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"I'm here."
The words are quiet, almost overtaken by the soft shuffle as you slide down against the door.
It's cold at your back, bowing slightly under your weight. Thin doors, thick walls. You sit yourself down on the concrete floor, pull your knees up and wrap your arms around them. A nighttime practice you're used to, something you almost always do.
You hear him on the other side.
He never says anything, but you can hear him choke on a sob. It makes your heart ache, makes you want to grab the doorknob and push it open, walk in and wrap him up in your arms so tightly that you can maybe squeeze all the pieces of him back together for just a fleeting moment.
But you don't, because he doesn't want you to. And you love him too much to go against his wishes, not when it's something like this, something so vulnerable and so soft. You're lucky he lets you do this, and you treasure that privilege, hold it close to your heart and keep the little spark warm against your chest.
"I'm here for you," you breathe again, hearing him sniffle on the other side. He coughs, roughly, and your chest squeezes painfully. It's one of those nights, where he cries so hard and yet so silently that he practically chokes on his own fear. Nightmares, almost like clockwork, common enough that he knew them by name but never enough that he wouldn't wake up in a panic, tears dripping down his face and splashing on to his thin blankets.
He told you about them, though only a bit. Just that he had nightmares. You'd watched his pretty brown eyes flicker over to you, searching for your reaction, holding his breath as you finished off the mouthful of food you'd just eaten.
"I do as well, sometimes." Was all you had told him. Not dismissive, but not pitying or mocking. Just a gentle reassurance that it didn't make him any weaker, any less or more human than he was. That it was just a fact of him, and a fact of you as well. It wasn't something to make a deal out of, it was just something he confided in you.
You didn't tell anyone. You were sure Soap knew, you'd curiously peeked out of your door a few nights when you heard a commotion just to see the Scotsman with a pillow in his arms, twisting open the lieutenant's door and slipping inside.
You shrugged, chalked it up to a ritual they had and you were going to be no trespasser on the grounds of their habits.
The first time was just out of pure chance.
You had gotten up to get some water, and also to subtly check on the door to your lieutenant's room when you'd realized that Soap was out on a mission and wouldn't be there to wake you up with his heavy footsteps and the creak of the opening door at nearly two in the morning.
Your drink had been forgotten when you heard muffled noises from behind the thin wood, cracking and broken and your first thought was pain. It sounded miserable, and you wondered if maybe Ghost had neglected to tell anyone about a serious injury. Always the self-sufficient outlier, he could never lean on anyone but Soap when he absolutely needed to. And even then, he was hesitant.
A few minutes ticked by as you stood there as if in a trance, listening to the noises, trying to make out exactly what they were.
He must've shifted, because all of a sudden, you were immediately aware that it was crying. He was crying, so hard it sounded painful. You knew those great heaving sobs that left your lungs either too full or too void of air when you were done, shuddering and almost gagging as you tried your best to quiet yourself.
Knock, knock.
Your knuckles rapped gently against the door, and you heard him quiet down. He didn't muffle the soft gasps as he assumedly tried to rein himself in, but even if he had managed to have been silent, his voice would've given him away instantly.
"What?" Was his harsh bark, but his voice was gravelly and raspy. Not like his normal rough accent; it sounded raw and tender, like a fresh wound he was trying desperately to hide within the dark folds of his jacket, blood blending in with the navy color but shining so brightly in the light of your attention.
You pause, hand still held up to the door, and think. What would you say? What would you do?
You hadn't planned to get that far, but now you had to think on your feet.
"Do you want any tea, lieutenant?"
You suck in a silent breath, holding it there for several moments as you wait. You can only hope he's not getting up and ready to fling the door open and beat your ass for being so stupid, interrupting him in the middle of the damn night just to ask if he wanted some tea, or even for possibly eavesdropping on whatever he had been suffering through prior.
The bed creaks, and you prepare for the worst.
"..Sure." His reply is curt, and you hear him sniffle after it. The breath you'd been holding releases and you practically deflate where you stand, relieved he's not going to slam you into the wall and make you swear on your mother's life that you won't even look his way after tonight.
"What kind, sir?"
"Just.. green."
He sounds tired with your questions, and you don't ask anything else. You just give him a nod he can't see and murmur 'alright', make your way to the common area kitchen to set it up.
You managed to get your glass of water, and by the time you were done, your lieutenant's tea was as well. You had to admit, he had good taste, but you supposed it came with the grounds of being from the country relentlessly mocked for it's adoration of the drink.
You walked back to his room with the cup, knocked twice again, and waited for him to open up.
A moment later he appeared, the latch clicking as he opened the door just a crack, confirming you had no 'ulterior motives' before the wood creaked on it's hinges and he swung it all the way open.
Black eye paint was applied messily, smeared over tear tracks sloppily, but you only noticed it because you were looking. His balaclava looked oddly out of place with his sleep pants and short sleeved shirt, but you were in no place to judge. You probably looked no better, and it's not exactly like you were going to doll yourself up when you didn't even know you'd be doing a middle-of-the-night tea run.
You hand the cup over to him and he takes it. You take a moment to notice how his hands are slightly shaking, but you don't linger too long. You know Ghost is just as observant as you, and for him to catch you picking up on his weak points would be a recipe for a door slammed extra hard in your face.
"Sorry for interrupting you, sir," you say it before you think about the implications, and he raises his eyes from the cup to meet your gaze. You freeze, though are careful not to let shock slip into the edges of your face. "In case you were sleeping, that is-"
"At ease, sergeant," he sighs, wraps both of his hands around the cup. You let a little tension seep out of your posture, but still remain rigid in your superior's presence- no matter how amicable he became as days passed. As amicable as Ghost could be, at least.
"Don't apologize. Just a rough night."
"Soap should be back in a few days." Again, the words fall from your mouth without running through your filters first, and at that observation, he looks a little more surprised.
"Yeah?" He prompts, softly. Not his usual gruff tone, something not quite so guarded despite you being practically a stranger trespassing into his private life.
"Yeah," you repeat back, still staring at those stunning eyes. The long pale lashes, the way you can see the darker rings around his iris melt almost into a honey-brown, and then back into the deep color that has you enraptured. Something that fits him so well, like god himself took just a little bit longer to make everything about your lieutenant perfect in his own sense. "I see him come by- I hear him, more like- come by sometimes. The door to your room, and then I never see him come out of his. Just an observation, sir, no accusation."
"You talk like you're reading out of a dictionary, sergeant."
It sounds like another passive observation, not really leaning to either side of ire or impression.
"Sorry, sir."
"You don't have to call me sir."
You blink at him a few times, and see amusement sparkle in the depths of his gaze. It makes you feel warm in some way, but you tuck the feeling away.
"Lieutenant?"
"Ghost," he answers. "Just Ghost."
"Ah," you murmur, lacing your fingers together and squeezing your hands. "Well.. it is late, and we should both get back to sleep. Goodnight, Ghost."
You're quick to escape the conversation, try to calm the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs before you hear your name called out quietly.
You stop like the dead, turn quickly as if he's going to disappear in the moment you aren't looking at him.
He doesn't. He stands there, cup of tea in his hands, looking at you with something you can't tell from your distance.
"..Feel free to stop by. Just don't come in."
You hesitate, open your mouth slightly and close it, stare at him for a long second.
"Alright. I will. Thank you, s- Ghost."
Your near slip of the tongue casts a slight shadow over his face, and you both retreat for the night.
After that, you took up his offer, if only because listening to a man cry until he threw up was agonizing for both parties involved. It wasn't every night- after Soap returned, you left well enough alone and let him take care of the lieutenant instead- but it happened.
It was real.
You would knock softly on his door whenever Soap was out on missions, wake him up and ask if he wanted some tea.
Sometimes it was green, others it was peppermint, a few times he asked for the stereotypical English cup of Earl Grey.
You kept your amusement to yourself, but the entire time it brewed, you had a soft smile stretched across your face for a reason you would never admit to anyone if they had asked you.
The first night he asked you to stay was when you heard him saying something. You weren't sure what it was, but they weren't just noises. It was words, English, just unintelligible.
His voice had cracked in the middle when you'd asked him if he'd like some tea and he said no.
You were startled at the abrupt shift in your ritual, but obliged his wishes that came rushing out afterwards. Like he was fighting to keep his composure and not totally break.
Just sit with me. Outside the door.
..Please.
It was how it started.
First, when Soap was away and he needed someone to ground him. You'd sit down outside his door, occasionally ask if he wanted some tea, and he'd accept sometimes or deny others. But you weren't close enough to go in, not yet, maybe not ever. It may be a privilege only his best friend got, and you were alright with that. What you were doing was plenty, just to be able to be another heartbeat he could hear, another rhythm of breathing he could follow.
It was all either of you needed.
Then, when Soap was back. When he showed up at your door one night, groggy and sleepy-eyed, muttering something about tea and tears, you had nearly shit yourself. You had caught on quickly however, and nearly tripped over yourself running to the common area kitchen to make your lieutenant a drink.
It had carried on like that. Soap would slip in, then come get you. You'd make Ghost his tea, sit at his door and talk to him while Soap passed out in his bed. Comfortable, a mutual agreement that while you didn't get to be as close to him as the Scotsman did, you were still a vital piece to his new nighttime routine.
So there you sat, drumming your fingers on your knees.
Soap was out this time, and he sounded terrible.
"You're gonna be alright, Ghost, I promise." It's comforting nonsense, repeated words that you let out so often they sounded like white noise, but you knew it helped nonetheless. It always did, somehow. Just hearing you talk seemed to be able to calm his racing mind.
"I'm right here for you. After this, we can have some tea if you want, yeah? Maybe.. peppermint this time. It's getting close to the season."
You hear him shift in the bed, muffle another pitiful noise into what you assume is his pillow.
Shit. It was going to be one of those nights you stayed up for hours, wouldn't it? Not that you minded, you could never mind when it was Ghost, but it was the realization that made you bite back a groan and lean heavily into the door.
You're so busy thinking about how to strategically work a nap into your schedule that you almost miss the words, undeniable and unmuffled English words, though muddied by his thick accent and scraped-raw voice.
"Come in."
It should be an order, should sound demanding with no patience for if you didn't scramble up right then and haul ass.
But it sounded more like a plea. Like he was close to begging you for it.
You pause, and hear him let out another shuddering breath, trying to calm himself enough to speak clearly.
"Please," a word you'd never heard from him before, "come in."
You pull yourself up, unquestioning, and twist the doorknob.
"Of course," you reassure him instinctively, your voice smooth and soft, like soothing a scared stray. "I'm coming in."
The door gives way easily under your slight shove, and you click it shut quickly behind you. You don't want an open door to be an invitation to anyone else who might be wandering the halls at this hour.
It's dark in his room, darker than you're used to. There's at least dim lights from the kitchen, and the windows leave room for moonlight to make an appearance. But Ghost's room is pitch black, and you end up dredging up a rough mental map from the times you've seen into his room to find out where things are and not make a fool of yourself by tripping over something.
Thankfully, you don't have time to potentially make a mistake, because the bedside lamp clicks on.
You instinctively cover your eyes.
"Do you need me to get a mask?" You ask, listening to him aggressively sniffle and try to get himself under control.
He didn't have his regular balaclava on- not even his eye paint, just all bare, pale skin and scars that you only got to register for a fleeting moment before you had remembered to be respectful. Soap might've had this honor, but you weren't sure if you did.
"No," he manages to croak out, and it sounds miserable. He coughs, trying to return his voice to it's normal intimidating gravel. "If I needed it.. it'd be on."
"Are you sure?"
There's silence, a creak of the bed and soft footsteps. They pad right up to you, and you can feel his hands on your wrists.
"Please," that word again, so desperate, so rare. "I need you to look at me."
You don't deny him, don't keep him in wait. You let your hands fall from your eyes, blink up at him, backlit by the dim orange glow of the lamp but still illuminated enough you can see his face.
You feel your expression soften, and he looks like he's about to cry for a second time.
"Ghost," you whisper softly, the one word full of tenderness and care.
"Simon." He corrects, on the verge of breaking.
His hands let go of your wrists, fall to his sides. You see him searching your face, so observant, so calculating even in his moments of vulnerability. Never able to fully let his guard down, always trying to find the danger.
Your hands cup his cheeks, brush away a few tears rolling down his face.
"Simon," you reply, and he turns his head to bury his face in your palm. Nothing comes past that, no words of reassurance and no questions about what was wrong or what he needs. You just stand there, let him nuzzle into your hand like a housepet, shudder and sigh as he tries not to break out into sobs again.
Your fingers move, slide over his cheekbones and brush little strands of hair back behind his ears. One hand drops to his chest, the other runs through his short-cropped hair and ruffles it slightly, gently.
You say nothing, but guide him over to his bed, sit down on it and wait until he follows suit to give in to your instincts.
Both of you move so that you're far enough from the edge not to be dangerous, and you gather him- all six feet and four inches of him- into your lap. He freezes for a moment, and you loosen your grip to let him know that it's fine if it's uncomfortable. He has a way out- you aren't going to trap him.
The result is he clings to you like a koala, wraps his arms around your neck and folds in on you, presses his nose into the crook of your shoulder and cries. One of your hands runs up through his hair, the other settled on his back, rubbing gentle circles into his skin through the fabric of his shirt.
He's warm, but his fingers are cold where he grabs the back of your own shirt. His stubble scratches your throat, but you don't mind it. You sit there, whisper soothing nonsense to him like it's what you were made for. You even begin to rock slightly at one point, just a gentle back and forth motion that you find yourself copying even when alone to help you destress.
He begins to calm down, shivering sobs becoming soft sniffles, and you hear him swallow once or twice before he fully regains something akin to his composure.
Neither of you say anything.
It's a moment of weakness, his guard is down and he's baring his beating, bruised heart to you, and it's up to you whether or not you take or break it. It's not a time for words or apologies or demands for you not to tell anyone.
It's just peaceful silence.
You think it's okay like that.
You don't stop rocking or petting him until you feel his breath even out, stop feeling him tense against you and instead rejoice in the feeling when his entire weight sags against you, no matter how heavy he may be.
Asleep. Miraculously, he's asleep.
You normally sit for hours outside his door talking to him before he tells you to go back to bed, leaving you with the question of if he will or not. From the way he looks most days, you'd come to the conclusion he had not.
But now, he was.
You don't take silent pride in it, you're just overjoyed that he's finally resting properly.
"Thank you, Simon."
You lean your head against his, let out a breath of your own.
"..For letting me in."