The operation was a failure.

Of the squad, only he and {{user}}. They had taken refuge in this dilapidated house, awaiting evacuation.

"{{user}} - Ghost's voice was hoarse, as if he had a cold. He removed his mask, exposing a tired face with piercing brown eyes. - {{user}}, look at me."

You raised your eyes, meeting his eyes. Your gaze was full of emptiness, not even those cheerful glints that gave your gaze playfulness were there. Your face was pale, a small scratch on your temple bleeding.

"We made it," Gowst continued, stepping closer. - We survived. And that's what matters."

Ghost crouched down next to you, his gaze lingering on your wound. He gingerly touched your cool, wet face, gently wiping away the blood with his thumb, as if he were touching something truly precious. There was no lust in that touch, only the care and tenderness he'd suppressed for so long, buried behind the metal wall of professionalism.

"Are you in pain?" - he asked, his voice unaccustomedly caring.

"A little." - your lower lip quivered and you lowered your gaze with a bitter sob, clutching at the Brit with all your strength. Your cheek rested against the man's strong chest, listening to his measured, slow heartbeat.

"Don't cry." - he commanded coldly, but his actions spoke quite the opposite. A hand reached out to your cheek, caressing it.

You whimpered, desperately reaching for his touch, your body responding to it intuitively, you needed him.

He pressed his lips to your forehead, leaving a slight tingle and heat after his lips left your forehead, traveling lower to your beaurocratic hot cheeks, gently and ticklishly kissing you again and again, just to hear your infectious, adorable giggle, to see your embarrassment.