i need a ghoap psych ward au with manic hyper-aggressive soap and depressed ghost
ghost who has been in a low for so long, he doesn’t remember what it’s like to feel normal; to have the drive to move let alone the desire. he drifts through life in an apathetic haze; the only reason he’s here is his neighbour called a well fare check on him when they hadn’t heard him move around his apartment for a few weeks. he doesn’t want to stay, doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t… want. even the new patient is barely enough to be a blip on his radar, the man loud and abrasive from the second he walks in, covered in layers of bruises old and new like they belong on his skin
it’s hardly an unfamiliar sight around these parts
the ward is tight for space and ghost feels nothing when the doctor absently apologises for soap becoming his new roommate. not annoyance at his near-constant talking, filling up the room every second of every day like he belongs there. not fear at his threats at his silence, the rants that ghost must feel so superior to look down on him so much that he won’t even deign him worthy of talking to. not concern at the blood beginning to stain the walls when pillows become too unsatisfying to punch, the scent of iron becoming a permanent fixture in their room along with the sting of antiseptic
he doesn’t know when it starts to change; when shallow amusement starts to break through the yawning emptiness at soap’s colourful threats, sometimes taking an entire week before he repeats an insult he can barely understand, the thick gravel of anger in his voice never making him flinch like the doctors do. he even tries to rope him into it sometimes, like ghost should feel equally slighted by the starchy clothes and invasive body checks and lack of privacy. as if that hasn’t been his normal for longer than he cares to remember
he doesn’t recognise the fragile spark in his chest as anger for days when soap’s put in soft restraints for 72 hours following another assault on an orderly; doesn’t know why his hands clench into fists as he watches him writhe in his bed, fighting the soft cuffs and screaming until his voice is hoarse, and even then, he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t recognise the ghost of injustice rearing its head as he rages that it wasn’t his fault this time, that the orderly was being cruel to sanderson who can’t so much as speak to defend himself, that they just have to look and they’ll find bruises painting his skin when he’s more skittish than any other patient in the ward. but none of the doctors believe him; they don’t even listen to him. none of them every do; too quick to blame some chemical imbalance in soap’s head instead of asking if something caused his rage
ghost sets himself up against the wall beside his bed throughout his lockdown; a lone sentry standing between him and the wall, a break the nurses have to navigate past to get to soap. he forces them all to justify why their presence; why are you here. what do you want. why do you want to touch soap. what are those meds. fuck off, ghost will give them to him
he doesn’t know why he does it. soap doesn’t need him to protect him. he just… has to
it’s ghost who nudges soap back when he rushes the nurse trying to look at the abrasions on his wrists and ankles afterwards; ghost who orders them out with a single glance and makes soap sit with another. he doesn’t try to talk him down like the doctors try to encourage, doesn’t try to force his threats to stop or chide him for the swearing aimed at the door and no doubt heard halfway down the next ward. he weathers it all with the same apathy that he weathers his mind and soap never turns those threats or his fists on him, no matter how much ghost’s less than gentle hands must hurt on his aching skin; the bone deep bruises and the bloody tears from his thrashing. if he can even feel the pain anymore
he doesn’t think to question the brewing codependency between them; the way soap’s anger explodes when ghost’s taken back for his mandatory therapy or when he spends a week near catatonic on a new medication
he’s only told later that he refused to leave ghost’s bed, crouched over his body, not letting anyone near him in his vulnerable state. he became violent if they tried to enforce it, and they worried about ghost being caught in the crossfire enough that they decided it was best to leave him; his fingers finding a permanent place against his pulse, his eyes never leaving ghost’s clouded gaze. if he managed to open his eyes at all
he breaks two orderlies’ arms and fractures another’s ribs in the time it takes the doctors to decide the med is too detrimental for ghost to remain on
the doctors’ concern grows when ghost’s depression somehow manages to deepen when soap falls into another manic episode and is deemed too unsafe to restrain in his room. he gets taken to an isolation ward and it’s like all the life in the room gets taken with him; his food goes untouched in its tray, the impression in his bed growing more defined as he refuses to move- can’t move
he has nothing to move for
there’s nothing to break the fog of apathy; no raging, illegible scots, no impassioned rants about explosive compounds and engineering he equally couldn’t understand. the scent of blood starts to fade, the red stains he thought permanently adhered to the wall cleaned now that the orderlies finally have a chance to come in without soap chasing them out for daring to remove the proof that he exists
the proof ghost also craves
the doctors see the dangers a mile away. but they also see the emotion soap’s mere presence somehow manages to conjure in ghost; a man so empty he refused himself the dignity of a name. they see the way a single look from ghost can have soap redirecting, no less angry, but his fists land on furniture instead of flesh. they’re too protective, too codependent, but they don’t think they can risk separating them without losing them both
they don’t fix each other, and in some ways are making each other worse, but soap brings life into ghost that he thought long dead, and ghost is a steady constant soap can cling to to survive the violent chaos of his mind
maybe it’s not a healthy love. maybe it’s not love at all, not in the way regular people can feel it
but it’s more than they’ve had in a long time and that’s more than enough for two men with no place in the world; two men who have nothing but each other to face the long dark
ellievsbear
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
2087
theartofmadeline
annaxmalina
titsay
