#alkalineapparition

And now there would never be more time. The clock had stuck twelve, the hour glass run out of sand.

Because you had decided your life mattered less than his. Mattered less than the mission. Goddammit.

He no can no longer see you, he's lost sight and all he can think is how he'd rather become dust and smoke himself than come home without you.

Leaning back against the small outcrop of rocks you'd been taking cover behind, his eyes close. Then, he does something he hasn't done since he was a child.

He prays.

He prays to the bastard that's never bothered giving an answer before. Teeth gritting down to the nub, he wills the asshole to hear him.

Bring her back to me.

In this moment, Ghost hates himself. He's never been more useless—he can't just charge in after you, the lack of vision would make it suicide. Perhaps you'd been able to see what he couldn't. But then why did you go alone, if not to save him from whatever it is you saw? If he got up and charged after you now, would he find you grinning in triumph, or be faced with a wall of enemy soldiers riddling his body with bullets?

Some fucking leuitenant, huh?

As if he could summon you by mere thought, his mind drifts, one final goodbye.

—

You stand before him, head cocked, mouth curled in mischief. His skullplate sits on the desk after having gone missing for a few days (during which you swear you haven't seen it, of course not Lt!), now doodled with little pink ghosts. "Y' little shit." His hand snaps foward to snatch your collar, but you duck, snickering as you make for the door. [It washes off Lt! No, please! Uncle, uncle!]

—

[Ghost.]

"Hm?"

[Why do you wear the mask?]

He looks up, watching your face as you gnaw your lip. His tug up in a smirk. "To hide my face."

[Are you ugly?] The bluntness of your question almost makes him laugh. [It's alright if you are.] Sweet girl.

"Quite the opposite, love."

Something in his stomach flips at the sight of your face going red.

[Oh.]

He can't resist. "No' as pretty as yours, mind you."

You sputter as expected, and he does laugh.

[What do you look like?]

He pretends to think it over.

"Got a tattoo of the queens arse on m' left cheek," he says solemnly.

You choke, eyeing him and his inked arms speculatively before deciding he's full of shit.

He lets you believe what you will.

—

The dove-grey light of Sunday mornings filters through the blinds. Your eyes are filled with tears, body trembling with the force of your sobs. Simon wraps his arms around you, cheek pressed to your hair.

[I don't even have a name. I am nothing, it's like I don't exist.] He closes his eyes, searching for the words that will soothe this ache.

"Your name's Ripper. Ya ain't nothin', either. You're our best girl." It's the best he can do, offer placations, even if they are true. He hates that he can't do more.

[That's a not a name, Ghost, it's a callsign! I don't... I don't even know what my mother named me.] You're still for a few moments. [I... don't know if I have a mother.]  Simon rattles his brain for a way to make this right, something that can be a salve to your pain.

"How about... I give ya a real name? Somethin' other than what that bloody scot came up with." He doesn't think this will be enough, it's a stupid idea–

[What... would you name me?] Your eyes are on him, curiosity shining through the tears. Seems it was enough to distract you, for now atleast.

Humming, he contemplates. "I'll find somethin' that fits. Wait for inspiration an' all that."

[How will you know it's right?]

"I'll know, Rips. Promise."

—

Simon never did pick out that name.

Silence again. 

"Why the Green Berets, then?" 

A little smile, still tinged with that acrid aftertaste. "I wanted to do more," you mumur, so softly he almost misses it.

"The Green Berets, they do the most humanitarian work out of any of the United States armed forces. Did you know that?"

He shakes his head, equally quiet. "No, I did not." 

"I felt like a coward, hiding behind the desk. I didn't want to join, I had to. It was... almost a compulsion. Couldn't imagine doing anything else." You shake your head. 

"I was young and stupid. I hated getting up early. Hated being yelled at. Hated exercise. Still can't understand what I was thinking..." you trail off.

"But it was something I had to do. And I did— I was the youngest female Green Beret to ever graduate." There’s something like pride in your voice.

"I was promoted to Sergeant. Still working comms, but in the field this time." 

You swallow. Your next words snag, a loose thread caught on jagged metal. 

"It was near the end of my first contract, when my squadron was ordered to preform an exfiltration in Al Mazrah. A local group had captured some high ranking-personnel from a multinational spec ops unit." 

It clicks into place before you finish. The undeaniable truth of who exactly you had been sent after. 

König says nothing. 

"It went well at first. Almost textbook. We grabbed the target, were on our way out. He was beat to shit, so I was practically carrying him. Then... then all hell broke loose."

Finally, you look at him, eyes haunted— decaying.

"There was a grenade," the words are whispered, anguished.

Dear God.

"I... I laid on top of the target. Didn't have time to run."

You are pleading with him now. Begging him to understand. 

The room is silent but for your ragged breathing. Tears threaten your lash line, the ache in them evident as you choke, "My team didn't make it." 

The sight of your tears nearly undoes him. This quiet devastation is somehow worse than the mournful wailing from that night outside the medical wing. It rips through him, as your pain always does.

Before he can stop himself, König grasps your hand, threading his fingers with yours. 

He squeezes. His gaze never wavers.

You take a shaky breath, steadying yourself. 

"I don't remember getting up or dragging us out, but I must have. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in the hospital, feeling like shit warmed over." 

"I was medically dead, you know. Five whole minutes. In a coma for nearly a month." 

Silence reigns again. And König wonders how the fuck you are still here.

You fidget, waiting for him to speak.

"What happened next?" 

Your eyebrows raise, clearly not expecting such interest in the after. 

"Got honorably discharged, started recovery. It was shit."

The dry tone of your voice forces a a low laugh from him. 

"And how did you end up here?" 

"KorTac didn't take long to reach out. Funded my recovery under the condition I sign a contract after."

It is his turn to raise his eyebrows. Since when did KorTac take an interest in wounded soldiers? His confusion must be evident, since you shrug.

"Don't know why. But I sure as hell wasn't turning down the chance to walk again." 

The horror at your statement must also be plain on his face, because you let out a biting laugh. 

"You think the VA gave a fuck if I walked again? They wanted to stick me in a wheel chair to rot." 

It makes him sick. The thought of you—prideful, so independent—withering away in an underfunded hospital. Alone. Forgotten.

König swallows against the ache it brings, reaching for the right words—for something, anything, that might stitch back the wounds you just tore open for him to see.

"It's how I got these, you know." Your voice is conversational, almost hollow, as your fingers trace the scars eclipsing your chest and arm.

"You must think I'm horribly stupid."

He does not miss the forced humor in your voice. Nor does he miss the quiet search beneath it—the search for his damnation, his approval, something.

"I think," he begins, his free hand trailing up your arm, fingers ghosting over skin before settling at your shoulder, "that you are brave."

He holds you like something fragile, like fractured glass. Despite the strength beneath his hand, he finds you delicate. Precious.

You look up at him, startled. "I think," his voice is little more than a whisper, "you are horribly selfless."

König wishes to believe the sudden, unsteady catch in your breath is a mirror of his own feelings, but knows it is not. He stomps his down, determined to right the lense through which you view yourself, if nothing else.

"I think you are so very kind, Taube, but unable see past yourself. Please do not think I would ever consider you less than, for being courageous." He searches your eyes. 

Something unnamed passes through them, soft and warm, vulnerable. It makes his heart stutter in his chest. 

He wants to kiss you.

The thought is errant, but cutting. König jerks back before he can act on it. 

Scheiße.

Clearing his throat, he allows his hand to fall from your shoulder. 

"And you are not the only one with scars, Atlas." 

He looks back to you, but you look suspiciously unsurprised. "Is that why you wear it?" Your chin tilts towards his face, an obvious reference to the mask.

The question is curious, no judgement in your voice. He nods, absentmindedly brushing his fingers across his mouth. 

"Ja. I learned early that others do not take kindly to those who appear different." He pauses. "Children are cruel." 

You frown. "Yes, they are. They're also ignorant." You look down, and before he can stop, König finds himself marveling at the shadows your lashes cast against your cheek, fluttering as you search for words.

"I bet you're beautiful under that hood anyway." 

His breathing stops.

Barely able to choke out the words, he mutters, "I assure you, I am not."

You hum, unconvinced. "Whatever you say." 

His eye twitches, desperate to change the topic. "Will you be able to work with Price?" 

Cutting him a look that could peel paint from the walls, you nod once. Sharp and decisive.

"Yes. It just... caught me off guard, is all. If I had known it wouldn't have been like that. I swear, I'm fine." König hears what you do not say. How it is less about the Captain and more about the remnants of your past.

Walking turns out to be unpleasant task, to put it mildly.

It takes much longer than usual, but it's worth it once you see that familiar, looming figure darkening the skyline. Your voice is too weak to call out, so you press forward, anxious for him to see you.

"Ripper!"

Ghost's voice is strained and rough—cracked, if you didn’t know better. Before you can limp the remaining distance, he's running.

The moment your head meets his chest, you are home.

Solid and warm, he cradles you like summer rain. Washes the copper tang from your mouth, the lingering stench of gore and smoke from your skin.

For precious few moments, it's just you and Simon. His face buries in your hair, hands gripping your waist as though you'll slip through them like sand. He smells like safety, like home. Something that had fractured in you settles.

Then, all hell breaks loose. 

"What the fuck where you thinkin'?!"

Ghost’s voice is the closest to a shout you’ve ever heard. His hands grip your shoulders now, shaking you. Wild brown eyes— molten, scorching— bore into yours.

"Do you have any idea what you jus' did? Disregardin' a direct order from your superior officer!" The words are snarled with barely contained anger. 

The shaking rattles the still fragile flesh holding you together. It makes you whimper, eyes squeezing shut against the pain.

"Rip—Oi, what the fuck?" 

The tremble in his hands is subtle as he runs them over the bloodied areas of your uniform. 

"Bloody hell! How're you still walkin'?" He demands.

 You shrug. 

Human experiment, remember?

Ghost pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. His eyes roll back, as though they're searching for the last remnants of patience in his skull. The laugh he lets out is equal parts relief and disbelief. Exhaling through his nose, Ghost shakes his head.

"Alrigh'. Up ya get."

Before you can ask what he means, your feet leave the ground, body hauled effortlessly against his chest. An indignant noise in the form of a growl slips out.

I can walk! Put me down!

His jaw clenches. "No."

I’m already healing, and you need your hands free!

His grip gentles, just a little. "Lemme do this," He murmurs.

"Please."

It’s nearly a whisper— barely there. The poorly concealed desperation in it sucks the fight right out of you.

Grumbling, you shrink back into his chest. You have to admit, it feels nice. Being off your feet, letting your wounds properly seal themselves. 

Ghost must have taken your point about having no free hands to heart, though. He leans down, grunting an order in your ear to keep your firearm ready. 

You've yet to need it, but with most of your limbs out of comission and more of your blood outside your body than in, it's the best course of action.

Of course, you have firearms training. Ghost himself made sure of that. But a gun will never be your weapon of choice.

No, your particular flavor of brutality thrives in close combat. Enemies within reach, ready to be torn limb from limb, to be shredded. 

Which reminds you—

You've got something in your teeth.

You never do have to use that firearm.

The bird's metal blades thrum ceaselessly, a grating thump-thump-thump. It's a veritable crime against your sensitive ears— makes your head ache in nauseating little pulses. 

Ghost sets you down on the middle seat, already reaching for his med kit before you can start arguing with him again. But when his fingers lift the fabric of your shirt, he's met only with dried blood and wrinkled, pink flesh. 

"Christ," he breathes, eyes widening. 

Told you.

A beat of silence follows, cut short by the audible click of his jaw. The angry motion of it working as he checks you over is visible under the balaclava. 

Johnny's boisteruous chattering breaks the terse silence as the rest of them board, unaware of the sharp look (that promises absolute hell) the Lieutenant is leveling at you.

But something in you settles as you check them over, quieting at the sight of them alive and well. Price's face is tired, but his pleased demeanor softens his scent; fresh leather and sweet tobacco. Gaz is relaxed, all clean musk and ocean salt. Roach's head is leaned back in contemplation, silent as ever. His scent is always less obtrusive than the others, faint traces of aged paper and petrichor. 

But when you go to scent out Johnny, a whine tears from your throat. 

It's wrong. Too sharp, like the broken flesh of an overripe fruit. Acidic, overly saccherine. You're on him instantaneously, frantically nosing every inch of exposed skin.

"Whit the blazes are ye doin'?!" Johnny leans back, bewildered. You whine again, reedy and pitched, shoving your face into his neck, searching in a desperate haze for the source.

And you find it— his right shoulder is bleeding, the blood leaking out in sluggish rivlets. With a whimper you nudge it, soft cries muffled by the filthy coat you pay no mind to.

"She can smell the blood, Johnny. S' got her in a fit. Let 'er scent you for a bit, she'll settle." Ghost is no longer angry but exhausted, drained in a way you haven't heard before. But you can't worry about him right now, Johnny's hurt—

"Ach. Quit yer whingin'. I'm fine." He does his best to sound stern, but it's ruined by the tenderness in which he wraps his arms around you, presses his cheek to your hair. That quiets you, listening to the reassuring thump of his heart. It's strong and steady, no signs of distress. 

The chopper takes off with you just like that; curled on Johnny's lap, his hand rubbing your back in slow, soothing passes.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. The familiar voice sends a shiver up your neck. You tilt your head, resting it on the back of the couch. 

"Hey, König." Even upside down, you can see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he smiles.

His hands settle on either side of your head, his face lowering just a few inches closer to yours.

"Are you busy tonight?" The question is quiet, and you have to take a moment to clear the haze wrapping your brain in cotton.  

"Uh... no, why?" It's embarrassing how breathless you sound. 

"I seem to remember promising you a drink once healed. And..." His eyes rove your face, "You look like you need one." A smirk colors his voice, the teasing lilt unmistakable.

You gasp at the audacity, hands coming up to smooth down the hair thats managed to escape your braid.

"I do not!" 

"Yes, yes. You are the picture of grace, mm?"

Narrowing your eyes into a glare, you shut your laptop with a huff. "You're lucky I was done for the day." You aren't.

"One hour. I will meet you there." 

It's a command, not a request. With your head still tilted back, your gaze lingers on his backside as he leaves, unable to stop the little grin tugging at your lips. 

~•~

You're doing your best not to freak out.

Why, oh why have you not been clothes shopping? Running your fingers through your damp hair, you tug at the roots, trying to calm yourself.

You have tons of work clothes, and there's no shortage of active wear either, piles of folded leggings and oversized shirts spilling from the dresser in your frantic search for anything not made of spandex or cotton. Not to mention the veritable mountain of pajamas in your hamper.

All that's left are a single pair of jeans and a little black dress. The jeans are passable, a little worn maybe, but acceptable. However, not a single top you own is anything more than perfunctory—boring. Your eyes linger on the dress as you chew your lip in contemplation. 

It's the only "nice" item in your pathetic assortment of clothing. The plan was simple: plenty of work and gym wear, a set of casual jeans, and one dress for fancy events. Now you see it was an not just oversight, but a disaster in the making. 

It's not that you don't want cute clothes— you do. But the past few years have been brutal on your body. 

Now you're in arguably the best shape of your life, yet still hadn't had the time to shop. In fact, you haven't left base since your last mission.

It always seemed like a waste of time and money to buy new clothes, just to not fit in them after a few months. And now you're regretting that decision. 

The dress is pretty (if it still fits), but it's a bit much for a bar, isn't it? It's not like this is a date...

The idea of wearing old jeans and a t-shirt makes you cringe. Not a date, but you want to feel pretty for once. Like a woman instead of a soldier, while you sit and have a drink with the man you can't seem to evict from your thoughts. Even if he isn't interested. It can be just for you and no one else. Right? 

Fuck it.

Might as well go full send.

Pulling on a pair of sheer black stockings, you eye your scant shoe collection. There really isn't an excuse for that one.

Plenty of work boots and trainers, but only one set of heels. Nothing as nice as stilletos, but it will have to do. 

Resigned to letting your hair be, you quickly swipe on some mascara. You're pretty sure your foundation expired a while ago...

No nice coat either. Damn.

It's warm enough to forgo it. You didn't put in this much effort to ruin it with a holey jumper. The mask does that plenty by itself. 

You give yourself one last once-over. It does show more of your chest than you'd like, scars fully on display. But there's nothing to be done about that. Besides, König didn't seem to mind them...

"Suck it the fuck up," you hiss to yourself. You take out your phone and enter the address König sent you.

~•~

The closer you get to the bar, the more you regret walking— these shoes were never made for it.

Just as the ache in your feet threatens toward a throb, you spot the flickering neon sign, denoting the name you've heard in passing from your teammates on numerous occasions. Dread pools in your belly at the sight of the crumbling building. 

A damn dive bar.

You agonize, feeling very much overdressed and out of place. All you ever want is to blend in, but tonight you'll stick out like a sore thumb.

The inside is dark and hazy with smoke. The sticky floors cling to your shoes, a nasty reminder of fluids that were never mopped up. Music crackles through blown out speakers, and it smells like the aftermath of a night out in the men's barracks

With your arms wrapped around yourself, you desperately scan the room for König. He's nearly seven feet tall, how is he this hard to spot?

Persperation prickles at your skin. Just as you're about to become another layer of grime on the floor, you spot a massive figure in a round corner booth.

The tension in your shoulders melts. Walking quickly, a smile forming—

Woah. 

Internally, two sides of you war against the other. 

On one hand, what are the odds of another masked, seven-foot-tall giant waiting alone in a bar?