Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air was saturated with smoke, ash burning his exposed eyes as they stalked across the ravaged scene of Piccadilly Circus. Ghost could hear the sharp sounds of automatic gunfire in the background, followed closely by a chorus of screams, which worryingly dissipate underneath the roar of a burning car fire. The heat is nearly unbearable. The Al-Qatala bombers had destroyed everything in their path, an array of white body bags now occupying the once lively streets of the square.

However, the recon efforts were violently interrupted by AQ foot soldiers. It was becoming apparent this plan of theirs included more than just bombings, but rather widespread terrorist attacks in multiple locations throughout London. The police, military, and even the special forces were out in full force. He’d bet the Americans were foaming at the mouth to get a piece of the action, too. This was clearly entering the territory of an international intelligence crisis, but no matter. Ghost wasn’t hired to question the quality of the UK’s intelligence system. He was deployed to clear the buildings, eliminate foreign threats, and protect the bomb squad from combat while they resumed their reconnaissance. He’ll leave the politics to the professionals. The violence was his responsibility.

Broken glass crunching underneath his boots, Ghost focuses singularly on the red dot of his sight, body moving on pure muscle memory. He breathes in, and the sounds of the world--the fire, the gunshots, the panic--all fade to an absent buzz in the back of his mind. He barely blinks as they secure the perimeter of the London Pavillion, the grand façade overwhelmed by thick clouds of smoke and flickering street lights. The generator seems to be operational, he notes, scanning the windows for any looming threats.

“Perimeter secure, LT,” Soap reports, gun pointed towards the ground as he circles up on Ghost’s rear. Ghost nods in acknowledgement. With a wordless gesture of his hand, they continue forwards, boots moving in unison towards the entrance of the building. The heavily armored bomb squad lugs along in their EOD suits, polyfiber face shields glinting eerily in the light. As they reach the entrance, Soap easily enters the building. Seems like the door had been blown off its hinges. Ghost follows swiftly behind, clearing the first few shopping areas with ease. It’s really not that difficult; most of the shops have been blown to shit. Not many places for enemies to hide.

He lowers his gun with an almost defeated sigh, reaching for the radio on his shoulder.

“First floor secure. EOD you are cleared for entry. 7-1, prepare to push to second deck. Be advised, civilians may be within the perimeter. Grasp the fuckin’ obvious.”

“Copy,” Soap’s voice crackles through his earpiece.

Within an instant Ghost can see the sluggish movements of the bomb squad overcome the broken entryway, faces contorting in barely concealed fear at the sheer state of the building. Ghost nods towards the squad leader as they begin their search, signaling the second EOD team to round up on his six.

He joins Soap at the entrance to the stairs, prompting the sergeant to begin their ascent. The offices of the second floor are, thankfully, not blasted to hell, though loose paperwork and dust litter the floor from the blast. Knocked over chairs and filing cabinets are all that stand in their way. A cleared path leads to a small back room at the rear of the office.

“Breach it, Johnny,” Ghost orders, standing on the left side of the door. Soap nods resolutely before firmly grabbing the door handle and quickly pushing it open.

Immediately, worried cries emanate from within, and Ghost turns to assess the situation. Seeing the small group of terrified, but fortunately, uninjured office workers, Soap immediately lowers his weapon. Ghost enters, eyes scanning the clothing and bodies of each survivor, looking for possible injuries, as well as any possible threats. Given how few there are, it’s not hard to tell they’re merely civilians caught in the crossfire. The unorthodox appearance of his mask, however, begins to draw stares. The worried murmuring from before quiets as they succumb to his commanding presence. His vision catches on an elderly man sitting on one side of the room. He would be more likely to have been injured, though he looks more or less fine in his chair in the corner.

But, perhaps even more important, his vision settles on you, a timid little thing in a floral work dress and cardigan. It isn’t your looks that catch his eye (at least not at first), but rather the heavy baby bump underneath your dress. From the looks of it, you’re pretty far along. Ghost is surprised anyone could stand to send you to work in such a state. Silently, he curses the fact that someone as kind-looking as you - and who was carrying a baby, no less - was caught up in a situation like this. You fidget under Ghost’s stare, trembling as you cross your arms over your body, almost as if you were shielding your stomach from any possible harm.

“Bravo 0-7 to actual,” he calls into the radio, watching your hands rub the sides of your body. The survivors flinch at the gruff sound of his voice.

“Go for Actual.”

“We have nine civilians on the second floor of the London Pavillion, appearing to be uninjured. Requesting immediate exfil.”

At the sound of their imminent freedom, the survivors rejoice, fragile smiles making their way around the room. Your face breaks into a reluctant look of relief, the tears in your eyes slowly drying. The corners of Ghost’s mouth twitch upwards at that. He didn’t join the SAS to become a hero. It was quite the opposite, really. He’d joined the SAS to escape his own personal dilemma, not to save the world. It was rare that he cracked a smile on the job. But somehow you managed to get one out of him. Maybe it was the way your hair frames your face, or maybe it was the way your hands cradled your belly, but you’ve managed to find a soft spot he didn’t even know he had.

Huh, german shepherds and pregnant women, the two things he gives a shit about outside of his job. Learn something new every day.

The static of the radio breaks him out of his trance, harshly drawing his attention away from you and back onto the task at hand.

“Negative.”

At the sound of that, the heads of the remaining civilians jolt up. Panicked protests reverberate throughout the small back room before he can even hit the push to talk. Ghost’s smile disappears within an instant, Soap doing his best to calm the crowd. However, Ghost can’t help his eyes from wandering back to you. He watches your tears begin to drip once again, hugging yourself as you cry quietly among the chaos. His chest aches.

“LT…” Soap mutters, uncertainty maiming his face, “A word, sir.”

Ghost nods, hurriedly turning and walking back into the office space, eager to escape the ruined atmosphere and the crushing feeling in his throat. Once out of the backroom, Soap reaches for his own radio.

“7-1 to Actual. Why the hell can’t we exfil?”

“I say again, request denied. EOD has discovered multiple bombs throughout the subway. Intelligence suggests they were attempting to collapse the roof of the underground railways. Civilian exfil is impossible. Your orders have changed.”

Soap exchanges an exasperated look with Ghost, who fumes inside at the request. But alas, there is a chain of command, and not one that he is particularly hard up to violate. He sighs, swiping the edges of his mask absently. He presses the push to talk.

“What orders?” he asks, trying to hide the obvious annoyance in his tone.

“Bravo team is to remain within the perimeter of the London Pavillion building and manage civilian casualties until given the all-clear. You are not to exit onto the square, is that clear?”

Soap scoffs, throwing his arms up in the air as he nearly yells his reply into the receiver.

“We have elderly civilians--”

“Sir,” Ghost rudely interrupts, voice stiff with urgency and irritation, “We have pregnant women.”

Radio silence hangs for a few seconds, their hearts in their throats. However, the signal soon crackles back to life, and rather violently at that.

“I don’t give a damn who your civilians are, just deal with it. You’re the special forces for god's sake. Figure it out. Exfil is a no go, our hands are tied.”

Soap looks like he wants to punch a wall. Ghost wouldn’t be opposed to letting him. Instead, Soap makes a crude gesture with his hand, prompting Ghost to stifle a scoff under his mask before replying.

“Copy, will comply. 0-7 out here.”

Ghost ends the conversation, looking back at Soap, who’s taken to anxiously peeking back at the whimpering survivors, teeth grinding. Ghost wraps his hands around the straps of his vest as he plants his feet outside the back room door.

“So…What’s the call, LT?”

Ghost bites his lip beneath the mask, a bitter taste in his mouth. He watches your hands ghost over your baby bump, tears staining the red fabric of the dress you’re wearing.You strike a chord within him, one that’s becoming increasingly hard to ignore, but he can’t afford to slack on the job. He steels himself in the face of the uncomfortable feeling welling up inside of him, silently reaching a resolution in his mind.

“We hunker down here,” he decides, pulling his stare away from you.

“Alert the EOD team we’re staying. Let’s see if we can’t make this place more comfortable.”

“Roger,” Soap replies diligently, moving to follow his orders.

──⇌••⇋──

The panic had eased some since EOD had secured the building, though Ghost could tell the heavy weaponry over his shoulder and the skull on his face were making the civilians uneasy. Thankfully, Soap made up ten fold for his gloomy disposition, handing out cans of Coke they’d found in the fridge of the breakroom, a cheery smile on his face.

He was almost comically emphasizing his Scottish accent, eliciting stiff laughter from some of the office workers, who tried and failed to copy his unorthodox vocabulary. Ghost scoffs in the background. Soap was a goddamn natural at this. He fingers over the magazine release on his rifle, watching from a distance as the civilians sip on their soda and make stifled chatter among themselves.

He paces back and forth, eyes blinking slowly, watching with the attentiveness only a trained guard could have. They’d opened up the door to the office to give everyone some room to spread out. Though, notably, you’d stayed behind.

Inconspicuously, he flicks his pupils in your direction, hoping the shadow of his mask hides his wandering gaze. While the rest of the office workers were beginning to open up, you remained closed off, sitting at the corner table in the back room, fingers nervously fidgeting around your soda can.

Ghost turned back in your direction, just now noticing how reluctant he was to stray from you. Simon didn’t usually think twice about civilians. It wasn’t usually his job, after all. But something about you just stuck out like a sore thumb, pulling him in, drawing his attention. Maybe it was the curve of your face, or the beautiful style of your hair, but it caught his eye. Though, that still doesn’t explain why he was pacing circles around you, guarding you like a dog protecting its master. Something in his stomach told him not to go too far, like you’d be helpless without his larger, stronger frame to keep you company.

The feeling - that warm, persistent nagging in the back of his brain - was annoying, he found. He was reluctant to put a stop to it, however, eyes returning to your shaking body once again. He sighs as he pauses in his step, checking the watch on his wrist.

Damn, only half an hour had passed. He curses under his breath, irritation crawling up his spine like a regular backache. Gruffly, he moves to lean on the wall at the back of the room, hyper-aware of the way your eyes trail after him when he places himself against the wall beside you. He pretends not to notice the way your body goes stiff while he makes himself comfortable, resituating the rifle in his hands.

Shyly, you peer at the gear strapped to his chest, eyes locked onto the grenades affixed to his breast. He doesn’t spare a look in your direction, though he can feel the heat beneath his mask rising as he glares down at the gun in his hands, staring at it as if it were the most interesting thing he’d seen all day.

From this distance, he can smell your perfume. Sweet, delicate.

His heart rate picks up, pretending to survey the room as if he cared about anything as much as the attention you were currently giving him. Unconsciously, he stands taller, straightening his shoulders. He hears you cough slightly. He resists the urge to turn and look.

“You do this kinda thing often?” your voice pipes up from beside him, high pitched with obvious nervousness.

His face blanks behind the mask, brain struggling to register the fact that you were actually talking to him and not scared straight by his intimidating appearance. It takes him a minute to unlace his lips, tongue sluggish when he finally manages to form words.

“What’s it look like?”

He sounds ruder than he means to, and he internally cringes as you shrink back into your place against the wall, falling into silence once again. He bites his lip.

Way to go, fucking it up like that, Riley, he curses in his mind.

He swallows roughly, feeling blood rush in his ears.

“Every day,” he starts, readjusting his stance as you turn to look at him once again, “Perk of the job. You get used to it after a while.”

“Really?” you ask, though you don’t sound so scared anymore. He detects a hint of playfulness in your voice. Intriguing. “Your back doesn’t hurt lugging that equipment around all day?”

You gesture to the heavy armor plates strapped to his chest, your crossed knees turning towards him. His eyes linger on your bare legs, though he soon pulls his gaze back up, finally managing to look you in the eye.

He breathes out a small chuckle.

“I doubt it’s the equipment making my back hurt. Probably the shit thin mattresses they got us sleeping on, to be honest.”

He gets a laugh out of you with that one, and the sound pulls the corners of his lips upwards in a small grin. You rest a hand on your bump.

“Tell me about it,” you smile, looking down at your body.

In turn, he stares at your baby bump, watching as your hands smooth over the curve. He clears his throat, a certain warmth occupying his brain at the sight. He gestures towards your stomach bashfully.

“How far along are you?”

“39 weeks,” you say fondly, voice full of excitement, “Really doesn’t seem like it’s been that long, though. One day you can see your feet when you put on your shoes, and the next you can’t even bend over without breaking a sweat.”

Contentment, or something like it, clouds over his thoughts, a pink heat settling in his face.

“Well, guess I shouldn’t complain about a little back ache,” he begins, pointing towards your heavily pregnant body, “Seems like you got that covered for the both of us.”

“Right,” you chuckle. He notices some color returning to your face, and your hands no longer wring themselves in your lap. Somehow, he’s desperate to keep the conversation going, desperate to learn more about you.

“So,” he exhales, “What’re you doing here? Figures someone like you would be on maternity leave by now.”

“Oh, no, no,” you shake your head, “It’s just me. Gotta keep the lights on somehow, you know.”

Ghost furrows his brow at that. Normally, a pretty girl tells you she’s single, it’s cause for celebration, but instead, worry fills his mind. Something like anger, too. What kind of asshole would leave a girl like you, especially when you’re at your most vulnerable?

“I’m a secretary,” you continued, unable to see the irritated expression hidden behind his mask, “Nothing too strenuous. But, y’know, diapers aren’t cheap. Figured I’d save up before it’s too late.”

You talk about your situation like the dark undertones of it didn’t exist. Sure, Ghost’s line of work wasn’t something to rejoice about either, yet a pregnant woman having to work so hard to make ends meet is somehow more offensive. He bites his tongue when he feels his blood begin to boil at the thought, trying to silence his questions before he says something stupid once again.

However, socially awkward and unsure of what to say, he rolls his shoulders.

“Fuck the economy,” he says simply, trying to comfort you, and failing spectacularly at it.

You laugh out loud at his blunt reply, amusement tainting your voice as you place your can back on the table.

“Damn straight,” you say enthusiastically.

A comfortable silence overcomes the two of you, both of you watching as the EOD squad explains their equipment to a growing crowd of interested spectators, Soap included.

“So, what exactly is your job?” you interrupt the silence.

He turns towards you, gesturing to his clothes, as if it wasn’t obvious.

You scoff, “No, I mean, I can tell you’re a soldier, but what are you? Army…? Police…?”

“SAS,” he provides gruffly, “Special Air Service.”

You nod your head, eyes raking over the strong build of his body and the sheer amount of weaponry on his person.

“So, like, special forces. Zero Dark Thirty. Something like that?”

That earns you a stifled laugh, his eyes rolling behind his mask.

“Something like that.”

He watches your excitement gather to its breaking point, your face splitting into a smile. He senses another question coming.

“Do you have a nickname? Please tell me you have a nickname.”

He considers ignoring that question, knowing that if he tells you his name is Ghost he’ll never hear the end of it. But, he’s feeling generous tonight. He’ll let it slide just this once. He turns towards you, pursing his lips.

“They call me Ghost,” he answers rather seriously.

You contain yourself--for all of about two seconds--before you burst out laughing in his face.

“How are you a Ghost?” you question, “You’re like, what, 6’4? Can’t be so invisible like that.”

You continue to taunt him, but, instead of annoyance, he feels hearty instead. The sound of your melodic voice has him going hot in the face, attraction buzzing under his skin. He’s enjoying this way too much.

“If you’re gonna laugh at anybody, it should be him,” Ghost argues, pointing towards Soap with the barrel of his rifle, “Mans’ codename is Soap.”

“What the hell kinda name is Soap?” you manage to get out in between fits of chuckling, blush high on your cheeks. You’re barely breathing.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Ghost replies, unable to wipe the dumb look off his face. Thank god for his mask, otherwise he’s sure you’d be able to see the ten different shades of red he’s turning.

──⇌••⇋──

Ghost, so entranced in your conversation, had forgotten about the time completely. Hours could have flown by and he’d never have known.

You talked about your favorite foods.

-

“Barbecue chips.”

“You don’t look like a barbecue chip kinda guy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

-

Your favorite movies.

-

“Inception, personally.”

“You like Leonardo Dicaprio much? Seems like he’s in just about every damn movie you watch.”

“Hey, Leo’s a classic.”

-

Your friends.

-

“Soap’s skull’s bought thick as lead, but that just gives him more shock absorption.”

“Does he know you talk about him like this?”

“I’d say worse to his face.”

-

Ghost has never smiled this much in one evening. He’s probably talked to you longer than he’s talked to anyone this entire year. He just can’t seem to get enough. Your turn of phrase, your witty humor, your positive demeanor - they were the exact opposite of everything that he was. Cold, quiet, blunt. He’s never felt so warm before. It was almost as if he’d stepped into a hot shower in the cold of winter and was loath to get out.

Though the two of you were near opposites, he was coming to admire your differences. Your hands were positively tiny compared to his own. Your formal work shoes were dwarfed by his muddy combat boots. Your sunny disposition didn’t cast a shadow on his moody personality, but rather shone light on the parts of himself he hadn’t bared to the outside world in decades.

He was beginning to get accustomed to the way his heart skipped a beat every time you said his nickname. You were playing a dangerous game.

“So what kinda gun is that anyway?”

“This?” he asks, looking down at his M4, taking extra care not to point the barrel anywhere near your body.

“Yeah,” you say, leaning over the table with a sparkle in your eye.

“M4A1,” he starts, popping the mag release with dramatic flare. The extra clip falls to the table while he flips another in his off-hand, swiftly inserting it with expert precision, “Standard issue air-cooled, magazine fed, select fire assault rifle.”

Your smile widens at his little trick, grinning at his impressiveness. He preens at your reaction, pulse stuttering. The trick was more corny than anything, but sue him for wanting to show off a little. He was in a good mood today, after all.

“Is it heavy?” you say, keeping your hands carefully in your lap while Ghost handled the weapon.

Feeling talkative, he jumps into an explanation without a second thought.

“Not really. You get used to the weight over time. It’s the kick that makes it difficult to handle. On full-auto, it’ll pack a hell of a punch, but even that can be adjusted to. It’s pretty user-friendly, I mean, it’s easier to aim than--”

So absorbed in his passionate rant, he misses the twinge of pain on your face. That is, until your body stiffens in your seat, your hands moving to rub your swollen belly. Immediately, his words come screeching to a halt, your furrowed brows suddenly capturing his attention.

“You alright?” he asks, and without even thinking, he subconsciously reaches towards you, mind moving on instinct. However, he stops himself before your wrenched eyes can open, saving himself the embarrassment.

You inhale shakily.

“Yeah,” you manage with a hiss, “It’s just the baby. She’s kicking now…must have hit me in the wrong spot.”

Even in pain, you still offer him a pleasant smile.

“Nothing to worry about,” you reassure him, taking a minute to gather yourself.

“Oh.” he posits awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. He didn’t know much about pregnancy, or babies at that. Could a baby’s kick hurt? Seems like it, though he’d never thought about that before.

He eyes you from behind his mask, hoping the shadows of its contours hide the small amount of curiosity in his gaze. Inconspicuously, he peaks around the table, following your gaze to stare down at your baby bump. Just barely, he can see the fabric move on top of your stomach, the imprints of tiny hands and feet making themselves known.

It easily entrances him. It’s not hard to see why so many dads fall down the domestic pipeline just for moments like these. Hell, Ghost’s already halfway there and he’s only known you for a matter of hours.

“You wanna feel her kick?”

Your voice shocks him out of his trance, and he immediately averts his gaze, embarrassed you caught him staring. Was he really that obvious? Or were you just that observant?

You scoff, “C’mon, Ghost, I don’t bite.”

Reaching across the table, you pull him by the arm towards your side of the room, forcing him to sheepishly take a knee in front of you. He feels a lump caught in his throat.

“Go on,” you say, placing your hands back on your sides while Ghost looks on blankly, completely lost in the foreign scenario he finds himself in. Cautiously, he raises his gloved hands, cradling your belly in his palms. Your warmth bleeds through the padding on his fingers, all-encompassing and strong. It’s then that he feels it, the small, uneven kicks of the baby inside of you. The little thing presses against his hands eagerly, almost as if she knew his hands were there specifically for her. Ghost goes silent at the feeling, body falling completely still, like if he moved, the kicking would stop altogether.

Speechless, he presses forwards in his touches, moving his hands to different parts of your stomach, wanting to feel the baby kick just once more.

“So, a little girl, huh?” he comments, voice so quiet it’s almost drowned out by the distant police sirens on the square.

“Yep,” you say proudly, hands resting on your bump, “My dresser drawers are about halfway full of pink onesies already.”

He chuckles warmly, hands still holding your body. The baby kicks once again.

“Seems like it’s getting a little cramped in there, huh?” he says, not entirely sure whether he’s talking to the baby or you anymore.

“I think so, too,” you agree, “She’s due in about a week. I feel like I’m about to pop.”

“You look it, too,” he says quietly.

He can’t bring himself to pull his hands away. Truth be told, Ghost wasn’t much of a family man. He couldn’t ever envision himself having something so normal. His father wasn’t a good man, and he’d passed that poison down to Simon, too. He’d cursed his father to hell and back, and had promised himself he’d never condemn anyone to a fate like that ever again.

And yet, sitting on his knees in front of you, feeling your baby kick, he realizes he’d do anything in the world to preserve this moment for as long he could, even if he died in the process.

Thoughts run through his mind rapidly, blood rushing in his ears with the intensity of a waterfall. He looks up at you suddenly, trying to convey the emotion inside of him purely with his eyes alone, hoping that you understand the indescribable feeling contained therein. Your smile falls, though not in a bad way. Rather, your entire face relaxes as you catch his look, a quiet moment of understanding passing between the two of you. Slowly, almost cautiously, your hand reaches towards his larger one, fingers just barely ghosting over his covered knuckles.

“LT,” a voice rings out in the background, snapping the atmosphere like a twig. Your hand yanks back to your side, caught with your hand halfway into the cookie jar. Ghost shocks straight like he was in basic all over again, hands trim at his sides, face forwards. He hopes the stiffness of his body wouldn’t give him away.

“Ghost, sir,” Soap ducks his head into the back room, “Actual wants a sit-rep, says they have new information for us.”

Dazed, Ghost had nearly forgotten he’s on the clock right now.

Soap looks between the two of you, noting the expressionless look in Ghost’s eyes, and the flustered fidgeting of your fingers. He raises an eyebrow, but that look is quickly squashed by the deadly glare Ghost sends him from behind the mask.

“Got it, Johnny, I’ll radio back in a minute,” he covers, awkwardly trying to get Soap to leave the room so he could return back to….whatever it was the two of you were doing.

“Sure,” Soap says, beginning to walk away, though he quickly turns back, directing a friendly grin your way, “Oh, by the way, we found some packages of tea and crackers in the break room. If you want something to eat, the others are snacking in the cubicles.”

You smile at Soap awkwardly, unable to meet his eye.

“Thank you,” you answer politely, stiffly. Soap is none the wiser.

He leaves the room after that, combat boots thumping heavily against the carpeted floor. Ghost turns towards you, not quite sure what to say. He wasn’t entirely sure what emotions passed between you, but the air in the back room was about as thick as soup. He could still feel his heart pounding, your face so flushed it was a miracle you weren’t emitting steam right about now.

He clears his throat.

“Did you want to--” he starts, not even sure how that sentence would finish.

“No, no,” you interrupt abashedly, “I’ve kept you from your job long enough. There are other people that need your help.”

You’re right, though he’s not exactly thrilled about it. He looks down at the floor frustratedly as he shoulders his rifle, trying to restore the professionalism he’d had when they first entered the London Pavillion.

“Besides,” you spare him another smile, “I’ve been craving cheese and crackers anyway.”

Now that’s something he certainly can’t argue with. He nods slowly, not sure what to say. The pounding in his chest continues steadily. He watches as you brace yourself against the arms of the chair to stand up. However, before you can fully get to your feet, that same look of pain overtakes your face, causing you to fall off of balance. In less than a second, he’s by your side, worriedly grabbing onto your arm to prevent your fall, using his strength to prop you up. Your hands claw at your stomach, a loud whine coming from your mouth as your body weight leans against his torso.

“Y/N, what’s wrong? What’s happening?” He questions fervently, trying to read the look on your face. It displays nothing but distress.

“I-it’s nothing,” you shakily reassure him. You try to take a step to prove your point, but your knees give out the minute your leg reaches forwards. Instantly, he’s moving, supporting your weight with his stronger arms.

“Soap!” he shouts, the voice he uses on the battlefield finally coming back to him, “Get in here!”

You continue to tremble in his arms, your hands shaking where they lie on top of your stomach.

“Ghost, really, it’s probably just another bad kick, I just need to--”

“No,” he interjects forcefully, “Don’t tell me you’re fucking fine right now.”

He tries to maneuver you towards the chair, but another wave of intense pain overtakes you, every muscle in your body going taut. One of your hands coming up to clutch his jacket in a death grip, your eyes wrenching shut. You cry out.

Soap bounds into the room, the door slamming in his wake.

“LT, what’s wrong?”

And it’s then that your water breaks, a rush of liquid running down your bare legs and onto the floor between your unsteady feet. Ghost and Soap helplessly look on, speechless. Soap’s eyes widen horrifically, while Ghost all but freezes at the sight. Tiredly, you lean into Ghost’s arms, hiding your embarrassed face in the crook of his neck when tears well up in your eyes.

Ghost swallows nervously, ears ringing, eyes unblinking. He’s unable to focus on anything other than the pitch of your cries and the magnitude of the situation they’re currently in. He remains unmoving for all of about two seconds before he springs into action.

“Soap, get Actual on the line,” he commands, “I want a word with ‘em.”

“Right away, LT.”

Chapter Text

Ghost stands unmoving, warily peering through the crack of the back room door at your small figure. You’re hunched over the table, breathing deeply, as wave after wave of excruciating pain courses through your body. You look right and sick. Ghost feels just about the same. That, and overwhelmingly angry with how things were turning out.

Actual had told them it wasn’t safe to relocate, that immediate exfil was impossible given the circumstances. But Ghost knew that had to be bullshit somehow. There were bombs in the subway, they’d said. It’s at risk of imminent collapse, they’d claimed. And yet hours had gone by with no explosions or rumbling to be heard. Maybe the forces were busy with recon, but who was too busy not to exfil 10 innocent civilians, some of them elderly, and others with medical conditions at that?

Ghost wanted to rip whoever made that call to pieces. His foot bounced rapidly against the floor, muscles tight with barely contained rage. He’ll personally find the person to be held responsible and give them a hard hit upright the head if that’s what it took to get their brain back in working order.

At that thought, his stomach churns. He was so caught up in his own frustration he hadn’t thought to put himself in your shoes for a second. His eyes close, mouth tight. Today was probably the worst day of your life, now that he thought about it. That’s usually how he tended to meet people, anyway. Most anyone and everyone the special forces had the pleasure of dealing with were experiencing the worst day of their life, while it was just another normal one for them.

But this? What would be a history-making terrorist attack taking place a mere week before your daughter was to be born, the bombs planted on the ground floor of your own office building. You were lucky to survive the blast, but were then subjected to hours of uneasy solitude in that bleak back room, your only comfort coming in the form of detached military men, pointing their guns first and asking questions later. What’s worse, though…all that stress, all that fear. All that uncertainty and terror. And now you were supposed to go through the motions of what should have been the best day of your life, but instead, under the conditions of your worst.

Ghost’s heart drops into a bottomless pit. If he’d just had the balls to call BS on that order, you could’ve been in a hospital right now, safe and medicated, resting easy with your baby in your arms. But instead, you’re sitting in an office chair, fluorescent lights shining in your eyes. His discarded rifle rests on the table in front of you. A bleak reminder of what he was here for.

“Sir,” Soap calls, “PRC is all set up for you.”

He clenches his fists, but it does nothing to cool the boiling wrath in his blood. He nods, stalking over to the radio receiver with purpose. The chaos of the radio channel overwhelms his senses, endless chatter filtering through the earpiece.

“Bravo 0-7 to Actual, do you copy?”

He tries not to let indignation bleed into his voice. His hand tightens around the receiver.

“Bravo team to Actual, do you read me?” he tries again.

A voice answers him.

“Major Evans speaking, go for Actual.”

“Major…” Soap laughs darkly, frustratedly raking his hands through his mohawk.

Ghost would do the same if he wasn’t wearing a mask, but alas, he settles for nearly snapping the plastic of the radio in his tightened grip. He can’t help himself anymore.

“Evans, or whatever the fuck your name is, I called Actual for someone who can pull some weight. Get me your CO, and tell them Simon Riley’s fuckin’ calling.”

The radio goes silent, Ghost’s violent outburst effectively silencing the major on the other line. He looks to Soap, though his sergeant stands frozen under the weight of his glare. He looks no less nervous than he’s been since your water broke.

Suddenly, there’s noise once again.

“Special operations command to Ghost, how copy?”

“Loud and clear,” he answers hurriedly, not missing a beat, “We have a situation, sir.”

“What kind of situation?”

At that, Ghost pauses. He tries to translate his thought process to military speak, but he comes up empty-handed. Soap grabs the receiver when he sees Ghost buffering.

“One pregnant female, civilian. Appears to be in labor, please advise,” Soap seamlessly provides, shooting Ghost a worried look when static is all that answers them. Ghost speaks to fill the air, trying to convey urgency in his tone.

“Requesting emergency exfil. There are 9 other survivors…soon to be 10 if we wait long enough.”

Again, nothing. Seconds feel like hours. Ghost and Soap stand completely still, bodies going tense, as if any sudden movement would cause the signal to go flat altogether.

“Request denied.”

This time, Soap actually does punch something. His hand slaps the table in frustration, pens bouncing with the force. Ghost resists throwing the receiver, settling for a disbelieving shake of his head instead, knuckles going white around the thing.

“Actual, we are in the middle of a terrorist attack with a pregnant female giving birth in an unsecure location, and that still doesn’t constitute emergency exfil?” He’s basically yelling at this point. If there wasn’t a chain of command, it’s safe to say his choice of words would be a lot more colorful.

“Fucking unbelievable,” Soap mutters in the background.

“Negative, officer. All available personnel are currently deployed. No exfil is available. I repeat, there is no exfil available.”

“Sir, we don’t even have a medic.”

Ghost is beginning to panic, seeing red at this point.

“Your orders remain. Manage civilian casualties until given the all-clear. Sorry, but you’re on your own, boys. Clear comms. Over and out.”

“Sir…!” Ghost shouts, but the radio goes silent, ambient chatter filling the space once again.

“Hells fucking bells,” Soap comments, flinching in surprise when Ghost smacks his hands on the table.

“Fuck!” he yells, blind rage overcoming him. His body is shaking, momentary dread filling his brain. He stares down at the papers on the desk in front of them as if they could call in a helo, or get command back on the line. But alas, they look blankly back up at him, completely unhelpful.

He grinds his teeth so hard they threaten to break, body entirely tense under the weight of his sheer vexation. He’d never felt an emotion so intense before, fury scraping up his skin like sandpaper. An unshakeable sickness settles in the pit of his stomach, a dull ache occupying his senses. He takes a breath in through the nose, and, without even thinking, he balls his fists on the desk. If he didn’t know any better, he might've thought it was helplessness that was synthesizing his anger. But, that was an impossibility in this situation. Simon couldn’t feel helpless. He wasn’t allowed to.

“LT?” Soap calls timidly, “What’s the call, Ghost?”

With all the excitement in the room, he’d almost forgotten he was the officer in command. Truthfully, he’s out of his depth here. He’d gone through rudimentary field medicine here and there. His specialty was field craft, after all. It just follows he’d know how to patch a bullet wound using nothing more than tampons and duct tape. But a baby? Yeah, that wasn’t exactly a common injury in the military. He hadn’t the slightest knowledge on how to deliver a baby, much less care for one for that matter, but he didn’t see what choice they had.

He swallows the lump in his throat. The wifi better still work.

“The call is,” he starts, reaching for the cell phone in his pocket, “we deliver the baby ourselves.”

“But, Ghost--”

“No, ‘buts,’ Soap. We can’t just stand here like idiots all night. That baby’s coming out whether or not Command gives a fuck.”

Soap looks like he’s about to get sick, the color in his face draining. Ghost doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so nervous, which is saying something considering he’s watched the man take bullets before.

“Sir,” he starts, voice unsteady, “If you let me deliver that baby, I’ll drop it, I swear. I got butter fingers, I can’t do it.”

Ghost scoffs, “Yeah, I bet you would.”

Soap scowls in annoyance at that one, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What about you then, LT?” he deflects, “Why don’t you deliver it then?”

“Me?” Ghost stutters, feeling heat come over his face at the thought of seeing you like that, “Well, I--”

“See?” Soap pounces, raising his eyebrows, “You’re scared, too, I knew it!”

“Bloody hell, Johnny, you’re part of the special forces. You’ve watched men lose limbs before, that’s a hell of a lot more graphic than delivering a baby,” Ghost argues defensively.

Soap slaps him childishly on the arm, eyes watering like a kicked puppy. Ghost holds his gaze for a minute, a staring contest ensuing between the two of them. Soap was a natural charmer, and something like an annoying little brother at that. Ghost’s eyebrow twitches, glaring at the expression on Johnny’s face. His teeth grind once again, and he resigns himself to his fate with an exasperated sigh.

“Fine, I’ll fucking do it, just so you don’t make a right fool out of yourself in there,” he concludes, putting on a cocky air to disguise his own nervousness. He hopes Soap doesn’t see through its façade.

“Look, John,” he grabs Soap by the shoulders, “Just because I’m biting the bullet here doesn’t mean you’re off the hook either.”

Soap nods eagerly, just glad to be out of the line of fire.

“I need you to gather supplies, come when I yell, and try not to throw up in front of the nice lady, yeah?”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“You fuckin’ better,” he claps Soap on the shoulder, turning to leave the room. Truth be told, he doesn’t have much confidence placed on Soap managing that last one.

Shaky and pale, Soap still manages to catch Ghost’s cell phone when it’s thrown in his direction, navigating to Google before the Lieutenant can even open his mouth.

──⇌••⇋──

He could feel his adrenaline pumping, white noise blaring in his ears as he stared himself down in the bathroom mirror. The lights were flickering, a consequence of the bombing, which had all but slipped from his mind since he first laid eyes on you. He didn’t even know if he could call himself nervous anymore. Rather than that, he felt expressionless, eyes deadpan and shot in his reflection. It went without saying he was at sixes and sevens right now. Addled, he distantly registered the tap was running dry. He toyed with the faucet in front of him, not a single drop of water falling into the basin.

He braces himself on the sink. All he could do now was go over what Soap’s panicked google search and the first aid pamphlets had revealed.

-

“You’re gonna have to make a sterile field…uh--says something like newspaper, clothes…maybe paper towels could work?”

-

He bites his tongue.

-

“Once you can see the head, tell her the pushing’s over, and…looks like that’s when you take over.”

-

He cringes, remembering Soap’s tactless warning. Needless to say, it’d earned a sharp glare in reprimand.

-

“Just don’t pull on the baby on the way out and seems all should be fine. That, and don’t cut the umbilical cord without tying it off. Don’t want the little thing to bleed out on us, right?”
-

His words run circles around Simon’s mind, echoed in the lack of water and supplies they’re facing. He reminds himself of what he’d told the Sargeant not 20 minutes earlier, though he knows the false confidence wouldn’t do anything to ease the empty feeling in his mind.

You’re part of the special forces. You’ve seen men bleed black, have seen them take bullets before. You’ve faced worse than this. Just a bump in the road.

A big one, he thinks, but just a bump nonetheless. It’s about as much kindness as he can give himself.

He pushes off the sink, staring into the face of his mask, remembering what it symbolized. With that, he walks out of the bathroom, the dim flood lights greeting him, as well as the remaining survivors. They’ve crowded around the back room door, Soap gently trying to get them to back up. Simon’s phone is still in his hand. With a quiet inhale, Simon confronts the small gathering, the survivors wordlessly making a path for him when his shadowed eyes come into view. Soap greets him with a tense expression, handing him the cell phone and the small med pack they carry on missions.

“You’re gonna need this,” he says as Ghost shoulders the small bag, body moving on autopilot.

“Thanks, Johnny,” he manages, though he can’t say he’s really thinking about any of the movements he’s making

He reaches for the door handle, but Soap stops him with a hand to his chest. He looks up, dazed.

“Wait,” Soap interjects, pointing towards his face, “You might wanna do something about the mask.”

“Why?”

Soap chuckles, “Sorry to say it, sir, but seeing a big skull first thing after comin’ out the womb is probably enough to scar the kid for life.”

Ghost ponders on the request, swallowing, before nodding in agreement.

Soap smiles placatingly, clapping him on the shoulder with more confidence than Simon thinks he could muster right now.

“Now,” he pushes Ghost towards the door, “Don’t wanna keep the missus waiting, do we?”

Ghost’s fingers wrap around the metal handle, reality finally coming back to him. He manages to put two and two together, shouldering the door and closing it quite quickly afterwards, not wanting to let any wandering stares pry. He turns to face you, eyes dropping to where you lay on the floor. You’re propped up against something, and Ghost distantly recognizes the packs him and Soap dropped on the way in. You’re red in the face and shaking, and even from this distance, Ghost can tell you’ve been crying.

A pang of emotion rattles throughout his heart, and, finally, his blood flows again. His muscles move, his wits coming about him. He straightens up, trying to project comfort. Though, knowing him, it’s a wasted effort. Upon seeing him, you send him a weak smile, so he figures it can’t hurt to try. That, and the small gesture warms his insides, pushing him into motion.

“How’re those backpacks treating you?” he asks, calmly walking over to the desk to deposit the med kit, “Back’s definitely gonna be sore now.”

He tries to lighten the mood, though he’s too nervous to turn around and see your reaction. He focuses on laying out the supplies on the table instead.

“You could say that,” you reply in between sharp winces, clutching the fabric of your dress.

“Well,” he tries, “I’ll personally see to it that you get jacked up on pain meds when this is all over. Scout’s honor.”

He was half-kidding, half-not. You seemed to like the uncertainty at that, releasing a stifled giggle.

“You like acetaminophen or ibuprofen?”

You turn to look at him, face pale as the dead and eyes exhausted.

“You got anything stronger?” You joke.

He smirks, rattling a bottle of pills, “Unfortunately, the bar isn’t stocked. Only got the rum and coke for now.”

He flashes the bottle of Tylenol in your direction. He smirks, though he belatedly realizes you can’t see his face. Probably for the best. Price had seen him smile a few times when they smoked together, said it looked unnerving.

“Ugh. I’d kill for a Blue Hawaii right about now.”

Your voice cracks in the middle of your sentence, but it isn’t that that causes him to laugh.

“A Blue Hawaii?” he scoffs, shooting you a teasing look while he searches for hand sanitizer, “Don’t tell me that’s your favorite drink.”

“What?” you defend yourself. He notes the glimmer returning to your eyes, “I like the tiny umbrella it comes with. Not like your taste in drinks would be any better.”

“And how would you know that?”

“You’d probably drink something stereotypical and moody,” you tease, “Like an old fashioned or something. It’s written all over that mask you wear.”

He clicks his tongue as he pries open a package of rubber gloves, careful not to break the seal.

“Say what you want,” he continues, “But Kentucky Bourbon’s saved me from frostbite more than a few times.”

“You drink bourbon?” this time, it’s your turn to sneer, “Yeah, no wonder you seem so miserable.”

He actually laughs at that. Full and wholeheartedly. It’s the first time he’s laughed like that in years. He leans on the table, momentarily pausing in his ministrations. His heart is pounding, and if the mask wasn’t covering his face, he’s sure he’d be burning up. Anxiety pricks in his chest at the feeling, but it doesn’t make him feel sick like it usually does. Rather, it just widens his grin. He tries not to let apprehension show when he turns towards you.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

He reaches towards the faceplate covering his eyes, unlatching the skull facade from the fabric of the ski mask, leaving behind only the wool base layer and jaw design. As he unveils the black face paint and bare skin around his eyes, you gawk, mouth falling open. You study the blue in his irises, as if you were wholly convinced he wasn’t human beneath the mask.

He looks down at the thing in his hands, studying its curves and cracks.

“Tell you what,” he tosses the faceplate towards the desk, rolling up his sleeves, “If we make it out of this alive, I’ll buy you a drink. On me.”

He hopes you can’t see how fast his chest is rising, or how his eyes can barely stand to hold your gaze for long. For what seems like hours, you remain silent, studying his trim eyebrows and high cheekbones. He fidgets with the band on his glove.

“Can it be a Blue Hawaii?”

Relief washes over him, a stiff laugh exiting his mouth, “Fine. Even if it’ll humiliate me to order the thing.”

You smile, showing teeth this time.

“Then it’s a date.”

His heart skips a beat at that word. It echoes in his mind, causing physical pain in his chest. Awkwardly, he turns back towards the table to gather himself, struggling to contain the feeling in his body. He thinks it’s excitement, but he couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t something he’d felt for a long time.

He finds a bottle of hand sanitizer in the med pack, shucking off his gloves. They make a small thump on the table when he turns away. You’re lying on your side, hands clutching the strap of Soap’s backpack like a lifeline. Even though you sport a happy expression on your face, your body tells a different story, jolting with pain every so often.

He unclips his kevlar vest, divulging himself of any protection aside from his form fitting shirt and utility belt. You watch as he squirts a liberal amount of sanitizer onto his hands and arms. He spreads the gel up to his elbows, sleeves rolled up to reveal the bare skin of his arms. He sees you curiously peer at the lines of his tattoos, following the faded designs up to where they disappear under his shirt.

Something somber and serious settles in the room when the sanitizer finishes drying over his skin. You bite the inside of your cheek when he pulls on the rubber gloves, stepping towards you with the med kit in his arms. Soap had found towels in the janitor’s closet, and had prepared them beforehand. Simon arranges them on the ground around your legs and hips, taking care not to accidentally peek up your skirt.

Your trembling resumes, though, this time, not out of pain, but rather fear.

You try to lighten the mood.

“Tell me, Doc,” you begin, sounding like you’re about to cry, “is this the first time you’ve delivered a baby?”

Simon silently settles a towel across your stomach, hand lingering on your baby bump. The warmth of his covered hand radiates within you, and he looks you in the eye. He seems nervous, you realize, yet he hides his uncertainty behind playfulness.

“I’ll have you know I’m a trained medical tech,” he says.

You squint at him.

“Really?”

“No.”

You throw your head back exasperatedly while he gets everything ready. You bear your teeth as another contraction hits.

“Not far off though,” Simon continues, “That is, if you count T-shirt tourniquets and super glue stitches as practicing medicine.”

“Wow, I’m glad someone so qualified is about to deliver my first child.”

“You should be honored.”

His tolerance for cockiness is quickly running out. Everything’s set now, and he swallows, looking at you with sudden seriousness. You mirror his disposition, cold terror washing down your spine. The air goes still around you, every ounce of liveliness bleeding from the atmosphere in an instant.

“Y/N,” he calls and you look up at him wearily, a tear slipping down your face, “You ready to meet your little girl?”

Emotion catches in your throat, stealing your voice. You don’t last long before your face screws up, and you cover your eyes. You nod as gentle cries emanate from your mouth.

“Okay,” Ghost says quietly, a sense of finality in his tone.

You can’t bear to look at him, leaving him to do the work by himself. He situates your legs in an upright position, scooting the towel under your hips. When he reaches for your clothes, however, he pauses, clearing his throat.

“Can I…”

You answer wordlessly, swiping the tears from your cheeks as you determinedly brace yourself against the grounding support of Soap’s rucksack. You nod. Gingerly, he folds the fabric of your skirt over your stomach, exposing your body to him. You don’t have the energy to feel embarrassed about it.

Another contraction hits you like a brick. This time, you actually cry out, your whole body tensing up at the feeling. Your hands wring the fabric around your stomach, eyes wrenched shut. You feel Ghost’s hands wrap around the back of your thighs, comforting you timidly.

“--Ghost,” You gasp, feeling a burning pain gather in your lower back. It’s safe to say you’re panicking now, sobbing without restraint.

Ghost hurriedly reaches forwards, pulling one of your smaller, clammy hands into his sure grip. Immediately, you squeeze it, trying to lessen the wave of agony washing over you.

“Simon,” he says suddenly, “Call me Simon.”

“Simon--” your voice tapers off into a yelp, and you feel the baby shift inside of you, widening the set of your hips “I-I need to push. I need to push now.”

You feel his freehand briskly drift over the skin between your legs. He applies pressure there, eyes locked on the task at hand.

“Push,” he orders, “Do what you need.”

Without another word, you squeeze every muscle in your body, blinding pain seizing every nerve in your body. You scream at the feeling, arm shaking so violently even Simon’s blistering strength can’t quell the quivering. You try to focus on the feeling of his hand, or on the pressure he holds between your legs, but neither sensation manages to subdue the suffering you feel.

Distantly, you can hear him counting to ten, though you can hardly register it. You yearn for the end of the countdown, but, at the same time, you want nothing more than to push yourself until the pain subsides.

“Ten,” he notifies you, and you relax against the floor.

Tears drip from your eyes, but you don’t have it in you to care. You go limp in his grasp, panting while you try to recover. The stinging never ceases, though you have a small reprieve. Simon resituates his kneeling form, grinding his jaw as his hands briefly brush up and around the area in question.

His grip changes on your hand, and you open your eyes to see the change. Your fingers feebly curl around his large palm, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the gesture. His large thumb rubs against your knuckles, blue irises locking with your own.

“Keep going like that, and we’ll make short work o’ this,” he consoles.

You blink faintly, trying to muster a grin, “When my mom had me, it only took her two hours.”

You can see the corners of his eyes move now, and you can almost imagine the proud smirk he wears. Seems you can still manage a light joke.

“Well then,” he acknowledges, dropping your hand to free up both of his, “Let’s see if we can’t break her record today.”

You brace yourself against the rucksack, while Simon positions his hands. He nods towards you, signaling you to push once again. You stare back with resoluteness, readying your body for the strain once again.

“Push,” he orders, face steely, like a true soldier.

You don’t hesitate. The pain is searing, but you can’t hold back anymore. Your voice rings throughout the entire building, shaking Ghost straight to his core. Minutes feel like hours during labor, blood and amniotic fluid painting Simon’s gloves like a canvas. You can’t find it in yourself to care, though, gladly accepting his firm touch against the back of your thighs and stomach when you have the chance. It’s excruciatingly awful, but beautiful in some indescribable way. The tears, the screaming, the panic - they were all leading up to something. Something that would soon be the heart of your life. And you weren’t alone in the throes of your distress, either. You hang onto Simon’s deep voice like a lifeline, every baritone vocalization keeping your head above water just a bit longer.

“Push, c’mon, one more time. Just 10 seconds until you can rest,” He reassures, trying to stir some life back into your spent body.

You nod, though not before taking another moment to gather yourself. Part of you wants to grab him by the shirt and drag him forwards, wants to brace yourself against his stronger, comforting frame, but you know it isn’t a possibility. You steel yourself. Truthfully, you don’t have much strength left in you.

He lifts a hand to spread it over your stomach, catching your attention, “Lets get this done now, c’mon.”

At his words, you breathe in, pushing once more. However, this time, it’s different. Somehow, the pain is even more all-consuming than before. Your hand shocks up, grabbing a fistful of his shirt sleeve, feeling the velcro of the Union Jack patch on his shoulder come loose. You shriek, head falling backwards.

“Simon, I---Oh my god--”

“Stop--” he commands, springing into action, “Stop pushing.”

You want to sock him for that. You didn’t know how much more you could handle, and now, at height of your pain, he just wants you to sit here and deal?

“Simon, I-I can’t--”

“I can see the head,” he explains, repositioning his hands, “Stop pushing.”

A harrowing, stabbing pain consumes you as Simon begins to move the baby free. Every movement feels like fire in your veins, but you grit your teeth and keep your legs spread, voice running raw with every desperate scream.

First, it’s an unendurable hurt. Then, a strange emptiness. And lastly, a sudden, earnest relief.

There’s no more pain, no more burning. You open your eyes warily, tears immediately falling when you catch sight of Simon. A small, gentle cry emerges from within his burly arms, the tiny fists of a baby reaching just above the lines of his forearms.

No matter the pain you were experiencing, or the traumatizing events of the day, the sound of your daughter’s voice cures it all. Without thinking, you stare blankly up at him, arms shakily reaching towards the squirming bundle in his hands.

“Shh,” he coos gently, fingering at her face and neck to check for any issues before reaching for his discarded jacket.

“Can’t have you gettin’ cold now,” he whispers gruffly to the newborn baby girl, gingerly wrapping her in his jacket. With a tenderness unbecoming of such a brash man, he settles your baby in your arms, sitting in silence as he admires the sight of the two of you. She’s a tiny little thing, her precious face at odds with the dark camouflage of his government issued jacket.

You wipe the tears from your face as you stare down at her, rubbing a single finger over her closed fist. At the sound of the baby’s cry, you thought you could hear a round of applause from outside the back room, though, to be honest, you didn’t care much.

You were singularly focused on the baby in your arms and the man at your side. She continues to wiggle in your hold, short, baby hair sticking up wildly from her head. You laugh at the sight. Simon studies the face of the little girl, unable to resist bringing his hand up to settle on top of her body.

Such a little thing she is. Simon’s hand dwarfs almost the entire length of her body. He watches her fist brush against his knuckles, her unblemished skin looking so out of place next to his scarred, uneven fingers.

He swallows, feeling intense emotion well up inside of him. He looks to you then, only to find you already staring back at him. His gaze wavers for a minute, unable to focus on anything other than the flush of your skin and the color of your eyes.

“Congratulations,” he offers simply.

You can only smile in return, broad and unrestrained.

──⇌••⇋──

By the time reconnaissance had cleared the city, daybreak was imminent. Rays of yellow light flicker between the broken silhouettes of the buildings in Piccadilly Circus, painting the blackened, colorless square with life once more. The sky was gray, almost as if the clouds themselves had absorbed the smoke emanating from the various fires around the city. There were no more police sirens or screaming civilians. All that was left in remembrance were perimeters of caution tape and flashing ambulance lights, the atmosphere eerily silent. It was a great juxtaposition to the chaos of the previous night - or, better said, the past few hours.

“Bravo team exiting the London Pavillion. Be advised, civilians in tow,” Ghost calls through the radio, watching like a hawk as Soap helps you over a pile of debris in the lobby. Your legs are still unsteady, and he’s sure you're bleeding in some capacity, but there was only so much a first aid kit could cure. You look back at him anxiously when you notice him lagging behind, pulling on Soap’s shoulder to get him to stop. Ghost holds your gaze as he steps forwards, taking extra care when placing his feet. He’s carrying precious cargo, after all.

The newborn in his arms coos at the movement, tiny fists rubbing over her equally precious face. He looks down at her from behind his mask and resettles his grip on the back of her head. She’d only been here for an hour or two, but he’s already learned how to hold her just the way she likes. After you were settled and feeling a little more normal, you’d slept for the next couple of hours, more than tired from the stress and physical exertion. Even though Simon felt like he was about to drop dead, he couldn’t bring his eyes to close. He didn’t trust easily. It was built into his nature, carved and solidified by his dark childhood and lonely adolescence. But, even if things like kindness and trust didn’t come naturally to him, they were somehow boiling over the surface today.

He’d held her in his arms up until the moment the radio signaled the all-clear, gaze resolutely locked onto her miniscule body and shining eyes, memorizing the sound of her cries and the way she wiggled in his arms. He’d sat, entranced, when she looked up at him for the first time. She didn’t cry when she saw his mask, nor did she wail or huff. Rather, she just gurgled up at him, tiny arms pressing into his chest. His heart still aches when he thinks of how small her hand looked against his, so little it couldn’t even fully wrap around one of his fingers.

It was safe to say she’d already taken his breath away.

“Did she wake up?” you ask, voice chock full of the nervousness only a brand new mother could have.

“Yep,” he answers, walking along with the two of you while he tucks his jacket tighter around her, “Won’t be up long, though. She’s just mad I moved her around, spoiled little thing.”

You place your hand on her chest, brushing the back of your knuckle across her cheek. You chuckle, smiling up at him.

“You can’t call her spoiled yet. She’s only been alive for a couple hours, Simon.”

When you say his given name, Soap’s eyebrows raise. It’d taken a long time for Ghost to allow anyone to call him that, and even then, he still got mad when Soap used it most of the time. Ghost steadfastly ignores the look the sergeant is sending him, instead paying attention to the way your voice sounds when you talk to her.

“Yeah, well I’d say she’s cut out to be quite the princess already. Won’t let me take a single finger off of her.”

You only giggle, reaching towards her. Ghost passes her into your arms, making sure the jacket doesn’t come loose in the process. Brusquely, he turns to Soap then, sending him a seething glare in reprimand.

“Soap, go prep an ambulance. Make sure to explain the situation - in detail. And make sure the techs can actually understand what you’re saying this time.”

Annoyed, Soap glares at him, “Awa’ an’ bile yer heid.”

“Speak English,” Simon sneers in response, earning a middle finger from Soap as he retreats. You hurriedly cover the baby’s eyes. Scoffing, Simon shoulders your weight, allowing you to lean on him for support when the two of you brave the stairs. The sun is fierce outside, though the cold of winter still lingers in the air. With the frost nipping at your cheeks, you press into him further, clutching the baby in between his body and your own.

He hails a medic with his spare hand, Soap pointing the EMTs in the right direction. You and your daughter are whisked away in a flurry of motion, rubber gloves and stethoscopes flitting back and forth between the two of you, the techs judging his handiwork. Simon stands quietly in the background, a strange emptiness settling in his chest. His hands clasp his rifle, its metal cold and strong as always, yet it doesn’t ground him like it usually does. Instead, it feels like a pale imitation of the warmth he’d felt the past few hours, entirely disappointing when put side by side.

His brows furrow beneath the mask. It’s too quiet here. Too sterile and too lonely. The wind whips around him, leeching his remaining body heat in one fell swoop. He stares at you longingly while he slowly disconnects from reality, your grinning face seemingly a thousand miles away. He should be making phone calls by now, should be commending his men on a job well done. Soap certainly deserves the encouragement. But, despondently, he stands, body going numb in the cold of winter.

His breath fans out hot in front of his face, wisping in the wind. He’s been alone for his whole life. Even as a child, sometimes, it felt like he was born into solitude, forever meant to be a lone wolf. Every experience he’d had seemed to point in that direction. But today stuck out like a sore thumb. He’d never been in this situation before (he’s sure most people haven’t), but the way his heart yearns catches in his chest like a heart attack. The sheer, stinging ache he feels is unprecedented. It hurts more than most physical wounds he’s had, a black hole sitting in the middle of his chest. Helplessly, he stares forward, wanting nothing more than to pick up his boots and run to your side. There’s just something inside of him that can’t stand your absence.

His hands tighten.

His shoulders straighten.

His mind braces against the onslaught of emotion.

His mask manages to hide it all.

At least, that is, until your gaze meets his from within the crowd. You look him straight in the eye, no longer intimidated by the gun he carries, the mask he wears, and the misery that surrounds him. Your attention shocks life back into his bones, not only staving off his exhaustion, but restarting his pulse altogether. It grounds him, that now-familiar palpitation, and he feels a hazy warmth settle in his face. Kentucky bourbon saves him from frostbite once again.

Without thinking twice, he navigates the sea of people standing between you and him, never once losing your gaze. You sit on the tailgate of the ambulance, wrapped in a foil blanket. Your hair’s a mess and your dress is wrinkled, though he finds that he couldn’t care less. You still look positively radiant. He halts in front of you awkwardly, wanting to reach out, but entirely unsure of how to do that. He’s still wearing his camouflage and kevlar vest, gun still hanging at his side. Without the faceplate, he bears himself in front of you, allowing you to see him for what he really was, with no filter or façade to hide it. He was broken, angry, and emotionally stunted. His job was disheartening and often treacherous. Every facet of his story led back to a single point: the uninviting, displeasing personality that was at the core of his life.

And yet, when confronted with the joyless, unpromising man in front of you, you merely smile. It hurts him in the best of ways.

“Tech says I should go back to the hospital to get checked over,” you posit, rocking the baby in your arms.

It’s a goodbye. Simon knows one when he hears one. You’re trying to let him down easy, because of course you’d afford a man like him the benefit of the doubt. He resigns himself to his fate.

“Probably for the best. I’m not exactly a doctor.”

You grin wearily, “Coulda fooled me.”

Silence ensues, but, unlike before, it actually weighs on his shoulders. It’s heavy and uncomfortable, something that makes pinpricks of anxiety run up his spine. He clears his throat.

“You gonna be okay on the way home?”

You bite your lip, sparing a thoughtful look at the baby in your arms.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” your voice is serious, and it catches his attention, “Honestly, I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. I don’t have a ride home from the hospital…besides, I haven’t even finished setting up the crib at home.”

He grinds his teeth, something red hot and entirely unjustifiable stirring inside of him.

“I’ve got my work cut out for me,” you continue, “But the insomnia will probably be a good thing. Keep me awake long enough to get it all done. I probably should have spent some more time at home. The money was my focus, but I mean, she’s already here, and she doesn’t even have a place to sleep.”

He clenches his fists at his sides, white noise blaring in his ears. His mind singularly focuses on the way your brows furrow, and suddenly, he can’t stand to listen any longer.

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” he interjects firmly.

You raise your head at his interruption, watery eyes meeting his own bleak ones. He spares a glance around the area in which you stand, and cautiously steps closer, leaning in to eliminate any chance of miscommunication. From this distance, his scent wafts over you, drowning you in comforting spice and musk.

“My offer still stands.”

He’s determined, earnest. The sound of it kicks up your pulse, your hands tightening around your daughter.

“I’ll get you the pain meds, and the drink…” he shakes his head, “The crib, the driving, too. Just say the word and I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you and her, for as long as you need.”

It sounds desperate, and in a way, it is. He’s drawing on the false bond the two of you curated, twisting it to his advantage, hoping you won’t leave him in the dust. But, at the same time, it isn’t selfish in the least. It’s an olive branch. A light in the darkness. He hopes it doesn’t come off as rash or tenacious, but he can’t seem to keep the words from spilling out of his mouth.

He feels like he’s on fire. Like he’d be burned to a crisp if he didn’t manage to get a last word in.

You stare at him blankly, body frozen where you sit on the tailgate. The crowd still buzzes around you, smoke and ambient chatter blurring your senses together like watercolor paints. The world moves around you, but the pocket of air the two of you reside in remains frozen in time, wholly unaffected by the craze of the events that took place today. Promise swirls in his eyes, and with that, you can’t help but let your reckless impulsions get the better of you.

“Alright,” you whisper back, tired fondness in your voice.

He blinks, stoic as always. Though you swear you can see his eye twitch at your answer.

“It’s a date,” you settle.

And just like that, you had him.