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..⃗. [the stars look pretty tonight] 𑁍ࠜೄ ･ﾟˊˎ
╰┈➤ ❝ [sucking the dirt out from under your own nails just to taste where you came from / without ever having to go back there.] ❞
"I THINK I'M GONNA KILL MYSELF," she spoke, her voice soft and quiet, almost inaudible against the gusts of wind. But he heard her. It was difficult not to hear her sometimes. She was always talking, usually around Soap. But the second he stepped in the room, it was like she'd grown mute. For a good year, he often wondered if he made her uncomfortable. So, he'd sit on the other side of the van or helicopter, would try not to be alone with her too much. Didn't want to make things worse. But here they are, staring out the window as the storm around them begins to die down. He was there first, had been watching the storm a few hours. Better than staring at the ceiling, he thought. So, he'd watched the lightning, tried to contain his flinches at the thunder. Sometimes, the thunder almost sounded like someone was trying to break in. It kept him on edge. It didn't help when he'd heard the quiet shuffle of feet behind him.
But she hasn't been trying to be sneaky - she's hardly good at that. She's more of a going-in-guns-blazing type. Maybe a deep part of him appreciates that, understands it. But it's put her and others in harms way countless times. It's fucking stupid, he thinks. But he can't help but admire her gusto. And now it might all make sense. Her need to charge in first. Was it all some kind of suicide plan? That, maybe, if she got killed in the line of duty, she wouldn't have to take matters into her own hands.
"Why?" He finally utters out, his gaze straight ahead at the retreating storm. He's never been good at this, talking. Heart to hearts. And he's still not sure why she's telling him this. This is something she'd tell Johnny, not him. Never him. He knows he's not the easiest to talk to, is fine with that. Saves him from stumbling through awkward small talk. But this isn't small talk. It's pretty fuckin' serious if she's not kidding.
Her shoulders shrug gently as she keeps her gaze on the stars above. The storm clouds had retreated, leaving only the galaxy above. "Just don't feel like bein' here anymore, I s'pose." Her southern accent was thick, a stark contrast to the mix of European accents that the rest of the group had - save for Alex, but she never really spoke to him. Not out of spite, but out of some unfamiliarity, only commonality was sharing a country that threw them to the wolves in the name of oil. Her accent was why they'd taken to calling her Cowgirl. She'd never raised any complaints against it, figured it was better than other options. Though she was subject to many 'save a horse, ride a cowboy' jokes from Soap. It didn't get under skin like she thought it would, it was almost endearing. Like she was a member of the family. Soap had been the first to really welcome her in, slinging compliments and jokes like they were confetti. He'd brought her food, snacks, little trinkets he found on missions.
So, why she's here, divulging this information to a man who tries to avoid her gaze, she's not completely sure. Maybe she knows that Ghost won't coddle her. He won't fawn over her like she's liable to shatter like a wine glass. But it's been on her mind for a while, since before 141. It sits there, festering like a wound, in the back of her mind. What starts out a soft whisper becomes a roaring cacophony of screaming when she's about to enter dangerous territory. Maybe if someone else took her out, it'd be easier on everyone. She wouldn't have to write some stupid note explaining why she did it. It would take the decision out of her hands, and that's what she really wants. She doesn't want to have to keep making these decisions. It's not fucking fair to her. It's not fair to anyone, really. She wonders if this is hereditary, if her sister, mother, father... if any of them have the same thoughts. Or maybe she's the defect. If this thinking is abnormal. Because she can't picture a world without these grisly thoughts swirling her mind. She wonders if he's ever had these thoughts. If poison swished around his mind like it did hers.
"On my first tour," she started, a frown on her lips, "I got my friend killed. I'd been in a nest for a good week 'r so. Started makin' up stories for the guy we were watchin'. Said maybe his wife was unhappy with livin' there, wished she had married this rich guy her parents tried settin' her up with. But he loved her so much. Spent every last penny tryin' to please her." Her fingers twitched at her side, fiddling together. "Then came time to take the shot and I... I couldn't. I hesitated. Shot too late and missed. Then comes this kid runnin' out, but he looked weird. My friend, like an idiot, goes runnin' up, tryin' to play the hero. Kid had a bomb under his shirt, set it off. Turns out he'd been holdin' his wife hostage, forced their kid to practice suicide bomb drills." Her thumb gently ran along the crosshair tattoo on her inner wrist. It was the same one Susanne had. Her way of honoring the woman's memory, even if she was the cause of her being nothing but a memory.
Ghost remained silent next to her, staring down at the clouds that nearly disappeared over the horizon. The moon shone bright in the sky, just hitting the middle of the sky. He's not sure how to respond. He, himself, had plenty of horror stories to share. But he's not sure that's what she's looking for. Maybe she just wanted a listening ear. Someone who wouldn't psychoanalyze her. Someone who would just listen. And listening is what he did best. Less pressure on him, that way. But one wrong word and he's worried she might make a b-line for the bathroom to end it all. But he's almost sure she's not that bad off. That he doesn't need to report her yet. Because she told him. He doesn't have a psych degree, but he assumed that if she was planning on doing it tonight, she might not have told him. Or maybe that's a stupid thing to assume. Maybe he's being an oblivious asshole. Does it even matter? He supposed not. Not when she's staring up at the stars with a miniscule smile on her lips. It's almost imperceivable. But his eyes are good, always have been. Hers are, too. And she can see him watching her out of the corner of her eye. If it were anyone else, she'd be annoyed, uncomfortable. But he never made her uncomfortable. She wished she could tell him that. Because she sees the way he purposefully sits on the opposite side of her, makes sure that he's never too close. Always seems to be checking the temperature of the room that they share. Because the two have never been particularly open with one another. But she's not sure he's ever been open with anyone other than maybe Soap. And she's never been open with anyone, especially Soap. She loved him, but the man couldn't keep a secret. One time, she'd told him that she had a crush on Gaz, just to see how fast word would spread. By dinnertime, Gaz was sparing shy glances towards her. That's how she knew that he'd had quite the blabbermouth, how these grown men were mere schoolgirls when it came to gossip. It was almost endearing if it weren't so annoying.
"Glad that storm's over." She mumbled under her breath. Whether it was more to herself or to him, neither were very sure. So, he remained silent. Simply grunted in response. He found himself fond of storms - not being caught in them, rain weighing down his already heavy gear. But he enjoyed watching them from places like this safehouse. From a window where he could stay warm and dry. Where he could watch it roll in and fade away, leaving nothing but new earth behind. If he were a poet, he might comment on how storms always felt like a new beginning, like they were made to wash away all of the blood they had spilled nights before. But he's not a poet, he's hardly good with basic grammar. So, he'll leave it to the bloody poets to talk about how beautiful the world seemed after a storm. And he'll stick to muddying it all up again. It's what he knows best, it's what he's built for. But she's not, he's sure. Even when he watches her bullets rip through men like they were made of paper, he's not fully convinced she's made for this world.
Not that she isn't capable - the opposite, really. He thinks she's too capable. He sees how it's taking its toll on her. Sees the bags under her eyes grow darker by the day. Sees her frown lines growing more prominent. Hears her gasps of terror and her muffled sobs through the wall the separates their rooms. He supposed he didn't have much room to talk. After all, he was sitting at this window next to her, at three in the morning, while everyone else sleeps like babies. But a deep part of him is grateful for his horrid sleep schedule tonight. He wonders if she would've gone through with it if he hadn't been sitting in this window sill. If she'd lock herself in that bathroom or her bedroom and... He shook his head, forcing away those putrid images. The idea of Soap finding her is enough to keep him awake for the next week. He'd much rather be a little tired in the morning than go through that. He even tries to imagine his own reaction if... A frown overtakes his face, hidden behind the mask. He shouldn't be thinking like this. It's not good for anyone, certainly not her or himself.
"I like storms." He finally speaks, barely above a whisper. Though it's difficult for a man with his bass to whisper. Makes it difficult to whisper over the comms sometimes. He's not sure why he shared that detail, if it even matters. Maybe he's just trying to distract her, keep her mind away from the dangerous topic they'd found themselves contemplating. It would be a lie to say he'd never thought about it, never attempted it. Mostly when he was a teenager, when all of the hormones were catching up with his shitty home life. It was all so much all of the fucking time. So, no one would blame if he had just taken his father's revolver and just... Biting the inside of his cheek, he almost sighed. It was no use thinking these hideous things. It'd all passed, for the most part. There were still nights where he saw his father's grin, hovering over him with a twisted wrath that a child could never evoke in a grown adult. His hands reach up, rubbing at the fabric of his mask that covered his forehead. It was beginning to grow stuffy. His mask never grew stuffy. This was new to him. Something he hoped never happened again.
"Even when we're stuck out campin' in it?" A small, playful smile dances on her lips. A smile that he wouldn't have expected to see with how this conversation had started. "I remember, one time, I was stuck in this nest for a good month. In the middle of fuckin' January, too. Let me tell you, it gets downright frigid in Afghanistan." She chuckled quietly, shaking her head. "Barely any fuckin' cover to that goddamn nest. Thought I'd die before they told me to take the shot."
"I'm glad you didn't." He mumbled, unsure of his own words. Not because of their meaning - he's damn glad that she hadn't died on some nowhere roof in the middle of Afghan winter - but of the repercussions of saying them. A part of him wonders if she'll blush, if she'll see it for what it is. Because she has keen fucking eyes, and even better ears.
"That makes one of us." Her gaze remained on the sky above, the twinkling stars. A part of her isn't sure she fully believes that statement anymore. Because, if she'd died on top of that roof in Afghanistan, she wouldn't be here to see this beautiful night sky. She wouldn't see the star that shoots across the sky. And she wouldn't be able to shut her eyes and silently make a wish. A wish she almost feels pathetic making. "Do you believe in an afterlife, Ghost?"
His eyebrows furrowed at her question. He's not one for religion, not one for blind faith. He likes to know the facts. Like to see everything planned out. Likes to know what can go wrong and what can go right. Doesn't like going in blind, hoping that something cushions your fall. "No." He answered in his gruff voice. He hopes he hasn't offended her. "Do you?"
She shrugs her shoulders again. "It's a nice idea." For someone so deadly, she's so quiet. He's grown so used to the rest of the company, voices boisterous and booming, commanding the attention of everyone in a 100-meter radius. It almost feels wrong to be in the presence of someone so soft and quiet. But he knows that she isn't soft. He's seen her take out five guys in the matter of five seconds. It's something he knows he's seen plenty of times, but it's something that refuses to solidify in his mind. "Every Sunday mornin', my ass would be stuck in a pew in this backwoods church. We had, maybe, thirty members total. Hell, most of 'em were already knockin' on Heaven's door." He huffs a laugh, earning a bright grin from the woman. "Anyways, here's this preacher up on the stand, yellin' his head off 'bout fire and brimstone. His face is as red as a goddamn tomato and he's just standin' there, screamin' at all of us. I think I was 'bout... ten, maybe. And I just start cryin'. I mean, it was embarrassing how much I started cryin'." She almost wants to laugh at the memory, but she can't. It feels too sad to laugh at. "They dragged me up to the altar to pray for my eternal soul. So, there I am, ten years old, sobbing in front of the entire church, beggin' God not to send me to burn in Hell." She's not completely sure why she brought this up. It started out as innocent, a funny anecdote. But now it's just sad. Now it's too revealing. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she regrets telling the story now. It just made things awkward now. Spilling too much, putting too much on his plate that he didn't need. He has enough problems, she's sure. Enough without her adding to it all.
"That's your nice idea of the afterlife?" His voice is almost joking. But she's never heard him joke. So, she might be wrong. But she really hopes that he's joking with her. Because she really wants someone other than Soap to talk to. Not that Soap wasn't fun to talk to. But sometimes she started to feel out of place. Because Soap talked to everyone. And when he wasn't talking to her, no one was talking to her. Sometimes she was fine with that. Other times... not so much. Most of the time, it just made her feel really lonely. But she's not here with Soap, she's here with Ghost. And he's keeping up a conversation. Not that she gave him much of a choice, starting the conversation with a bombshell like she did. Frowning, she wants to curl into a ball and die. "That bloke was a fuckhead, screamin' at a kid like 'at."
Silently nodding, she finally pulls her gaze away from the starlit sky above them. Her eyes run along the man next to her. The way the mask had begun to sag from use. She thinks about getting him a new one. Would he even like that? He doesn't seem like a man who enjoys change much. There's a reason he's in the military. Hell, there's a reason they're all in the military. "The Heaven part was kinda nice, though. Streets of gold, friends and family and all that jazz. It's nice, in theory. Can't say I don't wish it were real." Her right hand slowly scoots towards his, using her pinkie finger to test the waters. It runs along the back of his gloved hand before settling on top of his own pinkie finger. When he makes no motion to move, a small smile returns to her lips. "No sorrow, no death. Just a grand 'ole party all the time. Real nice houses on top o' all o' that." As she speaks, her hand grows more bold. It moves over to attempt to encompass his hand, but the size difference is noticeable. "I like to think there's lakes up there made out o' stars. Like, we're lookin' down on the galaxy, y'know." Her eyes move back up to the stars. His hand finally moves, and she stiffens. She already knows that she's pushed him too far. It was bad enough trapping him in this conversation he didn't want to be in. Now, she was trying to... what, make a move on him? Fuckin' idiot, she wanted to curse at herself. But his hand continued to move, turning over to intertwine their fingers. It's difficult with his gloves, but she doesn't mind. Just knowing that there was someone on her side, someone in her court, was all that mattered.
"Nice thought." He muttered, staring up at the stars. There was something so silently intimate about looking up at the same moon. About looking at the same stars that felt like they twinkled just for the two of them. If he were a romantic, he might say all of these things aloud. But he's not. He's just a soldier. Isn't meant for any of this. For hand-holding, for talks about Heaven, for looking at the stars. It's all wrong. But he just can't bring himself to care when she squeezes his hand. It's be a lie to say that he'd never noticed Cowgirl. After being surrounded by so many men all of the time, it was nice to have a woman around. Even if she barely spoke. Even if she hardly interacted with any of them other than Soap. It was still nice. "Still don't make it real." He huffed.
A smile spread on her lips as a soft chuckle dripped out like honey. "As real as you want it to be, Ghost." It took everything in her to pull her hand free. Twisting on the window sill, she pushed herself back into the room. "Guess I should be headin' back to bed. Got a long day ahead now that that storm's gone."
As she started to retreat, he twisted his own body to turn towards her. "Not sure you should be alone tonight, birdie."
She halted her movements, only five feet away from him. Spinning on her heel, she smiled. "The stars look too pretty tonight to ruin it. Guess I'll have to try again some other night."
"You know where to find me."
Her feet carried her back towards his hulking frame, slumped against the window sill. When her left hand gently pressed against his cheek, his hand caught her wrist, holding it there. Leaning down, she pressed a soft kiss to the fabric of his mask, right where his lips were - slightly more to the left, though. As quick as it had started, she pulled back, a beaming smile on her lips and a flush on her cheeks. "Thanks, Simon." She straightened up, pulling her wrist from his grasp and turned to retreat to her bedroom, leaving him staring at the spot she'd occupied. His hand curled into a tight fist before stretching out and flexing.
A week later, the two had hardly shared ten words between each other. There were some times where he thought maybe he had dreamed the entire encounter. But stepping into his quarters, his eyebrows furrowed at a piece of fabric on the center of his bed, a note attached to it. His fingers grabbed the black balaclava, twisting it between his fingers. 'Hope they have these in Heaven,' read the note, with a small cowboy hat drawn in the corner. A miniscule smile grew on his lips as he stared down at the note. Bloody Cowgirl.