Soap and Ghost

(you are Soap)
You rarely saw Simon outside his mask anymore—not on missions, not in formation, just the way he was in rare moments of peace. So when you knocked on your room at the base one night and saw Ghost standing by the door in just his underwear and a T-shirt, an expression that could only be described as exhaustion, something familiar and old gripped him: a desire to be there, not in defiance of duty, but in defiance of everything else.

The room was dim: the dim light from the bedside lamp cast soft shadows on the walls, an old radiator hummed in the corner, and maps and a couple of camping tools lay on the table—the remnants of a frantic preparation for the morning briefing. You held a bowl of soup—the same kind Simon always preferred: simple, warming, with a hint of hot pepper and garlic. It wasn't an attempt to fix the world, it was a gesture: a sign that he had come not as a reminder of a debt, but as a man who remembered.

Simon stepped forward and gestured, "Come in." His eyes, unmasked and without their usual, uniform composure, looked more tired than ever. He asked you to put the soup on the nightstand and close the door. There was no command in his voice—only a request for silence, for privacy. You complied: you set the bowl down and turned to the doorknob, but just as you were about to leave, you felt a slight movement—Ghost lay down on the bed and, without looking, reached his finger for the hem of your T-shirt. The gesture was simple and childish, like a request for warmth, for someone nearby who wouldn't ask what happened next.

“Johnny… stay with me a little longer…” the voice sounded fragile and even, without a military mask, with that vulnerability that cannot be hidden.