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“Man down.”
Two words that burned at the back of your throat. Two words you never wanted to say again. Fourteen soldiers - five more people than originally supposed to be there - walked into a town for a mission you were never given details of. The real details. Those Ghost knew and kept under lock and key.
“Man down.”
Those words were going to haunt you for the rest of your days. Your first time out with 141. Your first time under Ghost. So much of your afternoon had been spent screaming those two words into your radio as man after man fell. You lost your gloves in the chaos. When you first joined the military people would comment on how a pretty girl like you must feel without her nails done up all nice. Now they were stained red with blood.
A cruel form of irony.
You were the only woman on squad. In the truck you were reminded of guys back in boot camp making bets on how you’d be the first to stumble, the first to tap out, or the first to miss a shot. So, you put everything into proving them wrong. Rising through the ranks. Becoming a force to be reckoned with. Anything to make sure that there’d never be anyone else betting on you being the first to be shot dead on mission ever again.
Except every step you took forward felt more like three back. Accusations of you sleeping with the higher ups flew through every base you were assigned to. The doubts still kept creeping in everywhere you went. Then you got to 141 where you were respected and Soap and Gaz and Price and Ghost and every person you interacted with treated you like a person.
The slamming of a door draws you back into awareness. “How are you holding up?” Ghost hovers at one end of the room back from securing the perimeter of the building. He, you, and Soap had tailed out of town the first chance you got and ended up miles away from your last known location.
His question is met with silence. Soap is off in the corner. He’d put the last remaining shreds of sanity into creating a fire. And god were you grateful for it. There was something other than darkness to stare at. Something other than blood.
Out of the three of you, it seemed you were the only one around anyone who had half a shot at survival. Soap and Ghost were spotless. There was dirt, grime, and sweat you’d expect from a desert village, but no blood.
You were covered in enough blood to coat the three of you. A nightmarish look. Out in the field you’d forgotten about sticking your fingers in one of your squad’s bullet wound and dragged your fingers across the corner of your lips to dislodge a stray hair. Instead, you painted your face in the blood of your friend. Got it matted into your braids and ensured you’d taste nothing but metal for weeks to come.
“Two goldfish are in a tank.” Ghost says as he settles against the wall directly across from you. His gear makes the loudest scraping noises you’ve ever heard. For a man who doesn’t let himself be heard, you can sense the exhaustion. He doesn’t care about being quiet, he cares about taking a seat. “One turns to the other and says, ‘You know how to drive this thing?’”
The fireplace crackles. Its warmth is welcomed despite the risk it poses. Ghost could hardly argue with Soap about setting the fire up. Your teeth were chattering loud enough to wake the dead. Shock had the tendency to do that to people, but with every chatter came a visible puff of air. If the three of you were destined to die tonight it would be in a blaze of glory and not becoming human ice pops in the abandoned flat of some unknown town.
Soap swings his head over to look at Ghost before he glances in your direction. “Fuckin’ pathetic, ain’t it?”
Your vision is blurry. Soap's figure is just as hazy as the flames he sits by. Dried blood flakes off your wrist the more you run your fingers over them. Who does it belong to? You wonder. Specs? Gunther?
“Oi!” Soap snaps his fingers in your direction. The noise lodges in your consciousness the same way the slamming of the door and the dragging of Ghost’s gear did. You uncross your eyes to stare back at Soap. “You good?”
“Do I have to answer that?” Your voice croaks. Still raw from the screaming. Man down.
“I’ve got one you can answer.” Ghost says.
Both you and Soap swing your eyes over to him. Ghost rests the back of his head against the wall. “Why don’t blind guys skydive?”
You squint at him. “Why?”
“Scares the shit out o’ their dogs.”
The answer catches you off guard. You let out a loud, barking laughter. One not easily reigned in. It feels good to breathe like this, without the weight of thirteen dead men on your chest. “Shit.” Soap says over the sound of your manic laughter. “It wasn’t that funny.”
But it is. The thought of something as absurd as Ghost telling jokes and sounding proud of them is enough to send you into another fit of giggles. Gasping and side stitching giggles where nothing else can cross your mind except for the creases around Ghost’s eyes as he stares at you.
“The lass seems to think so,” he tells Soap.
“She’s not used to a dead man like you being so openly entertaining.”
“Just because Ghost is dead doesn’t mean I’m in good spirits.” Ghost says and draws a loud groan from Soap who was still squirreled away by the fireplace.
“That one was bad, Lt. - God, that was so bad.”
“Well,” you pipe up, finally calm from your bout of laughter, “Ghost is known for his torture techniques?”
“I am?”
“Yeah, and these jokes are killing me.”
“Oh shit.” Soap doubles over in laughter of his own. “He’s really going to kill you.”
You don’t have to glance his way to feel that icy stare tear away from Soap to rest on you. The coldness was familiar to you. It wasn’t negative, you’d quickly come to realize. Ghost existed in phantom expressions. Stares boring into parts of you like a cipher you could only figure out by being half in the grave yourself.
“Ghost wouldn’t lay a hand on me.” You say, turning towards him with a wide grin. One that draws a slow blink from him. You still catch the movement of the fabric by his lips. “Isn’t that right?”
“Why,” he asks, “do you think that?”
Because you know him. Better than anyone else on this team. Better than Soap. Better than Price. You know that slow blink was a distraction from the smirk. You know those icy stares are only partly filled with annoyance. Mainly at himself for letting a fondness grow in the ruins of his heart.
You can’t say all that.
Not when half the unit you were leading ended up with their brains splattered all over a wall hundreds of thousands of miles from home. Not when the threat of that happening to you still hung heavy over your heart. Especially not with Soap curled up next to the fire likely to fall in out of shock if the idea that you and Ghost having the chance of being anything managed to work its way through his thick skull.
“He’s a ghost, Soap.” You say instead. “His hand would pass right through me!”
Ghost laughs. It’s the ghost of a laugh. The barest hint of a chuckle he poorly attempts to disguise as a cough but you and Soap both know he laughed.
“Lt,” Soap says, “did you just? Did you just-"
“I don’t think you want to finish that sentence, Johnny.” He sits up a little straighter. Looming over us from his spot on the wall. Threatened.
Soap holds up his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The fireplace popped, breaking any remaining tension and reminding you all of the time. Ghost announces he'll take first watch. You stare into the fire instead of making a joke about watches and dogs. Soap settled down right in front of it. Laid out, tactical gear and all. He had one hand gripping his rifle while the other was tucked under his head in place of a pillow.
“Sweet dreams.”
“Piss off.” Soap says and, moments later, there’s gentle snoring coming from the man.
Leaving you and Ghost alone to stare at one another from across the room. Both of you pressed up against a wall ready to peer out the window and take out anyone who dares to walk by.
“Maybe we should change his name to Sleeping Beauty.” You nod your head over at Soap. In all the time you’ve known him he’s never once had an issue falling asleep. “Seems more fitting.”
Ghost’s eyes slide over to Soap. You follow his gaze to watch the rise and fall of his chest. How his hand tightens around his rifle every few moments as if to remind himself that this safety belt is still there. You can’t fault him for it. There’s always been a pistol under your pillow when you sleep.
“Though,” you rest your hand on your chin. “That would require him being a beauty.”
“Not your type?” Ghosts asks.
You arch a brow and slide your own gaze back towards Ghost. He’s already staring at you. Goosebumps litter your arms. Enough to send shivers down spines. Yet there’s no denying a warmth that burrows itself in the pit of your stomach. Something hopeful. Like his bright eyes against the dark paint surrounding them. Something real compared to the phantasmic mask he insisted on wearing.
“Nah.” You shake your head. “I prefer men with a sense of humor.”
Ghost nods slowly.
Silence trickles back into the room.
“I’ve got a nickname for you.” You raise your head to look at Ghost who has shifted from leaning against the wall to resting his forearms against his knees and leaning towards you. “You said you didn’t have one back with your old team.”
“Not a real one.” Everyone in the barracks was likely to be called some variation of ‘dumbass’ or ‘fucktard.’ It had never been a defining nickname for anyone. “Not one I care repeating.”
Ghost tilts his head. The movement reminded you of a puppy. “Why not?”
You shoot him a look. He was proving to be thick-skilled in more than one way. “How does a misogynist keep himself warm?” There was a beat. “Incel-ation.”
“I’ve never understood that.”
“Do you want me to mansplain misogyny?”
You watched Ghost roll his eyes. It was a movement you’d seen a lot from him. Mainly when Soap was talking. Something done out of affection because if he was truly annoyed Ghost wouldn’t be in the room. “Misogyny.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, “it must be real hard on a big guy like you.”
Ghost’s hand came up to fiddle with his mask. “You’re an ass.” The movement displaces the shadows contrasting the harsh glow of the fireplace. This was the most light you’d seen him in. Between him talking and touching the mask you could see the slightest hint of stubble. The kind that made you think there were dark circles under that dark face paint.
You return his eye roll. Less affectionate because, unlike the hulking man across from you, you were more than willing to express your aggravation.
“I’ll give you a nickname.” He says so matter-of-factly. “One that isn’t dripping in…”
“Prejudice?” You fill in. Ghost nods and your lips twitch up into a smile. “Alright, Lieutenant, let’s see what you got.”
Soap groans loudly, rolling over, but never losing his grip. The sight of his rifle swinging over makes you slightly nervous. You trust him. You trust Ghost, too. There are just the memories of earlier lurking at the surface.
Ghost must notice the grimace on your face because he clears his throat. Once, then once more until you stopped staring at the gun and the sounds of rounds grow quiet in your mind.
“Joker.”
“Joker?” You don’t mean for it to come out as a question. The word simply took you by surprise, but Ghost took your inflection to mean dislike.
“No, that’s stupid.” He shifts positions. Almost squirming in his seat to press his back against the wall. “No one heard it. It won’t stick. Just forget about it.”
Ghost’s eyes flick away from you. Just enough to keep you in his peripheral but far enough away that you assume he’s lost interest in the conversation. A trick that works on most people in 141. He has yet to get you to fall for it. You’re too eager to get wrapped up in conversation with people to drop something that easily. You’ve spent months battering away at him. Talking even when you knew he wasn’t going to respond. So far, it seemed to be working. He held conversations with you no matter how trivial or, if Ghost truly did not feel like talking, he let you chatter on for hours at a time without so much as attempting to quiet you.
“Joker.” You test the weight of the word in your mouth once again. “Because I’m funny or because I’ve got blood on my face right now?”
Ghost sighs, loud. A strong suggestion to shut up without the bluntness of snapping at you.
You bite down softly on your lip to hide the smile pulling on them. “Joker,” you say again.
“I told you forget about-"
“Shut it,” you interrupt, “I’m testing out my new nickname.”
Chills ripple out over your skin again. The icy stare is back. A refreshing reminder that Ghost cares enough to watch you. That he’s seeing the wide smile on your face. “You like it?” He asks.
“I’d like anything you were to give me.” The thought leaves you before you truly think about it. Maybe the heat of the fireplace has warped your mind, or the shock has yet to wear off and you’re settling in true mania. “Sorry, that was… I, um, I’m sorry.”
Ghost grunts. You watch a long blink but shift your eyes down to watch what can only be a phantom smirk beneath his balaclava. “‘Is fine.”
You nod silent with embarrassment.
“Get some rest, Joker.”
Your name sounds so soft falling from his lips that all you can do is follow orders. You settle down in as comfortable a position as you can manage with your gear on and turn to face him. “Goodnight, Ghost.”
He nods. “Goodnight.” Only this time it’s followed by your name, your real name, and that sounds even sweeter than you could imagine.