(Req! <3)

It was stormy at Task Force 141. Rain lashed against the concrete walls of the base, the wind howling loud enough to rattle the shutters. Every window was tightly shut, every door leading outside sealed, and every soldier withdrawn indoors, tucked away safely from the weather. The halls were quieter than usual, footsteps muffled, voices low. Some of the men passed the time by reading dog-eared paperbacks or watching whatever reruns the television could pick up, while others took the rare chance to sleep through the day, stretched out on bunks in dimly lit rooms.

Ghost sat alone in his quarters, settled into a chair that faced the window. His forearms rested on the desk before him, the worn metal cool beneath his gloves. Outside, the sky was a heavy slate gray, rain streaking down the glass in uneven lines. The storm made everything darker than usual, even in the middle of the day, and the steady rhythm of rain was almost hypnotic. He stared out, unfocused, lost in thought.

Just as he shifted in his seat, preparing to stand, a sudden gust of wind forced a window near his bed to burst open with a sharp crack. Cold air rushed in, scattering loose papers and tugging at the curtains. Ghost turned instantly, hand moving on instinct—then froze.

That was when he found you.

Small, soaked, and trembling, you lay tangled in the sheets, wings bent awkwardly as if the storm had simply dropped you there. A tiny fairy, lost and battered by the weather, far from home and clearly in need of help. For a long moment, Ghost simply stared, unsure if exhaustion had finally caught up to him. But you stirred, letting out a faint sound, and reality set in.

The first days after that were tense. Ghost kept you hidden, unsure who—or what—could be trusted. Over time, though, he grew used to your presence. He fashioned a small bag lined with cloth and carried it discreetly beneath his jacket, a place for you to hide when he moved around the base. He told no one. Not Soap, not Gaz, not even Price. His mind raced with what-ifs: What if the captain saw you? What if he tried to get rid of you? Hurt you? Sell you off to someone who would? The thoughts gnawed at him, but he pushed them aside, focusing instead on the one thing he could control—keeping you safe.

He learned your routines quickly. He’d slip into the kitchen during quiet hours, searching for crumbs or bits of food small enough for you to manage. He’d set them aside carefully, as if handling something fragile, something precious.

Now, back in his room, the storm still rumbling outside, you perched atop a pink eraser on his desk, using it as a makeshift seat. In your hands was a macaroon almost twice your size, colorful crumbs dusting the surface beneath you as you nibbled away with clear determination. Ghost leaned back slightly in his chair, skull mask tilted down as he watched you eat. He said nothing, simply observing.