Chapter Text
Simon is forced to look in the mirror to shave, as much as he hates seeing his face, as much as he hates the reflection that is being sent back to him, deformed, monstrous. He sees his parents, the zombies, he sees war's marks and scars embedded into his skin, his DNA, his entire existence. He's not Simon, and maybe he actually never was. Maybe his parents named him Ghost, maybe they didn't name him at all and someone came up with a generic name. Maybe he isn't alive, nor dead. He's just the shell of someone he doesn't know.
The razor slides over the foam, cutting the beard as close to the skin as possible without scraping said skin and turning his face into a bloody mess. Maybe he deserves to be turned into a bloody mess. Death doesn't seem to be that welcoming to him. He's a fighter, he's sturdy, he won't die easily.
"You're good at your job and death doesn't seem that fond of you, Lieutenant."
Oh how he had hated those words, how they had made him feel worse than the actual wounds, how they had carved in his mind the idea that even a bullet through his head couldn't kill him. He doesn't want to try it, but he believes it enough that he doesn't fear guns as much as he should.
Simon winces when he cuts his jaw a little, distracted by his own thoughts. The small cut burns a bit but he ignores it, resuming his shaving. He hates how much the face bleeds for the tiniest cut. Dramatic.
His thoughts jump from war memories to Soap. Soap, who he has locked in the basement like he would lock a traumatic memory away, only coming down to give him food and water. It's been a few days and too many packs of cigarettes since they kissed. The cigarettes don't erase the taste of his lips, and locking him down there doesn't help him forget. It's the opposite. The more he tries to not think about it, the more his lips remember. He touches his cheek, where Soap had held him close right before he panicked and backed out.
He panicked?
For what?
Simon rinses his face in hopes to clear his mind at the same time he clears the shaving foam off his skin. It doesn't work, and when he looks up at himself, he remembers how soft Soap's lips were, how careful he was with his hands, how good that kind of warmth felt. He doesn't want to feel it. He refuses to feel it. He has to drown it.
He dries his face and walks out of the bathroom, staring at the basement door for long seconds as he passes it to enter the kitchen. There he opens the cabinet where he keeps all the drinks he shouldn't drink, all the strong beverages that make him forget what he's supposed to be, do or think. They make him forget about war, about Simon who apparently never existed, and about Ghost whom he created because Simon doesn't exist.
Bourbon. Always Bourbon, and always in a rocks glass, always half a bottle to get his brain fuzzy enough that even a door handle is entertaining. It's bad that he needs so much. It's bad for his work, it's bad for his health, although he’s not sure about the second one.
He wants to get out of here. He wants to be sent on missions.
"If he knew about this he'd fire me on the spot." Simon chuckles to himself as he one-shots his glass, the burn of the alcohol barely felt. Nothing feels anymore, even the scars that used to hurt, even the memories that used to make him sad, even the nightly nightmares that used to force him awake, scare him. It's not that it doesn't happen anymore, but it's part of his life. Not sleeping is an inherent part of his routine. He doesn't remember what he looked like without the dark bags under his eyes. Was he once a good looking man? Maybe he still is. He just doesn't see it anymore.
The second glass goes down as fast as the first one, if not faster. He left his balaclava in his room. He doesn't know why he left it there, he'll have to get it before he goes to see Soap. The man needs a bath, the basement is starting to smell like sweat and must. Of course, he let Soap go to the bathroom when he needed to, not needing a repeat of the last time he left him alone, although that was more to teach him a lesson.
He stands up after the third glass, his movements scarily precise. His body is used to the substance, almost functioning better with it. He hates it, but he hates thinking and remembering even more, so maybe it's a win-win situation. Or a lose-lose one. He will lose everything if someone learns about his bad habits.
Simon walks to his room, again standing a few seconds to stare at the basement door, as if he expected it to suddenly open. He pinches his lips, the sensations of fingers on his cheeks a little stronger than before. Perhaps the alcohol is amplifying his sensations. Maybe his mind is fighting not to be shut up. He sighs and tears his eyes off the door, slamming his own door shut after he enters his room. He stands there, in the mocking sunlight, his shadow stretching far behind him, as if trying to escape him. Yeah, if it could, his shadow would probably run away. He wants to run away from his own body, sometimes.
•••••
"You know smoking will ruin your health."
"So will a bullet to my heart, Roach, I don't see your point." Simon laughs, lighting his cigarette under Gary's disapproving stare. If a gun won't kill him, he'll slowly approach death's cold embrace using those tobacco sticks he learned to love.
"And when I try to smoke you tell me I'm too young…"
"Because you are. Listen to your elders."
"Sure. I'm so glad they managed to conserve you so well, you look pretty much alive for a fossil." Gary laughs, body folded in half when Simon grunts and rolls his eyes. It almost feels like they're just having fun between friends, if he forgets their surroundings and the gear they're wearing. If he forgets the far away explosions too. They can hear them even on base, like a reminder of death. Simon takes a drag of his cigarette and looks up at the gray ceiling.
"What did you plan to do when you get your leave?" Ghost asks without tearing his eyes off the ceiling.
"Visit family, I think. It's been a while." Gary sighs, flapping the smoke away from his face with a hand. "You stink, Ghost."
"Keeps the enemies away."
"It'll keep me away too."
"You'd never leave me even if I stopped showering for a week." Ghost grins.
— — —
"You'd never leave me." Ghost whispers, holding Gary's bloodied body close to him, the gunshots and screamed orders making his ears ring. "You're not allowed to leave me, you're supposed to visit your family, asshole."
No answer. Of course, dead people don't talk. With a shaky sigh he lets go of the body, standing up to lean against the wall of the building behind which he had dragged them. He's out of breath, or maybe he's just trying to hold back the scream he wants to let out. Death be damned.
"Ghost to Price, Roach is down." His voice is cold, calculated, so as to not let the sadness escape and be seen by the world. He looks down one last time before walking away. One life may have ended but war won't stop for that matter.
"Gaz didn't make it either." His captain answers, and Simon feels another part of himself being ripped apart.
"Alright." Not alright, nothing's alright. He's lying, pretending he isn't touched, pretending he doesn't care that much.
"I will tell Roach's family." Simon talks again, walking through empty streets. He has to be careful, he knows snipers tend to hang on roofs and behind windows. Maybe he should tell them to shoot. No. He has to tell Gary's parents about what had happened.
"You don't need to, Ghost. And don't try to take revenge all by yourself. Meet us at the extraction point." Price answers, his voice sounds like a warning. Simon doesn't like to be warned about stuff he knows to be dangerous.
"I want to. And remember, death doesn't want me. Who had said that?" His voice is barely a whisper and he pulls his knife out of its holder, stabbing the enemy soldier with much more force than he had needed.
"Nikolai, when we grabbed you out of a collapsed building, I believe."
"I'm starting to think he was right." Simon whispers. "I'm on my way, just gotta take some of those assholes down."
"What did I say about revenge?"
"It isn't revenge, I'm merely cleaning the streets."
"Ghost, I can hear you stab them."
"They're like parasites, you have to be firm. But I can miss the spot by a few inches and watch them wriggle in pain like worms. Which do you prefer?"
"I know it hurts, Ghost."
Simon cuts the conversation short by switching channels.
•••••
Those memories taste like earth on his tongue, like the blood he could smell around him, on him. The smell isn't gone, it never goes away, it never stops being traumatic, even if he tries to convince himself that he's used to it. The only difference is that he stopped showing others his reactions, which made him stop being himself all over.
He's holding his balaclava tightly, like a souvenir or a punition, like a blessing or a curse. He has to wear it to hide who he doesn't want to be, to help pretend, to help make himself believe everything's fine.
A sigh leaves his lips as he stares outside, as if the clear sky and the shining sun had any effect on his past, as if those two still and far away objects could come closer and embrace him with peace. He doesn't know where to find peace, for it is not within himself. Soap? Can Soap bring him peace? Would he be willing to bring him peace? Simon doesn't want it, he doesn't want to allow him closer than what he's already permitted. He's already opened up too much.
Is it fair? Nothing is fair, fairness is a foreign word, because fairness wasn't there when he needed it the most, and if it was, wars wouldn't exist. Fairness is a hypocrite.
Simon only wanted to grab his balaclava, he never meant to remember. He's out of his room in seconds.
His phone chooses to vibrate during those few seconds, and he picks it up, no words crossing his lips.
"Ghost. We need you deployed in Moscow."
"How long?"
"A month or more if things get tough."
Simon pinches his nose bridge and closes his eyes tight. He doesn't want to ask when, and he doesn't have to because Price continues.
"Need you on a plane in two days."
"I need…" Simon starts, then remembers he can't talk about Soap to anyone or he'd be in huge trouble. So far he's aware, kidnapping has never been a praised action. Sure, he could pretend that Soap is a friend of his, his house cleaner, his boyfriend. Not his boyfriend. Not even when it warms his heart a tiny bit. "I'll get ready, I guess."
"Alright. And Ghost, I want you alive at the end of the mission."
"You know I'd live through the worst."
"I know. Bye."
"Bye."
Since when has his superior stopped calling him by his real name? When was the last time Simon showed him his face? Ages ago, a century, a lifetime? Maybe he also forgot who Simon was, maybe they all forgot. Soap sure doesn't know.
He shoves his phone back in his pocket and walks outside of his house. He needs to announce to Soap that he won't be there for a month. He needs to allow him to walk freely around the house, he needs to trust him. He knows he won't escape, he has nowhere to escape to. He wouldn't dare.
Simon wants to scream but his lips stay tightly sealed. There is no wind to chill him to the bone, but the sun is hiding somewhere out of his view and the temperatures are too low to go out wearing only a t-shirt.
He needs to get ready. He needs to talk to Soap.
He needs to face his actions.
It can't be worse than a bullet through his chest, can it?
Though standing in front of the basement door sure feels like standing in front of a line of armed enemies. He stares at it as if it would spit on his feet or suddenly turn into a shotgun and shoot a hole through his stomach. The knob feels cold, as if nobody had touched it in a long time. He knows he went to give Soap food or allow him out, but not often enough that the door handle would remember.
He turns the lock and opens the door. Some days, the basement bathes in light, but now it is as dark as a pit. Simon checks his phone. Not late enough for Soap to be fast asleep.
"Soap."
No answer.
"I need to tell you something."
Still nothing. Either he is sleeping or Simon is just being ignored.
He walks down the stairs and around the mattress, using the brightness of his phone screen to light up the entire room. Soap is looking at him, his eyes red with what Simon guesses to be tears.
"You could answer." He says, not once mentioning the tears, not once saying sorry for what he did.
"You could give me a bath, allow me to shower, allow me to g-"
"You can. I'm being deployed."
"De- what do you mean deployed?!" Soap stutters, fumbling for the lamp cable to turn the light on. He stares at Simon, at what he can see. Simon knows he's trying to imagine his features under the mask.
"Military, we're being sent on a mission."
Why does he feel the need to explain so much? Is he trying to get Soap to forgive him? Why?
Soap stays silent for a while, as if trying to put some order in his thoughts. When he looks up, Simon reads the fear in his eyes. He reads the many questions that cross his mind and before Soap has time to open his mouth, he cuts in.
"A month. Maybe more. I'll ask for someone to send you food each week. You'll have to cook, though, but I believe you're capable of that."
"What if… what if you die?" Soap's voice is small, almost sounds worried, but that couldn't be.
"Die? I wish I could, but death hates me."
Simon ignores the relieved sigh, he ignores the tension leaving Soap's features as much as he brushes the slight acceleration of his heartbeat aside. He remembers the kiss and it makes him turn around and walk out. He told Soap. That's the most important part.
He shuts the door behind him and exhales hard. He wills his heart to go back to its normal rhythm, he wills the knot in his throat away, he wills his focus on the present time and not on memories of how his lips tasted.
He lets himself slide down the door. Everything was better when there was physical pain involved. Everything was better when he left his emotions out of the equation. Everything was better when he could pretend he didn't feel a thing. Emotions aren't a thing he's familiar with, they feel like a stranger took over his body. He's never been able to read them or analyze them. He knows what bad situations feel like, he knows that he's satisfied when they wrap a mission faster, but he can't differentiate the nuances. All or nothing, or something along those lines.
His mind wanders to Roach. It wanders to the mission he so selfishly survived. Will this one be the same? Will he also lose everyone? He doesn't care about the squad he's going with because he decided to not get attached to anyone anymore - he's already failing big time - but it would piss him off to once again be one of the few who have the chance to go back home.
He shouldn't think about Roach and he shouldn't think about Soap either.
•••••
Simon waits in front of the white door, his heart pounding, his eyes threatening to pop out of his skull, letting a cascade of tears escape. His entire body hurts, the weight of guilt hard to carry. He waits until he hears steps come from inside the house, until the door opens and what had started as a smile drops to a knowing face.
"Evan, come to the door."
Simon knows Roach's mom, Isabelle, and he knows too much about the pain she's feeling, even before he announces the bad news. He sees the silent tears that roll down her cheeks.
When Evan joins them, his features are too serious to not be a mask put over his emotions to not let them spill. Simon wants him to spill them, punch him, yell at him for being alive and not their son.
"Roach…I mean, Gary didn't make it."
Obviously, or else Simon wouldn't be standing there with his stomach knotted so tight it hurt.
It takes a second, not even, for him to witness loss, for him to see how bad he messed up by not being the target of that bullet. Nobody would've missed him, at least.
"I'm sorry." He whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over Isabelle's sobs. Evan looks at him with pain where Simon wanted to see hate, and understanding where he wanted to see confusion.
"We knew the risks." He says, a half-smile barely making an appearance on his face. The smile doesn't brighten his gloomy expression, it doesn't clear the sadness.
"I'm sorry." Simon repeats again, then turns away and walks out before any tears have a chance to slide down his face. He swallows back the grieving. He has no rights. He should've been the one dying.
•••••
Simon stands up and walks to the main door, grabbing his coat and car keys. He needs to prepare everything for Soap to live alone, and that starts with a way to contact him. Soap needs a phone. Maybe other things too, things he used to enjoy, hobbies he used to have. Simon knows them all, he knows more than he'd ever admit to Soap.
The way to the next mall, the closer one that would've given their position away, is only a few minutes away. For the short time he sits behind the wheel, Simon has time to think about what would've happened if Soap had opened his eyes. Would he have ripped them out of their sockets to punish him? Would he have sacrificed the gifts he wanted to give him, or would he have worsened the actual lack of comfort?
He doesn't have time to think about an answer and he's not quite sure he wants to. He parks the car in one of the parking lot's empty spaces, pulling his body out of the confines of the vehicle and walking inside the mall with a determined goal. He wants to make Soap happy, so he doesn't think about escaping. But is it the only reason? He'll pretend that yes, it is.
******
"I got you some stuff for the time I'm absent." Simon tells Soap as he empties the contents of the plastic bag onto his mattress. Soap looks down at the different items, then up again.
"You can go through it, but I got you some art supplies, paper, a sketchbook, pens and whatever I could find. There's not everything but…yeah. I did my best."
There's something in Soap's eyes that Simon can't really understand, a sort of shine in the blue of his pupils that can't be explained by any light, yet the rest of his face is so disturbingly void of emotion, as if he was trying to block out any feelings. It's not as if Simon cared.
Seeing that he won't get any answer from the other man, which he will admit annoys him a little, he resumes his explanation, getting the burner phone he bought out of his pocket. Soap looks down at it, his expression still a mystery to Simon, although his mouth forms a surprised "o".
"I want you to answer all my calls. I added my number." Simon says as he places the phone between them next to the pile of pencils and markers. "Are we clear?"
Soap nods, staying silent. Simon wonders if he awaits an apology, or if he suddenly decided to go back to his mute times for another reason. He's not ready to apologize because it would mean he faced his actions, and with how fast he's trying to run away from them it sure isn't the case.
Simon stands up. "Will you talk to me before I leave?"
Soap looks at him, then down at all the things laying in front of him, and with a whisper as forced as his lack of emotions seems, he finally lets a "thank you" escape his lips.
"That's not-" Simon starts before deciding that he probably didn't deserve much more. He doesn't know what to think about the twist forming inside his body, he doesn't know how to ignore it. He has no idea how to stop himself from getting attached. It's good that he'll be away for so long, then maybe his mind will forget.
Forget like he's been trying to forget his past?
"I'll leave you to it."
Soap doesn't say anything and watches as Simon walks up the stairs and out.
They don't talk to each other at all after that partly one-way conversation, and Simon, powered by his inability to face his own actions, flees the house like a thief in the middle of the night.
******
The next day, John finds a note on the kitchen table; he reads it, comfortably wrapped in his blanket:
"I'll be back. Don't think about escaping, I got my eyes on you."
He looks around, knowing very well that no cameras have been placed in the house. A chill still runs down his spine, and an inexplicable fear lays deep within him. For a second, he doesn't dare move because for a second, he dared forget who Ghost really is.