Chapter Text
The next time Gaz finds Ghost sitting alone in the rec room corner happens to be a week later. He had woken up in a cold sweat, the plain white shirt he wore to bed clung to his skin uncomfortably while his chest heaved from the jagged huffs of air. A knot formed in his throat and for a second it was too hard to breathe.
His dreams, no, nightmares were never the same, each fragment of images and memories different from the other, but they all had common themes: loss, death, mourning. Concepts Gaz knows intimately after years serving his country.
He almost laughs at the irony. Him, a trained killer, jolted awake in the middle of night because of some nightmares. It was ridiculous, embarrassing even, but he also knew every soldier has nights where sleep evaded them, forcing them to stew in grief and despair.
With a soft breath he pushed off his bed, feet dragging against cold flooring before he found himself where he always went on nights like such.
Ghost is there, not to his surprise, but unlike prior nights a soft glow lights the room enough to make out the dark outline of his Lieutenant more. This time he doesn’t startle.
“Looks like it’s me and you again, huh, L.T?” his voice comes out groggy, remnants of sleep still clinging to him.
Silence greets him, but he doesn’t mind. Making tea for the both of them became second nature, a mindless habit he wasn’t aware of til he already had two cups in front of him and water boiling on the small stove. When did he get so used to these late nights?
He doesn’t find himself retreating to the rec room on most nights, usually he was able to sleep through the night, barely remembering his dreams once his eyes opened. But each time he waltzes in Ghost is always there, settled deep into his corner that Gaz always wonders how long he’s been there. Alone and in the dark.
Gaz thinks maybe that’s how Ghost sees himself. Isolated from those around him, drowning in a sea so dark and deep no one can see the man underneath it all. Beneath the mask, the hard cut persona that is Ghost.
Gaz wonders, not for the first time, who is Simon Riley? The man beyond the mask, most likely sunken hundreds of feet below sea levels, pushed to the side in order for Ghost to take the role is keeping himself afloat. Does Simon make an effort to fight back? Or is he complacent in his safe space within the back of his own mind?
What sort of troubles keep a man like Ghost awake at night? Is it the job, the countless acts of violence and bloodshed? Or do other atrocities haunt him, memories from a life lived before the military, before getting his hands dirty for the sake of the “greater good”?
Ghost is an itch that Gaz cannot reach, a constant ache nestled inside his chest, beneath skin, muscle and bone. A lingering sensation he hates to enjoy, hates that he wants the sunlight to caress his skin and bask in the overwhelming warmth that is Ghost—or Simon Riley because to Gaz any version of the captivating man bared to him would be enough fuel to make Gaz fly.
The cup of steaming hot tea is placed before Ghost, made just the way he likes it.
Ghost takes the mug, gloved fingers brushing against Gaz’s own. They linger for a beat longer than usual and the small action is enough to make the young Sergeant’s heart slam against his chest.
Cold brown trail from the black mug up to Gaz’s own set of warm amber. “Thank you, Garrick..” his voice is gruff, tight with every strife left unspoken.
Gaz offers a nod, the corner of his mouth pulling into a soft smile. “Anytime, L.T.”
Long before now, before Gaz had taken to observing the older man, the silence that stretched between them was unsettling. Ghost was usually quiet, barely uttering a word around those he didn’t trust with his 6, but since joining this carefully handpicked team more of himself started to peek through.
"Simon..." the air shifts, filling with something heavy yet softer than either are used to. Gaz holds Simon's stare, shock shielding whatever turmoil left within him for a second. The name was a familiar sound to Gaz, after years of working together he has heard it roll off the captain's tongue more than once. But this, this was different somehow. A blatant invitation. "Call me Simon."
Heat spreads beneath his skin. "Simon..." he tests the name dipped in honey, rolling it around on his tongue. They both feel the change deep within their cores, to a molecular level resetting their entire beings.
Neither of them mention it as they sit together, long after the cups of tea have emptied, ceramics discarded in the sink.
If Gaz were a different man, maybe more insistent and imposing, then he would press Simon to explain himself, pry into that mysterious head of his and soak up every little detail he could. But Gaz isn’t. So he lets the questions jumble in his mouth and leaves them there until they dissolve into nothing.
For now, this is enough. A small step closer to the man that has his attention locked and chained up. There is nothing else but Simon and by the time Gaz heads back to his room, the nightmare he had was long forgotten.
Once he’s settled under the sheets, back pressed into stiff bedding, he lets himself wonder. Of soft, pale skin against his own, warm to the touch. He’s only ever felt the touch of fabric from gloved hands, always fleeting after a second too short. Ghost always kept things professional, distance a steady measure with him. Would Simon close it? Would he allow rough calloused hands to press into his skin, soothing out the hard lines in the dead of night?
Gaz wants to know so bad it almost hurts. But Gaz is a patient man. He knows how to play the long game. How to wait until the right time to strike. Not aggressive, never, but for once he didn’t plan to leave things where they were for long. Won’t continue to deny the attraction he feels towards Simon, and he’d be damned if he could no longer orbit the man.