Chapter Text
As you lie in your Lieutenant’s bed, you slowly begin to realise the grave mistake you’ve made.
There are numerous reasons why this situation shouldn’t have happened in the first place. The feeling of shame settles in your gut like a sickness, and it manifests like one, too. A fever. Nausea swirling in the base of your throat and climbing forth, threatening to spill over his pristine, military sheets. Chills that rack your frame as if you were coming down with something, sweat beading like pearls on your skin.
You come to see this as reality until you shift slightly—delicately as to not wake the mountain resting beside you—and realise that you are, in fact, perfectly fine.
Being in the army has taught you that your stress response is something physical. Something breathing that plagues your every moment, in rest or during the day. It never starts small, either. It begins as it remains—all-consuming and repulsive. Something that haunts you like wrongdoing would worm its way into your ribs and nestle there, spreading its disease to every part of your body until you spew it all in the isolation of your bunk. Most of the time, curled up on the floor, lonesome in its purest form.
You think there’s something wrong with you. It wouldn’t be ludicrous to sit on the idea, either, because normal people don’t do this. Normality doesn’t often include overthinking every little thing until you become vocal, curling in on yourself and wishing the ground to open and swallow you whole. Surely not.
Alas. Best not dwell on it. Even if that’s all you seem to do.
There’s a larger problem at hand here.
Him.
Ghost. That’s all you’re allowed to know him as. You don’t get the privilege of calling him ‘Simon’ like Soap and Price do. There’s a distinct difference in how Captain Price handles the name and how Johnny does. Johnny is teasing, funnier than you on your best day. Price is professional. He tells his boys to watch their backs. Pats their shoulders like they’ll snap and bite. Especially Si– Ghost.
Ghost.
Fuck.
You’ve really dug your own grave here.
Three major things stick out to you about sleeping with your superior:
Price is sure to bench you permanently for doing so. Maybe put your head on a stick and show any other slimy sergeants what happens when you disobey command.
You have no excuse. No words to justify what you’ve done—not like words even could. It’s pathetic to entertain the idea that you won’t be seen as a slut.
You don’t remember it. Any of it. Any of the sex you had with your lieutenant—and asking him was a risk in itself, the man could’ve court-martialed you on the spot—has been erased from memory. You cannot recall any of it.
You weren’t drunk, either. So now you’re just baffled. The supposed best sex of your life is just… gone.
You’re positive it happened. You’re lying next to him. In his bunk.
Unless, of course, you broke in and decided to crawl over him and catch some z’s.
He is infuriatingly warm. He’s not even touching you, and you can feel it seeping off him, melting your frigidity and replacing it with a comfort alien to you.
In your haze of humiliation, you decide to slither—and I mean slither. Very snake-like—out of Ghost’s bed. You pray he doesn’t hear you because you swear on everything you love, and that isn’t a lot, that he has supersonic hearing. Or at least a sixth sense. It’s… unnerving.
After successfully worming your way out of his tangled sheets and somehow not waking him, you snatch your trousers off the floor and hurriedly pull them on. Further evidence you didn’t imagine it—you are pantless.
You don’t bother with your boots. They’re too loud; a permanent, grating squeak follows you with every step. Regular polishing would help that, but sadly, you are too lazy.
Slipping out of his room isn’t that hard, but the post-assumed-orgasm clarity hits you so hard it’s almost painful. Like a physical slap.
As if you weren’t conscious enough.
What if you’ve ruined everything? What if you moaned weirdly? What if he was just doing it out of pity?
These thoughts culminate into that familiar nauseous feeling you just battled five minutes ago. Your socked feet mindlessly carry you to your own bunk, where you will lie and you will think about your actions until you shrivel up pitifully.
‿‿‿‿
Unfortunately, the sun rises; thus do you. You drag your regretful body through morning drills and sit next to Soap in the mess.
“Ye look like shite,” he prods at your pathetic state. You don’t want to imagine what you look like right now—you imagine it’s unpleasant. Sweaty and exhausted from sleep deprivation.
“Thank you.”
“Wasnae a compliment.”
Your conversation continues for about ten minutes before Soap spots the familiar, hulking figure across the buzzing hall.
Which is when you abruptly dismiss yourself, a stupid excuse falling from your lips.
You can feel his judgmental eyes following you as you leave.