Chapter Text
Over the deafening, consistent whir jarring the Hercules came the pilot's monotone voice through your ear piece and that of all your colleagues present, "Initiating drop off procedures, hydraulics are all a go. Doors open in T minus ten minutes, I repeat, T minus ten."
Holding a thinly gloved hand (you hated those ultra bulky ones that central supply provided by default) up to your ear, you replied with a cheery, almost excited, "Aye, roger roger, captain! Thank you!" which earned you a round of laughter and smiles from the rest of the team.
All except the one forever disgruntled soldier in a skull mask.
"Always so chipper, aren't you, lass," came the calming, but amused voice of Capt. Price. This produced an ingratiating eye roll from the bulky English lieutenant sitting next to him, directly in front of you… despite the fact that two hummers and a large pallet of munitions were placed squarely between the seating areas on opposite sides of the aircraft, there was still space enough for all of you to see each other.
It was definitely enough space for Ghost to observe your actions throughout the flight, enough for him to be annoyed at how flippant and perky you were, acting as if you and Gaz and Soap were headed to a Sunday picnic at Hyde Park, instead of being dropped by a Lockheed C-130 from an elevation of 35,000 feet above sea level. He hated how positive and upbeat you always were around 141, hated even more that all the boys responded well to it. Hell, they even believed that your presence, despite all initial misgivings, was the extra boost the team needed… and he hated that.
Hated that your professional, clinical perspective was different from theirs, hated that everyone thought it was refreshing and helpful. Hated that 141 had folded and accepted a shrink as a mainstay medic, when for years they had collectively pushed against it. What the hell was it that got them to assimilate you in so willingly, what fresh devilry were you? He absolutely abhorred your bright-eyed demeanor, he insisted it had no place in the theater of combat. Soap's comedic behavior was enough unnecessary bullshit for the team already, in LT Simon Riley's jaded estimation… he didn't need an actual mental health expert bringing in forced sunshine in his life. You needed to take that attitude and shove it right where he–
For a split second, Ghost closed his sooty eyelids to stop his angered train of thought that was getting ever so slightly derailed in a different direction.
And there it was, the main thing that was bothering him: what he hated the most was how you were making strange, confusing emotions bloom in his very hollow chest. He hated feeling the warm fuzzies whenever you'd trot into the post's chow hall with the brightest smile on your face; he had never even felt warm fuzzies growing up as child, so why was he feeling this now? He hated how he'd look forward to boring, rote training routines that obviously he and the rest did to stay sharp. Sure, those daily five-mile runs helped eke off stress, and sparring was a welcome relief for anxiety. But, somehow, if you were there…it became so much more meaningful. And he hated that shit.
Hated how you cared about everyone and checked in on them, no matter how exhausted you were, making no exceptions even if you had been on the mission yourself. He hated that you cared so much that it forced him to care right back.
T-minus five, you checked on your wrist watch, there was time to touch up your makeup like you always did, regardless if all of you wore blackout on your faces for night expeditions. You pulled down the portion of your balaclava that concealed everything below the tip of your nose, while fishing around in one of the multiple pockets in your utility trousers. With a satisfied hum, you found your gilded compact mirror that you had picked up from the colorful marketplace in Tangier, that one time you all had a mission to intercept a nondescript fishing boat that actually held enough explosives to sink the rock of Gibraltar. In your other hand was your favorite Dior Lip Glow balm and, as usual, the whole team chuckled while you reapplied it to your lips admiring yourself in the little mirror. Ghost let out an annoyed grunt at your perceived vanity, crossing his arms and leaning back against the rumbling walls of the C-130, all in a bid to throw everyone off the fact that he couldn't keep his hungry gaze off your pretty mouth… that fucking, goddamned, too-smart-for-anyone's-good mouth. He hated how his mind would wander so easily, very willingly into the gutter looking at your lips, wondering how soft they'd feel on his skin… how warm. How wet on his di–
You tilted the mirror just so, catching the fading rays afforded by the sunset that petered through the small, oblong windows, and gods, if Simon Riley didn't further hate himself for falling in love so hard, too hard with you. That spite which filled his cranky soul to the brim would always get diluted into a complicated, gut-wrenching emotion made of heart-shaped pink glitter that had no place in what made him, well, him… and yet here he was, angry and pining over you like a complete sod. Before he could stop himself, he muttered his discontent into comms, "The fuck you even putting makeup on for during a sortie, who are you trying to look good for even-?" He regretted the words as soon as they tumbled out of his mouth, knowing you'd find yet another way to poke fun at him.
That smart mouth he so hated and adored clapped back without hesitation, "Definitely not for you, Mr. Riley, don't worry."
The deafening shrieks of laughter from Soap and Gaz were immediate as they were predictable, with Alejandro and Price snickering at your nonchalant retort. Before Ghost could even piece together an angry response, the hydraulics gave an exhaustive groan as the aircraft back hinges lowered for exit. Moist, chill air flooded the interior cabin of the Hercules while below the folding ramp were clouds that looked like pulled skeins of wool. Pulling your nose guard up and your goggles down, you unclasped yourself out of the seats first and strode to the ramp as best you could without sliding from the turbulence. Once more, the comms crackled with an announcement from the cockpit, "Elevation of 20,000 feet, drop to 15,000 in T-minus five minutes above Ali Sabieh. Prepare for crew drop, I repeat, prepare for–"
Of course you had to be the one who cut in the transmission from the pilot, "Requesting permission to alight the bus, captain!"
Even under the skull balaclava, Ghost's disdain was apparent as he snapped through comms, "Permission denied, doc, you don't get to–"
"Permission granted, proceed at will," came the override from Price, earning him a glare that would've murdered a lesser man. Your smugness radiated from you as you brushed past the irate lieutenant to get to the landing ramp, making it a bit of a point to intentionally brush your leg against his knee as you walked by—something the already-annoyed man didn't miss. His darkened stare shot up at you and you smiled without flinching under his ire… you knew you were very much getting under this immovable soldier's skin, you were grating on his last godforsaken nerve and loving, relishing every moment of it. Whatever game it was that you were playing at, you had no idea what the consequences would be and if it would even be worth it, prodding the bear like you did… all you knew was you enjoyed frustrating the living daylights out of the man that made every other stalwart male around him worry for their safety. You knew it was just a matter of time before the thread you were yanking at snapped for Ghost, and you'd be on the receiving end of things.
As someone who belonged to the medical field, you knew the importance of privacy. You respected his inherent need to stay anonymous and masked at all times and, even during times when you had to repair his wounds after an unfortunate skirmish or two… you never prodded about it. If he wanted to stay hidden, well, it was his right to be such. That being said, even if you were a deferential professional, you were still human—you still found his ambiguous features and his standoff behavior just a tad arousing. Just a little bit, you'd lie to yourself as you lay in your barracks suite at night, wondering all sort of shameful things about the man. It didn't help that he had to be the most built and carved out soldier you had ever been blessed to work on and you'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy touching his bared muscles. And then there were his eyes, fucking hell… there was no amount of war paint available that could ever dull the brightness that was Simon Riley's eyes. Just simmering with energy and fire and verve that was such a striking contrast to his nonchalant behavior, one that brushed everyone and everything off. One that held everyone at more than an arm's length, to include you.
You had absolutely worked to charm each and every single member of 141 in a way that made them trust you, feel comfortable around you, and rely on your presence, even if it took months… to finally be assimilated as family with this tightly knit crew was no mean feat, you cherished the bonds you had forged with them through all horrific variants of duress in the field. Ghost had been there for each and every single one of those near-death experiences and yet, and still, he refused to be anything other than civil with you. Sure, he would ask how you were, worry and fret if you'd been injured, bark at you if you were late to a briefing or was five steps behind them to a muster point, click fingers in front of your face to make you focus … but that was all there was. Never cracked jokes with you, never shared personal stories or opinions outside of mission-related scenarios. You didn't want to admit it aloud, but that rejection stung and, even if you kept that piece of information to yourself, the guys all noticed. They had gotten used to seeing Ghost either walk all over you or brush past you to the point where Price and the lot took him aside to request he act less of a dick around you.
"Aye, mate," Soap had begun, wagging a finger at his masked comrade, "We know how you are and how you just are a right wanker at times and that's all fine and well. Just… don't be such a bloody wanker to the lass, yeah?"
"A little less sandbagging, lad, I don't think she deserves it," Price had murmured over his mug of morning tea, his voice very clearly laced with disapproval of how Ghost was treating you. Needless to say, the latter took his breakfast elsewhere in high dudgeon, just adding yet another nail to the proverbial coffin that was you.
Simon Riley had brushed off these gently couched remonstrances and openly bemoaned how 141 was asking him to give preferential treatment to a newcomer. And for what? Such bullshit, he thought to himself, it was bad enough that Laswell made it mandatory to have a shrink in their midst. Asking him to be "nice" around you, well, that was asking for trouble and not something he was interested in exploring… not when being around you was making him experience strange, visceral things that he didn't quite know how to put info words and, you know what? He didn't want to. Didn't have to. All this confusion would hamper his mission readiness and what with op-tempo being what it always was, it would be better for him, for 141 and, yes, even for you, that he stonewall you at every possible interaction. If it made you and the rest of the boys think he was a misogynistic asshole who had childhood trauma to process, well, so be it.
He was fine the way things were. He was alright with putting up a wall that couldn't be breached between the two of you. It was enough that he had admitted to himself that he wanted things with you, wanted to do things to you, stuff that he'd likely be too ashamed to divulge even to the likes of his best friend Soap.
Wasn't it enough that he had to deal with the mess of emotions whenever he was around you, so much so that the first thing he'd do when he was finally in the solace of his private quarters is he'd start palming the discomfort of his trousers?
Was it not punishment enough to hear Soap make half-jokes daily with you about turning you into Mrs. McTavish once his term with 141 was over, that he'd whisk you off to Edinburgh to get married at St. Andrew's cathedral and start a homestead in the Isle of Skye with you?
Was it not enough pain to have his best friend laugh that he'd have no less than ten kids with you to start the best Scottish football team the United Kingdom had ever seen?
Wasn't it torture enough to hear Gaz and Price and Alejandro laugh and agree at the viability of this, even if it was just a joke?
And, worst of all, wasn't it bad enough that you'd go right along with the jokes like you wanted it too… weren't jokes half meant to begin with? Meaning there was truth to them? Meaning maybe, possibly, perhaps you were wanting that farmhouse in Skye, too?
Never mind, then.
Yeah, no, thanks, but no… Ghost had determined the smartest course of action for all parties involved was for him to avoid you. He'd deal with his carnal and emotional needs on his own time. Never mind that the rare, fleeting moments when he'd let his mind wander to brighter, softer musings, it would be your face, your smile, your voice that would relax him and fill his hollowed-out soul with a temporary peace. Never mind that, for once in his entire military service, he actually looked forward to getting minor injuries so that there would be a reason to see you. A reason to be alone with you, notwithstanding for medical purposes… he unashamedly lived for those ephemeral moments, when your attention was 100% on him and hum alone. When your touches, your care and your gaze were for him alone.
For those transitory visits, you remained uncharacteristically silent with the exception of gently, almost tenderly, asking what else you could do to make him feel better. You'd ask it of him every single time without fail, and somehow he liked pretending you didn't do it out of habit, or because that's the script taught in medical bedside manners 101. He liked to fool himself into thinking that if he responded with, yes, he wanted something more from you, needed something else other than medical care, that you'd tell him you were completely and exclusively at his service.
More than once he had been tempted to just rip the knitted barrier wrapping his face and draw you onto his lap. Surely then you'd understand that you were the only thing on this joyless planet that could make him feel better, that there was something worth living for other than the adrenaline of battle. The grizzled man wanted to hold you in his arms and do all the things that Soap had joked about regarding getting married and starting a family… except skipping over to the more unfiltered, behind the scenes of starting a family. Those parts where he'd be taking your body on every surface of your clinic, breeding you nonstop over, say, Armistice Day weekend or something, to where when Monday rolled around you'd still be dripping with remnants of his seed down your trousers.
He'd love if you'd limp into the briefing room (late, as you habitually were) where Laswell would be on the screen getting ready to assign you all specific roles in the next operation… he always imagined her looking at you quizzically, asking if you were feeling well enough to join the next expeditions when you looked like you weren't getting enough rest. He'd love to be the reason why you weren't getting enough sleep every single night, love to be responsible for the aches and pains you'd have in the morning. The thought of contorting your sweet body to suit his sick whims, of marking up your velvety soft skin with a constellation of bites and bruises while fucking you over and over and over again till you knew nothing other than him, would want nobody other than him. He'd love to have you screaming his name so loudly everyone on post would know he was the one making you feel that good, needed you whining for him till your poor throat went hoarse… he needed to fuck you so goddamn hard that he'd worry if you went silent from shock.
Ghost sighed, and shook his head. None of these things were feasible or realistic. He wasn't one to cross his brother who was very clearly hinting he had plans to claim you… plus you were such a goddamn, insufferable brat. None of this was worth the heartache and the headache even if it made his cock ache daily without reprieve. He was fairly certain his trigger-roughened palm was nowhere near the same feeling as your tight, silken hole… and everyday he lived in anxiety of Soap actually letting them all know how heavenly good your fucking little cunt felt like and he knew hearing that would kill him faster than stepping on a grenade.
"Alright, alright, alright, kids!," your sunny voice lilted through comms, finally snapping Ghost out of his sullen state. He and the rest of the team began to unclip themselves from their seat harnesses, standing up and cracking joints from their turbulent four-hour flight from Grafenwoehr Air Base. "I'll see y'all down there, don't take too long," you continued as you carefully trod halfway down the ramp, the desert wind whipping your balance off kilter. In a flash, your wrist was grabbed tightly by the man who made it his business to avoid you—somehow, rules of speed and gravity didn't apply to LT Simon Riley, who hissed at you to stay focused and stop acting like a child. Yanking your wrist away from him, you turned to salute Capt. Price before doing a backwards freefall into the misty evening skies of Djibouti. Before you disappeared from view, you blew kisses at the men standing at the ramp and laughed into their ear pieces, "Gents, Mr. Riley just called me a child… maybe I should call him daddy now."
Ghost was utterly grateful that the next thing happening to 141 was the gravity drop with a terminal speed of 118 miles per hour… it should be enough distracting for the team to forget the daddy comment. Sure, they'd be reaching the ground in under three minutes but he was fairly certain everyone would be on point as soon as they landed. Ten seconds into the air, a pin prick of light below signaled you had made it safe and indicated where they needed to land. Even middrop, Simon Riley cursed you for the speed at which his heart was racing. He had done this jump more times than he cared to recount, he fully knew, should he survive tonight's mission, he'd be jacking off so hard to the thought of you calling him "daddy".