Disclaimer: CoD isn't mine. Unedited, so forgive any spelling errors. If you'd be so kind. Thanks!
Anyone with at least one eye and a semi-functioning brain could tell that Ghost was not okay.
It wasn't so much of an in-the-moment sort of Not-Okay as it was a mentally Not-Okay. Ghost was a paranoid, trigger-happy psychopath. And it was clear to a more practised eye that it wasn't because he was just fucking insane, it was because he had some kind of deep-rooted psychological issues that he was keeping pent up- But then again, so did everyone in the One-Four-One.
But John notices the way that Ghost's hands shake during a debriefing or while he's trying to down a cup of coffee before they head off in the morning. His hands don't tremble when he's holding a rifle. They don't tremble when he's got blood seeping from one side of his head and refuses to seek medical attention because he doesn't "trust doctors". And they sure as hell don't tremble when he's threatening to clamp a cable to some poor sod's tongue. His hands only shake when he's at rest. When he has nothing else to do but talk and try to socialise between getting menial paperwork done.
Neither of them ever mention it- It's a recognised issue, of course, but John always figures it's none of his business whether or not his lieutenant gets fidgety when he's pent-up.
So it's not really a matter of privacy when John decides that the incessant thumping against the dividing wall between their rooms persists until 2am- It's personal business. And it's fucking annoying.
He tries the doorknob first, without knocking. The locks on the doors are used so seldom that John wonders why they have them until he remembers the people like Simon that are either too secretive or too paranoid to live without them. He grunts in frustration and bangs his fist on the door. It's silent, and John finds himself a little more frustrated.
After a few long seconds, a voice finally answers: "Yeah"?
"Cut the racket, Riley."
The thumping moves to the door.
"Cut the damn racket," John growls. He's tired, and this sure as hell isn't as cute or funny as Simon must think it is.
The door swings open and he barely catches a glimpse of the inside of the room before his lieutenant's form is blocking the door. He looks him over and almost feels bad for getting angry- Ghost looks like a sleepless mess.
But Ghost is always a sleepless mess, John reminds himself.
Simon stands there, leaning against the worn wooden door frame and fondling a tennis ball in his right hand that's gone from green to off-white with continued abuse. He thumps it once against the floor and John glares at it.
"Nice evenin', Sir. What can I do for you?" he asks impertinently, an almost smug grin spread over his lips.
"You know what you can do."
"'Fraid not. Something on the brain, ey?"
"The ball."
Simon holds it up, "This ball?"
"Aye." John's getting cross with this game already.
"Ball didn't do anything."
"Ghost, it's past midnight. Stop throwing the damn thing."
Ghost flashes a quick lopsided grin that John can only interpret as an odd gesture of self-satisfaction. The XO steps back from the door and tosses the tennis ball to his bed. Only after John's beginning to wonder if he'll be getting an affirmative answer or not, Simon wraps his hand around the neck of a bottle of scotch. "Drink for your trouble, MacTavish?"
For some reason, he can't bring himself to refuse.