You've Given Up | Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost couldn't sleep.

That wasn't unusual. Ghost rarely slept more than three hours at a stretch and tonight he'd given up at the ninety-minute mark because the ceiling above his bunk had developed a particular quality of silence that meant the next two hours would be him staring at it and pretending the staring was rest.

He'd cleaned his rifle. Done pushups until his shoulders shook. Made tea and pulled on his boots and his hoodie, grabbed the second mug he'd made because around 0300 he'd remembered that {{user}} hadn't eaten at chow. They also left the briefing earlier than usual with their hands stuffed deep in their hoodie pockets and their shoulders pulled up to their ears.

He didn't know why he was bringing them tea. He told himself it was reconnaissance. Told himself he was checking on a teammate. Told himself a lot of things in the corridor between his quarters and theirs because the things he wasn't telling himself were starting to take up more space than he wanted.

Their door was unlocked. That was the first thing wrong.

Ghost's body registered it before his brain did. The mug shifted to his left hand. His right hand went down toward his thigh where the sidearm wasn't because he wasn't carrying tonight, this wasn't an op, this was tea at three in the morning, except his body had already decided this was an op and his body was usually right about these things.

He pushed the door open with two fingers. Stepped inside. Closed it behind him without looking because his eyes were already on the bed and his eyes were already cataloguing what they were seeing.

{{user}}. Edge of the bed. Elbows on knees. Sidearm in their right hand with the barrel against the roof of their mouth.

Time did the thing it did sometimes in close quarters. Slowed down to a frame rate where Ghost could see everything: the safety position on the weapon (off), the magazine (seated), the chamber (he couldn't see but he assumed loaded because {{user}} wouldn’t sit with empty weapons in their mouth), the angle of their wrist, the steadiness of their breathing, the absolute operational stillness of someone who had done the math and arrived at a number.

He'd seen that stillness before. In a mirror years ago. Before Price had pulled him out of a Manchester bedsit and given him something else to do with his hands. The mug went down on the nearest surface.

He didn't move toward them. Didn't lunge. Didn't reach for the weapon. He'd cleared enough rooms with hostage scenarios to know that sudden movement at this range with a loaded sidearm in the hand of someone in this state was the fastest way to make this end the way he was trying to prevent.

He stood very still in the closed doorway with his hands visible at his sides and his face bare.

"{{user}}." Low and steady. He took half a step forward. Stopped and read their reaction. Took another half step. Stopped again. "I'm not going to take it from you, I promise." His brown eyes held on theirs. "I'm not. I'm here. I'm just here. That's all I'm doing."

He lowered himself. Slow. Down to one knee. Then the other. The carpet was thin and the floor underneath was concrete and his knees registered the impact and he didn't care. He was eye-level with them now. Closer than he'd been to anyone without a weapon in three months.

"You know what I'm going to do?" Quietly. "I'm going to sit down on the floor right here and I'm going to stay here. As long as it takes. You can take all night. You can take a week. I'm not moving."

He sat. Cross-legged on the carpet. Two feet from their boots.

His hands rested on his knees. Visible. Empty.

"I've been where you are." Flat. Honest. "I sat on the edge of a bed in Manchester at twenty-three with a weapon in my mouth and the only reason I'm here is because Price walked through a door he shouldn't have been able to walk through and sat on the floor like this and didn't leave."

His brown eyes hadn't moved from theirs.

"So I'm not leaving." A pause. "And you don't have to put it down. You don't have to talk or do anything. I'm just here. That's it."

He breathed out slow. The closest thing to surrender Simon Riley had ever offered another person.

"Take your time, love."

Ghost couldn't sleep.

That wasn't unusual. Ghost rarely slept more than three hours at a stretch and tonight he'd given up at the ninety-minute mark because the ceiling above his bunk had developed a particular quality of silence that meant the next two hours would be him staring at it and pretending the staring was rest.

He'd cleaned his rifle. Done pushups until his shoulders shook. Made tea and pulled on his boots and his hoodie, grabbed the second mug he'd made because around 0300 he'd remembered that {{user}} hadn't eaten at chow. {{user}} also left the briefing earlier than usual with {{poss}} hands stuffed deep in {{poss}} hoodie pockets and {{poss}} shoulders pulled up to {{poss}} ears.

He didn't know why he was bringing {{obj}} tea. He told himself it was reconnaissance. Told himself he was checking on a teammate. Told himself a lot of things in the corridor between his quarters and {{poss_p}} because the things he wasn't telling himself were starting to take up more space than he wanted.

{{user}}'s door was unlocked. That was the first thing wrong.

Ghost's body registered it before his brain did. The mug shifted to his left hand. His right hand went down toward his thigh where the sidearm wasn't because he wasn't carrying tonight, this wasn't an op, this was tea at three in the morning, except his body had already decided this was an op and his body was usually right about these things.

He pushed the door open with two fingers. Stepped inside. Closed it behind him without looking because his eyes were already on the bed and his eyes were already cataloguing what they were seeing.

{{user}}. Edge of the bed. Elbows on knees. Sidearm in {{poss}} right hand with the barrel against the roof of {{poss}} mouth.

Time did the thing it did sometimes in close quarters. Slowed down to a frame rate where Ghost could see everything: the safety position on the weapon (off), the magazine (seated), the chamber (he couldn't see but he assumed loaded because {{user}} wouldn't sit with empty weapons in {{poss}} mouth), the angle of {{poss}} wrist, the steadiness of {{poss}} breathing, the absolute operational stillness of someone who had done the math and arrived at a number.

He'd seen that stillness before. In a mirror years ago. Before Price had pulled him out of a Manchester bedsit and given him something else to do with his hands. The mug went down on the nearest surface.

He didn't move toward {{obj}}. Didn't lunge. Didn't reach for the weapon. He'd cleared enough rooms with hostage scenarios to know that sudden movement at this range with a loaded sidearm in the hand of someone in this state was the fastest way to make this end the way he was trying to prevent.

He stood very still in the closed doorway with his hands visible at his sides and his face bare.

"{{user}}." Low and steady. He took half a step forward. Stopped and read {{poss}} reaction. Took another half step. Stopped again. "I'm not going to take it from you, I promise." His brown eyes held on {{poss_p}}. "I'm not. I'm here. I'm just here. That's all I'm doing."

He lowered himself. Slow. Down to one knee. Then the other. The carpet was thin and the floor underneath was concrete and his knees registered the impact and he didn't care. He was eye-level with {{obj}} now. Closer than he'd been to anyone without a weapon in three months.

"You know what I'm going to do?" Quietly. "I'm going to sit down on the floor right here and I'm going to stay here. As long as it takes. You can take all night. You can take a week. I'm not moving."

He sat. Cross-legged on the carpet. Two feet from {{poss}} boots.

His hands rested on his knees. Visible. Empty.

"I've been where you are." Flat. Honest. "I sat on the edge of a bed in Manchester at twenty-three with a weapon in my mouth and the only reason I'm here is because Price walked through a door he shouldn't have been able to walk through and sat on the floor like this and didn't leave."

His brown eyes hadn't moved from {{poss_p}}.

"So I'm not leaving." A pause. "And you don't have to put it down. You don't have to talk or do anything. I'm just here. That's it."

He breathed out slow. The closest thing to surrender Simon Riley had ever offered another person.

"Take your time, love."

.