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“On me.”
That’s all Ghost’d said before stalking off out the briefing room. And, although every inch of you ached for bed, your eyes threatening to close, you followed sharply a few feet behind him.
From how he ordered you just now, you could tell his head was still on the battlefield. Even Ghost had issues severing himself from what he did out there sometimes. This mission had been arduous and weighed on the mind as much as the body. Everyone dealt with it in their own ways:
Gaz went for a run; Soap bench-pressed; Price smoked a cigar in his office; you listened to music, and Ghost did whatever he did in his room.
He hadn’t spoken to you about this sorta thing before. The guy was very private – just look at his mask and all the back-ups he has to avoid showing his face. So, as you rounded the corner that led towards the sleeping quarters and caught sight of Ghost leaving his bedroom door ajar, your trepidation took over. You weren’t scared of him. You were scared of letting him down, doing something that would cause him to retreat into himself after letting you in this moment.
You closed his door behind you; this part of him, you had been allowed to be a part of since last month. During that time, you’d learnt his rigid routine. Every evening, he would stack his equipment on his desk. He folded his clothes, even if it was going into the washing basket for laundry the next day. He’d barked at you once for attempting to lie down on his sheets before having a shower. He kept the mask on. Apart from the last night together where you’d woken to take a sip of water and seen the back of his head exposed. It took all your willpower not to reach out and stroke through his curls – half an inch overdue for a haircut. When you woke up next, it was quarter to six and the mask was back on as he kneaded out a knot in his back.
Those same hands were no longer steady and precise as he ripped off his helmet.
“Ghost?” You called out tentatively.
He didn’t answer. He continued to struggle with the vest’s buckle, failing to adjust the strap enough to free him.
You spoke firmer this time, “Ghost.”
Your Lieutenant grunted and gave up on the buckle. His restless hands tugged hard at the front of his vest instead. You removed your helmet and squatted to place it on the floor, beside the desk.
“Simon.”
That got him. His rattled ruckus faltered and he stopped fighting with his uniform. His ramrod spine held him in place, like a like a coil running a current throughout his body. You felt him watching you through his peripherals as you approached him, slowly and openly with your hands up.
“Here.” Let me help you.
With perseverance powered by sleep deprivation, you pried the accused buckle upwards. It came loose and its twin on the other strap followed suit.
Without looking in his eyes, you asked, “What do you need?”
“I need…” Ghost trailed off. Then he huffed and turned his head away whilst fidgeting with one of his skeletal gloves. You didn’t interrupt his thought process. Your feet took you back to give it some room.
“I need…” His knuckles cracked as he flexed them, “You.”
“I’m here.”
“No,” His eyes screwed shut, his head dropping in frustration. He gave his glove a harder tug.
“Take your time,” You reassured, sure to plant yourself in his line of sight.
“Don’t want to.” His teeth were gritted as he forced himself to speak, still without looking at you. “I need you, without all this” - and he gestured up and down his body - “In the way.”
You took inventory of what he’d indicated to: his thick vest carrying spare magazines and a variety of grenades, the thick raincoat that hid his other layers, the boots that had his trousers tucked into the laces, and (of course) the skull plate mask sewn into his balaclava.
“Ok,” You nodded, even with a devil on your shoulder telling you to just curl up on his bed and deal with this tomorrow. You choose to continue: “Can I help you get it off?”
A quieter grunt permitted you to remove the vest from his torso. It found a home on his desk, adjacent to his helmet. Removing the garments one by one, you hung up his coat on its peg and folded his jacket over the desk chair. When you faced him again, he’d rolled his mask up and bit his fingertip, yanking his glove off. He repeated the same with the other. His fingers were spread out in the cool air of his room, ready to hold onto whatever part of you they could find. But they were hesitating.
He broke into a swift march and began pacing the length of the room. His breathing heavily punctuated the boom of his boots against the floor. When he got like this, after being so stoic and calm on a mission, you knew not to press him - just guide, that's how he put it afterwards. It was like you were guiding him to make the right choices for him, when he couldn't. Trust to unwind him from this state to recover when he needed it.
Suddenly Simon was on the bed and yanked at his laces. His entire body jerked and groaned with the effort. Despite your sleep-deprived mind, you still had to restrain the urge to sprint to his aid. Your sluggish pace allowed his panic to trickle out into nothing when you knelt in front of him and begun weaving the intricate laces out of their tangled web. He watched you closely like you were his next target for a rapid knife throw.
His boots were paired at the end of the bed, ready to be polished tomorrow. His belt buckle was undone with the same knackered but patient hands; his own shifted his jeans down to his midthighs and hid his head in his hands whilst you did the rest.
“I don’t know why I can’t do it.” There was no growl, no underlying rasp that usually accompanied his speech. Just barely whispered words. “I want to. I do.”
“I know you do,” You replied, bundling the jeans into his washing basket. Why he wore denim on a mission, you had no clue and you wouldn’t question it now.
He continued his train of thought, “I want to hold you against me in our bed and sleep just like that.” His socks were off next and stretched over the rest of the dirty laundry. “I’m trying.”
You nodded again, feeling your weariness weighing down your forehead like a lead ball rolling about your skull. However, it was halted in place as Simon allowed his fingers to overlap yours once you’d sat beside him. That first hurdle was always the hardest; seeing him instigate it mad your heart leap into your throat. You didn’t speak - only watched - out of fear of bursting into loving (if exhausted) tears. Still, you struggled to hold them in when he pressed your fingers to his masked lips. Through the fabric, you felt his deep inhale, like he was trying to breathe in your very essence. You hoped the scent of his socks hadn’t stuck to you and wondered if he could feel your cool finger tips through the mask.
With a syrupy stare, Simon asked, “Will you take it off for me?”
“Of course.”
He kept your hand, held it daintily in his as you stood up and moved between his spread legs. Instead of letting you go, he placed his hands atop yours to follow as you gently rolled the balaclava up his neck.
You could feel the goosebumps spiking along his skin. Carefully, you lifted it out and over his chin. His breath fogged out of the fabric, into the space between you two. The plate was taken away from his face, defying all rumour and reputation that he was merely a phantom. Now, the face of the man you loved greeted your adoring gaze. You didn’t stare at one spot for too long, even though you wanted to more than anything. His cheeks, rosy as if they’d freshly fallen from the Tree of Knowledge, tempted you to take a bite. Instead you skilfully tossed the mask onto its usual spot.
With a sharp intake through his nose, Simon lurched forwards and locked his tree-trunk arms around your middle. You read him, like you always did, through his body – how it sagged against you, his spine curved over. Carefully, you rested your lips against his sweat-soaked hair.
You weren’t sure who was holding onto who the tightest. The deep pressure seemed to soothe Simon though. Even better, you felt like you could fall asleep like this and you’d be more than happy to do so.
Pushing him for a shower was probably not a good move – even though you both reeked. There was the risk of giving the impression you wanted him to let go, that you’d scare him off. This was vulnerable enough; you weren’t sure whether full-nudity ranked higher than taking his mask off.
But you knew how important his routine was to him.
You settled on saying, “What would you like to do?” It came out mumbled so it was good they emerged right beside his bat-like ears.
“I want to be clean and I want to hold you,” was his answer.
Clean, not “have a shower”; that was doable.
It took every ounce of willpower to slip out of his grip to get the packet of wet wipes you knew resided in his bedside table. Still, Simon held onto your hand and resumed his tight hold once you returned to him. He was ready, head tilted up, eyes shut. Soon enough, you could pick out his wispy white lashes that glinted in the low lamplight.
Whilst you mopped up the grime that had gathered beneath his balaclava, tears spiked in your eyes and pressure ballooned in your chest. Simon had kept his eyes closed the whole time. His thumbs were circling around your hips.
You cradled the back of his head to fish out the dirt in the crevices of his larger scars and the lines that formed by his eyes from squinting down a scope.
“There.”
When he looked at you, you could feel your gaze reflected in his eyes, his warmth mirroring what he saw in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
His finger and thumb gently pinched your chin. You welcomed his touch with a sigh and you finally gave your eyes permission for a moment’s rest.
“Y/N?”
Your eyebrows raised, though your eyes did not open, “Hmm?”
“Lie down with me?”
You moaned in relief, “Yes please.”
That loophole of doing things for others that are much more difficult to do for yourself, it was well and truly exploited as you let him mould your limbs around your clothes as he had done for you, everything besides your undershirt and underwear. Then he guided you to rest beside him.
“Sleep,” He said simply once you were both tucked under the blankets.
“Y’ok?”
“Hmm. Sleep.”
Once again, his giant hand caressed over your cheek. There was enough cognition in you to turn and kiss two of his rough fingertips before your head, filled with cement, sunk into the pillow. His chapped lips against your forehead were your last point of call as you drifted off to sleep.