#nullseven

Thinking on it now, as he feels that familiar cold weight roll up his back, it's probably on purpose - it's easier to be a Lieutenant and cold hearted bastard when you had a gaze that kept people away. A heaviness about you that made even the world's best and happiest demolitionist (read: Soap), think twice before interacting - a thing Trick knew happened just by watching them interact. Soap always getting that look of calculation before he jumped into Ghost's space - like a man testing the temperature of a tub before jumping on it.

The temperature was always white hot, that kind of hot that felt almost cold.

"Morning, Lieutenant," Trick isn't quick to jump to his feet - he's got a fucking cane for a reason - but he is quick to snuff out his cigarette on the brick wall of the administration building. Quick to straighten his spine as usual, and make himself a little smaller on the bench. "S'awfully early, ain't it?"

And it was - the sun's colors just peeking over the horizon, purples just beginning to turn to shades of red and orange and pink. His favorite time of day if he was able to get out of bed, the time when base was still quiet, and everyone that tended to bother him was fast asleep. "Anythin' I can help with?"

It was quiet but not an eerie quiet like it was on nights in the midst of an active warzone. That was the night before, tonight they were as safe as you could be in a place like Urzikstan, out in the desert, a few kilos out from exfil for the 141. He, Farah, and a few soldiers would walk them to the spot they'd be choppered out from. Alex could handle it himself with a few men but Farah would want to say goodbye to Price. They seemed to have a mutual soft spot for each other.

But for now, just quiet. Everyone was resting or asleep, Alex stayed up with his rifle, tending to the fire and watching Ghost do, well whatever it was Ghost did. Alex didn't know him well enough to know his habits but the guy always seemed to be on alert, even more so than the rest of his team. They were all military men, special ops, you saw shit you'd wish you could forget but Ghost seemed to be a different brand of haunted. It made the nickname fitting.

Alex was a bit surprised by the question, he turned his head to look at Ghost, he looked even more elusory in this light.

TRUST IS A HARD EXERCISE AND A HARDER LESSON TO LEARN. Ghost has never claimed to be good with it. To begin with, being sparing of who he hands that trust to is what's kept him alive all these years. Surviving, running, hiding—striking back when the time is right and he's this biting, biting teeth. All teeth, no bark. He doesn't answer straight away as he pages in with Watcher for a quick sitrep. Bravo Seven to Watcher, we're RTB, he'd murmur into the radio. Copy that, out here. "Patience's a virtue, Johnny." Ghost's eyes trace a path over to Soap, slow and unhurried before they return to the road. The car smells like gunmetal, sweat, dirt, and blood. But it's en route to safety, and that's all that matters. "Wait a bit longer."

Dealing with career military types was always a little awkward, especially the special ops guys. Trusting no one and keeping your mouth shut was, for the most part, a recipe for long-term success. Hence Price, hence Ghost. Soap knew he was a little too trusting, loyal to the 'right' people, or at least those he deemed as such. His hyperactive brain caused him to be curious and excitable but he knew how to hold it together and when to shut up.

He'd known well enough not to ask a superior straight away why they wore what looked like a horror movie prop mask and balaclava every waking hour. After getting to know Riley and forming a rapport, well he broke down and asked.

(Left a rat at your doorstep, please respond...)

❛ you're makin' it difficult, sir. starin' at me like the bloody grim reaper. ❜

gaz's position in the hospital bed is incredibly uncomfortable. his back's not broken, by any means, but the brace for support makes him feel like it is. it's itchy and uncomfortable, and moving too much makes it feel like he's pulling something.

he wasn't too surprised that ghost chose to stay behind, though. they were teammates, after all.

his eyes fall to the digital clock at his bedside. it's almost midnight. he's so tired that he can't fall asleep, and he wants to get up and move around, but that's not happening anytime soon.

It's been. Hours. (He's missing Myanmar. Bloody Myanmar, with it's godawful jungles and his even worse luck with ops there.)

"You seen the captain in the last ten minutes?" Richie doesn't bother with the formalities of hello or asking how Ghost's night has gone. At some point in the night, someone must have caught wind of his heir-apparent status, because he's been fielding absolute shite for the past half-hour, with no escape in sight. He's itching for a cigarette or three.