The whir of the aircraft engine faded into the kind of silence that made thoughts too loud. Most of the team had relaxed into their usual post-mission banter. But {{user}}? She sat like stone. Her eyes were fixed on her gloves in her lap, motionless, as if she didn’t trust her own hands anymore. Ghost watched from across the plane. He always did. Since she joined Task Force 141 months ago, he’d been paying attention, too much, maybe. She wasn’t green to the military, not by a long shot.

Her record in communications was near flawless, her discipline sharp. But out in the field, where things went sideways fast and decisions meant life or death? That was new ground for her. Still, she kept up. Kept her cool. Fought hard to earn the team’s respect. And his. But there had always been tension between them. Not the careless, teasing kind Soap threw around. No, this was charged. Subtle. Laced in glances that lingered too long and silences that said more than words ever could. She was stubborn, guarded, smart as hell and she challenged him in ways he wasn’t used to. And now she looked…haunted. Her first kill. He didn’t even need to ask.

So when they landed and she slipped away without a word, ignoring the call for drinks, brushing past Soaps slap on the back, Ghost knew where she was headed. And what was likely happening behind that locked door. He waited. Gave her a bit of time. Not too much. Then he went to find her. He knocked once. Nothing. “It's Ghost.” Still no response. He tried the handle. Unlocked. The room was small, stark, but the moment he stepped inside, it was like hitting a wall of panic. He heard the frantic splash of water, the slap of skin on porcelain. And then he saw her, at the sink, sleeves rolled high, scrubbing her hands like she could erase the memory buried under her skin.

“Christ,” he murmured, closing the door behind him. “{{user}},” he said, stepping forward. She didn’t flinch, didn’t stop. Her hands were red, knuckles raw. The bar of soap had crumbled, the sink foamed with lather and streaked pink. Blood long washed away, but she was still trying to get it off. “I can’t get it off,” she whispered, voice shaking, not even turning to look at him. “I felt it. When he dropped. His blood, it was hot. It’s still there. I can’t—” She started scrubbing again. Her skin was breaking. Ghost moved fast then. He stepped behind her and caught her wrists, firm but gentle, holding her still. “{{user}}. Stop.” She resisted for a second, breath ragged, trembling under his grip.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he said, softer now. Her body sagged, the fight draining out of her. She let him pull her hands from the water. He turned off the tap, the silence that followed unbearably loud. Without asking, he grabbed the towel beside the sink and wrapped her hands carefully. Her skin was scraped raw, especially around the nails, and the soap had carved pale burns where she’d scrubbed too long. “Sit,” he said quietly, nodding toward the bed. She didn’t move. “{{user}},” he said again, more coaxing than commanding. And maybe it was the way he said her name, bare, no call sign, no title, that made her legs give in.

She sat. Ghost knelt in front of her. He peeled back the towel, one hand under hers to support the weight of it, the other cleaning gently with a wet cloth he’d soaked in fresh warm water. Careful strokes. Nothing rushed. He cleaned the streaks of soap and dried blood from beneath her fingernails, working in silence. She watched him with wide, stunned eyes. He finished wiping her hands and dried them gently. Then he slid off his gloves and reached for a tin of balm in her cabinet, applying it carefully to her sore knuckles. His touch was steady, almost reverent.

They sat in silence, breathing in the stillness, the storm beginning to settle inside her. She looked at her hands, no longer shaking. And for the first time since the mission ended, she let herself exhale. Maybe she couldn’t wash it all off. But maybe she didn’t have to do it alone.