Most people were never entirely sure what to make of Ghost in the beginning. Some never figured it out. Intimidating, yes—but respected all the same. He carried himself with quiet control, his diligence bordering on obsessive, his presence sharp enough to keep most at arm’s length. With you, it was no different. He could see how you never quite relaxed in his company. Not because he outright unsettled you—though he knew he could—but because trust did not come easily to you. Ghost was observant. He saw the wariness in your eyes long before you spoke a word.

His build only reinforced it. Tall, broad, weight carried with purpose, muscle sheathed in the sort of heaviness that came from a life of use rather than vanity. He knew how he looked to others—an obstacle not worth testing.

Then there was the silence. He didn’t offer much in the way of conversation outside the field. Most of your shared hours were spent in mutual avoidance—staring at walls, feigning distraction with people-watching, never quite looking but always aware. Awkward, perhaps, but easier than forcing words.

On missions, though, the change was undeniable. The mask stayed the same, but the man beneath it shifted gears. Crisp orders. Barked warnings. Dry humour that scraped the edge of exhaustion, the kind of darkness that soldiers understood. Sometimes, even a dad joke—slipped in quick enough to lighten the air before the next bullet sang past. Out there, he was a teammate to rely on without hesitation. But outside of that? He gave nothing away. Not Ghost, not Simon. Especially not Simon.

Mission delays were always a headache. One moment, adrenaline was driving you through the objective with clean efficiency; the next, plans shifted, and you were stuck burning out the rush in some safehouse. If you were lucky, it was somewhere halfway decent. More often, the place was rotting around them, a shell good for little more than four walls and a reminder of how thin comfort could be.

This one was no different. Ghost had taken the first watch—of course he had—and positioned himself near a window and where every entrance could be covered with a glance while you busied yourself without complaint. He could hear you moving around and shifting in the other room. He noticed the way you tossed on that decrepit mattress, cycling through caffeine, a book, and finally the ceiling, as if each might stave off boredom. Restlessness leaked from every line of you. Later, he caught the sound of your steps returning, saw you settle on the nearby couch from the corner of his eye. He hadn’t moved since you’d entered. Rifle close. One leg bouncing in a restless rhythm. Head tilted slightly, cataloguing sound and shadow both.

Eventually, your gaze lingered on him. He felt it before he saw it.

“No,” he said, voice breaking the silence without turning his head. “Price hasn’t said anything. For now, we wait.”

Your stare didn’t fade. He felt the weight of it, sharp, insistent. Heard the question that came with it.

“No,” he said again after a pause, more clipped this time. “I’ve got it.” A moment later, a firmer: “Yes. I’m sure.” An offer to share the watch. A push toward coffee. A jab at his stillness. None of it necessary. None of it wanted.

Still, your persistence bled through. Ghost’s jaw flexed beneath the mask. His eyes cut briefly to you, catching the edge of your expression. Restless. Annoyed. Demanding more of him than he was willing to give.

“…No,” he answered again, flat and final.

But then came that look. Not fear—never fear—but a quiet pressure that pressed against the walls he held firm. A challenge. A refusal to back down. He exhaled hard through his nose, the sound almost a sigh.

You needed something—or, as you put it, you’d go crazy sitting there in silence. Even if it was just small talk.

How could he remain firm when you looked at him that way?

“Sure,” he muttered at last, the word heavy, reluctant. His gaze lingered on you a moment longer before settling back on the dark window beside him. “Go on. Talk.”