my God! You’re alive.”

Price sighed and looked at your form.

“Price, I’m sorry. Couldn’t save him.” You said while trying so hard not to sob. He gave you a reassuring smile.

“It’s okay, he knew it was going to be a hard mission. He was a real soldier.”

You smiled weakly.

“Let’s get your wound cleaned up, yeah?” You nodded and let them take you to the truck.

“We’ll meet the helicopter in a second, Pearl.”

You nodded and clenched your jaw. The pain was starting to feel unbearable.

“Where is Simon?” You asked Gaz, who was holding you at the back. He scratched his neck.

“I’ll inform them.”

He held his comm.

“We found her, meet us in front of the heli.”

“Roger that.” Came Soap’s voice in a second.

You closed your eyes, finally feeling relaxed. You weren’t sure if you’d be mentally relaxed though.

-

-

-

You felt like an absolute shit when you woke up. You didn’t wake up because of the beeping or anything, you woke up out of nothing.

“Simon.”

Simon shifted his mask, you assumed, and turned around.

“Y’good?”

You nodded and swallowed.

It was pitch black other than the little lamp near you on the nightstand and it was comforting.

“I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have been on the field in the first place. It’s our fault, and I’m sorry.”

You furrowed your eyebrows.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault, Simon.” You smiled reassuringly at him.

“It’s not gonna happen again, don’t worry.” Simon said while looking at the floor.

You put your hand on his, which was on your side.

“It’s okay, I got shot. Accidents happen.” He clenched his jaw.

“Not to you,” He said your real name in the end. It made you shiver.

“We lost that kid, sadly. What if that was you? I would’ve never forgiven myself.”

Your expression fell after the mention of the kid. You suddenly felt disappointed again, at yourself.

“I want to give his dog tags to his family.”

He reached out for your face, gloves already off. He stroked your cheek and you suddenly felt touch starved.

“Okay,” He mumbled, words vibrating his chest. You blushed.

“Don’t do that.” His hand found your lips, caressing them softly.

“What?” You said, meaning it.

“Don’t blame yourself.” You sighed.

He moved his hand to your chin and caressed there softly too. He was making you forget things, and you weren’t complaining.

“Can I see you?” He stopped caressing your face and took a deep breath.

“You don’t have to!” You suddenly said.

He took his mask off in a second. Your mouth was hung open.

“You’re really pretty, Simon.” You bit your lip, tilted your head. He felt his heart beat faster.

“Knock knock knock!! Pearl!”

A sudden voice was heard and Simon quickly put on his mask.

“How is our little Pearl?” Soap’s sickly sweet voice came in, behind him was Captain Price.

“I’m really good, actually .” You smiled at them softly then made eye contact with Simon.

“I’ll need assisting for a while, though.” You said mischievously. Soap laughed at that.

“Well, you sure need it.” Price said looking at Simon.

“Yeah, I’ll do it.” Simon rolled his eyes then got up.

“I gotta go, I’ll see you tonight?”

“You will.”

Simon got out, smacking Soap’s head on his way out. Gaz came in a second later, making you stop your chit chat.

“Well, that was disgusting. But I guess I won the bet!”

You rolled your eyes while laughing at their antics.

You couldn’t wait for the night.

Just like 3 months ago.

That was so rushed. I hate it tbh but this is my second fic and I’ll improve. I just feel like I can’t sum up my fics? Whatever, please like and rb if you liked it!!

[reds-skull]

Fic recs - oneshots (part 4)

I'm currently in like, a lot of pain (...don't ask), so what better way to distract myself than cataloging some fics!

Last time I said I'll do a list of writers, but I noticed that so much time has passed that I've collected enough oneshots for another post like this, so I'm doing this first.

A couple of ones here are from shadowforest-wolf's lists, go check these posts out if you want more recs!

As always, sfw oneshots, if there are any dead links you need fixing let me know!

Sea of Love by MiddlemistsRed (chiakashie) - Soap keeps dying in Al Mazrah and Ghost reincarnates each time to save him.

Offhand Remarks by bisexual_werewolf - Ghost doesn’t think Soap is a good enough soldier. Soap tries his best to fix that. (Spoilers: It doesn’t work)

You'd Be the Mercy Under My Cruelty by ajax_in_agony - Ghost takes care of Soap in the aftermath of "Alone".

TV. by Kodalax - Ghost thinks Soaps mad at him so he distances himself as much as possible and clams up like he’s a child again. [this is a series with a second work from Soap's POV]

where the nightmares end by oh_ellie - Soap is sitting up in his bed, the sheets shoved off of his body and sweat beading on his forehead and running down his temple. It's dark in his room and far too quiet.

taken a shine to me? by oh_ellie - Soap is captured by Graves during alone [this has a second work which is nsfw]

Eleven by VibeDemon - Ghoap get stuck in an elevator. [this is just a little funny one :)]

He's The Gift That Just Keeps Giving! by StrixDaddy - some hurt/comfort featuring Christmas fluff.

Hold On To Me by iamtheidiot - That's when he saw it. A goddamn fucking knife sticking out of the man's right side, his arm at an angle like he was trying to conceal the thing from Soap.

Ghostly Music by oh_heccity - A 5+1 where Soap helps Ghost learn to have a healthy relationship with music, it, of course, has its ups and downs.

My heart in your hands keeps going on by FetteEule - 5 times Ghost is forced to go on leave and 1 time he takes leave on purpose.

Bleeding Sands by Islenthatur - What if Soap was one of the 15 who survived Operation Sand Viper [COD Ghosts Soap]

notre dame by merikai - Soap is stuck under rubble, but it takes a while until someone comes to the rescue.

heaven help the fool who falls in love by merikai - Soap has a "girl". Ghost tries to find out more.

leave it to the land by merikai - “Hypothermic,” Ghost mutters, more to himself as a note than to Soap. “You're delirious. Need to get you warmed up.”

no shortage of sordid by merikai - Hassan's men have taken Soap hostage—but there are things worse than this.

Dehiscence (Opening of a Wound) by made1for1life1 - Johnny knows his mind doesn't work the same as other people's. Maybe he just needs to try harder. Trying harder is a lot harder than he thought.

A quick game of chess by cheersyaslag - when Ghost tells him to shut up, he doesn't exactly know why it hurts so damn much. Maybe he's being too sensitive. But he does shut up. He will do as he's told for once.

Observations and Ink by Fearless_leaderr - He shifts nervously as the other man flips through the pages, and Soap can feel sweat begin to collect on his brow. "Didn't know you could draw like this, Johnny."

Still got like 3 days until I finish the semester, but I already got so many ideas for comics and drawings and fics it's not even funny. I'm gonna have so much fun once I'm finally done with my work T_T

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

[rascal-xo]

I heard your requests are open~

I'm always a sucker for angsty hostage reader fics. Maybe one of the 141 are clearing a warehouse, and come across hostage!reader. He takes them back to the base for their injuries and they start to get close

Hopefully this is enough to go off of, I really like your writing

Special Affairs | Task Force 141 x GN!Reader

Chapter Summary: You’ve found yourself in a sticky situation and end up crossing paths with none other than the infamous 141 soldiers.

Warnings: Violence, weapons, language, reads like an action fic ‼️

Word Count: a lot. (i’m too lazy to check lol)

A/N: I decided to let my creativity run wild and took some inspiration from the Cold War campaign (my fav). I hope you enjoy and ty for the request!!

|NOT CANONICALLY ACCURATE| |OVERLAPPING OF TIMELINES| PART 2 HERE

When you were recruited for the CIA, It was only a matter of time you’d find yourself in this situation. Your training had prepared you for the unexpected, but nothing could have quite prepared you for the events that unfolded during this covert mission.

As a highly skilled agent, you were sent deep undercover to gather intel on a notorious terrorist organization. You had infiltrated their ranks and gained their trust, positioning yourself to uncover their plans from within.

But during one of the critical moments, a sudden turn of events led to chaos.

As tensions escalated, shots rang out, triggering a full-blown firefight and you were caught in the crossfire, you fought valiantly, taking down several hostiles. You were outnumbered and one of the enemy operatives managed to sneak up behind you, immobilizing you with a well-placed blow to the head.

When you regained consciousness, you found yourself disoriented and restrained in a dimly lit underground bunker. Your head throbbed with pain as you struggled against the ropes binding your wrists.

Hours turned into days as you remained imprisoned, your captors using various failed forms of psychological torture to extract information.

Unbeknownst to Captain Price, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz, their mission had brought them closer to the underground facility where you were held captive.

Their objective aligned with yours - to dismantle the terrorist organization from within.

As the four of them navigated the corridors, they encountered heavy resistance. The sound of gunfire echoed through the compound, alerting your captors to the presence of intruders. “Was zum Teufel?!” (What the hell?!”)

The two armed soldiers in your room snapped up from their seats and readied their rifles to fire back if the door opened.

Just as the enemy closed in on your location, the sound of a door being kicked open reverberated through the bunker.

Price, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz burst into the room, their weapons blazing. Their entrance sent your captors into disarray, allowing you to break free from your restraints.

Without wasting another moment you grabbed a gun on the nearby table, just as The Captain’s weapon pointed away from the now dead guards and to you, “Don’t Shoot!” You exclaimed.

“Who are you?” Ghost barked, not lowering his gun yet.

“I’m CIA.” Price motioned for everyone to lower their weapons and you walked closer to the group.

You nodded to them, “Clandestine Special Officer, Y/N Y/L/N.”

“What’re you doing down here, Lass?” Soap chimed in, looking at you intently.

“Came here on the job you’ve been sent to finish.” You looked at your shoulder which was still freshly wounded, and then looked around the room for your jacket. You finally caught eye on it laying on the floor and quickly went to put it on.

“Wait, you cant go on like this, you’re broken.” Gaz points out, motioning to your shoulder. You could feel the black and blue forming around your eyes and the cut stinging on your lip as well. ‘So much for covert’ you thought to yourself.

“I’m fine, but I know East Berlin won’t be if we don’t get moving.” You answer.

Captain Price exchanged a glance with Soap before nodding in agreement. "They’re right. We need to finish this mission, and it seems like we've got ourselves an unexpected ally," he said, his voice steady and commanding. “Gonna get that arm checked out once we’re back, got it?”

You nod and collect the rest of your scattered gear, before heading out of the bunker and to the main facility. “So what’s the motherfucker got down here that needs to be guarded like this?” Gaz asks, as you take down maps and manifestos from the enemy conference room which is now empty.

“Missiles.” They all pause and turn to you in shock. “American missiles.”

“Steamin bloody Jesus.” Soap mutters.

“In the 50’s, Operation Greenlight put nuclear devices within every major European city as the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to a Soviet invasion of Europe. But an upgraded American Precision Strike system when online 2 weeks ago, sent up red flags all over but they were disguised at that time.”

“Perseus.” Price’s voice had anger lining it. “When does the system become active?”

“We have 24 hours at best. Launch was already delayed a few days from what I understand.”

The group exchanged concerned glances. "We need to move fast and take out the missile launch site before it's too late," Captain Price said, his voice urgent.

You nodded in agreement, knowing that time was of the essence. "I have intel on the location of the launch site, but it's heavily guarded," you said, pulling out a map and pointing to a spot. "We need a solid plan of attack."

You joined Captain Price and Soap as they made their way towards the launch site, keeping your eyes peeled for any enemy forces. Gaz and Ghost went around the south entrance.

Finally, you reached the launch site and saw the missile silos looming in the distance. The group split up, with Captain Price and Soap taking the left flank and you taking the right.

As you made your way towards the silos, you encountered heavy resistance. Enemy soldiers were everywhere, firing at you from all directions. You returned fire, taking out as many as you could.

When you reached the site, you quickly accessed the control panel, determined to disable the launch sequence. With deftness born from your CIA training, you navigated the complex system, neutralizing the imminent threat.

“Bravo Six to Actual- do you copy?” Price spoke.

“This is actual, what’s your report?” Laswell’s voice coming from the comms.

“We’ve got the threat. They were active missiles.”

The tension in the room dissipated as the launch sequence halted. A collective sigh of relief passed through the team.

“Gonna call in the evac, Y/N you with us?” Soap asked, coming to the group. Going back with the 141 didn’t seem like such a bad idea now that you had worked with them. The CIA could use the extra knowledge first hand.

“Hope you’ll save me a seat.” You smiled.

———

After the mission, you and the rest of the team returned to a secure base in London. You found yourself sitting at the counter at a pub.

You watched from across the bar as Soap scored a bullseye with the dart, earning a triumphant cheer from Gaz. Ghost simply nodded in approval, his focus seemingly undisturbed.

“Adler it’s Y/N. Everything’s been handled but I’m in London for the time being.” You sent the voicemail and set your phone down.

Captain Price walked over, a slight smile playing on his lips. He took a seat beside you, signaling the bartender for a drink.

"CIA, huh?" Price remarked, his voice carrying a hint of warmth. "So what’s next for you, darling?”

"There’s always something that needs to be dealt with. But It feels good to have a moment to breathe," you replied, taking a sip from your drink. The cool liquid provided a soothing sensation as it slid down your throat.

You looked up to meet his gaze. You had known of captain for quite some time now. There wasn’t a file at Langley you hadn’t been assigned to go through, his of course was more seasoned than others.

Price's piercing blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to fade away. His expression held a mix of admiration and camaraderie, a silent acknowledgment.

He leaned back in his seat, his expression now uncertain. “Laswell never mentioned you or anything about this mission being active.”

“Well neither did Shepard, and we all know you have a Shepard problem.” You moved your glass in a circular motion slightly, watching the golden liquid rise and fall.

“We’ll always have that problem, darling.” He scoffed, downing the rest of his scotch.

“Well since i’m here now, consider that problem handled.” You said, suddenly deciding that you and the 141 weren’t quiet done being a team yet…

————————————————————————————

A/N: I highkey enjoy writing action/double meaning story fics. LMK what y’all think :))

[precious-little-scoundrel]

i was thinking about what late night talks with bucky would be like (call me crazy), and it got me thinking:

other than dying (though arguably some are not afraid of dying), what do you think some of the mota men’s greatest fears are? i could write a hundred essays on each of them, they all are so different!

Gosh, this is an incredible ask and it got me thinkin. Too hard, probably. And while I didn’t summarize thoughts for everyone I did think of them for Bucky.

So much so I wrote a little blurb on it. Sorry Nonnie if you’re not even into this universe, I totally get it but I found fic to be a more enlightening method for exploring this. I wanna hear those thoughts of yours! Send them, I beg!

Greatest Fear

They got a bit existential as the weeks went on and their nights got more conscious. Ida and Bucky’s minds grew restless in the cold now that their bodies were healing. Huddled in their bunk they had debated baseball vs football endlessly, and argued regarding the accuracy of each other’s training anecdotes, the morality of mobsters and who was the better boxer: Braddock or Baer.

They’d ended up talking of the war, and both being sick of the dead end that the question of the future brought, they circled back around more concrete -if troublesome- thoughts. Most hairy landings, worst sounds either heard from their crew over the radio and what flashed across their minds when they had to finally press that abandon ship control.

And finally, Bucky ended up asking her what her worst fear was. And when Ida didn’t have it readily to hand -too used to suppressing any such thoughts even to her own self- he clarified: “Besides dying, I mean. If you’re even scared of that. Knowin’ you, maybe you aren’t.”

“I’d rather not.” she admitted.

“So? So what gets you scared?”

“This your way of fishing for another ghost story?” Ida teased.

“No. Just feels like sometimes you gotta remind yourself what it’s all about. Scared of dyin’ means you like livin’ enough to rather not stop. That sorta thing.”

“You’re saying love for one thing drives fear for another.” She summarized.

“Dunno. Just mullin’ it over.”

“I’d go through anything not to lose John.” she conceded, “Funny enough I’m positive he feels the same, so what a snarl.”

“I know he does.”

“Yeah.”

“If they put a gun to Buck’s head I’d tell ‘em Roosevelt's address and his favorite drink order, too.” Bucky expounded, tongue loosened by her tiny admission of frailty. “And he’d hate me for it.”

“All different kinds of loves out there.” Ida murmured consolingly, thinking hard on how her brother had been in a rage at her condition when he first saw her, and yet one of his first questions was whether she’d given anything up. Her Johnny knew she couldn’t live with herself if she had and he wouldn't've wanted her to. And nothing about that struck her as cold. Just as Bucky’s dangerous devotion to Gale didn’t strike her as weak. Just different.

“I saw a train.” Bucky began a thought but his voice died out with such finality Ida wondered if he’d ever pick the subject up again. But after a long moment he did, with some far away quality present in his voice that she’d never heard before, “On the way here. We were on one set of tracks and it was comin’ up the other.”

Ida had memories of trains, a lot of them. Going south all alone, first trip down to the uncle and aunts during the worst year of the depression. Old enough to know her own folks couldn’t support her, old enough to question how a ticket could be arranged but not supper. There had been trains that took her to training in Texas, then on to Iowa and Nebraska. Trains that took her deeper into Germany. One entire train car just for herself and too many German soldiers. Then the train that took them away from Ravensbruck. Ida felt an unsettled anticipation around trains that the peaceful rightness of flight had never caused her.

When Bucky mentioned trains and didn’t go on, Ida folded her hand into his huge one and squeezed it tightly. “What about those trains, John?”

“Heard ‘em before we saw ‘em.” he clarified, nodding his head conversationally as he was want to do, like he was gaining momentum towards a hard saying. Ida braced herself, squeezed just a little harder. “Not the engines, the screams. Car after car, and nothin’ but arms and faces reachin’ out. Screaming.”

Bucky’s bruised eyes were fixed, downcast gaze somewhere in the vicinity of her throat, but Ida knew he was seeing something far away. “I think I saw where they take them.” she muttered before she even had time to weigh her contribution to this horrid tale.

His eyes focused again and he looked at her with silent inquiry. “They took us to a labor camp first. Before here. Apparently one of the nicer ones, they had intentions of treating us as civilians.” Ida had been preoccupied with her aching body and her sharp terror of failure while at Ravensbruck, but not so much as to not notice the haunting vestiges of humanity answering roll beside her. “I felt like I was in Hades, the cold hell. Where the living damned can peruse each special misery waiting for them when they die. Called it a labor camp but I don’t know how skeletons like that could produce anything. Last bits of human resilience used to put together some industry to keep their oppressors fed, equipped. What an end.”

“Scares me shitless.” Bucky replied vehemently, and Ida realized they’d gotten full circle in their talk, that he’d dragged more out of her than she ever intended. Somehow neither his statement of fear nor her own felt weak in the moment. “That folks could get so hard they could do that to each other -I don’t know what to do with that, Ida. How’s it get to that point. Why’ve you got Fritz and then you’ve got…that? Same country, same sauerkraut, same uniforms. Scares me shitless.”

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[darth-mortem]

Finally, I wrote a new text for my English lessons! It's about all TF 141, and it's funny and a little hot.

In this fic Captain Price started a fight for the purity of the language in TF 141 before the visit of generals with inspection. 1846 words.

TW: obscene language

Captain Price went to look for his soldiers around the base and expectedly found them in the smoking area. They chased the rookies away and sat down on the benches with cups of tea and coffee. To tell the truth, they had the right to rest: TF 141 had just returned from the mission in the morning. Therefore, the captain didn’t focus on the behavior of his soldiers, but instead he said something else.

“Well, well, lads,” Price said as he looked at them, lighting his cigar. “An inspection commission is coming to our base in four days. So I want you to watch your language and to stop cursing.”

You can keep reading on Ao3 or here

“Oh, shit!” Gaz exclaimed.

“Fucking hell,” Ghost shook his head.

“Oh, thay kin awa’ and chew mah banger!” Soap added, and aggressively sipped his coffee.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Price said, sighing heavily.

All four looked at each other, and then Soap rolled his eyes and let out a loud groan.

Of course, Price understood that a request and even an order wouldn’t be enough to achieve such a difficult goal as purity of language. That’s why he resorted to some measures that could help. When Ghost, Soap, and Gaz returned to their task force’s break room, they saw a jar with a label in Price’s handwriting on it.

“One curse—one quid,” Gaz read and turned to the others. “Hey, mates, what the fuck?”

“You cursed,” Ghost said thoughtfully, “so you have to put a quid in this bloody jar.”

“Ye too, Lt.!” Soap laughed. “Yer stupid arseholes, guys!”

Simon and Kyle stared at him, and Johnny suddenly stopped laughing. Then each of them threw a coin into the jar in dead silence. Of course, they all had something to say, but no one wanted to part with the money, so the lieutenant and two sergeants stayed quiet. That’s how they were found by Price, who went into the room to make himself a cup of tea.

“Oh, I see you’ve already figured out how it works,” the captain said, turning on an electric kettle.

“Actually not at all,” the lieutenant answered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do we have to bring coins here if we curse outside the room?”

“Of course you are, Simon,” Price said. “I count on your honesty, lads.”

“Oh, shit,” Gaz sighed sadly.

“Hey! Watch your fucking language, Kyle!” The captain exclaimed.

There was silence for a few seconds. Then MacTavish laughed, looking at Price and Garrick, who threw their coins into the jar.

This evening, when TF 141 gathered in the break room for tea and biscuits according to their tradition, everyone saw that the jar was stuffed, and it contained not only coins but also banknotes. Price stared at it, slowly removed his hat, and rubbed the back of his head.

“Looks like it’s not working,” MacTavish commented, pulling a box of chocolate chip cookies from the cupboard.

"Looks like we need a bigger jar,” Price denied grimly.

“F…” Riley started, and noticed the others staring at him. “Fine!”

Garrick shook his head and began to pour boiling water into cups.

During evening tea, the four soldiers talked and laughed a lot, usually, but not today. They exchanged a few words, added coins to the jar, and quickly left. However, fifteen minutes later, Soap slipped into Ghost’s room, and Gaz performed a similar maneuver, finding himself in Captain Price’s. They saw each other in the corridor, but both pretended that they didn’t.

For a while, Price and Garrick forgot about the jar, and they didn’t feel like talking at all. The sergeant’s mouth was occupied with kisses at first, and then with something else instead. Only when Kyle was in bed, pressed against the mattress by the stocky, hot captain’s body, he finally spoke.

“Oh, fuck…” He exhaled, melting as Price kissed his neck, scratching the skin with the stiff bristles. “It’s so fucking good, John! Oh… should I put the coins in the jar?"

“Mmm… of course!” The captain answered, caressing Kyle with his hand.

“But John!” The sergeant exclaimed resentfully.

“No buts,” Price said, shaking his head. “I must have principles.”

“Well,” Garrick hugged him tighter and threw his leg on the captain’s thigh, “then I’ll make you pay more than me!”

A similar thing was happening in Lieutenant Riley’s room. In the beginning, Ghost tried to cover Soap’s mouth with his palm or kiss him to silence his voice, but then he forgot about it. Johnny was so hot and willing to do anything for him, so Simon focused on giving him as much pleasure as possible. MacTavish had always been noisy in bed, so even now he was moaning and cursing as he squirmed under the stocky lieutenant, and Ghost enjoyed it. He remained as quiet as ever; only his heavy, hoarse breathing indicated that he also felt good.

Later, when they both got dressed and stood by the window smoking, breaking base’s rules, Soap looked at Ghost and said:

“You made me swear a lot, sae ye have tae pay for me.”

“Negative,” the lieutenant answered.

Soap pouted but didn’t argue, so they returned to bed and quickly fell asleep.

In the morning, Gaz was the last to come to the break room. Glancing at Captain Price, he went over to the new, larger jar and silently put a handful of coins into it.

“Well, well,” Soap reacted immediately, “somebody had a hot night?”

“Yeah!” Gaz answered, annoyed. “And what about you? I can’t believe you were just sleeping!”

Soap sighed heavily, went over to the jar, and put coins in it too. Price and Riley looked at each other and smiled.

The next few days proved difficult for all members of TF 141. One evening, Ghost came to the room, angry and annoyed. He clearly didn’t want to talk, but the others started asking questions, and he gave up. After sipping his tea, the lieutenant put a fifty-pound banknote into the jar and said:

“I trained rookies today.”

Then he thought a little, put in another twenty pounds, and began to tell his story. Price tried to react silently, but the sergeants didn’t skimp on comments and added approximately the same amount to Riley’s deposit.

Another day, the captain himself became a victim of his own invention. Price was doing the paperwork, clearing the entire backlog on mission reports and equipment requisitions, and he was infuriated both by the amount of documents that were simply missing and by the level of the Army bureaucracy.

“Soap, you muppet!” He spoke angrily. “Why did you take so many fucking explosives and didn’t write bloody requests?!”

“Sorry, Cap, I forgot,” Johnny answered, hiding behind Simon.

Gaz laughed and drew the captain’s attention to him.

“And you, little trick-headed bastard,” Price looked at Garrick strictly. “Why does your sniper training ammo request say ‘200’? Did you learn from scratch?!”

“Oh… Maybe I wrote an extra zero accidentally." Kyle was embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Cap.”

“Sometimes I hate you so much, lads,” Price said, shaking his head. “Except for Simon. His papers are always in perfect order.”

“Thank you, sir," Ghost answered, looking at the sergeants haughtily.

When the inspection day finally arrived, all members of TF 141 were almost happy. Several generals from different NATO countries respectfully walked around, accompanied by local officers, and looked at the soldiers’ training, the base’s infrastructure, and the condition of the buildings and equipment. One of them, the Canadian general, was particularly impressed by the drill of the Scottish unit, where soldiers marched on the square in kilts.

“It looks so fucking pretty,” he said with enjoyment. “Just look at them, Marv!”

“Don’t be such a dickhead, Ethan,” Marv, the USA general, rolled his eyes. “Focus on the inspection!”

Captain Price, who was one of the accompanying officers, carefully held his emotions and looked away, but it didn’t end there. At the shooting range, the commission ran into Ghost, Soap, and Gaz, who were on their way to training. Having saluted according to the statute, the soldiers of TF 141 moved on and clearly heard the words spoken by one of the generals.

“Have you seen this guy in a skull mask?” he asked. “He’s a fucking terminator!”

MacTavish coughed hard, and Garrick elbowed him in the side.

Later, the generals wanted to see the barracks, and soon they reached the residential block where the soldiers of TF 141 lived. After inspecting the sergeants’ rooms, they went into the recreation room, where Ghost was going through some documents and drinking tea.

“Carry on!” The German general ordered before Ghost stood up and saluted.

Price and Riley watched as the commission inspected their room, looking at the maps and photos on the walls, and appreciating cleanliness. Finally, someone noticed the jar, and the generals crowded around it.

“Look, Ethan,” the USA general said to his Canadian colleague, “it’s a fucking good idea!”

Ghost coughed, and everyone turned to him. Under his sinister, icy gaze, the USA general got confused; then he patted his jacket pockets and pulled out a coin.

“I don’t have a quid,” he said. “Will a dollar do?”

“Aye, sir!” Lieutenant Riley answered strictly, and the general put his coin into the jar.

When the inspection left the base, the jar disappeared, and the members of TF 141 breathed a sigh of relief. They were so happy that they didn’t even ask where all the collected money went. However, the answer to this question was soon received. One cold, rainy evening, Captain Price entered the break room and placed a bottle of good whiskey and a large bag of various delicacies on the table.

“Och, what’s th’ reason?” Soap asked and jumped up to get glasses from the cupboard. “Did someone die? Or mibbie born?”

“Shut the fuck up, Soap,” the captain answered cheerfully. “I decided that spending money from the swear jar on a small feast was a good idea. And our base passed the inspection perfectly; it’s not a bad reason.”

The soldiers perked up and stirred as they took out plates and spread the goodies that Price had bought for them.

“Hey, Simon,” the captain called, and the lieutenant approached him. “That general fooled you. Here, take a look.”

Price placed a coin in Riley’s palm. It wasn’t a dollar, but fifty cents.

“Arsehole!” Ghost exclaimed angrily, looking at the coin.

“Fuck him,” Johnny gasped with his hand and poured the whiskey into the glasses. “C'moan, guys, let’s drink!”

All four sat down at the table, and soon the usual cheerful and warm atmosphere reigned in the room. The soldiers were talking, recalling funny incidents from their missions, drinking whiskey, and eating delicious snacks. Soap rested his head on Ghost’s shoulder, and Price carelessly hugged Gaz, stroking the back of his head.

“Th’ idea wi’ that jar wasn’t sae terrible,” MacTavish said, enjoying the cured meat and the lieutenant’s tight embrace. "Mibbie, we can repeat it somehow?" “No!” Price, Riley, and Gaz answered in unison, and then all four laughed loudly.

[lethalchiralium]

You Leave Me Wounded And Bleeding | Simon “Ghost” Riley x Wife!Reader

a/n: the long awaited 1940s simon fic!! it’s been done for a while but i just had to tweak a lot so i’m able to write the second part :)

warnings: 1940s-Immediately after the End of WWII. 3RD PERSON - Heartbreak, mourning - let me know if I missed anything!

summary: It’s September 9th, 1945, the trains are running non-stop to bring soldiers home. Wounded, alive, and dead - families wait on the platforms, desperately awaiting the arrival of their family member. Those crowds would include you - Mrs. Simon Riley, awaiting the love of your life who has been deployed as long as the war had been waged.

REMINDER: This is a side-blog, not my main! If you have any questions, feel free to message this blog or reblog! Reblogs are always appreciated - as well as any comments, they keep me motivated to write stuff like this!

Dear Simon,

I am writing to you this in case something happens. Something I cannot think about, something that can very well happen and I don’t wish to dwell upon it. These words are the only way I can express it if I am no longer able to voice them.

There was thunderous applause in the square, surrounding the gray train station. Screaming, crying, cheering - loudness that she’s never heard before in her small town. She was one to steer clear of the loud noises, to sit away from the excitement in a small cafe or bookstore in the town square. Maybe walk around the plaza, take the time to enjoy the sun.

This September day was different - much different. The always fresh air tasted stale, the bright green trees began to grow gray. Her deep blue dress swished against her shins as she struggled through the crowds of cheering women, crying children, and proud and grieving parents. She glanced around the crowd, noticing how most of the people were draped in grays and blacks - mourning colors. She looked away from them, towards a glass encased list of names.

You’ve written me almost every week during this horrible time, about every thought and moment that caused you pain. It hurts me to know that I cannot ease your agony. It pains me that I cannot be by your side, even for a fleeting moment. You have such a kind soul, Simon Riley. I can only imagine how it will all of this affect you after the war.

A kind hand gently grabbed her wrist, the woman in deep blue jumped in her skin before turning to see a familiar face. An elderly woman she had grown to know in the past few years, a woman she often visited as the elderly woman was her neighbor. Her name was Mavis, her husband had died in the first World War and her only two daughters were nurses now. Mavis knew why she had arrived at the plaza today - she was a patient woman, a gentle voice that the woman in blue desperately needed.

“Will I see you when you arrive home tonight?” Mavis inquired, her black shawl draped over her front. She looked frail in the gray dress she wore, her feet buckled in worn gray kitten heels.

The taller woman in deep blue heels shrugged. “It depends, Mavis.” It depends if I will be coming home without him.

“He will come home to you, darling.” The old woman smiled gently, still holding onto her wrist. She gave it a squeeze, the woman in blue gave Mavis a soft smile.

“I’ve been hoping he does.”

Even long after your letters have stopped arriving, no British Army soldiers have appeared upon our doorstep yet - no telegrams have graced my fingers with your name upon them. That must mean something, right? That you are safe, breathing? For the past two and a half years, I’ve waited for your return; not to mention the three years before that. The danger is gone now, Simon, and you’re not here. They’ve been arriving by the train load for the past week, and none of the lists have your name.

Mavis had let go of Mrs. Riley’s hand and let her be, let her gaze at the large white pages with printed names in black ink. She was still too far to read any names, she still pushed though the crowd - getting closer. She watched as women in white walked away sobbing, or women in black excitedly running towards the train platform.

Fear trembled in Mrs. Riley’s blood, the purse that sat in her left hand felt too heavy, the air felt suffocating as the crowd pushed her towards the board. Today was the first day she felt like this, pain in her heart and fear in her lungs. Maybe today was the day she would see his name on the board, written with the same black ink as the rest of the soldiers coming home to Manchester. She was only behind five more people before she would be at the front of the crowd, reading quickly to find his name - maybe the names of his friends too. She’s met Soap and Gaz before, it has been a long time since she’s even seen Price. Maybe the mysterious Alejandro and Rudy will appear, even though their home is across the world - All living and breathing, she hoped.

Another step forwards, closer to the board as an older gentleman and lady both turned away from the board in tears - the young woman beside them with a teenage boy laughed with excitement. They moved away, she grew closer. She could almost read the names on the papers now.

I musn’t worry, I know you will come back to me. You have a habit of keeping promises, my love - as well as secrets.

“Move it along!” The conductor shouted as he came towards the board, shooing away more people as she quickly scanned the names now that she could read them. She started with the Gs, reading quickly.

Gardner, KIA. Garrett, Garrett, Garrett, KIA…

Garrick, Kyle. Sergeant. Gaz.

She felt hope filter into chest, at least one of them made it - she moved to the Ms.

MacDonald, KIA. MacDonald…

MacTavish, John. Sergeant.

Thank God, Soap. She remembered to breathe then, hurriedly going to the Ps as she noticed that the list was much shorter than yesterday. She didn’t dare dwell on it.

Powell, KIA. Powell. Price, Price, KIA…

Price, John. Captain.

Another step forwards, two more people had gone and now she only had the elderly couple ahead of her. They had worn white as a symbol of hope, as have many of the other families awaiting their turn to read the list. She read the Rs, her heart beating out of her chest like a train engine.

I’ve heard stories from wives, whispers among the streets about some soldiers coming home and no longer being themselves. They’re hollow, lifeless - I’ve seen a few myself. It is like the undead have invaded Manchester, they walk about with no emotion in their eye, no care for their family as they walk beside them. I’ve watched them from our bookstore, watching as their small children tug on their father’s hands and he vaguely responds with a lifeless smile, sending them away from himself. Their wives do not give away any note of worry, perfect smiles and small touches to their husbands as if to comfort them in a small way. It’s not hard to recognize the wife’s pain, it’s a pain I hope I will never know.

Radley. KIA. Raines. KIA. Redgrave. Ridley. Ridley. Rigley. KIA. Rivers. KIA. Robbins. KIA.

I’m scared, Simon.

A rougher hand grabbed her arm then, she didn’t look away. She kept rereading the list. Today is the last day for arrivals, she knew that. She has known that for the past week. Where was his name? Where was Lieutenant Simon Riley?

“Mrs. Riley,” A soft voice came from the person pulling her away, she kept staring at the board as it grew smaller. She almost stumbled, tripping over herself before she turned to look at the man who knew her.

Gaz.

“Are you alright?” She asked the man in pea green, he looked bewildered. They were now just outside of the crowd, he rolled his shoulders. “You aren’t harmed?”

“Mrs. Riley, there is no need for you to worry about me.” Gaz placed a hand on the strap of his dufflebag that was across his chest, he had a concerned look on his face. “Have you seen Soap? He had gotten off of the train with me, I’ve been looking for Price-“

Her hand gently pushed Gaz backwards, away from the crowd. The soldier had let her, her hand left his arm as she led him towards a bench. She sat down, smoothing out her dress and crossing her ankles. Her dark shoes were sort of scuffed, she stared at it for a moment before looking back up at her husband’s friend. He looked upon the train station, seeing the crowd began to dissipate slowly.

“Mr. Garrick,” She whispered, hoping he would hear her just like Simon would. But he just kept watching, waiting. “Gaz.”

Gaz turned his head to look at her, his face solemn. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Please, just call me by my name.” She answered, she then patted the bench. “Sit with me.” The wind picked up then, rippling through her straightened and victory rolled hair - the common style that she hated. Her normal hair was beautiful - is what Simon would always say, gently pet it against her head. If she wished hard enough, she could feel his hand touch her cheek. She closed her eyes then, letting the wind breeze her face without the malice of a dull world.

“I haven’t-“

“Is there someone waiting for you, Mr. Garrick?”

Terrified, really. What if you do not step off that train tomorrow? What will I do if I must return home in silence, no longer in your grasp? No longer sleep without the knowledge that you’ll be coming home?

Her eyes fluttered open as the gentleman sat on the bench, a couple of feet away. He didn’t even look at her, his eyes staring at the station. “No, ma’am.”

“I see.” She answered. “You are welcome in my home, just until you’re able to get on your feet.” She looked towards the train station again, her hands sat like stone in her lap, her purse against her shoes. “The invitation is extended to Mr. MacTavish, Mr. Parra and Mr. Price as well, should you see them - even Mr. Vargas if he makes his presence known.”

“Are you leaving?” Gaz asked and the woman didn’t offer an answer, only silence as she watched families in black walk with either their loved one in their arms or a folded flag. She didn’t know what he was asking - was she leaving the plaza or was she leaving Manchester?

“I’m not sure.” She commented to the air, recounting the past week and knowing that Gaz could hear her. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve had company in my home.” She patted her dress again when she changed the subject, a nervous habit. “Many of my own friends in Poland and the Netherlands have perished.” She brushed off invisible dust from her lap, smiling sadly. “I’m afraid I no longer have any friends.”

“Mrs. Riley, you’re my friend.” Gaz commented, looking at her as she still stared at the train station. “Ghost has done all of us well, told us many times that you are a person with a kind heart. I’m very glad you decided not to just ignore me earlier.” He sort of chuckled, then continued. “Look, Mrs. Riley, I haven’t seen Ghost since March. I was moved to a different unit, he was upset with me when I left. Not sure if he’d want to see me-“

“Mrs. Riley!” Came a loud Scottish boom, Gaz’s head swiveled towards the train station as she stood, she would have smiled but the information Gaz gave her sent an arrow into her heart. The Scot slid his bag across the pavement to Gaz before wrapping the woman in a tight embrace, rocking her side to side as he chirped, “Oh, lass, how I have missed you so!” He kissed her cheek, his smile as wide as the moon. “You won’t believe what they’ve fed me!”

Well, I suppose I haven’t had that knowledge since February, but it still feels crushing to say. What will I do if you return to me and you are no longer yourself? I know war must change a man but I’m not sure how I will live if I never see your smile again.

“Soap, you’ll squeeze the poor woman to death.” Gaz’s hand grabbed Soap’s shoulder and the Scot let go of her, his hands held onto her shoulders.

“How are you, bonnie? Still workin’ at that measly book store?” Soap looked like he had not slept in weeks, the poor thing.

She shrugged. “Yes.“

“Gaz, lad, how’re you?” Soap then turned away from her, almost strangling Gaz when he hugged him. Soap then began to babble on to him, while she watched the train station again, seeing how it was now becoming less crowded, yet…

There was a man with a boonie hat on, walking towards them with just a small bag. And it felt like someone had grabbed a hold of her ankle and pulled her underwater, she couldn’t scream, cry- Breathe. Just breathe.

She felt something in her heart then, but it wasn’t confirmation. No, she wouldn’t get confirmation until her fingers brushed his dog tag - the only one she would receive from the British Army would be the red one, the hardened rubber imprinted with his identification number, religion, his first initial and Riley.

“Mr. Price.” Her voice was a whisper, the gentleman raised his head to look at her.

What will I do if you do not return? Will I become like the hundreds of widowed wives, crying forever and waiting for their husband’s remains to return home? Will I be able to go to the plaza everyday, knowing that you’ve touched this place before? Will I be able to stay in our home that you’ve put sweat and blood into, just for us? I can’t think anymore of it.

“Mr. Price, please.” She walked towards him, her steps uneasy. She could feel her heart in her throat as it constricted, the air becoming sour as he came closer. The world began to lose her focus, her hands at her side. The man finally stopped, a few feet from her.

He took off his hat and held out his hand.

“Mrs. Riley.”

Her right hand trembled when she held it up, taking his hand and he shook it.

“Please.” Her request made Soap and Gaz go quiet, she placed her left hand upon Price’s. The Captain merely stared at her. “You have to know something about Simon.”

Price merely whispered your name. “You haven’t seen his name on the boards?”

All color drained from Price’s face, and Soap’s hand touched her shoulder. She looked up to Soap, his friendly excitement was now gone. “He isn’t here?”

I don’t think I could ever understand it, that I would ever want to. We’ve talked about it, but it still doesn’t make the ache in my soul any lighter. I cannot think of you anymore, it feels like my heart is playing a melancholy tune on a piano well beyond its years; playing a song I never knew it had memorized. And it’s like my fingers are stuck to the keys, dancing ever so slowly as if the crescendo in the sheet music keeps darting away. The climax of our story hasn’t even crossed the page yet; I keep playing this haunted tune and I don’t want to anymore.

“Y/N, what do you mean he’s not here?”

I want to rip my fingers from the keys and push myself away from the piano. But I only play this tune as I wait for you, only when you’re away from me. What will I do if this will be the only song I can play for the rest of my life?

Her knees went weak then, she almost collapsed if it wasn’t for Soap grabbing her, quickly placing her on the bench before kneeling in front of her. Price did the same, both men held one of her hands.

“No list has had Ghost on it? At all?” Price questioned, tears didn’t even dare reach her eyes. All she could do was stare at the train station, seeing how the train had gone - only a handful of people remained. She could count on both her hands how many people stayed behind, looking like lost souls, wandering.

Soap’s voice wavered when he spoke your name, “Lass, please answer him,” he squeezed her hand, her eyes looked to his before flickering back to Price.

She took a breath in, trying to calm herself but it was a futile attempt. “No, no.” She took another breath, shuddering. She closed her eyes and her head moved down to face her lap. “I…He has to be here, you have to know something.”

“The last time I saw the LT, shite, would’ve been the start of August. We were headin’ back from Hong Kong.” Soap muttered, his hand still firmly squeezing hers. “He was fine. He was with Alejandro, they were heading back, weren’t they?”

Price hummed in agreement. “Maybe he gave his seat up, maybe he escorted Alejandro to London. It’s okay, we’ll figure it out.” The Captain looked to Soap. “Go check the boards again, maybe they’ve put up the MIA list.”

Soap gave her hand another squeeze before he leapt to his feet, speed walking towards the station while Gaz took his place; Gaz’s hand had a softer grip, much more comforting.

“Mrs. Riley, it will be okay.” Gaz’s voice was soft now, Price was looking over his shoulder. “He’ll be here.”

My mother sent for me. This morning, actually. I was sitting in the study, going through the mail. My father is dying back home in America, and I must go. But I feel that I cannot leave here without knowing. I cannot leave our home without knowing if I get to kiss you or kiss the stone that will lay above your head.

“We should take her home,” Gaz commented to Price, she couldn’t even feel her hands then, her husband’s friends holding her hands tightly. “She needs to go home, Price.”

“Wait.” Price murmured, still watching Soap. She didn’t dare look now, her gaze moved away and to the right. The trees danced with the gentle breeze, leaves twisting and turning on their branches. The lights of the cafe had now burned out, the post office dim too - it seemed everyone had decided to abandon their work today. It made sense.

All she wanted to do now was sit in the bookstore, reading one of those romance books that Simon finds silly in the little reading nook she loved. He’d tell her that reading about romance is not the way to find someone, that all of the romance she’d need would come from him. What a way to woo a woman, she had said. He had smiled.

I’ve wondered what it would be like for you if I leave for America this very moment. You place your key into the lock, twisting it and opening up the front door. The house would be dark, no warmth from the fireplace, nothing to signal that I would be home. Maybe you would think I abandoned you, maybe you would think I had perished. But, I know you. There will be no need to worry, Simon.

“Soap,” Price called, her eyes didn’t move from the bookstore, its lights still on and bright. It was almost like she could see Simon sitting on the window seat across from her, reading A Farewell To Arms by Ernest Hemingway while she read Gone With The Wind by Margaret Mitchell - stealing glances from each other often. They were young then, he was 21 while she was 18, almost 19.

It was their first date. Sitting in the bookstore, stealing glances and being near each other. He had asked her what she was doing here in Manchester, noticing her American accent. She said, “I’m visiting my friends, I’m staying with an aunt.”

Simon sat up, closing his book before looking at her. “And you’re sat here, in a bookstore?”

“You have a much different and bigger selection than home,” She answered, a smile danced on her lips. “But I still love reading my favorite book.” She closed her own book, swinging her legs over the side of the bench, letting her shoes touch the ground. “Say, do you know any good romance books?”

That was the first time she had heard him truly laugh.

I’ve waited so long for you. So long for our life to grow, to spend more than a fleeting moment behind a bookshelf like we did when we were young. I’ve sat in every room of our home, praying and wishing for your safe return. I’ve hoped and wished so hard that I feel that the universe no longer hears me. Oh Simon, I’ve waited centuries in the collective almost six years you have been gone from my side. I’m not sure if I can wait any longer.

She didn’t even hear Soap’s answer. She didn’t even care that Price had pulled her to her feet, asking Soap where she lived. She mindlessly walked beside the soldiers, her ears began to ring.

The sky was gray, whistles of rain fell from it and kissed their heads. She would have normally been walking faster to avoid the rain, her hair taking almost an hour to put up but it felt like her soul had fell free from her chest. It was thrown away on the side of the street, discarded until she decides to find it again.

She was sure she wouldn’t.

The breeze felt bitter now, it was no longer her friend that ebbed by through her hair. It was a dangerous being, whispering in her ear taunts of loneliness, even though her friends walked beside her. Her arms were around both Gaz and Price’s, her hands gently rested on their forearms as they continued through the Manchester streets.

The ring felt heavy now. It felt like someone was pulling on her hand, trying to tear her ring off of her skin; like something was trying to burn it off. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t take it off. It was the only part she had connected to him.

When they finally arrived at her home, she blinked. She refocused her eyes, staring at the black door that seemed to mock her now. Soap fished the key from her purse, opening it - the soldiers pulled her into the house, her dark shoes scraped against the floor, scuffing them. They walked into the living room, gently settling her onto her couch. Their arms left her then, all of the soldiers kneeled before her.

And all she could do was blink, feeling tears burn her cheeks. And none of the men there dared to touch her now, Price’s eyes stayed on hers as Gaz and Soap looked at each other.

“Did you hear him?” Price’s voice was much softer than it was before, kinder - patient. “Did you hear John?”

She shook her head, letting the razor sharp tears slice down her face.

Price held out his hands, to which both of hers settled in. He clutched them gently, as if she was made of porcelain.

“Simon Riley is missing in action.”

I will love you forever. Even if you have left this precious Earth, even if your feet still tread upon it. But I can’t wait for a ghost when I have been waiting for my husband almost our entire marriage. My father is stable enough, they believe. He has two months to live. And because I love you, Simon, I will wait exactly one month after the last train arrives in Manchester with a list of soldiers.

Her tears fell against her dress, louder than anything else in the room. Her hands shook in front of her, she clenched them before she looked up at her husband’s friends.

And if you arrive when I have gone, I am sorry. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to come back to our home empty handed, even if you are there - because you always leave. You always leave and I have always needed you, Simon. Always. You have hurt me in unimaginable ways, my love, even if you always find your way back home to me. So, just this once - I will be the one leaving. I can’t come back. I won’t come back. I won’t come back to a house that is no longer ours. I will not come back to a house that is just mine.

“Please don’t let me be alone.”

I love you, Simon Riley. Don’t ever forget it.

Forever yours,

Y/N.

—

𝔯𝔢𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡! 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔰 𝔪𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢!

———

Copyright © 2022 lethalchiralium. All rights reserved.

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

[bulkyphrase]

AmeriHawk: a Clint Barton/Steve Rogers rec list

A few of my favorite fics from an underappreciated rarepair!

Found Your Husband by sara_holmes (@captn-sara-holmes) (Teen And Up Audiences, 8,824 words, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Summary: Clint was never any good at strategy. He's pretty good at putting his foot in his mouth, though. Never to the extent where he ends up accidentally marrying someone he's not seen in twenty years, though.

Third Wheel or 20 Dates by cakeisnotpie (Explicit, 9,748 words, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Summary: Steve and Clint are the third wheels around the tower. Basketball, classic movies, plays, and late night workouts ensue. Turns out, they may have been dating the whole time.

More below the cut!

Contractually Obligated, at Least Out of Uniform by snack_size (Explicit, 57,833 words, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Summary: A chance encounter in the SHIELD hallway leads Clint and Steve, post-Avengers, to get to know each other better when everyone else is off having adventures. Things develop slowly, and awkwardly, and probably only thanks to one well timed comment by Tony. From there, Clint and Steve try to navigate a new reality, each other, and their various past traumas.

You were good for her by marmolita (@marmolita) (Explicit, 2,364 words, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings)

Author's Note: "This fic is a followup to quigonejinn's Beast of Burden. It may not make much sense if you haven't read that one first, so please do."

Summary: "Clint, I want--" Steve says, pulling back. Clint looks up at him, one hand on Steve's shoulder and one on the side of his ribs. Steve blinks, looks away. "I want you to hurt me."

Ghosts by AvaKelly (@intermittently-ava) (Explicit, 22,931 words, Graphic Depictions Of Violence)

My Note: This fic and the next one are the reason I ship AmeriHawk. Before I read them I hadn't even considered the ship as a possibility.

Summary: "Under the ice, I was awake." When the words settle in his head, Clint feels dizzy with comprehension. And yeah, there it is, the ripping that slices into his ribcage, sharp and painful, as if trying to erase everything that had touched his chest before. He shudders violently. "How are you sane," a whisper slips out unabated, voicing Clint's realization. "I'm not really."

Illusions by AvaKelly (@intermittently-ava) (Explicit, 26,362 words, Graphic Depictions Of Violence)

Summary: Hawkeye looks at him unblinking, unwinds his muscles with an upturn curl of a corner of his mouth that flashes a hint of teeth into the sunlight. He extends a hand, grips Steve's jaw a little too tight. "This is what kills people," he warns, like he refuses to acknowledge it as part of him. It sends a pang of hurt through Steve, because Clint can see a lot, but how can he not realize that it's Clint speaking through Hawkeye's mouth? They are not separate, but of one being, killer and conscience. That is what makes them soldiers instead of murderers.-- Alternate telling of Ghosts from Steve's perspective. Why you should read it: It has about 3 extra chapters from Ghosts of the boys in the tower. Here we dive into what reality looks like for Steve, after the years in ice. The Cat was here.

A Lifetime Of Dreaming by shatteredhourglass (@shatteredhourglass) (Explicit, 15,541 words, Graphic Depictions Of Violence)

Summary: "Clint," someone calls out, and Clint blinks. Alternatively titled 'Clint Barton And The No-Good, Shitty, Very Bad Day.'

If I Don't Wake Up Dead by copperbadge (@copperbadge) (Mature, 30,756 words)

Summary: Clint Barton -- subby, ex-carnie white trash, spy -- isn't the kind of guy Captain America goes for. Nobody informed Captain America of this.

in the day by harcourt (@haforcere) (Not Rated, 2,586 words)

Summary: For this prompt, where Steve is a man out of time, and things really were better way back when. Today, Doms control every aspect of their subs lives, more like ownership than a partnership. And when Steve wakes up, every one expects him to slot neatly into society because he comes from a time when "Doms were Doms and subs were subs," right? Also available as a podfic read by GoLBPodfics (@godoflaundrybaskets)

Chase Away the Winter's Chill by drmcbones (Teen And Up Audiences, 4,461 words)

Summary: Everybody sees Steve as the invincible Captain America, the hero who bounced back from being frozen for 70 years and went straight back to kicking ass and taking names. People forget that he's still a human being who underwent a horrific trauma. So Clint is thrown for a loop when he visits Steve's apartment and finds him in the midst of a panic attack brought on by his first winter since his near death in the arctic. Cue Clint doing whatever it takes to look after his teammate and remind him that he is not alone.

Boundless by AvaKelly (@intermittently-ava) (Teen And Up Audiences, 931 words)

Summary: Steve gets rewarded for his sacrifice with the choice of roaming the world as an invisible spirit while he's frozen and he takes it. One day, he meets a boy and makes a promise.

(my heart is) A Church of Scars by Kangofu_CB (Teen And Up Audiences, 4,384 words)

Summary: "Steve." It was a gentle correction, but implacable all the same. "It's Steve. And you never belonged to Loki because I'm pretty sure you belong to me." He reached for the buttons at his throat and began loosening them, revealing pale collarbones and smooth, hairless skin, but before the stripping could get really risque - and some distant part of Clint was deeply disappointed - Steve stopped unbuttoning the shirt and instead pulled the edges of it aside, so that his right shoulder was showing. A right shoulder that was marred by a very distinctive, starburst-shaped scar. The kind of scar an arrow left. Clint's vision narrowed to pinpricks, and he could feel himself panting in short, choppy bursts. In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, Clint finds something to hold on to.

Another First Kiss by Sineala (@sineala) (Explicit, 22,645 words)

Summary: Clint and the rest of the Avengers are alive and safe, home again after Onslaught. The team is getting back together. Life is great. And, what's more, Clint has woken up to one of his longtime fantasies, come true at last: Steve Rogers is naked in his bed and is very, very happy to see him. Everything would be perfect... if only Clint could remember anything at all about how Steve got there. Uh-oh. Okay, so he has a bit of amnesia. There's only one thing to do: wing it. The memories are bound to come back, any minute now. In the meantime, Clint can absolutely, definitely pretend that he knows what he's doing, who all these new Avengers are, and how the hell he ended up dating Captain America.

[flying-thing]

Kiss Me in the Rain

This is a SoapGhost fic for Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2. No one requested this, but my heart yearns for more angst, and as such, here we are. This is all based on the new Ghost skin in the war zone part of the game that I've never touched.

I'm not typing out Soap's accent.

..............................................................................................

Playlist:

Work Song - Hozier

My Love Mine All Mine - Mitski

So My Darling - Rachel Chinouriri

Atlantis - Seafret

Here With Me - D4vd

Romantic Homicide - D4vd

Dark Red - Steve Lacy

Advice - Alex G

The View Between Villages - Noah Kohan

..............................................................................................

CW: major character death, broken promises, gore, unreliable narrator, angst, domestic fluff, zombies

Word Count: 3457 (Unfinished and not edited!!)

-------------------------------------------------------

It was no surprise when Price told Simon and John that it was close to the time in which they needed more supplies. They were the scouts, after all, and it was their job to go scavenging. They still had a few days before they needed to leave, and as per usual, the two were enjoying their time together until they needed to leave.

Simon walked out to the garden the team had started a few days ago, and he found John watering the plants. It was a lot easier for sprouts to come out when there weren't birds and squirrels to steal the seeds from the soil. It has become oddly peaceful since the outbreak, nobody to disturb your slumber, no wars to fight, and barely anything to worry about. Recently, the 141 have been looking for any type of farm animal so that they can fully sustain themselves without needing to leave every month or so for supplies. Everyone has taken to reading books, whether it be to pass the time or to learn how to do certain things. Price has figured out how to build buildings— after some much needed practice. Gaz has learned to make soap and cook delightful food (when there was actual food to cook), and Soap has put his demolition skills to good use in that he can make things that create electricity and even plumbing. Simon has become very interested in gardening, interestingly enough.

Everyone had a place, and the routine worked. The rest of the world was plagued, but here in their little home? It was perfect. Most of the soldiers left when the outbreak happened so they could protect their families. The rest died when the undead broke in. Simon wonders sometimes what it would be like to be dead. He fantasized about it a lot when he was younger, but now that there was little to live for, life was everything to him.

Before he got too lost in his thoughts, John walked over to him. "What's happening in that brain of yours, Simon?" He asks. Simon snaps out of whatever trance held him, and he shook his head. "I don't know how to explain it, but it's nothing exciting. What are you doing out here?" He counters, earning a grin from the scot's face.

"Just trying to find out why you enjoy this so much, and I think I've just about figured it out."

Simon looks at him amused. "And what is the reason?"

"I said 'just about,' not completely," he jokes, making Simon laugh. He did that more often now that he barely wore a mask anymore. John was fascinated with how expressive he was. Crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, the barely-there blush on his cheeks, the corners of his mouth lifting. Apparently, when he called Simon gorgeous in his mind, he said it outloud, and it made the taller man smile more.

"You flatter me too much, Johnny. Do you want to know the reason I enjoy it?"

"Would you tell me if I said yes?"

"Probably not."

John scoffed playfully and shook his head, his eyes closed with the gesture. "Has Gaz made dinner yet?"

"He's about to, I think. He's excited for everything to start growing so we don't need to live off unseasoned and almost expired canned food."

"I'm in the same boat with him. Cannot stand what we're surviving off. Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose." John said solemnly.

Simon quirked an eyebrow. "Did you learn that phrase from Price?"

The comment earned him a punch to the shoulder, and Simon just chuckled again. "I've been around you English folk longer than you think, bastard." His words held no venom, and Simon rolled his eyes. "Thanks for watering everything, even if you didn't find answers to your questions."

John looked up at him and nodded. "I'm glad you found something you enjoy. I don't need to understand it."

It was always a change of pace from when Simon was tearing himself apart to find out the answers to unspoken questions he had about himself to John wholeheartedly accepting him, no questions asked. He'd slowly started adopting the mindset of not needing to know everything for there to be understanding. Johnny really rubbed off on him, he supposed.

"Price wants us to leave tomorrow. We need more food and blankets. Winter might be harsh, and we still don't have a heater that works," Simon said, changing the subject.

The shorter man nodded before chuckling. "Can you imagine us bringing back mattresses? That'd be feat."

"We would probably need to bring the four of us for proper backup. There's a mattress store in the mall we go into sometimes," Simon said. John thought for a moment before nodding his head. "Project for another day."

---

Simon got his and John's clothes while the latter got the shower ready. The routine was comforting for Simon after their 'normal' was all discombobulated. He had folded the clothes as neatly as he could before walking into the shared restroom that was slowly fogging up the broken mirror. He set the clothes on top of the closed toilet seat and made sure their towels were still where they were supposed to be.

"The water's just how you like it, Si," Johnny said, peaking his head out of the curtain. He had always looked at him like he was the most precious thing he'd ever seen, and it was sometimes overwhelming for Simon. He didn't deserve this. But he had it, and so he would enjoy it until the world decided it was time to tear them apart.

Simon only smiled as he undressed and put his clothes next to the pile Johnny had already made before getting inside the shower with him. John made room for Simon to feel the warmth of the water. His eyes closed for a moment as he basked in it. When his eyes opened, Johnny had some of the homemade shampoo in his hand and Simon leaned down so he could wash his hair.

Soft moments like this made him feel all warm inside, and he never could resist melting into his lover's hands when he'd held him. They took their time in washing each other, not wanting to waste a single moment together. The water was still hot when they finished and they dried off and got dressed. They spent the time in a comfortable silence, both having acknowledged that no words needed to be shared.

After they climbed into bed, Simon wrapped himself around John. He wanted to tell him about the feeling of dread he felt but got lost to the sound of John's heartbeat. John rubbed Simon's shoulder with his thumb as they laid there.

"I have a bad feeling about tomorrow," Simon said. John hummed. "Do you know why?"

Simon shook his head. "Just feels like something is going to go wrong."

"We haven't had an incident in a while. We cleared out most of the hoard that went through the city," John said, trying to clear the other's worries.

"Maybe that's the problem," Simon said. He'd never been scared to go out on a mission. The zombies were no more a threat to him than a soldier would have been. A little less if he thought about it.

"Promise me you'll be the one to kill me if I get bitten."

"What are you talking about? You're not going to get eaten. Stop talking like that," John said.

"Johnny, I need you to promise me. I don't know what I'd do if I was the one who hurt you in the end," Simon says, sitting up to look at him.

"I will protect you, Simon. I promise that if push comes to shove, I'll kill you. I'm not going to lose you to a damn biter though, you hear?" John said, pulling Simon in for a light kiss.

John sat up with him and cradled Simon's face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away tears that Simon hadn't even realized were falling.

"Don't cry, my love. It's okay."

"I don't understand why I'm so upset," Simon said. "But I just can't stand the thought of hurting you. You're so dear to me."

"Don't get too sappy on me," John chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "I love you, Simon."

"I love you too, Johnny."

John's eyes widened, and Simon didn't think he'd ever seen his face get so bright.

"Well, you can't die now. Not when you're finding your voice. I'm so proud of you, Simon."

"It's all because of you."

---

Beep beep be- click.

John clicked off the alarm clock with a sigh. He sat up and rubbed his face before turning to look at Simon sleeping peacefully. His light brown hair is laid across the pillow, and his mouth is slightly agape. His hair had gotten longer as he had not cut it in a while. It looked so soft and John couldn't help but carefully run his fingers through the other's locks. The action woke him up and he opened his glossy eyes to see that it was only Johnny there.

"Good morning," he said, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning," the other responded. John removed his hand and allowed Simon to do a full body stretch and yawn before sitting up as well. He leaned on John's shoulder, his cheek smushing up against it.

"You're like a cat, Simon. It's sweet," John said endearingly.

"I blame you for making me soft, Johnny," Simon mumbled, making him chuckle.

"We should get up soon. Gaz ought to be making breakfast by now."

"Let me go to the bathroom first," Simon said, getting up and stretching again, yawning as he scratches his stomach.

John followed behind him and then to the cafeteria after, sure enough hearing Gaz making noise in the kitchen.

They walked up to the window in the wall and watched the man do his thing. "Good morning, Gaz," John says loudly so he hears him. He looked over and grinned. "Morning, boys. How'd you sleep?"

"I slept well enough. Simon's still waking up, if you couldn't tell," John answered. Gaz nodded.

"Breakfast is almost done, if you two want to sit down. I'll bring it out to you."

"Make enough for me too," Price said, his voice carrying through the room. Gaz rolled his eyes. "No, I think I'll let you make your own food," he said sarcastically. It made Simon laugh and he covered his mouth with one of his hands.

"Don't think you'd want me messing up your space. You'd probably kill me if I set the kitchen on fire."

"Damn right, I would."

They all laugh and after a couple minutes, Gaz walked out with two trays with two plates on each tray. He sat them down on the table they routinely sat at.

"I found a hen in the woods yesterday, so I went and grabbed it. I need you to make a pen for it," Gaz said to Price. The three of them grinned. "So we get eggs more often?" John asked, earning an excited nod.

"Yes!" John exclaimed, doing a little happy dance. Simon laughed and shook his head. "Eat your food. We should leave soon."

"Aye, you're right, but we still need a list of what we need to find. You're also not even dressed yet," John said amusedly. "Neither are you," Simon quipped.

John rolled his eyes and grinned, eating what was on his plate. The four of them conversated for a while even after they'd all finished their food. It was calm; exactly what Simon needed after stressing all last night.

When they finally got dressed, it was about noon. Simon slipped on his vest and grabbed his knives and backpack. He waited for John to finish putting his boots on before walking out to Price's office. John knocked, and Price called them in.

"I've got your list here. It's the normal stuff with a few additions," the older man said, looking between the two.

Simon nodded and took the list from Price's outstretched hand. He looked it over before handing it to John, who put it in his bag. "We'll be back in a couple days then," Simon said, putting on his mask.

"Be safe, boys. We'll be waiting for you."

"Of course, sir," John said, putting on a mask of his own. They walked out of the room and saw Gaz waiting for them at the door. He hugged both of them when they got close enough. "Don't get lost, got it? We'll come find you if you don't check in properly, so don't leave us hanging."

John grins and fist bumps the man, holding their fists together. "We'll come back. Don't miss us too much, yeah?" Gaz nodded and looked at Simon.

"I'll keep him kicking," he said with a grin. "Good man," Gaz responded, giving him a fist bump too. He opened the door and watched them head out and down the road.

"How long do you think we'll be out this time?" John asked, his head slightly elevated to look at the tops of the trees. Simon hummed in consideration. "Four days. Only because we have a lot to get and ground to cover."

"I'll say a week then. Factoring in anything potential issues," John said in consideration. Simon nodded, "Makes sense. I don't think we will though. It's been a while since we've seen so much as a group."

"Better safe than sorry, hm?" John said playfully. Simon chuckled and shook his head. "Learned that from Gaz? Picking up all sorts of things, I see."

"What do you expect? I'm around you guys all the time. Bound to happen," John said, amused.

"We'll be at the city soon. I can see it ahead," Simon said, changing the subject. Since they left so late, they wouldn't make it in daylight and would need to set up camp and get there the next day. Walking give miles takes longer than one would originally expect. They were pretty close by the time the moon was a quarter of the way up in the sky and decided to make their border so they could sleep.

Simon threaded three lines of barbed wire around the trees where their camp would be; one close to the ground, one about torso level, and one in front of his face. After that, he pushed leaves closer to the wire so it would be easier to hear if anything on through. John made a small upside down fire in the meantime, putting down their sleeping bags and using their bags as pillows.

"Did you remember the spoons, Johnny?" Simon asked as he watched him pull out a couple cans of food. John looked around as he thought about it before grimacing. "I'll take that as a no. Good thing I remembered for you," he said, pulling a couple out of his own bag.

"I can't go anywhere without you, Simon," John said playfully, knowing full well that he would forget his sleeping bag if Simon wasn't there to remind him or grab it for him. "I know," the other responded, handing him a spoon.

They ate in a comfortable silence and watched the fire. When they finished eating, Simon took the cans and put them in a spare bag he had brought, putting the spoons in with them to wash them when they got to the stream on their way back. They sat next to each other, their shoulders touching.

"We should sleep soon," Simon said as John leaned his head on his shoulder. "You won't sleep, so I won't either," John said in determination. Simon chuckled and shook his head. "Sleep, Johnny. I'll watch over you."

The man was already asleep, much to Simon's amusement. He never could stay up like Simon could. He fell asleep a little after, laying them both down to get comfortable. Simon layed on the sleeping bag while John was sprawled out on top of him, his head on his chest.

Simon woke up to rustling and at first thought it was John moving. He soon realized that he would have felt the man move and opened his eyes to see a walker fallen over the wire. It was quickly crawling towards them and Simon grabbed the knife from his side pocket and slipped out from under John. He met the zombie halfway and he stabbed into its ear. It was a clean kill, if he did say so himself. The sun was decently up and thought it would be good to get up and go before it was super bright. Sunglasses are hard to put on over the hard shell of a mask.

John woke up from the commotion and shot up when he saw the dead zombie slumped at Simon's feet, thinking it was still alive. "It's alright, Johnny. Took care of it," Simon said, easing John's worries. "We should go soon, so get ready to leave."

He nodded and stretched before getting up and taking deep breaths to calm his adrenaline. He always feared Simon would get bit protecting him. He rolled up the unused sleeping bags and put them away while Simon undid the wiring. They both took a whiz before continuing their trek to the city.

They took their knives out just in case something came at them. Every now and then, they would encounter a runner and they were the worst of them. John opened the makeshift fence they'd made to keep the area contained. Ammo had been exhausted at the beginning of the outbreak and they didn't have much left. As such, guns were rarely used.

They'd never found other survivors. It was hard to live in a world like this and not many had good survival instincts. It really was a wonder the military fell so soon when they were supposed to be trained for it. Oh well, Simon supposed. More resources for my group.

Closing the fence, they ventured further in. "What store should we hit first?" John asked, his eyes scanning the area in front of them. "Necessities first. Probably the chicken feed since the store is farther away. We can work our way to the front."

"Makes sense. It would keep us out here longer though. I don't remember where the store is exactly."

"Neither do I. But if we want eggs, we need to hope we find it quickly and that it's even there."

John nodded, and they kept walking. "We should stock up on toilet paper as well. Maybe grab a thing of water until we get the well pumping properly."

"Should get some for our vacation."

"While this isn't a vacation I would want, it's funny," Simon mused. John stifled a laugh.

They spent most of the day walking down the streets until it got dark enough that they would need to find a building. They found one without a bunch of broken windows and it looked secure enough. They went to the door and carefully opened it, hoping it didn't squeak too much.

The windows let in enough light that they could see well enough. Simon walked over to the wall and banged on it a few times. The door was still open in case a crowd came and they could easily leave. The downside was that the noise could have attracted some outside. It would do them no good to be cornered. When nothing came and no sound was made, John closed the door. They scouted the room and found nothing. The windows were stable and the door leading upstairs was barricaded. As long as they secured the door leading out and stayed out of sight, they would be just fine.

They were unable to make a fire, much to John's dismay, but they did have an electric lantern still. Price was able to fix a solar panel onto it and now they could test to see if it worked. Simon desperately hoped that it would work like this, although he would never admit it. He wanted to be able to see everything if anything happened. That would have been his explanation. The real reason, however, is that he wants to be able to watch John. He didn't know how much time they had left and he wanted to see as much of him as possible.

It's not creepy. It's endearing, Simon thought. How many times will I see him before our inevitable deaths?

He broke free from his slightly morbid thoughts after seeing John grin at him with his teeth showing. It meant that he was pleased. That's good. It was moments like this that made him feel the urge to commit whatever crime he needed to just to see him smile all the time. Not that there was any structure anymore, but his point still stood.

With confirmation that it works, they turned it off. No use in wasting electricity when there was still light outside.

"Hungry, Simon?" John asked as he rifled through his bag for food. Simon nodded when he looked at him. “These are so much better when they're hot, but here you go.”

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Star-crossed in the Crosshairs (John Price x Reader)

Chapter 6: Hint of the Century

Fic Summary: This mission is the pinnacle of your efforts for the past three years. Your whole team and yourself have worked countless hours, slaughtered hundreds, risked life and limb for scraps of intel, and now it all boiled down to pairing up with another taskforce to get this job done and dusted. An unexpected spanner in the works comes in the shape of your former best friend, now also a Captain and somehow resurrected from his KIA status, John Price.

You can’t afford to let feelings - old and new - get in the way of your purpose. No matter how much you’ve missed, wished for, loved him, and no matter how much he might feel the same.

Content warnings: Usual COD content (violence, torture, death, guns), mutual pining, back from the dead, friends to allies to lovers, Reader is GN, some use of Rory.

Chapter 5 // Masterlist // AO3 Version // Chapter 7

There were two main reasons behind “Nerve” becoming your nickname around base twenty years ago: you had a lot of it, and you could get on anyone’s. As you rose through to the rank of Captain, you attempted to sever your nerves and burn them so you couldn’t feel anything anymore. But you’d just exposed their ends. Sometimes you were grateful, because your humanity made you a better soldier, reminded you of why you did this fucking horrendous job. However, today, it meant you were exposed to more pain from anyone who noticed and exploited it. You didn’t think Price would be one of those, using his history with you to call you by your name, expose you on the battlefield and in front of the Sergeant you’d reprimanded for feelings you also had. For the love of God, did he have no pity?

Your heart was hammering, sending your breath out of sync with the rest of you for a few seconds before you regained command of your senses.

“Anyone got eyes on Čiernik?” You asked down the comms as you shot down yet another of your opposition. These guys were coming out of the walls, you could’ve sworn.

“Negative, Cap. Taking the top level now,” was your reply, from Chance still leading your charge.  

Meeting the barrel of Bravo team’s leader’s gun, you let Ghost lower his weapon instead of pushing it away whilst you replied, “Block the stairways, and get me eyes outside. He’s not getting out of this building unless it’s with us.”

Four more spots were cleared before you made it up onto the roof-terrace. A vacant table and chairs sat beneath an obsolete umbrella. A gentle breeze blew as you surveyed Nemšiná, still as soulless as it was when passing through. It inspired a dull pride that your work was finally paying off. All those yearsČiernik spent building his arsenal and you were ploughing through it like toy soldiers beneath your boots.

You heard Bronze over the wind picking up and blustering around your gear, “Sierra-7, this is Sierra-10. Building is cleared but no sign of Čiernik.”

“Copy that, Sierra-10. Begin reconnaissance.”

There wasn’t any sign of Shepherd either, you noted. Despite the obvious collaboration and the fact that this was Shepherd’s property, you’d yet to find something here that indicated he had ever been to it.

“Bravo team, Sierra team. We are all clear, but Čiernik’s location is still unknown. Search the place for intel and any signs as to where he might’ve gone.”

Maybe he was hiding in the walls.

Bravo team dispersed beneath your feet, back down the levels to the rest of the rooms, leaving just you with Ghost to sift through the room that connected to the stairwell to the roof. There was nothing besides the cabinet that covered one of the walls entirely but the contents of the cabinet were plenty. Ghost handed you a file labelled “Expenses 2022” and you began to sift through the most recent of entries – Excel spreadsheets mostly with precious little annotated after they were released from a printer.

A flare of ache arced through your side and you pressed against it as tenderly as you could.

“You alright?”

Your head swung round to face Price with all the calmness you could manage, “Fine. How’s the head?”

“Still a bit stiff.”

You snorted at his Hot Fuzz reference, spying behind him a laptop bag tucked at the back of an open cupboard. Ghost met your gaze then grabbed it down. You offered your black box from your pack, but instead he passed the laptop over.

“Ghost, a word?” Price nodded behind him. The two men trailed off, leaving you to get started on loading up the laptop. It would at least be a bit faster seeing if it had anything useful than the paper copies. Tapping in your key, the loading screen popped up, ready to transfer all its contents to your server.

Only one pair of steps returned to the room, and you could tell who by the gait and weight.

“Where’s Ghost?” You asked without turning.

“Coordinating on the second floor.”

“We don’t need two Captains in one tiny room.”

“Not even when I’ve got you a present?” You were hoping it was intel, but you were still receptive of the ice pack he crushed and tossing over, which you caught one-handed, “Chance said you ran into a sledgehammer?”

“If anything, it ran into me,” You snipped back. A sigh crawled out your mouth as the instant coolness spread through your shirt and onto your sore torso. Allowing yourself the luxury of slumping, you leant your free hand on the desk beside the laptop, staring at the loading bar filling up at a snail’s pace. “Ta.”

“Don’t mention it,” Price moved beside you.

“You find anything else?”

“Nothing interesting.”

As you plugged your black box into the laptop and began unlocking it, you noticed Price’s hands as he pressed both nearby to lean in at the laptop screen. His watch was off and so were his gloves, revealing on his wrist what – to any other onlooker – appeared to be a shit tattoo of a shit firework. The faded fuzzy diagram of a nerve cell, ripped straight out of a biology textbook and inked onto his skin forever, made your gut twist.

“You alright?”

A shiver passed across from your right shoulder to your left. You pretended it was caused by the icepack.

“Peachy keen,” You tore your stare from his tattoo and focused on not clocking yours, Sick with hypocrisy, imagined Crash downstairs still torturing herself over what you’d said to her.

“I want you on the first floor and update me on the status of the teams. And don’t call me Nerve again.”

Price’s hands pulled his gloves back on, settling onto his gun, “Of course. Sorry. You know what they say about old habits.”

Fuck’s sake, you couldn’t help but love him, whether he called you by Nerve or by name, whether he was here, abandoning you, or ordering you to leave him for dead. Blinking rapidly, you checked the progress on your black box whilst flicking back another tab in the “Expenses” folder over the sound of his boots hitting the stairs.

A pattern under “Properties” caught your gaze: Nemšinian postcodes and house numbers, one after the other, listed with their worth in the following column and a serial number in the next. Your black box was almost complete; you’d be able to sort those codes in a few minutes.

“Sir, we’ve got incoming on all sides from Nemšiná. Five group, and they brought their night vision this time.”

Folding up the laptop and slotting into your pack, you replied, “Bravo team, head to the east; Sierra team, go to the south exit. That’s the closest to the outskirts and we can take whatever heat they bring.”

As you scaled down the stairs, a shot fired through the wall in front of you. You ducked out of the way of the second and third shot, then saw the empty handgun slide through the open door. You burst in to take out your hostile and was greeted by a sight: one of Sierra team on the ground, a trap door beside a wardrobe and scuff marks on the floorboards, and two open French windows – to the balcony you’d seen Čiernik lounging on just an hours before.After finding no heartbeat in your comrade’s neck and ripping off their tags, you glanced out of the door.

Čiernik was shimmying down the damn drainpipe and already halfway to the ground. Ahead, you saw his reinforcements coming through the front gate.

Over the ledge, you followed swiftly after, using the brickwork to aid your descent. A quick assessment of the drop failed you and you cursed at your knees’ response to dropping down onto the patio.

Shots fired from your twelve and one tore through your left bicep, shredding apart the muscles and blood vessels. Ducking behind a giant cement plant pot (that housed a palm tree of all things), you clung to the wound, shuffling until your back hit the vehicle before you ripped off your belt and wrung it around, pulling it taut. Another shot caught your ear but what got your attention was the hiss of air and the collision of gear and a gun with the concrete.

In the open back door, Chance was face down. She wasn’t moving for cover or to retrieve her weapon. Rolling onto your front, you dragged yourself along the grass, smearing the jade blades with scarlet as you crawled to the nearby planter. Your hand waited until the gunfire was aimed at the upper floors to clamp down on the toe of her boot and haul her across the patio. Her neck was narrowly missed by another bullet just as you got her completely in cover, where you flipped her onto her back and revealed the blood pooling fast on her abdominal, soaking her uniform. As you pressed down to slow the gush of blood, staining your hands red in the patio light, you felt the air stirring then whipping around you, the telltale breeze from a helicopter flying overhead.

“Chance? You hear me?” You spoke loudly, bent over to reach her ear, then you addressed your team, “This is Sierra-7, by the front entrance with Sierra-4 -gunshot wound to the stomach, require urgent assistance.”

A shadow darkened over the wound. You looked up just in time to see an armed masked unfamiliar a few feet away, his automatic weapon aimed directly at you.

“Found them.”

The butt of his gun smacked against your cheekbones, sending you sprawling onto the dusty ground. Disorientated, you were yanked up by the scruff of your neck and dragged away from your teammate. Arms trying to reach back for Chance, your legs Bambi’ed beneath you, unable to push you into standing. At the gate, you were held still only for the amount of time it took them to threw a sack and yank the drawstring tightly around your neck. Then you were tossed the back of a vehicle and, as it swerved off to the right, you wheezed out a breath and lost total track of your consciousness.

-------------------------

AN: OOOOooo! We've reached the halfway point of this fic. Can't wait for MW3 to come out and ruin my life (as if it didn't do enough of that the first time). Thank you to the folks sending me their thoughts and theories; you've really helped keep me writing. Especially those about the callsigns, the parallels of Price + Nerve versus Gaz + Crash. I've given you some more theory fodder this chapter plus this hint: Captain Price's Access Code.

Taglist: @mockerycrow and @entertain-my-lvst

[toadbreath]

dear john;

simon keeps a journal to grieve johnny's death and we all have to suffer for it..

✒ w.c: 3,5k

✒ pairing: ghost x soap // simon riley x john mactavish

✒ rating: m

✒ archive of our own: link here

✒ genre: angst

✒ warnings: mcd!! soap is dead in this fic. suicidal thoughts, alcoholism, implied self harm, emotional distress

✒ author's note: this is only the first chapter, the rest is on ao3, i might add more to it but i'm not sure yet. all ur comments and tags mean the world to me omg

JANUARY 19th, 2024

They call it longing because it takes forever. It is a yearning without an answer and a desire without a satiation. But that is not the whole truth. Longing is only the beginning of it. Longing is a seed in your belly that sprouts the roots of love, but even as the plant begins to grow, you don't know if it's going to bloom a red rose or a poisonous weed. When you're a kid, you think you will know the difference when the time comes, and you will choose the rose, but the older I get, the more I realize that it's not up to me. There is no rhyme or reason to who blooms a flower and who is pruned instead.

I never thought I'd find myself standing among the dead waiting for the flower to bloom. I always assumed I'd be the one with my hand on the sheers, trimming back the branches that would never bear fruit. But I am a soldier, not a gardener.

It’s been three months since your funeral, Johnny. I know you're not listening, and even if you were, there's no way for me to send these to you, but the psychologist said it would help, and I'm running out of ideas.

I'm not used to having something to lose. You changed everything, you changed me. You were a brother, a comrade, a friend, a leader. But you were never just any of those things, and now I don't know how to find my balance again.

I didn't know how much of my weight you were holding up until the ground fell out from beneath my feet. And now, every morning, I wake up, and I forget. Just for a moment, I forget, and the world is right, and the sun is shining, and then I remember. And the loss is the same as it was the day you left, only, now, the wound is festering. I'm rotting, and nothing I do is enough.

There is no honor, no pride in your loss. I cannot make a martyr out of the memory of you. Your death was senseless and meaningless, and I cannot find peace in the knowledge that it was in the name of a noble cause.

There was no nobility in the way he killed you. He didn't kill you because you were a soldier or a terrorist or a man. He killed you because you were in the way. The only comfort I have is that you went out the way you would have wanted, fighting, saving lives, being a hero. But the way you died doesn't erase the way you lived, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot separate the two.

The first time I met you, I saw the same thing in you that I see in myself. You were a killer, and I didn't want to like you, but you made me laugh. It's hard to hold onto your ideals of goodness and righteousness when you've had your hands around the neck of a man begging for his life. But you reminded me what it was like to have a heart, to be human. You made it okay to be the things I was.

There's not a lot of things in this world that scare me. I've stared down the barrel of guns. I've been beaten, tortured, starved, shot, stabbed, burned, and I've survived. I've faced down monsters in men's skin, and I've killed them all, and yet, I don't think I've ever been as afraid as I am right now. I'm scared of who I'll become without you. I'm scared that the last few years will have been wasted, and I'll turn into the kind of man that I would kill. I don't know who I am without you. I don't know how to be alone.

You told me once, after our first mission, that there was no room for regrets on the battlefield, and that there was no point in dwelling on things that could not be changed. At the time, I thought you were being flippant, but I think, now, you were trying to prepare me.

You knew, didn't you? That one of us was going to end up buried.

I wish we could go back, to those first days when the war was new and so were we. Back to the nights of playing cards and talking shit and watching cheesy American movies. We were young and invincible, and we knew everything. It feels like a lifetime ago. I was a different man then, and so were you.

Now, I look at myself, and I don't recognize the person staring back. I'm harder, colder, angrier, and there is a blackness inside me that I'm afraid will swallow me whole.

You were a light in the dark, a candle burning in a window that I could find my way home by. I was lost without you, and you found me. You saved me, and I will never be able to repay you for the debt I owe.

There was always a part of me that wanted more, a part that longed to burn up in the fire of you, to be consumed and destroyed. The only time I have ever felt alive was when you were in my arms. You were the only thing that made sense, the only thing that was good and pure and true, and now you are gone. And I'm left standing in the darkness, waiting for the storm to pass.

I hope that wherever you are, you are finally at peace. I hope that, somehow, you can hear me, and that, maybe, you understand.

I'm not sorry for loving you, Johnny, but I am sorry for saying it too late.

Yours, Simon Riley

read the rest of the chapters on the ao3 link up top~

[aziraphales-library]

I'm looking for fics in which Aziraphale and Crowley get closer (can be E, but doesn't have to be) and one or both of them retreat afterwards "because it's not meant to be", preferably with a lot of heartbreak and crying and a possible happy ending. Thank you for the blog and for your work, you are amazing!

We have recommended some fics like this before here, and I’ve got a few more now...

White Walls and Dead Air by BabyHoldMyFlower (G)

It’s after the fourth day that he decides he hates God. He’s too tired to hold it back. Too miserable. Too busy dying. He knows he’ll go back on it later. He knows that he’ll repent later, and he’ll mean it, he thinks, once he gains some perspective, but there is nothing that could stop this bone-deep agony from churning and rising into something ugly. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s an angel, he really shouldn’t be thinking these things. Blind obedience is what they were created for. It’s in this moment that he can admit to a flaw in the Almighty’s design. If she wanted soldiers, she shouldn’t have given them the capacity to love.

Law of inevitable eventuality by Yuu_chi (E)

“I think,” says Aziraphale with the confidence of a man three glasses deep into a particularly excellent bottle of wine, “that we should have sex.”

Do You Remember That Night In 1892? by Vecieminde (T)

Crowley had slept. More than he had planned, less than he had hoped for. The air is cool and a quick temptation in a casino doesn’t sound too bad. Yet, the last person he expected to find there was The Principality of The Eastern Gate.

Great.

Now they need to talk. After all, they had parted rather abruptly. Things had been said but not enough. Not nearly enough.

A Case of You (Ineffably Yours: Stolen Nights VI) by SecondHandNews (M)

What happens in Morocco stays in Morocco. Except when it doesn’t.

Phantasmagoria by drawlight (E)

Aziraphale is terrified of Heaven looking over his shoulder. He is terrified of burning Crowley with his holy-water-touch. So he doesn't reach out. He never says a word. Aziraphale loves Crowley in the wordless and touchless way of a ghost.

But there have always been languages for ghosts to speak.

Time Flies (When You're Having Fun) by Mussimm (E)

Versailles, 1769 - Aziraphale has a blessing to perform at a masquerade ball and it's important that he gets this one right. So important, in fact, that he can't seem to leave until he does.

But with a fancy dress, an attentive demon and an endless supply of champagne, it's a little challenging to stay on mission.

- Mod D

[reds-skull]

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[PREV PART] [AO3]

I'll make a separate post for all of my thoughts (because I have a lot), but I'd like to thank all of you. This has been such an amazing experience, being able to tell a story from start to end. This has been a lot of firsts for me, first fic, first serious writing, first time I reach the end of any long form story I made.

Each and every one of you reading, liking, reblogging and commenting made this ride that more enjoyable.

Now, it's time we finish it, with the longest chapter yet.

Its name on AO3 will be "Together."

All that could be heard in the small room were crackling flames. For a while, they just stared at each other.

“Revenants of light, huh…” Johnny whispers, fingers gently caressing Simon’s hand. He scoffs in disbelief, “I can’t believe we actually did it…”

Simon sinks into the flames hugging his skin, “did what?”

“Broke that prophecy. Lived. Fuckin’ created a new Reaper.” Johnny’s eyes shine, his voice full of reverence, “you think this was… a new deal?”

Heat strikes down, deep in his chest. “It would make sense… new Reaper, new powers…” Simon trails off.

“New death.” Johnny grins lopsidedly, “looks like yer stuck with me ‘till the end, LT.”

“Till death do us apart, Johnny?”

His Sergeant laughs brightly, Simon grinning like an idiot under the mask. Johnny takes his other hand in his, donning a more serious expression.

“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone.” he recites slowly, eyes not moving from his. Simon inhales sharply.

“I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One.” his heart beats like a war drum, strong and heavy. 

“Johnny…” he doesn’t recognize the lines, but the meaning expands beyond cultures.

“I give ye my Spirit,” he lifts a hand to cup Simon’s cheek, “’til our Life shall be Done.”

Simon leans in, resting his forehead on Johnny’s, chuckling in incredulity, “you’re fuckin’ mental, Sergeant.”

The Scot hums, nudging his head, “thought ye knew that already, mo chridhe.”

Fuckin’ hell, his heart won’t stop beating so loudly. Simon knows Johnny was half joking but…

But still his heart strives to etch the words into his rib cage. A vow seared into their very flesh, marked by forces beyond their comprehension.

An oath, so powerful it joins not only their lives, but the lives of otherworldly horrors, being who do not care for such things as human connection.

And yet, it is that very thing that changed the course of destiny, in a way not even Reapers could predict.

Simon leans close, to the man he calls home, a hearth to never be extinguished.

And he feels safe. He feels… complete.

When they finally leave the room, the air outside is considerably colder. The safe house is quiet, in a way it can’t be, for the amount of soldiers it contained before Johnny dragged Ghost away.

He catches the attention of a passing Vaquero, and the man tells him most have left for the base, as it was liberated once Graves died. He also informs them their teammates are waiting outside by the vehicles.

Price and Garrick smile at them knowingly when they reach the armored truck.

“Bloody hell, finally! What took you two so long??” Gaz kicks off the side of the truck to scowl at them.

Ghost squints, face heating up, “none of yours, Sergeant.”

Gaz opens his mouth, but Price pats his back, “we can argue in the damn car. I need a fuckin’ shower.”

The Sergeant instantly forgets his previous grievances, and floats away to the passenger sit, “oh fuck yeah! I’m drooling just thinking about the bunks. You think Rudy would make us tea again if we ask really nicely?”

Soap swings the door open while shaking his head, muttering, “feckin’ Brits and their shite tea…”

Ghost slides besides him and cuffs him over the warhawk, “you better respect Parra’s tea in this car, Sergeant.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, unable to stop the smirk spreading on his lips, “what are ye gonna do? Report me to the king?”

“You little…” Ghost starts wrestling his Sergeant in the back sits, Price sighing deeply and turning the ignition.

When Soap somehow manages to kick the Captain’s headrest, jostling his hat dangerously, Price turns to glare at the two of them.

“You stop that, or I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”

They both immediately freeze, “sorry Captain.” Soap mumbles.

The truck is left parked between the others already on base, and the taskforce makes its way to the barracks.

Rudy finds them after a shower, smiling, “hermanos. Feeling better?”

Garrick is still drying his hair with a towel, “feel fuckin’ human, brother.”

Alejandro rounds the corner, laughing, “Rudy got something even better than a shower.”

“What’s that?” Soap asks. Price’s eyes fill with wonder, and Ghost already knows the answer.

Alejandro swings an arm around the Sergeant Major, “how does ‘Parra’s infamous tea’ sound like?”

Gaz cheers, floating up a few inches, while Soap grumbles disappointingly, “sounds like bloody heaven, Rodolfo!” Garrick reaches to pull the Vaquero into a hug, “thank you!!!”

Rudy pats the Sergeant, laughing, “it’s nothing, hermano. A little thanks for all of you, for helping us with Graves.” he looks over at Ghost, the two sharing a nod of mutual understanding.

Soap pouts, “feckin’ tea though…?”

Alejandro smirks confidently, “we also got some… shortbread, you call it?”

Now that puts a spark in Johnny’s eyes, “ye all are saints, Alejandro.”

The Colonel laughs loudly. 

They meet Commander Karim and Keller on their way out, duffle bags slung over their shoulders.

Farah smiles warmly at the Captain, “ah, Price. Glad I could find you before we leave.”

“You’re already going back to Urzikstan?”

The American sighs, “yep. The Vaqueros volunteered to search for any of our people, but currently we need to go back to protecting whoever we still have.”

“Graves may be dead, but this is far from over.” Farah looks over the serene hills surrounding the base, “as much as I want to get Shepherd, I cannot let myself be blinded by revenge.”

Ghost understands the sentiment. Revenge is a fuel, what you put it into could make or break your reality. “When we find him, we’ll make sure you’re there to take it.”

Farah nods, perceptive eyes landing on his, “I appreciate it, Lieutenant.” she turns to the rest, “thank you for everything. God willing, we will meet on better times.”

Price wraps a hand around her shoulder, making Ghost realize just how small the Commander is compared to him, “stay safe, Farah.” he winks at Alex, “make sure she takes breaks from time to time, will you?”

Keller laughs, “you know not even I can do that. Cya around, Cap.”

As the two walk away, Garrick mumbles, “think they’ll be alright without Graves supporting them?”

Price sighs wearily, eyes somber as they track Farah and Alex’s form, “they’ll have to be.”

They say their goodbyes to the Vaqueros, with a hopeful note to work together in the future, and get ready to board a plane to England. After a few hours, where the team took time to fix their undoubtably horrid stench and growling stomachs, and got to sleep (Soap dragged him to a sofa to nap, and Ghost will forever deny it was the best sleep of his life), Laswell called.

Ghost initially prayed they’re not being sent to another mission, in a way he never did. To his credit, the last few months were absurd.

She didn’t contact them for work, instead inviting them to stop by for a drink before they all leave for the UK. The promise of a good drink had them instantly agree.

The flight is spent mostly sleeping, again, as they were all incredibly tired, bone deep fatigue, emotionally and physically.

Garrick made sure to make his annoyingly aching shoulder everyone’s problem, complaining he couldn’t find a good position to rest in, until the Captain showed mercy and let him float around the cabin, leg held fast by Price.

Kate greets them warmly in a little bar hidden within Chicago’s winding alleys. Their drinks have been ordered beforehand, and everyone makes their gratitude known by taking a sip and melting into the bar sits.

Laswell smiles knowingly, letting them relax before starting, “this has been quite a ride for you boys, huh?”

Price sighs, “you can say it again.”

The CIA agent shakes her head morosely, “they got past us.”

“Well, they had a head start.” the Captain lifts his drink, “to cutting heads off snakes.”

Laswell clinks her cup with his. Ghost joins their conversation while they take the toast, “any sign of Shepherd?”

The woman puts the drink back on the counter, “totally off the grid.”

Gaz looks down at his whisky, frowning in conviction, “we’ll find him.”

“No,” Laswell answers, Garrick locking eyes with her, “we’ve got bigger fish.” she glances at Soap, “I did some digging on the Russian experiments.”

“That’s a dirty job if I’ve heard one”, Price mutters under his breath.

“Ultra-nationalists are after the fabled ‘revenant-killer’, John.” Price shakes his head minutely at the words.

“Kate,” he says lowly, “this is over.” almost begging her to let his boys rest.

“No. It’s not.” she ignores his pleas, as do all Reapers above and below. “They’re working with someone new.”

She pulls out a picture and shows it to Price, his expression instantly morphing into shock, and then cold rage.

Ghost tries to ask the Captain what he’s seeing, but he doesn’t need to.

Price points at the photo, “...he’s not new.” and passes it to Gaz.

Garrick’s brows furrow at it, glancing at the Captain questioningly before passing it over to Johnny.

Soap takes one look at the image, his smile lines deepening as his fingers singe the edges of the photo.

He slides it to Ghost, hand lingering, eyes full of uncertainty.

Ghost flips the picture, and his heart hardens.

“Who is he?” Laswell asks Price.

The Captain leans in to almost whisper, “Makarov.”

Laswell tilts her head, and Price continues to talk in their minds, “the Kastovian deserter, Konchar? He didn’t leave the military for no reason.”

Flames crackle threateningly under the bar, Ghost sliding a hand over white fire.

“He worked for Makarov?” Soap growls.

Price nods, “your Reaping took his work years back, but if what Laswell says is true…”

“He’s back.” Ghost finishes.

Johnny’s hand squeezes his, and they make eye contact.

It’s never really over, is it? Some say they’ll rest when they’re dead. Their harsh reality is that they’re not even granted that.

Blue eyes reflecting flames, as well as one floating man with a warm smile, and a reassuring voice in his mind, promise him that while yes, they may never rest, it does not mean they’ll fight alone.

Together, until death, as it brought them to each other, takes them away.

Soap is furious. They leave the bar not soon after, his Sergeant walking away as they say their farewells to Laswell.

On the flight back, he’s all uncontrollable energy, waiting for ignition to blow up. 

Ghost, after 20 minutes of watching Johnny bounce his leg enough to wear a hole through the damn floor, places a hand to stop his movements.

“Talk to me, Johnny.”

Soap’s eyes stay full of rage for only a moment, before softening, “I’m thinking… maybe it wasn’t coincidence that me and Konchar were in Verdansk at the same time.”

Ghost hums for him to continue, drawing nonsense patterns on his thigh.

“What if I was an experiment, Simon?” Johnny looks away, his eyes fogging with memories, “what if Makarov knew Konchar had to kill me to live, and wanted to see if I could. If I was destined to be a revenant killer?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ghost grounds. Johnny looks unconvinced, so he continues, “whatever you were destined to be… you’re not it anymore. We’re both changed men.”

Johnny stares at him with more emotions than Simon can contain, reverence and trust and… something he can’t name.

“You… how could I tell you how much I adore you?”

Simon’s heart, gut and head, all line in decision for once in his life. 

Actions speak louder than words, he remembers. And so, he rolls up the mask up above his brows, and leans in.

Gently taking hold of Soap’s nape, he directs his head to his face, pressing a touch of lips to his temple.

Simon whispers in his ear, “I already know. I look at you, and I can’t explain what it does to me. What you do to me, love.”

Johnny closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He looks almost conflicted, but the creases smooth over when Simon brushes lips over them.

“You mean everything.”

Price ordered him to his office the moment Ghost stepped foot on British soil. He glanced at Johnny, who was carrying his and Gaz’s bags. His Sergeant promised with a lopsided grin he’ll find him later, a sort of scheming glint in his eyes.

Ghost reaches the Captain’s office in record time, hoping to finish whatever this is as fast as possible.

Price, however, didn’t get the damn memo, and takes his sweet time settling into his chair. “How are you doing, Simon?”

Ghost surpassed the urge to roll his eyes, “good.” he gets the mental image of begging on his knees for Price to get to the point, and the Captain laughs.

“Alright, alright. I’ll spare you the suffering, Lieutenant.” Price’s smile slowly fades, “what happened with your Reaper, son?”

Right. He and Johnny may have forgotten to mention the new developments in the ‘Eldritch horrors beyond this world’ department.

“Our Reapers merged. They called themselves ‘Reaper of Luminary’.” Ghost huffs, “they told me and Johnny… we’re linked. We’ll live and die together.”

Price nods. He doesn’t seem too surprised, and Ghost wonders how much he already knew from his passing thoughts.

“I don’t know how long we would be able to keep it quiet…” he strokes his moustache, “this gets out, you two will have a target on your backs.”

Ghost straightens, hands behind his back at rest, “we’ll handle it, if it comes to that, sir.”

The Captain sighs, “I admire your confidence, Lieutenant, but I don’t think you understand the scale of the issue. You two are the first revenants in modern history to affect the Reapers the way they affect humans. We believed our connection was a one way street - that humans are simply too weak to change Reapers.” his stare is severe, “you however? You’re powerful enough to not only go against them, but physically mold them. What Makarov is after is nothing compared to the force you hold.”

Ghost closes his eyes. Price is right, of course. But…

He has faith. Hope.

Price’s moustache twitches, “...I understand.” he raises from the chair, walking around to place a hand on Ghost’s shoulder.

“I’m happy for you, son. You and Soap make a good team.” the Captain’s eyes crease with mirth, “I heard your conversation on the plane-”

“Fuckin’ hell Price, that was bloody private!” Ghost scoffs, embarrassment coursing through him.

“I stopped listening after the first ‘love’-”

Ghost drags a hand over his eyes, “just get on with it”

“As I’ve told you, you have my blessing. If you need anything, if anyone gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to come to me, got it?”

Ghost scoffs despite the threat of tears in his eyes. He looks at Price now, and sees much more than a Captain. He sees something he has never had.

“Copy.”

It’s not Johnny that finds him first, but Garrick, floating around the hallway in front of Price’s office.

“Need the Captain, Sergeant?” Ghost inquires.

Gaz stops, “no, I got a message from Soap.”

His interest instantly piques, “go on.”

Garrick rummages through his pocket with his healthy hand and pulls out a note, “he said ‘meet me here’, and that you should ‘clean up’.” the Sergeant wiggles his eyebrows, “sounds like he has a nice surprise for ya, sir.”

Ghost takes the note, examining the location. Looks like a street in the city neighboring the base. “I’m off then. Don’t get into trouble, Garrick. Cheers.”

Gaz frowns, pointing at his injured arm, “not like I bloody can…”

Ghost smiles while walking away, “if anyone could find a way, it would be you Sergeant.”

He chuckles lowly at Gaz’s fussing as he makes his way to the base’s parking lot.

The sun has started to set by the time Ghost reaches the location Soap left for him, the sky painted reds and oranges and yellows that remind him fondly of Johnny’s radiant fire.

He changed into a more casual outfit, covering his face with only a cloth mask and a hoodie. 

Ghost’s lips stretch so much he fears they’ll get stuck like that, when he spots the place. An elegant sign hangs above a restaurant, one that looks small and cozy, with dimmed warm lighting, and plants covering the brick walls.

He parks the car nearby and walks in, a waiter catching his stare and approaching him.

“Are you uh… ‘Ghost’?” he says with hesitation.

Ghost scans the tables, trying to find one warhawk sticking out, “affirm.”

The waiter sighs in relief, “your partner is already here. Follow me.”

The man leads him to a more secluded area, a low wall separating it from the main room. Ghost feels his heart thrum a familiar beat when he finally finds Johnny, sitting alone in a table for two.

“Your orders will arrive soon, please make yourself at home.” the waiter gives him a wobbly smile, and Johnny chuckles at the man practically running away.

“You really do have quite the effect on people, don’t ye Simon?” his Sergeant smiles.

Simon huffs, sitting down in front of him, “what’s all this, then?” he nods to the restaurant.

Johnny leans in, taking his hand, “I promised I’ll treat ye nicely, to a good restaurant, didn’t I?”

“You remembered?” Simon blinks in surprise.

“Of course,” Johnny grins, “I also remember ye said ye will treat me equally.”

“Had a feeling this was too good to be true…” Simon sighs, mask covering his smile.

“Oi!”

Simon pulls the mask off, making Johnny snap his mouth closed, “thank you.” he smirks smugly at his Sergeant’s amazed expression.

“Fuck me, I almost forgot how beautiful ye are.” Johnny mumbles.

Heat spreads over his exposed features, Simon looks away, “guess I’ll have to remind you more often.”

“Oh, please! I won’t ask fer anything else!”

Simon glances back at him, “we both know that’s fucking bullshite, Sergeant.”

Johnny laughs, tugging at his hand, “aye, ye know me too well.”

They quiet down to a comfortable silence, grins fading to soft smiles.

“Whatever comes next…” Simon inhales, grasping Johnny’s hand tighter. “We’ll do it together, love.”

Johnny lets his white flames caress Simon’s scarred hands, casting an otherworldly glow over them, making them shine as if lit from within.

If his heart could, it would be brighter than the sun now.

“Together.”

The End.

[soldierboysbitch]

I always wanted some rugrats of my own. Now I got nothing (part 1)

My first soldier boy fic, soldier boy/f!supe!reader.

TW: violence, possible smut, obvious cursing, soldier boy in all of his soldier boy glory, future pregnancy. If there’s anything else that should be tagged let me know.

May be slightly OOC sometimes, manipulating canon as well.

It had been a long time since anyone had bothered to show up to your door asking for Banshee. Despite that, when you threw open your door early in the morning still clad in a very old set of Vought produced Payback branded pajamas, it was the first thing you heard.

“Banshee? Would have thought you’d be a hell of a lot older.” A heavy British accent and a slightly unnerving smirk greeted you as soon as your door swung open.

Taking a moment to snap into old habit, you assessed the man in front of you. Rough looking, with a glint of danger in his eyes but he wasn’t a supe. You could tell that the tall skinny man behind him who looked like he might be about to throw up wasn’t one either. They looked familiar, familiar enough to set alarm bells off.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing at my house?” You asked looking between the two men, decidedly putting most of your attention on the man with the accent. He seemed like the bigger risk in this scenario.

“Seems we might have a common enemy… and a common friend.” He spoke again glancing at your pajama shirt before back up at you again. “Names Butcher, and a little birdie informed me that you have a problem with Vought. Now… we do too.”

Now that was something you couldn’t deny. Vought had done a lot to make your life a living hell. You’d been part of the first trials of compound V, experimented on with promises of changing the world. Instead you’d ended up as nothing more than a cheesy marketing gimmick and a photo opportunity. When you’d lost your appeal, they’d used the chance the experiment a bit more. As soon as Vought got what they wanted, you’d gotten a tiny severance check and thrown out on your ass.

“Well congratulations, you’re one of millions with an issue with Vought. Hop in line.” You said about to shut the door on them. A familiar voice stopped you in your tracks before the door was fully closed.

“I’m sick of waiting in the fucking car like a kid while my mom goes shopping.” The voice rang out, that smooth timber and angry edge sending a rush of adrenaline and shock through your system.

Just as soon as the door was about to close, you flung it open again. You felt like you were looking at a ghost, he hadn’t changed one bit. His hair was the only thing that had really changed, instead of his polished slicked back army cut, it flopped a bit in his face now. Everything else was spot on compared to the memories you relived almost nightly.

“Ben?” Your voice sounded far away, even to yourself, as you stepped out of your house pushing the British man out of your way easily.

His head snapped towards you, and his face looked much like you assumed yours did. It had only lasted for a moment before that same old whiskey and honey smirk crossed his face. You noticed a hint of danger behind his eyes you never had before now, and you wondered what exactly had happened to him.

“Well fuck me upside down… (y/n)? Look at you.” That same old swaggered walk had you pushing the skinny one out of your way too as you closed the distance between the two of you.

“They said you were dead… in Nicaragua. Edgar came back and said you’d been killed and they’d taken your body…. How?” You asked, stopping an inch in front of him.

“Yeah well they fucking lied. Set me up and sold me out to the Russians. My own fucking team.” His fists were clenched at his sides and he was jaw was locking up the way it did when he was angry.

You reacted before the two men behind you could, gently putting your hand on Soldier Boy’s chest. “Hey… you want a drink?” You said simply, knowing him the way old friends did. “Come on… whatever these two fucking dicks wanna talk about they can talk about inside.” You gave him a little grin moving to turn on your heels and head inside, knowing he would follow.

Behind you, you heard the skinny one let out a relieved sigh and you wondered just what Soldier Boy was doing to them to have them this on edge. You knew he could be pretty aggressive, relying on his fists to do what he couldn’t say but neither of them looked beat up. You moved to the cabinet above your sink, getting out four glasses. “Whiskey or rum?” You asked already knowing the answer as you poured the whiskey. You filled Soldier Boy’s a bit more than the rest passing the glass over before taking a seat at your small kitchen table.

“Nice pajamas. Glad to see you’re still walking around with my face on your tits.” Soldier Boy’s self satisfying grin made you roll your eyes as you took a long sip from your glass.

“Part of my severance package, Vought really knows how to rub your face in the dirt when they’re done with you.” You said with a bit of a scowl, Vought really had a sick sense of humor.

“If you two are finished with your little, flirting session, we came here for a reason. We’ve come to a little agreement, that I think you might like to get a piece of. We’re finding Soldier boy here’s team, and in return he’s helping us take down Homelander. Now we know you’re the only part of that team that didn’t make it to Nicaragua, and we know… you want to get rid of Vought just as much as we do. We could use another supe against Homelander.” Butcher, you were pretty sure that was his name, drawled in that accent with a look on his face like you’d already said yes.

“So… who’s left on that list of yours? I saw Gunpowder and Crimson Countess are dead… that leaves the fucking wonder twins, Mindstorm, and Noir right?” You asked glancing between Butcher and Soldier Boy before finishing your drink. “Fucking count me in…. Not like I have much else going for me.” You said finally.

The look on the skinny one, who’s name you still didn’t know’s, face was a mix of surprise and hope. It had been a long time since you’d seen anyone look at you with hope in their eyes. You sent a look between them all before heading back into your room, opening your closet and digging to the back. It had been almost twenty years since you’ve even bothered to put the costume on. It took a moment to remember how to even tug it all on, but you managed. Slipping on your boots, you heard the door open and you didn’t need to look up to know just who it was. There was no mistaking the sound of those boots and the permanent gunpowder scent. You could still remember the first time you’d seen him.

It was 1951, the world was recovering from the Second World War and superheroes were appearing left and right. Vought had such a success with Soldier Boy that they’d decided they needed more. A world full of heroes specially selected to make them the most money. You’d been the first trial to be injected as a child, testing the possibilities. You’d destroyed home after home, even a Vought compound once before you’d learned to control your powers.

At twenty, Vought had decided you were ready. Going from concrete rooms to the spotlight had been such a change, and then you’d met him. Soldier Boy. He’d been barking orders and downing drinks like they were water but something had drawn you to him. Like a moth to a flame, you’d found yourself circling him. He’d sent you that swaggered grin, and he’d called you songbird. You hadn’t been sure if that was one purpose, or if he hadn’t bothered to learn your name. It hadn’t mattered then and it didn’t matter now.

“I’m glad you’re alive. I missed you.” Your voice was barely audible but you knew he heard you.

“Don’t be a pussy.” Came his reply, but you could hear the smile in his voice without ever turning around.

[mehoymalloy]

GHOST FLIGHT; The Memorial Grove

I’ve been thinking about my Horizon Big Bang 2022 piece a lot lately, especially the soldiers of Operation Enduring Victory. Since the larger fic they belong to is a bit of a beast, I thought I’d share the shorts I wrote for each black box in Horizon Forbidden West here on Tumblr.

After all, their stories deserve to be heard (even if I made them up).

The Memorial Grove Black Box Transcript:

AIR CONTROL ROMEO: This is Romeo requesting status update.

Flight 41, you need to adjust your course to avoid the Swarm. Can you respond, over?

Flight 41 - please acknowledge.

AIR CONTROL ROMEO: My sensors are showing their cabin's depressurized, I think the crew's gone and they're on auto-pilot. Flight 41's a ghost flight.

Listen to the audio log on my photomode Twitter account here.

Ashly Wilson's eyes flicked over her display, catching the steady blip of a plane veering off course. Frowning, she watched it for a few seconds, assuming—hoping—that the pilot was merely taking an extra moment to adjust. But no, the craft kept along its wayward path.

Flipping a switch on her comms headset—courtesy of her director, who was paranoid that the Swarm might start hacking their tech at air control—Wilson spoke up. "This is Romeo requesting status update."

Five seconds. Static.

"Flight 41, you need to adjust your course to avoid the Swarm. Can you respond, over?"

Seven seconds. Static.

"Flight 41," Wilson's voice was tight, strained. "Please acknowledge."

She was long past feeling anxious. But despite how numb this past year had left her, the disappointment always stayed. The weight of lives she had to report dead or missing in action at the end of the day would always leave her with a shard of ice slowly melting in her hollowed-out chest.

Three seconds. She had already made up her mind after the second unanswered comms request.

Wilson sighed, bitter edge softening to deadened resignation, far too familiar.

She flicked a switch to report directly to her supervisor. "My sensors are showing their cabin's depressurized, I think the crew's gone and they're on autopilot. Flight 41's a ghost flight."

-

Only a few minutes prior, far away from air control, an aircraft was making a steady descent, preparing to drop its load of soldiers directly into combat.

A FAS-ACA3 Scarab overtook and manually opened Flight 41's rear door, simultaneously disengaging all safety belts and harnesses for the craft's two pilots and twelve passengers. The scene, as viewed from the cockpit, was neat. At first glance, no one would guess that fourteen soldiers had occupied the space only moments ago.

Below, the scene was not neat. With such an abrupt ejection, most soldiers did not have time to even attempt to deploy their parachutes, and so their bodies littered the ground—bones crushed, insides spilled, blood soaking into barren soil. Almost all were killed on impact. But one soldier did manage to deploy his parachute, though far too late. His body barreled through the canopy, steadily slowing as he hit desiccated tree limbs one after another. His descent was further slowed as the parachute, hardly even unfurled, caught on several branches, snapping the withered wood and bringing them along for the ride.

His arm was only the first piece of him to break; it immediately snapped, nearly ripped from its socket. Ribs were shattered, organs bruised, gashes rent deep into skin and muscle. He was not granted the luxury of dying on impact when he met the ground.

In fact, he did not meet the ground at all. The lines of his parachute got caught in a handful of stubbornly-sturdy branches, and he hung thirty feet up, tangled in the cords like a fly trapped in a web. He swayed gently, blood streaming down his mangled limbs and dripping to the ground far below. He could not pinpoint precisely what hurt. Everything hurt. He stared blankly at the ash-swept sky, wet gasps for air soft amid the distant roar of war, as blood pooled into his punctured lungs. He suffered for exactly seven minutes and forty-three seconds before his shuddering gasps finally, blessedly, faded away entirely.

Black Box 1/12

[kaz-identified]

Haiiiii! Chapter two is here. Updates will be stalled for a small bit because I am in fact, starting college in less than a week! But enjoy what we got, I promise my future updates will be incredible!

Pairing: Ulysses + Faolan (OC Guardians)

Category: Chapter Fic

Genre: Comedy

Rating: 13+

Warnings: Language, Death Mentions

Word Count: 1283

Summary: Ask your brother, he’s got good advice.

series masterlist

oh, sweet child of mine.

The archives provide a sense of peace that cannot be found no where else in the Tower.

The silent comfort of knowledge and the quiet dread of knowing so much has been lost. There’s something cosmic about standing amidst endless records and tombs and knowing that this will outlast you, and then it too will be forgotten. All things rot away in time. But a historian’s job is to do everything in their power to ensure that the rot does not consume, and that all things can be recovered, remembered, and told again and again and again.

“Time moves on, and though many try to stop it or reverse the flow, the wheel spins on, unbothered by our thoughts, our feelings, our dreams of a glorious past. But if we run with it, we can fashion a better tomorrow. So, we fight on, and we dream of golden ages.”

So it is written. So it is said.

Ulysses has been repeating this to himself for ages. He cannot stop the rot, cannot slow the spin, but he can try his best to keep it from erasing things. Sometimes that ways on him, the immense weight of preserving small fragments from being crushed underfoot by giants. But time does not wait, history moves on, and so he must as well.

Saying words, putting them to pen is a lot easier than believing them.

You pray you know enough to act and jump headlong into situations you cannot possibly understand, fighting and scraping and dying and trying, that’s what soldiers are for. It’s hard to keep a level head in desperate circumstances, but that’s what scholars are for. Applying rationale after the fact, making sense of the madness of war. But what of when scholars become the soldiers? Then, you do the best you can for as long as you can and hope what you’re doing is right, hope when you settle to recount it you aren’t haunted by the smell of gunsmoke and the taste of blood. You do what you must. And you remember that after the war, there will be peace.

There is peace in the archives, aside from the melancholy of knowing nothing here is complete, so many scraps of information lost with needless bloodshed. How far back had the Red War pushed their record keeping? The assault on the Moon? The battle of Six Fronts? How many Guardians fell, their friends mourning in quiet, their names in no record, engraved on no wall? How many died to build the walls their names adorn? How many names have been forgotten? Can you remember the noble dead by their names alone? What happens when their actions are all that are known? What makes a noble death, anyway? Is it the death itself or the actions leading up to it? Is there any such thing, or is that just a lie we tell soldiers to make them feel better when they fall down and die, dreaming of a paradise where they can lay down arms and rest? One can only hope that there is. So that the eons of young men sent to battle with helpless odds did not all die for nothing. So that the ages of Guardians collapsing in on themselves could reach something akin to salvation in the en-

“Ulysses? Are you okay? You’ve been standing there for five minutes, should I call someone?” A voice cuts through the clutter and noise of deep think.

Ulysses shakes his head and looks to where his Ghost is hovering, shell tilted in a mimicry of human concerned posture. “I’m fine, Minerva. Just… pensive.”

He could feel her silence, heavy on his shoulders like a thick wolf’s pelt, voiceless quiet concern, but still felt as sharp as any words. “Don’t look at my like that,” he says quietly, turning away from her robotic gaze.

“Then don’t look forward like that!” She counters, hovering just above his shoulder like a bird. “You worry me when you get lost in thought, I never know what you’re thinking,” she chirps.

He offers a small laugh, playfully swatting her away. “I’m fine, really, I’m fine.”

Minerva huffed but relented. “Well, regar-“

And then the crashes sounded. They both whipped around on high alert, just in time for a bullet-speed rush of armor and fur to careen straight into Ulysses, caterwauling in misery.

“ULYSSEEEEEEEEEEEEES!!” Faolan cried, barreling into him and collapsing unceremoniously into his arms, dropping her head against his breastplate and wailing. “The Vanguard’s out to get me!”

Ulysses stood still and tense for a moment, supporting her in his arms before looking down at his sister, letting her stay held up by him for a moment longer before helping her to stand fully and taking a step back.

Minerva flitted around the young Guardian much in the way a nursemaid checks up on their charge when they return from playing a bit too rough in the yard.

Faolan’s own Ghost, who had refused any attempts at naming insisting that Ghost is in fact, quite fine, thank you very much, hovered at her shoulder, shifting his shell in a way very akin to an eye roll. “They are not out to get you, you’re being dramatic,” he chastises gently.

She swats him away and looks pleadingly at Ulysses. Her eyes carry less of the wolfish hunger and intensity he is used to and more a puppyish pleading, begging for attention and help.

“Please talk to them! I’m gonna die if you don’t,” she begs, clinging to his robes like a lost child.

“Ah, you’re in your downfall? Can I watch?”

“Take this seriously!”

“I am. You’re one of, if not the, greatest Guardians in modern Tower history. Tracking your direct downfall would be fascinating.”

She immediately hardens, her gaze turning annoyed and her lips drawing into a line. “Ok so, screw you. I hope your research grant gets denied and then you die horribly forever.”

And there was the little wolf he knew, a childish beast full of teeth and ready to bite. “Okay. But talk with them about what, exactly?”

She dropped back to pleading, grabbing on to his sleeve with wide eyes. “They’re making me room with a person I don’t even know!” She cried like this was the greatest crime to ever happen.

“Ah, may you rest well in peace, you’re gonna screw this up immediately,” he chuckles, offering a comforting pat to the shoulder.

“Oh, die!” She grumbles, but leans into his hand.

“Hey,” he offered a placating gesture, “I’m simply speaking from the experience of being on a fireteam with you,” he ruffles her hair.

She let out a catlike hissing noise, swatting at his hand. “My roommate has a hat. That says fish fear her. And I kinda do too!”

Ulysses took his hand from her head and braced them on her shoulders, holding her straight out so he could look her in the eyes. “I have stood by your side while you struck down gods and dragons. You’re scared of a hobby fisherman?”

“I FEAR THE DEPTHS, ODYSSEUS!” She cries.

“You are quite sincerely hopeless, I fear,” he offers and pulls her into a tight hug. “I’m not talking to Ikora about this but my advice is keep sleeping in your ship if this bothers you so much.”

“That’s horrible advice! That doesn’t fix any of my problems!” She argues, squirming in his grip.

“Yeah well, it’s all I got. Take it or leave it.”

“Leaving it, burying it even!”

“You’re so dramatic,” he teases, letting her go. “Now get out of my archives,” he pushes her towards the door, Minerva bidding her a farewell, and returns to his work.

Woohoo! Sibling dynamics!!

ao3: houseofmcallister buy me a coffee!

Don’t repost my work or I’ll eat your shoulder blades! I do not consent to my works being used for AI training purposes.

[mongreldyke]

ghost quartet asks because. yea. but not actually asks because im answering them anyway

1. Favorite character

        probably soldier or roxie!

2. Favorite timeline

        THATS SO HARD. soldier rose or the crossover of usher/subway timeline probably

3. Favorite song

        Bad Men!

4. Favorite performer?

         between gelsey and rose, gelsey can just do this the slightly offputting thing so well

5. Live album or recordrd album?

        live. duh.

6. How much of the plot do you think you understand?

        I've got it all at this point with my massive brain and the help of @cometzz, though i was never too interested in poe or arabian nights so i think a lot of the references flew over my head

7. Least favorite song/song u skip most often

       i don't really have a least favorite but. Maybe tango dancer? which is the only song that isnt entirely to my musical tastes but i ike it still

8. Favorite non-sung/spoken line?

Will you dance with me? ... Okay :/ Do you remember a time before we were just sisters? Do you remember anything else? No. Not yet. But I'm getting there.

9. Favorite lyric

      "I love the way you see the world, I love the way your soul sings, I wish that I could sing like you, I wish that I could feel things"

10. Do you have any ships for the show? If so what are they?

        SOLDIERROSE HANDSDOWN. a soldier with a death wish and a rose who is scheming. match made in purgatory

11. What's your favorite non-confirmed theory?

       erm... i dont actually know many of those. i think the soldier got the pot of honey from killing the bear but idk if that counts?

12. Have you produced any artwork/content for Ghost Quartet?

       working on a soldier and rose fic o7

13. Which role would you most like to play?

        Gelsey or Brent!

14. Which Usher song is your favorite?

        uhhgh thats so hard. i say usher 3 just because. the end

15. The Starchild, Roxie, Rose, or Rose Red?

         fuck! roxie, photgrapher!rose, or soldier!rose

16. Subway or the Photograph?

         subway hands down

17. Four Friends or Any Kind of Dead Person?

         fuck. uh any kind of dead person, only because brittain going "LIIIIOOONNNN" is so me

18.  The Gelsey/Brittain dance in Monk or the Dave/Brittain dance in Midnight?

          MONK????

19. The Astronomer or The Telescope

         the telescope its so good

20. Fathers & Sons, or Lights Out?

          Fathers & Sons music wise but lights out makes me so :(((

21. Tango Dancer or Hero?

          Hero :]

22. How did you first get into Ghost Quartet

         i got @cometzz into mabel and he was like YOUUUUU would like ghost quartet if you like mabel. and he was right

23. When did you first start listening?

        literally like two weeks ago? not very long ago the brainrot just gripped me immediately

24. What's your favorite moment (musical or vocal) in the show?

         the shrill scream-thing gelsey does in The Photograph

25. Are you going to/have u seen Ghost Quartet?

         no :( one day...

26. What's your favorite bizarre connection in the show? (E.g., edgar telling the story of pearl and the pusher in usher pt 3, Shah Zaman becoming the Man In Iran in the Astronomer, etc)

         i love shahzaman becoming the ghost seer a lot!

27. What moment would you love to see live/what moment did you love the most live?

         I really wanna see usher 3 honestly

28. If you could ask Dave Malloy one question about the show, what would you ask?

        i don't actually have any questions, i'm fine with my interpretation o7

29. Have you read either the fall of the house of usher or arabian nights?

    nope. might read them at some point though

30. Have you read the show's Genius annotations? If so, what's your favorite annotation by Dave?

       that one annotation in Bad Men about how one of the lines rose red screams at the astronomer is something from a breakup he had. i just think it'd be really funny to be the girl who broke up with dave malloy and then got your breakup argument put into a show about cycles and murdering your cheating boyfriend

31. What part of the show disturbs you the most?

        im used to a lot more disturbing stuff i didn't really get offput or anything

32. What part of the show confuses you the most?

not too much a this point! even the esoteric or obscure parts i'm like. okay with? i'm fine with it being vague and weird