worth
here's the promised whump. simon 'ghost' riley main starring in his own nightmare. enjoy! tw: suicidal thoughts, self-sacrifice, self-worth issues, unhealthy coping mechanisms, PTSD, simon's family is mentioned, so death. read at your own risk! this is sad! but! there's hope at the end. as is always in life.
Ghost is damaged goods.
It never meant that he was worthless, aside from his father's crude perception. He tried, helping ma around the house and doing everything he could to lessen her workload; despite the old bastard's hatred, he demanded a lot of his sons — many of which things Simon didn't want to do, but felt forced enough to act on them. His father might actually be the epitome of the word, except he did have a hand in giving Ghost a brother, so there's no supposed way to identify what makes someone without any value.
That never meant not seeing what it could be, however. He could never count the number of men and women he's gunned down, ones that were deemed things to be eliminated, not human beings with souls. That's another aspect he has to think about — this job. His skills determine how much value he has to the people around him, the ones moving him around from place to place like a pawn. Never one to mind it, not after losing everything he ever loved, abandoning the concept of existing as an entity, having a use seemed like the only viable option for him. That, or dying prematurely. Sometimes it seems like he's just an organ donor; a corpse giving parts of himself for the better of others. He's feared, made his name in respect and terror in equal measure, and while death has always clung to him like second skin, as long as he's alive and mobile, he can still do something. The juxtaposition appears when he's confronted with people who can't — veterans, soldiers knocked down but not fallen, that still breathe and live with their own worth somewhat attached; he couldn't label them the same as he does himself. The explanation always appears when he's confronted with reality.
Each time he goes out there, he's faced with an option. It happens whenever he's put on a team — responsible, shouldering the weight of the people looking up to him for direction, guidance. He sees their faces, oftentimes hopeful and still full of things he's shed, and cannot bring himself to watch that fire extinguished. Has to do something, become a shield, an unmovable object meant to guard and protect, even when he sometimes can't. Those moments are the worst; when his attempts become futile — showing only that even if he has a use, it's not always one that brings results. He's flawed, damaged beyond repair, and barely choking down breaths at times. It's why he needs to be alone. Needs to free himself of this ridiculous concept that he could ever bring something good through his actions; when all he manages to bring is more death. Deluding himself is objectively useless, means nothing in the face of the horror's he experiences on a daily basis. They never let him forget what a true reality looks like.
141 is different, in a way. It's still a team, meaning liability, but it works, and it's mesmerizing to watch. Each time he feels that tell-tale pull to other people, he does his best to cut that string off before it ties itself around his wrist. It's an effort worth commending, but just as most things, completely futile. Price sucks Ghost right into his orbit and doesn't let go, warm smile taking away the monster's looming in the corners of his mind for just a moment. At times when he's shaking, gulping down air like it's salvation, with wetness soaking up his mask, he has a fleeting want for John to grab, embrace him firmly and let those tears soak up his unbreakable shield. Never one to voice those things out loud, he commits himself to another purpose — he will complete every mission Price tasks him with, just because he can, and it shows that he's not worthless to someone else. Someone whose care and concern reaches further than the molten rocks in Earth's core. When his captain brings more men into the team, he follows; obedient and devoted, however simple-minded that may be. There is no bone for him here, just the promise of shelter from rain and husky winds, never leaving him be.
Kyle is brilliant, and Ghost is yet again reminded of all those other flames he's failed to stop from burning out. He refuses to fail again, even if it means he has to look in the eyes of the phantom in his mirror, not flinch, and allow him to take control. Gaz has yet to give up on life, has so much force and power it knocks Ghost breathless, at times; and he understands. Price watches him with the same eyes, something akin to wonder, and they both — silently, make the vow to keep him raging. There's another thing about the young sergeant that strikes Simon like a typhoon; he never looks at him like he's a threat, a monster meant to run away from. He stares with respect, admiration, often coupled with friendly and careful touches, filling Ghost with warmth and an uncomfortable, itching need to get away. Yet he never does, forever the masochist. It's almost terrifying how quickly these two man burrowed themselves under his skin, seemingly feeling safe there — and that single reason, one he created in his head, makes it a necessity to keep going, even, and especially — if it kills him.
That sacrifice would make it worth it, he thinks. All the deplorable, horrific acts he's committed; the people he loved now living inside him as ghosts, haunting a museum nobody bothers to look at — it would all be cleansed with his rotting corpse buried deep in the ground, body filled with bullets fired and meant for the men he decided to dedicate his life to. He doesn't have a home, a life, not really. The appointed apartment he received from Price is nothing more than symbolism, its emptiness matching the one inside of him. No one to mourn him, no one to come back for, the only way out being the salvation in the form of having to no longer think, to stop this meaningless existence and finally be put to rest.
Things change, after Soap.
It starts small, as usual. The way the Scot invites himself into his space with no prompting, forever unaware of the danger he's trying to pull into his life. He's lively as well, but in a different way than Gaz. Johnny is a blaze, a hurricane brought to this planet with the clear intention of wreaking havoc and totaling everything in his path, including Ghost. He fits with them, is the problem. Price's exasperation aside, Soap has earned this, and everyone with functioning eyes can see it. It doesn't help matters that he blends in the dynamic like butter, smoothing things over — crackling when fired up. The sergeants are immediately close, and the Captain has decided long before Simon managed to blink that this one is a permanent stay. He doesn't know why the thought makes him angry, the first time it appears. It might have something to do with Ghost's innate fear, one that drives him to do anything he does; or the way Johnny's eyes light up like fireworks whenever something blows up. He decidedly ignores the second option, deeming it reckless and stupid, before once more being forced to accept reality and welcome the new addition with his usual attitude.
They hit it off, which only serves to make things worse. No matter how hard Ghost pulls, Soap pushes. It is ingrained in the way they interact, and after enough time, the silence between them — however brief — starts suffocating him. The Scot's smile lights up the room, blindness overcoming him, a man stumbling around in the dark finally seeing something at the end of the tunnel. It's not romantic, and he vehemently denies it even to himself, but he can no longer deny that this — whatever is happening between them, is important. Once it starts with Johnny, there's no end to it with everyone else. He wakes up, with dreams so different from the ones he's used to; no longer the bloodied corpses of his family lay at his feet, now it's them. Soap is the star attraction, most nights, but they all appear, making it more and more difficult to hold himself together. For so long he's refused to claim the right to something like a heart, but now the control has slipped from his fingers, like this team of fellow soldiers have become a catalyst for his ultimate downfall. Simon seeks them out, instinctively, drawn like a moth whenever one is near. He waits, patiently, for the hammer to drop — for them to snap, putting the dog back in his cage, tied with a leash, but it never happens. In fact, if he didn't know better, he'd say they enjoy his presence, even if it is just a looming shadow of a ghost, haunting the halls of their base and making itself known only in the vicinity of its hosts. They don't question him, welcoming this husk with open arms, careful and sparse touches that leave a brand in his skin, and rely on him to be their Ghost. Their lieutenant, their protector. He gets sloppy, at one point. Allows himself a moment to soak up their attention, starved and leaping at it the second the muzzle falls off, letting the possibility of a sliver of happiness to seep into his bones.
He should've known better. It doesn't take long for it all to fall apart.
He's bleeding, which is a novelty revelation that gets ignored; considering the amount of rage and pure, visceral need for violence swimming in his veins, the wounds he suffers are the least of his concerns.
Getting ambushed is something they experience a lot, and they've developed enough strategies to always come out on top, no casualties or men left behind. It worked, so far. Should've this time as well, but instead the rest of 141 is stranded at the far end of a shitty, rundown base, and Ghost is on the opposite side.
They've already lost comms, the last thing being heard was a stern order from Price to stay away, to get in touch with base and provide backup, but he's not sure if there's anything that the Captain could've said that would've made him actually listen. He was on his feet in an instant, soldiers quickly overwhelming the area, but it's like he turned himself off. The only allowed part of him being the one that has served him well in the past — the one that ruins, destroys, all in the name of something better. Blood is rushing to his ears, blocking his vision and making him hyper-focused on one, particular task; the dead bodies laying at his feet notwithstanding. He hears bones crunch, voices screaming out in pain, but he pays them no mind. Neither does he stop to bother with the wounds slowly covering his body, adrenaline doing its job by keeping him awake and mobile. Getting closer, he's in earshot of more gunshots, warbled sounds seeming familiar to him — enough to pick up speed and leave carnage in his wake. When he comes to, barely and still with a certain degree of madness clouding his senses, the team is in his line of sight, still breathing.
The relief knocks him off his feet, literally. Firing one last round into a soldier charging towards Soap, he feels his body his the ground, breath flying out in a winded cough. His unmoving form doesn't stay that way for long, and soon he's being scooped up by a pair, or maybe more; of arms, gently lifting him up and supporting his mass. He groans, pain making itself finally known and spreading through his body like wildfire, but if there's anything he could be described as, it's stubborn. Opening his eyes, he needs to see them; needs to know he's done his job, protected and gave his life for someone who's worth it, but instead of gratitude, or maybe happiness at his decaying form, he sees panic. Gaz's face scrunched up and twisted, Price yelling into comms and stomping around like the ground might give in under his might; and Soap — who's hands cradle Simon's head and look down with barely concealed tears in his eyes. Jaw tight, he keeps rubbing a thumb down Ghost's temple, comforting him and murmuring words under his nose. His brain has lost the capacity for understanding what he's saying, and his face contorts in confusion and misery. Isn't this what was supposed to happen? Wasn't this meant to be a good thing?
His team's crazed and desperate features appearing just before he closes his eyes will haunt him forever.
They get him out, somehow. He hears people tell him that he's lucky, to have survived so much trauma, that they managed to bring him back, when he eventually crashed. Ghost's silent all the while, not understanding why this keeps happening. He tries to rationalize this, that maybe he still has a chance to be their shadow, help them when they need it, but there's an exhaustion seeping into his marrow that screams that he's had enough; rotting in medical bay doesn't last long, and soon he's bombarded with his team. Gaz and Soap talk, a lot, about everything and nothing in particular, not letting out a single peep about what occurred on the mission; he thinks that maybe they hadn't figured it out yet, but Price's knowing and heavy gaze speaks of the opposite. It spells out something quite simple, for him — something that he hasn't realized until now.
As long as you keep us alive, we'll do the same for you.
If he has to blink rapidly and shove his half-masked face into the comforter, nobody mentions it. They scoot closer, burrowing him in their warmth, heart frozen solid starting to slowly come back to life.
