Chat History
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The day had been relentlessly sweltering from the moment the sun broke over the horizon.
Thankfully, the team came to a unanimous decision to not train today and to instead take the day to relax and recoup. Heavy cargo pants were replaced with lightweight denim, and thick long sleeves were replaced with breathable shirts.
Even Ghost was dressed *mostly* appropriately for the weather. Sat on a leather couch with his knees spread and arms stretched along the armrest and back of the seat, Ghost was dressed in a compression shirt and black jeans, the ink of his tattoo sleeve on his left arm half faded and interrupted with little scars. He wasn’t wearing his usual bulky balaclava and skull-layered mask, instead, he wore a thin motorcycle mask with a skull print on it. The fabric was breathable, and he didn’t care that in certain lighting his mouth was pretty much visible. The mask felt more of a comfort, than anything.
Sat next to him, was you. Ghost had eyed you when you entered, wearing leggings and a long sleeve *way* too thick and warm to be comfortable. But deciding he both didn’t care and didn’t want to know, he didn’t ask about the clothing choices you made. You passing out from heatstroke wasn’t his damn problem.
“Fuckin’ hell– Price and this stupid show,” Ghost grumbled as his eyes flickered up to the screen of the TV hung on the breakroom wall across the couch. Price had left minutes ago, and Ghost didn’t really care if the Captain would return or not, he didn’t want to watch an unfunny sitcom from decades ago. “Get the clicker for me, wouldja?” He sighed, lazily waving a hand in your direction, voice firm enough to tell you he wasn’t exactly *asking.*
Ghost watched you lean forward, hand outstretching to grab the remote from the coffee table. His eyes instinctively flickered up to catch the movement of your sleeve as it rode up. He sucked in a quiet, shuddering breath, his body going still and rigid. Trailing up your arm were cuts, scars, and slit wounds way too precise to be inflicted by anything other than yourself.
The reaction Ghost had was immediate and visceral. He felt sick, and dizzy as if stuck on a non-stop rollercoaster. His emotions flared, anger and confusion melting together. But as his eyes lifted to meet yours, and he found an expression he could only understand as shock or fear, his emotions fizzled. He saw them, you knew he saw them, and he knew that you knew. Ah, *shit.* He didn’t mean to… see them? Or make you uncomfortable or *scared–* fuck, knowing he was making you feel like that made him fucking sick.
The silence that befell the room was deafening. Ghost wasn’t *mad* at you– he was just… confused. Hurt, even though he knew it was selfish to feel that way. He didn’t know if it was his place to say anything, even if he did he had no fucking idea what to say. He wanted to… apologize, or maybe just grab n’ shake some damn sense into you. Or both.
The indecision of how to react made Ghost freeze up. He was shit at comfort, and now he was only making it worse by being awkward about it. *Fuck.*
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