Chapter Text
Gaz doesn’t like to pry. Never has. Everyone has baggage, skeletons hidden in the closet, it would be silly to think otherwise. Some wear it on their sleeves, all the hurt and anguish etched into their skin for all to see. It’s in the way they talk. In the hushed voices like speaking too loud, being seen and taking up space is grounds for retaliation. Others are the opposite. They scream and shout, angry and full of so much rage at those who’ve wronged them, leaving them to pick up the broken pieces with bloody shaking hands.
Each turn of his head Gaz sees the varying degrees of pain. You don’t descend a life of military warfare without having a history or collecting some along the way. When faced with the cruel reality of war you confront every demon possible, questioning your own moral and ethics. Gaz, himself, was no stranger.
Some soldiers learn to compartmentalize, box up the parts scarred from their first kill, the first time they stared death in the eyes and the only options are to let it consume you or the other guy. Adapting is vital for people like them: soldiers.
Because stagnation means death.
And when you face death each day, it becomes difficult to keep a brave face, lines blur and suddenly you lose hold of who the objective is for.
Scarifies have to be made. It’s either you and them.
He watches his fellow soldiers fight this mental battle daily. Fights it himself, too. If Gaz was one thing, he was a man of morality, fighting for the greater good, for those who cannot fight themselves. But even he stumbles. Struggles to see the light at the end of the tunnel, the lives they impact all thanks to the blood shed from him and his brothers-in-arms.
He learns to cope when the voice in his head gets too loud, tells him everything he’s poured his all into is all for naught and his efforts are useless. On nights like this, when sleep is ripped away by an onslaught of nightmares, fears once buried beneath years of precision focusing on the objective.
The shirt he threw on before bed sticks to his sweat coated skin, his breath labored as he runs a rough hand down his face. It wasn’t often he found himself shooting up in the middle of night, but it happened more than he liked to admit.
He scans his room. Moonlight filters in through the singular window perched in the middle of the wall, casting shadows in the corners. Calloused hands flatten against bed sheets, holding in a deep inhale before it’s released, slow and a bit rattled. Gaz repeats a few times, til his breathing is leveled and the overwhelming sense of dread melts into something less.
Once his bearings are in order he pushes the sheets away, stands on rocky feet, then makes way for the rec room. He desperately needs a cuppa and a change of scenery. Maybe a smoke too if those post-nightmare jitters don’t fully subside by the time he’s finished.
The walk to the rec room isn’t a long one, he rounds the corner at the end of the hall, sock padded feet silencing his steps, and it only takes a couple more steps before he’s facing the rec room door. Giving it a push, eyes drawn to the floor beneath him, he walks through the threshold.
How he hadn’t noticed the dark figure accompanying him in the room as soon as he entered was beyond him. He stops in his tracks.
Sat in the very corner of the rec room, a distance away from the three seat couch and reclining chair, sat his Lieutenant Ghost. If Gaz was different, a snot nose greenie still wet behind the ears, the sight of Ghost—clad in all black, no hint of skin visible, skull mask pulled firmly in place—would have done him in.
Instead Gaz just sucks in a breath, sharp, surprise washing over him for a second. “Bloody hell, Ghost…”
After a moment Gaz straightens up, dragging himself towards the fair sized kitchenette deeper in the room. Seeing Ghost lurking in the dead of night wasn’t a rare occurrence, in fact, there had been multiple times he stumbled upon his Lieutenant brooding in silence alone.
Ghost was an enigma. A presence shrouded in darkness and mystery, never revealing too much of himself—both physically and mentally—and while the distance between him and the older male should have deterred him away, Gaz could not deny the invisible pull he felt towards Ghost.
Between the silent stares, thick cast of gruff orders and blunt gestures Gaz saw the cracks of a man more than just a ghost of himself. More than a weapon, a soldier, or a mask.
Maybe that’s why Gaz found it so hard to look away, wordlessly clocking the subtle shifts in Ghost’s eyes behind the mask. The usual dark browns lighten whenever he tells one of his horrendous dad jokes, amused with himself even if everyone else isn’t, skin crinkling from the slight pinch. Gaz can always tell when he’s smiling under the mask that way.
He sees it in the brief flash of concern, it’s quick and if he hadn’t been staring already it would easily be missed, whenever a comrade is harmed. When Gaz himself had been shot—bullet splitting through his shoulder of skin, muscle and flesh—Ghost looked at the wound for a second longer than usual before his eyes flickered to Gaz’s own. It was quick, barely even lasting a second, but it was there. Fear, worry, maybe even guilt?
Overall, Ghost was not as cold-hearted as he claimed himself to be, and Gaz desperately, even if he refused to admit it to himself, wondered what more lay beyond the mask.
A lull settles in the room as Gaz works his way around the kitchen, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet and tea bags while he waits for the water in the kettle to boil.
“Couldn’t sleep, huh, mate?” his voice, gentle and smooth, cuts through the silence. He didn’t expect Ghost to answer. Their routines during these late night hauntings, when either of them could calm the raging storm inside, never faltered. Gaz would make both of tea—made Ghost’s the exact way he likes it—and they would sit in the dark, sipping on the hot liquid wordlessly.
And for a moment it goes according to schedule. Gaz hands the steaming cup to Ghost, gloved hand brushing against his in the process, then Gaz claims his usual spot on the couch, closest to Ghost.
Together they sit, the subtle tension easing off of Gaz’s shoulders with each sip of warm tea. Even from where he sat he could see the slight shift of his Lieutenant, eyelids half-lidded, cold eyes warming up just the faintest bit. Something warm, delicate and fond, forms deep within his chest, but before he dwells on it any longer he stands, rinses out his empty cup and bids Ghost a goodnight.