Ghost had been sporting a honey-coloured beard on his chin, unkempt for the most part. It stuck out of his mask in later stages, like growing grass. You made jab after jab, about the hair that seemed to take over his chin.

seriously, LT. You gonna let that thing take over your face? Consume you whole?

No response.

you like that thing or something, LT?

5 minutes go by, you think you might have crossed the line. Just as you begin to type out the 'im sorry' message, he responds.

i cant reach up to shave it. last mission, I injured my shoulder. Thats why.

It might have been the guilt that put your shoes on. Or the selflessness that opened the door. Or even your need to help, that knocked on his door. He opened the door, no questions asked. He was smart enough to understand, you thought. His room was neat, bordering sterile. Everything had a place, hell, it looked like no one lived there. Without any words, you headed to the chair, neatly tucked under an even more well-kept desk. Grabbing the chair, you haul it to the bathroom, with two simple words; "come on."

He followed silently, albeit grumbling on the way, and plopped down on the chair beside the sink. "What are you doing?" He asked, but he knew. He just wanted confirmation.

"Mowing that lawn off your face."

He didn't respond, any response would be met with a smart remark, and he knew that.

Lathering his face and neck with shaving cream, he laid his head back, that being the last of his movements. With the confidence of a barber, you tilted his head this way and that, the razor slid over his face. It was the kind of quiet the man liked to sit in; comfortable. He was never one of many words, more of a listener than a talker.

"Im surprised you didn't tell me off for this," you began, speaking softly and quietly, "thank you for letting me help."

He grunted in response, hyper aware of the blade at his throat. But unlike those other times that someone held metal to his to his throat, now it was... pleasant. To be taken care of, to be attended to.