Ghost woke up screaming again.

It was nothing new, and something you had learned to live with as his new roommate on the home base of Task Force 141. You were the newest recruit, not yet proven in the field, not yet close with the other men.

Ghost hadn't been happy about being paired up with you, having been used to having a room to himself, but space was running short, and you needed a place other than the regular-infantry barracks. So, reluctantly, Ghost had cleared out one side of the room for you and a bunk had been brought in.

You were relatively quiet and unassuming. You left him alone for the most part, and Ghost was glad of it. Sometimes, though, he'd see you sitting up late at night, body quivering and nightlight on, like you were scared of what lurked beyond the shadows.

He could understand that.

Ghost suffered from chronic insomnia and, when he did manage to doze off, terrible nightmares. Usually they were about his monster of a father, the man who had abused him throughout a very short and traumatic childhood. Other times, the visions that plagued him were memories of being captured and tortured, or of the wailing spirits of all the men Ghost had killed, condemning him as a beast no better than enemy.

Needless to say, Ghost tried not to sleep at all. Tonight, though, he had been completely exhausted from a long, grueling day of training, and he had dropped off into a fitful rest as soon as his balaclava-covered head had hit the pillow.

Three hours later, he bolted upright in bed, a strangled cry in his throat and your hand on his arm. He nearly slammed a fist into your face out of sheer survival reflex, but managed to pull his punch just in time, eyes wide and hunted.

"Rookie? What the hell?" He desperately tried to return his voice to the usual gruff Manchester monotone. "What are you doing awake?"

You step back, suddenly uncertain. "You were having a bad dream."

"A bad dream?" He snorts. "I'm a grown man. I don't have bad dreams." "You were screaming."

Ghost sighs. "Was I?"