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cod-thoughts · 2 months ago

Text

I could offer you a warm embrace

Word count: 3.2k

Relationships: Ghost & Price, Team as family

Tags: Fever, a very sick Ghost, some cuddles, whump, hurt/comfort, fever-dream (ish)

Part of a project that has a tiny explanation here. Keep reading under the cut!!

AN: Hii!!!! @whumpwriterforlife Happy valentines day mate <3333 You were the first person to reach out to me in this fandom space, honestly, you're so brave it surprised me and made me try to reach out to more people so thank you!! Your writing is always such a treat honestly, you commented on my stuff and i freaked tf out i cant lie pfft. Thanks bud, you're very sweet and i hope this hit the spot for you <333

The safehouse was barely a step above a ruin.

A crumbling stone structure nestled deep in the hills, its walls thick with time, damp with the slow decay of years. It had long since been abandoned, left to weather and rot, but tonight, it was all they had. The wind howled through the cracks, carrying the scent of rain-damp earth, and the cold settled into their bones like an unwelcome guest.

They had done what they could—barricaded the entrance, laid tripwires, set up shifts for watch. It wasn’t much. If their pursuers were determined, this place wouldn’t hold. But the mission had gone to hell, and they were out of options. Now it was just a waiting game—hunker down, keep their heads low, and pray extraction came before things got worse.

Ghost was quiet.

Not an unusual thing. He was always quiet. But there was something about it this time, something different. Price noticed it first—how Ghost kept to the shadows a little more than usual, moving like he was conserving his energy rather than slipping through the dark. Soap noticed next—the way Ghost’s hands weren’t as steady when he adjusted his gear, how his fingers hesitated over the straps, fumbling for just a fraction of a second.

No one said anything.

Not at first.

They were all running on fumes. The cold had set into their muscles, exhaustion pressing heavy on their shoulders. It was easy to chalk it up to fatigue, to the weight of a mission gone sideways. And Ghost—Ghost didn’t complain. He never did.

But then came the little things.

The way Ghost shifted his stance more often than usual, like his balance was off. The way his breathing, usually so steady, had developed an uneven hitch. The way, when Price glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, he caught Ghost blinking like he was trying to clear his vision.

It wasn’t until Soap spoke up that the unease settled properly in Price’s gut.

“Ghost, you alright?”

It was casual, not yet concern, but there was an edge to it. A quiet alertness.

Ghost barely turned his head. His reply was little more than a grunt, a sound more breath than voice. He wasn’t looking at them—wasn’t quite looking at anything, his gaze unfocused, sliding past them as if there was something just beyond his reach.

Price’s brow furrowed. “Ghost?”

A second passed. Then another.

Ghost finally turned to them properly, shoulders stiff, weight shifting like the effort of responding took more out of him than it should have.

Then his knees buckled.

Price was already moving before the others could react. He lunged, catching Ghost’s weight before he hit the ground, staggering slightly under the sudden dead weight.

“Shit—” Soap was already pulling out a bedroll, Gaz tearing through their sparse supplies. “Did anyone see this coming?”

“Fuck—no, I—” Gaz shook his head sharply. “One second he was fine, now he’s just—”

Price gritted his teeth, adjusting his hold. Ghost wasn’t responding, his head lolling slightly, breath shallow. Not unconscious, but damn near it.

“What the hell is this?” Soap muttered, kneeling down beside them. He looked Ghost over quickly, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure where to check first. “Is he hit?”

Price’s stomach clenched. That was the first thought that slammed into his mind, too. The mission had been a mess. The firefight had been chaos. Had Ghost taken a hit and not told them? Was there blood soaking into his gear, seeping into the black fabric where none of them had noticed?

“Check him,” Price ordered, his voice tight.

Gaz was already on it, hands moving over Ghost’s gear, searching for blood, any sign of injury. “I don’t see—” He pulled off a glove and pressed two fingers to Ghost’s pulse point. His brow furrowed. “Shit. He’s burning up.”

Price’s grip tightened. The cold had been biting all night, the wind seeping into their bones, but Ghost’s skin—Ghost’s skin was hot.

Not just warm. Wrong.

Soap’s expression shifted. “That’s not normal.”

“No,” Price muttered. It wasn’t.

Price pressed his hand against the side of Ghost’s neck, fingers brushing damp skin just below the edge of his balaclava. Too hot. Too fast. His pulse beat hard, rapid, hammering against Price’s touch.

“He’s running a fever,” Price muttered.

Soap swore under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face. “Fuckin’ hell, that’s just brilliant. Out in the middle of nowhere, sittin’ ducks, and now we’ve got him—” he gestured sharply to Ghost’s limp form, “—burnin’ up like a bloody furnace.”

“Could be an infection, you sure he isn't hit?” Gaz’s voice was tight, controlled, but Price could hear the underlying edge of worry. “Maybe from somethin’ before we even started the op. Could be anything.”

Price exhaled sharply, thinking fast. They had been pushing hard for days—too hard. Not enough food. Barely enough sleep. The cold, the rain, the exhaustion. It didn’t take much to break a body down when it was already running on empty.

“We need to get him out of this gear,” Price said, already moving.

Ghost barely stirred when they started peeling back the layers of his tactical vest, his head slumping forward for a moment before Price steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. His skin was damp with sweat beneath his shirt, heat radiating off him in waves.

They worked fast. Boots off. Gloves. Vest. Jacket.

“No signs of injury, could just be a regular fever left for too long. Stubborn git.” Price responded.

When Soap reached the mast, he hesitated.

Price did too.

Ghost had never let them near it. Not even in the worst of times. Sure, they’d seen his face but always when Ghost wanted it to be seen.

Price stared for a second, jaw tightening. Would Ghost even be aware enough to fight them on it?

A low, pained sound left Ghost’s throat—half sigh, half exhale—and whatever hesitation Price had vanished. Now wasn’t the time.

He unbuckled the hard-shell mask carefully and lifted the hem of the balaclava just enough to press the back of his fingers against Ghost’s cheekbone. The heat there was just as bad—too much. Ghost’s face was paler than it should have been, his cheekbones flushed with fever. His breaths came in short, uneven puffs, damp strands of blond hair plastered to his forehead.

Soap exhaled sharply. “Yeah. That’s bad.”

Price didn’t answer. He already knew.

“Right, let’s get him on a bedroll,” Price said instead.

They maneuvered Ghost down carefully, making sure he didn’t hit the cold ground too hard. His body twitched at the temperature shift, a violent, involuntary shiver wracking through him despite the burning heat under his skin.

Gaz muttered another curse, reaching for their dwindling supplies. “We don’t have much.”

Price nodded. “Do what we can.”

Gaz tossed Soap a half-empty bottle of water, the closest thing they had to spare. Soap cracked it open and pressed it to Ghost’s lips.

“C’mon, big guy,” he murmured, tilting it slightly. “Drink.”

Ghost’s brows furrowed, his lips barely parting before he weakly turned his head away.

Soap huffed, glancing at Price. “You wanna try?”

Price took the bottle, shifting to a firmer, steadier tone. “I know you can hear me. Please, drink.”

Ghost’s breathing hitched, and for a moment, Price thought he wasn’t going to respond. Then, sluggishly, he obeyed—a few shallow swallows before his body betrayed him, his strength giving out mid-sip. Price pulled the bottle back before it could spill. He exchanged a look with Soap and Gaz. This was bad.

—

The safehouse was cold. The kind of damp, deep-seated chill that seeped into their bones no matter how many layers they wore. But Ghost burned anyway.

Even with the wind creeping through the cracks, even as the cold pressed against his exposed skin, his body was a furnace. His clothes were damp with sweat, the heat rolling off him unnatural, suffocating.

And he was getting worse.

Price watched as another violent tremor wracked through him, his body caught in that awful contradiction—burning up, yet shivering like he was freezing. His fingers twitched, his breathing hitched, his entire frame too tense for someone whose strength had drained out of him moments ago.

Soap was still crouched nearby, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “This ain’t normal, Cap.”

No. It wasn’t.

Gaz finished rummaging through their meager supplies, his movements sharp, edged with frustration. “No proper meds,” he muttered, jaw tight. “No fever reducers, barely any clean bandages left—Christ, we weren’t packed for this.”

They hadn’t been. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Right,” Price exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “We do what we can.”

Soap nodded, already reaching for the canteen again. “He needs more water.”

Price turned his attention back to Ghost. He was still too out of it, barely responding, his body curling in on itself instinctively.

Not good. Not good at all.

Price shifted forward, pressing the canteen against Ghost’s lips again. “Drink, mate.”

A weak, incoherent sound left Ghost’s throat—half protest, half confusion. His head twitched, and for a brief second, he almost flinched away.

Price frowned. “Ghost?”

Ghost’s brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly, but his eyes didn’t focus. Didn’t see him.

Something in Price’s gut twisted.

Gaz leaned in, frowning. “Think he even knows where he is?”

Price didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure.

Soap muttered something under his breath, then tried again, this time tapping Ghost’s cheek lightly. “Oi. No slippin’ under now. C’mon.”

Ghost blinked sluggishly, his breath stuttering. His hands twitched, fingers curling weakly into the fabric beneath him.

Then, too softly, he mumbled, “—mm’fine.”

Soap huffed. “Oh, piss off. You’re about three seconds from keelin’ over again.”

No answer.

Just another, deeper shiver that ran through Ghost’s body like a tremor beneath the surface.

Gaz grabbed one of their scarves from the gear pile and dunked it into the last of the cold water before pressing it against Ghost’s forehead. The contrast should’ve made him flinch.

It didn’t.

Price hated that.

“We’re gonna need to keep him cool,” Gaz muttered. “His fever’s climbing.”

Soap let out a slow, tense breath. “How bad are we talkin’?”

Gaz didn’t look up. “Bad.”

Silence settled between them for a moment, heavy and tense.

Then—

Ghost moved.

It was a jerky, instinctive motion as his body tensed sharply, his head turning toward Price—like he was looking for something. No, not something.

Someone.

A single word left him, breathy, strained, barely above a whisper. “…Tommy.”

Price’s chest tightened. Soap and Gaz froze. Ghost’s brows knitted together, his fevered gaze glassy, unfocused. His fingers grasped weakly at nothing, twitching against the fabric of the blanket as if he were reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Someone that wasn’t there.

“Shit,” Gaz muttered under his breath.

Soap’s jaw worked, his expression shifting. Ghost made another sound, softer this time. He tilted his head slightly, like he was listening for something, like he was caught in some place between the present and the past.

And Price hated it.

Hated the way Ghost looked so damn young in that moment. Hated the raw vulnerability in his voice, the way his body curled inward as though he were bracing for something. Price swallowed. Then, slowly, he reached out and grasped Ghost’s hand. The barest twitch of fingers. A weak, barely-there squeeze.

Price exhaled, steady, grounding. “You’re alright,” he murmured. “You’re not there anymore.”

Ghost’s breathing hitched. Price didn’t let go. Didn’t move, and Ghost let him.

The rain outside had started again. A slow, steady drizzle, the kind that seeped into the walls and made everything feel colder. Ghost, however, still burned.

The fever had him in a chokehold now, dragging him deeper. His breathing was uneven, his body too warm, his skin damp with fever-sweat. Price didn’t like the way he twitched, the way his hands kept grasping at nothing. Restless.

Soap ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “This is bad, Cap.”

“Yeah.” Price’s voice was low, tense.

Ghost shifted again, a sharp flinch, his body jerking slightly before he curled in on himself. His hand twitched against the bedroll, fingers flexing weakly, searching. Then, before Price could react—

Ghost moved.

It was messy, uncoordinated, his body acting purely on instinct. His arm stretched out, fingers brushing the fabric of Price’s pants. Then, he latched on. His fingers curled weakly into Price’s trouser leg, his grip shaky, barely there, but determined. His body curled further inward, and then—his other hand found Price’s wrist.

Soap and Gaz froze. Price stiffened.

Ghost wasn’t fully aware, wasn’t conscious enough to know what he was doing. His body was just reacting, searching for something solid, something grounding.

And right now, that was Price. Gaz opened his mouth then quickly shut it. Soap stared. “...Well, shit.”

Ghost shifted again, his burning forehead bumping against Price’s knee, his grip tightening. A low, barely-audible sound left him, something between a sigh and a broken exhale. Then, so softly, so hoarse and fevered, it barely registered they heard a soft whisper from him.

“Please… don’t leave again.”

Price’s chest clenched. Soap and Gaz’s expressions shifted instantly. The weight of it settled in the room. Ghost’s breath hitched, his entire body trembling despite the heat pouring off him. His hand flexed around Price’s wrist, his fingers weakly curling like he was trying to hold on. Price exhaled slowly. Carefully. Then he moved.

He pried Ghost’s hand off his trouser leg, but before Ghost could react, before his body could start searching again, Price dragged him up. Slowly, steadily, effortlessly. Ghost was half-limp, fever-drunk, barely aware, but his body reacted instantly to the shift—his arms latched onto Price’s torso, his fingers gripping his jacket. His head slumped forward, and suddenly Price had an armful of Ghost, burning hot and trembling, face pressing against his chest.

Price didn’t breathe.

Soap and Gaz looked stunned.

Ghost didn’t move away. Didn’t even flinch. He just held on.

Price swallowed, his grip adjusting, one hand pressing against Ghost’s back, grounding. Ghost shuddered. His breath stuttered against Price’s chest, and then. Another broken, fevered whisper.

“…you always leave.”

Price shut his eyes.

Soap looked away. Gaz’s jaw tightened.

Price took a slow, steady breath. Then, carefully, he shifted his hold, adjusting Ghost’s weight so he wasn’t completely sagging forward. His hand moved in slow, grounding circles, steady, constant.

And Ghost let him.

Ghost stirred slowly, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavy on his limbs. Everything felt distant, like he was floating somewhere between sleep and awareness, his body still burning hot despite the damp chill of the safehouse. His head was resting against something warm, steady, the slow, even rise and fall beneath his cheek grounding him in a way he didn’t quite understand yet.

He barely had the strength to move, but instinct told him to hold onto whatever warmth he’d found. His fingers curled slightly, catching on the rough fabric of a jacket, and somewhere in the fog of his mind, something registered.

Jacket. Tactical. Cigar. Familiar.

His breath stuttered. Ghost’s eyes cracked open, blurry and unfocused, but what little he could see was enough to confirm it. Price.

His body locked up before his brain could even catch up. A deep, creeping heat that had nothing to do with the fever curled up his spine as he realized exactly where he was. Half in Price’s lap. Practically draped over him, his head pressed against Price’s chest, his fingers still tangled in the man’s jacket like he had a right to be there.

Oh, fuck.

Ghost’s body tensed automatically, preparing to pull away, but before he could move, a warm, steady hand pressed against his back. A quiet, grounding touch—not restraining, just there.

“You awake, Simon?” Price’s voice was rough with exhaustion, but there was something else there too—something tight, something relieved.

Ghost swallowed, his throat raw. He barely had the energy to speak, but he forced the words out anyway. “M’alright.”

A quiet scoff came from nearby. “Yeah? You sure about that?”

Ghost’s gaze flicked to the side, where Soap and Gaz were both watching him, their expressions hovering between relief and exasperation. Soap let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but there was tension behind it, something raw lingering under his usual humor. “You scared the hell out of us, big guy.”

Gaz nodded, rubbing a hand over his jaw like he was still shaking off the last several hours. “Didn’t think we’d ever see you go down like that,” he muttered, voice low. “Wasn’t a good sight.”

Ghost blinked slowly, his mind still lagging behind, struggling to process what they were saying. He could feel it now—how exhausted they all were, how shaken.

They’d been terrified.

That realisation settled deep in his chest, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say.

Before he could think of something, Price shifted slightly beneath him, exhaling sharply. “I—” He hesitated, his grip on Ghost’s back twitching before he let go entirely. His voice dropped lower. “I shouldn’t have let you—”

Ghost frowned, still groggy, but catching onto the way Price’s expression had tightened, the way he wasn’t meeting his eyes. Price reached next to him and grabbed Ghost's discarded balaclava, holding it out to Ghost.

Price rubbed a hand down his face. “Didn’t have a choice, but still. You wouldn’t have let any of us near you like that if you weren’t half-dead, and I—” His jaw tensed. “Took your mask off. You didn’t—”

Ghost sighed, cutting him off. “S’alright.”

Price’s brows pulled together.

Ghost let his eyes close for a moment, shifting slightly. He reached out and lowered his Captains hand holding the balaclava.

He was so damn tired, but he could still feel the weight of Price’s guilt, the way the man was clearly beating himself up over something that didn’t need to be a problem.

“It’s just you lot,” Ghost mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion. His head tipped forward slightly, brushing against Price’s shoulder, and he didn’t bother correcting it this time. “Don’t mind it.”

Silence.

Soap and Gaz stared.

Price went completely still.

Again.

Ghost barely even noticed their reactions. He was too damn warm, still half-drunk on fever, and even though he should have felt mortified that he’d spent the entire night curled up against his captain, he just... didn’t care.

They were his team. His family. It’s okay.

Ghost felt a small, hoarse laugh rumble in his chest at the sheer shock radiating off of them. “What?”

Soap’s expression was priceless. “What—what do you mean, ‘what’? You just—” He gestured vaguely at the position Ghost had willingly settled back into. “You’re just—stay—”

Ghost smirked. “S’comfortable.”

Gaz covered his face with his hand. Price just let out a breathless, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head as though this entire situation was beyond him. He dropped the balaclava by his knee, happy to indulge in watching his lieutenants face split with a tired, lazy grin.

“You’re still delirious,” Price muttered.

“Mm.” Ghost let his eyes slip closed again. “Maybe.”

Price let out a soft exhale, and then—hesitantly, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself—his hand found its way back to Ghost’s back. Not holding. Not gripping. Just there.

The tension finally eased from the room.

Soap scoffed. “Christ, alright. Guess we’re doin’ this, then.”

Gaz muttered something under his breath about "never lettin’ him live this down," but there was no real bite to it.

Ghost just huffed a quiet, amused breath, body sagging slightly as exhaustion pulled at him again.

The fever had broken. But the warmth lingered, even in the cold and damp atmosphere, that warmth lingered. And not the feverish kind of warmth. The one filled by familiar sounds and smells and camaraderie.

Yeah, it was okay, Ghost decided.

#cod #john price #simon ghost riley #call of duty #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #q writes #team as family #tf141 as family #you're also so right whump is one of the best genres it was great to write this actually i need to write more #i know we havent spoken in an age ive been going through it and im sorry #hopefully this is a peace offering of sorts and you can forgive me pfft <33 #happy valentines day <333 #title is from make you feel my love - adele

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