Chapter Text
Ghost doesn't know what to think. Mind reeling from the last few hours.
Him. A trained soilder. A man known for being able to control his emotions. Someone who answered the call of the battlefield and welcomed its endless cycle of bloodshed and violence.
He wasn't supposed to be like this and yet was almost unable to process the words.
So instead of simply speaking he stares at the new bottle of polish like a Fucking idiot.
Well, New only to him.
The bottle of red clutched loosely in Johnny's hands was obviously well loved. It was used, almost half empty. The label was rubbed off and had likely been exposed to water at some point based on the stains. The bottle had seen its fair share of use and abuse.
It's the good stuff too. Even without the label Simon can tell it's not the type of stuff he picks up from the local drug store.
Where did Johnny get this? Why does he have it?
It has to be a cruel Fucking joke. A bottle swiped from one of the lasses at base to taunt him for his stupid habit.
Making sure to keep his expression blank Simon waits for the inevitable laughter. The chuckles that would fall at his expense. A quick laugh at the fact that such a menacing man could stoop so low as to paint his nails.
Almost as if Sensing his Lieutenants thoughts John answered his unspoken question with an easy smile. "It's me mams favorite colour. Used ta paint er' nails."
Johnny grins at the memories he is undoubtedly reminiscing on. "take it out sometimes when I miss home"
Simon can feel himself relax slightly. This wasn't a cruel joke. Johnny would never bring his mom into something like that. The man respects her more than anything. Way too much to craft a lie with her as the excuse.
"And you want me to do them for you, sergeant?" He asks. Voice still guarded, cold behind it's carefully crafted walls.
"Who better, LT"
Anyone would have been better...
Soaps nails turned out to be a Fucking disaster.
Every single finger was an absolute mess. The state they were in before would almost be preferable-- The previous dirt crusted and uneven nails now messy in a new way.
It reminded Ghost of a painter he'd seen before. The name escapes him but he thinks it could fit among the works. A chaotic splash of color with no discernable goal.
Johnny didn't seem phased, that same goofy smile spread across his face as he watched Simon work." Color works on me denae it, Lt?"
Watching the way the red paint contrasted against the sergeant's skin, Ghost found himself comparing it to a different image.
A morbid thought really but it nearly resembled soap in a opposing context - Blood spattered hands with enemy soilders dead at his feet. A manic grin plastered on by the thrill of adrenaline.
But no
The shade was off.
The blood faded to a bright vibrant red the longer he gazed at the hands and the smile was different, softer and lacking that edge of sadistic glee.
Ghost carefully dipped his brush into the crimson liquid once more, his hand steady as he tried to correctly apply at least one coat.
The Angle was wrong and the nails smaller than his own. The practiced movements he often used on his person no longer applying and rendering any marginal skill he had void.
The brush slid across the nail in an awkward motion, creating a messy, uneven coat. With each stroke ghosts confidence dwindled.
In the end they were passable. Required some cleanup but nothing an acetone soaked q-tip couldn't erase.
The streaky and uneven job matched his johnny if he thought about it. Chaotic and energetic.
"Perfect in its own unique way".... At least that's what John had said when he mentioned the poorly done nails
It didn't matter much anyway.
Soap had ripped the chips off by the end of the Fortnite. Already falling apart from the labor of the day, he unconsciously picked at them till they gave.
Ghost watched the chips peel away hour by hour until it revealed the empty canvas of his nails, showing no sign of his previous work.
Its almost how ironic how easily it fell apart, he thinks. Quite like himself really.
He functioned, yes, but he had never been meant to be cherished or held onto. The rapid decay served as a cruel reminder of that fact. A harsh slap in the face.
Simon had always known down in his chest that he was a temporary presence in the lives of others. He was built to come and go.
And Ghost had grown accustomed to the role of the fleeting figure in the shadows, often fading into the background, blending seamlessly into the lives of those around him.
Invisible quite like his namesake.
Sure his figure demanded attention, filling a room and commanding those around it to listen. He cut an imposing frame, a reaper made in death and built for war. His legendary name whispered as a warning.
But in the end, they don't know him. They don't see beyond the cold exterior, the hardened shell he's built.
And if they did he would outlive them.
He carries the weight of a thousand wars, each scar etched deeply into his skin.
Everyone dies
But a ghost cannot follow them
Soap hadn't talked to him in a week. It's nothing personal... at least he doesn't think it is. He's just been stuck up on dealing with the new influx of recruits.
The sergeant had obviously made it clear he didn't care about the polish, going as far as requesting Ghost to do his own. Price and Gaz hadn't gone as far but they remained unfazed by his secret habit despite Simon's internal struggle.
But deep in his chest he still feels that traitorous pang of rejection.
Crawling out of bed at the crack of dawn, he yawns.
Much like he does every day, Ghost begins the usual monotonous routine of his existence.
As if operating on autopilot, his movements lacked any hint of enthusiasm. He mechanically rose to his feet, swinging them off the bed and groaning as he stands, his knees popping in protest to the sudden use
Ghost makes his way to the bathroom first. The simple tile and white sterile environment of the familiar room greeted him.
He takes a quick piss before stepping beneath the lukewarm shower and letting it wash away the feeling of grogginess that still clinged to his form.
Clutching a towel around his waist he strides back to his room. Drying off and quickly donning his usual gear before wrenching open the doorway to his room and looking into the hall.
To see.... a package?
It's simple, just a small box with no initially obvious identifying markers.
He has the quick thought that he should probably bring it to price. The risk of it being harmful was not zero.
But He shrugs the thought off and takes the small package into his hands, rotating it between them.
It's light, would be almost weightless if not for the box itself. Strange.
Taking it in a single palm he closes his door once more. Sitting on the edge of his bed he pulls a knife from one of his many sheaths and slices neatly across the tape holding the flaps of the box together.
Prying the clasp apart he sees a small sheet of stickers?
What?
He carefully lifts the item up and reads the label. In a simple font typed across the front reads 'halloween nail decals'. Huh...
And there they are. Exactly what the package advertised. An assortment of ghosts, skulls and spiderwebs stare back at him, Small and simple in design but getting the point across nonetheless.
Simon flips the decal sheet over and scans across the instructions, clear and precise on application steps. A small cartoon ghost hovers beside the text, it's small grin staring up at him.
And for the first time in a while he can feel his own cheeks stretch into a smile