#ghost whump

There was the briefest moment of sound that your microphone picked up, a heavy thunk and an exhausted sigh from you before it became radio silence. Calling you by callsign and nickname and even your full name did nothing.

It scared the shit out of Ghost. Reminded Simon too much of a couple with a young son, so full of life and easy smiles, just as easily snuffed out. You were the first person to break through the hard shell of his mask and get down to the soft bits, to see the Simon he keeps hidden away from any and everyone.

He can’t lose that; he can’t lose you. He can’t lose the one good fucking thing to happen to him in years. Ghost ignores Price’s orders to stay in position and let the Sergeants find you, instead barreling through hostiles like a bull in a china shop trying to locate you.

The first thing he sees is the blood. Thick, bright arterial spray coating the nicotine-stained wallpaper of the second-story bedroom signaling a fatal injury to the jugular. There’s a darker spot of blood in a circular dent in the wall, as if someone’s head was slammed against it.

The second thing he sees is the bodies. Two lumps on the floor, both in tactical gear. It isn’t hard for Ghost to tell which one is you, he knows you like the back of his hand even without the identifiable markers of 141 gear, the patch stained with red.

Simon prays for the first time in his life that all you have is a head injury- that he won’t have to carry back a cooling body, to take your dog tags for the last time. You won’t be as easily packed away as Tommy and Beth, you could never be. You have woven yourself into each and every strand of DNA in his body.

There is no Simon if there’s no you.

After the most cursory checking of the room to make sure there’s no more surprises waiting around the corner, he drops to his knees behind you. “Love…” His voice is so soft as he hesitantly pushed your shoulder to roll your limp body onto your back, more Simon than Ghost.

There’s a downpour of blood from a gash on your head that’ll undoubtedly leave a scar, but the fact that you’re breathing and alive is more than enough for him.

Simon takes a deep breath before Ghost pats your cheek, gloves velcroing with drying blood as he attempts to rouse you. “Come on love, open those pretty eyes. Wake up.”

It takes several attempts to rouse you before your eyes flutter open, discombobulated and pained. You attempt to sit yourself up but it’s all too easy to keep you on your back. “Easy baby, stay down. You took a bad hit. Can you hear me?”

You make a vaguely agreeing noise, those pretty eyes locking onto his face but not easing the way they normally do when you look at him. Your pupils are too big and your gaze distant. “Who’re you…?”

The doctors on the base diagnose you with a severe concussion and retrograde amnesia when you continue to have no idea who your team is. You can remember the 141 task force, but you can’t access your personal memories and experiences as a member, wiping away the past 3 years of your life with a single slam of your head into a wall.

It could be something as simple as a scent that brings it all back or you could never regain them at all, it’s purely a matter of luck. But for now you can’t remember any stories Gaz and Soap tell you, none of Price’s discussion about prior cases and paperwork making any sense. And you can’t remember Simon.

Ghost exists in your memory as a superior officer and a campfire tale for new recruits but all personal attachment’s been washed away. That doesn’t stop him from being there for you. You might not remember what it was like to be Simon’s, but he reminds you day after day, telling you about how the two of you hated one another when you first joined and how a bullet graze led to your first kiss.

He sits by your hospital bed as you recover your strength and tells you everything you need to know, seamlessly filling in when you hesitate to answer a question you should know the answer to.

It’s odd to be doted on by someone infamous for brutality and being fucking terrifying only for said Ghost to bring you flowers every day and do your skincare every night and day since you’ve added so many steps you can’t remember.

You tell him at one point that trying to get to your memories is like opening your eyes in impure water- muddied and hazy, even though you can sense that something’s there.

Day after day, your health improves, and the concussion slowly heals but your mind stays muddied and memory-free.

“Johnny hates the goldfish joke,” Simon huffs with amusement as he smooths your moisturizer over the apples of your cheeks with the gentlest touch you’ve ever experienced. He’s maskless again, something he seems to do without thinking around you. It’s enough to make you ache for your memories back, to chomp at the bit. How is this man yours? “It’s your favorite, though.”

One good thing about your amnesia is Simon getting to experience your reactions to his jokes all over again. The way your nose wrinkles and your lips twitch as you try to not laugh, now those gorgeous eyes sparkle. “Is that right?”

“I’d never lie about a joke,” He deadpans even as that scarred lip curls up. “Goes like this. Two goldfish are in a tank. One turns to the other and says-”

You butt in before he can finish the joke, an odd sheen to your eyes and your words a quiet whisper. “Do you know how to drive this thing?

He could thank every star in the sky for this interruption. Maybe, just maybe… “Yeah love, how’d you know?”

“I remember you telling us,” You murmur, clearly trying to hold back from forcing your brain to surface more memories. “It’s stupid, but I thought it was hilarious the way you said it, all Ghost-like. Laughed so hard I almost blew my cover... I remember.”