#the price of peace

[aowski]

The Price of Peace

[books-in-a-storm]

Romance A Day🌹

The Price Of Peace, M.L. Nystrom

[inkskinned]

hey... don't cry.... tesla recall for most cybertrucks, okay? >46,000 vehicles affected <3

[simonbrain]

you rarely call price by his first name. it's usually just a very cheery cap! or a stoic price when you need to remind him of the objective, but whenever you do call him john—you tried jonathan once as a joke, and the piercing stare he gave you made that the first and last time—it's warm, earnest. you almost seem shy uttering it, judging by the softness of your voice, but he calms your nerves with a fond look and an affectionate squeeze on the back of your neck.

getting the privilege of calling soap by his first name, let alone johnny, was an accomplishment in itself. you noticed how ghost was the only one who called him johnny, and so you took that as a sign to never refer to him as anything other than his ridiculous callsign and occasionally an incredulous bloody hell, mactavish, whenever he says something outrageous.

until you did slip up one night, but soap didn't seem to mind too much. he quite liked how his first name sounded in your voice, and when he offered you to call him johnny instead, which you mumbled under your breath to test it out, his surprised expression morphed into a genuine smile, one so pretty a rush of energy zipped through you. now, he won't let you call him anything except johnny—pretty much threatens you.

gaz was the first one on the team who allowed you to call him by his first name. hearing you mumble a tired morning, kyle or a warning but unserious kylie... when he's being a little shit makes his day a little brighter. you'd think the two of you were good mates with many years of friendship under your belts with the way you mock and poke at each other—especially when he lets you get away with calling him the most ridiculous pet names, like pookie, of all things.

while you seem to maintain good relations with your team, close ones even, there's just one person who stumps you. one big, enigmatic bastard who gives you creepy looks and speaks in nothing but cryptic language.

it honestly feels like your lieutenant dislikes you; no wonder you're still stuck with calling him by his callsign.

(poor ghost has been waiting for weeks for those plush lips of yours to utter his name. not ghost, not lieutenant or sir, but simon.

it's getting painful how oblivious you are to his attempts at giving you the green light to use his first name; the hard stare he gives you after hearing yet another formal greeting fall from your lips only seems to make you straighten up even more, and the annoyance radiating off of him every time you call him ghost scares you further away from him.

you're so formal with him, and he doesn't know what else to do—he just wants to be called a cute stupid nickname, too.)

[specialagentartemis]

“young witch trying to solve the mystery of her neighbor’s missing cat in a small village in the Alps” continues to be hilarious don’t get me wrong but it’s kind of making me want to take a crack at treating the concept seriously. In this insular rural community, a cat goes missing. A young woman who takes her community’s professed ideals of helpfulness and harmony in witchcraft seriously volunteers to try to find him. Realizes the more she searches and the more she asks around that everyone in this idyllic village is quietly seething with resentment against their neighbors and against the world, that the insularity of her village is harboring a festering social rot that no one is allowed to address. No one can leave. The hills have fallen silent. Something is eating the cats and no one is allowed to address this. Ötzi is there

[windyengel]

I was very inspired by the art and the fic!!

Please go ahead and read it!! you will not regreat it!!

I was going to learn for my exam tomorrow. Instead, I ended up making a map for the fanfic I'm currently writing over on AO3. Why? Because I saw one (1) comment mentioning they'd like one. Do I regret it? No. No, I do not. I should go sleep now, though. So. yeah. I'll just leave this here.

[temeyes]

never a dull day at work for Gaz (based on this [post!])

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

In memory of Roger Corman, who passed at the age of 98...

As requested by @algusunderdunk, this gif collection of Corman and Vincent Price's work over the years.

Rest in peace, sir. You're a legend. Tell Vincent we say hi.

[nekrosmos]

More lazy mornings 🐻​🌈​

[erosology]

There’s just something so attractive about listening to someone talk about a topic that they’re knowledgeable in, and history professor John Price is as dangerously handsome as they come

❀ cw/tw: AFAB reader (femme anatomy, femme pet names), Professor!John Price, age gap, barely proofread, corruption kink, Price masturbates to the thought of Reader teehee

History is normally such a monotonous subject, all just memorization of dates and events that have the same general plot but different casting. But Professor John Price has a way of capturing attention. And no, it has nothing to do with just how devastatingly good he looks with a pair of thin-wire glasses on the bridge of his nose, cerulean eyes peeking over the frames as his muscular motions to the board full of dates behind him. Nor does it have anything to do with his penchant for wearing white button up shirts that are always just a little on the small side, fabric stretching across a broad chest and a few dark hairs poking up from the unbuttoned collar; slacks that hug his thighs in a way that leave very little to the imagination. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he has a mesmerizing voice—strong, easily carries over the lecture hall and captures the attention of even the most disinterested student, smoky like the cigars you can sometimes smell on your papers after he’s handed them back to you with a neat red A in the corner.

Okay, so maybe all of that contributes a little to your newly found passion for history.

Price’s class is one of the more popular ones on campus for a reason, after all, and everyone is interested in the enigmatic professor. His ring finger is always bare, and though that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s single by any means, most take that as a green light to send some flirtatious looks and remarks his way after class in an attempt to get a better grade. His love of military and war history is apparent with just how deep his knowledge goes in those particular parts of the subject, and especially with the socioeconomic effects of whatever war is the current topic.

“Truth is the first casualty of war, after all,” he said one day during a lecture that made you think there’s so much more to his love of military history than a degree and paycheck.

Which is exactly how you end up hanging around his desk one day after class, leaning on the wood, eyes never leaving his face as he continues on talking about the ripple effect that had to line up perfectly to kick off the events of the first World War. You aren’t dumb, you’re a straight-A student after all, and even worse is that Professor Price knows you aren’t dumb, but if he keeps getting the perfect view of your innocent face gazing up at him as if he’s reciting Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire from memory then he’ll treat you as the dumb little bimbo you’re trying to desperately to play.

It takes every bit of self-control to keep his large, experienced hands to himself, no matter how much your eyes scream “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” because you play the role too fucking well. Elbows pushed together so the low cut t-shirt you’ve conveniently decided to wear today barely covers the swell of your breasts; cardigan hanging loosely around your shoulders, and Price has to fight the urge to pull the sides up to properly cover you; skirt swaying around your legs so temptingly; mary jane high heels bringing showing off your calves in a way that makes Price want to kiss them as he throws your legs over his broad shoulders; glossy lips wrapped around your pen as you nod along to his words, eyes so big and sweet lined with the perfect amount of eyeliner and framed with mascara. You’re sin and temptation wrapped up in a heart-wrenchingly gorgeous package, complete with a bow atop your head. He wants to corrupt you, wants to see how pretty you look with your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he splits you open on his cock, wants to feel how soft and plush your thighs are as he bounces you on his lap, needs to see you covered in his marks and begging for more. Fucking god, he needs you so cock-drunk and hungry off of him that no one else can satiate your appetite. You wouldn’t even be tempted by anyone else. He could take care of you, fulfill all of your needs. A pretty little thing like you deserves to be bed and wed and spoiled rotten so the only muscles you’d be moving is your—

Your cellphone ringing brings both of you back to reality, and it dawns on you on close your bodies are, as if discussing the political history of war is fucking foreplay for you two. It might as well be with how Price is looking at you with hungry eyes, pupils blown so wide that there’s only a cerulean ring around blackholes, tongue flicking out at his lip and his chest inflating as he takes in a calming breath.

“Right then, on you go,” he all but out right growls as you pull your phone out of your pocket. “We’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

“But, sir—” (he tries his best to ignore the way his neglected cock throbs at the title) “I don’t have your class again until Thursday.”

“I’m aware.”

Later that night, his hand and the thought of those fucking tempting eyes of your gazing up at him can’t even get him off, no matter how tightly he fists his cock, how much he moans your name, how desperately he moves his hand up and down himself. It’s not enough. He needs you, even if his attraction to you is morally questionable at best.

[longmaxsilvarg]

something about the main menu for life is strange genuinely makes me wanna collapse and sob

[gomzdrawfr]

:3c

Awhile ago I made this and saw this reblog by @buttdumplin

so I got to it

[devil-in-hiding]

Absolutely love On the Run! I can't stop thinking of this, it's been days, please.

Price taking Grimes and the truck out around the property to fix the fence/well and sees recent fixes farmer!Reader clearly did in her years on the farm. The works well done if not a little innovative due to any physical difference she dealt with. I'm feral for a Price feral for a competent and creative !reader. He's hit with an overwhelming feeling of pride and scuffs at himself cuz of course, this is just adding to the long list of things she's impressed him, (first on that list? her ass) Rubs one out before getting to work.

Ghost started fixing up the house and barn. Constantly at every corner of the house looking for repairs he can busy himself with. But, finding little art projects painted around... Basically the property. Farmer!reader gets bored and paints little things around the house. A mouse hole door with a little welcome sign under the table or hidden in the kitchen. Ladybugs and other bugs with little trailers or flowers. He fucking lives for them, starts looking just to find them all. Gets a little pouty when soap finally notices the many little hidden paintings in the barn and runs to the others without a thought. The secrets out(wasn't a secret) but only he knows where they all are(so he thinks)

Soap finds a second home in the barn, Sebastian and soap end up getting along really well, like brothers shoving each other as he brushes him or moves seb out to clean the pins. Has the energy to keep up with all the chores so many animals comes with easily. Soap, Maggie and Judy move the sheep and goats together like a dream team. He's just able to understand them ina way! Finally sees the blue jay painted to be perched on the light panel in the equipment room, the one of sebs name plate even weeks later ( he's actually the last to know about it. Price saw it that first night, gaz a few days in checking the lights out and ghost around the same time already started on his hunt of them.)

Gaz is getting on top of how everything works around the property, helping ghost with the electric around the property or improving farmer!readers current systems or files(like it was fine before, worked great! but this will be even easier, smoother and faster, better.) Has the crops schedule and planed out for when the tractor is running. Gaz is Judy's favorite(I don't make the rules), all the dogs love him, hes so good at petting them and loving them but absolutely spoils Judy with kisses and head pets. Eventually she's just basically attached to hip and it's just two pretty princesses hanging out 24/7. Fuck that man would look so good smiling with a pretty dog in the sun😫😫

c’mere, let me give you a forehead smooch-

i am in love with these and very much tend to incorporate them in, you are a godsend bless you bless you bless you

[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. 

[perfectus-in-morte]

“get a load of this guy”

yeah that’s exactly what I’m trying to do 😮‍💨

[nekrosmos]

Sleepy Nikolai inspired my this lovely fic by @on-a-lucky-tide because this truly rewired my brain <3

And a small blushing Price under keep reading to go with it