Soap falls to the ground in a bloodied heap, feels warm sticky blood gushing out of his chest. He’s almost sick with it as he drags himself along the wet, concrete ground, leaving a red trail in his wake.
He’s gasping and breathing heavily and just trying to not to fucking loose himself when ghosts voice is suddenly on the comms, a hint of panic laced within his flat voice.
“Soap, this is Ghost. How copy?”
Johnny smiles a bit and winces at the pain that follows, completely out of everything. The world is slowly turning into a slurry of colors, but Ghost’s voice grounds him— all silk and sturdy mahogany.
“Simon,” he croaks, and he’s so delirious that that’s all he can muster, and he says the name again, like a prayer. “Simon”
“Oi, Johnny, whats going on? Are you compromised?”
Johnny nods, before remembering Simon can’t see him. God, he wishes Simon were here now, there’s so many things he wanted to tell him, so many things he wanted to do.
“Aye Simon… I’m uh— ah” he grunts as he pushes himself up against an alleyway wall, now leaning over his bleeding wound. “—losin’ blood. Too much, I think” His last sentence is hoarse; he feels the strength seeping out of him by the second… he might’ve knicked an artery back there, damnit
“Johnny stay with me, yeah?” Ghost says, gruffly. “Auxiliaries coming; it’d be a shame to lose you now”
Johnny grins. It’s a morbid thing… he’s got his hands splayed over his abdomen, desperately trying to stay his rampant blood loss, and he’s completely drenched in it. And here he is fucking beaming his ass off. “Careful there, Lt”, he says, wetly. “Might—“ he coughs, “—might think you like me….”
There’s a beat, then: “I like you alive, sarge.”
Johnny warms up inside out from that comment and grins harder. His visions starting to blank out in places. The rag he’s tied tightly around himself is soaked through.
“Heh… You’re gonnae make me blush, Lt…. Bet ya— bet ya get all the ladies with that one…” His voice is rough and broken, and his accent is more pronounced than ever. Each word he says is an effort of unimaginable focus. He narrows his eyes, trying to concentrate, trying not to fall to the sway of the void, beckoning him.
Before Simon can reply like the quick witted bastard he is, Johnny mumbles, “Thank ye, though… I,” he pauses; his breath hitches and he closes his eyes in pain. “—I s’pose I like ya alive too, Simon…” he keeps going though, babbling incoherently, “actually like ya in lots o’ ways, wish I could’ve—ah— wish I could’ve told ya…”
“Hey Johnny, stay here— don’t fall asleep, yeah? Swear I’ll even fuckin show ya my face if you do”
“Really?” Johnny says in between breaths. “Scouts… scouts prom—promise…?”
He’s crying now, tears streaming unabashedly down his face. He doesn’t know why (but he does). He wishes he had more time with Simon; more time to love.
“‘Course Johnny”, and ghost sounds a little broken too, a little softer. “Anything you want, always.”
“Aye Simon…” he breathes. “Can’ wait ta see yer ugly mug…”
Johnnys seeing stars and he’s drifting in and out of awareness. He thinks he hears someone talking panicked in the distance… but all he can really focus on is the calming lull of sleep. He wants to give in to it, to give in to the hazy galaxies dotting his eyesight.
In his ear, someone yells:
“Price is here Johnny! Where are you, damnit!”
And then, Johnny is looking up and price is there, of all people, lifting him up and dragging him off to a helo. He’s in the sky and he’s surrounded by medics, and shit, is that Ghost? The world really is going dark now, and he wearily lets go to the blackness whispering in his mind.
When he wakes up back on base, Ghost is there, sitting in a tiny ass chair in the corner of the cramped hospital room.
warnings: nightmares, PTSD, graphic gore, mention and brief depiction of suicide
length: 6,008
summary: Ghost can't stop dreaming, always. They're getting bad. He's loosing pieces of himself and he can't take it anymore. Luckily, Soap is there, ready and waiting with two fancy glasses.
A/N: Make sure to look over the warnings! Anyways, this may or may jot be a vent post... Of you squint... A lot. Also, don't "take care" of yourself like Simon jfc
"Hell's bells, it's bloody boilin' oot there," Johnny whines, stretching himself out on the scratched up wooden floor with a groan. He's long since forgone his shirt, the top tossed carelessly somewhere over the couch. "Th' floor ain't even braw nae more."
"English, MacTavish."
Soap gives him a rather crude look.
"It's really fuckin' hot. Floor isn't cold," he spits, the anger more directed at the sun rather than Ghost. "Ah just ken yer aboot to burn, L.T," Soap stresses, ruling onto his stomach.
"Can it, Johnny."
Although in all fairness, Soap is right. Ghost's mask is a sopping puddle at the base of his neck, under his jaw, and around his hairline. The desert isn't exactly accepting of black cloth wrapped around his face.
He doesn't know why they're here, doesn't know their mission and the details and whatnot, but he does know Johnny is with him.
That's all he cares about.
He busies himself with cleaning his rifle, back to Soap as he keeps his eyes on the void-like horizon out of the window.
"Ghost…" Johnny whines, and Ghost rolls his eyes, ignoring him.
The heat is unbearable as is, he doesn't need bitching along with it.
"L.t." Johnny says again, voice high and tight. "'t's hot…"
Ghost huffs obnoxiously to get his point across for Johnny to shut the hell up.
"It hurts, Simon."
And, fuck, that pinched and ragged tone, the way Johnny's fighting for every word, makes Ghost whip around so fast he might have whiplash.
"Johnny-"
The words get caught in his throat, and he can't breathe anymore.
Soap's burning.
Johnny is on fire.
"Johnny!" The name tears from him before he can help it, and he's scrambling from the window to save him and-
Christ, Soap is screaming. Screaming bloody murder as the smell of charred flesh and thick smoke fill up the safe house. He's screaming and screaming and burning and Simon can't stop him, can't put him out-
Johnny is going to die.
He rushes to the sink, stumbling over himself on the way there, but the faucet is busted and dry as the desert they're in.
The screaming isn't stopping, not even letting up, and he's going to go deaf with the sound of Johnny fucking burning alive.
All of a sudden, Ghost is screaming too. He is in agony, his shoulder flaring up with the heat of the sun. He forces himself to turn around, to find why it hurts so much.
Soap is grabbing at him, at his shoulders, scrambling for a hold but… He isn't Soap anymore. He's not Johnny.
But Ghost knows him.
It's a civilian, one from years ago. A young boy, barely twelve. And he's still fucking on fire.
"Why didn't you save me?!" the boy screams, reaching for Ghost, reaching to set him ablaze, reaching for help.
"I-" and Ghost is gagging on the smell of burned flesh. His throat burns with it, eyes water, and he blinks through it to look around.
I tried.
"Why didn't you save us?!"
And Ghost screws his eyes shut, trying not to breathe.
I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry.
He hears the boy choke on his last breath, hears him crumble into the dust. He makes the mistake of forcing his eyes open, to see where they are, to find Johnny again.
There are people all around him, each one of them lit up like a bonfire.
He's with Roba again.
Simon can feel the way his heart drops.
Please, not again. I can't go through this again.
Simon starts to run- run as fast as his legs will let him.
He doesn't get far.
He screams when a metal hook tears through his back and out in front of his ribs. Caught, like a fish on a line.
His fingers claw at the dirt, the screams now choking in his throat as he dragged backwards, back towards the burning, towards him.
Roba pulls him closer, like he were nothing more than a tug-of-war rope. And no matter how hard Simon claws into the dirt, how hard he forces himself to breath through the agony, how hard he begs-
He can't escape.
Simom wakes up screaming so loudly that he can feel it tearing the inside of his throat raw. With the tail end of a plea on his lips, he crashes to the floor, his legs tangled up all kinds of ways in his thin sheets.
Christ alive, he can't breathe. He can't even move and fuck-
One of his hands clutch at his pounding heart while the other claws against the floor in hopes of escaping him.
He needs to get away, needs to get out of here as fast as possible- but his legs won't move right and he can only crawl so far with one lousy hand and he just can't get any traction-
The door slams open, rattling on its hinges, and the room floods with blinding light. Someone's yelling, and he barely makes out, "Get down!"
Simon can't see. He can't see. Can't move or breathe and some is yelling, and he's fucking terrified, so he buries his head in his hands and curls up into a ball the best he can.
He feels like he needs to vomit out whatever is caught in his throat so he can catch a breath, to rip his heart out of his chest just so it'll slow down, to carve out his brain so the screaming will stop.
"Ghost?! Creepin' Jesus, what's-"
"Ghost? Ghost where-" the yelling pauses, catches itself in the air before settling into a low, hurried, murmur. "Ah, hell- Simon…" The door cracks almost shut, and the voice orders, "Go on back to your barracks! False alarm, everything's fine."
But it's not. It's not fucking fine because he knows he knows that voice, but he can't place it, can't stop hyperventilating to put a face to it-
The voice doesn't speak up again, and there's footsteps, a few, that shuffle away and down the hall.
And, eventually, somewhere in the midst of the calming chaos, his ears stop ringing. The high pitched whining fades away, and after a moment, his vision slowly clears. The black fuzz in his peripherals let up and nothing is blurry. He blinks, and notices the lights in the room aren't as assaulting.
"You with me, soldier?" Price murmurs from where he's crouched down across the room.
Simon opens his mouth to say he's fine, but all he can do is choke on his breath.
"Hey there, easy, Simon. You're alright," Price soothes, a sad look in his eyes. "Just breathe, kid. No rush."
¤¤¤¤¤
When he does calm down and he's no longer in his head, he speaks. His voice is gravelly and raw and it hurts just a bit, but Ghost speaks.
"What was with the bloody search party? Everyone wakes up yellin' now and then. Comes with the fuckin' territory."
Price presses his lips into a thin line as he hands Ghost his mask.
"Yeah, but not everyone begs for their life. Certainly not you, Simon." The name earns him a harsh, tired glare.
"I wasn't…" he feels his lips curl down more without his permission, the nightmare still whispering its giggles in the back of his mind. "I wasn't begging for anything. I don't beg."
Price gives him an odd look, one he's seen before but can't quite place.
He's fucking sick of that, not being able to place what he's experienced before.
"What were you dreaming about?"
Ghost clenches his jaw instantly, trapping his confession far behind his teeth. He beats the words down until they are nothing but a speck deep inside. Buries them together into the ground, in an unmarked grave, in the middle of nowhere.
Price runs a slightly shaking hand through his tousled hair and sighs, "Don't do this to yourself anymore. Just one word, that's all I need."
Ghost closes his eyes, and the image of Johnny and the boy and flames and the hook flash in the darkness. He shoots them open and feels his breath stutter in his throat.
Ghost can't. He won't. He's not that god damn pathetic.
"It's alright, son."
Fuck it all.
What else is he supposed to do but talk? How can he say nothing when Price talks to him like that? Like he's worth waking up for?
"Roba," he whispers like a curse.
And Price understands, because of course he does.
¤¤¤¤¤
He has another terrible one within the next week.
It's his fault this time. He should know better- he does know better.
It's all because tries to sleep with a weighted blanket.
Ghost figures he needs a tiny, controllable change. Besides, he read somewhere that the weight would help him sleep soundly.
God knows he needs a good night's rest.
So he wills himself to go out into the world off base and brave his local 24 hour convenience store for the stupid thing. He buys the first one he sees that isn't psychedelic and bleeding with color. It weighs a good 20 pounds through the whole blanket, but Ghost figures he's a lot to cover.
After an odd look from the short man at the register, Ghost goes back to the base to call it a day, a bit bitter from the silent interaction.
So what if he buys blankets an hour after midnight? Piss off.
He just… Wants to sleep everything away.
And so he tucks in for the night, hopeful, swapping the military grade sheet for his new weighted blanket that, actually, is quite nice. Eventually, after forcing every muscle to relax one by one, he falls blissfully asleep.
Soap's stupid mohawk was a mess of blood as he was dragged, kicking and begging, through the mud. Ghost was murdering men left and right to get to him, killing without a thought to save him, the blood soaking into his hands, leaving nothing but thin scars behind.
And then he sees it; the all too familiar grave. Unmarked and hardly four feet, just like he remembers.
And the Sergeant- Soap, MacTavish, John, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny- is carelessly tossed like a rag doll right into that grave.
And Ghost dives after him.
He has to save him because he couldn't save everyone else.
He has to.
But he can't.
Now that they're here, he can't get them out.
The dirt is piling on top of them too quickly, and he can't dig them free fast enough and Johnny is screaming and crying and fighting and-
And then he's silent. Quiet as the earth.
Ghost searches for him, wide-eyed despite the dirt all around him. And he sees. He sees his Johnny.
Sees that he's a corpse.
Rotted, at that. Old- days old, at least. There's no grin on his melted face anymore, no glint of mischief in his rolling eyes.
Ghost is too late. None of his sacrifices matter.
Still, he tries.
He tries to get out, scrapes and digs and hopes to get free, get on top, look down at the grass.
But he's only getting deeper- so, so much deeper- into the ground and he doesn't know why, he doesn't understand how-
It's Soap. It's Johnny. He's digging the wrong way, rotted flesh and tiny bones scraping in the wrong direction.
"Other way!" Simon shouts past the dirt in his mouth.
And John stops, skin sliding off of his face as he rattles his bones at Simon, unable to talk with his lips a puddle in the hole they're in. But he sees it, Johnny's wicked smile of teeth and a touch of gums.
Hears it, when he speaks into his brain: Oh? But, Simon, hell is this way.
¤¤¤¤¤
He's going to personally hunt down the author of the book that told him weighted blankets were a good idea.
Hell, maybe they are a good idea. At least, for anyone who doesn't dream of being buried alive.
The clock tells him it's been hardly two hours, but his body says it's been a lifetime.
Everything aches, more than normal, but he can't manage to sit still with these nerves eating at his skin. It feels like he's clutching a live wire instead of his pillow that's planted in front of his stomach and held up by his arms and knees.
It's going to be a long fucking day.
¤¤¤¤¤
He was right.
The day drags on forever.
By the end of it, Ghost considers killing everyone in the building, and then himself.
He feels too big for his skin, like he has to shed it like a snake, grow another one that's a better fit. Every breath he takes, he forces it to be slow and deliberate, focusing on filling his lungs completely.
Ghost spends most of the day in the gym. He tried working on what little paper work he's yet to do, but the words kept blending together and dancing from the page. And even if he wrangled them back, they weren't sticking. He had to read the same line four or five times in a row because his brain decided that English wasn't going to work today.
So he stays his ass in the gym.
Can't think if everything hurts, can you?
He starts with the treadmill and sprints for a mile, until his knees threaten to give way and he nearly slips. He moves, shaking, to the bench press, and makes the choice to work on lighter weights so he doesn't need a spotter. When that isn't clearing his mind, he makes his final destination the punching bag.
Maybe he gets lost in his head regardless. Maybe he loses himself. Maybe he bends a finger.
He only stops when Price practically drags him into the kitchen, still sweaty and gross and dead on his feet.
It wouldn't have been all too bad, if Price had kept the silence going.
"Therapy is a normal thing, Ghost, especially in this line of work. Everyone on the task force goes, even Kate."
And Ghost knows this. He knows how much it has helped Soap through the aftermath of Las Almas and Hassan and everything before, in between, and after.
Ghost knows therapy worked for them.
And he knows he's too damaged for therapy to fix.
Ghost moves his jaw just enough to pass as a nod, just to appease Price.
He can't find the honey for his tea and he's just a breath away from giving up on it and heading to the sniper range with a raw throat and trembling hands.
He doesn't understand where the honey went. It was right here. He left it right here yesterday morning. It's always right here. Always.
So where the fuck is it?
Price makes a noise, something between clearing his throat and huffing.
Ghost faces him at it, and snags the small container of honey before Price can question him.
Fucks sake, he almost spiralled because of honey.
He's pathetic.
"Where was it?" he murmurs, because it'll drive him up the wall for the rest of the day if he doesn't know.
"On the counter, Ghost. Near the fridge. No need to get ansty over it," Price answers easily before adding just as quick, "you know, I could enforce that therapy be mandatory."
"You wouldn't."
Price wouldn't.
Right?
"But I could."
"You could do anything, sir."
"Except help you, apparently."
"I don't need any help."
"You did with Roba."
The tea scalds his hand when he spills it all over the counter. Seeps into his glove and threatens to burn him alive, and he grits his teeth hard enough to feel his jaw creak. He pulls the glove off with his other shaking hand, and gives a once over to his pale hand that's now quickly turning an irritated shade of pink.
"Simon, at least think about it," Price sighs with the weight of the world. He's already carefully cleaning the hot tea from the counter.
"I have," Ghost bites, moving to the sink.
Price goes quiet as the cool water from the tap runs lightly over Ghost's hand, over his oddly bent finger. Ghost hopes that the conversation is over. He knows it's not.
"New orders, soldier."
Ghost takes a breath, stiffening and resisting the muscle memory of moving at attention, or at least parade rest.
"Sir?"
"You're drinking with the 141 at the end of this month."
Ghost lets himself whip his head around, and he can feel the fire in his eyes, the protest on his tongue.
"Don't cut me off."
And Ghost clenches his jaw to shut himself up.
Price hardly ever pulls rank on his team; he doesn't need to, with the respect the 141 has for him regardless. This? This right here is the closest he ever gets.
Price quietly huffs, looking over Ghost's hand that's still under running cool water.
Price holds the tone he always has when he's discussing the workings of a mission. "You'll drink with us, here on base in Soap's office. You'll try to enjoy yourself. Then, after two hours, you can peel off. Fuck about for all I care, but stay involved for two hours, at lease. Understood?"
Ghost thinks the old man has gone fucking senile.
"Understood."
"Involved, Ghost. Offer your two cents here. Say a shitty joke there. Have a drink or two."
"Sir."
Price huffs again, his mustache twitching with the force of it. He carefully cradles Ghost's burned hand. He's got a rag, wets it with the cool water, and lays it gingerly over Ghost's hand.
"Just… Consider it, Simon. Really, this time." Price murmurs, patting Ghost's shoulder with his dry hand. "And get your ass to medical before you terrorize the gym again."
Ghost doesn't know if he wants to strangle the man or hug him.
¤¤¤¤¤
They're standing on Ghost's favorite watch tower, Soap and Ghost, overlooking the quiet woods behind the base.
Johnny had wanted to see his knife collection, and for some godforsaken reason, Ghost shows him.
And as Ghost hands Johnny his favorite one, perfectly balanced and sharper than the devil's tongue, Johnny speaks something dangerous.
"I love you, Simon."
And Simon startles, gasps quietly as his heart beats faster and faster.
Is that just how it is? Effortlessly said, as if those words haven't been plaguing him for months? As if it's really just that easy?
Simon hopes so. Hopes that it comes naturally to him like it does to Johnny.
But he knows better than to hope.
There's not love in the world for people like him.
"Let me show you how much I love you," Johnny beams, switching his grip on Ghost's knife.
"Johnny…?"
Johnny stabs himself just above his navel with Ghost's knife, the slick shhk of the blade echoing in the abyss as Simon can do nothing but watch.
Blood pools over John's hips, down his strong legs, puddles at his feet, but the man is standing there, smiling and looking at Simon like he just hung the moon.
"John- Johnny," Simon forces, rising from his spot on the ground, trembling hands refusing to move from his sides.
"I have a gift for you," John smiles, like he isn't forcing the blade up his torso, carving himself open like a fish. He flexes what's left of his abs, and his small intestines tumble out of him like a massive snake. They fall on the floor at first, but a section somewhere in the middle tips over the side, and gravity sends the organ free falling from the edge of the watchtower, and his large intestines peek out from behind John's flesh. "Ready for it?"
Simon doesn't speak. He can't, mesmerized by how Johnny's free hand pulls the rest of his intestines free like they were as normal as rope.
Johnny then holds the bloodied blade between his teeth, taints those perfectly pearly whites, and uses both hands to dig inside himself.
His left kidney, maybe his pancreas, and his liver are carelessly tossed onto the floor. And Johnny is still smiling at him from beyond that knife. Standing there playing Operation on himself with hearts in his fucking eyes.
With a handful of yanks, his lungs are pulled free, dropped to the floor like the others. They're still functioning, too; expanding and relaxing, providing oxygen for a body a yard away.
And then finally, finally, he tugs his heart out of place with a fond chuckle from behind the blade.
He passes Ghost his heart tenderly, both of John's hands cradling it like it was the most precious thing in the world. And, fuck, it is. Of course it is. Simon tenderly takes the still-beating heart into one of his hands. The rhythmic beating of it sings to Simon, lulls him into a trace.
It's not bloody, Simon notices numbly. It almost seems to be glowing, even. Perfect and radiant and lively, all beautifully John Mactavish.
And Ghost crushes it.
Closes his hand in a fist so suddenly, so violently, that Soap's heart practically explodes.
He doesn't feel a thing when he does so. Blanky watches as Soap's face pales impossibly further, and his lungs, that are still on the floor, stop filling up.
Soap's dying.
He's murdered Johnny without a second thought.
Funny, how that works.
He really is a monster.
Simon wakes up with wet cheeks and blurry eyes. He gasps, shaking and silent. Tears slip down his face again when he blinks away the teasing remnants of the dream.
He gets his bearings together relatively quickly, but not even honeyed tea could stop the shaking in his hands.
He avoids Mactavish for the entire day.
It comes with a little bit of trouble, as the man sticks to him like glue, but Ghost manages. It's his job to disappear, to be a ghost, to be dead.
But fucking hell, maybe Mactavish is a medium.
Ghost will catch glimpses of him, in the mess, in the bath, in the gym, the range, the track, the gym again, the barracks hallway, near Price's office- everywhere.
He eventually gets cornered when he has to take a fucking piss.
Ghost hears Soap coming from miles away, but it doesn't matter. The determination in the man's steps alone make him huff as he tucks himself away.
Hell, Ghost is already running from his past. Adding MacTavish to that list isn't helping him.
He starts washing his hands the best he can with the small splint medical gave him when he feel eyes on his back.
"Sergeant," he murmurs.
There's a scoff, full of bravado and vinegar. "Lieutenant."
Ghost feels his jaw shift as he cuts the water to dry his hands. The bitterness in his chest at the title, foreign coming from Johnny, processes.
He's being hypocritical. This is how Johnny must feel.
"Can I help you?" Ghost says anyway.
"Can I help ye, he says," Soap grin to himself but it doesn't reach his eyes, doesn't sit right with his snarky tone. "Aye, ye can bother t' explain why ye've been dodgin' me like th' bloody plague."
Because I don't want to hurt you.
Because you're important.
Because I'm scared.
Ghost sniffs once, tossing the paper towels into the trash.
"Need some time to myself. Ain't nothin' personal, Johnny."
At that, Soap loses some of that tension in his shoulders, stops looking like a caged dog. He lets out the smallest of breaths.
"Aye…" he murmurs, hesitating. He licks over his bottom lip- Johnny often does that when he isn't sure what to say, tries to taste the words before deciding to serving them out or not- and takes a glance at the suddenly interesting floor. "Just… ah'm here, ye know? If… Ah don't know… If ye don't want time to yerself for too long."
"Yeah…" Simon lets out, accidentally. He recovers quickly, or tries to, anyway. "We'll see."
And Johnny licks his lips again, after a quiet nod. But he doesn't say anything. Maybe he didn't like the taste of his words this time.
¤¤¤¤¤
He dreams again and again. Always, he dreams.
Most recently, he dreams of Johnny.
Simon can't stand it.
It's affecting his waking moments now. It's making him affect Soap's waking moments.
After dreaming of that night in Chicago, of missing that shot on Hassan, of watching, hearing Johnny fall just about 50 stories to his death, Ghost spent a week straight making sure Soap stayed away from the high watch towers. He went as far as swapping patrols or having something 'suddenly come up' that 'needs the Sergeant right fucking now'.
After dreaming of missing Hassan, and shooting Johnny, he trained for hours and hours straight at the sniper range, foregoing meals and drinks and piss breaks just to make sure that his aim was perfect every time. Soap was forced to waste his evening by slowly convincing Simon that enough was enough, that he needed to eat, drink water, and get some fucking rest.
After dreaming that Johnny blew up into dozens of pieces of meat chunks protecting him, Simon had a panic attack when Soap was at the demo-range and an explosion went off. Despite not even a cut on him, Ghost forced Soap to medical (once his own breathing was stable enough). He banned an outraged Soap from the range for two days.
Once, he dreamed that Johnny killed himself. Put a barrel in his mouth and looked at Simon. Pulled the trigger without hesitating. Simon knew, just knew, it was his fault.
After every dream of Johnny dying in front of him, or worse, by his hands, Simon crumbles. Loses another piece of himself.
He doesn't know how many pieces of himself he has left to lose.
¤¤¤¤¤
When the night comes to drink, Ghost considers going AWOL.
Thinks about staying true to his call sign and vanishing into thin air, never seen again. He plans it out, even, knows what little to bring, what time to leave, where to walk to.
He stares at the mask he wears on base, just the balaclava with the infamous skull print. His gloved thumb runs over where a piece of the jaw design is cracking. He shifts his own jaw in time with his thumb.
Maybe there's no Simon left, he thinks, delusional.
Maybe it's just Ghost, after everything.
Now would be the time to slip away, Ghost reminds himself, and his grip on the mask tightens, threateningly pulling at the jaw bone design.
Now.
He slips the mask over his head, and slowly breathes. He considers.
The faint smell of cigar smoke worms its way under his door and into his room. He hears Gaz laugh somewhere down the hallway, hears Soap's soft footsteps padding towards his room.
No.
He stands wearily, takes another deliberate breath, and stalks to the door.
There's a knock, just as his hand reaches for the knob. A familiar pattern, one that makes him force a feeling that could possibly be described as giddiness down into the abyss behind his ribcage.
Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock.
He could still run. Now's the very last chance he'll get. Johnny won't let him out of his sights when this night starts. Ghost should vanish- it's now or never.
He swallows past the sting of bile in his throat and returns with a quiet knock of his own.
Knock, knock.
He hears Soap laugh quietly on the other side.
Never, he choses. Never.
Ghost opens his door, and there is Soap, leaning against the wall with a grin so wide that it could crack his face. His eyes brighten when he sees Ghost. His grin drops a little when he sees what look Simon has in his eyes.
Johnny furrows his brows slightly, darts his eyes up and down in a quick one-two.
Ye alreit?
Ghost shifts his jaw before steps into Johnny's space, just a little.
I'll be fine.
Johnny squints at him before dropping the silent conversation. He pushes himself off the wall and starts talking about a new project he's working on at the demolitions range.
Ghost follows him to his office, and hangs on every word.
¤¤¤¤¤
Soap's 'office' is more of a play room than anything, all regulation thrown to the wind.
Spotless, but filled with personal trinkets and such. Soap reminds Ghost of a crow, collecting little shiny things to bring home to show others. It would be almost cute if Ghost would allow himself to think that way.
Gaz isn't here, though. Neither is Price or Laswell, or anyone else.
Just him and Johnny.
He doesn't think about it too much, because if he does, he knows it's the old man's fault.
Johnny doesn't pay any mind to the lack of the other three, and instead buries his head around his thousand-and-some shelves to find 'the right glasses'.
"What are we drinkin'?" Ghost asks when the sound of rummaging starts to grate on his nerves.
"Oh, he does speak. Bless th' Saints, ah thought ye went mute,'' Johnny grins at him. Ghost narrows his eyes. Maybe he should have ran. The hum Johnny gives while pretending to think on it, possibly, changes his mind again. "Daiquiris," he settles on.
"What?"
"Ye know, those fruity, fancy cocktails."
Ghost could walk out the door right now. He should.
"Fuckin' hell, Johnny," Ghost drawls, casting his gaze to the draw that seemed to be the one Johnny was looking for, if his air fist bump was anything to go by. He pulls out two daiquiris glasses, one of them clear around the middle up and with the base a cool blue. The other- "What the fuck."
Johnny laughs at that and holds the other glass up proudly. It's hot pink with a little touch of purple at the rim and with a mini pink boa scarf at the base.
"Don't like it?" Johnny grins so bright it feels like Ghost is getting flashbanged.
"You would have that," he murmured instead.
"Yeah, yeah. Yer lucky 'm givin' ye the blue one. Gotta keep up yer masculine image, eh?"
"Whatever you say, Johnny," Ghost huffs, settling into the plush spare seat across from the desk. "Make it strong, yeah?"
Johnny hums quietly, his eyes lingering on Ghost's face.
Two hours. That's all he needs before he's calling it a night and fucking off.
¤¤¤¤¤
He doesn't know exactly when he got drunk, but he does know that he ended up with the pink glass two drinks ago. Maybe four.
Johnny isn't wasted like him; the fucker's been nursing his second drink for about an hour.
Right, fuck, he was supposed to leave…
He forces his eyes to drag up to the oddly silent clock on the wall. Ghost remembers Johnny telling him all about how he managed to rig the clock in a way the ticking sound doesn't happen. He said it drove him bat shit crazy, having to hear it over and over again. It was adorable.
Fuck, no, he needs to focus. The clock, the time.
Ghost tries again, squinting at it for extra measure.
Jesus, he was supposed to be out of here three hours ago.
"Ye alreit?" Johnny asks from his spot next to Ghost on the floor. Ghost hums at him in question. "I asked if ye're alreit, Ghost."
Ghost blinks at him, considering the question for an awfully long time, long enough for Johnny to sit up and gain that adorable furrow between his eyebrows.
"L.t? Seriously, are ye okay?"
He takes a small breath.
"Nah," he offers simply, running his hand through his tousled hair.
Simon dropped the mask all of thirty minutes ago. He finally got pissed off about having it bunched up on his nose and abandoned the thing.
Johnny blinked at him a time or two, the gears turning in his head at Ghost actually being honest.
"No?"
"Yeah, no."
Johnny blinks again and that furrow grows.
"Yes?"
"Nah."
"No?"
"Yeah," Simon grins at the stupidness of the conversation.
Johnny shakes his head with an exasperated sigh.
"Alreit, what th' fuck," Johnny tosses his hands up.
And Simon laughs.
He doesn't know that he is laughing until his sides ache with it. Johnny's laughing too, at first in disbelief and then with Simon at the situation. And when Simon comes down from a high he hasn't felt in decades, Johnny is staring at him- through him, deep into what's left of his soul.
"Wha'," Simon slurs, lips morphing into an odd, lazy grin.
"Nothin'."
"Nothin'?"
"Aye." Johnny's eyes linger lightly at his mouth before they harden and he sits up a bit. "Hell, Si, ye've got me all side tracked. This is important."
"Wha's important?"
"Ye are. Ye not bein' alreit," Johnny insists.
"Ah, sure," he murmurs, laying his head back on the side of Soap's desk.
"Ah'm serious," Johnny shifts closer, and Simon's eyes open lazily. "Why aren't ye alreit, Simon?"
Simon.
The abomination almost sounds pretty coming out of Johnny's mouth.
Ghost gets his shit together.
"You wanna know?" Ghost rasps, drinking the rest of his too-sweet daiquiri in his too-frilly glass.
"Aye. If ye'd tell me."
And Ghost gathers his drifting thoughts, pieces them together as he breathes slowly.
"I have killed you… Countless times." Ghost waves his hand simply, almost like he were shooing a fly. "Shot you, stabbed you, lit you on fuckin' fire, made you-" he forces a sharp breath. "Made you off yourself, just like that." His throat is getting tight, and he lifts the glass to his scarred lips again, knowing damn well it was empty.
"Simon," Johnny breathes, slow and steady hands taking the glass from him to set it aside. His hands return quickly, and it's placed on top of Simon's.
"I don't- I won't take it anymore." A sob desperately tries punches through Simon, and he covers his face like the coward he is. "I want to hold you, want to have you, Johnny."
And the fucking gleam in Johnny's eyes could fly Simon to the moon and makes him bring back arm fulls of stars for him.
"But- but everything I touch dies. And I can't… can't lose you to myself." The sob tries Simon again, and this time, it wins. He's crying, and he doesn't know how to stop, and it scares him. Scares him so badly that he can't do anything but press the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn't care that Johnny's hand falls away.
Really. He doesn't. Not… Not at all.
Christ, he is absolutely shameless.
Seriously, has he no pride? Breaking down over a couple of dreams? Crying in front of his Sergeant?
He feels his teeth grind together, feels his skull build up with the pressure of a thousand words, and by God and the devil, he has to let at least some out before they kill him.
"They felt so fuckin' real," he seethes past his locked jaw. "Woke up sometimes, 'n' I didn't bloody know if you were really dead or not. Felt like seein' a ghost everytime we passed."
Johnny's hand comes back, steady and tender, and guides Simon to lessen the pressure on his eyes.
Past the blur left over from the tears and the force, he catches Johnny licking his bottom lip.
"Ah'm not dead. Ye've touched me and ah'm still breathin' jus' fine, Simon. Promise- Swear I am," Johnny carefully caresses Ghost's forearm. "Ah'm not goin' anywhere." He grins a little. "Yer not that lucky to get rid'a me."
Simon takes a deep breath, one that shakes his rib cage and stretches his lungs. With Johnny's encouragement, he breathes slowly.
"Yeah," he murmurs, leaning his shoulder on Johnny's.
"Aye," Johnny agrees, leaning in time with him.
They sit there for some time, taking each other in, feeling each other's warmth. Simon nearly doses off to the feeling of Johnny's chest rising and falling.
"Yer gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow," Johnny chuckles, combing through Simon's hair.
And, honestly, Simon is powerless against the chuckle that breaks through.
Im still sick as hell so here's some comfort Ghost x Soap. Some are cute and funny some are horny and gross. Have fun
Johnny was good at being sick. He went to the doctor and made sure to drink water and get plenty of rest. He even changed the bedding after to make sure he didn't sleep in germs. Simon was A BITCH^tm I'm talking full on grabby hands, refuses to go to the doctor, genuinely cries for soup. "I'm dying Johnny, finish me off." "Simon just go back to sleep. You're not dying." Hates when Johnny bring medicine from the pharmacy because he will force the medicine down his throat. "Take the medicine baby boy, you'll feel better I promise." Simon breaks down crying "No it's nasty." "You're a war criminal why is cherry flavored liquid what does you in?"
Simon takes cooking lessons when he can and loves to feed Johnny. Loves to spoil him with a full meal and the best paired drink he can get his hands on.
Being on the run is hard for them both. They fight more often than not these days. Ghost with his tendency to keep going till he drops and ZERO ability to use a word to describe his emotions ever, Johnny with his need to talk it out as it's happening and not letting anything go until it's broken down to Itty bitty pieces. Hours after they fight and walk off, they're already missing each other like air and will make a beeline and collapse in to each other.
They pass a gun shop that also sells sex toys and if that isn't exactly what does it for them, nothing will. Simon finds out he's a size queen and Johnny loves exploring their kinks. It's fantastic. Simon loves being called daddy and Johnny doesn't hate it but Simon loves being called 'baby boy' even more and "fuck me just like that baby. Yes fuck you're so good, so big. My pretty baby boy." Simon has to count by three just to Keep It Together.
They both hate cleaning and will absolutely have professionals come in once a week. They justify it by claiming it's better than leaving the dishes and laundry all over the place. It's absolutely because they have fucked up doing laundry before and Simon will not vacuum. Ever.
Johnny got his period a day early and ruined his 5th favorite pair of underwear. Simon had to rock him back and forth. This man was Inconsolable. Simon offered to buy him a new pair. Johnny was offended. "How actually dare you. They were perfectly worn in. The 7 year old jeans of underwear." "You have jeans that are seven years old?" Johnny just fell back dramatically and sighed.
Simon had a lock box that he tried to keep away from Johnny. Which meant the day after they moved in together he found it. At first he shrugged it off, if anyone understood the need for privacy it was him. But curiosity and insecurities crept up and he asked about it. "Please don't ask about this. It's the one thing I'm actually ashamed of." A few days later Johnny asked about it again. "Fine. You need to know so bad? Open it. If you can open it, you can have it. But you'll see me as a different man." Johnny cupped Simon's cheek. "No I won't." He broke the masterlock and saw magazine cut outs and comic strips and dad joke books. "Don't look at me like that MacTavish." Johnny covered his mouth trying to hold back his laugh but failed and laughed for about 10 minutes straight. Simon looking up to the sky for any god's help.
Getting on T was hard for a military man but joining the 141, he was given the best medical care the government could give. One person from his old station made fun of the stubble that was growing on Johnny's chin. Ghost knocked his jaw clean off.
I have stumbled on trans Johnny MacTavish and I have to say fuck yes dude. I also have no idea how transitioning in the military works. Even less the British military.
no warnings, just fluffy SFW and maybe a lil crack ig
ghost T poses soap into a corner so soap boops his nose through the skull.
ghost knows all fnaf lore, and in return soap can ramble for hours about chemical compounds and explosives bcz he's a mf pyromaniac (soap def puts his hand on flames for fun and it scares the shit out of ghost) and also the lovelife of taylor swift
soap laughs like a goat and ghost dies of secondhand embarassment (but at the same time, he can't stop laughing as well and simon has the most adorable uwu laugh ever)
whenever ghost takes off his mask, soap eats his mf face because he just misses that gorgeous prick's face so much
they're so silly. they're my silly geese. i. LOVE THEMMMMFHSJJS
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
“Absolutely not. ”
“Ghost- You don’t really have a choice. The higher ups are set on their decision. They don’t trust you. You don’t make it easy for them.” Price says flatly, smoke curling lazily around his face from the cigar pinched between his fingers.
The two men stand in the captain’s office. Price casually leaning back on his deck, while Ghost stands rather defensive by the door.
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter. Especially not one of them. ” Ghost growls.
“Then think of it as your partner- a subordinate, hell maybe even as a little brother, son. But you don’t have a choice. This decision is final.” Irritation was beginning to slip into Price’s words. “I’m not gonna say I’m fond of this either- a machine in the military , gives you some food for thought…” Price takes another drag from his cigar, nearing its end. “But it’s out of my control.”
Ghost’s eye twitches at Price’s words, his jaw set. A fucking android. You have got to be kidding.
“I want to see you bright eyed and bushy tailed on deck at 0500 tomorrow. It’s supposed to be dropped in by a helo… Am I clear, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir .”
And if the door was slammed shut. Well, Price chooses to ignore this time.
Hey! I wrote this! I don't know if anyone was looking for a DBH AU but personally I was... So I wrote it!
