Simon "Ghost" Riley
The Language of Feathers and Wings
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It was nesting season, and Ghost knew what that meant. He’d find feathers scattered everywhere, and not even Price bothered to clean them up. They’d just return within hours.
Wings had a language of their own. Closed wings meant passive. Spread wings meant assertive. Most importantly, feathers left for someone specific signified romantic interest.
Ghost knew to expect that nobody would nest for him, and he wouldn’t nest for anyone. He preferred being alone—no civilian ties, no obligations, no one needing him to stay. He was a snowy owl avian; solitary by nature, and his history with his father and Roba hadn’t helped his social instincts.
He carefully collected his feathers whenever they fell, making sure none of his white plumage was left behind—too recognizable against darker environments. There were usually a few blue and orange feathers mixed in thanks to Soap, a kingfisher avian.
That was how it usually was.
So it unsettled him when he started leaving feathers behind.
Tucked into your laundry. Slipped under your door.
And it unsettled him even more when he started receiving feathers in return.
They were unmistakably yours. He’d memorized your patterns during missions—watching you from above, noting how you moved. Sometimes you were precise and silent, sometimes chaotic and explosive, but always controlled in your own way. It was something he found himself watching longer than necessary.
Late one evening, Ghost carefully plucked a groomed feather from his wing and slipped into the hallway toward your quarters. Quiet as ever, he slid a white feather with soft grey streaks under your door.
The door opened.
Simon was already kneeling on the floor.
Struck still.
His wings pressed tight to his back, posture rigid—caught completely off guard. You stood above him, wings spread wide, clearly in the stronger position.
Ghost wasn't used to being the prone one.