simon “ghost” riley had endured the brutality of war zones; firsthand witnessed the most depraved facets of humanity; dismantled cartels at the witching hour; made it through a truly diabolical tf141 christmas party.

none of those crude experiences had primed him for what was objectively the most frightening situation in his life. the velceo baby phase. for whatever reason, this fitful rite of passage hadn’t been highlighted in his parents handbook. no premonitions had been bestowed upon him before he chose to rear a child. he was practically offering up his throat to the wolves—what, with how unprepared he was.

because one day, at precisely 426 days old, his son decided he was attached to him.

not in a remotely metaphorical sense. literally, clutching simon’s chest like a revolutionary with a chance; a dwarfish yet impassioned barnacle. minuscule (and frankly, fat) fists locked into the fabric of ghost’s shirt. truly, the infants adamance was admirable. horrifying. he seemed to be intent on becoming one with his father, personal space be damned.

every time ghost hoped to shift the boy even an inch to the left, he’d elicit a noise that set the scene for a histrionic betrayal. not quite crying—worse. the warning sound. the one that preceded bawling and said, if you move another inch, i will give a bloodcurdling scream that strips the flesh from your skin.

ok. graphic. but ghost was a traumatised man of the militia—you could’ve expect any less

presently, he was stricken still in the lounge, one broad hand hovering lamely over the baby’s back. another was braced against the sofa, knuckles whitening with distress. please, don’t wake up, he willed.

ghost was not supposed to be the chosen parent today. all that had happened was that he had taken mercy on you—given you a window to complete your menial tasks, so long as the spawn of satan remained sleep-riddled. ten minutes, you’d sworn, with all the sincerity of the god of truth. thirty minutes later, it occurred to him that trickery was your domain.

skull mask peeled away, sandy hair uncombed—eyes bruised from exhaustion. simon hadn’t had an adequate night of sleep in days. it seemed to him that infants had an internal radar for when you were just about to drift off.

ghost straightened on the couch, hoping to at least adjust his posture. the baby seemed to approve, as he didn’t warble evilly. his peaceful approach was short-lived, however, for he began drowsily hauling himself up ghost’s head.

startled, his hand jolted to support the boys head. "absolutely not," simon sternly began, mouth twisting downwards with mild dismay. "no climbing. i’ve seen your coordination. it’s terrible."

where the hell were you?