Work Text:
Tick. Tock.
Smoke laid on their bed on top of the blankets, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Their vision is filled of static from staring straight into the darkness for so long, the static wordlessly forming into random shapes before dissipating and repeating the process. Their beside clock ticks every second to let them know how a second has passed, but Smoke barely hears it by this point. A sound they’re used to from staying up so late and for so long, days on end.
‘You could have done something, you know that.’
Smoke’s room is arranged with their bed to the furthest corner to the door; a natural instinct of theirs to want to be able to see the entirety of their room, especially one they frequently stay in. It leaves absolutely no surprises and gives Smoke the advantage, if anything were to happen. They inhale and sigh out the air, their chest rising and then collapsing back into its original position. They raise their wrist and look at it which a light appears from their wrist watch. It reads “0329” with their alarm right under it for 5 am.
“Fuck.” Smoke mumbles before sitting up, rubbing their hands against their cargo pants they wore from the day before. Biting their lip, swinging their legs over the side of the bed and their feet reaching the ground. They ignore the cold feeling of the floor sinking into their socks as Smoke grabs their boots from a few inches away. From spending time in different teams and bases before being recruited to Task Force 141, Smoke had learned to keep their boots right by their bed instead of the door.
They slip their feet into the boots they just grabbed, taking their time lacing them up correctly, almost hesitating as if sleep would grab them any second. Smoke has laced up their boots thousands of times, following the same familiar motions. They can do it without even looking at this point. Smoke purses their lips together before standing up correctly, bending down to fix the bottom of their pants and then standing back up. Even though it’s pitch black in their room asides from the clock on the nightstand, Smoke moves smoothly through their room. Memorized every inch, where every piece of furniture is, how many steps it takes to get from the door, to the closet, everywhere.
‘You could have done something, but you just stood there. You are not worth of 141.’
Smoke’s eyebrow twitches at the harmful thought as they open their closet, quickly reaching for the hand wraps they have stored on the shelf above their clothing; their uniforms. Without being able to see, their fingers find the wraps within seconds. They take them, bundle them up and close the closet door. Smoke takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment as they quickly grab their keycard, earbuds and the ipod they had purchased a while ago for this exact purpose; staying up late and to distract their thoughts. Smoke grabs a plastic water bottle from a little carrier next to the closet and they’re out the door.
Smoke walks down the quiet and well-lit hall, their boots tapping lightly against the ground. They shove their keycard into their right pocket and plug their earbuds into the ipod. They find their way to the training room doors, using their keycard to gain access. Smoke takes a deep breath and doesn’t bother to turn on the overhead light as they walk inside, the door slowly closing behind them.
‘Froze up like goddamn prey. Maybe you are the prey, now. Only the weak freeze up. Are you weak, Smoke?’
They take a deep and slow breath to calm themself, quickly wrapping their knuckles with the wrap. Smoke walks up over to the matted area that contains a few scattered punching bags, that’s laced with other equipment. Smoke opens the water bottle, takes a sip, screws the cap back on and then tosses it somewhere out of sight.
Smoke clicked the play button, their music blasting into their eardrums. By this point, it didn’t hurt. The effects of war and battle were much worse.
‘You ARE weak. What are you trying to prove? To who? You really are pathetic.’
Smoke grunts as they position their feet, a wide stance, one in front of the other. They raise their arms and form firm fists, letting out a tight breath as they give the punching bag a good right hook; taking out their emotions on the punching bag. Smoke winces ever so slightly; even with the wraps, they can feel the hits in their hands. “Fuck.” They whisper before continuing, the sounds of the punching bag’s chain filled the otherwise quiet room, along with the impact sounds. Smoke swings around and slams their leg into the punching bag, the sting flooding through their femur.
This went on for a good while, and Smoke’s hands began to ache.
‘They always ache. What is a few more minutes with pain?’
With every punch, the ache began to intensify. It shocked up Smoke’s arms, but it’s almost like they were immune to it. Smoke’s so caught up with their thoughts and their music, they barely see anything in front of them.
“-and the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me, never coming home, never coming home-“
‘They are not coming home and it is all your fault, Smoke. Face it. Despite what Price said, it is all your damn fault.’
A skull-gloved hand grips Smoke’s right wrist in a firm hold which make’s Smoke snap out of their thoughts, blinking and looking to see a simple clothed skull balaclava, Ghost. His dark hazel eyes look down at them, pulling them away from the punching bag. His mask is moving which means he’s talking, but Smoke doesn’t hear due to the music. “Ghost? What’re you-“
Ghost takes their earbuds out, keeping a grip on Smoke’s wrist. His gruff voice is finally heard. “You’re hurting yourself, Smoke. Look at your hands.”
Smoke’s eyebrows furrow and they look at their wrapped hands and they’re met with the sight of blood soaking through the wraps. Oh.
Smoke glances back at the punching bag and mat and they see the specks of their own blood splattered on the punching bag, dripping down the rubbery material and onto the mat. With that, the throbbing pain finally hits them which causes Smoke to hiss. “Shit-“
Ghost quietly tugs them along to the side, muttering, “The infirmary won’t be open at this time. We’ll have to do this quietly.”
“What is that supposed to mean? Sir, I am fine-“
Ghost turns to look at them with narrowed eyes, a stern and serious expression mixed in with something else; something unknown. “Don’t make me pull rank for something so fuckin’ simple.”
Smoke goes silent and stops any struggling, relaxing their arm. Ghost turns and begins to walk again, making sure to have a firm hold on their arm. Ghost pushes open the training room doors and turns right, heading for infirmary. It’s silent on the way there, only their footsteps and the quiet music from Smoke’s earbuds can be heard. Ghost uses his keycard to get inside, taking Smoke inside with him. Without a word, he gestures to one of the beds in a bay.
They sigh and hop up onto the bed, watching Ghost turn his back. Smoke scans his figure, his shoulders are so big to obscure anything he’s doing. From what the plastic crinkling suggests though, is that he’s looking for supplies in a bin. Smoke glances down at their hands which are trembling. Smoke watches their fingers shake, blood soaking through their wraps.
Smoke closes their eyes and suddenly they’re back into that moment; a loud explosion catches their attention to open them and they see their regular tactical gloves, covered in blood. Smoke’s breath hitches in fear, looking around and is met with the sight of those who died under their hands. Faceless, bloody and gored soldiers surround them. Smoke inhales, smelling the burning smoke which causes them to begin to cough, then inhale, then cough—“Smoke?”—Their throat begins to close, their lungs absolutely burn as if they are whatever building is on fire. Their chest tightens from the fear as they can’t look away from their blood soaked hands, fingers trembling. The copper smell lingers in the air, surrounding Smoke and strangling their lungs-
“Smoke, come back to me.” Ghost’s firm voice filters through and Smoke blinks, gasping for air and they’re back in the infirmary. Smoke coughs violently as they look around—they’re on the floor now—their vision absolutely swimming, as if they’re going through gas mask training again. Ghost’s on the ground with them, his gloves discarded to the side. His callused hand cups Smoke’s cheek which causes them to look at him. Smoke gasps again and a few tears escape and wet his thumb. Ghost’s voice is low and has an unusual soothing tone, “Breathe with me, Smoke. Come back to me, you’re safe.”
Ghost takes a deep breath to guide them, waiting for Smoke to follow suit. They shakily take the breath which is more of a gasp, but as Ghost guides them, they’re able to get their breathing under control. The band around their lungs, their throat, their head, lifts. “I’m sorry, s-shit-“ Smoke croaks out, attempting to look away from their superior. Their hands ache and throb as their fingers twitch. Ghost immediately guides their face back to look at him, his eyes ever so slightly more gentle than every other glance they had seen from him. “Don’t be sorry.”
Smoke coughs and nods, pure shame and embarrassment pouring through their body. They try to glance down at their hands but Ghost’s hand grabs their chin and he shakes his head. “Your hands are the trigger right now, [name]. Don’t look.”
[Name]?
Right. You aren’t just Smoke, the heartless soldier who does anything for their team. You aren’t the sniper, the hand to hand combatant, you aren’t the killer.
You’re [name] on base, and Smoke on the job. You forgot yourself again.
Ghost unwraps your hands with surprisingly gently fingers, and he doesn’t allow you to watch. You feel the sting from the disinfectant, you feel him wrap your knuckles with gauze and bandages, the whole nine yards. Ghost stands up to throw away the boxing hand wraps and the garbage from treating your hands. Despite him rising to his feet, you stay on the floor. You look at your hands; no more blood. You don’t look up at Ghost, instead you bring your knees to your chest and close your eyes, taking a slow and deep breath, then releasing all of that tension.
Ghost is instinctively silent so you had thought he left, but when you heard a boot squeaking against the ground next to you, you open your eyes and Ghost is there. He’s looking straight ahead so you do the same, your fingers digging into your kneecaps. “Do you have panic attacks often, [name]?” Ghost quietly asks, having his knees raised as well, but not to his chest. You take a moment to think, but you decide to take the truth. “Yes.” You murmur. “They happen at least once a week.”
Ghost lets out a quiet breath, his fingers twitching as he leans his forearm on his knee. “You have to see someone for it, you know.” He quips, rubbing his fingertips together. You snort. “Do you?” You question, glancing at him. Ghost’s eyebrows furrow before making eye contact. “Do I what?”
“Do you also have panic attacks? And do you see anyone for them?”
Ghost’s silence and his eyes tell you all you need to know. You look back ahead of yourself, and you find his hand gently grabbing yourself. Ghost’s hesitancy is clear, but he intertwines your guys’ fingers together, pulling your hand into his lap. You smile softly but a blush rises to your cheeks as his thumb strokes the top of your hand. “We’re more alike than I thought.” He murmurs, his eyes glued to your hand with his so he doesn’t have to look at you.
You look at him before inching closer and you expect him to flinch away when you lay your head against him, but he leans into it. You two sit in silence and you doze off—the best sleep you’ve had in a long time. You only rise when your wristwatch vibrates against your skin, finding Ghost’s mask raises to just above his nose and his eyes closed, his head leaning against the bed behind you two. Your tired eyes scan every detail of what he has exposed his face to you, every hair on his jaw, every scar. Your eyes trail up to his pretty blonde eyelashes which flutter open and you make eye contact.
You hold your breath quickly, thinking you would’ve gotten in trouble for looking but instead, he leans forward and presses his lips against yours, his thumb gently rubbing over the bandages that cover your bloody knuckles.