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i’ve never posted or shared any of my work before, so i ask you to please be kind! unfortunately i probably will not post any sort of nsfw content unless i manage to work up the courage to 😔 sorry my freaky folks!!

this may be jarring for a lot of people probably but i mainly write in the first person point of view. it’s just more comfortable for me that way. i usually don’t include any sort of names referring to the main character, and i try to keep physical descriptors vague, so please feel free to view them as reader inserts !!

as for asks, i’m down for pretty much anything! like i said previously, i won’t do anything nsfw but this blog will still handle serious and mature content. pretty much just send whatever you want, and if i don’t want to do it i just won’t post it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It had never been a problem, though. Everyone seemed content enough to appease me, up until now.

It wasn’t like I never let the other person I was conversing with get a word in. I could listen, too! I asked questions, and I made sure no one ever felt like they were being left out of the conversation. I was just a chatterbox, simple as that.

I worked at the Avengers tower, freshly renovated and remodeled, as an assistant to the Thunderbolts*. I was in charge of keeping all their paperwork in order; dotting the i’s, crossing the t’s, among other things. It was a fine enough job–paid the bills. Plus, a few months ago, the team had remembered my birthday, and they all pitched in to get me a nice card and some flowers. I believed it was safe to say they liked me.

It was early morning when I reached the tower today. The team had gotten back from a mission a few days prior, and I was needing to wrap up some paperwork on their behalf. Some legal stuff, nothing new.

I made my way up the elevators to one of the higher levels, and I got settled down in my office, pulling out the pens and papers I’d need to finish my work.

I always made sure to leave my office door slightly ajar. I wanted anyone to be able to poke their head in, say hi, get my attention for something important. My office was on the way to the Thunderbolts* main meeting room, so it wasn’t unusual for one of them to swing by on any certain occasion.

After almost an hour of quiet, diligent work, I heard a soft knock on the door. I lifted my head from the papers scrawled across my desk, my pen stilling over the white sheets.

Bucky Barnes stood in my doorway, two cups of coffee in hand. One for me, one for him. He knew how to make it just like I liked it, so it had become a routine for him to bring me one on the mornings he was here. 

My lips curled up into a smile, and his followed en suite (something which always made my heart flutter). 

“Hey,” he said, and he stepped inside, placing my coffee atop my desk. I gratefully accepted, taking a sip of the perfect cup of coffee.

“Hey, you,” I replied. “Doing good?”

Bucky nodded, the same, boyish smile still on his face. I couldn’t look at him for too long, or else my heart rate would spike, and I’d get fidgety and restless.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice smooth. “I’m good. How’s your morning been so far?”

It was like he flipped a switch in me by asking his question. I set my coffee down, and I told him about my morning, in great detail. From the cute bird I saw (pictures included), to the jerk who cut me off in traffic, along with how I chipped my nail trying to open the car door with too many things in my hands. There was also the subject matter of the perfect weather today; not a cloud in sight! Oh, how I wished I could be spending my day outside.

Bucky, sweet as he was, listened intently to my every word. His lips were curled up in his small, signature grin, his blue eyes glimmering in the light shining through my office window. He leaned against my desk, nodding and humming along to my rambling. He didn’t break away his attention once, not even to sip on his own coffee.

Finally, I’d exhausted all the words I could say about my morning, and I turned my focus back to him, returning his slight smile.

“How about you?” I asked him. “How’s your morning?”

Bucky wasn’t as talkative as I was. He was more of a man of few words, though I didn’t mind. It made us fit together like two puzzle pieces. I was the talker, he was the listener.

Bucky shifted against my desk, and he gave a brief description of his morning.

“It’s good,” he said, then he paused, his eyes flicking over me.

“Better,” he added, his voice soft and low, “now that I’m here with you.”

I flushed, and I immediately averted eye contact. I couldn’t ever tell if he was flirting with me, or just being plain nice. I was only an assistant, after all. I was sure there were much more successful, much prettier women he would be interested in instead.

“You’d better get going,” I said. “Don’t you have a briefing with the team?”

Bucky’s smile faltered for a moment. He seemed miffed I brought it up, though not particularly at me. I didn’t want to kick him out of my office, but I had work I needed to get done too, and with him here, I’d be talking too much to get anything finished.

I gave Bucky an apologetic look. I knew how much stress the team brought him sometimes, even if he never admitted it out loud. I could see it from the way he was hesitant to go.

“How about we get lunch together, once you’re done?” I offered, almost hopeful.

Bucky’s expression brightened back up at this. He nodded his head, the soft smile of his returning to his lips. 

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay. Lunch. Sounds good.”

I nodded my head in return, my eyes crinkling at the edges from my wide grin, and we exchanged a few more words before Bucky reluctantly trailed out of my office. I held back a giggle at his dragging feet, shaking my head at him as he gave me one last glance over his shoulder.

“Go,” I urged him on. Bucky gave me a toothy grin before turning and disappearing around the corner.

I turned back to my work with a small sigh. I still had a ways to go before I finished, then there would be more to come after the fact. The paperwork was neverending, it seemed.

Another hour or so passed before my phone lit up with a text message from Bucky.

Meeting’s over, the message read. Meet me in the cafeteria?

I smiled at my phone like an idiot, and I responded right away.

Be there in five!

I gathered up my paperwork all neat and tidy, and I set it to the side before escaping out of my office. My heart beat with every quick footstep I took through the halls. I was rushing like I was late to a meeting, my feet gliding over the tile floors, and before I knew it, I turned a corner too quickly and almost ran into none other than John Walker.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, taking a step back. He tilted his head to look at me, a disgruntled expression on his face.

“Hi, John!” I continued. “Sorry ‘bout that. I guess I was in a bit of a rush here. I was just on my way to get lunch with Bucky. You all just finished a briefing, right? How was that? I heard you guys might be going on another mission soon. Gosh, you just got back from one! Feels like you guys are running all over the place all the time. I bet that’s tiring, but fun, too, getting to travel the world like that. I wish I could go around being a hero like you all. Though, I’m not too sure I’m physically cut out to be–”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

My jaw snapped shut. I blinked at John once, twice, taken aback. For the first time in my life, I was at a loss for words.

“I, uh… W-what?” I stuttered out. Maybe he was messing around with me. John always had an odd way of joking.

John let out a light scoff, eyes rolling. There was a sudden pit in my stomach, my heart still beating fast, but no longer in an excited, whimsy way.

“I mean, come on, it’s like an endless stream of nonsense,” John said. “Who wants to listen to that? You don’t have anything better to do than to yap someone’s ear off? It’s a wonder how some people are able to tolerate it.”

I stood there, silent, and I swallowed down the lump forming in the back of my throat.

“Oh,” I said quietly. “I’m… sorry.”

John grumbled something inaudible under his breath before turning to stalk off, leaving me alone in the hallway with tears brimming in my eyes.

After a moment of shocked silence, jaw hanging loose, I turned, and I dragged my feet along to one of the restrooms in the building, and I locked myself in a stall, sniffling and crying as soft as I could.

A million thoughts ran through my head. No one else ever complained about my talking. I never thought it was an issue. I just had a lot to say. Was there truth in John’s words? Did I really talk too much? Were people merely tolerating me, instead of actually listening to what I had to say?

I sobbed into my hands. Did Bucky think the same? What about the rest of the team? Were they all also annoyed by my “endless stream of nonsense,” but were too polite to say anything? 

I could hardly think straight at this point, a stream of self-deprecating thoughts worming their way into my mind.

You talk too much. You’re annoying. No one likes being around you. No one wants to hear what you have to say. You’re too much. Do you ever shut up? Just stop talking. Just shut up. Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up–

My phone vibrated in my pocket with a text message, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. With tears still streaming down my cheeks, I pulled my phone out with trembling hands, staring down at the blurred screen. It was Bucky, checking in with me; a teasing little joke about how it’d been over five minutes now. I looked at the screen, unmoving, frozen in place.

How was I supposed to meet up with him for lunch now? I was sure he didn’t want to hear my constant rambling. I didn’t want to bother him with my nonsense. He was stressed enough as it was.

Slowly, I typed up an excuse to get out of lunch. Something about Valentina suddenly dropping by with more paperwork to catch up on. Maybe we could get lunch another day, (once I learned to reign in my rambles, though I omitted that piece of information).

I slipped my phone away before I could see Bucky’s response, and I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand before taking a long, deep breath. When I finally exited the stall, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirrors–my streaked mascara and reddened, blotchy face. I grimaced at the sight.

I splashed some cold water onto my cheeks, fixing up my makeup before I left the safety and privacy of the bathrooms, and I quickly slipped back to my office, closing the door all the way behind me with a soft click.

I settled down at my desk with a heavy heart. There was nothing for me to do except continue to work, so I did just that. I spread the sheets of paper back across my desk, picked up my fancy pen, and I worked in a thick and heavy silence.

It wasn’t even about ten minutes later when there was a knock on my office door. I paused my work, and I almost considered telling whoever it was to go away. I didn’t want to talk to anyone right now, maybe not ever again.

Reluctantly, though, I set my pen down, and I murmured out a soft “come in.” The door cracked open, and in slipped Bucky, two plates of food balanced in his hands.

“Hey,” he said, using his foot to shut my office door behind him. I stared at him and the food in hand.

“Thought I’d bring you lunch,” he said, “and we could eat in your office while you caught up on work. That okay?”

I gave a simple nod of my head, keeping my lips sealed for now. Bucky set the plates down and pulled up a chair near my desk, sliding my food over towards me. I looked down at the plate, not even a little bit hungry, even at the site of the appetizing food. It was like my stomach was full of rocks, weighing heavy in the pit of my abdomen, leaving no room for anything else.

“Eat up,” Bucky said encouragingly, beginning to dig into his own food. I picked up the fork and poked around at my meal, a small frown tugging at my lips. I wasn’t hungry, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone at all, and yet, here was Bucky, being his kind and endearing self, and it was almost infuriating, in a way.

I took a single bite of my food, swallowed like it took everything in me to do so, then turned my attention back to my paperwork. Perhaps if I ignored him, he would go away.

Unfortunately, this tactic did not work. Bucky noticed my reluctance to eat almost right away, and paused his feasting to give me a once over, brows pulling together in something akin to concern.

“Lot of paperwork?” He asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Yeah,” I said, and I didn’t say anything else.

Bucky stared at me for an extended moment. There was an almost tense silence as I tried to work on my paperwork and Bucky tried to figure out what was going on through vibes alone. His fingers drummed against my wooden desk while I pretended not to notice his sharp, blue eyes boring into the side of my head.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asked me, his voice soft and gentle. “You should be monologuing to me about Valentina’s endless paperwork right about now.”

I physically winced, my fingers tightening around my pen. So, he noticed it too. Monologuing, he called it. It was better than how John described it, but still, my rambling was enough for him to point it out to me. It was enough for me to never want to open my mouth again.

“I’m fine,” I said, more sharp than I intended. I opened my mouth to say something more, but thought better of it and pressed my lips tight together again.

Bucky didn’t push me any further, to my relief, but his lips were curled down in a slight frown, his eyes swirling with a mix of emotions. I didn’t look at him until he stood to leave, gathering up my barely touched plate and his own.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He said, a hopeful undertone in his voice.

I nodded my head, saying nothing. For a moment, I almost thought I saw Bucky deflate at my lack of words, his shoulders dropping down, but he gave me a soft smile and slipped out of my office before I could dwell on it for too long.

For the next couple of days, I continued my routine as usual. I showed up to the tower on time, I worked on the piles of paperwork building up on my desk, but, with John’s words still lingering in the back of my mind, I decided to keep my talking to a minimum.

I hardly opened my mouth during this time. Yelena swung by my office a few times, and I only spoke to her when spoken to. I kept my sentences short and brief, making a conscious effort to not pester her with my chatter.

Ava walked by my office a handful of other times. She poked her head in to say hello; I gave her a small smile in return, nothing else.

Alexei came by once or twice. I barely spoke to him either. Bucky kept up his routine of bringing me coffee in the mornings, but I stopped telling him about my day in great detail now. Instead, when he asked me how I was doing, I’d shrug and give him a simple, one-worded reply.

A week of this passed by. Then another. No one seemed to mind or care. I was content in letting myself disappear in my work, being as quiet as I could. No longer a nuisance or an annoying chatterbox. No one would ever have to put up with my yapping ever again, I promised myself. I wasn’t going to be that person in the office people merely tolerated. John was right. Who wants to listen to all that?

Another day of work went by, and I was in the midst of packing my things up when there was a knock on my office door. I looked up to see Bucky poking his head in, and for a moment, I almost forgot the promise I made to myself. I wanted to open my mouth and pour my heart out to him, to tell him all about my day and ask him a million questions about his.

I stopped myself in my tracks. Bit and held my tongue instead. 

Bucky took a step inside my office, gently shutting the door behind him, and he crossed his arms over his chest while leveling me with a look so stern it had me sinking into my seat.

“Alright,” he said firmly. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you, or do I need to shake some sense into you?”

 I blinked at him; cocked my head to one side like a confused animal.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. Was something wrong? Did I do something to make him upset, I wondered?

Bucky let out a long sigh and rubbed a hand over his face.

“I tried to give you some space,” he explained. “I thought maybe I’d done something to upset you, but I talked to the rest of the team, and they said you’ve been the same towards them as well. You hardly talk to anyone anymore. Barely even a peep out of you nowadays.”

I stared at Bucky as he told me his concerns. I didn’t think he had even noticed my sudden vow of silence. I didn’t think anyone did.

“If I did do something…” Bucky continued, “I want you to tell me, so I can make it right. I don’t want you hurting in silence because of me.”

“No!” I said quickly. I shook my head, my brows furrowing together.

“No, no, you didn’t do anything,” I said. I let out a soft, frustrated sigh, my bottom lip finding its way between my teeth.

Bucky slowly made his way over to my desk, pulling up a chair and taking a seat right beside me, his gaze locked onto my form. He didn’t say anything for a moment. He reached his metallic hand out, almost hesitant, hovering over my hand placed on the desk. Then, after a brief pause, his cold palm enveloped mine, his thumb brushing over my own cold skin. My extremities were always chilled. Poor circulation, or something. 

My bottom lip quivered. It’s not like I didn’t want to talk to him. I did, but I could hear John’s words echoing in my head. Bucky was the last person I wanted to bother with my “endless stream of nonsense.”

Bucky turned my hand over in his, tracing over the lines in my skin. I tried to ignore the way it sent a wave of warmth through me, despite the chill of his vibranium prosthetic.

“Will you please tell me what’s wrong?” He asked, his voice softer than I ever heard it before. Then, like he was adding the finishing blow, he said, “I miss hearing your voice.”

I couldn’t resist any longer.

“I talk too much,” I said simply.

Bucky stilled his ministrations over my hand. He tilted his head toward me, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

“What?” He said in disbelief.

I shrugged my shoulders, avoiding his gaze.

“I talk too much,” I repeated myself. “It bothers people. I don’t want to be a bother. I thought if I talked less, I wouldn’t be such a nuisance.”

Bucky’s hand squeezed mine tight, then relaxed, a small puff of air escaping through his nose.

“Look at me,” he said.

I hesitated. Bucky, clearly not having any of it, reached his free hand out, fingertips brushing over my cheek, turning my head to connect my gaze with his. I swallowed hard, his eyes boring into mine with all the seriousness in the world.

“Listen,” Bucky said. “There is no one on this earth you need to change yourself for. Not a single person. I don’t care what anyone says. I love hearing you talk. It’s the highlight of my day, listening to what you have to say. You make it so easy to just listen. You don’t expect me to fill in the gaps. You don’t push me to talk, you know I’m more of a listener anyway. You just… you’re perfect, alright? You don’t talk too much. You talk just the right amount.”

I stared at Bucky in shock. I could literally just cry. Something warm and wet dripped down my cheek, and I realized I was crying. I sniffled, and I wiped at my nose with my sleeve.

“You really think that?” I asked him, my voice quivering.

Bucky gave me a gentle smile, his thumb brushing away the tears falling down my face, and he nodded his head.

“Of course I do,” he said softly. “I don’t bring you coffee every morning just for the hell of it. I like hearing you ramble about your day.”

I took in a shuddering breath, and I let Bucky’s words sink in. He didn’t mind my chattering. Hell, he said he liked it–loved it, even. I wasn’t being a bother to him like I thought I’d been.

Bucky shifted closer, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of my face.

“Who told you you talk too much?” He asked me.

My lips pulled down into a slight frown. John was an asshole, but I didn’t want to be a snitch, either. Then, I’d really be a blabbermouth in his eyes.

Bucky gave my hand a firm squeeze, silently pleading with me. I sighed, shoulders slumping forward.

“Well, John-”

Bucky’s nostrils flared at the mere mention of John. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing into slits. He looked about ready to barge out of my office and teach John a lesson.

Instead, Bucky let out a slow, controlled exhale as I explained what John said to me a few weeks prior. There was a long stretch of silence once I was done, Bucky stewing in a silent, simmering anger. I could almost hear his teeth grinding together.

Finally, Bucky broke the silence, his hand still steady over mine, squeezing reassuringly.

“I’ll take care of John,” he said coolly. “Don’t you worry about him.”

He paused to let out a soft sigh.

“I just need you to promise me one thing, okay?”

I tilted my head at Bucky, my brows furrowing together.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Promise you’ll start talking again?” He said. “As much as your heart desires, and never stop. Can you promise me that?”

I let out a watery chuckle, wiping at the dried tears on my cheeks, and I nodded my head.

“Yeah, okay,” I murmured. “I promise.”

Bucky gave me that boyish grin of his, the one which made my heart rush, and he let out a soft hum from the back of his throat–an almost satisfied purr.

“Good girl,” he said. I swear I almost died on the spot.

Bucky helped me pack my things up and walked me to my car soon after. I talked to him the whole way there, and he listened, patient and attentive, just like how it’d been before. He opened my car door for me, and I teased him about how much of a gentleman he was. I could almost swear I saw the tips of his ears turn pink.

The next morning back in the office, Bucky brought me my coffee as usual, and I yapped his ear off about a new TV show I discovered the night prior. He smiled and happily listened all the while.

John came by soon after Bucky left, all apologetic-like, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. Bucky must’ve given him a proper scolding, because he could hardly look me in the eyes.

I accepted John’s apology. It wouldn’t do me any good to stay upset with him forever, anyway. I couldn’t force everyone to like me or my little quirks. To each their own.

I was beginning to wrap up my work for the day when there was a light knock on my office door. It was cracked open, no longer sealed shut like it had been during my couple weeks of silence. I glanced up, and there was Bucky, standing in the doorway, a bouquet of flowers clenched tight in his hand.

I blinked in surprise, my lips curving up in a soft smile, and I stood from my desk and approached him.

“What’s all this?” I questioned, my eyes flitting down to the flowers in hand.

Bucky’s throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly. He seemed to be almost anxious, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but about what, I didn’t know.

“They’re, uh, for you,” he mumbled. He pushed them forward for me to take, and I did, freeing the poor plants from his suffocating grasp.

I brought them close to my face and took in a deep breath, humming at the sweet scent of the flowers.

“For me?” I said. “What’s the occasion?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. He cleared his throat, barely able to hold my gaze.

“I… I was wondering if, maybe, I could take you out for dinner sometime?” He asked, his voice hardly above a hoarse rasp.

My eyebrows raised up, my heart doing somersaults in my chest.

“Like… a date?” I asked.

Bucky nodded his head slow, his eyes focusing everywhere but me, like he was already preparing himself for rejection. I thought I might pass out from how fast my heart was racing.

“Yes,” I said, assured, more sure of this than anything else in my life. “Absolutely. I would really like that, Bucky.”

Bucky’s gaze met mine. He had a nervous smile splaying across his lips, his eyes glimmering from the light shining through my office windows.

“Okay,” he said, “how does Friday night sound?”

“Sounds perfect,” I hummed.

After all this time, after all those mornings filled with my chatter and a coffee made just the way I liked it, I was going on a date with Bucky Barnes. A date with a man who didn’t view my chattering as a weakness, but as one of my strengths. Someone who enjoyed the sound of my voice.

There was blood everywhere, mixing together with the rain beating down on me. I gasped for air, my lungs filling with blood, and I choked it out, the red liquid coating my lips. Bucky was there, holding onto me, desperately trying to get me to hang on to life.

It was almost comical, in a way. Here I was, about to die, Bucky yelling and begging me not to close my eyes, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful he was right now. The rain drenched his hair, sticking to the sides of his face; there was blood smudged on his cheek—was it mine? I tried to lift my hand, to wipe away the blood, but I couldn’t muster the strength. The air in my lungs was rapidly being replaced by blood, and I couldn’t breathe. My chest burned, red hot, from the lack of oxygen. Everything around me was beginning to turn blurry and dark, Bucky’s face warping into random shapes, and, despite his protests, my eyes slid shut, and my chest stopped heaving, my body going limp in his arms.

I was dead.

When I opened my eyes again, I was somewhere different. Above me was a great, big open sky, with clouds huge and small, drifting across the horizon. Surrounding me were large stalks of tall grass, and I sat up, my sight barely peeking over the top of the grass. I could see, in the distance, a large hill with a singular tree planted at the top; a person standing to the side with their back facing me. I looked down at my chest, where I had been shot, and found no signs of any wounds. The clothing I was wearing earlier was gone, replaced by a creamy white shorts and top, clinging lightly to my skin, and I blinked in confusion. Where was I?

Standing to my feet, I glanced around, taking in the large field of tall grass spanning on for as far as the eye could see. The only option for me seemed to be to head towards the tree with the person. Maybe they would have some answers.

While walking towards the hill and tree–it was maybe about a football field away–fragments of what had happened before began to return to me. I remembered being shot while on a mission. It was supposed to be an easy one, just go in, get the intel, and get out. Bucky wasn’t even required to be there, but he’d insisted on joining me. If I recalled correctly, he told me about a bad dream he had. He was worried about me. I told him it would be fine; he didn’t need to come with me. I guess I had been wrong.

I trudged up the hill, my thighs aching with the force put into them while walking up the incline, and as I got closer, I could see the person I was approaching was a woman. She wore a white dress, the same color as my new clothes, and her hair flowed down a little ways past her shoulders, dancing with the light breeze. She was staring off into the distance, almost as if she was waiting for me, and when I came up next to her, she didn’t move or speak. If I didn’t see the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, I would’ve thought she was a statue.

I cleared my throat, my eyes darting around, and when the woman still didn’t show any signs of talking, I spoke up first.

“Am I dead?”

It seemed like the most obvious question to ask. The woman finally showed signs of life, her lips curling up in the faintest of smiles. She shifted, turning her entire body to face me, her dress waving in the gentle wind. Her face was round and soft, a kind aura about her, but I wasn’t sure if I trusted it. Was she supposed to be God? Or Death? This wasn’t how I imagined either of them to look like.

“Yes,” she said, her voice smooth and firm. “You are.”

I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t, so I asked another question.

“Where am I?”

The woman tilted her head, turning her eyes out over the neverending field of grass. The wind blew over, forming waves in the tall blades, dancing through the yellow-green meadow. I followed her gaze, watching the field flow and sway with the breeze.

“You’re in between,” the woman said. I glanced back at her, my brows knitting together in confusion.

“In between?” I repeated.

She nodded her head, as if I was supposed to understand whatever nonsense she was speaking.

“In between life and death,” she spoke calmly. “I am here to guide you into the next life.”

I blinked at her, a pit forming in the bottom of my stomach. Suddenly, the reality of my situation was beginning to sink in. I was dead, and this wasn’t a dream, and I was about to be led into the afterlife.

“How do I go back?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. I expected the woman to be surprised by my unusual question, but she just smiled at me, almost amused.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and for a moment she sounded genuinely apologetic. “You cannot go back. There is no such way.”

I narrowed my eyes, my heart beating up against my chest. No. This can’t be right. I wasn't supposed to die like this. What, I get shot once on a mission gone wrong, and now I’m dead forever? That was hardly fair. And what about Bucky? He would never forgive himself if I died on his watch. I couldn’t just leave him with all the guilt and pain. I never even had the chance to tell him I l-

“I know this must be hard to understand,” the woman interrupted my thoughts with her infuriatingly gentle voice. It was hard to breathe; my breath was shallow, and it was like I was dying all over again, my lungs filling up with blood.

“How do I go back?” I asked again, my voice cracking. The woman gave me a pitiful look, and I wanted to throw her off this hill.

“It is impossible,” the woman said.

“Nothing’s impossible,” I refuted.

The woman gave me a long, hard look, a soft sigh pulling from her lips. There was something she was hiding from me, something she wasn’t telling me.

“How do I go back?” I asked one last time.

“There is a way,” she spoke each word like she was picking it carefully. “But no one has ever succeeded before.”

‘There is a way,’ was all I needed to hear. I took in a sharp breath, my heart leaping up with newfound hope.

“Tell me,” I said, and the woman gave me a solemn nod.

“You must travel across a large valley,” she said. “There are many dangers lurking there, and you will find they are unlike anything you have faced back when you were still alive. If you are gravely injured by these dangers, your soul will be destroyed, and you will cease to exist in all forms. Make it through this, and your reward is your life.”

It sounded simple enough to me, like another mission. All I had to do was avoid the dangers while traveling across this valley. Get in, get through, get out.

“If you wish to take on this journey, I will lead you to the valley and no further,” the woman continued, and I nodded my head vigorously.

“Yes,” I said. “I wish to.”

The woman almost seemed disappointed. She didn’t want me to go on this hopeless mission, but I wasn’t going to give up. Not when I still had so much more to do back home. I wasn’t ready.

“Take my hand, then, and I will lead you,” she said, extending her hand for me to take, and I accepted it.

All around us, the land began to shift and change. A great, white light shone in my eyes, and I squinted against it, my grip on the woman’s hand tightening as the ground beneath my feet transformed. The tall grass went from a dull yellow to a vibrant green, reaching up to only my ankles, while the landscape in front of us changed from plain fields to a large valley stretching on for what seemed to be miles and miles. Inside the valley was a dense forest, with trees standing as tall as a large building, and a river cutting right through the middle. The light shining in my eyes dimmed until it disappeared, and I could see clearly the new world around me.

The other side of the valley was a lot farther away than I thought. If I squinted, I could see it, but only barely. It would take a lot of walking through the woods to get there, but I was prepared to do whatever it took.

The woman released my hand, and I took a deep breath, steeling myself.

“Once you enter the valley, you cannot go back,” the woman said. “You will be entirely on your own. There is little hope for your success. Take my hand now, and I will guide you over to the next life.”

I looked over at the woman, her hand extended for me to take, mere inches away from me. She wanted me to accept her hand. She wasn’t convinced I would make it to the other side. What could possibly be in this valley that was so impenetrable?

I let out a soft sigh, and I turned away from her, setting my shoulders back and taking a step forward. I had no other option. There was no way in hell I was going to leave Bucky. I’d make my way back to him, even if it meant going on a treacherous journey through a valley of extreme dangers all on my own.

A large, ugly bruise as purple and dark as the night sky covers over half of my ribs on one side. Badly bruised or broken, I assumed. It ached and throbbed with every move I made, especially so when I tried to lift my arms.

I sat there on the edge of the bathtub, struggling to get a simple shirt up over my head, panting and sucking in sharp breaths when electric pain zapped down my side. I tilted my head back, staring at the popcorn ceiling in quiet frustration.

After all I’ve been through, after all I’ve faced, and I can’t get my shirt off because I broke a rib or two.

I let my hands fall from my shirt, my shoulders sagging forward in defeat. An exasperated sigh escapes from my lips, and I run a hand over my face, wiping the sweat and grime from my furrowed brows.

I really need a shower. I’m covered in dirt and mud and blood and other things I can’t begin to name. I smell horrid. I’ve waded through swamp waters and walked through blood and viscera to get to this safe house with the rest of my team. We barely made it alive.

I need help getting this shirt off, but who do I ask? 

I rule out Ghost as an option first. Images of him laughing in my face or otherwise rudely brushing me off swim through my head, and I shudder at the thought of embarrassing myself like that.

Soap is out next. The Scotsman is nice enough, but I could imagine him teasing me for being weak, and I didn’t think I could handle those snide jabs right now, not when the heaviness of my exhaustion gnaws through me, right down to the bone. 

That leaves me with my last two options: Price, or Gaz. Price seemed like the obvious choice. He was the captain, the leader, the best of us all. He was supposed to have our backs at any given moment, to guide us, to help us grow.

Which was why I couldn’t ask him.

I couldn’t have Captain Price know I was struggling with such a simple task. I could see the look on his face now—an almost displeased expression, with his lips curled down, mustache twitching and brows furrowed.

No, Gaz was the only safe option. He wasn’t going to tease or dismiss me, and he wouldn’t go blabbing to the others about my moment of weakness. I could depend on him to be nonjudgmental.

I stand on aching legs from the edge of the tub, trudging out of the bathroom and down the hall of the small safe house my team and I found ourselves in. 

It’s late at night. Everyone is either asleep or lounging in the common room, reading a book or scarfing down a tasteless MRE. I stand in front of Gaz’s shared room with Soap, and I knock on the door, knuckles wrapping lightly against the hard wood. I wince at the motion.

“Gaz?” I called out. “Y’in there?”

I wait before I knock again, firmer this time, grunting softly as the action sends a dull throb through my ribs.

“Gaz, c’mon!” I say. “Get out here, I need your help.”

“Help with what?”

I spin around on my feet, coming face to face with Ghost. He looks down at me with a tilt of his head, face covered with his signature skull balaclava. His eyes, sharp and dark, peer at me through the eyeholes of his mask, and I wonder, sometimes, if he’s able to read my mind with that piercing gaze of his.

“Er-nothing,” I say quickly.

I flash him a short smile and move to step past him, but Ghost’s gloved hand shoots out before I can get too far, catching me by my elbow and stopping me in my tracks. He stays rigid in his position, moving only his head to stare down at me, and he blinks, once.

“Tell me,” he says. 

His voice, gruff and authoritative, leaves no room for argument. It’s the last thing I want to do, admit my weakness to my emotionally constipated superior officer, but I know he won’t let me leave until I do.

“I, ah, need help getting my shirt off,” I mumble, avoiding his gaze. “Busted a few ribs. It’s no big deal. Gaz must be busy; I’ll just figure it out-”

I try to step past him again, and, once again, Ghost stops me, his fingers tightening around my arm, pulling me back towards him. His eyes narrow, gaze sharpening onto me.

“Bruised ribs?” He questions, and for a split second, I think I hear a hint of concern in his voice.

I nod my head in confirmation. Ghost lets out a huff through his nose, nostrils flaring underneath the mask. Something flashes across his eyes–frustration? His fingers flex on my arm, and I mentally prepare myself for the incoming reprimand. Never let your weakness be known, never let it be shown. I was supposed to be better than this. Stronger.

Instead, Ghost releases my arm, his hand sliding down to the small of my back, and he guides me down the hall without another word. His fingers barely brush over me, like he’s restraining himself from touching any further, and he keeps his gaze forward and focused, though he shoots me a subtle glance from the corner of his eye as he leads me into the bathroom.

The door shuts behind us with a soft click. I stand in the middle of the cramped room, the flickering lights and the peeling wallpaper pressing in on the two of us, and I’m more than a little confused. My lips are pursed, brows furrowed. Why did Ghost bring me back here? He doesn’t intend to help me, does he?

Ghost stands in front of me, head tilted down, his gaze boring into mine. There’s something there in his eyes, flickering by, something I can’t quite pin. I assume he must be annoyed or something similar. After all, shouldn’t I be able to do something as simple as take off my own shirt?

“Lift your arms.”

Ghost’s deep, baritone voice instructs me, giving no space for me to stubbornly refuse. I swallow, the saliva dragging down my dry throat, and I lift my arms up as high as they can go without pain, which isn’t very high.

Slowly, with as much gentleness as I've ever seen Ghost muster before, he reaches for the hem of my shirt. His gloved fingers wrap around the edge, gathering the fabric in his hands, but he doesn’t tug it off just yet like I expect him to.

His eyes flick to mine. He remains quiet, unspeaking, unmoving, and I can see the unspoken question in his gaze.

Can I?

The most undressed I’ve been in front of Ghost’s view was at some military event ages ago. I wore a simple black dress with a slit in the thigh and a low neckline, and, now, he was about to take off my shirt. I was just grateful I hadn’t been able to finagle my bra off from underneath it earlier.

I give Ghost one subtle nod. He doesn’t wait any longer than that. His hands move, and he lifts my shirt up, up, up. Over my stomach, over the bruise darkening my skin, up and over my chest and my head, through my arms, and then he folds it and sets it on the counter.

I stare at Ghost like I can’t believe this is happening right now. I must be dreaming. I hit my head on the mission, and I was in a coma, and this was all some sort of weird coma dream.

Ghost turns to face me again. His eyes flick down to the gnarly bruise covering my ribs, and, for a moment, his gaze darkens, his eyes narrowing to tiny slits behind the mask.

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand lifts, the tips of his fingers grazing over the dark mark. I recoil and inhale sharply, pained just from the slight touch.

Ghost freezes. His hand hovers in the empty air where he was touching me a moment ago, completely rigid. His eyes flit back up to meet mine, searching my gaze, observing the grimace twisting my features.

It’s silent for a beat, the only sounds coming from the flickering lightbulbs and the steady stream of air coming through the vent in the ceiling. Neither of us move, like two deers caught in a headlight. Then, finally, Ghost pulls his hand back to his side.

I think he’s going to leave now. I could (probably) manage on my own with the rest, and, after all, I had asked for help with only the shirt. Ghost had no obligation to help me in the first place; it would be erroneous of me to think he would assist me with anything more. I was pushing my luck already.

The masked man, of course, is full of surprises. Ghost shifts on his feet, moving less than an inch closer to me, but in this confined space, it feels like more than a foot. I tilt my head up to meet his gaze. He stares down at me, eyes burning into mine.

Ghost’s hands reach for my pants. His fingers hook through the belt straps, and he tugs me closer to him, making me take a small step forward. There’s hardly any space left between us now. My brows crease where they’re furrowed in puzzlement, and my eyes dart between his, trying to figure out what he was planning through his unreadable stare.

Without moving any closer or further away, Ghost sinks to his knees on the bathroom floor in front of me. He doesn’t break away from my gaze, not once, not when his hands move to the button of my pants, not when he speaks up and breaks the buzzing silence.

“May I?” He asks, and all I can do is nod dumbly.

Ghost pulls down my pants like he’s pulling the sheets off of a sleeping baby. He goes slow, similar to how he removed my shirt, helping me step out of the material, one foot after the other, with his hands cupped behind my calves.

I’m left in just my underwear now. I wish I could say it was my sexy, lacy set of matching bra and panties, but I wore a simple skin tone color set instead. Not exactly alluring.

 Ghost doesn’t move from his kneeling position on the ground. His eyes, still locked on mine, watch my every move, reading every microexpression flickering across my face. His hands move for my briefs next, and, just like with every other article of clothing prior, he asks for permission before removing it too.

I stand there, naked except for my bra, Ghost kneeling before me like he was worshiping at the altar. There’s still a part of me which believes I must be dreaming or hallucinating this whole thing–my exhaustion and pain finally catching up to me, causing me to see an image of Ghost now rising to his feet. He stands there in front of me, an apparition of my mind, but when he reaches out and touches me, I know he must be real.

His hands grasp my shoulders, and Ghost guides me to turn around so my back is to him. His touch doesn’t linger for too long, nor does his gaze wander anywhere other than where it needs to be.

I stand perfectly still. The room, cramped as it is, seems more stifling than before, yellowing walls closing in all around us. Ghost reaches for the clasp of my bra, and his voice rumbles low in my ear, asking once again for my consent to take off the material.

I nod my head. His fingers fumble with the hooks, and I wonder if it’s his hands shaking I feel or if it’s just my imagination. He manages to unclasp my bra, and he carefully slides the straps off my shoulders, taking the final piece of clothing keeping me covered and setting it off to the side.

I shiver, the air around us chilling through my bare skin, goosebumps rising up on my flesh. Ghost stands behind me, and he gently pushes me forward, guiding my feet one step at a time towards the shower. 

Still situated at my rear, Ghost reaches past me and turns the knob to the shower head. Water sprays out from the nozzle, tiny droplets catching on my naked skin, and it’s when he’s adjusting the water temperature I realize he’s taken off his gloves. I stare at his uncovered hands, watching as he tests the water and makes sure it’s not too hot or too cold for me.

My chest tightens. Ghost stands close enough for me to feel his vest brush up against my back. He shifts, pulling his hands back once the water is an acceptable temperature, and he grasps my own hand, leading me forward.

I step into the tub, Ghost keeping me steady with his hand on mine as I lift one leg up over the porcelain edge, and then the other. The water sprays down on me, warm and soothing, and I stand right there underneath the nozzle, letting the water drench me, my head bowed, eyes closed.

I let out a soft, slow exhale. The water runs over my skin, enveloping me in its warmth, rinsing the dirt and grime of the past few days off of me. My tense muscles finally begin to loosen, my racing thoughts quieting down to just a quiet murmur. I barely even notice the aching throb in my ribs anymore. After all that we’ve been through on this mission, a hot shower is just what I needed.

Something shifts behind me. Ghost’s large form steps into the shower, joining me underneath the hot water. My eyes fly open, and I go to turn and look at him, but Ghost grips my shoulders, keeping me facing the shower wall.

“Don’t look,” he mutters, voice just loud enough to be heard over the running water.

It’s then I notice his clothes set neatly on the counter beside mine, skull balaclava placed on the very top. He must have slipped out of them while I was distracted by the shower. I swallow hard, my heart thrumming in my chest.

What is happening right now? 

Ghost reaches for the shampoo, and I wonder if maybe he was the one who had got hit in the head on the mission. He tips my head back and begins to lather the soap into my hair, his fingers massaging into my scalp, and my eyes flutter shut as I wonder whether I should ask Price to check Ghost for a head injury.

Ghost takes his time shampooing my hair, running his fingers through the strands, gently scratching my scalp with his nails, massaging the soap into my hair, then he lets the water rinse it all out and grabs the conditioner next. 

He does the same with the conditioner–lather and massage into my hair. I stand there, head tipped back and eyes closed, and it’s then it occurs to me, this is not Ghost. Not in any way that matters, anyway. 

He’s as naked as the day he was born, face uncovered and maskless, hands that have taken the lives of too many men to name, touching me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters right now.

This is not Ghost. This is another side of him, one I’ve never seen before.

This is Simon Riley.

I stand there, almost frozen as he runs his fingers through my hair, rinsing the conditioner from it. He moves slow, as if he’s handling a fragile piece of glass, and, if I didn’t know any better, I never could have imagined these hands were the same hands I’ve seen on the battlefield. The same cold and calloused hands I’ve seen end lives, just the same as my own blood stained hands.

Those same hands reach for the body wash last. Simon’s hands lather the soap over my skin, washing the remaining grime off me. He doesn’t linger where he shouldn’t; he doesn’t touch where it hurts over my ribs. 

My throat constricts. Tears sting in the corner of my eyes. I’m grateful for the running water and my position with my back turned, so Simon can’t see me crying over something as silly as a simple touch. He takes extra care not to bring me any pain or make me uncomfortable, going out of his way to make sure I’m washed and cleaned and content. It’s enough to make a storm of emotion swell in my chest.

I let out a shuddering breath. Simon grips my shoulders as the water washes off the remaining soap on my body. We don’t move from this position, even as the last of the soap suds slip down the drain. I can feel Simon’s thumbs brushing over my skin, moving back and forth in a rhythmic motion, a motion which slowly begins to soothe away my tears.

We stay there for a little while, unspeaking, unmoving, Simon holding me the only way he knows how, until our fingers begin to prune and the water begins to run cold.

Simon reaches for the shower knob then, turning off the running water.

“Close your eyes,” he says, and I do, squeezing them shut.

Simon shifts behind me, stepping out of the tub, and I hear him shuffling around in the tiny bathroom, putting his clothes back on, if I had to guess. It takes him a moment of quiet shuffling before I hear him pull back the shower curtain as far as it can go, his large, shadowed form falling over me.

He’s quiet for a beat. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel his gaze burning into me.

“You can open your eyes, now,” he says quietly.

I open my eyes. Simon stands at the edge of the tub, fully dressed, his masked face tilted down to meet my gaze. He says nothing, just reaches forward and grasps my hand, helping me step out of the tub. 

I drip water onto the tiled floor as I get out. I shiver, the water turning ice cold against my skin once the open air hits me. Simon quickly grabs a towel and wraps it around my shoulders, drying me off. He’s gentle, not rough, as he pats down my wet skin, and when he reaches my bruised rib area, his eyes flick to mine, watching my face when he runs the towel over the dark bruise there.

I wince, but the touch is so light, it’s hardly painful. Simon moves on, drying off the rest of my body, then he starts to help me step back into my clothes.

Once I’m fully dressed, Simon takes a step back, his eyes giving me a once over. His gloved hands twitch by his side, like he wants to reach out and touch me again, but he doesn’t. Instead, he clears his throat, breaking the silence with his gruff, almost awkward voice.

“You… good?” He asks.

I blink at him. Am I good, Simon asks? He just cared and tended to me like no one ever has before, bathed and cleaned me, took off his mask for me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the feeling of his hands on me. I’ll stay awake late at night and stare at the ceiling and remember the way his calloused fingers ran over my skin for the rest of my life, probably.

“Yeah,” I managed to rasp out. “I’m fine.”

Simon stares at me for a beat, eyes locked onto mine. His eyes narrow a fraction behind the mask, head tilted down, but he doesn’t push any further. He gives a short nod of his head, and, finally, he guides me out of the bathroom.

We step out into the dimly lit hall. It’s quiet in the safe house. Everyone is sound asleep. 

Simon leads me down the hall to my room, pushing open the door with one large hand and guiding me inside with the other. He keeps the door cracked, gently pushing me along to the edge of the lone bed placed in the room, and I climb onto the stiff mattress as Simon situates the covers over top of me.

He pulls the blankets up, tucking them over my shoulders, and there’s a soft crinkle in his eyes as he looks down at me, like I’m the only person in the world right now. It makes my heart squeeze in my chest, and I glance away from him as he smooths out the sheets, tucking my face into the pillows.

I can hear Simon chuckle at my sudden shyness. He pulls back, though his hand lingers on my shoulder for just a brief moment longer.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs. His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard before.

Simon pulls his hand from my shoulder, turning to leave. My heart drops down into my stomach suddenly, watching him go, pulling further and further away with every step he takes.

“Simon,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Simon stops in his tracks. He doesn’t turn his body, but he tilts his head over his shoulder, peering at me through the corner of his eye, and I can only imagine the questioning look he’s giving me underneath the mask. I shift underneath the covers, pulling them tighter underneath my chin.

“... Thank you,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t move for a beat. Doesn’t say a thing. Neither of us do. There’s a thick tension in the air, one I never noticed until now. It hums with something neither of us know what to do with, like we’ve opened a door to something that can’t be closed.

Simon turns, finally, and he walks back over to the side of my bed, standing over where I lay, staring down at me with those sharp eyes. He’s silent still, but he reaches his hand out again, gloved fingertips brushing over my cheek. My eyes flutter shut, a soft, contented exhale pulling from my lips. If I could capture this moment in time and freeze it forever, I would.

It’s then, while my eyes are closed, I feel the fabric of his mask brush over my forehead, the shape of his lips pressing against my skin through the skull balaclava.

I freeze. My heart skips and stutters in my chest. Simon kisses my forehead, and the moment stretches on and on for what seems like an eternity, all the stars and the moon and the sun aligning to create this perfect scene, before he’s pulling back and tilting my head so I look him in the eye.

“Don’t thank me,” he speaks roughly. “I did this ‘cause I wanted to, not because I had to.”

I nod my head, too dumbfounded to speak, and his thumb rubs over my cheekbone while he stares down at me with an intense gaze. We stay like that for a moment, staring into each other’s soul, then Simon pulls away for the last time that night.

“Sleep,” he commands gently, and I get situated under the sheets as he heads for the door.

“Simon?” I stop him one last time.

He’s halfway through the door, but he pauses anyway, turning his head to look at me, grunting in response.

“... Have a good night,” I say quietly.

Simon stares at me where he stands halfway through the threshold. He doesn’t respond right away, his eyes flicking over me where I lay, observing my tired form. His hand tightens where it grips the doorknob, his jaw clenching underneath his mask, and he exhales sharply through his nose.

Finally—

“Goodnight,” he says.

What is faith?

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, faith is something that is believed especially with strong conviction. What does it mean to believe in something? Do you need to see it to believe it, or do you know it’s there, without needing to put your eyes on it? How do you believe in something you cannot see? How do you believe in something you cannot touch or feel or sense in any way?

I have faith in many things, I think. I have faith in myself, in my ability to persevere, despite the odds. I have faith in the good of the world, because I know there is good. I’ve seen it. I believe in it. I have faith in my team, the Task Force 141. I have faith in Captain Price, I have faith in Soap, in Gaz, and I have faith in Ghost. I’ve watched them do impossible things with my own two eyes. We’ve survived countless battles together. There is not a place on this Earth I would not walk side by side with them into.

Perhaps that is why I am here now, in this run down and currently abandoned church, in the middle of a warzone, while my teammates were God knows where.

God.

What does it mean to have faith in God?

Do you pray every day? Do you go to Church every Sunday? Do you donate your money to the needy and the poor, and do you follow God’s word strictly, without disobedience?

I used to have faith in God. Once upon a time, I used to pray along with my family every night at the dinner table, head bowed, hands clasped together.

I do not know where my faith has gone. I suppose I lost it along the way, after the world kept beating me over and over again when I was already down. What’s the point of a prayer if not one of them has ever been answered?

I sit down at one of the wooden pews of the church. Gunshots pop and hit against concrete, far and distant, for now. I stare straight ahead at the large cross situated towards the front of the room, a statue of Jesus hanging off the wooden planks.

My eyes trace over the replica of Jesus. His face is pained, almost mournful, as He hangs with His hands nailed to the cross.

I wonder, then, if Jesus was happy to have died for all of humanity's sins, or if He regretted His decision after seeing all the pain and destruction we have wrought across the world. Do we still deserve His forgiveness, after all we’ve done?

I reach for my comms.

“Captain Price, do you copy?”

I speak into the radio, waiting approximately ten seconds before I try again.

“Captain Price, do you read me?”

Another ten seconds pass. There is no response. I sigh, switching my comms off and rubbing a frustrated hand over my face.

I don’t know where my teammates are, and I can’t get a response through the radio. Gunshots and explosions continue to ring out in the distance, a steady reminder of the imminent danger coming for me. I don’t know what to do. What do I do?

I lift my head, looking up at the statue of Jesus on the cross once more. My hands sit clasped over my thighs. I stare at the figure of Jesus, the image of His last moments, sacrificing His life for all of our sins.

I remember being in bible school when I was ‘real young and learning about the death and resurrection of Jesus. Betrayed by His closest friend, hands and feet stabbed through by rusty nails onto wooden planks. How ironic, it is, that His father, Joseph, was a carpenter. I wonder if when Jesus took His last breaths, when the fresh wood smell wafted up into His nose, if He remembered the smell of His father after coming home from a long day's work.

Slowly, I lower my head and lift my hands up, my eyes sliding shut, and I let out a slow exhale. I haven’t prayed in years. I don’t know how you’re supposed to do it–if there're any rules or guidelines you’re supposed to follow. I swallow thickly, and I clear my throat.

“God…” I start slow, unsure of myself.

“If you’re there. I’m not sure if you are. But if you are, please, hear my prayer. My teammates, my friends, Price and Gaz, Soap and Ghost, I don’t know where they are. Please, I pray for their safety. Please make sure they are safe. Please make sure they are unharmed. I pray for them to make it through this with barely a scratch or a bruise on their skin. Please… Just… Just make sure-”

My hands tighten where they’re clasped together. A lump forms in the back of my throat, and I have to fight back a choked sob.

“Please,” I beg God. A tear rolls down my cheek. “Take my life if you have to,” I plead with the higher power, one which I do not have much faith in. “Just make sure they live.”

I exhale shakily, finishing off my prayer with a murmured “amen.” I sit there for a moment or so, eyes closed, head tilted down, taking controlled and steady breaths as I try to regain my bearings. I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts and the almost painful tightening of my chest, I almost don’t notice the sound of approaching boots until they’re a few steps or so away.

I jerk around in my seat, already reaching for my gun, which I had set to the side when I sat down, but I stop in my tracks when I see who it is.

It’s Ghost. He stands there, a few pews back, gripping his weapon loosely and staring at me through the eyeholes of his skull mask. His expression, as usual, is unreadable, and neither him nor I say anything for several seconds.

Finally–

“Ghost,” I breathe out, a ragged wheeze. “Are you real?”

Ghost looks at me, head tilting a fraction to one side. His eyes flick over to the statue of Jesus and the cross, then back to me, and he gives one slight nod of his head.

“I’m real,” he confirms.

I just stare at Ghost like I can’t believe he’s actually here, standing before me. He shifts, then with an almost agitated sigh, he strides forward, and in less than three steps he’s by my side and sitting next to me in the pews.

“‘M right here,” he murmurs in that low, baritone voice of his. A beat. Then– “Rest of the team’s waitin’ outside.”

I nod my head slowly, trying to keep back the tears threatening to fill my eyes. Ghost is okay. My team is okay. They’re alive, and unharmed, it seems. I can’t describe the pure relief flooding through my veins at his words, at his very presence here.

Ghost and I sat there in silence for a minute or so. His gaze is fixed on me, studying me intently, while I look up at Jesus on the cross. There’s an almost awed expression on my face as I stare up at the statue.

Ghost follows my gaze, eyes narrowing as he takes in the figure of Jesus nailed to the large, wooden cross. Behind Him are two sets of stained glass windows, with figures such as Mary and Joseph and the birth of Christ engraved into the colorfully stained glass.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” Ghost breaks the silence first.

I let out a dry snort at that. I’m far from it.

“I’m not,” I say.

Ghost turns his focus back to me, and I just know he’s got a suspicious eyebrow cocked underneath the mask. I squirm uncomfortably under his gaze, eyes flitting back towards him.

“How long have you been here?” I ask him, remembering my desperate prayer. Was he standing behind me the whole time?

Ghost stares at me with those sharp, dark eyes, gaze piercing into mine.

“Long enough,” he grunts out. His head tilts as he looks at me. I let out a small huff of annoyance, gaze darting away from him and settling back on the stained glass. There’s a beat of silence again–he’s studying me once more–then he shifts a little bit closer to me, his shoulder brushing up against mine.

I look over at him, ready to tell him a thing or two about personal space, and nearly choke on air when I see him with his head bowed and hands clasped in a silent prayer.

Not once had I ever seen Ghost pray or mention religion. He didn’t strike me as the type, but seeing him here now, in this desolate church, praying quietly beside me… I can’t tear my eyes away.

I don’t interrupt him. I stay quiet beside him, staring at him as he keeps his head bowed and hands clasped. When Ghost whispers a soft “amen” and lifts his head again, he looks over at me. I don't look away.

“What did you pray for?” I ask him quietly.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes flicking over me. There’s something in the swirling darkness that I can’t quite pin.

“I prayed for your safety,” he says after a beat. “And for your happiness.”

I stare at Ghost like he’s the craziest person I’ve ever met, because, quite frankly, he is. His eyes crinkle at the edges like he’s giving me a lopsided smile underneath the mask.

“You’re an idiot,” I say. He just chuckles and stands to his feet.

“C’mon.” He motions with a jerk of his head. “Better go ‘fore Price gets antsy.”

I let out a deep exhale and nod my head, and I stood along with him, following him out of the church, finally reuniting with the rest of my teammates–Soap and Gaz and Price. They slap a hand on my shoulder and pull me in close. I hold onto them just a little bit tighter than I usually do.