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Ghost has been aimed at with many weapons: Glocks, shotguns, knives, once a missile launcher and, at a particularly tense situation, the splintered leg of a chair. On every one of those occasions, he knew how to react. His body is used to the danger and the violence, so he was ready to defend himself. He didn’t have to think.
Now, on the other hand, he can’t think. You are standing directly in front of Ghost, and there's nothing to shield him. He isn’t even wearing a bulletproof vest- he usually doesn’t feel the need for one while at base. Your extended arm, unwavering, points directly at his chest. Your fingers curled like they do around the trigger. Only that, right now, what blooms in your hand is a yellow flower instead of a bullet.
He'd prefer the bullet, though.
Ghost represses the urge to take a step- or five- away from you. He has a feeling it would make the bright smile you’re sporting falter, and he wouldn’t forgive himself. Instead, he gives you a puzzled look.
“What?”
Your little giggle makes him feel the same way he does when you call him “silly” in that lighthearted voice you put when you find something amusing: too warm and weak in the knees for comfort.
“It’s for you! Feliz primavera.”
He frowns.
“We’re in autumn.”
“Here. Somewhere else spring has just started, though.”
You shrug. Ghost makes the conscious decision not to scoff.
“Where did you get fresh flowers?”
His eyes dart around, as if expecting to see a pot of brightly colored flowers beaming in the middle of the dry, brown leaves.
“Think you can tuck it on the side of your mask?”
That takes his eyes back to your face immediately. He realizes you have a little yellow bud over your ear, half hidden by your hair. It looks pretty on you, wild and fresh.
The answer is easy: under no circumstances will he walk around with a flower in his mask. It’s hard to voice, though. Ghost opens his mouth, but the thought of you finding a flower on the first day of autumn just to give it to him works as a cork in his throat. Also, your smile has started to falter at his hesitation.
Before he can bring himself to decline in the softest way he can think of, your attention focuses on someone behind him. You wave enthusiastically.
“Gaz! Come here! Got something for you!”
Ghost’s stunned frown deepens as you open carefully your bag and grab another yellow flower. Your cheerful demeanor intensifies when Gaz accepts the flower instantly and tucks it on the front pocket of his uniform, thanking you. You wish him a happy spring- and he doesn’t comment on the fact that you’re actually two seasons away from actual spring. He just smiles and jogs away, and your eyes follow him with a satisfied look.
Something in Ghost’s chest can’t take it. He snatches the flower from your hand and grumbles a ‘Thank you’ that sounds more accusing than honest. Still, bless your heart, you grin happily at him. You were satisfied with the smallest things, really. And you liked to repeat yourself.
“¡Feliz primavera!”
“It is not spring.”
Something suspiciously similar to melancholy sparks in your eyes.
“It is, back home.”
“Do you usually go around handing flowers in the middle of September?”
You shrug, again.
“There’s a song. Flores amarillas. Yellow flowers.”
You offer no further explanation, and he gives up trying to understand what does a song have to do with the flower- that looks even more delicate and small now that it is in his hand. He just nods and keeps his gaze on you as you leave- probably on your way to shower the base in completely-out-of-season yellow.
Ghost spends the rest of the day wondering what to do with the weird gift, until he overhears you talking with Soap. The man is twisting the stem of his own flower while you play a song on your phone. You sing along and speak at the same time- which gets on Ghost’s nerves.
“… So people started gifting each other yellow flowers on the twenty-first of September. I mean, couples did it first, but now they’re for friends and family as well… And we celebrate Spring Day anyway, because it’s also Student Day…”
You keep ranting, translating holidays that sound unnecessary and fun, and he starts to understand why you’re used to celebrating so many little things.
He locks his bedroom door behind him and sits on his bed. Your voice saying “friends and family” replays on his head as he takes his gloves off. He places carefully the yellow flower on the glass of water he keeps on his bedside table and stares at it.
The only bright, colorful little thing in his dark, empty, army-standard room.