Until it wasnt enough and he found you wandering around base past midnight, welding mask still on, and a heavy weight on your shoulders. He steered you back to your room, made sure you changed into some comfortable clothes, and ordered you to go to bed… just to find you sleepy by the next morning.

You got your work done to be fair, worked extra hard despite your constant yawns to get each and every new prototype out. But.. it didn't help that your sleep problems were caused by that too. He couldnt even count anymore how many times he found you up working on some new idea, muttering to yourself up until you fall asleep head flat on your desk. Not to mention the energy drinks you keep managing to hide between your tools. He had to draw his line when you walked into the rec room looking for your gloves.. hands covered in plasters and bandages.

“I know you’re tired because you’ve never slipped up this much.” He says, voice a little too firm for your liking but when you look at Kyle for help he quickly looks away, suddenly interested in the remote control.

“I accidentally brushed against a tool, it’s just some light burns I promise.” You try to argue, tucking your injured hands into the gloves you thankfully spotted on the back of the couch.

“You think i believe that?” He scoffs, crossing his arms firmly over his chest, as he narrows his eyes at you. “If you don't sleep properly in the next few days, i’m locking the door to your lab.”

You blink, and then smile a little, sure he must be joking. “I mean, i’ll try but you know i need to work.”

He doesnt even twitch, and you turn your head again, making eye contact with Soap whose also been no help until now when he grimaces. He’s not joking then.

“Alright- okay! I promise i’ll get some good sleep.”

You get banned not even after two days when he finds you sluggishly trying to weld at four am. A lock is soon secured on the doors to your lab and even your poor snack stash is left inside with it. Even when you plead with him, he just shrugs his shoulders. “Just fix your schedule and you can go back in.”

It didn't help that you were still a little terrified of him, and the team in general. You were close to Gaz, that much was obvious, but you seemed lost in your head a lot of the time compared to the soldiers. So you hadn't complained more than that, and he heard from Kyle that you had been making a conscious effort to try and get proper sleep, even visiting the infirmary. Still, it’d been a week since and if anything you look even more tired than before.

“What are you doing?” Kyle stops you on your third lap around base, the sun set and soon the clock will strike closer to midnight. John had sent him after you since you seemed far more comfortable around him than the rest of them. You swallow nervously, looking around but no one is here to save you now.

“I- i’m trying! I swear i am, i just..” You fiddle with the edge of your gloves, shoulders jumping at a closed door a corridor down. “I cant do it.. please I dont want to be kicked me from the team.” The look on your face is of pure misery and you step closer to let your head hang low,

“Kick you from the team? Who told you that?”

“Um.. Lieutenant Ghost did.”

Kyle mentally makes a note to tell off Ghost for scaring you of all people, even if he suppose it probably was a good way to make you take your health seriously. Until.. it got to the point you stressed too much over it

“No one’s getting kicked from the team for a lack of sleep.” He sighs before he pats your back, forcing you to start walking alongside him all the way towards the rec room. You’ve been avoiding it recently, mainly because you probably think John will catch you not sleeping. He just wants to see you taking care of yourself, that's all. “Stay here until you feel tired, okay? I’ll help you tomorrow.”

—

Contrary to his reassurance, the anxiety only eats at you more. There was nothing to fill your hands in the lab nor anything to distract you from the possibility of disappointing him. You were still beating yourself up about it when he stops by your room, knocking on the door.

Both Price and Kyle stand on the other side, to your horror and you immediately freeze up.

“You got some time to spare? We need to go pick up some things, could use the extra hands.” Of course you nod immediately, letting them lead you to his car. It’s cold out but he’s got heated seats which make you let out a soft sigh, staring out the window at how the moon shines above the city.

You’re in the backseat on your own whilst Kyle sits upfront, chatting with the Captain about one thing or the other.

“Oh— Captain, they said the drive might be longer because of a diversion.”

“How long?”

“An hour or two. Then actually packing it in will take a while aswell.”

For some reason that stuck out to you more than usual, even though it really shouldn't. It was kind of boring sitting at the back with nothing to do, even the music was slow and quiet, perfect for the late evening. There wasn't much else to do but stare out that window, and knowing you’d be here for at leadt an hour more. Well…

“I think they’re out.” John nudges Kyle, who is getting tired himself, to look back and check. Surely enough, you had fallen asleep easily against the door, cheek pressing into the seatbelt and body snuggled up.

John takes a turn or two more before finally stopping outside base again, having gone in a circle that only lasted half an hour really.

“Like a light.” Kyle chuckles, sliding out his seat and carefully towards your door. “Easy, i’ve got ya.” He hums, scooping you into his arms as you melt into them, too tired to care.

They had noticed it a month or so ago, when they took you out to analyse some weapons found and you fell asleep in the traffic on the wayback. Not to mention the countless other times over the years, silently dozing off without many knowing.

They take you back to your room, the soft scent of essential oils filling the air that Soap and Ghost had done while you were gone. You settle into the clean pillows, aswell as the hot water bottle tucked beneath the duvets too.

“Not even nine pm.” Johnny mutters, taking his phone out to get a picture else you try and argue against it tomorrow.

“Needs it, poor thing been working themself to the bone.” John hums, pulling the duvet up to your neck, the lamp still dim on your side table. There seemed to be a lot of things keeping you up, namely the dark and the nightmares which breed in it. This way, you’d be safe from all of that.

Your eyes twitch, and he holds his breath, but you just roll over, pulling the hot water bottle flush against your chest.

He ushers the two sergeants out, clicking the door shut behind him. Hopefully you’d get a much better sleep tonight, and dreams that would leave you smiling tomorrow at the mess. That is his favourite look on you after all.

————-/

idk i think this is a nothing burger but i was fighting to stay awake in the car the other day

#ilovenapping

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.   

Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land. 

A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.

“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.” 

Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?” 

Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”  

Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head. 

Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was. 

No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him. 

But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds. 

.

.

.

The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices. 

Each place had caveats. 

The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it. 

Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there. 

The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day. 

The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors. 

The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone. 

A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty. 

He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.

Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators. 

It was a regular, routine, quiet place. 

So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted. 

Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.

The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck. 

The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air. 

Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward. 

There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp. 

Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to. 

It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it. 

You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?” 

Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs. 

Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere. 

He would know his own face anywhere. 

He would, apparently, know you anywhere. 

Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat. 

Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it. 

You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs. 

His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart. 

Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone. 

The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain. 

Nausea swept into the back of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes. 

You saw him. 

Simon was not to be seen.

Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze. 

Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked. 

Not anymore. 

He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—

The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace. 

Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Sir?”

Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat. 

Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.

As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency. 

You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire. 

You hadn’t recognized what he was. 

And he was going to keep it that way. 

.

.

.

It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it. 

He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it. 

Better yet, through you. 

Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery. 

One sure way to free himself was your death. 

It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them. 

Simon understood the urge.

He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides. 

Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this. 

It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse. 

It was wrong. 

He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.  

The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.  

Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up. 

Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it. 

Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.  

Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light. 

Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp. 

Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were. 

Fuuucking hell. 

Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room. 

Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal. 

He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache. 

Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders. 

You yawned, eyes still closed. 

He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would. 

Ghost backed away, left you to your peace. 

The weight in his chest intensified again.

He hated you for it. 

He went back the next day. 

And the day after that.

.

.

.

Anchor might be a better descriptor. 

Hook was too violent.

Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that. 

He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things. 

You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t. 

You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin. 

You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it. 

You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night. 

You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else. 

They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in. 

Absolutely bloody foul. 

Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile. 

And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed. 

You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers. 

You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you. 

He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous. 

You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough. 

Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them. 

He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him. 

The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important. 

That used to be more important. 

Now his every thought was asterisked by you. 

Distracted. 

He didn’t do well with it. 

He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it. 

Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.  

He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly. 

After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk. 

Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest. 

It was enough to be where you had once been. 

That was as close as he cared to be. 

He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again. 

.

.

. 

He went by Ghost, you learned eventually. 

His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely. 

It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith. 

It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut. 

Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true. 

Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request. 

It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception. 

It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.

When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.” 

The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.” 

Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.” 

You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note. 

There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.

You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way. 

Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it. 

You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.

You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back. 

“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” 

This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands. 

The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.

“Have I passed?” 

His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?” 

“Your test?” 

“Think I’m testin’ you?” 

“You moved my desk.” 

He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it. 

It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.   

You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.” 

“Should.”

“Maybe.” 

“Especially in the field.” 

“I don’t do field work.” 

He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond. 

“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”  

He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office. 

Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company. 

All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone. 

Ghost was strange, slightly off putting. 

You liked him.

Maybe, you thought, he’d come back. 

.

.

.

Ghost visited regularly after that. 

Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work. 

His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. 

You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.

But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.  

Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind. 

The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.

You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.  

The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others. 

Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it. 

You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain. 

He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag. 

In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently. 

But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him. 

If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said. 

“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.

Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle. 

He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.  

“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.  

“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“

“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”

“Yep. Got something for you, too.” 

He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?” 

You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”

He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”

“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”

“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”

Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway. 

When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed. 

It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.

.

.

.

When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.

You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor. 

It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window. 

In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift. 

He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier. 

“It’s for you. I knitted it.” 

He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”

Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?” 

“Who else would have?” 

He grunted. “You knit?” 

“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”

His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. 

“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.

You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.” 

Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.” 

“What?” 

“Silly.” 

The way he grunted the word made you laugh. 

“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”

“Reckon you just did.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?” 

“Just two.” 

It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.” 

“And out of questions.”

You laughed again. 

He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.” 

“Where are you from?” 

The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?” 

You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.” 

He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer. 

The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back. 

“Why do you come here?” You asked instead. 

This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.” 

“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.” 

He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.” 

You decided not to take offense at being called noise. 

You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch. 

“Hungry?” You asked.  

“Tryin’ to see my face?” 

You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.” 

The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.  

“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.

You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.” 

He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.” 

You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.” 

“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it. 

When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.  

“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.” 

Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?” 

You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”

His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all. 

“From somewhere warm?”

“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.” 

“Must be nice, that.” 

“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.” 

“One you enjoy.” 

“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.” 

He snorted again.

You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle. 

When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.” 

“Hm?”

“Where I’m from.”

His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead. 

“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“

You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”

“It’s your fucking accent.”

“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?” 

“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered. 

You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” 

“Suppose it does.” 

“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.” 

He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?” 

You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”

“They make it wrong too.” 

You groaned. “Not you too.” 

Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container. 

“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.” 

You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?” 

“I love tea.” 

It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.” 

He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called. 

Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.” 

He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.” 

“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.” 

Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone. 

.

.

.

It should be a good thing. 

You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other. 

But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.

The thought festered, burrowed. 

“Laswell.”

She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of  her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead. 

“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.” 

Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”

Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that. 

“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall. 

You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.

As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working. 

When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working. 

He walked you to your car around midnight. 

“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you. 

“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered. 

You just laughed. 

.

.

.

“Tea?” 

You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain. 

It would need remedied. 

But first, this. 

It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.  

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.” 

“What’re you still doing ‘ere?” 

“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?” 

Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.

“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”  

“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.” 

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.” 

“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.” 

“Hilarious, you are.” 

You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?” 

He nodded. “C’mon then.”

You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.

Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain. 

The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.  

“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”

“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.” 

“I’ve been practicing.”

He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.

“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.” 

He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”

“Got a head start then.” 

You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it. 

If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody. 

The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged. 

Simon ignored it.  

When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw. 

“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off. 

He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?” 

“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it. 

“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?” 

Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.” 

“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.” 

He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it. 

The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.

“To hide my face.” 

“Your identity, you mean.” 

“My identity,” he agreed.

“Why?” 

He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop? 

Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.” 

You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead. 

“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.” 

“Part of the job.” 

Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.” 

Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.” 

“I take offense to that.” 

You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.” 

“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.  

When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not. 

“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.” 

“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time. 

He huffed. “Better all the time.” 

“And I have you to thank.” 

Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check. 

Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his. 

“Thanks, Ghost.” 

“”S just tea.” 

You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation. 

“What’s tha’?” 

“I know how to make tea for you now.” 

“Like it?” 

“I love it.” 

You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.” 

He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.” 

You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well. 

“Noted.” 

Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so. 

.

.

.

Things settled into a pleasant rhythm. 

A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in. 

You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach. 

People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond. 

You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary. 

It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.

It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes. 

“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?” 

“Oh,” you said. “I—” 

It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest. 

You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.

Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door. 

“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.” 

“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?” 

Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.” 

“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.” 

“Okay.” 

His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office. 

So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there. 

And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work. 

“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.” 

“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.” 

“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated. 

Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life. 

You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all. 

.

.

.

Monday. 

There was a knife in Simon’s pocket. 

Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot. 

The one in his pocket, though, was for you.

A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one. 

The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over. 

It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays. 

And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away. 

Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away. 

When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished. 

Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”  

Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't. 

“All right?” 

“Hm?”

“You’re quiet.” 

“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.

There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?” 

You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.” 

“Try again.” 

Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.

Simon waited, but you did not reemerge. 

He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—” 

“Nice weather.” 

“I can see that.” 

“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.” 

Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”

“C’mon, then.” 

You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?” 

He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm. 

“Lunch.” 

You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow. 

Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right. 

Just his luck. 

Didn’t matter though. 

He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled. 

The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain. 

“So, what are we doing?” 

“Walking.” 

“I can see that.” 

“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?” 

You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway. 

The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply. 

He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter. 

Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“What are we doing back here?” 

Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.

You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Secret’s safe with me.” 

“Mind if I smoke?” 

“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”  

He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own. 

They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish. 

Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.

He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him. 

Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved. 

Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own. 

He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking. 

He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too. 

He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed. 

Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.

When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms. 

“What ‘appened?” He asked.

Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.” 

“Stalling.” 

“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.” 

Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?” 

“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.” 

“He’s a prick.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.” 

You looked very small, and alone at that moment. 

“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”

The chill spreads outward.  

It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life. 

He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this. 

You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again. 

And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands. 

You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves. 

“Have you found yours?” 

Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.” 

You nodded. “Me either.”

.

.

.

He walked you back to your office. 

You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find. 

Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs. 

Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair. 

You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way. 

Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk. 

Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch. 

A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges. 

He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.  

“A knife.” 

“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.” 

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.” 

“Why?” 

“In case you need to.”

“Is this about me staying late?” 

“No.” He did not elaborate. 

“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—” 

“But you don’t carry a gun.” 

“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”  

He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.” 

You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.

“Okay.”

His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” you agreed. 

.

.

.

If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well. 

You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began. 

You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.  

What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic. 

Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.

This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow. 

On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope. 

You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?” 

Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud. 

You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?” 

“Better to be prepared, yeah?” 

“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh. 

After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison. 

His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours? 

Rough, warm. Safe.  

It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing. 

Stupid, silly. 

If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask. 

“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate. 

“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”

“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.  

“Not a game, bird.” 

“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.” 

“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.” 

“Is that it?” 

You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.” 

It wasn’t easy. 

For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back. 

Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.

Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in. 

“On your feet.” 

Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good. 

It didn’t feel like you were doing good now. 

By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands. 

“You’re hurting me,” you gasped. 

He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion. 

But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way. 

“Shit.” 

.

.

.

The window was open and you were not in your office. 

Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently. 

He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.” 

Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds. 

When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.” 

“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.” 

“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.” 

Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”

“Forgot it.” 

Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it. 

“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

“It’s okay—“

“Wasn’t a suggestion.” 

“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.” 

He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity. 

“Gonna rain,” he commented. 

You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget. 

When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again. 

“I can see you won’t leave it alone.” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours. 

Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted. 

You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.” 

He grunted, followed you closely back inside. 

As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen. 

He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”

Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.

“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled. 

“Who’s this then?” 

You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.” 

“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”

“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.” 

Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?” 

“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice. 

But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?” 

Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.

“Very becoming, lass.” 

You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?” 

“Aye, all mine.”

“Ah, luck.” 

“Lucky indeed.”

Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.

 “Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat. 

“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.” 

“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.” 

“That’s for sure, bonnie.” 

“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?” 

Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”

“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.” 

Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—  

“It’s need to know,” he snapped. 

Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess. 

“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”

Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into. 

Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold. 

.

.

.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!” 

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

“Yer name?” 

Ghost leveled Soap with a stare. 

Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?” 

“Stay out of it, MacTavish.” 

Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.” 

He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”

“It won’t.”

Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“

“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.” 

“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”

Simon ignored him. 

But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.  

Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him. 

.

.

.

Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it. 

He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too. 

Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged. 

Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.

The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you. 

But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender. 

You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends. 

Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.

Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it. 

Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date. 

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.

You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see. 

Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?” 

A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.” 

“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?” 

“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.

Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.” 

“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—” 

“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”  

“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.” 

“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.” 

“You sweet on me or something, bon?”

You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match. 

The silence was suffocating. 

“All right?” 

You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little. 

He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?” 

You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—” 

“You’re apologizing for Soap?” 

Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”

“No.” 

“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.” 

He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.” 

“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—” 

He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”  

“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.” 

“Mm.” 

“I’ll make space.” 

He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him. 

“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.” 

“Aye, LT.” 

He chuckled. “Take care of that.” 

“Teach me how?” 

He nodded. 

“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.” 

“I know.” 

Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier. 

“‘Course you do.” 

.

.

.

Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain. 

His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain. 

The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to. 

He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.

You said he didn’t, after,  but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry. 

You’re hurting me.  

It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable. 

You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over. 

He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain. 

His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls. 

There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins. 

Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little. 

“Johnny.” 

Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—” 

“Does she feel it?”

“What—”

He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”

Soap glanced around, brows raised. “Ye don’t know?” 

“Say I don’t.” 

“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.” 

Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Deserves better.” 

Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.” 

Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father. 

Fucking perfect. 

.

.

.

Two months deployment.  

The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it. 

He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore. 

Maybe, he didn’t really want to.

Maybe, Johnny was right. 

He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with. 

Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle. 

Not as empty as they thought. 

Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward. 

Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise. 

When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her. 

The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang. 

Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes. 

“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked. 

“What?” 

“Soulmates.” 

Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes. 

“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—” 

Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again. 

It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence. 

“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side. 

It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you. 

All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers. 

Just to be sure. 

It took them a long time to get her to leave the body. 

.

.

.

Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months. 

September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag. 

You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of. 

You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together. 

Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day. 

But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—

Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.  

You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.” 

“That disappointed to see me?” 

No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.” 

He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.” 

You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.” 

“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.” 

His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong. 

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?” 

He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained. 

He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand. 

“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”

Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question. 

“Scars.” 

You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales. 

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. 

Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them. 

“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”

He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”  

You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”  

He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.” 

His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.” 

“What?” 

“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?” 

Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly. 

“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.” 

“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—” 

But Simon was determined, his mind set. 

“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.” 

“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?” 

Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed. 

“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall. 

You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you. 

He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—” 

“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be. 

The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly. 

You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck. 

“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.” 

You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught. 

You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they. 

It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet. 

You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.

You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold. 

You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like. 

“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind. 

You opened your eyes.  

“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand. 

He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.  

You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap. 

But if he was yours—

If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him. 

He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear. 

You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“You don’t understand,” he rasped.  

“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.” 

The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.

“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”

He finally returned his gaze to yours. 

“Did it hurt?” 

“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.” 

He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.  

“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.” 

Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.  

You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.” 

His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.” 

Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.

“It’s not fair to you.” 

“What isn’t?” 

“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?” 

You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?” 

He made a pained sound. “Don’t.” 

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”

“You’re supposed to need things from me.”  

He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—” 

“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.” 

You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.” 

“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat. 

“Can.” 

Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours. 

You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.” 

“How long?” 

“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.” 

“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—” 

“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.” 

You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?” 

“No.” 

“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—” 

He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin. 

You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul. 

You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you. 

In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss. 

When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.” 

“Just turning on the lamp.” 

He released you.

As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair. 

“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”

When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa. 

Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly. 

“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?” 

“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth. 

He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.” 

Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped. 

“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers. 

“You don’t want me.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours. 

“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.” 

“Obviously it’s not, bird.” 

Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”

“Simon,” he corrected.  

“Simon,” you echoed. 

He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.” 

You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—” 

“No.”

You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.” 

His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.

It didn’t feel close enough. 

You wished it were all different. 

That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted. 

“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?” 

He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded. 

“Go on, then.” 

Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head. 

You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling. 

Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic. 

Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—” 

You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together. 

“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“Good.” 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Can do anything you like to me, bird.” 

You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.” 

He made a content noise of agreement. 

You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?” 

“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.” 

His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little. 

Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.” 

“What—” 

He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.  

“No more pain?” 

“None.” 

“Good.” 

You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.

“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”  

His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins. 

It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips. 

“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly. 

He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples. 

Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.

“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.

The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.  

soft!ghost who develops the habit of searching for you after every mission without even realizing it. the helicopter lands, the team begins unloading, conversations start up around him and before he's consciously aware of it, his eyes are already scanning the crowd. he's looking for your face. looking for confirmation that you're walking under your own power. looking for proof that you're still here. only once he spots you does something in his chest finally relax. then he carries on as normal, pretending he wasn't worried in the first place.

soft!ghost who starts taking care of things for you in ways so subtle they're almost invisible. you'll struggle with a stubborn strap on your gear and somehow it'll be fixed the next time you look down. you'll misplace a piece of equipment and find a replacement waiting beside your bag. you'll forget your gloves before a training exercise and discover an extra pair sitting exactly where you need them.

for weeks you assume it's coincidence until one day you catch him adjusting something on your vest before a mission. when you thank him, he simply grunts and mutters something about you being a liability if your gear falls apart. but the slight embarrassment in his posture gives him away.

soft!ghost who slowly becomes the person you gravitate toward without either of you planning for it to happen. during long flights, you find yourself sitting beside him because his presence feels grounding. during late nights at base, you end up working at the same table. somehow there always seems to be room next to him even when every other seat is taken.

one day he notices the pattern and comments on it in that low, gravelly voice of his. when you immediately start apologizing, convinced you're bothering him, he looks genuinely confused. somewhere along the way your company stopped feeling like an inconvenience and started feeling like something he quietly looks forward to.

soft!ghost who listens to everything you say, even when you think he isn't paying attention. half the time he'll barely respond while you're talking, offering nothing more than a grunt or a short nod. naturally, you assume most of your words go in one ear and out the other.

then weeks later he'll casually reference something you mentioned once in passing. your favorite snack. a childhood pet. a movie you love. details so small even you forgot mentioning them. and every single time it catches you off guard because nobody has paid attention to you that closely in a very long time.

soft!ghost who becomes increasingly protective of you without realizing how obvious it is. if someone talks down to you during a briefing, they're suddenly met with ghost staring them down until they rethink every decision they've ever made. if training gets particularly rough, he's nearby before anyone else notices you're struggling. if missions become dangerous, he somehow always positions himself where he can keep an eye on you. not because he doubts your abilities. in fact, he trusts your skills completely. but because the thought of something happening to you makes his stomach twist in a way he doesn't know how to handle.

soft!ghost who worries about you constantly but disguises it as irritation. he'll shove a bottle of water into your hand and grumble about dehydration. he'll remind you to sleep, complain when you skip meals, and silently leave painkillers beside your coffee after a rough training session.

every act of care comes wrapped in annoyance because genuine tenderness feels foreign to him. everyone on the team notices what's happening. soap especially finds it endlessly entertaining. meanwhile ghost remains completely convinced that nobody has figured him out.

soft!ghost who discovers he likes making you laugh far more than he should. after years of operating in environments where humor is usually dark and fleeting, your laughter becomes something he craves.

he'll make dry comments under his breath just to see your smile appear. sometimes he'll deliberately set you up for a joke, pretending not to know exactly what you're going to say. and every single time you laugh, his eyes soften in a way that would shock anyone who knew him before.

soft!ghost who starts lowering his walls around you one piece at a time. not all at once, and never intentionally. it happens in fragments. an old story from childhood. a memory from before the military. a quiet confession shared during a sleepless night. every piece of himself he offers feels carefully measured, as though he's testing whether you'll hold it gently. and every time you do, every time you listen without judgment, he finds it becoming easier to trust you with the next piece.

soft!ghost who realizes he's fallen in love with you during the most ordinary moment imaginable. not during a mission. not after a near-death experience. not in some dramatic cinematic revelation. he's simply watching you laugh with the team one afternoon, sunlight spilling through the windows, your smile completely unguarded. and suddenly it hits him. hard.

after years spent surviving, after years of keeping everyone at arm's length, you've somehow become the person he searches for first in every room. the person whose happiness matters to him more than his own.

soft!ghost who takes months to say "i love you," even after he knows exactly what he feels. the words sit heavily in his chest because loving someone means risking loss, and loss is something he's intimately familiar with.

but eventually you say it first. softly. without expectation. and for a moment he just stares at you. then he reaches up, cups your face in his hands, and rests his forehead against yours. when he finally says the words back, his voice is so quiet you almost miss it. but you've never heard him sound more sincere. as though those three words are the most precious thing he's ever been trusted with.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

  it takes you a minute to hear ryland’s voice through the comms, something about waiting for a response. however, the pulsating sensation blocks out any noise coming through your ear piece. standing up, you try to step forward again, only to have to brace yourself against the wall. “y/n!” ryland’s voice is louder this time, almost like he’s only feet away from you. 

  and he is. his glasses are loosely falling down his nose, jumpsuit tied around his waist. he quickly runs up to you, jumping over any of the fallen objects, hands first grabbing your shoulders. finding their way to your face, ryland’s thumb presses back your hair, looking at the small gash by your hairline. you hadn’t noticed the blood dripping down onto your suit, the adrenaline and headache seemingly distracting you enough from it. 

  “why didn’t you tell me you’re bleeding?” he questions, hands framing your face, keeping you tangibly within his sphere.

  “why grace worried, question?” rocky’s translation plays through the ship, body rolling through one of his ducts, arms clicking together in worry. he paces back and forth in his enclosed chamber, skittering noises ringing through the room.

  squinting your eyes, you reach your hands out to stabilize yourself against him. “i- i didn’t realize i was bleeding. i must’ve slipped after the centrifuge turned on..” you bring one hand up to your head, only for it to be moved by ryland’s, clearly worried you may injure yourself further, “is the tau amoeba okay?” 

  ryland’s eyebrows furrow, questioning how you could still even be thinking of them when blood is dripping from your head. “so you don’t remember falling over? what do you last remember?” he was never really trained in medical training, only knowing a few techniques from his anatomy courses. 

  “walking away from the cockpit, finding a place to hold onto so you could turn the centrifuge on.. um i don’t remember much past that,” you keep your hands gripped on him, one against his bicep and the other holding a fistful of his shirt.

  “can rocky do anything, question?” the sound of his arms clattering around in his xenonite tunnel followed quickly behind, “is grace listening, question?”

  ryland looks between the two of you, one of his hands scratching the back of his head. taking in a deep breath, he wraps your arm around his shoulders, wrapping his around your waist to keep you upright. “i am listening buddy, you can meet me by the bunks and med kits. there should be something i can use to stop the bleeding,” he talks as he trudges with you towards the first aid kits, fingers anxiously pressing into your side.

  the walk there is treacherous as he feels some of the blood drip onto his hand. each drop sends an image to his head, one of you slumped over with him having run out of time. biting his lip, he can feel his heartbeat racing at the sight of your sleeping arrangements, knowing that you’re mere feet from some supplies. 

  as ryland steps into the room, rocky is sitting patiently in the xenonite bubble, arm tapping rapidly at the window. cautiously setting you down on one of the beds, he turns around to grab one of the first aid kits. even though this was a suicide mission, stratt made sure there were supplies in case the astronauts needed them, something ryland was very quickly appreciating.

  his thumb trembles as it pops the lid open, eyes staring down at the assortment of supplies. “y/n, i’m going to clean the wound, can- can you sit still?” he grabs antiseptic wipes, tearing one of the little packages open.

  “i think i can sit still,” your eyes squint as you look up at him, tears building in the corners, your typical sarcastic tone hidden within your voice.

  leaning forward, ryland steadies one hand below your chin, keeping it up. his other hand slowly wipes near the wound with an antiseptic wipe. quickly, though, he swipes it across the scrape, causing a groan to escape your lips. your hand immediately reaches up to grab his forearm, squeezing hard. “holy crap, ryland that stings.”

  “i’m sorry, it just needs to be cleaned before i can use the butterfly stitches,” ryland runs his thumb across your chin, massaging gently, almost absentmindedly.

  “grace scared, question? extremity tapping quickly against floor,” rocky observes, his musical chittering bringing ryland back to his senses.

  ryland looks back at rocky with a raised eyebrow, hands starting to feel clammy from his now perceived audience. shaking his head, he sets the antiseptic wipe down in the first aid kit, grabbing out a small gauze pad to stop the bleeding. “i’ve just never been much of a doctor before, rocky.”

  “you’re not giving me a lot of confidence, ry,” you let go of his forearm, raising your hand to block some of the hail mary’s overhead lighting. 

  “sorry- sorry, this’ll be over soon,” ryland uses one hand to keep the gauze in place while grabbing medical tape. his pinkie pushes back your hair as he tapes the gauze down, soaking up any leaking blood. it looks wonky on your forehead, however, he’s just happy he was able to help you without passing out.

  walking to the entrance of the room, he turns off the overhead lights, trying to help the headache blaring through your head. “as soon as you’re feeling better we can perform a rudimentary concussion test, i’m sure i can find a book on it in the system…” he walks back over to you, closing up the first aid kit before setting it off to the side.

  “thank you, ryland, i appreciate it,” you lean back on the bed, letting the cushioning surround you.

  “yeah, i’m going to check on the tau amoeba, letting me know if your headache gets worse,” ryland walks back up to the bed, leaning down before kissing your forehead, not even realizing he did it as he did.

  “-y/n?” the sound of ryland’s voice pulls up from your thoughts, hands raising to wipe away the streaks of tears on your cheeks.

  taking in a deep breath, you turn your head to look over at his cot. his body is now facing you, the whites of his eyes glowing softly within the darkness. ryland’s elbow is pressed against the bed, his hand balled up into a fist as it presses against his chin. just beyond his hand, you can just barely make out a softened expression.

  “uh- yeah, ryland?” your hands rest on your stomach, the lingering feeling of tears still coating the back of your palms..

  “can’t sleep?” his fist unfurls, chin now resting in the palm of his hand.

  biting your lip, you nod against your pillow. the movement is slow, gentle. “yeah, i’m just used to you guys making so much noise out there, it’s actually kind of relaxing. it’s a little too quiet in here,” you confess, turning your head to look back up the ceiling, trying not to look too long into his compassionate eyes that could make anyone expel their greatest fears. 

  the moment sits there in the everlasting silence, like you’ve already said too much. “i can go if you’d like,” ryland continues to stare over at you, eyebrows slightly raised.

  your head whips around quicker than you had meant for it to. looking back at him, for a second, you hope that your need for human connection can be communicated through your longing eye contact. however, you knew that that would not suffice as an answer. “no- uh, no you’re fine. it’s nice not falling asleep alone for once, you know? in separate beds… of course,” you ramble, stumbling over your words as you talk. 

  ryland’s tired smile doesn’t go unnoticed by you, his cheeks rounding out and his eyes squinting shut a little. even in the darkness, you’re able to tell when he’s smiling in the way his whole face smiles with it. “yeah, it is nice. we should make this a thing more, having like a set sleeping period,” he speaks without thinking, pursing his lips when he sees you smiling back.

  “didn’t take you for a grown man with a bedtime,” it garners a small laugh from you, enough to have him red in the face (or at least you assume so, with the light being too dim to tell). 

  “not necessarily a bedtime, but more like-“ he starts trying to defend himself, only causing you to laugh more, new tears building up at the corner of your eyes.

  shaking your hand at him, you forcibly stop yourself from laughing anymore at him. “i’m messing with you ry, no, i think it’s a great idea. do you think we could have mary play some mechanical noises or something? for the illusion of course,” the nickname comes out of your mouth and neither of you really seem to notice, just slipping into your natural vernacular. 

  “there is something oddly relaxing about the clanging of metal… does the silence bother you much?” ryland’s tone changes, a little more serious now.

  biting your lip, you stare back up at the ceiling, eyes becoming glossy. “yeah. sometimes it sounds too much like earth, you know? like i can still hear the cars driving past my apartment window, rain running down the gutters,” your fingers fiddle together, grounding yourself, “i think i would’ve gone crazy if you didn’t survive. or if we didn’t bump into rocky.”

  “i know what you mean,” you look back at him, watching as he shuffles onto his back as well, head still tilted back towards you. staring into his eyes, you forget for a second that you’re in space, that you’re not just next to someone you’ve grown fond of over the past year. “i miss my bike, and my kids- my students.”

  “it just feels so lonely sometimes.”

  “it doesn’t have to,” he whispers, you’re not quite sure if he had meant to, or if there was just something so vulnerable about the idea that it came out meek.

  you let it ruminate for a second, the silence for once becoming something warm. his gaze peers back at you, waiting for you to say something, do anything. your arm slowly extends out to him, hand opened wide for him to grab. he quickly reciprocates the gesture, holding your hand in his. the back of his hand has a distinct softness that is quickly opposed by the roughness of his palm. 

  your arm starts to cramp in this position, however, you only grip harder to keep a hold of him. his fingers shift slightly within your touch as he massages your knuckles. it’s calming, gentle. you hadn’t meant to fall asleep like this, to fall asleep within his touch. and you didn’t think rocky would wake up to find the two of you still connected. which resulted in many questions about human mating rituals and relationships… 

“Not to mention, you complain all the time about your tiredness, and stomach aches and constip—”

“Okay— okay we get it!” You elbow over Ghost before he can blurt out anything else, face burning with heat. In your defence, you had told him all of that in full confidence and here he was telling everyone in the mess hall! It’s not your fault you were lacking on fibre. “Point is.. I haven't had sugar in a whole day, and I'm going crazy!” You groan, letting your head thump against the table dramatically as Soap chuckles, watching the display.

“How do you even survive deployments? Not exactly getting a teacake fix out there.”

“She doesn't.” Ghost huffs, shaking his head as he yanks your head up by your collar to reveal your exaggerated frown. “Came back from an op with chocolate smeared on her face before she even got in the shower.”

“I was gone for ages, that’s not my fault!”

“Of course it is, you have a sugar problem.”

—

As expected since he declared it last night after receiving the reports, he was not letting you have anything in the slightest. So, when you went on your weekly shopping in the nearest Tesco, you were immediately denied everything you tried to get.

“It had fruits and nuts!” You argue, pointing at the snack bars he’d taken from your hands to place back onto the shelves again.

“And chocolate. You can just eat fruit, you know.”

He carries on walking before you can argue about the convenience of the bar, and instead tosses you a bag of dried fruit followed by plain oats that look far less appetising than the one you picked out. “There, much better.” You eye the bag of fruit suspiciously, knowing it’ll taste bitter and probably like cardboard on your tongue. 

It’s later when you’re both restocking cereal that he stops you from adding your knock off coco pops you’ve been having for months, replacing with a much ‘healthier’ option. “I’m not even going to eat these—you are.” Unsurprisingly, he doesn't react to your words, only walking over and plucking the cereal box out of your hands just to replace it with bland oats. “Suppose you’ll just starve then.” 

Of course, you did try, sneaking into the rec room whilst you knew he was in a briefing.

“Where is it..” You hum to yourself, trying to find where he had locked away the stash you keep under your bed. It wasn't the worst deal, considering you had some inside the vent, and also in the pockets of your dress uniform that you never even used. Except.. He found all of that as well, and you had to sit and watch as he packed it into a neat bag to be taken away forever.

You open the cupboard where you saw him store your air fryer last time he confiscated it..only you’re met by an absolute mess of things shoved inside. Are they hiding a body back here? Well, all the more proof it could be right behind. 

You begin to take out some carrier bags, full of all kinds of things, one even definitely has mould all over it. “Yikes.. what the hell?” 

You spend the better end of the hour, organising all the random unlabelled boxes and throwing out the occasional one that looks like it could be nurturing the next virus. Okay, maybe you were being a bit dramatic, but it was obvious that something wasn’t right.

Either way, you can feel the joy re-enter your body when you see the familiar bag right at the back. That’s the same sticker you took off a random fruit— and the pin you got from that random course you accidentally joined!

Finally, you can sink your teeth into something sweet that isn't fruit that isn't in even season, maybe some chocolate you left over? Perhaps a couple of haribos? Your mouth was watering and—-

“Nice try.” You look up at Ghost who stands behind you, arms crossed firmly over his chest like a child caught eating sugar. Wait— you basically are doing that.

You slam your hand into the bag before he can stop you, pulling out the first thing you see and ripping it open. The smirk on your face is devious as you chew into it only for you to start to taste the familiar dryness and dull taste of yet another plain protein bar.

Confused, you tip the whole bag out, all the bars falling in tandem and not a single sign of your chocolate anywhere.

——-

“He tricked me!”

“No I didn't, you chose to eat that. Not my fault you assumed it was chocolate.” Ghost stuffs another bite of chicken in his mouth, pushing his brussel sprouts into your plate just to piss you off even more.

“It’s going to go on forever until I'm a skeleton!” You groan, hands grasping Gaz’s arm in a desperate plea for vengeance. “Gaz please..”

“When does this so-called diet end anyway? It’s been almost a week now.” He takes the brussels sprout off your plate to eat himself, and then a couple of carrots, since you’re too busy leaning on him dramatically.  

“Until she stops trying to get it. Patience is a very important trait.”

“I have plenty of patience.” You argue, sitting up straight and pointing a finger directly at Ghost. “Who has to wait months for you to come home and sort out your smelly laundry? Or how about when you take so long in the shower, huh?”

“You take two hour baths.” He deadpans, and you stammer before Soap comes up opposite you, taking a seat. 

“Lt takes forever getting tae sleep sometimes. It’s bloody annoying when we ‘ave to share a sleeping bag.”

“That too! You always roll around and squash me, and then you start snoring!” You say proudly, knowing you don't move an inch in your sleep most times so basically you’ve won this. Just to rub it in his face, you high five Soap right in front of him, grinning.

“Am I the only one questioning how you’re getting squashed? Don't you have separate beds?”

You and Ghost lock eyes instantly as Gaz speaks up, and he quickly looks down at his plate to finish the food and get out of there. “She’s being dramatic.”

“He’s right I was being dramatic because o-once I was super tired and the lights were out, and I went to his bed accidentally, that's all!” You squeak out cheeks burning as you hurry to give them a reasonable answer.

This time Gaz and Soap lock eyes, a smirk rising on both their faces as they turn to you— of course they’d never get anything out of their lieutenant.

“Is he warm or really cold? Does he hug ya?” Soap nudges you under the table just as Ghost elbows him sharply before glaring at him. 

“Both of you shut up— now. None of that happened you bloody freaks.”

“None of what happened?” Price arrives with his own lunch, and you immediately shoot upright. If this is the moment you get baited out you do not want to witness the Captain’s reaction.

“I- I have to go. Goodbye!”

—————

The shower doors open as you sit beneath your covers, laptop settled on your lap as you sip at your unfortunately plain milk today. Your chocolate powder being confiscated was your last straw.

“Tomorrow I'm actually sleeping in.” He groans as he pulls his shirt over his head, leaving his damp hair to dry since the hair dryer had almost caught on fire last week. He checks his desk one last time, making sure he’s got nothing outstanding before he makes his way over to your bed.

“They were just teasing about the sleeping together thing— you don't actually have to sleep here now.” He hums, stealing more than a pea sized amount of your moisturiser to rub across his arms and neck. 

“Well, it doesn't matter because I'm not sleeping in your bed anymore.” You huff, carrying on with whatever odd game you’re playing today on your laptop.

“Alright, fine. We’ll sleep in yours then— you’re the only person who complains.” He sits on the bed finally only to stand upright when he realises he sat on your foot.. which is upright and digging into him. “Move up, I’m tired.”

“You have a bed, use it.” 

He narrows his eyes at your petty actions, and then realises you look so awkward because you’re actually laid out like a starfish.

“We always share a bed on weekends. What is this about now?”

“I want my chocolate back”

He groans as you stubbornly go back to playing your game, and giving him zero room in the already small bed. “No, I’m not giving it to you. It's for your own health.”

“You enjoy watching me suffer!”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs and then turns back, heading to his own. “Fine. I was only doing it for your sake anyway. You’re the one who likes to cling to me at night.”

——————

“Oh come on— you won't even let me touch you?”

The entire weekend went by with you stubbornly refusing to sleep beside him and when he tried to watch a movie with you today, you wouldn't even let him settle next to you. He was trying to stay as strong as you were in this, still banning you from your chocolates, but this was starting to grate on his nerves.

It’s not his fault— it’s the break in routine that’s all. He’s gone months without you, so it’s not like he craves your touch that badly. But when you’re right there, and you won't even let him touch you?

Finally, your next blood test comes around, which you go in alone for since you’re determined to turn your nose up at him until this is over. However, even when he receives the results that end up far better than the last time.. you still don't break. He lets you have more of your snacks again, lets you eat chocolate bars late at night.. and still, not even a peep of affection from you.

His last strength almost snaps when he sees you sitting on the couch with Soap too— what the hell is he doing with you?

“Oh, Ghost is here.” You deadpan at him like you’ve been doing for the whole week, and it’s killing him. 

“Just grabbing a snack.” Luckily he wouldn't be a SAS operator for nothing, and so he walks to sit right opposite you two. 

You bite your tongue before you straight up lunge at him. Of all things he’s munching on a damn ice cream bar— he doesn't even like them! He says it’s too sweet and way too much in one bite, and now he has the audacity to sit there whilst you’ve been deprived of sugar for two whole weeks?

“You alright, sugar?” Damn him for that— for that stupid nickname and even Soap snickering beside you, and even more when he holds out a bar for you. “You want one?”

Even if he had been giving you chocolates, you could only get this ice cream from a different store a little further out. In fact, it wasn't reachable by the bus you usually take to town, and was a lengthy walk too… But you’re supposed to be mad at him! You wanted him to grovel damnit, but isn't this what you also wanted? A perfect sugar hit? 

“It’s probably yoghurt isn't it.” You scowl, crossing your arms firmly over your chest as you try to keep yourself from giving in. There’s a smear of chocolate beside his lips too— you could just reach out and..

“Nope, your favourite, actually.” When you reach forward he snatches it back, just out of your grasp and you glare at him. “Simon.”

 It’s then that Soap excuses himself. Although thoroughly entertained, Simon did pay him off to do this on purpose. He still doesn't know what you have over his head, but he knows it must be serious for him to ask this kind of favour.

The door clicks as he leaves, and he takes another lick of the ice cream bar, making sure to exaggerate the noises. “You have to come sit ‘ere if you want it”

The ticks of the clock seem to be loud in your ears as you hesitate to move forward, just watching his fingers crinkle the plastic covering it. It’s probably melting in there.. just like the one in his hands. You can see it slowly moving down, calling out to you, to just lick away that melting drop until—

“Gotcha.” His arm wraps around your shoulders when you eventually give in and move over.

“Give me it—“ You reach over and snatch it from his hands, ripping it open in a matter of seconds and only pausing when you get a sudden brain freeze.

“Told you that you have no patience.”

You don't care for what he’s saying anymore, too focused on eating away the chocolate shell and savouring every last taste of it. What is he even saying anyway? You deserved this after how hard you work and—

His lips press to your cheek as he leads you to lean against him, tucked into his body, and his hand rubbing up and down his side. 

“You got chocolate on my cheek!” You groan, trying to wipe it off, but he stops you from doing so, instead getting his phone out to snap a picture of your wide eyes, mouth smeared in chocolate.

“And that’s my proof for your next blood test. In case you decide to go against my diet again.”

“Hey! Delete that! That’s forged— you put the chocolate there!”

“Maybe I should print it out and put it as a warning in the infirmary?” He offers, and you roll your eyes, opting to just savour your ice cream before you really shove it in his face. 

“Don't you dare.” You narrow your eyes at him, but he grabs your waist before you could even try to escape. 

“Alright alright. I’ll buy you a new pack of ice cream. At least you can actually go on your next deployment now.” 

“You won't be able to go on yours when I throw your gear into the lake.” You retaliate instantly but make yourself comfortable against him regardless. He lets you lean your head on his shoulder, giving him the widest grin you can.  “Can I get that cereal back now?”

“Take it from me, kid. Chocolate filled cereal is not the way to go.”  Your head snaps to the door in horror as Price casually walks in towards the kitchenette, not even commenting on how you’re basically snuggling his lieutenant.

“S-sir, I can explain–” You stammer, scrambling to sit up right and practically kicking him away from you.

“Oh yeah– take it from the great ol’ captain and have a cig for breakfast instead.” Simon huffs out, seemingly unfazed.

You can only glance between them as Price just rolls his eyes. “When I get you up early you sound like you do, Lieutenant.” Finally, he locks eyes with you, your embarrassed face and hands practically planted on the edge of the couch like you’re ready to bolt. “I’ll turn a blind eye to this if you defend me.”

“At least Price doesn't use bourbon as mouthwash” You instantly retaliate to Simon, pointing a finger at his chest accusingly. He’s literally never done that in his life, and he could definitely think of a million things to clap back at you with right now.. But he won't. At least not directly.  

“Would you like me to show Price the muddy puddle that made it look like you shit yourself?”

“Don't you dare—!” You yelp, instantly trying to grab the hand that reaches for his phone, struggling and failing to get it out his hands. “Stop— give me—“ 

“I.. didn't know WWE was on today.” You hear Gaz say behind you, followed by a camera snap which you can only assume captured you practically tackling Simon against the couch like a rabid dog. 

That’s how two new photos get added to Simon's wallet, and you lose a little more dignity. 

-----------------------------------------------------------

posting this now because i know i probably will definetly forget

rookie masterlist

“Well the Captain asked if I could man the electronics since the usual guy is sick today.” You grin at him, waving at Ghost who walks by equally as confused as to how you’ve appeared out of thin air and then Soap who comes over and grins. 

“Lass! You’ve come to set off some bombs with us?”

Sometimes it was more simple things, like coming to his office and helping him organise a clutter of paperwork that just got dropped on him. Other times you stood next to him handing the occasional tool as he fixed the ceiling light in the rec room that had been bugging him.

The short Easter break had rolled around, a 4 day weekend where most soldiers would get to take off the Friday and Monday to spend with families. Everyone in your age and rank would be doing the same, so Kyle was surprised again to find you sat by the small lake the track ran near to.

“Do you always just linger around everywhere?” He says, towering above where you’re sat so when you look up, you squeal and close the book you were holding. 

“Gaz!” You gasp in surprise, and he’s mentally pleased you took out the title this time. “Why are you still here?”

“Could ask you the same thing.” He hums, coming to sit down beside you, his boots shining in the midday sun. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, a faint sheen of sweat on his head that he wipes away as he turns to look at you. “Arent you leaving for Easter?”

You just shrug, putting the book down on the grass  before plucking a strand out to fiddle with. “Nah. Parents don't exactly like the idea of me being in the military. My friends are spending time with their families too.”

He hums softly with your words, understanding the parental rejection all too well. His own almost did the same to him, but they eventually learnt to live with it. Of course, he got lucky considering you got the worse outcome. 

“I’m leaving Sunday mornin’ so I'll be here till then. We can go out to town if you like. But I am a little busy..” He sighs, wanting to spend his time hanging out too but unfortunately special forces rarely get a chance at a good holiday, let alone visiting home. Ghost was already out on a mission too which was just a cherry on top.

Your eyes widen at his offer regardless, staring at him like he just offered you a flight halfway across the world. Then just as fast you get shy, quickly turning back to fiddling with the grass. “I’ll see if there’s anything good going on in town.”

“Oi, Kyle, Roach, slacking off are yo—“ You hear the Captain yell out, only to pause when you both whip your heads around as he approaches with a heavy frown. “Did you miss the bus to town or something?”

You stare at him dumbfounded, mostly because he had mistaken you for an entirely different operator in the first place. “W-well.. I've got nothing to do and flat prices aren't cheap.” 

“Huh, you’re the type who blows their bonuses fast.”

“It’s in savings!”

—

The base got quieter as each day passed, until you’re pretty sure it was only you and the Captain left here. Even if Gaz and another sergeant was around, they were way too holed up in their own work. You should know— you put the responsibility onto yourself to help them out the best you can. Or rather, you were procrastinating on your own work. There were some things you needed to get done in order to go on deployment after the break but you’ve been putting it off forever now. When they asked if anyone wanted to transfer into other jobs, you had agreed, but you didn't realise the lengthy process you’d have to take just to even begin training. Plus, you’ve been assigned a mentor to help you choose your path to specialise in further.. but they weren't the best help.

“You don't look busy, Mind lending me a hand?” Price had walked past, noticing you staring blankly at your laptop. It was true, you really weren't that busy anyway. So, you left it to go and help him install some shelves instead. It took your mind off of it for the most part, at least until he had gotten a call and had to run off, leaving you alone in his office.

-

That happened a few more times, and the only out of the ordinary was that you were practically non- high rank on base. And well, no wonder he always called on you anyway. Gaz was always busy with mission preparations, so was Soap up until the one day he took off, and Ghost was still on deployment. Truly you had no one to talk to but the Captain, but even then, you were lucky if he was on a call this time. What once was something you enjoyed helping with became a silent dread.

You had spent the entirety of the evening working on your not-really-but-basically-an-essay, and you were relieved that you were somewhat halfway through it.

He walks by you as you sit at the lake, taking a break to pitifully skip rocks across the water. “The team really loved their new cabinets, kid.”

“What?” You blink, turning towards him in confusion. What cabinets? You never put any up for any team. “I didn't—-“

Suddenly you remember him asking you to assemble it yesterday morning, right after you sweat through helping him fix the squeaky gym machines in their more private training room. 

“Oh my— I'm so sorry.” You scramble upwards, not letting him get a word in even as he tries to placate you. Instead you pick up the little notes and shove them messily into your pockets, already dashing inside to get a head start on them.

—

You’ve been acting funny ever since that day, Price has noticed. People have slowly started to filter back in after Easter Sunday passed but you’ve been staying inside your room even more.

Still, you ask him every morning if he needs anything, but it seems to be a little bit out of fear rather than genuinely wanting to help like before. It makes him a bit guilty, knowing that he might’ve taken advantage of you. 

He’s had to take over another captain’s usual job for a little bit, since he suddenly got sent out for a critical mission. It’s nothing serious, just approving the soldiers who go through to different teams— kind of like a job application process.

Well, he’s finally read through all the ones that have been submitted so far. There’s only around fifty who haven't sent in their application yet and he usually doesn't think much of those ones, especially the later they leave it. He glances through the names of those he’s waiting for, pausing on a particular name— your name.

So that’s what had you all worked up.

—— —— —— ——

“Kid, we’re going out. Come on.” He knocks on your door early the following morning, and hears a soft bang. “Ow! Okay— one second!”

The door swings open promptly a minute later, jacket half hanging from your shoulders and your cozy pajama shirt peeking out from beneath. Are those bunnies? Either way, your hair is all tousled too, heavy bags beneath your eyes and he can tell you’ve been working on it all night now. Just like you’ve been doing for days.

“C’mon, we’ll be late.” He marches off and you follow, adjusting your shirt and throwing your hood over your head as you follow him through the biting cold and into the parking lot where he’s got a car waiting. 

It’s a twenty minute drive before you arrive at the retail park, hurrying out as he heads towards the nearest diy store. Was another bulb broken? Maybe a door this time— or a cabinet?

Instead he heads for the lighting section, picking up a floor lamp and asking you to push the trolley around as he goes. Huh, you wanted a floor lamp too.. may as well look at the cheapest ones since most of your paycheck was going towards streaming plans and paying back student loans. 

He goes around a while longer, and you finally yawn when he tells you to wait a section away from him, your eyes drooping. You may have saved the largest part of the application as a draft but you needed to submit it asap. Except you were here, trying your best to help the Captain out.

“Thanks for your help, kid. Reckon you deserve a reward, no?” He plants his hands on his hips as you pack the last piece of wood into the boot, before tiredly smiling at him. Probably a coffee from the nearest costa, right? Maybe a pastry from Lidl just round the corner.

So you followed him across the parking lot, all the way to a.. home furniture store. This time he takes the trolley, and leads you right to the bedding section.

“So? Go on, I heard you asking Gaz what mattress he uses. Pick the one you want.”

You blink at him once, twice, before realising he’s genuinely being serious when he tries to nudge your frozen form forward with a laugh. Your eyes scan the price tags, pretending to meaningfully look and drag your hand across the surface whilst you look for the cheapest option. That is until your hand stops on one, it’s soft, enough for you to press into it comfortably but still hard enough to maintain some form. It’s perfect.. but that price isn't the ideal. Probably way too much he’s willing to pay. Maybe you can look on ebay instead and—-

“Excuse me. I need that mattress delivered to this address..”

You turn to see him calling over a worker who nods along to his words, pulling out their ordering device and tapping in the details. It’s not long before he takes you to grab pillows too, the soft ones that will cushion your head just right. Well— you might as well just get a new sheet too, since you’re going all out.

“Sir— i cant thank you enough i mean you really dont have to i can pay for the pillows and stuff and—”

“Enough. You’ve helped me more than enough, just returning a favour. Besides, Simon needs something better for his back.”

You nod along quickly, having not even thought of that.. before your jaw promptly drops as you turn to stare at him. 

“What? You think I didn't know? I was the one who assigned you to his room, you know.” 

The ride home is silent, more so because every time you try to speak up you immediately get even more embarrassed. He chuckles at the sight, instead deciding to tell you every time he got closer to realising what your relationship had truly become. 

————-

“Looking good.” He hums as he leans against the wall, having swung by when his schedule freed up to see you setting up the last of your new bed. It’d taken a while to assemble the new frame and the floor lamp he also surprised you with. The main light was way too bright for your eyes you always said. 

“Thanks to you.” You grin, glancing at the time only to panic immediately upon realising how late it got. “Wait, it’s already ten pm?! I need to finish my—“

“—application? Well, it was more than qualified enough already.” He holds your laptop up in his hand as you turn to look at him, and the realisation dawns in your head as he places it down on your little bedside table. “Read through it whilst I grabbed dinner. They’d be stupid to not let you in.”

“W-wait really? You don't think it sounds too ambitious and unrealistic?” 

“Some people are a little too obvious they’re in it for the benefits. Yours is a nice change of pace.” He huffs out, rolling his eyes at the soldiers who clearly hadn't bothered to spend much time on their applications. “You know you can ask me these things right? I practically handle these applications often enough.”

“Thank you.” You swallow, trying your best not to throw yourself on him in a tight hug. The whole week was going to be entirely stress free thanks to him, and you couldn't wait to sleep tonight. “And for the bed.. and for pairing me with Ghost.”

“Hm, don't know what you're talking about.” He feigns innocence as he leaves, stealing an oreo from the open pack on the side table.

——————

It’s four pm when Simon comes through the door, looking absolutely exhausted and heading straight for the shower before you can even say a word to him. Oh well, you’re just too happy because you slept on that mattress tonight and had the best morning of your life waking up on those soft pillows. Plus, now Price has helped you with the application and even added a few last pointers to your document, you have the whole day to play games.

“Really? Is this how you spent your break?” Simon’s tired voice echoes out from behind you as he peers over your shoulder, coming to sit on the edge of your bed. “Is it just me or is your bed higher..?”

“And softer!” You grin, not even looking up to finish the current match you were in. “Price bought me it, totally spoiled me you know. It’s amazing, Si.”

His hand slips beneath the covers to feel the mattress and surely enough you’re completely right— it totally is. “Oh.. he did mention you helping him out a lot. Good on you sweetheart.” He hums, sliding beneath the covers and letting out an instant sigh when he feels the mattress mold around him.

“See? I earned it, and this video game.” You hum, eyes narrowing as you concentrate, fingers tapping against the keys consecutively. There’s a slight weight at your side but you choose to ignore it. “I totally owe him a little bit though, maybe I should make him tea everyday this week..”

Finally you finish the match, letting out a groan and placing your laptop down for a second. “So you want me to grab your usual food or—“ You feel another light nudge against your leg only to see his face squashed against your pillows and his chest rising and falling softly. Well, at least he'd be getting a good rest, even if his back is pressing into you enough to make you become one with the wall.  ——————————

Ugshshd sorry for the mid chapter

rookie masterlist

Simon is delivered bodily to your front door on evening, wretchedly drunk, tottering between two men you vaguely recognize from a faded photograph. 

He crashes into you with all the grace of a felled oak tree, and you tip into the wall beside the door, crushed between his body and the plaster. Heat and discomfort lurches in your stomach but you hold onto him anyway, because you and the wall are the only thing keeping him upright. 

The lads, his teammates you can only surmise, disappear back down the garden path, weaving into the night with arms around each other, one of them sing-shouting a song you can’t place.

It feels nice, his weight and warmth against you, but you don’t want him to wake the next morning and feel you’ve slipped beneath his trust, betrayed him in some way. 

“Si,” you murmur, “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” 

You manage to get him to lean more on the wall than on you, so you can close the door and lock it. 

To your surprise, his hand fists in the back of your shirt, like he’s reluctant to lose contact with you. Your skin burns, itchy and tight and not used to it. Dull panic skitters like sparks beneath your skin.

It’s always been like this, the soft press of anyone’s touch is like being delicately, deliberately bruised. You crave it and fear it in equal measure. You’ve been without it for so long, that any touch is overwhelming, confusing, likely undeserved. 

Simon reaches past you, under your arm, to rattle the door knob, checking your work, physically reassuring himself it’s locked. 

His fingers brush your ribs as he does, like it's the most natural thing in the world, that you are always this close. 

You freeze, feeling overwhelmed, maybe a little ambushed and not sure how to navigate this, if Simon will resent you for letting it happen when he’s decidedly more sober. 

Satisfied the door is locked, he braces his palm against it and pushes himself upright, and you’re reminded very suddenly that he cares for you, that you trust him. 

He still doesn’t release you, staring down at where you’re jammed uncomfortably tight between him and the door. There’s something tender in his dark eyes. 

“You alright?” You ask, trying to gently work yourself out of his grasp to help him to bed. “Let's get you to bed..”

His brows furrow and his fist unclenches, the flat of his palm sliding down your back instead. “Come ‘ere.” 

You blink. “I’m here.” 

Simon nudges you toward the couch, and you have to wedge your arm beneath his shoulder to support him part of the way. You can’t imagine how much he must have imbibed to be this drunk at his size.

His breath leaves him in a huff as he drops down onto the sofa and drags you down with him. 

This is different too, but the initial unfamiliar discomfort of it is fading. When he twists with you in his arms and you find yourself crowded between the back of the sofa and his bulk, you don’t mind. One massive arm threads behind your back. 

Propped up on his elbow he looks down at you, something calculating and unreadable in his eyes before it calcifies into something firm. 

In one swift movement, he reaches up with the opposite hand and tugs the black surgical mask off of his face. 

You are left staring at each other for the first time, bodies crushed together into a heap for the first time. Your chest feels tight, something fragile behind your ribs fluttering softly. “Oh,” you murmur, drinking in his face. “Hey.” 

His expression is guarded, eyes flat dark pools regarding you with a sudden wariness. Scarring treads across his face like footprints left in the snow, across his lips and chin, a jagged, raised line over his cheek. 

You’ve never seen anyone more beautiful. True, but also just because it’s his face. 

You lift your hand tentatively, unsure. Your carefully maintained boundaries have been upset and you aren’t sure where the line is anymore. It hangs in the air between you, suspended animation. 

Simon is still regarding you cautiously, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to add to the collection. 

The vulnerability of it shocks you. Not just that he has trusted you to know his face, but everything underneath. There is no Ghost in the room to protect him. It’s you and Simon and all the fleshy, unarmored parts of him. 

“Regretting it?” Giving him a chance to walk it back, no harm no foul. 

“Yet to be seen,” he answers, sounding distinctly more sober than before. He glances at your still hovering hand. “Go on.” 

“Will you hate me in the morning?” 

“No hatin’ you, love.” 

“Are you sure? You’re drunk.”

“No’ that drunk,” he counters. “I’ve been thinking about it. Wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t sure.” 

Your mouth twitches, amused, and you nod. “You’re sure about me, huh?”

He makes a grunt that functions as a warning and an agreement. 

“You’re beautiful,” you say, just to say it, just so he knows. 

“I’ve been told,” he says, dry as ever, something cocky and surefooted just beneath. 

“Oh, and humble as well. Have I ever said?” 

You press the tips of your fingers against his scarred cheek before he can retort, thumbing against the raised line of keloid scarring, then the corner of his mouth, the rough edge of his jaw and chin. 

It’s easy, you realize, to touch him. To be touched by him.

He’s lying on you and you don’t feel the usual pulse of anxiety and trepidation. 

The buzz under your skin has faded to a muted hum, soothed by his weight against yours instead of trapped by it. 

Maybe because the foundation of trust has already been laid, maybe because it doesn’t feel as though he’s taking something from you but giving instead. 

His body shudders, relaxes slowly against yours. You feel the hard planes of his body loosen in increments, soften like melted butter. 

It’s mesmerizing. 

You brush his skin, not aiming to touch any particular part of him, but not avoiding anything either. You thumb at his lips, the cracked edge of his mouth, trace the bridge of his nose and the webbed scarring at the edge of his jaw. 

Tentatively, he releases your wrist, lowers his palm to your hip, watching you intently, thumb skating along your side in a little arc. 

“I’m not good at this,” you murmur.  

“Seems like you’re doing okay.”

You shake your head. “I get so scared.” You feel his expression change against your hands before you feel his body lock up again, guarded again. “No, not like—It just feels as though I’m not meant for this,” you hasten to continue. 

“For what?” His voice is hard, the sharp  edge of Ghost looming. Cautious, testing. A spiderweb crack in very thin ice. 

“Something this easy,” you admit in a revealing, reverent whisper. “This. . . safe.” 

He uncoils again, with that admission. “You’re safe,” he says, an agreement. A statement of fact. 

It goes unsaid but you hear it anyway. You’re safe with him. 

Here, squeezes beneath him, you’re safe, in all the ways you can be. 

The scarring trails down his throat, his pretty skin pink there, and though you’d like to explore that part of him too, you keep your hands on his face, tracing the thick shadows beneath his perpetually sleepless eyes. 

You’re both pushing the envelope of comfortable, and you don’t want it to burst, to crumble in your hands. 

“But it feels nice,” you continue, still staring at him, cataloguing his features, just in case the regret did come sweeping in with the light of day and without the burn of alcohol. The slightly crooked list of his nose, the shape of his mouth, the particular way his jaw ticks. “Right?” 

Slowly, haltingly, consideringly, he nods.

His hand strokes your side again, then, as if in confirmation and askance. Is it nice the other way around, too?

The path his hand traces leaves a warm trail in its wake, and you nod. 

Yes. God, yes, it’s fucking wonderful. 

He could ask to stick his hand between your ribs, fold his fingers around your lungs just to feel you breathe and you’d say yes. 

When you touch his cheek again, he leans into it, turns his face into your hand like he intended to leave a roadmap of it there, an imprint as a keepsake. 

He grunts, a sound been in his chest, like a pained purr. 

Simon’s eyes flutter shut, blond eyelashes shutter closed over honey dark eyes. The picture of peace. Or, well, possibly just the closest someone like Simon might ever come to it. 

It’s hard to breathe beneath him, even with him holding some of his weight off of you but you don’t mind. He tips his head forward gently, carefully, against your sternum, and you scratch your nails through his hair instead, feeling very much like he is an overgrown cat in your lap. 

Your heart is somewhere in your throat when his carefully treading hand wanders up your spine, across your waist, over your arm and collarbone and eventually your face. 

You feel as though you’re burning, your skin screaming, but not in the usual way. 

In a way that makes you ache, makes you believe you’ve been living underwater and finally come up for air. 

His skin is hot and calloused against yours, you can feel the divots of worn scar tissue on his palm. 

Simon tilts your face up, large hand splayed over your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. The kiss is clumsy, a clack of teeth that makes you giggle and inhale sharply. You feel his cheek twitch into an approximation of a smile in response. 

He pulls back, tongue darting out pink against his lips. “Don’t stop,” you say. 

He tastes like beer, tobacco, hand sliding down your body again, anchoring on your waist, squeezing, spreading over the width of your thigh and the hinge of your knee that he tugs into place against his hip. 

You open your mouth against his, cup his face in your hands like a precious jewel. His tongue slides against yours, something electric sizzling down your spine in a white arc. 

Maybe it won’t always be this easy. You suspect something like this between you will function on a never ending sliding scale. 

But it’s enough.

It’s everything.