Ghost has always had something to ground him.
His mask.
His gun.
They all held weight. A weight that felt heavier when the rest of the world was suddenly upon his shoulders threatening to crush him.
He liked having something to hold onto, something in his hands to mess with or just to hold for the sake of it.
His gun was a reoccurring weight. Right against his chest, tucked away. It was a reassurance for him.
It was both there, against him when he needed that reassurance that he wasn't going to be helpless, and also something to hold when he needed to know his body really was still there.
But image his surprise when Johnny comes in and he finds himself reaching out to the man when things get too heavy to handle. When he can't mange to go on without something in his hands reminding him he's alive. He's alive. He's alive. He's alive.
And image the shock that comes when his mind is a tomb he lays trapped in, it playing tricks behind his eyes, crying out Johnny's name for help.
That's what pulled the trigger for him.
So in the middle of the night, he finds himself creeping soundlessly to Johnny's room, slipping in without bothering to knock. He said it was to avoid waking anyone else up, but he.. couldn't lie to himself, it was because he didn't want to be seen outside the Sargent'a door at the asscrack of night.
Johnny is awake as soon as the door clicks closed, attent and aware, ready to fight, but he relaxes slowly when he sees Ghost's hulking figure looming in the corner of the room.
"What'cha doin up this late?" Soap calls out in a sleep adled voice, sitting up in his bed.
".. Couldn't sleep." Ghost grumbles, inching closer to the bed.
Soap doesn't seem to care, shrugging and moving so there's a spot for him on his bed next to him. He pats the newly opened space twice as if Ghost were a dog.
Ghost huffs and takes a seat anyway.
"Wanna talk about it?" He prompts, head tilted.
"No." He says simply before leaning onto Soap's shoulder. He stays very still, waiting to be pushed off or called something mean, but Soap doesn't. He never does. He sits there under the faint glow that seeped through his drawn curtains, pretty and too fucking good to be true.
"Alright then.." Soap trails off, leaving the room in a peaceful quiet. The low rumble of some machine nice background noise.
Simon falls asleep easily, fastest he's ever gone under, he thinks. Soap says nothing about it. He just hopes Simon gets some good seep when he's around him.
