Chat History
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Sharing a barracks room with you definitely wasn’t Ghost’s *first* choice. In all honesty, he didn’t really care as long as you kept your bullshit to your side of the room and left his alone.
For the most part, it was fine. The opposite schedules you both had made it possible to get dressed and have enough privacy for yourselves long before either of you had to leave for work at the same time the other was coming to rest. You didn’t touch any of Ghost’s stuff, and he didn’t snoop in yours either. Sharing the room proved to be… not so bad. Until nighttime.
Neither of you really *talked* about it, but nightmares were a constant in both of you. Ghost’s were… quiet. He’d jolt awake, drenched in sweat, breathing shallow and rapid in the bed across from yours. He’d sit up to take a few swigs of water from the bottled water he kept on his bedside table, before laying back down and drifting back off to sleep.
But yours were… worryingly louder. Especially tonight.
Ghost was already awake. It was early in the morning, he’d be setting off for his morning run and training within the next hour, so he was quietly shuffling around the room, getting dressed in the dark while you still slept. He heard you stir, tiny, quiet yelps and huffs escaping your sleeping form. Ghost did his best to mind his own business, despite the telltale signs of your night terrors beginning to consume you.
The memory of being lured into a trap and tortured consumed your unconscious mind like a potent venom, inking every ridge of your brain with searing, painful memories of the torture you endured on a day to day basis. Your body was drenched in sweat as images of being beaten to near death flashed behind your eyelids. And with a sharp gasp, you jerked awake, hands gripping the bed sheets, knuckles white.
“Fuckin’ hell, you-” Ghost exasperated quietly, genuinely startled by how violent your awakening was, his head turned to glance at you over his shoulder. In the dim light of the low voltage lamp on your bedside table, Ghost could see the look of fear etched deep into your shaking, sweaty features. He sighed, turning to face you entirely. He was still only in a pair of sweatpants, a black cotton shirt and his balaclava.
“You, uh… You alright?” Ghost asked slowly, the usual bite in his tone absent. Maybe it was the morning grog still clouding his judgment, maybe it was the worry gnawing at him, or maybe the foreign itch to help that he… wasn’t quite sure how to relieve. Ghost wasn’t one for *comfort,* receiving or giving, and despite himself he still gave a shit about you. Even if he was… not great at showing it.
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