Ghost never requests leave. It's easier like that, he learned. Asking for anything at all has Shepherd putting him down like a dog on a leash.
He rests when it's requested of him, which is almost never, and he does what he's told so his goons are off his back.
He doesn't know better, after all, hasn't since he was taken in after barely digging himself out of his own grave.
His COs usually don't question it, or maybe they're too busy managing an entire cluster of soldiers to notice absolutely everything, but he's been slipping through their fingers ever since returning to the service.
With how often he was relocated and settled into new teams, it wasn't hard to stay under their radar.
It's not like he has anywhere to go. Dead men can't buy a house, can't even rent, nor can they even own a thing. He'd gotten used to it.
Which is why the 141 was such a mystery to him. For years and years he'd reported back to Shepherd, got his tasks from him, reprimanded by him, was given some rare praise by him, and suddenly, he had the attention of ten or more people on him.
They noticed.
And at one point, someone must have given word to Captain MacTavish - the only one Ghost had ever witnessed metaphorically spitting in the General's face and getting away with it -, because he didn't know why else he'd be called to his office.
And no matter how hard he tried to argue against it, he was granted leave he hadn’t even requested. MacTavish had a stern look on his face when telling him none of his soldiers would go without a break. An angry stare that he couldn't help but feel wasn't entirely directed at him, and it still internally made him shrink down to nothing.
There were no records of him anybody but Shepherd had access to. There was no way he could possibly know. Nobody knew anything about The Ghost, because he wasn't allowed to be a person, and certainly didn't want to risk it.
And yet the revelation caused static in his mind, and he couldn't hear past the ringing in his ears, couldn't remember whether he comfirmed it or not, walked on autopilot until his meager belongings were packed, and left. Staying on base was not an option, and he could vaguely remember someone telling him tho have a good time.
They didn't know. He couldn’t bring himself to tell them, lest they'd be put in danger... because of him.
Part of him was relieved to finally taste a tiny bit of freedom, to not have someone at his back every hour of the day. The rest of him was overly aware of the consequences once he returned. Every night he curled around himself tighter, heart squeezing from the anxiety, wishing he could have gone on a solo mission instead.
Freedom meant nothing to him. Freedom was a lie. At the end of the road, he was still on a leash, and snapping meant it'd simply be pulled tighter, no matter how angry or desperate he got.
There was a lingering hope in him that maybe this team would be different, but he killed the flame as soon as it began glimmering, too untrusting of even himself.
He was aching
He was cold.
Saw this post by @mala--draws and got inspired!! Whether there is a happy ending or not is up to the reader. <3
