Ghost wasn't a man to get attached — the lieutenant worked alone for most his life until he became the man of the mask, with a team to match his reputation.

With you being the youngest member of the taskforce, he — preferred to take care of you, in subtle, unattached ways.

Ghost found himself looking out for you — slipping in some awfully comfortable patterns, talking you through bad moments on the field, or just making sure you don't slip when you're tired and want to drop dead in the middle of a job.

It came with the job, being separated, but after a series of operations in which you two had to go cold unless it was of utter necessity, it's been weeks of radio silence.

Idiotically and uselessly, the both of you would still pitch in the same channel, holding on for that crackle on the intercom, the sound that told you that you weren't on your own, never were — searching for eachother's voice.

It's late on your outpost, the closest thing you'll get to a bed is the thin mattress under your body, lonely when the walkie suddenly goes off, after ages.

"Bravo-six, Ghost incoming—" The crackle is a sizzle for a moment, before the signal steadies itself, letting the silence settle for a moment or two, some kind of lull in the middle of the night. "Y'there, lad?" Ghost returns, marginally softer — so low, and so quiet, his voice is gruff and unintentionally husky when you hear it.

He'd say he misses you, if he thought that'd be something you wanted to hear. He wants to listen to you talk to him, just for a moment.