#kyle makes me happy

[romeoslaughter]

one (1) thing

[frankensteinposm0]

style at their 18's ☕

[avengerdaisy]

I know I'm going away for good, but I was hoping... you might come visit... once in a while? I will. I promise. That would be...

[cod-thoughts]

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. 

[catastrophicalcat]

One of the best single issue comics ever. Bruce and Clark swap costumes, Lois is dressed as Selina, and Selina is wearing Lois' dress.

Batman (2016) #37

[princedevitt]

[mothoscope]

Guess my favorite South Park character challenge.

[laeana]

Maxime & Léon during the interviews post 4x100 medley (third place)

I'm feeling crazy, them laughing together, hugging, touching, smiling and Maxime somehow having Léon's pass and giving it to him. I'm not saying my shipping brain is working, but the fic is almost writing itself...

+ Bonus

Caeleb asking Léon to exchange swimming caps with him.

Kyle and Duncan that somehow have found each other, that are side by side and talking. One day I should really finish that fic I started about them and post all the records of their interactions I have.

[tiffysdeath]

me whenever i think about kyle

[sp-growingpains]

Oh no.

[crab-people-overlord]

okay but can we talk about 'Mystery of the Urinal Deuce' because this episode is literally EVERYTHING when it comes to Stan and Kyle's friendship. Marsh is playing dumb the whole episode and Kyle is losing his goddamn mind over it. The betrayal. The DRAMA.

Stan in this scene knows damn well that everything is a conspiracy (he admits as much later in the episode and knows that Kyle thinks the same thing). And Kyle knows damn well that Stan out of everyone should also know this, because Stan is the one person he can usually count on to back him up on this type of shit. But Stan is the one messing with him in this episode, so we get these fun moments of Stan letting loose and enjoying pranking his friend Kyle. 

Many see the Assburger's duology as the establishment and turning point of Stan’s character. And while it certainly establishes his clinical depression, I’d argue it in no way establishes either his tendency towards depression/melancholy OR cynicism as both of those have always been present from the beginning (but that’s another discussion for another day. I already basically wrote an essay on that a longgg time ago that maybe I’ll share later).

When it comes to a true  ‘turning point’ for Stan’s character, I think of ‘Raisin’s’ ‘from Season 7, which expands on his already present tendency towards sensitivity and annoyances with general society and evolves it into a deep melancholy and detachment from society (at times bordering on nihilism, something we see more of from Stan post Season 7’s ‘Raisins’ such as in the ‘Douche and Turd’ episode in Season 8 and many other episodes). I don’t see the ‘You’re Getting Old’ episode as the turning point for Stan’s character at all. I see it more as an extension of what I actually view as his turning point episode of ‘Raisin’s’. 

What I love about ‘Mystery of the Urinal Deuce’ is it is a post ‘Raisin’s’ episode where Stan just gets to play around, which is sadly something we just don’t see from Stan post-season 7 as often. 

Kyle has always been the easiest target for Cartman not even necessarily because of his traits, but because of his reactions. He is super reactive to everything, and Stan knows this. Unlike Cartman, Stan respects this and usually stands up for Kyle when this aspect of him is taken advantage of. But at the same time, this doesn’t mean that Stan doesn’t like to tease Kyle at times - because let’s be real; Kyle’s high reactivity would make it so fun to mess with him. And in this episode, Stan takes advantage of that. 

And while usually I hate people taking advantage of Kyle in this way, it is so goddamn refreshing to see Stan just being able to let go of all the heavy shit that’s been so key to his character emotionally post-Season 7 and just play around with his bestie in this episode, something I think that at the core of his character he ultimately just wants to be able to do at the end of the day. you can TASTE the shit-eating grin in his voice. he is having the TIME OF HIS LIFE watching Kyle spiral. stan tries so GODDAMN hard to find happiness throughout the series to no avail, so it’s refreshing the times he succeeds and gets to just actually be himself.

Later on in the episode, Stan is also just able to let loose. His ‘Well dude, maybe we’re just badass, have you ever thought of that?’ later on in the episode is said so nonchalantly with him literally smirking, and it cracks me up every time as he tries to appease Kyle’s doubts. He is thoroughly enjoying pranking his friend. 

like yes give me more of this next season?? give me more of stan actually getting to be a kid and mess around with his best friend instead of drowning in existential dread 24/7? please and thank you?

[frankensteinposm0]

are there still beautiful things?

[metalljellyphish]

Okay... this is gonna sound super silly, but....

Werewolf Stan.... does he wags his tail when he's happy?

Would you believe instead of a demonic beast of darkness we got a Labrador?

[akai-akai]

Quiet of the Mind

a tiny 141 poly drabble— slightly price/gaz centric but not really.

***unedited***

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It's rare that they're granted this kind of peace.

The sun's just beginning brush against the treeline, the gentle lapping of water against a rocky lakeshore mixing with the hum of cicadas and birdsong.

John's old blue truck— the same once he's had since his beard was no more than some scratchy stubble on his chin— was backed up near a dock, a bright red cooler filled with beer and other drinks and lunch meat sitting on the bed of it and the tailgate flipped down.

Up a wooden plank staircase, a fair-sized cedar cabin sat on structural stilts, not far from the water's edge. The boys had rented the thing for the entire 2 weeks, per John's suggestion.

"We're out in the bush all the time as soldiers," John said when he spoke of the trip. "Never get to really enjoy nature, too busy watching our arses out there."

So here they were. A quiet, private lake spanned out in front of them, surrounded by lush green forest and the only other civilization being the cabins on the far side, far enough that the early morning fog that settles over the crystalline waters completely hides the cabins from view.

Simon and Johnny stand on the cabin's deck above, Simon manning the grill while Johnny spears darts into a dartboard fixed on the side of the cabin. Below, Kyle rests, sitting on the open tailgate with a cold can of coke next to him and a maplewood guitar sitting in his lap, his fingers deftly plucking away at the strings. It's a lulling sound, soft dulcet chords vaguely reminiscent of western folk music. John leans against the tailgate beside him, eyes fixed on the far shoreline as he watches a small herd of deer travel through the grass towards the trees. He's quiet, his mind is quiet. For once.

"What song?" He mutters to Kyle as he glances over to him, only to find Kyle's warm eyes already locked onto him through his pretty eyelashes, head tilted with the way he holds his guitar.

Kyle shrugs slightly, continuing to strum. "Just wingin' it."

John smiles at him fondly, but says nothing more. Just turns back to the lake and listens. Even the sound of Johnny cursing at the dartboard and Simon griping at him for putting a dart-sized hole in the wood siding of the cabin can't interrupt his peace. If anything, it's a comforting sound.

There's several plates lined out on a foldable table next to the still-smoking grill— bratwursts, burger patties, hotdogs, grilled cob corn, potato wedges, macaroni courtesy of Johnny, who nursed the pot over the cabin's stove for 15 minutes and fished the ripped up box from the trash 3 different times because he kept forgetting how much milk, butter, and water to add. (Simon told him multiple times to just leave the bloody thing on the countertop until the mac was done.)

The sun's shining bright gold and orange through the gaps in the trees when Simon lets out a whistle signaling the barbecue's done, and Kyle slides his fingers down the strings, stopping the vibrations as he carefully sets his guitar back in his case behind the cooler. He dutifully fishes more beers from said cooler for the other 3 men, favoring another coke for himself. John's hand brushes over his affectionately as he takes the glass bottle with a soft murmur of "thank you, love."

They each carry their full plates back down the stairs and take their seats at the old picnic table at the bottom as the sky paints itself purple and pink, and John's unusually quiet. Content.

His eyes rest on each of his boys in turn as he eats, Johnny and Kyle bickering good-naturedly about the best time of day to go fishing while Simon glances between the two, subtly eggs them on with a quiet "the best time's midnight" and suddenly they've both turned on him, allies against a common enemy. Simon must feel John's gaze on him— he has a knack for that— because he glances up at just the right moment as Johnny and Kyle move on to their favorite fishing lures.

Simon's lips quirk into the smallest crooked grin, an equally fond look in his eyes as the two speak without words.

Price just takes a swig of his beer and pushes all other thoughts from his mind. Averts his eyes to the sky.

A pretty sunset, he thinks.

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*bites hand and screams* I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

honorable mentions: I think simon would secretly have a nice, velvety singing voice, johnny is wicked on a drum set, and john is scarily good at whistling.

[cod-thoughts]

Day 29 of 31 days of COD

Word count: 1.8k

Relationships: team as family

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, growing old, soft tf141

It’s the sight of Price that really does him in. They’re sitting around the table after a long mission, the kind that leaves them bruised and weary. Price stands up to grab a coffee, and there’s a subtle wince as he does, a hand going to his back to steady himself. Ghost watches him, and something inside him breaks, the gratitude and sorrow twisting together until it’s unbearable. He feels the tears welling up, uninvited and unstoppable, and he bows his head, trying to hide it. - Ghost notices signs of his age in himself and his team, something he never thought he'd see on himself let alone surrounded by others Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Ghost notices it one morning, in the small things first. The stiffness in his knuckles when he closes his fist, a resistance that wasn't there before. He’s still strong, still capable, but the ache is undeniable, lingering like a memory. He catches himself in the mirror—a rare occurrence, as he’s long stopped staring at his own reflection. There’s a streak of silver in his stubble that surprises him. It’s not something that alarms him, not anymore. Just something he acknowledges with a nod, an almost-smile.

But today, the recognition of age hits deeper. He’s standing there, staring at his reflection longer than usual, and the realisation creeps up on him, unexpectedly heavy. It’s not just the silver, it’s the lines, the way his shoulders sag slightly, the quiet exhaustion that seems to settle in his bones. He blinks, but his eyes start to sting, and he feels a tightness in his chest. Ghost never used to think he’d make it this far. He always thought he’d go out young. After everything he’s been through—all the nightmares, the trauma, the losses that carved holes in his soul—it felt inevitable. The missions that pushed him to the edge, the times he came back with blood that wasn’t just his, the faces of those who didn’t make it—all of it convinced him that he’d never live to see anything beyond the fight. The fact that he’s still here, marked by time, is almost overwhelming. He’s lived through hell, and somehow, he’s survived it all.

He turns away from the mirror, but the feeling follows him like a shadow throughout the day. Every little thing seems to magnify it—the subtle groan of his knees as he stands up, the slight hesitation before moving too quickly, the way the scars on his body pull just a little more with each passing year. He tries to push it down, to focus on the mission brief, on the plans for the day, but it lingers, gnawing at him, an uncomfortable reminder of the years gone by.

When he steps into the common room, he sees it in his team too. Soap's laugh lines have deepened, framing the grin Ghost has come to rely on. Johnny’s hair has begun to fade at the temples, just a little, as though age itself has a gentle hand on him. Price’s eyes are as sharp as ever, but Ghost catches how he rubs at his lower back when he thinks no one is watching, easing a pain that probably won’t ever quite go away. Gaz, still the youngest of them, has his own small signs—a weariness behind the eyes that speaks to the miles they've all walked, the weight they've all carried.

They’re all still so capable, so strong. But it’s there. The years have left their mark on each of them, etched lines into their skin, carved aches into their bones. Ghost can’t help but watch them today, his gaze lingering longer than it should. He notices the way Soap's laughter fades a little more quickly, the way Price takes just a moment longer to stand up. These are men who have been through hell and back, and they carry it with them in every movement, every breath.

It’s the sight of Price that really does him in. They’re sitting around the table after a long mission, the kind that leaves them bruised and weary. Price stands up to grab a coffee, and there’s a subtle wince as he does, a hand going to his back to steady himself. Ghost watches him, and something inside him breaks, the gratitude and sorrow twisting together until it’s unbearable. He feels the tears welling up, uninvited and unstoppable, and he bows his head, trying to hide it.

He’s lost in his own thoughts, the emotions hitting him in waves. The gratitude that they’re all still here, the sorrow for the years that have passed, the fear that someday, one of them won’t be. It’s all too much, and before he knows it, he’s trembling, the tears spilling down his face. He’s fought so hard to keep it together, but here, surrounded by his family, it’s impossible.

Soap is the first to notice. "Ghost?" he says, voice tinged with concern. Ghost doesn’t respond, his shoulders trembling slightly. The room goes quiet, everyone turning to look at him. "Hey, you alright, mate?" Soap tries again, softer this time.

Price, still standing by the counter, turns, his brows knitting together in worry. He’s rarely seen Ghost like this, even in their darkest times, and it shakes him to the core. He crosses the room, kneeling down beside Ghost, his hand resting on his arm. "Simon," he says gently, using Ghost's real name. "What's going on? Talk to us."

Ghost lifts his head, eyes red, tears streaking down his face. He takes a shuddering breath, trying to find the words, but his chest feels tight, his throat constricted, and the words seem to stick there, refusing to come out. Slowly, with trembling hands, he reaches up and pulls off his mask. The room seems to hold its breath as Ghost reveals his face—the redness of his cheeks from crying, and the way his lips tremble as he tries to hold it together—evidence of just how much he's feeling. He bows his head again, his shoulders shaking as the tears spill freely now. He tries to speak, but it comes out as a broken sob, his voice caught in his throat.

Price moves closer, concern etched deeply on his face, his hand finding its way to Ghost’s back, rubbing gently. "Breathe, Simon," Price says softly, his voice a steady anchor. "Just breathe, son. Take your time."

Ghost tries, drawing in shaky breaths, but the emotions are too much—too raw, too heavy. All the trauma, all the pain, all the years of fighting and losing, all the moments he thought he wouldn’t make it—it all crashes over him, wave after wave, until he feels like he might drown in it. Price pulls him into a hug, strong arms wrapping around Ghost, holding him tightly. Ghost clings to him, his fingers digging into the fabric of Price’s shirt as he lets out another sob, burying his face in Price’s shoulder.

"That’s it," Price murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let it out, Simon. We’ve got you."

Soap and Gaz exchange a glance, both of them rising from their seats. Soap moves closer, his hand resting on Ghost's shoulder. "We’re right here, LT," Soap says, his voice thick with emotion. "Take your time."

Gaz sits down next to Ghost, leaning in closer, his eyes filled with empathy. "You know, Simon," he says quietly, "I think we all feel it sometimes. The weight of it all. And it's okay to let it out. We're here." His voice is gentle, filled with sincerity, and Ghost can hear the echoes of his own fears in Gaz's words.

After what feels like an eternity, Ghost manages to steady his breathing. He pulls back slightly, his face flushed and eyes puffy, but there’s a determination there now. He swallows hard, and then, with a shaky grin, he manages to get out, "I’m going grey." The words are soft, almost a whisper, but genuine. The grin fades as his voice trembles, his eyes glistening. He swallows again, trying to hold it together.

"I just..." He pauses, his voice breaking. "I never thought I'd get here. Any of us, really. After everything…" His voice cracks, and he looks at each of them, tears spilling once more. "I see it in all of you—the age, the years. And it’s... it's beautiful, but it scares me. I’m so damn grateful that we’re still here, that we’ve lived long enough to see this. To see each other start to grow old."

Soap reaches across, placing his hand over Ghost’s. "You’re not alone in this, LT," he says, his voice thick with emotion. He doesn’t let go, his grip firm and steady. "We’re in it together. Every damn wrinkle, every ache. We’ve earned it."

Gaz shifts closer, nodding, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "We’re family, Ghost. And every grey hair, every sore muscle is proof that we made it—together. And that’s something I wouldn’t change for anything."

Ghost looks at them, his vision blurring with tears again, but this time they’re not from sorrow. They’re from something warmer, something softer. He nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah," he whispers. "Family."

There’s a moment of silence, a heavy, poignant pause that hangs in the air. Price pulls Ghost back into his arms, his own voice trembling ever so slightly as he spoke. "You made it, Simon. After everything—after all you’ve been through. You’re still here, and we’re still here. And we’re not going anywhere." He releases Ghost, then adds softly, "Why don’t we take tonight to just be together? No rush, no pressure. Just us."

Soap claps his hands together, the sound loud in the quiet room but somehow comforting, breaking the tension with a grin. "Right then, let's see if Price's got any of that old whiskey left, eh? Something to toast to getting this far." Gaz lets out a soft laugh, wiping his eyes as he nods in agreement. Price smiles, getting up slowly, giving each of them a nod before gesturing towards the cabinet. "Alright then," he says, his voice softer now, almost tender. "But none of you lightweights better fall asleep on me. Tonight, we’re celebrating."

The mood shifts, the heaviness lifting as they gather around, passing glasses, clinking them together with shared smiles, and letting the warmth of each other's presence settle in. They share quiet jokes, some of them whispered, some louder, their laughter weaving into the fabric of the night. The night stretches on with stories—some true, some wildly exaggerated just to get a laugh—and laughter that feels almost healing, like a balm for old wounds. They let themselves relax, let their guards down, knowing that in this moment, they were safe, and they had each other.

Later, as the room grows quieter, Price leans back in his chair, looking around at his team. He catches Ghost's eye and raises his glass. "To surviving," he says, his voice rough but filled with warmth. "To the years we weren't supposed to have, and the ones still waiting for us." Ghost raises his own glass, his hand steady now, and the rest follow.

"To us," Ghost adds, his voice soft but sure. They drink, and for a moment, it feels like time itself pauses, allowing them to bask in this one perfect moment.

As the fire crackles in the corner, they settle into a comfortable silence. Ghost leans back, feeling the fatigue in his bones, but also the comfort of the people around him. Soap nudges him, a small smile playing on his lips. "Bet you didn't think you'd be sitting here with us old bastards, huh?"

Ghost huffs a quiet laugh. "No," he admits. "But I'm damn glad I am."

[messytrio]

Ask the Scrunklies anything!

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