artemis

wasn't ready, wasn't willing (and you hit me like a truck) (kyle 'gaz' garrick x reader)

will you still love me (if it turns out im insane?) (john 'soap' mactavish x simon 'ghost' riley)

i love you like the ashes in my cigarette box (frank woods x reader)

how long will i bleed? (digging my own grave) (ghost x roach)

the only way i know (is you) (john price x reader)

you may not like it, but you better learn how (it's your turn now) (cpt john 'soap' mactavish x f!reader)

i don't know where else i can go (soil is falling over my head) (gen, 141 x reader)

im all used up, im carrying my bag of bones (soap x roach)

you've become my ceiling (simon 'ghost' riley x reader)

i don't need the symbol of a scar (simon 'ghost' riley x reader)

wind me tighter than a wire (john 'soap' mactavish x reader)

i loved you like the sun (ghoap)

'cause i can feel ghosts (keegan p. russ x reader)

worth (simon 'ghost' riley whump)

and when broken bodies are washed ashore (who am i to ask for more?) (captain mactavish x reader)

nothing's gonna hurt you baby (ghoap)

bark like a god (baby, let's get down) (ghost x reader)

under the burden of solitude, the weight we carry (is love) (keegan p. russ whump)

i left a part of me (i wanna see if you can try to bring it back) (ghoap)

being with you (makes the flame burn good) (simon 'ghost' riley x gn!reader)

my only love is control (loving you's my only house) (john price x gn!reader)

my ghost (where did you go?) (thomas a. merrick x f!reader)

home where nobody knows (what i become when i'm alone) (ghost x minor 141; angst)

There's guilt and shame, sometimes. It ruined him, the first time it happened, continuing to fester until it reached a breaking point, but since then the feeling lost most of its intensity. Pops up when he least expects it, or wants, for that matter. He'd be a piss poor soldier if he sobbed over every man, woman and child he was ordered to dispose of. It's numbed now, like a gentle breeze, always flowing around him, never settling — but it doesn't suffocate him, not anymore. He left those parts back in Mexico. Rarely does it concern civilians too, the collateral something he's learned to be apathetic about, but it's the countless, dead soldiers that manage to get under his skin. Their scared faces, teary eyes and desperate pleads are permanently etched into his brain, making him wish for something that isn't possible. Stupid, thinking he has any real power when it comes to people dying around him.

Ghost has had everything he's ever felt like love get taken away, violently ripped from his arms, leaving him stranded and lost, even if he'd never be caught dead admitting that. There's a learning curve there, though; some association being made the second he found corpses of his family members scattered around their shared home. He hears the men talking, that he's a heartless monster, a miserable bastard fueled by hatred and the desire for others to share his fate. That's not entirely true, but they're not wrong, either. He has no desire to ever feel good again, if it means having to live through the same shit he did before. The longer he walks this earth, the more he becomes set in thinking that it is simply not worth it.

There's comfort in it, some kind of cosmic karma, if he's ever believed in it. For all of the pain he's brought upon others, the only fate he should be resigned to is the one filled with torment. Never experiencing happiness may be a price to pay for anyone else, but he's content with what he has. It's only a sign that he's going to be relentlessly punished, which suits him just fine. By all accounts, he's not even meant to be here — he should be dead, but he's not, continuing to meander through the path forged in warfare and blood, one where he must serve his purpose before being allowed to abandon this existence at last. Continuing to live is a clear way of letting him know that all that hurt must have a purpose and that he needs to carry it, as close to his chest as he can. Maybe the lads are right; perhaps all he's doing is prolonging his (and by extension other's) suffering.

It unfortunately doesn't mean that he's immune to emotions. Would make things a lot easier if that was the case, but instead he loses his mind every once in a while, turning to things that by all accounts should put him in a mental institution. Instead, he forces his teammates to bear with his deranged behavior and fight the urge to shank him in his sleep.

It happens each time something doesn't go his way, but it's not a daily occurrence and it doesn't usually include menial things that he has an immediate chance to fix. That's the distinction — as long as he knows there's a chance, that he has the skills to make due, then it's not really an issue. When it does happen, however, it's not explosive, contrary to the belief of most of the rookies; they had the displeasure of bumping into him, seeing his cold stare and deeming this behemoth something to be avoided, dangerous. The point isn't to correct that assessment (he could kill them all in a manner of minutes), but to paint a picture that realistically shows how Ghost, at his core, is still just a man.

He gets peeved fairly easily, the irritation becoming more like his natural state as years went on, but that's not rage. It also doesn't mean that he's coming out screaming or god forbid, crying. Ghost hasn't shed a tear since he was a young boy, and that was also the moment he's learned that showing a weakness meant punishment. If he remembers correctly, from that fateful time he's had to wrestle with a psychiatrist (that he got killed), it's not exactly a sign of an emotionally healthy individual. Good thing he's never particularly cared for that, otherwise he would have put a bullet in his own skull way before he ever enlisted. Survival means the basic necessities, and as far as he knows, that means the only thing he really needs is complete and utter apathy. Sometimes, though, it can't be helped.

If he takes into consideration every moment in his life, each time he's ever felt useless, there's only one thing in his reaction that's a constant — he wants to tear everything apart. If he was any brighter, he would have probably come to the conclusion that this stems from his control issues; there's only so much a man can take, so much that can be taken away from him that won't manifest in a desperate attempt at gaining some semblance of agency. If Ghost wanted to dig up that particular grave, he'd flash back to then in a matter of seconds. Strung up, buried alive, with no way of escaping aside from his blood-stained hands and rage. It evokes only one feeling, something so hated he wants to claw at his own throat to prevent it from escaping — hopeless.

There was probably a lesson to be learned there, one he took to such extremes it became a hazy amalgamation of what it once was or could have been. Just because he's distorted it doesn't mean he can't conjure it up with barely any effort; it reignites each time he closes his eyes, and whether it's good or not, the brain has a brilliant tendency to misinterpret and contort memories. It means he learned to block it out, mask it and throw it away in some forgotten corner of his mind, but it also that he can no longer trust his mind. The details are blurry, trauma mixing up what really happened with what could have. Sometimes, when he feels himself slipping,it breaks through — the high walls he build to protect what's left of his sanity yielding under yet another version of his time with Roba, finding his family massacred, and in rare cases, he dreams of the future. Sees 141's battered bodies, his own intact; making him wish that the animal instinct he had when trying to dig itself out of a coffin told him to just curl up and die.

Which brings him to now, where it's happening again.

His boots clank against the ground, the sound heavy, reverberating through the hangar like he's the incarnation of doom and not a pathetic shell of a man, ready bang his thick skull on the wall in hopes of knocking himself out.

Considering the circumstances, this seems like a valid response.

There's a distant thought that he may be overreacting — shit didn't hit the fan too bad, the squad is still standing, the mission, while full of tribulations, a success. His mind is beyond staying logical at this point, too hung up on his own failures and the overwhelming dread he could do nothing about; not even Price's tired, worried voice calling after him gets him to stop. Justifying it to himself goes the same way it always goes. The paranoia developed in him for a reason, and he considers it a good one — how many lives have they watched go out in a puff of smoke because someone got negligent? How many more, before the morons in stiff suits realize that they're not toys, meant to be used a few times and then discarded? It's never like this when he goes out solo, which is why he loathed the idea of working in a task force since the beginning. When they first threw Ghost in here, a bloodied hound just done committing an act of selfish revenge, he scoffed. He's not meant for this; companionship and, god forbid, friendship, as starved for it as he may be, is not something he's supposed to experience. Not anymore.

His life doesn't matter. This anger, this overwhelming sense of losing power and control, is something that simply doesn't occur when he's sent to do dirty work nobody feels suicidal enough to do. When he gets hurt out there, when they mess up the intelligence or neglect to inform him of something that turns out to be crucial, sure, he's annoyed. It's soon overshadowed by the fact that it doesn't make that much of a difference, and he has no right to think of himself as someone important enough to act like he wants to live. His existence is a meaningless one, a slow walk towards hell, littered with the bodies of his enemies, all of which he's more than fine with. He barely sees himself as a person, so why should he be treated as such? The boys, however, they're different. They all have their share of horrid life stories, but not one of them is irredeemable, not even the Captain (getting close though). There's a growing distaste for being in a position of authority the more he does this. His men, serving and following his lead, are effectively forcing him into a position where he's responsible for another life (as if he has a good track record with that) — they deserve a little bit better than being spoon-fed lies and half-arsed excuses that do nothing to stop the blood flowing out of their bodies.

It was a long time coming, really, and he should have foreseen it. Three days ago, he made an error. Three days ago, he almost felt good.

Before learning of this mission, they decided to actually celebrate Gaz's birthday. Soap went all out — booze, balloons, and even a damn cake. Store bought, because the only two people who could bake one are the birthday man himself, and Ghost, who refused to participate until the last minute . They went to a local pub, practically laid siege on the poor bartenders. Ghost defended himself against this activity for something close to a week. He got hounded like it was a mission. It seems his stealth skills need work, if Mactavish had this little trouble finding him each day and he truly means that — he was inconvenienced at least twice a day, mostly when he was supposed to be working, which earned Soap so many threats, he should have packed a bag and hauled arse to the opposite side of the globe. That's what a well-adjusted person would do, anyway. As it stands, Soap's a lunatic with no sense of self-preservation.

Try as he might (violently), it wasn't enough. He caved when he saw the poorly hidden disappointment Gaz was sporting when he learned that Ghost had no intention of going out to celebrate with them. The lad was pouting, tried masking it with an easy-going smile, unconvincing and tugging at the strings of that thing he claims has frozen over. It worked. A sign he's getting soft, weak, in his decaying state. The worst was yet to come, though, because he didn't expect himself to actually enjoy spending time with the lads, a cold pint warming him from the inside and the comfort of having around people who have survived the worst together. It felt secure, like the reservations tying his tongue in knots whenever there's a danger of getting too close have loosened. Price was seen with an actual smile on his face all evening, clapping them on the shoulders and laughing so hard, the tables shook; Gaz was trying to stop himself from getting teary-eyed, giving Ghost a tight, lasting barely a second hug, which surprised him so much, he stiffened, but the touch, for once, didn't feel oppressive. If Garrick lingered for a second longer, he would have noticed a limp hand twitching to return the embrace. Even if he knew he had no right to.

Soap was the most smashed at the end of the night, predictably. If Gaz was aware enough to keep his touch to a minimal, Johnny has never known the concept of personal space. It means that Ghost was walking around with a damn leech at his arm all night. No complaint could be heard from him, however, and he still has no idea what possessed him to allow any of it. The booze made the noises in his head quiet, letting him focus on his team and not worry about the fact that he shouldn't have this. Everything looked hazy, draped in soft lights in the surprisingly well-kept bar, with none of the usual stench he'd associate with his father. It was nice, and that's the problem. He let himself get complacent, appreciate the fact that he has people in his life that seem to at least want him around, and that maybe, not feeling like shit all the time is still possible for him.

A foolish belief of a desperate, drowning man.

They shuffled all the way back to base on foot at dawn, watching as rookies began stumbling out of their barracks. Laughing, for the first time in years, Simon went to sleep void of dreams. The nightmares that plague him every night gone in a puff of smoke, all because he forgot about his suffering, however fleeting it was. Morning came, and with it the order — intel retrieval, supposedly nothing that would even make them sweat. It wouldn't have, if what they were told actually matched reality. Everything would have been fine if Ghost didn't get complacent and buried Simon back where he belongs.

The grave.

"This is bloody," Mactavish kicks a rock like a 4-year old, shuffling across the snow with half of his explosive stash strapped to his vest, "stupid. Why are we gettin' sent on a milk run?"

Ghost scowls, watching as the other man almost trips over a rock. He's also carrying the other half of the C4, which he considers using before he's supposed to the longer he spends time with a hangover, cranky Johnny. He's already threatened Soap twice, but it's like the cunt is positively deaf. Must have something to do with the fact that he's never heard the words danger close and decided to move out of the way. That, or he's just thick. The opinion varies depending on the day. And how much he feels like doing charity. He bites his tongue, decided on not explaining to the sergeant the reality of their occupation, not when he knows what he's going to say and that he'll be tempted to agree with him. It's not often he gets this jumpy over some prick cock blocking their need for vital intel, but some part of him has been shaking since they deployed. Then again, it could be aftershocks from Gaz's party.

They split up, taking the west side, with Price tugging along Garrick to the higher vantage point and securing exfil. As far as he knows, and it's not a lot, given that they're barely told more than a few sentences when shit is truly getting nuclear; they got dispatched to pick up what has to be the most vague and secretive package in the world. Off the books operations aside, this one is borderline abysmal in terms of letting the team know what they're even doing. Soap is still mad, vying for an explanation that will never come, ever since the briefing ended. Ghost? He learned how to take what he's given and not ask stupid questions, especially when someone might be listening in. In their case, somebody is always listening in. Doesn't mean he has no doubts of his own.

"How about we stop talking for a while." He grunts, hefting his body over a hillock and taking out his night vision goggles, intent on fully ignoring Johnny.

Soap grumbles under his breath some more, because he's incapable of not driving Ghost mad, but at least he has the wherewithal to stop shit talking the mission parameters out loud. There's a reason he's the one who's always sent off solo — if they want secrecy, it means they have a damn good reason and so that's what they'll get, with him pretending to have never even heard them. Except, that's not the case here, Price has been silently thinking to himself the entire ride here and he can't find a purpose for this other than to fuck with them.

Johnny's pouting when he pauses, looking over to see if he's suddenly gone deaf, or if the man finally decided to shut his trap — the expression he wears only confirms that while his mouth stopped moving, internally he's still going at it. Ghost rolls his eyes, too keyed up to utter a comment and focuses on the view ahead of them.

It's dark out, since both he and Price agreed that it would work in their favor. It would most of the time and since they went into this blind already, this is their safest bet. The place they're supposed to essentially rob is surrounded with reflectors, ones he and Soap are supposed to gain control of before the rest can commence. He reviews the mental image he got from a vague description of the hard drive they're supposed to get and only riles himself up more. At least they got the schematics for the compound, but it was clear some pieces were missing. Laswell had to pull the rest out of her arse with barely concealed effort. At the time, gritted his teeth and moved on, because much like Soap, he doesn't necessarily enjoy being strung around. He's just quiet about it, having learned the hard way what uncovering truths, especially ones in their line of work, can cost you. He shakes his head, willing himself not to get distracted, and spots the patrol moving around the control room, noting down the pattern.

"Lads are lookin' a bit drowsy tonight, LT." Soap murmurs next to him, voice low, too smug for his own good.

Even so, those words are enough to have him break focus, eyes darting to the side and focusing on the way Soap's throat bobs, mouth stretched in a lazy smile. He frowns, blinking rapidly and chastising himself. It's not the first time Ghost hyper-fixates on one of his teammates and it probably won't be the last, much to his chagrin. He buries it, just as deeply as he does anything else and stays on point. Nothing good could ever come out of that, but he stopped denying certain facts a while ago. Probably when he made repeated visits to his Captain's office in the dead of night, like a mutt crawling for scraps. There's something ironic in the fact that he stopped doing it when the lads came on board; the desperate appetite was possible to be satiated, but whenever Ghost starts wanting more, it means ruin.

They dispatch of the sleep-walking guards quickly and efficiently before forcing their way into the control room, the dread steadily rising, despite no sign to back it up. He drives himself up the wall, stuck in a perpetuating loop of coming up with reasons for his paranoid worrying and the frustration at finding none. Zero red flags have emerged, but he feels like breaking something, biting his lip under the mask until it bleeds. Maybe it's the lack of issue with it all — the soldiers are exposed, none of them expecting an assault, and he refuses to believe it's due to 141's impeccable planning. None of their assignments ever go fully according to plan, but this one, for now, has. It's that realization that causes him to look to Soap, confusion followed by understanding crossing over his face. There's a high chance all of this will go up in flames; they still have a mission to complete. Price and Gaz move in, recovering the file in tense silence. They all feel it. That lessens the notion that Ghost has gone mad, but not by much. Their exit strategy goes flawlessly, because of course it does, and his knee keeps bouncing off the worn jeep flooring like he wants to kick a hole in it.

He eventually opens his mouth, anger so ugly it has Price clenching his hands over the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. There's a good chance he began yelling, but looking back on it now, it's hard to keep the details from going hazy. Not when approximately two minutes after he explodes, the first missile hits. Someone else shouts, probably Garrick, but it's too late. Not much they could have done at that point, anyway.

It takes them half an hour to go through half of the enemies, before their chopper lands and they collectively decide that killing all of them is not worth them dying over something this nonsensical. They got the drive, they accomplished their task; spilled their blood all over the pavement and if he had any capacity for rational thinking, he would have grabbed the first enemy he found and squeezed the answers to the never-ending list of questions this debacle posed. Nonetheless, the only thing he's capable of at the moment is prolong a breakdown. Barely.

Garrick is sporting a gash the size of a grown mans fist, Soap is burnt and has a concussion, and Price got shot. Ghost? Aside from his entire body aching, his left side most likely hit by debris when he shielded Johnny, and the litany of cuts and bruises he stopped keeping track of after approximately two second, he's fine.

Barrelling into his room, he disregards any further calls of his name. He can't breathe, but tearing his clothes off will make him feel even more vulnerable, exposed — like a live wire, a ticking bomb that no one can disarm. All anyone can do is run, get behind cover before he destroys everything in his vicinity. The mask stays on, clinging onto his sweaty skin as he gasps for a breath that comes out ragged and uneven. He feels useless, again (over and over), like all this effort he put in to get better, more deadly, reliable; becoming an impenetrable wall that's capable of doing the most deplorable things to another human being — was nothing more than an illusion. It crumbles, right between his gloved fingers, the material torn apart. It's the same bullshit every time; something goes wrong that he's unable to stop, the people he tries to protect on the verge of death, and suddenly the air is getting thinner, his fists hitting hard wood only to realize it's not there.

Someone might be screaming on the other side of his door or maybe it's all in his head. He can't trust anything or anyone, especially his own thoughts and he was a fool for thinking otherwise. Tears have started spilling out of his eyes at some point, the mask dampening, but he doesn't even know why. They all made it out, it's not their fault, and it's not Ghost's fault — the only ones to blame are the soldiers attacking and the higher-ups, the latter only he wants to get high and mighty. They don't care, and why should they? If he was in their shoes, wouldn't he have done the same thing? Disregard all human life in the name of some bullshit excuse of a cause, shielding themselves behind a wall of delusional righteousness. The structure is needed, or so he always thought, and if they all started looking at rules like rough guidelines not meant to be followed, the world would succumb into chaos more than it already has. There's only one question on his mind: are those his beliefs? Or, through careful indoctrination, humiliation and forcefully imposed discipline, he's just adapted them as a fact, when reality looked so daunting he didn't know what to think?

He scrambles off the ground, not even aware that the second he came in here, he slid down the door, curling up like a wounded animal. His room is pitch dark, which only makes him more aware of any danger that might lurk all around him. It'd be poetic, a drama draped in tragedy — a man who learned to live in the shadows, now cowering before them. The strange powerlessness makes him reminisce, going back to as far as he can remember. All those nights spent locked in the closet, or shoved beneath the bed by his quivering mother, as if she could have ever protected him. His ma did her best, always, trying to somehow provide in an environment that made it impossible. He knows it, loved her for it so much the thought of her being gone still strikes a sharp pain in his chest, panic rising, but the chances were against them from the start.

Stumbling around, the sense of orientation failing him, all he thinks about is the wish that's persisted like an infection — somewhere deep inside his mind, he's been desiring defeat. The thought of giving up, long before meeting 141, has had him hesitate in the field, taking on the brunt of injuries he could have avoided. Maybe the murder of his family, simply due to the fact that Ghost was doing his job, was a sign that he brings nothing but death everywhere he goes. Isn't that what happened today? If Ghost hasn't disregarded Soap's complaints, if he pressed Price a bit harder, urged him into reconsidering their strategy and finally grew the backbone he only pretends he has, then maybe none of them would have gotten hurt. Nothing more than a sheep, blindly following and complying, separated from the heard by a fence that's nothing more than a leap tall.

He makes it to the bathroom, barely; hitting himself on the doorframe like he's drunk. The shower gets turned on with clumsy fingers, aimed at the lowest temperature possible, but the cold water doesn't bring the clarity he hoped for. It only intensifies the shivers already wracking his body, has him hunched over before his knees give out and falls to the ground, head between his knees. It's still better than feeling the dirt caked all over him, the dry friction grating on his scarred, irritated skin. He makes himself as small as possible, the hulking weight of him almost too much for what he sees in the mirror. The man remains nothing more than a little boy, a helpless child, forever angry and scared, gnawing and biting at everything coming close to him, too aware of threats lurking in familiar corners.

The hatred reflected in his eyes, poorly hidden is directed fully at himself. The men who hurt him, took every part of him that had the chance to survive this remain as specks of blood, their death finalizing their involvement in Ghost's torture. He's the one that's still breathing, perpetuating the same cycle of violence, twisted to only spin around him.

His team is out there, licking wounds he failed to prevent, probably worried, more than confused and he's here, soaking his uniform and shaking uncontrollably, ruminating on what made him the way he is. The answer is right there, though, the mask a prison he built himself. Ghost feels stuck — forever trapped, no matter how many iron bars he breaks with his very own hands, because they're no longer even there. There's nothing about him that should have these men depend on him, let alone care for him. There should be disgust, and he's looked for it so long it became exhausting, setting up bricks to separate them from the ugly thing they call theirs.

It's useless. They'd never cast him out. Maybe that's what hurts the most.

Price never strays too far, not when they're both at base. He's always there, watching with a careful eye; the gaze caring, never judging. Since the beginning, upon finding the stray Ghost still is, bleeding and hurting, he's never been nothing but accepting, a lifetime of sorrows passing between them like soft rain. It sparked unfamiliar feelings on its own, but it never suffocated him, merely soothed the wounds that are not superficial. He's there when Ghost goes out for a smoke after a night of screaming his throat sore, and Ghost is there, nursing a drink when the Captain loses his edge. The man once joked that it wouldn't be their enemies that will bring about their ruin, that they're well and capable of that on their own. Struck, he retreated, pushing everyone away as far as he could.

Garrick is the newest, but it's been clear from the start that he's here to stay. He's been fearless, showing more courage than he has the right to praise and not even Ghost's menacing presence changed that. There was a quirked brow, sure, surprise poorly-hidden, but it went away with time. In its place came respect he doesn't deserve. Sometimes, when he's in one of those moods, they'll both find themselves in the kitchen, cooking or baking things no one would suspect them of — like a ritual, they make do with what they can find, sometimes sharing a conversation, mostly sitting side-by-side in comfortable silence. It's unusual, eerie — at least to him, but Gaz never complains. In fact he smiles, a knowing look in his eyes that says the pain Ghost has spent painstakingly long hours masking was never going to stay unnoticed. It's in that shoddy kitchen that he realized how much he likes looking at Gaz. Something warm unfurling, burning him from inside out. It's been a few months since it last happened. He couldn't bear it again.

Soap is the trickiest, but it's not because he's the one who stuck to Ghost like a shitty glue trap and refuses to let go. Johnny gets him, and he gets Johnny, but that could be said about any of them. He tried so hard not to get attached, to remain distant; knowing full-well that at any second, he could do so much as blink and it would happen again, a lead-up to an inevitability — they would all dissipate into smoke, leaving him alone, devoid of any ties that could hold him to this life. No, Soap is difficult because he made him aware of all of it. Caring for Johnny became like second nature, like something in him, lying dormant, has suddenly woke up. It's all he thinks about, these days. How much he would be willing to welcome death with open arms, but not due to the desire that's been here since Mexico; but because he wants them to live. So desperately it threatens to choke him, render him motionless and useless, and it's why he's been helpless to do anything but stop Soap from clambering into the echo chamber of his heart and making himself comfortable. They're all there, sitting patiently and waiting for the moment he finally figures it out — that this too, he could not avoid.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, only that at some point he must have exhausted the water supply. It's trickling down his mask, under his clothes, making him wish he took them off before deciding to essentially waterboard himself. It's always been his least favorite torture method. The water had some effect, at least — his head is lighter now, even if it hurts to attempt to form a coherent thought. This peace doesn't last, because he's quickly startled by someone knocking on the bathroom door, causing his eyes to clench shut; there's no surprise, no sudden and violent realization that they won't quit. That the sacrifices he's willing to make are shared, for better or for worse. It's always been a given, an obvious state of their existence that can only dissolve it through death.

Whoever it is, they come in, and by the sound of the footsteps he's willing to bet a leg that it's Price. He doesn't want to open his eyes, though, doesn't want to face reality, prolonging his misery through a will that's dwindling by the moment. Now that he's somewhat aware of his body, the injuries make his nerves spark like electric shocks, a desire to itch and scratch at the scabs delayed by burrowing his fingers into the meat of his arms. The adrenaline drop is making it worse, especially when he realizes that at one point during his spiral, he either started hitting himself, thus making the bruises he was already sporting bloom, or he dug his nails so hard into his skin it broke, the blood clotting, not fully drying. That, or he did both — it wouldn't be that far off his usual bouts. One time Soap found him bloody, and they weren't being deployed for a week before that, so there was no way to explain it other than admitting that he's a bit more fucked in the head than one might think. Johnny looked at him for a long, tense moment before barking a laugh, gathering him up in his arms and depositing him in his bed. Ghost was cleaned, bandaged up, and as loathe as he is to admit it, spooned.

That's the core of his weakness. He wanted to bite Soap's head off, but the second he felt the warm touch, he lost all will to fight. Not out of submission, or a paralyzing dread (not like with Roba); he yearned for it, all this time. For it to not hurt again.

The water stops and he hears some shuffling, a few murmured words too low for him to register. His eyes are still closed, but even if he wanted to watch the reaction to his pathetic state, he can't. The strength left his body, evaporating with their arrival; he succumbs to the hand slowly taking off his soaked uniform, leaving him in an undershirt and boxers. It's the safest option and even he's aware of what his reaction might have looked like if Price took it further. The mask is positively glued onto his face now, but much to his horror, the thought of taking it off doesn't cause the same panic-chain reaction as usual. His hand is shaking, weak and damaged, but he manages to grab a hold of the material and yank it off, throwing it somewhere next to him and listening for the smack that makes it clear how quiet everything became.

There's a surprised draw of a breath, replaced with a pleased hum before he can spiral. There's movement, his muscles tensing and then immediately unwinding when someone skim their fingers on the side of his face, settling securely against his head and gently rubbing circles into the tufts. Ghost leans into it, minutely at first, still so scared and restrained, but as he hears Gaz and Soap bicker over the wall, settled into his space (safe), he relaxes. His brief lapse in vigilance lasts about a minute. A thud resonates and seems to echo through the desolate bathroom, making him freeze and move away from Price's touch on instinct. When the door opens again, his brain has to fight against the drive to stand on guard, to attack and bare his teeth in some pitiful display. All the while, he refuses to look. To confirm that he isn't in danger, that he's surrounded by people who want to help him.

"Shh, Simon. It's just Soap. Think you can get up?" Price speaks, voice like nursing a scotch, and the grating sound of his own thoughts mellows out again, leaving only the space for his question.

He thinks for a minute, testing his muscles against a possible strain. They protest heavily, something cracking in five different places on his body the second he so much as twitches, but Simon nods anyway. When he's met with silence and zero detectable movement, his eyes finally crack open. John is staring down at him with a soft smile, a shadow passing over his face when he catches a glimpse of the terror still present in his gaze. His captain moves without hesitation, though; there's no pity and more importantly, no hatred, disgust or contempt — proving yet again that Ghost effectively made it up in his own head, a last resort when defending against accepting the good things in his life. There's a pull from somewhere deep inside his mind, the same one he feels whenever being with one (or all) of them is staring to feel too real — telling him to run, to disappear somewhere he won't be found. For some bizarre reason he has no intention of exploring, it's mostly gone, now. He's still queasy, shaking in his wet undergarments, on display and vulnerable, but seeing them with his own eyes lets him feel the tangibility of this situation.

The dispute is resolved and it must show on his face. Price beckons the lads into the bathroom and they, to their credit, don't even pause. Soap keeps the bickering up, Gaz following close behind; constantly moving in each other's orbits, going about collecting his wet rags parodying as clothes and looking over to watch Simon with the same expression they direct at one another. It's jarring, has him staring wide-eyed at the men, breathless. John returns to his soft machinations, turning his brain into goo with every swipe of a rough thumb over his temple, not ignorant to the turmoil happening inside Simon's head. It's getting harder to think, and the fight in him dies down — leaving only a sad, pathetic lump of a man, so exhausted by lying in his dirty sheets at night wishing for a quick death. An unrealistic dream, something unattainable, considering his occupation and the long list of enemies he's accumulated. A steadfast belief taken root in his mind, one that made it clear just how much he deserves to die like the people he's ordered to kill — bloody, screaming, with so much fear it becomes a death mask.

Simon props himself up against the wall, heaving his aching body upright so he can at least hold onto some of his remaining dignity. When he blinks, Johnny manifests in front of him, holding a soft towel that cannot belong to him, seeing as it's practically intact, free of any splotches of blood or signs of tear. He dries Simon's face carefully, rambling about something under his breath, words he chooses to tune out. It's not a sign of disrespect, of not wanting to listen; he enjoys the sound, more than he could ever describe, becoming a source of comfort and putting him to sleep, which is the problem. His already sluggish brain could not comprehend a single thing right now, let alone deciphering something as complex as speech.

He lets them care for him, putting on the sweatpants Kyle deposits in his hands, a warm cup of his favorite tea replacing the clothes as soon as his hands are free. They usher him to the room, guiding him with steady hands and soothing words to his bed, letting him take a few sips before his head falls flat on the bed, the exhaustion catching up to him and rendering him immobile. Lead filled limbs are rearranged so he's doesn't wake up more sore than he already will, and the last thing he registers is the gentle kiss laid on top of his head, the tickle of a mustache leaving behind sparks that follow him into his dreams.

What he doesn't see is the way the men take their time in patching up his wounds, gently bandaging any remnants of their fight, knowing that Ghost would rather be caught dead in his quarters than go to see medical. Their own injuries were nothing compared to what he suffered through, even if he didn't know it — going for the most catastrophic scenario from the beginning, always preparing for the worst. They sit at his side most of the night; talking, napping and discussing their workload. Price stays silent, lost in thought. It's so mundane, Soap starts cackling like a maniac once he makes that fact obvious. Gaz smacks him on the side of his head, shushing and chastising, making Price sigh, lips twitching in betrayal.

He's been staring at the files, detailing why this mission went to shit. Hidden beneath the surface, he's fuming, the papers crinkling as he unconsciously tightens his grip on them. The error came from above, but not in the way he initially thought; no conspiracy, no hidden agenda. Just the mistakes of incompetent cunts who wanted to sweep everything under the rug. His report is ready to ship out, with a formal request to speak with every single higher-up overseeing this operation — one that he's sure will be turned down, swept under the rug with a dismissive pat on the back for actually making it out alive. Anger festers, but it's not enough to have him overlooking the bigger picture. He wonders if it ever will be.

Looking at Simon's sleeping face, there's a thought that he's not any better than the man he hunts; keeping this tortured soul and holding him tight to his chest, possessive of what they have, paired with everything they can't. The boys go quiet, prompting him to look up. Kyle and Johnny are snoring softly, curled up around Ghost like they're his guardian angels, and not the other way around.

John chuckles without humor, thinking how ironic that is. Only they could have built this. As depressing as that is, he knows it won't last. Ghost will always be haunted, by his own demons and enemies, more so than any of them. They're also not enough to save him, no one is. Even if he's right, if that's the case — they're his. His lads, his men, his responsibility. No one else's. And that means he won't give up. Staring longingly at the pile of sweaty, tired soldiers, he wishes for the ability to take away their pain and turn it on himself. He knows about the gun hidden somewhere to his left, the safety net Simon clings onto with vehemence. John doesn't reach for it, doesn't rummage around until he finds the weapon and chucks it out the window, not when he knows how much it means to have it there.

Someone once told him he gambles too much. This too, is a bet on life —if he loses, that's it. But if he wins? For Ghost to go out like this, he's going to have to go through Price, first. Knowing Simon, he will.

Ghost wakes up screaming about half an hour after they leave, trekking back to their own barracks, exhausted but satisfied. It's as if his mind knew his safety net was no longer there, that the threat came back full-force, now that he's alone with himself. There's a tremble in his limbs, one that never seems to go away anymore. He looks at the ceiling, the cracked paint chipping away with every year he continues breathing. It's a miserable existence and he had very little chance from the start. He doesn't feel good, right now, or even when with them. It's all operating on the principal that he remains useful to them, but until he accepts their open arms, he's a prisoner to his own system. There's only one way out. There's only ever been one way out, but he felt like he needed to prove that he's still human. Simon died years ago, though, and he was foolish to hope to resurrect him. The gun in his bedside cabinet is in reach, always ready — doesn't that say more than he could ever conjure up with words? They know, they must and yet they leave him here, a danger to himself and others, as if he won't do it. Maybe they're not wrong. Whatever holds him to this earth must have a good reason. If it's staying to stand guard over the men willing to overlook the ugliness inside of him to keep it, then it's going to have to be enough.

For now.

He gets up, leaving behind the gun and getting out of his room in a daze. His feet take him to the only place he knows won't feel like a trap. Even he knows this time it's bad. Any other day, he'd go to the kitchen, talk to Gaz; or knock on Johnny's door, hoping for a prolonged smoke break filled with nonsensical chatter. He can't think about that now, not when he refuses to believe that they won't be disappointed — that despite their best efforts, they can't fix him. No one can, but they're still trying.

Price won't. At least, he hasn't yet, but it's never a guarantee. The man never took what he wasn't given, but how long will that last? When will Price realize that he's not worth it, that it's better to use him for his worth before there's nothing left? Perhaps this too, is a punishment he has wrought onto himself. To see if this is finally the night he'll be reduced to the thing he sees in the mirror.

Knocking, he can only guess as to what he looks like. A man starved, gasping for air after drowning himself for years; reaching for a hand that has no reason to bite, but could regardless. There's no other option, though, not if a repressed part of him yearns for a life he was robbed of. There's a beckon from behind the door and with a trembling hand, he enters.

Price looks up, eyes gleaming with a myriad of emotions — shock, relief, then, worst of all, understanding. Has he become so predictable?

He shouldn't be surprised. The dog always returns to its rightful owner, right where he belongs.

"Thought you'd sleep a bit longer than that, Simon." It's not quite disappointment that can be heard in John's voice, but it's still morose, withering at the edges.

Ghost doesn't move, posture rigid. He hears Price sigh, has him looking up in alarm, but it's only to see the Captain get up from his desk, grabbing a blanket from the drawer and laying it on the decrepit couch. Whatever tension has accumulated in his body acts like a popped balloon. Once it's clear that he can still have this, the worry eases, his breath shuddering with each inhale. Simon walks over to the couch, settling on it and passing out in a manner of minutes. This is all he wanted, all he was missing. The sound of Price returning to his work becomes white noise, lulling him to sleep and washing over him like it's a trigger point, a universal way to evoke tranquility in someone as tortured as Ghost. It works, soon allowing him to rest for a few more precious hours, ones he thinks he won't get to experience each time he's permitted to do this. As he drifts of, a mantra starts, familiar and practiced.