#thanks friend <333 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cod-thoughts · 8 days ago

Text

Help to make the season bright

Word count: 9.9k

Relationships: NikPrice, PriceNik, team as family

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt Simon "Ghost" Riley, Fluff, Niks love language is food you can pry that out of my cold dead hands thank you Soft Nikolai, Christmas Fluff

I posted this while i was gone and never ended up putting it on here so im doing that now! Its two chapters!!

Stuck in a safe house over Christmas, the team does their best to keep spirits up despite the storm outside—and the one raging inside Ghost. It’s supposed to be the season for family, but some wounds don’t heal, and some ghosts don’t rest. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Chapter 1: And so I'm offering this simple phrase

The safe house was unremarkable, a squat, grey structure barely visible against the snow-laden woods. The storm outside had been raging for hours, a relentless whiteout that battered the building with icy gusts and howling winds. Snow piled high against the windows, and the walls creaked under the force of the gale. The wood-burning stove in the corner struggled to fend off the biting cold, its faint glow casting flickering shadows across the room. The scent of damp wood and lingering smoke clung to the air, seeping into every corner of the cramped space.

Inside, the team sat huddled around a battered table. A single bulb swung gently from the ceiling, its dim light highlighting the weariness etched across their faces. Supplies were running low, and the safe house felt smaller with each passing hour, its confined walls pressing in like the snow outside.

Soap blew into his hands, rubbing them together briskly. His breath fogged in the icy air as he muttered, “Bloody hell, it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”

“Better than being out there,” Price said from where he leaned against the stove, adding another splintered log to the flames. His voice was steady, calm, but his eyes were fixed on the fire as if willing it to grow.

Soap scoffed, gesturing around the room. “Aye, well, not by much. Think we’ll still be here come Christmas? Stuck in this frozen hellhole?”

Gaz glanced up from the radio he’d been fiddling with, his brow furrowed. Static crackled faintly, filling the silence. “Unless that storm clears, we’re not going anywhere. Could be days yet.”

Soap groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Fantastic. Best Christmas ever.”

Price glanced towards the frost-covered window, where Ghost stood silently, his posture stiff and unyielding. He was a shadow against the dim light, the edges of his figure blurred by the condensation on the glass. The balaclava he always wore revealed only his eyes, which were fixed on the swirling snow outside. His gloved hand rested on the windowsill, unmoving, and the stillness of him felt almost unnatural—like a tightly coiled spring on the verge of snapping.

The quiet unease in the room wasn’t lost on Soap. Ever the optimist, he straightened in his chair, forcing a grin. “Oi, Ghost,” he called, his tone light and teasing. “Fancy helping me brighten this place up? Could string some lights or hang something festive. It’s grim enough without us all sulking.”

Ghost didn’t move, his gaze unwavering as he muttered, “Not interested.”

Soap’s grin faltered, just for a second. “Ah, come on, mate,” he pressed, his voice carrying a forced cheerfulness. “Even you can’t be above a bit of holiday spirit. You could use it, I reckon.”

Ghost turned his head then, his eyes cold and sharp under the dim light. “I said, drop it.” His voice was low, steady, and left no room for argument.

The room seemed to shrink in the silence that followed. Soap shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders tense as he looked towards Price for some kind of signal. The captain’s gaze was fixed on Ghost, his expression unreadable, but after a moment he gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Soap leaned back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Suit yourself, Lieutenant.”

Ghost didn’t respond. His hand dropped from the windowsill as he turned away, his steps clipped and deliberate as he left the room. The door to the adjoining space shut behind him with a soft but deafening click.

Soap exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to push him,” he muttered, glancing back at Price.

Price stepped away from the stove, his expression softening slightly. “You weren’t to know. It’s not your fault.”

Gaz, who had been watching quietly from his seat, frowned. “What’s his deal, anyway? He’s been like this all week.”

Price’s response came slowly, his voice quieter now. “It’s not my story to tell. But this time of year… it’s not easy for him. Give him some space.”

Gaz and Soap exchanged a look, both nodding in silent agreement. Still, there was a lingering heaviness in the air, and it seemed to settle deeper into the room now that Ghost had gone.

The hours dragged on, the storm outside a relentless fury of wind and snow. Inside, the safe house had grown oppressively quiet. The stove crackled faintly, its orange glow casting long shadows across the room. Soap had finally abandoned his search through the supply crate, muttering about the lack of decent provisions, while Gaz leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as he stared at the faintly glowing radio. Price stood near the stove, his eyes distant, his mind elsewhere.

A sudden knock shattered the quiet. It was sharp and deliberate, cutting through the howl of the storm like a gunshot. The team reacted instantly—Gaz straightened, his hand going to his sidearm, while Soap shot Price a questioning look.

Price moved towards the door, his steps steady but cautious. His hand rested lightly on the rifle propped against the wall as he glanced back at the others. “Stay sharp,” he said quietly. “Could be anything.”

Soap sidled closer to the door, his pistol drawn and ready. “Anything? Or anyone?” he murmured, his humour noticeably absent.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Price pressed his ear to the door, his brow furrowing as he listened. A muffled voice reached him, faint but unmistakable, carrying the weight of familiarity even through the storm. “John! Open the door, or I will freeze out here!”

For a moment, Price froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. Then the tension in his shoulders released all at once, and he reached for the latch, yanking the door open against the howling wind.

Nik stood there, his figure outlined by the swirling snow, his coat dusted white and his cheeks red from the cold. His breath came in sharp bursts, visible in the frigid air, but the grin on his face was bright enough to rival the glow of the stove.

“Nikolai!” Price’s voice was low but edged with something that sounded suspiciously like relief. He stepped forward, gripping Nik’s arms to steady him as the wind threatened to shove them both back. “What the bloody hell are you doing out here?”

Nik’s grin softened into something more intimate, his voice warm despite the storm whipping around them. “Could not let you spend Christmas without me, could I?” His gloved hand lingered on Price’s arm, his touch reassuring.

“You’re mad,” Price said, though the corners of his mouth twitched into a rare smile. “This storm could’ve killed you.”

“For you?” Nik shrugged, leaning in closer as his voice dropped to a murmur. “I would walk through worse.”

Price shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he pulled Nik inside, slamming the door shut behind him. The sudden quiet of the safe house felt almost overwhelming after the storm’s chaos, and the others stared at the new arrival with a mix of surprise and relief.

Nik stomped the snow from his boots, shrugging off his coat and shaking out the worst of the frost. His gaze flicked back to Price, his expression softening as he murmured, “Merry Christmas, mishka.”

Price’s answering smile was brief but genuine. “Merry Christmas, love,” he replied, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond the two of them. He reached out, brushing a stray bit of snow from Nik’s shoulder before letting his hand drop.

Soap broke the moment, his voice loud and incredulous. “Nik, you daft bastard! What in God’s name are you doing out there in this storm?”

Nik turned, his grin returning in full force as he glanced towards Soap. “Saving you from yourselves, apparently,” he said, his thick accent colouring his words. He reached into the bag slung over his shoulder, producing a bottle of vodka with a triumphant flourish. “Emergency rations.”

Gaz snorted, lowering his sidearm as he gave Nik a quick nod. “You’ve got your priorities sorted, then.”

Nik laughed, but his gaze slid past the sergeants towards the closed door leading to the adjoining room. His smile faded slightly, and he turned back to Price, his voice quieter now. “And Simon?”

Price hesitated, his eyes following Nik’s line of sight. “He’s…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “He’s struggling.”

Nik’s eyes softened, understanding flickering across his face. He reached into his bag again, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped parcel. “I brought something for him,” he said quietly, holding it out to Price. “Not much, but... maybe it will help.”

Price took the parcel, weighing it in his hand. “He’ll appreciate it,” he said, though his voice was edged with uncertainty.

Nik clasped a hand on Price’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “He has you. That is enough.”

Price’s fingers tightened briefly around the parcel as he let out a low sigh. His gaze lifted to Nik’s, and for a moment, the tension in his features softened. “You’ve always got an answer, haven’t you?” he murmured, his voice carrying a rare, almost teasing note.

Nik’s grin widened, his hand sliding down Price’s arm in a slow, deliberate motion before resting just above his elbow. “Only for you,” he said lightly, though the warmth in his tone betrayed the weight behind his words.

Price shook his head faintly, his lips twitching in what might have been a smile. “You’re mad, coming through that storm.”

“And you love it,” Nik countered, leaning in just enough that his breath warmed the air between them. His gaze held Price’s, steady and unwavering, and for a brief moment, the room seemed smaller, the world outside distant and irrelevant.

The sergeants exchanged a glance, Soap clearing his throat dramatically. “Alright, lovebirds, save it for later.”

Price turned towards him, his expression carefully neutral, but the faintest hint of colour crept up the back of his neck. Nik, on the other hand, laughed easily, his smirk only growing as he released Price’s arm and turned to face the others.

“What do you have in mind for this evening?”

Soap perked up ��Gaz, you’re on wrapping duty. Price you’re on food and…Nik, you’re on morale.”

Nik raised an eyebrow, glancing at Price with an amused smirk. “Morale?”

“Don’t look at me,” Price said, his tone dry but softened by the faintest hint of a smile. “He’s the one giving orders now.”

---

The warmth from the stove slowly spread through the room as the storm continued to rage outside. Soap dropped into a cross-legged position on the floor, pulling out scraps of old paper and a small pencil from his kit. His brow furrowed as he carefully began folding and sketching, the sharp movements of his hands betraying his focus.

Gaz raised an eyebrow from where he sat nearby, unspooling a length of thread he’d found in one of the supply crates. “What’s that supposed to be, then?” he asked, nodding towards Soap’s creation.

“Dunno yet,” Soap admitted, though his tone was light. “Just thought... maybe something for Ghost. Don’t know what, but it’s gotta be something, yeah?”

Gaz glanced at the scraps of paper and gave a small, approving nod. “Yeah. He’s not going to say it, but... I reckon he needs it.”

Soap’s hands stilled for a moment, his gaze dropping to the makeshift decorations in front of him. “You think he’ll even keep it? Or just bin it the first chance he gets?”

Gaz leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is that we did something. He’ll know it’s from us.”

Soap let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. “You sound like Price.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gaz shot back with a grin, before sobering slightly. “I mean it, though. He might act like nothing gets to him, but you’ve seen the way he’s been. It’s bad.”

Soap nodded, his hands resuming their work. “Aye. The way he froze up earlier...” He trailed off, his expression flickering with guilt. “I didn’t mean to set him off, you know. Just thought a bit of banter might help.”

“Not your fault,” Gaz said firmly. “Price said it himself. He’s carrying a lot, and it’s not on us to fix it. Just to let him know we’re here. even if we don’t know what’s going on”

Soap nodded again, his movements growing more purposeful. The faint scratch of pencil against paper filled the quiet space as he began sketching small patterns across the scraps. His usual precision was softened here, his strokes more hesitant, but Gaz didn’t comment. He simply continued his work, the two of them falling into a companionable silence.

Across the room, Price sat near the stove, his focus half on the fire and half on the small parcel Nik had handed him. The weight of it felt disproportionate to its size, and he turned it over absently in his hands, the edges of the paper smooth beneath his fingers. Nik, perched nearby, sipped from a steaming tin mug, his eyes quietly tracking Price’s movements.

“Still thinking about him?” Nik asked softly.

Price’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t deny it. “Always.”

Nik leaned back, his mug cradled in both hands. “You have done more for him than anyone else ever could. Try not to let yourself forget that, Mishka.”

Price’s gaze lingered on the flames, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough,” he admitted, his voice low. “He’s still... there. Stuck in it.”

“And he is still here, with you,” Nik pointed out. “He would not be if he did not want to be, you and I both know that.”

Price exhaled, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”

Nik’s smile was small but steady. “No, not simple. But the truth.”

In the adjoining room, Ghost sat on the edge of the cot, his head bowed and his gloved hands clasped tightly between his knees. The faint crackle of the stove in the other room seeped through the walls, but it did nothing to drown out the silence that clawed at his mind. The storm outside howled, the wind battering the safe house with icy ferocity, but to Ghost, it barely registered. His focus was elsewhere, lost in memories he wished he could burn away.

The scent of iron and gunpowder seemed to cling to him, even now. He could still see it—the crimson streaks splattered across the carpet, the pale hand of his mother lying limp against the arm of the sofa. His nephew’s tiny body crumpled in the corner, his favourite toy still clutched in one hand. The echoes of his what his brother’s voice sounded like, it must’ve been raw and frantic, shouting for help that never came. It was all so vivid, so painfully clear, like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Ghost inhaled sharply, his chest heaving as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He had found them like that—his family, executed in cold blood—on what was meant to be a day of warmth and love. He had walked into his childhood home expecting laughter and the smell of roasting turkey. Instead, he’d been met with silence and the metallic tang of death hanging thick in the air.

And then there was the fire.

He’d struck the match himself, his hands steady despite the storm raging inside him. The flames had climbed quickly, consuming everything—his memories, his childhood, the evidence of the life that had been taken from him. He had watched it all burn, the heat licking at his face as he turned his back and walked away, leaving behind the only home he’d ever known.

But he hadn’t left it all behind. The guilt stayed with him, a constant weight he carried. He had faked his death that day, disappearing into the shadows, but no matter how far he ran, the memories followed. His family’s silence, their bloodied faces, the betrayal that had led him to them too late. It never stopped. Not even now, years later, sitting in a safe house surrounded by people who would never understand.

His breathing hitched, his fingers digging into his knees. He could feel the storm pushing against the walls, its howl seeping through the cracks like the echoes of the past he couldn’t escape. The sound of boots scuffing on wood and the distant murmur of voices filtered through the walls, but it wasn’t enough to ground him.

A soft knock at the door cut through the noise.

“Simon?” Price’s voice was low and steady, a quiet anchor against the tempest inside him. “You don’t have to come out, but... we’re here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Ghost stared at the door, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. Price wouldn’t push—he never did. That was part of what made it so much harder. Part of what made the heaviness in Ghost’s chest feel like it might crush him.

The sound of Price’s retreating footsteps left the room in silence once more. Ghost dropped his head into his hands, his gloves creaking softly as he pressed his palms against his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the images away, but they lingered, just as they always did.

The storm raged on outside, but faintly, he could hear the sound of the team in the other room—the low murmur of conversation, the occasional soft laugh. It grated at him and comforted him in equal measure, a reminder that he wasn’t alone. Not entirely.

But even now, with the warmth of their voices filtering through the walls, all he could feel was the cold weight of his past pressing down on him.

Chapter 2: Merry Christmas to you

The storm howled outside, a relentless wail that rattled the frosted windows of the safe house. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of burning wood and the faint tang of damp clothes strung up near the stove. The first light of dawn seeped weakly through the cracks, casting long, uneven shadows across the room.

Soap was already awake, moving around the cramped kitchen area with the kind of energy that felt almost sacrilegious at such an early hour. The crackle of the stove and the occasional clang of a pan broke the stillness, his humming just audible over the storm outside. It was cheerful and obnoxious—exactly what one would expect from him.

Price appeared in the doorway, his presence a quiet weight that filled the room. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his hat was pushed back, revealing a tangle of unruly hair. “You planning to burn the place down, Sergeant?” His voice was rough, still thick with sleep.

Soap turned, a wooden spoon in hand, his grin immediate and unapologetic. “Nah, Cap. Just thought we could use a proper breakfast for once. Y’know, something to keep us from freezing our arses off.”

Price’s gaze dropped to the pan Soap was stirring over the stove. The concoction inside was a chaotic mix of eggs, tinned beans, and what looked suspiciously like crisps. His lips twitched, though whether it was a smirk or a grimace was hard to tell. “That meant to be food, or are you experimenting with chemical warfare?”

Soap laughed, unbothered. “Food. Though I reckon it might knock Gaz out if he smells it before it’s ready.”

Price hummed, stepping into the room fully. He glanced towards the back of the safe house, where a door remained firmly shut. “Where’s Gaz?”

“Still sleeping,” Soap replied, his grin dimming slightly. “Ghost too. Or... whatever it is he does when he’s not brooding.”

The faintest flicker of amusement crossed Price’s face before his expression settled back into something more serious. His gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer than necessary. “Let them sleep,” he said finally. “They need it.”

Soap nodded, stirring the pan a bit slower. “Aye. Think it’s gonna be rough for him today, yeah?”

Price didn’t answer right away, his silence heavy. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost reluctant. “Yeah.”

Soap turned around and started muttering to himself, nudging a particularly stubborn clump of eggs across the pan, when the faint creak of floorboards signalled another presence. Nik appeared in the doorway, rubbing a hand across his face but still looking more put together than anyone else in the room. He carried his coat over one arm, the tailored fabric folded neatly despite the storm outside, and his heavy boots made no attempt to soften their steps on the worn wooden floor.

“What the hell is that smell?” he asked, his voice rich with amusement, though his nose wrinkled slightly as he approached the stove.

Soap turned with an exaggerated flourish, brandishing the wooden spoon like a trophy. “Breakfast, mate. A masterpiece, if I do say so myself.”

Nik leaned closer, peering into the pan with a critical eye. “That is not breakfast,” he declared with a shake of his head. “That is a culinary crime.”

Soap narrowed his eyes, jabbing the spoon in Nik’s direction. “Oi, I’ll have you know this is an original recipe.”

“Original, perhaps,” Nik replied, his lips twitching into a smirk. “But edible? I have my doubts.”

Price, who had been leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, let out a low chuckle. “Careful, Johnny. He’s got a point.”

Soap looked between the two of them, his mock offence quickly giving way to a grin. “Bloody brilliant. Both of you, ganging up on me before I’ve had my morning tea.”

Nik shrugged, setting his coat down on the back of a chair. “It is for your own good. You will thank me later.”

“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first,” Soap shot back, though his tone was lighter now, the weight of the earlier conversation slipping away.

Nik rolled up his sleeves with the practised ease of someone who had done this many times before. “Jealous? No. But I will not stand by and let you poison the team. Step aside.”

Soap hesitated for a moment, glancing at Price for support. The captain raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the show. “Go on, Sergeant. Let him work.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Soap relinquished the spoon, stepping back to watch as Nik began unpacking supplies from a crate near the stove. The sharp scent of cinnamon filled the air as he pulled out a small jar, followed by a tin of flour and a bottle of honey.

“What’s all this, then?” Soap asked, folding his arms. “That doesn’t look like beans on toast.”

“It is not,” Nik replied without looking up. His hands moved with practised precision, mixing ingredients in a bowl with quick, efficient motions. “This is for Ghost.”

That got Soap’s attention. He tilted his head, watching as Nik shaped dough into small, neat circles. “Ghost? What, you reckon he’s a pancakes man?”

Nik glanced over his shoulder, his expression calm but pointed. “Everyone has a favourite. Even him.”

Soap looked skeptical, but Price spoke before he could argue. “He’s right.”

The faintest hint of something softened in Price’s voice as he moved closer to Nik, his arms dropping to his sides. He lingered near the stove, close enough that his shoulder almost brushed against Nik’s. It was a subtle thing, easy to miss, but Soap caught it, maybe he can convince Ghost and Gaz to give the two some time alone, especially with the way Price’s gaze lingered on Nik’s hands, and the quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—it wasn’t just appreciation for breakfast.

“You’re showing off now,” Soap muttered, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

Nik didn’t look up, but there was a faint air of satisfaction in the way he flipped the first pancake onto a waiting plate. “Maybe. But only because I can,” He said with a wink.

Price’s chuckle was low, almost private, as he leaned back against the counter. “You’d better hope he likes them.”

“He will,” Nik replied simply, sliding another pancake onto the stack. “Trust me.”

The quiet certainty in his voice was enough to quiet any lingering doubt. Soap fell silent, watching as Nik finished his task with the precision of someone who took pride in even the smallest things. The pancakes were golden and crisp at the edges, their tops glistening with a light drizzle of honey. The smell was warm, sweet, and utterly at odds with the cold storm outside.

Gaz stumbled into the room just as Nik finished the last pancake, his eyes half-closed and his hair sticking up at odd angles. “What’s going on?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

“Breakfast,” Soap said brightly, gesturing to the stove. “Nik’s decided to show us all up.”

Gaz sniffed the air, blinking as the scent registered. “Smells better than usual,” he admitted, dropping into a chair and rubbing his face. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Nik said, sliding the plate onto the table with a quiet sense of finality. “Just something decent to start the day.”

Before anyone could dig in, the door to the back room creaked open. All heads turned as Ghost stepped out, his movements deliberate and quiet. He lingered in the doorway, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the faint light spilling in from the room behind him. His gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing, before finally landing on the table.

Ghost’s boots barely made a sound against the wooden floor as he stepped into the room, but his presence immediately shifted the air. The faint warmth of banter dulled under the weight of his silence. He was still wrapped in his usual layers—balaclava pulled snugly over his face, hood drawn up against the cold that seemed to cling to him even indoors.

“Morning, mate,” Soap greeted, his tone carefully neutral, not quite as bright as it had been with the others. He waved a hand toward the table, where Nik was setting down a fresh plate of golden pancakes. “You’re just in time. Nik’s gone all domestic on us.”

Ghost’s gaze lingered on the plate for a moment, then flicked to Nik. His stance remained guarded, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. “What’s the occasion?” His voice was low, rough at the edges, as if dragged up from somewhere far deeper than his throat.

“No occasion,” Nik replied, his tone calm and measured. He didn’t press, didn’t look too closely, just gestured toward the table. “Thought you could use something warm.”

There was no hesitation in Nik’s movements as he stepped closer, holding out a plate of pancakes with quiet confidence. The smell of honey and cinnamon filled the space between them, soft and inviting.

Ghost hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing the gesture. He glanced at Price, who stood nearby with an expression that gave nothing away, his arms loosely crossed as he leaned against the counter. When no one said anything else, Ghost stepped forward and took the plate. His movements were careful, deliberate, as though he wasn’t sure if the food might vanish the second he touched it.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he muttered, his voice just barely above a whisper.

Nik shook his head, his tone matter-of-fact. “No, but I wanted to.”

The room was quiet, the storm outside muffled by the thick walls of the safe house. Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance, but for once, neither of them spoke. It was rare for Ghost to linger this long in the shared space, let alone accept something so openly.

Ghost didn’t retreat to his usual corner. Instead, he moved to the far end of the table and sat down, his posture stiff as he set the plate in front of him. He stared at the food for a long moment, his gloved hands resting on either side of the plate as if bracing himself.

Soap broke the silence first, his tone a little too loud, a little too eager. “Don’t let it get cold, mate. Nik put his soul into those.”

Nik snorted softly, shaking his head. “Ignore him. Just eat.”

Ghost lifted a fork, his movements slow and methodical as he cut into the first pancake. The fork hovered for a moment before he took a bite. The crisp edges gave way to a softness that melted on his tongue, the sweetness of the honey grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. It was warm, nostalgic, and uncomfortably familiar.

He didn’t say anything at first, his gaze fixed on the plate as he worked through the first pancake. It wasn’t until he’d cleared nearly half the stack that he set the fork down, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Thanks,” he said, quieter this time, though the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable.

Nik gave a small nod from his place by the stove, not making a show of it. “Anytime.”

Soap’s grin softened as he leaned against the table, his arms crossed. “See? Told you it was a masterpiece.”

“That’s because you had nothing to do with it, Johnny, I’m sure of it,” Ghost replied, the faintest hint of dry humour slipping into his tone.

The team laughed, a quiet ripple of sound that broke the tension. For a moment, the storm outside faded to nothing more than a faint hum, the warmth of the stove and the quiet camaraderie filling the room instead.

Ghost didn’t linger long after finishing his plate, but when he rose and carried the empty dish back to the counter, he gave Nik a small nod—a gesture that spoke volumes for someone like him. Nik returned it with the same quiet understanding, a moment shared without words.

The warmth of the room lingered even as the storm outside raged on, but the chatter around the table had softened into something quieter. Soap and Gaz had started a half-hearted game of cards, their voices low and easy, though they occasionally glanced toward the window where Ghost had settled again, his posture closed off.

Nik leaned against the counter, a cup of tea cradled in his hands. His gaze flicked between Price and Ghost, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. The two of them exchanged a brief glance—a silent conversation that spoke of understanding without a single word.

Price set his empty mug down on the table, the sound barely louder than the soft crackle of the stove. He straightened, adjusting his jacket as he crossed the room to where Ghost stood by the frost-covered window. The faint glow of the storm outside reflected against the glass, casting pale light across the Lieutenant’s masked face.

“Simon,” Price said softly, his tone low enough not to carry beyond the two of them. “Come with me.”

Ghost turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”

Price didn’t answer immediately, his gaze steady but heavy with meaning. “It’s important,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm.

There was a beat of hesitation. Ghost’s posture stiffened, his fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeves. He glanced toward the others, where Soap was muttering about a bad hand and Gaz was laughing under his breath. Neither of them paid much attention to the quiet exchange happening by the window.

Finally, Ghost exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Fine.”

He followed Price out of the main room, their boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The temperature dropped noticeably as they stepped into the adjoining space, the chill seeping through the poorly insulated walls. It was smaller here, quieter, with only the faint sound of the storm and the creak of the house settling around them.

Price moved to the table in the centre of the room, where a single candle sat waiting. Its wick was unlit, the wax slightly worn and uneven. He stood beside it, his hands resting on the back of a chair as he looked at Ghost.

Ghost stopped just inside the doorway, his shoulders drawn up and his stance uneasy. “What’s this?”

Price gestured toward the candle. “Thought we could take a moment,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “For them.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken until now. Ghost’s chest tightened, the weight of the day pressing down harder than ever. He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, until he stood on the opposite side of the table.

“For them,” Ghost repeated, his voice low, almost hollow. He stared at the candle, his hands twitching at his sides as though unsure of what to do with them. “It’s not... it’s not the same.”

“No,” Price agreed. “It’s not. But it’s something.”

The room felt colder, the silence pressing in from all sides. Ghost stared at the unlit candle, the faint tremble in his hands betraying the calm he tried to project. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, but the words wouldn’t come.

Price moved slowly, striking a match and lighting the candle with careful precision. The small flame flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the walls around them. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly. “Just... be here.”

Ghost’s breath hitched, his gaze locked on the flame. It wasn’t the same—could never be the same as visiting the graves. But the thought that Price had done this, had set this up for him without being asked, cut through the tight coil of grief in his chest.

“I should’ve been there,” Ghost muttered, his voice breaking on the last word. “I should’ve done more.”

Price didn’t move closer, didn’t try to comfort him with hollow words. “You did what you could,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “And you’re still here. That counts for something.”

Ghost’s hands tightened into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. The grief was sharp, an ache he hadn’t allowed himself to feel fully in years. He bowed his head, the shadows of the flickering candlelight dancing across his balaclava.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding, broken only by the faint hiss of the storm outside. Ghost’s breathing quickened, shallow and uneven as he kept his gaze fixed on the candle. The small flame flickered, fragile but persistent, a stark contrast to the weight pressing down on him.

“I miss them,” Ghost whispered finally, the words barely audible. His voice cracked, rough with emotion he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. “Every fucking day.”

Price didn’t speak, didn’t move. He let the words hang in the air, giving Ghost the space to let it out. He knew better than to rush him, knew that the silence was sometimes the only thing that could carry what words couldn’t.

Ghost’s hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white beneath the leather of his gloves. “I should’ve been there,” he said again, his voice breaking. “Should’ve done something. I could’ve stopped it—”

“Stop,” Price cut in gently, his voice firm but low. “You can’t do this to yourself.”

Ghost shook his head, his shoulders trembling under the weight of it all. “It’s all I fucking do. Every year, every day—it doesn’t go away.”

“And it won’t,” Price said softly. He stepped closer, his presence steady and grounding. “But carrying it alone isn’t the answer. You’ve got people now, Simon. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Ghost’s breath hitched, the tremor in his hands spreading until his whole body felt unsteady. The mask felt suffocating, the thin fabric pressing too tightly against his skin. He reached up without thinking, his fingers tugging at the edges of it.

The balaclava came off in one sharp motion, his hands trembling as he dropped it onto the table. His face was shadowed in the flickering candlelight, the faint scars and the raw edges of his grief laid bare. He didn’t look at Price, his gaze fixed firmly on the flame, as though it was the only thing tethering him to the room.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Ghost admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to... let it go.”

Price reached out, his hand resting gently on Ghost’s shoulder. The touch was light, unobtrusive, but solid enough to anchor him. “You don’t have to let it go,” he said quietly. “You just have to let yourself feel it. You owe yourself that much.”

Ghost’s head dipped lower, his chin nearly brushing his chest as the tears finally came. They were silent but relentless, streaking down his face in hot, bitter trails. His hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly it hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

Price didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Ghost’s shoulders and pulling him into a firm, steady embrace. Ghost stiffened at first, his instinct to pull away kicking in, but the warmth of Price’s presence was impossible to resist. Slowly, tentatively, he let himself sink into it, his head dropping against Price’s shoulder as the tears kept coming.

“I should’ve done more,” Ghost choked out again, his voice muffled against Price’s jacket. “I should’ve—”

“You did enough,” Price said firmly, his hand resting on the back of Ghost’s neck. “You’ve done more than anyone ever could. And they’d be proud of you, Simon. I know they would.”

Ghost’s grip on Price’s jacket tightened, his breathing uneven as he tried to pull himself back together. The weight of years of guilt and grief bore down on him, but for the first time, it felt like he wasn’t carrying it alone.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the faint crackle of the candle the only sound in the room. When Ghost finally pulled back, his face was raw with emotion, his cheeks still damp with tears. He didn’t look at Price, swiping a gloved hand roughly across his face.

“Thank you,” he muttered, his voice hoarse but sincere.

Price gave him a small nod, his expression soft. “Always.”

Ghost’s gaze drifted back to the candle, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the edge of the table before coming to rest near the flame. The warmth of it seeped into his palm, grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

“They’d have liked this,” Ghost said quietly, his voice steadying slightly.

“They’d be glad you’re still here too,” Price replied, his tone low but certain. “That’s what matters.”

Ghost’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the flickering light. For a moment, the weight on his shoulders seemed to ease, just enough for him to breathe.

The candle flickered faintly as Ghost leant forward and gently blew on it, letting the smoke curl up into the air. Ghost turned to Price and they stepped back into the main room, their footsteps barely audible over the low hum of voices. The warmth from the stove was a sharp contrast to the cold, still air they’d left behind, and the faint scent of cinnamon and honey lingered like a comforting embrace.

Soap glanced up first, his eyes flicking between Ghost and Price before his grin widened. “There you are. Thought you’d gone and disappeared into the storm.”

Price gave him a look, one brow raised in mild exasperation. “Something like that,” he said, his tone carrying a subtle edge that warned Soap not to push. Soap raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin didn’t falter.

Ghost stayed quiet, his mask tucked loosely into one gloved hand as he lingered near the edge of the room. His face was still flushed, the faint lines of emotion lingering around his eyes. He glanced at Soap briefly before his gaze dropped, his shoulders stiff as though he was bracing for a question that never came.

Gaz looked up from the table where he was reshuffling a deck of cards, his movements slowing as he took in Ghost’s expression. “Everything alright, LT?”

Ghost nodded once, his shoulders loosening. “Fine.”

The room fell into a comfortable, subdued silence. Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance but didn’t press further, the unspoken agreement between them clear. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t their place to pry.

Nik approached Ghost quietly, his steps measured as he offered a cup of tea. “For you,” he said simply, his voice low enough not to draw attention. His gaze was steady, thoughtful, and without judgment.

Ghost hesitated for a moment before taking the cup, the warmth of the porcelain seeping into his gloves. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice rough but genuine.

Nik nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Anytime.” He said, echoing his words from earlier.

The brief exchange passed unnoticed by the others, but it left something unspoken between them—a quiet understanding, a thread of trust that hadn’t been there before.

The stove’s warmth and the low hum of banter had settled into the room by the time Ghost returned to his seat. He lingered near the edge of the table, the steaming cup of tea from Nik cradled between his gloved hands. The faint aroma of honey and black tea curled into the air, grounding him as the others moved around the room.

“Alright, lads!” Soap clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and cheerful enough to draw everyone’s attention. “Gather ’round the tree. Time to see who’s been nice and who’s been naughty this year.”

Ghost’s head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing as he followed Soap’s gaze. Near the corner of the room, a small, potted plant sat perched on an upturned crate, its thin branches barely supporting the scraps of tinsel and paper stars draped across them. A strand of fairy lights blinked faintly, the bulbs unevenly spaced but glowing warmly despite the storm outside.

“That’s what you’re calling a tree?” Ghost muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite.

“Best we could do on short notice,” Gaz said with a shrug, already crouching near the crate. He gestured toward the mismatched pile of wrapped parcels tucked beneath the plant. “And it’s got presents, so it counts.”

Soap knelt beside him, his grin wide as he began sifting through the packages. “Right, let’s get started. Cap, this one’s yours.”

He passed a carefully wrapped parcel to Price, who opened it with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Inside was a leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with faint, intricate designs. Price ran his fingers over the edges, his lips twitching into a rare smile.

“Good work,” Price said, nodding toward Gaz and Soap. “Might actually use this.”

“You’d better,” Soap said with mock sternness. “Took us bloody ages to find something you’d like.”

The exchange continued, each gift drawing laughter and soft words of appreciation. Soap’s exuberance filled the room as he opened his own parcel—a set of sketching pencils with a small, leather pouch—and immediately declared it “the best present ever.” Gaz unwrapped a finely stitched pair of gloves, his grin softening as he flexed his fingers in the sturdy material.

Ghost stayed quiet, his tea growing cold in his hands as he watched the others. The way they passed gifts back and forth, the easy warmth of their banter—it felt distant, like watching something through frosted glass. He hadn’t expected anything, hadn’t thought it was possible to be included in something like this. But when Soap reached for a package wrapped in paper adorned with tiny skulls and held it up, he froze.

“And this one,” Soap announced, his grin bright, “is for Ghost.”

All eyes turned to him. For a moment, Ghost didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the parcel in Soap’s hands. It was small but neatly wrapped, the paper clearly hand-decorated with painstaking care. Tiny skulls and symbols had been sketched along the edges in careful detail, some slightly smudged but all unmistakably Soap’s handiwork.

“Come on, mate,” Gaz said, his tone softer now. “It’s not going to bite.”

Ghost stood slowly, his movements deliberate as he approached the makeshift tree. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing over the edges of the paper as he took the parcel. For a moment, he just held it, his chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name.

“You gonna open it, or just stare at it?” Soap teased, though there was no edge to his voice.

Ghost sat back at the table, carefully untying the string that held the wrapping together. He worked with precise, deliberate motions, taking care not to tear the paper. When he finally peeled it back, his breath caught.

The wooden frame was smooth and solid, its edges carved with tiny symbols. A skull in one corner, a soap bar in another, a boonie hat, a cap, and what looked like a helicopter etched along the surface of the wood—the work was rough but meticulous, each detail imbued with care. Inside the frame was a sketch of the team, their expressions captured with remarkable accuracy. Soap’s grin, Gaz’s smirk, Price’s calm, steady presence, and Nik’s quiet confidence—all of it centred around Ghost himself, his mask drawn with sharp, careful lines.

Ghost stared at it, his thumb brushing over the carvings. “You made this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Gaz did the frame,” Soap said, his grin softening. “I did the drawing. Thought you might like something to remind you of us. Y’know, in case you ever decide to ditch us for some better company.”

The faintest huff of amusement slipped from Ghost, though he didn’t look up. His fingers traced the edges of the frame again, the weight of it grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Thank you,” he said finally, the word rough but sincere.

Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance, their grins widening, but they didn’t push him for more. Instead, they moved on, pulling another parcel from beneath the tree.

Ghost sat back, his grip on the frame tightening slightly as he watched them. It took him a moment to realise the room had quieted again, all eyes turning toward him as Price tilted his head slightly.

“Something you want to add, Simon?” Price asked, his voice light but knowing.

Ghost stiffened, his hand tightening on the edge of the table. Slowly, reluctantly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small bag, the fabric worn but clean. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low. “Figured I owed you lot something.”

Ghost placed the bag on the table, his movements deliberate but hesitant. His shoulders stiffened under the weight of the team’s attention, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he focused on the bag, untying the knot with careful fingers before reaching inside.

“I, uh...” Ghost cleared his throat, his voice low and slightly hoarse. “Didn’t think I’d be... here for this. But I had these ready. Was gonna mail them to you.”

He pulled out the first item—a carefully folded piece of fabric—and handed it to Soap. Soap unfolded it quickly, his eyes widening as the dark material revealed itself to be a patch, custom-embroidered with a small, detailed skull set against crossed paintbrushes.

“Bloody hell, mate,” Soap said, turning the patch over in his hands. “This is brilliant. You had this made?”

Ghost nodded, his gaze still fixed on the table. “Figured it’d suit you. Something for your kit.”

Soap’s grin softened, his fingers tracing the stitching. “You’re a bloody genius, Ghost. Cheers.”

Next, Ghost reached into the bag again, pulling out a small leather-bound notebook and setting it in front of Gaz. The cover was simple, but the first page had been carefully filled with neat handwriting: To keep track of all the things you’re too stubborn to write down.

Gaz let out a low whistle, his fingers brushing over the cover. “Didn’t think you paid that much attention, Lt” he said, though his grin was warm. “This is great. Thanks.”

Ghost didn’t respond, just gave a faint shrug as he pulled out the next item. It was smaller, more personal—a slim case for cigars, its surface dark and polished. He handed it to Price without a word, his gaze flicking up briefly to catch the captain’s reaction.

Price’s lips twitched into a faint smile as he turned the case over in his hands. The leather was smooth, the edges stitched with precision, and the faint engraving of a compass rose on the lid gave it a touch of elegance. As he turned it slightly, another engraving caught his eye, etched just beneath the compass:

For always leading me home.

Price stilled, his thumb brushing over the words. The quiet weight of the sentiment settled deep in his chest, something unspoken passing across his face. He let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening slightly around the case.

“Simon,” he said softly, his voice steady but low enough to hold meaning. His lips curved into the faintest smile, the kind Ghost had seen only a handful of times. “I’ll take good care of it. Thank you.”

Ghost didn’t look up, his attention fixed on the edge of the table. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed how much the gesture meant to him.

Price said nothing more, slipping the case carefully into his pocket as though it were something fragile. The faint twitch of his lips lingered, but his gaze didn’t waver from Ghost for a moment longer, the weight of their shared trust unspoken but understood.

Ghost’s hand lingered on the bag for a moment before he pulled out the final item. It was small and roughly made—a wooden carving of a wrench intertwined with a rotor blade. He hesitated before holding it out to Nik, his grip tightening slightly as though he might change his mind.

“This one’s... last minute,” Ghost muttered, his voice almost too low to hear. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

Nik took the carving carefully, his fingers brushing over the uneven surface. The details were rough, but the effort was undeniable—a simple, thoughtful gesture that clearly meant more than Ghost was willing to admit.

Nik smiled, his expression softening as he turned the carving over in his hands. “You made this? For me?” he asked, his tone full of quiet admiration.

Ghost nodded once, his shoulders stiff. “Yeah. It’s nothing fancy, sorry it’s a little rus-”

“It is perfect,” he said simply, cutting Ghost off, his voice carrying a sincerity that left no room for doubt.

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of the gesture settling over them all. Ghost sat back slightly, his hands resting on the edge of the table as he avoided their gazes. The faint flush of embarrassment was barely visible under the faint shadows of the room, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

Soap was the first to break the silence, his grin wide and teasing but filled with warmth. “Right, well, now you’ve made the rest of us look bad.”

The room filled with quiet laughter, the tension easing as the team shifted back into their easy rhythm. Ghost stayed quiet, his gaze dropping to his hands, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Nik leaned closer, his voice pitched low enough that only Ghost could hear. “You have a good heart, kostochka.”

Ghost froze, the nickname pulling him back to a memory he hadn’t thought about in years. The last time Nik had called him that, he’d bristled at the word, sharp and defensive. He’d thought it was infantilising, a jab at something he couldn’t quite name. He’d snapped at Nik, told him to knock it off, and the name had disappeared after that.

But now... now it felt different. The way Nik said it didn’t sound mocking or patronising anymore—it was warm, soft in a way that caught Ghost off guard. It settled in his chest, strange and unexpectedly comforting.

“You haven’t called me that in a long time,” Ghost muttered, his voice quieter than he’d intended.

Nik smiled faintly, his gaze steady. “Thought you might be ready to hear it again.”

Ghost huffed, the sound low and almost bashful. He glanced away, a faint heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Still sounds ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Nik said, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “But it suits you.”

Ghost didn’t reply, his fingers brushing over the edge of the frame in his lap. The nickname lingered, filling a space in his chest he hadn’t realised was empty.

The storm outside had softened into a low, steady murmur, the howling winds reduced to whispers that brushed against the frost-covered windows. Inside, the safe house felt warmer than it had all day, the stove’s soft glow casting flickering shadows across the room.

Soap and Gaz had moved to the floor near the table, a deck of cards spread between them as they traded quiet jabs over their game. Their laughter was light, unguarded, the kind that filled the space without demanding anything in return. Price leaned back in his chair, his cigar case resting on the table in front of him, his gaze distant but content.

Ghost sat between Price and Nik, the frame he’d been given still resting in his lap. His gloved fingers traced the edge of the wood, running over the tiny carvings with slow, deliberate movements. Every so often, his gaze dropped to the sketch inside, his eyes lingering on the details—the lines that made up Soap’s grin, the precise angles of Gaz’s cap, the calm strength in Price’s expression, and the confident hand Nik had around Price’s waist.

The weight that usually pressed on his chest felt lighter here, surrounded by the quiet hum of his team. For years, Ghost had thought of himself as a shadow, something separate and apart from the people he worked with. But now, sitting here with them, the thought felt... wrong. The frame in his hands, the tea still warm in his chest, the lingering warmth of Nik’s quiet words—they all reminded him of something he hadn’t dared to acknowledge in years.

Family.

He didn’t say it out loud. Couldn’t. But the thought lingered, settling in his chest like an ember that refused to go out.

“You alright there, LT?” Soap’s voice cut through the quiet, his tone light but full of genuine curiosity.

Ghost glanced up, his fingers stilling on the edge of the frame. “Yeah,” he said softly, his voice quieter than usual. “Just... thinking.”

Soap didn’t press, though his grin softened into something almost knowing. “Good. Don’t think too hard, though. We need you sharp, this one cheats.”

Ghost huffed a quiet laugh, the sound barely audible but enough to draw Gaz’s attention. The sergeant glanced over, his smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“You’ll have to fend for yourself I’m afraid,” Ghost muttered, though the faint warmth in his voice gave him away.

Nik shifted beside him, drawing his attention and pulling out a small tin from the bag he’d kept near the bunks. “Ah. Almost forgot,” he murmured, holding it out to Ghost. “For you.”

Ghost frowned slightly but took the tin, his fingers curling around the cool metal. He popped the lid open, and the faint scent of honey and butter hit him immediately. His breath caught.

Inside were biscuits, their edges golden and crisp, just like the ones his mum used to make every Christmas. The memory hit him like a wave—his mum humming softly as she shaped the dough, the faint warmth of the oven filling their tiny kitchen, the laughter of his nephew somewhere in the background. It was a memory Ghost hadn’t allowed himself to visit in years, and now it sat in his hands, tangible and real.

“How did you...” Ghost began, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, his grip tightening on the tin. “How’d you know?”

Nik shrugged, his expression soft. “You mentioned them once. I thought they might mean something.”

Ghost swallowed hard, his throat tight as he stared at the biscuits. He didn’t know what to say, the words sticking somewhere deep in his chest. Instead, he looked up, his gaze meeting Nik’s for a long, quiet moment.

“Thank you,” Ghost said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t enough—not nearly—but it was all he could manage.

Nik nodded, his smile warm but understated. “Anytime,” he said, the familiar word carrying the quiet certainty that it always did. Ghost had heard it before, countless times, but something about the way Nik said it—steady, unchanging—made the weight in his chest ease just a little more.

For a moment, Ghost hesitated, his hands tightening around the tin. Then, slowly, almost awkwardly, he leaned slightly against Nik, his shoulder brushing against the other man’s. The touch was hesitant, the weight of it fleeting, but he didn’t move away.

Nik didn’t react immediately, letting the moment stretch in quiet understanding. Then, with the same quiet grace, he leaned back into Ghost just enough to make the gesture feel intentional—balanced.

They sat like that for a while, the warmth between them quiet but steady, the biscuits still cradled carefully in Ghost’s lap.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the soft hum of the stove and the faint laughter of Soap and Gaz filling the air. Ghost shifted in his chair, placing the tin of biscuits to rest on the table in front of him but keeping the frame cradled carefully in his lap. The carved wood was smooth under his gloves, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He glanced to his right, where Price sat close, solid and steady as always. On his other side, Nik leaned slightly back, his posture easy but his presence just as calm, just as constant. The space between them felt warm and safe, like a barrier against the cold chaos that so often consumed his world.

Ghost took a slow breath, letting it settle in his chest before he moved. Carefully, he leaned toward Price, his shoulder pressing against the captain’s arm. But instead of stopping there, he shifted further, resting his head lightly against Price’s chest. His forehead brushed against the rough fabric of Price’s jacket, the contact steady and intentional. The motion wasn’t hesitant—it was a quiet, deliberate moment of trust, rare but unflinching.

Price’s arm moved instinctively, wrapping loosely around Ghost’s back. His hand rested lightly against Ghost’s shoulder, the weight of it both protective and grounding. His head tilted slightly, chin just brushing Ghost’s hair.

“Get some rest, Simon,” Price murmured, his voice low and steady. “We’ve got you.”

Ghost exhaled softly, the tension in his frame melting as he let himself relax fully against Price. His eyes drifted closed, the quiet weight of safety settling over him like a blanket. On his other side, Nik’s hand brushed briefly against Ghost’s forearm—a fleeting but deliberate gesture of reassurance. Between the two of them, Ghost felt completely shielded, an unfamiliar but welcome feeling.

The storm outside raged on, relentless and cold, but inside, there was peace. For the first time in years, Simon Riley let himself sink into it. Surrounded by the quiet strength of his team and the warmth of an unexpected family, he drifted into sleep—deep, steady, and untroubled in a way he hadn’t known in far too long.

#cod #call of duty #john price #simon ghost riley #cod nikolai #nikprice #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #nikolai cod #call of duty fanfic #q writes #that was the last thing i did for 2024!!#it was a gift to my best friend whos instrumental in my writing #cant thank him enough honestly #<333

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