Chapter Text
It’s raining tonight - a rare occasion, but a much-needed one. It seldom rains here at the safe house. You just brewed a cup of camomile tea and sat at the bay window, watching the rain droplets race with each other.
It doesn’t surprise you how easily amused you have become with the tiniest things. Being the keeper of this safe house for almost a year has taken a toll on you. Apart from the occasional droplet racing, your daily pleasures include stepping on crunchy leaves, counting the tiles on the kitchen floor, and meowing back at cats.
That was until two months ago.
The base has sent someone to be on the lookout for a mission currently carried out by the CIA. A big guy in stature with a skull sewn on a balaclava. He never parts with that mask. You got so accustomed to it you would be utterly shocked if you saw him without it. To you, that’s his face. That’s him.
Quiet guy. Over the past two months of co-living, you barely got a complete sentence out of him. His vocabulary consists of ‘yeses’, ‘nos’, and sometimes the occasional ‘okay’.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Is the water warm enough?”
“Yes.”
“Base called while you were gone. They want to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
He is out a lot. He leaves at sunset and comes back in the early hours. Sometimes, you hear him taking off his boots or cleaning his clothes. He refrains from mixing his laundry with yours since you use detergent. ‘You’re making it easier for them to find you if you smell like flowers,’ he once said.
Weirdly enough, he doesn’t smell bad. His scent reminds you of grass and wet soil. Earthy. Petrichor. He smells like petrichor.
You never got close enough to smell him, of course. Not intentionally, at least. But every once in a while, your shoulders brush as you walk past each other through the narrow corridors.
He barely eats, rarely sleeps, and keeps away from you. Not just from you, though. He seems to keep his distance from anything he might lose. A Stoic who would rather live with the bare minimum, ready to lose everything. Who knows, after all? Maybe he already did.
A year is a long time to be isolated from the world. Long enough for you to be starving for human connection, physical or mental - concepts that seem foreign to the infamous Ghost.
Are they, though?
He seems to be aware of your vulnerability at times. A week ago, for example, when you were hanging your clothes to dry, he came to lend a helping hand. Or yesterday, when you burned your wrist on the stove, he rushed for the First Aid kit. Perhaps he cares.
Or, perhaps, you’re imagining stuff. This safe house is making you delusional—It doesn’t feel “safe” at all. It’s not like home, not like the one you once had.
The rain stopped. You set your tea aside and lie on the couch next to the bay window. You close your eyes and think of your friends back home, the family you left behind, the life you once had. Nothing will ever be the same.
You’re all alone. Not just in this house but in this damn life as well. You start crying.
The tears fall down your cheeks, just like the droplets you were watching earlier. All these people you left behind, the people you betrayed, all these people...
You hear footsteps. Shit—He’s back.
You don’t have the strength to make your presence known. You don’t want to be seen in this vulnerable state, crying about your problems while he must have lost so much more. It is better that you stay still, pretending to be asleep.
He stops in his tracks. He must have spotted you.
You hear him taking a few steps forward. He’s checking if you’re asleep.
He touches your cheek, feeling the tears you shed earlier. You shiver under his calloused hand. He knows you’ve been crying. Damn it. Damn him.
Is he going to say something? Ask you if there is something wrong? Communicate for once?
No.
Contrary to what you would hope, he backs off and walks away. How dare he. He knows that you’ve been bawling your eyes lately, yet he retrieves from any form of comfort. He always does that.
There are two people in this safe house - you and him. Yet you feel you’ve been living with a Poltergeist these past two months.
You hear footsteps again. They are coming your way, this time lighter. He’s back.
A blanket—He’s laying a blanket on you. Impossible. Suddenly, your emotions are placed under a microscope and multiplied by a hundred.
You begin to sob again—He hears it.
You try to muffle the cries. But instead of ordering you to stop this nonsense, he shocks you yet again. He gently touches the top of your head, caressing your hair as if he wants to tell you that it’s okay to cry. It’s almost like he understands. Almost.
After a few gentle strokes, he retrieves his hand and leaves you to be, mourning your lost life. That’s all you get to get from him. Not a lot, but enough.
Suddenly, everything makes sense. Ghosts from the spirit world don’t communicate by talking to us. They show us. They flicker the lights, move curtains, and close doors.
That’s what he does. He helps you hang your laundry, fetches the First Aid Kit, and brings you a blanket when you need it the most.
You close your eyes one last time and drift off to sleep. You think of your family once more, the wise words of your grandmother echoing louder than ever in your mind; “facta, non verba”.
Actions speak louder than words.