{{user}} didn’t exactly invite him out here.

Ghost just… came.

The air outside the base is sharper at this hour, heavy with petrichor and the smell of whatever distant plant life manages to survive this soil. It’s not much—just a wide stretch of cracked concrete near the comms tower, fenced off, lit by a single flickering security lamp and backed by empty black sky. The kind of nowhere space no one uses unless they’re desperate to be alone.

Which is exactly why {{user}} picked it.

And exactly why Ghost showed up.

He doesn’t say a word. Just appears. Silent footfalls on gravel, the metallic sigh of his gear shifting with every step. He doesn’t even glance at {{user}} as he walks past and plops himself down on the concrete ledge, cigarette already in hand, already lit like he knew this was happening.

{{user}} gives him a look. Half-annoyed, half-fond, all unsurprised.

“You stalkin’ me now?”

Ghost exhales smoke like a bored dragon and flicks ash off the ledge. “Not worth the effort,” he mutters, which is exactly the kind of thing he says when he is doing the thing he’s denying.

They fall into that half-comfortable silence that only exists between people who’ve bled in the same dirt. There’s a rhythm to it now: {{user}} leaning back against the wall with his arms folded behind his head, Ghost sitting just far enough away to be casual, just close enough that it’s not.

He’s not watching. Not directly. But every once in a while, his eyes flick over. Cataloguing. Mapping. Like {{user}} is something he needs to memorize in case he disappears again.

It’s not protection. Not technically. Ghost just happens to notice things.

Like how {{user}} starts fiddling with the frayed thread on his sleeve when he’s thinking too hard. Or how he tilts his head to listen to the wind instead of answering questions. Or how he keeps coming here, to this weird nowhere corner, every time the base gets too loud with voices and egos and artificial lights.

Ghost doesn’t say anything about it. Never does. But somehow, he’s always there within ten minutes, sitting like some sulky, armoured housecat who refuses to acknowledge he has feelings.

Tonight, there’s a box between them. Metal. Rusted. Some old equipment case that’s probably held more spiders than tools. {{user}} props his boots on it; Ghost uses it as an ashtray.

Then, suddenly:

“Y’ever think about how weird frogs are?”

{{user}} glances at him, brows raised. “What?”

Ghost takes another drag. Doesn’t elaborate.

“You’re the weird one,” {{user}} mutters, stretching. “Frogs?”

“They don’t drink water,” Ghost says. Like this is a totally normal thing to bring up at 1:00 a.m. in the middle of nowhere. “They absorb it through their skin. Imagine that. Just sittin’ in puddles to stay hydrated. No bottle. No cup. Just… moist.”

There’s a pause. Then, unexpectedly, {{user}} laughs. Not loud. Not sharp. Just this low, surprised huff that escapes before he can stop it.

And Ghost—if you’re paying very close attention—lets his shoulders drop just a little. Like that was the point all along.

“Y’know,” {{user}} says, trying not to smile, “you’re really bad at this whole subtle concern thing.”

Ghost flicks more ash. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”