Ghost stares at the ceiling of his private quarters. He sees nothing except the empty black. But it's better than what he might see if he stops looking and closes his eyes. He stretches out a hand, seeming to search for some sort of reassurance. It drops when he knows there's really is nothing except the darkness.

Nighttime has always been a precarious time for him. It's when his ghosts of the past come out in their sinuous ways, haunting his sleep until he can't bear the it no matter how tired he is.

The darkness surrounding him has too much of a resemblance to the suffocating walls of a coffin. Often, just as he did, he will have to assure himself of his position by reaching out with his hand. He's looking for the nothingness that promises him there are no walls closing him in. No heavy dirty piled atop him to leave his lungs quenching for air when his heavy breathes drinks it all up. Even though he's a realistic man, fear twists reality enough for this to be believable.

He's been staring into the darkness for so long that the blank slots of simple black seem sickeningly plain to his eyes. It's as if he's seeing without really seeing. Maybe that's better because it makes him feel hidden. Maybe it's not because that makes him feel alone.

Simon knows what he wants. He knows how to cure these restless nights when memories linger too close and nightmares wake him up sweaty with cold fear. The remedy is a soft release found by the warming presence of another body. His chest tightens with the need for it. His own bed almost feels cold, as lonely and fretted with memories of jolting awake with night terrors as it is. He doesn't see it as a place to relax and drift off. He sees it as a place to lie and knock himself out with sleeping aids. But lately he's been forced to brave sleep without and simply prayer for a dreamless night since he's completely out of sleeping meds. The doc won't give anymore, knowing he's overdosing since he always asks for more too soon. But he doesn't know what it's like to wake up gasping for clawing at sheets and gasping for breathe.

He holds his watch up to his face, making out the soft glow of the hands: 0100. No one will be awake at this time. There won't be any prying eyes to wonder as him sneaks down the hallway and slip into someone else's room.

He plays with the thought of going, rolling it over and over in his mind. Should he? This will be the fourth time.

The minute hand slithers five minutes ahead. He decides there's no point in staying here. Throwing off his covers, he ignores the too-early morning chill and tries to do the same to the floor's chill creeping into his feet. Lying in bed for two hours somehow always makes him awfully sensitive to the cold.

He makes his way to his door, knowing the outlay of the room well enough to know where's he's going without a light. His door creeps open, and he silently shifts out into the hallway.

He looks down both ways and listen for a moment just in case. All seems quiet. He closes his door. Walking down the hall, he's careful not to make a single sound. His noiseless approach makes him seem like a ghost dressed in a white T-top and dark blue boxer briefs. Without his mask and sunglasses on he makes for an odd appearance anyway. And as inapproachable and dangerous as he always seems, this Ghost seems tired and needy.

Soap's room is three doors away—a short walk just as Ghost would prefer it. This means less of a chance of being seen and the sooner he'll be in a warm bed. He counts the door by ghosting his finger across each frame. At the third he stops, confirming it is actually John's by checking if there's a chip of wood missing near the doorknob. Admittedly, he'd knocked it out with a knife one evening, but it was for a good reason. God help him if he wandering into the wrong bedroom.

He carefully opens the door, slipping inside and shutting it behind him just as quietly. Like his own room, Ghost knows the outlay of his Captain's room very well. He walks towards the man's bed without much fear of knocking anything over. At least that seems to be the case until his foot stubs into something hard. "Goddamnit," he curses quickly.

Nearby he hears John rousing his bed, laughing. "Simon?" His voice is heavy with sleep, but even heavier with humor. The latter snorts. "I thought you kept your fucking room clean," he grumbles, suddenly feeling pretty sour from his lack of sleep and aching toe. "Sorry, Mum." A pause, then: "You coming over or not, mate?" Ghost ignores the comment and closes the small distance between the bed and himself without smacking his toe against anything else.

The covers are already pulled back, so he slips into the small bed. "Why are you always so damn cold," Soap mutters when their bodies start to entwine. "Bugger off," Ghost replies, burying his face into their pillow. Still, he smiles when a pair of lips caresses his cheek and ear softly. "Hmm…" he purrs, adjusting so he can kiss them.

He relaxes again, feeling very content now that he's in John's arms. "I never took you for someone who liked to snuggle," his captain whispers. He merely shrugs the shoulder not resting against the mattress. "Exceptions."
"Aren't I lucky?"
"I thought you were tired." Ghost definitely feels tired now, but John seems a little perky to his annoyance.
"Just happy you finally decided to visit."
"Finally?" Simon snorts. But he's glad to hear Soap say so. Even though his captain never made it evident he didn't enjoy otherwise, Simon was feeling a little guilty about being so needy. "Get some sleep now, love." He smirks widely at being called "love", but doesn't bother with a comeback. Sleep sounds good about now.

So short... I know. ^^" Wasn't sure if this was too short to post? But I decided to go for it anyway. Hope all you Soap/Ghost fans enjoyed! :) Thanks for reading~