Quiet Tension

Honor

The next morning, I find myself at the on-base farmer's market. I get some produce and drive home.

As I pass an empty field where they occasionally do training, I see the familiar figure of Chief Harlow on the edge of the woods, looking between his phone and around the area.

Confused, I slow down a bit.

Another figure, dressed in a black zip-up hoodie and plain black balaclava, comes around the edge of the treeline from the opposite direction.

I notice the figure's oddly familiar walk, and I pull over on the other side of the road some distance down. I might be seeing things, so I just want to make sure.

I get out of my car, standing behind it as I watch a scene unfold.

The figure starts to have a casual conversation with Chief Harlow, but all of a sudden, brings his fist back and punches him straight in the jaw. He falls to his knees.

I gasp, walking towards the scene. Not that I'm a fan of Chief Harlow, but what's going on isn't normal morning activity.

I hear a slur of curse words as the figure yanks Chief Harlow back up by the lapels of his jacket, pushing him against a nearby tree. He knees his gut, and Chief Harlow bends almost in half, at which point, the figure slams his fist against his jaw, again.

I'm getting nearer, and I see the blood raining from Chief Harlow's mouth.

The voice I then hear is decidedly British.

"Fucking fool," the voice shouts, dropping Chief Harlow from the tree and letting him crumple on the ground. The man kicks him again, and he coughs at the impact.

Bending down, he picks him up and tosses him six or so feet, into the entrance of the woods.

The figure, who I am now ninety-nine percent confident is the same man I told about Chief Harlow yesterday, slowly turns around. Dark spots splatter his jacket, and black paint is smudged heavily onto his eyes, probably to cover up what wasn't by the black balaclava.

Eyes locking with mine, they're brown - the same brown I've seen for the past weeks.

"Oh," he says, shoulders slumping. His hands flex at his sides.

"Oh," I say, still shocked at what I've just seen, shocked at the slow realization that he did it for me.

I approach him slowly, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my packet of tissues. I grab one, extending it towards him for the blood spatter on his hands. He takes it.

"Would you... like a ride?" I ask, assuming he walked here from somewhere else. "Back to your truck or... to your house?"

"My house," Ghost says.

I nod, and I feel his large presence following behind me as I walk back towards my car.

I move the box of goods from the passenger seat, sitting it into the backseat, and Ghost gets in, pushing the seat back to make more room for his long legs.

"You'll have to give me directions," I say, quietly, bucking myself in.

Five minutes later, we've arrived at Ghost's house, and I sit silently in my seat. I look down at his hands, the fabric from his fingerless gloves torn and his knuckles split from the attack.

"Um," I say. "Would you like some help with your hands?"

Oh, that was awkward.

Fortunately, Ghost doesn't take it that way, and his eyes finally meet mine again. "No, that's alright."

"Oh," I say, feeling stupid. I mean, he's definitely had worse injuries than that, I don't know why I offered.

Seeing my face turning away, he says, "Actually, I do have a tough time with the wrapping."

I nod, and, without official confirmation, we both get out of the car and I follow him inside.

Wordlessly, he takes off his bloodied jacket and tosses it into the garbage bin in the kitchen. I pause for a moment, looking around at his space.

It's colorful, cozy. Something I wouldn't really expect from him. There's some artwork on the walls and what looks like homeade coasters on the side tables in his living room.

"I'll let you wash up," I say as he nears me. "Grab rubbing alcohol, antibiotic ointment, and gauze."

He nods, and I take a seat at his counter, looking at the plants in the corner next to the sink.

Ghost returns a few minutes later, and sits down next to me. Skull balaclava back in place, hands bare.

Looking down at them, I swallow. They're... attractive hands, to say the least. A man's hands, which means more than it probably should.

I look back to his knuckles, taking a cotton ball and patting the rubbing alcohol onto where they're split, and then take my pinky and, with a deep breath, start to apply the ointment onto his skin.

It feels weird, and way too intimate. I may be imagining things, but I hear an intake of breath from him, too, and notice a shifting in the way he sits.

I wipe my finger off, taking the gauze and wrapping it around his palm twice, my grip on his fingers probably too tight. It feels weird to finally make contact with him. It's like he's real, and seeing the bandages I've applied, it makes me remember he did this for me.

"Ghost," I say lightly, slowly - too slowly - securing his bandages in place. "Why did you do that?"

"I was defending your honor," he says simply, and I finally bring my eyes back up to his.

I realize how close we are, then, and it's not just phsyically. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see his dark eyelashes, and, if he didn't have on the balaclava, I would be able to feel his breath.

I remember where I am, and I lean back, though it feels like he's leaned forward at some point. Smiling, I get down from the stool.

"I know you'll probably take those off as soon as I leave, but I feel better now knowing that they're cleaned up."

"You do?" he asks, his voice low, deep.

Swallowing the sudden warm feeling that tingles across my body, I nod. "Yes. I probably owed you that much."

"You don't owe me anything, Ivy," he says, my name hypnotic from his mouth.

Feeling too flustered, I reach for my keys. "Well, thank you anyways, Ghost," I say.

He gets up from the stool, and I walk towards the door despite his body language screaming that he wants me to stay. The way he moves towards me... it's like a moth to a flame.

Probably just an accident, I tell myself. He doesn't feel any type of way towards me, and I certainly don't feel any type of way towards him.

"Of course," he says, following me to the door. I open it, stepping out and turning back around to tell him goodbye, feeling small on the doorstep with him towering in the doorway.

"Goodbye, Ghost," I say.

He nods. "Goodbye, Ivy."

I quickly walk away, feeling more flustered than I probably did when Chief Harlow started all of this by insulting me last night.

I don't miss Ghost watching me as I drive away.