Chapter Text
The air was saturated with smoke, ash burning his exposed eyes as they stalked across the ravaged scene of Piccadilly Circus. Ghost could hear the sharp sounds of automatic gunfire in the background, followed closely by a chorus of screams, which worryingly dissipate underneath the roar of a burning car fire. The heat is nearly unbearable. The Al-Qatala bombers had destroyed everything in their path, an array of white body bags now occupying the once lively streets of the square.
However, the recon efforts were violently interrupted by AQ foot soldiers. It was becoming apparent this plan of theirs included more than just bombings, but rather widespread terrorist attacks in multiple locations throughout London. The police, military, and even the special forces were out in full force. He’d bet the Americans were foaming at the mouth to get a piece of the action, too. This was clearly entering the territory of an international intelligence crisis, but no matter. Ghost wasn’t hired to question the quality of the UK’s intelligence system. He was deployed to clear the buildings, eliminate foreign threats, and protect the bomb squad from combat while they resumed their reconnaissance. He’ll leave the politics to the professionals. The violence was his responsibility.
Broken glass crunching underneath his boots, Ghost focuses singularly on the red dot of his sight, body moving on pure muscle memory. He breathes in, and the sounds of the world--the fire, the gunshots, the panic--all fade to an absent buzz in the back of his mind. He barely blinks as they secure the perimeter of the London Pavillion, the grand façade overwhelmed by thick clouds of smoke and flickering street lights. The generator seems to be operational, he notes, scanning the windows for any looming threats.
“Perimeter secure, LT,” Soap reports, gun pointed towards the ground as he circles up on Ghost’s rear. Ghost nods in acknowledgement. With a wordless gesture of his hand, they continue forwards, boots moving in unison towards the entrance of the building. The heavily armored bomb squad lugs along in their EOD suits, polyfiber face shields glinting eerily in the light. As they reach the entrance, Soap easily enters the building. Seems like the door had been blown off its hinges. Ghost follows swiftly behind, clearing the first few shopping areas with ease. It’s really not that difficult; most of the shops have been blown to shit. Not many places for enemies to hide.
He lowers his gun with an almost defeated sigh, reaching for the radio on his shoulder.
“First floor secure. EOD you are cleared for entry. 7-1, prepare to push to second deck. Be advised, civilians may be within the perimeter. Grasp the fuckin’ obvious.”
“Copy,” Soap’s voice crackles through his earpiece.
Within an instant Ghost can see the sluggish movements of the bomb squad overcome the broken entryway, faces contorting in barely concealed fear at the sheer state of the building. Ghost nods towards the squad leader as they begin their search, signaling the second EOD team to round up on his six.
He joins Soap at the entrance to the stairs, prompting the sergeant to begin their ascent. The offices of the second floor are, thankfully, not blasted to hell, though loose paperwork and dust litter the floor from the blast. Knocked over chairs and filing cabinets are all that stand in their way. A cleared path leads to a small back room at the rear of the office.
“Breach it, Johnny,” Ghost orders, standing on the left side of the door. Soap nods resolutely before firmly grabbing the door handle and quickly pushing it open.
Immediately, worried cries emanate from within, and Ghost turns to assess the situation. Seeing the small group of terrified, but fortunately, uninjured office workers, Soap immediately lowers his weapon. Ghost enters, eyes scanning the clothing and bodies of each survivor, looking for possible injuries, as well as any possible threats. Given how few there are, it’s not hard to tell they’re merely civilians caught in the crossfire. The unorthodox appearance of his mask, however, begins to draw stares. The worried murmuring from before quiets as they succumb to his commanding presence. His vision catches on an elderly man sitting on one side of the room. He would be more likely to have been injured, though he looks more or less fine in his chair in the corner.
But, perhaps even more important, his vision settles on you, a timid little thing in a floral work dress and cardigan. It isn’t your looks that catch his eye (at least not at first), but rather the heavy baby bump underneath your dress. From the looks of it, you’re pretty far along. Ghost is surprised anyone could stand to send you to work in such a state. Silently, he curses the fact that someone as kind-looking as you - and who was carrying a baby, no less - was caught up in a situation like this. You fidget under Ghost’s stare, trembling as you cross your arms over your body, almost as if you were shielding your stomach from any possible harm.
“Bravo 0-7 to actual,” he calls into the radio, watching your hands rub the sides of your body. The survivors flinch at the gruff sound of his voice.
“Go for Actual.”
“We have nine civilians on the second floor of the London Pavillion, appearing to be uninjured. Requesting immediate exfil.”
At the sound of their imminent freedom, the survivors rejoice, fragile smiles making their way around the room. Your face breaks into a reluctant look of relief, the tears in your eyes slowly drying. The corners of Ghost’s mouth twitch upwards at that. He didn’t join the SAS to become a hero. It was quite the opposite, really. He’d joined the SAS to escape his own personal dilemma, not to save the world. It was rare that he cracked a smile on the job. But somehow you managed to get one out of him. Maybe it was the way your hair frames your face, or maybe it was the way your hands cradled your belly, but you’ve managed to find a soft spot he didn’t even know he had.
Huh, german shepherds and pregnant women, the two things he gives a shit about outside of his job. Learn something new every day.
The static of the radio breaks him out of his trance, harshly drawing his attention away from you and back onto the task at hand.
“Negative.”
At the sound of that, the heads of the remaining civilians jolt up. Panicked protests reverberate throughout the small back room before he can even hit the push to talk. Ghost’s smile disappears within an instant, Soap doing his best to calm the crowd. However, Ghost can’t help his eyes from wandering back to you. He watches your tears begin to drip once again, hugging yourself as you cry quietly among the chaos. His chest aches.
“LT…” Soap mutters, uncertainty maiming his face, “A word, sir.”
Ghost nods, hurriedly turning and walking back into the office space, eager to escape the ruined atmosphere and the crushing feeling in his throat. Once out of the backroom, Soap reaches for his own radio.
“7-1 to Actual. Why the hell can’t we exfil?”
“I say again, request denied. EOD has discovered multiple bombs throughout the subway. Intelligence suggests they were attempting to collapse the roof of the underground railways. Civilian exfil is impossible. Your orders have changed.”
Soap exchanges an exasperated look with Ghost, who fumes inside at the request. But alas, there is a chain of command, and not one that he is particularly hard up to violate. He sighs, swiping the edges of his mask absently. He presses the push to talk.
“What orders?” he asks, trying to hide the obvious annoyance in his tone.
“Bravo team is to remain within the perimeter of the London Pavillion building and manage civilian casualties until given the all-clear. You are not to exit onto the square, is that clear?”
Soap scoffs, throwing his arms up in the air as he nearly yells his reply into the receiver.
“We have elderly civilians--”
“Sir,” Ghost rudely interrupts, voice stiff with urgency and irritation, “We have pregnant women.”
Radio silence hangs for a few seconds, their hearts in their throats. However, the signal soon crackles back to life, and rather violently at that.
“I don’t give a damn who your civilians are, just deal with it. You’re the special forces for god's sake. Figure it out. Exfil is a no go, our hands are tied.”
Soap looks like he wants to punch a wall. Ghost wouldn’t be opposed to letting him. Instead, Soap makes a crude gesture with his hand, prompting Ghost to stifle a scoff under his mask before replying.
“Copy, will comply. 0-7 out here.”
Ghost ends the conversation, looking back at Soap, who’s taken to anxiously peeking back at the whimpering survivors, teeth grinding. Ghost wraps his hands around the straps of his vest as he plants his feet outside the back room door.
“So…What’s the call, LT?”
Ghost bites his lip beneath the mask, a bitter taste in his mouth. He watches your hands ghost over your baby bump, tears staining the red fabric of the dress you’re wearing.You strike a chord within him, one that’s becoming increasingly hard to ignore, but he can’t afford to slack on the job. He steels himself in the face of the uncomfortable feeling welling up inside of him, silently reaching a resolution in his mind.
“We hunker down here,” he decides, pulling his stare away from you.
“Alert the EOD team we’re staying. Let’s see if we can’t make this place more comfortable.”
“Roger,” Soap replies diligently, moving to follow his orders.
──⇌••⇋──
The panic had eased some since EOD had secured the building, though Ghost could tell the heavy weaponry over his shoulder and the skull on his face were making the civilians uneasy. Thankfully, Soap made up ten fold for his gloomy disposition, handing out cans of Coke they’d found in the fridge of the breakroom, a cheery smile on his face.
He was almost comically emphasizing his Scottish accent, eliciting stiff laughter from some of the office workers, who tried and failed to copy his unorthodox vocabulary. Ghost scoffs in the background. Soap was a goddamn natural at this. He fingers over the magazine release on his rifle, watching from a distance as the civilians sip on their soda and make stifled chatter among themselves.
He paces back and forth, eyes blinking slowly, watching with the attentiveness only a trained guard could have. They’d opened up the door to the office to give everyone some room to spread out. Though, notably, you’d stayed behind.
Inconspicuously, he flicks his pupils in your direction, hoping the shadow of his mask hides his wandering gaze. While the rest of the office workers were beginning to open up, you remained closed off, sitting at the corner table in the back room, fingers nervously fidgeting around your soda can.
Ghost turned back in your direction, just now noticing how reluctant he was to stray from you. Simon didn’t usually think twice about civilians. It wasn’t usually his job, after all. But something about you just stuck out like a sore thumb, pulling him in, drawing his attention. Maybe it was the curve of your face, or the beautiful style of your hair, but it caught his eye. Though, that still doesn’t explain why he was pacing circles around you, guarding you like a dog protecting its master. Something in his stomach told him not to go too far, like you’d be helpless without his larger, stronger frame to keep you company.
The feeling - that warm, persistent nagging in the back of his brain - was annoying, he found. He was reluctant to put a stop to it, however, eyes returning to your shaking body once again. He sighs as he pauses in his step, checking the watch on his wrist.
Damn, only half an hour had passed. He curses under his breath, irritation crawling up his spine like a regular backache. Gruffly, he moves to lean on the wall at the back of the room, hyper-aware of the way your eyes trail after him when he places himself against the wall beside you. He pretends not to notice the way your body goes stiff while he makes himself comfortable, resituating the rifle in his hands.
Shyly, you peer at the gear strapped to his chest, eyes locked onto the grenades affixed to his breast. He doesn’t spare a look in your direction, though he can feel the heat beneath his mask rising as he glares down at the gun in his hands, staring at it as if it were the most interesting thing he’d seen all day.
From this distance, he can smell your perfume. Sweet, delicate.
His heart rate picks up, pretending to survey the room as if he cared about anything as much as the attention you were currently giving him. Unconsciously, he stands taller, straightening his shoulders. He hears you cough slightly. He resists the urge to turn and look.
“You do this kinda thing often?” your voice pipes up from beside him, high pitched with obvious nervousness.
His face blanks behind the mask, brain struggling to register the fact that you were actually talking to him and not scared straight by his intimidating appearance. It takes him a minute to unlace his lips, tongue sluggish when he finally manages to form words.
“What’s it look like?”
He sounds ruder than he means to, and he internally cringes as you shrink back into your place against the wall, falling into silence once again. He bites his lip.
Way to go, fucking it up like that, Riley, he curses in his mind.
He swallows roughly, feeling blood rush in his ears.
“Every day,” he starts, readjusting his stance as you turn to look at him once again, “Perk of the job. You get used to it after a while.”
“Really?” you ask, though you don’t sound so scared anymore. He detects a hint of playfulness in your voice. Intriguing. “Your back doesn’t hurt lugging that equipment around all day?”
You gesture to the heavy armor plates strapped to his chest, your crossed knees turning towards him. His eyes linger on your bare legs, though he soon pulls his gaze back up, finally managing to look you in the eye.
He breathes out a small chuckle.
“I doubt it’s the equipment making my back hurt. Probably the shit thin mattresses they got us sleeping on, to be honest.”
He gets a laugh out of you with that one, and the sound pulls the corners of his lips upwards in a small grin. You rest a hand on your bump.
“Tell me about it,” you smile, looking down at your body.
In turn, he stares at your baby bump, watching as your hands smooth over the curve. He clears his throat, a certain warmth occupying his brain at the sight. He gestures towards your stomach bashfully.
“How far along are you?”
“39 weeks,” you say fondly, voice full of excitement, “Really doesn’t seem like it’s been that long, though. One day you can see your feet when you put on your shoes, and the next you can’t even bend over without breaking a sweat.”
Contentment, or something like it, clouds over his thoughts, a pink heat settling in his face.
“Well, guess I shouldn’t complain about a little back ache,” he begins, pointing towards your heavily pregnant body, “Seems like you got that covered for the both of us.”
“Right,” you chuckle. He notices some color returning to your face, and your hands no longer wring themselves in your lap. Somehow, he’s desperate to keep the conversation going, desperate to learn more about you.
“So,” he exhales, “What’re you doing here? Figures someone like you would be on maternity leave by now.”
“Oh, no, no,” you shake your head, “It’s just me. Gotta keep the lights on somehow, you know.”
Ghost furrows his brow at that. Normally, a pretty girl tells you she’s single, it’s cause for celebration, but instead, worry fills his mind. Something like anger, too. What kind of asshole would leave a girl like you, especially when you’re at your most vulnerable?
“I’m a secretary,” you continued, unable to see the irritated expression hidden behind his mask, “Nothing too strenuous. But, y’know, diapers aren’t cheap. Figured I’d save up before it’s too late.”
You talk about your situation like the dark undertones of it didn’t exist. Sure, Ghost’s line of work wasn’t something to rejoice about either, yet a pregnant woman having to work so hard to make ends meet is somehow more offensive. He bites his tongue when he feels his blood begin to boil at the thought, trying to silence his questions before he says something stupid once again.
However, socially awkward and unsure of what to say, he rolls his shoulders.
“Fuck the economy,” he says simply, trying to comfort you, and failing spectacularly at it.
You laugh out loud at his blunt reply, amusement tainting your voice as you place your can back on the table.
“Damn straight,” you say enthusiastically.
A comfortable silence overcomes the two of you, both of you watching as the EOD squad explains their equipment to a growing crowd of interested spectators, Soap included.
“So, what exactly is your job?” you interrupt the silence.
He turns towards you, gesturing to his clothes, as if it wasn’t obvious.
You scoff, “No, I mean, I can tell you’re a soldier, but what are you? Army…? Police…?”
“SAS,” he provides gruffly, “Special Air Service.”
You nod your head, eyes raking over the strong build of his body and the sheer amount of weaponry on his person.
“So, like, special forces. Zero Dark Thirty. Something like that?”
That earns you a stifled laugh, his eyes rolling behind his mask.
“Something like that.”
He watches your excitement gather to its breaking point, your face splitting into a smile. He senses another question coming.
“Do you have a nickname? Please tell me you have a nickname.”
He considers ignoring that question, knowing that if he tells you his name is Ghost he’ll never hear the end of it. But, he’s feeling generous tonight. He’ll let it slide just this once. He turns towards you, pursing his lips.
“They call me Ghost,” he answers rather seriously.
You contain yourself--for all of about two seconds--before you burst out laughing in his face.
“How are you a Ghost?” you question, “You’re like, what, 6’4? Can’t be so invisible like that.”
You continue to taunt him, but, instead of annoyance, he feels hearty instead. The sound of your melodic voice has him going hot in the face, attraction buzzing under his skin. He’s enjoying this way too much.
“If you’re gonna laugh at anybody, it should be him,” Ghost argues, pointing towards Soap with the barrel of his rifle, “Mans’ codename is Soap.”
“What the hell kinda name is Soap?” you manage to get out in between fits of chuckling, blush high on your cheeks. You’re barely breathing.
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Ghost replies, unable to wipe the dumb look off his face. Thank god for his mask, otherwise he’s sure you’d be able to see the ten different shades of red he’s turning.
──⇌••⇋──
Ghost, so entranced in your conversation, had forgotten about the time completely. Hours could have flown by and he’d never have known.
You talked about your favorite foods.
-
“Barbecue chips.”
“You don’t look like a barbecue chip kinda guy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
-
Your favorite movies.
-
“Inception, personally.”
“You like Leonardo Dicaprio much? Seems like he’s in just about every damn movie you watch.”
“Hey, Leo’s a classic.”
-
Your friends.
-
“Soap’s skull’s bought thick as lead, but that just gives him more shock absorption.”
“Does he know you talk about him like this?”
“I’d say worse to his face.”
-
Ghost has never smiled this much in one evening. He’s probably talked to you longer than he’s talked to anyone this entire year. He just can’t seem to get enough. Your turn of phrase, your witty humor, your positive demeanor - they were the exact opposite of everything that he was. Cold, quiet, blunt. He’s never felt so warm before. It was almost as if he’d stepped into a hot shower in the cold of winter and was loath to get out.
Though the two of you were near opposites, he was coming to admire your differences. Your hands were positively tiny compared to his own. Your formal work shoes were dwarfed by his muddy combat boots. Your sunny disposition didn’t cast a shadow on his moody personality, but rather shone light on the parts of himself he hadn’t bared to the outside world in decades.
He was beginning to get accustomed to the way his heart skipped a beat every time you said his nickname. You were playing a dangerous game.
“So what kinda gun is that anyway?”
“This?” he asks, looking down at his M4, taking extra care not to point the barrel anywhere near your body.
“Yeah,” you say, leaning over the table with a sparkle in your eye.
“M4A1,” he starts, popping the mag release with dramatic flare. The extra clip falls to the table while he flips another in his off-hand, swiftly inserting it with expert precision, “Standard issue air-cooled, magazine fed, select fire assault rifle.”
Your smile widens at his little trick, grinning at his impressiveness. He preens at your reaction, pulse stuttering. The trick was more corny than anything, but sue him for wanting to show off a little. He was in a good mood today, after all.
“Is it heavy?” you say, keeping your hands carefully in your lap while Ghost handled the weapon.
Feeling talkative, he jumps into an explanation without a second thought.
“Not really. You get used to the weight over time. It’s the kick that makes it difficult to handle. On full-auto, it’ll pack a hell of a punch, but even that can be adjusted to. It’s pretty user-friendly, I mean, it’s easier to aim than--”
So absorbed in his passionate rant, he misses the twinge of pain on your face. That is, until your body stiffens in your seat, your hands moving to rub your swollen belly. Immediately, his words come screeching to a halt, your furrowed brows suddenly capturing his attention.
“You alright?” he asks, and without even thinking, he subconsciously reaches towards you, mind moving on instinct. However, he stops himself before your wrenched eyes can open, saving himself the embarrassment.
You inhale shakily.
“Yeah,” you manage with a hiss, “It’s just the baby. She’s kicking now…must have hit me in the wrong spot.”
Even in pain, you still offer him a pleasant smile.
“Nothing to worry about,” you reassure him, taking a minute to gather yourself.
“Oh.” he posits awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. He didn’t know much about pregnancy, or babies at that. Could a baby’s kick hurt? Seems like it, though he’d never thought about that before.
He eyes you from behind his mask, hoping the shadows of its contours hide the small amount of curiosity in his gaze. Inconspicuously, he peaks around the table, following your gaze to stare down at your baby bump. Just barely, he can see the fabric move on top of your stomach, the imprints of tiny hands and feet making themselves known.
It easily entrances him. It’s not hard to see why so many dads fall down the domestic pipeline just for moments like these. Hell, Ghost’s already halfway there and he’s only known you for a matter of hours.
“You wanna feel her kick?”
Your voice shocks him out of his trance, and he immediately averts his gaze, embarrassed you caught him staring. Was he really that obvious? Or were you just that observant?
You scoff, “C’mon, Ghost, I don’t bite.”
Reaching across the table, you pull him by the arm towards your side of the room, forcing him to sheepishly take a knee in front of you. He feels a lump caught in his throat.
“Go on,” you say, placing your hands back on your sides while Ghost looks on blankly, completely lost in the foreign scenario he finds himself in. Cautiously, he raises his gloved hands, cradling your belly in his palms. Your warmth bleeds through the padding on his fingers, all-encompassing and strong. It’s then that he feels it, the small, uneven kicks of the baby inside of you. The little thing presses against his hands eagerly, almost as if she knew his hands were there specifically for her. Ghost goes silent at the feeling, body falling completely still, like if he moved, the kicking would stop altogether.
Speechless, he presses forwards in his touches, moving his hands to different parts of your stomach, wanting to feel the baby kick just once more.
“So, a little girl, huh?” he comments, voice so quiet it’s almost drowned out by the distant police sirens on the square.
“Yep,” you say proudly, hands resting on your bump, “My dresser drawers are about halfway full of pink onesies already.”
He chuckles warmly, hands still holding your body. The baby kicks once again.
“Seems like it’s getting a little cramped in there, huh?” he says, not entirely sure whether he’s talking to the baby or you anymore.
“I think so, too,” you agree, “She’s due in about a week. I feel like I’m about to pop.”
“You look it, too,” he says quietly.
He can’t bring himself to pull his hands away. Truth be told, Ghost wasn’t much of a family man. He couldn’t ever envision himself having something so normal. His father wasn’t a good man, and he’d passed that poison down to Simon, too. He’d cursed his father to hell and back, and had promised himself he’d never condemn anyone to a fate like that ever again.
And yet, sitting on his knees in front of you, feeling your baby kick, he realizes he’d do anything in the world to preserve this moment for as long he could, even if he died in the process.
Thoughts run through his mind rapidly, blood rushing in his ears with the intensity of a waterfall. He looks up at you suddenly, trying to convey the emotion inside of him purely with his eyes alone, hoping that you understand the indescribable feeling contained therein. Your smile falls, though not in a bad way. Rather, your entire face relaxes as you catch his look, a quiet moment of understanding passing between the two of you. Slowly, almost cautiously, your hand reaches towards his larger one, fingers just barely ghosting over his covered knuckles.
“LT,” a voice rings out in the background, snapping the atmosphere like a twig. Your hand yanks back to your side, caught with your hand halfway into the cookie jar. Ghost shocks straight like he was in basic all over again, hands trim at his sides, face forwards. He hopes the stiffness of his body wouldn’t give him away.
“Ghost, sir,” Soap ducks his head into the back room, “Actual wants a sit-rep, says they have new information for us.”
Dazed, Ghost had nearly forgotten he’s on the clock right now.
Soap looks between the two of you, noting the expressionless look in Ghost’s eyes, and the flustered fidgeting of your fingers. He raises an eyebrow, but that look is quickly squashed by the deadly glare Ghost sends him from behind the mask.
“Got it, Johnny, I’ll radio back in a minute,” he covers, awkwardly trying to get Soap to leave the room so he could return back to….whatever it was the two of you were doing.
“Sure,” Soap says, beginning to walk away, though he quickly turns back, directing a friendly grin your way, “Oh, by the way, we found some packages of tea and crackers in the break room. If you want something to eat, the others are snacking in the cubicles.”
You smile at Soap awkwardly, unable to meet his eye.
“Thank you,” you answer politely, stiffly. Soap is none the wiser.
He leaves the room after that, combat boots thumping heavily against the carpeted floor. Ghost turns towards you, not quite sure what to say. He wasn’t entirely sure what emotions passed between you, but the air in the back room was about as thick as soup. He could still feel his heart pounding, your face so flushed it was a miracle you weren’t emitting steam right about now.
He clears his throat.
“Did you want to--” he starts, not even sure how that sentence would finish.
“No, no,” you interrupt abashedly, “I’ve kept you from your job long enough. There are other people that need your help.”
You’re right, though he’s not exactly thrilled about it. He looks down at the floor frustratedly as he shoulders his rifle, trying to restore the professionalism he’d had when they first entered the London Pavillion.
“Besides,” you spare him another smile, “I’ve been craving cheese and crackers anyway.”
Now that’s something he certainly can’t argue with. He nods slowly, not sure what to say. The pounding in his chest continues steadily. He watches as you brace yourself against the arms of the chair to stand up. However, before you can fully get to your feet, that same look of pain overtakes your face, causing you to fall off of balance. In less than a second, he’s by your side, worriedly grabbing onto your arm to prevent your fall, using his strength to prop you up. Your hands claw at your stomach, a loud whine coming from your mouth as your body weight leans against his torso.
“Y/N, what’s wrong? What’s happening?” He questions fervently, trying to read the look on your face. It displays nothing but distress.
“I-it’s nothing,” you shakily reassure him. You try to take a step to prove your point, but your knees give out the minute your leg reaches forwards. Instantly, he’s moving, supporting your weight with his stronger arms.
“Soap!” he shouts, the voice he uses on the battlefield finally coming back to him, “Get in here!”
You continue to tremble in his arms, your hands shaking where they lie on top of your stomach.
“Ghost, really, it’s probably just another bad kick, I just need to--”
“No,” he interjects forcefully, “Don’t tell me you’re fucking fine right now.”
He tries to maneuver you towards the chair, but another wave of intense pain overtakes you, every muscle in your body going taut. One of your hands coming up to clutch his jacket in a death grip, your eyes wrenching shut. You cry out.
Soap bounds into the room, the door slamming in his wake.
“LT, what’s wrong?”
And it’s then that your water breaks, a rush of liquid running down your bare legs and onto the floor between your unsteady feet. Ghost and Soap helplessly look on, speechless. Soap’s eyes widen horrifically, while Ghost all but freezes at the sight. Tiredly, you lean into Ghost’s arms, hiding your embarrassed face in the crook of his neck when tears well up in your eyes.
Ghost swallows nervously, ears ringing, eyes unblinking. He’s unable to focus on anything other than the pitch of your cries and the magnitude of the situation they’re currently in. He remains unmoving for all of about two seconds before he springs into action.
“Soap, get Actual on the line,” he commands, “I want a word with ‘em.”
“Right away, LT.”