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There’s absolutely nothing in this store that you need, but sheer boredom drives you inside anyway. Logistics work is rather tedious at the best of times, but even when you get the occasional day off, you find yourself adrift without its routine.
This is what guided you down to the tiny exchange store whose aisle you now peruse mindlessly. You bypass a colorful selection of snacks, toiletries, and cheap electronics until you arrive at a shelf overflowing with small stuffed plushes.
Amidst the rigidity of a military base, they seem jarringly out of place but the contrast is entertaining. You’re about to move on when a familiar shape catches your eye.
There it is - a cartoonish ghost plush. No bigger than your palm, but the perfect gift for a certain surly Lieutenant. You share a private chuckle with yourself, reveling in your own ingenuity, and gingerly extract it from the pile.
-
On your way to the DFAQ the following morning, a well-known silhouette strides down the corridor in the opposite direction - just the pair of stiff shoulders you were hoping to see.
“Ghost!”
He’s already spotted you, but you give him a little wave anyway. Inquiry flickers in his eyes as you practically bounce to a stop in front of him.
“I spotted this at the BX yesterday,” You dig into your pocket, fingers closing around the soft material, “It made me think of you, so…”
You withdraw the plush and his eyes flick down to it automatically, widening imperceptibly. Before you even have the chance to rethink the sagacity of this gift, the ghost is plucked from your hand and held almost reverently in a much larger one.
“It seems a little ridiculous now, but-“
“Thank you.” Ghost studies it briefly, then tucks the plush into a pouch on his belt.
“Oh,” You suspend your disbelief and give him a pleased smile, “You’re welcome.”
He gives you a farewell nod and you watch in wry amusement as the stream of personnel parts around him.
-
Resting your chin on your palm, you log paperwork into the database mechanically and damn the people who drained the caffeinated coffee in the DFAQ before you had the chance to.
“Got some paperwork to-“
“Sweet Jesus!” You’re startled almost clear out of your swivel chair, slamming your hand onto the desk and sending your tragically decaf coffee cascading onto the floor.
You both freeze for a split second before you release a resigned sigh, gazing forlornly at the puddle on the floor. “You gotta wear a bell or something, Ghost.”
He huffs a chuckle decidedly lacking in contrition, placing a small stack of papers on your desk. “Pretty jumpy for a soldier.”
“And you’re pretty silent for a brick shithouse.”
“Not quite the insult you think it is.” You can see a smirk growing under the balaclava.
You just throw him a heatless glare, standing and stepping around the coffee puddle. He takes that as his cue, glancing at the mess and then at you, before exiting your office.
After mopping up the linoleum with a fistful of paper towels, you dispose of the evidence in the nearest bathroom, washing your hands and trudging back down the hallway.
Back at your desk, however, your heart leaps at the sight of a paper cup sitting innocuously near the neat stack of papers. Next to the cup is a few single-use coffee creamers.
You return to your seat and take a sip of the coffee - blessedly hot and blessedly caffeinated. Way better than the stuff from the DFAQ. Could Ghost - unmistakeably your benefactor - have gotten it from the officer’s lounge?
You shouldn’t be feeling this touched over a simple cup of coffee.
-
Days later, you’re sequestered in the armory, taking inventory at an ungodly hour and resisting the urge to snap the clipboard over your knee.
You stifle a yawn, dragging your eyes over the assortment of weapons and restarting your count for the fifth time.
Fatigue lines your consciousness. This was sprung on you last minute, but technically, any refusal on your part could be met with a swift court martial and the word ‘insubordination’ tacked onto your service record.
Ghost doesn’t sneak up on you this time, kindly clearing his throat in the doorway and entering when you throw him an acknowledging glance.
“Late night?”
“In the process of giving up, actually. I’ll just have to make my peace with coming in early tomorrow.” Another yawn lingers at the back of your throat. “Fulman’s gonna have my ass if this isn’t done by the time he comes in.”
“Want me to talk to ‘im?”
“No one talks to Fulman.” You level Ghost with a look of cynical skepticism. Fulman is an asshole, but he outranks you - these thoughts have to stay on the inside. The glint in Ghost’s eye tells you he’s already privy to your stance.
“I can be persuasive.” He supplies, deceptively casual, crossing his arms and searching your face.
You don’t doubt that for one second. “I’ll let you know if he gets to be too unbearable,” you say, tucking the clipboard under your arm.
“I’m gonna go stash this in my office and call it quits.” You look at him pointedly. “Was there something in here you needed, or…”
He straightens as if recalling his purpose. Deft fingers unclip a few flashbangs from his belt. “Returnin’ gear. Where d’you want it?”
You gesture to a space on a shelf. “Just leave ‘em there. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
The grenades clatter onto the shelf and Ghost follows you out of the armory, stopping just outside the door.
“Goodnight, Y/N.” He looks down at you, gaze frustratingly impassive.
You meet his eyes and muster a weary smile. “Goodnight, Ghost.”
As you retreat down the hallway, you can feel his eyes tracking you.
-
When you arrive at your desk the following morning, regrettably earlier than usual, you instantly notice that your clipboard has been repositioned. Not only that, but it now sits next to the reassuring sight of a coffee cup and a little pile of creamers.
Flipping through the clipboard, you discover handwriting that looks suspiciously similar to yours scrawled across the pages.
It’s your inventory paperwork - immaculately done, complete with a flawless forgery of your signature on the last page.
Initially tempted to rejoice at the fact that you can now go back to bed, a far more attractive idea swiftly takes root.
Ghost had surely done this as some form of misguided repayment for the plushie. Your competitive streak reignites as you drop into your chair and boot up your computer.
This is a battle of favors, and you will not be outdone.
-
The American working the weapons check stops him with a shout of, “Lieutenant!”
Ghost clenches his jaw and turns, watching as a small cardboard shipping box is slid across the counter.
“Got your order from procurement this morning.”
“Didn’t order anything.” Ghost studies the box anyway, instantly on edge. Its contents were vetted, evidenced by the broken seal, but his suspicion doesn’t abate.
Lifting the lid, he discovers that the box is filled with countless small black cases.
The marine lets out an impressed whistle, long and low. “Someone in logistics must’ve taken a shine to ya, sir.”
They’re throwing knives. His preferred brand and model, too, which he happened to run out of only days ago.
You’ve ordered him enough to last through the next ten deployments, at least. He’s going to have to up his game.
-
“Dig in and hold ‘em back!” Price barks through his earpiece. Sweltering heat beats down on the favela as Ghost shoves Soap behind cover and instantly whips around to return fire.
Soap spits some unflattering curses and lobs a grenade, shouting into his radio.
“Where in fuck did these bastards come from?!” He reloads his rifle with practiced ease. “Laswell said this’d be easy!”
Ghost remembers, with rueful chagrin, that Laswell did say this op was going to be in and out. The ‘in’ portion went off without a hitch, the ‘out’ has not been as advertised.
Ghost is about to chime in with his disparaging two cents when a new voice filters smoothly down the lines.
“This is Duster Two, close-air standing by for direction.”
Price recovers from the surprise instantly, calling targets left and right. Ghost watches with grim satisfaction as they’re mowed down with expert precision.
“Who the hell ordered air support?” Price sounds far more relieved than his words might suggest otherwise.
“Whoever it was deserves a bloody raise.” Gaz sounds winded.
Soap comes to a stop next to him, nudging his shoulder amicably and surveying the wreckage. “Must have an angel lookin’ out for us, aye, LT?”
“Not likely.” He grumbles, starting back towards their extraction point. But Soap was right - it is an angel, though not the kind he’s picturing.
-
You’ve just returned to your room and toed off your boots when there’s a soft tapping at the door. Cracking it open, you find Ghost’s figure almost entirely blotting out the clinical hallway lighting.
Shit, was your earlier gesture unappreciated? You had to pull a lot of strings for that one, including cashing out every single favor that pilot owed you.
“Me ‘n the others are goin’ into town for drinks tonight.” He says, rushing to speak before you get the chance. “I want you to-“ Ghost shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “You should come.”
It takes a few seconds for your brain to catch up, but when you eventually snap your gaping mouth shut and respond, it’s with a resounding affirmative.
“Sure!”
Woah, dial it back, Y/N.
“That sounds fun.”
Perfect.
Ghost’s eyes brighten marginally and he nods once, turning to leave before throwing a “I’ll send you the details” over his shoulder like an afterthought.
The door clicks shut as your phone vibrates from your pocket. An almost giddy thrill races up your spine - you’ve never been drinking with Ghost. Hell, you’ve never been anywhere with Ghost, let alone his entire team.
Options are limited by way of civilian clothing, but there’s not much to be done about it. You yank your finest bar attire off the hangers and head for the shower.
-
Hours later, the bouncer returns your ID and you shuffle inside a dimly lit dive bar. Waving catches your attention and you make your way over.
All four men turn to greet you politely as you slide into the vacant seat between Ghost and the Captain.
“Ah, our guardian angel herself, aye?” Soap beams at you.
You chuckle as a glass is set in front of you. Nodding in thanks to Ghost, you take a sip and suppress a grimace - it’s straight bourbon. Not your favorite, but a free drink is a free drink.
You turn back to Soap, raising your shoulders in feigned guilt. “Looks like I’ve been found out.”
“Bloody good move, that was.” Gaz tips his drink at you in a salute.
“How’d you manage to convince Fulman?” Price eyes you over the rim of his beer bottle.
“Actually, sir, he was pretty impressed with my recent inventory report.” You flick your gaze to Ghost and find nothing but amusement dancing in his eyes. “It didn’t take much convincing.”
“Lass, you ever hear about the shite that went down in Las Almas a while back?” Soap leans forward conspiratorially.
Three gazes snap towards him and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Nothin’ sensitive, simmer down, lads.”
Your interest is thoroughly peaked. Soap has your full attention and the smug grin plastered on his face says he knows it, too.
He launches into a dramatic retelling of his isolation and the subsequent massacre he and Ghost wrought on an undisclosed enemy.
“You did all of that with a bullet in your arm?” The liquor has loosened your tongue and a pleasant heat thrums under your skin.
“Impressed?” Soap sits back in his chair, crossing his arms with a self-satisfied grin. “Oh, Ghost, give ‘er that line you gave me in the barn.”
Ghost is slouched casually in his chair, ankle crossed over his knee, and he lets out a long-suffering sigh when you look over at him.
“No one fights alone.”
Soap nods sagely. “Pure poetry, sir.”
“Okay, we’re all very inspired by Soap’s bullshit story,” Gaz pipes in, “but did I ever tell you lads about the time I hung upside down from Nik’s bird?”
You allot half your attention to the conversation - the other half is back in the BX, making a mental list of the things you’ll need for Ghost’s finest gift yet.
-
You dump your purchases unceremoniously onto your desk before rummaging around in your cleaning supplies.
There were no paintbrushes to be found, so you dip a Q-Tip into a bottlecap of bleach, delicately brushing a pattern onto a plain black balaclava.
That done, you thread a needle and set about embroidering elegant script into the inside hem. You poke your fingers no less than ten times, but the final product turns out even better than expected.
Your eyes trace over the fine lettering.
No one fights alone.
After washing and rewashing the balaclava until the chemical smell has disappeared, you place it in a brown paper bag and leave it in front of Ghost’s door. You knock sharply, speed walking down the corridor and rounding the corner just as his door is pulled open.
As you head back down the hallway, you hear the crinkle of the paper bag and the door being shut.
-
The following morning, you plop down into your swivel chair with the events of the previous days at the forefront of your mind.
Your relationship with Ghost has shifted in some undefinable way, and it warms you to your core whenever you think about it.
Just as your dated computer stutters to life, there’s a light tapping at your door. Ghost stands in the doorway and the oxygen is punched out of your chest when you see his usual balaclava has been replaced.
He’s wearing the one you made - the canines on the skull design slightly pointed, flattering flourishes around the eyes.
A grin splits your face before you can stop it. Ghost just approaches your desk, setting down a coffee cup and giving you a curt, “Close your eyes,” in place of a greeting.
You do as instructed instinctually, and there’s a soft shuffling of fabric and a slight pressure on your shoulder.
“Open.” Ghost steps back as you open your eyes.
You look to your shoulder, and the balaclava is nothing compared to what you see there.
A patch - adhered to the velcro, proudly displaying the insignia of the one-four-one. A near-perfect match to the one adorning Ghost’s own arm.
What kicks your heart rate into overdrive, however, is the text lining the bottom.
Y/N “Seraph” L/N
Seraph. Seraphim. The subclass of angels responsible for enacting divine judgement and doling out swift justice.
Your gratitude is ineffable, so instead you just say, “An official member, huh?”
His eyes settle on your face and the warmth of his gaze reflects the warmth now filling your heart.
“Have been for a while.”
“Should I start calling you ‘Lieutenant’?”
“Please don’t.”
You look to your shoulder, soaking in the sight of it and resolving to never take it off.
Ghost shifts his posture. “Glad to have you on board.” His eyes crease at the corners, and you don’t mind that his smile is hidden from you when it’s your balaclava he’s wearing.
“Glad to be here.” The miniscule weight of the patch has already become addicting.
As Ghost turns to leave, you spy a very familiar bit of white material peaking out of a pouch on his hip.
You smile to yourself and sip your coffee - just the way you like it.