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Touch was his love language.
He’d always struggled with words, and gifts were overwhelming to choose. Acts of service came a little easier... but touch was where he shined the most. He’d been starved of it most of his life, and with you, he found himself satiating his cravings for physical contact often.
It wasn’t just sex, as many would assume.
Admittedly, he could spend hours tangled in the sheets with you. The feeling of your bodies pressed against one another, skin warm and hearts pounding in unison, was amongst his most favoured ways of being close to you.
But, it was more than that. The roots ran deeper.
It was fingers combing through your hair as you slept. A hand on your thigh as you silently enjoyed your morning coffee together. Caressing your cheek as he simply looked at you, taking in your beauty. It was in the way he'd carefully adjust the straps of your vest and holsters for you before every mission. His touch would find you always, at any opportunity. It wasn’t invasive, nor was it uncomfortable. In time, you came to find you couldn’t go a day without it; needing a dose of him and his gentleness to feel complete.
It comforted you. Soothed you. It was how he communicated his love, his devotion. The simple act of touch. Even when he was sick. Even when he was half-asleep.
Even as he was dying.
The sounds of gunshots and mortar fire seemed quieter than a moment ago. You couldn’t be sure if the offensive had continued its push forward or if it was simply your body beginning to shut down. You couldn’t muster the mental energy to dwell on it for too long, as the wound at your abdomen pulsing and burning soon took your focus. Attempts had been made at stemming the bleeding, to no avail. It was too late for you. Your number had come up.
Tears were pricking at the corners of your eyes as the fear started to settle in. Heaving, choking sobs of terror racked your body, and it only made the agony of your injury that much worse. You’d have been trapped in a vicious cycle of increasing pain and fear if not for him, cutting through the veil.
“Hey… c’mon.” A touch. The simplicity of his hand reaching out for your own, fingers intertwining. Skin to skin contact. “No need for tears, darlin’.”
You turned your head to look at him, soaking your temples as the tears continued to spill over. Ghost… Simon… lying at your side. Blood stained his gear and smeared up to his cheekbones, clumps like tar sticking to his eyelashes. An immeasurable number of bullets had nearly tore him apart from head to toe. The guilt was nauseating, sitting heavy in your stomach and clawing its way up your throat. The knowledge that you were ultimately responsible was too much to bear. You’d killed two of you with just one bad call; ended two lives with just one lapse in judgement.
But he knew you too well. Sometimes it was as though he had a direct line to your innermost thoughts, a window to your soul.
“I don’t regret a damn thing.” Ghost’s voice was weak, but his tone held deep sincerity, never wavering. “I always said I’d take a bullet for you. It wasn’t bullshit.”
It didn't help. You never asked for this, never wanted it. You weren't worthy of it. “I’m sor-“
“Stop it.” The words were strained, ground out from behind his gritted teeth. He was trying to suppress his own pain just to focus on helping you ease yours.
All you wanted in that moment was to feel his arms. Every morning you awoke and every night you drifted away with them wrapped tightly around you. The feeling of safety they brought you was needed now more than ever… but neither of you had the strength left. Two bodies were failing, weakened. At the very least, you had his hand. It almost dwarfed yours in size, squeezing as tightly as he could manage.
The sounds of warfare grew further and further away, fading to nothing, leaving you suspended in silence. Despite your waning consciousness, you forced yourself to speak. You needed his voice to be the last thing you heard before you surrendered.
“What do you think… comes after this? After we…” You trailed off, unwilling to say the word. It made it too real. More real than the metallic scent that lingered in the air. More than the cold chill that felt like it was crushing your ribs and growing pool of blood that drenched the desert sand you lay in.
What comes after we die?
“I don’t know.” He answered honestly with his usual bluntness, though his voice was soft, calm. “But whatever it is… whatever’s waiting for us… I hope I see you there.”
You could only look at him, cherish the sight of his face for a few moments more until the edges of reality began to turn black, tunnelling in. He could see your eyes were growing distant, hazy. Could hear your breaths becoming shorter, shallower, morphing into strained wheezes. Every gulp of air was a battle.
It was time to go.
“Simon… I love you…”
The words were barely a whisper. A slurred mumble pushed out with the final scraps of life you clung to. The last thing in your mind as you approached the edge of this realm was him. Your lashes fluttered, and he felt the lump in his throat drop into his stomach. With everything he had left to give, he reached out to place his other hand at your cheek, cupping your jaw, drawing his thumb back and forth across your freezing skin.
“I love you too, sweetheart.” He swallowed thickly. Tears holding the weight of the wild sea waves rolled down his face when your chest finally ceased its laboured rise and fall. The fire that kept him fighting, the light that kept him from falling to darkness, had been doused. A candle snuffed out in the wind. Without you, there was nothing. He was grateful to not be far behind you.
“See you soon.”
He squeezed your hand tightly. One final touch, one last show of his love, his devotion. Even though the fingers locked in between his own could no longer reciprocate.