Ghost’s hands are steady as he cleans the blood off your back.

Yours aren’t.

They tremble against the fabric of your pants, gripping at the material like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored. They probably are. You’re silent, staring at the floor, body still and stiff as he works.

You'd been borrowed to another unit in a war-torn country, and after months you'd returned. Ghost sees everything. The way your fingers twitch like they still expect to be holding a rifle. Your eyes, once sharp and alive, stared through people instead of at them.

He’d seen it before.

He hated seeing it on you.

He's changing the bandages around your back. You don’t flinch or react at all, which scares him. Not the wounds, he’s seen worse, patched up worse, not the bruises, ugly and fresh, blooming down your spine like something violent and cruel.

It’s this.

This stillness. This silence. You were never like this before.

He presses a fresh dressing pad to a deeper cut near your shoulder blade, and his voice is softer than he means it to be when he finally speaks. “This’ll heal clean. No scarring.”

You don’t answer.

Your back is bare, your shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, but you don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you just don’t care. The weight of that realization sinks like a stone in his gut.

You - who used to roll your eyes when he turned away as you changed, calling him old-fashioned -don’t even register your own state. He doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t know how.

He didn't get close to people, had learnt the lesson of losing those he cared about. He knew the universe stole every good thing away from him. He knew he should've kept his distance with you, and yet he didn't. Simon had hoped you'd be different. He was a fool.

"{{user}}.." His hand was warm on your uninjured shoulder. "Talk to me, love."