just your simping writer

He busies himself with cleaning his rifle, back to Soap as he keeps his eyes on the void-like horizon out of the window.

"Ghost…" Johnny whines, and Ghost rolls his eyes, ignoring him.

The heat is unbearable as is, he doesn't need bitching along with it.

"L.t." Johnny says again, voice high and tight. "'t's hot…"

Ghost huffs obnoxiously to get his point across for Johnny to shut the hell up.

"It hurts, Simon."

And, fuck, that pinched and ragged tone, the way Johnny's fighting for every word, makes Ghost whip around so fast he might have whiplash.

"Johnny-"

The words get caught in his throat, and he can't breathe anymore. 

Soap's burning. 

Johnny is on fire.

"Johnny!" The name tears from him before he can help it, and he's scrambling from the window to save him and-

Christ, Soap is screaming. Screaming bloody murder as the smell of charred flesh and thick smoke fill up the safe house. He's screaming and screaming and burning and Simon can't stop him, can't put him out-

Johnny is going to die.

He rushes to the sink, stumbling over himself on the way there, but the faucet is busted and dry as the desert they're in.

The screaming isn't stopping, not even letting up, and he's going to go deaf with the sound of Johnny fucking burning alive.

All of a sudden, Ghost is screaming too. He is in agony, his shoulder flaring up with the heat of the sun. He forces himself to turn around, to find why it hurts so much.

Soap is grabbing at him, at his shoulders, scrambling for a hold but… He isn't Soap anymore. He's not Johnny. 

But Ghost knows him.

It's a civilian, one from years ago. A young boy, barely twelve. And he's still fucking on fire.

"Why didn't you save me?!" the boy screams, reaching for Ghost, reaching to set him ablaze, reaching for help.

"I-" and Ghost is gagging on the smell of burned flesh. His throat burns with it, eyes water, and he blinks through it to look around.

I tried.

"Why didn't you save us?!" 

And Ghost screws his eyes shut, trying not to breathe.

I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry.

He hears the boy choke on his last breath, hears him crumble into the dust. He makes the mistake of forcing his eyes open, to see where they are, to find Johnny again. 

There are people all around him, each one of them lit up like a bonfire.

He's with Roba again. 

Simon can feel the way his heart drops.

Please, not again. I can't go through this again.

Simon starts to run- run as fast as his legs will let him.

He doesn't get far.

He screams when a metal hook tears through his back and out in front of his ribs. Caught, like a fish on a line.

His fingers claw at the dirt, the screams now choking in his throat as he dragged backwards, back towards the burning, towards him.

Roba pulls him closer, like he were nothing more than a tug-of-war rope. And no matter how hard Simon claws into the dirt, how hard he forces himself to breath through the agony, how hard he begs-

He can't escape.

Simom wakes up screaming so loudly that he can feel it tearing the inside of his throat raw. With the tail end of a plea on his lips, he crashes to the floor, his legs tangled up all kinds of ways in his thin sheets.

Christ alive, he can't breathe. He can't even move and fuck-

One of his hands clutch at his pounding heart while the other claws against the floor in hopes of escaping him.

He needs to get away, needs to get out of here as fast as possible- but his legs won't move right and he can only crawl so far with one lousy hand and he just can't get any traction-

The door slams open, rattling on its hinges, and the room floods with blinding light. Someone's yelling, and he barely makes out, "Get down!"

Simon can't see. He can't see. Can't move or breathe and some is yelling, and he's fucking terrified, so he buries his head in his hands and curls up into a ball the best he can.

He feels like he needs to vomit out whatever is caught in his throat so he can catch a breath, to rip his heart out of his chest just so it'll slow down, to carve out his brain so the screaming will stop.

"Ghost?! Creepin' Jesus, what's-" 

"Ghost? Ghost where-" the yelling pauses, catches itself in the air before settling into a low, hurried, murmur. "Ah, hell- Simon…" The door cracks almost shut, and the voice orders, "Go on back to your barracks! False alarm, everything's fine." 

But it's not. It's not fucking fine because he knows he knows that voice, but he can't place it, can't stop hyperventilating to put a face to it-

The voice doesn't speak up again, and there's footsteps, a few, that shuffle away and down the hall. 

And, eventually, somewhere in the midst of the calming chaos, his ears stop ringing. The high pitched whining fades away, and after a moment, his vision slowly clears. The black fuzz in his peripherals let up and nothing is blurry. He blinks, and notices the lights in the room aren't as assaulting. 

"You with me, soldier?" Price murmurs from where he's crouched down across the room. 

Simon opens his mouth to say he's fine, but all he can do is choke on his breath.

"Hey there, easy, Simon. You're alright," Price soothes, a sad look in his eyes. "Just breathe, kid. No rush."

¤¤¤¤¤

When he does calm down and he's no longer in his head, he speaks. His voice is gravelly and raw and it hurts just a bit, but Ghost speaks.

"What was with the bloody search party? Everyone wakes up yellin' now and then. Comes with the fuckin' territory."

Price presses his lips into a thin line as he hands Ghost his mask.

"Yeah, but not everyone begs for their life. Certainly not you, Simon." The name earns him a harsh, tired glare.

"I wasn't…" he feels his lips curl down more without his permission, the nightmare still whispering its giggles in the back of his mind. "I wasn't begging for anything. I don't beg."

Price gives him an odd look, one he's seen before but can't quite place. 

He's fucking sick of that, not being able to place what he's experienced before.

"What were you dreaming about?"

Ghost clenches his jaw instantly, trapping his confession far behind his teeth. He beats the words down until they are nothing but a speck deep inside. Buries them together into the ground, in an unmarked grave, in the middle of nowhere.

Price runs a slightly shaking hand through his tousled hair and sighs, "Don't do this to yourself anymore. Just one word, that's all I need." 

Ghost closes his eyes, and the image of Johnny and the boy and flames and the hook flash in the darkness. He shoots them open and feels his breath stutter in his throat. 

Ghost can't. He won't. He's not that god damn pathetic.

"It's alright, son."

Fuck it all. 

What else is he supposed to do but talk? How can he say nothing when Price talks to him like that? Like he's worth waking up for?

"Roba," he whispers like a curse.

And Price understands, because of course he does. 

¤¤¤¤¤

He has another terrible one within the next week.

It's his fault this time. He should know better- he does know better.

It's all because tries to sleep with a weighted blanket. 

Ghost figures he needs a tiny, controllable change. Besides, he read somewhere that the weight would help him sleep soundly.

God knows he needs a good night's rest.

So he wills himself to go out into the world off base and brave his local 24 hour convenience store for the stupid thing. He buys the first one he sees that isn't psychedelic and bleeding with color. It weighs a good 20 pounds through the whole blanket, but Ghost figures he's a lot to cover.

After an odd look from the short man at the register, Ghost goes back to the base to call it a day, a bit bitter from the silent interaction.

So what if he buys blankets an hour after midnight? Piss off.

He just… Wants to sleep everything away.

And so he tucks in for the night, hopeful, swapping the military grade sheet for his new weighted blanket that, actually, is quite nice. Eventually, after forcing every muscle to relax one by one, he falls blissfully asleep.

Soap's stupid mohawk was a mess of blood as he was dragged, kicking and begging, through the mud. Ghost was murdering men left and right to get to him, killing without a thought to save him, the blood soaking into his hands, leaving nothing but thin scars behind. 

And then he sees it; the all too familiar grave. Unmarked and hardly four feet, just like he remembers.

And the Sergeant- Soap, MacTavish, John, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny- is carelessly tossed like a rag doll right into that grave.

And Ghost dives after him.

He has to save him because he couldn't save everyone else.

He has to.

But he can't.

Now that they're here, he can't get them out.

The dirt is piling on top of them too quickly, and he can't dig them free fast enough and Johnny is screaming and crying and fighting and-

And then he's silent. Quiet as the earth.

Ghost searches for him, wide-eyed despite the dirt all around him. And he sees. He sees his Johnny.

Sees that he's a corpse. 

Rotted, at that. Old- days old, at least. There's no grin on his melted face anymore, no glint of mischief in his rolling eyes.

Ghost is too late. None of his sacrifices matter. 

Still, he tries. 

He tries to get out, scrapes and digs and hopes to get free, get on top, look down at the grass.

But he's only getting deeper- so, so much deeper- into the ground and he doesn't know why, he doesn't understand how-

It's Soap. It's Johnny. He's digging the wrong way, rotted flesh and tiny bones scraping in the wrong direction.

"Other way!" Simon shouts past the dirt in his mouth. 

And John stops, skin sliding off of his face as he rattles his bones at Simon, unable to talk with his lips a puddle in the hole they're in. But he sees it, Johnny's wicked smile of teeth and a touch of gums. 

Hears it, when he speaks into his brain: Oh? But, Simon, hell is this way.

¤¤¤¤¤

He's going to personally hunt down the author of the book that told him weighted blankets were a good idea.

Hell, maybe they are a good idea. At least, for anyone who doesn't dream of being buried alive.

The clock tells him it's been hardly two hours, but his body says it's been a lifetime. 

Everything aches, more than normal, but he can't manage to sit still with these nerves eating at his skin. It feels like he's clutching a live wire instead of his pillow that's planted in front of his stomach and held up by his arms and knees.

It's going to be a long fucking day.

¤¤¤¤¤

He was right.

The day drags on forever.

By the end of it, Ghost considers killing everyone in the building, and then himself.

He feels too big for his skin, like he has to shed it like a snake, grow another one that's a better fit. Every breath he takes, he forces it to be slow and deliberate, focusing on filling his lungs completely. 

Ghost spends most of the day in the gym. He tried working on what little paper work he's yet to do, but the words kept blending together and dancing from the page. And even if he wrangled them back, they weren't sticking. He had to read the same line four or five times in a row because his brain decided that English wasn't going to work today.

So he stays his ass in the gym.

Can't think if everything hurts, can you?

He starts with the treadmill and sprints for a mile, until his knees threaten to give way and he nearly slips. He moves, shaking, to the bench press, and makes the choice to work on lighter weights so he doesn't need a spotter. When that isn't clearing his mind, he makes his final destination the punching bag.

Maybe he gets lost in his head regardless. Maybe he loses himself. Maybe he bends a finger.

He only stops when Price practically drags him into the kitchen, still sweaty and gross and dead on his feet.

It wouldn't have been all too bad, if Price had kept the silence going.

"Therapy is a normal thing, Ghost, especially in this line of work. Everyone on the task force goes, even Kate."

And Ghost knows this. He knows how much it has helped Soap through the aftermath of Las Almas and Hassan and everything before, in between, and after. 

Ghost knows therapy worked for them. 

And he knows he's too damaged for therapy to fix. 

Ghost moves his jaw just enough to pass as a nod, just to appease Price.

He can't find the honey for his tea and he's just a breath away from giving up on it and heading to the sniper range with a raw throat and trembling hands.

He doesn't understand where the honey went. It was right here. He left it right here yesterday morning. It's always right here. Always. 

So where the fuck is it?

Price makes a noise, something between clearing his throat and huffing.

Ghost faces him at it, and snags the small container of honey before Price can question him. 

Fucks sake, he almost spiralled because of honey.

He's pathetic.

"Where was it?" he murmurs, because it'll drive him up the wall for the rest of the day if he doesn't know.

"On the counter, Ghost. Near the fridge. No need to get ansty over it," Price answers easily before adding just as quick, "you know, I could enforce that therapy be mandatory."

"You wouldn't." 

Price wouldn't.

Right?

"But I could."

"You could do anything, sir."

"Except help you, apparently."

"I don't need any help."

"You did with Roba."

The tea scalds his hand when he spills it all over the counter. Seeps into his glove and threatens to burn him alive, and he grits his teeth hard enough to feel his jaw creak. He pulls the glove off with his other shaking hand, and gives a once over to his pale hand that's now quickly turning an irritated shade of pink.

"Simon, at least think about it," Price sighs with the weight of the world. He's already carefully cleaning the hot tea from the counter.

"I have," Ghost bites, moving to the sink.

Price goes quiet as the cool water from the tap runs lightly over Ghost's hand, over his oddly bent finger. Ghost hopes that the conversation is over. He knows it's not.

"New orders, soldier."

Ghost takes a breath, stiffening and resisting the muscle memory of moving at attention, or at least parade rest.

"Sir?"

"You're drinking with the 141 at the end of this month."

Ghost lets himself whip his head around, and he can feel the fire in his eyes, the protest on his tongue.

"Don't cut me off."

And Ghost clenches his jaw to shut himself up. 

Price hardly ever pulls rank on his team; he doesn't need to, with the respect the 141 has for him regardless. This? This right here is the closest he ever gets.

Price quietly huffs, looking over Ghost's hand that's still under running cool water. 

Price holds the tone he always has when he's discussing the workings of a mission. "You'll drink with us, here on base in Soap's office. You'll try to enjoy yourself. Then, after two hours, you can peel off. Fuck about for all I care, but stay involved for two hours, at lease. Understood?" 

Ghost thinks the old man has gone fucking senile.

"Understood."

"Involved, Ghost. Offer your two cents here. Say a shitty joke there. Have a drink or two."

"Sir."

Price huffs again, his mustache twitching with the force of it. He carefully cradles Ghost's burned hand. He's got a rag, wets it with the cool water, and lays it gingerly over Ghost's hand. 

"Just… Consider it, Simon. Really, this time." Price murmurs, patting Ghost's shoulder with his dry hand. "And get your ass to medical before you terrorize the gym again."

Ghost doesn't know if he wants to strangle the man or hug him. 

¤¤¤¤¤

They're standing on Ghost's favorite watch tower, Soap and Ghost, overlooking the quiet woods behind the base. 

Johnny had wanted to see his knife collection, and for some godforsaken reason, Ghost shows him.

And as Ghost hands Johnny his favorite one, perfectly balanced and sharper than the devil's tongue, Johnny speaks something dangerous.

"I love you, Simon."

And Simon startles, gasps quietly as his heart beats faster and faster.

Is that just how it is? Effortlessly said, as if those words haven't been plaguing him for months? As if it's really just that easy? 

Simon hopes so. Hopes that it comes naturally to him like it does to Johnny.

But he knows better than to hope.

There's not love in the world for people like him.

"Let me show you how much I love you," Johnny beams, switching his grip on Ghost's knife.

"Johnny…?"

Johnny stabs himself just above his navel with Ghost's knife, the slick shhk of the blade echoing in the abyss as Simon can do nothing but watch. 

Blood pools over John's hips, down his strong legs, puddles at his feet, but the man is standing there, smiling and looking at Simon like he just hung the moon. 

"John- Johnny," Simon forces, rising from his spot on the ground, trembling hands refusing to move from his sides.

"I have a gift for you," John smiles, like he isn't forcing the blade up his torso, carving himself open like a fish. He flexes what's left of his abs, and his small intestines tumble out of him like a massive snake. They fall on the floor at first, but a section somewhere in the middle tips over the side, and gravity sends the organ free falling from the edge of the watchtower, and his large intestines peek out from behind John's flesh. "Ready for it?"

Simon doesn't speak. He can't, mesmerized by how Johnny's free hand pulls the rest of his intestines free like they were as normal as rope.

Johnny then holds the bloodied blade between his teeth, taints those perfectly pearly whites, and uses both hands to dig inside himself.

His left kidney, maybe his pancreas, and his liver are carelessly tossed onto the floor. And Johnny is still smiling at him from beyond that knife. Standing there playing Operation on himself with hearts in his fucking eyes. 

With a handful of yanks, his lungs are pulled free, dropped to the floor like the others. They're still functioning, too; expanding and relaxing, providing oxygen for a body a yard away. 

And then finally, finally, he tugs his heart out of place with a fond chuckle from behind the blade.

He passes Ghost his heart tenderly, both of John's hands cradling it like it was the most precious thing in the world. And, fuck, it is. Of course it is. Simon tenderly takes the still-beating heart into one of his hands. The rhythmic beating of it sings to Simon, lulls him into a trace.

It's not bloody, Simon notices numbly. It almost seems to be glowing, even. Perfect and radiant and lively, all beautifully John Mactavish. 

And Ghost crushes it. 

Closes his hand in a fist so suddenly, so violently, that Soap's heart practically explodes. 

He doesn't feel a thing when he does so. Blanky watches as Soap's face pales impossibly further, and his lungs, that are still on the floor, stop filling up. 

Soap's dying.

He's murdered Johnny without a second thought.

Funny, how that works.

He really is a monster.

Simon wakes up with wet cheeks and blurry eyes. He gasps, shaking and silent. Tears slip down his face again when he blinks away the teasing remnants of the dream.

He gets his bearings together relatively quickly, but not even honeyed tea could stop the shaking in his hands.

He avoids Mactavish for the entire day.

It comes with a little bit of trouble, as the man sticks to him like glue, but Ghost manages. It's his job to disappear, to be a ghost, to be dead.

But fucking hell, maybe Mactavish is a medium.

Ghost will catch glimpses of him, in the mess, in the bath, in the gym, the range, the track, the gym again, the barracks hallway, near Price's office- everywhere.

He eventually gets cornered when he has to take a fucking piss.

Ghost hears Soap coming from miles away, but it doesn't matter. The determination in the man's steps alone make him huff as he tucks himself away. 

Hell, Ghost is already running from his past. Adding MacTavish to that list isn't helping him.

He starts washing his hands the best he can with the small splint medical gave him when he feel eyes on his back.

"Sergeant," he murmurs.

There's a scoff, full of bravado and vinegar. "Lieutenant."

Ghost feels his jaw shift as he cuts the water to dry his hands. The bitterness in his chest at the title, foreign coming from Johnny, processes. 

He's being hypocritical. This is how Johnny must feel.

"Can I help you?" Ghost says anyway.

"Can I help ye, he says," Soap grin to himself but it doesn't reach his eyes, doesn't sit right with his snarky tone. "Aye, ye can bother t' explain why ye've been dodgin' me like th' bloody plague."

Because I don't want to hurt you.

Because you're important. 

Because I'm scared.

Ghost sniffs once, tossing the paper towels into the trash.

"Need some time to myself. Ain't nothin' personal, Johnny."

At that, Soap loses some of that tension in his shoulders, stops looking like a caged dog. He lets out the smallest of breaths.

"Aye…" he murmurs, hesitating. He licks over his bottom lip- Johnny often does that when he isn't sure what to say, tries to taste the words before deciding to serving them out or not- and takes a glance at the suddenly interesting floor. "Just… ah'm here, ye know? If… Ah don't know… If ye don't want time to yerself for too long."

"Yeah…" Simon lets out, accidentally. He recovers quickly, or tries to, anyway. "We'll see."

And Johnny licks his lips again, after a quiet nod. But he doesn't say anything. Maybe he didn't like the taste of his words this time.

¤¤¤¤¤

He dreams again and again. Always, he dreams. 

Most recently, he dreams of Johnny.

Simon can't stand it. 

It's affecting his waking moments now. It's making him affect Soap's waking moments.

After dreaming of that night in Chicago, of missing that shot on Hassan, of watching, hearing Johnny fall just about 50 stories to his death, Ghost spent a week straight making sure Soap stayed away from the high watch towers. He went as far as swapping patrols or having something 'suddenly come up' that 'needs the Sergeant right fucking now'.

After dreaming of missing Hassan, and shooting Johnny, he trained for hours and hours straight at the sniper range, foregoing meals and drinks and piss breaks just to make sure that his aim was perfect every time. Soap was forced to waste his evening by slowly convincing Simon that enough was enough, that he needed to eat, drink water, and get some fucking rest. 

After dreaming that Johnny blew up into dozens of pieces of meat chunks protecting him, Simon had a panic attack when Soap was at the demo-range and an explosion went off. Despite not even a cut on him, Ghost forced Soap to medical (once his own breathing was stable enough). He banned an outraged Soap from the range for two days.

Once, he dreamed that Johnny killed himself. Put a barrel in his mouth and looked at Simon. Pulled the trigger without hesitating. Simon knew, just knew, it was his fault.

After every dream of Johnny dying in front of him, or worse, by his hands, Simon crumbles. Loses another piece of himself.

He doesn't know how many pieces of himself he has left to lose.

¤¤¤¤¤

When the night comes to drink, Ghost considers going AWOL. 

Thinks about staying true to his call sign and vanishing into thin air, never seen again. He plans it out, even, knows what little to bring, what time to leave, where to walk to.

He stares at the mask he wears on base, just the balaclava with the infamous skull print. His gloved thumb runs over where a piece of the jaw design is cracking. He shifts his own jaw in time with his thumb.

Maybe there's no Simon left, he thinks, delusional. 

Maybe it's just Ghost, after everything.

Now would be the time to slip away, Ghost reminds himself, and his grip on the mask tightens, threateningly pulling at the jaw bone design.

Now.

He slips the mask over his head, and slowly breathes. He considers.

The faint smell of cigar smoke worms its way under his door and into his room. He hears Gaz laugh somewhere down the hallway, hears Soap's soft footsteps padding towards his room.

No. 

He stands wearily, takes another deliberate breath, and stalks to the door.

There's a knock, just as his hand reaches for the knob. A familiar pattern, one that makes him force a feeling that could possibly be described as giddiness down into the abyss behind his ribcage. 

Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock.

He could still run. Now's the very last chance he'll get. Johnny won't let him out of his sights when this night starts. Ghost should vanish- it's now or never.

He swallows past the sting of bile in his throat and returns with a quiet knock of his own.

Knock, knock.

He hears Soap laugh quietly on the other side.

Never, he choses. Never.

Ghost opens his door, and there is Soap, leaning against the wall with a grin so wide that it could crack his face. His eyes brighten when he sees Ghost. His grin drops a little when he sees what look Simon has in his eyes.

Johnny furrows his brows slightly, darts his eyes up and down in a quick one-two. 

Ye alreit?

Ghost shifts his jaw before steps into Johnny's space, just a little.

I'll be fine.

Johnny squints at him before dropping the silent conversation. He pushes himself off the wall and starts talking about a new project he's working on at the demolitions range. 

Ghost follows him to his office, and hangs on every word.

¤¤¤¤¤

Soap's 'office' is more of a play room than anything, all regulation thrown to the wind.

Spotless, but filled with personal trinkets and such. Soap reminds Ghost of a crow, collecting little shiny things to bring home to show others. It would be almost cute if Ghost would allow himself to think that way. 

Gaz isn't here, though. Neither is Price or Laswell, or anyone else.

Just him and Johnny. 

He doesn't think about it too much, because if he does, he knows it's the old man's fault.

Johnny doesn't pay any mind to the lack of the other three, and instead buries his head around his thousand-and-some shelves to find 'the right glasses'. 

"What are we drinkin'?" Ghost asks when the sound of rummaging starts to grate on his nerves.

"Oh, he does speak. Bless th' Saints, ah thought ye went mute,'' Johnny grins at him. Ghost narrows his eyes. Maybe he should have ran. The hum Johnny gives while pretending to think on it, possibly, changes his mind again. "Daiquiris," he settles on.

"What?"

"Ye know, those fruity, fancy cocktails."

Ghost could walk out the door right now. He should. 

"Fuckin' hell, Johnny," Ghost drawls, casting his gaze to the draw that seemed to be the one Johnny was looking for, if his air fist bump was anything to go by. He pulls out two daiquiris glasses, one of them clear around the middle up and with the base a cool blue. The other- "What the fuck."

Johnny laughs at that and holds the other glass up proudly. It's hot pink with a little touch of purple at the rim and with a mini pink boa scarf at the base.

"Don't like it?" Johnny grins so bright it feels like Ghost is getting flashbanged.

"You would have that," he murmured instead.

"Yeah, yeah. Yer lucky 'm givin' ye the blue one. Gotta keep up yer masculine image, eh?" 

"Whatever you say, Johnny," Ghost huffs, settling into the plush spare seat across from the desk. "Make it strong, yeah?"

Johnny hums quietly, his eyes lingering on Ghost's face.

Two hours. That's all he needs before he's calling it a night and fucking off. 

¤¤¤¤¤

He doesn't know exactly when he got drunk, but he does know that he ended up with the pink glass two drinks ago. Maybe four. 

Johnny isn't wasted like him; the fucker's been nursing his second drink for about an hour. 

Right, fuck, he was supposed to leave…

He forces his eyes to drag up to the oddly silent clock on the wall. Ghost remembers Johnny telling him all about how he managed to rig the clock in a way the ticking sound doesn't happen. He said it drove him bat shit crazy, having to hear it over and over again. It was adorable.

Fuck, no, he needs to focus. The clock, the time. 

Ghost tries again, squinting at it for extra measure. 

Jesus, he was supposed to be out of here three hours ago. 

"Ye alreit?" Johnny asks from his spot next to Ghost on the floor. Ghost hums at him in question. "I asked if ye're alreit, Ghost."

Ghost blinks at him, considering the question for an awfully long time, long enough for Johnny to sit up and gain that adorable furrow between his eyebrows.

"L.t? Seriously, are ye okay?"

He takes a small breath.

"Nah," he offers simply, running his hand through his tousled hair. 

Simon dropped the mask all of thirty minutes ago. He finally got pissed off about having it bunched up on his nose and abandoned the thing.

Johnny blinked at him a time or two, the gears turning in his head at Ghost actually being honest.

"No?"

"Yeah, no."

Johnny blinks again and that furrow grows.

"Yes?"

"Nah."

"No?"

"Yeah," Simon grins at the stupidness of the conversation. 

Johnny shakes his head with an exasperated sigh. 

"Alreit, what th' fuck," Johnny tosses his hands up.

And Simon laughs.

He doesn't know that he is laughing until his sides ache with it. Johnny's laughing too, at first in disbelief and then with Simon at the situation. And when Simon comes down from a high he hasn't felt in decades, Johnny is staring at him- through him, deep into what's left of his soul. 

"Wha'," Simon slurs, lips morphing into an odd, lazy grin.

"Nothin'."

"Nothin'?"

"Aye." Johnny's eyes linger lightly at his mouth before they harden and he sits up a bit. "Hell, Si, ye've got me all side tracked. This is important."

"Wha's important?"

"Ye are. Ye not bein' alreit," Johnny insists.

"Ah, sure," he murmurs, laying his head back on the side of Soap's desk.

"Ah'm serious," Johnny shifts closer, and Simon's eyes open lazily. "Why aren't ye alreit, Simon?"

Simon.

The abomination almost sounds pretty coming out of Johnny's mouth. 

Ghost gets his shit together.

"You wanna know?" Ghost rasps, drinking the rest of his too-sweet daiquiri in his too-frilly glass. 

"Aye. If ye'd tell me."

And Ghost gathers his drifting thoughts, pieces them together as he breathes slowly.

"I have killed you… Countless times." Ghost waves his hand simply, almost like he were shooing a fly. "Shot you, stabbed you, lit you on fuckin' fire, made you-" he forces a sharp breath. "Made you off yourself, just like that." His throat is getting tight, and he lifts the glass to his scarred lips again, knowing damn well it was empty. 

"Simon," Johnny breathes, slow and steady hands taking the glass from him to set it aside. His hands return quickly, and it's placed on top of Simon's.

"I don't- I won't take it anymore." A sob desperately tries punches through Simon, and he covers his face like the coward he is. "I want to hold you, want to have you, Johnny."

And the fucking gleam in Johnny's eyes could fly Simon to the moon and makes him bring back arm fulls of stars for him. 

"But- but everything I touch dies. And I can't… can't lose you to myself." The sob tries Simon again, and this time, it wins. He's crying, and he doesn't know how to stop, and it scares him. Scares him so badly that he can't do anything but press the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn't care that Johnny's hand falls away.

Really. He doesn't. Not… Not at all.

Christ, he is absolutely shameless.

Seriously, has he no pride? Breaking down over a couple of dreams? Crying in front of his Sergeant?

He feels his teeth grind together, feels his skull build up with the pressure of a thousand words, and by God and the devil, he has to let at least some out before they kill him.

"They felt so fuckin' real," he seethes past his locked jaw. "Woke up sometimes, 'n' I didn't bloody know if you were really dead or not. Felt like seein' a ghost everytime we passed."

Johnny's hand comes back, steady and tender, and guides Simon to lessen the pressure on his eyes. 

Past the blur left over from the tears and the force, he catches Johnny licking his bottom lip.

"Ah'm not dead. Ye've touched me and ah'm still breathin' jus' fine, Simon. Promise- Swear I am," Johnny carefully caresses Ghost's forearm. "Ah'm not goin' anywhere." He grins a little. "Yer not that lucky to get rid'a me."

Simon takes a deep breath, one that shakes his rib cage and stretches his lungs. With Johnny's encouragement, he breathes slowly. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, leaning his shoulder on Johnny's.

"Aye," Johnny agrees, leaning in time with him.

They sit there for some time, taking each other in, feeling each other's warmth. Simon nearly doses off to the feeling of Johnny's chest rising and falling. 

"Yer gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow," Johnny chuckles, combing through Simon's hair.

Despite it all, the bar isn't all too bad. Less of a club type and more of have-a-drink-with-the-boys-during-a-game type. There's still rowdy people, still flirts and such, but no one is breathing down his neck. He doesn't know what he'd do if there was. He's already tense… more than usual anyway.

He quietly waves the bartender down and speaks lowly through his black surgical mask.

"What bourbon you got back there?" Ghost nods.

The bartender sucks her teeth, resting her elbows down on the bar top and her head against her hands. 

"Sorry, babes. Limited stock and all we have is Barton 1792," she rolls her eyes. "Some dumb newbie dropped all the bottles of the real good stuff."

Ghost huffs through his nose, glancing down the bar top. He spots Johnny, wide smile on his face and an odd glass in his hand. 

"You know what he got?"

"Who, hun?" she asked, leaning forward just a bit. Ghost leans back in time, vaguely waving his hand towards Soap.

"The ray of fuckin' sunshine. Stupid mohawk on his head and-"

"Oh, him!" she beams, straightening up with a light pink dusting on her cheeks. "Of course, of course. You want what he has, sweets?" She's giggling, Ghost notes, watching her as her eyes never really float away from Soap. 

He just hums, but she doesn't hear him over the new song that kicks up through the speakers. 

He's going to murder Price if this little interaction doesn't end up killing him.

"Yeah, whatever he's got," he bites out.

"Coming right out, sugar," she nods, before moving about behind the bar.

As he waits, quietly watching Soap buzz with life, he thinks. 

He thinks of the mission, of the safe house that was almost a carbon copy of his childhood home, of Price convincing him to rest for two watches in a row. He thinks of his dream, of how he-

A glass clinking against the bar top has him blinking to attention.

He shouldn't zone out like that. It'll get him killed, get his comrades killed.

"Here you go, darlin'. What Sunshine had," she smiles brightly, sliding the drink towards him."

Ghost murmurs something that sort of passes as his version of a thank you. She nods and smiles, leans into the bar again, and doesn't fucking leave.

She's waiting for Ghost to drink it, he realizes. He gives her a crude look, lifting the glass to his face. No. No, she's waiting for him to take his mask off.

Maybe it's to spite himself, spite everything he knows, but in a rare moment, he bites up for the challenge.

Using his index finger from the hand that's holding the glass, he lifts the bottom of the mask and tucks the glass in between his lips and the mask.

The bartender frowns a little, shoulders slouches as she puts her weight on one leg. She still doesn't leave him alone, and it's bothering him. 

Ghost tells himself that she didn't drug him, and wills himself to take a sip. At the odd taste, he furrows his eyebrows and sets it down again, automatically hiding his face.

"Thoughts, Romeo?" she asks with a grin, trying to hide her disappointment.

"It's… smooth, but- fuckin' hell, is he trying to get wasted?"

"I figure he is. Sweet though, isn't it, pumpkin?"

"Yeah… what is it?"

"Good Ole Smoky Blue Flame," she laughs. "Legal moonshine, sweetheart."

Ghost shakes his head, letting the taste fade evenly in his mouth before taking another small gulp when she turns her eyes to Soap again. 

"It's not straight, though."

"You're right. Served one part to two parts gingle ale, doll."

Doll.

Ghost could put up with cutesy, flimsy, words like sweetheart and babes and whatever else she had called him- but doll makes him want to beat her teeth in and rip his throat out.

Ghost glares at her, tamed for all it's worth, and sets his drink on the coaster.

"What's with the nicknames all night?"

Ghost would've jumped over the bar at her if it wasn't for the way she giggled quietly. "I like to see how many I can shoot out before people mention it. It's usually how many dollars I get in tip," she grins widely, and Ghost can't help it when Soap flashes through his mind.

"Smooth," he says, deadpan.

"I know," she winks.

Before Ghost can say anything else, there's a rapping of knuckles on the bar top way further down the line.

"Well, it was nice talking with you. I'm looking forward to my whole nine bucks, angel." She beams at him. "Whoops. Make that ten."

And then she's off, tending to another person and leaving Ghost alone again with nothing more than his thoughts and a drink.

Angel, she called him. Surely she doesn't know? Has no clue of all he's done, all he's been the cause of, right? Angel, she smiled like he had hung the moon in the sky. 

Ghost felt sick, suddenly, sharply. He felt like smashing the glass and hiding because of the cuts he'll get. He felt like bashing his skull open on the bar just to make the tension ease. He felt like carving himself open to make sure he's still fully intact on the inside.

Angel.

It's odd, how he can feel himself trying to slow his breathing. Odder still that it isn't working. 

He's trying, trying so damn hard, to breathe in for four counts and hold it for four. But he can't. 

Christ, that's typically, isn't it? Just like him to fuck up something so simple. If he can't even breathe right after a simple conversation, how the hell did he ever think he'd get over what happened years- decades- ago?

His legs feel like jelly when he forces himself to get up from the stool. No one bothers him as he stalks like Death to the exit, no one gets in his way, and that's exactly how it should be. No one right in the head would lunge at a 6'4 tank of a man who has his face covered.

Yeah, he grew real tall. Just like his dad.

Ghost stumbles and scrapes the heel of his left hand on the brick wall when he catches himself. 

He's fine. He isn't bothered by a couple of stupid little things that happened so long ago. Besides, everyone gets shoved around here and there- he's not bloody special because he can't handle it well.

But he knew, he just fucking knew that being around this much alchol would make this happen. He practically doused himself in gasoline and ran into a burning building. 

Me and gasoline mix often, eh, he thinks delusionally, trying to get his vision to clear.

He forces himself further into the shadows from behind the building. Comforting territory, it is, here in the in between of light and dark. Life and death. Being a ghost.

But, fucking hell, he figures a ghost doesn't loose their shit over a handful of bad memories.

Memories of murdering those close to him in cold blood, memories of being betrayed for a few million dollars, memories of corpses and dirt, memories and dreams of his childhood-

"Ghost…? Ye oot 'ere?"

Ghost screws his eyes shut so his stomach can handle the violent swoop it goes though.

"Hey, you out 'ere? Been-" the slurring was interrupted by a nasty hiccup- "lookin' for you all night."

"I don't want to talk to you," Simon breathes.

Fuck, had he said that outloud?

"Ye got shite luck then, L.T." 

John stumbles around the corner, and Ghost had to beat down the urge to stabilize him. 

He's seen this before, on a different day with a different person, but it all ends up the same way. He doesn't- it was…

Simon can't handle Johnny acting like him.

"Yeah… I figured, lad. But hell, 'm here," his dad mumbled out as he stumble-walked across the yard to get to him. He nearly busted his ass on the ratty couch near the old tree. 

"You're drunk," Simon scoffed, and he really shouldn't have been as surprised as he was. 

His wrist burned and ached when he started to push himself from the grass spot under the wood line. 

"Naw, not really."

Simon clenched his jaw. It wasn't worth arguing with a fool, especially if they were drunk.  

"Simon, I wanted to say…" he trailed off and situated himself next to his son on the ground. When Simon tensed, he frowned to himself. "It sucks I startle you sometimes, kid."

And it was terrifying, how Simon felt his angry swell so suddenly.

He said it sucks, that Simon gets startled. Not that he gets so scared he can't breathe when he beats on his mom, beats on him, ties him to the rusty air con on the floor and letting the neighbors rabid dog loose and locking the fucking door-

Startle. That was the word he used.

His wrist burn again, a snarling reminder.

" 'm just… tryin' to make you strong 'n' brave 'n' manly, you know?" His dad mumbled as his fuzzy eyes landed on Simon's wrists. "I want to get you strong before the world does."

Simon didn't like that tone coming from his dad. It was the tone his mom used when she cleaned his welts and bloodied knuckles. It was the tone Tommy used to coax him out of a nightmare on the bad nights. 

He didn't like the way it made his throat close up.

"Sure, dad," he said quietly.

And his old man smiled, and that scared Simon.

It scared him in the way the unknown did. He didn't know what to do with it, he'd never seen it before. And it makes him still in fear because, Christ, he felt like he would cry. 

But it wasn't real. 

His dad was drunk and probably wouldn't even remember this.

"There ye are! Were ye hidin' frae me?"

Ghost bravely opens his eyes and tries not to breathe too loud.

"Not just from you," he murmurs weakly, leaning his weight on the wall behind him. 

"Ah've bin lookin' fer ye, ye ken." Johnny hobbles himself right next to Ghost, and Simon tries his best not to compare him to his father. 

"What for?" Ghost asks past the bile lodged in his throat.

"Tryin' tae git away from a reit bonnie quine who wanted free drinks an' a scuttle," Johnny slurs, a laugh mixing somewhere between his thick accent.

"English, MacTavish." 

Ghost can do this much. This is usual banter, yeah? Not a sudden 180 attitude caused by booze. This is normal.

"Aye, sorry," Johnny hums. He pauses to really think about how to get his point across. Ghost would've found it amusing, if he wasn't so focused on keeping his shit together. "Runnin' away from a pretty whore." 

And, fuck, if John doesn't think he's the funniest man alive. 

His loud laughter is almost enough to get Ghost to ignore the smell of liquor. When John dies it down, Ghost brings it up.

"Must've been some strong shit you had, eh?" Ghost says, narrowing his eyes pointedly.

Johnny's face sort of falls at that, and after a moment of blissfully agonizing silence, he mutters, "Yeah… Didnae want tae 'member th' way ye sounded wakin' up frae that nightmaur."

And what else was Ghost supposed to do other than remember how panicked Johnny looked?

He had woken up gasping, the tail end on something on his tongue as he ripped himself from the thin blankets. Simon couldn't- he couldn't move, and he was trapped again, and the snake was right at his fucking face-

"Son! Hey, breathe, breathe for me," a deep voice soothed tightly.

And then he noticed the hand over his mouth, and he cried- sobbed, really. Begged for him not to take his fingernails, begged for him not to leave him trapped with a dead body, begged to just be let go.

" 'm sorry, I know- I know I shouldn't, but please, don't, I need them- I need them for ma to paint, please don't take them- she needs them! I need them for her, please-"

"Easy there, easy. It's me, Price, son. Captain Price- John Price, Simon."

And Simon forced open his bleary eyes, hos chest heaving with sobs. 

He tried to calm down, he did, but he couldn't shake himself from the dream. It had felt so real. Hell, he even did the stupid box method breathing, but it felt like he was suffocating. Price coaxed him gently with grounding questions. Great fucking therapist, Price was.

"What can you hear, Simon?" Price hummed, ginger hand on his shoulder.

"You," he scoffed stiffly. 

"And?"

"And… Fuck, uh, and the wind outside," he fumbled.

"Good, Simon." 

Simon wanted to scream at that.

"What can you smell?"

"Sweat," he sneered.

"And? Give me another thing, son."

Simon closed his eyes tight enough to black out the nightmare. He took a deep breath that shudders his ribcage. "Cigars, cheaper ones… Not… Not the nicer ones. In your office."

"That's right, Simon. That's right." Priced softly shook his shoulder as he saw Simon relax more, coming back to himself. "One more, son. You can do one more. What can you see?'

Simon could do one more. He had to, to make Price proud.

"I see you, and your… stupid fuckin' mustache," he breathed.

"Well, that's awfully rude, eh? What else?"

Simon looked around slowly, let everything wash over him in waves.

"I see the log cabin walls. I see… outside the windows…. I see… I see…"

He saw Johnny, pale and tense and sick looking as he stared at Simon so worried you'd think he was dead.

"Johnny. I see Johnny."

"I didn't… I didn't mean for you to see that," Ghost tests, eyeing Johnny out of the corner of his eyes.

"Yeah, well, ye dornt usually want fowk tae see ye fightin' demons, dae ye?" John scoffs, Ghost catching bits in pieces of what he could understand. He got the gist of it though, loud and clear.

Silence settles over them again, and Ghost doesn't know how to fill it. Doesn't know if he even wants to.

Johnny does, as usual.

"Just wish ye would lit me see 'em, yer demons. Wish yoo'd lit me help ye square 'em."

"Soap," Ghost warns carefully.

"Ah wish yoo'd ask me fur anythin'. Hell's bells, Ghost, eh'd dae anythin' fur ye, of ye would jist speart," John rambles, closing his eyes.

"No one…" Ghost takes a steadying breath, willing his heart rate to slow so his stenum doesn't shatter. "No one understands that, Soap.

"Reit. Lit me translate." Johnny looks him dead in the face, eye locked onto him with such emotion that Simon wants to cry. He wants to scream at Johnny until he runs away, wants to punch his teeth in so he doesn't keep speaking dangerous words, and to kiss him so hard that he doesn't think anymore. "Ah adore ye, sae feckin' much."

"Hey, kid… 'm proud of you."

"You don't mean that," Simon spat. He would've clenched his fists, but his wrists didn't dare him to test the waters. 

" 'course I mean it. Why wouldn't I?" If Simon let himself slip, he'd notive how wounded his dad sounded.

"Because you're… you're drunk."

"Kiddo…"

"You don't mean any of this," Simon breathed, convincing his dad. Convincing himself.

"Simon, I care for you, you know."

Simon shook his head, screwed his eyes shut. "Dad, don't. Don't do this-"

"I do."

"Please, don't."

"I love you, Simon."

"You- Y-You don't fucking mean that," Simon chokes, refusing to look at Johnny.

He's played this part. He knows how it ends. He knows the nasty burn of this flame.

"Ah dae. Ah pure dae mean it. Ah adore ye sae much it hurts sometimes," Johnny laughs quietly, letting his head fall onto Simon's shoulder. "Ah… Ah think I might-"

"Soap. Don't," Ghost cuts him off. 

Simon can't handle this again. He can't.

"Ghost… Ah dae."

"MacTavish," Ghost tries again, stern, frail.

"Ah promise aam nae lyin'."

"Johnny," Simon pleads, letting his hand find Johns.

"Ah love ye."

"Please…"

The grip on his hand tightens.

"Aam serious. Ah love ye. Sae feckin' much."

And Simon really can't help the soft tears that slip from the corners of his eyes. How could he, when Johnny's oh so carefully reaching his other hand up to rest on Simon's cheek.

"Can I?"

Simon gulps down a breath and crumbles with a nod. 

He whimpers softly when Johnny's lips find his over his mask.

"Ghost, what's goin' oan? Ye alright?"

Shut up. Shut the hell up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

He's dry heaving so much that something is stinging somewhere deep behind his eyes.

A hand, steady yet uncertain, touches his shoulder and Ghost feels flames licking at his skin, even through the ever persistent rain storm.

"Don't fucking touch me," he seethes, baring his teeth like a rabid animal, feet clumsily scrambling further away, leaving his arms to weakly try to compensate. The last thing he needs is to bust his ass on his own throw up.

Soap jerks his hand away like he is the one being burned. The rain is so loud, but not even shelling could drown out the sound of Soap's breath catching in his throat.

"I'm fine," Ghost rasps, sounding impossibly fragile even to his own ringing ears. "Go back inside before you get yourself sick, Soap."

"Sick like ye?"

Ghost is gagging on bile before he can spit fire back. Instead, he spits up the last of his pathetic lunch.

"I said I'm fine. They're just-" Christ, he's shaking so hard he might slip again- "fucking Christmas lights. Nothing's wrong with me."

If Ghost would stop being a little bitch for a second, he'd see the way Soap's eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion with a single blink.

"This is aboot th' holiday decor?" Soap asks desperately. Ghost can hear a puddle splash as Soap inches closer.

Ghost would rather be buried alive again than admit that he is having a breakdown over some lights speckled with blood. Hell, he'd rather gulp down gasoline than speak anything ever again.

Ghost screws his eyes shut in hopes of- of what? Hiding? He's such a shameless coward.

"L.t. please. What's goin' oan? I don't understand- what's wrong with th' lights?"

The door was kicked open, windows smashed in, and they were dead long before he jerked his car in park.

He wanted- needed- them to be alive so badly, so desperately, he skimmed over the fact that more of Joseph's brains were on the wall than in his skull for fuck's sake-

He's retching again, but tears are making his vision too blurry to see what he's hurling onto the muddied clump of grass beneath his feet. Rain, actually. The rain is making his vision blurry.

"Come back inside 'fore ye hurt yerself more. Please, Ghost." There is a noticeable hesitation and Ghost hopes Soap will just go back inside and leave him in shambles.

Soap doesn't go anywhere, but Ghost crumbles anyway from what he says.

"Ye're scarin' me…"

"You're scaring me! Tommy, stop it! Please- please stop!"

Tommy sneered behind the cracked skull mask, and Simon felt his lower bunk dip with his brother's weight. The pillow under his head was snatched from him.

"Don't ever beg anyone for anything, Simon. Hasn't dad taught you that?" The sneer bled into a sickening grin. "Here, let's practice."

His pillow was shoved over his face before he could even choke out the word 'no'.

Ghost loses his footing and falls to his knees, hands weakly grasping for any leverage on the side of the safe house. There isn't any. His left knee digs into the mud as he stumbles.

Soap, the persistent, heaven-sent bastard, is by his side before Ghost slips any further.

"I don't-" Soap hovers by Ghost like a lost dog, buzzing with confusion and concern. "A'll take it doon, Lt. A'll get rid of it all."

Ghost vaguely hears Soap's footsteps trailing off, the pummeling of the rain and the rushing in his ears nearly drowning it out. But then Soap stops and the footsteps rush back his way. Ghost shudders in the rain, in his thoughts, fingers weakly dragging against the dirt as he presses his back against the side of the shelter. Soap is so quiet that Ghost can almost pretend he isn't there.

But, fuck, he is. Standing right there, thinking God knows what, and Ghost's mask is still above his scarred, vomit-laced mouth-

Ghost drags his soaked sleeve over his mouth and chin so rough he feels a strap jerk against a scar. He grits his teeth and bares it and yanks his mask back over the rest of his face.

"Give me yer knives."

Ghost startles- fucking jumps out of his skin. He thought Soap was gone. Scratch that- he hoped Soap was gone.

Ghost slaps together the meanest glare he can muster. He's pathetic like this; a mess in the mud, his own vomit washing away in the rain next to him, being waterboarded by his mask.

Soap doesn't even flinch. Hell, he reaches his hand out, expectant.

"Ye might…" Soap takes a breath, his fingers curling into his palm just a little. "I don't want to come back oot 'ere to find that ye did something stupid to yerself."

"You think-" Ghost has to take a short breath, his voice shredded and raw and so god damn fragile. "You think that I'm-"

"I don't know what t' think," Soap rushes, sounding as desperate as Ghost hates to feel. "Just promise me ye won't."

Ghost screws his eyes shut, wondering if a promise like this only counts for the moment, or if he has to keep it for the rest of his miserable life.

"Am beggin' ye, Ghost."

"Did you beg them, Tommy? Did you?" Simon heard himself say as he stared at his brother's limp body dangling in a bloody mess of Christmas lights from the rafters. Fitting it was, that he suffocated. "Or did not have the chance to?"

"Simon-"

"Don't you- Don't fucking call me that," Ghost rasps.

Soap opens his mouth, desperate as a drowned man gasping for air, but Ghost beats him to it.

"I won't, fuck. I'm not bloody insane." Although he sure as hell felt that way.

Soap's jaw tightens, teeth clenching against each other as he draws his hand back. He is still hesitant to leave Ghost alone; alone with his thoughts and feelings. And knives.

"I won't," Ghost breathes quietly, Adam's apple bobbing as he gathers what little pieces of him were left. "I wouldn't, Soap."

Soap nods, gaze lingering as he turns his body away towards the shelter. "A'll kill ye, if ye do."

Ghost chuckles, heartless and hurt and so pitifully wrapped in his head. What a perfect way to go, that would be. That's the only way he can see himself dying, being taken out by Soap. Ghost wonders how he would do it.

Soap hasn't moved.

"I promise, Johnny."

That seems to do the trick because seconds later, Soap is taking off through the rain and heading inside the house.

Ghost is, blessedly, devastatingly, alone. But he's left with his thoughts. And they begin to wander before he beats them down.

The whole fucking shelter is done up with Christmas decorations, and it makes him wonder how many layers of dust are on every light and ornament. It makes him wonder what happened to the people who strung them up.

He doesn't wonder, however, how the blood splatters got there.

It's not even near the holiday season, either, which really pisses him off because it's just his luck. He thought he'd be safe from his holiday horrors, months away from Christmas. Of course the world slams a curveball right in his face and spits on him while he's down.

He doesn't notice that his hands are gripping at the top of his mask. They would be tugging on his hair, but he's a spineless, faceless coward. No wonder everyone thought Tom was the better brother. They were fucking right to, weren't they?

Christ, they're all he can see. Tom, hanging from the rafters by the Christmas tree lights, his throat a mangled mess. Beth, a crumpled mop of blinding white ribs and heavy dark blood, her Santa hat mostly red and somewhere underneath what was left of her. His mom, stabbed in the neck, blood soaking into her newest ugly sweater she was so proud of. Joseph's head and reindeer antlers headband was blown off with a bullet, his blood and brains and matter covering the various paint splotches on the wall where Tom and Beth couldn't decide on a new color.

Joseph's toy airplane kicked to the side, forgotten white wings stained with pieces of the boy.

He wanted to be a pilot when he grew up, Joseph did. He used to make Simon hold him above his head so he could stick his little arms out real far like they were wings on a plane. Simon would carry him all around the house; pretended to be the panicked control tower, telling pilot Joseph that he couldn't use the runway- the hallway- because there were fallen trees- a broom and a mop- blocking his path. Pilot Joseph was always a quick thinker, and he would land his plane further down the way, on an empty back road- the couch. And Simon would toss his beaming nephew on the ratty old brown couch and listen to his giggles as he shouted, "Again, Uncle Simon! Again!"

God, the pure joy on the kids face whenever Simon bought him that little toy plane for Christmas one year was burning at the back of his brain. Fucks sake, all Simon could afford at the time was a little figurine. It wasn't remote controlled, no doors could open- hell, the propeller couldn't even spin. But Joseph loved it more than anything in the world.

The sound of glass shattering behind the shelter has Ghost choking on his breath.

Simon would've killed to have been deaf when he took Tom down from the rafters. Glass shattered, body thumped, glass shattered, glass shattered, glass-

Bile scorches the back of his throat as his memory supplies the imagine of blood splattered Christmas ornaments. He tumbles forwards onto his hands and knees, frantically tugging his mask above his lips again. One hand claws at the dirt, the other, supported by his elbow in the mud, holding the bottom part of his mask out of the way as he retches and dry heaves until he swears he could be spitting up blood.

Ghost curls in on himself and falls to his side, a deflated, crumpled heap of shame.

It's all his fault. It is. If he had gotten there sooner, if he had seen it all coming, if he had never gotten compromised, if he had never joined the fucking military- none of it would have happend. It's his fault, all his fault.

"My fault," he heaves, blurry eyes boring into where the dark, starless sky seamlessly bleeds into the black, rocky mud. He's drowning in the stifling nothingness.

Tom could be coming home from work, kissing Beth hello, playing 'pilot' with Joseph. But he's not. He's a rotted corpse six-feet under the dirt. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault that it didn't turn out that way. His fault, all his fault.

"I'm sorry," he breaks, shaking his head, bringing his muddy glove to his face, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead. The other half hides, burying into the ground, like he could dig his own grave like this.

Joseph would've been in high school by now, driving and going to meet friends. But he's not. He's stuck in a wooden box next to his parents. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault-

"Please-"

"Ghost?"

Ghost's eye snap open, body tense and frozen. He vaguely notices that he's hyperventilating. Christ alive, he's breathing so fast but he can't get any air. He can't breathe, no matter how hard he tries. He might as well be buried alive again-

"…-ost, look at me. I need ye to look at me Lt."

Ghost's blood shot eyes snap in Soap's direction- when was he sat up against the shack's wall?- and his breath hitches somewhere deep in his throat before he feels his heart pitter faster. It's trying to break out of his ribcage, slamming into his cracking bones, threatening to bleed openly into Soap's hands. Soap has such nice hands. He'd hate to soil them.

"Where are we reit now?' Soap asks, carefully crouching in front of him, both hands resting open palm facing up on his knees.

Ghost feels his eyebrows furrow at that one. Has Soap forgotten? Your location seems like an awfully important thing to know.

"Ghost, I need ye to tell me where we are," Soap insists, the tendons in his neck pulled so taunt. Ghost worries. He worries that Soap will hurt his neck, straining how he is.

"Manchester?" he murmurs so low that he can feel how his vocal cords vibrate with it. Soap's neck pulls over his Adam's apple as it bobs rough. Ghost wonders what it would take to snap the stretched tendons there. Ghost thinks he'll kill anything that dares to graze them.

"Nae. Nae, Ghost. Look around. Look around ye an' then tell me where we are."

Ghost's eyes carefully draw away from Soap's vulnerable, tense throat, and move to meet his gaze. Soap is scared, he realizes slowly, the thought dawning on him as slow as the sun rises. Ghost furrows his eyebrows, a frown tugs his lips down at the side. Hesitantly, his eyes drift to the trees surrounding him. He can hardly pick up anything distinctive through the rain, but he feels his eyes widen.

"We're at a safe house. But- but then I-"

"That's reit, Ghost. We're on a mission waitin' for exfil. Do ye remember what our mission was?" Soap speaks like a kindergarten teacher. One who wears long, gray skirts and a yellow button-up blouse, has the thinnest heels on her black shoes, and always has her hair done up in a relaxed bun. Ghost vaguely remembers hating his kindergarten classes; he could never focus. Ghost thinks he would hang on every word if Soap was his teacher. "Stay with me, Ghost," Mr. Soap snaps his fingers once or twice, the sound dancing away through the rain.

"Gather intel on the terrorists' bio-weapons… Destroy the sample. Get out with no one the wiser." Ghost holds his breath for praise, for Soap to tell him he's right. Tell him thats he's not a fuck up, not weak or stupid or not masculine enough. To tell him that maybe, he deserved everything that happened to him

"Yeah, that's right. There ye go, Ghost." Soap's lips twist into a pitiful, beautiful thin-lipped smile. "Thought I lost ye for good there, L.T."

"Never," Ghost rasps before he can shut his big fat mouth.

Soaps lips quirk up more at that, and Ghost has half the mind to get on his knees and ask for repentance. Acceptance, even.

"Are ye alright to come inside?" Soap asks carefully, words treading carefully like Ghost was a minefield.

Sometimes he feels that way, if he were ever honest with himself. He feels like a wired ticking time bomb, bound to explode at the smallest of missteps.

Well, Soap just happens to be a demolition expert, doesn't he?

"Ghost? Did ye hear me?"

Ghost feels himself blink, and when he opens his eyes, he can only look at Soap's lips.

It's unfair, really, how it all slams into him at once, after everything.

He thinks about it. He thinks about it so vividly that he can almost feeling his rough lips against Soap's, feel his clean shaven jaw rub against Soap's stubble.

He takes a shuddering breath when the thought of betrayal and blood and Christmas lights flood his mind.

He doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve Soap's lips or stubble or- hell- his being. He isn't good enough.

Besides, it'll only get Soap killed faster. More brutal. They'd make Ghost watch, too. He couldn't shoulder that.

Ghost startles slightly when Soap's gloved hand waves in front of his eyes once or twice.

"Don't get in yer heid. Stay with me, L.T."

Ghost feels his lips tremble. Soap always knows his tells.

" 'm sorry, Johnny," Simon murmurs, blinking against the shine in Soap's eyes.

Soap softens at that, concerned frown morphing into a lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"No need to apologize, Ghost. Ain't yer fault," Soap hums.

Ghost grunts at that, and if it was in acceptance or disagreement, Soap could only hope to flip a coin.

Soap takes off one of his gloves, his pale skin free from the inky, filthy glove. He holds this hand out like an offering, palm up and fingers outstretched, inches away from Ghost's chest.

"Ready to dry off, L.T? I mean, we could keep showerin' out here if ye want to, but…" Soap trails off, eyes following the dark, angry clouds moving in from the west.

Soap has the bluest eyes. Like Scorpion grasses. Those invasive beautiful bastards spread like wildfire in his mother's dingy little garden one year and she could never get rid of them. Hell, she made the whole damn garden full of Scorpion grass.

Ghost leans his head closer- ever so minutely- to get a closer look at Soap's eyes.

Yeah. Soap's exactly like Scorpion grass.

He's certainly invasive. Ghost didn't want him at first, but he kept coming back. Over and over and over again. And, well, Ghost certainly can't stand to get rid of him now. Soap calms his jumpy fucking nerves too, just like the flowers. He smoothes out Ghost's worries like it's as easy as spreading melted butter on toast.

Forget-me-nots.

That's right- they're also called forget-me-nots.

Ghost couldn't forget Soap for anything. He'd know him anywhere, anywhere at all. On earth, in hell, somewhere in the gray in between. Ghost could be blind and deaf, yet still know Soap if the man was near him.

Scorpion grass might just be his favorite flower if he allows himself that much.

"…Ghost? Ye alright?"

Ghost blinks, ripping his gaze away from the vast ocean he almost drowned in. With another, deliberate, blink, he realizes Soap is blushing. Pink dusts over his cheeks, his eyes struggling to hold their place on Ghost.

"Somethin' on my face?" Soap chuckles, the sound high and tense.

Ghost swallows, breath catching in his throat so suddenly his mouth dries up. He tugs his mask all the way down again, and fixes it firmly in place.

None of it matters anyway. Not a single bit of it. Not the way Soap looks at him like he's the most important thing in the room, not the way his face heats up when Soap punches his shoulder before they load out on a mission, and definitely not the way his heart pitter-patters oh-so quickly when Soap smiles at him when he says a stupid, corny joke.

None of that matters because the Scorpion grass in his dead mother's garden flopped over and went to hell when Ghost tried to care for them after she was gone, and so will Soap.

"Get out of yer head, Ghost."

Ghost flinches his head back, the sternness in Soap's tone sending him reeling.

"I'm was not-"

"Ye were. Ye had that 1,000-yard-stare glossed over yer eyes," Soap squints at him.

"I always have that stare, Soap. It's part of the fucking job," Ghost bites back.

"Sure, but when ye're out of it, it looks different."

"It does not-"

"Yes, it bloody does!" Soap sneers, the genuine anger in his face catching Ghost off guard. Ghost watches Soap as he sucks in a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his jaw, before swallowing behind the perfect columns in his neck. "It does. And I am sick and tired of losin' ye to yerself."

Ghost looks at him, really looks at him for any sign of- hell, he doesn't fucking know anymore. Resentment, maybe? Soap has every right to hate him.

Soap sighs, running his ungloved hand through his hair. His shoulders seem so weighted. Ghost wants to hold it all for him; carry everything even if the weight of it all breaks his bones twice over.

"Let's get inside, L.T." Soap reaches out his hand again, stronger this time and no longer shaking. "Before the rain makes ye more sick. We're both soaked to the bone and the fuckin' shack doesn't have any heating. Nothing 'sides a little fireplace. Hope ye don't mind strippin' down to yer tighty-whities near me."

It kills Ghost. It kills him that Soap doesn't speak a word of Ghost's several outbursts and breakdowns that have happened in the span of… of- Christ above, what time is it? How long has he been smothered in his head over Christmas lights?

Ghost takes a weary breath before he fully gets 'lost in his head' again.

The look of relief that breaks across Soap's face when Ghost strongly grasps his hand is enough to make the man's knees weak.

"Can't wait to see your Hello Kitty briefs again, Johnny," Ghost deadpans as Soap pulls them both to their feet. He knows Soap sees the way he sways with the rain, the way he uses the wall for support- Ghost can see it in his eyes. He's thankful, graciously thankful, when Soap doesn't mention it.

"That was one bloody time. Was Gaz's fault anyway," Soap grumbles, still holding Ghost's hand in his as he leads them inside.

As Ghost tentatively steps into the safehouse again, he realizes that Soap is a saint. Even though he's technically a mass murder, his sins are washed away with the simple act of rearranging a small shack.

Everything remotely Christmas themed is out of sight. No ornaments, no tree, no stockings, no snowmen, no Santas, no paper snowflakes- and not one single Christmas light. Ghost feels his face warm up a stupid amount as he tracks his eyes over the firepit.

The blood is gone.

Soap cleaned the fucking blood.

Ghost whips his head around, and in a rare moment- one of many so far tonight- his mouth is open without a sound coming out.

He wants to say something, really he does, but what can he say when Soap is busying himself with acting as if nothing has changed. As if this is the first time they've walked into the dump.

As if he isn't making a vile, almost forgotten feeling crescendo up in the empty void behind Ghost's sternum.

"Let's raid the place, yeah?" Soap says, looking over the layout. "There's the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. Though, that's fucking generous to call it that, eh?"

Soap is right; the living room and kitchen combined couldn't be more than 12 feet across and 10 feet wide. The bedroom is more of a closet with a pile of blankets against the wall. But, still, the kitchen has cabinets and the living room has a fireplace… that hopefully works.

"You search the kitchen, I'll see if the pit is functional," Ghost murmurs, ignoring how the words grate against his raw throat. Away from the rain, the chill of his soaked clothes is settling on his skin. He's ready to get warm and sleep away the pounding in his head.

"Copy that, L.T." Soap beams, sparing one brief glance before turning on his heels to ramble through the cabinets.

"And Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

When you could never properly adjust the leather belts of your uniform, he'd always give you a look before chuckling under his breath.

"Come here, let me fix it for you," he'd say. Erwin would always, always, wait for you to nod until he touched the leather straps. Stubbornly, you would always avoid looking at him while he helped you.

During a class, when you'd forgotten your mathematics book, he didn't hesitate to set his on your desk. You, wanting to thrive independently, placed it back on his almost instantly. Erwin playfully glared at you before giving it back. He caught your wrist gently when you tried to place it on his desk again.

"Just borrow mine. We both know you need it more than I do," he'd whispered in a teasing tone. The book remained in your hands after that.

After a couple of years and a countless amount of 'this reminded me of you's from Erwin, you both were off on your first expedition out of the walls.

The fond gestures stopped when he came back with blood splattered on his skin and clothes. It didn't belong to him, and it didn't belong to a titan.

Erwin was promoted to Squad Leader soon after, his passion and dedication to the cause allowing him to soar through the ranks. Soar higher and higher- and right into your heart.

The next time he gave you a taste of his old adoration was in the middle of a chilling winter. Your sleeping quarters hardly had any insulation, and the low-budget blankets on stiff mattresses could only do so much. Most people slept in the same bed for warmth. You refused to do such a thing with any of those soldiers.

The floorboards creaked from the cold and from your weight as you made your way to Erwin's quarters. You were going to file a complaint- there was no way he expected anyone to sleep in those conditions.

An upset knock later, he opened the door, and you completely forgot why you'd gone there in the first place when you saw him.

Erwin had circles darker than the night sky under his eyes as he blinked at you, seeming to just be waking up. Before you could apologize, he spoke gently.

"It's cold, isn't it?"

Dumbly, you nodded, and he gave a worn smile. He let you inside, let you get comfortable in his bed. As it turns out, the Squad Leader's blanket is made from the same material as yours.

Erwin didn't join you. Instead, he tried to get comfortable in the small chair that sat behind his desk.

"You aren't actually sleeping there... Right?"

"Don't worry about me." The hum he gave you warm your bones faster than anything in the world could, but his words upset you.

"But I am worried about you."

Erwin blinked as you sat up in his bed, and watched as you shuffled to the edge.

You gave him all the room he would ever need, and he still shifted close. Erwin quietly asked if he could hold you. You didn't answer at first. Yet the moment you felt him try to move far away, your arms grabbed onto his bicep.

"Yeah... 'Course you can," you'd whispered, the words burning your tongue as they left. Erwin's pools of blue nearly drowned you before he closed his eyes.

"Thank you."

The first time Erwin actually said the L-word, it scared you.

Now the Commander, Erwin Smith's heart was hardened after years and years of horrifying battles. Or so it seemed.

He'd nearly lost you outside of the walls, lost you to the titans. You risked your life to save someone- Erwin couldn't see who- from the 15 meter that charged from the side. Erwin yelled orders, you cried out, and they didn't make it.

You were beyond angry. Outraged at what he had ordered you to do on the battlefield. How were you supposed to leave them? You could've saved them! You should've saved them.

Now you were standing in his office after refusing to sit down. He didn't like your arms being crossed over your chest, but he hated the look on your face more. Erwin didn't want you to be angry at him, but he didn't have a choice.

"Listen-" he started, but you'd cut him off.

"Like how I did when you allowed my comrade to die?" you'd snapped. Erwin clenched his jaw.

"Our comrade," he corrected, placing his hands on his desk.

"I could've helped them," you growled.

"You put yourself in danger-"

"We all do! All of the Scouts know what they signed up for so why didn't you let me do that?" You were raising your voice at him, too angry to notice that he didn't reprimand you for it.

"Because I-"

"What? Because you thought they were nothing more than a pawn in your games? Because-" Erwin slammed his hands on his desk, the loud bang! shutting you up.

"Because I love you!" He yelled, his eyes set aflame. "I can lose one of my soldiers, I can lose myself, but I can't lose you!"

The silence that followed was deafening.

The anger you felt before was nothing compared to the emotions that overwhelmed you now.

Erwin sunk into his seat, holding his head in his hands. "I know... I know you signed up for the Scouts, and not for my possessiveness. And I know that it isn't fair to hold you back. It isn't fair to feel this way but I... I j-just-"

Your hand softly stroking his made the man crumble into a state of vulnerability.

After that day, Erwin said the L-word to you as often as he could.

He said it in a gravelly voice early in the morning. His hand brushed the hair from your face before giving you a gentle kiss.

He said it as an apology quite often when he worked too late. He would feel like melting every time you accepted it with open arms.

He said it as a greeting when you stepped into his office. The blush that spread like wildfire over your face made him chuckle.

He said it as a thank you when you gave him a massage after a long day. You then found out that he has ticklish collarbones.

He said it over your shoulder when you'd looked in the mirror for a little too long. His lips caressed your cheek while he spent the next hour listing everything he cherished about you.

Now, he said it in a letter. A letter so elegantly written with obsidian ink etched onto crisp white paper. He said it in the most Erwin way possible. He said it after forbidding you to go on the same expedition as him.

After the letter, he could never say it again. After the expedition, he could never be again.

Your foot gently tapped against the wooden door frame as a way of letting Ukai know you were coming in before using your shoulder to push open the cracked door. As your eyes briefly adjusted to the room’s light, you caught him mid-stretch, simply waiting for his team to join a Zoom call. He had taken his piercings out, the glint of metal drawing your eyes to the earrings next to his computer. It made you smile softly. You admired how he tried to make himself presentable for the boys.

Yet as he dropped his head back, your smile faded ever so slightly. His white tank top, which was underneath an unzipped Karasuno sports jacket, had ridden up his lean torso. It almost seemed to be proudly showing off his sharp V-line and defined abs as you caught yourself staring. You swallowed thickly as he sighed, your dirty little dream coming back to the forefront of your mind before Ukai grabbed your attention once more by rolling his shoulder with a grumble.

Chocolate brown eyes glanced at your face before darting to the mugs in your hands. He waved you over with a grin. “Good morning, doll face,” he purred, his morning voice just now fading away.

“Good morning?” you questioned playfully. “Kei, it’s too early to be alive right now.” He liked the nickname, despite him pretending not to.

“I agree with the pretty one,” a tired voice sounded from the speakers of Ukai’s laptop, slightly startling you. “Coach, why so early?” It was Suga, his silver hair a tumbled mess as he just now attempted to fix it with his fingers.

“Sugawara,” Daichi’s slightly stern voice came next, lecturing his fellow third-year already. “That is not how you should talk about our assistant coach.”

You chuckled under your breath as you set his coffee down and blew on yours softly to cool it down. It was a bit entertaining to listen to their antics.

As everyone filed in, Takeda excluded because of a small family issue, you moved from the camera’s line of sight. Leaning against a wall off to the side, you listened in and enjoyed your drink. Keishin sighed softly as he rubbed the back of his neck in thought, a habit you had noticed a while ago.

“Kageyama and Little Red have practice with my old man later today. This was the only time all of our schedules lined up.” He paused, and you saw his face contort into confusion as stifled chuckles sound from the device. “Nishinoya, is that a gun made of Monster cans?”

The teen seemed to chuckle proudly as Ukai shook his head while Tanaka complemented the color scheme. “The last thing you need is more energy,” Ukai muttered as Hinata gasped, fawning over how cool it was. “Focus,” He said sternly. Sugawara’s apology was the only noise on the call after that.

Ukai started explaining various details about future practice matches with Nekoma and Date Tech before prelims came along and drills they would test out during them. As much as you loved the sport, the mainly one-sided conversation was quick to get boring.

And so you hatched an idea.

Ukai’s eyes darted over to you for only a split second as you grinned wickedly, moving to set your cup out of the way. Ukai expected you to leave and go back to sleep, but something else was on your mind. Staying in the room, you shut the door. It was loud enough for the volleyball players to hear the noise, but you were in no way slamming it. He ignored you for the time being, and you planned on changing that.

Stalking back over to the desk silently, you stayed out of the camera’s view. As you stood directly behind his laptop, you winked at him. Your eyes darted to his lips as his tongue glazed over them. He realized what you were planning to do rather quickly, and he wasn’t objecting.

He enjoyed the fan service of you stripping your shirt for him, only slightly disappointed he had to see it out of his peripheral vision. There was a chance Ukai would get fired if you were caught, so you kept quiet while you sank to your knees.

Cold eyes snapped up to the now opened door, and something foreign clouded his features. He looked back towards his book before you could decipher what the expression on his face was.

The air surrounding him felt stressed. Anxious, even.

You, stubborn as ever, pressed on into the small room, stalking right over to where he sat. Levi simply scoffed, closing his book and placing it face down.

"What do you want, Cadet?" he tsked, cutting features nearly intimidating you enough to leave.

"Captain, with all due respect, I want to know what's wrong."

His eyes narrowed, and you saw something from under the table move. You just now realized that his leg was previously resting on the flat part of another chair.

"Excuse me?" Levi held a dangerous tone. He wanted to scare you away, frighten you enough to stop questioning him. He was almost successful.

You took a deep breath, eyes drifting towards the book he was reading. Levi was quick to shield the description with his hand and forearm.

"You haven't been yourself recently," you started. Your gaze slowly navigated back to Levi's face, only to find a scowl tainting his lips.

"You don't know enough about me to understand-"

"You've stopped your hand-to-hand combat training, your gear training, and you've even stopped sitting in the treetops." He didn't like how you'd cut him off, but you weren't finished. "You don't leave the mess hall quickly anymore. You're now almost always the first one there, which is strange because you usually bring your food all the way to your office. You've even stopped your nightly walks, and you love those."

Your little rant left him closing his mouth from a forgotten attempt to speak. After a moment of collecting his thoughts, he simply said, "I don't go on walks. I make sure there are no outside threats because everyone else is too busy fiddling with the sticks up their asses to do it themselves."

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from giggling at his wording or mentioning the bird. You wanted to keep that incident to yourself.

"And I don't appreciate you stalking me," Levi added, his hand clenching and unclenching. You chose to ignore the false accusation to return your focus on the book. And you watched as Levi forced his hand to relax.

"What are you reading?"

"None of your damn business." The answer came as soon as the question left your lips.

The defiance in your eyes made him tilt his head to the side as you tenaciously pulled out a chair to sit down.

"I don't remember asking you to join me," Levi sneered, though oddly, it lacked his usual bite.

"I don't remember you giving my questions a proper answer," you said matter-of-factly.

The flicker of shock in his eyes was well worth the mini-heart attack you suffered right after the words left your lips. You also chose to believe you imagined the ghost of a smirk on his mouth.

You pressed on before he could talk you into leaving, "I want to know what you're reading, at the very least."

Levi leaned back in his chair, the book's description still covered. "I'm not required to tell you anything. This isn't an interrogation, Cadet."

"Would you answer my questions even if it was?" you scoffed, settling your hands down in your lap.

Levi gave a puff of air through his nose that could almost pass for a chuckle. "No, I wouldn't. You're as intimidating as a fly."

You grit your teeth together, balling your hands up. "Well, maybe I'm not trying to be intimidating! Maybe, just maybe, I'm simply concerned for you. Maybe you're scaring me because you love the moon and have stopped seeing it!" You weren't yelling, but you weren't exactly whispering either. "Maybe I just want to help someone I care about."

Levi held his breath and glanced away towards the open window before swallowing thickly. "That's a lot of 'maybes'," he murmured.

Nothing else was said. You worried about what he'd do because you backtalked him, but you were foolish enough not to care. Though, Levi now seemed absorbed in whatever was outside, fingertips tracing over the back of the book.

After another stressful heartbeat, he pushed the book in front of you, not saying a word. You blinked widened eyes at him and glanced at the book before looking back at him. Sure, you came here to help, but you really didn't expect him to let you.

"Thank you, Captain," you breathed, picking up the book and flipping it over.

Fixing Your Foot & Ankle Pain.

Levi could've laughed at the look on your face, and he watched you read over the title once more. "Great, can I have my book back now, officer?" he asked, dangerously close to sounding smug.

"Not yet." You ignored the sigh he gave. "Why didn't you just let me see it before? Is something wrong with your foot?"

He chewed the inside of his lip before offering a simple answer, "no."

"Then let me see."

"What?"

"I said let me see your foot, Captain. If you are hurt, then I can't have you pushing yourself. You'll make it worse," you said pointedly, pushing the book across the table from you.

"'I can't?'" he quoted. "Don't you mean the 'Corps can't'?"

You didn't answer him in favor of standing up and moving to the foot that was once resting on another chair.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he warned, stiffly moving his leg away from you.

"I'm just checking. It shouldn't be an issue because you're fine, right?"

Levi clenched his jaw, cracking a couple of his knuckles. He didn't pull away from you, nor did he hit you, which is a huge plus.

That is until you tried to get his boot off.

"Oi, don't take it off-"

"Then how am I supposed to look at it? I don't have X-Ray vision," you snapped, waiting for him to settle before you started taking it off again.

"This is stupid," he grumbled, looking up at the ceiling with his arms crossed.

"Yeah, it is stupid that I had to track you down to help you," you bitterly argued, neatly placing his boot aside. You then carefully rolled up his pants leg and took off his sock. Your eyes widened as you stared at how swollen Levi's ankle was. "Levi- are you serious? This is terrible!"

His withering scowl burned down at you, eyes narrowed and deadly at the use of his first name. You didn't seem to notice what you had called him, too worried over his ankle.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth when I had asked?" You didn't even know where to begin with this man.

"I did. My foot is fine."

"Fine? Your ankle is more inflated than the capital mens' egos, sir."

Your joke defanged the bite in his eyes but, despite how funny Levi found it, his only reaction was a huff. "Yeah, my ankle is puffed up. Not my foot, genius."

You glared at him coldly before you stood up, placing your hands on your hips. "Alright," you started, "stay here while I go get the splint and some ice."

"I don't need it."

"You have a second-degree sprain, Captain. You should've iced it as soon as you could. But you didn't. So, now I'm going to take care of you since you can't be bothered to care for yourself," you scolded.

Well then. Excuse me, Levi sarcastically thought, watching you leave after another demand for him not to go anywhere.

While you were gone, he decided to ignore your orders and put the book away. He swallowed a grunt when he sat down again, glancing at the door in case you were there.

As the minutes ticked by, he huffed like an impatient child, his nails scratching and toying with the wood of the table. When you had finally came back, he halfheartedly greeted you with a groan.

"You took too long. Did you take a shit?" Levi grumbled bluntly, leaning his head back as he looked at you.

He nearly grinned as the items you took your precious time to grab poured out of your arms just before you answered. You picked up a few rogue bandages, and Levi glanced away when you looked up.

"If clumsiness was a currency, you'd be as rich as the king," Levi scoffed.

"And if being secretive little gnome was a job, you'd be the CEO of the company," you fired back as you placed the medical things on the table. He tsked, muttering something you didn't quite understand before sitting up in his seat.

"I thought all you needed was some ice and a splint. Why the hell did you grab an entire hospital's supply?"

"Well, Captain, who knows what else you didn't tell anyone about. For all I know, you have fractured ribs, too. Maybe a few fresh gashes that you hardly cleaned up." You gave him such a persistent look that he couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," he huffed, carefully tracking you as you rounded the table to tend his ankle.

"That's another thing I've noticed! You don't sleep, and when you do, it's not even in your-" you cut yourself off. The look that crossed your face reminded Levi of the expression Erwin has whenever a cadet asks something stupid. "Where's the book?'

"Why? Can't help me without it?" he challenged.

"It's not that, it's just..." You trailed off, not saying anything for a second or two. "Did you put it up? I specifically told you not to move."

"And I specifically ignored you," he shot back, watching your nose flare when you huffed.

"You know what? Fine. Just be quiet and give me your ankle." Levi was caught off guard by the growl in your voice.

He scowled but didn't speak a word as you started treating his ankle.

It was quiet. Despite the untouched hostility in the air, it was almost peaceful. Until Levi ruined it. Again.

"How do you know I don't sleep in my bed? Are you smelling my blankets while I'm out of them?"

Your shoulders sagged with how heavy your sigh was.

"No, I don't sneak into the guys' sleeping quarters to roll in your sheets, Captain." The thought would be nice to indulge on later, though. "I just know that you often fall asleep at your desk. That's bad for your bones structure, sir. You'll cramp more often, disfigure your stature, develop an asymmetric-"

"And you, Cadet? How's your sleep cycle, huh?" he cut you off, seeing the newfound tightness in your jaw. "Scolding me while you're struggling to stay conscious at the eating tables. Seems real hypocritical, doesn't it?"

You didn't respond. You couldn't; he was right. The bastard typically was.

"I'm done treating your ankle," you began softly, each of your fingers messaging your palms. "You have to stay off of it, sir. If you keep pushing yourself, you'll end up not being able to walk."

There was a pause in the air, your breath hanging like abandoned ODM gear. Levi picked up on the temporarily unspoken words, so he tapped his middle finger on the table and waited.

"As strange as this sounds..."

That's not a good way to start a sentence, Levi thought.

"I need you to take off your shirt. Sir."

Levi dismissed what you have just boldly said to his face with a light scoff. After your silence lingered for a beat too long, Levi shifted his jaw. "You're serious?"

"I just need to check your upper body for damage," you added gently.

Levi tsked, "I don't fucking see why."

Before you could argue any further, he was already tugging off the long-sleeved grey shirt. You cleared your throat and glanced at the surrounding bookshelves, suddenly absorbed with the task of finding the book Levi had put away.

With a thick swallow, you looked back at him, avoiding his eyes like a plague. He watched your brows furrow as you looked closer.

"What's this from?" you asked, letting your thumb trace underneath a fresh slice in between his ribs. He jerked away from you with a snarl, and you glared at him.

"A branch from the last mission caught me," he grumbled, eyeing your hand that was now hovering over his skin.

"Let me guess, you didn't say anything to anyone?"

"Look at you using that empty head of yours."

You rubbed the bridge of your nose with your offhand before grabbing everything you needed; cleansing alcohol, tweezers, a cotton ball, and smaller bandages. For whatever reason, Levi was more defensive about you tending to his ribs than his ankle.

"Oi, I'm fine. You've done plenty, now get lost," he sneered, fingers twitching as you held the cotton ball with the tweezers and soaked it in alcohol.

"Captin, let me just do this and you can move on to stargazing, okay?" you asked halfheartedly. You didn't get a response other than vulgarities.

You started cleaning his previously hidden injury. Well, trying to, at the very least.

"Would you just hold still?" you snapped. He kept jerking and twisting away for your healing hands. "This is taking longer than it should because of you."

You pressed under the wound and in between his ribs to test how tender it was. Levi made a noise so out of place that both of you had paused.

Did he just..?

You looked up at him, holding your breath. He wouldn't look at you, eyes burning holes into the library door.

"Sir, are you-"

"No."

You were probably out of line for doing so, but you pressed around his ribs again in hopes of proving your suspicions. And it turns out you were right.

Levi strangled out a laugh that was clearly meant to be held in. It sounded like heaven on earth. Deep and smooth as butter as you continued to torture his ribs. A smile slowly blossomed on your face.

It didn't last long, Levi swatting your hands away so he could catch his breath, now defending the spot with his life.

"You damned brat," he panted, eyeing you from the corner of his eye.

"I didn't think you could be ticklish," you grinned wickedly as you grabbed the bandages. "That is... Incredible," you snickered to yourself, unwrapping the length that you needed. You tapped his wrist that was blocking his ribs with your middle and index finger, looking at him expectantly.

"If you even try to do that again, I will wrap those bandages around your throat," he threatened. It didn't really sound like he'd carry it out, but you weren't about to test your luck.

You watched as his entire torso tensed, and you as gently as possible wrapped up his cut. Levi relaxed only when you sat back on your heels and began to put everything away.

It was quiet once again, and you felt Levi watch you as you cleaned up your mess. Only once everything was scooped into your arms, you stepped away from him.

Hesitation hung in the air as you both thought of what you should say. You cleared your throat with a grin before walking towards the bookshelves. "Want any reading material while we wait, Captain?" you asked, looking for your own book.

"Wait for what?" he asked skeptically.

"Until the time comes for me to change your bandages," you hummed. You were too busy reading the back of the book you'd picked up for yourself to see how Levi shook his head.

"Fucking hell," he sighed, getting comfortable as he looked out the window. "I don't need a book, Cadet. Sit down already."

You stopped, blinking to yourself as you replayed what he just said in your head. He just invited you to join him. You smiled at the thought, grabbing a book that caught your attention. You practically floated to the seat across from Levi and made yourself at home.

You two stayed like this for a while- Levi being enthralled with the moon, and you caught up in your book. You were too busy reading to notice how he'd look at you now and then.

The time to change his bandages came and went without either of you moving. It was almost, dare you to say, domestic. It wasn't until Levi heard small snores that he carefully stood up.

He looked down at your sleeping face, something uncomfortably sweet bubbling in his chest before he fixed your hair. He stared at you for a minute, just watching the way your chest rose and fell as you breathed.

"Damned brat," he mumbled quietly. Nimble fingers gently peeled the book from you, and he limped as he put it where you got it from. Levi sighed softly, glancing longingly at the window sill. He internally debated on a few things before returning to the table.