Just A Hoe For A Man In A Mask

What the fuck was Kate thinking? —Maybe she wasn’t, maybe that was the problem. Maybe, you’d left your son in the care of a crazy-lady and her adorable too-good-for-this-world-wife. You’d pickup your phone and call, you would scream, cuss her out, and shout the only words your mind seemed capable of stringing together (what the fuck), had you not decided to be the predictable freak you always were.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

When the jet touched down, you detached your radio from your belt, and ground up the tracking device underneath your combat boots. When your feet landed on solid ground, you repeated the motion twice. First, went your sim-card. Then, your phone. You’d lost the sentimental attachment to the mobile device around number five and this, it had to be in the mid-hundreds.

Reaper was a prolific CIA agent, one of the best to ever walk. She was more than that, too. She was whatever they needed her to be—a thief, a protector, a killer.

A liar.

2013…

Kate was your friend your handler and she had told you about a new mission. She seemed relieved, happy for you and the man she said you were to listen and report to. His name was John, but you would call him Captain Price, no matter how anyone else addressed him. Kate, included. He was a military man through and through—you could tell by his build and the way he carried himself. You could tell by his eyes, too. The ones you pretended not to notice as they scraped over you, sizing you up. “John,” says Kate, not unkindly. She walks up to him and wraps in a quick hug and that tells you to lower your hackles—it tells you Kate trusts this man enough to let his hand near her back without expecting a knife in it. Captain Price brightens when they draw apart, “it’s good to see ya, Laswell. The wife doing well?” and Kate tells him of course, she’s as perfect as the day they met. Then, she steps aside and makes room for your approach. He outstretches his hand, you grip it firmly and shake. He introduces himself and waits for you to do the same. Your mission objective flashes in your mind: work and train among the 141. Keep them safe without letting them discover that is your role. The work they do is important, keep them breathing so they can keep doing it. “Y/n L/n, sir. It’s a pleasure.” He watches you for an extended moment, and you answer what he hasn’t yet asked. “I’m an infantry soldier, sir. Private L/n,” and Captain Price looks to Kate, obvious doubt in his eyes. “She’s the best I’ve seen in combat, John. I wouldn’t stick you with a rook,” and still, the man looks conflicted. He takes in the way you stand with the confidence someone of your make-believe-rank shouldn’t have, next to him. You play your part well—like you always do. “No disrespect, Laswell, but I am a rook. Never-mind my training scores, Captain Price has seen battle fields I’ve never dreamt of, and organized and ran ops that will either be read about in history books or the reason there isn’t a new war on some poor sap of a college kids’ syllabus. I’m a good soldier but I have plenty to learn. I’m a rookie,” you direct your gaze to Captain Price, lifting your head slowly and allowing determination to flood your features, “but anywhere you need me, I’ll be. I’m a quick study and honoured to be joining your task force, sir,” and shit, you should’ve been a used car salesman ‘cause you could sell anything. You could weave a lie like an author with pen and paper. Captain Price and Kate exchanged words you weren’t supposed to listen to, and then he grasped your shoulder. “Welcome to the 141, Rook.”

You were really good at lying.

2014…

“We’re taking fire!” shouted Gaz, ducking behind a wall of some beaten down burning shack. “Hostiles are everywhere, it’s an ambush. It’s a fucking ambush! We need evac—or air support! Shit,” he cursed as the smoke thickened, threatening to choke him out. To finish him before the enemy did. It was dizzying, the fabric he raised over his nose didn’t help a thing. His radio was crackling: it was Captain Price. “Backup is 6 minutes out,” and Gaz let out what he’d never admit was a sob. He didn’t fucking have six minutes and… he’d been separated from Rook—shit, Rook. “Cap,” he rushes, “Rook and I, we were separated back by the fountain. I, I don’t see her. There s’much smoke—“ and Ghost’s voice crackles over the walkie, too. “Sit tigh’, I’ll come get you and we’ll find ‘er. Bastard’s not answerin’ her coms,” and Gaz is certain this is it for him. He doesn’t want it to be it for his team, too. Not Ghost, not Rook. “There’s too many of them and too low visibility! You won’t make it to me, LT. Just… head to the fountain, she’s got to be around there somewhere. And her walkie, it must… it must be broken,” he says—or rather begs. “S’always fuckin broken,” grumbles Ghost and thats when Gaz hears the first BANG! There’s a clock tower several buildings away and in it, is a sniper. The bodies drop one after another. The enemy is picked off everytime they so much as twitch. Gaz watches blood smear across the window of a building he didn’t know was full of hostiles. Bullets split the wooden walls and screams explode from everywhere, “your a live saver, LT,” Gaz breathes, meaning it completely. His lieutenant has just saved his life. Man, oh man; he’d really thought he was a goner. “s’not me,” says Ghost, and then they meet you at the tower’s base. You knew they were coming, of course, though Ghost impressed you. All that bulk, and you’d only had one opportunity to paint the walls with his brain. Gaz… well, he was lucky you were the sniper, lucky that you liked him. Ghost, your lieutenant reached you first. You slipped the sniper into your bag, and shot him a nod. It wasn’t enough, evidently. He grabs you and forces you to face him. “We couldn’t reach you,” and you tell him that maybe your walkie broke when you and Gaz were— “s bullshit, Y/n,” he hisses. Using your first name in the field? Woahhhhh, buddy, and Gaz is giving you space, for some reason. Watching your six like you should be watching theirs while— Ghost looks you up and down and he fucking scowls under that mask of his. Narrowed eyes tell you that maybe, you’ve never seen him mad. He prods your side and no amount of teeth gritting can stop him from noting the pain that flicks through you. “You’re hurt.” A statement, not a question. “It’s nothing, Ghost. I swear,” and he snarls. He’s yanking up your tac vest, and your shirt and spitting molten, “nothin’ but a fuckin liar.” Your name, he says softly though. He barks orders at Gaz and drags you back inside the clock tower to patch your wounds.

You’d always been so good at lying. Then, you met him. He saw straight through you and never let you forget it. You felt seen. You felt known—

2015…

“You scared to spar the lass or what?” asks Soap, fully on Team Rook. Thank god, because you needed some kind of backup, because this? This was a losing fight. A fight you’d lost over and over again—a fight you’d really love to win. “Come on, Ghost,” you goad, “it’s my birthday-wish.” At that, Soap gives you a look and mumbles something you don’t quite catch, “yer off yer heid,” or something like that? Fuck if you know, fuck if you care. Gaz laughs from where he stands in-front of the dartboard, “if all you want for your birthday is to me thrown around a little, I could hop in the ring with you,” and you roll your eyes at his offer, “I could put you to sleep in ten minutes, Garrick. What I want is a challenge,” and you think maybe Ghost takes this to heart. When he leaves the common room, he dips his head and tells you to meet him in the ring, in twenty. You count down the seconds—and excuse yourself, with your practiced poker face. “Gonna turn in for the night, boys,” you lie, and receive your ‘gd’nights’. You meet Ghost in the ring. He doesn’t look phased; that said, you wouldn’t know if he was. If Ghost was a book, you were dyslexic. “You don’t want to fight me, Rook,” he says when you step inside the ring, when you size him up and look for weak spots that aren’t there. You laugh, “Oh yeah? I don’t? The hell do I want then, Ghost?” he shrugs and dodges the first punch you throw—he recognizes that there’s no real weight behind it, and you try not to. “You’re supposed to tell me that. It’s your birthday,” and why did he come down here if he was just going to dodge? You land a hit and nothing changes, he doesn’t hit you back, just keeps moving, just keeps his eyes on you. “I want you to fight”, “we are,” he says. “I want you to try,” you tell him, fists raised to stop a punch you know isn’t on it’s way. “No,” he says, “you want me to hit you.” He stops engaging, stops moving — but keeps on watching you, of course he does. “I’ve watched you fight. Y’let hits lands that shouldn’t. You skip out on the medic unless I drag you there. Rook, m’not draggin you there tonight on your fuckin birthday,” and sue you because you’re feeling stupid. Like a fool. Embarrassed burns your skin, you feel exposed, laid bare (and notinafunway) so you take a step back. “The fuck did you invite me down here for, then? I’m not interested in being psychoanalyzed”, “You’re not interested in much, are ya?” and you tell him to go fuck himself. “Happy birthday, Rook,” he tells your back, as you storm off.

(still) 2015…

“I hate you,” you tell him, eyes glued to his chest, to the needles you’re dipping in and out of his skin, to the thread part of you wants to tug on. “I fucking hate you, you stupid fucking—“ and Ghost, his mask is lifted up and rests on his nose. His lips, bloody, they curve into a small smile. He says this next thing tenderly, with a softness that makes your hands tremble. “Liar.”

2016…

Bullets are flying everywhere and you can’t find the civvy you were sent here to save. The stock of a rifle slams into your face and shortly after, a boot jams into your side. Your body doesn’t feel like yours. It’s never been, not really. There’s an explosion. Red, and orange, they’re everywhere. Hot and angry flames, hot and bright blood, pouring—fuck, fuckfuckfuck, it’s everywhere. You’re pressing your hands over a gaping hole in a squad mate’s stomach and he’s crying. Or… no, no, you’re the one whose crying. “It’s okay,” he tells you. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” but yes it does. It hurts so bad you think you’re the one dying. You’re screaming and then someone else is grabbing you. There’s pressure everywhere and someone’s saying your name. Gibson is dead, he’s dead and it’s not him—he didn’t know your name, not your real one. No one in this graveyard knew your name so, so… “Breathe, c’mon. Open your eyes love, c’mon,” and it’s Simon, it’s Simon, it’s Ghost. It’s your lieutenant, and you’re crying in his arms. You’re sobbing and he’s holding you. You’re in his lap, curled into his chest and he’s whispering instructions in a tone that you follow instinctively. You breathe, you calm down, and you stop shaking. Then, you push at his chest because you want to wipe your face, wipe the tears, wipe the evidence away. You want to leave—every fibre of your being is screaming: RUN. Simon doesn’t let you. When he finally lets you go, your breathing has evened itself out. He pats the bed and you sit beside him, offering feeble assurances, “just a nightmare,” you say. He doesn’t say much, just looks at you, blue eyes more expressive than you’d ever seen them. “A little more than that, yeah?” and yeah. Yeah, it was. “You wanna tell about it?” he asks, offer gruff yet pressure-less, and for some reason, you do. He stays the night, and you don’t even have to ask him to. Then, in the morning, you catch him shutting down whatever gossip was circulating. In the evening, he shows up outside your door. He has no expectations but he wants you to have choices. He wants you to feel safe; to sleep soundly. “You don’t have to sleep in here,” you tell him. “Last night won’t happen again. I’ll be fine. I have been all this time and—“ he calls you a liar again, in that same soft way. He slips past you into the room, “s more for me than you, yeah?”

(still) 2016…

He keeps you close—always. In the shops, on missions, in bed (he keeps you squished against his chest because somewhere along the line, he’d learned your favourite sound was his heartbeat), he’ll wrap an arm around you, curl a finger in your belt loop, hold your hand. “You like physical touch, huh?” to which he replies, still heavy with sleep, “‘Jus like you, love,” and all of these little things add up. It hits you like a brick to the teeth, that he’s terrified to lose you. He’s scared you’ll leave him, be killed in the line of duty, scared that someday he’ll be made to wake up without you next to him. You reassure him, “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving you, Si. I’d never do that. Never,”

You’d always been a fucking liar. That time, you didn’t know you were lying—honest. You wonder if he had.

Simon. Here.

He was here.

Working the same unofficial op that you were.

That Reaper was—Reaper, not Y/n. Not Rook, not his wife.

You had to find and rescue Faith.

Simon wasn’t part of the mission but… no. Fuck, no. You can’t, Reaper. You can’t, you tell yourself. Your head is buried in your hands, while you argue with your own damn self.

He’s an unpredictable variable, he complicates things (and ain’t that the truth), I’ll just lay eyes on him, make sure he won’t interfere with my mission, make sure he’s—

No.

Find Faith. “I’m here to find Faith. Si—Ghost, he’s not the mission. He can’t fucking see me. He doesn’t need to, either. He can take care of himself.”

You finish scrutinizing the documents in front of you. The photos, the blueprints—you look at the layout of his mansion and commit it to memory, you do the same with warehouse number two but there’s not too much you need to study there. You know the hallways (you see them some nights), you know how the basement is arranged. Which doors are locked, where the windows are. You know where the cages are, where he ties his victims up, where he cuts them up. You read the shipment schedules Kate has provided you with, and the profiles on all of the men closest to him. There’s a woman, too, called “Telayne”, how progressive of Naseer, hiring a woman instead of beating her. Too bad you’ll kill her too, if she gets in the way.

You’ve never had a problem with gender equality. All bodies bleed the same, and all that.

You dump the arm-load of papers into the fireplace, even though you’re tempted to keep the photo of Naseer, to pin it up and practice throwing knives or darts or especially sharp forks.

The floorboards aren’t sound—you appreciate this, when you’re lifting one up, jamming the weapons you don’t need underneath them, between rotting wood and dirt. You don’t remove anything from your holsters, they’re all discrete and hidden anyways. All you take from the slew of weapons Kate sent you with, is the mini, and some ammo. You bring ammo for guns you haven’t gotten yet, too. Reaper—you, are a scavenger.

Grenades lie at the base of your bag and in your pocket, there’s a small dose of poison. Enough, should you need it.

—You won’t, but being prepared was never what got people killed.

Bag slung over your shoulder, mask pulled up to your nose, your goggles bridge the gap between the bandana that covers the rest of your face—you tug down your hood, still, peering out of glass that appears matte black to the outside eye. You see through them perfectly and regard them fondly. They’re among your favourite pieces of gear. They protect your identity, robbing everyone else of the chance to see the Reaper. “The grim Reaper’s coming,” you murmur to yourself, sliding between body after body.

By no means do you look inconspicuous but it’s pissing down rain and everyone has better things to do as you slip into the compound behind a man who’s lack of awareness is his downfall. You follow him down the hallway and into the mansion. The door to your left is a supply closet and you thrust your blade through his back and directly into his heart. Your hand clamps down over his mouth, stifling whatever pained noises he makes when you twist and twist. The closet door eases shut and you continue on your way. Staff cleans the place on Saturdays, only. That man won’t be discovered for ages, not until he starts to stink or… or until his blood seeps under the door.

It’s a rookie mistake. You push past it.

There’s tunnels below the mansion, and they lead to the respective warehouses. The plan had been—maim and kill Naseer and retrieve Faith but your priorities had changed now. With Si—with Ghost, in tow, lurking somewhere, being a liability; something you couldn’t even try and predict, you had to get Faith out first. Drop her somewhere he could get to her and conveniently arrange for them to stumble upon the evac-point. Kate would be surprised to see Ghost step onto the jet with your mission objective beside him… or would she be?

It was probably her fucking plan all along.

Two missing operatives for the price of one.

What a di—

Gunfire rings out. A man, he’s shouting in a language you don’t understand, one you don’t need to, to know that these tunnels are about to be flooded with the enemy. They’re dirt—excavated by folks Naseer forced into servitude. You remember seeing some of them, shackles on their ankles. Shovels, pickaxes in their clenched fists.

Ruining their hard work feels disrespectful.

You pull the grenades pin anyways. You lose a knife, sending it through the man’s eye socket. He falls to the floor and neglects his gun while you dive past him, into tunnel number two, and drop the grenade behind you.

Dirt rains down upon you. Rocks come loose and you dive out of their way, scrambling to avoid the contact that would end life just as easily as a bullet to the head, would. The grenade triggers a cave in. The earth you’re running from is disappearing. The ceiling is falling, everything on top of it might, too.

This could be it but—

It never is.

Warehouse two greets you like a bad omen. There’s a cluster of militiamen waiting for you at the archway but their bullets whiz past, and you dive low, right through them. Tendons are slit and bullets ricochet. The walls are metal and the acoustics in this forsaken place announce the blooming firefight. Running to dive behind a stone wall, you use a man as a meat shield. His flesh bounces as he’s hit, and like rocks on industrial grade jello, he ripples but stays solid enough that you manage with only one bullet nicking you. Just a graze, just a fucking graze.

You didn’t need those blueprints. You slip into a room, already knowing what it is and look down at salvation—Naseer’s latest creation sits un-fucking-guarded. A bomb, it’s set on a timer, it’s a big one. An explosion that will decimate everything in a 10 kilometre radius, at least. Thank-you-Mactavish, for the explosives knowledge.

You set the timer—on the bomb, and on your watch, and you close your eyes when you use your knife to sever the wire the same colour as your eyes. It was Naseer’s favourite and had to be connected to a failsafe, to something that could be used to stop detonation, and that simply wouldn’t do.

There was no stopping this.

No stopping you.

Big red numbers appear on a small screen that resembles an alarm clock. 30:00, 29:59, okay. That’s… it’ll work. It has to. You leave the room running, “left you a present!” you shout and when you’re whipping around the next corner the panic begins and the countdown is discovered. “That crazy bitch!” is shrieked, but no ones running in your direction anymore, not as you head further into the facility while they try and flee it.

Down the stairwell, you’re responsible for two more men falling to the ground, bullets in their brains.

28:32, 28:31…

Down the hallway, a third dies by your hands after making the mistake of wrapping his around your throat. The struggle lasts longer than you’d have liked and working air back into your lungs, stings like your eyes do.

26:49, 26:48…

You find the cages. There’s a few girls curled up in the largest one, the sight is nauseating. They wear hardly anything and are covered in dirt, in blood, in grime. The whole entire room reeks of piss and shit and blood. You take the hatchet from your bag and break the bars, knowing that the locks would never give. “Can you walk?” they nod, save the smallest of the bunch. “If you can run, run. This building is going to be dust in,” the watch on your wrist is blinking red, “in 25 minutes.” You shuck of your bag, and hand the strongest of them weapons. “Point and squeeze,” you tell them. Knives press into their shaking palms, too, but you pair the blades with a warning. “Don’t let anyone close enough that you need to use these.” Then you’re playing tour-guide, barking directions and screaming at them to “go, go, go!” they do, one, shooting a fearful glance back at the girl who can barely stand, let alone sprint. “What about—“

“I’ve got her. You worry about yourself.”

The girl slumped against the wall looks up at you, “you can go. You… can worry about yourself, too.”

Frankly, fuck that.

“That’s not my style. Though, I do… I have a pit stop I have to make.” You hand her the last gun in your bag, “like I told them, kid. Point and squeeze—not at me, though, preferably. ‘Cause I’ll be back for you there’s just someone else here I’ve got to get free, first.”

She nods.

You’re in agreement, then.

“I’ll be back,” you swear, running through the hallway. You have a hangun left, your knives, a few rounds. Your knife buries itself in the shoulder of a fleeing militiamen you recognize. He’s got an ugly scar across his face and you lift your goggles for a moment just so he can see who’s about to give him another. “You—“

20:00, 19:59…

“I don’t have the fucking time!” you shout, full of rage you don’t have time to feel. Now’s not the time for a trip down memory lane. You slam him back into the floor and drag the knife through muscle, towards his throat, as he screams and begs for mercy. “The receiving end, isn’t, so nice… is it,” you heave with effort. The blade, it’s edges are serrated, and it’s a bitch to saw through so much. His eyes widen and when they glaze over you push yourself off of him.

The hanging room is empty.

The cutting one isn’t. There’s Faith, carved up like thanksgiving dinner and strapped to the chair that—you hinge at your hips and puke, having barely enough time to lower your mask.

Groggily, she lifts her head. “What—“

“I don’t usually do that.”

“Are you—“

“Your one-woman-rescue mission?”

Nausea aside, you move to untie her. The jagged end of your dagger cuts her binds and hell, she doesn’t look like she can walk either.

Faith surprises you. She hauls herself to her feet even as unsteady as they are and she grabs a scalpel from the metal tray next to the chair. It’s caked in blood, all hers.

“You can have this, if you’d rather,” you say, handing her your gun.

“Who are you? Who sent you?”

“That last bit’s classified,”

“And the first?”

“I’m called Reaper,” the watch reads 18:00, “if you can’t keep up, tell me. We’ve got seventeen minutes to get clear of this place before it’s gone and I don’t know about you, but I’m not looking to be made anymore of a victim by Nas—“ you stop yourself, bite your tongue until it’s bloody. “Hurry up, soldier.”

Something flashes in her eyes at the reminder. She follows you, “we can go this way, it’s where they brought me in—a short cut,” she shouts, tugging on your shoulder. A glance back reveals that no matter her determination she isn’t faring well. She needs that shortcut. “Go! Go, I’ll be behind you when I can be!”

“What? No way, you just said this place was going to blow.”

“There’s a girl—I promised her I’d go back for her,” and I’ve broken enough promises, is what you don’t say. “I’ll be as quick as I can. If you can leave, do it; 10 kilometres from here will have you completely out of harms way. Evac point is in the woods, there’s an old tavern—it’s a straight shot back. ‘Copter will be there at 2100, be on it. With or without me.”

“I can’t just—“

You weren’t a rookie when you joined the 141. You were pretty damn far from being a private, like you’d told Captain Price, too. The authority seeps into your voice easily, the order isn’t one to ignore, “that’s a fucking order. I didn’t save your ass just to hear you’ve turned into pink fucking mist. You copy?”

“Copy.” Faith nods, and takes off, as ordered.

Kate gave the 141 a breath of fresh air—someone who listened.

Good for them.

You rush back to the girl. “Don’t shoot!” you call, announcing your presence and good thing—next to her are three dead men. She hands over the gun and you realize she’s emptied it into the corpses surrounding her. The gun clatters to the ground, with no ammo it’s useless. You have your knives though, still. “You did good,” you tell her and you’ve got 15:00, Reaper. Get out. She wraps her arms around your neck and you haul her up. She isn’t heavy, thankfully. “Hang in there, you’re gonna be just fine.”

There’s 8:30 left when you bust through the warehouse door. 8:29 when you dive for cover, realizing that not everyone’s left. Bullets whiz past you and dumb luck can only last you so long. Rolling onto your side, you stop a bullet hurdling towards the girl on you back with the only thing you have left: your body. It rips through your shoulder and you’ll have to deal with it later because you’re pinned down and you’ve somehow brought a knife and a malnourished teenager to a gunfight.

Shitttt.

Fucking shit.

“Here, stay right here.” You secure her behind a piece of wall that isn’t going to budge for a whole 7:43, and you find a fresh body. One of the militiamen is dead, his firearm alongside him. You run for it—it’s all you can do. Bullets fly from above you but none seem to be targeting you. Deja-vu hits you like a bullet to the shoulder (ouch) and after sliding back behind a junked car, you look up. It’s like the clock tower all over again but this time the roles are reversed. Simon lies on the roof, offering support, and Faith is next to him. With him.

You’re so relieved you almost sob.

Then you check the watch again.

You have six minutes. Barely.

Not since his head felt worse than it had in a very long time, mind swimming through a heavy fog in an attempt to fight his way back to consciousness, his entire being had felt shaken to its core and thrown off its axis, his blood running cold with the unmistakable chill of pure, unadulterated fear, not too far off to how he’d once felt waking up with the taste of dirt in his mouth, buried six feet under ground

Only to be jolted into a startlingly opposite reality when he suddenly was able to smell that achingly familiar, enrapturing fragrance he’d come to associate with a certain someone, could somehow feel miraculously soft, gentle fingertips smoothing along his neck into his goddamn hair, an affectionate touch he’d only felt fleetingly as a young boy, and when he’d opened his eyes, he was certain he’d somehow snuck his way past the gates and into heaven

Because above him had been you, and though the light glowing around you burned his tired eyes, you remained a vision so beautiful to behold he could never dream of shutting his eyes ever again, could not help but to instinctually reach out to grasp you, should you vanish before him and he lose the chance to ever hold you, at least once

His brain was still pounding, insistently throbbing as it shocked itself back awake, fighting to take control back as his lips suddenly said the only thing that both his mind and heart could agree upon at this moment, looking up at you:

“Love.”

It was nearly an entire day later, following a flurry of you being whisked out of his room, doctors and nurses fussing over him, his mind and body slowly beginning to feel more like his own again, when Soap came to visit him and all too happily recounted to his Lieutenant what he’d supposedly said upon waking up from his days long coma

After the doctors released him from the med bay or rather accepted that the Lieutenant was going to leave when he wanted to whether they liked it or not, they’d given strict instructions for at least a fortnights rest, wanting to allow his brain enough time to truly recover, concerned that though everything else was checking out fine, that short bout of confusion upon waking could not be looked over when it came to head injuries

Confusion

Is that what they all thought it had been?

He couldn’t exactly blame them, he felt he’d done a more than phenomenal job of hiding the true nature of his feelings for you from anyone and everyone, making it appear as though he was nothing more than indifferent to your existence, far from someone he’d be relieved to see waking up in a hospital bed

No, he’d been far from confused when he’d insisted to anyone who would listen, not caring that anyone’s ears but your own would hear his words spoken with the utmost sincerity, when he called you his girl, his love

No, if anything that was the most honest Ghost had been in a long time

At least since you’d worked your way into his life and apparently his heart along the way

But now, nearly two weeks passed since he’d woken up and admitted to you in his vulnerable state of mind his true feelings for you, after months of carefully avoiding ever letting you know how he felt, months of keeping his distance in hopes of diminishing the gravitation pull he felt whenever you were near, and he couldn’t bring himself to face you

He can’t decide whether it’s a small mercy or not that in the fog of waking up and all the chaos that ensued, that he can’t recall seeing your reaction to his words, can’t remember seeing the look on your face when he admitted the words he would have preferred to have been buried with than to profess out loud to you

A blessing, in that he doesn’t know whether your face twisted up into a look of horror or disgust at his revelation, and a curse, in that he’s had days upon days holed up in his room, imagining every other possible reaction you might have had

Since his release from the med bay, you’ve come knocking at his door, he knows you’ve been asking around base for him, have tried to run into him during those few fleeting moments he trudges to the mess hall and back

Why you’re so determined to confront him, he can’t be sure

To laugh at him? Rub it in his face?

He doesn’t think so, it’s not something he believes you’d so, but then again he’s never had his entire heart held in a pretty birds hands before, especially when he’d never intended to hand the bloodied, somehow still beating thing over in the first place

Maybe you feel sorry for him, hope to let him down easy, or even pretend as though you never heard him in the first place, he’s not sure which would hurt him most if he’s honest-

None of those excuses feel right however, with the way you’ve been seeking him out so persistently, opposite to the neutrality the two of you had less than half a month ago, and so always more at ease in the certainty of his own misery, rather than the misery of uncertainty, he remains hidden from you

Fuck, he hopes you haven’t been speaking to Johnny too much

When he notices your steady back and forth pacing suddenly come to a halt with the shadows indicating you’re stood directly in front of his door, the only movement Ghost allows is the slightest quirk of his scarred eyebrow, gaze intent on where he imagines your form stands just beyond the thick plank of wood separating you

He’s holding his breath, wondering what your next move will be in this childish game of cat and mouse he’s roped you into, when he hears the slightest shuffling from outside, a crinkling sound accompanied by shadows moving about under the door, followed by the sound of your boots echoing away from him and down the hall

It takes him nearly another ten minutes before he dares to move again, already beginning to berate himself for the way he’s behaving like a frightened child, when his eyes lock in on the anomaly on his floor

The sun was just beginning to set when he’d dared to venture out to the mess hall and back to his room quickly, hoping it was the best time to avoid most everyone including you before they ran out of decently edible grub, only just slipping into his room and shutting the door behind him when he’d glanced down the hall and locked eyes with you turning the corner

Now more than an hour passed, the sun long gone and his food cold and untouched, he notices something that wasn’t there before

Slowly, Ghost approaches his door, bending down to a crouch to examine what’s been slipped so carefully underneath the thin seam of his door

A single cigarette

He huffs a silent approving hum, bringing the death stick up to his mask covered nose to smell the bad habit he hasn’t touched in a few days

In all his efforts to avoid running into you, he’d quickly gone through the packs he kept in his room, only daring to smoke them out of his own ajar window like a goddamn teenager hiding the smoke from their parents

He’d smoked his last one a handful of days ago, and had yet to pick up a new pack, his years long addiction to nicotine apparently coming second to his need to continue avoiding you, no matter the cravings he felt

Now however, holding the smoke between his calloused fingers, he finds himself too relieved to begin the logical train of thought that should accompany such a gift from you being slid under his door

Fetching his lighter out of his desk drawer, Ghost steps towards his window and cracks it ajar enough that he can lean his upper half out, prepared to enjoy his cig in peace

What he isn’t prepared for however, as he inches his balaclava up above his crooked nose and begins trying to spark the lighter to life, is for the flames to be reflected back at him through your very own eyes staring up at him, stood directly below his window

“Hi Ghost.” You whisper up to him with amusement, the faint quiver of your lip giving away the mischievous smirk threatening to push through the darkness of the late night hour

You’re quicker than he expects you to be, almost as though you anticipated what his next move would be, when you reach out to squeeze your hand between the window and the pane, just as Ghost hurries to shut it

“What the fuck do ye think you’re doin’?” The Lieutenant growls out, hoping to stall for time as he recomposes himself, internally shaking his head at himself for falling for your trick. Leaving him a damn cigarette like a taunt and waiting beneath his window for him to smoke it was purely childish on your part, but then again, he hasn’t exactly been the most level headed soldier on base recently either he supposes

“Apparently what I have to do to get you to acknowledge me.” You reply casually, refusing to budge your hand away from where it prevents the window from shutting you out. “How long are you planning on avoiding me? Hm?”

“You’re bloody mental if ye think tha’ I-” He cuts himself off with the sharp glance you throw his way, a look that easily reads ‘are you fucking kidding me’ even in the low light illuminated across your features. “Alrigh’, fine. You’ve got me. Your grand plan was to hide ou’ here, like some bloody lunatic, wait for me… and then what? You plannin’ on climbin’ in through the fuckin’ window next?”

Fighting for the upper hand in this situation, Ghost watches as you take a deep breath, eyes quickly scanning the length between the ground and the windowsill, where you’re struggling to keep your hold while stood on tip toes

“Well I was hoping you’d invite me in by now. But I’ll do what I have to.” You decide confidently, raising your chin up high as you hold his gaze, refusing to back down now that you’ve got him in front of you. You must see something in him that puts a slight dent in your resolve however, as he watches your eyes soften ever so slightly, and you begin to shift on your feet. “I just want to talk to you, Ghost. Can’t we at least just do that?”

He fights the urge to grind his teeth as he clenches his jaw, shifting his eyes away from you as he struggles to maintain his composure seeing you standing there bathed in moonlight, a look of genuine sincerity on your face as you plead with him to be reasonable

“Fucking fine. But you’re using the bloody door. Don’t need you causing a scene out ‘ere.” He relents, pulling his hand back from the window pane.

“You promise to let me in?” You ask, hesitating before you release your grip on the glass. He peers back down at you, taking his own steadying breath before he offers a curt but steady nod in your direction. “Good, because my next move was going to be to pull the fire alarm, and that would’ve just been so much more of a mess.”

With that little revelation, he watches your hand slip away from the glass as you tip toe along the edge of the barracks, finding your way back inside. He scoffs to himself as he shuts the windows firmly, shaking his head at your antics as he stares solemnly at the unlit cigarette still pinched between his fingers

What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

Your fist has barely finished its first knock on his door before he’s swinging it open, reaching a large hand out to grip you by the waist and pull you inside before he has the chance to change his mind about this whole thing. He peers his head quickly around the corridor to make sure no one caught sight of anything before shutting the door behind you both, sealing him in with the last person he thought he’d find himself with tonight

He releases his hold on you as quick as he can, taking a large step backwards to put space between you both, eyes raking in the sight of you pressed up against the back of his door, an image he’s pictured many times before in his head but never believed he’d truly ever lay his eyes upon

He watches your own gaze hesitantly sweep around the space quickly, taking in the sparseness of the room. What he wouldn’t do to be able to take a peek into your mind, especially right now

“How’s your head feel?” You ask quietly, eyes shifting back towards the masked man’s visage as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his side. The only answer you get from him is a grunt you’ve heard from him often enough to know translates to ‘fine’. “Soap was telling me that if the docs clear you this weekend you’ll be able to start easing back into work.”

Ghost simply watches as you watch him, slowly lifting one foot before another, cautiously making your way over to his small desk and easing yourself down into the chair, all the while keeping him in your sight, as though he were a wild animal you might spook with one wrong move

“I’m sure they’ll pass you, but between you and me,” you add, leaning back slightly in the chair as a shadow of a smile crinkles in the corner of your lips. “I’d help you forge the docs signature if we had to. I’ve had my fair share of Soap, I’m ready to pass custody back over to you.”

At this, Ghost can’t help the soft chuckle that slips out, watching as the hesitant smile on your face forms into a full fledge smirk at the sound of his approval. With the tension in the room slowly beginning to dissipate already, he dares to allow himself to take his own atop his bed, opposite to you. Still though, he can’t completely let go of the nerves running through him, knowing you’re likely moments away from confronting him.

“You wanted to talk, let’s talk.” His deep voice rings out in the small space, hoping to cut straight to the chase, get this over with

“Right,” he watches you fidget in your seat, eyes leaving his for a moment as you begin to fiddle with your jacket pockets. “Listen Ghost, I- I realize that I might have heard something you didn’t necessarily want me to know.”

‘Yeah, that’s putting it fucking lightly’ he thinks to himself, but allows you to go on with whatever speech you’ve obviously prepare, hoping you’ll at least be quick in your rejection of him, and that this can soon all be a thing of the past

“And I figured if we were going to talk, it would really only be fair to level the playing field, so to speak.” He watches with veiled curiosity as you fish something out of your jacket. In your hands you hold a small, but clearly well loved notebook

“How’s that?” He questions, nodding towards the item in your grasp

“I don’t think I have to swear you to secrecy here but, I used to write in journals a lot, when I was little. Don’t really keep up with it as much anymore, you know how busy we are.” You mention, pulling the strap down from across the front cover and opening the book, fingers sifting through the pages covered in handwritten words of ink and lead. “Every once in a while I’ll write something down, if it’s memorable. But mostly I jot down my uh, well my more embarrassing stories.”

“Why would ye do tha’?” Ghost questions, eyebrows furrowing as he tries not to decipher any of the words he sees on in your book, unsure where this is all going

“Honestly,” you say with a small, airy chuckle. The Lieutenant ignores the sudden feeling in his chest cavity as he comes to the conclusion he’s never seen you smile so often, at least not so up close and personal. “Reading them back makes me feel better. They make me laugh. Especially after a long day or hard missions. Nice to come back to and remind myself not everything in life has to be so… serious, I guess.”

You offer a casual shrug, still thumbing between pages as Ghost takes in your words.

“Anyways, I just thought that, maybe you’d want to hear something I would usually never tell anyone. Make us a little more even?”

He narrows his eyes at you slightly, understanding now what it is you’re trying to do.

He slipped up that day when he woke up from the coma, accidentally made himself vulnerable in front of you and said something he wish he hadn’t, something he’s embarrassed about

And so here you are now, offering to be vulnerable in front of him instead, to grant him access to some of your embarrassing moments and thoughts, level the playing field as you had put it

Yeah, he’ll bite

Again, he offers you no more than a subtle nod in your direction to communicate his agreement, but the way your eyes lights up at this response, you’d think he would’ve just agreed to make you Captain for a day

“Thought maybe we’d start easy. How about the time I accidentally spit my gum out on my CO’s boots? Or when I peed myself during basic-”

Ghost isn’t sure how you’ve done it, whether you knew this was how your cunning plan would work out all along, or if you’ve just gotten incredibly lucky tonight, but as one embarrassing story on your part turns into two, and then three, and suddenly hours have gone by, the stoic Lieutenant finds himself smiling with you, laughing with you, fuck he even starts offering up his own carefully curated stories when you pull an almost full carton of cigs out of your other pocket and toss them to him, the two of you sharing remarks over a shared smoke, hunched over the same window he nearly slammed in your face earlier

“Oh man,” you choke out in small fit of giggles, your hand holding your sides as you pass the cigarette back to him. “We oughta put all your dad jokes down on paper one day, you know why? Because they’re tear-able.”

He rolls his eyes as he takes a deep inhale off the cig, pretending the corners of his mouth haven’t been lifted nearly all night.

“Tha’ was awful.” He mutters, sparing you a side glance before he adds, “A real pun-ishable offence you jus’ committed there.” He doesn’t bother hiding his smirk anymore when your giggles grow louder at that.

“Alright, alright. I suppose my pun-ishment then,” you say between breaths, casting him a glance to see if he approves of yet another one of your corny puns tonight. “Would be to read these last few pages.”

He watches as your fingers dance across the handful of pages making up the end of the journal, yet to be read aloud tonight, your movements appearing hesitant for the first time this entire interaction.

Part of him feels the urge to tell you whatever it is, it’s not necessary, that you don’t have to read anymore about yourself that you don’t want to

Another part however, is far too curious, far too intrigued to know more about you, having learned more tonight from your own lips than he has in all the months he’s known you

“Actually, maybe I’ll just have you read it this time.” You say, reaching the journal out towards him, allowing him that one final glimpse into your personal thoughts. With a calloused palm, he takes the book from your hand, careful not to linger too long on the soft touch of your digits against his rougher ones. Glancing down at the words written haphazardly across the lined paper, he reads:

‘First week with the 141 went by in a blur, don’t think I’ve ever sweat so much on a base before, those men sure know how to train’

‘Captain is nicer than any other CO I’ve had before, and the Sergeants are funny, very welcoming’

‘The Lieutenant is… different’

‘Not bad different (though he might not say the same for me), just different. Hoping to learn more about him soon’

‘One month on the team has flown by, almost can’t remember life before the 141’

‘The lads are great, but the Lieutenant still doesn’t seem keen on me being here. Which is a shame, his teammates speak so highly of him, and his work speaks for itself. Just wish he’d speak to me sometimes’

‘Almost half a year already, if you can believe it’

‘These men feel like family, all apart from the one who still won’t acknowledge me’

‘The lads say not to worry about it, that Ghost will come around eventually… I just hope they’re right. There’s something about him I can’t shake. I find myself thinking about him more than I should’

‘Mission went bad. Lieutenant got hurt and has yet to wake up from his coma’

‘For the lads sake, I hope he wakes up soon’

‘Ghost opened his eyes yesterday…’

‘I don’t know if he meant what he said, or if he even remembers it, but I know I’ll never be able to forget it’

‘This entire time I’ve just wanted him and I to be cordial, to work together, hell maybe even become friends… but ever since he’s said those words… I can’t shake the feeling … maybe friends isn’t quite the right word for us’

Ghost isn’t sure how many times his eyes scan that last entry over and over and over, willing his eyes to believe what he’s seeing right in front of him, not until your hand slowly slips over his own, still holding the journal open, does his gaze flicker up to meet your own vulnerable stare

“I’ll be honest I’m not sure how to- do this.” You say with a slightly awkward chuckle, the vulnerability of the situation clearly starting to get to you as your Lieutenant stares you down wordlessly. “But I wanted to be honest with you. Couldn’t have you wallowing away in here any longer without knowing - well I guess without knowing how I felt too. I don’t know you as well as I’d like to Ghost, we haven’t exactly given each other many chances to do so. But I’d really like to be your… friend.”

His eyes narrow in on the sweet but anxious smile you try to put on through your nerves, your earlier confidence diminishing now that you’ve truly laid your cards out and made yourself as vulnerable as you can before the man who still has yet to say anything.

Ghost takes a steadying breath, eyes never leaving yours as he tosses your journal onto his bed where it lands with a soft bounce.

Vulnerability like this, feelings like this… it’s a grey area Ghost usually tries to avoid at all costs, a field of land mines he’d rather not cross, knowing no one makes it out on the other side unscathed

But with everything you’ve done for him, everything you’ve revealed to him, in combination with the throbbing organ behind his ribs fighting to beat its way back to life since the moment he met you and decided he couldn’t fall for you, Ghost finally relents and says fuck it. You’ve shown more bravery tonight than he has in the last two weeks, avoiding you like you were the plague, and it’s about time he put on his big boy trousers and show some bravery of his own now

“Don’ know it the lads told ya, but I don’ really do friends.” He says, slowly lifting a single boot and cautiously stepping in your direction

“I- I’ve heard.” You mutter, trying not to show the defeat that threatens to come across your features at his words, fearing he’s about to let you down.

The large man takes another step, and another, until there’s suddenly less than an inch of space left between both your heaving chests, and you have to crane your neck upwards while his is tilted down to keep his eyes on yours. Your eyes widen as you watch one of Ghost’s large hands come up into view, sneaking towards the bottom of his balaclava, which has been rolled up with entire time as you both shared some smokes

His fingers pinch the fabric, pulling it up further above his mouth to rest on the crooked bridge of his nose, revealing more of his scarred lips to you just as they whisper:

“But you and I, my love, aren’t quite friends.”

With the way Ghost’s lips come crashing onto your own waiting mouth, you’re inclined to agree with him

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