Blood & Wine
Sometimes silence is enough
New chapter didn't take long, wow!
Yet again i feel like ao3 writer with my personal issues. But about this I'll maybe write a whole ass post later.
Enjoy.
Red’s memory of that night felt vivid, almost haunting. The operations room had been dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of monitors. She remembered sitting there, twisting a pen between her fingers, waiting for the team’s report. Task Force 141 was in the field, hunting Hassan—a high-priority terrorist they had been tracking for weeks. Red had spent hours preparing the team, gauging their mental readiness, making sure their focus was sharp and they knew who their target was. But as she sat there, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
Her mind kept returning to the last few weeks working with professor Benar to understand what fanatic like Hassan could do. The mission felt more precarious than anyone had wanted to admit, and now, sitting in that room, waiting, Red could feel the undercurrent of unease growing stronger.
When the comms finally crackled to life, the news wasn’t good. Hassan had escaped. Red had felt the tension in her gut tighten, her worst fears beginning to take shape. Losing the target was a blow, but it was what came next that had hit her like a wave—American missiles. Hassan had somehow acquired advanced weaponry, U.S.-made, stashed in his safehouse.
Her mind had gone into overdrive at that revelation. American missiles in terrorist hands—it was the kind of breach that couldn’t be ignored, the kind that had implications far beyond the immediate mission. How had Hassan gotten his hands on those weapons? It wasn’t just a tactical failure; this was something deeper, more insidious. Someone, somewhere, had helped him? Someone had leaked critical information or worse—supplied him?
That’s when the thought had struck her like a cold, hard truth: there might be a rat. Red had spent years studying the psychology of betrayal. She had seen how trust could be eroded, how even the most loyal-seeming individuals could be swayed by greed, fear, or misguided beliefs. And now, those instincts were screaming at her. There had to be an informant, someone feeding Hassan what he needed to get those missiles. The weight of that realization had sat heavily on her chest.
As the team’s report filtered back to command, the mood had shifted. Task Force 141 had failed to capture Hassan, but the discovery of the missiles overshadowed even that. Red could sense the storm brewing from their superiors. The discovery wasn’t just a setback—it was a dangerous escalation. The implications were severe. If Hassan had American missiles, it meant the operation was compromised, and the breach had to be internal. Or maybe it's something more trivial?
Red had sat there, her mind racing, replaying the events over and over. In her role, she was used to dissecting motives, reading people, finding the threads that connected behavior to deeper truths. But now, she was faced with something far more threatening than just the enemy outside. The possibility of betrayal within their own ranks gnawed at her relentlessly.
That night, as she stared at the monitors long after the team had gone silent, Red had felt a sinking sense of dread. The mission wasn’t just about catching a terrorist anymore. It was about trust, about figuring out who among them might be playing a dangerous game. And the thought that someone, perhaps even someone close to them, had orchestrated this breach stayed with her, deepening her doubts, sharpening her fears.
As Red sat alone in the quiet operations room, the weight of guilt settled in her chest like a slow, creeping tide. She stared at the dark screen in front of her, replaying the details of the mission over and over. Hassan had escaped. Task Force 141 had missed their target. And now, those American missiles—the stark evidence of something far more dangerous—loomed over them all.
She couldn’t stop thinking about her role in all of this. Red had spent weeks studying Hassan, building a psychological profile of the man. She’d traced his movements, analyzed his motivations, crafted theories about how he operated.
She was supposed to help the team predict his moves, understand how to outmaneuver him. But when it mattered most, it hadn’t been enough. Her profile hadn’t prepared them for the sheer audacity of Hassan’s escape or for the shock of discovering American missiles in his possession.
Red felt the sharp sting of doubt creep in. Was there something she had missed? A detail in Hassan’s behavior, a pattern in his tactics that she should have seen? She had built him up in her mind as a cold, calculating figure—someone who relied on careful strategy and manipulation. But the reality had blindsided them. Hassan had slipped through their fingers, and she couldn’t help but feel her analysis hadn’t made the difference it was supposed to.
The discovery of the missiles only deepened that sense of failure. The profile she had worked so hard to develop had done nothing to warn them of the real threat. Hassan had been playing a far larger game, and Red hadn’t seen it coming. She was supposed to be the expert, the one who understood the enemy’s mind. But now, sitting in the aftermath of the mission, it felt like all her work had been a shadow—a vague outline that hadn’t stopped him when it mattered most.
A part of her knew that no profile, no matter how thorough, could have predicted every move. Intelligence was messy, people were unpredictable, and war didn’t follow the neat lines drawn in psychological reports. But knowing that didn’t lift the heavy feeling of responsibility pressing on her chest. She had contributed to the team’s strategy, and in the end, it hadn’t been enough to stop Hassan from slipping away. That small voice of guilt gnawed at her, whispering that perhaps she had overestimated her insights, or worse, underestimated Hassan’s cunning.
Red sighed, leaning back in her chair, the guilt clinging to her like a weight she couldn’t shrug off. She had trained to analyze minds, to understand the patterns that led to decisions. But tonight, those skills felt hollow. What was the point of all that analysis if, in the end, the enemy still outsmarted them?
'Yeah, that feels weird', Red thought, starting at the wall. 'Okay, he could have used the time team was securing the crash site, but the missiles... what about them?'
Red sat in the silence of her small office, her fingers absently twisting a pen as she replayed the mission in her mind. The weight of her failure to anticipate Hassan’s moves had settled heavily on her shoulders. She was supposed to have seen it coming, to understand his psychology well enough to help the team get ahead of him. But instead, Hassan had escaped, and the discovery of the American missiles in his possession had turned everything on its head.
A knock at the door broke the silence, startling her from her thoughts. She glanced up just as Ghost stepped into the room, his presence commanding as always. His broad frame filled the doorway, and even though his face was mostly hidden beneath his mask, the intensity in his eyes was unmistakable. Red’s pulse quickened slightly—an involuntary response she’d long tried to ignore. The cool, controlled manner with which he moved always drew her attention. She’d never admit it, not even to herself most of the time, but there was something about Ghost that intrigued her. The mystery, the unshakable confidence, the way he seemed untouchable.
Ghost closed the door behind him, his gaze sweeping over the scattered papers on her desk before landing on her. There was no small talk, no pretense. He was here for a reason.
And then there was the way he looked at her now, his dark, unreadable eyes locked onto hers through the narrow slits of his skull-patterned mask. She knew better than to think too much about it, but it didn’t stop that faint flicker of curiosity from sparking. What was going on behind those eyes?
"Red," he said, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the stillness. He didn’t need to say more. His tone carried the weight of unspoken concern.
Red straightened in her chair, brushing a strand of ginger hair behind her ear, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. "Just going over the mission," she murmured, gesturing to the chaos on her desk. "Trying to figure out where I went wrong."
Ghost didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, moving with that same quiet, controlled energy he always had, and sat down across from her. His presence was grounding, but it also unsettled her in ways she couldn’t quite explain. There was something about him—something that made her both hyper-aware and oddly comforted at the same time. The quiet intensity that surrounded him always pulled at her, like a magnetic force she couldn’t fully resist.
"You didn’t go wrong," Ghost finally said, his voice steady but firm. "Hassan’s slippery. No one could’ve predicted everything."
Red let out a breath, but it didn’t ease the knot of guilt in her chest. "I was supposed to understand him, Ghost. That’s what I do. But I missed something—something big. And now we’re sitting on top of a mess because of it."
She dropped her gaze, unable to meet his eyes. But she could still feel his presence, looming, steady. Ghost wasn’t the type to give empty reassurances, which was exactly why she valued his opinion. Yet, part of her still doubted.
Instead of leaving after his response, as she expected he might, Ghost leaned back slightly in his chair. The move surprised her. He stayed, not just for a quick check-in but to be here, to really make sure she was okay. The room felt smaller with him there, more intimate, and she felt the faintest stir of something inside her, a flicker of vulnerability that she rarely allowed herself to feel around anyone else.
Red cleared her throat, trying to push through the tension building in her chest. "It’s not just about missing Hassan," she said quietly, her fingers tightening around the pen. "It’s about what we found—those missiles. They change everything, and I didn’t see it coming."
Ghost’s eyes never left her, his gaze steady and unreadable behind the mask. But he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, his presence drawing her in. "No one saw that coming," he said. "Not me, not Soap, not Laswell, not Shepherd. You did your job. Don’t put this all on yourself."
The calm certainty in his voice washed over her, momentarily pushing back the guilt. But it was more than just his words. It was him—the way he held space for her in his own quiet way, the way he never judged, never rushed. She realized then that this was Ghost’s way of checking in—staying with her when he didn’t have to, giving her a moment to breathe, to process.
She glanced up at him, and for a second, their eyes met. Even behind the mask, those dark, penetrating eyes were impossible to ignore. Red couldn’t help but feel that faint pull again, the one that always lingered around Ghost. It was something she knew better than to dwell on—something that couldn’t, and shouldn’t, go anywhere. But even as she pushed it aside, she couldn’t deny the way her heart beat just a little faster whenever he was near.
"I just thought I’d help more," she admitted, her voice quieter now. "I thought my profile would make a difference. But it feels like… I let you all down."
Ghost’s posture shifted slightly, and she saw a flicker of something in his eyes—something softer, though still guarded. "You’ve helped more than you know," he said, his tone lowering even more. "You keep us steady, Red. You keep me steady."
Her breath caught at the unexpected intimacy in his words. He rarely said anything personal, but when he did, it carried so much weight. The air between them seemed to thicken, and for a moment, the world outside her office faded. It was just the two of them—her doubts and his unflinching presence. He wasn’t just a soldier, not to her. He was something more, though she hadn’t allowed herself to define it. She was scared to define it. Scared she would run away like she always does when it gets serious.
Ghost didn’t leave, even after the silence stretched between them. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, settling in like he had nowhere else to be. Red found herself relaxing slightly, despite the turmoil still swirling inside her. His staying there, offering his company without saying too much, made her feel anchored in a way she hadn’t expected.
She allowed herself a small smile, glancing down at the papers before looking back at him. "You really know how to sit in silence," she said lightly, trying to ease the tension.
Ghost’s eyes softened just a fraction, though his expression remained hidden by the mask. "Sometimes, silence is enough."
Red nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle over her. Maybe silence was enough. Maybe just having him there, in the room with her, was all she needed to start letting go of the guilt.
They sat in the dim light of her office, the weight of the mission still pressing on their chests. The silence between her and Ghost was thick, filled with unspoken understanding. The room felt different with him here, quieter, more intimate. She didn’t know what it was about him—something about his presence just anchored her, even when she didn’t have the words to explain it.
After a long stretch of silence, Ghost reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. With practiced ease, he took one out, lit it, and let the smoke curl up into the air. The faint glow from the end of the cigarette flickered in the darkness. He took a drag, lifting his balaclava slightly, then paused, the smoke escaping slowly from his nostrils.
Red glanced up at him. His movements were always deliberate, measured, and she couldn’t help but feel the pull of his calm. He didn’t say anything, just held the cigarette out toward her. The gesture was simple, but the silence between them made it feel almost intimate.
"I don’t smoke," she said softly, glancing at the cigarette before meeting his eyes.
Ghost didn’t respond with words, just tilted his head slightly, as though daring her to challenge him. The look in his eyes was unreadable, but there was something there—something that made her hesitate for just a moment.
Red took a breath and leaned forward slightly, closing the space between them. Without a word, she took the cigarette from his fingers, the touch of his hand lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. She brought it to her lips, feeling the heat of the smoke against her skin before she inhaled, the sharp taste of tobacco filling her mouth. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but the sensation was oddly calming.
Ghost’s gaze didn’t waver as she took the drag. He was watching her closely, and despite the fact that she wasn’t a smoker, she didn’t cough or falter. She held the smoke in her lungs for a moment longer than usual, meeting his eyes all the while. There was something about the way he looked at her—something that made her feel like he saw through the walls she’d built around herself, but didn’t judge.
Slowly, she exhaled, watching the smoke swirl between them. For a few seconds, the room felt like it was suspended in time, as if there was nothing else but her and Ghost and the quiet presence he always brought. The world outside her office didn’t matter. It was just the two of them, in this shared moment of stillness.
Red handed the cigarette back to him, her fingers brushing his once more. "Not bad," she said quietly, her voice a little softer than usual.
Ghost took the cigarette from her, his fingers brushing against hers again, but there was no rush. He took a slow drag, his gaze still on her. "Told you," he murmured, his voice low and steady, the silence between them settling in like a shared understanding.
Red didn’t speak immediately. Instead, she allowed herself to sit in the quiet, the weight of his presence grounding her. Maybe it wasn’t the cigarette, but something in the way Ghost was there, offering her something as simple as a drag of his cigarette, that made the guilt she’d been carrying feel a little lighter.
He didn’t need to say anything. Sometimes, the silence between them was all they needed.
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