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There is silence outside of the window. It’s a rare thing, in Ghost’s profession. Silence simply meant that the worst was yet to happen.
Ghost knew that for a fact. Knew it too well. It wasn’t as if memorizing patterns didn’t prove results after a while—that had been a skill of Ghost’s that was sought for in workers of the craft. Was killing for the good of the world a craft in its definition? Probably not, Ghost thought.
The snow is melting. It’s been a few months since Ghost almost lost Soap. He’d been scratching at the sides of the mask, hiding the running eye makeup; and praying nothing would come of his fears.
He’d never said anything of it, in the end. Soap seemed to understand, knowing that words were not Ghost’s strong suit in any way, being satisfied by the actions alone.
It made Ghost feel understood. Seen.
From the looks of it, it was too rainy to walk anywhere. The flowers of a small planter would certainly sing songs of praise for this lowly morning; almost mocking Ghost's misery. The mists of a downpour only served to spur Ghost into a slump of reminiscence.
Ghost’s mask still carried cracks in the corners. Whether it’d been laziness or apathy, they stayed unrepaired throughout the months.
But it hadn’t been a completely unwelcome change.
“Ya look even more badass than before!” Soap had said, peering to inspect the mask with utmost and sincere excitement. He acted as if Ghost’s very being was a hidden beauty at an art exhibition, warming Ghost’s heart in the process.
Ghost didn’t show it, but the smile in his tone was slipping through the cracks of the mask. “Sure I do.”
“I mean it, L.T. I’ve always meant it.”
Ghost had gone completely, utterly, and entirely soft.
Maybe he’d always been soft, but his line of work had suppressed any fragile feelings into the persona of the Ghost, never to be seen again.
At least until Soap proved that there was a heart, a human being under every protective wall and layer Ghost had built.
“Who’re you callin’ a monster?!” the sergeant demanded, glaring at the recruit, with no effort needed to look as intimidating as possible.
“I-It was just a joke, Soap, swear! I didn’t really mean that Ghost was—gee, I don’t believe that at all!” The kid had bluffed, clearly scared for their life by now.
“Then you’d better take yer ass out of my sight if y’know what’s good for ya,” Soap snapped back, sparing no mercy.
That day, Soap hadn’t missed that Ghost was looking up at Soap, an awestruck expression through the eyes of the mask.
Hope. A glint of hope had returned to Ghost, apparent in the small light amongst the dullness in his eyes.
It was too much.
The rain had accelerated to near stampeding the house’s windows. On top of that, the earthy scent of petrichor often considered ethereal was simply enough for Ghost, stockpiling onto a day of memories.
The sound had been hell, everything in the immediate vicinity was hell, and it felt as if Ghost was condemned to eternal torment under the things he loathed most.
Ghost couldn’t stand the rain. Couldn’t stand waves, or anything pertaining to the two anymore. No matter what he did, he couldn’t ever let go of that mission. Leaving Soap behind had eaten away at him for months, even if Soap himself was never informed of it.
God, how could Soap ever love someone like…
“Simon!” a voice shouted from the front door, causing Simon to jump, before walking over.
“Come help me with these,” Soap said, struggling to see past the 100% Reused Paper stamp and about one third of Ghost’s face.
Simon obeyed, gathering several bags into one hand, despite Johnny’s protests that he could at least carry one. It just wasn’t polite to leave him standing there.
“Not wearing the famous skull mask?” Johnny asked, looking for any trace of the black cloth sewn to the mask.
“Didn’t feel like it,” Simon offered a blunt response.
“I’d hope so, I’m makin’ ya lunch after all.”
After a long and arduous session of unpacking the groceries, the pair had settled for some halfheartedly made tea.
“You really are quite the opposite,” The reminder of their past banter brought a laugh out of Simon, like the bells of a windchime threading its way through an early morning breeze.
“Whoa! You never laugh! That’s an accomplishment if I’ve ever seen one.”
“You just don’t get to hear it…” There was no bite to Simon’s words, known to both.
Suddenly, a crackling thunder rings out. Ghost freezes up, curling into himself at the sudden sound. Curse his luck! If the rain from earlier had been hell, this must be its seventh circle for Ghost. The sound of the horrid weather had bled into the memory of bullets, and the thunder alike to explosions.
There might have been someone screaming his name, but it was all lost to Ghost now, as he was dragged to a couch and set alongside sloppily arranged pillows and weighted blankets. Ghost’s ears felt as if they were filled with cotton and he’d been plunged into wax, no matter how much half-heard reassurances he’d been told.
It was a long time before Ghost looked up from the pile of soft blankets. Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? Ghost was none the wiser.
“You alright now?” The silence was broken by Johnny’s voice, looking up from a book to see Ghost.
Failing to produce a vocal affirmation, Ghost settles for a nod.
“That’s it. Had me worried there, the thunder spooked you right back there…hah, spookin’ a Ghost.” Johnny looked especially proud of the pun.
Ghost would have laughed if the use of the codename didn’t provoke a gut-wrenching feeling. A mix of sadness, jealousy, anxiety…could it be disappointment? Simon couldn’t name it.
Right. British Sign Language. Ghost couldn’t find a way to actually say anything, throat too choked up to try.
Talk, please, he signed. Johnny considered it for a few seconds. “You want me to talk? About what?”
Ghost nodded. Helps.
“Alright,” Johnny said. “Well, at the store I saw a little stray cat.” Ghost’s interest peaked at the mention of the cat. “It was a real beaut—its fur was black, but there was white fur under it, too! I think it’s called a smoke pattern or something like that…”
Just listening to Johnny describe the feline had been more than enough to help Simon calm down. It was something about the way he got so excited around subjects as slight as cats or as wide as all the stars in the night sky (“ No star is prettier than your eyes, Simon”, he’d say) .
Simon could relate to that. Once, he’d been wide-eyed, eager to share facts about niche subjects to anyone who would listen. But the difference between them was that Ghost couldn’t imagine having Johnny’s confidence. It felt unheard of, to have the Ghost be social and talkative.
“It’s caused by a mutation in the animal’s genes from when it’s a wee baby, and—“ Johnny was brought out of his tangent by a soft weight on his shoulder. There was a large mass of black cloth and blankets resting next to him, along with a familiar skull mask on the table.
”Goodnight, ya big cat,” Soap whispered, failing to keep the fondness out of his tone. After a big storm like today, Simon deserved something akin to a break. And if their tea had long gone cold, then they’d just have to make more in the evening.
Happy Valentines, Simon, read a forgotten card on the kitchen floor.