The warehouse they had cleared was hot. The sun beating down on the old tin and metal building.
Old shipping pallets were stacked against the far wall, tarps thrown over crates of gear, extension cords running like veins across the concrete floor to power a handful of hanging work lights. The air smelled faintly of oil and dust and the river a few kilometers away. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t even a proper FOB. Just a place to organize their brutality.
They’d set interrogation up in a walled-off office near the loading bay.
When the metal door finally opened, the murmur of voices across the warehouse dimmed.
Ghost stepped out first. Price right at his shoulder.
There was blood on Ghost's gloves. A dark sheen across the fabric of his shirt, smeared into the seams. A fine spray along his forearm. The pale white skull speckled with crimson. He walked unhurried, near untouchable.
A couple of the local assets shifted out of his way. Newer 141 occupied themselves with whatever they could get their hands on.
Soap was moving before Simon reached the main floor, just drifting into step beside him like it was a casual coincidence. Though, all of them knew nothing about that pair was casual.
Kyle followed a beat later.
He’d known his Lieutenant was good behind closed doors. Aside from what little he'd witnessed, he'd heard the stories. Captives kept awake screaming through the night. Reduced to blubbering nonsense by morning.
Ghost took his time with them. A scared man would just lie. A confident one would never talk. Ghost had a way of finding that space in between, sliding in his knife, and twisting when it mattered.
But Kyle had never been present for the afterwards, he too would avoid Ghost. At least out of respect. But this time, Soap had pulled him along.
Simon didn’t look at either of them as he crossed the warehouse.
He made it almost all the way to the row of cots sectioned off with hanging tarps before it happened.
They passed behind a curtain of canvas, out of sight of the others, and Simon’s stride faltered.
It was subtle. If Kyle hadn’t been watching for it, he might have missed it entirely. The minute drop of his shoulders. The way his left hand flexed, as if trying to shake something off.
Soap’s hand came up to his back immediately. “Easy, L.T.,” Johnny said under his breath, voice stripped of its usual tease.
Up close, Kyle could see it, the fine tremor running through his hands. The way his breathing was too shallow.
They guided him the last few steps to his space.
It wasn’t a room, not really. Just three tarps strung up for privacy and a cot shoved against the wall. His rucksack sat beneath it. A rifle leaned within arm’s reach.
Simon sat heavily on the edge of the cot.
For a moment he held himself upright out of habit, elbows braced on his thighs, head bowed slightly as if studying the floor. The hanging bulb overhead buzzed faintly.
Soap squeezed his shoulder.
“I’ll get water. An’ somethin’ warm if I can manage,” he muttered.
Kyle nodded, keeping his eyes on Simon.
The tarp shifted closed behind Johnny, and the outside noise seemed to dulled to a distant hum.
Simon’s hands were in his lap, shaking outright now. Blood had crusted over his gloves.
Kyle stepped closer, boots quiet on concrete. The space felt smaller. There was no solid door to shut. No walls thick enough to swallow it all. Just canvas and thin air and the sound of Simon trying to keep himself together.
Kyle lowered himself in front of him, close enough that their knees brushed.
The man stayed quiet, upright on that rigid line of his spine.
Kyle swallowed. “Can I see your hands?”
Simon seemed to process the words. If Kyle could call the small clench of his jaw any signal of it.
Then Simon lifted his hands and placed them in Kyle’s palms without a word.
They were cold despite the heat of the warehouse. The tremor was more obvious now, fine but constant, running through bone and tendon.
Kyle peeled the gloves off slowly. One finger at a time. The material stuck slightly where blood had dried against skin. He worked carefully until both gloves came free. He set them aside near the cot.
Simon’s knuckles were raw and swelling.
Kyle turned his hands over and brushed his thumbs across the worst of it, feather-light.
Kyle wasn't sure what to do. He was certain that the men couldn't see the Lieutenant fall apart. He was also certain that he couldn't just not help. Not ease whatever Simon has shoved into a too small box.
Still Kyle wasn't sure what to do. So he did what came naturally.
He shifted closer, rising from his crouch to sit on the edge of the cot beside him. He guided Simon’s hands up between them, like he would have done with his sister, and pressed them flat against his own chest.
“Feel that?” he murmured.
His heartbeat was steady beneath the fabric of his shirt.
He drew in a slow breath, exaggerated enough for Simon to feel the movement under his palms.
For a moment nothing changed. Simon just stared at where his hands were now pressed against Kyle. Kyle felt the dread of the thought that he'd overstepped.
Then Simon inhaled. It stuttered halfway through, catching in his throat.
Kyle didn’t react. He just kept the rhythm. In. Out. His hand slid from Simon’s knuckles to cradle his wrist, thumb pressing lightly to the pulse there.
“You’re here,” Kyle said quietly. “We're okay.”
Simon’s head dipped forward. And his forehead came to rest against Kyle’s shoulder.
The contact was small, careful, like it was Simon wasn't sure he should.
Kyle adjusted, one arm coming around his back.
“We've got you,” he added softly.
The tremor eased by degrees.
The tarp rustled and Soap slipped back inside, a dented metal mug in one hand and a canteen in the other. He took in the sight, Simon folded forward, Kyle holding him without fuss, and his expression gentled at the edges.
“Good,” Johnny murmured quietly, setting the mug down on the crate that served as a nightstand. “That’s it, L.T.”
Kyle met Johnny's eyes over Simon's curled form. Johnny just smiled, nodded, and slid in on Simon's other side.
Simon instinctively eased away from Kyle and into Johnny's arms. Kyle let him go, watching as he curled into the Scott's frame, making himself half as large.
Johnny whispered something soft.
Kyle shifted like he might leave. But was stopped by Simon's hand. It was around his wrist now. And gave the smallest squeeze.
And Kyle realized something in that small request to stay:
The whole world might be terrified of Ghost.
But this was just Simon Riley.
And his sergeants had him.
